Harry Potter: A Soul In Tension

Written by abi2301

Chapter 01 (prologue)

v.01: 02/26/2005

Official disclaimer:

The Harry Potter movies and novel series are the intellectual property of J. K. Rowling and Scholastic Books, Inc. All rights are reserved. 'Harry Potter: A Soul In Tension' is a purely fictional series based upon the original HP and written for entertainment purpose only. No money is made out of it and no law infringement was intended in its writing.

Chapter 01: A Lonely Soul Waiting In The Dark

The weights, above him, shone in the morning sun.

He lifted the object high above his head, as his arms strained against the pull gravity exerted on the metallic mass, glistening in sweat. He had been at it for thirty minutes already, after having done a couple dozen push-ups and sit-ups, his usual wakeup exercises. His body had already changed from the new regime he had imposed on himself - his scrawny figure had become fuller and his skinny limbs now sported taut muscles. His daily calisthenics, however, requested a healthy diet with a lot of nutrients - a problem that took its toll on him knowing in which environment he lived. He didn't have the needed food for that and during the first weeks of his workout sessions, he had burned what little energy and fat he had left in his body, before friends of his, upon his very request, had sent him ballots full of food and drinks.

And ever since he began to eat properly, he could see what a proper alimentation could do to him. Ever since his childhood he had been deprived of good food, as his guardians hated to give him anything that would make him happy. He was the unwelcome one in his own home - the additional mouth to reluctantly feed. And he knew it. On top of that, he was often assigned a lengthy list of chores and other tasks to get done as soon as possible. The result of which was a great amount of time spent in gardening, cleaning and so on...more exercises for him to do.

In a certain way, he was glad for that, as it gave him other opportunities to work out and tune his own body. He knew that he would need that strength later in his life if he ever planned on living to a ripe, old age and have grandkids one day. It was a task of utmost priority. For he was one in constant danger. Evil lurked around him, hiding shadows and forever conspiring to take him away from the world of the living. He had many times seen Death approach him and extend its claws towards his small, diminutive frame, only to retreat in haste and wait for another opportunity to come. And each time he missed being killed, the barrier between death and life became increasingly blurry. He knew that if he didn't take steps to prevent himself from meeting his fate at the hands of his enemies, he would dearly regret it.

And so he prepared himself. Each morning, he woke up at five o'clock and began his training exercises, before doing a two-mile run in the vicinity, returning just in time to prepare breakfast for his relatives and retreat back to his room to continue his workouts. That particular moment of the day was soon followed by stretching exercises, meditation and some studying, all of which were punctuated by angry calls made by his guardians to either mow the front lawn, wash the dishes or clean the kitchen's floor. And many would wonder as to how that formerly frail boy would bear that amount of activity without suffering a nervous breakdown or a downright exhaustion collapse.

But Harry Potter was not known for being a normal individual. His lightning-shaped scar, on his head, was a testimony of that. Death had followed him ever since he was born, taking his parents away from him, resulting in his so-called 'adoption' by his aunt and uncle, both of which loathed their nephew and didn't hesitate to make their opinion known to everyone but the immediate world around them. They abhorred people they judged as 'unnatural' or 'queer'. They prized normalcy like nothing else, deeming themselves to be higher than the other families that lived in the respectable district known as Little Whinging. Men who wore either long hair or an earring were either dubbed as 'mutts' or 'punks', 'good-for-nothing brats' that didn't deserve living or even being accepted by society. They constantly spied on their neighbors, trying to find their every flaws only to gossip about it with their slander-wielding friends and criticize everything - telling, in the meantime that that type of absurdity would never occur with them, the all-perfect Dursleys.

Pushing the black weights overhead, Harry Potter panted, feeling the fatigue seeping its way through his whole being. He knew that he wouldn't last any longer. His exercises were done for today. Carefully, he set back down the rusty mass of metal, which previously belonged to his cousin Dudley, for his boxing training. Dudley Dursley was the epitome of stupidity and overweight. Fat, dim-witted and 'gifted' with an egotistical mind, he didn't miss one opportunity to annoy his cousin, Harry Potter, loving to remind his relative above his orphan state and his lack of friends. That type of harassment took its roots deep in their childhood, when Dudley received everything he wanted and Harry barely nothing. The Dursley positively hated him for even breathing or just existing. He was the bane of their life. He didn't deserve their so-called benevolence as they should have kicked him out as soon as possible, if it weren't for the law prohibiting such a horrid act. Beatings, bullying, deprivations and other punishments had become part of Harry Potter's life. A common occurrence which he had learnt to live with and even use it for his own purposes. Dudley has not enough do a single first level crosswords. Harry wasn't even sure that his spelling notions were enough for him to reasonably do such a test of wits.

Setting down the weights on the floor beside him, he got up with a grunt, before heading towards his own bed, pulling a clean tee-shirt off the messed-up sheets and putting it on. He then made his bed, cleared the floor and started putting back his books in neat, ordered stacks. His aunt Petunia sometimes threw a look in his room when he wasn't there, to see if no suspicious or dangerous object was lying around. Her fear of the wizarding kind, however, prevented her from directly confronting Harry and demanding him to put it away in a safe location. Harry passed a tired hand through his wild, raven hair, trying to tidy himself up a bit, to look at least a little presentable. He didn't want to hear his relatives ranting endlessly about scruffy, worthless individuals that were the bane of society. Aunt Petunia's gossip sessions with her neighborhood friends were enough to provide him with prejudices about so-called 'bad, scandalous habits that deserve either a fine or imprisonment'. His green eyes darted left and right, searching for any item that was not at its place. With a mental smirk, he reflected on how Hermione-ish he was becoming. Discipline was a science he endeavored to plant inside his mind, as he thought that it would ease his future tasks.

"Boy! Get down here at this instant!" came a gruff, loud voice from downstairs. Silently cursing his bad luck, Harry Potter went out of his room, making sure that he had his wand in his trousers' pocket, and went down the staircase, to find himself looking straight at his bull-like uncle, Vernon Dursley. He noticed that his large, round and mustachioed face was more purpled than usual, as each time the biased Grunnings employee addressed Harry he always bore a red complexion in the face. Might be Mad-Eye's warning, Harry thought, recalling the little interview the old, retired Auror had with his relatives. Small talk was an understatement. Blatant threat was closer to the truth. "There you are! Took you long enough!" Vernon all but shouted. "I want you to wash the dishes and clean up the kitchen floor!" he gestured towards the said room, pointing a beefy, shaking finger towards that direction. Harry nodded without uttering an answer, his new response towards his makeshift family since the end of fifth year. As he entered the kitchen, he could hear his uncle bellowing one last sentence, "and NO funny business or you're in for it, boy!" They were still afraid of saying the word 'magic' or 'wizard' in their own household, fearing that their neighbors might hear it and spread rumors around.

Sighing, he took a mop and a sponge, and began his lengthy task. Not once he complained. He had had years of experience with the Dursleys to know that the word 'complaint' was unwelcome at four, Privet Drive. It didn't hold any meaning in here, but symbolized one road towards long, painful and exhausting punishments. Taking one plate in his hand and dipping it in hot water, he thought about the future and the past. Ever since the beginning of fifth year, everything had changed. For the worst. Not only did Lord Voldemort come back to life and power, but the entire wizarding world had shunned him out, for the only reason that he, Harry, had witnessed the event and wanted to warn his contemporaries about the new danger. As a logical, psychological reaction from people traumatized by old and now-buried tragedies, people had refused believing him, choosing instead to belittle him and repay him with slander. The hero of one time had become the target of mockeries and ridicule. Not that he minded, except for the fact that mass media propaganda also touched those around him. He was lucky that he had faithful friends around him, otherwise...he didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to become a new James Potter, betrayed by a new Peter Pettigrew. That would the death of him. Rinsing the plate, he moved on through the silverware, dropping forks, spoons, knifes and other cutlery items in a little, separate box. Draining the washbasin, he took the mop and a broom and started cleaning the floor, which was covered in dark stains, mostly dirty footmarks from Dudley's trainers.

He had to become stronger.

Otherwise he wouldn't survive.

Darwin stated that in an ecosystem, only the fittest and the strongest survived. Eat or be eaten. Beat or be beaten. So was the law of the wildlife and his world was no exception to it. Finishing his task, he set the broom in a little closet near the hall and got back upstairs, not wanting to spend another minute with his aunt and uncle and suffer their insupportable antics. Shutting the door behind him, he flopped on his bed, allowing himself to pensively gaze at the ceiling for a moment before stretching to his right and reaching for a leather-bound book. Get Downright Nasty: How To Deal With Duels Getting Out Of Hand by Theodorus Thimble. Each day, he spent four hours reading, rereading and cross-checking, indulging himself in taking some notes and writing all of his newly-gained knowledge in a classified account. That way he should be able to discern what was of greater importance and what wasn't. As he wasn't of age yet he couldn't perform magic without alerting the Ministry and getting, in the end, his wand snapped in two for misuse of underage magic. His freedom was already taken away from him. He wouldn't lose anything else. Not his ability to defend himself.

The Exitium Curse is one of the most powerful spells ever created by Aelfric the Ancient, a war mage that took part in the eighth Goblin rebellion in the eleventh century. It is said that Aelfric created the curse to disrupt enemy lines as they charged towards his allies' lines, and foil their deadly onslaught. Goblins had the reputation of charging head-on, spear held high and ready to be thrown, towards their enemies and battles waged against those deadly foes were greatly feared by Middle Ages wizards, as most of their spells were ineffective against that species. Most curses, hexes or jinxes would either bounce off Goblin protection shields or have very few to nonexistent effects, thus the need of new techniques to counterattack that threat. Aelfric Dinobas (1021-1133), a war mage from Southern France, took upon his shoulders the task of creating new types of magic. He retreating inside his own tower near Toulouse and spent two years experimenting new fields of witchcraft and wizardry, during which sixty-eight accidents occurred and nine servants of Aelfric perished in accidental explosions, byproducts and aftereffects of Aelfric's attempts to create new spells. Finally, in the fall of 1066, as the eighth Goblin rebellion war reached its apex, Aelfric finally forsook his dungeons and came forth towards battle, with many friends of his that he had initiated to the Arts of War.

In the battle of Bordeaux (1066 AD), Aelfric, with his kinsmen, used for the first time the Exitium Curse, effectively spreading chaos in the enemy lines and forcing his enemy, Galdaragh the Grisly to retreat towards the sea, where he was finally cornered by Aelfric's companions, coming from the sea and the south. That fateful day ended with the utter destruction of six Goblin armies and a decisive victory for the Warlock Gild-led wizard troops. Aelfric was later named high commander of the Warlock Gild as an acknowledgement and reward for his tremendous work during those two long years. In the end, the defeat of Bordeaux, made possible by the appearance and massive use of Exitium Curses, turned the tide against the Goblin nation, forcing them to admit defeat and relinquish their dominion to the kingdom of men.

The incantation for the Exitium Curse is 'exitio' (pronounced 'ecs-xee-tee-yo' with a deep emphasis on the 'xee') and is used to cast a destructive blast onto your opponent. It is, however, more effective on large formations or groups, as it wipes away all sense of coordination off those targeted as well as causing massive damage to them. Considered as a highly dangerous curse, the Exitium Curse was nearly proclaimed as illegal by the two hundred eighty-third gathering of the Wizengamot Confederation in 1638, after two greedy wizards attempted to murder their rich cousins and their respective heirs by using the Exitium Curse but fortunately failed in performing the spell. A high amount of damage, however, was to be deplored in the surroundings - an aftereffect of the botched castings.

The aforementioned case shows us that a high degree of caution must be used when considering casting this special spell. It is reported that some dark feelings like hate and anger or even righteous ire increases the power output of the curse, even though nobody has yet dared to use the Exitium Curse ever since the 1640s, as governments came to look upon that spell with a watchful eye and a repressive mind. There are three variants of the Exitium spell, two of which are now forgotten (namely the Chaos Exitium and the Havoc Exitium, both famous for their tendency to backfire on the caster when incorrectly cast). The last known one is the Exitium Supremum, which only dark wizards are known to use as it requires a great amount of dark arts' experience for the caster in order to use the spell with success. The Exitium Supremum's incantation, however, is 'Exitio Hostem' (pronounced 'ecs-xee-tee-yo, haw-s-them').

Taking a sheet of paper from his nightstand, he jotted down a few notes about the Exitium Curse, underlining it with a red marker and adding a few observations about its advantages in battle. He also thought about the DA, his little Defense Against the Dark Arts group, formed under the very nose of last year's Hogwarts High Inquisitor, Dolores Umbridge. As the frog-like ministry employee refused to impart her students with knowledge about how to repel Death Eaters, students took upon themselves the secret and difficult task of teaching themselves defense curses, hexes and jinxes so that they wouldn't fall behind the normal school curriculum. They knew that the Ministry was trying to asphyxiate them and they refused to submit. Not in such dire moments. Voldemort was lurking around and they needed to be prepared. A good offense is the best defense, many said. And they took the lesson to heart. Maybe I should teach them that, thought Harry, thinking about eventual lessons with his classmates and fellow DA members. But again, it's a highly dangerous curse, easy to misuse. Maybe it's not such a good idea, but again, what should I teach time these days? His musings were cut short by a quiet hoot from his pet owl, Hedwig, who was looking at him with curious, amber eyes. Harry turned towards the white-feathered bird and smiled. She must be asking herself why I'm so concentrated on a sheet of paper, he laughed inwardly. Such a behavior was so unlike him. Studiousness was expected from Hermione, but not him.

Harry got up from his bed and went towards Hedwig's cage, opening its door and inserting his hand inside to stroke his friend's back. The white, tawny owl hooted with pleasure, relishing her master's attention. "Alright, there, girl?" he asked.

'Hoot.'

"I see" he laughed. "I'll let fly off tonight, girl, don't worry," he added, soothing his companion. The Dursleys had forbidden him from letting her fly during daytime so that she wouldn't alarm the neighbors or attract unwanted attention. How sensible. "I don't feel like sending message these days, and I'm sorry for it." He sat back on his bed with an apologetic smile, knowing that he was depriving his owl from what she was meant to do. "But that doesn't mean you cannot wander on and off whenever or wherever you want, you know that?" he asked. Hedwig blinked in response, hooting softly in agreement. "Good, then. Just don't get hurt, I don't know what I'd do alone in here" he said, with a sad, wry smile.

'Hoot.'

Harry sighed, a strange sight for those who might have observed him during the last few weeks. He had schooled himself into wearing a blank face, hiding his true expression beneath a cold mask. He didn't want to let the pain show and take him away. Such weaknesses would be the cause of his death. He had to move on, to rein in the hurt that threatened to break him. Tame it and use it for his own purposes. His destiny commanded it. For at the end of fifth year, the rules had changed.

Until then, he had seen himself as just a simple student but with a stunning past. One that longed much for normalcy but failed miserably in getting a hold of it. He had discovered that it was only a vain hope. He would never have the happiness he strained to grasp. For his path in life had already been written years ago. He was the chosen one. The one who had been given the grisly task of definitively bringing down the Dark Lord, Voldemort, the evil wizard who had given him his lightning bolt-shaped scar. He had arisen anew and had to be defeated for ever, one last time. For a better world and a chance to peace.

The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… Born to those who have thrice defied him, Born as the seventh month dies…And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal...that prophecy had haunted his nights for two whole months, depriving him from much-needed sleep and torturing him endlessly, a torment of the worst type. On top of that, he kept having visions. Pictures of people clad in black being put under the Pain Curse and the sound of a grim laugh echoing away. Nightmares on a daily basis.

He had had to tutor himself in Occlumency, as he refused to have Snape, as a private professor for his holidays. His mind-shielding sessions during Fifth Year were a complete disaster, from its beginning to its end and it had resulted in the death of Harry's godfather.

Sirius...

A pang of pain tore through Harry's heart, deeply stabbing his soul although the teenager's face showed nothing. He couldn't let the pain take him over, he reminded himself. Breathe deeply, let the air fill your lungs and your muscles relax. The world around you exists no more. Your room is your universe. And you are in control. Exhale. Relax. Inhale. And again. He retreated towards the deepest recesses of his mind, just like he did in Occlumency, feeling the cold numbness of meditation soothe his spirit. He needed those exercises like a stranded man wandering in the desert lusting for a bottle of water. It had become like a drug; it was now a means to fulfill his goals. A trampoline of sorts towards higher levels. Discipline and order were the two things he reaped from those mind-training sessions.

Shaking his head to chase the remaining depressive thoughts out of his mind, he leant back against the pane of glass behind him, trying to think about something else. Quidditch? Like it's going to help me, hah! I already hear Jordan commentating a match between me and Moldy-warts... 'Voldemort has the quaffle, dribbles Potter, Crucio'es him...Potter plummets down to the ground...ouch! That had to hurt! Meanwhile...err...Voldemort keeps on speeding towards the hoops...and yes! He throws it right through the goal! Ten-zero for the Dark Lord. It's still zilch for the Light side, though...come on, Potter, look for the snitch! That will kill him outright! Yeah, you heard me so now, stop whimpering and get back on your Firebolt! Now, if you could...ah, okay...Voldemort sends a new Cruciatus spell towards Potter and the referee, Lucius Malfoy, has still not given the penalty shot for Potter! Really, what a shame! And stop whimpering, Potter!'" Chuckling inwardly, he took a look back at his book, a gift from Hermione for his fourteenth birthday. Hermione. The thought of his bushy-haired friend pulled him into a deep reflection about the meaning of friendship and as to how far would his friend follow him in his quest for freedom. She had been hurt more than once just because she had been Harry's friend yet she still kept tagging along with him, not hesitating to follow him in his most dangerous adventures. Last year, in the Department of Mysteries, she had nearly been killed by one of Antonin Dolohov's curses, which had hit her in the chest, causing her to stay in Hogwarts' hospital wing for a few weeks. She still had, from what he had heard in the last few weeks, to take a couple potions a day to keep the pain away.

And Ron hadn't fared better. His red-haired, freckled, tall, lanky and gangly-looking friend had been attacked by brains, masses of gray matters that wildly failed around with their wire-like tentacles and held onto everything they entered in contact with, even humans. Ron, according to his parents, Arthur and Molly Weasley, still had welts on his arms, a reminder of his ordeals at the proverbial hands of his attackers. He still spent most of his nights suffering strange dreams and thoughts that weren't his own. He even had paid St Mungo (the wizarding world's main hospital) a visit but the healers hadn't come up with a treatment against his wounds. They couldn't find what exactly was wrong with him. They just couldn't locate the source of the pain and they knew that tampering with one's soul or mind was like gambling with the Grim Reaper. They chose the lesser pain - leave him with his problems instead of taking the risk of adding a few more to the list.

Even though they didn't come out unscathed out of our encounter in the Department, they're still willing to follow me, Harry thought, gazing at the ceiling. But all I want is for them to be safe. It isn't really much, is it? What price must I pay to see that day where people will be safe behind me, away from any source of harm? Maybe my life.

'Hoot.'

"You're right, Hedwig. I'm drifting away where I shouldn't go," he admitted to his friend. "I could use a little distraction, though, but I need to think about this whole mess. I know, it's really a fucked-up situation but I can't help it. Either I run away from the pain or I confront it. Neither of them promise me any good. Just their share of pain." Unconsciously flexing his muscles as a physical response to his unease and the fear creeping inside himself, he let out a deep breath. "I wish I could find a way out, though."

His musings were abruptly interrupted when a sharp tapping from the window behind him made him turn his head. Harry found himself gazing into the large, beady eyes of a dark-feathered owl. One that bore the crest of Gringotts, the Goblin bank that served the entire wizard world.

Harry's face paled instantly. The moment he had feared all summer long had come.

An author's notes: Of stories woven and the aftermath

This is my first attempt to HP fanfiction. I took off from Neon Genesis Evangelion since that area is slowly dying and the old, good authors are no longer updating or getting dreadful delays in their works. I had to write three different drafts of the prologue to finally get it right, even though, in the end, I came up with a rather disappointing chapter filled with musings and dark thoughts. I wanted for the truly interesting things and other developments to come up later. In chapter two, in fact. So, you know the drill. Read. And. Review.

As I am making up this series on pure impulse and do not really have a clear synopsis in mind, your notes can give me good advices on how I could fix up my writing. But remember one thing: even though English is my mother tongue, I am no more used to speak it fluently. Which means that some of my sentences might sound a bit complicated or hard to read. I don't know. Choice of word will probably look simplistic, too. I don't usually go for complicated words. Just the necessary - unless I really need specific terms to qualify or designate a theme, object, person or theory. If you're an author, you know what it means.

Want to drop me an e-mail? You're welcome, AS LONG AS IT IS CONSTRUCTIVE. FLAMES ARE NOT WELCOME. If you want to flame me, don't bother sending me a mail. Keep your opinion to yourself. I'm okay if you want to criticize me and tell me off for my flaws (that is, in a pacific and constructive way), but if you bite my head off just for pure fun or because you want to mess up with me, then get lost. I don't call that responsible or mature. I call it 'an asshole's attitude'. If you don't like my series, just stop reading and search for other fics to mess around with. Leave me alone. Questions? I'm there to answer them. Notes? Give them to me, I'll see what I can do with them. Advice? They're welcome, as long as you show me why and where they're needed. I can't just put it inside just for fun.

If you want the chapters in their original format, drop me a message, too. FFN seems to ruin the formatting as well as making some symbols disappear, much to my displeasure. Send me a can of Coca-Cola along with your message, that's the fee for my answer (grin).

Until next time,

abi2301