Summary: A lot of bad things seem to happen around Harry, so excuse him if he is slightly suspicious of this muggle woman who looks like she just got drop-kicked by Dumbledore's fashion sense and claims to be an all-powerful genie. Time Travel, Powerful!Harry. HP/LV.
Warnings: OOC Harry. OOC Voldemort. Mature Content.
Disclaimer: I do not, and will never, own Harry Potter.
"You yourself hate your hatred, you can't stand yourself, and you're desperate."
- Wilhelm Reich
Iciness bit into his skin as small splashes of rain splattered on his umbrella, the sound almost soothing against the harsh slash of tires of wet roads, car horns honking, and people talking, voices ranging from deep to high and from loud to soft.
His brilliant green eyes raise, watching as clouds gathered together, sky growing darker as the day went by. For a moment, Harry Potter watches, wondering why the world that was so beautiful birthed a race so corrupted.
Humans, he thought. Such vain creatures - materialistic, selfish, and greedy. Man only wants and wants and once there's nothing left to want, he wants even more. There was so much ego, so much thirst to prove that one was better than another, so much alpha-male bullshit that seemed to ravage the world bare. Wars, death, all told to bring change but they never really end. One country's defeat is another country's vengeance and bitterness is a dangerous weapon. Peace is welcomed, but people are still restless if it's because they are now ruled by someone else, their deceased ancestors buried in the ground they stand on. It's never enough. Nothing is ever enough for humans.
Harry hates himself, because he is the same - because Harry is selfish, overcome by his own desires, wanting things that he may never get - such as his parents. He's a hypocrite, because he's possessive and greedy of his own possessions, guarding them with the fierceness of a dragon, savoring them because once, he had nothing but a cupboard, a cot, and a finger-sized action figure of a green soldier carrying a shotgun over his shoulder. He's a hypocrite, because Harry knows what's wrong with the world, looks down on it, but does nothing to change it. He's a hypocrite, because he wants as a man wants - everything, and so much more. Harry is a hypocrite, because he really, truly, doesn't care. Harry is also a liar – his favorite victim is himself.
He wonders if that makes him a masochist, too?
Something collides with his side – something bony and frail, and then his ears ring with a loud shatter of something being broken. His eyes move from the darkening sky, to his side, where a woman is standing. The woman is old and hunched over, grey hair threaded together like fine spider silk, the tips of her tresses brushing bony, gaunt shoulders. Her pale, almost sickly face is smudged with dirt and aged with wrinkles. It was obvious she was homeless, with her mismatched, torn and agonizingly bright clothing, looking like a sickly female Albus Dumbledore. She was standing still, looking down at the shattered glass on the ground - it could have been anything, and Harry ponders that maybe she'd been trying to sell it for money for food.
"I'm very sorry, young man," she says, tone hoarse, turning to stare at him with eyes – eyes that were looking through him and not at him. They look haunted, lost and weary, as if the world had chewed her up and spat her out and she was expecting more suffering – so much more.
"No," he replies, voice distant, "it's fine." He stares down at the mess of glass lying at her feet. "Was that something important?"
"In a way," she agrees. "Don't worry about it."
To add to the list: Harry is also a hypocrite because he pities this race, and maybe, just a little, cares.
"No," he says again, pulling out his wallet and fishing out muggle money he'd converted from his vault at Gringotts. "How much was it worth? I'll pay it in full. I have much more than I need."
Her lips twitch into a far-off smile, like he'd said some sort of joke. "Kind, but unnecessary, young man."
"I'm very stubborn." He threatens.
Her smile deepens. "Thank you. It was worth sixteen pounds."
He drops a hundred more than she asked for in her hand, closes his wallet and shoves it into the inside of his jacket. She snags his wrist before he moves to walk away, her grip tighter than handcuffs.
"Wait." She demands, with a fierceness that seemed out of place on her old visage and surprised him. "Can I ask you a question?"
He eyes her, a touch drained. "You can, but that doesn't mean I'll answer."
"If you had a wish which would come true against all odds, what would it be?"
He thinks, but he doesn't have to. He already knows the answer, and it brings him pain. It only reminds him of what he doesn't have – what he could have had, once upon a time.
"What would I wish for?" He wonders aloud, voice flat. "I'd wish for something I'll never have. It's a lost dream. It doesn't matter, now."
"Tell me." She presses.
Harry doesn't know why, but it's like his body had a mind of it's own. His mouth opened, straining against his control, willpower, and spoke in a bland, empty tone: "Someone who will love me unconditionally. It doesn't matter which way they love me, as long as we'd be happy."
"And you don't think you have that already?"
"I have people that love me, but not truly. They don't see the real me, and I don't want them to, either. I'm selfish like that. That dream will never happen."
She straightens, seeming taller than she had in the last minute that he'd known her, stares into his eyes with a locked, forceful gaze. "Perhaps," she tells him, like she's whispering a dark secret. And then she turns, marching into the crowded street and vanishing into the population of greedy, faceless humans.
Harry turns too, strangely feeling like he'd dug his own metaphorical grave, and heads back into the confines of #12 Grimmauld Place.