Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any content from it. This story is purely for entertainment and I do not profit or make money from it whatsoever. Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling.
Note: This story contains Dumbledore-bashing, and Ron-bashing, plus the typical Draco and Snape are arses.
Prologue
Innocence. Sweet, warm innocence. The very essence the soul of each child born into this world is made of. Pure, and untainted. Many religions and great men of the ages have spoken or written in great detail of the goodness each child carries into existence. Unmarred, faultless and flawless to the eyes gazed upon them.
However, such innocence can never last.
It is never the fault of the child. It is never the fault of an innocent being born into a harsh, cruel, and unforgiving world. It is never the fault of a soul being slowly exposed by the ugliness of life. That once pure, unmarred soul becoming blemished and sullied with time and experience.
It is a natural, if unfortunate, part of life. Society, unlike the soul of a new-born child, is imperfect. Conflict, hate, and everything equally terrible happen everyday, everywhere. The more the child is exposed to this miasma of destruction, the more innocence is lost.
For a good many, the process is slow, gradual over years. As they grow up, the children are exposed to the evil of the world, little by little. By adulthood, the innocence once held dear is all but gone.
But for some, a grimmer path awaits. Circumstances, often beyond their control, thrusts them into a world where they are forced to grow up, far too early, far too quickly. A gradual adjustment from innocence to knowledge is sped up, leaving no room for happiness, laughter or joy.
And when the soul is exposed to untold multitudes of despair, pain and hatred without a positive buffer, it cracks, fracturing under the weight of life. Too much, and it will shatter, bringing forth untold horrors for those who inflicted the damage.
You may ask yourself, how could anyone go through such an existence?
More than you'd care to think.
There are many, scattered all over the world. Many are hidden, some in plain sight, or forcibly by others.
One of them…a certain Harry Potter.
From barely a year old, little Harry Potter was forced to grow up. An epitome of the world's hatred, fear and anger, Lord Voldemort, stole his parents away and left him an orphan, when the Killing Curse that was meant for him, rebounded and destroyed this inhuman figure.
Barely hours later, he is unceremoniously dumped on the doorstep of his mother's magic-hating, muggle sister, Petunia Dursley, and her magic-hating, muggle family. From that moment, the very innocence in Harry's unblemished soul was slowly corroded, slowly descending him into darkness.
For you see, Petunia and her walrus of a husband, Vernon, were no saints. From the moment Harry could walk and talk, he was treated as a slave, not as a young child to be cherished and loved. He was hardly fed, made to sleep in the cupboard under the stairs, forced to wear thread-bare, loose clothes, and made to do the household chores from dawn to dusk, rain or shine, hot or cold. The Dursleys even went so far as to not call him by his name, preferring the more dehumanizing "Boy!" or "Freak!"
Any tears, cries or pleas were met with blows. From the fist, belt, whatever was in hand, was used whenever Harry complained, or did something wrong. Even getting the toast slightly burnt was rewarded with a beating, days without food, and time in the cupboard.
The Dursleys, like Lord Voldemort, were the worst of what the world and life could offer. And such evilness trickled down to the offspring.
Their only son, Dudley, as fat as his walrus of a father, was taught to hate Harry and see him as nothing more than the freak they saw him to be. Dudley revelled in abusing Harry, at home, school, or even on the street. 'Harry-Hunting' – a game where they chased after Harry and beat him up viciously when they catch him – was the favourite pastime of Dudley and his friends, alongside threatening anyone who dared show the freak any sliver of kindness, keeping him alone and friendless.
No one intervened. The teachers were apathetic, merely sending a bloody and bruised Harry to the nurse, who for all accounts saw him as a patient who needed patching up. Nothing else, nothing more, nothing less.
Poor little Harry Potter. It was him against the world. A cruel, indifferent world that took sick delight in beating him down, destroying his innocence and fracturing his soul.
Until one day, his soul became too fractured to sustain itself any longer. Like a pane of glass, it shattered, his innocence crumbling to dust. From the debris, the darkness within him rose, all sign of the innocent child within him gone. For those who had wronged little Harry, vengeance will rain down hard, brutal, and merciless.
It started during a round of 'Harry-Hunting'. Harry was being chased around the school by Dudley and his friends. Harry was still bruised from the blows and kicks by his uncle, who had come home from work drunk the night before. He was in pain, his young bones and what little muscle he had screaming in agony.
Dudley and his gang were gaining on him. Any closer, and it would be more blows and kicks to exacerbate his wounded body. Harry thought to himself, someone, something, please, save him.
Please, save him.
Suddenly, there was a loud sound, of something rupturing and breaking. There were screams, as something fell. There was a loud crash, and the screams grew louder.
Still running, Harry ducked behind a large rubbish bin, making himself as small as possible, hoping Dudley and his gang would run by and not notice him. One moment passed, then another, and another. No one came, but the screaming continued. Slowly opening his eyes, Harry carefully peeked around the bin to check the coast. He could see Dudley, but the fat whale of a cousin was not looking at him.
No, he, as well as everyone else in the playground, were staring at a macabre scene in front of their innocent eyes.
What had caused that rupturing noise was a large pipe of the school's rain gutter, running up the length of the school-building's walls, from the ground to the roof. It had broken free from its bolts, crumpled at the base, and pulled the gutter down with it. It collapsed like a house of cards, falling right onto Dudley's best friend Piers Polkiss, and Dennis, a member of the gang.
Harry stared at the sight of two five-year-old boys crushed under the pile of twisted metal, blood seeping from their broken, lifeless bodies and mixing into the earth. The children were screaming and wailing. The teachers were frantically trying to pull the pipe off the two boys and calling for an ambulance. Dudley was just standing there, too shocked to react that two of his friends were dead.
It was chaos, and Harry was spellbound. He couldn't tear his eyes away, not that he wanted to. He marvelled at the demise of two of his tormentors, a single thought crossing his mind, something his aunt or uncle would often scream at him whenever he did something "wrong" and was punished for it.
'They deserve it.'
As he watched the scene with morbid interest, Harry failed to notice that his emerald-green eyes were glowing faintly.
Little Harry was never the same again, after witnessing the death of Piers and Dennis. He was curious. He wondered, what caused the pipe to fall? Was it a bad accident as the teachers called it? Or was it something else, something otherworldly?
It was too much of a coincidence, after all, that the pipe collapsed when he was desperately wishing for something to save him.
Was it…him? Did he cause the pipe to fall?
Surely not, he was only a child, and he had run past the pipe without touching it. How could he had caused the pipe to collapse?
Or…maybe it was him.
After all, his aunt and uncle used to scream at him about "bringing in that freakish magic into our normal home!" whenever they beat him. Perhaps that was what caused the pipe to kill Piers and Dennis? Magic?
…
…
…
Harry had to find out.
It had been a long time coming - several months in fact, with plenty of practice (all hidden, mind you, he didn't want to get beaten by his relatives again) on every manner of objects, starting from the lightest of things such as a paper clip or a needle, to heavier items like books and chairs. But Harry had done it. He had discovered he had magic, and he had tamed it to his control.
He could now move and manipulate items at his will, as if an unseen figure was moving them. Harry was so excited; he was now at the fun stage, planning. What should he do…to get himself out of this hellhole?
Night had fallen, and the last lights of Number 4, Privet Drive had been extinguished as the Dursleys went to bed. Loud snoring echoing from upstairs was the signal Harry needed. His plan was now a go-ahead.
It didn't matter that Vernon had locked the door to the cupboard before going to bed. Harry simply tuned his magic to unlock it without any problems. A simple lock wasn't going to stall the Dursleys from meeting their maker, after all.
Pushing the door open, Harry crawled out from the cupboard, got up, and stretched. Hearing the satisfying pop of his joints, Harry relaxed with a sigh. He turned towards the kitchen, he needed to get his implements.
Harry stepped inside the moonlit kitchen. His eyes, now glowing noticeably in the semi-darkness, rested on the knife-block, holding seven knives of different sizes and different uses. But they had one common use tonight. They were vital in the success of his plan.
Harry outstretched his arm, aiming his hand at the knife-block. The knife handles quivered, before withdrawing one by one from the block. They floated over to Harry, blades pointed at the floor. Harry withdrew his hand, focusing the magic through his eyes and mind. The knives stayed in the air, following him as he turned around and retreated from the kitchen towards the stairs.
Slowly, Harry climbed each step one at a time. The stairs creaked and groaned when too much force was put down. And besides, what's the point of rushing? Sure, freedom awaited, but Harry wanted to savour each moment of his vengeance. They did him wrong, so he ought to return the favour multiple fold.
His shadow glided past the sickening photographs of what would be a normal family hanging on the wall along the stairs. Harry didn't need to glance at them to know the occupants were smiling. Well, he knew that after tonight, there won't be any smiles from the family the photographs captured. But…then again, they will continue to serve as memories of happier times, especially after tonight.
Harry reached the top landing, knives slowly halting behind him. He now had a choice to make. His aunt and uncle first? Or his cousin first?
Best ought to deal with the source of all his troubles first, wouldn't it? His aunt and uncle were the reason why Harry was broken, beating him, starving him, screaming at him and calling him those horrid names. They were the real evil-doers, the real freaks, not him. They had to go first. They needed to be punished.
Harry stepped towards his relative's bedroom door. Keeping his magic on the knives, Harry sent a tendril of magic towards the doorknob, latching onto it and turning it slowly. The door unhitched, and opened without so much as a sound. There was nothing holding back the full volume of the snores from Vernon. As much as it disgusted little Harry, it suited him well, that meant any sound he made would be covered by the awful din.
At the back of his mind, he wondered how his aunt Petunia could even sleep with all that noise from her walrus of a husband. But it didn't matter, her sleep wouldn't be disturbed anytime soon when he was done.
Harry raised his hand, fingers splayed open. The knives floated over him, hovering over his aunt and uncle. Harry folded his thumb into his palm, and the bedroom door slammed shut.
Petunia and Vernon were thrust out of their slumber, shooting up from the mattress and gazing about furtively for a moment in confusion. Their confusion gave way to fury when they saw Harry, eyes glowing, hand outstretched, at the foot of their bed.
"FREAK! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU-"
Harry folded his pinkie in.
Vernon's shout was cut off when an unseen force pushed him and his wife back down onto the mattress. They struggled ragingly, but they couldn't get back up. The force holding them down was too strong. Harry folded in ring finger in as both began to shout and scream. This wouldn't do. He didn't want Dudley or the neighbours to wake up from the din, after all. They might try and stop his vengeance.
"YOU DISGUSTING LITTLE MONSTER! I'LL-"
Any shout or scream was unceremoniously silenced by the Dursley's lips being physically sealed shut, as if closed by a zipper. Loud, incomprehensible sounds slammed against the Dursleys' fused mouths, their limbs flailing about wildly in a futile attempt to fight against the invisible weight holding them down. Harry folded his middle finger in.
Suddenly, the Dursleys' limbs went rigid, and snapped to their sides like stiff puppets. They couldn't move. The force had enveloped their entire bodies to hold them in place, as if they were being mummified. The only things moving were their eyes amidst the almost inaudible noises of half-formed shouts and screams. They looked up, and their eyes stilled, the colour draining from their faces as they noticed what was hovering over them.
The knives, with the blades shimmering in the moonlight, pointing down straight at them. Muffled screams raced from their throats and gathered in their mouths.
Harry remained impassive, eyes glowing as he folded in the last finger, his index, and knives hurtled straight towards the Dursleys in a final act of vengeance.
About ten minutes later, the bedroom door squeaked open. Little Harry emerged from the room, a few splatters of crimson dotting his face and clothes. The knives had once again fallen into place behind him, blades stained and dripping with the same crimson fluid.
Harry felt…light. Like a great burden had been lifted from his broken soul. Watching the spectacle from before was entertaining enough, but it left him satisfied knowing his aunt and uncle got what monsters like them deserved.
But Harry couldn't run just yet. He had one more target, Dudley.
His cousin's bedroom was just down the hall. Dudley had actually two bedrooms to his name, but Harry didn't need to check both to know which one his oafish cousin was in. If anything, Dudley inherited his father's appearance, and snores.
Harry almost chuckled. He had wondered if slamming his aunt and uncle's bedroom door would have woken the bastard up. But it seemed like Dudley's snores were also loud enough to mask over any noises from outside, even if it signified his impending demise.
Steeling his face into the blank look he used on his aunt and uncle, Harry came to Dudley's bedroom. Here, he repeated the procedure. He let a tendril of magic open the door, and he would step inside, knives following. He would reach the foot of his cousin's bed, outstretch his hand, and the knives would float over him to hover over Dudley. Harry folded his thumb in, and the door slammed shut, waking his cousin.
The process repeated itself, and also within ten minutes, it was over.
Harry emerged from Dudley's bedroom, though this time, the knives didn't follow him out. Leaving the door ajar, Harry blinked as the realization that he was finally free slowly sunk in.
He could've danced, he could've sang his heart out over his plan's smooth execution. But he did neither. He saw no reason to be so frivolous and silly. His freedom was waiting, after all.
And, his plan was not quite finished yet.
Harry gazed at the wallet in his hand, his lips slightly pursed in a thoughtful twist. Inside it, contained all the hard, physical money that the Dursleys had hidden all around the house, from inconspicuous places, like buried in the soil of a flower pot, to little nooks and crannies all over. After going through every single hiding spot (Harry would always discretely watch his now late relatives hide money in those places and he would make a mental note about it), the wallet now contained a few thousand quid. Enough for some time, and frankly, Harry wasn't really too worried about running out of money and going hungry.
After all, he had magic.
But Harry was not naïve. If he wanted to survive, he needed to get out of Little Whinging. London was the closet city from here, but Harry knew all sorts of dangers awaited even being out in the streets of Little Whinging at night. He had to be careful. He had to make sure his magic could adapt to desperate times and dangerous moments.
But first, the last stage of his plan.
Pocketing the wallet, Harry glanced about the living room. It still looked ordinary, perfectly normal for a house like this. If one could ignore the trails of a certain flammable liquid streaking in all directions, running off towards the kitchens and up the stairs to the floor above where the carnage lay, that is.
It's a shame, Harry thought for a moment, that so much good furniture was about to be blown apart. But he had spent many an hour cleaning those furniture, and for that, they carried the same filth as his late relatives. They weren't worth anything in Harry's eyes now, just firewood at this point.
Harry walked out of the living room into the hallway, a padded jacket hanging limply on the staircase banister. It had been one of Dudley's, and if he was being honest with himself, Harry didn't want to wear something owned by the late oaf. But it was cold out tonight, and even if Harry could manipulate his magic to warm himself, he couldn't hold it forever. A necessary evil, the jacket was.
Putting it on, Harry went to the front door and opened it. A cold blast of wind swept into the hallway, but the jacket did its job well. Because it was one of Dudley's, it went so far down that it skimmed the ground where Harry stood. But lucky him, more protection from the cold, at least.
Turning back into the hallway, Harry dug into the jacket pocket, and pulled out a matchbox. Pulling one out, he struck it alight, and with a nonchalant look, tossed it onto the spot where the kerosene ended a few paces behind him.
Immediately, there was a whoosh as the kerosene ignited, the flames hungrily snapping up the volatile fuel and spreading into the house. Harry quickly stepped out and closed the door behind him. Already, he could see the glow of the flames behind the curtained windows as the fire started ravaging the living room. He needed to move, now.
Harry quickly darted out of the front gate, and took off down Privet Drive towards Magnolia Crescent. It connected to Magnolia Road which led to an outer road, which in turn deviated away from Little Whinging itself, burrowing through a small hill, corkscrewed up the hill, and joined the main highway running adjacent to the town.
That was where Harry needed to go.
He reached Magnolia Road relatively quickly, and unscathed too. He was walking along the pavement next to a playground where all but one of the swings has been damaged (courtesy of the late Dudley and his gang), when in the distance, an almighty BANG rocked the night.
Harry paused, as he watched a fireball rise into the air with great plumes of smoke. Lights from people's houses were being flickered on, and there were distant shouts and screams, along with the wailing of sirens. Harry knew what had happened, the flames must have breached the fuel tank in the stove and caused an explosion that most likely obliterated Number 4, Privet Drive to the ground.
'Well,' he thought to himself, 'sucks be to them.'
With a final shrug, Harry continued on his way. He reached the underpass, and followed the corkscrew turn up to the highway. As Little Whinging rose to fire and smoke, little Harry Potter disappeared into the darkness, never to be seen or heard from for the next several years.
Hey everyone, so here's my attempt at a dark!cold!Harry novel where Harry kills his abusive relatives and disappears, only to come to Hogwarts not like what anyone was expecting.
I understand I still have the Phoenix of Beauxbatons to continue. But this has been a plot bunny for a while, and I really wanted to get started on it. Don't worry, I'll still continue my other stories when I can.
So the typical stuff. Your feedback will be most appreciated. I'm open to suggestions to how this story plays out, although I've got the rough storyline already sorted. Any flaming of any sort will not be tolerated whatsoever.
This is SilentGhostWriter2017, and I hope you enjoy Ice-Cold Emeralds.