Disclaimer: This is a fan written work based on the works of J.K. Rowling. It might possibly also have some elements of a number of other works. There is no money being made from this, it is merely a work meant for the entertainment of myself and the masses. This is merely for fun, and no profit. I repeat: I am not making any money out of writing this.
Warning: OCs OOCs Sues, and some crack. You have been warned.
Note 1: AU.
*
*
POWERLESS
*
*
chapter one
*
*
He felt numb, starved of life, devoid of all emotion save for guilt, sadness, and despair. He had been robbed of a brighter future, a greater tomorrow, and a happier home. All it had taken was one mistake, one error of judgement, one fatal flaw in rational thinking. He had forgotten about the mirror, if only he had thought of the mirror, none of this would have happened.
The world was once again shrouded in darkness, it was no longer a happy place, a place of peace and tranquility. The streets were no longer safe to wander on when the lights were out. There were no more safe havens in the world.
He had returned, and staked his claim on the world. He had made his existence once again known. What once had fallen, and believed to have died, had risen again, like a dark phoenix rising from its ashes, the evil had once again come to the world, covering it in the shadows of the abyss. Taunting the side of right with its threats of demise and destruction.
He would have felt a little less sorrowful if a bombshell had not been dropped in his lap a few days after the fiasco that robbed him of his brighter and happier future. While the continued fate of the world hung in the balance, he could do nothing but feel sorrow. He was unprepared for the trials ahead, for the battles and fights that needed to be won. How was he expected to take on the world's problems and come out victorious if he had never been trained in the art of war, trained in the aspects of humanity.
He had only been shown one facet of the gem called life. He had seen only the suffering for most of his short life, he had experienced pain, loss, and hurt. He had experienced deceit and manipulation. He had been used and abused. He had been trudged on, looked down on, and pitied.
He had no experience with compassion, only the drive to be seen, have his own place in the sun, be seen for who he was, and not what he had been forced to be. The young man that he had been trained to be, the young man that the world rested their hopes and dreams on was but a mere mask, a concealer, armor to protect the true person underneath. The mask was the final protection put in place to preserve what was left of his innocence, for that was what he truly was, an innocent in a war that had gone on for far too long.
After being picked up from the train station, he was somehow stuffed into his old room, the cupboard under the stairs, while his uncle muttered things like "Freaks dare tell me what I can and can't do" and "I'll show them whose boss" and "We've been too lenient for far too long."
While the magical arts were normally placed in the same category as pure evil, Vernon Dursley finally had it and contacted a relation of his that practiced such arts, the darker of these arts, the black arts. A branch of magic most foul that even Tom Riddle, who claimed to be a lord in such a realm of magic, was only able to scratch the surface of such dark potential.
Vernon's cousin arrived the day before Vernon's nephew was to return, Vernon had somehow gained some insight on what he was going to have to endure. So he decided that it was time for some drastic measures, such as slightly enlarging the cupboard to be able to hold anything in it, while allowing living matter to survive, albeit suffering at the same time.
Believing his nephew a true freak the conditions were perfect, and a hint of pride shone in his eyes when he thought that out of all the people in the world his nephew would be able to suffer the torture he had asked his cousin to set up for the boy.
Vernon Dursley's cousin was his best kept secret, even his sister could never remember as she was more intollerant of such things, but not Vernon, he knew when something had value, and Varis Dursley was a man to value.
Which was why the mask which Harry Potter wore was summarily shattered upon being locked with all of his worldly belongings inside his cupboard under the stairs. His suffering began anew, even greater and graver than it had ever been before. There were spells on the cupboard in place to make sure that he did not die a painful death, but were there to keep him alive and live an agonizing existence.
Varis Dursley, while not a fan of Tom Riddle, had a deep hatred for those that would willingly or unwillingly impede the growth of any practitioner of the Black Arts.
He was in pain, blissful unconsciousness would not come to him, he could not escape it as something was always there, making sure that he somehow endured. When his pain receptors could stand no more, he was healed of all hazardous and fatal effects, then forced to relieve the torture over and over again. But when he got used to the pain, whatever it was that gave him pain intensified in its attack.
His nerves were friend, healed, and friend again. The pain receptors all over his body went through transformation after transformation. He was forced to live all of his worst memories, feel all the helplessness he felt in those situations, and all the despair in world was thrust down his throat.
The one thing that drove him ever closer to the brink of insanity was the thought and the fact that there was nothing he could do about it.
Seconds passed into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into days, he could no longer think of the time, as the only thing in his world was pain. Pain in his body, pain in his mind, and pain in his soul
The Black Arts had managed to seep that far into his very being, tearing his soul to shreds and forcing it to reform, to heal, before it was torn to shreds again. Horcruxes were just the tip of the iceberg, but to torture a person by harming their complete soul was something which Tom Riddle never dared to even try, for failing to do so would result in dire consequences for the caster of such magic.
But where Tom Riddle was a rank amateur, Varis was a Master.
Harry's suffering knew no bounds, the magic that bound him kept him in pain for who knows how long. He was bound in an unending cycle of pain and healing, cursed to forever spend the remainder of his existence in eternal torture. There was no going back from the monstrous torture that he had been subjected to once he had been cast into the bowels of his cupboard under the stairs.
To any that would seek to know, through magical means, if he was safe, sound, or at peace, that person would be informed by the magic cast that there was absolutely nothing wrong with Harry Potter. He was safe and happy.
Petunia Dursley may not have loved or cared for the wellbeing of her nephew, but she knew that truly disciplining him, harming him, and hurting him in any visible way would be the end of her should the man that fought for the greater good ever find out. Which was why she readily believed her husband when he told her that her nephew would not be coming to live in their house the summer, his school minders had finally taken it upon themselves to look after the little cretin. Even if it was contradictory to what Albus Dumbledore had told her and her family earlier in the year, she readily accepted it as fact, and never bothered to check the cupboard under the stairs, going so far as to even forget that it even existed.
Strong magics were in place to protect Little Whinging, Surrey, from harm from the forces of darkness, the forces of Tom Riddle. Unlike what most would think a Black Mage was, Varis cared about his sole living relative, enough to ensure his safety from harm, harm in the form of Death Eaters. It was not the blood protection that protected Number 4 Privet Drive, it was the wards put in place by Varis that kept Privet Drive and the surrounding neighborhood safe from harm. The bloodwards had never worked as Harry Potter had never called or even thought of the place as home, but more of a prison, one where the chance of escape had always been nil.
Fate and Destiny looked on and watched helplessly as their champion was forced to suffer even in his already broken state. They had set his path, chosen it for him, thinking it was for the best for the world, but never had they thought that something would dare interfere with their plan. Changing the path, one trail set in stone, obsolete, leaving them separate from their champion unable to aid him in his present time of need. They had given him more than enough luck to survive anything they set before him, challenges that he had to face in order to fulfill his destiny. But then something had happened, somthing that had torn asunder all of their plans, all of their hard work. Lady Death and her own champion had stepped in and taken a life. One that had been critical in their plans, one that was meant as a reward for enduring so much.
Starting with the death of Sirius Black, everything began to go down hill. Harry began to lose his will to live. Realizations popped up, such as that his life was one not worth living, it had never been. From the very beginning he had been given the short end of the stick. He had survived, but only just barely. His friends, while they claimed to be, were secretly plotting to use him behind his back, they had never really cared, they only cared that he would be of use to them. He had suffered for so long a life of pain and hate, every little bit of affection of caring was a beacon which he latched on to and gave importantce. He knew no better, and acted in every way in order for him to keep such good things directed at him.
While Fate and Destiny may have wept for their champion they knew that in the end, they had only just used him to fit their own needs, to do as they wished, for the greater and bigger picture. But they had forgotten that the living, that mortals could only suffer so much, before they broke.
They had watched him successfully conquer and beat the odds in the past, but once he had enough, and his true self had been relvealed, they knew to tread carefully lest he break, which he did. Without the mask, his innocence was shattered, robbed of all purity all that remained was a mass of living flesh, blood, and bone, screaming and pleading for an end of the suffering he had to endure. A suffering which was so unplanned that not even Fate and Destiny themselves could do anything to relieve him of the pain.
An endless agony to be suffered and experienced in a cupbaord, separate from all of reality forever more, all thanks to the hate felt by one family, and the magiks of one black mage.