The boy who lived wished he hadn't. Work in progress. I own nothing. Suggestions welcome!
Voldemort left more than just a pretty-little, conveniently-symbolic, lightning-shaped scar on the infant Harry Potter's forehead. But that's what everyone sees, because that's the pretty little story Rita Skeeter spun up for the Daily Prophet to make her daily profit.
No, even though Voldemort's curse backfired, Harry still suffered third-degree burns over the majority of his one-year-old body, as though he were the target of an Incendio spell. Of course, those burns never manifested info lifelong scars because someone unbeknownst to Harry saved the tot with an incantation of Vulnera Sanentur. But they somehow missed, perhaps intentionally, the bolt-shaped scar on the right side of his forehead.
When news spread of how Voldemort had inadvertently destroyed his own body, multitudes of witches and wizards secretly held their glasses up to "The Boy Who Lived", mistakenly thinking that young Harry had escaped with nothing but a trifling scar. No one realized just how much of the Dark Lord's soul had truly been embedded in Harry's body. Even Harry himself grew up unaware of how badly his body had been scorched before he was mysteriously saved.
"The boy has a sharper wit than I imagined," Dumbledore mused, "But I don't quite see the problem, Severus."
Snape replied, "You do understand why detention was an appropriate action to take with Mr. Potter, don't you?"
"Harry was merely requesting you to teach him about a potion he had a particular interest in," responded the elderly Headmaster.
Snape whipped his hair from his face irritably and muttered with increasing annoyance, "First of all, I am no longer the Potions master. Secondly, he asked me if I knew how to brew Skele-Gro so I could finally grow myself a bone down there!"
Dumbledore chuckled good-naturedly. He began, "Severus, I understand Harry has a bit of a rebel streak—"
"A rebel streak?" Snape interrupted, "Excuse me, Professor, but he's got a dark streak." The new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher gave a resigned sigh. "There's something cold about Potter that I don't understand, and that's precisely what scares me."
"Colder than James?" Dumbledore inquired, "The James who quite ruthlessly bullied and tormented you?"
Snape answered instantly, "Absolutely. James was, no doubt, immature and had a penchant for harassing me. But it was never out of malice. I always felt that I understood him. It was merely circumstance and personality that made it so we could never be friends."
Snape ran his hand along the Headmaster's claw-footed desk. He continued, "I know you see good in Potter. I know how close he has grown to you with those private classes of yours. And I know you see limitless potential in him. That alarms me, and believe me when I say that I will keep a close watch on him. But, Professor, you have Potter's trust, and you teach him so much. You help him realize what he could become to the wizarding world. Tom Riddle would not be Voldemort if Horace Slughorn had simply kept silent about horcruxes. What Horace thought was mere curiosity about the Dark Arts was actually an insidious obsession with immortality and power that brought us all to where we are today. He made a mistake that cannot be measured." Snape grew flustered, "Look, Professor, what I'm trying to say is that you need to be careful. The boy is smarter than you know."
"Point taken." Dumbledore replied as he looked up at Snape with concerned eyes. "It's getting late, Severus. You need rest."
Snape swiftly exited the office, his feet pounding down the circular stone staircase. At that very same moment, something was pounding loudly in Harry's head.
Rarely did Harry sleep well these days, and tonight was no exception. Even his nights back at Privet Drive were more peaceful.
Tonight, Harry appeared to be in a wrestling match with his comforter. Hands clutching the cloth tightly, Harry's arms jerked closer to his chest. His body spasms amplified as his face clenched in chaotic concentration. And suddenly, the comforter won, as Harry lay motionless, pinned underneath the sweat-stained blanked.
In his nightmare, however, Harry was chasing Hermione, running in the left corridor on the seventh floor. She was screaming and clawing at the wall where the Room of Requirement should appear, but it remained a wall as Harry caught up with her. She turned around and backed up against it, pleading for mercy.
"No, Harry, please…Harry, no!"
Hermione pointed her wand at Harry. Before she could utter a single word, Harry felt himself clutch Hermione's throat, ceasing her piercing screams. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop his hands from wringing the life out of his friend. Even after Hermione fell silent, Harry could not loosen his grasp. He struggled with all his might, trying to relax his grip. His hands would not let go of Hermione's increasingly pallid skin. Horrified at what he had done, Harry continued to fight unsuccessfully against his own strength. He could see out of his own eyes, but the rest of his body felt possessed—as though under the Imperius curse. He wasn't strong enough to resist it. He couldn't even open his mouth to protest.
"Mmhmphf…"
Finally, Harry broke out of his dream. He creaked open his eyes into slits and pushed the covers off of his over-heated body. It was an uncomfortably familiar feeling. Ever since his sixth year began at Hogwarts, Harry had been having regular nightmares with an eerily similar theme. Each time, he saw himself—no, he experienced himself—doing terrible things and committing horrible acts, but could never control his own body.
Harry rubbed a bit of crust off of his left eye as he turned away from the wall. He felt himself losing control. Before this year, Harry was no stranger to nightmares. He knew Voldemort's mind was somehow connected to his. Although he failed to learn Occlumency from Snape last year, he did not fear the Dark Lord's influence on his mind. Harry knew how to use his human essence to his advantage by focusing on his feelings of love and grief. He thought about his family, he felt the aching and longing. Voldemort was too far from human to fully grasp these emotions, and the connection between their minds was blocked.
So, if these dreams were not the product of Voldemort's influence, then where did they come from? Anywhere and anyone, really. Harry cursed his mysterious life—a mystery to even himself.
He learned more and more about himself all the time, and it definitely wasn't an easy road of discovery. This year, he had suddenly developed a more devious side, spurting out wisecracking and vulgar comments before he even thought them. It didn't feel like himself, and it had already landed him a detention with Snape. On the other hand, this newfound mischievous personality made him quite popular and gave him a reputation as a joker, so Harry didn't mind it much. The dreams, however, were another story.
Harry had kept all of his nightmares a secret, afraid that he would unnecessarily alarm Ron or Hermione. But now, he began to question that decision. This was the first time he had dreamed of murder.