Rating:: T
Warnings:: Blood, psycho!kid!harry, mentions of abuse, death
Disclaimer:: We all know that Harry would have been a little terror if I'd written it. Then he'd have five million kids, go back in time, become the original vampire/demon thingy, have gratuitous sex with anything on two legs that has dangly bits, and finally go on to rule from the shadows for the rest of existence.
Note:: So I wrote this when one of my rare psycho moods reared it's all-to-short head. It isn't what, exactly, I would have hoped but it will do for a one-chot post like this. There might be more that stems from this, but I won't post it until I've finished Shadow of Peace so never fear!
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When Harry Potter was ten he learned the meaning of the word pity. He learned that he felt pity for the Dursleys, who were never smart enough to see what was coming. He felt pity for Vernon and Dudley, whose bulk kept the knife from making a clean, fast cut. He felt pity for his aunt, who came home from her shopping just in time to watch her son trashing on the ground, drowning in his own blood.
At age ten Harry Potter also learned what the word mercy meant. Instead of sparing his aunts life, letting her live with the horror of her husband and sons brutal murders, he quickly jabbed the sharp blade into her throat. The serrated edge sliced easily through blood and tissue in the way it couldn't with his heavier relatives.
The small boy took the large knife up the stairs with him and showered with it. It was his first time using a shower for himself and he relished in the spray of warm water. It was, quite possibly, the most divine thing he'd ever felt. When the hot water ran out, Harry carefully dried himself off with the fluffiest towels he could find and then wandered into his cousins room to find something nice to wear.
Only, everything Dudley owned was much to big for him. No matter what he did it all look like badly sewn fabric draped over a skeleton. So, moving to his aunt and uncles room, he found a plain cotton shirt of his aunts that didn't look to girly and tugged it on. A pair of her gardening shorts worked quite well as pants for the small boy also.
Harry learned what it felt like to be full. So full he was feeling sick in fact. The bodies of the Dursleys were strewn grotesquely where he'd killed them and he contemplated the deep red stains as he slowly munched on an apple. He would have to get some things to take with him, maybe find some money in his uncle's bedroom or bring his aunts jewelry along to sell later.
At age ten Harry Potter was no fool. He knew that what he'd done was wrong, that killing someone could land him in jail. He also knew that his family's refusal to have any sign of his existence would help him. The police wouldn't know to look for him and no one in the neighborhood would be able to help them.
Harry Potter, at age 17, learned what everyone talked about when they said they were free. He was in agony, freezing, and bleeding in more places than he could count; but he was happy. Honestly and truly happy. The sounds of his beloved godfathers, the glimpse of his unknown parents, Cedric, Dumbledore; all of them and more floated lazily, hiding the carnage of the battle going on around him.
And on the second of his eighteenth birthday Harry Potter learned the true meaning of death. On a blood covered field of bodies and fire, he finally reached out his hand and took hold of the thin veil hiding the delicate tinkle of a woman's laugh and the deeper chuckles of men. He ripped it, shredded the barrier, and fell.
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Review and tell me if it sucked, okay?
Taku
