Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

Harry Potter was a scar-struck little boy, with eyes the color of the sea, and hair the color of the unobserved universe. Left on his aunt and uncle's doorstep at the ripe old age of one, he was immediately unwanted, and soon (after Petunia and Vernon realized how very strange he was) hated. Thus, his childhood was not a pleasant one. His first complete sentence (spoken at the precocious age of two) was "I am unloved." His favorite activity was playing alone in the corner with two sticks and a pine cone. His only "friend" was his cousin, who socialized through fists, not words. At first, Dudley was the one doing the talking, though before long, Harry was getting in the occasional statement—and later, it became hard to shut him up. Unfortunately, these habits translated into inappropriate behaviors at school; when Harry was five, he stabbed his classmate in the eye with one of his sticks, and forced his teacher to eat the pine cone.

Looking back, Harry thought that was probably the beginning of the end.

Harry's primary school years rushed by fast. While most parents cried at the thought of their children growing up, Petunia and Vernon dreamed of it.

"One glorious day," Petunia told a ten year old Harry dirtily, as she forced him to clean the toilet using his only toothbrush, "you're going to be eighteen and we'll be shot of you. How does that make you feel?"

"Unloved," said Harry, "not that I expected better. But why don't you just toss me in an orphanage, if you hate taking care of me so much?"

It was a bold question for an ten-year-old, particularly for an unloved ten-year-old without another home lined up, but Harry had learned what sort of questions he could and couldn't ask around the Dursleys. Questions about his parents? Those were to be avoided at all cost, else Harry found himself with triple chores for the week. Questions about his circumstances...those, well, they got no response, really. Petunia tended to clam up when he asked, which was fine by him; more minutes without hearing the woman's hateful voice were good minutes. And so sometimes, Harry asked questions like those to shut her up. Other times...though he was hardly willing to admit it to himself, he hoped for some sort of display of affection. Not that he ever received it.

This time, Petunia's mood was particularly bad. She slapped him across the face, and made him continue cleaning the toilet using just his tongue. Then he was banished to the cupboard under the stairs, which housed roaches and spiders and, oh yeah...Harry Potter, unwanted, unloved. But still hanging on to his capability to love, just barely.

Just barely.

So fragile.

Consider the heart of an unloved child. It starts out full and pure. Brimming with capabilities that can't be put into words, things like reciprocity and happiness and the need to give and receive warmth. But that is before the child can understand that it is not wanted.

The feelings begin at birth, and then change or are maintained, under the influence of those close to them. Who was around Harry to help him? The batty neighbor, Mrs. Figg? To her, cats were like children, and children like cats. But Harry wasn't a child, nor was he even a cat. He was Mrs. Figg's flower, and her garden hadn't been tended to in years. Bursting with weeds, overgrown and messy...

If nurtured, flowers bloom. If neglected, flowers die.

June of Harry Potter's eleventh year—the June that his heart reached full blackness.

The birthday of Dudley Dursley was in June. So was the birthday of Piers Polkiss, Dudley's best friend. To celebrate, they were both going to the zoo, where they could gawk at the tigers and the gorillas and the slithery snakes. Harry wasn't supposed to go, he was supposed to stay at Mrs. Figg's and be a good little boy, but then Mrs. Figg broke her leg and Harry was in the car and on the way to the party.

He sat next to Dudley in the backseat. As they were pulling onto the freeway, Vernon turned around, and his eyes bore holes into Harry's face. "Not a single thing, boy," he told Harry. "Not one single bit of funny business, or you'll find yourself in an orphanage faster than you can say 'unfair,' no matter what Petunia says. You understand?"

Harry nodded. Not that he needed that little pep-talk; he wasn't planning on doing anything bad on this trip. First, he wanted to go to the zoo. He never got to go anywhere. Second...the Dursleys were big and the Dursleys were mean, but when Harry caused them pain, he felt as if he were hurting a family of cows, like they didn't realize what they did to him. Of course, that didn't stop him from gaining satisfaction...but they were cows. Poor, stupid cows, almost unknowing in their cruelty…

The tigers were lying lazily in their cage, far from the wide eyes of Dudley and Piers. The two ugly boys placed their hands on the cage; it rattled. The tigers ignored them.

"Make them move," Dudley told his father.

Vernon rattled on the cage, too. The tigers perked up at this, probably due to the large helpings of meat that could be had if only Vernon were to join them…Harry imagined what it would be like. Pushing Uncle Vernon up and over the cage, watching him get devoured by the creatures. For a moment, he felt like grinning. Then he shook his head, sickened.

Cows, Harry thought. They're cows. They don't know any better, remember?

As the family (plus Harry) walked off to the gorillas, Harry kept himself from thinking what he knew came next...

Unfortunately, it's often the cows that get slaughtered first.

The reptile house offered relief from the heat. Dark, damp and mysterious, with large, artificially lit tanks set into the walls at neat intervals. Snakes and lizards and frogs and turtles…

Snakes were a favorite of Harry's. He thought boa constrictors especially fine. The sheer size of them, and the power. Sometimes when he lay in bed at night, Harry imagined he was a boa constrictor, crushing the life out of Dudley. Or Vernon. Or Petunia. Or anyone, really; the satisfaction came out in dollops with little provocation.

"Look at those beady little eyes, Dudley. Look at them." Vernon pointed to the King Cobra, which was lazing about like a giant gold snake skin, plus the snake. "Look just like Harry's, eh?"

Dudley laughed and clapped his hands. Piers tried to mimic this, but his hands missed.

Vernon continued: "And it has a tiny head, too, like it doesn't have a brain."

"Just like Harry!" said Piers.

Harry, who had been looking in the boa constrictor aisle, ignored this. He had learned to block out the sound of Vernon's voice from years of living with the man. This was nothing new. And this meant nothing to Harry, who was aware of the depths of Vernon's idiocy. Don't take it seriously, he told himself. The man is so stupid he doesn't deserve to give criticism. Don't listen…He went back to reading about his boa constrictor.

"I wonder if it has a mate," Vernon was saying.

Petunia made a face and pretended to gag. "Oh, no, Vernon," she said. "It's much too ugly, don't you think?"

Dudley and Piers: "Like Harry, like Harry!"

Harry felt a little piece of something hot, something deep in his chest, begin to rise. Block it out. They're just trying to get to you. Block it out. Harry took a deep breath, turned back to the snake…

"I hope it dies," said Vernon. "Something that stupid surely shouldn't be allowed to breed, don't you think? Don't you think, Petunia? Look—" And he rapped on the glass, tapped it again and again, hard with his knuckles. "It's not even listening, I doubt a single thought goes through its stupid mind all day, such an empty skull in there…supposed to be venomous, but what does that mean when you're too stupid to bite?"

"Like Harry! Like Harry!"

The sound of rapping, sound of tapping—Vernon knocking on the tank.

The sound of hitting—Vernon still with his fist on the glass. Ringing in Harry's ears, with the echoes of Dudley and Piers: like Harry, like Harry!

The hotness in Harry's chest was blooming. Now it had spread, he felt it in his mind, this nub of hate that screamed out for relief. He clenched his fists, tried to clear his mind, but rapid thoughts kept flitting through—he shouldn't have come today, shouldn't have come to the zoo, he wasn't prepared, wasn't ready to prevent a loss of control like this. He knew he wasn't safe, but he didn't know why—he was just a ten year old kid, but—

Knock knock knock. Knock knock. Knock knock—

And suddenly, the glass that had once been solid existed no longer. Vernon's knuckles hit air.

"Huh?" Vernon's voice sounded stupid, nothing more.

A flash of molten gold.

Then the snake was on him, and he didn't speak again.

That night, Harry sat alone in his cupboard. It was too small for him to pace, or he would have done it. It was too quiet for him to scream, or he would have done it. Instead, he had to make do with a stress ball he had made out of dead spiders. With his left hand, he squeezed this. With his right hand he composed a letter.

Dear Aunt Petunia…

He knew that the Dursleys, or whoever remained of them, weren't safe around him. He wasn't safe around them. If the afternoon had shown anything at all, it was that he could not trust himself to remain in control...

Harry had killed a man.

Harry had killed a man, and he didn't even know how. One second, the glass existed; the next it was gone, not a trace left, as the forensics team had pointed out. Like the tank had never even been there…

Vernon Dursley had been transported to the hospital immediately following the arrival of the police; that is to say, after several dozen minutes of long, agonizing arguing, because the zookeepers that Harry had gone to for help refused to believe that a cobra had simply left its cage. By the time they arrived on the scene and called the emergency hotline, Vernon's face was the color of breastmilk, and his breathing almost nonexistent.

Petunia, Dudley, and Piers rode in the ambulance, when it arrived. Harry, in a state of near shock, had made to get in, too.

A white-faced Petunia pushed him back out. "You—" she rasped, spittle flying from her mouth into Harry's own, "Find your own way home, you—you menace—"

Harry took one look at her, and walked away to the police. He asked for a ride. They granted him one, but questioned why the Dursleys had left a ten year old child alone at the zoo.

"The ambulance was full," he told one officer.

"I didn't want to intrude, being the nephew and all," he told another.

"They think I'm food, okay? They think I'm a banana, and they just carry me around for kicks. Yes, they have problems, any more stupid things you want to know?"

After this outburst, the questions stopped, and Harry was taken home in near silence.

The police, after concluding the day's investigation, had called it a fluke. "Must have made a mistake with the tank," said Officer Banks, as he dropped Harry off. "Zookeepers getting a little crazy…" He made a cuckoo sign, laughed.

Harry didn't laugh. He knew it wasn't an accident.

Dear Aunt Petunia…I am sorry for all that I have done, and have decided to leave your family alone.

Surely it was time for him to leave the Dursleys. As crazy as they were, as horrible, they didn't deserve this. No one deserved this.

I know that you and Vernon never wanted me. However, I did not intend for things to turn out in the way that they did.

Harry tapped the paper, thinking. It was true, he was sorry for what had happened. Despite the anger, despite the rage that was often kept hidden deep in his heart, he hadn't wanted Vernon dead...right?

But you did want him dead, a little voice said in the back of his head. You dreamt about killing him every night, remember? Crushing him with your boa constrictor embrace...you feel guilty, you know, but you wanted it.

"That's not true," Harry said aloud. "That was just—I wasn't serious. I never would have acted on it, even if I had the power—"

And yet somehow, you got angry, and now Vernon is dead. Explain that.

Once again, Harry remembered the heat coursing through his bloodstream. He remembered what it had felt like to channel it, to release it...he remembered that it had felt good.

And what's so terrible there? asked the voice. After all, he wanted you dead. He told you that a number of times.

"He wouldn't have acted on it, either—he was just trying to rile me up—to make me angry—"

Or was he? Was he really? Even the time that he tried to slip poison into your breakfast?

"That was a joke. Petunia put a stop to it—"

Some joke, that. And considering that she only made him stop because the neighbors would talk, can you really say that she's innocent of killing intent, either?

"She wouldn't—she's my aunt! She's my mother's sister, and she isn't interested in really hurting me, no matter what she claimed. And Vernon wasn't either! He—he just—"

But then, without warning, another memory slid into Harry's whirling mind: Christmas Day, 1987, with snow on the ground and a fire blazing in the Dursley's home. Dudley had gotten 30 presents, Harry remembered, and he had gotten none. And then, that was when Vernon had come over and sat down beside him. Beside Harry. In his hands, a long, thin package…

Harry had ripped the wrapping off eagerly. A black cylinder rolled out.

"Uncle Vernon?" he asked.

"Like this." Vernon picked up the gun, pointed it at his own head. "Bang!" he said. "Now you try."

Then Petunia had come in with Harry holding the gun and panicked. Before Vernon could explain to her what had happened, the police were on their way. And later, everyone thought it was a great joke; at least, the Dursleys did.

Harry, on the other hand...

Harry had been too young to really understand what this meant. But looking back...looking back, he could see it in a whole new light.

Did he mean it? Did Vernon really want Harry, at the age of seven, dead? Could he? Could you want a child dead, one that you had raised? Vernon had never loved him, Harry knew that, but want him dead?

Maybe not. But maybe so.

Once more, Harry saw the glass fall away. Saw Vernon take his last breath. Saw the snake take its first bite. He enjoyed it.

And good riddance, spoke the voice. He deserved to die. He was even making fun of you, wasn't he? You gave him every chance.

This time, Harry didn't try and argue. He knew there was nothing to say.

He put down the pen. In his fist he balled up his half finished note. It was the thought of Vernon; it made the rage bloom again.

"Goodbye, Harry Potter," he said, and smiled. He wasn't crazy. He was just talking to the old Harry, the one who would've cared.

The Dursleys didn't come in that night. Harry helped himself to food in the fridge, steaming up some nice cauliflower to go with the wild pheasant he had caught pecking around in the backyard.

Outside, this conversation was taking place:

"It is everything that I feared, Minerva."

"But...but Albus! Lily and James's son. Surely he's not—surely he can't be—"

"I am sure of nothing, and you should not be, either. Harry Potter has been living in an abusive household for eleven years. We should not presume to know what changes this might have wrought in the boy. I myself have been worried for quite some time that an event such as this would happen."

"Why, Albus? Why did you allow it, if you knew?"

"Minerva, I did not know. And I hoped with every fiber of my being that this would not come to pass. But now that it has, our way forward is clear."

"You—you can't mean—?"

"I do. Harry Potter must not be allowed to set foot in Hogwarts. I...I have gone through this before, and the world knows how that turned out. I do not plan to make the same mistake again."

Long silence.

"And Professor Luthar? What are we to do about him?"

"He's dead, Minerva. Well. Even I didn't expect—hmm. Perhaps the boy has a particularly strong appetite for live game. It often is one of the earliest signs of Dark wizardry, you know. I've witnessed it in several cases...Gellert, for instance, had a great affinity for elephant thigh..."

Not long after, a tall man and a severe woman rose from the bushes, and left as quietly as they had come. Disappeared into nothingness and all that, leaving no trace. Like the glass...

Inside, Harry kept chewing his pheasant, and he had a cold grin plastered onto his face. While he did this, his mind whirred. Petunia and Dudley would be coming back soon, and there were certain changes that he believed it was time to bring about...