Story Stats
Title: The Killing Curse
Timeline: Throughout Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone / Sorcerer's Stone
Summary: The Killing Curse leaves more than just a visible scar on baby Harry, it affects his magic in a way that not even Dumbledore could have foreseen. How will Harry cope when magic comes as naturally to him as breathing? Worse, what if it's the 'wrong' sort of magic? Features Slytherin Harry, dependingonhowyoulookatitpossiblydark Harry.
Disclaimer:Harry Potter not mine.
Chapter Stats
Timeline: Halloween at a year old, general childhood approximately six years old.
Summary: Mostly prologue, setting the scene and providing explanation.
A/N: Had this idea in my head for a while, finally got around to writing it. Got most of the first year sorted, and I'll try to update as regularly as I can. The story will move quite fast, focusing mainly on major events and filling in the inbetween times.
Muse: A fickle beast, rarely tamed and only loyal in that they never affect anyone other than their chosen victim. Whether they chose to appear to their victim or spend all their time vacationing in Greenland is entirely their own choice, and they often enjoy torturing their victim by staying just out of reach. The muse has known to cooperate to a greater extent when fed, and lives on a diet of reviews.
Avada Kedavra
"Avada Kedavra."
The killing curse flew from the wand with an almost joyful anticipation, striking its target with a flash of emerald light. It passed through the body with nothing but a spiritual sneer for the pulsing blood, the living flesh, the weakness of a physical existence. It barely registered the soul as it tore through the ethereal mist – its job was to mutilate the soul of the one who had cast it, and it had fulfilled that task already. Finally, it raced eagerly to the life and core of the victim, building power as it traversed the immeasurable distance of the baby's self in mere nanoseconds, the thin, young sapling before it only a hair's breadth away –
- And stopped dead, halted by a towering force. It would have circled the strange, ghostly emotion warily, if it were not too surprised – if a curse can feel surprise – and if it were in its deadly nature to do so. Death rides fast, borne swifter on the wings of hate… it scattered, reflected by a power strong enough to halt the most powerful spell in existence and send it reeling back to sink into a deep pool of untamed, untapped magic filled with the innocence only a baby knows.
But magic can't be killed; it's not alive. Every spell, every curse or charm exists for ever; even the raw magic a wizard contains when he dies does not deign to follow its one time master into death, but merges with the natural magic of the earth and nature.
But what to do? It could not crawl back to the one who cast it like a meek servant awaiting punishment – it was an unforgivable, such things were not done. Yet it could not destroy the castor, or it would have done so as the foolish wizard thought to harness the deadly power it was made of.
The child's magic stirred around him, angry at the intrusion, raising tendrils and waves in agitation. The Killing Curse feels nothing but the anticipation of death, so it felt no joy or satisfaction as it leant the child's power its own form and watched impassively through young eyes as its castor paid the price for failure. It felt no resolution or determination as it settled deeper into the well of magic, sinking roots of its own in the power to subtly change the wild power. It felt no possessiveness as its new host's eyes flashed emerald green, windows to a deadly soul betraying its secret. It felt only anticipation that would span the years until it once again found the chance to destroy its new victim.
The self proclaimed Dark Lord would not fail to be killed as he had failed to kill.
---
Dumbledore frowned slightly as he took the small, sleeping bundle from Hagrid, scanning the child silently with his magic. He thought he detected something, some trace of Dark magic buried deep within the boy saviour… But no, he must have been imagining it. What he could not imagine or mistake was the protections of love from the late Lily Potter. Dumbledore smiled – the wizarding world's prophecy child would be safely protected with his aunt's family. He tucked the letter into the cloth young Harry was wrapped in, and placed him carefully on the doorstep.
"Good luck, Harry," Minerva whispered while Hagrid blew loudly into a table cloth masquerading as a handkerchief. Dumbledore smiled serenely, took a few steps to clear the apparating wards, and disappeared.
---
Harry was six when he first discovered that what he did and who he was were unacceptable, wrong and freakish. For some unfathomable reason his aunt had decided to cut his hair, muttering about the neighbours and appearances and unruly messiness all the while. His 'new look' had been quite neat, his black hair reduced to a short fuzz around his head that wasn't long enough to tangle.
Respecting his aunt's wishes, Harry dutifully memorised this new image of himself, turning his head in the mirror to see all angles while she looked on with satisfaction. He even practised the new haircut, to make sure he got it absolutely perfect when his aunt needed him to. Unfortunately, that was where the problem lay.
She squeaked when he shook his head suddenly, the black fuzz lengthening suddenly back to its old, messy length, brushing the base of his neck and falling in his clear green eyes. When he transformed it back to the fuzz and turned to her for approval, she could do nothing but shriek, throw the kitchen scissors at him in shock and flee the room in terror.
Harry frowned. Obviously, she didn't want the fuzz at the moment. She must have just wanted him to learn it. He let his hair grow long again happily, and carefully returned the scissors to a drawer.
The next fortnight was perhaps the longest of Harry's life, locked in the cupboard with no food and only the smell of blood and the pain of his injuries to keep him company. It was the first time he was really punished – but that was to be expected. The punishment for having and using 'freakishness' was logically worse than the punishment for simply existing, after all.
After a while though, Harry began to get tired of being punished, tired of not knowing what he was doing wrong. If he wanted something, he fetched it – a perfectly normal and instinctive reaction as far as he was concerned, but his uncle had confiscated the jumper in question and burned it, muttering all the while about levitating, flying items of clothing and freakishness contamination. When Dudley wanted something, he wailed until it was passed to him, and the item was never burned.
Harry tried to explain to them once, that if they just told him what was allowed and what wasn't, then he'd obey them. But the only reply he got was more of the same: "Freakishness." Harry was confused, scared of punishment, and increasingly angry. Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly hateful, he felt something seem to stir inside him – something cold and chilling. It never did more than that though, no matter how much Harry sometimes wished he could channel the strange feeling of complete power it gave him. Not yet, he thought. But someday he'd be able to.
And oh, how he looked forwards to that day.
---
Feed the muse!!