I do not own Harry Potter. If I did, I wouldn't be writing this, would I?
This story will feature a dark and evil Harry. If you can't stomach rape, torture, abuse, profanity and so on, please do not read. There will be no slash.
Harry Potter, having just turned eight, was curled up in the cupboard of Number four, Privet Drive, thinking about his life so far. He was a short boy for his age, yet his muscles were shaped by years of hard manual labor for the Dursleys, his relatives. He had dedicated his life so far to please them, without much success.
His aunt once said out loud about how he was shaming them with his mere presence? He did his best to stay out of sight and to be as invisible as he could. He was very successful about that, people seemingly not paying him attention in most of the case, which was strange when he thought about it. Yet, she always keeps sending him evil glares each time she noticed him.
His uncle complained about his free-loading and his taxing the family income? He never ate from their table again, stealing food from the neighbors or money from the passerby, which he used at the local grocery store. He was doing all the chores he could, and fainted from exhaustion more than once, which earned him a beating each time. He even went as far as doing all the gardening; saving his uncle precious money from the professional gardener his aunt hired every week to keep the garden pristine. Yet he was still being called freak.
Dudley did not like sharing with him the same classroom? He arranged to have to redo his first year with dreadful grades, saving the fatter boy the heavy burden of being in his presence. Yet, even if he was doing his best to stay as silent and discreet as he could, Dudley tried to sic his friends on him. Not that they ever managed to catch him.
No, he decided, nothing that he did was good enough to please them nor ever would. How was it to be? Why couldn't the Dursleys, who were such a normal family, show him, their relative by blood, even a small token of love?
Harry may have had to do again a year in his school but he wasn't dumb. He had spent hours reading the untouched books offered to his cousin, hiding in the unused second bedroom where his relatives seldom went. And he spent most of the time when he wasn't doing chores or stealing thinking about what he read.
His relatives called him freak and absolutely despised his mother and father. And, he figured, they must have very good reason. After all, no one hated someone over nothing. So he figured that he indeed was a freak. And that despite his best attempts, that wouldn't change. That none of his best efforts would ever change that and that he would forever be, as the dictionary said : "A person, that is extremely unusual and not like any other of its type".
Yet he knew that there were others, just like him, freaks, somewhere in Britain. Why, some of them even seemed to know him and to salute him! Yet he could not for the life of him figure how they did, nor manage to talk with one of them. They were of the elusive sort, those freaks. Just like him, now that he thought about it. Yet, no one ever tried to help him. Freaks, he knew, were evil.
But what was that freakiness about? He knew that his relatives went absolutely medieval at the slightest odd thing occurring when he was nearby, but that included a lot of things. His hair, the fact that his roses were growing during winter, that one time when the clerk, glassy eyed, gave all the money he had to Vernon after one of his comment on how costly life was, his unnatural endurance when his uncle beats him, his green eyes who apparently flashed when he was angry, according to Dudley or even the accidents nearby. Come on, how could it be his fault that the television from 3, Privet Drive, exploded? That was just a coincidence, even if the neighbors did have badmouthed him a minute earlier.
Having decided that he was indeed a freak and that nothing would change that, he concluded that his efforts to be appreciated were useless. No matter how hard a cat tried, he would never be a dog after all. But then, the bad treatment that he had received which was according to his relative, to cure him from his freakiness … it wasn't fair? After enduring years of bad mouthing, occasional beating from Vernon, and general mistreatment, he eventually realized that he did not deserve any of it. Why then?
So it was that, one night, in the cupboard of a normal house, an eight years old child with green eyes realized that the world wasn't fair and that people were evil just because they could. That he was most likely condemned to spend years suffering without reason, because of what he was, and that none of his previous efforts even mattered. That if the upstanding citizens of privet drive treated him that way, and other freaks ignored him, that meant that they weren't good people in the world. And that if his family wasn't able to love him that meant that no one would. Ever. After crying for hours, knowing that no one cared or ever would, he decided that if people were evil, so would he. His decision taken, his eyes went cold.
That same night, far away, in a castle in Scotland, a bearded man, asleep in a bed larger than the cupboard of the boy, shivered in his sleep. That same night, a future that could have been died as the innocence in the eyes of harry potter left forever.