Note: You may have come across this story before; I am not copying it. The account Lightningwolf325 is my old account that is no longer in use. I am transferring all of my old stories to this account. Please do not report this as a copy. Also, I have not edited it at all since the original post so this is not a good example of my current writing.
I do not own Harry Potter.
Fallen
He was a strange child. Quiet, usually kept to himself, but with a gentle charm whenever he had to speak. His eyes were an unreadable emerald, his face pale, his body thin, and his hair naturally untidy.
And then there were the bruises.
There were a lot of bruises.
They were usually in places where no one would see them—most often covered by his oversized shirt or trousers. On occasion one could be found on his face, or else would be revealed if his sleeve slipped. But there would be an explanation; there was always an explanation.
His primary school teachers had mixed opinions of him; the earlier years remembered him as a sweet child, eager to learn but never quite as boisterous as the other boys in the class. But those who taught him as he grew older saw a delinquent, always followed by trouble and shockingly apathetic for one so young.
Odd incidents seemed to happen wherever he went—often small things, but always noticeable. Flickering lights coinciding with a fiery glint in his eyes, a bully tripping over a smooth surface after making fun of him, objects dropping, seemingly from nowhere, onto the heads of those who hurt him. And never even a flicker of emotion from the boy himself.
His aunt and uncle were afraid of him—a fact that the boy secretly found rather amusing. It had truly started when he was eight; his cousin had chased him, intent on causing him harm, and tripped. The wound that resulted from the fatty knee hitting a sharp crack in the pavement bled profusely, prompting the injured boy to scream and cry—but his cousin only showed indifference at the bloody display. In fact, had one looked more closely at the child's face, they would have seen an interested glint in his vividly green eyes.
They—the ones who called themselves his family—did not understand him. They did not see the suppressed disgust that filled him whenever they touched him or ordered him around. They did not see the rage that pounded through his veins when they locked him in that god-forsaken cupboard. And they certainly did not see what would happen behind that closed door.
He was always angry when they locked him up; could they not see it? That would be the death of them, he supposed, their blindness. A jolt of pleasure filled him at the thought, but it was still not enough to curb the resentment that inhabited his small body.
It was not the spider's fault, he knew. But in all honestly, he didn't care. They were conveniently placed, perfect for when he needed something to do (or hurt; he knew that killing his relatives as he so often fantasized would create complications that he was not yet prepared to deal with).
He found that all he needed to do was focus, just as he did when they tried to bully him, and the arachnid would twist and jerk in the most glorious manner. It was truly amazing in his opinion, the sheer science of the pain itself. The way he just knew that the spider was experiencing it in the most torturous way possible sent him up to cloud nine. But, as always happened, he got bored eventually and needed a new way to entertain himself.
The family would never even notice that the knife was missing, that much he was sure of. Not that they kept stock of their utensils anyway; it was really rather dense of them, as he knew that they knew that their nephew was far from normal. He relished in the idea that they still thought that they held any amount of control over him, and he knew that it was that exact arrogance that would bring about their downfall.
There was a small wooded area behind the local park that was home to many small animals. It was an excellent place for him to work, to amuse himself. With a simple thought he would call a creature to him, and its innocence would bring an almost soft sparkle to his eye. He would caress it, stroke its fur, and murmur quietly, soothingly, to it. Even if it knew what a knife was it would not see it as one of the boy's hands slowly reached back to pull it from the pocket of his too-big jeans.
With his power the boy would stop any attempts at escape, and the gentleness in his eyes turned to a sadistic pleasure. With an almost childlike glee he would make the first cut, raking the blade over the creature's back. A wild happiness would fill his eyes as the creature squirmed, terror overcoming it. It would only be after his hands were soaked in blood that he would unleash his power completely and the animal would jerk and twitch like the spiders in his cupboard.
After it was finally dead the boy would dissect it, pulling out every organ and examining it with a morbid fascination. He would carefully clean off the bones as best he could, organizing them in a line after he memorized every one. Teeth were removed and placed in the same line. When he was done he would bury the remains, but only after selecting a "souvenir"—generally a bone or a tooth. His collection existed in a similar line along the wall in his cupboard.
Such was the life of Harry Potter, the boy wizards and witches hailed as a savior. When he reached the fated age of eleven, on that hut on the rock in the middle of the sea, he discovered the source of his much-beloved power. He went with the giant man, Hagrid, and learned how he was supposed to act in this new world.
Harry made his way to Hogwarts with relative ease, making a "friend" in one Ronald Weasley; he scoffed at how easily the boy was deceived. He held back a sneer when the bushy-haired girl and the pale-faced boy stopped in, and nearly laughed when the round-faced boy stuttered about losing a toad—how could anyone be that weak?
When they changed into their robes (why oh why did they have to wear such idiotic clothing?), Harry slid his trusty (and slightly bloodstained) knife into his sock, flat of the blade pressed up against his skin. Weasley, primary focus on his rat (Harry knew that the limits of his self control were going to be tested if he had to share a dorm with the other boy) and the sweets that Harry had purchased, didn't notice a thing. They made their way off the train together, Harry leaving the owl that Hagrid had gotten him behind. He still hadn't named the thing—he really hadn't seen much of a point, but knew that he shouldn't kill it, at least not yet. He needed to make sure that the wizards were completely comfortable with him before he could risk anything…oh, the torture…but it would be worth it…
Knowing his position as "savior", with the help of a few well-thought-out threats for the Sorting Hat and a call on the confidentiality oath that the Founders had forced said hat to take, Harry made it into Gryffindor. He ate in silence, allowing himself to take in everything that was happening around him. He focused mainly on the boys sitting around him—Weasley, Longbottom, Finnegan, and Thomas were going to be sleeping in the same dorm as him for the next seven years, after all.
And what a seven years it would be…
~May or may not be continued…if it is then it will be in a separate fic and it will most certainly not be at the top of my list of fan fiction priorities. You have been warned.~