A/N: I wanted a Harry that was more in tune with logic and the rules of consequences. A Harry that had these ideas about cause and effect, a Harry with a fundamental understanding of that particular natural law. But I also wanted a Harry that knew pain. I'm talking the same way that SW's The Yuuzhan Vong knew pain-not so much a religious experience, but an overriding expectation of pain as the basis of reality. Imagine, a Harry Potter so used to, so inured to, pain that he could basically shrug of a cruciatius. Someone who acted/reacted differently to pain, than any other wizard we see. That's what I was aiming for.
Instead, this is what I ended up with, and I'm not quite certain where this Harry could go...
He had expected pain.
He was accepting of it. Had known it was to come.
After all, whenever he did anything odd, or strange, or just anything that he was unable to explain, pain was the end result.
The teacher's hair turns blue? Pain.
A step on the stairs disappears one night? Pain.
His hair grows out overnight after being half shaved off? Pain.
There had been hundreds of instances over the years, and each time, the response was pain.
It was a simple maxim. An example of one of the fundamental laws of the universe. Cause and effect. Action and reaction.
Something happened, and then his uncle would hurt him.
And the pain differed every time. Sometimes it was beatings. Sometimes they burned him. Sometimes they would leave him in his cupboard for a week without food.
Pain was something that young Harry Potter knew a lot about. He knew the way it tasted and felt. The way it smelled. The white hot suffering of living with a burn for three weeks to the dull reds of healing bones.
Harry Potter knew pain.
It was almost comfortable and expected.
So, when he had been running away from his obese cousin, and had suddenly found himself on top of the roof of the school, Harry knew that he would be experiencing pain. There was no way around it. No other possibility had presented itself to his mind.
He knew that it would come.
It was a given. A knowledge as deeply held in his mind, as the fact that the next day the sun would rise, or that his cousin would be given anything he whined for.
And of course, when he and his family arrived back home from the student teacher conference where it was discussed how he had managed to find his way to the roof of the school, pain was given to him.
He had been the second to last to enter, with his uncle immediately behind him, and as soon as they were all inside the house, Vernon pushed him harshly towards the steps.
Harry had fell forward with his face slamming hard against the banister.
Slumping onto the steps, the blood had poured out of his nose, staining his lips and shirt.
He turned and looked at his uncle, and shivered slightly.
Vernon stood there, his meaty fists grasping and ungrasping in a clenching motion. A vein throbbed in his forehead, as his skin darkened in his anger.
"You freak! We've told you that we don't want any of your freakish ways happening around here!"
Harry tried to scramble backwards, but he was already pushed tight against the wall.
Before he had said anything in response, Vernon had punched him hard in the chest. Harry had felt something give way under the punch. Had felt the shattering of his too thin bones. Had felt the sharp pain of something being pierced in his chest.
He coughed, and blood came out.
Splattering the stairs the banister and his uncle.
A fact that drew even more ire out of the man.
His uncle jerked back, and let him go. He slid downwards, crumpling into a heap on the edge of the stairs.
Cause and effect.
Coughed blood was the cause, a sharp kick to the stomach was the effect.
Harry wanted to scream. He wanted to cry out in pain. He wanted to do so many things.
He had long learned the cause and effect to those though. He had learned those lessons well and thoroughly.
So he suffered the punches and the kicks in silence. He tried to not vomit. He tried to not cough up more blood.
Yet it appeared that the cause of the coughed blood was the punches. A vicious, never-ending cycle; one of pain and misery and suffering and blood and bile.
Quickly, Harry's life had settled into nothing but that hot glow of agony; the cinders of pain and torment that licked at his nerves, and kissed his skin, and twisted at that almost indefinable something that was inside his chest; a something which caused his breath to almost whistle when he was actually able to wheeze one in and then back out.
No part of him had not hurt when his uncle had finally tired of his punishment. No aspect of him was without pain.
Yet, he was oddly disconnected from it. Even being pulled by the hair and thrown into his cupboard lacked the suddenness and vitality which it normally held. It was like eating with a congested nose. You knew it was supposed to taste one way, and you knew you were eating, but the food just lacked a flavor to it. His pain was like that: bland, flavorless, flat.
Harry felt a darkness approaching.
A seeping blankness which ate at even the flat world Harry found himself it. It attacked everything that Harry was. It took away pain. It took away the feeling of the infant's cot beneath him. It took away the texture of his clothes. It took away the smell of the blood and vomit that coated his clothing. It took away the braying horse laugh of his aunt, and the chuffing chuckles of his uncle. It took away the sounds of the news report on the television. It took away the sight of the cupboard; slowly eating away the vision of that door, and its little grate.
Finally, after what felt like hours, the darkness had taken it all.
Everything he felt. Everything he saw. Even the breath from his body.
That blankness darkened everything.
Everything.
And gave nothing back.
Cause and effect. Action and reaction.
Even a child that had been brought up in the sunlight and with enough to eat would have succumbed to such treatment. Even an adult, in the prime of life, would have been hard pressed not to give up and give in. Especially with a distinct lack of medical treatment.
How much worse would it be for a child that was raised in the confines of the cupboard under the stairs? How much worse for a child that had never had enough milk or proteins needed to build strong bones and muscles.
Finally, hours after young Harry Potter had been tossed into his cupboard, the television turned off. Less than a minute later, the door to his cupboard swung open.
Petunia Dursley knelt down, and looked at her nephew.
She took in the lack of blood flow, the lack of a moving chest, and even the dull blank look in the boy's eyes. She knew what that look meant. She recognized it from when she had gone to identify her parents at the morgue. It was not a familiar look, but one that she knew, that she had seen, and that she could instantly identify.
Yet, she did not feel any guilt. Nor sorrow. Nor remorse.
There was just the slight annoyance that now they would have to do something with a body.
She huffed, and glanced towards her husband who was nearing the stairs.
"The freak's dead," she muttered.
The reply was instant. "Good riddance to bad rubbish."
Instead of heading up the stairs, Vernon went into the garage and retrieved a roll of heavy plastic. He wrapped the boy up in it, and carried his body out to the car and placed in into the trunk.
Three hours later, he was at a park in one of the suburbs to the north of London. He pulled the boy's body and dropped it onto the ground, right next to a large oak tree with a bench situated beside it.
With a grimace, he kicked the boy once more, and snarled. "Damn freak. Now, I'm missing sleep because of you."
Without another word, he got into the car and drove back to Little Whinging. His intentions was to call the police the first thing in the morning and report that his nephew had ran away during the night.
Hours later, the sun rose. It was that particular brilliant light that can only be found during early summer. A clear, clean light, that made everything seem brighter and better.
Even the cold, dead body of a young boy.
A cold, dead body, that was found by a curious little girl as she took a shortcut through the park on her way to school.
In her hand was a thick book, and her hair was brown, bushy and uncontrolled. Intelligence sparkled in her eyes, but even still, death was a stranger to this girl.
Hermione Granger had never faced death. Had never meet it head on. It was something she had never seen before.
Something that she had not confronted or had to face.
Death was still that unknowable stranger. Something removed from her existence; and like all children it was something that she truly believed she would never have to face or confront or meet.
So, the girl who knew nothing of death merely saw a boy.
One that was roughly her own age, but had been beaten and left alone in the park near her favorite bench underneath her favorite tree.
Hesitantly, she reached out and touched him. Wanting to wake him, and make sure he was okay. It was almost an undefinable need to make sure he was alright; to help him. Some part of her was saying that life without this boy would be horrible, and lead to pain, while life with him held the promise of unfounded joys. Some aspect of her felt itself pulled towards him, wanting to merely be with him.
So, she reached out, and her fingers ever so slowly inched towards the boy's face.
She had acted.
Cause and effect.
Action and reaction.
As her hand touched the bloodied face, as her fingers, hesitantly rested right above the boy's right eyebrow, power leapt between them. Something undefinable reached out and grasped them both.
Lightning slashed out of the clear sky, and slammed into them.
Light, pure, clean and bright, as if they were the sun itself, flared into existence. It pulsated in time with her pulse, a throbbing which grew brighter and stronger with each heartbeat.
Energy crackled through her body. A burning, coursing something that twisted around her bones, and pulled at her muscles. The girl could feel it as it raced and writhed through her; as it skittered across her skin. As it flaked away from the ends of the curls in her hair.
A maelstrom of energy and power that was centered where the tips of her fingers rested lightly against the brow of the boy's face.
She shifted, pressing her hand into his cheek, and the power tripled.
She felt compelled by something. Half remembered fairy tales, and the amused promise of parents that magic was all around them, drew her in.
Her lips tingled slightly as they hesitantly pressed against the boys.
His body twitched, and he gulped a breath of air. A wracking, shuddering, pained intake, as if it were the last thing he had done, or would do.
The boy's eyes snapped open.
At first, they were entirely black. An otherworldly darkness that sent fear shivering through her chest. Yet, she did not pull away. The thought never even entered her mind.
His back arched, and a scream rent the morning air.
She could not tell if it was hers or his or someone else entirely. It was just loud and frightened, and filled with unimaginable pain.
She watched as the black leaked out of the boy's eyes, like some type of corrupted tears. It flowed away, and after a second, it dried and then flaked off. Dissipating and disappearing into the energies that swirled around and permeated them.
Brilliant green eyes were staring at her. Eyes that seemed to glow, as if there was a light hiding behind them. Eyes that pulsed with the same feeling and energy that surrounded her, that filled her. Eyes that seemed to promise something that the girl did not understand.
And as suddenly, as the energy had appeared, it was gone.
Cause and effect.
Action and reaction.
The two children dropped to the ground, neither had even realized that they had been standing.
Hermione's hand slipped away, as she rested against the ground. She felt drained, and worn down. Wrung out somehow.
Lifting her head, she saw that the boy was shaking slightly, and a small whimper of pain came from him.
She was hesitant as she reached out and shook his shoulder.
His eyes snapped open again, as he lurched backwards, flinching from her presence.
Her voice was weak, and whispery. "Are you okay?"
He looked around, fear shining bright in his eyes. After a moment, he focused on her, and then nodded his head slowly.
She shrugged her shoulder slightly. When he spoke, his voice was harsh and broken. "You shouldn't be nice to me. If Dudley sees you, he'll try and beat you up."
"Hermione!" came a scream from behind her.
She looked over her shoulder to see her mother running towards her. Fear evident on her face.
And just as her mother reached her, there were several popping noises.
Five new adults were suddenly standing over them. Three were dressed in burgundy robes. One had an old brown duster on. While the final one wore a light blue set of robes.
Her mother yelped in surprise, and spun around to face the newly arrived adults.
"Who... what are you?"
The man in the duster, a middle-aged black man with a shaved head, stepped forward slightly, and held up his hands.
"Have no fear," he stated, his voice a somewhat pleasant baritone. "My name is Kingsley Shacklebolt, and we're with the Ministry of Magic. We just registered a massive spike of magical energy concentrated in this area, and had to come and investigate. Since these two children are here, the assumption will be that it was a outburst of accidental magic."
Hermione frowned at the man's description, and then looked at the boy. His eyes were wide, and flickered from one adult to the next. Never resting, never hesitating.
Her mother scoffed slightly. "Ministry of Magic? There's no such thing."
Shacklebolt rubbed a hand over his head, and smiled at her. "By chance are you related to these two children?"
Hermione's mother nodded. "She's my daughter. I've never seen the boy before."
Shacklebolt slowly nodded his head, and then pulled a stick out of the sleeve of his duster. "Before we discuss things further, I'll need to determine which of the children is the magical one, and our discussions will advance from there."
Before her mother said anything, his wand was moving. Two yellow spells were spat out and then washed over her and the boy. It was an odd feeling. Almost warm, like she had been in the sun for too long, or had put on pajamas that had come straight from the dryer.
She saw a number hanging in the air above her: 1,156.
She glanced at the boy, and saw that he also had a number above him: 2,312.
Finally, she returned her attention to Shacklebolt who was staring at them in open-mouthed shock.
She frowned and then huffed.
Her mother's voice was acerbic. A tone that Hermione knew meant that she wanted answers and was tired of waiting for them. "Well? What do those numbers mean?"
Shacklebolt gave his head a harsh shake. "Sorry, ma'am. It's just most magical children have a score of 150, and most adults top out at 485. The previous highest record was 1000. These two are both an order of magnitude above those norms, and they're still growing."
Hermione felt a flicker of disbelief rush through her. An emotion she recognized, but knew was not hers. It tasted alien.
She twitched, and glanced down at the boy, whose eyes were opened wide.
He slowly shook his head.
"No!" He said, his voice weak, and with an odd tone to it. "There's no such thing as magic. I'm just a freak, and do freaky things. To think it's magic means that I..."
He stopped talking, but in her head, Hermione still heard his voice as it completed the sentence. I get hurt.
She gasped, and looked at him. "Who hurts you?"
His skin paled even more, making the forming bruises more evident on his visible skin. "How?"
Images flashed through her mind. Hundreds of images of pain and misery and being forced into a small dark enclosed room.
Her body hitched as she stared at him, horror seemed to flicker through her. "How... how could they do that to you?"
She tore her gaze away from the boy, and looked up at her mother. "Mum, we've got to take Harry away from them. His uncle treated him so horribly."
Her mother and Shacklebolt both frowned at her.
"We can't just take a child, Hermione," her mother replied.
Shacklebolt's eyes flicked towards an odd cut above Harry's left eyebrow, and then his eyes widened in recognition.
"Harry Potter?" He whispered.
The boy jumped, and grabbed onto Hermione's arms. When his flesh touched hers, there was a crackle of energy, and light seemed to seep from between his fingers. "H-how do you know my name?"
Shacklebolt shook his head slightly. "Who did this to you Harry? Why are you here in the park this morning?"
Harry looked around, focusing on Hermione for just a second, and then sighed. "Yesterday... yesterday I was running away from my cousin, who is the school bully, when I suddenly found myself on the roof of the school. The school called my uncle, and he took me home. Once there, I was given my punishment for doing the freaky stuff, and uncle threw me into my cupboard. I felt like the dark was eating me, and then I woke up here with Hermione."
Shacklebolt scrubbed at his bald head for a moment, his brow knitted in thoughts and concern, before he lifted his eyes and looked towards Hermione's mother.
"Would you be comfortable taking him in? At least for a few days while we get this sorted?" He gestured towards where Harry's hand still held onto Hermione's arm. "He seems comfortable with your daughter, and it would be best if he was in the home of... well, he's somewhat famous in the magical world, and he's an orphan. We were told that he was being raised safe and sound and happy with the non-magical sister of his mother. That means, he's unfamiliar with magic, and would probably feel more comfortable in a home like yours that is non-magical."
"Please, mum?" Hermione asked. There was an twitch in her chest at the thought of Harry being taken away from her. Even the thought hurt.
Hermione's mother closed her eyes for a moment before nodding. "I see no reason not to for the next few days at least. Any longer will be a discussion between your father and I."
She looked back towards Shacklebolt. "And I assume you can get us some paperwork or something to make this fostering situation legal?"
He nodded his head. "Yes. How about I go get my boss, Amelia Bones, who is the director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, as well as a healer that can give both children a once over to make sure that they're healthy?"
Hermione's mother nodded her head once, and then gestured towards a house that faced the park. "That's our house right over there. I'll arrange to take the day off, and will expect you and the others?"
Shacklebolt glanced at his watch. "It's seven now, let's say at nine?"
"Very well, Mr. Shacklebolt. I look forward to a further explanation for everything then, as well."
Shacklebolt smiled at her. "I'll see if I can get the Deputy Headmistress of our largest school to come visit you as well. She's one of the ones who typically speaks to the parents of first generation magicals when they get their acceptance letters to the schools after they turn eleven. She'd probably be better suited to answering any questions you may have regarding that."
Hermione's mother nodded and then shook Shacklebolt's hand. She knelt in front of both children and smiled at them.
Holding both hands out, she waited until both children had slipped a hand into one of hers, and then she stood back up. "Well come on then, let's see about a snack."
A few hours later, there was a sharp knock on the door. Three quick strikes, a staccato of demands and expectations.
Harry flinched from the sound. That was one of the things he knew: visitors were not good.
If he was lucky, they were there merely to talk to Vernon and Petunia. And not have a conversation about something that they thought they had seen Dudley doing.
If they were here because of Dudley's actions, then things would not be good. There was always a reaction for that.
He stilled as he felt a smallish hand come to rest lightly against his arm. He looked down at it. Perfectly shaped fingers, thin and feminine. Energy seemed to flicker across both their skin where they were touching. It crackled and arced and spat and was warm and comforting all at once.
He glanced up and found himself once again looking into those brown eyes.
She smiled at him, and he felt his lips twitch in response.
Everything still felt dull and achy and so disconnected for him. As if there was some part or piece or weight missing from him.
Adult voices could be heard in the hallway. Stern, and terse. Harry recognized two of them. One was the black man from earlier, and the other was Hermione's mother.
He could hear three other distinct voices, both of them women. That calmed him somewhat. Women guests tended to be less painful then men guests. There was less demands, and less chance of them making bad or unexpected comments.
"It's okay, Harry," Hermione whispered to him. "You're safe here. I'll protect you."
Then something happened. Something he had never experienced before.
Hermione hugged him. Her arms snacked around him, and gripped him tightly. He tensed for a moment, and then leaned into the hug.
Then to his surprise, she kissed his cheek quickly, and turned back to her book.
He watched her. Unable to discern just what made her tick. What things drove her to do what she did. Why she would worry about such things as him. He was just a freak after all.
Her head snapped towards him, a scowl slightly on her face.
"You're not a freak. I think you're a perfectly normal, and lovely boy."
Her voice was steady and strong and demanding to be obeyed. There was an expectation there; one of obedience. As if she knew the right thing to do or say, and that which she spoke should be taken for truth. As if the mere act of her speaking such a thing made it reality.
He blinked at her twice. His thoughts were sluggish and muddled and confused. He did not understand her.
Then she smiled at him.
His stomach shifted slightly with that smile. Warmth and happiness flooded through him, with that same alien-ness from earlier. It was an other. Something that was part of him, but at the same time it was not him or his.
Mrs. Granger entered the living room, and smiled at them. It was a tense smile. Pained. Something about it, sent Harry's pulse racing and made his skin crawl and quiver. Nothing good had every come from an adult smiling like that at him.
"Hermione, Harry? These are Officer Shacklebolt, Madame Bones, Healer Enforth, and Professor McGonnagall. They're here to talk about what happened this morning."
Hermione stood quickly and dropped into a perfect curtsy.
Harry twitched at Hermione's sudden movement, and looked around the room, wondering if there was a place that he could hide and disappear. He felt the urge to escape, to find somewhere to hide and cower and disappear into. There were too many adults, and they were all staring at him. Watching his scar as if they had never seen one before.
Hermione dropped back into the seat, and once again wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Again, he tensed at the sudden contact. A flair of disquiet in the expectation of pain.
His mind wavered. Hugs broke the things. They broke him somehow. There had always been a cause and effect. A reaction to each and every action. There were rules in his life. Things that he knew for a fact. He knew that if he was touched, pain would follow. He knew that if he did better than Dudley in school, that pain would follow. So many hundreds of little things. Cause. Effect. Action. Reaction.
But here, here it was different.
With Hermione it was different.
She could touch him, and he wouldn't hurt. Her touch and hands were comforting. Something he had never before felt. This was a new effect. This was a new reaction, and he was not quite sure how to respond. He did not know the cause. And he did not know how he should react.
His body shudder, as he felt her breath, warm against his ear.
"You're safe here, Harry," she whispered into his ear. "I won't let them hurt you."
He nodded his head once, quickly, even as his breathing evened out, and slowed.
Harry exhaled slowly, and finally looked up to find the adults watching them. They all had odd smiles on their faces. Another expression that Harry was unfamiliar with.
Hermione settled into the couch and removed her arm from his shoulders. Before the coldness could seep back in, she reached down and grabbed his hand. Again, there was the flare of energy as it flickered through fingers where her hand touch his.
The Professor cleared her throat. "My name is Minerva McGonnagall, and I'm the professor for Transfiguration at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. Typically, witches and wizards raised in the non-magical world are informed in their eleventh summer about magic and invited to either Hogwarts or one of the other, smaller schools."
And with that, she began a twenty minute presentation on the school and an overview of life in the magical world.
She finished by handing both Hermione and Harry pamphlets that supposedly answered common questions from muggle-borns.
"Does anyone have any questions?"
Harry tensed and shook his head quickly.
He knew the reaction for asking questions.
Questions were never a good thing.
Hermione squeezed his hand. "Just because those vile people didn't let you ask questions, doesn't mean anything. They are evil."
His head snapped towards here, and his mouth dropped open slightly. "How... how did you know what I was thinking?"
She blinked at him. Surprise on her face, as she shifted her attention away from him to the adults. She noticed them staring at her and Harry and shifted her attention back to him. "I thought you were talking out loud."
There was gasp and then a thud, and the two children turned to see the healer unconscious on the floor.
Harry sighed. Apparently, he really was a freak.
"No!", Hermione hissed at him. "You are not a freak!"