Savage
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is J.K Rowling's property.
Author's Note: This fanfic s something I wanted to do for some time now. To me J.K Rowling's works can be summarized in one word, on the philosophical aspect : Protestant.
J.K Rowling is the most protestant person I have ever read, philosophically speaking. I don't say it pejoratively, mind you, I really love the Harry Potter universe. I've merely noticed that the Harry Potter book series overflows with Kantianism ("Chose between what is right and what is easy."), Liberalism ("It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.") and Protestant theology (Harry Potter dies for his friends and resurrects, just like Jesus Christ did. Love is the only path to the soul's salvation. etc.)
So, what I wanted was a more essentially Nietzschean Harry Potter, to whom morals and compassion mean little. A neutral-bad Harry, if you want. So, I hope I'll manage to reach that, and that you'll enjoy.
Also, the story will be marked as "Humor" alongside "Horror" cause I can't help it, but I'm a quite cynical and dark humored person, and so will my writing style most probably be, even when describing gruesome things.
Chapter 1 : Love, Hate and Magic
31st October 1981. This date, none in Magical Britain would forget. For the last twenty years or so, said Magical Britain was engulfed in a civil war for the supremacy of Pureblooded wizards over the rest of the population. Or at least, that's pretty much how it would be summarized from this day onwards. But if one wanted to be precise, it would be truer to say it was a war for the supremacy of all things "purely" magical over the rest.
Indeed, if it was only a war for pureblood supremacy, then it would be hard to explain the help from magical creatures to the leader of the aggressors-side, Dark Lord Voldemort. For to pureblood wizards, said creatures were nothing more than mere beasts, no better than the mudbloods and blood-traitors they fought.
Thus, even if to the clearly much auto-centered wizards this war was only a matter of blood purity, the actual reality of it explain way better why the other, defending, side was losing.
Until came the 31st October of 1981.
This night, Lord Voldemort came to the small village of Godric's Hollow, intending one kill. Or, at least one. But this one would be the most important of his life. Or rather, of his death, considering the man, after killing a husband an a wife, exploded when trying to kill the child, Harry James Potter.
"They are the worst sort of muggles imaginable !"
Perturbing the silent, quiet night of Little Whinging were two figures in the dark. One was a tall woman in longue robes with a pointy hat, black hairs and green eyes; the other was longue bearded, longue robed man holding a toddler. His hairs and beard were completely white from old age, and his eyes were deep blue, though hidden behind half-moon spectacles. Behind them stood probably the tallest, hairiest man ever seen on the British Isles.
"They really are…", followed the witch.
"The only family he has", finished the old wizard.
Thus, they deposited the boy at the foot of the door of 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, before they Apparated away.
Such a strange event, even by the standards of the wizarding world, and only explained by the strange behaviour of Albus Dumbledore, the most powerful wizard of Britain. The problem here, however, was not (not really) the Dumbledore's power, but rather his intelligence. To many, Albus Dumbledore appeared almost as a demi-god-like being, all-knowing and omnipotent. The truth was that as great his mind, as inept he was to understand people's emotions. This mere fact actually being the very reason for every disastrous decision he took in his life.
This night, Dumbledore's great mind led him to understand that the sacrifice of his mother had clad little Hary in the protection of a powerful Blood Ward. At the same time, what he failed to understand was that sharing the same blood didn't equal to sharing love. Quite the opposite, sometimes.
Four years. It had been more than four years since Vernon Dursley accepted the damn freak in his house.
At first, he was disgusted by the boy. An error of nature whose parents, just as much the degenerates, failed to keep away from honest people.
Yet, while utterly disgusted, Dursley had backed off from his first impulse by the threats he read in the letter that his kin had left when they deposited him. The letter explained that to keep the boy would "offer them protection from being attacked by those who killed the poor boy's parents". His wife, Petunia, had insisted that they took the threat seriously and accept the boy, if only for their own sweet little Dudley.
The following year, Vernon had even accepted the boy's presence. He was calm, quite behaved and, overall, nothing particularly freakish had happened. Until two weeks before his 3rd birthday, when the fucking Devil's spawn made his damn milk glass levitate !
From this point onwards, every single minuscule evidence of freakiness was retributed with underfeeding, until his fourth birthday, then it would be welcomed with five belt slash on the back. Yet the little shit, stubborn as a mule, had continued, and almost every three weeks for the last year and a half, something happened that deserved the belt.
Now, the boy was Five, still freakish and Vernon, overstressed, had gained 22 pounds.
"That's it Petunia. I can't bear it a single second more. The boy has to go !", said Vernon, the face already red from the shortage of air this 6 seconds sentence had provoked in his system.
"I understand, love, but what about… the others ? The threats ?", said a worried Petunia, looking at her Duddy and his friends, compassionate enough to play with the Freak in the garden. She frowned. This mongrel better have finished his gardening chores beforehand.
"Petunia, it's been almost four years. In four years, nothing terrible has never happened to us. Nothing but this freakshow monstrosity of a boy ! And if anything should ever happen, I trust a million times more my father's hunting rifle than him !"
Petunia didn't know what to answer. Mostly because, after a short thinking moment, she agreed. Freaks were terrifying, yes, but from what she saw her sister do, she doubted any of this would be that much of match against a good old rifle.
She nodded before asking "But, Vernon, where are we sending him ? To the orphanage ?"
Vernon shook his head vigorously, or as vigorously as he could, anyway. Which would have been comical in other circumstances, considering his moustache flapping in the air gave him the look of an excited Schnauzer. "The boy's identity is already registered. They would identify him and send him back." The huge man stopped for a while, thinking very hard for probably the first time of his life. After approximatively 20 minutes of silence, he spoke again.
"In two weeks, for the Easter holidays, we go on vacation to Exeter, right ?" His wife nodded. "Good, then here's what we do." The man brushed his moustache. "The day before going, we tell the boy that we're departing already. We bring him to crazy old Figg the morning with one instruction : At 5 p.m the same day, you have to come home to water the garden while we're gone. The boy come back to the house, I grab him, and we all go to the Devon. This way, we've got an alibi, we were gone, and he was supposed to be Figg's responsibility.
"Once in the Devon, we drop him in the middle of the Dartmoor, in a forest, if possible. Then we go to Exeter, we show our little Duddy the greatness of British architecture and civilisation, and finally, we live as a happy family for the rest of our lives !"
With the last two sentences, Vernon's face went from red to purple, to near blue from the increasing blood pressure. Truly, to plan the abandonment of a child is quite unhealthy.
The last two days of Harry's were oddly sweet. It was worrying. Well, to be fair, sweetness wasn't worrying in itself, after all, for the last two days, neither his Taunt or Uncle had been particularly venomous to him, which was a welcomed change. No, the worrying part was the sickly large grin his Uncle had been giving to him.
While thinking about this, after having prepared breakfast for his relatives, Harry was abruptly interrupted in his morning thoughts by a very cold, very serious Vernon.
"Freak !", Vernon barked. At least Harry knew that it wasn't really his name, now. "Listen to me very attentively. This afternoon, we normal, honest people are going in vacation." The boy nodded, already knowing this. "You do know what it means, right ?"
Harry nodded weakly once again. "Yes, sir. I'll go to Miss Figg and behave myself, sir."
"Indeed, you will." Then the worrying grin came back. "But this time, I have a task for you. This evening at 5 p.m precisely, you will come back here and water the garden. Am I clear ?" Harry nodded once again. "Good, here is the key to the backyard. You know, I'm taking a risk giving it to a stupid little shit like you. Don't you dare lose it, or there'll be consequences."
The last part took Harry aback. First, his Uncle swear, which he hadn't until now, primarily because Duddley was never far away. Second, Vernon didn't use threats anymore, for Harry knew perfectly well what his punishment would be. That Vernon threatened him, this time, meant that the punishment would be far more severe.
It was 11 O'clock when Harry was dropped to Ms Figg. Less than half an hour after, he heard and then saw the Dursley car move away from Privet Drive. Ms Figg took him in the kitchen, where they made lunch and cookies, while she drowned him with anecdotes from "her time". Then they watched T.V for two hours, but the show was utterly incomprehensible, mostly because Ms Figg told her anecdotes over the show's audio. Afterwards, she had him pet her cats and watch her knit, while telling anecdotes over and again.
5 p.m almost came as a salvation to poor Harry. He stood up and said : "Miss Figg ?"
The old woman was quite surprised that the normally so quiet young boy interrupted her. "Yes, Harry ?"
"Um… Uncle Vernon has told me this morning that I would have to water the garden at 5 p.m. He even gave me the key to the backyard. Can I go ?"
The old woman was silent for a few seconds, her eyes narrowed just a little, before saying. "Sure, go ahead, I wouldn't have you… disappoint your Uncle."
"Thanks, ma'am !" Harry exclaimed. The garden was bound to be a lot more fun than Ms Figg's eternal flow of pointless anecdotes, so he rushed to the 4 Privet Drive.
Ms Figg watched him go from her window before whispering "Poor boy…". When she saw him enter the backyard, she looked still for a few minutes before returning to her knit. Only 2minutes later did the Dursley car come back in front of the Dursley house, hiding Vernon Dursley as he shoved his unfortunate nephew into the car and ordered his wife to drive them away the fastest she could.
It was thwo hours after Harry had gone to the Dursleys garden that Arabella Figg suspected something was wrong. It was a few minutes later, when she went to the Dursleys' house that she knew something was wrong. The backyard was locked, and there was no sign of Harry.
Immediately, she called Dumbledore. When the old wizard arrived two hours later, he was completely dumbfounded. The Bloodwards were still firmly in place, there were no traces of any other magic around, but so was there no traces of Harry.
At the same time, a young boy was thrown into a forest somewhere in the Dartmoor. The heinous perpetrator went for a week-end in Exeter. When they came back two days later, a distressed Ms Figg told them what happened. When the Dursleys, seemingly heartbroken, reported the disappearance to the police, she became the first suspect.
Well, it was until the whole family was murdered, five years later, through means unknown, inside their locked house. The only evidence found was the picture of a skull whose tongue was a snake, carved in the family father's chest.
Definitely, the abandonment of a child is a quite unhealthy activity.