Title: Colors of Emotion
Rating: T/PG-13
Chapter WC: 3,517
Story WC: 21,463
First Written: June 21, 2010
Last Edited: August 24, 2011
Posted: August 24, 2011

Summary: The blood wards have been broken, the Dursleys slaughtered, and a boy's mind shattered. The choice of one man changed Harry Potter's life forever. Can the Wizarding World trust their future to a sociopath or will this spell their end?

Parallel: Harry Potter

Colors of Emotion

"And the wild regrets and the bloody sweats. None knew so well as I: That he who lives more lives than one, more deaths than one shall die." – Oscar Wilde

Theodore Nott Sr. was not a fool, and certainly not a coward.

He had attended Hogwarts alongside Lord Voldemort himself, during the era of Grindelwald. He was one of only three people still living to know the Dark Lord for who he truly was, spotted heritage included. But he was no fool. He knew power when he saw it, and Tom Riddle had been as powerful as they come. Nott had been one of the first wizards to join Voldemort's cause, back before they had even left school. He had fought alongside him for decades now, believing with every ounce of his being that one day they'd be able to achieve their dream—their utopia.

Nott was no fool. He could see their world for what it had become. Corrupt and incompetent governments, blinded by greed as they squabbled pitifully over scraps. Wizards and witches hiding in the shadows, cowering beneath the Muggle world as it grew like a disease, but daring not to speak or think of their own fear, of the end that they could feel was coming. They wielded magic! They were beings of power—true power!—and they wasted it on cleaning charms and simple tricks. Pitiful. Truly pitiful.

But Tom Riddle, he had been smart. Though new to their world, he had seen when so many could not. He had seen how the wizarding world was rotting from the inside out, festering like an infected wound. He had seen, and he had decided to do something about it. They would return to the glory days, when witches and wizards had walked across the face of the earth unafraid and uncontested.

One day, they would.

Then it had all gone so wrong. Lord Voldemort... He had changed. Changed so much, so quickly. He grew paranoid and moody. And obsessive. So very obsessive.

It was all due to that damned prophecy! The Dark Lord had refused to leave it be. He had been so enraged at the thought of a mere child being able to challenge him. Nott had never seen him like that before, seen him so focused on one thing, ignoring the war around him, ignoring his cause. And then he had gone, and he had gotten himself killed. By a child! A babe, barely over a year old! It was unthinkable, utterly and completely impossible. No one survived the Killing Curse, and no one could defeat the Dark Lord! And yet he had. Harry James Potter had.

Theodore Nott Sr. was not a fool, and certainly not a coward.

Never a coward.

His wand clenched tightly in his fist, Nott stalked forward through the night. His robes swished around him silently, blending into the dark with as much ease as an invisibility cloak. The grass made no sound beneath his feet as he all but ghosted over it, intent on the small Muggle house before him.

He had not said a word to wife when he had left, nor to his four-year-old son. Merlin, four years? Had it really been that long already? Four years since a child had destroyed Lord Voldemort, and their cause along with him. No matter, he would set things right tonight.

A blood ward covered Number 4 Privet Drive. It was powerful, ancient magic, but hardly infallible. A truly talented wardsmith could bring it down, given the right tools and enough time. Nott was such a man, having specialized in wards and runic magic since he was fourteen. But unfortunately, time was an issue and he did not have enough of it to bring this particular ward down. That, however, was not a problem. There were other ways around it—ways that used subtlety rather than brute force.

And the Notts had always been known for their subtlety.

This particular ward focused on the intent of those who tried to pass through it. They would rather forcibly eject anyone who intended to harm those living within. Nott knew exactly how it worked—he'd spent the last four years studying it, duplicating it, and taking it apart again and again until he knew it better than his own family. He knew this ward, and he knew exactly how to get through it without having to bring it down.

There were a number of wards that used a similar intent-seeking magic as these wards. They were usually used to prevent thieves from entering rich manors, though some similar to this ward had been crafted for hospitals. Of course, that was back before simpering fools had outlawed blood magic. Regardless, wardsmiths had created certain spells to get around these wards in the event of an emergency—warding was delicate magic and quite prone to errors. One such spell tricked the wards into believing that the caster had a different intent than they actually did. In this case, that Nott had only benevolent interests in the residents of the pathetic Muggle hovel before him.

The spell works perfectly.

Nott felt little more than a cool sensation brushing by him as he passed through the words. He paused for a moment on the other side to marvel at the feeling of triumph that welled up within him before focusing on the task at hand once again. The Dark Lord may have overestimated the power of a child, but Nott would not. He would make sure there was no chance that the boy would survive. The-Boy-Who-Lived-to-Die. It had a nice ring to it.

Muggle locks presented no problems, nor did the Muggles themselves. In no time at all he had them levitated down into the living room, bound and silenced. A simple locating spell gave him the boy's location: the cupboard under the stairs. A brief bout of rage assaulted him at the sight of the young wizard curled up on a mat. This was what had become of their "savior"? This? A wizard, tossed in a corner like an unwanted toy. He scoffed at the thought.

There was a soft popping sound outside. Nott froze, recognizing the activation of the perimeter ward he had set up upon his arrival. He did not have to look outside to know that someone knew he was there and the Aurors had come. He cursed aloud, realizing that there had probably been a secondary ward woven into the blood ward, one that checked for the entrance of anyone magical.

But not all was lost. Nott whirled around and began casting spells on the Muggles, ripping open their intestines, cutting open their jugulars, and using one particular curse that literally made their blood boil. They screamed beneath the silencing spell and writhed in pain as they died. Nott turned his back to them, uncaring, and stared down at the boy.

He could kill him now, so very easily. A simple curse would do it, and not just the Killing Curse. But there was no guarantee that it would work. While the blood wards covered the Muggle house, they were still tied to Harry. If they were what had saved him the first time, then how was Nott to know that they would not do it again? He had planned to take his time and make sure the boy would die, but he could already feel the anti-Apparation wards that had been erected and hear the pounding of footsteps up the front walk.

As always, time had foiled him.

Nevertheless, not all was lost. There was still one spell he could use. It would not kill the boy, but it just might set him on a path to either his own destruction or to the destruction of the wizarding world itself. Lifting his wand, Nott wove it about in a complicated pattern while swiftly muttering a stream of Latin. When he was done, a sickly yellow beam shot out and hit the boy, who immediately began to writhe about as though he was under the Cruciatus.

Nott smiled coldly. It would not kill the boy, but result would end up being far worse. It was a pity he would not be around to see the result.

The door was smashed in and landed several feet away, splintered into several pieces. As Aurors poured inside, Nott raised his wand to heart, and then hesitated. He would not get to watch his son to grow up. That was his one regret. Their cause had always been so important, but then he had found a wife and had a little boy. A little boy who probably would not remember him, and may very well grow up in ridicule as a result of his actions.

All for the Cause.

Steadying his hand, Nott said his final words.

"Avada Kedavra."

Harry James Potter titled his head to the side curiously as he watched the man and the woman fighting. They whispered angrily as they walked along, voices raising occasionally. They were altogether unmindful to the other pedestrians on the street who were giving them a wide berth. A couple of elderly woman nearby were watching while openly muttering disdainful about how shameful such actions were in public. Harry did not mind, but for the life of him, he just could not understand.

Emotions, that is.

Oh sure, he could reproduce emotion easily enough—a smile here, a scowl there, even a few tears if the situation called for it—but he had never actually felt anything. Not joy, not sadness, not even anger. He was...calm, he thought the word was. Someone had once told him that he was unperturbed, but he was not quite sure what that meant. He had never allowed his lack of emotions to hinder him though. He was good at pretending that he was normal; no one had ever guessed that he might be a shade different from normal.

"Harry!" Artemisia Sylvanus quickly grabbed Harry's wrist and pulled him away from the growing crowd. "You know better than to wander off," she scolded. She gripped his hand tightly as though afraid he would try to leave again.

Harry put on the best ashamed face he could manage. "Sorry," he told his foster mother while looking down at his feet for good measure. "I was just curious."

Artemisia sighed. "I know, I know," she murmured while leading the boy away. "But you must be more careful. Come, Mylor is waiting for us."

The middle-aged woman steered them to the right and into the Leaky Cauldron. A number of people there smiled and waved as they passed through. Harry waved back shyly, half hiding behind Artemisia.

Fools, the lot of them. Praising him for something he had no control over. It was mind-blowingly illogical—which was a key characteristic of the wizarding world. They further showed their foolishness by pitying him over his remaining relatives' deaths. They said the incident had "traumatized" him. Frankly, they had no idea what they were talking about. Harry hardly even remembered the Dursleys and he definitely did not remember the night they died; he had slept through the whole thing.

And then he had been given to his foster parents. He suspected there was more to the story than that—he had heard a lot of stories about custody battles—but he honestly didn't care. The Sylvanus family fulfilled his needs well enough. Mylor Sylvanus was a Defense Mater and an international dueling champion. He brought in enough money each year to support their comfortable lifestyle easily, but on top of that, Artemisia was a renowned Potions Master who had invented three new potions to date. They lived in a reclusive manor in the countryside with a massive library and access to anything Harry could ever want or need. It was perfect.

The only thing that could ruin it was Artemisia's unnecessary attachment to him. However, Mylor was blessedly emotionally distanced and usually managed to keep Artemisia from bothering him too much. With any luck, that distance would only grow with time.

"We'll need to stop by Madam Malkin's first," Artemisia murmured as they bustled along Diagon Alley, "so that you can get your Hogwarts robes. Oh, I can't believe you're finally going off to Hogwarts! Aren't you excited?"

"Yes ma'am." Not.

"You'll make so many friends, I'm sure you will! Just remember to speak up and be polite. Oh, but you won't have any problems with that, I'm sure. Now, you already have all your books, yes?"

Harry repressed a sigh. "Yes, I do." And he had been reading them cover to cover for months, as if she did not already know that. The textbooks were not very good though. There were a number of books in the manor library that went into much clearer detail.

"And you have all your potions ingredients, of course," Artemisia hummed. "We'll just have a few more errands and then we can pick up your wand. Exciting, right?"

Smiling, Harry put a bounce in his step. "Uh-huh!" he agreed. "Can we go now?"

Artemisia laughed and Harry stared, wondering how that was funny. "Not yet, Harry dear. You'll have to wait just a little bit longer."

Just a little bit longer. It was always just a little bit longer. Harry had been asking for his wand for years and yet they had refused each time. They had said he was not allowed to practice magic outside of Hogwarts until he turned 17, but that was hardly the point. It was having a wand that mattered—having it and thereby having the capability to do something if need be.

But these people were always holding him back. Coddling him, as though he still needed protection. Annoyance would probably be the proper emotion to feel, if he could. As it was, he just found himself dully empty, as though he was waiting for something important.

He was always waiting.

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore had always prized himself on being an intelligent man. He had accomplished much in his long life and each day was leaving behind an incredible legacy. He had fought in two wars and saved countless lives—and and had seen dozens more die. But through it all he'd kept calm and calculating, always a step ahead of his opponent, always planning out his next move.

But he had never expected the Dursleys' deaths.

To think that so many years after Voldemort's death Nott would come out of the woodwork and attack, only to kill himself without harming Harry Potter. That was what really got him. Not the time, not the person, but the action. Why would he kill the Dursleys, but not Harry Potter? There hadn't even been a scratch on him, and it seemed he'd had ample time to do something. Not that he wasn't grateful for it, but... It puzzled him. He'd had Harry checked over and over for any sign of a spell, but for all appearances the boy was untouched.

Well, except for a little emotional damage, of course. But that was to be expected, considering everything the boy had been through in his short life. Such a tragedy, for things to turn out the way they had. Dumbledore had hoped that Harry would grow up as a normal child, and then be introduced to the wizarding world when he was ready. He certainly hadn't expected the neglect that Harry had apparently experienced. The wizarding world had been in an uproar when they revealed that. The boy savoir, neglected by Muggles? It was almost enough to cover over the shock of the Dursleys' murders. And the struggles for custody of the boy that had ensued... Well, he was just glad that Harry had been too young to see or understand.

At the very least, Harry had ended up with a good family. The Sylvanus family were strong enough physically to protect him and strong enough mentally to not be drawn in by his fame. A perfect match, he had to admit. And Harry seemed to have grown up just fine with them, rather than spoiled as he'd feared. And with his comprehensive knowledge of the wizarding world... Well, the prophecy just might have an even better chance now. Dumbledore was willing to admit when he was wrong, and he certainly realized that the Sylvanus were a better fit than the Dursleys.

These thoughts were left for quieter times, however. For the moment Dumbledore was focused on the Great Hall as it filled up with children returning to the school year. The sight always made him swell with pride; these were the children who would one day inherit their world. The next generation of witches and wizards. And oh what a bright future they had. The misery that had hung about the castle during the war was only a distant memory now.

And there came the first years. He spotted Harry right away. The boy looked so confident, striding forward in his dark robes. He seemed taller than the other children did, even though he wasn't. It was the air that he exuded, as though he was at compete peace with himself. Dumbledore beamed with pride. A perfect match indeed; he'd been raised well.

The sorting started quickly enough and Dumbledore paid polite attention until Harry's name was called. Then he leaned forward in his seat, smile widening and eyes twinkling. The boy would be a Gryffindor, just like his parents. He'd make fantastic friends and go on wonderful adventures. He would be the perfect person to save the wizarding world—kind, gentle, and brave. He just knew it.

Then reality came crashing down.

"Ravenclaw!"

Harry was not sure if he liked Hogwarts just yet. It was big, to be sure, and the teachers were competent, but there were so many people. And they all stared and tried to talk to him, to be friendly. Their motives were painfully clear and he could not even ignore them because there were so many! He tried to pick out the ones that would be the most useful—the most powerful ones, the ones with connections—but it was nearly impossible with the waves of people the assaulted him daily. It was almost enough to make him feel overwhelmed.

Him. Feel. Hah!

Most of the older students kept their distance, at least. Oh, they still watched, but they didn't clamor about like the younger ones. He found a few good conversationalists amongst this older group, but conflicting schedules frequently got in the way.

And then there were the Houses.

Mercy, what a backward system. He could understand what the Founders had been aiming for—competition between students to get them to work harder and all that—but it backfired nicely. Sure, the system inspired competition, but it also created animosity between students. Such factions usually broke down after school, but in some cases, the result could be disastrous, Voldemort being the shining example. Yet it had not changed in the past thousand years, let along the decade since Voldemort's fall. Fools.

A door swung open mere inches from Harry's face and girl with bright blue hair stumbled out, nearly falling head over heels. She cursed wildly as she regained her footing, grumbling something about moving stairs. Harry stared blankly at her, more for her hair than her actions. Why would someone dye their hair like that?

The girl final noticed Harry watching and straightened with an embarrassed smile. "Wotcher!" she greeted. She was a lot taller than Harry; had to be a 7th year, he thought. "Sorry about that. I didn't hit you, did I?"

Would he be able to claim grievances for saying she had? Harry grimaced and rubbed his head. "I'm fine," he said in what hope was hurt tone. "It wasn't a very hard door." Right, because doors could be soft.

Regardless of his blunder, the girl's eyes widened in horror. "Oh shit! I'm so sorry kid; I really didn't mean to." She hovered over him nervously, unsure of what to do. "Uh, tell you what. I'll... I'll teach a spell! As an apology. Sound good?" Before Harry's eyes, her hair changed from blue to yellow and shortened in length. A Metamorphmagus, Harry realized. That was even better than he had hoped.

Harry offered her a tentative smile. "Sure, I guess."

Before he could get another word in, the girl was already rambling about different types of spells and levels. It took her a moment to stop for a breath and when she did, she looked sheepish. "Anyway, I'm Tonks," she told him. "You must be Harry, right? Harry Potter?"

Shyly ducking his head, Harry nodded. "Yes." Just looking at his scar should have been enough for her to know. Social pleasantries had always befuddled Harry with their uselessness. All they did was stop people from getting their feelings hurt, which, for him, was entirely unneeded.

Tonks smiled. "Quiet kid, aren't you? Expected for a Ravenclaw, I guess. But anyway! We can meet up for the spell. It's a third year spell, but you should learn pretty quickly. We can use an empty classroom until you've got it down pat. Sound good?"

Harry replied with a smile. "I'll look forward to it."

A/N: Yes, Nott is a hypocrite. He's also a wizard, which explains that pretty nicely. In any case, this story would be a take on how a sociopathic character would handle magic and the Wizarding word. Nott's motives for doing what he did feel a little shaky to me, but I'm not going to more thought into it at this time.

Random Fact 1: Mylor Sylvanus is technically a canon character. His name appears on an early planning chart for Order of the Phoenix in a list as the fifth of the Defense against the Dark Arts Professors.

Random Fact 2: Artemisia Sylvanus is named for Artemisia Lufkin, the first woman to become Minister of Magic.

Also, thanks for the response I got for the last story, Gemini! I'm working fullspeed ahead on that story, as well as a Naruto story called Worth Dying For. I have 30k+ done for both of them, but don't plan on posting them until they're complete. You can find summaries for both (including a new and improved one for Gemini that better fits the plot) on my profile.

—S.R.