A Crueler World

Summary: /AU/ A look at what might have been. (Manipulative!Dumbledore, Manipulated!Harry)
Word Count:2302
Date Written: July 12, 2009
Genre: General/Tragedy
Author's Note: Came up with this plotbunny when commenting on a friend's LJ posts – My take on the manipulative-Dumbledore, manipulated-Harry, Dumbledore-placed-Harry-with-the-Dursleys-to-make-him-more-pliable genre.
Warning: OOCness from canon. I plead that different events lead to different development… and that I was really using Ron as more of an 'everyman' character than Ronald Bilius Weasley, per se. I also have OOCness from my usual fanon, admittedly because I'm playing the genre straight.

More seriously, might as well warn for mild self-injury. It's only one or two sentences, doesn't involve anything sharp, and might not even result in bruises, but I figure it's best to be careful.

"Voldemort, Voldemort," the Boy-Who-Lived chanted, lightly knocking his back against the hallway wall, his eyes half-lidded and vacant behind his glasses. "Voldemort, Voldemort…"

An involuntary shudder went through Ron Weasley's body at the sound of the name. Potter creeped the hell out of him; he would have liked to say it was because Potter wasn't all there, but worse, it was more that things were there in Potter that shouldn't be there. He cleared his throat, though Potter was completely oblivious, and said, "People've been looking for you, you know."

"Voldemort, Voldemort," Potter repeated, giving absolutely no indication that he had heard. Hell, he didn't even seem to have noticed Ron's presence in the first place. Ron would have rapped him on the head or shaken his shoulder or something of the sort, but Potter got violent when disturbed, so Dumbledore said. Given the Boy-Who-Lived's reputation, Ron wasn't all that keen on finding out how violent. "Voldemort, Voldemort."

"Don't see why you've got to say the name," Ron muttered, figuring that Potter couldn't get offended by anything he said, what with Potter probably being capable of not noticing a stampeding herd of elephants in plum velvet suits charging down the hallway. This time, though, Potter stopped rocking against the wall and turned to look at Ron; his blank, almost-soulless gaze made Ron physically uncomfortable. Maybe he is soulless, Ron thought. That would make sense – You-Know-Who's Killing Curse knocked out his soul, but somehow his body's still moving around, attacking things out of reflex when startled, but not capable of actual thou–

"Fear-of-the-name-causes-fear-of-the-thing," Potter recited, shocking Ron. He'd never heard Potter say anything but "Voldemort"; he hadn't even known if Potter could say anything other than "Voldemort".

"You sound like Dumbledore." Maybe Potter wasn't soulless after all. Then again, he could just be echoing what he'd heard in response to appropriate prompting. Did that count as thought? Did you need a soul to do that?

For the first time – this was an encounter of firsts, it seemed – in all the time Ron had seen Potter, whether in person or in the occasional leaked photograph, Potter no longer looked blank; his eyes were wide and bright, his smile stretched from ear to ear, and he leaned towards Ron eagerly. "You really think so? Do I?"

"That's what Mum and Dad said he says about using You-Know-Who's –"

"Fear-of-the-name-"

"You know what I mean – name." Ron was not too shaken to scowl; seriously, first time Potter stopped being completely out to lunch, and it was over calling You-Know-Who by his name. "Dunno if they're right or not, though." Potter let out a pleased sigh, his eyes closed. All right, he wasn't soulless. But he was… puppy-like. Well, everyone in the Wizarding world knew Potter was mental; he'd practically been declared a saint because of that, poor boy who had saved them all but paid everything for it. Merlin knew Ron thought the same thing until he actually met Potter. You could only take so much mindlessness and rumors of terrible rages before justifications began to break down.

It was… funny, really, how different expressions could make you notice different things about a face. Potter looked ill, Ron saw now. Normally, he guessed, the hollow cheeks, the sickly-white skin, and the bags under Potter's eyes just melded with his uncanny, vacant expression to create a corpse-like effect, but… now that Potter had some life in him, they were thrown into sharp, chilling contrast. His robes – and they weren't exactly made for a heavy wizard – hung loosely off his thin frame, and his hands were bony and strangely discolored in places. Had You-Know-Who's failed curse affected more than his mind? Was he suffering from some wasting disease? Ron shook himself. Wasn't his place to ask – Dad and Mum would just tell him to keep his head down and mind his own business. Yeah. "Anyway," he said, letting speaking distract him from twinges of pity, "everyone's wondering where you've gone."

Potter was back to being completely oblivious, it seemed. "Look," Ron said, beginning to feel frustration, "Dumbledore –" Potter's eyes opened a crack at the sound of the name; figures, Ron thought – "-knows you're still in Hogwarts, but no one knows where you are or why you ran off, exactly."

Potter looked perplexed for a moment, and then blinked. "Voldemort." Oh, Merlin, not this again, Ron thought, wincing, but Potter continued, "He… kind of… I don't… he's here."

Either Potter was completely out of what mind he had, or it was a good idea to start running. "What?"

"I… um… piece," Potter said, his brow furrowed in concentration as he stared at the floor. "It… is Voldemort and it isn't, you see…" I don't really, Ron thought. "He…" Potter gestured, his expression beginning to crumple. "I need to…" He squeezed his eyes shut and degenerated into rapid muttering, the sounds forming into a chant. Ron thought at first that he had lapsed back into his "Voldemort" litany, but tried to make out the stream of syllables anyway; once he did, he wished he hadn't. "Kill it kill it kill it kill it kill –"

"Tell you what," Ron managed to stammer out, backing away from Potter. "I'll go get Dumbledore, and –"

"Dumbledore?" Potter stopped chanting and jerked his head up, staring at the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy and his trained ballet-trolls. A beatific smile spread over his face, and he turned to Ron. "Yes – Dumbledore will be able to – Dumbledore will know what's going on. It is here and it isn't here – got it?" A feverish light had entered Potter's eyes, and Ron nodded, figuring it was best not to argue with the crazy one. "I don't know, but Dumbledore will know – it's his school, after all – and then we can destroy it." Potter, excited, rocked on his heels, nodding his head in time with the rhythm of his rocking. "That's right, that's right…"

"Um, right, then," Ron said, a nervous smile plastered on his face. "You going to come along, or –"

"Oh sure, oh sure," Potter said, his nodding speeding up. "See Dumbledore. Right." Ron looked at Potter, who looked back at him innocently, for a few seconds, then turned and went striding down the corridor, Potter hurrying along next to him.

Ron watched him as they went down the corridors and stairs. Now, active, Potter seemed like an overgrown, energetic child bouncing along in an frail body, utterly unlike his usual self; it made Ron's stomach clench. He's the perfect mindless little sacrifice for us all, everyone thinks – too far gone to be a person, yet a soldier against You-Know-Who – but he isn't, is he? Ron swallowed involuntarily. He's a kid, somewhere in there. Just a kid – a big kid – not a very bright kid – but a kid –A cold feeling spread over him. And – if that's true – then – we, all of us, the Order, Dumbledore most of all, we're sending someone who – we're sending a kid off to war –

"Uh?" Ron shook his head and saw Potter was looking at him in confusion, and damned if he didn't look like a wide-eyed child asking someone a question – stop it, blast you, stop it, can't I be left in peace with what I thought was true? "You're looking odd."

Ron searched frantically for an excuse. "Nothing – really – I –" He came up with one and clung to it. "Why d'you go around chanting – you know – You-Know-"

"Fear-of-"

"Fine, Voldem– You know what I mean!" Ron shouted, his fear of a possibly-reinstated Taboo cutting him off mid-word. Yeah, silly fear, what with Potter saying it all the time, but maybe Potter was immune to the Taboo's effects or something. He'd survived You-Know-Who's Killing Curse, after all – who knew if he was immune to other things from Voldemort? "Why d'you say his name all the time?"

Potter slowed, his expression closing off. After a moment, Ron slowed as well, watching Potter, who seemed to almost be in physical pain. "Because –" Potter began in a halting voice after a moment. "He killed my parents." He glanced at Ron, as if expecting him to interrupt him, then glanced away. "If – my parents – were still alive – we could be –" His breath hitched in his throat. "I wouldn't – if he hadn't done it, I wouldn't –" His facial muscles spasmed. "I wouldn't be –" He broke off, his voice deepening to a growl rumbling low in his throat and his face contorting into a bestial snarl; for a moment, Ron saw a crimson gleam in his eyes. As Ron backed away as quickly as he could, Potter shuddered, his growl stopping, and his face smoothed out again. "Control, control," he muttered, raking one hand through his hair, stopping occasionally to tug hard on it. "Control, control…" He began walking again; then, as Ron was about to cautiously resume accompanying him, he veered off to the side and slammed sideways into the wall hard, yanking on his hair hard enough with his free hand to jerk his head over to one side.

Without thinking, Ron ran to his side. As Potter, staggering a bit, dusted himself off, Ron asked, "What's wrong with you, Potter?" He realized a second too late that better questions to ask Potter definitely existed.

"If it weren't for Voldemort," Potter muttered, barely audible, as he stared at the floor. "If it weren't for Voldemort." He shook his head and closed his eyes, breathing hard. Then, after an expression that Ron guessed was self-loathing flitted across his face, he opened his eyes and began to stride forward, his gait slow and unsteady like an old man's. Ron just stood next to the wall, staring after him, wishing he could speak words of sympathy or comfort, but the words would not come. What could he say? 'Sorry Voldemort made you mental, mate?' Ron resisted a sick urge to laugh. It was a lot easier dealing with Potter when he'd seemed mindless to the point where he could seriously wonder if Potter had a soul. You didn't have to feel anything but unease, a bit of fear, and a quiet tinge of disgust towards a soulless creature. A suffering kid, though… Now, even the blank mood, in retrospect, made him a bit ill. People tried to escape inside their own heads when they were miserable enough, didn't they? Merlin, he hoped Potter just did it because he was mental. Had to be. Had to be.

As he occupied his mind with denials, his gaze wandered, falling upon a detail about Potter he hadn't noticed before. No, that wasn't true. He'd noticed it, he just hadn't gotten a good look. "Potter… your hands…"

Potter turned back to him, lifting his hands into the air, the sleeves of his robe falling back as he did so. "Yes? What about them?"

"Those are scars, aren't they?" A stupid question; he could see them clearly, shiny, reddish-brown, and raised. Now, he saw that they twisted down Potter's arms as well, disappearing beneath the cuffs of his robe's sleeves; for a morbid moment, Ron wondered just how far they extended. Most of them were old. A few weren't. "From… burns?"

"Oh, yes," Potter said, glancing at his hands. "The ones on my torso are worse." Well, that was that question answered.

"How'd you –"

Potter lowered his hands and let the sleeves fall down, tucking his hands up and above the cuffs. Without a word, he turned away and resumed walking. All right, never mind that, Ron thought, blinking before joining Potter again.

"Sorry," he said to Potter.

"Why?" Potter asked, staring straight ahead.

"Well, didn't mean to press –"

Potter shook his head. "Nah. Fine." He hesitated, his eyes seeming to focus on something out of sight, his face looking even more sickly than before, and his lower lip shifting between his teeth. Several uncomfortable seconds passed before Potter added, "For the best that I'm like this, anyway."

Ron could not have been as stunned if the infamous troll ballet troupe had leapt into view, decorated with enormous ribbons and rainbow tutus, and begun to perform. "What?" He stared at Potter, trying to detect any scrap of sarcasm in Potter; there was none. He was dead serious. "Why?"

"Voldemort," Potter said. "Someone… someone's got to fight him… That's why." He bit his lower lip again. "And… if I wasn't – if I couldn't – I need to be like this," he said, beginning to tremble. "I need to be." His walking sped up as he nodded his head. "I was marked –" – he gestured jerkily at his forehead, at the lightning-bolt scar – "- it's my – my fate to fight him – to be the – I had to be!" He whirled on Ron, his eyes wide and glassy, his face desperate, as if seeking confirmation of his words; Ron, paralyzed save for the automatic motion of his feet, had no such comfort to offer Potter. "I didn't have a future anyway, this is what I was meant to be!" His voice rose in an agonized cry at the end, his voice breaking, and he promptly collapsed into dry sobbing, his entire body shaking. Whimpering, he bashed his fists against his temples over and over again, letting out noises like a wounded animal.

"It isn't right," Ron said, feeling as if he was watching everything from far away and hearing distantly someone else speak with his mouth. "This can't be right. I don't know exactly what you mean, but whatever it is, it isn't –"

Potter looked deathly ill as he shook his head, his lips pressed together and eyes tightly shut. "Sometimes," he said as if the words were being dragged out of him on barbed hooks, "you've… got to think… about the greater good…"

Author's Note 2: Yes, the last line is a snipe at canon-Harry. (Said dialogue, without ellipses and with an exclamation point, is spoken by Harry in The Missing Mirror to Aberforth.) I figure that, as a [mis-punctuated] canon quote, it's fitting.

My explanation for why Ron's at Hogwarts with Harry is that the Order moved in over the summer to get protection from the wards, this being a world where Sirius Black never was able to return to the Order and hand over Grimmauld Place. (In fact, he's most likely now, on top of the false charge of betraying the Potters and his escape from Azkaban, also on the run for having mauled two Muggles and wounded a third.) I was unable to figure out a place to fit that in, though, and supposed it was best to not throw in a clunky detail.

I apologize to any Dumbledore-fans for the inferred Dumbledore-bashing of epic proportions. If you don't quite see it – read Harry's babbling at the end, consider that I admitted at the beginning that this was a Dumbledore-placed-Harry-with-the-Dursleys-to-make-him-more-pliable (…Yeeeees…) fic, and think about it. It's kind of hard to get more Dumbledore-bashing than what I implied about what he's deliberately had happen to Harry in this AU. (You still don't get it? Reread The Missing Mirror, then consider the contents of said chapter, Harry's state in this AU, and Vernon's canonical belief that "there's something strange about you, probably nothing a good beating wouldn't have cured".)