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Chapter Text

In the dead of night, Harry Potter sat in his bed, thinking. 

He thought about the last year he'd had at Hogwarts, and the Goblet of Fire. He thought about how easily one of his best friends had abandoned him, only returning after he realized he had been wrong. Ron had glared, sneered, and made it seem as if Harry had been at fault. Harry thought, for weeks, about how it could have been his fault.

He could think of no reason.

Harry was not to blame for becoming a champion.

Harry was not to blame for upsetting his friend.

He knew all this and believed it; after forcing himself to think logically the past several days, it was hard not to.

However, Harry was to blame for the death of Cedric Diggory. He may not have been thinking straight, but his head had felt quite clear in the moment.

He had told everyone that they had taken the cup together, a Death Eater showed up, killed Cedric, and used Harry for the ritual. Only partly true.

Harry didn't know why he had done it, only that the thought of Cedric taking what he himself had rightfully earned was extremely unappealing.

So he had grabbed Cedric’s head and slammed it onto the cup.

And the worst part of it all, Harry thought, is that I don't regret it.

He hadn’t been caught. Although no one truly believed the Voldemort-coming-back part, they did not suspect him of murder. This particular fact circled through his mind, bringing forth horrible ideas he genuinely considered taking part in. 

If he could get away with Cedric, he could get away with someone else. Placing the blame on Voldemort was a brilliant, foolproof plan. 

In Harry’s opinion, at least.

The thought of placing the blame on Voldemort sent a small wave of guilt through him, but what did it matter? The man was already a murderer, it’s not like Harry would be ruining his reputation or anything. 

Harry finally sunk into his bed with the intent to sleep. He had no plan, and no doubts of failure.

When Harry awoke the next morning, he had no recollection of his thought process before he slept. He sat up and stretched quite dramatically before falling limp with a sigh. He gazed up at the ceiling for a moment, feeling quite relaxed, before he suddenly remembered what he had been thinking about the night before.

“Fuckin’ hell…” he mumbled to himself, slightly appalled at what he had fantasized about during the night. 

The prospect of killing his relatives- of planning on killing his relatives, rather than it be a spur of the moment thing like with Cedric- was horrifying.

Kind of.

He was just like any other sane person; he hated violence and murder. But he had no other choice but to admit to himself that his thoughts from last night were most certainly not the first time he had considered it, no matter how much he tried to forget about that time in his life. He always felt so ashamed when he remembered- so much that he reprimanded himself when he did think back on it.

It was when he was around eight or nine that he had begun to see the unfairness of his situation. When he started to understand that he was being treated badly. He had stopped daydreaming about a mysterious person coming to rescue him, because he had finally understood that that was never going to happen- he was stuck there.

When he had finally begun to understand his situation, it had been a rough couple of weeks. He constantly searched for ways to get away, and when he found none that would work, he thought about how he could get them to treat him better. How to get them to want him. When he realized there was nothing he could do to fix things, he lost hope of escaping his horrible life.

The only possible option he had (he thought he had) was to simply…get rid of them. He had sense, of course. He knew better. 

But now, thinking about it again after having abandoned the idea long ago, it didn't seem so horrible. In any case, he could put together a pros and cons list, and there were quite a few pros he could think of off the top of his head. 

Harry sat up and looked to his nightstand, where an old spiral notebook sat. It was very thin, due to him having torn many pages out from it. He grabbed it and turned to the first page, then leaned over the side of his bed to reach for a pencil laying on the floor a few feet away from him. He nearly tumbled to the floor straining to reach it, as he didn’t want to stand up to grab it.

Once he had the pencil he righted himself and drew a line straight down the middle of the page. He labeled one side pros and the other side cons. He started with pros.

• I won’t have to live here anymore.

• I could get to spend the summers at the Burrow.

• Sirius?

• I might get to eat every day.

• No consequences (because it was Voldemort, honestly, why would they even think I would do it?)

He paused, trying to think of any others to add, but came up with nothing. He went to add to the cons, planning on coming back afterwards.

• I might feel guilty?

He tapped his pencil against the paper, leaving small marks across it in the process. There had to have been more cons, but his mind was coming up short. Harry gave a small shrug and set both the notebook and pencil down in front of him. He stared at the page blankly for a moment before furrowing his brows in what seemed to be confusion.

I’m not actually considering this, am I? Harry thought to himself, before looking away from the paper and out through the window. He sat in mild discomfort for several minutes, feeling troubled by his thoughts. He shouldn’t want to hurt them, but he did. He wanted to hurt them so fucking bad. They deserved it, for hurting him all his life. 

Harry took a shaky breath in and held it for a moment. He didn’t want to keep thinking about this, it was unsettling. 

He forced himself up, scowling as he ambled out of his room, and downstairs. Aunt Petunia stared at him with thinly veiled hatred as he went to the kitchen, pulling out the necessary ingredients for the normal breakfast that hadn’t changed in the last 10 years he’d been cooking it.

He tossed bacon into the pan, the fat sizzling at the sudden contact with heat, and Harry opened the salt shaker. He stared at it contemplatively for a moment before adding an entire three teaspoons into the bowl of pancake mix.

Have fun eating this, you overweight shitbags, he thought with an overwhelming sense of satisfaction.

He finished breakfast in a record amount of time, dancing around the kitchen gleefully. Aunt Petunia leveled him with a look of suspicion as Harry all but skipped out of the kitchen, to which he immediately tried to calm himself and arrange his face into something much more usual for him.

Which, he didn’t know what that expression would be, but he supposed it being blank and emotionless is good enough.

Dudley served himself 7 pancakes, drowned them in syrup, and began stuffing his face. Harry waited dutifully in his corner, as he always does. It took three bites for Dudley to screw his face up and begin complaining.

“Dad! The pancakes taste funny! I bet the freak poisoned them!” Dudley accused; which was stupid seeing as he was speaking with a mouthful of pancake and didn’t even stop stuffing his face as he accused Harry of poisoning the pancakes.

So apparently he would eat over-salted pancakes. 

Figures.

Uncle Vernon swelled with anger, his face turning a furious shade of puce, and Harry took a small step toward the kitchen.

He did not think this through.

In his fury, Uncle Vernon moved so much faster than Harry thought was possible for a man of his size. Which would be impressive if Harry wasn’t on the receiving end and his vision blinded from pain.

In between the punches and kicks, he’s dragged to the kitchen. And in between one moment of clarity that there is a knife right there and another moment of clarity that Uncle Vernon is getting tired, Harry is up, standing, and there is a knife in his Uncle’s neck. 

Blood was dripping down Harry’s front and Uncle Vernon was choking. Aunt Petunia was screaming, threatening about police and freaks and she’s hysterical and— and Harry wouldn’t allow them to threaten his peace. His chance at finally getting a reprieve from the constant pain they put him under.

There was another moment.

Aunt Petunia was on the floor. Her neck was broken, twisted so much that bone was poking from her neck.

Dudley was trying to negotiate; he’s pissed himself with fear.

All the words floated over Harry’s head, he didn’t hear them, and there was laughter bubbling inside of him. Dudley tried to run once it escaped him.

Another moment passed.

Dudley was lying on the floor, in the living room, and his head was bashed in from a pan. His skin was burnt from hot, boiling, bacon grease.

Number Four Privet Drive looked like it came straight out of a horror movie. A man, dead in the kitchen and blood coating the walls. A woman, staring up at her ceiling with unseeing eyes and her face contorted in horror. A boy, his skull caved in and blood matter seeping from his neck, skin burnt and peeling.

And in the middle of it all, Harry stands, pupils blown wide, blood staining his clothes and his hands. He is frozen, staring at the scene before him in slowly mounting horror. 

The frying pan slips from his fingers and crashes to the floor.

Chapter Text

Mundungus Fletcher flicked the tip of his fag and watched as the bits of ash fell to the ground. He was hidden behind a concealment charm outside the Dursley residence- against his will, might he add- having been tasked with standing guard. Though tasked isn't quite the word he would have chosen to use. Forced seemed much more appropriate for his particular situation.

He hardly understood the point of it all, anyway. If the blood wards were up, and You-Know-Who couldn’t get in, then what the hell was he supposed to be looking out for? He supposed this must have been a punishment- for what, he had no clue- making him stand out in this awful heat for hours on end, with absolutely nothing to occupy him. It had to be torture . 

Mundungus began calling Albus nasty words under his breath, cursing him to hell and back for tasking him with a pointless job that got him nothing. He was abruptly cut off by a muffled scream, very clearly coming from the house behind him. He froze and held his breath, now rooted in place by anxiety. 

It wasn’t just one scream, no. There were multiple, overlapping each other, increasing in volume. There were words he couldn’t make out, and awful noises he couldn’t place- didn’t want to place. After only a minute had passed which felt like eternity, he forced himself to turn around- yet he still didn’t move any further, couldn’t bring himself to look inside, too afraid at what he might see and not daring to imagine what it could have been. 

Several minutes passed before Mundungus convinced himself that it truly could not have been so serious as to warrant panic, right? Must have been an argument, he supposed. He knew that couldn’t be the case but- too cowardly to check, and too prideful to apparate and gather assistance for something that may not have been a problem- he still turned around. 

He shakily took another drag of smoke, watching as the gray cloud dissipated before him.

* * *

Harry stood, frozen in shock, standing amidst the horror that he had just inflicted upon his relatives. His chest felt tight- so tight. He was shaking all over, trembling so violently that every bone felt as if they were vibrating out of his skin. He glanced down at his hands- they were covered in blood. 

Harry began to hyperventilate. 

“No no no-” He took some steps back- away from the mess, towards the living room. The longer he stared at the scene before him, the more his panic rose. His foot slipped slightly, and he staggered back even farther, leaving behind red footsteps that sunk into the carpet as he moved. Harry’s eyes were glued to Vernon, to the knife jutting out of his neck, the blood pouring out and creating a larger puddle around him. 

His breaths were coming in short, quick bursts. Every time his lungs filled he felt as if they were going to pop, he felt lightheaded and dizzy. Harry choked on a sob before turning and bolting up the stairs as fast as his legs would allow, stumbling up to his bedroom and pushing the door closed behind him. 

Harry caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and the sight of it was enough to send him crashing to the closet floor, shutting himself in and curling up as small and tight as he could. Loud, anguished sobs were cried into his knees as Harry rocked himself back and forth. He was struggling to breath with the force of his panic yet refused to bring his head up for any air. 

It was dark and cramped and smelled musty, but Harry tried his very hardest to just pretend that he was 10 years old again in his cupboard, when his biggest worry was if he would be let out to use the toilet in time; when his biggest fear was if his uncle found out he had played with Dudley’s toys while they were out. Back when he didn’t have thoughts of Dark Lords and wars clouding his mind before he slept, back when he wasn’t a murderer .

Harry cried for hours.

When the cries had died down and all that could be heard from Harry was light sniffles and hiccups, it was already dark. He had yet to lift his head from his knees, not quite ready to leave the comfort of the closet and face the reality of what had happened. For a while he only tried to convince himself that it hadn’t happened, that he was going to wake up in his bed and shake off the nightmare and carry on making breakfast for them.

When he accepted that it wasn't going to happen is when he began to think.

Harry forced himself to think back on what exactly his plan had been the night before. Voldemort. Blame it on Voldemort. Right.

As he bit his lip in contemplation, a bit of a plan began to form in his mind. Harry stood, grabbing onto the wall for support before his legs gave out. He was sore all over from having sat in that same position for the last several hours. Harry opened up the closet door and sluggishly made his way to the bathroom, stripping off his clothes before hesitating and wrapping them up in an old sheet and throwing the bundle into the back of the closet.

He went back to the bathroom, turned on the shower water- as hot as it could go- and stepped under the spray. He stared at the wall for a moment, wanting nothing more than to just stand there for a long, long time. But he knew he couldn’t, he didn’t know how much time he had. Harry began roughly scrubbing at his skin, using an absurd amount of soap to wash his body and hair. He kept his eyes closed for the majority of it, not wanting to see the red running down his arms and legs, swirling into the drain. He washed himself multiple times so that when he opened his eyes, he would be sure not to see any of it.

Harry turned off the water and stepped out of the tub, shivering at the cool air that touched his skin. He opened up the bathroom cupboard and pulled out a towel, quickly drying himself off and heading back into his room. He methodically put on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, socks and shoes. He pulled on a jacket. 

The A.C. was still running. 

The Dursleys were dead, and the A.C. was still running.

Harry made his way down the stairs, to his cupboard. He made sure not to look towards the kitchen. He opened up the door and pulled out his school trunk, lugging it up the stairs behind him.

If I were allowed to keep my trunk in my bedroom, I would keep it in my closet , Harry thought. And so he dragged it into the closet, shut the door behind him. Pulled out his invisibility cloak and wrapped it around himself. Curled back into a ball in the corner.

Hiding from Voldemort.

Chapter Text

Hi yall, im super super sorry there hasnt been any updates. I know exactly where i want this story to go, and i would love to continue writing it, but at some point between the time i last updated and shortly after, the wiring in my brain updated and i- after many years of loving this ship- no longer feel comfortable thinking about a 14/15 year old being with a 67 year old. Crazy, right? LMAO im sorry, ANYWAYS.

It's normal to like reading about this if your'e closer to the age of the younger person in these ships, but once you get farther away it starts to feel weird. Im almost 18 now and i cannot force myself to write anymore of the story.

That is, unless somebody can give me a way to age Harry up without affecting the plot. It's either that or i continue this fic as a found family featuring Parent!Voldemort (which i wouldnt mind at all, there arent nearly enough fics like that out there, and they happen to be a favorite of mine. Imagine Voldemort raising a teenager, its HILARIOUS.)

Once again, i am so so sorry for the inconvinence. If nothing else works out i truly dont mind giving the fic up for adoption and sharing all the plans i had for it with whoever might want to take it over.