Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Authors note:
Hi all,
It’ E, the author of the fiction you probably think dropped of the planet a while back :) I started this thing in COVID and made a solid attempt to continue it but it didn’t quite work. I’m sure some of y’all can relate to the utter insanity and craziness that life often is and I simply haven’t had time to continue this fic. However, never fear, this is not the end! I am removing the rest of this story and starting over, but hopefully better and with a touch less word vomiting. I hate to remove y’all’s lovely comments (which I appreciate so so much and would love to receive more of when I start this fic back up) but it’s definitely for the best.

I’m not sure when this magical rewriting will take place but I’ll make time cause this is super important to me. It’s almost an entire year later now and I think, once I fully plot it out, y’all are gonna enjoy what’s to come. This is a brief farewell for a now and a see you very soon with better ideas, less sleep-deprived writing, and fewer cliches.

Love you all,
E

Chapter Text

Harry Potter was done.

Completely and utterly done. His life, from the day Dumbledore abandoned an infant on one of the coldest nights of the year, had been nothing short of misery. Sure, there had been a few happy moments. But not for a long, long time. He had long ago given up hope of happiness or love, focusing his efforts on surviving the hellhole of his childhood. And Harry, the ‘Savior of the Wizarding world,’ the ‘Golden Boy of Gryffindor,’ and the ‘Boy Who Lived,’ didn’t want to live anymore. He was tired of living, of the disappointment, of the grief, of the sorrow, of pretending that he was still light, of the pain that haunted him every damn moment of his existence.
Since Sirius had died in the Battle of The Department of Mysteries, his last hopes of escaping the Dursley’s dwindled down to nothing. When Sirius died, Harry felt the last shattered bit of his childhood become swept away, just as how Sirius fell into the veil. No one quite understood his unbreakable relationship with the falsely convicted man, but Sirius had become his everything. He never knew his parents or any other of his relatives, aside the Dursley’s, but Sirius made all of the pain go away. Sirius was the father he never had, the arms that he cried in for the first time, and the only one who genuinely cared for his well-being.
In fact, he would never forget the fierce concern and worry that flamed in the man’s dark eyes, completely extinguishing the ever-present mischievous sparkle when he looked into his shard of mirror for their near-nightly check in’s. That night in particular, Harry had forgotten to throw up his glamours, and every scar, bruise, and scratch was visible on his face. They both knew, even without saying anything, that it all came from his relatives. And they also both knew that what was on his face was nothing compared to the mass of scars, burns, oozing scrapes, and mottled bruises on the entire rest of his body. Sirius had been absolutely furious, and it took every persuasive bone in his body to convince the man to stay in whatever safe place he had been living in.
Even when he was in hiding, they sent each other regular owls every few days and fire-called on the rare occasions when they could. It wasn’t ideal, but now, Harry would give up nearly anything to receive the hastily scrawled letters on bits of used parchment and muggle stationary, to see him again, and feel the strong arms hold him like there was no tomorrow.
He missed everything about Sirius. It hurt to think about it, think about him, but they all said that he would forget. He would never forget. Not until his last dying breath. How was it fair that Sirius was the one who died? The man that meant most to him had been taken, like everything else in his miserable existence.
They were going to live together, and he was going to teach Harry how to become the perfect Lord Black when the time came. But the time was never supposed to come so soon. No one but the elves knew it, but he was Heir Black, along with Heir Potter. Seeing as the man had never had children, he had passed his lordship to Harry in private, something Dumbledore never had the chance to meddle in. Which was rare for the manipulative old coot. He honestly couldn’t believe that he once had looked up to the man like the grandfather he never got to know, and trusted him absolutely. Now, he wanted to kill him with a passion.
Harry forced the mass of emotion back down his chest, watching through hooded eyes as his few belongings shook on the dusty dresser. His throat was thick with a mix of anger, sorrow, and pain, three emotions that nearly always ended in a disaster. It was never a good thing when his magic flared, as it most often resulted in a lengthy beating from the amount of noise it made. As it was, here he was, a year old boy back in the cupboard.
The second bedroom had lasted a bit, but the cupboard was still the go-to place after he had been beaten. He couldn’t quite remember the last time he had been given food. When he was littler, it was easier to sneak little bits of food; the crusts of bread and leftover vegetable scraps in the trash bin.
Now, it was the summer before his sixth year, and the beatings had only gotten worse. Also, because they knew he wasn’t going back to school for a while, Vernon decided not to hold back. Back when he was about five years old making dinner it had just been a harsh slap to the face when he had burnt the bacon. That was the last time he cried.
He dragged himself into a sitting position, every joint and place in his body screaming for him to stop. His vision swam and threatened to give out entirely as the teenager swung his legs over the cramped bed. ‘Bloody fucking hell,’ he swore quietly, biting down on his fist to stifle the scream that threatened to burst from his lips. It had worked until he was about eight years old before he outgrew it, now being forced to curl up in a ball on the threadbare, blood-stained sheets to even fit. He glanced carelessly at the mirror shard that he still kept on his bedside table, not surprised to see how terrible he looked.
His normally vibrant avada-kedavra-green eyes were dull and cloudy, from pain or exhaustion or something entirely different unbeknownst, and so completely void of anything at all. Dead, desolate, and hopeless, they would be enough to give even the most apathetic people chills. If only for the reason that no child should have had to deal with everything he had. Even with his glamours on, he still struggled to make his eyes hold anything but the spiraling darkness that he knew so intimately.
Dark bruises had long ago formed under the eyes, swollen and sensitive to the touch. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, a slight contrast from the rest of his pale face. His normally darkly tanned skin was clammy and pale, his entire body gaunt to the point of unhealthiness. He trailed his bony fingers over the high, bony cheekbones and fat lip.
Harry turned away before he could see what the rest of his mutilated body looked like, fully aware at the state of it. He honestly couldn’t remember a time when his body wasn’t screaming in pain or something wasn’t broken or bloody.
He allowed his fingers to ghost over the infected welts from his most recent whipping, ignoring the stinging pain, simply because his aunt had found him in the bathroom right before she went to sleep. How they expected a teenager to be able to not relieve himself at least twice a day he didn’t know, but the punishment had seemed particularly harsh. It had been on his stomach this time, the long pus and blood oozing marks criss crossing his upper chest and stomach.
The only thing that was certain in his life was that he had to escape before the summer was over. He would be dead or close to it, and based on his uncle’s most recent bout of violence, it was going to come a lot sooner than he anticipated. But would it really be so bad to just pass on? To see every damn person who had been killed for him? Because of him, rather.
Regardless of his life-ending and self-loathing thoughts, he had enough sense to try and get out of the hell-hole he was in. Anything, even being tortured in the basements of The Dark Lord’s dungeons, would be better. A faintly bitter smile ghosted across his lips, disturbing on it’s own, but even more so at the prospect of Voldemort finally killing him.
Harry struggled to his feet, once again tastefully ignoring the spots and missing pieces of his vision. Was his plan good? Of course not. Was it solid and actually thought through? No. Would it probably end up getting him killed? Perhaps, but he had never feared death. Not when he had found out that Voldemort had attempted to kill him, not during all of his near-death experiences, not the prospect of leaving everything behind. He imagined death so much it was more like a memory, like a close friend that he had seen many times, but never greeted.
Harry Potter had absolutely nothing to lose, but everything to gain. People like him were the most dangerous. They were wild, with no control, no morals, no barricades and cages. He had nothing holding him back, leaving never ending room for his endless ambition and revenge.
Dumbledore had taken everything from him. His ‘friends’ had been paid to befriend him, reporting back to Dumbledore in exchange for his own money, leaving him utterly and completely alone. His family, Sirius, his childhood, his innocence, and any prospect of ever being loved and cared for. Voldemort’s actions paled in comparison to the old coot’s meddling, not that he would ever say it to his pale face. Bellatrix might have expelled the curse that killed Sirius, but it was Dumbledore who had stood invisibly to the side, and it was him who cast imperio on the Lord, directing him into the path of her curse. It was Dumbledore who truly killed his parents. Again, it was the dark side who cast the curse, but it was Dumbledore who knew the spell wasn’t strong enough, who watched invisibly as Peter reported to the Dark Lord, who waited until the last of Lily’s screams died out to prod at the green-eyed child, chuckling to himself.
The trembling teen once again focused his wandering thoughts again at the matter on hand. Tonight he was going to escape. There was no possible way to escape by the cupboard, so he would have to silently find the key to where all of his stuff was locked up, unlock it, and make it out of the house without his relatives being none the wiser. It was, as the muggles called it, almost a suicide mission.
He had been preparing for the night for quite some time. While he didn’t have a wand to channel his magic through, he found that with enough practice, he would cast nearly any spell both wandlessly and non- verbally. By enough practice, he meant years upon years. He could unlock a door with ease, if nothing else, which would prove to be highly useful in his escape. Harry glanced bitterly around his cupboard, loathing and grateful for the space at the same time. It had housed such incredible pain but also kept him safe from the cruel hands of his relatives.
He limped over to the handle of his door, placing a few long fingers on where he knew the lock was, carefully visualizing it inside his head. He guided his magic through the mechanisms, internally rejoicing at the familiar click as the lock fell open. His dead gaze dragged heavily across the room, seeing nothing of use but the sheet on his bed and the one other pair of baggy trousers and t-shirt he owned. With smoothly practiced movements, he ripped up strips of the sheet, wrapping them tightly around the worst of his wounds, stuffing the rest in the waistband of his boxers.
Merlin, it hurt. He choked down the scream that rose in his throat at the feeling of the threadbare fabric rubbing against the sensitive surface of his wounds, instead gritting his teeth. He always marveled at how he hadn’t cracked a tooth yet, considering all of the pain he had internalized over the years.
He gingerly pressed the door open, frail frame slipping far too easily through the tiny gap. His elbow banged on the massively wicked lamp his Aunt Marge had recently gifted the Dursley’s, the gargoyle’s pinched features seeming to almost mock him. Harry froze, filthy curses that would offend Merlin himself spilling silently from his lips.
He slipped soundlessly down the hardwood always, delicately avoiding the places he knew squeaked. He couldn’t afford another mishap. After a few more minutes of concentration and his magic completely drained, Harry popped his head into the newly unlocked attic, clouded eyes wildly darting around. Where the hell was his stuff? He had only managed to stuff the two incredibly rare books he owned, written in parseltongue, into the waistband of his boxers before he felt two meaty hands wrap around his ankles, violently jerking him out of the attic.
“Boy!” the all too familiar voice barked, leering at him as Harry slowly turned his head. The man looked livid, obese face growing so red, it began to turn purple hues.
“Sneaking out, are we? Ungrateful little freak, I’ll make you disgusting creature wish you were never born!”
The massive man’s mustache fluttered dangerously as Harry neglected to say anything at all.
“Look at me when I speak, freak!” his uncle screamed, foul breath and spittle spraying unpleasantly into his face, enough to make him want to hurl. Perhaps it was because of the way his uncle was holding him or the fact that he actually couldn’t breathe, but as he stared into the cruel eyes of his last living family, something snapped.
Harry swung his entire bony frame at the man, aiming for the large man’s bits. Vernon realized what Harry was doing a few seconds too late, automatically dropping his nephew as a murderous scream erupted from his sausage-like lips. Had it been almost anyone else the teen would have almost felt bad, but in the few seconds he gained, he tore into the kitchen and grabbed the large butcher knife from its position in the knife holder, a random stack of cash from their eating-out stache, and Aunt Petunia’s beloved oven mit. The stache was one that he definitely wasn’t supposed to know about, but he was endlessly grateful for it nonetheless.
The smooth black handle and massive but extremely thin gleaming silver blade made for a decently heavy weight that almost felt comforting as he hastily unlatched and threw open the heavy front door, hands shaking so badly he almost dropped his precious goods. At the sound of his waddling and furiously bellowing uncle, he broke into a run like his life depended on it. Which it did.
After a few minutes of only the sound of his trainers pounding the concrete and his labored breathing, Harry was forced to stop from the pain alone.
It was then he realized just what he was getting himself into. He was and completely alone, with nothing with him but the ill fitting clothes on his battered frame, an extra change of clothes crammed into the abnormally large pockets, a few ripped bandages he had brought with him, two books in parseltongue, a meat cleaver, an oven mit, and a wad of some random bills. He carefully flicked through the paper currency, totaling as two hundred and fifty pounds exactly. It was next to nothing in the grand scheme of everything, but it was more than enough for him to get to Diagon Alley in muggle London and extract money from his vaults, perhaps even enough to rent a muggle hotel room should the need arise. There were still so many problems, however.
Voldemort still wanted him dead, and he had no wand, no cloak, and no potions making supplies, and that wasn’t even to mention his lack of food and water. He was also in excruciating pain and barely able to walk on his own, much less in the position to defend his life. In short, one Harry James Potter was completely fucked, even if he did manage to make it to Diagon Alley in one piece.
The small burst of adrenaline that aided his risqué escape had long ago seeped out of him, leaving only the broken, hopeless, suicidal shell of a boy behind. Not a boy, a man who had been forced to grow up far too quickly.
Harry chose to focus on the issue of attracting the Knight Bus, only accessible by holding one's wand out on the side of the road. Or so he assumed anyways, from the last time he had hailed the haphazard bus. A wand that he did not currently have, and would never have again, no doubt. It hurt more than he was willing to admit. His beloved wand had been with him through absolutely everything, and now that too, was gone. It seemed to be a recurring theme, really.
Harry slid the meat cleaver inside the oven mit and tucked it inside his shirt, pulling the baggy rag over to conceal the weapon. It wouldn’t do to raise even more suspicion than he was sure already was raised from the supposed blood wards falling. Though he had always had his doubts about the wards. His so called ‘family’ held no lost love for their freak and disgrace of a nephew, which wouldn’t make any logical sense for blood wards based on familiar love to even work.
In one last desperate plea to lady magic, he flared his magic as strong as he possibly could with what little was left after his wandless and nonverbal magic, which certainly wasn’t much. Nonverbal, and wandless magic always took much more of his magic, which is why it was never practical to do so unless in an emergency. He raised his hand to his forehead, carefully rearranging the dark mass that made up his hair over his scar, long enough at the current point to brush his collar bone, falling in strangely soft waves.
By some godly miracle, he heard the familiar sound of the Knight bus jerking to a harsh halt, shaking as the bus driver centered it.
"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be your conductor this evening.”
The man looked around for the baggage he was expecting, looking curiously at the mess of a boy in front of him.
“Alright there? No offense, but you look awful, mate. Looks like you got in a bit of a tiff.”
Harry forced a tired smile onto his pale lips and nodded, laughing quietly. “Sure did. I’m a bit tired, but I promise you it’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before.” He had attempted to soothe Stan’s suspicions, but from the squint, he guessed it did the opposite.
“No matter! Let’s get you on board. That will be eleven sickles. Where are you heading tonight? Oh, and I don’t think I caught your name,” Stan said with a cheeky grin, leading him onto the far right section of the bus to a rickety bed.
A name? Harry certainly couldn’t use his own, or the one he’d used in the past. “Er, the names Marvolo, but I prefer Mar. Sounds a bit less stuffy, you know? I’m not sure what my parents were thinking on that one.” Harry managed to bark out some form of laughter that must have been convincing, as Stan joined in. “I’ll be heading to Diagon Alley, thanks. You take muggle currency? I was just heading to Gringotts to pick up some more money, all I have on me is some pounds.” Harry felt the strange man scrutinize him, apparently deciding that the poor kid needed all the help he could get.
“Alright, this once,” Stan mumbled gruffly, holding out his hand. “That’ll be thirty pounds.”
Harry, far too tired to even care if the money exchange was correct or not, counted and stuffed the bills into the older man’s hand, sitting heavily on his bed after Stan left. Every damn thing in his entire body threatened to break down, once and for all. And he wouldn’t even blame it. All Harry really wanted to do was just cry and go to sleep, if he was being completely honest, but those were two luxuries that he could never afford. He just had to make it to the alley, and then work from there. He had no other choice than to keep going, as always. And he was so incredibly tired of it.