Retribution by Almecestris

Standard Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury, Scholastic, and Raincoast Books, and Warner Brothers Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. I do not own Harry Potter or anything related to Harry Potter.

Author's Notes: This story contains bashing on various characters in the subsequent chapters, these aforementioned characters comprise of primarily Dumbledore, Dursleys, and the Weasleys minus some members of the family, but Ron would be definitely be included. I am still thinking whether Hermione would be included in the list because her character in the book can be manipulated in both for the negative and positive sides, and still retain its cannon-ness.

This chapter contains some religious sensitive issues which I know is contradicted by the concept of magic from the Harry Potter series. I just want to know that if readers were to be affronted by the delicate subjects brought up in this story, no offence from the author is intended. In any case, I think that this will be the only mention of religion against magic.

Warning: This story contains various types of child abuse, from severe neglect to starvation. Those who get easily offended or upset by these kinds of situations should think twice before reading this story or better yet, not read it all. You have been warned.

-S-

Default Chapter: Past Mistakes Redone

-S-

"History does not repeat itself. The historians repeat one another." – Max Beerbohm

-S-

"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it – Lily an' James dead – an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles –"

"Yes, yes it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly in the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blanket, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulder shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.

"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

"Yeah," said Hagrid in a muffled voice, "I'll be taking Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall – Professor Dumbledore, sir."

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself on to the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.

Dumbledore turned and walked down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

"Good luck, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

- Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone by J.K. Rowling (Chapter One – The Boy Who Lived)

-S-

That starry night, on the eve of Halloween, the year 1981, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, esteemed headmaster of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry made a crucial decision in what he thought was for the good of the entire world.

That same starry night, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore condemned the Wizarding world to a fate far worse than he – or any other person, for that matter – would have ever dared to contemplate.

That same starry night, he had wished little Harry James Potter luck, but the Boy-Who-Lived was not the one that needed luck the most.

-S-

Harry James Potter was an intelligent little toddler, there was no denying that.

At the tender age of one year and three months, Harry knew a lot of things. He knew that he no longer stayed in the cheerful, comfortable and large house with many interesting thingamabobs, like his toy broomstick, flying golden ball and moving pictures. He knew that the pretty woman with the red hair, warm smile, and sweet voice that always hugged him was gone, as well as the man with messily rumpled hair and glasses who always picked him up and threw him playfully in the air before catching him was gone. He knew the doggy man with the queer bark-like laugh was gone. He knew that quiet man who had allowed him to clamber on to his lap and read his favorite picture books to him was gone.

Even the fat man was gone, but that was fine with him. He didn't like the rat-man anyways.

In fact, the last thing he remembered before he was taken away from the life he had always known was a high – to the point of almost hissing – and unfamiliar voice followed flash of green light that was horribly cold for some reason. There were also terrified pleas somewhere in the background of his memory, the desperate voice he knew belonged to that pretty woman.

Yes, Harry James Potter knew a lot of things, indeed.

He had vague memories of a large man with a scruffy mop of a beard and a flying motorcycle that roared loudly. Even hazier, was the image of an old man with a flowing white beard and small glasses perched on a long nose. Now, he was with an ugly woman with the shrill voice and cold hands, an extremely fat man with a face that changed colors from red, green to purple whenever he looked at him, and the boy that looked like a pig and did nothing but cry, whine and eat.

Yes, Harry James Potter knew a lot of things, indeed.

He understood why he was shoved in and was locked the cupboard under the stairs the moment he arrived in Number Four, Privet Drive. He understood why the evil woman smacked him when he touched anything. He understood why his cousin, Dudley was always given lots of foods, while he was given water and a quarter of stale toast or sometimes none at all. He understood why they made him spend the whole day doing simple chores outdoors such as watering the flowers or cutting the grass, or taking the creeping weeds from the plants, before being unceremoniously thrown in the cupboard under the stairs at the end of the day. He understood why his cousin pushed, hit and sat on him, while the whale-man and the horse-lady watched on with encouraging little smiles. He even understood why the whale-man and horse-lady give Dudley lots and lots of presents and toys, while he was given a dusty, old sock with balls of used cotton inside.

Yes, Harry James Potter understood a lot of things, indeed.

At the meager age of two, Harry knew why the whale-woman that looked quite similarly like the whale man came over and stayed for a few days. He knew why she always whacked him on the head with her large hand every time he wandered too close to her or whenever she simply felt like it. He knew why the whale-woman's ugly dog always snarled and growled at him, sometimes even biting him if given the chance. He knew why his uncle beat him afterwards whenever he entered the living room whenever there were guests.

Harry knew that even though he was an intelligent little boy, he knew he had a lot of things to wonder and ponder about.

When Harry was three, he began to wonder about the serious aspects of his life with the Dursleys. Though Harry was intelligent, he didn't understand everything. Often, he wondered why nobody ever came to rescue him. He wondered why though the woman living a few houses away with the many cats looked concerned at the visible bruises on his face and arms but did nothing to stop such abuse. He wondered why when the visitors who, every now and then, caught glimpses of a little body, obviously beaten and starved, turned away from the pitiful sight.

Yes, Harry James Potter, even though an intelligent young boy, wondered and pondered about a lot of things, indeed

When Harry was four, he learned how to wash the dishes – though the sink was too high for him and needed to clamber on a high stool to be able to see the faucet. He learned how to shovel snow from the driveway. He learned how to clean the house manually. He learned how to make simple dishes such as eggs – both sunny-side-up and scrambled, toasted bread, bacon and other whatnots. He learned earlier on, though, that he was not allowed to eat such things. He learned his letters. He learned how to read. He learned his numbers. He learned how to add, subtract, multiply and divide. He learned how to go to the grocery to buy some milk for Dudley without the horse-lady. He learned how to be discreet and not to attract attention. He learned when not to speak. He learned all of that on his own.

Yes, Harry James Potter was an intelligent young boy, indeed.

But he was far too young to learn pain. Far too young to learn how to trust only himself and no one else. Far too young to lose hope. Far too young to learn the meaning of cruelty and servitude. Far too young to learn hate. Far too young to learn the desire of exacting revenge. Far too young to learn the unspoken law of the jungle.

The weak shall die and the strong shall survive.

Unfortunately, even though Harry James Potter was far too young to learn even one of those things, he did learn all of them.

But the best – or the worst, depending on who was asked – and the most crucial lesson he learned was how to end such maltreatment on his own person and how to get what he wanted.

He had always known he was unique, different from the rest of his family. Some people may call it arrogance, but he preferred to think of it as self-assuredness.

Ever since he could remember, he had the ability to do things claimed to be impossible by others like making light. Every time he was imprisoned in his tiny room and when the darkness threatened to engulf him, he conjured a small ball of white light. The first time he had done so, he had been only able to maintain its existence for just over ten minutes before exhaustion had claimed his consciousness. Eventually, with much practice, he had been able to sustain it for long periods of time – hours, but probably more if tried – without even feeling tired.

As time went on, Harry learned that he could do much more than create and control the brightness of a light out of thin air. In a bout of temper directed at his cousin for getting him into trouble with his aunt, Harry felt a something sizzle inside him pushing to get out before one of Dursleys' expensive vases exploded, shocking him out of his rage. Fortunately, the Dursleys had just left to attend a neighbor's engagement luncheon. He had been alarmed at the prospect of being punished, but then, to his utter surprise, the broken porcelain rose bowl repaired itself.

That moment changed his life. As far as he knew, neither his family nor other people outside of the Dursley household possessed such gifts. It struck him as an epiphany. For a long time he had been described as freak or worthless or some other degradation. But now – now – he knew the truth.

He was special.

More so than Dudley or any of his cousin's friends. They were… common and ordinary.

Nothing special.

Not like him.

If there were a mirror in the cupboard, he would have seen a rather disturbing expression appear on his face. Normally blank and expressionless, this new mien was one of rapture and excitement before it gave way to a more calculating and guile countenance. But, quickly as it had come, his face returned to his impassive state.

After that was the moment – after that enormous revelation – when Harry James Potter decided to explore and test the limitations of this newly discovered potential. Burning to know just how powerful he could get, he had practiced at every opportunity he was given. Soon, he had been able to quite easily rein and control the power, to bend and manipulate it as he desired without any effort at all.

At his will, he could levitate anything he wished, both living things and inanimate objects, regardless of the volume or size. He had spontaneously learned to transform any type of thing to another no matter the form of matter, the rules of physics in science broken. Following this useful yet fundamental skill, was a more advanced ability – creating something out of nothing… a feat said by the Bible impossible to accomplish except for God.

But for him, this was only the beginning.

He could manage almost anything he attempted in his first try. Almost.

Another helpful product of having such supernatural power was the ability to disappear and appear in another place. Teleportation – that's what they called it in the shows in the telly.

The only drawbacks were, at the beginning, his appearance was accompanied by a loud crack (which earned him a long stay in his cupboard for drawing the attention of the neighbors to their normal and decent household) and Harry was left with very little energy.

So every moment he was certain that he was alone, whether it be at home when the Dursleys are out for dinner, or at the park, he strove to eliminate these negative aspects of teleportation. It was far too useful a skill, and having it as flawless as possible could only help him in the future. Within weeks, the distance between his starting and end location increased. He could teleport from school to Number Four to the supermarket to the library to downtown London without so much as a peep or breaking a sweat.

He was five when the Dursleys found about his secret. It was his Aunt Petunia who first witnessed a rudimentary display of his powers – just a ray of green light that leaked out of the sides of his cupboard door from which he had conjured to amuse himself with on a particularly boring evening. She had her husband beat him with a leather belt.

Needless to say, Vernon rose up to the task with great enthusiasm. He yelled obscenities about his freakishness, ranting on and on. Harry could have escaped – could have teleported somewhere, but his uncle's first, unexpected blow was to his head and it had left him rather disorientated. So, his body curled reflexively itself to protect the vital organs.

It was the worst – and last – thrashing he had and would ever receive from his uncle. And Harry was proud to say that throughout the unpleasant occurrence, he had not made a single sound. Harry had refused to give his family the satisfaction of hearing him scream. Doing so would be a sign of weakness, an advantage they would have exploited to its fullest.

Instead, he counted the number of times the strikes rained on his welted back and sides, adding it to the total number of blows he'd received and tallied from the man before. His determination strengthened as he silently promised himself as the unyielding leather snapped again and again that he would exact his revenge for every abuse this man and his family put him through. With interest. And no mercy whatsoever.

This trouncing did not hinder his resolve to exercise his powers as the Dursleys had hoped. In fact, it had the opposite effect.

If curiosity had fueled his drive to increase his power, the need to do so accelerated the process immeasurably.

Harry would say years later on, that it had been the best thing that had ever happened to him. He dragged himself on his little cot, staring at the long, garish cut on his arm made from the belt's buckle. Although he wasn't sure if it would work, he willed his wound to heal. And before his very eyes, the blood stopped running and the skin knitted itself. It took merely a few seconds for the cut to completely disappear with no trace of scarring with only rivulets of his own blood that ran down and dripped from his fingertips to the wooden floor. More confident, he focused on mending his other injuries. Harry repaired the fracture on his skull and leg, his dislocated shoulder, his bruised ribs and other numerous cuts.

Needless to say, the Dursleys' reactions when he walked out of his cupboard the next morning with pristine skin and no obvious sign of harm was beyond entertaining.

Yes, Harry James Potter was an intelligent and powerful young boy, indeed.

Far too intelligent – far too powerful – for his own good. As well as for the good of the entire of the human race – both Muggle and magical.

-S-

Harry had a lot of questions when he was younger. For most of them, he needed books to find the answer. But for some, he needed to work it out on his own. To use reasonable logic and analysis.

But today was his seventh birthday, and with him being locked in his cupboard, he was given plenty of time to think about his life. Currently, he had finally managed to come up with a sensible answer to a question that had been plaguing him ever since he could remember.

Why?

Why do his family and other treat him so?

Why did no one come and rescue?

Why?

There was a simple and concise answer to this question: Because they can. Because they don't care.

But soon, I will be stronger. And they will pay.

-S-S-S-

To be continued…

Author's Notes:

1. Merry Christmas and happy holidays, everyone! Just thought I'd get this out before the day ends as a little present from me to the readers of Control Alternate Delete.

2. I suppose I should warn you guys that this will feature a Dark!Harry. So for those who don't like it, I am not forcing you to read. Don't worry too much though; this isn't one of those stories with Harry killing and raping Muggleborns in every chapter.

Reposted: March 21, 2010