1989 - The Beginning
The bleach burned his hand’s as he scrubbed the tile floors of the bathroom.
Pain, why? Why? Harry scrubbed harshly at his own melting skin, trying to clean his own pain off, or at least, that’s what it felt like. He hated it. He hated the bleach, he hated his hands, he hated his Aunt more than he ever thought he could in a single moment, but most of all, he twistedly hated himself.
Logically, he knew there was no reason to hate himself. He did not want to be a slave to this stupid family, he did not do anything to deserve their foul treatment of him. Yet here he was, feeling a restricting sensation in his chest.
He hated himself for being dirty, for being inherently worthless, for being a freak.
Distantly, he registered the front door slamming. Not Vernon, it couldn’t be, considering how his Uncle Vernon’s loud thumps were absent. It couldn’t be helped. No matter the company, he still needed to get the floor clean, and so Harry continued the wretched task.
Suddenly- BANG! - The bathroom door was slammed open behind him. Getting up, he lifted his face to witness Aunt Petunia’s pursing lips and the wicked gleam in her eyes.
“Are you quite finished yet? A guest is here, and you best behave yourself, you little demon.” Her nasally voice made Harry wrinkle his nose on instinct, but thankfully, it seemed as though she hadn’t noticed.
“I’m almost done, Aunt Petunia.” “Good. And when you are finally done, get to your cupboard as quick as you can!” Satisfied with her instructions, she slammed the door once again.
Harry knew that he should continue the scrubbing- in another life, he certainly would- but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. How could he bring himself to continue when his thoughts were horrifyingly sadistic, and oh so freakish?
He could poison them. There was arsenic underneath the kitchen sink. He had bleach in his hands. Could he hide the bodies in time?
No. Of course not. That would be wrong, murder is wrong. Everyone knew it. He got down on his knees and started to scrub.
The traitorous, tempting thoughts did not stop, even as Harry’s blood started seeping from the mangled mess his hands were slowly becoming. He noticed, apathetically, that the blood was starting to mix with the soapy solution that was once his right hand’s skin, creating a thin layer of red gelatin.
Ew.
In a way, he pondered, his pain was a nice distraction from his addled thoughts - they must be influenced by the fumes, Harry might be a freak, but he wasn’t a monster - and helped him to get through it.
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Some time later, Harry stared at his right hand, mangled after an entire day of exposure to the harsh chemical he used to clean the entire house, after Petunia decided to replace all the flooring with tile. Maybe it would have been better, had Petunia let him wash it. (She didn’t even glance at it.)
Harry smiled a bitter, tired and angry smile. Screw it as simple pain or it as a mark of abuse, he was going to make this nasty scarring his. Baring his teeth and clenching them, Harry took a dull knife he had found in a dump and then sanitized(with bleach, how ironic) and started to lightly scrape the red gelatin clinging to what remained of his right hand’s skin.
In the most morbid of ways, it was wonderful. The pain was burning and cutting in the most terrible way, but the feeling of control Harry got by reclaiming this was heavenly.
He could see muscle in a couple of places. He flexed his hand-pain, as expected, but all his fingers worked.
Probably due to him being a freak.
At least I can still write, Harry thought, if the damage was that bad, there would be no way that Aunt Petunia wouldn’t notice.
Once upon a time, Harry once thought that if he told an adult, they might help. His primary school teacher promised, after seeing the belt marks, that they would help him.
Turns out that he had owed his Uncle Vernon gambling money, and had promptly swept it under the rug. Never again would Harry let himself trust an adult who had nothing apparent to gain from it.
As Harry continued to admire his new and most unhidable scar, he heard the unmistakable sound of Vernon pulling up into the driveway, and then slamming the door open and closed.
“I’m home, my pet!” “Oh Vernon, just in time!” It wasn't’, he was an hour late. “Sorry I’m late pet, boss wanted to talk to me. Says I’m in line for a promotion!” Harry heard his Aunt gasp. “Oh Vernon, that’s wonderful! Let’s talk over dinner, I made one of your favorites!”
Face twisting in rage, Harry felt furious. His Aunt hadn’t even stepped into the kitchen beside watching him clean the floors, Harry had been the one to prepare the ingredients, make the food and wash the dishes.
As his brain caught up with his emotions, Harry’s face smoothed out. Why was he angry now? This was not a new occurrence; it was expected, it was just what happened. Why?
“...Mrs. Figg will take him, of course. That little freak won’t ruin Dudder’s friend’s special day.” Vernon grunted- Harry could hear his fork scraping at the plate- and replied, “Don’t talk about ‘im. Worthless little brat he is shouldn’t be mentioned at the dinner table.” “You’re right, my love. I’m so glad you’re in line for a promotion; my big man’s been working hard and deserves it.”
At this, Harry decided it best for his sanity to tune it out. Mind whispering how something must be wrong with him, since they love each other and Dudley just fine, Harry looked up at the dusty ceiling of his cupboard, and prayed to whatever deity- or at least, that was what he was going to do.
He stayed right where he was, half-kneeling and half curled-up, trying to think of something he could pray for that could be granted.
He stayed there until he fell asleep, dreaming of blank faces and eyes with no eyelids refusing to look at him.
When Harry woke, the first thing he saw was his hand. Recoiling in disgust and horror, Harry felt a myriad of emotions - none of them pleasant. What was I thinking? Why did I do that? Self hatred rolled nauseatingly in his stomach right alongside the disgust at his hand.
I deserve this. This is proof I’m disgusting. It makes sense I’d want to mark myself like this, I’m disgusting.
Yet…
Harry’s face started to smooth out. Maybe this could be handy. He was a freak, but he wasn’t scary. This could change that.
If he terrified everyone, who could terrify him? Everyone would avoid him. Obviously, there was no way he could ever be loveable, (not when he was a disgusting little freak) but if he was feared, he might be able to be happy. Sure, it wasn’t ideal, but it was the best Harry felt he could hope for.
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POV CHANGE
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Watching his mother scream at the twins from his little corner, Ron felt conflicted. On one hand, Fred and George were rather nasty to him, and his mother usually just scolded the two of them, achieving nothing. On the other hand…
“HOW DARE YOU BOTH RUIN GINNY’S DRESS! I-”
“Mum, we swear we didn’t!”
“There’s no way we could get away with that…”
“I WILL NOT TOLERATE YOUR FLAILING EXCUSES!”
Once upon a time, Ron would have admitted to shredding his sister’s dress in a fit of jealousy, but Ron had too much cold fury aimed at his family.
Bill was the firstborn curse-breaker, Charlie was the carefree and fun dragon tamer, Percy was the studious one, Fred and George were magical twins and Ginny was the only daughter weasley of their generation.
All of them had new things, all of them had people every family reunion talking to them and paying attention to them.
Who was the one who had to give up his room for his older siblings? Who was the one who had to cook food for his brother who couldn’t even be bothered to come down for mealtimes instead of studying non-stop and acting pretentious? Who had to clean up Fred and George’s fucking messes? Who had to babysit Ginny and be a yes-man in case she tattles to her mother?
Ron once heard that older siblings tend to be the ones who are parentified, but he knew that it wasn’t a solid rule.
He felt bad for hating them all, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to forgive his siblings for getting all he was never given, nor his parents who didn’t use their goddamn brains when it came to shoving any excess chores onto the easily forgotten and forgettable sixth son.
Ruining Ginny’s new dress had given him a mental reprieve. It had been expensive (read; new) and shiny and something that Ginny absolutely did not deserve. For fucks sake, she had dresses in her closet that she hadn’t even worn before!
And it wasn’t as if the twins were entirely innocent; they had forgotten a few too many chores, had ruined too many things to make Ron feel too bad for their current plight.
Still. Ron wished he wasn’t trapped in his little nook underneath and between the kitchen cupboards and the long countertop listening to her almost breathless accusations. “I AM DISGUSTED BY YOUR BEHAVIOR, I DON’T HAVE A CLUE WHERE YOUR FATHER AND I WENT WRONG IN RAISING YOU, YOUR ATROCIOUS MANNERS ARE A SHAME UPON THIS FAMILY!!!” Ron closed his eyes.
“YOU BOTH APOLOGIZE TO GINNY RIGHT NOW, OR I SWEAR ON MERLIN AND MORGANA THAT YOU BOTH WILL REGRET IT! I AM YOUR MOTHER, AND YOU WILL RESPECT THAT, MY AUTHORITY IN THIS HOUSEHOLD - I LET YOU TWO GET AWAY WITH SO MUCH, AND THIS IS THE THANKS I GET!? FOR SACRIFICING SO MUCH FOR THIS FAMILY, FOR KEEPING EVERYTHING IN WORKING ORDER, FOR-”
Ron decided to remember the chess match he had with Neville, who was not good at chess, but not bad at it. White; Pawn E2 - E4.
“- I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH THE TWO OF YOU ANYMORE, DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD WE’RE HAVING IT RIGHT NOW!? OF ALL THE TIMES TO BE DESTRUCTIVE AND OF ALL THE THINGS TO DESTR-”
Black; Pawn C7 - C5. That wasn’t a smart mo-
“-UR ROOMS, BOTH OF YOU, RIGHT NOW!”
White; Knig- It was pointless to pretend that the sinking feeling in Ron’s heart was guilt due to the twins taking the blame. Even if it made Ron a bad person, he knew that what he felt was not guilt, but dread as his mother’s footsteps grew closer. Would she see him? She hadn’t found his little nook yet, and Ron hoped it would stay that way.
After a moment, she stopped.
She walked away, and as both her footsteps and his fear faded, Ron slowly crawled from between and underneath the kitchen cupboards and the long countertop, quiet as a mouse.
Gingerly climbing upstairs, he stopped right before George and Fred’s room, and carefully listened in.
“...probably right Fred, you’re probably right. Itty-Bitty-Ginny was complaining about how itchy and ugly it was-”
“She was right to, of course-”
“Yeah, but there’s no way she’s going to admit destroying her own dress, Forge, I-”
Ron stopped listening in. He didn’t know how to feel. Relieved that they didn’t blame him? Guilt for getting them in trouble with his mother, guild for getting Ginny in trouble with the twins? (He shivered at that.) He didn’t know what to feel, but he knew that the only guilt he felt was guilt for not feeling guilty - and even that was miniscule. He was mostly relieved.
He walked down the hallway and peeked into his room - Ginny wasn’t there, to Ron’s relief. He needed privacy for his confused glee that was starting to creep up on him like a boa constrictor.
As he sat on the faded orange covers on his bed, Ron felt water dripping down his face, and with no small amount of confusion realized that he was crying. Ron had no idea why he was crying. Not because of guilt, not because of relief - he had no idea what was wrong with him. A weird little smile crept up Ron’s face as he cried silently; it was bitter, and very confused, but the smile felt nice and Ron liked it.
It was his, and that made it wonderful by principal.
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POV CHANGE
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When Hermione was eight years old, she became fascinated and infatuated by misery, fear and pain.
Her parents didn’t notice, of course. They thought she was fascinated by dentistry and wanted to comfort the kids her age who were scared of dentists, when in truth she only cared about their expressions of fear and their blubbering sobs.
She wasn’t a bad person, and certainly didn’t cause any of it directly; it was just so interesting! An example was phobias. Some fears were irrational, like of dentists, and thus were useless or actively set back people, which fascinated Hermione, who desperately wanted to learn the mysterious patterns of common irrational phobias.
Some were semi-rational or developed. Heights, for example. That made sense. Nobody wants to fall, or worse, fall hard. Same with a fear of deep water; a fear of creatures lurking and the danger of drowning made sense to have. A girl named Penelope in Hermione’s class had a dog named Lucy. Penelope loved Lucy and all dogs, until a month ago when Penelope was attacked by one. Lucy was given up for adoption because Penelope kept crying whenever she saw Lucy, which - it was just fascinating. There was no other word Hermione could use to accurately describe it.
Then there were the rational fears. Of death, torture. Hermione found that it didn’t matter as much (“Oh, it’s such a sad thing, isn’t it Roland?”) if it were strangers. It mattered if you knew them (“Marie, Jack died today - heart attack. I didn’t know him well, but still - we went to primary and secondary school together, my Marie…”) but it was painful if it was someone you loved (Hermione remembered her mother as inconsolable after the Granger’s received the news of Granny Lucinda’s sudden death in a car crash). It was scary and grim if it was the idea of your own, but not as terrible - it was the most curious thing, Hermione thought.
England was going through a sweltering summer, when Hermione was dropped off at a week-long overnight summer camp. Her parents were very obviously worried, you see, about their daughter’s non-existent social life, and were hoping that being in a forced proximity with children her age in a non-academic setting would help. Hermione knew perfectly well that her lack of friends was something of concern for her parents. Unfortunately, she had stopped caring about their concerns.
She never felt very connected to them anyway.
The camp was, unexpectedly, interesting. On the first day, one of the girls Hermione was rooming with sobbed with such intensity that she started choking- could you imagine missing your parents that much? It was foreign, alien…strange. It was strange to imagine being so attached to your parents that you almost died due to your misery and fear at being separated.
Later, Hermione watched that same girl sob, staring with a blank face that barely contained Hermione’s unending curiosity.
When the girl noticed this, she started to sob harder.
This, Hermione would later think, was the beginning.
When she realized that the girl was now sobbing because of her, Hermione started to experiment; what would happen, she wondered, if I showed my academic thrill?
The answer, as Hermione immediately found out, was that the girl started wailing and screeching even louder than before, causing multiple of the camp counselors to burst in the dorm; thankfully, none of them even glanced in Hermione’s direction.
Later that same night, Hermione replayed the girl’s screeches of terror in her mind. No longer could Hermione say that she didn’t cause misery, a sobering thought to have when one is eight years old.
Scientific hypotheses are nothing without evidence.
Hermione felt more than justified.
She was going to figure out fear, master misery and know the ins and outs of fear, and in order to do that, she knew that sacrifices must be made.
And it wasn’t as if she was going to destroy someone; no. She would experiment humanely.
This project was her’s, and Hermione Granger was determined to see it through to the very end - and if she enjoyed it a little more than expected, well.
That, she thought, would be a bonus.