Author's Note: This is my own story, therefore if you're here for canon stories from your favorite franchises, please leave before you're disappointed. Each world will be different, either subtly, or completely. There will be darker themes, though the majority of my fan-fiction will be more light-hearted and fun. The MC isn't a hero. He's a boy/teen/man who does what he wants, when he wants. He will not be deranged, but he won't be a saint either. He's more grey leaning to dark.
----
A small body was huddled on the floor, quiet sobs wracking its frame. Each painful breath was a reminder of the unending anguish. If anyone were to peer into the 'room,' they would be appalled at the sight. A boy, no older than six years old, was covered in a patchwork of old and new scars. Fresh blood oozed from recent cuts and bruises, a testament to the night's cruelty.
'Why me?' the boy thought, a silent plea of anguish. His life had been a personal hell on earth since he was placed in this house—a prison that wouldn't even let him die. Harry James Potter felt the world was profoundly unfair. He had memories of a happy life, one not filled with beatings so torturous he wished he wouldn't wake up the next morning. A mother who doted on him, a father who made crude jokes, a younger brother who giggled constantly.
Then, one day, he was abandoned. Thrown aside, forgotten, and erased from his own family. He remembered the day with perfect clarity, as if it had just happened yesterday, even though four years had passed.
- Flashback -
The soft click of a bedroom door roused Harry from his slumber. His younger brother, Charles, was nestled beside him, his gentle snores filling the room. Blinking his eyes open, Harry smiled as a man stepped into the room. He assumed it was his mother and father returning from their "night out," one they hadn't had since the family had gone into hiding.
His smile vanished as he saw his uncle 'Peter' walk in, followed by a figure shrouded in a dark black cloak.
"Which is the child?" the cloaked man asked quietly, his raspy voice sending a shiver down Harry's spine.
"M-my Lord. The one that is awake is the one you're looking for," Peter stuttered, his head bowed in subservience.
The cloaked figure glided into the room, raising a wand and pointing it toward Harry.
"A mere child, destined to be my undoing? Dumbledore truly has lost his mind. Nevertheless, a child of prophecy must be erased before they become a thorn in my side. Unfortunately, the spare must die as well."
Though confused by the man's words, Harry quickly realized the "spare" was his brother. He instinctively shifted his body forward, shielding his brother's small form as the man, who had forced his family into hiding, raised his wand.
A green light began to build at the tip.
"Avada Kedavra!"
A scream.
An explosion.
Pain.
So much pain.
Darkness.
Seconds, minutes, or even hours passed before Harry began to stir. Pain radiated through his body as he slowly regained consciousness, the hushed whispers of voices surrounding him.
"Albus, you can't be serious, can you? He's a child!" The soft sobs of a woman, his mother, Lily Potter, sounded close by.
"Alas, my dear, whatever vile magic Voldemort cast has done the damage. Young Harry's magical core has completely vanished, the diagnostics confirm it. He's now less than a squib. Fortunately, Charles is fine, and the scar on his cheek indicates we were incorrect about the prophecy." The voice belonged to an old man, Albus Dumbledore, a leader and teacher to his parents. Harry had always found the man's obsession with his family unsettling.
"A squib? Potters are no squibs!" The usually jovial voice of his father now sounded like an executioner on a mission.
The room fell silent as Harry peered at the three adults surrounding the bed. The room was in a state of chaos, a large section of the wall blasted away—the source of the explosion he'd heard.
"W-what do we do now? Charles is the Chosen One, while Harry is a squib," Lily said quietly, her voice trembling.
"We must remove Harry from the magical world. He's young enough that he won't remember this soon. I believe your sister is a muggle, correct? I'm sure young Harry will find happiness in the muggle world."
"And what of Charles?"
"You shall take him to Hogwarts for a check-up. Madam Pomfrey will ensure he's healthy before we relocate the rest of the family. I will take Harry to Petunia and inform her of the current situation."
Silence permeated the room once more before James spoke.
"Fine. Get rid of the squib. We'll meet you at Hogwarts."
- Present -
From that moment onward, Harry James Potter's life plummeted into the abyss of hell. Despite Dumbledore's kind words, Petunia seethed at being handed a "reject" of the magical world. Her monstrous husband, Vernon Dursley, found a sick pleasure in taking out his anger on Harry, beating him relentlessly as a way to alleviate his stress.
Harry Potter became less than an insect in their eyes. He slaved away daily for meager rations, barely enough to feed a bird. Cooking, cleaning, weeding, polishing—any manual labor became his responsibility. The neighborhood was aware of his existence, but his 'aunt' and 'uncle' had spun a tale of a mentally deficient boy who was a danger to others, their personal "charity case" to be homeschooled and imprisoned for the rest of his life.
Tonight's beating was possibly the worst Harry had ever experienced. It was all because his cousin, Dudley, had tripped him, causing a fine china tea set to smash on the floor. In a blind rage, Vernon beat Harry for hours, starting slowly, then growing harsher and faster as the night progressed, until finally, Harry's wailing and whimpers died in his torn throat. Vernon then threw Harry back into his bedroom—the cupboard under the stairs—muttering that he hoped Harry would finally die and leave them alone.
Harry knew why he didn't die. Albus Dumbledore, in his arrogance, never considered that his diagnostic spells could be wrong. They were. After being discarded at his relatives' home, Harry's core had begun to recover from its empty state. His magic wasn't gone, and he wasn't a squib. His magic seemed to have a mind of its own, healing his wounds and saving him from near-death beatings every night, as if he were immortal. Even the worst injuries were completely mended after a night of 'rest.'
'The one thing that is truly mine, my magic, is also my worst enemy. It won't let me die,' Harry thought darkly, the tears no longer flowing from his eyes due to dehydration. 'When will this end?'
These thoughts whirled in the darkness of his prison as he wished for the pain to cease.
"My dear Master. What have they done to you?" A soft, feminine voice spoke in the darkness.