Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Warning: Spoilers up to OOTP, AU from then.
WIZARDING WORLD'S HERO
Unseeing eyes gazed at the lush, green Quidditch Pitch.
Harry knew his eyes to be the same colour. "Emeralds," Hermione had called them. 'Killing curse,' Harry had thought privately.
Weren't eyes supposed to be the windows to the soul? Did that mean that he had always been destined to become a killer? Owner of the killing curse eyes. Harry Potter, the human basilisk.
He had struck down his first victim at age one.
One.
It was insane. Which child could claim to have murdered another before even learning to speak or walk properly? Complete lunacy. Lunatic. Well the Wizarding world had called him a lunatic at one point. But not because he had killed. No, they worshiped him for that. 'All honour the baby killer!' Oh no, not the one who kills babies, but the one who killed when he was just a baby. Yes, idolize him, because he will surely grow up to be a great….man? Killer?
Why wasn't anybody afraid?
If they believed he had intentionally killed as a tot, why did they think he would grow up to be a good person? What's the saying…oh right "Knowledge in youth is wisdom in age" or something like that.
Well, one of the first things he was taught was to kill. So why did they think he would not perfect that knowledge later in life? On others. And others. And others.
Next victim at age eleven.
Oh there were probably more in those years in between. After all Harry knew that you can't set a lethal snake free without knowing somebody will die because of your actions. Even if they weren't meant that way. If vanishing the glass was accidental.
And little Harry couldn't help knowing about the girl Dudley beat up when he couldn't find his cousin. Because Harry had watched from the roof, where he had ended up somehow. Yes, that had made Dudley and his gang very angry, not having their favourite punching bag available.
Four days later Harry couldn't look at the grieving parents of the girl who lives...lived two blocks away, without knowing just why Dudley and his friends hadn't stopped kicking that day, like they usually did. Why they had been so angry.
And little girls' heads are fragile.
So he couldn't be ignorant when seeing the child-sized coffin. Even if nobody knew just what had happened. And why. And whose fault it was.
Even if Harry didn't mean to. He just didn't want to be beaten up himself.
But those victims didn't really count. After all, Harry hadn't confronted them directly. Not like he did at eleven.
Burning a man with only the touch of his skin.
Not really a human basilisk then. Was there a creature that spread death by touch? Undoubtedly.
Undoubtedly a very evil creature. And that at eleven years old. 'Congratulations Harry, you are really growing up to be a great man. You will be awarded sixty points for Gryffindor.' So proud. Everybody was so incredibly proud.
Why?
Why didn't they back away in fear, jumping to avoid skin contact? Why didn't they throw him in the deepest, darkest cell they could find? But then again, the Wizarding world had never made much sense to Harry. So perhaps wizards liked killers.
But why were they so scared of…Harry's victim twice over now?
Oh wait. That was actually a double count of murder at age eleven. Voldemort and Professor Quirrel. Two for the price of one. 'Well done Harry, see you're getting better at it!'
Getting better…
Second year. Again a double count. Tom Riddle and the basilisk.
But this time Harry rescued a life as well. Ginny.
Was saving that one life enough to balance the other two acts? The Wizarding world didn't seem to think it necessary. They loved him for saving the girl and for the killing. He didn't have to explain his actions, didn't have to repent for them. Only accept congratulations, house point and apologies. Because they were very sorry for thinking him the heir of Slytherin.
Harry blinked slowly at the Quidditch Pitch, remembering the confusion that had swirled around him the end of second year.
Why were they apologising? They had thought he was the heir of Slytherin, a killer. And now he had proven beyond a doubt that he was a killer and now they were happy? Why? Because he could not claim the title of heir of Slytherin? Did titles matter so much among these wizards that the right one could make a killer reviled, and the wrong one make a killer revered?
Surely not?
But at least Ginny was safe, and Harry found some measure of satisfaction and peace in that knowledge.
Third year already started out bad. In fact the holiday was a disaster. What would have happened if the Magic Reversal Squad hadn't turned Aunt Marge back in time? That's right. Harry's victim number….too many to remember.
Heh, an exploding aunt. Perhaps the twins would like to make a new prank out of that. The Wizarding world would love that. An easy, though not very sanitary way of killing. Then they could honour everybody as killers. Give them the wrong titles, and make a whole race of 'heroes'.
But, no….
Third year. Sirius. Peter. Remus. What a mess.
No victims though. No actual ones, and only a few near misses. Perhaps that was one of the better years after all.
And then Cedric. "We'll take the Cup together, Cedric. We'll both win. A tie for Hogwarts!" Oh what a great idea, Harry. Truly.
So the spare died, but again that wasn't directly because of Harry's actions. So did Cedric count as a victim of Harry's?
Probably yeah.
The Wizarding World wasn't proud of him that time. Not. At. All.
"Lunatic!"
Yes, then he was a lunatic. But not because he had killed Cedric, but because he said that the man he had killed three times now, was back. They were angry because he hadn't killed him well enough. They refused to believe the other was back. They did though, deep down. And their eyes yelled at him. 'Practice Harry. You have to kill him, Harry. Train hard, Harry. Be the killer we know you are.'
Be our hero.
Not everybody looked that way. One in particular knew the feeling of blood on his hands. He had been an Auror, then a convict because of his own stupidity. Siri knew how Harry struggled with being a….hero. He knew that was the wrong title. He never said anything.
And he never would say anything ever again. The Veil swallowed him like cauldron cupcake. Yum.
Victim number… 'Did you know that you would die because of me Siri?' Harry was fairly certain the blackhaired man had known. After all, hanging around with a…hero… is dangerous.
And then came the prophecy, confirming that Harry's instincts had been right. Born to kill, literally. Either must die by the hand of the other. An exciting fight it would be. Voldemort had years and experience on Harry, but not even he could claim to have started his killing career in early infancy.
Once again the Wizarding World rallied behind Harry. Why? Out of self preservation?
Idiots.
The ambush took place on the corner of Diagon and Knockturn Alley. Harry Potter versus five Death Eater.
Flash. FLASH. Flash. Flash. Flash.
Purple. Red. Yellow. And also lots and lots of Green.
The public went wild with excitement. Harry had killed Bellatrix Lestrange. They didn't want to know how he had snapped after one too many taunts about Sirius. They didn't care his vengeful magic had torn her apart. Literally.
Other Death Eaters were caught alive, and gleefully executed. After all, they were killers. And killers had to be dealt with. Or raised on a pedestal.
Next fight. The big one on Hogwart's grounds. The Boy Who Lived cut his way through the masses of black robes and white masks, burning with anger and grief after having seen Hermione die.
Lucius Malfoy.
Rabastan Lestrange.
Severus Snape.
And then finally Voldemort himself. Just as the prophecy said, it was Harry's hands that killed the murderer. The hands that clawed the red eyes out of the sockets and squeezed the bloodied neck until all movement stopped.
"Hurrah for the Boy-Who-Defeated-He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!"
'Such a good killer, Harry. You've exceeded all our expectations.'
Harry blinked again, ever so slowly. His eyes, killing curse eyes, gazed over the lush, green Quidditch Pitch, and saw only red.
Because the Wizarding World so loved its hero.
END