AN: Happy holidays , everyone :)

Oh, and regarding that plot-twist I mentioned, I'm afraid only one person has come closest to figuring it out. You folks might wanna step up your game cause the revelation's due in the next chapter.

Now on with the story. . .

1991.

A wise man once said that power, in its purest form, was the ability to influence the hearts and minds of others. As such, power was everything.

Harry smirks whenever he thinks about that. Whoever said that had no clue as to how the world really ran.

Power isn't everything, it's the only thing.

Right here, within the magnificent walls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Harry has the distinction of being the most famous and powerful student there is. Nothing is out his reach, nowhere he cannot go, no individual ignorant of his status. . .

And the best part: he barely had to work to get it.

Oh, there were a few hiccups initially. He had to work to convince the bloody Sorting Hat to put him in Gryffindor (where else could the Boy-Who-Lived go?) and he had to be really careful to avoid Dumbledore's prying eyes (the twinkly-eyed bugger was Master Legilimens), but all in all it was a lot easier than he dared to hope.

It amuses him when he sees how easy it is manipulate others into doing his bidding. A bright smile here, a kind word there and bam! People are practically falling over each other to do his bidding.

The legendary reputation of the Boy-Who-Lived only serves to make things easier for him. Almost all the students in the castle have been brought up on stories of his supposed heroics and skill, and those who haven't have long-since been brought up to speed. Watching him now, seeing him present such a larger-than-life figure even as a simple first-year is like seeing one's wildest dreams being realized. He is, quite literally, a personification of everything they wanted to see in their hero.

Meanwhile, he finds himself laughing inwardly at idiots like Draco Malfoy, and their less-than-successful attempts at building a power-base. Honestly, do these fools really think that showing off their money like arrogant berks is going to buy the respect of the people around them, especially in their first-year? Have they never heard of the saying about catching more flies with honey than with vinegar?

Then again, he muses, all that inbreeding has to show somewhere.

Harry is different, however. As someone who's spent his entire life watching others closely, he knows exactly what to do to impress the crowd. He knows that actions speak far louder than words, and that a controlled display of skill tempered with the right combination of humility can take him farther than most. It is thanks to this mentality that he has the student population of Hogwarts eating out of the palm of his hand in less than a month.

And his admirers aren't restricted to students alone. It is with a pleasant surprise that he realizes that the teachers are fawning over him just as badly.

The knowledge from Tom's memories and all the hours spent learning from his mother's notes are paying off more dividends than he'd imagined. This, combined with his natural born power and an affinity for magic, makes him appear like a prodigy in the classroom. There is no spell he cannot master on the first try, no question on magical theory he cannot answer.

The reactions to this controlled display of skill is vastly entertaining: Flitwick practically bounces on the ceiling whenever Harry steps into the Charms classroom, McGonagall never lets a single class go without comparing him to his father, Snape looks like he's about to have a coronary whenever he submits his potion after class. . .

The last one in particular never fails to put Harry in a good mood.

This is where the genius of his plan kicks in. Unlike others, Harry never hesitates to share the benefits of his knowledge with others. He's always up for helping his year-mates with their homework, regardless of their house or gender. He offers his assistance freely, seemingly without any strings attached and his peers lap it up like a kitten feasting on fresh cream.

And why wouldn't they? He is the legendary Boy-Who-Lived, after all! They are honored to simply be in the same room as him. Merely observing him during lessons is a huge thing to write home about. Getting help from him in their studies is the equivalent of getting an autographed novelty from their dearest celebrity.

But Harry is no fool. He knows that, despite his best efforts, he cannot keep this up forever. It won't be long before the novelty of being helped by the Boy-Who-Lived wears off, and the ugly head of jealousy starts to rear. Even his status as star Seeker for Gryffindor, which he accepted solely as a means to boost his fame, as he doesn't particularly like quidditch (he enjoys flying more), would not be enough then. Harry knows that for his plans to work, the public's sense of awe towards him must remain strong. He must continue to look mysterious, unattainable. . . a symbol beyond their grasp.

So he moves to the next stage of his plan: he starts building a following. Like all great leaders, he needs his own bunch of underlings whose loyalty he can command absolutely. If he must go up against Voldemort (and Dumbledore, if the need arises) he needs to have his own followers, his own little army to match, if not beat that of the Dark Lord's.

Most people in this situation would've started seeking out allies within the influential pureblood families. But not Harry. Oh no, he thrives on being different, on doing the impossible! He knows only too well the power of the oppressed, the anger that lays simmering among the less fortunate members of any society; if he must have people he can rely on, it must be those who share his rage, so that he can wield it as a weapon against his enemies.

After all, loyalty which is bought and paid for is scarcely reliable. But loyalty which is earned through actions and deeds can defy even the test of time.

So he looks towards the outcasts, the downtrodden of the Wizarding world. His first allies are the Weasleys, a pureblood family with progressive ideals that have since paid the price for it. He befriends the youngest brother Ronald, a simple-minded boy whose biggest concern in life is being overshadowed by his siblings. All Harry has to do is stoke his insecurities, pad up his ego and then give him a little bit of direction. Voila: he has his loyal pawn ready to do his bidding.

The next is Neville Longbottom, scion of an influential pureblood house. The pudgy boy is not without problems of his own, and Harry is quick to see the lack of a strong influential figure in his life. He moves to fill that void, becoming someone that the boy looks up to. He teaches the lad to stand up for himself, to fight like a real Gryffindor; all it takes is a tiny revelation of his own history with bullying and spouting some motivational bull and Longbottom has become one of his.

The final addition to his collection is Hermione Granger, an extremely intelligent muggleborn witch. Her bossy attitude and noticeable lack of communication skills make her a social outcast, something that Harry is quick to capitalize on. An unlucky encounter with a mountain troll gives him the opening he needs to ride in to her rescue like a knight in shining armor, reinforcing the heroic image of the Boy-Who-Lived; and while the aftermath does leave a bitter taste in his Housemates' mouths, it ends with Harry securing the undying devotion of one of the most talented witches in the school. A perfect win-win situation.

The sheer brilliance of his handiwork leads him to indulge in a brief moment of self-admiration. While usually not one for patting himself on the back, Harry can't help but feel a little smug at how well things are playing out for him. By restricting his inner circle to those three, he has made himself an even more enigmatic figure, since almost everyone would expect the Boy-Who-Lived to be rubbing shoulders with the more influential members of his society. A small group serves to enhance his sense of intrigue, as more people start competing to become one of the chosen few whom Harry Potter lavishes his attention on.

There's also the unexpected benefit of establishing Harry firmly on the Light side since his closest "friends" include a muggleborn, the heir of a famous pro-Light pureblood family and a so-called "blood-traitor"; and while one could bemoan the fact that any chances of alliances with the Darker families have been ruined, Harry himself isn't too worried. There's plenty of time in the future for unusual alliances, and if he has to be perfectly honest with himself, he hates those stuck-up blood-supremacist bastards anyway. Considering that he plans on slaughtering most of them by the time he's done with Magical Britain, he honestly doesn't care.

But his greatest achievement so far is the fact that he has completely eliminated any need of having to watch his back around his allies! Weasley, Longbottom and Granger are Gryffindors to the core. The three of them don't have enough cunning between them to fill a thimble, and are too much in awe of him to look too closely at any of his actions.

And yet. . .

And yet he feels disturbed. For some reason, he feels a strange disquiet; a feeling of unease slowly growing within his heart.

But why? What does he have to feel so nervous about? Everything's going exactly as he'd planned. Heck, everything's turning out even better than he'd hoped! This was what he'd wanted, after all.

Wasn't it?

This strange sense of melancholy causes him to slowly spend some time apart. He goes to the owlery to seek solace in the comfort of his one true friend and confidant, his snowy-owl Hedwig. When he's sure that they're alone, when his strongest privacy wards are up, he confides in his feathery friend. He speaks of his hopes, his dreams and his growing fears. He wonders why he's feeling this extreme sense of discomfort whenever he's around the other three. He hopes that by releasing his pent-up frustration to a sympathetic soul he will find comfort; reassurance that he's doing the right thing. He hopes that it will make it easier the next time he has to look his three companions in the eye and lie to their faces.

It doesn't.

Eventually he's forced to confront the truth he's been avoiding for so long: that somewhere down the line, despite his best efforts to keep things as impersonal as possible, he has come to care for them. Somewhere down the line Weasley became Ron, Longbottom became Neville, and Granger became Hermione.

For all he has tried his hardest to cloak himself in a perpetual aura of mystery, he finds himself slowly letting his guard down before his three constant companions. Hermione's overbearing nature makes him think of the bossy sister he's never had, Ron's enthusiasm for all things quidditch has slowly but steadily infected him as well, Neville's steady progress from a shy child to an assertive kid fills him with a pride he has never felt before. . .

And it's not just them: the Twins' contagious sense of humor, the Study Group's meetings gradually growing, the teachers' strange quirks, all the time spent on the quidditch pitch has brought a sense of belonging, not just to the House but to the school as well.

Heck, even Dumbledore's starting to grow on him! Harry came to the castle fully prepared to despise the decrepit bugger, but finds it harder to do so with each passing day. The return of his family heirloom and the sudden and unexpected honesty from the man regarding his sister threw Harry completely off-balance, and he's hence been forced to revise his opinion of the headmaster from "evil old goat" to simply "crazy old goat".

To his dismay, he realizes that he has actually come to like Hogwarts. That in spite of his genuine burning desire to tear out the Wizarding world by the roots, he has come to form a strange kinship with this magical place of learning and wonder; which is, ironically, at the very heart of the society he has set out to annihilate.

And this worries him. It worries him a lot.

He is a warrior, a soldier on a mission. His quest is that of vengeance and destruction, not justice and sentimentality. He can't afford to go around feeling things like. . . like attachment!

And yet he does. Merlin help him, he does! He can't deny something that's right in front of him; it's simply not in his nature to do so.

He does, however, wonder where all this is coming from; when all this started.

He supposes it began when he celebrated his first Christmas at Hogwarts. When the entire Weasley brood, Hermione and Neville stayed behind because he would be alone; and together they made such a mess of the Gryffindor common room that McGonagall screamed at them for an hour.

Or perhaps it began when the four of them started to frequent Hagrid's cabin. What started as a quest to gather more information on Dumbledore from the gullible half-giant quickly became such a regular part of Harry's school life that he almost completely forgot about the real reason he went there.

He remembers one particular wintry weekend, when he was relaxing with a mug of tea while staring out of the cottage window; Neville playing (and losing) a casual game of chess with Ron, and Hermione engaging Hagrid in a conversation on the many magical creatures in the Forbidden Forest.

In that moment, Harry truly felt content. With the warm fire cracking merrily behind him, Fang the bulldog slobbering on his lap and Hedwig snoozing gently on his shoulder, he had never felt more at ease in his life. Not "happy" perhaps, but something far more important: satisfied. It was a moment he wished could go on forever, where there were no wars and Dark Lords, where he could be a regular child with normal hopes and dreams.

But that was impossible. He could never have normal life. Voldemort had made sure of that.

Now as he stands atop the Astronomy tower, gazing into the sunset, he cannot help but feel disgusted with himself.

Weak, pathetic. . . these are the words which run through his mind. Hogwarts has spoiled him! Three square meals a day, a warm bed, and a few laughs with arse-kissing syncophants has softened him up so much that even Dudley and his brain-dead pals could get the drop on him now. Barely a year into this place and he has already forgotten about the real world, and the real reason he came back to Magical Britain in the first place!

Unacceptable.

He narrows his eyes in determination. It's time to make the next move.

"There, that should do it," Madam Pomfrey declares as she straightens up.

"Will he be alright?" Hermione asks anxiously.

"It's just a small concussion, Ms Granger. He'll be right as rain in no time." She turns towards Harry. "Speaking of which, how are you feeling, Mr Potter?"

"What?" He blinks in surprise. "I'm-I'm fine."

"Are you sure? Ms Granger tells me you drank some kind of potion." She hits him with a dozen different charms. "Hmm, doesn't see like there's anything wrong. . ."

"I'm fine," he repeats automatically, still too nonplussed to think straight.

"If you're sure," the Matron says, looking him up and down. "You still look dead on your feet, though. Perhaps you should stay the night. . ."

"No!" he exclaims. "I mean-no, I'm fine, Madam Pomfrey. I just. . . need some sleep. . . yeah. ."

"Very well. I suggest you get to bed then."

"But. . ."

"We'll be fine, Harry," Neville says reassuringly. "We'll just stay here for a bit and then return to the dorms."

"Are you sure?" Harry asks, once again staring at Ron's unconscious form.

"Yes, we are," Hermione says, still holding onto the redhead's hand with both of her own. "You should get some sleep, Harry. We'll talk in the morning."

"If you're sure," he says softly before walking away. It is only after the doors of the Hospital Wing close behind him that he relaxes slightly.

It all seemed so simple back then. He wanted to put the abilities of his friends to the test, so he convinced them that Snape was trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone (a laughable idea, since Harry knows that the man is as loyal as a mutt to Dumbledore). It was supposed to be a simple task: get in, get past the Cerberus (a simple Sleeping Charm did the trick) and work through whatever other defenses Dumbledore had planted there. A reckless plan to be sure, but Harry was reasonably certain that the toothless old worm wouldn't put something too dangerous inside his precious school.

Any reservations he had about the affair were squashed by a reminder of the prize that lay at the end of obstacle course: the Philosopher's Stone. An artifact like that would be invaluable in his war against the Dark Lord.

As anticipated, the initial challenges were ludicrously easy, and Harry amused himself by holding back and letting his three minions work through them. But then they arrived in the chess room, and everything went to hell in an instant.

He shakes his head violently. Honestly, what the hell was Ron thinking!? Offering himself as a sacrifice just to win a game? Was he really so thick that he would put his life on the line to save something that didn't even belong to him!?

And Hermione. . . she was another surprise. Harry fully expected her to burst into hysterics at the sight of Ron lying unconscious on the floor. Instead, she ordered Neville to stay with him, and dragged Harry to the next room. She stood by his side while he battled a troll (undoubtedly an unnerving experience for her) and was right beside him until he departed for the final chamber.

Now, she and Neville were sitting in the infirmary beside a sleeping Ron. Fully aware that their grand adventure had been for nothing (Harry almost cursed the twinkly-eyed old codger when he informed them that the Stone was a fake) but showing not an iota of anger or displeasure towards him.

But why? He put their lives on the line, didn't he? Those two were smart enough to figure that out; so why weren't they saying anything?

And more importantly, why the hell is he feeling so guilty about it!?

Unbidden, Madam Pomfrey's words come back to him: "It's just a concussion."

Just a concussion. . . He snorts. Yeah, right.

He absently traces a hand over his head, the place where his own skull had been split open years ago thanks to Vernon's temper tantrum; and he might never admit it aloud, but watching Ron fall to the chess piece was the closest he has ever come to panicking in the last few years.

He, more than anyone else, knows just how serious a head injury can be. Pomfrey may have spouted empty platitudes to reassure the other two, but she hadn't fooled him for a second. He knows that, had the Queen's club hit Ron's head at a slightly different angle, the situation would have turned out far worse than it had. Hell, it probably was far worse. There was no way to tell how bad Ron was until he woke up.

Permanent brain damage and even death was a very real possibility when on got hit on the head, something that a quidditch-aficionado like Ron was at least partially aware of. And medicinal magic, while extremely advanced, was nowhere near good enough to heal brain injuries. Neville's parents were living proof of that.

Yet he had been willing to risk it, simply because Harry told him to! Even subconsciously knowing that getting hit by a giant stone monster could mean a end to his quidditch dreams, he had gone ahead with it. Whether it was out of a misplaced sense of loyalty or a genuine unshakable faith in Harry's judgement was anybody's guess.

This realization fills him with an overwhelming feeling of shame. For the first time in a long while, Harry feels a genuine sense of remorse over what he's done.

What right does he have to put the lives of others at risk? What right does he have to drag innocent children into his personal vendetta? He, who has always despised Albus Dumbledore for leaving him at the Dursleys' doorstep, has now become the very thing he abhors: a schemer who plays with the lives of children.

And all for what: to prove a point!? The first real friends he's ever had in his life, and he was willing to throw them away just to prove that he could!

He remembers the moment when Dumbledore found him in the final chamber, staring blankly at the Mirror of Erised. He remembers the sight of his father's grinning face, his mother smiling up at him with those bright green eyes full of kindness and joy.

What would she think of him now? If she could see what he's become, would she be proud of him? What would Lily Potter, someone who spent her youth fighting a war she could have easily run away from, think of a son who gambled the lives of innocents for his own sick pleasure?

He does not know the answers to those questions. What he does know, however, is that sleep will not come easily to him tonight.

31 July, 1992.

"Happy Birthday, Harry!"

He accepts the large parcel with a smile on his face, politely thanking Mr Weasley.

But his reaction is only superficial. For the first time in his life, Harry is truly at a loss at how to react.

When Ron invited him to spend the holidays with him, he accepted without thinking it over, partly out of a sense of guilt for what the boy had been forced to endure because of him, and partly because it got him out the Dursley home a bit earlier.

He was not prepared to have his first ever birthday party.

The ritual with the cake and candles is a bit awkward, but he adapts quickly. And while the rest of the Weasleys, Hermione and Neville don't seem to mind, he does note the manner in which Mr Weasley's eyes tighten around the corner and Mrs Weasley's lips purse when he hesitates momentarily.

He is reminded once again of one of his mother's earliest lessons on never underestimating people. The Weasleys may be poor, but they're far from unintelligent. Harry realizes, rather suddenly, that this odd-looking couple managed to conceive and raise six children in a time of war, and still came out relatively unscathed. An impossible feat, unless they were more perceptive than they appeared to be.

One thing is for sure, he thinks with a smirk, he would not want to be in Petunia's shoes the next time they met.

But now, as he sits around the cramped kitchen, he finds himself dealing with another conundrum.

A year ago, he came into this world with an intention of waging war. The only thing on his mind was the destruction of Lord Voldemort and his supporters, and anything not related to his goals was irrelevant.

He got far more than he bargained for.

A year ago, he was alone. With nothing but the memories of a dead parent as his companion, and an owl the closest thing to a confidant he had, he was a lone warrior on a quest for vengeance.

But now. . .

Now he has friends. Three good, loyal friends who would storm the gates of hell for him. Now he has people like Hagrid and the Weasleys, who invite him into their homes and offer him their affection even though he has done nothing to earn it. Even when they have little to gain, even when he himself cannot help but feel undeserving of it.

It is, to put it mildly, an uncomfortable feeling.

He stares at the pile of presents lying near his feet, a large slice of chocolate cake in one hand. Everything he's ever wanted is being granted to him when he's least expecting it, when he's least ready for it. If there's a greater irony in this universe, he's yet to see it.

A part of him feels like he's being suffocated by all this people. It wants nothing more than to violently reject it, to go back to the abandoned building which was once his refuge, and lock himself away. . .

But another part of him wants to stay, wants to revel in this new-found sense of happiness. This part reminds him of his parents' sacrifice, reminds him of how much was lost so that he may come this far.

"It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live."

Wasn't that exactly what he was doing, obsessing over his dreams of retribution? He fully intends to destroy Voldemort, but that doesn't mean he has to sacrifice his entire life for it. After all, when everything's said and done he's still a twelve-year old kid; he has his whole life to look forward to. His own tendency for theatrics aside, his childhood was far from over.

Hagrid himself had said that Harry's parents fought until their last breath to protect him. It would be an insult to their sacrifice, and insult to all the effort his mother put in, if he didn't at least attempt to enjoy his life while he could.

He takes another bite of the delicious cake. Huh, what d'you know: looks like the old fart made sense every once in a while.

"Hey Harry," George calls out suddenly. "Up for a Quidditch game?"

"You're on!" he shouts back, hurriedly scarfing up the rest of the cake and dashing upstairs for his broom.

His revenge would not be denied, that was for certain. But right now, there's no harm in acting his age for a while.

15 November, 1992.

He walks across the corridors under his Cloak, his feet moving across the stone floor with nary a sound, his eyes alert and continually scanning his surroundings.

Ever since the attack on Filch's cat on Halloween, an atmosphere of fear has seeped into the very walls of the castle; made all the worse by the rumors of the re-opening of the Chamber of Secrets.

Harry himself cares not a whit about the caretaker's miserable feline. But the idea that someone is going around using his basilisk (at least, that's how he sees her) to attack random creatures in the hallways and quoting obscure Hogwarts lore infuriates him to no end.

Hogwarts is his domain, his home! The place has given him more than he's ever asked for. The very idea that someone is attempting to desecrate it, and that too while using Sephiria as a scapegoat, is enough to make his blood boil.

Only this time, rage isn't enough to solve the problem.

Of course, he's taken a few precautions. He's even attempted to sneak into the Chamber and divine the attacker's identity from the Basilisk herself, but she seems unwilling or unable to do so. No doubt Slytherin had had the foresight to cover his heir's tracks.

And this so-called "Heir" is another mystery. Harry still hasn't managed to figure out his identity, though he's pretty certain it's not someone within Slytherin house. Were that the case Snape, and by extension Dumbledore, would have ferreted him out by now.

He can sense something about the Chamber's history in Tom's memories, but they're much too faint for him to get anything conclusive. He is vaguely aware that something similar happened when the Dark Wanker was at Hogwarts and he's fairly certain that the gobshite was the one responsible, but he has no proof; not to mention it's hard to pinpoint the correct memory in the jumbled mess inside his head. There's nothing in his mother's diaries either.

For the first time since he's entered the school, he feels a sense of helplessness. This Chamber business is the first real challenge he has ever faced where his two greatest trump cards are of no use.

Naturally this makes him all the more determined to solve it.

Now on one of his night-time patrols, his mind runs over all the strange happenings of the last few months. He recalls his furtive conversation with that crazed house-elf who accosted him in the Weasleys' orchard during the holidays, bringing warnings of great danger and insidious plots at the school. He wonders who that house-elf belongs to and why it's trying so hard to protect him, and whether it's warnings have anything to do with. . . .

A sudden sound cuts off from his thoughts. Recognizing that it's not Filch or Peeves or any of the usual suspects, he turns around warily.

"Who's there!?" he barks, hoping to startle the stranger.

There is no visible response, but he can clearly make out the sound of shuffling feet from behind a nearby tapestry. He sighs and takes off his Invisibility Cloak. "Dobby, if that's you, I swear I'm absolutely safe . ."

He blinks in surprise at the sight of a small girl huddling into the hanging cloth.

"Dobby? I have been called lots of things, but never a dobby." She has dirty blonde hair, large protuberant eyes and a rather dreamy quality to her voice; and doesn't even seem slightly perturbed by his sudden appearance "What is a dobby, Harry Potter?"

He resists the urge to gape at the girl. "What are you doing here!?"

"Hmmm. . . oh, the Nargles took my things and barred the way to the Ravenclaw tower. I tried knocking several times but nothing happened. The Blubbering Humdinger is no doubt blocking the way." Her eyes are fixed firmly at a point just above his right ear.

He doesn't pay much attention to her ramblings, instead observing her carefully. The girl is small and he's never seen her before, so she's probably a first year. She's wearing nothing but a slim night gown, which explained why she was wrapping herself into the tapestry. He also notices that she is rubbing both of her naked feet together, no doubt fighting off the cold.

He slowly understands. "What's your name?" he asks quietly.

"I'm Looney - I mean I'm Luna. I'm Luna Lovegood."

He catches the slip-up immediately. While most others might dismiss it, he knows differently. It reminds him of the time in his primary school, when sometimes he would accidentally introduce himself as 'Freak' before using his correct name.

His fists ball up and his aura flares unconsciously. Realizing that the girl is withdrawing in fear, he quickly reinforces his occlumency shields.

"Luna," he forces a smile. "Tell me, do these. . . nargles do this to you often?"

"Sometimes," she mumbles. "Most of the time, the Nargles simply hide my things. . . . books, shoes, clothes. . . things like that. Sometimes they trip me up on the staircase, but mostly they. . ."

He has heard enough. He quickly throws his winter cloak around the shivering girl, casts a small heating charm and then half-carries, half-drags her to the Hospital Wing.

He waits patiently until the matron checks the girl out and makes her write down all her observations on a piece of parchment. After Luna is safely off to the land of dreams, he marches away to the Ravenclaw Head's quarters.

It's time to get some explanations.

"You're kidding me!?"

Flitwick sighs softly. "I assure you Harry, I am doing nothing of the sort. The Board of Governors have overturned the suspension of the students involved, claiming that it was too harsh for such a simple prank. They will be back in the castle by today evening."

"Too harsh? Too harsh!? They locked a little girl out of her dorms, practically naked, in the middle of freaking November! And that too after what happened on Halloween!? How is a month of suspension too harsh?" he demands.

"I am aware of what they did, child," the Charms Master says bracingly "But it is Miss Lovegood's words against the word of those eight girls, all of whom come from rather influential families. In circumstances like these. . ."

"What about Professor Dumbledore?"

"The Headmaster has tried of course, but his relationship with the Board of Governors is rather shaky now. There are rumors that Lucius Malfoy is attempting a coup of sorts. Should the headmaster push too hard we may succeed in seeing their punishment through, but in the long run it would cost him his job."

He runs his head through his hair in frustration. A part of him is grateful that the Charms Master is being so frank with him, but another part wants to start yelling in anger. Then something hits him. "What about you, Professor?"

"Excuse me?"

"You're a national-level duelling champion, one of the most accomplished Charms Master's in Europe; surely they'd listen if you spoke up in Luna's favor?"

Flitwick looks uncomfortable now. "Well, about that. . . I did in fact speak up in defense of Miss Lovegoo,d but seeing as all the parties involved were purebloods, and I am. . . well, a part-goblin. . ."

He is beyond livid at this point. Filius Flitwick in one of the nicest people he has ever known, and the one teacher in this school he genuinely respects. Not a day goes by when he wishes someone like him had taught at his old primary school, when he wonders how different his life would have turned out if he had a teacher who actually looked out for his pupils.

And how do those worthless witches and wizards treat him? They hold him in contempt because of his parentage, even though the man has more power and skill in his little finger than any of those fools!

He forces his voice to remain level. "So that's it? They're going to get away with this?"

Flitwick gives him a tired smile. "You really are more like Lily than I thought. She always took things like this seriously as well." He shakes his head. "Alas Harry, there is truly nothing further to be done. The most that I can do is to place monitoring charms around Miss Lovegood's trunk to ensure her possessions remain safe, and maybe some older prefects will agree to keep an eye on her. Beyond that. . ." he shrugs.

"It's not fair," he says quietly.

"Life rarely is, Harry. It is something that you must understand if you wish to live in this world: not all injustice can be fought against."

Injustice. One word that can sum up everything wrong with this world.

On the surface, everything looks perfect in Wizarding Britain. The magic is beautiful, wondrous, capable of bending the laws of physics and reshaping reality. . . a world of infinite possibilities and innumerable wonders.

But beneath it all lies a darkness. Fear, bigotry, hatred, corruption. . . . so many horrible things slowly spreading through their world like a cancer; contaminating the very nature of the people, corrupting their very souls.

Harry is not a naïve fool. He knows that injustice cannot always be fought, he knows that evil cannot always be stopped. . .

Bad things happen to good people. It's just the way the world works.

And yet. . .

And yet sometimes, you cannot simply look away. Sometimes you have to take a stand. Sometimes you have to think about more than just yourself. . .

Sometimes you must choose what is right, over what is easy.

"Alright, Potter. We're here. So get on with it, whatever you have to say."

He looks into the sneering face of the older girl. Marietta Edgecombe, third-year and de-facto leader of that little gang of bullies. Her mother is supposedly a Department Head in the Ministry, and a close friend of the Minister himself. It was mostly on her word that the entire gang managed to get off scot-free after everything they did to poor Luna.

He recognizes the haughty expression her face. It was the same look Dudley always wore, that all bullies wear: that smug expression, that overwhelming belief in their own superiority, that sense of entitlement, that feeling that the world owes them the respect they do not deserve.

It is enough to make him want to hex her face off.

And yet he hesitates, as all people do when they take their first steps on an unfamiliar path. For the first time since he has come to this school he is doing something that does not coincide with his goals. He plans to win a war with a Dark Lord. What could saving an unpopular little girl have anything to do with that?

Don't do it. The rational part of his mind says. Her mother is high up in the Ministry, she can be a potential ally. Huge ego, easy to manipulate. . . she would be a valuable pawn. It's not worth making an enemy out of her. Luna isn't worth it. . . .

Not worth it. . .

Those words awaken something primal within him, something long forgotten, something locked up deep within the walls of his mind.

Memories. Memories of a little boy locked in a cupboard, memories of a child eating fearfully out of garbage bins, memories of a cry for help from a world that did not care to listen, a world that believed he wasn't worth it. . .

He sees red.

With a swift movement his wand is out of his pocket, locking the door and casting several anti-eavesdropping charms. Before the girls can even react, he points his wand at them and a huge snake, the size of a king cobra, bursts forth.

He cannot help the feral smile on his face. "Say hello to my little friend!"

As a rule, he does not take much joy in the suffering of others.

But even he has to admit, the sight of a hysterical Marietta Edgecombe running out of the Entrance Hall, dragging her trunk behind her is nothing short of hilarious.

The reactions across the Great Hall are varied. The students are gossiping excitedly; at the faculty table Flitwick gives him a small wink, Snape is looking at him calculatingly, Sprout is openly smirking, McGonagall is frowning slightly, Dumbledore is trying and failing to copy her, bright blue eyes twinkling with mirth. . .

They know he is behind this. He knows that they know. He realizes, however, that he doesn't much care.

His eyes search for only one person along the Ravenclaw table. A lone first-year who is staring at him in shock.

He knows Luna's expression well. The moisture in her eyes, the slight parting of her lips, that feeling of wonder and surprise. . . it is similar to what he felt the day he received his mother's legacy. The day he realized that he wasn't completely alone, that he had someone who genuinely cared for his well-being, that someone believed he was worth it. . .

His decision is made in a second. He gets up from his place at the Gryffindor table and moves to stand beside her, smiling slightly.

She doesn't say anything. No words are needed.

He gently holds onto one of her hands and leads her away. Ron and Neville take up their respective positions at their side, Hermione picks up Luna's bag and joins the rear. The five of them walk out in full view of the Great Hall.

He finds he doesn't care. Not anymore.

His path is suddenly clearer to him. He has finally understood what his mother tried to convey through her writings, the real reason he is fighting for.

He is not fighting for these purebloods or for their world, he is not fighting for the simple satisfaction of revenge. . . .

He fights for people like Ron, whose family is rewarded with poverty and hardship for their forward thinking; he fights for people like Hermione, whose skill means little in the face of her parentage; for Neville, who is regularly suffocated with the burden of unreasonable expectations; for Luna, who is persecuted for seeing the world differently than others. . .

He fights for the ones he calls friends, he fights for the ones he calls his own. . .

And if their society has a problem with that. . . well, that's just too bad.

After all, he thinks with a smirk, he's not some paragon for them to put on a pedestal and worship.

He was, is and will always be. . .

. . . a bloody renegade!

AN: One of the things that's always irked me about most Dark!Harry fanfics is the almost manically obsessed manner in which Harry goes about fighting his enemies. While it's a welcome relief from canon Harry (or Doormat!Harry as I like to call him), and some Dark!Harry stories are really very well written, it tends to get a bit ridiculous when you see a supposedly eleven-year-old brat act like a miniature Lord Voldemort.

Seriously, how many of us have seen eleven-year-olds as cunning as they are in Slytherin!Harry fics? The level of manipulation often described is the kind of stuff you'd see at College (or High school, depending on where you live). Watching a bunch of twelve year olds play mind games with each other is more amusing than impressive.

And the whole Sociopath!Harry cliche takes things even further, showing Harry as some remorseless, Hannibal Lecter style schemer who's somehow able to run rings around intelligent adults like Dumbledore, Snape and Amelia like they're absolute morons.

Unfortunately, such perfect sociopaths exist only in the world of fiction. In real life, everyone is actually somewhere in between the scale of clinical sociopathy and hyper-empathy. Yes, that means all of us a real a bit sociopathic in our own way because there is no perfect method to diagnose personality disorders. Clinical sociopaths are very rare, especially high functioning ones, and more often than not can be found in asylum.

This chapter brings out the core of Renegade!Harry's personality, namely that despite his past he is still a kid with good intentions. The Dursleys upbringing and Voldy's soul fragment have warped his understanding, but by nature he is still a person who strives to do the right thing. Is he a monster? To some extent yes, and he's aware of it. Is he overconfident? Yup. Does he want revenge on Voldemort? Damn right. But at the end of the day he's still a eleven year old kid who is continuously being molded by his experiences. There's really no need for him to throw away his childhood for the sake of his dreams, not when he can still accomplish them with help.

In a way this is actually pretty consistent with Canon. In the first three books it's plain to see that Harry does possess a sharp intellect and leadership skills. In PS, he's the one to figure out how Voldemort tricked Hagrid. In COS, he solves the final clue with nothing but a scrap of paper and boldly leads the way to Ginny's rescue. In POA, he's the one to figure out Dumbledore's warning and shows great presence of mind during the whole time-travel thing.

In short, the kid's talented, thinks quick on his feet, has real guts and shows initiative where most people would hesitate. Honest-to-goodness hero material. But somehow from GOF onwards he goes full retard. *sigh*

Next up: Harry and Dumbledore have a long overdue conversation, one which will go on to shape the future of the Wizarding world. What will it take to convince this renegade to take up the mantle of Wizarding Britain's protector?

Stay tuned to find out :)