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Eyes, Bodies, and Potions

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/17347349.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: they are eleven
Character: Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Petunia Evans Dursley,
Vernon Dursley, Dudley Dursley, Molly Weasley, Arthur Weasley, Bill
Weasley, Charlie Weasley, Percy Weasley, Fred Weasley, George
Weasley, Ginny Weasley, Minerva McGonagall, Albus Dumbledore,
Severus Snape
Additional Tags: Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Dark!Trio, Dark Harry
Potter, Dark Ron Weasley, Dark Hermione Granger, Alternate Universe
- Dark, Torture
Series: Part 1 of Eyes, Bodies, and Potions
Stats: Published: 2019-01-08 Completed: 2019-05-03 Chapters: 4/4 Words:
4086

Eyes, Bodies, and Potions


by TheMadHatterOfficial

Summary

The Golden Trio was always meant to take down Voldemort.

Perhaps, if things happened a bit differently, if the pieces managed to link together in another
way...
Eyes

Harry Potter only knew violence growing up.

The young boy hidden away in the cupboard under the stairs would sit in fear and anticipation as
heavy footsteps pounded above and rattled the dust onto his tiny bed. He had a single mirror in his
cupboard that Aunt Petunia had given him as a Christmas present after his uncle had slammed his
head into it hard enough to cause cracks to run through it like an overzealous spiderweb.

No matter how many times he tried to avoid it, Harry always ended up watching himself in the dingy
glass. In anything remotely reflective, really.

Everywhere Harry went, people commented on his eyes. On how pretty they were, how they made
him look respectable, how much they stood out against the darkness of his skin and the heavy bangs
that resembled a rat's nest at the best of times.

It had jump started Harry's obsession.

Everywhere he went, Harry would stare at eyes. Brown ones, blue ones, grey ones, green ones, and
every mix you could think of. He liked the emotions that ran through them, how they told stories that
faces and bodies would never reveal.

He could see the happiness when a couple held hands.

He could see the fear when a man gripped his girlfriend's arm a little too tight.

He could see the joy in a father's eyes when his baby snuggled further into his neck.

The fear was nice sometimes. When it was someone who deserved it. Like when Dudley's friend
Henry punched Harry hard enough to take out his baby tooth and split his lip. Harry had launched
forward and kept hitting and hitting and hitting until Henry was crying too hard to make noise and he
was covered in reds and blues that never blossomed on Harry's deep skin.

(Henry's eyes were grey. They were scared. It was nice.)

(Henry's parents also moved their whole family far away from the neighborhood the very next week.
Harry chalked it up to coincidence.)

Harry liked the happiness a lot more than the sad or scared ones. He liked sitting in the little park far
from the Dursleys' and letting the long cuffs of his torn hand-me-downs scrape below the swing,
watching the happy families laugh and jump and run around with one another without caring about
anything else.

For as long as Harry could remember, he had wanted that. He longed for it. He would sit in his tiny
cupboard on the last night of July and beg and plead whoever was up there for someone to find him.
At first, Harry wished for someone to take him away. Now, Harry would be content with someone
approaching him to just talk. It was a far-fetched dream, something he only dared to dream of in the
quiet darkness when he pretended that his parents weren't worthless drunks who cared for the bottle
more than their son. That he had a mother that took the time to tame his bird's nest of a head and read
to him at night, that he had a father who taught him how to play chess and cook breakfast for his
mum in bed, and maybe even an uncle that bought him secret ice creams that ruined his dinner and
taught him how to talk to pretty girls at school and maybe even a sister who laughed too loud and
grinned too wide and let him wrap her up in soft blankets when she was too cold to ask for it.
But for now, Harry would settle for their eyes.
Bodies

Ron Weasley, in Ron Weasley's opinion, was not very special.

He was the sixth child of seven in his impoverished family. He got hand-me-down everything, and
was expected to do as well as his brothers, if not better. It was nothing special if he could do this,
because Percy could too, and if he could do that, well, Bill already had years before.

Sometimes Ron wished he was an only child, if only for the attention he would have.

(He never wanted his siblings dead, Merlin no. He loved them all and wished them the best, even if
he was a bit jealous of them.)

Perhaps this was why he was often seen hanging on Harry or Hermione's arm, spending every bit of
his free time with the first things that were his, and only his.

They weren't things, and Ron knew this. He knew that they were people, and he knew that they
were their own people. He never claimed them aloud, and especially didn't hint at it to Harry. He
was already treated like a Thing by his muggles. They locked him away and took him out when he
was of use. Ron wanted to be with him all the time, even when he didn't listen and remained as
stubborn as an ass.

But they were still Ron's. He didn't like when Fred or George or Ginny would try to covet Harry's
attention, or tease Hermione until all the blood rushed up to darken her cheeks to a deep blue. She
would hide behind her massive hair that curled around her wildly in a way that she wasn't.

Later, Hermione would shyly admit that she'd never felt wanted, and that she quite liked the way
Harry and Ron so openly expressed their need for her. Harry would say the same.

Ron Weasley liked watching people.

He saw everything he needed to from a distance, even if he wanted to get closer. He liked watching
quidditch especially, how their bodies moved so gracefully and held no hesitation in their gestures.
(This did not extend to his brothers and sister. He actually didn't like watching them in particular,
even if he could never pry his eyes away from Harry twisting and turning and reaching as far as he
could.)

Every quidditch match was exciting. Ron would emulate certain things, ever since he could
remember. Bill's easy-going swagger. Charlie's big hand movements. Percy's chin tilt he did when he
was trying to make a point, or the seamless weaving and bobbing Fred and George had mastered
together. He'd mostly out grown it before Ginny came along, but sometimes he even ran his hand
through his hair like she did. His dad did it, and it was a small thing the three of them shared, and
Ron coveted it.

The most ingrained thing about Ron was probably his tactile nature. His mum was the same way.
They were probably the most expressive, always ready to give out a hug and kiss on the cheek or
just to hold someone.

This came in handy later in life.

Hermione likes to stand on her toes.


It's a small thing that he's sure she isn't really aware of. She'd mentioned offhandedly that her parents
had forced her to do ballet when Ron mentioned it, and it became more and more clear. When she
stretched she pointed her toes perfectly, and when she turned to speak she'd often spin around on the
tips of her feet. It was endearing, especially even when she went on her long winded tangents about
anything and everything.

When she talked, her smile lit up the room and her hands flitted about excitedly. When she saw
something that caught her eye, Hermione would stretch out her neck and raise her eyebrows high
into her uneven bangs.

Hermione was also very awkward. She hid behind her big kinky curls, which Ron soon learned
were in that weird frizzy stage because of repeated failed attempts at straightening it. (He quite liked
her hair just the way it was, but Hermione didn't, which was disappointing.) Ron would shake his
head and teasingly pull on one of her coils so it bounced tightly. She would flush, and when they
first met she absolutely despised it. It wasn't until they'd known each other for so long that she would
allow him to do so. He was the only one other than Harry that was allowed. Soon after she began to
grow comfortable with his casual touches.

So when she would awkwardly put her hand forward to shake Ron's, he would push it away in order
to wrap her up tightly in his arms. She'd tense at first before hugging back tentatively, then tightly, as
if she never wanted him to let her go.

Harry tugs at his sleeves when he gets nervous.

He does it a lot, actually. When they ride up, he pulls the cuffs down to grip in his palms.

When adults speak to him, he squeezes himself inward to make himself smaller. When they raise
their voices, his head drops down ever so slightly, as if it's an instinct he's trying to fight. When they
get too close, his body twitches away as if it has a mind of its own.

Ron soon noticed that Harry couldn't handle yelling. Ron and Hermione began to fight about Merlin-
knows-what one night by the lake. It wasn't until Ron's voice was slightly hoarse and he paused to
take a breath that he remembered that Harry was still there. He was sitting on the damp grass,
completely still with his hands muffling his ears and his head tucked between his knees.

Ron always warns Harry before reaching to him. Always asks if its okay. It's soon obvious to Ron
that no one has truly hugged Harry, and does so whenever he has the chance. And Harry absolutely
clings onto Ron, which is really nice. No one's really done that. His siblings weren't always the
touchy-type and his parents were always too busy with this or that to dedicate so much time to the
Least Favorite.

(Ron knew that they loved him. He never doubted that. But he was nothing if not a realist.)

But Ron's favorite thing was when Harry would jump on him. Harry never talked much unless one
prompted him endlessly, and it was even rarer for him to initiate a conversation or reach out for
anyone or anything. So when Harry would get so excited he tackle-hugged Ron into the grass or the
floor of the common room, and Hermione would burst into giggles beside them, he'd feel his heart
burst open for these two people that truly appreciated him.

Watching people fall was pretty fascinating.

Their bodies would turn and prepare for the inevitable, bracing in fear before the impact came.
They showed something real, in those moments. The shock, the resignation, pure, unadulterated fear
that overtook their entire bodies dominated Ron's attention when it happened. And when the fear
happened, he saw who they were. How one handles the fear, the harsh reality ready to break their
nose it, shows who they truly are.

When Hermione fell into the Devil's Snare, and Ron and Harry were stuck in the stage of fear, he
could see Hermione's brain turn over. He saw the way she went straight from the fear to the calm
determination of someone who was not ready for the end. He could see the clear fuck you on her face
before she sunk below the vines.

When Harry's broom began to shake and throw him off in a violent rage, Ron saw the fear. He saw
the clear fear outline every bone of his body before his grip tightened and his body swung upwards.
He could see the resignation, and he could see the acceptance of what would happen. But that wasn't
standing out as much as the look that overtook his entire face. He could hear it from the stands, the
way he was telling himself - not without a fight.

Ron quite liked the fear. He liked seeing them panic and squirm. He liked knowing who they were,
if only for a moment.

When he punched Goyle in the face, he saw it. When he beat him over and over in the empty
corridor, Ron knew. He didn't have that fight in him, the way his best friends do. He was pitiful,
really. Ron felt no sympathy afterwards, merely watched as the larger boy scrambled away bloody
and terrified.

And later, when Ron let Harry bandage his knuckles in a way that no eleven year old should be able
to do with such ease, he watched the blood swirl down the drain with morbid fascination.

His knuckles were swollen and bruised, and Harry was endlessly careful with them.

Goyle had gotten a good punch in, and Hermione's hand flitted around his cheek worriedly for a
good two minutes before calming down.

And the next day, when Goyle's bruises were yellow with some kind of accelerated healing potion,
Ron was quite disappointed that the colors had left so quickly. He felt put-out, robbed even, of the
satisfaction he'd wanted. That he'd earned.

But when their eyes met, and Goyle flinched to look down with shameful fear, Ron decided that he
could settle for that.
Potions
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione Granger had always been a smart girl. It was something she had always prided herself in.
Top of her class, always on time, always perfect.

Her parents had made sure of that. The Grangers would not permit their only child to fail. They
refused to have a fuck up for a daughter. It would disgrace them beyond belief, leaving the family
humiliated and shame-faced for all of the world to see.

Hermione Granger was used to the low expectations. She had long since grown accustomed to
people looking down on her. From her buck teeth, to dark skin, to her frizzy hair, not many expected
much from her.

They were proper people, the Grangers. Practical and no-nonsense types that expected their child to
achieve a level of success that they were never able to reach.

So it was quite a shock when one day a severe-looking woman appeared on their doorstep in a tall
pointy hat and bright green bathrobe that smelled faintly of cat treats.

Hermione had had an inkling about the magic. Strange occurrences, things that logic simply could
not explain.

"It snowed once," she had murmured under her breath.

The three adults stopped their snapping, which had been quickly escalating into a fully-blown
argument, to look towards the girl.

"What was that?" the professor had sniped quickly.

Hermione looked towards her parents, their lips pressed together tensely as they stared down their
daughter through narrowed eyes.

"It snowed," Hermione'd said a bit more clearly. "When... when I read Narnia." She barely kept
from flinching when her mother's fist clenched at the mention of one of those horrid fairy tales, but
Hermione looked down and twisted her lips from side to side.

"Why is that?" the woman had asked a touch less harshly.

"In the story the kids went through a wardrobe and found a place where it snowed all year round. I
just wanted to visit somewhere... somewhere different. Like..."

When Hermione made no effort to finish the professor made the effort to kneel before her to match
their heights.

And slowly, the professor's lips began to pull up ever so slightly into an encouraging (and slightly
conspiratorial) smile. "Somewhere magical?"

"Yes," Hermione had breathed out emphatically, nodding her head so vigorously that the beads in her
weighty braids clanked together loudly enough to echo around the silent room.

"Well, I think that I may be able to make that happen."


To be entirely truthful, Hermione didn't much like school.

She loved learning. She had always loved learning. It was her favorite thing in the whole world. But
the pressure, both from the school and her family, made Hermione want to tear her hair out until
there was nothing left. Her parents were terrible about it. They monitored her grades as closely as
humanly possible. And it was't enough to just do good, or great, or perfect. She had to be better than
everyone in anything and everything she did.

Hermione had done ballet when she was little. It wan't her favorite thing in the world, but it had been
fun.

But she wasn't The Best.

So her parents made her quit.

Harry and Ron were different than most.

They were her friends. Her real friends. Most people sneered at her in class when her hand always
shot up and she jumped at the chance to answer every question she could and fight to be the first one
to demonstrate how much better she was than them. (There had been a period of time where
Hermione had stopped doing so. Her parents found out. She began raising her hand again.)

Her boys sometimes did that. When Hermione got overexcited and cut off the teacher Harry would
sometimes hide his face with his hand or Ron would groan and roll his eyes. But the second
someone else said something to her, they would jump at the chance to defend her and take no
prisoners.

The three of them were family. A real family. Not like at home where dinner was tense and silent
while Hermione's father picked apart every single sentence of her school progress reports, or when
Harry would talk about his relatives in quivering whispers before quickly changing the subject before
they could ask about his over-sized clothing and the gruesome pattern of raised skin on his arms.

Hermione laughed more with them in her first year at Hogwarts than she ever had in her entire
existence. While Harry had a strange kind of gasping laugh that she could hardly distinguish between
joy or pain, Ron's was full-bodied and bright. But they were both amazing. They sounded happy.
Safe. Kind of like home.

She had never been so happy in her life.

Hermione loved magic.

It had a strange set of rules to it. Strange. Different. But soon enough, Hermione understood it.

Her favorite was potions. There was a definitive way to it, logic that was always followed. Hermione
could follow a method and it would be perfect. Action and reaction. That was all it was. Action and
reaction. Action and reaction.

(Snape was obviously terrible. He made her face burn and tears spring to her eyes. But she couldn't
stop raising her hand or jumping in to answer questions. She just couldn't. If it got back to her parents
it would be a thousand times worse than anything Snape could ever do to her.)

But outside of the classroom, Hermione fell in love with the method of potion-making. It was
soothing and gentle and welcoming and just so perfect for her. Outside of the dankness of the
dungeons and the harsh bearing of Severus Snape's beady black eyes, Hermione Granger sat in the
sunlight of the second floor girls' lavatory and created masterpieces. She used her tools to create art.
From potions of brilliant greens to velvety purples to bright blues so clear that she could see the
bottom of the cauldron through. It was stunningly beautiful. And it took her breath away.

But she wasn't The Best.

(not yet, at least)

It was early on a Saturday morning.

The sun streamed through the tall window of the second floor girls' lavatory and landed on Hermione
and her cauldron at the perfect angle. It was a potion recipe that Harry had found in the restricted
section and given to her. (Normally, Hermione would never condone breaking rules. At school, no
less. But this was a Special Circumstance.) It caused the consumer's heart to beat so fast that the
blood couldn't make it through the arteries quickly enough, causing them them to clog and trigger a
heart attack.

Hermione hadn't planned on actually giving it to anyone. It would be disgustingly terrible. To cause
someone's death...

But then, the colors were so pretty. Swirling pinks and purples moving like waves crashing upon the
sand, splashing against the sides of the cauldron of their own accord. Her eyes traced their
movements, transfixed into a deep state of pure calm.

She didn't even notice when some of it had splashed up over the lip of the cauldron. It landed on the
tiles with a decisive plink that echoed in the silence.

Hermione hadn't seen the rat until it was too late. She watched in horror as the small rodent moved
towards the spilled potion, sniffing at it before licking hesitantly.

Before she could yell for it to stop, the rat began to convulse on the dirty floor. Hermione could do
nothing but watch as the poor thing's body shook violently, squealing pathetically and rolling around
in excruciating pain.

And then the blood.

There was so much in its tiny body. It was actually quite shocking. Spilling from everywhere from its
eyes to its mouth to its ears. It was a horror scene - party of one.

Hermione wanted it to stop. She wanted to save the little rat. It was cruel and unkind and unfair
and...

Disgustingly beautiful.

The vividness of its blood threw her off. It was smooth and thick, running through the grooves of the
tiles in gentle rivulets akin to that of the rivers that carved through the Forest of Dean.

It was very different to see this kind of pain tearing its course through something. It felt almost
satisfying to watch. Like she was seeing her own pain manifest itself within a tiny conductor, forcing
everything inside of her inside of it.
And it was Hermione that was doing it. Hermione's potion. Her own knowledge and power
transferring into another living breathing thing, wreaking its havoc as it went.

Action and reaction.

Sometimes Hermione would watch others in school with the same lens that she had watched that rat.
She would bore holes through the side of Pansy Parkinson's head or clench her hands to avoid tilting
the entirety of her scalding potion down the back of Professor Snape's robes during class.

(She would fantasize about it. Sometimes Hermione felt like a monster for doing so, but then she
would look at Ron when he dug his fingertips into the desk and glare at Draco Malfoy with a barely
concealed type of rage that she Knew meant that they were the same.)

(Harry was a little different. He didn't always have that kind of rage inside of him. But he would
watch when Ron would fight others, untamed and wild in every aspect. And it would glimmer
behind the vibrant green of his irises that Hermione had yet to recreate with one of her potions.)

Hermione wanted to do it. She wanted to drip just the littlest bit of her art onto their wrists. Just a
drop. She wanted to watch their skin shrivel and burn, eaten away by the nature of her poison. She
wanted to hear them scream. She wanted them to feel what she feels, if only for a bit. She wanted to
paint with their blood, tracing sigils of old into her skin and practicing the kind of magic that would
have her mother fainting on the front lawn and her father puking into the ugly orange tulips tracing
the stark white walls of her pretty little muggle home.

But for now, she'd have to settle for the rats haunting the bathroom floor.

Chapter End Notes

Hi guys! Thanks so much to those who stuck around. I know this took soooo long to get
out, but I was in a bit of a rut with how Hermione's version would go.

I'm not sure if I should continue this story. This was how much I'd originally planned,
but I have an idea of how their years would go forward. I know I don't respond to all the
comments, but I definitely read them all and just wait so long to respond that it gets kind
of awkward to respond to them, lmao. But if anyone really likes this, let me know and
I'll do my best to follow through!

Thanks for reading and commenting and all that shit! Have a great day. -Angel
Announcement?? I guess

Sup.

So, I decided to continue it because why the fuck not? I'm publishing it as a different work, and I
actually have an outline for once in my life, so go me. It'll be listed as a series, so there's that.

Just a warning, it's really fucking dark. Obvs. But also kinda cute? Cuz they're like little eleven year
old babies learning how to eat people together so yay.

(They don't eat people. I don't think. I'm not planning on it. Unless someone actually asks for it.
Then maybe.)

But they're my babies who torture and murder and honestly I hope they're having fun with that and
no one can touch them but me (fuck off Rowling).

I'm currently planning on chronicling them up through the series, but not the entire thing because I'm
only a masochist in bed and not in everyday life. So, in the first one especially, it won't be long
because most of it stays the same. But it'll diverge from canon more as they get older.

Thank you to people who actually stuck around, lol. I should be posting it pretty soon, so if you
want, stay tuned. (Or don't. I can't make you do shit.)

But, if you do stay, thank you! Honest thank you, yay honesty! Wishing everyone all the best and
hoping you have an amazing day.

With overwhelming amounts of love,

-Angel

(mwah!)

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