Nothing But A Weapon
By: Rynne


There he is. Sitting there, next to his little friend, another Weasley. He sits there, looking just like his father. Same stupid messy hair, same round black glasses, but with her eyes. Lily’s eyes. Lily’s eyes in James Potter’s face.

I hate him. I can’t help but despise him, sitting there looking so much like his father, even down to the arrogance. His relatives have probably doted on him, cosseted him, giving him everything his little heart desires. Nothing less for the Boy Who Lived. Oh, let’s all pity the poor orphan. Let’s revere him for the defeat of the Dark Lord. Let’s favor the stupid spoiled brat and completely ignore those who gave up just as much in the war, if not more!

Potter sits there, confidant in his arrogance, but he knows nothing. He knows absolutely nothing, and he probably doesn’t even care. Why should he care, after all, when it’s only about the lives of those who would have sacrificed themselves, have sacrificed themselves, for what happened so easily to him? Why should he care to know about anything beyond himself? He doesn’t, of course. His father never did.

His father never cared. His father’s friends never cared. But Lily did. Lily cared, sometimes. But then she married James Potter, and didn’t care anymore. Or at least, she cared more for her new husband and his friends than for many others…many like me. So it got her killed. And this Potter doesn’t understand a thing about any of this.

The brat sits there, assured in his smug superiority over us mortals. But what does he know of this place, our world that he now resides in? Nothing. He knows not one thing about us, not our customs, not our culture, not our laws, nothing. And if he did he would think himself above them. His father always did.

He needs to be taught. He needs to be shaped, molded into the tool that will allow us to defeat the Dark Lord once and for all. For I know he’s out there. Sometimes I get a prickle in my Mark that can only mean he yet lives, biding his time, waiting for someone to come and bring him back. And someday, he will be back, and he’ll want Potter. So Potter must be ready when that time comes.

I daresay he won’t like being molded, won’t like being shaped to bear the pain his unique position will undoubtedly be privy to. But it is necessary, and if I have to be the one to show him that life isn’t fair and pain is unavoidable, then so be it. I shall take up my duty. He will be as a soldier to the wizarding world, and he must be made to understand that. I shall take great pleasure in teaching him that. I believe I am the only one who can.

Albus and Minerva are too close to the boy to be impartial, especially with the brat a Gryffindor. But I am partial to none except my Slytherins, and I am known for treating the other houses harshly. Why should I not treat them harshly when they are the ones who mock my house, who send countless numbers of my pupils to me with stories of their petty fights, which will undoubtedly leave Slytherin the loser, for Slytherin is only one house again three? Why should I not introduce kindness to Slytherins who have never felt it, and introduce insults and pain to those privileged members of other houses? The world doesn’t care about us, so we don’t care about the world. The world doesn’t really care for Potter either, beyond a tool they will eventually have to use.

Potter is most definitely a “privileged” Gryffindor, and he is the one who needs that privilege least. Potter must be conditioned to fight in this inevitable war, because however it displeases me to even think it, we are going to need him. Sybil Trelawney’s “prophecy”, which Albus so believes in, assures that, and I can’t bring myself to disbelieve Albus, no matter my personal opinion of that old bat. But the Dark Lord could easily destroy Potter, so the boy must become far more than he is now. He must develop a thick skin to insults, for defense against emotional pain will help him with defense against physical pain, and the Dark Lord likes both. He must not give in to the pain, and those with strong wills do not give in.

But right now, he is nothing, and he must rise above that. He must become more than a stupid lucky famous twat with no respect for rules or authority. He must rise above the taint of his arrogant father’s blood and become a suitable weapon. For that is all he is. A weapon. And it is I who shall take the core and make him into a wand pointed straight at the Dark Lord’s heart, because I am the only one who can.



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