Harry Potter: The Child Of Chaos [Year One]

Harry never thought he’d end up like this, sitting in a small, windowless cell, staring at a metal door that hadn’t moved in hours. The dim fluorescent light above him flickered every so often, buzzing incessantly. Sleep was out of the question. Not that he could, even if he wanted to. His body was still reeling from the latest round of the doctors’ so-called “tests.”

Every inch of his body ached. His skin was a patchwork of burn marks, deep cuts, and angry bruises that hadn’t healed yet. Some wounds still wept under the makeshift bandages they had half-heartedly slapped on him. His life, or death meant nothing to the doctors. No one here did. To them, he wasn’t human. Just another lab rat—no different from the other prisoners locked in this underground hell: the werewolves, the vampires, and the wixens. All of them had been abducted, mutilated, and forgotten by the world.

The British government had taken Harry when he was only seven years old, ripped away from the only home he’d ever known. Not that it had been much of a home. Privet Drive had been its own brand of prison. His aunt and uncle, Petunia and Vernon Dursley, were, in his opinion, some of the most revolting people to walk the earth.

As far back as he could remember, they treated him like garbage—yelling, belittling, and beating the so-called “freakishness” out of him every time something unexplainable happened. Like the time his teacher’s hair turned blue in the middle of class, or when he outran Dudley’s gang only to end up on the school roof, somehow.

But it was a single moment, a single spark of accidental magic, that sealed his fate. It happened two years ago.

Harry had burned their steak. Not on purpose, of course. His cousin Dudley had broken his arm the day before during one of his usual tantrums, and his aunt refused to take him to the hospital. “We don’t waste money on freaks,” she’d hissed before wrapping his arm in a splint made of cardboard and duct tape. So when dinner rolled around, he’d tried his best, but cooking one-handed was harder than it looked. The steak had come out slightly charred.

That was all the excuse Uncle Vernon needed.

He ran into the kitchen, furious, and grabbed Harry by the scruff of his neck. Vernon dragged him up the stairs, screaming threats, ready to beat the daylights out of him. But something in Harry snapped.

Or maybe it was magic.

All he remembered was a blinding flash, a crackling sound, and Vernon flying backward with a scream. He’d electrocuted him. Accidentally.

Vernon had been furious—spitting and shaking with rage. He called the police, barking into the phone about “the devil child” under his roof. But no officers ever arrived.

Instead, two black vans pulled up outside Number Four, their headlights off. Men in suits came out, quiet as the shadows. They slipped into the house in the dead of night. Harry never saw them coming. He woke up hours later in a sterile white room, groggy, sore, and shackled to a metal bed.

And that was the beginning of it all.

Now, he sat alone, barely nine years old, in a cell that stank of bleach and blood, listening to the distant screams of other prisoners echoing through the cold steel walls. His fists clenched in his lap. Anger simmered beneath his skin, hot and restless. He was tired of being powerless. Tired of being used by those monsters in white lab coats. Tired of everything.

One day, he promised himself, he’d make them pay. All of them.

His inner thoughts shattered when the metal door groaned open with a screech that scraped down his spine like nails on glass. Two guards stepped inside, dressed in black military uniforms, faces hidden behind featureless masks. Cowards. Hiding behind anonymity while children were tortured in the name of science.

Just because they didn’t see him as human didn’t mean he wasn’t. He had feelings. He had a soul. Harry was someone.

If anything, he considered them the actual monsters—soulless beasts playing at being men. He glared at them through the curtain of his unkempt black hair, his emerald green eyes never wavering. He’d learned not to look away. Looking away gave them permission.

He stayed curled in the corner of his cot, drawing his knees up to his chest, bracing himself. The moment the third figure entered, a cold ripple ran down his spine like spilled ice water.

The Doctor. The devil in a lab coat.

He glided into the room as if this was just another day in paradise, his polished shoes clicking softly on the floor. Harry could smell the faint scent of antiseptic that always clung to the man’s coat—sharp, sterile, and gut-turning. A chill curled in his gut.

Dr. Stretworth.

A walking nightmare wrapped in fake politeness. A man who smiled while he cut you open—who spoke softly, kindly, like a grandfather, even as you screamed.

His beady brown eyes locked onto Harry’s thin, battered frame, barely concealed beneath an oversized gray tracksuit. The fabric hung off him like a sheet draped over bones.

“Good morning, Mr. Potter,” the middle-aged man greeted, his voice chirpy. The bald patch on top his head gleamed beneath the flickering light. “I hope you’re ready for today’s tests.”

Harry shrank slightly, turning his face away, hiding behind his knees. He didn’t want to see that smile. He didn’t want to give the man the satisfaction of his fear, but it was there, crawling under his skin, coiled like a viper waiting to strike.

“Now, now,” the doctor continued, his voice syrupy and calm, “no need to be afraid. As I’ve told you many times before, your cooperation is greatly appreciated. Once we’re finished, you’ll be set free.”

Set free.

Harry nearly scoffed but swallowed it down. His throat was too dry, and his pride too raw. He wasn’t stupid.

He’d seen what “freedom” looked like in this place. The burned stench of it lingered in the halls, the smell of roasted flesh clinging to the vents. He’d watched through the window in his door as the bodies were wheeled past on gurneys and loaded into the incinerators.

Freedom was a furnace. And Dr. Stretworth was the butcher who trimmed away the evidence.

Once he was done with Harry, once the tests stopped being useful, they’d toss him in the fire too, and the world would keep spinning, none the wiser that Harry Potter even existed at all.

“Now,” Dr. Stretworth said, tapping the edge of his clipboard with a silver pen, the sound sharp against the metal. “These gentlemen will escort you to the testing room. Cooperate, and there might be a little extra food on your tray tonight.”

Harry’s stomach growled at the mention of food, but he ignored it. Hunger was a constant companion—one he’d grown used to, just like the bruises and the bone-deep ache in his limbs. He was no stranger to monsters using food as a leash. He clenched his fists in his lap, knuckles white, but didn’t make a sound. The guards were always looking for an excuse. His age had never once stopped them from swinging those batons like they were swatting flies.

Stretworth gave one last cheery smile, as if this was some polite school field trip. “I’ll take your silence as a yes. Take him to Room 000.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. Room 000.

He’d heard the number whispered between the walls, carried by rumors that floated through the facility. The lower the room number, the more dangerous the experiments were, but Room 000 was different. A place of finality. A black hole. No one who entered ever came back. It was the one room everyone feared, even the guards, judging by the tension that briefly flickered in their stance.

Not that Harry had ever met any of the other prisoners face to face. Everyone was kept isolated, shuffled through shadowy corridors only for shower time once a week, or “recreation,” which was just a silent walk in tight circles on the roof under the eyes of snipers. He’d seen the forests beyond the walls—lush, wild, whispering of freedom. But escape wasn’t an option. Not here. Not with guards at every turn, cameras in every corner, and orders to shoot first and ask later.

The last boy who ran had made it three steps out of his cell. Harry still remembered the sound.

The moment Stretworth left the room, the guards lunged forward. They grabbed him roughly, yanking him off his cot like he was a sack of rags. His thin arms were twisted behind his back and bound with thick restraints that bit into his skin. Then they lifted him—feet dangling—and dragged him toward the hallway.

Toward his death.

Harry bit down on a sob trying to rise in his throat. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of hearing it. But inside, dread curled cold and slow, like ice flooding his veins.

The corridor echoed with a sudden cacophony of sounds—metal slamming, voices howling. Other prisoners, stirred by the movement, were banging on their cell doors, shouting curses and insults at the guards. Maybe some even shouted his name. He didn’t know. It didn’t matter.

Harry didn’t have the strength to care anymore.

The double doors at the end of the hallway loomed larger with every step. Industrial, impenetrable and marked with the black stenciled numbers: 000.

Harry stopped struggling. He was going to die.