Author: Angeleus
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: R (Adult)
Genre: Romance, Drama, Angst, H/C
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Warnings: Language, Anal, Explicit Torture, Disturbing imagery.
Summary: Who was Tom Riddle, again? Only the Dark Lord knows... Dark secrets are just waiting to be revealed, changing the lives of those affected. An epic filled with a dark Harry, demonic spirits, and a new definition of evil awaits. HP/DM Rewritten and revamped
Author's Note: Revision, Revision, Revision! Hopefully I'll be able to breathe some life into this story and give it some well needed TLC. I've made this way longer, and added a lot more detail. I think my writing style has matured a bit and this story will spruce up. Thanks to everyone who stayed with this story, I LOVE YOU GUYS!
Chapter One: Discussions With Yourself
There comes a time in every young adult's life when they have a realization of sorts. It forever changes the way that person looks at the world, or even themselves. Maybe it's about the way they act, or the things they do, or even the people they surround themselves with. Harry Potter, not being a normal teen, thought about all these things.
Before the Third Task, he'd never really thought of how the world saw him. Hell, he hadn't even thought of how he saw himself. But Harry found that seeing your fellow Hogwarts classmate get killed in front of your eyes by one of the most feared Dark Lords ever known tended to give you a bit of insight.
Harry could remember every second of hell after the death of Cedric Diggory. Every accusing word that was sent his way. Every set of eyes that asked 'If you could save so many others, why couldn't you save Cedric?' Of course, his personal favorite were the whispers that followed him now, all of them having something to do with what people thought really happened in that graveyard.
The fools had no idea.
He'd never really noticed how someone could be held on a high pedestal but as soon as a mistake was made, how fast that pedestal could crumble and send that person crashing to the ground.
Everyone knew the story of the Boy-Who-Lived, but did they know the story of Harry Potter?
Did they know how Harry Potter wished he had taken that trip to the graveyard alone? Did they know Harry Potter would have given anything to be normal? Or that Harry Potter would give up every ounce of fame he had, just to be able to see his parents again?
Not even Ron, Harry's best friend, truly knew him. He thought he could trust Ron, but how can you trust someone who doesn't even believe that your words are true? How can you be friends with someone when they think you are nothing more than an attention seeker?
The entire year, Harry tried to put these insidious ponderings behind him, but as he stared out of the Dursley's window, he found there was nothing to do but think about things he'd rather ignore.
And Hermione. The only friend who had never left his side, right? Smart, dependable, kind – all qualities Harry would have used to describe her just a few weeks ago. But now, Harry could easily see that these things simply weren't true. Perhaps that was why he'd never looked at their friendship to closely – he had been far too fearful of what he might find hiding behind the façade of loyalty.
All the instances that Hermione had 'never left his side,' he could now see that she had simply been playing the part of some nefarious mediator. She never truly agreed with him with him, nor did she ever say that his anger towards those who hurt him was righteous. Rather she had told him to 'look at things form Ron's point of view' because she secretly concurred with his sentiments.
Thinking back to all the times Ron and Hermione had talked while glancing at him subtly or how a conversation would abruptly end when he walked into a room, Harry wondered why he hadn't seen it sooner.
Harry briefly wonder why Ron and Hermione even bothered with him, but the answer came soon enough. The fame. Each one of them had there own private agendas.
Ron, who had constantly been overshadowed by his brothers, obsessively looked for something that he could do to make him stand out. Something that would make his mother more proud of him than she had ever been of her other sons. Quidditch captain, prefect, Head Boy, beloved pranksters… those things had already been done.
But Ron found something that could make him stand out better then all of those combined. He was the best friend of The Harry Potter… no one in is family had ever been in company of a celebrity before. He decided to play the part of hero, chasing after Harry into dangerous situations, hoping his peers would be awed by his daring courage.
This plan backfired on Ron; Harry could clearly see that now. Instead of being put in the spotlight, he was pushed to the backburner. When he signed on to be the best friend of Harry Potter, Ron forgot to read the fine print: the spotlight was reserved for Harry Potter only, not fickle glory seekers.
Screw Ron and his bloody spotlight – Harry would give him all of his recognition if he could.
It took him time to figure out how Hermione could profit from his 'celebrity status.' But her fringe benefits were found in the very books she religiously studied. A lone, muggleborn girl, no matter how intelligent, could do little to impress the purebloods around her with her mental prowess. Many Ravenclaws in Hogwarts wrote just as well, knew just as much, and performed even better on practical examinations, but Hermione was always given that extra point, that little push because she was best friends with Harry Potter. While it wasn't fair that Hermione faced adversity because of her heritage, it gave her no right to manipulate him to get recognized. Harry laughed bitterly. How very like Hermione to think of her grades above all else.
As Harry's mind got on the subject of Dumbledore, he felt his heart constrict painfully. The man he considered his mentor had only kept him soothed, complacent, and stupid – ready to defend beliefs that he hadn't been even old enough to understand.
Dumbledore, who he had trusted above all others, was no better – he was only using Harry as a tool. It was a hard potion to swallow, but one Harry had to stomach reluctantly; the headmaster was a true maestro at manipulation. Why else would Dumbledore constantly put Harry in positions where he could get himself killed if not to test him, to make sure that he was easy to control?
Dumbledore had to have known about Quirrel. How could Dumbledore not notice that a member of his staff had the Dark Lord stuck to the back of his head? As for the Chamber of Secrets, Dumbledore couldn't find it himself, so who better to find it for him than Harry – a little boy who he'd slowly been teaching that the world rested on his shoulders?
Harry now had this sick, twisted feeling that Dumbledore had known all along that his godfather was innocent. It made him sick to even contemplate how someone could send an innocent man to Azkaban with little regret.
And poor Professor Lupin, Dumbledore held so much power over him because he was one of the only people in the Wizarding World who would hire or even support a known werewolf. Life for the former educator was already difficult, and it made Harry shudder to think what would happen if someone with Dumbledore's influence decided to speak out against werewolf rights. If Remus ever did something Dumbledore didn't approve of…
Clearly Harry wasn't the only pawn on the chessboard.
Even worse, Harry couldn't believe how much he'd allowed Dumbledore to influence his perception of the world. Dumbledore had taught him to shy away from the unknown, to harbor dangerous prejudices, to not have an original thought of his own. Were all Slytherins evil and conniving Death Eaters to be? Why were they condemned for being cunning and ambitious, as these are often the traits of world leaders?
While Harry had to admit that he hadn't had the best relations with the Slytherins in his year, Harry doubted that all of them were incorrigible. No one would truly admit that Hogwarts was not the fair school it boasted itself to be; at best it was comically biased.
There was the brave house, the loyal house, the smart house, and the house of all things evil, disgusting, rotten, unholy, and dark? Yes, that made a load of sense.
As disgusted as he was to admit it, Malfoy had been right, the prick. He had been Dumbledore's faithful little pet, content with the occasion pat on the head for a job well done.
Who really wants to be a hero? Who really wants to have everyone's faith resting on their shoulders when they can barely pass potions, let alone defeat a Dark Lord? If there were any such people in the world Harry would like to meet them, if only to tell them what ignorant fools they were. And give then a sound knock on the head.
He was done. He was done modeling his behavior off of ideals that weren't his own. He was done being Dumbledore lap dog and the Wizarding World's doormat. No more Golden Boy. No more Boy-Who-Lived-To-Be-An-Idiot. No more hiding behind a cracking mask of innocent naïveté. Harry wasn't concerned with being anyone's savior but his own.
And so our tale begins.
xXxXxXx
Family, familia,familie, keluarga, shuzoku, there was a word for it in every language. The people who cared for you, loved you unconditionally, and wanted nothing more for you than your own happiness.
At least, that was the common misconception associated with the term.
From his experience, Draco knew that familial bonds were nothing more than chains of servitude and pain, of obligation and fear.
If family was truly associated with emotions such as love, then why did his father hold him in nothing more than cold regard, and his mother treat him to constant distain. If family was supposed to care for your happiness, then why would his father be content to sell him to a half human monster, not caring if he truly desired to carry on the family business of murder and mayhem?
His father constantly attempting to mold Draco into a miniaturized version of himself, using beatings and whatever other measures he could prove that if the ideal family exists, then it certainly can't be found within the Malfoy household.
It was a small wonder that, reared in such an environment, Draco was known as less than cuddly to the general public.
Of course, everyone thought they had the right to judge his every action and error. It's easier to blame people for things they can't control when looking at the world through rose-tinted glasses. It's easier to ignore a person in pain and allow them to suffer rather than risk getting one's hands dirty trying to 'the right thing.'
Or at least that's the principle they often lived by.
The righteous, self serving Light side that was more often than not filled with impulsive Gryffindors that harbored idiotic, nonsensical prejudices.
Did anyone deserve to be hated for being brought up the way they were, for not having the power to choose their parents? Logic would suggest no, but an impressive amount of people look at him in disgust for having a Death Eater father (although no one could prove this claim). As if he had branded the bloody Mark on Lucius.
And then the way they gossiped about him was contemptible… as soon as he turned his back as if he were some disgusting creature that couldn't understand what they were saying. It was Slytherin 101 to make sure your enemies were out of cursing distance before saying things like, 'All Malfoys should be drowned after birth – or better yet, aborted!'
He faintly recalled be five years old, following behind his father to a social gathering at the Ministry of Magic, trying to be good so his father wouldn't hit him when he Floo'd back to the Manor. It was one of the first times that Draco could remember being around such a large amount of people, and he had been more than a little frightened. Draco quickly learned that Malfoys are only welcome to such gatherings because of their money and social standing, not because anyone actually wanted them there. He heard the whispers 'He'll be just like his father, that one!' or 'He's a junior Death Eater, I'll bet… I wouldn't be surprised if he's already been taught the Unforgivables!'
Draco didn't know of many children who could AK someone at the tender age of five, so he wasn't sure how the fools came upon than brilliant deduction. If they honestly believed he was being trained to kill people as a small child, then why didn't any of the good and righteous members of high society take him in instead of leaving him with someone that everyone knew was a murdering bastard. Oh, yes, that's right. Because merely being born with Malfoy blood was enough to make him monstrously evil.
Didn't exactly give him a chance to prove them wrong, now did they? And they said that pureblood loyalists were unreasonable.
Draco shook his head and tried to think of less depressing things but found that happy thoughts of rainbows and fluffy puppies were hard to come by. Maybe it was because the black hole that had existed inside of him since birth seemed to be sucking up any positive feelings he had. Not that there were many to begin with.
He looked at his mostly unmarred left arm – only a few bruises and cuts (thanks to his dear father). He would do nearly anything to keep it that way. Draco, unlike his father and mother, refused to submit to the Dark Lord and saw the Mark for what it truly was – slavery.
As bold as these declarations were, he also knew that before the end of the summer, Voldemort would call him to serve. When he refused, and refuse he would, he would be tortured and killed.
So ends the rather tiresome existence of Draco Malfoy.
He laughed, slightly surprised by how bitter he sounded. Barely though. He'd always known that he would never become like his father, that he would never be able to become another expendable servant of a mad man. He'd just never expected the Dark Lord to regain power so soon.
He'd been almost positive that Dumbledore would stop at nothing to make sure that Voldemort never came back any time in his life. After all, it wouldn't do well for someone to challenge his power over the Wizarding World, now would it?
Draco walked up to his large mirror and stared at himself, not liking at all what he saw in its depths. The way his silver eyes tinted slightly with fear disgusted him, but it was what he feared that caused him to be appalled. He wasn't afraid to die, no, it was quite the contrary.
He was scared of what would happen next. Draco was well aware that he was at a crossroads; the decisions he made know would affect him for the rest of his life, however short it may be.
There were only two options really. He could stay in Malfoy Manor and await his death like a good little coward, waiting in terror for the day his father would announce the Dark Lord wanted an audience with him.
Not very appetizing, to be honest.
Or he could find a way to escape the near prison of his home and oppose Lord Voldemort's idiotic and dangerous goals with the cunning and power he had be gifted with from birth. There was really no choice, as Draco would always choose life over death.
But it was also true that it would be impossible to oppose the Dark Lord and all his minions unaided. For his 'plan' to work, he would need allies – and not just any fool. He would need others as powerful and able as himself. He would need to find at least one person that didn't have a master, someone that wasn't under the thumb of Voldemort, Dumbledore, or the Ministry. People Draco could see as his equals; unlike Voldemort, he didn't want a bunch of inbred fools who couldn't tell their wand from their arsehole.
Unfortunately, not one of his school mates seemed even worth consideration. Raking through his memories, he tried to recall someone who would fit these qualifications.
"There's no one." Draco said, startling himself by speaking out loud. He wasn't dim; he knew that if he didn't figure out what he was going to do soon, he would be dead by the end of the month. If only there was someone, anyone who thought as I did…
xXxXxXx
Harry sighed as his aunt screeched for him to get out of the bathroom; it wouldn't do for him to use up the hot water before her precious 'Dudders' took his hour long shower. What a wanker – literally. He winced slighted as she yelled once more. Honestly, how someone so repelled by magic could sound so much like a banshee was beyond him.
"I'm almost done," Harry yelled as he shut off the water and quickly toweled himself dry.
Dressing quickly in a pair of jeans much too large for him and a slightly fitting black shirt, Harry all but ran down the stairs, not wanting to anger his aunt even further.
"What were you doing? What took you so long?" Petunia asked in a scathing tone as Dudley snickered and gobbled down more bacon, not caring that he was getting grease stains on his pajamas. Uncle Vernon actually took the time to give him a suspicious glare before disappearing back behind his newspaper.
Harry almost felt touched.
"I was taking a shower."
Petunia gave him a slightly confused look and said blankly, "A shower?"
Harry rolled his eyes in exasperation. He didn't understand why it was so difficult to comprehend that he might actually care about his personal hygiene. "Yes, a shower. You know – the thing with the water and soap?" After coming to so many realizations the night before, he was irate and unable to deal with the Dursleys with his usual calm.
Harry, did however, instantly regret that comment as soon as it had left his mouth. Guess I won't be having breakfast today after all. He was just grateful that he'd decided to buy so many pastries on the train… although he'd only gotten them because Ron claimed he was dying of hunger – but that wasn't a road he wanted to go down.
Glancing up to see how much damage he'd done, Harry was surprised to see his aunt looked oddly calm – usually she'd be waving her arms and shrieking if Harry said something like that.
He didn't even see the slap coming.
Harry staggered slightly, more out of shock than the force of the blow. It was true that his relatives were less than pleasant, and Uncle Vernon had been known to make threatening gestures in his general direction – but no one except for Dudley had ever outright hit him!
Vernon once again spared a look over his paper. Grinning nastily, he smirked, "Should have seen that one coming boy, good one Petunia dear."
Dudley merely plastered a smile on his stupid mouth while continuing to stuff his face with food.
Suddenly, a cold fury washed over him as he turned his deep green eyes towards Petunia, who was looking rather proud of herself. Harry knew he should try and keep his temper in check but couldn't. This was the first time that – that, woman had ever hit him; he'd make sure it was the last.
Whipping out his wand and pointing it directly at Petunia's neck, Harry finally managed to say something. "Don't you – don't you ever touch me!"
Her eyes widened as she realized how big of a mistake she'd just made. "Vernon!"
Both male Dursleys looked up, shocked at the scene before them. Dudley tried to get up and run but Harry pointed his wand at the fat boy's belly. He was more than tired of being treated like some subhuman monster by the people who should love him. Harry was settling this now. "Sit down. All of you. Now!"
Wailing annoyingly in fright, Dudley sat back at the table, hands lingering protectively over his bottom. Petunia sat down next to her son, the cried out to her husband, "Don't let him hurt my baby!"
Vernon stood up, emboldened by his wife's panic. "Now wait just one bloody second! How dare you-"
"Shut up! Shut up and sit down before I curse you stupider than you already are!"
Vernon's mustache twitched nervously. "You wouldn't do that, you get expelled from that ridiculous school of yours."
"Try me." Harry snarled out.
Vernon looked as if he were about to call Harry's bluff but one look into his nephew's eyes and he turned a sickly color before sitting down.
Harry almost smirked at the wide, fearful looks he was getting – this was far too long overdue. "This ends now. I'm tired of being treated like trash when it's obvious the only trash here is you – "
Dudley wailed softly and Harry glared at him as bright blue sparks jet out of his wand.
"Shut your mouth Dudley or I swear to Merlin…" The porky boy quieted instantly even though he looked as if he might implode. "I'm not going to be your whipping boy anymore! The next time you do something that remotely ticks me off, I'll turn you both into chocolate bars and force feed you to your overly obese son. And after that I'll turned Dudley into bacon, since he seems to like it so much." He wasn't going to tell them that his Transfiguration skills were no where near as developed as he would need them to be to pull of that threat.
Giving each one of them his best death stare, he ended with, "If you don't like this new arrangement then you can all go to Hades, I assure you I won't mind." Grabbing himself a handful of bacon, Harry walked back upstairs to his room.
That had been – empowering; Harry felt relieved that he didn't have to worry about them pushing him around any longer. As he lay on the bed for the next few hours, he heard the Dursleys running up and down the stairs, accompanied by the sounds of furniture being moved. Only mildly interested what they were doing, Harry fell asleep and didn't wake until the next morning.
As he stretched, happy not to be woken up by an impatient and bad-tempered Petunia, he walked and opened the bed room door. Peering down the stairwell as he walked, Harry felt odd, as if something was missing. It was then that he noticed the revolting pictures of Dudley were no longer lining the hallway, and the usual smell of badly cooked bacon was absent.
Harry shrugged – perhaps they'd gone somewhere for the day; he could only be so lucky. But some sense of wrongness stayed with him until he was standing in the living room. It took a moment for his mind to catch up to what his eyes were seeing.
While the basic furniture, such as the couch, loveseat, and coffee table remained, all the personal effects were gone. The room somehow looked empty.
Shaking his head in confusion, Harry walked to the kitchen – it was even more empty; with all the smaller appliances removed. He systematically opened the drawers, already knowing that they would be barren. Finally, he stood in front of the refrigerator, preparing himself – but he was still stunned to see that he was unfilled; nothing remained, not even the leftovers from the day before.
This didn't make any sense – what in the hell was going on? Harry quickly sprinted to the top of the stairs, feeling more and more desperate when he saw that Dudley's room contained nothing but a stripped bed. He finally managed to calm himself by thinking about how ridiculous he was acting.
So what if the Dursleys had left? He could take care of himself – right?
TBC
