Disclaimer: HAH! YOU FOOLS! I have no need of this "Disclaimer" you speak of! I OWN HARRY POTTER! Oh yes, you heard me correctly! What? I don't? LIES! ALL LIES! I'm a what? A crazed fan? I…wha….nuh…bu…soooo…..SO WHAT! Oh…who am I kidding? I own nothing. I am in denial. ::cries::
Author's ramblings: Alright, time to get serious. This is going to be dark. Oh yes, very dark. I like dark. I like it a lot winks. Also, I possess a very sick, twisted, perverse mind with the uncanny ability to suck readers in once they read. Watch out.
Yes, I know, you're all jealous, but I must forewarn those of you who are Catholic and/or just hidebound! (Biased much? Very much indeed. You close-minded fools! ::shakes fist angrily::) Yeah, this is going to be about H/D You don't like? Don't read. That's all I am going to say about that.
K...Last thing, this is an experiment! This is going to be the one and only chapter, unless, of course, I get some fabulous feedback!
If you flame me, I flame you. Mua ha ha ha ha ha! I am EVIL! Worship the ground I walk on! Now, don't get me wrong, I love feedback, suggestions, anything to make this story completely and utterly delicious! Just don't be rude, don't be cruel because I can guarantee you there is no one on earth as crude and as heartless as I. Fair warning to those of you who tend to be on the bitchy side... a.k.a. me.
One more note: Any grammars/spelling mistakes are, of course, accidental. If I did not catch them, I am sorry. I am BETAing my own story, which is impossible. But I rule. Hah. That was funny. Ok. I'm good. But, seriously, anyone who wants to BETA it. Email me: ladymagic803 at hotmail dot com
Blackest Mage
Chapter 1 - The Color Black
Black.
That was the color of his wild locks of hair. It was also the color of his billowing cloak. It was the color of the thick ink he used for his feathered quill. It used to be the color of evil. It was the name of the one person whom he had truly cherished, the one man he had called his father, a man who breathed no more. Nowadays, it was the way he saw the world. Cold, malicious, calculating . . . and black. The color loomed over him guaranteeing something sinister like dark clouds promising the misery of rain, and yet never releasing the ravaging storm. It was going to consume him in an annihilating force, drowning him in the depths of that color.
Malevolence was forming ever so slightly. He could feel it. He did nothing to prevent it. Not now anyway. It was rather ironic seeing that a few weeks ago he would have fought it with every possible strength he possessed. Now, though, he merely waited. What was the use in fighting it? He could never truly win for every time he fought the darkness the more it enveloped him.
He was supposed to be the pure essence of light. The savior of his world. Now? He . . . didn't know. Oh, he would always fight for those who were good and warm, but goodness and warmth weren't what he craved anymore. Not anymore. What he desired was far more dangerous. It was also far more tantalizing. It was also wicked. And it fascinated him. It was luring him closer. He knew it was planning to strike. He also knew that he didn't care. He wanted this darkness. This color black.
Harry stretched his limbs quite languidly as Professor Trelawney droned on about the very powerful, however obscure, subject called Scrying. The subject held no interest for Harry. In fact, he didn't know anyone who found it appealing, which wasn't surprising given the fact that it was the "Loony Toon" teaching it. He chortled a bit at that thought. Professor Trelawney really was a loon no matter how many predictions spouted from her mouth. Or how many prophecies.
His emerald eyes darkened. Oh yes, especially the prophecies.
"Oy! Harry!"
Harry craned his neck to find Ron waving frantically at him. It seemed class was over. Finally.
Leaving his rather upsetting thoughts for another time, he proceeded to stand and gather his things before meeting Ron at the bottom of the ladder.
"Well . . . that was certainly a class full of useless bits of information, now, wasn't it?" Ron asked in a jovial tone.
Harry grinned toothily.
"Do I even need to answer that one, Ron?"
"Eh . . . no," he replied comically.
The two chuckled at the absolute absurdity of the conversation before continuing on towards the Great Hall for lunch. It was the usual routine. One that Harry enjoyed. It was familiar and it was comfortable, which was something he could not say for his own mind.
It was foreign to him. His own thoughts were unfamiliar. He didn't like it and he didn't want them. Yet, come they did, and they never relented. Harry's whole demeanor worsened for the likes of it, but he continued to play the "Boy-Who-Lived" charade with the entire wizarding world. Because without the contentment of intimacy, Harry would be highly aware of how much he really changed.
Black.
It was that time of night again. The time when malignity manifested itself at its purest and rawest form. The time when the essence of wicked souls forced their way upon innocent victims and drank upon their untainted blood. This was the time when people saw the true horrors of the night; when life was losing the perpetual war of the world. And Harry desired to be a part of it. How he wan-
No. Harry shook himself from his dark reverie and gazed piercingly at the wooden posts of his bed. He would not think of . . . the disturbing cravings he had been having as of late. And he absolutely would not give in to those deadly desires. At least . . . not now, when those he loved could be at stake. Now was not the time to be selfish. Yet, Harry's mind could not halt the onslaught of curiosity that was currently flooding his senses. Every coherent thought fled from his mind.
He was hungry. Hungry for something forbidden. He was thirsty. Thirsty for something wrong. He lusted for something in which he should not be, but he did. He would not admit to himself what that something was, could not even say it to himself, silently in his head. For if, he were to do that, it would mean that his thoughts, his wants were real, and he could not cope with that at all right now. Not in the dire situation he was in. The dire situation every wizard was in.
Merlin, how he craved it, though. It was in every thought of every day. Whether it was the dominant force driving all other thoughts and actions or lying in the dark recesses of his shadowed mind, it was there. Crouching, waiting to make its move like a tiger pacing back and forth, its glittering eyes watching its prey.
Harry had already resigned to the fact that he could not chase away this particular terror. He supposed it was something he couldn't kill, something he doubted that could ever fully be obliterated from him. Because . . . Harry feared it was a part of him. It was his nature impelling him to think the thoughts he did, to crave the things he did. It had merely been awakened. It was a wild animal desperate to be free. It had been locked away in a hidden cage for far too long. It would wait no more. It wanted out now.
Harry had also supposed that it could have been one of Voldemort's dark traits. Even if it was, it was a part of him now as much as it was a part of Voldemort; however much he loathed it.
Oh yes, the time was looming closer. Harry just had to wait a little longer. Just had to wait until he conquered the present darkness at hand . . . or until it conquered him.
Black, indeed.
Harry drummed his fingers restlessly on the side of his cauldron. He desperately needed to get out of the dungeons. He felt so . . . awake, so alive. And sitting silently during his least favorite class did nothing to ease his impatience to escape the oppressive air of the dungeons.
Merlin, he despised Potions with a passion he felt for no other class. Sighing rather pathetically, Harry scanned the dungeon room. Thick, gray stone walls. Cold and stale air. No light but that of the dimly lit candles. The young wizard crinkled his nose in overt disgust. The dungeons were so stifling, so dark and obscure. Like so many other things.
Harry turned his thoughts from the distasteful room to the inhabitants. The Gryffindors and the Slytherins; so very different and yet disturbingly similar. He doubted anyone from either house would be willing to admit that. Both houses were far too proud for that. This fact caused Harry to smirk a bit. If they only knew, Harry thought. He glanced around at his classmates. Seamus, with his engaging Irish accent and his great sense of humor, lightened everone's surly mood. Dean, with his good looks and his disarming personality, was everyone's favorite person. Neville, with his loyalty and determination, could win over anyone's hand in friendship.
And Ron… Ron who had, not once, let Harry down. His thick locks of fiery red hair and tall, lean figure appeared in Harry's mind. He smiled. Ron was always there for him and never judged him. He was the one person whom he could count on. The only person who had an inkling of what Harry was going through. And Hermione, with her quick intelligence and sharp wit, was someone that Harry could always turn to for answers. No one could compare to her.
As Harry stared at his friends and housemates, he realized something. They were drifting apart. It became increasingly hard for Harry to find anything in common with them anymore. If it wasn't for…no. He wouldn't go there. Not today. Today was for lighter things. Happier things. Today Harry would spend the day with those he was shutting out. His comrades deserved, at least, that.
Snickering startled Harry out of his thoughts. Curious, Harry searched for the source of the sounds.
Malfoy and his cronies.
Malfoy and his feathery silver hair and equally shimmering eyes, not to mention his shockingly gorgeous features accentuating his long lean body of brawn. Malfoy was a beautiful and graceful creature. And Harry detested him. He abhorred him with a passion he felt for no other person, other than Lord Voldemort of course. The Slytherin may be nice to look at, but he was just as deadly and poisonous, as he was ravishing. Weren't all snakes like that? Harry studied the Slytherin with such intensity; it was beginning to scare him.
The Gryffindor shook his head and scowled at the blonde. As far as he was concerned, Malfoy and the rest of the Slytherins could rot in hell, along with their traitorous parents.
"If you'd be so kind, Mister Potter, to cease your daydreaming and grace us with your presence, it would be most appreciated," Professor Snape hissed coldly. The Slytherins chuckled while the Gryffindors shot him sympathetic looks.
Harry merely gave Snape a side-glance before returning to his thoughts. Professor Snape no longer held any respect of Harry's. Not after…the events of last year. No one did. No one, for they had all deceived him. The Order had blinded him in such a way that he could not have even saved himself. His godfather held not a chance in the world.
All of that changed. The young wizard no longer trusted his elders of the light. How could he even consider such a thing when they had failed him. Left him drowning in the darkness ceaselessly wondering whether or not he would ever feel the comfort of light again.
He realized during that heartbreaking summer, when the headmaster had simply left him at the Dursley's to nurse himself back from the deepest cut of despairing grief he had ever felt. Harry supposed Dumbledore thought it would make him stronger, He supposed Dumbledore thought it would prepare Harry for the very worst. And it did. Oh, if Dumbledore could see his Golden Boy, if only he could see how well his plan actually turned out. Harry had fought his torment only to comply with it. Only to revel in its delicious bite of its icy void, its alluring lack of light, and its sensual destruction. It prepared him. It made him. It twisted his very essence, extinguishing the fire inside, freezing the ashes. It swirled Harry's thoughts in a maelstrom of disbelief and vengefulness conforming his entire self into utter...blackness. Harry was the very worst that could happen. And happen he did.
How this Wonder Boy relished the color black.