I'm not going to bother with a Disclaimer, you know why, and it needs no explanation. This is my second Harry Potter Fanfiction. The other has been deleted for various reasons, that I'll not go into here. So I had an idea for this story, and I really have no idea where the idea will be taking me. I suppose I should know what's going to happen in this story beyond the first few chapters, and the ending, which I'm still not too sure on. If this fiction lasts to completion it is likely that I will continue on with a sequel, and if I'm feeling particularly inspired perhaps a prequel. I'm not going to give a summary for this story, either on the inside or on the page where summaries are generally seen. I apologize for this, but I don't believe that the summary is important. I've seen terrible stories with the most inviting and imaginative summaries and vice versa. I suppose I will simply have to hope that my title will be enough to attract readers. This being said I will now commence with the first chapter in this story. Love it, hate it, don't give a damn, it doesn't particularly matter to me.
--PaperCut
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Chapter 1: Illnesses of the Mind and Body
Long shadows were cast over the ever-normal houses of Privet Drive. Cars rolled slowly down the street and pulled into their respective driveways as the men of Little Whinging arrived home from work, small children were called in from play to wash up and eat their dinners by caring mothers, who only occasionally glanced at their neighbor's homes for any faults that would soon reach the ears of every home in Little Whinging. All of these people were far too busy, or perhaps far too normal, to notice the undersized, underfed young man, who was currently marring the prim and proper garden at Number 4 Privet Drive.
There was no fawning parent calling for him to come eat, nor would there be, for the youth had been orphaned at the age of one, and his only living relatives detested him with a passion. The denizens of Little Whinging did not blame them. 'That Potter boy,' was a menace to the good people of Surrey, and it was agreed on by all that everyone would have been better off had he died in the accident with his worthless parents. They had even begun to suspect that he was subverting some of their number to his violent ways. A perfect example of this was his beloved cousin, Dudley, star boxer of Little Whinging, had been seen defacing property, be it public or private, cornering and beating small children with his gang (which was undoubtedly lead by Potter).
Of course all of this was complete and utter rubbish, thought Harry, as he watched the sun beat a hasty retreat before the encroaching darkness, and the people of Privet Drive with it. Harry stood and began walking towards old Mrs. Figg's home, where he was to write the required letter to the Order every three days, with his hands stuffed into the unbelievably large pockets of his extremely faded, jeans, which came complete with rips in several places. His shirt was equally tattered. But Harry had ceased to care about his appearance, during his summer holidays. There was no one here to impress, or even worth the effort of attempting to impress. No doubt they'd still make their dark assumptions about him if he dressed in a collared shirt, and freshly pressed slacks each and every day, Harry thought bitterly.
Harry made it to Mrs. Figg's house without anything of import occurring, unless you count Tonks crashing into a trash bin while under an invisibility cloak, which had caused Harry to laugh, even if it had been quite short. Mrs. Figg let him in before he even had an opportunity to knock, and quickly strode back into the kitchen, where the smells of cooking fish was thick, and the cats on the floor, thicker.
Harry swiftly made his way to the small, sparsely furnished study, dodging cats when necessary. The study was comprised of one plain wooden desk, a colorless, and rough carpet, an equally colorless wallpaper, a large table lamp, which was already on, and a bookcase that contained more cobwebs than actual reading material. Harry quickly wrote out the required letter to the Order, which was nearly identical to every letter he had sent to them since the start of summer. Yes, he was coping fine with the death of the only parental figure he had ever had and would probably ever have. No the Dursleys hadn't been mistreating him. They'd just been pretending that he didn't exist, but of course Harry didn't include that. No he hadn't experienced any dreams or pains in his scar. The letters to his friends had been similar in content, which had caused some worry amongst his friends, and continued to do so with each letter. He penned out letters to Ron, and Hermione, asking that Ron let Ginny and the rest of his family be allowed to read his copy.
Harry folded and sealed the letters inside of a thick, yellow parchment envelope, that Mrs. Figg had provided along with the other necessary writing utensils. The letters would be passed along by an Order member, when his or her Harry-sitting shift was over. Harry had been told that owl post was now unsafe for him, and that any letters he wanted to send or receive would have to be sent through the Order along with his 'check-up' letter. He had also been informed that any letters to him had to be first thoroughly inspected by an Order member. Harry had been appalled at the thought of Snape going through his personal mail, and had sent a letter to Dumbledore, via Remus Lupin, demanding a reason for this outrage. Dumbledore's reply had been much less than satisfactory, simply saying that while regrettable, it was in the best interest of his continued safety.
Harry had been in a bad mood for days following this, and had missed the letter to the Order twice, which had been a mistake. The Order had arrived at Number Four en masse. Even Snape had been there, much to his and Harry's displeasure. Uncle Vernon had been apoplectic with rage, but he wisely took his wife and son, who was openly bawling at that point, out to dinner for the evening. Once the Order had ascertained that Harry was indeed fine. They demanded to know why he hadn't written. Harry knew his reasons were puerile, so, flushed with embarrassment, he simply shrugged and said he had forgot. The Order hadn't believed him, of course, but didn't press him over the matter. They all filed out of his backdoor and port keyed away, all except Kingsley Shacklebolt, who was on duty at the time. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia screamed at him for nigh on an hour after that little episode, and confined him to his room for a week, with military-like rations for the duration of his punishment. Needless to say, Harry now sent out the letter every three days.
Harry left Mrs. Figg's house, after declining to stay for dinner, and returned to the Dursley's home. He skipped dinner there as well, though he had not been asked to join in the meal in the first place, and headed up to his room. The room was now very spartan in nature. Somewhere over the course of his stay at Hogwarts, all of Dudley's old broken items had been hauled out, leaving Harry to briefly wonder who had done the work, seeing as Dudley and Uncle Vernon were too lazy, and it would have been impossible for Aunt Petunia to move a large number of the things that had occupied the room by herself.
Harry noted, glumly, that Hedwig was out, most likely hunting, and that he now had no one to vent his trouble out to. Hedwig was an excellent listener, especially since she couldn't tell Harry how juvenile he was being, as she no doubt would judging by her reproving looks whenever his thoughts led him to complain about Dumbledore, the Order, and, of course, Voldemort.
There had been no attacks or Death Eater sightings, that Harry was aware of, since the incident at the Ministry, where Sirius had died…Harry shook the thought from his head, mentally and physically. Having decided to turn in early, and get the dreams over with sooner rather than later, he turned off the lights before stripping down to his shorts, and climbing into bed.
As soon as he had managed to fall asleep, Harry was transported to Voldemort's current hideout. Harry, upon seeing his location, groaned loudly and cupped his face in his hands…Wait a minute, since when did he have a body in these dreams? Harry's attention was taken from this most interesting of developments by a low, rasping groan that issued from the figure sitting on a bed, which was across the room from Harry. He knew this must be Voldemort, the man he had to kill, or to be killed by, no one else had those malevolent red eyes, that shown brightly, even in darkness of shadow. But this was Voldemort as Harry had never seen him. Always before Voldemort had been cruel, cold and calm, not counting the time he had spent as that hideous mockery of an infant in Riddle House. This Voldemort, on the other hand, was huddled close to the fire, and seemed to be shivering uncontrollably. His hands had disappeared inside his cloak, which was tightly wrapped around his skeletal frame. The red eyes which still managed to gleam brightly, were half closed. Sweat poured down the pallid face in waves.
Harry stared at this new Voldemort in complete and utter shock. Could the Dark Lord actually become sick? Harry wasn't sure, but he definitely thought that Lord Voldemort, or at least one of his Death eaters could cure what appeared to be a bad case of the flu. As Harry, watched, transfixed, Voldemort withdrew his wand from his robes and waved it slowly. Nothing happened. Harry stared incredulously as Voldemort's lipped curled, and with a slightly steadier hand, he waved his wand once more. This time the spell worked. A cup filled with a steaming liquid appeared in front of Voldemort. Voldemort reached out quickly, and downed the contents of the goblet in a single gulp. The potion had no visible effect that Harry could surmise, but Voldemort sat up straight, and closed his eyes. An intense look of concentration came over his serpentine face. Harry watched for several minutes, but the only movement the Dark Lord evinced was the light rise and fall of his chest. Harry quickly became bored with his staring, and took the time to look around the room for some clue of where he might be.
There were none. The room was even more desolate than his own, back at Number Four. The floor was made up of a gray wood, that looked so decrepit, that he was surprised that the bed and Voldemort had not fallen through the boards. The walls and ceiling were made up of the same wood as the floor, and were just as deteriorated as the floor, the only difference being that they were covered in a rapidly peeling layer of white paint. There was no door that Harry could locate, so Voldemort must use some type of magic to enter and exit the room. The only objects that weren't wooden were the bed, and the badly-made stone fireplace.
As Harry started to become bored with surveying the room, he hired a low hiss of triumph emanate from the figure on the bed. Voldemort now looked much better than he had when Harry had first entered, and was beginning to look more like Voldemort as Harry knew him. Voldemort was staring at the fire with an intense look of satisfaction on his face, before his eyes widened in something akin to shock, before his eyes narrowed and a single word slipped past his thin lips.
"Potter!"
Immediately a pain so intense ran through his scar that Harry was instantly forced to his knees by the suddenness and force of the mental attack. Harry. The last thing Harry saw before slipping into the waiting arms of unconsciousness was a look of unadulterated fury pass across his enemy's face.
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A/N: I realize that this isn't a very good first chapter, and that there are probably some grammatical and spelling mistakes. Spell Check doesn't get everything, atleast not on my raggedy computer. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, though I sure as hell don't see why you would, as it seems to lack everything I meant to put in it. Oh well there's always the Next Chapter. By the way this is a working title, I don't like the current title, and I will change it as soon as I'm awake enough to think of a half decent one.
--PaperCut
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 1: Illnesses of the Mind and Body
Long shadows were cast over the ever-normal houses of Privet Drive. Cars rolled slowly down the street and pulled into their respective driveways as the men of Little Whinging arrived home from work, small children were called in from play to wash up and eat their dinners by caring mothers, who only occasionally glanced at their neighbor's homes for any faults that would soon reach the ears of every home in Little Whinging. All of these people were far too busy, or perhaps far too normal, to notice the undersized, underfed young man, who was currently marring the prim and proper garden at Number 4 Privet Drive.
There was no fawning parent calling for him to come eat, nor would there be, for the youth had been orphaned at the age of one, and his only living relatives detested him with a passion. The denizens of Little Whinging did not blame them. 'That Potter boy,' was a menace to the good people of Surrey, and it was agreed on by all that everyone would have been better off had he died in the accident with his worthless parents. They had even begun to suspect that he was subverting some of their number to his violent ways. A perfect example of this was his beloved cousin, Dudley, star boxer of Little Whinging, had been seen defacing property, be it public or private, cornering and beating small children with his gang (which was undoubtedly lead by Potter).
Of course all of this was complete and utter rubbish, thought Harry, as he watched the sun beat a hasty retreat before the encroaching darkness, and the people of Privet Drive with it. Harry stood and began walking towards old Mrs. Figg's home, where he was to write the required letter to the Order every three days, with his hands stuffed into the unbelievably large pockets of his extremely faded, jeans, which came complete with rips in several places. His shirt was equally tattered. But Harry had ceased to care about his appearance, during his summer holidays. There was no one here to impress, or even worth the effort of attempting to impress. No doubt they'd still make their dark assumptions about him if he dressed in a collared shirt, and freshly pressed slacks each and every day, Harry thought bitterly.
Harry made it to Mrs. Figg's house without anything of import occurring, unless you count Tonks crashing into a trash bin while under an invisibility cloak, which had caused Harry to laugh, even if it had been quite short. Mrs. Figg let him in before he even had an opportunity to knock, and quickly strode back into the kitchen, where the smells of cooking fish was thick, and the cats on the floor, thicker.
Harry swiftly made his way to the small, sparsely furnished study, dodging cats when necessary. The study was comprised of one plain wooden desk, a colorless, and rough carpet, an equally colorless wallpaper, a large table lamp, which was already on, and a bookcase that contained more cobwebs than actual reading material. Harry quickly wrote out the required letter to the Order, which was nearly identical to every letter he had sent to them since the start of summer. Yes, he was coping fine with the death of the only parental figure he had ever had and would probably ever have. No the Dursleys hadn't been mistreating him. They'd just been pretending that he didn't exist, but of course Harry didn't include that. No he hadn't experienced any dreams or pains in his scar. The letters to his friends had been similar in content, which had caused some worry amongst his friends, and continued to do so with each letter. He penned out letters to Ron, and Hermione, asking that Ron let Ginny and the rest of his family be allowed to read his copy.
Harry folded and sealed the letters inside of a thick, yellow parchment envelope, that Mrs. Figg had provided along with the other necessary writing utensils. The letters would be passed along by an Order member, when his or her Harry-sitting shift was over. Harry had been told that owl post was now unsafe for him, and that any letters he wanted to send or receive would have to be sent through the Order along with his 'check-up' letter. He had also been informed that any letters to him had to be first thoroughly inspected by an Order member. Harry had been appalled at the thought of Snape going through his personal mail, and had sent a letter to Dumbledore, via Remus Lupin, demanding a reason for this outrage. Dumbledore's reply had been much less than satisfactory, simply saying that while regrettable, it was in the best interest of his continued safety.
Harry had been in a bad mood for days following this, and had missed the letter to the Order twice, which had been a mistake. The Order had arrived at Number Four en masse. Even Snape had been there, much to his and Harry's displeasure. Uncle Vernon had been apoplectic with rage, but he wisely took his wife and son, who was openly bawling at that point, out to dinner for the evening. Once the Order had ascertained that Harry was indeed fine. They demanded to know why he hadn't written. Harry knew his reasons were puerile, so, flushed with embarrassment, he simply shrugged and said he had forgot. The Order hadn't believed him, of course, but didn't press him over the matter. They all filed out of his backdoor and port keyed away, all except Kingsley Shacklebolt, who was on duty at the time. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia screamed at him for nigh on an hour after that little episode, and confined him to his room for a week, with military-like rations for the duration of his punishment. Needless to say, Harry now sent out the letter every three days.
Harry left Mrs. Figg's house, after declining to stay for dinner, and returned to the Dursley's home. He skipped dinner there as well, though he had not been asked to join in the meal in the first place, and headed up to his room. The room was now very spartan in nature. Somewhere over the course of his stay at Hogwarts, all of Dudley's old broken items had been hauled out, leaving Harry to briefly wonder who had done the work, seeing as Dudley and Uncle Vernon were too lazy, and it would have been impossible for Aunt Petunia to move a large number of the things that had occupied the room by herself.
Harry noted, glumly, that Hedwig was out, most likely hunting, and that he now had no one to vent his trouble out to. Hedwig was an excellent listener, especially since she couldn't tell Harry how juvenile he was being, as she no doubt would judging by her reproving looks whenever his thoughts led him to complain about Dumbledore, the Order, and, of course, Voldemort.
There had been no attacks or Death Eater sightings, that Harry was aware of, since the incident at the Ministry, where Sirius had died…Harry shook the thought from his head, mentally and physically. Having decided to turn in early, and get the dreams over with sooner rather than later, he turned off the lights before stripping down to his shorts, and climbing into bed.
As soon as he had managed to fall asleep, Harry was transported to Voldemort's current hideout. Harry, upon seeing his location, groaned loudly and cupped his face in his hands…Wait a minute, since when did he have a body in these dreams? Harry's attention was taken from this most interesting of developments by a low, rasping groan that issued from the figure sitting on a bed, which was across the room from Harry. He knew this must be Voldemort, the man he had to kill, or to be killed by, no one else had those malevolent red eyes, that shown brightly, even in darkness of shadow. But this was Voldemort as Harry had never seen him. Always before Voldemort had been cruel, cold and calm, not counting the time he had spent as that hideous mockery of an infant in Riddle House. This Voldemort, on the other hand, was huddled close to the fire, and seemed to be shivering uncontrollably. His hands had disappeared inside his cloak, which was tightly wrapped around his skeletal frame. The red eyes which still managed to gleam brightly, were half closed. Sweat poured down the pallid face in waves.
Harry stared at this new Voldemort in complete and utter shock. Could the Dark Lord actually become sick? Harry wasn't sure, but he definitely thought that Lord Voldemort, or at least one of his Death eaters could cure what appeared to be a bad case of the flu. As Harry, watched, transfixed, Voldemort withdrew his wand from his robes and waved it slowly. Nothing happened. Harry stared incredulously as Voldemort's lipped curled, and with a slightly steadier hand, he waved his wand once more. This time the spell worked. A cup filled with a steaming liquid appeared in front of Voldemort. Voldemort reached out quickly, and downed the contents of the goblet in a single gulp. The potion had no visible effect that Harry could surmise, but Voldemort sat up straight, and closed his eyes. An intense look of concentration came over his serpentine face. Harry watched for several minutes, but the only movement the Dark Lord evinced was the light rise and fall of his chest. Harry quickly became bored with his staring, and took the time to look around the room for some clue of where he might be.
There were none. The room was even more desolate than his own, back at Number Four. The floor was made up of a gray wood, that looked so decrepit, that he was surprised that the bed and Voldemort had not fallen through the boards. The walls and ceiling were made up of the same wood as the floor, and were just as deteriorated as the floor, the only difference being that they were covered in a rapidly peeling layer of white paint. There was no door that Harry could locate, so Voldemort must use some type of magic to enter and exit the room. The only objects that weren't wooden were the bed, and the badly-made stone fireplace.
As Harry started to become bored with surveying the room, he hired a low hiss of triumph emanate from the figure on the bed. Voldemort now looked much better than he had when Harry had first entered, and was beginning to look more like Voldemort as Harry knew him. Voldemort was staring at the fire with an intense look of satisfaction on his face, before his eyes widened in something akin to shock, before his eyes narrowed and a single word slipped past his thin lips.
"Potter!"
Immediately a pain so intense ran through his scar that Harry was instantly forced to his knees by the suddenness and force of the mental attack. Harry. The last thing Harry saw before slipping into the waiting arms of unconsciousness was a look of unadulterated fury pass across his enemy's face.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
A/N: I realize that this isn't a very good first chapter, and that there are probably some grammatical and spelling mistakes. Spell Check doesn't get everything, atleast not on my raggedy computer. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, though I sure as hell don't see why you would, as it seems to lack everything I meant to put in it. Oh well there's always the Next Chapter. By the way this is a working title, I don't like the current title, and I will change it as soon as I'm awake enough to think of a half decent one.