Prologue

"Avada Kedavara!" The chorus chimed and mocked him from every direction with the spell. Time slowed, and the green jet barely trickled from her wand. Her gnashing teeth, the satisfied smirk on her worn and evil face like Satan's version of the Madonna, everything seemed a sculpted, immobile masterpiece. Her counterpart's face had been carved in surprise, but his eyes shone oddly calm welcoming the reaper's grasp that had ensnared him. Those dark eyes drifted for a moment until they locked with a pair of emerald green.

'Move,' his pushed his thoughts outward hoping the message would reach;, hoping that the neon light would graze past his shoulder; hoping to see him stand triumphantly as he sent a crimson jet that would send the twisted witch sprawling through the air; hoping that the last link to the family he had never known would stand proud as pillar of strength that he could always rely on.

Fate was not so kind.

Green light drilled into the man's chest with only a soft 'oh' escaping from his lips to show the spell had hit its mark. The term 'puppet whose strings had been cut' always seemed like an exaggeration, but seeing his limp frame hurtle through the air, wand slipping from limp arms that hung dead at his sides and a body that tumbled backwards like an invisible arm had tugged violently at his collar, he could find little else to compare.

Time awoke again with a start pumping life into the scene so quickly he had no time to reach the flailing corpse before it passed behind a brittle, stone archway, disappearing behind a tattered cloth that blew against a wind unfelt by the living. He had never seen this place, nor this monument that stood prominent on the dais, but down inside the dark, primordial places where instinct told what books and teachers could not he knew what this arch was. He knew what lie behind that broken cloth, and he knew there was no coming back from it.

He was dead, never to return.

A shout, but no words came out. A desperate reach, but his arms turned to cracked stone that fell soundlessly to the floor. A hard kick to force his body upward, but his legs suffered the same disease as his arms, and his body was left to uselessly sit on the floor. The stone dais disappeared in an instant along with the twisted Madonna, the cavernous walls of the room, everything swallowed by a dark maw leaving him as the only one illuminated.

"A taste of things to come," the hissing voice had no origin but pounded inside of his head, beating against every corner of his skull like a jackhammer. "Another string to your worthless past cut. But the past is so dull and there are so few links left. I think it's time we started working on the present, don't you?" Mocking laughter, inhuman laughter like listening to a snake choke on its tongue.

"Who should pass next…Hmm, I wonder," The shadows crept back revealing the inside of a modest hovel that he instantly recognized. He remembered with fondness the usual bustle of activity by the red-haired occupants of a family crammed into a space far too small. Whatever faint moment of happiness he had was quickly dashed as those occupants now lie lifeless on the floor, dead eyes staring open blankly their faces locked in permanent surprise.

"The blood-traitor family that is so fond of you perhaps? Or…"

Another flash of darkness and the scene changed. This place was unfamiliar to Harry, but struck him as similar to the home he was forced to stay at during the Summer months, though far warmer and lighter by comparison. Death hung heavy here as well; a man and woman who he barely recognized lay slumped bleeding over pastel furniture along with a frizzy-haired young woman who lay between the two.

"That mud-blood girl you're so fond of? Maybe too obscure…"

The flashes happened more rapidly now scenes shifting back and forth so fast his eyes stung. More corpses, more familiar faces laying lifeless, a macabre slideshow accompanied by the laughter of a bodyless voice.

"So many delicious targets to choose from," there was a light step to the voice now, an almost giddy tone that sent chills up his spine, "I just can't pick one. Oh, why don't you hmm? A very kind offer I think. They'll all die eventually, but you get to pick the order." A deathly pale hand suddenly shot from the darkness and caressed against his face. The scaly sandpaper of its skin sidled across his cheek gently before wrapping around his chin and forcing his eyes skyward. Shadows peeled away in layers revealing the hand's owner a grisly specter of pure white whose eyes burned red so hard the shadows waned against its putrid light. His cracked lips parted into a Cheshire grin revealing rows of sharp teeth.

"Isn't Lord Voldemort generous?" His mocking laughter erupted out of every corner pounding against him like a percussive drum every beat louder than the last. It threatened to break him apart, the pain becoming more intense with every second.

"Choose Boy Who Lived! CHOOSE!"

Harry awoke with a start, peeling the covers off his body in a writhing mass of limbs. He had managed to keep from screaming this time, though only by reflexively biting his tongue. His body was drenched in a cold sweat that left his body's imprint on the covers of the tiny bed, and his breathing was ragged and broken. But he had at least managed to keep silent after this time. He vividly remember the first time Voldemort had sent those images to him; he had yelled so loud Uncle Vernon burst into the room and threatened to gag him if he didn't keep his trap shut. At first he had thought they were nightmares, guilt over Sirius' death maybe. But every time he slept, they came creeping back Voldemort maliciously prodding every corner of his mind with sadistic glee.

Harry grasped blindly for his glasses on the nightstand and found comfort against the cold plastic and glass before setting them on his face. 'Only two hours,' thought Harry as his eyes drifted at the clock on his wall, 'That's a bit longer than usual. He must be too busy to torture me properly.' The images came with every night; visions of death, mutilation, and destruction with Voldemort mocking him at every turn. The nightmares were always different, but the message was the same. 'I will kill you, but I will kill everything you care about first'. What scrapes of Occlumency he had acquired in his lessons with Snape was about as protective as a sheet of worn parchment to Voldemort's abilities which seemed to grow stronger every night. It was ironic that out of all the people Harry wanted to see, the potion's master was at the top. Even his petty remarks and constant insults would be preferable to the hellish tortures Voldemort had deemed to expose Harry to in every dream.

'What I would give to see his greasy mug right now,' Harry thought rubbing the scar on his forehead in a useless attempt to dull the pain. The jagged etching on his head burned like a cattle brand forcing into his skull and would jerk with sharp pains that made him wince throughout the day. He closed his eyes again and felt a rush of fear split through him the moment he did. His body and mind were at war with each other, fatigue wracking every muscle demanding rest while instinct kept him awake from fear that the images would come again. If Voldemort intended to drive him mad he was doing a very good job of it.

Harry emptied his mind, imagining his brain an vacant, barren plain. It was a rudimentary defense at best, but if it would be enough to get him to dawn then he'd consider it a godsend.

'Just a few more days,' Harry thought to himself, 'just hang on a few more days.'

"Dear child, you don't have days left…"