I don't own Harry Potter. I have no idea what to write in my other story, and I wrote this one now. I'm trying to decide which I wish to continue.
"BOY!" A thin child in rags was thrown out into the dirt of a barren, dry, cracked lawn. Veron Dursley puffed out his chest in pride. Seeing the child he considered a freak scramble to stand. His body thin, frail, beaten, and bruised the pathetic form brought a wicked smile to the fat whale's face. "Make yourself useful, useless freak."
"Harry." The child mumbled. "My name is Harry." Hating the fact this man took his name away from him for so long. He stood up shakily, watching his Uncle slam the door behind him. He could feel the heat already getting to his starved and battered body. He doubted he could even sweat with the lack of water in his malnourished brittle body. He stared out at the barren yard. The drought had not been kind to Surrey.
He was strong minded though his body was weak. He knew that he was something more than a normal human. He was able to do things that were unexplainable. Talk to snakes, make things disappear, survive. Yes. Survival was the main use his powers were going towards. He was bitter. He wanted this power to cause them pain, to make them pay. Oh yeah, his power was magic. He was a wizard. It was amazing how easily he forgot himself, and reverted back to the useless slave the Dursley's had programmed him to be.
A lone shadowy figure on the edge of the lawn caught Harry's attention. Voldemort was here. Whenever his uncle threw him out, Voldemort was there, Voldemort never entered. Voldemort had just been there, for Harry when he was at his lowest.
Pathetically Harry walked shakingly towards the figure. He normally didn't immediately rush to the dark being's side. He didn't need pity. He didn't really want someone to witness and share in his misery. At least that was what he had originally believed. How much longer would he survive? As he continued to walk towards the figure he couldn't decided if it was longing for another's company that didn't ooze hatred out of their pores that drove him so quickly to Voldemort despite the pain, or to see one other living being besides his monster of a family before he died.
He fell to the ground before the stoic man, onto his knees, gasping through cracked and broken ribs. His face didn't reveal any of the pain he felt. His eyes were clear, but buried in their depths was a knowledge that no child so young should know. He wasn't going to make it this time. His magic was losing the battle, and he mind couldn't help just want to stop thinking. Stop fighting.
"Voldemort." Harry's voice sounded relieved to say the older one's name. He unconsciously welcomed the presence of Voldemort's dark seductive aura surrounded as encompassed him, and he sighed in bliss. Voldemort was still an odd name. That inviting presence he brought with him though made up for his strangeness.
The man smirked down at Harry. Seeing him relax in his aura brought the man a bit of possessive satisfaction. Harry needed him. He needed him in order to retain what little sanity the Dark Lord had brought back to his conscious mind. "Hello little one." Voldemort began using Harry's hated pet name. His red eyes stared appraisingly down at Harry. Taking in his wounds, new and old. The child seemed frailer than last time. "I see that you managed to anger the fat whale again. I do hope you don't fall over dead before me today."
"No promises." Harry managed to rasp out his voice shaking. He didn't notice Voldemort's concerned look, or aura darken, at the serious tone Harry's statement seemed to carry. "I don't have much wit for you today, I'm afraid." Harry gasped each word seemed to be taking a huge amount of strength.
"You're dying."
It wasn't a question.
Harry looked up at Voldemort. The tone of his statement catching him off guard. It was concerned, raw, and possessive. Harry felt a warmth fill him. Voldemort didn't want him to die. Harry smiled goofily up at Voldemort. "Thank you." The aura soothing his aching body. He wondered absently if he wasn't so beaten, if perhaps Voldemort would feel his aura.
Voldemort narrowed his eyes, urging Harry to explain without words, and just a miniscule tilt of his head.
"For actually making me think my existence will be missed by one person, I mean I know after all your lectures you're above human, but still it matters," Harry rambled on. "For making me realize I'm a wizard, not a freak." Harry swallowed he dry throat hurting with the constant communication. "I appreciate it more than I think to care or realize." Harry bowed his head, the effort of keeping eye contact was more than he could take now. His body was failing. "I've been fighting alone for so long, I just assumed I didn't want anyone around. I just wanted to die in the shadows. To disappear and go into death, the hopefully pain free journey."
"Do you welcome death now, Harry Potter?" Voldemort hissed softly.
The definition of death in the dictionary is the act of dying; the end of life; the total and permanent cessation of all the vital functions of an organism. Harry's analytical mind tiredly but immediately pushed forth. Did he welcome ceasing to be? Now after he had found out his existence…
"No." Harry struggled wearily to lift his head. "I don't."
Voldemort smiled in a twisted way. Proud of this child's response. He couldn't let such potential die. He couldn't let the one who had defeated him all those years prior die in such an undignified way, at the hands of useless muggles. This child whom he had come to find a way to kill less than a few months ago, whose dry wit and sarcasm captured his attention. This child of light that seemed to thrive in the darkness of his own magic. "Would you like to come away with me little one?"
Harry collapsed further on the ground, hunching over in an uncomfortable manner. He could feel the pulse of Voldemort's dark aura, soothing him, caressing him. It made dying seem enjoyable. Yet, going with Voldemort could be just as much bliss. The man who had been visiting for the past months, who had helped Harry remember, he was more than a slave. To be free of the bastards who abused him every day. His mind was muddled with pain and desperation. Not fully comprehending or remembering everything he'd learned about this man. He was dangerous, he was dark, and he did nothing without a price. He was unforgiving, and the only reason Harry had never experience his wrath was due to the bubble like force field that separated them.
"Yes." Harry's voice was barely a whisper, desperate. "Please. Take me away."
Pleased Voldemort smirked gently or at least as gently as he could and reached his hand towards Harry, stopping just before crossing into the lawn. "Take my hand Harry, my child. Let us leave this place and its disgusting inhabitants."
Slowly Harry struggled to raise his arm and reach towards the salvation Voldemort's outstretched hand offered. His hand slowly reached through a bubble like apparition that shattered the moment his scarred hand was in Voldemort's.
Voldemort quickly tugged the withered decaying boy towards him. He felt hot anger well up in him, at exactly how light the boy ways, how frail, and how decrepit he seemed. It was like holding a corpse. A breathing corpse. He had never truly paid attention to the boy's body, his mind is what had captivated his attention for the majority of the last month.
Harry felt himself pulled into a warm chest as arms tightened around him in a comfortable but secure hold. His face was buried in Voldemort's neck. He smelt the comfortable darkness that was the man's very essence. He felt a stick poke the side of his head. He fleetingly the thought it could be a wand, like the one Voldemort had once shown him.
"Sleep." Murmured Voldemort in a hissing caress.
Falling prey to the depths of unconsciousness immediately, Harry wasn't aware when Voldemort tightened his hold on Harry possessively. Nor did he realize that the Dark Lord stared with revulsion and rage at the Dursley home. He was also completely oblivious to when red eyes looked down on him in an almost caring manner, and right before disappearing with the young boy, he whispered.
"Mine."
The Minister of Magic was frantic. The Boy Who Lived, Harry Bloody Potter, the Savior of the Wizarding World was missing! Disappeared from his muggle family's home late in the afternoon on Tuesday July 28th. Exactly three days before his eleventh birthday. The birthday in which the boy would finally once again join the Wizarding World. The publicity, and votes the boy coming back would bring was completely ruined.
Cornelius Fudge like an angry child threw his folder with unnecessary force scatter papers all over his otherwise organize office. It was Dumbledore's fault. Always Albus Dumbledore's doing. It was then in a moment of pure jealousy towards Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, that Fudge vowed to destroy the old man who had ruined his political outlook no matter the costs.
Pressing a button on his desk Fudge gleefully told his Undersecretary an urgent message. "Get me Lucius Malfoy please Dolores."
"Yes, Minister." Came the sickeningly sweet reply. "He has already sent an owl indicating he will be here shortly."
"Thank you." Fudge grimaced, she was a good Undersecretary, but her obsession with him was a little, well creepy. Fudged let loose a shudder. He tilted back in his chair and gazed up at the ceiling wondering absently what the Head of the Malfoy family had already wanted with him. He puffed his chest in pride. He was the Minister of Magic after all. It isn't shocking a man of such importance would need his assistance, the poor easily manipulated man thought.
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