Bad Blood Will Out
Summary: Tom Riddle isn't the only young wizard Horace Slughorn helped lead down the path of darkness. Now, so many years later, he will guide another.
Warnings: Slash, time travel, and torture. HP/LV. Evil!Dumbledore
If you disagree with any of these things, then this is not the story for you. You should leave now because you probably won't enjoy this story. And why read something you dislike?
Disclaimer: Not mine, as you will no doubt see from the extreme OOC. Harry Potter is owned by JK Rowling.
Update: 4/29/2012 As of now chapter one and two have been edited by my wonderful beta Loveliness Decays so they should be easier to read. :D
- BBWO -
Chapter One
The summer before Harry's sixth year was tedious in the extreme.
Everyday was monotonous as each second, minute, day, and week slid into each other like an infinite jigsaw puzzle.
For the most part, Harry was left alone by his relatives; but sometimes Vernon came home drunk. Vernon, the fool, had been demoted recently after an incident that occurred at one of the 'famed' dinner parties he was hosting for a client.
This time, it was not the overenthusiastic protection of a wild house elf that ruined the event. In fact, truth be told, the dinner was over before it had even began, for it seemed his dearuncle hadforgotten to do his research; when Dudley opened the door, he found a homosexual couple on the other side.
The Dursleys did not expect a homosexual couple to show up on their doorstep and Vernon, closed-minded pig that he was, couldn't connect the dots between the couple and the scheduled clients before he began to berate their unnatural lifestyle, yelling all the while.
The rather nice and attractive couple left in a huff, swearing never to do business with such a prejudiced organization, but not before the slightly bulkier of the two got one good punch square to Vernon's blubbery jaw. The resounding crack was a sound Harry would hold dear in his memories for the rest of his life.
In any case, Harry's life at Number Four Privet Drive was mostly a quiet one. He was not forced to do any chores and Dudley didn't attempt to smack him about. Nor was a word said about his parentage.
It could have been one of the best summers of Harry's life - if not for the fact that forgetting his existence seemed an all or nothing act for the Dursleys.
Just three days after his birthday, Harry Potter was slowly wasting away without any food to sustain him. After all, birthday cake and chocolate frogs only got you so far. Currently, all Harry had stashed away was a couple of rock cakes - he was more than sure they were inedible - and a single precious candy bar that Harry had nicked from the kitchen when he had been let out to the bathroom unsupervised.
His prospects looked dim even to him. Hedwig had been sent to the Weasleys for protection weeks ago, after Vernon threatened to break her neck if she made any more noise. Harry had reluctantly made the decision to send away his only friend and companion for her own good.
All Harry could do was sleep - or try to. Sleeping was the only escape from the pangs of hunger that ravaged him, a double edged sanctuary. It saved his mind and destroyed it, comforted his body and plagued his conscience.
It became very obvious very quickly that making Harry's life miserable was Voldemort's main goal.
The daily jaunts into bastard's mind were doing nothing to preserve his sanity. Harry wouldn't admit it, but there were times in which he was sure that if he had to endure any more of this torture, he'd surely go mad. He'd just snap one day and end up offing all his relatives in his sleep or something.
If only underage magic wasn't illegal; if only he wouldn't be brought to court for it. In the eyes of the Ministry, fighting Dementors had not been a worthy enough cause to break their laws, and as such, it was highly unlikely that incapacitating his family would be an acceptable excuse either, even if he did it to prevent starving to death.
But these idle thoughts were pointless; Harry didn't even have his wand.
With that last thought, Harry shifted over to his side and laid down to sleep under his threadbare covers. He was going to sleep tonight at any cost.
His determination seemed to mute the noises at Privet Drive. Even the rattling of dishes downstairs as his fat family feasted faded into nothing.
Sighing contentedly, Harry finally allowed his eyes to slip firmly shut. In his mind, there were no walls holding him hostage. There were no magic hating Muggles.
There was nothing but darkness.
- BBWO -
A hideously loud crack tore Harry from the little peace he had managed to find.
It was not so much later, not even two hours later, but Harry found himself ripping off his covers and reaching for a wand that wasn't there.
It took a few seconds for his sleep addled brain to recognize that even if there was danger - highly unlikely thanks to Dumbledore's precious blood wards - he was in no position to fight. The disturbance was probably just the back shot of a car.
That idea comforted him, and he was about to try and go back to sleep when there was another roar; but this time, it was closer and familiar.
Uncle Vernon's loud, throaty barks about freaks floated up to Harry's tiny bedroom like a well-known radio broadcast. ('The Uncultured Swine Station' was a likely title for such.)
Harry wouldn't have even reacted to the vicious stream of verbal abuse had he not heard what his uncle yelled then: "You and your lot can have him, Dubblydore. Take him and be gone. Good riddance!"
Hope flared up in the pit of his stomach: this was it. Finally, the cavalry had arrived.
This joy did not lessen even as the minutes ticked by. What was taking so long? His relatives couldn't wait to be rid of him just as much as he was of them. The waiting was agony.
But soon enough, he could hear his salvation in the heavy thuds on the stairs. Harry had never been so happy to hear his uncle's laborious steps before. By the time the key clicked in the lock and the rickety door swung open, all of his meager processions had been gathered and packed up.
Harry didn't even spare a look for his uncle. He just quietly passed and continued down the stairs closer to freedom than he'd been since June.
The sight of Dumbledore in garish red and orange robes didn't faze him; it only made him squint in response. Such vibrant color was unusual after living with only white walls for company. His trunk and wand seemed to already be in Dumbledore's procession, which explained the wait.
Without waiting for a "touching" goodbye, Harry hoisted his trunk up and marched out of the house without even a backwards glance.
"Wait, my dear boy, don't you want to say - " Before Dumbledore could finish, the door slammed shut behind him.
Blinking as his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the night, Harry waited on the curb, silently preparing himself for whatever strange journey he would be swept away on next. Knowing the man as he did, their journey could be anything from a trip to a Muggle lemon drop factory to a vicious battle with Voldemort on a rocky cliff. One could never know with Dumbledore.
The Headmaster exited behind him and the door slammed shut for the final time. Harry felt a sense of peace and contentment fall over him. One more summer; then there would be no more hatred. No more abuse. No more pain.
The usual gentle smile that graced Dumbledore's face seemed a bit more strained then usual and the twinkle in his eyes was dimmed. The man's aged face did not display his trademark cheerfulness. Slowly, he approached Harry and laid a gentle hand upon his shoulder.
Harry's normal reflexes made it very hard not to flinch as the fragile weight alighted upon on his right shoulder.
Dumbledore's voice was light and airy. "It brings me great sadness, my boy, to see that things between you and your family have not straightened out in the passing years."
"To be perfectly honest, Headmaster, I think that it is a foolish hope to believe that my family and I will ever get on." Harry kept his voice disinterested, careful not to reveal the true extent of his malice.
It had been years since Harry had attempted to explain the abuse he had been suffering to Dumbledore. In fact, it had been years since Harry had tried to tell anyone about it. All of his previous attempts to get help landed him in even more trouble afterwards.
Harry had tried to tell policemen, old school teachers, and even one of those confidential counselors. Dumbledore had heard Harry's last ever cry for help. He had either misunderstood the what Harry had tried to explain or he willfully ignored his troubles.
Harry found he did not want to contemplate which was the true reason for Dumbledore's disregard.
Harry had come to accept his lot in life; it was duty to survive whatever fate threw his way. Maybe it was some unwritten part of the prophecy. The Chosen One had to suffer and triumph through torment before he could fulfill his duty in life and die killing the worst Dark Lord of the age. Harry could already imagine Trelawney's drunken snickering at the subtext.
"I really am disappointed to hear that there is no reconciliation for the four of you. I understand that there has been hurt and resentment, but I still believe that given enough time and patience, this situation can be resolved."
The gently prodding tone only served to irritate Harry further, but he kept his temper in check. One of the many things he had been working on this summer was controlling his emotions. Harry decided to get in touch with his Slytherin side and accept the old hat's wisdom. Slytherin could lead him down the path of greatness. Rash, emotional decisions were what got Sirius killed.
Even through the hell he'd endured, Harry made a promise to himself: to change his ways and perspective. If he didn't more people would die because of his choices, choices that had been made without all the proper care.
Something Harry had been contemplating was Dumbledore's absence in his life over the past year. If all it took to make the great Albus Dumbledore waiver in his support was some bad press, Harry would be better off without him.
The problem, of course, was that if he openly rejected the proffered hand of Dumbledore, many would begin to believe that he was turning Dark.
A small childish voice in the back of Harry's mind wondered if that was just what he was doing embracing his Slytherin side. There wasn't a Dark witch or wizard who didn't come from Slytherin.
For one heart stopping second, Harry almost believed that - and then Harry remembered the person for whom Harry was making all the changes. Sirius. Sirius had been betrayed by Peter Pettigrew, a Gryffindor, not a Slytherin. That alone was enough to dissolve any lingering hesitation.
"I believe, sir, that this is one thing we must agree to disagree on," Harry countered calmly. "May I ask where we are going? We aren't just going to just stand here on the curb on all night, I'm sure."
Dumbledore smiled a bit more brightly, encouraged by the little grin Harry flashed his way. "Indeed, Harry. Tonight, we are going to take a little trip to a charming little muggle village called Budleigh Babberton." Dumbledore paused and caught Harry's questioning look. "It is there you are to help me with a little task for the coming school year. Are you up for helping an old man such as myself?"
"Of course!" Harry replied quickly to complete the eager Gryffindor look. It wasn't that Harry wanted to lie to his Headmaster, but Harry just couldn't imagine him - or anyone else - ever understanding his predicament. And it wasn't even a lie; it was only some exaggerated enthusiasm after all.
Harry's new behavior would have to be disguised by a Gryffindor attitude. Over the summer, Harry had realized that every time the school turned against him, it was because the delicate status quo at Hogwarts had been unbalanced. It was safe to say that if Harry began acting with Slytherin cunning, the school as a whole would have a collective heart attack.
In his second year of schooling, everyone turned on him because being a Parseltongue was obviously a sign of evil running in your veins. Ooh, he had talked to a snake; he was obviously terribly crazy. The worst he could do with that was have a snake bite someone; and a snake charmer could do that with half the effort. Most people didn't understand that snakes were quite stubborn creatures and it took some impressive negotiation to get them to do anything.
In his fourth year, there was the second massive turn against him when he became the Triwizard champion. They either believed he was smart and talented enough to distract the Goblet on his own or they saw it as another perk of fame. Both explanations were ridiculous. If he were really that famous, wouldn't there be more people trying to protect him and not kill him?
Most of the time, Harry felt more notorious than famous.
By Harry's fifth year, it became disturbingly obvious - if Harry hadn't already realized - that the Wizarding world was filled with sheep herded by the media. It was repulsive, the amount of power insects like Rita Skeeter held. Harry was sure that if he were in the Muggle world, he would sue for slander. Nobody wanted to believe the Dark Lord was back, so he must've been lying. A dead classmate and knife wound weren't signs of being attacked by a disturbed psychopath. Not at all.
These sarcastic thoughts could have gone on the whole night if Dumbledore hadn't interrupted his internal ranting monologue.
"We must not dilly dally, my dear boy. There is lots of work to be done tonight. If you would take my arm, we will be off."
Harry, who was still slightly out of it, took the proffered arm and was shocked to feel himself being sucked through a straw - or, at least, that's what it felt like. The unpleasant suction and compression made Harry light headed; his stomach lurched.
By the time the world was normal again, Harry couldn't tell. All he knew was that the cool ground against his liquefied brain felt very nice indeed. After a moment, Harry decided that Apparating would not be his primary mode of transportation in the near future. He felt quite sure that he never wanted to travel in that fashion again.
The thought that they would have to return as they had come made Harry's stomach roll with disgust.
"Up you go." Harry could only squint as he cocked his head to look Dumbledore in the eye. The pounding in his head seemed to dim a bit, but Harry couldn't be sure because the sound of Dumbledore's gales of laughter made him feel a bit dizzy.
"I'm dead. There is no need to move my lifeless body. I'm sure the muggles will be kind enough to step over me on their morning commute." Harry's voice was muffled by the irregular pavement. The little bits of rock and dirt flying about his mouth forced him to roll over. All the while, the Headmaster was absolutely no help. It seemed that his completely serious comment was hilarious, as it only encouraged the Headmaster's riotous laughter and unhelpful attitude.
Finally, the man reached with a shaking, aged arm to help him off the ground. Harry, with his view from the ground, studied the hand; it was wrinkled and spotted with age as one might expect of a man in his early hundreds. The grip of Dumbledore's hand was tight, but his arm still seemed to be weak with amusement and it shook as he helped Harry from the floor.
With a jolt of strength on both of their parts, Harry was once again on his feet; the world began to reorient itself. Dumbledore, it seemed, believed Harry to now be of sound mind and body, because as soon as the man let go of his wrist, he had sped off again, heading toward a small grouping of houses just across the way. The sound of Dumbledore's thick robes and jiggling slippers slapping across the street were the only noises close enough to be heard in the little village.
Harry found that the house he had seen from the street, a very nice if not slightly cookie cutter upper class home, was just about as different as one could be, except upon entering. The entire building was dim and unlit, but really, it was the middle of the night, so that was not at all that unusual.
But the interior, Harry decided, left much to be desired. Harry could understand that whole lived in look, but apparently these people took it to the extreme.
Or it could have been that the entire house had been ransacked, but personally, Harry thought it could be just another extreme example of the rich Muggles having strange and awkward tastes.
Broken glass and shreds of upholstery lay scattered across scuffed and decimated wood flooring. A ruined piano sat in the corner with several of the keys popping out of the mouth.
The one thing that stopped all Harry's internal jokes on the terrible taste of the Muggle elite was the gaping hole in the ceiling that was dripping blood.
Harry glanced quickly over to Dumbledore, who had remained silent the whole time. Instead of springing into action to check whether there was a slowly dying Muggle just above their heads, Dumbledore did the strangest thing.
He held out one crooked finger and waited patiently until a single drop of blood landed on it. Then he proceeded to not only sniff the offending red substance, but after a short inquisitive look, he popped the digit into his mouth and tasted it.
Dumbledore must have read the horror and disgust on Harry's face before he even had a chance to voice it, because he reassured him quickly, "Dragon's blood."
"In any case, sir, I'm not sure that's all that sanitary, but whatever works I guess." Harry paused for a moment, still not able to wrap his mind around his Headmaster's eccentric methods.
Silence reigned for a few more moments before Harry continued, voicing a thought that was troubling him. "So this house was ransacked by Death Eaters? But that can't be completely right, for one this is obviously not a Muggle home, or at least not completely because a Muggle would not have access to dragon's blood. Plus, it seems rather unlikely that this place was attacked by Death Eaters for several reasons."
Dumbledore was still watching Harry skeptically, but a dreamy, contented look was still present on his face, so Harry continued.
"Firstly, if, in fact, this had been the sight of a Death Eater attack, there would probably be more damage to the surrounding area. Actually, there isn't any damage other than this house at all. And I would expect if some sort of crime took place here that the local Muggle newspaper would report on it."
Harry walked around the room, mentally taking a picture of the landscape and analyzing it. Almost absently, he continued, "As for the dragon's blood, either the Death Eaters would have stolen the whole bottle - because I'm pretty sure it is a restricted potion ingredient - or the bottle would have been broken in the struggle, but there is no glass around from such a bottle. The placement of the spill in my opinion is what is fishy."
Harry stopped abruptly and searched the room for something that would make the whole situation make sense.
Sense.
Opening both his nose and mouth, Harry took several rapid breaths, tasting the air.
Dumbledore stood, quiet and watching, awed by the perception in Harry's observations and his strange behavior. It was simply astonishing how much the boy had changed since Hogwarts. Not only had his magical power and presence seemed to have increased greatly, but his maturity level also seemed to have risen. It was unbelievable how much extra magic power Harry had gained over the summer and the boy was not even done growing yet. There was still a whole year before his majority.
Dumbledore decided then and there to keep a closer eye on his pupil this year and to help him control his newly found power.
The air was saturated with magic, strong magic. It was so thick in the air that he could both smell and taste it. Although it seemed to be fairly recent, its potency was beginning to fade. Harry's eyes flickered across the room, searching for the source. Broken lamps. Broken tables. Ripped paintings. Ah ha. The chair.
"Professor Dumbledore, whoever was living here is still here now," Harry informed the man in a casual tone that did not quite fit the meaning of his words nor the way his grip had tightened on the holly handle of his wand. Other than the slight tensing of his shoulders and arms, it was actually quite bizarre how calm Harry appeared to be.
Dumbledore's reaction to this news was peculiar and puzzling. Not even the slightest glimmer of surprise or the hardening of a jaw could be perceived. The headmaster, instead of questioning Harry or taking action, simply looked around for a moment.
Upon not finding even a single chair that was serviceable, other than the blue striped arm chair that Harry had originally noticed, he transfigured a half broken blue and white flowered vase into a great squishy purple recliner chair. He then promptly plopped down into it and sat with pale fingers folded delicately in his lap.
Harry, for all his practicing, could not hide the confusion and disbelief that clouded his features. What in the world was going on?
"Harry, it would be my great pleasure to introduce you to an old friend and colleague of mine. Not only is he a man I believe to be a dear friend but he is also, like you, my boy, quite well known." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with mischief.
All in all, Dumbledore's speech would have been a fairly normal introduction if he had not in fact been introducing Harry to a chair that was not a chair.
If an outside observer had the opportunity to observe their little gathering Harry was sure that Dumbledore would have been sacked on the spot.
"Sir, do you, uh…" Harry paused for a moment as he tried to find the right words. "Are you well acquainted with this… piece of furniture?"
Harry couldn't believe how stupid he sounded to his own ears, but he was unable to find another way to state it. He did not want to offend the unchair by asking if this was a friend, foe, or coward they were hunting.
Dumbledore's reply was less than informative as he aptly responded to the former question with "Quite."
After a tense moment or two in which Harry wondered if this was not real and instead some strange, hunger induced dream, the Headmaster deftly pulled out his wand. Watching the man perform even the simplest magic was an entrancing sight, but the magic that Dumbledore preformed at that moment was glorious.
After a few quick swishes and flicks, broken pieces of glass, furniture, canvas, and other objects began to knit themselves back together. Dirt swept itself up into the newly reformed potted plant base and crystal gems zinged through the air to the ceiling where a champagne and gold chandelier was restructuring. And that was only what was happening to the physical objects.
Magic was itself was almost visible in the room. Barely translucent threads of it weaved and flowed throughout the room, as if the room were but a host for a spider's web. The almost conscious way certain strands reacted was wondrous.
Harry watched in awe as the complex array of spells interacted with each other. Certain spells that would have an adverse effect if complained deftly avoided each other as if each spell had complete control of itself. Other spells seemed to purposely combine to create a greater effect which would finish more efficiently.
This was not an ordinary cleaning or repairing spell. This was something baser, more instinctive.
From that moment, Harry vowed to learn this type of magic.
For Harry, practical magic had been easy, but all the Latin and heavy wand moments seemed to weigh the magic down. Now that Harry had actively seen there was a different way up close, there was no turning back. Just being around this type of magic was incredible. Harry couldn't even imagine what it would be like to experience it for himself.
As the room finished its transformation, the greatest flair of magic yet eclipsed the room. The blue striped arm chair - which Harry was certain was a person - began to change. The sound of popping springs filled the room as the cushions shuttered and reformed. In no time at all, instead of a blue stripped armchair, there was a man in blue stripped pajamas in his place.
"Horace!" Dumbledore greeted the newly transformed man jovially. It was clear to see that the ostensible 'Horace' was not nearly as ecstatic to see his apparent old friend. The man was probably in his mid or late seventies. He was a squat man with a somewhat slackened face. His cheeks were rosy with color and his gooseberry green eyes were dulled with the sleepy fatigue that an enchantment can induce.
The overall impression Harry took away from the man standing before him was that of a sleepy bulldog. Whether that bulldog was as gentle when poked and prodded might be another story.
"Albus?" Horace inquired in a thick throated tone that was reminiscent of the same cotton which had just recently been his innards.
Harry found it interesting that in that moment it seemed that Horace was just as if not more confused by the situation than Harry himself was. It was actually quite an addicting position to be in, the one who knew more answers than questions.
"Albus?" This time, his voice was a bit firmer and surer. "By Merlin, what brings you here, old chap?"
Dumbledore's mood brightened as his "old friend" seemed to clear up and remember him and he hurried over to shake the man's hand enthusiastically. They were definitely more than mere acquaintances, but the bond of friendship that the two of them evidently shared was more of convenience and proximity rather than shared ideals and hobbies.
Harry could not say for sure how he knew, but he thought it was because although they were comfortable with the ease of friendship there still seemed to be an underlying tension in the room. Everyone was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
In the now illuminated room, Harry could visibly see what had apparently caused his headmasters previous weakness. Dumbledore's whole right hand had been consumed by charcoal colored burns. The skin of his dominant hand was charred and shiny with burns.
How in the world had Harry not noticed this before? Now, in the light of the tastefully decorated Muggle living room, it was obvious, but before it went unnoticed. Harry was not the only one to have noticed the grave injury; he watched the Headmaster wave off any attempt of examination or help by the other gentleman.
The conversation that followed after they reacquainted was swift and almost silent, but Harry could tell they were squabbling by the look of contention that crossed over the other man's face before he sighed and apparently gave up.
"Harry" the headmaster called, pulling him out of his internal assessments. "I would like to formally introduce you to my dear friend Mr. Horace Slughorn. He was a professor at Hogwarts when your parents attended, you know."
Harry was greatly tempted to retort that of course, he did not know, because no one told him anything. But instead, he replied politely, if not a little dully, "Pleased to meet you, sir."
For his part, Slughorn did not seem offended nor taken aback by Harry's rather lackluster greeting, and Harry wondered if it was custom for the man to receive less than animated greetings.
"Ah, young Harry. A pleasure. A pleasure." The man responded with a fervent handshake. "I'm sure you've already heard as much, but I must say, you look remarkably like your mother."
As the man had begun speaking, Harry had been feeling the dull pit of boredom filling up and as he broached the cliché topic of his looks, Harry could only feel the mild bout of annoyance. But shock, pure shock was all Harry felt as the man finished his statement.
After gaping for a moment or two, Harry finally regained control over his actions to ask, stuttering, "Sir, are you sure? Are you certain you don't mean to say that I look a great deal like my father?"
Slughorn chuckled at Harry's shock and disbelief, his great jowled cheeks quivering and shaking with his mirth. "Well, I suppose if one were looking for it, they would find a great many resemblances to James Potter. But to a truly trained and keen eye, under that mop of messy black hair are your mother's cheek bones and chin, and her tell tale eyes, of course. And your small and slender nose."
It was strange to listen to a list of all his prominent features rattled off in a list, but Harry actually found himself rather grateful. A great many people looked, stared, examined and even assaulted him with their eyes, but no one ever saw. Harry could not explain how special he felt because of Slughorn's semi-impartial assessment.
If Harry could turn outward and look at his own features now Harry was sure that between the shocked and hopeful expression on his face and his wide eyed stare that he almost certainly bared a resemblance to a lost puppy. He blushed furiously at the thought.
"Horace, my dear fellow, may I use your loo?" Harry was startled when Dumbledore broke the calm. Slughorn, for his part, looked only bemused as he gave directions. Dumbledore left them quickly, disappearing to an upstairs bathroom, out of sight. It was at that same moment that the door upstairs slammed shut with a partially muted bang that shifted the entire mood of the room.
When Harry looked back to his only other companion, he was shocked to see an almost completely different man standing before him.
Harry was unsure of what to say. He didn't even know what to think. Where there had once been a slight daft and doddering old man, there was now a keen, slick, cunning old gentleman. Somehow, the pajamas looked like the fashion statement of a rich and powerful man, rather than an old dotty how had just rolled out of bed.
The previous slackened face and droopy wrinkles had been transformed and reformed by the sly smirk that coated the man's face.
"Wha - " Harry started to ask but was stopped by finger held over the other man's thin lips.
"There is not much time to talk, but there are some very important pieces of information I need to share with you," the man - Harry didn't even know what to call him - asserted. "While I know that you have no reason to trust me, I ask, I beg, that you at least give me the chance to tell you something that could change your life forever."
Harry surprised even himself at that moment when he nodded his head quickly in conformation. His mind screamed at his body, but Harry could not seem to help himself. This was a stupid Gryffindor move charging in without thinking, but Harry could not stop himself.
All he could say was that if nothing else, one thing Slughorn had told him was the truth; his life was about to change forever.
