Author's Note: This story is going to be my NanoWrimo so expect fast updates throughout November :D This story will get Dark because Voldemort is a ruthless and established leader, but nothing is going to get too graphic and I'll warn of anything coming up in chapters that might be upsetting
Harry's breath came out in sharp pants, his legs burning as he ran down the halls of Hogwarts. He stopped for a moment to try and catch his breath, pressing his hand against his side to fight the stitch that had flared up. He forced himself to start running again when he heard footsteps approaching rapidly, ignoring the protests of his body.
Harry knew he shouldn't have been out of bed in the first place, but he'd wanted to go to the Restricted Section and no teacher would give a half-blood a note to access it with permission. He'd underestimated the Carrow's security measures, though, and as soon as he stepped too close to the gate to the Restricted Section an alarm began blaring.
Thankfully Harry had managed to jump back in time before ropes had emerged from the ground, trying to wrap themselves around his ankles, but he knew the Carrows wouldn't rest until he was caught. They took their duties as night security very seriously, perhaps because they took sadistic glee in punishing students. They favoured the Cruciatus Curse, and Harry really wasn't in the mood to writhe around in pain tonight.
Making it back to his dormitory was his only option, but it seemed to be a slowly dwindling option. The way the Carrows were chasing him pushed him further away from his dorm room. He'd made it to the seventh floor, at least, but he was the wrong end of it.
All he needed was somewhere to hide, somewhere the Carrows wouldn't think to look. Harry had to somehow lose himself in the castle, or else he would face the wrath of the Cruciatus reigning pain over him.
He stopped dead in his tracks, almost stumbling over his own feet as a small door appeared silently on the wall in front of him. He'd certainly never seen the door before; there weren't even classrooms in this part of the castle.
Figuring he had nothing left to lose, and with the footsteps chasing him getting closer and closer, Harry yanked the door open and fled inside. He fell against the door as it closed behind him, gripping the handle tightly with his hand and pressing his forehead against the cool wood.
The footsteps ran straight past, not even hesitating as they went by the new and unusual door; Harry let out a sigh of relief. He turned around, figuring he'd give the Carrows time to get to another part of the castle before he emerged again.
The room was massive yet at the same time appeared cramped and tiny, likely because of the massive stacks of items that went from floor to ceiling. Only magic was stopping them toppling over, because they didn't look at all sturdy. In the tower closest to Harry he could see old books, bottles of wine, broomsticks, and a battered old wardrobe.
Harry had always been overly curious, and it often got him in trouble—it was why he was in this particular predicament in the first place— but he really wanted to see what was in the room. He'd been at Hogwarts for six years now and he'd never seen the room before, or heard anyone else mention it. It could just be a scrap room that wasn't worth mentioning, but Harry was still intrigued.
Nothing particularly caught his eye, however, and he was about to turn back when his gaze landed on a glimmer of silver.
It was a diadem, pure silver with a vibrant blue jewel engraved in the centre, and another hanging below it. Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure was scrawled on the front of it. Harry vaguely recalled his father telling him that out of the old Hogwarts Houses, Ravenclaw was the one that valued wisdom and learning, and he wondered if it belonged to the House before Voldemort abolished it along with Gryffindor and Hufflepuff.
His fingers grazed the metal before he hastily pulled them back, jerking at the magic he felt pulsing through the diadem. As the surprise died, he cautiously moved his hand back, carefully picking up the jewellery. It was a beautiful thing, and the feel of the magic flowing through it was almost intoxicating.
Somewhere, Harry could hear voices, but they didn't concern him. They were soft, and distant, as though they were far, far away. The voices wanted the diadem, Harry knew, but he didn't want to give it to them.
He raised the diadem above his head, sliding it across the top of his hair. The voices were getting louder—inaudible, but louder—but the diadem was his now. The diadem was his.
A woman screamed, no longer away from Harry but inside his head, piercing his ears as she screamed and screamed and screamed. His hands flew to the diadem to tear it off his head but it was red hot against his fingers, making it impossible to remove. He settled for covering his ears and shutting his eyes, but the woman continued to scream, and Harry was sure his head was going to implode.
The diadem vibrated violently on top of Harry's head, making his body jerk and shake as foreign magic splintered through him. It was his turn to scream as a surge of magic flowed through him, so powerful it knocked him off his feet. Harry's fingers burned as he tried to tear the diadem off his head again, his throat aching from how much he was screaming, and then, all of a sudden, everything stopped.
And Harry's world fell black.
Harry's eyes twitched, but he didn't open them, content as he was in the darkness.
He was loosely aware of the silence he was accustomed to being broken by short beeps, one after the other. He began to hear tapping too; footsteps, not near him but close enough that he could hear the hustle and bustle of the world working while he stayed safe in the darkness.
His fingers twitched, pain jolting through them at the motion. And suddenly he was aware of his body lying on a soft surface—he'd been so sure he was floating—and with awareness of his body came awareness of pain. It wasn't sharp, burning pain, but a dull ache that seemed to reach every inch of his skin.
"Harry," a soft voice murmured somewhere high above him. "Wake now, Harry."
Harry flinched when a cold finger touched his cheek.
"Harry," the voice said again, sharper and right next to him. "Wake!"
Harry's eyes flew open, and he blinked rapidly as light hit him with a burning discomfort. He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing heavily before carefully opening them again, gasping as a face appeared right in the line of his vision. It was a strange, waxen face that didn't quite look real, unnaturally white like it was carved from snow. The face had blood red eyes, slits like a snake for a nose, and thin, barely there white lips which opened to reveal sharp, pointed teeth.
Lord Voldemort.
"Wha-?" Harry started to say, but his throat clenched as he spoke and he broke off into a hacking cough, sitting forwards and hunching over as his whole chest ached with the force of it.
When he'd finished a strong hand pushed him backwards, allowing Voldemort to loom over Harry once more.
"You must rest, Harry," Voldemort said tenderly, as though he wasn't a monstrous Dark Lord who ruled the Wizarding World with violence and terror. "You've been through quite the ordeal."
"I…" Harry murmured, brow furrowing as he thought back to the last thing he remember. "A diadem! I wore it...cursed?"
"You're fortunate the Carrows discovered you when they did," Voldemort stated. "You gave them such a fright, screaming like that; they thought Rebels had broken into the castle and were torturing you. But no, it was just you being a foolish child." Voldemort spat the last word with venom, but his cruel tone seemed to be the only thing so far to Harry that felt real. "You really must be more careful, Harry; we don't want you losing any of that precious blood."
Voldemort retreated from his invasion of Harry's personal space, and Harry felt a pressure both physical and emotional leave him as he was given room to breathe.
He left without another word, not even sparing Harry a second glance as he moved so elegantly he could have almost been gliding.
Harry frowned, fingers prodding at his temples as he felt a headache coming on. As he rubbed his aching forehead he felt a strange line where the skin felt smoother than the rest. He drew his hand away, finally looking at the room around him which was stark white; white walls, white furniture, white light. It was clearly a hospital, but definitely not the wing at Hogwarts which Harry knew intimately well.
He didn't know what to feel, confusion clouding all of his other senses. Voldemort was supposed to be terrifying but Harry had been too bewildered to notice anything but the strangeness of the situation.
He glanced towards the door as urgent footsteps hurried towards it, and then it flew open, slamming into the wall beside it with a crash. Harry just had time to glimpse the hopeful but tired look on his father's face before he found himself wrapped in a firm embrace, the spicy scent of his father's cologne filling his senses and making him choke again.
"Oh, Harry," James babbled, pulling back but gripping Harry's shoulders tightly. "Thank Merlin you're awake! I couldn't believe it when he said, but you're here! You're here!"
"Come now, Mr Potter," a man in bright green robes—a Healer—ushered, pulling James away from the bed. "We must give your son his space; he's been through quite the ordeal. How do you feel, Harry?"
"Er," Harry muttered, flinching when the Healer began prodding him with his wand and performing various spells that tingled uncomfortably. "Sore. And confused. What's going on? I-"
"You've been in a coma," James croaked, standing by his wife, and Harry's step-mother, Margot. Margot appeared entirely uninterested in what the Healer was doing, though she did manage to give Harry a strained smile of support.
"A coma?" Harry repeated, trying to ignore the Healer jostling him as he worked.
"For over a year," James reiterated, and Harry could only stare at him.
A whole year he'd been unconscious? Had he really missed an entire year of his life? The concept seemed impossible to Harry, but at the same time seemed to make everything strange around him fall into place.
"Your professor, Amycus Carrow brought you in," the Healer added. "Said he'd found you screaming with a cursed object on your head, but you collapsed before he could get it off you. He brought you straight here but whatever magic was in that tiara did something to you that we simply couldn't figure out. We were ready to give up when the Dark Lord very graciously offered his knowledge of Dark curses to assist us; you owe him your life."
"He...what?" Harry asked, tilting his head in confusion.
The curse and the coma rang true, but Voldemort helping him?
"Magical blood is very valuable," the Healer said, parroting the propaganda posters that Voldemort's followers strung everywhere. "A half-blood you may be, but magic runs through your veins which makes you deserving of assistance."
"And we are very grateful for that," James stated, voice strained. "Long may the Dark Lord reign."
"Long may he reign," Margot and the Healer responded, crossing an arm over their chest and tapping above their heart twice.
Harry didn't join in. He may have been unconscious for over a year, but all he wanted to do was sleep. Perhaps, he thought, if he closed his eyes again he might wake up and discover this whole thing had simply been a nightmare.
It wasn't a nightmare.
The scar shaped like lightning on Harry's forehead was proof enough of that. He scrubbed at it hard enough to leave his skin an angry shade of red, but the mark of the curse magic remained.
He supposed that though him being in a coma had been hell for his family, it had made his own life a lot less stressful. Since he'd woken up Harry had found himself feeling melancholy most days, and like he didn't fit into his own life anymore.
The Ministry had sent him a letter stating that he had to go back to Hogwarts to complete his seventh year on account of him missing the entirety of it. Harry didn't see the point of going back, because the only jobs he'd be able to get regardless were low-level, half-blood approved menial roles that he certainly didn't need NEWTs for.
But rules were rules, and though James would have helped Harry find a loophole, Margot made it very clear that she wasn't going to risk her freedom just so Harry could skip school. Harry didn't have the energy to fight her on it, so he'd resigned himself to returning to school and joining a different year group where he barely knew anyone except his step-sister, Valentina.
He stifled a yawn, covering his mouth with his hand—his skin always felt cold nowadays, and he flinched as his icy fingertips brushed his cheek. He hadn't been sleeping well since returning home either. His dreams were haunted by the same vision every night; of a strange woman with blurred features running through a dark forest, so black he could barely make out the trees around her. He could hear whispering too, so low he couldn't understand the words, and sometimes when he woke it sounded like there was somebody by his bed, hissing into his ear.
He jumped when a knock sounded at his door, startling him out of his moping.
Margot opened the door without even waiting for an answer, scowling at him as she stepped into his room.
"I've been calling you; don't you listen?" Margot folded her arms across her chest, glaring at him icily.
There was no motherly feelings from Margot towards Harry. She was a widow, and when Voldemort announced that all witches and wizards of age had to marry—and those without partners would be matched up—she was forced to marry Harry's father. They made their marriage work simply because they had no other choice, even having two children together—Lennox, who was now nine, and Cordelia, who was six—like they were required, but while James made an effort to be a father to Valentina, Margot made no such attempt with Harry.
It didn't bother Harry though; his own mother loved him enough, even if he barely got to see her.
"I couldn't hear you," Harry told Margot blankly, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. "I'd have come down if I had."
"Don't cheek me," Margot snapped. "And get your coat on; your father's waiting for you over at Sirius's. He's taking you to see…her today. The Dark Lord allowed her an extra visiting day on account of you missing the last one."
Harry's heart jumped hopefully in his chest, cancelling out the anger he felt towards Margot whenever she referred to Harry's mother with such utter contempt and disgust.
"I'm allowed to go see Mum?" he asked eagerly, smiling for the first time since he'd awoken without having to force it. "Do me a favour, Margot, and try shouting louder next time."
The compound where Muggle-borns lived was a plain, non-descript building with four bare, grey walls with just a single metal door breaking through the colour. It was surrounded by a large wire fence, with thick spikes bunched together across the top and the bottom, and cursed to cause intense pain to anyone who passed through it if they carried the 'Mudblood Signifying Mark.'
Voldemort's propaganda campaign could dress it up as a compound however they liked, but it was nothing less than a maximum security prison—even Azkaban had better conditions now that the Dementors had left to guard the outside of the fence surrounding the Muggle-born compound.
Muggle-borns—a now archaic term as most people referred to them as Mudbloods, though Harry refused to do so—were accused of being Muggles who had stolen magic. Voldemort oh so gracefully permitted them to stay in the Wizarding World alive, but their Muggle family were Obliviated—read, killed—and they themselves were forced in live in a compound which was claimed to be absolutely imperative in keeping deserving witches and wizards safe.
It was all a load of bullshit, in Harry's opinion. But people who expressed that point of view were deemed blood-traitors and imprisoned, although the punishment wasn't as bad as it was for Muggle-borns who attempted to escape or rebel against Voldemort's orders, because they were publically executed.
Muggle-borns like Lily who had married a half-blood or pureblood before Voldemort's reign were permitted to have a visit from their ex-spouse and children twice a year, once at Christmas and once for a single family member's birthday. James had chosen Harry's birthday, and Harry cherished all of the visits he got to see his mother.
As they walked into the visiting room, Harry found his eyes drawn immediately to the familiar shock of red hair. He ran forwards, falling into his mother's arms and burying his face against her hair. Lily held him so tightly it hurt but he didn't pull back, not until a guard barked at them to separate.
"Oh, Harry, my sweet boy," Lily said, holding onto his arms as she looked him up and down. She gave him a watery smile, her vivid green eyes glistening. "I'm so glad you're alright now."
Harry nodded as he choked up, not daring himself to speak in case it made all his tightly wound up emotions come spilling forth. No matter what was going wrong in his life, he'd never burden his mother with it, not while she was living as a prisoner for nothing other than her blood type.
He glanced past her, smiling at his half-siblings, Holly, Joseph, Oliver, Lacey, and Matthew, and his step-father, Dirk Cresswell. Though he and Dirk didn't see each other very often, Dirk still made an effort to be kind to Harry and assured him they were family, even if they were a family forced into creation by Voldemort.
Their children were deemed half-bloods as they were born with natural magic rather than 'stealing' it like their parents. Lily and Dirk's children were still all under nine, while the eldest children born inside the compound would soon be turning seventeen, and nobody knew what was going to happen to them once they turned of age. Some Muggle-borns had been taken from the compound after they turned seventeen, though nobody knew what happened to them, and many parents feared their children would be taken from them. There had been a point when the pregnancy rates in the compound began dropping because of that fear, but that only served to anger the Ministry—Lily refused to tell Harry what the Ministry did to combat it, but he knew that Lily would never have wished to have so many children of hers born in captivity.
"How are you feeling, love?" Lily asked after everyone had hugged and settled at the bolted-down table. "Are you in pain? Are you sleeping well?"
Her gaze flickered to Harry's scar, and she frowned at the curse mark.
"I'm fine," Harry lied, giving her a reassuring smile. "The most annoying part is that I have to go back to Hogwarts with a younger year group."
Lily pursed her lips. "An education is important, I suppose. And Valentina will be with you, at least."
"Yeah, she'll gladly welcome her freak brother into her group of friends," Harry muttered before he could stop himself.
James flinched slightly beside him, his hand flying down to Harry's knee to squeeze it comfortingly. Lily's frown deepened.
"Harry-" she said sadly, but Harry cut her off.
"It's fine," he murmured, shaking his head. "Kids gossip all the time; it's how boarding school works. I'll be fine, I know. Hey, Matthew, I hear you can count all the way to twenty now."
The three-year-old nodded, beaming proudly as began reciting his counting abilities to Harry. Dirk's lips quirked, and Lily fixed Harry with a pointed look, but he just smiled back at them innocently.
He wasn't going to waste his limited time with his mother by moping about his life. Instead he watched his youngest brother fondly, the boy still too young to be aware of the terrible world he lived in.
Harry would be lying if he said he didn't envy him.
Harry had a strained relationship with his step-sister.
Valentina was only a couple of months younger than him—though the school cut-off point meant she was in the year below him academically—so growing up they'd been very close. Margot hadn't approved, of course, telling Valentina that she was a pureblood and a daughter of the great, deceased Horatio Burke, while Harry was the lowly, half-blood son of a Mudblood, but as children blood purity hadn't mattered to them.
As they'd grown older, however, Harry went to Hogwarts first and Valentina joined the year after and made her own friends in a place where the importance of blood purity was drilled into them over and over.
Not only was Valentina a pureblood, but she had a delicate beauty to her, with golden-brown ringlets that fell to her shoulders, and big brown eyes set in a heart shaped face. Her blood, her looks, and her family's money made her popular with students and teachers alike, whereas Harry was considered nothing but a rebellious trouble-maker of low social standing and whose only friend, Seamus Finnigan, was also deemed unworthy of attention.
The distinct differences in their lives had pulled them apart, and though he still cared for Valentina they hadn't been close for years. It was only because of guilt, Harry suspected, that Valentina allowed him to sit with her and her friends in their compartment on the Hogwart's Express.
Her friends didn't make an effort to include Harry in their conversations, but Harry didn't think he was missing out in not being able to share his thoughts on which Death Eater bachelor was the most handsome.
The train finally made its stop at Hogsmeade, and though Harry couldn't say he loved spending time at Hogwarts he was grateful just to get out of the compartment. He made an effort to lose himself in the crowd of students flocking to the carriages, managing to find a space in one with a group of third-year half-bloods who seemed too intimidated by him to utter a single word between them.
Harry wasn't sure if that made him feel miserable or amused him, and he settled on a strange combination of the two.
As the tall castle came into view, Harry felt an unpleasant tug at his stomach, nausea building inside him. It was back to being looked down on and harassed by pureblood students, punished by professors for doing anything that they decided was out of line, and made to study for meaningless exams which wouldn't grant him a higher career than menial Ministry work. And now he didn't have Seamus there to cheer him up with jokes and Firewhiskey.
The third-years all but jumped out of the carriage when it ground to a halt, and Harry was left to clamber out at his leisure. Dread continued to gnaw at him, and he'd barely taken ten steps into the castle when a strong hand wrapped around his upper arm.
"Potter," one of the masked Death Eaters on guard snapped, dragging him forcefully away from the crowd of students. "The headmaster has requested your presence."
Harry swallowed heavily, forcing his body to relax as the Death Eater pulled him along, uncaring if Harry was willing or not.
The headmaster, Rabastan Lestrange, was—to put it lightly—a sadist. He, along with his brother and sister-in-law, were Voldemort's most loyal and dedicated followers, and struck almost as much fear into the hearts of the public as the Dark Lord himself. Rabastan ran Hogwarts with a violent regime simply because he could, not seeing need to hide his delight when he inflicted pain upon the students.
Harry was one of Rabastan's favourite students to torture. It was partly because Harry found himself in trouble a lot—he struggled to keep his mouth shut sometimes—but Rabastan had made no secret of the fact that he thought Harry was 'pretty when he screamed'. Of course that statement had led to Harry making great effort not to scream, but Rabastan only took that as a challenge.
The Death Eater led Harry up the stairs to the headmaster's office, opening the door and proceeding to bow lowly, so low his face was almost touching the floor. Harry grimaced in distaste at the display and stepped around him, realising at once why the Death Eater was bowing.
"Hello, Harry," Voldemort said, raising a wine glass in greeting. "Leave us, Nott."
"You dare not to show any sign of respect?" Bellatrix Lestrange growled from her position next to her master. "You little brat! I-"
"It's alright, Bella," Voldemort cut in soothingly, giving her an affectionate smile. "Harry has difficulties, shall we say?"
Difficulties in what, Harry wasn't sure.
Headmaster Lestrange was sat behind his desk while his brother leaned in front of it, both of them nearly identical with their long, flowing red hair and vibrant blue eyes. Rodolphus had a scar across his right eye, and more lines of age on his face, but apart from that they could pass for twins despite being several years apart.
Voldemort and Bellatrix stood to the side of the desk, and close to them was another man who Harry had never seen before.
The man looked like he was in his late twenties or early thirties, with dark brown hair which curled around his ears, and had curiously coloured eyes—one was vibrant green, while the other was a shade of brown so bright it could have almost passed as red.
He was lean and tall, almost as tall as Voldemort himself, and had cheekbones so sharp they could slice through metal. The man was classically handsome, and held himself as though he knew it—the tug in Harry's stomach as he looked at him was the opposite of the dread he'd felt earlier.
"I just wanted to ensure you made it back to school safely," Voldemort continued, oblivious or simply uncaring of Harry's momentary disinterest in him. "And to stress that it is advisable you make an effort to stay out of trouble this year. If anything happens to you again, you may not be so lucky."
Harry nodded, confusion washing over him at the Dark Lord's pleasantries. Voldemort was supposed to be terrifying and intimidating, but both times Harry had met him he'd carried implied cruelty in his voice but had otherwise been calm and non-threatening.
"I shall leave you in the capable hands of Headmaster Lestrange and Professor Riddle," Voldemort stated, eyes raking over Harry's form hungrily, for the first time making Harry squirm. "Come, Bella, Rodolphus."
At least Harry had a name for the mystery man now. Riddle. It suited the man, Harry thought; he appeared to be an enigma in more than just name.
"Professor Riddle is our new Dark Arts teacher," Rabastan stated, gesturing at the man in question.
Harry glanced at Riddle, breath catching in his throat as he found those strange eyes fixated intently on him.
"It is very nice to meet you, Harry," Riddle drawled, offering his hand out. His voice was silky smooth, hypnotising almost, and Harry found himself staring, transfixed.
Riddle smirked at Harry's shock, thrusting his hand into Harry's and gripping it in a bruising hold.
"I've heard some interesting tales about you," Riddle said, smirk growing. Something about him seemed familiar to Harry, but at the same time he was something completely unknown.
"All bad, I assume," Harry said before he could help himself. He tried to pull his hand out of the tight hold, but it only prompted Riddle to grip him harder.
"Naturally," Riddle said, flashing perfectly straight, white teeth in a twisted smile. "Headmaster Lestrange says you can be quite a challenge, but there's nothing I like more than beating a challenge. I think we'll be in for an interesting time together."