Tread Carefully
for we are the monsters in your head.

Set after Savior and parallel to The Visitor. Like the others, it can be read as a stand-alone story. In fact, that's probably recommended, for they are old and full of rot.

"What a mess," sighed the Head of the Aurors tiredly as he slumped behind his desk and massaged the bridge of his nose with his left hand. In his right hand he held a piece of paper that had flown into his office barely twenty minutes ago. It was a note from the Mission Coordinator on duty. One of his Aurors had been killed while chasing a group of burglars and, apparently, a small Muggle family had followed him not fifteen minutes later. Initial magical signature recognition indicated one perpetrator, not yet known in the system. Not the greatest of catastrophes, all things told, except for the Auror. He had been one of the more hardworking lads in the office and they needed all the men they had after the War. On top of all the deaths and injuries, a combination of Aurors burning out because of stress disorders and budget cuts had whittled away a large part of what was left of the Law Enforcement. The active Aurors had to work sometimes triple the cases in order to keep the British Wizarding World liveable. Everybody was stretched thin and weary, which only exacerbated possible mental problems. The situation was untenable, but without a solution in sight they would simply have to buckle up. He had recalled two of the men on sick leave and sent them to the Muggle residence, though without any hope of catching the perpetrator. That bird had probably long since flown. Still, at least they would be on scene quick enough to preserve the criminal's magical signature.

The Head set down the paper and slid further down in his chair. He had been working heavy overtime already when the notice came in and this promised even more work. He looked longingly to the couch in the corner in his office, but pulled himself back up when he heard hurried footsteps in the corridor. The Mission Coordinator stuck his head round the door, his pale face emphasizing the heavy shadows beneath his eyes. This was more than simple exhaustion however and the Head stood up worriedly.

"What is it, Andy?"

"Boss... the Aurors we sent. They are gone. Both."

"Gone?" the Head asked with a sinking feeling.

"Both Marsh and... and Jamey. The Monitor lost contact with them seconds after they arrived at the crime scene. The only way that..."

"The murderer was waiting for them." The Head closed his eyes. "Jamey was a friend of yours, was he not?" The other man's silence told him all he needed to know.

"Send the Dementors then. He is obviously guilty enough to warrant a one way trip anyway, and we really can't afford to lose any more men."

The Coordinator shuddered slightly at the mention of the foul creatures, but nodded determinedly and headed off to contact the Warden of Azkaban. The Head sank back into his chair and massaged his temples. Three Aurors lost to a murderer... what a terrible, terrible mess. His punishment at the hands of the Dementors was a small consolation, really.

The small boy was swinging his feet from his perch on the living room couch and admired the way the dark liquid slowly spread and stained the creamy white carpet. Idly he wondered how much he would need to cover the whole room and if more people would come to provide it.

He was humming a jaunty tune under his breath when he suddenly stopped and cocked his head. There was a thin layer of frost creeping along the floor, freezing the blood where it touched. The boy frowned lightly and pulled his knees up to his chest. Then he slowly tipped to the side until he was lying down and reached down to poke at the ice. It was cold on his fingertips and still a bit sticky.

The light in the room flickered. He pushed himself up again, his hands leaving bloody smears on the couch fabric. There were shadows coming through the wall.

They were indistinct at first, but swiftly pulled themselves into two recognizable forms. They were taller than men, taller than the space between floor and ceiling allowed for really, so they had to stay hunched over to fit. The boy thought they'd fit better if they stood on the floor, instead of floating a few inches above it. Maybe they didn't want the blood to get on their clothes and weigh them down. Their black cloaks fluttered even in the stale air of the living room. They must be very light. He didn't think they would bleed like those other men did.

They paused for a moment, their rattling breath filling the room. Then what passed for their faces turned towards him and they glided closer, their arms lifting in the air.

He scooted backwards and stared up at one of the shadowed cowls. "I don't want to be punished."

They seemed to hesitate, but then slowly reached forward again. This time he let them grab him and watched curiously as the room around him seemed to be leeched of colour before he was pulled through one of the walls. It parted around them like mist. The world outside was as bleak and shadowy as the room they just left, objects wavering like phantoms in and out of sight. In contrast, the shadowy apparitions seem to have gained solidity, their thin pale hands grasping his shoulders tightly. It took a moment for the boy to notice his feet were no longer touching the ground either. It was only a few inches at first, but then they lifted into the air and the boy watched without fear as his relatives' house grew ever smaller. He would be glad, he thought, to leave that place behind him. With curiosity he watched their flight over landscapes and waters, until they reached what he guessed was their destination. The slate grey sea churned beneath them as they lowered towards an island, almost hidden behind great gusts of rainy wind. The boy could not keep a delighted laugh inside when he realised the rain passed right through them. Even the cold was indistinct and more like a caress than a punishment. His two accompanists jerked at the sudden sound, but did not stop their descent.

They faded through the roof of a fortress, ever going lower through stone hallways and draughty rooms. They finally stopped in one such room and he was abruptly let go. He fell the last few inches to the floor and grimaced when he stumbled. When he regained his balance and looked up, the shadows were already gone. He slowly turned in a circle, taking in the room he was left in. It was large to his eyes, easily four times his old cupboard. Lighter too, because of the torchlight shining through the bars of the door. He traced his fingers through the shadows thrown by the flickering light. The stone wall was slick with saltwater and a large piece lining the entry had succumbed to the teeth of Time, leaving a jagged hole. There was enough space between the stone and iron for him to slip through, but the cot in the corner was softer than his mattress at his relatives and he was sleepy. He would explore this new place tomorrow.

He woke because of the screaming. It echoed between the stones, bouncing back and forth until it became impossible to determine the direction it came from. The boy stared blankly at the unfamiliar ceiling above him, wondering what and how and where did the stairs go? Then it all rushed back to him; he had flown (flown!) and painted the living room red and his relatives were dead. He was giddy for several seconds, but the feeling was washed away when the anxiety made itself known. Last night he had been simply curious, but he had only ever known his relatives' house and their neighborhood. He was alone in an unfamiliar place, brought by those shadow people he never knew existed. He huddled on the cot until the screaming came to a stop, a breathless silence taking its place. It was better, that silence, and it gave him enough courage to unfold himself and get up. His room looked the same as last time, dank and empty. Through the bars however, he could see the room opposite his and the bowl that stood just inside. Next to the bowl was a bucket with condensation on its side. The boy licked his dry lips en squeezed through the hole in the wall. When he was in the hallway he stopped to look around, but it empty as far as he could see. A bit to his right the hall stopped at a wooden door with a heavy-looking padlock. To his left, the hall ran for a longer stretch before going around a corner. The entire hallway was lined with metal bars from floor to ceiling. He grinned when he realized what kind of place he was. A prison! Like on the television! It was a bit darker and colder than what he thought a prison would be like, but then again his relatives (former relatives he thought and again experienced a rush of satisfaction) had always taken great pleasure in telling him he didn't know anything.

The boy eyed his surroundings for a moment longer before remembering the bucket filled with, hopefully, water. He excitedly reached through the bars and pulled the bucket towards him, grinning when cold liquid slopped over the edge. He stilled for a moment when what he thought was a lump of rags in the corner of the cell stirred. When after a few breathless seconds nothing more was moving, he brought his attention back to the bucket. The water smelled slightly rusty, but that was probably because of the container. He pulled it fully into the hallway and tipped it to the side so he could drink. It was too heavy for him otherwise. He drank greedily, the water pooling coldly in his stomach. After that he washed the flaking blood off his hands. It had started to itch; otherwise he maybe would've kept it. Then he pulled the bowl towards him. It was filled with some sort of stew, undefined chunks and drops of solidified fat floating in the watery substance. It smelled heavenly. He made quick work of that too, licking out the bowl when it was empty. When he was done, he was almost uncomfortably full and fully satisfied. He pushed the bucket and the bowl back into the cell and pulled himself up on the bars. It was time to explore.

Most of the cells in near his turned out to be empty, though some of them had silent lumps in the corner that were probably people. None of them stirred though. It was only when he turned the corner that he actually saw any prisoners. Even then most of them were sleeping, or dully staring at the walls, or huddling and muttering at themselves. None of them paid him any mind, until-

"Angel?"

He immediately stopped and looked into the cell he had been walking past. There was a man in the corner, but this one, unlike all the others, was moving. His body was mostly hidden behind folds of fabric, but more became visible of him when he crawled closer. He was dirty and rail thin, and probably decades younger than he looked.

"You are an angel, right? You... you have come to free me. From the Deme- e- entors." The man began to shake at the last word, his teeth chattering again each other. The boy blinked curiously and turned fully to the man.

"What are... Dementors?" he asked hesitantly. The man had almost reached the cell bars.

"They take you to A-... A-... t-to here and they take all the warmth and g-good dreams away. They-"

"They are the shadow people?" He intersected, delighted by this new knowledge. The man however, showed no sign he had heard him and kept muttering.

"I was bad and they took me away and they left me here. To b- to be purged of my sins. But now, my punishment is over, you've come to take me away, pl- please. Take me away from here, my sweet, s- sweet angel. A- ange-..." The shaking had gotten progressively worse while he was talking, until he couldn't get any words out. The man clawed at the floor, still trying to reach for him. He had his arm pushed to the shoulder between the bars, until he could go no further. His eyes were wild in a mask of desperation. The boy was pressed into the opposite wall, panicked breath shaking his thin shoulders. He knew, logically, that the man was too large to get past the bars, but this was too much like-

There were little white clouds coming out of his mouth. His fingertips were tingling from the sudden cold that enveloped him and abruptly his fear fell away. He turned his head and saw the Dementors entering the hallway, purposefully making their way to the prisoner. The man was screaming hysterically as they brushed past the boy to enter the cell. He scrabbled backwards, his bare feet slipping on the floor and ragged cloak trailing through the filth. The boy watched curiously as the Dementors swept through the bars and crowded around the now wildly flailing man, his limbs waving ineffectually through their shadowy cloths. The last thing he saw as they ensconced the man within their midst, was a weak light coming out of his face.

What..?

He shuffled sideways but couldn't see what was happening as the man's screams tapered to a stop. Suddenly the Dementors were an obstruction instead of helpers and he wanted them away. He steeled his nerve, took a deep breath and yelled "go away!" as hard as he could. Even then, it was a surprise when the Dementors immediately obeyed; disappearing before his voice could finish echoing between the stones. He followed their flight with wide eyes, before turning back around and eyeing the prisoner. The man was still and silent, arms flung wide over the cell floor. Eyes half-shut, mouth open and slack. There was a thin stream of drool dribbling down his check. His eyes wandered to the thick cloak the catatonic man was wrapped in. He tried the cell door, but it was firmly stuck in its lock and the cloak was too far to reach. Frowning he curled his hand around the icy bar. He tried to remember what it felt like when the Dementors had pulled him through the walls and taken him with them. The world had been dim and indistinct, like walking through fog. He had felt light, as if he could float away on the wind anytime, and at the same time more solid than ever before. His hand flickered and he suddenly felt the iron give way. He grinned victoriously and pulled fully through the doorway. He then padded towards the man and kicked experimentally. The man lolled his head, but didn't respond otherwise. He wondered what the Dementors had done, but his attention was again irrevocable drawn to the cloak. It was dirty, true, and more than a little threadbare, but it looked so soft. He didn't think he could remember the last time he had owned anything that soft.

Truthfully, it took a little while to fully sink in. For days and days he slunk through the hallways, skittering away from sudden sounds and keeping out of the light. He had even been cautious of the prisoners, rail thin and weak behind their bars. The free men with their torches and heavy boots, he kept away from entirely. It was etched into his bones, gouged into his soul with heavy hand; keep out of sight. Keep silent and small. Obey what we say and do not ask questions. So yes, it took a while until he truly realized what it meant when he made the world turn vaporous. It was not just escaping when he got caught. It was not just being able to hide in new and secret places. It even was not just having the Dementors to huddle around the prisoners and take their light, that strange white phantom that sparked their eyes and made them move their limbs. They could not catch him. They could not find him if he didn't want to be found, shadow amid shades. He could tear out their light, eat it and smother it and turn it into void. He had no use for fear or silence. The thought made him laugh, loudly and freely.

He was never ever getting punished again.

The turning point came maybe two weeks into his new residency, when he was once again flitting through the hallways. It was not strange to see women in the cells, there were plenty, but he had never seen one with such pretty eyes. He had drifted closer, fascinated, and she had looked back at him. Her eyes were dark, set deeply into her skull. When the light hit them they gleamed purple. He came even closer to where she was sitting near the entry of her cell. She smiled at him, baring blackened teeth, and he smiled back, hesitantly. Then suddenly her arms shot out between the bars and took a tight hold on his hair, pulling him towards her. He shrieked and tried to pry himself loose, but she still had a surprising amount of strength in her withered hands. She shrieked back at him, triumphantly, and their combined cacophony made his ears ring. She dug her nails in his skull and he wanted her to stop. She slammed him against the partition between them and he hated and wanted her hurting so much.

Then he made the world colourless and flowed through the iron bars and latched onto her throat and sucked the light from her eyes. He savoured her pained screams until they tapered to a stop. Only then he stepped back. The body in front of him was taking shallow breaths, the eyes staring unseeing towards the hallway behind him. He crouched down again, reaching forward to take one of her fingers. Then he bent it backwards until he heard a loud crack. She didn't as much as twitch. He released the finger and made a sound of discontent. How boring...

Next time he would be more careful, so he could play a little longer.

When he slept, he dreamt of the castle stones. They were old, and had seen so much blood and fear and death. They had soaked it all up until they were filled with it and breathed it back into the air. He dreamt of the stones and the air and the sea and they all told him their bloodstained memories.
Sometimes they were silent and he dreamt of a forest. It was dark and wild and he slithered and flew and hid between the branches. He woke up short of breath and feeling frustrated from those dreams, but didn't know why. He didn't much care for those dreams, but they were soon enough forgotten when he explored the endless hallways and discovered more people to play with. He was never bored or hungry anymore and was never kept from roaming by the Dementors. They kept away from the prisoners when he was there, and the prisoners were so much more fun.

And then, one day, he looked into a cell and realized he recognized the man inside. Doggy, doggy, won't you play with me?

A/N: The biggest challenge was how the hell do I smuggle a child into Azkaban, but I figure a mixture of exhaustion, bureaucratic sloppiness and the Wizarding World's general ineptitude would help me there. Harry normally would've never been able to kill three Aurors, a criminal would've never been send to prison without even seeing who it is and the warden hopefully would've noticed there was a kid wandering about. Not here though!

Horror!Harry is great fun to write. I tried to keep him a delicate mix between a monster and a child, hope I succeeded at least somewhat there. He believes Dementor magic is the magic, so he's simply emulating them. Magic is only limited by belief.

Oh, and lastly, most of this was written because a reviewer for Savior inspired me to finally get fricken started. Another example of how much power you hold in your hands, dear readers! Even if it's just one single review, it is cherished.