Title: Fiery Ice
Summary: Harry's summer has been worst then the last. After being beat, abused and left unconscious Harry is found by the least person likely in the world: Voldemort. And he plans to make Harry his knight. And Harry agrees. Takes place after 4th year. R&R
Rating: Rated M for violence and language. First chapters could be T.
Disclaimer: I do not own J.K. Rowlings awesome imagination, though I wish I did. This story is purely just my imagination, and I own only my daydreams. This disclaimer goes with the whole story.
A/N: And here I am with a new story! This idea wouldn't stop nagging me, so I had to write it. I'm not very proud of the title; I called it Fiery Ice because it Fire and Ice can be painful but..um..enjoyable? Okay I'm awful at titles. If you have a better suggestion I'd love to hear it! Also, I'm going to tell you right now, I tend to ramble on about pointless things which have nothing to do with the story in any way in my author notes, so feel free to skip them. Of course, I love it when people read and respond to them, but totally not necessary. Unless I put 'Read me', then you should read. Alright, without further ado, Fiery Ice. Hope you like it!
Harry stared out the window in a desperate, dreamy hope.
His summer had been a living hell. Two weeks, two more weeks, he kept reassuring himself. He could almost see Hogwarts now, with its grand walls and talking portraits. He missed it. He missed the passageways, he missed the great-feasts, he missed the dorms, he missed Hogsmeade, heck, and he even missed the Fat Lady. But most of all, he missed his friends.
His friends. The thought of them brought mixed emotions. He wanted to be angry. Two letters. Just two letters all summer. Not even asking about him, not even caring. But the thought of them made his stomach turn. No matter what, no matter the obnoxiousness of their letters, he still couldn't help it. His angriness vanished at the thought of them, Hermonie nagging him to get on his homework, Ron nagging at Hermonie to be quiet.
And then his mind couldn't clear. Every night he'd see it again. Cedric, motionless. Voldemort rising from the cauldron, alive. Kill the spare. The words rang again and again. Voldemort was back. Cedric was dead. The sight was permantley etched into his brain, haunting him continually.
If he made too much noise, for he would wake up screaming, his uncle would wake up. That was another thing; his uncle. Ever since his fourth year he'd been getting more and more aggressive. His uncle was never compassionate, no. But since his first year at Hogwarts, each year gradually got worse. One tiny display of abnormality, one little mention of magic would equal in a few weeks of pain.
A few weeks ago had been the breaking point. His uncle had walked in the front door, and slammed it tight. Harry could hear his voice project throughout the house. 'Where is that boy! I'll teach him to mess with me'. And Harry knew what was coming next.
Instinctively, he put his hands in front of his face, expecting to feel the pain of the whip shoot across him. But nothing came. Instead he felt metal chains around his arms and his legs. His uncle shot him an evil glare.
'You can't escape now!' He bellowed. 'You can't use you're freaky magic or sneak anything! You're permantely stuck up here! And if you try anything, I swear, I'll stick you six feet under alive!'
Harry had looked with pure terror. His uncle had attached shackles on him, attached to the metal rim of his bed. He didn't dare try anything with his uncle staring at him, so he gulped and sheepishly nodded his head in understanding.
His uncle slammed his door shut, reattached the 8 locks looming on his door, and spoke so venomously he could feel it seeping through the door. 'I know you had something to do with this, with your abnormalness. No meals for 3 days!'
And oddly, he was thankful. There was no whip, no pain. Three days without food; he could live with that; they had done worse. Though the shackles were going to drive him nuts he'd manage; it's not like he had any desire to attempt squeezing through the bars of his window or unlocking the 8 bolts on his door.
But hell got worse.
His uncle's abuse was more severe, more painful. He'd use what he could find to beat him now. The whip seemed more like a prize this time around. He'd use a plug most of the time. Sometimes a tazer, leaving Harry numb in pain for a few hours. The worst was the razors, which dug into his skin and left ugly marks, pulling up fresh patches of blood. At this point Harry was sure he was looking more like an ugly creature rather than human. So skinny you could see bone, so bruised and tattered it looked like his official skin, never being tan before. He shared whatever he got with Hedwig; they fed him a soup can each day. He'd pluck out some meat or vegetables or noodles and give it to the owl. He always left some water in it for her as well. They were both on the brink of starvation. Harry wish desperately he could release her, allow her to escape. He could handle his own pain, but watching the owl suffer too was awful. He prayed his owl would be quiet; because if she didn't he feared what might happen to her.
Today it seemed that his uncle was in an extremely bad mood, and Harry knew right away he would be blamed and punished for it. His uncle huffed like a giant oaf up the stairs, red in the face, apparently to upset (or to out of breath from the amount of exercise) to say anything. His chubby hands shaked as he fumbled with the locks and one by one the unhitched. He pulled the door open, his eyes like poison glaring so deeply.
"You!" He hissed. "You! I've had enough of you! You and your freaky antics. Well today I'll teach you better. You think you can get away with this can you? CAN YOU? Well you're wrong! Because of you I got demoted! Now it's time to get the message across boy. I've been too merciful. The money we lost, will come out of your food money! You'll be lucky if you get crumbs a week!" Uncle Vernon ranted, the smell of alcohol high on his breath. Harry found himself afraid. His bruises were healing up on their own, the scratches clearing up, and know they would all reappear.
At the sight of his nephew in pure terror, Vernon let slip an evil grin. "What punishment do you think suitable this time, boy? Perhaps the razor? Or the tazor?" He grinned maliciously back down at Harry, like predator at prey.
"Please." He croaked, feeling weary at the thought of more pain. "Please no."
This only seemed to fuel his Uncle's desire. He whipped something out of his pocket and in an instant out were his weapons. His uncle played with the whip at first then brought it down on his back. Pain coursed through his body causing Harry to screech in pain. One…two..it continued. His whole back ached beyond repair, trying to numb itself. 'Perhaps a combination?' His uncle Vernon said, not even bothering to keep the hatred yet enjoyment out of his voice.
Harry tried again. "Please, Uncle Vernon. Please, I swear I didn't do anything. I swear." He pleaded.
"Didn't do ANYTHING!" His uncle shouted. "Don't lie to me boy, you'll only make it worse!"
Harry knew he didn't actually do anything, but shut up. He held back his tears of pain, refusing to give his uncle that satisfaction. He could hear the tazor start up, the electricity making a static noise. As sure enough, felt it run through him. It stung him, heating up and burning his skin. He felt his insides sting, leaving an imprint, a fresh patch of burnt skin on his back. His uncle laughed at his pain. It kept repeating, and eventually Harry began to muffle the desire to scream. At that point, his uncle lifted him up from the floor by his collar, and slammed him against the only wall accessible due to the shackles. The razor was positioned at his belly. Harry looked straight into his uncle's eyes, those bitter, hateful eyes.
"Listen, you spawn of the devil. You lost my family money. You don't belong here, nor on Earth. You're a burden to everyone, no better than an insect. If you, you do anything like that again it will be worse. It might be your precious owl, or perhaps yourself, understand?" Harry nodded, truly feeling afraid of his uncle. He knew he spoke nothing of the truth. He could smell the alcohol on his uncle's breath so strong it made him want to barf.
His uncle released but not without a swish of the razor and slap in his face. Harry clutched his stomach, feeling blood ooze out. His used his free hand to press down on the sting on his cheek. He couldn't help it; he screeched again, causing his uncle to laugh. His uncle left then, and slammed the door shout. He could hear Dudley pleading to Petunia ('But mum! I wanted to see it!' 'Next time, dear)
Harry lay alone, feel unconsciousness approaching. His owl gave a small hoot, and Harry thought he was crazy for he could hear a bit of concern in it. Anger shook his body. He wanted to see it? Was he no more than an amusement park? Was getting beat up to the verge of being dead fun to see to them? He swore at them, wanting to kick something, but in far too weak of state too.
It hurt everywhere, to the point of being sick. Harry felt something hot and sticky rising up his throat and escape his lips, and saw the color of red reflect on the ground in the moonlight. It felt like a million jellyfish were latching onto him, stinging him. It was better to die here, he thought. His friends didn't even care, did they? They expressed it through their letters.
Why should they? What would they think of him? Famous Harry Potter, stood up to Voldemort multiple times, cheated death, beaten up and abused by his muggle uncle? He was weak. He had had his wand ripped away from him, hadn't even put up a fight as he was chained and beaten. If he did, what would he get? More beatings. Magic would expel him from Hogwarts, probably get him in trouble with the ministry, god knowing they wanted to arrest him now since the Voldemort ideal. They would laugh at him, that's what. Dumbledore would be ashamed, so would Sirius. They all would claim they thought he was stronger. That he was supposed to act like the Boy-who-lived. They'd give up hope on him. How could he let them down? That's why he kept it hidden all this time.
Dumbledore kept him here for safety. He said it was his only home. But it wasn't. It was a prison. Harry's last thought before his slipped onto unconsciousness was
This isn't my home.
iii
Harry woke to a racket. It sounded like a metal clinging and a tad bit of shouting, so faint though that he couldn't make out the words being said.
Pain pierced his scar, and he managed to muffle his cry. On instinct, Harry flew his hand to his forehead. The pain was so strong this time, it felt like no other. Like the scar was seeping through his skull and pressing on his brain.
Then he heard it; something he could not mistake for anything in the world. The laugh. The laugh of Voldemort.
He's here. The truth struck him so hard, he thought it was actually added to his mountain of pain. But he can't be. He couldn't be. He was safe here, Dumbledore told him. Voldemort could not visit.
He opened his eyes, slowly, expecting to see the empty boring room. Expecting it all to be another nightmare, another vision, something. But instead he saw the most terrifying thing that night; piercing, red eyes looking down at him.
A/N: What is Voldemort doing there? How could he get through? The answers will be revealed in the next chapter; so stay tuned! So, what do you think? Good? Bad? Downright awful? Tell me what you think! I'd love some reviews; especially constructive criticism. I have the first 9 chapters written, so the more reviews I get, the more motivation I get to update! Also, if I see I got 60 reviews and no reviews I'll turn into the Forever Alone guy. You don't want that, do you? I thought not *prods button*