A Slain Immortal
ASlainImmortal@hotmail.com
Written: October 4, 2003
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Author's Notes (To be read BEFORE reading the story, it may help fill you in.)
This is my first full length fan fiction. I have the main ideas plotted out, but I'm changing parts of it as I go. I'm not a very talented writer, in my opinion, but this represents a good effort at writing a reasonably long story. I try to stick to the canon as much as possible, but I'll add some elements to the story that I feel make the story better, without making it mildly ridiculous, like making Harry God-like would do. This fic will have some ships in it, so let me hint obliquely at them before we start.
There will be no Harry/ Hermione in this particular fic.
Likewise with Harry/ Ginny.
There will be no slash, simply because I don't think there is any boy out there who could reasonably fit Harry's emotional needs.
That's about it for the Authors notes, but read what I have written before the chapter anyway.
ASI – October 5, 2003
I listened to a variety of music while writing this, and you might like to download the music to enhance the atmosphere. I truly believe that music enhances the atmosphere.
· Museum of Iscariot by Virgin Black
· Sober by Tool
· My Immortal by Evanescence
· Synaesthasia by AFI
· Create the Infinite by Nevermore
· 1776 by Iced Earth
· Under A Killing Moon by Thrice
Rated PG-13 for minor bad language. Nothing a 12 year old couldn't handle.
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe was created and is owned by J.K. Rowling and her various minions. I do not own this, but I haven't given up hope that I will.
Jesus, won't you fucking whistle
Something but the past and done
Mother Mary won't you whisper
Something but the past and done
"Sober" by Tool
Red Rose Vertigo
Chapter 1: And So It Begins
July 1st, 1996. Somewhere in the near vicinity of 6:15 AM.
Petunia Dursley was a woman of strong morals. She didn't hold with stupid Liberal politics, and she didn't tolerate freaks like those magic people. It was wrong, unnatural. It was against God and the Country, and so it was wrong. For these reasons, Petunia Dursley was ashamed and embarrassed that one of those freaks was related to her, and even worse, was living in her house. If she had had her way, that child really would be attending St.Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys.
And this is why it came as a very great surprise to Mrs. Petunia Dursley, of Number Four, Privet Drive, a woman with a horsy face, long, bony neck, and intense dislike of magic, that when she waved her hand irritably at the dishes in the sink in the course of a shouting at the brat, that they actually began to clean themselves. They sat there in the sink, winking innocently in the light, and actually moving of their own volition, cleaning the remains of food off themselves. She stared at them, and the expression on her face mirrored the one on the face of the brat.
Absolutely shocked.
Harry's shock was caused by the fact that his magiphobic aunt had just performed some advanced wandless magic, and he couldn't help but feel slightly jealous- he couldn't do that yet. Following the disbelief came laughter. His aunt, who would gladly have burned witches and wizards alive, had actually performed magic. It was hilarious when you looked at it. After this, he allowed himself to hope. Perhaps, now that she was a witch, --
But No. There was no way it would happen. Years of magiphobia would not disappear just like that. Well, at the very least, this would be interesting.
Petunia's emotions were rather different, though they began the same way. Complete shock caused by the fact that she was now one of them, a witch. A freak, an unnatural. She could hear Vernon's voice shouting it at her, throwing her out of the house--. Fear. That's what she felt next. Fear that Vernon would find out, that Vernon would throw her out, that her Dudleykins would hate her. Then came disgust and revulsion. She was a witch. A witch. She was going to hell. It said so in the Bible, the Church would condemn her, she would be alone, dispossessed, and a witch.
Throughout the absolutely surreal daze that was filling the room and spilling out of the windows, Petunia could hear a faint ringing sound in the background. It sounded like someone shrieking from very far away.
What the hell is that? She thought, irritably, and the proceeded to wonder why it was the ringing that was annoying her, and not the fact she was a witch.
The incredible stress of the brat's gaze, the dishes still cleaning away, the emotions coursing through her, and that damned insistent ringing caused the only sensible reaction possible in Petunia's body. Petunia Dursley, magiphobe, misomagist, fainted.
And woke up on her bed, with the covers tangled and the large body of Vernon snoring beside her. Her alarm clock was ringing, and it displayed the luminescent pink numbers 6:15 A.M. Time go wake up the brat and have him get breakfast ready. Today was a busy day, he'd have to work a lot, that ungrateful wizard. But why was it so hard to get up? Petunia looked down at herself and saw she was shivering, clammy and sweaty.
Must've had a nightmare, she thought. Ah, yes, she remembered some of it now. Something about… the brat, the dishes, and an annoying shrieking. Ah well. Time to rouse the brat. Petunia got out of bed and departed for the room of one Harry Potter.
The very person of whom we spoke in that last sentence, Harry Potter, lay on his bed staring at the nice-looking ceiling of the room, feeling utterly miserable. The Dursleys certainly were rich, and so his room looked very good, though extremely bare. The Dursleys never bought anything for a wizard, did they? But anyway, Harry Potter was miserable, and the reason for this was not the Dursleys horrible treatment of him, though that intensified his pain. Pain was something that Harry Potter was not new to. He had felt the horrible Cruciatus curse multiple times, he had regrown all the bones in his arm, he had run with a broken leg carrying a dead body, he --.
As we said, pain was not a new feeling for Harry Potter. The pain he was feeling was not physical, but emotional. He had plenty of practice with emotional pain as well, having carried around the guilt and anger of Cedric's death for more than a year. But even that pain dulled, as pain usually does. That pain was now just an ache that he was able to ignore, helped by the assurances of his blamelessness from the various people in his life. However, the pain he felt today was fresh and raw, the grief so unadulterated, that he could not help but cry openly, and it took all his willpower not to throw himself out of the window in hopes of ending the pain, of freeing himself from this guilt that wracked his body.
Harry got up and slowly walked to the window. He looked through it and the pre-dawn sky, with the stars still visible, though there was a noticeable lightening of the sky in the east. The sun would be up soon, and Harry would be back to working for his aunt and uncle, heartless bastards that they were. He hated them. He may not have hated them before, but now he did, with all his heart. They never felt this pain, they were smug, righteous bastards, and Harry hated them for it. He was under no illusions that the feeling was not mutual, for it certainly was.
Why did you leave me, Sirius? Why did you have to die, and not me? Why couldn't I have been the one to die, so that I would not have to feel this, so that people would be better off. Are you out there, Sirius? Are you watching over me? Harry picked out the star Sirius, the Dog Star. He had learned to recognize it in Astronomy. The very thought of that was enough to cause another wave of grief. He could recall the facts he had learned by reading one of Dudley's textbooks, one time when he was away.
"Sirius, the Dog Star, is the fourth closest star system to the Earth at 8.1 light years, after the Sun, the Centauri system at 4.2 light-years, and Barnard's star at 6.2 light years. Sirius is the brightest star in the sky, and was worshipped by the ancient Romans…"
No, thought Harry bitterly. Sirius is not 8.1 light years away. Sirius is an entire realm away, separated from me- from all of us- by the one-way barrier of death. He is on the other side of that FUCKING veil. And it's all because of that FUCKING BITCH Lestrange. It's all because of him. Voldemort. No, Harry amended after washing away his anger in the ocean of guilt, it's all because of me. It's my fault that Sirius was there in the first place, and I as good as killed him. It's all my fault, just like everything else.
Harry watched the sun rise from the east, its yellowish orange light washing away the pink that lay on the horizon, and its brightness causing the stars to disappear from Harry's view.
Goodbye, Sirius. But it was not goodbye, for Sirius would be there in the heavens that right, a blatant reminder of Harry's mistakes.
Harry turned away from the window to look at the clock, one of the few working pieces of furniture in the room. The luminescent 6:15 told him his aunt would be at his door in a moment, her shrill voice grating on his ears and telling him he better get up and make breakfast. Not that she ever woke him, for sleep was fleeting and tormented at best.
Breakfast was served at seven, with piles of pancakes topped with butter, honey, and syrup. Well, actually, that was the Dursleys' breakfast, prepared by their resident servant, Harry Potter. Harry's breakfast consisted of a slice of burned toast and some milk. Harry didn't complain at all. He simply ate and went to Aunt Petunia for his chores. When he learned that his chores were to clean the entire house and weed the garden, he showed no expression on his face. Anyone who actually knew him would have gone into a state of panic, but the Dursleys took this as a sign that they were finally breaking him.
Upon returning to his room after the backbreaking labor he was forced to perform, Harry simply collapsed on the bed. He hadn't said a word all day, simply going about his work and then returning to the room.
There's no point in expressing your opinions, Harry thought angrily to himself, you're never listened to anyway. They all tell you you're just a child, you're too young to understand, they'll tell you when you're older, that kind of thing. Plus, you're wrong anyway. You defied them, and look where it got Sirius. Dead.
He tried to think about what his friends would say about this. He could just picture Hermione's voice telling him that it wasn't his fault, that he shouldn't blame himself. He pictured Ron telling him that it was all You-Know-Who's fault. Dumbledore telling him Sirius would have wanted to die like this. Rage filled Harry's head.
What do you know about how he would have wanted to die? Sirius didn't want to die, he had to so that I could live. And I have to live because I have to defeat Voldemort. No, not defeat. Kill. I have to murder Voldemort. It all comes back to him, doesn't it? Him and me. Him or me. Him or me. Him or me…
With these thoughts circling in Harry's head, and the effects of sleep deprivation manifesting themselves, Harry drifted into sleep, tossing and turning.
When Harry awoke, it was dusk, and he miraculously felt rested, though still tired. It seemed as though his nightmares had left him for one night. Stretching, Harry walked over to his window and looked out. Privet drive was quiet, though there was some noise from children playing over in Magnolia Crescent. The sun had disappeared behind the horizon, and only a faint glow remained. There were lights in the houses, and the entire neighborhood had an air of peace and tranquility.
It was already too late for dinner, and Harry felt no inclination to go and ask his relatives for food, so he decided to write a letter. The question was, and what would he write? And to whom? As all his magical supplies were locked away by the Dursleys, Harry settled for a pen and some paper.
Sitting on the floor with the pen in hand and tongue sticking through his teeth, Harry found himself at a loss for what to say or do. He couldn't write to Ron, he wouldn't understand. He wasn't very good with emotions. Hermione would be better, but she would show Ron the letter, and that would cause problems as to why he wrote to one and not the other. He didn't know Ginny well enough to write to her, and he knew that though she would be supportive, she didn't know him well enough either. Neville would probably be better, having lost his parents like Harry, but he would have to establish a friendship first. As for Luna… well, Luna was Luna, and there was no telling what she would say. Harry knew her only in passing, and he had heard enough from Ron about how she was insane. Hmm. This presented an interesting dilemma. Harry wondered briefly why he cared at all about this, it seemed rather stupid. His brain shied away from the topic, however, so he concentrated on the paper at hand.
To whomever it may concern at the Order of the Phoenix:
I am perfectly fine, my relatives are ignoring me as usual. When can I go to the Burrow?
HP
P.S. Say Hi to Professor Lupin… I mean, Remus for me.
After writing to his protectors/ guardians/ overlords, Harry decided that time was one thing he had in abundance, and so he would write to all the people he knew. Hopefully they would keep him company in the long months to come.
Dear Ron,
How are you doing? Is your family alright? I hope nothing has happened to them. I'm coping here, but the Dursleys are being absolute pricks, so it is quite annoying. Have you heard anything about Voldemort? (Harry's hand trembled with rage as he wrote this word) I don't have any access to news here, I'm sure Dumbledore (again the trembling, though not quite as intense as before) has cut me off "for my protection". I'm so bored, do you think you could send me something to occupy myself with?
Thanks,
Harry
P.S. How is WWW going?
The letter to Ron was brief and cursory, and avoided notable important topics, but if there was one thing Harry didn't feel like doing, it was talking about Sirius. Voldemort was hard enough.
His letter to Hermione was pretty much the same as the one he wrote to Ron, as was the one he sent to Hagrid, though he did ask if there were any missions this summer. Now to the unusual letters.
Dear Ginny,
I do think this is the first time I've written to you, and I've known you – what, five years? It's really a shame that we don't know each other as well as we could. This summer, I have plenty of time on my hands, so I've vowed to write to all the people I know, and answer their letters as well. Are you alright? (Harry avoided mentioning the Ministry adventure; thoughts of Sirius lingered there.) How is your family? Has Ron said anything about you and Dean? If he has, tell me and I'll write him a note. I can't really think of anything to say, but I hope we can be better friends from now on.
Friends,
Harry
Harry thought he was in an absurdly good mood considering his situation. He briefly wondered if someone had cast a cheering charm on him, but dismissed the idea as there were no wizards in the near vicinity. Deciding to make the best use of this period of happiness, he started his note to Neville.
Dear Neville,
I've never once written you a letter, and we were never really good friends. That's why I think you'll be surprised on seeing who this is from. I've decided that I need to keep friendships alive in these times, and I think our experiences (again, no mention of the Ministry) certainly form the basis of friendship. I don't think I've told you this, but I knew about your parents since fourth year. I was asked to keep it a secret. I want to say again, I'm really sorry, Neville. On another note, how is your Grandmother? How are you coping these days? I really hope you're fine.
Write Back,
Harry
Harry reread the line about keeping friendships. It sounded familiar, but he couldn't recall from where. It was… it was… yes, that's it! Dunbledore had said that, something about how it was more important now than ever to keep friendships strong. The thought of Dumbledore brought some rage into his mind, but he pushed it away. Best not to spoil his good mood. Harry thought through his (very short) list of people who he could write to. There was still Luna, so Harry, not without some trepidation, wrote on the paper:
Dear Luna,
I'll bet you're surprised to be reading this. I know I am. I never thought I'd write you a letter over the summer, as I didn't know you existed until last year, and weren't very good friends even then. Dumbledore said something about keeping your friendships strong in these times, and what we've done together (Still no mention of the Ministry) has made me consider you a friend. I don't know very much about you, so please don't be offended if anything I say here is hurtful. How is your family? I hope your expedition to Sweden to catch a Crumple-Horned Snorckack goes well.
Write Back,
Harry Potter
Harry put the letters in a neat pile on the window and wondered why the hell he was so happy, Sirius was DEAD after all. The tears threatened to leak out of his tightly closed eyes, but Harry didn't let them. He would have to be strong to fight Voldemort, so he may as well begin now. Harry lay in bed for a while, thinking about Sirius and Voldemort and Dumbledore. He couldn't write to Sirius, and Voldemort would kill Hedwig if he sent a letter. That left Dumbledore. Harry got off the bed and grabbed the pen and paper.
Professor Dumbledore,
I don't know if this will reach you, but I hope it will. I want you to allow me to get the Daily Prophet. Even if it doesn't have much news, it'll keep me occupied and make me feel connected. Remember that an idle mind is the Devil's workshop. If I am to be of any use to you, I need to be in reasonably good mental shape.
Your Student,
Harry Potter
Harry abandoned all pleasantries and acted like a student writing to a teacher. Dumbledore was the one keeping him from his friends, from his world, and so he deserved no affection from Harry. Adding the letter to the pile, Harry opened the window and woke Hedwig.
"Come on, girl, deliver these letters… and deliver the one to Dumbledore last."
Hedwig nipped his ear and took off, the letters bulging against her leg. Her body was silhouetted against the moon as she flew over the houses of the neighborhood.
Harry, feeling as if his good mood had died, sat down on his bed and began to think. He tried to imagine what the coming year would bring, whether it would bring more death and pain, or whether it would bring what Hogwarts brought to its other students: learning and happiness. But then, Harry Potter could never be a regular Hogwarts student. He was the Boy-Who-Lived, or as he would put it, the Boy-Who-Refused-To-Fucking-Die,-Goddamit. Cursing Voldemort, Harry turned off the lights and tried to fall asleep.
Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorceror, Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, etc. etc. etc, was unhappy. He looked into the mirror that stood in front of him. Carved into the rim of the mirror were the words Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on whosi. The gilded frame seemed to glow even in the dark of the room. The shimmering surface showed the face of one boy sleeping soundly, his peaceful, angelic face marred only by a lightning shaped scar on his forehead.
"If only."