Welcome to the Underground
"It Begins at Night"
By xHiddenM
Note: 'Sup guys! This is my first Harry Potter fanfic that I'm intending to continue should this get a lot of hits and preferable, tons of reviews! And honestly, I'm not completely happy with how this first chapter turned out, but stick with me and it'll get better.
My story includes OOC, Intelligent!Confident!Dark!Harry, Evil!Dumbledore, H/Multiple pairings, slash, noncanon, Ron&Ginny Bashing, and the like. Questions? Drop a review or a PM. Some chapters may not be in chronological order, scan the author's note (or just read the whole thing) for some quick info. Please review if you want more! Some chapters may be depressing, others fluffy, and some even romantic and sappy. Sorry about mistakes.
This is only the beginning.
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Disclaimer: Harry Potter is owned and created solely by JK Rowling. The original characters are mine alone, however.
Warnings: Violence, character death, crude language, disturbing and graphic imagery, gore, slash
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-Harry Potter-
1:02 AM (Grimmauld Place) United Kingdom
Harry absentmindedly stared up at the ceiling of his shared room. There was nothing more he hated then lying awake at night. Usually, the Dursleys worked him to the bone in the summer time, leaving him exhausted, and of course, Hogwarts was simply so exciting and all sorts of things happened to him.
But he simply couldn't sleep anymore. No, Cedric's dead eyes haunted him, his mother's endless scream.
His eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment.
"Kill the spare . . . "
"No! Not Harry!"
"You see Harry, Voldemort is my past, present and future . . . "
"Harry!"
"HARRY!"
He sat up quickly, eyes wide open. There was nobody there. No faces to stare at him intently in concern. No one was calling his names. Harry wasn't sure who's voice he'd heard in his own thoughts, but brushed it off and turned to the nightstand beside his bed to look at Ron's watch. The redhead himself was snoring rather loudly in a separate bed.
The watch ticked loudly in the quiet, and Harry snatched it up, gripping it tightly. The cool face of it seemed to burn in his palm, while the leather wristband felt neither warm or cold – just worn by years of use.
Harry stepped out of bed, throwing the sheets off of himself rather hastily, yet silently. Ron would be pissed if he woke him up at – a quick glance at the watch – one in the morning. So, with that thought on his mind, he threw the sheets off of himself and crept out of bed silently, flinching at the groan of the mattress springs.
With another quick glance at Ron, Harry gently shut the door and continued walking just as silently down the hallway and down the stairs. Perhaps a cup of tea would help. Maybe even a biscuit or two. It never occurred to him how he never tripped over anything – not even a leftover dungbomb or one of the twins' newest contraptions. The rumpled carpet releasing puffs of dirt did not make him stumble. His stroll in the dark of the house was uneventful.
Once in the kitchen, Harry made quick work to scavenge through the cupboard in search of a teapot and cup. Instead he came across mindless junk shoved aside to make more space for china plates, cobwebs, and – aha! – a scratched teapot with silver lining. It was very small. He set it up upon his find, and continued his search for a cup.
"You filthy brat!" his aunt's voice echoed through his head.
"They died in a car crash years ago! Do not ask again!"
"Boy! Get over here, now!"
"I want the bacon made right away – you burn it and that won't be the only thing blackened. Four scrambled eggs for your Uncle, two for me, and six for Dudley. Take half of that loaf and toast it. make sure to slice up the fruits on that bowl over there, and drop that knife, boy! You're holding it wrong! And put the butter out on the table . . . "
His fingers skimmed past the bowls and a mess of silverware, which happened to include wicked knives with jagged ends. One was curled inwardly – and if it wasn't so insanely deadly looking and sharp it would've been a tad comical. He picked it up out of curiosity and, examining the rusted tip, bit his lip and gripped the smooth handle as another memory hit him.
"You're a freak! Nothing better than your parents were, and look where that got them!"
Harry threw the knife aside roughly, allowing it to fly across the room and clatter to the tile floor. His hands trembled violently as he clenched and unclenched his fists repeatedly, nails digging into the calloused skin of his palms.
He breathed in deeply to calm himself down, allowing the thud-thud of his heartbeat to overcome his thoughts, focusing on the rise and fall of his chest. Something flashed in the back of the cupboard, behind the bowls. A cup. It was a cracked teacup, mind you, with purple lines as decals and a charmed golden flower that fluttered slightly painted on his side.
It must be magic, Harry thought sarcastically. He snatched it out of its hiding spot just as the kettle went off, skimming over the tea packets scattered across the countertop and choosing one at random. Earl Grey. Not bad.
With a shrug, he made his tea and drank it, feeling the warmth of it spreading throughout his body. But it seemed to wake him up even more rather than make him drowsy. Sighing, he accepted it, concluding he won't be getting a wink of sleep tonight.
He drummed his fingers on the wood of the table, feeling more and more restless as the seconds ticked by. Finally, he shoved his chair back and barely caught it just as it tipped over, spilling scalding hot liquid along his hand. Swearing a little, he licked it off and pushed the chair back in, deciding that saving the chair from falling was worth a little spilled tea. No need to make more noise than he already had.
Harry decided to go for a walk around the house. He was mindful to avoid the occupied rooms, however, and settled on exploring the rest of the house with the tea kettle in one hand and his cup in the other.
Although it seemed to scare the others, Harry secretly enjoyed Grimmauld place and admired the house. However, it did need some serious cleaning. And perhaps a little lightening up. Or something like that.
His bare feet padded across the cold floors and the dusty carpeting for a good twenty minutes. There was hardly ever a creak from the stairs, or a complaint from his eyes about the dark – which didn't bother him. Harry had spent a good chunk of his life in that cupboard with the Dursleys, and the light bulb went out quite often. He was accustomed to the dark.
Eventually, The-Boy-Who-Lived stumbled across a door similar to the entrance of his cupboard. Just to see how much it resembled his old 'room', he took his teacup and bit down on the non-cracked edge, holding it with his mouth. Now with a free hand, he twisted the brass handle (the only difference between his cupboard and that one), and pulled the door open.
Instead of the slanted ceiling and shelves along the sides like he'd been expecting, there was a very narrow stone staircase. Ducking his head, he stepped inside, taking the cup out of his mouth. Goosebumps rose upon his flesh once his bare toes made contact with the icy stone. There was a very thick scent in the air, something like fresh-baked bread and the amazing stew his aunt would cook up every once in awhile.
There were forty-two steps to the staircase – he counted each step as he walked – and a rickety rail that looked rusted and ready to collapse. Once at the top, he realized this wasn't a new hallway, or perhaps a set of hidden stairs that also led back up to his room.
This is probably the attic, he mused.
This was a library. The floors were a very smooth, light colored wood. Upon closer inspection, he realized it was bamboo. Every single wall was covered with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled at maximum capacity with every type of book imaginable. What didn't fit the shelves was piled on the ground in uneven stacks and scattered around in no particular order.
A large circular window was the only space parallel to him that wasn't covered by books. Instead, the books were magically spelled to curve around it. They were stretched out of proportion and shaped a tad comically, but Harry enjoyed the view the glass gave him of the brilliant crescent shaped moon. It illuminated the whole place quite pleasantly.
In the middle of the room, a desk of the same wood as the floor was placed besides a black, cushiony chair. Parchments were stacked neatly off to the side, along with a brightly colored peacock quil and a jar of navy blue ink. A fat candle sat next to it. Nearby – perhaps a meter or two away – was a deep green loveseat. A small, golden rug covered the distance between the two.
Harry wandered around the attic. What hadn't been cleaned of Grimmauld place was infested with bugs and extremely dirty. Yet here, there was virtually nothing wrong. It was only dusty.
Glancing at Ron's watch and seeing that nearly an entire hour had passed, he wasted no time in striding across the room towards the shelves, picking out every book with a title that sounded useful or just captured his interest. Within moments he'd grabbed books with titles along the lines of The Most Successful Heists of the 1800s to Counterattacks and Defensive Hexes, Curses, and Spells to Wizarding Household Spells and Charms. But the ones that had snagged his thoughts the most were titled far more simply than that: Wandless Magic Beginnings and Controlling Magic.
Harry settled at the desk – candle automatically lighting itself and parchment flying towards his waiting hands. As he read, he took notes and tested out spells the books had recommended and/or instructed.
An hour passed.
Then three.
Yet he never left the attic. Harry spent every moment following the books. He paced the room, deep in the thought, never stopping for anything expect his tea, which he drank even as it got colder and colder. Not like he noticed.
(Untitled)
Chapter Thirteen: Magical Cores
Although the majority of the wizarding population use wands, they are, in fact, a multitude of things.
Useless
Limiting
Foolish
Among other things. Burn your wand and focus on your mind and body. You do not need a wand to have magic, which is proven through accidental magic children often experience – and in some cases, very powerful adults.
You are one with your magic. You are your magic. Without your core you are nothing better than a Squib or even a filthy muggle. Meditating brings at your peace. While emotions play a strong part in control, they must be brought out at will, and lessen dueling in a blind rage. Concentrate on channeling your core. Animate your thoughts. Your spell. Your mind. The more you practice it, the easier you will be able to control it and bring your magic out at will.
Meditate.
Concentrate.
Animate.
Controlling Magic (Pg. 134)
Wands are simply places where your magic flows through. Even when no light or color is visible, it exists in the simplest things (i.e. Summoning Charms, Levitation Spells).
Magic is visualization. If you cannot see your spell in your mind and its effects, you are simply pushing magic into a stick and hoping it'll hit your target. Don't bother with saying words. Don't even bother with textbooks. While magic does have its limits, and not every enchantment will happen the moment you see it, there are far easier ways than memorizing spells.
Start with a summoning charm. Pick an object in your room. Perhaps a cushion of some sort. Study it. Imagine it flying towards you, into your waiting hands.
Harry held his hand out, palm first, eyes narrowing in deep concentration. He picked one of the pillows on the couch and took a moment to take in its features. It was a lighter green then the rest of the couch, with cloth similar to velvet if it wasn't.
He could practically hear how it whizzed across the room, the feel of it on his fingertips, and WHAM.
"Dammit!"
It smacked him in the face. The cushion had come across the room faster than he'd been expecting, and had missed his hands entirely. Well, it was better than nothing. He sipped his tea and continued reading, holding the cushion in his lap and running his fingers across the cloth. Yes, it was velvet.
-Hermione Granger-
5:03 AM (Grimmauld Place) United Kingdom
"What do you mean he wasn't in your room, Ronald?" Mrs. Weasley shouted frantically, throwing a panicked look at Sirius, who was groggy, in a robe, and rubbing his eyes.
"Perhaps he'd just wandered around the house, Molly. I'm sure he's fine." He yawned.
"He could've been kidnapped! He could be with You-Know-Who – or dead, for all we know! And Ronald – "
"Molly," Mr. Weasley sighed, taking off his glasses and cleaning the lens with them hem of the shirt. "Let's search the house first. If not, contact the rest of the Order and we'll figure out something from there. I must be getting off to work, dear. I'm truly sorry." He kissed her goodbye quickly and left, nodding at Sirius. The door shut quietly behind him.
"He might've – "
"Fallen asleep – "
"At the loo – "
"Ron's done that – "
"A million times!"
The twins grinned while Ron glowered at them.
"I have not!" he spat.
"Whatever you say, Ronnikins." They shrugged.
Tension remained, however, as an awkward silence took over.
"Search the house! Move!" Mrs. Weasley barked at the group.
The twins glanced at each other and disapparated without a word to their mother, while Ron mumbled things as he staggered away sleepily.
Honestly, Hermione had no idea how they could be so tired at this hour. Although it was a tad early, it wasn't ridiculously early like two or three in the morning. She turned on her heel and left to search on her own, her brilliant mind already working twice as fast as usual, considering where he could've gone. The kitchen was out – they were just there, as was Ron's room, and most likely not anyone else's room. Not even Ginny's; she was sharing with her.
But, just as the last people left, and Sirius finished his morning tea, she noticed something out of the corner of her eye.
"Sirius?" she questioned.
"Yes?" he blinked sleepily to her.
"That knife," she pointed. "What's it doing on the floor?"
The head of the Black house frowned at her and strode over, kneeling. "Huh. This was one of my mother's favorite knives. I'd bet a galleon Kreacher was messing with it. Damn elf." He picked it up and walked back towards a cupboard, throwing it inside.
Again, Hermione noticed something else. "Sirius, you wouldn't happen to be drinking Earl Grey Tea, would you?"
"No, why?" he turned to look at her wryly.
"I think Harry was." She responded, picking the empty tea packet off of the counter and piquing Sirius' interest.
"He must've come down in the night to get a drink. I've done it a million times before. Go search the house with the others, 'Mione. Try not to touch too much – there are dark artifacts we've had yet to get rid of."
"You think Harry might have gotten to one?" she inquired worriedly.
"It's not exactly an impossible thought, but we'll see. I'm sure he'll turn up somewhere." He grinned at her not unkindly and left the room like the rest.
6:42 AM
Harry Potter was almost officially lost from them. Mrs. Weasley was ready to Floo Dumbledore, and Hermione was frustrated. They must've gone through every room in the house and he still hasn't shown up! It was almost maddening. Hermione was reminded of the time she'd been a child, when her doll had gone missing.
Both she and her parents had searched the whole house. It was her most precious toy, with pretty wide blue eyes, dark lashes, forever smiling pink lips, auburn hair and dressed in a sapphire blue long sleeved dress with golden accents, and black heels that tied onto her ankles with string. She could've sworn she'd left in on the stairs by the entrance to their attic – which had been the last place they'd checked. It turns out, a dozen rats had moved into their house, stolen her doll, and chewed it up, shredding her dress and marring her delicate features. The hair, it seemed, had made it even worse. The rats had enjoyed chewing that the most apparently, for the loose curls were tangled completely, soaked in saliva, and in some places, completely ripped out.
It was the scariest and most traumatic thing for her. Ever. The doll ruined, her parents had been forced to throw it out after taking care of all the rats.
Pausing by a vase, Hermione let out a sigh. Was Harry like that too? Torn apart and damaged beyond repair? Eaten and picked at by rats in an attic?
Suddenly she wondered if Grimmauld Place even had an attic. But what would she find should he be in there? A mangled Harry? Swallowing her fears, she looked around. Attics tended to have entrances from the ceiling, at the top floor. Maybe Sirius knew where it was . . .
Hermione had been about to run off to find him, but upon turning, she spotted an unclosed cupboard. Why was it open? Someone had probably checked it. Just to be sure, she pulled the door open, revealing a narrow stairway.
No way . . . she thought, breaking into a run up the stairs. Could this be it? Is Harry inside? Would he be covered in dirt and grime, half torn up by some sort of unspeakable monster? Is that why he hadn't been responding to their calls? Was he dead?
Heart pumping, adrenaline pushed her up the stairs at a fast pace. She wasn't sure how many steps there were, but it felt like a hundred. Panting, she made it to the top.
"Harry?" she called whipping her hand around, trying to locate messy black hair, emerald green eyes, rats . . .
There he was! Sitting at a desk with . . . books surrounding him. What? His hair was mussed up more than usual, hand running through it as the other scribbled frantically on the parchment – which was filled with his sloppy scrawl.
"Harry?" she asked again, this time somewhat nervously. His head snapped up, surprised.
"Hermione! You'll never guess what I found!" he exclaimed happily. Then he frowned. "What are you doing up this late?"
"Harry . . . it's almost seven in the morning." She informed him, confused and a bit concerned over the way he was acting. How early had it been when he'd gotten here?
He did a double take and stared at what looked like Ron's watch. "Damn, hadn't realized the time." He mumbled. "Sorry. I found this library at around two AM earlier. Couldn't sleep."
"What library?" she frowned doubtfully. If there was a library then she had probably already seen it. There were a multitude of books around in empty rooms that could be considered a librbary.
"'Mione, look around!" Harry laughed. It was her turn to do a double take; all of these books! God. Her eyes widened dramatically as she turned to looked behind her. And then turned again. There was simply so much!
"H-How did you find all of this?" she gasped. Harry laughed a little.
"I was wandering around late last night," he explained to her. "Spotted a little door, looked inside. Went upstairs. Found this. Everything here is so fascinating, 'Mione! You've gotta read some of these books. I've learned so much. Look,"
With a wave of his hand, the books around him were levitating in the air and flew back to various shelves, some to other piles further away on the floor, a cushion or two towards a couch. A rug had automatically straightened itself out. A shattered tea kettle repaired itself.
"Harry!" she scolded. Was he trying to get expelled for sure? "You're not supposed to be using magic outside of school – you already have a trial coming up!"
He only laughed again. "Don't worry so much; this is wandless magic. The Ministry's trace only works through wands."
"Trace?"
"It's how the Ministry catches people using magic outside of school. It goes away once you're of age. Personally, I think it's stupid. How are you supposed to practice what you've learned over break without actually practicing?"
"Where did you get all of this information?" she asked. Surely he hadn't learned all of this on his own?
"The library, of course!" Harry smiled at her, gesturing towards the shelves.
"This is incredible!" she breathed. Hermione wandered over to the shelves, picking a random book and flipping through the pages, freezing when she spotted a bloody illustration of the effects of a nasty slicing hex. Quickly she put it back and chose another from a shelf above. A potions book on 'deadly and torturous acids'.
She threw it on the floor as if it had burned her. "Harry – this is dark magic!" she gaped.
"Technically, that was a potions book. It's not magic." He pointed out, smirking as he stood up and stretched. "Ugh, my back hurts."
"You shouldn't be reading these, Harry. It's not good for you." Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, biting her lip.
His expression hardened. "You can't tell me what I can and can't read."
"I'm not saying that I am!" she snapped.
"Then stop acting like it!" he snarled back.
"I . . . " she didn't know what to say. Why was he acting so viscously to her? "I'll have to inform the others about this. It's great that you're reading more, but these aren't good books. And you're acting strange, Harry! What's wrong?" she changed her approach to something more concerned than angry, but Hermione had a feeling he saw right through it.
"'Mione, you can't tell the others about this!" he said, panicked. "They won't understand!"
"Harry – "
"Look," he cut her off. "If I promise not to read these books, can we keep this a secret? Please? Between us?
"I don't know – "
"C'mon, Hermione! I'll stop doing magic without permission, I swear."
She eyed him unsurely, but hesitantly, she voiced her agreement. "Promise you won't read these books?"
"I promise."
"Fine. Let's just pretend nothing happened, alright?"
Harry sighed in relief. "That'd be great. Thanks, 'Mione." His shoulders sagged, all tenseness gone from his body. Instead he casually leaned back; hips against the desk as he took a cracked teacup and downed it all in one go. Then he promptly spat it out, shuddering, "Ugh! Tea is never good cold." His friend had to giggle at that. "So, how did you find me up here, anyway?"
She looked horrified. "Damn! I completely forgot," He cocked his head to the side, curious, but Hermione was already grabbing his wrist and leading him downstairs. "The whole house has been looking for you! Oh, I hope Mrs. Weasley hasn't already flooed Dumbledore; she'd been moments away from doing it just as I found you."
They made it down the stairs at record speed. "Mrs. Weasley! I've found him! I found Harry!" she called.
Harry heard hurried footsteps as many came bursting into the hallway. "Oh, thank God. Harry!" the eldest Weasley woman scooped him up in a near-deathly hug. "We were so worried!" she pulled away quickly, grasping him by the shoulders, examining him for injuries.
"Where on earth have you been, mate?" Ron asked.
"Yeah," Fred and George grinned at him cheekily. "Were you asleep at the loo?"
Harry laughed out loud, surprising Hermione. He'd always been a bit more toward the shy side. "No – did fall asleep on the floor though. Sat down for a moment and then next thing I knew Hermione found me in a hallway." He explained it so simply, as if that was what actually happened. Which it wasn't. No. Far from it, in fact.
It bothered her, what he had done upstairs. All of those books – the thought made her heart flutter. And what he had done, how he had simply moved his hand and the room had righted itself. What else could he do now? How much had the books taught him? What had the books taught him, exactly? Hopefully, Harry had stayed away from the more gruesome books. She knew him. He wouldn't read that sort of thing. Death Eaters read that sort of thing – if they even could read. No, Harry had probably picked up some more simple things – wizard cooking and the like. That library had so much inside; it wouldn't have surprised her if it even had books like that.
But, it left a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. She spends the past five years studying for Hogwarts and making perfect marks yet in one night, he instantly breezes past everything and does even better. And Hermione couldn't even say it was because he was born into a family of wizards since he'd been raised by the Dursleys. And from what she'd been told, they had been nothing short of cruel to him.
Over the course of the night, he'd become completely confident and powerful.
"'Mione? You alright?" Harry asked at her, looking down at her fondly. Suddenly she realized he was much, much taller than he was before. But just as her mouth opened, Ron spoke.
"Mum, are we having breakfast soon?" he moaned. Harry laughed as everybody began heading to the kitchen. Within moments, her friends were all in deep conversation with each other, Mrs. Weasley had started cracking eggs, and she was left standing there.
If Hermione didn't know herself any better, she would say she was jealous.
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It Begins at Night end.
Chapter Two to follow.
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