Harry Potter and the Dungeon of Dread
Chapter 1-A Very Bad Summer
Everyone in the town of Manchester knew about Morgan Lechey. He was a Frenchman, who fought in the French Resistance during WWII. He had moved to Manchester when his rich uncle had died, as he was the sole heir to the vast fortune. The Lechey family had lived in Manchester since its beginning. Morgan lived alone in the huge mansion, and never left it. His cook was the only one who ever left the house, and he only left to buy food.
On this night, as every night, Morgan was sitting in his study, staring at the same strange book he had been studying for 10 years. He had found it in the library of the mansion, behind a hidden panel. It was written in a cryptic language which he could not decipher. He had spent thousands on the world's best cryptographers, but none had been able to crack it. So every night, Morgan sat in his study, staring at the strange book, in the hope that it would reveal its secrets to him.
The book had become something of an obsession to him. All of his waking hours were spent puzzling over its message, and his dreams were consumed with it. Some thought him mad. The maid and cook avoided him as best they could, and only saw him occasionally. But he didn't care. All he needed was the book, and he was content. He couldn't bear the thought of parting with it.
Suddenly, a cry pierced the still night. It was the maid. She must have found a spider, he thought, and turned his attention back to the book. Then, another scream pierced the night, this time much closer. It sounded like the cook. What would the cook have to scream about, he mused. Again, he turned his attention back to the book.
Suddenly, the doors of the study burst open, to reveal two dark figures. One had snake-like red eyes, and the other followed him obediently. It was at that moment that he noticed something very peculiar about them. They were carrying sticks in their hands. They stopped some feet from him. The red eyed one spoke.
"Give me that book, old man," he hissed.
"M-my book?" he stuttered. "What on earth do you want with my book?"
"That is none of your concern," he answered back. "All that matters is that I want it, and Lord Voldemort always gets what he wants. Now give me the book, muggle, before you go the same way as your cook and maid."
"What's that you're calling me? Muggle? And what have you done to my maid and cook?" he demanded.
"Your maid and cook are dead. You will soon join them if you don't give up that book," he replied.
"You still haven't answered my question," said Morgan. "What in blazes is a muggle?"
"A muggle is a person who does not possess magic. You clearly do not, as you cannot read that book to which you so desperately cling. Give it to me now, or know what it is to feel true pain," said Voldemort.
"I'm a soldier," replied Morgan defiantly. "I've dealt with pain before."
Voldemort raised his wand. "Crucio!" he cried. The old man fell to the floor, writhing in agony. Voldemort lifted the curse. "Are you going to give me the book, old man, or shall I kill you now?" he asked.
The old man stood up. "The only way you're getting this book," he said, "is if you pry it from my cold, dead, fingers."
"So be it," replied Voldemort. He raised his wand again. "Avada Kedavra," he muttered. The old man was dead before he hit the floor.
Miles away, Harry Potter awoke with a start. He instinctively raised his hand to the lightning shaped scar on his forehead. It burned beneath his fingers as though someone had pressed a red-hot coal to his forehead. He had been dreaming, he knew, but about what he couldn't remember. There had been three people; an old man, Voldemort, and someone else, who he assumed was the traitor, Wormtail. But what had they been doing?
Harry decided that he needed to take a walk. Normally, he would turn to Sirius after something like this, but Sirius was gone now. He might have written to his friends as well, but they hadn't sent him a letter all summer. He was starting to get worried. So he grabbed his father's invisibility cloak, and headed out the door, careful not to disturb the Dursleys.
As he went out the door, he felt the cool night breeze on his face. It felt good. It was in sharp contrast to the weather they had been receiving. The summer heat was unbearable, almost as bad as last summer. Harry looked up, and could clearly see the stars in the sky. That was an unusual sight indeed. One did not usually see the stars in England.
Harry Potter was not a normal child by anyone's standard. To those who lived on Privet Drive, he was an orphan who went to St. Brutus's Center for Incurably Criminal Boys. He was a misfit, and a stranger not welcomed by anyone. To the world Harry called home, the wizarding world, he was just as strange. He bore a lightning shaped scar on his forehead, courtesy of the evil Lord Voldemort, the most feared wizard in history. Lord Voldemort had killed Harry's parents, and countless others, all for his attempt at global domination. He met his end, however, the night he killed Harry's parents. For as soon as he cursed Harry, the spell rebounded on him, and almost destroyed him.
Harry continued to walk, thinking mostly depressing thoughts. His godfather had died, he thought, all because of him. If he had just practiced Occlumency with Snape, it never would have happened. Why, he thought, did I have to be such an idiot? Why couldn't I have just practiced, and thought everything through, instead of endangering all of my friends. Friends, he thought. They had all almost died, and it was because of him. He still remembered the terror he felt as he saw Hermione fall to the ground, stricken by an unknown curse, and thought to be dead. He also would never forget the feeling of relief that washed over him as Neville told him that she was still alive.
There was also the anger he felt at Dumbledore. It was Dumbledore, admittedly, that had caused the entire problem. Had he told Harry everything, taught him himself, and just given him some damn information, none of it would have happened. Just the thought of Dumbledore was enough to make Harry want to break something.
And then there was the prophecy: "…and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives…" Plain and simple, Harry would either kill or be killed by Voldemort. One way or another, he would become murderer or victim. He had yet to tell his friends this. They had enough to worry about, he thought, without that knowledge.
Right now, there were only two things keeping Harry alive. One was his thoughts of Hermione. The kiss she gave him at King's Cross had awakened feelings for her that he never knew existed. He realized that he loved her more than anything. There was only one problem. If he told her how he felt, and she didn't feel the same way, he was afraid that it would break their friendship, and he needed that more than anything. He was also afraid for her if she did return his feelings. He knew that Voldemort would find out, and he knew that when he did, he would try to use her to get to him. And when his thoughts finally led to that, as they always did, he worked out. Though he didn't know it, he had become quite attractive.
Harry had still yet to hear from Dumbledore, and it had been almost two weeks. He couldn't stand being in the dark like this, and always for his "protection". He hadn't heard from Ron or Hermione either, and he was starting to get worried and depressed. It wasn't like his friends to forget about him, especially at a time like this.
Harry rounded a street corner. Dudley was over at one of his gang member's house. That was the main reason Harry had grabbed his invisibility cloak. If Dudley's gang caught sight of him, he was as good as dead. He knew that they would like nothing more than to beat the pulp out of him for existing.
As he approached an alley, Harry heard shouting from inside. He slowed his walk, and crouched down. He reached into his front pocket for his wand (Moody had taught him not to carry it his back pocket) and readied himself for a fight. He carefully looked around the corner, and saw a group of people beating up a figure lying prone on the ground. Harry assumed it was Dudley's gang, and he was ticked.
"Get the hell away from him!" he yelled.
They all looked behind them, but couldn't see Harry, as he had the invisibility cloak on. "Wh-who's there?" asked one of them.
"I'm your worst nightmare," replied Harry. "And if you don't get out of here, I'm going to make sure your mothers cry when they find you." He felt that that last comment was kind of cheesy, but it had the desired effect. They were tripping over themselves to get out of that alley. When Harry entered to figure out who their victim was, he found…Dudley. He walked over to him and knelt beside him.
"Dudley," he asked, "what happened." Dudley moaned in response. He seemed to be in pretty bad shape. "Can you move?" he asked. Again, he got no response. "We've got to get you home," he said finally. He circled an arm around his cousin, and heaved him to his feet. He was reminded of the time last summer, when he had had to drag Dudley home after the dementor attack.
Finally, they made it home. Harry opened the door, and dragged Dudley into the living room, and deposited him on the coach. "I'll go get Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia," he said. He walked up the stairs, and stopped at his Aunt and Uncle's bedroom. He knew that there would be hell to pay for waking them, but Dudley's condition was much more important. He knocked on the door.
"Uncle Vernon," he said. "Aunt Petunia, get up. Dudley's been hurt. You need to come downstairs. They didn't move. Harry tried the door. It was locked. He knocked again, but still got no response. Harry backed up, and rammed his shoulder into the door. He did it again. Finally, he heard someone get out of bed. Uncle Vernon tore open the door. He grabbed Harry around the shoulders.
"What is the meaning of this!" he bellowed. "Your aunt and I are trying to get some sleep!"
"It's Dudley," he said. "He's hurt." At this, Aunt Petunia paled. She followed Harry downstairs to the living room. When she saw Dudley bruised and bloodied, she ran over to him, crying.
"My poor darling baby, what happened to you?" she wailed. "Have you been mugged? Who did this to you?"
Dudley didn't answer. "I think he needs to go to the hospital," said Harry. With that, they loaded into the family vehicle, and tore off to the hospital.
After a couple of hours at the hospital, the doctor came in to the waiting room. Aunt Petunia jumped to her feet. "What's wrong with him, doctor? Will he be okay?" she asked worriedly.
The doctor raised his hand. "Whoa, Mrs. Dursley, slow down. Yes, your son will be fine. He has several cracked ribs and a slight concussion. He'll need to be in the hospital for another week or so."
"Has he spoken yet, doctor?" asked Petunia.
"No," he answered, "but that's probably due to the pain killers. He'll probably be up and about in an hour. But you can come see him now. Follow me."
Harry, Vernon, and Petunia got up and followed the doctor back to the room where they were keeping Dudley. He was sound asleep. He had two black eyes, and his lips were busted. They all pulled up chairs next to his bed. Aunt Petunia held his hand. After about thirty minutes, his eyes fluttered open.
"Hey Dudley," said Harry.
"How do you feel, sweetkins?" asked Petunia.
"Kinda dizzy," he replied.
"What happened to you, son?" asked Vernon
"Well, me and my gang were walking around the neighborhood. We started arguing, and then a fight broke out. Everyone else was against me. They beat me up and left me in the alley," he replied.
"Who was it that beat you up, son? We'll get them," said Vernon.
"I don't want to tell you. I'm tired of being the cry baby," he said. At that comment, a strange feeling crept over Harry. It was…pride. Yes, he was proud of his cousin. After over a decade and a half of whining to his father when he didn't get his way, he was taking it like a man.
"How long am I going to be here?" asked Dudley.
"About a week, son," replied Vernon.
"Oh, no!" said Dudley. "I'm going to miss the first match of the boxing tournament. If I don't win that, I have to win all of my other games!"
"I'm sorry, sweetkins, but the doctor said that you have to stay. You don't want to injure yourself more, do you?" replied Petunia.
Now Harry felt truly sorry for his cousin. Not only had he been beaten into a pulp, he was being punished for it too. It just didn't seem fair. Then, Harry had an idea. He decided to keep it quiet, though, until Dudley was out of the hospital.