A Darker Dream


Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter. You know the drill people.

Authors notes: Its back! I told you A Darker Dream would eventually return, I just didn't think it would be so soon. This story is once more a work in project, since I'm giving it a major rewrite. Harry's age has changed, he'll turn 17 shortly, and HBP and DH will be taken into some consideration. Overall, however, it will still be the same A Darker Dream so many of you have come to love.

On the topic of warnings, I will say that I have warned and rated the story for later chapters, since I hate going through and changing things later.

Warnings: Sensitive Issue/Topic/Theme (Abuse), Strong Violence, Swearing

Chapter One:
Hopeless Nights

June 31. School had been out for quite some time, releasing the students of a special, prestigious school into the world, to their homes and loved ones. For Harry Potter, a young man on the scrawny side of stature, there was no love in his home. How could his home hold love for him when it was nothing more of a hellish prison? His family held no love for him, never in almost seventeen years of life. It was in this loveless prison of hell that the devil resided in, the devil named Vernon Dursley. For as long as Harry could remember, he had endured the neglect and abuse afflicted on him by his Uncle. Harry had never known, for the longest time, what he had ever done to anger his brother, to deserve such treatment that is, until his eleventh birthday.

The Dursleys of Number 4 Privet Drive were as normal as anyone could possibly be. Vernon Dursley, a large hefty man with hardly any neck and a bushy moustache, was the director of Grunnings, a drill company, and believed in 'appearance is everything'. His wife, Petunia Evans-Dursley, Harry's maternal Aunt, was an average, doting house-wife. Gossip was Petunia's favourite past time and used the advantage of her long neck to catch glimpses of the activities of the neighbours. Their son, Dudley, was their precious angel, doted upon his every whim. Built much like his father, with the blonde hair and watery blue eyes of his mother, Dudley could only be described as a bully and a brute. In the world of the Dursley family, Harry was anything but normal. For you see, Harry Potter, the orphaned son of Petunia's sister, was a wizard. Yes, a wizard, a being from children's books and tales, capable of performing magic. And to the Dursleys, his own family, Harry was nothing more than a freak. An abomination of nature.

Growing up in the Dursley home, Harry had no idea that he was a wizard for his Uncle had tried to stamp out the magic in him. He had been treated as an unwanted servant in the home, forced to sleep in a small cupboard and given impossibly long lists of chores to finish before he would be given food; more than often, he went without. Once Harry became aware of his magical heritage, the treatment from the Dursleys lessened, more than likely out of fear of what could possibly happen. It was still there, but Vernon hardly raised a hand against Harry when he was home. That is, until now.

While Harry had been away at Hogwarts, a school for witchcraft and wizardry, Grunnings had hit a rough patch. Profits were low and people were losing their jobs. Vernon was grasping for threads and blamed Harry for the company's problems. An act of revenge he had called it. Now, Harry hardly felt like himself anymore. Bruises were hidden by his clothes, welts and handprints as well. His muscles, acquired from years of Quidditch, screamed in pain and agony. He was exhausted physically and mentally, waiting for the next four weeks to vanish so that Harry could leave this hell behind.

The sun was shining down with a dazzling brightness as Harry shuffled his way outdoors, holding his ribs gingerly. He had only a few hours to weed the flowerbeds and paint the shed before Uncle Vernon came home. Harry would be lucky to finish the weeding in that time; he could barely move. He had stopped counting how many times he could use his wand before his seventeenth birthday. If he could use magic, he could get the work done and disappear into his room to avoid Vernon's wrath to bide his time until he could no longer be safe inside his home. Harry couldn't help but find it a little ironic that, because of his mother's sacrifice for him, staying with Petunia Dursley is what kept him safe from Voldemort finding him when not at Hogwarts when he would almost welcome seeing the old snake just to get away from Vernon.

Shaking his head, Harry knelt slowly at the flowerbed to pull away the weeds as the hot sun beat down on him. Without water or shade, Harry slowly worked the time away, wishing a sudden storm would fall upon him; maybe then he wouldn't feel as though trapped in a desert. The sun blistered against his skin, though his body was quivering with shivers. As if the beatings weren't bad enough, Harry had gotten sick no doubt with some strand of flu. Everything was just piled on top of him lately, Dumbledore's death, Vernon, Voldemort chasing after him, N.E.W.T.'s, improper nutrition, he could continue listing them until Vernon came home.

It had taken longer than he had originally hoped, but Harry had finally managed to finish weeding the flowerbeds. Wiping the sweat away from his brow, Harry proceeded over to the shed after he retrieved the paint can and brush from the back step. As he worked in the sweltering heat, he could feel the eyes of the neighbours on his back, no doubt wondering why he was working in long sleeves with no protection from the blazing sun.

"Harry!" Aunt Petunia said sharply, appearing at the back door. "Inside, before the neighbours get too nosy."

Nodding his head, Harry gave the half-painted wall a forlorn glance before he cleaned up. Once finished, Harry returned to the coolness of the house, his skin crawling at the temperature change.

"Drink this slowly," Aunt Petunia whispered, handing him a glass of water. She straightened and glanced around for Dudley. "Do those dishes," she instructed back to her normal self. "And don't you dare chip them."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry said, his voice scratchy from the dryness. Though his Aunt held no love for him, she wasn't completely heartless like her husband. The glass he held in his hand was proof. Harry's opinion of the woman had changed when she had started to intervene with Vernon if his treatment went too far with Harry. She never stopped them from happening though, and when she did become involved between the two, Harry always saw the fear in her eyes. They may not have had loving feelings for each other, but Harry prayed that his Aunt had never been struck by him.

As his Aunt left the room, Harry quickly drank the cool water, knowing the action was foolish; even Petunia had warned him to drink it slow. The twisting pain in his stomach served as proof of that foolishness. Ignoring the feeling in his stomach, Harry began to work on the pile of dirty dishes before him. He carefully cleaned the heavier items, skillets and pots, before he dug into the regular dishes. After scrubbing each dish clean, Harry gently placed the fragile items into the drying rack.

"Potter!"

Harry nearly dropped the platter in his hand at the sound of Vernon's booming voice; he hadn't heard the car pull into the drive. Tightening his grip on the dish, Harry turned from the sink to face his Uncle.

"Potter," Vernon Dursley spat as he entered the tidy kitchen. "Did I not instruct you to paint the shed before I returned?"

Harry could see the vein throbbing in the larger man's forehead. "Yes, Uncle Vernon," Harry responded, swallowing forcibly.

"Then why is it not finished?"

Harry brushed his hand against his pocket, the comfort of his wand there. If he knew Voldemort wouldn't break down his door the moment he used magic, Harry would've used it long ago. "The neighbours, Uncle Vernon."

"The neighbours? The neighbours!" Vernon Dursley broke into a tirade, his face purple from the effort. Harry immediately tuned the man out, wondering how the neighbours never managed to hear.

"Listen to me, boy!" Vernon snarled minutes later upon realizing that Harry wasn't listening.

Harry snapped to attention a split second before a beefy hand connected with his jaw. Caught off guard, Harry stumbled to the floor, the platter shattering beside him. Vernon seemed to snap at the shattered porcelain.

Harry came to the conclusion that Vernon was worse than any Cruciatus Curse imaginable. For what seemed like eons, the blows and kicks kept coming; not even Petunia could stop him this time. His glasses were broken, a tiny piece of glass imbedded in his cheek, one eye swollen and his lip bleeding; that was the only pain he could feel anymore. Everything else had long gone numb.

"We've fed you, clothed you, put a roof over your head," Vernon snarled as the abuse continued. "No more, Potter, no more..."

Vernon left Harry lying on the once spotless kitchen floor as Harry slipped in and out of the darkness. He could hear Petunia breathing heavily in fear for them all.

"Vernon! NO!" He heard his aunt scream as the heavy steps of her husband entered the kitchen once more.

Eyes heavy and weak, Harry squinted up towards the shape of his uncle, something grasped tightly in the man's hand. Petunia screamed shrilly as a crack, much like the sound of a whip, pierced the stillness of the room. A sharp pain pierced Harry's shoulder as his body tightened, his breathing even more laboured. With a loud pop, Harry vanished from the house of Number 4 Privet Drive, leaving only liquid red behind.

The moon hung high above the streets of London, illuminating the lone figure as she walked down the dangerous streets of Diagon Alley. In this time of evil, it was unsafe to be alone in the dark, more so for a woman. This pale specimen held no fear, however, as she proceeded in her tasks. Her polished boots clicked against the stone, the hem of her long leather coat swirling the mist about her feet. A slender hand, tucked long black locks behind her ear as her blue eyes watched the alleys around her for any sign of unwanted company.

Without a care, the woman stepped into the shadows of Knockturn Alley, glaring at several wizards that started to approach. As they watched, the retreated back into their hidden realms, sensing a darkness within her that was beyond even their skill. She smirked at them, her deep crimson lips revealing pearl like teeth.

Continuing her errand, the woman stepped into a dingy apothecary to retrieve the necessary ingredients for her latest brew. Once her items were safely tucked away, she stepped back out into the alley, melting effortlessly into the gloom. As she followed the maze like paths, her sharp senses snapped to alert, halting her movements. A low groan had reached her ears as the tantalizing, copper scent reached her nose. Like any trained hunter, she followed the scent to a filthy dead end; she never quite expected to see the source.

A young man lay in the shadows, beaten and broken, blood seeping from his shoulder. Without a care that it could have possibly been a trap, the woman knelt beside him, checking for a pulse. His skin was deeply sunburnt, but still a pale pallor, his temperature blazing against her skin. His heart beat out a rapid staccato; he could possibly pass in the night.

Her mind was made up in an instant. Not giving a damn about who he was or where he was from, the woman picked him up with ease, his height the only cumbersome feature. He needed help to survive. Cautious of the groan of pain, the woman adjusted the unconscious wizard in her arms, before she spun on her heel, vanishing from the wizarding world on that bleak June night.

Here is the first rewritten chapter of A Darker Dream. I must say, compared to the original chapter, I've improved dramatically. The first paragraph, five sentences, became nearly five paragraphs this time around. I really hope you enjoyed this chapter and that you once more have A Darker Dream back in your grasp. Don't forget to review, please!

Thursday, November 11, 2007