Title: Remorseless Dreams: Mentality
Disclaimer: This work of fiction is in no way connected to the author of Harry Potter, JK Rowling. Harry Potter is owned by her, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Pairings: Eventual HPDM, mentions of PDVD, eventual femmeslash (no, you can only guess), any additional pairings will be mentioned as the story proceeds.
Rating: T - 13+ (due to descriptions of gore - Rating will change to reflect future events.)
Warnings: WIP Portrays on-going child abuse, excluding sexual; OMC, OFC (potential), OOC, torture, slash pairings!, major fluff, violence, gore, etc. I may add more? Oh, and this is a CREATURE FICTION.
Summary: In the world of Harry Potter, things never turn out well. If only his hopes weren't always so quickly shattered. - Eventual DMHP slash, child abuse, AU, and creature!fic.
Author's Notes: After this chapter, all Author's Notes will be found at the end of the chapter. Any additional warnings will be given at the beginning, along with any translations.
As always, reviews are doubly appreciated.
A/N2: This story is now being beta-ed by the lovely CleopatraIsMyName.
Prologue
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10:57 PM
October 31st, 1981
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It was over in a bright flash of dark emerald. A cowering shadow drifted off. A babe nestled in his cradle cried. A sharp glow of pure white enveloped him, raven locks and all, protection given.
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A ding sounded in a corner of a kitchen; the scent of freshly-cooked food permeated the single room, giving the simple house a feeling of warmth and familiarity.
Petunia Dursley slowly, thus thoroughly, wiped her wet hands on a dish towel folded neatly in a corner of the counter. With a turn of her heel, the slim woman walked to the telephone, soft pads in the distance alerting her to where her toddler, Dudley, was situated: the living room, enraptured eyes glued to the television.
Picking up the phone, she muttered a greeting, eyes on her child.
"I am not going to be able to make it tonight, love," a rumbling man voiced on the telephone, "Can you please wrap some leftovers up and keep them in the refrigerator for me?"
With a huff, and the rolling of her eyes, Petunia replied, "What is it this time, Vernon?"
The answer given was the incoherent mumble and cursing of some of his newest coworkers employed at Grunnings. With hurried declarations of love, and a hastily muttered apology from her dear husband, Vernon Dursley, Petunia cancelled the call.
A dinner later, Petunia was cleaning up the table when a brisk knock was heard at the door. Locating her son with her eyes, Petunia walked over to the entrance, peering into the peephole.
Who stood there was a kindly elderly man, decked out in attire that seemed to be inspired by the early nineteenth century. His unusually long, white beard was clearly noticeable over the bright colors he embraced with an unshameful passion. Taking her eyes off his shocking ensemble, she accessed the situation. With a mental shrug, she opened the door just enough to speak to the gentleman.
"May I help you?" she questioned, hands folded in front of her chest.
"Hello, my name is Albus Dumbledore," he started. The widening of Petunia's eyes belied every torid emotion in her very being, so much so that Dumbledore was able to swiftly lodge his shoe between the door and the frame without missing a beat.
"Stop it," she snapped, brown eyes narrowing in anger and distaste, "I will not speak to you. Ever."
Dumbledore's blue eyes, hidden partly by his half-moon spectacles, merely seemed to twinkle mischievously at the younger woman's predicament. With the wave of his wand, the door swung open, leading Petunia to lose her balance and nearly collide with the wall just behind her. The man clasped his bony arms behind his back, walking casually into the kitchen.
Hearing conversation coming within the depths of the room, she immediately searched for her baby in the living room. With a sigh of disgust, she inferred just where her little tyke had gone.
Striding into the kitchen, she was met with the sight of her son playing with a new toy.
"Where did he get that?" she asked, eyebrows raised at the toy fire truck.
"Do you really want to know?˝
"Never mind, keep that curse of you freaks to yourself," she acquiesced, obviously uncomfortable with the images sailing through her mind's eye.
Looking over at her little baby, her face softened slightly.
"Popkin," she cooed, getting down on one knee so that she was at eye-level with the chubby, drooling toddler. "Mummy needs to speak to Mister Dumbledore alone."
The baby merely made little noises as he rolled the fire truck around the table, not quite understanding what his mother was prattling on about. However, seeing her extending her arms, he eagerly held out his own.
She wrapped her arms around his chubby form, nodding slightly towards the older man before standing and walking into the living room calmly to place him in his crib. Of course, it was situated in such a way that she had the perfect view from the kitchen, and her precious little man was able to watch all the cartoons he pleased.
Swiftly walking into the kitchen with the theme for a cartoon playing rather loudly in the background, she leaned against the counter, patiently waiting for the older man to speak. After a few moments past, and he just looked up at her, eyes twinkling merrily, she sighed and crossed her arms in front of her chest defensively.
"Now," she said, "What is it that you want?"
And with that, our tale begins.
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