Chapter 1
My heart evolved into a rock beating inside of me
People say I am strange, does that make me a stranger
(September 19, 1991)
The small boy's body thrashed in the dark, empty space and a high-pitched scream emanated from his person, echoing, though in the unknown it sounded terribly heart-wrenching. It was a small boy, hardly worthy of the title eleven-year-old, and yet he seemed stronger than any others his age. Not because of his looks, because as stated earlier, he was a scrawny thing that was smaller than those nearly six years younger than him, but because of his power. Nearly a centuries worth of magic leaked from him like some sort of draining pus.
The boy's body thrashed again and his back arched precariously in the dark as a glowing entity, a soul, speared its way into his own soul, intermingling to form a new soul, young as it was old. Breathy gasps came from his tortured body and slowly, but surely, he slowly fell downward. The darkness sucked him up out of the space and spat him back out, throwing his already tortured body down and down, passed stand and screaming people onto the ground, where he lay, semi-conscious.
The small child's body was on fire as every bone in his body was broken at his impact with the ground. His head swam and before his eyes, the first person he saw was someone he never expected to see again: Draco Malfoy. Other figures entered rapidly into blurring line of vision: Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, and Minerva McGonagall. He saw the headmaster's lips move, but he heard no sound as misty white fully engulfed his vision and he fell into blissful night.
When the small boy awoke, he realized that he was still lying on the ground, staring up at people that he thought to be dead. He could not hear anything, but a Voice entered his mind.
'Harry Potter'the Voice whispered enchantingly I 'you have been sent to the past again. We, the Fates, did not like the way that this time line was spent, so we have sent you back here.'The Voice sighed and the small boy blinked against the rain that poured down. The people above him tried to get his attention, but he let his gaze wander and he closed his eyes again and the Voice appeared.
'Harry Potter, you have been sent back to the past. Your first year to be exact. We might not like the way this time line exacted, and we know that you don't either, but we cannot force you if you do not want to change the way that this has taken place.'The image of the Voice was stunning, thought the boy as it stared with its mind eye. For some reason it looked like someone he knew but he could not place it. The Voice had silver eyes and long white hair that reached the middle of its back. It flowing robes of black covered everything, and the boy began to assume that the Voice was sexless. This was probably a true statement.
'Harry,' the Voice sighed, dropping his crossed arms to his side I 'do what you must.'The Voice started to fade out of sight, flickering like a candle almost ready to go out. 'I shall be back, my childe. If you do not like this new life of yours.'the figure seemed to shrug and it became more blurry'then you will be able to choose. Death of Life, or Life of Death.' The figure became stretched before popping out of existence. That last thing that the Voice spoke into his mind was 'And if you do not trust other, trust yourself to do the right thing.'
Suddenly it was if a light had been turned on, flooding in all of the memories of his former life as Harry Potter, savior, to Chase Darken, dying old man. His eyes shot open and he sat up suddenly, ignoring the aching and cracking of his broken bones as they rubbed against each other. The sound still had not been turned on, but his mind had and so had his magic.
Everyone around him stumbled backwards as the power rushed out, making every bit of magic twisted. A cold was soaked up into his bones, and he shivered, glancing up at the sky. Dementors. A cold rage filled his blood, as the rain slammed heavily downwards, and he raised his arms to the sky. A bright white light was gathering into his body, finding an outlet in his hands and energy cackled up and down his arms, forming a glowing dark light at his fingertips.
Ignoring the pain it caused him, he stood up shakily. He really hated Dementors. BOOM. The force of the explosion up from Harry's arms to his hands shook the ground like an earthquake and a large sonic boom flew through the air, passing through every living person like a warm breeze, though flattening the trees for miles around and making the old castle behind him creak as it passed through it. That was nothing to what it did to the Dementors through.
Before the Dementors realized what happened, the dark light energy shred through them, tearing through their empty, lifeless bodies, until only cloths, tattered and sliced up, floated to the ground like black birds falling dead from the air. As the sound still had not returned, he did not hear the loud piercing shrieks as the energy wiped those Dementors out of existence. He stood there for a few moments, taking in all of the magic the Dementors had taken from kissing and relishing the destruction of his fears.
That is, until he realized he was a dying man trapped in his own past's broken body. And standing there in the midst of silence, yet surrounded by hundreds of children just like his own children, he felt alone. His broken bones slid painfully against each other and he collapsed, his broken legs not being to hold him up anymore. His arms dropped useless against his sides and his head bowed against his chest, the breaths coming from his mouth ragged as internal bleeding in his lungs took place. The magic that had pushed out now receded into his body, cradling him in its embrace so that he would not die. Broken, and bloody on the inside, both in his body and in mind, he fell to the side in the muddied dirt, the night darkness clouding his mind until again blissful unconsciousness took him on a journey.
Dumbledore stared down at the pale boy that lay on the hospital wing bed. It was still raining and thundering out and the Quidditch game had been cancelled because of this. And because of the boy that now was wrapped in bandages. It was nearly midnight also. Once the boy had fell to the ground after killing off part of a major dark species that had been sent to guard Hogwarts from the escaped Sirius Black, Dumbledore had cancelled the game and gathered the boy in his arms and rushed him to the Hospital Wing.
Upon seeing the boy and how some of his bones had broken through his skin, Madam Poppy had banished everyone except Severus from the room. She had needed another Healer, and Severus was just the person. Three hours later they had come out of the room, blood covering the front of their clothing and their plastic gloves on their hands, a weary look in their eyes. The matron had said that the boy would survive but he would be in the hospital for a long while.
Then Severus had proceeded to read off a list what exactly had been wrong with the boy. He had broken every major bone in his body, even his spine, but his nerves had not been severed, so there was a slight chance that he would be able to walk again. Skin had been severed where many of his bones had broken and it had yet to heal. He had several major cracks to his skull from the fall, and a tumor had sprung in his brain, but they had suppressed it. There was possible brain damage and major internal bleeding from his ruptured appendix and kidney and other places from when he hit the ground. There were also several broken ribs and because so, a bone had lodged in one of his lungs, destroying it completely; and he now had a high fever at 104 degrees from pneumonia.
Severus had sighed, taking off his gloves and rubbing his eyes. To Dumbledore, he had never expressed his feelings that much to show tiredness. "I don't know how he is alive Headmaster," Severus had said and the head-nurse had agreed.
Now, as Dumbledore stared at this strange young child, he wondered exactly how it was also that he was alive. Dumbledore took the child's hand in his, marveling at how young the boy was, not barely looking more than six years old, and wondering how he did it. Settling back, the headmaster sighed pensively. He would have to find out tomorrow.
When Harry awoke the next morning, it was to screaming. Or yelling. Whatever you wanted to call it. Even though he had not heard the voice in a long time, he knew the person who was screaming. Harry shivered. That was the voice of one man that had made his life a living hell before he had killed Voldemort. It was the voice of a former Death Eater. It was the voice of one, Cornelius Fudge.
The screaming grew closer until several peoples seemed to barge into the Hospital Wing. Madam Poppy was at the door immediately, trying to shoo the people that had bust into the hospital wing out, but to no avail.
Standing at the door was the Minister of Magic, the Headmaster of Hogwarts, the Deputy Headmistress, and the Potions Professor, plus a few people that looked like Aurors. Harry tried desperately to drown in the covers when he realized that they were talking about him, but only succeeded in reopening some of his wounds from the night before. He hissed slightly, and Cornelius Fudge's eyes roamed to his, catching on his broken figure and the way his skin was torn through skin and muscle.
A hungry look came into the Minister's eyes and Harry shivered, drawing the covers up higher, trying to cover his small figure. Before the Matron of the Hospital Wing had time to draw the curtains around his bed, Fudge came and sat next to his bed. Not liking the dark look in the Minister's eyes, Harry scooted away, tearing open up more of the wounds and shifting his broken bones, but not caring as he just wanted to get away from the madman sitting next to him.
"So who is this Dumbledore?" Fudge said silkily, and Harry shuddered. A cold made his bones freeze, and he cursed this small broken body. Dumbledore, as if sensing Harry's discomfort and horror, lied. The results of this lie were not what anyone expected.
"He is my great-grandchild." Dumbledore said and shock flitted across Severus' face for a second before his face became an emotionless mask again. Cursing Dumbledore, Severus played along though. It was his job, after all.
"My nephew, Minister," Severus sneered lightly at Fudge. The man nodded, not taking his hungry eyes off Harry. His eyes were deep brown and they seemed to stroke Harry in a perverted way, glancing up and down his small body. Staring at Harry even as he stood, he nodded, as if in thought.
"I shall excuse the destruction of my Dementors, Headmaster." His voice did nothing to lessen the leer in his eyes, and Harry drew in upon himself, pulling his legs, broken or not, up to his chest, fear cloaked as blankness in his eyes. The other people in the room seemed frozen, as they were dealing with the Minister of Magic, and technically, there was nothing that they could do. "See that it does not happen again," Fudge said darkly, and his eyes raved Harry's body before he turned on heel, and swept out of the room, putting his bowler hat on his balding head.
Harry shuddered, gasps coming from his lips, as his whole body shook. Dumbledore swept immediately to his side as if to pull him into his arms, but Harry shook his head no. Severus came to stand beside the bed also, and he looked blankly onto the shivering boy.
"What is your name, child?" Dumbledore asked gently and Harry shook his head, burying his face in his knees. His rail-thin arms clutched around his knees tightly, and his magic seemed to heal him slightly, strengthening his bones. He knew that he could not feel his legs, but right now, he did not care. He could only see the Voice and he could only hear the Ministers deep voice and his red tinted brown eyes. Memories of his past before he defeated Voldemort in his alternate reality flooded back to him, and his blood became ice. There was so much blood…
"No… no…" he whispered in a small voice. He felt a hand on his back and he stiffened. A creak and the bed lowered as someone sat behind him, rubbing his back.
When someone spoke into his ear, he knew that it had to be Severus. "Childe, what is your name?"
"… Chase Darken, Professor," Harry said softly, and Severus almost did not catch it. The rubbing on his back continued and he became sleepy. Again, he fell into the dark oblivion, this time with someone to catch him.
When Harry had fallen asleep, curled up with bandages wrapped around his person and his magic rapidly healing his broken bones, Severus stood up. He expected to be pulled back down by Harry's hands on his cloak, but the small hands let go of his cloak, curled into fists, and lay across his chest.
"His name is Chase Darken." Dumbledore nodded and settled down in the chair, next to where Severus now sat, a strange look on his face.
Then he turned to Severus, and hatched out a plan, all the time, Chase's breaths becoming shallower as his dreams to nightmares.
-Dream Space-
The night was dark, and the clouds rumbled ominously across the sky. Harry stood on top a great hill, looking down into a valley filled with red. The red of blood. A strong stench filled his nostrils and he recoiled. It was the smell of decay and disease, and as much as Harry wanted to turn back to the living, he walked downward from the large hill toward the valley where the dead littered the ground like maroon leaves from a tree.
Harry's feet carried him over bodies decomposed from months of being here, red maggots, fat from blood falling from their bodies. The sky was crimson, filled with viruses of many kinds. Flies carrying illnesses of the deadliest kinds swarmed through the air like little helicopters of disease transportation. Yet, his feet carried him along.
Bodies he passed all stared back at him with blank eyes, glassy from death. Their blood was spilled on the ground, staining the grass. Harry shivered. Bodies piled on top of each other, horror, anger, and all other dark emotions tainted their faces. The night wizard's were mixed with the light in this graveyard, as none had bothered to sort them out and bury them properly.
Harry drew his cloak around him more as he walked nearer to the middle of the battlefield. Bodies became more compacted together, as it was that most of the Wizard World was here. But the Wizard World was no more.
Something crunched beneath his feet, as dead bodies became scorched remains of human bones. He knew he was near the center of the battlefield. And suddenly, he was there. He knew that he was here, because this is where he had killed Voldemort. The scorch mark where Voldemort had stood seconds before Harry had incinerated him was still there, as black as ever against the brown dead grass. Looking around, he saw all of the carnage around him and shuddered, knowing that he had caused all of this.
It had been five years to this day, where the Wizard World had fallen to the hands of Harry Potter and the former Dark Lord, Voldemort. Harry collapsed to his knees as memories of all of the blood welled up in his mind. Death and destruction had been everywhere and Harry could have done nothing about it. Voldemort had his attention, and he had fought vigorously with his enemy.
That is, until he had heard Hermione Granger, his best friend, scream a deathly scream. He turned around only just in time to see her get hit with the green killing curse along with his other best friend, Ron Weasley. They had been engaged to get married that year and the wedding was all planned. Hermione had even been with a child, and even though they both had insisted that she stay away from the battle, she came anyway. Harry had felt tears running down his face as he started toward them, already knowing that it was too late.
That was just the chance that Voldemort needed. Spreading his arms out wide, he had invoked a plague of disease that spread like wildfire from him to everyone else in the valley and beyond. This was exactly what Harry had waited for, and dreaded, and had tried to prevent. Yet, he could not.
Harry smashed his hands against the dead ground, tears running down his pale cheeks as he glanced again at the black spot that marked the final part of the Dark Lord. When Harry had turned back to Voldemort after he'd cursed disease upon the magical world, Harry had been so enraged that from deep within himself, he'd drawn a bubbling, putrid black magic and thrown it at Voldemort, incinerating him and everything around him. Hundreds of deaths were on his hands from that simple curse, as were millions of others from the disease.
When Harry had turned back from the slowly burning Voldemort, he saw that everyone on the battlefield was slowly collapsing, every one of them staring at him in disbelief and heart-breaking sadness. He was supposed to protect them, yet all he did was watch all of them die at the hands of the their savior.
Harry opened his hands, staring at them as if he could see all of the blood still on them from five years ago. Digging his nails into his palm, he drew blood, and a raging scream tore from his vocal chords. Slamming his hands into the hard ground, and breaking all of the bones in his hands, he screamed, crying all the same. He was supposed to protect them, damn it! Yet, all he did was destroy them!
Harry knew the next part of the dream by heart. It was what he deserved. Standing up from the ground, his head hanging low as blood dripped from his hands to the ground, he turned around. His blood seeped out of his hands in a more continuous stream and it was soaked into the ground. The first ones that he saw were the ones farthest from him. At the very edge of the valley, not more than a mile from him, stood up the first person.
Even from where he stood a mile away, he could see the rotten and decayed face of a person he was supposed to protect. Then more popped up, their festered muscles almost collapsing upon themselves, but growing stronger as Harry's blood fueled them. Each and every time they stood, they would stand there, glaring daggers at Harry and each time, whispered words of hate would pour from their mouths until a hiss of continuous words echoed over the battlefield.
Closer they came, and closer were those that returned to life. Soon enough, bones became muscle and flesh, and ever more, those that he was supposed to protect grew closer. Harry did nothing, just stood there, quietly accepting his dream destruction. He cringed as he remembered it did not feel like a dream.
Suddenly, there they all were, staring at him with hard, cold, glassy eyes that accused Harry. They moved around him like a flood, always watching but never coming close enough to touch him. Insults were thrown at him, reminding him of all the disaster in his life; of about how he was a failure at everything that he ever did. They reminded him of how Cedric and Sirius, and Remus, and Dumbledore had died because of being too near him.
Someone brushed his arm and he felt a sliver of fear. Then abruptly, all of them were rushing at Harry, pulling at his clothing and tearing it off. Claws scraped his skin and soon enough he was standing before all of them naked as anything. His pale skin shone darkly in the red light of the moon behind the crimson clouds, and blood dripped from shallow cuts in his skin. A low moan from all of the reborn people sent Harry's skin into goose bumps, as they felt his blood strengthening them.
Swiftly all of their eyes turned to him, and he felt himself cringe under their harsh gazes. Then, all of them were on him. Everyone he knew was tearing at his skin, ripping away his flesh and adding it to his or her own, his blood spilling onto the already blood-red ground. Harry at that moment knew he was screaming ear splittingly. Now-strong arms forced him to the ground, leers of all colors of eyes raking his body.
All of a sudden, the frenzy to get his blood stopped and a silence to rival Death deafened Harry. He was still laying on his stomach on the ground, his blood seeping into the ground, strengthening all of those that he was supposed to protect, making him grow weaker as they practically lapped up his blood into themselves. He froze as suddenly he felt a finger stroke his naked leg. He strained to see whom it was, already knowing who it was. His head was forced down into the dirt and he struggled to breathe.
"My, my Harry…" came the frosty voice, "You certainly have found yourself in an interesting situation." It was the voice of Voldemort.
Silence became ruthless laughter when Voldemort said these words. A scream erupted from his lips, but it was hoarse and rough, as Voldemort mercilessly entered him, pounding in and out. But he could do nothing as he was pinned to the ground, his life draining away. A breathy voice was right next to ear, and Voldemort spoke jagged words.
"You are worthless, you always have been. You killed off every single person that trusted you, your family, your friends, and the entire magical world. They were all counting on you." The ruthless pounding continued and tears ran down his face as his innocence was stripped away. Sharp nails dug into his back and another hoarse scream was torn from his lips. More blood was drawn and Voldemort lapped it up greedily. "You're not good for anything Potter." It was as if he could hear Voldemort smirk. "At least not good for anything but a good fuck," came the sneering voice.
-End Dream Space-
