Thank you for the wonderful reviews! I really, really appreciate them. Anyway, Harry doesn't know it yet but his life just gets better and better. Really. No sarcasm intended.
Anyway, I've tried to add a little humour to places, but don't worry. It'll still be covered in more angst and slash than a slasher movie. OH! And there's a little shock for later. Guess which part?
Title: Crossroads
Genre: Romance, Angst, Hurt/Comfort.
Rating: T (for slash, Violence and possibly gore. If any other warnings come up, I'll make note of them).
Pairing: Harry x Tom, Harry x Voldemort.
Summery (extended): At the end of Harry's fifth year, Voldemort disappeared before the Ministry arrived, and everyone's memories have been tampered with. Declared insane and dangerous, Harry is sent to an institution with minimal human contact. With only his thoughts to entertain him, Harry isn't overly surprised when he starts seeing the ghosts of his past. He finds himself stuck between the Light side and the Dark side, staring down the crossroads of his life.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter because, if I did, there would be far more slash.
Crossroads
"Voldemort! He's back! He's… He's back." Harry sobbed, sorrow and pain still fresh from his Godfather's death. Fudge looked at him in anger with a small spark of pity.
"He can't be, Potter. He died. There was no one here." He said, and the Potter boy started at him with a hate-filled gaze. The minister took a step back, only having ever once seen that look before.
"He came back… It's his fault Sirius is dead!" Water and scorch marks surrounded them. The light's reflection flew off them in all angles. Instead of looking like it's usual stunning effect, the reflections looked deadly. Little shards still hailed occasionally as the chamber was cleaned up.
"Harry… my boy… I'm sorry, but tonight I didn't fight Voldemort. He may have been here at one stage, but I didn't see him." Dumbledore cut in, losing the spark that usually graced his eyes. Harry would do anything to see that spark again, or at least a sign of the grandfatherly Dumbledore, and not the serious impostor that stood before him. He heaved again, before attempting to stand.
The memory flickered out, and Harry was glad to be rid of it. Hours, had that one, dark memory haunted him. He still felt pain in his chest when he remembered the stony look on Dumbledore's face. Stony and thoughtful…
And silent.
The silence was haunting, as Harry came to know, haunting and eerie. It kept him up to the inane hours that he considered the morning, recalling his memories and playing them over and over in his mind.
For hours at a time, he would remain protected and untouched until it would hit him. Silence. Such a lusted condition… one could truly understand the slow torture of silence when placed in Harry's position, where he would do anything for noise.
Harry had grown up in a house filled with noise the sudden and dramatic change overwhelmed him. Sometimes, when he couldn't cope with the silence, he would pull the taps on and tap noises on the desk or the walls. Though it didn't satisfy his need for noise, it beat the unearthly silence that cradled him.
The lights were also a problem, not because they were too bright, but because they looked pale and sickly. They had a low and temperamental tone that drove Harry to the borders of discomfort. When the lights came to much to bear, he covered his eyes under the sheets and slept peacefully with the shadows holding him. In those shadows, he found a small sense of peace he hadn't felt for a long time.
But even with way's to confront the light and silence, the lack of noise and darkness made him feel like he was truly loosing his mind. He knew it was only a matter of time before things got worse, and, as the silence and light gripped him increasingly, it was bound to be soon. It seemed, in a morbid way, like a pendulum, swinging, swaying, dancing and lowering. Almost touching at less than a moment away. He wished it would lift of fall, instead of it's patient sway instead of increasing his sense of foreboding and isolation.
Isolation. He understood the saying now. For the first real time in his life, Harry was truly isolated. Not a soul nor a sound could penetrate his cell. Nothing existed within it and, to Harry, nothing existed outside of it. It was an unmarked cage of what Harry could describe as ice. Cold, silent and haunting.
The constant strain on his mental health didn't deter him from feeling excitement, joy and worry when he received letters, mainly from Ron and Hermione now. Every new letter he received, however, set him further and further on edge. Sirius had not been mentioned once, and Harry could only guess they were withholding something from him. Just like his fifth year, Harry was being treated as some sort of porcelain monument. Breakable at words and actions, cursed to live in ignorance.
Some days, when he received letters, it filled him with unexplainable anger and sadness. Every letter he sent, he asked for news about Voldemort, but he never received any information back. Harry knew Voldemort hadn't stayed completely out of sight, his scar burned a little too much some days, and on those days he felt a little more anger and a little more hatred than he was used to.
His most recent letter, from both Ron and Hermione combined, did nothing to help his anguish. They had both hoped he was well, while promising the arrangement wasn't permanent, and there was still no sign of Voldemort. Hermione and Ron had written they were well, and they had both made prefects. They also told him that Dumbledore was taking DADA classes while they searched for a replacement. Harry had had a good laugh while he imagined Dumbledore teaching the cursed position. He highly doubted anything would happen to elderly man, though.
He rested his hands under his head, half relaxing on his bed. His unease had doubled in the last few days, leading up to now. He tried not to dwell on the feeling, but with so little do to it was hard to ignore. It was like the silence and the light, a constant shadow that grew and twisted, pulling everything around it into darkness. And, for Harry, darkness would be good. He wanted to feel the inexplicable rush of emotions that overwhelmed the darkness. Pain and danger and adventure - he needed it. One could say he lived for it, if they knew him well enough.
A polite cough alerted Harry of the presence in the room. He took his time in looking up, used to the small noises his mind conjured during his loneliness. What he wasn't expecting, however, was the man that stood there. Robed in a fine dark material with his long, pale fingers clutching his wand stood Voldemort, an evil sneer upon his reptilian face. Harry jumped, and lunged for a book on the desk side tale.
"Insurgo!" He hissed, and Harry felt his body rise into the air. He thrashed about, loosely aiming kicks in the direction Voldemort stood but mostly trying to grip onto something. He heard the cold, amused laugh and immediately stopped struggling.
"What do you want." He growled.
Voldemort said nothing for a moment, but his face twisted into what Harry would perceive as a murderous look. Harry glared back, but his glare was no where near as ferocious and malicious as the one Voldemort wore.
"I'm not going to kill you, if that's what you're thinking." He said. Harry laughed humourlessly, even more so when Voldemort's eyes flashed a deeper shade of crimson.
"Yeah, right. Like you haven't ever tried to kill me." He laughed again, this time bitterly. Harry almost feared it, the laughter reflected the pent up rage and bitterness and insanity that haunted him since he'd arrived. No, before that, when Sirius died.
"You are a foolish boy, Harry Potter." He said, smirking at Harry's obvious thoughts. Harry attempted another lunge at the man, but his body didn't shift another inch. Voldemort lifted his wand, a foreboding grin on his pale face. He concentrated for a moment before speaking.
"Crucio." He hissed, and Harry's entire body shuddered and with spasms controlling each of his limbs. Harry screamed with a force that felt like his throat was shredding, while his lungs pounded furiously in his chest. His vision blurred and darkened, and he felt the curse lifting as a voice - his voice - screamed. After a long moment, Voldemort lifted the curse and Harry heaved with uncaught breath. Voldemort's wanly figure moved closer, and Harry moved as far backwards as he could, fully aware of the pulled muscles and forming welts.
"D-don't." Harry managed to force out through his chattering teeth.
"Why ever not?" Voldemort grinned maliciously, thoroughly enjoying the young boy's pain.
"Want…. To live!" He grunted out, feeling his head swarming. He heard a chuckle and footsteps when his vision flickered out. Hands were touching him, pulling him, trapping him and Harry did all he could think of at the time. He lashed out. Numerous times his fist connected with flesh, but nothing was enough to stop the invasion. A short sounded, possibly from himself, possibly from another, and then there was nothing.
The next thing he saw was a unmarked white ceiling. His eyes followed an invisible line across and, seeing the room void of life, gave a sign. No Voldemort and no Death Eaters - it was good enough for Harry. He tried hesitantly sitting, but his arms had been tightly bound to his body, limiting his movements to the point the could only roll. Harry shifted into a more comfortable position, and took notice of the small cuts and welts across his skin.
"Good to see you're awake, Mr Potter." A man, presumably in his late fifties, said. He was a rather stocky man, in Harry's opinion, much alike his uncle. The man ran a hand through his greying hair, and muttered a spell to release. He held out a glass a comfortable distance away. Hesitantly, Harry reached out, flinching at the burn in his muscles, and took the glass.
"I want to ask you a few questions. Please, take a drink. You'll find it highly refreshing." He said, with a small glint of laughter in his beady eyes. Harry had already guessed the water had something in it, and it was confirmed when the man smirked. Harry, however, could not deny the need for water. His throat throbbed and ached, feeling raw. With every breath, it felt like something was scraping along his man conjured up a chair as Harry drank the water, and he was happy to notice the pain in his throat was somewhat weaker as he felt the water run down it. The man waited patiently, and Harry grinned into the glass, knowing he could drag a small glass of water out for a long time. After living with the Dursley's, Harry had become used to the lack of food and water. There were times, sitting in his small cupboard bedroom, where he would do his best to live off a single small meal for a few days.
"Your name is Harry James Potter, is it not?" He asked as Harry finally finished.
"Yeah." Harry rasped, hating the sore feeling when the vibrations from the words scraped along his throat. He didn't want to talk. It hurt far too much.
"What happened?" He asked curiously. Harry frowned.
"Voldemort. In…. my cell… used -"
"The Cruciatus Curse." He cut in. Harry frowned.
"Did you… catch Him?" Harry croaked. The man took his turn to frown.
"No one was there, Mr Potter." Harry saw red. It took him a simple moment to forget his pain and forget his surrounding and just explode.
"WHAT TO YOU MEAN NO ONE WAS THERE! HE WAS THERE, AND I ALMOST DIED. HOW COULD YOU NOT SEE HIM!" He roared, sending the stocky man into a coughing fit of shock. Harry was heaving after, seeing an intense burn within his throat, spreading like fire.
"Mr Potter, that is no way to behave. You are lucky you are not dead." He said carefully, fearing another explosion. Harry muttered to himself about the idiots of the Wizarding World for not being muggle's, but didn't push it.
"Well, Mr Potter, would you like to know what happened?" He asked. Harry nodded, his throat hurting even more than usual.
"The Cruciatus Curse was used, but not by You-Know-Who. YOU used a wanless Cruciatus Curse on yourself while you were hallucinating about You-Know-Who." Harry was careful to show no emotion, but inside he seethed. He knew Voldemort was there with him, using the Cruciatus on him.
"Why's… it hurt… so much?" Harry managed, after spluttering several times. The man looked askew for a moment, before deciding to answer.
"You were under that spell for a lot longer than a most people are. Also, we think you may have combined it with another spell." He said. Harry thought back, trying in vain to see a glint in the Dark Lord's eyes or a telltale sign of a second spell, verbal or not.
"Fine." Harry rasped after a moment. The man blinked at him, clearly shocked at the lack of anger. He watched as the boy turned onto his side, and continued to ignore him. Morris, as he was called, made his way to the wall where a door was concealed and tapped his wand against it in various place. The wall shifted, bricks shifting to the side as a doorway appeared. Morris hurried out of it, seeing Mr Tucker and Rita Skeeter waiting for him.
"How'd it go?" Mr Tucker asked.
"He believes it was You-Know-Who that tortured him, and not himself. Even with theVeritaserum in his veins." Morris said. The Skeeter women lapped it up like the answer to the universe, her QuickQuill scratching against the parchment.
"Oh good, I can have an interview with him if he's on that." She said. Mr Tucker frowned.
"No body is allowed to see the boy. He broke the several noses and a jaw bone when we were retrieving him from his cell." He said gruffly. Rita Skeeter frowned, never having been denied an interview in her life time. Normally, she would take her animagus form and listen in but Mr Tucker's eyes had followed her every move, not to mention all the detection wards around the room.
"So he's too dangerous for human contact?" Rita's eyes followed the Quill's progress, smiling at the choice of wording and clever puns delivered, while the two men's eyes followed the walls as they closed in on themselves.
Harry slept on his side that night, with memories of screaming and flashes of green, while the slitted red eyes he hated so much stared in amusement. He knew the spells on him were weakened, because when he woke again he was intertwined within the sheets of his own cell. He cursed, feeling the muscles strain from Voldemort's curse. Speaking, even to express his pain, was not a good idea. The second the word had left his mouth, his throat had roared in protest.
This time, a note had been left on the table in his cell, sitting in the centre with a neat fold. He ignored the note, not caring for it's message or it's writer.
Standing was painful after having been under the Cruciatus for so long, and the welts on his skin didn't aid him much. It was hell, his entire body ached and he was emotionally and mentally strained, and he was more alone than he had ever been in his life. But slowly, like a man on the road to recovery, he managed to pull himself along to the metal container, aching for something - anything - that would help.
Something was there indeed. Placed carefully next to each other was a small silver vile, filled with a liquid, and a glass of water. He drank the potion in gratitude, feeling the pain in his body mostly diminish. There were a few small aches, but nothing he couldn't handle.
As for the water, he drank as frantically as he dared. His throat felt parched, and feeling the cool liquid slip down his throat, he sighed.
The memories of the Ministry and the stocky man had not faded from his mind. Far from it, in fact. Every thought that accompanied them came with unmistakable rage.
"If they expect me to forget this, their deranged." He said, his voice still felt raw and his words were raspy, but much better than before.
'I don't think anyone could.' Harry jumped, feeling fear well up inside him. He scrambled to the corner side of the bed, eyes wide and face panicked. His breathing was irregular and rushed, but strained with the effort. He scanned the room, looking for signs of movement or trace of a charm.
"Who's there?" He rasped. There was nothing to answer him, except the silence and the loneliness that had accompanied him for the past months. He felt a slight disappointment, even if the voice came from his mind, it was still better than nothing. He wondered if he would lose the ability to speak, someday, if Voldemort never showed up or he was never released. Would he forget feelings? Locked inside this tiny, white cell, trapped within the silence. Would he become an animal, without sense of thought, but living of it's own instincts?
His disappointment turned into anger. Why didn't they remember? Not even Voldemort was strong enough to cast a memory charm so powerful that Dumbledore could forget. It wasn't supposed to be possible… Dumbledore was the one thing that Voldemort feared…
He let himself fall against the wall, and rested his head in his arms. He knew the position must look pathetic, but he couldn't help it. Around him, the cell constricted and expanded and Harry sat on the edge, shoulders bent, head folded and isolation building.
-X-
Hermione and Ron sat side by side, their hands briefly touching as they read through Harry's letters. Around them, pieces of parchment dominated the area leaving little of the floor untouched. On every piece of parchment, certain words were underlined. The word, Snuffles, puzzled them. Ron had guessed it as a dog Harry must have found, while Hermione thought back to every conversation she remembered having with Harry. Snuffles, to her, sounded like a code name for something the Ministry wasn't allowed to know about.
Hermione had already spoken with the Order members about it, but none of them had heard the expression before, which left Hermione in a tough place. She had written a list of possibilities, but none seemed to fit in with another underlined statement.
"Maybe we should ask Dumbledore next time he's here. He seems to know everything." Ron said, watching Hermione's eye flit across a very recent letter from Harry.
"Don't be daft, Ronald. Professor Dumbledore is probably very busy with releasing Harry and finding Voldemort. Besides… you saw his hand, didn't you?" Hermione said. Ron nodded.
"Looks like he was cursed or something. But what does that have to do with Harry?" Ron asked.
"I don't like it." She said, frowning. She shifted positions on the floor.
"His hand? Why?" Hermione laughed at the confused expression on Ron's face.
"No, silly. I meant, why would Harry use the Imperius curse on anyone? And why were we at the Ministry of Magic with the Auror's? And Harry's statements all added up… well, mostly." Hermione said. Ron thought for a moment, then a nervous and slightly fearful look crossed his face.
"Well… last year he went a little mental on us. And he saw my dad get hurt in his dreams… you remember what the Order were talking about with my dad? What if Harry's possessed by Voldemort, or what if he's actually gone crazy?" He asked, putting careful emphasis on the 'what if's'. Hermione's face took a dangerous turn.
"How dare you, Ronald Weasley. He's your friend! He wouldn't doubt you if he were in your situation, but here you are agreeing with the Minister of all people. You remember what they said about him last year, don't you?" She thundered. Ron's face went red.
"I'm not agreeing with him! I was just thinking that maybe it was true. You saw him when the Ministry of Magic came. He was shouting about Voldemort and Sirius. Who in Merlin's name is Sirius?" Ron yelled. Hermione's eyes watered.
"Who cares who Sirius is. Harry would never lie about fighting Voldemort, and you know it! After all he's been through…" Ron snorted.
"But no one was there! Even Dumbledore said so!"
"Don't you find it suspicious everyone had no memory of the time concerning what happened at the Ministry?" Hermione asked, and rubbed her eyes.
"Yeah, everyone except Harry!" Hermione slapped him.
"Get out! I cannot believe you would do this to your best friend. Get out!" She screeched, aiming curses at him. Ron ran as fast as he could, knowing it was better not to cross Hermione in on of those moods.
Hermione let the tears fall, shocked at how Ron could act towards his best friend. She knew a few things didn't make sense, but Harry needed all the support he could get. After the recent Daily Prophet, Hermione wouldn't be surprised if people started demanding Harry's blood. 'Deranged and Dangerous' they had called him. Hermione felt her blood begin to boil at the thought of the pesky Skeeter woman.
Feeling more stressed and alone than she'd ever felt in her life, Hermione began to pick up the pieces of parchment scattered around the room. Her thoughts went out to Harry, knowing no matter how lonely she felt, he felt a hundred times worse.
I've recently read a HP/LV fic, and it's just so beautiful… I need to share it with the world. It's rated NC-17, so no little ones…. .?sid=4037&chapter=1 ( the website it the silver snitch, if the link isn't working).
Anyway, I've been planning to write more for ages but I'm helping dad clean up. We recently lost our office building in a fire, and the building's only just safe enough to go upstairs. I warn you now, shovel ash and soot too much and it'll end up in place you don't want it to be. Trust me, I've been sneezing it all day (I know… ew. Feels like some sort of nose rape).
A little good news, I already have a part written for the next chapter. Originally, I was going to use it in this one but changed my mind.