Convalescence of Darkness

Disclaimer: Alas, I am not J.K. Rowling and do not own anything you recognize. It certainly would not, Poor College student that I am, be worth suing me for finding her work irresistible, when this is a non-profit endeavor.

Warnings: This Fic will involve a Dark Harry, not evil, dark. It will be slash and most probably OOC. If you don't like it, flee now. I cannot bring myself to write anything less.

Rating: Quite honestly, I haven't a clue. I marked it R, so that my imagination may have free and unrestricted reign and I need not worry about picky censors.

Summary: Near the breaking point, Harry disappears from the wizarding world for three years. When he returns with the knowledge that had been kept from him, he is no longer the scared little boy the world thought it knew. Slash HP/LV may be others, Dark Harry.

"Speech"

Thoughts

(Parseltongue)

Convalescence of Darkness

Chapter Two

In Which the Masks Begin to Crack

With the doors of the watchtower looming before him, Syraen Black, formerly believed to be Harry Potter, thought back on all the things that had brought him to this point. Oddly enough, he started to smile. He marveled at how easily all his doubts faded away, the moment he was given reason to believe.

The first hint that something was amiss, came in potions. The potion that they were to brew was a fairly simple potion called the heraldry potion. It was designed to inscribe your family crest upon any inanimate object that it touched. Unfortunately, this included potion equipment and anything that it was accidentally spilled on. An agent to remove it had, at some point, been invented but it could still be quite inconvenient.

Harry had been looking forward to the class for a week. A week in which Ron had scowled and grumbled incessantly, muttering under his breath about betrayal and corruptive greasy bastards. To his mind, no one should ever be excited about potions. Even Hermione, who was just as curious to see the results, was a bit surprised at his enthusiasm. He couldn't help it. It would be the first time he would get to see the Potter family crest. He didn't think even Snape could upset him.

He smiled as he added three drops of his blood to the potion, it was the final ingredient. Stirring once counterclockwise, Harry sighed and left it alone. It had to simmer for three minutes before he could take it off the heat and so he waited. Those last, endless minuets seemed to drag on for hours before the crest finally took shape on the side of his cauldron. When it did, the giddiness that he had been feeling only moments before vanished. While he didn't truly know what he had been expecting, he knew without a doubt, that this was not it.

He had imagined that it would be something with a noble animal, he had hoped for a stag like his father but thought, that with the natural affinity for flying that was so common in Potter's, it would likely be some sort of bird. Certainly he was expecting something bright, with the red or gold of Gryffindor or perhaps even white or blue. Privately he had prayed that it wasn't white, he had always loathed the color and didn't know why. Most probably, it was too much time maintaining Aunt Petunia's exacting standards of cleanliness. His frequent trips to the infirmary certainly hadn't helped either. Definitely it should be something strong, something that would show the Potter's to be true supporters of the light. What he saw before him was none of those things.

He saw instead, a scene that positively screamed Dark. Foremost there was a black tree edged in silver, one of the sort that you might see on a muggle television around Halloween. Set on a background of deep amethyst, it had an odd sort of elegance to it that drew the eye. At the base of the tree, seemingly guarding it, was an emerald green snake with red eyes. Scrolled delicately around the edge, were eerily flowing silver markings, which looked like some type of old writing. When he looked at them, at the crest, it felt like he had stumbled into a barrier. There was a searing pain in his mind, the same as he felt every time he was near Voldemort, like a gapping rip in the very fabric of his soul. Reluctantly, despite the pain it caused him, he tore his eyes away from the damning image. The dark manifestation of his own blood it called to him, a fascination, a truth he found nearly impossible to resist.

Finally, he once again noticed the world around him. The dank chill of the dungeons, the unsavory aroma of badly brewed potions and foul ingredients, the inane hushed chatter of his peers, all hoping not to draw the attention of the potions master lurking at the front of the classroom, yet unwilling to shut up. The very act of defying the man's demands for silence appeared to ease their nervousness at the thought of facing his wrath. It was strange, while everything around him was how he expected it to be it seemed as if somehow, everything was out of focus, almost like a mild case of double vision.

Now more than a little shaken, Harry put his aching head in his hands to think. He knew instantly in the deepest and most intangible levels of his soul, that that darkest of images would eternally be the only crest he would ever, with any degree of honesty, be able to call his own. At the same time, it presented an image irreconcilable with the potter name. Growling in frustration, he poured the accursed potion into a vial, studiously avoiding eye contact with both the crest on the cauldron and the copy forming on the vial held, if somewhat shakily, in his hand. Perhaps it had something to do with his connection to Voldemort or perhaps, more of his past was being kept from him than he thought. He was getting very tired of others knowing more about him than he did.

Knowing that sitting there would not get him the answers he sought and that he was just postponing the inevitable, he cleaned up his supplies and stood. As he did so, he tried to arm himself mentally against the confrontation he knew as coming. Snape, always the malevolent bat, never could resist tormenting him at every opportunity. Such a dark crest would be just the sort of thing the man would take the most pleasure in holding against "Gryffindor's Golden Boy."

Worse yet, was the fact that the snarky bastard would undoubtedly go straight to Dumbledore, who would then have time to prepare a response, likely one meant to appease, while not necessarily saying anything substantial. While the headmaster had promised not to keep things from him, Harry had no way of knowing whether or not the old man was keeping his word. Sending him back to the Dursleys yet again, had not served to better his opinion of the old man. Nor had the attempt made at punishing Remus increased his trust in the least. If he wanted the truth, he was going to have to find it himself. He could not trust others to give it to him.

A small part of him was grinning inside as he forced himself to walk up to the professor's desk and hand over the vial to be graded. The part of him that had blocked-out the dark thoughts flooding the rest of his mind. It was cheering his success in brewing the troublesome potion. In order to show that much detail, his potion must have been nearly perfect, even if the result wasn't what he had expected. That small voice too fell silent, when he saw the malicious look in his professor's eyes. This encounter was going to be far worse than usual. He almost hoped Neville would blow something up, if only as a distraction.

"It seems Mr. Potter, that you have once again ignored my instructions. Not, that I expected anything less from you. I specifically said, that you were to use three drops of your own blood in this assignment and yet I see that you were either too squeamish or simply believed you were above the rest of us and have not. Perhaps, it is that you are simply ashamed of that arrogant fool you call a father and do not wish to carry his name."

By this time, Harry was seething. That he knew Snape was trying to goad him into a reaction helped very little, the words still hurt and trying to contradict the man would only make it worse. Harry was not about to give the evil git that satisfaction.

"I would be interested to know, where you got the blood required for the creation of the Black family crest. However, I very much doubt that any word out of your mouth contains a single iota of the truth."

The Black crest? Harry's mind was reeling unable to make sense of it. What did that mean? How was it possible. Later he told himself later he would worry about it for now he just wanted to get out of the classroom and away from Snape. Away from everyone for a while.

Seeing the defiance and anger burning in his eyes, Snape smirked and continued to push him. It had become almost a game, seeing what it took to make Harry lose his temper. It wasn't hard, the Gryffindor had absolutely no restraint. He wasn't allowed to. The boy still appeared distressingly calm, the comment about his father would usually have been enough to make him lose his temper, getting annoyed the greasy professor changed tactics, deciding to end it.

"That mutt would be pleased no doubt, to know that even in death, he is still a nuisance. Never the less, detention I believe is in order. Mr. Filch has been complaining that the trophy cases received an unseemly layer of dust during the break. He will be pleased I should think, to see them restored. It is fitting don't you think, that you should spend hours, laboring to clean grime from a shrine to glory seeking fools such as yourself. I will inform him to expect you there tonight after dinner."

Taking that as a dismissal and not really caring if it wasn't, Harry turned and walked out of the room anger, confusion and pain swirling through his mind.. He was so frustrated that he didn't notice the feeling of power crackling in the air around him. He didn't notice the way people shied away from him, afraid or simply not willing to get in his way. He didn't even notice the split second in which Snape looked after him in shock before regaining his usual scowl. How had the boy not lost his temper. He shouldn't have been able to maintain that level of composure.

That evening found Harry out on the quidditch pitch, his Firebolt beside him. Hours of flying had allowed him to get himself under control his confusion set aside for the moment he could still feel the rage, simmering at the edges of his consciousness. The pain never faded the crest had left it behind like a net of fire tangled around his mind.

It was getting dark and he knew that dinner would be nearly over by now and he should be heading in for his detention. He didn't care, at least this way he would be earning his punishment. He wasn't surprised that nobody had come looking for him when he hadn't turned up for charms. His friends were probably too wrapped up in each other to notice anyway.

Lying on his back starring up at the sky he sighed and put his hands under his head. As the weight of his head came to rest on his hands a sharp pain drew his attention, he rolled over glaring at the tiny cut on his palm. It had broken open, dark blood welling up glistening sharply in the dying light, a reminder of the day's catastrophe.

What was it Snape had said about the Black family crest? How? He had used his own blood, the cut was proof of that and as much as he loved Sirius, he most certainly didn't have vials of the man's blood stored away to use in potions experiments. Snape, if he weren't so biased and actually pulled his head out of his ass, might have realized that as well, but no, he simply had to think that anything Harry did was solely for the purpose of pissing him off. It gave him no right to say the things he had about Sirius or Harry's father. Regardless of what they had done to him in their youth, he should have grown up and gotten over it a long time ago. He should not, especially as a professor, take his vengeance out on a student.

Rage once again ready to erupt, Harry could think of only one thing, he needed to talk to Remus.

After Sirius had fallen through the veil, Harry had locked himself away. He worked past the point of exhaustion each day, struggling to finish the ridiculous list of chores the Dursleys had given him. He didn't want to think. Refused to rest., to sleep. Sleep meant dreams and his were nightmares. Twisted memories and fears brought to life by his imagination. They were slowly driving him insane. He didn't care that "Uncle" Vernon's reaction to the order's threat was to make the beatings, which had once been something of a weekly occurrence, a daily ritual. Nor did he care that the only food he was allowed, was the occasional stale piece of bread his aunt threw at him and the water he was able to sneak from the bathroom faucet. There wasn't enough left of him to care. If it weren't for the guards the order had set outside the house, he would have run, left the magical world behind him protection wards be damned. None of it mattered to him anymore.

Remus had shown up at the Dursley's a couple weeks into the summer holiday despite the order's decision that he have no outside contact. "He needs some time alone to sort things out." Upon seeing the state he was in, Remus had stunned the guards the order had on watch and they had fled privet drive. He wouldn't have made it much longer on his own. They spent the rest of the summer together just barely managing to keep ahead of their pursuers. Each taking solace in the other's presence. The werewolf had chosen his side. Harry was the last of those he considered family. He would stand by him until the end.

Authors Note: Argh! I have so many different bits and pieces that I want to throw into this Fic, that I'm having a dreadful time keeping them in any sort of order. I'm working on the third chapter, which will hopefully, explain the relationship between Harry and Remus. I'll post it as soon as possible, don't abandon me yet.

Posted January 15 2005 – My apologies to those poor readers who suffered through the first posting and the horrible cliffhanger. That was supremely awful of me and I have since, reworked the entire first section of this deity forsaken Fic.

Updated - March 13 2007 –To correct errors and revise (talk about the understatement of the century)

Names Changed and Minor Editing – July 31, 2010 (Tired of my fidgeting yet?)