Shadowed Pain
Summary: He never meant for them to hate him, to curse his name, and the day he was born. They turned on him first, and he did what he had to do. Harry Potter never meant to fall in love, or to become the most feared necromancer. They made him what he was.
Background: On the third task of the Triwizard tournament, Harry Potter appeared in front of the masses bloodied, crying, and holding the body of Hufflepuff's star Seeker. Barty Crouch Junior followed his Master's instructions, and did not make any contact with the boy, causing Dumbledore to have no proof other than Harry's word that the Dark Lord had returned. After months of no activity, Dumbledore decided that Lily and James' precious child was merely causing trouble for attention. This announcement sparked a campaign of hate towards the Boy Who Lived, and caused everyone, even his closest friends, to hate him for trying to disturb the peace they had fought so hard for.
Timing: The story starts in Harry's fifth year, on Christmas Day. For the purpose of the story, Marcus is only a year above him.
Disclaimer: I'm clearly not JK Rowling, and I take no credit for the world she has made, nor any characters originally created by her, only for the few I have created by myself.
AN: Definitely not my favourite chapter by far, but necessary for the storyline. Hope you guys like it, happy hallowe'en. :)
'Necromancers are devilishly sneaky beings – they always have something up their sleeve. Unless you – like myself – have a brilliant mind and lightning fast reflexes, I would advise you to keep as far away from them as possible. Of course, they tend to keep to themselves, but while I was in Denmark courageously helping free a village from a pack of werewolves singlehandedly – a story for another time, my beautiful reader – when, an inch within my life, an entire Guild attacked me, out of nowhere. Must have felt threatened or something. Threatened – by me! Heroically – despite my injuries - I fought them off, and once again, freed the world from another devilish creature.'
* Gilderoy Lockhart*
Wanderings With Werewolves
It was only as a ray of sunlight bloomed in the dark thunderous sky, only as the black storm clouds thinned and became grey, only as the violent torrent of rain bouncing off the pavement slowed to a gentle shower, that Harry Potter finally stopped walking.
The overlarge hoodie that had once been Dudley's clung to his thin frame, the rainwater making the material heavier than ever, and so cold that Harry wondered whether he'd be warmer without it. His jeans were ripped, covered in mud, and no less wet than his hoodie. Harry was freezing, and despite his magic helping to rejuvenate him, he was completely exhausted.
But there was something different about him – something that went past the grime and dirt that covered his face, and tremors that rocked his body from the cold. The eyes that had once been dead, void of emotion, and flat, sparked with fire that had long been absent.
As Harry listened to the birds chirping their beautiful morning song, occasionally throwing in his own tuneless whistle, and stared into the sky where the golden ball of fire proudly announced the beginning of a new day, he smiled for the first time in months. He wasn't sure why, because it was impossible that they had been telling the truth. But that didn't really matter anyway – because Blárvéurr and Dorcha Grian had given him hope.
Harry was about to turn around, and hopefully retrace his steps – though he had no clue where he was - when in a moment of complete chance that would affect the course of his entire life, Harry turned his head, and spotted a café.
Well … a tavern.
It was located down a decidedly dodge alley, barely wide enough for Harry to walk through, and it was a complete miracle that Harry had even noticed it. The ground was covered in what looked like decades of dirt, and Harry wondered if the shops surrounding the tavern – which, judging by the rotten wooden planks, looked to have long been boarded up– had simply chucked their rubbish onto the street. The red-bricked apartments above the shop were windowless, ugly, and covered in filth and grime.
There was not a single person in the alley, and the only thing which even pointed to human activity, was the two bulging black rubbish bags dumped in the middle of the alley.
It was for this reason; Harry felt he had absolutely no reason to be embarrassed about how tightly he was gripping his wand.
It was evident from first glance that the tavern was tiny, even before Harry had stepped into the alley. It was a shoebox of a business, and a decidedly ugly one at that. Like the apartments that rested above it, the bar was made from ugly red brick, and no attempt had been made to disguise this fact. A thick oak door marked the entrance to the pub, and a small black sign rested above it, where fading letters spelled out the words 'Butcher's Tavern'.
Harry gulped, and gripped his wand tighter.
He had hoped, as he approached the tavern, that he might be able to take a peep into the small window to the left of the door, and hopefully prove wrong his fear that inside there were butchers playing with knives.
But as he neared it, and peered into the minute window, he realised that that was impossible. Completely clouded with decades worth of grime, and drunks emptying their stomachs, Harry decided he'd rather whatever was in there without a clue, than breathe in the stench of stale vomit for one second more.
And just because he was holding onto his wand so tightly he feared it might break, didn't mean that he was afraid. He was a Gryffindor, after all. Harry just held a healthy amount of … wariness of the tavern.
Sure, if he had a choice between the Dursleys, and the tavern, Harry would probably take the Dursleys, but he was soaking wet and desperate times called for desperate measures.
And Harry was not exactly one hundred percent sure on how to get home …
With the last thought that it couldn't be that bad – after all, he had his wand – Harry pushed the heavy oak door open, cringing at the groans of protest the door made, and took a few hesitant steps inside.
When he saw the outside of the tavern, and the name, Harry had been under the impression he was about to set foot in some sort of a dingy biker club, full of middle-aged men with countless tattoos, and numerous scars, dressed only in leathers. He thought the lighting would be dim – if there was lighting at all – and that the pub would reek of men's unwashed bodies, alcohol and vomit.
Instead what he saw nearly made his heart leap out of his skin, and he was not ashamed to say – because he felt it was completely justified – that his grip on his wand was tighter than ever. Harry closed his eyes for a moment, thinking that when he opened them they would be gone, and a middle-aged heavily tattooed biker would be in their place. But sure as hell, they were still there.
Wizards.
It was probably just his luck, Harry decided, for Ron and Hermione had frequently commented – quite insensitively, Harry felt – on just how bad it was. But this proved it. Of all the taverns in the world, he would just randomly stumble into a wizards tavern … The odds were staked at at least one in a million, if not a billion, but sure enough, there they were.
Staring at him.
Scratching his head self-consciously, Harry felt he would really like to know what it was with people and staring at him today.
The tavern was infinitely nicer inside than its dirty exterior indicated. Real coal fires burned at regular intervals along the walls, and the warmth from the gold and red flames spread an unimaginable feeling of comfort across his freezing body, quite unlike the fake gas fire the Dursleys kept at home. A bar, advertising every sort of drink Harry could imagine on long narrow shelves – some so old a layer of dust concealed the name, and some sparkling new – filled the whole back wall. Tables, made from the same heavy oak the front door was made of, filled the remaining space. Best of all, despite Harry's initial thoughts, there was no dirt on the matching oak doors, or vomit, at least from what Harry could tell in the fire's cheery lighting.
Although, Harry thought as he spied pale blonde hair peering out from behind a black hood, he doubted Lucius Malfoy would be sitting there if the room was anything less than spotless.
Harry gulped, tightening his grip on his wand even further, as his emerald eyes scanned the room, studying the people. Names and faces from articles in the Daily Prophet – suspected Death Eaters, prisoners broken out from Askaban by 'Sirius Black' – hushed conversations at Hogwarts, filled with fear, and his own memories of the Triwizard Tournament's Third Task flashed back at him.
Avery, Nott, Lestrange, Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, Parkinson; they were all there, and they were all gaping at him.
Feeling subconscious under the weight of their stares, Harry cast a nervous eye down at his mud-splattered Muggle hoodie – still soaking wet, and covered in blood stains – his ripped and faded Muggle jeans, and his unlaced, soaking, and filthy Muggle shoes which, Harry grimaced, had left a long trail of muddy footprints leading to him. Harry narrowed his eyes at their disapproving stares, though he could have sworn Lucius' cloak was so clean, it was gleaming.
Well... Wasn't this just a wonderful Christmas gift. And there he was, thinking he hadn't gotten any presents.
A bar filled with Death Eaters and their spawn. It was certainly unique.
Although, Harry couldn't help but wonder why none of them had jumped him the moment he had entered the bar. Surely by now, he should be gagged and bound, and on a one way ticket to Voldemort's layer?
A small smirk spread across his face as he imagined Voldemort's home …
With thoughts of bunnies and pink duvets, Harry swallowed his fear and marked up to the bar. 'I need a map.' After all, it was hardly the sort of bar where 'please' and 'thank you' would be necessary, nor appreciated.
And when Harry saw the man manning the bar, he was sure he had made the right choice.
The second Harry's eyes landed on him, Harry had no doubt of why the bar was called 'Butcher's Tavern'. Nor did he have any trouble guessing who 'Butcher' was. For standing in front of him was a man double his height, with barrel like arms and legs so long Harry would have sworn he was on stilts. A thick white scar exploded from his untamed vivid red hair, cutting through his left eye, and leaving it permanently half closed. It continued through his nose, which had a large chunk missing from it, and cut down diagonally across his thin pale lips. From there, it disappeared down his thick high collared robes, and ended God knew where.
'Harry Potter.' Butcher's deep growling voice sounded, his one working grey eye focusing on him menacingly. 'You have nerve showing your face here.'
Lucius Malfoy rose from his seat by the fire, in one graceful snakelike movement. He pulled his black hood back from his face, and his pale blue eyes focused on Harry. 'Rather,' his cold voice swept from crimson lips, 'I would wonder how Potter entered the tavern, Butcher.' He narrowed his eyes at the scarred beast before him, 'You assured the Dark Lord that no person Unmarked could enter this building.' Lucius' pale blue eyes surveyed Harry's face with concealed interest, 'Let alone enter it.'
Harry gulped, the loud sound echoing in the silent room. Everyone was watching the conversation by now, holding their wands with smirk as they stared at Harry, waiting for the slightest sound of a threat.
And from what Lucius had said, he was in a building filled to the brim with Voldemort's followers – something he had hoped he would never have had the pleasure of doing. A place which he should never have been able to enter in the first place …
Yet it didn't exactly take Dumbledore to figure why he, who didn't have the Dark Mark, was able to see and enter the building. For Harry had been marked by Voldemort in a different place, fourteen years ago.
Harry had no clue where he was – he had walked for hours, going down streets randomly and ignoring all sign posts. But whatever was outside was surely safer than in the tavern. Whether he had a map, or not; Harry didn't want to stand in the tavern for a moment longer being scrutinised by smirking hooded figures, all waiting for the slightest threat to attack. However, Harry doubted the thirty-something Death Eaters, and their children, would let him simply leave. Especially not when he had so willingly walked into their lair.
Not unless he was one of them …
Harry blinked twice, trying to clear his mind that was numb from fear. He zoned back into the conversation just in time to hear Malfoy call Butcher an incompetent fool.
'I'm the best at wards within Europe, Malfoy, and you damn well know it. I'm much better than you, relying on galleons and personal connections to get people to do favours for you.' Butcher snarled, his thin lips pressed into a tight line.
Through his numb mind, Harry vaguely saw the youngest Malfoy stand up in outrage, before a single thought returned to his mind.
Not unless he was one of them …
Harry distantly watched as Lucius ordered the youngest Malfoy back to his seat, with a harsh remark of having a Gryfindork as a son.
'Then how did he get in?' Malfoy argued back smugly, continuing his argument with Butcher from where the two had left off. All eyes were on the two arguing, seeming to have forgotten about Harry standing there, slowly but surely creating a puddle of water around him, as rainwater dripped from his clothes.
'Then how did he get in?' Malfroy argued back smugly. All eyes were on the two arguing, seeming to have forgotten about Harry standing there, slowly but surely creating a puddle as water dripped of him.
Not unless he was one of them …
'Dearest Malfoy,' Harry said coldly, in his most condescending tone. 'Do you honestly believe I'm still the Old Goat's pawn after all this time?'
Harry's eyes, wide with fear, stared into Malfoy's intelligent mercury gaze.
Desperately trying to convince the master of politics that he was sincere, Harry frantically struggled to remember the term they had spent studying drama back in primary school, while attempting to keep his gaze cool and calm.
Slowly his face changed to before almost a mirror of the Pureblood's naturally arrogant, condescending features. A long silence began, and unlike the Harry he had once been, he made no attempt to break it, for anything could break the fragile seed of belief he had planted in Lucius' mind.
Through narrowed unblinking emerald eyes Harry watched as Malfoy's Holier-Than-Thou mask disappeared, as unveiled shock broke though the barrier.
As the other Death Eaters looked to Harry in amusement – clearly thinking it was some sort of practical joke from one of Lucius' many enemies under Polyjuice – others looked on in disbelief, and some, like Malfoy, in plain shock.
Harry continued to play his part, his fact a perfect imitation of the Slytherin's at school scornful superior expressions. Staring at Malfoy as though the man wasn't worth his time or day, Harry continued his monologue, trying to look as conceited and Dark as possible, white his heart pounded with fear beneath his ribs.
'I really must send my regards to Lord Voldemort,' Harry smirked at the outraged gasps, and continued on, 'for helping me to fool even the likes of yourself.' He gave a cold, fake laugh. 'Unless,' Harry paused, letting the sentence hang in the air, 'You're just an idiot.'
Harry was sure his heart was about to explode out of his chest, for he was so afraid one of them would summon Voldemort here and now, to ask if it was true. So as peered as his audience through his lashes, Harry desperately hoped his half thought out plan had worked. Even if the fair majority believed him, that would be enough – for they would convince the rest.
It was common knowledge, at least to those who cared to pay attention, that most politicians were Death Eaters – or rather that most Death Eaters were politicians. And if not, you could bet they were working somewhere in the Ministry of magic, whether as an Auror, an Unspeakable, or as an Advisor to the Minister. It didn't really matter where – as long as they were in a position of power.
For after all, if there was one thing Voldemort hated more than Mudbloods, it was the weak.
So Harry knew when he said the fair majority, he was being ambitious to say the least. Or maybe, he had just jinxed himself. In any case, when he did look up, about half of them were glaring – Grabbe and Goyle senior were even cracking their knuckles menacingly – and about two fifths of them were plain laughing, finding it hilarious their Lord would invite Harry Potter to the Dark side. The remaining few were sitting on the balance – some nodding along – but most committing to neither side.
Harry gulped, cursing himself for not thinking of a better plan. Or better yet, never entering the tavern in the first place. All around him were enemies, and barely a handful believed what he was saying. They thought it was ridiculous that someone would want him on their side – that their Lord would want him on their side. It was really only a matter of time before the first curse was fired.
And to add insult to injury, Malfoy was now laughing; a cold deadly laugh that sent shivers up Harry's spine. His mercury glinted in a menacing light. 'You?' He fingered his cane in a silent but deadly matter, in what was clearly meant to be a threat.
'No one wants you on their side.'
Harry blinked, his emerald eyes glistening as he felt tears building up at the harsh truth. Ron and Hermione, Dumbledore and the Weasleys, Sirius and Remus; not one of them had even so much sent him a letter over the summer, or even tell him that they no longer wished to be his friend. Instead, Harry forced to spend the summer with the Dursleys, thinking it was the most miserable his summer could get.
Until, one day, Instead Harry received the Daily Prophet, and on the front page was a blown up picture of his face, and a title screaming 'The Boy Who Lied' with exclusive interviews from those he once considered family continuing on from page one to nine.
No one believed him, no one trusted him. Everyone thought he was simply making up Voldemort's return for more attention for himself – as if he wanted it! The responsibility, the press watching his every move, judging his every decision … Who would want to be called The Boy Who Lived if that was the price that came with it? Who wanted to be ridiculed each day by Rita Skeeter, or alienated by the only people he had, so that he had no one to turn to?
'You have no power.'
No one ever did see it, did they? They always saw him as a figurehead for the light, but never as someone with true power.
Dumbledore, and his condescending 'I'll tell you when you're older' speech. Snape, constantly addressing him as 'Boy' or 'Brat' as if he knew just what the Dursleys called him, and vanishing any progress Harry had made on a potion, deeming it unacceptable when in reality it was one of the better ones in the class. Hermione, having to constantly beat him, because she was meant to be the 'smart one'. Ron, always putting him down, saying that he was only liked because he was a celebrity, that only him and Hermione were his true friends..
But … he did. He had power – more than anyone's in this room.
He was … a necromancer.
He was a necromancer.
'I have no power?' Harry raised an eyebrow coldly at the man in front of him. 'Really, Lucius? Does it make you warm and gooey inside to go around putting people down – people who you known have more power than you?
'Because really, that's not very Slytherin like.' Harry smirked at the politician's glare.
'Must I prove to you I am more powerful? For I wouldn't advise a duel against Voldemort's heir Lucius.' He sneered at the room's stunned expression. 'You will find that he would be most displeased with you – that is, if you survive it.
'For really, Lucius, you are talking to the person who survived the Killing Curse, and lived to tell the tale. Tell me; do you recall who it was who saved the Philosopher's Stone from Voldemort when they were merely eleven? Surely, you being a school governor, you would know?' Harry frowned, a look of fake sympathy directed at Lucius. 'Unless, they didn't tell you.''
Harry paused, allowing the dig at Lucius' power to hang in the air. The Death Eaters were all listening now, half of them believing, and the others clearly impressed with the power Harry spoke of.
'Who was it that closed the Chamber of Secrets in second year, defeating a fully grown basilisk in the process with merely a sword? Let's not forget that at the age of twelve, I had just defeated your Lord for the third time.
'And then, correct me if I'm wrong, I believe I freed Sirius Black, your Lord's most loyal servant,' Harry expertly twisted the truth, 'from captivity, right under the Ministry's nose. At the age of thirteen, I had cast a fully corporeal Patronus charm strong enough to shield not only me, but Sirius Black, from hundreds of Dementors.
'I'm sure you all know what happened in fourth year, Lucius. The dragons, the Mer-People, the maze? Well … I suppose you all did miss the maze.' Harry smirked at their guilty expressions. 'But we all caught up at the grand after party – Voldemort versus a bound Harry Potter. And what a fun party that was …
'I'm sure you remember who won that duel.
'Tell me, Lucius,' he snarled, uncaring that in Pureblood society he was committing social suicide by calling the Pureblood by his first name. 'Have you been alive this past fucking year? Bothered to pick up a newspaper between combing your hair, and grovelling at my Master's feet?
'Well,' Harry panted, his emotions exploding. He finally had an outlet. 'I'm sure the Daily freaking Prophet would be more than fucking happy to fill you in. Maybe September's headline that I'm such a Dark wizard that at one year old I killed,' his voice broke, 'my own parents? Not Voldemort – me.
'What about last month? When Rita Skeeter wrote about how I was actually Voldemort's son? Or last week's fucking edition? That, in an exclusive interview given by Ronald Weasley himself, it was me who opened the Chamber of Secrets, and almost killed everyone. Including what I thought was my best friend.'
Harry glared at the sea of stunned faces before him.
'Do you honestly think I would still be one the Light's side when this is how they treat me?' Harry yelled at his audience, feeling his anger about the last year swimming to the surface, and last night's resolution. 'The Boy Who Lived is a trophy for them, and toy to love and hate, and throw around, until they need me again.'
Ten years. Ten years he spent at the Dursleys. Ten horrifying years. Being beaten, and hurt, and neglected. And no matter how much he begged, or he asked, no one had let him stay at Hogwarts for Summer.
And he had never realised why until now. He had always accepted Dumbledore's excuse that no teacher would be there to supervise him. But … They wanted him broken. They wanted him broken so that they could mould him into their perfect weapon against the Dark Lord. They needed him to be used to being treated badly, so that no matter what they put him through, he would look to them for support.
He saved the Philosophers Stone from Voldemort. He saved Ginny from the Chamber of Secrets. He saved Sirius from death. He tried to save Cedric.
But who had saved him?
No one.
'Voldemort sees me as a worthy opponent – as someone to be watched, to be attended to and treated right. The Light sees me as a child, a toy, a pawn. And it will be a sad day indeed when they finally find out Voldemort is alive once more. Because on that day, they will also realise that the Boy Who Lived is on their side no longer.'
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Happy Hallowe'en.
