WARNING: Dark!harry, minor character death.
A/N: I felt that this fic needed some explanation before you start reading it. It's definitely AU and it's not direct or forward. There are no explanations for events, simply hints that things in this alternate universe don't happen the same way as they did in the books. Also, I'm not spelling everything out for you. It's called through the eyes of a madman for a reason. It's supposed to be vague, a bit chaotic or hard to follow, and the tone I was going for is "mad". It's up to you to decide which voice is insane.
You know many things.
You know the feeling of sorrow.
Sometimes, it lances through your heart like a scalpel when they shun you, hate you, cast you out. Sometimes it's a dull ache. When what little family you have left turns you away, when your friends abandon you, when you're left on your own. The edges throb dully. You desperately want to reach out to someone, but you don't know who. You don't have anyone.
Everyone has you.
The feeling goes beyond sorrow as it becomes:
Pain.
You know the feeling of pain.
The deep aching throb that hurts for days afterward, pounds like a clenched fist in the stomach, the back, the face, the eye. The bruises pulse painfully and wake you up in the middle of the night when you roll over.
When you don't wake up, the pain simply becomes part of your nightmare. It beats. Sometimes it lashes and burns and welts, the crack of leather like lightning.
"Sticks and stone may break my bones but words can never hurt me."
Words don't hurt as much as belts and fists, so you say. But you know that you lie, and therein lies:
Shame.
You know the feeling of shame.
Your face is red and you're eyes flash white. It takes a little while to see the crowds beaming in front of you, all battling to get a better look at your sooty clothes, scruffy shoes, messy hair. "Nothing to see here," but they don't agree. You wish they would. You don't agree with the Dursleys.
You are not a sideshow freak.
But they think you are, those crowds of witches and wizards. Their voices sway so quickly from love to hate. They lash out like the belt, again and again. You're a liar, you're insane, you're a cheat, you're to blame.
One by one, every friend you've managed to make, a family of your own, falls away. Bitten by basilisks, drowning in lakes, dying in flashes of green light, the world lashes out at you again and again.
Your shame becomes:
Anger.
You have such righteous anger. Anger at a world that you would have saved, would have gladly given a helping hand to, would have gladly died for. But then again, you never really lived much. You're angry about that too.
You're angry about so many things. Sometimes it cracks your mind as easily as the word 'crucio' flows from your lips.
But when the rage has run out and the sorrow has run it's course, you are left with nothing but:
Hopelessness.
And it is in this that you belong to me.
Shunned, outcasted, everyone you loved was long gone and you dangled there by a thread, a braided loop made of fibers. A life short, but lived in agony. All you knew was pain.
I took the choice from your hands. I cut the rope. I watched you fall to the floor. I picked you back up, dusted you off, and brought the wayward son home.
I blocked your path to the crossroads.
I have given you life.
This is your last obstacle and then, freedom.
"Do it."
I know things: hard things, evil things, things I shouldn't know.
I shouldn't know dark magic.
It's something cold and warm inside, it's fuzzy and warm and rewarding, but somehow, also cold. The cold doesn't leave me chilled. I'm usually laughing too much to be chilled. Why? It tickles.
They think I'm like Bellatrix, that I've gone mad, that I'm numb to my victims pain, that I mock their agony. But I'm not laughing at them. I wouldn't laugh at someone while they're screaming, not even now. I'm just not that type of person.
Sometimes I don't think I ever will be.
And I'm fine with that. Unlike when I was new to this, it now makes me feel slightly better when I laugh while they scream, because I know I'm not laughing because they scream. I'm laughing because I can't control the feeling inside me, the joy, the ticklishness inside my head. I can't stop laughing.
But I should.
I shouldn't know darkness.
Hatred, anger, revenge, greed, jealousy, lust, murder, it seems like everyday something new is added to my rap sheet, my list of mistakes. They try to get me to call them triumphs, and I do for their sake, but I know they are mistakes. I know right from wrong, still.
I feel like a phoenix. I've lived, I've died, I've come back, and no matter how many times I die, I can't stop wanting to live.
But I should.
I shouldn't know him.
I shouldn't know that he is always cold, that his favorite place in the manor is curled up as close to the fire as possible. I know how cold blooded he is, how he steals my warmth at night, curling around me, seeking heat. Sometimes when I have a nightmare, I can turn back and look at those scarlet eyes, watching me blearily, waiting for me to close my eyes again.
I can't stop feeling safe in his arms.
Should I?
Do I care? I think somewhere deep down I do. I think I've only forgotten. Maybe I should remember? But I do remember. It's the reason I haven't gone mad yet. It's the only reason I've stayed sane, even through all my use of dark magic. I always remember the most important rule: know thyself.
And I do.
I know that I care about him. I know that at first, he only cared about the horcrux when he cut the noose. I know that he cares about me now, in ways he couldn't before his mind healed.
I shouldn't know these things. I shouldn't be doing these things. I shouldn't be enjoying some of the things I'm enjoying.
I always make a point to remember that, because the day that I forget that is the day I lose my mind, and I'm not crazy. I won't be crazy. Not in this lifetime.
The world thinks I'm crazy, the ministry hates me, the death eaters envy me, the order keeps trying to kill me, my old friends scorn me, and my new friends hiss and slither down my arms, whispering their secrets in my ears, his ears, our ears.
I am the heir of the houses of Potter and Black, the seeker, the snitch, the Gryffindor, the Slytherin. I am the distant cousin of Lord Voldemort, the descendent of Godric Gryffindor.
I am the boy who loved, the boy who lied, the boy who lived, the boy who died.
I am the dark consort.
Don't underestimate the things that I will do.
"Avada Kedavra."
