Okay people, I know this is late and I already feel guilty about it *sad puppy eyes* But there are reasons except my lazieness to blame! Firstly, I went to a convention called Kultcon and was there for 2 days, and then I was (as always) very dead when I got back home. After that I met my friends twice, and yesterday I was with some other friends and played games all night long, so between yesterday and today I slept 2 hours. Really, I shouldn't even try writing since it would probably be fucked up anyway.
Due to all this, chapter 8 isn't finished (I've only written 3 pages + some notes) and when I started this story I told myself I wouldn't upload a new chapter if I didn't have a margin of already finished chapters as back-up. Well, now that margin is gone, people, and this might cause the chapters to be uploaded less frequently, since I'm writing the very same chapter it's time to upload.
Well, enough of my blabbering, you're probably not even interested, are you? SO; on with the chapter!
The next morning found Harry cranky with a sore body, eyes feeling like they were filled with sand and a heavy head that threatened to give him a headache as soon as possible. He had only fallen into a light slumber once, and even then he had been haunted with blame, hatred and dead eyes with flies in them. The short recollection of the dream had served as a reminder and been enough to send him back on all fours before the toiled, dry heaving as he'd already disposed of everything his stomach held.
Even though he was tired, his stomach aching and empty, growling for food, he didn't want to sleep, didn't want to be forced back into those dreams. Really, he'd only been sleepless a single night, he shouldn't be this tired. Maybe it had something to do with his body still being a bit weak from the turning, even though that was several days ago by now. Fact remained, though, that he was tired and sore, and he could clearly feel the weakness that had subsided over the days slowly returning.
If he didn't activate himself somehow, he was sure to fall asleep any minute.
Luckily, Minxy popped in just moments later with the breakfast, and he dug in with purpose, hoping the energy of the food would be enough to keep him up throughout the day. The house elf didn't say anything about the open window as she had noticed that he was getting stronger by the day, but she fussed over him for looking tired and said he slept far too little for someone who was ill – as if he was suffering from a normal cold or something.
As his body started taking up the nutrients of the food the aching of his stomach gradually eased and he felt a bit of energy returning. After a while he didn't feel all that bad, only a bit tired and sluggish, but that was understandable. He still felt like he needed something to do in order to stay awake, and therefore it was a great relief when the door opened to reveal the Dark Lord in his usual black robes.
By now the man looked almost completely human, with sharp but handsome angles of his face and dark brown, slightly wavy hair. Those eyes were still as piercing and red as ever, looking every bit as if the iris had been drenched in the blood of his victims. Strangely enough, those eyes didn't seem to scare him anymore; it was almost as if he had gotten used to them during the days that had passed.
Said eyes gave him an inquiring look as if they could see through his act of normality, but Voldemort didn't comment on it, instead opting for stating that they were to start with their practical training.
Harry's conflicting feelings returned, but Voldemort took no heed to them as he swiftly continued.
"As you surely understand, this room is far too small to be used when practicing Dark Arts," he began, and Harry blinked in surprise – he hadn't thought of that, but now that the Dark Lord had said it, it was obviously true. "Since my followers happen to think you're chained in the dungeons and not enjoying life in one of my guest rooms, I can't have you wander the mansion and risk being seen. Therefore, I have decided to put a glamour on you, so that we can move freely to and from the hall where we will be training," Voldemort stated.
Harry blinked in surprise, his tired mind slowly processing the words. He'd read about glamours in class but he'd never used it or seen it being used, so he didn't have any idea of how you did.
It did seem like a good idea though, as it would enable him to wander freely instead of being closed up in this room that seemed smaller by the day – he hadn't really noticed how much he wanted to get out until the opportunity was presented to him, as if he'd repressed the longing because it couldn't be fulfilled. He nodded, since the Dark Lord seemed to be expecting an answer, and was just about to ask what he was supposed to do when Voldemort pulled out his wand and approached.
Tensing against his will, Harry eyed the wand that was a twin to his own as Voldemort came up to him, stopping first when he stood right before the armchair where he sat. The wand was raised above the black, messy hair and Harry mentally prepared himself for whatever might come – for him, being on the receiving end of Voldemort's wand had only resulted in pain.
Then the wand came down to rap over his head, and he yelped in surprise. Immediately after it felt as if something was running down his back, making him shiver, and his skin seemed to tingle unpleasantly, feeling a bit as if it had contracted and grown too tight. He didn't feel all that different, though, and started wondering if anything had really happen when Voldemort stepped to the side so that he could see his own reflection in the mirror that stood in the corner at the other side of the room.
In the reflection, there was someone else sitting in the armchair with one of his legs folded under him and the other stretched out before him, with a dumb, gaping expression on his face. He was slightly taller than Harry, but still a few centimetres under average length, had shoulder length, honey-blonde hair and a normal looking face with dull, blue eyes. The silence filled the room as Harry stared into those blue puddles that looked just like that – shallow puddles of slightly muddy water, but no real depth in them, not at all like his own green eyes that often seemed to sparkle with life.
"That's… me?" he whispered hesitantly, and the lips of the stranger moved as he formed the words.
"Yes. No one will be able to recognize you when under the glamour, so you will be able to move freely. I will not allow you to under any circumstances leave the mansion grounds, is that clear?" Voldemort said sharply, and Harry felt the red eyes bore into the side of his now blonde skull, but merely nodded, to captivated by his new outward look.
As a new though it him, Harry raised his hand and swept the long hair out of his face to bare his forehead… and a smile spread over his face, a smile he felt was genuinely his even though he didn't recognize the lips forming it.
It was gone. No more scar to let the world know who he was. No more mark burdening him with the future of the world. No more brand binding him to the expectations that everybody put on their so called saviour, a saviour who was actually no more than a fifteen year old boy who wanted nothing more than to be released from all that, to be allowed to live a normal life the way he wanted. And now, all that was gone together with the scar. The feeling of relief filled him and made him feel light like a feather, as if he would be able to float in mid air, weightless. A somewhat dull spark could be seen in those shallow puddles that were now his, and he decided that he could get used to looking like this, even if it was only to get rid of the scar.
"I take it you like the glamour?" Voldemort asked lightly, amusement in his voice, and blue eyes turned to him, accompanied with that wide smile. Taking the expression as a yes, he continued. "Good, then you should dress before we leave; I believe there are some robes in the dresser for you."
Harry blinked, and then smiled at his own foolishness – had he really expected there to be a dresser filled with only sweat pants? Slightly shaking his head at his own thoughts he got up from the armchair and went over to the dresser, where he opened the upper drawer only to find it filled with underwear, tank tops and sweatpants. The second drawer proved to hold the promised robes, all of them black with simple but elegant cuts, and he quickly put one on before discarding the sweatpants over the arm of the armchair. Out of curiosity he opened the third and last drawer, and found a pair of sneakers and a pair of formal shoes, and beside them, neatly folded, was his fathers invisibly cloak and his broom, though the later was shrunken to fit the size of the drawer.
During the days spent in the room he hadn't though about what had happened to his things, but he was greatly relieved that they were there, safe and still his.
"Take your wand and follow me," Voldemort instructed, clearly tired of waiting, and Harry quickly grabbed his wand from the nightstand beside the bed before it hit him why he hadn't used it before.
"Won't they be able to track me if I use magic?" he asked uncertainly, his fear of being found immediately returning.
"You actually think I would let you use magic if they could?" Voldemort asked coldly. "No, Potter. The wards surrounding the mansion disable all means of tracking, so you can use magic freely as long as you are within the grounds."
"Wait…" Harry stared at the Dark Lord as the older man walked up to the door and opened it before looking back at the teen with a brow raised in question. "You mean I could have used magic as much as I wanted all this time? And you didn't tell me?"
The Dark lord looked faintly amused at his disbelieving look but didn't answer the question. Instead he walked out through the door and Harry was left with no choice but to follow him or be left behind, something he didn't want to risk now that he could finally get out of the room and see the rest of the mansion.
They walked in silence through a dark corridor before they came out on top of a pair of grand stairs that overlooked the entrance hall of the mansion with one great, white pillar on each side of the double doors that led outside. Large windows allowed the sun to pour in and showed a beautiful garden overflowing with flowers.
"Wow," Harry breathed as he stopped at the top step, hand resting on the balustrade. "I expected it to be… different. Darker."
The Dark Lord stopped where he was a few steps further down and turned to look at Harry, once again one of those dark brows risen. "That is what everyone expects, and therefore they would never think of searching for the Dark Lord in a place like this. If I did live in a dark and scary mansion with bats hanging from the trees, then I might as well put up road signs telling everybody where I live."
Harry laughed as he imagined a road sign saying Dark Lord's Mansion, 3 km. He was quickly drawn from his amusing thoughts though, as Voldemort led him down the stairs to the bottom floor and over the white marble so polished you could see a diffuse reflection of yourself in them. At the end of the hall they turned into a wide corridor that went through the west wing, its arched windows overlooking the garden on one side and closed doors leading into hidden rooms on the other side. Voldemort stopped outside one of those doors and opened it, revealing a hall with marble floor and white walls, completely emptied of furniture and with windows overlooking the expanse of grass and the distant forest that Harry could see from his own room.
"We will begin with a simple blasting spell that is not much different from bombada but is much stronger and will quite literally blast anything into pieces that one won't be able to put together again with a simple reparo," Voldemort began and easily conjured a dummy that vaguely had the form of a human, but didn't resemble one enough to disturb Harry.
They quickly went to work, and Harry started practicing on the dummy as soon as Voldemort had shown him the slight wand movement and taught him the right pronunciation of the spell. He had somewhat expected it to feel different to use dark spells, as if the very magic used for them would be polluted in some way, but he soon realized that that wasn't the case – it felt perfectly normal, like casting any other spell.
The realization swept his hesitation and uncertainty to the side, and he soon found him self unbothered by the face that the spell he was practicing had been labelled as 'dark'.
XXX
Voldemort watched attentively as the boy slowly improved, the dummy actually ripping in some places instead of just shaking a bit when the spell hit it. But his concentration was far from focused on the dummy – instead he chose to watch the boy as he threw the spell over and over, an intent look on his face.
The glamour was the opposite of Potter's real looks in order to make him look as different as possible and just as hard to recognize. The black hair was longer and blonde, the vivid green eyes a dull blue that held a slight shine to them at the boy's excitement, and he looked longer than before. The Dark Lord felt himself missing the normal appearance of the boy, but immediately told himself it was stupid – it was still the same boy, still the so called saviour that he was now turning dark.
The though made him smile darkly as the feeling of dirtying something pure welled up inside. Who would have though that a twist of fate had Harry Potter turned into a vampire, only to be found in the hands of the Dark Lord? It was just too easy, and he wondered why the Ministry or the Order hadn't been able to find the boy.
The sound of the dummy ripping tore him from his musings and he turned to the dummy to see its "head" hanging loosely, barely attached to the rest of it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Potter's smug expression, and quickly repaired the dummy to its previous state. Potter rewarded him with a grumpy glare, his mouth forming a pout, before the teen went back to shooting the spell at the dummy.
It was surprising how easily the boy had been turned, but Voldemort knew he couldn't take all the credit for that. There had, after all, been enough doubt in the boy's mind to run away instead of staying behind to wait for his friends when he had accidentally killed his uncle, and that alone proved that the boy did no fully trust the old fool and his friends anymore. Voldemort frowned slightly at the though, trying to come up with an answer to why the boy wouldn't trust them anymore, when something the boy had said hit him.
"They always beat me…"
So the beatings had obviously been something happening repeatedly, and the malnourishment and old wounds proved that it had been ongoing through a long time – and yet Dumbledore had left the boy to those muggles? Surely the old fool knew what the boy had gone through when in the care of the muggles, so why had the man let it happen? Why hadn't the good-doer saved the boy from the pain as he should have if following his own beliefs?
Only one answer reached him, and it was both pleasant and unpleasant at the same time – pleasant because it proved he had always been right about the old man, unpleasant because it showed he could no longer trust the man's way of thinking, which would make it harder to manipulate and calculate his moves.
But the answer was simple, shockingly so – Dumbledore had known, and he hadn't tried to stop it because he had meant for it to happen. He had steeled the boy, trained him mentally for the task of killing, and made him dependent on the old fool. To bad for him, that very treatment planted the seeds of distrust in the boy's mind, and his weapon would come back to stab him.
That though was mightily pleasant, and Voldemort pictured the scene where Potter turned on his old friends and killed Dumbledore. I must remember to thank the old fool next time I see him, Voldemort though with glee. If it hadn't been for him, this wouldn't have been so easy.
At that moment, Potter cast the spell once more, and the dummy exploded in millions of tiny bits and pieces that slowly fell towards the floor all around them. The boy held a look of pure shock on his face, clearly not having expected the spell to be quite so efficient, but the shock was soon battled by triumph as a smile spread over his lips, the otherwise dull eyes suddenly sharp and shining with the excitement of success.
Yes, the old fool had done a good job with the boy, and how he would regret it.
XXX
After several hours of practicing, with lunch as the only break, Harry was exhausted and felt weak as if drained from all his magical resources. He felt proud, though, as he had both learnt the blasting spell and how to easily conjure something akin to the dummy to practice on, since Voldemort wouldn't have the time to be there for very long tomorrow, with death eater meetings and such.
Now that he had time on his own, Harry had though of taking a stroll in the garden and explore the expanse of grass that surrounded the white mansion, but he found himself being to tired to do any such ting, and instead decided to get back to his room. It took the opening of six doors and two wrong turns into unfamiliar corridors before he found his way back, and as soon as the door had closed behind him, he threw his wand at the bed and took off his cloths before he went into the bathroom and turned the water on. He sat in the tub, its white ceramic cold against his naked skin, and he shivered slightly as the waterline of heat slowly rose around him. The warm water relaxed his weary body and his tired mind slowly came to rest. For a few minutes he lay there, lazily watching the steam that filled the room, before he washed himself in earnest, remembering what Minxy had said about falling asleep in the bath.
He heard the bedroom door leading to the corridor outside open and went quiet as he tried to hear who it was, and he was soon awarded by Snape's cold, uncaring voice drifting thought the closed bathroom door.
"Potter?"
"Coming!" Harry shouted back, figuring the man was there with the Blood Replacement potion and that he shouldn't make him wait with risk for his own health. He quickly got out of the bath, immediately missing the soothing warmth of the water, and hastily dried himself off before wrapping one of the towels around the waist. The steam welled out into the bedroom when he opened the door, and was met with the black stare of his potions professor, the familiar potion in his hand as Harry had expected.
Black eyes swept over his exposed body, still wet from the bath, before snapping to his face that was surrounded by blonde, dripping hair. For a moment, the potions master seemed to at a loss of words, and Harry gave him a quizzical look, not at all understanding what had shocked the seemingly unmovable man, until an unexpected question spilled out over thin lips.
"Who are you?"
Harry stared at the bat-like man, his mind completely empty as all thoughts came to a complete halt. "What?" he asked, not believing what he'd heard. Why wouldn't Snape recognize him?
As answer to his question Snape raised his wand and pointed it between Harry's eyes, the black orbed filled with barely concealed suspicion. Harry stared at the wand, its tip so close his eyes crossed as he looked at it, and he moved uncertainly, uncomfortable at the receiving end of the potion master's wand. He caught a movement somewhere to the side, behind Snape's black clad figure, and turned his eyes to check what it was in hopes of being saved – hopefully it would be Voldemort.
Instead of seeing red orbs of blood he was met with mist filled blue ones, and realization struck him as he remembered that he was still under the glamour and Snape actually couldn't see him, but saw a blonde boy who didn't look anything like Harry Potter. So how was he supposed to explain himself, when Voldemort obviously hadn't said anything? He didn't even know how to heave the glamour to prove his point if Snape didn't believe him!
"I asked you a question, brat," Snape hissed, and Harry quickly raised his hands and turned his blue eyes to his professor.
"It's me! Okay, just me, so could you lower that, professor?" he rambled, not registering what he was blurting out, just hoping it would save him from being fried.
"What are you on about you insolent-?"
"Lower your wand, Severus."
Harry's head snapped up to look over his professor's shoulder where he saw Voldemort standing in the threshold, calm and collected, with full authority even though he didn't raise his voice when issuing the order. Bloodied eyes met blue puddles, and Harry though he'd never been so happy to see a human being before.
"Wipe that giddy expression off your face, Potter, it's unbecoming of you," the Dark Lord stated as he wandered into the room, and Harry quickly made an innocent look with big, dull eyes that mirrored empty stupidity, so far from his real green eyes as could be. Voldemort raised a brow at his expression and shook his head slightly before tapping his wand over the blond, long locks, and Harry expected the tingly feeling to return. Instead, it felt as if water was running off him without wetting him, simply washing over his skin. He shivered at the unfamiliar feeling before looking up at the mirror, and he smiled as he was his old, scrawny self; it felt somewhat good to be back to normal, even if the anonymity of the glamour had been liberating.
As he turned back to the room, he caught an expression of utter shock on the usually so blank face of his professor, the thin-lipped mouth slightly open and wand held loosely in his hand that dangled at his side, the potion in his other hand. Then he closed himself up once again, and his wand slipped inside his robes and out of sight as black eyes turned to the Dark Lord.
"May I inquire of why Potter was under glamour, my Lord?" he asked in a tight voice, as if he had a hard time keeping his feelings in check.
"I am training Potter in the Dark Arts, and needed to put him under glamour to enable him to walk around the mansion without being recognized by death eaters," Voldemort answered shortly before he turned ruby eyes to the mentioned teen. "Put some clothes on, Potter."
The sudden change of subject made Harry blink in surprise before he realized that he stood before them with only a towel around his waist, and the blood flooded his face, immediately turning him beet red. Ducking his head to hide his flushed face behind the black fringe, he made a beeline for the dresser where he grabbed a pair of boxers and sweatpants, before he dashed into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.
Damn, why had that been so embarrassing? He hadn't had a second though about it when the glamour was still there – was that because he knew that they couldn't really see him, so what did it matter what they saw? But still, he'd been walking around in only sweatpants for several days now, and the difference wasn't that big; his upper body was just as bare. Maybe… it had to do with the face that he was dripping wet from the shower…?
He quickly battered the though away and went to the basin to splash some cold water in his face before he dried himself off and got dressed. Jus as he was about to leave the bathroom he stopped in front of the mirror and stared into his own emerald eyes, vivid and swirling with life. Even though the famous scar once again peeked out between the black locks, a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and he decided he liked his eyes just the way they were, even though he understood that it would be much easier to hide behind those shallow puddles of blue.
When he exited the still steamy bathroom, Snape had left and Harry found the potion waiting in the hand of the Dark Lord who leaned comfortably against one of the posters of the bed. He wordlessly held out the potion to Harry, who grabbed it and downed it with practiced ease, just as he had the passed days. Unbothered by the presence of the Dark Lord, he then flopped down on the bed, stretched out and yawned.
"You did good today," Voldemort said smoothly, and Harry turned his head to look at the man in surprise. "We will continue tomorrow, but I will not be able to supervise you for more than a few hours, then you'll have to train on your own."
The Dark Lord turned his head to look at Harry, and emerald locked with ruby. Silence reigned in the room, as it so often did, as if the very room was the kingdom of stillness. Then Voldemort pushed away from the poster and went to the door, where he came to a stop with his hand resting on the handle.
"You seem to have regained your strength, Potter. You are no longer weakened by the turning."
XXX
He was running again, well aware that this had happened before but yet not sure of what had happened or when it had happened. Something was pursuing him, he could feel it in his whole being, in the hairs rising in his neck, the crawling in his skin, the fear clamping down on his heart and the chills running down his spine.
He had to get away.
The dark, disfigured forms of houses, cars and garbage bins flittered past him, too fast to be properly registered in his panicked mind. The street was black under him, a ribbon of blackness making its way between then lots with their fences and hedges, the neatly mowed lawns and the driveways with the cleaned cars. The ribbon of black asphalt disappeared under him, his only connection with it being his feet that thrummed over the ground faster then strictly possible.
He knew that the hand stretched out to him before he felt the fingertips touch the bare skin of his neck, and then the fingers grabbed his hair and yanked hard, making him fall backwards into a hard chest, his back resting against a cool body without warmth. Arms wrapped around him, one enclosing his waist and effectively catching his arms, the other grabbing his chin with cold fingers to force his head to the side, leaving his neck easily accessible.
Cold, clammy breath ghosted over the side of his neck, making the fine hairs stand at attention and hunting a shiver down his spine. A slimy tongue swept over his neck, lapped at the skin, and he shuddered in repulsion, making the monster behind him chuckle darkly with audible enjoyment. Lips closed over the pulsating vein in his neck, making the blood rise to the surface to create a purple mark just under his skin.
The monster behind him pressed him closer so that he was firmly trapped against the hard chest, and the monster let out a pleasured moan. A hard bulge poked Harry in the lower beck, and the monster started grinding himself against him, the bulge growing under the friction. Realizing what was happening, Harry started flailing, attempting to get away, to flee, but his efforts were stopped abruptly as fangs pierced his neck, tearing a scream of pain from his throat.
A moan lazed with pleasure vibrated though the monster's throat as he closed his lips around the bleeding punctures and started sucking, the ruby blood disappearing down his throat in deep gulps. The grinding against his back became more frenzied and Harry felt his cheeks growing wet with tears due to the shame, the pain and the utter humiliation of the situation. The world slowly darkened, the misty blackness creeping in from the corners and edges before taking over completely.
The last thing he felt was the monster's pants becoming wet against his back as the vampire spilled his seeds.
When he opened his eyes the next time, he was running again. His legs held his weight effortlessly, his feet barely connecting with the ground as he seemed to fly passed the blurred structures of buildings. His eyes were focussed on the figure up ahead, the details of the lanky young man clear to him through his sharp seeing, the harsh breathing sounding as if it was breathed right into his sensitive ears.
His prey was fast, but not fast enough, and he had soon caught up. He leapt though the air with gracious speed and landed on the back of his pray, the boy his own age now tumbling to the ground with a panicked yelp. Harry smiled excitedly as he straddled the other, grabbing red hair to forcefully turn his head to the side and expose the neck.
A face filled with freckles was screwed up in horror but it didn't stop Harry from bending down and licking the neck once before sinking his fangs into the inviting flesh, relishing in the pained gasp of his victim and sweet taste of blood.
Harry awoke with a gasp and immediately had to cover his mouth with his hand to stop himself from throwing up in the bed. He literally threw himself out of the bed and dashed into the bathroom, and he barely made it to the toilet before his stomach turned and he got up the dinner Minxy had given him after Voldemort had left.
Ron's face hovered before him, pale under the freckles with blue eyes filled with horror and disgust. The dream was so clear, so vivid. Ron had shuddered in repulsion, tried to get away, screamed – and he, Harry, had enjoyed it.
Poor Harry, all angsty :'(
Well, now the Dark Arts training have started out, and Harry's glamour have been presented! Woho~! x)
Oh, and chapter 8 might be done to the next weekend, but don't be surprised if it doesn't show until the weekend after that. (I already explained why in the A/N at the top)
All you can do for now is to review!
