Hello everyone, welcome to my new fic. For those joining me from Dancing in the Rain, thanks for all your patience and support! For those of you who stumbled upon this fic by chance, I hope you enjoy! I've been working on the first few chapters for about a month now and have the full story outlined, so I'm pretty confident that I can stick to a chapter per week update schedule until this bad boy is all finished up.
Massive, gargantuan, titanic praise and thanks go to foreal26, with whom I fleshed out the idea for this story in the first place, and to x102reddragon, who is my primary beta.
Special thanks go to the folks at the Flowerpot discord server, a few of whom workshopped the story as well. I've shilled for them before, but if you're a writer or have any interest in doing so, you can't ask for a more supportive group of people than the folks over there. And if you like HP fanfiction (which, I mean, you're here, right?) come join the greatest pairing in the fandom.
Discord link is here with spaces removed ofc- httpsc:/ discord. gg /SCvR9ZkxtJ
Without further ado, the moment that we all (or at least I) have been waiting for, let's start the show!
Chapter 1: Nightmares
Harry awoke to the feeling of cold iron digging into his skin, holding him in an upright position against unrelenting stone. His brain was doing backflips in his head, a siren rang in his ears. These, along with the harsh dryness in his mouth and throat, pointed to the fact that he had recently been knocked unconscious. The unmistakable acrid smoke born of fire was overpowered by the stench of something foul, and Harry fought to keep from gagging.
Harry strained to remember the details of his predicament, and though he knew it would be much simpler if he opened his eyes, something in his psyche was begging to keep them closed, to enjoy blissful ignorance for just a few more moments. Some part of him knew that once he opened his eyes, his world would be forever changed.
However, Harry Potter was nothing if not brave, often to the point of stupidity as Hermione always said, so he shoved that part of himself aside and wearily willed his eyes to open. He had been half-worried that his concussed brain would be blinded by sunlight, but he found himself in a dark world full of blurry shapes and a single source of warm flickering light.
They took my glasses, he cursed to himself.
He squinted and strained against the chains that bound him, trying to find the equilibrium necessary to glimpse at least a few distinctive features. A fire. A bubbling cauldron. A figure cloaked in shadow. The form grasped the unmistakable silhouette of a sharp, glittering blade.
"Flesh of the servant… Willingly sacrificed… You will revive your master." A glint of fire reflected on steel, the parabolic fall of the knife, the sickening thud of broken flesh and bone. A blood-curdling scream.
Harry winced at the noise but did not fail to notice that the figure had revealed his face, illuminated by cauldron-flame as he thrashed in throes of pain. Harry's eyes narrowed in fury and a snarl marred his features.
Wormtail.
Harry remembered now. The Triwizard Tournament, the maze, he had taken the cup with… Cedric. Bile rose to his throat as he relived Cedric's final moments, a brave soul dismissed and snuffed out in a flash of green light. Wormtail had much to atone for.
They had arrived in a graveyard, and it seemed that he had not been moved since he had been stunned. He could make out the blurry shapes of tombstones and statues, merely gray shadows that protruded from the ground like the fingertips of some stone golem that sought to erupt from the earth.
The cowardly wizard had recovered from the sacrifice of his limb and was staggering towards Harry as if in a trance. As he lumbered closer he became clearer, and Harry could recognize the mad gleam behind the haze of pain in Wormtail's eyes.
Soon, he was within arms-length, and with his remaining hand, he lifted the knife once more.
"Blood of the enemy… Forcibly taken…"
Harry's eyes widened, his subconscious drawing the conclusions before he could put together the pieces himself.
"Wormtail! You don't have to do this! Pettigrew! PETER!" The black-haired wizard strained against his bindings to no avail, and Wormtail had not shown any signs that he had even heard his pleas.
"You will… Resurrect your foe." Another plunge of the knife, a lance of pain in his shoulder, warm sticky liquid flowed freely from his arm.
Harry was no fool. There was only one thing that Pettigrew could mean by his incantations, and it was highly likely that Harry would not survive this night. With resolve that bound itself to his core tighter than the chains that wrapped around his body, he swore that he would not go gently that night, and he would give the enemy no satisfaction. He had already disgraced himself by pleading with his foe, and he would not show any further signs of weakness.
With that internal declaration, an icy calm settled into his bones, and he seemed to step out of time as he watched Wormtail gather his blood in a glass vial and take it back to the cauldron. He knew what was coming. He could feel the blood rushing in his ears like the crash of the ocean upon the beach. It rose in tempo and intensity until his heart beat to the pounding of war drums as the rat-faced wizard emptied the blood into the cauldron.
For a moment, the world stilled, and a naïve flicker of hope wormed its way into Harry's thoughts.
An explosion of smoke, a great flash of light, and a roar of wrongness assaulted Harry's senses. A figure was emerging from the cauldron, slender and bony, deathly pale and radiating a frigid fury. Lord Voldemort was alive at last.
Within moments the naked Dark Lord was clothed and Wormtail was healed, and the Death Eaters were summoned. Voldemort paced with the self-assured grace of a stalking tiger, his movements fluid yet powerful. Among his followers knelt the fathers of some of Harry's classmates, and Harry could tell that Voldemort ruled by the terror that he struck in the hearts of men just as much as he did by the power of his magic.
"My most loyal followers, it is my pleasure to welcome you to our little soiree, the first of its kind in quite a long time. I must admit that I find myself disappointed that none of those gathered here sought me out years ago." Sweet, poisoned honey dripped from his words, ensnaring his mesmerized followers while his hidden fury lurked.
Harry was in full survival mode, his brain only processing what was necessary to survive the coming moments. A small part of him knew he was completely out of his depth; he was merely a student with no powerful magic to call his own, never fought another person with the intent to kill. However, he had overcome evil before, he could survive. So, he watched, and he listened.
Voldemort spoke eloquently and passionately, as if he were lecturing a group of students on the science that inspired his life's work. However, this persona was clearly a veneer for the icy rage and potent madness that lurked behind the surface; it was as if a demon was wearing the mask of a scholar.
A kneeling Death Eater spoke out, "Master, forgive us. We didn't know-. "
And the demon emerged. Whirling to face the one who dared interrupt with a snarl and sputtering wand, Voldemort let his fury be known.
"Crucio."
For the second time that night, a soul-wrenching scream split the night and Harry could make out through blurred vision that the Dark Lord's face was twisted in obscene pleasure as he tortured his follower.
Then it was over, and Harry let out the breath that he didn't know he was holding.
Voldemort continued his pacing, his robes flowing behind him like black smoke, the depths of his hatred withdrawn. However, judging by the prostrated forms of his quivering followers, they knew that it would take little to provoke the wizard a second time.
"Come now, my Death Eaters, fear not. Your Lord is merciful, and this is a time to rejoice!"
"Remember my power at its peak, the freedom we had to do as we wished, and the progress we made to purify our world."
Voldemort worked his followers into a frenzy, his slithery voice punctuating his words like a field general turned skilled politician.
He raised his wand in the air. "Remember the losses we suffered, those who died in the name of our noble cause."
"Remember that the fools of this world hailed this boy," the Dark Lord leveled his raised wand at Harry with a graceful precision, "as the hero that conquered the Dark Lord."
Harry's eyes burned with a hatred he had never felt before as Voldemort crept upon him. An eternity seemed to pass between every step, but at last, his enemy stood before him.
"Harry Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived. Tell me, do you feel like a hero now?"
Voldemort's words were met with jeers and howls from his reinvigorated followers, and Harry felt more than the rage he had expected. He felt like his brain was being pulled in two directions and he struggled to keep his pain from showing on his face, unable to respond. However, he couldn't help but flinch as Voldemort raised his hand, slender fingers reaching out to caress the younger wizard's face in a corruption of intimacy.
"I almost pity you, young Harry. Your mudblood mother's protection broken, no Albus Dumbledore to rescue you at the eleventh hour, no hope to speak of." Each word sought to penetrate Harry's psyche like a dagger. "Your death will be quite a spectacle, but I'm sure you understand. We must send a message to the masses after all."
With that, the tips of Voldemort's fingers touched Harry's cheek and several things happened at once.
First, rather than the violent reaction that had occurred when Professor Quirrel had touched him in his first year at Hogwarts, there was a tingling warmth at the point of contact and the splitting sensation in Harry's head doubled. It felt as if something inside him was being pulled out of him as a rod and reel would drag a fish.
Second, Voldemort's mocking, scarlet eyes widened for a fraction of a second and Harry could have sworn that he recognized an emotion he had not expected to see. Shock.
Lastly, his head spinning, Harry did the first thing that he could think of. He spat in the Dark Lord's face.
There was a split second in which Harry could hear the surprised and furious gasps of the assembled Death Eaters before his world erupted in piercing agony. He hadn't heard Voldemort incant the spell, but he knew he must be under the Cruciatus, and the image of Professor Moody's spider screeching in pitiful pain rose unbidden to his thoughts. He empathized with the creature now, and it was only the repeating mantra in his head, give the enemy nothing, that allowed him to stay conscious and silent.
After a lifetime of suffering condensed into little more than a minute, the pain was over. Harry's body twitched as the remnants of the curse ran their course and he raised weary, defiant green eyes to meet cold red.
With a hoarse whisper laced with hatred he spoke, "I didn't hear a bell, Tom." Harry took cold satisfaction in the way Voldemort's hairless brow furrowed in anger.
Bracing his courage, Harry then called out so that all could hear his next words, "All of you bear witness to your Dark Lord, unable to cow a teenager. So weak that he has me unable to move, unwilling to face me on common ground. This is the man you follow?"
With shouts of anger, several of the Death Eaters shot curses at the boy, harsh streaks of light promising retribution, but they were met by a wall of magic that emanated from Voldemort himself.
The dark wizard held out a hand to his followers, "Silence, my friends. The boy has been raised by muggles; it is no fault of his own that he is lacking in etiquette and common sense."
Voldemort turned to Harry with blood-red eyes cold as ice and murmured in a hiss, quietly so that only Harry could hear him. "Clever, boy. I would expect nothing less. Yet understand that you have invited suffering a thousand-fold now that you have forced my hand."
"Better to face death with courage than die chained like an animal, Tom." Voldemort snarled at the use of his birth name but turned away with a strange parting look of both appraisal and loathing.
Louder now, for the benefit of his followers, the Dark Lord called out mockingly, "Your ploy is as subtle as a mudblood at a dinner party. However, as this evening is a celebration of my mercy, I will allow you to face your death with dignity." As the Death Eaters laughed and sneered, Voldemort turned to the figure still standing by the cauldron. "Wormtail! The boy's wand and glasses."
For a moment it seemed as though Pettigrew would argue, but his fear bested him, and he scurried to do Voldemort's bidding.
Voldemort waved his wand, and Harry's chains were gone. The black-haired wizard fell to his hands and knees and the Death Eaters' jeers rose to a fevered pitch as Pettigrew knelt beside him, his silver arm glimmering in the faint moonlight.
Harry felt the world focus as his glasses were shoved onto his face. Voldemort's snake-like features etched themselves in Harry's memory and he realized that he could see before only a fraction of the intensity of the Dark Lord's gaze.
Voldemort let a mocking smirk grace his lips, "Ah, so the boy sees me clearly now. The last time I stood above you like this you were but a babe. How the time flies, Harry."
Getting to his feet and stumbling slightly, Harry retorted, "It's very touching, I know. Let's see if you can get the job done right this time, eh?"
Behind his bravado, Harry's mind was racing, trying to think of a plan, any plan to get out of this situation alive. Wormtail still had his wand so he had no chance to strike. It was clear that Voldemort would be humoring him with a duel, but Harry had no intention of fighting fairly. He needed every advantage he could get.
As if reading his thoughts, Voldemort's dark grin grew wider, "Ah Harry, you must earn the right to play this game. Show your opponent the proper respect and bow!"
Voldemort had not moved a muscle, yet Harry felt an unrelenting push drive him back to his knees, a perverse imitation of a proper bow. Another wave of laughter swept through the Dark Lord's ranks and Voldemort loomed above him like a titanic shadow.
"Good, good. While I have you here on your knees I would be remiss if I did not ask, would you like to join us, Harry?" Voldemort ignored the surprised gasps of his own followers and continued, "I have need of spirited wands, and I do admit it would be amusing to see Dumbledore's face when he realizes how his protégé has turned against him."
Harry, overcoming his own shock, responded. "Go to Hell, Voldemort. I'd rather die like my parents than betray their memory by joining scum like you and Wormtail."
Pettigrew flinched at the mention of his name and Voldemort narrowed his eyes, the air between him and the teenage wizard before him growing thick with magic. "Pity. I hope you will remember your insolence now when you are begging for your life. Give the boy his wand, Wormtail."
This time the rat-faced wizard found the courage to speak. "M-my Lord. I-I do n-not think-"
The ice in the Dark Lord's voice could freeze the very blood in a person's veins. "Now, Wormtail!"
With a whimper, Pettigrew threw Harry's wand to the ground and scampered off, disappearing in the ranks of the other gathered Death Eaters.
There was a split second when Voldemort and Harry were silent, both their eyes focused upon the holly wand on the ground. The crowd of Death Eaters were suspended in a state of soundless anticipation and not even the wind dared make itself known.
Harry dove for his wand and the trance was broken. The night erupted in a firework display of deathly magic, the air itself sparking and combusting from the force of Voldemort's attack. Harry desperately shielded the onslaught but found himself blown back and he thudded against an angelic statue, dazed.
Voldemort stalked forward with a dark grin on his face, potent sparks of electric magic flickering in and out of existence with every step. The man's aura was an ocean of frigid quicksand, drowning any semblance of hope with his mere presence.
His words were pointed icicles, "Where is that foolish bravery now, Harry? Do you see now how you will die by my hand, helpless and alone like so many before you? For I am Lord Voldemort, master of the most powerful of the arcane arts, usurper of the spineless society that you hold so dear, and you have defied me for the last time, Harry Potter!"
With a roar, Voldemort's wand reignited once more, and all Harry could do was trust his reflexes and dive to the side. He was nicked by a glancing curse and blood splattered the ground, a grievous wound carving a crimson canyon in his calf. He crawled behind the statue he had been thrown against and desperately tried to regroup as Voldemort bombarded the area with spells that shook the earth.
There was a pause, then Voldemort's piercing laugh pierced the night and a black hole of dread in Harry's stomach threatened to undo him. He was in over his head.
His options were few; if he ran he would be hunted and slaughtered in moments. If he left his meager barricade he would be open to attack. If he stayed, Voldemort would just blow up his cover and the debris would most likely incapacitate him.
There was only one option.
Gathering the courage he had left he braced himself, pointed his wand at the stone angel above him and shouted.
"Bombarda!"
The statue exploded outwards in a cloud of rock and dust, and Harry tumbled back, wincing as he landed upon his wounded leg. However, he knew that he could not be idle for more than a second so he casted faster than he ever had in his life, his wand a blur as he sent every spell he could think of through the dust-cloud in Voldemort's direction.
There was no response from the other wizard and Harry felt the dying embers of hope flare in his chest. Did he get him? Did his last-ditch plan actually succeed?
An amused voice behind him was the only warning he got, but he was too slow.
"Crucio."
The world erupted in pain once more as Harry fell to his hands and knees. Every cell in his body seemed to burst one after another, only to painfully reform and repeat the process over. It was all he could do to keep from collapsing entirely and he clutched his wand, the only lifeline he had left. Through the haze of pain, he could hear Voldemort's mocking words.
"Certainly not the worst opponent I've faced, young Harry, but you certainly do not live up to the boasts I heard from you earlier. What is the matter, boy? Have you had enough already? Are you ready for the respite of the bell?" Voldemort kept his wand raised, maintaining the Cruciatus as he mercilessly taunted the boy.
Harry could feel his mind fading as he fought to stay conscious. There was only time for one more ploy, one final gambit if he could manage it. He just hoped that Voldemort's confidence in his own strength would blind him to the possibility of Harry's plan. But first he needed the Dark Lord even angrier.
Harry gasped out through the agony of the curse, "All this… For a schoolboy… You're pathetic… Tom…" The power of Voldemort's magic surged as the enraged Dark Lord snarled in fury.
"You will not refer to me by that muggle name!"
It was time for the final shot. If this didn't work they would likely be his last words. "Poor Tom… Abandoned and alone… No one to talk to… Forced to write in his… Diary…"
Voldemort's eyes widened in shock and his magic wavered for a split second. Harry seized the opportunity, twirling around with the last of his strength and striking true.
"Bombarda!"
Harry could see the bright red spell flash through the night air, a comet leaving a trail of sparks as it was less than a foot away from the Dark Lord's face.
Only for Voldemort to move his wand impossibly fast and met the jet of light with his own.
"Avada Kedavra!"
The spells connected and fought for dominance, a golden light emerging from the point of contact and expanding rapidly to enclose the two wizards. Harry's surprise was matched by Voldemort's own flabbergasted expression that would have been comical on his warped features had the situation not been so dire.
They were encased in a golden dome and the two began floating, higher and higher, with Harry fighting to keep the magic from overwhelming him, mind straining, muscles aching, gasping for air…
One Month Later
Harry woke up in his bed at Number Four, Privet Drive, still gasping for breath and fiercely shaking in fear. His throat felt raw from repressed screams, his sheets were soaked in sweat, and his heart was a rapidly recurring thunderbolt in his chest. Slowly, he began to calm himself, cursing at his inability to go a single night without reliving the same horrifying experience.
It had been over a month since Voldemort had returned and Harry had narrowly avoided a gruesome death at the Dark Lord's hands. Running his fingers through his raven-black hair and wiping the sweat from his brow, Harry swung his legs out of bed and stood; there would be no more rest tonight.
Harry glanced at the clock that sat on his nightstand- 4:30 in the morning. That was fifteen minutes better than last night, Harry thought as he snorted mirthlessly. He avoided glancing in the mirror, for he knew what it would show him- pale, unhealthy skin, unkempt hair, and dull green eyes surrounded by dark circles that belonged to a man three times his age.
On his way out the bedroom door, Harry walked past his desk, upon which sat a pile of letters from his friends that he had barely skimmed. His birthday had been two days previous, and other than for these well-wishes, his two best friends and even his Godfather had been strangely silent this summer. He had given up on the idea of sending or expecting more letters.
Pushing his disappointment to the side for now, Harry left his bedroom, silently crept down the stairs, and out the front door. He was soon embraced by the crisp air of the early morning and he took a deep breath in appreciation.
As he ambled down the sidewalk, the hint of dawn was beginning to illuminate the neighborhood. Harry had never understood why people enjoyed living in a place where every home and lawn looked exactly the same. Hell, everyone even seemed to drive the same car in Privet Drive. He supposed it put some people at ease to know they lived amongst similar people, but the cookie-cutter lifestyle always gave Harry the creeps.
Not to mention that this summer in particular, he always had the peculiar feeling of being watched when he was outside. It wasn't enough to dissuade him from his newfound ritual of escaping the cluttered household of Number Four, but it did put him on his toes.
Harry had walked until the round edge of the sun had peeked above the horizon and came upon the local park, dotted with bilberry as well as the wild privet trees from which the neighborhood had inherited its name. On a nearby bench sat the elderly man garbed in an Adidas tracksuit and tweed cap that Harry had come to expect.
Raising a hand in welcome, Harry greeted the man. "Good morning, Jim, how are we today."
Jim scooted down the bench, allowing Harry to sit down. "Judging by the way you look, we're both ruddy terrible, aren't we?"
Harry cracked a grin, "Chelsea lost again then?"
"We let the buggers score on us twice in stoppage time. Goddamn Arsenal and goddamn Ian Wright, and goddamn me for allowing myself to hope." His wrinkled face was curled in a scowl yet there was a mischievous twinkle in his muddy brown eyes.
Harry was reminded of his best friend's obsession with the awful Chudley Cannons, but at least Chelsea's uniforms were more pleasant to look at than the highlighter-orange of Ron's favorite quidditch team.
"Come on, Jim, it can't be all bad. You made it through the eighties at least."
Jim grimaced, "Don't bloody remind me, lad. I'd go through more pints in a week than we had League wins that entire decade, I reckon."
"That's why I follow United, we've always been good."
"Oh, bugger off with your shite, you sold your soul to the Red Devil."
"And I was paid in wins, cups, and glory, Jim. Besides, you're just sour that we beat you in the final last year."
"Crock of shite that was, that referee should be fired. We'll be back though, that Dutchman will see to it. Gullit is a leader of men, he is." Jim chuckled to himself and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket, bringing it up to his mouth and pulling one out with his lips in a smooth motion.
He glanced over at Harry's look of exasperation. "Oh, shut it, lad. I've been smoking since before your father's father was standing up to piss, I won't let a bloody teenager shame me." He pulled a book of matches from the same pocket and soon the air was filled with an admittedly pleasant, heady scent of tobacco. "Especially since I know why you're really here talking with this old man." He cheekily plucked another from his pack and offered it to the teen.
Harry groaned, "I swear, Jim, you'll make an addict out of me yet." However, he did not deny the offer and the subsequent deep inhale of smoke he took sent tingles down his spine and set a buzzing in the back of his head. The two sat in silence for a moment, enjoying the light of the rising sun and the portable fire they held in their hands.
After their smokes had dwindled nearly all the way down, Jim regarded the teen with a somber eye, "Look, son. I don't know what you've done to get you sent to that bloody reform school of yours, but you've always seemed an alright sort to me. It's always better to have a little vice like cigarettes than to get into the ruddy dangerous stuff." He gestured to Harry's ragged appearance, "Don't be a bloody stupid cunt is what I'm saying."
Harry laughed; Jim had such a way with words. "Jim, the stupid stuff usually finds me, I don't go looking for trouble." Harry ground out the butt of his cigarette on the ground, leaving a slight streak of black ash on the pavement. He got up to dispose of his litter in the nearby garbage can and returned to sit next to Jim.
The older man had been watching him keenly. "That's the kind of ruddy stuff I'm talking about. Most full-grown men would flick the butt to the breeze and be done with it, but you're the conscientious sort. It don't make sense then does it? You looking like you've been hitting the needle like you do." There was an unasked question there, concerned, yet not prying.
Harry shook his head, "Jim, I don't do drugs. I have a bit of trouble sleeping is all." He paused, trying to get the next words out. "There was something that happened at school earlier this year, I saw a friend die." It felt surprisingly good to get that off his chest to somebody, even if he couldn't exactly go into detail.
Jim sucked in a breath, "Son, you're much too young for something that bloody awful. I understand now, and I'm sorry for thinking the worst of you."
"It's alright Jim, criminal kid that goes to school in Scotland, scrawny as hell, I could see why you'd think that I was chasing the dragon." In fact, the last time he had been involved with a dragon it had been the other way around, he thought morbidly.
"Your friend, he went out in a violent sort of way, didn't he?" Harry could only nod, and Jim put a hand on his shoulder. "I wasn't much older than you when I got off the boat in France and found out about what war truly means. God knows I won't go into it now, but I understand. It never leaves you, son."
Harry hadn't known that about Jim, it had never come up before, but the older man looked the right age so he should have guessed. He took a moment to find the right words.
"I'm sorry you went through that too. I.. What can I do to help get over it? I've been a right mess, I have, and I'm tired of reliving it."
Jim lit another cigarette and contemplated for a moment, bouncing the ash off the tip by flicking the butt between two fingers. Eventually, he responded, looking every bit the old man that he was.
"Time. It mostly takes time, son. Cigarettes help. So does football. I never found much solace with the drink, but I've seen too many others lose themselves to it. But companionship is what gets you through, and eventually you just keep living. Never forget that, there's always more life to live and people to live it with."
Harry pondered his words, aching. He missed his friends, they had been the ones that had gotten him through the immediate aftermath of Voldemort's resurrection, but now… He pushed those thoughts to the side.
He gave Jim a wry smile, "Thanks, Jim. With my schoolmates all scattered around and my family being… well, the way they are, you've been a good friend to me. Really. Thank you."
Jim had finished his cigarette and regained a bit of his mischievous demeanor. "Oi, you just like me because I give you cigarettes."
He hunched forward and made to get up but was beset by a coughing fit. When he recovered, he spoke with a bitter smile, "Help an old man up, why don't you? And stop looking at me like that; I'm seventy-two years old, I'd be feeble without the smokes anyway!"
XXX
The day had passed quickly, and Harry reluctantly returned to Number Four that evening to fix himself a sandwich before heading out again. Unfortunately for him, he ran into the whole of the Dursley clan in the kitchen.
Vernon fixed him with an ugly glare on his blubbery face, "Seen fit to grace us with your presence, boy?"
Harry briefly wondered when his uncle had stopped being the boogeyman in his dreams; the huge, lumbering man had once been the thing Harry feared most in the world. Now he regarded Vernon Dursley as a pitiable creature who threw his sizable weight around to compensate for his own vaster insecurities.
Harry sighed, "I thought you would be happy to have me out of the house as much as possible, Uncle."
Petunia sputtered with rage, "Don't you dare talk to us like that, boy, or-"
"Or what? I don't think I can fit in the broom closet anymore, Petunia."
Vernon was turning purple with rage, "You watch your tone, you were lucky that we took you into our home in the first place!"
Dudley did his best to appear menacing as well, but seeing as Harry fought off the most powerful dark wizard in recent memory every night in his dreams, the overweight teenager didn't have much of an effect.
Harry sighed, "Look, I'm just here so I can get a bite to eat then I can be out of your hair, and all of us will be happier. Don't you get tired of hashing out the same conversation year after year anyway?"
Petunia sniffed haughtily, and the action reminded Harry briefly of the blonde-haired French champion he had competed against the year previous. However, Fleur Delacour had pulled off the look with a certain grace that made her seem even more desirable, while Petunia merely looked like a horse struggling with a particularly nasty mosquito.
Vernon had simmered down at Harry's words and grunted in agreement, decidedly avoiding eye contact with the teenager now as if to ignore his very existence.
Dudley, however, could not resist a parting shot. "I better not catch you out there, Potter, or you'll be sorry."
Harry rolled his eyes, "I'm quaking in my boots over here, Dud." He made a show of reaching for his wand in his pocket and couldn't help but smile mockingly at the way Dudley flinched. "That's what I thought. Like I said, stay out of my hair and I'll stay out of yours."
With that, Harry grabbed a few apples and left Number Four once more. He had a couple of pounds in his pocket anyway, maybe he could buy a side of chips at a local café or something, he thought. With a pang, he was reminded of Hogwarts's wonderful meals and his stomach ached. He always lost nearly a stone when he returned to the Dursleys, but this summer had been particularly brutal.
He missed his friends too; their correspondences had been few and far between, which left a sour taste in his mouth. Didn't they know that he needed them more than ever? This time he couldn't push his feelings to the side, he had to admit to himself that he was quite upset.
He had almost expected Ron's somewhat infrequent communication; the redhead was never the best at sending letters anyway. But the few that he had received had been more curt and less informative than ever. Ron hadn't even complained about the Burrow's cramped conditions in a while, and that was surely not normal.
His heart ached as he thought of Hermione's parting kiss on his cheek. The action had sent his stomach aflutter at the time, igniting a spark of something in his brain, but the lack of communication forthcoming from his female friend had left him confused. He didn't know what he wanted with her now, but he had to admit he was more than a little angry at apparently being shoved to the side.
He rounded a corner, stomach grumbling and the café in sight, but it was closed. "Damn it," Harry murmured under his breath. However, there was a corner store somewhat close by, so he made his way there and bought a package of crisps.
"Cheddar crisps and apples, dinner of champions, Triwizard champions at that" he said to himself. The thought of the tournament brought his fellow competitors to the forefront of his mind. Hermione had probably been caught up with Viktor, Harry realized with a pang. That explains that.
Maybe he should find his own friends then; after all, Fleur had been quite pleased when he had saved her sister from the lake, maybe he could build off of that? Not to mention he saved the French witch herself in the maze when Krum had been under the imperious, now how's that for a couple of icebreakers?
He had not paid Fleur Delacour much attention when he was competing, seeing as he had a deadly tournament to focus on, but now he found himself wishing that he had gotten to know her better. Maybe she would be more willing to keep in contact after kissing him on the cheek.
Well, it's never too late to try, he thought, and he decided to write her a letter when he got home. Hedwig could use the exercise, anyway.
Harry had begun making his way back to Number Four, and the sun had long since set. The streetlamps along the street began to flicker ominously, and Harry slowed, feeling that something was wrong. He still felt the strange sensation of being watched as well, but nothing had come of it all summer. My nerves must be frazzled from lack of sleep, he thought. He continued walking, glancing about warily.
It had been a particularly hot day, and Harry could feel the hint of a sunburn on his arms and neck. That was why it was quite peculiar when he felt a chilly breeze blow past. Goosebumps rose on his skin. There was something all too familiar about the chill in the air.
His heart began to beat faster as he instinctively drew his wand. The temperature was continuing to drop and Harry could see his breath turn to mist in the air. The street lights flickered again, and he caught a glimpse of a crumpled tweed cap lying abandoned in one of the side alleys, illuminated by fluttering light.
Jim.
The lights flickered a final time before shutting off completely, and he heard the sound of a woman scream out, begging for something. Harry recognized the signs with a sinking feeling that threatened to bring him down to his knees.
Dementors.
His heart was like rapid thunder again, and he froze, unable to move. The terror that he faced in his dreams every night was now all too real. He knew that he should move, and that normally he would be able to do something, but for the first time in his life, he was completely paralyzed in fear.
One of the demonic beasts in question flew out of the same alley he had seen Jim's hat in, gliding as if it were made of smoke being carried by the wind, its hooded face radiating the blackest darkness he had ever encountered.
Jim.
Spurred by the thought of his elderly friend, Harry bit down on his tongue as hard as he could, and the coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. The pain roused him into action and his feet carried him away as he began devising a plan.
He couldn't just cast a patronus; if the dementor fled then it would be sent right back on Jim's path and it may suck out his soul. The thought raced across his mind that maybe it was already too late, that Jim was already gone, but he had to act as if there was still hope.
Lead it away. Take it on a circuitous path so my back to the alley and I can protect Jim. Blast it with Prongs. Make sure Jim is okay.
The problem was that the dementor could fly much faster than he could run, and his malnourished body was already sending him distress signals. In addition, his lungs were fatigued, and he couldn't seem to get enough air into his body. Damn cigarettes.
In the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of pink and then a much brighter silver light up the night. A glowing jackrabbit emerged onto the scene and viciously hopped into the dementor, who gave out an inhuman wail of pain.
Harry turned to the source of the light and saw a slim woman perhaps five years his senior, her wand leveled and a grimace on her face. Her heart-shaped face and spiky, bright pink hair were vaguely familiar to Harry, but he couldn't place where he had seen her before.
"Run, Harry! I'll hold them off!"
Grimacing as the witch's words echoed those of his father's final stand, Harry made to run back to the alley, but before he could a shadow fell over his savior, and a second dementor materialized directly behind her.
"No! Look out!" But it was too late, the dementor had caught the pink-haired girl by surprise and had grabbed her by the throat with one slimy hand while the other began to lower its hood. Harry could just make out its leathery gray skin and horrific toothless mouth of the foul beast as it pulled the struggling witch to its face.
Harry raised his own wand and pictured his mother and father, meeting them for the first time under the effects of priori incantatem, and how they had told him how proud they were.
"Expecto Patronum!"
Prongs shot out of his wand like a cannonball, barreling towards the dementor with the speed of a runaway train, antlers lowered and bellowing in soundless defiance. The glowing stag made direct contact with the dementor and carried it away. A demonic screech filled the air for the second time that night as it dropped the pink haired witch to the ground.
Directing Prongs with his wand, he called the stag over to finish off the first dementor, which had regained its bearings after the silver rabbit had disappeared. Prongs scooped up this demon as well and carried both into the night sky, where it threw them away with a heave of his mighty neck. The two dementors did not return.
Prongs then returned to the street, where it patrolled Harry's perimeter with the air of a knight protecting his liege.
Ignoring the weariness in his bones, Harry raced over to the pink-haired girl's side, where he knelt down to examine her. She was heavily dazed but still conscious, "Wotcher, Harry. Thanks for the save." She struggled to sit up but could not, and Harry caught her before she could hit the ground again. "I think I hit my heady-head when I was dropped. Might need a little bitty breather."
Suddenly her face rearranged itself until Harry was looking at what could be his sister, her hair had turned raven-black, and her eyes were a dazzling green that he had only seen in the mirror. He nearly dropped her in surprise.
"What the hell! And who are you?"
Tonks giggled, "I'm Tonks! And I'm a metamoo- metymor- matte- I can change shape!" She looked exceedingly proud of herself in the moment.
Harry was impressed, "You mean without a wand?"
"Yeppers!"
"So, err, why do you look like me?"
Tonks paused, a look of concentration on her strangely familiar face, "Um, well I'm looky-looking at you right now, and I'm not really all here at the moment, so I thinky-think my magic is just on autopilot."
Harry sighed in exasperation. It seemed like the witch was going to be okay. "Listen, I've got to go check on something real quick. You didn't happen to see an older man in a tracksuit around here, did you?"
Tonks shook her head and winced in pain at the action. "Old Jimmy-Jim? Haven't seen him since this morning."
Harry narrowed his eyes, "So you're the one that's been following me, huh?"
"Err, not just me. It was on the orders of old man white-beard himself." Tonks at least had the decency to look sheepish.
Harry rubbed his eyes in irritation. Well, that was some info that he would have to follow up on later, he thought.
"Alright, stay here, Tonks. I'm going to go see if I can find Jim."
"Nooo! I'm supposed to protect you!" Tonks looked devastatingly sad and her green eyes filled with tears.
"You did a great job, Tonks. Just stay here and don't fall asleep, okay?"
When Tonks nodded in reply, Harry staggered to his feet and was hit with a wave of exhaustion that threatened to put him back down on his arse right next to the concussed witch. His swollen tongue throbbed as well.
After a moment of wobbling as if he were at sea, he righted himself and made his way to the alley, wand in hand.
"Come on, Prongs!" The stag responded to him and led the way as they entered the narrow space between shops. Harry reached down and grabbed the tweed hat and noticed it was still slightly warm. Jim had been wearing it very recently then.
He cautiously made his way forward, scanning for any signs of movement with Prongs providing the light to guide him. The cobblestones underneath his feet were uneven and he stumbled in his tired state, catching himself with his hands before his face hit the pavement. It was then that he made eye contact with Jim.
The old man was leaning against a rubbish bin, his familiar Adidas tracksuit dirty and in disarray, his bald head reflecting the light of Harry's patronus.
"Jim!" Harry crawled over to him, and for a moment he was filled with hope. Hope that shattered when he came closer and realized the truth. Jim's chest rose and fell steadily and blood pumped through his veins, but his eyes were glassy and unseeing. The dementors had gotten him first, and Jim was no more.
Tears came to Harry's eyes and ran down his cheeks, it was Cedric all over again. His thoughts were moving faster than he could process until it was all a blur, and he could barely feel anything at all. He pounded the ground. Was he frustrated? It just wasn't fair. Was he distraught? How dare they take Jim? Was he furious?
He felt and observed at once; it seemed as if he had been disconnected from reality, and that Jim's stare had engulfed him, drowning him in their depthless gaze.
He dimly realized that Prongs had disappeared, and he and Jim were alone in the darkness, a darkness that was closing in until his vision was no more. The last thing he felt before slipping into unconsciousness was his knees giving out as he hit the cobbled ground.
XXX
Darkness, but unlike any he had ever experienced. There was a strange fluttering wispiness to his surroundings and it felt like there were some bright spots in his peripheral vision, but every time he tried to focus, it was gone. Where was he? He looked down at his body, a body that was not there. Really, where was he?
A horrifyingly evil laugh echoed all around him, one that was all too familiar, one that had haunted his dreams for over a month. The environment plunged into deeper darkness, reflecting the black hole of pure dread that had sunk into his stomach.
Voldemort manifested before him, looking completely at home cloaked in the obsidian shadows that contrasted with his bone-white skin. His blood-red eyes gleamed with triumph and a bestial grin stretched across his face.
"Hello, Harry. Aren't you going to offer some tea?"
Harry could hardly think, but he knew that he was confused. "Tea? What does that have to do with anything?"
Voldemort laughed once more, "Are you not inclined to play the role of a gracious host? It is only polite. This is your mind after all."
XXX
Alright, hit me with what you thought about how we started off! One more massive thanks to my readers who came over from Dancing in the Rain, and if you haven't read that one yet, I encourage you to give it a shot, though the tone is VERY different to this fic. I can promise a bunch of lovey dovey fluffy stuff over there if you do need some eye bleach.
If you hadn't noticed, Harry's not doing so hot at the moment, how do you think he's going to handle himself? What do you think Voldemort is doing in his head? And where the hell do I get off killing Jim off? The answers to at least some of those questions will be answered next Saturday, May 22nd! I hope to see you then!