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.
Please read and review :) All are appreciated, especially construction criticism. 3
This is my first story, I hope you like it. :)
The menacing church tower loomed high in the grey thundering sky, its stone slabs speaking of ages long forgotten. At the tallest point, where the black tip was blurred with the dark fog surrounding it, golden eyes glowered down at the world, silently judging from the silvered crucifix their bloodied naked body was nailed to. Ancient bells sang song, breaking into a steady rhythm to alert those still faithful to the approaching hour.
Cool moist air carrying with it decaying leaves swept across the cobbled path leading to the House of God, where a steady flow of brown oak leaves deterred from the air's path by wind, disappeared through arched windows.
Heavy wooden doors, raised several feet above the ground, marked the entrance to this place of worship. They could be reached, only, by climbing the wide black marbled steps, upon which stains of red could be seen if looked upon closely. The origin of the stains was questionable, as was the crimson substance which tarnished the church entrance, but it only added to the mystique of the gothic cathedral.
Along the cobbled path, the same black marble was used to depict saints - usually in the throes of death. Some looked through silvered eyes pleadingly at worshipers coming to mass with arrows protruding from their heads; others looked calmly in the face of death while axes tore gruesomely through their necks.
Harry Potter had never spent a Christmas break with his relatives since he was ten years old, and, after receiving a twisted coat hanger, he had vowed in his first year at Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry that he would never return to Little Whinging unless he absolutely had to. However, as Harry sat staring into the fire in the Gryffindor common room at five o'clock in the morning, afraid to sleep in case his roommates would prank him again, or his House humiliate him with their scathing remarks, it seemed like a good idea to return.
It wasn't that they hated him, Harry reasoned, they just didn't understand. They just didn't believe him. And quite honestly, he knew how it must look - he had returned after the Third Task clutching a body and a portkey, which would have made even the most trusting friend suspicious. It was only a priori incantatem on his wand, checking he had not cast an avada kedavra on Cedric Diggory, that had saved him from being in Azkaban at the this very moment. Not to mention how Voldemort had yet to even make a move, even capture a single Muggle. Even he, Harry, had questioned his sanity, questioned whether he had simply dreamt of that night, of whether it had been him to cut his own arm to make his story more real, him who killed Cedric.
That was until he started dreaming of the corridor, and before his scar started to burn constantly with what he recognised as happiness.
From Voldemort.
It was then he realised what he was thinking was exactly what Voldemort wanted him to think. And that the Light's reaction to his story was playing right into Voldemort's hand.
Ron, Hermione, Ginny ... Dumbledore, Fudge, Rita Skeeter ... The teachers, the pupils, the portraits ... no one believed him.
And they ridiculed him for believing himself.
'Boy,' Uncle Vernon wheezed, his greying hair damp with sweat from the car ride, 'I don't want any funny business.' Vernon narrowed his small black eyes, 'I assume that your kind can enter a church?' He breathed, giving a wary glance at Aunt Marge who was sitting in the drivers' seat.
Sitting by the fire, Harry was stressed out by his exams and hadn't slept in days. It was due to this he reasoned - though later Harry would argue it was down to fate - that Harry overlooked a very important detail. Every Christmas, ever since Harry could remember, the Dursleys went to Maidstone, a small town just outside London, to visit Aunt Marge and her thirteen dogs.
Harry hated Privet Drive.
He loathed Maidstone.
With a minute nod, Harry answered Vernon's rather racist query, before returning his attention to the gothic cathedral. Although, he had never entered a church before ... No, Hermione had told him before long tales of the dull uneventful ceremony called mass, and while she was Muggleborn, she was still a witch.
In the past, on this day - the twenty-fifth of December - Aunt Marge would look down at his scrawny, unfed self, and mutter that he was no threat to her, nor her dogs which 'could tear the Boy down in a second if they wanted to'. It was during this annual scrutiny he had known for ten years, that she would declare he needn't go to mass with them, as she doubted he could so much as break one bone of her precious dogs.
The theory she applied was simple - Aunt Marge was too tight with her money to pay a nanny to install discipline when she could do a 'much better job, one that doesn't face the boundaries of law nannies are faced with when it comes to physical discipline', but she didn't want to bring an uneducated orphan to church where her friends would see him and think she assorted with 'his type'.
So she left Harry with her precious dogs, which Marge felt could take anything Harry would throw at them. However, this year, believing him to be a hardened criminal with no conscience and a sick sense of humour, Marge had looked down at him the night before and announced that he would be accompanying them to Christmas mass.
Sighing, Harry really wished he could have been left alone. He had no desire to enter the church, which was beginning to give him strange shivers up his back, and he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck sticking up. It felt, though he immediately dismissed the idea, as if he was in the presence of a dementor.
Harry bit his lip as he studied his relatives. Not one of them, busily undoing their seatbelt and checking their reflection in the rear-view mirror, seemed to be aware of the coldness the cathedral radiated. As far as he could tell, Harry saw no animals - not even a single spider - nor any plants or trees. The only movement was the wind, smashing bits of twigs and leaves around the stone walls of the cathedral.
Petunia, seemingly satisfied with her reflection, unlocked her car door and stood outside waiting for the others. Dudley, yawning as he undid the seatbelt - which sharply flew back into place, rebounding off the window as it was released from the folds of Dudley's fat - too got out. Marge, with a glare at Harry as if he was doing something unforgivable simply by being there, charged uncharacteristically energetically out to the cobbled path.
Vernon wagged a chubby finger at Harry, 'Mark my words boy.' He rasped, 'One word from you ...' he trailed off menacingly before sliding out.
Clutching his wand, Harry fumbled with the lock on the car door, unused to the Muggle lock, and entered the grounds. His shiver continued, spreading from the tiniest hairs on the base of his neck, all the way down to his toes. There was definitely something up with this place, something ... evil. Harry shook his head - the paranoia he often felt Voldemort radiating must have rubbed off on him.
Yet he couldn't help the feeling that those golden eyes were watching him, studying...
'Boy!' Aunt Marge barked, her wrinkled face reddening with impatience. She whistled loudly, as if he was just another one of her dogs, before turning to catch up with his relatives, clutching a putrid acid green handbag she had proudly showed to Petunia that morning. Apparently it was designer from Spain -although Aunt Marge referred to the country as Espagne - and a 'must have'.
Shaking his head, a small smile on his face with amusement, Harry Potter walked sluggishly towards his family, uncaring of what someone watching might say about the boy drowning in hand-me-down clothing. It wasn't, Harry reckoned, as if he would ever talk to anyone here again - apart from his relatives.
How wrong he was.
Catching up with Dudley, who was panting from the exercise and had fallen behind the group, Harry slowed to a trudge. Allowing Dudley to lead him, it was only when he stopped walking that Harry looked up from his thoughts.
Frowning, he noted he was standing in front of a much smaller building - where was the marbled stairway, the large oak doors? Where were the beautiful statues, and the long cobbled path?
No, what he was in front of was much simpler than the grand gothic tower, with the golden judging eyes. It was a simple church building, built from brick and cement, looking for all the world so common that Harry did not know why they were having mass - which was supposedly a special life-changing service - in such an ordinary building when such an unnatural tower lay only a half mile away.
Perhaps, a fleeting thought passed Harry's mind, they were renovating? But no, the dark beauty that was the tower needed no work done - it was perfect on its own. Not at all, he scoffed, like the building he stood before.
A small roofed area marked the entrance to the place of worship, the clear glass roof showing the decaying leaves and twigs which obscured the view of the silver sky. Short, ugly brick pillars held the glass, in what was a failed attempt to be modern. Long artificial reaves, of a colour Harry was sure he had heard being referred to as 'forest green' - a decidedly unnatural shade - were draped across them, clashing with the red of the brick. The entrance, unlike the grand gleaming oak doors of the tower, was narrow and small, painted the colour of fresh printing paper. Harry could see no cross marking the building as a church; indeed it looked rather like a Grounds-keepers cottage. All he could see were large crowds of middle-aged balding men who stood awkwardly, while woman dressed in their finest gossiped with fellow friends.
It was with this last observation, that Harry turned to Dudley, sure that they had walked to the wrong building. 'Why,' Harry asked Dudley, evidence of his shock since Dudley was not exactly the fountain of all knowledge so conversations were limited and uninteresting, 'is church in this building, and not the tower?'
Dudley, who had been walking as if there was nothing troubling him, turned to look at Harry. His powder blue eyes narrowed as his brows furrowed in confusion, 'What tower?'
Clearly, Harry realised, Dudley was even more idiotic than Harry had realised. Was it really possible that Dudley had been going to this church for fifteen years, and he had never realised there was a tower right next to the church. It certainly ruled out the idea the building was being used while the tower was being renovated.
Some of this must have shown in his expression since Dudley elbowed him in the ribs. Hard. Dudley never was the kindest, nor the most patient person Harry reflected as he struggled to regain his breath to respond. 'That tower. There.' He pointed.
Dudley turned, looking in the direction Harry pointed. His head turned, searching for the tower his cousin spoke of. Frowning, he glanced at the surrounding land once more, before turning back to face Harry. 'There is no tower.'
Harry Potter looked at his cousin in a whole new light. He had never realised just how stupid his cousin was - could he really not see a single tower? Did Dudley know what a tower was? Did he understand English?
Frustrated, because Dudley was looking at him as if he was the crazy one, Harry grabbed both Dudley's shoulders and forced him to look in the direction of the tower. 'Do you see that tall building, the one with the cone at the top? The one with Jesus Christ staring from the top at everyone?' His cousin still frowned in confusion, 'Right there!' Harry pointed at the tower. 'Right there!'
Dudley shoved himself out of Harry's grip, 'What are you? Crazy?' He exclaimed, his tone actually fearful for Harry, his eyes searching. 'There is nothing there! There is only one building on these grounds - always has been!' His powder blue eyes pinned Harry's own emerald gaze, begging him to understand.
But Harry, always the stubborn Gryffindor, would not let this one go. 'Those black statues, see them? The ones in a straight line along that cobbled road, over there?'
Dudley looked at him, biting his lip.
'You're not looking!' Harry shoved him, trying to make him see. 'They're made out of black marble, I think. All of them are shown in the act of how they died - some peaceful, some terrified. Right?' Harry, caught up in explaining this to his clearly delusional cousin, didn't look down to see how he was taking it. 'They're in a straight line,' he repeated, 'and they lead up to those marble steps. Right there,' Harry pointed. 'The marbled steps that lead up to the tower.'
But Dudley now looked annoyed, 'Stop trying to be funny! There are no statues! There is no tower!' He shook Harry's shoulders.
Harry, slightly annoyed at the shaking, looked up at Dudley. Whether the tower was there, or not, he could see in Dudley's eyes that he was being serious about this.
One of them was right; the other delusional - but Harry realised that Dudley really did believe that there was no tower. With one last glance in Harry's eyes, and a fleeting look at the scar hidden beneath his raven locks, Dudley turned and half-ran up to his parents.
'All right then.' He mumbled, scratching his head slightly. All the while, golden eyes stared down at him. He could feel the itching, the shivering of his body - a feeling he only got around dementors. For a fraction of a second, Harry could have sworn something brushed his arm, right at the wrist. That something touched his forehead, his temples. That something touched his heart. But when he looked, when he twisted and turned and glanced around, all he could see was empty air.
Biting his lip, the Boy-Who-Lived walked through the plain white doors of the tiny insignificant building his first church service was to take place in, without looking back at the gleaming golden eyes burning into the back of his head.
After ten long minutes, it occurred to Harry that he really had missed nothing in the aspect of religious education. Perhaps it was the ancient priest droning on and on about a donkey! Or maybe it was how said donkey was apparently a metaphor for new beginnings? Whatever it was the priest had slipped into his tea before mass, it was working.
Rubbing his eyes with his hand, Harry looked up to see the priest glaring at him - yeah; because it was his fault half the congregation were sitting checking their watches impatiently. True, Harry doubted any of the congregation wanted to spend an hour learning about some family who was born two thousand years before their time, but the priest's ancient and slow stuttering voice certainly didn't help matters. He was, Harry reflected absent-mindedly, worse that Peter Pettigrew.
It was only when the priest marched out, to joyous songs and what appeared to be a standing ovation - although Harry noted there was no whistling or clapping ... - that a small smile graced the Light's Saviour's face. Finally, it was over. He could feel his shoulder's sagging in relief, but as a rough hand grabbed his shoulder they tensed once more. Immediately, the Boy Who Lived flinched back, emerald eyes flashing.
'Put that bloody thing away!' Uncle Vernon snarled at him, his voice menacing and full of cold fury.
Harry followed his eyes to the Phoenix wand clenched in his right hand. With a small gulp, Harry slid it back into his back pocket, while slowly backing away from his uncle.
'This is a House of God!' Vernon exclaimed, though more to himself than no his nephew. Vernon's small beady black eyes looked around nervously at the people loitering in the church. 'Lovely day, isn't it?' He half-yelled brightly to a few passers-by.
He turned back to his nephew, a smile on his face for the sake of the few who were looking, but it would take a fool not to see the menace in his eyes. 'Me, Petunia, Dudley and Marge will be going out for Christmas dinner. You, of course, will not be coming with us. Do whatever you wish, come back late,' his eyes narrowed, 'alone. You have your keys - don't wake us up.'
Ah, that late. Vernon would only go to bed at about one of two in the morning - it was three o'clock in the afternoon right now. What to do with eleven hours to kill, little money and no friends?
It turned out sitting in a church, when no one else was there, was quite a soothing experience. At least, that was what the Boy Who Lived thought, and prior to the Triwizard Tournament, his opinion had been gold. It was more like dust now, Harry reflected - something that landed in your life for but an irritating moment, until you simply flicked it away.
Or at least, that was what Reeta Skeeter was driving through every Daily Prophet buying wizard with her daily column entitled 'The Boy Who Lied'. Not the most ingenious title, but it did come from the mind who firmly believed - and regularly wrote about it in her daily column - that it had been Harry, not Voldemort, who killed his parents that fateful Hallows Eve. When he was a year old. The worrying thing was some people did believe it...
The wooden benches were actually quite comfortable to lie on, Harry reflected, stretching. Though he was sure if that priest could see him now there would be hell to pay. He yawned, sitting up, and stared at the green crucifix suspended from the ceiling. The Jesus resting on it seemed so small, so weak, and so powerless - not at all like the all-seeing golden eyed man who rested on the highest point of the tower. Which once more raised the question of why mass would be held in such an ordinary, insignificant room.
Harry honestly didn't know how he could see the tower, but Dudley couldn't. It was startling, but looking back, he was sure he could recall Petunia making a comment about all the empty land going to waste. And none of the congregation huddled in the small courtyard in front of the church had paid any attention to the dark beauty of the tower.
This meant that he was delusional.
Unless ...
Emerald eyes flashed. In a split second, Harry Potter was on his feet - all sleepiness forgotten. His intense eyes gave one last fleeting look at the crucifix suspended from the ceiling, before he charged out into the twilight.
As the darkness pooled over him, absorbing him, Harry Potter looked as if he had just escaped from a story book in which he played the all powerful, insane wizard who could do everything, and defeat anyone. The moment the icy wind brushed past him, it brushed his raven locks into chaos. His pink lips parted, gasping for air as the cold wind rose goosebumps on his pale skin.
'Muggles,' he muttered a mad gleam in his eyes, 'are blind.'
It was only as goosebumps broke out across his arms, his legs, and his chest that the feeling of a dementor returned to Harry. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rising, and his gleaming eyes slowly dilated. Harry felt his toes numbing, and his cheeks going pink from the cold. In one quick swift movement, he drew his wand from his back pocket and raised it to eye level, making the decision to use magic if provoked.
With a cautious glance to the left, and to the right, Harry Potter strode towards the marbled steps. The red on the stairs, upon closer observation, was undoubtedly blood, though from what, Harry had no clue. It was everywhere; on every step, on every railing. Staring at the tiny, crimson dots - remnants of some forgotten man - almost made Harry reconsider knocking on the huge oak doors. Indeed, the ornate black raven that was the knocker seemed to be almost taunting him; daring him to disturb those who dwelled within the tower, those who presumably caused the crimson dots on stairs.
It was with every last once of Gryffindor courage and stupidity that Harry Potter walked up those thirteen stairs, raised one pale trembling hand and knocked seven times. He could feel cold beads of sweat running down his forehead as he waited for answer. Perhaps Harry stood there for days, but it could have minutes or mere seconds; all he knew was that it felt likes hours had passed before he heard footsteps creaking behind the door.
Harry gulped. A lump rose in his throat, and he resisted the urge to start coughing. His eyes flashed, flickering over his surroundings for any attackers, or for any danger. He couldn't get those red dots out of his head now, and it was with horror that he noticed a single fleck on the oak of the door. He could feel his heart pounding in his ears, going faster than it ever had in his life time. His hand, clutching his wand hard enough to draw blood, suddenly clamped in fear.
Emerald eyes wide, Harry listened as he heard locks drawn back and a quiet murmur. Glancing up at the golden eyes which were staring intently back into his own wide orbs, Harry Potter wished he had never gone to church. He wished like he had never wished in his life, that he was still a scrawny insignificant looking person that Aunt Marge would trust to remain in her house alone.
And then the heavy oak door swung slowly open, the loud creak doing nothing to assuage Harry's nerves. Swallowing, he forced himself to calm - to not bolt in the opposite direction and never look back. He forced himself to push back his shoulders, and stand tall; ready for what fate would bring him.
And then emerald met black.
Harry Potter felt lost as he stared into their inky depths - what was he called? Why was he here?
It all ceased to matter as he stared into the dark pools full of such mystery and wisdom, of such considerable depth, that it was impossible to see the bottom. Harry felt content to live his live staring into those dark black eyes, to stare at the thin circle of white which encircled the black pupils, before the black pool began once more. He would be happy to dedicate his life to trying to reach the possible by reaching the bottom of the inky depths.
Harry watched, fascinated, as the dark eyes narrowed. The abundant wrinkles surrounding them tightened as the man with the glorious eyes glared at him. His lined brow furrowed, and yellowed teeth bit down on a thin colourless lip as he took in The Boy Who Lived. Short red stubble, the colour of fresh blood, sprung from his pale cheeks and neck, the same colour as the shoulder-length greasy hair which sprung wildly from his head.
Harry grimaced as a pungent smell reached his nostrils, and automatically took a step backwards, breaking the eye contact he held with the man. Reminding himself not to become quite so entranced with the eyes again, he raised his head just in time to hear the man speak.
'Harry James Potter, son of James of Pureblood, and Lily of Mudblood.' He raised one thick red eyebrow. It was not a question.
Harry nodded, not quite sure what situation he had landed himself in.
They knew who he was - that wasn't unusual as he was featured in Reeta Skeeter's column daily in the Daily Prophet due to popular demand. They knew his parents' names, not to mention their blood status. Again, nothing unusual in a world where blood was everything. Harry eyed the man whose eyes had never left him, and the dim unlit corridor the heavy oak door led to.
Harry could feel cold sweat dripping down his forehead, and the chill of a dementor once more raised the hairs on the back of his neck. But this time it was stronger, so intense that he couldn't help but flinch back. Clearly, Harry decided as he resisted the urge to wipe the cold sweat from his forehead, he was in a magical dwelling.
A magical dwelling important enough that it was hidden from Muggles.
Or, emerald eyes flashed as he remembered Grimmauld Place, a magical dwelling with occupants who didn't want any visitors.
That would certainly explain the blood on the stairs.
It was just as this occurred to Harry, just as he realised he should get out of there – and fast - that the man with those beautiful black eyes raised a golden knife he had been holding behind his back. He twirled the golden knife between long gnarled fingers. It was by no means a butter knife, Harry gulped. The blade alone was twelve inches long, and by the looks of it, freshly sharpened to a terrifying point.
The inky eyes didn't quite seem so beautiful, so entrancing now a knife had entered the equation. And with the man's bushy red eyebrows, large build, and muscled exterior, he looked less enchanting and more like a beast. Like an ape.
Harry gulped, determining his escape options in a split second. He couldn't run - the ape of a man would probably just throw the knife into his back. And he knew, with one glance at the ape's long legs, that even if he did manage to run, he would not get far. His wand was in his pocket, and he knew enough hexes to get out of there, underage magic be damned. Steeling his mind to it, Harry drew his wand, hoping the ape was the only one occupying the house.
It was getting to be a much too common occurrence for Harry's taste. And the fact that drawing his wand, felt like second nature to him was not what he wanted. His heart no longer thumped in fear, instead it relaxed as he felt the reassuring wand in his fingers.
Yes, after this fight, he would stop fighting battles he wanted no part in.
The Ape's eyes narrowed as he noticed the long wooden stick held in the sixteen year old's pale fingers. And it was with one quick flash that he mumbled a word under his breath, and Harry froze - completely unable to move, or even to open his mouth and cry for help.
Just like that, the Boy Who Lived defeated. With no wand, no thought, and no preparation. It was the likes of magic that Hermione would dream of, Voldemort too – to be able to cast magic without a wand, without a second thought.
His eyes, half-way through blinking, stared half-lidded with hatred at the Ape who was watching him now, arms crossed as if he wasn't holding a butchering knife in his hands. He was taking his time to watch him, to study him like an animal, and he clearly took satisfaction from Harry's fear.
Harry had never felt as helpless as he did then - he couldn't even blink, let alone cast magic. It was with a shudder that Harry realised he was completely at the Ape's mercy.
'You know Wizard, that if you hadn't drawn your wand there would have been no need for this,' he paused, his tongue flicking out as he searched for the right word, 'measure.'
Harry grimaced, wishing he could speak, that he could do something. But the spell Ape had cast on him was done with such power and skill, that he couldn't even break it to scratch his nose.
Who knew what the Ape had planned for him? He was a sixteen year old, not unattractive boy in a building which no Muggles could see. He couldn't move, couldn't scream and he couldn't cast any magic. And, if he knew who Harry was - not just his name, but his history, and the public's opinion of him - then the Ape would also know that no one would particularly care if he suddenly vanished, never to be found again.
A large hand reached out, taking firm hold of Harry's wrist, and Harry wished he could scream. The pain was excruciating, worse even than a Dementor when they fed on your worst memories. Harry couldn't move to cast an expecto patronum, though he doubted whether it would work against the monster in front of him. But then again, Harry didn't know if he would have the sanity left to cast it in a few minutes – for what the ape was doing was more agonising than a crucio. He was tearing through Harry's mind, ripping it apart, and watching his life unfold through his memories.
He was looking at his mind, examining his magic, and picking apart his memories. It was horrible, it was excruciating, but Harry was powerless to stop it. Throughout it all, he couldn't move, he couldn't even scream or beg for him to stop.
He could do nothing.
Nothing, but wait for it to be over, to hope that the memories Ape focused on weren't the ones he had tried his hardest to send to the back of his mind and forget about.
And then, almost as suddenly as it began, it was over. Harry was left gasping for breath, a dull ache in his head that was undoubtedly the worst headache he had ever had – but nothing compared to the ear-splitting agony he had just received. He still couldn't move, but at least that horror was finished. And he knew, even had he not been unable to move, Harry wouldn't have known what to do. He didn't know whether he would try to harm the man who had almost torn apart his mind, or thank him for finally stopping it.
The endless black eyes studied him, checking he was okay. 'I'm really sorry.' He said, his voice deep and hoarse, as if it had went for a long time unused. Harry, ever the Gryffindor, was ready to forgive him – such was the sorrow within his dark eyes.
That was until he saw the golden knife the ape was still holding.
The Ape reached out to grab Harry's wrist once more, and Harry prepared himself for the agony that was to come. But it didn't – no one ripped through his mind, no one touched his memories, or felt his magic. And the relief of this almost stopped Harry from feeling the pain as the point of the golden knife touched the thin translucent skin that almost concealed the precious arteries hidden inside.
It was with care, and a slight hesitance that the man traced the knife down Harry's already scarred arm, and Harry couldn't help but think that he preferred Wormtail's method – quick, fast and to the point. But Ape was drawing it out, almost as if he was trying to give Harry time to prepare him for the pain, but there was also a slight reverence in the way he looked at Harry – a reverence which scared him more than anything that had happened so far.
Harry wondered what it was about him that attracted people to slit his wrists. Last time it was Wormtail, and ironically on his other arm, leaving a blank canvas for Ape. Vaguely, through his pain muddled mind, he wondered if he should just wear a sign around his neck advertising free blood for all enemies. Then again, he'd probably be bled dry – everyone in the wizarding world hated him. The boy who lived sighed – he'd never be able to wear a short sleeved shirt again without people thinking he was suicidal.
If he survived …
With one last searching look into Harry's eyes, Ape thrust the knife into Harry's wrist. Harry could feel the pain, the dreadful feeling of his own blood pouring from his wrist as Ape plunged the knife in deeper. He tried to scream, he tried to cry - to do something! - But whatever Ape had done to him, there was nothing he could do.
He could smell the nauseating copper of his blood as Ape slid the knife up his arm, tearing the pale unmarked skin into uneven jagged halves. And he could feel himself wishing it would stop as he felt himself grow weaker and weaker. Perhaps it was a good thing Ape cast this spell on him, for Harry was sure, he would be begging for Ape to stop if he could speak. And Harry would sooner die than beg.
Harry was sure it only went on for a few seconds, but each moment was agony. Each second felt like years of torture and pain. No matter how hard he tried to detach himself from the pain, he couldn't. He could each jerk of Ape's wrist as he removed the knife from Harry's arm. And no matter how powerful Ape's spell had been, it held no match for the agonized scream which ripped from Harry's throat.
Barely thinking as the blood continued to pulse out from his arm, Harry saw through eyes glazed with unshed tears as Ape withdrew a tiny clear vial which he promptly enlarged. The knife was gone, but Harry wasn't sure which was the greater evil as Ape held the vial to his arm. Harry watched, unable to look away, as the vial turned crimson, and filled with his blood.
Harry tried to get away, to flinch back, but Ape took advantage of his weakened state. Swinging one hairy arm to grab Harry's shoulder in case he managed to escape – which Harry decided was quite frankly impossible – he continued to fill the vial with the crimson river that gushed out of his arm.
Harry watched, feeling faint as Ape finally removed the vial from his arm and corked it. With large, callused hands, Ape applied pressure Harry's arm. Once the bleeding had slowed, he used one hand to rumble in his cloak to pull out three vials; one purple, one black and one pink, and a plaster.
Almost absent-mindedly, Harry noted it was almost like he knew Harry was going to knock at the door that night. He knew his name, his blood status … which would mean he opened the door with the intent, and the tools to harm him. Lovely.
He watched through blurred eyes as Ape sprinkled the pink powder along his wrist, and almost instantly the pain subsided, just as the smell of roses reached his nose. The purple vial opened, and Ape poured the whole vial along the wound. Immediately, the wound began to clot, and the smell of lavender hung in the air as Ape finally sprinkled the black powder along the bandage and placed it onto Harry's arm.
Harry felt faint as Ape stood up, and used his inky black eyes to stare into Harry's glazed sick gaze. Noticing how Harry swayed on his feet, Ape swiftly picked him up into a fireman's lift, and entered the cathedral.
He could have sworn, he could feel cool lips brushing his hair. 'Sorry … I'm so sorry.'
Looking back, Harry Potter would blush when he thought of this moment, and would argue - getting very flustered as questions were raised about his manhood - that it was not his fault. Firstly, he had lost a lot of blood. And secondly who in their right mind would then turn said person - who was already close to passing out - upside down?
So it really was not his fault that he, well ... fainted.
'He's waking up.' A musical voice sounded in his ear. 'His breathing is quickening.'
'Give the princess a round of applause,' a man's voice growled.
'Blárvéurr.' She apprehended softly. 'You must remember what it was like to be human, no?'
Harry Potter sighed contentedly. He felt brilliant - like he could do anything!
Unlike his aching sore body from before, he felt healthy and refreshed. He wasn't hurt, though why Harry had no idea. He was on a bed! Perhaps Aunt Marge had finally had enough of his screaming during the night when he had nightmares, and had moved him into the spare bedroom? It would make sense - it had four walls and a door, which would probably soundproof him from the rest of the house. And, he knew - from his longing looks into the room as he made his way downstairs to the floor of the utility room - that there was a nice, soft bed in there.
Although, Harry shuddered slightly, it was a pink bed. Pink. Voldemort, Harry could handle without a second thought, but when it came to questions about his manhood...
Harry grimaced, imagining Dudley's taunts now. There would be a whole new angle Dudley had to insult him, a whole new range of insults.
He frowned slightly, as he heard hushed murmurs from above him. Probably Uncle Vernon and the rest of his 'family'. After all, that nightmare from last night was worse than usual. But different … it was unusual that Harry wouldn't have a nightmare about Cedric, about that day … and if it wasn't about Cedric, it was about that corridor, and lay beyond the door. Sometimes, Harry would dream of Voldemort. But only very rarely.
But last night was different. It was so vivid, so real that it felt like it wasn't just a dream. He could remember feeling the shivers on his back, and the hairs rising on the back of his neck so clearly. He could remember inhaling the cold breeze through his nose, and smelling the expensive perfume of Aunt Marge's friends. Harry remembered the feeling of the Holy Water splashing on his head as the priest threw it at the congregation via a strange golden stick … he remembered the horrible taste of Communion, and how comfortable the wooden bench had been to lie upon.
But most of all he remembered that cathedral. With its menacing beauty, and timeless enchantment. His confusion when only he could see it and the feeling when it dawned upon him why. Harry remembered his walk up to the house, the feeling of dread as he knocked seven times onto the door and waited. The sound of the dead-bolt being lifted and those amazingly endless black eyes …
And then that spell, the one that was so powerful it kept him immobile. The one that Ape cast wandlessly, but it was more effective than any stunner either Voldemort or Dumbledore could do. And the pain. Yes, Harry could remember the pain. He could remember his entire life flashing behind his eyes, and a pain so agonising he thought he would pass out. He remembered the heart wrenching scream that tore from his lips as Ape lifted the knife from his arm, so powerful that he broke Ape's spell. He remembered vial, and how hard he had to try to not cry. Harry remembered feeling faint, feeling like air. The last thing Harry remembered was noticing Ape's nose was crooked, as if it had been broken.
And then Harry couldn't remember anything.
Harry honestly didn't know how he could have dreamed such a thing, let alone felt it with such intensity. Who was that man? And how the hell had his sub-conscious dreamt up the Muggle church, and the gothic cathedral?
It had felt so real, and it had been so vivid that for a split second Harry wondered if it had actually happened. He could remember the day before when Aunt Marge had told him he would be joining them for the Christmas mass. And in his dream, Harry had gone to a Muggle mass. Could it be that what he dreamt had indeed occurred?
But no.
Harry Potter felt his imagination had come a long way since the days he spent in the cupboard of the Dursley's house. He believed in magic, in Hogwarts, in a stone which could turn metal to gold and the drinker immortal. He had witnessed a talking hat, a basilisk, and he had talked to snakes. Harry had written in a diary to a memory of the greatest wizard of all time, Lord Voldemort, and he had battled hundreds of Dementors with a single spell. Harry had ridden a Hippogryff, become the youngest Seeker in a century, and travelled back in time to save his Godfather. He had witnessed a werewolf turn, Lord Voldemort feed from a unicorn and he had ridden a centaur. Harry had beaten a dragon, swam with mermaids and defeated Lord Voldemort four times.
But this was something he could not accept, could not believe. For starters, mass was meant to be special, an amazing experience. Yet that priest had droned on and on for an incredibly long hour of his life which Harry could never get back.
And a cathedral which only he could see? Not Petunia, not anyone? Only him? Stairs flecked with blood? A golden statue of Jesus on the Crucifix which seemed to watch his every move? Not to mention the ape of a man who entered the door, with the endless black eyes, and mad red hair. A man who then proceeded to rhyme off facts about Harry's life, read his mind, slit his wrist, and then collected the blood? Before healing him?
No. It simply could not be true. Yet he couldn't stop shaking fingers from reaching out to feel his arm. Feeling silly, Harry stopped himself. Yet he couldn't resist the urge to see, once and for all, whether or not it was true. Summoning up as much courage as he could muster, Harry extended trembling fingers to prove once and for all it was a dream.
About an inch above his arm, his fingers touched a thick pulsating bump. Harry flinched, feeling the pain that touch caused his all the way down to his toes. He could feel his eyes watering as he traced the line all the way from his wrist to his elbow, just like where Ape had cut him, in his dream.
Harry Potter's eyes flew open, forcing himself to sit upright despite the unbearable agony shooting up his arm. He gasped, the pain was unbearable. With a shaking hand, he lifted his left arm with his right and forced himself to look at it.
What he saw nearly made him scream. A thick jagged line, swollen and coloured angry red, pulsated out of his arm. It was looked so deformed, so opposite to the pale white skin beside it, that it looked like something out of a horror movie. Mutant, disgusting, like a terrible flesh eating disease. It was about an inch wide, but it swelled up until it sat at least two inches above his skin. Harry could feel bile rising in his throat as he watched the wound rise and fall with each beat of his heart.
So the dream was real then.
Harry could feel his heart racing from that single touch of his wound, and the gasp that was his breath from the pain. Trying to dull the terrible aching in his arm, and the shock that was the realisation that there really was a mad man running around taking his blood, Harry looked around at his surroundings.
With a shaky, choking breath Harry looked around, well, wherever he was. It seemed to be a long empty hall, about the same size as the Great Hall in Hogwarts, if not bigger. Certainly, it was older and infinitely grander. The floor was wooden, that dark wood that was almost black. It practically spoke of ages long forgotten, and Harry was sure it had many stories to tell. The walls were grey, and furnished with portraits of people long gone. A thick layer of dust lay on the rim of each portrait, which only added to the mystique of the large hall. The furnishings and furniture were few and far apart, but those there spoke of years of travel and mystique.
Overall, the hall was almost empty, and so dim that Harry could hardly see. Long thick black curtains blocked out any light that the tall arched windows would have brought in. Only candles, place periodically around the hall, lit the room, shrouding everything in dim grey shadows. For all the space the hall offered, it was an almost unoccupied space, but filled with the dark beauty that the cathedral's outside promised.
He himself was sitting on a large four poster bed in the very centre of the room, which wasn't slightly creepy at all. And staring intently into his face was Ape, and a woman. Harry felt like he was in one of those movies where the prisoner woke up and the doctor and his nurse started doing crazy experiments on him. He really hoped that wasn't the case …
Ape was very tall; almost as tall as the gigantic door that led … well Harry didn't know where it led. But he was probably the tallest man Harry had seen in his life, not including Hagrid of course.
Considering that, the female who stood to Ape's right only reached Ape's shoulder, but a considerable height it was. She was pale, with dark hair and crimson lips. Her eyes, an amazing honey colour, held the same depth as Ape's. They were as entrancing as hell, and it took all of Harry's strength to tear his eyes from her intense gaze. Fitting black robes hugged her thin frame. Her body gave the impression of being fragile, but Harry had a sneak suspicion she was anything but. She was truly beautiful, in every sense of the word. Undoubtedly the most beautiful person he had ever seen – and that include Mrs Zabini.
Both her and Ape were staring at him, their eyes watching his every movement and their expressions like a cat watching a mouse. It was rather unnerving, and Harry self-consciously pulled his blankets further around his form. He really did not like the feeling that they had probably been doing the same while he slept. And Harry, knowing he talked in his sleep, felt his cheeks reddening as he wondered what they may have heard. Harry sneaked another glance up, before looking down again almost immediately.
They were still staring.
A rather awkward silence ensued, during which time he took many secret glances at the two cats, while they stared openly at him. For a while thought they might be looking at his scar so Harry pretended to scratch his head and 'accidently' brushed his hair over his scar so the Lightning Bolt was hidden.
It turned out they weren't interested in the scar.
They continued staring while he thought of other ideas. He bit his lip, he closed his eyes, and he hid the arm Ape had butchered underneath his blankets. None of it worked; they continued to stare - unblinkingly, he might add - at Harry Potter.
At the start Harry thought about saying something. Anything had to be better this awkward staring. Who knew what their plans were. There had been a moment when Harry's lips had parted and he was about to say 'Hey'.
Then he remembered the blood on the stairs.
What do you say to someone who lives in a cathedral warded off from Muggles? Someone who put you into a spell to conveniently stop you from moving while they slit you wrist? That same someone who they proceeded to collect your blood, knock you out and put you in a freaking bed? Even Lord Voldemort would shut up for a minute if he was in Harry's … situation.
If you were to ask any elderly man had they ever had a moment in their life when time simply froze, had they ever had a conversation, or a moment to themselves simply unbound by the constraints of time? Were you to ask Harry Potter what his moment was, the answer would be when he had just met Blárvéurr and Dorcha Grian. Their staring contest simply seemed to go on for weeks on end, uninterrupted by anything but the blink of an eye.
And, it could have gone longer, Harry would recount with dread. If not for the golden cauldron located in the far right hand corner of the room, and with Dorcha Grian's intense interest in Harry, it probably would have. However, the battling of wills broke as a frothy golden liquid rose from the cauldron, and started dripping onto the wooden floor.
It was Blárvéurr who first noticed it, with a scowl on his face that could rival Snape's.
'It is ready.' His face was serious, and tense. He looked worried, and his eyes searched Harry's face one more time, before repeating, 'It is ready.'
He stalked over to the cauldron, his black cloak billowing behind him. Just like Snape's did when he was angry – and around Harry, that was a lot. Studying him again, Harry could see the likeness between their manners. Not to mention Blárvéurr had greasy hair too. Huh. For all Harry knew, they could have been brothers.
In the long walk between the bed and the cauldron, Blárvéurr summoned – both wandlessly and wordlessly, Harry felt the need to point out - a pair of thick dragons-hide gloves which he hurriedly put on. A small smile spread across his face as he looked down at the golden froth, at Harry, and then back to the froth.
But with a disbelieving frown, he donned a look of intense concentration and continued to do a series of spells upon the potion. At least, Harry assumed Blárvéurr's frantic hand movements, and muttered words were spells. Maybe the man had just gone crazy.
Satisfied that his mumbo-jumbo had worked, Blárvéurr turned to look at Harry. A smile had spread across his wrinkled face, making his eyes only more enchanting. 'Come look.' He smiled, beckoning at Dorcha Grian with one of his gloved hands.
Harry couldn't help but feel a little left out at their little happy party over by the cauldron. Indeed, he felt a little like a third wheel.
Dorcha Grian looked positively beautiful when she smiled, Harry marvelled. Her pale cheeks dimpled, and plumped – her serious face turned child-like. She walked to the cauldron, and peered into it for a moment. What she saw made her reel back in surprise, and she beamed for a moment before she too doubted herself. Dorcha Grian bit her lip as she looked back into the cauldron once more.
'It is golden!' She beamed, pearly white teeth flashing in the dark room. 'Blárvéurr, it is golden!' Her pale arms embraced him in a hug, which Blárvéurr stiffly returned.
Harry scratched his head uncomfortably, feeling like a terrible intruder on their happiness. But then, he really did want to know why they were so happy. And why they had decided to kidnap him. That would be nice too.
'Um, excuse me.' Harry said quietly, feeling a sense of déjà vu when he remembered they were the exact words he had spoken to Ollivander after he had received his wand. 'But … why are you so happy that it's golden?' He felt a little stupid saying the words, especially when Blárvéurr rolled his eyes like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Even the sentence sounded like something a nursery student would say.
Dorcha Grian turned her smile to him, her honey eyes crinkling in happiness. 'It means,' she said in a slightly accented voice, 'that you are Him.'
The way she said her words, the way she spoke them; as if she was imparting a heavy burden upon his shoulders made it clear that whatever she was saying was important. That whoever Dorcha Grian thought he was an important person. And it was as he stared in her golden eyes, looking a shade lighter in her happiness, and Blárvéurr's expectant gaze, that he sighed.
Just another couple of people thinking he was the bloody Boy Who Lived. People who would put their hopes, their dreams and their lives on his shoulders, and blame him if something was to go wrong. He had thought they were different, that they might look past his envied title, for they didn't seem to have cared before when Blárvéurr was hurting him. But they were the same, exactly the same as the Weasleys and Hermione and the rest, with one difference. Clearly they hadn't picked up a bloody newspaper in a while, or they'd know that the current public opinion of him was certainly not this, this …. Happiness!
Harry took a deep breath, in through his nose, and out through his mouth. For a moment, he had hoped he might be treated normally, like a normal child. But they were still staring at him, they were still looking expectantly at him – as if he would perform a bloody trick right there on the spot. And maybe, if this was last year, or even last month, he would.
But not now. The public had changed him – made him understand what it meant to be hated, to be an outsider. They asked him to be the centre of attention, then they told him he was a nobody; a lunatic.
He had tried to bear with it in fourth year, he had tried to stop it from changing him. And it had been okay then because he still had Hermione. But not this year. This year there was no one, no one who cared about how he felt, or worried if he would come home okay. And was something he had never experienced – even Petunia had worried if he would come home in one piece, even if it was only because she didn't want to pay the medical bills, or explain his death or injuries to the neighbours.
That Harry Potter, the one who heeded what people thought, and followed rules without question was gone. Dead. They had done this to them, created a Harry Potter who was a fragment of what he had been. He would take no blame for it. And he would give them no pity.
'You mean the Boy Who Lived.' It was a statement; not a question. He let out one shaky breath, not allowing himself to look them in the eye; for them to see his disappointment.
'No,' Blárvéurr answered, 'she means the Necromancer.'