Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

Chapter I

Curse of a Bloodline

"I promise you this not the end. You will live once more."

The words of his father were echoing in his mind when consciousness returned slowly. It felt like he had slept for a long time. "Centuries probably", he thought mirthlessly. Strangely, his new body and its magic core didn't appear to be so different from his old. Certainly changed to a degree due to a different core but the family magic was all the same. Welcoming and warm and utterly dark.

Upon his probing it rose up as in greeting him like a very old friend. It seemed curious and almost… slumbering? Like it had been sleeping for a long time and just now been awoken. That was weird and concerning. What had his relatives been doing all the time?

He opened his eyes to look around and immediately wished he hadn't. Where did his descendant live? In a dump? It certainly seemed so. Nowhere where rich furniture, old paintings or any modicum of taste. He could barely see any furniture which wasn't broken or otherwise useless.

He had not expected this. Surely his descendants weren't this poor, had fallen this far from grace? Even a halfblood of his line should have lived accordingly to his family's stance.

So why was he here? Had they turned blood traitor?

Another look around revealed that nothing magically where to be seen. He frowned. Was this a muggle household? What did he do there?

He shuddered. This was far off his expectations. Sure, he knew he had to adapt to his new surroundings to a degree. After all it was centuries later. But this? To this degree? This was asking to much. He would never lower himself to coexist with muggles. Mud could never be allowed to mingle with clay.

He concentrated. He knew the curse his father used. It was an old one. From the time of the old Babylonian sorcerers before their empire fell. It was nearly forgotten in his time which meant centuries later probably nobody could remember it. All the better for him, he assumed.

The memories of the person whose body he had stolen should still be there. Their minds, his and that of the unknown boy, had merged. His soul had pushed the boy's one out, sending it to the afterlife in the process. Still his memories should be here. Telling him about the time, he now lived in. About his friends and foes, about his family and why he found himself in such deplorable conditions.

He closed his eyes and turned to the place in his mind he created when he was young and his father started to teach him Occlumency. A smile graced his lips. It was like coming home. Slowly, he started to wade through the memories of the unknown boy. No, not longer unknown. His name was Harry James Potter, son of James Charlus Potter, last paterfamilias of the Potter family, and son of the mudblood Lily Evans.

He concentrated. She was the reason he was born so late in this life. Her sacrifice had protected the boy from the curse but now… now something changed? The dark lord was reborn using his blood thus destroying the protection the boy's mother had granted him with her death.

How interesting. A new dark lord! Dared he to wonder…? Had their time come anew? A time where dark wizards flourished and magic was openly celebrated? Where the old way was once more followed?

He went further through the memories. Something was amiss. His family aligned against the dark lord? He wrinkled his forehead. The boy-who-lived, they called him. An icon of the light. Supporter of one Albus Dumbledore, lord of the light. The boy was supporting the light?!

That was unexpected and deeply worrisome. Another reason why his kind should not mingle with muggleborns. They extinguished the old tradition and the ancient magicks. Coming blaring in with their prejudices and ideas how things should be run; wanting to modernize something so ancient, so steepled in tradition that modernizing could only mean losing a part of it.

Or all of it when he correctly understood how things developed. No wonder the dark lord seemed so insistent, so prone to violence over protecting the way of old. They needed him badly. He would need to see about realigning his family and making amends with the dark lord and former allies. It seemed the boy had managed to alienate most of them. What a mess it all was.

Yet, he could barely glean anything on the state of their allegiances, the politics of house Potter or even their estate. The boy seemed wholly uneducated about family matters. He wasn't even fully aware that he would be Lord Potter someday, paterfamilias of one of the truly old families. Did nobody tell him?

No, it seemed… the boy grew up with muggles unknowing of traditions and the ways of the old families. He was barely knowledgeable about magic! What did he get taught? It seemed he went to Hogwarts, the school he himself had been to. But not much seemed to have gotten in the boy's head from his education there.

He felt for the boy's magic, his magic now. It was uncontrolled. Lacking the finesse of honing it through practice and relentless pursuit of greatness. The only thing the boys appeared to have pursued was Quidditch.

He pursed his lips. That was unexpected and disappointing. Even an orphaned halfblood should have risen to something. Should have felt greater awe for magic. Should have been prouder of his family. Instead he had fallen in with blood traitors and mudbloods. A Weasley whose family became blood traitors some time ago and the mudblood Granger who ingrained everything he despised. Her incessant need to prove she was better in magic than her more magically talented peers by spouting of textbooks was frankly disgusting.

He smirked cruelly. But it seemed her casting was lacking. No doubt she lacked the strength and power that came with centuries of purifying the magic in their blood. She would have no family magic either. Just herself without the support of a house that had grown over generations founded by a powerful wizard in the past.

Turning to his own family magic again it was still as dormant and asleep as before. He poked at it again and received the same warm greeting as before. To be in that state, it would need to have been left alone for a long while. Longer than this boy's life. He gleaned from the memories that he had never used the magic. But had his father not used it either?

He really needed to find out more about his family.

Hours later he opened his eyes again with a furious cry. What had they done? What had the boy done? To his family? To his line? Abandoning the principles of his family, consorting with mudbloods, dragging the good name of his family through the mud with his despicable unmannered behaviour, paying no mind to his allegiances, not honouring their centuries' old traditions, not … not doing anything a proper Peverell should do. Or Potter.

It seemed the long line of necromancer came to an end and a new family was born out of them. A family of warders and spellcrafters. A good choice.

He smiled wryly. A safe choice. After the purges probably many of the old dark families had to find a new field to excel in to blend in with the masses of light wizards and their mudblood companions.

Not that he would know. The boy seemed sorely lacking any family history or any history for that matter. He gained nothing on the developments of the last centuries, nothing on the current political situation just some rudimentary facts.

The boy, Harry Potter, seemed to be the figurehead of the light propaganda. Not that he had known that. So concerned to be "just Harry" he had never realized how much his headmaster had manipulated him. How much he had cost his own family while...

Furious again, he balled his fists. How could he have neglected his family's estate to such a degree? How could he …

He calmed down again. Fury lead to nothing. He had to calm down and analyse the situation he found himself in. Find a way to save his family's stance among the other noble families, undo years of damage by a wilful uneducated child no better than a mudblood...

Furious again, he took deep calming breathes and sighed audibly. He had a lot of work to do. The boy knew next to nothing. Nothing on the state of their estate, nothing about their allegiances and alliances, just nothing...

He would need to go to Gringotts to rectify this. If he remembered correctly the boy's birthday, now his birthday, it was on the 31st of July. He would turn fifteen -or did already turn fifteen. Today was his birthday if remembered correctly. So he was old enough to be emancipated and to claim his Lord title.

He would need to read up on current laws and financial aspects, too, since the boy seemed to have never bothered to learn anything of value to lead their family as their patriarch. After this, he had to examine the political situation he found himself in. Clearly everybody thought the boy, now himself, was light. This was cause to worry. He was close to being called a bloodtraitor if this continued. The only saving grace was that the boy had acted as a minor. While this often was an indicator how said heir would lead the family later on it was nothing by which the family could be judged by.

He furrowed his brow. Dumbledore could become a problem. So far he had shown an unhealthy interest in the boy. This was not acceptable. It had to stop.

Turning to the only window in the room to see the sun rise above the horizon and hopefully to calm down yet again he snarled in anger. There were bars before the glass. How dare that stupid muggle imprison a wizard? Did he not understand how inferior he was? How grateful he should be for having the honour of raising a wizarding child? A child of magic? Not any child at that, but an heir of an old and noble family?

They would pay for this. He remembered now. After the boy returned from his first year in Hogwarts he had found the bars on the window to make an escape impossible. To make sure he would not return to his school.

Icarus smiled maliciously. He remembered all the small and not so small things the family of the mudblood mother of the boy did to him. How they had pushed him around, treating him no better than a lowly houseelf.

This was another proof why mud should never be allowed to form clay. Soon they would learn what revenge really meant. They would suffer for their despicable behaviour. He would make sure of this.

His gaze fell on the Daily Prophet. There seemed to be quite a few editions. Enough to give him a first insight into the present magical society. He knew that the boy had not bothered to read them. He had just looked whether the resurrected dark lord had made headlines.

Stupid boy! As if such a formidable – if it was true what he had gleaned from the boy's memories – wizard would just throw all of his cards at once on the table. No, the play of politic was slow and manipulative most of the time. You waited for the right moment to strike. Only an idiot would rush head first into a situation. Clearly, the boy had been an idiot.

He walked over to the rickety chair in front of the even more than rickety desk and started to read the newspaper beginning with the oldest. What he read made his blood boil. How dare they? How dare they to slander his family name? An old and noble family? Had they lost so much prestige?

That rag had not sunken so low as to actually slander a minor but just barely. The jokes on his cost here and there were doing their job brilliantly. It might not be enough for a law suit. But it was certainly enough to ruin his reputation. This could not continue.

He had his work cut out for him.

First things first, he had to leave this hovel and find a new place to stay for the duration of the holidays.

With that thought in mind he got up and tried the door knob. Locked. Feeling the now familiar fury rise inside him he was on the verge of drawing his wand. But he was still a minor, not yet emancipated. He could not risk a confrontation with law enforcement in the current political climate. Thus wand magic was not possible. But wandless magic certainly was.

He grinned darkly. All the hours of exercising should finally pay off. It should be enough for this and the inferior muggles on the other side. He would teach them a lesson they would not forget so quickly.

Laughing to himself he unlocked the door wandlessly and eventually stepped into the hall. He heard snoring from the two bedrooms closeby. Oh yes, that should be fun.

He first walked into the room of his cousin, a snoring whale who looked more like a pig with a wig than anything else. He would curse him with misfortune. Bad luck would follow him wherever he went.

Raising his hand and putting it lightly on Dudley's forehead he murmured the old dark curse from a time where the Roman empire still ruled the world. Harsh guttural sounds left his mouth and he could feel the magic in the air. Old and powerful and long forgotten in this time. But not in his. He remembered and so did his family magic.

Finally waking up and rising like the swelling tide in him lending power to his curse that it might last a lifetime. Magic swirled dark and intoxicating. With the last syllable it sunk deep into Dudley's skin, into his very being, and the curse was completed.

Straightening, he looked one more time down on his now very unlucky cousin and then went to his aunt's and uncle's bedside. They, too, were still sleeping soundly. Not knowing of the hell that awaited them when waking.

Harry smirked. He knew what to curse them with. Raising his hands again, his magic came again to head his call far easier and quicker than before. It, too, delighted in the use of dark magicks. Forming the guttural sounds anew, he cursed Petunia with always speaking her mind unable to lie. All of her pettiness and jealousy would be brought to light showing what kind of person she really was. Harry wondered idly how long it would take for the neighbours to come to utterly abhor her.

Vernon he cursed with an even more violent temper. There would be no more hiding his aggressive character. Any restraint he ever had melted away under the dark magic. Probably not even Dudley would be save from his fists now.

Delighted, Harry left their room and went in search of his trunk. If he read his new memories right they should be locked under the stairs. Descending the stairs and unlocking the cupboard he found his things.

However, a brief search yielded nothing but books, clothes, notes and junk. No invisible cloak and no wand. Wrinkling his forehead he once more looked through the memories of the boy. He had removed them at some point. At the start of the summer holiday to… have them close… with a photo album of his late family… Hiding it under some loose floor planks.

Waiving his hand he summoned the items and stored them away in his trunk. Finally having collected everything of value to him in this house, he stepped outside and immediately stilled.

Despite the sun rising, the shadows were lengthening. He could feel his breath freeze in the air. Any happy thought he ever had deserted him. Turning his head right he saw two dementors at the street corner quickly approaching. With them ice and darkness came.

He shielded his mind and hesitated. What to do? Dementors were not a problem for a necromancer but he was still a minor and thus unable to do magic without getting a warning. Reaching for his wand he paused again. Somebody influential had obviously decided to spare the ministry some headache and get rid of him one way or the other. Either by receiving the kiss or getting expelled from the wizarding community. Both was unacceptable.

Harry sneered. Well, there was nothing what stopped him from fleeing. No law enforcement that had casted wards to prevent apparation or portkey travel. No family to protect. The muggles were not his concern.

Even better, if one of them got kissed, the ministry would be in a lot of trouble to explain itself and its lack of control. So maybe, he should escalate the situation a bit? But how? If the dementors came all the way out to Surrey they would come on pretty explicit orders. It was a long way from Azkaban and pretty close to London. So whoever sent them risked a lot.

Deciding to make that person regret that decision Harry called once upon his family magic. It rose and swelled inside him slowly filling the street with a dark mist undetectable by the trace and therefore the ministry.

This, this was true necromantic magic. Dark and utterly delicious. The dementors as dark creatures would feel emboldened and hungry. Hungry for souls. Drunk on the dark magic they might forget their orders if their target was not available. In lieu of that order, they would feast upon whoever else might cross their path in an attempt to satisfy their ravenous hunger.

It would be slaughter in Surrey. Long before anyone would be the wiser he and his magic would vanish without a trace leaving only soulless muggles and chaos behind. Let the ministry explain that.

Silently he apparated and appeared seemingly in the middle of nowhere. As far as the eye could see only dark forest and rolling hills. Following a short pathway up that appeared to end next to a huge boulder Harry stepped up and carefully drew blood from his left hand. Smearing it across the stone he intoned: "My name is Harry James Potter, heir of the Potter Family, heir of the Peverell Family. My ancestors hear me fore this is my blood right. I am the last of the Potters. I am the last of the Peverells. My ancestors see me fore this my blood right. I demand entrance to my ancestral home. I demand my birth right."

The boulder shuddered before him and sucked the blood in. Then as if a veil was lifted, the gates of Peverell Manor appeared suddenly before him.

Nostalgia hit him hard. This was his home, his family's home. It seemed just like yesterday that he had stepped through the gate and followed the pathway up right into the waiting arms of his family. But they were no more. The only thing that remained of his time was this manor. Everything else was just dust and shadows. Long gone before he had made his way back into the world of the living.

Breathing harshly through the nose he walked straight through the gate and the long way up to the house. This still was coming home.