This is my first Harry Potter fanfic. I adore Harry Potter though and have read countless fanfics over time. I decided to write one of my own. I hope you enjoy it.
The next chapter (already written...in fact the next three chapters are already written) will be posted Friday evening.
By the way, I do not own Harry Potter (Ramen noodles wouldn't be my staple diet if I did!) so please do not try to sue me. You'll only dissapoint yourself when you find out you've won the contents of my currently in the negative checking account. *G*
Please let me know what you think!
Harry woke with a start, jerking into a sitting position and gasping for breath. For a moment, he sat very still. He held his breath and tried to listen past the pounding of blood in his ears. Finally, he relaxed a bit and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Obviously he hadn't screamed this time. His aunt and uncle were still asleep. This realization allowed him to relax enough that the terror and horror of the nightmare had a chance to catch up with him. He began shaking and lowered his head into his hands, fighting the need to cry.
*Kill the spare.*
*No! Please!*
*Leave them alone!*
*Mommy!*
His dreams were different each time he slept, but they were also horribly the same. They always started with Cedric's death and Voldemort's return, and they always turned into him watching helplessly while Voldemort and his Death Eaters tortured and killed people. Families. Children.
This time it had been a young woman...a single mother...and her two small children. The older of the two had only been six. Six. And the things that had been done to the small family. The horrible things.
Harry didn't know if his dreams were real. If the people who'd lived and died in these nightmares did so outside of them. He rather thought they did...because of the dull ache in his scar. Not pain really, just an ache. Like an overworked muscle or a deep bruise. Something far away that hinted of things to fear. Yes, Harry reckoned the dreams were real...and it tore him up inside.
It was his fault after all. His fault Voldemort was back. Every single death, every pain inflicted by that monster was ultimately his responsibility. His. Because he was Harry Potter. The-Boy-Who-Lived. The-Boy-Who-Let-Voldemort-Return. It was, after all, his blood that had completed the ceremony. If he'd been a little smarter, a little faster, then things would have been different. He'd known that his being in the Tri-Wizard Tournament wasn't an accident. He'd known. He'd only assumed, foolishly, that he was the only one in danger. He hadn't realized that, like always, he himself was the danger. That because Voldemort needed him, anyone around him was at risk. That the trap set for him could easily have caught anyone. He'd foolishly insisted that Cedric take the prize with him. Worse, and this really made Harry ill, he'd actually tried to get the boy to take it for himself!
Cedric was only the first of many to die because of his stupidity at that moment. If his dreams were an accurate accounting, nearly a dozen entire families had perished in the short time since summer had started. Entire families...just wiped out. Tortured to death by a monster he'd unleashed unto the world.
Despite his best efforts, a sob broke through. He thought about each of those people and he wept. He didn't only cry for them though...he also cried for all the people who might die. Who probably would before it was over. He cried for the fact that he lived in terror of seeing familiar faces in his nightmares. As bad as it was to watch strangers die...the horror of the thought that the next time it could be Hermione or Ron...even with his pure blood...or anyone he knew struck him fresh after each nightmare. He knew it was selfish...feeling worse about the possibility losing his friends than the reality of losing strangers. He knew it just proved his aunt right when she called him a 'horrible selfish boy'. He just couldn't help it. When his mind's eye put his friends' faces on the people he'd watched die, and it always did, he wanted to die too. Because it could very well happen. One night he might just be forced to watch helplessly as the first and best friends he'd ever had died horrible deaths because of him.
After a while, Harry got control of himself. He slowly stopped crying and eventually his breathing began to settle down. He wiped his tears away with the edge of his night shirt and he lay back down. He wasn't sure what time it was, but since it was obviously still night-time, he thought he'd better at least try to get back to sleep or he'd be too tired to finish his chores the next day and that would be very bad. So Harry lay as still as possible and tried to still the fears that darted through his mind. He'd never had two such nightmares in one night before, but as his traitorous mind whispered, there was a first time for everything.
An unknown amount of time later, he finally did begin to drift off, exhausted from the emotional traumas of the evening. It was nearly four in the morning and he would only get a few more hours of sleep, but he needed all he could get. The nightmares that plagued him in addition to the ever present, nearly soul crunching guilt he carried and the treatment of his 'family' were slowly but surely breaking him down. He couldn't take much more.
As the Boy-Who-Lived drifted to sleep, the last coherent thought to flit through his mind was 'Everyone would be so much better off if I'd never been born.'
In the dark shadows of the room, unseen even in waking light, several figures stood. They had been watching...and they had been listening.
"This can not continue." one said.
"I quite agree." replied another crossly.
"What should we do?" another asked.
"We need to snap him out of it. He's no use to anyone like this." yet another commented.
"Yes, but how?" still another asked.
"We'll give him what he wants," the first answered.
There was a long pause as all of them considered this course of action.
"Do you think that will work?" asked the only one of the figures who hadn't already spoken.
"I hope so...for everyone's sake." the first replied quietly before breaking away from the group and drifting silently to Harry's bedside. The shadowy figure paused there a moment and watched the sleeping boy. The slow and steady rise and fall of his chest. The nearly peaceful expression on his pale, thin face. The boy looked much younger than his years anyway, but especially in moments like these, when he slept. When the pain and loneliness and the fear and guilt of his waking hours left him and he became again simply a child.
Reaching out slowly, the figure rested a transparent hand on Harry's head, sighing as the boy shivered in his sleep as if from some unknown cold chill. "You were never born Harry Potter."
To Be Continued...
The next chapter (already written...in fact the next three chapters are already written) will be posted Friday evening.
By the way, I do not own Harry Potter (Ramen noodles wouldn't be my staple diet if I did!) so please do not try to sue me. You'll only dissapoint yourself when you find out you've won the contents of my currently in the negative checking account. *G*
Please let me know what you think!
One Night
Chapter 1
What He Wants
Harry woke with a start, jerking into a sitting position and gasping for breath. For a moment, he sat very still. He held his breath and tried to listen past the pounding of blood in his ears. Finally, he relaxed a bit and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Obviously he hadn't screamed this time. His aunt and uncle were still asleep. This realization allowed him to relax enough that the terror and horror of the nightmare had a chance to catch up with him. He began shaking and lowered his head into his hands, fighting the need to cry.
*Kill the spare.*
*No! Please!*
*Leave them alone!*
*Mommy!*
His dreams were different each time he slept, but they were also horribly the same. They always started with Cedric's death and Voldemort's return, and they always turned into him watching helplessly while Voldemort and his Death Eaters tortured and killed people. Families. Children.
This time it had been a young woman...a single mother...and her two small children. The older of the two had only been six. Six. And the things that had been done to the small family. The horrible things.
Harry didn't know if his dreams were real. If the people who'd lived and died in these nightmares did so outside of them. He rather thought they did...because of the dull ache in his scar. Not pain really, just an ache. Like an overworked muscle or a deep bruise. Something far away that hinted of things to fear. Yes, Harry reckoned the dreams were real...and it tore him up inside.
It was his fault after all. His fault Voldemort was back. Every single death, every pain inflicted by that monster was ultimately his responsibility. His. Because he was Harry Potter. The-Boy-Who-Lived. The-Boy-Who-Let-Voldemort-Return. It was, after all, his blood that had completed the ceremony. If he'd been a little smarter, a little faster, then things would have been different. He'd known that his being in the Tri-Wizard Tournament wasn't an accident. He'd known. He'd only assumed, foolishly, that he was the only one in danger. He hadn't realized that, like always, he himself was the danger. That because Voldemort needed him, anyone around him was at risk. That the trap set for him could easily have caught anyone. He'd foolishly insisted that Cedric take the prize with him. Worse, and this really made Harry ill, he'd actually tried to get the boy to take it for himself!
Cedric was only the first of many to die because of his stupidity at that moment. If his dreams were an accurate accounting, nearly a dozen entire families had perished in the short time since summer had started. Entire families...just wiped out. Tortured to death by a monster he'd unleashed unto the world.
Despite his best efforts, a sob broke through. He thought about each of those people and he wept. He didn't only cry for them though...he also cried for all the people who might die. Who probably would before it was over. He cried for the fact that he lived in terror of seeing familiar faces in his nightmares. As bad as it was to watch strangers die...the horror of the thought that the next time it could be Hermione or Ron...even with his pure blood...or anyone he knew struck him fresh after each nightmare. He knew it was selfish...feeling worse about the possibility losing his friends than the reality of losing strangers. He knew it just proved his aunt right when she called him a 'horrible selfish boy'. He just couldn't help it. When his mind's eye put his friends' faces on the people he'd watched die, and it always did, he wanted to die too. Because it could very well happen. One night he might just be forced to watch helplessly as the first and best friends he'd ever had died horrible deaths because of him.
After a while, Harry got control of himself. He slowly stopped crying and eventually his breathing began to settle down. He wiped his tears away with the edge of his night shirt and he lay back down. He wasn't sure what time it was, but since it was obviously still night-time, he thought he'd better at least try to get back to sleep or he'd be too tired to finish his chores the next day and that would be very bad. So Harry lay as still as possible and tried to still the fears that darted through his mind. He'd never had two such nightmares in one night before, but as his traitorous mind whispered, there was a first time for everything.
An unknown amount of time later, he finally did begin to drift off, exhausted from the emotional traumas of the evening. It was nearly four in the morning and he would only get a few more hours of sleep, but he needed all he could get. The nightmares that plagued him in addition to the ever present, nearly soul crunching guilt he carried and the treatment of his 'family' were slowly but surely breaking him down. He couldn't take much more.
As the Boy-Who-Lived drifted to sleep, the last coherent thought to flit through his mind was 'Everyone would be so much better off if I'd never been born.'
In the dark shadows of the room, unseen even in waking light, several figures stood. They had been watching...and they had been listening.
"This can not continue." one said.
"I quite agree." replied another crossly.
"What should we do?" another asked.
"We need to snap him out of it. He's no use to anyone like this." yet another commented.
"Yes, but how?" still another asked.
"We'll give him what he wants," the first answered.
There was a long pause as all of them considered this course of action.
"Do you think that will work?" asked the only one of the figures who hadn't already spoken.
"I hope so...for everyone's sake." the first replied quietly before breaking away from the group and drifting silently to Harry's bedside. The shadowy figure paused there a moment and watched the sleeping boy. The slow and steady rise and fall of his chest. The nearly peaceful expression on his pale, thin face. The boy looked much younger than his years anyway, but especially in moments like these, when he slept. When the pain and loneliness and the fear and guilt of his waking hours left him and he became again simply a child.
Reaching out slowly, the figure rested a transparent hand on Harry's head, sighing as the boy shivered in his sleep as if from some unknown cold chill. "You were never born Harry Potter."
To Be Continued...