Title: Out of Darkness

Rating: R (Violent/Explicit Content)

Genre: Angst/General

Author's Note: Any and all feedback is appreciated. This was indeed my first HP fanfic, written immediately after reading the fifth book. It has been revised, and you can read the original version on my old writer name (Dementor's Kiss 1013) but be sure not to look further than the first chapter, because I had more posted.

Summary: Sirius is dead. Harry is at the mercy of the Dursley's, namely his uncle. It's just two weeks at Grimmauld Place. What could change? Harry's journey to find the courage and strength within himself and others. A journey out of darkness.

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It was dark. Not the kind of dark you and I are accustomed to, but the desolate, swallowing pitch black that is not softened by the comforting glow of street lights far in the distance. It is the kind of dark that instills terror in your very soul, so that you are paralyzed as it surrounds you, embracing you in it's dance of death.

And then, the scene changed, became something other than a gaping hole. Features shaped, flickering oddly in a weird blue light that danced upon the stone walls. Images became clearer. The faces, and the names, and the horror and the fear all came rushing into the picture. Welcome to the Department of Ministries.

There was a man. There were many in this place, fighting for a cause that suddenly seemed so unclear, but only one was in focus. His eyes were sunken in, lifeless but for spark of cold anger, and a warm flame of courage. His name was Sirius.

"Come on! You can do better than that!" The man's arrogant self assurance permeated the scene, his very essence palpable and clear. Foolish and innocent. The laughter had not completely died from his lips when the red blast hit him in the chest. Eyes wide with a foreign fear of realization that his life had been cut short, he stumbled, stumbled and fell behind the black curtain, into the endless nothingness where the bodiless voices lingered, murmuring senselessly...

"NO!" The scream was answered by no one. Running. It was a boy, a shock of unruly raven hair falling carelessly into his startlingly green eyes. Eyes full of shock at what he had just scene. The horror had not yet permeated his senses. He began to run towards the curtain, to the end of the long corridor that had sprung up between him and his goal. Running.

He was so close. He could hear the murmurs behind the curtain; voices of people fallen into Death itself. His fingers grasped at the black velvet, as he searched desperately...One voice was becoming clear, that of Sirius. The words he suddenly heard stopped his frenzied scramble. "Why did you push me, Harry?"

Push him? The phrase was a stranger to the boy, yet ensnared him like an old lover. So the boy had pushed the man, then. No! He though desperately in his mind, clutching at the velvet once more. The curtain began to fall away, lifting; the mystery behind it was revealing itself...and then...

Crucio! Cold laughter rang through the boy's ears; Voldemort's laughter. The pain, oh god the pain, ripping his body in two. HE looked up, to find Dumbledore standing in front of him, his normally twinkling blue eyes cold and dulled with sadness and full of disappointment. He shook his head slowly, and whispered softly to Harry "You have failed us all, my boy. Now what will we do? You have failed us all."

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The boy, whose name was Harry Potter, woke with a start, his scream dying from his lips as he tumbled off the bed, landing with a harsh thump on his knees. Gasping for breath, he clutched his scar and fought his tears.

He had gotten closer this time than ever before: closer to seeing where his Godfather had gone. But always he heard Sirius's voice through the damned veil, and saw Dumbledore's face, full of weary disappointment, watching the pain inflicted on Harry by Voldemort. And there was accusation in his expression; unadulterated blame. Always the blame. Had he pushed Sirius? Sometimes he wondered now, about his memories from that night. The dream was so insistent, so regular, so ...real. He began to wonder exactly what he had done. Had he pushed Sirius?

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a lock being undone on his door. A quick glance at the clock told him his nightmare had woken his uncle. Again.

The door burst open, and Vernon Dursley stormed into the room , clad in pinstriped pajamas that hid whatever neck he had and accentuated his now purple face. His mustache twitched in fury as he lunged at Harry, grabbing him up off the floor by his neck and shaking him like a weightless rag doll.

"What. Did. I. Tell. You. Boy?" He snarled, making Harry's head jerk around with every word.

"I'm sorry, Uncle. I didn't mean-" Harry began, struggling to breath through his Uncle's death grip.

With a roar of rage, Vernon sent him, flying across the room with his fist. HE was back in Harry's face with a punch to the stomach before Harry could move. The boy could not contain a cry of pain as he felt fire spread up through his abdomen, the wind leaving his lungs in a rush.

"YOU STUPID FREAK! WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT WAKING US UP? ABOUT WAKING ME UP? WELL?" He hit Harry across the side of his head, his glasses skidding into the darkness with a flash of livid pain. Grabbing him by the neck again, his uncle's voice dropped to a menacing growl, his purple face blurry.

"You ruddy little bastard, I'll make you learn this lesson If it takes me the rest of your life." He let go of Harry's neck, instead gripping him by a handful of his raven hair. "You listen to me, and you listen good. If you ever wake me again...I will beat you within an inch of your worthless life, and throw you in the cupboard for the rest of the summer. I will not have you disrupting my household with your...freak-ways. Do I make myself clear boy?" HE asked, yanking Harry's hair so hard he swore he could hear it ripping from his head.

"Y-yes, Uncle V-Vernon," he stuttered quickly, making sure to sound respectful. It didn't matter. "DO NOT TAKE THAT TONE WITH ME BOY! I WILL NOT BE SPOKEN TO LIKE THAT!" Vernon bellowed, his arm landing with great force across Harry's chest, knocking his thin frame onto his back on the hardwood floor. Punching Harry in the stomach, he fell on top of him, and Harry felt what he already knew was there; his uncle's bulging crotch made contact with his thigh.

His uncle let a moan escape him, unguarded as he began to grind himself against Harry. Bile rose in his throat as he watched his uncle's face, screwed up in pleasure. This unspeakable sense of violation was all that kept him bound to this house, this...this miserable farce that anyone dared call a life. He was a captive of his own impotence.

Suddenly, Vernon's eyes snapped open, catching Harry's look of open horror and disgust. HE was up off him in an instant, grabbing him by the arm and twisting so hard Harry was surprised he hadn't heard the tell-tale crack of a bone breaking yet. But his uncle knew better. HE would never leave a visible mark on Harry, never do something that might let this fragile specimen of innocence escape from him for the barest of instants.

HE dragged the boy over to his bed, throwing him down, his head jarring the headboard with force. Another well-placed fist to his stomach, and his uncle's hot breath in his ear ("You are worthless, boy.") was the last breath the monster wasted on him, before turning and blundering away as though it was of no importance that he was shattering what was left of Harry's piece of mind.. The door shut behind the Monster, and the lock clicked back into place, leaving the boy - for that is all he was- utterly alone once more.

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Harry lay still for a moment, willing himself not to be sick. He hadn't eaten for days, and his uncle knew just where to strike him. Not hard enough to cause him to vomit blood, but with just enough force to make dry heaving coughs and endless retches erupt from Harry, as his empty stomach had nothing to bring up

Slowly, on shaking legs, Harry rose, and walked silently over to his mirror, with a cat-like gait. In the orange-ish eerie glow of the street lamp, he could just make out his reflection, blurred by his lack of glasses; they would have to be found in the morning, lest he reawaken the beasts from their respective dens.

Green eyes, sharp and more observant than most knew, and older than most could imagine seeing, stared back at him, along with a pale, slightly pinched face. Black hair was more distraught than usual due to his uncle's...discipline. He saw a slightly darker spot on his forehead, and though blurry, he knew it was his scar. HE touched it gently, with an odd reverence that even he did not understand.

Why did you push me?

You are worthless.

His reflection stared back at him; a stranger looking in on himself in the darkness. Staring at the scar burned on his forehead. The scar that so many looked to for a sign of hope. The scar that had gotten so many people he loved and cared about killed. The scar that blessed him with a second chance at life and damned him to this never-ending hell. He was The-Boy-Who- Lived.

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Harry watched the sun rise in it's full, scorching glory through the new bars on his window, stronger and sturdier than the last. He hadn't dared go back to sleep, for fear of disturbing his uncle once more. For fear of hearing and feeling and seeing the accusations and disappointment that faced him in his nightmares. Of being forced to witness a garbled, twisted version of his latest, greatest failure. To see it in a light that felt most damning, and most candid, spelling out in thick, bold letters painted with blood exactly how he had caused the death of the only man he had ever felt entirely comfortable with. No, he much preferred the clean, cold loneliness that faced him in his waking hours.

He missed Hedwig's doleful hoots from the now empty corner of his room. The day he had come returned from King's Cross, his uncle had had a... word with him about his disappearance last summer, and the Order Members who had spoken to Vernon at the station. He knew then that he would be lucky to get enough food for himself, much less Hedwig. So, the first chance he got, he had sent her off, telling her to go find someplace safe for the summer. She had refused to take flight at first, and only when Harry had gotten angry at her refusal had she complied. With a final look at him, she had hooted softly, and flown away into the distance with a freedom of which Harry could no longer even reach in his dreams.

An owl arrived every other day to pick up a letter from Harry to be sent to 12 Grimmauld Place. Uncle Vernon had had Harry write enough letters to last the summer the day after he had gotten home, and took care of the mailing if Harry was...'under the weather.' Harry had thought at the beginning of the summer that Moody's blatant threats might make Uncle Vernon back off, but it had instead accomplished the exact opposite means, infuriating his uncle, and heightening the rage of the monster within to unimaginable levels.

Harry now lay lethargically on his bed, waiting for his day to begin. The Dursleys had been awake for a few minutes now and Harry knew that at any moment- As expected, the lock clicked open. Aunt Petunias shrill, prim voice snapped at him from the other side of the clearest barrier of many between them, "Get out here and make breakfast."

He heard Uncle Vernon stump up beside her, his gait reminiscent but much less dignified than Moody's, and growl " Now boy!"

Harry gave no reply; he had learned long ago that speaking in the morning was like begging for a beating. He simply heaved himself quickly off the bed, ignoring his sore, achingly empty stomach, and the not so subtle throbbing in his head, and went downstairs to cook for his 'family'.

HE sat and watched as they devoured the bacon, eggs, and toast like starving animals instead of the fat pigs they were, as he was expected to do. The heavenly aroma wafted around him, but he had had nothing on his stomach for so long that he was not sure whether his stomach would grumble in longing, or plan a vicious revolt against him in disgust.

Finally, taking a giant slurp of his coffee, Vernon spoke to him, the Monster subdued for the moment. "We're leaving, boy."

"Leaving?" Harry's question slipped out before he could control it. His uncle's mustache quivered, but he ignored his mistake for once.

"Yes, LEAVING," he snarled, never bothering to make eye-contact with Harry.

"We're taking Dudley to Disney World today. We'll be gone a fortnight," Aunt Petunia added sharply from her spot at the kitchen window, watching Mrs. So-and-so next door with a shrewd glee.

"S-so, you'll be leaving me here, then?" He asked slowly, unsure what to think about this. No Uncle Vernon meant no...But no Dursleys meant silence. More time for the agony of aloneness to collapse around him and smother him.

"Of course not," his uncle growled, obviously appalled by the very notion of leaving the unpleasant growth that was his nephew alone in his sacred roost. "Leave you here alone in my house? I think not, boy. You'd have the place up in flames within the hour. You'll be staying with Mrs. Figg."

A spark of hope fluttered in Harry's stomach for the first time all summer. HE would be spending two weeks with Mrs. Figg, his batty old cat-loving neighbor. Mrs. Figg, Privet Drive's resident squib. Mrs. Figg, a member of the Order. He forced his face to remain neutral, if not tingeing it with false disappointment. "Oh."

"Oh is right, boy, and you should be damned grateful she was willing to take you. Don't know why in the hell she would want to..."

Harry had no time to respond to that; a sharp knock on the back off his head sent him skidding sideways, stumbling out of his chair. "Get me more eggs, freak!" Dudley's thick grunt reminded Harry fleetingly of Crabbe and Goyle, as he snatched up his whale-sized cousin's plate and scooped more eggs out of the pan.

He set it back down in front of Dudley, and turned to go back and sit, but tripped when Dudley stuck his barrel-sized leg out in front of him. He did not manage to keep himself upright, instead landing heavily on his stomach. He cringed, and rose slowly as Dudley kicked him in the ribs, sniggering. The fool was no longer afraid of what Harry might do to him; he knew Harry was powerless. The meal continued in silence.

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After breakfast, Harry loaded the trunk of the Dursleys' car full of their belongings, and then climbed in the back seat with Dudley, his own paltry bag of clothes scrunched mercilessly in between his hot, sticky cousin and himself. Dudley's bulk filled a majority of the usually spacious backseat, and Harry found himself suddenly very glad that he was nothing but skin and bones.

His uncle bumped roughly over the curb in front of Mrs. Figg's house, obviously anxious to get his plague of a nephew away from his family before he spread and infected them all with his 'unnaturalness'. Harry was as quick as possible in getting out of the car, as eager to get away from them as they were to rid of him. HE was not fast enough, however, a hard fist connecting with the small of his back as he got out. Dudley's way of saying goodbye.

Harry was unpleasantly surprised when his uncle got out at well, but it came as no surprise when his thick, beefy hand grabbed Harry by the arm, and forcefully slowed Harry's gait as they made their way up to Mrs. Figg's front door. He stopped them when they got to the oak slab, and pressed himself flush against Harry's back, growling low in his ear, "Remember your manners, boy. I want to keep on good terms with someone who will take you off my hands. And you had better well remember; no funny business." Harry knew what his uncle was implying, and suppressed a laugh at the absurdity and his uncle's ignorance. It was done with ease when he felt something harden slightly against his lower back, a shiver running coldly down his spine. Vernon began speaking again, his lips closer to Harry's ear, his breath hot now, and more dangerous. "And boy, if you tell anyone about what goes on in our home..." HE trailed off, his menace clear. "You deserve everything you get, boy, and more. You with any less care than you're worth...I will make sure you never have the chance to speak to anyone ever again. Do you understand me, boy? You deserve it. All of it.

'I am worthless' Harry added silently. He no longer knew if his uncle was lying or not about him deserving what he got. Years of a slow but steady wearing down of his self esteem had all but killed his self-view. He would tell no one. He had not tried since he was young. It had done no good then, and would do no good now. He lived with the Dursleys for his protection. Protection from the outside world. Harry smirked. In all the brilliance of wizards and witches in kind, no one had thought to question if he needed protection from the inside world: his 'family'.

Aloud, he murmured, "Yes Sir." No Sir. Three bags full Sir. Whatever it takes to let me spend two weeks away from you, Sir.

"Good," his uncle growled in his ear, and after a slight thrust forward, he pulled himself away from Harry's back; his eyes glazed slightly in that way they were whenever he was arou...Harry couldn't bring himself to think it, the word leaving his brain involuntarily. Without looking back, Uncle Vernon returned to the car, and sped off to his vacation with his precious 'Duddikins' and his dear, dear wife. Away from the dark blasphemous secret that was Harry Potter.

With a sigh of relief tinged with his unending defeat, Harry turned, and knocked.

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The door was thrown wide open instantly after his second knock, and Harry could not suppress a half-grin at the picture that greeted him. A friendly face smiling in welcome. "Harry, Harry, dear! Come in, Come in! Oh it's good to see you again!" Mrs. Figg said warmly, patting his back with a large smile. Her appearance was immaculate, somewhat younger and altogether more concise. She was a superb actress, apparently, having fooled him for all these years.

"Thanks, Mrs. Figg," HE muttered, grinning sheepishly in spite of himself. Her house, however, he noted absently, still smelled strongly of cabbage.

"Oh, Harry dear, do call me Arabella. Goodness, is that all you brought?" She said with a click of her tongue as she noticed Harry's small suitcase. "Well, Arthur said you probably wouldn't have had a chance to do your schoolwork yet, so why don't we pop over and get the rest of your stuff before we go?" She opened the door, and ushered him out, his bag in tow.

"Go? Go where?" Harry asked, bewildered. He hadn't expected to be leaving Privet Drive before September. Arabella laughed. "Where do you think, Harry? Ron and... Oh what is that girl's name-Hermione- have been staying there the whole summer. They'll be quite pleased to see you. Come on, then, let's go!" She winked at him, and Harry realized wryly that she was still a bit eccentric despite the obvious accentuations she placed on those characteristics for her cover.

And so they returned to Number 4, with it's pristine lawn and immaculate front walk. Harry entered the house with ease, using the spare key hidden under the welcome mat, but stopped when he reached the entrance hall, his insides twisting, suddenly feeling even more leaden than they had before. He was overcome with a dawning realization that he did not want Mrs. Figg to be witness to the world in which he lived when he was not at Hogwarts. He did not want her to see his room that was only his because he no longer fit in the cupboard under the stairs. Did not want her to see what this house was like, absent of any memorabilia that might give hint to a fourth, unwanted member of this household.

HE looked over his shoulder at Mrs. Figg, waiting patiently for him to move forward. Harry was overcome with the desperate urge to keep her right there, so she would never see. To many suspicions could be raised. To many questions Harry did not feel up to facing.

However, his numbed mind come up with no plausible excuse, and so, he could do nothing but sigh as he continued in, a humming Arabella Figg behind him.

Harry stopped when he got to the cupboard under the stairs. The place that, deep inside Harry, he missed. It had been the only place in the world that had been his- Harry's and no one else's, and was still -as absurd as it seemed even to himself- sacred in his mind. He realized that the small but sturdy lock was safely secured, and he had no idea where the Dursleys kept the key- they made sure of that. God forbid Harry have access to anything that linked the Dursleys to his world.

He ran his fingers through his hair, a nervous habit he had developed of late, and glanced uneasily at the older lady, who had stopped humming, and arched her eyebrow at him in a rather peculiar manner. "Erm, Mrs. Fi- er Arabella, I don't have the uh...that is to say, the...door is locked and I..." He faltered time and time again, having difficulty verbalizing the conditions that were set before them.

He was rescued from further floundering attempts as understanding lit her face suddenly, and picking a spare strand of cat hair off her front, she smiled vaguely. "Oh yes, Ron mentioned something about this sort of thing to Arthur. He's fixed it with the ministry if you know what I mean, although after last year, I doubt they'd dare expel you no matter what you do. You may go ahead and open it with your wand. He also said that the ministry was sending you a letter of...er their apologies and deepest regrets for the whole 'misunderstanding'." She grinned slyly, and began humming again.

Harry gazed at her for a long moment, puzzled. Apologies from the ministry? He felt his mind clouding and knew it was best not to concentrate on it. So, with a slight shrug, he turned and went up the stairs, followed by his neighbor. When they had reached the smallest bedroom of Number 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, Harry froze again. So many questions could be asked, so many accusations. What would his uncle think? A shudder of fear ran through him, his leaden insides writhing for an instant, but he realized detachedly that there was no help to be had. None at all. The best thing he could see to do was talk through the questions with mindless prattle, keep her away from the obvious lack of...just about everything. "Er, it's a bit of a mess, if you'll please accept my apologies. I er, wasn't expecting any visitors."

"Oh that's all right dear. I see they even left the lock undone for you!" It was said lightly, but something very much like anger flitted across her face as she eyed the heavy padlock with obvious distaste. Reddening at the words the silence spoke, Harry hurriedly went inside.

The room itself was actually fairly neat, if not vibrating with a heavy sense of desolation. Harry could always feel it thick in the air, swallowing him much as the darkness did inside his little cupboard when he was a child, squeezing out the air and the light and the life. He was very claustrophobic, a thing he realized suddenly, that no one, not even Ron, knew about. It was a senseless, encompassing fear that he had always kept to himself.

Only a few articles of large, ragged clothes were strewn about the room, and the empty cage stood cleanly in the corner. It hummed with loneliness louder than the rest of the room, Harry desperately missing its usual occupant. He wasted no time, quickly retrieving his wand from under the loose floorboard, along with his invisibility cloak, his photo album, and the mirror Sirius gave him. He carefully avoided Mrs. Figg's gaze.

'Ask me no secrets, I'll tell you no lies.'

Harry had been terrified for the first time that his trunk would be burned after his return from Hogwarts, so large had the ugly black monster inside his uncle swelled. That was the reason those few, precious items were kept hidden. His Firebolt was still at Hogwarts after Umbridge confiscated it, and everything else was of no real importance to him. They had no connection with the people who had loved him. The people who had died for him. All three of them. Harry shut his eyes tightly for a moment, the illness of grief creeping up blindly on him, silently and swiftly as the night.

He cleared his head, numbing the pain again, knowing he was only postponing his inevitable collapse, but also very much aware that it could not be in the presence of others. Saviors did not break. Placing everything but his wand on the bed, he returned downstairs, Mrs. Figg once more trailing behind, apparently intent on shadowing him. He stood in front of the cupboard, and whispered firmly 'Alohamora'. The very handle of the little door shot across the room, slamming into the wall before rolling to a stop on the carpeted floor. Harry's surprise at the extreme reaction was eclipsed by the thought of his aunt seeing what had been done. She would tell Vernon. He gave the knob on the ground a dread-filled glance before opening the musty little cupboard to see his trunk sitting there very much in tact, and looking very heavy indeed.

I can do any magic I need to, today?" He queried cautiously. She nodded at him with another almost mischievous smile, and he felt his face slipping in to a smile, and found himself grinning back at her. Strange. HE was sure he had forgotten how to do that. The smile on his face made him feel all the more dead inside.

Mrs. Figg spoke. "In fact," she said slowly, in a whisper. "I wouldn't be surprised if you were allowed to do magic whenever you need to from now on. After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is after you." She winked at him again, nothing but he eyelid moving, and images of that night at the Department of Mysteries came crashing down on him. Again, he smiled back. It was painful this time, as he had expected it to be from the first.

HE turned back to his trunk, trying to pull something useful from his drowsy mind and remember the charm needed to move the wooden case. Finally, the memory clicked in his brain, and he said firmly, unsure of his own abilities 'locomotor trunk'. To his surprise, and Mrs. Figg's delight, the trunk lifted placidly off the ground and followed the movements of his wand. The duo went back upstairs again, behind the gliding wooden box.

Once back inside his room, he let the trunk settle on the floor, and looked around the room. Nervously, he lifted his wand again, and cried 'Pack!' as he had seen Tonks do last summer. That seemed like a distant thing now, from a different life. One where light was allowed to permeate the now dark recesses of his mind. To his utter shock, this time all the items in his room zoomed into his trunk including the objects on his bed, and settled themselves in quite neatly. Tonks' had been a mess when she had done it, he mused.

Beside him, Mrs. Figg clapped her hands in glee. "Oh everyone wondered if you would remember, especially Nymphadora! With the exception of Minerva, I daresay I've never seen a neater job of it. How many times have you done this before?"

"Just that once," Harry answered, bemused by her impressed reaction. Anyone feeling impressed with him seemed ludicrous, but he had not the energy to sway her view.

"Ah, well, we'd best be off, then. Here, I have our Portkey Item right here. It's rather small, but it will do since it's just the two of us," she said, pulling out a black fountain pen and setting it on his bed.

Harry stared at the object and then back at her, fear filling him. "But I can't-"

Mrs. Figg waved him off, misunderstanding. "Oh, don't worry about making it work, Dumbledore said you knew the charm to put on it, and he's already fixed its location. We'll go right to headquarters. Go on, then! Do your stuff!" She smiled at him, and he wondered how this could be the same 'batty neighbor' he thought he had known all his life. HE wondered if he could make himself do this.

Staring dubiously down at the pen, a feeling of dread settled in the pit of his stomach. He absolutely despised Portkeys. Ever since Cedric...They terrified him, another phobia of many that no one on earth was privy to. Sirius might have been, eventually. Sirius was gone now. Harry's throat felt thick and blocked. He shook his head to clear it of those thoughts, and mumbled 'Portus'. He nodded at Mrs. Figg to indicate it was done, and then, shoving his wand down the front of his shirt and grabbing his trunk in one hand, he indicated for her to grab hold of the pen with him. "One, Two, Three!" He said, and they both grabbed hold. He felt a familiar tug behind his navel, and they were off, his own voice screaming in his mind No more graveyards. Oh please, no more graveyards. He hated Portkeys.

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So, whaddya think? Gimme feedback, or I can't improve. Also, anyone interested in being my beta?