Chapter one- A letter
Dear Harry, July 5
How are you? I do hope that you are mourning your good-for-nothing godfather. He really was nothing. What you should be doing is leaving, I mean you have caused two deaths now, directly, and the deaths of so many others because you let The Dark Lord rise. And you couldn't even avenge Sirius, Harry, you couldn't cause me any pain, you failed him, you failed everybody, you're a failure, you can't do anything by yourself can you? But then again you are just a baby, you can't really think for yourself can you? You know, I am glad I killed Sirius, I can just imagine the pain you are in, I revel in the picture of your pain, your tears are a treasure. Oh and while I'm talking to you, you can tell the Longbottom boy that I said 'hi'. His parents screamed for so long before they gave in finally. It was bliss listening to them. Now do take care of yourself Harry, I'll see you again, I'm sure.
Bellatrix Lestrange
Harry read the letter. He read it again, numb. Again and again, he read the letter. It had come with a crow, and the dark mark as a seal. Finally after a very long time he felt something. Anger. No, fury. Wrath. Loathing. It all boiled inside of him as he read the letter. She took such pleasure in it, the pain. It infuriated him. He felt the same hate and anger as when he cast the crucio on her last month, except something was different.
He didn't just want her dead, no, he wanted to see her pay for everything she had done, he wanted to pay her back and double it. He wanted to give her the pain she gives to others. That was what was different.
But then her words were true. He had failed. The hate was replaced with tears in a second. He had never cried before. He couldn't. Crying showed weakness, and his uncle and cousin prayed on weakness. This was the first he had cried. He felt like a child, and was reminded of the letter. He was just a baby. He cried. He couldn't do anything for himself. He had to have Dumbledore do it for him. His hands shook as his mood quickly shifted to self-loathing.
His whole body quaked with rage. He couldn't do anything. He was hopeless. People thought he was a great person, one to look up to. He started to laugh, a helpless laugh, the laugh of a person who knows that everything is a lie. It turned into a crazed, manic laugh. The irony was so complete. The one that they had the highest expectations of was probably the most hopeless of them all. The laughter died to tears.
Then they stopped. He knew what must be done. He must rectify his mistakes. But how. What could he do? Then he knew. All he needed was a plan and two curses. He knew one, and the other he was sure he could work. A plan was the hard part. A cold calculating look came to his eyes.
He knew he must leave. And the best way to track a death eater would be to become one. That was the difficult one. He would figure that out when he got to it. Now he had to start leaving. It was 11:30. he had an hour until Dumbledore's men changed guard. He looked around, what would he need? The less he took the better. He would need wand of course. He needed to be somewhere where there were lots of wizards. Diagon Ally. How to get there? Firebolt. Invisibility cloak. He grabbed everything. And set up at the window. He would need to be ready to go.
He would have to change his appearance, he added to his checklist in his mind. He then thought of something frightening. Voldermort was a master Legilimens. What could he do? He was a novice Occulmens at best. Maybe he could learn more. He doubted it. But he would have to try. For Sirius. 'He wanted me to become the best Occulmens I could. I failed him at that too.' His eyes misted, but he shook his head, he needed a clear mind. His emotions were getting the better of him. He looked at the sky. He could see the Dog Star Sirius up there. He felt slightly comforted, knowing he would always be watching over him.
He found the North Star, and remembered that that was the direction he needed to go. Finally he heard the faint pops of people apperating out. He kicked out of the window, his invisibility cloak flapping a bit in the wind. He headed in the vague direction of London up north. He settled himself for the journey, making sure the cloak covered him and the broomstick. He looked down at the house that he had lived in, and had been tortured in for 16 years. Hopefully he would never see it again.
He cursed the house and its residents. He would never regret leaving.