Chapter 2 Sixteen
One month later
The dwelling was a mess. Scraps of the Muggle newspaper, and bits of the Daily Prophet carpeted the rocky floor. A distinctive smell of dried blood, and spoiled rotting, raw meet filled the air. The air was filled with a bitter coldness, that was unmatched by what a Dementor could cause, let alone Azkaban.
This place was not haunted, nor was it uninhabited, though it would seem so to any passerby, Muggle or Wizard alike. It was a home, a temporary home occupied in the last month or so, by someone who had betrayed his allies with no regret, but was not interested in bowing down towards his enemies.
He clutched and then unclenched a handful of newspaper clippings. Each time he read one, his anger towards the world increased. The hatred and loath tripled each time he read the article headings.
Harry Potter: Attempted Assassination of Albus Dumbledore
That came out two days after the incident in the headmaster's office. He had wondered why, it did not come the next day. Perhaps Albus had not recovered enough to speak with the press.
In the article, Dumbledore had made no attempt to justify the incident, his own wrong doings or what might have lead to this. The old cockpit had only tried to give reassurance to the remainder of the world, saying that
"Harry wasn't everything in the war. We can still survive if we band together. The lost of Harry Potter had been great, but it cannot add much harm to what has already been going on. He is nothing more then another Tom Riddle. I've defeated Grindelwald. The battle with Voldemort is winding down. The rise of Harry will be nothing; we need only to prevent him, from making alliances with Voldemort. All we need to do is crush each of them separately for neither can stand a chance against us alone…"
The first time he had read that, he had laughed out loud. It took much to control himself once more. Dumbledore was insane. It was true that Harry had once said he would never join Voldemort. He knew of Harry's powers, so how could he say that the teen wasn't a threat. Top that off, did Dumbledore really think he could afford a battle with two competing Dark Lords, one who wished to remain in power, while the other wanted to rise to power.
There were other articles, titling Potter: Supporter of You-Know-Who? which deciphered the Golden Boy's life and his possible stands in the current war and another Harry: Potter or Black that went furthered to question Harry's parentage and the possibility that he was following in his Godfather's footsteps, which meant taking the position of being second in command, next to Voldemort.
After letting his frustration out around the pile of mess around him, he stood up and stretched. He needed to get out from the toxic smell, as well as bath in the moonlight, the only time that he ever left the cave.
Once outside, he took in a deep breath before strolling to a nearby lake. It was still early. He stared at his reflection—jet, black, hair, which stuck out at odd end, emerald green eyes, behind a pair of glasses, bangs that covered the infamous scar—nothing special.
However, as the quarter moon rose, and the light shifted, he began to change. A cry of pain, echoed through the night, as he crumpled up to prepare for the nightly transformation.
Through the shimmering moonlight, a new person appeared. He stared down at his reflection. He was pale, white as sheets, without a sign of life. His figure was distorted. His fingers were long and scaly. Blood red, slit like eyes, were formed were emerald green had once been. There was no longer any scar for his now tamable hair which ran down his shoulders.
No, this was not Voldemort. In fact if these two men were to stand next to each other, Voldemort would indeed look quite groomed.
He stared miserably at himself, his other self which he had tried to hide so many years. Every night, his anger against Voldemort would build. After all, this was the life that the Dark Lord had either intentionally or unintentionally cursed him.
On that fateful night, so many years ago, Voldemort had given him power that many potentially dark wizards would have hungered for. He had become a Paraslmouth, a gift granted only to Slytherin's heir. Voldemort's powers had been transported directly into him. The infamous lightning bolt was only the physical mark that linked master to apprentice. Thus the power of change in appearance, especially this one in particular, was only a small fraction of what was given to him, the night he was marked, making it the second noticeable evilness within him.
"Voldemort…" the voice came out quite hoarsely. "You will pay for what you did to me. The way you cursed me to this ill fated life."
Even he could not recognize his own voice.
"and I'll make sure of it…."
He stood very still, as if waiting for something to happen, but nothing did. Peering into darkness, he spoke again.
"Dumbledore, I swear you won't rest either."
He stared into the sky.
"Voldemort cursed me, but you made it worst. There is no way you wouldn't have known about this, about the transformations at night. Sixteen long years, every damn night, as long as I could remember. Where were you, when I needed you!! Why weren't you there to stop this? Why do I have to look like this! When in the world have you ever solved my problems! Let alone ease my pain!"
His questions were never answered. There was only a shift of wind. He cursed loudly as he made his way back to his 'home'.
Once inside, he flung himself onto the floor. He tried to sleep, but found that impossible. There was a soft flutter of wings, and he sat up immediately. An owl flew in. He took the letter and ripped it to pieces. He didn't need to read it, he knew exactly who it was from. He had been receiving one from the exact same owl daily.
This time, it was different. The letter burst into flames, and a soft voice escaped it.
His heart clenched and ached at what the voice said. He felt guilty, though he knew there was no reason for it. Without knowing it, a single tear escaped his eye.
"Happy sixteenth birthday Harry…."