Harry Potter and the Star of Senkrad

Author: l'Ciel

Fandom: Harry Potter

Disclaimer: JKR, and some more I think – I don't own anything but the plot – oh, and Ice Drakes, that's mine too! And that sexy nurse (god bless her brainless boobs)

Rating: hard R for implicit sexual content, violence, and to be safe

Warnings: violence, brain washing, non-con,

Pairings: HP/DG, SS/LM; implied pairings: HP/BZ, NM/LM

Genre: Action/Adventure, Romance, Angst

Summary : After the events of OotP, Harry runs away from the Dursleys. The only one to find him is Snape, but where do the spy's loyalties truly lie? Slash & Het, war-story

Main characters: Harry, Snape, Lucius, Voldemort, Dumbledore


04) Tarred And Feathered

He felt dead. World spinning. Cold. Dark. Light. Too bright. Too much. Hurt. Broken. Afraid. Oh, please don't hurt me! Please. Please don't hurt me again… please! Hurt. Hurt. Hurt.

The dark lord had left him alone some time ago. Curled up in the mighty bed, Harry cried himself into sleep. It was true, he hated Dumbledore and he wanted revenge, but he was so terribly afraid what Remus would think if he found of, no, WHEN he found out. Hermione and Ron would be there for each other, he had no doubt about that. Ginny had Dean and everybody would be happy. If not for Remus…

He whimpered, as he accidentally brushed the comforter over the irritated, sore skin of his left underarm. The dark mark itched and burned, although the constant tingle was nothing in comparison to the agony he had suffered, when Voldemort had carved his infamous mark into his skin and claimed his soul as his.

'You are mine now.', he had said and started the chant. Harry had never had time to struggle, no chance to escape and now he was marked. Hopeless, ruined, taken – doomed!

Nobody had asked him. Nobody listened to his pleas. Not Dumbledore, not Voldemort. The only person to care had been Sirius. And Sirius was dead. Because he had been an emotional, unreasonable, stupid child!

And so he cried: for Sirius, for Remus, who was left alone, for Ron, who had just lost his best mate, and did not even know jet, for Dobby, who had believed in him and Hagrid, who had rescued him, for Snape, who had betrayed both his masters and essentially himself, for Hermione, who would be terribly thwarted and for himself, because he was such a pitiful piece of shit…

A knock on the door pulled him from his brooding. Wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his torn shirt, he sat up, just when the door opened and a robed death eaters walked in. He had pulled his hood down and wore no mask. His face was angular, but in an elegant way, very masculine. Broad black eyebrows enhanced his scowl even more and the dark brown eyes looked sceptically at him.

Harry looked at him uncertainly and slowly moved to the side of the bed, before getting up, placing the bed as a barrier between them.

"I came to instruct you on your new timetable.", the stranger said evenly, his expression emotionless, "the master ordered, that you shall be trained along with the other recruits. He will oversee part of your education himself. That is a great honour, don't waste it with obstinacy. You will eat breakfast with everybody else in the dining room at eight sharp on weekdays, nine at the weekend. After that your instructors, the lady Malfoy, myself and, if available, Professor Snape and the dark lord, of course. I will give you that timetable tomorrow. Today you may rest. A room has been assigned to you, if you would follow me."

Harry swallowed and got up, following the stranger through a corridor and down some stairs, through a (he gasped at the sight) gigantic library, and down another corridor. It seemed they were crossing the whole manor, until, after ascending another flight of stairs, they reached a long passageway with many completely similar doors. On each one was a little silvery nametag. And on the last door in one corner was his room.

It was normal sized for a bedroom; a large window, dark blue curtains and carpet, a queen-sized bed in one corner, a desk below the window and a wardrobe near the door. Through an open doorway he could see a small adjourning bathroom. Sitting on the bed, he looked back at Lestrange , who had stopped in the door.

"You will learn without contradiction, whatever we may teach you. Lunch is served at 1pm and after that there will be another two lessons, each one hour. From three to six pm you are allowed to study and practise on your own, in the library or in your room. At 6:30, dinner is served, and afterwards you will join your fellows or study on your own. If the dark lord calls you, you will go to the throne hall, or, if he is here, to the study on the other side of the corridor. Is that understood?"

"Y..yes, sir.", Harry answered shakily.

The death eater nodded.

"May I ask a question, sir?", Harry asked carefully.

"Yes."

"Who are you?"

"Rodolphus Lestrange. I believe you have met my wife.", the tall man replied, "You have two hours till dinner. I suggest you freshen up a bit and explore the manor. Don't go through doors that won't open to you, apart from that you are free to move, as long as you don't leave the grounds. Believe me, escaping from Malfoy manor is not an experience you'd like to make. All inhabitants are informed, nobody will attack you. Don't listen, if they try to provoke you. They know they must not harm you. Still, be careful with others, especially the younger."

Harry nodded numbly and Lestrange left, closing the door behind him.

The bastard! Was it not enough to mark him, taint him? Now Voldemort wanted him to learn the dark arts, and Merlin knew what else! Enraged, he threw the pillows on the bed against the walls and eventually collapsed on it, breaking into shallow sobs.


Misery.

In his cell, he turned slightly, wincing in pain. The 'safeguards' had left some hours ago and now he was lying there, on the wet floor, dirty, so dirty. Popping himself up on his hands and elbows, he pushed himself up against the wall and looked out of the tiny, barred window. Outside, the waves were clashing against the bare rock that was Askaban island. Even if the dementors had left, the long years they had occupied the isle had left its mark. Only spare grasses grew in the creaks between the shattered and weathered rock and a steady cold clung to the ground, slightly eased by the midday sun in August. He did not even want to think how frosty it would be in winter. If he survived until then…

Clutching the thin patchwork blanket around his body, he disdainfully stared at the broth in a flecked bowl, that had appeared in the corner some time ago. His stomach growled, but he could not bring himself to eat 'that'. Not jet…


The full moon had vanished behind the trees of the forest some hours ago, but he could not bring himself to move. Snape had stayed away with you-know-who more and more and had had not time to brew the potion for him. So the shack was shrieking again…

A cold breeze from the mountains blew over his naked back and he shivered. Finally rousing, he winced at the cuts and bites he had given himself during the night. Addressing the worst with a lotion Madam Pomfrey, Merlin bless her kindred soul, had given him, he carefully pulled on his trousers and socks, before slipping into the worn boots. His shirt and robe had fallen out of the wardrobe, when the wolf had jumped against it and where torn into shreds.

Another pair wasted.

He pulled the rags around his bare shoulders and climbed down into the secret passage, after unlocking the trapdoor. It was warmer down there. Remerging to the face of earth at the roots of the Whooping Willow, he touched the knot and the destructive tree stilled for a minute for him to climb out. Sprinting over the grounds, he reached the castle within a few minutes and slipped inside. Up in his old chambers, the headmaster had arranged for a bed and bath for him. Gratefully, he sank into the soft pillows and fell asleep at once.


Many storeys below, Severus Snape was brewing just another potion for the dark lord. With Potter in his grasps, his master would finally be able to restore his whole self back. Just another vial of the youth blood had to be given, then Lord Voldemort would be back to his charming self. Severus snickered a little at the irony (Mentally, of course, no inhabitant of Hogwarts would ever hear the sour Potions master giggle!) – charming, indeed!


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