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Possession
Chapter II - Vanishing Pain
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In the smallest bedroom of Number 4 Privet St, Little Whingeing, fifteen-year-old Harry Potter started awake, breathing heavily. Gingerly he raised one hand to his forehead, rubbing his scar before tracing it out with one finger. It didn't hurt.

That was the problem...

Over the past weeks of summer, his scar had exhibited a dull throb and each night he usually awakened, muffling his cries as he clutched his head, desperate to ease the pain. But while the warmth of his hands brought some respite, nothing could stop the visions...

Voldemort... He was back and he was stronger than ever before.

Thanks to you...

Harry shook his head angrily. It wasn't thanks to him that the Dark Lord had returned. It wasn't! Dumbledore had told him as much. His friends spent the best parts of their letters trying to convince him it was fact.

Whose blood flows through his veins then? The voice of his conscious, the part that was determined to blame him, was merciless and seemed oddly amused by his efforts to deny its words.

"It's my fault," he whispered solemnly.

That's better... Doesn't it feel better?

"Yes." It did feel better... It always felt better when he agreed with the voice. It was his fault. Bringing back the Dark Lord was the least of his sins. Everything was his fault.

You should never lie to yourself, Harry.

Harry shook his head and the voice fell silent, as he was lost in the memory of his latest dream.

Voldemort had been lounging in his throne and the room had been dark but not so dark that Harry hadn't been able to sense the Dementors flanking the throne in some twisted parody of guards. Several masked Death Eaters had lined the walls at regular intervals but these one's weren't usual, their masks were blood red and their robes were crisp. These were Lord Voldemort's Elite. They weren't like Lucius, McNair and the others... Harry knew that... What he'd seen in his dreams all summer had shown him that.

Voldemort had several 'classes' of Death Eaters. There were the ones like Lucius and the others. Well known, respected people within the Wizarding Community but while they were loyal, to a point, their actions had caused suspicion to be cast upon them. Lord Voldemort knew that various people like Dumbledore knew they were his servants and if it ever came to it, Lucius and the others would be sacrificed without a second thought. But they were useful to him. They showed the wider world that he existed, no matter what the Ministry might be saying and they provided a means of recruiting.

The other Death Eaters though... They were far more dangerous. They were hidden and very few of them knew each other. Only Voldemort knew who they all were... Well... Only Voldemort and Harry Potter. While the boy didn't know their names, he knew their faces... He had seen them all summer, seen them torturing Muggles and Wizards with equal facility as their Master watched on. These Death Eaters though... They were useful to Voldemort, fanatically loyal and the fact that they were hidden and unknown added to the fear that surrounded his forces. Where Lucius and the others were known and could be guarded against, how could you guard against the unknown?

And tonight had been no different... Except his scar didn't hurt...

Two of the elites, their masks off but Harry didn't recognise them had been torturing a small family of Muggles while Voldemort had looked on with an indulgent expression, his blood red eyes strangely compelling. The two parents had screamed and pleaded but they were held firm by magical bounds created by one of the elites as the other had used various hexes and curses on their daughter. Crucio wasn't one though... The girl was no more than five, not old enough that her body could withstand the rigours of that particular curse for long and Harry knew, from night after night of experience that Voldemort never liked to cut his 'entertainment' short. That didn't stop him using it though, but only as a finale, to watch the child scream with pain that was nothing like the previous torture before the child drowned in its own blood, as their lungs collapsed, their body unable to endure any longer. And all this while the parents were forced to watch.

It was the blood, splattered over the child's face; pooled on the floor and smeared all over everything that was the worst. After watching for night after night, it was the blood that disturbed the parents the most and Harry was only thankful that most of them had slipped from sanity before their child was killed, so much so that very few ever struggled as they were sacrificed to the Dementors.

Tonight had been different though. Their eyes had been sane the whole time they had begged and pleaded that they be the ones to suffer, right up until then end when the mother had somehow broken loose of her restraints and intercepted the Cruciatus curse. She'd screamed, they all screamed but there had been a glow of triumph in her eyes as she had endured.

Harry had expected Voldemort to be in a rage but the Dark Lord had been amused and he hadn't even punished the Death Eater whose spells had failed to contain the woman. His eyes had lit with pleasure and his almost lipless mouth had creased in a grotesque smile. He'd banished the Curse as he looked closely at the woman and in a voice that had been chillingly cold but velvety smooth he'd spoken to her. It was the first time Harry could recall Voldemort talking to any Muggle all summer.

"It hurts, hmm?"

"...yes..." the woman managed to gasp, struggling weakly towards her daughter. She never got there. With a flick of his wand, Voldemort had re-established the magical bonds on her while her husband sobbed weakly.

"I have done this many times," he started again, ignoring the looks of revulsion both adults gave him. "And you are the first Muggle to ever break such bonds to respond to their child..." He congratulated the woman as she drew a shuddering breath. "I'll tell you what..." He broke off, laughing softly before he continued. "In recognition for your deed, I will allow your fates to be exchanged."

"You are going to kill us both!" The woman hissed, suddenly lucid and angry.

"No, no, no," the Dark Lord shook his head. "I wasn't going to kill you at all," he reassured her. "I was going to kill your daughter and then, after playing with you a bit longer, I was going to let you go... But I am prepared to be generous. You are the first Muggle to break their bonds and as such deserve a reward."

"NO! Take me!" The husband had found his voice.

Voldemort had looked disdainfully at the man. "You," he said, the emphasis on the word clearly stating that he thought it a grave insult that he be forced to respond, "have done nothing but hang there. You do not deserve my mercy." He had turned back to the woman. "This is the only time I will make such an offer. Do you want your daughter to live?"

The woman didn't even consider it. What parent would, if offered a way to save their child? "You will not kill her?" she questioned again for reassurance.

"She will suffer the fate that was to await you," the Dark Lord responded.

"Then let me suffer her fate," the woman's voice was firm, no lingering trace of the Cruciatus curse evident.

"So be it," Voldemort said, gesturing towards the Dementors.

The two black robed beings glided forward, one heading towards the man who was now sagging in the bounds that held him, and the other went towards the small girl, who lay curled into a tight ball on the cold stone floor.

"What? What are you doing?" The woman asked, looking confused. "You said you'd let them go!"

Voldemort merely looked over to her with a condescending expression while the two elites sniggered.

"She will suffer your fate," one of the elites explained for his Master.

"But you said you were going to let me go!" The woman sobbed, desperately seeking answers.

"A demonstration is in order, I believe," Voldemort said, amusement showing in his tone. "Your husband..." he instructed the Dementor, freeing the man from the bonds.

Emancipated hands caught the body before it fell and Harry saw the dark creatures eyes glow before it lowered its hooded face to the mans mouth and sucked out his soul. The Dementor then released the body; allowing it to fall, slack jawed and glassy eyed to the floor.

"Wha..." The woman found herself released from the magical bounds and with a quick movement she was at her husband's side.

"He is not dead," Voldemort assured the woman.

"What did you do?" She gasped as she confirmed that her husband was still breathing and his heart was beating but he was otherwise unresponsive.

"My allies have peculiar tastes," the Dark Lord launched into the explanation knowing that the truth would complete his torture of the woman. "They eat souls."

"No!" She surged forward but was caught in a chilling grip as the Dementor who had taken her husband's soul grabbed her.

With deliberate precision the second Dementor draped itself over the body of the girl and with torturous slowness lowered its hooded face. The woman screamed and struggled, begging for her daughter to be spared, promising that she would do anything if the child was spared but Voldemort simply laughed as the Dementor sucked out the soul of her child.

When it was over the woman collapsed to the floor, sobbing as she feebly pounded her fists into the stone.

"Now..." Voldemort purred. "It's your turn."

"You promised..." she whispered.

"And I have kept my promise," he said, raising his wand.

"...you'll pay, Riddle... you'll pay..."

Even Voldemort paused at that whisper. "What?"

"...you'll pay, Riddle... you'll pay..." The woman repeated, her voice weaker this time as the events and proximity to the Dementor began to tell on her.

"How?" he hissed, sounding like the snake that was his totem.

"...my sister..." the woman began. "...my sister is a witch..."

Voldemort smiled. "Squib?" He questioned her.

She shook her head. "She was born different."

"Mudblood," one of the elites said.

"Well... that is not our concern now," Voldemort said, raising his wand again before he stopped.

Harry watched the events silently, knowing from experience that it didn't matter what he did. What he saw was reality but for him it was a dream and he couldn't interact, he could only watch and remember. While he was loath to remember, he knew he would be the only one to truly know all the Dark Lords victims and they needed, history needed them, to be remembered. So it was resolutely that he looked back to the woman, trying not to focus on the wand that had also taken his parents lives, Cedric and so many others...

But the Dark Lord had stopped again and was looking around the room with narrowed eyes. Finally his gaze had settled on the corner where Harry customarily watched. "Ah... My little one," he hissed in Parceltongue. He had paused then, almost seeming to consider what he was seeing... Harry just stood there, weeks of seeing the same thing meant he could meet the Dark Lords gaze without flinching, secure in the knowledge that his presence went unseen and unheard.

"It's nearly time," he continued, placing his wand back down. His eyes roved over Harry's form and then for the first time in weeks blood red eyes locked with green. "You're mine."

And that is what had awoken Harry. 'You're mine.' Voldemort had never spoken directly to him before. The Dark Lord had spoken of him but never to him and the tone of his voice... While the words had still been in Parceltongue, their tone had been gentle, seductive, inviting. The tone he would have used to speak with Cho if the Ravenclaw Seeker would even look at him after he got Cedric killed.

The tone and the absolute lack of pain...

Harry looked out the window. The sky was slowly lightening, signalling the dawning of a new day. It didn't hurt... Why didn't it hurt? Although he hadn't actually seen the woman die, her husband and daughter had both suffered for Voldemort's pleasure, so why didn't his scar hurt as it had for so many nights before?

A tapping on the barred window drew his attention and as he drew back the filmy curtains a chill passed through him. A large black eagle hawk was scrambling to land on the sill, every few seconds it would fall off, resulting in a flapping of wings, and clawing at the bricks as it sought purchase again. In one claw was a black envelope that Harry could see was marked with a blood red Dark Mark. As the hawk noticed him, it fixed him with a stare that said quite clearly that it would try to deliver its letter all day if necessary so no matter how much he didn't want it, he should just look at it and the bird would leave.

Quickly Harry opened the window as far as it would go, wondering how the bird could possibly be reading his mind. How did it know he had seriously been considering just closing the curtains and ignoring it? And he would have except for the fact that the Dursley's would practically kill him if the bird remained there during the day, when anyone could see it? What would the neighbours think at outright proof of his abnormality?

At the movement the bird took off again, releasing its letter that magically flew thru in the tiny opening, before with a soft screech, it flapped powerful wings and disappeared into the thin dawn light.

The letter landed on the floor seeming to glow with its own sickly light. It was addressed with a simple 'HP' and for a moment Harry was tempted simply to rip it up and pretend that it never existed but he knew, from years of experience in the Wizarding world, that things would only get worse if he did that. So it was with strangely steady hands, he reached out and picked up the letter, turning it over to see its seal. The wax was red and the seal was a crest bearing the Dark Mark surmounting a stylised 'LV'.

Harry shivered as he broke the seal and drew out the parchment, unfolding it slowly he noted a tiny lumos spell on it meant that he wouldn't need to turn on the light. He looked over the spidery red script, not seeing it before closing his eyes, taking a deep breath to calm himself before he opened emerald eyes and began reading.

All the while, his scar didn't hurt.

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