Descent into Darkness

Written by Tainted Caress

Disclaimer: I do not own any one or thing of the Harry Potter world no matter how hard

I wish it. Sadly, they all belong to J.K. Rowling, the lucky woman.

Author Notes: Well, I just wanted to say that this is just the prolog or pilot of the story.

So read and see if you like it. It's only the beginning, it will get better I promise. Please read and review. So now, enjoy!

Chapter I…Prolog…

He stood before the mirror, gazing into a face that he knew not. The face of which he glimpsed upon was worn and torn, with bruises hinting at tragedies he wanted nothing to do with.

Although he tried to look away from the face, it was the eyes that captured his attention. Eyes that had seen death and lived to tell of its fortunes. They were as cold as ice, yet as dull as a rusty blade. No emotion showed in those eyes, nothing but a bleak coldness. The kind of cold that after it touches you it never lets go. A coldness that once it has you, not oven the hottest fires of hell can save you from its icy embrace.

The boy hated looking in the mirror. He hated to have to face the reality that the face starting back at him was his own. No amount of denial could change that fact, no matter how hard he wished it.

With a heavy sigh, the boy looked away from his reflection and began to look for a cleaning cloth. He knew from previous experiences that if he didn't get the cuts and scraps cleansed soon, they would become infected and hurt a hell of a lot more. And not to even mention how messy the puss and blood would become.

After he finally found a suitable cloth, he plugged the sink and turned the hot water on full blast. As the sink began to fill with steaming hot water, the boy looked in the cabinets for a first aid kit. Sadly, he knew just where to find it.

Opening the case, the boy pulled out the hydrogen peroxide and other such meds that he knew he'd need. Looking for the bandages, he realized that he had run out again. A soft flow of curses flew out of his mouth when he realized that he'd have to go without. But he wasn't too worried, it wouldn't be his first time.

The boy barely stopped the water in time before it overfilled. Gently soaking the hand cloth in the steaming water, the boy didn't even flinch when the scolding hot water bit at his flesh. Patiently the boy waited for the cloth to absorb the water before he lifted in from the sink. Gently applying the still soaking cloth to the worst of his wounds, the boy closed his eyes as fresh wounds and burning hot wash cloth met. After the worst of the bite, the boy adjusted to the new level of pain and began to cleanse the wounds one by one. By the time he was done cleaning the wounds more than one wash cloth was stained red with his blood.

Knowing that he wasn't quite done yet, the boy went off to his room in search for something that might substitute for bandages, carefully limping the whole way there. He found it in one of his old hand-me-down shirts, compliments of his "loving" family. Although the shirt wasn't exactly the cleanest of things, it was all he had. Everything else was much worse for where. Carefully the boy ripped the shirt into ribbons and wrapped the filthy rags around his wounds. Tying the ends is a loose knot; the boy looked over his handiwork and gave a simple nod of his head. It would have to do. He didn't have the time of energy for anything fancier.

Carefully making his way back into the bathroom- quiet so as not to awaken certain people of the household- the boy began to clean up the mess he made, flinching here and there when he moved to quickly. Picking this up and tidying that, the boy realized that the wash cloths were done for. Not even the toughest of bleaches would get the blood out of the once pearly white towels.

Oh well, the boy thought as he eyed the cloths. More bandages for me next time I guess.

Picking up the stained towels, the boy made sure that the bathroom was just as spotless as when he first came in. His aunt was very picky when it came to her bathing area. The boy shuddered when he thought about how his aunt would react even if she saw the tiniest speckle of blood on her beautiful limestone tiles. God forbid such a horrible thing to happen. A small chuckle escaped his lips as the boy imagined that particular scene.

After inspecting every detail in the room, the boy finally decided that it was good enough. Maybe his aunt would wake up late and he'd have a chance to clean it up better in the morning. Or at least the boy hoped so anyway.

Turning off the light and closing the door quietly behind him, the injured boy slowly made his way back to his room. Dispensing the used wash cloths under his bed-safe keeping and whatnot- the boy walked/limped over to the window and looked beyond the bars of his prison and into the world below. The moon was almost full, but a few days away. That's why the boy could see everything so crystal clear. Each and every house was sound asleep, the lights and sounds having died hours ago. It seemed no one was awake but him. But that was the way it was most nights, especially nights like these.

Closing his eyes, the boy couldn't help but wonder. Wonder what if. What if anything, anything in the world could have been different then the way it really was. What if his parents had never died? What if he never had to live here? What if he could have had a real life? Hell, even what if someone had just loved the orphaned Tom Riddle? It was useless to think of these thoughts, but sometimes he just couldn't help it.

Turning away from the window and the endless possibilities hidden beyond the bars, the injured boy tiredly made his way to his bed. Suddenly a weariness crept into his whole body, making him almost collapse right there on the spot. He felt like he hadn't slept for weeks. Which was probably true, knowing his luck.

The boy was so tired that he almost missed dropping his glasses on the night table next to the bed. But maybe Lady Luck did smile on him tonight because the glasses landed gently on the table without breaking or falling off the edge. But in the long run, Lady Luck must be looking the other way when it came to the rest of his life.

Climbing carefully into his bed, the boy tried not to disturb and of his numerous wounds. Sadly though, Lady Luck had already shined on him tonight. Many of his wounds were jostled when he climbed under the blankets. It felt like a fire was eating him alive, devouring his body and breaking his spirit.

After finally getting settled, the boy tried to focus on anything other than the pain. He really hoped that they hadn't started bleeding again. He knew that if they did, they'd just bleed through the night. Now that he was in bed, he wasn't moving again.

Tragically though, the boy could feel the blood begin to seep through his shirt and into the bed. He should have known that those would bleed. He really wasn't able to wrap or cleanse the wounds that well; they were on his back after all. He knew from experience that the wounds on his back would take a long time to heal, and never truly heal either. The scars a whip leaves never really fade. They just stay there and silently scream of pain and suffering. Screaming of horrors you can imagine not, and pain of which the likes you've never known. Only eyes as haunted as his would know of it.

Finally after much turning and repositioning himself, the boy found a position that didn't bother the whip wounds he had to badly. The worn and torn boy finally closed his eyes and gave into the darkness that had been threatening him for hours. The last thought he had before he passed out was about blood stained limestone and crimson wash cloths. Then his mind went blissfully blank and darkness engulfed him.