Harry Potter and the Curse of V'adian

Chapter 2

Of Isolation and Immortals

Standard Disclaimers Apply

oOoOo

Harry Potter hated the holidays. He knew, now, why he had to return to this wretched hell hole in the middle of Surrey, but it was nonetheless an arduous time. And now, after endless promises that he would be spending only a short time in Privet Drive, they were making him stay until three weeks before the new school term began. He pounded his fist into the wall in anger.

Letters from his friends were few and far between, information scarce. He knew they were at Grimmauld Place. It angered him that he was being left out of something that was so clearly and undeniably in his future. He had to know things, but they refused to tell him.

It was his birthday tomorrow, and although he desperately wanted to leave his aunt and uncle's house, he had little desire to return to Grimmauld Place so soon. Sometimes when he lay in bed at night, he remembered what had happened in the Department of Mysteries, and felt sick with guilt.

He had played with his quill for a few minutes, trying to tempt his mind onto something else, but no matter how hard he tried, his mind drifted back to the events in the ministry. No matter how many times they had told him it wasn't his fault, he couldn't help feeling that he could have done more. He could have saved Tonks and Remus from heartache. But he didn't want to think about that. From the vague hints he had picked up in the letters from his friends, he understood that Remus and Tonks were getting on extremely well.

Good for them, he thought sarcastically. At least they had someone to comfort them. He punched the wall again, succeeding (with some stilted satisfaction) to elicit an enraged yell from his uncle, and a very sore hand.

Harry felt an indefinable sense of frustration and anger at his situation. Guilt plagued him constantly, and at the Dursley residence there was certainly nothing to get his mind of the death of his god-father.

Suddenly something someone had said to him once jumped into his mind.

"You've got no skill, Potter. You've survived on pure luck."

And it was true, he knew it was. If he'd been able to think more clearly, if he hadn't panicked, if he had known more spells, he could have saved more than his own life that night.

Harry sighed and looked over to the dresser in the corner, atop which was piled his collection of Daily Profits. As usual, someone, most likely Dumbledore, felt the need for him to not know anything, and as a result, his subscription had been a blessing. Various headlines peered out at him, taunting him with the memory of their words: Mass Breakout From Azkaban (It enraged Harry that there were monsters like Malfoy and other Death Eaters running around free, because of the stupidity of the ministry, but the next article gave him some consolation), Garian Numair New Minister For Magic (Maybe, thought Harry, a new Minister would help stop the killing sprees that the Death Eaters were now frequently enjoying), Harry Potter, Chosen One? (This article, and many like it, were the ones that particularly annoyed Harry. One, released just after the holidays had begun, told, with quite inaccurate but nevertheless disturbing details, of the escapade in the ministry, even going so far as to report the existence of the prophecy. He had received questions from both Ron and Hermione about the prophecy, but had refused to answer), and 24 Muggles Murdered in London.

Harry sighed and walked over to the window. He felt useless, stuck here in Little Whinging, and angry that he should even be here at all. He started as the silence of the Dursley household was broken by a sudden thump, as an owl ploughed head-on into his window. Hurriedly, he slid the window up and the disgruntled-looking owl perched on the sill and ruffled its feathers, looking distinctly haughty as it sat there with its' beak in the air.

He untied the tightly furled scroll from its leg and read it in surprise. It was from Dumbledore and, like all his other letters, the lack of information frustrated him.

Harry,

I will be arriving at your place of residence this evening at eleven o'clock this evening to collect you. Be sure to pack everything.

Professor Dumbledore.

Odd, thought Harry, but he wasn't complaining. Dumbledore had never sent him a letter before, nor had he ever come to Privet Drive, and Harry wondered if something had gone wrong. Abruptly he turned from the window and began throwing his things into his bag. It was a short task, and he was done within minutes, and he ventured downstairs to inform his Aunt and Uncle of his impending departure.

He knew they would be delighted, even if they didn't show it. For the past few weeks they had seemed as though they couldn't stand the sight of him, and as though they were eagerly awaiting his day of departure.

He found them, as he had known he would, in the lounge room, watching the midday movie. Harry was banned from these, and honestly couldn't have been happier with the situation. He had long ago accepted that they didn't want him around and learnt to stay in his room, and now he appreciated their lack of emotion or familiar love towards him. It made his life so much easier.

He waited until a break came on before approaching them.

"Uncle Vernon?"

"What?" his Uncle barked, his eyes not leaving the television.

"Uh, I'm leaving tonight. Someone's coming to get me."

At this, their head's snapped around and they looked at him.

Nonplussed, Harry asked, "what?"

His Uncle coughed and averted his eyes.

"They're coming to the house, then?"

"Yes, but don't worry, they're coming late, so no one will see them."

"Good," snapped Aunt Petunia, before turning her head back to the television screen. The movie had started again.

"Er, well I'll just go and finish packing," Harry said. Uncle Vernon grunted in reply and Harry turned and made his way back up the stairs to his room. The moment he reached his room, he looked out the window, and felt an overwhelming urge to go outside.

He had had little desire to venture out this summer; he knew he was being tailed by an Auror, and the thought of being followed gave little peace. However, he had his invisibility cloak, and he pulled it over himself before stepping out the back door.

It was just before sunset, and a glance at his watch told Harry that the Dursley's would be sitting down for dinner in precisely fifty-six minutes, and Dumbledore would be arriving in just over four and a half hours. Happy to be out of the oppressive atmosphere of the Dursley residence, he set off down the street, unobtrusively towards the park. It was only a few blocks away, and was a place Harry had gone to many times. He no longer had to worry about Dudley and his gang, and this only made the green park a more appealing place.

The residents of Little Whinging rarely brought their children here and, as Harry expected, the area was devoid of others. Once the sun was safely under the horizon, Harry pulled the cloak off, but still stayed to edges of the park, in the shadows. The sky was beautiful tonight, but it too, held no peace for him. High in the sky, Mars burned brightly, and he could imagine what Firenze would say.

Mars, harbinger of doom and death, herald of war. Mars, whose presence guided Harry's life, shone brighter than ever. He looked to the ground and saw, in the dim shadows, a bushy shrub, its white flowers giving off an intoxicating scent. It was strong, but as he watched, the flowers began to close, and then shrivel, their colour crumbling to a dull brown, decaying as he watched.

He felt shivers run up his spine. Flowers didn't normally do that. A stick crunched on the ground and he spun around, searching for his wand. He plunged his hand into his pocket, but as fast as he was, someone else was faster. Hands grabbed him from behind, securing his arms behind his back. A second later an odd feeling came over him, and he hung limp in his captor's arms. He tried to move, but his muscles wouldn't respond.

Suddenly, he heard someone talk, and he deduced that there must be two of them.

"Hurry up!" said the one that wasn't holding him. He had a weak voice, and his whining did nothing to elicit a response from the one holding Harry. He pulled Harry upright and suddenly grabbed the top of Harry's head, forcing it sideways onto his neck. The muscles in his neck protested and he stifled a grunt of pain. He remembered what he had promised himself only minutes ago, and cleared his mind. He had to think clearly.

But it was hard. His mind didn't want to obey his commands, and his thoughts were all fuzzy, filtering slowly through his panic.

"Just do it, Isautier, and give him to me. I'm tired." It was the whining one again.

The one holding Harry spoke.

"Patience, Horace, we have all evening to enjoy this."

"You, maybe, but we haven't been allowed out in so long! I don't wanna to waste all our time here. We gotta be back by sunrise."

"I know," hissed Isautier, a hand running over Harry's neck "But unlike you, I have needs."

"I need it as well!" whined Horace, "So just hurry up."

"You forget your place!" Isautier hissed.

A frightened squeak came from Horace.

"Apologies, my Lord. I did not mean…"

"Silence! I tire of your whining!"

An obedient hush followed, and a second later Harry felt a breath on his neck. A moment after that, a sharp pain pierced his neck, and Harry felt a strange sensation crawling up his neck. It lasted for only a split second however, as the person holding him let go of him, and he fell to the ground, released from the paralysis. The man hissed.

"Isautier? What is it?" asked Horace, as Harry stumbled to his feet and away from the men, hand to his neck.

"He has magic," Isautier said in a low voice.

"What? But… there's only humans round here, only Muggles!"

Harry raised his head and looked into the darkness. He couldn't see them, but they could obviously see him, as Isautier let out a breath.

"It is him! It is the Potter boy!"

"It can't be, Isautier! We was told there weren't no wizards in this area."

"We must leave. Come, Horace."

"Will he Turn?" Horace asked.

"I do not know…it may not have been long enough."

"We should help him," Horace suggested.

"We must leave!" snapped Isautier, and a moment later there was a whooshing sound, a rushing of breeze, and silence.

Harry looked around in shock. the attack had been so quick, so unexpected. He looked down at his hand and saw that it was dark with blood. Slowly he pulled the cloak back over himself and hurried back to the Dursley's. When he opened the back door, the only noise in the house was the television, and Harry was thankful they couldn't see him. He jumped over the creaking stair and walked to the bathroom, flicking the light on.

It wasn't as bad as he expected. Blood flowed sluggishly from the two pin-prick like wounds on his neck, and he supposed there was some sort of venom to keep the blood flowing smoothly. Anger bubbled up within him, with nowhere to direct it. He sponged the blood away and watched as it swirled down the plug hole, turning the water pink. His hands gripped the edge of the cabinet, his knuckles turning white.

After a while he pulled away, not looking into the mirror. He turned the shower on and rinsed away the sweat and dirt, before falling into his bed, dizzy and sick. Sleep came quickly, and his last thought floated through his mind.

Why me? Happy birthday, Harry.

oOoOo

As Harry slept, he dreamed. He dreamed of vampires and of Voldemort, of Cedric and of Sirius. He dreamed of the day to come, when he would have to face his destiny, and kill or be killed. He dreamed of tomorrow, when reality would become part of waking, or when he might wake and find it had all been a great big delusion. Hallucinations were better than reality. Hallucinations could be happy, could be whatever you made them, because reality was not happy, not for Harry Potter. His life could not be whatever he made it to be, because from the moment he was born, he was fated.

He was fated to know vampires and Voldemort, to be the cause of the deaths of Cedric, and of Sirius.

And so it went, round and round, a great, jumbled mass of swirling, semi-formed thoughts, of missed chances and frustrated feelings, and it all formed to create an image of the world as seen by the nearly-sixteen year old boy who dreamed them…

oOoOo

Harry jerked awake and glanced at his watch in horror. He was relieved to see it was still evening, and he hadn't missed Dumbledore. He tried to calm his racing heart, but it wouldn't slow. He felt hot, and dizzy. He walked to the mirror, praying that it had all been a dream, but there, just below his ear and three centimetres apart, were two small, red dots.

He pulled on a shirt with a high collar and a pair of jeans that were too big for him and dragged his trunk into the hall. He was just about to return to his room, when the doorbell rang.

oOoOo

Chapter 3: Of Promises and Pain