Descent into Darkness

School: Beauxbatons

Theme: Control

Mandatory Prompt: [Emotion] Rage

Additional Prompt: [First/last line] As my story came to a close, I realised that I was the villain all along.

Year: 3

Wordcount: 2450

AU Note: This is an AU after Deathly Hallows; it does not follow the events of the epilogue or Cursed Child.

Warning: Descriptions of Violence and Death


Harry carried his sword in one hand and his wand in the other as he strode through the battlefield. Rivulets of blood flowed through the grass, staining Harry's shoes and robes crimson. Moans of pain and cries of despair filled the air. Drops of rain fell from the sky, flowing down Harry's face and clearing away the grime and sweat and blood.

The sword's ruby hilt glowed with an otherworldly light, its silver blade pristine and deceptively shiny, as if it had never been used. Harry gazed at the sword as visions flashed before his eyes. A brown-haired man begging for the life of his daughters, the sword swiping through his neck like butter. A woman with blue eyes crying with despair, blood spurting from her chest in every direction. A blonde child, crying out for her parents, the sword passing through her easily — almost too easily.

Harry cackled, a long, harsh sound. A person moaned in pain, and he glanced down, disgust surging through him. With a simple jerk of his arm, the sword impaled the person's chest, and he stopped moving, dead.

"Harry?" someone called out.

Harry clenched his fists. No one called him Harry. He was above that common name. Didn't everyone know that they were supposed to address him as "my Lord"?

"Who is it?" he growled.

A girl jerked back, face paling as Harry turned towards her. Her once vibrant red hair was matted and coated with dirt. "Why are you doing this? This isn't you!" She sounded almost hysterical.

"Crucio," he said casually, pointing his wand at her.

A scream echoed through the corpse-ridden field.

"No one tells me what to do." He stepped closer to the girl, flicking his wand to end the curse.

Tears filled her brown eyes. "Why, Harry? Why are you doing this?"

Harry's eyes narrowed. If there was one thing that would make him fly into a rage, it was someone questioning him. It didn't matter that she used to be his friend. He had no friends now.

The girl paled upon seeing his expression, but she did not back down. She set her shoulders and stepped forwards.

A hiss escaped Harry's mouth. Rage boiled within him. "Avada Kedavra," he whispered, caressing the word almost lovingly, a cruel smile on his face.

He watched dispassionately as the life left her eyes, and then he continued on his path.


Harry sat up in bed, gasping. It had been about a month since the Battle of Hogwarts, and he'd been having dreams such as that one every night. That dream, though, had been much more vivid and seemed so much more real than the previous ones.

Take a deep breath, he told himself sternly. It's not real. You would never do such awful things.

How do you know? Another voice in his head argued. You've killed before. You've murdered in cold blood, even. Don't you remember how you're awfully similar to a young Tom Riddle?

Harry took a deep breath, trying to banish that voice to the dark corners of his brain. I'm nothing like Tom Riddle!

Harry swung his legs around the side of his bed and stood up. He caught sight of Ron sleeping in the adjacent bed, barely visible through the crimson bed curtains. Crimson — like the blood from his dream. Don't think of that now. Don't think of that now.

As Harry stumbled towards the bathroom, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Voldemort's whispered, Why, dear Harry, you don't like the colour of blood? Harry jumped and looked around, but he was the only one in the bathroom. Imagine stabbing your so-called friend in the chest.

Harry clenched his fists. He was not going to turn into Voldemort. He refused to do so.

The Voldemort-sounding voice chuckled. Imagine the fountains of crimson blood spurting from your dear friend's chest as he lies there, the life fading from his eyes. You know he deserves it. Look at how he abandoned you at his first opportunity. Wouldn't you just love to get revenge?

Harry shook his head. Go away! You're supposed to be dead!

Voldemort cackled at this. You're a fool if you thought that my Horcruxes were the only thing keeping me tied to the mortal plane.

Harry growled, resolving to ignore the voice. Thankfully, Voldemort didn't try to speak to him again that day.

The next few days passed normally — or rather, as normal as a day could be when Harry had crowds swarming him wherever he went. Most people just wanted to thank him for killing Voldemort and being their saviour. After all, he was the Boy Who Lived or, according to one of their latest ridiculous monikers, the Man Who Killed You-Know-Who.

Some people, though, seemed to think he was going to be the next Dark Lord, scurrying away whenever he came down the street. Apparently, killing another Dark Lord was tantamount to becoming a Dark Lord himself. But he wouldn't let that happen.

No matter what Voldemort had said, no matter what occurred in his dreams, Harry would not become a Dark Lord. He had no inclination to become an evil murderer and torture everyone in sight (except sometimes when you do, a traitorous part of his brain whispered, when everyone is surrounding you and trying to get close to you, and you just want to kill them all so you can have your peace and quiet again). Harry tried his best to ignore that part of his brain. He would not become the next Voldemort.

It was a few days later before Voldemort spoke again. By that time, Harry had all but dismissed the first conversation as a figment of his imagination. Of course, he'd still had his dreams — filled with red blood, lifeless eyes, and a permeating sense of rage at the world. But those dreams only existed in Morpheus's realm. When he was awake, he could pretend they did not exist and he was a perfectly sane person.

You know, Voldemort said while Harry was in the middle of brushing his teeth, causing him to almost choke on the toothpaste, you could become very powerful if only you took that power.

I won't become like you! Harry exclaimed, his fists clenching in a way that was becoming customary whenever he spoke to Voldemort. I won't murder and torture innocent people!

Why do you care so much about them when they are willing to turn against you? Voldemort asked. Why are you unwilling to get revenge on those who have harmed you?

A hidden part of Harry acknowledged that Voldemort had a good point. The other part of Harry, though, lashed out. Just because no one cared about you when you were a kid doesn't mean that normal people don't care about others! Unlike you, I actually have a heart!

Not for long, Voldemort hissed, the words echoing in Harry's brain long after he had said them.

Harry was strangely reminded of Ron's words from their second year. "Hearing voices no one else can hear isn't a good sign, even in the wizarding world." He couldn't help but feel a strange chill of worry that Ron was right.

The next few days were pure torture for Harry. No matter where he went or whom he talked to, Voldemort's sly voice was always there, whispering scathing comments in his ear.

After a few days of this, Harry finally snapped. He'd been talking to Ginny, a few weeks after they had mutually decided that it was better for them to not get back together. She had asked him a fairly innocuous question about how he and Ron were doing, living in Grimmauld Place together, when Harry remembered that she was asking this as a friend and sister, not as a girlfriend.

Harry had opened his mouth to respond when Voldemort sneered, Well, if I were her, of course, I wouldn't want to be with you. Who wants to get involved with a Dark Lord? Of course, we Dark Lords are above such relationships.

Harry could feel his face turning red as he ground out, "I'm not a Dark Lord." Of course, he'd meant to say it mentally, but the words had slipped out of his mouth instead.

Ginny looked askance at him before replying, "Of course you aren't."

But the damage had been done. They chatted casually for a few more minutes before Ginny said that she had to go, mumbling something about helping her mum with the laundry — which Harry knew that she never did. Still, Harry smiled and nodded, only dropping his cheerful visage when he entered the privacy of the bathroom.

Ginny must have told the rest of the Weasleys and Hermione, for the next day, when Harry went over for to the Weasleys for Sunday dinner, the conversation around the dinner table was stilted and awkward, with everyone casting furtive looks in his direction every time they opened their mouths to speak.

Harry had dug his nails into his palms until they bled in an effort to prevent himself from cursing everyone right there — not that it would do anything except confirm that he truly was a Dark Lord in the making. Of course, Voldemort's snide comments didn't help his temper at all.

The people on the street, he'd almost expected them to turn on him at some point. After all, hadn't he made a convenient scapegoat for things going wrong in the past? But these were the Weasleys. They were his friends, his family. They weren't supposed to turn on him.

If the previous few days had been torture, the next few days were absolute hell. Hermione had confronted him and asked about the whole Dark Lord thing. Harry responded that he was not and would never become a Dark Lord, and that should have been the end of it. The only problem was, Harry had shouted that last statement, his muscles tensing with anger and spit flying all over.

Hermione, true to form, had immediately demanded to know what was wrong. But that solicitous question had only enraged Harry further.

He had seen fear overtaking rationality in Hermione's eyes before she fled. Immediately, he felt regret. This wasn't right. This wasn't how things should be.

What do you want from me, Voldemort? Harry murmured. Voldemort, of course, had been whispering to him during his entire conversation to Hermione. At the rate things were going, Harry was going to go crazy any day now.

What do you think I want? came the snarky reply.

Do you think I would be asking you that if I knew? Harry snarled.

There was no reply.

Harry found himself strangely missing Voldemort's sardonic comments as the days went by. Loneliness and silence filled his days — no one would speak with him or even be within a one-meter radius of him. Ron and Hermione had even moved out of Grimmauld Place, opting to live at the Burrow instead. Harry had started talking to himself out loud if only to fill the silence. Each day, he grew more and more frustrated that people refused to stand up for him.

His nights were filled with bloodshed and gore. Once, he'd dreamed of walking through a dark mansion filled with heads and skeletons and rolling eyeballs. He'd been furious that someone had spoken to him and had tortured that person until they'd gone insane.

Each day, when Harry woke up, he reminded himself that he was not that person in his dreams. He was not a Dark Lord. But with each passing day, that became more and more difficult. The constant stares and fearful glances, the slandering in The Daily Prophet, his friends' abandonment of him, made Harry more and more irate. Sometimes, it took all of his self-control to not start hexing people then and there.

On Sunday, Harry gave in.

He couldn't be bothered to fight against the darkness within him anymore. The day had gone the same as most of his previous days. He'd woken up that morning, shuddering in remembrance of the intestines that had decorated the room. He wandered around the house for most of the day, discovering secret rooms that he hadn't known were there, until it was time to go to the Weasleys' for dinner.

Harry approached the Burrow, not knowing what to expect — or if he was even still invited after the events of the past week. Molly greeted him with almost all of her normal warmth, but the rest of the family wasn't so welcoming. The conversations around the dinner table were a bit stilted and the smiles a bit forced, but Harry pretended not to notice as he tried desperately to regain control over his emotions.

They were supposed to be his family. He loved them. This was what was supposed to separate him from Voldemort. But they had abandoned him — abandoned him because they thought he was becoming a Dark Lord (although you are well along your way to doing so, the back of his brain whispered).

Harry's muscles tensed as he subconsciously fingered his wand. Don't do it, he told himself sternly. But he still found himself slowly raising his wand and saying, "Avada Kedavra," just as he had in his dream. Utter joy enveloped him, and he grinned at the feeling of power in his hands.

Pandemonium ensued. Someone screamed; someone else pushed the table over. The next thing he knew, there was a voice shouting, "Stupefy!" before everything went black.

Harry woke up in a white room devoid of any furniture, except for a utilitarian bed and a mirror embedded in the wall. He would have thought that he had been kidnapped if not for the linens embossed with the St Mungo's logo. The mirror seemed strangely out-of-place before he realised that it must be one of those one-way mirrors that allowed the person outside to see what was happening inside.

Harry approached it, planning on demanding to be let out immediately. As he stared at himself in the mirror though, the realisation struck him. He just knew that he was the Dark Lord. That this had been his destiny all along. His eyes flashed red in the mirror, and even though he knew people were listening outside, Harry cackled — a long, inhuman, joyful sound that echoed throughout the bare room and brought shivers to anyone within earshot.

Voldemort's voice whispered in his ear, And now I've achieved my goals at last, but Harry was too far gone in his euphoria for the message to register.

As his story came to a close, he realised that he had been the villain all along.