A/N: The Harry Potter universe is the property of J.K. Rowling and her associates. I own nothing except my own characters and ideas.

Lifting his hand to wipe away the tears, Harry swallowed hard in an attempt to get rid of the big lump that had formed in his throat. A strong sense of premonition had welled up in the core of the young boy's heart, and he knew with certainty that his time was short before uncle Vernon would come banging on his door. What he had done was not good. Well, not good for him anyway. He had hurt Aunt Petunia, and for that, there would be consequences. Vernon would be extra angry this time too. The beating would hurt more and last longer than usual.

But it wasn't his fault! Dudley had stolen his favorite toy soldier, and called Harry a liar when confronted about it. Aunt Petunia had, like always, taken her son's side, despite him being clearly in the wrong. You could even see the stolen toy laying on his nightstand! But no, Petunia had called him a freak and threatened to withhold dinner for two days if he didn't get down on his knees and apologize to Dudley. To Dudley! He was the one who should be apologizing to Harry!

He hadn't been able to stop it. The anger had been too strong, too malevolent for him to control. He had lashed out, causing the lights to flicker and a book to crash into his Aunt's face. He immediately knew he had overreacted, but it was just so unfair! Why did everyone hate him? He hadn't done anything to deserve it! He had always been a good boy, never gotten into trouble with the other kids and never failed to deliver his homework on time. Yet Dudley was the one who always got all of the praise, whilst Harry received all of the blame, even for mistakes he wasn't responsible for.

His thoughts were cut short as he heard a pair of angry footsteps approaching his cupboard under the stairs. Harry already knew who it was. Vernon was home from work, and that could only mean one thing: punishment was on its way.

Harry always hated it when Vernon knocked on his door. It was such an angry knock, so full of malice. So this time, Harry strengthened his resolve, and opened the door before Vernon could pound on it. It was a bold move, he knew as much, but he couldn't help but feel a sting of pride at the brief hint of surprise that colored his uncle's face. Before the anger returned and took its place, that was.

"Thought you could hide away in here, huh, freak?" Vernon wheezed with grim satisfaction, already starting to unbuckle his belt, right in front of Harry. He wanted the boy to know that pain was coming, and a lot of pain at that.

"No, uncle Vernon, I wasn't trying to hide…" Harry whispered back, a fresh wave of fear replacing the pride, tears starting to cloud his vision yet again.

"Oh, you weren't? Well then... I guess you won't mind if I do this!"

Having freed the belt from his pants, his uncle used it as a whip to deliver a rippling slash across his face. Despite having promised himself not to scream, Harry couldn't hold it in. The pain was simply too much. It felt like a thousand wasps were stinging him over and over again, tearing up his skin in the spot where the belt had hit him.

"Like that, don't you?" Vernon laughed as the young boy gasped in misery. After a couple of seconds, he lifted the belt yet again and whipped him right in the stomach, causing Harry to double over. "This will teach you not to hurt your Aunt ever again, you filthy cretin!"

Harry was in no position to even think about Aunt Petunia though, as he was struggling to breathe properly through the pain in his abdomen. Over the years, he had grown accustomed to physical suffering, but his stomach remained a weak point. His uncle knew this, and had no problem utilizing it to his advantage.

"Look at me, boy!" Vernon shouted, grabbing him by the hair so he could see him. That turned out to be a bad idea, as Harry immediately took the opportunity to spit in his face.

"I hate you!"

The shocked expression lasted only for a moment, before a newfound fury flamed up in his uncle's eyes.

"Ohhh, you shouldn't have done that!"

Pulling him by the hair out of the cupboard, Vernon laughed as Harry screamed in pain, a trickle of blood running down the young boy's face. Clouded as he was in the deep fog of anger, however, Vernon was not going to let a little blood stop him from punishing Harry, and so he kept dragging him across the floor towards the living room.

"Looks like you need to be taught a very special lesson, boy!"

And for the first time that day, Harry felt genuine, heart-wrenching anxiety fill his body. His uncle had never gone this far before. Had the spitting thing pushed him over the edge?

Heading straight for the fireplace, Vernon grabbed the scorching hot fire iron that he had used to tend the fire with earlier that morning. The tip was glowing a brilliant crimson, indicating that it was indeed intensely hot.

"You are about to be in a whole lot of pain, boy!" he laughed, pulling up the sleeve on Harry's sweater with one hand, before lowering the fire iron towards the exposed skin. Harry realized only a moment too late what it was Vernon was planning to do, and howled in pain as the tip was pressed against his naked forearm.

The sheer agony was unlike anything he had ever felt before. His skin sizzled and boiled, a sickly smell filling the room as Vernon pressed the iron down with greater force. Any trace of rational thought disappeared from his mind as he screamed at the top of his lungs, spasms raking through his body. His vision was fading, his consciousness drifting away rapidly.

Sadly, he wasn't allowed to pass out by Vernon, as he removed the iron, giving Harry one sweet second of relief before the pain returned. He could already tell he was scarred for life, judging by how the wound oozed a strange, yellow-tinted fluid mixed with blood.

"That'll teach you, boy! Now if I were you, I'd get that checked out sooner rather than later," Vernon grinned as he left the room, leaving the wounded boy curled up in a ball on the carpet. Gasping for air, Harry fought a desperate battle against his rapidly fading consciousness, the pain receptors in his arm going off like twisted fireworks. He knew that if he stayed balled up like this for much longer, the wound might inflict permanent damage to his nerve-endings, but he couldn't quite seem to muster up the strength to get to his feet. Every time he made the slightest movement, a fresh wave of pain would surge through his body, practically paralyzing him.

After what felt like an eternity, Aunt Petunia finally entered the room and saw him laying there in a pathetic heap. Luckily enough, she had more sense in her than her husband, and promptly called an ambulance. Harry never found out what lie his Uncle told the medical personnel, but it must've worked, as he got off scot-free, with nobody even bothering to ask for Harry's side of the story.

The hospital did a good job, however, leaving Harry with no permanent damage except for the burn mark on his arm. That would stay with him forever, an eternal reminder of the cruelty he had been subjected to in his childhood.

Ravenclaw Tower

Opening his eyes, Harry was momentarily blinded by the sunlight flooding in through the windows of the Ravenclaw dormitory. He had never been particularly fond of the sun, especially not when it ripped him from his sleep and forced him to reposition to avoid its strong glare. He much preferred the calm and comfort of the darkness with its tender embrace.

A quick look at the analog watch he kept next to his bed told him that it was early morning, too early to be thinking about breakfast or school. He briefly considered going back to sleep again, but quickly decided against it, as he felt rather energized, and doubted he would be able to nod off now that he was already awake.

In his dreams, he had revisited his childhood again, for whatever reason. He always hated it when that happened. Harry was the type of man to forget about the past and focus on the present, but it seemed nigh impossible to completely outrun his earlier days. They always came back to haunt him, one way or the other.

Despite what had been done to him, Harry harbored no resentment towards his Uncle. He certainly had no respect for the man, that much was obvious, but he didn't hate him. Uncle Vernon had, after all, been the first person to show him the true nature of man, the cruelty every "civilized" being harbored inside, ready to burst out should the need ever arise. He had taught Harry a valuable lesson when it came to putting too much trust in others, a mistake he would not repeat anytime soon.

Harry knew that his childhood with the Dursley's hadn't been anything even resembling normal. The constant rejection and beatings stood as a testament to that. Most people would probably be rendered speechless if he told them about some of the things he had been forced to endure at such a young age. He didn't blame them for that though. Even Hermione had done a poor job of hiding her disgust when he had told her about it.

The most interesting reaction had actually come from Professor Dumbledore himself, when Harry told him of his childhood during his Second Year. He had been called to the Headmaster's office to discuss the opening of the Chamber of Secrets, and the topic had sort of naturally drifted off towards Harry's upbringing once the subject of Tom Riddle had been brought up. Dumbledore had been deeply shocked by the news, to say the least. His entire façade had seemed to somber down, undoubtedly the result of guilt and regret. Harry still remembered his words to this day:

"Forgive me Harry… I had no idea they would treat you like that… A fellow family member, even… Truly, there seems to be no end to my arrogance."

At least the old geezer had acknowledged his own stupidity on that one. It wasn't exactly a secret that the Headmaster had a nasty tendency of always thinking the best of people, often overestimating the goodness present in most. Harry had never quite been able to wrap his head around the logic behind such a belief. He already knew for a fact that most people were only out to take advantage of him for their own personal gain, so why would he trust them to do otherwise? It was human nature to care more about the well-being of your own than that of others, after all.

But that was all in the past. If everything went the way Harry wanted it to, he would never have to see his Aunt and Uncle ever again. They were nothing but fragments of a tormented past, completely useless to him now.

And, on the topic of the past, Harry had never actually found out what had happened to the corpse of the Basilisk he had slain in the Chamber of Secrets. If his calculations were correct (and they usually were), certain body parts from such a legendary creature was worth nothing short of a small fortune if sold to the right buyer, and Harry would've very much liked to get a piece of that pie. He did, however, have a sneaking suspicion that Dumbledore had already taken advantage of this fact, and sold the darn thing right under his nose.

Shorted by the Headmaster himself, Harry chuckled, the thought of being scammed by one of the most prominent wizards in the world bringing a smile to his lips. Well, no matter. There are still tons of options readily available for me to take use of once I get a little older. Ways for me to grow my meager fortune rather than waste it.

The wizarding economy was surprisingly easy to take advantage of, after all; it was just that few wizards seemed to carry either the brain capacity or the ingenuity to think up anything even resembling a smart financial plan or a pyramid scheme. This, sadly, would in theory make them excellent targets for con-artists who knew what they were doing.

Another look at his watch told him that it was almost time for breakfast now. Reminiscing about the past had apparently killed more time than he thought.

Time to face the music, Harry thought as he got out of bed. The music being a potentially angry friend.

The Great Hall

The Great Hall was eerily silent when Harry arrived. Only a handful of students had made their way here this early in the morning, and most of them were still sleepy and not in the mood to make small talk. This suited Harry just fine, as he found small talk to be incredibly pointless and boring in the first place, and best reserved for situations where one was forced to entertain uninteresting people for prolonged amounts of time.

What didn't suit him quite as fine, however, was the fact that Hermione had apparently woken up early that day too, and decided to go to breakfast, because she was sitting in the exact spot Harry always chose. The two of them hadn't really had an opportunity to talk since his little "incident" in the library the other day, and he knew the subsequent conversation would be awkward at best. Explaining his Obscurus theory could prove to be quite hard and possibly dangerous, after all. She might just end up ratting him out to Dumbledore for "his own safety", or something along those lines, and that would just be absolutely brilliant right about now.

"Top of the morning to you, Hermione," he said, opting to use a bit of Irish slang to set the mood.

"Oh… morning, Harry…" she muttered back weakly, obviously not really paying him any sort of attention. She seemed to have something else on her mind.

"Something on your mind, Hermione? You seem to be a little… despondent this morning," he asked, settling down on the bench in front of her.

"… Despondent?" she replied, her eyes flickering ever so slightly with a spark of humor. "Where'd you find that word, the Queen's English Dictionary?"

"No, I did not, but thank you for noticing. I've been trying to use a more formal language lately in order to appear more mature, and I haven't really gotten any sort of substantial feedback before now."

"Harry, we are fifteen."

"Physically, yes."

Sighing, she lowered her head and let it rest against the wooden table.

"You are one weird boy, Harry."

"I believe you have told me so multiple times already."

"You are trying to sound mature again, aren't you?"

"Aye aye, captain."

That managed to elicit a small chuckle, so Harry noted it down as a success.

"Argh... I just wish I could get rid of this stupid headache that's been plaguing me for the past couple of hours," she exhaled weakly, using a hand to gently massage her temples.

"I think I might be able to help with that," Harry replied, pulling out his wand from inside his robes.

"You think?" Hermione said, lifting her head up so she could get a better look at what he was doing.

"Just sit… completely… still," he responded, pointing the tip of his wand towards her forehead. "Reparifors!"

It took a second for the spell to kick in, but once it did, Hermione felt her headache slowly mutter out and fade away.

"Wow... That's amazing! But... I thought the Reparifors spell only healed magically-induced ailments?" she mused, rubbing the side of her head to double check that the headache was indeed gone.

"Yeah, that's what I originally thought too. But apparently, it recognizes headaches as "magical", and works on those as well. We have magical headaches, Hermione."

"Well... That's a little… weird? But hey, as long as it works, it's fine by me. Thank you!"

"You are more than welcome."

The mood lightened up a little at that, with Hermione's headache gone and her mind cleared. The downside to this, of course, was that she finally remembered what had happened in the library.

"You still owe me an explanation, you know," she started, bringing up the topic as casually as she could. "An explanation as to what happened in the library the other day."

Letting out a sigh, Harry let his head fall into his hands. This time, it was his turn to rub his temples in exasperation.

"I know, I know… It's just that… well, it's more complicated than you think," he replied, avoiding eye contact by staring at the table instead.

"Oh? How so?" she continued, making her intentions as clear as possible. She wanted to know what had really happened, what the source of the outburst was.

"You see… uhm, how do I put this… I think I might have a minor… condition… that is... well, of an unusual nature."

"And this condition would be…?"

"I think I might be an Obscurial."

It took her a moment to realize that he was not actually joking.

"You think… you have an Obscurus growing inside of you?"

"Correct."

"And you've known about this for how long?"

"A couple of months, I think."

"And you haven't told anyone or tried to get help?"

"No."

The rush of anger came out of nowhere, and caught both her and Harry by complete surprise.

"WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING, HARRY?"

The sudden outburst caught the attention of all of the students currently present in The Great Hall, and Hermione suddenly felt a whole lot of eyes shifting towards them.

"Great work, Hermione, you just got yourself an audience," Harry replied through gritted teeth, his eyes burning with frustration.

"I'm sorry..." she muttered weakly, lowering her head in shame. It wasn't like her to explode like that. The news had just been too much.

"It's… fine…" he breathed, using Occlumency to calm himself down. He had secretly been practicing his skills in the Mind Arts for several months now, and had gotten quite good at it. Well, at least as good as a 15-year-old boy currently going through puberty could get. He was probably no match for any wizard actually trained in the field. "We'll talk more about this later, ok? For now, we keep it between us."

Despite having obvious objections to this decision, she decided to go with it regardless. She could tell that it was not up for debate, at least not in front of all the other students.

"Ok..."

Charms Class

Fuck.

Harry had known that telling Hermione about his Obscurial-condition would be a mistake. She was bound to freak out over news like that, as she had so gracefully displayed in the Great Hall. There was no way she would be able to think about it rationally now, which would most likely lead to her acting on her emotions rather than her logic. That could spell disaster for Harry and his future plans.

If Dumbledore finds out about this, he'll most likely push to get me admitted into St. Mungo's. Needless to say, I don't have time for that. I have research to do, magic to learn. Being stuck in that dreadful hospital will only work to halt my progress. Hell, if I actually am an Obscurial, that might just be the tipping point.

He knew he had to find a way to convince Hermione to keep it secret. The first thing he had thought of was to use the Obliviate spell on her to make her forget all about the conversation, but, seeing as Obliviation was a tricky thing to get right, it carried with it the chance of backfiring heavily if he messed up. And, despite his current frustration, he didn't really want to fry his only friend's brain like a hotdog by mistake, and turn her into a complete potato.

The second idea had been to blackmail her into submission, but that would most likely just result in the opposite of the desired effect, and make her go to Dumbledore even faster. And what kind of leverage did he really have on her, anyway? That she sometimes chewed her food with her mouth open?

And finally, the third and last idea had been to sexually dominate her to the point where she would willingly surrender herself to him and listen to his every command. And whilst the idea had invoked a rather strong reaction from his rapidly evolving libido, even a horny teenager with minimal brain capacity could see that something like that would most likely only result in a magical restraining order.

The whole thing truly was the definition of a tricky situation, and tricky situations annoyed Harry to no end. He liked it best when everything went according to a clear plan, with little to no deviation. Tricky situations certainly did not fit in with that mindset. They didn't fit into anything at all, actually.

"Mr. Potter, if you would please pay attention to what is happening in class, rather than your daydreams, that would be great," Professor Flitwick suddenly chimed, derailing Harry's train of thought.

"Of course, Professor," he replied, keeping his annoyance hidden beneath a sweet tone of voice. Flitwick was one of the only Professors at Hogwarts that Harry genuinely had no problem with. People like McGonagall and Trelawney, he usually tried to avoid interacting with as much as possible. Not to mention Snape, the salty Potions Master that seemed to hate Harry with every fiber of his being, despite Harry having done absolutely nothing to warrant such resentment.

"Thank you, Harry. Now, if you would all please turn your books to page 254, where we will be reading about the Lumos Maxima spell…"

Once the Professor switched back into "teacher mode", Harry promptly continued to stare absentmindedly out the window. Most of what was being taught, he already knew from before, and what he missed, he could always catch up on later in the library. He worked best when he wasn't surrounded by halfwits, too.

Slytherin Common Room

Draco Malfoy ate his lunch in petulant silence, contemplating ways he could punish Potter for disrespecting him and making him look like a fool in front of his subordinates. The young wizard posed a threat to everything Draco valued; power, respect and control over his fellow students. And he'd be damned if he was going to let some arrogant little prick like Potter stomp on his pride and reputation. Luckily enough for him, in the latest letter he had received from his Father, Lucius had told him that he had plans to "remove" Potter from the playing field relatively soon, rightfully restoring Draco's earlier status as the most dangerous Third Year at Hogwarts. That letter couldn't have come at a better time, actually, as Draco was starting to feel more and more annoyed by the day. Finally, he knew for a fact that Potter was going to get what was coming to him. His Father always followed up on his promises, after all.

Just you wait, Potter. Father is going to punish you in ways that you can't even imagine for daring to hurt a member of the Malfoy family. You will regret ever being born, you filthy Mudblood.

Despite calling him a Mudblood, Draco was acutely aware of the fact that Harry was actually no such thing.

What Draco wasn't aware of, however, was what Lucius had planned for the young boy. In his mind, his Father might spread some propaganda about the Potter family in The Daily Prophet, maybe get some Sixth or Seventh Years to beat the crap out of him, or poison his food to give him a hard case of the flu. He could never imagine that he would actually go so far as to actively attempt to take Potter's life. This, however, was more the result of Draco's childish mind and ignorance, rather than any sort of sympathy or goodwill for the boy.

Rubbing his hands together in childish glee, Draco couldn't help but smile at the thought of Potter ridiculed in front of everyone at Hogwarts. And, as visions of Harry walking down the middle of the Great Hall in nothing but his underwear filled his mind, he completely forgot to think about the fact that he had yet to finish his lunch, or that class was about to start.

Needless to say, Draco missed Flying class that day.

The Hogwarts Library

Harry had always preferred to conduct his studies in the library, but today, it was proving to be much harder than usual to focus on his schoolwork. This had more to do with the worried looks Hermione kept shooting him from across the table than anything else, though.

"Hermione, you're doing it again," he droned, letting out an internal sigh as he caught her red-handed in the act for the hundredth time that evening.

"Oh… I'm sorry, I just… well, I can't stop thinking about it," she answered, letting out a sigh of her own, only this one being very long and very audible instead of internal.

"Well, I understand that it must be hard for you to know that I am practically the living incarnation of a ticking atom bomb, but please try to focus on your own studies rather than me."

"You know, saying it like that really doesn't help," she replied with a deadpan stare.

"Look, Hermione, I'm not going to sugarcoat it. Whatever is happening to me is a very serious thing that must be dealt with as soon as possible, lest we risk letting a potential Obscurus loose inside Hogwarts. But constantly worrying about it isn't going to solve anything. In fact, it will only serve to disturb you from your schoolwork, and cause your grades to drop."

When in doubt, Harry always resorted to appealing to Hermione's studious nature, which in most cases had proven to be a rather effective conversation tactic. This time was no different, as he could practically see Hermione returning to her senses as horrible thoughts of getting an Exceeds Expectations instead of an Outstanding on her OWL's filled her head.

"Yeah… I… I guess you're right, maybe I am overreacting," she finally admitted, her mouth drawn into a strict line, bringing forth the expression she always wore whenever she knew she had lost an argument. Harry knew from before, of course, that she hated losing an argument just as much as he did, but this time, he couldn't afford to give her the victory. He had to make her see things his way. It was the only solution.

In addition, despite having to constantly deal with Harry's incredibly rational approach to most situations and problems, he knew that, deep inside, she loved having debates like this with him. It was a way for them to measure their intellect, to hone their skills against one another as fellow students and wizards. And deep inside, however much he hated to admit it, Harry knew he felt the exact same way. Hogwarts definitely would have been a much more boring place without Hermione in it, if nothing else.

"But you have to promise me that you'll look for a way to fix this," she suddenly said, locking him with an ironclad stare that left no room for negotiation.

"Of course. You think I want to blow up and lose control?" he replied, a hint of sarcasm coloring his voice.

"No, I wouldn't think so, but you never know with you."

"Touché."

"Thank you."

They returned to their studies once again, and the well-known aura of silence and concentration that usually surrounded their table came back and embraced the both of them. This blessed silence did not last long, however, as a House Elf magically appeared in front of Harry only moments later.

"Harry Potter, a package addressed to you has shown up in the message box. It has been delivered to your room, sir," the House Elf piped, looking up at him with a mix of admiration and genuine happiness. Needless to say, the look freaked him out. No one should feel happy living under the slave-like conditions that the House Elves did, and yet they never complained, and always treated you like you had royal blood flowing through your veins.

"Thank you, House Elf. Take this as thanks for your service," Harry answered, bringing forth a Galleon from his pockets. He had made it a habit to always reward the House Elves whenever they did something for him, mostly just due to the fact that he felt uncomfortable with them slaving away for him with little to no compensation. It reminded him too much of the slavery that had existed in the earlier days of America and Africa, where the blacks had been forced to work for the whites under horrible conditions.

"For me?" the House Elf replied, tears welling up in his eyes.

"Yes, take it. You deserve it."

"You are a very kind person, Harry Potter. I promise you we will not forget how you treated us once you leave Hogwarts," the little creature sobbed, using his dirty rags to wipe away the tears that rolled down his cheeks. And then, with a poof, he disappeared into thin air, as if he had never even been there in the first place.

Looking up, Harry was surprised to find Hermione sending him a warm smile from her seat across the table.

"Even if you are a lost cause, you're still capable of doing good deeds, Harry," she said, her eyes twinkling ever so slightly in the afternoon light. Harry couldn't help but feel a twinge of compassion flare up in his chest at the sight of it.

"Oh, get lost," he replied, rolling his eyes and diverting his attention back to his books again, ignoring the burning sensation in his chest as if it wasn't even there.

Ravenclaw Tower

On first notice, the package he had received didn't exactly look like much. It had been crudely wrapped in dark-brown paper of low quality, with a tiny white sticker carrying his name haphazardly slapped onto the side. It looked like something your friendly neighborhood cocaine dealer might ship his merchandise in, which only helped add to its suspicious nature. Who in the world had sent him this package? Could it be one of his fans?

Harry was well aware of the fact that he held something of a celebrity status in the wizarding world due to his ability to survive the Dark Lord's Killing Curse all those years ago. He was also aware that the scar on his forehead was a surefire way of identifying him in public, which is why he usually covered it up with magic whenever he went somewhere outside of Hogwarts. But he had never received a package from any of his admirers before, so this was something of a first to him.

Upon closer inspection, however, it became obvious that this was not an ordinary package. It gave off a chilling, almost evil aura, and Harry felt certain that whatever was inside had to be of Dark origin. It carried with it the distinct aftertaste of Dark Magic, after all, the very feeling of it imbued into the wrapping paper.

In fact, all of the light in the boys' dorm seemed to darken slightly whilst the package was present, only further strengthening Harry's belief that this was not something to be opened lightly.

Alas, if this was indeed an assassination attempt, it was a damn clever one, because the perpetrators obviously knew about Harry's burning curiosity of the unknown. Every fiber of his being ached to open the package, to reveal the mystery inside. His insatiable need for knowledge rose to nearly uncontrollable heights, nibbling away at the corner of his thoughts, always present, always hungry. After fighting an uphill battle against his own mind for what felt like an eternity, Harry finally gave in to temptation, and approached the package with a letter knife in hand. He couldn't resist the urge; he had to know what was inside.

Immediately upon slicing open the top of the package, Harry could feel the overwhelming presence of Dark Magic emanating from within. Whatever was inside this thing was evil to the bone, and he felt sure that a single misstep could cost him his life. Harry had only felt this type of aura once before, during the night Lord Voldemort had come to Godric's Hollow to end his existence. The night where his parents had fallen in an effort to protect him, to protect their son.

Harry knew he should stop, knew that the malice coming from the package was indicative of great danger and all sorts of curses. But he had lost all control at this point. He was like a child on Christmas morning, eagerly unwrapping his present, unable to hold back his anticipation.

After getting rid of the wrapping paper, he was left with what looked to be a completely ordinary cardboard box. There was nothing inherently magical or special about it, if one ignored the radiating presence of death itself, of course. Still, Harry couldn't help but think that perhaps what was inside wasn't as evil as he had first imagined.

Going in for a daring peak through the tiny slit that separated the two flaps of cardboard, he caught sight of what looked like ancient paper wrapped in crude leather. It only took him a moment to realize what it was he was staring at.

It's a book.

Opening up the box, Harry carefully lowered his hands into its confines, and grabbed hold of the old book.

Immediately upon touching its leather cover, jolts of what felt like electricity shot up through his fingers, setting his nerve-endings on fire as they made their way through his body. Every strand of hair on his arms jutted out like razorblades, standing on edge as the aftershock raked through his now stiff muscles.

Foreign whispers belonging to unknown souls filled his head as his hands, moving on their own, gently stroked the ancient tome as if it was some sort of prized possession. The light from a nearby lamp cast itself over its front side, revealing long, crooked letters arranged into two words that seemed to suck all notion of happiness and joy out of the world:

Daemonis Magicka.

This is wrong.

I can't do this.

This book is dark.

So very dark.

The words written on these pages shouldn't be read.

New thoughts manifested themselves amongst the preexisting ones, popping up in his head like whack-a-moles at an arcade machine, except that the moles were beating hearts, and the hammer used to smash them was a bloodstained huntsman axe.

I need to hide this.

Nobody can know this exists.

It's an abomination.

I can't show this to anyone.

It must remain secret.

I must take this book with me to the grave.

Suddenly, a lone tear ran down his chin, leaving a wet trail as it streaked across his face. Apparently, he had been staring so intently at the book that he had forgotten to blink, causing his eyes to burn and water over. This, however, had actually been a good thing, as it broke the trance he had been stuck in.

With renewed vigor, Harry violently threw the book across the room, a strong desire to get as far away from it as possible erupting in his chest. He couldn't stand to look at it for another minute, lest he risk losing his sanity. Only one thought remained in his head: he had to hide this book as best he could, keep it secret from everyone and everything, even God himself if such a being actually existed.

Hermione can't know.

Hermione can't know.

Malfoy Manor

Time was an abstract and weird thing. It could appear to pass faster than it was supposed to, whenever the mind was occupied with other tasks and not paying attention to it. It could also appear to go considerably slower than normal, which was exactly what Lucius Malfoy was experiencing at this very moment.

The past couple of days had felt more like weeks to him, as he impatiently awaited news of Harry Potter's demise. By now, the artifact should have arrived at Hogwarts, and be in Potter's possession. This meant that it was only a matter of time before the darkness residing in it eventually got the better of the boy, and claimed his life.

Lucius couldn't wait. The Dark Lord, if his supposedly immortal soul still lingered in this world, would be so proud of him when he heard of his success. Perhaps he would grant him a country of his own once they inevitably took control of every wizarding community in existence. Lord Voldemort was, after all, the strongest wizard to have ever lived, apart from Merlin himself, of course. And who could hope to stand against them once the Boy-Who-Lived was dead and buried? Who would have the strength to stop them?

Still, Lucius had yet to receive news about Harry Potter, or any of his friends, for that matter. Not that it appeared he had many. According to Draco, the only person the Potter boy ever spent any considerable amount of time with was the Mudblood girl Hermione Granger, and that was only because they were both at the top of their class, and had nobody else to compare themselves to.

Originally, Lucius had expected Harry to be surrounded by people, and have many associates in which he placed his trust. But that didn't appear to be the case. Harry was, at least if Draco's words were anything to go by, considered to be quite the sociopath by his fellow peers. Most avoided him like the plague; his cold gaze and downright hostile attitude a great repellant for anyone interested in befriending him.

This had surprised Lucius greatly, as he never would have guessed that the son of Lily and James Potter would turn out to be an antisocial introvert. Not that it really mattered, however. If everything went according to plan, the boy would be dead by the end of the week. All Lucius had to do now was wait for the good news.

Yes, everything required of him now was patience. He had done his part of the job. Now, the rest was up to the artifact itself. Evil as that wretched thing was, Lucius had no doubt that it would eventually claim the boy's life, like it had with its previous owners.

With these thoughts in mind, he finally closed his eyes and went on to have a good night's sleep for the first time in the past three days. His slumber was dreamless and carefree.

Headmaster's Office

Dumbledore squinted his eyes as he focused his senses on the location of the abnormality he had felt appear and vanish again just moments earlier. It had been nothing but a brief hint of darkness, rapidly overshadowed by the strong aura of the castle itself, but it had caught his attention nonetheless. According to his well-trained sense of direction, the oddity had originated from Ravenclaw Tower, and more specifically, from the boys' dorm. Again, it had been nothing but a speck of dust in an otherwise endless sea of magical energy, but for some reason, it bothered Albus to no end. Like for a short period of time, an object that was not meant to exist in this world had crossed through the boundary between the dimensions and popped up right here in his castle, before disappearing again just as rapidly.

"Is something the matter, Albus?" Minerva McGonagall asked, addressing him in her usual, informal way.

"Oh, nothing to worry about. I just had… well, what I would call a rather odd little hunch, that's all," Dumbledore replied with a reassuring smile, reaching forwards to grab a Sherbet Lemon from the goblet resting at the front of his desk.

"Are you sure?" the old Professor droned, a hint of worry entering her voice. She knew perfectly well how Albus sometimes portrayed issues as small annoyances rather than taking them at face value, and would therefore not be fooled into ignoring any problem, no matter its scale or importance.

"Trust me, Minerva, there is nothing wrong. In fact, the problem seems to have resolved itself, so there is no need for us to act."

A moment of silence filled the air between them, before she opened her mouth to respond.

"All right, if you say so."

She then went back to talking about the curriculum for the Forth Years in Transfiguration like she had been doing before Dumbledore zoned out, with Albus pretending to listen by putting on a smile and occasionally nodding. His thoughts, however, were elsewhere, namely on the topic of the disturbance he had felt.

Resolved itself, huh…

A/N: Read and review!