(Author Note: This is a retelling of Liquida Tenebris in honour of its tenth anniversary. It is completely stand-alone and does not relate to any of the other stories, sequels, or one-shots on my profile.

I have decided to leave the original LT on my page for nostalgia's sake, but it is not necessary, nor do I recommend that you read it. I was quite young when I wrote it the first time, and I didn't have the skills or discipline that I do now.

If you have read Liquida Tenebris before, hello. How incredible to see you again. Please allow me to reintroduce myself. You can expect a completely revamped and thicker plot.

If you haven't read LT before, welcome. Please allow me to introduce myself.

Trigger Warnings: This fanfiction contains graphic depictions of violence, gore, torture, murder, and sex. It deals with dark themes such as self-harm, suicidal ideation, and mental breaks. It features an eventual Dark!Harry with an (extremely eventual) Tom Riddle/Harry Potter pairing. Consider this a blanket warning, but I will place individual warnings at the beginning of chapters with particularly triggering scenes.

This fiction is primarily a love letter to my future self and my one true pairing, the Mount Everest of enemies to lovers.)

No Jesus Christ, Seether

You're so quick to choose the path walked by the righteous
So you can go and nest among the weak.
And the innocent observers will refuse to find the lie within
Renew the disappointment of the meek.

'I killed Sirius Black! I killed Sirius Black!' Once again, without warning, the gloating, high-pitched voice of Bellatrix Lestrange rang in his head. The Boy Who Lived shook himself and refocused on his aunt's immaculate front garden. The tedious and repetitive tasks were his least favourite, his mind prone to wandering back into that Atrium, back to the veil and the madness that followed. He plucked at minuscule weeds and focused on the sun beating down on his back. He'd rather be doing something that required more active attention, but, as with every enforced return to the Dursleys, he had been working like a dog through the break and was running low on complex tasks.

'… Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…' Harry shook his head with more violence than before and stood from his kneeling position. There was nothing more to be done for the garden. He turned to face the sun and sighed, noting that he'd spent hours in the dirt, and it wouldn't be long before he was alone with his thoughts. Nights were the worst. Without distractions, the previous weeks would roll through his head on a loop. His days at the Dursleys were never pleasant, but this time, more than ever, he counted the seconds until he returned to Hogwarts. To his family.

He went inside and said nothing to Petunia as he passed her, which had become customary. Harry had noticed her watching him with more interest, which he guessed had something to do with his sunken eyes, pallid features, and skeletal frame. Food and sleep had become something intangible to Harry James Potter. As he opened the refrigerator to prepare a meal for the Dursleys, his stomach revolted at the mere thought of dinner. He prepared a salad and well-done steaks for his blood relatives, his thoughts once again moving towards Sirius as he plated and served the food, an unrelenting lump in his throat as he silently excused himself to his room.

He took the stairs two at a time, relying more on his arms, legs, and muscle memory to guide him than on his tunnelled sight. He closed the door behind him and fell against it, his vision swimming, blood pounding in his ears as he tried to settle himself. Hedwig hooted softly at him from her cage, tearing his eyes from the carpet to the bird. He moved toward her, petting her through the bars absently as he attempted to steady his breathing.

'…And the Dark Lord will mark him as equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not…' Harry stepped away from the bird with a jerk and moved to the window instead, staring down at Privet Drive and willing an escape to appear. The quiet street mocked him for some minutes; he couldn't guess how many, before he paced back to his trunk and took out the letters he'd received from his friends throughout his enforced stay at the Dursleys. And reread them as he did every night.

Ron's messy scrawl bled together on the parchment as tears blurred his eyes. Ron had only discussed light topics, avoiding Sirius' death and the events prior. Hermione had gone the route of endless placating, worrying, needling, in neat script with meticulous punctuation, always an attempt to reassure him, but the letters only served to dredge it from where he'd tried to hide it away. Hers were harder to read.

'I killed Sirius Black! I killed Sirius Black!' Her maniacal laugh rang out ahead of him as he chased her wordlessly, thoughtlessly, through the Atrium of the Ministry. He could hear the fighting, spells ringing out, the roaring of flames, and the screams and yells of his friends and his enemies alike. He heard them like one might hear underwater. The only sound he heard with crystalline clarity was that of Bellatrix Lestrange.

When she finally turned to face him, eyes bulging, teeth gnashing in a wild smile, as Harry slid to a stop.

'Aww, did you love him, itty baby Potter?" She cooed, dramatically shushing him with her hand.

It couldn't have taken more than one beat of his heart, but it stretched as their eyes locked. A roaring, white-hot rage was thundering in his chest, his vision tunnelled, and he panted once, twice. His wand raised, no recollection of it. Time felt slowed to a crawl, his blood pounding with the pressure in his head, in his chest. He was screaming, howling, he realised.

Bellatrix hesitated, a blink with a step back. She had drawn her wand an instant after Harry had, but she did not curse him. She jerked her chin at him defiantly, a warning or a dare. Harry's thoughts were razed in the blaze of his fury, incomprehensible and irrelevant, his connection to his limbs and mouth severed, his motions and actions fuelled by a primal drive.

And so, Harry broke the stalemate. Pushed by his vengeance and, in hindsight, something much darker.

Harry shot up from his bed as though doused in ice water, drenched in sweat and panting; he slid to the floor. He didn't need to look in the mirror to know he was paler than usual. He stripped his shirt in an effort to cool off and locked eyes again with Hedwig. She ruffled her feathers, agitated with her cage and stressed by Harry's frequent panic attacks. He stood and unlatched her cage, sending her out the window into the night. He shut off his light, but instead of the bed, he again lowered himself to the carpet.

Lying in his bed had the most detrimental effect, he'd noted. His head hit the pillow and the ground running, leaving no room for anything other than Bellatrix Lestrange, the Prophecy, Sirius, and how the moment he'd cast that spell… No. He wasn't thinking about it. He wasn't thinking about it. He bit the inside of his cheeks as he stood and paced, deciding the floor was also undesirable. Each time he crossed his cramped space, he glanced out the window, willing an event, anything other than the liminal space that haunted him through the glass.

Harry had no desire to check the time these nights. Minutes would drag into centuries as he willed them faster, and he had stopped minding any clock quite quickly. The nights went no faster, regardless. The Boy Who Lived cycled through grief, rage, regret, and boredom, pacing, sitting, and reading through the nights until exhaustion took him, sometime in the small hours of the morning. The purple haze of dawn lulled him into an uneasy unconsciousness. Most often, sleep claimed him on the floor.

'…And either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives…'

The Chosen One awoke with a start, angrily shaking his head. He got up from the floor and let his owl and another into his space. The golden morning light told him that he had slept very little, exhaustion becoming part of the fabric of his being. He took the letter offered by the second owl, one he did not recognise, and it flew from the window before he'd looked down at the parchment.

A letter from the headmaster stated that he was to be brought to the Burrow by Dumbledore himself in three days on Friday night. Any relief he felt was muted, doused by the events he desperately regretted. He was grateful for the glimmer of hope, regardless.

Come Friday night, Harry was more restless than usual. His thoughts raced as normal, but they were blessedly dispersed with the knowledge that tonight, he would at least be free of this room, if not the turmoil. The dark-haired teen watched the street exclusively as he waited. unlike the nights before, something would finally interrupt the monotonous and agonising stretch between dusk and dawn. He hadn't warned his relatives, unable or unwilling to summon the strength required to use his voice and certainly avoiding the chaos that would ensue among the Dursleys if he announced the headmaster's imminent arrival.

So, he waited as his blood relatives turned in for the night, heralded by the flipping of light switches and the quiet closing of doors, signalling to Harry that it was between nine and ten PM.

He stood leaning his forehead against the glass, eyes unfocused as he watched the repetitive houses that lined the repetitive street. His neighbour's lights were extinguished one by one. Slowly, at first, then faster as the hour wore late, patches of warmth receded until the street was only lit by the dim blue of the interspersed streetlights.

'…The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…' His jaw tightened as the prophecy entered his thoughts unbidden. A lump formed in his throat at the thought of Sirius, the thought of him falling backwards into the veil, his face still smiling, eyes wide. Bellatrix Lestrange was not far behind these thoughts, but he forced them away. He would not, could not consider her. He felt, he knew, if he let himself think about the events that followed the murder of his Godfather, he would slip into the yawning abyss that he had been skirting for weeks.

Harry realised that the lawn he'd been staring at for hours was no longer empty, and his eyes bugged as he watched his headmaster move leisurely down the Dursley's footpath for a moment before he flung his messily packed trunk closed, startling Hedwig, who had spent most of her night indignant at her lack of freedom.

By the night's end, Harry was confident that he wouldn't long for another break in his monotony anytime soon. Dumbledore had made a spectacle in the living room, distressing and shaming the Dursleys, seemingly for Harry's benefit. It had mildly lifted his mood, but all events thereafter only served to sour it further. The headmaster discussed his godfather's will with him, declaring him the new owner of the Order Headquarters, number twelve Grimmauld Place, its house elf, and Buckbeak, who Harry decided should be with Hagrid. Harry and Dumbledore had ensured that the house elf, Kreacher, was indeed loyal to the Boy Who Lived, and after confirmation, the house elf was sent to Hogwarts to work in the kitchens. The Boy Who Lived had immediately noticed that the headmaster's left arm was charred and shrivelled. The man dodged all questions throughout the night and into the morning, but Harry didn't stop inquiring.

The headmaster further admonished the Dursleys for their treatment of Harry on their way out and told them that when he returned, it would be for the final time, coinciding with his seventeenth birthday. That thought had roused him from the horror of recent happenings, if only momentarily.

Instead of side-along Apparating him straight to the Burrow, they landed in a street he didn't recognise. He soon learned he was being recruited to convince a man named Horace Slughorn to take a position at Hogwarts. Having successfully and unknowingly completed the task, he was finally transported to the Weasley house in the early morning hours. Dumbledore informed him before he left the Burrow that he wanted to see Harry for private lessons as soon as the school year commenced but didn't specify the nature of the lessons.

He had been warmly greeted, regardless of the sombre undertones. He had not slept as he'd hoped. When breakfast was served that morning, Harry moved his food around his plate, feeling everyone's eyes on him and ignoring them.

He, of course, had been asked repeatedly if he was alright.

How was he feeling?

He watched his fork move the expertly cooked bacon into the over-easy eggs. He knew it looked delicious, that Molly Weasley had perfected her craft with abundant care and affection; he knew that he should eat. When he thought about it, when was the last time he'd eaten more than half an apple when the pangs wrung his gut? Still, he moved the food, not looking up, barely looking down.

How was he feeling?

He wondered how unhinged he would become if he answered the insistent question honestly. Harry had replied with silence, thus far, when asked. The questioner would invariably nod, apologise, and then double down on the inquisition at a later time.

How was he feeling?

A question he'd avoided asking himself at any cost. When his mind wandered too close to what he could only describe as a cliff, a precipice, with no discernible bottom or end, A yawning, hungry mouth in the middle of his head, he was not above inflicting pain on himself to distract from it. Biting the insides of his mouth until he tasted iron, gripping his hair, nails dug tight into the palms of his hands, drawing blood. On one occasion, he had bitten himself with an unbidden ferocity on the inside of his upper left arm. The pain had been, more than once, the only thing stopping him from dancing too close to the edge.

In the depths of the abyss, he knew he'd find the moments he'd endured with Bellatrix in the ministry, the memory reaching for him from within it like tendrils, dragging him in when he was tired. When he tried to rest. He would find those moments there—those, and something else.

He dug the fingernails of his free hand into his thigh and tightened his jaw.

How was he feeling?

He stood from the table with more force than necessary, killing any quiet conversation that had been taking place.

"Sorry," he muttered, excusing himself. He was tired, he'd said. Sorry again.

They had let him go, whispering in his wake, the concern following him like a poltergeist up the stairs and into Ron's bedroom. The Boy Who Lived collapsed face-first into his makeshift bed on the floor and screamed himself raw into his pillow. He was sure the Weasleys would have heard him, however muffled, but there was no stopping once he'd started.

'…The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…'

Days passed in much the same way at the Burrow. The familiar rhythm of the Weasley house went a little way toward soothing Harry's mind at first. He had begun sleeping sporadically throughout the night and taking small amounts of his meals.

He had talked with his friends, though he had little to say, making the conversation stiff. He had admonished Hermione and, by proxy, everyone else in the room and told them he was not to be asked how he was feeling. He had said this loudly. He hadn't directed this at Ron or Ginny because much to his relief, they hadn't asked. Ginny had watched him with knowing, sad eyes during his outburst.

Their O.W.L results had been delivered the morning of Harry's arrival at the Burrow, and Harry and Ron had received seven O. each, whereas Hermione earned herself ten. Harry had been elected quidditch captain, earning whoops and cheers from Ron and Ginny. The Boy Who Lived was pleased with this, but it felt so far away at that moment that it was only a marginal improvement.

Any plans the Boy Who Lived had of becoming an Auror were dashed by Snape, with the revelation that Harry would not be able to take N.E.W.T level potions with only an exceeds expectations. The Chosen One felt little more than a twinge of disappointment at this news. His plans felt small.

Harry realized with quickness that sleeping for more than an hour at a time increased the risk of completing his recurrent nightmare. When he slept, he lost his defences, and without them, he would fall back into his memory of that night with painful clarity. The look on Sirius' face, then the look on Bellatrix's, when he'd cornered her and raised his wand.

Each time, the dream would shock him awake, bolt upright and panting, glad of Ron's tendency to sleep unreasonably deeply, even through the moments afterwards, where he couldn't slow his breathing, when his throat closed, and his body moved off its own accord, fleeing what was inside his head. He had avoided the memories that followed with ferocious effort, but when he was unconscious, his mind took the express track, flashing through the murder, the chase, and the stalemate, rushing to the seconds after and stretching them as though savouring them.

'Aww, did you love him, itty baby Potter?"

He could no longer hear anything but the rush of blood in his ears, the static haze of his screaming. His vision was on a tilt-a-whirl, eyes swimming with tears, arms and legs numb. No thoughts.

"You've got to mean it, Harry. You know the spell." A voice behind him said.

Harry Potter raised his wand and cast the Cruciatus Curse.