LUX IN TENEBRIS LUCET (ORIGINAL VERSION)

CHAPTER 2:

THE NOT-SO IMAGINARY FRIEND

Halloween, 1987.

Harry Potter, seven years old, was having a dream. He had had strange dreams before. One was of a flying motorcycle, and of a giant man driving it. Another, more of a nightmare, really, involved a woman's screams, a high-pitched laugh, and a strobe of green light.

This one was…strange. He didn't know what to make of it, only that it felt…real. Even more so than the dreams he thought were real. And yet, there was something so strange about it.

The landscape itself wasn't so strange. It was a hill, with a tree, and attached to that tree was a swing. But the landscape was suffused with an eerie orange light that pushed at the senses oppressively, like a sapping humidity turned into light. And the lone occupant of this realm was strange herself.

She was a girl about his age, or maybe a little older, dressed in a dark red dress, with shiny black hair hanging around her face. Her skin was pale, even grey, and she was still, unnaturally so.

He had frozen upon spotting her, instincts screaming at him somehow that she was dangerous, that she shouldn't be approached. But before he could leave, her face turned to him. Glowing orange eyes regarded him from a rather impassive, if pretty, face.

For a moment, they watched each other, before Harry broke the silence. "H-h-hello," he stammered.

Once more, silence reigned for perhaps too long. Then, he heard her speak, her voice hissing out of the air, echoing. Who are you?

"I-I-I'm Harry Potter," he stammered. Why was this girl so frightening? Why did she frighten him more than the Dursleys?

She regarded him for a moment more, before she got off the swing, and approached him, skipping lightly. It was a strangely normal bit of locomotion for the girl, and yet, it still unnerved Harry. She stopped in front of him, and peered at him. Alma Wade, she said. Her lips didn't so much as move, and yet, her voice slid into his mind. Her voice was quiet and eerie, with a faint echo to it.

Without thinking, he blurted, "You're pretty."

Her scrutiny with those glowing orange eyes after he said that proved uncomfortable. She didn't even blink. It felt like she was a scientist, examining every detail of a rather unpromising biological specimen. Like every second of his life was on display to the girl in the red dress.

Eventually, the smallest of smiles appeared on her face, a fragile, almost shy thing. He would see many smiles on that face over the years to come, but this first one was the best. It meant that she was genuinely happy. It was rare, he would come to learn, that she smiled like this. Her life meant that she had little to smile about.

Do you want to play? she asked.

Timidly, Harry nodded. But in doing so, he got his first friend.

There was something about the boy, Alma thought to herself. Something about him that had called out to her in her imprisonment. For the longest time, she raged and ranted within the confines of her own mind. It had been two months since she was imprisoned in the Vault, but it felt more like two millennia. While technically she was unconscious, in reality, all that Armacham, that her father had managed to do, was lock her up within her own mind. And she couldn't really do anything about it. At best, she could sense what was going on outside the Vault, dimly. Occasionally, she could enter the minds of others, but those only happened in flashes, and in any case, what she found in their minds disgusted her.

But by chance, her mind somehow connected to this boy's. Why was that? She would have to look into it further. In fact, he had approached her, entering her mindscape from his dreams. They must've connected already in some manner or other.

As was her customary procedure, she looked through his memories. And what she found disgusted her, but for different reasons. That these animals treated him like that…it reminded her somewhat of her own life, only Harry didn't fight back. He wasn't psychic, or at least not on the same level as she was. She did note the curious reactions his relatives had to the word magic. And they had called him freak. It had even been his name until school, and they told him his real name.

Alma Wade knew anger, and she knew hatred. The boy, while he did hate his relatives, and felt angry and bitter towards them, was more afraid of them than anything else. But there was something else that called out to her. The desire for a friend.

Alma didn't have friends during her experience. She didn't quite have the knack. Of course, being part of Project Origin scuppered that. And those scientists, looking upon her as an experimental subject at best, and at worst, a monster…oh, they claimed otherwise, but their thoughts didn't lie.

Harry was frightened of her. They all had been, even the kids who were part of Project Origin. But he had blurted out that compliment. It was said in terror, but it was sincere. Only her mother had called her pretty with any sincerity, and she was dead.

Simple sincerity, albeit spoken out of fear, had gotten through to Alma where hollow praise and insincere encouragement hadn't. And she felt his desire for a friend, a desire she herself possessed, but had never acknowledged until now.

There was something else about him, though. Something that disturbed Alma, and there were few things that could truly disturb her. She could sense something dark, leeching off him. And it seemed centred around his scar…

Christmas Day, 1987.

Christmas was a time for celebration, happiness, and overindulgence in the Dursley household. Unless, of course, your name happened to be Harry Potter, and the Dursleys never let him forget it. That being said, Harry was relieved that he was never made to cook the Christmas meal. Petunia didn't quite trust him to cook such a luscious feast, although whether that was doubt in Harry's cooking ability or fear that he would steal some of it, Harry didn't know.

He was given a token meal, and then sent back to his cupboard while they celebrated. Harry didn't mind. It meant he could meet Alma again.

She was still scary, but she began to be nicer to him. They played games in her mind, talked about their lives, or what they had of them. She still looked like some scary stringy-haired ghost girl, though, and she always spoke without moving her lips. But she was his only friend. It wasn't like Dudley could scare her away, or that the Dursleys could drip poisonous lies into her ear.

He found it all so fantastic. She was a psychic, and a powerful one. But one who had been experimented upon by Armacham. The name wasn't familiar to Harry, partly because he was a bit young to know about many corporations, and partly because Armacham didn't have much influence in the UK. But she was imprisoned, locked away like a princess in a tower, if said tower was a life-support tank with psychic insulation.

As bad as his life had been, it had been luxury compared to Alma's. Oh, Alma had been treated better for much of it, but she also knew that beneath the surface of those around her, they wanted her for her abilities, not because of who she was. What she did at times was…disturbing. But Harry knew that what they did to her made his internment in the cupboard under the stairs look tame. And Alma could hear the scientists' thoughts before then, looking at her like she was a monster.

But she also claimed that there was more to him. She couldn't quite understand it. It was like he was psychic too, and yet wasn't.

With that thought, he curled up on his mattress inside the cupboard, and went to sleep, looking forward to meeting his only friend…

She was playing on the swing when he got there, singing a song he had taught her.

Oranges and Lemons

Say the bells of St Clement's

You owe me three farthings

Say the bells of St Martin's

When will you pay me?

Say the bells of Old Bailey

When I get rich

Say the bells of Shoreditch

When will that be?

Say the bells of Stepney

I do not know

Say the great bell of Bow

Here comes a candle to light you to bed

Here comes a chopper to chop off your head.

There was something pretty eerie about the way she sang the song, the ethereal sound of her voice echoing around the hill. She sometimes whistled the tune, with it becoming both mournful and sinister(1). But the small smile she turned to him as he walked up the hill made up for it.

She hopped off the swing once it had slowed down, and she walked over to meet him. Harry, she said, her lips never moving. Merry Christmas.

"Merry Christmas, Alma. You're happy today. Did your father let you out?"

Her eyes hardened for a brief moment, the glow becoming like a malevolent flame. Then, they softened again. No. I was just happy to see you. To even be able to talk to a friend is enough of a present. But I would like to be out of the Vault.

"Maybe one day I could go over there," Harry said. "Save you."

No. You can't. They have soldiers. They'd shoot you. I do not want my only friend to die. Alma suddenly threw her arms around Harry, clinging to him like a limpet to a rock. Harry was only now getting used to her mercurial moods. She went from angry to fearful and needy so swiftly, it wasn't funny. Especially when you're the best friend of a psychic with powers approaching that of a deity. But she had been damaged by her life so far. Harry didn't truly understand psychology, but he did comprehend some things on one level. He was her friend, and he wanted to help her. The best he could do was play with her in her mind, talk to her, be there for her.

After a long, and somewhat awkward (in an endearing way) embrace, Alma broke it off, and then peered at Harry. Or rather, his scar. She had been scrutinising it ever since they first met. Eventually, she said, Harry, I want to try something.

"What do you mean?"

There is something…dark within your scar.

"The one I got in the car crash?" Harry asked.

Yes. Though there is something about it. I do not think a car crash would imbue a scar with such darkness. It's almost like there's someone else in here with us, but not really. It's like a fragment of a person, or rather, of their mind. I thought that there was something strange about it.

Harry's eyes widened. "I have…a fragment of a person in my scar?"

Yes. I will attempt to get it out. It will hurt, I think.

Harry looked into Alma's orange eyes, and saw only concern there. Eventually, he nodded. "Okay, do it."

Vernon Dursley nearly choked on his roast turkey when the sounds of shrill screaming suddenly emanated from the cupboard where that freak was sleeping. Furious, he strode over to the cupboard, Petunia and Dudley in tow, and ripped open the door. "BOY!" he bellowed. "STOP THAT RACKET RIGHT NOW!"

Harry didn't heed him. If Vernon Dursley had any kind of consideration for the boy, he would have noticed that Harry seemed to be in the middle of a seizure, convulsing and spasming. Petunia noticed, and the minuscule amount of actual concern and empathy she had for her nephew surfaced from the sea of contempt and envy it was normally submerged in. "He's having a fit!" she shrieked.

"He'll stop having a fit once I'm done with him!" Vernon rarely beat his nephew, but when he did, it was brutal. He didn't care that his nephew was having a seizure. All that he cared about was that the boy had interrupted his meal and nearly made him choke.

But as he brought his meaty hands down on Harry's shaking shoulders, ready to yank him out of the cupboard and beat him to within an inch of his life, something happened.

Time seemed to stand still. The colours of the world became a strange, humid orange. And instead of Harry, there was a girl about the same age, wearing a red dress, and with stringy black hair framing her pale face. Her eyes were a diabolical orange, and they were glowing.

You will not touch him! the girl said, speaking into his mind.

Suddenly, Vernon was flying through the air, an impressive feat considering his massive bulk. He crashed into a small table, breaking many of Petunia's knick-knacks to her utter horror. She saw that Vernon had been knocked unconscious. Worse, blood seemed to trickle from his nose. He was still alive, though. He was breathing.

As Petunia turned back to Harry, though, that was precisely what Harry stopped doing. Breathing, that is. There was a sudden choking gasp, and then he was still.

Petunia dithered briefly, before she ran for the phone, and dialled 999. Soon, she was ready to have Harry and Vernon taken to hospital. By the time she got back, however, Harry was breathing again. Ragged, agonised breaths, but he was breathing again.

He would be taken to hospital regardless. Unfortunately, his magic had hidden all signs of his abuse by the Dursleys over the years, so nobody noticed. He was subjected to various tests, but nothing that could be seen as a cause of epilepsy could be found. One doctor theorised that whatever gave him that scar could have caused the fit. He was right, but for the wrong reasons. He thought it was something as mundane as brain damage…

Within Alma's mindscape, Harry stared up at the orange sky from where he lay on the ground. That had to be the worst pain he had ever had the misfortune to experience in his life. In fact, if that was what dying felt like, it was highly overrated.

As if sensing his thoughts, Alma, who was sitting next to him, cradling what looked like a cloud of darkness, said, You did die. For all of thirty seconds. I had to restart your heart psychically. But that was what removed the final anchors binding this to you.

Harry, more than a little disturbed by the fact that he did die, even if it was only temporary, sat up and looked at Alma, and more importantly, the thing she cradled in her hands. "What is that?"

I am examining it. Like I thought, it is part of someone's mind. Or their soul. I don't know which. I can feel memories from it. Her nose wrinkled in disgust. Vile, unhappy things. Her eyes widened. But what is this? This man…if you can call him that…he was a wizard! And…I see memories…his last memories…killing two people. They're also wizards! One of them looks like you, and he was called James Potter.

"My father?"

I think so. Your mother…Lily…they were both murdered, Harry! That was no car crash! They were murdered by this wizard! He tries to murder you, only…he can't. Something bounces back…destroys him…and part of him ends up in you…the word Horcrux is in his memories…

Harry stared into the distance. So it wasn't a car crash after all. His parents were murdered. And they had magic. His aunt and uncle had lied to him. So what did this mean?

"Voldemort…"

Harry whipped around to look at Alma. He realised something. In all their time together in her mindscape, he had never heard her speak like that. It sounded…normal. "Sorry, what?"

Her lips moved slowly, hesitantly, as she spoke. "His name…was Lord Voldemort."

CHAPTER 2 ANNOTATIONS:

The first flashback chapter, showing how Harry met Sally…I mean Alma. And already, she took out the Horcrux within him, though it nearly killed him. Oh, and Vernon Dursley gets the first instalment of some well-overdue karma. Heh heh heh…

I originally wrote this chapter mentioning that the only decent relationship Alma had was with her sister. I then decided to check the F.E.A.R Wiki, only to find that Alice Wade never knew of Alma. It was only a sentence that needed snipping out, thankfully.

1. Oranges and Lemons is a nursery rhyme from the UK. I guess it's probably best known outside the UK for being a running theme in George Orwell's novel Nineteen Eighty-Four. I was inspired to have Alma sing it by a Doctor Who audio drama, Night Thoughts by Edward Young, where a serial killer (who is very similar in many regards to Alma) whistles the song quite eerily. That, by the way, is a bloody brilliant and bloody scary story. Think Doctor Who meets a particularly cerebral slasher flick, and you might know what it entails. You can buy it from the Big Finish website. Go look it up. I fully and wholeheartedly recommend it.