The Red, Chevelle

They say 'Freak'
When you're singled out
The red
Well, it filters through

So lay down
The threat is real
When his sight
Goes red again

This change
He won't contain
Slip away
To clear your mind

When asked
What made it show
(What made it show)
The truth
He gives in to most

Harry was at the zoo with his aunt, uncle, and cousin. They'd both had ice treats, Dudley's a huge heaping of chocolate ice cream piled into a too-small cone, and Harry a lemon Popsicle.

They were trailing through the reptile house when they stopped before a display holding a Burmese Python. It had been sleeping, so his cousin smacked on the glass with his fists. Vernon and Petunia wandered away, bored, leaving the boys to watch the sleeping serpent.

"It's asleep," Harry snapped the obvious when his cousin hit the glass again. Dudley scoffed and followed his parents.

"Sorry," The Boy Who Lived told the snake. To his surprise, it looked up at him and then rose to his height.

"No matter," The serpent told him.

"You can talk!" Harry said, eyes wide.

"So can you," it told him.

Harry looked at the sign, saw the snake's origin, and asked if it missed its family. It had pointed out that it had been bred in captivity.

"Look! Look! It's awake!" Dudley came rushing back, shoving Harry to the ground. Nonsensically, he beat his fists on the glass again. Harry glared at him from his place on the concrete, and the glass vanished before his eyes. Dudley fell in, screaming and flailing as the giant Burmese Python slid out of the enclosure over the top of him.

"Many thanks." The snake said as it passed him.

Harry was suddenly standing in front of a bloody, semi-conscious Trelawney. Her head lolled back and forth as she whimpered, but she had long since given up begging. It had taken a tremendous, coordinated effort. Specialists had been brought in from around the Country, threatened, tortured, cajoled, and then Obliviated or killed once their work was done, depending on their skill and attitude. He had been careful; none of his Death Eaters knew Sybil was still alive.

He tilted her head back between his thumb and forefinger, then entered her mind through her eyes.

He watched as Trelawney took a seat in Dumbledore's office. The future Divination Professor told the headmaster about her credentials and her relation to the famous Seer Cassandra Trelawney. The man smiled dryly from his desk, hands clasped, elbows on the wood. Sybil thanked him for the interview and for the opportunity to hold the Divination position.

Trelawney snapped her head back midway through, telling Dumbledore that she had predicted the Holyhead Harpies winning the World Cup four years earlier. Her voice went low, and her eyes glazed over.

"The one with power to rival the Dark Lord's own approaches-"

Harry was ejected from the dream with violent force. Pain split his head. His ears rang as he reached for his wand in reflex, sitting up. He drank a calming potion, a mere ritual at that point. He'd gotten no rest since he'd returned from the Hospital Wing. He'd been assaulted by the dreams every night since, bleeding into each other, back-to-back-to-back.

This one was worrying. He still could not know if these dreams or memories were accurate. That wasn't a line of the prophecy that he knew. He thought back to the Dark Lord watching Trelawney and Dumbledore in the room at the pub, how he'd thought there was something wrong.

The Headmaster and the Divination Professor had been in Dumbledore's Office, at Hogwarts, not at the Hog's Head Inn.

If these memories were correct, Snape gave up his parents. If they were correct, the Prophecy that they, and Sirius, had died for appeared fabricated. To what degree, Harry didn't know. He held onto the thought that it was all too obscene to be real, that it was a ploy. The way he'd been forcefully ejected from Voldemort's mind before Harry could see the full memory did make him wonder, but he pushed it aside and put it atop the pile of things he wasn't confronting.

He resolved that if he was ever to get a clue, he needed to get Slughorn's version of the Horcrux memory. If Slughorn's version matched Riddle's… Well, he'd think about that then.

Dumbledore had not returned to the castle since the night he'd seen his parents. Before he left, Harry had tried to ask him what he thought he should do and how to proceed with Slughorn. The headmaster had no answers.

He stayed in his four-poster bed, trying to formulate a plan while he fought with the hunger spreading through his limbs like adrenaline. He was still brewing Calming Draughts with the Potions Professor every few nights, and Harry had multiple conversations with him, sometimes about Lily. The Boy Who Lived couldn't find a sentence that would get him the memory.

He decided that he would have to broach it, prepared or not. Sooner rather than later.

"Hermione, have you ever heard of any kind of… magic cabinet?" Harry could feel her eyes on him as he asked, but he kept his firmly on his book, feigning mild interest. Ginny glanced up at them from her reading, then quickly returned to it.

"No? I mean... not off the top of my head. I can see what I can find," she offered, leaning forward in her chair.

"No, that's okay. I saw it mentioned in a text; I was just curious." He wouldn't let on that he'd sent Kreacher and Dobby to spy on Malfoy in the Room of Requirement. Fixing a cupboard was far too benign a thing to be doing. It wouldn't rouse her suspicion of Malfoy, but it would certainly make her mad that Harry hadn't let it go.

The youngest Weasley shifted in her seat but didn't say anything. Harry had done a decent job portraying disinterest, and Hermione returned to the letter she'd been writing to her parents. Slughorn had been unavailable that night, and so he'd had to reschedule his interrogation plans. Which, at the current rate of things, wasn't ideal. With each passing day, he could feel his friends watching him with more interest and more concern. They would notice this pattern, and he no longer had an excuse to hide it behind.

The Boy Who Lived looked at the words in his lap, but he wasn't seeing them. It had been a little over four weeks since he'd cursed Zabini, and he didn't think he'd have much more time before he lost control again. His stomach rolled with anxiety but also with anticipation. Excitement. A thrill intertwined with the pain that made his mouth water. He swallowed heavily and excused himself for early bed.

He didn't stay there long. He waited for his housemates to retire for the night, then took his cloak and the map and stole out of the Tower.

He was slow-moving and deliberate as he wandered through the corridors, watching the map, avoiding Filch, Prefects, and a relatively close call with McGonagall. He kept all thoughts purposely from his head as he floated to an empty room near the Astronomy Tower, guided there by his spotless mind and the movements of others in the castle. He closed the heavy wooden door behind him, flinching as it groaned. He watched the Marauder's map momentarily, ensuring no one was coming to investigate.

Once he was sure he was alone, he shakily dropped to his knees, silencing, locking, and warding the room. His mind raced as he kneeled there. If he did what he considered doing, it would be a defeat. He would be willingly conceding before the hunger forced his hand. Before he'd fought. The idea of doing it on purpose made him feel revolted, nearly physically ill. But he'd found no other way; he was running out of time as always. The risk of doing something uncontrolled and deadly was too high. In the wrong situation, with the wrong people, in the wrong moment…

The sickly sweet ache roiled in his gut, egging him on and making him sway on his knees. Sweat was already pooling on his brow, and he knew his face was grey with the weight of it. He had to do something. Before he was feral with it. Obvious. A problem. He couldn't bear the thought of hurting anyone else. He'd admitted to himself that he was dangerous when he let this go unchecked. With that off the table, he had only one option.

He raised his wand, arms tingling, thoughts tumbling as his heart raced. He let out three rough rasps of breath before he whispered, "Liquida Tenebris."

He was knocked off his knees and into the stone as though by a shock wave, forcing the breath he'd been holding out with a gasp. He was enveloped in a wave of deep black smoke the instant he'd muttered the spell. A raw, indescribably intense relief flooded him, relaxing his muscles to a nearly uncomfortable degree while his mind was wiped blessedly clear, his arms and legs splayed out on the bricks. He could hear someone laughing quietly. Himself?

He breathed the magic in, inhaling more deeply than he had in months, eyes rolling up into their lids. Energy thrummed in his every molecule in time with the pulse of the spell, lulling him into the most exquisite bliss. He was the one laughing, he realised, feeling it in his throat. His voice sounded strangely doubled. He became aware that he was still holding his wand above his head, still pouring inky blackness into the room like a flood. Increasing the density.

'Rest,' his own voice said inside his head, 'You've done so well.'

He lay there—slate wiped clean, no thoughts could swim against the current—for much longer than he needed to, whispers reaching his ears but missing his mind.

He had expected pain. Relief, yes, but primarily pain. The spell he'd seen in the memory and the spell he'd cast on himself weren't the same. When he'd decided to use it, it had been because it seemed like a good curse to use without a target. Not Unforgivable. He'd assumed it would be horrible but not fatal. Riddle wouldn't have risked killing those students; the thing in his head wouldn't destroy its host. He had gambled, put faith in the memory he'd seen in his dreams, nearly delusional with hunger. And the way he saw it, he had lost.

What he had experienced was far worse than the suffering he'd prepared for. Casting the Cruciatus Curse was a fizzling match compared to the supernova of Liquida Tenebris. The next day, his whole body still thrummed with it, his cells humming a tune as the sixth years gathered for their second Apparition lesson.

"I hope you all recall! Destination. Determination. Deliberation. The three Ds!" Wilkie Twycross called over the gathering students, "Like last time, we're just going to aim for the other side of the field."

The sixth years separated and began cluelessly attempting to Apparate. Harry stared at the far end of the snowy open field where they'd gathered, -unable to Apparate on the Hogwarts grounds- and turned his body the way he'd been told to. He hadn't expected anything, but when he felt a familiar pull in his navel, he tugged back.

All at once, the sensation of being shot through a too-small metal pipe overcame him, the air forced out of his lungs as he was catapulted through a hurricane of warping colour before he was suddenly at the other end, announced with a small pop. He glanced down at himself, then at the students now far away from him, astonished.

"Bravo! Bravo, Mister Potter, excellent form. Truly! Excellent! See now, everyone? Not so bad!" The examiner squawked, sounding as shocked as Harry felt.

The Chosen One decided it had to be a fluke and tried again. He Disapparated, once more rocketed through the tube, and reappeared near his friends. Hermione's mouth hung open, and Ron was grinning ear to ear, patting him on the back.

"Wicked, mate!" He said.

Hermione pursed her lips and refocused on twisting her body, glaring at the other side of the open area.

By the end of the lesson, Harry's had been the only success.

Apparating had uplifted Harry, and if he were honest with himself, he was still floating through the air after he'd done… what he'd done. This combination of things brought him confidence, and he used it to carry himself toward Slughorn just before midday, locating him on the map in the Potions Classroom.

"Oh, Harry! I was just thinking about you. I thought you might like to move on from brewing Calming Draughts, although Madame Pomfrey is always grateful when you brew extra. I've just collected some Chizpurfle fangs, perfect for brewing Wiggenweld Potion. It's quite a complicated brew, but I trust it will be well within your wheelhouse." Slughorn rambled as Harry entered.

"The antidote to the Draught of Living Death, you know!" The Professor said, already setting up a cauldron. Harry grinned and followed his lead, pulling his textbook from his bag. The Boy Who Lived found that without Snape looming over him like a storm cloud, he quite enjoyed potions.

They crafted the potion in relative silence, interrupted by occasional questions and directions.

"Professor," Harry began, once the potion was stable and bubbling, "You- taught Tom Riddle, didn't you?"

As he'd expected, Slughorn stiffened, ramrod straight, looking at him like he'd asked the man to strip in the Great Hall at dinner time. The Professor turned, potion forgotten, leaving the room and the question. Harry balked, looking between the swiftly exiting man and the angrily bubbling cauldron. He extinguished the flames and chased Slughorn.

"Wait! Sir? The potion?" He tried. The man pretended not to hear him as he scurried away.

The Boy Who Lived ran then, catching up to the escaping teacher.

"Sir?" He pressed again.

"Oh!" Slughorn said as though he'd just seen Harry. "You'll have to excuse me, Mister Potter; I have an urgent appointment, you see." He looked physically pained as he tore away from the Boy Who Lived.

He watched the Professor go, frowning. As well as he'd expected, not as well as he'd hoped.

He sighed and turned, heading back through the castle to find his friends and tell them that he wasn't any closer to getting what he needed from the Potions Professor. He pushed the thought of Liquida Tenebris from his head as he crossed through one of the courtyards, the stones slick with melted then refrozen ice. It was the quickest route if you didn't slip.

"Oh, Harry! Over here." Luna called, and he turned to find her and Neville sat on a long stone bench, a book open between them. The blonde girl was levitating summoned flowers, light pink and twirling in the air. Juxtaposing the grey of the castle.

"Hey Harry," Neville said as he approached, "How are you feeling? I mean, since the other night."

The Boy Who Lived realised he hadn't spoken to Neville since he'd been last taken to the Hospital Wing. He sat next to Luna.

"Ah, yeah. I had a nightmare. About my parents." Harry said, knowing that Neville would understand that particular ache.

"And there's your other problem, of course," Luna said dreamily, not looking away from her flowers.

Harry's stomach dropped as he looked at her, fighting to keep his face neutral.

"What do you mean?" He bit out, hoping to warn her with his tone.

"You know what I mean," her tone was slightly less buttery, but she didn't seem to pick up his warning, "I can see it all around you. It's beautiful today."

She said this like it was the most obvious thing in the world. His heart hammered as he watched her smiling at her flowers. Neville looked confused but wisely said nothing. There was no way she could know. Could she? Were they talking about the same thing? Could she truly see it? Had she told anyone? Had they believed her?

"Don't worry, Harry." She had told him simply, and he had to excuse himself.

That night, he'd told Ron, Hermione, and Ginny about his misfortune with Slughorn. He'd spoken at length to the three of them until it was just him and Ginny in the Common Room. She'd let him brainstorm ideas and try to formulate a plan, but she offered no advice of her own. She headed to bed earlier than usual, so Harry had been left alone with his thoughts.

Something he'd been dreading all day. Anxiety roiled through him, twinged with, much to his disgust, desire. The thought of what he'd done had hung on the outskirts of his mind since, making his stomach leap with anticipation each time he registered it. He realised he wanted, not needed, to do it again. The hunger was not active, dormant in his middle. Despite its dormancy, it somehow felt more present.

As he sat there, he decided he wouldn't do it again. It had been different, stronger. It had scared him as much as it had thrilled him. He didn't want to think about how few options he had. He dismissed the thought of studying dark magic to find something more suitable, less harmful. The thought was nearly as repellent as Liquida Tenebris.

He dragged himself up the stairs at nearly two a.m., downing the usual dreamless sleep and forcing his head to his pillow.