Tainted Souls by Dragonlord

Rating: R
Genres: Action & Adventure, Horror
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 4
Published: 16/12/2003
Last Updated: 16/12/2003
Status: Paused

We are all born with one soul and one life, that we can turn both to the Light or to the Dark,
all depending on our decisions and acts. And yet, some rare individuals find themselves trapped
within the wheel of Reincarnation, time and time again throughout eternity, under the choking grasp
of destiny and its brother, fate, unable to find peace, to break free of the binds of previous
lives, of past and maybe regretted actions. Harry Potter may not believe himself tainted by his
bond to the Dark Lord, but when truths and secrets of a past life come up to torment the
Boy-Who-Lived Harry may find that he was –and still is- tainted beyond flesh, beyond blood… Indeed
he may find that he never had a pure soul, but instead, possesses a tainted one




1. Disturbing dreams
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Tainted Souls

A Harry Potter fanfiction

By Dragonlord

Disclaimer: Do I have to do this? I think not!

e-mail: askani_2003@yahoo.fr

C&C welcome!

Author's words: I'm crazy but I hope you enjoy this...

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Chapter one: Disturbing dreams

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 *“**Why does it feel like night today?
Something in here's not right today
Why am I so uptight today?
Paranoia's all I got left
I don't know what stressed me first
Or how the pressure was fed / but
I know just what it feels like
To have a voice in the back of my head
It's like a beast that I hold inside
A beast that awakes when I close my eyes
A beast watches every time I lie
A beast that laughs every time I fall
(And watches everything)
So I know that when it's time to sink or swim
That the beast inside is hearing me / right beneath my skin
It's like I'm / paranoid lookin' over my back
It's like a / whirlwind inside of my head
It's like I / can't stop what I'm hearing within
It's like the beast inside is right beneath my skin
I know I've got a beast in me
points out all the mistakes to me
You've got a face on the inside too and
Your paranoia's probably worse
I don't know what set me off first but I know what I can't stand
Everybody acts like the fact of the matter is
I can't add up to what you can but
Everybody has a beast that they hold inside
A beast that awakes when they close their eyes
A beast watches every time they lie
A beast that laughs every time they fall
(And watches everything)
So you know that when it's time to sink or swim
That the beast inside is watching you too / right inside your skin
It's like I'm / paranoid lookin' over my back
It's like a / whirlwind inside of my head
It's like I / can't stop what I'm hearing within
It's like the beast inside is right beneath my skin

It's like I'm / paranoid lookin' over my back
It's like a / whirlwind inside of my head
It's like I / can't stop what I'm hearing within
It's like the beast inside is right beneath my skin

the beast inside is right beneath my skin
the beast inside is right beneath my skin
the beast inside is right beneath my skin

The sun goes down
I feel the light betray me

The sun goes down
I feel the light betray me

The sun
It's like I'm / paranoid lookin' over my back
It's like a / whirlwind inside of my head
It's like I / can't stop what I'm hearing within
It's like the beast inside is right beneath my skin
I feel the light betray me

The sun
It's like I'm / paranoid lookin' over my back
It's like a / whirlwind inside of my head
It's like I / can't stop what I'm hearing within
I feel the light betray me
It's like I / can't stop what I'm hearing within
It's like I / can't stop what I'm hearing within…”*

**Papercut,**

**Linkin Park Dragonlord's version******

*The sun descended upon the battlefields, the sign of the Holy Cross clashing against the
lunar sign of the Arab armies. The world all around him was bloody red and coal black, and cries of
rage, anger and pain filled the air, saturating it as did the scent of coppery blood, sticking to
everything.*

*He knew little of that, ignoring it like the soldier he was, completely focused on the
feeling of the blade of his sword as it cut, carved, bit and tore the flesh of his enemies, of the
enemies of his faith, of his church.*

*Under his helmet, red as the blood that flowed in his veins and upon the land that was his,
his and of his forefathers, he could feel the perspiration soak his thick mustache and his
coal-black tresses.*

*Perspiration... and the blood that drenched him from helmeted head to armored toes. The taste
of the blood filling his mouth, filling his nostrils and its color tainting even the sun.*

*Blood, liquid of life, its color putting even the most flawless rubies to shame.*

*Blood, filling his mouth as he drank it, savoring the strength of his enemies downed by his
hand, its texture making the richest wines taste like slate.*

*Blood, giving him strength, the power to kill, maim and obliterate those opposing
him.*

*Blood, everywhere...in everything.*

*Red turning to dark even as he eviscerated another enemy, the sweet sound of his pain, of his
death rattle filling him, sending him into a frenzy of gore and acknowledged despair.*

*Red turning to black, then to red and finally to black as everything faded away in a void of
darkness, leaving behind unwelcome memories and even less desired feelings, alien sensations of
evil nature...*

Harry Potter awoke with a grasp, gasping for breath, his naked body covered in cold
perspiration. His hands moved frantically, fingers ruffling already messy midnight black hair, even
as he fought to regain control.

For a moment he remained like that, sitting upon his uncomfortable bed, head in his hands even
as the cool breeze of the summer night caressed him, soothing and yet hardly comforting.

“A dream...” he whispered, his voice rough as if he had been shouting all day long. “It was only
a dream... it *has* to be a dream…” he muttered, desperately wanting to believe it.

*Man, I'll prefer one of Voldemort's dreams any day before one of those...*

Sighing and with his body once more under control, Harry rose from the bed, walking towards the
window and taking in the silver, full moon that gave off her usual silver-cobalt gleam.

Usually Harry found the sight soothing, the whole presence of the night relaxing him
somehow.

Maybe it was because the night was quiet, contrary hearing the shouts of his uncle and aunt when
they ordered him as if he was their personal slave in the day. Even at Hogwarts the night had
something appealing to him, calming in clear contrast to the long days of classes. No more Snape
and his insults, his biased way of treating the Gryffindors more badly than he did the Slytherins.
No more students roaming the millennia old halls, their voices sometimes a nuisance to his tired
senses.

By night Harry found the tranquility he sometimes needed when the world was too much for him.
Those days he would stay late in the common room, his gaze lost in the flames of the hearth or he
would roam the deserted corridors of the school, garbed in his invisibility cloak.

But tonight gave no comfort to the seventeen-year-old, still haunted by the dreams.

Dreams which sometimes felt more real than the rut that was his existence at the Dursley's,
dreams that were very different from those concerning Voldemort aroused other things in Harry, none
of which he liked. If he had a choice he would prefer not to know about them.

Sighing, Harry turned from the window and put on a pair of boxers, just in case he met one of
his relatives (not that it had happened) on his way to the bathroom.

Silently Harry moved through the darkened corridors, careful not to make any sound that could
wake Vernon or Petunia, even knowing that they were deep sleepers. As for Dudley, his enormous
cousin, he would be watching some movie in his collection in his room, feeding his baser
instincts.

No, Harry wasn't afraid of being discovered, but still, he was careful.

With surprising speed he reached the room and closed the door behind him, careful to use the
lock to prevent any interruption. Once he was sure of privacy he dived towards the sink. He turned
on the faucet. Cold water soon running, Harry scooped it in his hands and splashing it on his face,
rubbing it viciously to remove the

*Blood*

sweat from his face, the feeling of the cold water against his skin... so unlike

*Blood*

*What he saw in his dreams...*

*With his face and chin still dripping water, Harry turned off the faucet, breathing deeply,
blinking to remove the cold liquid from his eyes. Passing his hands upon his face to be rid of the
excess water Harry looked at the mirror, fixating his gaze on the green eyes of his
reflection.*

*Gasping, Harry pulled away, retreating backwards, his mouth open and his face drained of
color...His green, emerald eyes were no longer green.*

*They were red.*

*...His sword sinking into the stomach of one of his enemies, he grinned as he took in the
look of pain on that dark face even as he twisted the blade... savoring it, savoring the feeling of
the steel cutting trough hard leather and pliable flesh, thick blood flowing as did the innards of
the soldier as he pulled the sword free in a spray of the crimson liquid...*

Harry rushed to the toilet, kneeling just in time as he threw up, emptying his stomach until it
was left dry and even then his stomach heaved. It took him some moments to calm down.

Finally he rose, his legs shaking as if they had been hexed. Harry had to support himself using
the sink and, once he was moderately sure that his legs wouldn't fail him again, splashed more
water on his face, trying to jolt himself to wakefulness. He hesitated a moment before looking back
at the mirror but, summoning forth his courage looked bravely at the innocuous object.

His eyes were green.

Harry let out a shuddering breath he wasn't aware he had been holding. With a tired sigh he
passed his hand across his face before looking back at the image looking at him, silent as was
usual in all Muggle mirrors.

He was tall, above six feet with a lithe tanned body that was muscled without being overly so.
Deep, sparkling green eyes that sometimes gleamed with the light of magic or darkened by the weight
of secrets and regrets were the centerpiece of his face. Dark, wild hair that reached his shoulders
not unlike a mane of midnight light completed the effect.

Some scars too, the result of more than one brush with the dark forces. The last and most recent
was a set of three thin parallel lines running across his torso, courtesy of Peter Pettigrew before
Harry could capture him, that damned silver hand burning like acid upon his skin. His fingers
traced the lines. It had been a close call, the silvery hand sending a dose of nundu poison that by
all accounts should have killed him a hundred times over.

And yet he survived, he *endured*. Beyond the hopes of all he had overcome the poison and
now Peter was rotting in a cell in Valkarran, the new wizard prison that had been created following
the fall of Azkaban.

He had other scars, here and there, gained from encounters similar to the one with Wormtail but
above all other, it was the first one, the one made by the Dark Lord himself that shone on his
forehead like a beacon.

No matter how tanned his skin became or how long his hair became, the scar had a way to be seen,
to be detected, admired and feared. Even now, under the electric light of the bathroom it glowed, a
jagged line of gold and silver, right in the middle of his brows.

With a sigh Harry turned the lights off, and as he suspected, the scar continued glowing even in
the pitch-black darkness.

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With a grunt Harry finished moving the rock out of the way and to the spot he had wanted it to
be. Groaning, the teenage boy straightened, the ache in the small of his back smarting for a while
until Harry paid it no more heed.

As he admired the fruits of his labor Harry wiped the sweat from his brow, before moving to the
porch where some cold water was kept for his use - one of the few concessions his aunt had granted
him for his work on the garden. Not that his aunt ever thanked him or even acknowledged his hard
work; it was simply encouragement for faster work.

As he drank the water, Harry reflected on the days to come. It was August 29th and in
two days he would go to King's Cross station where he would take the train that would lead him
to Hogwarts and his seventh year.

But not his final one.

It had come as a surprise of monolithic proportions when Fudge, supported by Dumbledore back in
the end of his sixth year, announced to the entire student body of the school that, due to the dark
times they were in, and with the rise in Death Eater activity and the fall of Azkaban, the Board of
Governors, along with the High Council of the Aurors' Guild and after close consultation with
the parents had decided to extend the years of formation at Hogwarts by two years.

Most students had been lost (he amongst them), others looked rather peeved and ready to break
something while few others, students of Ravenclaw forming the majority (and of course Hermione who
looked as if she was in cloud nine and rising) looked interested in the possibility of increasing
their knowledge.

Some adjustments were made and in Harry's case it involved another summer at the Dursleys,
stricter measures of security (like not being able to meet Ron and Hermione in Diagon Alley) and
being picked up by some ministry representatives to be brought safely to King's Cross.

That had been the result of a fiery debate between him and Dumbledore who along with Sirius and
Remus thought was the best way to deal with things. Voldemort was still after him. Things like two
attempts on his life in the very corridors of Hogwarts and three of kidnapping had all been
prevented but were too close home for the adults' comfort.

So here he was; trapped at Privet Drive, once again reduced to being the personal slave of the
Dursleys (he had even come with a memo, *note to self: next time Hermione speaks about S.P.E.W.
or any wacky story about the civil rights of magically-enslaved creatures, say yes and do as she
says. Pay, maim, kill, whatever.* **Anything***.*) , minus Dudley, who had become such a
lazy mountain of fat that he never bothered Harry, not that he bothered with moving anything
anyway.

Still his oppression under the rule of his uncle and aunt was nothing compared to the
dreams.

Both his fifth and sixth year had been bearable when it came to that aspect of his nightly life,
in part because of his acceptance of what had happened to Cedric, thanks to Ron and Hermione and in
part because he could do something about what his dreams told him with Dumbledore near him. This
allowed the old sage to foil many of the Dark Lord's plans and schemes, delaying his return to
power even with his servants roaming the land.

Obviously, at some point or another, Voldemort realized what was going on, and that was the
signal for him to lift all restraint upon the Death Eaters. Harry Potter had to die. It was as
simple as that. Of course he had to deal with the pain the Cruciatus brought him, dozen of
white-hot knives sinking in his body each time the Dark Lord felt moody, angry or simply cheerful
but that was a price he had learned to cope with.

His other, newer dreams were something else.

Harry sat, sipping some more of the ice cold water, letting his mind wander and ponder, treading
where angels would fear to...

It was always the same with a couple of differences.

In most of the dreams he was on a battle field slaughtering all those daring to oppose him with
savage glee, taking delight in the suffering and the blood, as if it was something due to him by
right. In the dreams blood was omnipresent in some way or another, the crimson color of the most
precious of fluids tainting everything.

In others he was at a banquet, surrounded by faceless shadows as he ate something that was
unlike anything Harry had ever tasted. He only knew it was meat of some sort, tender and bloody but
for once the blood was not the center of the dream, of the visions. It was the fear he inspired, a
fear that came to him from those faceless beings through the wailing of a hundred voices in mortal
pain, but he wouldn't be able to tell anyone from where these cries of pain came from.

He only knew that he was some sort of lord in those banquets. That particular realization
reaching his sickened mind after a number of those dreams.

He was clothed richly, almost gloriously, and the station of his seat was comparable to the
position the teachers at Hogwarts had in the Great Hall, high and domineering above the students,
such was his position in the dreams.

But the worst part of it was waking drenched in sweat, still shivering, lost as dream and
reality merged and he was Harry Potter but also the being in those dreams, those feelings and
emotions of the other *his*.

Ruthless and cruel, feeding on death, blood, carnage and suffering, the kind of being that even
Voldemort would fear... or admire.

And there were even worse dreams... Him slicing the soft and glorious skin of a still living
woman as if it was warm butter with a silvery knife, only to have his hands sinking in the still
hot body, as it trembled in agony, the only reason why the beautiful woman wasn't screaming was
because he had cut her throat moments before.

That particular dream had kept him awake three days, fear gripping his heart in a cold vice-like
grip.

Even now, after hours of telling himself that they were but *dreams*, the mere memory of it
was enough to make his stomach queasy and his skin covered in perspiration.

What were those dreams? Why did he have them?

It made no sense.

The voice of his aunt cut the still air like a whip and snapped much like one “Boy! Get back to
your work right now! I'm not feeding you to become lazy!”

“Look who's talking...” he muttered before shouting “Yes, Aunt Petunia! Right now!” he drank
some more and marched towards his next chore, almost feeling grateful for the interruption that had
taken him out of his musings... even if the knowledge of them, the emotions the... dreams brought
to him were still there, barely held in check in some dark part of his mind.

-----------------------------

*Once again he was there, the gory battles unfolding before his eyes. The Cross and the Winged
Dragon dripped with the blood of the men fighting, and once again he was fighting, his sword like a
scythe, raindrops of blood coming from the tip of his sword. The scent of death spread in the air
as it rose and descended, cutting a bloody path through his enemies.*

*A flash caught his attention and it was only his keen reflexes that saved him, the lethal
blow reduced to a line in the palm of his hand as he stumbled, rolled and rose up ready to face a
new adversary, sword ready to cut another life down.*

*The swords clashed, the sound of their meeting lost amongst thousands of similar
encounters.*

*Once, twice, thrice the blades met and parted only to return in a dance of death and
struggling for supremacy even as perspiration and blood covered him and his would-be
killer.*

*A strike to the side only to be parried, another to the other side that met with the same
fate... all the while waiting for an opening.*

*The man facing him was good. That he had to acknowledge, for his own blood, flowing through
his veins sang in honor of the challenge, the matching of skills with a worthy adversary.*

*Still as good as he was it wasn't good enough, as his rolling head crashed against the
field and the body sank to its knees and soon offered an illusion of tranquil sleep. For a moment
he envied this man, this fellow warrior that had finally found peace…*

*But once again his bloodlust called to him, driving him onwards through the ranks of his
enemies.*

*Once again, as the day advanced the sun was tainted a sanguine red...*

*With a gasp Harry awoke, his hands moving to wipe off the perspiration that covered his naked
body and soaked the thin bed sheats. Once again he was lost between the two worlds even if this
time it had not been as horrible as the visions of the mutilated woman or the feasts of
suffering...*

*To his muddled mind the only thing comparable to the feelings coursing through him during
those combats was those streaming from particularly stressful Quidditch matches, when he had to tax
his skill upon the broom and push his reflexes to catch the ever elusive snitch...*

*This, the* *rush* *within his dreams, the sword clashing against another was
something more, in a whole new level of intensity.*

*Blinking, Harry could feel something tickle him, something moving across his face, something
dark passing by the arch of his nose and slipping by his chin only to land upon his white bed
cover.*

*A single spot of dark red, soon followed by others.*

*With barely contained tremors, he passed two of his fingers across his face and as he had
expected, the tips were red. It was only then that the pain coming from his hand pushed through his
confusion.*

*Pain... Hot, sharp, fast, beating in time with his heart - coming from his left hand.*

*That shocked Harry even more than the dream had, as there, upon his blood soaked palm, was a
line, deep and dark where the sword of his opponent had struck.*

*The blood continued flowing, coloring the sheets even more and falling upon his lower
chest.*

*“It was a dream...” he muttered, his voice sounding strange even to himself. “It was a
dream... right?”*

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*Author's words*

*(second take)*

*Well another story that starts, another crazy idea I had to write, a sort of challenge I have
set to myself, to see if I could do short chapters. I started it before the OoFtP but I will
include events and elements from the book but for those Sirius fans out there don't be afraid
he is still alive and barking in thise new universe of mine.*

*To other matters, those awaiting for new chapters of my stories (included the non Harry
Potter ones like Star of War) I will only say that I'm still working on them when I can… which
is quite rare but they *are* advancing.*

*And for those interested in LSOK I have decided to do two time lines, one focused in Harry
and Dumbledore's travells trough time and space and one starting at Kings cross, the first day
of Harry's sixth year at Hogwarts… trying to keep everybody happy ^_^*

*This said I hope you liked the first chapter of Tainted Souls, see ya!*



