Here’s another one of my stories. I’ve been having difficulty working on Immortal’s Curse mainly because this story has been running around in my head. Just to warn you all, Harry is going to suffer a lot in this story. There will be torture, some of it graphic. So please, if you do not have the stomach to bear it, than please do not read it.
On with the story!
Voices. Voices; he could still hear the voices in his awakened state, tormenting him. The agonizing cruelty of the dark masses that haunted his every living moment were beginning to strain his sanity. Conscious or unconscious, he could not escape them. They were planted into his brain, where they had rooted down into every nook and cranny of his mind: into his soul. Ever so slowly they were breaking him, shattering ever part of him so that he was hollow inside. The Dark was twisting its way into him, destroying his very humanity.
Harry Potter was ever so gently cradling his right arm. Since his return to the Dursleys, he had become a slave: worth less than the dirt that was brought in by his shoes when he had finished gardening for his aunt, and the act had given a brutal punishment. Brutal punishments, however, were not uncommon for Harry in the Dursley household. If he did not get breakfast on the table fast enough, he received no breakfast himself and a blow from his uncle somewhere on his upper body. If he talked back to his aunt, he would receive no meals and a nice, hard, slap on the face. If he did not finish one of his daily chores, he would receive no meals for a week, a lecture on how he needed to work for his stay, and a couple of blows to his body, sometimes a vicious beating if his uncle was angry or annoyed enough.
Recently Harry had obtained a very painful injury, one that had been given on his second week back at the Dursleys.
“BOY! GET DOWN HERE! WHERE’S MY BREAKFAST?” Uncle Vernon bellowed up the stairs, looking livid.
Harry miserably got up out of the bed he was currently laying on, and walked over to the door, wrenching it open and passing through. He walked down the stairs and entered the kitchen, merely ignoring the presence of his hated relatives as set about his work of making breakfast. It was hard to keep this tactic up, considering that as soon as his presence was noticed, a large, angry purple face was in front of him.
“WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG, BOY?”
Harry didn’t answer, and continued to fix breakfast. Again he was interrupted as large, meaty fists, grabbed his shoulders and spun him around.
“ANSWER ME BOY!” Vernon roared. Harry looked at him, his face expressionless.
“I was busy,” Harry answered after a few moments’ silence.
“Busy? Busy with what!” Vernon demanded.
“Busy with nothing,” Harry replied, his mind a blank as he continued finishing up the chore set up for him.
“Nothing. You were busy with nothing,” Vernon inquired.
“Yes, nothing. Here’s your coffee,” said Harry as he handed Vernon the coffeepot.
“What kind of coffee is this? De-caf?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Harry.
“WELL I DON’T WANT DE-CAF, BOY! I AM TIRED OF YOUR STUPIDITY! ALL YOU HAD TO DO WAS MAKE GOOD COFFEE! MAKE SOME MORE!” Vernon practically threw the coffeepot at Harry, and as Harry reached out for it, the lid flew off, and the extremely hot liquid splashed all over the skin of his right arm.
Harry made no sound as the boiling-hot liquid covered his arm, but one could see the pain he was suffering clearly in his eyes. As Harry stood there, cradling his right arm, Vernon laughed.
The burn was still stinging painfully as Harry sat on his bed. His arm was completely red, and the skin was uneven and torn. It was rough too, and broke easily. If he moved it too much or too sharply, the skin would crack open and bleed.
Harry closed his eyes, willing the pain to stop, but it did not. He could only sit and wonder why his life was so messed up. Why did he have to suffer so much? Not only was he punished physically by his relatives, his mind, and body to an extent, were tortured by the demons in his nightmares. The voices that belonged to the demons were relentless in their attacks.
Every day, every night, Harry watched as people were tortured and killed, himself included. He watched as Voldemort would use magic to disfigure muggles and wizards, severing their limbs, smashing, ripping, tearing them, which inevitably led to their brutal deaths.
Voldemort would attack him to, and make him suffer pain to such an extent he thought he would kill himself in an attempt to get it to stop. Voldemort would have him bound to something, usually a rock or a tree, in an area full of people, where the scent of death lingered in the air. Voldemort would force Harry to watch as people, muggles and wizards, were graphically destroyed in every meaning of the word. And then Voldemort would tell him, say to him that his death would be like that, only worse. He would describe in excruciating detail how exactly Harry would feel pain that only torture could bring. He would promise that Harry would die a very painful death, assured him that he would suffer agony that no creature, man or beast, had ever felt before. After that was done, Voldemort would do exactly as he had promised, and Harry would feel the pain, the torment, and the anguish. Even after he woke from his nightmares, the pain would stay with him, as a reminder of what was to come.
And some nights, it was worse. Psychological pain was far worse than anything Harry could describe. Physical pain, physical wounds, they all healed quicker, the scars faded faster compared to psychological torture. To relive one’s worst memories, to remember seeing the blankness of dead eyes, to remember being in a situation where there was no hope. To watch as the ones you loved died. To see their blank, lifeless eyes…
No, I refuse to think about that!
Harry woke up from his daydream-like state in his room. He was trembling, and his scar was aching. There was thin line of cold sweat running down his forehead. He was feeling nauseous, and he was starting to feel cold.
He was exhausted, and before he knew it, his eyes were closed and he was falling into a deep sleep.
The archway was speaking to him. The voices were calling, telling him to come closer, to walk through the veil. It swayed slowly, as if caught in a breeze. He wanted to meet them, to see who was talking to him. The whispers were making him curious. He walked towards the archway, reaching out to it.
Harry was knocked out of the way as someone fell through the archway, and just before they disappeared through it, Harry caught a glimpse of who it was…Sirius…
He could hear laughter behind him, and he turned around, expecting Bellatrix Lestrange to be there, but she was not. Instead, the pale face of Antonin Dolohov was glaring at him. To his right, he saw Hermione. She was looking frightened, as if she knew what was to become of her. Harry glanced back at Antonin, and saw him smile and point his wand at Hermione. He made a slashing movement with his wand, and what looked like purple flame flew from his wand and hit Hermione straight in the chest. She fell to the ground, and Harry ran towards her, screaming her name. He placed his hand on her shoulder, and gently shook her, trying to wake her. She did not stir. Neville came running over, asking what happened. He felt for a pulse, but his response was not one Harry could take.
“There’s no pulse Harry, she’s gone,” Neville said quietly.
“NO SHE ISN’T! SHE CAN’T BE GONE!” Harry roared, “She can’t be dead, she just can’t be…”
Black spots were appearing in front of his eyes. He couldn’t breath; he didn’t even realize it when his knees hit the ground. His vision was swirling, he was dizzy, and he felt like he was going to vomit. Over and over again he kept muttering disbelievingly, “She can’t be dead… Please, no, don’t let her be dead… She just can’t be dead.”
There was a laugh, a loud, roaring laugh that made Harry’s insides swirl with the greatest of rage. He spun around, and saw that Antonin Dolohov was indeed laughing. The fact that he had just killed someone that Harry loved, was enough to get Harry to want to destroy him, but to laugh about it…
Harry felt the rage inside him break free of its restraints, he let out a roar of fury, and before he knew it, he was on his feet and his wand was pointed at Dolohov. He was enraged, and it was fueling him, providing him with enormous power. He felt that power, felt it as it began running through his veins, making him feel alive with magical energy. Tendrils of the energy were beginning to escape his body, crackling and burning with pure anger and hatred. It was dark magic, but it was so powerful that Harry did not complain. With this power, he could do anything; he could do what he wanted, when he wanted, wherever he wanted. The Dark was clouding his judgment, showing him absolute power with no consequences, trying to persuade him to use it, to strike down at his enemies with all the hatred he could unleash.
And unleash it he did. His desire to hurt, to destroy, Antonin Dolohov, was too great; the fact that he killed Hermione, his best friend, was unbearable. In the seconds it took for Harry to summon all of that which is dark and look into Dolohov’s eyes, was enough for Harry to discover that he had installed fear in the person of which he so hated. The knowledge that he, Harry, had put such fear there was empowering.
With his wand pointed at Dolohov and his body charged with magic, he uttered two words that showed how much he hated the person who stood before him.
“Avada Kedavra!” As Harry shouted these words, he felt as if a snake had just risen up inside of him, and coiled around his mind. The snake’s desire was to kill, and so was Harry’s. They both enjoyed watching as Antonin Dolohov’s life was taken from him in a jet of green light.
Harry walked over to the lifeless man, and enjoyed the feeling of triumph. But as he looked into the lifeless eyes of the man, fleeting images flashed before his eyes.
Flash. The lifeless eyes of Cedric.
Flash. The lifeless eyes of Hermione.
Harry dropped his wand, horrified at what he had just done. He had just committed the most terrible of crimes. He had just killed someone. They had died, just as Cedric had, just as Sirius had, just as Hermione had…
A voice rose up in the back of his head: a high-pitched, cold voice. “I didn’t know you were a murderer, Harry.”
Harry instantly woke up; his scar was on fire, and he felt very ill. He vomited over the side of his bed, and then placed his hand on his scar, trying to get it to stop burning. Every time he touched it, however, he succeeded in only intensifying the pain.
There were voices echoing around the room.
“You’re a murderer, Harry!”
“You’ve always been a murderer!”
“You kill everyone you get involved with!”
“What will happen when everyone finds out?”
“They will hate you!”
“You’re just like Voldemort!”
“You are Voldemort!”
Harry fell out of his bed as choruses of “Murderer” were chanted, mocking him.
“I AM NOT A MURDERER!” Harry shouted, trying to get the voices to shut up.
“MURDERER! MURDERER! MURDERER!”
“SHUT UP!” Harry roared.
“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON IN HERE!” Uncle Vernon bellowed. The voices had ceased immediately as he entered.
Harry did not hear him; he was having trouble breathing, and he was desperately trying hard not to fall victim to the darkness that was beginning to fall over him.
Uncle Vernon continued to yell and shout at Harry, and did not realize that Harry was going to pass out. He was getting agitated that Harry was not answering him, and strode over to him. He gave him a good kick in the stomach, which was enough to send Harry into the pits of blackness.
Please review….please….I need to know how I’m doing, so please just review, even if it is criticism.