Author: Mistress Nika
Summary: Post OotP/Pre HBP There are things in this world far darker and more sinister than Voldemort; things that prey on negative emotions and seek to possess only to harm. Harry, an emotional teenager full of negative emotions after the death of his Godfather, is left vulnerable to creatures not taught on the Hogwarts syllabus, nor anywhere else in the wizarding world. Death, pain and despair has come to Privet Drive.
Pairings: minor Ron/Hermoine
Warnings: AU, angst, violence, DarkHarry, overall creepiness
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
Notes: A darker twist to all those coming of age fics out there where Harry becomes a magical creature or gets revenge on the Dursleys.
Chapter One: Possession
There was a persistent chill in the air at number four Privet Drive despite it being the peak of summer. Breath condensed and the occupants went about in long coats and thick wool socks. When the front door was opened, if it could be opened, there was a noticeable difference in temperature between the house and the outside world. Of course, that was assuming one particular unwelcome occupant of the quaint, not-so-normal home was in a good mood and allowed the door to open.
It all started two weeks after he came back.
Petunia noticed a distinct odor, much like how rotten eggs might smell if left unattended in the trash for a long period of time. It was faint at first, prompting her to check the pantry and fridge for any expired food. Finding none, she took out the trash, hoping that would cure it. It didn't.
The next day it was worse and even Vernon and Dudley complained. They called a professional to check if there was a septic back-up. There wasn't. They could find no cause for the sudden, horrid stench that had invaded number four.
It was on the fifth day of enduring the smell that a terrified scream woke the house. Vernon and Petunia rushed to their son's room to find his bed...floating...with him on it, terrified. As they approached, the bed began to spin wildly, forcing them back against the wall and Dudley to cling on for dear life. After roughly two minutes that felt like an eternity for those involved, the bed suddenly froze and crashed back to the floor. The three Dursleys spent the rest of the night huddled in the living room, scared out of their wits.
The next morning, they made sure to blame the fourth member of the household. After all, it was obviously his kind of freakishness. The boy, soon to be sixteen, took it all in stride. He was used to such things.
A lull occurred then. Two weeks passed and nothing out of the normal happened. The stench, while still present, faded to an almost unnoticeable level.
Then the voices began. Petunia was alone in the house, her husband and son having gone out for the day to visit her sister-in-law, Marge. Even the boy was off with his freakish friends. She was scrubbing viciously at a tiny spot of dirt on the kitchen counter when she heard her name called from the living room. Thinking someone had returned home without her noticing, she called back that she was in the kitchen. No one answered and she thought perhaps she had simply imagined it. Just as she went back to work, she heard it again. It was a woman's voice this time and very familiar. She called back, "I'm in here, Marge!", but no one answered. This time, being the good hostess she was, she went to meet the person. However, the living room was empty and there was no sign anyone had returned home. She looked around a few moments in confusion before she heard her name called again, this time from the kitchen where she had been previously. It was the same woman's voice, but it wasn't Marge's. With a horrible shriek of terror, she fled the house post haste, running to her neighbors and refusing to go home until her husband arrived. Kindly Ms. Bean called Marge's at once and informed the man of the situation.
Vernon came rushing home, only to find his wife in a state of shock. All she would do was repeat her sister's name over and over, claiming she was being punished for her crimes against Lily's son. It took five days to coax her back into number four. The boy had no problem staying there alone for the time it took to convince her.
Upon their return, it only got worse. The temperature dropped steadily until ice sickles began to form and doors froze shut. They became trapped in their house, now their nightmare. Voices cursed and hissed at them from nowhere and shadows wrapped around them each night, strangling them in their sleep. They tried to call for help, but the phone lines were nothing but static with a menacing laugh in the background. Never had the Dursleys been more frightened for their lives than now.
In the midst of it all, one person alone remained apparently untouched. Harry Potter had not emerged from his room since his relatives had foolishly returned to their home. He was not, however, untouched. In fact, most would say, he was the most effected of all.
He no longer slept, nor ate. He merely sat with his knees drawn to his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around them, rocking himself continuously with vacant eyes. His room was covered in a thick sheet of ice, all save his bed upon which he sat. Sometimes he would murmur to himself in low tones for endless hours the same string of words.
Like a broken record, he would intone, "All my fault. All my fault. All my fault." After an hour or so, he would pause briefly and switch to, "Their fault. Their fault. Their fault." Then it would become, "Make them pay. Make them pay. Make them pay." Occasionally, his eyes would become slightly less vacant, a dark gleam taking up residence as a twisted smile pulled at his lips. His words would change to, "Make them hurt. Make them hurt. Make them hurt. Kill them. Kill them. Kill them."
One might wonder, where is the Order in all this? Aren't they supposed to be watching their precious savior? The answer to that question is quite simple. They felt their threats to the Dursleys were all that was needed. With suspicions of a spy within their ranks, they refused to send a guard to Privet Drive. Instead, upon the orders of their esteemed leader, they left well enough alone. They would forever regret that decision.
July thirty-first came with a bang. It was just after midnight when Albus Dumbledore was rudely awakened by alarms alerting to dangerous magic being used in a certain home in Surrey. Normally, the alarms would have reported the infraction to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. However, using his sway in the Ministry, he convinced everyone that it was best if he was alerted instead.
Checking the type of spells used, he immediately flooed to Grimmauld Place and called an emergency meeting of the Order of the Phoenix.
"The wards around Harry Potter's home, while still intact, are reporting dangerous levels of advanced Dark magic being performed," he informed the bleary-eyed wizards and witches present. Almost instantly, they reacted by snapping to attention and looking grave. "Only one curse has been registered," he continued, "and that is the Unforgivable Killing Curse." With that, he led the group to the home nearly an hour too late.
As they arrived, they learned the door was apparently spelled shut and were forced to destroy it to gain entry. Inside, the battle hardened Aurors and Order members were shocked by what they found.
The house looked like a frozen wasteland. Ice clung to the walls and floor and the furniture was indistinguishable from miniature glacial snow drifts. In the middle of the floor, three bodies lay lifeless. Their eyes were open and glassy, staring straight up at nothing; their forms encased in more ice as if they had been frozen alive. A quick check by Dumbledore proved this false. They had all been struck by a single powerful Killing Curse and their bodies frozen after.
The search for their beloved golden boy began quickly and ended just the same.
Nymphodora Tonks found him, huddled beside the couch. His knees were drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped around himself and his head buried in them. In his hand, he held his wand.
"Harry?" she asked tentatively, not wanting to startle the boy. Receiving no reply, she moved closer and shook his shoulder gently while calling his name.
A high scream echoed through the house, bringing everyone running to find the pink-haired witch staring in horror into the soulless black eyes of the Boy Who Lived.