Chapter Text
The story starts at the beginning of year 5.
Harry shifted uncomfortably in his slumber, nightmares overtaking every restless moment of sleep he could get. "Harry Potter, the boy who lived." The silky voice was hissing softly into his head. Words slipping of the rasp tongue, playing along with each syllable.
"You're a fool, Harry Potter. And you will lose everything. All those around you will die because of your actions."
The boy who would not die was covered in a layer of sweat. He was feeling nauseous, his body felt like the hottest fires of hell and yet he couldn’t stop the shivers that spread through his core.
Suddenly, a new image presented itself in front of his glossy scared eyes. Looking around cautiously, he waited for the sudden flash of pain that usually accompanied his dreams. But this time, it wasn't pain who greeted him, but the angry eyes filled with shame of his parents. These eyes. He could have recognized them anywhere. The piercing gaze, with a mix of mockery and anger, red like flames that would cremate you alive. The loving faces of his loved ones embraced Voldemort's eyes.
Harry longued to run aways. To wake up. He knew it was just a bubble of illusions that filled his nights. That Voldemort was twisting his thoughts, infiltrating his mind.
Nevertheless it all felt so absolute. He felt trapped into the dreams his enemy was forcing him into, making his famous lightning scar bring the burn with it.
Abruptly, the scene changed once more. He was back in the cemetery, the large scythe of death standing beside him. The cauldron appeared before him, steaming fumes looking like black ink enveloped his frail body, daring him to take a look. His soul was screaming in refusal, danger tainting the air venomously. His body, however, didn't grant him the choice. His feet started to advance slowly, bending his feeble body to take a glimpse. Out of nowhere emerged hands, clutching to the edges of the old rusty cauldron.
The raven boy waited for the Dark Lord to emerge, for the deformed body to turn into the snake-like creature he knew oh, all too well. A face followed quickly, but it wasn't the features he had expected; instead, crawled Cedric Gregory.
Harry's heart dropped. His guts twisted in panic as he immersed himself in the eyes of the dead. Trembling fiercely his knees gave up.
Falling faintly onto the ground, pale white hands grabbed him by the waist. The touch was freezing, not a single warmth of humanity escaped from them. "My dear nemesis, Harry Potter. What a suprise..."
The creeping voice coming from the tall figured hissed again, his mouth near his ear. The call was a soft whisper, so faint it was nearly inaudible. The man began laughing, not a soft upbeat laugh, it was a jubilant cry that travelled through your spine and sank into your fears. Harry forced his head to turn, facing the man who had his arms tightly embracing him. "Remember young one, your soul and destiny is mine."
Red flaming eyes, cold touch, a soul.
The boy who lived woke up with a squeal, panting, choking and swallowing air as quickly as possible. It was just a dream. He gulped loudly. I'm fine, I'm fine. He searched for his glasses on his bedside table and quickly adjusted them on his nose. These eyes, he could never forget them.
(page break)
It was four in the morning. Early, too early you could say to take a stroll down the empty corridors of Hogwarts castle.
Shifting in his bed and begging for sleep to come to him, Harry cursed Merlin, God and Fate for not allowing him to have one moment of tranquillity.
Damn Voldemort.
Getting out of bed, he grabbed his invisibility cloak and escaped the room as quietly as he could. Hopefully, his steps wouldn't bring him to run into Filch, or worse; Snape.
Harry walked rapidly through the maze like corridors of the school, cold feet dragging on the wooden floors. Come to me Harry. Come to me. Again, the hissing voice, speaking in parseltongue just like in his second year. But this time it couldn’t be the basilisk as his carcass should be rotting down in the secret chamber.
The sleep-starved boy who couldn't die was too drained to even respond to these creeping voices. Yet, Harry decided he couldn’t let anybody know about these voices emerging once more. If it turned out like second year once more, would people soon seclude him for being the freak he was? Could he manage to be outcasted by his friends like in third year, when everyone thought he cheated to get into the triwizard tournament? Would Malfoy spread gossip about him, in order to satisfy his hurt ego from when Harry refused his hand? So many times had he been back-stabbed, so many friendships had been lost due to his abnormalities.
The golden boy was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't notice the dark figure lurking around the corridor.
" Mr Potter, take off that invisibility cloak of yours, right now."
Startled, Harry glanced at the smug potion professor.
Snape, marvellous. Harry proceeded unwittingly, not wanting to reveal himself, but not wanting to anger the very thinned-patience potion master.
" Would you care to explain, what you are doing, wandering, outside in the corridors, when you are supposed to be in bed? It seems you are trying to break the record of detentions given out in a year. Or is it you enjoy cleaning cauldrons thoroughly?" Snape’s voice was infused with so much glee that Harry had to resist the urge to hit him in the face.
The raven boy didn't want to respond. He knew whatever he said he would be given a two-hour detention, again. Deciding it was best to give the Professor a response, (he didn't want to spend a whole week cleaning cauldrons after all. Sometimes, he would prefer to take Voldemort on then stay in a room with his so detested teacher.) he shrugged his shoulders which owned him frowned eyebrows.
Snape flicked his tongue in annoyance. "I am waiting, Mr Potter" His foot had started to twitch in the process, as if waiting for a stubborn cat to let go of his favorite toy.
Now Harry was annoyed. Why couldn't he quickly give him detention and leave him alone?
He responded sarcastically, his tone bitter " Oh I don't know, I could tell you how I was searching for bezoar for my next potion class, but that wouldn't be quite believable would it, Sir? I wonder why you don’t just put me in detention already since you seem so keen to do so everytime I just exist. Or I could tell you I keep getting those fucking terrifying dreams from Voldemort, or how snakes keep hissing at me for no goddamn reasons, or I don't know, what do you want to hear Professor?"
A long moment of silence passed between the two men. Harry started getting more and more red-faced for his sudden burst of anger, and the lack of response was making him even more ashamed.
Snape glared at him, shocked of his response. "Language, Mr Potter." Rubbing his eyes and sighing loudly, Snape seemed to be deciding what to do with the dunderhead that was in front of him.
His gaze turned soft, almost caring, with clear concern, before returning to the usual impenetrable gaze. " Come with me" He finally said.