- Rating:
- R
- House:
- The Dark Arts
- Genres:
- Angst Drama
- Era:
- Multiple Eras
- Stats:
-
Published: 03/11/2005Updated: 03/27/2005Words: 6,364Chapters: 2Hits: 549
Beyond the Realm of Dreams
Hades' Phoenix
- Story Summary:
- When Harry Potter is convicted for several brutal murders and imprisoned in Azkaban, the magical world unknowingly forges a weapon that will destroy not only its enemy, but its creator.
Chapter 02
- Posted:
- 03/27/2005
- Hits:
- 197
- Author's Note:
- Warning: realteively non-descript scene of non-con.
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"Hello, Mr. Rabbit."
"Hello, Harry. How are you?"
"Tired. All the screaming keeps me up at night. But thanks for asking. How are you?"
"I'm late again." A sigh. "I'm always late, and I think the Queen is getting upset."
"Really? Why?"
"Apparently this girl with red shoes and her little terrier keep getting her relatives run over by flying houses."
"Wow. I'd be upset too, I think. If I had relatives."
"I'd better go, Harry. The Queen is ranting about heads again. Honestly, I can't figure out that woman's obsession with decapitation."
"All right. Bye then, Mr. Rabbit."
"Goodbye, Harry. Oh, remember to keep practicing Tom's lessons."
"Of course."
Harry waved to the vest-clad white rabbit, watching absently as his furred visitor vanished.
Pushing himself to his feet, he began his daily exercises. Pacing the small stone cell--exactly eight long strides along each wall--he stretched his legs, absently counting off the stones in a singsong voice with a light tap of his fingers.
"One, two, buckle my shoe...moo, rue, coo, who..."
When his legs grew tired and his mind slightly dizzy, Harry lay on his back and began curling himself into small sit-ups. He imagined that each time he sat up, his height grew so that he could nearly touch the ceiling; as he fell back, he saw that he grew as tiny as an insect.
His attention wandered away until it was no longer his own body doing the repetitive motions, but some human-like automaton, with him watching from the sidelines curiously.
I wonder if I'm just one person, he mused, unconsciously tapping his transparent fingers against the stone. If someone is influenced by everyone they meet, wouldn't that make them a composition of all those people? The question brought to mind an image of people walking about made of stitched-together hanks of different-colored meat, and he broke into gravelly laughter.
Sounds like something Riddle would do to his toys, just to see if he could.
Suddenly he was slammed back into his body, arching up off the floor as his muscles tightened in agony. A strangled moan tried to force its way from his lips, but the years of screaming had left him unable to speak above normal tones, and his nails clawed ruthlessly at the already scored floor; the pain made the darkness of his cell fade away into empty whiteness as he fell deep into unconsciousness.
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"Welcome, Harry."
Still trembling, the young wizard pulled himself to his feet, sending an exasperated glance to the other presence seated in an elegantly carved ivory chair that matched the rest of the opulent surroundings.
"Must you use the same method of excruciating agony every time? It makes my inevitable meeting with you rather...foreboding."
Voldemort chuckled, pressing his fingertips together and gazing steadily at Harry over them.
"Merely checking the progress of my favorite victim."
Harry snorted, moving to the richly embroidered couch and flopping unceremoniously onto it.
"So, what will it be? Mind-rape? The weekly review of the newest trends in fashionable Dark Revel torture? Depraved torture in general? I especially like the one with the leather whips and needles."
"There are few in this world who dare to speak to me in such irreverent tones, boy."
"My family always did say I was a freak. And don't call me boy."
"Perhaps I should teach you manners, boy. What do you think of that?"
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Eighteen years, Riddle. Nearly two decades. The fact that you have had that much time should say a lot about your self-proclaimed skills."
Crimson eyes narrowed.
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He has always done this. Ever since I was thrown to the shadows, He has partaken in His favorite pastime of using me, ruining me and tainting me until I am sure that I drip sin and blood so that all the world can see my scattered little pieces.
He waves His hand negligently like I am merely another face, another body of thousands to be examined and found wanting; the lavish study He loves to use as a middle ground between us fades like an old photograph into a silken chamber of decadence.
He is more powerful than me. He always has been.
There is no such thing as good and evil; only power, and those strong enough to seek it.
I seek it--oh how I desire and crave it--and I have found the little obscure path to that desire, so easily overlooked, in my insanity.
One day, I will be stronger. And I will break Him as He did me.
But for now, He is the more powerful of us, and it takes all my strength not to cry out in fear.
I know this room, because I have been here before, when He was feeling particularly amorous after a successfully long torture. Black velvet slips around my wrists, sliding sensually across my skin as it binds me to the bed, spread so that my body shivers in the long familiar sensations of wanton vulnerability and horrible resignation.
I want to scream and rage and die, but instead I feel nothing. I am empty...so void of feeling I wonder if, perhaps, I have become a Dementor without the soul-lusting hunger they all possess.
I only feel my mind already drifting away, which is strange since we are already in my mind...or is this His...? Maybe this is real...really...because aren't you supposed to be unable to feel pain in your dreams? But my body hurts, and it will hurt because He is sliding over me and pressing me down into the silky cloth of the bed, and though part of me breaks all over again another part craves it almost as much as I do power, because this despair--should I be so detached?--is an emotion that I can feel squeezing my heart and choking my sobs
I'm crying. But only on the inside. Outwardly, my cheeks are dry and my eyes are deep, so fathomless He cannot see their depths.
He takes me, again and again, forcing my body into response, and the screams I had thought nonexistent surge into being and tear from my throat--and here, in these dreams-that-are-not-dreams, my throat cannot be damaged, just as my nails are still whole and my flesh still tender. They ring against the chamber walls, dancing and spinning about in the air until they are all I hear, these cries that are testimonies to my weakness. It the music of the dying, that small instant between the worlds when the living realize that there is no life after death, only an eternal vision of shadows and darkness.
And so I die all over again.
When He reaches completion, He falls atop my bruised cadaver and bites my shoulder, piercing the skin and breaking flesh yet again.
"No one will save you from the darkness, Harry..."
No, no one will. Because I will find my power, and I will fear nothing. Not even you, Tom Riddle, the madman who is like me in nearly every way.
Except for one vital difference.
When He releases me, I am back in my cold cell, aching and took weak to move. Blood seeps from my shoulder and from between my thighs, but I am used to it by now. I'm insane, after all. A little pain doesn't bother me.
You strove for eternal life, Tom. You wanted to remain in everyone else's reality.
I'm already dead. I make my own reality.
And that is true power.
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Severus stood perfectly still. Not a single change in expression or a twitch of muscle gave away the furious thinking running rampant in his swift mind.
Lupin had better hold up his end.
He was on the shore that faced Azkaban, along with an entire gathering of his fellow Death Eaters. As they awaited the Dark Lord's signal, he was silently grateful for the thick, dark cloth robes--spelled to be lightweight, of course, for optimum range of movement--every Death Eater had to wear, as they guarded well against the biting cold that blew in with the wind from the grey, raging sea.
It had been four years. He wondered how the boy had held up.
Finally, a sharp but blessedly brief pain passed through the Dark Mark, and at the signal the Death Eaters all boarded the small boats awaiting them and set off for the island.
Beside him was the youngest Malfoy, arrogance and all.
"Are you ready, Draco?" he asked, knowing that if anyone had heard him over the roar of the waves and the storm they would think he was alluding to the mission they had just embarked upon.
Can you do your part?
"Of course," he replied smoothly, demeanor flawless and appearance immaculate even in the howling winds. "Do you question my abilities, Severus?"
If everything remains as previously planned.
"Of course not. Let us hope you do not disappoint our Lord."
Everything remains the same. Good luck.
Their arrival to the bleak cliff of rock that served as the site of the prison was relatively anti-climactic. As the boats arrived, the Death Eaters assembled into separate ordered groups just as the looming double doors blew open, revealing their cold and malicious lord flanked by two Dementors.
"My Death Eaters," came the sibilant tones of the Dark Lord. "My loyal companions in the search for perfection. With the turning of the Azkaban guards to their rightful place and the weakening of the Ministry, we may now reclaim our most loyal allies.
"Lucius, you will take the first floor."
The aristocrat bowed in acknowledgment.
"Avery, take the second floor. Dolohov, the third floor. Nott and Macnair, the fourth and fifth floors respectively. Bellatrix, you will take the lowest levels, but I need not remind you that the highest guarded are housed there. The Potter boy is down there; do not tease him, but bring him straight to me."
The five Death Eaters followed Lucius' example.
"'Tease' is right," Draco muttered under his breath to Severus. "The bitch would fuck a corpse."
Severus smirked.
It had been difficult, mused Snape irrelevantly as the hordes of Death Eaters flowed into the prison, to arrange to have both himself and Draco in the group that would be passing by Potter's cell.
As they descended deeper and deeper into the bowels of the fortress, his hopes to find a somewhat sane Boy-Who-Lived waned and eventually died.
It was like walking into the very heart of hell. Sans the fire and a devil.
Wails and pleas reverberated against the walls. The dank, damp corridors were dimly lit by few, faintly sputtering torches, and skeletal figures that had once been human--murderers, rapists, and Dark supporters, yes, but still human--cringed in their corners, some talking to themselves and others begging for release from the newly arrived and disgusted Death Eaters.
"She tasted so good, so hot and fresh--"
"Screaming, screaming, too many screams, they won't stop screaming--"
Severus started as Draco leapt back to avoid the clutching hands of a deranged prisoner.
"Pretty boy, pretty little boy, come closer, I want to fuck you!" the prisoner suddenly screamed, flinging back his head with his eyes rolling madly. "Fuck you, you little bitch!"
"Ri~ight," Draco drawled, but Severus had known the boy long enough to know that he was unsettled by the display.
"Don't touch these prisoners," Bellatrix snapped at them. "Most of them are too far gone to be of any use anyway."
After a few moments, their group reached a fork in the corridor.
"Split into three groups. One group come with me. Snape, take the second. Crabbe, take the third."
Perfect.
As he and Draco led the small group down one of the winding corridors, Severus furtively sped up his pace.
"Check those cells thoroughly," he snapped at the other faceless Death Eaters, voice deathly silky. "I doubt our Master would want to know of any oversights in his followers."
Soon, the two spies had gotten well ahead of the main body.
"Disgusting," Draco sneered, lifting the hem of his expensive cloak to avoid the gathering pools of tepid water. The lower levels had been hewn from the living rock, some walls made from stone blocks, long ago, and the damp surfaces were stained with pale fungi and molds that never saw the sun. It smelled earthy, and wet, and there was the stench of unwashed human bodies and their wastes.
"Yet another reason to have Dumbledore on one's side," Severus murmured wryly, peering into yet another cell and seeing the quivering, whispering mass of a former Death Eater, if the mutterings were anything to go by.
"Charming," Draco said sarcastically, utterly unfazed by the fresh corpse rotting away in a passing cell. "And the Dark Lord wants this as his fortress? Barking mad, he is. But then, we already knew that."
"Cease your inane ramblings," Severus growled. "The walls have ears."
As they continued in their swift strides, the screams and yells of the imprisoned lessening to just a few, the older Slytherin was mentally counting off the cells.
"Here," he said suddenly, stopping near the end of the corridor.
It was smaller than the rest they had seen, and it seemed particularly water-infested. Only the best for the Boy-Who-Lived, Severus thought with a noticeable lack of malice. Much of it was in shadow, unsurprisingly, as lit torches down here were few and far between, and the closest one could cast only a faint dancing of shadows through the heavily warded bars.
"Potter's in here?" Draco asked incredulously, brow raising. Severus held up a hand sternly.
"Hush."
"Don't you know I hate licorice? Dudley used to try to force-feed it to me after Halloween. I think. He might have been my cousin. Or maybe he was a walrus. Nasty things, walruses. Or would it be pluralized as 'walri'?"
"We're doomed," Draco breathed, flinging an arm over his eyes.
"Stop it, Tom, don't say that. You know that Voldemort is as arrogant as any pureblood worth his weight in salt. Stop lying, Tom! I hate it when you lie to myself."
"We have little time," the Potions Master said harshly, grabbing Draco by the shoulders and gazing at him searchingly. "Insane or not, we need the boy's power. Now, are you sure you can follow through with this?"
He knew how much the young Malfoy hated the sight of his own blood.
"Yes, yes, I'm fine," he returned casually, shrugging off his old teacher's grip. "Let's just get this over with. I can hear Goyle lumbering our way."
Whispering the password he had filched from the Ministry's records, Severus released the wards on the bars and pulled the door open. Draco held his lit wand aloft, banishing away the cloying darkness.
They were utterly unprepared for the sight that met them.
A man no older than Draco stood in the exact center of the cell, staring at them curiously with a tilted head and emerald eyes that did, actually, glow, illuminated by power and an unholy madness. Skin turned moon-pale from lack of sun showed from beneath sodden, rotting robes, and hair blacker than ebony stood up in a familiar, bed-ridden mess.
"Hello," came the savior's voice, and it seemed to the two spies that it echoed ethereally against the walls. It was low, nearly a whisper, and uncomfortably akin to the sound of dry serpent scales against slate. "May I help you? I'm afraid we're not open at this time."
"Are you still there, Potter?" Severus asked slowly, feeling the faint hope he had hesitantly harbored for the last four years shatter into pieces of despair.
The man--still a boy, really--appeared to think this over. "I suppose it doesn't really matter," he replied finally, and then happened to glance over the Slytherin's shoulder. Luminescent eyes narrowed, catlike.
"Your master will miss your company, my dear Lucius."
Draco stiffened at having been addressed as his father. Potter's lips curled back, baring teeth that were still white and straight in a mocking semblance of a smile.
"He makes you scream quite beautifully."
Sensing the blonde raise his wand in fury, ready to curse the insane boy, Severus grabbed the thin wrist and held it fast.
"We're running out of time."
Stepping into the cell, he pulled out a glass-blown flower and held it out.
This was the result of nearly four years' worth of research and spelling and coding. The delicate-looking lily had been spelled so that it was virtually unbreakable under any circumstances, and contained a magical center so convoluted and complex it transcended any type of Portkey, and only a single person understood it. Each twist in its magical structure could bypass one of the multitudes of wards built deep into Azkaban's very presence, and slip between the anti-Portkey wards like a blade through water.
Severus had to admit that Lupin's academic brilliance had surpassed what he had thought possible, even if the werewolf's sentimentality had shaped his work into its current form.
"Take hold of the flower, Potter," the Potions Master hissed softly, all too aware of the approaching voices, and held out the small Portkey. But Potter's face turned disturbingly blank of expression and the fever-bright eyes darkened so that they matched the shadows.
"You won fair and square, Cedric," he murmured, gaze transfixed by the pale lily. "I won't be winning any races on this leg."
"Dammit, Potter, snap out of it!" Severus snarled. "This isn't the Triwizard Tournament!"
"Kill the spare," Potter whispered suddenly, voice snakelike and far too much like the Dark Lord's for Severus' peace of mind.
Now able to distinguish separate words from the nearing Death Eaters, Severus swallowed his pride and used Lupin's advice.
"Remember Sirius," he spat, the name foul on his tongue, "remember Remus, and remember your innocence. Take the flower!" You gibbering, mad little boy.
There was a split second where anxious dark eyes met insane verdant ones; then, a scream bubbled up from the boy's throat, and Potter fell to his knees with his hands gripping his hair, crying and yelling for all he was worth.
"Now!"
With the speed left from a childhood of playing Seeker, Draco leapt into the cell and hurriedly cast several spells at the walls as loud as he could.
"Stupefy! Crucio! Stupefy! Imperio!"
He gave the other Slytherin a sharp nod, and with the slightest of hesitations, cast his own at the vulnerable Malfoy.
"Crucio! Stupefy!"
Draco fell to the ground with a solid thump, wand clattering beside him. There was a moment of regret and sorrow, and rage that circumstances had driven him to curse his own godson for his very survival, but he efficiently clamped down on his emotions and turned to face the seizing prisoner.
"Shut up, Potter," Severus growled, more to himself for all the good it did, and grabbed hold of the boy's forearms. Almost instantaneously, the screaming stopped, and Potter looked up at him with an absolute terror Severus had only seen on the faces of Voldemort's dying prey.
Forcing the glass lily into Potter's hand, still keeping a grasp on it himself, Severus softly incanted the password and the world dissolved into a blaze of color.
"Freedom."
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"You failed me! Crucio!"
Bellatrix Lestrange writhed on the floor of the prison's main hall, now the stronghold of the Dark Lord.
"Please, my lord," she gasped as the curse was released. "Please, I could not have known that the filthy Potions Master was a traitor. Let me hunt him down, my lord, let me find him for you and make him sing your praises..."
"Silence, Bellatrix." Voldemort looked down at her, expression softening into one of sorrowful pity. "You are my most loyal of followers, my lovely Nightshade. You, who have never renounced me for freedom, nor questioned my orders. When one so dear to my heart has betrayed my love and trust, then how shall I continue to go on?"
"My lord, my master," she breathed, too weak to stand but reaching her arms out to him in entreaty. "Please let me fix my mistake. Let me find the traitor and my old cousin's precious godson and bring them to you for your judgment!"
Around the vast, cavernous hall were ringed the silent Death Eaters and the pitiful forms of both prosecuted Dark followers and new recruits. All watched without compassion the woman that had stood at their master's right hand prostrate herself on the ground, bowed beneath the fury of the Dark Lord.
"Where is my silver Dragon?" Voldemort hissed, ignoring the woman's pleas.
"Here, my lord," came the silky tones of the youngest Malfoy, separating himself from the main group of Death Eaters and bowing stiffly on one knee before the makeshift throne. His slender frame shook lightly from the aftereffects of the Cruciatus, and his normally immaculate appearance was marred by the filth that clung to his robes.
"You have been honest with me, Draco?"
"As always, my lord," he replied, bowing even farther so that his forehead nearly pressed against the cold floor.
"You are one of the employees in the Ministry's Department for International Negotiations and Treaties, yes?"
"Yes, my lord."
Voldemort pressed the tips of his long, skeletal fingers together, crimson eyes staring calculatedly at the young wizard. "And do any know of your allegiances?"
"Only those present know for certain, my lord," Draco said slowly, carefully selecting his words. "But it is a well-known assumption that any that have been in the House of Slytherin are your loyal supporters. Even my pureblood name is not free of those rumors, much as I do to show otherwise, my lord."
"How true," Voldemort hissed reflectively. "I want you to find a way to infiltrate Hogwarts without leaving your career at the Ministry. Find a way to get close to my traitorous little Snake, and through him Harry Potter. He will have to keep the boy hidden, as the world does not know of his true innocence, and you will learn of his whereabouts."
"My lord," Bellatrix, cried, deranged blue eyes begging for acceptance. "Please let me help! Let me ruin those two beyond recognition!"
"You will report to Bellatrix," Voldemort said softly, ignoring the desperate entreaties. "The two of you will devise a way to bring them both back here."
"As you wish, my lord," Draco said just as quietly.
Then his malevolent gaze turned to the disgraced Death Eater. "Had you not interrupted me, you would have learned of my plans for you. Crucio!"
Screams once again filled the hall.
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