Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ Another Life ❯ Little Boy Blue ( Chapter 1 )

Warnings: Yaoi/Slash, Angst, DARK themes, Backstabbing, Incest, Yuri/Fem-slash, and other various nastiness. Hard R rating.
Disclaimer: Ain't mine.

In his sixteen years of life, Harry Potter had been afraid many, many times. He had been brave and stupid and impulsive, but mostly afraid. Harry didn’t shy away from this, knew that fear was all that saved a man from throwing his life away and needed to be understood and controlled, not ignored. He was idly confused as to why he wasn’t scared now.

Harry sat on his bed, legs crossed and arms stuffed in his lap. His back slouched as was normal for teenagers his age, and his eyes stared dully ahead with little more than mild interest in them. The messy black hair was messy as always, shaggier now with wispy bangs to his nose and fringe over his ears and neck. His long sleeved shirt was torn in places and far too large, hanging over one boney shoulder. The blue jeans he wore had one leg ripped off at the knee, the other ripped higher on to create uneven cutoffs. It was more holey and torn than the shirt, tan skin showing through the white and blue threads. Tan, bruised, broken skin. Nothing that couldn’t be explained by various, normal, teenage activities. He was ready to do so, also, even if no one believed it. Certainly not the dark man at the door.

The man standing before him didn’t seem to have his attention on anything but him. No prior engagements, no inspection of the bare living quarters, just two ebony eyes boring into his body. Harry wondered if he should have been self-conscious of himself, but couldn’t really summon the will to be. That would mean he would have to think.

“Potter.”

Yes, that was his name. He stared back into those black eyes, waiting. He knew there would be more. There was always more.

“Come with me. We are returning to Hogwarts.”

So Harry got up and followed him out of the empty bedroom. He walked in silence down the stairs, ignored the destroyed living room and frightened whimpers of the muggles in the corner, and left through the door. On into the street, take the portkey to Hogsmeade, walk to Hogwarts, ignore the man behind the curtain.

He didn’t question anything at all. Didn’t even speak, and that was what bothered Professor Severus Snape the most. Not the bruising, not the state of his clothing, not even his expression. The simple fact that Potter was so damned quiet put him on the highest level of danger alert he had.

Snape left him in the infirmary. Let Pomfrey deal with the silence of Harry Potter, because he just couldn’t.

He went to Dumbledore and gave his report. Told that old man about finding Potter, noting his state, asking the muggles, being attacked by the largest and having to defend himself (“Just a stunning spell, Albus,” Snape assured him.). Nothing was left out, not even his suspicions. Dumbledore listened to it all, noting it with a sagely nod as always. He thanked Snape and sent him on his way. There was no sign of anything but the regret of one’s own stupidity on that old face, but Snape couldn’t help feeling angry all the same.

He was a master at reading people, and something was wrong. No, something had been wrong for years. Snape thought deeply on this in his office that evening. It was easier to think about Albus Dumbledore than about Harry Potter and his beaten body. So much easier.

The old man was slowly but surely loosing Snape’s trust. It took years to whittle it down. Every new assignment and every new disappointment just hammered down one more nail into the coffin of their partnership. Lately, the man had gotten almost fanatical in his war with the Dark Lord. One could argue that he was simply tired of innocent deaths, but Snape knew better. He had far more experience with powerful wizards.

Snape could imagine Dumbledore’s perfect expression of grief when he finally deigned to see Harry Potter and his beaten, bloody body. Immediately, he shook that vision for his head with a physical shudder. He didn’t want to think about that. No. It brought far too many memories. Better to wonder about Dumbledore alone. Easier.

Pomfrey interrupted him as the sky darkened to full black. She was out of a potion so he set to brewing it, telling her to expect it within the hour. This put him right back into thinking about just who the potion was undoubtedly for. Harry Potter and his beaten, bloody, broken body.

He really needed to get his mind off that.

He didn’t like that the house held only muggles when he got there. Months of work, ripping at all the magical shielding, the ‘protection’, the magic cage around that house, all for nothing. The boy was not there.

He was not happy.

Leaving the three simpering muggles to his underlings, he made his way through the house, keeping his hands close so that he touched as little as possible. Let the muggle filth stay separate from him. Up the stairs, sneering distastefully at the creaks, through the hall to look into each room. He was silent as a ghost. The first room was filled to overflowing with muggle devices, a bed barely visible in one corner. The second was a fully furnished bedroom, disgustingly orderly and clean. The last door gave him pause. Locks of all sorts lined one side of it. Some were broken and he recognized the faint feeling of magic still in the metal bits. He pushed the door open and looked.

Bare. One bed, really just a mattress sitting on a very low frame. It was in horrible shape, dented and lumpy with holes poked through it. No sheets. No pillows. Nothing else was in the room. He was loathe to do so, but stepped into it and let his crimson eyes fall half mast as he opened himself up.

Immediately, he was bombarded with the strong mirages of past experiences littering the room. He could hear screams and cries, as if they were happening as he stood there. He felt himself beating upon that small, defenseless body, and in turn felt such abuse upon himself. He experienced the disgusting joy of seeing the hated little boy curled up beside the bed, unable to move without whimpering, and he felt the horror and self-hatred for being so weak. Long enough had passed and he pulled himself back behind the walls. The room was silent once more.

He wasn’t sure what to make of this. Letting himself feel had that affect on him. He decided he would think on it after returning to the manor. There was much to go through.

As he came back down, the small man at the bottom of the stair looked up.

“Master, shall we kill the muggles?”

Lord Voldemort’s face didn’t change as he looked from the rat-like man to where the three were being held. A flash of the experience before made his gaze harden.

“Do with them what you like,” he hissed. “Then kill them all.”

His will was followed.

When Harry woke up, he was screaming soundlessly. Even opening his eyes didn’t cut off the horrible hissing sound issuing from his throat, no matter that he knew it would do no good, no matter that he couldn’t even remember what the dream had been. The hands that held him down, voices that shouted at him, meant nothing. He would scream until he couldn’t scream any more. A hand clamped over his mouth and though he wanted to bite it, he didn’t, because biting meant slapping and he didn’t really feel like getting slapped at the moment. The hand lifted. He choked when something was forced into his mouth and swallowed reflexively. Soon, a calm spread over his body and he stopped flailing against the binds. He laid back, recovering from the whole thing.

“Well, Potter, now that that display is over…”

Oh, that drawling voice. Harry knew it well. He was almost glad to hear it instead of Pomfrey’s whiny babbling.

“The mystery of your silence seems to have been solved.”

Harry hadn’t known it was a mystery in the first place.

“You’ll be put on a strict regiment of potions and non-solid food until the tissue of your throat has been repaired.”

Harry hadn’t known it was broken, either.

“You’ll be babbling inane stupidity within a few weeks.”

Harry realized he didn’t really know much of anything, if this comfort did nothing for him. Snape went quiet as he stared at the boy, his gaze hard. Those dull green eyes simply stared right back at him without fear. Without anything, really.

A blank slate. That’s what the boy reminded him of. A damn blank slate. He decided he would do something about that.

“Pomfrey,” he said in a voice only loud enough for her to hear, “Potter will come with me as soon as you release him.”

The medi-witch almost fought him, but realized that there were no broken bones and no other injuries that would require her full time watch. The hard, unwavering look Snape gave her normally didn’t affect much, but this time there was enough behind it to crumble her defenses. Later, she would blame it on a sleepless night.

“You may take him after I’ve given a final examination and written up instructions for his care,” she said finally. Snape nodded and sat down beside the bed. Harry watched him for a bit but soon his eyes wandered away to stare into space. For some reason, that made Snape angry.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone they were beating you?”

At first, there was no change. Then, slowly, Harry turned to look at him and a small, bitter smile spread over his lips. He looked so old yet so young, so worn by everything. Years of pain fell on his shoulders along with burdens that should never have been put on him in the first place. Snape never, ever wanted to see that expression again. A cocky grin, an enraged snarl, yes, but never this one.

The pale lips moved, but there wasn’t enough sound to be heard. His throat was too damaged to do much more than whisper. Snape leaned in close and the boy spoke again, right into his ear so that he could hear.

“I did.”

“Who knew?”

No answer, but the smile told him everything. Who else?

“He left you there to be beaten to death.”

The smile never wavered. Snape sat back in his chair, stunned despite himself. He had never suspected the old man was capable of this. Capable of anything like letting this happen to Harry Potter, hero of Wizard kind, Boy-Who-Lived, child of circumstance. He felt like laughing hysterically until he cried.

Snape had never wanted to rip off the head of anyone but James Potter and Sirius Black before. Not even Remus Lupin or Mad-Eye Moody had gotten onto that particular list. Now, he felt almost ready to add someone. He sat still and quiet, trying to understand the thought processes of a man he’d known most of his life, but couldn’t fathom what his reasoning was this time. Dumbledore always had a reason somewhere. He was missing something, but he had no idea what it was.

With a sigh, Snape ran a hand through his hair, mussing the black strands. He needed to know, so badly that it almost hurt. He had to get to the bottom of it. Finally, he could take no more of the suffocating silence and left the infirmary, muttering a parting work to Pomfrey as he swept through the door.

And through it all, Harry Potter’s sad little smile never dropped.

The fire crackled and warmed the cool, stone room. Under his bare feet was a soft rug, just as comfortable as the blood red chair he reclined in. The table before him was set with a feast, but he’d touched none of it. They didn’t question it, but the guards at the door were nervously waiting for whatever their master was thinking of to conclude. Generally, it ended with someone screaming in pain.

Lord Voldemort absently rubbed a thumb across his cheek, his eyes distant as he immersed himself in memory, letting it roll over him. He had to understand. Slowly, his eyes closed completely. When they opened again, he was standing back in the bare room. On the bed laid Harry Potter, who stared up at the ceiling in silence. There was a healing bruise on one eye and a scab on his lip from a split. The rest of him was covered with bruises where his thin clothing didn’t hide. For some strange reason, the boy looked utterly peaceful even in such a state.

Sounds filtered in from outside the door. He looked and watched as the largest muggle of the house stumbled inside, door slamming against the wall. The peace was shattered and Potter jumped off the bed to stand. The words were lost as the muggle spoke, his voice angry and cruel. The boy only nodded or did nothing in response. He watched as the muggle strode forward and slapped him across the face hard enough to send the boy sprawled back onto the bed.

There was a distinctly base aggression in the muggle’s next actions. He rained down punches and kicks upon the little body, threw him against walls, screaming taunts and laughed. He wasn’t sure why, but the display made him almost sick. The boy was thrown to his feet and stared up, green eyes unseeing. Green eyes that bore into him. Green eyes that reminded him so much-

Lord Voldemort’s eyes snapped open and stared into the fire. There were no green eyes to taunt him. No green eyes to tell him what he’d lost. How he’d been betrayed. No green eyes. He was alone, save the two of his minions at the doorway. Letting out a soft sigh, he rose and turned toward them, noting with distaste the fear in their gazes.

“Summon Malfoy,” he ordered. “I wish to know if she has been successful.”

They hurriedly went to do his bidding, leaving him alone. Lord Voldemort stood in silence, waiting. It wasn’t long before the woman he had called entered his private rooms. He waved the guards out and the door closed behind them loudly. Narcissa Malfoy watched him, her gray eyes taking in his almost troubled look. Few dared look at him long enough to figure out his slight facial expressions.

“My Lord,” she greeted, nodding to him finally. Lord Voldemort gazed back quietly before turning his eyes back to the fire.

“The raid on Potter’s home did not go well,” he murmured quietly. Narcissa said nothing. After a long quiet, he sat back down. The tenseness neither had noticed broke instantly. Narcissa took the seat across from him.

“What do you wish of me, my Lord?” she asked. He sighed softly.

“I want the house destroyed. All of it. There will be nothing left.”

She took this in, memorized the order, then picked through it, trying to find what was different. Something inside her told her there was a problem. The tone was deadened, tired. Unlike the normal glee he took in destruction of their enemies.

“My I be bold, my Lord?”

His dark red eyes darted over her face. “You may.”

“You seem troubled, my Lord,” she murmured. “Something there surprised or upset you.”

His silence made her wonder if she’d overstepped her boundaries, but no curse came flying from his lips.

“You presumed correctly,” he said. His voice was guarded and his eyes held a far away glint to them.

“How can I ease your troubles, my Lord?”

He said nothing as he took her in. So eager to please him, yet Narcissa Malfoy had no real ambition to be anything better than she was. She was content, even as her husband sat in Azkaban and she was currently Head of the Malfoy family. He wondered why she followed him at all. Narcissa had no mark, no real allegiance to him at all, but still she was there, wanting to make herself useful. What could she possibly gain from the partnership, except the hope that he wouldn’t kill her or her son? It couldn’t just be that. Narcissa was an extremely intelligent woman and could find a way to protect them if she needed to. He was sure of that.

“You are so eager to please me,” he said quietly, carefully. The shift in her gray eyes assured him that she had noted the change in him. “Why?”

She was silent, formulating her answer, thinking it through to perfection. Finally, she merely stated, “I have decided to be and so I shall.”

It was not an awe-inspiring answer, but he understood it. Lord Voldemort sat back and stared at her. She was beautiful, he would give her that. Long locks of silvery blonde pulled into an elegant bun, her robes impeccable in style and cut to show her in all her regal glory. Fine featured face that shown with such intelligence and prowess in everything she did.

A moment later, he found himself relating to her everything that had happened in that evening. Taking the house, finding the boy gone, the room, the visions…His later vision in the room… Everything was laid at her feet to contemplate. When he was finished, she quietly thought about it all. Despite her dislike for the Potter boy, her mothering instincts told her that this was completely wrong. He was a boy, a Wizard boy, and there was no excuse for that kind of treatment. As a witch herself, she was disgusted that the abuse was imposed by a muggle. The boy should have been capable of defending himself against a lowly muggle, but had chosen not to. She did not understand.

“Does this change your plan of killing him, my Lord?”

Lord Voldemort rubbed his temples. “That is uncertain.”

“He has much power, my Lord…”

“What are you hinting at?”

She was quiet a moment, but her eyes never left his.

“Turn him, my Lord.”

“Do you believe he will come willingly?”

“No, my Lord.” She smiled. It was not exactly wicked, but there was little warmth either. “He will have to be convinced.”

After a few moments, he gave his own small smile.

“Severus.”

Conditions met:
None.