Tainted Souls

Dragonlord

Rating: R
Genres: Action & Adventure, Horror
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 4
Published: 16/12/2003
Last Updated: 16/12/2003
Status: paused

We are all born with one soul and one life, that we can turn both to the Light or to the Dark, all depending on our decisions and acts. And yet, some rare individuals find themselves trapped within the wheel of Reincarnation, time and time again throughout eternity, under the choking grasp of destiny and its brother, fate, unable to find peace, to break free of the binds of previous lives, of past and maybe regretted actions. Harry Potter may not believe himself tainted by his bond to the Dark Lord, but when truths and secrets of a past life come up to torment the Boy-Who-Lived Harry may find that he was –and still is- tainted beyond flesh, beyond blood… Indeed he may find that he never had a pure soul, but instead, possesses a tainted one

Chapters

1. Disturbing dreams

1. Disturbing dreams

Tainted Souls

A Harry Potter fanfiction

By Dragonlord

Disclaimer: Do I have to do this? I think not!

e-mail: askani_2003@yahoo.fr

C&C welcome!

Author's words: I'm crazy but I hope you enjoy this...

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Chapter one: Disturbing dreams

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“Why does it feel like night today?
Something in here's not right today
Why am I so uptight today?
Paranoia's all I got left
I don't know what stressed me first
Or how the pressure was fed / but
I know just what it feels like
To have a voice in the back of my head
It's like a beast that I hold inside
A beast that awakes when I close my eyes
A beast watches every time I lie
A beast that laughs every time I fall
(And watches everything)
So I know that when it's time to sink or swim
That the beast inside is hearing me / right beneath my skin
It's like I'm / paranoid lookin' over my back
It's like a / whirlwind inside of my head
It's like I / can't stop what I'm hearing within
It's like the beast inside is right beneath my skin
I know I've got a beast in me
points out all the mistakes to me
You've got a face on the inside too and
Your paranoia's probably worse
I don't know what set me off first but I know what I can't stand
Everybody acts like the fact of the matter is
I can't add up to what you can but
Everybody has a beast that they hold inside
A beast that awakes when they close their eyes
A beast watches every time they lie
A beast that laughs every time they fall
(And watches everything)
So you know that when it's time to sink or swim
That the beast inside is watching you too / right inside your skin
It's like I'm / paranoid lookin' over my back
It's like a / whirlwind inside of my head
It's like I / can't stop what I'm hearing within
It's like the beast inside is right beneath my skin

It's like I'm / paranoid lookin' over my back
It's like a / whirlwind inside of my head
It's like I / can't stop what I'm hearing within
It's like the beast inside is right beneath my skin

the beast inside is right beneath my skin
the beast inside is right beneath my skin
the beast inside is right beneath my skin

The sun goes down
I feel the light betray me

The sun goes down
I feel the light betray me

The sun
It's like I'm / paranoid lookin' over my back
It's like a / whirlwind inside of my head
It's like I / can't stop what I'm hearing within
It's like the beast inside is right beneath my skin
I feel the light betray me

The sun
It's like I'm / paranoid lookin' over my back
It's like a / whirlwind inside of my head
It's like I / can't stop what I'm hearing within
I feel the light betray me
It's like I / can't stop what I'm hearing within
It's like I / can't stop what I'm hearing within…”

Papercut,

Linkin Park Dragonlord's version

The sun descended upon the battlefields, the sign of the Holy Cross clashing against the lunar sign of the Arab armies. The world all around him was bloody red and coal black, and cries of rage, anger and pain filled the air, saturating it as did the scent of coppery blood, sticking to everything.

He knew little of that, ignoring it like the soldier he was, completely focused on the feeling of the blade of his sword as it cut, carved, bit and tore the flesh of his enemies, of the enemies of his faith, of his church.

Under his helmet, red as the blood that flowed in his veins and upon the land that was his, his and of his forefathers, he could feel the perspiration soak his thick mustache and his coal-black tresses.

Perspiration... and the blood that drenched him from helmeted head to armored toes. The taste of the blood filling his mouth, filling his nostrils and its color tainting even the sun.

Blood, liquid of life, its color putting even the most flawless rubies to shame.

Blood, filling his mouth as he drank it, savoring the strength of his enemies downed by his hand, its texture making the richest wines taste like slate.

Blood, giving him strength, the power to kill, maim and obliterate those opposing him.

Blood, everywhere...in everything.

Red turning to dark even as he eviscerated another enemy, the sweet sound of his pain, of his death rattle filling him, sending him into a frenzy of gore and acknowledged despair.

Red turning to black, then to red and finally to black as everything faded away in a void of darkness, leaving behind unwelcome memories and even less desired feelings, alien sensations of evil nature...

Harry Potter awoke with a grasp, gasping for breath, his naked body covered in cold perspiration. His hands moved frantically, fingers ruffling already messy midnight black hair, even as he fought to regain control.

For a moment he remained like that, sitting upon his uncomfortable bed, head in his hands even as the cool breeze of the summer night caressed him, soothing and yet hardly comforting.

“A dream...” he whispered, his voice rough as if he had been shouting all day long. “It was only a dream... it has to be a dream…” he muttered, desperately wanting to believe it.

Man, I'll prefer one of Voldemort's dreams any day before one of those...

Sighing and with his body once more under control, Harry rose from the bed, walking towards the window and taking in the silver, full moon that gave off her usual silver-cobalt gleam.

Usually Harry found the sight soothing, the whole presence of the night relaxing him somehow.

Maybe it was because the night was quiet, contrary hearing the shouts of his uncle and aunt when they ordered him as if he was their personal slave in the day. Even at Hogwarts the night had something appealing to him, calming in clear contrast to the long days of classes. No more Snape and his insults, his biased way of treating the Gryffindors more badly than he did the Slytherins. No more students roaming the millennia old halls, their voices sometimes a nuisance to his tired senses.

By night Harry found the tranquility he sometimes needed when the world was too much for him. Those days he would stay late in the common room, his gaze lost in the flames of the hearth or he would roam the deserted corridors of the school, garbed in his invisibility cloak.

But tonight gave no comfort to the seventeen-year-old, still haunted by the dreams.

Dreams which sometimes felt more real than the rut that was his existence at the Dursley's, dreams that were very different from those concerning Voldemort aroused other things in Harry, none of which he liked. If he had a choice he would prefer not to know about them.

Sighing, Harry turned from the window and put on a pair of boxers, just in case he met one of his relatives (not that it had happened) on his way to the bathroom.

Silently Harry moved through the darkened corridors, careful not to make any sound that could wake Vernon or Petunia, even knowing that they were deep sleepers. As for Dudley, his enormous cousin, he would be watching some movie in his collection in his room, feeding his baser instincts.

No, Harry wasn't afraid of being discovered, but still, he was careful.

With surprising speed he reached the room and closed the door behind him, careful to use the lock to prevent any interruption. Once he was sure of privacy he dived towards the sink. He turned on the faucet. Cold water soon running, Harry scooped it in his hands and splashing it on his face, rubbing it viciously to remove the

Blood

sweat from his face, the feeling of the cold water against his skin... so unlike

Blood

What he saw in his dreams...

With his face and chin still dripping water, Harry turned off the faucet, breathing deeply, blinking to remove the cold liquid from his eyes. Passing his hands upon his face to be rid of the excess water Harry looked at the mirror, fixating his gaze on the green eyes of his reflection.

Gasping, Harry pulled away, retreating backwards, his mouth open and his face drained of color...His green, emerald eyes were no longer green.

They were red.

...His sword sinking into the stomach of one of his enemies, he grinned as he took in the look of pain on that dark face even as he twisted the blade... savoring it, savoring the feeling of the steel cutting trough hard leather and pliable flesh, thick blood flowing as did the innards of the soldier as he pulled the sword free in a spray of the crimson liquid...

Harry rushed to the toilet, kneeling just in time as he threw up, emptying his stomach until it was left dry and even then his stomach heaved. It took him some moments to calm down.

Finally he rose, his legs shaking as if they had been hexed. Harry had to support himself using the sink and, once he was moderately sure that his legs wouldn't fail him again, splashed more water on his face, trying to jolt himself to wakefulness. He hesitated a moment before looking back at the mirror but, summoning forth his courage looked bravely at the innocuous object.

His eyes were green.

Harry let out a shuddering breath he wasn't aware he had been holding. With a tired sigh he passed his hand across his face before looking back at the image looking at him, silent as was usual in all Muggle mirrors.

He was tall, above six feet with a lithe tanned body that was muscled without being overly so. Deep, sparkling green eyes that sometimes gleamed with the light of magic or darkened by the weight of secrets and regrets were the centerpiece of his face. Dark, wild hair that reached his shoulders not unlike a mane of midnight light completed the effect.

Some scars too, the result of more than one brush with the dark forces. The last and most recent was a set of three thin parallel lines running across his torso, courtesy of Peter Pettigrew before Harry could capture him, that damned silver hand burning like acid upon his skin. His fingers traced the lines. It had been a close call, the silvery hand sending a dose of nundu poison that by all accounts should have killed him a hundred times over.

And yet he survived, he endured. Beyond the hopes of all he had overcome the poison and now Peter was rotting in a cell in Valkarran, the new wizard prison that had been created following the fall of Azkaban.

He had other scars, here and there, gained from encounters similar to the one with Wormtail but above all other, it was the first one, the one made by the Dark Lord himself that shone on his forehead like a beacon.

No matter how tanned his skin became or how long his hair became, the scar had a way to be seen, to be detected, admired and feared. Even now, under the electric light of the bathroom it glowed, a jagged line of gold and silver, right in the middle of his brows.

With a sigh Harry turned the lights off, and as he suspected, the scar continued glowing even in the pitch-black darkness.

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With a grunt Harry finished moving the rock out of the way and to the spot he had wanted it to be. Groaning, the teenage boy straightened, the ache in the small of his back smarting for a while until Harry paid it no more heed.

As he admired the fruits of his labor Harry wiped the sweat from his brow, before moving to the porch where some cold water was kept for his use - one of the few concessions his aunt had granted him for his work on the garden. Not that his aunt ever thanked him or even acknowledged his hard work; it was simply encouragement for faster work.

As he drank the water, Harry reflected on the days to come. It was August 29th and in two days he would go to King's Cross station where he would take the train that would lead him to Hogwarts and his seventh year.

But not his final one.

It had come as a surprise of monolithic proportions when Fudge, supported by Dumbledore back in the end of his sixth year, announced to the entire student body of the school that, due to the dark times they were in, and with the rise in Death Eater activity and the fall of Azkaban, the Board of Governors, along with the High Council of the Aurors' Guild and after close consultation with the parents had decided to extend the years of formation at Hogwarts by two years.

Most students had been lost (he amongst them), others looked rather peeved and ready to break something while few others, students of Ravenclaw forming the majority (and of course Hermione who looked as if she was in cloud nine and rising) looked interested in the possibility of increasing their knowledge.

Some adjustments were made and in Harry's case it involved another summer at the Dursleys, stricter measures of security (like not being able to meet Ron and Hermione in Diagon Alley) and being picked up by some ministry representatives to be brought safely to King's Cross.

That had been the result of a fiery debate between him and Dumbledore who along with Sirius and Remus thought was the best way to deal with things. Voldemort was still after him. Things like two attempts on his life in the very corridors of Hogwarts and three of kidnapping had all been prevented but were too close home for the adults' comfort.

So here he was; trapped at Privet Drive, once again reduced to being the personal slave of the Dursleys (he had even come with a memo, note to self: next time Hermione speaks about S.P.E.W. or any wacky story about the civil rights of magically-enslaved creatures, say yes and do as she says. Pay, maim, kill, whatever. Anything.) , minus Dudley, who had become such a lazy mountain of fat that he never bothered Harry, not that he bothered with moving anything anyway.

Still his oppression under the rule of his uncle and aunt was nothing compared to the dreams.

Both his fifth and sixth year had been bearable when it came to that aspect of his nightly life, in part because of his acceptance of what had happened to Cedric, thanks to Ron and Hermione and in part because he could do something about what his dreams told him with Dumbledore near him. This allowed the old sage to foil many of the Dark Lord's plans and schemes, delaying his return to power even with his servants roaming the land.

Obviously, at some point or another, Voldemort realized what was going on, and that was the signal for him to lift all restraint upon the Death Eaters. Harry Potter had to die. It was as simple as that. Of course he had to deal with the pain the Cruciatus brought him, dozen of white-hot knives sinking in his body each time the Dark Lord felt moody, angry or simply cheerful but that was a price he had learned to cope with.

His other, newer dreams were something else.

Harry sat, sipping some more of the ice cold water, letting his mind wander and ponder, treading where angels would fear to...

It was always the same with a couple of differences.

In most of the dreams he was on a battle field slaughtering all those daring to oppose him with savage glee, taking delight in the suffering and the blood, as if it was something due to him by right. In the dreams blood was omnipresent in some way or another, the crimson color of the most precious of fluids tainting everything.

In others he was at a banquet, surrounded by faceless shadows as he ate something that was unlike anything Harry had ever tasted. He only knew it was meat of some sort, tender and bloody but for once the blood was not the center of the dream, of the visions. It was the fear he inspired, a fear that came to him from those faceless beings through the wailing of a hundred voices in mortal pain, but he wouldn't be able to tell anyone from where these cries of pain came from.

He only knew that he was some sort of lord in those banquets. That particular realization reaching his sickened mind after a number of those dreams.

He was clothed richly, almost gloriously, and the station of his seat was comparable to the position the teachers at Hogwarts had in the Great Hall, high and domineering above the students, such was his position in the dreams.

But the worst part of it was waking drenched in sweat, still shivering, lost as dream and reality merged and he was Harry Potter but also the being in those dreams, those feelings and emotions of the other his.

Ruthless and cruel, feeding on death, blood, carnage and suffering, the kind of being that even Voldemort would fear... or admire.

And there were even worse dreams... Him slicing the soft and glorious skin of a still living woman as if it was warm butter with a silvery knife, only to have his hands sinking in the still hot body, as it trembled in agony, the only reason why the beautiful woman wasn't screaming was because he had cut her throat moments before.

That particular dream had kept him awake three days, fear gripping his heart in a cold vice-like grip.

Even now, after hours of telling himself that they were but dreams, the mere memory of it was enough to make his stomach queasy and his skin covered in perspiration.

What were those dreams? Why did he have them?

It made no sense.

The voice of his aunt cut the still air like a whip and snapped much like one “Boy! Get back to your work right now! I'm not feeding you to become lazy!”

“Look who's talking...” he muttered before shouting “Yes, Aunt Petunia! Right now!” he drank some more and marched towards his next chore, almost feeling grateful for the interruption that had taken him out of his musings... even if the knowledge of them, the emotions the... dreams brought to him were still there, barely held in check in some dark part of his mind.

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Once again he was there, the gory battles unfolding before his eyes. The Cross and the Winged Dragon dripped with the blood of the men fighting, and once again he was fighting, his sword like a scythe, raindrops of blood coming from the tip of his sword. The scent of death spread in the air as it rose and descended, cutting a bloody path through his enemies.

A flash caught his attention and it was only his keen reflexes that saved him, the lethal blow reduced to a line in the palm of his hand as he stumbled, rolled and rose up ready to face a new adversary, sword ready to cut another life down.

The swords clashed, the sound of their meeting lost amongst thousands of similar encounters.

Once, twice, thrice the blades met and parted only to return in a dance of death and struggling for supremacy even as perspiration and blood covered him and his would-be killer.

A strike to the side only to be parried, another to the other side that met with the same fate... all the while waiting for an opening.

The man facing him was good. That he had to acknowledge, for his own blood, flowing through his veins sang in honor of the challenge, the matching of skills with a worthy adversary.

Still as good as he was it wasn't good enough, as his rolling head crashed against the field and the body sank to its knees and soon offered an illusion of tranquil sleep. For a moment he envied this man, this fellow warrior that had finally found peace…

But once again his bloodlust called to him, driving him onwards through the ranks of his enemies.

Once again, as the day advanced the sun was tainted a sanguine red...

With a gasp Harry awoke, his hands moving to wipe off the perspiration that covered his naked body and soaked the thin bed sheats. Once again he was lost between the two worlds even if this time it had not been as horrible as the visions of the mutilated woman or the feasts of suffering...

To his muddled mind the only thing comparable to the feelings coursing through him during those combats was those streaming from particularly stressful Quidditch matches, when he had to tax his skill upon the broom and push his reflexes to catch the ever elusive snitch...

This, the rush within his dreams, the sword clashing against another was something more, in a whole new level of intensity.

Blinking, Harry could feel something tickle him, something moving across his face, something dark passing by the arch of his nose and slipping by his chin only to land upon his white bed cover.

A single spot of dark red, soon followed by others.

With barely contained tremors, he passed two of his fingers across his face and as he had expected, the tips were red. It was only then that the pain coming from his hand pushed through his confusion.

Pain... Hot, sharp, fast, beating in time with his heart - coming from his left hand.

That shocked Harry even more than the dream had, as there, upon his blood soaked palm, was a line, deep and dark where the sword of his opponent had struck.

The blood continued flowing, coloring the sheets even more and falling upon his lower chest.

“It was a dream...” he muttered, his voice sounding strange even to himself. “It was a dream... right?”

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Author's words

(second take)

Well another story that starts, another crazy idea I had to write, a sort of challenge I have set to myself, to see if I could do short chapters. I started it before the OoFtP but I will include events and elements from the book but for those Sirius fans out there don't be afraid he is still alive and barking in thise new universe of mine.

To other matters, those awaiting for new chapters of my stories (included the non Harry Potter ones like Star of War) I will only say that I'm still working on them when I can… which is quite rare but they *are* advancing.

And for those interested in LSOK I have decided to do two time lines, one focused in Harry and Dumbledore's travells trough time and space and one starting at Kings cross, the first day of Harry's sixth year at Hogwarts… trying to keep everybody happy ^_^

This said I hope you liked the first chapter of Tainted Souls, see ya!