Dark Rage
~Fading to Nothing~
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I appreciate all the reviews that have been given so far, so thanks to whoever has reviewed.
***
"Wake up!" Aunt Petunia's shrill voice was enough to wake Harry from his unconsciousness, "It's time for you to make breakfast!"
"Argh," Harry moaned as he sat up. His body was stiff, probably because he had been lying on the floor for the past few hours. He also had a terrible headache, and his aunt's voice did nothing to quell the throbbing pain in his head. His stomach also hurt quite a bit, and he wondered why it was so sore until he remembered the night before. His uncle had kicked him.
As he stood up he had to suck in his breath as a wave of pain from his stomach region washed over him. He lifted up his shirt, and saw that there was a very large bruise there: purple, blue, black, and slight shades of green and yellow. It was not a pretty sight. The bruise stretched up to about an inch above the bottom of his ribcage, which is where it hurt the most. Just running a finger lightly over the bruise was enough to make his eyes water.
He carefully got dressed, making sure that he did not stretch anything in range of the bruise.
It took him a while to walk downstairs into the kitchen, the slightest movement from side to side hurt a lot.
He immediately began to cook breakfast as he entered the kitchen. He did not want his uncle to attack him again. He needed to have everything set out nicely for him so there would be no punishment.
He finished quickly; he wanted to get back into the confines of his room instead of staying in the openness of the kitchen.
He left just as Uncle Vernon entered, and only received a nasty glare from him.
An owl was waiting for him upon his return to his room. He untied the scroll that was attached to the owl's leg, and watched it fly off as soon as it was free of its burden.
Harry looked down at the letter, untied it, and found it to be from Dumbledore. Harry just threw the scroll onto his small desk, like he did for all of his letters. There were giant stacks of them everywhere, most of them being from Hermione. He never bothered to open them; he just couldn't summon the energy and will power to open them.
He settled down onto his bed, and stared up at the ceiling.
"BOY! GET DOWN HERE! YOU NEED TO MOW THE LAWN!"
***
Harry was afraid to sleep. Ever since that dream, where he had become a cold-blooded killer, he was afraid to close his eyes. Afraid to let sleep take him. Afraid to let the nightmares plague him.
He sat on his bed, gazing out at the wall opposite him. He never blinked, moved his eyes, or move at all, for that matter (except for the slow movements of his breathing). He was growing very tired, all the work he had done today had exhausted him. The bruise on his stomach was aching terribly, and his muscles were all sore.
As his eyes began to droop, images flashed before him. All of his darkest memories came up into the forefront of his mind. As he watched them all, a voice spoke inside his head.
Having fun, Harry?
Harry knew whom that voice belonged to. Only the voice of Voldemort could be so cruel, cold, and bone chilling.
Have you ever had the feeling, Harry, where you just want to kill someone?
Don't listen to him, don't listen to him, don't listen to him… Harry was trying to keep the voice out of his mind, but the harder he tried to ignore it, the more forceful it became.
If I'm not mistaken, it seems that you have committed a terrible crime, Harry. And I thought you didn't like hurting people.
Harry had his hands over his ears, trying to block the sound of Voldemort's voice. His scar began to burn very painfully; like a white-hot knife, slowly cutting his head into two pieces.
You have interesting memories, Harry. Mind if, we take a look?
At once the memory of the graveyard, where Voldemort had been resurrected, came into view. He could see every tomb, every Death Eater's mask in such detail that he thought he was there again physically. He could see himself and Voldemort standing, on opposite ends. Voldemort was trying to make him bow, "Bow to death, Harry…who knows, it might even be painless…I would not know…I have never died."
Harry turned around, and on the ground before him lay Cedric, his eyes open, looking as if he had been frightened… It was a haunting sight, and Harry was beginning to retch…
The graveyard faded, and in its place was the Chamber of Secrets… The young Tom Riddle was speaking in parseltongue, calling upon the basilisk… The basilisk fell from the mouth of a giant statue of Salazar Slytherin… It began its rampage on Harry; trying to catch its prey… Harry watched as his twelve-year-old self pulled the sword of Gryffindor out of the sorting hat, and stabbed the basilisk in the roof of its mouth…Harry felt again the pain of the basilisk's venom flowing through his veins…
He was in the room with Quirrel… He watched as Quirrel unwrapped his turban, and Harry saw Voldemort's face on the back of his head, asking for the stone… Quirrel grabbed Harry, and then started getting covered with blisters…
A hundred dementors were now swooping down upon Harry… His younger self was trying and failing to protect his godfather and Hermione with the Patronus Charm… He was about to get his soul sucked out through his mouth…
The Department of Mysteries loomed in front of him… Ron was struggling with the brain on the ground… Antonin Dolohov fired the purple flame at Hermione, causing her to go unconscious… Sirius and Bellatrix were dueling on top of a raised dais, where an old archway stood with a tattered old veil… Sirius dodged the first beam of light… The second beam of light hit him… Sirius was falling through the veil…
"NOOOOO!" Harry shouted, doing everything in his power to get the memories to stop. He could still feel Voldemort in his mind, laughing maniacally. Harry's scar was flaming, it was hot to the touch. He felt the few mental walls he had been able to come up with shatter easily, and Voldemort continued to laugh.
Not that skilled in Occlumency, I see. Well, then again, you actually believed the image that I put into your head last month of your dear old godfather. He's dead now, Harry, and it's all your fault!
Harry could feel a liquid trickling down his forehead as echoes of "It's all your fault!" rang around in his head. He fell off his bed onto the floor, where he vomited. He was curled up into a ball, enduring the pain that he was feeling.
Harry lie there all night, never daring to even blink his eyes anymore.
***
The rest of the week passed by torturously slowly for Harry. A combination of no sleep, little food, and a lot of work had put a real strain on his body. He was afraid to sleep, even the tiniest bit; he did not want to be forced to revisit all of those memories that haunted him.
The Dursleys were getting quite, well, aggressive was the only word he could think of to describe the way they were acting. They had all taken to shoving him around all the time, and inflicting a lot of physical `punishment', as they called it.
They were different though. They didn't seem to be the people they once were. As Uncle Vernon glared at Harry one afternoon, Harry could have sworn he saw the faintest tint of red in his eyes. However, it disappeared as soon as it came.
Harry's nights were not any better than his days. In fact, they were worse. He hardly slept anymore, and when he did, it was filled with nightmares of death and horrendous torture. Voldemort was making every effort possible to break him. Sometimes, Harry thought that he would die from sleep deprivation. The only time he ever slept was when his body shut down, and forced itself to sleep. Those were the bad nights.
There were times when Harry felt as if he was fading away; he felt thin as if spread far too much. His eyes were dull, his hair unkempt (well even more than usual), and his face pale. He was barely eating anymore; he would vomit it all up anyway.
Harry wanted it all to end. He wanted to get out…he needed to get out. This never-ending plague of pain and misery was turning him into nothing but a shadow of what he once was. He was imprisoned in his own anguish, guilt, and sorrow. All these feelings would then lead to great streaks of anger that would end in an almost nervous breakdown. It was a sort of pain that should never be felt by anyone; it was too horrific, too much like a fist was crushing him so that there was no hope to escape.
All the pain he had to endure was thrashing at his mind, breaking and ripping it to pieces, so that all he felt was the ever-greatening feeling of death and madness.
The Dark was growing…
***
It had been three weeks since Harry had arrived at the Dursleys. He was not what he was when he had arrived. He felt no joy, no sorrow, nothing at all. He was hollow. It seemed as if there was no person. He was like a machine: emotionless.
Harry had not checked his mail all summer. The only thing he did besides working for his relatives was write to the Order of the Phoenix, telling them that he was all right. In truth, he was far from it. But for some reason, he did not feel like seeing their faces; such happy faces, with no worries of anything. They could not imagine what he had gone through, what he was still going through, and what he had to go through. There was no way they could comfort him, they could not understand. But who would want to understand? The only way to understand something like this would be to experience it for themselves. There's no way anyone would want to do that.
Why must I suffer so? Is it something I did? Have I not done my part? Is the prophecy foretelling my part in this world? Must I fight Voldemort and kill him, when I have already stopped him when no one else has? Am I just some tool, to be used and then thrown out when there's nothing left for me? Why can I not live a normal life, a happy life? Why must my life be so horrid?
"Why must I suffer?" Harry asked quietly…
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