Darkness Within Light
“I killed Sirius Black! I killed Sirius Black!”
The sound of her voice made his blood boil, his ears ringing as he raced after the black-haired woman. All the sorrow, the anxiety, the fear, that came from losing his godfather had dissipated the moment he heard her scream in glee. He couldn't help but pry himself from Remus’ arms and chase her down the seemingly endless, maze-like halls of the Ministry. Friends, family, and ambush forgotten. He has one goal.
“CRUCIO!”
He screams out, wand not even drawn, and yet she falls. She falls to the floor and screams for just a moment before looking back up with wide, insane eyes. A grin stretches her face, her rotted and yellow teeth poking from behind chapped lips. She looks almost ecstatic to be hurt, giggling manically. He doesn't know why, all he knows is he has the urge to hurt. Hurt something. Hurt someone. Dark magic flows through his veins like heroin. The moment he screamed the spell, it was like ecstacy, pure pleasure up his spine and in his blood.
“My my.”
A hissing voice whispers into his ear. He doesn't need to look, he knows who it is already by the sound of parseltongue, practically dripping in venom, infecting his brain. A cold, scale covered hand wraps around his throat, the nails gently scraping against the skin.
“Look at what a mess Bellatrix has created. How shall we fix that, Harry?”
What's happening to him? Why does he want to hurt her so badly? Why does he feel the urge to do what he, what Voldemort, tells him to? His scar tingles.
“Well? What will you do about her…discrepancies? Her disrespect? Her blasphemy?”
Voldemort eggs him on, his hand drifting from the boy's throat to his hand, grasping it firmly.
“You know the spell. Cast it.”
He growls, so close Harry could feel his breath against the shell of his ear. His vision blurry, not from his shortsightedness, but from the rage that threatens to spill over from thoughts into actions. Her death would be on his conscience, but so is Professor Quirrells. He's killed before.
What makes this so different?
Why not?
What's more blood on his hands?
“Harry!”
A voice calls out to him, unlike the one from the man draped around his shoulders, whispering into his ear like Lucifer. A feminine voice from afar.
“Hermione.”
He says in realization. Voldemort backs away, leaving his body cold once more. The dark magic spills from his body, his feet unsteady. Bellatrix still sits, almost awaiting her doom. It makes him sick. He can't think. He can't think. His thoughts slur together, the world spins, his scar burns but not from his touch this time, from his distance. It's like it calls out to him. It calls out to the devil, covered in white scales.
He can't get close enough for it to stop hurting before he collapses. The Ministry tiles cold against his, now burning hot, body. His friends call out to him, he can hear them, ever so distant. Dumbledore comes sometime later. He knows he gets picked up and taken somewhere. It's so far away. Like he's drowning and all that's happening is above the water, somewhere he can't reach.
He's swallowed whole by darkness. A theme that, come in due time, will be a normality for one Harry Potter.