Beautiful Lies and Ugly Truths

Harry Potter had been entered into the Triwizard Tournament this year. He had promised himself, 'Harry, this is going to be a quiet year. No fucking around with time, or dementors, or parasitic dark lords.' And what happened? Some asshole entered him into the Triwizard Tournament. Now the school is out for his blood, there's a creepy DADA Professor as usual, and he has to worry for his life. Again.

So he's taken to midnight strolls around the castle, as he's wont to do when he needs to think, and inevitably ends up in the dungeons. In his mind, the dungeons are a bit like his cupboard. Outside forces usually push him there, but when the offender leaves him be, it's safe. Peaceful, quiet, where no one can reach him. Tonight is one of those nights. While the air is chilly and stagnant, the stone unforgiving and loud, it's- home.

The first task was... horrifying. Why did he ever think magic could save him? What would his life have been like, without magic? He'd be a whole lot safer, that's for sure.

He realizes that he's walked past one particular corridor three times now, and once he realizes, it's like a fog he didn't know was there just... lifts. He stares into the empty corridor that seems to stretch but not, and wonders.

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There were butterflies, but now there aren't, and his mouth tastes like ash and everything is warped and tired and where am I? whaT happened to me?
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Harry shows up late to breakfast, and sits afew feet away from Hermione, in an effort to avoid her hawk like gaze. It doesn't work.

"Harry James Potter!" She hisses quietly, disapproval on her face not quite masking the concern in her eyes. She knows he won't stand for questions, so she doesn't ask. "You look like shit. Here," and she shoves a plate of food towards him that she had already prepared. She's probably the only one that could get away with that, too. Ron continues eating with an inhuman speed, only stopping to wish him a good morning, for he was late to breakfast too (as usual).

He eats without rebuke, except for flashing her a small, fond smile that reaches his eyes for a moment, but leaves when she looks away. Combine tormented sleep with the tournament, and Harry probably doesn't look too good. He finds he can't bring himself much to care. Besides, he has more important things to worry about. Like his essays, researching spells in the restricted section (One tends not to care where the knowledge comes from if faced with probable loss of limb or life), and that corridor in the dungeon. It's like a little tick in his brain, one he can't shake. It's fine. He'll ignore it for as long as possible. After all, isn't he dealing with enough?

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He tastes ash and soot, his clothes are gray and wrong and he can't understand what happened. There's empty black space where there should be stone, no light, no color, what happened to the color?
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Harry walks the castle again.

He ends up in the dungeons, having walked past the same corridor three times, again. Once he realizes it, he stops, and stares. Again, he thinks, and wonders. What would life had been like, if he was 'just Harry'? No Triwizard tournament... no voldie... just Harry. Able to smile, laugh, explore.

If he had been raised by his parents, would he have been more like his mum, or dad? Would they have taught him to become an animagus, so he could roam with the Marauders? Would his mum have taught him her favorite potions? Would they cook cakes together on birthdays, or get one up on the Marauders with pranks of their own? He wishes he knew. He wishes he knew many things.

Why does he keep coming back to this corridor? He doesn't know. Maybe it is like the Mirror of Erised, able to draw you in; or maybe it is Hogwarts, leading people to things they need.

The second task was cold and wet, and all he feels is numb and lost. This is wrong and scary and aimless and- he's just feels so young. Why does no one seem to care?

He walks away, back to Gryffindor tower. If it's a bit more difficult than normal, well, he attributes it to muscle strain from the swimming. After all, what else would it be?

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Harry Potter arrives late to breakfast, again. He looks a bit drained, but that's normal for him. No one seems to look deeper, or want to look deeper. If they did, they'd notice he looks a little like how Ginny did, as the diary slowly drained her soul. But they don't look deeper, so they don't notice.

"Hey, Harry!" Ron exclaims, taking a seat next to Harry, without much care. He's still young, young in soul and mind and body. A few things might have happened at Hogwarts, but Ron- Ron doesn't linger much on them. In the end, he has a family, and food on the table, and a warm bed. His grasp on mortality and privilege and responsibility is not yet evolved to what it would be later in life. He might have realized Harry isn't treated very well at home, but if Harry doesn't see fit to tell anyone, then, well, it isn't his place to, either.

Hermione sniffs disdainfully at them with her frazzled hair, then leads them into a discussion about different spells, and tactics, and Harry nods or shakes his head in all the right places, so many thoughts running through his brain that he's sufficiently distracted from wondering how peaky he feels. If it crosses through his brain, he bats it away as a fleeting thought, for it must just be because he's so stressed about preparing for the third task. After all, it's normal to feel nauseous when stressed. He always has before.

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There's silence. He's laughed and cried, screamed and babbled, but no one can hear him and his magic is gone and how could he have ever hoped for this?
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Cedric is DEAD and Voldemort is back. Everyone is in chaos, people are scared of him or angry at him or in awe or suspicion of him surviving and- he's walking again. It's his fault Cedric is dead. Pettigrew raised Voldemort because he let the rat go and Cedric is dead because he let him grab the cup. He can't bare to look anyone in the eye, so he walks the castle.

He barely notices his trip through the dungeons. He crosses the same corridor three times, for the third time, and an blueblacktoxicbubble ancient magic shifts, the same magic he didn't know  was calling him, and for the first time, he enters the corridor. Not of his own volition, no. He's almost in a trance, following blue butterflies that seem to shift.  He doesn't notice the toxic tar they seem to drip, for he's far too gone. If his mindscape wasn't destroyed, ifhis soul wasn't perverted by a horcrux ride-a-long,if he wasn't living in such anguish- he wouldn't have ever been lured in. But he is, so he was.

The dripping, toxic blue black butterflies lead him to a painting, one with a rotted frame, and black landscape that seems to have something shifting in there. Back and forth back and forth, ready to pounce. The butterflies fly to the middle of the painting and seem to disappear upon contact, and as Harry presses
a finger to the canvas-

The world lurches. And as Harry Potter goes into the painting, a perverted lookalike comes out. A gray copy of Harry Potter's soul, but with one change. The real Harry Potter no longer has the horcrux, for it hitched a ride onto this copied body and weak gray soul, for no matter how perverted the magics were on the painting, they were no match for the piece of Tom Marvolo Riddle's soul. It slowly shifts through the gray soul, color rippling and stretching until it's bloody and feral, crazed ancient magics and Voldemort's intelligence combined to create a bigger monster than anyone has ever seen.

Horcrux no longer, but a being of his own. Voldemort grins slowly, a feral, bloody, evil thing, and picks up Harry Potter's dropped wand. It doesn't like him, but that's fine. It will work long enough until he can get another, preferably the one that belongs to him.

May God, Magic, Death, or whoever you pray to have mercy on your souls, for the two Voldemorts risen this night may just destroy the world.