Son of a Lord

Addiction

Harry stumbled back into the Slytherin dormitory, knowing he wouldn't be able to concentrate on classes, his mind reeling with what had just happened. A phantom ache ghosted over his torso, where the gash had been not five minutes ago, the gash Harry was sure would have killed him. Never had he been so close to death before, and that combined with the thrill of the dark ritual made him want to run a lap around the dark forest and collapse onto his bed all at once.

Harry chose the latter, falling onto his bed without taking his shoes off, earning an agitated hiss from Kaa, whom he almost squished. His head hit the pillow and he huffed out a laugh. Who would've thought the Potter boy had it in him? Even though Theo wasn't essential to Harry's plan to get home, the boy would be an added bonus, a way to hurt the Potters that much more when he eventually did leave.

Closing his eyes, Harry pictured the darkening of Theo's gaze, the slight tremble to his hand as he cast the unforgivable, the black tendrils curling up his arm as their bloody palms pressed together. All warning signs of the starts of dark magic addiction. Harry knew because they had appeared in himself once, when he was much younger than Theo.

The elf's body was still in sight as Harry gripped onto his father, making the most of a rare display of affection. His breathing was quickening by the second, and his chest felt uncomfortably warm, his tiny fingers trembling, dark veins running up his pale arms towards his heart-

Harry jerked awake, squeezing his eyes shut to get the image of the elf's body, slashed and torn, out of his head. Damn Theo Potter for bringing those memories to the forefront of his mind, memories he'd tried to push back as far as they could go. He wasn't quite sure what about the elf that made his hands shake, what about the red of its blood against the pristine white made his stomach writhe. He was not a stranger to blood, nor was he unaccustomed to seeing people maimed, because he was usually the one who had searched them down, tortured them even.

Harry was not a stranger to death.

So then why was this particular elf haunting his dreams. Was is because it was his first kill? Was it because it was the first display of magic that caused the beginning of his own dark magic addiction all those years ago? Harry didn't know, and he didn't plan to dwell on it long enough to find out.

Casting a silent tempus, he jolted up, realising that he had slept through most of the day. Looking down, his robes were discarded on the floor, his shirt wrinkled and bloodstained and his tie loose around his neck. Cursing, he stood, shrugging on his robes and holding them closed to hide the blood just as he heard the common room door open. Stepping out of his dormitory, he saw a handful of Slytherins from various years beginning to sit, getting comfortable before dinner, which was in half an hour Harry realised. But as he walked, the phantom pains that had been there before he slept had vanished, his head felt clearer, and the excitement at what had occurred started to stir in him.

At last, Draco stepped through with Pansy, his expression barely hiding loathing as Pansy chatted his ear off. Harry briskly walked to the pair, grabbing Draco by the arm and pulling him toward the dormitories. The Malfoy let out a surprised yell, putting his heels down and forcing Harry to stop.

"What's going on?" Draco said, "Has something happened?"

Harry's eyes slid to Pansy, hooked on their every word. "You could say that," Harry said, "But let's talk somewhere...private."

Harry smirked as Parkinson's face fell, quickly fading out of view as the two boys entered their dormitory. Harry shut the door, casting a quick privacy charm before facing Draco, who was standing in the middle of the room, his eyes slightly panicked.