Cold, harsh reality

Chapter 1

It was dark.

Half lying, half sitting on his bed, Harry Potter stared out his window. Not that he could see much anyway. The moon was hidden behind a thin layer of clouds and only barely lit up the small chamber at Privet Drive Number 4. 

Harry sighed and leaned his back against the wall. The recent events had taken a toll on him and he wasn't feeling as well as he seemed to. In his head he had thought about visiting a mind healer — you couldn't quite tell his adventures a muggle psychiatrist, could you? — but he not only feared the reaction of his family who had started to ignore him after he threatened them with Sirius, but also that of his chosen mind healer. The entire wizarding world was already against him and Professor Dumbledore, why not him/her too? 

The birthday presents of his friends had arrived just yesterday and he was sick of hearing their concerns. Of course he was thankful about them but he didn't want to talk about what happened. Not again! Depressed he read Hermione's letter again and sighing ran his fingers through his hair, making it even messier than it already was. He laid his head back on his pillow, staring at the calendar at the wall but seeming to see right trough it while the letter flattered out of his hand. He had unconsciously let go of it. 

Resting his head on his arms and staring contemplatingly at the ceiling he finally fell asleep.

***

It was dark. When Harry opened his eyes greyish mist blocked his view and he shuddered. After a while the mist faded away and he realized that he could neither move his hands or his legs. A throbbing pain suddenly engulfed his forehead. After he had full view on the scene before him he screamed, sudden realization hitting him in the face.  The disfigured shape of a newly revived dark lord rose from the cauldron, naked like the day he was born, just much uglier. A whimpering Peter Pettigrew clutched his right hand, or at least what was left of it. 

After Voldemort was clothed in flowing green robes he pressed his wand against Peter's arm hissing in impatience. One after another the deatheaters apparated, all clothed the very same and only because of their mask's was Harry able to distinguish between them when suddenly their mask's disappeared and the distorted faces of Lucius Malfoy and the likes appeared, smiling crazily and hissing that he killed Cedric in his try to be fair and just. 

Panicking he looked towards the ugly face of their lord when it started to change as well. Brown long hair grew and the nose became sharp and longer. His lips started to fill, to become reddish and full, while his cheekbones grew sharper and his complexion lost it's pale color, still looking paler than his but in an aristocratic way. The older version of Tom Riddle smiled cruelly amused. As if knowing that he did fancy a younger version of the guy standing right before him in his second year. Not that anyone ever knew. 

Gently the fingers caressed his face and he couldn't help himself to shudder and slightly close his eyes, disgusted at himself, who — even if unwillingly — enjoyed the touch of the person who killed his parents. The deatheaters cheering, mocking him in an endless chant of idiocy.  

A gently whispered „Crucio" later made Harry tense up in pain, biting on his lips hard enough to draw blood in an futile attempt not to scream, shaking while his eyes rolled back and starting to submit to the nothingness that started to engulfe his mind, promising freedom at the cost of his sanity. 

Then the scenery changed again but this time completely. 

In contrary to the first scene it was blindingly white. On the floor, the wall, just everywhere. A hooded figure made its way towards a door that was almost invisible, like a white rabbit in winter. Watching as the figure stepped trough the doorframe in — what seemed to be — absolute nothingness, Harry felt something pull him closer, trying to tear him into pieces and destroy the invader that didn't belong. 

„Fuck", he cursed trying to escape the suction that was stretching out his claws at him, whispering and promising eternal happiness. Tears rolled down his cheeks, his legs growing numb, his mind getting weakened. 

He could almost feel countless hands on him now, touching him everywhere they reached, dirtying him with their touch while breaking his will. His eyes started to close, he started to embrace the darkness. It promised comfort, an escape from the harsh reality he had to endure day after day. He felt sullied, like a blank sheet of paper a clumsy student spelled ink on. Dirtied for live. 

He wanted to give in, the hands even touching his private areas now making him feel bliss and making him forget that once he surrendered eternal pain would await him, forever being a prisoner to the entity that ruled this space. It was an unchanging truth that submission is always easier than resistance. 

„Never", he gritted out, the being for a short moment having released its grasp on him. His fighting will was back. He pulled himself forward the entity pressing him to the floor, making him unable to stand. Scratching up his hands on stones as white as its surroundings that appeared out of nowhere. He felt his neck being squeezed unable to breath, his eyes hurt the withe blinding his eyes and forcing him to blindly crawl towards freedom. If there even existed something like that. 

With his last strenght he escaped the being and pulled himself trough the door, falling into endless nothingness. 

***

Screaming he awoke. Sweat dripping down his forehead and clutching it with his hands. A „Shut the fuck up, freak", from Dudley and a muffled Noise from — most likely — Vernon later, everything was quiet again at Privet Drive Number 4.