Anima Concordia

Prologue

Pestis eram vivus - moriens tua mors ero
(Living, I was your plague ... dying, I shall be your death)
Martin Luther

aut simul stabunt aut simul cadent
( they will either stand together, or fall together)
Pope Pius XI

He came to his senses with a low moan. Where was he? The room was dark, so he could not make out anything aside from the surface he was laying at: some kind of bed with dark canopy above, supported by posters. Pretty much like Hogwarts, although he suspected this was not his school dormitory.

He remembered coming late in the evening to the Number Four, Privet Drive from the neighborhood park, only to find, that Petunia was gone to some friend's house for the whole week of her holidays. Dudley was nowhere to be seen, probably, too, at some of his friends'. To Harry's dismay Vernon preferred to stay back home, supposedly, to keep an eye on the house, or, more possibly, on "the Freak". Either way, when Harry came in, Dursley Sr. had already been drinking for a while. At first, he didn't acknowledge Harry's presence at all. But them something irked Vernon enough, that he barged in on Harry, who had been already half-asleep in his bed -

The very last thing Harry remembered was Vernon towering over him, undoing his own belt with one hand and grabbing Harry by the collar of his pyjama-shirt with another, then throwing him on the floor -

And then there was only blackness.

He was not sure, how many hours - or even days - had passed from that first time, when Vernon came to his room, while the other Dursleys were absent. The was another half-clear memory: Harry's in the bathroom with door closed, Vernon is outside, banging his fists against the said door and making threats loudly in the drunken voice. He tuned the shouts out, fascinated with something under his feet -

Pinkish water was pooling under his hunched form, him sitting in the shower after slipping on the wet floor and banging his head on the glass wall of the cubicle, crashing it on the way. He absently ran his hand along the poodle of his own blood diluted in the water, which was already running cold. His fingers caught on something, and, his mind still in a daze, he took the big glass shard out of the water.

Wonder, what' they'll tell the neighbours if I'm gone - And what' she'll do? Hating mother, as she was, she was still her sister - I am tired - so tired -

He bolted upright on the bed, eyes wide with shock. He just did what?!?

Never once before in his life - as miserable, as it sometimes was - he'd turned to such stupid, gruesome things as taking the glass shard to his own throat -

He quickly grabbed the sore spot there. Indeed. There was thin, but rather pronounced line there, under his fingers which started to tremble at the thought.

Yeah, times with the Dursleys were hell, sometimes even worse than that. But he mostly just throw everything out of his head the minute he boarded the train to Hogwarts. His friends suspected things, they did. But he tried really hard to pretend. To forget. To put it aside and move on. What happened this time? What'd changed?

He didn't remember, though was afraid, it should probably be better to leave it that way. Probably, it was for the best, that he could not clearly make out anything beyond that stupidity with the glass - He shuddered.

And then the bed under him shifted. It was not his own movement, that disturbed the mattress, he was sure, as now he felt the slight incline towards the other half of the bed under obvious weight, indicating there was someone there. The surface underneath him shifted once again. He heard low voice. Moaning. Clearly, the person was asleep, but that sleep was restless.

At last Harry's eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough, that he could make out the even darker form, lying at the other side of the bed, the blanket thrown off to the middle of the room, the stranger's half-naked body slightly shivering in the night's breeze from the nearest window.

Hurry tried to gulp nervously, but that was obviously a mistake: instead he heard himself whining pitifully at the pain in his injured throat.

Either the other person was very light sleeper, or Harry alerted him in some other way beside his barely audible groaning. The next second Harry felt the wand press painfully into the curve of his throat, catching on the wound there, which caused even more discomfort. The stranger tried to grab him by the front of the robes, but found them non-existing, as Harry was naked, as anyone would be if they came straight from the shower.

This time Harry did gulp with some difficulty, feeling the other's wand sinking deeper into the wound: the eyes boring into his own were glowing blood-red.

"Voldemort," Harry managed, before he collapsed onto the other's bare chest, unconscious.