Chapter 1: Shadows

There was a certain gloom to the darkness now, he had been in there long enough that he could just make out his legs, laid out before him, and when Harry brought his hand to his face, he could see its vague outline. Certainly he could not see much else. He was enshrouded by shadow, had no idea of where he was, did not know how many meters away the wall was, only that a cold, hard floor was there beneath him. Harry could feel that at least.

It was strange how time seemed to pass now. It was endless, and passed through him like liquid. It was beyond him, and could not touch him, and Harry did not notice it. Admittedly, he should have been bored by now, trapped in a place with no sensation, no sight or sound except the floor, but the many nights and days he had lain there had passed like seconds. Harry was beyond time.

He did not know how he had gotten here. He had no memory of anything like it. At first, after the overwhelming terror had passed, Harry had searched for a memory, even his last memory, but did not know, could not remember. He knew who he was, and could remember his life, but did not know how long ago it had been, that life.

And then he'd wondered. Was he dead? Was this the afterlife, this strange absence of everything but himself and gravity? No. Harry was sure he was alive. For he felt his lungs fill with air, and could feel the stone floor on his bare skin, tell the difference between it and the soft cotton of his clothes. He was dressed then. He was alive.

But still, Harry wondered. He wondered until he dreamed his thoughts, his wonderings, and then woke to think of his dreams. He could never really remember much of them, just the emotions within them. Harry might wake gasping with exhilaration, with joy, but then, as soon as he had opened his eyes to the dark, it was lost to him. The dream, the memory of it, and its feeling.

It was terrible, often. Not in a painful way, but often Harry would feel a panic pass over him like a rainstorm, and everything became real. He was trapped, and Harry would imagine that he would always be, trapped, forever, that he would never die, but would always remain here trapped, in his mind, with nothing but himself and a floor to know or sense or feel.

But then it would be over. He would feel numb somehow, like a stone, sort of heavy and dull, and what had previously been so terrible and horrible, was now not good or bad. Just there. Just a possibility. It did not matter much to him.

Yet there remained, always, an inkling of unease, deep within him. Harry did not know how long he had been there. Did not know how long he would be there. Only that he did not want to be here. What if I never leave?

Aunt Petunia was squawking at him, telling him to wake up, to go make breakfast boy, but he was sleeping, it embraced him, sleep, and wakefulness was a pest, an annoying seagull cawing at him, a cold breeze when he was warm. Harry did not want to get up. But it was no use. His aunt wouldn't shut up, though he wanted it, deeply, and so, he opened his eyes.

The small glint of sunlight felt like burning to Harry, he clenched his eyes shut with a hushed grown, before slowly inching them open again. Harry observed his bedroom in awe, and suddenly Aunt Petunia's white apron seemed a dream to him.

Harry blinked again, feeling some strange relief, some odd, misplaced happiness stirring in his gut. He did not understand why the sun's rays through his bedroom window were like music, why the somewhat pale sky through his window was like a rainbow to him, a glossy, gorgeous, wonderful rainbow.

It was glorious.

Harry could not help his smile, or the way his cheeks suddenly creased with joy. He ignored his aunt, rising from his bed with something like difficulty. Harry felt his knees trembling, and did not understand why.

Trying to ignore the shaking, Harry hurried down to kitchen in his pajamas, and hurriedly turned the stove on. As soon as he had made the Dursley's breakfast, they would leave him well enough alone, so that he could be left tending to the garden.

Having finished his chores, Harry was granted a cheese sandwich and a glass of water, before he hid away in his bedroom. He sat on his bed, chewing, staring rather despondently at Hedwig. The snowy owl sat in her cage looking back at him. Her feathered face seemed to be accusing him – why did we have to come here? Now I'm locked in a cage.

"I'm sorry," Harry sighed, and stretched his forefinger through the cage to stroke Hedwig's head. She nipped at him. "I want to be here just as much as you do." Somewhere in the distance, he could hear a lawnmower, and the sounds of Dudley's latest video game boomed rather aggressively up from the downstairs living room. It was slowly driving Harry insane.

"The worst thing," he told Hedwig, "is how bloody bored I am! I mean, I can't even do my homework. Professor McGonagall is going to be so mad."

He sighed again, trying not to think about what Snape would say. "I'd happily make breakfast, prune the garden, do whatever they want me to do. I can live with the chores. Just not this boredom."

Hedwig hooted in reply.

The shadows had been there so long, they seemed to form patterns on his eyelids. The swirled and spun until Harry was dizzy with it, and he could not remember his own name. It was common, he remembered, he didn't even like it that much. But it was a memento of his parents, his mother – why did she leave me all alone in that place? And suddenly the darkness seemed to weigh on him with something like anger, and he hungered. What was his name again? Perhaps something like To-

Harry lay awake staring at his bedroom ceiling. Some strange feeling lay coiled in his belly; uneasiness? But it had a heavier feeling to it, something unnatural and not of him. It was stupid, he told himself. Harry was too old to be afraid of the dark, surely?

Shifting, he gazed at the window on his wall. It wasn't even that dark; the streetlamps streamed softly through the glass, so much so that he could easily make out Hedwig's empty cage on a nightstand. He'd managed to release Hedwig, picking his uncle's lock with a bobby pin he'd stolen from Aunt Petunia.

But now he was alone, and he felt it too. Something prickled along the back of his neck, and Harry fell back into dark, disturbing dreams of nothingness.

The next morning, Harry awoke with a new feeling of excited expectation. He'd written letters to Hermione and Ron just two days ago, and as he hadn't received any reply, he just knew that he'd get them today. His birthday after all, was in a fortnight.

Hedwig had since parked herself on the window pane (he'd opened one half for her the night before) and he walked over to her, crooning softly under his breath.

"When I get my mail, I'll send you off on a fun adventure," Harry smiled at her. The owl stared back reproachfully as he opened the cage door, gesturing to it.

"I'm sorry," he murmured back. "You know what'll happen if Uncle Vernon sees. Plus, you can sleep." Although the bird hopped dutifully into the cage, Harry's words didn't save him from a soft nip on the hand.

He turned back to the clock, seeing that it was just past 7 o'clock. The Dursleys would be asleep still. Harry carted off downstairs, again in his pajamas, to make breakfast for himself. If he ate before they woke, he wouldn't need to rely on cold bacon to be his first meal.

He poured himself a tremendously tall glass of pulpy orange juice, and sipped it at the kitchen table, feeling rather rebellious. Harry then helped himself to two of the eggs, making himself the biggest omelet he could.

It was only when he heard Aunt Petunia's footsteps upstairs, that he threw his empty plate into the dishwasher, and began to cook the Dursley's own breakfast. By the time they were downstairs, they'd see a dutiful nephew placing steaming plates of scrambled eggs, bacon and sausages onto` the dining table, along with a hot pot of coffee. It meant that Harry could scramble off, avoiding them for the rest of the day, as he waited for his friends' letters.

But by late afternoon, they still hadn't arrived.

Harry tried to ignore the lack of communication. He was feeling discouraged yes; he'd written to his two best mates the moment he'd gotten home, after all. But he was starved of companionship, whilst Hermione, being an only child, was probably spoiled with it by her parents, and Ron, well, he probably had difficulties being alone. But Harry wasn't like that, so he couldn't expect to hear from his friends that soon.

At least, this was what he told himself.

But as the days went by, Harry made more excuses. Perhaps there was bad weather, or maybe Hermione had gone to Spain, and there were no owls there. Maybe Ron had moved to Scotland.

Maybe they had forgotten all about him.

Maybe they didn't exist, and Hogwarts had all been just a dream.

Yes. Harry tried to ignore the lack of communication. He wasn't so sure he succeeded.

He hated this shadowy darkness. He felt so trapped and alone, always alone. Surely there had been a time when the world was open to him, and he could picture dappled sunlight on a wall, could feel the wind on his cheeks, hear voices, laughing, screaming…

But now it was lost to him. He was trapped.

Harry strained his ears, hoping to catch some faint sound. Anything to ease the agonizing sameness. Nothing however. There was nothing. Nothing except the sound of his breathing.

Harry held his breath for a moment, counted to ten, wondered what silence would do to him in this place. But the soft breaths still continued without him.

Lately Harry had been feeling the stirrings of foreign emotion in his mind. Whilst preparing dinner, he'd been seized with a sudden fury that far outweighed anything he'd felt before. Harry did not recall ever having felt so angry.

At other times, the emotions would be subtler. He'd start feeling excitement, as he tipped a watering can over a small rosebush. Or he'd feel a strange calmness seeping through his bones just as Aunt Petunia started to thump his door one morning, impatient for breakfast (as usual). They could be small, or large, but Harry would notice.

There was something unquestionably alien about them, something that just screamed not Harry. It was impossible, surely though. It's not like he was feeling somebody else's emotions. Even in the wizarding world, Harry was sure that wasn't a 'thing'. But what else could explain the strange, out of place sensations and feelings that would come upon him, seemingly out of the blue?

Maybe it was a puberty thing, Harry thought. He felt increasingly disturbed at the idea that such a thing could affect him this much however. Did everyone have to experience incorrect emotions?

For there was no other word for them; they didn't respond to the situation, to his environment, happiness could spring from a headache, and sadness seemingly from brushing his teeth.

And it was annoying.

What's more, lately Harry had been having strange dreams. He could hardly remember them when he woke, but what he did recall scared him. Strange flashes of nothingness, of a deep, dank darkness that horrified him. And there was this feeling that came with them, of claustrophobia, the continuous thought thumping through his brain: trapped, trapped, trapped.

Harry would push the strange visions away, ignoring the feelings as he attempted to endure the Dursleys, but they had been getting worse. Every morning he'd wake trembling, his mind awash with a dizzying darkness that took far too long to fade with the morning sunshine.

Harry began to feel that the foreign emotions and the dreams were connected. The dreams tasted of the same substance the emotions did, the same flavor of alien, not Harry.

They did not feel malevolent. But they still scared Harry. They made him react strangely.

For instance, two nights before, Harry had just prepared a roast dinner for the Dursleys. He'd poured a glass of red wine for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, and a big cup of lemonade for Dudley, and then sat down, digging into his first meal in hours. Dudley was already almost finished.

For some reason Uncle Vernon had been in a happy mood. He said almost no disparaging comments to Harry, and Aunt Petunia following his lead, also ignored him. Despite from the occasional kicks from his cousin under the table, Harry had been feeling quite relaxed, and even a little relieved.

It did not last long however.

Suddenly, an alien rage had gripped him in its claws, and Harry had to struggle not to a throw the plate of chicken at Dudley's head. He had gripped his knife and fork fiercely, trying not to do anything, when the entire table had started rocking, wine glasses falling and peas sliding off plates and onto the floor. Dudley's chicken bones had actually clambered into his lap.

Only his uncle's furious shouts had shocked Harry enough to realize that it was him causing the motion, and it had stopped with a final clatter. The rage had disappeared, leaving him weak, and trembling.

Of course that hadn't placated Uncle Vernon, and especially not dear Duddykins. He was thrown into his room, the door slamming with a bang. It was not allowed to open until the next evening, and by then, Harry was dizzy with hunger and thirst.

A similar situation had caused Harry's current imprisonment, and subsequent contemplation. Obviously, the emotions were starting to make his accidental magic play up. Such a thing hadn't occurred since last summer, after setting that snake on Dudley at the zoo, and Harry didn't doubt that any more examples of it, and he'd be locked in his room for an eternity. He honestly expected to starve to death before school started, and even then, no one would find him.

No one remembered him.

Harry thrust that thought away like his dreams of the dark, refusing to think about his lack of mail. That wasn't the issue.

It was many hours later that he fell into a troubled sleep. He vaguely wondered if he could meet the person who had the alien emotions. It was his last thought before the darkness came.

Hushed breathing that wasn't his own. From all sides he heard it, soft but guttural. Wheezing.

"Are you alright?" he called into the blackness. For a brief instance there was silence, before the breaths could be heard again. They were unsteady, sometimes hurried, sometimes slow and languid.

"I won't hurt you," said Harry. The breaths stuttered, with fear he thought at first. But the strange noise from the darkness continued until Harry realized that it was in fact, laughter. The voice was laughing at him.

"Hurt me…" the shadows whispered back to him. "Too late for that child." The voice faded back into the labored breathing of before.

"You're hurt?" Harry asked, curious and unnerved.

But there was no answer.