Warnings: Smut, Possession, Dubcon (This list might expand as the story goes on).

Mmm...some elements of canon have been altered. Feedback is welcome. Enjoy.

The book was old. Harry didn't really know how he'd found it; one moment, he'd been browsing through the library stacks, desperate for anything that might help him finish Snape's essay, and then the volume was just in his hands. Strange things can happen in libraries. Like books appearing out of nowhere.

Harry took the book back to his table. It was worn around the edges, and the binding was crumbling. When he opened it, a cloud of dust so thick was expelled, that it rose up to his ears and prompted a cough, which drew several glares from the study group nearby. "Typical Gryffindor," one of the seventh-year Ravenclaws muttered, but dispelled the dust with his wand nonetheless. Harry ignored the barb, muttered his thanks, and turned back to the book. Now legible, the front cover displayed an obscure runic design, thin lines interweaving into strange, crooked symbols he had never seen before.

They sent a chill down his spine.

Now, usually, Harry wasn't prone to diving into random books that had just jumped into his hand. Besides, he really needed to get on that essay. Snape would gladly assign him a week's worth of detention for missing it, and who cares if Malfoy turned hers in two days late for full marks? Murdered by Snape, equity was long dead in the dungeons. So, what Harry needed to be doing is figuring out how to maximize the diffusion rate of a 3% living death solution.

Instead, he opened the book.

He couldn't really explain why. It was just in front of him and it was so...

So…

"Mr. Potter."

Harry jerked up, blinking rapidly. "Huh?"

"The library is closing." Blocking off the light, Madam Pince's form seemed to tower above him.

"What?" said Harry, shaking his head. "No, that can't be. It's only six."

"It is ten, Mr. Potter," the librarian corrected him. "And if you need rest, then I would advise Gryffindor Tower. Your bed is a much more appropriate place for slumber than a bare library table."

Harry looked down, frowning. Hadn't there been some book? But the details were fuzzy, quickly slipping from his mind. "But–" he began, only to be cut off again.

"The library closes at ten," Madam Pince repeated, tapping a fingernail against the watch on her hand. Clack, clack, clack. "Those are the rules."

"Right," Harry said, running his hands through his harry head. "Sorry. I'll just...I'll grab my things."

Under the librarian's frosty glare, he picked up his book bag and hastily made his way out. This late in the night, the corridors were deserted. Most of the lights had been doused, and only a few lonely flames remained, flickering in their scones. They sent long shadows across the bare stone walls, looking crooked and bony. Gusts of wind rattled the windows. Sometimes, they squeezed through the cracks and moaned as they ghosted down the halls of the ancient castle. Outside, far above over a cold, dark, and empty world, a wicked moon prowled the heavens.

"Harryyy…"

Harry froze and then slowly turned around. Had he imagined the sound? Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but his hand crept down towards his wand nonetheless. Maybe it was Malfoy, trying to prank him? But this didn't really fit the Slytherin's modus operandi. This was something...different. His hair stood on edge, goosebumps prickling over his skin in waves. And why was his heart beating so fast?

"Harryyy…"

A lone whisper. Harry whirled around, wand popping into his hand and a spell ready on his lips, but there was no foe to counter, no one to stun. Only the flames on the walls were present, going out one by one.

"What are you?!" Harry yelled, watching the edges of the corridors turn black. The darkness beyond was unpierceable. It was something not of this world, something that should not even exist here, with the living, but be present only in the farthest reaches of space, in that great empty void between galaxies. And like some hungry, ravenous beast, the void was approaching.

Harry turned around, but the same sight greeted him there: lights, doused by the dark. Trapped, with nowhere to go, "Lumos," was the last thing he whispered before the darkness engulfed him. And then it was quiet.

And then Harry screamed.

. . . .

The next morning, Harry descended to the Great Hall before anyone else. The sun had barely breached the horizon, and most of the students and faculty were still in their beds. Harry wasn't burdened by the solitude, however. Humming some eerie, unfamiliar tune, he heaped his plate with everything the table had to offer and then he wolfed it all down. Eggs, ham, toast, apples, melons...plate after plate disappeared down his gullet with a speed and efficiency that was nearly inhuman. Anyone observing him could have only concluded that the poor boy hadn't eaten in a month! But there was no one to witness Harry's unbelievable display of gluttony. Only the house-elves, down in the kitchen, were dumbfounded at the sudden demand and had to work extra hard to keep up with Harry's appetite. Their trial lasted a full forty minutes.

Finally, and only when the first early risers started trickling into the Great Hall for breakfast, Harry leaned back in apparent satiation and burped.

"Disgusting, Potter."

Harry turned around in his seat. There, winged by her two consistent henchman, was Dracie Malfoy.

Dracie had been an antagonist ever since year one, when Hagrid had taken Harry on his first tour of Diagon Alley. She was pureblooded, haughty, and considered herself better than most anyone else. Harry was a common target for her cruel amusements. She particularly enjoyed riling him in Snape's class, where there was little he could do to respond. In return, Harry took a particular satisfaction in beating her on the Quidditch field.

"I would ask whether or not you learned any manners at home," Dracie continued, flipping her platinum-blonde hair over her shoulder in a practiced gesture, "but then I just remembered you live with muggles," She concluded with a tinkling laugh, which might have actually been pleasant had it not been attached to such an unpleasant individual. Crabbe and Goyle laughed too. Harry wasn't particularly certain they actually knew what they were laughing at.

He also didn't reply. He just stared, hard. And there was something so unnerving in his gaze, something so alien and cold that Dracie, who was always ready to add a cutting remark, started to fidget. "Not even worth my time, anyway," she said, suddenly backing away, but her tone lacked the usual bite.

Watching the retreating group, Harry's eyes lingered over Dracie's form. He'd never really considered her anything as more than a rival – an uppity, spoiled Slytherin girl that had it out for him. Now, however…

Now, his eyes roved over her backside with an almost predatory glee. She was fit – the constant Quidditch practices saw to that – and every bit of her perfectly tailored and extraordinarily expensive ensemble only emphasized that fact. There were the stockings (silk, no doubt) which rose to mid-thigh; the skirt that hugged her arse delectably; the blouse that stretched over a pair of pale and perky breasts; the perfume which cost a fortune and smelled like apricots in bloom...she was like a piece of candy, begging to be unwrapped, and Harry, for the first time in years, looked upon Dracie not with disgust, but desire. In his mind, he saw her suddenly spread out beneath him, lips ruby and swollen, breasts free, moving rhythmically as he pounded into her, punishing her for the years of insults and demeaning comments, the nasty remarks, the curses in the corridors, the way she made fun of him and his friends...

His cock was now iron hard. Idly, his hand wandered down to his trousers, and it's uncertain where this might have led, if at that exact moment, Ron hadn't wandered up and plopped down beside him.

"Morning, Harry," he yawned, completely oblivious to Harry's aroused state.

"Morning," Harry said after a moment. His heart was beating fast, face felt flushed. It took several breaths to calm down, which Ron did notice.

"You alright?" he asked, following Harry's gaze, which was still pinned to Dracie. "What is it? Malfoy? She being a bitch again?"

"Ronald!" Hermione's voice sounded behind him. "That's not polite," she scolded, taking a seat across from the two boys.

"Polite or not, true nonetheless," Ron grumbled, rolling his eyes. Hermione shot him a glare. "Anyway," she declared loudly, pointedly turning away from Ron, "I was working all evening on Mcgonagall's assignment. I think I went a little over the limit, but I just found it so fascinating how–"

To an outside observer, it might have appeared that Harry was listening closely to Hermione's absolutely fascinating (not really) tale; he was not. Instead, his eyes were focused on Hermione's lips, seemingly captivated by their nimble movements. And the more she talked, the more his expression changed: first casual, it gradually grew in intensity until he was staring at her like a lion would at a gazelle – with feral hunger. The view must have been unnerving, because Hermione quickly became flustered, broke up her monologue, and stammered, "Harry? Is it...do I have something on my face?"

Harry blinked. His features softened, and then he smiled readily, and the change was so quick that it was almost as if he'd put on a mask, albeit a very convincing one.

"No," he said. "I'm just still getting used to your teeth. Madam Pomfrey did a spectacular job with them last year."

"Oh," said Hermione, and looked down. Her cheeks had turned a bright shade of magenta. "Thanks."

"You should smile more," Harry added. "It really suits you."

Hermione fiddled with her hands, then lifted her head and broke out in a wide grin. Harry smiled back – and if the gesture came out a little too wide, neither of his friends noticed.

"Well, if we're all done smiling at each other," butted in Ron, who'd just finished the last bit of toast, "we should get a move on, or else Snape'll have us scrubbing cauldrons or something much worse."

Snape. Harry frowned. Hadn't there been something important regarding Snape recently?

"By the way, that essay was nearly impossible to write. I can't believe you didn't help, Hermione!"

"Honestly, Ron, you really need to learn to do your own work. You can't copy mine forever!"

"Why not?"

Harry groaned. Snape's essay. He'd forgotten all about it.

Shit.