Author: Angeleus

Fandom: Harry Potter

Rating: R (Adult)

Genre: Romance, Drama, Angst, H/C

Pairing: Harry/Draco

Warnings: Language, Anal, Explicit Torture, Disturbing imagery.

Summary: Who was Tom Riddle, again? Only the Dark Lord knows... Dark secrets are just waiting to be revealed, changing the lives of those affected. An epic filled with a dark Harry, demonic spirits, and a new definition of evil awaits. HP/DM Rewritten and revamped

Disclaimer: In no way shape or form do I own any portion of the Harry Potter Universe. I am not making any profit from this fanfiction.

Author's Note: So, I hit a few road blocks regarding the revision of this fic. Time being the most prevalent of them. Sorry for the super long hiatus. But I should have a bit more free time to write and I'm looking forward to writing new material for this story. And for those of you who may be interested, the latest chapter from Where Lies Will Not Blossom should be up soon.

Well, on with the show!

Chapter Three: And Then I Awoke

As Harry stepped through the threshold to Diagon Alley, he couldn't help but think about the last time he had been there. He remembered all the care-free hours of eating ice-cream, picking out school supplies with Hermione, and drooling at the latest quidditch display with Ron. Those days seemed so far away now. The years of easily believing every lie his friends spouted – the naïve belief about the inherent goodness of the Light side.

He'd been no small fool.

But things were different now. He was. He realized that the Wizarding World was multi-faceted, like a carved gemstone. Harry understood that, as clichéd as it sounded, one couldn't judge a book by its cover or a classmate by the crest on their robes. And these changes in perspective would help him to do what was necessary to keep himself alive without depending on the likes of Dumbledore.

Right?

While it was refreshing to see the world for what it truly was, how did that really make a difference? He was still in the same boat as before. Harry was little more than a scared boy with limited knowledge of the Magical World, still lost, still without allies.

Well, not completely without allies. He had Sirius he supposed, but did he really want to involve his fugitive, and often rash, godfather into anything that would put him in any more danger? Not really. The man would jump off of a bridge and move mountains for him, but that didn't mean Harry wanted him to.

Plus there was the fact that the man probably believed he owed some misguided loyalty to Dumbledore. Harry was perfectly aware that after explaining how he'd been manipulated all this years, Sirius would see the truth behind his mentor. But the first thing his godfather would do was immediately have a confrontation with the Headmaster and accuse him of wrongdoing. Harry couldn't explain all the ways that would backfire.

Professor Lupin was also someone Harry could trust, but his dependability was sadly hindered. First off, Remus held plenty of loyalty to Sirius and would be reluctant to keep any secrets from him. Then there was the fact that Remus would always need a safe place for his monthly transformations and Harry wouldn't be able to provide that. Unless he took the Wolfsbane Potion, but only a select percentage of Potion Masters had the skill to make the potion – and it was extremely expensive. While Harry could cover the price, the only person he knew that could make the potion was Snape, and Harry wasn't sure how devoted the man was to Dumbledore. The last thing he needed was for Dumbledore to become suspicious when Remus was suddenly able to afford Wolfsbane every month.

Then, there was the last reason why Harry was reluctant to tell anyone he trusted of his rebellious thoughts.

People around him tended to die. As bad as that sounded, it wasn't necessarily a depressing thought. Not really. It was simply the truth. Harry had felt more than his share of guilt after Cedric's untimely murder, but he came to terms with it a few weeks ago. It wasn't callousness on his part – while he was saddened that Cedric's life had been taken so cruelly, there was no point in blaming himself for events beyond his control.

It wasn't as if he had raised his wand and said the deadly words that often haunted his nightmares: 'Kill the spare.' Harry had been there, the unfortunate witness of a cold-blooded murder. He wasn't going to delude himself and think that there was anything he could have done to stop it. Voldemort was perhaps the most powerful Dark Wizard in six hundred years. Harry was just a boy, not matter how Britain wanted to make him their glorified savior.

And, had not Cedric grabbed the Portkey with him, of his own will? Hadn't Harry intended to share the title of Tri-Wizard Champion with his classmate? A series of mutual decisions lead Cedric to the graveyard that night. And although Harry didn't think Cedric was to blame, he had put himself in danger just by participating in the Tournament.

And besides, being a grief stricken, guilty little Gryffindor was exactly how Dumbledore wanted him. Ripe for the manipulating. Harry didn't put it beneath Dumbledore to use his grief as a means of control. It had certainly worked on Remus, and even Sirius to an extent.

Harry turned to the right and entered Gringotts, sighing in relief as the coolness of the building seeped through his clothes. Had he been outside any longer, he might have been in danger of bursting into flames. Unsure of what to do at first, Harry stepped in line to speak with a goblin (he'd never really dealt with his finances alone). Harry also made sure that his dark hood covered his face.

He knew he was acting a bit paranoid, that he shouldn't worry so much, but he was well aware of the fact that Dumbledore had spies everywhere. Even here.

Harry was just grateful for the fact that goblins didn't usually associate with wizards, and therefore were less likely to report back to Dumbledore if anything was withdrawn from his account. That wasn't to say, however, that the wizard hadn't found a way to entice even the most taciturn goblins.

The long line seemed to move at an extraordinary pace, and before Harry knew it, it was time for him to speak to the goblin. The name tag declared him to be 'Grafspur.' Feeling a bit out of place and foolish, Harry said, "I need to withdraw some Wizarding money and exchange it for Muggle money. And I need it to be confidential."

Grafspur gave Harry a highly affronted look before replying. "We at Gringotts bank do not make a habit of releasing confidential information that is only privy to the owner of the account and/or the supervisor."

Harry rolled his eyes at the not so polite attitude. "I already knew that, I just meant that I wanted—wait, supervisor?"

Sticking his nose in the air and huffing a bit, the goblin said, "The supervisor of the account. The person that controls it and is informed of any change in the account. Ring any bells, sir?"

Harry froze. He'd never heard of such a thing, always assuming that the only person that controlled an account would be the owner of it. He groaned under his breath. Dumbledore wouldn't… would he? Of course he would. This was just lovely!

"And… these supervisors, can they be, I dunno, canceled or something?" Harry preyed they could be. Otherwise he was screwed. Completely. Dumbledore would immediately see something odd with the fact that he was withdrawing and transferring such a large amount of money. Especially during the summer.

Grafspur was obviously irritated with Harry's ignorance of bank policy, as shown when his pointy features became even more pinched. "I believe you mean termination of the supervisor's influence over the account? Supervisors are usually only for underage children and are not mandatory. They are only mandatory if the child has not yet entered magical education. Do you wish to terminate the supervisor over your account?"

Harry's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "I never told you I was in school or that I had a supervisor."

To Harry's surprise the goblin merely rolled his eyes. "Any fool could guess it was the case. Your obvious inexperience towards this bank and the way you reacted after I mentioned supervisors all point to it. Either tell me what you want to do with your account or go way. I am sure there are other… well informed bank members I could service."

Resisting the desire to curse Grafspur, Harry sighed deeply. "I want to terminate the supervisor over my account."

"Your name?"

He hesitated only a moment, knowing that the goblin's patience was already running thin. "Harry Potter."

The next half-hour was spent putting his account in order and withdrawing the money need for the next two months. It was surprising how much muggle money could come from just a hundred galleons. He was completely blow away by the fact that he had almost one hundred thousand converted into his bank account. It made Harry wonder if the Weasleys would be considered wealthy if they converted their galleons to pounds.

He supposed that wizards thought so little of Muggles that their odd paper money almost seemed worthless. Harry took some of the muggle money out of his account so that he wouldn't starve for the rest of the summer. He was pretty sure that he even had enough to get a new wardrobe as well as buy every other thing his heart desired.

As Harry was about to walk out of Diagon Alley, he noticed a familiar sign that caused him to stop. Knockturn Alley. He wondered about all the information he could find... all the books... the weapons, the potions... They could help him deal with the coming war as well aid him in stopping Voldemort.

Harry stopped himself just as he was about to walk into the shadowed alley. He couldn't go in there, not yet. Even though he was disguised, it wasn't nearly as clever enough to fool any Death Eaters that might come across his path. Harry shuddered at the thought of meeting Lucius Malfoy in one of the macabre shops. He knew that meeting wouldn't end well, especially since he knew the elder Malfoy was waiting to repay him for releasing Dobby.

Besides, before he began to dabble in any type of magic, he needed to understand the magic that he was currently practicing. The basics. Harry grimaced as he thought of all the years he'd scraped by in classes, never studying, just hoping he would get the spell right. None of it had mattered to him, but now that just wouldn't cut it. Not at all.

Harry walked into The Leaky Cauldron and sat in a darkened corner, thinking deeply to himself. He wasn't nearly powerful enough to take on Voldemort, hell he wasn't even powerful enough to take on most of the Death Eaters! The notion of dueling the shadowed individuals who'd watched on as he was tortured made him shudder. Harry wasn't just a war with Voldemort, he was at war with all of his followers as well. And, there was no way he would be able to take on them alone.

It was more than one individual, even the likes of Dumbledore, could conceive doing.

He needed help. That much was obvious. Quickly going over the mental list in his head, Harry once again came to the conclusion that he had no one to depend on for the moment. No true allies that would or could stand with him in the immediate future.

Well, this certainly was becoming a depressing trip. So much for his day out on the town.

There was absolutely no one that he knew of that would even be able to face off with his enemies without pissing in their pants. Not anyone that he could call on, at least. He wondered about all of the Death Eaters' children, if they really supported Voldemort or if they were simply just wanted to live. He wondered if anyone of them might even consider not following in their parents' footsteps, or if they were truly brainwashed.

But he doubted that. They were just children after all; they were all just scared, pathetic children. Even though many people were biased against the Slytherin's, most of them truly were a bunch of arrogant and cowardly gits who relied on money more than wit or talent.

Except for Malfoy, maybe. Despite being the most obnoxious and arrogant Slytherin, he was a scrappy little bastard. Harry'd felt it every time they fought; the raw energy that coursed under the other boy's skin – power than couldn't be bought by shiny coins. And although he'd loath to admit it, the blond boy was second only to Hermione in many classes. Without the biases, he could probably be at the top, considering his stellar performance on practical exams. He had the magical strength Hermione lacked, despite being a spoiled jerk.

Malfoy had the potential to become a very powerful wizard, one whose talents would be of great use to Harry. They could be great together, if only Malfoy would come around to his way of thinking.

Harry almost laughed at the absurdity of that one thought. As if something that improbable could ever come to be. Malfoy was so far up his father's arse that Harry scarcely thought that he'd be able to find his way out, even with the help of others.

But it was a nice thought.

xXxXxXx

Draco paced silently across his room with the grace of the cat, albeit a nervous one. He was at a lost at what his next course of action should. His 'brilliant' plan didn't work out exactly how he wanted it to. It was becoming more and more impossible by the second. But that was his life in a nutshell, nothing went the way he wanted it to. He didn't want to die, but obviously the gods didn't ask for his opinion when they decided to kill him off.

Draco sighed. Idiotic and self-pitying thoughts like that weren't going to help any. He still had no allies and no way to get out of the Manor. Although Lucius had never said that Draco was confined to the house, it was implied. Three days had passed since his father hinted that he would soon be meeting the Dark Lord. It made him wonder how many days he had left before he would be Called. Only a hand full, surely.

Suddenly feeling weak and defeated, Draco sat down on the floor and stared at the floor dejectedly. He wouldn't give up; he just couldn't. But he was honestly at a lost of what to do.

Draco sighed tiredly. He hadn't had a good night's sleep in nearly three days. Maybe if he got some rest, things would be put into perspective. Plus, not resting would only leave him more liable to make mistakes, and Draco needed his wits about him. But Draco also felt that if he slept, he was wasting the little time he had to figure out how to get out of this mess. And that left a hard, painful ball in his stomach, even as he decided to give into the pleading of his tired body.

He headed over to his bed before sparing a look over his room. It was a mess, really. The floor was so littered with papers that the normally dark red carpet looked white with glimpses of crimson here and there. Funny; that was how his skin looked after a 'session' with Daddy dearest. The room had absolutely no organization, which struck Draco as strange because his room was usually completely spotless. Neatness was a must usually, but it would mean little if he was dead in a few days. So, yes, cleanliness wasn't very important at the moment.

Laying down and closing his eyes, Draco felt a sense of helplessness come over him. He hated being helpless more than anything else. It was a feeling for the weak, for those who were unable to control their own fate. But didn't that describe Draco in most ways? He was barely fifteen, a child, and he was trying to escape from servitude under the most powerful Dark Lord in centuries—perhaps ever. Was there even any hope? Was he doing all of this for nothing? Maybe he should stop this pathetic ruse of a rebellion and just try to enjoy his last few days on earth.

No. He couldn't allow it. Wouldn't allow it. He refused to give up. But for now, he would sleep. Things would be better in the morning. Right?

Blinking back tears, he fell into a restless sleep with no idea what his dreams had in store for him.

Draco's first impression of the place was that it was rather dreary. He was in some sort of rectangular rose garden and the sun was out. A graveled dirt path was cleared out on front of him and an ornate stone bench lay close to where he was standing. It actually might have been a beautiful and cheerful scene if everything had been the proper shade.

The roses were a dark, bruised purple with black thorns that extended threateningly from the pale blue stems; the thick grass was also a pale blue. The sky was a deep, dark gray that spoke of storms to come, though there were no clouds. It was as if the heavens were filled with charcoal ash that completely blocked out any blue pigment. And the sun was even more frightening.

The sun was a startling black circle high above that might have been able to blend in with the sky if it were not for the shimmering green light that pulsed out of it like some sort of foreign energy. Draco shivered, more than a bit disturbed by his surroundings.

Isn't this just wonderful, Draco thought. Even when I try to escape for a few hours, I still end up in a nightmare.

"Do you come here often?" Draco jumped and turned around quickly, cursing at the fact he'd inadvertently let his guard down. A few feet away on a bench sat a boy only a few years older than himself. He couldn't be more than nineteen. The stranger had dark hair that was parted neatly on the side in a way that was no longer in style and a surprisingly handsome face. And although he was sitting, Draco could tell he was quite tall. But his most striking feature was his deep blue eyes that glimmered with intelligence and hinted at some innate power.

The boy was smiling and had pleasant expression, but Draco knew not be fooled. He'd seen the same pleasant expression grace his father's face as Draco was Crucio-ed for some imagined slight.

But Draco supposed the polite thing to do would be to answer. "No, not really." He refrained for asking any questions for the moment, wondering what the strange boy would reveal on his own. The boy's smile got wider, now starting to resemble a shark-like grin – like a predator getting ready to feast.

"I thought so. After all, I've been here so long that I'm sure I would have noticed you."

A long silence followed, one that Draco was reluctant to break. To speak first would be admitting weakness, but the other boy waited patiently, seemingly unbothered by the choking stillness of the air. Finally, the blond resigned, far too curious to stay quiet. "Do you come here often?"

The stranger's smile seemed slightly strained now, and Draco wondered if he should be bracing for an attack. "One could say that, I suppose. Seeing as I never leave."

And if that wasn't one of the creepiest things he'd ever heard.

Sill on guard, Draco nodded slowly and said, "Is this place… enjoyable to you?" Looking back, that obviously wasn't the best thing to say, as the boy's smile disappeared suddenly. A rather murderous expression took its place.

Standing up and clenching his hands in to fist, the dark-haired boy began to speak once more. "Does this look like a place anyone could grow to like? This place, it is hell!"

His voice echoed loudly, so loud that it made Draco cringe. Perhaps it was because he still thought this was a dream, but Draco suddenly felt like throwing caution to the proverbial wind. Feeling quite daring, Draco stepped forward and asked, "Then what's keeping you here? Why don't you go if you abhor being here?"

The boy no longer looked angry; his eyes shined with unshed tears. Suddenly, he looked very lonely and small even though he was much bigger than Draco himself. It such a quick change in demeanor that it nearly threw Draco for a loop. But the blond still didn't drop his guard. Something… odd was going on here. This was no normal dream.

"B-Because I'm trapped here. Obviously." His voice shook slightly and his eyes hardened. Walking until there were mere inches between them, he snarled. "Did he send you here? He did, didn't he? Trying to keep me in check, forgotten in this corner of Hades? Does the bastard think because you're so much younger than any one of his lapdogs that were sent here, that I won't kill you? I will, I swear I will! I'll kill you just like all of the others."

Others? Eyes wide, Draco stumbled back. This boy was obviously barking mad, speaking of killing as if it were some chore.

Dark energy crackled around the dark-haired boy like electricity as he withdrew his wand from the folds of his robes. Patting himself quickly, Draco confirmed his fears. He was unarmed.

Draco also realized that if he didn't do something soon that he'd be deader than the Bloody Baron. "I don't know what you're talking about! W-Who is he?"

The other boy stopped advancing for a moment before smiling as though he'd heard an amusing joke. "Don't play dumb. Your life is numbered in the seconds; don't waste the little time keeping up this pathetic façade."

Suddenly, at a most inopportune time, Draco's notorious temper rose. The temper that sent him chasing after that idiot Potter. The temper that allowed him to keep spiting vitriol at Lucius as his father punished him. The temper that made everything but his anger insignificant. This boy was preparing to kill him because he thought he was in league with someone that Draco didn't even know? He didn't even know what the hell this boy was talking about! He wasn't even sure how he got into this damnable place!

"I have no bloody clue what you are going on about! I don't know who this mysterious 'he' is; in fact I couldn't even be paid to care. I don't even know how I got here, in this demon's rose garden and now I have to put up with your paranoid delusions. And your quaint threats on my life do little to intimidate me. You want to murder me for some imagined slight? Go right ahead! At least I know you'll make it quick, if you can even do it properly in the first place. I doubt Lord Voldemort will be that courteous!"

And maybe the stress was getting to Draco a little bit. Not that he would admit it.

The boy lowered his wand slightly, which had been pointed at Draco's chest, with an unreadable expression on his face. "Lord Voldemort?"

Draco sneered in disgust. "Yes, Voldemort," He snapped. "Skeletal, red eyes, Dark Lord, might have seen him around –"

"I know who he is!" With a sudden start, Draco realized this boy's eyes were red as well. He could have sworn they were blue a moment ago. Was this merely his subconscious speaking, or was something more sinister afoot? "You claim not to be in league with him? How else could you find your way here? I find it hard to believe your story," the red-eyed boy drawled. He still looked raged, but he was no longer pointing his wand at Draco. That, at least, was a good sign.

"I'll take it that this 'he' you speak of is Voldemort?"

"Yes." said the boy, giving Draco a rather calculating look that set off all of his Slytherin warning bells. Before he had a chance to react, the dark-haired boy shouted a spell Draco had never heard before. It sounded almost Gaelic in origin. The power of it slammed him into the nearest rose bush, where sharp thorns dug into his skin and made him wince. Stunned for a moment, Draco couldn't dreg up the energy to pull himself from the bush, but he tried to push himself up, wincing as the thorns torn into the delicate skin of his palms. Almost immediately, arms reached out to pull him up. Scrambling away from the hands, Draco stood up and stumbled, putting a few feet between him and the dark-haired boy.

The only thing that kept Draco from running was the fact that he didn't want to turn his back on this lunatic. What would the boy do next? Really kill him?

What the stranger said next was even more confusing. "I am… sorry. I know you are telling the truth, now." Was it just Draco's imagination, or did the boy look remorseful? The expression did look quite chagrined, but also a bit strained, as if the boy wasn't used to having the expression grace his face.

"You blast me into next year, then decide that I must be telling the truth," Draco asked in disbelief. This was either a trick or the boy was truly out of his mind. Draco voted on the latter. Not that either of the hypotheses helped him in any way.

Grimacing when he felt where the thorns had torn into his limbs, Draco waited for the other boy to offer up some sort of explanation for his behavior. And he was more than ready to dodge another spell. He wouldn't be caught off guard again. If only he had his wand… "That spell would have incinerated you if you had been lying. I assumed you were a Death Eater, and had no choice but to seek proof of your innocence. But I see now that I was mistaken. If you come closer, I will heal your cuts."

Draco raised an eyebrow before saying, "And why, exactly, should I believe you? I'm not coming any closer while you are armed. I'd rather suffer the scrapes, thanks."

Sighing before rolling his eyes, the boy lay down his wand on a bench before walking towards Draco, his hands up showing that he meant no harm. However, Draco was still wary as he knew that the boy could probably best him physically.

"Did Voldemort trap you here with that damned dimension spell as well?" Although the boy seemed convinced of his 'innocence,' he looked at Draco suspiciously as he said this.

Not sure what to make of the entire ordeal, Draco shook his head slowly. "I don't think so, as the last thing I remember was going to sleep. I don't know how I got here, or even where 'here' is. Why did he trap you?"

"He had his reasons," was the boy's cryptic response.

Draco was so close to the boy he could almost touch him. He saw the hidden desperation and fear in his eyes. Draco recognized the look because he saw it every time he looked in the mirror. But was the expression true? Was this boy really an adversary of Voldemort, such a threat that he had to be trapped in some nightmare world? If that was the case…

That's when Draco realized something. This boy wanted a way out of here, Draco needed an ally… Not that he yet trusted this boy in any form of the word. But perhaps he could use him. "You want to get out of here right? You tell me why he trapped you here and I'll help you."

"How do you now you're not trapped here as well?"

"You said you were put here by a spell, no spell was put on me."

The boy seemed to consider before answering. "What would you get out of helping me? No one does anything unless it benefits them."

Draco smirked. He was dealing with a Slytherin, obvious. That made things so much easier—and more difficult. "Well, you see… I have a slight… actually rather large, problem."

Understanding dawned in the boy's eyes. "And you think I could help you with this problem?"

"Of course."

"And your problem would be?"

Draco stared into the boy's… blue? eyes before smirking again. "Tell me why you're here."

The boy's eyes flickered and he growled. "Let's just say that Voldemort saw me as a threat against him."

"You were on the Light side?"

Draco watched in fascination as the boy's lip curled in disgust. "Not quite. Your big problem…"

"Do not think that I truly considered that to be a valid answer. 'Voldemort saw you as a threat.' Do not presume to be so vague and think that I will suffer it. But I fear to retribution in telling you that I need someone to help me stand up against Voldemort," Draco said boldly.

The dark-haired boy laughed. "And why would you choose to do something so foolish?"

"Don't really have a choice."

The boy smiled suddenly, something that was both attractive and frightening. "If you get me out of here, I'll help you defeat Him."

Someone's overconfident… But an overconfident possible ally beat no ally at all. "Would you be willing to take a blood oath to keep that promise?" Draco wasn't about to jump into an agreement with someone that he barely knew without a bit of… insurance.

"You're smart for someone so young." The boy was staring at him in a way that made him uncomfortable, as if the boy could look into his eyes and read his soul. Knowing that someone might be able to read him so well was disconcerting.

"I'm not as young as you think."

"I suppose not. What's your name, boy?" Draco thought it was a bit rich for someone only a few years older than him to call him boy. But then again, there was no telling how long he had been here. For all he knew, this 'boy' was older than Voldemort.

"Draco."

"A dragon, are you? I'll put that to the test. And I didn't quite catch your surname."

Frowning Draco said, "That's because I didn't offer it. And just so we are in understanding of one another, I am in no way, shape, or form your inferior in any type of partnership we may enter in the future. And you still haven't told me you name, Stranger."

The boy smiled again, but this time it looked more like a grimace. The silence that greeted Draco after enquiring the other boy's name was so quick and absolute that he feared he might never get an answer when the strange boy spoke up quietly.

"Tom… Riddle."

Draco awoke with a start, frozen in shock for a moment before he began to shake, unable to stop his body from shuddering. Tom Riddle. How is that even possible? That boy, he was, why he was Voldemort! It didn't make any sense! Why would Voldemort want to kill himself?

Claming down a bit, Draco realized was probably just a very strange dream. He had been thinking about Voldemort, as well as finding an ally; his thoughts must have manifested themselves into a hellish nightmare, one that was making less and less sense as he began to shake off the clutches of sleep. Yes, that was it. Nothing to worry about—except for his rather messy psyche for creating such a dream.

But.

The stinging pain.

Why was he feeling pain? Looking down at himself, Draco nearly cried out when he saw all the bloody rips in his pajamas and the cuts that lay beneath. Those marks, they were the same as those he received in the dream from those bloody rose bushes. And Draco was well aware that dreams couldn't hurt you— at least not physically.

Which only led to one conclusion.

That it was no dream.

TBC