Summary: Visited a month into the summer before his sixth year, Harry must choose between one evil or the next.Who said everyone chooses the lesser of said evils? Evil!DeathEater!Harry -- possible HPTR,HGRW,others undecided.

Sinking

A few notes before I start:

1. This is going to be a dark/evil, Harry fic. If you don't like that, I suggest you stop here.

2. Do you know what slash is? Good. I'm not quite sure on the pairing, but it's probably going to end up being LVHP//TRHP.

3. I wanna make it clear that I love Dumbles in many ways. Unfortunately, this fic does not. He will be manipulative, cunning, and noncaring at times.

4. I also adore Snape! So although he doesn't have a main role, I'll try and make him as active in it as possible. Oh---and Draco, as well.

5. This fic is M for a reason; there will be violence, language, manipulation, mentions of rape, torture, nude scenes, and many more dark themes. I'll try and put a note at the top if I think it's going to make anyone queasy.

6. W-wait! You're saying that I have more money then the royal family of Britain!? Dammit! You suck. Well, guess I don't own Harry Potter, then. Can I atleast keep him for a month? ...a week? ...not even a day? Meanie.

Edited with thanks to Pox.

Chapter one: Shared Interests

SinkingSinkingSinking

Harry Potter was grieving. A simple concept, really. His godfather---was---was---dead. Sirius was dead! Rationally, ofcourse, he understood what was happening. He wasn't really in denial... and he also knew that he'd get over it eventually, but...

Well... Sirius was dead. Padfoot.

It was the afternoon of July the third that found the 'saviour' of the wizarding world in such distress. He'd been with his relatives for roundabout of a month, the amount of time Headmaster Dumbledore had required of him to 'strengthen the blood wards'. Except... Harry didn't really agree with him on that point. Didn't Voldemort have Harry's own blood running through his veins? How were pathetic nulled wards supposed to help him now?

With a sigh, he found himself glaring at the ceiling of the smallest bedroom of Number Four, Privet Drive. Why did his life... suck? He didn't deserve this; any of it!

It wasn't his fault that his mother had sacrificed herself(really, why hadn't she just apparated away with him?). It wasn't his fault that Voldemort was after his blood. And it certianly wasn't his fault that he had a fucking gash on his forehead.

So, then, why did the wizarding world seem to decide the burden of killing the most powerful non-senile wizard alive to be his? And if they'd so decided, why did they not believe him when he'd said that the evil bastard was back? Why not believe him until the Dark Lord did the boldest thing he could and showed his ugly face to the Minister himself?

Thump, thump, thump... bang! Inwardly groaning at the injustice of it all, his gaze turned to the doorway, bracing himself.

"Boy! There's dishes to be cleaned, food to be made, and a living room to be vacuumed and you lay on your lazy ass---"

Sirius was dead. But, unfortunately, the rest of the world hadn't died as well.

And, so, Harry stood, sulkingly making his way to the door and down the wooden stairs, into a world he knew didn't accept him. A world that only seemed to care about whether or not he'd finished repainting that patch of flaking paint on the side of the garage.

Blimey, Sirius was dead.

SinkingSinkingSinking

Five days later found a scowling Harry sniffing at the inside cover of the only Dark Arts book he owned. It was titled Theory And Application: The Dark Arts by Bartras Black.

Black! Why that name, why now?

But that wasn't what was bugging him, even if it could be a small portion. No, he was staring rather intently on something most would overlood; a quote, to be precise. And it bothered him. Could it be... true? Most undoubtably. It made sense, afterall. Why did it have to make sense?

If you hate a person, you hate something in him that is a part of yourself. What isn't part of

ourselves doesn't disturb us.

-Hermann Hesse

It could really explain a lot about himself, he knew. But was that something he was willing to try to understand? Did he really want to fully comprehend the way his mind clicked? No, not really, he knew. But, still, it could explain just why he hated, erm, just about everyone. (There were exceptions, ofcourse.)

Severus Snape. He despised the man, but he'd always known he understood him. Prejudice ran rancid in both. And no matter how differant, abused children could always sniff out one of their own kind.

Dudley Dursley. His cousin. Such a bully--he needed to insult others to make himself feel better.

Bloody Malfoy. He'd insulted his friends, but the Gryffindor knew that wasn't really the issue. They both, well, were admittably arrogant; both knew that they were right and both had set out, unfalliably loyal to their cause, to prove it. Deep inside himself, Harry also considered the fact that it was his own fault they weren't mates.

Petunia Dursley. She was his mother's sister, and yet she didn't care about him. Well, he didn't care about her, either, the bitch.

Dolores Umbitch. She was so, well, sadistic. But then again, if that was what he hated, was he, too?

Crabbe and Goyle. They flocked to their own definition of power. But didn't he follow Dumbledore just as blindly?

Percy Weasley. He was so, well, sure that he was right. Always. Stuck up.

Vernon Dursley. He needed to feel in control: when he wasn't in control, he was lost.

His parents. They'd abandoned him, well, he'd abandoned them, as well. If he looked into the Mirror of Erised he knew he wouldn't be seeing them anymore.

Voldemort.

The culmination of his bloody little rant, he supposed. But why did he hate Voldemort? He suppose he hated that he'd ruined his life; but hadn't he gone and done that to the bastard as well? Hadn't he been the one to end the Dark Lord's 'reign of terror'? He suppose if situations were reversed, he'd hate himself, too.

He knew he hated that Tom had been an indirect cause of Sirius' death. But, well, could it be that he more hated the weakness in his own darkened heart? Sirius was a fool. A really nice, caring, lovable fool, but a fool nonetheless. He'd know that Sirius would die eventually of his own stupidity. Why hadn't he originally just distanced himself from the man? It would have saved him a lot of pain...

But, Harry realized, he was forgetting someone. Someone who had done as much damage as good. What about... Dumbledore. He was so... manipulative... and he'd ruined Harry's life more then even Tom Riddle had. Why the hell had he withheld so much important information from everyone around him? Sirius was dead beause of him. Cedric was dead. No one had been forewarned of the prophecy, and for all he knew, his own parent's deaths could have been, in some way, caused by the old, senile wizard.

Muttering darkly about demanding old coots and murdering bastards, Harry slammed the book shut and resolved to get some sleep tonight.

Maybe he wouldn't dream about Sirius. Maybe he'd get a good night's sleep.

SinkingSinkingSinking

As fate would have it, Harry did not get sleep. He didn't get much of anything, really, as an owl started scratching at his window a few minutes after he'd layed down. A tired limb raised to flick off the bird, but, unfortunately, the motion didn't shoo it off.

It seemed to scrape at the glass louder.

"Alright, alright, I get it! Bloody bird!"

Grudgingly, the fifteen-year-old stood and shuffled over to the window, cracking it open far enough so that the Eagle-Owl had room to flutter inside. Who was writing to him with this proud thing? Not Ron, definately. Nor Hagrid, Remus, or probably Hermione... in fact, come to think of it, he couldn't recognize the loopy, formal scrawl that had written his name on the outside of the letter. Harry untied it, if only out of curiosity.

"For crying out loud, I swear." Backing up, he plopped back down on the edge of his bed, leaning over to light the lamp up. He supposed he'd read it now, before his Uncle upped and burned it, or somethin'. As the warm light filled the room, he turned his attention back to the note. It was short--that he could tell from the outside.

Dear Harry,

It is with the greatest regrets that I write. It has come to my unfortunate attention that your relatives have become rather inadiquate in their duties, and, imploringly, I seek to rectify that. I am coming for you. Be ready.

Your concerned correspondant,

Lord Voldemort

When Harry looked up minutes later, the owl was gone.

Bloody fate.