Consuming Shadows

Chapter Nine

It wasn't often Harry found himself torn between too many questions that wanted an answer at the same time – why the fuck did he keep running into Gema and why the bloody hell was Voldemort in Underfall? Why was he always cold? Why was he never hungry? Why did he keep finding his way into Underfall, over and over and over again? What did Remus know? Why the hell did his mum ask Remus about Underfall, in the first place? Who the hell did Hawthorne and Gema make a promise to when it came to his safety?

Why was he even asking these questions when bloody zombies were coming at them?

Harry didn't hesitate– he grabbed the Dark Lord by the hand, then grabbed Gema's, turned, and ran. One let out a curse, the other a sharp intake of breath. Then the zombies were there, dozens of the ugly fuckers coming from all directions as an unearthly, horrifyingly familiar screech cut the silence. The teen wanted to cry, but he was fresh out of tears, too.

The Dark Lord's hand was a lot warmer than Harry thought it would be. Hotter than Gema's.

Harry pushed that thought out of his mind as he dragged the two through the graveyard, noting, absently, how it was a similar location he and the Dark Lord would meet again. It wasn't a thought he was overly pleased with, but, as the man began to pick up on the urgency he and Gema bore with justified terror, he picked up his pace. The Dark Lord swore when one nasty, half-rotten zombie lunged out at them from behind a bush, lower jaw missing.

Gema shot the ugly fucker in the face. What was left of its head exploded.

"Potter, what's going on?" Voldemort caught him by the forearm once they were out of the cemetery, whipping him around to face him. The man's gaze was darting over the street, then he was tensing when the horrifying screech cut through the silence. Closer, this time. The Dark Lord's gaze snapped to the shadows around them as he hissed, "What manner of trickery is this?"

Harry yanked the man, forcing them into another full-out run as the dead came stumbling out between the buildings. Gema was running ahead, pausing for a fraction of a second to blast another dead-thing in the head. Harry jumped over its body, the Dark Lord following suit, before he yelled to his somewhat-friend, "Gema, where the hell are we going!"

She led them onto another street as she said, "Deeper into the town. We need to pass over a ley line. Or get in a safe zone. I can get in touch with Hawthorne, then. He'll get us out of this!"

That wasn't all that reassuring.

Harry kept that thought to himself as they made their way through the streets, the Dark Lord's hand in his as Gema led the way. Harry kept up with her, countless years of running leaving him strong and capable as they fled from the undead. The distant howl of the Nagaroji echoed, a chilling reminder that the undead was the least of their troubles. They needed to get somewhere safe, Dark Lord or no.

Voldemort didn't have power in a place like this, anyway. Harry didn't, either.

Shit, he needed to get Voldi through a Gate. As they rounded another corner, he threw that comment towards Gema. As she turned, shooting another undead that was catching up, she swore, and then said, "That's really not my priority, Harry!"

Voldemort's hand tightened around his as they made their way around another bend. Harry wondered why his scar wasn't screaming in pain. In the graveyard, when the Dark Lord had been revived, the man simply had to touch him to make him scream in agony. Now, in this nightmarish world, they were…holding hands? There was only a faint, buzzing energy focused directly under the Curse Mark – not pain, but noticeable. That was odd, certainly. It was almost…pleasant.

It wasn't long before Gema ushered them into a building, muttering about sealing the doors as they found a secure room to hide in. Voldemort pulled his hand free, expression flat. Harry held up his hands in defense, voice even as he said, "No harm. No foul."

The Dark Lord leveled a look on him but didn't say anything. Harry shook his head. The man was already turning, gaze sweeping over the room. Then he was moving, fingers ghosting over walls and sheet-covered furniture. Harry watched, bemused.

"I haven't drawn you into a nightmare, by the way," Harry shot a look at the Dark Lord, watching as the man tossed a look out a window where the undead roamed. Regardless of the situation, the man looked calm enough. Composed. Unconcerned. The man's unearthly red gaze landed on him as Harry said, "You asked, earlier. About what 'nightmare' I pulled you into. This isn't a nightmare. It'd be nice if it was. Cause dying in this place sucks. Or getting hurt…"

"Dying here?" Voldemort prodded.

Gema shot them a look, a warning in her gaze, but Harry pressed on, "Dying here, in this place, is dying in the waking world. You're dreaming, you know that, right?"

Harry knew Voldemort's attention was on him even if he wasn't looking at him. There was a sense of the older wizard being hyper-aware of him, a sort of itch that burned within his Mark. Harry crossed the room to pause by a window, looking out into the darkness as he said, "You're in a place of dreams. A place of shadows and darkness, a place where the sun never rises…"

"How did I get here?"

Harry placed a hand on the windowsill as the Dark Lord's shadow fell over him, the man's body warmth washing over him in waves. Turning, looking up into a crimson gaze, Harry murmured, "I think you're here because of me, somehow. I'm not sure how it works, but…"

Maybe there was a truth to his words when he bullshitted his knowledge of this place to Remus, that the Dark Lord had, somehow, made it possible. Yet Voldemort didn't know where 'here' was, so that made it less likely. Frowning, Harry continued, "It may have something to do with the ritual you used to come back. You used my blood. Maybe that was enough…"

"He has your blood?" Harry started as Gema grabbed his wrist, tripping over his feet as she pulled him around to face her. Mint-green irises were too bright. Her voice dropped as she said, "Please tell me you're joking, Hadrian."

Harry shook his head. "No, he has my blood. It's in him, now. It was part of a Resurrection Ritual."

"How do I get out of here?" Voldemort was pacing, eyeing the ever-dark sky.

Harry pulled away from Gema, looking out the window the Dark Lord was by. "You have to get through a Gate. There's one in First Fire. It's dangerous, though. Getting there, I mean."

"I'm no stranger to peril, Potter," the Dark Lord leveled a stern look on him, pale flesh making the crimson of his irises hellish. Harry looked away, conscious of how the man was pacing behind him as Gema worked on getting a message out to her boss. She was pale, too pale. Troubled.

He needed to get the Dark Lord out of this place. Harry knew the war could end if he let the man perish here, but death, in this place…he didn't wish that fate on anyone. Not even Voldemort. If he dwelled on the thought too much, he could hear another's dark, demented laughter, a ghost of a memory. Dark memories stirred at the back of his mind, a time of fear and blood and death.

Turning to Gema, Harry said, "I'll take him to First Fire. I'll be okay."

Gema's mouth pressed into a thin line. "Are you insane? It's too dangerous."

The Dark Lord was at his back as Harry snapped, "He will die if he stays here."

Gema's shoulders reared back, her eyes flashing as she snapped, "Lily's dead because of him!"

Her face flushed, her hands fisting at her side. She folded her arms across her chest, shoulders rising, curling around her ears, as she muttered, "He killed her, Hadrian. He didn't have to, but he did. You can't trust him!"

"I don't trust him," Harry stepped closer to her, hands up. He held her gaze, refused to blink or look away, as he closed the distance between them. "You know I don't. I can't, however, let him face this place. He needs to leave. He needs to wake up."

The Curse Mark flared. The pain resonated at a deeper level in the Curse Mark, far beneath the surface. Deeper than when Voldemort touched him, somehow buried beneath the Mark the Dark Lord caused. Harry rubbed at the old scar, turning his attention to the shadowy streets.

Shade was nearby, churning in the shadows.

A low, ringing screech cut through the silence.

Stepping back, Harry shook his head. Shadow was coming. Shade was nearby, lingering just close enough to cause Harry some discomfort. He could feel both creatures, could sense them, to some degree. Swallowing, Harry turned on Gema as he said, "I don't have much time on my hands, not with Shadow on my trail. The Nagaroja knows where I'm at."

Harry turned, gaze on the Dark Lord. Voldemort's face was impassive as Harry said, "Follow me."

When Gema yelled after him, Harry ignored her. He wouldn't let the Dark Lord die in this place, not in this nightmare where injury follows from dream to waking. He led them out the back door, booking it across the street with Voldemort on his heel. First Fire wasn't too far away, but getting there would be difficult. They had no means of defending themselves, not like Gema and the others – magic rarely worked in this place.

It was simply a game of running away.

Harry knew he could get them both to a Gate, that he could ensure they both wake up. Him, in his Godfather's home – Voldemort, wherever he stayed when he slept. It would be difficult. He wasn't sure if the Dark Lord had ever traveled between planes of existence when dreaming, but Harry knew if the war was to be won, if either of their victories was going to be worth anything…

Voldemort couldn't die, in this place. If he died here, in Underfall, the people who had suffered under his wand, under his bigotry, would have suffered in vain. Their deaths would have been for nothing. None of them would have the closure they doubtlessly wanted.

Because there was only one truth in Underfall.

In a world of nightmares, justice did not reign supreme.

Harry did what he always did. He led them through the streets, dodging the undead with uncanny ease. Voldemort kept pace with him, silent as they slowed as they came close to one of the central roads in Heritage Hill. He could see the distant, looming figure of the church steeple. The silver bell gleamed within the lookout, removed from the city yet a beacon of something that could have been, long ago, a thing of beauty.

"What is this place, Potter?" Voldemort caught him by the elbow, turning him around.

Harry glanced into those hellish eyes before looking around them. None of the undead was lunging for them, the streets oddly empty. Swallowing, Harry turned back as he said, "We're in Heritage Hill, in a place called Underfall."

Voldemort's gaze was darting over their surroundings, the man's hand, his left one, twitching and flexing. Reaching for a wand that wasn't there, that would never be there in Underfall. The Dark Lord pushed past him, scanning the dark grey buildings and the fog rolling over the ground. He was taking note of the silence, Harry knew. To the whisper of a distant breeze groaning as it swept between buildings pressed tight against one another.

Then that red gaze was on him. "Underfall. This place is Underfall?"

"You know about this place?" Harry stepped closer, eyes wide. Disbelief cut through him and ate at his mind as a flicker of curiosity burned at the back of his awareness. Him, not his. Harry shook the feeling away as he lowered his voice, "You've heard about Underfall?"

The Dark Lord scowled. "Any wizard worth his weight in gold knows of this place, Potter. I had not realized it was more than a myth, however. How –"

The sudden screech cut off whatever Voldemort was saying. Harry whirled on his heel, eyes widening as a shadowy mass came hurtling at them from the rooftops the same time the energy behind his scar ignited. Another, thinner shadow manifested in front of Harry and Voldemort, stood between them and the Nagaroja coming down upon them with a numbing roar of defiance.

Harry's knees gave out, his body pitching as his vision flashed white.

As he fell, someone caught him. His name, hissed and angry, fell from unlikely lips. All Harry saw, in that moment, as two creature's squared off, was ultraviolet and a monster of shadows through eyes that weren't his own.

Author's Note

I don't like this chapter. At all.

I wrote it, then rewrote it. Then rewrote it again! I have the next chapter playing out in my head, but I had to get through this chapter to get there. And I still don't like this chapter, not in the least. I hope, however, all of you at least enjoyed it a bit even if my own brain is picking out everything that could be better about it. I have, however, worked on this chapter so much that I'm done with it. I don't want to be stuck here, on this one part, till the day I die because I'm nitpicking at the scene and the interactions.

I'd love to hear all of your thoughts and I like how each of you is trying to piece together what's going on in this story. And, don't worry, Harry will be returning to his friends soon enough!

Good Day, Good Night, and See You Soon! Read, Favorite, and Review!