Authors note: This is a dark!Harry story. Seriously, he becomes rather naughty. Further notifications of a similar nature will be added in future chapters as necessary. This story is also definite slash. If you do not appreciate the subject matter, or would like to point out some hideous mistake in spelling or grammar-don't.

Warnings: This chapter contains homosexual innuendo and situations. It also contains mild violence and an unhappy Harry.

Disclaimer:I do not own Harry Potter.

Excerpt from the book "Old magic: The Mother" as transcribed by Lukas Micanalos, 1943

Perhaps one of the only acceptable forms of compulsion based magicks still existing is the very real, very magical bond between a mother and her infant. Children are a rarity in the magical world (See chapter: mud-bonded magicals), and therefore more precious for it. Regardless, some people have a propensity towards violence, or perversity, and these people might pose a threat to their own children if given the chance.

When a child is born, a magical link is formed with the mother until the first period of magical maturity, at age 11. The mother will raise and protect the child against all physical affronts, from something as simple as a scraped knee, to a possibly fatal or sexual attack. The mother is driven to ensure that the child makes it to its first maturity, after which, the link is completely abolished. There has been some debate over the morality of the link, and the various loopholes it allows for emotional or verbal abuse, but such debate is pointless, as the link is instinctive and not of man-made origin.

In the case of a mother's death, the link is able to be manually transferred to the closet magical relative, if done within a 3 month time frame. If not, it is best for the child to be placed with old-blooded magicals, who are aware of the importance of children, in a way mudbloods are not.

-X-

Harry had been at Grimmauld place for only two hours, and already he had had enough.

It was the 30th of July, the day before his birthday, and for once, he was not at number 4 Privet drive siting uselessly in his room, staring at a clock.

The order- a few select members- had collected him from the Dursleys and away from a surprisingly enjoyable summer vacation. He hadn't asked to be collected, and they hadn't sent notice. In fact, he had received no mail at all during his stay there baring his school supply list.

Harry had spent the first few days at the Dursleys locked in his room. He hadn't minded. He had been curled up on his cot, riding the very real agony of Sirius's death and wondering why he was still alive when Sirius wasn't. After a couple of days had passed, the smell of sweat and misery soaking his clothing had completely eclipsed the smell of urine in his allocated bucket, and he realised that either he had missed Petunia's dulcet tones telling him to use the bathroom, or they hadn't thought to give him that basic human necessity. They probably just didn't care.

Flashback

Anger surged through his body. Anger at the Dursleys. Anger at the Order. Anger at himself. A surprising burst of fury was directed at Sirius for putting him in this situation.

The Dursleys were treating him like something less than the dirt on their shoes. It hadn't been this bad since before he was 11.

Obviously his impending magical maturity and the absence of protection Sirius had provided was unhinging his relatives. Perhaps they were giving a last ditch effort to get rid of his 'freakishness', before he became an adult 'freak'.

Or perhaps, they had noticed his darkening countenance. Maybe they were remembering his outbursts as a child, and had seen his grief as a precursor to that.

Whatever the reason, the Dursleys were treating him like rubbish and he wasn't going to stand for it.

Harry stood up from the bed, stretching his cramping muscles, and tried to ignore the smell that permeated the small space that was his room. He looked at the empty bottle of water on the floor, at the box of stale crackers, and felt his anger sharpen into a pinpoint.

He faced the door and set his mind to opening it, though he had no idea how he would do it, for even if he still had Sirius's knife, or knew how to pick locks, there were padlocks on the outside. A good eight or so.

He knew if he gathered enough energy, and concentrated his magic, he could probably unlock them all, though it would take a while. He had the magical reserves, and he had always, despite popular opinion or knowledge, had the control. He had the power.

He had several things to consider however.

He was already exhausted from lack of proper food. He was dehydrated. He felt half dead, and still, despite anger, miserable. His magic was keeping him standing, and if he managed to make it out after such a feat, he would need whatever magic he had at his disposal to deal with the Dursleys.

He needed a way to get out without using a lot of magic. It didn't need to be perfect.

With a loud squealing noise and a house-shaking crash, Harry kicked the door down with a magically enhanced foot.

Dursleys' POV

In the lounge, the Durselys sat frozen at the noise. Footsteps alerted them to movement in the house, until they could see Potter come into view as he walked into the kitchen.

Vernon stood up shaking in anger. He cast a red-tinged glance to a pale Petunia and confused Dudley and marched directly into the kitchen. The boy, Potter, was standing in front of the fridge holding a bunch of Grapes and a bottle of orange juice. His grubby hands had left sweat stains on the outside of the fridge door.

"Boy!"

The boy ignored him, and shut the Fridge, placing the food on the countertop and walking to the pantry.

"Boy! Potter! Look at me boy."

Potter, from what he could see of him in the cupboard, paused a little. Vernon grinned in triumph and prepared himself to deliver a scathing barrage of insults and slurs, ignoring the little voice inside of him telling him to be careful.

"Boy! Out of the pantry now!"

The boy did indeed step out of the pantry, but with him he carried an armful of their hard earned food. He walked to where the chilled food was and placed them down carefully. Then he did nothing but stand quietly, still faced away from Vernon.

Vernon saw red, and with a few quick steps, reached over and spun the boy around.

Harry's eyes were dark, and his face was pale, but he was smiling. It was a horrible smile full of teeth and derision, and it lit up his eyes with something dark and nameless.

"Uncle Vernon."

The hand still holding the boy felt numb.

He took a quick step back and said nothing, looking from the food to the boy and back again, thinking of the padlocks on the door upstairs and the boy's obvious location of Not His Room.

He thought of the boys approaching birthday, and the not-so-nice magical outbursts he had displayed as a child, and felt something cold grip his heart.

"We're having roast for dinner. They'll be a plate left for you on the counter."

He left the kitchen, trying to ignore the throaty chuckling that followed him and walked stiffly back to his seat in the lounge. Petunia look at him with an unbelieving expression to which he shook his head shortly and flicked his eyes at Dudley.

"His Godfather just died Pet. He might be reduced to a Childlike state for a bit. We should take more….care with him."

Petunia, who had started off incensed at the lack of proper shouting or discipline, had paled at the reference to his childhood.

Dudley had no idea what his parents were talking about or why his father had stopped disciplining the Freak, but his father's shaken countenance warned him not to ask. He'd find out later and then, he'd pick up where his father had obviously not been able to finish. For the moment, he'd just relax and wait.

Upstairs, Harry placed his food on the lopsided desk and cracked open the window. Despite his grief over Sirius, he felt good. He remembered the fear in his Uncle's eyes, and felt a spark of satisfaction settle in his stomach. He would have a shower, prop up his door, and delve a little deeper into these long forgotten feelings.

But first-food.

End flashback

From then on, the summer had only turned to Harry's advantage.

At first Harry had simply focused on dealing with his grief and guilt over Sirius's death. He'd managed to move past the initial urge to shovel blame solely upon himself, and moved very quickly onto a rational dissection of the events.

Harry wasn't known to be rational. Rationality was not a Gryffindor trait, and even Hermione, for all of her intelligence, let herself be easily led astray.

But Harry had always been rational, and methodical, and all things not commonly ascribed to the house of Gryffindor. In fact, Harry was the perfect Slytherin at heart.

And so Harry had managed to calm himself down enough to sit still and think without a haze of emotions blinding him.

Firstly, yes, he had some part in Sirius's death. He could have tried harder during Occlumency lessons, or trusted Snape to do the right thing. But there were several reasons why it was not that simple.

Occlumency, he had later read, relied greatly on trust when taught from a master to a student. Trust allowed a simple, temporary bond to form between the two involved people, ensuring a general oath of confidentiality and an unspoken agreement to not pry too far.

Snape and he certainly did not trust each other, and any efforts he made to learn on his own were thwarted quickly. Such an art was restricted by the ministry, and neither the library, nor any legal bookstores had any information on how to learn it, only why not to. Even the restricted section was suspiciously barren.

And trusting Snape to do the right thing was a laughable idea, especially concerning Sirius. The enmity between those two nearly eclipsed the one between Snape and his father. Only not really, because James had Lily and that would trump anything Sirius did, even attempted murder.

Snape on the other hand, had a more hefty part to play in Sirius's death. He had made no real effort to help Harry even at the request of Dumbledore, and had in fact widened Harrys mind to further intrusion.

Dumbledore, the one to put Harry and Snape together, had behaved in a manner that suggested concern for Harry, if Harry had really been the oblivious Gryffindor that he portrayed. But he wasn't, and all he could see was blunder after blunder concerning Dumbledore.

He couldn't blame Sirius for being there, because he had come as a member of the order. But he could blame Sirius for raising his hopes of a semi-normal life, and then shattering them with a whispered word. Perhaps it was that he had only ever seen James and not Harry that hurt more, but hearing his father's name come from his Godfather's lips as he died was probably the worst thing to happen to him that night.

At least it had put things into perspective.

So yes, the blame was shared between multiple people, and he could write a list of people he blamed. But even if he went through Kreacher and Bellatrix, Voldemort and Umbridge, it didn't change the fact that he was dead.

And so, with that rather stark analysis, Harry's flimsy emotions went to work, and his Grief simmered down into a type of sad relief.

That hadn't changed the fact that during the entire time he had been stuck at the Dursleys, he had received not a single piece of mail.

Hermione and Ron were well aware of what Sirius had meant to Harry. Sirius had been the only person he had allowed himself to actually care for. As far as his friends knew, he had been stuck in a house with muggles who hated magic, blaming himself for the death of his only hope at a family.

Good friends, real friends he supposed, would have written - at least to see that he hadn't done something rash. Hermione in particular had seen the shade of Red his uncle had turned at the station, when informed of Sirius's death. He had waited though, to see if they would send anything. He had sent both letters after all, expressing his wish for a steady stream of communication.

Nothing came.

So he had settled in to his new routine at the Dursleys, something vaguely reminiscent of his time as a child, and focused on relearning independence.

Flashback

It was his second week back at the Dursleys and things were different.

Harry had begun remembering things.

It started when he had first seen Vernon after escaping from his room. His uncle had acted as his usual belligerent self- blustering and self-important- and Harry had smiled at him. Something within him pushed through his misery and boiled in his blood, and he received a quick vision of his uncle towering over a much younger Harry, screaming as shadows bit and tore at his raised hand. The vision quickened Harry's blood and left him breathless, prominent in his voice as he mouthed his uncle's name.

"Uncle Vernon?"

Vernon had stumbled back, mumbled something about dinner, and left.

From then on, Harry had been receiving strange flashes of himself as a child. It was a peculiar, almost out-of-body experience and each one left him breathless and weak and hungry for something undefinable.

He understood that these were his memories. What he didn't understand was why they had been absent up until now. As far as he had been aware, his childhood had been miserable and full of pain. He didn't know who this boy was, this scary, beautiful boy that terrorised his family. But day by day and vision by vision, it felt less like he was viewing someone else's memories and more like they had always been a part of him.

Rather quickly he realised that whatever had held them back had been most likely released by Voldemort's mental invasion. As thanks, he sent feelings of glee and abject giddiness down their mental link, and received feelings of bewilderment, alarm and hideous anger in return, before the connection was abruptly closed.

He couldn't understand why he had been so dependent on his friends before. He still felt fond of them, but more prominent was a sense of exhaustion and anger. How many times would they let him down before they grew up? He had half expected no response from Ron who lacked any real emotional empathy, but he had expected more from Hermione.

What hurt more was the lack of correspondence from Remus.

Remus and he had grown almost as close as he had with Sirius, and he couldn't understand why he hadn't written. Perhaps there was some sort of Order business he was performing. Perhaps he was still in the debilitating state of Grief. Whatever the reason, he decided not to think too much on it at the current time. Who knew, maybe it was werewolf related.

At present he was in the park, sitting on the only usable swing. It was dusk, and the sky had started to darken in a tumultuous display of gold and purple. Sand scratched his bare feet as he swayed idly back and forth.

Despite the scare of last summer, Dudley still took his Gang to the park to pick on unsuspecting teens. Harry couldn't blame him, power was addictive after all. He chose mostly older kids anyway, but Harry supposed it didn't matter how fit or old the other person was if it was still a group on one.

Harry could see them at the other end of the field. Three had split off with cries of farewell and a barrage of laughter, and only Dudley and a tall blonde teenager were left to walk in his direction.

They were rather close now, and Harry could see that the tall teen he thought he didn't know was actually Piers, Dudley's best friend and right hand man.

Dudley saw him right away, and let a smarmy grin slip over his face. He elbowed Piers and swaggered over to Harry's place on the swing expecting Piers to follow, which he did.

"Hey Potter! Hey. What'd you do to dad the other day, e h? Threatened to contaminate the house maybe? Too late! You already stink it up."

He laughed uproariously, bending at the waist to clutch his stomach in mirth. Besides him, Piers was looking at Harry with an expression of trepidation.

Dudley gave an annoyed glance at Pier, before straightening and continuing his assault.

"It's a good thing we're not in the house anymore. No chance of catching something if I do this!"

He reached over and poked Harry hard in the forehead. Harry stared at him blankly as the swing rocked slightly, before sighing and addressing his cousin.

"What do you want Dudley? Decided to move to one on one bullying?"

He looked at Piers, and gave him a slow look, from feet to hair, and winked.

"Two if you count Piers, but I wouldn't."

Dudley turned red and reared back to punch Harry as hard as he could in the face. Harry lent backwards on the swing, using the momentum to sweep his legs up and under Dudley, bringing him to the ground.

Harry stood, and put one foot firmly to Dudley's throat. He bent down so that his head was level with Dudley's; ignoring the chocking sounds his cousin made.

"There's a reason Daddy Dursley changed his tune," Harry whispered, gently brushing a strand of blonde hair from Dudley's purple face, "and I think if you focus really hard, it'll come to you. Don't screw with me Dudley. We're family. I love you. Don't make me hurt you." He forced a spike of magic from his fingers into Dudley's skin, and stood back up as a thick tears began running from his cousins eyes.

Dudley scrambled to his feet, chocking on tears and wheezing horribly. He didn't even look at Harry as he began to run home to number 4.

Beside Harry, Piers was trembling. He wanted to run. He wanted to run home and hide in his room with its locks and safety bars where no one- not even his drunk of a father- could get in.

But he couldn't, and instead stood stiffly with his feet glued to the ground, clenching his eyes stubbornly closed. Despite actively participating in the beatings, he wasn't as involved as the other Gang members. The brutality of it made his stomach turn. It reminded him of his father. Now he was about to be beaten in return, and no matter how much he wanted to, he. could. not. move.

Harrys POV

Harry turned to look at Piers as Dudley ran off, and took the time to revise his memory of Piers' appearance.

If he had not been a member of Dudley's gang, he would have been targeted for sure.

Pale and whipcord slim, with a smooth hairless face and soft blond hair, all sorts of things came to Harry's mind, none of which were g-rated. Piers had grown from a rat into a pretty little kitten, and screw Darwin, the proof was right in front of him. Evolution with no apparent advantage, especially not for Piers.

He walked behind him, sliding one hand under Pier's shirt to grip his waist, clenching as Piers lurched away. Unnoticed, Harry's shadow had lengthened and grown to envelope Piers'.

"Hello Kitten." Harry murmured, brushing his lips against the boy's ear. Piers was taller than him, but harry at 6'1 was definitely not short. He wrapped his arm completely around Piers' waist, and pulled him back into him, holding him snug.

"I said, hello kitten."

Piers flinched, and abruptly started struggling. He elbowed and bit, kicked and lunged, but couldn't get away. A primal fear had overtaken him, something he didn't want to put a name to, but he knew that he wanted to escape more than anything he had ever wanted in his life.

Harry remained behind him, weathering the assault casually, and wrapped his other hand around Piers' throat, clenching lightly.

After a while, long after the sky had blackened, Piers' struggles stopped and he slumped tiredly against Harry, tilting his head back to rest on Harry's chest. Harry cooed and stroked the pale throat in reward, enjoying his closeness and warmth. He buried his nose in blonde hair and smiled a cheerful smile.

"What does the kitten say back to Harry?"

A soft sigh escaped the boy as Piers turned slightly to face Potter, reluctance and shame thickening his voice.

"Hello…Harry."

-X-

Harry returned to the Dursleys feeling warm and full of energy. Nothing had happened much beyond that exchange, but Harry knew that with a little effort and time, he'd get what he wanted. He didn't know why he wanted it, but he supposed Piers' pretty face was answer enough. Perhaps he thought ensnaring a muggle look-a-like of Malfoy would be amusing. Either way he was in a good mood.

When he entered the house, the atmosphere was tense. The lights were on, and the television was blaring, but it wasn't until Vernon came charging at him that he remembered what had happened with Dudley.

He felt a moment of satisfaction in the memory, before he quickly sidestepped his uncle who then ran heavily into the door.

Spinning around, Harry saw his uncle leaning against the wall clutching at his head and glaring at Harry. Dimly, he became aware of another memory, a younger Vernon in the exact same position. The younger Vernon wasn't angry though, he was terrified, and it was this emotion that Harry felt the older Vernon should be feeling. A bitter flame burnt to life in Harry, enveloping him in a barrage of dripping, writhing darkness. His magic practically leapt towards the foreign entity, blowing out the light in the entrance hall with a surge of magical energy. He felt whole and alive but mostly, he just felt really, really irritated.

He saw his uncle straighten up and prepare for another charge, but before he could, Harry's shadow twisted and thickened, streaming rapidly towards and upon Vernon. Before Vernon could yell, something black and fluid entered his mouth and suddenly he was on the ground, clawing at his throat for air.

Harry stepped closer to Vernon, and knelt beside him. He ignored the petrified presence of his Aunt and Cousin as he leaned in closer and gently stroked his hair, much like he had before with Dudley.

"It seems like I was premature in telling Dudley that you had changed your tune." Harry murmured.
"I was trying to prevent worse from happening to him you see. As a last ditch attempt at playing family."

He ignored Vernon's stilling struggles and blue tinged lips and turned to face the other two.

"I remember everything now." He told a panicking Petunia. "And don't worry; I'll bring things back to how they used to be in no time. Better even. I'm older now."

He walked past them with a skip to his step, and up the stairs to his room. Behind him, his shadows unraveled and quietly made their way back to him, fading back into his skin effortlessly. They burnt within him though, but harry didn't mind. It was a good type of burn.

End Flashback

Harry had spent the next few weeks up until now meditating on old memories, examining the Darkness, and generally terrorising the Dursleys for the hell of it.

He had also made it a point to see Piers every day, even if most of the time it involved him materialising in his room at night-time. It only took a little while before Piers stopped struggling to resist him, and when he eventually surrendered, he did so gracefully. It had been hard for Harry to reconcile the pinched-looking, thuggish boy with the fragile teen he visited, but he imagined it was harder for Piers.

He had grown slightly fond of him, but acknowledged that it was more the fact that he was there and generally pretty that kept him returning. Piers was also pretty interesting to talk to; his walls were covered in posters of Russian authors and foreign films. Harry imagined that Dudley had never visited.

It was during one of these visits- a rare daytime occurrence- that the order appeared. They must have used a blood-bonded portkey (which was suspicious in itself), and landed directly in the centre of the room, right next to the bed.

On the bed as you might have guessed, were Piers and Harry. Piers had been on Harry's lap, legs splayed open, mouth deliciously parted and chest covered in bite marks. The order had received a full frontal seat to the show, and as they appeared Harry had given one last hard thrust, and bit down savagely on Pier's throat. Tonks had been sprayed with the evidence of Piers' clear enjoyment.

It had all gone downhill from there.

Apparently Mundungus Fletcher had been his guard for the day, though Harry didn't know why, as scattered as the man was. He had neglected to inform the Order that he wasn't in his room, and as a result, there was one more obliviated muggle in the world. At least they had removed the evidence.

Back at Grimmauld place where he had been moved reluctantly, the order was incensed. Apparently, rough sex with a muggle boy was not an order approved activity. Harry had tried to muster up the old feelings of shame he might have felt, but all he could feel was indignation and annoyance.

Not one letter, not even to say that they were coming and they felt they had the right to preach to him.

Harry was going to bring up his place in the war, to point out that they expected a 'young boy' to kill for them, but had remembered Dumbledore's ridiculous insistence on silence regarding the prophecy. If the order had half a brain, they could have guessed something similar anyway.

He had felt the anger licking at his toes, threatening to overtake him, and saw Moody twitch in his direction. That was enough to stop the shadows from overflowing, but when he spoke, his voice carried his anger well enough.

"I did not ask to be moved here. I did not ask to have people watching me. I did not ask for anything you think of as a given when it comes to me, and it makes idiots of all of you to think that I did. If you do indeed, possess a brain, and realise that I did not want any of this, then you're just as bad for going along with it regardless."

Harry had left the order in silence, and walked swiftly to his room- Sirius' old room, which was where he was now.

In a couple of hours, the rest of the order would arrive. He would be talked at and mentally dissected, prodded and condescended to. He would barely be able to breathe.

There was a possibility that Hermione and Ron would arrive, a high one, and he still hadn't decided what to do about them.

So for now he lay stretched out on a dust covered bed, staring at the ceiling, and thought of smooth, pale thighs.

They were pleasant thoughts.

-x-

Lily's journal 02/12/79

It has been confirmed. I'm pregnant. This would not be such cause for alarm if James wasn't infertile; the baby is undoubtedly That Mans.

I feel ill. I'm carrying a piece of him with me wherever I go now. I can't escape him.

James insists on keeping it. If it was discovered that the house of Potter was unable to bear heirs, he fears what would happen.

I don't want to keep it.

It's not fair on me or the child to ask this of me. What child wants to know his mother hates him?