The Darkest Appeal
Disclaimer: Honestly people, it's not mine. I wish it was, but I also wish I was a pop singer named Cindy, but some things just won't happen.
Warnings: DarkHarry, Slash of the HP/DM kind and slight gore in later chapters. Ron, Hermione, and Dumbledor bashing. Just kidding.
Also, my stories are being heavily edited. In the last years, I really feel as though I've grown as a writer, so I'm redoing everything that I think is worth doing. Not so much in this story, but defiantly in my others.
In the residence of Number Four Privit Drive, all was quite. If you went in the first bedroom, you would probably find a massive man lying next to his thin wife, snoring loudly. In the next room a giant of a boy was fast asleep, dreaming of his non-existent girlfriend. In the last bedroom in the house, where, years ago, you would have heard screaming if he had gone through the very dream, there was a small boy, lying in a tiny bed, smiling an extremely cruel smile. The dream was evil enough to send even the bravest Gryffindor screaming towards their mommy.
The boy looked nothing special, except for his eyes, the color of gemstones glittering in the moonlight. His hair, obviously messy, was spanned out over his pillow like the halo of an angle that he was not. Tanned muscles on the boy's chest rippled softly as he let out a deep laugh, amused at something that would send chills down other people's spines. His eyes flashed open.
My emerald eyes jerk open sleepily after yet another torture session featuring some mudblood that I really could not care less about. It would defiantly seem that our dear Voldemort is getting more vicious and brutal with each passing year. Now he's discovered the wonders of muggle torture methods. It's really quite entertaining. I sigh, thinking of the pain someone was no doubt in at this very moment. I suddenly have this urge to see that.
'And that thing Lucius Malfoy did with that knife last week. He practically carved wings in that mans back. It was beautiful. I should like to learn how to do that. I wonder if he'd teach me.' My eyes widen with the realization that such dark thoughts did not bother me in the least.
I wonder what that old coot Dumbledor would think of me now. I am, after all, Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived, the golden boy of Gryffindor. And heaven forbid that I have any remotely dark thoughts.
I hate being Harry Potter. I've realized that all people have ever done is use me for their own ends. Weasley used me for public recognition. Granger, for a chance to get ahead in school. No one in their right minds would fail Harry potters best friend. Dumbledor used me to defeat Voldemort. Like I'd do that now, knowing what I do. Everyone else just assisted in the slow destruction of me. I'm beginning to think that I should have listened to Draco whilst I had the chance.
I know he wants me. I can feel his eyes on the back of my head all the time. I kind of like it. He intrigues me. Always has. Ever since in first year. I've always felt that I didn't belong in Gryffindor with all those goody two-shoes. And at the end of first term, I'd found out why. I really do belong in Slytherin by his side, like he offered all those years ago. I should have accepted. My father would have liked that. My father, my real father, is indeed alive and well. And evil, but that's just an added bonus.
It was true. The seed that Tom Riddle had planted in his mind in second year had taken its roots in my mind. The idea that he, Harry Potter, was somehow related to Voldemort was true.
It had been amazingly easy to figure the whole thing out. Apparently, every magical family had a family book. There were copies in the library, or so that mudblood Granger had said. I cringe. She's awful. Intrigued by her words however, I had set about finding my own book. To my immense surprise, it was not there, but carefully tucked in the headmasters office. I had seen an assortment of similar book in the there a few days after my search began. The bastard would not let me have it either. All it really took to get it was a carefully planned explosion that tore apart the greenhouses, and Dumbledor was off. Needless to say, it took a while for herbology class to get back up and running again.
Sneering evilly, I struggle to remember the night I had stolen the book. I knew it must have been something he didn't want me to see. Be that the case, he really should really think of a better password. Blood pops, honestly. Does the word creativity mean nothing? Then I hit the jackpot. My name was not in the Potter book. Confused, I had looked through the other books. The last book said 'Riddle'. I wanted to laugh out loud. There was little doubt in my mind as to why it was hidden. I flicked through it. It was then that something caught my eye.
Thomas Riddle had a thin line connecting him to Lily Evans. My mother. The line then followed down to a child that they had. Their only child was born July 31st, 1980. Lucien Loki Riddle.
After recovering from my shock ridden silence, I had smirked before shutting the book with a snap and tucking it under my arm
I sent a letter to me father, my real father. I realize now that it was a terribly Gryffindor thing to do, but I was at a loss of what to do. I'm supposed to meet him tomorrow at the Malfoy Manor.
Not too much is different from the original, I know. I did change "Harry"'s name. Should I continue to call him Harry, or Lucien?