Chapter 1

The air in the small chamber was dry. If it wasn't for the access to the other chamber - he called it 'the storage'- he would have gone crazy by now. His scar was throbbing painfully for months now, but that would soon end. He had tirelessly worked to find and understand a ritual to break the link to Voldemort. Nevertheless, it was a risky undertaking. But he would be mad if he ever got out of this godforsaken place and that wouldn't help anyone, least of all himself. He had to take revenge on Voldemort and on Dumbledore and lastly on the Goblins. A revenge that would hurt far longer then a simple cruciatus curse. No, he wouldn't curse them, that was too simple; he would make everything they had worked for in their lifetime crumble to dust just when they thought they had succeeded. And they would watch helplessly and realize that their whole life was gone to waste on a whim of fate. Just like his own. That dish would be served cold.

The edges of the silver chalice gleamed in the flickering torch light and the sickly green potion burped in regular intervals. Everything was ready. The runes circle was drawn, the dagger was coated with the other potions and Harry's heart was thumping so hard, as if it wanted to hear its echo in the deathly silent chamber.

He cleared his head a last time to calm down and walked into the circle, carefully stepping over the drawings. The ritual dagger in one hand and his wand in the other he went from one rune to the next, checking them a last time. Taking his place in the middle of the circle, he cut his forehead with the dagger carefully, creating a circle around the scar, then cutting a mirrored lightening bolt over the existing one. Blood dribbled slowly down his face and he was slightly surprised that it didn't hurt, rather numbed the whole area.

Finished with the cutting of the rune that should nullify the link that was associated with the scar, he held the dagger over the chalice and let three drops of blood fall into the potion. It created a swirl of red in the acid green mixture but didn't combine. Then he took his wand in both hands and began to chant. It was a long string of parseltongue, that grew more ominous the longer it took. The hissing reverberated in the chamber like a dangerous sword cutting the wind, deadly but oddly rhythmical, building echoes and growing ever louder.

By the end of the chant, a pale yellow beam flew out of Harry's wand into the potion and then the pain started, cutting though his eyes like a hot needle. He could identify the other at the end of the connection suddenly. The snake like creature inside of him was stirred into awareness as it was struck with the same pain. The pain pierced the creature like a lance, he could actually feel its pathway. The creature, not more than a foreign awareness buried in the depths of his mind, an ominous presence of anger and hate was sliced straight through and seemed to dissolve into something less defined, though it still oozed the same hatred and anger.

And Harry, captured by the rush of painful magic was dragged along. Concentrating with the aim of cutting all connections, destroying the monster that infested his mind, Harry was taken by a lurch from the other side. It was drawing him in. Frantically drawing back and summoning all the strength he had, he pulled. On what, he did not know. All he knew was that he had to stop himself from being drawn in by that hateful presence, he was deathly afraid that he would be trapped there by his own magic and wouldn't get out, ever.

And so he pulled, summoning all the magic he could within his reach and pulled back. He could feel the presence on the other side struggling and realized in that moment that Voldemort didn't want to pull him in, he wanted his magic. Sure that he couldn't hold on with the same strength much longer, he put all his effort in a last abrupt pull, hoping to disconnect the other by just whipping his magic out of the others reach. With a final lurch, the connection folded in on itself, but his elation was short-lived, the snake like cloud neared him so fast that he was completely taken off guard when thousands of shattered pieces seemed to pierce his own presence and merge with his own.

And then the memories started.

A boy sitting on the sidelines of a courtyard, watching the other children play.

A boy listening to an older man, being told that he was a wizard.

A boy vowing for revenge on a classmate.

A boy soaking up knowledge like a sponge.

A boy hoping for freedom and independence.

A boy realizing that placing trust in someone will only result in pain and betrayal.

A boy studying wizarding culture, etiquette and idols, to exploit their weaknesses, understand their machinations and base of power.

Ever growing anger and hate.

A boy combing the library to find out, how Dumbledore always knew, just by looking at him.

A boy discovering occlumency and sorting his emotions like ammunition to fuel his magic.

A boy being consumed by his own hatred whenever he looked at Dumbledore. And carefully hidden triumph when Dumbledore finally couldn't look into his eyes anymore.

A boy that painfully built his standing in the arena of the Slytherin house.

A boy finally ending the stalking of the ugly Hufflepuff girl with the help of his masters pet.

A boy accepting the apprenticeship of Salazar Slytherin himself, preserved in a ring.

A young man learning the finer aspects of utilizing his emotions in the dark arts night after night.

And finally killing, travelling, learning.

By this point Harry realized what was happening and tried to withdraw from the ever faster moving stream of memories. But it was a fruitless effort, his own memories began to mix in with the foreign ones, until he no longer knew which where his own and which weren't.

With growing confusion he distanced himself from the whirlpool of memories, not being able to identify with them anymore, feeling for the fist time that magic was whipping around him like an agitated horde of hippogriffs. The magic that he had drawn with the memories gave him the power to finally cut the weakened connection and put an end to the whole ordeal.

By the time he became aware of his own body, he knew that something was wrong.

Magic was swirling around him frantically, he could taste the agitation in the air. He would blow up tonight if he didn't do something straight away. He recognized the magic as his own and tried to pull it in, succeeding partially. His wand still clutched in his right hand he pulled and pulled, drawing the magic into himself as if his life depended on it, which it most probably did. His wand was growing uncomfortably warm but he didn't stop drawing the magic into himself.

When he finally opened his eyes wide enough to see his surroundings, he saw shattered furniture, smoking and sizzling potions stains on the wall. The air crackled with energy and with every new burst, different runes on the formerly unmarked walls and ceiling would lighten up. He tried to draw the magic in again and could feel himself staggering. He was glad that he had only worn his boxers for the ritual, he was hot, sweat was burning his skin and his hand was numb with pain, still clutching his wand.

More and more runes where lightening up and Harry was aching all over with the effort to draw even more magic in. The last thing before unconsciousness took him, was a sharp pain in his wand hand joined by an explosion of colours and sound.

He awoke in pain. Not that anything seemed to be broken. Except his right hand, there was something seriously wrong with it. It felt numb and the irregular twitching in his fingers brought searing pain.

His head wasn't much better. He couldn't remember anything. Yes, he did have memories, but they were a jumbled mess unassociated with himself. He felt like someone had been obliviated him and then poured the contents of a gallon sized pensive in. 'Strange', he

thought. He couldn't make heads or tails of the state of his mind. He had had a finely organized mind, hadn't he? But he also had the impression that it shouldn't be only organized, it should be a weapon. 'Where in the hell did that come from?' But the concentration to solve the mystery in his head was lacking, he was in too much pain. The very air hurt his bare skin.

Groaning, he opened his eyes to see nothing. It was pitch black all around him. With that he fell unconscious again.

The next time he awoke, he felt slightly better, but still he couldn't make out the slightest shape in the darkness. His bones were weary, he felt old, he thought as he tried to sit up. Not even trying to utilize his right hand, he felt the stones piercing into his skin. He tried to feel his way to get a better impression of his surroundings and could only detect more stone. The air was dry and dusty. He ached all over and was sure that he wouldn't make it far in his state. He needed help. His right felt as if it was burning from the inside. Carefully lifting it, he almost pierced his eye out with his own hand. It smelled like burned flesh and he didn't dare touch it, sure that he would pass out from the pain.

On a whim he called 'lumos', awaiting a light somehow. What he got was a searing pain in his right hand and so he passed out again.