Disclaimer: I own only what I created, blah, blah, blah...
Warnings: Child abuse, rape, SLASH and I think that's it for now
Pairings: Harry/Spike (Now definite), Buffy/Angel, Willow/Kennedy, Anya/Andrew(?)
Let's just pretend that it hasn't been 5 months today since I last updated. I've been kinda busy, though I've had most of this chapter floating around my memory stick for ages. Ummmm…This chapter's rather random, didn't go where I expected it to, but I kinda like it. shrugs I guess I'll hear what you guys think once you've read it. And I know it's shorter than usual, but I have so much coursework to do over the Christmas holiday, and I've got a bloody science GCSE in January, despite being year 10. Stupid school. And cheers to everyone who's reviewed! I love every one…
And last thing: don't ask about the mans random accent, I was kinda bored…
61 Sylvan Avenue, Sunnydale, Wednesday 30th August, 01:23am
He wondered if he felt happy or sad, then he wondered if he was feeling at all. He clutched the bed sheets tightly in his hands as he tried to fight -fight, can't give in- the desire to sail the sea of colour and dock he didn't know where. For it called to him –Come darling…- and ordered him –You're mine- and still he tossed and turned and whimpered –please help me- and begged –stop please!- and rode the waves of command and enticement, head just above the water. He scratched and clawed and tore at his skin, for it came from inside, swimming through red and blue rivers, inhaled and exhaled, multiplying with each thud, thud, thud, pump of the heart.
His mouth opened and he wanted to scream –it's building and building and searing my insides- but no sound came out. He wriggled and writhed and gasped and held back moans, for it was pleasurable- and hateful- wholesome- and binding- everything –and nothing- all at once. It just…was. And he so badly wanted it not to be. He gripped the metal swirls that made up the headboard, and his nails dug into his palms as the metal warmed and warped, until it was no longer spirals but a mass of molten iron. He withdrew his hands –sticky and dripping and weird feeling- and pressed his palms against his –itching and burning and why does it hurt so?-eyes. And then he did scream for it burned –and burned and burned and oh gods save me- and his eyelids smouldered and melted and seared onto his eyes- oh gods! Stop please! I can't see!...I'm blind- and burned through the lens.
And he screamed –and screamed and screamed- and cried -and sobbed and drowned the world in ruby tears- and he was tangled and bound –in skin and bones and bed sheets- and tethered inexplicably to a soul not his own. Then he felt a hand on his skin –solid and real and cooling- and though it was not the hand his body cried for, it was something that his mind could latch onto, along with the voice –deep and familiar and scared-that was speaking words and calling something…a name…my name?
His mind wrapped around the voice tightly, letting it flow through his body, and followed it back to level ground, to safety. And with a scream and a gasp and an ocean of tears, he opened his eyes. And woke up.
With a muted cry Harry scrambled away from the person on the bed, almost falling off in his haste to get away. He tasted salt on his lips, his tongue darting out to remove the tears, and his breath was ragged and chaotic, with no semblance of a rhythm. He blinked, for his eyes were blurry and covered in a thin sheen of water, and then with trembling hands wiped away the tears from his cheeks.
He looked up, slowly, cautiously, and his eyes fastened on the man in front of him who had saved him, who sat with worried eyes and outstretched hands. Harry inched forward a little, not yet having shaken off the fear of waking to someone near him, or the horror of the dream, nightmare, vision...thing. But he wanted the comfort the man offered, wanted the warmth of his body and the safety of arms wrapped around him, holding him, protecting him. Loving him. He wanted something familiar, something he knew, though nothing here was truly known to him, but the man was his, in some small fashion. The blood that ran through his veins ran through Harry's as well, their DNA matched in part. And that…that was enough, for it was more than Harry had ever had before.
"Daddy?" His voice was small and quiet and childish in a way, scared and nervous but filed with an unidentifiable emotion. Harry looked at his father with fearful eyes, but there was a trusting, loving, longing look that had never been there before. Harry needed his father, and more than that, he wanted his father. And that was all it took for Rupert to draw the quivering body into his arms, holding him tightly as he smoothed the midnight hair that was tinted with traces of Lily, whispering words and promises and sweet, sweet lies. And gods, Harry hated being lied to, but in that moment Harry loved his father for it, because people lied to him to control him. They had never lied to him because they loved him before.
Eventually, after minutes of listening to his father's steady heartbeat, Harry pulled away, wiping his face again with the sleeve of his pyjama shirt.
"Do you want to talk about it?" His father asked. Harry shook his head, suddenly embarrassed.
"No, I…I just want to go to sleep."
Rupert's expression was incredulous and worried but, knowing it would do no good to push his son, nodded and stood. He watched from the doorway as Harry snuggled deep into the covers so that only his hair poked out of the top, curled up as tightly as possible with his eyes clenched shut. Then with a sigh, he left the room and shut the door.
After lying still for a few minutes to insure Rupert didn't return, Harry threw back the covers, intending to inspect the liquid that was dripping down his arms and soaking into his pyjama top. He took it off, folding it neatly and placing it on the bed, then opened the curtains to bathe himself in moonlight, though he seemed to be able to see strangely well in the dark.
There were deep scratches down his arms, nail prints visible where the blood started, and he touched them with shaking fingers. His mind flashed back to the dream and his hands flew to his eyes, eyes which were gloriously green, whole and seeing and not at all harmed. But his hands still felt sticky, and he held them up into the light, but there was nothing but a bit of grey discolouring. So, just to check, he went back to the bed and felt the headboard. He tore his hand away with a gasp. Where once it had been smooth, the metal was now bumpy, the imprints of fingers identifiable. It was not warped as he had dreamt, but it was not as it had been. Which meant the dream was real. And that meant…no, it couldn't be…And yet, he could feel it. Different to what he had with Voldemort, more seductive, calling him, made of something other than anger and hatred.
Harry wanted to go back to bed, to sleep away the things he had seen, but the dream had left him weak and shaking, and susceptible to what lay on the other side of the bond. Almost mechanically he changed from his pyjamas to his clothes, opened the locked window, and jumped landing soundlessly in the front garden, though a jolt of pain shot up his legs. The cool air felt heavenly on his skin, and it brought back a little bit of his consciousness, his control. He thought about turning back, going back inside, but it had been a long time since Harry had feared death and his curiosity and thirst for danger had been aroused. He would not turn back.
Streets of Sunnydale, Same Day, 01:47
He wandered through the streets, for now ignoring the pull and just aimlessly walking. It was a full moon but cloudy, so few stars were visible, and every so often grey wisps would entwine around the yellow orb, the stereotypical image of the night just before a werewolf howls. But there were no werewolves, or if there were they were not howling. The streets were strangely silent, as if all life was suspended with the coming of night. There were no teenagers, drunk and smoking and stoned to high heaven, fumbling and stumbling, and laughing even as death came to greet them in a mess of lights and screeching and screaming and metal on stone.
Then he thought of the creature he had seen his first night in Sunnydale, a vampire so blatantly hunting. Perhaps the inhabitants of the town were just smarter than they had seemed. No it had not seemed inclined to hurt him, and he wondered at that, for it certainly looked ready to eat the girls.
Harry ignored the shout and kept on walking. It was not a good idea to stop and talk to people at three in the morning. Technically, it wasn't a good idea to be out at three in the morning, but Harry was always rather reckless. He tried to avoid crossing the line between recklessness and stupidity. His steps quickened as he heard footsteps behind him, faster than a walk. He resisted the urge to either look behind or run, but his walk was fast becoming a jog, adrenaline pumping through his veins. His pulse was in his mouth, his head, his stomach, everywhere, so loud he was sure the whole world could hear it. He ducked down an alleyway, then another, hoping he could lose his follower in a maze of dark corners. He could hear the footsteps receding, getting further and further away as he moved just barely short of a run, and a sense of relief flooded him. Just a little further, a little more distance, and then he was running towards the ground as chewing gum covered cement filled his head even as he realised what was happening. He threw his hands down to brace himself, but had lost the momentum needed to roll straight back to his feet. The air rushed down his throat and into his lungs and a crack resounded in his ears as his head hit the hard floor. He winced as his teeth went slamming through his lower lip, coppery blood filling his mouth and dripping onto the pavement. He pushed himself onto his back, too dazed to contemplate running, but as he heard footsteps far too close he tensed and tried to get up.
"You alright kid?"
It took him a few seconds of dazed blinking to realise what he was seeing, and then he almost laughed. The policeman frowned, concerned and a little confused. Harry suddenly remembered to answer. "Oh, yeah, um…I'm fine, really." He looked warily at the offered hand, but gingerly took it, letting the dark haired man pull him up. Harry noticed with curiosity the gold crucifix clutched in the mans hand. "Sorry for scarin' ya kid, just thought I'd warn ya about bein' out alone in this neck a the woods. It aint safe, 'specially for kids like you."
Harry glared, frowning. "I'm seventeen. I'm quite capable of taking care of myself."
"17? Well I never…I mean no offence when I say ya don't look like it. But things roam these streets that ya couldn't imagine. It aint safe for no one these days. But since ya run from me, and quick ya were too, I s'pose ya know that already. D'ya parents know that yer out this late alone?"
"My parents are dead." Harry said stiffly, "But thank you for the warning."
"It's part o' the job." The man shrugged, "But stay out o' the alleys and cemeteries, and keep away from strangers."
The policeman walked of muttering something that sounded suspiciously like "specially those with fangs," and Harry stood still, trying to still his pounding heart. He lifted a thumb to wipe the blood from his lips but froze as he felt something sharp graze his skin. He pulled the hand away slowly, shaking slightly as his eyes focused on something which hadn't been there before. A claw. Ebony black and razor sharp, in the place of his bitten and chewed thumb nail. He looked, and saw the rest of his nails were the same, long and lethal and most definitely not human.
"The mortal is right child…" Said a voice from behind him, sly and seductive and feminine. He froze. "You shouldn't wander the night alone, especially not with such pretty pale skin." He felt freezing cold fingers trail along his neck, feather light touches. Then the body came closer, and he felt cool breath on his skin, ghosting over his ear. "You must hold the moon within you to glow so…" She, for it definitely was a she, murmured, the hunger in her voice audible. "Let me drink the moonshine…"
He tried to wrench himself away, but a hand tightened painfully around his throat, and he spluttered and gasped for breath, nails flailing behind him to tear at the arms and face of his captor. But though he felt blood –cold blood- run down his hand and burrow under his nails, the hand did not loosen, and the world blurred into pretty colours.
Then suddenly he was free, knees buckling underneath him as he gasped for precious air, hands automatically going to his throbbing neck. He felt fingers threading through his hair and a rush of fear went through him, eyes watering, as they yanked his head back at the roots, so that his mind was suddenly filled with twinkling stars suffocating behind a blanket of clouds.
"Don't cry pretty child. Umm…I could just gobble you up…" A high pitched, manic laugh. "But my master wants you all to himself..."
The hand left his hair, petting it once almost gently, and as Harry knelt shaking and frozen with fear on the street, listening to the footsteps draw away, he could only think of one thing. That despite his promises to himself, despite his strange new magic, he was as he had always been. Completely helpless.
Then he heard whispered words, carried by the wind and almost gone.
"From beneath you it devours…"