Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

Parings: Harry/Voldemort and Hermione/Draco

Time Setting: Story starts right before Half-blood Prince during the summer after fifth year.

Summary: Harry is sentenced to Azkaban for a crime he didn't commit. But what happens when he is proven innocent years later? He wants revenge. Harry/Voldemort slash. Mentioned Hermione/Draco. Dark Harry. Manipulative Dumbledore.

In The Light But Surrounded By Shadows


It was when he woke up that he knew something was wrong.

There were three reasons for this.

One: It was dark. Not the normal nighttime dusk that Harry was used to seeing from the times he woke up from his nightmares. It wasn't a normal kind of darkness. And even if, for some odd reason, his eyes were exaggerating the dark shadows in the scene, there would still have to be some form of light illuminating a least of small portion of the room. Because if he were in his room at Private drive there would be a shine coming in through his curtains from the streetlamp that sat outside his window…and there was clearly no artificial light in his line of vision.

Two: There was pain. Not any coming from his scar, like he was used to. Instead, a throbbing pain vibrated throughout his left leg. And it felt…wet?

Three: He was lying on a foreign cold and marble floor.

His hand instinctively went to his pocket, searching for the familiar holly wand. It had to be there somewhere…

But as he patted his empty pockets, he quickly began to realize he was in serious trouble. He had no wand…he had no weapon. He was injured, confounded, and defenseless…not to mention he had no clue as to where he was.

What was he going to do?

Quickly Harry began to think. The obvious thought was he was kidnapped. Someone could have captured and wounded him and disposed of him in this unfamiliar room. After all, enough people wanted him dead…

But that left Harry to wonder if the captor was still around, or if the person had fled the scene.

Preparing for the worst, considering it was always the worst that happened, he began to think of how to defend himself. With no wand, he could only preform a few spells, but nothing major, and nothing that was seriously effective. Okay, so magic was out of the question, unless he could worm his way around the attacker and steal their wand. That scenario was…unlikely.

What could he do that didn't involve magic? Harry was always fast; he had practice with running from Dudley and Quidditch. One provided the speed, and the other provided the reflexives. But running didn't really seem like a plan…it was more of a back-up plan. Besides, running didn't seem very Gryffindor. There had to be some other way…

Shit, never mind the houses, he didn't care if he was being a Gryffindor or a Hufflepuff or even a Slytherin, this was he fucking life. If he had to run, he would.

That actually did sound like Slytherin…

He shook his head, reminding himself what kind of situation he was in. It was still unnaturally dark. Wouldn't his eyes have begun to adjust to a pitch black room by now? Shouldn't he see shapes and outlines?

Now he was starting to think maybe the darkness was caused by magic. Was there such a spell that could cause that result? Perhaps he would look it up in the Hogwarts Library when he returned for sixth year.

Shaking his head again, he tried to draw forth his most recent memories. Let's see…the day started in the morning, with him waking up at Private Drive, in his normal ratty bed. He remembered that clearly, because it was one of the few nights that he had with no disturbing nightmares. No mysterious veils. No dying Cedric. In Harry's mind, that was a red-letter day…or, really, a red-letter night.

And after he woke up…Aunt Petunia called him down to make breakfast. And he had sliced a cantaloupe and poured coffee and orange juice for the Dursley's. Only being allowed three pieces and a glass of water, Harry got to work on his chores, chipping the paint on the railings outside. And after that he painted them. And after that he cared for the garden.

He had worked on chores all day, and then…and then…

And then Vernon came home.

It was late in the day when he walked through the door. Not too far past his normal return time, but late enough for his delay to have been caused by something other than traffic. Harry was in the kitchen, snagging himself a piece of the leftover cantaloupe (Dudley had refused to eat his share) when Vernon caught him. His dear old uncle got violent sometimes after a long day at work, especially if a few drinks happened to slip his way into his diet. It was odd, though, thinking back on it, Harry couldn't remember any alcohol on Vernon's breath.

After Vernon found him…things got a little rough. First it was just a few curses and insults, but Harry had been quick to see where Vernon was going. So he ran to his room and pushed his dresser against the door. Quickly, he let Hedwig out of her cage, and he threw some of his important belongings under the loose floor board. This included his invisibility cloak, photo album, the marauder's map, and his wand.

After the last time, when Vernon had ripped up one of his school books, Harry had learned to hide his more valuable possessions when Vernon came home a bit tipsy.

By the time Harry flapped the floorboard closed, Vernon had pounded through the door and wardrobe. His anger was…unexpected. It was the worst he had been in a long while. And each blow Harry took was more vicious than the next. Desperate to escape, Harry had managed to hit a particular sensitive spot of Vernon, and climbed out the window, taking a rather nasty fall. He had then ran down the block-

And that's the last thing Harry could remember.

He groaned in frustration, but was instantly silenced as footsteps startled him out of his thoughts. And thanks to the wonderfully pitch black room, Harry couldn't see who it was. And thanks to the echoes of the footsteps, he couldn't indentify the direction of the sound. He felt so helpless.

Not wanting to be found injured, confounded, and defenseless…and be found lying on the ground, Harry sat up slowly, moving his sore body for the first time since awakening in the unfamiliar territory. He had to bite his lip as his leg moved; the pain increasing with the new added pressure. He silently suffered, though, not wanting to give the unknown approaching person any satisfaction of knowing he was in pain.

But which Deatheater would it be this time? That was the only question Harry had. He was positive it wasn't Voldemort who had taken him…Harry could feel when that man was near, and he defiantly wasn't feeling anything now, except for his own frustration, anger, terror, and desperation…but hey, that was normal.

Everything was normal to you when you were Harry Bloody Potter. Everything other than living normally.

Harry grinded his teeth in agony as he stood up, favoring his uninjured leg.

Slowly, the person grew closer.

And Harry braced himself to come face-to-face with his kidnapper.