Destiny Reversed

Chapter 3 Scarless

Harry was dreaming. Or had he always been dreaming? He couldn't tell; in the feverish haze of his mind, he couldn't tell top from bottom, right to left. He didn't know how long it'd been, but it felt like an eternity. All he could hear and feel was another's pain, accompanied by Voldemort's sadistic delight, an emotion that violated his bones. If he could think clearly, he might have wondered why he wasn't just seeing this through Voldemort's eyes like he normally did.

But it didn't really matter at the moment. His current concern was the fact that he was trapped in a man's mind, experiencing his agony, and his corporeal body unable to scream along with him.

"Scream."

"Please –I'll do anything –"

"Crucio."

Harry collapsed onto the ground, gritting his teeth together as invisible knives cut through his skin, his blood, his bones. Mind-numbing pain seized his nerves as they cried out in protest, liquid fire igniting his entire body.

Viciously, he bit onto his lip, holding back the scream that was clawing its way out of his throat. He was surprised to be able to taste the bitter, sour blood in his mouth through the pain. His eyes watered and tears flowed freely as the last shred of his self restraint and sanity began to fade away from his fingers, grasping desperately at the pavement.

At last, he could hold it in no longer. A screeching, almost inhuman sound burst out of his throat until he had screamed his throat raw. A part of him registered the curse being lifted, but the pain was so much, he needed to scream, needed to have himself heard in the dark silence of the night.

Fingers twitching, he reached for his wife's golden locks, her roots tinted red.

Unable to hear Voldemort's next words, his vision blaring red all around him, he didn't have time to anticipate the flash of brilliant green light before he found himself back in the haze.

Groggily, Harry tried to summon the strength to rise, to get away from the horrors he had just witnessed. Unfortunately, his body wasn't listening to him, only managing to slowly open an emerald eye. There, he found something impossible –Sirius Black, his godfather, staring worriedly back at him.

I must be dead. His thoughts were hard to grasp, and he found himself forgetting and remembering inconsistently.

He'd always heard stories about heaven, how angels were supposed to greet the newly dead at the gates to ease the transition. It suddenly made sense; that's what Sirius was, why he –but now his godfather was talking, saying something about him being alive. Harry almost choked on his laughter, the unbelievable lengths Sirius went to comfort him. Feeling himself falling into darkness again, Harry informed him of the impossibility of Sirius's words, how he had seen him falling through the veil.

Why did he look so confused?

Harry swiftly glided around the corpses scattered at his feet, indifferent to the Blood Traitors and Death Eaters lying there. Robes billowing behind him with eerie grace, he knew he emulated of power and regality.

He loved it, basking in the sweet stench of death.

With his exceptional sense of smell, he could detect everything from the crisp night air to the burnt bundle of flesh sprawled beneath his feet. He smiled twistedly, still able to feel tingles of pleasure from his latest kill. The rush he always experienced during a slaughter or a particularly enjoyable session was unrivaled by anything. Inhaling the scent of fresh blood, he reveled in it.

"How weak."

Scanning the area coolly, he lazily directed his wand behind him, sneering, "Avada Kedavra," and smirking in satisfaction when he hard the muffled thump of a corpse falling to the ground.