As far as Harry could remember, darkness had always been his only companion. It was his friend, his protector, his salvation.

It was there when his family rejected him. Because he was not normal.

It was there when the adults dismissed him. Because he was a liar.

It was there when the children shunned him. Because he was dangerous.

And it never judged. It was just there. Hiding him, sheltering him.

Like his guardians never did.

Like the adults never bothered too.

So Harry loved the darkness.

And the darkness loved him.

Dark Consumption

Everything started on a completely average, sunny summer day. Looking back, there was not a single sign that could have foreshadowed the things to come. There was no rain, no storm, nothing of any significance. But perhaps that was a sign in itself because darkness is meant to be quiet.

For little Harry Potter, this day marked the beginning of something bigger. And like all big things, it started very small. It started with a burnt chicken roast.

—

Harry's ears were ringing. His uncle's bellowed yelling was almost drowned out by his aunt's grating shriek. It sounded like a sailor bawling a drinking song over a discordant violin.

The five-year-old boy was angry. They had no reason to yell at him at all. He had done exactly what he had been told to do, and yet they were yelling as if he had done something wrong.

It was not his fault that his aunt had set the wrong time. It was not his fault that his cousin had decided to play with the thermostat.

And yet here he was. Being persecuted for something he had not done yet again.

He was getting sick of it. He was getting sick of being wrongly accused. Sick of being ordered around and treated like he was less than those pathetic things he had to call his relatives.

His uncle's thick, meaty hands buried themselves into his hair and yanked harshly. Harry hissed quietly in pain.

Vernon Dursley took a menacing step forward, looming over the young boy and staring down at him with an angry, distorted face. "We took you in out of the goodness of our hearts, feed you and you …you dare sabotage us!"

Harry felt a sudden surge of cold, unadulterated hatred. He was so done with this. Done with having to play the scapegoat. Done with being manhandled. Done with being disrespected.

He was DONE.

He stared furiously at his uncle.

He wanted him to hurt. To hurt like, he did. To feel pain like he did. He wanted him to burn. Burn until he was as charred as the roast.

He wanted him to BURN!

Something inside him snapped. It was like a floodgate opening up, and he felt the power flooding his veins.

His aunt screamed, a shrill, ringing sound drenched with terror. Dudley stared, frozen and wide-eyed, as his father's hair was suddenly engulfed in scorching flames.

Harry's lips settled into a cruel, satisfied smile as he watched his uncle fleeing the room, crying in a mixture of pain, fear, and anger as his hair was devoured by a fiery yellow light.

—

Somewhere deep below the Streets of London, a glass orb glowed and shattered. Destiny despaired as her plans become undone, and her chosen champion remade his path. 

Only a silent watcher smiled in fondness, as a green-eyed child called vengeance on his tormentors and reality continued to warp itself.

—

And so, the years passed by. Years filled with pain, blood, and despair – until the very day the young child received an unexpected letter that heralded the next step of his journey.

—

He watched them, dispassionate and detached, as they went about their daily chores, heads lowered and shoulders dropped; nothing more than a bunch of rodents in his eyes.

Petunia Dursley was standing in front of the kitchen counter, diligently preparing breakfast. The years had not been kind to her. Her thin, haggard frame looked brittle and ready to topple over at the slightest breeze like a dead tree.

Dudley had sunken into the worn couch furthest from him. He had lost lots of weight, partly because of his many chores, partly because Harry had taken over the food distribution and had blatantly refused his cousin any snacks or sweets.

Dudley had been deliciously horrified when he had found out that his diet would only consist of salad and watery porridge.

His uncle's temper had become rather subdued. He still acted up sometimes, but most of the time a warning glare was enough to quell rising bravado and if not, well… Harry had enough other ways to discourage any thoughts of rebellion.

Fire usually did the trick. His uncle's hair had still not grown back. And it never would. The skin had been damaged too badly. So, Vernon was forced to wear a very cheap blonde wig to hide his bald – and scarred head.

Harry's lips twitched in mild amusement.

Any rage and hatred he might have harboured was long gone. All that remained was a deep revulsion and the firm opinion that they were not even worth the time it took to torture them. They were just too pathetic to bother with.

The distinct clattering of the letter drop interrupted his musings. The post had arrived.

"Dudley," he stated calmly.

His cousin, well-trained enough to know what he wanted, jerked up and practically ran off to do as he was told. He was back again in less than a minute, a small stack of letters in his hands, and gingerly placed them next to Harry.

"Good boy," Harry praised dryly, and put his tea down to peruse the letters.

They consisted mostly of bills and a scrawled postcard from Vernon's sister Marge, sending greetings from Majorca. Harry shook his head in distaste at the atrocious penmanship.

He put the card down carelessly and paused in surprise.

Someone had written him a letter.

He turned the heavy envelope in his hands and peered curiously at the embossed seal. A lion, a raven, a snake, and a badger surrounding the letter H. What an odd combination.

Harry was intrigued. He broke the seal with great care and pulled the letter out, only to realize that he held a piece of parchment in his hands. Now that was definitely uncommon.

His eyes racked over the letter – are these quill strokes? — and slowly a dark shadow passed over his face.

His power surged, always eager to answer his emotions, and raged through the room like a cold arctic storm, leaving a thin white layer on the immaculate window. 

Dudley buried himself deeper into the couch as biting coldness began to prick him with icy needles.

And then Harry spoke, his voice frigid and yet soft like a melting snowflake.

"Petunia. Come here."

His aunt stiffened, for a breath or two she seemed just as frozen as the glass of orange juice she was holding, then she turned around, tightly pressing the cracked glass against her chest as if it were herself that she tried to protect from breaking apart and approached him slowly, every step watched by the dread-filled stares of her family.

Green, death-like eyes hardened in cold fury as the trembling woman took one look at the envelope and paled.

"I think, dear aunt, that you have something to tell me."

There was no god to answer Petunias prayers today. Only a demon playing inquisition.

—

Far beyond the mortal plane, the silent watcher chuckled as he listened to the pain-filled screams. Red eyes gleamed as they focused on the irate child. "So precious."