The Depths of Darkness

Disclaimer: This story was created simply for the purpose of personal entertainment. There has been no monetary gain resulting from the production of this story. All characters of the Harry Potter Verse belong to one J.K. Rowling.

Chapter Six
Hot and Cold Relations


Even in his most errant of thoughts, the rules and regulations that guided an acting Figurehead had never been a top priority. Be that as it may, his current lack of knowledge in that particular venue certainly wasn't making anything easier. Harry found no enjoyment in being the center of attention, which, he supposed, spectacularly dovetailed his new, if somewhat insane, determination to prove himself. This wasn't simply about keeping Lothair quiet, but rather, it concerned his understanding of his own self-worth. For Harry, his entire world prior to his seventeenth birthday was based loosely on obscure definitions of "freak" and "hero". His family, or what was left of it, considered him a freak for the very abilities that classified him as a hero in the eyes of the general Wizarding population. This sense of heroism had always been based on an action that he could never claim as his own. This new possibility granted him the ability to step outside the ever frustrating circle of misrepresentation and prophecy that had, for the past six years, surrounded him completely. His role as Dark Prince was something that he could embrace honestly. No matter the outcome, positive or not, he was responsible for crafting this new image of himself. He was alive because of his Mother's selfless act, but the legacy he would leave behind was finally of his own making.

True to his previous statement, Harry had followed through on his promise to learn what was expected of him. He wasn't simply a new member of the realm. His responsibilities would far exceed that title. The moment it was presented to him, Harry had immediately thrown himself into the process. It seemed as though every member of Jade Manor was aware of the limited amount of time that had been delegated to his tutelage. The halls were often filled with whispered concerns and, on rare occasions, quiet encouragement. The tension that seemed to linger around his presence was something that he certainly didn't enjoy, but was something that he was rather learning to accept. If he was honest with himself, the halls of Hogwarts had been much the same.

It could not be said that Harry no longer feared what the future had in store for him. Too many varying obstacles still lay before him for that to be true. The terrifying presence of Roland, as well as the continued pressure from Voldemort, were but two examples. He couldn't escape the fear of what the unknown held for him, but his fear extended beyond that. What truly terrified him was not the danger, but rather the ever lurking possibility of failure; his own failure. He didn't want to forever remained trapped within the confines of 'The-Boy-Who-Lived,' or worse, 'The Chosen One'.He wanted freedom. He wanted the freedom to make his own decisions; to be the author of his own tale. Even with his misgivings and the worries that constantly plagued his mind, Harry had a strong sense of elation when he considered what he was doing. He needed this. Perhaps he had finally found the path he was meant to walk. Soren certainly believed he had, and, if he was honest with himself, he was starting to believe that as well.

As it were, his studies had been divided into what Soren had described as three equally significant areas of study; politics and international relations being his current venue. Soren had been kind enough to mention the other two areas of study: Etiquette and Elven culture with Lothair, which was rather ironic, and Military Strategy and Personal defense with Illaria. Neither of which excited him. Harry did have to admit to a certain overwhelming sense of relief that it was Soren who would be the first to take him under his wing. It wasn't that he didn't like the other two High Lords, they simply had a tendency to make the hair on the back of his neck stand at attention. Illaria, in her own way, was extremely welcoming, but there was something all together frightening about her. He constantly felt that she knew every move he was going to make a moment before he, himself, had decided. As for Lothair, the older Elf held in his possession a personality that clashed severely with Harry's own. The sense of competition that had developed between them was not something that Harry had expected, but it had certainly become something that Harry used to drive himself forward. However, for the moment, he had to face the past before there was hope of him moving forward. There were things in his past that held a firm grip on who he was and he was nervous to face them and find out how deeply they had altered him.

The two of them, Soren and himself, were currently sitting among the rather impressive shelves of Jade Manor's library. He had never held much appreciation for the written word, but even he could not ignore the sheer mass of knowledge that surrounded him. It was a dream taken straight out of Hermione's subconscious. The rich mahogany shelves ran the entire length of the room, jutting out from the walls to circle the heart of the room. Each set of shelves stretched from the floor to the very top of the vaulted ceilings. Evey title imaginable, and several Harry decided weren't, lined the heavy wooden columns, Wizarding, Elven, and Muggle authors resting side by side in a continuous collection of knowledge. The single book that had drawn Soren's initial interest had been located in the very heart of the library, resting on a thin marble column. The leather bound volume was by far the thickest book Harry had ever seen and contained within it the answers to all the questions that had been tugging at Harry's mind for the past six years. His entire family was in that simple volume of bound paper and leather. He'd struggled with his lack of family for so long that the description of what it was like to have all the answers laid bare before him was beyond what he was capable of.

It was fascinating and so surreal to watch member after member of his bloodline make their appearance on the pages before him. Every moment or so, his mind would question the reality of the situation, despite the physical confirmation of the significance of their lives. As name after name passed with each turn of the page, Harry could feel the tension begin to build within his chest, directly above where his heart lay. As interesting as it was to see past generations, there were only two people he longed to find. When he arrived on the page he was looking for, the names of Lily Evans and James Potter stood out glaringly, the delicate black line that connected himself to his parents solidified the rather limited connection he had always felt with his parents. For once, he felt the tinniest bit of hope that he might now have a chance to build a deeper connection, even if it was with just their memories.

Soren observed quietly as Harry trailed his finger over the thin line that connected him with his parents. The death of Lily and James Potter had been the very last entry into the book. As meddling as Albus Dumbledore's influence continued to be, the Wizard had proved to be extremely good at what he did, Soren could at least give the man that much. After the death of his parents, Harry had all but disappeared. By elven law, Harry should have fallen under the ever watchful eye of the three High Lords. However, the blood magic Lily's sacrifice invoked had allowed Dumbledore the opportunity to use the protection for his own benefit. On top of the blood magic, it had been no trouble at all to suggest extra wards be placed around the Dursley home. Unfortunately, it wasn't a simple protection ward that had been cast. Dumbledore had ensured that Soren had not been able to locate the young boy, effectively securing the man's restricted and unquestioned access to Harry.

"Does this book record everything?"

Immediately, Soren's attention returned from his musings to focus once more on Harry. "It records the complete history of the royal family: your family. Now that you have been returned to your rightful place, the book will record your accomplishments."

The book was suddenly much heavier than it had initially been. This was where his life would be recorded. It wasn't going to be printed in the cheaply produced history texts available at Flourish and Blotts. It would be within these pages, kept safely within this vast collection of knowledge. "Or my failures," he muttered, his fingertips tracing the date October 31st, 1981. He couldn't bring himself to turn to the following page,even though he knew that it would still be unmarked. Despite his desire to prove himself capable of walking his own path, the misgivings in the back of his subconscious couldn't be placed on the shelf so easily.

"That depends," Harry eyes had remained downcast, but when Soren spoke it drew them upward to meet his own. "What is a failure but a lesson learned?" Since they had entered the library Soren had remained relatively quiet, which Harry had assumed was a means to give himself time to digest the information being presented to him, but as Soren reached and pulled another volume from the shelves he realized that he had arrived at the wrong conclusion. "I am under the assumption that you have never heard of Alethea Caroline Durham, am I correct?"

Harry shook his head. The name was not familiar to him. It had never been mentioned by Hermione nor Professor Binns, those two being the only individuals prone to quoting educational tidbits in his presence.

There was a moment when Soren truly felt disappointment, but it was immediately brushed away by the seriousness of his task. "I suppose this is but another example of the inadequacy of Wizarding education," he sighed, the main focus of his attention turned to flipping through the pages of the second book. "They will teach you how to levitate a feather and how to read the stars, but when it comes to truly important things in this world they are sorely lacking." It took another moment or two before Soren made a pleased sound and his hand stilled. Shifting forward slightly, he turned the book and placed it over top of the first volume. "Alethea Caroline Durham. This is where your story begins."

The page that Soren had left open in front of him was made up entirely of a woman's portrait. Her dark hair hung freely over her left shoulder, cascading down the pale skin of her arm in smooth waves, while, in striking shades of ebony and scarlet, her clothing spoke of a time long forgotten. Below the image was scrawled two small pieces of information. The first was her name and birth; 870 AD. Beneath that was the simple phrase "to thy own self be true," written in a delicate hand.

"Shakespeare was not the only individual to find her enchanting," Soren smiled, his tone was one of fondness and respect. "She was an amazing individual, powerful and very wise."

As Soren's description washed over him, Harry had the distinct feeling that he, on some level, should have felt some form of recognition. She was family. Wasn't there suppose to be some connection between them? What did it mean if he didn't feel anything? There was a certain depth to her eyes that Harry could admit to being vaguely familiar but, try as he may, recognition eluded him.

"Who is she?"

"She is a part of your history," Soren explained, turning from the dark view of the horizon to focus on Harry. "Had you been raised under Elven law as is custom, Lady Alethea would be very familiar to you. As it were, this portion of your education has been, up until now, forbidden to you. To put it simply, Lady Alethea Caroline Durham is, by Elven customs, your Great Great Grandmother."

All Harry could do was blink, his eyes jumping between the woman in the book and Soren. The mystery around her eyes was now startlingly clear. He had not realized the connection before because he had so seldom studied the very few pictures of his father. The shape and the depth of this woman's eyes was the very same that defined his Father's features; features that would ultimately be passed on to himself. Even with the very clear similarities, Harry's overworked mind simply couldn't accept the entire explanation. "That's not possible," he muttered, shaking his head. "She was born in 847 AD."

"It is true that Lady Alethea entered into this world at that time and there has been many, many descendants between the two of you, but you have to keep in mind that we are not discussing your human ancestors," Soren responded, taking a moment to explain the connection. Lothair would be covering the finer points of Elven ancestry over the course of the following week, but for the moment a brief lesson was needed. "In our world, it is only the Elven ancestry that is calculated. Lily and James Potter will always be your parents, but once your body accepted your Elven heritage it connected you to your Elven Grandfather, who, in Wizarding terms, would have been alive five generations before you."

Once again Harry found himself blinking stupidly. He knew he was doing it and yet there wasn't a single thing he could do about it. Over the course of the past week he had been given more information than any sane individual could handle. What was was terrifying was the simple fact that there was so much more to learn. "I don't understand," he muttered, fighting the urge to lay his head on the table and call it quits. "If they don't classify my parents as Elven relatives than why are they documented in here?"

"Because your Father didn't claim his Elven heritage does not mean that he is not entitled to a spot among his fore bearers, however, both he and your Mother are only minimally documented in our archives. This is so that the bloodline can be traced. They, like you, are a stone in the path that your family has and will continue to walk for generations."

The frown that marred Harry's features was not the result of confusion in regards to Elven classification, but rather the result of a question that landed a little closer to him. "Why me? Out of everyone why was it me?"

It was a good question, Soren had to admit. He had watched the Elven heritage skip over generation after generation only to surface in the most unlikely of characters. There was no rhyme or reason to its pattern. The Fates themselves chose who would inherit and who would continue to live among Wizarding kind. Their reasons were their own. "It was your destiny to be where you are now."

Never before had Harry felt the kind of exasperated anger that coursed through him at that moment. "Destiny?" He asked, the word passing over his lips with such venom that Soren was honestly taken by surprised. "That's the best answer you have? Destiny? Fate? It doesn't exist! I want a better answer than that. You just figure you can brush off the question with some bullock answer and I'll do exactly what you need me to do, is that it?"

Soren sat for a moment in surprised silence, contemplating exactly how he was going to handle this conversation. There were many things that Harry would have to understand, but the most important was that things took place because they were meant to. There was a strong presence that guided their lives, call it what you will: Mother Nature, Fate, God, Destiny. To have that concept mocked so openly with such a level of distaste was not something that Soren could absorb without a bit of both annoyance and displeasure. "No matter your preference, Harry, your presence here is not a coincidence."

"And having my parents murdered before I could really know them was just a part of your so-called 'destiny'?" Harry asked, disdain dripping from his voice as he shoved the books away from him. He couldn't bear to look at the remains of his family any longer. "Perhaps I was robbed of my parents, my childhood, and terrified beyond belief, simply so that I could be torn away from everyone I've learned to care about and expected to reside over a Kingdom I've never heard of!"

"Everything happens for a reason, Harry, even that which hurts us."

There were distinct warning bells resounding throughout his skull, yet Harry couldn't stop the words that slipped through his lips. Growing up with the Dursley's and never knowing what it was like to be loved had left him wishing desperately for a place where he belonged. When Hagrid had arrived and revealed an entire world that he could be a part of, he had thought that his wishes had come true, but he'd been wrong. That gift had come with an extremely sharp set of teeth that continued to rip away pieces of who he was. Everyone seemed to place him on a pedestal. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't possibly fit in. Now once again he'd been transplanted, only this time he found himself stuck between two worlds. He knew nothing of the Elven realm he was suppose to reside over and he no longer fit within the Wizarding. He was more alone now than he had ever been before and being told that this was his predestined place in life was a horribly jagged pill to swallow.

"Well, Vernon will be happy. I'm destined to be a freak forever!"

Throughout everything that had happened since the passing of the last Dark Prince, Soren had remained calm and collected. When Roland had rebelled and vowed vengeance he had taken it in stride. When the Kingdom had questioned the High Lords ability to protect the realm, he had carefully and calmly helped to prove to the people that the values of their world would be sustained. Now staring into the eyes of a scared and angry seventeen year old boy he could feel his control slipping.

"Being an Elf does not make you less than worthy in the eyes of the world," Soren responded, his posture tense and the tone in his voice making Harry instantly regret his ill chosen words. "You were chosen to inherit the responsibilities of your Elven heritage not because you, as an individual, are special but because the realm is in need of a Prince, now more than ever. Fate is never singular. Contrary to popular belief this situation is not about yourself. It is about the survival of an entire Kingdom. This series of events was put into place generations before you entered into this world and will continue long after you have left it."

Whether it was because he honestly knew he was being terribly self-centered or because of the disappointment in Soren's eyes, Harry wasn't entirely sure, but he found himself feeling completely insignificant and roughly the size of a cockroach. He had been lectured in the past, particularly by one Gryffindor Head of House, but Soren made each word feel like a sharpened blade being stabbed into his very core.

"I'm sorry. I - I didn't mean to offend you."

Even to his ears the apology sounded feeble. He had meant to offend him. He had wanted to make Soren feel as confused and angry as he, himself, felt. Misery obviously loved company, but it wasn't always misery it attracted.

Even with the apology it was several long minutes, surrounded by a deafening silence, before Soren was able to pull back even the smallest amount of the collected attitude he normally sported. "I think that will be enough for today," he finally responded, a tight edge to his voice. "You're dismissed."

Harry felt, despite the very clear dismissal, that he should apologize again. His mouth opened in an attempt but Soren had already turned to return the Royal History to it's rightful place and Harry immediately thought better of it. Keeping his mouth firmly shut, he stood and made a bee line for the door. The last thing he wanted was to further aggravate the situation.

The moment Harry had slipped from the room, the remainder of Soren's anger rushed out of him in an aggravated sigh. He had spent many moons helping those, like Harry, who had unexpectedly found themselves changed and had never before lost his temper. Things were not working out according to plan. While the majority of their time was spent on preparing Harry for his role as Dark Prince, the Kingdom was crumbling around them. Roland had yet to make a move and his presence at the borders of the Kingdom was making the entire realm nervous. They were currently playing with Fire and the entire castle seemed to understand that. Their Prince was unprepared and discontent threatened to destroy everything they were working so hard to protect.

"This is never going to work."

Soren's eyes raised to meet Lothair's as the other Elf stepped out of a long shadow cast by one of the many shelves of books. He could not say that Lothair was completely wrong. Clearly something needed to be altered before it was too late. "Call for Illaria," he sighed, feeling far older than he had in a very long time.

"Even she won't be able to fix this mess," Lothair scoffed. Illaria had her ways. but he honestly doubted her ability to create something that simply wasn't there. The Potter boy did not want the responsibilities he had been given. Nothing, not even Illaria, was going to change that.

"For our sake, I hope you're wrong."

* * *

"Do you think it's true?"

For the third time Hermione's warm brown eyes lifted from the thick text she had balancing on her knee, the creases of her forehead but one of the many sighs that she was severely annoyed. "Do I think what is true, Ronald?"

"About Harry; that he's some sort of Elf? I've been thinking about it and it just doesn't make any sense."

"Dumbledore believes it."

"But wouldn't we have known if he was some sort of magical creature? What if Voldemort is trying to make it seem like Harry's okay so no one will go looking for him. That bloody Lestrange woman could be torturing him as we speak!"

A frustrated and somewhat amused sigh slipped through Hermione's lips as she closed her book. "Ron, we've been through this a thousand times. If the Wizarding and Elven bloodlines are combined there is a fifty-fifty chance that the individual in question will inherit the Elven traits. If they do inherit them, the traits do no manifest until the individual turns of age and his magical levels become stable enough to support those traits. We wouldn't have been able to tell whether or not Harry had Elven blood in his family. Harry, himself, wouldn't have known," she explained once more, her tone oddly familiar to a certain Transfiguration Professor. "Besides, if Voldemort truly had Harry, the entire world would know. They believe Harry to have beaten him before, he will not be robbed of the chance to prove his own worth."

"Fine," Ron muttered, some of the colour draining out of his face at the mention of Voldemort. "What about his Dad? Someone would have known about him."

"Think about it logically, Ron. Before Harry, the Potter bloodline was believed to be as pure as your own. Having mixed blood would not have been something freely talked about, particularly if they had not benefited from the Elven blood. James Potter, more than likely, didn't know."

The heel of Ron's ratty trainers bouncing against the cupboards on which he was sitting was the only sound to echo through the kitchen for a long moment, while he thought that over. "I don't like it," he finally, muttered. "He just disappears and we get some letter from some random Elf telling us to back off and every one's okay with that?"

"It wasn't a random Elf. It was one of the three High Lords of the Elven realm. The letter was accompanied by an authentic seal."

"Whatever, I still don't like it."

"What do you suggest, Ron? Using your Father's car to rescue him?" Hermione asked, nearly groaning when Ron's eyes lit up at the suggestion. "This isn't a bedroom you're rescuing him from. It's a Kingdom. A magical Kingdom, no less. There are strict rules about communication, let alone abducting one of their own."

"He's not one of them!"

"They think he is!"

"Rules have never stopped you before!" The challenge in Ron's voice was clear: misguided, but clear.

"And how do you plan to locate the Elven real? Similar to the Faerie Folk, their realm is not exactly located on the same plane as ours."

The blank look on Ron's face was all that was needed for Hermione to finally return to her book with a smug, "That's what I thought."

* * *

The soft brush of fingertips across his feverish skin was the first thing Harry's muddled senses registered. The second was that the pleased moan that seemed to echo loudly through his mind had escaped from between his own lips. For as hot as his skin burned, the touch of those fingertips over his stomach left lines of icy relief in their wake, making it extremely difficult to keep his breath from rushing past his lips in small gasps of surprise and pleasure. The arms that encircled his waist held the same icy touch, but it was the strong chest pressed against the warm skin of his back that nearly broke the hold he had on himself.

Within his chest his heart raced, his blood singing as it was pumped through his veins at an alarming rate. His mind was caught between the cool sensations created by that gentle touch and the confusion surrounding what was taking place. He couldn't remember how he had come to be withing this particular circle of arms but he knew, with every part of his mind, that if he pulled away he would be physically pained. He belonged there and the thought of leaving was no longer an option. Even with everything he was feeling, he could still feel the pulse that beat beneath the pale skin of the arms that held him: each beat echoed his own. Every time his heart skipped a beat he could feel an identical pattern tapped out against his shoulder blade. Their hearts beat as one.

Every attempt to logically explain the situation was scattered with each cool brush against his skin. The fingertips that had been exploring the lines of his stomach had moved and become much more substantial as they dipped beneath the edge of his waistline and smooth palms rested securely on his hips, firmly holding him in place. Another low moan escaped him effortlessly as cool lips found the curve of his neck, sending a pleasant chill throughout his body. The contrasting temperature between their bodies, rather than being inconvenient, made Harry's heart race all the more. It left him breathless and wanting more.

Low moans he had no hope of preventing echoed loudly around him as those soft lips found their way along the curve of his neck and the line of his jaw. At the base of his ear, the sensations changed. The gentle kisses were replaced with the tip of a tongue as it traced the new curve of his pointed ear. Upon reaching the delicate point, sharp teeth carefully pulled the sensitive flesh between those smooth lips, earning a deep moan from him that drastically tightened the ever building tension below his navel.

He wanted to turn around and taste the lips that tortured him so expertly. He'd never wanted anything so badly and yet, he couldn't make his body move. The touch of those hands on his hips had secured him firmly in place, leaving his desire to burn helplessly within his chest as those same lips and hands continued to tease him.

As his desire continue to build, another of Harry's senses kicked in. It was as though someone had thrown open a window, allowing a cool breeze to wrap around them, further cooling his skin. With that breeze came the familiar delicate sent of oranges. As the sent registered, something in his mind clicked. There was a name. It lingered at the edge of his awareness, preventing him from grasping it firmly and dragging it out into the light.

Ignoring the almost painful desire building within his overly warm body, Harry put all of his focus on that name. He needed to know who it was. He needed to say it. He wasn't entirely sure why, only that the name was important. In order to become what was needed, he knew he needed that name. His lips parted in a hopeful attempt to let the name slide off his tongue but the sound that escaped him was not a name.

tap.

tap.

Harry's eyes snapped open. The sharp sound of something tapping against glass cut across his mind like a newly sharpened blade, scattering the images of his dream and once again burying the name he so desperately needed.

Unlike the cool breeze in his dream, his own room was hot and stuffy, a thin, clammy sheen of sweat covered his skin and his long hair stuck to his forehead and neck. The vague memory of the cool touch in his dream was not enough to make him comfortable in the warm air. With a groan of disappointment, Harry sat up, pulling the sheets away from his damp skin. The continuous tapping sound that had echoed in his dream could only be one thing. Getting up, he stumbled to the window and threw it open, allowing, with some surprise, the familiar snowy owl into the room. "Hedwig?"

Hedwig snapped at his outstretched fingers affectionately and ruffled her feathers in a sense of greeting. As odd as it sounded, the sight caused a rush of relief to pass through him. No matter how much he had changed, she still knew him. He was the same old Harry to her. It gave him a small bit of hope that those he had been close to in the Wizarding world wouldn't pull away from him, now that he was different.

Gently taking the letter from her, Harry immediately recognized the handwriting. Ron. He very nearly groaned at the recognition. He had expected something like this sooner or later, but he had not expected it to come in the middle of the night. Setting the letter aside, he flopped back down on his bed. Having left the window open, a cool breeze was slowing making the room much more comfortable, but it brought with it the images of a now familiar cool touch. The dreams were getting more vivid as the days passed. He had been so close this time. The name had been right there, just out of reach. He was back to the beginning, with nothing other than an few hours of missed sleep.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, he dropped an arm over his eyes. For once in his life he was not happy about receiving an owl from his very worried best friend.