Distortion of an Alchemist

Hi everyone. This is a SLASH story involving Harry and Draco. If you don\'t like slash, this really isn\'t the place for you. Also, my mind can conceive of no world in which Harry and Draco aren\'t irreversibly fucked up from all the death, destruction and aggressive bludgers that seem to accompany life at Hogwarts. My writing tends to delve a little close to the psychotic side, so if angst isn\'t your cup of proverbial tea, then I highly doubt this story will be suited to your tastes.

I am a review whore and will most likely give up on this story if I don\'t feel that there is sufficient interest to continue. Please, please, please R&R because it would make my day and will spur me to write longer chapters for you all.

With no more ado...

*~*~*~*~*~*

You know the happiest day of my life
I swear the happiest day of my life
Is the day that I died

-- ‘The day that I die’ by Good Charlotte

A wise man once said that the greatest gift is that of precognition. To know of your future, to have the power to change that which is unsatisfactory, to have control over the very essence of the universe itself; that which would command our destinies.

Yet this, most valued of gifts, would seem to disprove the idea of fate, and thus of a supreme god. For if your path was already written then to have the power to change it would be seen as the ultimate act of blasphemy, an action against the will of God itself. But does not the concept of fate itself lend some unfavourable qualities to the human perception of the Divine?

For if we make no choices of our own, every cruel deed we commit is down to the hand that made us do so. None of us would be culpable for our mistakes or our actions, that blame would lie with God.

That same wise man also cautioned not to question Fate. To do so throws your world upside down and threatens the stability of everything you believe in, yet even debating it for a thousand years can bring you no answer.

Mankind’s greatest questions still gnaw at the recesses of our minds and until we can answer them, we can never rest easy, not in this lifetime, or in the next.

You could drown in it. In uncertainty. It can make you falter on even the surest step. It can ruin your dreams, and dreams are the most important thing you will ever encounter.

Those of Harry Potter had long been quashed. For what is the use of desire if you are not destined to live long enough to realise it? Since the day of his birth it would seem as if some malign presence had hung over his brow.

Even as he was conceived, Mars had shone brightly in the pink sky. The herald of war and brinbringer of trials. Harry’s life would be consumed, dictated, ruled by those trials until he would perch at the brink of self destruction.

He wanted it to end.

Life is capricious. It had not finished with Harry yet, he had not even the strength to end his days. He was weak, a fool, a pawn. They were all pawns. Part of something bigger that had yet to be beheld by any living eyes. He was Dumbledore’s pawn, the wizarding world’s final hope, the Golden Boy of the age. He lived up to those expectations solely because he had none of himself.

Everyone he had ever loved had been stolen from him, leaving him alone. So very alone. So cold and solitary that he could choke on his own bitterness, could feel it strangling him like some twisted snare. He couldn’t breathe. He was stifled. He would surely suffocate.

That was just wishful thinking.

Harry longed for something. His life was static, rigid. He craved transience, fluidity, a metamorphosis into some other creature, some other life. He envied the alchemists their art. They altered the exact science of nature itself, transforming something so base as lead into precious gold.

Harry felt as if he had subconsciously reversed that procedure. He had once been golden, Gryffindor’s proudest lion, but now his flaming emerald eyes were dulled, were lead.

His golden fire was quenched.

Dead.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Fire still lit those around him of course. It fuelled their feet, the motions of their body, even the simplest. It made them move, it made them alive. Harry watched the Dursleys lethargically and with some fascination.

They had retained their own sense of spontaneity, of freedom. He was mechanical now. He was jealous of them.

The bright August sun beat down on him where he lay. His pale skin slowly bronzing in the hot weather. All around him was a riot of colour. The Dursleys immaculate lawn shone emerald, their flower beds were fragrant chests of jewels, the sky a cavern of cobalt.

Harry had lost all pleasure in this aesthetic beauty. To him the world had faded into monochrome where even the decisive black and white were lost. It was all so grey, so very grey. Had he looked upon himself with fresh eyes he might have been heartened somewhat.

He was muscled, a fortunate consequence of Quidditch training, tall and lithe. He was built as a seeker usually was, lacking any real brawn but making up for it in athletic poise. He was tanned of course, thanks to global warming, and had discarded hiasseasses at last, at the hearty begging of his friends. But Harry never looked at himself, indeed why should he? Truth be told, why should any of u
H
He had reached an epiphany of sorts over the past few days. Ever since his seventeenth birthday, the weight of his obligations had sunk in on him. He was expected to save the world. That’s what everyone wanted right? Then he had resolved to try, at any personal cost.

He would try and if he failed then he would be killed but if he succeeded then he would be the greatest saviour ever known. Then he could shrink into nothingness, his task would be over. He could live in peace.

He had kept his wand by his side ever since his birthday. He was now legally entitled to do magic on his relatives, not that they knew that yet, and was just awaiting an opportunity that merited it. That opportunity arrived in the form of his overweight cousin Dudley and rat-faced friend, Piers Polkiss.

“Well, well, well.” A snivelling, obsequious voice piped up, drawing Harry from his reverie with a jolt. “What do we have here?” Harry opened one lazy eye to see what resembled a round pink beach ball waddling towards him, followed by an over-grown ferret.

“If it isn’t the dickhead brigade,” Harry said scathingly, barely acknowledging their presence.

“What did you just call us?!” Dudley yelled angrily, his vast chest puffing under the sweaty string vest he wore. Harry sat up slowly, his stomach muscles rippling like the tide.

“Bash him one, Big D!” Piers screamed, hopping up and down madly. It was very clear to Harry the reason for their intrusion into his private world. They wanted nothing more than to pick a fight with him, boredom being an adequate reason for doing so. Harry repressed a snort of sardonic laughter.

“Ah yes, ‘Big D’, if you would care to oblige then I shall not stop you.” his hand moved surreptitiously to his wand and his fingers closed around the smooth wood, “Indeed it would be beyond my ability to do so. You are remarkably rhinoceros-like when the inclination strikes.” Dudley’s face wore a confused expression for a moment before his instincts kicked in and he adopted a boxer’s stance.

“You think you’re so hard.” he growled, “I could take you on any time!” Harry moved sinuously to his feet. He was gratified to see a flicker of panic in Piers’ eyes. Harry was considerably taller than either of .
.

“I dare say you could,” he said menacingly, “were this a fair fight. Yet I feel it my duty to inform you that you are, without a doubt, going to lose should you decided to continue.”

“Eh?” Dudley lowered his fists, “What are ya talking about? As if I could ever lose to you!” Piers sniggered appreciatively and Dudley grinned.

“He’s Smeltings champion!” Piers whined,

“I’m sure he is,” Harry said in a distinctly patronising tone, “but in a fight, I will win.”
h yeh yeah? Why’s that then?” Dudley flashed his teeth. Enamel rotted from so much sugar.

“Because I can curse you into oblivion.” Harry said, whipping out his wand and pointing it threateningly at his cousin’s throat. Sheer terror flickered wildly in Dudley’s piggy eyes and he was rendered immovable from fear.

“What’s that?” Piers asked scornfully.

“He knows,” Harry fixed Dudley with a dangerous look. Wild, feral and haunted. “I think the Harry-Hunting has reached its victorious close.” he said, splinters of ice shuddering the length of his spine.

“What’s wrong Big D?” Piers asked frantically, bewildered by his icon’s sudden alarm, “It’s just a stick.” Harry arched one eyebrow and then muttered sotto voce:

“Pulso.” There was a deafening bang like a gunshot, a blinding light exploded from the end of Harry’s wand and shower of red sparks flew straight into Dudley’s face. A piercing shriek escaped his plump lips and he fell to the floor clutching his face.

“What the-?” Piers was at a loss for words, “Mr Dursley! Harry did something to Dudley!” And with that he shot inside like a rat. Dudley lay whimpering on the grass. Pale skin burning. Harry knelt down. The sun was high, a bead of sweat rolled down his back.

“You will never touch me again,” he said, trying to ignore the exhilaration that pulsated through his veins.
He wanted to hurt him so much. To make up for the flashing images that plagued him. For the times he had spent cowering in the garden or lying bloody and broken. Waiting for someone.
Anyone.

Giving up and finally going home alone. Dudley had dealt him many a cruel blow and Harry wanted nothing more than to restore the balance. Make him bleed. Harry wanted to know that power. It would be so easy.

He wanted his pound of flesh.

“BOY!!” Uncle Vernon’s thunderous voice disturbed his thoughts. He got to his feet and faced the man who stormed up to him. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY SON?!” he screamed, flecks of spit spraying from his mouth. Harry glowered.

Harry looked at him coldly, “I was just making us even.”

“Get away from him!” Petunia screamed, on beholding Harry’s wand. Harry smiled in a decidedly snake-like fashion.

He left the garden.

*~*~*~*~*~*

“Draco!” the blond Slytherin winced at the sound of his name being bellowed through the cavernous chambers of Malfoy manor. It was his father, returned from one of his infamous Death Eater missions.

“I’m coming!” he cried and dndednded the stairs to the library as fast as he could. It was a beautiful room. Lined with books, their pages filled with wisdom. It fascinated Draco that he could spend a hundred years alone in here and yet learn only a tiny fraction of that which the world had to offer. It made him wonder why it was even worth trying.

Lucius had just flooed in from one of his secret hideouts on the English coast. He never spoke to his son about the nature of his missions but it always chilled Draco to the core when he watched his father wipe the blood off his hands in that same detached manner.

“You called?” he asked, the customary sneer absent from his voice. Lucius was not a man to be trifled with, nor would he suffer insubordination from his son.

Draco had inherited much from him, they were alike in both manner and appearance. Silver hair caught the sunlight streaming through an open window, grey eyes shining like shards of mirror, as dar the the cloudburst that opens from the heavens.

Lucius, though, was more pointed of face, more ferret-like than Draco would ever be. He was also darker, his pale skin haunted by shadows that would not leave. Shadows of screaming victims, of bloodstained clothes, of memories that could not be erased.

“I have something for you,” that same cold voice uttered in that same cold tone.

“What is it?” Draco was instantly suspicious.

“Don’t worry my, son,” Lucius said, Draco hated it wheciuscius called him that, “Nothing dangerous.” he pulled from within his black velvet robes, a crystal vial filled with a red liquid.

“What is that?” Draco asked, his curiosity awakened by his love for potions of any sort.

“This is blood from the witch I killed at dawn,” Lucius said dispassionately, turning the beautiful bottle over in his fingers. It glittered maliciously in the light. Draco felt his own heart skip a beat. “So pretty,” Lucius went on, his voice gaining an almost dreamlike quality, “you would have liked her. Her hair was as red as this vial, her eyes as green as the forest boughs, her power as raw and unhoned as any I have ever encountered.”

Draco shivered but remained silent. He could imagine this woman vividly, lying dead beside the ocean, the waves lapping at her pale thighs. Blood mingling with the water.

Her face contorted with pain.

“She was powerful?” Draco tried to feign interest and suppress the nausea.

“Very,” Lucius fixed his son with a sharp look, “which is why I took this. I slid my knife into her heart and I bled her; I siphoned this off for you.” Draco gulped,

“Why me?” he asked.

“Because,” Lucius had the patronising air of one answering a qion ion to which the answer was obvious. “she was of the Acenai tradition, her magic flows through her blood, as it did with her ancestors. I have mixed this with various herbs used for the transfer of magic,” Lucius said, suddenly businesslike, “should you drink this, you shall be given powers that once belonged to her.”

“They should still belong to her,” Draco said through a clenched jaw, no way was he going to drink that.

“They would have been wasted, would have fed a hungry wolf. That is no use for them,” Lucius looked angry, “you will drink this,” he , “a, “and you will make use of that which she has to offer.”

“I will not,” Draco said, well aware of what result his defiance would earn, “I will not debase myself to the level of vampires and other foul creatures.”

Lucius moved so fast that Draco had no time to defend himself. He grabbed his son by the throat and pinned him roughly to the stone wall.

“You will drink this,” he said, a crazed glint in his eye, “and it will prove useful to the Dark Lord, you will be stronger than your peers, more powerful.”

“At what risk?” Draco croaked, “I will have taken her blood, a terrible crime!”

“Not for the one who did not slay her,” Lucius smiled darkly, “were I to drink this then it would be as bitter as poison but for you, it is quite safe.” Draco looked terrified.

His heart was thudding in his chest and his eyes were fixed on the slim red bottle being waved before him. The grip on his throat tightened, he fought for air. Lucius took the vial and rammed the contents down his son’s throat. Draco coughed and retched but nothing came up. He was forced to swallow it all, the galling taste remaining on his tongue for a long time.
It was metallic, bitter, cruel. He felt sick.

Then the power began to form.

Writhing on the floor, he felt as if he had ingested snakes as his guts twisted and turned within him. Draco crout out but Luciust ust laughed, it would all be over soon. Just as he suspected he had been poisoned after all, the cramps stopped.

“Better?” Lucius asked as Draco retched again. He could feel something that didn’t belong to him crawling through his skin, reaching every part of his body. He screamed inside, that he didn’t want it, he didn’t need it. He couldn’t do anything about it. The woman from whom it had been taken was crying somewhere. He could hear her tears, or were they his own?

“Power,” Lucius said simply, “is yours now. Try.” he motioned to a priceless Ming vase that stood on the mahogany desk. Draco felt a strange tingling running through his fingers.

Without even thinking about it, he pointed his open palm at the vase which exploded into a thousand tiny china pieces. He pulsated with it, with elation, disgust, awe. He was torn between his conflicting emotions.

This power was amazing.

“Very good,” said Lucius nastily, “let ugin.gin.”

Draco nodded mutely. Acceptance.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Harry woke up, cold sweat pouring off his body. It hurt to brea He He shook his head, clearing from it the last remnants of his dream. It had been so real, so frightening, it had tormented him.

Closer he had chased his quarry, this night, closer and closer had he come to it. He had been on its tail, the sunlight laced in his hair, he could touch it, he was flying higher than ever before. He flew toose tse to the sun. His wings fell to the ground and he got burnt.

His eyes found his clock, the time flashed on it in angry red letters, five thirty am. ig hig had returned and was chewing a frog in her beak. Harry smiled at her and she ruffled her wings happily. She was going back to Hogwarts today, they both were.

Going back to the only place Harry had ever thought of as home. Privet Drive could never be his home, he had weathered too many beatings, too much pain here.

There were too many bad memories jammed closely in these brick walls. They trammelled Harry in until the ceilings crashed in around him and the floors were bedewed with his tears.

The Dursleys had discovered the weapon of silence. After Harry had threatened Dudley and Piers that day in the garden, Harry had inspired terror in them all. They would learn what it meant to have a fully fledged wizard living under the roof.

Harry would never let them forget. They would come down to breakfast and find the very matter of the house changed.

The walls would move, the staircase would vanish, the appliances would bite back with electric fangs. They tried to ignore it, to pretend it wasn’t happening but their eyes would widen in fear as an emerald fire sprang in the fireplace, the flames contorting into shadows that danced around the walls.

The Dursleys were afraid and Harry loved inflicting that fear on them. It gave him power and authority that he had never tasted before. It was like a drug to him, the reckless use of magic to ensure that he was never touched by them again.

He studied hard and passed his apparition test, delighting in the dizzying rush as he transported himself from place to place in the blink of an eye. Ron had failed again. He wrote to Harry expressing his worries and his complaints. He wanted nothing more than to surpass his brothers in something but it would seem that yet again, Ron had come second place.

Taking advantage of his magic in such a way had brought unforeseen consequences for Harry. The Durs nev never went near any any more, and despite seeing it as a blessing at first, Harry began to suffer from the lack of human interaction.

They never spoke a word to him, nor was his presence ever acknowledged. He was invisible, untouchable, completely anonymous to everyone. He hadn’t spoken to anyone or anything other than Hedwig for weeks.
He was going mad with the solitude, it was turning him into a shell of himself. He just lived for his magic.
Harry was looking forward to seeing Ron and Hermione that day. It had been two months since they had last spoken and he had missed them. Without bothering to be quiet, Harry drew out his trunk and began throwing his belongings into it. His precious cloak, his map, his birthday gifts, everything that had ever meant anything to him.

He heard the Dursleys stir but he just smiled, this was his last day of hell. He would never come back here again. Where he would go, Harry hadn’t decided yet. He wanted to get on his Firebolt and fly, just fly and land wherever he chose.

He wanted to dive into the streets of London and disappear.

That morning he was up with the sunrise and he toasted it with a glass of juice. Petunia Dursley came into the kitchen and faltered when she saw him there.

“Relax, aunt,” Harry said cuttingly, “my wand is in my room.” Petunia said nothing, just started making breakfast.

“I suppose you need a lift to the station today,” she murmured timidly. They were the first words she had spoken to him in a long time.

“I knew the silence would end,” said Harry, looking her straight in the eye, “but no, thank you, I do not require your assistance further.”

“Where will you go?” she asked quietly, doing last night’s washing up, her hands moving methodically over the china, sluicing it clean.

“Why does it matter?” Harry asked, surprised.

“Because,” Petunia snapped suddenly, “I know you hate us Harry, and we have complained enough about the burden you have placed on this family but you…you are still Lily’s son.” she couldn’t look at him, “I promised her,” she whispered as if to herself, “I promised her I would care for you.”

“What?” Harry’s eyes widened, Petunia never spoke of her sister.

“She knew,” she said, “she knew she would become a target, they both knew. They asked me to care for you if anything ever happened to them.”

Harry was shocked to see a tear rolrm trm the corner of his aunt’s eye. He realised then just how much she had bottled up inside her.

The death of her sister must have been a heavy blow but she had never confronted those feelings, she had allowed them to fester into hatred, hatred for leaving her alone. Petunia was almost crushed by it.

“I know you think I never cared for you,” she said thickly, “but I did, Harry, I did. You were Lily’s son. Lily’s…” and she broke down into the most heart rending sobs Harry had ever heard. He was sorely tempted to put his arms around her, to comfort her. But he couldn’t, sixteen years of hardship could not be forgotten in a single moment. He remained frozen to the spot as she wept.

Lily, Lily, Lily.

“Petunia!” Vernon’s voice called from the stairs, with the ease of years of practice, Petunia wiped her eyes and blew her nose quickly.

“Here!” she called back, making herself look respectable, making sure no-one ever knew. Harry watched her sadly and a part of him pined for the aunt he had lived with all his life and never known.

Three hours later he stood at the door with his trunk, his wand and Hedwig. The Dursleys stood nervously in the kitchen, watching him.

“I’m going,” Harry said shortly, “I don’t know when you’ll see me again.” He expected some outburst of, ‘about bloody time!’ but it never came. Vernon, Dudley and Petunia were all quiet. Harry surveyed each of them in turn, his eyes resting on his aunt, she looked like she wanted to cry. Harry knew that it was a source of pain to her that she had failed her sister in this way.

He gave her the briefest of hugs and then disapparated with a ‘pop’.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Draco fell to the floor, battling nausea. The family cat, Sear, lay still on the floor, life snuffed from its small body. Draco looked at his hands with wonder. They had done this, they had cast this, the most forbidden of spells. Draco had killed with magic. Lucius looked pleased,

“Well done,” he said, clapping, “Igladglad to see you are taking your studies seriously.”

“What have I done?” Draco asked himself softly.

“You have realised your destiny,” said his father, coming closer and picking up the dead cat, “you have evolved, changed into something better, more elite.”
Draco didn’t feel that way.

He felt dirty, used, and as though he was touching on something that it was better not to delve in. Yet delve he had and now he was swamped with emotions pulling him in different directions. The most frightening one was the elation he felt.

He was glad of his new powers, they made him strong.

Lucius had been teaching his son vigorously. He was training him for any confrontation that was apt to fall his way. He was making sure that Draco was powerful, sagacious and damn near invincible. Draco was terrified of himself. He was making things happen without his wand, a feat he had never deemed possible.
But now, anything was possible, his eyes had been opened to the myriad of possibilities available to him. He could do anything he wanted, he was magic.

And he would start at Hogwarts.

*~*~*~*~*~*

A/N: So? Did you like it? Let me know if you think I should continue or not. But no flames please, they royally piss me off.