Son of the Basilisk

I just want to warn you that this story has more about my own battles in it than any other fanfiction i have written. It was hard for me to write so i do not know how good it is but it needed to be put on paper and if i wrote you might as well get a chance to read it.

Chapter One
A Change in the Air

Platform 9 ¾ and consequently the Hogwarts Express was nearly deserted. Only a few early students were milling around waiting for their friends to show up. It was barely 9 am and the train wouldn’t leave until 11 am.

One of the students already aboard the train was an experience toughened seventh year, with emerald eyes and messy black hair. He had changed a lot since the death of his mentor. He had spent his summer tracking down the remaining horcruxes with Ron and Hermione. Then a fate worse then death happened, history repeated itself, his best friends had betrayed him to Voldemort. They were offered their freedom in exchange for Harry’s whereabouts, they told the dark lord and before the day was through he was captured.

It had taken him a week to escape from Voldemort’s lair. The only evidence of the horrors he had to have witnessed was the hardened eyes and stiffened jaw. Now Harry James Potter was back at Hogwarts for his last year. He already knew it would be one Hell of a year.

Then he did something that within the past would have seemed extremely out of character. He took a flask out of his cloak, unscrewed the lid, and took a deep draft. No he wasn’t taking a leaf out of Moody’s book. The smell of the liquid alone proved he wasn’t swilling pumpkin juice. The aged whiskey burned down his throat and created a pleasant warmth within him.

After his capture and subsequent escape the strong whiskey was his release. His flask was specially purchased at a rare antique shop in knockturn alley. It was charmed to fill itself, whenever the cap was opened, with the drinker’s beverage of choice. The flask hadn’t been cheap but it would be worth the expense. Its special qualities would allow him to hide his drinking. If someone else opened his flask they would see whatever they were expecting to see, i.e. whatever Harry told them was in his flask, and not what Harry had been drinking.

After a few deep drinks from the small flask the warmth spread around his body. He made sure the flask provided him with the strongest whiskey possible; it was smooth as silk and as strong as lye. It didn’t take him long at that rate to drink him into oblivion. The alcohol was the only thing that even came close to warming him. It also had the added benefit of making his sleep dreamless.

He slept on as the other students boarded and the train left the station. The country side flew by and still he slept. No one disturbed him probably because no one could recognize him. His hair was brushing his collar in ragged disheveled waves. His eyes had the hardened cast to the once radiant emerald, and his drinking had altered the whites of his eyes to pink. His skin was the deathly pale shade of one who had never seen the sun. Scars, both new an old crisscrossed his body from all the close calls he had experienced in the past. The one scar that started it all still sat innocently on his forehead shielded by his ragged hair.

He was woken from his drunken stupor by someone lightly kicking him. Apparently he had fallen off the bench at some point and was now on the floor of the train compartment. At the next kick from the person who had woken him, he grabbed the offending boot and pulled. The force of the pull did two things it pulled him up and his attacker down. Even in a drunken state Harry was a fully trained warrior. He had to train himself this past summer, he learned on the go, one mistake and all would have been lost.

Now he looked at the person who had found him. He was already picking himself off the compartment floor and dusting off his still immaculate robes. He was tall and finely built, slender neither skinny nor heavy, he had lightly colored skin like peppermint tea. His eyes were a curious shade of blue they were nearly violet.

The green and silver tie gave away the fact that this was a Slytherin. His height and familiarity proved him to be from Harry’s year. Harry’s alcohol affected mind took a few minutes to come up with a name.

“Zabini?” He said questioningly forcing his words to not slur.

“Potter, what in the nine Hells did you do to yourself?” the Slytherin asked. After all Harry had always had a bit of a disheveled appearance but this ragged creature in front of him was a shadow of that Potter.

“Why do you care? You would never understand just stay out of my way and I will stay out of yours.” Harry answered getting defensive and irrational thanks to the strong booze.

Blaise Zabini just happened to have a bit of experience in dealing with drunkards. He knew what signs to watch for. He wondered how the Gryffindors would feel if they saw their Golden Boy this drunk. “How much have you had to drink?” Blaise pressed.

“Mind your own business Zabini. For your information I haven’t had anything to drink now would you leave so I can get into my school robes?” Harry more or less ordered Blaise.

Not wanting to deal with a drunk heavily angered Potter Blaise left. However when he glanced black he was surprised to see Harry had already removed his robes and old soiled shirt. The scars didn’t bother him nearly as bad as the fact he could see every rib prominently along the other boys back. He couldn’t have eaten properly for a long time to reach that stage of malnutrition.

Blaise was not sorted into Slytherin for nothing. He knew a lie when it was told and he could spot problems a mile away. Something very drastic had happened to Potter. His manner and obviously declining health was enough to make him curious. He would track down exactly what had happened to the Gryffindor Golden Boy and if it was as serious as he thought he would probably have to help Potter. He was positive that if the people watching him had let him get into this shape they would not be helping to drag him out of it.