NOTE BY THE ACCOUNT HOLDER: THIS STORY IS NOT MINE!

WRITTEN BY RAINING INK

This Story is a repost of an unfinished fic written by 'Raining ink' that used to be available on ffnet. Mostly this story was posted and updated between the year 2009 and 2011 and had thousands of enthausiastic followers. Amongst the fandom its worldbuilding was beyond amazing and for me personally this story made me fall in love with the magic all over again. For more information on this author and this story's discussion thread check my profile page.

NOTE OF THE AUTHOR (TO BE INCLUDED WITH ANY COPY OF THIS WORK):

Out of the Night was a Harry Potter fan fiction written by Raining Ink. This fic has been officially abandoned by its author. Obviously, Raining Ink claims no right to characters, settings, concepts, etc… recognizable as belonging to J.K. Rowling or anyone else even vaguely connected with the Harry Potter franchise. However, many other aspects of the story are original to this fic. Fellow fan fiction authors who wish to make use of these concepts/world building/story details/etc… are welcome to do so, provided that they DO NOT in any way profit financially from the use of said ideas. Fan fiction authors wishing to write a continuation of the story are welcome to do so, provided that they DO NOT in any way profit financially from said continuation. Basically, don't use anything that might belong to Raining Ink to make yourself money, mmmkay?

Additionally, Raining Ink requests that continuations of this fic remain accessible to a broad juvenile audience. In other words, please don't use Out of the Night's world or characters to write thinly veiled pornography.

Raining Ink still lurks around the internet and may occasionally Google her own nom de plume. It would be nice if you credited her for any borrowed concepts so that she might one day bump into your work.

If you have any questions, or you'd just like to vent, it will still be possible to contact Raining Ink through her account at this site for some time

Out of the Night

Chapter 1 - Vernon's Proposal

The strained atmosphere in Vernon Dursley's new company car would have been unbearable to Harry if he were not so caught up in his own thoughts. Vernon's knuckles were bloodless on the steering wheel as he drove through traffic on the way to Privet Drive from King's Cross Station, and Petunia's lips were pressed into a tight line. Harry, leaning against the door of the large backseat, noticed none of this. Even if he had, he would have felt none of the dread that had plagued him during previous summers at the thought of his Uncle's anger. Harry Potter was the subject of a prophecy. Away from the eager eyes and expectations of his fellow students, he was finally starting to realize what that meant. The wizards of the world, from the lowliest squib to the great Albus Dumbledore himself, were counting on Harry to save them from the rising darkness.

Harry still couldn't quite wrap his head around the idea, and his emotions couldn't seem to keep up with the shocks that they had had to endure in the past few weeks. Umbridge, the prophecy, the battle with the Death Eaters, Sirius… He had the strongest sense that he was standing at the ultimate fork in his life's road, and that the decisions he would make over the coming days could change everything. He was glad, he realized with some surprise, to be going back to the Dursleys' house. He felt odd, breakable and powerful at the same time somehow, and he needed time away from the pressures of the wizarding world to figure out for himself what he should do with everything he had learned over the past year. For the first summer of his life, Harry really wanted to be alone.

He knew that this desire for solitude would have surprised his friends, but they had no way of knowing just how much he was dealing with. He didn't plan to tell them anytime soon either, even though Dumbledore had not told him to keep the information about the prophecy to himself. Dumbledore. Harry frowned. Most of his affection and loyalty for his headmaster had been destroyed with the revelation of the prophecy. He had always looked up to the man, but the fact that he had kept such important secrets from Harry about his own life showed that the elderly wizard clearly had no respect for him. And, for his part, Harry couldn't respect someone who apparently saw him either as a child to be protected for his own well-being (which Dumbledore claimed was the case) or as a tool to be manipulated for the greater good (which Harry suspected was closer to the truth).

Harry Potter's life was about to get even more complicated than it had been in years past, and no matter what the adults in his life might want him to do, he would not stand idly by and let someone else make his decisions for him.

The car pulled into the driveway of Number 4, and Harry became aware of his relatives for the first time since they had left the train station. Petunia hurried toward the house without saying another word. Harry watched her scurry inside and saw Dudley's beefy face peering through the kitchen window. He heard the car's boot pop open, and he grabbed Hedwig's empty cage from the seat beside him. He had freed the owl before getting into the car; she would be able to stretch her wings and hunt on the flight back to Privet Drive.

Uncle Vernon stood stiffly beside the boot of the car, arms crossed over his thick chest and beady eyes narrowed. He was clearly unwilling to offer his scrawny, abnormal nephew a hand with his heavy trunk, but he appeared equally unable to follow his wife inside, fearing that the new car might be contaminated in some way during his absence. Harry sighed, wishing that the only lightening charm he knew how to cast was strong enough to last more than the couple of hours it took to travel from King's Cross to the Dursley home. As he wrestled with the trunk, he heard Vernon clear his throat behind him.

"Boy," said Vernon. "I need to have a talk with you."

Harry yanked the trunk the rest of the way out of the boot, then turned to stare at his Uncle. For Vernon, that statement had been almost polite. After the threats the Order members had made, Harry was expecting a lot more malice. Making sure he was standing just out of arms' reach, he replied cautiously, "Okay. About what?"

Vernon was looking at him in a most peculiar way. He didn't look angry, he looked…scared and…maybe a little sick? Harry shifted his weight nervously. Vernon looked at Harry for a few seconds more, then he looked quickly around to make sure that none of the neighbors were within listening distance. "It's not right, boy," he said then. "None of it. You…your kind… What right do those freaks have to go around threatening honest, decent, hard-working folk like us?"

Harry had to exert his self-control in order not to snort at Vernon's description of himself as "decent," but he was honestly surprised. Vernon wasn't shouting. This was his business voice, his I've-made-an-important-decision voice that was usually reserved for declaring what chores Harry was to be given for the day. "Errr…" Harry started, not sure whether his uncle's question required a response.

"NONE!" shouted Vernon, seemingly agitated by Harry's uncertainty. "That's what, Boy. They don't have any right to tell me how to run my own house. They don't have any business bossing me around, feeling all high-and-mighty because of their freakishness."

Harry stared at his Uncle, trying to decide how to handle him. Vernon seemed to be waiting for him to comment on the rant, agree with him maybe. Harry just wanted to get upstairs to the smallest room and sleep away his anxieties. He nodded his head a couple of times, hoping that would be sufficient.

Vernon took a step towards him, his mustache puffing and his jowls quivering with some kind of suppressed emotion. Harry stepped back towards the boot, eyeing his uncle warily. When the man spoke, his voice was calm again but filled with absolute conviction. "I hate you, Boy," he said. "I wish you were dead. Your kind doesn't deserve to plague the rest of us with your existence. But you're here, nevertheless. Been here almost fifteen years now, and I hate you a little more every day."

Harry's chest felt oddly tight. He didn't know why Vernon's words should hurt after all this time, but they did. Petunia was watching through the window now with Dudley. His only family…and they could say, quite matter-of-factly, that they would rather he be dead than standing here in their clean, orderly driveway.

"I know you hate us too, Boy," said Vernon. And, Harry did. For the first time, he acknowledged that the only thing he felt toward the Dursleys was unalloyed hatred . It was strange, he thought, to realize that. Vernon's next few sentences drowned in light of this recognition. When had he stopped wanting-in some secret part of his heart-their acceptance, their approval, their love? Harry didn't think he felt this level of loathing toward anyone else… well, maybe Bellatrix Lestrange.

Vernon's words swam back to the surface, and Harry focused on his face. "So, Boy," he was saying, "Why don't you leave?"

"What?" Harry blinked at him. Leave? Where else would he go?

Vernon took another step toward him, and this time Harry didn't back away. "We hate you. You hate us. You're not a baby anymore, and if you were, I'd dump you at an orphanage no matter what that old crackpot freak demanded. Petunia says we can't throw you out, says you being here protects us as well. I say," he leaned down until he was nose to nose with his nephew, "that's bullshit. I think you're dangerous, and that's why they chuck you back to us every summer. I'm not going to throw you out, Boy, because Pet and the freaks won't let me. But this arrangement we have is a two-way street, isn't it? Why don't you just leave?"

All of the breath in his lungs seemed to have been vacuumed out. Harry stared into the empty space just past Vernon's right ear. What about Voldemort, the Death Eaters, his Order guards? What about his mother's sacrifice and the blood wards around the house? Vernon was wrong. They would all be in danger if the wards fell, and they would fall if he were gone. Harry couldn't just leave. Could he?

He looked to the faces of Dudley and Petunia in the kitchen window and back into his Uncle's watery eyes. He would be putting them all in danger. But they hated each other. He would be putting himself in danger. But not much more than he was in at any other time. The Order would be furious. He looked around at the sunny, perfectly-square houses of Privet Drive. Mrs. Number 9 was watering her begonias…not a care in the world.

"Can I stay here three or four more days?" Harry asked. His voice was surprisingly steady. He couldn't quite believe that he was doing this. "It will take me that long to get everything ready."

Vernon's face split into a terrifyingly huge grin, and he slapped Harry on the back so hard that the thin teen stumbled forward a couple of steps. "Boy," he boomed cheerfully. "Of course you can! You've made the right decision, you know. Better for everyone."

Harry looked on in shock as Vernon stooped to pick up his trunk. "Let's get this upstairs. Three days, you said? Four at the most?"

"Right," said Harry, as he followed a very merry Vernon Dursley into the house.

"Capital!" shouted Vernon. Considering how fat he was, he was practically skipping up the stairs. "If you leave by then, Boy," he said as he heaved Harry's trunk into his room, "I'll give you a fifty-pound note to see you on your way."

And Vernon thundered down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Harry heard him crow to Aunt Petunia, "The boy will be gone by Thursday, Petunia love. Thursday! By Friday, I daresay we won't even remember he was here."