Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and all that the title entails. I do not own Tokio Hotel or the song "Scream," from which the title is taken.

No flames please; constructive criticism is always welcome.

Enjoy

- Doofus96

--

Scream. Scream. Scream…

The word kept running through his mind, and endless chant, as he made his way blindly through the night. His movements were sluggish, his sight tinged with a red haze, his feet dragging along the ground. He had no control over his body, but let his feet take him where they pleased. On the outside, he looked like a crazed man with no inclination of where he was going, but inside, in the very back of his mind, he knew exactly where his feet were dragging him. He had known for a long time.

To Him. He was going to find the one person who could give him everything he never asked for, but had wanted secretly, darkly. The one person who could free him from everything he never wanted – the responsibility, the fame, the infamy, the glory – and give him a new life of peace, power, and most of all:

Screams…

Must… have more…

Shadows moved to his right, along the hedge lining the road. He paid no heed. The shadows had been following him for weeks now, along with those ghastly red eyes that haunted his sleep. They were his salvation, and now, he would find them. The shadows were his escort, now more comforting than they had ever been. At first, he had been terrified, knowing full well who they were: Death Eaters. Messengers of the Dark Lord. But now, he welcomed them, relishing their presence and comfort, knowing that no harm would come to him whilst under their watch.

The night was silent now, much to his displeasure. But a minute ago, the streets had been filled with the echoes of the delicious undulations of the Dursleys. Harry grinned to himself. Poor Dudley… Unfortunately for him, he had been the first one Harry had come across after he broke. The scenario replayed in his mind, vivid, electric, like some sort of opium dream…

He had woken up, covered in cold sweat, thrashing and screaming in grief. Those eyes had been there again, watching over him in his fitful rest. His serpent-like voice had felt like thousands of worms crawling over his body. In the distance of his mind, there were screams, and endless choir of vociferations, taunting him. Those eyes promised that if he followed, he could drown himself in that orchestral sound. If he followed, the screaming would never stop.

And when he had awoken, sitting up as if awaking from the dead, he was broken. He didn't want another damned thing to do with the Light. He wanted the darkness; to be embraced by the eternal night promised him. And he would have it.

The wand was in his hand before he could think. He didn't take anything else; he didn't need anything else. He would have everything soon.

Moving like the dead, with no rational sense of direction, he stumbled into the hallway, supporting himself on the walls. This place – in which he had lived for over seventeen grueling years – had suddenly become alien to him. He didn't know where he was, where he was going, or who the voices coming from downstairs belonged to. It struck him with some surprise when he suddenly collided with a towering blonde hulk of a boy he didn't know. Somewhere in the back of him mind, however, he registered the word Dudley.

"What the hell do you want?" he had said, shoving him.

Harry stumbled back, growling. He didn't know who this boy was, but he didn't want his hands on him, ever. The next instant, his wand was raised and pointed between the boy's eyes.

Harry grinned. "I want you to scream."

But he hadn't screamed. All he could manage was a terrified whimper before there was a flash of green light, and he fell dead to the ground. Harry had been angry. Stupid death curse, he thought, shoving at the corpse with his foot. It killed them too quickly. They didn't have time to feel any pain. They didn't have time to scream…

He was appeased, however, when he had heard Vernon and Petunia scream. They had most likely found the body, but by that time, Harry was already several blocks away. Their next step, no doubt, would be to call the police, and Harry was sure that by now, they were already looking for him.

He stopped in his ambulation, surveying his surroundings. He could see everything as if it were day, although the hour was close to midnight. He had reached an intersection in the road, and the first wave of doubt suddenly hit him. Where should he go now? Up until then, he had just been wandering. He hadn't really been planning to walk the entire way, had he? He didn't even know where he was going to find the Dark Lord! The Night Bus was the best option, but where should he go? Perhaps he should just go to Diagon Alley and move from there…

No, by then they would be looking for him. And when the entire Wizarding World knew your face as if it had been ingrained in their skulls at birth, it was almost impossible to stay inconspicuous.

Well, what should he do now? Just fly to London? That was the best he could do for now…

At that moment, however, something caught his eye. It was a figure; a man walking down the street. Just one of those people who like to walk at night, perfectly harmless. One of those people blissfully unaware of the dangers that lurked in waiting after the sun went down.

The Night Bus would just have to wait, he thought, grinning.

--

The quiet night suddenly filled with shrieks so delectable they were nearly orgasmic. Harry was smarter this time, and grinned like a madman as he applied the Cruciatus Curse. He didn't want the man to die instantly, but to writhe and scream in pain the likes of which he had never felt before, or would ever feel again. Would he kill the man? Who knows? Who cares? As it was, Harry firmly believed he would never grow tired of the sounds this man made, and saw no reason why he should end it any time soon.

He put more force into the curse, and his back tingled as the man's screams reached a new level. He cackled insanely, and behind him, he could hear the Death Eaters do the same. He felt their pride – His pride – and felt pride in himself. He pleased them, and they praised him. He could feel the shadows caressing him, tendrils of smoke running up his back, over his spine, his neck, his shoulders. It was an intoxicating sensation. The combination of the man's incessant screams and being loved by the Darkness was the most pleasurable thing Harry had ever felt.

Harry licked his lips and broke the curse, waiting for a moment as the man gasped and coughed. A strange expression came over his face, thoughtful and distant. This was kind of like a turning point for him, he realized. This was the first person he had ever tortured, the first man that had ever made him drunk off slaughter. He realized that he would never forget this man. He didn't know what he looked like – didn't care what he looked like – but he never wanted to forget the sight of him on the ground, writhing, or the delicious sounds he made.

Must have more! MORE!

Harry raised his wand again, eyes half lidded in ecstasy, ready for another round of torture. However, at that moment, the street exploded in a mass of light and sound. Police cars hurtled down the streets, their sirens screeching and grating, causing Harry to wince in pain. They surrounded him on the sidewalk, forming a half-circle around him. Their occupants spilled out, some holding lights, most holding guns, and began bellowing orders at him.

Harry wasn't listening. He could imagine what they were saying – most of it ending along the lines of 'if you fail to comply, we will shoot you' – but he didn't care. He had never been angrier in his life. They had ruined his fun. For the first time in a long time, he had found peace, and they had shattered it.

They were just like the Light.

They deserved to die.

They will die! And he would be the one to kill them, all at once. They would find their grave among the pile of rubble and debris that would be all that remained of the street once he was through with them. They would die.

They'll scream.

Snarling, Harry raised his wand, the curse on the tip of his tongue. There was a shifting among the gathered officers. Their fingers tightened on the triggers of their guns, they took aim, and one more move from Harry, and his corpse would be nothing but a tattered hunk of flesh.

"Burn in Hell!" he screamed, letting his curse fly. He didn't know what he said, but knew that it was a curse he had never learned. Fire spewed from his wand. At the same time, the mass opened fire up him, an endless barrage of bullets. Pain exploded in his chest.

A shadow descended upon him, wrapping him in soft, black velvet. The only light that remained was the soft glow of the street lamps, and, with a thunderous crack, even they were extinguished. He was flying, the darkness still wrapped around his body, holding him tenderly, carefully, like a mother. The mother he had never known. Ever present behind him, following them from the burning street back in Surrey, were the screams of the men now being consumed by the flames. The sound was beautiful, like some demented lullaby. His sick, demented lullaby.

--

Reality came back to him in an explosion of pain and dizziness. As they apparated to their unknown destination, Harry fell from the Death Eater's grasp, hitting the ground hard. Faintness overcame him, and he dimly realized that he had been shot in the chest. Rolling over onto his stomach, he spat up a mouthful of blood. All the while, the Death Eater flanked him protectively.

The pain was monumental. Inside, he was screaming in agony and desperation, knowing that he was most likely going to die if he just laid there. He was close now, to his destination; he could feel it. Anger surged through him. He was not going to lay here and die! Not this far into it.

While anger and desperation and pain flooded through his body, outside he remained expressionless. He gazed around silently; pale, with blood dripping out the corners of his mouth. They hadn't gone too far – relatively speaking – judging by the fact that it was still dark out. Flanking them on either sides were tangled, dead-looking hedges and twisted trees, with branches that seemed to reach out and grab you. Ahead of them, a cobblestone path, leading through about fifty feet of dead grass and finally up to the door of a large, ancient-looking manor.

The place looked as if it hadn't been lived in decades. Much of the paint had been chipped away; a few of the windows had been busted (you could see the torn curtains fluttering inside, although there was no breeze to stir them). The steps leading up to the door didn't look like they could hold the weight of a child without breaking, and the door itself looked as though it could fall off its hinges at any moment. Ivy grew along the sides, threatening to consume the house completely.

In its day, it must have been a grand place; you could still see its ghost if you looked long and hard enough, like a glamour cast upon its surface. Now, though, it had fallen into a state of complete disrepair...

Still, at the sight of the decrepit old house, a jolt ran through Harry's body. This is it, he thought, a strange emotion running through his body. It had been such a long time since he had felt it, and at first, he was confused, trying to remember what it was. It was weak now, just a dust of feeling, but he could remember, in days before, such as his first year at Hogwarts, it had filled his body from head to toe. It was an exciting sensation, one he liked very much. Was it…

Joy? Happiness? Feelings that had long ago fled his body…

So ecstatic was Harry that he completely forgot his pain. He let this emotion fill his body, mixing with pride to drown out his despair and anger. He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the pain in his chest and the second mouthful of blood he spat out as he did so. The Death Eater behind him backed away, but stayed close enough so that the feeling of dark comfort Harry felt did not leave.

You're close, Harry, a voice said to him, and Harry bowed his head humbly. That voice was so powerful, so filled with darkness and malice that it could only belong to one person: Him. Him to whom those red eyes belonged. Those eyes that had haunted his earliest nightmares and, over the years, transformed them into dreams.

Harry basked in the thought that the Dark Lord spoke only to him. You're close, he said again, so close, Harry. A few more steps and you'll have everything you desire. As he spoke, Harry began to walk, being pulled in by the voice. He left a thin trail of blood in his wake, created by the droplets that fell from his chin.

You want it to end, don't you? You hate your life; you want a new one. I can give that to you, Harry. The Light cannot. They want to make you a servant, a puppet to be used in any way they see fit, and they have already succeeded. But I can break their hold on you…

Although humbled by the fact that the Dark Lord continued to speak to him, Harry wondered why he did so. He had already made up his mind, and the Dark Lord could have said nothing, and he still would have come willingly, eagerly. No force in this world, short of some wizard showing up suddenly and using the Killing Curse on him, could stop him from reaching the door. Even then, he would blast down any damned fool moronic enough to try killing him.

Your thoughts reek of death, he continued. I like it. I don't have to read your mind to know what you want, Harry. You want freedom. You want death and slaughter. You want to kill, and you want to rule. You want to hear people scream…

Harry half moaned and half whimpered at the idea, coming out as some kind of pathetic, begging sound. He didn't care. He would beg for it if he needed to, so bad was his desire. No shame or mortification was too great if it meant an eternity of screaming.

Before he knew it, his feel collided with the base of the steps. He stared at them uncomprehendingly. Had he moved that quickly? How had he reached the steps so fast?

Why did he care? He coughed and threw up yet another mouthful of blood. He watched it drip down the slanting steps with an insane grin on his face. It was beautiful, that little splotch of crimson liquid. So pretty… He wondered how more of it would look. Much more…

Despite his earlier thoughts about the stability of the stairs, he put his foot on the first step without hesitation. It groaned grudgingly but did not give. He looked at the three remaining stairs, vaguely annoyed. So many, he thought, bringing his other foot to rest on the step.

Slowly, as if every step were agony, he made his way up the last three stairs, and came to rest in front of the door. It looked ominous, foreboding. It seemed to warn him: 'Come no further, for you do not know what lies in wait beyond me. Once you cross my threshold, there will be no chance of returning to the life you once had. You will have died, and from beyond me, your ghost will only be able to watch your decaying corpse with pity and longing.' Still, Harry was unfazed. He wanted nothing more than to know what was behind the door. If it did mean his death, then he would accept it gratefully, and his ghost would gaze upon his corpse not in pity, but in joy.

Gingerly, he reached up and grazed the surface of the door. Instantly, a tingling sensation spread through his arm and into the rest of his body. It made him giddy. He could see black stuff on the door. It was nearly transparent, and moving, like living shadows. He had a sudden thought that only those of the Dark could see it, and were anyone else here who followed the Light, they would not know what mesmerized him so. The thought made him proud. He had given up the last of the light within him, and he could finally see the shadows that he had been longing for.

Albeit reluctantly, he tore his head away from the door to look at the landscape around him with his new-found vision. Even in the night, he could see that the shadows clung to practically everything around here. They moved over the grass, through the windows of the house, winding their way between the branches of the trees, in the hedges, across the cobblestone path, wrapping around the Death Eater, who had followed him the entire way. All things that swarmed with the shadows called to him, saying 'Where we are, you are safe. Fear the places without us, for there wait your enemies. Within us, they shan't harm you, but where the light shines, you are no friend, and it will kill you.'

The only thing the shadows didn't touch was him. They moved about his feet and around his body as if they wished to consume him, but were unable. Most people would be terrified of what would happen if they were to be covered in those black tendrils, but not Harry. He was more worried of what would happen if he were to go without them. Standing there, he suddenly felt vulnerable and cold. He felt that if he didn't hurry, something would happen; something bad.

Without another thought, he slammed his hand flat against the surface of the door. The reaction was instantaneous: the shadows swarmed, surrounding his arms, his legs, his chest and head. He inhaled them; they wormed their way into his skin, filling him with a kind of cold warmth, an evil warmth.

It was the warmth of someone who has always felt cold in the sun.

There was a snake in his veins, crawling through his body, toward his heart. At the same time, a mass of the shadows built on his left arm, imprinting upon his skin. It was the first real pain he had felt in a while; the first pain that had made him want to scream.

But he didn't. He stood in shaking silence, watching as the shadows took shape on his arm. It was a symbol he had often dreamt about, first in terror, and then in uncontrollable longing. The mark he had seen an eternity ago, floating in the sky above the Quidditch World Cup: 'It was a colossal skull, comprised of what looked like emerald stars, with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a tongue'.

It was the Dark Mark.

An insane sound escaped his lips as the mark began take shape on his arm, something that could only be considered a sound of delight by those of twisted minds. He continued to make this sound – this rasping, choking undulation – and if someone other than the Death Eater would have been there, they would have realized he was laughing. It was a disgusting, madman cackle that was altogether unpleasant and froze the spine, but it was a laugh nonetheless.

The pain reached a new level as the Dark Mark became complete. It forces Harry to his knees, shaking violently, though he remained ever silent. The Mark first glowed with a greenish light, as if it was on fire, and then it began to bleed. The blood ran profusely, most of it coating his arms and dripping onto the wood, but some of it caught on the lines of the Mark, causing it to glow brighter with an unholy light. He could feel, in the back of his mind, all of his previous ties begin broken. All the bonds that held him to his previous life were shattered and he forgot friends and family, his life at the Dursleys, his years at school; everything and anything that could be lost. He was left with only ghosts and shimmers of his previous life, with all his memories becoming nothing more than hated, tortured thoughts that he pushed to the back of him mind. Certain memories were kept, such as the murder of his cousin; the sound of his aunt's and uncle's screams; the poor man back in Surrey that he had tortured without mercy; the entire squadron of police that he had set on fire; all confrontations with The Dark Lord and his followers from the past. All the things that he had wanted to forget before suddenly became his life and memories more precious than anything else.

And with the breaking of old bonds, new bonds were forged. He felt a connection form between him and all the Death Eaters, and – most importantly – his new master, forever and eternity, the Dark Lord Voldemort. And he knew the Dark Lord could feel it, too.

As the Dark Mark began to sink into his skin, and the pain began to subside, the door before him opened, revealing shadows. Behind him, the Death Eater fell into a bow, kneeling on one knee. Harry grinned like a madman, his breathing heavy, and his eyes cloudy but focused. Blood still dripped from his mouth; his arm looked as though it were covered in some sort of demented red spider web; and by now, his shirt was completely soaked through, though the pain in his chest had long been forgotten. It didn't matter. Now that he was here, he was safe. And most importantly, he was soon to be free.

With that thought, a feeling such as he had never experienced before washed over him, and he bowed his head. Shadows wrapped around him; shadows and black. His beautiful new Dark Mark glowed warmly as he was pulled into darkness.

Everything's going to be fine now, he said, as Harry began to lose consciousness. Sleep now, and when you awake, your new life will begin.

A hand swept over his scar, and it began to bleed. The last thing Harry remembered before finally losing consciousness was the feeling of his scar – the curse of his life – fading from his skin.

He grinned as he slept.

--

Well, there you go.

There may be an epilogue, but I'm posting this as complete because the epilogue really isn't needed. I just want to write more because I love Dark Harry XD

Please review

- Doofus96