Disclaimer: I do not own the original canon nor am I making any profit from writing this piece. All works are accredited to their original authors, performers, and producers while this piece is mine. No copyright infringement is intended. I acknowledge that all views and opinions expressed herein are merely my interpretations of the characters and situations found within the original canon and may not reflect the views and opinions of the original author(s), producer(s), and/or other people.
Warnings: This story may contain material that is not suitable for all audiences and may offend some readers. This story contains references to rape, the potential of rape, and outright murder. Additionally, there is graphic descriptions of torture and murder.
Summary (Reprisal of Sins): In the last chapter of The Schrodinger Effect, Neville made an observation that someone had tortured and killed the Carrows during the Final Battle. He postulated that it was a quiet Ravenclaw who had been terrorizing the two siblings for months for their part in the death of his fiancée. He would probably not be comforted by the knowledge of how right he was about that.
Song Recommendation(s): "Your Body is a Machine" by The Good Natured
Author's Note(s): This piece was written for a challenge in the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry (Challenges & Assignments) on the FFN forum.
The Challenge Information:
House: Gryffindor
Subject [Task No.]: Defense Against the Dark Arts (Crucio)
Prompt[s]: Twilight (word); Tragedy (genre)
Word Count: 2993 (Story); 3062 (Story & Epigraph)
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Reprisal of Sins
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This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calm'd–see here it is–
I hold it towards you.
– John Keats, "This Living Hand"
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Alexander Silverhale watched as Harry Potter finally showed his face at Hogwarts. Part of him wanted to rip the Boy-Who-Lived to pieces—tiny ones, maybe even atomic ones. He traced the edge of his focus like other wizards—lesser ones, a voice softly corrects and gods, it sounds so much like Vivian that pain nearly doused the flaming rage within him—would caress their wands. Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, had dared to return to Hogwarts after abandoning it for so long. His precious friends and allies were being tortured and the idiot couldn't be bothered to anything—what possible reason did Alexander have to think that Vivian would have mattered at all if he had been here? Still, the sight of the stupid Gryffindor icon being fluttered over by his fans pissed him off.
Alexander kept to the background as Potter let out a scream, reveling in the painful rage he heard in the sound. It was glorious, beautiful in the same way that Vivian had been before the Carrows had stolen her. She had always moved as if she had owned the space she was occupying, confident and convicted, every inch the snake that embodied her House. She would slither up to any who had power, only to strike when they least expected it. She had been power incarnate—Alexander had never questioned why the Carrows would have wanted her, because all Slytherins were attracted to power. Thievery was just another way of getting what they wanted, and that was why the Ancients had the rules and traditions that they did: to allow for it, and to show where it would be tolerated. Alexander smirked as he watched Longbottom begin a familiar dance of words with Potter, who stumbled the first few steps before letting Longbottom take the lead.
Vivian had been right, and he could see it finally. Potter would have been an excellent ally if he could have been tamed a bit, trained out of his muggle ignorance which wrapped around him like a wild vine. The power that he held—as the Potter of Letum, as the Boy-Who-Lived, as the son of Lady Lily Elizabeth—it would have been wondrous to see in full bloom, and even if his Vivian would never see it, it looked like Potter had found a gardener to make that happen. Alexander's heart stuttered when the tunnel door opened again to reveal Luna's pale form.
She was safe. He felt faint with the relief. They had heard rumors—all they had of the outside world. When she hadn't returned after the winter break, there had been so many rumors. Alexander had hoped that Xenophilius had gotten the tiny girl out, had managed to secret her away to her mother's people as planned. Luna couldn't be allowed to suffer the same fate as his Vivian, and he had seen the Carrows' greedy eyes settling upon her. When The Quibbler had shifted what kind of stories it was printing, Alexander had known that wasn't true—Xenophilius wasn't the type of person who would agree with such hogwash. But somehow she was here, safe—well, safe as could be with these idiots plotting a revolution when their figurehead wanted to continue to do nothing.
Alexander watched as Luna and Neville steered the Golden Trio to what needed to be done, as easily as Vivian could even the slimy ferret at his most stubborn. It made sense that it would be those two who could do it. Like called to like—and it was rare for a member of the magum to marry outside of that group. Little Gin-Gin was going to have a rather rude awakening someday, if she thought that Luna was less of a threat to her feminine claim on the Boy-Who-Lived than Chang.
Weaving a misdirection charm around himself, he followed the two leaders and their precious savior as they made to leave the Room. His sharp eyes didn't miss the brief touches that none of them paid any attention—not even with the slight flinch that Potter gave when Bilius and Granger did the same. Over a year apart, and their compatibility was still so great that the blonds could manage to surpass whatever conditioning that had Potter bracing for blows? Weaslette didn't stand a chance. Maybe that shouldn't make him so happy, but he was perfectly willing to admit that his vindictiveness was part of why Lord Selwyn was willing to betroth his chosen heir (female or not) to him. The Weasleys deserved no consideration of empathy, even if they were on the same side for the moment.
Alexander felt Luna's awareness wrap around him as they approached the Knocker. It was comforting, in a way—knowing that his only ally within the House knew that he was there, willing to protect her as he had taken to doing in the wake of Vivian's death. He should have done more, and he knew it. She had needed so much more protection than he had provided over the years—she had hidden so much of the harassment, based on what he had heard whispered among the other Ravenclaws who had stupidly given Dumbledore their public support by joining Potter's illegal club during Umbridge's tenure. If he didn't have to keep his profile down in order to continue his reign of vengeance on the Carrows, he would have made them pay just the same.
As it was, he was a favorite for detention duty when his fellow Eagles were serving. His anger made it easy to mean it, which made the other members of the small rebellious force greatly suspicious of him. It was only Hogwarts' allowance that had gained him any measure of acceptance among the remnants of the illustrious Army. Apparently, had he been a lackey for Dumb and Dumber, he never would have found their hidey-hole.
Rage burned in him as first Alecto and then Amycus invaded the Tower, along with the old cat who did nothing to protect her students. Of course, McGonagall was more riled up over the thought of Potter wanting to go anywhere except into her possession. Alexander bit back a snarl worthy of Greyback as she chose to finally stand up for the students—something she had repeatedly refused to do, even after a few of them had died. But the first one had been only a Slytherin, hadn't she? She would have been an acceptable casualty in the house-blind witch's eyes. Amycus' insulting act of spitting upon the former deputy pleased Alexander almost as much as watching Amycus' scream under Potter's wand.
Alexander lingered over the Carrows while Potter arranged the evacuation of the students—finally, finally, finally taking the threat seriously like necessary. He let them leave without him, waiting as the Ravenclaws shuffled from the Tower as ordered. He could be patient—he had waited months for this opportunity; he could wait a bit longer. He dropped into lotus position near where the Carrows swung above him, grounding and centering himself out of habit. Around him, Hogwarts shifted her wards, mixing her magic with the temporary wards being raised in preparation for the oncoming siege. Above him, the siblings groaned as they began to wake from the magic that had kept them unconscious.
"You! Get us down from here!"
"Oh, you're awake then?" Alexander said, before unfolding from his meditative pose. He let his icy gaze settle on them as his mouth stretched into a vicious grin. His sensei would be so pleased that her lessons on intimidation were being used. Yamiko always did have very strong opinions on the worth of rapists, and if she was here, she wouldn't even think of stopping him. Alexander was sure of it. Well, she would object to the torture part of his plan, but the end game would be approved.
"Get us down, you disgusting brat, or—"
The overly-large man yelped as Alexander flicked his palm and commanded the hex to fly. Alecto let out a string of curses. With his other hand, Alexander let loose another volley of stinging hexes. It was the first time in months he had been able to use the focus he had designed so obviously, rather than using the aspen wand he had brought with him to Hogwarts. The Silverhales were known for their skills at enchantment, almost as renowned as the Flints in the field for all that the two Clans went about it differently. Alexander's focus would have been a point of pride if he had shared the successful creation with anyone outside of his intended bondmate. With Vivian's death, his secret was now only his own.
"I fear that you are unaware of just how little power you hold here, professors," he said as nonchalantly as possible. He stalked around the hanging pair, letting the knowledge of his predatorial rage sink past their thick arrogance. "The Tower has emptied of any witnesses. Potter and his little gang of misfits are going to keep your presumptive Lord busy for at least a few hours yet—and I have long since rigged this room to fulfill my wishes should I ever get an opportunity like this."
"Yer barmy, aren't you? Let us down!"
"Ah, you may wish to be more polite to your executioner, Amycus. I'm already disinclined to making this quick." Alexander let his hands flex around the gauntlets of his focus, cradling the crystalline inlays resting on his palms and letting the sense of the metallic latticework going up his arms settle him. There was a definite hum under his skin as his magic mixed with the inherent magic of the alternate focus. Alecto let out a wail of rage at his words while Amycus settled into glaring silence. It would only be polite to explain why he was going to tear them apart, why he would force them to understand his pain and grief as he extracted his vengeance upon them both. "Did you fools really think that you could take what was mine without payment? Did you think that because your upstart of a lord held control over Britannia that even one ounce of that trickled down to your worthless hides?"
"Don't speak of the Dark Lord like that! Don't you dare!"
"Oh, I dare," Alexander hissed. He slashed the air with his fingers and did nothing to slow their collective fall. There was a sickening crack as one of them broke something—and badly, judging by the coppery tang twisting its scent into the air immediately after. "The Dark Lord holds power currently because he is allowed to do so, you idiots. If the magum chose to act against him, he would have long since been nullified as a threat. They have not acted only because he openly shows respect for the Old Ways, and with a few exceptions—" He pointedly glared at the siblings still bound in McGonagall's silver net. "—with a few exceptions, he forces his sycophants to respect them as well. If I was a benevolent sort, I would turn you over to his mercy."
"The magum are pathetic and weak! They wouldn't dare to do anything against the most powerful wizard since Merlin!"
"Oh, Vivian would have laughed to hear that! As if the spawn of a muggle and a squib could match the power of even the least magum-born wizard! Did none of you pathetic idiots even think to research the man you would be pledging your service to? Did none of you—" Alexander cut himself off with a hysterical laugh. Dear sweet Magic, Vivian had been right when she postulated that Riddle had hidden his heritage from his followers, just as Dumbledore had secreted away the information from the general public. Of course, she couldn't collect upon their wager—because these two had murdered her for refusing what they had no right to demand. Rage boiled within him, making the crystals of his focus burn as the magic gathered in them. "You are fools, the lot of you."
Alexander focused on the curse they had taught him, had taken particular humor in teaching him. He knew he wasn't one of the magum, with their ancient Calling from Mother Magic, and with his muggleborn mother, he wasn't even a mere pureblood like the idiots now writhing as much as their bonds allowed them. He had no claim of purity beyond the honor code his sensei had beaten into him, both literally and metaphorically. Pain for the sake of pain was abhorrent—it served no purpose and went against the Laws of Nature, as the Cruciatus caused no physical wound. Despite the knowledge of Yamiko's disappointment, of his grandparents and mother's, of Vivian's, Alexander had no difficulty gathering the necessary emotion to rack up the pain level to its maximum, to truly mean it.
The magic swirled around him, darkly warming and heady like absinthe. It tasted familiar, like the time Vivian had helped him sneak into the tiny sidhe she and the other fae-born used while at Hogwarts and she had danced for him around a leaping bonfire as the ever-lasting twilight wrapped its arms about them—that had been after they had confirmed their compatibility and their Houses began the great efforts of exchanging promises of first refusal for more committed betrothal vows. The realization that it had only been a year since they had shared those hours in the pocket of between ripped through him. It tore a scream from his own throat to match the hoarser ones still spilling from both Carrows.
Like a festering wound once lanced, the grief refused to retreat once it had been given voice. All the rage that had kept him together these past seven months dimmed under the onslaught of pain, sudden and raw. He couldn't stop—couldn't focus, not even on terrorizing the monsters who had stolen his Vivian, his tesoro bella. It hurt—oh, Mother, it hurt. He couldn't breathe, too caught up in the sobs choking him. Was this how she had felt as her lungs had filled with blood, as the source of life itself traitorously robbed her of vital resources?
In the distance, Alexander heard Voldemort coldly announcing that they had an hour to bury their dead—but Vivian had long since been returned to Lord Selwyn, to be returned to Magic as her House's traditions demanded, which was a secret he still was not worthy of knowing and would never be worthy of knowing because he had failed to protect the treasure placed within his care. His eyes snapped towards the whimpering pair of murdering thieves, an idle idea from his old comics playing in his head. He had failed to defend her, and he will regret that for the rest of his life. Even tossing aside all honorable intentions to extract punishment did little to assuage the guilt he would forever drown within.
But he could avenge her, cleanly and irrevocably.
"Wha—What's th-this now?" Amycus said as Alexander approached. He sounded like he had meant the words to be threatening, despite the bindings and still twitching limbs. Alexander sank to his knees in front of the other man. His eyes were clear, he knew, as his gaze met Amycus'. Like the parody of a lover's touch, Alexander placed the crystalline array of his focus against the bare skin at the base of Amycus' throat.
"I designed these gauntlets with a specific use in mind," Alexander intoned, all emotions wrung out of him now that he had his little bout of catharsis. He flexed his fingers to trigger the focus to begin drawing in energy. Amycus jerked under Alexander's hand. "I only wanted to redirect spells—ironic justice, don't you think? Sending someone's own spell back at them or towards their ally without the ill precision of reflecting—it has a certain elegance to it. But that was not enough for my beloved Vivian—oh, no, certainly not. She always wanted more, just like the Slytherin she was."
Amycus gave a wet gurgle as he gave another jerk. His eyes bulged like the rude novelty toy his mother had given him for his birthday last year. Alexander watched with dispassionate eyes as blood vessels burst in the man's eyes. Blood trickled slowly from Amycus' left nostril.
"It really only took tweaking a single rune to allow for other sources of magic to be drawn into the matrices, more contained sources," Alexander continued, not moving even as Amycus began to jerk in a feeble attempt to get away from the hand just resting on his throat. "I know you feel it—the suck on your magical core, the ripping as the last dregs travel through your body. I have a theory that has nothing to do with bunnies. Wizards are constantly going on about how they cannot live without their magic. I postulate that it is true. What do you say?" Amycus gave a final jerk before going completely limp. The corpse crumpled sideways, jostling Alecto's severely broken leg. She gave a weak cry in protest. "Well, thank you for your contribution to the world anyway. However, one data point is simply not enough to be thorough. I'm sure you understand."
Alecto took far less time to drain. She didn't have much magic to begin with, and what little she had had was expended trying to heal the compound fracture to her femur. She wouldn't have lasted much longer anyway, bleeding as she was. At the point that the liar finally died, the act was mercy as much as vengeance.
It was too late for him as well. The act had done something far worse than bring about his death. It now sat as a stain upon his soul and always would. Alexander stumbled to his feet, intent only on leaving the Tower.
He needed distance.
He needed escape.
A fairy-laugh sounded in the wind, reminding him that he would never have either.
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An Ending
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