0x0: scene break
-x-x-x-x-x-: flashback
Response to Jon3776's challenge: Seven Queens of Darkness, Seven Ladies of Light.
Redemption of the Black Sisters will be the first story. Seven Queens of Darkness, Seven Ladies of Light will be the sequel.
Warnings: It's M for a reason.
Again, I'd rate this fic a NC-20, but this site doesn't have it, so tough luck. If you're not ready for it or you're not happy about it, click the small x at the top right hand corner, or hit the back key. Don't bother flaming me. If DLP members couldn't influence me otherwise, you probably can't either.
0x0
Acknowledgements: Lori Foster, Steven Erikson. Jon3776. Less Wrong (author of Methods of Rationality – it's a good read, go look it up.) and Sythe, author of Tis Femina (a Naruto story), Jbern gets credit for the chapter name.
No one else is included.
Period.
0x0
Chapter One: Turn me loose.
0x0
Seated on the soft duvet of her bed, Narcissa regarded her family's holdings once again. The figures swam and the perfectly curved handwriting blurred into a mismatched mess of black blurs. Sighing, she dropped her head forward, pressing the heel of her hands against her eyes, softly cursing the pounding migraine. Outside, the relentless rain came down, accompanied by great flashes of lightning which lit up the dark interiors of the mansion.
She liked storms, but not this one.
This time, she felt the turbulence of the weather. The air crackled with electricity – and ill intentions. Greed. Evil. And the Dark Lord's terrible anger at her sister's failure to retrieve the prophecy seemed to manifest in the very skies itself, distant sounds of thunder reverberating throughout the spacious room.
Even without the sick taint of his presence, Voldemort's overwhelming need to bring all of Wizarding Britain under heel hung thick in the air, a sickening miasma that made her nauseous. Shrugging aside the unease that clung to her like a wet cloak, she forced herself to concentrate on the tasks at hand.
The Malfoy fortunes were depleted: not depleting, dwindling, or even greatly diminished. The Malfoy fortunes were depleted.
She had cautioned Lucius, warned her husband that his misguided devotions to the Dark Lord would be the end of their family. He had not deigned to listen.
Worse: Lucius had been less than kind in dealing with her 'insults to the Dark Lord'.
Only the fact that she was his lawfully wedded wife spared her from becoming the plaything of his fellow compatriots. More than once, they'd expressed their base desires in crude manners. Forcing down the painful memories proved difficult, and the imagery that her subconscious mind dredged up to the surface brought the ghost of tears to her eyes. Yet in the end, fierce determination won out.
With a sweep of her hand, the mess of parchments spread atop of her covers gathered into a neat stack before inserting themselves neatly into the worn envelope, which she placed on her dresser. Come noon tomorrow, Draco would discover just how very far the Malfoy family had fallen. Maybe then he would gain a clearer understanding of his circumstances.
Narcissa threw back her sheets, clutching to her breasts a nondescript envelope as she padded to the open windows, and allowed herself to wallow in the memories that suddenly assailed her, to put her regrets to rest.
The paper thin layer of protection her silk negligee offered was barely enough to ward away the biting cold, but she relished it all the same, shivering as the chilly night airs washed over her mostly bare body, tightening her nipples, caressing intimate places. The mid-July nights were cool in contrast to the sweltering heat of the day, but they reminded her just as easily of her desires.
For one, Lucius had not touched her in years. For another, sex with her husband had offered no more than base physical release. He'd never blown her mind, never burned her up. During their engagement, he'd been faithful, and she'd made do with the few, quick, and passionless intimate moments she'd gotten from him. After their marriage, he'd done no more than was necessary to beget an heir, and she'd done the same.
Desire, like so many other things in her life, had been sacrificed for her marriage.
Her ambitions for a career had been dashed, her dreams of fiery love and passion quashed, and her self-respect torn to pieces by her very own husband. Her marriage had been a sham, through and through. She'd married a man she never loved. She'd mothered a child who could never truly be hers.
She'd honored her father's wishes.
In the end, her father's wishes had proved damning and his views bigoted, backward: biased, but by the time she had realized this, it had been too late.
Clutched in her hand now was her only hope. It was her dear cousin's parting gift. It was a chance, a glimmer of hope, a second life.
Yet, like all gifts, it had a price to be paid.
Her slender pale fingers trembled as she read, and re-read the letter. She never doubted the authenticity of the letter. She and Sirius had been close, and she was intimately familiar with his modus operandi, his styles of writing, and even the ink he used. They'd been tight as thieves back in the days of their childhoods: Sirius, Bellatrix, herself, and dear Andromeda playing in the orchards, laughing hundreds of feet in the air…
They were happier times.
'Help Harry defeat Voldemort'
The echoes of Sirius's last, written words rattled in her skull, voiced by the traitorous memories she had of him in the early days.
'Damn you, Sirius, Damn you.'
They were happier times.
0x0
-x-x-x-x-x-
The man was screaming, as the guards dragged him by his chains, across the courtyard to the ring-wall. His crushed feet left a bloody trail on the dirt ground. Screams of accusations wailed from him, shrill outrage at the shaping of the world – the world he envisioned.
Bellatrix snorted softly. "Hear him, such naivety."
Her Lord standing in front of her on the balcony treated her to a sharp look. "You foolish imbecile."
"My Lord?"
The Dark Lord tightened his grip on the railing and stood upright. Pale fingers slowly entwined. From somewhere overhead, a bird crowed. "Who poses the greatest threat to my world, dear, demented, Bella? My world of peace."
"Fanatics," she replied, after a moment, "like that one below."
"Wrong. Listen, and listen closely. The man below is possessed of certainty, he holds to a secure vision of the world – a world he envisioned. He believes himself correct in his judgment, in his answering retorts to life – that the prerequisite questions were themselves the correct ones goes without saying. Anyone with certainty, Bella, can be swayed, turned, and made into a most…diligent ally."
"All one needs to do is to find that which threatens them the most. Ignite that fear, burn to cinders the foundations of those certainties, then offer an equally certain and secure way of thinking, of seeing the world. They will reach across, no matter how wide the gulf, and grasp and hold onto you with all their strength."
"No, the certain are not our enemies, presently misguided, as in the case of the man below, but always most vulnerable to fear. Take away the comfort of their convictions, and then coax them with seemingly cogent and reasonable convictions of our own making. Their eventual embrace is assured."
"I see."
"Bellatrix, our greatest enemies are those who are without certainty; the ones with questions, the ones who regard our tidy answers with unquenchable cynicism. Those questions assail us, undermine us."
"They… agitate things, situations, and if they could - entire worlds! Understand: these people know that nothing is simple; and so they hold to the very opposite of naivety, wisdom, or in some cases, suspicion; paranoia. They are humbled to the ambivalence to which they are witness, and they defy our simple, comforting assertions of clarity, of a black and white world."
"Bellatrix, when you wish to deliver the gravest insults to such a citizen. Call them naïve. You will leave them incensed, indeed, virtually speechless… until you watch their mind back-tracking, revealed by a cascade of expressions, as they ask themselves: who is that would call me naïve?"
"The answer, Bellatrix, is clearly a person who's confident, possessed of certainty, along with all the arrogance and pretension at superiority that such a position entails; which permits the offhanded judgment, the derisive dismissal uttered from a most lofty height. And from this, into your victim's eyes will come the light of recognition – in you, Bella, he would face his worst, truest enemy. And. He. Will. Know. Terror!"
The Dark Lord smirked. "Do I possess certainty? Or am I floundering in the wild currents of complexity?"
He remained silent for a moment, and then he said, "I hold to but one certainty."
"Power shapes the face of the world. In itself, it is neither benign nor malicious; it is simply the tool by which its wielder reshapes all that is around himself, or herself, to match his own ideal world, his or her own comforts."
"Of course, to express power is to enact tyranny, which can be subtle and soft, or hard and cruel. Implicit in power – political, familial, as you like – is the threat of coercion, against all who choose to resist, and know this: if coercion is available, it will be used."
He gestured to the screaming man. "Listen to that man. He does my work for me. Down in the dungeons, his cellmates will hear his ravings, and some among them join in chorus – the guards take note of who, and that is a list of names I peruse daily, for they are ones I can win over. The ones who say nothing, or turn away, now that is the list of those who must die."
"So," she said, "we let him continue screaming."
"Yes, Bella, we let him continue to scream."
-x-x-x-x-x-
How oddly insightful, Bellatrix thought. Morbid curiosity – or is it curious morbidity? - had driven her to think of that particular conversation she'd had with her Lord.
"All one needs to do is find what threatens them the most. Ignite that fear, burn to cinders the foundations of those certainties, then offer an equally certain and secure way of thinking, of seeing the world. They will reach across, no matter how wide the gulf, and grasp and hold onto you with all their strength."
Her Lord had certainly found what threatened her the most - the fear of being abandoned; thrown away so much as waste by the one man she'd devoted her life, her soul to. Most certainly, he had ignited that fear, and burnt to cinders the foundations – no, not of her certainties that the Dark Lord would never abandon her, never deem her useless, but her loyalty.
What the Dark Lord had burned and crushed in that split second when he'd considered leaving her behind to the mercies of the Ministry, was her loyalty, her devotion. Fifteen years of servitude had not softened the Dark Lord's harsh cruelty. Her work and efforts, her sins and crimes, committed in his name – had been found wanting. She could think of no greater deed that would garner her Lord's returned devotion. Nothing…
This time, there were no 'equally certain and secure way of thinking, of seeing the world', no 'gulf to reach across', nothing to grasp, nothing to put her faith in; not her husband, not the Dark Mark she'd so proudly worn on her forearm like a trophy, certainly not her Dark Lord.
Her train of thought was abruptly broken by the screeching of a dying owl, the smell of burnt feathers and woodwork as both Owl and the box it carried were vaporized upon entry from the tall cellar's window. And out of the mini-conflagration rolled a golden knut, white smoke wafting and coiling about the coin from the sudden heat, which dropped the remaining height, rolling and burning hot, as the magic inherent within withstood the ferocity of the wards.
A Golden knut…
Understanding bloomed at the familiar magic that seeped out of the small coin just at the foot of her bed. She had to hurry. It would not last long.
Bellatrix flexed her fingers, and then with the last of her strength, summoned the golden knut up from the floor, clear of the slime and dross and into her mouth where she chewed viciously, her teeth grating on the metal even as the sharp burrs cut into her gums. Again, began the mechanical, vicious, tugging at the manacles that held her, this time: cackling with glee.
Come Rabastan, dear brother of my husband, my rapist, my tormentor, I would greet you now, here, heartily!
COME!
0x0
The corridor was narrow and deserted, thicker with dust than most others, barring where his boots had scraped an eager path. Rabastan strode quickly now, eyes filling with anticipation. As he approached his destination, his Lord's words echoed in his mind: We begin the purge of this world shortly, get some rest.
Rabastan smirked.
Rest?
There were far better ways to relax.
His feet carried him down a well worn path through the winding corridors, the sharp turns and sudden declines, to the door, where he drew a key and unlocked the latch, stepping inside.
"I knew you'd be lonely," he said.
The light emanating from his wand which had lit the way for him dimmed, and he went over to the table, where he sat it into an ornate holder.
"Thirsty? I'm sure you are."
He glanced over his shoulder, and saw her watching him, saw the desire in her eyes.
"There's more trouble in the Dark Lord's chambers, Bella. But I will protect you. I will always protect you. You are safe here, away from the Dark Lord who would kill you for your failures and see your flesh fed to the vampires, safe from my brother who would toss you to the Werewolves for your incompetence in begetting him an heir. You understand that, yes? You are forever safe here, with me. Yes? Yes."
She nodded, and he saw her spread her legs wider on the bed, then invite him with a thrust of her pelvis. And Rabastan Lestrange smiled.
He had his perfect woman.
"Pull the chain tighter on my ankles," Bellatrix said. "Force my legs wider."
"You enjoy being helpless, don't you?"
"Yes. Yes!"
Smiling, Rabastand knelt at the side of the bed. The chain beneath ran through holes in the bed frame at each corner. Pins held the lengths in place. To tighten the ones snaring her ankles, all he needed to do was pull a pin on each side at the foot of the bed, drawing the chain down as far as he could, and as he listened to her moans, replace the pins.
He would not use the Imperious. No. The blind servitude that the Unforgivable instilled in its victim would be meaningless on Bella, a woman who was fiery, passionate…his. It would be tasteless, and cold in its act of forced participation. He wanted her to see as he entered her, took from her. He wanted her to know he was raping her, and that she would love it.
Pins in place, he rose, than saw down at the edge of the bed, staring down at Bellatrix, the wife to his brother. Naked, most of the bruises fading since Rabastan no longer liked hurting her. A beautiful body indeed, getting thinner with each day, a trait he preferred in his women. He reached out, and drew his hand away again. He didn't like any touching until he was ready. She moaned a second time, arching her back, baring him a view of her wondrous breasts.
Rabastan Lestrange undressed. Then he crawled up onto the bed, loomed over her with his knees between her legs, hands pressing down onto the thin mattress to either side of her chest. He saw how the manacles had torn at her wrists. He would need to treat that – those wounds were looking much worse. Slowly, Rabastan settled onto her body, felt her shiver beneath him as he slid smoothly inside her hot flesh. So easy, so welcoming, her body: she groaned, and, studying her faced, he asked, "Do you want me to kiss you now?"
"Yes!"
And he brought his head down as he made his first deep thrust.
0x0
Bellatrix, once eminent Death Eater, had found in herself a beast, prodded awake as if from a slumber of centuries, perhaps longer. It was a beast that understood captivity, that knew, sometimes, what needed doing entailed excruciating pain. Her wrists, hidden beneath the manacles mostly by scabs, sported blood and torn shreds of skin, the bones worn down, chipped, cracked – by constant savage tugging.
Animal rhythm, blind to all else, deaf to every scream of her nerves drove her, tugging, and tugging, until the pins beneath the frame began to bend. Ever so slowly, bending, the wood holes chewed into, the pins bending, gouging through the holes. And now with the extra length of chain that came when Rabastan had reset the pins at the foot of the bed frame, she had enough slack.
Enough slack to reach with her left hand and grasp a clutch of his hair, pushing his head to the right where she had, in a clattering blur brought most of the chain through the hole, enough to wrap round his neck and then twist her hand down and under and then over; and in a sudden, god-touched moment of clarity and determination, pulled her left arm up, higher and higher with that arm – the manacle and her right wrist pinned the to the frame, tugged down as far as it could go.
Rabastan thrashed, sought to dig his fingers under the chain, and she reached ever harder, her face brushing his own, her eyes seeing the sudden blue hue of his skin, his bulging eyes and jutting tongue. He could have beaten against her. He could have driven his thumbs into her eyes and into the soft tissue of her brain. He could probably have killed her in time to survive all of this.
But she had waited for his breath to release, which ever came at the moment he pushed in his first thrust. That breath that she had heard a hundred times now, close to her ear, as he made use of her body, that breath is what killed him.
He needed air.
He had none.
Nothing else mattered.
He tore at his own throat to get his fingers under the chain. She pushed her left arm straight, elbow locking, and loosed her own scream born of obsession. She stared at that blue bulging face, felt that flooding burst from his penis, and followed by the hot gush of urine pouring into her. Staring eyes, veins blossoming red, then purple until the whites were completely filled.
She looked right into them; looked into those staring eyes, seeking his soul, seeking to lock her gaze with that pathetic, vile, dying soul.
I murder you. I murder you. I murder you!
They were the beast's silent words.
They were the beast's gleeful, savage assertion. Her violet hued eyes shouted it as him, shouted it into his soul.
Rabastan Lestrange. I kill you!
0x0
Four bells passed before Bellatrix managed to push the corpse of Rabastan Lestrange to one side, and it lay now beside her as if cuddled in sleep, the bloated, blotched face next to her own. There would be no one coming for her. This room was unknown to all but Rabastan Lestrange, and unless some urgent matters required her Lord to demand his presence, and so seek him out, Bellatrix knew it would be too late for her.
Chained to the bed, legs spread wide, fluids leaking from between her thighs; Bellatrix stared up at the ceiling, strangely comforted by the body lying at her side. It's stillness, the coolness of the skin, the flaccid lack of resistance from the flesh. She could feel the shriveled thing that was his penis pressing against her right thigh. And the beast within her was pleased.
She needed water. She needed that above all else. A mouthful would be enough, and almost immediately, the beast within her awoke, and her limbs jumped back into action, tugging at the chains, dragging the links against the wood, dreaming of the frame splintering beneath her – but it would take a strong man to do that, she knew; strong and healthy. But what she had was enough. More than enough.
A bell's time was all she needed. Working her right hand free, Bellatrix spat the golden knut from her mouth, it's round edge chewed down to burrs, an impromptu blade that fell into the open palm of her hand. Smiling, Bellatrix set to work. First the chains, then the wand Rabastan had so foolishly left at the table, and then…
Gringotts.
A mouthful of water would have been bliss.
She could spit it in the corpse's face.
0x0
From the moment Rufus Scrimgeour had risen up to the Head of Auror Office, Nymphadora Tonks had hated him. Her reasons were sketchy at best, but she'd quickly learned in her profession to never doubt her instinct. The now Minister for Magic was an average height man with an average rangy build, and a not-so-pleasant face. At eighteen years old and barely a year into her career at the Auror Office, she'd been very afraid of him.
Now at twenty-three, he merely repulsed her. At nine in the morning, fatigue pulled at her while her brain felt foggy. She needed a pepper-me-up in a bad way. Not a good start. Plastering a deliberate look of disinterest, Tonks sauntered into the familiar office of the Minister and took a seat where Fudge's favorite chair used to be.
"Excuse me, sir. I may have heard wrongly. What was it you wanted from me again?"
Seated behind a heavy mahogany oaken table with his feet resting against a footrest sipping at a cup of Ogden's Finest, Rufus Scrimgeour smiled that same smile that had always made her skin crawl.
"You did not hear me wrongly. You owe me, and you know it."
Fingers twitching for her wand, Tonks gritted her teeth and instead addressed him, "How so, Minister?"
A harsh bark that Scrimgeour tried to pass off as a laugh made her stomach lurch. Tonks stared at the man who had served as her direct superior from the first time she'd set foot into the corps after Mad-Eye himself. Now, he served nothing at all. She had no allegiances to him beyond that of protecting him from attempts on his life – should she be in the vicinity that is.
As a survivor in a male-dominated profession, she'd overcome obstacles and conquered nearly all her fears. With very few exceptions, she could face anyone and anything without flinching. Yet, old memories, and the pain of regrets that encompassed her early start in the career always hit her like a bludgeoning curse to the stomach.
Time hadn't softened them.
Nothing ever would.
The hush of clothing against couch cushions and the click of his polished boots announced Scrimgeour's approach. She didn't have to look to know the Minister was smiling, that his yellow eyes glittered with satisfaction. He was right. She owed him.
"If it wasn't for me," he whispered from her right side, "you wouldn't have been able to save them."
"Shut up."
"If it wasn't for me," he continued, "your parents would have long died on their little vacation."
"It was your duty."
"Not really. It was Amelia's. But oh, troubled as she was by Fudge's political games, she could hardly spare the time to tell you, little girl, that your parents were marked for death, now could she?"
He was wrong. She had tried. Except that if Scrimgeour's warning had not come at the time that it did, the missive would have been too late, and she would have lost her parents, her family.
Still…
Tonks smirked. She owed him no Life Debts. It was part of his duty. He'd been one of the Aurors notified of the uncovered plans.
"Little girl? I'm just a few inches shorter than you are, Minister."
She slanted her gaze up at him, bringing just a speck of her metamorphagus's powers to the fore to add that brilliantly, dangerous look into her eyes. It didn't take much effort. Her repressed anger at the man's blatant sexism was already boiling hot.
He appeared taken aback but for a moment before he gathered himself. "And yet," he said, his voice frighteningly gentle as he moved to the back of her chair, "you're still so much smaller."
With every fiber of her being, Tonks felt Scrimgeour standing there behind her. Her skin prickled and the hair on her nape lifted as if touched by static. In-born instincts screamed at her to maneuver around, to face the threat head on, but Tonks held herself in check.
An Order port-key, made by Dumbledore himself would transport her the moment she even thought the word. If Scrimgeour made any rash movements, she'd come back and wreak hell-on-earth upon his domain, Minister or not.
"So, because you think I owe you, and for that, you want me to…what, talk to Harry Potter?"
The Minister scowled, the action transformed his visage into something akin to a disfigured lion. A disfigured lion with grey manes; how interesting. "After all the ministry has done, he might not want to see me. But you…you could get in on his good side, convince him to have a meeting with me."
Tonks watched him closely. "I can't do that, not with Auror Duty-"
"I'll see to it that you're reposted immediately. Having an Auror to guard the community's hero is of course, just one of the Ministry's many new changes to come."
Tonks could have grinned. He'd walked right into that.
"You mean your changes."
"I'm the Minister for Magic. Surely, I'm meant to do more than govern in this time of war? Be a good girl, and bring Harry Potter to our way of thinking quickly. Or I might just have to use drastic measures. Measures neither he, nor Albus Dumbledore would like."
She scowled. Things were getting out of hand.
"And how exactly am I supposed to do that?"
"You're a woman now, Nymphadora."
At twenty-three, she agreed, but that wasn't his point at all.
"So?"
"All women know how to sway men. Not that the brat would even fit the criteria, though I imagine you know better than most how to do-"
Cutting off that tired insult, Tonks asked, "Why do you want to see him?"
"It's a personal matter, Nymphadora."
That dismissive tone wasn't fooling her one bit. Amelia may have seen fit to let an old friend slip by without finding out his true intentions with regards to the state of things, but not her. Not when her soon-to-be official charge would be the one she'd have to shanghai into meeting this bigot of a wizard.
"What? You're sending me on a liaison/guard basis and you won't tell me exactly what you want him to meet you for? And he's supposed to buy that? Just like that? No questions asked, no suspicions?"
Tonks snorted. Voldemort would be kissing babies and hugging pregnant muggle mothers before Harry James Potter trusted the current Ministry – and, it seemed - with good reason.
"Fine, but I'll do it with one condition."
Scrimgeour's face screwed up into a scowl. "You're giving me conditions?"
"Yeah. Quit calling me Nymphadora. And the next time you insinuate I slept my way up to the Senior Auror Forces, I'll kick your ass. Got it? Good."
And with that Parthian shot, she walked away, leaving a fuming Minister for Magic behind.
Things were looking up. Now all she needed was a pepper-up potion. Or maybe some of that infamous coffee that Shacklebolt seemed to love…
0x0
Violence had never been part of his more docile, laidback, quasi-defensive nature.
Until now, that is. For brief moments, Harry considered the knife that Sirius had given him. The seven inch blade had melted down into a mottled rod of sorts, retaining but a single sharp point – its original spear point. Right now, Harry considered ramming that point home onto the dresser top, just for the sake of it. He had a good feeling that it'd help relieve some pent up stress, particularly since it was the type of stress pulling at his pecker wouldn't resolve.
He turned the blade in his hand, blade point out, blade point in. It was a habit of sorts. As a treasured memorabilia of Sirius, he wasn't about to toss it away. When the chance came, he'd take it to a shop and have it fixed. He was reasonably sure one of the shops along Diagon Alley could service it.
For now, he put off ideas of gallivanting about the open alley away. He had more important things to worry about.
His shoulder-length hair slick with perspiration stuck to his neck, clung to his nape. The dying afternoon sun beat a relentless wave of heat into his room, and without a fan or even the barest forms of rudimentary ventilation, the room became a man-made oven.
Worst, the room stank.
The stench of stale teenager hung thick like pollen in the room. The open window helped, but it was still a noticeable difference. It was as if he'd been doused from head to toe in dross and dragged across the room's small confines, the floor, the ceiling, the wall, and left behind an olfactory ghost of himself.
Trapped within this prison – for that was what it had effectively turned into – Harry reflected on the mud-like feeling of hatred and anger welling up inside of him like a fountain of lava.
Hours of practice at Occlumency, at delving into his own mind and attempting to understand why he reacted the way he did, said the things he said, moved the way he moved, had never so much as yielded a thought that was as fundamental at its core as the one that bounced inside of his skill now.
The relentless dig of indignation, of shame and regret and pain and hurt all rolled up into a gigantic blur of vibrant colors painted a gaudy, misshapen, portrait of fear in Harry's life. Knotting his one free hand in the bedding, he slid sideways against the wall before laying down on the lumpy mattress, staring at the ceiling as he contemplated further on his psyche.
He decided it was fear; fear of the unknown, of confronting Voldemort, of losing another loved one, Ron, Hermione, Remus, Tonks, of hearing another friend's misfortune, being at the wrong place and at the wrong time, just like Cedric had been.
It was an irrational fear that gnawed at his mind and pushed him to breaking point: an unreasonable, traumatic force that bore no burden, carried no weight, and traipsed around in his delicate mind with all the finesse of a raging rhinoceros. And until Harry figured out what to do about this irrational fear, worked out how to deal with it, he'd forever be stuck with it.
Not that many in his world would dismiss it as irrational. Having the most powerful Dark Lord of the century after your head and fearing could hardly qualify as irrational. In fact, it was so understandable, that even people not targeted by the Dark Lord quivered and shook in their clunky boots at the wanker's name.
Unless you happened to be Harry-beat that son of a bitch five times in a row – Potter.
Of course, the relative word was 'beat'.
The first time as a baby had been a fluke. The second time in his first year had been luck. The third time in the Chambers of Secrets had been Fawkes. He'd run from the snake-faced bastard in the fourth time at the graveyard. And he'd barely survived the fifth time in the Department of Mysteries.
Still, the fear existed. It existed despite his attempt at justifying it.
And because of that, he delved deeper, tried to sort out each individual motion that curried the murky waters of his mind, and only after hours of tossing and turning and the afternoon sun had yielded the sky to the moon, did he come to the answer he was seeking: an answer for the madness within.
It was hate; hate, not merely for having fled like a coward, but hate directed at himself, hatred for dismissing his own weaknesses that had inadvertently led to Sirius's death. They were weaknesses that in all his teenage angst, petulance, and acrimony, had been tossed to the side for his ego, his pride, accounted for by his endless justifications.
It hurt; hurt to know that he'd been foolish, immature, and rash. It hurt to know that had he paid heed to Hermione's words and tried to contact Sirius first, nothing like this would ever have happened. The wound ached as if it were real, wisps of thoughts gripping about his trachea and squeezing tight.
Ultimately, he reflected, it was the pain of not being in control.
That, Harry decided, had to change.
With that thought in mind, Harry gripped the gold coin that he'd been fingering in his other hand, and whispered, "Portus."
'Turn me loose, Sirius. Turn me loose.'
0x0
A/N:
So…how was it? Let me know about your thoughts and stuff, because this project would be going hand in hand with Jon's other challenge Seven Queens of Darkness, Seven Ladies of Light, it's going to be updated sporadically along with TBOAD. So let me know how it goes. Opinions are greatly appreciated.