Black Lilies
Chapter 1: The Breath that Keeps Me Living
Summary: It's his seventh year at Hogwarts and Harry finds himself desperately seeking an end to his fight against Voldemort. What he finds is an unexpected Slytherin ally and a new master. Post HBP; Horcruxes ignored/non-existent. HPDM.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is a very old story, but I haven't uploaded anything in a while so I thought I'd post it just for fun. It isn't going to be completed – I'm sorry. I've been busy working on some books rather than fanfictions for the time being. If you'd like to read my novels, there are 3: Death March, 6 Digit Passcode, and A Thousand Paper Dragons. They are all published on Amazon under my penname, Abigail Collins. Here are the links to read them (just add Amazon dot com forward slash to the beginning before entering):
dp/B00UENE734/
dp/B010G3QRF2/
dp/B019LRB42U/
xXx
He had tried to convince himself that things would get better in time. They never did.
He remembered their screams, their dying breaths ghosting along his face and suffocating him. Their mangled bodies swam across his vision, limbs bent, blood dripping, eyes blank but still open, staring. Watching him.
He could feel every last drop of Gryffindor courage pour out of his body, until he was left with nothing but fear. Ice-cold, gripping, heart-stopping, mind-numbing terror. It was like playing Russian Roulette; he never knew who would die next, just that it would be someone he knew and someone he loved.
His parents had been first, and his mother's terrified screams still woke him at night, ringing in his ears and keeping him from returning to his fitful slumber. Cedric Diggory's wide-eyed, open-mouthed face distracted him, and every time he closed his eyes he could see the whiteness of death creep over the Hufflepuff's motionless body. Sirius's haunted, expressionless visage still brought tears to his eyes, even two years after his death, and Dumbledore's frail body falling back and crumpling on the ground brought fresh surges of anger, bitterness, and defeat as though every nightmare he had of that day was real. He even felt guilt and sadness for the muggle caretaker who he had seen being murdered only in a dream, through a vision he couldn't even be sure had been true.
He had been fooling himself if he had ever thought that he could save everyone; for the entire wizarding world to remain safe from Voldemort, sacrifices had to be made. Some people had to die for others to live. He knew this fact, and thought he had come to terms with all that it entailed. But it just wasn't fair that every person who tried to protect him ended up dying in his place. He was branded a hero for the bravery of others; he hadn't really done anything but run and hide and let his loved ones take the fall for him. They would all die, one by one, until he was alone and defenseless. Voldemort would murder him, then. He didn't stand a chance.
The summer had gone by painfully slowly, the Dursleys watching his every move as though afraid he would attack them if provoked, now that he was legally old enough to use magic outside of school; even Uncle Vernon had left him well enough alone, treating him more like a picture on the wall than a fly buzzing around his head. Dudley had only bullied Harry when his gang was with him, and had never lingered long enough afterward for the over-played gloating sessions Harry knew he loved; Aunt Petunia had sent him to his room when she had to be alone in the house with him, and even Hedwig couldn't help him shake the feeling of loneliness that had developed within him with the discovery that it was no longer safe for his friends to send him letters, for fear of their interception.
School had resumed just weeks previous, and Harry could feel the pulsing control Voldemort had over him; his friends were on edge around him, his teachers ignored him, his family feared him, and he no longer had Sirius or Dumbledore to talk to, for comfort and advice. His isolation was slowly taking its toll on him, making it difficult for him to focus; even those that had given up everything to support him in years past were beginning to realize that their savior, the Boy Who Lived, was nothing more than the seventeen-year-old boy who sat beside them in class, who played wizard chess and disliked Potions and wasn't particularly adept at casting protection charms. Their Chosen One was just a boy, and it had been foolish of them to place their future, and the futures of their children and grandchildren, on the shoulders of a child who couldn't even cope with the death of a man he had hardly known, a man who had allowed himself to be murdered and had left the fate of the entire world to a boy who had never done anything particularly extraordinary in his life.
He felt a warm hand softly slide up his back to rest on his shoulder, and turned to see Hermione casting him a concerned glance; Ron, seated opposite them, was staring at him like he was dying, and Harry himself had to consciously check to see if he was. He wasn't, but one look at the table in front of him showed that his hands were trembling, and his eyes felt like they were wet, though he didn't think he had been crying. Yet.
"Harry, mate, are you alright?" Ron asked him, his voice laced with worry, using the tone he would if he were speaking to a troubled child. "You haven't even touched your lunch." He looked down and, sure enough, a large plate laden with all of his favorite foods lay untouched before him. He realized he must have been in the Great Hall, and wondered for a moment how he had gotten there; the last thing he remembered was being shaken awake in Transfiguration by a sympathetic-looking Professor McGonagall, but that had been his first class of the day, early in the morning.
He turned slightly and glanced around the Hall, seeing that nearly half of the school was eyeing him like they expected him to explode. He must have looked like hell, and he wondered for a moment what had happened while he had been out of it that had set all the other students on edge about his behavior. Had he snapped and said something he shouldn't have, or perhaps cursed someone who had gotten in his way? Or had he simply gone about his day in a trance, lost in his thoughts and completely unresponsive?
He looked up at Ron and Hermione's expectant faces; he wanted to say 'I'm fine' and ease their worries, but he couldn't bring himself to lie to them. He had always been moody, but Dumbledore's death had… unhinged him. People had always died around him, and he had always found the strength to move on and continue fighting, but Dumbledore had been his greatest ally, the strongest man he knew, who gave him hope that defeating Voldemort might just be possible. It hadn't been his battle to win, it had been theirs, and with him gone a war seemed not only real, but inevitable. For the first time he felt trapped, exposed, and… vulnerable.
He settled for "I'm not hungry" instead, and was surprised by how scratchy and broken his voice sounded, like he hadn't used it for days; that was probably true, he thought, because he couldn't remember when he had spoken last.
He could feel the piercing gazes of his peers on the back of his neck, and a wave of claustrophobia swept through him; he quickly placed his right hand over his left to stop it from shaking, and felt the eyes of at least a dozen other Gryffindors following his movements. Was this how things were going to be for the rest of the year? Everyone around him acting as if he were about to kill someone every time he so much as moved?
Brushing Hermione's hand off of his shoulder impatiently, Harry gathered his books as quickly as he could and left the Great Hall; he could still feel their eyes boring into him, even when he was safely locked away in the deserted Gryffindor common room.
He collapsed onto the nearest couch, burying his face in his hands and wondering whether he was going to cry or not. Sometimes he did, at the worst of times, without even realizing it, and sometimes he thought about Sirius, and Dumbledore, and his parents, and couldn't bring himself to shed a tear. He felt angry; angry with himself for letting them die, and angry at them for leaving him when he needed them the most. Ron and Hermione would be next, he felt certain, unless he did something. But what could he do?
He couldn't just offer his life to Voldemort and let his sacrifice be his friends' salvation; as noble as he felt certain the deed would be considered, he knew they would find some way to stop him. His mother had given up her life to save his, and the enchantment she had left within him made him cling to life physically even when he told himself it would be easier to just die and be done with it. Everyone was watching him, protecting him, making sure he didn't do something stupid; he hadn't been left alone all year except when he needed to use the lavatory or when he snuck out of the Great Hall early while everyone else remained there. But even without them watching his every move, he knew he didn't have the courage to let himself die, despite the House he had been sorted into; he wasn't brave enough to face the destiny he knew was inevitable.
There was no one who could stop Voldemort; couldn't they see it was useless to try? Why would they put their faith in a mere boy doomed to fail them? If he died, that was the end; everyone who stood up to Voldemort did so by backing Harry, and with him gone, they would have no figurehead to hide behind, to give them the strength to stand up to the Dark Lord. If the Boy Who Lived wasn't invulnerable, then what chance did any of his supporters stand when left to fight for themselves?
He sighed heavily and closed his eyes, brows furrowed, thinking. He was just so frustrated, angry, humiliated; all he wanted was for everyone to just leave him alone, let him be. Part of him wanted to try to save them all, to be grateful for their concern, and to be happy that he had so many people looking out for him; but the other part of him wanted to curse them all, tell them that he could do it himself, he didn't need their help, and make them all hate him just so he wouldn't have to see them watching him all the time like he would jump off of the Astronomy Tower if they didn't. Didn't they realize they would die if they tried to help him? He would rather face Voldemort alone than with others who he knew would die trying to save him.
Voldemort had told him, long ago, that there was only one way to live and protect the lives of those important to him. At the time, such an option had been unthinkable, and he had had no doubts about declining, but now… he was desperate. What if it really was that simple? Just follow Voldemort's command and guarantee the safety and happiness of himself and all of his friends? His parents had already been murdered when he had stood facing the Mirror of Erised with the Sorcerer's Stone clenched tightly in his fingers, and he had felt a jolt of power when faced with the opportunity to live forever, to be given to power of a god, to truly live up to the destiny that had been thrust upon him. What would have happened if he had just given the stone to Voldemort, let him be revived, and removed himself as the Dark Lord's enemy?
Cedric Diggory would never have died because Voldemort wouldn't have needed Harry's presence in the graveyard that night. Harry would never have flown to the Department of Mysteries after seeing a vision of his godfather being tortured, and Sirius would never have come to rescue him; he would still be alive, and Harry would be living with him in Number 12 Grimmauld Place – they would be the family Harry had always wanted. The Death Eaters wouldn't have raided Hogwarts, and Dumbledore would still be alive to keep the wizarding world safe; Harry wouldn't have to worry about anything but passing his N.E. and getting Ron to realize that Hermione was madly in love with him.
"There is only power, and those too weak to seek it. Why suffer a horrific death, when you can join me, and live?"
He hadn't asked to be chosen to defeat Voldemort; he had been a baby when his destiny had been thrust upon him. All he wanted was to have parents, and friends, and no higher purpose than living and enjoying his life; he never wanted to have to fight to stay alive, face death and fear before he was even an adult, struggle to keep himself and those around him living, while others he could not save died in his arms. He would take it all back in a heartbeat if he could, make it so that someone else would be the Chosen One, and he would just be Harry Potter, a seventeen-year-old wizard from Godric's Hollow, with a mother and a father and a godfather and no destiny or prophesy.
Pressing a finger to his temple, he weighed his options; if things continued as they were, he couldn't be sure he would be able to stay in Hogwarts, with everyone staring at him like he would break at any moment, like he was fragile, diseased. Doomed.
Voldemort could give him the power to protect those close to him and himself. He would be strong, wouldn't have to fight anymore. He could live the life he had always wanted, be the teenager he had never gotten to be.
There was only one person he could trust to help him make the right decision and follow through with it, as much as it pained him to ask him for advice. But there was no one at Hogwarts who had been closer to Voldemort, and he needed to talk to someone who knew what it was like to be a Death Eater.
His decision made, Harry pushed himself up off of the couch, went to his room to retrieve something he knew he would be needing, and resolved to be back before Ron and Hermione even realized he was missing.
xXx
"You see him? Him, right there. Do you know what he did?"
"They're saying he's a Death Eater, one of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's minions."
"Is it true? Did he really murder the Headmaster last year?"
"D'you think he's ever actually met You-Know-Who?"
"His arm, just there, it's covered up, but I'll bet you he's been Marked."
Draco tried to block out the noise as best he could, but it was all around him, loud in his ears. The youngest Death Eater, the boy who had killed Dumbledore and led Voldemort's army into Hogwarts, come back to rid the school of mudbloods and the Dark Lord's enemies. He quickened his pace to escape their taunting and questions, but they followed him wherever he went. He held his head high, determined not to let them know that they were getting to him, but clamped his hands quickly over his ears when the noise grew and resounded loudly in his head. He turned the nearest corner and hid behind the wall until they had passed, letting out a sigh of relief when they did. He would miss his next class, but he didn't really care anymore; he didn't have any plans for his life that involved doing well in school, anyway.
Professor McGonagall – now Headmistress McGonagall, after Dumbledore's death – had allowed him to return to Hogwarts for his seventh year, having no reasonable proof that he had been the one who had led the Death Eaters into the school and who had planned the Headmaster's murder. She had shown her doubts about his integrity, given his family's history and the fact that his father was in Azkaban for things she was certain he had passed on to his son, but he had assured her that his role had been that of a spy for the Light, under Dumbledore's orders, and no one had challenged this fact; not even Potter and his friends had stepped up to credit him as a Death Eater, though he was certain they knew that he was. He hadn't even been asked to drink Veritaserum or show them the Dark Mark on his arm; everyone knew it was there, but he was a seventeen-year-old boy, and by wizarding law was granted safe haven within Hogwarts as long as he remained faithful. He was certain several of the professors believed he had been forced into getting Marked by his father, something he neither accepted nor discredited.
Professor Snape had been less fortunate; several fellow Death Eaters had outed him to save themselves from Azkaban, and he had been on the run ever since. No one had seen or heard from him, and his position as Potions teacher had been retained by Professor Slughorn in his absence. Draco knew where the potions master was hiding, but telling anyone would be considered betraying the Dark Lord, and Draco feared him more than he feared the consequences of getting caught as a Death Eater spy in Hogwarts; he was still not fully trusted by his master after having failed his mission the previous year, and he knew his life was in jeopardy should he make another such mistake.
He slumped against the wall as casually as he could, looking around with mild interest; he was in a third floor corridor when he was supposed to be outside for Herbology. He was already late, so there was no point in even going; school didn't matter much to him now that the Dark Lord was gaining the upper hand over the Ministry and the Order of the Phoenix. All that mattered to the families of Death Eaters was assisting their master in his rise to power, and any job they should get would prove useless once the Dark Lord ruled the wizarding world. Many of the other children of Death Eaters had been taken out of school by their parents, who hoped to use them to gain their master's favor; they had also hoped to spare their children the humiliation and degradation of returning to school, where they would most certainly be teased or put in danger by those who fiercely backed the Light, though Lucius Malfoy had no problem doing just that to his own son. Draco hadn't been given the choice not to return to school; his father had told him that it was time he grew up and learned to face his fears head-on. Draco wouldn't admit that he had any fears, necessarily, but going back to Hogwarts was uncomfortable all the same.
The sound of fabric rustling filled his ears and he thought he heard a muffled whisper of his name from somewhere behind him. He turned sharply, eyes alert, pulling his wand out of his back pocket and leveling it at his chest; a list of spells ran through his mind and he prepared himself to curse whoever had come to bother him, knowing he would probably get in trouble with McGonagall if he did, but not really caring if it meant he would have an excuse not to remain in school. He spun around and searched the hall for any sign of another student, but his eyes met blank stretches of wall in every direction, with not even a portrait that could have made such a sound. The entire corridor was empty.
"Malfoy," the voice repeated, and Draco identified it as belonging to a male; it sounded rough and low, and he thought he recognized something familiar in its tone, though he couldn't place a name to it. He wheeled around and swung his wand like a sword in the general direction of the noise, but touched nothing but air.
"Malfoy!" the voice said, louder this time and slightly exasperatedly; "Turn around." Wordlessly, Draco turned with an obedience he usually reserved for other Death Eaters and the Dark Lord, and was met by the sight he least expected.
Harry Potter stood opposite him, swinging a translucent, watery cloak over one arm – something Draco vaguely registered as the Invisibility Cloak he had found the boy wearing the previous year when he had caught him spying on his conversations and had broken his nose in return. Harry's eyes were rimmed with red and he looked like he hadn't slept in weeks, but he had a small half-smile on his face, nervous yet eager at the same time. Draco briefly wondered where he had seen that particular look before, though he was certain Harry had never let anyone see him so worn and defeated before.
"What are you doing here?" Draco asked as snidely as he could manage given the shock he still felt at meeting his sworn rival by chance in a deserted hallway when both of them were supposed to be in class. Didn't Harry care about keeping up his grades anymore? And what did his friends have to say about him wandering around the castle without them? True, Harry had been looking rather glum at meals as of late, but had the Golden Boy really sunk as low as he, the youngest Death Eater who had everything to prove and nothing to lose?
Harry's smile faded slightly and he twisted his cloak in his hands, but he didn't break his gaze on Draco, which the Slytherin found suddenly very unnerving, though he wasn't sure why. "I need to ask you something."
Draco rolled his eyes and made a move to turn away, ignoring the curiosity and apprehension rising inside him; whatever Harry had to say couldn't be so important that he, Draco, should take time out of his day to help him. They were still enemies, and nothing Harry could say would make him want to change that. But just as he stepped away a hand lightly touched his arm, fingers resting in the crook of his elbow, gentle yet demanding, and he pulled away roughly; out of the corner of his eye he could see Harry giving him a serious, cautious look, arm still outstretched and waiting.
"Please," Harry said, voice even and firm; "It's important." Something flashed in his eyes that made Draco stop in his tracks, and he focused his gaze on a door somewhere along the hall rather than looking at the other boy's pleading features.
Draco sighed, crossing his arms and trying his best to look like he had somewhere else to be. "What do you want?"
Harry's eyes immediately flickered to Draco's left arm, just above his wrist, where he had been Marked, and he said, in a throaty whisper, "It's about the Dark Mark; your Mark. I want to know how you got it."
Draco felt like the wind had been knocked out of him; was Harry trying to get him to admit he was a Death Eater? Was McGonagall hiding somewhere just waiting for him to confess to smuggling the Dark Lord's minions into Hogwarts?
"If you're trying to get information out of me, I'm not going to tell you anything." The small smirk fell on Harry's lips again, and it almost looked like he was trying not to laugh at Draco, though Draco was certain he hadn't said anything funny.
"No," Harry began, "I'm not looking for information. I want to know where you got it because I want to get one." He said it so simply he could have been speaking about the weather, and Draco wondered for a moment whether it really was Harry standing in front of him and not a Slytherin who had taken Polyjuice Potion.
"Listen, Potter," Draco said sternly, like he was scolding a child who had done something wrong but didn't know it; "If you're thinking about becoming a spy, don't drag me into -" But Harry cut him off with a voice so chillingly serious and frightening it almost felt like he was speaking to his father.
"I don't want to be a spy," he said, all nervousness gone. "I want to be a Death Eater."
xXx
