Disclaimer: Not mine. Short and sweet, eh? Not sure what's the point of these, but no matter.
New story! Lots planned and cool twists and turns ahead. Hopefully in a coherent narrative that will excite. Well, fair warning, there will be themes of extreme violence, offensive language, murder and general debauchery. Characters will not be all-around how you might have seen them in the books, but I try to keep them as close to their Canon-self whilst telling the story I want to tell.
AU, Year 5 Divergence – Ten years after the loss of his innocence, when the menace of Lord Voldemort arises once again, Harry Potter must conquer his unhinged mind and challenge the Dark Lord. It is the power of the mind to be unconquerable.
Chapter One of The Unspeakable
The Snow of Purgatory: Prologue Part One
Nightfall had descended upon the wastelands of the Northern Mountains half an hour ago. The sky had cleared up with the rise of the crescent-moon, twinkling with bright stars and a distant flicker of hues – crimson red, forest green and vibrant purple – which blazed from the Northern Mountains.
Northern Lights. The man knew them well by now.
The lone man, cloaked in dark robes, strode upon a narrow path. Swiftly and silently, the man conquered the slopes of snow last night's unforgiving weather had brought about, an intensity in his stride that was only born out of fear and desperation.
This man was Ian Shortwand.
The path led the man, Ian, who was beginning to feel slightly claustrophobic as the path narrowed further, into a tunnel going across the crux of a mountain. The passageway would pave the way through the mountain for him and, Ian knew, lead smoothly onto a valley of unquenchable wilderness and frost. This the man knew, for he had treaded these sacred halls of misshapen rocks and distorted magic before.
Flares of radiance hung suspended from the rocky-roof of the passageway, harvested from the Northern Lights – green, then red, then purple, chasing each other in a silent, never-ceasing dance of shadows and lights. It didn't illuminate the passageway as much as throwing the shadows into a glaring lucidity of aliveness. Like monsters crawled within the void.
No. The dread was all too apparent on his face. He wasn't supposed to think like that.
As he finally cleared out of the passage, the wizard, for he was indeed a wizard, gave an involuntary shudder of fear and breathed a quick sigh of relief. No matter how illusory his fear might be, he would never like the feeling of walking beneath a mountain. It was like walking beneath the weight of a sleeping god, which he knew quite a lot about, he supposed.
He shuddered in a final bout of irrational fear leaving the body, and cast his eyes about the clearing he had just entered.
Ice hung like spears from corridor-thick branches. Trees, as large as buildings, scattered out over the field of snow. It had seemed like a place out of touch with the rest of the world, when they first came here. Beyond the touch of humanity, of wizardry – only the measured passage of time stirred within this place. How his boss, his Lord, had even found this unseen passage was beyond him. No magic, that the man was aware of, could uncover this magical passage through the mountains. Above him, the branches created a roof of leafs, green and opaque, allowing no light to enter.
So why did he see so clearly? Ian stared around this lost world beyond worlds.
Ian moved on, choosing not to dwell upon that which he did not understand. Walking the familiar path between thick and dense trees – careful not to stumble on any protruding roots on the ground – he found little creatures of light following him, like fireflies, yellow and red, dancing like flames that won't burn. Ian had never dared walking into the Forbidden Forest when he attended Hogwarts, but something made him think that this might be a lot like it. Magical and at the same time inexplicably perilous.
At last, he came to the end of the passageway, the end of the vast, unfound clearing. Two rocky pillars, slightly bent, skewered into each other and created a symbol of vague resemblance to the letter 'V' put upside down. Within the two pillars of black, misshapen rocks, a waterfall was rising. The water surged upwards, offering no consideration to such fickle matters as gravity and other laws of nature.
Closing his eyes and steeling himself, and noting with no small amount of dread how the small creatures of light shied away from the water, he found his feet taking him into the water. Where he should have found himself amidst a rush of water, he found only a cooling sensation of rushing wind – and when he opened his eyes, he was back in the normal world again, back in a world of muggles and wizards.
A most breath-taking view met his eyes. Rows of mountains stretched out as far as Ian could see, black sky and white stars… and the lights of the Northern Mountains cast a glow of multi-coloured sparks across the sky like streaks of ancient magic.
A village of wizards laid nestled in-between mountains. Golden lights of magic and ancient times hung suspended in mid-air above the city. The walk he would have to overcome would be short and painless, he knew. The danger was behind him at last.
Ian Shortwand, his mouth suddenly edgy now that his price was in sight, descended the hill with a surety in his footsteps that wasn't there a moment ago. But before he got too far away, he stopped and cast his eyes back at where he should have ascended from, through waters of magic, but found nothing but a steep, treacherous mountainside of coarse rock and cold snow.
It was like the water had merely spat him out on the other side of the world.
Ian crept into the village like a silent guest, strolling on the main street of the town. He walked past a humid-looking bar, a favourite of the locals, much like the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade. Staring, motionless, for but a moment longer, Ian moved on swiftly from there, knowing he was no local and he wasn't welcome – not in the way where his presence would go unseen, at least. And that was what he craved tonight. Anonymity.
So, he moved onwards. Moving past the bar with the humble and benign air about it, he gazed down at a now, after four weeks of visits, familiar street of snow and activity. From certain angles, it even looked a little like Hogsmeade did this time of year – the time of Christmas.
What was he doing here again? In a foreign country during Christmas! Not that he had any family to speak of, but you didn't need family to celebrate Christmas, did you?
Did you?
Perhaps you did. He certainly hadn't been celebrating Christmas since he left Hogwarts behind. Hogwarts and her Christmas Feast…
Ian sighed. His Lord would be very cross if he knew of the things Ian longed for at night, when it was only he and his heart of hearts that cared to listen. Although, knowing Ian's Lord, he might just know what was going on in his head. It wouldn't surprise Ian.
Ian slipped inside a sordid bar and, with an ease only gained through multiple visits, found a quiet corner where he could keep to himself, away from the other patrons. Nobody moved to greet him and nobody moved to stop him. Nobody acknowledged him. Perfect.
They were a scant bunch, he noticed, although the air was more abuzz with the sound of soft chatter and hearsay than he was used to. At the front of the bar, there was a group of people, wizards and witches in brightly-coloured robes, chatting away with a foreign tongue Ian couldn't place.
"Så du ham der!" one of them said, a rather rounded man with sharp eyes and a boisterous laugh. "Han var helt ude og skide, var han ikke?"
Ian didn't understand a word of their conversation and didn't care to know. He cast his eyes further about, searching the table with idle interest whilst he waited for the barman, Sir Frank.
Sir Frank was an old man who had inherited the bar from his father, who had in turn inherited it from his father, and so forth, and so forth.
Rumours had it, though, that Sir Frank didn't have any children. Another lineage would have to seize the ownership of the bar when he died. Ian spent a fleeting moment envisioning himself as the owner. It was a happy thought, and thus, had nothing to do with his current life.
Not that he ought to be complaining – he chose to be here, after all. His Lord hadn't coerced him into servitude.
Not this time, at least.
Sir Frank at last came to his table and asked for his beverage. He was a thin man of small height. His hair was grey and balding, his face wrinkled and knobby, touched by the merciless teeth of old-age, and eyes distant and misty. Blind.
Ian smiled. He liked the man and his kind, unseeing eyes. They reminded him, for some reason, of Dumbledore from Hogwarts. Not that he would ever dare to mention that aloud.
"The usual, sir," Ian said, smiling broadly.
The barkeep nodded, smiled fixedly yet politely, and moved on with a slight limp, probably born out of old age. Ian got the feeling Sir Frank didn't really like him very much; it looked like-
Ian paused and stared. Now, how odd! Ian blinked, checking if his eyes weren't playing him for a fool. They weren't. Ian shifted in his seat to reach for his wand.
Sitting, eerily like a mirror, before him, a couple of tables away from his quiet corner, was a man dressed entirely in black. He had his hood drawn over his face, and it looked like there was a charm covering it from the prying eyes of the bar, for when Ian tried to look he found a void of blackness.
Beholding the room at large and noting that he wasn't the only one looking at the stranger in black, Ian contemplated the dark figure with analytical eyes. There wasn't anything extraordinary about his built. He was of medium height, just below six feet, Ian would guess, and had a rather thin form. But what really drew Ian's attention was the way the man held himself. His posture was rigid yet outwardly relaxed, his fingers twirled a long, wand of dark wood – calm yet prepared to slinging spells, if threatened. He had seen the body of a killer comfortable in his abilities to hurt others in his Lord, and this man was no different. Of that Ian was dreadfully sure.
Murmurs had descended over the bar, although Ian thought he'd just failed to pick up on it when he entered.
The man raised his glass of Firewhisky – if Ian was correct – and knocked it back in one gulp, then he rose to his feet, threw some coins on the table, and, with a last, sharp look round the room, strode out of the room, cloak bellowing after him.
He had the feeling the wizard had judged him. But how did he have that feeling, when all he could see was blackness in his face? Ian shuddered, but for a moment… for a moment he thought he had stared into the void of the Dark Lord's heart. Unkind and unforgiving.
The murmurs of the room ascended into whispers. Ian leaned back, motionless, staring vacantly at nothing in particular. Indecisions, like before all monumental choices of life, flittered through him, pushing him onto a lane of despair. Had he been lucid, he would have found it funny how eerily similar the bar was to the Three Broomstick, once the gossip got flowing and the meat got burnin'. But as it was, he was taken aback by the oppressive presence that had just left their midst.
There was powerful magic within the dark figure. Tight-lipped control, too – and an air of danger.
Ian knew fear once again.
Fuck it! He had to do something! Right?
The man had stared right into his eyes, and held them, almost with the hint of a challenge. Like he knew! A lance of fear etched onto his soul as he contemplated the sheer intent behind those unseen eyes. How had the man been able to communicate intent without actually revealing his eyes? Magic beyond Ian was at play here.
Merlin, there had been intent in those eyes, though.
"Se! Se! Han går mod bjerget," one of the foreign travellers said, standing by and gazing out the window looking out at the street. "Han må være sindssyg!"
Again, Ian didn't understand a word, but there was awe in the man's voice, and Ian found himself moving towards the man before he could think about it.
At the far end of the street – had he really been sitting so long and staring out into space? – the dark figure conquered the snow and ascended the slope on which the real path, the known path, to the Northern Mountains commenced.
Ian had a bad feeling. A terrible feeling. No… He cannot know… can he?
A quiet voice in the back of his mind, sounding like the hiss of his Lord, told him that he was better to err on the side of caution. Ian, filled with doubt, knew what he needed to do – what he must do.
He had to kill the stranger. He had to kill the man in black, for if he were on to them; there would be no escape from the wrath of his Lord, the sleeping god.
With a sigh, Ian admitted to himself that he knew not where he was going. He had been following the man in black as close as he dared, although he, too, seemed to have gotten lost, as Ian was sure that they had walked on this path before. The grounds were dark and peaceful. The rustling wind was a comforting presence, and with a few heating charms he didn't even feel the cold air.
Really, the fabled treacherousness of the Northern Mountains seemed highly exaggerated. Maybe it was just another one of those tales spun to scare children. Like the Chamber of Secrets and Deathly Hallows and such nonsense.
The land had become barren as they ascended the mountainside. Trees became scant, slopes of snow laid around in piles. Here and there, the man in black would disappear around one corner of a stone, or ascend over a slope of snow and wane from Ian's line of sight. And sometimes, when the inner-clock of alarm ticked off louder and faster than the snow breezed by, Ian would get the nervous feeling that he had lost his tail; with a hurried footstep, he'd ascend all the quicker at those times.
Though in the end, it seemed, he would always, somehow, end right up behind the man in black again.
The man in black walked ever on, towards the core of the Northern Mountains – towards where he might stumble upon their business. Ian couldn't have that. Of course, they were more out there – around twenty-five or thirty of them. But if he saw them! If he saw them and got away… His Lord would… do terrible things to them…
Ian didn't know for how long he had been following his victim-to-be. How far had he trudged and groaned through the icy forests and slopes, dragging his feet through the snow? Looking for the perfect moment to strike? Something held him back.
His Lord had warned them to stray off course, for time and space got weird up here… distorted, sometimes motionless, other times ablaze with senseless hurriedness.
He wondered about time, in such a cold, dreary place as this. Maybe it was more the perceptiveness of man that beheld time in such a twist, maybe it was an illusion of change created by a dwindling sense of humanity – a desperate cry for time to take away our minds from the nothingness of the Mountains; but did that really matter anyway?
What was the most real but the perceptiveness of the minds of men? Only the minds of men brought meaning to illusory concepts such as time and space. Reality.
Ian sighed. His mind wandered often in times where it really should not. It had been the same thing when he had taken his O.W.L's, although it was History. To be fair, everybody hated that class. Everybody daydreamed during History, right?
Ian blinked and tensed, his eyes widening as his gaze quickly darted around the path ahead. The man in black was missing. Again. Curse it! But he had been caught distracted again.
Suddenly, in the otherwise quiet and beautiful night, there was a rustling of snow, the disturbance of air, and a sensation of rising tranquillity in his abdomen. His body fell, limps motionless and powerless, to the snowy grounds. He didn't feel his descend and he didn't feel his landing, all nerves had been blocked, blissful, in a patch of serenity.
The snow around him turned red, and Ian realized – with a detach sense of delight – that it was his blood, that he was dying, and… that it was okay, that it was meant to be. The fear – which he knew to be there deep within him – had been blocked, a slithering corporeal idea of being someone else siphoned into his head.
Suddenly, the man in black stepped into his line of vision, robes billowing ceremoniously in the wind. His dread exploded from the deepest recesses of his mind, raving and all-consuming, and the pain flared to life with a spark of acrid agony.
The last thing he beheld before darkness claimed him, before his eyes went blind with death, was the icy stare of emerald green eyes from within the faceless void, as the person above him, Harry Potter, tore his mind asunder for information he did not have.
Ian Shortwand, a Death Eater of Lord Voldemort, died alone in the snow. For a cause he barely comprehended the meaning of.
The cold drove him to the edge of madness. In the midst of all this damn snow and slippery, treacherous slopes that adorned this wretched foreign country, Harry was swiftly getting fed up with the task he had been given by his superior.
Vast and unforgiving winds tore into his cloth- and spells of concealment-covered face, sending lances of sharp and agonizing pain through the delicate web of skin on his face. Like little needles prickling him all over unceasingly.
Harry sighed. He fucking hated the cold climate of Norway. Why couldn't he be sent somewhere warm – like Brazil or something?
A heating charm spilled from the tip of his wand with a mere thought, and surging heat expelled some of the unpleasant coldness, making him feel a pale semblance of normal again.
It had been a couple of days since he had killed the unfortunate Death Eater, a couple of days spent dragging himself through snowy wastelands and perilous slopes of unsteady snow. Yesterday he almost set in motion an avalanche trying to cross a particularly trickery mountainside, and Harry had vowed to be more careful.
Progress had been slow and tedious all day. Slow progress, Harry reasoned, meant staying alive, which meant actually getting anywhere at all. Patience was a virtue, and all that shit.
In the distance, whenever the wind seemed to let down long enough to let him glimpse on the road ahead, he could make out the mountains rise through the thick curtain of falling snow. If the Auror Department was right, which would have been wholly unintentionally on their part, then Death Eaters would be prowling the mountainsides at night, looking for something.
Harry had a good idea what they were looking for. Or rather Nathan Goodwill – and thus Harry – had a good idea.
Dragons.
Harry, for obvious reasons, didn't like the idea of Voldemort gaining the alliance of dragons – even though Harry could not fathom how. Dragons, at best, were volatile creatures who would leave you alone if you let them in peace. At worst…
At worst they ate you.
The possibilities were endless, really. Chaos and reason entangled in a disarray of defiance and greed for absolute power.
Or whatever the fuck Voldemort really wanted.
A screaming swirl of branches being broken echoed across the wastelands of snow.
A blinding flash of light aced across the darkening evening sky.
Harry, numbed, barely coherent of the world around him, had his wand outstretched and humming with the power of the spell that rested on the edge of his brain.
The light cleared and…
Nothing.
A deer ventured across the barren, steep hill, giving Harry a wide berth – and another flash of green wisps of light forked across the sky.
"Northern Lights and a fuckin' deer?" Harry scoffed, laughing derisorily, maddeningly. How long had it really been? A couple of days, and he was already seeing all the monsters in the void.
Motherfucker – shit…
When Harry had agreed to the mission, he had hardly thought it would involve freezing his damn arse to death. Ha! The Daily Prophet would have a field day if the world would see him now. The great Harry Potter, freezing his fucking ass off on the outskirts of an all-wizarding village in Norway called Trollman Plass.
Hardly the death worthy of the Boy Who Lived, was it?
Harry sighed. No use complaining about it. That wasn't how you were supposed to do it. And he had chosen this for himself, after all.
He treaded onwards, flicking his wand and pushing away the large pile of snow in his way with a throb of invisible magical power; it cleared away, and Harry continued, unchallenged. Hopefully, he would be there by nightfall, where he would give his status rapport.
Hours passed by with a detached sense of melancholy. Harry finally understood why Goodwill had been so adamant in his worries. Out here, you were all alone. Alone with only your traitorous thoughts, alone with only a sense of a survival instinct… a memory of being a person beyond this place.
Each step, however, only revealed another hindrance to be conquered, another moment of suffering to be endured in stoic, bleak fortitude.
Wretchedness was all his eyes could see. It was all his was meant to see. A test of character.
Harry cursed the total lack of significant intelligence. Had they only known the exact location he could have apparated directly there and been free of this fuckin' path of misery. But they only had a vague location, and Harry would, in worst case, have to circle all the Mountains to find the Death Eaters.
Not that he thought so. They would be on the Main Mountain.
"Fuck this!" Harry tapped his wand against his side, sparks of dark colours flittered round the tip. He didn't have unlimited months worth of time on his hand…
Nathan Goodwill possessed formidable knowledge on the obscure or seemingly inconsequential. He knew not the exact location of where to find the dragons, but only that they resided somewhere upon these slopes – due north.
He had told him always to head north. North upon the Northern Mountains beneath the light of the Northern Lights – like a fucking fairy-tale or something.
It, of course, all depended upon the Death Eaters actually being there, which they might be or might not be. He kind of doubted that they were. To bind these creatures were to challenge the fetid clutches of death. Something Voldemort always endeavoured to avoid.
Oh well. Maybe Voldemort had finally after ten years of anonymity become impatient. But Harry doubted that, too. Voldemort was nothing if not deliberate, cautious and above all patient. He had all the time in the world to be patient, Harry supposed, being an immortal bastard and all that.
Hopefully that would change.
Half an hour later the wind died down and the snow became less unforgiving. Harry reached into his dark coat, drawing out a small, undistinguished stick, then tapped it with his wand and with a mind full of intent. A broom, his treasured gift from the deceased Sirius Black, the Firebolt, swelled in his hand, and Harry quickly mounted the broom and took off.
It was cold and wholly unpleasant, but he covered more ground this way. Soon, he found the mountain that looked right by the description Goodwill had offered him. Vast slabs of snow covered the foothills, smooth and steep it rose off the ground and into the heavens, and soon the slopes grew naked – the bedrock promising a swift fall to your immediate demise, should you dare to tread their treacherous paths. The nature upon the mountain looked dead and withered, not allowed to live by the never-ceasing cold.
Upon the mountaintop, however, where the laws of nature dictates that it should be the coldest, nature flourished in a cascade of warm colours. Golden trees of bright purple colours, flowers of ocean blue, and exotic plants of bright green sprung to Harry's eye, and a multiple arrays of other colours blurred around, too far away for Harry to truly see what they were.
Once or twice Harry thought he saw a belch of flames streak out over the mountainside, but it was gone so quickly Harry thought he must have imagined it.
As a violet curtain of dusk slowly began to cloak everything from his vision, and the moon ascended the sky in a bout for dominance, Harry decided to touch back upon the ground and make camp for the night. He had a rapport to deliver, and tomorrow a new day awaited him, to be endured.
He had an idea of where he was supposed to go.
Albus Dumbledore considered himself a man of patience. When all else failed, when panic and dread took over the hearts of men, it was important that one always kept his head clear of unnecessary fears and focus on the task at hand – no matter the hardship or how painful the choices needed might be.
Patience, however, was proving a touch hard on this night.
Harry Potter had gone missing last night.
Now, that was not unusual, one might say, seeing as Harry Potter – to the eyes of the world, at least – had been missing for the better part of the last ten years. But where the world had been left unaware of Harry's true whereabouts, Albus knew. Where the world was left to speculate and dwell upon the ominous mysteries of the past, Albus Dumbledore had stayed above and could plan ahead.
Some called him omniscient; Albus knew it was only a matter of being prepared. Nothing more.
He definitely lacked his usual overview tonight.
Harry hadn't told him he would be leaving, which was highly unusual. Even after their spat a few years ago, Harry always came to him whenever he was about to do something.
Not this time.
Albus would never reveal it to a soul, but he was smote with a tang of worry deep in his wary, old bones. Oh, this war of deceit and shadows truly put a strain on the olden days of life, didn't it? Sometimes, all Albus wanted was to hand over the responsibility of the Order of the Phoenix – the last resistance to Voldemort – to Harry and be done with it all.
But Harry wasn't the kind of leader needed in a war. Albus knew this intimately. He was, as Albus had known since Harry grew out of his adolescent years, the better man of the two.
And morally better men didn't win wars.
Albus sighed. He took off his glasses and drew a hand over his face, then weaved it down through his beard in a calming mannerism. Hopefully, Nathan Goodwill had some light to shed on Harry's current predicament. Harry's… at times rather reckless nature could lead him astray from time to time, and Albus would quite like to know if his assistance would be needed.
Hopefully… Hope… the remedy for the masses, the bane for the few that was cursed with the knowledge of how fickle such a thing as hope really was.
Albus considered him cursed at the best of times. Every choice he made, it seemed, presented a hollow victory at best, a double-edged sword that would leave shards of bones broken and protruding from your skin and the acrid stench of death marring your tongue.
There was no such thing as a happy ending.
Cynicism. Cursing the foul and youthful mouth of reason, Albus knew that Harry Potter – and his pessimistic way of life – had rubbed off on him.
He didn't always possess a mind of such… bleakness, did he?
The flames in Albus' fireplace blazed suddenly with a hue of green, and Albus quickly banished his thoughts into the dark murmurs of his mind. He put on his glasses and peered at the face of Minerva McGonagall with utmost of interest, like he had been expecting her all along.
"Sir. A David Bingham is here to see you."
Albus could see the look of uncertain interest flitter through her eyes, but didn't answer the unspoken question.
If Minerva was perturbed by the lack of response, she didn't show it and continued dispassionately, "Should I let him get through?"
"Ah, yes – please do so," Albus murmured. David Bingham was in fact the alias Unspeakable Nathan Goodwill used whenever he had to go through more… public channels.
The fire blazed considerably, and a figure dressed in impeccable, dark robes stepped out of the fire with a grace few were capable of.
"Ah Nathan," Albus greeted pleasantly, noting with scrutinizing eyes that the man looked a touch out of sorts and a deep-seated wariness had touched upon his eyes. Albus, not showing any of his own strain of heart, rose and shook the hand of his old friend. "How good of you to come by."
"Albus," Nathan greeted curtly, though not unpleasantly, with a nod, then looked him over, worry dancing at the edges of his eyes. "You look tired… a touch pale… Hogwarts treating you right?"
Ah, so perhaps he'd not managed to entirely mask his fear and doubts. Nathan, Albus often thought, was the only one able to read just a little on his often carefully worn mask of cheer and elderly friendliness. It both pleased him and scared him. Most often, unfortunately, it was the latter.
A show of emotion, most often, was a sign of weakness – and wasn't that the essence of a pessimist's way of life?
"Nothing to worry about, Nathan," Albus said amicably. He sat down and conjured a soft plush chair in a vibrant scarlet colour for his guest. Delighted and empowered slightly by the casualness in which he could perform his feats of magic, he marvelled his old wand in his hand. Mere flicks and thoughts… Albus shook his head, getting back on track.
"Merely the worries of an old man, my friend," he continued at last. "Though I daresay some of my worries are justly placed on this matter."
"Harry…" Nathan uttered softly, the edges of the sound of the name raw with dread. The younger man looked up and met the Headmaster's eyes, then looked away from Albus' piercing blue eyes. Was that guilt Albus detected in the younger man's eyes? No, surely not…
"Harry…" Albus agreed with a nod. "I don't mean to intrude upon your businesses, but I must know… is Harry safe?"
He knew his question presented a glaringly obvious fallacy. Harry wasn't safe, would never be for years to come, Albus feared. Harry was a child born into war, for war, with the purpose to end a war deeply imbedded in the very fabric of magic – fabrics that Lord Voldemort and Harry Potter had challenged and defied since one fateful night many, many years ago.
Harry had always been a child of war.
He knew, of course, that Harry was still alive. His entire desk was littered with artefacts meant to keep check on almost everything concerning Harry – from his life to his sanity to his remarkable magical abilities.
One, coming to understand just what most of the small artefacts on Albus' desk was, would call him obsessed with the boy.
They would be right, of course. Albus had his reasons.
"That I know of… yes," Nathan answered at last, pinching himself between his nose and his upper-lip. It was a nervous gesture, Albus knew, that even the considerable training of the Department of Mysteries hadn't been able to kill. "He has a rapport due in a couple of minutes – wait, you… you don't know…" The note of sheer bafflement in Nathan's voice humoured Albus greatly, despite the very serious circumstances. "You mean to tell me he didn't tell you?"
"I'm afraid not. Must have slipped his mind," Albus murmured, steepling his wrinkled fingers and leaning back in his chair. He contemplated Nathan over his half-moon glasses, both the man and his words. "Where is he, Nathan? Why do you eyes betray such a vast amount of guilt?"
"He said he would tell you…"
For a moment it looked like Nathan would refrain from answering, but then he sighed dejectedly. "Why didn't he tell you?" he muttered to himself, vexed and full of raving rage. Albus heard and his eyes twinkled with a small spark of amusement. "He's in Norway, on an assignment I asked him to undertake."
"I see." Albus' blue eyes turned serious as he contemplated Norway and the rumours flittering throughout the Ministry. Then he sighed and felt his wary bones give way to age. "Ah, yes – I see. You no doubt acted upon the sightings of men wearing dark robes that the Auror Department heard rumours about last week. May I ask where, exactly, in Norway?"
Nathan, always a calm man, almost bristled with shock in the face of Albus' seemingly never-ceasing, immeasurable knowledge. "How do you even know that? The Auror Department dismissed the notions of men in dark robes as hearsay – it was only because of my liaisons in the Auror Department that I was able to act upon it."
"That," Albus said, "and the fact that you have faced the truth about the second ascension of Lord Voldemort." Nathan gave an involuntary shudder at the name, but otherwise had no reaction to the most dreaded name in the Wizarding World; Albus continued. "You were brave enough to make the connection between men in dark robes and Death Eaters. I applaud you for that. What I don't applaud you for, however, is giving the task directly to Harry Potter. Knowing with the utmost of certainty that he wouldn't be able to not act on it."
"He has grown, Dumbledore," Nathan said softly, yet his voice carried a conviction few had when opposing Albus. "In the last year, he has grown so far beyond me that I struggle to find things to teach him – well, things he shows an interest in, at least. You yourself proclaimed to have found yourself in a situation not dissimilar to my own, right? He has grown to…" Nathan pinched the space between mouth and nose again, thinking, then he nodded to himself. "He has grown to rival even you, Dumbledore."
The proudness of a teacher, Albus appreciated, was not something to be taken lightly in its capability to distort; it encouraged ones capacity for delusions.
Nathan's voice, though it carried the hard edge of believe, was shaded with a small measure of disbelieve. Like what he had just said was hard to even comprehend.
He'd probably never thought he would even utter those words.
Albus shrugged, not agreeing or disagreeing. "I don't doubt that should Harry and I ever cross wands – which I doubt we ever will – well, I might just lose." Albus doubted it, though. All false modesty aside, he still believed he carried the edge over Harry – acceptance of mind and one-self was still not within Harry capacity. But no doubt Harry had closed the gap considerably in the last ten years since he left Hogwarts at then end of his fifth year. And there was no doubt that he was far beyond what Albus – and Gellert, for that matter – were at the same time, at twenty-five. "But that does not make Harry impenetrable to deceit. And Harry still lacks the foresight of experience, which – as you know, Nathan – has saved the life of a wizard more often than any skill or power ever have."
"And how do you suppose he would ever gain that experience if he's never to go out into the real world and face real enemies?"
"From what I've heard…" Albus began, but paused, unsure if he should pursue this path. Oh well. "From what I've heard, he has already become, ah, quite active."
Nathan closed-up like the snap of a book, tight-lipped and cool. "That's meagre rumours, Dumbledore." If Albus was supposed to back down in the face of the note of warning in Nathan's voice, then, Albus thought with humour, it wasn't very efficient. "Nothing ties Harry to those killings – and whoever did it, did the world a favour."
"Ah – let's just hope, then, that there won't be anything to tie to him in the future."
"He needs this. This was what you wanted. To take the kid-gloves off. You knew what we sought to accomplish."
"The thing about power, Nathan, is that the more of it you have… the more strength of character you need to not let it twist you. What we sought out to do was not to grant Harry strength, for he already had that, but a change in his character. Unearned power leads only to ruination – there can be no shortcuts on the path to power, lest he shall be lead astray. The path will always be proportionally important to the power gained, for it is on the road where we will truly learn."
"He craves this." Nathan bore no lie on his face. "He has no friends, no social-life. No dreams for his life. He has nothing outside of the Department. He has no life. The only people who know he still even exists are sitting in this very room. I truly believe the thing he wants the most is to hunt… Voldemort."
"Are you feeling sorry for Harry? Are you starting to regret taking him in?" Albus only asked out of a vague sense of curiousness, but it enraged Nathan fiercely.
"Fuck you… fucking heartless bastard!"
And Albus knew, on a very basic level of human nature, that being able to make these choices, living with them, enduring the hardships they brought onto his soul – it would make him callous and cruel in the eyes of most. Which was exactly why he did it; because he was strong enough to do it, because if he did not do it, then who would?
Who would?
"This is exactly why he shouldn't be out there. Yet." Albus' voice was soft, yet it obviously aggravated Nathan by the flickering look of rage and edginess in his brown eyes. "He is still too young…"
"He is twenty-five, Dumbledore! You started testing him in his first year here. Harry told me about his little adventures in this school."
"The difference between the confrontations Harry faced here at Hogwarts – or, I should say, the ones I had any part of – are vastly different than the ones he will face today." Albus paused, sighed and ached at the cruelty of destiny. "Lord Voldemort has proven himself methodical, cunning beyond even what I had foreseen. His patience has proven that he doesn't do anything with callous intent. Not anymore. Not after Harry… If there truly are Death Eaters in Norway, then they're there for an immensely important reason. I believe Harry will encounter more resistance than you seem to think."
Suddenly, a streak of bright light surged into the Headmaster's office. Albus acted on age-old instinct and, far quicker and potent than Nathan could ever hope to be, had his wand trained on the light as it coalesced into the familiar shape of a majestic stag.
Albus beheld what he knew to be Harry's Patronus, gazing at the creature of light like it was an old friend.
It belonged to a dear friend, after all – and if being able to call Harry that made him hypocritical, then so be it.
The stag seemed to gaze at Dumbledore for a moment, judging him with white, soulless eyes, then turned to Nathan, the true recipient of the message.
"Nathan," Harry's voice said softly, echoing ominously in the room, "just found the Mountains. Still no sign of Death Eater activity yet, but the Norwegian motherfuckers are definitely here. Setting up camp and preparing for tomorrow. Harry – though you probably already knew that."
Albus chuckled at the colourfulness of Harry's language as the Stag flared out and shattered in a sparkling shower of silvery wisps of light, which fell to the floor and evaporated like smoke on the wind.
"See?" Nathan said, unable to hide the note of triumphing smugness in his voice. "He is fine, Dumbledore. And thinking rationally."
"Just an old man's worries," Albus repeated his earlier words vacantly as his laughter died upon his lips, staring off into nothingness, contemplating Harry's words with a calculated mind. The words Norway and Mountain and Norwegian motherfuckers began to piece themselves together in Albus Dumbledore's mind, creating a very ugly picture. "What are the Death Eaters doing in Norway, Nathan?"
Nathan sighed, apprehensive, and made a guttural noise of despair and dark humour in the back of his throat. Albus didn't like the sound of that tone, and his mind swirled onwards onto conclusions most unpleasant to contemplate.
"Well," Nathan began, "given the location of the village, Trollmans Plass, where the dark-robbed men were said to come and go frequently – I guess even Dark Wizards need to eat sometimes…" Nathan shook his head. "Well, on the outskirts of the village there is a path leading to the Northern Mountains habitat of the-"
"Norwegian Ridgeback," Albus breathed, understanding now just where in Norway Harry was. Taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes tiredly, he resigned himself to the fact that today promised nothing but pain and dark surprises.
"Yes." Nathan nodded.
Albus also said nothing, his mind ablaze with thoughts. Oh yes, Harry was definitely walking into a most perilous situation – especially if Voldemort managed to control the beasts. The path to the Northern Mountains was indeed very treacherous, and many a wizard had died on those paths. Muggles couldn't see the Mountains, for old magic rested upon the ancient fields, shielding it from unworthy eyes. It was years since Albus had last made the hike from Trollmans Plass, the closest point of apparition. Back when his soul was still raw and heavy from the loss of Arianna and his bones still strong and vigorous.
Nowadays Albus knew the roads would be very unforgiving on his old body. Magic would help, no doubt, but alas, out there it worked… falsely. Wrong.
Everything was… awry. The sky acrid with the heavy stench of old, dark magic, the fields cursed with the surety of chaos, and the creatures blessed with the fortune of great strength, lest the nature around them would claim their bodies.
He had no doubt that Harry could make it through the perilous cold of Mountain Winter – even though it was Christmas in a few days and the winter would be at its strongest. But fighting against a roaster of Death Eaters and Merlin knew how many dragons – wild or controlled, Harry would meet dragons if he dwelled too far.
Harry would have a lot on his hands. What if Voldemort, somehow knowing that Harry would be there, was ready to ambush Harry when he began to explore the mountain?
Some of the worry Albus felt must have shown, for Nathan spoke up, voice calm and tinged with sympathy. "Believe in Harry, Albus. He's ready for this."
Nathan had an incredible capacity for good, Albus marvelled. Sometimes it rivalled even Harry.
Albus nodded, satisfied with his answers, and gazed out his window. The sky had grown dark and beset with grey clouds of snow, but here and there, starlight flittered out through the cracks in the sheet of clouds. The light sparked a flare of hope within Albus, a flare of believe, and he nodded resolutely.
"You are right. Harry is up to the task."
"Thank you," Nathan said sincerely, and it was like a weight was lifted from the other man.
An easy, comfortable silence settled over the heart of the office. Each man wandered round in their own thought, and for a few minutes Albus stared at a simple trinket on his desk, watching the hazy smoke drift around lazily within the orb of glass that contained it.
After a few minutes of silence, however, Nathan broke it again.
"Why's Harry so important to you?" he asked and leaned forward. "I know about the existence of a prophecy, but surely you don't place your faith in such obscurities!"
"Harry never entrusted you with its contents?" Albus asked, truly surprised, although he didn't show it.
Nathan shook his head. "No. He said it was better I didn't know. Kind of thought it was you who said he shouldn't talk about it, and he was just protecting you."
"I assure you I demanded no such thing," Albus said. "Quite the opposite, in fact. Should Harry deem one worthy of this particular knowledge, I have no doubt that they are indeed worthy. I thought he had told you…" Albus trailed off, saddened beyond measure. "He truly trusts no one, does he? He speaks with no one about the burdens destiny has bestowed upon him…" A slight pause filled the air with the malevolent feeling of lost innocence. "Well, It doesn't really matter if I believe in the Prophecy or not. Voldemort does. That's all that matters."
Albus feared that the reason for Harry's lack of trust in others might have had something to do with his childhood at the Dursley's, which made it Albus error. Truly, he hated himself for subjecting the wizard to such a childhood. But when he was given the choice between the safety of Harry or the happiness of Harry, he had to make the hard but right choice.
Given the choice today, he would have done no different.
Wizarding world depended upon the right decision of hard choices.
And Harry had always understood Dumbledore's choice, had shown a maturity that not many teenagers were capable of.
Ah, Harry – he had suffered enough. But deep down Albus knew that the hardest challenges and deepest regrets lay in Harry's future and not in his past.
And there was nothing Albus could do to stop it. Quite on the contrary, it seemed that he was merely destined to prolong the suffering on the boy he had come to love and respect above all others.
The burden had befallen Harry the moment Snape came to Voldemort with bits of that accursed prophecy.
Harry, and the connection he shared with Lord Voldemort, was the only thing that could save them. Harry, and his bravery…
But oh Merlin, sometimes Dumbledore wished he could pass on this knowledge and live the rest of his olden days in blissful ignorance, so he wouldn't have to witness the wretched destiny of a man who deserved so much more, wouldn't have to contribute to the wretchedness.
Sometimes… Dumbledore felt truly, utterly old.
Harry got up at the return of dawn, dispelled the wards hiding his camp with a few precise flicks of his wand, shrunk it all, and stored it in the inner pocket of his dark wool coat.
The time for work was upon him again. Climbing over the slope on which he had made his makeshift camp for the night, and feasting his eyes upon the nature of Northern Mountain in all its mesmerizing glory, Harry felt he had been dealt a hefty debt – a blessing and a curse.
Out here… a power both wondrous and terrible… Harry didn't know what the fuck was going on.
Last night it had been dark and snowy, and Harry hadn't been able to see much of anything, except for what was right in front of him. The weather had cleared up during the night, however, and sparkling sunlight blazed from the azure sky above as the sun slowly rose, setting the Mountains awash with a breath-taking clearness and realness in a crimson haze.
And, really, it was real. Harry understood that now. Although he had seen it all before, he had come to appreciate the vastness of this wasteland.
It was real – and wild.
For a few hours, dark thoughts had entertained his mind as he had made his dangerous trek through the wastelands of snow and ice and deadness. Dark thoughts that whispered with an illusory certainty that what he was chasing simply wasn't real, that the sightings of Death Eaters were mere figments of some fucker's imagination.
For a moment, he had even entertained the thought that Nathan had been wrong about the dragons' whereabouts – and Nathan, back when he was still young, had gained that particular knowledge from Dumbledore, which made Harry's treacherous thoughts all but sacrilege.
Harry sighed. He carried onwards. Alone.
A few hours later, after carefully treading through the supposedly perilous dangers of the wilderness, Harry had gotten just a touch impatient. Nothing had sprung out of the snow to scare the shit out of him yet – as it had every other day – no beast of olden days, no creatures of fire ready to smote him with belches of flames, and – most disappointedly – no Death Eaters had shown up.
He was itching for a shot of pure adrenaline, of sheer power.
Not long after, Harry made his second camp at the foot of Northern Mountains, wondering idly if he should point out in his message to Nathan how fucking stupid and vague the reason for this mission was. He decided against it; it was too soon to admit defeat, and tomorrow he would begin the climb anew, strong and whole. Defiant.
With that thought in mind he went to rest and felt into a dreamless, uneasy sleep that was disturbed multiple times by the rough sounds of the wilderness around him.
Two days later found Harry scalding the crisp and coarse snow of the mountainside, aloof and without fear, the challenge presenting only a nebulous sense of tenacity. He had conquered the naked bedrocks yesterday – using his broom to zoom past the arduous task with the ease only a wizard could manage – and was now once again half-submerged in thick slabs of heavy, old snow. Snow that ceased to freeze and never melted. Snow that seemed spelled with old resistance to magic.
It was snow with the impunity against the commands of time.
He would have flown more if not for the fact that he might be missing something, a trail of footsteps, on the grounds.
Days passed and the shrunken food in Harry's pockets diminished slowly, like a malevolent clock inching ever closer to the end of days with a torturous, unstoppable certainty. Harry knew he didn't have long left before he had to give it up, and apparate back home to London.
The path turned downwards one day, still heading north but now away from the magical top of the Mountain.
On the seventh day, as Harry chewed absentmindedly on his last piece of bread, which tasted foul and harsh and old, he trekked the last climb and came upon a well-worn path leading down into a clearing on the other side of the Northern Mountains.
Mountaintops stretched out above him, on all sides of the world. The Master Mountain, as Harry had named it, was visible behind him – his vague footsteps, which were being erased from existence by the howling snow, led back towards it.
Harry stopped and frowned. A familiar and welcomed sensation rose in the darkened well of his very soul. Amidst the billowing snow and wind, a roar of rage pierced the air, sending almost pleasurable shivers down Harry's spine. From somewhere below, hidden in a mass of snow-covered trees, a column of flames rose into the air.
"Dragons," Harry murmured so softly he didn't hear his own voice. His psyche was battered by an intricate maze of dissimilar emotions, relieved and frightened in equal measures. His right hand clutched his wand, where wispy streaks of crimson power curled around the tip in a loving caress, itching to be unleashed at last.
He needed a scheme, however, an idea of his course of action. He needed to scout out the area, check how many Death Eaters they had gathered, check how many fucking dragons they had assembled, and, oh fucking hell, he needed to keep his head in the fuckin' game.
He needed to shed some light on what he was up against, to make sure that he wasn't walking into a trap, to make sure that he could make it out alive, to-
"Oh well…" Harry murmured, almost pleasantly, as he flicked his wand and conjured his faithful Patronus. "Hey dad…" he said, and relayed his message to Nathan, before sending it off to Britain with a swish of his wand. Then he turned back to the Death Eaters' camp. "Let's say hello, shall we?"
His checkout hadn't garnered anything of significant value. Wards of almost immovable strength had been erected around the valley, shielding it from the eyes of the world.
The wards spoke of a caster with a certain amount of magical strength. This could prove to be a challenge, after all. Not Voldemort, for the strength wasn't that vast, but a Death Eater in high places.
Bellatrix, mayhap? Harry thought it unlikely, considering the mysterious child rumours told of…
He pressed the heel of his left hand against his temple and let out a soft huff of manic laughter. "Fuck this shit." Wand clasped tightly in his right hand, he had it outstretched before him, at the invisible web of deceitful magic. Harry leeched his magic into his wand and formed the spell with the intent of his mind.
A scorching beam of silvery light pulsed from the tip of his wand. Trying to blast his way through the wards he had encountered at the end of the path, just before the forest started, Harry felt it rear up and resist his power. Harry let his magic flow through him and into his wand, which buckled under the continuous strain in his hand, crudely attempting to overpower the resistance of the wards with his power.
Dumbledore, Harry figured as he observed the streaks of crimson light flicker over a transparent dome of protective magic, would be appalled by his lack of subtlety, but Harry hadn't seen either Death Eaters nor smelled a whiff of pussy in the last week. He was on the edge!
Granted, he hadn't smelled pussy in quite a while before that, either. But that was beside the point.
The wards shimmered unceasingly, but withheld against his magic, and Harry ceased his assault with a careless flick of his wand, impressed and pleased – this was going to be amusing. The silvery-streaked crimson light died down, and the only source of light became the scorching, orange rays of the setting sun, half-covered by the ascended tops of the mountains and the curtain of blistering winds and snow.
Harry gazed with cold apathy over his shoulder at the motionless figure at his feet. An unconscious Death Eater, silver mask half-askew and broken upon his face, breathed deeply in even intakes of breath. With a sigh, Harry summoned the mask and beheld the Death Eater's face.
Harry didn't know him. Not the caster of the wards, then. He had an unkempt look, his dark-blonde hair wild and mattered – like it hadn't even seen the promise of a shower in weeks – his reddish and silver beard was in a desperate need for a shaving. Harry thought he saw something crawl in it, and sighed disgustedly.
He, Harry, probably didn't look much better, but what the fuck…
The Death Eater's lips were turning a sickly-cerulean colour, Harry noted.
Harry woke him up.
The man spluttered and came to with a mad glint in his dull, unremarkable blue eyes. Fear. Defiance. Harry had seen it all – mostly in the mirror.
The Death Eater stared up at Harry with a righteous fury, and touched about his robes for his wand on pure instinct.
A smirk curled Harry's upper-lip, unseen beneath his spells, and he dangled the unknown Death Eater's wand in his left hand. "Looking for this?" he asked, his voice coarse with the vast disuse that several days alone brought along. "I'm afraid I've made it a bit of a habit not letting Death Eaters keep their wands." Harry shrugged, still smiling as he stooped down so he was eye to eye with the Death Eater. "You see," he continued amicably, "they tend to try to kill me when they discover who I am."
Some of the mad fire had died in the Death Eater's eyes, replaced with a growing sense of dread. "Who – who are you?"
Harry, now smiling broadly, drew back the spells on his head and revealed his face. His hair was short and still largely unruly. His scar was as red and raw as it had been since Voldemort's return – a testament to the Dark Lord's continuing existence. His face had filled out, grown out of the adolescence of his youth. His green eyes were bright emerald and guarded. Detached and calculated. But chiefly, it was still the recognizable face of Harry Potter.
It was the face of a, to the wizarding world, dead man.
"Harry Potter…"
Growing horror etched onto the edges of the man's eyes. He stumbled back, crawling with his hands, mumbling inanely about impossibilities and forgiveness.
Harry considered the Death Eater for a moment. "Ah, you're a new Death Eater, aren't you?" he mused softly, voice whisper-thin in the quiet wind. "Voldemort, of course, knows of my existence, which is why most Death Eaters of a certain… ah, experience… know, as well. You, however, displayed true surprise, eh. You are rather green, aren't you?"
After giving a startled yelp of fright at Harry's casual use of the accursed name of his master, the Death Eater nodded quickly, franticly, seizing a lance of courage when he saw Harry's, for now, benign nature.
Harry nodded amicably. "Ah, what is your name, Death Eater?"
"Alfred. Alfred Dunham," he answered after a slight pause.
Harry nodded, satisfied. "Alfred. Alfred, what do you say if I make you a… proposition?"
"Proposition?" The courage in the Death Eater's eyes flared into the unmistakable death trap of hope. "What kind of proposition?"
"The kind where you get to walk away from here alive," Harry said smoothly. "You see, I'm meet with some slight problems in the face of these wards, and…"
"You can't break them?" The Death Eater asked breathily, and Harry thought he detected a certain measure of wonder in his voice, although when he looked at his face he couldn't see a shred of it.
"Oh, no, no." Harry shook his head, smiling. Then he frowned. "Well. Maybe. I was expecting that, though. Or something like it, at least," he said, motioning with his hand at where the transparent wards were. He could feel the radiation of power coming from them in the back of his mind, like a buzz that wouldn't falter. "But, you see, I'm meet with some slight problems in the face of these wards, and they got me thinking. I have so many questions left unanswered here, and then you came along… So, what about it? Answers for your freedom? Tit for tat?"
"Tit… for tat?" the Death Eater repeated, dumbfounded.
"No matter." Harry waved him on. "By the state of your appearance I'd say you guys have been out here for quite a while. Three weeks, at the least, right? Ah!" Harry raised his hand, stopping him from answering him. "That wasn't a question, Death Eater, just speculations and deductions. I don't give a fuck, really. Now," -Harry leaned down to the Death Eater, so close that he could smell the whiff of Firewhisky upon the other man's breathe- "who's in charge of this operation?"
"Rodolphus Lestrange."
A wheeze of acknowledgement rose in Harry's throat. "Rodolphus, you say… Shouldn't he be home with dear ol' Bellatrix and care for their daughter?"
"I…" The Death Eater swallowed nervously. "I wouldn't say that to his face, if I were you," he muttered with no small amount of fear evident in his voice.
"Sore topic, I imagine." Harry nodded mock-sagely and ignored the note of warning, thinking for a moment about the supposedly squib daughter Bellatrix gave birth to about four years ago. Then he moved on to more important matters. "How many men do you have here?"
"About twenty-five."
"About?"
"Some comes and goes, depending on where they're needed the most."
"What's your purpose out here?" Harry queried, his mind in a swirl of thoughts.
"Gathering Norwegian Ridgebacks for the Dark Lord. They dwell here. It's their natural habitats. They are drawn to the magic upon these fields."
Harry searched for any sign of a lie in the man's eyes and tone of voice, but he found none.
He sighed.
"Aren't they supposed to be really rare, though?" Harry wondered aloud, looking around as if he hoped a dragon would coalesce out of nothingness. "I heard they're extremely aggressive towards their own kind…"
Dunham nodded. "They are. Which would explain why we have only been able to uncover three of the beasts. Picked one up yesterday, actually…"
Harry frowned in thought and looked down the path ahead. At least one of the dragons must still be there…
"How many dragons do you have on camp?" Harry inquired.
"Just the one. The other two we sent back to the Dark Lord." The Death Eater shivered as a slither of cool wind brushed against them, picking up. "Please, Potter. I've answered all your questions. Give back my wand and I promise you shall never see me again."
Okay. If he promised, then… Harry scoffed, a dark glint of resignation in his eye, although it was gone a second later as the gravity of what he must do settled in. "Just one more thing," Harry said, twirling his wand between his fingers in an absentmindedly manner. "What does Voldemort want with dragons? Can he control them?"
Dunham shuddered again at the indifferent mentioning of the dreaded name, but kept his yelp of panic in the back of his throat. "I – I wouldn't know. He doesn't share that kind of information. But I can speculate…" he finished darkly.
As could Harry. "No. I imagine he don't." Harry sighed, then raised his wand and pointed it towards Alfred's heart.
The Death Eater's eyes widened with immeasurable fear, staring at Harry with a look of utter betrayal. "NO! No, you promised! You promised you'd let me go!"
Harry sighed, taking no pleasure in this act of cruelty. "Yes. Yes, I did." Harry suddenly felt an incurable and irrational need to explain himself to the Death Eater. A lance of self-hatred rose in his heart. He continued, his voice soft and yet, somehow, strong enough to be heard over the wind. "But, you see, Dunham, a couple of years ago – I was presented with a situation not dissimilar to our current… predicament. I caught and stunned a Death Eater. I had to decide if I was going to kill him or let him go, seeing as I could hardly waltz into the Ministry and deliver him to them. Oh, how I thought, thought about what to do. You see, he, too, promised that our paths would never cross again, that he would never hurt another innocent man or woman…" Harry stooped down to the Death Eater's eye level again, whispering softly as the last vestiges of daylight cast cruel shadows upon his face. "…Finally, he promised that he would never serve Lord Voldemort again. So I let him go."
Harry laughed with the bitter sound of regrets never to be taken back. In his youthfulness, he had been so damn trusting, so damn… forgiving.
"I let him go… My foolish sense of self-righteousness demanded no less. A week later, however, I caught him holding a Muggle woman down as his companion raped her mercilessly in a back alley of London. The woman's husband was bleeding to death against the wall… the last thing he saw before he died was the woman he loved getting raped! All because of my weakness…"
The young Death Eater shook his head with frenzied panic, eyes wild and round, coarse tears of shame trickling down his blotched cheeks. "I would… I would…" The words tumbled off his mouth, but refused to form reason. "Never! I swear! Have mercy!"
"I didn't hesitate this time. No misguided sense of self-righteousness was gonna prevent me from doing what needed to be done," Harry said, speaking like he hadn't heard the other man, speaking mostly to himself, in fact. "I killed the fucker who raped her, stunned the girl – I'd deal with her battered mind later – and then I turned my wand upon the man. The man that haunts my dreams to this day still, when Voldemort does not. Strengthen my resolve."
"I'd never… You won't have to worry! Don't do something you'll regret!"
"Which do you think I'll regret most? Letting you live? Or killing you? I didn't regret my first kill – I was only eleven back then. Barely thought about it afterwards… I regret not killing that man." Harry's lips curled into a wretched smile of hard-earned truth, and paused in his reminiscence. "But I'll always worry about you, Alfred Dunham. Will you be a mistake I should have dealt with? Like all past mistakes. You mere presence upon this Earth will resonate in here," -Harry pointed his finger to his temple- "and let me tell you, there's already well and truly fucked up there."
"I can be your man on the inside! I… I know things! I can learn things! Things valuable to your organization!"
"My organization?"
"You work for Dumbledore, right?" Dunham asked. His voice had grown steady and his face revealed a tight control of his emotion that weren't there moments ago. "His Order of Phoenix."
Harry laughed, devoid of anything but harsh amusement. "I? Working for the Order? Do you really think Dumbledore would enact a full-blown, one-man attack upon a Death Eater operation, funded by Lord Voldemort?"
Yes, he would. For the right cause, and the right gains, Albus Dumbledore would sacrifice everything. And anyone. He had to be that man. But Dunham, of course, did not know that, and would no doubt believe the reasoning Harry presented.
Utter silence ruled the decayed air of blood and warfare. When all was said and done, when the fight would come to an end and one would stand victorious above all, there would be no honour to salvage, no triumph with which you could rebuilt the remnants of a society as fickle as theirs. There would only be silence. And blood.
Fucking hell! The Death Eater was on his knees before Harry; he was defeated, motherfucking defeated.
It didn't fucking matter.
They were soldiers of opposing ideals. Nothing more.
"Again," Harry murmured, voice cold and remote, "the man who would haunt me for the rest of my life was before me. He begged – he told me with tears streaming down his face that he had been forced to do what he did. That he either proved his loyalty with an act of such depravity, such… wrongness… that his loyalty could not be questioned. Once again he begged me to spare his life. Once again a part of me believe him – desperately wanted to believe him. And, Alfred Dunham, do you know what I did?"
The Death Eater, Alfred Dunham, had stopped his sobbing for forgiveness and was staring at Harry with an emotion Harry hadn't encountered before in a Death Eater. Acceptance. Acceptance of his own mortality, of his own guilt. And for a moment that made him pause, for that differentiated from all the other Death Eaters he had ever encountered.
Maybe, just maybe, this man would be different. Maybe he could change, forge himself a meaningful life and let go of whatever drove him to become one of Lord Voldemort's servants.
Sectumsempra!
In the end, it didn't fucking matter.
Harry knew better now.
A flash of bright, white light illuminated Harry and the Death Eater for a single heartbeat, a spell carving through the Death Eater and sending him to the ground. Blood and gore gushed from Dunham's chest and splattered down upon the white snow as Dunham, quivering as death laid claim upon his soul, collapsed, motionless, to the ground with a soft thud. Air heaved and wheezed out of him; trying to tether himself to any wisp of life he had left.
He had none.
"I killed him," Harry said, rising to his feet with an indifferent numbness that didn't come from the cold. "Killed him as I killed you… You see, sometimes a man must do the unpleasant thing, no matter how much he hates doing it. Sometimes it needs to be done because you don't know what might happen. Or might not happen… It is simply beyond your control."
And if there was a note of apology within that monologue, then that was just regret trying to tear his defiance asunder.
Harry stared at Alfred Dunham until the last breath left him.
He didn't linger after that, didn't allow for regret to enter his mind. He pocketed Dunham's wand after summoning it, and turned to the wards before him. He affixed in his mind the sensory feeling of the wards he had touched, when he last cast his magic upon them. Then, jabbing his wand in a harsh gesture of violent intentions, he unleashed a purple spell of destructive strength.
It struck and pealed the raw edges of the wards from each other, sparkling flakes of dying magic radiated onto the grounds in a splutter of collapsed spell-work.
Then the alarm sounded, and Harry knew he would be confronted soon. Blinding fast, he raised his wand towards the sky, and a golden light forked up and expanded into thick, fetid layers of Anti-Apparition wards.
They would not escape his wrath. Not tonight.
Nothing fucking mattered anymore.