'So let's go over what we know: you became insane after consuming the contents of the bottle and tried to kill yourself; you felt the same but your mind was affected; the potion doesn't kill you but drives you to suicide and the wound knitted up without much aid from me including halting internal bleeding which I'm sure existed,' India surmised from the pin board on the wall that was littered with photos and notes; moreover, from the growing complexity of the case, it was evident that this was not the work of some mere criminal. It was too precise, too planned. It seemed that whoever was behind the string of murders, be it Voldemort himself or some man under the name of Voldemort, was experienced and wanted to watch the plan unfold rather than quickly reach the end, which, truth be known, worked in Harry and India's favour.
'Yes, and remember the note: the one with the squiggles only I could read; I would be willing to bet all the money in my vault that the best place to find answers is that address,' Harry sighed, clawing his face with his hands in boredom and a reluctancy to even try and stop Voldemort.
A week after the incident and Harry was only a couple of leads closer to stopping Voldemort's plan; it seemed that Voldemort had branched out and set tendrils into the muggle world, delving in and out of societies when he felt the need to much to Harry's utter irritation: it made leads so much harder to track as they seemed to stop and then restart and you couldn't be sure it was even the same lead until you found the muggle connector.
'Yes- so you need to read that note again and again and then we go there and try and snoop the place out-'
'Okay, fine, whatever you say!' Harry groaned, pulling himself from his chair to read the note pinned to the board, ''Brockford House,
Chimsworth,
West Sussex,
This is your last chance.''
The note paper was thick and of high quality, Harry decided as he stroked the letter, but not old, a quick sniff told him that, no, it was freshly bought. He traced his fingers over the back if the paper to feel the ridges, or lack of in this case; that was highly unusual, most people nowadays were heavy handed in their handwriting, not caring about the weight on the quill, it was the older generations who were aware and cared about penmanship, so this was an older- man? The handwriting was neat but lacked a feminine touch so common in girls' handwriting, be it the occasional looped letter or slight lean to one side.
'This man's rich, but it's old money rather than new, new money's too flamboyant and showy-offy whilst this is more reserved but still most definitely wealthy. Stab in the dark, but a pureblood family with a wealthy estate in West Sussex, so either the Greengrass family or the Gaunts,' Harry surmised with a small frown that quickly smoothed out as India spoke.
'The Gaunts?'
'Not surprised you haven't heard of them. Notoriously violent, no one truly associates with them anymore, besides, I think that there's only one of the lot left, I know the elder Gaunts are dead and that Morfin was in Azkaban, I'm not sure how alive he is anymore though. Their line had seemingly gone dead, they were recluses anyway, but now they're decidedly out of the picture which begs the question: what on earth are they doing and where have they been for the past years?' Harry perched on the arm of the sofa, his palms together as he lent on them softly, his eyes closed in concentration. His hair was ruffled and slightly wet from what India could only hope was water; purple bags were forming under his eyes, slowly expanding across his already washed out skin.
'Why wouldn't it be the Greengrass family? I mean, we know that they exist and they're not exactly known for their light-leaning tendencies,' India asked, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl and taking a large bite.
'No. It wouldn't be them. They're too- boring. They care about their political status: blackmail and murder would not help their 'ever righteous' cause. No, this is definitely the work of a Gaunt, or one on the property at least, if not a pureblooded one,' Harry stated, his eyes shut as he flicked through his well made occlumency system. His system wasn't very interesting (book after book after book of memories and facts interspersed with the odd scar from where some sort of presence seemed to lurk, one that he had not got round to destroying if only to see the end outcome) ; it was meticulously created with every possible occurrence planned for, be it a memory or just a household spell. Unsurprisingly, he had taken inspiration from Holmes' mind palace, although he believed that his was far superior in all respects: no deleting nonsense that seemed so frequent in his frienemy.
'So wouldn't it make sense to just look at the Gaunt family line and read off the suspects?' India said, apple forgotten in her hand. Harry shook his head.
'Already done that. Thomas Marvolo Riddle is the only surviving Gaunt but he's been long gone, died in some point in 1981 but is still marked as alive according to the Ministry archives which I may or may not have illegal access to,' at this, Harry pulled an amused smirk before pulling his features back into their recently more common poker face, 'I'm willing to bet that he's staying at the Gaunt house even if he's not the perpetrator of all these murders,'
Sunlight dappled the worn paving of the Hogwarts courtyard, flickering every so often as the leaves of the trees swayed in front of the sunday, making dancing patterns of shadow; a lone man was seated on a bench tucked into the corner of the courtyard, his feet propped up by a trunk and a battered book on his lap, he turned the pages slowly as his eyes drifted across the letters before him. Every now and again, his hair fell into his eyes which would evoke an annoyed push of his hair back on top of his head, only for it to fall down a minute later.
Remus Lupin was ready for work.
It was the thirteenth of August and the students were arriving in seventeen days: not very long when one's lesson plans aren't quite finished... Remus had found himself in the courtyard when he had found yet another book he had not yet read in the Hogwarts library; there weren't many remaining but it certainly seemed as if thousands of books had been added in the fourteen years he had been gone.
It didn't feel like it though, the fourteen years. It was as though he had only left a year ago and was still optimistic about his future, only he wasn't and he had gained more baggage than he had previously deemed possible. But that didn't matter. Not anymore.
With a small shake of his head to expel such a genre of thought, Remus relaxed back into reading again, his mind only half paying attention to the words littering the page.
'New evidence suggest that, in actual fact, Salazar Slytherin was not as 'evil' as previously seen. At around the age of 23, he co-founded what is now known as Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, or as it is better known: Hogwarts. Evidence suggests that Slytherin didn't actually have a long running hatred of muggles and non-purebloods, but rather a strong dislike of the risk they presented to the magical world; however, other sources, such as what is believed to be his brother-in-all-but-blood's diary suggest otherwise. Godric Gryffindor has long been associated as...' At the bottom of the page there was a small group of neat cursive and a picture of a young man with green eyes, stubble and wavy black hair: Salazar Slytherin.
'Harry, are you sure this is a good plan because I'm not,' India whispered loudly across what looked to be the remains of a vegetable patch that had overgrown with stinging nettles and thorns. Harry made swift work of making his way through and made it across with no real problems; India, however, was having no such luck.
'OW!' she gasped as a thorn plunged itself into her thigh, drawing more than a smidgen of blood. Ever since first year when India had realised that blood could be used in potions and rituals, she had always been wary of cutting herself or bleeding anywhere due to the enormous sense of paranoia she grew which was made especially sensitive when ex-auror Billy Stinton came to talk at Hogwarts about the dangers of dark rituals and the awful effects they could bring, including, but not limited to, pregnancy and death.
'Keep up and stop being so noisy! Do you want the neighbours to know we're here?' Harry whispered almost inaudibly, but India still managed to get the full weight of Harry's biting tone despite being two metres away.
The supposed Gaunt House was an old one. Ivy crept up the paint peeled walls, looping around bricks and the decaying wooden beams that slowly seemed to be falling apart but had still held themselves together.
Harry silenced his feet with a wave of his hand and crept onto the porch; he placed his weight slowly onto the first step, listening intently for the likely sound of rotten wood snapping. Upon hearing nothing, Harry swiftly moved forward towards the already open remains of a front door. It was not particularly imposing any longer but what remained of the original mansion was enough to satiate Harry's queries as to the social and financial status of the Gaunts. The threshold line that was so common in wizarding homes due to their usefulness in constructing warding systems was unsurprisingly missing; however, the fact the threshold was truly unknown was enough to set Harry on edge. Running through the countless possibilities of wards upon the property, Harry prepared himself for the most likely and set about creating loop holes in the wards.
This was no mean feat.
There were layer upon layer of wards, all entwined with one another to create a mesh of protection and magic. The intricracies of the warding, Harry could feel, were far more delicately placed than most wards and almost seemed to hum in sentience, not unlike that felt at Hogwarts. One thing Harry could distinctly feel differed from Hogwarts was how cold the wards felt. There was no ambient magic. Only harsh lines cut through the air, splintering any runic work previously on the property (which Harry was sure there was).
'Do you think he's still here? Riddle, I mean,' India whispered into Harry's ear, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Harry wasn't sure if this was due to the close proximity of India's body to his and the pressing sensation in his back, or the sudden change in temperature, but either way, Harry reached back to his neck to try and push the goosebumps back down.
'I don't know, I don't believe so,' Harry said in between delicate wand movements and casting runes into the air, 'He could be in one of the lower levels but there's no active trace that I can feel from any magic. So I suppose not, but don't let your guard down. I'm not terribly into rescuing damsels in distress, especially when there's work to be done.'
'Well it's always nice to know you care, Harry,' India muttered but she could see the corners of his lips twitching upwards as she spoke, the twitch was soon gone, but she saw it.
'The wards have been temporarily disabilised. It took me far longer than it should have done, admittedly they were complex to separate but they weren't overly hard to distinguish. I should probably start practicing again, Lord knows what they would say now!' Harry said to himself more than anyone else. India didn't know what he was going on about but let him carry on nattering until they entered the hall when all fell silent.
Harry froze, his breath halted mid way in. He snapped his eyes shut and twitched his head as if listening to something inaudible to the rest of the world.
'What's-'
'Sh.' Harry snapped, still frozen still. He took one careful foot forward and let out his breath in a hiss.
'Riddle, you naughty boy. What have you done now?' he tutted, tilting his head ever so slightly.
Harry slowly crept across the creaking floorboards, ears pricked as he listened to the soft lilting sounds that came from somewhere within the derelict house.
"Hessa shatha nethaca. Hessa shatha hetuthana" Harry breathed. (India was thoroughly freaked. She knew Harry wasn't exactly Captain Normal of the HMS Sanity but this was just weird.) His eyes were now closed and he responded only to the pull of the magic. It drew him like a moon draws water. And then he opened his eyes.
'He has defiled it. He has ripped life at the very seams and manipulated it in a manner most foul,' he seethed. Harry flexed his fist in jolting movements, his tendons rippling as he dug his nails into his palm. India could only watch in nervous confusion as her companion walked the dangerous line between fury and maniacal anger.
'What's so bad? I don't get it-' she whispered.
'Can you not hear it? Can you not hear it screaming for you? Can you not feel the pull?' Harry turned to her, his eyes wide and crazed, 'It speaks oh so softly but it is all but soft. He has created one of the horrors of mankind's pitiful nature. He is desperate. He is unnatural.'
'Who is unnatural? Who is 'he'?' India said, her tone shouting yet she remained quiet.
'He-who-shall-not-be-named,'
'You mean Vol-' India felt a hand being slapped over her mouth before she saw Harry through the darkness of the room, his face was almost pressed against hers as he breathed almost inaudible ramblings.
'Do not mention his name here. He has broken the laws we ourselves made and has likely broken many more. His moniker is no simple nickname. It is tabooed. It has always been tabooed but when you have no body, how can you respond? You can't.
He has not gone. We were stupid to believe he had. In our arrogance, we presumed little Harry Potter had defeated him. Babies do not destroy monsters. Only heroes destroy monsters. Sadly, the hero of this story is no less than a monster himself,'
India knew one thing at this point: Harry had lost all his remaining marbles leaving a psychopath in their place. Peachy.
Harry had left India's sight by the time she came to this conclusion and had left her alone in the dark crypt that was the Gaunt's front room. She could hear little hisses coming from what sounded like upstairs. They were very quiet and India couldn't help but feel intrigued by them. Harry said he'd been hearing little whispers and he, although seemingly insane, was no worse for wear. With this in mind, she followed the crooning hisses upstairs. They grew louder and louder as she neared what was usually viewed as the master bedroom, but the years had taken their toll and the four poster bed was now only three-and-a-quarter postered. The gold linen of the bed was dirtied and covered in a layer of dust but it did not matter, it was still quiet charming and looked extremely soft to lie on. India supposed that this was due to the preservation charms wizards were fond of.
A magnificent mahogany bureau sat to the left of the bed, it had voluptuous leather panelling to form a writing pad with various little trinkets adorning the desk area: a eagle quill, thick writing parchment, an ink pot and a small little black box.
The box was only an inch by inch wide and was quite unassuming compared to the rest of the decor, but it was intriguing and so India picked it up and held it up to the light of the crystal chandelier. It was a ring box.
India popped the catch and the lid sprung open. Inside was a plain gold ring with a crooked black stone with some etchings carved in. It was battered and had obviously been knocked around a bit. This didn't matter. It had a charm of its own. No need to tell Harry. He'd probably want it for himself to add to his collection. She liked it too much to share. It looked almost pretty in the soft orange light of the room. She could keep it hidden and it could be her little secret. India wasn't a secretive person but for this heirloom, she could make an exception.
India prised the ring out of the holder and held it up to the light. Would it fit? India thought it would. She could put it back in the box again to hide it after she'd tried it on.
India was about to slide it onto her finger when the ring zoomed out of her fingers into the now dark room.
The chandelier wasn't so bright anymore and so she could barely see further than the edge of the bed, but what she could see brought her relief along with a tinge of dying anger.
Harry had the ring floating in front of him, spinning simply in the air as he glanced at it. A small brown leather bound book sat on the bed next of him.
'Riddle was always a bit of a freak, by all accounts. His diary says it all.
'Poor poor Tommy boy, rejected by his fellow orphans, squished like a bug by the matrons, no one to love him'' Harry drawled, his eyes were hard and India could detect no pity, 'He also collected treasures- prizes from his conquests. This little ring, however, was the greatest conquest of them all.
Have you ever thought about what happens after death, India? What happens to your being once your body is no more than a pitiful pile on the ground? No?' Harry seemed utterly nonchalant and yet beneath his languid exterior, India could see the fringes of something altogether more sinister growing.
'I've never considered it worth much thought,' India replied simply, 'what will happen will happen and even if we try, we may not succeed in ever knowing.'
'Riddle and you are very different then. Riddle was obsessed. Riddle cared only for what happens. Riddle was scared of what happens. So naturally, he tried to hide from it,'
'You can't hide from death, Harry, surely you must know that? It's stupid and ignorant to suggest you can,' India smirked, a small crease of her mouth conveyed her amusement as such a ludicrous suggestion! Harry, on the other hand, could not see the humour in her statement. His eyes had darkened to green pits of an emotion India couldn't quite place. It sat somewhere inbetween loathing, anger, and disappointment which made no sense to India: why would Harry be disappointed?
'Harry?' India asked as she peered out of the window and across the hazy
'Yes?' came the languid response.
'Harry, why did you take away my ring? It was only ring and I admit it had no true beauty but it was rather quaint and I did quite like it,'
Harry stared at her. It was a deep stare, one with slightly narrowed eyes and a tilt to his head. He picked the ring box up and tossed it back to her. She deftly caught it and flicked the lid open. The ring was sat in the box, ever so innocently but it seemed to have lost some of its charm. The stone wasn't quite a mysterious any more and the hum it had was gone. India supposed that this was because Harry was here, watching her in a very indiscrete manner. Not to worry, it was still pretty and it fitted her finger like a glove, just as she thought it would. Upon holding her hand up to the light, India smiled and watched the rock in the centre catch the light; Harry just watched, a frown pitting his eyebrows.
Harry slipped his hand into his pocket.
It was all a tad too much for Harry, not that he'd ever admit that. The ring, India actually enjoying his company and the ever present tinge of darkness growing in the corner of his mind seemed to compile into an emotion he had no felt before. Stress. He had been angry before most definitely but this feeling was more one of worry combined with anger. It was the darkness that most unsettled him. It was constantly nudging him, reminding him that it was there, always there. It needed release but Harry couldn't think of how to let it out. When he was on the streets it was fine. He'd go and find some layabout and play around with them a bit until the satisfaction was gone. And not in that way. Despite his lack of morals, rape and sexual coercion were not at the top of his priorities. No he had bitter experience with those things. What he did was entirely different. He could feel it itching. Creeping out like a monster from the dark.
He couldn't contain it. The need.
He needed to go. He needed to relieve the dark pressure in his mind. Harry shook his head and tried to repress the feelings that sweltered and grew in his mind: anger, hate, upset, darkness. Dark magic did this to a person. It ruined them from the inside out. He tried to keep the facade up as he went to Hogwarts, he really did. He needed to be the perfect golden-boy. But he wasn't and he never could be. How could a monster be the hero? Harry was sure that was what he was: a monster. He had gone to far to be normal. He wasn't perfect in soul or body. The large scars that travelled all along his back could attest to that. Some he couldn't even remember getting, but they were there. Words that were carved into his body. He couldn't remember getting those either. Sometimes his scars came from no where. They just appeared overnight leaving the bed sheets stained and dried blood all over his body.
That scared him. Of all the things that happened, that scared him the most. He could cope with the memories, he could cope with the subtle personality changes that came oh so slowly but the scars, they scared him. His Aunt and Uncle hated him even more after they saw them. Wizards, apparently, were even freakier if they looked like they'd been at the receiving end of more that a few curses.
In a moment of barely thought through haste, Harry grabbed his coat and crept down the stairs to the door. The house was silent; India must have gone to bed already. With a fleeting glance back, Harry left.
The street was almost pitch black. The dull orange street lamps did little to relieve the suffocating darkness of the square. Soon enough though Harry became accustomed to the dark and began to revel in the anonymity it offered. With quick steps, Harry made his way to the dockyards.
'You will die at my hand; I promise you this. You have ruined me for no less than a petty obsession you hold so dear!'
He turned around in fury. How dare he suggest such a thing? Of course perfect Godric would say that.
'If you think this was the intentional outcome then you are far more stupid than I thought, brother,' he spat.
'You have no right to call me brother, Slytherin, you are as dirty as the rest of your family. Your pureblood mania and your dark arts! I was a fool to believe you could be different! You're a monster like the rest of them,'
'How bold of you! How courageous! Is that not what your house stands for? And yet you've bound me and locked me in a cellar to be your whipping boy! Go on! Take another hit! Show the world the valor and chivalry of Godric Gryffindor!'
'DO NOT SPEAK MY NAME! You lost that right when you killed her! Look at you now. Look how the mighty have fallen. I'm going to enjoy this. But don't worry, I'm not going to do it myself. I'm going to sell you. You'll be someone's play thing, just like I've been all these years for you. I only just realised. You've never cared for me. I've been your sidekick. I HAVE HAD ENOUGH! I am more than that! I am ultimately more than you. All you are is a dark creature. Hiss for me, snake boy,'
He sat in the corner, hopelessly watching as his best friend fell to insanity, to a mere shadow of what he once was. Godric- no! Gryffindor had always been there for him, to stitch him up and bring him back to health and now he needed stitching up and Gryffindor was stood there laughing. All for a muggle girl that Gryffindor had liked. He had always said that you should never associate with muggles and look who was right? Muggles would kill him. That and Gryffindor's psychotic tendencies.
He would kill himself before he would be someone's play thing.
When Harry woke up it was in a puddle of blood. He had managed to find himself in an alley off the side of Whitechapel pushed up against a slimey dirty alley wall. Nice. Stay classy Harry. As he always did after events such as these, he had a blinding headache and no short amount of thirst. That could be dealt with later. What he really needed was a tee no covered in blood.
Inspecting his coat and finding that the blood sort of blended into the navy reefer, he buttoned his coat up to hide the stinging cuts that he must have gained in the night and started to try and find his way back home. Harry had spent quite a large proportion of his life on the streets and so finding his way around wasn't too difficult even if he was a bit rusty. This was one of the Dursley's only redeeming factors: they did not care where he was as long as it didn't inhibit them. So wandering around London every month wasn't a major issue in their eyes.
The London air was fairly muggy and rain hung in the atmosphere even though it had long stopped raining if Harry's coat were to give any explanation. Harry himself didn't remember though. He must have collapsed somewhere during his exploits which was rather unfortunate because it seemed he hadn't been fully able to relieve the throbbing of his mind even if it was signifcantly deplenished. No matter though, he still had another headache coming on and he was not in the mood for company: the loft tonight is was then.
The journey home was a short one with no unexpected obstacles apart from a inebriated man drinking something that smelt suspiciously of piss (in Harry's opinion anyway). He unlocked the front door with a tired wave of his hand and entered the dark hallway where he doffed his coat and shoes before going up the spiral staircase to the living room. Still silent apart from the drip drip drip of either water or blood, Harry couldn't be bothered to check; he was far to tired to be worried with such things.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Thud.
Blood loss isn't that noticeable when you have a navy coat absorbing it all.
