Chapter 11: Are You Afraid of Me Now?
• − ○ ◊ Harry ◊ ○ − •
"I failed you, My Lord," Harry said, tensing before Lord Voldemort's narrowed eyes. He knelt before Voldemort in the Shrieking Shack with the old house creaking around them. "I require me time to–"
Voldemort twisted, arching his wand upward so that the cutting curse slashed diagonally across Harry's torso. He jolted. A guttural groan escaped him.
"You do not make requests of me!" Voldemort hissed. "You may be more than a Death Eater in your world, but here you are no better than those Mudblood scum until you have proven yourself!"
Harry forced himself to stand straight, pressing a hand against his chest. It came away hot and sticky, and in a wave his chest suddenly felt as though it was on fire.
"Yes, My Lord," he bit out. Somehow, despite everything, those words were easier to say when he knew in his heart that he was actively working to destroy this Voldemort. "I will not rest until I bring you the Elder Wand."
Voldemort lifted his wand lazily. "And neither will you rest tonight."
The excruciating and all-too-familiar pain of the Cruciatus Curse ripped through his being. He tried to stifle the screams, but they burst from him, writhing uncontrollably. His entire body was on fire, red-hot knives piercing his skin, acid clawing through his organs. He screamed, wanting more than anything for it to stop. For everything to stop – to sink into nothingness, to cease to exist, to be done with everything. He fought to keep a hold of himself. Harry, Harry, Harry. He was stronger than this! I'm Harry. Just Harry. But those words had lost all meaning. He was Harry the monster. Harry the beast.
He lost all sense of time, all sense of self. He was back in the Dungeons, staring at himself in chains, black blood glistening across his skin. All that existed was himself and the pain. All of the future and all of the past was nothing but suffering–
The pain fell away. He gasped for breath, shuddering, face pressed against the floorboards. He haphazardly forced himself off the floor and into a kneel. He could feel his bones grating against each other. His muscles spasmed and shuddered, pain sparkling across his skin. He'd never felt an aftermath to the Cruciatus Curse like this before. He felt a wave of disorientation. How long had he been under? He'd lost all sense of time. He couldn't tell if it had been minutes or hours.
Voldemort lowered himself down so that they were eye-level, all hints of anger gone. "Now tell me, Champion of Worlds, why should I spare your life? Why should I grant you a second chance after this failure?"
Harry tried to catch his breath and painstakingly lifted his sleeve to reveal the gleaming black shackle. He held it out for the Dark Lord to see, swallowing back the bile.
"I failed you once before, and this is the price I paid," he said. "This reminds me of my mistakes, and I have never forgotten. I repaid my debt, and I proved myself again. I will do the same now, if you grant me this opportunity. You will not regret it."
Voldemort studied the shackle with pale, spidery fingers and sneered down at the words carved into it. Until the final price.
"What is the final price?" he asked slowly.
"Death."
The sides of Voldemort's mouth twitched upward into a private, sadistic kind of smile, eyes shifting between Harry and the shackle. "Alright, Champion of Worlds. Another seven days. Do not bother coming back without the wand unless it is indeed death that you desire."
Voldemort stood, still smiling. Smoke rose from the ground, and a moment later Voldemort disapparated in a black shroud, leaving Harry alone in that creaking house. He pulled his sleeve over the shackle and shakily got to his feet. His entire body felt unhinged, as though someone had come along and unscrewed all his joints. He took several shuddering breaths and told himself he was fine. It was just the Cruciatus Curse. It hurt like a bastard, but was ultimately harmless.
It didn't feel that way, however, as he slowly made his way from the Shrieking Shack back up to the castle. The gash across his chest, which had been previously numbed by the Crucio, was beginning to throb.
He realised with a start that it was early morning. The faintest echoes of the morning light were beginning to streak across the sky. He'd spend the whole night beneath Voldemort's Crucio.
He got his room, and of course, his troupe of alternate friends were waiting for him. They jolted awake and jumped to their feet. Harry closed the door, leant hard against it, and slid to the floor. Deathly pale, eyes hard, jaw locked in a grimace.
"Get out," he said, painfully aware that he was blocking the only exit.
"What's wrong? Where are you hurt?" his counterpart asked urgently.
How was this happening again? First the panic attack, and now this. How were they always there to witness his weakest moments? He didn't need this. He didn't need their pity. Suffering was not a public endeavour. He glanced down at his chest, body tremoring, and noticed the blood soaked through his robes. His right hand was stained red.
Daphne and Ginny crouched beside him. "Harry, you're getting our help whether you like it or not, so just tell us what's…" Daphne's gaze fell on his red hand and his chest, and she visibly paled. She stood, covering her mouth with her hand, and withdrew with a sickly expression. "There's a gash…" she said weakly.
"I can heal myself," Harry muttered.
He moved to gingerly peel off his blood-stained robes, but stopped upon realising that this would leave him completely bare – shackle, scars, runes, and all. Ginny tried to help him, but he caught her by the wrist, blood smudging against her freckled skin, and shook his head stiffly.
"I'm fine. You can go."
"Harry, you're about to bleed to death."
"See what I mean? The lion hates being out of control," Daphne said, but she was hanging back, looking anywhere but at Harry.
"I'm not out of control," Harry ground out, but his body was making a liar out of him. Pain crawled across his skin like fiery ants. The room felt impossibly hot, and it was beginning to spin dizzily. "What's happening to me?" he muttered under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut.
"You've got Scrimgeour's Shudder," Hermione said with sudden realisation.
"What the hell is that?" Ron asked.
"It's a condition that sometimes develops after prolonged exposure… to the Cruciatus Curse," she said quietly.
The teens glanced at each other with forlorn looks. Harry glowered up at them with bitter exasperation. "All of you can fuck right off with your pity!" he said, words slurring together.
"How do we help him?" his counterpart asked Hermione.
"I don't…" Hermione began, looking a little lost. "I'm not sure if there's an antidote. Symptoms usually only lasts a few hours."
"Start by healing his chest! He's bleeding everywhere!" Daphne said agitatedly.
Ginny gasped beside him and tried to hide it by covering her mouth. Harry suddenly realised that he was still holding her wrist in a vice-like grip. He pried his hand free guiltily and glared at the crimson blood, glistening red against his skin. It seemed throb at him, taunting him.
"I don't…" he began, but his stomach twisted nauseously. The world tilted dangerously, blackness clouding his vision. He realised he was about to fall unconscious. "No – not here…"
Not in front of them, unconscious, left completely to their will. Someone was saying something, but everything suddenly felt impossibly far away. He blinked rapidly, swallowing thickly, trying to maintain some grip on reality, but unconsciousness came in an unyielding wave, sweeping him out into the darkness.
• − ○ ◊ Harry ◊ ○ − •
Harry came to his senses slowly, from visions of clouds. Light was assaulting against his eyelids, and he opened them blearily to realise that he was asleep on his bed… the same bed he hadn't touched once since arriving in this universe – and Daphne asleep beside him. He jerked up, leaping away from the bed as though it had bitten him.
He gasped, a slight electric jolt running through him and blackness clouding over his vision for a moment. His head felt heavy and sluggish, as though it was stuffed with cotton wool. He lifted a hand to his forehead, and that's when he noticed his shackle. The chain links were swinging freely from his wrist. He wasn't wearing a shirt. He was completely bare save, thankfully, for a pair of trousers.
Daphne rubbed her eyes and gazed blearily up at him with a small, sleepy smile. Her hair was strewn in an unruly mess around her head, and strewn across the bed were empty potion bottles and towels. She was staring right up at him, and he'd never felt so exposed in his life. That familiar feeling of shame came over him. A thousand questions popped into his brain, but only one prevailed.
"Why am I topless?" he asked hoarsely.
Daphne sat up, brushing her fingers through her hair. "We had to heal that gash on your chest. You also had a cursed fever from Scrimgeour's Shudder. We had to cool you down the Muggle way with damp towels." Her gaze tracked downward to the shackle. She tilted her head curiously. "So do you wear it as an edgy accessory or is it stuck there?"
She asked it so casually, as though the answer was about as important as what she'd had for dinner last week. How could she possibly know the misery that blasted shackle represented? He resisted the urge to grab at it, to hide in from view, and curled his hands into fists to stop himself. He refused to break Daphne's gaze, as though he would be admitting something if he looked away.
"You need to leave," he said quietly.
Daphne raised her eyebrows. "You want to try that again? How about 'Thank you for staying up with me all night until my fever finally broke at six in the morning!'"
He glanced away. "I've dealt with worse."
"Oh, I'm aware. We saw the scars on your back. You remember when I said I wanted to hear your sob-story? I think I can pretty much piece it together myself, what with the shackle and the runes and the flogging scars and the antisocial prison attitude–"
"Get out!" Harry snarled, a burst of magic escaping from his hands.
Daphne jumped to her feet, staring at him with wide eyes. She gave him the look of contempt that only teenaged girls could muster and wordlessly stalked from the room.
When he was sure she wasn't coming back, Harry sank onto bed and stared hatefully, tiredly, down at that gleaming shackle. There was no coming back from this. There was no explaining away those scars. Every day they came closer to the truth, and he didn't know how to stop it.
He spent all morning hiding in his room. He couldn't bring himself to walk out that door and possibly come face to face with his counterpart or his alternate friends, knowing they had seen the shackle, and the scars. What he wanted more than anything in that moment was a round in the Cage. An opportunity to simplify his world to just himself and his opponent to remind himself that he could be strong after being so weak.
It got to midday when his restlessness finally overpowered his shame. He ventured to the Great Hall, noticing absently that Christmas Decorations had been put up overnight, and came across quite the unexpected sight.
James stood at the centre of a large crowd of students on top of a raised platform, lecturing on the proper way to duel. Harry was reminded of the Duelling Club Gilderoy Lockhart had held back in his Hogwarts days. James had quite the crowd surrounding him, including not only students but adults too, with even Professor Dumbledore surveying the goings-on from the back of the hall.
"You must always remember your fighter's stance," James was saying. "Bend your knees, and never drop your wand below your hips!"
James had two volunteers get onto the platform to stage a duel which consisted of a tediously slow back-and-forth between the two wizards which would have made any Death Eater die of hysterics. The two wizards were finally dismissed, and James rubbed his hands together as he surveyed the crowd of students.
"Alright, now let's step it up a little with some more seasoned contenders…" James caught Harry's eye and his eyes lit up. "… such as the Champion of Worlds! Glad to hear you got back in one piece, Harry! Now why don't you come and show us what you're made of, eh?"
Harry knew he should refuse. That his vast knowledge of primarily dark spells would do nothing for his reputation, and that he was still fatigued from Scrimgeour's Shudder, but he desperately needed a round in the Cage. He pushed his way through the crowd and jumped onto the platform to James' distinct pleasure.
"Excellent! Now who to pit you against… how about a duel between father and son, hm? So long as you don't go easy on me, son!"
"Keep calling me 'son' and I assure you that won't be a problem," Harry muttered, but he'd had a much better idea. "If you want to show your students what a real duel looks like, you'll pit me against Albus Dumbledore."
He hadn't forgotten the incident with Fawkes in Dumbledore's office. He'd been rendered helpless by a flick of the wrist. He had to prove to himself and to Dumbledore that he was better than that. Stronger than that. He'd done as Dumbledore said, he'd walked the plank and taken the plunge into Voldemort's wrath. Now he was going to get that wand.
"That would be quite inappropriate, Mr Potter," Dumbledore said.
"This isn't about your delicate sensibilities," Harry said forcefully. "It's about teaching these kids what fighting in a war is really like. No Death Eater waits their turn to attack."
Dumbledore studied him for a moment. A look of wise understanding came over the old wizard, as though he knew exactly what Harry was doing and why. He hated that condescending look. Dumbledore conceded, and took his place down the other end of the platform.
"No flaming birds this time," said Harry.
Dumbledore smiled pleasantly. "As you wish."
Harry didn't wait for his turn, or for Dumbledore to be 'ready', or even for James to jump of the stage, and with the rush of magical energy that ensued, he felt himself come alive again. The lethargy left over from Scrimgeour's Shudder evaporated, leaving only an intense desire to defeat Albus Dumbledore, but Albus Dumbledore wasn't about to be shown up by a seventeen-year-old.
There was no casual back-and-forth between the two of them. No game of chess. This was a war. They both hurled curse after curse, blocking, dodging, and firing in a chaotic mess of flashes and bursts. Harry loved every moment of it. It had been a while since he'd had a proper duel with anyone. He tried to keep his choice of spells light, but he found the darker spells rolling off his tongue on impulse. Dumbledore was not perturbed, firing off some nasty spells of his own. Harry parried them with a grin.
The duel wore on, with neither wizard any better or worse off than the other. Harry sent an Immobulus Curse crawling along the floor and tried to distract Dumbledore with a burst of bright cutting curses, but Dumbledore was not fooled, and blocked all of them with ease. If Harry was going to win, he was going to have to get devious. Perhaps even cheat. After all, did Dumbledore not cheat when he summoned Fawkes?
He cast another cutting curse, but this time arched his wand a little too far to the left. The cutting curse struck an unsuspecting James, who cried out in surprise, though the gash was barely paper-deep across his shoulder.
"James!" exclaimed Harry, pretending to falter. Dumbledore immediately halted his onslaught, turning his gaze to James with concern.
Then Harry wordlessly, wandlessly, motionlessly summoned Dumbledore's wand to him. The wand flew through the air, and Dumbledore just watched it go. It landed in a grinning – and slightly disbelieving – Harry's hand.
"Well done," Dumbledore said graciously, clasping his hands together. "I see the ritual chose correctly in summoning you, as powerful and crafty as you are. I am confident you will guide us into a new era–"
Harry's grin soured. Trust Dumbledore to turn his own defeat into a self-congratulatory sermon. He scowled and jumped from the platform, gripping the Elder Wand with white knuckles. He pushed his way through the students, but James caught him by the arm, one hand pressed to his shoulder.
"Harry! Your counterpart told use about what happened last night… Are you alright?"
"Better than ever," Harry said quickly, and he meant it. His magic was still thrumming through him, and he had the Elder Wand. James was giving him an amused look, and Harry suddenly realised he was grinning again. He tried to wipe it from his face, and escaped out of the Great Hall, back to his room where he collapsed onto his couch in relief.
The duel had left him more drained than he'd like to admit and he chose to believe it was because he was still recovering from Scrimgeour's Shudder. He studied the Elder Wand. It just looked like an ordinary wand to him. He managed five minutes of silent reprieve before his alternate friends burst in and made themselves at home.
"That was awesome!" said Ron.
"You're basically Merlin!" chimed Holly.
"Mate," his counterpart said, laying a hand on Harry's shoulder beseechingly. "I'm you. You're me. You have to show me your ways! Teach me to be as badass as that!"
"Does it look like I have the patience to teach?"
His counterpart became distracted by the Dumbledore's wand. He promptly transformed into Tampertail, snatched the wand from Harry, and scampered to the other side of the room.
"Hey! Give that back, now!"
His counterpart transformed back into himself and marvelled at the wand. He clearly didn't realise he was holding the Elder Wand, Harry could tell that much. Which mean he also did not realise that he may have just stolen the wand's loyalties.
"I take it this means you're feeling better, Harry?" Hermione asked. She was picking up all the bottles still strewn across his bed.
"I'm great."
"We were wondering if we could talk to you… about the scars."
Harry's chest tightened. "There's nothing to talk about."
"Are they from when Voldemort kidnapped you in your world?" his counterpart asked.
"What?" he asked severely, stomach dropping. How did they find out? How could they know? Why hadn't the Order come and dragged him–
"Dumbledore told us about the memory you showed him of Voldemort trying to torture you into joining him."
Harry inwardly sighed a breath of relief. "Of course he did," he muttered. Daphne barged in and Harry let out a frustrated groan. "You people really need to learn to knock before–"
Daphne dropped her bag to the floor and straddled him right there on the couch, engulfing him with her lips against his. The teens burst into sounds of disgust.
When she pulled away, Harry said, "And you need to learn to wait for consent."
She smirked. "As you have just displayed in front of half the school, you were more than capable of stopping me if you'd wanted to."
He couldn't find a flaw in her logic.
She glanced at the others. "Am I interrupting something?"
"We were just asking Harry about the scars," said Ginny.
She turned her gaze to Harry with raised eyebrows, clearly interested as well. Harry sighed in exasperation. "I slipped and fell into a vat of rakes – there, happy?"
Daphne snorted. "No one is going to believe that."
"Too bad. It's the only explanation I'm giving."
"Well in that case, why not make it a bit grander? Say you were mauled by a bear or something."
Harry gave her a sour look. "Fine," he muttered. "I was caught in the rain, and someone cursed it to rain knives."
She laughed, flashing a row of white teeth. He couldn't help noticing the way her hazel eyes glinted at him. The way her strawberry blonde hair fell onto her face. How one lock in particular had fallen across her cheek, just grazing the edge of her thin upper lip.
"Everyone, get out," said Harry, eyes trained on the girl in front of her. "Leave the wand."
"Of all the girls in this school you could have picked, you chose her?" his counterpart moaned. "I can't believe we're the same person."
"If you don't like it, don't watch."
"You shouldn't date her," Holly declared. "She just wants to sink her claws into you."
Daphne threw her head back and laughed. "Get out, kids! I need to tear your Champion of Worlds to shreds." The teens conceded defeat and filed out. When the door snapped shut, the glint in her eyes returned. "That was impressive what you did in the Great Hall, Potter. Please wipe the floor with Albus Dumbledore more often."
She pressed her lips to his again. Everything inside him went haywire. Heart pumping. Mind racing. Hands searching. She had one of her hands curled into his hair. The other tracked along his chest, across his shoulder, down his arm, gripping onto the shackle–
He blanched. "Don't."
She gave him a disappointed look without halting her search. She lifted back his sleeve and handled with the shackle with thin, pale fingers, studying its intricacies. Harry tried to go slack, to let her look at it freely, but her hands around it made him cringe with discomfort. He watched her face go solemn as she traced a finger across the words engraved into the metal.
Until the final price.
"I'm sorry," said Harry.
"For what?" she asked without looking up from the shackle.
"For unleashing on you this morning."
She smiled. "Don't be, Little Thief. It was an honest moment. I love honest moments, where someone can be nothing but their simplest, purest self. I don't see many of those moments from you."
They both went still and silent. Harry just looked at her, wondering what it was like to be her. He hadn't seen many honest moments from her, either. She was all sharp smiles and glinting eyes. Like a knife.
She sat back. "You know, sometimes I think we'd all be better off as Muggles. Like, maybe all this magic is too much power for people to have. Every conflict that ever occurred in the Wizarding World could be traced back to one wizard wanting more power over another."
Harry thought of the Dursleys. "The Muggles aren't so great either."
She smirked, eyes lighting up. "Well, I happen to like the Muggles. I was the only Slytherin who took Muggle Studies back in the day. They're fascinating."
"Why?"
"I guess, because we like to think of them as so utterly other, but they're not really all that different to us. They can be just as ridiculous."
"Wizards aren't ridiculous–"
"Potter, wizards still wear robes hundreds of years after the invention of pants, simply because you're all addicted to being all mysterious and impressive in your long flowing robes, when pants are clearly the more sensible and efficient option."
Harry opened his mouth to retort, but closed it again. He'd been guilty of that. There was something about a sharp pair of robes that made one feel empowered, as though he could deal with anything.
"So, what about the Muggles is ridiculous?" he asked instead.
She suppressed a smile, as though this was the question she'd been waiting for. She reached into her bag and pulled out a gleaming contraption. It had a thin nozzle and a wooden handle, and the grooves in its metallic surface gleamed.
Harry sat up in alarm. "Where did you get this?"
"Filch's Office," she said casually. She pushed the revolver into his hands. "Hold it and tell me it doesn't feel ten times more satisfying that a measly little stick."
Harry held it with an appalled expression. It was heavy and unnatural in his hand, nothing like a wand that thrummed along with the magic inside him.
"So… what's ridiculous about the Muggles is that they use guns to kill each other instead of wands?"
"Not quite," she said, taking the gun from him and opening the cylinder. All the slots were empty except for one. "See, the Russian Muggles have this game where they put in one bullet only…" she spun the cylinder and fitted it back into place. "And then they…" She lifted the nozzle to her temple and pulled the trigger.
His heart skipped a beat.
"No!" Harry burst out.
The gun clicked, the cylinder rotating once. Daphne's eyes were shining. What the hell had she just done? She'd nearly killed herself! He jumped to his feet, overcome with righteous anger, spilling Daphne off him.
"What the hell would possess you to – you're completely insane! You could have killed yourself!"
She casually backed away from him. "It's called Russian Roulette," she said easily. She gave him a Cheshire smile and cocked the nozzle against her temple again. His heart rose into his throat.
"Don't," he said, raising his hands slowly. "Please don't."
"Don't beg!" she snapped. She leapt up onto the bed. "The Destroyer of Worlds does not beg! You're too strong! Too powerful!" She gestured to her feet. "Why does the Champion of Worlds refuse to sleep in his own bed?"
"Daphne, put the gun down–"
"You don't take shit from anyone. Not from me, not from James, not from Dumbledore! You follow no one, yet you refuse to sleep in your own bed! Why?" She pointed the gun straight at him. "What's wrong with the bed, Harry?"
"Don't point that thing at me!"
"You could stop me if you wanted to!" Daphne shot back. "You proved that this afternoon. You have power. You're the Champion of Worlds! There are no rules for you – you're too powerful to follow rules. Everyone should bow to you as you pass them by!"
"Give me the fucking gun!"
"Why are you afraid of your power!?" she shouted in return, matching his volume. She jumped from the bed, staring at him, past him, into his soul. He went rigid beneath her intense stare. She pressed the tip of the revolver beneath her chin, moving closer, and closer. He willed her finger on the trigger to stay.
"Daphne, look at me," Harry said with forced calm. "Don't do this."
She smiled sadly. "You're so powerful, but you're weak. You can stop all of this easily, but you won't, because you're afraid. Your magic is a gift, but you treat it like a burden. Did you know that madness sets you free? There's madness inside your head too. I can see it tearing you apart. We can be mad together. Mad and broken. Me and you and you and me."
She was a breath away now, eyes wide and full of purpose. Harry only had eyes for her index finger poised on the trigger.
"I know your weakness, Harry," she murmured. "Your weakness is power. I am the only one who understands you."
Harry looked right at her then. "You're wrong."
She pulled the trigger. He cried out, but the gun just clicked again. He snatched it out of her hands. "Bloody hell, what is wrong with you?" he hissed. He fiddled with the gun, but he couldn't figure out how to open the cylinder.
"Why Harry, I didn't know you cared!"
Harry growled at the contraption. "I care that you nearly splattered my walls with your crazy Slytherin brains!" He melted the gun between his hands, turning it to molten metal and banishing it. "You understand nothing! You are just another one of those stupid lusting girls!" He pulled back his sleeve and shook the shackle in her face. "This is not something to lust over! You think you know me? You think you can fix me? I'm not your cliched little charity project! How about you go and fix yourself first, huh? You're just like my counterpart and his friends. You're all children!"
Harry glared at her, and for once she didn't give him some devilish smile, or waggle her eyebrows, or tilt her head to the side. She snatched her bag and stormed from the room.
