"He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you." - Friedrich Nietzsche
Harry felt ill; his entire body was covered with a slick sheen of perspiration, and he veritably shook in his boots. Feeling his heart literally freeze while his blood burned painfully through his veins, his eyes locked onto the wand pointed threateningly at his chest. Voldemort's smirk was nothing short of malicious.
"I cannot tell you how surprised I was to hear of your arrival, Harry." The demon's blood red eyes glinted in an insane glee. "Surely an ingenious young wizard like yourself would have more sense than to step into the very lair of his foe?" Knowing the question was rhetorical and not sure if he would have been able to answer regardless, Harry didn't respond, instead opting to reflexively gulp. Voldemort's wand flicked carelessly, still aimed casually at the boy's heart. "Now you'll die. However, I wish to know something first." Voldemort's eyes studied his adversary's face. "Why are you here?"
Harry's reply came quickly and through parched lips, his mouth in a thin line. "I wish to join you."
Several Death Eaters snickered.
Voldemort waited a moment for the deafening quiet to once more settle as a blanket across the room, and then said, "Oh? Is that so? And why, pray tell, would you want to join me?" Their eyes met and the Dark Lord's bored into Harry's soul; the young wizard was once more grateful that he had successfully learned Occlumency. "I killed your parents, boy." The proclamation was made calmly; the Dark Lord's voice was as a velvet sheet, smooth and flat.
Harry steeled his tongue in disgust at what he was about to say, but he was already in the man's presence and could not afford to back out: "They deserved to die."
Now Voldemort was no fool; he had killed and conquered more people than he could even care to keep track of. He was currently in control of most of Europe, and through the powers of the Dark Arts he had managed to say alive longer than he really should have, essentially becoming immortal. Suffice it to say that he was wise: wiser, perhaps, than Dumbledore. He could certainly rival the man, but wisdom is a relative thing. Whereas Dumbledore's strength was borne in the powers of goodness and light, the Dark Lord's dwelt in the bony grasp of evil and darkness.
And Voldemort was the epitome of darkness.
Thus, he was momentarily amused at the boy's proclamation: his aura positively shown with light. Still, as he stared and studied it more closely he could begin to make out a sort of wearing about the edges; they appeared ragged and frilled, and shadows seemed to lurk just out of his vision, eager to dance in a massacre of innocence.
His mouth quirked into an expression of crazed excitement; perhaps there was more to this situation than met his blood-like eyes.
Harry, for his part, was becoming increasingly unnerved. The Dark Lord's eyes were burning through him like an acid on butter, and the Death Eaters' silent attentiveness was not at all improving the situation. His facial muscles strained to the point of aching as he struggled to keep his expression neutral and his legs from shaking; showing any weakness at all would be an almost certain death sentence.
And Harry didn't especially care to die.
At least not before he had completed his objective.
Finally, the awkward pause ended, and the Dark Lord spoke: "Is that so?" The wand never left Harry's heart.
"It is," Harry's voice was deceptively strong as the words practically quivered from his mouth.
"And what led you to this conclusion?"
Harry decided that he hated Voldemort's voice and it's snake-like quality; his tongue flicked out and seemed to slither as the syllables caressed his lips in an almost intimate fashion, and it made the younger wizard shiver.
The boy twisted his face into an expression of bitter disgust.
"I've followed that muggle-loving fool for too long. He twists everything and tells nothing; while I was allied with him, while I was in his 'school,' he kept things from me: my past, my future, my power." He spoke the words darkly, ruthlessly, and with forced honesty. But as they flowed from his mouth with an unpracticed ease, he considered: his points were true. Dumbledore had been known to be less than truthful with him, and he had long since grown used to that fact. But wasn't he supposed to be the wizarding world's savoir? Didn't he deserve honesty? He was the most important thing they had, after all! He was their weapon, their only weapon! "I am tired of it." The proclamation was made in a whispered breath, and it bore a weight no one else could fathom.
The snake-like visage studied him for a moment longer; and even with his Occlumency shields at full strength, Harry's spine produced the cool-ice feeling of being violated.
When Voldemort spoke, his voice was silky: "Let us say, for a moment, that I believe you: what would you do then?"
"Anything that you ask."
Harry cringed.
The wand lowered.
The Death Eaters blinked.
"Very well then," the Dark Lord said. "Take him away."
----
It hurt.
It hurt a lot.
The body flamed in agony; every nerve ending was alive with tension. Convulsing in its bonds, its mouth unconsciously foamed as it unleashed a feral, animalistic scream. Heat, brimstone, and terror pumped through its veins, setting its blood aflame. Sweat-glistened and blood-matted hair hung in front of its eyes, dripping and pooling the bitter, sticky residues at its feet. The air tasted metallic and chalky, even with the open, barred window letting the bitingly cold wind in to play about the room.
Shadows and haunts danced across the walls, demons encroaching and perversely enjoying the suffering of the body. They taunted and made fun, jeering and throwing ruthless insults toward the delirious and broken countenance.
It was chained against one of the stone walls of Azkaban prison. The wall was grimy and dirty, putrid with the sweat and blood of centuries, and it reeked of the dull scent of slowly growing insanity and inevitable death. There was no happiness in this place; there was nothing but pain. All other emotions and feelings had been sucked out by the vampiric likenesses of the Dementors. But by then, the corpse was too far gone to much care.
The hands were strung up behind it, pulled outward as far as could be done without dislocating the shoulders—the Death Eaters who had thrown it into the bonds had pulled until it began to scream—and they burned endlessly. The feet dangled limply, brushing against the cool stone of the floor occasionally; they were by then scarred and calloused from the treatment received when their owner was repeatedly placed under the Cruciatus and other torture-inducing curses.
The body itself was ragged; the only clothes that it wore were jaggedly torn and hung from the frame as cloths, barely covering anything and certainly not keeping the frigid night air from embracing it. It was torn; blood seeped from hundreds of tiny cuts and tens of larger, more fiery and dangerous, wounds. Bruised and beaten, it barely clung on to the last vestiges of its life, but no matter how much it begged, its captors would not let it die.
They refused to; it was an order.
And they knew what would happen if they disobeyed direct orders.
Every life-threatening laceration was quickly healed with a well-placed spell, and every violent mental probe was delayed until the subject had ample time to put its thoughts back in order.
The mind, after all, was as important as the body.
However, these people were professionals; no matter how many times the wounds healed themselves and the skin crawled back together and mended expertly, the pain remained.
The excruciating, horrific, primitive, and intoxicating fire never burnt out.
Still, somewhere buried deep within the recesses of a shattered psyche, the essence of Harry survived. He could not comprehend much, such was the numbing quality of the torture; thus, he didn't not know how much time had passed nor what the Dark Lord had planned for him.
Neither seemed to overly matter.
He was possessed by an instinctual spirit, something that the Death Eaters seemed to be forcing out. It lashed outward whenever the sessions began, the intervals of which he could also not comprehend; but the animal in him was competent enough to realize that they would do so whenever one of the dark-robed figures entered the chamber.
Abruptly, there was a creaking sound, as if of twisting metal, and the door to the small room swung wide open. Standing and smiling insanely in the doorway was a Death Eater.
And on it went.
----
The Dark Lord Voldemort was by mere being not a very a trusting individual. He had hundreds, if not thousands, of followers, but there were only a few whose loyalty was unquestioning and unending. The others, they were disposable soldiers whom he would not trust any further than he could curse them, which was, coincidentally, fairly far.
That small, elite group of Death Eaters that he deemed worthy was his 'inner circle,' his own personal 'Order.' They respected him as no others possibly could. He was a god to them, and the knowledge that they saw him as he should be seen was the only thing that had kept some of them alive as long as they had been. It was well known that his toleration of disloyalty among his followers was less than nothing, and that he would murder if he even had the slightest suspicion of betrayal. Unfortunately, there were some of his Death Eaters that sought to take advantage of this by attacking and blaming their fellows in order to further their own egos. They were usually surprised, however, that his tolerance for this betrayal—for that is truly what it was—was almost equally as low.
One of the most targeted of these accused individuals was Severus Snape, whom most seemed to believe was betraying the Dark Lord right under his nose. Bemused at first, he had eventually grown so tired of hearing this complaint, that he had begun violently murdering whomever it was that had brought it up that day. They were idiots anyway, as if anyone could hide such a large secret from someone as powerful as himself. Severus's work as a double agent was well known to him, just not in the sense that some seemed to expect. But that did not matter.
Either way, there were only a few of his followers that he had confidence enough in, that were needed enough, or that were just plain stupid enough to be allowed access to some of his deepest thoughts and longest reaching plans. These were the exceptional minority that he had all but complete faith in; they would follow him to their deaths if need be, if it would further their goals. They were the ones for whom the revolution would most benefit, its deepest believers. They were among the strongest wizards and witches of the age, and they were most assuredly on the top of the Order's 'to kill' list. As a result of their rather high profile, many had been killed over the course of the war. What once was twelve was now nine, though two had been replaced.
Presently, what was remaining of the circle was gathering in the rather large meeting hall of Azkaban Prison. The candles in their sconces burned low, casting eerie shadows in the dim light across the room. The atmosphere was perfect for a meeting of some of the most deadly and vicious magic wielders the wizarding world had ever known.
Voldemort's eyes glowed a brilliant ruby in the darkness; his gaze penetrated the depths of the hall as his most loyal followers entered: first Avery and Dolohov, waltzing in confidently but clearly unnerved by the room's ambiance; then alone came Bellatrix Lestrange—one of his favorites—her husband and his brother, Rabastan and Rodolphus Lestrange, had perished not a year before in a rather bloody battle in France; Macnair and Pettigrew were next, the short, round, and balding man's eyes quivered in their sockets, and Voldemort struggled against the irrational urge to crush him underfoot; the next to arrive were Lucius Malfoy and Severus Snape, two more of his favorites who had been with him and remained loyal to him for longer than most; lastly came Jean Zabini and his daughter, Blaise, fairly new inductees into the circle, but he was as certain of their loyalty as he was the others—not one of these people would betray him.
They wouldn't dare.
The consequences would be far greater than even they could fathom.
After the group had finished gathering around his throne, which was situated in the middle of the farthest wall from the door and was lavishly and richly decorated with gold and jewels that were most likely worth more than any Death Eater could dream of, they bowed and kneeled as was custom, until he finally commanded them to rise and set the meeting in motion.
"I am…glad that you all could attend," he said silkily, his eyes lingering on Severus. Though the man was a premier potions master and a valuable Death Eater, he had not shown up the last time Voldemort had called; though the spy had given some excuse of being in the middle of a meeting with Dumbledore's 'Order,' the deed would not go unpunished, and the Dark Lord wanted to convey that message to the man.
Snape understood perfectly.
After that moment's pause, he continued.
"The reason for this sudden meeting is two-fold. First, there is to be a mission to a small muggle village in Northern Ireland, and I need several trustworthy individuals to lead it." He eyed the group, aware that they knew what he was asking but at the same time not asking.
"What sort of mission, my lord?" asked Lucius.
Voldemort's gaze flicked to the regal blond.
"A destructive one."
And the implication was clear. A cruel grin spread across Malfoy's face.
"Then I will go," he declared.
The Dark Lord's eyes narrowed dangerously at those presumptuous words.
"You will go where I tell you to go, Lucius," he hissed, and the aristocrat blanched. Satisfied with the warning, Voldemort continued: "But yes, you will go." Malfoy released an almost imperceptible sigh of relief that sent a strange sort of pleased sensation down the Dark Lord's spine. He had frightened the man, made him fear for his life.
That was what power truly was:
When with a single exclamation you could make a fully-grown, mature, and powerful wizard quiver.
That was what the Dark Lord lived for; he almost didn't want the war to end. Would that lessen his fun?
"My lord, may I go also?" a voice suddenly broke the calm of the room, startling the Dark Lord out of his reverie. His gaze transferred to the young girl standing next to her father. She seemed so small next to the man, but he could sense the potential within her: much more than that of her relative. Examining her expression, he found her eyes properly downcast and her face hooded. He had yet to send her on a mission, and he knew this well. Voldemort was not one to forget even the most insignificant of details. He knew she was loyal, and he knew she was powerful; but was she really mature and decisive enough to take on this responsibility? He considered: Lucius would be there in case things got out of hand, but Lucius himself was currently rather shamed in the Death Eater ranks due to the defection of his son, a boy he had promised was Slytherin to the core and supported the cause to the utmost extent. Voldemort was amused by this dissatisfaction: he had been expecting the boy's transition from the first moment he had met him, but it was fun for him to string the Malfoy along.
Then another thought came to him; the Zabini girl was the same age as Potter, wasn't she? That would mean that they were in the same year at Hogwarts, and even though they were in opposing Houses, he in Gryffindor and she in Slytherin, they would have had to be at least slightly familiar with each other: keep your enemies closer, after all. And if he were to go through with his plan, it would probably help to have someone familiar with Potter along.
"Very well then," he began. "You may go also, miss Zabini."
"Thank you, my lord." And she backed away slowly, leaving more room for the others.
Now it was time for his potions master's punishment.
"Severus, you will also be going along," he declared, and the surprise veritably rolled off of Snape at the sudden pronouncement.
"But, my lord, you know I—" Snape spoke quickly, anxiously, before being interrupted.
"You…will…GO, Severus," Voldemort demanded, his voice coming in short hisses. He was well aware of Snape's aversion to being on the battlefield; no matter how strong of a dueler he was, he much preferred to stay behind brewing the potions and working within the ranks of Dumbledore's 'Order' in order to bring it down. However, the Dark Lord would not let anything go unpunished, and Snape was much too valuable a figure to simply kill, maim, or torture. This would have to do, and it would also provide Lucius's enemies with a reasonable alternative leader.
Besides, psychological torture was much more enjoyable sometimes.
"Then it is settled. Severus, Lucius, you shall bring a team of five of your best men to the apparation chamber at this time tomorrow night. More details will be provided exclusively; and if you, miss Zabini, would show up then too, it would be much appreciated." He said silkily, sarcastically, rhetorically. When the Death Eaters in question nodded their assent, the Dark Lord continued. "Now for my second topic: Harry Potter. As you are all aware, he is currently in our most high security…debriefing cell." He took a moment to allow a cruel and insane grin to spread across his features. "But he will not stay there for long."
"Then you are going to kill him?" Pettigrew asked in his high pitched, squeaking voice, so much like that of a rat that it was a wonder anyone had ever trusted him.
"No, I am not," Voldemort answered simply, slightly annoyed at the interruption.
"You are going to move him then?" This time the question was Macnair's.
Unfortunately, the Dark Lord responded angrily: "No, I am not!" Then he casually flicked his wrist, his wand seemingly appearing in his fisted hand. "Crucio." The curse shot as a bullet from his wand, slamming into the Death Eater and sending him sprawling to the ground, shaking violently and howling in immense pain. He waited for several moments to pass before releasing the curse and replacing his wand. "Now I will explain what will happen: Harry Potter will join my ranks as a Death Eater," he explained calmly, coolly, and in complete seriousness.
Voldemort's inner circle was stupefied; he could not have just said what they thought he had just said, could he have?
They were confused.
"W—what?" Snape stuttered, ironically voicing all of those present's thoughts.
"He will become a Death Eater," the Dark Lord repeated.
"My lord, with all due respect," Lucius said, "You cannot seriously believe that he has betrayed his friends and allies to join us."
"Do not tell me what I can or cannot believe, Lucius," Voldemort warned. "But no, you are correct. I do not believe him."
This, of course, did not serve to help sort out the Death Eaters' confusion. Rather, it simply exponentially increased it.
"Then why are you allowing him to join?" Blaise questioned, ever practical. Quickly, her father shot her a warning glare, worried for her safety, presumably, but she merely ignored him and gazed questioningly yet respectfully up at the Dark Lord.
Voldemort smirked; he liked her. She had talent, and passion, and bravery; he was able to envision quite a promising future for the young woman.
"That is the question we must ask ourselves," he answered cryptically. At his followers' confused looks, he continued on. "There is a certain…darkness that hangs about our young Potter. He is…tainted, if you will. He and everyone else may believe that he is the light's greatest weapon, but he is as susceptible to the darkness as any wizard. Possibly, he is even more so. I know that he resents muggles; I have been tracking and researching him for a long time, you see. His childhood was strangely analogous to my own: he grew up uncared for, a slave in his own home, with muggles who detested him for what he was. They abused him, and that has left a stain on his soul. A stain that I will nurture and help grow; and it is this same stain that will produce one of my finest Death Eaters. It is this same stain that will end the war."
There was no murmuring as there would have been if such a pronouncement had been made amidst his full array of Death Eaters; these soldiers were much too well trained. They had recovered nicely from their slack at his earlier announcement, and he would grant them that one; his decision was, after all, even a shock to him.
"He will be going along on the mission tomorrow night," Voldemort said. "If that is all right with you two: Lucius, Severus?" He glanced at each Death Eater in turn, and they both nodded in acquiescence, though it was obvious they were not thrilled at the idea. "However, I want the job of keeping an eye on him to go to miss Zabini." He did not ask her permission, nor did he even bother to glance at her. She was new; he did not need it. The Dark Lord, no matter how promising she was, did not need her getting full of herself.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw her surprise, but she quickly hid it behind a stone-faced acceptance.
"Yes, my lord," she declared.
Voldemort nodded.
"Then that is all; you may all return to your duties. Malfoy, Snape, Zabini, do not forget about your obligations. The consequences would be…severe."
----
Blaise Zabini violently threw her robe down upon her cot, cursing as the soft velvet like material bunched in upon itself while it soared through the air and slammed down on to the makeshift bed. She flew across the room, balling her hands into fists and beating repeatedly on the settled article of clothing, disturbing it once more. She struggled to take out her frustrations on the garment and not on some helpless Death Eater, should one happen to pass by.
Oh, how she hated Harry Potter. Oh, how she loathed his very existence. Oh, how she desperately wished to end his miserable life.
She was finally going on a real mission as a member of Voldemort's inner circle, and she had been stuck with the job of babysitting the newbie! And not just any newbie: Harry freaking Potter, the Gryffindor Golden Boy, savoir of the light, destroyer of Voldemort, yes, that Harry Potter.
He was not one to be confused.
She growled deep in her throat; she had never like any Gryffindors, and she most especially detested the Golden Trio and everything that they stood for. As a rising Death Eater, she had hated Potter, Weasley, and Granger with a passion, and now she was stuck with their honorable leader.
Wonderful.
Seriously, how could Voldemort even think that The-Boy-Who-Lived would make a decent Death Eater? As if! He was the poster boy for goodness, and no matter what her master said, no not-quite-wonderful childhood was going to change that.
She dropped her strength and collapsed into her pillow. Wrapping her arms tightly around it, she buried her head into the comfy, satiny object and sighed.
This just sucked.
----
Voldemort stared down upon the broken and bloodied body before him with disdain. It barely even looked alive, let alone like a functional human being. It had been removed from its chains and was lying huddled together in a singular mass on the floor.
He turned to one of the guards next to him, one eye still gazing at the pool of blood and sweat soaking beneath the body.
"Can he hear me?" he demanded.
"Yes, my lord," the guard answered, eyes averted.
"Leave us."
The guard nodded once before rushing out of the cell as quickly as he could; the heavy stone door slammed shut after him, the sound reverberating throughout the room.
The Dark Lord turned back toward the boy.
Walking toward the body, he bent down, and with a ghastly pale finger and a frighteningly sharp nail, he lifted the head. Surprisingly, the eyes opened slightly, but instead of the vibrant emerald he had been expecting, there was a dull and lifeless green.
"Harry," he questioned in his silky, snake-like hiss, "Can you hear me?"
The head gave one nod.
"Good. Harry, I have a proposition for you. You want to prove your loyalty to me, yes?"
Another nod.
"Yes, I see. There is this mission tomorrow; some of my best Death Eaters are taking part in it. I want you to go. Do you understand?"
Again Harry nodded.
"Will you do this thing for me?"
And with one last nod, Harry sealed his fate.
"Good, I thought you might."
----
The night air was cold, and the wind was biting. It blew about you, slicing skin and freezing your bones; frost strayed into your bloodstream and attacked you from the inside. Nature seemed almost intolerably cruel in that instant, so very like a rabid and caged beast defending her realm against unwelcome intruders.
It was too bad, Harry Potter considered, that nature could not hold up against magic.
All of the Death Eaters had warming spells placed on them, and they all felt as fresh as they had when they'd left Azkaban. In Harry's case, that wasn't exceptionally fresh.
He still ached unbearably in places too numerous and too private to mention; before this ordeal, he hadn't even been aware that some of these places could be pierced by the fiery lance of pain. All of his wounds were healed, right down to the tiny cuts on his hands and palms from his own clawing grasp. When in the grips of immense suffering, one does not even consider what one is doing to one's own body; there is only the mere wish for the agony to cease.
Quite suddenly, Harry was brought out of his reminiscence.
"It is time," Malfoy said, his white-blond hair glistening in the moonlight. "Remember: we destroy everything; there should be no survivors." Then his eyes turned to Harry's glowing emerald ones, and they grew bitter and hateful. "Zabini, keep an eye on the boy; make sure he doesn't try to play the hero." The girl, who Harry vaguely recognized as a Slytherin from his school days, half-heartedly nodded her agreement.
And then it began.
It was chaos, a myriad of flames and heat, screams and death. People came charging from homes as the buildings were set alight, but they were quickly struck down by curses, often of the painful and torturous variety. Some of the muggles attempted to defend themselves, but not even a rifle could hold its own against a well-placed killing curse. The Death Eaters danced amongst the frightened and confused villagers as angels of death, bringing the sweet release of eternity to all those they encountered.
Harry stood back and watched.
It was a massacre, but it was almost beautiful in a sadistic sort of way.
He shook his head; he should be participating. It went against everything he stood for, but this was the light's last and best chance at victory. And to make it work, he had to make Voldemort and his Death Eaters sincerely believe that he was as dark as them; he had to gain their confidence and their trust.
"Potter!" The voice came suddenly and out of nowhere, but he recognized it as that of the girl, Zabini. "Behind you! Pay attention, or you'll be dead as soon as we get back!"
He spun around quickly and saw what she was referring to: somehow a lone muggle had managed to sneak his way around the Death Eaters and Harry himself and was currently madly dashing his way toward the village's exit. Harry glanced around only to discover, as he had feared, that he was the only one of them in range.
The only one of them.
Yes, he was one of them: he had to be.
He gulped, reaching his hand toward the wand holster at his waist and gently pulling the small holly stick from its embrace. He fingered his wand familiarly as he brought it up and to bear on the fleeing form.
The man was ten feet away by then.
He could do this; he had to. It was for the good of all. If he succeeded in this endeavor, the light could prevail!
Fifteen feet.
Really, what was one man in the scheme of things? By killing this one individual, this unimportant muggle, he was on his way to saving billions!
Twenty feet.
This was how it was; this was how it had to be. There was no other way. He had to make them believe; he had to!
Twenty-five feet.
"Potter!" Blaise screamed once more, obviously annoyed.
Harry ignored her.
The man would be out of range shortly; if he was going to do it, he had to do it now.
Thirty feet.
This was it: the first test. He had to pass; he had to pass to get to the others.
He had to pass for the good of all, for the good of mankind.
Thirty-five feet.
This was it.
"Avada…"
Fourty feet.
"…Kedavra."
The brilliant green curse, almost the color of Harry's eyes, jetted from the tip of his wand with uncompromising precision, slamming into the back of the fleeing man and sending him flying and falling forward several meters before he collapsed onto the ground, his eyes wide open and staring, fearful, in death.
"Finally…" breathed Blaise, but Harry didn't hear her.
He stared at the tip of his wand in amazement. He had never felt like that before. The power that had rushed through him as his lips mouthed the curse almost wordlessly was incomparable to anything he could think of. There was nothing in his memory that he could liken it to. He certainly hadn't felt that way when he'd cast the Cruciatus Curse on Bellatrix Lestrange back in Fifth Year. Was that feeling the power of Avada Kedavra?
He shook his head once more, still in slight disbelief over the occurrence. He had killed a man, not just a man, an innocent man.
But it was necessary, a voice whispered silkily inside of his head. Remember, it had to be done. If you hadn't killed him, your cover would have been blown, and the light's last hope would have been destroyed. This is for the good of the light, Harry, all of it.
Yes, he realized, I kill so that others will not have to die. I kill so that others may live. What is one life next to a billion anyway? There is no comparison.
He felt the power rush through him once more, livening his cells and his veins, empowering him in a way that he had never felt before. He would do this thing, this act for Voldemort and his minions, but when it came time for the play's conclusion, he would kill the man. He would kill him for the good of the light. He would kill him so that others might live.
Because that was how it had to be.
He turned toward the burning wreckage of the town and the other Death Eaters.
Yes, one town for a billion.
How it had to be.
If any of the other Death Eaters had caught a glimpse of Harry's face in that moment, they would have surely doubted their earlier assessment.
His normally bright and glowing eyes were dark, and in place of the carefully constructed neutral expression or frown, there was a very familiar and very frightening grin of insane glee.