Chapter Three: Descent
I have murdered.
Such a simple sentence. It's so easy to say. So easy to think. Impossible to accept.
I have ended life wilfully. By my own hands an innocent person will never breathe again.
It sounded so alien.
He raised a grisly, muddied hand close to his face, brushing against his nose; he was barely able to make out its vague outline against the damp night reflecting off his pale skin.
I am a murderer.
Harry Potter was a murderer.
"Oh, Merlin," his voice, cracked and broken, was inaudible, "Is this all worth it?"
Avada Kadavra.
The words. They were inviting. In his mind, always, they would repeat, looping, swirling, they were eddying within the fog.
His eyes fluttered closed, perspiration slick over his body, unable to stay immobile for any more than a few moments at time. He was a husk, living the day through a haze, and the night through fitful darkness. Sleep lasting merely a few seconds, before being jerked out into pitiful consciousness, then returning to the dark to be awakened by his movements again. He was surrounded by darkness, in a tiny cell, windowless; the only light stretching from down the hall outside his door, leaving but the tiniest shade of dark-light to creep under his door. The cell wasn't even long enough for him to lie down, or high enough for him to stand. To crouch, to stoop or to lie in a ball were his only choices.
Why am I here?
What was his purpose here? Who was here? Why was here? Who was where? How was why? Who was h - ?
Momentarily, his ragged mind gave up on him, and he blacked out while crouching, swaying then falling back against the stone wall, cracking his head against the cold surface, bringing him back with a coarse moan. This was what he now considered sleep.
Avada Kadavra.
He remembered that night. That time he had experienced power for the first time. Oh, power. Now he understood why Voldemort was who he was.
No! The power is in the light! Murdering is not power! Voldemort is weak because he doesn't know this. He does not know power.
Who is Voldemort?
Again, his eyes fluttered, rolling back into his head, his eyes vibrating rapidly beneath the lids. His mouth hung open, drool pooling on his lower lip.
Images burning through his mind.
Trembling. Aching. Moaning. Screaming. Raging. Killing.
Killing.
Murder.
Murderer.
I have murdered.
I am a murderer.
So alien.
--
With a rusted, metallic groan the door swung open, and Blaise Zabini stepped into the dark cell, squinting into the darkness. A black bundle lay at the back, shuddering.
"Up, Potter. He summons you." She grunted, monotone. There was no need for elaboration as to whom 'He' was. Curiously, Blaise watched as Harry rose stoically, still trembling, although now accustomed to the random summonses that were signature of the Dark Lord. His eyes were glazed, his hair dishevelled, always inaudibly muttering under his breath. His back was to her.
"Potter?" Warily, she took a step toward him, her wand arm instinctively pointed at his defenceless back. He ignored her, turning and beginning to take weary, stumbling steps out the now open door. She instantly flared up in angry indignation. It was not a common trait among Death Eaters to be rather tolerant of insolence, and never was it accepted. She snatched at his shoulder, sensing an immediate tension in his muscles at the sudden contact, preparing to spin him around to point her wand directly in his face.
Make him sweat.
She found herself with a wand point quivering millimetres from her left eyeball. An animalistic snarl tearing from Harry's bared lips, and before even he had realized it, he had begun to speak the words that were forever in his mind.
"Avada K–"
"Crucio!"
Harry was literally thrown off his feet by the sheer force of the curse that hit him, crashing against the wall with a sickening crunch punctuated by several snaps before collapsing to the ground in a heap, moaning and shuddering, incapable of screaming with pain due to a now broken jaw.
Blaise stood motionless, frozen, eyes wide in shock. She had nearly died. She had been half a word away from being lost forever within that emerald flash.
He had been far too quick. How had he moved like that?
Severus Snape strolled forward, his wand still pointing at the collapsed heap, leaving it to merely twitch every now and then. He turned to Blaise, her senses only now returning to her.
"Far too careless, Zabini." He hissed, pocketing his wand. "Leave. I will make sure that he makes it to the Dark Lord."
Obediently, Blaise hurriedly walked away, too proud to run, but wishing to be far away very quickly, still feeling the ice rippling through her veins. She should be dead.
That was far, far, far too close.
Snape turned his back on the receding form of Blaise, returning his gaze to Harry's broken form, now disturbingly silent. First of all, he had to be awakened. Snape grinned.
"Crucio."
Screams. Roars of pain mouthed through formless lips, through the shattered bone of his jaw. They echoed up the hall, further empowering Blaise's need to get far away. Harry was sure that he would die of this agony. But finally, mercifully, Snape's wand fell. Harry lay panting, unable to move, unable to breathe properly, blood trickling down the edge of his broken lips, torn by his own teeth. Regretfully, Snape muttered a healing spell on the more life threatening of Harry's wounds, patiently waiting out the rhythmic crunching as Harry's broken jaw, spine, and numerous ribs stitched back together. He left a few smaller bones broken however, but nothing that was outwardly visible, no point in Harry feeling comfortable. He quietly revelled in the sight of Harry struggling in the filth.
"My Master has summoned your presence, Potter, as undeserving as you are. You will be there in two minutes, by your own means or if I have to curse you there. I have no preference." He lied, as Harry well knew.
For Dumbledore, Harry cried inwardly. Desperately seeking reason not to kill Snape where he stood.
For the second time in some minutes, Harry dragged himself painfully from the ground, failing in the first two attempts, before letting out a groan as he finally stood, swaying dangerously on the spot, pain exploding in his head. He managed to stumble forward, brushing against Snape's shoulder, ignoring him completely. Rage consuming him, yet he remained silent and kept moving.
Snape watched him move away, spat on the ground where Harry had lain, then moved swiftly away to attend to his own duties, his robes billowing behind him.
--
"Hello, Harry."
As always, even when he was expecting it, that cold, nasal voice left Harry screaming in fear inwardly. And as always, he felt that numbing sensation as Voldemort's mind invaded on his, searching him, he resisted of course, through Occlumency. But it was impossible to know how much Voldemort knew, how much he could and had extracted. He remained silent, as he should in the Dark Lord's presence. Voldemort was positively flying on the inside; never had he ever had such fun than these last few weeks when Harry Potter had been in his mercy. To do with what he willed. He could not possibly be capable of describing the ecstasy of seeing the boy broken, crying, screaming, fuming.
Ah, the very memories left him groaning within, the pleasure unbearable. And to top it off, if he could possibly be any happier, the boy was convinced he was doing all this for Dumbledore's pitiful Order, that he, Voldemort, the greatest wizard the world had ever known, was fooled by the killing of a worthless, filthy muggle. Dumbledore had granted him his dearest wish by sending the boy here. Not for the first time, Voldemort questioned how Dumbledore could have possibly sent him Harry, when he was quite obviously incapable of hiding his intentions. What was he playing at? The Potter brat was their saviour. Was he surrendering? Converting? Impossible.
"How have you been faring?" Voldemort's slit-like nostrils flared slightly, as if he could smell Harry's petrified fear, loving it. He submerged himself in it.
"Acceptably, Lord." Harry kept his voice low and steady, it seemed husky and broken, and there was no strength behind it, merely air passing between parted lips, and he involuntarily swayed on the spot.
Voldemort smiled again, enjoying his perverse mind game with the boy no end.
"Good, good, Harry. Listen closely now, I have another order for you. Another mission." He noted with quiet joy the way the boy's attention seemed to pique. He wondered if Harry was already addicted to the kill, after only one. There were people like that. He loved those people.
"You are to go with another dispatch of Death Eaters, to a village on the borders of Germany, mostly filthy muggles, but not devoid of wizards, that should keep it interesting for you. I have heard wind that there is a small Order outpost there. Obliterate it. I want no survivors, not even those willing to convert. Examples must be made, Harry, examples are necessary. Those that aide the Order will not be shown mercy."
"Yes, Lord." Harry kept his eyes downcast. He was defeated; he had been from the moment he had set foot on the island. Voldemort could not be resisted.
The Dark Lord laughed inwardly.
Oh Merlin, this is beautiful.
--
"Avada Kadavra!"
Oh yes, there it is. The power. The Emerald Power.
Saying it just felt so right.
For the Order, I will kill. To bring down Voldemort, I will murder.
Blaise rounded on Harry, furious that he had refused to wait for all the Death Eater's to Apparate beside them, ignoring the Dark Lord's orders for a group attack.
The green flash was dazzling, and the muggle woman crumpled to the ground instantly. Before she hit the earth, another two had fallen to Harry's wand. Pleasantly surprised by the change in Harry, yet indignant at his disobedience of authority, although not surprised by it, the Golden Boy was famous for discarding the orders of his superiors. He had been so, even in his youngest days at Hogwarts. Blaise smiled before turning her wand on the crowds too. No point in waiting now.
The village was set ablaze, fires roaring, crackling, passing from rooftop to rooftop. The air was thick with the malicious laughter of the constantly Apparating Death Eaters, enjoying their game, accompanied by the terrified and pain-filled screams tearing through his skull, boring into Harry's head. He was forced to ignore them as many more innocent people fell to the flames of the Death Eaters' euphoric wills. Harry strolled through the streets, casting aside lives as he bared his teeth wolfishly behind his mask. It wasn't until half the village was dead before the Order managed to gather a counter-attack, setting up a blockade in one of the only buildings not blazing madly, probably protected by charms and such. A swiftly created blockade created from the crumbling remains of the village collapsing around them was the only visible defence of the building. Again, people tried to resist, muggles, wizards and witches alike. They all fell before the Death Eaters.
Cursing aside a careless muggle man, Harry clambered over the edge of the defensive wall, ducking a ruby blast as a wand somewhere attempted to stun him. Blaise was following from a distance, merely keeping an eye on the young wizard, enjoying the kills she made, but enjoying those that he killed all the more. Harry's eyes swivelled from behind the narrow slits in his mask, seeking the originator as more Death Eater's breached the wall, removing what little resistance remained.
Harry's eyes rested on a raven-haired witch, firing off spells from an open doorway in the building before ducking back for cover from the counter-fire. He wasn't sure if it was her that had attempted to stun him, but he wasn't complaining. A kill was a kill. He strolled casually towards her, ignoring fleeing muggles around him, sure that they would be picked off as they attempted to escape the village.
Despite his calm demeanour, his heart was roaring beneath his ribcage, he was sweating. This would be his first kill of a non-muggle. All previous murders barely counted. He had no love for muggles. He never had, really. And he had no reason for otherwise. To him, a muggle was no more than a rat; a pest to be killed before it can spread filth through your home.
But with Death Eaters everywhere, he could not afford to even falter. To do so would show weakness. Voldemort had no need for weak people. Dumbledore was counting on him.
Breathing heavily, he advanced. The witch, now crouching, was unaware that she was currently a target, mercifully facing away from him. He was careful not to make any sudden movements to give away his position to her. Carefully, he continued forwards, his senses ablaze, ducking stray spell fire and being careful to avoid the odd duel between two magic-wielders; not wishing to get into one himself. He was now within twenty feet of the doorway. He raised his wand, aiming at the woman's chest.
"Avada Kadavra!"
He cursed loudly, it had missed her, crashing against the plaster wall beside her, and causing her to spin around to face him in alarm. His raging heart stopped.
Cho Chang.
Oh
Merlin, no.
She couldn't recognize him, of course, behind the mask and robes of the Death Eater. He inwardly cried out in anguish. Here it was. His first true test, to meet the requirements of his mission. To murder someone he cared about.
For Dumbledore. For the mission. For the Order.
Hurriedly, Cho sent a jinx his way to occupy him for the moment it took her to duck into the darkened building. Deflecting the jinx, Harry picked up his pace and ran after her.
She had to die.
No!
She had to die.
Harry's pace quickened as he entered the dark building, the echoing cries of spells from inside and outside the building echoing off the cold dilapidated walls, confusing him.
"Lumos." He hissed, hoping he had not lost Cho already.
He rounded several corners, ignoring doorways, and passageways. He approached another corner.
"Stupefy!"
A Death Eater was cast into his path, through an open door to his left, unconscious.
Warily, Harry froze, dispelling the light of his and readying it before stepping into the doorway.
Cho was in there.
And someone else.
The man's back was to him, bending over a motionless figure crumpled in the corner of the room, checking for a pulse.
Again, Harry's heart stopped. He didn't even need to see the front of him, the back was enough. The man, or someone who had looked just like him had taught him for an entire year. Mad-Eye Moody froze, just stopped moving, his back still to Harry, but that meant nothing, Moody's eye could see back through his head, through bone, flesh and clothes.
And masks.
Did Dumbledore tell them? Do they know?
A bellow of rage was his answer. Moody swung around, wand raised, Cho jumping at the sudden scream, also spotting Harry's almost invisible silhouette in the lightless hallway.
Harry saw the jinx coming, and managed to side-step it before it was ever any real danger, side-stepping Cho's curse, as well.
"What are you doing!" Moody's rasping voice roared over the muffled chaos around them, sending off another curse Harry's way. Cho, puzzled by Moody's reaction, fired off another jinx at Harry as well.
Harry remained silent, choosing to deflect the oncoming spells, and then returned fire.
"Crucio!"
The experienced Auror deflected the attack with ease, but surprisingly choosing not to return fire, and instead stepping in front of Cho before she could raise her wand again, whether to protect her from Harry, or he from her Harry did not know
Harry raised his wand again.
"Crucio!"
This time the scarlet jet was dodged. Moody lowered his wand, staring at Harry for the briefest of seconds before Dis-Apparating. Cho hesitated for only the briefest second after him, before following suit.
Harry felt cheated of his prey, going as far as to let out a small cry of rage at losing his quarry, echoing around the empty room.
Charing out of the now empty building, he took out his frustration on what very few muggles remained, all surviving magical resistance having Dis-Apparated with Moody. Finally, the last muggle fell, and silence remained, only disturbed by the occasional splintering of a support beam somewhere followed by the dull roar of a building collapsing. The Death Eaters remained only momentarily to admire their work, before Dis-Apparating, leaving silent death in their wake.
--
Harry was nearing unconsciousness. The world was nothing but a mesh of lights, darks and shadows. His eyes flitted around the room, unfocused and dazed, pitting whatever lingering thread of control he had into refusing eye contact with those around him. All of them. They were all there. The Death Eaters were gathered; he had not seen so many of them together since the night he arrived here.
He arrived here? Wasn't he always here?
Where is here? Oh Merlin, what is this place? Who are these people?
His breath came in short, spasmodic bursts. His chest heaved. His eyes continued to dart around the enormous cavern. The emerald emblazoned sconces, casting sombre light over the world.
The emerald light. Avada Kadavra.
His head pounded, his ears roaring, his balance teetering, his heart crying.
"Harry Potter."
His crying heart ceased. He is here, He is here for me.
Evil. Hate. I hate him. I hate evil. I am evil.
He could not see. He could not cry.
"You have proven yourself a Death Eater. You have drunk the blood of the murdered. Of those you have murdered."
Cold. I can taste the cold. It eats me. It devours me. I am gone.
"Raise your left arm."
He did not. His body did.
"Do you swear by your life and your demented soul to serve the Dark Lord, by your every action, thought and intention? Do you swear by the blood in your veins and on your hands?"
He did not.
"I do."
A cold hand. A cold touch. A cold pain. He was on fire. His arm was dying. He was dying.
He could not breathe. He could not concentrate. His head throbbed. He could not think. He could not breathe.
Blur.
Throb.
Pain.
Black.
--
Who are you?
I am I.
I am you.
I am not you.
Who am I?
You are I.
You are not I.
I am I.
What are you?
I am you.
You are you.
I am I.
Where are you?
You are I. I am here. You are here.
Where is here?
Here am I. I am you. You are I.
Where is He?
Is He you?
Is He I?
He is not me. He is not I. I am me. I am I.
What does He fear?
What do I fear?
What is fear?
He is fear.
He fears I.
He is not me. You are I. Who are you?
I am not you. I am not I. I am me. I am I.
Why is pain? Why am I?
Pain is He. Pain is I.
I am you. I am I.
What is this dark?
Why is he dark?
Where am I?
You are here, and so am I.
You are pain. You are I.
Why am I pain? Why am I?
You are the pain of He, not I.
I am the pain? I am not I?
You are you. The pain is I.
Am I the pain? Am I, I?
You are the pain. I am I.
I am the pain. I am you. You are I.
You are the pain.
I am I.
--
"Avada Kadavra…"
So beautiful. So simple. Words to un-do life. That is power. That is control.
"Make thus disappear"
Life. Soul. Spirit. Existence.
And thus, thou is gone…
The very words, the phrase that counters life; that counters existence. After death there is nothing. Death wins. Death always wins. To bring death, to control death, now that is power.
Avada Kadavra…
The closer one comes to the light, the longer one's shadow grows. To fight the darkness, you must first face it, to face it; you must turn your back on the light. Only larger shadow can cover another. Light, no matter how strong, no matter how much, will never defeat the dark. The dark will always be there, at the edge of the light, pushing back.
With great sweeping motions, he traced his forefinger through the dust, grime and filth. His movements, faintly, tenderly, lovingly etching through the dank filth that smothered the floor. He was crouched against a wall, hunched over, a tight ball, rocking on his heels. He tenderly mouthed the words, reverently parting his lips to breathe the sacred sounds; the very sensation of the syllables rolling across the tongue gave him no end of pleasure.
Avada Kadavra…
Oblivious to all, his forefinger continued tracing through the dust. His lips ceaselessly mouthing the un-spoken words, this time elongating each sound as it came.
Avada Kadavra…
"Potter!"
Harry was forcefully knocked out of his reverie by a harsh steel-capped boot planted squarely between his ribs. Blaise was glad to hear the muffled grunt of pain beneath the hooded figure. At least he could still feel pain, which invariably lead to him still being human. She hadn't been worried, as such. She was just cautious. Harry Potter had…changed. There was no denying it. Even those who despised him most could not help but notice. Something was different. Harry Potter was changed.