"Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it." – Terry Pratchett
The cave was ancient and weathered; it was dank and coated with an overwhelmingly thick, musky scent that permeated the air and made it rather difficult to breathe. Mildew covered the aged walls, and there was a soft, echoing dripping sound as water from the river above drizzled through the cracks in the high ceiling and built up into a small, murky pool in one corner of the room. There was no light to speak of, save for the odd ritual sconce Voldemort had lit as soon as they'd entered, and they blazed with an emerald fire, casting an eerie glow across the distance that was not unlike Harry's own eyes.
"Do you know what this is, Harry?" Voldemort asked. The two wizards were standing on either side of what appeared to be a giant star encased within a larger circle and drawn in a dripping red paint. Harry was sure it was long-dried blood. In the center of the circle was what looked like a brilliant ruby, glistening in the play of light from the wall sconces.
"It's a pentagram, my lord."
"Indeed," the Dark Lord nodded as his eyes traveled over the design and its jewel. It positively glowed with dark magic, and Voldemort took a moment to allow the glorious feeling of death, decay, and suffering to wash over him, calming him and yet simultaneously fueling his rage. Feeling was a fickle thing, and the darkness was borne of feeling—all feelings. Not just anger or hate, but love and happiness as well. For an overwhelming amount of any emotion was surely unhealthy. Love led to possession, which led to jealousy, which led to anger, which led to hate. It was a vicious yet inescapable cycle, and Voldemort thrived on it. "It has been here for farther back than even I can remember, and over its time it has become a well of sorts." Voldemort glanced at Harry, whose brows were furrowed slightly. "You have a question, Harry?"
"Um, yes, master." Harry said, almost silently. "A well?" His head was bowed submissively, but his eyes worked over the pentagram with as much fervor as the Dark Lord's own.
"Yes, a well of magic. It is said within . . . certain circles that the Lady Morgana herself brought the ruby here and painted the circle in order to protect it."
"To protect it?"
"Yes," Voldemort answered, his own deep, sanguine eyes glinting evilly in the still-flickering glow; they almost appeared reprimanding. "Most assuredly, if one were to try to take it, one would die a most violent death." The Dark Lord stared at his Death Eater for a moment, and then he continued. "But that is not why we are here. It is also rumored that the Lady imbued the jewel and its spell of protection with all of her power." He eyed Harry once more. "You can imagine, Harry, that it was quite powerful even then." When his servant nodded, he went on. "Over the ages, however, it would have only grown exponentially stronger, and if the hearsay is true, it could well be the deepest and oldest source of dark magic in all of Europe."
Silence enfolded the two wizards for several moments, and the only sounds that were heard were those of the dripping water and the crackling of the emerald flames. Voldemort's lips folded into a smirk; the boy was learning well. He would not speak unless his master had directly spoken to him. Unwavering obedience was a necessity.
"Here, Harry, is where we shall begin the first of several exercises that will make you fit to be my heir."
At this proclamation, Harry's head abruptly snapped up, forgoing all propriety.
"Heir?" he choked out.
If the Dark Lord were a regular person, he would have raised an eyebrow; instead, he glared at the boy and replied rather scathingly, "Of course! You did not believe that you would remain some mere Death Eater, did you? One of the faceless, the forgotten? No, you were meant for much greater things, just as I was."
Under the intensity of Voldemort's gaze, Harry appeared as a small child, not the twenty-year-old rather legendary wizard that he was.
"But—but why me?" he asked.
The glare only grew more intense. Perhaps the boy was not as far along as the Dark Lord had expected. But it didn't matter; they were there, and the time was then.
"Because there is no one else; because you are like me," Voldemort hissed, the last part coming out not in English, but in Parseltongue. He offered no further explanation on the latter reason, but continued on with the first. "This well, as well as the others like it, is extremely volatile and extremely dangerous. The ritual we are about to perform requires, in order to create the necessary bond, a user with a certain amount of natural magical ability not normally found within the majority of the wizarding public. The only living wizards that I know of and believe have enough potential to accurately use the circle are the two of us . . . and Dumbledore." He eyed Harry once more. "A question?"
"Yes, master," Harry was calmer and more composed this time; and as such, the Dark Lord could tell that the boy could now feel the darkness permeating the room. It spread as a shroud throughout the cave, covering everything with its thickness, even the stench of the rotting stone. Yet it was powerful, oh so powerful, and it whispered in the ear promises of greatness. Harry's eyes glinted, and Voldemort's smirk grew. "What would happen if someone with insufficient ability attempted this ritual?"
Voldemort replied simply, "They would die a slow and painful death." Then, glancing once more at the center of the circle, he continued. "Let us get on with it. All of the necessary spells have been cast, and you have been prepared yourself, correct?"
"Yes, master."
"Good, then there is but one more thing remaining to be done." Suddenly, his head flicked towards his companion, and his blood-red eyes narrowed, traveling over Harry's lithe form. "Let me warn you of something first, though, Potter," he enunciated the boy's surname as he spoke it, something he had not done for quite sometime. He wanted to make this warning clear. "I will not make something that I cannot undo; and if ever I sense even the slightest shadow or hint of betrayal from you, I will not hesitate to strike you down, and you will suffer before I lay you to rest."
Harry did not look Voldemort in the eyes; he was not that stupid. Instead, he kept his head bowed and replied with what had become his mantra over the last several months, "Yes, master."
"Very well then," the Dark Lord said. "Take this, and stand in the middle of the circle." He held out, hilt forward, a ceremonial silver dagger. On the blade there were two finely engraved words: Letum Ambitio. As Harry walked forward and grasped the blade in his right palm, he felt that even it was wrapped tightly in ancient spells, and he could feel the magic pulse through his veins as he held it gently in his hand.
He stepped in to the middle of the circle, standing over and gazing down at the brilliant ruby, which suddenly seemed even more ancient and powerful than it had before.
"Now, with the blade, spill your blood onto the ruby."
It was a simple command, and Harry did not even hesitate to comply. He opened up his left palm and brought the dagger's sharpest edge to his flesh. Then, in one violent movement, he sliced his skin open, spurting blood up onto his cloak and all over the already gory pentagram. Without bending, he proceeded to turn his palm over, and held it directly over the jewel. Gravity took hold of the pool of blood in his hand, and it fell with a disgusting splat onto the ruby.
Nothing happened.
Then, quite suddenly, the sanguine color of the jewel turned a bright golden yellow, and from there the color's bleeding spread out even to the pentagram. Harry looked around, shocked and bewildered, as from the circle on the floor, brilliant golden walls rose. He was trapped, and his whole world was abruptly bright and golden.
And then, all went dark.
----
Gathering the entirety of the inner circle of the Order of the Phoenix was a relatively hard thing to do; and even though Albus Dumbledore had tried his hardest to do just that for this emergency meeting, not everyone had showed up. Bill and Charlie Weasley were on assignment in France, where they working as Dumbledore's personal emissaries to that branch of the Order and hadn't been able to floo back in time; Nymphadora Tonks was working with Viktor Krum in Eastern Europe, helping them prepare to hold off Voldemort's advancing forces; and Severus Snape, whom he hadn't actually heard from in several weeks, was probably tied up in Azkaban with Voldemort in his role as a spy.
But still, all was well.
Through his half-moon spectacles and incessant eye-twinkle, Dumbledore watched as the last member to arrive—Ron Weasley—stumbled into the room and into his seat next to Hermione Granger. The two old friends leaned towards each other and exchanged a few words before Ron's mother, who was sitting opposite him, bopped him on the top of his head and called them to attention. Ron let out a quiet huff as he gently rubbed his scalp and glared at his mother, but this time Hermione shushed him. So, crossing his arms and with a dejected look across his face, he turned towards Dumbledore.
The headmaster smiled.
It was good to see them still acting so innocent and caring, even with the world in the state that it had been for the last several years. It needed more love and affection.
His musings were cut short when somebody finally spoke up.
"So, what's this about?" a voice asked rather snidely. Dumbledore glanced up at its owner; it was a slick, silver-haired, haughty, and thin young, aristocratic man who was currently the recipient of some rather snide and rude comments by one Ron Weasley. "Oh, shut up, Weasel," Draco Malfoy said, apparently not embarrassed at all at the public confrontation. "Unlike somepeople, I have important work to be doing. I've been aiding the Germans in their open rebellion for the last sixth months; what have you been doing? Oh, never mind, that's right—your mother won't let you go on missions alone. For Merlin's sake, aren't you an adult?"
This started an all out argument, and for a moment, the headmaster just watched as insults were flung back and forth within the group of his most trusted companions, a bemused smile on his lips. Life could sure be amusing. However, they were at war, and this meeting would not have been called were something not terribly wrong.
He cleared his throat.
Immediately, all the noise ceased, and every single person's attention was on him. It was a sign of their respect for him that at the drop of a hat, they were prepared to stop whatever they were doing if he wished to speak.
"As inclined as I am to allow this fairly engaging argument to continue," he said, "I feel as though the request for this meeting would not have been put in had it not required our immediate attention." Nobody spoke for several moments, and Dumbledore smiled gently. "That means the floor is yours, Moody, my friend."
The seasoned Auror took it in stride and placed his two wrinkled, gnarled hands on top of the table. "You all know that I was in charge of the outpost at Dorf, the small German village on the border of France." Several people nodded. "And you also know that it was attacked merely days ago by a group of Death Eaters, presumably on Voldemort's direct orders." Again, several nods. "What you don't know is what happened during the attack. We had no hope of adequately defending the place; we simply didn't have enough troops. We were relying on its relative anonymity to keep it safe, and we were hoping to eventually turn it either into a base or a refugee facility. Needless to say, neither of those options will be happening.
"Back to the point: towards the end of the fight, I had pulled another Auror, miss Cho Chang, away from the action, and led her back to the W.R.—that's the wardless room, where we can dis-apparate from, but where, if someone apparates in, they still wouldn't be able to gain entrance to the base because of the protection spells. I was gathering some of the secure documents I'd been collecting when a stray Death Eater found us. He tried to curse miss Chang, but couldn't hit her; she didn't know who it was, but with my eye, I could see through the mask." He paused for a moment, swiveling his eye around to gauge the look on every present person's face. "It was Harry Potter."
Immediately several voices spoke up in protest, and then several more spawned from those, and again, and again, until there was a loud, almost unbearable, cacophony of voices either denying or accusing one of their most devout members of treachery. Dumbledore, sitting silently, was surprised to note that Draco Malfoy joined neither side, but rather sat slouched back in his seat, a bewildered look on his face. There was definitely more to that boy than met the eye, and the headmaster loved puzzles.
Seeing that they were getting nowhere, and now quite bored with the discussion, Dumbledore tapped the top of the table almost silently, and once more the noise silenced completely.
"Now, I'm sure there's an explanation," he said.
"Explanation?" Mad-Eye exclaimed. "The boy tried to cast an Unforgivable on one of his old friends several times! What sort of explanation could there be, Albus?"
"There is an explanation," Dumbledore replied, and this time his voice was tinged with a hint of a hard edge. "But I am not sure if you are prepared to hear it." At this, Mad-Eye looked properly quelled. "Harry Potter has become a Death Eater—"
The voices sounded again, this time in disbelief. Once more the protests and the acknowledgements arose, loud and interrupting, but Dumbledore had no intention of sitting still this time around.
"—ON MY ORDERS!" his voice boomed, and everyone froze, looking at the headmaster in shock. Even the normally stoic Malfoy boy seemed alarmed.
"W—what?" miss Granger queried. "Your orders? Why?" She looked overwhelmingly worried, and almost thoughtlessly, Ron wrapped an arm protectively about her shoulders.
Dumbledore sighed, and then drove on to what he had prepared to say to them. "There is not much I can reveal—not even to you all. The consequences could prove too great. But let it be known among us, that Harry Potter is not evil, and he has only joined Voldemort in the hope of destroying him. He is still our friend, and he cares for every one of us." Here Malfoy snorted, and Ron glared angrily at him. "He has become what he despises in order to save us. That is true bravery, true selflessness."
"But Professor," Draco's voice, surprisingly, began, though it still possessed a hard, skeptical edge. "I grew up around Death Eaters; I know what they're like—what kind of things they do, what kind of games they play. Don't you think that maybe the temptation there is . . . too great?"
The headmaster smiled gently at the Slytherin before answering him. "I trust Harry as I trust Severus—completely and utterly, with my life. They put their lives in danger in a hope for a better future; and I know, deep in my heart, that neither will ever betray me."
----
Being awoken by the Cruciatus Curse was somewhat akin to being awoken by being dipped in alcohol and set on fire, only multiplied several times. Every nerve ending blazed with an unbearable sense of agony, feeling as though hot pokers were ripping the victim's body apart from the inside out and gnawing on the burning flesh. The sense of muscle control was thrown completely out the window, and they contracted and expanded of their own free will, making the recipient shake out of control and only furthering the mental trauma. The victim yearned for the sweet release of death, if only to end the ongoing nightmare.
During his stay in Azkaban, Harry Potter had grown quite used to be being awoken like that.
Abruptly the spell was lifted; and Harry was slammed back into reality, gasping and covered in sweat, his red-rimmed eyes swimming painfully in their sockets, searching for his attacker. As it ever was, Severus Snape was standing over him, his wand arm extended and his face twisted into a feral, cruel grin.
"Awake now, Potter?" He spat the name with vehemence, disgust, and hatred; and Harry was left to wonder how Dumbledore could ever have trusted this man. To him, the answer seemed obvious: the headmaster was a fool. He was too trusting, too open, too good. Harry's eyes narrowed in hatred; it was obvious for whom Snape truly worked.
"W—what," he choked, still attempting to catch his breath, "Are you doing here?"
Snape smirked widely. "It's payback, Potter. I'll see you suffer, and eventually, I will kill you." When Harry didn't respond, the Death Eater raised his wand once more, pointing it directly at Harry's head. "Cruc—"
Harry's eyes snapped wide open, his blood shot through his veins, thundering in his ears so that he could make nothing else out, a darkness spread over him; and before he could even think to react, his body was in motion. His left arm snapped out, slamming into Snape's wrist, shoving it roughly away from his body and sending him stumbling back several steps. Using the extra time, Harry's arms shot back behind his head only to shove off roughly from the dank cot; he flew through the air for a moment until his feet touched the ground, and he landed in a crouch. In the same motion, he allowed his momentum to swing him swiftly around, leg extended, knocking his assailant's legs out from under him. Standing up in the midst of the turn, he swung across the Death Eater's back, until he was situated on the man's opposite side. While Snape was still falling, he grabbed the man's wand arm at the wrist, twisted it in one smooth motion—delighting in the crack of the bones—and pulled the arm around to point Snape's own wand at his face. When they finally hit the ground—it had taken mere seconds, but to Harry the moments had seemed stretched out and long—Snape had his now broken wrist clenched in a tight grip and his wand pointed straight into his right eye; and Harry hovered over him, his right knee digging into the underside of his opponent's ribs, effectively trapping the man.
If it were possible, Harry was breathing even harder now. What had Voldemort done to him? He had never had any sort of physical combat training before, and yet somehow his body had known exactly what to do in order to take advantage of the situation. He stared down into Snape's eyes, and was slightly surprised to see that they wide in shock and slight—was that fear?
A smirk spread across Harry's face; suddenly the situation seemed a whole lot brighter.
"How do you like that?" he hissed. His muscles were tense in his body, working to keep Snape—who was now struggling—pinned to the cold, stone floor.
Hearing someone he hated so much talking to him as if he were trash, the fear vanished from the Death Eater's eyes; instead, it was replaced with a hungry sort of hatred and a cocky glare.
"You think you have me, Potter?" he asked, and at these words Harry's face twisted into one of disgust. He remembered everything Snape had ever done to him: every taunt, every unfair deduction, every bit of belittling, even the torture he'd endured in the recent months. He despised the man. "What are you going to do; you can't curse me with my own wand." A smirk, not unlike the one Harry wore previously, now pulled at Snape's lips.
Harry's face fell back into an amused look, and he raised an eyebrow. "I won't have to."
"Wha—" Snape began, but he never got to finish. For at that moment, Harry pressed harshly down on Snape's wrist, and the man's own wand shoved roughly through his eye, spraying blood and gore across himself and Harry, and straight into his brain, ending his miserable existence. The familiar sensation of almost sexual pleasure that was received upon taking life washed over him. He loved it; it was an addiction, and he craved to fulfill it again. It was almost as though he were one of those junkies who ordered illegal potions that made them see things and feel things that weren't actually there, dying to take another sip. Oh, how he longed for another sip, another taste.
And then the feeling, that euphoric high, washed away, gone, much too quickly.
Releasing his now deceased ex-professor—for whom he felt no love lost—and sliding off of him, Harry let out a great sigh and relaxed his aching muscles. Sitting there on the floor of a dank and dirty, cold cell in Azkaban prison, he lifted his hands up to his face, examining them. They looked the same as always, but there was something there beneath the surface, something lurking just around the corner.
Power.
Such power.
Clenching his hands, Harry allowed a grin of pure dark glee to cross his face.
Perhaps this wouldn't be as bad as he'd originally thought.
----
"Harry Potter," the Dark Lord spoke, sitting upon his throne, which was set majestically within the cavernous great hall of Azkaban prison. Harry himself knelt at the wizard's feet, bending over in respect and fealty. "One most disturbing rumor has been brought to my attention." When Harry did—properly—not respond, Voldemort nodded slightly and continued. "Severus Snape, Harry, have you seen him?"
Harry did not even consider lying. "Yes, master."
The Dark Lord had supposed as much; he well knew what had happened, but it was a test of Harry's loyalty to see what the boy would do. Would he lie and risk the Dark Lord's wrath, or would he tell the truth and do the same? "And where is he now?"
"He's dead." The sentence was muttered simply, with no emotion or inflection.
"By whose hand?"
"My own." Harry did not even bother to explain why he'd killed Snape, just that he had.
Following that proclamation, silence descended over the room. The boy remained bowed in front of his lord, and Voldemort studied him with blood-red eyes. Moments passed, and neither said anything. Then, suddenly, Voldemort's wand had seemingly materialized in his hand, pointed at Harry. "Crucio," the Dark Lord hissed, and the jet of magic sped through the air and smashed into the boy faster than even he, with his newfound powers, could react. Deafening shrieks suddenly broke the quiet of the chamber as Harry rolled around erratically on the floor beneath Voldemort's throne. As the Dark Lord watched him writhe and allowed the pleasure from his prey's pain to wash over him, he could not help but grin. However, he stopped the torture just as abruptly as he'd started it, and Harry was left panting and in pain on the cold stone. Voldemort allowed him a moment to recover before speaking once more. "I trust that you will never again take action against one of my Death Eaters without first consulting me?"
"N—no," he gasped, still lying, prone on the floor.
"Good. In fact, I believe that we might be able to make the best of this situation anyway, but that is not why I called you here." Harry seemed surprised for a moment, but the Dark Lord ignored it. "I have mission for you, Harry, a solo mission." Voldemort glanced at the boy to make sure he had his complete attention; he did. "Tell me, does the name Rufus Scrimgeour mean anything to you?"
"The Auror?" Harry asked.
"Yes, yes. But not just an Auror, the Head Auror." The Dark Lord paused for a moment, then said, "Harry, I want you to kill him." Though Harry's facial expression did not change even in the slightest, Voldemort could feel the shock radiating off of him in waves. "He has already organized the Aurors into a working organization, and now he has set his sights on rebuilding the Ministry. This cannot be allowed to happen." He eyed Harry for a split second. "You understand, of course?"
"Yes, master."
Voldemort allowed himself the slightest nod at the boy. "Now, Scrimgeour is currently vacationing with his young daughter in a family home on a small island in the Mediterranean. He is a private person, and several sources have informed me that he would not allow any Aurors to accompany him. Unfortunately, we have reason to believe that some of the Order did not agree with his not having protection, and may have followed him regardless. However, they should not pose any problem for you." The last sentence was spoken as more of a warning than a statement. "There will be several wards over the house; it is an ancestral home, one those protected by a line of wizards. Again, this should not prove any problem for you. You will arrive on the island by apparation, for our friend Scrimgeour has not taken the time to ward the whole island, and from there proceed to the home. You will nullify the Order guards, whom, as I am told, will most likely not be allowed inside, and then you will enter, find the target, and kill him. You will leave no one alive. Is that clear?"
"Yes, master."
But Harry appeared as though he would have liked to continue. Seeing this, Voldemort relented and said, "Harry, you are in the process of earning your place directly at my side. Soon you will be my right hand, my enforcer, my darkest knight. You will be my face to the public, punishing those who defy, and rewarding those who obey. You are proving your loyalty, and at the moment, I have no doubts of it. You may speak when you like."
Harry nodded. "Thank you, my lord. I merely have a question: when am I to complete this task."
Voldemort smirked widely. "Right now."
----
It was pitch black. The Mediterranean nightlife thrummed about him, but he ignored it and blocked it out. The air had a slight coolness to it, but it was still warmer than he was used to; and as he sat in the shade of a small tree, magically amplified vision tracing the paths of the Order's guards as they paced in front of Scrimgeour's house—though in all honesty it was more like a mansion—he was slightly uncomfortable.
The Order wasn't bothering with invisibility cloaks, not like they had with him during his fifth and subsequent years at Hogwarts, but there were two of them, neither of whom had he met, and they were large and imposing, appearing as though they could put up a good fight if pushed.
Unfortunately for them, a good fight would not be enough.
Wordlessly canceling the spell on his eyes, Harry pulled himself around and stepped away from the tree and straight into the shadows. His right hand was clenched tightly around his wand, and he imagined he could hear the high-pitched squeaking of his outfit whenever he moved. He was wearing a midnight-colored, one-piece leather suit. It wasn't his usual attire, but it was as black as the night and provided him with a good camouflage. Plus, it allowed for a freer range of movement than the more conventional set of robes.
Extending his magical awareness outwards—something he had had almost no experience doing before, but which now came as easily to him as breathing—he felt for the wards about the house.
It was hard to explain what it felt like to examine them, but they were something like a set of rubber bands tightly coiled around the mansion. Stretched taught, it would be child's play to ruin them if one could only find the breaking point, that one spot that would snap and send all of them flying harmlessly away.
Of course, that was the hard part.
A sound snapped him out of his reverie, and he reacted without thinking. He dropped into a crouch to avoid any spells that might have been shot towards him, and his free hand reached into his left boot, pulled loose a dagger he'd hidden there earlier, and flung it powerfully off into the darkness. A split second later there was a small thump and with it a high squeak, and then nothing.
He stayed in place, frozen for a moment longer, but when nothing untoward happened, he relaxed. Pulling himself up, he moved his wand to the ready, and then set off into the forest in the direction from which the sound had originated.
It only took him a moment to discern what had occurred, because there, pinned halfway up a tree by his dagger, was a squirrel. He scoffed silently; he was on edge—that much was obvious. However, it wasn't a total loss. It was apparent now that he needed to take care of the guards before even attempting to dismantle the wards. They were too much of a distraction. Thus, with a steady hand, he jerked his weapon from the tree, sending the dead squirrel falling to the ground, bent over and wiped the blood off on the grass, and finally replaced it within his boot. Standing, he twirled his wand loosely for a moment between his fingers, and then took to the shadows.
There were only two guards, luckily, but they seemed to be rather well trained. The paths they'd chosen to patrol intersected at such points around the mansion that neither was alone for more than five minutes at a time. It was required, then, that Harry act quickly, so that he could take one out and still be able to catch the other unawares. If he was caught or seen, he was sure one of the guards would set off an alarm, and then Scrimgeour would surely dis-apparate, leaving his mission a failure.
Harry let out a silent sigh, stretching his shoulders for a moment, and then tensed his muscles. He placed his wand in its holster at his side—any offensive magic this close to the mansion would be sure to set off the wards—and removed his duel daggers from either of his boots, arming himself with the weapons backwards, the blades pointed behind him. Quieting his mind, he allowed that familiar darkness to sweep over him, strengthening him where he was weak, and for a moment, his eyes glowed a deep red. Then he was off, stepping out of the shadows, appearing seemingly from nowhere in front of the first Order guard.
The man's eyes widened at the shock of seeing a seemingly bodiless Death Eater mask wielding two glinting knives, but he caught himself quickly, and was soon staring Harry down over his wand.
The Death Eater raised an eyebrow. As if that was going to stop him.
"Stupe—" the Order member began, but Harry was already in motion, vanishing into the darkness. Then, suddenly, he appeared directly in front of his opponent, and a quick sideways swipe with his right blade severed the startled man's wand into two pieces. At this, Harry felt even more surprise and even slight fear role off of the wizard as he began stumbling backward; but the Death Eater would not allow him to get away. This time, Harry slashed forward with his left blade, but his opponent brought his arms up to block, so instead of killing the man, his weapon slashed through the forearms, sending blood spurting into the air. The Order member opened his mouth wide, presumably to gasp loudly in pain, but the risk of exposure couldn't be taken, and Harry swung quickly around, his knife outstretched, and gashed it across the man's neck, once more sending blood spewing, and severing the man's throat and voice box, leaving him gurgling indistinctly as he fell to the ground, bleeding to death.
The darkness curled Harry's lips into a cool smirk as he felt again the thrill of murder, but he could not stand there and savor it; there was more killing to be done.
He dashed down the path the Order member had been traversing, as silent as the night itself, his blades held crossed in front of him, defensively. The night air wafted around him, caressing him, holding him to it, and he felt the power rushing through his veins; it needed a release.
And then everything went bad.
The other guard had gotten farther along his own path than Harry had counted on, and as he came around the corner, the astute Order member immediately spotted the jogging Death Eater. He reached for his wand, pulling it from his pocket and pointing it right at Harry.
"Stupefy!" he cried, and the jet of red light sped at Harry. The Death Eater's eyes narrowed, and as if using his weapons to carve the air, he swung his arms about in a circle, leaving behind a round, green spell of protection. The Stupefy spell slammed into it, and they both vanished.
Meanwhile, the wards around the house had been activated, and they themselves were now glowing a soft green hue, preventing anyone from entering the house. Harry cursed, realizing his plan was falling through and the consequences of failure, and threw all caution to the wind. He dropped his weapons straight to the ground, and moving his arm faster than a normal human should have been able to, pulled his wand from its holster and aimed it at the guard.
"Cruentus," he hissed a spell he'd never even heard before, his voice coming out almost as Parseltongue, and a huge wave of bright red light exploded from the tip of his wand and headed straight at the stunned guard. However, when it touched him, it did not send him sprawling to the ground, as he seemed to have expected, but merely slammed through him, vanishing off into the darkness. The man furrowed his brow for a moment, and looked down at his hands, but then his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he collapsed to the mossy floor, blood no longer present in his body.
Harry didn't even bother to pay attention to the falling body; he swung quickly around and pointed his wand at the wards. Pushing his mind away from the confines of his body, he smashed against the wards, shoving all of his magic against them, until they, with a loud pop, snapped and fizzled out. Quickly, he grabbed his blades, re-holstered them, then ran towards the large, oak front doors and with a swish of his wand, sent them smashing inwards. He'd studied the schematics of the house—thanks to a well-placed Ministry spy—while he'd been preparing to leave, and he was quite certain as to where Scrimgeour would have run to as soon as the wards started going off.
The wardless room—the study.
Though its lack of protection spells hardly mattered after they'd been torn down, it would have been the only place the man and his daughter could use to escape, for the floo network did not extend this far out.
He navigated his way to the study purely on instinct, the darkness whispering in his ear, telling him where to turn and where to stop; only several moments had passed before he was blasting the barricaded study doors off their hinges with a violent spell. Rushing into the room, he stopped in the doorway, and his eyes worked seemingly by themselves, searching for the Auror. He was nowhere in sight, but Harry was no fool, and his senses were stronger than most; there was nowhere else the Auror could have gone, and he hadn't taken up enough time getting to the room for Scrimgeour to have easily gotten elsewhere.
"Reducto!" a voice hollered, and Harry's body was already moving, jumping sideways, before the man had finished the incantation. Unfortunately, he wasn't quite quick enough, and the edge of the spell caught him on the right shoulder, blasting a thick gash into his arm. Harry landed behind a bookcase, protected for the moment, and laid his opposite hand over the bloody wound. He closed his eyes, and muttered a few choice words in Latin, causing his palm to glow. He was not the most adept at healing magic, and the darkness certainly was not the best in that area, but the spell stopped the bleeding and removed the pain, and that was enough for the moment.
Unwittingly, Harry's heart began to race; that had been too close. He should have been able to sense Scrimgeour long before he'd had the chance to fire off a spell, but he hadn't. The Auror was good; it didn't seem that this fight would be as simple as the one with the guards. It was obvious the man hadn't become the Head Auror by accident. But he certainly wouldn't win if he didn't concentrate, so he relaxed himself, calming his heart.
Scrimgeour was moving around several meters behind him; he could barely discern the sound, but it was there. His hand clenched about his wand, and he shot up, twisting in midair and firing off a spell.
"Crucio!" he bellowed, and the spell sped through the distance between the two wizards. But Scrimgeour was ready, and he smacked the curse away almost carelessly, and that was when Harry noticed that he was standing in front of something, almost protectively. Then the eyes behind his mask widened.
That's right, he thought, Scrimgeour's daughter is here with him!
Unfortunately, the distraction of this discovery allowed the seasoned Auror enough time to retaliate with another Reducto curse, and Harry had to duck once more behind the bookshelf to avoid being decapitated. But the curse still shot over him and smashed into a row of desks that exploded outwards, and the Death Eater barely had enough time to mutter a Protego charm to keep himself from being impaled by shards of flying wood.
This isn't going to work. I can't beat him like this; he's too good.
He sighed deeply. Voldemort had given him power, and now was the chance to put it to the ultimate test. Would it be able to stop the Auror? Somehow, Harry knew that more than wanting Scrimgeour dead, the Dark Lord had wanted to see if Harry could overcome his adversary. He would use his master's gift, and show Voldemort that he was, in fact, strong enough to be the wizard's dark knight.
Once more, he relaxed his body completely, closing his eyes and exhaling all of the tension out of his muscles. He cleared his mind, shoving away any stray thoughts, and allowed the darkness to again easily fill him, accepting it eagerly. It soaked into his body, heeding his call, and spread throughout his every pore, empowering him; and when he felt ready, he opened his eyes, and they glowed a brilliant ruby.
"Cecila," he heard Scrimgeour whisper, and if he hadn't been so steeped in the darkness at that moment, he would have realized that it should have been physically impossible to hear the Auror. "Run away; get out of here." Then followed the soft patter of small feet running towards the door. The girl was trying to escape, but that was no matter; he would have to deal with her later. He pointed his wand to the ground and whispered a quiet spell. Immediately, a glowing magical barrier appeared within the opened doorway, and Harry heard the girl's feet quickly avert to a corner protected by even more bookcases.
Now, he had business to attend to . . .
He suddenly shot up, twisting inhumanely fast towards Scrimgeour. "Cruentus!" he cried, and this time his voice did come out in Parseltongue. The spell exploded from his wand as it had done before, but the Auror was already summoning a powerful shielding charm; it enveloped him in a tight ball, and when the curse struck the shield, it was not able to break through. Harry, seeing this, quickly began formulating another plan, and he smirked evilly as he worked it out.
Suddenly, he switched positions and pointed his wand toward the bookshelves where the Auror's daughter had run off. "Aduro!" he hissed, and from the tip of his wand a lance of flame struck out, bursting the dry wood of the area into a mass of fire. When Scrimgeour, reacting with skills honed in combat, pushed his wand through the barrier, quickly summoning a jet of water to put out the conflagration, Harry fired off another curse at his shield, and this time, with the man distracted, he was able to overpower it; and the Auror, noticing this, quickly dove for cover behind a bookcase of his own.
"Running away, Rufus," he taunted, his voice coming out echoing and almost demonic, even while muffled through his mask. "Not very manly of you."
"And attacking a defenseless little girl is?" the Auror shot back angrily. Harry raised an eyebrow at the clutter that the man hid behind.
"I suppose not, but you must be mistaken; I am no man." He took a step forward and in Parseltongue hissed, "I am a nightmare." Then, with a quick swish of his wrist, the protective area around Scrimgeour exploded. However, the Auror was quick, and he hopped out of the still flying debris, even as dozen of tiny cuts and scrapes appeared on his body, and bellowed out his own curse.
"Stupefy!" The brilliant red spell shot towards Harry, and as they ever seemed to be doing, his muscles reacted without consulting him first. His knees bent and then propelled him backwards, arms extending behind him to push off the top of the bookcase that had previously been protecting him, until he completed a backwards summersault and landed on his feet behind the shelves. His wand was in motion even as he settled down to the ground, and he growled a dark protection spell just before the shelf in front of him exploded into thousands of pieces.
As the debris began to settle, neither combatant moved.
They stared at each, both in ready dueling stances, deep red eyes glaring into bright yellow, holding the other's gaze.
"You won't make it out of here, Death Eater," Scrimgeour growled.
"You're wrong," Harry replied, his lips sliding easily into a familiar smirk. "This was over before it even began. You made a mistake."
The Auror blinked, and Harry moved.
Shooting forward towards his opponent at speeds he should not have been able to reach, Harry sent another dark curse straight at the man. Again, Scrimgeour summoned the infernal shield, and the spell bounced harmlessly away. However, Harry did not stop, and Scrimgeour eyed him with surprise as he barreled towards the man, hopping over desks and chairs to meet him. The Auror fired off several more hexes of his own, but Harry deflected them with a practiced ease, and then, when he was within range, flipped forward over a final desk, tossed his wand to the side, and landed in a crouch, hand digging into his boot, within Scrimgeour's shield.
The Auror's eyes widened. "How did you—" But the man was silenced when Harry abruptly stood up, making them face to face, and drove one of his curved daggers straight into Scrimgeour's stomach.
Harry smirked, "You shouldn't have put out the fire like that." Then he yanked his weapon away, and Scrimgeour fell to the floor, dead.
Only taking a moment to wipe off the blade, Harry slid it easily back into his boot, and walked over to pick up his wand. He held it in his hand for a moment, pausing, and then, decidedly, set off towards the corner where he had heard the Auror's daughter heading, Voldemort's voice ringing in his head.
"You will leave no one alive. Is that clear?"
He found her huddling and crying behind several stacks of books and magazines, her hands closed protectively around her head. Watching her for a moment, he finally demanded, "Look at me!"
She complied. Her eyes were bright red and soaked, and she quickly sniffed and wiped them off with her arm, staring up at him in utter terror.
Terror.
He loved it.
He grinned evilly and pointed his wand at her.
"Avada Kedavra."
----
"He is dead?" Dumbledore's voice was soft and sounded as though he were holding back tears. The head floating in his fireplace, dancing within the emerald flames, grimaced for a moment before responding.
"Yes."
"How?"
The person on the other side of the floo looked disgusted for a moment. "His wand was impaled through his eye . . . professor," the person said, "Potter did do it; no one else could have."
Dumbledore merely shook his head sadly and said, "That remains to be proven."
"Professor!" his companion protested, but he glared at them, and they wisely chose to stay silent.
"We will discuss Severus's death at another time." At this, his companion gave him a slightly annoyed look, and he responded with, "I promise you that we will discuss it."
"Good, because I have some words about Snape."
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, though his face still appeared drawn and filled with pain. "Professor Snape."
His companion snorted. "He hasn't been my professor in many years."
Here, the headmaster smiled gently. "You still call me professer."
There was no comeback, and Dumbledore's genial smile merely grew. Then, he turned serious.
"For now, I want to hear about Harry."
The fire crackled for a moment as the person within it reflected, and silence engulfed the two. It wasn't necessarily uneasy in nature, but rather simply foreboding.
"What about him?" the person asked.
"I haven't heard from him since he left; how has he been adjusting?"
There was another pause before a rather sober reply was given. "Perhaps too well."
"What do you mean?"
"He's . . . changing, Albus; everyone can see it. Even the most blind of Death Eaters have begun to respect him."
"Then he's doing his job."
The figure in the fire shook its head.
"You're not understanding. He's becoming a Death Eater—and not in the sense that you two agreed upon. He's even growing on Voldemort. There are rumors that the Dark Lord has handpicked him to be his right hand." The figure smirked for a moment. "Malfoy's all up in arms about that."
Dumbledore eyed his companion for a moment longer, then said, "I wouldn't worry. Harry can take of himself."
The person snorted. "Yea, I know. Just look at Snape."
The headmaster looked reprimanding as he said, "Again, there is no evidence for that."
"Evidence or not, he did it. There was no one else, professor."
Dumbledore sighed and shook his head. "Fine," he said. "I trust Harry as I trusted both you and Severus: not to give in to the temptation, and to fight for the light within the house of the dark, but if you are so concerned, then I suppose I am obligated to look into the situation. Arrange a date with him for the both of you to come and see me, and I will check on his status there."
The figure's brow furrowed. "Arrange a date? But that would require me to—"
"—Reveal yourself to him, yes," Dumbledore confirmed, and then he smiled at the slightly annoyed look on his companion's face. "Cheer up, worse things have happened."
"Yea, yea," the person muttered, obviously miffed.
"Now, I believe it is time for me to be getting off to bed, and you should be doing so as well. Good night."
The figure rolled its eyes. "Good night, professor."
Dumbledore shut off the fire, stood up, stretched, and set of for bed, a slightly disturbed look on his face. And somewhere in the hills of France, Blaise Zabini relaxed away from her fire and into her parents' expensive and comfortable leather sofa, an aggravated expression adorning her normally pretty features.