Chapter Four – The Brutality in the Shadows
Basking in the summer sun with cold goblets of bubbly lemonade and slices of fresh, sugar-crusted raspberry tart, Harry leaned against the parapets of the Astronomy Tower next to Daphne as Professor Hoovian paced back and forth in front of a levitating chalkboard, upon which he'd scribbled rough notes and archaic runes that seemed fairly demon-y… demon-esque… to Harry's untrained eye.
"Demons is a harsh word for a harsh species," Hoovian said, running a hand back through his hair, "but much like humans, they're not all bad. Sure, you have your subclasses like the dementors, or the wraiths, or the reavers, but they're all cut from the same cloth—soul stealers, the lot of them, and they must be fought as encountered, destroyed where possible."
"How do you destroy a dementor?" Harry asked. "That's impossible."
"This side of the veil, certainly," Hoovian said, "but draw them home, through the Seam... to the Gardens…"
Harry sipped his lemonade and nodded along. Hoovian seemed half in his own thoughts, as if he'd forgotten he had an audience. Daphne looked bored, she'd heard it all before, and held a paperback book folded along the spine full of a neat, tidy script. Harry had been trying and failing to glimpse the title.
"The barriers between worlds are thin toward midnight," Hoovian said. "And on nights with no moon, the gateways are practically flung open for anyone with the will to do something stupid." He looked at Harry.
Harry asked the obvious question. "So it being just past noon on this bright sunny day, it's a bit safer to talk about these things?"
"Exactly, particularly given that you're marked now."
"I'm marked?"
"Scarred, really, but not a scar that can be seen. You—somehow, against all reason—were possessed by an imp. When dealing with demons, they'll be able to see the marks of that possession on... on your soul." He tapped a rune on the chalkboard. "Echoes of that possession may grip you still, make you reckless. Something to monitor."
Harry frowned. "So, the other demons like Alice know I'm not a demonic virgin? Is that a bad thing?"
Hoovian waved his question away. "Good or bad, light and dark, is more a matter of perception, hmm? Your Lord Voldemort, does he consider himself the villain?"
Harry opened his mouth to respond and then closed it slowly, thoughtfully. "Voldemort is nothing more than a murderer," he said after a long moment.
"A prolific murderer, and of more than just good and decent wizarding folk." Hoovian flicked his wand and a piece of chalk scrawled the rough outline of a man on the board. Within the chest, he drew a crude heart which shone with a soft light. "Man and his soul."
"What's the point?" Harry asked.
"All magic comes from the heart—from the soul, Harry. It's why they're so coveted by demons, why they're so powerful, and why anyone that goes messing with them ends up burnt."
Harry drained his goblet and placed it on the parapet. He eyed the Dementor's Heart, which sat inactive under the height and warmth of the summer sun. "So the imp, or whatever it was that made me—"
"Fun?" Daphne suggested.
"Act irrationally," Harry said. "How did it latch on to my soul? Is that what you're getting at?"
"What I'm getting at," Hoovian said, "is that your soul, your complete and unshattered soul, should have been able to fight off the imp as if it were swatting a fly. The fact that it didn't suggests a corruption at the very core of your being."
Harry muttered and grumbled to himself.
"What was that?" Hoovian barked.
"Nothing."
"Nothing, indeed." He cursed. "Potter, if I wasn't so damned intrigued by you and your... affinities... this apprenticeship would have already ended. You lack the temperament for proper demonological pursuit."
"Well now you just sound like a disgruntled Potions Master. Please tell me you didn't know my mother."
Hoovian ceased his pacing. "You've lost me."
"Never mind. Wasn't that funny." Harry shrugged. "Look, I'm not the expert, but I think we're all thinking the same thing here—you've heard the stories, it's whatever connects me to Voldemort that let the imp get its claws into me, yeah?"
Daphne placed her book down and, for the first time, looked interested. "How are you connected to the Dark Lord?"
"Show me your forearms and I'll tell you."
Daphne frowned. "I'm no Death Eater! My family stands—"
"Children, please," Hoovian said. "Harry, you go too far."
"Yeah, well," Harry said, crossing his arms, "sometimes going too far is just the beginning."
Daphne looked at him strangely.
"What?"
"You think that sounded clever, don't you?"
"Little bit."
"Getting back to my lecture," Hoovian said, "Harry, the thing that latched on to you came from the Garden of Shadows."
Harry said nothing, though he raised a single eyebrow in question.
"A realm that exists between this world and the Seam… or alongside the Seam. Tangled within it, maybe. It is a place unbound by time and devastated by magic."
"Magic?" Harry asked.
Daphne looked to Hoovian, who inclined his head ever so slightly. "There was a war," she said, flicking her silver hair over one shoulder, "between humans and demons. We're not sure what started it, who's to blame, but we know who ended it—magical folk. Our magic is entirely inhospitable, like throwing erumpent fluid on a fire, with the Garden."
Harry blinked along, wondering if they'd ever covered this in History of Magic.
"The wizards of the time bore a hole between the realms, broke the walls between worlds, and unleashed their magic against the demons in the Garden. The war ended, certainly, but to use a muggle term, the nuclear option burnt us, too. The demons refer to the wizarding attack on their homelands as the Brutality. Entire countries, for want of a better word, within the Garden of Shadows were annihilated. A tornado of magical wildfire tearing through dry tinder."
"Sounds like overkill," Harry said.
"We killed nothing—merely made large tracts and swaths of the demonic realms inhospitable. The backlash from that attack hurled the dementors into our world, among other, nastier corruptions that have now led, full circle all these thousands of years later, to you, Harry."
The edge on the breeze made Harry shiver, and although no cloud had crossed the sun, the world seemed to dim.
Harry licked his lips. "What now?"
"You're a piece of a very old puzzle," Hoovian said. "Whatever it is about you that allowed the imp to possess you, I can use that to help solve a crisis that threatens both our world and that of the demons. And perhaps undo a great deal of damage."
"Huh," Harry said.
Hoovian sighed. "What is it?"
"No, nothing, I guess." Harry glanced at Daphne. "Usually I don't figure out the new professor is using me for his dark schemes until after Christmas."
Hoovian slammed his palm into the chalkboard, the clap echoing out across the castle grounds. "Let me make you a deal then, Potter. Help me figure this out, and I'll help you kill the Dark Lord Voldemort."
"I don't think a professor should be helping you kill anyone, Harry," Hermione said.
"Have you ever read about what Hoovian's saying?" Harry asked, leaning his head against Hermione's shoulder on the broad leather couch in his room, overlooking the lake as the sun set. "The Garden of Shadows? The Brutality?"
Hermione shrugged against his ear. "The garden is ringing a very faint bell," she said.
Harry yawned. "I don't trust him. Professor Hoovian."
"Well, no, you shouldn't. You've known him a day and he's offered to help you commit murder."
Harry frowned and sat up. "You know the prophecy, Hermione."
Hermione bit her lip and, Harry realised with some surprise, fought back on tears.
"Eh," he said. "Hermione, I'm sorry I didn't—"
"Oh, stop it," she said with a sniff. "It's not your fault. As you say, I know the prophecy. It's just a great deal to ask of you—of us all, really, but you the most."
A heavy silence fell between them. Harry took a moment to pour them both some tea from the steaming pot on the coffee table.
"I'll do the research, as usual," Hermione eventually said, kicking her feet up onto the edge of the table and hugging her knees. "You ignore it and get us into a life or death situation, OK?"
Harry gave her a rough hug as a tawny owl landed on the moss-covered chulations outside the window and tapped to be let in. With a flick of his wand, Harry opened the window and the owl alighted on Hermione's shoulder, offering her a letter.
She broke the wax seal and unfurled the parchment.
"It's from Justin," she said, spots of colour blooming in her cheeks. "He's invited me—well, us—to a gathering in Hogsmeade in about an hour. At the Three Broomsticks. Do you want to go?"
Harry yawned and shrugged. "Do you?"
"Well, I... hmm, yes."
"Then I'll walk with you," he said, glancing out over the lake as the sun dipped behind the western mountains, girdling Hogwarts in pre-night shadow. "I'd worry if you walked alone."
Hermione squeezed his hand. "'A world full of demons for the sake of an angel'," she said.
"Huh?"
"Nothing. An old poem, you heroic hero you."
The Three Broomsticks was packed to the rafters when Harry and Hermione slipped in, kicking the trail dust from their heels, and squeezing through the throngs of Hogsmeade residents to find one of the corner booths full of the Hogwarts' apprentices.
Two steins of butterbeer appeared and Harry clinked with his fellow students before squeezing into the booth. He let Hermione sit next to Justin, who seemed happy to see her.
"Alright, Harry?" Colin Creevey asked.
"Staying out of trouble, mate, yeah. Busy in here tonight."
Harry noticed with a scarcely concealed grimace that Malfoy and his cohort sat a few tables over, huddled together in whispered conversation. Malfoy caught Harry staring and sneered at him, before muttering something to Theodore Nott that caused his table to snigger and drew all eyes on him. Harry didn't know the names of the other two people seated at Malfoy's table, but they looked familiar—Slytherins, he thought, who had graduated a year or two ago.
"Table full of wannabe Death Eaters," he muttered and returned to his drink, unwilling to let their presence spoil the evening.
The evening wore on and Harry felt himself drifting from the conversations around him, stifling more than a few yawns. Hermione and Justin spoke animatedly, the sights and sounds of the pub dancing happily in her eyes, about some obscure transfiguration theory, which left Harry yawning into his stein.
He excused himself to the bathroom and splashed his face with water in the sink, looking at his reflection as if seeing a stranger—his wild hair had sprouted weeds that were almost curls, in desperate need of a trim, and heavy suitcases had been left on the belt beneath his eyes.
He was alone in the bathroom, but the door to one of the three stalls creaked open on wooden hinges and Harry—switching from tired to alert in a heartbeat—drew his wand. The stall door swayed on its creaky hinges, revealing a space empty save for the porcelain toilet.
Harry sighed and relaxed, turning back to the sink.
A wand appeared in the air between the stall and the sink and, like silk curtains parting, an invisibility cloak fell away to reveal a tall, hooded figure in a silver mask with snake-like eye slits.
"Stupefy," the Death Eater growled.
The curse took Harry in the back, slammed his face into the mirror, which shattered a moment quicker than his consciousness.
Harry awoke to a splitting headache and a hard ache in his shoulders which, he realised a moment later, came from being strapped to a heavy wooden chair, his hands secured behind his back. Additional bindings secured his ankles to the legs of the chair.
That's odd, he thought, groggy, and shook his head to clear it.
He was in a poorly lit room—a dungeon of slick stone walls covered in creeping mould, blooms of white fungus, with a single, pale torch of faint blue flame casting a dire pall on the stone.
"Is anyone there?" he asked, and was surprised at the anger in his voice.
He strained against the bonds, found he could move a little, and rocked the chair back and forth an inch trying to free his hands and legs.
Harry strained his ears, listening for anything, but only heard his heart beating in his ears and, faintly, the drip-drip-drip of water.
"Death Eaters... Bloody Death Eaters..." he muttered. He had no idea how long he'd been knocked out, or how long he'd been tied to the chair—the ache in his shoulders suggested at least an hour—but his thoughts turned to Malfoy's table in the Three Broomsticks, the two older blokes with the slick-haired little shit who had been smirking at—
The door to the dungeon, concealed in the shadows, swung open on rusted iron hinges and a Death Eater swept into the room, the silver mask reflecting the dull flame from above.
"Which one are you then?" Harry growled. "Bunch of cowards hiding behind—"
The Death Eater flicked his wand and Harry's cheek stung with a slap. He bared his teeth and chuckled.
"Malfoy? That you under there? That slap was weaker than—"
A second flick of the Death Eater's wand and a wave of force slammed into Harry, knocking him back, and his chair toppled. He landed hard on his back, his shoulders burning, and cursed.
""The Dark Lord awaits, Potter. We shall talk when you have had some time to think," the Death Eater whispered, and left the room.
Harry muttered to himself and tried to relax the pressure on his shoulders. To his surprise, the wood beneath him splintered and he rolled his arms over the break in the frame.
"Huh," he said. "That's something."
Two minutes later, Harry had managed to work his bound hands around the frame of the chair, bending and snapping one of the legs, until his fingers were able to reach the knots binding his ankles to the chair front. It took some finagling, but he got one knot, then the other, and slipped his hands under his feet. His burning shoulders screamed in relief.
He stood and examined the rope binding his wrists. Thin, silvery rope that left his hands free for a wand, if he had one. He checked his back pocket to see if the Death Eater was as incompetent as he hoped, but he was wandless.
"Not to worry, not to worry..."
Harry considered his options and tried the door. Again, to his surprise, he found it unlocked and stepped out into a corridor similar to the dungeon. A set of spiralling stairs at the far end seemed better lit, so he headed that way, minding his footsteps and dodging puddles of stagnant water.
He scaled the stairs as swiftly as he dared, knowing if he ran into anyone he was in trouble without a wand, and reached what he assumed was the ground floor beyond an arched wooden door. Contemplating his options again, he shrugged and slowly turned the iron handle, pulling the door open an inch to peak out into...
...a kitchen. A large, opulent kitchen of marble benchtops, vast hearths, wood-fired ovens, and an array of sinks with gleaming pots. Beyond the sinks, windows looked out on the grounds of an unfamiliar forest under a starry night sky.
Harry wondered if it was the same night he had been taken on. Out of the window he spied a group of hooded figures around a cauldron of green flame, and decided not to head out of the back door and into their path.
He chose to go left, into an atrium of pillared columns and a commanding, grand staircase that led up to both an east and west wing of whatever building—a pureblood mansion, was his guess—he was in.
Not wanting to hang around and find out, Harry tried the ornate doors in the atrium and, less surprising, found them locked and barred. He tried to force the iron bar but—whether magically secured or simply too heavy—he couldn't budge it.
Feeling exposed with the open balconies and hallways above, Harry made a quick decision and dashed up the marble stairs, heading west to his north, and proceeded with care along the open corridor. Light shone from a room ahead on his right, and he caught the edge of muffled conversation.
He approached with care, mindful that whoever was in the room—hell, it might be Voldemort himself, the Dark Lord would be a'waitin' somewhere—was unlikely to be a friend.
The door stood ajar, giving Harry a glimpse of a personal study library, lit warmly from crackling wooden logs in a large, cast-iron fireplace framed in marble. The walls were lined with old books, magical tomes, and two Death Eaters—one a foot taller than the other, perhaps Malfoy and his father—stood in discussion between a fine leather couch and a stern mahogany desk complete with owl perch and expensive-looking writing supplies.
A glass doorway to an exterior balcony stood open behind the desk, which from Harry's perspective seemed to be built back into a hillside. He could leap the stone wall and hit the ground running, disappearing into the night, but he'd be seen if he tried it now.
He strained his ears to listen in on the conversation in the room.
"The Dark Lord shall be here within the hour," the taller Death Eater said, his voice low and husky—Harry didn't recognise it.
"He'll surely kill the boy," the other Death Eater—and a woman—said. Too much sanity in her tone to be Bellatrix.
"And good riddance. We'll be elevated to his inner circle for this. I intend to leverage that at the Ministry, perhaps something at the Department of Mysteries."
The female Death Eater nodded and held up a lacquered, wooden box about the size of a thick book. "And this?"
"A prize beyond even the Potter boy to the Dark Lord. He will use it to topple the incompetent. With that, even the dementors of Azkaban will bend to his command."
Harry frowned, scowling at the box. The two Death Eaters began to move, which forced Harry back a few steps and he ducked into an alcove, hiding in the shadows, as they moved past him and back toward the atrium.
Harry slipped into the study library, seizing his chance. He looked around for anything that would give him some indication of where he was, who he was captured by, but didn't linger. If Voldemort was on his way then...
On the large desk, resting on the green-leather writing pad, Harry found his wand.
He snatched it up between his bound hands with a grin and dashed through the open window doors onto the balcony, out into the clear night air, intending to make for the forest at the top of the hill.
He paused.
Thinking on that damned box the female Death Eater had been carrying.
A prize beyond even the Potter boy...
He hesitated only a moment, cursed himself for a fool, and headed back inside the opulent mansion.
Working his way back along the path that had led him into the upper reaches of the house, Harry caught sight of the two Death Eaters descending the steps toward the kitchen. He wagered they were going to join their cohort outside in the garden, surrounding the green flame fire and cauldron.
Without any plan, other than he wanted that special box, Harry set about giving chase. He tip-toed back through the atrium, into the kitchen, in time to see the back door swing shut and the two Death Eaters carrying the Dark Lord's prize join the four or five others around the cauldron in the garden. Flickering green flame lit up the hedges and trees, and bathed the old stone walkways in a sickly light far too reminiscent of the killing curse.
"Right..." Harry said. "Six against one, and my hands are tied.' He tried to angle his wand to cut the bindings, but couldn't get it. He cursed softly to himself and looked around for options.
A large pantry stood ajar, and within Harry spotted a collection of potions ingredients that would make old Severus Snape blush. Working around the edges of a bad idea, Harry slipped into the pantry to see what was in stock—he scanned the shelves, identifying most of the common bits and bobs, powders and dried appendages. Bezoar stones, abraxan hair, glowstone dust... glassed dragonfly wings, and so on.
He swept his gaze along the top shelf and found something useful, something that made him think of Daphne. A slow, steady grin settled on Harry's face. He collected the ingredient and carried it between his arm and his side with a great deal of care.
Harry let himself out into the warm night air, clinging the shadows and mindful of the cauldron flames reflecting in his eyes or the lenses of his glasses. He crept as close as he dared, until he could hear the muffled conversation of the Death Eaters, laughing and joking amongst themselves, to within about fifteen feet.
Crouched on his haunches behind a bank of green hedge, his head just peaking over the manicured brim of green leaves, Harry whispered a levitation charm on his stolen potion ingredient and sent it up into the air above all their heads.
Slowly and carefully, a curved shadow against the ceiling of stars and a crescent of moon, the ingredient floated silently through the air. Hoping he was judging the angle and the wind right, Harry levitated it into the curls of smoke rising from the large cauldron surrounded by Death Eaters.
"What is that—?" one of the Death Eaters barked.
Harry broke the levitation charm.
The erumpent horn dropped from the sky and hit the cauldron dead-on, splashing boiling potion into the air. The horn itself ruptured a moment later, spiling its deadly fluid into the brew. Whatever they were making, beef stew or poison gas, Harry didn't care.
Thinking fond thoughts of Seamus Finnigan, Harry delighted in the explosion that followed. The cauldron ruptured and spewed a violent mass of sizzling liquid into the Death Eaters, who were knocked back in the blast wave and sent rolling like ragdolls through the garden.
Harry was already moving, his sights set on the pair of Death Eaters from upstairs, and the lacquered box that now lay between them. He ran in and snatched up the box, hopping over buddles of burning green potion, as the confused and frightened screams from the Death Eaters turned angry.
He dashed toward the forest bordering the property, ducking behind hedges and large potted trees. Behind him the Death Eaters were gathering themselves, wands alighting and casting spheres of pure sunlight into the air to light up the garden.
He felt a target settle on his back, and soon wicked arcs of curse light began to cut the air around Harry, smashing pots and blasting the hedges apart. He ducked and dived and ran for the forest, where he could disappear.
A beam of curse light hot enough to singe the hair from his ears rocketed past and slammed into a tree on the forest's edge. The tree groaned, splintered, and fell into Harry's path. A tangle of branches and leaves clawed at him, slowed him down.
"Shit," he whispered, fumbling with the box and his tied hands.
"After him, you fools!" a harsh voice cried.
Harry made it into the safety of the trees, shadows once again hiding him from sight and errant, angry spellwork. He leapt over gnarled and knotted roots, zipping in no clear direction into the forest, only wanting to put some cover between himself and the Death Eaters.
His breath came in hurried gasps and his heart beat louder than a drum in his ears.
But he'd made it.
Harry didn't slow down, but he did try and mask his footfalls landing too loudly. Wherever he was, the forest was old, without path or marker, and he worried—a small worry, nowhere near the top of his list—that he'd never find his way out again.
"One thing at a time..." he muttered.
He shifted the lacquered box, which was lighter than he expected, under one arm so he could better grip his wand between the rope binding his wrists, and slowed his pace to listen for the sounds of pursuit.
Whether a trick of the thick forest or something more malicious, he heard nothing, not a sound, as if a pair of earmuffs had been pressed hard against the sides of his head.
He took a turn in the forest, slipped between a gap in two trees, and found himself back in the mansion's garden.
Harry's eyes widened and he stepped hastily back into the forest. He saw Death Eaters quenching the flames from the cauldron, and wondered how in the hell he'd gotten turned around enough to work his way back to the mansion.
Harry turned and headed back into the forest, but headed west toward the moon this time and kept to as straight a path as possible, leaving the mansion behind.
A few minutes later, as he hopped over a small creek, Harry stepped around a large evergreen and found himself once again the garden surrounding the Death Eater mansion.
"Right," he said, knowing full well he hadn't circled back. "This is some magical bullshit."
"Indeed," whispered a rough voice behind him. "Stupefy!"
Harry spun quick enough to catch the curse in the face.
Harry awoke to a splitting headache and a hard ache in his shoulders which, he realised a moment later, came from being strapped to a heavy wooden chair, his hands secured behind his back. Additional bindings secured his ankles to the legs of the chair.
"Oh great..." he muttered.
He wasn't in the dungeon this time—he was up in the fine and rich study library where he'd spied the Death Eaters and the mystery box. The warm fireplace sat at his back, casting his shadow ahead of him against the leather couch.
Upon that couch sat Professor Mathias Hoovian and Daphne Greengrass.
"Evening," Harry said slowly, and the nagging sense that he'd been a bit of a hasty fool whispered in the back of his mind.
"Erumpent fluid... into an unknown cauldron. What on earth were you thinking?" Daphne asked, crossing one leg over the other. She wore, Harry noticed, the robes of a Death Eater.
Hoovian was in one of his nicely tailored suits. "I was told you were inventive, Potter, but I must say that surprised me."
"What the hell is going on?" Harry growled. He spied the lacquered mystery box on the mahogany desk and strained against his bindings.
"This was a test, Harry," Hoovian said carefully. "Consider what happened this evening an... induction to your apprenticeship."
"You stunned me," Harry said. "Twice."
"I wanted to see what you'd do," Hoovian said, leaning forward on the couch and clapping his hands together. "This is my home, by the way. You are in Bulgaria."
Harry blinked. "No I'm not."
"Yes you are."
"Am not."
Daphne rolled her eyes and tapped her foot impatiently against the hardwood floors. "Potter, you most definitely are."
Harry considered, then nodded. "Does Dumbledore know you've kidnapped me?"
"I told him I'd be providing tutelage to you here tonight, yes."
"I imagine the nitty-gritty details of tonight's lesson—"
"You passed the test, Harry." Hoovian grinned. "I'd heard the stories, but stories are embellished, often exaggerated. But here you are—you had every opportunity to escape, but you chose to stand and fight for whatever was in that box."
Hoovian stood and walked around the desk. He undid the clasp on the lacquered box and lifted the lid. From within, he withdrew a ripe red apple and took a bite.
"I feel like this was all a bit..." He paused.
"Elaborate?" Daphne offered, casting Hoovian a wry grin. "Me too."
"You should have really figured it out a lot quicker," Hoovian remarked. "Honestly, Harry, you wake up and you weren't bound magically, you escaped far too easily, and then just happened to stumble upon the conversation you needed to hear?"
"So... no Death Eaters?"
"No."
"Voldemort isn't on his way."
"I surely hope not."
Harry considered all that, then chuckled. "Well I hope I didn't burn any of your friends too badly," he said. "With that little cauldron trick."
"The robes absorbed the worst of it," Hoovian said. "Though replacing what you destroyed won't be cheap."
"Well, shit. Send me a bill. I'll get right on it."
Hoovian grunted and swept from the room, and Harry didn't know whether he was angry or impressed. He was left alone with Daphne leaning against the couch. She stared at him for a long moment, making Harry squirm, and then stood.
Daphne stepped slowly across the room, tossing a small clear-glass bauble from hand to hand.
"I failed his little tests the first time," she said, glaring down at him.
Then she kissed him, quick and soft.
"Well done, Harry."
Daphne slipped the bauble into her coat pocket and left the room. Harry let a good two minutes pass in the warmth of the fire trying to figure that one out, before remembering he was still tied to the chair.
NEXT UPDATE 15-JAN-20.
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