I DO NOT OWN THE HARRY POTTER BOOKS OR ANY OF THE CHARACTERS!
Title: Gladiolus
Summary: Time and experiences change people. When the war finally hits home, a revengeful mother will do anything to make sure the Dark Lord suffers for his crimes...Even if it means that she has to train Harry Potter. NMHP
Galax: Encouragement
Everything was soft, warm, and safe. Harry frowned in his sleep, eyes fluttering open before he stretched with a large yawn. He suddenly paused, staring around the handsome room in confusion. It was three times larger than his room at the Dursleys', but not so humongous that it would make someone feel like they were drowning in empty space.
The furniture and interior design was warm and earthy, the French doors thrown open to reveal a large balcony and sunny afternoon. Harry blinked and sprung out of bed when all the memories of the funeral finally hit him.
Grabbing the robe laid out neatly on the pulled out desk chair, Harry shoved it on without much thought. He only knew he needed to cover himself since he had been stripped down to his pants.
The door was unlocked. Should he chance it?
No, he had no idea what was on the other side or where the hell he was. Instead he searched frantically for another escape route.
Harry glanced towards the balcony and slowly approached the French doors. Tiptoeing to the railing, he took a deep breath and…looked down.
"Holy crap," Harry whispered to himself, staring down at the ground from almost five stories up.
"A rather lovely view, isn't it?"
Harry spun around, his hand going to his pocket for his wand but it wasn't there. Miserably, he reached back to clutch the railing. At least he could threaten to jump and maybe he would bounce like Neville did when his uncle dropped him.
"Who are you?" he spat at the green cloaked man and was slightly annoyed when he (for some reason) could sense the other man was greatly amused.
The figure sighed and pressed his gloved hand to his chest melodramatically, directly over his heart. "I'm hurt, Mr. Potter, that you can't figure out who I am!"
"But, I suppose all is forgiven. I'm not as well known as say…Lucius Malfoy?" The figure took a step forward.
Harry watched him warily.
"Bellatrix Lestrange?" the man hinted once more.
The green cloaked man was a Death Eater, no surprise there…but which one?
Gloved hands reached for his green hood and swiftly removed it, revealed austere mint green eyes that glinted like two chips of jade from a slightly hollow face that may have once been quite handsome. His hair was wavy, once black but now almost completely grey and brushed back with impeccable manner.
Mulciber didn't look too different from the last time Harry had seen him. He was still pale, straight nosed, and had perfect posture but overall he seemed healthier.
Harry would say that Azkaban didn't seem to have affected the Death Eater to the same extent it had done to Sirius. However, the way the man's clothing seemed to hang limply off his frame corrected this assumption. He hadn't noticed it before.
"Are you quite done with your scrutinizing yet?" Mulciber asked, the corner of his lips twitching a bit in what Harry guessed was a slight smile… Or even a repressed sneer?
Maybe Death Eaters lacked the muscles needed to smile?
"Err, yeah, sorry," Harry muttered, turning his gaze to the ground…what the hell?
"It's quite alright. Now, you've been out for almost two days so you should be rather hungry." Mulciber quirked an eyebrow, tilting his head a bit as he semi-patiently waited for an answer.
Harry opened his mouth to answer, but paused. Narrowing his eyes, he clenched his fists when a sudden wave of anger rolled over him. "What is going on? Why am I here? Why am I not dead? Why are you being so NICE?" Harry exploded, throwing his hands in the air as he demanded answers.
Those austere mint eyes seemed to take on a new level of unmerciful loathing. However, Mulciber's body language was a complete contradictory to the glint in his eyes, but rather he appeared relaxed and vaguely amused just like a few moments ago.
"You are here because someone wanted you to be. You are not dead because you're alive, and I'm being…nice, as you put it, simply because I choose to be. Now, as for what is going on, why don't you walk out that door and find out for yourself?"
Mulciber stepped aside and gestured grandly towards the door on the opposite side of the room.
'Smart arse,' Harry grumbled mentally to himself and took a few wary steps forward. Mulciber remained where he was, now straight backed and watching him expectantly.
Harry took a few more steps forward, inching past Mulciber much to the Death Eater's amusement. Abruptly the Gryffindor sprung forward, threw open the door and flew out the door at a full sprint.
He dashed to the right, his bare feet slapping against the cool marble and Harry quickly got lost. But he ran, and ran…and ran like a mad man with the devil at his heels! He twisted and turned, opening random doors and dashing through…
The air blew through his hair and the young Potter almost felt free, like he was flying. All he knew was that he needed out, now, before they caught him and questioned him.
Torture him…
Panting, he almost tripped going down the stairs. Harry had only eyes for the corridor in front of him, and even then he didn't exactly notice anything. Hell, he had even ran headlong into a few walls quite a few times. All his instincts just screamed to run while his Gryffindor pride licked its wounds in the back of his mind.
Everything was blindingly white and quiet. There were very few portraits, but they gave no clues as to where he could possibly be because Harry didn't look at them-- didn't notice them.
His head seemed to beat simultaneously with the rhythm of his heart and the building panic in his chest was rising, threatening to engulf him but Harry kept running. Another pair of stairs, and the walls seemed to close in on him like a stifling as a blanket.
Harry carried on.
Two more flights of stairs, and Harry accidentally stumbled into a room. It was white too, completely barren, so Harry continued on his way. Finally, he was on the ground floor and Harry raced towards the large doors before him…
Throwing the door open, he found two people waiting for him.
"Ah, I'm so glad you could make it, Harry!" It was Mulciber.
The Death Eater was sitting down at an extensive but disgustingly white dining room table fashioned from highly polished marble—the extreme lack of color made him want to gag.
But Mulciber's chair was facing the door, and the old man was sitting so casually the Gryffindor had the sneaking suspicion that he had been expecting Harry to rush into the large room all along.
"It was quite rude of you to rush away like that, Harry-dear, but it did save us an awkwardly silent walk down to lunch—I'll give you that," Mulciber commented with a sardonic smirk.
The other person in the room was Narcissa. She sat on the opposite side of the table, directly across from Mulciber so that she was also facing the door. The blonde woman was no longer wearing her black gown, but had donned on a set of pale grey robes that almost accomplished the impossible feat of making her appear dreary and plain.
But Narcissa didn't say anything. Pale turquoise orbs were staring at Harry with such intensity that his gut flip-flopped and he felt like a little boy—shy, awkward, and unsure.
"Now, Harry, do sit down," Mulciber got to his feet effortlessly and pulled a chair out for Harry to seat himself in. The older man also turned his own chair so that he could face the table once more before sinking down on the cushions in one fluid motion.
Harry stood there, staring at the back of Mulciber's head. Why would the idiot turn his back on him?
'I'm completely defenseless—hell, I don't even have any shoes on to kick him properly with!' was the depressing though that entered Harry's mind.
The Gryffindor shuffled in reluctantly, seeing no option since fleeing the room would not work this time around. Harry stumbled when he stubbed his toe on the chair after pulling it out, and blushing with embarrassment he finally seated himself.
There was no food on the table, only empty porcelain dishes. They were white like the rest of the house, besides the room Harry had been shoved into after being kidnapped. As lunch was served (a light soup, bread, and his choice of drink) Harry only stared at it.
Was it poisoned?
The others were eating, idly chatting but oddly enough Harry wasn't really interested in their conversation. But, he was starting to feel a tad more comfortable.
"Well, boy? Are you going to eat or not? If we wanted to kill you, Harry, then you would already be dead," Mulciber snapped and then took a sip of his drink and turning his attention back towards Narcissa.
Harry opened his mouth to reply sarcastically, but realized both Narcissa and Mulciber had not been trying to kill him for the past fifteen years. No, that had been Voldemort. The fifth year disaster had only happened on Voldemort's orders.
Where they keeping him alive and 'happy' so Voldemort could stop by for dinner and kill Harry for dessert?
Shite.
Harry stared at the soup; head bowed so that his bangs fell into his eyes, and extended a hand to grasp the spoon. He stirred the liquid absentmindedly, his mind slowly turning his situation over in his head.
It didn't make sense.
Lunch passed quickly, silence reigning over the room and leaving Harry to his thoughts. The young Potter hadn't touched his food beyond playing with it, still afraid that it might be poisoned. Mulciber had threatened to force-feed Harry but Narcissa had silenced the old Death Eater with a scathing glare.
Later, a house-elf led Harry back to his room and he shuffled after the silent creature through the ivory corridors. He was extremely confused by the time they reached his room, so all he could do was sit down on his bed and brood.
As he continued to think, his confusion tripled and he only received a terrible headache as a reward.
Covering his face with his hands, Harry closed his eyes.
Someone knocked at the door.
Eyes shooting to the exit, Harry slowly got up and approached the door warily. "Who's there?"
"Narcissa," a calm, cold voice answered—slightly muffled through the wood.
Harry gritted his teeth and bit back a scalding comment, "What do you want?"
There was a short pause, "Mr. Potter, I believe it's quite obvious as to what I am here for. Now, unless you're dancing around like a monkey in your birthday suit…then I'm entering your room."
Harry could only gap at her nonchalant tone. The door swung open and the blonde woman swept in, still clad in her drab robes but appearing to be vaguely in good humor.
Narcissa conjured a plush chair and gracefully seated herself, arranging her skirts comfortably. She took a moment to survey Harry before shaking her head, blonde curls bouncing somberly before she brushed them away from her face.
"Mr. Potter, you are here to be educated in the fine art of killing Dart Lords and defending yourself from ravenous Death Eaters," Narcissa started smoothly, her hands folded in her lap serenely.
Harry, who had moved back to the bed, would have fallen over if he hadn't been sitting. All he could do was stare at her like she had grown two heads and splutter out, "W-what?"
"Are you deaf, Mr. Potter?"
All Harry did was blink owlishly, so Narcissa went on despite the lack of answer.
"The Order of Phoenix—Yes, I know who they are, Mr. Potter, Lucius tended to rant quite a bit about that organization," Narcissa snapped sourly when she saw Harry open his mouth to interrupt.
"Please keep all questions to yourself until I'm done speaking. Now, the Order obviously is not going to help you in the most…desired way. Only a few precious members may understand that you're as green as a new born foal, and even when they do train you…well, Mr. Potter, you will still be quite helpless against the Death Eaters," Narcissa, despite being a proper lady, allowed herself to shrug.
"But—"
"Silence! I know you were able to triumph in the Departments of Mysteries, but it's not quite an accomplishment to brag about if you think about it. You're friends were facing a group of Death Eaters in which most of them were fresh out of Azkaban and hardly healthy or fit…and in the end, you needed help!" Narcissa mocked heatedly, eyes blazing with anger.
That was the day Lucius landed his carcass in Azkaban. Bastard.
"It was pure luck," Narcissa whispered, glancing down at her folded hands briefly. Her intense turquoise gaze was once again focused on Harry, which made him squirm…and he couldn't help but agree that he had been lucky to a certain extent.
Sirius…
"Here, you will learn everything necessary to accomplish your goals," Narcissa continued, quietly as if depressing thoughts were weighing her down.
"How do I know you won't betray me?" Harry asked bitterly, although he desperately wanted to believe her. She looked so…sad. How he knew, he wasn't sure because Narcissa's expression gave nothing away.
So why did he think she looked sad?
"You don't," Narcissa replied bluntly, her lips curling into a smirk, "But you're not going anywhere so you really have no choice but to trust me—trust us."
Harry took a deep breath and fell silent for a while, digesting everything she had said. In the end, he saw no choice but to go along with the whole thing. Why? Because he was stuck and even if he did escape he had no idea where he was, nor did he have his wand.
"Why are you doing this?" Harry inquired suddenly, the question bursting from his lips.
Narcissa tilted her head and seemed to ponder his question. "Why don't you answer that yourself? I'm sure you're a smart boy, Mr. Potter."
Harry blinked. He would think about it later. "What about the Hor—err, never mind."
Stupid! That's what he was, stupid! It was one thing to go along with this silly game, but to slip up like that…
Narcissa laughed softly, but it sounded empty and listless. "The Horcruxes? Oh, Mr. Potter, do not worry about them. Now, my cousin will be arriving early tomorrow, so if I were you I'd get some sleep before then."
The blonde woman smiled wickedly at him and all Harry's pity, sympathy, or compassion for her suddenly fled and he scowled.
Narcissa stood and mockingly curtseyed before sweeping from the room.
Harry glared at the now closed door and glanced towards the clock hung opposite of the bed. It was far later than he had expected, he must have sat here on the bed almost three hours before Narcissa arrived.
And was did she take up her maiden name?
Nothing was making any sense! Harry's head gave a particularly painful throb and he groaned, slumping back against the bed. He stared up at the canopy of the bed listlessly, pondering what he got himself into.
'Tomorrow', he decided, 'will be the day I try to escape. I want to see who this cousin is first, though…'
At the moment he didn't care that he was still fully dressed, Harry crawled under the duvet and slept on the side of the bed that was closet to the door. Since he was such a light sleeper, he would awaken if anyone entered the room.
It's not like he could do anything about it anyway…
At with that, the young Potter found himself falling into a fitful sleep.
Harry jolted awake when someone pulled the blankets off of his bed, and he suddenly found himself spluttering when a pitcher full of icy cold water was dumped over his head. "What the hell!?"
"Mr. Potter, watch your language!" someone crackled—a completely foreign voice.
Harry irritably brushed his hair from his face, ready to yell and scream at whoever dared to wake him in such a terrible manner…
But the words died on his lips the instant he laid eyes on him…
Augustus Rookwood was standing at the foot of his bed, arms crossed, and one foot tapping impatiently. At first Harry didn't recognize him, his face was completely free of pock marks and well…like Mulciber, and he appeared to be in better health than the last time they met.
"Are you going to stare at me all day or are you going to get your arse of bed, Mr. Potter?" Augustus asked dryly, rolling his crystal blue eyes.
The Death Eater casually walked to one side of the bed, bent over and…Harry suddenly found himself on the floor with a sore arse after the mattress was tipped.
"Hey!"
"Well, you weren't going anywhere!" Rookwood appeared next to Harry, making the boy jump to his feet.
The Death Eater ushered him out of the room and soon demanded loudly: "Run!"
"What?" Harry demanded indignantly.
"Run!" Rookwood shoved Harry, making the Gryffindor stumble.
"Run or I'll—"
Harry sprinted down the hall, unwilling to learn what the Death Eater would do to him. He slipped a few times (he was still wet with water), and since he really didn't know where he was going, Harry ran as fast as he could and took random twists and turn just like yesterday afternoon.
Panting, he came to a sudden halt before huge double doors. His feet were still sore from the few times he had stubbed a toe or two on the stairs, but Harry could hardly care. There doors weren't the same as the dining room, and slowly the Gryffindor approached them.
When he was a good five feet away, he stopped. Nothing happened.
Harry shuffled forward, inch by inch, and touched the door.
Nothing.
He grasped the ornate silver doorknob.
Nothing.
Harry twisted the doorknob as if to open said door and suddenly found himself thrown across the room and on his arse for the second time that day. Getting up, he rubbed his bottom and suddenly spotted some windows.
Racing towards them, he threw open the curtains and scrambled to find a way out. Nothing! No lock, handle, or anything! Hell, the windows weren't even made to be opened! The glass had been frosted over so that the only thing Harry saw on the other side was light and shadows.
He would find another way out, but for now he would stick to his plan and play along.
"I believe you made a wrong turn, Mr. Potter."
Harry jumped, almost fell over, but managed to turn around. He found himself staring into Augustus Rookwood's amused gaze and decided that all Death Eaters were just plain creepy.
Not scary, but creepy.
"Err, I guess so," Harry replied hesitantly, biting his lip.
"Well, follow me."
What followed next was hell.
Harry had breakfast with only Rookwood, in which he was actually force-fed lukewarm oatmeal and fruit. After that, a really heavy vest had been shoved onto Harry's shoulders and he was forced to run around some empty training room Rookwood had led him to.
On and on, Harry lost count of how many laps he was forced to do. But when his legs had collapsed from underneath him, the Death Eater had the gall to drag him to the library. Instead of reading the thick tomb handed to him, Harry had fallen asleep.
Due to his 'disobedience,' Rookwood had cast a silencing spell and used the Cruciatus Curse to punish him. Then Harry was given an hour break, which he slept through and was awakened with a similar fashion like that morning.
After that, Augustus expected a duel?
Yeah right.
Both Rookwood and Harry were standing in the room that Harry had been forced to run laps in earlier that morning. Rookwood appeared perfectly fine, if not cheerful, while Harry himself looked close to collapsing once more. He had--twice on the way up--but Rookwood had dragged him by the arm until Harry got to his feet.
"Well, come on!" Rookwood demanded crossing his arms with frustration.
Harry only sat down on the cool marble and stared at him blankly.
Rookwood pursed his lips, mumbled something under his breath that sounded similar to 'Narcissa…kill me…damn it.'
"Potter, go to bed," he sighed, "I would try to torment you into dueling with me, but I'm afraid you might end up hurting yourself instead," Rookwood shook his head and casually waved a hand as if batting away a pesky gnat.
"Go, go on! I'll send some supper to your room, Potter, but I expect you to be fully recovered by tomorrow."
The next two weeks passed in a similar fashion. However, Augustus now seemed to know where Harry now stood, and adjusted the routine to slowly push the boy past his limits and make him better a better dueler. At first Harry really did not understand why he needed run so much, but Rookwood demonstrated why the skill was so essential by challenging Mulciber to a duel...
Harry quickly learned his lesson and had taken to running every morning without any further complaints. All his lessons were with Augustus so far, and it was mostly physical exercise and reading. He was required to learn five spells every day, memorize them, and be completely able to cast them by the next afternoon in his daily duel against Rookwood.
This meant he was given his wand back! The first thing he had done was try to escape, which...didn't work out too well. Next, he sulked and thrashed his room. Oh boy, did he pay for that! He had been hung by his ankles for almost three hours by Mulciber, but Rookwood had been so concerned about all the blood rushing to Harry's head that he released the poor boy.
After the first week of spending his time trying to escape, receiving punishment for failing to memorize five spells every day, and generally being a sulky brat-- Harry decided to get serious and spent all his free time on his studies. When bored, he would try to escape but it was more of a hobby than an actual need to leave the Manor.
He still worried over his friends, but Harry had convinced himself that this was for the best. Not that he had a choice, anyway.
Although he learned his spells dutifully, Harry still had his arse handed to him day after day. However, the duels were growing longer and well...Harry was proud that he could last at least five minutes. He still had a lot of work to do, obviously.
But, Harry did not see Narcissa often in the past two weeks. Only once because she had gone out of her way to check on him, but Harry was slightly disgruntled that he actually missed her. He didn't even know her very well!
Rookwood took a seat next to Harry at the library table. He wasn't a very handsome man, but you couldn't say he was dreadfully ugly like Snape. No, he was very serious in appearance with a stern chin, thin lips, sharply arched eyebrows and constant frown. His hair was long, a dark bark brown. The front was usually pulled back with a small clip and out of the way of piercing crystal blue eyes. The only two emotions on his face were usually boredom, disapproval, or amusement—never the eerie blankness that Narcissa or Mulciber often possessed.
The pockmarks had been a result of an infection while 'visiting' Azkaban. But they had been removed once a healer poked and prodded him, almost six months after he escaped Azkaban.
It had taken all of Harry's courage to ask him, but Rookwood had calmly answered his question about the marks. Rookwood had even added that the Dark Lord did not respect his Death Eaters like he used to, which gave Harry some clue as to why the former Unspeakable was helping him.
"Now, Harry, your lessons are going to change. You will still spend the first portion of the morning with me, but Mulciber will be teaching you Transfiguration and Charms while Narcissa will be giving you lessons in Potions and Occlumency the rest of the afternoon."
Rookwood watched Harry carefully, one hand propping up his head casually.
"Huh?"
"Ah, you're so articulate, Mr. Potter, that I am jealous!"
"Ha-ha-ha, that's very funny," Harry remarked dryly before closing his mouth and widening his eyes in horror. He was starting to sound like…like…Rookwood!
The Death Eater was snickering softly, shaking his head in his amusement. Once he regained his composure, he smirked with self-satisfaction towards his young charge. "Your schedule will be delivered tonight…and although you may have more classes, Harry, I still expect you to memorize five spells each night."
With that, the Death Eater sauntered arrogantly from the room without another word.
However, Harry was just now starting to panic—freak out, fear, dread—that he was going to learn Occlumency with Narcissa.
He'd rather face Snape any day!
Uploaded: 11/21/06
British Dictionary-
Pants: Male underwear
Shite: Curse word (shit)
Arse: ass
Whoo! I would like to thank everyone who has read this story, reviewed, or added it to your alert list! I also apologize, this chapter was suppose to be uploaded yesterday but my internet has been down since Friday night until almost five minutes ago :)
Please READ & REVIEW! Constructive criticism welcomed, but please tell me what you think!