Muchas gracias to all who reviewed. Here's numero neuf. :)


Consequences - "When the world goes dark, when you've lost everything – the bright things seem so much brighter."

The building is, for lack of a better term, ancient.

It radiates a deep chill in the warm moonlit evening. The cracks and vines that wreath its façade give it the look of an unsightly blemish in the backdrop of the surrounding country.

No one has approached it in years. For decades, it has stood abandoned. Strange people have lived in it, people whisper. No one knows who. Strange things have happened in its rooms, its halls. No one knows what.

In fact, there isn't much they know about it at all. But the entire village in the valley agrees – the fine hill it stands upon, the lush forest to the west, the fresh-looking stream tricking to the east; they're all tainted. Look at them, and your eyes burn. Touch them, and your hands shrivel. Look what happened to Gregor Kaplan. Look at his fingers. No bones, just wrinkled skin.

It's the house. There's evil in the house.

And Harry Potter knows it.

He stands alone at the foot of the high, grassy hill, his wand clutched in his hand as he grimly surveys the ancient residence.

There is something in there that he needs. Something important.

Don't go in.

It's a trap.

He knows it. It's obvious, really. But this is what he has run away for. This is part of his prophecy, and the faster he fulfills it, the better. It's a trap, but the bait is real.

With a deep, steadying breath, he takes a decisive step forward.

Keeping his eyes on the great, carved doors, he slowly, determinedly makes his way up the hill. There is a barrier pushing him physically out but mentally sucking him in. He fights both with gritted teeth, his wand held out in front of him.

And then he's standing before the door, breathing heavily but unscathed in any other way. A dragon is carved into the grimy, splintering wood, its eyes two large rubies that watch him wherever he steps.

He points his wand at the door, and it creaks open.

He steps inside.

The door creaks shut behind him, in perfect horror movie style, with an ominous click.

There's no light, but it's not dark. He's in a giant hall, the domed ceiling crosshatched with spider webs. A giant marble staircase spreads out before him, leading up onto a shadowed second landing consisting of one long, continuous corridor. There's a large, dusty fireplace to his left and a forbidding black opening to his right.

His footsteps echo on the marble tiles, which are covered in a fine layer of dust and filth, as he walks further in.

"Lumos."

Soft light beams from his wand. He hesitates for a moment, and then points it at the blackness to his right. It reveals another corridor.

Studying it carefully – pointing his wand at the plain, rectangular archway, the unmarked walls – he quickly makes up his mind. With a deep breath, he plunges into the darkness.

There's no magic. No invisible force field, no tripwire, no magic restraint. And so he runs. He runs and runs, and the corridor becomes familiar.

The walls are gray and blank, stretching on and on into the void.

It's the corridor in the Department of Mysteries.

He runs on, his feet pounding the gray, blank floor, his breathing ragged in his ears. The light on his wand bounces and dances across the walls.

Then there's the door.

For fear that hesitation will stop him, he immediately grasps the doorknob and pushes the door open.

When he steps in, he falls.

The ground disappears beneath him, and with nothing to grab onto he tumbles through the air. The sky has turned a dark navy blue, the stars obscured by stormy clouds. The wind whistles past his face, making his eyes water, and he holds on tightly to his wand, desperately trying to think of a spell that will break his fall.

An island – he's over the ocean – starts out as a speck of darkness beneath him, but it rapidly grows in size. Choppy, foaming waves crash against the weathered maze of boulders on the shore. A vast, looming fortress positioned in the center of the island swiftly comes into view. Tall, hooded figures stand guard at various posts, studiously looking out to sea with unseeing eyes.

The coldness hits him suddenly, with as much force as if he'd just run into a wall. It knocks the breath out of his body and he only just retains his grip on his wand.

"Accio Firebolt!" he gasps.

He barely grabs onto the broom that rockets in from nowhere; tremblingly he mounts it, still shuddering from the wave of chilliness emanating from the hooded figures. He drifts farther down at a much slower pace, careful to steer as far from the Dementors as possible.

As he watches from his lofty position, he catches sight of black-cloaked figures materializing here and there, all over the fortress. There are so many of them; he loses count after fifty, and they're still coming. They form a black ring around the building and slowly move forward, like a constricting band. The guards don't notice – or maybe they do, but they choose to ignore it.

They're breaking in!

The realization hits him like a bolt of lightning, and he immediately turns his Firebolt downward, heedless of the Dementors. Wand raised, he swoops down – even if he can't fight them, he has to alert someone. Death Eaters are breaking into Azkaban.

But no one else is in sight. He circles lower and lower, unwilling to be seen by the Death Eaters but pushed on by urgency. At last, he decides he has no choice and dives down like a hawk, wand ready to rain down spells on the intruders –

He can't. His first spell dissolves in midair, and the Death Eaters don't even notice. The first few have reached the entrances; they force the doors open and rush in. Confused and frustrated, he tries another spell – this, too, vanishes before it can hit. He can only watch in growing horror as the security wizards are killed where they stand, can only chase after the cloaked and masked Death Eaters and futilely yell curses and spells.

It's too hard to maneuver the corridors on his broom; he abandons it and starts running. He's nearly lost sight of the group he's been following, but another one bursts out from around a corner. He is shocked to see that, instead of blasting him aside, they aren't aware of him at all. They continue on their way, passing right through him. Any spells he tries to fire after them similarly disappear.

Screams and shouts are echoing down the corridors; firelight throws shadows on the walls. As he passes by the cells, he is appalled at the condition their inhabitants are in – a blond man lying in his own vomit; a short, stocky woman tearing her hair out as she repeatedly slams her head against the bars; an old man sitting in the corner, stripped to the waist, nothing but skin stretched tightly over his bones.

He follows the sound of the Death Eaters' voices, and he eventually stumbles into the section that is apparently reserved for captured Death Eaters. The intruders are unlocking the doors, blasting them away where they don't open immediately, and helping the occupants out.

He recognizes most of them; they're the Death Eaters that were incarcerated after the battle in the Department of Mysteries. One man in particular catches his eye – white-blond hair, gray eyes: Lucius Malfoy. He is soon immersed in the black cloaks of his fellows, gone from Harry's view.

Having released everyone, they're hurrying away, not willing to risk detection this early. He follows them closely, trying to listen to their whispers. As they sharply round a corner, he loses his balance and falls – right through the ground.

He's plummeting down again, through a void that's so black he can't see his hands in front of his face; before he can think to Summon his Firebolt, he lands painfully on a flagstone floor. There are two other people in the circular room he's been dropped into; they stand with their backs to him, their fingers entwined as they whisper to each other.

"Oh, Tom! You've done it..."

"We have succeeded, we have won..."

The world is spinning; he has to get up, he has to tell someone, alert the Order that the Death Eaters have broken into Azkaban – but he can't move.

Shadows fall over him but he doesn't look up, for he knows whose they are. They're a tall, tall man, wearing a swirling cloak and satisfied sneer. The red eyes scream glee and mockery, and the shadow of a white, bony arm encircles its companion.

He forces himself to look. A red-haired girl stares down on him condescendingly as she embraces Tom, stroking his black hair, caressing his gaunt face.

"Ginny," he murmurs. "Ginny." What the hell's going on! Stop! Ginny, stop, please, please stop...

She tosses her head in the way he loves. Her red hair swinging behind her in a graceful arc, she turns to Tom, reaches up on her toes, and kisses him.

And it's as he watches this unfold that Harry's scar bursts into flame. He yells and clutches his head, his wand clattering uselessly by his side.

And through the pain, through his cries, there comes a new sound.

Laughter.

Cold, mocking laughter.

Ginny Weasley and Tom Riddle, arm in arm, look down upon him and laugh.

-----

And then someone called him, called his name frantically. "Harry! Harry, are you okay? Harry! Oh Merlin – Ron, get Madam Pomfrey!"

The laughter was still ringing, echoing in his head, softer now but ever sardonic.

A hand shook his shoulder, gently yet urgently. He tried to respond, but his body was rigid.

Footsteps pounded somewhere ahead, and a new voice entered his mind. "Sweet Merlin. What's wrong? What's wrong with him?"

His eyelids were lighter, ever light, and he tried to force them open, to no avail. The laughter kept ringing, ringing, ringing…

A small, cool hand grasped his. "Harry, answer me! Harry, Harry..."

Ubiquitous laughter... "Oh Tom!" Ginny? What – "We have succeeded..." Laughing...

"Harry!" This second plea was heartrending, and his eyes snapped open. Ginny and Hermione stood above him, tears of worry shining on their faces. Hermione collapsed onto the bed, now sobbing with relief. Ginny just stood there, holding his hand.

And then Madam Pomfrey was in the room, her face ashen. Ron ran in behind her, the frightened look bringing out his freckles. She bustled across the room, taking command.

"What happened?" she asked quickly, nudging Ginny aside.

"A-Azkaban," he stammered, shivering. "They broke into Azkaban."


"Are the accommodations to your taste, My Lord?"

He turns around at the silky voice, knowing the obsequious, respectful tone comes wholly from fear. It amuses him, sometimes – now, it annoys him.

"You are fortunate that they are," he says as he eyes the cloaked man kneeling before him with slight distaste. Yaxley, for all his services, is a slippery character.

"Yes, My Lord," Yaxley answers, breathing out what he believes to be an inaudible sigh of relief. "The convention awaits your presence, My lord."

"I am aware of it," he replies, and strides over to the high-backed chair in the center of the room. Yaxley scurries out of the way, nearly falling over in his haste. His small, rat-like face gleams with sweat in the candlelight.

"Sh-shall I – "

" I will be there shortly," he says softly, effectively cutting the man off. "Leave me."

"Yes, My Lord, of course, My lord." Yaxley jumps to his feet as if a jolt of electricity has burned through him. He swiftly backpedals out of the room, bowing all the while.

Fool.

Alone in the dimly lit room, he closes his eyes.

I am surrounded by fools.

It has begun – the end of the beginning. If nothing has worked before, he is sure this will. He knows it. He has worked toward it for seventeen years. He has endured physical pain, mental agony, and humiliation at the hands of a teenage boy. He had thought, foolishly, that the boy would be but a mere nuisance. But little Harry Potter had proved to be much more than that by destroying another one of his Horcruxes. That had angered him.

But once the boy is destroyed, he will move on to more important matters. He will conquer the world. He will advance magic to its full potential. Muggles would be eradicated.

But first, the punishments.

He grips the arms of the dark velvet chair and rises to his feet. With a smile – with a feeling of anticipation he has not experienced for decades – he vanishes from the room.

A moment later, the candles wink out.

------

He reappears in the center of a massive ring of masked figures, gathered under a glowing, lurid-green skull suspended in the pitch-black sky. As one, the figures drop to their knees as he straightens. He surveys the gathering and nods in satisfaction – the numbers have grown noticeably in the past several months. And there were still more devastating the countryside.

"My Death Eaters," he begins in a soft, sibilant whisper, allowing his pleasure to show in a wide smile that curls his lipless mouth. "Please, all of you, stand," he says, amusement gleaming in his blood-red gaze at the reverently – or fearfully, more like – bowing ranks spreading out before him. "All the better to see your faces," he adds, noting the shiver of dread passing through his black-cloaked followers as they rise to their feet.

Once they are standing, it is much easier to identify people.

"Wormtail," he calls quietly, and the short little man bows deferentially. His silver hand glimmers beneath his cloak. "Look around you."

Somewhat awkwardly, behind his bone-white skull mask, Wormtail obeys.

"What do you see, Wormtail?"

"Us, My Lord," Wormtail says, fairly confident of his reply. "Your followers for eternity, Master."

"I agree, Wormtail, I agree…my followers, my Death Eaters. It is a much greater assembly than that which gathered at my father's grave almost three years ago, is it not? Some of you have just recently joined my cause, while others have been at my side" – he lets a hiss leak into his voice as he says this, and his eyes flash to those he knows have been unfaithful: Wormtail, briefly; Nott, Avery, Lucius; but they will all be dealt with in the end – "for quite some time."

He lets his gaze fall upon a certain figure, standing stooped over in the shadow of his father.

"Ah, one of our newest additions, Mr. Malfoy," he whispers, and all shift to eye the boy, who only seems to shrink futher into his robes. "Stand tall, Draco, stand tall. It is not a shameful thing to be a Death Eater, is it? Although, perhaps, in your case..."

He can feel the burn of anger and shame in the boy as quiet laughter runs through the rings of Death Eaters. His father beside him also stiffens; it's only a slight movement, but enough for him to notice it. Narcissa stands beside him, shivering in her cloak.

"Be glad, be grateful…consider yourself the most fortunate of men that you have walked away with a mere branding on your back," he laughs. "More competent followers of mine have not been able to walk away at all…

"But you have learned from your punishment, haven't you, Draco? You have learned, quicker than most, not to disobey Lord Voldemort."

Bestowing the now-trembling head of Draco Malfoy with a wicked smile, he addresses his audience once more.

"Last night, I sent some of my most trusted Death Eaters on a task of grave importance," he says, watching as some of them stand taller at this almost-praise, "which I am sure all of you know the details of. They managed to infiltrate Azkaban and liberate those of you that have been imprisoned for over a year."

"We are honored, My Lord," one of them – Rookwood – whispers.

"I would like the eleven of you to step forward," he continues, ignoring Rookwood.

Eleven figures hesitantly step forward. He can feel their uncertainty – will they be punished? Or rewarded?

He turns to the first one, Dolohov.

"I told you to retrieve the prophecy," he says quietly. A shudder runs through Dolohov's body. "And what happened?"

Dolohov swallows audibly. "I – we f-failed, My Lord. Forgive us, My Lord, we – "

"I have heard enough excuses," he interrupts. Dolohov immediately falls silent. "You disappointed me greatly. Bella already knows the consequences of this – don't you, Bella?"

"Yes, My Lord," Bella murmurs, head bowed.

"Please, My Lord – "

"Quiet," he says. He raises his wand and Dolohov drops to the ground, screaming. No one moves; he stands watching his Death Eater thrash about for a full minute before flicking his wand. Dolohov lays there breathing heavily, unable to speak.

He moves on to the next one, Avery. He, too, is subject to the Cruciatus Curse. So goes the punishment for the others – Rookwood, Jugson, Mulciber, Nott, Crabbe, Macnair, the Lestrange brothers.

Last is Malfoy. Behind him, his wife is trembling. Her white-knuckled hand grips her son's shoulder.

"Lucius," he drawls.

"My Lord," Lucius replies as he bows his head.

"You have accomplished many things for me, have you not?"

Lucius hesitates, unsure if it is a trick question. "Yes, My Lord," he answers finally.

"Yes," he repeats, nodding. "Yes... But you have also failed me on many counts, Lucius..." It is not a question this time. "I trusted you greatly with this task. I expected you to stand before me and deliver the prophecy into my hands... Where is the prophecy now, Lucius?"

"It – it was smashed, My Lord."

His son grimaces in pain as Narcissa's fingers bite into his shoulder.

"Smashed..." he repeats. "Gone, forever..."

No one speaks. Lucius is breathing heavily inside his mask. His hands are shaking.

"Did you know, Lucius, that I gave your son a task while you were away?" he asked suddenly in conversational tones.

"No, My Lord," Lucius says cautiously. He can tell the man is refraining from looking back at his son with difficulty.

"It was an important task, yes, maybe more important than yours...would you like to ask him what it was?"

"It would please me greatly, My Lord," Lucius says. He stiffly turns around to face his son, who seems to shrink into his cloak.

"Draco," Lucius addresses him in a strangled voice. "What task was set to you by Our Lord?"

All eyes are on Draco. Narcissa trembles uncontrollably.

"Kill Albus Dumbledore," Draco whispers at last.

Lucius picks his head up sharply; his mouth opens, but he quickly shuts it.

"And would you like to ask him how it went?" he says pleasantly.

"Did you complete this task?" Lucius asks obediently.

"No," Draco says.

Lucius shudders and takes a step back. "My Lord, I did not – "

"Did I ask for excuses, Lucius?" he says. "Draco failed, yes – Severus Snape completed the act for me, as you may have heard. But Draco has received his punishment… And I imagine, Draco, that after your ordeal, you would like to see your father rewarded for a change?"

Frowns and murmurs sweep through the massed Death Eaters at this pronouncement – "Rewarded?" they whisper.

"Yes, rewarded," he says with a soft laugh, turning back to the Death Eater. "Don't look so surprised, Lucius. You have, after all, agreed with me that you have had numerous successes..."

"Yes, My Lord, I am eternally grateful, My Lord..." Lucius murmurs, bowing deeply.

"Come, Draco, step forward," he beckons with a smile.

The boy seems frozen, his eyes wide with apprehension. His mother nudges him forward, and he stumbles up to stand beside his father.

"Kneel down, won't you, Lucius?" he says in a sibilant whisper. Lucius silently obeys. "Good, good... And I bid all of you to remember this moment as an example of what you could be..."

He raises his wand, bestowing the man before him with a triumphant smile.

"Avada Kedavra!"

The blinding green light, the rush.

There is a stunned silence as the Death Eaters stare at Lucius Malfoy's lifeless body. Draco blankly looks down upon the limp heap of robes beside him, uncomprehending.

A sudden scream of despair rents the air. Narcissa Malfoy breaks free from the circle and dashes to her husband's side. She collapses beside him and cradles his head in her lap, sobbing as she strokes the white-blonde hair.

He slips his wand inside his robes and turns away. It was as just a reward as Lucius deserved; most of the others that failed him were subject to hours – maybe days – of torture before they were allowed to be killed...

"How dare you!"

The shriek makes him look back, just in time to see Narcissa lunge at him. Her eyes are wild with rage and crazed grief.

His wand is immediately in his hand again. He flicks it in her direction. She crumples to the ground, as lifeless as her husband.

He is filled with contempt as he looks at them, husband and wife; dead. They had stood against him, Lord Voldemort, and gotten only as much as they had deserved.

Draco is still gazing perplexedly at the two inert forms before him.

He smiles to himself. The shock prevents the boy from grasping the situation, but when he does... He turns again, and nods to Severus and Bella, who stand nearby at attention. They immediately take control, and as soon as he is satisfied that they know what they are doing, he vanishes with a swirl of his cloak.

------

"Go, take him back," Bella said, jerking her head toward a stricken Draco. The other Death Eaters had been sent away; only she, Snape, Draco, and the bodies of Lucius and Narcissa remained in the open field.

Snape nodded stiffly and approached the boy.

"He killed them," Draco whispered, turning around to face him. Tears ran unchecked down his cheeks. "He killed them."

Snape said nothing as he took Draco by the arm. "Let's go," he said shortly.

Draco wouldn't move. "He killed them," he repeated. "I – I'll kill him." He drew his wand and attempted to shake off Snape's hand.

"Draco, listen to – "

"He killed my parents!" Draco shouted, brandishing his wand at the silhouette of the giant tower. "Let go of me!"

"Stupefy!"

A jet of red light slammed into Draco, and Snape caught him before he fell.

"Stupid boy," Bella muttered, stuffing her wand inside her cloak before turning back to the bodies of her sister and brother-in-law. Snape couldn't ever recall the two of them being close, but Narcissa's death had evidently upset her to some degree.

"I'll be back," Snape grunted as he hefted the Stunned boy onto his back and Disapparated.

He reappeared in his room a moment later. Draco's weight made him stagger, but he made it to the bed before the boy slipped off his back.

He straightened again and studied Draco's pale face, remembering Lucius' "reward" and Narcissa's scream. Stupid boy...

Bella had already dug the graves by the time he returned. She had moved the bodies closer to the edge of the forest. He joined her wordlessly to help lower the bodies into the ground. He took up Lucius' wand as Bella took Narcissa's, and together they snapped them in half.

"He knew it was coming," he said quietly, crouching down to place the two halves of Lucius' wand on top of his body.

"Did she?" Bella retorted bitterly, doing the same for Narcissa. "He had no right. She was only grieving for Lucius. She wasn't in her right mind."

"When does the Dark Lord ever need the right?" he asked, standing back up. "It is done and over. There's nothing we can do but pay our respects."

Bella snorted. She, too, stood up and waved her wand over Narcissa's grave. It instantly filled itself with dirt. With another flick of her wand, Bella created a simple stone marker that stood at the head of the grave.

Narcissa Black Malfoy

1955-1997

No words of endearment or sorrow. Snape shook his head as he created a marker for Lucius.

Lucius Malfoy

1954-1997

He turned to leave, but Bella remained by her sister's grave, staring at the marker she had made. After a moment, she bent down, running her fingers over Narcissa's name, and whispered, "Goodbye, Cissy."


Up Next: Fame hasn't gotten to Harry's head yet, and he sure as hell won't let it start now. But, maybe, all the attention is a good thing. An old face returns to the scene with some desperately needed good news.

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