Sillage
The Ministry is quiet at this time of night and the sound of his squeaking trainers follows him through the narrow underground corridors, where the walls are a blinding white as far as the eye can see and where they never bothered to add magic windows to distract from the sterility of it all.
Harry resents all of it, from the antiseptic smell rising up from the floors to the white paint meant to hide the blood that's been spilled within these hallways. He can still hear the prisoners' bloodcurdling screams echoing back at him, a punishment for a promise broken. That it wasn't his fault that his promise got nowhere is beside the point: he did nothing to stop them. Worse, he stepped aside like a coward.
His mother hadn't stepped aside and look at her.
Look at her.
Look at him, hale and whole, living under the pretence that there isn't rot on his conscious, a dark stain on his very soul, the lingering aftertaste of betrayal sour on the back of his tongue.
As Harry makes his way through the underbelly of the Ministry, the air grows heavy and cold, pushing down on his shoulders. There are no doors here, just the walls stretching on endlessly like two mirrors reflecting each other, and despite walking in a straight line, he has the suspicion that he's going down as well as forward.
He is going nowhere and everywhere at once.
He stops walking. "Bring me to her," he demands.
At first nothing happens, but then he hears the sound of stones grinding against each other, of bricks shifting in place, and between one blink and the next the outline of a door appears, a round metal doorknob reflecting the overhead ceiling lights like bright little stars. He only notices the low humming sound when it's absent, the sudden stillness pressing on his ears worse than a deafening shout.
Harry hasn't seen her in a long while, not since she found them in a lover's embrace in his office two years ago. She'd cackled at the sight of them even though it hadn't been very funny, but Bellatrix Lestrange was full of laughter, full of life in the way few people are, in the way her victims wished they weren't. She was good at that, making her victims wish for the mercy of death.
Now it is her turn, because karma comes for all.
One day it will come for him, too.
Harry twists the knob and the door opens. Light from the corridor spills into the room, into this one by two prison cell barely large enough to keep a large pet in, let alone a person, but Death Eaters aren't seen as people anymore, so the Ministry deems it suitable housing. Huddled in the corner is the husk of a person, bony knees pulled up to her chest as she rocks herself back and forth, whispering all the while.
"Bella," Harry says quietly.
The words come to an abrupt stop. Slowly she raises her half-lidded eyes and she stares hard at him, her lips pressed together. Then she smiles. "Did you know they sing to me?"
Harry gulps. He suddenly can't remember why he came here, what his purpose in seeking her out was. He knows he must've had a reason, perhaps had a stray thought that led him here, but there is nothing. "Who?" he asks despite himself.
Bellatrix giggles softly but she doesn't answer. "Harry Potter," she sing-songs instead. "Tell me, does it hurt, being alone?"
"I'm not alone," Harry denies.
Her giggles melt away, blessed silence for two full seconds, and then she bursts into laughter. "Lies," she says, wheezing, "such sweet lies you tell yourself! Does it help you sleep at night?" She's grinning, her mouth curving at the edges. "Tell me this too, do you tell yourself that it was for the best?" She sits up, looking eager. "Do you?"
He shouldn't have come. "No," he denies.
"You're one of us now," she says.
Harry's lips twist into a grimace. "I will never be one of you."
Bellatrix laughs harder, but there's an edge to it, something harsh and unfriendly, something sharp. "You are a murderer, Harry Potter. You are a killer. You thought to play God and you ended someone's life the same way I have, the same way all of us have. You are one of us now, Harry Potter." She shakes her head, dark curls falling into her face. "You are not God."
"Neither was he."
"He was more of a God than you will ever be!" she snaps, panting for breath. "They think you're a hero, a little godling, but we both know the truth, Potter. He marked us both, you are as much his as I am, but here I am and there you are. Funny how that works, isn't?" She sneers at him. "Did you come here for absolution?"
Harry says nothing, because he doesn't know.
Maybe he did.
Maybe he came here to fix his guilty conscious, to get rid of the rot infesting his soul.
"You're a pathetic child," Bellatrix says, uncharacteristically cold. "He was good to you and you betrayed Him, you killed Him, and now you want forgiveness for it? Who do you think you are?" She moves to her knees, her heavy chains rattling, and then she's standing on weak legs. "Who do you think you are?"
"Bella—"
She sways on unsteady legs, only standing up long enough to spit at his feet. "We are done." Then she collapses back onto the floor. She takes up her former position, clinging to her own legs, burying her face between her knees, tapping her feet on the floor to a rhythm only she knows, humming to herself.
"Bellatrix," Harry tries.
Bellatrix doesn't respond.
XXX
Once upon a time, Harry Potter was happy.
He had friends. He had a career. He had a lover. He had everything he could ever want and he was fine straddling the metaphorical fence, playing both sides in a drawn-out war, his friends none the wiser.
Then one day, he was forced into a choice.
He chose wrong.
Now he has sillage in an empty lift.
~fin.