CHAPTER 30: The Price of Innocence (Part 1)

Headmaster's Office

November 2nd, 1995

8:00 a.m.

He'd avoided it for as long as he could. Ever since the Aurors had left with Davis in cuffs, he could feel them. The stares, bordering on glares, that lingered for a little too long, the tightness in his voice whenever he was within earshot, the twitches in his body for any of his sudden movements.

He was angry. No. He was furious. Incensed. Wrathful.

It was a feat in it of itself. As a man of almost a hundred and fifteen, Albus Dumbledore has built up near unbreakable patience. The man had lived long enough to endure what most people would never even begin to fathom. And these past few months had been some of the worst of it in years.

The Ministry had tarnished his name, branded him a liar, a fool, a decrepit old man who had fallen from grace. Not two weeks after the Dark Lord's return and he had been forced out of his position as Chief Warlock, what little influence he had over the Wizengamot's ruling taken away at the time when he was needed there the most. The international community soon lost faith in him, a vote of no confidence was called in, losing him his position of Head Mugwump. Babajide Akingbade, a popular Ugandan politician who had served as Minister for Magic in the country a few years ago, had taken over as interim Mugwump until elections could be made in the following summer.

And yet, he hadn't been angry.

He'd lost all his power and influence inside and outside the country, left only with his position as Headmaster for the time being. And with every passing day, even that seemed unstable. The Minister had it after Albus, any toe out of line and the foolish man would most likely have him arrested. The lies and deceit the Dark Lord had instructed Zeus to whisper in the Minister's ear had done wonders, made it pathetically easy to infiltrate the Ministry without even requiring the use of an Unforgivable at the moment.

Even with the Dark Lord and Ares out of the country, the Death Eaters were making vast progress. Even after every one of Albus' attempts to stop them, to delay them, to push the truth into the light and fight for action, it was all for naught.

He could see the way they all looked at him during the meetings. They hated him. Even after everything he was doing to aid the cause, risking his own skin for them, and yet they shunned him. Forced into the corner, alienated from everyone else, always forced to explain himself for every little thing he did. They constantly complained, criticized the small amount of information he provided.

How small did their dimwit brains have to be to not be able to understand compartmentalization? The Dark Lord didn't tell his Death Eaters anything that wasn't essential to their job, and his position as the group's Potions Master didn't provide him access to most of the things they were interested in.

Still, he managed to learn as much as he could and told the Order what was safe to reveal without risking him ending tortured and killed at the Dark Lord's hand. Of course, many of the members of the Order would gladly have him die for a bit of information, those near-sighted idiots. Not that he cared. They didn't matter, the idiots could all burn and die, and he wouldn't shed a tear.

This wasn't for them, this was for her. For the promise he'd made her in her last few moments. He would never be able to unsee her like that. Her body, mauled and bruised, filled with deep gashes as she constantly shook from the cruciatus exposure. Her husband, almost unrecognizable from his injuries, dead right beside her. For once, he wasn't jealous of Potter, he didn't feel hatred or satisfaction at the sight of him. He felt pity, and a hint of regret. Who could've known that such a juvenile and meaningless rivalry would end in such a brutal way.

All the death and carnage it wrought because two arrogant, vain boys could never understand a simple truth. The world was wide enough for both.

He often thought back to it. The gradual escalation of the whole affair. Insults, pranks, hexes, jinxes, humiliations, curses, duels, injuries, murder attempts, the war, Their history filled with too much blood and pain to ignore, to absolve the hatred in his heart. It all felt so natural, the only plausible progression for it. The line kept getting pushed back until it couldn't anymore, and by that time it was too late.

What he would give to be able to go back to that fateful morning when they first met, and just ignore him. How many lives would that have saved?

But it didn't matter. He was dead, and she would be joining him soon. But that didn't stop her, the moment she saw him, she reached out for him. The willpower he witnessed at that moment nearly broke him, but he kept it together. Because, after four years of fighting on different sides of a war, she wasn't looking at him with hatred. She pleaded with him, uttered those three words that would shape everything he did after that moment.

And then she was gone. Taken from him. A victim of his own hubris, his want for revenge, his search for power. The war was over, but his mission had just begun.

Keep Harry safe.

That's what he did. Acting from the shadows, his hatred for Potter and his near identical spawn fighting against his love for Lily. She'd asked him to keep him safe, and that's what he did. More than that, he made him powerful, skilled. He turned him into a man who cannot be bargained with, a man who cannot be betrayed, a man who isn't afraid to do what is necessary to survive. He taught him the truth about life, while his peers only just began to learn how to use their wands.

He'd gone over enormous lengths to protect the boy, but however hard he tried, he was just like his father. Brash, arrogant, thinking with his gut than his brain. And this year, it only got worse. Potter got greedy, instead of staying in the safety of the shadows, he challenged the system. Challenged Montague. He warned the boy, told him to stay away from it, to avoid the same hunger for power that drove him to the miserable life he led. But he didn't listen, and it ended with Montague dying and an innocent teenager being sent to her death.

His lessons were still clear on Potter, the ruthlessness he ingrained upon him, the boy did not hesitate to scapegoat Davis, and it seems Parkinson and Nott helped him use his brain for once. Indeed, they might just be a good enough influence to him. Perhaps, within time, he'll act more like them, more like a Slytherin.

The Aurors were gone, and Potter was no longer a suspect. But he'd be foolish to consider his work done. There would be consequences, not just for Potter, but for him as well. Which is how he found himself right outside the massive golden gargoyle. It was glaring at him knowingly. He'd avoided facing Albus for as long as he could, but it wasn't an option any longer.

"Blood-flavoured lollipops," he uttered the password.

As he ascended towards the office, he tried to collect himself. He wasn't ashamed of admitting that he was afraid of what would happen next. Albus Dumbledore was a powerful wizard, probably the most powerful alive. And he had made him angry.

"Come in," Albus' soft voice ordered.

Severus hesitated for a moment, before reaching for the knob, and opening the door. He felt it at once, the raw power emanating from the man that had thickened the air inside the room. He couldn't believe how small he felt, the office felt like a mausoleum as Albus towered over him. He was sitting behind his desk with Fawkes by his side, both staring intently at him. There was no twinkle in his eye, no smile tugging at his lips - just a mask of cold anger.

He forced himself to stand still and not say a word, using his Occlumency to remain stone-faced and calm, but it was a taxing effort. He was drowning in the raw magic surrounding him, he quickly felt light-headed and fatigued. Not even with the Dark Lord had he felt this amount of fierce magic overbearing him. Any lesser man would have broken his composure.

"Tracey Davis is innocent." His voice, while calm, was made of steel. It was a tone he'd thought impossible to come from his voice.

"Yes," he forced out, closing his eyes as the lightheadedness began turning into a headache.

"Why did you frame her."

"I didn't-"

"Don't lie to me," he said dangerously. Albus stood up from his chair and walked towards him, making Severus feel the urge to back up. The magic around him thickened, it felt as if it was pressing on his head, trying to break his skull. And as Albus walked toward him, it only grew worse. He was having trouble standing, vertigo hit him, and he could feel his bile rising through his throat. "You just sentenced an innocent girl to a lifetime of hell, of which you can scarcely imagine. If you have the courage to do something as vile as that, have the courage to admit to it."

"Yes," he blurted out, unconsciously vowing his head as the pain began to turn unbearable.

"Why?"

"Keep. Harry. Safe."

Albus stared at him inquisitively, and though the pain lessened slightly, it was still there. Throbbing, never-ending. It was unlike anything he'd ever felt before, and the fact that Albus wasn't doing this deliberately was terrifying to him.

"You lied to me." He said calmly. "You betrayed my trust. You committed a crime as vile as Potter's. And worst of all, you manipulated me into not being able to do anything to rescue that poor soul."

"I needed. To. Protect. The boy."

"No, you needed to let him gain accountability for his actions. Potter killed a boy in cold blood, and you helped him get away with it. I've seen this story before, watched it play out without getting involved because I had bigger problems to deal with, but not anymore. I won't allow Potter to turn just like Tom. Consider yourself relieved of your duties towards the boy, Severus, you're clearly unfit to handle them. From now on, he's my responsibility."

"What will you do?" He gritted out.

"I'm going to make sure Harry Potter isn't allowed to harm another soul ever again."

Parkinson Palace

7:00 a.m.

The sun was rising behind the mountains, its light slowly creeping into the dark office where Bedivere Parkinson sat. There was only a small candle in the room, located on top of the umber desk where he worked. It was large and elegant, filled with what seemed to be near two dozen books and a hundred different parchments all scattered aimlessly, filling every inch of the desk's surface. The candle and quill holder were almost drowning in the overflowing mess.

The rest of the room was in similar shape. The tall, wooden bookshelves that had once been pristinely organized by subject, title, and publication date were considerably empty. A large portion of the books had been taken out, left around the house, forgotten. Often he would stumble across one of his previous reading materials as he went through his day, but instead of taking them back to their appropriate place, more stray books were left unchecked. The books that were in the bookshelves were misplaced, some even situated horizontally in open spaces. Bookmarks left in various critical passages that would come useful later.

A stubborn side of him raged at the disorder. For all his life, during his days as a young, naive boy all the way to the cynical, reserved older man that he was, he had kept strict order. Even without house-elves to keep his residence tidy, he'd been someone to abhor any lack of propriety.

How genuinely fortunate he had been that his biggest quandaries were over such folly details. A hundred and fifteen years of a life well lived, one without the crushing weight of the future crushing his shoulders.

When he made that decision, he hadn't expected to come out of it alive, much less being put in a position where he would be a key piece in the new history that was being written. It wasn't his desire, but it was what was necessary of him to avoid the dystopian nightmare he had aided in forging. The alteration should've been enough, perhaps the other one would not have made the same mistake the boy did back then. But Fate… Fate was not one who took to people who meddled.

In all his years of studying Fate - its prophecies, its vessels, its connection to magic itself - the idea of it fighting back against any tampering anyone would concoct hadn't even entered his mind. Then again, anyone with basic knowledge of the nature of Fate would know such a thing is impossible. After all, the only magical artefact rumoured to even have a connection to Fate had turned out to be a myth, a fabricated story created long ago by men with too much time in their hands. For millennia, people searched for it all over the globe for naught.

But he had known better. The Manuscript never lied.

He doubted he was the first, but he was sure of being one of the few unfortunate souls to get their hands on the Threads of Fate. It took him a little over a decade and a half of non-stop searching to find it. And he'd never forget the sensation when he used it, he would forever have the constant reminded of the sacrifice needed to unleash its power. His body reminded him of it, every second of every day.

Macabre. He hadn't understood until after the fact.

The feeling of his body ripping itself apart as the threads pierced and cut their way inside his body, draining his blood, tearing through his veins and arteries. His organs exploding inside him as his own skin and muscles ate themselves. All the while, there was only one thought running through his head, over and over again, through sheer will.

Harry Potter. Boy Who Lived. No more.

The agony increased exponentially by the second, but he did not yield to it. The world around him began shattering, breaking apart, exploding into itself, but he did not stop. It went on until there wasn't anything recognizable, only quick and bright flashes of vertigo-inducing colours, some of which he had never seen before in his life. Time began to lose its meaning, it had been days, perhaps even weeks of nothing but bright flashes attacking him as his body suffered without respite.

And then, suddenly, it had all stopped. He was laying on a large bed with juniper covers. His body was still aching, but it was nothing compared to everything he'd endured previously. As he looked around the room, he realised he had never been there before.

It was dark, with only a few candles and torches lighting it, revealing its green and black decor. There was an armchair and a chesterfield couch on the corner opposite a large door he presumed to be the exit. Lining the walls around the furniture was a small library made up of two tall bookshelves filled with large, old tomes. A small door behind the bed led to the marble embellished bathroom with a shower, a tub, a lavatory, and a toilet. A door on the other end led to a large closet, clearly designed for two people, with only the left hand filled with all sorts of robes and suits.

The shock didn't wear off as he made his way around the manor, finding new details at every corner that made him stop in disbelief. It wasn't until he reached the kitchen and found a newspaper on top of the counter that he finally realised what was happening.

June 25th, 1995

The threads had worked… but everything changed.

As the days passed, he knew for certain. The world he knew was gone, this one was much different. More violent. More dreary. More frightening. And the worst part was that he couldn't take anything for granted. From his own name to his family's history, his meddling with fate had rewritten everything he knew about the world. History, infrastructure, even magic itself. And yet, even with all its differences, this new world was so very much like his own in countless regards. It was like walking into a room where everything that had been there was still there, but none of it in its right order.

Every day he was met with new surprises, new knowledge he needed to keep in mind. It was disorienting. Just when he thought he was caught up, someone would slap him in the face with something he hadn't perceived. And worst of all, fate had deemed it humorous to drop him in such a moment where it was too late to influence anything.

The Dark Lord had returned.

The last time, when his son stepped into the room, face full of dirt, wearing that proud uniform all of his followers had locked away over a decade ago, and told him the news, he'd been ecstatic. The boy had escaped, and Crouch Jr had been found out, but it didn't matter. He had returned. No one believed he ever would, and yet he did. He was back, and he would shape the world in his image. Restore order, give the worthy their due as the undeserving were put back in their place.

How naive he had been to think the Dark Lord considered anyone worthy but himself. It was a mistake he would never make again.

As he sat there, staring at the sun rise while holding his granddaughter's letter in his hand, Bedivere reflected on everything he did. All the time spent studying this new world, building plans and back-up plans on how to stop the Dark Lord, trying to figure out the meaning of Fate's will changing the universe the way it did. And yet, he still needed more time.

But time wasn't something he had, not anymore. The Potter boy had unleashed the restraints of quiet, his actions would move up everyone's timetables, forcing powerful people to make weighty moves. He had thought he had until the following May, he was mistaken.

The time for scheming was over… now… was the time for action.

The Great Hall

9:00 a.m.

Quiet murmurs filled the Great Hall as everyone waited anxiously for the owls that would be delivering the Daily Prophet, none of them more so than Hermione Granger. There had been no news from the previous day, no word on the status of the investigation or the student victims. Nobody but a few Slytherins - one of those being Potter, she noted - had been allowed to leave the Great Hall after the interviews were conducted.

And then, suddenly, the Aurors left, and Professor Dumbledore sent everyone back to their dormitories, cancelling classes until the following Monday. Outrageous rumours quickly spread inside the respective houses, but nothing concrete about what had happened was ever agreed on.

It wasn't until that morning when they finally got some news. Umbridge had left the castle the previous evening and was not expected to return within the next couple of days - some people even theorizing she went back to the Ministry. Professor Dumbledore had finally left his office for one of the first times in the whole year, and was currently sitting at the Head Table with the other teachers, sharing their solemn attitude. No one, not even the brashest Gryffindors, dared ask him or anyone what had happened.

The realisation of Potter's involvement in the attack had left her shaken. She didn't want to believe it, but a part of her - the one that had never been wrong before - insisted he was in on it. Still, she hadn't dared tell anyone. But she needed to speak with him, corner him as soon as she could, force him to tell her exactly what had happened.

He and his friends had been the ones that spent the most time with the Aurors, they were in Slytherin, they had to know the most about the attack. But as much as she wanted to know, she couldn't quite bring herself to go over to the Slytherin table and interrogate him outright - as much as she might want that. She'd have to wait, perhaps before the next DA meeting. Would they even have a DA meeting today, what with everything happening? She wasn't sure.

A sudden flutter of noise brought her out of her head as she witnessed a parliament of owls descending upon them, most of them containing a copy of the Daily Prophet. One quickly descended upon them, handing Neville the copy of the newspaper, only for it to be ripped out of his hands by her.

Murder at Hogwarts!

Tracey Davis apprehended by Aurors!

Trial scheduled for Saturday 11!

The words in the headline shocked her, but they were nothing compared to the gruesome picture underneath it. It was a picture of Graham Montague, his face covered in a revolting open cut that was large enough to cover most of its face, including both his eyes. Puss and blood covered the entire visage. The rest of his body was just as horrible, with one of his legs completely detached from the other and his entire torso barely holding his guts inside.

Loud gasps of shock were heard all around the room, people began vomiting, some even crying. But as soon as it began, there was a loud swoosh sound as hundreds of newspapers flew towards the Head Table. Every quickly turned only to find Dumbledore staring coldly at the pile of copies of the Daily Prophet that had been nicely ordered right in front of him, before waving his hand, making them all disappear immediately.

No one dared say a word.

Her eyes quickly went towards the Slytherin table, only to find that Potter was no longer where he had been only a few moments ago. He had taken advantage of the distraction, and was currently heading out of the Great Hall.

He did it.

Before she knew what she was doing, she stood up. She rushed towards him as fast as she could without running, ignoring the sounds of people quickly following behind her. Turning right, she found Potter rushing towards the stairs that led to the dungeons.

The coward.

She sped up.

"Hermione!" Neville hissed, but she ignored him.

However, it seemed to gain Potter's attention as he turned right at them, only to be immediately slapped by her open hand. He gaped at her, a look filled with disbelief and hurt.

The gall.

"You killed him," she said icily, not bothering lowering her voice to a whisper. She could feel Neville and Ron's gazes, but she continued. "Didn't you?"

His gaze hardened, but he didn't say a word.

"To think I ever believed you to be a decent person," she scoffed.

"I've no idea what you're talking about." He said through gritted teeth

"Don't lie to me, Potter! We both know you did it! You killed Montague! And why? Because he looked at you the wrong way? Or maybe you just woke up on the wrong side of the bed that day and decided to let off a bit of steam."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Not only did you kill him! You then framed Tracey - Tracey! You framed her! Sentenced her to a life in Azkaban for something she didn't do."

"I've had enough," he turned around, but she grasped onto his arm.

"Oh, you have!?" She laughed cruelly, sarcastically, in a way unlike herself. "I'm sorry, have I upset you!? Did I make you feel bad!? You murder someone in cold blood and then frame an innocent girl for what you've done, and you don't even have the courage to admit it! "

He swirled around to face her, the hated in his eyes, for a moment, she was sure he was going to hit her. But he didn't, he didn't move a single finger, he just continued to glare at her.

"What the hell happened to you?" She asked coldly, her uncaring tone the polar opposite to her words. "What kind of damage was done to you that you can't seem to grasp just how vile and revolting you truly are?"

She removed her hand from his arm and stepped back.

"You're a monster."

Montague Residence

November 3rd, 1995

9:45 p.m.

Elijah Montague shoved the door open, its loud crash against the wall startled the large, family boarhound. It barked loudly, jumping to its feet before moving around the room wildly, looking for any threats nearby. The mutt was old, fattened by age but not lazied by time - its loud barking covering for the cowering buffoon it was.

On a good day, he was not one to tolerate its obnoxious nature. And today was far from a good day. He slashed his wand at the dog, silencing it wordlessly before launching a stinging jinx at it. The creature opened its mouth, trying to whimper or whine, but nothing came out. It rushed up the stairs, and would not dare to come around him for the rest of the evening.

Smashing the door behind him, Elijah didn't bother with drying his soaking wet robes or cleaning the dirt from them. He stumbled into the tiny, wooden house - a mere shack compared to the manor they used to live at in their infancy. The bottle in his hand clashed against the side of the table, but he ignored the sound as he raised it to his mouth and drank straight from it. Gulping the fiery liquor down his throat until his belly felt full.

He'd lost count of how many bottles he'd downed in the past two days. The last thing he could properly remember was late Wednesday evening. The loud knocks on the door from the coppers. At first, Elijah had gathered they were coming for him. It had been only the previous evening when the Dark Lord had officially integrated him into his inner circle in the place of his uncle, who had fallen ill almost a decade ago and was in no condition to serve. However, his paranoid thoughts would've been a sigh of relief compared to the crude reality he had been presented with.

Graham was dead.

Murdered.

The coppers went in depth into their investigation, listed out the proof of Tracey Davis - some foolhardy girl - being the killer. They hadn't been startled by his unresponsiveness, looking at him with sympathy. But he couldn't put enough effort to feel anything at their presence. He picked up his cigarette, light it and slowly smoked it. He didn't say a word, and neither did the Ministry man. When he had finished it, he put it out against his leg before asking them to leave.

The next couple of days had been a blurred mess, he couldn't tell when one ended and the other began. He organized his little brother's funeral by himself. It was a quick affair, with no people attending other than him and the priest who put him in the ground. His uncle had not been able to leave his bed for years now, and his aunt passed away one nine months ago. It was best to just get it over with.

He didn't shed a tear. Not as the priest gave his speech, not as the casket closed, not even as the body was lowered six feet under and was promptly covered up entirely. It was as if his body had lost the ability altogether.

He wanted to rage. To shout. To cry. To do a billion other things to let go of the ball of grief, anger, and sorrow that had pushed his organs into the corners of his body. But he was unable to do anything of the sort. For he knew the truth.

His brother's killer had gone unpunished.

None of the copper's evidence mattered, nor their promises he'd see justice for this atrocity. His brother had been carved up, his legs ripped out from his body, barely staying alive even with all the medical aid from St Mungo's and the Hogwarts' infirmary. And the person who had done this was sleeping soundly,

Harry Potter.

The mark carved on his brother's face was the exact same one that Graham boasted about branding the boy only four years ago. While he hadn't approved of his rash actions, he had been pleased with the results. The Potter boy had been left destroyed by the encounter, too scared to seek for help, and too damaged to stand against Graham or even him. It was a suitable revenge for the crimes inflicted upon their family by his.

And now he had killed his brother, presumably in an attempt at his own revenge.

He could've told the Aurors, could've claimed he knew who the real killer was - but there was no guarantee they'd be able to prosecute him appropriately. He wanted justice for his brother, and that wasn't something you'd be able to obtain by following the law. The times were changing. Soon, the Dark Lord would take over magical Britain, and he'd be in a position of power to make Potter pay for his crimes - sending him to spend the rest of his days in a cell filled with dementors.

Revenge was a dish best served cold, it would be a mercy to kill the boy now.

But that didn't mean he couldn't make him suffer until the time was right.

Determination rose from his chest, clearing his head long enough to decide. He entered the small study situated right beside the entrance of the house. He grabbed the battered quill and drops of ink left from the right side drawer, picking up a dirty piece of parchment from the floor.

The Knights had never been afraid to act without the Dark Lord's permission, or even defy him. They had been a powerful group of the wealthiest and most influential pure-blooded individuals of their time for centuries. And besides, why would the Dark Lord care if some worthless, mediocre blood-traitor suffered as his parents did.

Using the doubling charm, he created five copies of the original parchment on which he'd written a short but elementary message. He addressed each to a respective Head of House before sending them all with the Greater Sooty Owl that had served as the family's personal owl since his parent's had been alive.

Harry Potter would suffer, and he wouldn't rest until the deed was done.

That's it for this chapter, I hope you guys enjoyed it!

This will make up the first of three standalone chapters that will deal with the consequences of the previous two arcs as well as begin setting up the following one!

Chapter 31 titled Classmates Rarely Get Along will finally focus on Harry as it will be strictly from his POV as he deals with the aftermath of his actions. Old faces will return as the inevitable shift inside Hogwarts begins!

As always, thank you for reading, favouriting, and commenting! I appreciate all of you! :)

I've decided to open my own discord server where I'm going to be active and will include the opportunity to get the chapters earlier! Please, feel free to join using the following link: discord . gg / jyPfbGqhJT