CHAPTER 47: A Wintry Homecoming (Part 1)

Amasya, Turkey

December 22nd, 1995

2:35 a.m.

It had been nearly five months since they'd left Britain, an arduous journey with very little rest. Travelling through eight countries, fourteen cities, and digging up far too many raided tombs had finally led them to their prize.

The night was deadly quiet, as if the sound had been sucked completely from the city by his presence. He could barely hear any ripples in the water as they closed in on the manor at unparalleled speed.

The manor stood proudly, a beacon in the darkness of midnight - guiding them to their prize. Four stories high and at the peak of a tall, guarded hill, nearly fully surrounded by the ocean - a large wall acting as a barrier between land and sea. The battered, gray stone would've made it look more like a fortress, if not for the countless windows that gave them a clear view of the rooms within. He spotted the guards; not just inside roaming the halls, but on the roof and ground floor, the rounds as they protected the snobbish, useless Muggles that wasted their parent's money on them.

Not even an army of Muggles would manage to protect them from the Dark Lord's fury.

He stood in front of him. Even with his back to him, he could clearly see his dispassionate expression. In all the time he knew him, the Dark Lord was never one for expressing emotions. Anger, joy, excitement - it all came out filtered by his high, cold voice. He had never heard a different inflection of it in all his years of service. What had changed was everything else. Before his fall, the Dark Lord had been disquietingly young and a handsome man. After all, one of the reasons he held the title of The Dark Lord was not because he had mastered the dark arts, but because he had done so without letting their effects take hold of him even as he used them extensively.

He had not become massively disfigured or lost his sanity to them, as most did. He remained fully sane, his intellect unchallenged even by great wizards like Dumbledore. And more than maintaining his appearance, he had succeeded in keeping his youth - something not even the likes of Flamel had accomplished with his philosopher's stone. Even at fifty years old, as the faces of his old school peers turned saggy and wrinkly, the Dark Lord never looked past his prime. Until his downfall.

The ritual to return him to his body had been most challenging. Even the first step, which had been passing the Dark Lord's soul to that of an unborn fetus, had required a degree of dark magic he had never even thought capable of existing. And that had been the simplest part of the procedure. There had also been the matter of finding the Pair Dadeni - Herpo's masterpiece, the companion artefact to the Horcrux ritual. Unfortunately, the Macabre Manuscript hadn't aided him in finding the relic, it had required over a year of relentless searching across the entire island of Great Britain.

But he'd found it. He'd brought it to his master. He'd overextended himself to perform all the unfeasible tasks necessary for the ritual to work. He'd brought the Dark Lord's enemy to the graveyard, making sure the useless lump of fat survived all the tasks to reach his master. He'd proven himself to be his most faithful servant.

And he'd been rewarded for it. While he may not hold the title of Zeus, he had still become the Dark Lord's right-hand man. And why would he aim to be God of the Sky, when he could be the very incarnation of the Dark Lord's righteous fury? The hand that would wreak violence, bloodshed, and war. The one who would enforce the virtuous purpose for which Magic had chosen him.

A New Blood, one of the ancient line of the Gaunts that lead back through the Peverell family and straight to Slytherin himself. The blood that ran through his body was the same blood that once ran within Salazar Slytherin - founder of Hogwarts and leader of one of the four biggest covens of his time. The same blood that once ran within Cadmus Peverell - one of the brightest minds of his time and a possible contender for the creation of the second Deathly Hallow, the resurrection stone. The same blood that once ran within Corvinus Gaunt, a venerated hero from the Great War that was instrumental in the salvation of wizard-kind.

How this family, filled with so many brilliant ancestors, had been banished by Magic as the last of the Gaunt line was named a squib - he did not know. What he knew was that it hadn't lasted long, for no more than a generation passed before Tom Riddle was born. The name of a filthy muggle and the spawn of a worthless squib, one so shameful that Magic itself wouldn't dare touch her, even as she came from one of the Great Families. And yet, her son had proven worthy of Magic.

A New Blood was extremely uncommon, for once Magic turned its back on a family, it declared it and any descendant that may come off it as meritless, inferior, deficient in every way. The number of recorded New Bloods in the past three centuries could be counted on one hand, and Tom Riddle was one of them. More than that, he had been granted power far above almost all other witches and wizards alive. Power… and a purpose. To protect wizard-kind, to stop the muggle extremists from giving more power to the Mudbloods and less protection to the true witches and wizards. The witches and wizards whose ancestors fought tooth and nail against the muggle oppressors that had overtaken them, defiling and killing any and all magical beings that stood in their way. Committing atrocities that still, to this day, had a lasting impact on their world.

The Blood Traitors may have forgotten, but they hadn't. They were appalled at their blatant acceptance of the Mudbloods, who had gladly stood with the Muggles in their extermination of wizard-kind. Unnerved by their relentless pushing of the removal of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy less than three centuries before that had been their salvation in a war that would have been lost. They argued the Muggles had changed. That the Muggles, if approached through peace, would reply in kind. That it would lead to a better society, one that gave many more opportunities to wizards, and that would lead to the growth of both peoples.

But they were wrong, foolish. For the Muggles wouldn't change. The moment they found out about the wizards among them, they would strive for their genocide. And while a single wizard was much more powerful than a single muggle, they were outnumbered ninety-nine to one. And that was the generous estimate.

The Dark Lord had tried approaching the matter peacefully, using his family's wealth and political acumen to fight against the Mudbloods and Blood Traitors. But as that had proven impossible, as the numbers of people who aimed for an open society with Muggles increased, he had changed his ways. Had been forced to enact a different type of war. A bloodier, crueller war. A necessary war. For he saw what all the respectable wizarding families had known for the past three hundred years. In this world, it was us or them. There was no room for an in between.

Of course, it was easy for the Blood Traitors to vilify them. Classify them as bigots, as insane users of the Dark Arts. But the Dark Arts had proved themselves to be a necessary evil, one every witch or wizard would eventually be forced to use. They felt no enjoyment in using them, in watching as their bodies and minds rotted, broke, and suffered in every imaginable way. Most avoided using them if they could. Nonetheless, the power they brought them, the victories they gained through them, it was the only thing standing between them and eternal damnation.

For their use of Dark Magic would damn them, there was no doubt about that. Magic didn't take well to witches and wizards who defiled their gift in such a horrid way. But if their damnation meant their children's salvation, the safety of the generations to come… it was worth it. For he wouldn't let another witch or wizard suffer at the hands of Muggles - wouldn't sit by and watch as the sacrifices of his ancestors were tarnished as Mudbloods who had just been introduced to the Wizarding World immediately aimed to change it. He'd do everything in his power to assist him in his crusade.

But bringing him back had not gone as expected. The ritual had been meant to bring him back fully, and yet… it hadn't. His skin had turned ash white, and somewhat scaly. His face, deformed, with two slits for a nose and blood-red eyes instead of the ice blue he'd once had. His bones had grown longer, making him taller, but they were crooked, and none of them were the same size as their counterparts. His left arm was vastly longer than his right arm, His right leg shorter. Even a side of his face seemed bigger than the other. Magically, he was untouched. His sanity still remained. But his body had turned on him.

And, not for the first time on this day, he found himself pondering whether something in the ritual had gone wrong… or if it was just a price the Dark Lord had to pay to regain a corporeal form. He doubted it had gone wrong, the Dark Lord would have punished him for it - or at the very least informed him. And yet, he hadn't. Instead, he'd asked him, and just him, to travel with him in a search for one of their most effective weapons in the coming war. He had been trusted to lead the investigation for the Seal of Solomon.

And he hadn't disappointed.

When their boat approached the wall, it gradually stopped. The Dark Lord stood quietly for a moment, before pulling out his wand from his robe. A rare colour for a wand to be fully white, but it wasn't a surprise a wizard like the Dark Lord had bonded with a wand of rare wood. He could feel it, the power radiating from the wand. He'd felt it before the wand had even been disclosed. It was a rush. It wasn't his wand and he wasn't the one who was touching it, and yet he felt more powerful than ever.

The wand pattern was done quickly and precisely, it had almost been too fast for him to fully see it. The bricks forming the large barrier began shifting, rapidly creating an archway through which a staircase began forming. The Dark Lord didn't hesitate, stepping out of the boat with seamless grace and through the incomplete path. Barty jumped behind him and followed, amazed at the still shifting bricks.

They were spotted as soon as they reached the grass. Three muggles in front of them shouted in Turkish before they immediately fired at them. With a mere flick of a wand, a near transparent shield came between them and the soldiers, turning each of their bullets into grains of salt. The shield moved with them, and the Dark Lord performed another motion with his wand. The Muggles screamed as the wall behind them stretched, as if made of raw cement, and grabbed them around their middle. Their skulls cracked as they were sent roughly backwards to the wall, and the cries of fear and agony were soon extinguished as the wall completely overtook them. Their remains nothing more than statues, trapped in the wall, with their agonized screams silenced.

Barty was not fully sure whether they were still conscious within the wall or not.

Three more Muggles came from the left side, but the Dark Lord paid no mind to them as he kept walking towards his objective. With a quick lash of his wand, a rope sprang from it and grabbed one of the Muggles by the neck before any of them could start firing. Startled, they could only watch as Barty yanked the rope downwards with enough force to pull the man's head straight to the ground. He was killed on impact, his nose forced into the back of his skull as the body rebounded from the ground and fell limply backwards. But not for long, as it sprang to life and launched itself at one of the other Muggles.

The other began shooting at the puppet, but the bullets did nothing to it, as it was fuelled by Barty's magic. He yanked his wand at the man, and he was summoned to it at such a speed his neck whiplashed backwards. The body floated mere inches in front of him, slowly rotating towards him, and when he came face to face with the Muggle, he could see the fear in the man's eyes. With a bitter smile, he jammed his wand beneath his jaw before the whole Muggle's face was completely blown off. Blood and brain mattered sprayed over his face and clothes, but Barty did not react or scrub it off.

Instead, he turned back towards the Dark Lord - sure the Muggle he was controlling would have bitten off his friend's throat by now. In front of him, eight snakes began landing on the ground around the Dark Lord. There was another complex wand motion and the snakes began growing. They reached his hip in height before they stopped and when the Dark Lord hissed, they all sprang towards different directions. Two went left, two went right, and the other four entered the house as they crashed into the windows and back door.

He followed the Dark Lord's slow pace, entering through the remains of the wrecked door. The floor and even parts of the walls were coated in red. As they moved through the house, they stepped over half-eaten corpses and stray limbs. And the Dark Lord never once stopped. Never once even used his voice.

They steadily rose through the floors before they reached the upper floor. They walked past all the other rooms before arriving at the door to the primary bedroom. At the foot of the door lay the four corpses of the snakes, upside down and reduced to their normal size. They strolled past them, opening the door to find two terrified Muggles.

"Please," the man sobbed, holding his wife as they both shook. "Take anything, just please-"

Two consecutive, near invisible, green jets silenced both Muggles before their corpses were shoved out of the way. The Dark Lord knelt, opening the cupboard within the brown nightstand and revealing a black safe with a keypad and a second, transparent sensor beside it. Without using his wand, the Dark Lord reached into the safe, his hand passing through it as if the safe weren't even there.

When he pulled his hand back, he saw it. A small ring, one made of brass and iron, and yet, somehow, still pristine. Not even a portion of its circumference seemed rusted. And on its head, the powerful engraving. The seal that would grant its bearer full control over all the demons that prevailed on the Earth.

The Dark Lord placed it on his ring finger before turning. Even after months of seeing his face, it never failed to send a chill down his spine. For Barty would always follow the Dark Lord, but he'd always fear him as well. Not because of the deformity of his face, he'd feared the Dark Lord long before he gained his new body. It wasn't the disfigured size of his jaw, the scaly skin, nor the red colour of his eyes. But the hollowness in them, the vast emptiness that gazed back at him as he was overcome with the startling sensation of death.

"We are ready to begin."

Hogwarts Express

10:45 a.m.

"Well," Harry felt the muscles of his face ache as he forced a bitter grin down at Granger and Longbottom. "Isn't this quite the turnout?"

He ignored their glares, ignored their very presence as he forced his trunk on the racks above the seats and plumped himself on the seat opposite them. Granger huffed before she stood and closed the compartment door, making sure to give him another withering gaze. Rolling his eyes, he turned away from them and shut his eyes.

The ride back to King's Cross was a long one, one which would take the better part of the day. If he was forced to share a compartment with the Boy Who Was Nearly A Squib and Miss Morality, he'd at least give himself the mercy of pretending they weren't there. Thankfully, neither of them seemed very keen on talking to him. And for once, Weasel wasn't attached at the hip to them. As a matter of fact, he hadn't seen him all morning.

Some other day, perhaps, he might have mocked them. Provoking them into revealing where he was. Today… he didn't really care. He'd woken up drained, feeling as if he hadn't slept well for the better part of the last six months, and it had just caught up with him. He barely talked to Pansy or Theo before leaving them for the Gryffindor's compartment, he wasn't in the mood to start yet another fight with these morons.

Harry closed his eyes as the train began moving. He would not fall asleep, even after a restless night, his body wouldn't allow it. It was the badly hidden whispers, the very air that felt like it was strangling him, that wouldn't let him unwind. He was very aware of their presence, of what they thought of him. He doubted he'd have another good night of sleep - even one filled with nightmares - before he returned to Hogwarts.

Still, he kept his eyes closed and his back to them. Even as the trolley witch came knocking, offering sweets and chocolates, he didn't budge. His head banged rhythmically against the seat, it was barely noticeable, but it made him settle into a familiar pattern inside a foreign environment.

Occasionally, the mutterings between Granger and Longbottom got louder, their remarks more sour. Sharper. Longbottom was losing his composure and Granger wasn't giving him an inch - stubborn as she always was. It never got loud enough for him to listen properly, Granger made sure to hush the both of them before it did. Over time, he became too curious, wishing they'd accidentally slip. That they'd assume he was asleep and give him just the inch he needed.

He was about to be alone, left in the home of people who hate him. All but forced into becoming a spy and figure out what the hell the Order was and what they were doing. He doubted any of them would be pleased if they ever found out. He needed information, needed to know what he was getting into.

He couldn't think of two better fonts of information than Longbottom and Granger.

Hours passed, and he began hearing visitors arriving from time to time, given away by the swooshing of the door a mere couple of feet from his head. Most of them were wide-eyed young students, asking about the DA and whether it would return during the following term. Others weren't as friendly.

"The Squib, the Mudblood… but someone's missing…"

"Shove off, Malfoy," Longbottom snarled, and Draco laughed.

"Ah yes, the Pauper." There was a pause. "Potter, huh. A suitable replacement for the red-headed twat, I'll give you that. At least this one won't be leeching off you."

"I said get out!" Longbottom roared, and Harry could've sworn he almost felt the compartment shake slightly.

The room was silent for a second before Draco scoffed. "Raising your voice might work on a couple of easily frightened first years, but I've slept in the same dormitory as Potter for the past four and a half years. You're gonna have to do better than that if you wish to scare me."

Regardless of Malfoy's words, the door snapped shut only seconds later.

"I hate them," he snarled. "The lot of them."

"Neville, calm down." Hermione tried hushing the boy, but for once, he didn't relent.

"How can I calm down? You heard him! He came all this way to mock us, his father probably told him about what happened to Mister Weasley."

"Neville, shut up."

He could almost feel Granger nodding towards him, and Harry stilled. But Neville groaned before leaving the compartment, nearly shattering the glass with how fiercely he closed the door, and Harry couldn't quite keep in the snarl.

"A few more hours and you might have even convinced me you were asleep," Granger said. Harry lunged forward before sitting properly, his back strained from the long hours of the uncomfortable position. He had never seen her look at somebody quite so coldly. There was no anger in her eyes, no fear or any show of emotion. Just a calculating gaze that iced his very soul.

"Will I be forced to go to the Weasleys funeral?" He asked snidely, wanting nothing more than to piss her off. "I really do hate funerals."

"There will be no funeral. Though given how you couldn't even go to your own girlfriend's funeral, I'm sure you would've managed to skip it somehow."

"I'm sure you must be thrilled. What, finally someone to reign in the monster? To make sure he doesn't go killing poor little innocent children. Who knows, he may eat them as well?" He scoffed. "I wouldn't be surprised if you were behind this to begin with."

"I wasn't," she smiled, and it was as hollow as her voice. "But when I actually do something, I'll make sure it is what you deserve. Sleeping at a manor and having your tuition paid by the Longbottoms is a gift. Enjoy it while you can before you get carted off straight to Azkaban once everyone realises what I already know."

"If it means I don't have to spend another second with you… I'll go willingly."

She didn't respond, and Longbottom made it back soon after. None of them spoke for the rest of the trip, the hours passing dreadfully slow as they were left with nothing to do. Granger picked up a book - its cover a tree in front of a red background - and kept her head stuck to it. Longbottom stuck to glaring at Harry, a favour which he returned tenfold.

When they arrived at King's Cross, Harry immediately leapt out of his seat. Tugging at his trunk, he let it fall to the ground carelessly before leaving the compartment. He was about to spend nearly two months at the Longbottom manor, he wouldn't waste the last five minutes he had of freedom.

Crossing the station, he was bombarded by families reuniting for the Christmas holidays. Mothers hugging their sons, fathers helping their daughters with their trunks. In the mass of people, he didn't spot anyone he knew. It was easy to notice the pure-bloods, they looked stiff in their muggle clothes. Even some who he knew weren't Slytherins looked uncomfortable - even disgusted - without their robes.

Augusta was one of them, wearing a beige jumper, a pair of jeans, and a red scarf, she looked much more like a disgruntled old lady than the wealthy, powerful regent she had seemed only yesterday. Knowing Longbottom and Granger were somewhere behind him, he couldn't do much but walk straight towards her - only he was interrupted before he could.

A tall, well-built young man, his black hair styled in a military cut, his enormous jaw and crooked teeth making him look like he was part troll. He had crashed into him, but before Harry could say anything, the boy grabbed him and pulled him aside.

"Be quiet and don't say anything." The half troll instructed. "We need to meet - soon - you're being watched."

"By whom?"

"I said be quiet. I'll contact you within the week. This is something best kept out of cards or public conversations."

And then he was gone. Disappeared into the crowd before Harry could even assimilate what was going on. He couldn't say he put much effort into finding him, not when he realised Granger and Longbottom had just caught up with him.

"Who was that?"

"One of my super secret Death Eater friends." He spat as he continued advancing towards Augusta. "We were discussing how to take over Britain and give you up to our lord and saviour Voldemort."

"That's not funny," said Granger.

"Really? I found it quite hilarious."

Blackstone House

7:40 p.m.

It hadn't been the first time Hermione had visited Neville's home, but the beauty of it would never fail to captivate her.

The grounds were vast, the green, well-kept grass hidden beneath the inch of snow that spanned the grounds. The Longbottoms not only owned a large stable, filled with nearly two dozen horses and three separate greenhouses, even larger than the ones at Hogwarts. But it also had its own Quidditch Pitch - though smaller and without any stands - as well as a separate building with an indoor pool and gymnasium. And in the dead centre of the grounds, completely separated from the rest of the land by a surrounding lake, sat Blackstone House .

Though residence wasn't quite the word she'd use for it. Manor also fell very flat, in her opinion. Blackstone Castle was more accurate. A name that was too on the nose, for her liking, though it wasn't inaccurate. The stables, the outside buildings, and the castle's walls itself were made purely of stone. It always brought an incongruence to her mind, how something that felt so old and grand could look so unmarred after standing for over three-hundred years.

The stones had slightly lost their original colour over the centuries, the upper middle part had been slightly covered with red and green leaves where the discolouring was worse. And yet, the stones looked as strong and steady as they had always been - without a single chip or dent in them.

Augusta led the three of them through the stone bridge, the one and only access point to the castle. Neville and Potter followed behind the old woman, both angrily shouting at each other with their silent glares. Perhaps a few months ago that would have been amusing, when she still believed Potter to be a good person. When his feud with Neville seemed to be nothing more than a teenage spat.

Notions Potter had dispelled by his actions in Halloween.

She watched them carefully, almost waiting for Potter to pull out his wand and attack them. Would she be able to react quickly if he did? He'd target Neville or maybe even Augusta first, leaving her with the most time to react. She could still see his blood-covered face, the one that had haunted her through her nightmares, surrounded as she was by the brutalized bodies of her friends.

Intellectually, she knew that if it hadn't been for Potter's intervention, she would've most likely been killed by the attackers at Hogsmeade. Ginny would have been killed. Maybe even Ron and Neville if Potter hadn't ended the fight when he did. It was that part of her that never stopped screaming that she was wrong. Potter had saved them, saved her. He'd risked his life and had gone out of his way to do so… didn't that mean there was still a good person, somewhere inside him?

But then she remembered the pictures of Montague's near-unrecognizable corpse from the Daily Prophet. The way blood had showered over her as she witnessed the most horrific ways someone could be killed over and over again. But most of all, the way there was no regret in his eyes, not even a hint of remorse for the atrocities he had committed.

Yes, he had saved them. Yet, how could a sane person inflict so much violence upon someone else? How could someone who wasn't deep down monstrous look at the chaos and death he had wrought upon the attackers without any sign of thinking what he did was wrong? How could he be happy to avoid his punishment, as he sent an innocent person to Azkaban in his place?

Yes, Potter had saved them. But he was no hero. He was a monster, and she wasn't the only one who knew that.

"I want a full med scan on Potter, physical, magical - everything. If this kid was scratched by a cat when he was three-years-old, I want to know."

Scrimgeour was smart, he had caught up to Potter as well. And yet, over a month had passed and there was no progress. Potter was still free to roam around the castle, the country, a danger to anyone who came across his path. He'd done some terrible things, committed crimes that had earnt him a place in the darkest cell of Azkaban. And while her view of the Ministry had diminished with every passing year, her eyes quickly opened to the corruption that plagued it, it didn't change her thoughts on the law.

For the law was meant to be above any person or persons, it was the written declaration of everything that was right and everything that was wrong. The law was sacred and was meant to be protected because the moment someone decided to place themselves above the law it would profane its sacrosanct nature. The corrupt politicians running the Ministry, the Death Eaters, even Dumbledore's Order… they had all slowly chipped away at the virtue of the law so that it had fully lost its meaning.

And now chaos was rampant because now everyone was above the law.

But not Scrimgeour. She'd noticed it since their interviews, he was doing everything in his power to uphold it. He didn't try to circumvent it, not even when he was repeatedly blocked from trying to bring in Potter to justice by however the boy had managed to frame Tracey Davis. He was still trying, had never stopped attempting to bring back law and order to a world that had trampled all over its significance.

"Neville," Augusta instructed as she thoroughly ignored the House-Elf that opened the door of the manor for her. "You are to go to your room, take a shower, and change into some… proper clothes."

"Yes, grandmother." The boy mumbled, casting a glare at Potter.

"Well, what are you waiting for? A round of praise for managing to walk all the way to the house without falling on your arse? Leave us. Now."

Flushed and nearly on the edge of tears, Neville turned hastily and did as instructed. Hermione turned to Augusta, feeling the bitterness almost crackling in her fingers. All the times she'd been around Neville's grandmother had made her question how such a hateful and slightly bigoted woman could be related to sweet, caring Neville.

"Granger, Sirius is expecting you in Grimmauld place. He'll be taking you to Shadowfield Estate personally." Before Hermione could even answer, Augusta turned to Potter. "You'll be following her. Here, read this, boy."

"The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London." He read out loud. "What the fuck's the Order of the Phoenix, and what do I care where its headquarters are."

"The Order is of no consequence to you, I can assure you of that," Augusta sniffed. "As for why you should care, you'll be spending the rest of your stay there."

"Aren't I supposed to be a ward of House Longbottom?" He asked disdainfully.

"HA! And you'll have me what? Feed you? Shelter you? Pay for your education? I had heard you were dimwitted, but this is just pitiful. Now leave. The both of you. And be happy I even let you into my home to use the floo, boy. If it had been up to me, I'd have had you use the one in the Leaky Cauldron."

Augusta stared imperiously at the both of them. Potter's shoulders tensed before he turned to her. "I'm supposed to follow you, Your Imperial Highness. Do lead the way."

She scoffed at him before making her way to the fireplace right in front of them. She grabbed a handful of floo powder and stepped into the fireplace, not turning back as she dropped the powder as she shouted her destination. The green flames consumed her for a moment before she was back at Grimmauld, with Sirius, Remus, and Tonks waiting for her.

Their wands in hand and aimed straight at the fireplace.

"Get out of the way, Hermione," Remus said quickly, motioning to the side with his wand and Hermione, too befuddled by the scene, obliged.

Not a moment later, the fireplace burst in green flames again, and then everything stopped. Potter stood, his gaze going right to left before his eyes settled on Sirius, the fury in his eyes only matched by the one in Sirius' eyes. In a second, Potter stretched out his arm and his wand rapidly flew towards his open palm. But before it could even make it half way, it was summoned off-course and landed on Tonk's open hand.

Potter's eyes bulged, his eyes only moving towards Tonks for a mere second before his face turned back to Sirius. Hermione had feared Potter for nearly two months now, scared by his lack of emotional reaction to all the violent acts he committed. Scared of the coldness of his eyes. She had never thought she would think back to that coldness with fondness as Potter, for the first time in his life, looked murderous.

With a raw, guttural scream that sounded as if it came from his very soul, Potter launched himself at the group. He managed to avoid the two spells that were sent his way by Sirius and Remus before tackling the former to the ground.

"YOU KILLED MY PARENTS!" He roared as he began an onslaught of punches at Sirius before Tonks and Remus got behind him, each grabbing one of his arms as they pulled him back.

"I may be the reason they're dead," Sirius spat, his eyes looking demented. "But you're the one who's tarnished their memory."

He began hitting the boy, punching him in the face with all his might once, twice, three times before Sirius fell to the floor from exhaustion, only to pick himself back up and continue. Potter took the punches unflinchingly, and Hermione could not believe she was feeling conflicted by what was happening in front of her. Most unbelievably, she felt a part of her want to scream at Sirius to stop.

"You filthy bastard," Sirius snarled in between punches. "You fucking disgrace of a son. Traitor. Murderer. You should've died instead of them."

"Sirius!" Remus called out, still maintaining his hold on Potter. "He's had enough."

"You say that after what he did to you!?"

"Sirius. Enough."

"Fine," he growled before grabbing Potter by the collar and dragging him so hard, he all but launched the boy into the floor. Potter moved to stand but was kicked in the middle by Sirius before he could - and once again Hermione felt the need to intervene. Felt the need to stop this. But while a part of her screamed to help him, the other part whispered he deserved this.

"The Aurors may have let you go after butchering God knows how many people. Dumbledore may still wish for you to keep breathing. But it's not their mercy you're at, right now. It's mine."

Pulling him upwards, Sirius shoved Potter forward and when the boy turned back to him, a fire burning in his eyes, Sirius punched him again. He kept shoving him forwards before pushed the boy against the wall to the basement, and Hermione stilled.

"Sirius," she said, moving towards him, but was stopped by Remus.

"Hermione, don't." He told her firmly.

Sirius opened the door to the basement and pushed Potter down the stairs without a second thought. She could hear every bit of him crashing down every single step, and Hermione had to bite her lip to stop herself from saying anything. She should stop this. Should she stop this?

The law was sacred, and no one was above the law. This wasn't legal. This wasn't justice. This wasn't right. And yet, Potter had escaped the law. Potter had managed to frame Tracey and kill Montague without repercussions.

Her indecision followed her down the basement with the other three adults. She reached the ground just in time to hear the cell door slam shut as she saw the wave of magic that reverberated from it. Potter was slumped on the ground, bruises already forming all over his face coated in fresh mud, as he glared at Sirius.

"Tonks, give me his wand."

"Sirius-"

"HIS WAND, TONKS!"

Sirius snatched it out of her hands, and Hermione could only gape in shock as Sirius began to try and snap it with his both hands. The wand was strong, resisting Sirius's force, but that didn't stop him from continuing trying as he kept snarling at Potter.

"You rotten snake! Remus is being hunted down by the Ministry thanks to you! You betrayed the very things your parents were fighting for when they joined Dumbledore against Voldemort!" Sirius kept trying to snap the wand without taking his eyes off Harry.

"Sirius, Dumbledore-"

"TO HELL WITH DUMBLEDORE!" He roared. "This piece of shit turned his back on his family. Turned his back on us. Turned his back on the whole bloody world when he started allying himself with the spawn of Death Eaters."

"Wand snapping-"

"I DON'T CARE! If anyone deserves their wand snapped, it's him! How many times does he have to attack Neville, or Hermione, or Ron to prove to Dumbledore that he's on the other side? How many more bodies will he have to drop before people realise Potter isn't an innocent boy? He's a murderer, a no good bastard who would gladly see us all burn."

The wand kept resisting him, and Potter stood up. He launched himself at Sirius, forcing the man to retreat as he had gotten too close to the cell. Remus and Tonks were sharing glances, and she could almost see them trying to figure out if they should take Harry's wand away from Sirius or not. Harry looked outright feral, as he kept endeavouring to stretch himself towards his wand - almost willing it to fly back into his hand.

"If Dumbledore isn't going to do anything about him, then I will."

And now chaos was rampant because now everyone was above the law.

"Sirius don't!" She found her voice, as she launched herself towards Sirius, only to hear a clear, and booming snap that stopped her in her tracks.

Remus and Tonks turned pale, Harry slumped to the ground, and Hermione felt trapped inside her own body. But Sirius stepped forward and dropped the pieces of the wand on the ground in front of Harry.

"Forget about Hogwarts. Forget about magic. So long as I have any say, you'll be staying in that cell for the rest of your days." Grabbing onto the bars, he looked straight into Harry's soul. "One of these days, hopefully soon, you'll be locked in your rightful place in hell. Until then, consider this your purgatory."

Warrington Residence

9:00 p.m.

He loomed in the shadows, hidden from the family as he watched them.

He'd arrived when no one was home, all of them had left to retrieve young Cassius from King's Cross. It hadn't been hard to disable the wards of the residence before raising his own, ones identical to the previous ones with only one difference. He was allowed inside. The Warringtons would never notice the difference, they'd be able to reconfigure the wards without any hassle - nor would they feel them any dissimilar to their own, for they were created with a combination of their magical signature as well as his own.

He had dedicated his life to the research of Dark Magic. It was a fascinating subject, one which brought many prosperous results. There were various degrees of it, as there were of many things. But he divided them into two separate categories - the useful ones, and the deadly ones. The useful ones were those whose toll on the mind and body was null or advantageous when comparing their cost to their benefits. Funnily enough, these were the least known, as they weren't as flashy or powerful as their counterparts. And though there was the occasional piece of magic that was flashy and worthy of attention, it was simply too complicated for any mere mind to master.

The deadly ones were the easy ones to master. Those that were advertised as the true Dark Arts. The Unforgivable Curses, the Dark Arts that were used in duels or inflicting damage on others or their very own magic. It was this category that brought the most mental and physical strain to the user. He'd seen as normal wizards had turned into disfigured shades of what they used to be, their minds overtaken by the damage they had inflicted to their own magic. And yet, it was this type of Dark Magic that proved most addictive, that gave the users a rush they were unable to resist.

Which was why he'd never used any of them in the first place. He rather enjoyed his mind, and would rather be forced to outshine everyone else without the aid of more powerful magic before letting his body rot.

There were countless spells and rituals he'd learnt, and while he didn't apply many of them into his own life. There was one he'd used constantly - one of his own design. He'd taken inspiration of a magic the Dark Lord had taught them, a forgotten piece of magic that wasn't dark, but was fascinating. The ability to travel hundreds of miles per hour as a conglomeration of incorporeal smoke had been an impressive magic. One which Dumbledore's Order had copied soon after they began using it - though, of course, altered slightly. It wasn't surprising, travelling in a gust of black smoke would be a distasteful thing for Albus Dumbledore and his Order of heroes would give off the wrong impression.

It had taken years, but he had managed to replicate the incorporeal aspect of the spell the Dark Lord had taught them. Not just being able to replicate it, but maintain it without the need of travelling at astonishing speeds. And as a stationary gust of darkness, hiding in the shadows became almost frustratingly easy.

It helped as the Warringtons returned, and young Cassius trudged up the stairs and into his room, heaving his trunk behind him. He watched the kid with a shred of pity. He could understand the desire for revenge, even sympathize with it. But in doing so, Warrington had made himself a player in a much larger game than he'd ever realise - a pawn that would never get the chance to even move from his spot.

"Cassius!" Mrs Warrington called out from below. "Come down to dinner!"

The boy groaned, before he stood from his bed and headed for the stairs. Right as Warrington reached the stairs, he leapt from the shadows. Regaining his corporeal body as he grabbed the boy from behind, his left arm holding his jaw. The boy's screamed masked the sound his feet made when they landed on the ground, and before the boy could do anything else, he snapped his neck and threw him over the stairs.

I've had a lot of people ask me when I'd stop being so cruel to Harry and stop giving him so many losses… well, now I can confirm he's truly reached rock bottom. I know you guys hate seeing Harry lose, and you might be surprised to find out I also hate writing that. But it's necessary for his character development and for the payoffs I have planned at the end of 5th year to hit as hard as I want them to.

If this is too much for you guys to handle, then I thank you for reading my fic and sticking with me this far. For those who'll carry on, don't expect Harry to get out of the cell in a couple of chapters.

By the time I'm posting this, I'm three chapters ahead and am almost finished writing this arc and setting the groundwork for the one after that, one which I am very excited for. If you are interested in learning how to get early access to them, join my discord server using the following link: discord . gg / jyPfbGqhJT

I also released a new Fanfiction titled Unfinished Business, in case you guys want to check it out. It's basically a vigilante Harry fic who'll return to Britain to deal with the Death Eaters who escaped justice after the war. Heavily inspired on the show Arrow, I like my Harry there a bit more since he's more mature and am excited to explore that concept. He'll also have so many fewer losses than the one here, partially because he won't have as many flaws and partially because that fic will be nowhere near as long as Pray For the Wicked. It also has romance, though it'll be mostly background as it's a Harry centric fic.

If that sounds like something you guys may like you can go into my Author page and check it out! And don't worry, I'll still be posting 4 updates a month for Pray For The Wicked. I won't be slowing down with writing this fic any time soon.

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