CHAPTER 74: Irreconcilable Differences (Part 6)

Gregorovitch Zauberstäbe

March 3rd, 1996

10:40 a.m.

It had been slightly over a week since he had heard any news of Mykew. It wasn't an uncommon occurence, Mykew had always been rather withdrawn from society. Albus had no doubt that if he could help it, the wandmaker would have remained a recluse for the remaining years of his life. It had been his plan, after all. It had taken a lot of strings pulled to even get Mykew to consider helping him. And even after he had agreed, he'd done so because of the challenge. The test of making a wand willingly bend to another wizard's will. All the favours he had to call in had just been to get Mykew out of his workshop. If the proposition had been a tame one, the wandmaker would have refused without any qualms.

It was for precisely that reason why his disappearance concerned Albus. Mykew had grown accustomed to writing to him every couple of days, detailing his advances on the project without Albus needing to check in with him. And from what he'd understood, he also communicated regularly with Garrick about the issue, often sharing his thoughts and ideas with hopes of feedback from either of them. So when Garrick had come to him, worried about Mykew's lack of response, it had been the final push he needed for him to leave Great Britain and head to Bulgaria.

Fortunately for him, Fawkes had reached his adult form not even a month ago. Travelling abroad had become harder with Fudge's strict stance against him, though not impossible. It was a nuisance, more than anything. Only delaying him rather than inhibiting him completely. But even with how vast the range for phoenix apparition was compared to regular apparition, as well as its ability to surpass any ward or magic known to wizard-kind, it still took him a little over two hours to reach Mykew's workshop.

Located in the middle of nowhere – a two-story unplottable house that was layered with seclusion wards - it was understandable why no one had reported the devastated ruins of what used to be Gregorovitch Zauberstäbe. The house was barely standing, with the entire roof collapsed upon the first floor and the ground floor swamped by a mass of wood, stone, and broken furniture. Albus froze at the sight of it, before casting a human-presence-revealing spell.

There was no one alive.

Mustering his strength, Albus raised his wand and searched for any malignant wards or other traps that could have been set for whatever poor soul wandered too close. There were a variety of them all around the property, each entrance covered in a cursed barrier that would kill whoever crossed it in less than twenty-four hours, as well as a number that would alert the caster if someone used magic to try and repair the house or break down the cursed barriers. The work of Tom, as clear as it had been during the numerous times he used it in the previous war.

Fortunately for Albus, he was no poor wandering soul. And this wasn't the first time he'd been left to deal with Tom's parting gifts. But these seemed refined, there was something almost new about them. It was this that slowed him down as he tapped into the foundation of the Dark Magic in front of him and unweaved it piece by piece. There were familiar edges to it, so familiar that Albus became convinced they were placed purposefully in an effort to conceal the new, darker elements of Tom's wards. It was a worthy effort, one that would have tricked anyone who hadn't known Tom personally during his formative years. It wasn't Tom's brilliance that was a mystery to people, nor was it his depravity. Rather something as simple as a child's trick that no one would expect from a feared Dark Lord.

It made Albus wonder if the wards hadn't been made for him to find.

But more than that, it made Albus worried. Tom had been quiet for the past few weeks. Even though crime kept increasing both domestically, and in Europe as a whole as news of Tom's return continued to spread, none of the attacks had been perpetrated by Death Eaters themselves. Restless gangs in the middle of turf wars, unhinged criminals wanting to prove themselves worthy of the Death Eaters, and a new vigilante group rising in the midst of it all. But Tom remained quiet.

This had been his latest move since the siege of Azkaban. And it was a puzzling one indeed. Albus could understand the need for Tom to seek out a renowned wandmaker after his confrontation with young Neville nearly a year ago. The twin core effects that had saved Neville at the graveyard were something Albus doubted Tom would allow to happen again. But he had been sure Tom was going to seek out Garrick, and had even placed constant Order protection on him to prevent any harm from coming to his old friend. It was highly unusual for Tom to come out all this way just to seek help from a wandmaker given the large quantity of them between Great Britain and Bulgaria.

Which meant this move was either out of desperation or some newfound knowledge. And given what he knew of Tom, he was a man who would never act out of desperation.

The worry began to naw at him further as he continued to slowly tear down the wards. Tom would have only done something of this calibre if he and his Death Eaters were nearing the completion of their planning phase. From what Severus had told him, they were almost ready with the first version of the Dementor remedy he had been working on with Clotho and Tom himself. And if Tom was taking more risks like this one, it would only be a matter of time before the attacks occurred at home rather than in Eastern Europe.

Worst of all had been the lack of news they'd had from Harry ever since his disappearance. None of his scouts from the Order had managed to find him, and given the Death Eaters' interest in him, the situation wasn't looking favourable. They were running out of time. And unless they found Harry soon, he would be forced to face real danger. The type that even a powerful wizard like Harry was, with all his magic available to him, would have a hard time getting out alive.

They needed to find him.

It took him nearly an hour and a half before he dismantled all the wards and could safely step inside the ruined house. He made his way inside carefully, keeping his wand at the ready but unwilling to perform any magic in case Tom had left behind any more hidden surprises. He climbed and ducked his way through the house until he reached the stairwell and climbed up to the first floor- and stopped.

Albus gulped, his knees nearly giving out on him as he was forced to grab onto the railing just to keep himself steady.

Floating mid-air over a large brown stain on the floor was Mykew Gregorovitch's corpse. His four limbs were twisted and bent into unnatural shapes, so far that his bones had broken the skin. The ribs had been cracked open and stretched so far they peered out from either side of his torso. His jaw was cracked, with several teeth having been displaced, and his eyeballs had melted inside their sockets. But most noticeable of all was the large burn in the shape of a V over Mykew's chest.

It wasn't an image Albus hadn't seen before. Tom had never bothered with torturing his victims for information, he simply slipped into their minds using a twisted combination of Legilimency and possession. It was a method that destroyed both the mind and the body of the victim as Tom grabbed what was useful to him and left the remains flying over the scene. It was a threat to any would-be traitor, to anyone who would dare hide anything from him, and one that worked.

It was heinous acts like this that led people to fear even uttering his name.

Albus faced his old friend, swallowing the vomit that threatened to pour out of him and forcing himself to not look away from the corpse. And as he did, he realised why Tom had come all this way. He gripped the wand tightly, his mind working overtime as he began to consider all the repercussions. All the causes and consequences that could have resulted in what he had considered unfeasible. There were very few people who believed in the story of the Deathly Hallows, and even fewer who knew of Mykew being a previous master of the Elder Wand. The possibility of Tom learning about the Hallows and believing in them had been something he had never even considered.

And if he'd got the information from Mykew, Albus knew who Tom was heading for next.

All of a sudden, a silver light from his right nearly made him jump into action before he heard Minerva's voice come from the flying cat. "Albus, where are you?" The voice hissed urgently. "Dolores is throwing a fit about your absence from the Governor's meeting. She's demanding to see you and I can only hold her for so long. Get to the castle now."

The silver cat began to gradually disappear and Albus let his head fall. The Governor's meeting concerning the Gryffindor and Slytherin conflict that had surged at the start of the new term. He'd forgotten all about it in his haste to arrive in Bulgaria. But it was of little consequence now, there were more important things than the Ministry's latest attempt at seizing control of Hogwarts.

And as Albus turned back and began heading down the stairs, he did not release his grip on his wand.

Montague Residence

March 12th, 1996

3:30 a.m.

A soft crack reverberated across the vast, empty field as Harry apparated onto it. It was late at night, with the sun threatening to rise in only a few hours, but after months he'd finally gotten an actual lead on finding Montague. After going through thug after thug with no answer or dead ends that lead him nowhere, Harry was beginning to think Yaxley had handed him his own personal hit list. Leaving him to do all the dirty work while he rested in his ivory tower. And though that may be likely, one of his contacts had panned out. An old family friend of the Montagues. Estranged. It had only taken a couple of blows to the head and a few broken fingers before he started singing the right song.

A week or so ago, it would have taken a lot of restraint to leave the questioning at that. To accept his answer and immediately stop himself rather than continue enforcing his righteous retribution upon these shameless maggots. With the shit most of the people he faced had done, monstrous crimes that made Graham seem like a little boy playing with a knife he found at the playground, had been excruciating not to give into his anger, to not inflict as much pain on them as they had on everyone else.

But it had all changed after his conversation with Bedivere.

Most people referred to Voldemort as the embodiment of evil. A manifestation of Magic's perverted will upon this world. And after his experience with the diary, he grew to believe that as well. It was easy to convince himself that Tom was simply born evil, an irredeemable monster rather than confronting the fact that he may have started out just like him, or Theo, or Longbottom, or fucking Terry Boot. Even in Graham, he saw glimpses of his humanity while he was torturing him. Few and far between they may have been, but Graham had never had the almost demonic aura that Tom had given off after the curtain had been pulled back.

He'd always thought of the memories Tom showed him as fictitious. A way to win his sympathy and earn his trust without Harry seeing through the manipulations. But after learning more about the Horcruxes and the Thirteen Trials, he'd grown convinced that they hadn't been.

And that had left him petrified.

He now understood what they'd meant. Why Black had called him an irredeemable monster during his visit to the cell. Why Dumbledore looked at him with such pity and disgust and did everything he could to redeem him. Redeem him. They saw the similarities as well. And the more he thought about it, the more he could see it as well. He'd accepted his role in this story nearly a month and a half ago. He'd justified it as overcoming his weakness, to make sure he would never let a piece of shit like Sirius Black keep breathing because he hesitated. He had embraced the monster inside him and gave it the reigns without thinking twice about it.

And it enjoyed it.

The fear in its enemies' eyes when the duel was about to start. Their screams of agony as their blood began to spill and stain the walls and the floor, its shirt and its face. It enjoyed the feeling of power. Of release. Of finally taking control and being in charge for once.

Even Harry could feel it, a small glimpse of just how invigorating it all felt. And it felt good to release the monster. To stop thinking about all the consequences, about the heinousness behind the actions, and just let out the big bad wolf everyone had been so afraid about.

Why would it matter if it was proving Black and Dolohov and everyone else right? If they were going to think of him as a monster, then why still hold back? If he was going to be prosecuted for the crimes, why would he restrain the monster from committing them?

And so he did. And it strolled through all of Britain and tortured and butchered everyone who stood in his way. All the murderers and rapists, the torturers and fiends that plagued the country. That would have so easily been to some other kid what Montague had been to him. They all fell to their knees once they faced it.

But that had all changed after his talk with Bedivere. It had been easy to forget the consequences when they weren't presented to him in such a brutally honest manner. When he didn't realise the damage he was doing to his soul, or how close he was to becoming just like Voldemort.

Harry had never thought there were clear and precise steps to turning out like Voldemort. A set of thirteen trials that would make him no better than the type of men the people who murdered his parents looked up to. Followed. But there were, and he was three steps into his initiation.

And Harry didn't know what was worse; that he'd already begun cracking his soul to the point of no return… or that he did it unknowingly.

The first three trials may be the tamest compared to what came next, but when he heard Bedivere say them out loud, and he realised these had all been things he'd done over the past month or so, he'd felt sucked out of his own body. He hadn't been able to move. To breathe. Only listen as Bedivere continued listing more depraved acts until his body couldn't cope with it anymore and vomited all over the floor.

It was at that chilling moment that he finally understood that there was no monster. There was no God of Retribution controlling his actions. No hidden being inside him to blame for all of it. There was only him. All the people he killed, those he tortured because it felt good - felt right. It was all him. He did it. Harry Potter was the monster.

It had taken days after that realisation before Harry could manage to pick up his wand, much less continue his quest. Because now it all felt like an excuse. A way to take sadistic joy in brutalising people while he tarnished Susan's and his parent's memories to do so. To justify his actions as he ran rampant… carelessly, and did as he pleased. As he took step after step in tracing Voldemort's path.

The realisation had almost made him stop altogether.

But Montague… he killed Susan. That was as true and real as all the monstrous acts he had committed. As true as the Death Eaters who had murdered his parents. They'd asked him to honour their memories, and all he'd done was piss on them. It wasn't the time to stop, but to start doing what they were telling him to do from the start.

So he'd picked up his wand and continued, only to be surprised by just how little he had to restrain himself in the beginning. He became almost too soft in his attacks, worried a stray curse of his would kill someone inadvertently even with his reduced magical capability. And when it came time for questioning, he couldn't bring himself to do more than break bones and inflict surface cuts. And even then, he could almost feel the vomit rise to the top of his throat as he did. His nights became plagued with nightmares, reliving every horrific thing he did from his victim's point of view as his twisted twin grew more deformed and perverted with every passing night.

But occasionally, every once in a while, he'd feel it again. That thirst for blood. It appealed to his sadistic side, demanding he torture them more. Yelling at him to stop holding back and pick up where he left off.

He had forgotten how hard it was to refuse his own urges.

Harry nearly tripped over himself as he made his way across the field, straight towards the lonely house in the distance. It had been a risk to come here now after he'd expended so much of his magic earlier in the night. But he needed to know, needed to make sure he hadn't been tricked. That the address given to him was actually Montague's old family home.

But as he drew nearer to it, he also grew more confident. There were no lights on or any sign that anyone was awake or even present. Quite the opposite, if he hadn't known better, Harry would've said the house had been abandoned a few decades back. Casting a weak silencing charm on his shoes, he unlocked the door and stepped inside the house.

Dust covered every surface, all the lamps were as cold as stone and the silence was suffocating. He searched through every room carefully, staying in the dark and keeping his wand at the ready. And after making sure the entire lower floor was secured he climbed the stairs and began searching the upper floor. Harry ignored the creaking of the floorboards underneath him, using his free hand to grab the knife from his back holster as he spotted the master bedroom.

He could feel the anticipation build inside him, his heart racing but the grip he had on his knife and wand didn't falter. What was supposed to be a reconnaissance mission had escalated quicker than he'd expected. But there was no turning back now. And as he neared closer to the door, he wondered what he would do once he came face to face with Montague.

He was the one who had hired Dolohov. He'd been behind the attack and caused Susan's death. And just for that, the temptation was even stronger this time. His rage was building up, and any hesitation toward murder or torture was quickly flying out the window. He wanted to make Montague pay. Wanted to torture him. To kill him. Wanted to relish in doing so. He'd already done the three first trials, his soul would never be the same again. What difference would it make if he killed Montague? He knew about the trials now, so long as he didn't fulfil the others, what damage could he possibly do to himself that he hadn't done already?

But as his hand touched the knob, Harry stopped. Flashes of his nightmares came to him once again. The deformed, corrupted version of himself that he would become if he continued down this road. His hand shook as his anger began taking over, but he didn't open the door. He couldn't do it. The fact that he wanted it so much his body was craving it, eating at him inside just for a taste, was the very reason why he couldn't. Because the moment he began excusing himself, continuing justifying giving into his bloodlust, he would never stop again.

No. He wasn't killing him. Wasn't torturing him. He would take the bastard to Bedivere. The old man would know what to do.

And so, after steadying himself Harry finally opened the door and slowly entered the room. It was pitch black, and Harry barely managed to move around the place without tripping over something or other. But it soon became apparent that the cunt hadn't even been here in the first place.

It had been a trick, after all.

Harry cursed out his frustrations as he barely restrained himself from trashing the bedroom. He stomped off before he did anything stupid, making his way down the stairs and turning towards the door, ready to leave before he felt the hairs on the back of his head stand up. Stopping in his tracks, his hand immediately hovered above his wand holster before he snapped his fingers and the wand flew right to his hand. He turned as fast as he could and launched a blasting curse at the figure enveloped by the shadows.

The curse was intercepted by a shield charm that easily dissipated it. Harry mustered his strength and launched a couple more curses at the figure but neither of them even cracked the shield. And before he could do anything more, the figure spoke.

"Harry, don't." Harry's blood ran cold as he immediately recognised the voice. He'd heard it in many of his nightmares as it questioned his parents for hours on end. His face had haunted his nights, for while he wasn't the one doing the torturing, he was the man in charge.

With a snarl, Harry leapt from his hiding spot and ran straight towards the Death Eater as he hurled curses from across the room. The Death Eater easily parried them all before sidestepping his charge and leaving him to crash against the battered kitchen table at the centre of the room. And before Harry could manage to push himself to his feet, the man crouched on top of him and pinned him down to the ground.

"Harry stop!" The voice barked, his face lit up by the moonlight revealing a handsome face with aristocratic features and long brown hair combed back. "It's me."

"I bloody know who you are," Harry bit out. "Why the fuck do you think that's going to make me stop from ripping your head off."

The man stared at him, his eyes analysing Harry carefully before his face strained and he looked away. "No," he said, standing up and walking away. "No, I don't think you do."

"You're Barty Crouch Jr," Harry stood up, his body reeling from the magical exhaustion as he barely managed to stand up. "You were there that night. Let your Death Eater friends torture my parents to help with your bloody delusional quest to find Voldemort."

"Yeah," Junior said, using his wand to scratch the back of his neck. "That's mostly right."

"Mostly?" Harry croaked out.

"You're forgetting one thing."

"And what's that?"

"That you've met me before."

"What the fuck do you mean I've-" Harry's voice suddenly cut off as his head snapped back to Junior again. The Death Eater was leaning against the wall, staring at him with what was almost a fearful expression, waiting for him to finish processing his words. And suddenly it hit him. The parrying technique, the way he intoned his words, even the way that he was standing. After months of wondering, of trying and failing to put a face to Moody's shadowy body, the answer was finally staring right in front of him.

All this time, the one person he could not help but remember fondly… was Barty Crouch Jr. The man who orchestrated the murder of his parents.

The God of War in person, eagerly awaiting any response that came from Harry's mouth.

Fuck, he was cursed.

"No," Harry walked backward, and yet he was unable to look away from the face of his old mentor.

"I know this can't be easy-"

"What the fuck do you think you know?" Harry snarled at him, using all the energy that was keeping him on his feet to yell at the Death Eater. "You don't know shit, you two-faced bastard!"

"You think I didn't want to tell you?" Junior said, and what pissed Harry off the most was the genuineness in his voice. "There wasn't a day that went by when I didn't want to come clean to you. To tell you the truth. To stop lying to you… but I couldn't because I knew you'd react this way."

"How the fuck was I supposed to react? Should I be happy my fucking teacher secretly murdered my parents? That he probably laughed about it every time he met up with his Death eater buddies?"

"Harry that wasn't-"

"In what fucking world did you think this was going to turn out any other way rather than this?"

Junior let out a shaky breath, his face running over a hundred different emotions before he slowly pulled out his wand from his holster and gently set it on the ground. And before Harry could ask what he was doing, Junior kicked it at him before pulling one of the chairs close to him and sitting on it.

"It wasn't like that, Harry. It never was."

"Bullshit." He spat.

"Just please let me explain-"

"No!" He yelled, training his wand on the armless man as his arm shook with anger. All the times he wanted nothing more than to avenge his parents, to break free from the impotence of his nightmare, and kill those who had wronged them. He knew the curse, Junior had taught it to him himself. He tried opening his mouth, but his body wouldn't let him. He tried thinking of the incantation, but his mind refused. And a tear fell down his cheek as he realised he couldn't bring himself to kill Ares. Not after being stabbed in the back yet again by someone he trusted. Not even after learning who the man truly was. What he had done. "You don't- you bastard, you-" He tried to find the words, tried to think of all the things he would have otherwise said to one of his parents' killers. But there was nothing he could say that would make him feel better. Nothing he could do. He could only plead.

"Why did you come back!?" The words burned his throat as he screamed them, his eyes filling themselves with tears to the point where he couldn't see the man properly anymore. "Haven't you ruined my life enough already?"

"I never meant for that," Junior said. "I never meant for any of this."

"You… you lied to me. You acted like you were my friend - my mentor. And all the while it was you all along. All those times I told you about my parents… what happened to them… it was you all along. You never gave a shit about me. You just used me as your fucked up hobby while you were priming Longbottom for your Lord's return."

"That's not true," he said fervently. "I was there when your parents were killed, I don't deny it. I will not hide my part in it, nor will I renounce my part in the pain it brought you. But I never used you. I never pretended. I have never lied to you when it comes to the fact that I care about you."

"Liar!" Harry launched a blasting curse, but instead of hitting Junior, it crashed against the wall behind him. Nearly three feet to the right of its target.

Junior looked from the small incision on the wall to Harry's wand. "Your magic… I've noticed it in the crime scenes, but I never realised just how weak it was. What happened?"

"None of your fucking business."

"I just want to help."

"Well, you can't," Harry said coldly. "Not with this."

"What can I help you with?" He asked. "I'll do anything. Just give me the chance to prove it to you."

"Prove what?" Harry laughed bitterly, shoving his way past Junior as he headed for the door. "That you're not a Death Eater or that you didn't kill my parents?"

"That I'm not your enemy."

Harry stopped right before he reached for the knob and turned around. "You want to help?" When Junior nodded, Harry continued. "Eli Montague. I assume you know him, you're at his place. I need to know where he's staying."

"I don't think that's smart."

"I don't remember asking for your opinion, Junior." Harry snapped. "You want to help, you tell me where Montague is. Otherwise, stay out of my way."

"Okay," he said after a couple of seconds, reaching into his pockets before pulling out a small piece of parchment. "I have his address… his current one."

Harry reached out for it and snatched it out of Junior's hands before he could retract his hand.

"It's a trap," Junior said. "You know that, don't you."

"I don't care," Harry said and turned around. "I can handle myself."

"I'm not saying you can't. But Elijah… he isn't like his younger brother. This is an enemy you can't afford to underestimate. And with your magic being so weak at the moment, it would be unwise to go after him. Not on your own. Kid, just listen to me."

Harry opened the door to the house and forced himself not to look back at Junior. "Stop… looking for me. Stop following me around. I don't want to see you ever again."

And before Junior could give any response, Harry disapparated.

That's it for this chapter, thank you all for reading!

Next chapter we see the finale of the Irreconcilable Differences arc! Be excited!

By the time I'm posting this, I'm ELEVEN chapters ahead, and I am in the middle of the arc titled Checkmate, which is one of the final arcs before we reach the climax of fifth-year! If you are interested in learning how to get early access to them, join my discord server using the following link: discord . gg / jyPfbGqhJT

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