Our Corrupted Souls

Part XXI: Look at the Price.

"Death cancels everything but truth; and strips a man of everything but genius and virtue. It is a sort of natural canonization. It makes the meanest of us sacred - it installs the poet in his immortality and lifts him to the skies. Death is the greatest assayer of the sterling ore of talent. At his touch, the dropsy particles fall off, the irritable, the personal, the gross, and mingle with the dust - the finer and more ethereal part mounts with winged spirit to watch over our latest memory, and protect our bones from insult. We consign the least worthy qualities to oblivion and cherish the nobler and imperishable nature with double pride and fondness."

~ William Hazlitt

The clouds felt like needles piercing his skin. Rodolphus believed to be safe, to think the boy could easily be retained with this dark curse. In reality, the man was right, without Death, Harry would not be able to have the possibility of escape. But what better way to stalk your prey than to be dressed in sheep's clothing?

Soon, the trees became rare and cottages became more extravagant. And close to the edge of Little Hangleton, sat the attraction of the town, Riddle Manor. The mansion appeared to be capped in time with various vines covering just the right amount of the house to outline its beauty. Though claimed to be abandoned, the garden was beautiful and taken care of. Rumors had spread about the illegitimate heir of the fortune to have come, yet no one seeked confirmation, for they feared this heir to be as unstable as his father - Thomas Riddle, one of the most beautiful men to have walked the earth. His complexions were beyond comparison with Cleopatra.

When close to the residency, Harry felt a piece of himself tear. The locket around his neck, the ring, they burned his chest.

As his feet touched the ground, the predatory screech of a being he could not comprehend rang in his ears until he could not hold on any longer. In his mind, without thought, he asked for Death to free him from the man's curse, to which the entity complied with. As soon as he was freed, Harry tied soulless and Life's magic together to embody a lasso that wrapped around Rodolphus' feet. He lost his balance, the burning sensation of such toxic magic being forced together was like acid to his magical core.

"Where are the sirens?" Asked the boy once the man was under his hold, a foolish thing. One does not imprison while in the land of the enemy. A sick, almost cough-like laugh escaped the man's lips. "Sirens?" He squirmed when Harry muttered a decaying spell. "You're not human, are you, boy?"

Harry, not happy with his answer, palmed his hand, inching it to the man's face.

"Alright!" He shouted. "Magical creatures aren't allowed past the wards. It'll only progress unless You-Know-Who acknowledges my reason for being here."

And it was true. Lord Voldemort was once a man that kept his treasures close to his property; however, his priorities have shifted as the war has progressed. A more calculative man in this reality, Harry thought to himself while his attention shifted to the dim emerald light given off by Death's stone. Maybe only a second passed, or more. To Harry, it was an eternity. His small body could not handle any of the mistreatment. His ringing ears began to feel moist. He removed his prior spell to reach out and touch the inside of his ear.

Blood.

Before, said boy would be unbothered by such a thing, but his vision blurred. Although Rodolphus was still in his grasp, he was forced to let go and wipe the tears sliding down his cheeks. But he wasn't crying; why would he cry? Harry pushed Rodolphus away as he brought his hands to his face, fingers covered in a deep red. Angered by the man's sick trick, Harry shouted for a fryendfire, yet his spell was cut short by a countercurse calling for frost. Before he could acknowledge it, though, there was the mad screech of a woman stupefying him, cutting his torture short.