"The loneliest moment in someone's life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly."
F. Scott Fitzgerald.
~~~
⚠️TORTURE⚠️
~~~
After the unfortunate events of yesterday's breakfast, Harry decided he'd try a new approach to attending his meals at Prince Manor. Rather than appearing several minutes beforehand, thereby opening himself to probing stares and questions from Salazar, he'd figured he'd just appear at 7 on the dot.
And that was how Harry found himself watching the Slytherins leave together from Snape's study— their double entrances every morning made a lot more sense now. With a quick crack of his knuckles, Harry walked in to the dining room, only ten seconds past the hour.
It was definitely easier entering the room, fixing his eyes on his chair rather than finding some excuse to keep his head bowed. And he was doing well, two steps away from his seat, until a strangled groan made him look up.
Malfoy was looking up and down at him in horror.
Am I naked?
Harry looked down at himself to check. Ron had predicted that for him once during Divination and he couldn't be too careful, especially now. But no, he was definitely wearing clothes. Well, more they hung of him, but same difference and all that.
And yet there Malfoy was, staring at him as though he'd turned up wearing purple and yellow polka dot undies.
"Are... you ok? Malfoy?" Harry inched a tad closer to his seat. Malfoy was starting to look a little mad in his eyes.
"Pine and dijon, Potter? Really?"
Were those words even English?
"Erm... come again?" Harry saw Snape hold his head in his hands out of the corner of his eye.
"Your colour co-ordination is usually rather bad, Potter, but—"
"Potter, sit down," grated Snape. "Draco, not another word."
With an awkward hesitancy, Harry lowered himself into his seat. This time an assortment of buttered and honeyed toast appeared on the table. He reached for his own buttered slice right after Snape and Malfoy had already done so, eyes fixed on the amber crust to avoid Snape's usual puzzled glance. Honestly, it was like he hadn't been doing such every damn day he'd been here.
The toast crunched beautifully as Harry bit into it. He wondered what house elves did use to cook toast; he highly doubted wizards had toasters. Perhaps he could find out, and that would spare him some extra beatings for 'not getting the toast right'.
The ambience of the room was not-so stifling as it had been before; calm and quiet but comfortable in the way he found his lumpy mattress at the Dursleys to be. Salazar however, decided it was too calm, too quiet.
"I do believe Harry Potter's stockings differ in colour also," the Founder said smoothly.
"What?!" Malfoy glared at him with revolted outrage. "At least tell me the other sock marginally matches, Potter!"
Harry wondered how quickly he could speed-write his will. There was no doubt if he didn't tell, Salazar would definitely snitch. "It's... blue and red. Striped."
Snape groaned.
***
"I do hope my books have not been permanently defiled, Potter?" Snape asked, eyeing the volumes Potter brought into the library, with scraps of inked parchment sticking out of them.
"Erm... no, sir. They're just notes and questions, really." A thin, black eyebrow quirked up in surprise. He had no idea Potter was capable of such... academic diligence.
"And how exactly were you planning on retrieving the answers to these questions?"
"Oh. Well, sometimes I ask Salazar," the boy kept his eyes downcast as he spoke. "Unless he's not in his portrait upstairs. Then I try and find the answers somewhere else." A stiff roll of thin shoulders, before Potter added, "You did ask not to be disturbed, sir."
He ought to scold Potter for the cheeky, insolent addition. There had been nothing akin to respect in his tone; if anything, the sanctimonious tones of a crowing James Potter reverbated through Snape's memory.
And he would have, if not for the fact that Potter Junior's gaze was now fixed on some middle distance between Snape and the wall behind him. Potter Senior, Snape knew, would've met Snape's eyes fearlessly, happily showcasing his glimmering delight. Come to think of it, the boy rarely ever met his gaze; only when needed to during their Occulemency sessions. Apart from that, his eyes were always just a small degree off from true eye contact.
The Potions Master almost growled in frustration at that abrupt realisation. Potter was becoming an enigma— an inscrutable, indecipherable enigma that was quite frankly doing his head in. The cardinal foundations of his beliefs on a dead man's spawn were being shaken and stirred in a way Snape did not like.
"I see," hefinally gritted out. "I will express to you now that should you not find the answers you seek in these books or with Salazar, I am... available." Snape felt like he'd just gargled acid; he might as well have made himself and Potter matching friendship bracelets.
The boy however, gifted him only with a momentary flicker of emerald eyes, before nodding. "Thank you, sir."
"Get to work now, Potter."
"Yes, sir." Potter looked more than eager to scramble his way up the stairs, and yet Snape watched the boy with faint admiration as he restrained himself to just walking, before disappearing beyond Snape's eyeline.
Well, a small trip upstairs wouldn't be too out of the ordinary, Snape decided. Say... half an hour into the session? A quarter more?
With a sly smirk, the Potions Master set aside thoughts of raven-haired boys and meddlesome old coots for some light reading.
***
Harry was turning into Hermione. There was no other way to describe it. Though they both already shared the rather basic similarity of being Gryffindors, and his hair being as messy as hers was bushy, this one really tied the knot.
For here he was, sitting cross-legged, the very epicentre of an entourage of books surrounding him, all flipped open to some random page. Parchment pieces with scribbled notes were scattered around everywhere. Harry would have to play a rather tricky game to escape the swarm of books encompassing him.
If he just made his hair brown and bushy, took away the glasses and the scar, became a girl... and all the rest that made Hermione 'Hermione', he'd actually be Hermione.
Which was rather terrifying, come to think of it.
And so Harry decided not to think about it. At all. Instead, he dived back into Carling Beverlye's chunky paragraph on... something Harry had no idea about. Damn.
Harry immersed himself in the book, determined to find the answer to a question he'd been pondering over for quite a while. And perhaps it was a Research session today, and over half the books he had out were about "the mental arts" and "spirit possession", but books were books, right? As long as they weren't on Divination anyway, as Hermione said.
Merlin... I really am turning into her.
Despite how consumed he would've appeared to a casual observer, his senses tingled as Snape's boots clicked against the wood of the library floor. One had to always be on their guard; they could never relax entirely. The Dursleys had taught him that.
The commanding clicks stopped, the black leather only just in Harry's line of sight, if he chose to raise his head. But he didn't. He was still rather wary of the man, especially after today's duelling session. Besides, Beverlye's diagram of the brain was much more interesting than Snape's manky boots.
Perhaps Snape would go away. Perhaps Snape had just come by to see whether or not he was working, and now that he had seen—
"Mr Potter."
God, why me?
Harry lifted his head a smidge, eyes fixed on the shiny black buttons on the elder wizard's sleeves. "Yes, sir?"
"I do hope you understood my offer earlier."
"Erm... yeah. Yeah, I did."
And here's my offer for you to go away!
"As much as I'm sure some of my books appreciate being released from their shelves, I'd rather you not end up with half my library compiled beside you," added Snape dryly.
Half the library? Well, that's a little extreme...
Harry took a good look around. No, no— he was definitely working his way up there. Perhaps Hermione's Christmas planner had possessive qualities.
"Oh. Sorry, sir. I'll just..." He stretched his arm to start plucking up any snips of parchment within range. If he was quick enough—
"Stop." Harry drew his hand back. Snape looked as though he wished to repeatedly smack his head against a brick wall. Harry, for one, definitely agreed with that sentiment.
However, the man simply took a breath and spoke again, with a slow, calm efficiency. "I meant only that you clearly have a question. In searching for an answer to said question, you remain unsuccessful with the world of books and parchment. Salazar is not present. With as much Faust may know, it is clear he will not indulge for you even a moment of his time. I only suggest... that I am available also."
"Oh," Harry said intelligently.
"Indeed."
Snape was being patient with him, Harry realised. Waiting for him to ask. And Snape was never patient. Not with him anyway. Hell, the majority of his botched-up potions in class were because Snape had grown impatient with him. Hence, Harry ought to take advantage of Snape's good mood whilst it was still... well, good.
Only how worth it was the risk of asking? Considering the question. Considering the person he would be asking, the person he could ask, the memories said question would bring up, and the consequences of said action. No, Snape was his safest bet.
'Safest', if one used the term loosely.
"What's the difference between Legilimency and possession?"
Snape looked at him as though he'd grown a second head.
Okay. Take two then.
"I just mean... you're teaching me Occulemency, which is meant to defend against Legilimency, right? But, well... at the Ministry..." Harry ran a hand through his hair in frustration— why couldn't the words come out the way he wanted them to? "See, Vold— he did something that I thought was Legilimency, but it turned out more like possession instead. I was just wondering if Occulemency could defend against what he did, so..." Harry gestured widely towards the books.
Snape was staring at him assessingly.
Harry James Potter, his brain began, born on the 31st of July 1980. Died—
"Perhaps you could expand? There are various avenues of possession, and the Dark Lord has stretched the boundaries of many magical arts."
Well, of course he has, Harry grumbled. "Power the Dark Lord knows not" and all I can do is cook some bacon and almost get killed every year.
"It's a little complicated," Harry began slowly; if he was to set out on a hopeless endeavour, then it was better he at least tried, right? "Well, he managed to make me— just... control what I did. Except the same sort of thing happened with Ginny in second year, only she just had massive blanks in her memory. But... I remember mine."
Snape knelt down suddenly, a movement that almost had Harry shoot right up like some hyperactive jack-in-the-box. Only the man had simply turned a book towards him, one long finger trailing across a paragraph.
"What exactly do you remember of your own... experience?"
Pain. Lots of pain. Oh, and wanting to die, of course.
In other words, all things morbid and macabre that he shouldn't tell Snape.
"It wasn't as painless as what Ginny's sounded like," Harry decided on finally. "I remember mine, though. All of it."
"I see."
Yeah, you do have eyes, the voice in Harry's head retorted sarcastically. Harry barely withheld a dry snort. It wasn't like he could talk with the state of his own eyesight.
"A deeper analysis of your memory from the episode may prove... useful," Snape said slowly, almost cautiously, jet-black eyes trying to bore into Harry's. He averted his eyes further.
Harry knew very well what the man wanted to do. He wanted to dig and dig and dig through Harry's mind like some mad archaeologist, to excavate the very memory he'd spent the past several weeks trying to fossilize, have crumble to dust.
It would, in a way, be no different to what Snape had been doing almost every day during their Occulemency lessons. Only allowing Snape to do this... it seemed deeper somehow. More private. Voldemort's "possession" was one of the many memories Harry had kept locked in his cupboard, sacrificing in its place the more humiliating times of his childhood.
And Snape would see everything from that memory. How Harry had hurt. How Harry had been made to beg for death by Dumbledore's hand. How Harry had craved death, if only to be with Sirius again.
Snape would see that and think he was some headcase. Snape would see that and smirk and laugh. Snape would say something cold and cutting about Sirius and Harry would lose it; the dam keeping the emotions at bay would crash and fall, and he would drown.
Harry wasn't ready to feel. Harry didn't want to feel.
"No, I'm... good, sir." He dropped his eyes. "I think I should get some spell research done today anyway."
"Very well." Snape stood with an odd amount of fluidity, considering the man was... what, in his thirties? That was old, right? "If you wish, we may further discuss the topic at a later date."
"Erm... thanks. Sir."
With a lingering glance at the already bowed mess of hair, Snape swept down the staircase.
***
"Tired, Harry Potter?" Harry rolled his eyes mid-yawn and turned to Salazar, once more regretting his unintentional, early arrival to dinner. Apparently old habits really did die hard.
"I'm fine, sir," he replied evenly. "What about you?"
"In answer to your question several days prior to this, Harry Potter, I am the same I was then as I am now."
Harry blinked. That told him literally nothing. "Erm... that's great?"
"Should you think so, Harry Potter."
"Oh. Brilliant." Harry turned back to the dark varnish of the table. Damn whoever said 'old habits die hard', it was a life-or-death necessity that he break this one.
Malfoy thankfully chose that moment to walk in, oddly early to dinner, even if it was by a couple of minutes. His aristocracy shone, as per, in everything he wore; today it glared at him in the form of a clearly personally tailored black suit, which contrasted painstakingly well against his porcelain skin. Harry played with the stained sleeves of his worn, green hoodie.
"Evening, sir." Malfoy greeted Salazar, tone light and respectful.
"Evening, Draconis."
Harry's head abruptly shot up, the very picture of disbelief and betrayal. "Draconis? Hold on- you just called Malfoy 'Draconis'! Just 'Draconis'!"
Said wizard sneered at him. "That is my name, Potter."
"Yeah, but he always calls me 'Harry Potter' like it's on his word-a-day calendar!" Harry practically clawed at the air with his air-quotes. "He didn't even mention your surname!"
"I see you are still unfamiliar with ancient pureblood standings, Harry Potter," Salazar said, rather smugly in Harry's opinion.
"Muggle-raised, remember?" He challenged Salazar with a stare, ignoring the growing dull ache between his eyes. "And the words 'ancient' and 'pureblood' don't really apply to 'now' and 'half-blood'. In other words, they don't apply to me."
Salazar sat back in his throne, one arm draped on his snakey armrest. "I suppose not. Though Draconis has no doubt been fully enlightened." The blond nodded, not a hair flopping out of place. "A crudely abbreviated version is what you shall receive, Harry Potter. The ethics of it are rather... verbose."
Are rather what?
"Lengthy. Long-winded, Potter," Malfoy added, smirking at the bemused expression on Harry's face.
"I would've figured it out," he muttered reproachfully, knowing very well there was absolutely no way he would've done. Harry placed his head in his hands; it was really starting to pound now.
"If you would allow me to do so, and I shall take your current cessation in conversation as an affirmation, I may firstly congratulate you on the somewhat similarly shaded stockings, Harry Potter. I may also now tell you that it was merely considered right to address one by their completely unabridged name. By way of illustration, I may also address Draconis as 'Draco Lucius Malfoy', or even simply 'Draco Malfoy'. Either way, I uphold ancient formalities."
"But my full name is Harry. I'm not called... Harry-onis or anything like that." Malfoy snorted. Harry was oh-so glad he found this all funny; his entire skull seemed to be pulsing. "Well, technically my full name is Harry James Potter, but I've only ever written that on my SATs and OWLS."
The blond's amusement turned to confusion. "SATs?"
Harry opened his mouth to explain, and suddenly screamed as the world exploded into pain, centred about his scar. The link between him and Voldemort was being ripped afresh with diamond-cut claws, slicing through the weak little haven of a broken little boy. Triumphant laughter rattled his skull, until all Harry could hear was the high, cold whirlwind of his joy.
And then the vision stole him from reality.
The wind was wild tonight, a fact Harry relished as he raised his head to the heavens, arms lifted. He was a god, in this land of nothings and nobodies.
Harry had distanced himself from Tom Riddle, but as a white rose blackened under his touch, he looked at the edifice before him and remembered. He remembered what Tom Riddle had once been, and what Lord Voldemort was now.
And he laughed.
A witch's cackle joined the harmony, and soon howls pierced the clouds, and Harry remembered more. He ought to let his beasts free. Let them run wild.
Harry turned, and looked down at his monsters. His servants. His.
"My loyal followers! The night is young, and so I shall be terse. Let the moon nor the Ministry control your true nature. Hear how the wind howls with you tonight!" A tribal chorus of hunger and bloodlust chilled the air deliciously. Harry's voice slipped into an entrancing, quiet hiss. "Run wild this night. Be free this night, and all nights beyond this. Feast on the unworthy, quench your bloodthirst."
A trembling growl had begun amongst the werewolves, Bella's longing pants a steady, building rhythm.
"Under my command, I release you."
His werewolves ran. There was no full moon in the sky, and yet there was no need; the wildness he had sensed in them all wrestling against silver chains had broken free. And it was hungry.
Nagini slithered a little in front of him, eager also for the hunt but still by Harry's side. It was more important now than ever that Nagini remained unharmed, untouched, and yet what could these weak Muggles do to her? They were far more helpless at the hands of his little pets.
"Sssseek your feasssst," Harry hissed in Parseltongue, and with her own response, he watched as his snake slithered forwards, pursuing the stench of fear and blood and weakness.
This home for unwanted things would not be missed, Harry knew. The greatest purpose these menial Muggles could serve would be tonight, with their deaths. And with that knowing, Harry walked.
Already, the screeches of the suffering hummed happily in Harry's ears, echoing through the Muggle lit corridors, which were in no way as dark and closed as his own had once been. Bright and beige and so very Muggle, and these lights... no, they would not do. An effortless swish of his wand, and all the lights cracked and burst; shards of glass rained down upon him, pattering harmlessly on him like rain.
The source of all the sweetness in the air came from the large hall, still dimly lit, gnawed-on extremities stripped of their meat and identity strewn across the floor to soak in the blood. All the remaining, poor little orphans had been herded into like cattle, ripe for the picking.
Not long had passed since their arrival, and yet the destruction had been wonderfully efficient.
His wolves had separated into clumps, each sating themselves and picking on a victim one by one. Why there was one scene lay before him already; a hoarsely wailing creature lay on the floor, sobbing useless pleas as a werewolf ripped her leg apart. Strips of meat torn off it, shredded beyond belief to the very base of its bone.
Harry smiled as her twitches soon stopped, her breaths shortened, and the Muggle woman was no more. That was better. Much better. She had been polluting purity with her existence.
Feral, ferocious snarls akin to some Underworld creature and the snapping of joints followed. Harry almost laughed as he watched the huddle of sniffling Muggle girls flinch.
And there Nagini was, lapping up the blood and bone with a flickering tongue. And his dear Bella, dancing and dancing and dancing, black dress skating across the sea of scarlet as she made her way to an old woman nailed to a large crucifix. Silver nails glinted like precious jewels, stabbed through her hands and her feet.
"Dearie, dearie me," Bellatrix tutted, wiping a tear from the rapidly murmuring matron's cheek. "Your filthy Muggle God can't help you now."
"Playing with the food, Bella?" Harry kicked away a head, elicting eager snarls from his werewolves, and broken cries from those soon to be no more.
"They pray to a lord that has given them nothing, my lord." Bellatrix cackled at the old matron's sob. "They see you unworthy, below their so-called God."
Well, that wouldn't do, Harry thought. It wouldn't do at all.
"The werewolves do hunger. Though it is rather a shame they've had all their meat raw." Harry twirled his wand between his fingers. "How would my wolves like a cooked meal?" He hadn't really been asking, and yet his pets' avid cries made the very foundations of the building shudder.
"Play with the wolves, Bella," Harry commanded, as her devoted eyes turned entirely to him, "some of the filth are lacking in attention."
"Gladly, my lord." And she jumped away to croon wickedly at the frightened cattle.
Harry walked calmly towards the old Muggle matron, now rather curious as to her constant murmuring. He knew Dumbledore had placed a Squib near the Potter residence, and this was certainly close enough...
Only what Harry heard flooded his veins with rage and his mind with memory. Days long buried away with a vessel that had been young and weak, and yet still the words came to him with disgusting instinctiveness. "May their souls and the souls of all the faithful departed..."
Through the mercy of God, rest in peace...NO! Harry would not fall to such paltry, Muggle weakness. He was Lord Voldemort. He was the Master of Death. He had mastered Death. Glass had not cut him, and so he would not allow for these words to destroy him.
He would not allow for weakness.
"Silence, Muggle!" A deep gash now split the sobbing Matron's face. A muffled scream came from the trembling corner as her body seemed to sag, palms straining now to tear against the nails driven into them. The remaining werewolves licked their lips and snarled noisily; some had already run with scavenged limbs for the rest of their pack to feast on. He had at least ensured their loyalty tonight.
"How best to cook you thoroughly, old woman?" Harry tapped his wand against his other hand, sending effortless sparks just to see her blanch. "My wolves are hungry; they will not wait."
And now the woman snivelled and wept; it was truly a pathetic display, worthy even of Wormtail. He had toyed enough.
"Adhuc vitae." Harry cast the spell that would keep the woman ripe and fresh and awake throughout the fun. "Incendio Graeciae."
The blazing emerald flames barely poured outwards from Harry's wand; the fire seemed to be burning the woman from the inside out. Her clothing had already peeled off, reduced to beyond nothing already— Harry let out a cold laugh at the pure marvel of it.
And then she began to scream, and oh, it was more beautiful than Harry could've possibly dreamed it to be. A high-pitched giggle sounded beside him, a pleased hiss, and Harry delighted in the way her flesh slowly cooked and blackened, as the bones were briefly outlined against the green glow, as she screamed and screamed, burning so deliciously—
—somewhere above the suffocating pain, Harry could feel his own screams, equally as raw and visceral as the woman's own—
—The heat was stifling, the stench of blood stained and thick in the smoke, and yet Harry couldn't help but drink the sweetness in—
—bile rose up to fill his throat, and suddenly Harry couldn't breathe; he was choking on it, and he decided it wouldn't be too bad if he finally died with someone, died just like this—
—it was barely a being now, before him, now a charred mess beyond recognition; the crucifix had long since been scorched away; it was almost laughable, the idea of a God other than him—
—perhaps Harry was dead already; perhaps this was the nightmare he'd never escape—
—it was all so wonderful, all so beautiful; the way all the Muggles would be aflame once he was victorious, and Harry smiled at the viridian heavens—
Words muttered beyond the realm of horror. A flash of light. The darkness took Harry with a merciful haste he did not deserve.
***
A/N: I hope nothing in the torture/raid scene was disrespectful, religiously or otherwise. If there is anything that's rude or offensive in any way, please let me know and I'll change it! Google can only help so much.
'Incendio Graeciae' translates to 'Greek fire.' Greek fire can ignite on contact with water. Hence, it can't be put out.
Dijon is some shade of yellow.
The prayer the old matron recites is, I believe, a Catholic prayer for death. Or at least a mild variation; quite a few came up.
It's the oddest feeling, knowing people are actually reading this story.
Do let me know if my chapters are getting too long! I have no idea what I'm doing.