malfoidaddict

@skoomaaddict08

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malfoidaddict

@skoomaaddict08

about 11 hours ago

Chapter 4 (part 1) of Dark Cycle (My Malfoid fic) "The Castle" Bodies. All Draconia can see in front of her are bodies. Students lying, back or front, down in the dirt. An empty void left in their gaze. Two more of her friends, about to die. She had already watched Goyle do the same. Death Eaters sending hexes, students firing return volleys. People running, some crying over fallen comrades and loved ones. A severed arm. A half missing its top. Slytherin robes. Flies have begun to swarm. Skirmishes, yelling, screaming, crying. Chaos. Pure, unbridled chaos has consumed the grounds of Hogwarts. ‘Is this real? Am I dreaming?’ She can hear her own voice, but her mouth isn’t moving. She blinks, the world is slowed, time is near-frozen. Turning her head, she gazes upon the clambering silhouette of Neville Longbottom as he’s winding a swing. ‘Oh, right. We were going for a snake’s hea-‘ “DAMN IT, MOVE!” A yell rocks her out of her stupor. Neville quickly pushes Draconia out of the way, Sword of Gryffindor elegantly swishing through air with practically zero resistance, the snake's neck doubly so. A loud hiss. The sound of whimpering. The sound of sizzling meat. Black mist fills the air as the body slowly begins to decompose rapidly into nothing. A triumphant yell sounds throughout the hall as Draconia frantically reaches forward to grab the shirt of one Hermione Granger. “Come on, grab Weasley-“ They barely have time to react. A voice penetrates deep into the recesses of her mind, inescapable, ethereal. Her grip loosens, sending Hermione back to the ground. It’s a whisper, serpent-like in cadence. Raspy, like a wire brush scraping against a screen mesh. Goosebumps raise across her body. She knows the voice well. “You have fought well. You all have.” His voice reverberates off of the inside of her skull, bouncing around as a pinball would. It’s him. “I will recall my forces, and allow you to collect your dead. You have my word, you will not be harmed. Hold your loved ones close, you might find them gone soon.” Harry. Where’s Harry? “Harry Potter. I speak now, directly to you. You have allowed so many to fight and die for you. You have allowed so many to shield you from me.” Her eyes dart around, Ron’s comforting a huddled Hermione, Neville looks like he’s about to cry. Several first years are comforting each other at the bottom of the staircase. No sight of him. No, no. He better not- “I offer you this. No more magical blood needn’t be spilled. No more people have to die. Meet me in the Forbidden Forest and I will leave Hogwarts untouched. Come alone. You have one hour.” Silence. Panicked footfalls. The chatter slowly returns to the building, more urgent and fleeting than before. A few hexes fire in the distance. She turns back towards Ron, her face full of concern. She’s seen better days, her outfit is ripped in various places, she’s covered in scrapes. Ron and Hermione aren’t doing much better having just survived the Chamber to destroy that damned chalice. “Where is he?” “I don’t bloody know, Malfoy, he was heading towards Ravenclaw tower last I saw him.” Ron sounds annoyed, as if answering her will somehow make Hermione’s condition worse. “We need to find him Ron, knowing him, he’s going to actually fall for that. It’s obviously a trap of some kind-“ “He most likely knows that.” Neville speaks up. “He’ll go anyway. You know just as well as we do, when it comes to us, he’s a reckless bastard. No matter what we tell him, he won’t listen. Voldemort’s scared. He knows we just need one more and he’s finished.” Draconia clenches her jaw, her usual professionalism and class are completely absent. Her hair is a frizzled mess, every inch of visible skin caked in either blood or mud. She’s missing an earring. “Damn him!” She slams her fist into the floor before collapsing beside Ron. “What do we do, Weasley?” “Why the hell are you asking me?” “You’re Harry’s second in command or whatever. Surely he told you-“ “He hasn’t told me shit. He just said ‘the crown and the snake’, we have no Earthly idea what it could be.” Her eyes lower to the floor below them, watching random students as they rush and leave the various parts of the hall. ‘Where could he be?’ is the only question on her mind as she stands up to help move the wounded. “Let’s go, Neville.” she barks, Neville quickly reeling to follow as hastily as he could manage. Harry Potter stands up, disorientated. His head is pounding, his scar is burning, vision blurry. He heard just like the rest. Students pay him no mind as they rush about the staircase, he begins to start down. Each step is a chore, each student bumping into him is a knife to the gut, another person he needs to save. Where is she right- ‘Don’t. Don’t do that to yourself.’ he thinks. ‘She’s fine. She has to be. She will be.’ Of course he’s going. He has to, what choice does he have? Is it a trap? Most likely. Will Voldemort keep his word? Certainly not. Time is what he’s after. More time for the school to rally, more time for them to live. If it means he has to die… The bottom step is reached. His legs feel full of lead. Heavy. Too heavy. He soldiers on. He moves towards the corridor to the Grand Entrance. Another thought occurs. They have one last Horcrux to find and absolutely no idea what the Hell it could even be. Dumbledore left absolutely nothing in terms of information. He’s going in blind. He reaches and opens a heavy door, his footsteps echoing through the empty passage. Dying. Punching his ticket, kicking the bucket. At the hand of the one who took his parents that fateful night 17 years ago. He can feel himself trembling, his stomach acid rising in the back of his throat. Hands clammy, cold. Numb. He remembers the feeling of hers in his. How warm she is, how her touch feels like home. Why is this happening? Why is he doing this to himself? Why doesn’t he run and find her, run away from all of this? Years have been building to this, he knew that. He had always secretly hoped it would never come to pass. Another door, closer now. He’ll have to take another exit, too many people might try to stop him. She might try to stop him. He wouldn’t have the heart to tell her no. He stops at a wall, a door slowly morphing from the stone, rippling like water, until it fully materializes in front of him. He grabs the knob and turns, pushing inward and entering the Room of Requirement. What’s left of it. Burned and singed remains of books, desks, papers, and other miscellaneous school supplies are scattered around in a haphazard mess. The stench of burnt books, wood and flesh swirl into a putrid mixture that forces Harry to contain a gag. He pulls his shirt over his nose as he walks forward towards the back. Out of the corner of his right eye, he spots Goyle. What’s left of him. He reaches a portrait, miraculously untouched by the flames and brilliant in color as if it were painted yesterday. A painting of Ariana Dumbledore. The passage they used to get here from Hogsmeade. “Don’t tell Aberforth, please. I need to do this alone.” He speaks to the woman, she studies him skeptically before giving a slight nod and swinging the portrait out, revealing the tunnel, stretching far along into darkness. He reaches up, hoists his weight and climbs in, making sure to crouch slightly before beginning the trek. The tunnel has been enchanted back when Dumbledore’s Army still operated in the school, making the distance much shorter than it is in reality. Regardless, it still feels endless to Harry. Step. Step. Step. No echo, it’s too cramped. A puddle soaks his shoe. He ignores it. A cobweb sticks to his face, he ignores it. One thing is on his mind and it’s not his impending demise. After what feels like hours, he finally reaches the other portrait at the end of the tunnel, it swings open automatically and the familiar site of Hog’s Head Inn fills his field of view. Voldemort is growing impatient. He knows Harry, he knows how stupid he can be when it comes to his friends. Around him, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, Wormtail, Yaxley, Macnair, and more. Hagrid stands away to their right, in chains, face low and bleak. He didn’t need them there, he could handle the child alone. He wanted them there so everyone could see him end Harry Potter permanently. No doubt, no room for tricks. Quick and clean, it will be done. As the minutes tick by and no sign of the boy has yet to materialize, the possibility begins to look dubious. He speaks, his voice commanding and steady. “Wormtail, make preparations to resume the assault.” “R-Right away, Master… Your will is my action…” Peter scurries towards Voldemort, eager to kiss or touch his hand. He takes hold, nearly slobbering in his fervor. Voldemort stares in disgust. “Filthy abomination, begone with you.” His voice sibilant and annoyed, he snatches his hand back with an indignant flourish and watches as Wormtail fades into the mist of the Forbidden Forest. He’s a rat. A horrid wretch he wished he could be free of if he wasn’t so loyal. Snap goes a twig. Leaves rustle and crunch under approaching footsteps. Voldemort’s head swivels forward, the familiar sight of one Harry Potter gracing his view as he walks forward through the underbrush. His mouth curls into his signature merciless grin, cracked and yellow teeth glinting in the moonlight. “Harry Potter.” Harry doesn’t speak as he approaches, his face cut from granite and expressionless, finally picking a spot and standing opposite of Voldemort. His wand is already drawn, down by his side in his right hand. Hagrid immediately looks up, his face filling with sorrow and coiling into a face Harry hasn’t seen since Aragog’s funeral. He calls out. “Harry- no! NO! What are you doing-“ “Silence, you impudent troll.” Voldemort hisses snidely, urging Yaxley to kick Hagrid hard in the side. He barely moves but obeys as large droplets begin to fall from his eyes. Voldemort swings his head back to Harry, his voice returning to its previous exuberance. “The Boy Who Lived, has come to die.” Harry again doesn’t speak, he just stares dead ahead directly into Voldemort’s eyes. He reminds him of his father, the spitting image of James. How he enjoyed watching life leave his eyes. Voldemort is nearly gleeful at the thought of reliving that night before he remembers what happened to him. He braces himself and raises his wand. Harry does the same. Moments pass, a twisted respect between the two shines through and they exchange a slight bow. Acknowledgment. They both speak at once. “Expelliarmus!” “Avada Kedavra!” Red and green flash, clash then… white. Pure white. Harry blinks. Nothing, then something. He’s confused. He’s standing in some kind of train station. He swiftly recognizes it. He was just in the forest, wasn’t he? Why’s he at King’s Cross? He takes a hesitant step, not even sure if he’s really here. Solid ground meets his foot. He takes another, then another. He’s walking now. A figure begins to take shape in front of him. Step. Step. Ever so closer until he can make out the form of- “Professor Dumbledore?” Harry asks weakly, seeing none other than the departed headmaster sitting on a bench, waiting and staring ahead blankly. He seems to snap from some kind of trance, turning his head to beam up at Harry with a warm, familiar smile. “Ah, Harry. So good to see you.” His eyes shine with his patented glimmer. His voice, chipper but restrained. Harry isn’t in such high spirits. “What are you doing here? I-I saw you…” He trails off, unsure how to end that particular sentence. “Where are we, Professor?” Dumbledore looks around for a second, eyes tracing the girders and beams that line the ceiling. “King’s Cross Station by the looks of it.” “I can see that but… why?” Harry looks at him quizzingly. “I would imagine to catch a train.” Harry swallows a hard lump. Those words rattled him for some reason. They feel uncanny. “Am I… dead?” Dumbledore doesn’t take more than a few seconds to respond. “It would appear that way, yes.” Harry’s eyes drop slightly before sighing and finally taking a seat next to Dumbledore, leaning back into the bench to stare at the white ceiling above him. It appears almost transparent, nothing but a white void beyond the confines of the station. Dumbledore allows a moment to sit before he speaks again. “I wonder to myself, what should we do with him?” Harry’s brow furrows. He looks towards Dumbledore. “Him, Professor?” “Indeed, just look.” Harry raises his head and looks toward Dumbledore. He’s pointing forward. Harry’s eyes follow his arm to its destination and nearly gasps in shock. Under the bench in front of them is a shriveled, bloody corpse. Corpse is a bit apt, it seems to be alive. Just so. It’s loud breathing ragged, skinny as a rail, its bones seem to struggle against his skin, begging to come loose. Harry didn’t even notice it breathing until he saw it. “What the hell is that… creature, Professor?” Dumbledore smiles again. “You really don’t know?” Harry gulps again. A knot forms in his stomach. He does, he’s always known. It’s the only possible explanation that makes any sense as to why he and Voldemort share such a… personal connection. “It was me. I was the last Horcrux.” “One I don’t think he intended to make, however.” Dumbledore pauses, turning his attention back towards Harry’s face. His warm smile returns. “Funny thing, really. For one to tear his soul so many times that he didn’t notice when he created one in you. At least until it was too late. It’s a bit… silly. Even so, he just ensured that part of him will soon meet its demise.” Dumbledore motions to the body currently wheezing under the bench. Harry looks back to Dumbledore. “Professor?” “Hm?” Dumbledore’s expression softens. “What should I do?” Dumbledore for the first time since they’ve begun talking drops his smile. He speaks with a serious tone, all feeling seeming to have drained from his inflection. The air seems to go still around him. “There’s an old, black train coming, Harry. When it arrives, whatever your choice, do not get on it.” Harry begins to speak but finds his voice muted. Lips move, no sound. Dumbledore watches, expressionless. He doesn’t speak, staring into Harry’s eyes with a haunting emptiness. Sounds in the distance arise, steadily increasing in volume. Scraping, a train approaches. Iron clanking, gears screeching, a loud and haunting whistle- Draconia shakes her head in fear. Ron and Hermione flank her, Neville close by. Everyone’s gathered in the courtyard; the wounded have been moved to the Great Hall. On the road ahead, they see the group approach. Death Eaters. All of them. Their dark army follows in close proximity, full of every sentient magical creature they could persuade to their side. Voldemort is leading the march, nearly dancing his way across the stone. The fact they’re here can only mean one thing and there’s no way she could possibly prepare herself to see it. She spots Hagrid in his wake. He’s clutching something to his chest. She sees an arm loosely hanging from a gap in his own. A hole begins to form. Her chest crunches. It can’t be him. It has to be someone else. “Neville… who’s that- who’s in Hagrid’s arms?” Her voice begins to waver, picking up in vibrato on the verge of tears. Neville doesn’t answer, eyes glue ahead just like everyone else. “N-Neville? Please don’t tell me it's-“ she cuts herself off. They’ve stopped walking. The march concludes with the mass converging on the grounds, spreading out like fettered mud to block off any remaining exit. Voldemort steps forward, a sadistic smile painted to his grey, leathery face. He speaks in a delighted shout. “Harry Potter… IS DEAD!” Time stops. His words echo through her, tearing through her like a bullet, hitting every vital part of her being. Her throat dries, an irregular discomfort begins to flood into her. She can’t- is the world falling? Her feet- she can’t feel them. Spinning, everything’s confusing. Nonononono, this isn’t- She feels faint. Legs buckling. Collapse. Rubble crunches. Her hands clasp wildly at the ground, reaching, pleading for something to stabilize her; her nails scrape against the ground in vain as she finds nothing. A tenderness swells, an indescribable stabbing agony that rips her soul straight through her chest. She can’t hold it in anymore. She breaks. A sob, her knees are her only companion as she grips them tightly. She wants to bury her face in his chest, she wants to hold him, she wants to make everything as it was. She wants- “Now then!” Voldemort claps his hands together. She doesn’t bother to pay attention. “We are currently down in numbers, as you all well know. You gave us a Hell of a fight. Well done.” Voldemort begins to pace, using his wand to meagerly move a deceased student in his path. “This is your opportunity to repent, and pledge your undying loyalty-“ he motions and points at his chest with his wand. “To me.” Silence, save for a small crash as another few bricks come toppling from Hogwarts’ foundation. “Anyone? Any takers at all?” Again, no response. Draconia’s still staring at the ground. Her father’s voice shakes her to awareness. “Draconia.” Sharp, desperate. She’s never heard his voice so… urgent. So despondent. Her head raises, her eyes tracking the ground until she spots him. He’s standing with her mother in his left arm, his right outstretched and waiting for her grasp. She doesn’t move to stand. “Draconia, come. Please.” His eyes are to the ground as well. She stands. She begins to walk. She doesn’t know how. ‘Why am I moving? Stay put, damn you.’ Her thoughts are loud in her head, practically screaming. She’s numb, disoriented. Her steps lacked the usual refined demeanor she’s known for. She stumbles briefly before being welcomed by Voldemort himself. He smiles greedily, wrapping his arms around her. He’s stiff, inhuman, like he’s never hugged anyone in his life before this moment. She flinches, the man who ended her world is touching her. His skin feels like leather, his breathing is cold and shallow. He smells of death, like a rotting animal. Her face curdles at the sensation. ‘Disgusting. You’re disgusting.’ She wishes she could say it aloud. “Well done, Draconia. Well done.” he looks past her to the crowd, threatening them as slyly as he could, his wand pointed menacingly. Everyone whose path it crosses cowers behind whatever they can find around them. Release. He’s allowed her from his grasp. Tears well, she practically sprints to her parents. Lucius welcomes her first as she throws herself into him, stifling her cries into his chest. He cradles his only daughter, holding her tightly. A million differing apologies swim through his mind, none of them would ever be enough. Voldemort ignores them completely. “Anyone else? We have plenty of-” Another steps forward. Neville this time. Nobody makes any attempt to stop him. “I suppose I did say anyone, didn’t I? I can’t say I’ve had worse.” Voldemort sneers, the crowd behind him immediately swelling with mocking jeers and insults. He raises his hand to signal for quiet, they obey instantaneously. “What might your name be, young man?” His voice has a cancerous sarcasm, one Neville can pick up on promptly. “Neville. Neville Longbottom.” The Sword of Gryffindor hangs from his belt, shimmering in the afternoon glow. Another wave of laughing and mocking shouts flies his way before Voldemort raises his hand once more, silence falling quickly. “Well, Neville, I’m certain we can find a place for-” “I’d like to say something.” Neville stares dead into his eyes, not a flicker of fear on his face. Voldemort almost looks surprised he cut him off. “I…” Voldemort goes to speak, thinks to himself for a moment, smiles and continues. “I speak for all of us when I say we’d be delighted to hear what you have to say, dear boy.” Voldemort’s voice is clearly more amused than interested. He wants to see where this goes. ‘Arrogant bastard.’ Neville muses to himself in his head. “It doesn’t matter Harry's gone.” he begins. Draconia has to restrain herself from screaming, the reminder of his fate is too much for her to handle. “Stand down, Neville.” Seamus Finnegan crudely whispers. “People die everyday, Seamus. It’s no different from who we’ve lost already. Friends, relatives, lovers. We still get up, go about our days, life moves on…” His head swivels towards the small crowd behind him. “But we don’t. We remember. We’ll always remember who they were and what they gave for us.” His gaze returns. Voldemort raises a patch of skin where an eyebrow used to reside, this is tedious, sure but entertaining nonetheless. He’ll wait for him to finish before he slaughters everyone else in front of him. He’ll save him for last. “They didn’t die in vain. Their sacrifice is the only reason we stand defiantly before you now.” Neville’s face sours, twisting with anger; malice and loathing bleed from his stare. Voldemort’s almost impressed. He spits his words out with a vitriol none of them thought he was capable of producing. “But you will. You’ll die screaming, begging for mercy, we will never stop-” Voldemort begins to laugh, they can’t actually believe there’s still a chance in Hell they’re walking away from all this. This school will be their collective tomb by dusk. “-we will never break! Harry’s heart beat and bled for us! We’re not LYING DOWN TO DIE!” He draws the Sword from his belt, holding it ready. Voldemort raises his wand and prepares to fire the first volley when suddenly, sounds of struggle to his left. Sounds of cloth. Chains rattling. Hagrid gasps. The sounds of shoes hitting stone. It can’t be- Harry’s awake and has begun running, his shoes heavily hitting the ground as he sprints off towards the destroyed bridge that once connected to the forest. Voldemort can hardly believe his eyes when another quick dash of white sprints past him. A flourish of hair, clicking boots hitting gravel. Draconia has also started running in his direction. The insolence. The nerve. The- Crack. One of the Death Eaters surrounding him suddenly apparate. Crack. Another. Three more. Like the sound of popcorn, they rapidly begin to exit at the same time. Voldemort cannot contain his rage anymore, his wand readied on Draconia’s back. “AVADA-” “Flippendo!” Thwack. A spell collides with his back, Voldemort flies face first into the rock below, his snakelike nose immediately leaking blood onto the rubble under him. Bright red paints the ground. The voice he heard cast the spell, it can’t be. He wouldn’t dare- Lucius stands above him, wand drawn but shaking. He can’t believe he’s acting himself. He turns his head to Narcissa, his voice hurried and shaky. “Narcissa, dearest, run and find-” Green streaks across the courtyard, hitting Lucius square in the breast. A gasp. Light quickly fading from his stare briskly with a single tear passing down his cheek. He falls. First to his knees, then backward, face to the sky and body spread-eagle. Dead. Voldemort is on his back, wand pointed, wearing a satisfied expression. Narcissa shrieks, instantly apparating and fleeing like the rest. She appears to have splinched herself in her panic, small bits of flesh and hair remain where she once stood. Can’t focus on that now. Need to kill the boy. Draconia’s panting, she can hardly keep up. They ran and ran, finally stopping near the clocktower. They take but a moment to catch their breaths before continuing on in a haste. “Harry- where are we going-?” “We need to lure him into the open. He’s alone, his forces broken. He’s going to be panicked and reckless, not willing to think things through. We need to bring him back to the courtyard after he catches up.” “Then what? Everyone’s busy trying to get away from him, they’ll never help us-” “I don’t know, damn it! This is the best I could come up with on such short notice- I should be dead right now, I haven’t had long to plan!” He thinks a moment and calms himself. “I’m sorry, I’m working with what we have-” A loud crack. Out of time. In front of them, he appeared, absolutely furious, wrath oozing from every pore on his decrepit form. This is the second time Harry’s cheated death at his hand. Not again, he’ll kill them both. Slowly. Make them watch each other slip away. It’s only fair. She’s never truly been on his side. He knew it the whole time but to flagrantly rebel and raise her wand? Unforgivable. “CRUCIO!” He roars, green lightning firing from his wand. “Protego!” Harry raises a protective ward, allowing Draconia to return fire. He’s struggling, the Elder Wand is as formidable as they say but something’s off. Something feels unstable.

malfoidaddict

@skoomaaddict08

1 day ago

Chapter 3 (part one) of Dark Cycle "The Manor" ______________________________________ “Move your feet or you’ll lose them.” A heavy hand smacks against the back of Harry’s head sending streaks of white though his already clouded vision. Woozy. Face hurts. He shakes his head. Not the biggest issue right now. They’ve been captured by snatchers. By bloody snatchers. Muggle-hunting washups that look like charred shit and smell even worse. It’s a cruel joke. Out of everything that led to this, Harry Potter will die because of the scent of Hermione’s perfume. His hands are bound behind his back, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger following closely behind in a similar state. Their faces are hollow, gaunt. It’s obvious to everyone they haven’t been living in the best conditions these last few months. His face suffers another pang of blinding pain. It’s swollen, tender, not quite right. Smack. Bars rattling. Fleeting stars shine through his darkened vision. Fenrir Greyback has shoved his head square into the barred gates of Malfoy Manor. The ghoulish appearance of Bellatrix Lestrange soon rushes over to greet him before she realizes who’s calling. Her expression sours. No smile, no theatrics, no semblance of care for his existence at all. Narcissa is behind her. Silent, watching. “Piss off, Fenrir. We don’t want your lowborn filth at this proud estate. We sent you and your lot away for that very reason.” Her voice is lacking the usual sadistic flare she’s known for, she’s speaking purely business. As one would order a meal or schedule a dentist’s appointment. “Ah, but Belly-Belly-Bella, don’t fret. We’d never bring you one if they weren’t special.” Fenrir flashed his signature toothy grin, the hand he was using to hold Harry quickly makes its way down to his forehead. “For starters…” A calloused hand roughly slides across Harry’s forehead, scratching him slightly and forcing the tiniest drop of blood trailing down. Fenrir is quick to the cut, finger diving to scoop it from his skin and greedily wiping it across his top gum. A borderline orgasmic shudder runs through him. With his hair parted, the signature lightning bolt scar shines like a beacon. Bellatrix’s aura instantly shifts, her eyes growing wide with a mad delight and her twisted grin returning to its usual home. She almost can’t contain her glee but she calms slightly. Her voice is but a whisper. “Get. Draconia.” The gates slowly open, the towering and impressive architecture of the place would be seen as stunning if it weren’t for their current predicament. Bellatrix does an about face, skipping along ahead like some sort of demented schoolgirl, Narcissa following in tow with a muted grace. The path is impeccably paved, not a single leaf visible on the tiled concrete leading up the front stairs. ‘Typical Malfoy decadence.’ Harry thought as the snatchers led them along. Step. Step. Step. Step. They’ve stopped. Two large doors rest at the top of the stairs. Bellatrix doesn’t knock, they’ve already started opening for the group to funnel through. The foyer is, in a single word, breathtaking. Unrepentantly lavish, indescribably fancy, so many family heirlooms and baubles adorn the walls and shelves lining the entryway. Too many to process, let alone count. Paintings of what can only be assumed to be past Malfoys and members of the House of Black hang all around them. Before anybody can take their first step, a discordant chorus of voices takes hold. True to their name, the paintings have all begun to hurl various obscenities and slurs towards the group. Mudblood, blood traitor, dung licker and worser unmentionables decorate the air as cleanly as the rest of the house. “QUIET!” Bellatrix shrieks, her wand quickly removed from her pocket, a tiny flame appears from the tip of her wand like she flicked a lighter open. Nearly every painting soon goes quiet within seconds. “Better!” She beams up at the paintings before turning about to face the group. “Sissy! Come here, I need you to see this!” Bellatrix barks, her voice reverberating so loud it tickles Harry’s eardrums. He twitches his already swollen eye before slyly looking to his right to glance at Ron. He’s terrified. White as a ghost, which accentuates his already fiery red hair and freckles. His bottom lip is quivering. It was his fault they were here. He told them he had to do this alone. He warned them he had to do this alone. No dice. Through 7 long years, the three have been inseparable, through every danger, every test. They’ll make damn sure they’re inseparable in their deaths as well. Why does this always happen? His parents. Sirius. Mad Eye. Dumbledore. Death follows Harry Potter everywhere he goes, it’s his oldest friend since birth. It’s only natural to expect it. The clack of heels against hardwood is heard as she moves closer. Clack. Clack. Clack. A frown begins to grow on her lips, she’s held her tongue since the gate. She meekly approaches Bellatrix, tentatively whispering in her ear. “Bella, are you mad or simply daft?” “I… what?” Bellatrix’s glee soon trickles into a confused amusement. “You can’t bring these people here, look at them for God’s sake. This is our family’s ancestral home, you must be completely out of your goddamned-“ “It’s him.” Bellatrix grins. Narcissa stops mid sentence. Her eyes widen just as Bellatrix’s did before but with a different emotion. She looked akin to a deer caught in headlights, her skin pale as fresh snow. “Are you absolutely sure?” “I can’t be. I’ve only seen him through pictures in the tabloids. Fenrir showed me the scar.” “Well then why bring him here?” Narcissa darts her eyes to an entryway near the left side of the room. “Take him somewhere for interrogation.” “Draconia. Where is she?” Harry’s heart plummets into Hell. He’s been catching glimpses, pieces of what they’re saying. Fenrir and Scabior have also gone quiet, eager to eavesdrop themselves in case they’re discussing their payment. Just quiet enough for him to hear her name spoken aloud. ‘She’s here, in the Manor.’ He thought. ‘If she still…’ he drifts. The last time they’ve spoken or even seen each other was in the clocktower where Dumbledore died. He’s been focused on the mission, focused on fulfilling his promise to Dumbledore. Goddamnit, how could he prepare himself for this? “She’s in her chambers, shall I send for her?” “YES!” Bellatrix hissed loudly, her temper growing with her impatience. “NOW!” Narcissa flinches like an abused dog before meekly turning on her heel to start down the corridor, the now-familiar sound of her heels striding down the hallway with her. Bellatrix grins smugly before turning back to the other people she had been pretending weren’t there. “Wonderful! Shall we retire to the den?” Hard stone floor greets Harry and his friends as they’re thrown onto their stomachs, lined up like bucks on sale at a meat market. Harry’s lip slammed the hardest, a tooth directly embeds into his tender flesh. He was well acquainted with the taste of copper at this point, he paid it no mind. The best thing for Bellatrix would be confirmation. She gets the credit, she gets his praise, she gets to torture them. Only then will her prized pig be up for slaughter. Only with confirmation. This drives her crazy. Relatively. As crazy as one Bellatrix Lestrange could be if she were considered sane before. She grinds her teeth roughly, eardrums scanning carefully for any sign of- Clack. Clack. Clack. That wretched sound again. Every step fills Harry with more and more dread. It’s been almost a whole year. What if she’s turned completely? What if she’s different? What if she’s being coached, what if, what if. Her voice rings throughout his psyche. ‘Don’t die, Potter.’ What if she’s the one to do it? Clack. Clack. Clack. The footsteps rise in rate, indicating multiple people on their way. He turns slightly to shoot a glance at Hermione before a kick reaches the back of his head, sending him into the stone once more. “No funny business, right? We can bloody see you a foot away.” Fenrir snarls, voice dripping with malice, looking for any reason to tear into the three of them. Clack. Clack. Pause. Harry can’t look, his attention glued to the grout lines of the floor. “Grab him.” Bellatrix whispers, giddily bouncing over to the woman standing behind Narcissa. Lucius stands to her right, an authoritative aura exudes from his being, hand on his signature gold-tipped cane. Draconia slowly emerges, her steps light and graceful yet full of purpose. She’s draped in black, a fine and indulgent gown hugging her form perfectly. Pure giant spider silk, frilled pattern veils hang from her sleeves, while her shoulders are adorned in royal dark green patterns. Her makeup, immaculate as always. Her steps carry no hesitation as she walks over towards him, he still doesn’t budge. Her bright green heels arrive to fill his field of vision. “Well? I’m not touching that creature.” Her voice is poised, filled with an annoyance rather than fear or venom. Fenrir grabs the back of Harry’s jacket and shirt, savagely pulling him from his resting place and to his knees. Harry tries to look down, his head still glued to the floor before Fenrir grasps his hair and yanks. He can’t help but wince at the sight of her. She’s even more beautiful than he remembered. A shimmering oasis in the Hell they’re occupying. His broken nose and swollen eye do nothing to help his appearance, his breathing a heavy snort through blood and mucus. He coughs, sending a spittle of blood next to her shoe. She pulls it away in disgust. “What am I looking at? You’ve brought me, what? Some kind of muggleborn servant?” She scoffs and rolls her eyes, looking back towards Bellatrix with an ardent intolerance. This is a waste of her time. “Just who is this supposed to be?” “Harry. Potter.” She freezes in an instant. The refined and cold demeanor she had a moment ago appeared to crack briefly. “P-Potter, you said? Harry Potter? ” She doesn’t turn to look back at him. “We think. He has the scar. You went to school with him, you’d know him best.” “W-Well those two there…” she motions to Ron and Hermione next to him, they don’t bother to look at her either. “...are Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. They’re his best friends… surely, he wouldn’t bring them with him to fight against The Dark Lord? They’re too precious to him-“ “I’m mad, not stupid, Draconia. Stop stalling.” Bellatrix grins widely. She’s not going to let her take a prize from her again. She won’t let her fail on purpose. “Draconia. Think hard. Utilize tact. Do not make a mistake, this is more serious than you could possibly imagine.” The commanding voice of her father carries into her ears. “I…” Draconia finally turns back to face Harry again. Eyes gliding across his face and body, studying every detail with a fevered precision. Her eyes finally meet his. Bright green mirrors itself upon their greeting. She goes pale, her skin growing cold immediately. She knows it’s him. Goddamnit, she asked him for one thing. One. Fucking. Thing. ‘You’re a complete and utter cretin, Harry Potter.’ She thinks to herself. ‘You’ve entered the House of Doom and decided to punish me doubly so by making me watch.’ She gingerly reaches out, brushing the hair from his forehead once more, a pointed finger trailing along that scar she’s seen hundreds of times before. “Why’s his face… like that?” She gestures with her hands to circle his face. Fenrir speaks up. “Yeah, sorry ‘bout that. Must’ve hit him with a stinging jinx while we was trying to capture ‘em. Should be fine and pretty within an hour or so.” Draconia’s eyes glimmer before she quietly tempers herself. She can’t get excited, show any relief. One bad reaction and she’s killed him. “Put them in the dungeon then.” Hearing those words, Bellatrix lets out a rather unpleasant screech of defeat. Draconia angrily turns to her, growling in an unusually aggressive tone. “Do you wish to explain why we’ve called The Dark Lord here if you don’t have what you promised?” “Damn you, girl, you will NOT-“ Bellatrix takes a step forward. “Do not speak to my daughter that way in this house unless you wish to lose your tongue, Bellatrix.” Lucius’s voice is steady and guided yet slightly flared. “Do as she says.” Bellatrix lets loose yet another guttural whine before looking at the three. As she steps towards them, something catches her eye. A glint of metal, hanging from Scabior’s belt. “What is that?” She points at the object with her wand. It’s a sword. A brilliantly ornate one. Rubies adorn the wrist guards, an even larger one in the base of the hilt. The unmistakable name of Goodrich Gryffindor is etched into the spotless metal. “Oh this?” Scabior motions to his waist, lightly tapping the sword. His mouth grows a putrid smirk. “The girl had it on her when we caught ‘em. I reckon we’ll take it as payme-“ “AVADA KEDAVRA!” The banshee shrieks. A bright flash of green strikes Scabior square in the chest. His eyes shoot open before the air leaves his lungs and he falls back, eyeballs rolling up into his skull. Before Fenrir can even react, there’s a whip around his neck. Bellatrix lifts her wand, slowly raising Fenrir into the air as she does. He struggles, Harry can hear strained gurgles, gasps for breath. A sickening crunch. A loud thud. “Bellatrix, ARE YOU MENTAL? ” Lucius roars. He storms over in a glide, lumbering over her by at least a foot. His voice drops to a deadly serious tone. “Where do you get off murdering guests in my own home who may have helped us accomplish The Dark Lord’s will?” His face is a mix of angry, contorted and conflicted. Harry’s seen the same look on Draconia. Back in the lavatory. “This little mudblood-“ she takes a few steps, stopping at Hermione’s side before she begins to prod her spine with the heel of her shoe. A small pop is heard. Hermione looks at Ron, eyes wide with horror. She doesn’t dare speak. “Stole this from me. From my vault, Lucius.” She growls as she begins to apply pressure, Hermione quickly filling the room with panicked shrieks and beginning to thrash wildly. Ron fights hard against his restraints, screaming in a rage Harry’s only seen from that locket. “I’LL KILL YOU, BITCH! DON’T TOUCH HER! FUCKIN- GET OFF HER! I’LL HAVE YOUR HEAD ON A PIKE BY DAY’S END, I SWEAR ON MY LIFE I’LL-” His struggle covers him in abrasions, the enchanted rope around his wrist getting tighter with each failed escape. Every word he bellows only makes her press in harder. “Take these two below. I’d like to have a little chat with this one.” Her voice is disgusted, unimpressed. Almost bored. She finally withdraws her foot. Hermione pants and sighs in relief, not moving. Ron stops struggling but does not cease his glare. He doesn’t cease hurling obscenities. If looks could kill, she’d be atomized instantaneously. “Girl to girl.” Lucius looks over to the now lifeless corpses adorning the floor of his familial home. He looks at Ron flailing helplessly on his floor. He finally looks at Harry, curious as to why he’s just… laying there. It’s almost pathetic. This was Voldemort’s greatest threat? A tired sigh escapes his lips as he wonders to himself. His eyes then drift back to Draconia. His eyes raise to Bellatrix. “Fine. Make it quick.” Lucius moves towards Ron and Harry, stopping short of them. He draws his wand from the tip of his cane, lazily flicking his wrist and levitating the boys towards a gated doorway to their right. Another flick and it's open, the two writhing all the way down the stairs as they struggle in vain to break free from their restraints.

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