Darker Days

"And what," Fleur said, "might this be?"

Harry averted his eyes. He should've lied, something simple about being hurt in the village. But he had not looked away quickly enough, catching a glimpse of those intent blue eyes. The words wouldn't come.

Barking caught their attention. The dog he brought home had run across the room, resting its head on Susan's knee. The redhead scratched it behind the ears and massaged its bruised snout in the spot Pettigrew kicked.

"Don't worry about him," Susan said to Fleur. "Even he doesn't want you to. See?"

Harry was still looking away— at the wall, at the dog, at the floor. Anywhere but Fleur. Susan smiled.

"Look, Fang!" she said. "I think the monster is embarrassed!"

It wasn't embarrassment. Pain throbbed through Harry's fingers, but that was something familiar to him. He was accustomed to it. The soft touch holding his hand in place, though…

He remembered one like it, as much as he wished he didn't. But it was far from something he was used to. 

Thankfully, Fleur had found something else to focus on.

"You named the dog?" she asked.

"Of course not." Susan continued rubbing the hound's sore nose. "Fang is what his owner called him. He lived at Hogwarts with the groundskeeper. It's difficult to forget a dog this size."

Taking advantage of the conversation, Harry pulled his hand from Fleur's grasp, quietly leaving the room. For some reason, she followed him. She was still there when he reached the living room.

"I can fix this myself," Harry said. "I've dealt with worse."

He raised his wand, taking aim at his injured fingers. But Fleur pushed his wand back down.

"Set them first," she muttered. "No spell can fix it properly if you don't."

She grabbed his hand again, and with movements that were decisive if not gentle, realigned his fingers. Harry could not keep himself from wincing.

"There." Fleur looked up. "Do it now."

Harry muttered the proper spell, feeling bones slither back together beneath skin and sinew. He sighed when it was finished. They would be sensitive for the next hour and forty five minutes, but back to normal by the next morning. 

Still holding onto his hand, Fleur turned her head side to side, studying the shape and angle of the fingers.

"You are good at that spell," she admitted. "Do you have practice with it?"

"Yes," Harry said.

"They broke when you threw that man, didn't they?"

"...Yes," he said.

"How?" asked Fleur.

It was not something he had any obligation to answer. It was tiresome to explain and didn't involve her. But he made his mind up back in the auction house, so he walked to a chair and sat, cocking his head.

"What do you know about me?" he asked. 

"Your name is Harry Potter," Fleur said. "You are a member of Voldemort's Inner Circle. He taught you personally. You are young, but not to be underestimated. Among all the Death Eaters, Dumbledore believed you were the most dangerous. Bellatrix was reckless, Crouch made mistakes out of passion, but you were calculating. You had complete control of yourself."

Dumbledore… The name rang heavily in Harry's ears, as always. Everyone seemed to know the man so well— everyone but him. They never met, not even on the day the old Headmaster lost his life to Harry's master. 

"Voldemort did not simply teach me, he raised me," Harry said. "He slaughtered my parents when I was young. I do not know why he chose me, only that he ensured I understood a simple lesson from the time I was young: if I remained loyal to him, we could not lose."

"And you haven't," Fleur said sourly.

"So it seems," said Harry. 

After a pause, he continued his story. 

"Voldemort was determined to craft the best tool possibly. He taught me that the world was like a wild beast. It would always be waiting to bite me, unless I had the strength to make it cower. He taught me magic. He taught me how to instill fear in a room, and when to treat a subordinate warmly. But he wasn't satisfied with making a great wizard. He searched out ancient rituals, things that used sacrifices to help one transcend human limits."

"And they worked?"

"In a manner of speaking," Harry said. "I'm stronger than I should be. My limbs move faster than should be possible. But if such rituals were so effective, they would never have fallen out of favor, and every dark wizard would be as fast as a vampire. As with most things, power came at a cost."

Harry reached up, flexing his arm. He did so as hard as possible, and as his muscles contracted, he could feel his bones straining underneath.

"In exchange for such strength, I break easily and often. I can throw a man across the room against a wall with one hand… but when my fingers push off, they're likely to snap. It has its uses…" He looked down at his ankle. "And its drawbacks."

He'd grown used to his limp— lived with it long enough for that. But if given a choice to go back and reverse the rituals that strengthened his body, he would hardly hesitate.

"Can it not be healed like your fingers?" Fleur asked, looking down at his ankle herself.

"Power for a price," Harry said. "My ankle did not shatter from using it, but in the process of the ritual. Dark magic can resist even the strongest healing. Voldemort gave up on the idea of fixing it, and the idea of such rituals shortly after. I believe he was planning to use what worked on me on himself, but instead decided that it wasn't worth the trouble. They would only weaken him."

Fleur was silent. Harry sat and waited, content to let the silence drag. Before she spoke next, Fleur dropped onto one knee, staring at him from eye-level.

"You are sharing more than you should be," she said. "You have asked nothing of me. You attempted to kill the man that harassed me. I do not understand. Why are you being so accommodating?"

She was probably the most beautiful woman Harry had ever met. Her attractiveness was almost supernatural, the way every feature was perfect and flowed together. Even then, Harry had to force himself to actually see her face instead of picturing another one over it— a face that had been seared into his memory in a way he could never make fade.

"You remind me of someone," he said.

"That's it?" Fleur demanded.

"Did you hope for more? When I look at you, I see her in your expression. That's why I brought you home. Whatever you choose to do, I will comply as well as I can."

"And if I chose to walk out that door right now?" Fleur said.

"I would let you."

"Why?"

"Because I'm giving you the second chance I failed to give her," Harry said. 

Keeping his expression neutral was a specialty of his. It didn't come naturally to him, but when you grew up surrounded by sadists who took passion for weakness, some lessons were necessary to survive. Whatever he thought, his face was supposed to stay blank.

He suspected that he failed at this now, because Fleur recoiled. Her eyes widened, and she stood up. Without another word, she walked out of the room. 

Harry watched her go, before leaning back in his chair and sighing. It had been an extremely long two days. He let himself relax, his head sinking into the cushion behind it, slowly shutting his eyes.

He never realized the endeavor of clearing one's conscience could be so… taxing.

O-O-O

Life in Harry's home settled down over the next few days. His master didn't call for him. There were no more unannounced visits from Aurors, attacking Death Eaters, or blond housewives. Harry helped the residents of Godric's Hollow bury their dead and return to their lives. Susan was the same as she ever was, and Fleur acted contained and polite. Despite their conversation, she did not choose to leave, despite having Harry's explicit permission. Days passed. It was a week later when Harry dressed himself in dark dress robes and set out early in the morning, apparating to the Scottish Highlands. 

When he arrived he was only one of many. Wizards and witches dressed similarly to himself were popping up all over the grassy field, meandering toward long rows of conjured seating. The chairs had been set up facing a stage to the side of a crystalline lake, a towering stone castle in the background.

Harry joined the throng. His eyes scanned the seats as he walked, picking out the blond hair of the Malfoys near the front, choosing not to join them. They were certain to be in a dreary mood. After all, to him this might be a formality, but for them, it was the funeral of one of their closest friends.

Harry was in the process of choosing a different seat when someone fell into step beside him.

"Could you do with a bit of company?" Corban Yaxley asked.

Harry shrugged, allowing the man to follow him as they found seats near the middle.

"I heard you had a bit of trouble last week," Yaxley said. "Luckily, Mulciber arrived in time. Otherwise, it could've been a tragedy."

Twenty-nine. That was how many inhabitants of Godric's Hollow died before Crouch and the Carrows were run off. In a village of only a few hundred, that was a significant number. But of course, to Yaxley, the only tragedy would've been if something happened to Harry himself.

"Your help was appreciated," Harry said.

"My help?" Yaxley smiled. "I wouldn't know anything about that. I wasn't there, of course, only our fine Department of Magical Law Enforcement. But if you feel that you owe me, there is something you can do."

"And that would be?"

"Spare Peter Pettigrew."

For a moment, Yaxley's face turned serious. He sounded like the clinical man that fought on the front lines of the war, rather than the suave politician he was usually content to present himself as. 

"I've invested much into that man," he said. "To lose him now would be a blow." His smile returned. "You wouldn't want to deal a blow to a friend, would you Harry?"

"He can't be too hard to replace," Harry said.

"Harder than you might think," Yaxley admitted. "He excels at sniffing out deals and danger. Best of all, he knows how to be obedient. If I were forced to lose him, well… I would not be pleased."

Harry weighed the options in his mind— track down the rat while making Yaxley an enemy, or allow that creature to scurry away and live another day.

"He entered my home," Harry said softly. "He came after those inside."

"He will be disciplined," Yaxley said. "I will see to it myself. But I cannot make money off of a dead man."

Harry turned toward the stage. "Keep him then. But if he makes one more mistake, nothing in this world can save him."

"Thank you," Yaxley said. "That's all I ask."

A coffin stood upon the stage, laying flat. No one went near it as the seats filled, but now that the guests had all found their spots, a man walked slowly up the steps. Harry's eyes widened.

Black robes billowed as Voldemort walked onto the stage. All talk stopped. The northern wind blew the grass and chilled their skin as the Dark Lord stood, observing those who had come. He raised his long, pale wand, pressing it to his throat, and as he did the coffin jerked up.

It floated and turned, its lid falling down with a great crack. Some gasped as Severus Snape's body was revealed, his skin as pallid as it was in life, both eyes shut peacefully. 

"Look upon the body of my servant," Voldemort whispered, magic carrying his voice further than any shout could have. "Look at my poor, dead Death Eater."

The Dark Lord allowed time for all in attendance to do as he commanded. And as he did, he stepped forward further, all the way to the edge of the stage.

"We are here to honor Severus Snape, who has made the ultimate sacrifice," Voldemort said. "He served me for decades. While others lived in comfortable mansions, he spent his time here, on these grounds, the brave spy. Through him, many of Dumbledore's plans fell to pieces. What better place to remember this man than here, where he spent most of his life?"

"Severus Snape was not a simple Death Eater. To many of you, he was a teacher. A Head of House. A godfather, even, or a trusted friend. It is natural to mourn such a loss. Please, do so to your heart's content."

Harry watched Draco's head dip down in the front row. Some had similar reactions, especially the younger ones in attendance. But many people simply waited for Voldemort to continue.

"For most of you, this place is familiar," Voldemort said abruptly, his tone changing in a way Harry struggled to pin down. "Here, outside of this school, I struck down the great Albus Dumbledore. Compared to me, he was nothing but a frail old man. I crushed him and ended the war… is what we thought."

Harry stiffened. So did Yaxley beside him. People all across the crowd grew nervous. They knew, many firsthand, just how dangerous it was to stand in front of an angry Voldemort.

The Dark Lord stepped forward, off of the stage, but instead of falling he continued moving through the air, floating autonomously above the crowd and scanning them with his red eyes.

"I do not blame you for being mistaken," he said. "Even I was fooled. But on that night, Severus Snape drank to our collective victory, and now he sits cold in a coffin. This was not natural. He was killed. If even my Inner Circle can fall, none of you are safe. We have entered a different kind of war… One where even your fellow purebloods cannot necessarily be trusted."

Snape's coffin fell back, crashing against the stage. Its lid levitated up, dropping down and shutting with a decisive CLICK! More than one person flinched at the noise.

"What is important going forward is unity," Voldemort said. "I will not remain lax. Every last witch and wizard will have their loyalty tested, to ensure such a tragedy is not repeated. None of you have anything to fear." He paused. "Unless your faith is lacking."

Someone in the back row clapped uproariously. When Harry looked back, he spotted Bellatrix on her feet, hollering and slamming her hands together with all she had. Others began to clap too, more sedately, until applause had spread through the crowd. Voldemort remained above them, smirking as he looked down, daring anyone to meet his eyes.

Harry was among the first to start clapping. He could not afford to look hesitant. But as he clapped, the entire time, his mind raced.

This was planned. It was premeditated. Not only did Voldemort kill Snape, he was turning the man into a justification for something even bigger. Harry could be wrong, and he hoped that he was, but to him…

It felt as if their hard-won peace had just shattered.

O-O-O

There were more speakers after Lord Voldemort. Lucius took the stage. Then Draco did. More students spoke, reminding the audience of Snape's slick schemes and ability to uplift Slytherin. Harry's back was sore by the time the last of them had finished.

He exchanged nods with Yaxley, then went separate ways. It was a bit of a walk to reach the place where the Apparition wards had been lowered. 

As Harry moved, a strange sound reached his ears. It was quiet enough to ignore, but with Fang in his home it was a sound he'd grown accustomed to looking out for: the barking of a dog.

Harry paused, turning and looking around himself. There was nothing toward the lake, and only more stragglers back by the stage. It wasn't until he looked at the castle that he saw it.

Despite the sound, what he spotted wasn't a dog at all, but a man. He stood at the top of a low hill in robes far too ratty to belong to a pureblooded scion. Everything about him gave off a suspicious impression, including the fact that he seemed to be looking directly at Harry.

No one else noticed him as they had no reason to look that way. The man remained there for a long string of seconds. Then he turned away, disappearing down the backside of the hill.

Harry turned himself, refusing to let curiosity get the better of him. After Voldemort's declaration, he didn't want to linger here. Already he could see attendees beginning to give each other suspicious looks.

He heard the dog again before Apparating away. This time, it was letting out a long and mournful howl.