Dark Days: Chapter 34

Disclaimer: This chapter features graphic violence and extreme imagery. If you have trouble with those things, you might be happier skipping this one.

Chapter 14

Hurt and Hurt

“Unfortunately, esteemed assembly, it is my burden to inform you that Representative Potter will not be joining us this afternoon. Believe me, it causes him the greatest discomfort to forgo your company. However, in accordance with the Hephaestus Gore Act of 1779, any representative who has scheduled a Nogtail hunt more than seven days prior to the announcement of a meeting is thereby lawfully excused from those proceedings.”

Narcissa finished speaking with the glorious Wizengamot owl perched atop her wrist. She surveyed the room, her beautiful face doing an impressive job simulating regret.

“That’s preposterous!” Lord Parkinson growled. “We’re here to determine if he’s guilty of murder. He can’t simply ignore this to traipse through a forest!”

Narcissa shook her head sadly. “But he can. The Gore Act has been a part of our wizarding laws for over two centuries. Just because it isn’t used often doesn’t mean that it isn’t valid. Unless you’re suggesting you know better than those who came before us?”

“We’ll change the law!” Lord Parkinson snapped.

“Feel free to!” Narcissa said. “As Mr. Potter’s stand-in, I’ll hardly get in your way. You’re more than welcome to get rid of it… provided it doesn’t bother you to stamp out tradition.”

She let the owl leave her arm and sat down in her seat, smiling, leaving Wizengamot with their choice. Bellatrix looked amused. Yaxley’s faction were stoic, angry, or in her husband’s case downright murderous, as Lucius had been since she first appeared in the room. Crouch had not even shown up. Since their failure to convict Harry, he’d abandoned this circus entirely.

Narcissa tilted her head. She’d said her part. What they did now was up to them.

O-O-O

Three cloaked men Apparated onto a hill just outside of a small Muggle town. Four others were waiting there. All of them wore full cloaks and skull masks. The newcomers eyed those who arrived before them.

“From the purest of shadows,” they said.

“Of the purest blood,” the others replied.

The men relaxed. They joined the group, raising the total number to seven. All of them turned their eyes to the village, and the farmhouse that lay closest to them. 

“Should we start?” asked the most eager among them.

Others were more cautious. “Why this village?” said a newcomer.

It was one of the four who’d already been there who answered. Their skull mask was slightly personalized, the silver skull encrusted with gemstones. “Does it matter?” this Death Eater said. “A dead Muggle is a dead Muggle. They all scream well.”

“True!” said the eager one. “The children especially. I love the pitches they can hit…”

“This village belongs to the Greengrass woman,” said the man with the bedazzled mask. “She deserves to lose some of her things, don’t you think?”

There were whispers of “Blood traitor.” The newcomer didn’t ask more questions.

The seven of them attacked quickly. They didn’t wait for nightfall. What was the point, when they had nothing to hide from? No one in the country could stand against their spells. The seven fanned out. 

Four went into the first farmhouse, eager to start with a family. More than one favored killing children, and at least one man had a fetish for the mothers. But when the door was blasted open, the farmhouse was devoid of life.

“Where are they? It’s the middle of the day?” a Death Eater asked.

He and three compatriots were hit in the back with a Blasting Curse.

At once, three corpses were created. There were a lot of flying pieces. The Death Eater with the bedazzled mask calmly cocked his head, lowering his wand.

“Three down.”

The others wheeled around outside. Two of them started to run toward the farmhouse, to see what happened. The third, behind them, calmly picked one of them off by slicing through his neck with a spell. The last Death Eater tried to fight back, only for the man in the bedazzled mask to cleave his legs apart below the knees. He fell screaming, but lived long enough to watch the killers remove their masks.

Underneath were a beautiful blond haired woman and a young man with a tousled head of black hair. 

“Youuuuuu fu-fu-fucker!” yelled the Death Eater, bleeding from the stumps of his legs. “How could you—!”

“You should have updated your communication methods,” Harry said. “You're using old Portkey points.”

During the war, locations scattered around Britain had been used to covertly gather Death Eaters prior to a raid. They could be anything from a hollowed-out tree to a small brook. Somewhere in the area a two-way Portkey would be hidden, programmed to take Death Eaters to a designated place. From there, raids would be launched against Muggles or isolated wizards, allowing Death Eaters to gather and then scatter back across the country without warning. This method had been used extensively, at least until the Ministry fell and there was no need to be so clandestine.

Crouch still pined for those days. His crusade against all Muggles stemmed in part from nostalgia for the times spent raiding, killing side-by-side with his master. Harry made a guess that his faction’s methods would still mirror the old days. Sure enough, he had located an active Portkey in two days of searching. From there, it was easy for him and Fleur to dispose of the place of Death Eaters planning to go on this raid. Now, those they met on-sight had been eliminated the same way.

Harry remedied the small chance that this bleeding man could be found by allies by boring through his head with a needle of red magic. The man’s thighs thrashed and stilled. 

Before leaving, Harry and Fleur removed any trace of the bodies. Crouch would know. But any doubt of what happened and exactly how would buy them more time.

Harry briefly looked at the village before they left. Sounds of children, of ringing bells from the school and business underway downtown, filtered up the hill to him. Sounds that Godric’s Hollow would never know again.

At least, somewhere, life went on. For now. 

O-O-O

“They’ve voted to repeal the Gore Act,” Narcissa announced, arriving in the dining room.

Harry and Fleur looked up. They were at the table, Harry eating a

beef bourguignon while Fleur rested her cheek on her palm and watched. For once, she had taken cooking duties away from Dobby. She wanted to show Harry her personal recipe.

“Of course they did,” Fleur said, reluctantly taking her eyes off her lover. “It was a silly law in the first place.”

Narcissa furrowed her nose, taking the chair on the other side of Harry. She relaxed against the table, striking a marginally undignified pose after a long day in a hostile Wizengamot.

“I thought we may get another session out of that excuse,” Narcissa confessed. “It was a very old law. They were less attached to the past than I predicted.”

“They’re getting desperate,” Harry said.

“Indeed.” Narcissa giggled. “I think dear Lucius wanted to curse me where I was sitting!”

“Did you feel unsafe?”

It was something Harry had worried about, sending Narcissa and Daphne into the Ministry without support. Narcissa had laughed it off before, and she was no less airy now. 

“They would not try something so bold. My husband’s ilk are cowards,” Narcissa said. “Besides, he likely still loves me. I was his favorite decoration. He would not do anything to damage it no matter how angry he gets.”

They were distracted by a crash from the living room. All three of them surged up. Harry was the last into the room, owing to his limp leg. By the time he arrived, Daphne was pulling herself up.

She had crashed out of the fireplace so hard that she landed on her face. As Daphne staggered to her feet, Harry saw that her sleeve was singed. She had thrown herself into the fire before the Floo Powder completely took hold.

By the look in her eyes, they knew something was wrong.

“They— My manor— It’s— My manor!”

Narcissa knelt down in front of Daphne. Harry thought she was going to lay a motherly hand on the girl’s shoulder. Instead, she slapped Daphne across the face.

“Don’t talk nonsense,” Narcissa said.

The stinging formed tears in the corner of Daphne’s eyes, but she collected her breath.

“Attackers. They tried to bring my wards down. I think they succeeded. As soon as it started, I ran. They didn’t manage to block the Floo. When I left… They were lighting fire to the place!”

“It’s Crouch,” Harry said. “It must be. Yaxley would have blocked the Floo. Crouch doesn’t have access to the Ministry.”

“What is the point?” Fleur asked. “Surely, he did not expect to catch Daphne.”

Harry’s stomach dropped. He swept toward the front door.

“Maybe they never wanted to catch her.”

Although they were out now on business, Neville and Hannah had taken Harry’s offer to move in. Other than Daphne, only one ally lived on her own. 

“The Burrow,” Harry called over his shoulder, telling them where he was going before he disappeared.

Fleur and Narcissa Apparated with him seconds later. When they arrived, the Burrow was burning.

Instincts born of midnight raids made Harry scan the surroundings before he moved. He didn’t spot any Death Eaters, not even one, although their work was clear. The Burrow’s towering frame was lilting more than usual. Smoke billowed out of the windows and an inferno blazed on the roof. A vague rotten-egg scent came off the flames, giving away their nature as the result of dark magic.

“I am going inside,” Harry said.

“I as well!” Fleur shouted, following him.

Narcissa had boldly followed them to the scene. It seemed like she too would enter the Burrow, but when the heat of the flames touched her face she staggered back, looking ashen. Harry could not wait for her to solve her thoughts. He and Fleur delved through the open door.

They conjured Bubble-Head to keep themselves breathing. Whatever the flames were made of, the almost black smoke managed to puncture the defenses. Harry settled for cutting part of his robes and wetting the scrap, holding it across his face. His eyes stung. On occasions like this, his body’s slow speed made him want to curse out loud.

Fleur had no such weakness. She moved as gracefully as a gazelle through the collapsing building, reaching the stairs in half the time it took Harry. He growled a warning and she stepped to the side as a portion of the ceiling collapsed into a smoldering heap.

Harry’s vision had been reduced to stinging slits as he squeezed his eyes almost shut. Breathing hurt, as if needles were mixing into his lungs. He saw Fleur stop. When he reached her, they had found Ginny.

The last Weasley was sprawled on her stomach with her chin resting on a lower step than her legs. She had been running downstairs when a beam from the roof collapsed. Ginny’s ankle wasn’t visible beneath the burning wood. She must have been on the cusp of passing out from the smoke, but she was still managing to growl murderously. Her wand had fallen from her grasp and skittered three stairs down, out of reach.

Harry levitated the burning wood while Fleur pulled Ginny up.

She couldn’t walk. Even with his limited vision, Harry could see that much. Fleur carried Ginny. Harry grabbed her wand and hobbled after them. 

The Burrow was coming down. Harry had to conjure a shield to block yet more of the roof as a section came down wide enough he could not sidestep it. As soon as he was out from under the shield, he canceled his spell. The impact behind him nearly pushed him off his feet. Embers scattered around him from behind, planting fiery kisses on the edges of his ears.

Fleur pulled Ginny out of the house. Harry still had ten steps to go. Overhead, a hideous creaking threatened something ominous. Too many support beams had fallen already. The Burrow was kept up by enchantments as much as architecture and this fire was burning both.

The ceiling started to give out fully when Harry was still five steps inside.

Anti-Apparition Jinxes were in effect over the property. His only escape was to go faster than this. His ankle ached. He was almost blind in the smoke. 

Soft hands grabbed his wrist and pulled him, getting him out in the nick of time. Fleur had doubled back to help him over the line.

The Burrow came down by the time they reached the others, catapulting plumes of embers into the air. In addition to Narcissa and the wounded Ginny, Daphne had appeared with Susan and Hannah. The latter two were kneeling next to Ginny, although Susan was trying not to look at Ginny’s ankle. Hannah held her shoulder and whispered soothing things. A moment later, after getting a nod from Fleur, she stunned Ginny.

“That will need to be looked at,” Harry said, gazing at Ginny’s foot. The angle of her ankle was utterly wrong.

“It exceeds my abilities, but I’m sure that I know someone,” Narcissa said. “The question is, why was she allowed to live?”

Bluntly put or not, the question was a fair one. Ginny had barely been rescued without the assailants staying on the scene. Was it fear of Harry and Fleur that kept them from finishing the job?

Harry didn’t think so. He was lightheaded, coughing slightly to rid his lungs of smoke, but he could still tell that this was Crouch’s work. The attack on Daphne was a diversion to hit the Burrow harder. So why did they abandon that attack, too?

O-O-O

Two diversions. 

The thought seemed obvious, but rang dully in Harry’s head, the way that realizations did when they come too late.

He was standing on the threshold of a Victorian house in a town too small to be a city, but too large to be termed a village. In a remote part of Northeastern Britain, it had been purchased with a portion of the much-reduced Longbottom fortune. Until the night the Burrow burned, it was filled with un-bought slaves freed before their auction nights. 

It was the morning after now. Harry still had scabs on the back of his hands and neck from walking through embers. Their faint, itchy stinging barely registered as he looked at the eerily quiet house. He smelled blood.

Behind him was Neville. The Gryffindor’s face was pale and his eyes were hard. “It’s bad,” Neville said quietly.

Hannah was standing behind her husband, Fleur at her side. The two of them looked apprehensive. Harry did not wait to see who would follow as he entered the scene Neville had found that morning.

The carnage was organized, which somehow made it worse. Harry’s teeth were tight. He was forced to fight the urge to hit something, because the things he wished to hit weren’t within arm’s reach. The first room was devoted to fingers.

Mounds of them. Trails of them. Some were still bleeding. Harry kept walking.

Past the foyer was the living room. This was where the legs were. They had been charmed to hop on their own volition. One bumped into Harry and fell, twitching where it lay. Harry stared at it. It took him minutes to start moving again.

Something internal was stretched across the banister, lining the wood like colorful streamers. Harry resisted the urge to plug his nose. It would feel like running away.

The bedrooms were split between arms and torsos. They were hung from the ceiling, seemingly without reason, dripping. Harry checked every last one. Like the smell, he didn’t have the right not to.

The master bedroom was last. Harry paused in front of the door, noticing a red trail leaking outward. He stepped in the blood and pulled the handle.

That’s where he found the heads.

O-O-O

“Neville. Hannah.” Harry briskly exited the front door. No one else had searched the house the way he had, with the exception of Neville who found it first. “I want the two of you to relocate as many of the people we’ve helped as you can. Then, I want you to stop.”

Harry was going to Apparate. Neville moved in front of him before he could.

“I appreciate the sentiment, but we aren’t stopping,” Neville said.

Harry regarded him. “They’ve broken our system. This is the second time Crouch found a safehouse. If you had been here, or Hannah, we wouldn’t be speaking— I’d be leaving your remains in my wake.”

“So?” Hannah asked.

She met his eyes with a frightened — yet uncowed — smile. 

“Don’t die in vain,” Harry told her.

“It’s not in vain. It’s the opposite of vain,” Hannah said. “My heart aches for these people. All the same, how many more are out there? Working with you, I’ve seen more than a hundred victims. I’ve helped them. If I was worried about dying, I never would’ve helped one.”

“...I can’t promise your safety,” Harry said.

“You never could, could you?” Hannah said, not unkindly. “Neville and I knew that from the beginning. I don’t value myself more than any of the people we’re working with. I won’t cut them off for my own sake.”

She couldn’t fight. Not well, anyway. She was untrained and largely unprotected. It occurred to Harry, somehow for the first time, that standing in front of these two made him seem small. He was fighting for this cause; they were betting their lives on it, placing the responsibility in his palm.

Harry turned his gaze downward. “If you wish to keep going, keep going.”

He didn’t share anything else that he’d just thought. He kept his rising respect to himself, because really, what would his words mean to them? He was his past as much as he was his present, and that was a burden that would never leave him.

O-O-O

Harry fastened duelist’s gloves on his hands. He was sitting in an armchair in the living room while, a few steps away, Daphne paced. Narcissa was sitting on the couch, wearing a frown.

“Don’t move so much. You’ll worsen your appearance,” Narcissa said.

“Does that matter now?” Daphne asked. “I’ve been reading the law books all week. We’re already down to our second to last excuse to dodge their summons.”

It had been eight days since Daphne moved in following scare at her manor. Her confidence in the defenses had been shaken, while what happened to Ginny was the final straw. The Weasley was staying upstairs recovering from her injury. Her chances of walking again were low, something that elicited both sympathy and empathy on Harry’s part.

“The Dobbs Edict is a perfectly valid law. I predict we’ll postpone the trial for two sessions using it,” Narcissa said.

Harry tightened his second glove. “What is the technicality this time?”

“It’s a law that says to call another Wizengamot delegate to court, you must prove your family is within three generations of theirs or older,” Daphne said absently. “The purebloods sitting on Wizengamot kept it in place in case their less savory dealings were ever brought to light. I think that today is the day it dies, however.”

“It will last two sessions,” Narcissa repeated. “My husband loves that law.”

“With how angry he’s become?” Daphne asked. “You truly think it won’t be repealed in the first hour?

When Narcissa glared at her, Daphne returned to pacing.

“If this law is the second to last excuse, what is the last one?” Harry asked.

Daphne looked flatly at him. “We plead that you have Spattergroit and pray they drag their feet before checking.”

Harry stood up. He was wearing a long, dark outer layer reminiscent of Death Eater robes, but lacking the hood. His feet were snug within dragonskin boots and his hands were wrapped with gloves for dueling. He smiled, softly, and the way the shadows hit his face made Daphne shiver, even though she knew whose side he was on.

“I’ll have to make tonight count then,” Harry said.

O-O-O

For quite a long time, Harry had been resisting in small ways. Dismantling the slave trade took sweeping work, but it had been covert. Behind the scenes. Under the radar.

Every action he took was made with the same thought. Will this make me a traitor? It was a balancing act of pulling his punches, hiding his tracks, and crafting the illusion of a loyal follower. 

Something inside him broke as he walked through that Victorian house. It occurred to him that no matter how much Blaise told him hanging on was worthwhile, Harry was just prolonging defeat. Every day that passed was another opportunity for an attack on him and his. Harry and Crouch were locked in a chain of hurt and hurt, trading punches until nothing was left but corpses. 

If it was going to end in corpses, Harry knew whose he’d like it to be.

He arrived in an urban outskirt of London that he’d visited once prior, in the shadow of a tremendous hanger building. It was guarded by two Death Eater guards who didn’t get the chance to scream. Harry fired conjured spikes from his wand that impaled them through their skulls. Their legs swung as Harry walked past them.

This was Crouch’s kingdom. Harry didn’t intend to leave a soul alive.

For most, walking into this alone would be suicide. Harry was used to impossible odds. He’d done it before. He was tired of seeing victims picked off by these jackals.

He’d rather end the cycle in one swoop.

He sent an illusion of himself in first, moving behind and to the side of it. It would be dispelled easily but should draw the first spellfire. Yet, none arrived.

The illusion walked in front of Harry unmolested. The hanger was better lit than it had been on Harry’s first trip. He could see the walls lined with torture victims, their heads hanging down and scars coating their partially-undressed figures. But the ones who should have been doing the torturing weren’t present.

The illusion Harry had created disappeared. A new Harry appeared a few steps to the side— not the real one, but another copy to seem real to anyone watching. Harry slowly walked deeper into the room. Without screams, footsteps echoed off the windowless walls. The light granted by floating candles was flickery and unstable. He approached the throne Crouch had built for himself, assembled from the pieces of victims. Tonight, it lay empty.

The candleflames exploded in size. Dozens of times bigger, then hundreds of times, then— The hanger caught fire.

Harry was starting to hate fire, since it seemed that Crouch loved it. Time and again, the man burned things to the ground. Perhaps because that’s what he longed to do to the world.

Harry had sent the illusion of himself ahead. He was not as far from the door as he appeared to be, so escaping would be simple. Harry’s eyes fell onto the torture victims. 

There were so many of them. Fifty, at least, but it could have been as many as eighty. Harry clenched his teeth. While he directed his facsimile to sprint toward the door, the real Harry approached the closest Muggle, cutting through the chains that held the man up.

In an instant, the man’s shut eyes snapped open.

He sprinted at Harry with unnatural dexterity. As soon as one chain was cut, the rest in the room detached. Every single prisoner, even those with open wounds, ran as if they were in perfect health. When they tripped over each other, they dragged themselves up and kept sprinting. Harry was caught off-guard.

They couldn’t see exactly where he was, so they threw themselves in the general direction. When he was finally unable to dodge one, they converged on him. Harry banished a few away from him but could not muster enough magic to stop so many bodies. The fire was spreading. Some of the prisoners had run straight through patches of flame, yet they paid no mind to the burns they accrued. Their eyes were vacant and their expressions were shallow. It was the Imperius Curse, used en masse.

As Harry fought against the multitude of limbs scrabbling against him, one man entered the room. He wasn’t wearing his Death Eater mask. He wanted Harry to see who was in front of him.

Amycus Carrow was grinning so widely it looked painful.

“Stupid… pitiful fucker…” Amycus muttered. He talked in a deranged way full of pauses and occasional missing words. “Hurt my sister… Think you’ll get away with it… I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you! I said I would!”

He laughed uproariously. You could barely see Harry’s face, so many Muggle bodies were pressing down on him. A girl as young as eleven had her legs around his neck, attempting to choke the air out of him. A man missing one eye and six fingers was holding Harry’s wrist to keep his wand down. It was a pile of bodies, Harry trapped in the middle of it.

“You’ll burn with me,” Harry said. 

The flames were spreading fast. They were almost to the door.

“I… don’t care!” Amycus announced with a giggle. “I volunteered… had to be the one to kill you…”

He aimed his wand at Harry. Harry carefully watched the movement. A jagged sideways W— the Cruciatus Curse. Non-lethal.

Harry accepted the pain. He screamed the way that Amycus wanted. As soon as the man laughed, taking delight in his revenge, Harry started his fight.

He did not have the luxury of caring for those on top of him. He tried to do the right thing, it had been used against him, and now he had just one choice. He threw limbs off of himself and fought through the Muggles, snapping bones, theirs and his own, as he fought forward, roaring with pain.

Amycus stumbled slightly. “Protect me!” he screamed.

Roughly one-tenth of the Muggles threw themselves in front of Amycus, shielding his body with theirs. Those must have been the ones he enchanted personally. Harry slammed through them directly. Amycus finally tried the lethal approach.

Harry had lost his wand as he fought free of the pile. As Amycus summoned the Killing Curse, Harry reached between the last of the Muggles and got his hands on Amycus’s open mouth.

It was the most sensitive part of the body he could reach. Bellowing, Harry hooked his left hand under Amycus’s upper jaw and his right hand in the lower half. He pulled in different directions with all his might.

The lower jaw snapped, loosening beyond what could heal, while the upper half was ripped out. Amycus’s scream was uncanny without a complete mouth to filter it. He fell on his back and rolled side to side, spewing crucial blood from his face.

Harry snatched Amycus’s wand and used it to summon his own. When the holly wood nestled in his palm, Harry froze the Muggles that could still move with a succession of Body-Binds. He turned to look down on the wreck that was Amycus.

The Cruciatus had failed the moment Amycus focused on the Killing Curse, even though he never finished the second curse. Harry called upon the medical knowledge he’d accrued taking care of his fragile body and staunched the bleeding.

It was a simple spell to prevent hemorrhaging. There was nothing restorative about it, especially on a wound like the one that Amycus bore.

“I’ve heard that burning to death is more painful than bleeding out,” Harry said. “Perhaps you can tell me when we meet in hell.” 

Amycus clawed at his ruined face. There was no chance of him standing up again through the pain. Harry looked back at the Muggles that had been used in this trap.

They were crippled, scarred, and in many cases would never make a recovery. Now, their minds had been crushed under the control of a foreign master. Harry made his choice. 

He levitated the handful that had responded to Amycus’s summons and sent them outside. They, at least, were in their right minds again. The rest, Harry stunned as quickly as he could. When they were mercifully unconscious, he changed to cutting curses. Clean wounds that wouldn’t be felt. 

By the time Harry left the hanger, smoke was billowing out of the door. It was not nearly as close as his escape at the Burrow had been, which was fortunate because Fleur was not here to pull him out. Harry’s body was sprained and broken in multiple places from how hard he had exerted himself. His limp, in particular, was worse than ever.

But his mind was a million miles away. That wasn’t how he wanted things to go. Crouch had been ready for him, and worse, the man hadn’t been there.

Harry’s attempt to end things was a failure. One that he had a sinking feeling wouldn’t come without losses. The question was merely who, and how many. Harry created Portkeys for the Muggles he managed to save. With them in tow, he returned to his home. 

Susan and Fleur were there, taking care of Ginny. Narcissa and Daphne arrived three hours after Harry, reporting that their latest excuse had been outlawed. Two hours after them, Neville returned from a meeting with Blaise.

And that was that.