Darker Days

Harry Potter appeared with a distinct pop upon an expanse of dead grass.

It was a lawn, or it had been once. Now, something had caused the greenery to dry and wither. The day was cloudy, and not even the time — two fifty-five in the afternoon — could make the day bright. Harry walked up a winding path to the front door of the large manor to which the lawn belonged, ignoring the way its loose shudders shrieked in the wind.

He gave the door three wraps with a snake-shaped brass knocker.

There was a moment's wait. Something bustled inside the manor, far larger than a house elf. The door opened.

"Come in," grunted a man Harry just about recognized as Rodolphus Lestrange.

His hair was longer and darker than Harry remembered it, clinging to the sides of his head in oily strands. Stubble coated his chin and cheeks. His eyes regarded Harry, and he sniffed.

"Expecting you," he muttered. "Yes, expecting you they are. Come in. In!."

He skulked back, allowing Harry room to step inside. Harry did so.

He waited for the man to lead the way for him, but it didn't happen. Instead, Rodolphus simply stared at him. Neither one spoke.

"Where are they?" Harry prompted.

"Down the hall," said Rodolphus. "Straight."

He continued to look at Harry. With one more moment's hesitation, Harry turned and walked away in the specified direction. He felt sunken eyes on his back the whole time.

The floor creaked beneath Harry's boots. It might have been afternoon outside, but in here, no light penetrated. Candles lit the space on the walls, spread out just far enough to leave a patch of darkness between each and the next. Portraits lined the walls. They almost looked muggle, staying completely still within their frames, yet their eyes tracked the visitor as he passed.

Harry climbed a set of stairs, still moving straight. The whole house seemed to groan from its very bowels. It smelled of dust, melted wax, and the acrid tang of dark magic. Harry finally spotted a doorway ahead of him, open and emanating a stronger light than anything he'd passed yet.

The moment he stepped through it, a yellow curse flew for his head.

Harry didn't bother with a spell. He bent back, dodging in a way only someone with reflexes like his could accomplish. The curse made the wallpaper bubble where it struck.

Harry's wand was already in his hand. He swung it around, but before he could utter a spell, more curses flew at him, forcing him to duck aside. 

He raised a shield. A magenta spell hit it with an audible crack, and Harry used the moment it bought him to get a look at his attacker.

The man wore red Auror robes caked in grime. He had hair even longer than Rodolphus, and twice as matted. His eyes seemed unable to blink. Spit flew from his mouth as he screamed the incantations to curse after curse, churning them out with undeniable skill.

One shattered the shield Harry raised. His eyes widened. Before he could move, a piercing course drilled through his forehead in a shower of gore.

"I did it?" said the crazed man. "I did it!" He turned to the side. "Did you see? You're really going to let me go, right?"

He never saw the piercing curse, the same spell that he used, as it punctured the back of his head. He fell limply and didn't rise.

"Booo!" jeered a woman's voice.

Harry, standing behind the downed man with his wand still raised, felt arms wrap around him. A hand grabbed his arm, sharp nails stabbing marks into his flesh.

"That's no fun at all!" Bellatrix Lestrange whispered in his ear. 

Her hands dragged his arm, slowly moving it through the motion for the Cruciatus. 

"No screams. No pain. Over so quickly! It's a complete waste of magic. You didn't break him at all, merely killed him!"

Harry's arm went still. Bellatrix still pushed against him, but so long as he didn't let her, she could not move it. Cursing, Bellatrix pulled away.

"I thought you would be fun, when you were younger," she complained. "You had such animated reactions. Where did it all go?"

Harry ignored her completely, walking deeper into the room. 

It had probably been an office, once, but any original purpose was lost now. There was plenty of space, almost twice as much as in the parlor of Harry's home, and unlike his home, this room was devoid of traditional furniture. Two bodies lay in the room, one that Harry created and another that had been there before he arrived, shoved into one corner. A window made from thick green glass casted its tint across the room's centerpiece: a tall seat of transfigured rock.

Harry knelt before the throne, lowering his head.

"You called for me," he said.

The figure on the throne looked at the man he killed, resting his chin on one hand.

"An illusion," Voldemort said. "Was it cast when you dodged his spell? No, before that. Before stepping into the room, perhaps before you even entered the manor. You used only a shield charm, something invisible that would not give away your true location, to make your decoy convincing. And when he thought he had won, you crept up… and ended him."

"The man was a fool," Bellatrix spat.

"Proudfoot was an Auror," Voldemort said. "He was a powerful wizard who believed winning here was his only chance to survive. He fought with all he had, but in the end, he was no match for my protege."

Instead of pride like you might expect, Voldemort delivered the words strangely. They sounded cold, utterly without inflection. In his own way, Harry's master seemed as displeased as Bellatrix.

Voldemort was a handsome man so long as one did not look closely. He had black hair and a handsome face. Harry didn't need to look in order to see it in his head: red eyes, a sharp jaw, and skin that shone slightly under any light. Only when you studied him did you spot what was wrong. His face never moved as much as it ought to have, as if the muscles inside his cheeks were lame. His skin was too bright, and his eyes as well. To the trained eye, he looked more like a wax statue than a true man his age. Not that any dared say as much these days.

"How may I serve?" Harry asked.

Voldemort regarded him. Harry could feel his gaze, even though he forced himself not to make eye contact. Such a thing might cause offense. It was unlikely, but his master was ever capricious, and Harry did not survive by taking risks.

"Have the Malfoys expressed any worries recently?"

"Lucius is extremely excited for the next Grand Auction," Harry reported. 

"Yes, I imagine he is," Voldemort said dismissively. "Anything else?"

"They have not heard from Snape."

Voldemort paused in a way that told Harry that was exactly what he had been fishing for.

"Do you want me to find him?" Harry asked.

Bellatrix cackled. Her laughter pinged off the room's walls.

"Find him?" Voldemort asked. "Why, I have no need to find him. He's right over there."

Despite himself, Harry tensed. He snuck a glance at the second body— not of the Auror he dispatched, but the one that was there before he arrived. The mangled thing pushed to one corner.

It was dark in the room, and that nook had not been afforded even the throne's greenish light. Whatever had been done to the body was no concise killing curse. But as Harry's eyes searched, they spotted at least some recognizable traits. He saw greasy shoulder-length hair and patches of pale, white skin.

Harry quickly looked back toward the floor.

"Poor little Snapey!" Bellatrix cooed. "All his potions together can't help him now!"

"He has no need of help, Bella," Voldemort chided. "This was no punishment. I did him a favor. The spy leads a fascinating life, working both sides to the end. But none ever know where his real loyalties lie… unless he becomes a martyr. Now Severus Snape will be remembered as a hero forever, no matter what the truth may have been."

"What do I tell Lucius?" Harry asked.

His voice was the same as ever. Level, despite his churning stomach. 

"The truth, of course," said Voldemort. "You heard that Snape was missing. On an errand for me, you were attacked by a stray remnant of the fallen ministry. You put the scoundrel down, of course. And when that was done, you discovered the body of Severus Snape. A great tragedy."

"I will be suspected," Harry warned.

"Is the little baby scared?" chirped Bellatrix.

"I did not say I can't handle it," Harry said. "Just that I would be suspected."

"Do as I say," Voldemort said simply. "The rest will be yours to deal with."

Harry nodded to show he understood.

"When will this become public?"

"Tomorrow."

"The auction is tomorrow," Harry said. "I will be seen there. People will wonder."

"The day after, then." Voldemort waved a hand lazily. "The exact time does not matter. Take his body with you. You can choose where to discover it for yourself."

"Am I dismissed, then?" Harry asked.

"You may leave," said his master.

His master. At one time, that title had been easy to understand. The man instilled something in Harry daily, be it new spells, brutal wisdom, or some twisted lesson. It had been over a year now since he taught Harry a single thing. Not since the climactic duel where Dumbledore finally fell, and the war could be considered won.

Harry rose. He summoned Snape by the ruined wreck of the man's robes, levitating the body behind himself as he slowly walked from the room. The Auror, Proudfoot, met the same fate.

"Blah!" Bellatrix screamed as Harry passed her, pulling her lips open wide and jamming out her tongue. He paused, looking at the demonic face she flashed at him, then turned his head forward and continued walking.

"See what I mean?" Bellatrix shouted after him. "No fun!"

Harry traced his way back out how he came in, not looking at the bodies behind him. He wouldn't mourn Snape. But he wouldn't celebrate his death, either.

Soon noises echoed down the hall behind him. For a moment Harry mistook them for Narcissa, the way she screamed when their robes were shed and he was making her his. But the Lady Malfoy was half the country away… meaning it was her sister that these sounds were coming from.

Harry didn't wait and listen any longer. He knew that his master was a hollow man, numb inside from the dark magics he had dabbled in. But he also knew that did not stop Bellatrix from trying to tempt him. He could not imagine Voldemort having carnal urges, and frankly, he did not want to. But Bellatrix's many years of effort must not have been entirely without results.

A light in a passing room caught his attention. Harry stopped to peer inside.

Bellatrix's aroused shrieks were audible even here. Rodolphus Lestrange sat in a wooden seat before a small table, a book open in front of him. His complexion was white as he stared at the pages. Periodically, he would rub his head with both hands, dragging frantic fingers through his unstyled hair, before forcing himself to try and read again. Eventually, he noticed he had company.

Rodolphus looked up, but not at Harry. Instead, it was the deceased Severus Snape that Rodolphus focused on.

"They got rid of him, didn't they," he said. "Because he was unnecessary. Because he was in their way."

"A stray Auror got to him," said Harry. "A great tragedy."

"You expect me to believe that?" Rodolphus snapped.

He threw out his arm, bumping the book and sending it skidding off the table. It hit the ground in a flurry of pages with a sharp crack.

"A great tragedy," Harry repeated.

If Rodolphus were smart, he would know what to do with that. Harry walked away, leaving the man to listen to the sounds of his wife with her lover. His last sight of Rodolphus was of the man standing mechanically, picking up his spilled book with robotic movements, and setting it back down on the table. Then he sat, and held his head in his hands, covering his eyes.

Harry's chest felt lighter when he reached the lawn and apparated away, leaving Lestrange Manor far behind.