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Darkness Within The Light	By : crimson96 Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 8759 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 11
- 12
- 13
Author's Note: Hello everyone. I do hope that every reader that has read this story thus far has enjoyed it. It is a roller coaster of a story. Many thanks for her help and assistance to my beta reader, Eris R. LeBeau. You are one of a kind. This chapter you will see what really set Lucius off in Chapter 10. Also, you will see a darker side to Phillipe and understand his character a bit more. So I hope everyone enjoys this chapter and please do leave a comment or drop me an e-mail about any chapter or this story.

Chapter 12: The Greater Good

The small field mouse scurried along the open ground, desperate to make it back into the shelter of the tree that lay on the ground. Somewhere above, a large owl hooted from the treetops. Its large, amber eyes surveyed the landscape below, waiting to spot the slightest movement within the grass. Suddenly the owl leapt from the branch and swooped down, capturing the mouse. The stillness of the night was broken by the shrill squeals from the mouse as the razor sharp talons ripped into the soft flesh, completing the kill. Again the forest was silent except for a low breeze that stirred through the trees, creating a ghostly sound.

The ancient oaks and elms surrounded the small cottage, isolating it from the rest of the world. It was a small, white home with blue painted shutters and flower boxes beneath its two tiny windows. A cottage garden sprawled all around it, and the air smelled of lavender, lilac, and kerosene.

The door to the cottage lay awkwardly open and partially unhinged as if a large force had propelled the door inward. Inside, on the floor of the small living room, was a large, rusted container with its cap unscrewed. The sweet, cloying vapors wafting from the can were strong enough to make a man's head spin. A large hand grabbed the handle of the can and lifted it upwards.

"For Merlin's sake, don't do this!" A man's voice cried out in terror. "Please, I beg of you! I have..."

A gloved fist struck the pleading man's face, knocking him across the room. The back of his head collided with a family portrait that hung on the wall, breaking the glass, and causing fragments to pierce into the back of his scalp. Immediately, blood began to flow down the back of his neck, staining the silky, white nightshirt. The large hand set the container back down onto the floor, and the gloved man walked over to where his target lay crumpled in a fetal position.

"Get up, you!" the deep voice commanded. "Get up, you're not dead. Not yet, anyway."

The man on the floor screamed as two large hands grabbed him by his shirt collar and heaved him upward with ease, sitting him in one of the wooden chairs.

"W-who, who are you? Why are you attacking us?" the man asked as blood oozed from his battered mouth and nose.

The man's hand paused momentarily as he reached for his robe pocket. "Who am I?" He chuckled while continuing on with his previous action. "Well, I will tell you. I am... merely a face." He pulled out a roll of muggle duct tape and held it in his gloved hands. "I am...your judge," he continued as he ripped a piece of the gray tape from the roll with a sickening, shredding sound. "Your jury," he snarled, as he wrenched the man's wrists violently together and wrapped them tightly with the tape. He tore off another longer piece and wrapped it around the man's legs, binding them together, and then around the legs of the chair so that the man could not move. "And, your ...executioner," he finished as a cold smile spread across his face. He tore off one last piece from the roll of the sticky, gray tape and wrapped it around the chest of the man as well as the back of the chair. He stepped back slowly to admire his work as an artist would to admire a painting.

"Now, before you are condemned, do you have anything useful to say?" Phillipe questioned as he held the tape in his large, gloved hands. "Any… words of wisdom? Any soul-bearing confessions?"

"Please I beg of you, please do not do this! I have two small..."

"I don't give a damn what you have!" Phillipe spat at the man as he placed the tape across the man's mouth. The man tried to scream as Phillipe raised the container and tossed the contents forward, splashing it into the face of the gagged man. His muffled sounds became louder as he writhed back and forth, trying to shake the kerosene from his face. His struggles grew more desperate, and the chair toppled sideways so that he lay on the floor watching his attacker continue his work. Phillipe walked through the little cottage soaking every room with the accelerant.

He walked back into the living room and knelt down to grab the man's hair, lifting his head and neck from the soaked floor. With his opposite hand, Phillipe tore the man's sleeve, exposing the Dark Mark on the man's forearm, or at least the portion of it that wasn't covered by the duct tape. Phillipe pushed up the robe on his own left arm to reveal the faded Dark Mark. "All hail Lord bloody Voldemort," he whispered into the man's ear, and then threw him back down onto the kerosene soaked floor.

He stepped over the man and proceeded out the doorway until something under his food made a loud "crack" that caused him to stop and look down. Expecting to see the shards of a broken bottle glistening in the predawn light, he was mildly amused to see that a porcelain doll stared up at him. The arm of the doll had been shattered, yet the cherubic face smiled at Phillipe in an expression of eternal bliss. He lowered his hand and brought the doll out from under his large foot, smiling wickedly at it as he held it in front of his face. He studied the doll for a moment before stuffing it into his pocket and continuing out the doorway.

"I have..." Phillipe muttered to himself, mimicking the man's pleading tone. "You, mate, have brats who don't put their damned toys away."

Sitting on the outside walkway in the predawn moonlight was another large container with the lid opened. Phillipe seized the can and proceeded splashing the outside of the cottage with the liquid. He shook the container until it was empty and then tossed it into the tangle of herbs and flowers.

From his pocket he drew out a tiny box, from which he pulled a short wooden stick. The stick was, in fact, a clever muggle device, one that would allow him to complete his assignment without the possibility of having his work traced back to his wand. He ran the stick across a strip of abrasive paper pasted onto the front of the box, and the tip burst into flame. A casual flick of his wrist sent the stick tumbling end over end until it landed in the lilac bushes next to the door.

The garden began to bloom with flame, a riot of orange and yellow that swept through the dry twigs and grass and soon began to climb the walls of the house, enveloping the window boxes and shutters. The fire raced a trail of flame and destruction through the open doorway and into the living room, scorching everything in its path. The muffled screams became high pitched as the roar of the blaze continued while the house groaned and crackled. Impatient with the pace of the fire, Phillipe felt into his pocket and extracted the porcelain doll. He smiled again at the doll and walked over toward the burning cottage. Holding his breath to avoid the smoke, he brought the doll close to the fire, dangling it by its bulbous, white head. When the doll's dress had burst into flame, he tossed the toy through one of the windows, easily shattering the heat-weakened glass. More screams came from inside the room where he had thrown the burning doll.

Phillipe stepped back and closely watched the house in case anyone came running out. He could not allow any witnesses to survive his work. With this thought in his mind, along with the Minister's dire warning, he stood out of reach from the flames and waited.

By sunrise, the roof had collapsed, and the flames had begun to die. Phillipe had heard no voices since the screams that came from the room with the shattered window. He slowly walked around the burnt remains of the cottage, smiling and pleased with his handiwork. He came back to his original location and walked into the area that was once the bedroom where he had thrown the porcelain doll. Carefully, he sifted through the burned debris with his foot until something caught his attention. Among the blackened ashes he saw a light- colored fragment. The doll's head stared up at him, cracked and smoke-stained, but still gracing him with its full, upturned lips.

"Well, at least you won't tell any tales, will you?" he asked chuckling to himself. Scanning the area around the scorched doll, Phillipe saw two small, charred bodies huddled close to one another in what was once a small closet. He starred at the two burned corpses, their tiny bones now blackened. Just like the doll, they would tell no tales.

"Message delivered, Minister," he said aloud. The man inside the house had been the last on the parchment he had memorized and then burned.

Yawning, Phillipe reached into his pocket, retrieved his wand, and prepared to apparate. He could spend the rest of the day resting, and tonight he would set out for a drink and look for more work to do.

Although the office had been quiet for the past half hour, Kingsley Shacklebolt found himself alternately looking for owls at the window and glancing at the door in expectation of some harried assistant bearing "urgent" news. He had learned to expect nearly constant interruptions, and he had come to dread the words, "Sir, if you have a moment..." more than he had ever dreaded the prospect of a battle. A good honest fight, after all, carried both the thrill of danger and the chance for glory. Battles could be won or work, on the other hand, brought only endless tedium. Each day was a succession of choices, each of which made someone irate at being denied and emboldened someone else to ask for more. He was scarcely halfway through reading the stack of papers on his desk, and already he wanted to burn the lot of them.

His chain of office chafed the back of his neck. The burden of responsibility that it carried seemed heavier with each passing day. Kingsley tossed the parchment onto the desk and looked down at the livery that rested on top of his purple and blue robes. His large hand closed around the emblem, and for a moment he considered flinging it out the window. If this position was his reward for valor, perhaps he would have been better off to hide in the shadows. With a sigh of resignation, he picked up the next document in the stack- a petition for an increase in funding for security at Hogwarts- and began to read.

The heavy mahogany door of his office flung open, hitting the wall with a loud bang and bouncing back to strike the man who had opened it. "Damn it!" the man snarled as he regained his balance after the unexpected blow, and briskly straightened his robes. A gloved hand pressed the argentine hair back into place as he thrust out his chest and rapped the door with his silver snake's head cane. The door hit the wall again and bounced back to close behind the man.

Refusing to reward such an entrance with a greeting, Kingsley continued to study the petition. His visitor crossed the small room in two long strides and slammed a letter down on Kingsley's desk with enough force to rattle the inkpot, causing a stack of parchment to fall into the floor. Unimpressed by the man's theatrics, Kingsley continued to read about the benefits of warding charms and the need for gold to hire junior Aurors. When he reached the end of the document, he shook his head, wondering how he would draft a diplomatic refusal. He could consider that later.

For now, he leaned back in his chair, pressing his palms together and resting his chin on the tips of his steepled fingers. His visitor glared, red-faced, while leaning forward with one fist on the edge of Kingley's desk and the other clutching the snake staff.

"Lucius," Kingsley said, smiling. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You know, Minister, why I am here." The corner of Malfoy's mouth twitched, but his face remained surprisingly neutral. He gestured with his cane to the letter on the desk. "Did you truly write this, or is it some trickery?"

Kingsley glanced down at the heavy envelope, which bore his broken seal. He did not need to open it to answer; he could hardly be expected to recall every one of his thousands of pieces of correspondence, but he remembered this particular one. It had not been an easy letter to write. He forced himself to look Malfoy in the eye as he answered, "I did, Lucius."

"And what could compel the honorable minister to break a promise?" Malfoy asked, sitting down in the chair opposite Kingsley. "I have done everything you asked. I have delivered invaluable information concerning the remaining Death Eaters! I lead you to Rahl Nocens, I exposed Cersei Pravus, I-"

"True," Kingsley interrupted. "Partially, at least. You have supplied us with some information that has been very useful in helping the Ministry capture Death Eaters and sympathizers to the Dark Lord, many of whom were also debtors of the Malfoy estate or partners in joint business ventures-"

"Which is why I had information on those individuals!" Malfoy snapped. "Of course my own associates are the witches and wizards of whom I have the most accurate knowledge."

Kingsley sighed and spread his hands. "Be that as it may, we cannot supply the Aurors to help protect you and your family. They are needed elsewhere for other Ministry assignments."

"And what assignments are more important than the lives of my innocent wife and child, Minister?" Malfoy asked, his voice catching in his throat.

Kingsley refused to flinch, although Malfoy's words made him sick with shame. "As I said in the letter, their innocence, and yours, has yet to be determined. The Wizengamot feel that the Ministry must be more proactive in our search for Death Eaters. Aurors alone will not capture them all, and every Death Eater who turns himself in peacefully means lives spared on all sides. We need to send the message that the Ministry is powerful enough that resistance is futile."

"And so you are forcing me and my family to stand trial," Malfoy said, his voice low and thick with both anger and fear. "Tell me, Minister, on what charges are we accused?"

"You know all too well, Lucius that you conspired in numerous killings against wizards and Muggles, even killing some of them yourself. Also, let us not forget that you led your fellow Death Eaters on attack raids into the Ministry of Magic."

"Under coercion by the Dark Lord!" Malfoy protested. "You have no idea the powers he possessed. You have lived among wizards restrained by laws, conventions, limited magic, and even more limited imagination. You cannot begin to conceive of the torments the Dark Lord is capable of inflicting."

Kingsley smiled, unwilling to show the former Death Eater any sympathy. "I am sure you can explain all of that at your trial. In two weeks time you and your family will stand in front of the full Wizengamot. I warned you so that you can prepare. It was the least I owed you for your assistance. I cannot help you any longer."

"And what of my heir?" Malfoy demanded. "Draco is a mere child, Minister!"

Kingsley closed his eyes briefly, thinking, Merlin forgive me. When he opened them, he shook his head. "I am sorry, Lucius. Draco is a responsible young man, and he is of age. He will stand trial for the attempted murder of Albus Dumbledore."

Malfoy's hand flew to the breast of his cloak, his face crimson and his mouth twitched with fury.

Kingsley raised an eyebrow. "If you reach for your wand, Lucius, that is a threat against the Minister of Magic. You will go directly to Azkaban. Who will speak for your wife and son then?"

Seething, Malfoy lowered his hand and then rose to his feet. He snatched his letter from the desk and tore it into pieces, which he flung at Kingsley's face. "You have made a dangerous enemy, Minister. This is your gravest mistake yet."

Kingsley stood and calmly brushed the bits of paper from his face and robes. "I am not some feeble bureaucrat Lucius, I am an Auror; a soldier. Would you face me, wand against wand, man against man?"

Lucius made a "tssk!" sound, and his lips curled into a half-smile. "I don't need to face you, Minister. I can ruin you! What do you think the council will do if they find out you have been conspiring with the likes of me? And if they begin asking questions about the all-too-convenient disappearances of certain suspects..." He whirled on the spot and bristly walked out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

Kingsley opened the top drawer of his desk. Inside, he kept a bottle of firewhiskey, which he had planned to reserve for celebrating victories or taking the sting from defeats. Being Minister of Magic had turned out to be a constant battle, one which he never knew whether he was winning or losing, and so several weeks ago, he had given in and opened the bottle. He sipped from it now, enjoying the pleasant burn which spread from his throat to his belly and outward until it filled even the tips of his fingers and toes.

Even that was not sufficient to vanquish the chilling truth; he could not afford to have Lucius Malfoy as an enemy. He had hoped that by warning Malfoy he could give him time to prepare a defense, one that would make the council see reason. He had counted on Malfoy's ability to remain calm and rational, to work within the system. In retrospect, he had miscalculated, and now he was being blackmailed.

He took another sip from the bottle and muttered, "Merlin, forgive me," with his mouth still pressed against the smooth glass. He knew what he needed done and who he needed to do it, and he was reasonably sure where to find that man.

The buildings loomed over the crooked street and leaned toward each other like whispering conspirators. The cobblestone walkway was severely weathered, and pieces of it were missing; no doubt, this was the result of many drunken duels with poorly aimed curses and hexes. A number of the establishments had wooden boards magically placed across the windows. Business had plummeted with the demise of Voldemort and his Death Eaters.

This part of Knockturn Alley, Kingsley reflected, smelled abysmal. The stench of sulfur and ammonia mingled with the sweet, acrid scent of vomit, which grew stronger as he neared his destination. As Kingsley made his way toward the pub where he had first met the assassin, he passed a man who lifted his arm to show that the inside of his greatcoat was decorated with an array of tiny pouches containing herbs and powders.

"Hey mate," the dealer called out to the disguised Kingsley, "want a bargain? It's a deal you can't refuse."

Kingsley stopped walking and looked back at the filthy man and his products. "A deal I can't refuse, you say?" Kingsley asked raising his eyebrow. His curiosity had gotten the better of him.

"Aye. I guarantee it. See these little pouches?" the dealer said, as he pointed at one of the bags tied to the lining of his coat. "Each one is guaranteed to make your little lady fawn and crave over you all night long. She won't stop beggin for ya, mate!" Kingsley stood in place, unimpressed with the sales pitch. "Oh, I see." the dealer said, "You go that way, eh?"

Kingsley could feel his face darken with anger. The hawker raised his hands, fingers spread and palms outward as he continued, "No worries, I'm not here to judge, just to sell. So, for your man, give him one little drop of this liquid and he will be screaming your name all night long, guaranteed!" He said, as he pointed to a tiny bottle tied to his coat.

"No deal." Kingsley said as he made a mental note in his mind to send a Patronus back to the Ministry for someone to arrest this dealer, as soon as he could.

The dealer limped off the edge of the sidewalk coming within inches of Kingsley. He put his hand up to shield his mouth and whispered, "I know what you want, then." The dealer gently elbowed Shacklebolt in the ribs and winked while opening the other side of his grey coat. "Ah, yes! Their beauties aren't they matie! Time-turners!"

Kingsley's first thought was to grab the man by his neck and shove him against the wall, and strangle the life from the wretched wizard for selling illegal items. However, before the thought could flow through his mind another tempting thought barged into his brain. It was the temptation of defeating Voldemort, himself. He could purchase a time-turner, go back into time, and kill Voldemort before he ever came to power, thus saving the wizarding world. He could be a hero and not a battle-weary survivor. Remus, Sirius, Nymphadora-so many witches and wizards needn't die, if he could just do this one small task.

His hand reached out toward the glittering time-turners, inches away from holding the key to the past and the future in his hand. His fingers faintly touched it before the coat was pulled away, completely out of reach. "Well mate? Do we have a deal or not? I can see that you really do fancy one of these little gems," the man said, rubbing his hands together.

The loss of the touch seemed to revive Kingsley as he remembered why he was here in this disgusting part of Diagon Alley. "No!" Kingsley shouted.

"No?" the dealer mocked. "There's nothing you'd change? No lost loves, no last wages, no reason to wonder 'what if…'?

"If those devices worked, why would you be here?" Kingsley asked. "You could have made your fortune betting on today's Quidditch match yesterday." With that, he walked past the man without bothering to look back. He rounded a corner and flicked his wand, sending the lynx patronus to the Ministry office. "That's one less piece of trash to clean up," he said continuing his way toward the Silver Wolf.

Minutes later he was outside the Silver Wolf. Standing across the cobblestones was a young witch in a short, green dress. She laughed and battered her long eyelashes toward Kingsley while placing her index finger onto her lips and suckling the tip of it. Giggling as if she found herself amusing, she blew a kiss toward him and bent forward to better display herself. She had a Hogwarts tie around her thin neck, the ends of it pointing down at her breasts.

He walked over toward the red-haired, young girl feigning interest in her. He paused beside her as she tossed her hair back and lightly traced her finger around the muscular outlines of Kingley's chest.

"What can I do for you, love?"

"You could do a lot for me." Kingsley answered as he placed his large arm around her back and pulled the witch closer to him. "As a matter of fact, you could do plenty for me."

"Oh, love! I adore love it when a big, strong, man like you talks to me that way," she replied with excitement. "I just love a tall, dark, and mysterious man," she oozed, twitching the tip of her tongue between her lips. The young girl reached up and ran her fingers through the long, thick curls that formed the basis of his disguise.

Kingsley pretended to smile as he brought her closer, inspecting her Hogwarts tie, but also looking into the scarlett's eyes. "Yes, tell me, my little rosebud, are you a Slytherin at Hogwarts?"

"The girl's smile wilted. "I was. School's closed now. Idiots in the Ministry say it's not safe to return. Why do you care?"

Kingsley winced. He had been about to tell her that she shamed her house and made a mockery of its colors, but now he was the one who was cupped her chin in one hand, holding her face so that she had to look him in the eyes. "I promise you that when I return from my business appointment in the Silver Wolf, I will take you home and give you everything you deserve. Wait for me here. No running off with some other man!" He wagged a finger for emphasis. "Whatever price you are offered, I will match it."

He released the young witch and walked toward the pub while secretly sending another Patronus to his office. He wanted to make sure that some Ministry official would come and take her someplace safe until classes could resume. Once Hogwarts was back in session, Minerva McGonagall would have a few choice lessons for this pupil.

The doorman, or perhaps door-being would be a more appropriate label, of the Silver Wolf glared up at Kingsley from beneath a set of heavy brows and stroked his hairy, wart-riddled chin with one clawed finger. He looked part troll, part goblin, and at most half-human. After Kingsley handed him a coin, he grunted and stepped aside, allowing the minister to work the heavy silver latch and enter the establishment.

A haze of bluish smoke hung in the air, and the smell inside was more intense that it had been outdoors. In the center of the large common room, musicians played at the base of a stage, upon which a lioness paced as if caged. The big cat wore a golden harness decorated with bells and gems, and he ears were pieced and bejeweled. She was soon joined by another magnificent animal, a sleek black panther with similar decorations, and the two cats began the motions of a mock battle, set to the music. As they swiped and pawed at one another, the people at the tables surrounding the stage began to clap and shout encouragement.

The music quickened to match the pace of the cats' movement. Both animals reared up on hind legs, front paws on each others' throats. Their bodies began to contract. Fur smoothed into bare skin on their limbs and bodies and lengthened into hair on their heads. Within seconds, the lion had become a tawny haired young woman wearing a complex garment made of gold chains and jewels. The panther was now a mahogany skinned woman with a silky sheath dress and a cloud of black curls. The two continued their dance.

"Unregistered Animagi!" Kingsley muttered.

"Shocking, I know," a familiar voice replied. "You never do know what you'll find in this place. Whores, thieves, mercenaries, even the bloody Minister of Magic."

Kingsley spun to see that the man he sought had managed to creep up on him again, and now stood close enough for Kingsley to smell the firewhiskey on his breath. "Careful, watch what you say!" Kingsley admonished, looking around to see if anyone had heard.

Phillipe chuckled. "As if anyone could recognize you under all that." He gestured to Kingsley's magically-generated head of thick, tangled hair.

"You did," Kingsley replied, glaring. He cursed himself for not having taken the time to find a better disguise. At least with the music and the noise from all of the loud, drunken conversation, it was virtually impossible to hear someone's words without standing next to him.

"Yes, well, I have a nose for gold," Phillipe said. "I can smell people who owe me money."

Kingsley shook his head. "Not here. I won't be seen in public handing out purses."

"Then you came for the entertainment?" Phillipe jerked his chin toward the stage, where the black-haired woman danced with the bejeweled lioness.

"I came because I have another job for you."

Phillipe's dark eyes narrowed as he studied Kingsley's face. "Why don't we talk some place a bit more private?" He led Shacklebolt to a booth away from the stage and the shouting patrons. They both sat down Phillipe hailed a pretty blond waitress, and ordered them both a firewhiskey.

"I'm listening," Phillipe said as he crossed his arms behind his head. The young waitress came back and placed both drinks on the table in front of the two men.

Kingsley forced himself to meet Phillipe's eyes. Once he spoke the name, there would be no going back; the deed would be as good as done. He thought of the half-dressed witch outside, the one he planned to have dragged back to Hogwarts for her own good. She had looked the same age as Draco Malfoy. "I do this with great regret," Kingsley began.

"And I wait with great boredom," Phillipe interrupted. "I care nothing for your conscience, Minister. Tell me the bloody name!"

"Lucius Malfoy."

Phillipe's eyes widened for a moment, but whatever emotion had caught him off guard, he mastered it quickly. His face relaxed into its usual lazy smirk. "Moving onto bigger targets are we, Minister?" He placed his hand around the glass and slid closer to the table. "Is the fire beginning to be too much? Can't handle the pressure of being top cock, eh?"

"You no good bastard!" Kingsley snarled as his own hand curled around his glass. "I do this for the greater good, not because I get a thrill out of killing, as you do."

"Maybe so, but at least I do not come to you asking for your help. What would your colleagues say if they knew you were making, shall we call them, business arrangements, with someone like me? I doubt they would appreciate knowing where their galleons are spent."

"I will triple your fee, Phillipe. But it must be done, my way."

"And, what specific way do you require him to meet his demise."

"Cleanly. No mistakes, whatsoever. And, in public," Kingsley demanded.

"Publically?" Phillipe asked, completely shocked. "My, my, Minister, you must be sending someone a strong message."

"Kill Lucius, and our contract is over. I will never see you again once you are paid. You will never speak of me or our dealings, ever."

"Done." Phillipe said as he slowly grinned at Kingsley. "Right now, cheers,…partner!" Phillipe tapped Shacklebolt's firewhiskey glass with his own and gulped down the liquor. He rose from the table and disappeared as he walked away.

Kingsley sank into the nearest empty chair, weak with relief. He watched as the Animagi finished their routine and were replaced by a Metamorphmagus who transformed herself from one stunning form to the next. Kingsley envied the witch her talent; he wished desperately that he could slide into a different shape and disappear into a new life.
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Darkness Within The Light