Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Blood From Whence He Came	By : Ladygreychaton Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 17519 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: Do not own Harry Potter, characters, rights to, any books, movies, songs, poems or references made. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling, this is just for fun, with no intentions of profit.

Chapter List
- 3
- 4
- 5
[[Do not own Harry Potter, characters, rights to, any books, movies, songs, poems or references made. Several hints to Harry Potter books, but again belong to J.K. Rowling. Any further things belong to their original owners, aside from original characters. Used with no intention of profit!
Quotes from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Pottermore, Wikia, hints at other books/movies, or other things I may have forgotten, none of them belong to me! ]]
WARNING : This chapter contains violence, torture, and non-canon minor character death, and mentions of death, and mentions of rape. If this bothers you, please skim, or skip it. You have been warned. Some of it can be graphic.

Passing through voids was odd, the sensation like a vacuum-packed protkey. There was no air, and colors shifted oddly, making things seem as though they were all bleeding together. It was like breaking apart and being put back together, his lungs were collapsing, and he wanted to push at Death and remind him that even in the embrace of an immortal being, he would break that he couldn't handle it.
Only it was over, and they had finished, stepping through the dark and into the light. He knew this because his feet met cold, wet pavement, though the entity beside him made no sound. Hardwin... blinked, glancing around, then up at the figure embracing him. A dark cloak was swept around him, and the hulking form was leaning around him possessively, though he could not make out it's face.
Charred fingers moved through his hair like claws and he resisted the urge to flinch, trying to hold very still, lest it cut through his fragile skin. His eyes looked over and to the left, not wanting to know why this was happening, simply waiting, patiently for Death to finish.
'Here you will have to change, Beloved Champion, though this form suits you, it is not helpful on Our current quest,' the dementor like being informed him with a rattling like hack.
Hardwin frowned, understanding that quite clearly a seven year old child would not do on a dangerous mission, but... he had already told Death that. "What do you mean, 'Change'? I can't just suddenly age or de-age as you will it, you know, it's not that easy," he reminded the ageless creature, seeing as it didn't seem aware of how life worked.
Death made a strange noise, somewhere between hissing and chirping, offset by startling beats that sounded like... Harry swallowed. He would never adjust to the way this creature sounded, as the afterlife seemed ripe with haunting noises.
'Sweet, sweet, Harry,' Death cooed, pulling him closer. 'I would not suggest something I could not preform. Worry not, Beloved Champion. I have instilled in you the gift of Metamorphagus, the ability to shift your appearance. It is common in the Black line, though you have but a small ability--- your hair, your eyes, small features, a bit of your height. Nothing like the way you remember.' Death seemed to know he was remembering Tonks, and Harry blushed a bit, nodding. 'But when We are... interfering with Time, to correct the Balance? I will change you further. You shall become what is needed.'
Harry was about to ask what the other meant when Death's hand trailed across his face again. It sent shudders racing down his spine, a chill chasing up after it. "Like someone's walking over your grave," echoed the words of a bushy-haired woman, and he winced. The charred appendage began to move lower, edging from his childish face to his neck. His heart was pounding, feeling as though the immortal being would slip and that hand would be his end. Just a nick and it could tear through his flesh. What was Death doing?
Nails like talons, ready to rip his throat out crawled over his collar bone, shifting the night clothes his mother had carefully buttoned warmly. He was chilled, but not from the night, or the wet pavement. No, the presence of Death was enough to set anyone off. The hand skittered like a spider, lower until his breath caught in fear as it settled over his breastbone. Holding very still, he waited, silent and tense like a butterfly caught in a web, desperate not to have it's struggles alert the predator before him. But it was not to be.
Death's charred, elongated fingers tensed, the knuckles rising as the tips began to dig into his chest. Harry gasped, about to question the motion when the fingertips drew back and suddenly plunged inside.
Pain. Harry gargled on air, feeling like it was stolen from his lungs. What was happening? He went up on his tip toes as his veins began to burn. Blood was boiling, and it hurt in ways he'd not felt before. Was he dying...?
'Oh, Beloved, how little you think of Me,' came a distant sound. The Voice was whispering soothingly, as his bones began to crack and shatter.
His toes curled, like a puppet on strings, he writhed. Like a man on a rack, he felt... stretched. Too little body with too much inside, or maybe the reverse. He wasn't sure, there was a roaring in his ears. Heat pricked in every muscle, and it was a burning sensation of such intense agony. White hot, almost cold in it's ferocious waves, crashing upon him. He was tearing, re-breaking. Arms snapping forward, crack, crack, then down as they lengthened. Insides were bunched, twisting, aching masses of suffering that he couldn't fathom. He was bleeding from his pores, from the top of his head to his toes, and he could feel the wetness roll down him.
Tickling came from behind his back, and though he was more focused on the pain in his eyes and mouth. His jaw was sore, the muscles sore as though it'd been dislocated, or perhaps he'd been forced to smile and speak for days without stopping. Teeth felt foreign in ways they shouldn't, as though they were loose. Worse than a twinge, it was all like the pain of a localized battle for life, and he winced and sucked in air, coughing on cramped lungs. His eyes felt like they'd been pitted, sore behind the nerves in a way he couldn't explain, but reminded him vaguely of the Cruciatus Curse, or a round with Voldemort in his mind.
Finally, it seemed to settle, and he was left shaking and clinging to the cloak of the immortal being. Trembling, he fought against the urge to fall, or worse, vomit. He wasn't sure, but his ears were ringing, and his breath was harsh in the night air, but he thought Death had retracted his hand.
'You are alive,' Death saw fit to inform him, making Hardwin... no, Harry want to scowl, but he lacked the current energy to do so.
Slowly, he levered himself up into a standing position, though it took several tries to steady himself. It was at this time he realized that his sense of balance was quite a bit... off.
Harry blinked in confusion and glanced down, still hesitantly clutching to the dementor-like being. As it didn't seem to mind, he took a moment to get a good look at himself. When Death had said he would change, he hadn't thought... well, he hadn't realize it meant literally, but he'd have to adjust. That and hope it wasn't permanent.
For now, the young seven year old was a great deal taller than he was. He didn't look like a seven year old at all. In fact, he felt like Hardwin Potter, the child-like innocence had fled for the night. No, he looked quite a bit like his former self before he had died, although he might be considerably... taller. His hair was as black and untamed as ever, down to his waist. Or at least... half of it was. One side, the left was silvery white, the color of pensieve memories, the other half was the same wispy, ebony black. Entirely split, as though he were some sort of ridiculous sign. Was that what had been growing?
His nails were so long he was surprised he didn't puncture his own hands with them holding onto Death's shrouded black figure, and they were as thick and black as... well, death. They didn't seem like they were made of normal ceratin, either, the way they glittered hard as steel in the dim street lights. Just what had happened to his poor body?
Harry, for he could only call himself thus, looked around curiously and studied the way he'd outgrown his night clothes. They were ripped and bunched tightly around him. If only he had a wand he could transfigure himself something passable to---
Nearly bubbling with laughter, Harry summoned the Elder wand, flicking his right wrist similarly to when one wore a wand wrist-holder during Auror Corps. Thinking of the item, it slid out of his flesh and lovingly sprang into his hand, throbbing with joy at being summoned. A quick movement later, and he was wordlessly dressed in a simple black robe to cover his modesty.
Sighing, Harry glanced at Death, slowly stepping back and testing his leg strength. The figure seemed to grudgingly offer him space, as though reluctant to separate from him, but allowing it. If he had friends who were aware of his situation, he would've asked them to research why the immortal entity acted this way around him. Sadly, he did not.
Casting the thought aside, Harry summoned a mirror with a quick charm, curious how much blood he would have to vanish from his appearance, and what he currently looked like. Only, he ended up quite startled once more. He didn't look like Harry Potter, nor did he look like Hardwin Potter. As a matter of fact, he wasn't sure what he looked like.
One of his eyes, the right, was the purest green, the same avada kedavra green that it had been in his first life. Save for a strange triangular pupil, and red sclera that should have been white. The other eye, the left, was black, a bottomless pit of shadowed black. It almost looked empty. Sclera, iris, all black. A simple vertical line of white stood where the pupil should have been, but it was so very narrow that it hardly counted.
He was pale, paler than the thought possible. So pale that he could see the veins beneath his skin, and map the pattern of each system. It looked ghostly, as though his skin was made of tissue paper. When he gasped, his teeth revealed something similar to rows of predatorial fangs. Nothing like vampires had, no, there were several massive protusions that reminded Harry of a creature meant to feed on flesh.
"I look like the bloody boogey man!" He exclaimed, glancing at the one responsible as though expecting an explanation.
Death laughed, and the sound was like chains rattling on metal, mixed with the screeching of trains braking too fast. 'How you amuse Me, My Champion! This is why I was always glad you ended up being Mine.' The Voice announced. 'You are no more a Boogeyman than I am,' it soothed, as if that was somehow comforting, then continued. 'If anything, I have made you the embodiment of Me. My Symbol, My Balance... wielded through you, I will restore this world. The Angel of Death, My Champion.'
The words felt damning, like a grip upon his very soul. Harsh and heavy, but he could hardly argue. Instead he nodded, feeling dull and alone. But as always, he straightened his spine and drew forth his spirit, determined to make it. A pair of cinnamon eyes smiled at him, flashing in his mind, and he held strong. He could do this, he would become what was necessary to save the future. For the people he'd left behind.
When Harry glanced up, he was drawing on the power that he hadn't known he'd possessed, he was harnessing it. If he was to be the Angel of Death, then so be it. His mismatched eyes burned as they sought out the shadows of the hood, and he tipped his chin up. "What is this form's purpose? Before we begin..." He asked, donning the persona of the war veteran once more. A hardened killer, but one with a sense of justice and mercy. The-Man-who-had-lived, the man who had fought and become the Beast that scared Dark Arts Practioners far and wide, now stood before Death, patient and calm.
The hooded, dementor-like being seemed to hiss in delight, and Harry refused to tense from the sound. He was done with that.
'This is the form you will assume when you restore the Balance, Harry,' the Voice whispered. 'When not in use, you shall appear as before, growing naturally and normally as Hardwin Potter. But when called by the Balance or Myself, you will resume this appearance.'
Death seemed to pause and it offered it's hand toward Harry, the skeletal creature appearing beseeching for a moment. 'There is not much that can kill you like this, Harry-Mine, but do not be careless. The Cloak repels most spells that would end your life... and this form is more durable than it appears. You are My Champion, Harry Potter. My Angel. But you are not immortal. If you die, We shall simply have to start over...'
Harry nodded, heeding the warning. It appeared he would be something other than human, a great boon in this form. Though Death had said little of what he meant, simply that he was not immortal. His items would make him strong, and he would be able to return to the form that ensured his life with his new family. In the end, he supposed that was a good start. He still didn't know his limitations, his strengths, nor how the 'Balance' would be able to 'call him' as Death had hinted. The whole thing was rather mind-boggling.
"What are we doing here, tonight?" He tried instead, scanning their surroundings. Absently, he cast a wordless Tergeo from his head to his toes, ridding himself of the dried and caked blood that had crusted to his form. Some of it was clotting and sticking to his hair, and he winced as it pulled slightly, the spell feeling like many tiny bubbles rubbing all over. The Elder wand seemed to bubble as well, and Harry curiously glanced at it, wondering if it was joy over causing someone pain, or being used for magic. Perhaps he would never know it's true intentions.
'Fixing the Balance,' Death repeated. That seemed to be his answer to everything.
Harry sighed. Death wasn't going to give him a straight answer just yet, no. Bowing, he nodded, and tried not to appear too insolent or bold. "Lead the way, then," he offered, gesturing with one hand. His nails caught the light, reflecting oddly like pitch black talons. It unnerved him a little that they were his, but he decided to put it behind him. No, no one would recognize him like this.
'Summon your prizes and follow Me,' the voice instructed, a dull hiss as it began to stalk, gliding over the wet cobbled pavement. It was a bit like watching smoke or fog settle in the night, riding the wind, a current of ebony. It did not bode well for whoever they came for, he knew.
Harry gripped tight to the Wand, and felt for the Stone, unsure of why he would need it, but doing as he was told. Strangely, it did not remove itself from his hand completely, but rather settled partially out, a pebbled protrusion in his palm. The Invisibility Cloak poured like silk over his shoulders and down to his feet, crawling happily over him. It felt heavy and warm, much like home after a hard day in the cold. Some things never changed, he decided.
Pulling the hood up, he stalked after the dementor-like apparation, winding down pathways that went somewhere only the wraith-like being knew. Harry didn't even know where he was, for the street signs were blurry and in a foreign language. Still, he trailed after, feet following the trail of black robes. When his feet went numb with cold, he cast a simple warming and impervious charm on the limbs, and continued on. Finally, they came to a stop in front of a warehouse.
Death turned to Harry and gestured towards one of the windows, extending it's arm and then pointing. 'I cannot interfere, I am bound to Time and Fate, My Champion. But you? You, sweet one... you will fix that...'
Harry paused, tipping his head back to look at the second-story window. A light glimmered, flickering, and he frowned. "What will I find inside?" He asked, his voice seeming to rasp, or perhaps lisp around the strange new additions of his teeth.
Death's answer was less than helpful. 'You will know when you see it, just as you will know what to do, My Angel.'
Harry scoffed but moved into the building on autopilot. His heart was steady, and the further he went in, the calmer he felt. Each beat of his pulse began to lower, moving into a rhythm that seemed to match the quiet pad of his feet on the dim floor. As though noticing this, the now-appointed Angel of Death cast a non-verbal 'Silencio' on them, feeling the spell intermingle with the heating and impervious charms.
Somehow, he felt back in his element. It was like he was back at the stake-outs, waiting for a mark to make it's move. Only this time, he felt more predatory, which was strange, as the wolf-animagus had often wanted to lunge and tear out the throats of known child-killers. Now? Now he felt like he could rend them limb from limb with his bare hands, without the use of transformation.
The stairwell was silent as he made his way up to the second floor, and there was a dim tone of voices. German, he thought, the rough tones reminding him a bit of a Hungarian friend he had once had, but rather different as well. There was the stench of cigarettes and stiff alcohol, the sweeter scent of cigars and clouds of smoke collecting all the way into the hallway. Harry followed the harsh laughter, listening to the two men squabble with one another, aware that tonight, at least one of them would die.
The closer he got to the door, the closer he felt to peace. A redheaded man with crow's feet flashed in his mind's eye, laughingly telling him that he lived for danger. Right now, he couldn't argue with the vision, and moved with precision to the door. His wand hand was steady as he used the elder wand, and it jumped with delight, pulsing out the magic to unlock the door before he gave it the command to do so. Harry wasn't surprised, since it was an instrument of Death, the Deathstick. Meant to be used in such a manner, and it trembled at the thought of battle once more.
The sound of the door opening must have surprised someone inside, but he calmly moved into the room, flicking the door closed behind him. It shut, sealed and relocked itself quietly. Harry knew it would not open again without his signature, or until he was finished here, whichever came first.
"Ah, what is going on? Did you see? Did you?!" Shouted one of the men in coarse German, pointing at the door. To them, the door had opened and closed by itself, seeing as Harry was still covered in Death's Invisibility Cloak. Having the locks slide back into their tumblers with resounding clicks seemed loud in the warehouse loft, and the two men jumped. They'd been sitting around a folding table, playing cards, and nearly overturned it in fright.
Harry wondered how long he should make them wait, feeling exceptionally wicked. The man in front of him, the portly fellow had committed many crimes, but he was not his prey. No, somehow he knew that this man, the other man with the furrowed brow, shouting at empty air, balding spots and broad shoulders. He was to be tonight's meal.
The Elder wand felt like an extension of his will, and without consciously being aware of it, Harry rolled his wrist and began to cast a translation spell on the two. They would now understand each other, though no one would speak the other's language. Rather useful when he wanted to say a few things.
The tingle of the spell seemed to alert his prey, and Harry smiled. Good, at least he was facing someone magical or magically aware. It always made the hunt more amusing, rather than criminal with no extrasensory.
"Who goes there?" The balding man demanded, pulling out a small pistol from a holster beneath his left arm and aiming it nervously around the room. It appeared he knew that someone was there, but either was reluctant to reveal he was magical, or couldn't do magical himself.
Harry began to feel confident, his lips peeling back into a smile. His memories were pouring back into him, and with them came knowledge for spells. Things like the memory of the fact that he had mastered being an Occlumens and Legilimens. Before, he had never been able to succeed, not while a piece of the Dark Lord had been lodged within his own mind. He had lacked control, and been damaged by his own magic which was battling to protect him from the taint of Voldemort. But after his fall, Harry had become an Auror, and later Head Auror. Part of that had lead to controlling his impulses, his emotions. He'd mastered the one thing that had held him back, and even worked hard with Dumbledore and Snape's portraits, as well as asking for his friend's help on the practical application. In the end, he had been the leading influence of knowledge on the topic, releasing books to the public.
So it was with ease that Harry skimmed the man's thoughts, brushing the surface as he glanced through his memories. Memories, as one of his mentors had drawled, were very much what somewhat dwelled on. One could not read a mind as a book, so much as rifling through images, thoughts, and hope you stumbled across it. An accomplished study could move through a well-organized mind without damaging it... or completely destroy it. Harry was accomplished, but chose to brush the surface, not bothering to sink his mental hooks into his prey.
"Interesting pistol you have," Harry spoke, wandering about the room. As such, it was a good thing he did, for the man chose that moment to open fire where he had been, regardless of his silent footsteps. "An Astra 600 Pistol, hm? I wasn't aware those were in circulation too often outside of the army, ol' boy," He joked.
The balding man, his prey, moved to reload and quickly fit a round into the chamber. Another bullet hitting the wall where he had been several moments ago was his answer. The second man was staring with wide eyes, searching for the invisible person invading his hideout in confusion. Present, but not seen, taunting, but ever moving.
Harry moved over to one side, circling them as the man moved to fit another round into the gun. Why he bothered was beyond him, especially when the second man didn't seem to know what to do.
"Will you not greet a guest? Such terrible manners, it's no wonder you're going to die tonight," Harry offered, sounding strangely cheerful.
He must have hit a nerve, for the second man began to plead, whispering broken pleas and reciting a Catholic prayer. The Master of Death decided not to enlighten him that he had no intention of taking him tonight, and instead focused on the other.
His prey laughed. "Absurd! I will not die, it is you who will bleed out and rot. Now come, enough games. Show yourself and meet your end like a man, enough childishness!"
Harry smiled, circling behind the man. Carefully, he curled his hand up and around the man's throat, his nails begining to prick the skin. His voice lowered as he brought his lips to brush against the prey's ear, whispering. "I have not been a child for more than a hundred years, my friend. But you're right. Enough is enough. Now, you will die. Would you like to look upon the Angel of Death, and beg for mercy? Tell me of your sins, and perhaps I shall be gentle with you."
The man jerked, and though his partner shrieked, he didn't seem to care. He turned to face Harry with a determined glint. Harry smiled, brushing the cloak back from his face, sweeping it slowly from his shoulders so that it melted back into his frame. The portly fellow was on his knees, murmuring in latin now, begging for his life, his mother's and his sister's.
The prey did not appear to be so moved, staring at Harry with fear but determination. His lips drew back into a sneer, and he glared hotly, spitting out, "Freak! As if you could end me!" He raised the gun, aiming between Harry's eyes, but strangely, he had said the wrong thing, for there was a new glitter in those mismatched eyes, and then he was moving before the trigger could be pulled.
Faster than he thought possible, Harry's left hand wrapped around the reckless prey, snapping his wrist with a horrible crunch and forcing him to drop the pistol. Though he gasped, it appeared he wasn't so quick to be finished, for soon he was moving again, but the Master of Death had his wand out.
"If there's one thing I hate," he revealed, "It's that word. Now, vile one, give up your secrets so we can find an appropriate punishment..."
It had all been fun up until this point, and Harry pushed deeply into the man's mind, just as the Balance dictated. It was at that point that the bottom dropped out of his stomach, and his playful attitude disappeared.
Inside the man's mind, Harry learned that the man was indeed a wizard, though he was much like the Gaunt line that were little better than Squibs due to inbreeding, or perhaps like Lockhart with his posturing and memory spells. A failure at magic, this man still managed to hate muggles, but he hated those who thought themselves better than he as well. Harry watched the bitterness boil, sitting like a poison in the man's mind. Rotting and festering from a young age, making his temper short and his violence swift. He wasn't especially intelligent, but he was a brute, and rather inventive. What little he was good at was poison, and he loved entering the wizarding world to visit shops to acquire ingredients for more.
He'd poisoned children, adults. Done despicable things to them. He'd done it to animals too. The man had been a blooming serial killer when he'd been scouted for the ranks of the First Reich, as well as being joined by supporters of Gellert Grindelwald. Here, the man had found his niche in the world, stealing muggleborns and experimenting on them. Helping rip their core from their lifeless bodies in the hopes that it could be given to soldiers and build an army beyond that of what they had. A superior race, they had called it. After all, what did mudbloods do to deserve magic?
When Harry couldn't stand watching the raping, the poison, the violence anymore, he slipped back out of the man's mind to find that his ears were bleeding and he was screaming and thrashing on the floor. In his own horror, his need for answers, he had not been gentle. His face hardened as he recalled what he had seen and he felt no pity for the creature before him, for it was not a man.
Harry glanced at the second man who was still on his knees, eyes tightly closed, whispering repeated prayers. He was begging, verses from the bible trembling from his lips. But a careful skim revealed that the Balance was not interested in him... not tonight, at least.
"You!" Harry barked, catching the attention of the man so sharply that he jumped, peeking one eye open and then shaking his head, returning to his prayers. It seemed he was determined, if he was going to die, he was not going to see it. He would die in prayer, he thought.
Harry sighed. Carefully, he tried again. "Do you want to live?" He questioned, drawing the attention of the obviously scared and portly fellow.
He nodded fervently and began to hesitantly whimper, but the only word even the translation spell could grasp was, "P-please!"
Harry smiled, which seemed to make him nervous again, as the sharp rows of his teeth were revealed, so he stopped. "If you want to live, then go into another room. You won't be able to leave this place until I have finished, but perhaps a closet or pantry? Just go in and wait. When it is quiet, you'll know I have gone from here. If you do as I ask, all will be well, and I shall not take your life from you. My word as the Angel of Death."
The man looked at him slowly, his eyes wide. After a moment, he nodded and then shuffled on hands and knees away, crawling off into the next room and opening what could only be a tiny closet. The door was open for a moment and the man folded himself in, thick as he was, and then reached up, pulling the handle to close the door with a soft snick.
Harry smiled, and made no movement until he was sure that the man was carefully stowed away, out of sight. When the seconds had dragged and the hoarse breathing and quiet moaning of the bleeding man at his feet began to get to him, he hardened his heart and his smile faded.
"Now, what to do with you, Abraham...?" It was more of a rhetorical question, and he flicked the Elder wand, making the bleeding man rise off the floor like an obedient doll. Harry had always been good at animation spells, let alone the art of the Imperius Curse, and now he began to toy with the other until he was pressed up against a wall.
"Why are you so quiet, Blishwick? You were so lively before... I do believe you said I would be bleeding out... didn't you?" His words were mocking, and he sighed. "How many victims do you think you killed in your lifetime?"
The man leaned silently against the wall, his arms extended horizontally from his body. Harry nodded, used to prisoners that were quiet and a flick of his wand had small pins sliding into each of the man's finger-tips, pinning them one-by-one to the wall. It was slow, and the pain receptors were rather sharp there. Always start small, Harry knew. Never pull out the big guns first, a practiced torturer would argue. There's less to heal, and it can allow for more time, more damage.
The man must have guessed what he was thinking, because he remained quiet, gritting his teeth, but his eye twitched. He was staring at Harry with a newfound clarity --- as though he had just realized that this was not Harry's first. No, Harry was a professional, and he was going to draw this out. The hardset of Abraham's eyes (for that was indeed his name) said that he was steeling himself for a long haul.
Small drops of blood had beaded at the needle's points, but nothing alarming, nothing that would cause the man to faint. No, Harry was rather skilled in causing pain without allowing someone the bliss of bloodloss or whiting out. He nearly snorted when he realized that the future Bellatrix Lestrange would have been proud, though this time around he planned to fix that.
Another flick of his wand sent a casual 'Crucio' at the man, and he held it calmly. "You have to mean it!" Cackled the crazy witch in his mind, and he used her as inspiration, as always. Though, he likely wouldn't have to. No, he wanted this one to hurt for all the innocents that had suffered before him.
Finally ending the spell, the deliverer of Balance and Death squatted oddly, tilting his head to one side to stare with his strange eyes at the no-good wizard. "Do you recall how many died at your hand? How about by poison? I believe it was in the twenties before you turned eighteen. Isn't that quite the accomplishment..."
Still the man remained silent, gritting his teeth as his body thrashed and jerked in the after-effects of the torture curse. His nervous system was on fire, his hands pinned to the wall. Harry dimly cast a stronger 'Imperius' with a secondary 'Confundus' charm to overlap it. He didn't want the man to swallow his tongue, to bite it, or even think about it. No, he would not get a way out of this easily. His brain would be far too fuzzy to even consider it an option, the whispered thoughts so deeply swept away. Buried too far to reach.
Harry twirled his wand between his fingers, eyeing the wretch before him. "You liked to kill women especially, didn't you?" He asked conversationally, his eyes glassy and dull as they locked with Abraham Blishwick's. He sneered at Harry, which proved to be a bad idea.
"Tsk tsk, where are your manners, Abe?" A wrist roll and jab had his wand moving and rolling, an imaginary whip arching and following the flow. The magic imitated his arm and in a flick, it fell across the pinned German, slashing across his chest and cutting into his shirt. After several more lashes, the material was hanging around him, though very little blood was welling to the surface, swollen welts criss-crossed across his pale chest visible, however. The spell inflicted as much damage as Harry wished it to, and on the twelfth blow, one of the contusions caused him to cry out.
"There you are!" Harry cooed, smiling widely and feeling his sharp fangs dig into his bottom lip. "You've finally made a sound for me! I'd gotten worried you were going to be silent the whole night... don't be so cruel, Abe." He mock-pouted, looking quite mad at the moment. His long hair, two toned and hanging in a mass of tangled curls swayed as he flicked his wand twice more. The pinned wizard gasped. "Sing for me, Blishwick!" Harry demanded.
The German's chest was heaving, his balding head shining with prespiration. His eyes were glimmering with pain and defiance, and his lips had a spot of blood from where he'd bitten them in an effort to hold in his pain. But when he glanced at the creature squatting oddly before him, rocking on his heels, he spat. "Monster! Freak! You are worse than I could ever be!" He pronounced.
Harry paused. After a moment of complete stillness, he rose, towering over the other. He realized that in this form, he must be taller than average, for he was indeed taller than the German, taller than most could dream. He was the 'Boogeyman' as he'd told Death. And he found he didn't mind, if this was to be his job. Criminals like this didn't deserve to live when his loved ones had been torn apart.
"Perhaps," Harry conceded softly, his voice a low rasp. "I am a monster, the Angel of Death. I come for the wicked, only leaving the innocent. I am the Judgement, and I am the Balance. It is my job to preform dirty tasks such as torture and killing..." He admitted casually, his hollow black eye with it's strange vertical pupil looking straight at Abe. The other eye's pupil, the one with the traingular pupil seemed to be spinning, the green iris burning hotly as the red sclera flared. "But I will also rescue, and ensure the future is as it is supposed to be. I will ensure that there is a future for us. I will walk the path of darkness, slaying the wolves and protecting the sheep, so that in the end the world can flourish. Who are you to judge me?"
His words were cold, and the wizard felt them stabbing into him worse than any of the methods of torture Harry had applied tonight.
"Accio needle one," Harry called aloud, watching the man's eyes go wide as he realized what he intended to do. One by one, he called them to him, ripping them from his fingertips. Abraham screamed. His fingerpads ached, his nailbeds torn. From one to ten, he finally fell to his knees, tears and snot rolling down his face pitifully.
Casually, Harry rolled the bloody needles in his hand, looking down at them. He then looked back at the man who had once murdered a seven year old in front of her father. "Beg your father to kill your mother, if you do, I'll let you live," Abe had whispered. The mother had pleaded with the man, pleaded with him to kill her, too. If only so her daughter could live. Tearfully, the man had slit his wife's throat, hands shaking and cradling her body close. He'd held her tightly until she'd bled out, feeling her go cold. Her dead eyes had been glued to her daughter, desperately hoping that in the end, she would be okay. That her sacrifice would be worth it. "I love you, mommy!" The girl had told her, whimpering in distress. No child should have to choose between their own life or their parent's life. But this young girl had, and she had watched her mother die, to Abraham's amusement. Sickly, he'd then turned to the girl's father. "If you want the girl to live, kill yourself," he'd said. The man had asked cautiously, "How do I know you won't kill her as soon as I'm dead? Gladly will I die for her, but how do I know you won't simply kill her?" The German had held his han over his heart, using the other to hold his gun to the pretty child's head. "I promise on everything that is pure, I will not shoot your daughter should you kill yourself." With that promise, the man had asked his daughter to shut her eyes tight, and had slit his own throat, holding tight to his wife's cold, stiff hand. His eyes were glued to his daughter as the light faded away. As soon as the man was dead, Abe had drugged, stabbed, and raped the girl for hours with several men until she had died. As he laughingly had announced to her corpse, "I didn't shoot her!"
"Would you like the needles back?" Harry had asked in false kindness. His smile showed nothing but the poison the man was so fond of. Abe tried to get up, but Harry tsked. "Now, now, stop right there! I've finally thought of a fitting end for you..." He announced.
Abraham Blishwick looked cautiously up at the mad magical being, whose power thrummed oppressively throughout the warehouse.
Harry circled him slowly, his transfigured black robe trailing, and slowly he touched the tips of his toes to the inbred pureblood's side. Giving him a shove, he kicked him over, then flicked his wrist and artfully arranged him on his stomach, arms spread wide away from his sides.
"You're never going to tell me how many, and I doubt you even know, nor care," Harry admitted aloud. "You do not know how much innocent blood you've spilt. What you could have damaged... And nothing I say is going to change that, nothing will give you guilt."
Slowly, he was realizing that some people could not be forced to realize their sins. Too stubborn, too monstrous. Harry turned back to him and knelt.
"I proclaim you, Abraham Blishwick, guilty of crimes against Death, Balance, and Humanity. May the Afterlife be a better place for you, for the Angel of Death shall show you no mercy tonight," He proclaimed and behind him the lights flickered and dimmed. His words felt heavy, and seemed to echo. The shadow on the wall behind him appeared to show a kneeling man with large wings, though he himself had none. But now was not the time to worry about shadows.
Touching the guilty party's forehead, Harry drew his clawed fingernail down into an inverted triangle, drawing blood. Next, he drew a circle inside the triangle, and a line through it. As soon as he had finished, it flashed black, as though accepting his judement and he nodded, "Contract accepted."
Harry stood, licked the blood from his thumbnail and drew the cloak from his back, draping it over his form. A second later, and he focused on what he wanted to do. A spell of punishment, a spell of the Dark Arts flashed in his mind. It was not gentle, and it was a horrible way to die. But it would make a point, and it would suit to have this scum die this way.
"Sanguinem Aquilae," He said, rolling his wand in lashing stripes over the German's back. First, it sliced through his shirt, then his skin, his muscle. When it exposed the ribcage, they bent and snapped, folding awkwardly upwards to make it look like you had blood-stained wings growing from your spine. The spell then pulled your lungs from your body, leaving them to hang outside and you would suffocate slowly, in terrible pain and die.
Harry cast a quick 'Engorgio' on four of the needles, and pinned them through Abraham's hands and feet. The man was in shock, screaming hoarsely, while his terror and cries to, "Kill me, just kill me!" fell on deaf ears.
Slowly, Harry turned, feeling the world shift focus. A flash of insight hit him, and he nearly fell to his knees. That man had stolen muggleborns in the future, muggleborns that had never made it to Hogwarts or Beauxbatons. Brilliant children that would be important to the world, children that were now living. The timeline was re-aligning itself. His ears roared for a moment, and Harry leaned against a wall regaining his balance, then sighed. It was a good thing. Terrible, yes. Always terrible to kill, and it would always lurk beneath the surface, haunting him. Each victim of Harry's did. Whether accidental, innocent, or guilty, they all found themselves in his mind, in his dreams. He supposed it made him sane.
Snape had once warned him that only psychopaths took delight in remembering their victims, or chose to completely forget them. In Harry's case, he meticulously bottled each memory in his mindscape. Carefully stowed away in the Headmaster's tower, Harry never neglected them. His victims could be viewed any time, day or night. They were a daily reminder, a warning that even he, the Savior of the Wizarding World, was capable of such acts. It kept him grounded. It kept him sane. He watched himself, he graded his movements, his sanity. His emotional level and connection to the kill, to the torture. Never forgotten, no. Harry wouldn't allow himself that luxury. Even when he woke up in the night, covered in sweat, weeping in his wife's arms, begging for forgiveness, he wouldn't forget. Not even the guilty.
After a moment, Harry stood, ignoring the quieter sounds, the wet-gurgling, gasping, choking behind him as the dying man fought to breathe. The Champion of Death headed for the door, only to pause by the closet that the other hid inside. He could hear him whispering prayers, his harsh breathing. Sighing, Harry raised his wand again, listening to the Balance.
Carefully, he cast a slow 'Incendio', not enough to burn, but enough to scar the door. This time, he left a proper mark. The Cloak, the Stone, and the Wand. As soon as they were inscribed, he pressed his hand onto the symbol, causing it to flare as before, only this time it pulsed white and stayed that way. The man went quiet, heaving a sigh as though he had just fallen into a gentle sleep.
"Innocent for now, Contract Accepted," he announced and moved tiredly out of the room, unlocking the door and dismantling his spells from it. Padding down the stairs, he moved out to find Death waiting for him, the dementor-like figure still in the crisp air of the night.
"It is done," he said quietly. Death had likely felt and seen all that was going on. For a moment he wanted to ask if they could simply go home now, but the figure tilted it's head to one side. A moment later it nodded.
'It is done, My Champion,' Death agreed, the glee in it's voice like the crackling of thunder. Somehow, it felt quieter than before, content. Then Harry realized--- when Death had paused, when it had tilted before agreeing. It had been waiting, wanting to be certain of something. Harry realized with a harsh stomp to the gut--- Abraham had just died.
He sighed tiredly, longing to return home. Death seemed to sense this and extended it's hand to him. The charred, skeletal being beckoned eagerly to the tool it had created in Harry Potter. 'Come. I will summon you when it is time again,' Death whispered sweetly, it's words bubbling and scorching, like the sizzle overflowing on the stove. Wearily, he wondered if Death was deliberately toning itself down.
Harry could do nothing but obey, once more swept away in Death's embrace. He wanted to forget, to become Hardwin Potter once more. It sounded childish, but he wanted his family. He wanted to go home, he didn't want to murder anyone else tonight. He wanted to sleep in his bed, silent and gentle with it's soft sheets that smelled of lavender and chamomile.
Harry closed his eyes, and after the blur of sound, light and colors was over, he was once more in his room. Death still held him close, as though reluctant for this night to end. Mismatched eyes searched the grim immortal, not understanding, and patiently waited until he was released enough to step back.
'Five children,' Death rattled, and it sounded like splintering glass.
His champion nodded, dipping his head. "Five children have been added to the timeline that weren't when I was..." Harry frowned. It felt odd to say 'When I was alive,' seeing as he was alive now. But it was the truth, just the same.
'Yes,' Hissed Death, once more responding to the unspoken thoughts of his other half.
With deliberate stillness, Death moved away from him, allowing his arms to drop from his sides. Once more he ached for someone to share his secret with, to search and question, to beg why the immortal was acting this way. To sit with him, and reassure him that it would all be alright. But all his friends, his future was gone, so distant he couldn't call out to them. He was left with an emptiness that he could only hope to fill in the past.
Anxiously, he watched the dementor-like being and sighed. "So what now? I can't exactly go down for early morning breakfast like this... I imagine mother would be shocked," he joked, his smile shaky at best.
The shrouded figure tipped it's head to one side, as though considering him. It loomed so tall, and seemed to fill the room with it's presence. 'Send My items back, Beloved,' the Voice instructed.
Harry blinked, looking down at the wand in his right hand, the stone glimmering half-submergedd in his left. Around his shoulders was the cloak, it's weight comforting and familiar that he had nearly forgotten it was there. He was about to do as Death asked when a thought struck him. "...It's going to hurt, isn't it?"
Death said nothing, but that seemed answer enough.
Gritting his teeth, Harry willed the Elder Wand back into his right wrist, allowing it to slide into his skin like a holster. It was a strange and slick glide, and he suspected it would take time to adjust. The Resurrection Stone was next, sinking like a dead weight into his left palm until the skin folded over it with only a silver circle as proof of it's existence. The Cloak of Invisibility slithered up into the mark at the back of his neck, feeling like water flowing backwards, pouring it's silky length, folding over and over until it sank into the triangle and vanished.
He was about to ask when the transformation was going to happen, when much like before, his blood caught fire. Falling to the floor, he rolled around in agony, biting the inside of his cheek to be silent. Streaks of tears burned hotly down his face as acidic bile churned in his throat, choking him. His muscles were cramping, and he could hear the sounds of harsh pop pop, crack crackling, making him wonder if he would ever be able to walk again.
In the back of his mind, one of his mentors urged him to hold onto his sanity, that his mind could not break. A biting voice snarled at him to recite! And so, for what seemed like an hour, Harry began to list potions ingredients and their interactions. Retreating from the pain, retreating from the way his body twisted and thrashed on the floor of his bedroom, away from Death's hungry gaze.
It seemed to take longer this time, to return to Hardwin Potter, than it had to become whatever creature the Angel of Death was. But finally, the tired, small body of the seven year old lay on the floor, covered in blood and sweat. He was back to normal, if not slightly more aware. His mind was awake, his soul was alert. He didn't want to be this person, he didn't want to be Harry Potter anymore.
With shaking hands, he cast a wandless 'Tergeo', not wanting to summon the Elder wand once more. He could feel it pushing the magic through his hand regardless, and glared at his arm in response, but said nothing.
Trembling, he noticed that at some point his transfiguration on his night clothes had worn off, his black robe was once more a flannel sleeping shirt made of the purest fabrics. It was a bit torn and damaged from his earlier changes, and he once again cast a wandless charm, using 'Repairo' to fix the state of his dress, not wanting his mother to notice. However, as soon as he did, a wave of dizziness hit him, and he nearly swooned.
Ahh, wasn't that right? Casting too much wandless magic, even guided through the wand in his skin, was draining. Did his core change size with the size of his body? He wanted to laugh. Apparently so, because he was near fainting after just two spells, when before, he recalled a bushy haired woman saying that she didn't know why he even bothered with a wand.
He frowned. His memories were getting fuzzier again. He couldn't recall he name again. It had been there, right there before. He'd know her, many of their names... and now, now it was going away again. Was this to be the way it was? Hardwin Potter forgot, while Harry remembered?
Sighing, he dragged himself on hands and knees to his bed, supposing that made some sense. There were worse things than feeling split. But he would have liked to remember that once, there had been others that had known all of him. Others that had known every intimate detail, and they had accepted him.
It was taxing to get onto his bed, but he managed, shakily. Death simply watched, impassive. Perhaps he didn't care, or wasn't capable of it. Harry wasn't sure. He called him 'beloved', but in the end, Death was an immortal being that came for everyone, even the Gods, supposedly.
When his feet were back beneath the sheets, and his duvet tucked around him, warding off the chill, Hardwin lay back. He felt so very old, so confused. "You'll be back, won't you?"
Death nodded, saying no more. Hardwin's dark grey eyes losing the bits of green that had seemed to edge into them, were drifting closed. He blinked slowly, then glanced around, but the wraith-like being was gone. With that, he slept.

starr : I am back! Sorry if this one bothers you, but it was necessary. There won't be too much gore or violence in the future. It was to make a point. Hopefully everyone sees that. As for being young, well, you'll see how that's handled.
Pops : Things will only get more interesting from here. ;3 Hopefully this chapter didn't turn you off completely, and you can continue reading. Things are going to get better for the world, he's not always going to have to kill. He's more a hero than a villain. Imagine what the Wizarding World will have to say!
- 3
- 4
- 5
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Blood From Whence He Came