Never A Memory
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Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Harry/Draco
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Adult ++
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Category:
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Harry/Draco
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
59
Views:
39,696
Reviews:
379
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Sinner
A/N: Hey all! I'm putting up a refresher warning about serious content, like rough, nearly rape-like sex and slashing wrists etc., because this chapter gets pretty dark. I failed to put up a refresher warning in "Remember Me This Way" and a few readers got a little uncomfortable with the content. I'm very sorry about that.
Also, I would like to again give a huge THANK YOU to MangaCat (Who I adore fervently) for German translations, and Bubba and his father for proofreading. Alot of these last chapters wouldn't have been nearly as cool without their help. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Also, this chapter has a nasty cliffhanger, but I hope it makes up for it by being 5,310 words long, lol.
Enjoy.
~Sinner~
“It is believed there are good dybbuks and bad, with a good dybbuk's "attachment" performing more the role of a "spiritual guide" there to help the person through their current trials and tribulations that the soul was attracted to. These "good" possessions are usually referred to as a 'sod ha'ibbur.
In the case of a negative dybbuk, the spirit is not there to help as much as cause the same mistakes and chaos that it originally experienced during its own lifetime.” ~Exorcism Discussion found in wikipedia.org
“Especially important is the warning to avoid conversations with the demon. We may ask what is relevant but anything beyond that is dangerous. He is a liar. The demon is a liar. He will lie to confuse us. But he will also mix lies with the truth to attack us. The attack is psychological, Damien, and powerful. So don't listen to him. Remember that - do not listen.” ~ Father Merrin in The Exorcist
The Dome…
***
The death of the first born.
Harry knew that was what came next. Someone mentioned that they doubted Maul would slay his own Host, but Harry wasn’t so sure.
The wind was deafening, clawing madly at their clothes and biting at their faces. It was all they could do to just remain upright as the Auror’s Division fought to contain the nine deadly plagues Maul was hurling at them.
Outside the Dome, McGonagall led a small army of trusted Wizards and Witches against the onslaught of spreading plagues, screaming deflective curses and casting spells.
Harry shouted to his men, barking orders and words of encouragement. Hermione, who, against Ron’s adamant wishes, had stayed to help, struggled against the swirling gusts to approach the Head Auror.
She lifted the heavy Sword of Godric Gryffindor and Harry solemnly accepted it. Hermione pointed to her wrist, her bushy hair whipping around her face, and Harry glanced at his watch.
They had fifteen minutes.
~*~
Five hours and forty-five minutes prior…
***
A jolt.
A pulling sensation against his skin, like something was trying to rip his flesh from his body.
And there.
Let me be quiet, so I can hear the whispering of the gods.
Allow me to be silent, so I can comprehend their thoughts.
A spasm of pain. Wraiths spat their venom, blocking the response. A tightening in his chest, his heart sped up, battling against the pressure.
Everything went a red so dark, it was nearly black. A drowning, thick color.
The Awful Daring of a Moment’s Surrender…
He stared at his reflection, the gilded mirror a massive thing that could crush him instantly. He knew it wouldn’t.
He stared and stared, wondering at the paradox of the unnatural and the familiar. His face was a stranger’s, but no, he knew this face very well.
Hair the color of frosted glass, pale and shimmering. Long locks of moon light cascading down his shoulders, pulled back to reveal a high, regal brow, smooth and impeccable.
Cold grey eyes the shade of an English dawn, thunderheads fat with rain and twice as dangerous. Silver, cruel lashes, a stark sweep of them against his pale, jutting cheeks.
A frowning, stern mouth below a straight nose. A pointed face. Harsh lines marred the corners of his mouth, and even harsher lines defined the angles of his jaw.
A slender neck, pale skin disappearing under layers of black and silver fabric. Broad shoulders, slender gloved hands. Long limbs covered in dark swirling robes.
Unnatural.
Familiar.
It smelled like home here. The scent of fresh rain and beeswax. The cold still air scarred only by the shuffling feet of House Elves busy somewhere else in the Manor.
His frown deepened, and so did the lines surrounding it. He would have to chastise his servants later for making such unnecessary noise.
“Draco wishes to become a Seeker.”
He turned. There, seated on a dark, plush sofa, candlelight washing over her features in an ethereal glow, was his wife. She gazed coolly back up at him.
A pale vision of cold beauty, like the whimpering flower buds of early spring encased in ice. Her eyes, dark and somber, her mouth, created purely for cruel, knowing smiles, and her hair, the color of dawn light, she sat there, her hands folded over one another.
“He only wishes to be a Seeker because he wants to compete with Potter,” he replied, his voice dead and harsh.
“Is that so terrible a thing?” she said, her voice schooled to seem disinterested, but he knew better.
“He will embarrass us,” he said, turning back to gaze at himself. “Our son is no athlete.”
“He knows this. He requested that you purchase new brooms for the Slytherin Quidditch team.”
He smiled. Clever.
Draco was a studious boy, but he knew the hearts of those surrounding him. At so young an age, he has already mastered the art of manipulation.
“He’s a fair flyer, Lucius,” she continued. “He may do well.”
“The Dark Lord will have no use for Quidditch players,” he retorted.
“The Dark Lord will have no use for those who cannot compete with Potter,” she countered. “We can arrange private lessons for Draco.”
He turned again, regarding his wife. Her dark, luminous eyes shone back at him with an unspoken challenge.
She adored him, that was no secret. But when it came to her son, she would only settle for the best.
He crossed the room with quick, purposeful strides and grabbed his wife’s arm roughly. She rose, uncomplaining and unnaturally silent. She didn’t utter a word as he shoved her violently against the wall nor did she make a sound as he pulled up her skirts and thrust himself painfully inside of her.
He saw a muscle tighten in her jaw and knew she was clenching her teeth as he rammed into her, over and over. She stared into his eyes, something swimming behind her dark gaze that was a mixture of terrible love and loathing.
He clutched at her throat, his slim fingers tightening dangerously, and still she was silent. Still, she stared. He felt the heat begin to build in his loins and she tightened her legs around his waist, steadying them both for what was to come.
A challenge.
He tightened his grip, he thrust harder. She was making noises now. She was trying to breathe.
A dare.
Her eyes misted over and his movements inside of her became jerky and erratic.
Unnatural and familiar.
Cruel. So utterly cruel.
His hand came away from her throat and he buried his face in her hair as he came. She sucked in a ragged breath.
The scent of fresh rain and beeswax nearly suffocated him. His home smelled like her hair.
He pulled out of her abruptly and refastened his trousers around his waist. He watched passively as she staggered against the wall, a limp thing that still managed to level him with her eyes.
“Fine,” he said. “Let our son become a Seeker.”
Then he swept from the room, away from the scent of rain and beeswax. Away from candlelight and his horrible reflection. Away from those terrible, loving, loathing eyes.
Away from her cruelty.
Away from his own.
A jolt.
A spasm of pain.
His hand pushed his head into the pillow, the man’s dark locks stark against the pale skin of his hand. He struggled beneath him, trying to summon his wand. He swatted it away.
He grasped his hip and pulled him up, thrusting his buttocks into the air, burying his face further into the pillow. He dug his hand into the soft flesh before him, kneading it roughly.
He managed to flip himself over. Green eyes glared murderously back up at him.
A jolt.
A spasm of pain.
He blinked. When his eyes refocused, those blazing green eyes were swimming in a sea of concern and worry. The man reached for him.
He wanted to vomit, nausea crawling up the back of his throat. What has he done? He scrambled away. Away from his concerned touch. A gesture he didn’t deserve.
A jolt.
His heart squeezed painfully.
He gazed at his reflection, the paradox becoming a realization. Anger replaced the confusion. Wrath boiled beneath his flashing grey eyes.
He reared his arm back and slammed his fist into the glass, shattering the image of his father.
Another jolt.
Another spasm.
~*~
Father Alt circled the screaming, possessed Wizard, shouting the rites over the howling wind Maul had summoned.
“…Weiche nun, im Namen des Vaters, des Sohnes und des Heiligen Geistes. Mach Platz für den Heiligen Geist durch dieses Zeichen des Heiligen Kreuzes unseres Herrn Jesus Christus, der lebt und herrscht in Einheit mit dem Vater und dem Heiligen Geist in alle Ewigkeit... ”
~*~
“The second Plague has arrived!” and Auror shouted.
Frogs swarmed around their feet, trying to trip them. They struggled to levitate them to the center, topmost area of the Dome.
Harry ran over to Ron, shouting something into his ear. Ron nodded and grasped Mackle’s wrist. “We will need reinforcements! Send word to Hogwarts! Tell her, ‘By the oath of the Order of the Phoenix—“
“I’ll go!” Snape shouted over the wind. “She’ll trust my word.”
Ron glanced over to Harry but the black-haired Auror was already nodding for their old Potions Master to go.
Snape clutched at the amulet around his neck and stepped from the Dome.
“Potter!” Heroth exclaimed. “Look! The blood is spreading!”
All eyes turned to the lake. Indeed it was. And so were the swarming frogs.
The frogs began jumping onto the Dome, blotting out the sunlight. “We need to get Aurors out there!” Ron shouted.
“Take fifty and secure Maul’s perimeter,” Harry shouted back. “Keep those damn things off the Dome!”
“Got it.”
~*~
Pansy was saying something to him. That accursed girl always had the incessant need to chatter when she felt something was bothering him.
He ignored her, and continued to walk, his pace quickening as the effort to keep from screaming against the pain began to be more than he could bear. His arm twitched, the burning in his Mark becoming more violent, and he clenched his fingers into a fist against it as it snaked up and down his arm.
“Mr. Malfoy, a moment with you, please.”
Dumbledore. He had not even heard him approach. His arm screamed in agony.
Pansy gave them a dubious look before sauntering off down an adjoined hall.
He stared expectantly at the Headmaster who gazed back him from behind half-moon spectacles. Finally, the Headmaster turned and he followed the old man back through the castle and up the winding staircase that led to his office.
The Headmaster offered him a seat. He opted to stand. Dumbledore smiled as if he had expected that.
“Your grades are wavering, Mr. Malfoy,” Dumbledore said in that deep voice of his. “Is there a particular reason?”
He wanted to scream. The pain in arm was relentless and the Headmaster he had sworn to kill was inquiring about his grades. The utter ridiculousness of the situation made his head swim.
“No, sir,” he said, lying through his teeth.
“How are things at home?”
He stopped himself from glaring at the old man. “Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Yes, fine.”
Silence stretched out between them and the Headmaster seemed to be weighing his next words carefully. “If things aren’t as you make them seem, Mr. Malfoy, I hope that you would trust me with the truth.”
“I’m sure you have better things to do with your time,” he retorted harshly without completely thinking his words through.
Dumbledore smiled kindly. “As it would seem.” The Headmaster paused. “I was hoping to make you Head Boy next year.”
He had the utterly fantastic urge to laugh, but swallowed against his hysteria. “Thank you, sir. That would be an honor.”
“Would it?” Dumbledore asked softly, allowing the question to hang in the air.
He stared back at the old man, anger and guilt clotting his throat. He didn’t want to do it. He really didn’t want to. But he had to.
He played with idea of killing him now. Maybe then, the burning would cease. Maybe then, he could get some much needed rest.
His wand felt heavy where it was tucked in his sleeve. So heavy. It wouldn’t take much. And if he failed, perhaps the old man would kill him and put him out of his misery.
“You look unwell, Mr. Malfoy.”
“Do I?” Again, he had to swallow against his hysteria.
Again, the heavy silence. The piercing blue eyes seemed to see right through. He wondered if the old man already knew what was in store for him. It would be just like the old bastard to play with him like this.
“Perhaps I should go rest.”
“Perhaps you should.”
Whether it was actually a dismissal or not, he took it as one anyway. He left on shaking legs, down the stairwell, through the castle, the urge to break into a run overwhelming.
Then he was there, in the bathroom. Moaning Myrtle hovered curiously over his shoulder as he stared at his reflection in a mirror.
His father’s disappointed gaze swam before his eyes. Voldemort’s threat rang through his mind. Dumbledore was the only one who could save his mother. Anger boiled in his chest and, with a shout, he slammed his fist into the mirror. The shattered glass cut into his knuckles, relieving, momentarily, the burning in his Dark Mark.
He bent down to retrieve a shard of the reflective glass, gripping it tightly and allowing it to cut easily into the flesh of his palm.
He burst into tears, sliding slowly down to the floor and rocking back and forth, gripping the glass harder and harder.
The burning returned with a vengeance and he rolled up his sleeve. He gazed at the Dark Mark for a moment, hot tears blurring the vision of a roiling snake pouring from a skull’s mouth. He gritted his teeth and put the glass against the Mark. Slowly, at first, he cut a line across the face of the skull, watching with morbid fascination as blood welled up, a new kind of pain muting out the steady burning.
He cut another line, and then another. And then another and another and another. Soon, he was slashing at the Dark Mark with a vengeance, his sobs ringing off the walls of the bathroom, until his arm was a bloody, ravaged wreck.
He dropped the glass and cradled his arm, rocking back and forth as his sobs quieted to mere whimpers. He took off his tie and wrapped it tightly around his bloody forearm, using his teeth to secure the tourniquet. After using his wand to clean up the mess, he leant his head against the tiled wall behind him, his free-falling tears slipping down his face like a relentless rain. He pulled down his sleeve to hide the makeshift bandage and gripped his arm, relishing in the dull throb of pain versus the horrible burning of Voldemort summoning his Death Eaters, languid in the aftermath of agony.
Moaning Myrtle sat beside him, a silent, cold presence at his shoulder and did not say a word.
Suddenly, a voice sounded a few feet from him. With an angry shout, he jumped to his feet, wand at the ready.
It was Harry Potter. Damn him.
A jolt.
A spasm of pain.
He lowered his wand, defeated by his conscience, and Dumbledore gazed back at him with that terrible, terrible kindness and compassion.
Suddenly, his godfather burst into the room, shoving him behind him, and shouting the Killing Curse at the Headmaster.
“No!” he shrieked.
But it was done, and he was falling. Falling, falling, falling.
Dazed, he registered an angry shout behind them. The thunderous sound of running footsteps. And then the lurch of being Disapparated.
A jolt.
His heart felt like it was going to explode.
“I need to find my mother!”
“The deed is done, Draco,” Snape replied wearily. “Voldemort has no reason to slay your mother.”
Could he really be that stupid? Or was he the only one who really and truly understood the Dark Lord? “The mission was mine,” he exclaimed. “I failed. Don’t you understand? My mother—“
An owl flew in holding a scrap of parchment. Snape snatched and read it with sharp, black eyes. Suddenly, his godfather paled.
“What?” he demanded. “What is it?”
“I’m so sorry, Draco.”
“Don’t you fuck with me, old man,” he growled dangerously.
“Your mother…your father was there. He watched Voldemort—“
”Noooooo!” he roared. Snape had to bodily restrain him from flooing to the Malfoy Manor.
He thrashed in his godfather’s grip, struggling with all his might. “Don’t be stupid, Draco,” his godfather was saying. “He’d kill you without even blinking. Don’t be stupid…”
Abruptly, he went limp in Snape’s arms and he crumpled to the floor like a heap of dirty laundry when his godfather released him. He sat there and stared at the floor for nearly half an hour before looking up again.
Snape, despite himself, flinched at the horrible look in his godson’s eyes.
“You must stay hidden,” his godfather said.
“I know,” came his dead, hollow reply.
A spasm of pain.
He Apparated to the funeral, knowing Lucius’ son would be there. He laughed as he saw him stooping low to kiss his mother’s brow.
How incredibly poignant.
“Hello, Draco,” he said, a smirk curling his lips.
Flashing gray eyes glared up at him. “How dare you speak to me at my mother’s funeral, you illegitimate piece of Half-Blood filth?!” the boy snarled.
No. No, I’m not him. Never him.
Laughter.
A jolt.
A spasm of pain.
And a vault of swirling blackness opened up beneath his feet.
~*~
Father Alt sprinkled holy water on the young man as he circled him, his voice becoming hoarse as he shouted the rites over the vengeful winds for the third time.
Again and again, he would shout them, until the deed was done.
“... Ergib dich, dadurch, ergib dich nicht mir selbst, sondern dem Gesandten des Herrn, Jesus Christus. Denn es ist die Macht Christi, die dich bezwingt, der, der dich durch sein Kreuz gestürzt hat. Zittere vor dem mächtigen Arm, der die dunklen Kerkerwände einriss und die Seelen ins Licht führte. Möge das Beben das diesen menschlichen Körper schüttelt, die Angst die dieses Abbild Gottes ergreift, auf dich übergehen...”
~*~
Lice, murrain, and boils.
For their part, most of the aiding members here from the Ministry of Magic were able to ward themselves from the worst of it. But Harry knew Ron and the other Aurors outside the Dome were having one hell of a time with the Muggles down at the resort.
They had sufficiently been able to quarantine them and were planning to Obliviate the Muggles when it was all over. However, when all was said and done, it was a right mess.
Inside the Dome, the swirling wind and raw power Maul was exuding along with His first five plagues was worsening and becoming stronger.
Already bone-weary, Harry shouted encouragement to his Aurors and braced himself for the next three hours.
~*~
He stumbled in the darkness, his hands outstretched as he ran, desperately trying to find his way out. His sins buffeted him, sounds and smells and touches of them coming from all around.
In the darkness, he could smell lavender and vanilla; and he could remember exactly how it felt to break Pansy Parkinson’s heart.
As his eyes searched the blackness, he could feel the bite of the thorny stem tearing into his palm as he prepared to smear his blood on the white rose; and he knew he was responsible for his mother’s death.
He could feel the glass dragging into his skin, permanently scarring his flesh where Voldemort’s Dark Mark once lay; and he knew he was responsible for Dumbledore’s death too.
He could hear every harsh word he had ever said, every manipulative comment, every racial slur.
He could feel the morning dew all around him the day he slew the Gatherer, Cruent Mantle, in cold blood, watching him writhe in agony before he murmured the Killing Curse.
He could sense war alive and bloody all around him as he pointed his wand at himself and prepared to destroy the very last of Voldemort’s Horcruxes.
Two murders.
One, he would ask forgiveness for. One, he yearned to be redeemed. One, he regretted.
The other…never.
He stumbled again.
Sinner. Sinner. Sinner.
~*~
“...Zittere und flieh, wo wir den Namen des Herrn anrufen, vor dem die Bewohner der Hölle sich niederkauern, dem die himmlischen Tugenden und Mächte und Herrschaften untertan sind, und den Cherubim und Seraphim preisen mit unendlichen Stimmen, wenn sie singen: Heilig, heilig, heilig, Herr Gott Zebaoth. Das fleischgewordene Wort befiehlt dir, der Sohn der Jungfrau befiehlt dir, Herr Jesus von Nazareth befiehlt dir...”
~*~
Abruptly, a massive, thunderous pounding began to ricochet off the walls of the nearly opaque Dome. Instinctually, Harry ducked, along with a dozen other Aurors, before Saith, clutching his medallion, entered the Dome and ran up to the Head Auror.
“Hail!” Saith yelled. “Hail the size of bludgers! They’re—“
Someone screamed. Harry looked up just in time to see an unnatural storm cloud form at the inner surface of the Dome, directly above the Maul-possessed Draco Malfoy. Suddenly, a flood of pouring, bludger-sized blocks of ice began raining down on them.
“Wingaurdium Leviosa!” Harry shrieked, narrowly catching the first wave and preventing them from being crushed. Immediately, every Wizard and Witch began following suit as wave after wave of pouring hail fell from the dark, swirling cloud at the top of the Dome.
Then, it got bad.
Massive burning boulders of fire came crashing down around them, causing his make-shift troops to scatter frantically. Maul’s radius of power was getting wider and the Auror’s Division was getting overwhelmed. Soon, Wizards and Witches were getting severely injured and were forced to Disapparate to St. Mungo’s.
“Where the hell is McGonagall?!” Harry roared to no one in particular as he worked to get his Aurors back under control, safe, and focused on the massive task at hand.
After an hour and a half, Harry’s blood ran cold as a blinding swarm of locusts fell from the storm cloud and circled Draco in a vortex of pestilence.
Maul’s horrible laughter rumbled like thunder, shaking the ground beneath their very feet, before the vortex of locusts expanded and shot outward towards the perimeter of the Dome.
“Merlin…” Harry breathed as the heavy cloud of locusts sped towards him and his men.
~*~
Nobility isn’t about being better than others. It is about being better than you used to be.
He stopped running and became very still, listening to that voice that made absolutely no sound at all.
The Awful Daring of a Moment’s Surrender…
By This and This Only, We have Existed.
He smelled burning eggs and felt warm fingers caress his cheek.
He heard Harry’s deep throated laugh and could remember the sight of his wind-blown raven hair.
He felt the cold rain biting harshly into his exposed skin and the freezing mud between his toes. He lifted his face and began to twirl, spinning faster and faster.
“I forgive you.”
“I didn’t ask for your forgiveness, Auror.”
“I know.”
~*~
“… du magst die Menschen täuschen, aber Gott kannst du nicht spotten. Er ist es, der dich hinaustreibt, vor dessen Blick nichts verborgen ist. Er ist es, der dich zurückdrängt, dessen Macht alle Dinge untertan sind. Es ist es, der dich verstoßen hat, der das ewigwährende Höllenfeuer bereitet hat, für dich und deine Engel, er, dessen Stimme kommen wird wie ein scharfes Schwert, der kommt zu richten die Lebenden und die Toten und die ganze Welt mit Feuer...”
~*~
It was becoming as black as night. Harry didn’t have to look up to know the moon was beginning to blot out the sun.
The ninth Plague. The Plague of Darkness.
The Dome was beginning to crack.
Headmistress McGonagall had arrived.
Harry gritted his teeth.
~*~
He gazed at his reflection, knowing that the gilded mirror could crush him instantly, but he didn’t care. He knew it wouldn’t.
His father glared back at him with disapproving, bright grey eyes. He reached out and touched the glass, a sorrow welling up inside of him he couldn’t suppress.
“I forgive you,” he said to the mirror, to the glass, to his reflection…to his father.
His father sneered back at him, his contempt flashing dangerously in those sharp grey eyes that were so like his own. “I didn’t ask for your forgiveness, boy.”
“I know,” he murmured. “But sometimes…sometimes…”
~*~
“Ich treibe dich aus, du unreiner Geist, gemeinsam mit der teuflischen Macht des Feindes, jedem Gespenst der Hölle und allen deinen üblen Gefährten; im Namen des Herrn Jesus Christus. Weiche und halte dich fern von diesem Geschöpf Gottes.”
~*~
Hermione handed Harry the sword of Godric Gryffindor, her bushy hair whipping around her face, and tapped at her wrist.
There was no sense in trying to speak now. Maul’s wrath was too loud.
Harry glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes.
Harry tightened his grip on the Sword of Godric Gryffindor, familiarizing himself with its weight.
~*~
He stared at his reflection, knowing his father didn’t deserve his explanation, knowing that he would never understand. Nor would he care.
Lucius Malfoy would burn for eternity for his sins.
But that didn’t mean he had to. “But sometimes it is good…”
The Awful Daring…
He closed his eyes and smelled the scent of fresh rain and beeswax. “Sometimes it is good to forgive, even if it is not requested.”
Of a Moment’s Surrender…
He opened his eyes and saw his reflection.
Sharp gray eyes, mocking, slender brows, and a cruel, pale mouth set in a pointed face surrounded by hair the color of frosted glass. His bangs fell forward to dust shyly over his eyes and he found the strength to smile.
His face. Not his father’s.
The scent of fresh rain and beeswax engulfed him.
~*~
The exorcist sucked in a deep breath, knowing that the time was near. He raised his hand to the heavens.
“Denn er ist es, der dir befiehlt, der dich kopfüber aus den Höhen des Himmels in die Tiefen der Hölle stieß.”
~*~
Five minutes.
Four.
Three minutes.
Five Aurors stood around Harry, shielding him from the onslaught of plagues so the Head Auror could get a moment’s rest before the Inversion Enchantratem activated.
Harry shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his grip on the Sword of Godric Gryffindor firm and steady. His face was set and serious, his gaze focused intently on the center of the Dome where Maul, wearing Draco Malfoy’s face, screamed and writhed relentlessly.
Two minutes.
Sixty seconds.
~*~
Fresh rain and beeswax. He searched the darkness, knowing that scent better than the back of his own hand.
“Mother?”
Let me be silent…
Allow me to be quiet…
~*~
Father Alt, having backed away to the safety of the perimeter of the Dome, watched intently and muttered prayers under his breath as Maul suddenly stilled, his mouth forming a large O in a silent scream.
~*~
Harry sucked in a breath and held it.
The madness of Maul’s nine deadly Plagues suddenly slowed.
Then, in a flash of brilliant white, every pestilence, every block of hail, and even the very darkness that surrounded them, was sucked towards the center of the Dome. A clap of thunder shook the very earth beneath their feet and an agonizing scream rang through the air and, suddenly, the entire world seemed to shift.
And then, Draco Malfoy’s magic exploded.
~*~
“Mother?!”
~*~
Translations:
…Weiche nun, im Namen des Vaters, des Sohnes und des Heiligen Geistes. Mach Platz für den Heiligen Geist durch dieses Zeichen des Heiligen Kreuzes unseres Herrn Jesus Christus, der lebt und herrscht in Einheit mit dem Vater und dem Heiligen Geist in alle Ewigkeit...
(German) Means “...Begone, then, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Give place to the Holy Spirit by this sign of the holy cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns with the Father and the Holy Spirit, God, forever and ever...”
... Ergib dich, dadurch, ergib dich nicht mir selbst, sondern dem Gesandten des Herrn, Jesus Christus. Denn es ist die Macht Christi, die dich bezwingt, der, der dich durch sein Kreuz gestürzt hat. Zittere vor dem mächtigen Arm, der die dunklen Kerkerwände einriss und die Seelen ins Licht führte. Möge das Beben das diesen menschlichen Körper schüttelt, die Angst die dieses Abbild Gottes ergreift, auf dich übergehen...
(German) Means “...Yield, therefore, yield not to my own person but to the minister of Christ. For it is the power of Christ that compels you, who brought you low by His cross. Tremble before that mighty arm that broke asunder the dark prison walls and led souls forth to light. May the trembling that afflicts this human frame, the fear that afflicts this image of God, descend on you...”
...Zittere und flieh, wo wir den Namen des Herrn anrufen, vor dem die Bewohner der Hölle sich niederkauern, dem die himmlischen Tugenden und Mächte und Herrschaften untertan sind, und den Cherubim und Seraphim preisen mit unendlichen Stimmen, wenn sie singen: Heilig, heilig, heilig, Herr Gott Zebaoth. Das fleischgewordene Wort befiehlt dir, der Sohn der Jungfrau befiehlt dir, Herr Jesus von Nazareth befiehlt dir...
(German) Means “...Tremble and flee, as we call on the name of the Lord, before whom the denizens of hell cower, to whom the heavenly Virtues and Powers and Dominations are subject, whom the Cherubim and Seraphim praise with unending cries as they sing: Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of Sabaoth. The Word made flesh commands you; the Virgin's Son commands you; Jesus of Nazareth commands you...”
… du magst die Menschen täuschen, aber Gott kannst du nicht spotten. Er ist es, der dich hinaustreibt, vor dessen Blick nichts verborgen ist. Er ist es, der dich zurückdrängt, dessen Macht alle Dinge untertan sind. Es ist es, der dich verstoßen hat, der das ewigwährende Höllenfeuer bereitet hat, für dich und deine Engel, er, dessen Stimme kommen wird wie ein scharfes Schwert, der kommt zu richten die Lebenden und die Toten und die ganze Welt mit Feuer...
(German) Means “...You might delude man, but God you cannot mock. It is He who casts you out, from whose sight nothing is hidden. It is He who repels you, to whose might all things are subject. It is He who expels you, He who has prepared everlasting hellfire for you and your angels, from whose mouth shall come a sharp sword, who is coming to judge both the living and the dead and the world by fire...”
Ich treibe dich aus, du unreiner Geist, gemeinsam mit der teuflischen Macht des Feindes, jedem Gespenst der Hölle und allen deinen üblen Gefährten; im Namen des Herrn Jesus Christus. Weiche und halte dich fern von diesem Geschöpf Gottes. (German) Means “I cast you out, unclean spirit, along with every Satanic power of the enemy, every spectre from hell, and all your fell companions; in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. Begone and stay far from this creature of God.”
Denn er ist es, der dir befiehlt, der dich kopfüber aus den Höhen des Himmels in die Tiefen der Hölle stieß. (German) Means “For it is He who commands you, He who flung you headlong from the heights of heaven into the depths of hell.”
A/N: I love you guys and adore your reviews, but I'll have to respond to them in just a minute....
Also, I would like to again give a huge THANK YOU to MangaCat (Who I adore fervently) for German translations, and Bubba and his father for proofreading. Alot of these last chapters wouldn't have been nearly as cool without their help. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Also, this chapter has a nasty cliffhanger, but I hope it makes up for it by being 5,310 words long, lol.
Enjoy.
~Sinner~
“It is believed there are good dybbuks and bad, with a good dybbuk's "attachment" performing more the role of a "spiritual guide" there to help the person through their current trials and tribulations that the soul was attracted to. These "good" possessions are usually referred to as a 'sod ha'ibbur.
In the case of a negative dybbuk, the spirit is not there to help as much as cause the same mistakes and chaos that it originally experienced during its own lifetime.” ~Exorcism Discussion found in wikipedia.org
“Especially important is the warning to avoid conversations with the demon. We may ask what is relevant but anything beyond that is dangerous. He is a liar. The demon is a liar. He will lie to confuse us. But he will also mix lies with the truth to attack us. The attack is psychological, Damien, and powerful. So don't listen to him. Remember that - do not listen.” ~ Father Merrin in The Exorcist
The Dome…
***
The death of the first born.
Harry knew that was what came next. Someone mentioned that they doubted Maul would slay his own Host, but Harry wasn’t so sure.
The wind was deafening, clawing madly at their clothes and biting at their faces. It was all they could do to just remain upright as the Auror’s Division fought to contain the nine deadly plagues Maul was hurling at them.
Outside the Dome, McGonagall led a small army of trusted Wizards and Witches against the onslaught of spreading plagues, screaming deflective curses and casting spells.
Harry shouted to his men, barking orders and words of encouragement. Hermione, who, against Ron’s adamant wishes, had stayed to help, struggled against the swirling gusts to approach the Head Auror.
She lifted the heavy Sword of Godric Gryffindor and Harry solemnly accepted it. Hermione pointed to her wrist, her bushy hair whipping around her face, and Harry glanced at his watch.
They had fifteen minutes.
~*~
Five hours and forty-five minutes prior…
***
A jolt.
A pulling sensation against his skin, like something was trying to rip his flesh from his body.
And there.
Let me be quiet, so I can hear the whispering of the gods.
Allow me to be silent, so I can comprehend their thoughts.
A spasm of pain. Wraiths spat their venom, blocking the response. A tightening in his chest, his heart sped up, battling against the pressure.
Everything went a red so dark, it was nearly black. A drowning, thick color.
The Awful Daring of a Moment’s Surrender…
He stared at his reflection, the gilded mirror a massive thing that could crush him instantly. He knew it wouldn’t.
He stared and stared, wondering at the paradox of the unnatural and the familiar. His face was a stranger’s, but no, he knew this face very well.
Hair the color of frosted glass, pale and shimmering. Long locks of moon light cascading down his shoulders, pulled back to reveal a high, regal brow, smooth and impeccable.
Cold grey eyes the shade of an English dawn, thunderheads fat with rain and twice as dangerous. Silver, cruel lashes, a stark sweep of them against his pale, jutting cheeks.
A frowning, stern mouth below a straight nose. A pointed face. Harsh lines marred the corners of his mouth, and even harsher lines defined the angles of his jaw.
A slender neck, pale skin disappearing under layers of black and silver fabric. Broad shoulders, slender gloved hands. Long limbs covered in dark swirling robes.
Unnatural.
Familiar.
It smelled like home here. The scent of fresh rain and beeswax. The cold still air scarred only by the shuffling feet of House Elves busy somewhere else in the Manor.
His frown deepened, and so did the lines surrounding it. He would have to chastise his servants later for making such unnecessary noise.
“Draco wishes to become a Seeker.”
He turned. There, seated on a dark, plush sofa, candlelight washing over her features in an ethereal glow, was his wife. She gazed coolly back up at him.
A pale vision of cold beauty, like the whimpering flower buds of early spring encased in ice. Her eyes, dark and somber, her mouth, created purely for cruel, knowing smiles, and her hair, the color of dawn light, she sat there, her hands folded over one another.
“He only wishes to be a Seeker because he wants to compete with Potter,” he replied, his voice dead and harsh.
“Is that so terrible a thing?” she said, her voice schooled to seem disinterested, but he knew better.
“He will embarrass us,” he said, turning back to gaze at himself. “Our son is no athlete.”
“He knows this. He requested that you purchase new brooms for the Slytherin Quidditch team.”
He smiled. Clever.
Draco was a studious boy, but he knew the hearts of those surrounding him. At so young an age, he has already mastered the art of manipulation.
“He’s a fair flyer, Lucius,” she continued. “He may do well.”
“The Dark Lord will have no use for Quidditch players,” he retorted.
“The Dark Lord will have no use for those who cannot compete with Potter,” she countered. “We can arrange private lessons for Draco.”
He turned again, regarding his wife. Her dark, luminous eyes shone back at him with an unspoken challenge.
She adored him, that was no secret. But when it came to her son, she would only settle for the best.
He crossed the room with quick, purposeful strides and grabbed his wife’s arm roughly. She rose, uncomplaining and unnaturally silent. She didn’t utter a word as he shoved her violently against the wall nor did she make a sound as he pulled up her skirts and thrust himself painfully inside of her.
He saw a muscle tighten in her jaw and knew she was clenching her teeth as he rammed into her, over and over. She stared into his eyes, something swimming behind her dark gaze that was a mixture of terrible love and loathing.
He clutched at her throat, his slim fingers tightening dangerously, and still she was silent. Still, she stared. He felt the heat begin to build in his loins and she tightened her legs around his waist, steadying them both for what was to come.
A challenge.
He tightened his grip, he thrust harder. She was making noises now. She was trying to breathe.
A dare.
Her eyes misted over and his movements inside of her became jerky and erratic.
Unnatural and familiar.
Cruel. So utterly cruel.
His hand came away from her throat and he buried his face in her hair as he came. She sucked in a ragged breath.
The scent of fresh rain and beeswax nearly suffocated him. His home smelled like her hair.
He pulled out of her abruptly and refastened his trousers around his waist. He watched passively as she staggered against the wall, a limp thing that still managed to level him with her eyes.
“Fine,” he said. “Let our son become a Seeker.”
Then he swept from the room, away from the scent of rain and beeswax. Away from candlelight and his horrible reflection. Away from those terrible, loving, loathing eyes.
Away from her cruelty.
Away from his own.
A jolt.
A spasm of pain.
His hand pushed his head into the pillow, the man’s dark locks stark against the pale skin of his hand. He struggled beneath him, trying to summon his wand. He swatted it away.
He grasped his hip and pulled him up, thrusting his buttocks into the air, burying his face further into the pillow. He dug his hand into the soft flesh before him, kneading it roughly.
He managed to flip himself over. Green eyes glared murderously back up at him.
A jolt.
A spasm of pain.
He blinked. When his eyes refocused, those blazing green eyes were swimming in a sea of concern and worry. The man reached for him.
He wanted to vomit, nausea crawling up the back of his throat. What has he done? He scrambled away. Away from his concerned touch. A gesture he didn’t deserve.
A jolt.
His heart squeezed painfully.
He gazed at his reflection, the paradox becoming a realization. Anger replaced the confusion. Wrath boiled beneath his flashing grey eyes.
He reared his arm back and slammed his fist into the glass, shattering the image of his father.
Another jolt.
Another spasm.
~*~
Father Alt circled the screaming, possessed Wizard, shouting the rites over the howling wind Maul had summoned.
“…Weiche nun, im Namen des Vaters, des Sohnes und des Heiligen Geistes. Mach Platz für den Heiligen Geist durch dieses Zeichen des Heiligen Kreuzes unseres Herrn Jesus Christus, der lebt und herrscht in Einheit mit dem Vater und dem Heiligen Geist in alle Ewigkeit... ”
~*~
“The second Plague has arrived!” and Auror shouted.
Frogs swarmed around their feet, trying to trip them. They struggled to levitate them to the center, topmost area of the Dome.
Harry ran over to Ron, shouting something into his ear. Ron nodded and grasped Mackle’s wrist. “We will need reinforcements! Send word to Hogwarts! Tell her, ‘By the oath of the Order of the Phoenix—“
“I’ll go!” Snape shouted over the wind. “She’ll trust my word.”
Ron glanced over to Harry but the black-haired Auror was already nodding for their old Potions Master to go.
Snape clutched at the amulet around his neck and stepped from the Dome.
“Potter!” Heroth exclaimed. “Look! The blood is spreading!”
All eyes turned to the lake. Indeed it was. And so were the swarming frogs.
The frogs began jumping onto the Dome, blotting out the sunlight. “We need to get Aurors out there!” Ron shouted.
“Take fifty and secure Maul’s perimeter,” Harry shouted back. “Keep those damn things off the Dome!”
“Got it.”
~*~
Pansy was saying something to him. That accursed girl always had the incessant need to chatter when she felt something was bothering him.
He ignored her, and continued to walk, his pace quickening as the effort to keep from screaming against the pain began to be more than he could bear. His arm twitched, the burning in his Mark becoming more violent, and he clenched his fingers into a fist against it as it snaked up and down his arm.
“Mr. Malfoy, a moment with you, please.”
Dumbledore. He had not even heard him approach. His arm screamed in agony.
Pansy gave them a dubious look before sauntering off down an adjoined hall.
He stared expectantly at the Headmaster who gazed back him from behind half-moon spectacles. Finally, the Headmaster turned and he followed the old man back through the castle and up the winding staircase that led to his office.
The Headmaster offered him a seat. He opted to stand. Dumbledore smiled as if he had expected that.
“Your grades are wavering, Mr. Malfoy,” Dumbledore said in that deep voice of his. “Is there a particular reason?”
He wanted to scream. The pain in arm was relentless and the Headmaster he had sworn to kill was inquiring about his grades. The utter ridiculousness of the situation made his head swim.
“No, sir,” he said, lying through his teeth.
“How are things at home?”
He stopped himself from glaring at the old man. “Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Yes, fine.”
Silence stretched out between them and the Headmaster seemed to be weighing his next words carefully. “If things aren’t as you make them seem, Mr. Malfoy, I hope that you would trust me with the truth.”
“I’m sure you have better things to do with your time,” he retorted harshly without completely thinking his words through.
Dumbledore smiled kindly. “As it would seem.” The Headmaster paused. “I was hoping to make you Head Boy next year.”
He had the utterly fantastic urge to laugh, but swallowed against his hysteria. “Thank you, sir. That would be an honor.”
“Would it?” Dumbledore asked softly, allowing the question to hang in the air.
He stared back at the old man, anger and guilt clotting his throat. He didn’t want to do it. He really didn’t want to. But he had to.
He played with idea of killing him now. Maybe then, the burning would cease. Maybe then, he could get some much needed rest.
His wand felt heavy where it was tucked in his sleeve. So heavy. It wouldn’t take much. And if he failed, perhaps the old man would kill him and put him out of his misery.
“You look unwell, Mr. Malfoy.”
“Do I?” Again, he had to swallow against his hysteria.
Again, the heavy silence. The piercing blue eyes seemed to see right through. He wondered if the old man already knew what was in store for him. It would be just like the old bastard to play with him like this.
“Perhaps I should go rest.”
“Perhaps you should.”
Whether it was actually a dismissal or not, he took it as one anyway. He left on shaking legs, down the stairwell, through the castle, the urge to break into a run overwhelming.
Then he was there, in the bathroom. Moaning Myrtle hovered curiously over his shoulder as he stared at his reflection in a mirror.
His father’s disappointed gaze swam before his eyes. Voldemort’s threat rang through his mind. Dumbledore was the only one who could save his mother. Anger boiled in his chest and, with a shout, he slammed his fist into the mirror. The shattered glass cut into his knuckles, relieving, momentarily, the burning in his Dark Mark.
He bent down to retrieve a shard of the reflective glass, gripping it tightly and allowing it to cut easily into the flesh of his palm.
He burst into tears, sliding slowly down to the floor and rocking back and forth, gripping the glass harder and harder.
The burning returned with a vengeance and he rolled up his sleeve. He gazed at the Dark Mark for a moment, hot tears blurring the vision of a roiling snake pouring from a skull’s mouth. He gritted his teeth and put the glass against the Mark. Slowly, at first, he cut a line across the face of the skull, watching with morbid fascination as blood welled up, a new kind of pain muting out the steady burning.
He cut another line, and then another. And then another and another and another. Soon, he was slashing at the Dark Mark with a vengeance, his sobs ringing off the walls of the bathroom, until his arm was a bloody, ravaged wreck.
He dropped the glass and cradled his arm, rocking back and forth as his sobs quieted to mere whimpers. He took off his tie and wrapped it tightly around his bloody forearm, using his teeth to secure the tourniquet. After using his wand to clean up the mess, he leant his head against the tiled wall behind him, his free-falling tears slipping down his face like a relentless rain. He pulled down his sleeve to hide the makeshift bandage and gripped his arm, relishing in the dull throb of pain versus the horrible burning of Voldemort summoning his Death Eaters, languid in the aftermath of agony.
Moaning Myrtle sat beside him, a silent, cold presence at his shoulder and did not say a word.
Suddenly, a voice sounded a few feet from him. With an angry shout, he jumped to his feet, wand at the ready.
It was Harry Potter. Damn him.
A jolt.
A spasm of pain.
He lowered his wand, defeated by his conscience, and Dumbledore gazed back at him with that terrible, terrible kindness and compassion.
Suddenly, his godfather burst into the room, shoving him behind him, and shouting the Killing Curse at the Headmaster.
“No!” he shrieked.
But it was done, and he was falling. Falling, falling, falling.
Dazed, he registered an angry shout behind them. The thunderous sound of running footsteps. And then the lurch of being Disapparated.
A jolt.
His heart felt like it was going to explode.
“I need to find my mother!”
“The deed is done, Draco,” Snape replied wearily. “Voldemort has no reason to slay your mother.”
Could he really be that stupid? Or was he the only one who really and truly understood the Dark Lord? “The mission was mine,” he exclaimed. “I failed. Don’t you understand? My mother—“
An owl flew in holding a scrap of parchment. Snape snatched and read it with sharp, black eyes. Suddenly, his godfather paled.
“What?” he demanded. “What is it?”
“I’m so sorry, Draco.”
“Don’t you fuck with me, old man,” he growled dangerously.
“Your mother…your father was there. He watched Voldemort—“
”Noooooo!” he roared. Snape had to bodily restrain him from flooing to the Malfoy Manor.
He thrashed in his godfather’s grip, struggling with all his might. “Don’t be stupid, Draco,” his godfather was saying. “He’d kill you without even blinking. Don’t be stupid…”
Abruptly, he went limp in Snape’s arms and he crumpled to the floor like a heap of dirty laundry when his godfather released him. He sat there and stared at the floor for nearly half an hour before looking up again.
Snape, despite himself, flinched at the horrible look in his godson’s eyes.
“You must stay hidden,” his godfather said.
“I know,” came his dead, hollow reply.
A spasm of pain.
He Apparated to the funeral, knowing Lucius’ son would be there. He laughed as he saw him stooping low to kiss his mother’s brow.
How incredibly poignant.
“Hello, Draco,” he said, a smirk curling his lips.
Flashing gray eyes glared up at him. “How dare you speak to me at my mother’s funeral, you illegitimate piece of Half-Blood filth?!” the boy snarled.
No. No, I’m not him. Never him.
Laughter.
A jolt.
A spasm of pain.
And a vault of swirling blackness opened up beneath his feet.
~*~
Father Alt sprinkled holy water on the young man as he circled him, his voice becoming hoarse as he shouted the rites over the vengeful winds for the third time.
Again and again, he would shout them, until the deed was done.
“... Ergib dich, dadurch, ergib dich nicht mir selbst, sondern dem Gesandten des Herrn, Jesus Christus. Denn es ist die Macht Christi, die dich bezwingt, der, der dich durch sein Kreuz gestürzt hat. Zittere vor dem mächtigen Arm, der die dunklen Kerkerwände einriss und die Seelen ins Licht führte. Möge das Beben das diesen menschlichen Körper schüttelt, die Angst die dieses Abbild Gottes ergreift, auf dich übergehen...”
~*~
Lice, murrain, and boils.
For their part, most of the aiding members here from the Ministry of Magic were able to ward themselves from the worst of it. But Harry knew Ron and the other Aurors outside the Dome were having one hell of a time with the Muggles down at the resort.
They had sufficiently been able to quarantine them and were planning to Obliviate the Muggles when it was all over. However, when all was said and done, it was a right mess.
Inside the Dome, the swirling wind and raw power Maul was exuding along with His first five plagues was worsening and becoming stronger.
Already bone-weary, Harry shouted encouragement to his Aurors and braced himself for the next three hours.
~*~
He stumbled in the darkness, his hands outstretched as he ran, desperately trying to find his way out. His sins buffeted him, sounds and smells and touches of them coming from all around.
In the darkness, he could smell lavender and vanilla; and he could remember exactly how it felt to break Pansy Parkinson’s heart.
As his eyes searched the blackness, he could feel the bite of the thorny stem tearing into his palm as he prepared to smear his blood on the white rose; and he knew he was responsible for his mother’s death.
He could feel the glass dragging into his skin, permanently scarring his flesh where Voldemort’s Dark Mark once lay; and he knew he was responsible for Dumbledore’s death too.
He could hear every harsh word he had ever said, every manipulative comment, every racial slur.
He could feel the morning dew all around him the day he slew the Gatherer, Cruent Mantle, in cold blood, watching him writhe in agony before he murmured the Killing Curse.
He could sense war alive and bloody all around him as he pointed his wand at himself and prepared to destroy the very last of Voldemort’s Horcruxes.
Two murders.
One, he would ask forgiveness for. One, he yearned to be redeemed. One, he regretted.
The other…never.
He stumbled again.
Sinner. Sinner. Sinner.
~*~
“...Zittere und flieh, wo wir den Namen des Herrn anrufen, vor dem die Bewohner der Hölle sich niederkauern, dem die himmlischen Tugenden und Mächte und Herrschaften untertan sind, und den Cherubim und Seraphim preisen mit unendlichen Stimmen, wenn sie singen: Heilig, heilig, heilig, Herr Gott Zebaoth. Das fleischgewordene Wort befiehlt dir, der Sohn der Jungfrau befiehlt dir, Herr Jesus von Nazareth befiehlt dir...”
~*~
Abruptly, a massive, thunderous pounding began to ricochet off the walls of the nearly opaque Dome. Instinctually, Harry ducked, along with a dozen other Aurors, before Saith, clutching his medallion, entered the Dome and ran up to the Head Auror.
“Hail!” Saith yelled. “Hail the size of bludgers! They’re—“
Someone screamed. Harry looked up just in time to see an unnatural storm cloud form at the inner surface of the Dome, directly above the Maul-possessed Draco Malfoy. Suddenly, a flood of pouring, bludger-sized blocks of ice began raining down on them.
“Wingaurdium Leviosa!” Harry shrieked, narrowly catching the first wave and preventing them from being crushed. Immediately, every Wizard and Witch began following suit as wave after wave of pouring hail fell from the dark, swirling cloud at the top of the Dome.
Then, it got bad.
Massive burning boulders of fire came crashing down around them, causing his make-shift troops to scatter frantically. Maul’s radius of power was getting wider and the Auror’s Division was getting overwhelmed. Soon, Wizards and Witches were getting severely injured and were forced to Disapparate to St. Mungo’s.
“Where the hell is McGonagall?!” Harry roared to no one in particular as he worked to get his Aurors back under control, safe, and focused on the massive task at hand.
After an hour and a half, Harry’s blood ran cold as a blinding swarm of locusts fell from the storm cloud and circled Draco in a vortex of pestilence.
Maul’s horrible laughter rumbled like thunder, shaking the ground beneath their very feet, before the vortex of locusts expanded and shot outward towards the perimeter of the Dome.
“Merlin…” Harry breathed as the heavy cloud of locusts sped towards him and his men.
~*~
Nobility isn’t about being better than others. It is about being better than you used to be.
He stopped running and became very still, listening to that voice that made absolutely no sound at all.
The Awful Daring of a Moment’s Surrender…
By This and This Only, We have Existed.
He smelled burning eggs and felt warm fingers caress his cheek.
He heard Harry’s deep throated laugh and could remember the sight of his wind-blown raven hair.
He felt the cold rain biting harshly into his exposed skin and the freezing mud between his toes. He lifted his face and began to twirl, spinning faster and faster.
“I forgive you.”
“I didn’t ask for your forgiveness, Auror.”
“I know.”
~*~
“… du magst die Menschen täuschen, aber Gott kannst du nicht spotten. Er ist es, der dich hinaustreibt, vor dessen Blick nichts verborgen ist. Er ist es, der dich zurückdrängt, dessen Macht alle Dinge untertan sind. Es ist es, der dich verstoßen hat, der das ewigwährende Höllenfeuer bereitet hat, für dich und deine Engel, er, dessen Stimme kommen wird wie ein scharfes Schwert, der kommt zu richten die Lebenden und die Toten und die ganze Welt mit Feuer...”
~*~
It was becoming as black as night. Harry didn’t have to look up to know the moon was beginning to blot out the sun.
The ninth Plague. The Plague of Darkness.
The Dome was beginning to crack.
Headmistress McGonagall had arrived.
Harry gritted his teeth.
~*~
He gazed at his reflection, knowing that the gilded mirror could crush him instantly, but he didn’t care. He knew it wouldn’t.
His father glared back at him with disapproving, bright grey eyes. He reached out and touched the glass, a sorrow welling up inside of him he couldn’t suppress.
“I forgive you,” he said to the mirror, to the glass, to his reflection…to his father.
His father sneered back at him, his contempt flashing dangerously in those sharp grey eyes that were so like his own. “I didn’t ask for your forgiveness, boy.”
“I know,” he murmured. “But sometimes…sometimes…”
~*~
“Ich treibe dich aus, du unreiner Geist, gemeinsam mit der teuflischen Macht des Feindes, jedem Gespenst der Hölle und allen deinen üblen Gefährten; im Namen des Herrn Jesus Christus. Weiche und halte dich fern von diesem Geschöpf Gottes.”
~*~
Hermione handed Harry the sword of Godric Gryffindor, her bushy hair whipping around her face, and tapped at her wrist.
There was no sense in trying to speak now. Maul’s wrath was too loud.
Harry glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes.
Harry tightened his grip on the Sword of Godric Gryffindor, familiarizing himself with its weight.
~*~
He stared at his reflection, knowing his father didn’t deserve his explanation, knowing that he would never understand. Nor would he care.
Lucius Malfoy would burn for eternity for his sins.
But that didn’t mean he had to. “But sometimes it is good…”
The Awful Daring…
He closed his eyes and smelled the scent of fresh rain and beeswax. “Sometimes it is good to forgive, even if it is not requested.”
Of a Moment’s Surrender…
He opened his eyes and saw his reflection.
Sharp gray eyes, mocking, slender brows, and a cruel, pale mouth set in a pointed face surrounded by hair the color of frosted glass. His bangs fell forward to dust shyly over his eyes and he found the strength to smile.
His face. Not his father’s.
The scent of fresh rain and beeswax engulfed him.
~*~
The exorcist sucked in a deep breath, knowing that the time was near. He raised his hand to the heavens.
“Denn er ist es, der dir befiehlt, der dich kopfüber aus den Höhen des Himmels in die Tiefen der Hölle stieß.”
~*~
Five minutes.
Four.
Three minutes.
Five Aurors stood around Harry, shielding him from the onslaught of plagues so the Head Auror could get a moment’s rest before the Inversion Enchantratem activated.
Harry shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his grip on the Sword of Godric Gryffindor firm and steady. His face was set and serious, his gaze focused intently on the center of the Dome where Maul, wearing Draco Malfoy’s face, screamed and writhed relentlessly.
Two minutes.
Sixty seconds.
~*~
Fresh rain and beeswax. He searched the darkness, knowing that scent better than the back of his own hand.
“Mother?”
Let me be silent…
Allow me to be quiet…
~*~
Father Alt, having backed away to the safety of the perimeter of the Dome, watched intently and muttered prayers under his breath as Maul suddenly stilled, his mouth forming a large O in a silent scream.
~*~
Harry sucked in a breath and held it.
The madness of Maul’s nine deadly Plagues suddenly slowed.
Then, in a flash of brilliant white, every pestilence, every block of hail, and even the very darkness that surrounded them, was sucked towards the center of the Dome. A clap of thunder shook the very earth beneath their feet and an agonizing scream rang through the air and, suddenly, the entire world seemed to shift.
And then, Draco Malfoy’s magic exploded.
~*~
“Mother?!”
~*~
Translations:
…Weiche nun, im Namen des Vaters, des Sohnes und des Heiligen Geistes. Mach Platz für den Heiligen Geist durch dieses Zeichen des Heiligen Kreuzes unseres Herrn Jesus Christus, der lebt und herrscht in Einheit mit dem Vater und dem Heiligen Geist in alle Ewigkeit...
(German) Means “...Begone, then, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Give place to the Holy Spirit by this sign of the holy cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns with the Father and the Holy Spirit, God, forever and ever...”
... Ergib dich, dadurch, ergib dich nicht mir selbst, sondern dem Gesandten des Herrn, Jesus Christus. Denn es ist die Macht Christi, die dich bezwingt, der, der dich durch sein Kreuz gestürzt hat. Zittere vor dem mächtigen Arm, der die dunklen Kerkerwände einriss und die Seelen ins Licht führte. Möge das Beben das diesen menschlichen Körper schüttelt, die Angst die dieses Abbild Gottes ergreift, auf dich übergehen...
(German) Means “...Yield, therefore, yield not to my own person but to the minister of Christ. For it is the power of Christ that compels you, who brought you low by His cross. Tremble before that mighty arm that broke asunder the dark prison walls and led souls forth to light. May the trembling that afflicts this human frame, the fear that afflicts this image of God, descend on you...”
...Zittere und flieh, wo wir den Namen des Herrn anrufen, vor dem die Bewohner der Hölle sich niederkauern, dem die himmlischen Tugenden und Mächte und Herrschaften untertan sind, und den Cherubim und Seraphim preisen mit unendlichen Stimmen, wenn sie singen: Heilig, heilig, heilig, Herr Gott Zebaoth. Das fleischgewordene Wort befiehlt dir, der Sohn der Jungfrau befiehlt dir, Herr Jesus von Nazareth befiehlt dir...
(German) Means “...Tremble and flee, as we call on the name of the Lord, before whom the denizens of hell cower, to whom the heavenly Virtues and Powers and Dominations are subject, whom the Cherubim and Seraphim praise with unending cries as they sing: Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of Sabaoth. The Word made flesh commands you; the Virgin's Son commands you; Jesus of Nazareth commands you...”
… du magst die Menschen täuschen, aber Gott kannst du nicht spotten. Er ist es, der dich hinaustreibt, vor dessen Blick nichts verborgen ist. Er ist es, der dich zurückdrängt, dessen Macht alle Dinge untertan sind. Es ist es, der dich verstoßen hat, der das ewigwährende Höllenfeuer bereitet hat, für dich und deine Engel, er, dessen Stimme kommen wird wie ein scharfes Schwert, der kommt zu richten die Lebenden und die Toten und die ganze Welt mit Feuer...
(German) Means “...You might delude man, but God you cannot mock. It is He who casts you out, from whose sight nothing is hidden. It is He who repels you, to whose might all things are subject. It is He who expels you, He who has prepared everlasting hellfire for you and your angels, from whose mouth shall come a sharp sword, who is coming to judge both the living and the dead and the world by fire...”
Ich treibe dich aus, du unreiner Geist, gemeinsam mit der teuflischen Macht des Feindes, jedem Gespenst der Hölle und allen deinen üblen Gefährten; im Namen des Herrn Jesus Christus. Weiche und halte dich fern von diesem Geschöpf Gottes. (German) Means “I cast you out, unclean spirit, along with every Satanic power of the enemy, every spectre from hell, and all your fell companions; in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. Begone and stay far from this creature of God.”
Denn er ist es, der dir befiehlt, der dich kopfüber aus den Höhen des Himmels in die Tiefen der Hölle stieß. (German) Means “For it is He who commands you, He who flung you headlong from the heights of heaven into the depths of hell.”
A/N: I love you guys and adore your reviews, but I'll have to respond to them in just a minute....