Darker Days

"Her name was Hermione Granger," Harry said.

Even uttering the name felt strange after so much time. It seemed wrong, and part of him screamed to stop talking. But he was too tired to stop. He was too tired for anything.

"She was a prisoner, like you. A Muggleborn— the very thing I was raised to destroy."

He paused. Perhaps it was the memories, but his headache was returning. As soon as it started, it receded just as fast. Harry looked down to find Fleur touching his knee, an intent look on her face.

"What did you just do?" he asked, befuddled.

"Allure," Fleur said. "It is a veela trait. I do not possess it like my mother or grandmother do, though many boys have accused me of such. However, if I focus, I can cause some effect. I have been told it feels warm."

It did. It was like a hug, one that was somehow inherently sexual, although Harry did not admit this idea out loud. It was exactly the kind of touch he'd fled from, first with Daphne and then with Pansy. But right now it felt like the best medicine he could've asked for. His headache mellowed more than it had in days.

"Tell me about this Hermione," Fleur said. 

Harry couldn't refuse now.

"Dumbledore sent her on a mission. I do not know what it was. He must have trusted her a lot, because she was still a student at the time. But she failed. She was captured. And then, she was sent to me."

He waited — perhaps hoped — Fleur would interrupt again. Then, maybe he could stop. But she didn't, so he couldn't, so the words kept flowing.

"She was as thin as a skeleton when she arrived. She had been starved. But no matter what they tried, she would not be quiet. She would speak about anything and everything, except the answers they wanted from her. They could not break her. She would not divulge the location of The Order of the Phoenix; would not give up their spies in the ministry; would not even tell the Death Eaters what color robes she last saw Dumbledore wearing. She had frizzy hair, constantly sticking up in places. She loved to read. It was my job to get answers out of her, yet she was always better at getting me to talk. I don't know how. I could stay one step ahead of everyone, but never her."

"I remember her," Fleur said softly. "I saw her at meetings for the Order. Only a few. She disappeared soon after I joined. What happened to her next?"

Harry looked Fleur dead in the eyes. This time, there were no echoes from the past. He saw only the part-veela, refusing to confuse his memories with the current moment.

"How did you think it would end?" he asked. "I killed her."

O-O-O

Harry descended the stairs at a faster pace than usual. It was only times like this when the ache of his limp faded. The tradeoffs didn't make it worth it.

He crossed the empty living room, approaching the front door. He raised his wand and shut his eyes. Silently, he reached out with his magic, muttering spells to check the wards.

They were nothing complicated, but that did not mean they were weak. Most times, the wards were strong enough to repel any attacks. Damaging the exterior of the house in order to enter unannounced would cause a backlash capable of killing an adult wizard. Now, Harry turned them up. He tweaked them with spell after spell, until even the slightest trace of malintent would prove fatal. No one could Apparate inside, and not even an Animagus could bypass these protections with their animal form. If an unlucky wild bird happened to collide with the window that night, not a single feather would touch the ground.

After hitting the door with the three strongest locking charms he knew, Harry turned away. He returned to the living room, grateful to find it empty. He wasn't in the mood to handle Susan right now, and although she backed off, he could tell Fleur wasn't satisfied. She had more questions about Hermione. Maybe he would answer them— but for tonight he'd said enough.

The fireplace loomed in front of him, and Harry muttered a short spell. He closed it to incoming Floo trips. Short of disconnecting it entirely, which would require bringing the Ministry into his home to reestablish the connection, this was the most effective way to bar entry. Only the Department of Magical Transportation would be able to override a blockage like this, and even then it would require the director's permission at minimum.

Stepping back, Harry ran over it all in his head one last time. The wards were raised. The door was locked. The Floo was shut. Which meant there was only one thing left to shut away: himself.

He climbed the stairs again. Fang the Boarhound padded out of a room as he passed it, falling in at Harry's side. He glanced at the dog, before giving him a scratch behind the ears and continuing.

Harry found his bedroom. He entered with Fang, shutting the door behind them. He planted his hands on the side of his bed, giving it a gradual and firm push. It slid along the floor. Underneath, a trapdoor led beneath the floor. Harry opened it, descending the ladder inside. With his last view of the room, Harry saw Fang lie down beside the trapdoor.

"Don't let anyone inside," Harry instructed.

He didn't know if Fang understood, but the fact that Harry's voice had become a half-growl surely would have helped if the dog did. Harry pulled the trapdoor shut above him.

It was dark, but not pitch black. He climbed down into a room that had no other entrance or exit, besides the ladder and the trapdoor. It had windows to see by, allowing in the last pink glimmers of the sinking sun. In the middle of the room was a dome-like cage made of thick iron, and directly in front of Harry, there was a shelf laden with potions.

Most were empty, but a few were full. He approached, uncorking one. He gave it a deep sniff.

His whole body went stiff. He squeezed, bursting the bottle in his hands and causing bright blue liquid to splatter over his hand. He lapped at his palm, only to snarl with anger.

"Sugar!" he gnashed his teeth. "Who could have…? Draco? No, he said he didn't… He said he wouldn't…"

There was no time. The sun was setting. Harry swept over to the cage, yanking open the gate and slamming it behind him. He shed the outer layer of his robes, doing his best to ignore the anxiousness burbling in his chest.

Wolfsbane was a recent invention. It was rare, difficult to brew, and easy to ruin. The taste was foul, but a single dash of sugar would eliminate all its effects. Harry kept his private stock tucked away safely down here. No one entered this place. Not only would they have to get into his home, he checked the room daily: any minor detail being different would catch his notice. Yet his potions had been ruined. He'd sworn to himself this would never happen again!

He shook his head. He was getting dizzy. It's alright, he told himself. Everything else is fine. It will be fine.

He dropped down, alone in his cage, tucked away inside his room, and used his wand to lock the gate he entered through. Then he sat, and waited.

It didn't take long.

O-O-O

"Did you hear something?" Fleur asked.

Susan looked up from her dinner. It was just the two of them. Not even Fang was present for once.

"It sounded like a howl," Fleur said.

"Just ignore it," Susan said. "You'll find it easier that way."

Fleur frowned. She separated a bite of potatoes, lifting her fork and swallowing. Her mother's were better.

"Was it always just you and Harry here, before me?" Fleur asked.

"Always us, always alone," Susan said. "Just this damn house. Like it's all that's left of the world."

"Did others visit?"

"Only the hag," Susan said.

That must have been Narcissa. It occurred to her that she had never seen Susan in the same room as the Lady Malfoy. Perhaps it was like with Astoria's unannounced visit: when others came to the house, she simply hid.

More importantly, it let Fleur clarify the timeline a bit more. Hermione's stay must have predated Susan. By how long she didn't know. Was Susan another one of Harry's attempts to replace Muggleborn witch? Fleur didn't think so. After all, the way he treated Susan was certainly different from the way he treated her.

Clang!

Fleur jumped as a butter knife landed on her plate, ringing against the ceramic and causing globs of potato to spill off onto the placemat.

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

"That's what I'd like to ask you," Susan said. "I had so much hope when you arrived. You were so full of fire, I really thought you could do it! I believed you could kill that bastard. But as each day goes by, you get more docile. Are you happy to be locked in here? Are you proud of it?"

Susan was glaring at her. Fleur should have been offended, but instead, she felt a sense of pity.

"I am not trapped," Fleur said. "He will allow me to leave at any time. If you asked, perhaps he would let you leave, too."

"Do you think I haven't tried? I asked so many times, but he keeps me locked in here! Of course you're different. He knows you could finally end him. He's terrified of you, that's why he wants you gone. Can't you see it?"

"Non, he is not frightened of me," Fleur said. "He is scared of the past, and I remind him of that. I see that now. He would like me to leave… but only because that will allow him to run away a bit longer. He is a bit of a coward, but I cannot hate him, and I refuse to kill him, no matter how you beg."

"You—!" Susan began.

"If you want to see him dead, I have a suggestion," Fleur said. "Try to accomplish it yourself, instead of relying on strangers."

Susan opened her mouth. It moved, but she didn't speak. She stood up. With brisk steps, she left behind a half-full dinner plate. Only when she was at the door's threshold did she hesitate.

"Do you think I wouldn't, if I was capable of that?" she whispered.

She disappeared, leaving Fleur to finish dinner alone. Fleur always considered the awkward dinner atmospheres to be stifling, yet now that she was left without even Fang for company, the empty air seemed twice as heavy.

She finished her food. She left her empty plate, rising and leaving to return to her room, intent on going to bed early tonight.

With the downstairs empty, no one was left to notice when the fireplace turned a startling shade of green…

O-O-O

In Fleur's dreams, she was back in Beauxbatons. Her legs were short, carrying her slowly through the gardens. She was alone. That was how it had always been, when she was young and first arrived. The boys could not hold their tongue around her, and the girls hated to see their crushes become fools for her. Without friends, she took to wandering between classes. Beauxbatons, at least, was a gorgeous prison.

"Here you are."

Fleur spun. A beaming smile formed on her face; she knew this voice.

Just as quickly, she knew something was wrong. There was something terrible about the expression on the enormous woman standing behind her. Madam Maxine was often severe, but she never frowned like this. Not at Fleur.

"Where did you go?" Madam Maxine asked. "I told you Britain was no good. Why did you still leave? Was it worth it losing everything, just because you had to do the right thing?"

"Headmistress, I'm right here!" Fleur protested.

"You're gone." Madam Maxine shook head. "All, all gone."

Beauxbatons faded, replaced by a different school. Hogwarts stood tall and firm, yet its lawn was devastated. Fires burned, bodies lay scattered, and through it all Fleur found herself walking.

Her strides were longer now. They ate up ground at the rate she was used to, yet it wasn't enough. Everywhere she looked were bodies. Plenty belonged to Death Eaters, yet more still were her friends, and even her family.

She and Bill married before the war. They wanted to have no regrets. What a silly thought. What good was a ring to a widow? And even the ring had been torn away from her when she was captured, pawned off as a spoil of war. Amid a sea of bodies, Fleur vaguely recognized this as a nightmare.

She faded in and out of sleep after that, but it was always shallow, and her dreams were far too vivid. Each time her eyes opened halfway, as she lay on the border between consciousness and sleep, she felt less rested than when she climbed into bed.

Finally, her eyes snapped fully open. She took a deep breath. Something had woken her. 

It was that noise again, the distant one that sounded like a howl. The one she heard during dinner. Susan never said she didn't hear it, now that Fleur thought about it; just that Fleur would be better off putting it out of her mind.

Fleur turned over, intending to attempt sleep once more.

A scream tore from her throat.

Someone was tucked in bed with her, the covers pulled over his shoulder. He'd been so silent and still that she didn't notice until she faced him— until she was forced to see his grinning lips pulled back over yellowish buck teeth, his eyes crinkled with joy, the fat in his cheeks bunched up like lumps of lard. A big dark mole stuck out on his cheek. Fleur could see the pores of his skin, and the red hairs sticking out of his nostrils. She could smell his breath, carrying with it a mix of rotted grass and carrion.

"Mine!" said Peter Pettigrew.

He reached for her face with a grubby hand.