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Hermione Granger - 4 Days Later
The darkness pressed against Hermione's eyelids like a living thing, heavy and suffocating. She forced them open again, blinking up at the burgundy canopy above her bed. The fabric seemed to ripple in the dim light filtering through the dormitory windows, creating shadows that twisted into shapes she didn't want to recognize.
Just close your eyes, she told herself. Sleep. You need sleep.
But the moment her lids fluttered shut, it all came rushing back. The wet sound...that horrible, liquid gurgle as Goyle's life drained away. His eyes, bulging with shock and terror, staring at her with an accusation that would follow her to the grave. The metallic tang of blood filling her nostrils, so thick she could taste it on her tongue even now.
Her eyes snapped open again. The dormitory was peaceful around her...Lavender's soft snores from the bed beside hers, Parvati's gentle breathing, the rustle of blankets as someone shifted in their sleep. How could they sleep so easily when she had blood on her hands? When she had become a killer?
They don't know, she reminded herself. No one knows except Harry and Ginny.
She turned onto her side, pulling the covers up to her chin. The movement made her aware of her body in ways that disgusted her...the weight of her cock against her thigh, the way it had stirred earlier when she'd thought about the power she'd felt in that moment. The power of holding life and death in her hands.
What's wrong with me? The thought clawed at her mind. What kind of monster gets aroused by murder?
She squeezed her eyes shut again, desperately seeking the oblivion of sleep. Instead, she was back in that dungeon room, watching Goyle's sneer transform into shock as her curse found its mark. But this time, the memory was different.
"Should've seen her squeal when I carved her up," Goyle's voice echoed in her mind, clearer than it had been in reality. "Begged me to stop, she did. Cried like a baby."
Hermione's hands clenched into fists beneath her blanket. Had he said that? She couldn't remember...the rage had been so consuming, so absolute. But the words felt real, visceral in a way that made her stomach churn with fresh fury.
"Gonna do the same to you, Mudblood," the phantom voice continued, leering and grotesque. "Gonna make you bleed nice and slow."
Stop, she commanded herself. He never said that. You're making this up.
But the voice wouldn't be silenced. It grew louder, more insistent, painting horrific pictures of what Goyle had wanted to do to Luna. What he might have done if given the chance. The images were so vivid, so nauseating, that Hermione had to bite her lip to keep from crying out.
She rolled onto her back again, her heart hammering against her ribs. Sweat beaded on her forehead despite the cool December air seeping through the windows. The familiar sounds of the dormitory...creaking floorboards, the whisper of wind against glass...seemed amplified, almost threatening in the darkness.
I'm losing my mind, she realized with crystalline clarity. This is what it feels like to go insane.
The thought should have terrified her. Instead, it brought an odd sort of comfort. Madness would be easier than this...easier than living with the memory of what she'd done, easier than questioning whether she'd done the right thing, easier than wondering what other lines she might cross.
Lavender mumbled something in her sleep, rolling over to face Hermione's bed. Even in the dim light, Hermione could make out the soft curve of her neck, pale and vulnerable above her nightgown. For one moment, Hermione wanted to kiss her neck, her large breasts, she wanted to forget about this, to bury herself deep and just forget, feel the pleasure of flesh. She wanted Ginny, or Luna or Professor Sinistra or even Professor Garlick. She wanted to forget. Her cock throbbed beneath her nightgown, wanting the same thing as her.
"Please," she whispered into the darkness, though she wasn't sure what she was pleading for. Sleep? Forgiveness? The return of her old self?
The shadows gave no answer, only pressed closer, carrying with them the phantom scent of blood and the echo of dying gasps.
The soft pad of bare feet on stone made Hermione's breath catch. She lay perfectly still, every muscle tense, as the footsteps drew closer to her bed. Through the gap in her curtains, she could make out a familiar silhouette—red hair catching the faint moonlight, a slight frame moving closer.
"Hermione?" Ginny's voice was barely a whisper, so quiet it might have been mistaken for the wind outside. "Are you awake?"
Hermione's throat felt raw, as if she'd been screaming for hours. Maybe she had been, in her mind. "Yes," she managed, her voice cracked and brittle.
The curtains parted with the softest rustle of fabric, and Ginny slipped inside the enclosed space around Hermione's bed. In the dim light, her face looked ghostly pale, freckles standing out like dark stars against her skin. There were shadows under her eyes that spoke of her own sleepless nights.
"You've been tossing and turning for hours," Ginny murmured, settling herself carefully on the edge of the mattress. The bed dipped under her weight, and Hermione found herself grateful for the warmth of another body nearby—something real and solid in a world that felt increasingly unmoored.
"Can't sleep," Hermione admitted, pulling herself up to sit against her pillows. The movement made her aware of how damp her nightgown was with sweat, how her hair stuck to her neck in tangled strands. She felt disgusting, tainted in ways that went deeper than skin.
Ginny drew the curtains closed behind her, creating a small cocoon of privacy. "Neither can I," she confessed, and there was something in her voice—a tremor, barely perceptible—that made Hermione look at her more closely.
"Are you alright?" The question tumbled out before Hermione could stop it, absurd in its irony. Neither of them was alright. Neither of them might ever be alright again.
Ginny's laugh was soft and bitter. "I keep seeing his face," she said simply. "When the curse hit him. The surprise in his eyes, like he couldn't believe it was happening."
Hermione's stomach clenched. She remembered that look too—the way Goyle's arrogance had crumbled into shock, then terror, then nothing at all. "I'm sorry," she whispered, and the words felt inadequate, pathetic. "I'm so sorry you had to see that. That I dragged you into this."
"You didn't drag me anywhere," Ginny said firmly, shifting to face her fully. "I chose to be there. We all did."
But Hermione was shaking her head before Ginny finished speaking. "No, you don't understand. I should feel guilty about killing him. I should be horrified, devastated, something." Her voice cracked again. "But I'm not. The only guilt I feel is about what I've done to you and Harry."
Hermione waited for Ginny's revulsion, for her to recoil in horror at what Hermione had become. Instead, Ginny's expression remained steady, thoughtful.
"What do you mean?" Ginny asked softly.
Hermione's hands twisted in her lap, fingers knotting together. "Harry had to... dispose of the body. Because of what I did. He had to become complicit in murder because I lost control." The words tasted bitter on her tongue. "And you—you have to carry this secret now. Live with what you saw. I've made you accessories to my crime."
"Hermione—"
"He was going to rape her." The words burst out of Hermione with violent force, surprising them both. "Goyle. He told us what he wanted to do to Luna before he killed her. He described it like... like it was a game." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm not sorry he's dead. I'm glad. And that makes me a monster."
Ginny was quiet for a long moment, studying Hermione's face in the dim light. When she spoke, her voice was soft. "I don't know how I'm supposed to feel either," she admitted. "I keep thinking I should be more upset, more traumatized. But mostly I just feel... empty. Confused."
Without asking permission, Ginny shifted again, lifting the covers and sliding into the bed beside Hermione. The mattress was narrow, forcing them close together, and Hermione could smell Ginny's familiar scent—something floral and clean that reminded her of the Burrow's garden. It was comforting in a way that felt almost foreign after days of feeling nothing but darkness.
"This will pass," Ginny said quietly, lying on her side facing Hermione. "Whatever we're feeling now—or not feeling—it'll get easier. Things will go back to normal eventually."
Hermione turned to meet her eyes, seeing her own uncertainty reflected there. "How can you know that?" she asked. "How can you be sure?"
"Because they have to," Ginny replied, but there was a fragility to her conviction that made it sound more like hope than certainty.
"I don't think they will," Hermione whispered. "I don't think I'll ever be normal again. I killed someone, Ginny. I ended a life with a word, and I felt... powerful. In control. What does that make me?"
Ginny's hand found hers beneath the covers, fingers intertwining with surprising strength. "It makes you human," she said firmly. "Someone who was pushed too far and did what she thought she had to do."
"That's what I tell myself," Hermione admitted. "That he deserved it. That Luna deserved justice. That the war is coming anyway and I need to get used to killing." She paused, swallowing hard. "But late at night, when it's quiet like this, I wonder if I'm just making excuses. If I'm turning into something terrible."
They lay in silence for a while, hands clasped, breathing synchronized in the small space. The warmth of Ginny's body beside her was an anchor, something to hold onto in the storm of her thoughts. For the first time since it happened, Hermione felt like she might not be drowning completely.
"We'll figure it out," Ginny murmured eventually, her voice growing heavy with exhaustion. "Whatever comes next, whatever we're becoming—we'll figure it out together."
Hermione wanted to believe her. Desperately. But as she listened to Ginny's breathing slowly even out beside her, as sleep finally began to claim them both, she couldn't shake the feeling that some changes were irreversible. Some lines, once crossed, led to places you could never return from.
Tomorrow
The Great Hall buzzed as Hermione entered for breakfast, the familiar scents of bacon and toast doing nothing to settle her churning stomach. She'd managed perhaps three hours of sleep pressed against Ginny's warmth, but exhaustion clung to her like a second skin. Every sound seemed amplified—the scrape of cutlery against plates, the rustle of morning Daily Prophet, the excited chatter that filled the vast space.
Hermione slid into her usual seat between Harry and Ron, hyperaware of how her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the pumpkin juice. Harry caught her eye briefly, his green gaze searching her face with concern she didn't deserve. She looked away quickly, focusing instead on the conversations swirling around them.
"—hasn't been seen for four days now," Dean was saying to Seamus, his voice carrying the breathless excitement of someone sharing particularly juicy gossip. "Bed wasn't even slept in."
"Probably buggered off to join his daddy," Seamus replied with a callous shrug, buttering his toast with more force than necessary. "Like father, like son, innit? The whole family's rotten."
Hermione's fingers tightened around her goblet. The casual cruelty in Seamus's tone made something dark and protective flare in her chest—not for Goyle, but for the principle of it. These people had no idea what they were talking about, no understanding of what had really happened or why.
"Maybe he's dead," Lavender chimed in from across the table, her voice bright with morbid curiosity. "I heard some of the seventh years saying he might have tried to follow in his father's footsteps and gotten himself killed for his trouble."
The words hit Hermione. She forced herself to take a sip of juice, the liquid tasting like copper against her tongue. Around her, the conversation continued with the thoughtless momentum of a runaway cart.
"Good riddance if he has," Another muttered, stabbing at his eggs with unnecessary violence. "One less future Death Eater to worry about."
Hermione's eyes snapped to the Slytherin table, where the contrast was stark and telling. Unlike the other houses' animated discussions, the green and silver section was subdued, faces drawn with genuine worry. Crabbe sat hunched over his breakfast, looking lost without his usual companion. Draco's seat remained conspicuously empty—had been for four days now.
"The Slytherins look properly worried," Ginny observed quietly, settling beside Hermione with her own plate. Her voice was neutral.
"Course they are," Ron said dismissively. "They're all in the same boat, aren't they? Probably worried they'll be next if the Dark Lord's started picking off the weak ones."
A wild theory from the Ravenclaw table caught Hermione's attention—something about Goyle being kidnapped by rogue house-elves seeking revenge for years of mistreatment. The absurdity of it would have been laughable under different circumstances. Now it just made her feel sick.
"Or maybe," came Anthony Goldstein's voice, carrying clearly across the hall, "he finally realized what a worthless piece of filth he was and threw himself off the Astronomy Tower."
"Attention, students." Dumbledore's voice cut through the chatter like a blade, instantly silencing the hall. The headmaster rose from his seat, his usually twinkling eyes serious behind his half-moon spectacles. "I have an announcement regarding Mr. Goyle's continued absence."
Hermione's heart hammered against her ribs so hard she was certain everyone could hear it. Beside her, Harry had gone perfectly still, his fork suspended halfway to his mouth.
"After extensive consultation with the Ministry and Mr. Goyle's family," Dumbledore continued, his gaze sweeping across the assembled students, "it has been decided that all sixth and seventh-year students will be individually questioned by their respective Heads of House regarding any information they might have about Gregory's whereabouts."
Immediate protests erupted from multiple tables.
"That's mental!" shouted a Hufflepuff seventh-year. "Why should we be interrogated because some Death Eater spawn decided to run off?"
"Probably joined You-Know-Who already," called out a Gryffindor Hermione didn't recognize. "Following in daddy's footsteps like the good little bitch he is."
"Yeah, good riddance to bad rubbish," someone else agreed loudly.
The casual cruelty was like acid in Hermione's veins. She watched Dumbledore's expression darken, his usual grandfatherly demeanor replaced by something colder, more authoritative.
"SILENCE." The word rang out with such force that several students actually flinched. The hall fell into immediate, absolute quiet. "I am deeply disappointed by what I am hearing from you today."
Dumbledore's gaze moved slowly across the room, taking in every face, every expression of sullen resentment or defensive anger. When his eyes passed over the Gryffindor table, Hermione felt exposed, as though he could see straight through to her guilt-stained soul.
"Gregory Goyle is a child," Dumbledore said, his voice carrying clearly in the silence. "A sixteen-year-old boy who, regardless of his family's choices or his own past mistakes, deserves our concern and compassion, not our judgment."
Hot rage flared in Hermione's chest, so sudden and intense it made her dizzy. A child. Dumbledore was calling the boy who'd tried to murder Luna—who'd bragged about wanting to rape her first—a child deserving of compassion. Where had that compassion been when Luna lay bleeding in the snow? Where were the consequences for attempted murder?
"Furthermore," Dumbledore continued, oblivious to the fury building inside one of his supposedly brightest students, "I will not tolerate such callous disregard for human life in my school. War may be coming, but we will not allow it to strip us of our humanity or our capacity for mercy."
Mercy. The word made Hermione want to laugh—or scream.
"The questioning will begin this afternoon," Dumbledore concluded. "I expect your full cooperation and honesty. That is all."
As conversation slowly resumed around them, Hermione remained frozen in place, her breakfast untouched and cooling on her plate. Every word of Dumbledore's speech felt like a personal condemnation, a judgment of her actions that made her want to stand up and defend herself.
He tried to kill Luna, she thought fiercely. He was going to rape her. He deserved what he got.
But even as the justifications rang through her mind, she couldn't shake the image of Dumbledore's disappointed face, or the way Harry and Ginny sat in perfect, guilty silence beside her.
They were going to be questioned.
The abandoned classroom on the fourth floor had become their sanctuary of secrets. Hermione cast the final silencing charm.
Harry stood near the grimy window, his shoulders rigid with tension that hadn't left him since that night in the dungeons. The afternoon light filtering through the glass cast harsh shadows across his face, making the exhaustion under his eyes look like bruises. Ginny perched on a desk beside Hermione.
"We need to talk about what happens next," Hermione said, her voice barely above a whisper despite the charms. The words felt heavy, significant in a way that made her throat tight. "The questioning starts this afternoon."
Harry nodded without turning from the window. "McGonagall will want to know if we've seen anything suspicious, if Goyle said anything to us, when we last saw him alive." That last word hung in the air like an accusation.
Hermione's hands clenched in her lap. The urge to ask the question that had been burning in her mind for days was overwhelming, but the words felt too dangerous, too real. Finally, she couldn't hold back any longer.
"Harry," she said quietly, "where did you put the body?"
The question landed like a stone in still water, sending ripples of tension through the small space. Harry's shoulders hunched further, and Ginny glared at Hermione for asking that question.
"You don't need to know that," Harry said without turning around, his voice flat and emotionless in a way that made Hermione's chest ache.
"Yes, I do." She stood up, moving closer to him, needing to see his face. "This is my fault, Harry. My responsibility. I need to know."
Finally, he turned to face her, and the hollow look in his green eyes made her stomach drop. This was what she'd done to him—taken the boy who'd always tried to save everyone and forced him to become complicit in murder.
"I transfigured him," Harry said simply, as though discussing homework. "Made the body small. Put it in a box."
Hermione felt sick. The casual way he said it, the matter-of-fact tone—this wasn't Harry.
"Where?" Ginny asked, her voice strained.
"Room of Requirement." Harry's gaze fixed on something beyond them, distant and unfocused. "I thought about needing a room where something could never be found. The room gave me... a place. Deep, dark. Full of things that have been hidden for centuries."
"Harry." Ginny slid off the desk, moving to stand beside Hermione. "Are you okay? Really okay?"
He laughed, but the sound was bitter and wrong. "Am I okay? I helped cover up a murder, Ginny. I disposed of a body. I lied to Dumbledore's face this morning." His eyes found Hermione's. "How could I possibly be okay?"
This was her fault—all of it. Harry's hollow eyes, the way Ginny flinched whenever someone mentioned Goyle's name, the lies they'd all have to tell for the rest of their lives.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, and the words felt pathetically inadequate. "I'm so sorry I dragged you into this."
"You didn't drag me anywhere," Harry said firmly, echoing Ginny's words from the night before. "I made my choice. We all did."
But Hermione could see the cost of that choice written across his face, in the rigid set of his shoulders, in the way his hands trembled slightly when he thought no one was looking.
"How are you doing?" Harry asked, turning the focus back to her. "Really, Hermione. No lies."
She opened her mouth to give him the answer he wanted—that she was struggling, traumatized, barely holding herself together. The words that would make her seem normal, human, appropriately horrified by what she'd done.
Instead, she found herself caught between truth and deception, unable to voice either completely.
"I'm... managing," she said carefully. "It's hard, obviously. The nightmares, the guilt." That much was true, even if the guilt wasn't about what Harry thought it was. "But I know we did what we had to do."
Harry studied her face intently, and for a moment she was afraid he could see through her careful half-truths to the darker reality beneath. The reality where she felt more anger than remorse, where Goyle's death felt like justice rather than tragedy.
He was going to rape Luna, she reminded herself. He deserved what he got. War is coming anyway—I need to get used to killing.
The justifications felt solid, reasonable, but she kept them locked behind her teeth. Harry and Ginny wouldn't understand. They still believed in the old rules, the old morality that said taking a life was always wrong, regardless of circumstances.
"We need to be careful about Snape," Harry said, apparently accepting her non-answer. "His Legilimency—if he suspects anything and decides to look..."
The thought sent ice through Hermione's veins. Snape's dark eyes probing her mind, uncovering not just what she'd done but how little she regretted it. How the memory of Goyle's death sometimes made her feel powerful rather than sick.
"We need to learn Occlumency," she said immediately. "All of us. Before we go back to classes."
"Agreed," Ginny said quickly. "I've got some books from the family library that might help. We can practice over Christmas break."
Christmas break. The words reminded Hermione that normal life was supposed to continue around their terrible secret. Presents and family dinners and pretending to be the same people they'd been before blood had sprayed across a dungeon wall.
"What about Draco?" Harry asked quietly, and the question hung in the air like a challenge.
Hermione's jaw tightened. Draco Malfoy, who'd given the order. Who'd sent Goyle after Luna with instructions to "scare her off permanently." Who was probably sitting in his dormitory right now, wondering why his attack dog hadn't returned.
"What about him?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral.
"He ordered the attack," Harry said, watching her face closely. "He's just as guilty as Goyle was."
The implication was clear, and Hermione felt that familiar dark satisfaction stir in her chest. The same feeling she'd had watching Goyle die, the sense of justice being served with her own hands.
"We can't do anything right now," she said, though every instinct screamed for immediate action. "Too risky. Too many people would notice if something happened to him so soon after Goyle's disappearance."
"So we wait?" Ginny asked.
"We wait," Harry confirmed.
"Christmas break starts next week," Ginny pointed out, her voice deliberately bright. "We'll have time away from school. Time to process everything, practice Occlumency, figure out our next move."
Time to plan, Hermione thought but didn't say. Time to research. Time to prepare for whatever came next in this war that had already claimed more of their innocence than any of them had expected.
"Good," she said aloud. "We all need space to think."
And space to decide how far down this dark path she was willing to go.
Severus Snape
The ancient manor house crouched against the winter sky like a diseased spider, its blackened windows reflecting nothing but emptiness. Inside, the drawing room had been transformed into a temple of shadows—heavy curtains blocked any hint of natural light, leaving only the sickly green glow of dark magic to illuminate the circle of hooded figures.
Lord Voldemort sat at the head of the long table, his serpentine features thrown into sharp relief by the flickering flames that danced without heat or warmth. His red eyes swept across his assembled followers with the lazy confidence of a predator among prey, noting each flinch, each nervous gesture, each desperate attempt to avoid his gaze.
"Severus," the Dark Lord's voice cut through the oppressive silence like a blade through silk. "You requested this gathering. Speak."
Snape rose from his seat, his black robes billowing around him like wings. Even among Death Eaters, he commanded a certain respect—or perhaps fear. His dark eyes were unreadable as he surveyed the assembled company.
"My Lord," Snape began, his voice carrying clearly in the hushed room, "I bring troubling news from Hogwarts. Gregory Goyle has disappeared."
A ripple of murmurs ran through the circle. At the far end of the table, a massive figure in expensive robes leaned forward—Goyle Senior, his brutish features creased with sudden concern.
"Disappeared?" Goyle's father demanded, his voice rough. "What do you mean, disappeared?"
Snape's gaze fixed on the older man with something that might have been sympathy, though it was difficult to tell with the Potions Master. "He has not been seen for four days. His bed remains unslept in. The castle and grounds have been searched thoroughly."
"Then find him!" Goyle Senior roared, half-rising from his chair. "Send out search parties! Contact the Ministry!"
"I believe," Snape said quietly, his words falling into the room like stones into still water, "that your son is dead."
The silence that followed was absolute. Even Voldemort seemed to pause, his red eyes narrowing with interest rather than concern.
"You speak of certainties without evidence, Severus," came Bellatrix Lestrange's mocking voice from across the table. "Perhaps the boy simply ran away. Children do have such weak stomachs for what's required of them."
Snape turned his cold gaze on her. "It fits. A week ago, young Goyle attacked a student—Luna Lovegood, a friend of Potter's. The girl nearly died from a cutting curse to the throat."
Goyle Senior's face darkened with what might have been pride. "The boy was following orders. Draco said—"
"Draco said to frighten the girl, not attempt murder," Snape interrupted smoothly. "But Gregory exceeded his instructions, as was his nature. He left Miss Lovegood bleeding in the snow, a breath away from death."
Voldemort leaned forward slightly, his interest clearly piqued. "And you believe Potter discovered this transgression?"
"Potter found the girl," Snape confirmed. "Carried her to the hospital wing himself. Sat by her bedside for hours." His voice carried a note of dark satisfaction. "When the school failed to identify or punish the attacker, when justice remained... absent... I believe Potter took matters into his own hands."
The suggestion hung in the air like poison gas. Several Death Eaters exchanged uncertain glances, clearly struggling to reconcile the image of the "Boy Who Lived" with cold-blooded murder.
"Impossible," whispered Macnair from his seat near the window. "Potter's too weak, too noble. He wouldn't kill a fellow student."
"The Golden Boy, a murderer?" Bellatrix cackled with delight. "Oh, how delicious that would be!"
But Goyle Senior was on his feet now, his massive frame trembling with rage. "You're saying that Potter—that little shit—killed my son? MY SON?"
"I am saying," Snape replied calmly, "that your son attacked Potter's friend with intent to kill, and subsequently vanished without a trace. Draw your own conclusions."
Goyle Senior's face had gone purple with fury. He looked ready to storm from the room, to march on Hogwarts himself and tear Harry Potter apart with his bare hands.
Instead, he found himself pinned in place by a casual gesture from the Dark Lord.
"Sit down, Goyle," Voldemort said softly, and the man collapsed into his chair as though his strings had been cut. "Your son," Voldemort continued with casual indifference, "was weak. Foolish enough to be caught by a schoolboy, stupid enough to leave evidence of his actions." The lipless mouth curved into something that might charitably be called a smile. "Anyone so easily dispatched by Harry Potter was already worthless to our cause."
The words hit Goyle Senior, but he dared not protest. Not when those red eyes were fixed on him with such casual indifference.
Voldemort turned back to Snape, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth—an expression more terrifying than any scream of rage. "Are you certain of this assessment, Severus? That the Potter boy has finally learned to kill?"
"I have no concrete evidence, my Lord," Snape admitted. "But I am... confident in my analysis. The boy has not been himself since Black's death. The guilt, the anger—it has been eating at him. This incident with Miss Lovegood may have been the catalyst he needed to embrace darker methods."
Voldemort's laugh was soft and horrible, like the sound of bones breaking. "Excellent. I had wondered when the boy would stop playing at being a hero and start understanding the true nature of power."
He rose from his chair, beginning to pace around the table#. "For too long, Potter has clung to Dumbledore's foolish notions of mercy and redemption. But war has a way of stripping away such illusions, doesn't it? Of revealing what we truly are beneath the mask of civilization."
The Death Eaters watched their master with rapt attention, recognizing the signs of his pleasure—and knowing how quickly that pleasure could turn to wrath.
"If Potter has indeed killed one of his fellow students," Voldemort continued, his voice growing stronger with each word, "then he has taken the first step down a path from which there is no return. Murder changes a person, marks them. Once you have taken a life, the second becomes easier. The third, easier still. The fourth, it's sweet."
He paused behind Snape's chair, one pale hand resting briefly on the man's shoulder. "Continue to watch him, Severus. Report any further... developments in his moral education. I find myself quite curious to see how far the famous Harry Potter will fall."
The meeting dissolved soon after, Death Eaters dispersing into the winter night like shadows fleeing the dawn. But the seed had been planted—the idea that their greatest enemy might finally be becoming something they could understand.
Something like them.
In the silence that followed, Voldemort remained at the window, staring out into the darkness with eyes that gleamed with anticipation.
The war was about to become much more interesting.
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