Disclaimer: I do not have any rights of ownership for the characters used except the OC's. All the credit goes to the authors. Only the plot belongs to me.
Chapter 8
~ Harry Potter ~
The silken sheets of the master bed in Number 12, Grimmauld Place, felt less like luxury and more like a shroud. The air in the room was thick, perfumed with the lingering scent of Narcissa—a cool, floral aroma that usually soothed the jagged edges of his mind—and the musk of their shared bed. But tonight, the comfort was suffocating.
Harry Potter lay staring at the canopy, his heart beating a rhythm that was too fast, too aggressive for rest. The power he had claimed—the raw, volatile magic stripped from the Horcrux and integrated into his own core—thrummed beneath his skin. It was a restless predator, pacing the cage of his ribs, demanding a hunt. It whispered to him in the silence, telling him that while he lay here in the gilded cage of the Black ancestry, the world outside was burning.
He couldn't tolerate it. The gilded inaction was a poison.
Carefully, so as not to wake the sleeping form of Narcissa beside him, Harry slipped from the warmth of the bed. She stirred slightly, a pale hand seeking him in the emptiness, but she did not wake. He paused, looking down at her. In sleep, the mask of the Malfoy matriarch was gone, leaving only a woman who had bet everything on him. He would not let her lose that wager.
He dressed in the dark. Dragon-hide boots, flexible combat trousers, and a heavy cloak that seemed to swallow the light. He didn't take the Invisibility Cloak; tonight, he did not want to hide. He wanted to be seen. He wanted them to know he was coming.
Stepping out of the front door of Grimmauld Place, the cold London air hit him, tasting of damp pavement and distant exhaust fumes. But to his awakened senses, the air carried other things: the metallic tang of fear, the heavy static of wards, and the oily residue of Dark Magic.
He didn't walk. He twisted on his heel, the crack of Apparition echoing like a gunshot in the quiet square.
Harry reappeared in an alleyway near Diagon Alley, but he didn't stop there. He moved through the shadowed streets of magical Britain like a phantom of vengeance. He was patrolling. Hunting. He checked the known thoroughfares, the dark corners where Snatchers liked to ambush the desperate.
He found a group of three near Carkitt Market, harassing a terrified muggle-born attempting to flee the country. The fight—if it could be called that—lasted seconds. Harry didn't use disarming charms. A darker, more efficient spell, one he had learned from the Black library, sheared the leader's wand arm off at the elbow. A concussive blast sent the other two through a brick wall. He left them broken and bound for the Aurors, if any honest ones remained, and moved on.
And then, it came.
Somewhere on the outskirts of Northern London, Harry felt it. The rancidness of Dark Magic. Magic that was designed to not maim or cut, but rather to torture and kill. But this sensation… this pulse of magic felt stronger than the usual groups of Snatchers.
The wheels were turning in his head when he heard it. The maniacal cackle that had stolen from him his godfather. His family.
Bellatrix.
The signature was unmistakable. It was alight with the ecstasies of torture and murder, a beacon of malice flaring in the night.
Harry didn't think. He let the magic guide his hand, apparating right into the fray, his fingers steady around his wand. He spun, the world twisting into a kaleidoscope of colour and darkness.
He landed with a thud, back into existence on a manicured lawn, the smell of burning timber and copper filling his nose instantly. He recognized the house through photos Nymphadora had shown him during his stay at the Weasleys, though he had never visited.
The Tonks residence.
The front door was blasted off its hinges. Green light flashed from the windows, illuminating the smoke that poured into the night sky.
Harry took a step forward and stopped.
Ted Tonks lay on the grass near the porch. He was on his back, his eyes wide open, staring up at the sky as the smoke covered the stars. His face was frozen in a mask of surprise, his wand still loosely gripped in his hand. There was no mark on him, just the stillness of the dead.
Something twisted in Harry's gut. The grief would come later. Right now, there was only the cold fury of the executioner.
Inside the house, a woman screamed, not in fear, but rather in rage.
Harry moved. He crossed the lawn in three strides and vaulted through the ruined doorway.
The living room was a slaughterhouse of spell-fire. Furniture was reduced to splinters; the wallpaper was scorched. In the centre of the chaos, Andromeda Tonks fought with the cornered fury of a lioness.
She was bleeding from a dozen wounds. Her robes were shredded, her hair wild, and blood ran down her face from a deep gash on her forehead. But she was standing. She was dual-casting, her wand a blur of motion, shielding and cursing in the same breath.
Surrounding her were six Death Eaters. And at the front, cackling with a sound that scraped against the soul, was Bellatrix Lestrange.
"Give up, Andi!" Bellatrix shrieked, dancing aside from a blasting curse. "Siri's dead! Cissy will be dead! The mudblood is dead! Come play with your big sister!"
"Rot in hell, Bella!" Andromeda roared, unleashing a stream of purple fire that forced two Death Eaters to dive for cover.
Harry didn't announce his presence. He didn't shout a warning. He simply raised his wand, his loyal Holly and Phoenix Feather wand humming in his hand, and unleashed his wrath.
A bolt of lightning, raw and jagged, erupted from his wand. It didn't hit a person; it hit the floor in the centre of the Death Eaters, exploding outward in a shockwave of pure concussive force.
The three Death Eaters closest to the blast were thrown backward as if hit by a giant's fist, their bodies smashing into the walls with sickening crunches. They slid to the floor, unmoving.
Bellatrix spun around, her eyes widening. "Potter?"
"You talk too much," Harry said, his voice low, vibrating with the power of his newly awakened heritage, free from the confines of the soul-sucking parasite.
A Death Eater to his left, recovering from the shock, raised his wand. "Avada—"
Harry flicked his wrist. A slashing curse, invisible and silent, cut through the air. The Death Eater gurgled, clutching his throat as a spray of crimson painted the ruined sofa. He collapsed.
"Potter!" Bellatrix screamed, her shock morphing instantly into delight. "Itty bitty baby Potter comes to play! Does he want to die like his godfather? Like the mudblood lover outside?"
She whipped her wand toward him, purple flame erupting from the tip.
Harry didn't shield. He swatted the spell aside with sheer magical force as if it were a physical object, the flames scattering harmlessly into the walls. He advanced, stepping over the body of the man he had just killed.
"Kill him!" Bellatrix commanded the remaining two subordinates.
They fired. Two killing curses, green and crackling, rushed toward him.
Harry twisted, moving with a speed that shouldn't have been possible. He apparated across the room—a short-range jump that appeared as a blur —reappearing directly behind the two attackers.
With a growl of effort, he thrust his wand forward. "Confringo."
The blasting curse hit the first Death Eater in the centre of his back. The explosion threw him into his comrade, and both were hurled through the bay window, crashing onto the lawn in a tangle of broken limbs and glass.
Silence fell over the room, save for the crackling of small fires and the ragged breathing of Andromeda.
Bellatrix stood alone.
Her smile faltered. She looked around at her fallen squad, then back at Harry. The manic glee in her eyes dimmed, replaced by a flicker of genuine confusion.
This was not the boy who had chased her through the Ministry.
"You've changed," she hissed, prowling sideways, her wand raised.
"And you haven't," Harry replied, walking toward her. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The air around him distorted with heat. "Still loud. Still mad. Still weak."
Bellatrix shrieked, a sound of pure offended rage, and unleashed a barrage of curses. Crucio, Avada Kedavra, dark cutters, organ-liquefying hexes.
Harry parried them. He wove a shield of golden magic that absorbed the more minor curses, and deflected the others with precise, brutal swathes of his wand as he dodged multiple killing curses. He was closing the distance.
"Is that all?" Harry taunted, his eyes glowing emerald with intensity.
"Die!" Bellatrix screamed.
She aimed not at him, but at Andromeda, who had collapsed against the mantlepiece, clutching her side.
Harry's expression went flat.
He thrust his empty hand forward. Wandless magic, fuelled by the rage in his core, surged out. It caught Bellatrix in mid-cast.
Invisible bands of force slammed around her, pinning her arms to her sides. Her wand flew from her hand, soaring across the room to land at Harry's feet.
Bellatrix fell to her knees, choking, as the invisible pressure tightened around her throat.
Harry stood over her. She looked up at him, eyes bulging, struggling for air. For a moment, the thought crossed his mind.
'End it. Snap her neck. Burn her to ash.'
It would be easy. It would be justice.
But then he looked at Andromeda. She was sliding down the wall, her skin grey, her eyes fluttering shut. She was dying. She was his priority right now.
And he looked back at Bellatrix. Death was too quick. Death was a release she didn't deserve. Countless others were due their own pound of flesh from the mad woman.
And there was Narcissa. Narcissa, who had lost everyone.
Harry lowered his hand slightly, easing the pressure just enough for Bellatrix to gasp a ragged breath.
"Stupefy."
The red bolt hit her point-blank in the chest. Bellatrix Lestrange slumped forward, unconscious, her face resting on the ruin of her sister's carpet.
Harry turned instantly to Andromeda. He dropped to his knees beside her.
"Andromeda?"
She opened her eyes, struggling to focus. She looked so much like Bellatrix, yet entirely like Narcissa. The resemblance was haunting.
"Ted..." she whispered, blood bubbling at the corner of her mouth. "Where is... Ted?"
"I've got you," Harry said, his voice softening, the predator receding to make way for the protector. "I'm taking you to Cissy."
"Ted..."
"Hold on," Harry commanded gently.
He cast a stasis charm over her wounds, stopping the worst of the bleeding, but he wasn't a healer. She needed help, and she needed it now.
He stood up, levitating Andromeda's body with gentle care. Then, with a flick of his wand, he bound Bellatrix in chains of conjured iron, gagging her and floating her unconscious body alongside her sister.
He looked around the room one last time. The destruction. The death.
He walked out the front door. He paused by Ted's body. With a heavy heart, he transfigured a sheet of white linen to cover the man. He couldn't take him. Not yet. He had to save the living.
Harry grabbed the floating forms of the two sisters—one victim, one monster. He turned on the spot.
The darkness of the Apparition swallowed them whole.
~ Narcissa Malfoy ~
The library of Grimmauld Place was usually a sanctuary of silence, but tonight, the silence felt predatory. Narcissa Malfoy sat in a high-backed armchair near the dying embers of the fire, a book resting unread in her lap.
She had felt him leave. She had felt the moment the warmth left the bed, the moment the wards rippled to let their Lord pass.
She hadn't stopped him. How could she? Harry Potter was not a man to be kept. He was a force of nature that she had somehow, miraculously, managed to align herself with. Since the ritual, since the removal of the Horcrux, he had become something... more. He was darker, yes, but also brighter. A terrible, beautiful intensity that drew her in like a moth to a flame.
But the waiting was agony.
Every creak of the old house sounded like bad news. Every gust of wind against the window pane sounded like a scream. She was the Lady of this House now—a house she had once despised, now her only fortress against the Dark Wizard she had betrayed.
Suddenly, the wards screamed.
It wasn't an attack. It was an entry. A violent, hasty entry that bypassed the security protocols because the one entering owned the blood that keyed them.
Narcissa was on her feet instantly, her wand in her hand. The smell hit her before she even reached the hallway.
Soot. Magic. And blood.
So much blood.
"Harry?" she called out, her voice trembling slightly.
She rushed into the entrance hall and stopped dead.
Harry stood in the centre of the hall. He looked terrifying. His cloak was torn, his face smeared with soot and blood that wasn't his own. His eyes were burning with a residual green luminescence.
But it was what – who – he was carrying that stopped her heart.
Floating beside him, suspended in a magical hold, was a woman. Her robes were shredded, soaked in crimson. Her face was pale, deathly pale, covered in cuts.
"Andromeda," Narcissa breathed, the name tearing out of her throat.
Harry looked at her, his expression grim. "She's alive. Barely. Ted is dead."
The world tilted on its axis. Ted... dead. Andromeda... broken.
"Help me," Harry said, his voice rough. "We need to stabilize her."
Narcissa's shock shattered under the weight of necessity. The Black training, the Malfoy poise, it all snapped into place. Panic was a luxury she could not afford.
" The dining room," she commanded, spinning around. "The table is long enough. Winky!"
The house-elf appeared with a crack, eyes wide with terror. "Mistress calls?"
"Get blankets, clean water, and the Dittany. All of it. Now!"
"And get Apolline," Harry added, moving toward the dining room with the floating Andromeda. "She's trained as a healer in her youth back in France."
Narcissa didn't argue. She followed him, her mind racing.
They laid Andromeda on the long, ebony table. Under the harsh light of the chandelier, the damage was horrific. A dark curse had slashed her side, exposing tissue and ribs. Her breathing was shallow, a wet, rattling sound.
Narcissa's hands shook as she reached out to brush a strand of matted hair from her sister's face. It had been nearly two decades since they had spoken. Two decades of silence, of being on opposite sides of a war. And now this.
"'Old 'er down," a melodic voice said from the doorway.
Apolline Delacour swept into the room, wearing a silk dressing gown, her wand already drawn. The Veela matriarch didn't ask questions. She saw the blood, saw the wounds, and went to work.
"Winky!" Apolline barked.
The elf appeared, piling supplies on the side table.
"'Arry, 'old ze wound shut," Apolline ordered, her voice distinct and commanding. "Lady Malfoy, I need you to chant ze counter-curse for a gouging curse. We need to stop ze blood and remove ze traces of Dark Magic."
Harry moved to Andromeda's side, his hands—stained with the blood of her attackers—pressing down on the gash in her flank.
Narcissa stood at the head of the table. She looked down at her sister. She looked so small.
"Vulnera Sanentur," Narcissa began to chant, her voice gaining strength with every syllable. She moved her wand in the intricate, song-like pattern required for the spell.
"Again," Apolline hissed, pouring essence of Dittany directly into the wound. Steam hissed up, smelling of burnt flesh and alcohol. Andromeda thrashed, a low moan escaping her lips.
"Hold her!" Narcissa cried out, tears blurring her vision. "Don't let her move!"
Harry leaned his weight down, his face set in a grimace of concentration. "I've got her. Keep going, Cissy."
For an hour, time dissolved into a nightmare of blood and incantations. The dining room, usually a place of lively meals and political plotting, became an operation theatre. Narcissa's world narrowed down to the rhythm of her sister's heart, the colour of her skin, the flow of magic knitting flesh back together.
Slowly, agonizingly, the bleeding stopped. The grey pallor of death receded, replaced by the pale white of exhaustion and blood loss. Andromeda's breathing evened out, no longer rattling.
Apolline slumped back against a chair, wiping sweat from her brow with her sleeve. "She is stable. She 'as lost much blood, but ze core is intact. She will sleep for days."
Narcissa let out a breath she felt she had been holding for decades. She lowered her wand, her knees trembling. She reached out, her fingers trembling, and grasped Andromeda's cold hand.
"She's alive," Narcissa whispered. "Thank Merlin."
She looked up to thank Harry, to find the anchor in the storm.
But Harry was gone.
"Where is he?" Narcissa asked, looking around the room.
Apolline gestured vaguely toward the hallway. "'E left a few meenutes ago, once ze bleeding stopped. 'E looked… 'eavy."
Narcissa squeezed Andromeda's hand one last time, then nodded to Winky. "Stay with her. Do not leave her side. If she wakes, come to me instantly."
"Yes, Mistress," Winky squeaked, climbing onto a chair to keep watch.
Narcissa straightened her robes. She wiped the blood from her hands with a conjured cloth, though she felt she would never be clean again. She walked out of the dining room, into the oppressive silence of the hall.
She followed the feeling of his magic. It was a dark, pulsing heat that led her not to the bedroom, but to the drawing room.
The Black family drawing room. The place where the tapestry hung. The place where her name, and Bellatrix's, remained, while Andromeda's had been burned away.
The door was ajar.
Narcissa pushed it open.
The room was dim, lit only by the flickering gas lamps on the walls. Harry was standing by the window, looking out at the dark square below. He had cleaned the blood from his face, but his posture was rigid, his shoulders carrying the weight of the world.
But he wasn't looking at the window. He was looking at something on the floor.
Narcissa stepped further into the room. Her eyes adjusted to the gloom.
And then she saw it.
Or rather, her.
Lying on the Persian rug, in the centre of the room, was a figure bound in heavy, conjured chains. The chains were wrapped tight, pinning arms to sides, legs together. A gag of iron was clamped over the mouth.
The woman was unconscious. Her dark, heavy-lidded eyes shut tight, giving the illusion of her being blissfully asleep. Her hair was a bird's nest of black curls.
Narcissa stopped breathing. Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a scream.
Bellatrix.
It was impossible. Bellatrix Lestrange, the Dark Lord's most terrifying lieutenant, the monster of most wizard's nightmares, the sister who had embraced the madness that Narcissa had only flirted with.
She was here. Captured. Trussed up like a common criminal in the house of her ancestors.
Harry turned from the window. His green eyes met Narcissa's grey ones. There was no triumph in his face, only a bleak, hard resolve.
"I didn't kill her," Harry said quietly. "I wanted to. But after seeing Andromeda, I needed to focus on her. I couldn't bring you one dead sister and one dying one."
Narcissa couldn't speak. She took a step forward, her legs feeling like lead.
Narcissa stopped a few feet away. She looked down at the woman who had once braided her hair. The woman who had taught her how to cast her first hex. The woman who had tortured the Longbottom family into insanity and ripped apart countless others.
"You captured her," Narcissa whispered, the reality finally sinking in. "You defeated her."
"She was distracted," Harry said, walking over to stand beside Narcissa. He didn't touch her, but his presence was a shield. "She was enjoying trying to kill your sister and her husband too much to notice me."
Narcissa flinched at the blunt truth. "Ted..."
"Dead before I got there," Harry confirmed. "She led the attack."
Narcissa looked back down at Bellatrix. The hatred radiating from the woman on the floor was palpable. It was a cold, acidic thing.
"Why bring her here?" Narcissa asked, her voice trembling. "Why not... finish it?"
Harry reached out then, taking Narcissa's hand. His grip was warm, solid. "Because this isn't for the Aurors. This is House of Black business. She attacked her own. She killed the husband of a Black sister. and almost killed her."
Harry looked at Narcissa with an intensity that burned. "I brought her to you, Narcissa. She is yours. To judge. To imprison. Or to execute."
The silence in the room was deafening.
Narcissa looked at the captive.
She felt a well of emotion rise up in her—grief for Andromeda, horror for Ted, fear of the Dark Lord. But beneath it all, a cold, hard rage began to crystallize.
This woman had come to destroy the last fragments of Narcissa's family. She would have killed Andromeda. She would have come for Narcissa next.
Narcissa released Harry's hand. She took a step closer to Bellatrix. The silk of her robes rustled softly, a sound like a blade being drawn.
She looked down at her sister. The madness, the cruelty, the wasted potential.
"You broke the family, Bella," Narcissa said softly. Her voice wasn't angry. It was disappointed. "You chose a half-blood monster over your own blood."
Narcissa looked up at Harry. "Is the house secure? Can she escape?"
"The chains are bound to my magical core," Harry said simply. "Unless she becomes stronger than me—which she isn't—she can't break them. And the wards are locked down. She is a ghost here."
Narcissa nodded slowly. She looked back at Bellatrix.
"Grimmauld Place has a dungeon," Narcissa said, her voice turning to ice. "My aunt Walburga used it for... guests who displeased her. Take her down there. We chain her to the wall. Wards of silence. Wards of suppression."
"And then?" Harry asked.
Narcissa turned away, walking toward the door. She paused, her hand on the frame, her silhouette stark against the light from the hallway.
"And then," Narcissa said, her voice hollow, "I will go sit with Andromeda. And when she wakes up... we will decide what to do with our sister."
She didn't look back. She walked out of the room, leaving the monster in chains and the wizard who had captured her.
Harry watched her go. He looked down at Bellatrix, who was still asleep. Looking at her like this, Harry finally noticed her similarities to her sister. She could have been a beautiful noble lady.
Such a shame.
Harry flicked his wand. Bellatrix floated into the air, helpless.
"Kreacher," Harry muttered.
The old elf appeared beside Harry, his wide in shock at the captured prey of his new Lord.
"Take her to the dungeon. Keep her unconscious, bound and suppressed. I am too tired for this shit now," Harry ordered, shrugging off his ruined cloak, calling for Dobby to draw a bath so he could wash off the blood, soot and grime off him.
He began the descent into the foyer below, the weight of the night heavy on his shoulders, but the fire of the Horcrux finally, blissfully, quiet. The hunt was over.
Now, the judgment began.
Author's Notes
Another chapter up. Got a lot more in store for y'all.
See you soon.