Hopeless
Harry saw Bellatrix launch the blade, malice glittering within her dark eyes as she moved. Harry didn’t hesitate then, practically throwing himself into the knife aimed directly for Dobby’s chest. He didn’t care that he had ripped himself from Dobby’s grip as he did; didn’t care that Hermione and Ron were screaming for him to stop as he stepped out from in front of them.
All he could see was the knife coming their way, and he did not think at all about the consequences.
The knife slashed him, the hot metal burning past his shoulder as he tried to deflect it. But he had miscalculated the direction that it was coming from, his sacrifice for naught when Dobby was struck by the blade before the elf could apparate Ron and Hermione away; the elf’s eyes wide in shock.
Harry was horrified, unable to contain his cry, as he turned in his attempt to catch Dobby as he fell. However, before he could, he felt the familiar sensation of magic washing through him, freezing him entirely in place. He jerked and shouted to be released, to at least give Dobby the respect he deserved.
“Let go of me!” He was desperate, his throat raw from shouting off the top of his lungs.
But the spell was too strong to overcome.
“H-Harry Potter...” Dobby whispered, his hand reaching out for Harry despite the blade sitting perfectly between his ribs. Harry didn’t realize he was crying until he felt his throat lock up, a pressure so choking that he thought he might pass out. His cheeks were wet with his tears, but he paid the blurriness of his vision little mind.
All he could think about was getting to Dobby.
Harry did not register the moment Hermione was pinned to the marble floor, her hair wild with distress and panic as she tried to fight against a crazy Bellatrix Lestrange, consumed entirely by the torrent of his emotions. He didn’t even notice when Ron was also pinned to the floor at her side; his body falling far more easily to the ground. There was no struggle coming from the ginger-haired boy, his side oddly silent. If the situation had not been as grim as it was, Harry might have even found it comical how vastly different both Lucius and Bellatrix appeared next to one another.
Bellatrix Lestrange was wild, her body practically sitting atop of Hermione’s back when Harry finally ripped his gaze away from Dobby’s unseeing eyes, immensely proud, at how Hermione bucked and scratched at the pale witch above her. Hermione twisted and jerked beneath Bellatrix, her eyes glittering with rage despite glee apparent in Bellatrix’s black eyes. It was almost painful to listen to the way Bellatrix laughed as she stepped on Hermione’s fingers, her voice reviving a hatred Harry thought he’d buried back at the Ministry.
It was overwhelming the way the emotion coiled around him, the way it settled into his bones like muscle and flesh. He resisted the black—horrified at the fact that he was feeling this again. That this powerful hatred was growing stronger and stronger with every second Harry watched Bellatrix beat Hermione down with her heeled boots. As if Hermione did not warrant anything more than the bottom of her shoes.
Hermione did not scream, but he could hear each time a blow hit her skin, the sound of Hermione’s ragged breath enough indication that she was in immense pain but refusing to give them the satisfaction of hearing her pained cries. The sound of slap hitting leather rang throughout the room, and Harry restrained the ire that wanted to overtake him then. It wouldn’t be any help to Hermione if he lost control.
When Harry turned his gaze to Ron, he noted immediately how strangely still the ginger was, staring almost unseeingly to the ground beneath him. His skin looked waxy underneath the lights in the expansive room, his hair matted and knotted. Ron looked horrid.
If Harry did not know any better, he would have thought he was de—
“Harry Potter.” And all thought of Ron fled his mind in that instant, the sound of Voldemort’s hiss enough to make gooseflesh rise from his skin.
“At last, the man of the hour has arrived.” Voldemort sounded amused, but Harry did not let the lightness to his tone deceive him. The man was absolutely mad—in the same breath that he could make a charming joke, he could cast the killing curse.
“With guests, no less.” Harry tried to make sense of it, unsure of what to expect when the dark lord was standing at an unknown distance behind him. “It seems one of them did not survive the journey, such a pity.” Voldemort laughed.
Several seconds past before the realization smacked Harry in the face. Horror and sorrow completely overtaking him when he caught sight of Lucius’s grinning face.
The blonde kicked at Ron, and the ginger-haired boy did not stir. His eyes were wide open, but there was no awareness of the world around him.
Ron was dead.
“My Lord.” Bellatrix breathed out reverently from the other side of the room, merely a few feet from where Harry himself was standing, her boot pushing into Hermione’s back as she did. She bowed lowly for her lord, her foot digging into Hermione’s back as she did.
Harry saw red.
“I’ll kill you.” Harry roared, unable to contain his rage as he struggled within his bindings. He felt his magic coil around him like a protective shell, but it did nothing to free him from the spell. He was standing still, his mind heavy with the weight of what he’d just lost.
Bellatrix had killed Dobby—cut him down before he could successfully get them out. And just as everything had become complete chaos, Lucius had...Harry could not make sense of it.
Ron was dead.
Harry felt like a piece of him had died along with him.
“Avada—“ But Harry could not finish, the words dying in his throat.
Harry’s neck prickled when he felt familiar magic wash through him—a potent darkness that revealed just who was there with them. He fought back the bile that threatened to come up his throat.
“You have to mean it, Harry. Is your hatred enough to fuel the intent required?” Harry shuddered when he felt a warm body press into his back, reminding him faintly of when Voldemort had tried to possess him back in the Ministry fifth year.
“Do you have what it takes, Harry? You failed to curse my most faithful servant before. Do you think you can punish Lucius for what it is that he has done?” Voldemort’s voice was a purr, and Harry could not mask his revulsion when he felt something press into his hands.
It was smooth and thin—
Harry could hardly believe it when he felt his magic spark from the contact. Voldemort had given him a bloody wand!
“Do you want to know what Lucius was thinking when he killed him, Harry?” Harry’s throat felt dry as Voldemort continued to speak, his touch lingering despite placing the wand in his hand. “I could tell you…”
Harry was overwhelmed with his need to know¸ the rage thrumming through his veins acidic as he watched Lucius’s face twist into the familiar Malfoy sneer. Harry wanted to blast it off his face—to punish him for what he had done to Ron. He wanted to avenge Dobby—to silence the mad giggle leaving Bellatrix’s lips.
“He called him vermin, Harry. A pest that required swift extermination. Will you allow such a cruel man to walk away?”
Harry did not know what it was he truly wanted—his anger and despair coiling within him like angry serpents battling for their prey. Lucius had called him a rat. As if he were not the first friend he made in Hogwarts—as if he didn’t mean absolutely anything to him at all.
“Don’t.” Harry jolted at the sound of Hermione’s cry. Harry forced his gaze away from Lucius’s own, ignoring the mad witch’s cackle, before noting that Hermione’s plea was not at Bellatrix at all. Instead, Hermione’s brown eyes were staring directly at him.
Her eyes were begging him to stop—and he felt immediately ashamed for what he had almost considered doing. But then Voldemort pressed closer into his back, ripping him away from Hermione’s pleading eyes.
His touch felt incredibly hot.
“Do you not want to punish the man that has ripped you apart? Would that not be justice, Harry?” Harry trembled, faintly noticing that the magic restraining him had dissipated, as if he hadn’t been standing in the same position the past few minutes. Harry lifted his wand hand up, pointing it directly at Lucius—deciding that looking in Hermione’s eyes would be too much for him to bear in that second.
“M-my Lord?” Harry wanted to smile at the nervousness in Lucius’s tone, the smug satisfaction in the blonde man’s eyes shifting to one of unease in an instant. It made something savage curl in Harry’s gut.
Harry had to admit that it felt good.
“Silence.” Voldemort hissed, and the protests Lucius wanted to make died a quick death. No one said a word then, the silence only broken by Hermione’s panting and Bellatrix’s giggles.
“Do it, Harry.” Voldemort’s voice had melted into a soft croon once more.
But Harry was not going to do it. He could damn well revel in the fear in Lucius’s eyes, but Hermione was right. He shouldn’t. Even if he felt like he’d been ripped completely in two. Even if his anger called for justice—to avenge the first friend he had ever made in Hogwarts. And Dobby, poor Dobby who had finally tasted freedom for the first time.
Let Voldemort think Harry would actually do it—he had learned his lesson fifth year. He would never let Voldemort control him again.
He would not tarnish Ron or Dobby’s memories that way.
Harry gasped when Voldemort suddenly seized his hand, his fingers unnaturally hot as they wound tightly around Harry’s white knuckled grip on the wand.
“It is…a shame that you will not indulge me as your younger self had once before.” Harry felt Voldemort’s hot breath in the back of his neck, and his skin just crawled from the sensation.
Harry was flabbergasted—his eyes wide. How did Voldemort know he was lying?
“I can smell anger and your hatred on your skin. Yet you refuse to give in to it. What else must be taken from you before you allow yourself to give in to that darkness?” Harry trembled when Voldemort forced his hand to point the wand at Hermione, horror seizing him completely when he could not jerk his hand away.
When had Voldemort cast magic? He had been able to move seconds before…
“Bellatrix, lift her.” Harry paled when the witch smiled sweetly at Voldemort, removing her foot from where it had stabbed painfully into Hermione’s back, before digging her fingers into Hermione’s wild hair.
Bellatrix jerked Hermione to her feet by the strands, the madwoman’s black wand pressing firmly to Hermione’s throat as she did. Hermione did not cry out despite the rough treatment, her chin held high. There was no fear in her eyes—but it did nothing to settle Harry’s nerves.
She looked resigned. Prepared for whatever will come her way.
Harry did not know what to make of that, his nerves beyond frayed when Voldemort’s fingers tightened on his own grip for a second, before leaning further into Harry. He tried not to shiver when he felt Voldemort press his lips to his ear, a warm breath fanning over the delicate skin.
“Should I kill her right now, Harry?” Harry exhaled sharply at the words, staring at Hermione’s own eyes. He begged her with his eyes to do something—but Bellatrix’s hold was like steel, the power in his body apparent in the way Hermione trembled in the witch’s grip. Hermione was prepared for death, Harry could see it in the firm curve of her lips, the pallor of her own skin. She knew she was going to die today.
But Harry did not want to accept this. He could not accept this.
“Hermione—“he tried to vocalize what he thought, to convince her with his words. But Voldemort’s soft laugh stopped him altogether, the vibrations at Harry’s back entirely distracting.
“If you do not kill Lucius, Harry. I will kill her. The mudblood knows her fate.” Harry trembled with both rage and fear, understanding dawning on him then. Voldemort wanted him to give in to the darkness—to cast powerful dark magic to satiate his own sick games. Harry was a piece in a giant chess board, his movements not made of his own accord.
It was sick. People were not just things meant to be used in such a way.
“Curse him, Harry. Give in. I can assure you that it does not hurt.” Harry closed his eyes, unwilling to look at Hermione any longer. He was going to have to curse Malfoy. He never in his life thought that he would ever be put in this position again.
“My patience is not endless.” He quickly opened his eyes at Voldemort’s impatient tone, dismayed when he found that he had regained movement in his arms once more. He pointed the wand away from Hermione’s steady form, her face twisting into a pained grimace when Bellatrix’s pulled her head further back.
Lucius looked white as a sheet, the fear in his eyes doing nothing for Harry in that precise moment. The last time, Harry had been upset—drowning in the hurt and rage of losing two close friends within moments. Now, there was no satisfaction to be found.
No savage satisfaction at watching the patriarch bow his head at whatever look the dark lord had given him.
“Remember Harry, you must mean it.” Harry took a shuddering breath, before he steeled himself for what he was going to do. He tried to snatch at his old hurt—to tease his fingers through the anger and pain coiling in his gut. He looked for the darkness he never dared touch within him, allowing the choking agony to drown him.
He felt lightheaded from the kaleidoscope of emotions thrumming over his skin.
“Avada Kedavra.” He whispered, but there was no spark of magic. No familiar green to light up the end of this wand and shoot out at the frightened man. It was no more than a parlor trick. Harry felt relieved at that, but the emotion was quickly squelched when Voldemort laughed lightly against his back.
“Again.” Harry swallowed from the heat in the man’s voice, squaring his shoulders. He counted from one to ten before preparing to cast again.
“Avada Kedavra.”
That time was just as effective as the first.
“Bellatrix.” Harry stiffened, unable to help turning his gaze back to where Hermione and Bellatrix stood. “It seems our guest needs a little more encouragement. Kill her.”
The order seized all air from Harry’s lungs. Before he could even attempt to protest, to beg that he would try again. That he would do better, he heard the familiar incantation of the cutting curse.
And then there was red, blood splattering him completely.
There was a wide gash at Hermione’s throat, her mouth croaking for air. He struggled, noticing then that Voldemort was no longer holding him down with his magic, but was simply caging him into his arms.
But he didn’t care that Voldemort was wrapped so tightly around him—that he could feel the monster’s heartbeat at his back.
Hermione was dying.
“No!” He cried, but between Bellatrix’s cackles and Voldemort’s strength, Harry watched the light leave Hermione’s eyes.
There was no dignity in this death—the tears in her eyes drawing tears in Harry’s own. His throat burned with his desire to sob.
He couldn’t take this. Whatever heart he had left was ripped completely out of his chest.
He felt hollow, strangely detached from his own body as he ceased struggling. His legs felt like they were ready to give out, the futility squashing the little hope he had left.
He’d gladly embrace death, right then and there.
“And leave so soon? But you have only just arrived, Harry. It is only fitting that you stay and enjoy my hospitality.” Voldemort’s whispered into Harry’s ear.
“After all, your stay is a permanent one, my little Horcrux.”
Harry was too overwhelmed to bother resisting at that precise moment.