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𝕸𝖔𝖓𝖔𝖈𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖒𝖊

Act IV - Skin In The Game

Chapter 27: Prometheus

Working with magic was a way of comprehending, understanding and applying the rules that governed matter and reality in the universe. One could approach it from a lot of different angles, applying a lot of different theories and mental models to it. You could get to the same place through a lot of different lines of theory and reasoning, kind of like really advanced mathematics. There was no truly right or wrong way to get there, either—there are just different ways, some more or less useful than others for a given application. And new vistas of thought, theory, and application opened up on a pretty regular basis, as the Art develops and expands through the participation of multiple brilliant minds.

But that said, once you had a good grounding in it, you got a pretty solid idea of what was possible and what wasn't. No matter how much circumlocution you do with your formulae, two plus two didn't equal five. (Except maybe very, very rarely, sometimes, in extremely specific and highly unlikely circumstances.) Magic wasn't something that just made things happen, poof. There were laws to how it behaved, structure, limits—and the whole reason Wenlock imposed the principles of Arithmancy using the Operarius was so that those limits could be explored, tested, and charted.

But like every discipline out there, there were always exceptions to the rule. And in some cases, the exception was significant enough to open an entire branch of thaumaturgy whose very existence lay in silent defying of the laws that held the universe together. Rune-based warding, especially the kind that operated on the basis of Hecate's principles, was one such discipline. Unlike standard magical craft, such warding was essentially based on models that abstracted the individual understanding and desires of the crafter, and as such, just understanding their formulations wasn't enough. In short, while it allowed people who didn't fully grasp the concepts behind the ward to actually use it, it was also quite easy for the crafter to make an unsuspecting user activate something that he or she would be completely unaware of.

In this case, Harry's knowledge of the runic circle design and implementation, coupled with his ability to see raw magic at work, made it exceedingly easy to take control, no, to serve as the fulcrum upon which the entire runic circle was being anchored. But it did nothing to warn him about the insidious design placed in the runic circle for that exact same reason.

The predator had just become the prey.

"What magic is this?" asked Harry, shock and disbelief and more than a little amount of fear rushing through his spine. The power of Death was an absolute thing — it disintegrated Magic, regardless of its origins. It did not matter if it was the Greengrass magic of Summer, the Black Magic of Curse, or something else like Dunamancy or a horcrux, Death was the end of it all. The cold and emptiness at the end of all existence.

And yet —

"Mors Exesa!" Harry yelled, unleashing a blast of Death out of his wand. "MORS EXESA! MORS EXESA!"

Nothing, not even casting it with the amplifying power of Parseltongue didn't help him in the slightest. Every time he attempted to unleash Death, every time he attempted to reach for the power that was his and his alone to command, the control would slip away from him, leaving him with nothing but a wisp of Death exuding out of it, only to dissipate in the magically saturated runic circle Schulz had bound him in.

"And now," said the invocator. "Ze Dark Lord wants you alive, Harry Potter. But you have also cost him quite a number. It is time you pay for that."

And he snapped his fingers.

Harry screamed and screamed, trying to break out of his shackles. White hot knives were tearing through his body, as if a hundred cruciatus curses were being cast at him all at once. Every single nerve of his body was flaring as intense, infinite magic from the Anima flooded through his body. Calling Death? Hah! What a joke! His mind was being pierced by a thousand poisoned needles… he felt it all. He screamed until his throat was sore, and then screamed even more. The pain was all consuming, absolute.

And then the pain suddenly stopped.

"I have to admit," said Schulz, with the air of a researcher noting the actions of a particularly unique labrat. "Voldemort is an excellent Necromant. But he is a far bettor judge of people. Malfoi did exactly vat Voldemort zot he vud."

The insinuation made Harry shiver. Had… had Voldemort actually planned on Lucius's betrayal? Just moments ago, Harry had claimed that Voldemort had sent Lucius here, perfectly knowing that he might die at Harry's hands. Hell, Harry had claimed that it was a punishment for failing Voldemort, and Lucius had clearly agreed with it.

Voldemort… he must have known that Lucius Malfoy wouldn't have the willpower to even exert himself over the power flooding through him from the Circle. He must have known that Lucius was a rat that would do everything to escape the sinking ship, even if it meant betraying Voldemort himself. It was doubtful that he expected Harry to kill him, but threatening him with taking away his magic was an entirely plausible idea.

Voldemort had planned on Lucius betraying him, had planned on Harry taking the reins of the runic circle from him to destroy it, and set his trap. Part of him was awed and terrified at the man's ability to predict so many steps into the future, while the rest of him was either hating that part for feeling like that, or trying to ignore the burning sensation that permeated his entire form in the aftermath of the agony.

Lucius just groaned from his position on the floor. "Schul— Schulz! Please — forgiv-ARGHHH!"

Schulz, or rather his body-puppet instantly dashed forward, grabbed Lucius's hands from behind, and with a feral snarl, kicked him with his leg right in the center of his backbone. The man's eyes practically rolled out of his sockets as he felt the agony from having both arms pulled off the girdles. But Schulz was far from done.

"For— give! Give! F — give!"

"Vu know," said Schulz conversationally, looking at Harry. "I remember a different system, back ven Grindelwald ran zings! Voldemort is so… content, foolish to trust upon silly marks! Grindelwald vud have asked zis Malfoi to vak through ze Diabolis defense. Vu know of it, no?"

Even in his pain-addled state, Harry knew what the man was referring to. The Protego Diabolica — a shield made of flames conjured using the Abstract, with the mindset that anyone that held betrayal in their heart would be incinerated in the flames. It had been breathtaking to watch Gellert Grindelwald cast that deadly spell using the Deathstick. Despite knowing that it was just Newt's memory, something within him had hummed in response to the spell.

"Vu should have seen Kraal back in Paris. His face ven ze flame burnt him to dust. But no matter! No matter! Ven I took zis job, I told Voldemort I expect competency! And zat means, if I need something done right —"

He let go of Lucius's hands, and grabbed the man's skull in a tight grip, ignoring the man's yells and screams and cries for forgiveness.

" — I do it myself!"

TWIST!

There was a sudden, audible snap, and Lucius's face lost all expression, the light leaving his eyes. Schulz let the body fall, limp and lifeless.

Harry was no stranger to death, or seeing people die like that. But even he couldn't help but stare in horror at the sheer barbarism that Schulz had displayed right before his eyes.

"Killing curses and spells are good," said the invocator, standing up. "But zere is a fulfillment in killing by hand! Vu know? Now then, ver ver ve?"

As Sirius entered into the dimly lit remnants of the intensive care unit, a lone figure huddled on a makeshift bed fashioned from overturned chairs and blankets. Alice Longbottom sat there in a corner, with wide, haunted eyes, clutched a blood-soaked bandage to her side, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The explosion had torn through the unit, leaving her with a deep gash and a shattered sense of security.

Her robes, once pristine, were now ripped and stained with soot and ash. Her face, pale and drawn, bore the marks of exhaustion and terror. Every sound, every flicker of light, sent shivers of fear through her body. She flinched at the dripping of water from a broken pipe, her eyes darting nervously around the room, before she met his eyes.

"Pleasedon'thurtme."

"Alice, it's — it's me, Sirius Black."

He took a step forward, only for a streak of energy rushing in his direction. Sirius quickly sidestepped it.

The magic had come from a wand that Alice was grasping with both hands, hiding it under the stained bandage. As glad as he was to see his old classmate and friend casting magic again, he needed to get them out.

"Alice, it's me, Sirius. Sirius Black. We were in Gryffindor, remember? I was Beater, and you were —"

"Cha… chaser."

A light appeared in her eyes. Alice slowly relaxed a bit, looking at Sirius more closely. "I… I was chaser."

"And a bloody good one," said Sirius, smiling. "Yes. You were chaser, as was James. James Potter? Remember him?"

"Ye — yes."

What the hell kind of miracle had his godson accomplished? The last time Sirius Black had seen Alice and Frank Longbottom, the two of them had been absolutely mad, with Frank spending most of his time flitting in and out of consciousness with occasional flickers of brain activity followed by months of little to no improvement. Alice was a little better, at least in the consciousness department, but she was struck as a nutty woman chewing bubblegum and handing wrappers to everyone she could get close to.

This woman, apart from the obvious fright she had gotten from the explosion, could almost be considered normal, not a half-vegetable locked in the Spell Damage section for the better part of two decades.

He took another step forward. "Now, I'm going to step ahead and help you get up. Do you think that's fine? I want to take you to your son."

But the wand did not move from its position. Sirius considered disarming her, but the woman spoke again.

"My — my… son? Nev—"

"Neville, yes," said Sirius, exhaling. "Yes. Your son with Frank. Your husband."

That, in hindsight, was a mistake.

"Frank… Fr… rank! My— ma — hus…. Band?"

Whatever temporary elation existed on Sirius's face vanished as Alice's features were replaced by a dumbfounded and uncertain horror that she made no effort to hide while reaching back against the wall, staring shakily at something on the other side of the ravaged room. His gaze followed hers at a discarded oxygen mask that lay near an outstretched hand squashed by a fallen bed, with blood pooling at the site.

A shiver ran down his spine, as Sirius hesitatingly raised his wand.

"Evanesco!"

The bed vanished, leaving the motionless body of a familiar face in a hospital gown, his face etched with a final expression of terror. The harsh light filtering through the shattered window illuminated his lifeless forms, casting long, macabre shadows that danced with the dust motes in the air.

The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the soft drip of water from a ruptured pipe.

"FRANK!" Alice yelled, and rushed at her husband's unmoving form. Letting out an incoherent cry, she fell before Frank Longbottom's torn and broken body lying in a pool of blood.

"Frank! Frank! Wake Up! Frank, wake up!" Alice went on. She turned at Sirius, an impossible hope on her face. "Sirius! Wake him up!"

The sounds she made were gasps and ragged whispers, yet for Sirius, it was deafening at the same time. His mind had nearly shut down, unable to process the scene before him. His chest burned as if the sight of the world collapsing around him was causing his heart to burst into flame.

"Sirius Black!" She urged, her voice growing stronger and hysterical. "Wake. Him. Up! WAKE HIM UP! WAKE. HIM. UP!"

Sirius took a deep breath. He had faced similar situations several times during his career as a hit-wizard, but that didn't make it any better. Especially when the person that lay dead was an old friend and compatriot, both at school and in the last war. Had he lived, perhaps Harry's solution might have even gotten him to return to his senses, just like Alice had. But now, Frank Longbottom would forever remain as just another senseless victim of Lord Voldemort and the Death Eater's quest to destroy their world in their madness.

Right then, something buzzed past his left ear. Sirius raised his wand to craft a shield instantly, only for the nigh invisible object to crash against his Protego, fall back and retry coming at him. Flicking his wand, he inverted the shape of the Protego barrier, and entrapped the fast projectile inside a spherical barrier, watching as it kept slamming against the walls of the silvery shield with extreme prejudice.

Finally, it came to rest, and Sirius saw it for what it was.

A Snitch.

And then the Snitch HISSED.

Sirius staggered back, his eyes wide open in shock and wariness. The sudden use of Parseltongue had affected his nervous system, but instead of the usual fear that pervaded his senses every time Harry used it, this time it was different. Oh there was fear, but this time, the fear was for someone else. A loved one. For a second, Sirius thought he was worrying about Alice. But then the snitch kept hissing loudly and slamming at the orb in one particular direction, the same from which it had appeared in the first place.

Another Hiss, and the trepidation grew even more.

That was when it hit him.

"Is… is it Harry?"

The snitch let out a small, barely audible hiss of affirmation. His fears rushing to their peak, Sirius gripped his wand tightly, and he knew what he must do. Flicking it at the hysterical wife, he murmured.

"Stupefy."

There seemed to be a common theme amongst fantasy literature that suggested that a truly brave and courageous man could resist the agonizing pain of torture and refuse to give the torturer the pleasure of screaming. The torturer would grow angry and apply more and more punishment in which the victim would just smile in victory and pass out at the right moment, denying his captor the satisfaction of breaking his victim.

Harry called bullshit on that one.

Torture hurt. It really, really hurt. It especially hurt when the torturer didn't even have to snap his finger to torture him. Being connected with an endless source of raw power coursing through one's body might seem like an absolutely amazing thing, but it also meant feeling his tissues being charred and incinerated from the sheer potency of the magic surging through him, only to be instantly regrown by the effects of the same magic that was filling up his reserves.

Much like the story of the Greek titan that had stolen Gubraithian Fire from the gods to give it to mortals. Upon discovery, Zeus had chained him to a rock on a mountain and had an eagle eat his heart out, only for it to regrow during the night, and continue his torment for eternity.

The irony that he too was trapped in a similar situation because of his own recklessness was not lost on him.

Project Prometheus. An apt name indeed.

He was distantly aware that he was screaming in agony but it didn't matter to him. He was above pain, beyond pain, his mind hovering just far enough from his body to be aware of its actions. Every bit of his mental concentration was being used to contain his consciousness within the domain of his animagus form. The mutated owl held a strong connection to Death, and with Death came an absolute coldness, an impervious feeling or emotion, and it was the only thing keeping him sane, while the pain from a hundred cruciatus curses surged through him as every single of his nerves flared from the intense energy influx.

And the worst part? He couldn't even utilize his hidden ace — the Greengrass Family Magic to break through the runic circle. There was nothing in this Circle preventing him from using Summer, but to do that, he would need to break out of his animagus mindset, which would mean loosening his hold upon Death, which would mean the intense magic would utterly erase his mind for good — memories and all. And no magic could ever revert that back to normal.

Harry would cease being himself.

The other option was to —

Harry stilled, as the implications hit him.

"You… sonofabitch…." He grunted, clenching his teeth. "You knew perfectly well that I could escape through one way for sure. No, you wanted me to go down that route."

"Ah," the invocator smirked. "Dawn. Da, Harry Potter. I have seen zat memory. I know of ze form zat scares even ze a nekromant as powerful as Voldemort. Show me zat form. Vor little display might scare ze likes of Malfoi, but I vant an odyssey, Harry Potter. A firestorm zat will rage for years and zestroy ze world vu hold so dear. And zen, when vu have become empty, vu will incarnate as ze End. Vu shall become Death, ze destroyer of vorlds, and Voldemort shall become vor master. Ze Master of Death!"

Harry clenched his teeth. The plan was mind-bogglingly simple. Voldemort and Schulz both knew that the power of Death was only Harry's to wield. Nobody except him could even produce a minor amount of it, much less enact spells using it, without Harry supplying the power in the first place.

But, unlike the Death Gods themselves, Harry was very much a mortal, and that meant that he could only draw a certain amount of Death before it started adversely affecting his body. And so long as he was chained to the runic circle, Schulz could draw any amount of magical power to counteract the Death energy Harry was producing. Trying to outdo that influx would be similar to emptying an ocean using a bucket.

Of course, there was one sure fire way of emptying the ocean, and it was to let go of his mortal shell and transform into the avatar of Death itself.

The problem with that wasn't that it wouldn't work, but that it would. The Avatar of Death was powerful, too powerful. It was a rabid beast that only sought to kill, kill and kill and destroy everything within its sight that it thought was unnatural in this world. That meant it would kill and kill and destroy every single magical existence in the entire world, starting from the hospital and Diagon Alley itself. Back when he had transformed inside the Room of Requirement, it had taken both Albus Dumbledore wielding the Deathstick, and the Avatar of Destiny to return him to his senses. But this time….

THis time there would be nothing. Just destroying the Circle as it was now would push him so far into the demonic form that he was absolutely certain he wouldn't even recognize himself, much less others.

The memory of being inside a Hogwarts deprived of magic, of his loved ones being turned into inferi, demanding of him, blaming him for their misfortune began to rise in the forefront of his mind. If he unleashed the beast, that was exactly what the future had in store for Daphne and the rest of the world.

Escape and destroy everything he held dear, or remain bound and suffer in eternal torment. Either way, Voldemort would win.

"You want to see that form? Are you nuts?" Harry snarled. "If I transform, I will destroy the Circle with the barest thought. The Hunter will find every trace of magic and destroy it with extreme prejudice. Nothing, not you, or Voldemort can escape its wrath."

"Ve vill take our chances:" said the madman. "So long as ve know vere ze blow is coming from, ve can prepare for it. Plan for it. Overcome it. But most importantly, ve know you, Harry Potter. Vu vud not recklessly endanger ze lives of everyone in and outside zis Circle. No, vu vill try to keep zem safe, even it zat means suffering in eternal torment. And zat, is vy ve vill vin."

His words should have inspired rage, or hate, or fear, but in the face of that calm pronouncement, Harry could only feel a sweeping sense of calm settle over him, an epiphany that robbed him of any other potential response.

"You are insane," he told him bluntly, his tone somewhere between disbelief and resignation. "You are really, truly, inexcusably insane."

"Some vud say so," Schulz snorted, obvious dismissal in his tone at Harry's accusation. Now, if vu vill excuse me, I have vork to do. I can sense so many people attempting to escape zis barrier."

He raised both of his dead hands, and murmured something in a language that Harry couldn't follow, as the hacked apart bodies of the other werewolves began to rejoin using threads of magic that erupted out of the shackles restrained Harry from all sides. The maniac was actually using Harry to anchor the Circle from inside, and unless Harry destroyed the Circle from within, no amount of counter-spelling would dissipate the Circle from the outside.

An eternal trap.

"Enjoy vor time in this trap, Harry Potter. I know I vill."

"Misplaced confidence is a turn-off," said a teasing voice that seemed to come from everywhere. "As is desecrating dead bodies and using them as puppets. I wonder, are you actually able to manipulate those bodies from afar or are you hiding somewhere inside this place?"

Harry blinked, slightly baffled. That voice was —

Before he could finish his thought, something buzzed through the air at sonic speeds and one of the werewolves' heads exploded, the rest of its body dropping like a stringless marionette.

Then another.

And another.

And another.

Only Schulz remained. "Vu are vu?"

The air behind him shimmered and Sirius Black stepped into view. "The problem with you dark wizards is that you tend to be predictable. Every single time you have the hero under your grasp, you waste valuable time explaining your infallible plan, which the hero, or his dashing godfather would eventually twist into helping the hero escape and foil the bad guy's attempts."

"If vu think —"

"BOMBARDA MAXIMA!"

The streak of purple smashed into Fenrir's dead body and made it explode into smithereens.

"Evil dark wizard's puppet body dead, that's step one," said Sirius Black, glaring at the entrapped form of his godson. "What the hell was Step two again?"

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