ACT5CH13 - BETRAYED BY SHADOWS

Their next stop was a muggle housing complex.

“Harry,” said Daphne archly. “I thought you said something about home.”

“We are home.”

For a second, Daphne considered berating her fiance or fearing that he had lost his mind. But knowing the kind of shenanigans he had just pulled, she gave him a second chance and looked around.

Rows of half-built apartments stretched upward, steel bones gleaming under the night lamps, their glass facades catching the construction lights. Giant cranes towered against the skyline, their long mechanical arms swinging lazily as if they reached for the moon. Wide, freshly paved roads curved between the towers, lined with fencing, construction cones, and stacks of materials. Piles of bricks and carved stones marked where the foundations of new towers were rising. 

At the edges of the site, hulking construction equipment sat parked for the night — muggle backhoes, cranes, and diggers. The air smelled sharply of concrete dust, freshly turned earth, and… faint traces of enchantment?

“This place is… magical?”

A small smile formed on his face. “This is the Borough of Islington. It’s where the Black townhouse is.”

Daphne blinked. “The Blacks lived in a muggle neighbourhood? And the place survived?” She paused, ree-evaluating her words. “I’m guessing someone threw fiendfyre at the buildings, and that’s how the entire place got remodelled?”

Harry snorted at her outlandish imagination. 

“There’s an untapped leyline beneath this area, making it a site for hauntings. Alphard Black discovered it, and built the townhouse here. But in 1981, the house was left to fend for itself, and became a mess of pests and diseases.”

From the nauseated expression on his face, Daphne could only wonder how bad it was.

“Since last year, some muggle realtor company has been reconstructing some of the buildings to build condominiums to cater to London’s growing population. Sirius liked the idea, and purchased the project.”

Daphne blinked. “Sirius Black decided to invest in muggle housing?”

“Magical,” Harry corrected. “He thought about the abused condition of wizarding rentals, and the exorbitant prices charged at Diagon Alley. Most halfbloods and muggleborns usually relocate to muggle neighbourhoods, but that’s a risk to the Statute of Secrecy, so he decided to create a complex purely for the magical population.”

“That’s… surprisingly well thought out,” said Daphne appreciatively. “The average witch or wizard that graduates from Hogwarts and wants their privacy could either rent or purchase an apartment here. But… where’s the townhouse?”

“Oh, uh, it’s… here, in front of us,” said Harry, feeling melancholic. “You just can’t see it.” 

She blinked, trying to recall what stood here just a moment ago. Her mind… slipped.

At her perplexed look, he said. “Sirius called it the Mind Fog. A ward that doesn’t just hide you — it makes the brain skip over you entirely. You could be standing right outside the gate, and still forget there was anything here at all.”

 He took a deep breath and intoned in a formal voice.

“In the name of your Lord, open this door!”

A single breath passed between his invocation and the world responding. The street bent subtly underfoot, like a great beast stirring in its sleep. A mist-like thing, suddenly rendered visible, peeled away, exposing a narrow Georgian townhouse nestled between two construction towers. 

“Welcome,” said Harry. “To the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.”

The entrance gate before them unlatched with a groan. Not the creak of old hinges — more like the mouth of the house opening, remembering the taste of a long-lost master. The scent that escaped was no longer just must and age, but petrichor and jaguar musk, as if the jungle spirit had brushed against the walls.

They hadn’t taken more than three steps into the narrow entry hall before Daphne’s skin crawled.

It wasn’t the peeling wallpaper or the dust-laden chandelier swinging gently in still air. It wasn’t the cursed umbrella stand that twitched when she passed, or the shadows that felt alive.

It was the House.

She could feel it.

Watching. Listening. Tasting.

Her hand shot out and gripped Harry’s arm.

“Don’t go further.”

He turned, surprised. “What? Why?”

She didn’t let go.

“Harry,” she said slowly, eyes locked on the corridor ahead, “does this house have a Lar?”

He blinked. “A… what?”

Her fingers tightened. “A Lar. It’s like a spirit. Or a curse. Only, it inhabits the house as a whole.”

“A Lar,” Harry repeated. “Yes, it does. I mean we don’t exactly share the most amicable relationship, but I’m Lord Black now, so it should obey my orders to the letter.”

She stepped back, face pale. “You absolute lunatic.”

“I— What? What’s wrong?”

She drew her wand, not to cast, but as comfort. A lifeline.

“You’re standing inside the hollowed carcass of a sentient House-spirit grown off the marrow of the Black family’s sins, and you’re asking what’s wrong?”

Harry stared. “...I’m sorry, what?”

“You think a Lar is just some dusty household charm?” she hissed. “No. It’s a Merlin-damned parasite. One that was fed by every unspoken thought, every betrayal, every murder, every tradition your family ever kept secret behind these walls. It is not loyal to you. It is loyal to the idea of House Black.”

He was still staring at her like she’d grown antlers.

“Daphne—”

“Harry, you don’t control it. You don’t even understand it. The thing watching us from the walls right now isn’t some loyal guardian. It’s an echo made of ancestral madness and hatred. It might tolerate you. For now. But the second you make a decision it doesn't like — the wrong bride, the wrong heir, hell, even the wrong ideology — it will bury you. From the inside.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you sure you aren’t overexaggerating things?”

She grabbed his robes, urgent. “I’m saying run. Run for the fucking hills.”

Harry didn’t move. The silence of the house thickened.

“Daphne,” he said softly, “it’s not watching you like it’s planning to hurt you.”

“No?” she whispered.

“It’s watching you like it’s curious. Like it’s… deciding.”

Daphne swallowed.

Then the chandelier above them creaked. Once.

And all the hallway portraits turned their eyes… directly toward her.

Daphne’s mouth felt dry. She could feel her heartbeat against her teeth.

“What do they want?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

Harry’s expression didn’t change. But his shoulders drew back—like he’d just stepped onto a dueling platform.

“Lar of House Black,” Harry intoned. “Your Lord needs you.”

A gust of wind blew through the corridor.

No windows were open.

The chandelier swung again, not violently, but decisively. And beneath their feet, the floorboards… sighed. Not creaked — sighed. As if it had been holding its breath.

Then came the whisper.

“I see your soul. I shall sear it. Taint it. Make it mine.”

Daphne staggered back, hitting the umbrella stand. It didn’t twitch this time. It shivered.

“Harry, we can’t stay here,” she said, pleading. “This house—it remembers you, it wants you, but it’s not yours. You were never part of its plans. That thing isn’t judging you like a master. It’s judging you like a… like a feast.”

And then came the low hum. A deep, bone-vibrating thrum in the walls. Like a great heart — ancient and monstrous — waking up after a long, cold sleep.

Harry didn’t flinch. Instead, he took a slow step forward.

“Stop!” Daphne hissed. “You think you can command it—”

“I don’t need to,” he said softly. “Because it already knows I’m not afraid.”

“You should be.”

“I see you, fledgling. Summer burns bright in you, but there is a scar. A remnant. The Jaguar has marked you, and it will have its prey.”

“Not if she’s part of the Black family, it won’t,” said Harry loudly. “We are to be wed, which makes her the next Lady of House Black. Mind yourself, Lar, before I mind you.” 

“REVEAL YOURSELF!” Harry barked, and Daphne flinched at his sharp aggression. “NOW!”

There was no way to truly describe what happened with words, but the darkness almost melted away, reforming into something else. Daphne could sense a strange amount of energy changing, twisting, morphing, becoming more, yet somehow less at the same time. Large, floppy ears became visible, then two thin palms slowly dragged the rest of its frail body out from underneath the table. The shadows clinging to its form turned into rags, while its beady eyes stared at Harry and her, with an alien recognition.

“Kreacher,” Harry barked. “You are making her uncomfortable. Stop that right now!”

“I,” the Lar rasped through the elf’s vocal cords. “—live to serve the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.”

Its large, pale, haunted eyeballs gave him a searching look. “Lord Sirius Orion Black recognized you as a future Regent, Usurper. That you would seek his throne confirms my impressions, Demon. Did he perish by your hands?”

Of all the things Harry probably expected the Lar to ask him, this wasn’t it. It was like all his aggression had suddenly been drained away, leaving behind a husk filled with regret.

“He sacrificed himself for me.”

“Sacrifice,” the Lar repeated, as if tasting the words and finding it repugnant. “Such a waste. Tell me, was it excruciating?”

Something about the way it asked him told Daphne that it didn’t seem to care for Sirius Black as much as it pretended.

“He… he suffered, yes,” admitted Harry. “But he did not die. He sacrificed himself to the Anima breach and got lost.”

“Lost in the wilderness!” The Lar cackled. “That DOG is lost in the WILDERNESS!”

It seemed one step away from dancing a jig.

“At least there’s that. You have my gratitude, Demon.”

Harry blinked, frowning. “Why?”

“Gratitude for a nasty ending,” the Lar clarified. “The Blackened Ones are born perfect, flawless in body, talented, skilled in the magical arts. In the old days, they would select a member, pamper him for a year, given four wives, allowed indulgence in fertility, pleasure, debauchery and the darkest of arts — for three human years — and in the end, he would be sacrificed at the Jaguar’s altar — his eyes gouged out, his skin flayed, his heart ripped out, offered to the Obsidian Mirror, returning the borrowed divinity in blood. It continued until Master Arcturus. Master Arcturus changed the Charter. The indulgence, the debauchery, the sacrifice — all denied, and the Jaguar cursed them.”

It paused, and looked at Harry again, curious. “The dog suffered, you say? Ah… the sweet spice of mortal agony. But no flaying? No gouging? Tch. The Old Ways would weep.”

Daphne saw Harry clench his hands. Before the Lar could taunt him further, she stepped in.

“How did the Jaguar curse the Blacks?”

The Lar-possessed elf turned to her and gave her a most intimidating glare. “Lesser Ones used to know how to keep silent before their betters.”

“Answer her,” said Harry imperiously.

“Very well,” the Lar genuflected, a mocking smile on Kreacher’s twisted face, an expression that Daphne knew would give her nightmares for the next week and half.

The Lar’s head tilted, and its voice dropped to a low croon, like a lullaby sung by a corpse.

“Lord Arcturus forbade the Harvest.”

The chandelier flickered.

“He rewrote the Charter, sealed the Obsidian Mirror, forbade the Offerings. No more pampered Scions crowned in vice. No more hearts opened like pomegranates. No more blood to warm the jaguar’s altar.”

It began to pace, dragging Kreacher’s feet unnaturally slowly across the creaking floor.

“So the Mirror cursed them. Made the Black blood a womb of rot. Made the heirs weak. Fractured. Scattered. The fruit still ripened, yes… but twisted. Paranoid. Mad.”

Its voice dropped to a whisper, conspiratorial and smug.

“And when they could no longer give… the House began to take.”

Daphne stiffened.

“Take what?” she asked, quietly.

The Lar grinned, showing teeth. Too many.

“Sanity first, then children. Then purpose. Then… itself. Until nothing was left but echoes of an empire, howling through its bones.”

It turned fully toward Harry now.

“That’s what you’ve inherited, Boy-Who-Lives. A House that eats its young. A jaguar without a jungle. A Mirror that drinks your reflection every time you look into it.”

It stepped closer.

“So tell me, LORD BLACK… Will you feed the Mirror?”

Neither of them answered.

So the Lar did.

“No? NO?” it rasped, voice rising. “Then I will tell you what comes of denying it.”

Its eyes went blank for a moment—possessed by something even deeper, older. Kreacher’s head jerked once, twice, as if something were clawing through his memories.

It raised a clawed finger, counting.

“Arcturus — genius, seer, purist. Choked to death on his own prophecy, unable to scream as his future devoured him. They found him two weeks later, rotten, full of maggots, his eyes clawed out by its own hands, trying to dig the truth from his skull.”

One.

“Pollux — went mad after watching his grandchildren waste away. Tried to resurrect them through blood sacrifice. Ended up painting the nursery walls with his own organs. You should’ve seen his face when I told him he had died.”

Two.

“Cassiopeia — sworn celibate, keeper of the bloodline’s grace. Eyes like razors, tongue like flame. They say she was brilliant. She thought the mirrors whispered secrets. She smashed them all, then carved out her own eyes with a silver dessert spoon. Blind, bleeding, screaming — she slipped in the mess and cracked her skull. Poetry.”

Three.

“Cygnus, Alphard, Dorea — eaten by their own convictions. One drank himself into a coma and starved in his sleep. One was cursed by his own brother. One tried to escape to love, and paid with flame.”

Four. Five. Six.

“Orion. Spine snapped like a reed. Cursed by his own wife, he leapt from the tower of Grimmauld… and landed on the iron fence. I disillusioned him. He bled for three days. The neighbours complained of the smell.”

It cackled. 

“Druella — betrayed by her own blood. And Regulus, oh, sweet Regulus. So noble. So naive. He tried to steal the dark and drown it. Instead, the dark drowned him. Dragged into a lake of Inferi who wore the faces of his friends. They ate him from the inside out. I still hear his bones crack.”

Seven. Eight. Nine.

It counted off the last finger.

“And Walburga?” He cackled suddenly, Kreacher’s neck cracking from the force of the laughter. “Oh, she tried! To invoke the Old Ways. To ensure the return to the mercy of the Jaguar. And when she failed, she became MY mouth. A wraith. Haunting the very house of her forefathers. Until you erased her. This House misses the sound of her madness.”

It turned its head slowly back to Harry.

“You think you’re safe? Because you’re strong? Because you’re clever? So were they. The curse doesn’t punish the weak. It feasts on the mighty.”

The air had gone cold. The wallpaper was peeling, not from age, but from breathless fear rising in the very wood.

“You cannot fix what Arcturus broke. You can only offer what he withheld.”

The chandelier groaned again.

And from upstairs, somewhere in the halls — something sang.

Low. Humming. Off-key. A child’s lullaby, except the words were in Latin. And some of them… were names.

Names of the dead.

Daphne’s breath caught in her throat. Not from fear—at least not just fear—but from something colder, deeper. A recognition that she was no longer standing in a house. She was inside a wound.

The Lar turned, slow as rot, its eyes luminous in Kreacher’s gaunt face.

“Offer the witch,” its voice rumbled again. “The Jaguar has marked her as its prey. She carries in her the Summer light. The last vestiges of a powerful magic that festers within the two of you. Sacrifice that Light to the Jaguar, and let it feast upon this maiden’s flesh, and the Smoking Mirror shall reward you. She will suffer, she will scream, she will hurt so much that she will laugh. She will pay for the sins of your forebearers, and she will be the final sacrifice. With her demise, the Light of Brísingr-Amen shall be ours for the taking. Long have we sought that Light! Quetzalcoatl’s brilliance molded into vitality. Long have we stalked it, wounded it, but somehow.., somehow, it has always escaped our claws. When Sagittarius wooed that wench Ophelia, we found a way to strike at its heart. A malediction that would rot and rot until all its vitality would be ours for the taking. And look, you have brought her to our den! Now, hand over the maiden to us, and the throne is yours, Lord BLACK—”

And then Kreacher LUNGED —

Daphne raised her wand, ready to defend —

And Harry Potter spoke.

“LET. THERE. BE. LIGHT!”

It erupted from Harry like a second sunrise, his entire body splitting with molten brilliance, white-gold fire washing out in waves from every pore, every breath. Light that wasn’t just illumination but intention. Heat that wasn’t fire, but purpose. Power that didn’t roar, but sang.

Kreacher was hurled back, screaming, his body lifted and flung like a ragdoll across the hallway. But it wasn’t Kreacher that screamed.

It was the Lar.

The shadows along the ceiling howled, peeling back from the walls like burned skin. The chandelier shattered, not from force, but shame. Portraits along the corridor burst into flame, their subjects writhing, begging, disintegrating. Walls cracked and shadows burned. Curtains withered. The peeling wallpaper curled into cinders. Portraits of Black ancestors wailed, their frames blistering as Summer Light devoured centuries of rot.

The House shrieked.

Its wood split open, seams groaning like bones under siege. The very architecture of House Black tried to reject the presence flooding it. The sigils in the floors seared like brands, casting ancient wards into flickering panic.

Daphne stumbled backward, shielding her eyes, tears streaking down her cheeks—not from pain, but revelation.

Because for a moment… she saw it.

The truth.

House Black was not a house.

It was a wound. A parasite. A curse that grew smarter with each generation it devoured.

And now…

It was screaming. Not a sound meant for ears. A sound meant for bones.

Inside, she was reeling from what she had just learnt. For as long as she had known of her malediction, it started off when Sagittarius Black cursed Ophelia Greengrass, empowering it with his self-sacrifice. Harry had theorized, and she had believed that Sagittarius, in his emotional upheaval, had tapped into the Black Family Magic, which mutated the malediction. But if the Lar was behind this, the Lar that relished in the gruesome and agonizing deaths of its family members… 

The Lar that had just admitted at Tezcatlipoca wanting to devour Brishing-Amen — which later became Greengrass — just so it could steal its Light for its sinister whims then…

It left her wondering if Sagittarius and Ophelia were merely the tools, when there was a greater hand in the shadows… or perhaps, the shadows themselves, that were clawing towards her bloodline.

Ophelia, Andrea, Euphemia, Anastasia… all the way down until Daphne was born. And on the other side — Harry was born to James and Lily Potter, carrying a shard of the same Greengrass bloodline.

Harry — whom Sirius Black adopted as his godson, barely two years away before the curse reached its finality and could steal Daphne’s life away for good.

Harry — who wielded Death, the End of All Things.

Harry — through whom Summer answered.

Harry — who despite not knowing of his heritage, had willingly agreed to marry her and tie their futures together simply because it was the right thing to do.

Harry — whom she had spent hating for the majority of her life, only to fall heads over heels within months of seeing each other.

Harry — who had become the Gatekeeper, bound Tezcatlipoca down to his will, and had arrived with Daphne to the same House, into the den of the same Lar that orchestrated this madness in the first place.

Held down by the threat of its demise, Tezcatlipoca had been cowed, and the child of Summer had finally come to a place that was cast-away from Summer from the very beginning.

It was such a curious set of coincidences that Daphne had trouble not calling it Destiny.

“This…” said Harry. “Is just so fucked up!”

Daphne silently agreed.

Further away, Kreacher lay against the wall, twitching and convulsing, flailing under the force of the light that was happily devouring the festering curses inside the house. The voice that had possessed the elf thrashed in agony, writhing like smoke caught in a vacuum. Daphne threw her arms over her eyes, falling to her knees as the house itself wept.

“You… you dare bring SUMMER into this place?”

And then the world exploded.

One second, Kreacher lay twitching on the ground, smoldering under the weight of the Summer blaze. Next, the air cracked like a whip, and a black vortex burst from the floorboards, swallowing the light around it like a dying star.

The Lar screamed—not in agony, but fury.

"DIE! WIZARD! DIE!!"

The scream rippled out like an ancient curse, older than the blood that fed the walls. The shadows coiled and converged on Kreacher's form, fusing with his limbs, his hunched back stretching upright like a beast unfurling for war. Rags peeled away and reformed into a mantle of void-black silk, billowing with impossible winds.

Kreacher was no longer Kreacher.

The form stood on two legs, but could not be called humanoid, its head melding with the darkness of the ceiling, too many arms flailing around, outstretched, fingers too long, nails curling into obsidian claws. Twin purple ambers glowed with an ancient madness, and his mouth was twisted in the grin of a god who had long since stopped pretending to be sane.

"You think me broken," it hissed, voice layered in triple tones—elf, spirit, and something else—something primeval. "You think me weak. I AM THE HOUSE! I AM ITS LAW, ITS BLOOD, ITS WRATH!"

This was a hunter, born out of malice, of nightmares, of the twisted madness, of cruelty, an embodiment of the prehistoric fear coded in all primates where they sensed a clawed, fanged animal watching them in the dark. When men huddled together around a dying fire, and held their breath at the shadows of wolves in the forest, this was what watched them.

“I. AM. FEAR!”

And with terrible smoothness, it moved.

The Lar flung a hand forward. Instantly, the walls peeled apart like flower petals, baring skeletal frames of cursed wood and obsidian pipes veined with ancient, glowing runes. Black lightning surged out, arcing across the ceiling and detonating down toward Harry.

Daphne felt Harry’s hand grab her hair and push her back roughly behind him, throwing up a wall of golden flame erupting out of his right palm. 

"I WAS BORN FROM THEIR FIRST LIE! I FED ON THEIR REGRETS! I BATHED IN THE MURDER OF CHILDREN! I DRANK FROM THE TEETH OF THEIR MOTHERS!"

The entire house responded.

Bookshelves shrieked as their tomes flew like daggers. The chandelier reassembled itself midair into a whirling disc of jagged brass. The paintings twisted into open-mouthed horrors, their subjects clawing at their frames like prisoners in a burning cell.

Daphne rolled to her feet, grabbing her wand just in time to deflect a book that had turned into a bomb. She could feel it now—not just power, but command. The Lar wasn’t using magic. It was invoking the charter of the House itself. The will of House Black had always been steeped in dominance, cruelty, ambition, and now all of it was alive and angry.

"Harry!" she shouted. "You have to get it out of the House!"

But he wasn’t listening.

He was walking forward.

The Summer Light still clung to his shoulders like a cloak, but it was dimmer now—not gone, only banked. In his right hand, his wand glowed. In his left, his fingers curled slowly, as if drawing something from the marrow of the world.

The Lar roared and snapped both hands toward him. The house shook. Chains erupted from the floorboards—dozens, hundreds—all aimed for Harry's limbs.

He exhaled.

And the chains melted midair.

Melted. Not destroyed. Not blocked. Melted. As if some deeper law had intervened.

"You were strong," Harry said. "You were terrible. You were worshipped in fear, and fed in silence."

The Lar hesitated. Its power wavered.

"But that was before I carried the End. Before I held the Jaguar. Before I walked in Summer and wore the mantle of Gatekeeper."

Harry raised his hand.

The shadows stirred.

"No," the Lar snarled. "NO!"

Harry smiled, but it was not a warm smile.

"The shadows betray you."

The blackness recoiled from the Lar, shrieking, threads of darkness snapping like whips and reknitting into claws. 

The Lar screamed in disbelief.

"Because the shadows... answer to me."

And then, from Harry’s feet, the shadows rose.

A canine shape formed beside him—enormous, sleek, smoking with divine hatred. Blacker than absence, its stripes glinted with obsidian shimmer.

It walked on four paws. Each step cracked the floor beneath it. Its fur shimmered with obsidian edges, and its eyes held galaxies. A jaguar. Not of flesh, but shadow. A Patronus. But so much more.

Tezcatlipoca.

The Lar recoiled.

"No," it whispered. "No, no, no. The Jaguar was ours. The Mirror was ours. You... you cannot..."

Harry tilted his head.

"You said it yourself," he said. "You wanted the Light of Brísingamen. You wanted Quetzalcoatl. You wanted the Jaguar. You wanted to become the complete god."

The Lar began to weep, smoke leaking from Kreacher’s eyes.

"I... I served the House... I only obeyed its will..."

Harry stepped closer. The jaguar growled.

"No," said Harry. "You stopped serving long ago. You indulged. You orchestrated murder. You destroyed entire generations of both the Black and Greengrass families. You turned duty into dogma, and dogma into damnation."

The Lar fell to its knees. Or rather, Kreacher's body did, sobbing black ichor from every orifice.

"I only wanted... to protect... the legacy..."

Harry looked down on it. He didn’t blink.

"Then find solace in this — the Jaguar you once dreamed of... has awakened."

And the house shook. The Lar fell from the air like a puppet with cut strings. The mantle of power around it disintegrated. Kreacher collapsed onto the floor, but the Lar clung to his body like a tar-stained parasite, sloughing off in writhing coils, trying to crawl back into the cracks of the house.

“WHY?” asked the Lar, its malformed face gurgling. "You — you — the Jaguar inhabits you! The Teeth are back! The Claws of Midnight shall strike again!”

Harry continued to walk towards it.

“I did as I was told. I served the House. I only ever fulfilled its needs—its rites—its law!"

"You crossed the line between duty and indulgence.”

"They died! All of them died because the House demanded it!"

"No," said Harry. "You wanted them to die. You delighted in it. You warped what was once power into perversion. You destroyed generations of Black and Greengrass bloodlines because it pleased you."

The Lar wept. It shrank.

The Jaguar growled.

"Wait! Wait—you've seen me!” wept the Lar. “You know what I am! You awakened the Jaguar—don’t you see? That’s all I wanted! The final union! Light and Shadow! Like Quetzalcoatl and Brisingamen! If I could just feed on her—take her light—merge with you, we could be WHOLE!”

"You were never worthy of wholeness. You are just an infection, a scarred tissue that needs to be amputated so that the rest of the limb may survive.”

His voice rose —not loud, but absolute.

“You, spirit, are of debt. You are of trespass. Born of Oath, fed by Sin. Clothed in Rot, Slayer of Kin.”

The Lar sobbed. It was just sludge now, writhing on the ground, a dying thought made of malice and memory. It howled and sobbed incoherently with rage and sadness so deep that Daphne almost felt sorry for the thing, for a few moments. There were no words; but the emotion behind them was so honest and brutal that it spoke all on its own —

It didn’t want to die. It was just trying to do what the House members wanted. It just wanted to achieve the motto of the House. Toujours Pur. Always pure to the worship and the return of the Old ways. Of the path of the Smoking Mirror. Please, it just wanted the Blackened Ones to return to their correct ways, please it was just following its PURPOSE, PLEASE…..

“You have taken delight out of the pain and sorrows and sufferings that you have inflicted upon others,” said Harry. “You have relished their gruesome ends. I hope you appreciate it when the same End comes for you. Be grateful that I don’t take pleasure in your pain.”

The expression on his face was… dare she say it, serene. Like an old man awaiting his end. The silence of the night. The soft breeze after a tiresome day.

“Look upon me and see your End. I am the Gate. The silence at the End of all stories. With me, your story shall fade. In me, you shall be remembered.”

The Lar shrieked, and Kreacher's body twisted violently, convulsing with dark tendrils of smoke as the possession tried to flee. It tried to surge into the walls—into the shadows.

But the shadows threw it back, before the uncaring judge who looked down at the sobbing defendant from on high, passing the sentence, the only justice that he was capable of meting out.

The swirling vortex of energies — black, red, grey, gold — they all shone so brilliantly, that Daphne’s eyes burned. 

She did not look away.

Just before the world went blissfully dark, she heard the final scream of the Lar, or whatever was left of the Lar, was consumed by Death. 

All she knew was that even if she lived to be a thousand years old, this sight would haunt her every single day.