Chapter 34 : Silver Sickles
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Harry ducked his head down as he ran around the side of the Manor. His plan had worked, and the real Rowle was now dead beneath the bushes he had hidden himself in. This body was thick and broad and slow, so much different to his slender, muscular self. He was having trouble running and moving with the trunk built legs and python arms. He pressed his back to a part of the brick wall at the back of the house, and stood still and silent for a moment.
He didn’t want to run into anyone just yet who might guess that he was an imposter, and so he had planned to take out anyone he may meet along the way. He shuffled towards a stone archway that led to the courtyard at the back of the house. He heard an odd growling sound coming from behind the wall, and so he peaked his head just a little past the arch to see who was there.
He saw on the floor, what he first thought may have been a marble statue, but upon seeing the long blonde hair that could only have been real he discovered it to be a body. She was dead, whoever she was. Her head set an odd angle to her body, and her clear blue eyes were set frozen on the night’s sky. A handful of stars reflected in the wide pupils.
A rasping breath and a sudden movement snapped Harry back to his position against the wall. A hunched figure had knelt next to the body; once again Harry looked slowly around the arch way, and saw the large figure of Fenrir Greyback. Leaning closely over the woman. He seemed to be smelling her, he had handfuls of her long blonde hair in his grubby hands, the sharp yellow fingernails twirling each delicate strand.
‘It’s not the same’ he growled to himself ‘Nothing like that pretty’s smell. Peaches and cream is what I like… peaches and cream’ he whispered.
Harry furrowed his brow on the overly large blonde forehead that was not his own. He had no idea what Greyback was talking about, although the peaches and cream reference struck a stray nerve in his head. Peaches and cream was a familiar scent to him, almost like a second nature that he rarely noticed. He remembered vaguely, a shampoo in the bathroom of the burrow that had smelled of peaches and cream, but the vague thought wandered and disappeared, it was quickly replaced by the wanton need to kill Greyback, kill him quickly, and without a sound.
He watched behind the arch as Greyback leaned back, and pulled a pastel pink shirt from beneath his robes. It was splattered a little with blood that still looked damp. A jolt struck Harry’s insides as he realized who that shirt belonged too. It was Hermione’s; she had been wearing it as she was carried into the Manor. He watched with increasing fury as Greyback rubbed the shirt over his face and sniffed at it hungrily.
He wrenched himself from his position, losing his well held composure, and strode angrily towards Greyback, who jumped up and growled at him. A deep snarl that seemed to rip from his lungs, then he laughed, a raspy laugh.
‘You should know better than to go sneaking up on people Rowle’ he rasped and wiped the shirt over his face again. He shuddered with pleasure as he sniffed at it ‘Especially people who may rip your throat out without asking a who, when or where’ he smiled, his sharp teeth denting a little into his bottom lip.
Harry gripped his wand all the tighter in his hand as he stepped closer to the werewolf, he twirled his wrist without Greyback seeing. And where his holly and phoenix feather wand had been now shone a long silver blade, it reflected the light from the stars off of the metal and onto the ground.
Greyback quickly shifted his eyes to the sudden glamour of light, and in that half second Harry acted. With a grunt he forced the blade into Greyback’s gut as hard as he could, it sliced like a hot knife through butter, and there was a slight warmth on his skin as blood spurted onto Harry’s hand.
Greyback made a horrid clicking sound in his throat as he looked at the blade wrenched into his stomach, and lifted is eyes to look at Rowle. He shuddered again, but this time it was from fear. Fear of life ending, fear of feeling that numbness that can only mean death is a moment away, and fear of what might be lurking afterwards, fear of there being nothing at all, or an eternity of fire.
Harry pulled the blade out, and Greyback fell to his knees, the pink shirt clutched so hard in his hand that his sharp nails ripped through the fabric, and broke through the coarse flesh of his palm.
Greyback did not take his eyes from Rowle, not even as the big blonde death eater dug the crimson stained blade to his throat, and ripped it to the side. Slashing open the precious artery of his neck.
Rowle watched as the werewolf fell to the stone ground, the grey slabs now puddled with red as if the sky had been raining thick droplets of blood.
He stepped over the twitching body of Greyback, and looked over the figure of the cold, dead woman. He let out a sad sigh as he saw the familiar face of Narcissa Malfoy, although she looked paler, she was still beautiful. Eyes a forget me not blue, the lips still pink and full, the small hands resting on her chest as if she were asleep.
The big, blonde death eater kneeled next to her, and in a movement that was much softer than his demeaner. He pressed a finger to each of her eye lids, and gently pulled them closed.
‘I’m sorry’ he whispered ‘Mother’s seem to be forever dying because of their sons’ He dug a hand into the pocket of his robes, and from it drew two silver sickles.
He placed the coins over each eye and smoothed the blonde hair around her head. After a moment he stood up, and walked towards the back door of the manor, it led to a large conservatory.
There were several wicker chairs lined with puffy pillows, and there were hanging baskets lining the glass walls. He saw the outline of a figure sitting on a large chair in the corner. Whoever it was appeared to be asleep with their head lolling to one side, and the soft snores leaving their open mouth.
Harry smiled a little to himself, and in the glassy reflection of the conservatory window, he saw the large figure of Rowle smile in his place. The corner of his lips curling ever so slightly into a horrid grin. He swept into the room as softly as a feather that brushes along the pavement in a light breeze.
He walked to the snoozing figure, and saw that it was Rodolfus Lestrange. He looked over him in disgust, and quickly glances over his shoulder and listened to make sure there were no footsteps moving towards them. Sure that there was no one, he turned back.
He watched the chest rise and fall for a just a few seconds, before he raised the dripping blade, that had been his wand, once again, and sunk it fast and deep into the sleeping mans exposed neck. Caring not a peep that he was being consistently peppered with other peoples hot, pumping blood.
Rodolfus didn’t even wake up; his chest merely stopped moving as the blood from his neck spilled all over him. Harry wiped his mouth as he stood up, and flicked the blade carelessly to get rid of some of the blood. As it made a soft splatter on the tiled floor he heard the sudden squeal of Wormtail.
He jumped and braced himself as he heard the shuffling steps of the man that betrayed his mother and father. The Judas who collected his 30 pieces of silver in exchange for his best friends. That anger seemed to be bubbling within Harry again, a bubbling that seemed to spit like acid into the cells of his brain and scream ‘Revenge’.
He watched as the plump figure of Peter Pettigrew came running towards the conservatory from within the house, he was mumbling and bawling shrilly to himself as his fingers twiddled and bunched as he moved.
Harry ducked behind the doorway and waited, waited with the blade high and his blood spattered face concealed in the shadows.
Three down, he thought crudely, three down, as Wormtail shuffled in the glass walled room.
A little gory... a little sadistic... and a little out of character for Harry, yes. But What do you think? I would be delighted to read what may be running through your mind. Thank you all so much!
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