A Time for Mercy

Disclaimer: Still own nothing - it\'s all JK\'s
Request: I could really use an editor for my fic. I read, reread, and reread but I\'m sure I miss loads of details. If you are interested please contact me. Thanks!

Chapter One:
Innocence Lost

You’ve gone away, you don’t feel me anymore
The worst is over now, and we can breathe again

As the sun set on Number 4, Privet Drive nothing seemed out the ordinary. For the past week, like clockwork, the sun would set quietly and all would be dark inside the large, four-bedroom house. But soon after a strange glowing light would appear from the smallest room on the uppermost floor. The glowing light would flicker and move around in front of the window as if someone was waving around a glowing stick.

Oddly enough that was precisely what was going on. Harry Potter was restless. His 17th birthday had come and gone. He had told himself as soon as he was able, he would leave this horrid place he was forced to call “home,” and begin his destined adventure – but he had made a promise to his friends that prevented him from leaving.

He had promised he wouldn’t leave without them.

And blast it; Hermione was on vacation with her family. Of all the things to do at a time like this! She was “visiting her cousin” for a week and a half and they “would just have to wait until after” to go on “their way.” Harry had sent a furious letter to his best mate, telling her just how he felt about her “obvious disregard for the severity of the situation at hand” (Harry had felt very proud of himself for using such ‘Hermione-like’ language). But he was rebuked when she simply stated, “I am going to be leaving my family for no one-knows how long and I would like to be allowed the proper goodbyes, seeing as this might be my last chance to visit – ever.” That had shut Harry up pretty well and he agreed to wait until she returned to head off in search for . . .

In search for what? He knew he was searching for Horcruxes but he had no idea where to start. Which was why he was currently pacing his room, wand alit (he could now do magic outside Hogwarts, which delighted him to the greatest extremes), pondering his first move.

They were to meet at the Burrow to prepare. They then would leave for Headquarters shortly after with the Weasley’s and from there the plan was to find a clue, a hint, anything and go with it. But it was all so frustrating. Harry didn’t know where to look first and he continually wracked his brain for any clue as to where to start.

He knew he needed to find the necklace – that one was 100% certain to be a Horcrux but it was still unknown if R.A.B had ever gotten around to destroying it. Harry was assuming he didn’t. But he was unsure. He needed help. He needed . . . Dumbledore or Sirius. They would know what to do. But they were gone. They couldn’t help. Harry was on his own.

After Dumbledore’s death, Harry had felt numb for a very long time. He sat, depressed and alone in his room thinking about all the ways he could have saved Dumbledore. It seemed absurd to think about a simple young boy saving the greatest wizard that ever lived, but he had blamed himself for weeks - thinking about it all day, dreaming about it all night, until finally he realized that there was nothing he could have done. Dumbledore had made certain Harry couldn’t save him.

When Harry finally accepted that he couldn’t have done anything, he froze. At that point Harry cried, and then became furious at Dumbledore for allowing himself to be killed. Harry needed him. Harry wasn’t strong enough to survive this ordeal without Dumbledore. Harry would die and Voldemort would live. And it was all Dumbledore’s fault! Dumbledore was selfish! If he had just been smart enough to realize that Snape was an evil git then none of this would have happened! He was an idiot. They greatest wizard of all time, phew. That was a joke. The greatest wizard of all time doesn’t trust a greasy, pointy nosed, lying, asshole who would kill his own mother if . . . it was all Dumbledore’s fault!

Well that is just ridiculous, Harry thought next as he looked around his torn up room. In his rage at Dumbledore’s utter lack of responsibility he had torn apart his bedroom in an attempt to release his aggression.

He sat down on his bed and was silent for a very long time.

Then he suddenly realized that he was meant to avenge the deaths of all those who the Dark Lord had killed. He would kill Voldemort for Dumbledore, for Sirius, for his parents. He would kill Voldemort and Bellatrix and Snape – definitely Snape. It was his destiny.

With his resolve set, his motives clear, and his grief finally subsiding, Harry had written his plan to his best friends and began formulating his next move.

He’d been formulating for weeks now.

Harry didn’t know where to begin. He needed help but no adult was going to allow him to join the fight. He could hear Mrs. Weasley, “No, absolutely not. You are children and children do not fight wars. No, and that’s final.”

Harry sighed and flopped down on his bed.

What was he going to do?

* * * * *
The hallways were dark – an enchanted dark. Powerful spells drained the light from the torches that lined the walls, allowing them to only produce the most miniscule light possible. Dark magic made the hallways never ending, creating an enormous labyrinth that allowed only those who knew where they were to escape.

The darkness was frightening to the cloaked figure that moved through them. His destination was clear in his mind, but he knew the magic could feel his dread. He didn’t want to reach the door that he was heading towards. The walls laughed at him. The more he wanted to avoid his destination, the more likely it was that the door was going to appear soon. The magic loved to cause sorrow. Sorrow, fear, anger, hate—evil emotions strengthened the magic’s power. It fed off despair.

“She’s there, waiting for you. We figured you’d want to be the one to play with her.”

The words rung in the young man’s ears causing a wave of nausea to over take him. The magic grew stronger. I can’t do this. When I see her face, I’ll freeze.

He didn’t even know how they captured her. Out of all the people, the hundreds of faces he’d seen everyday for six years, he thought she’d be the last to be caught. She was too smart for that. She was the last person who belonged here, in this evil place.

But they had captured her, somehow. And now they wanted him to do it. They wanted him to “enjoy it.” They expected him to. But he would fail. He always failed. His father, his mother, his mentor, and of course the Dark Lord. He always failed. He didn’t even know how he was still alive. He should be dead by now. After that horrible display back at school . . . he didn’t know why he was being spared, but he was.

He didn’t even get punished.

He kept walking, dreading the moment when the hallway would appear and the door would materialize. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t kill someone he knew, someone he’d seen everyday for so long. He couldn’t look into the face of someone his age, someone who had so much to live for, so much life left, and take all that away.

He wasn’t like his aunt. He wasn’t a monster.

At first he was shocked at how easily his aunt could kill. How she enjoyed the feeling of stealing someone’s life, sucking in his or her spirit. She loved the sensation of dominance, of total power over another person. It fed her. She thrived off killing. It made her stronger, more powerful.

It made him sick.

Since his failure at Hogwarts he had killed seven people. Five he never even knew their names. They were the easy ones. They only made him sick for a night. He didn’t know their past; he knew nothing about what he was devastating. The other two had been mere acquaintances, but they had made him ill for weeks. Every night he tossed and turned, imagining himself witnessing the mourning and suffering of their families. He saw the pain and the hurt, all caused by him. Because he was a murderer.

He shuddered; he would be there soon. He knew it. The magic was growing stronger with each step. Someone was being tortured near by.

He felt sick as he realized that soon he was going to be faced with death, again. He would either kill or be killed. No one was going to be there to save him again.

“We figured you’d want to be the one to play with her.” His aunt’s voice murmured in his head. “Play with her.” She was evil. Pure evil.

A year ago, before . . . everything, he had asked his mother why his aunt seemed so . . . cruel. His mother had defended her sister by simply stating that there was “once a time when she wasn’t so demented.” He hoped that was true because he didn’t like imagining that his family was born that way.

His mum. He sighed heavily as her image appeared in his mind. She was slowly being destroyed, he could tell. Her once extraordinary looks were slowly diminishing—now she was merely gorgeous. His mother had once been the most beautiful woman in the entire wizarding world. He often questioned if she was part Veela. She was perfect in everyway—and a pureblood—that just made her all the more flawless.

But now, she seemed to have lost something. He’d like to imagine that she was wasting away without his father, but he knew better. A marriage of practicality was what his parents had, not one of love. Never love. You can’t be a Death Eater if you understand love.

Which was probably why he was such a horrible Death Eater. Because he loved his mother enough to die for her, and he knew she felt the same. It was sad really, that having a good relationship with his mum was most likely going to get him, or her, killed.

“Ah, you’ve arrived at last. Straight through that door. She’s waiting for you.”

He froze, a sick sensation began to grow in his stomach. He could not do this. It would kill him. He took a step towards the door and froze.

“NOOOOOOOOOO!” Her scream rippled through the halls. He could feel the dark magic feeding off the girl’s sorrow, her pain. He jerked, feeling like he was going to hurl on the floor. He hated this place.

“Go ahead,” the voice pressured him. He felt a nudge and soon he was walking through the door.

He couldn’t look at her. He wouldn’t. He would not be able to take it if he saw her lying there. He looked around noticing that there was more than one body scattered on the floor. Someone strange, someone he didn’t know.

Good, he thought bitterly. Maybe I could get away with just killing her. I could kill her. I don’t know her. His thoughts made his stomach swirl. He was evil.

The strange girl lay on the floor, obviously unconscious. The site made him cringe. He was glad he wore a mask to hide the look of pure revulsion on his face. She had been raped, it was obvious. Her cloths were torn and she lay exposed on the dirty floor. He turned away.

“You bastards.” He felt a smile creep up on his face. She was still spunky. “Cowards. She had no defense. She’s not even magical. You filthy—“

“Crucio.”

Her angry outburst was stopped short and he held his breath as she screamed. She loves that, silencing people up with pain, he thought as he stared at his aunt. He hated her.

“You have no room to talk about filth. You are filth. Crucio.”

Her screams filled the room and echoed off the malevolent walls. He felt his hand twitch. He wanted to curse his aunt. What a bitch.

“Well, Draco, would you like a go?”

His eyes locked with the girl’s as her head turned to look at him. Pure hatred filled her gaze as she glared at his masked face. Even after being forced to endure two consecutive curses she was still able to look at him as though he were worthless. She had some nerve. He, after all, held her life in his hands. She should be begging for mercy.

“Malfoy.” She spat. His stomach flip-flopped. He had despised this girl from the moment he laid eyes on her six years prior. Every word she ever spoke, every move she ever made—he had despised them all. Yet, as she lay on the dirty floor, bound by magic, beaten, bruised, dying, he couldn’t find a single reason to detest her. She may be a Mudblood but at least she wasn’t a murderer. At least she was still innocent. She was superior to him.

Swallowing the lump that formed in his throat he replied in (what he hoped sounded like) his normal arrogant drawl.

“Nice to see you too, Granger.”