Chapter 14. Maturity
"I'm still mad that you abandoned Alice, just so you know."
When Harry entered Rose's room, he didn't find her slumbering in bed. Instead, she was sitting with her back propped against the pillows, legs stretched forwards and ankles crossed, her arms tucked close, a scowl etched on her face.
She must've woken not long after he'd left her, because she'd showered and changed into a fresh white spaghetti top and pink shorts. Her hair was loose and slightly damp, the pleasant scent of soap lingering around her as he set the tray between them. She drew her legs back to make space for him.
"If you think I can be bribed with this food, you're sorely mistaken," she grumbled, but did pick up the spoon, unenthusiastically swirling it through the bowl of porridge. "I know how much it must've pained you to leave her behind." Her voice was strained, anger tempered with sympathy. "I wish you'd just pushed me away and fought alongside her."
He sagged, relieved and a little amused. She wasn't mad because he'd abandoned Alice to potential death. No, she was mad for him, knowing he'd be overwhelmed by guilt and self-loathing. She really did have her priorities skewed.
"You'd have done the same for me. If I were tortured and nearly killed, you'd hyperfocus on saving me, no matter who you had to leave behind."
She glared at him, shovelling a spoonful of porridge into her mouth, swallowing it before speaking. "I always hate it when you use this argument. Of course I'd do the same, but that doesn't mean I can't be a hypocrite!"
Since he hadn't brought his own cutlery, he snatched her spoon and ate from her bowl, his appetite returning now that he was with her. "Then don't be a hypocrite. Forgive me."
"Just because I'm self-aware doesn't mean I have to be better. I'll happily wallow in my hypocrisy." She scoffed, breaking the toast in two, leaving one half for him before biting into hers. The butter must've melted on her tongue because she moaned.
He decided not to comment on that. Since last night, all she'd tasted was blood and potions. The warm, fresh food probably healed her soul more than those potions ever could.
"Don't ignore the porridge." He nudged the bowl back towards her, chewing on the other half of the toast.
Rose sighed and picked up the spoon again, labouring through it, quietly listening as he told her about his side of things, how he'd made new friends among the French group, how he'd danced with a drop-dead gorgeous Veela before the Death Eaters attacked, how he'd saved her and then run back to Rose, how—with Alice's help—he took out most of the Death Eaters with a colossal stone.
"Show off. I wish I could've seen the giant stone crush those animals," she whispered, her eyes fierce and vengeful. Then they softened, a rueful smile tugging at her lips. "I wish I'd been there too, by the blue fire, the one dancing with you."
"We can do that anytime, dancing I mean." He took her spoon again, helping himself to the porridge, a little disappointed that she wasn't ecstatic about him finally having friends. He'd hoped to see more joy and pride, but chalked it up to her being tired.
She just nodded, her mind seeming to drift away, a strange melancholy about her.
"You okay?"
"I am." She put on a smile, and it irked him how fake it was. "What about mum? What was she doing last night when the Death Eaters attacked?"
Harry let out an angry laugh, a trickle of last night's rage returning. "She was busy with her sadistic fun, killing and torturing Death Eaters while we were fighting for our lives. I'd had enough and finally told her off. We had… a big fight. Well, I had a big fight. She just stood there and listened as I hurled hurtful words at her. I called her a selfish bitch. I called her a bad mother. I said I wished Alice was our mother. I even said I wished she…" He swallowed. "... didn't exist."
Rose was stunned, her mouth open, her eyes wide. "You said all that? You?"
"What does that mean?" he asked defensively.
She raised her hands placatingly. "I just mean—I didn't think you had it in you. You love Mum completely and do as she says, even when you don't want to. You were always so subservient and dutiful to her. I never thought you could fight her."
He shrugged, unable to meet her gaze. "She's our mum. She loves us. She knows better than we do. I never had a reason to say no." He paused. "But when her infamy endangered you, she should have been there to protect you. It was her duty. I couldn't ignore that. I'd never forgive her for putting your life at risk."
In his past life, as Seth, he never had a mother or a father. He was an orphan who hadn't even lived past thirteen. He'd always yearned for a parent. And when he finally gained one in this new life, he took it with both arms, vowing to be the best son, to be deserving of a mother's love. And for all of Lily's faults, she did love him. Even when she forced him to kill Snape, even when he began hating her, he understood her. Some part of her had done it to protect him, to prepare him.
But when her sadism cost Rose a Cruciatus Curse, the dam broke. He finally yelled the words that had been building in the back of throat since the moment he realised he'd never have a normal mother, the kind who loved unconditionally.
Rose sipped her tea, mulling over his words. When she put the cup down, her countenance was weary. "I'm not defending her, mind you, but she never pretended to be otherwise. She made it clear from the very beginning that we needed to be strong enough so we don't hold her back, so we don't hinder her path to revenge."
That was… painfully true. Could he even judge Lily Potter when she never disguised her priorities?
The rest of the meal passed in silence, both lost in their thoughts.
"You know, I'm starting to think you've been lax in your training," he said, his brow crinkled. "Yesterday, not only did I have to rescue you once but twice."
She grimaced at his frank statement. "I know, I know. But in my defence, both situations were dire. With Weep, Hermione was made hostage, and in the latter, we were surrounded by twenty or so Death Eaters. What was I supposed to do?"
"But you know so many spells. Wasn't there any you could use to get out or fight back?"
"Harry," the spoon dropped back into the bowl, the porridge barely half-finished, her hand coming up to rub her face, "when there are twenty wands aimed at you from front and back, you can't use any spells. I tried and got crucio'd for it."
The image of her twitching body flashed before his eyes. Her phantom screams pierced his chest. Rage and despair in equal measure filled him. Why was he trying to blame her? She was right, wasn't she? He couldn't have done any better in her position. He would've waited for rescue as well. And in her case, it came a tad late.
Why did he let that happen? Could he have done anything to change that? Maybe if he had abandoned Fleur as well, maybe if he'd returned sooner, Rose would never have been tortured. She would never have screamed like that. Her body wouldn't have twisted and spasmed if only he'd been faster.
"Don't do that!" she snapped, clambering around the tray to kneel over him and grab his face, her emerald eyes brimming with exasperation. "You're not some omniscient god who's responsible for everything. It was not your fault. You saved me and my friends. And I'd love you more for it if I didn't already love you obnoxiously too much."
He couldn't help the chuckle that escaped him, grabbing her thin waist as she loomed over him. "Obnoxiously too much? Where did that come from?"
"Daphne." She grinned, slumping onto him, looking tired, uncaring that she was straddling his lap. "She thinks I love you 'obnoxiously too much'."
Harry rubbed her back, trying not to enjoy their proximity too much. The shape and the weight of her backside would've undone him if he hadn't taken care of his hormones during the shower. Not to mention her pleasant scent, her blistering heat.
Wait…
A frown marred his face. "You have a fever." He pressed his palm on her forehead. And sure enough, she was burning.
"You think so?" She touched her own forehead, not that she would feel any difference.
"What do you feel?" He didn't move, keeping his left hand coiled around her waist, but he extended his right arm and pushed the tray onto the bedside table, removing the obstruction, so she could lie down.
"Just… exhaustion." She fell on her back, her head sinking in the pillow, her scarlet hair fanning around her face.
He pried her legs from around his waist and slipped off the bed, giving her room to straighten them. "I'll get your potions. Do you want to finish the porridge?"
"No, I was barely able to eat what I could. Take it away." She stretched her legs, her toes touching the foot of the bed.
"As you command, my queen," he pulled up the blanket to her nose, patting her shoulders.
"If all I need is to get crucio'd to be treated like this, I wouldn't mind getting tortured a few more times," she quipped and got a flick on her forehead as punishment. "Ow. No mercy for the sick, have you?"
"Not for this one." He leaned in and kissed her burning head. "Just tell me when you want to be spoiled, moron. No need to get tortured for it. I sometimes wonder if I've gotten all the brain cells, and you all the beauty."
She smiled softly. "Aw, thanks. I didn't know you considered me a beauty. I remember you calling me a melted candle wax one time."
"I think you're the prettiest girl in the world." He leaned close, stroking her face, his gaze momentarily flicking to her cherry-pink lips. They parted slightly, her eyes gaining a dangerous edge.
"Easy there, Harry," she uttered, her voice all soft and hoarse. "I'll actually start thinking you mean them."
He pressed a lingering kiss on the corner of mouth, on her hot skin. "I do."
Then her body gave a quick spasm.
The charged moment crumbled, and she hissed in discomfort, the after effects of the Cruciatus Curse still persisting.
"I'll bring the potions."
~xXxXx~
His legs protested, each breath rattling in his head as he made his way through the dark woods. His old bones creaked every time he raised his knees high enough to step over an outgrown root or babbling brook. But he kept moving, scrambling through tall grass, brushing past one tree trunk after another, aware only death or incarceration waited behind.
The entire operation had gone up in flames. The Death Eaters were to cause chaos and flee the moment the aurors arrived. But the young blood rarely knew restraint and the old revelry had addled the heads of the greybeards. They lingered when they shouldn't have, and that was how they'd lost all their numbers. Most were annihilated by that mudblood whore and her spawn, and the few that were left were apprehended by the Ministry.
Curse those fools! Curse that woman! She had taken everything from him sixteen years ago, his sons and daughters, and now she even dared to take away his hope.
If not for Lucius' letter, Phineas Nott would've simply given up and floo'd to the Ministry himself, meeting his fate with dignity. But now he knew there was hope, now he knew the Dark Lord remained. He had yet a chance to exact revenge, to slaughter that redheaded harpy.
The thick woods grew sparse the farther he went, the darkness receding as more light filtered through the canopy. He felt his hand twitch, the dark mark coming alive after years of dormancy.
It guided him into a clearing.
A lone tree stood in the centre. It was dead and leafless, its sharp naked brown branches clawing at the sunlit sky.
A blue apparition sat against the husk of the tree, legs crossed and hands folded in his lap.
His eyes were closed. He shone like sapphire in the patch of morning light.
Joy erupted in Phineas' chest. Never before had he been this gladdened to see the inhuman face of his brutal lord.
Even as a ghost, Lord Voldemort retained his cruel features. Tall, spindly body. Slits instead of a nose, long bald head, and narrow reptilian eyes. He recognised the last one as those very eyes opened and regarded him indifferently.
"My Lord!" Nott stumbled forward and went on his aching knees, prostrating himself. "Your faithful servant returns. Please make use of me."
Lord Voldemort turned away and closed his eyes again.
…
…
Phineas didn't understand why his lord wasn't rewarding his faithfulness, or punishing his tardiness. Anything would be better than this, this aloof reception.
"My lord, what are you doing here?" he asked, looking up from his prostrate position, keeping the frustration out of his voice.
"Waiting for someone," came the dispassionate answer.
"Who?"
The Dark Lord rose like blue vapour, his ethereal form twisting and reforming behind Phineas. "Not you."
A spectral hand pierced through his back, and Phineas couldn't even manage a scream, his body falling limp on the ground, his soul snatched and consumed.
Voldemort returned to his spot and sat cross-legged, arms folded in his lap, his eyes closed, waiting for the return of his faithful servant.
~xXxXx~
Isolde was displeased by the urgent summons.
Today, she was scheduled to shoot for the magazine Wonder Witch. That was the profession she'd chosen a few years ago. A fashion model. All she had to do was dress up—sometimes dress down—and look dazzling for the cameras. It was effortless and high-paying. With her long, lustrous silver hair and deep jade eyes, she was often mistaken for a Veela. She actually thought she was way better than Veelas. Her body wasn't lacking either, slender and graceful with supple curves, a vision of feminine youth personified.
It wouldn't be untrue to say that she loved her job, that she liked being admired and desired. She was looking forward to the bikini shoot, to flirt with the men and earn the envy of the other models. But the moment she woke up, she found a note at her bedside. It was from Lust, who'd made it clear that something big had happened, that everyone was required to adjust their schedule and be present in the common room.
Although inconvenient and vexing, Isolde couldn't ignore the summons.
Dressed in her signature white princess dress, with its long trailing skirt and a tight corset, she made her way to the common room. Her silver hair coiffed into a loose, elegant braid, woven with shimmering ribbons, had a few carefully arranged strands framing her face. Everything was perfect. She was perfect. Perhaps Lust, or one of her brothers, would invite her to their bedroom after the meeting was done. She smiled, looking forward to it.
The door was open, and her family waited inside. She arrived last, but not late.
The long table was gone, and so were the seven chairs. The large ballroom-sized chamber was empty save for the Trickett family.
Her brow furrowed at the unusual sight before her.
Pride's arms and legs were shackled, and he was forced to his knees, with Wrath looming behind him, ready to wrestle him into submission should he attempt any mischief. He looked… petulant as he glared at Lust, who stood before him with loyal Bellatrix in her shadow, her face grim but her eyes furious.
Greed, in his tan suit, stood to one side, arms crossed behind his back. His feet tapped against the floor in agitation, no doubt impatient to get this over with and return to his businessman persona of Midas. Gluttony didn't even bother sparing attention to the proceedings, leant against the wall, his face thrust in a book. And Sloth was already curled up on the floor beside him, lost in the dreamland.
She suppressed the urge to kick them.
It was so unfair. Lust had made her life hell, hounding her to get a job. So why didn't she do the same for Sloth? Her youngest brother didn't even leave the house, content to slumber his life away. Lust should yell at him too to get a job, but of course she didn't! Apparently, being the Sin of Sloth gave him a free pass to being unemployed. Ridiculously unfair.
"Brothers and sisters," Lust began, raising her gaze from Pride to meet everyone's. Dressed in navy blue robes, with her long, sable hair braided over her shoulder, she was the very image of beauty. The neckline offered a tantalising glimpse at her large, round breasts. They were not as gigantic as Wrath's, but they were considerably fuller than Isolde's.
Isolde could convince herself that Wrath's magnificent bust didn't matter since the brute wasn't as pretty or graceful as her, but Lust was different. If Isolde embodied youth, Lust was the epitome of mature beauty, the kind that could captivate and enthrall anyone who looked her way. Lust was what Isolde craved to be.
She shook her head and crushed the bubbling jealousy, focusing on her oldest sister's words rather than her salacious body, eyes widening as Pride's foolishness was laid bare. Not only had he nearly clashed with Lily Potter and the Minister of Magic, the stupid meathead had then gone on to disguise himself as a Death Eater and target Potter's children. Worse still, he and Wrath had been seen by Alice Longbottom, the woman who could see magic itself. When Lust explained that they all had the same magical signature as their progenitor, Isolde crumpled to her knees, the full weight of the implication crashing down on her.
Oh no, no, no, no…
This couldn't be happening. She had a photoshoot planned. And her pay cheque was just around the corner. But now Longbottom knew, or suspected, that they were all connected to Voldemort. If she hadn't already, she would inform Dumbledore soon, and then there would be a war.
There would be no photoshoot. All her fans would hate her. All their love and admiration would be just… gone.
She hated Pride. She hated him with all her being. If his habit of being physically dominant and verbally abusive during their sex sessions wasn't enough, the simpleton had gone and exposed them all! She abhorred him for taking everything from her. Life had only just begun to feel perfect, and now she'd either have to fight or hide. Neither was ideal.
A glance around showed the others felt much the same. Gluttony and Sloth were no longer idle. Gluttony had actually dropped the book, his face taut with anger. Sloth, too, looked drowsy and irritated, realising he couldn't simply waste away in bed anymore if conflict was coming. They had both converged to the centre of the room, where the rest stood, where Greed ground his teeth, one step away from kicking Pride.
"We should fight, Lust," Wrath said evenly, all but vibrating with eagerness at the prospect of an open war. "Wizarding Britain couldn't handle one Voldemort. They wouldn't handle seven."
"I do not want to fight!" Isolde shrieked, interjecting, her fists balled at her sides, clutching the folds of her beautiful white skirt. Would she even be able to wear princess dresses anymore? "I don't want to kill or wage war! I just want to pose for cameras and live an easy life!"
It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair at all. Why was she paying the price for Pride's stupid mistake?
"What do you plan to do then, Envy?" Wrath snapped, a vein bulging on her forehead. "Pose in skimpy underwear as the aurors barrel through the door, as they break your skull on the floor?"
"Shut up!"
"Sisters." Lust's single word was enough to command silence, her glacial eyes fixed on Pride. "We can discuss that later. First, we decide on Pride's punishment. We've allowed him a free rein in the muggle world to sate his sin. Yet, he did the unthinkable and outed us. What say you we do to him?"
"Kill him!" Isolde screeched. "Kill him for ruining my beautiful life."
The others merely turned their heads and rolled their eyes. Pride raised an eyebrow, faintly amused, as if it were not even an option.
"That's too extreme." Lust sighed, exasperated. "Be serious for once, Envy."
It wasn't fair how Lust never took her seriously. None of her siblings did.
She hated them all.
"Enough with the theatrics, sister." Pride addressed Lust directly, acting like a king even when he was on his knees. "We all know only your word counts. Tell me my punishment. And know I didn't intentionally expose us. I wasn't aware that Longbottom bitch would be there. But a mistake is a mistake. I shall accept whatever you command… within limits, of course."
Lust clenched her jaw and backhanded him across the face.
…
…
The silence that followed was absolute. Isolde couldn't believe her eyes. She wanted to giggle; she wanted to run away. A slap would've been bad, but a backhand, now that was beyond humiliating. And Pride didn't suffer humiliation well, as was shown by this whole debacle.
The effect was instantaneous. Pride roared and lunged to claw her eyes out. Wrath grabbed the back of his skull and slammed his snarling face on the marble floor, his nose breaking with a crunch, blood spurting out of it. "Now, now, brother. Don't make me break you."
"I've had enough of you!" Lust yelled at last, losing her composure, her booming voice echoing in the vast room. "Who are you to act all noble and mighty after you've brought war to our doors?"
Her eyes burned.
"You're nothing but a weak man who can't even possess a modicum of control over his sin. And that is the problem. You're eldest after me, having years over the others, and yet even Envy has better control than you. Couldn't you have swallowed the resentment and just left the Potters? Couldn't you have thought about us, your family?"
Pride went still, a look of shame coming over his face, even as his eyes smouldered.
"I present to you two choices." Lust sat down in a conjured chair, Bellatrix moving behind to knead her shoulders. "Either leave the family and take all the blame, or give me your body and allow me to seal you in a container for the next fifty years. I'll provide you with a body again once we shift to another identity."
Isolde staggered back. Terror rippled through the room. To lose the body meant caging their consciousness, to be trapped in a trinket again. It was a fate worse than death! No one in their right mind would choose that. Lust was pushing him into a corner, leaving him only one viable choice, to leave them and be solely responsible for what was to come.
She was casting him out of the family.
Pride glowered at her. "You understand I'm showing restraint here?" he said quietly. "That I can break the shackles at any moment? You know me better than anyone, sister. I was your first." His cold gaze swept the room. "Do you truly believe that if I stood up and named you all my enemies, I couldn't take down a few with me before I fall?"
The threat hung in the air like cracked glass, waiting to shatter.
Pride wasn't lying. After Lust and Wrath, he was the strongest. And the gap between him and Wrath wasn't significant. The rest of them, herself included, possessed just a fraction of the power the big three had. If violence erupted now, Isolde knew she could be easily among the dead.
Instead of being angered, all emotions drained from Lust's eyes.
"I know," she said. "But will you do it?"
She tilted her head. "Will you try to kill me again, beloved?"
Pride flinched and looked away, as if struck again.
"I made you first, my perfect half. We lived as husband and wife. We loved each other. I left Bellatrix for you. My Bellatrix. We made children together. We brought Wrath first and then the others. We were a true family."
Her voice hardened. "And then you tried to kill me. Will you do it again, husband?"
"I didn't mean it!" Pride rasped. "It… it just happened. You know how overpowering the sins are."
"I know. And that's why I didn't kill you then. That's why I'm not killing you now." She rose from the chair and squatted down before him, going down to his level. "Choose, brother. Either way, I'll protect this family."
Isolde turned away, jealousy squirming in her chest.
Why couldn't Lust love her like she once loved Pride?
She wanted that. She ached for it.
~xXxXx~
Bellatrix felt it, a vibration at the crest on the back of her hand, a red circle with seven lines, like stubby hair on a bald head. The seal in Pride's homunculus body recognised his maturation.
She was… greatly astonished. To think Pride would be the first to mature. Such an unforeseen twist. She'd thought it would be Lust to first transcend, but apparently not.
From behind Lust, she watched as Pride appeared anguished and remorseful, still weighed down by the night of his betrayal. Instead of choosing the easy way out, presented by his sister-wife, and striking out on his own to preserve his own pride, to wreck terror across the British Isles, he forwent it and chose… the worst option for himself. "Take my body… if it prevents the war. I don't want to inconvenience you anymore. Fifty years is nothing. I'll return and be better. I promise."
Bellatrix bit back a shocked giggle.
Ho ho ho; it was finally happening. One of the seven had finally matured under duress. Pride, no, Victor had conquered his sin and become a full human. The seal in his homunculus body conveyed it to her, if his words weren't enough. Unlike the other six, who were still living horcruxes—marionettes—Victor was now qualified to be the Beast of End.
Before Lust could cave in and undo the maturation, convincing him to choose the easier option, Bellatrix uttered a command indecipherable to her own ears. "#$ $#%$"
All the six sins froze, their eyes going blank, their faces slackening, their bodies hanging limp as if their strings were cut. Only one remained conscious. The one who had matured. The one who wasn't a sin anymore but a human.
Victor looked at her as she cackled and stepped forward.
"What is the meaning of this, Bella?"
"Congratulations are in order, Victor. You did what even Lust cannot. You've become human. You've surpassed your sin." Bellatrix pulled out the ritual knife, a black thing, and before he could voice his confusion, pierced his heart with one thrust. "Sleep now. You'll be with our Master soon."
Victor didn't bleed, he simply crumbled like a sand castle, leaving the egg behind. A mass of inky black oil that slowly took the shape of a miniature lion. It was more viscous than solid. Its eyes were blood-red, like her master's.
With a snap of her fingers, it teleported away, to a magical circle deep in an ocean, drawn over a ley line, that was prepared for it sixteen years ago.
Bellatrix returned to her spot behind Lust and uttered the command again. "#$ $#%$"
The other six regained consciousness, looked around, alert and confused at Victor's absence.
They would conclude he'd somehow run away, that he had chosen to strike out on his own after all.
Lust slumped in relief, happy not to quarrel with her first brother, to not trap his consciousness in a trinket.
Bellatrix hid a smile at the naivety.
Soon, the others would mature too. And then, with her duty done, she'd return to her master and change the world.
A.N. Yes, Bella is still loyal to Voldemort, the faithful servant, having done everything as ordered. More will be revealed later, though I do welcome theories.