627Chapter Thirty-Nine – The Bloody Price
"Harry!"
Before the boat had even touched the jetty, Daphne leapt from the deck. Magic flickered beneath her feet, carrying her safely over the foaming waves that crashed wildly against the shore. She landed with a soft thud, barely noticing the wet wood beneath her as she sprinted forward.
She threw herself into Harry's arms without hesitation and he caught her just as hard, their bodies colliding with a force that made him sway. But Harry held on and pulled her close. Daphne pressed herself against him, feeling his warmth and the familiar scent that made her heart beat faster. A sense of completeness flowed through her as she felt their magic reconnect, as if they were two halves of a whole. She felt warm deep inside, as if a lost piece of her soul had finally found its place again.
Harry swallowed slightly as she felt in their embrace, and she smiled against his chest. There was something pleasurable, almost arousing, in the thought that he had just tasted her blood again.
Slowly, they pulled away from each other. Despite the dull light on the island, it seemed to Daphne that Harry's eyes sparkled, one emerald green, the other golden, like the most precious of gems.
"Daph, I've returned home," he said.
A beautiful smile spread across Harry's face, one brimming with heartfelt love. But his choice of words was a little odd. They were rather far away from the place where they lived. Normally, this wouldn't be a situation that called for the phrase "I'm home". But for the two of them, it was wholly fitting.
Gazing solely at Daphne, he went on, "At long last, I've returned to my rightful place at your side."
Daphne's facial muscles ached from the intensity with which she returned his smile "And I have returned to you, my prince," she said, "to the only place that matters."
Harry leaned in and captured her lips in a tender kiss. His lips were warm, soft and as familiar as her own heartbeat. Daphne's hand found its way to the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as she kissed him back with equal fervour.
When they pulled away after a few precious moments, Harry's hand lingered on her cheek, his thumb caressing her skin. He was still smiling.
"Happy birthday, Princess," he whispered.
Daphne blinked. She had completely forgotten. But yes, it was true – today was her fifteenth birthday. Today was the fourteenth of July.
It had always filled her with a strange kind of joy to share her birthday with the anniversary of the Storming of the Bastille, such a momentous historical event, when oppressed people had refused to be oppressed any longer and had risen up against the injustices of this world with blood and iron resolve. Although it had only been Muggles who had risen up then, and their bodies had long since decayed, as a child, lost in the history books of the Greengrass Library, she had felt a greater kinship with those long-dead people than with most living witches and wizards, including her own parents. Despite this inner connection to the people of the past, however, she had resolved then that the people of the future would no longer associate the Fourteenth of July primarily with the French Revolution, but with the day she had come into the world.
And now, as she returned Harry's gaze, as she saw the greed and anticipation and burning desire in his eyes, the same feelings that filled her and coursed fierily back and forth across their bond, she was certain that future would become a reality. With blood and iron resolve.
"Thank you," she whispered, pulling him close again, their lips meeting in another tender kiss. This one was longer, even sweeter, as if they were both trying to make up for lost time.
A clearing of the throat interrupted their togetherness. Reluctantly, Harry and Daphne pulled away and turned around.
"I'm sorry to interrupt your reunion, Mr Potter, Miss Greengrass," said a tall, dark-skinned Auror standing not too far from them. Beside him was a young witch with poison-green hair and a broad grin on her face.
Daphne hadn't paid any attention to Harry's guards so far, and she didn't recognise the woman either, but she did recognise the man. He had also been here when Harry had been locked up thirteen days ago, she remembered angrily. But she forced herself to remain calm, to push her emotions down.
"The ship must leave soon, and Cadet Tonks and I must return to the prison," the Auror continued, pointing at his colleague. "We will then officially release you, Mr Potter."
Harry nodded politely. "Thank you, Mr Shacklebolt. I have greatly appreciated your kindness during my time here."
The man, Shacklebolt, nodded curtly in return. "You've also been one of the more pleasant prisoners here. Even in low security."
"Didn't insult or spit at me once," the young witch, Cadet Tonks, added with a grin. "That's a direct plus in my book."
"I need only remind you, Mr Potter," Shacklebolt continued, "that the payment of one hundred galleons for your outstanding day's detention is to be made to the Ministerial Trea–"
"Yes, yes," Harry interrupted, his voice perhaps a little irritated, Daphne noted with a grin. "I'll bring the gold tomorrow. I'll pay my blood money, don't worry."
The Auror only returned his words with another curt nod, before turning to head back towards the grim wizarding prison, Cadet Tonks at his side.
Meanwhile, Daphne linked arms with Harry. Her step was bouncy and full of anticipation as they walked together towards the ship that had docked in the meantime. After all, they still had her birthday to celebrate, for which Harry had apparently bought his way out of prison a day early. Oh yes, and he also had to meet one of the most powerful dark wizards in history – second in the current history books, even if he was about to fall in that rank. And then she also had a very special surprise for Harry, and just the thought of it made her heart beat faster with anticipation and nervousness.
It promised to be a truly exciting day.
"Tomorrow is the day he'll be released from prison," Hermione said as she paced restlessly up and down Ron's room in the Burrow. "And then he'll see her again, and she'll continue to corrupt him. Her words are like poison, and they're poisoning Harry more and more."
"Even if it really is –"
Hermione spun around. "Even if is is? Of course it is!"
Ron raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I see it the same way you do, sweetheart. But Harry won't see it that way. And I don't think he'll want to meet us when he gets out. At least not without her."
Hermione wanted to disagree, to tell him he was wrong, that Harry would listen to reason, to them. But deep down she knew he was right. Ron, with his frustrating ability to cut through to the uncomfortable truth, was right again. The truth stung like a fresh wound. "We have to be careful," she finally admitted, but the words came hard from her lips, like poison she almost couldn't spit out. "We can't give her the opportunity to twist things, to make us look bad in Harry's eyes."
She knew only too well: if they put pressure on Harry, he would always choose Daphne Greengrass. Just as he had done time and again in the past. The thought of it made her heart tighten, as if an invisible thread was slowly but surely squeezing it shut. It was the bitter reality in which they now lived. Ever since first year, when a chance encounter had somehow bound Greengrass to Harry, things had changed. Hermione could still remember those moments with chilling clarity – the way Greengrass had inserted herself into Harry's life, slowly, insidiously, until her presence had become as constant as the air he breathed. With each passing year, her grip on him had tightened, like ivy slowly strangling a tree. And they, Hermione and Ron, had allowed it to come to this.
Hermione's steps faltered, and she sank down onto the bed beside Ron, her legs too heavy to support her any longer. She curled up beside him. He smelled of earth, of his familiar shampoo, and the faint, sweet scent of apples from the orchard. It was an honest scent, Hermione thought. She liked the scent, a lot.
"She's like a fiendish fire," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "We must put it out before it consumes Harry completely..."
Together with Daphne, Harry walked through the dark corridors of 12 Grimmauld Place, each step on the creaking floorboards echoing in the heavy silence. This, along with the walls that had been completely bare since they had moved in, lost in endless shadows, reminded Harry of how oppressive this place could be. But despite the oppressive atmosphere, the old house also held a special, almost twisted place in his heart. Here, among the yellowing wallpaper and the cobwebs that gathered in the dark corners, he had collected some of the best memories of his life.
His gaze lingered on the door of their bedroom as they passed, its surface marked by two crows carved in an eternal embrace.
Oh yes, some of the very best memories.
Their footsteps took them higher and higher until they finally reached the attic of the house. There, Daphne opened an unremarkable door that led into a small, dark room that, at first glance, seemed completely unremarkable, too. Unremarkable, that is, if you ignored the man hanging from the opposite wall, his hands and feet in thick chains that bound him to the wall. Except that they weren't chains either, but pulsating, shimmering red strands, almost tentacles, that gave off a strong, ironic odour. Daphne must have added some of her own blood to the spell to make it stronger, Harry guessed.
More blood-magical tentacles had wrapped themselves around the man's torso, neck and forehead, preventing him from moving or speaking. The man was trapped in limbo, any movement, however slight, made impossible.
Only his eyes were free – two blue-grey eyes that focused on Harry and Daphne as soon as they entered the room. In any other person these eyes might have seemed unremarkable, but not in this man. They sparkled with life and stood in stark contrast to his emaciated body and wrinkled face. There was an intensity in those eyes that spoke of truly deep thoughts.
Harry felt an icy chill run through his chest as he looked into the man's eyes. It was not like Dumbledore, whose magical authority, despite his increasing physical decline, was still as unmistakable as storm clouds in a bright summer sky, but more than the average wizard, a little like the echo of distant thunder that was still enough to inspire awe.
But Harry could also see a certain curiosity in their guest's eyes, and that was something they could work with.
Daphne made a casual gesture with her hand and the blood-magical tentacles that held their guest captive loosened slightly. Not enough to give him complete freedom, but enough to allow him to sink forward slightly. A gasp escaped his lips, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he took deep breaths. But his eyes remained fixed on Harry and Daphne the whole time.
In a voice that was surprisingly calm and collected, considering his predicament, the man spoke. "You stand before Lord Grindelwald, Sovereign of the Red Dawn. You may kneel."
"You hang before us," Daphne's cool voice cut through the room. "The future lords of this land. You may bow."
The tentacles loosened a little more around Grindelwald's torso, so that he could actually bow if he wanted to. Of course, he didn't. That would have been too much, Harry thought.
Instead, Grindelwald's lips parted slightly, revealing teeth yellowed by time. It wasn't a real smile, at least not an honest one, but there was something of sympathy in it, Harry thought. Or was it just the last vestiges of Grindelwald's legendary charisma, the artful lies of the master manipulator after decades of solitary confinement?
"The future lords of this land," Grindelwald repeated Daphne's words. He moved his mouth as if tasting the words on his tongue. "Bold. Ambitious. Some might even say megalomaniacal."
"Megalomaniacal are only those who fail," Harry replied. "And we will not fail."
Never again.
Grindelwald's gaze was on him now, his blue-grey eyes narrowing slightly. "Ah, Mr Potter. I suspected our paths would cross when the lovely Miss Greengrass so graciously released me from my cell last night. Wherever she is, you are never far behind. An odd couple, I thought. The golden boy of the wizarding world, son of martyrs and embodiment of the hopes of many, and a girl with no glorious past, daughter of cowards and object of the thoughts of few. Yet, now that I see the two of you together, I realise how mistaken I was. Albus must be going blind in his old age."
The old wizard now looked back and forth between Harry and Daphne, a thoughtful expression – real or feigned – on his wrinkled face.
"The future lords of this land," he repeated quietly. "Bold words, but what do you mean? Whose lords do you wish to be? Whom do you want to lead? The flock of stupid sheep who call themselves witches and wizards?"
"The quickest way to correct a stupid flock," said Daphne, "is to become a shepherd yourself."
"Shepherd!" Grindelwald let out a single laugh. It sounded rough and harsh. "Many have wanted to be shepherds. From the earliest antiquity to the battles of this century, across bloody fields and soot-blackened fortresses, across all continents and all classes and backgrounds – kings, emperors, tyrants, they all wanted the same thing. History is littered with the corpses of failed shepherds, trampled by their own sheep or devoured by the evil wolf. You would only be the last in a long, long line. So why should I support you?" His eyes travelled to Daphne. "You were so wonderfully vague and nebulous about that yesterday, Miss Greengrass."
Daphne took a step forward, her heels clicking on the wooden floor. "You can go down in history as one of our teachers," she said calmly, as if she were saying nothing more than that white paint is white. "You can erase the stain of your defeat. And more than that..."
"...you can take revenge," Harry went on, standing next to his lover. "On the wizard who so humiliated you. Help us, Grindelwald, and we will give you the death of Albus Dumbledore."
Albus sat at his desk in his office, which was filled with deep silence. The portraits of the former Headmasters and Headmistresses, who usually enjoyed animated conversations, now dozed lazily, their colours seeming to fade in the mild light of the late afternoon sun. Fawkes flew somewhere outside, leaving the golden stand beside the desk looking empty and deserted. It was the summer holidays, and the castle was quiet, its usual hustle and bustle reduced to an eerie stillness. Few, if any, would disturb him now – his teachers were probably enjoying their break, and the students were scattered across the world, far from the hallowed halls of the school.
Slowly, Albus raised the soup spoon to his mouth. It was a mild broth, one of the few dishes he could still eat without feeling sick. Still, eating it felt like a duty, and Albus did it mainly to avoid worrying Poppy any more. The soup certainly tasted delicious – as did everything the house elves at Hogwarts made – but it was completely tasteless to Albus, as if his senses, too, were gradually turning away from the pleasures of life.
At least the soup was hot.
Albus was about to take another sip when the flames in the fireplace suddenly roared to life, burning an unnatural green. The unexpected sound broke the silence, causing him to pause and look up. Few knew the Floo address of his office, and fewer still would dare to intrude without prior notice.
A familiar face appeared in the flames, and a voice called out in urgent concern.
"Albus, are you there?" It was the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge.
"Good afternoon, Cornelius," Albus replied, his voice calm despite the sudden interruption. "Yes, I am here."
"Thank goodness. May I come through? I have some alarming news."
After a brief confirmation from Albus, Cornelius' entire body appeared in the fireplace, from which he emerged with quick strides. The Minister did not even pause to brush the ash from his fine, pinstriped cloak – a detail that spoke volumes to Albus, more than any words could. The usual disapproval that had marked their encounters since the Third Task and the trial where Albus had acted as Harry's defence counsel was also absent from Cornelius' expression. Instead, the Minister's face was etched with an unusual seriousness, an unusual concern.
Albus braced himself for the worst before Cornelius had even begun to speak.
It was not enough.
"I've just had word from the Germans," Cornelius said quickly. "Grindelwald has escaped."
Albus was glad he was already seated, for he felt as if his body had lost all strength from one moment to the next. He sank into the chair. His heart was pounding.
Gellert... had escaped?
How?
Why?
What ... what was he planning?
Albus felt as if the tower room was spinning around him. He could hear Cornelis continuing to speak, but his words were muffled, as if under water. They weren't getting through to him.
Albus' mind was racing.
He had promised him. He had sworn it to him. By their sins and the graves of their lives, he had sworn it to him!
Had it all been a lie? Just another twist in one of his dark games? The final move in their tragic, endless chess match?
For the first time in many years, Albus felt something he had almost forgotten: helplessness. It gripped him with cold, unyielding fingers, crushing the breath from his lungs. The man who had once believed himself capable of carrying the world on his shoulders now felt the weight of that world crushing him as the memory of a boyhood pact echoed in his mind – a pact made to a friend, a lover, a rival and, ultimately, a monster.
"A tempting offer," Grindelwald said with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "But as you may have noticed, some time has passed since the height of my powers, and even then, I could not defeat Albus. My wizarding powers are but a faint shadow of the power I had then, the power that made whole armies, whole countries tremble, but could not topple Albus Dumbledore. So why, my dear Daphne, my dear Harry, should I risk further humiliation by allying myself with two fools like you and teaching you my knowledge of millennia of magic? Why should I support two such stupid idiots?"
Harry felt his face harden. Beside him, Daphne froze, only her insides flaring up.
"What did you call us?" she asked, her voice sharp as a blade's edge.
"Stupid idiots!" repeated Grindelwald, louder this time. "Because that's what you both are. Just two days ago, with all the grace of my age, I would have dismissed you as hot-headed teenagers after reading about the attack on Minister Fudge. It was reckless – pure folly – and cost you both dearly in political capital which even your idealistic speech to the Wizengamot could not quite make up for, Harry Potter. Nor could your absurd display of martyrdom, choosing imprisonment over paying a mere sum of gold. Foolishness, the both of you."
Harry clenched his hands into fists and tried hard not to draw his wand. Of course the attack on Fudge had been hot-headed – he knew that! Had known it the moment he had decided to do it. But that wasn't the point! It had felt right, so bloody right! And it still felt right!
And the harvest they would reap from the plans they had made back then, in fiery anger and cold calculation, would feel even better. That moment on the stage, Fudge's shameful words, had only added fuel to the flames of a plan that had been burning for a long time. Azkaban would burn, they had decided this weeks ago, and from its ashes they would forge their crowns. It would be a coronation for them alone – with them as the crowned, the crowning and the only witnesses.
Grindelwald snorted. It sounded a bit like Uncle Vernon when he had found a dead bird in his garden, killed and mutilated by a stray cat.
"That's exactly what I mean," the old wizard said. "Right now – I can see it in your eyes. I have a feeling I only have to throw a match in your direction and there will be a huge explosion. Albus, how could you have missed what was brewing right under your long, crooked nose?"
"You have no idea what –" Harry began, but Grindelwald immediately cut him off.
"Yes, I do, young Harry. Despite my diminished state, it seems my vision is clearer than Albus'. I only wonder what has played the greater part in your descent into idiocy? The bond that intertwines your magics, feeding off one another? Or the Blood Magic you've dabbled in, setting your very souls aflame?"
Harry closed his mouth. This was unsettling. He looked at Daphne, whose face mirrored his concern, but he could see that she was thinking hard. Some of her thoughts spilled over to him.
"A rather academic question, I suppose," Grindelwald continued. "You won't be able to separate one effect from the other. But please don't tell me you were stupid enough to create an Impetus?" The answer must have been written on their faces, because Grindelwald snorted again. "It gets worse, I see. You were probably even greedy enough to take a unicorn, admittedly the most powerful medium imaginable, but also the most perilous, given your... unique circumstances."
"The past is the past," Daphne said with a contemptuous wave of her hand. A silver ring flashed on her left ring finger. "And the future will be the future, and it's mapped out. The only question, Grindelwald, is whether you will help us in the present, or whether we will reach the future alone. Granted, it would take longer, but it's not something we're not prepared to do. Because you must have seen that too, without a doubt: We are prepared to do anything to achieve our goals."
"So make your decision," Harry said, "whether you are with us or against us. You have until tomorrow. We will leave you now, as my lovely partner and I have other matters to attend to. Use the time, Grindelwald, and think. Think carefully."
"Your own life depends on your answer," Daphne added.
With that, they turned away. Daphne made a subtle gesture with her hand, and Harry felt the pulse of magic as the blood-magical restraints tightened around their prisoner. Daphne's heels clicked on the wooden floor and Harry's heavier steps made the floorboards creak, but everything else was silent, especially behind their backs.
They did not look back as they stepped through the door, which slammed shut with a resounding bang that echoed down the corridor.
Harry looked at Daphne. "Is everything ready?"
She nodded. "The carpet is in the living room. The pamphlets are ready too."
"Then let's go to your birthday party, my love," Harry said, taking Daphne's hand in his. Instinctively, their fingers intertwined. "It's going to be a long flight..."
It was an uncomfortable night over the island of Azkaban. It usually was, but this night was particularly uncomfortable, at least that's how Nymphadora Tonks felt as she sat in the guardroom of the low-security wing.
Even from here, surrounded by thick, fortress-like walls, she could hear the wind howling around the prison, the cold seeping in through hidden cracks and crevices and making her shiver. It must be even colder in the cells, but Nymphadora couldn't bring herself to feel sympathy for these criminals, even those in the low-security wing.
Some wrongly, she thought darkly. Scum like Craster Davis, who was rumoured to have... No, she didn't even want to think about that and that poor girl.
It really was a shame that Potter had had to serve time with that scum, even if only for thirteen days. All because he'd dared to show Cornelius Fudge – arrogant, corrupt, self-serving Fudge – exactly what he thought of him. Of course, one could argue about the means – she hadn't become an Auror cadet because she liked violence so much – but Potter had been right when he said that there was a lot wrong with this country and that it was up to them all to change it. They were capable of something better than the status quo, Nymphadora was convinced, and that was why she wanted to become an Auror. They could make the wizarding world, the whole world, a better place if they really wanted to. If.
Another shiver ran through Nymphadora's body. She cast another warming spell, even though it didn't feel like it would do any good. The cold in this place wasn't just physical, especially in the middle of summer. It was something much, much deeper. Something much, much more evil.
Gosh, she thought, was she glad she rarely had to go to the upper floors where the Dementors kept watch...
And gosh was she glad her sixteen-hour shift would end at midnight. She could hardly wait to leave behind the dark thoughts that overcame her every time she was here. And she couldn't wait to get home, have a cup of hot chocolate, put on her cosiest pyjamas, crawl into bed and sleep through the next day.
"Pretty fresh tonight, isn't it?" Kingsley's deep voice rumbled as he strode back into the guardroom from his rounds. He dropped into a chair opposite her with a heavy sigh.
Nymphadora looked over at him. If even Kingsley described it as 'fresh', it must really be fucking cold. More than fucking cold, in fact. Bloody fucking cold.
"So no strip poker tonight," she said, laying the cards on the table. "Next night at the Leaky Cauldron instead?"
"Make it a round and we'll have a bet. Mad-Eye mentioned how much firewhiskey you can put away. I've still got rent to pay."
Nymphadora grinned. Yes, it certainly had its advantages that she could mould her organs into those of a hardened alcoholic at will. No one had been able to drink her under the table since her second year at Hogwarts, when she had sneaked her first butterbeer with the other girls in her dormitory.
"Deal," she said, "Next round's on you, old man."
Kingsley's face hardened, but she could see the amusement in his eyes. "For that alone, I will deal you a defeat so crushing that even the descendants of your descendants will speak of it with horror."
Nymphadora dealt the cards.
From outside came the howling of the wind.
The wind howled around them as Harry and Daphne flew through the night on their carpet, but the wind bounced harmlessly off the magical bubble that surrounded them. It wasn't even cold, but comfortably warm, thanks to their magic.
Still, Harry would have preferred to fly in his crow form, defying the forces of nature around them. It just felt... more real to fly with his own wings. More alive and more genuine than using tools like broomsticks or flying carpets. On the other hand, it would have been much harder to work magic in his crow form, Harry admitted, and it was powerful magic they had to work tonight. The most powerful magic of their lives so far.
"There!" exclaimed Daphne suddenly, her voice trembling slightly with anticipation.
She pointed ahead, where the ominous silhouette of Azkaban could be seen in the darkness. There were no lights burning in the tall prison tower, but the walls seemed so black in the night that they stood out against the dark night sky. It wasn't just the absence of light, it was a hungry darkness that seemed to emanate from the fortress itself.
But there was also a lack of light. As always, the sky above the island was covered in a thick blanket of cloud, hiding the moon and stars, as if the heavens themselves were recoiling from the horror below.
They flew on until they were hovering directly over the prison. Very far over the prison, in fact, which looked almost tiny from this height, but Harry could feel the mighty wards of Azkaban, reaching much higher than the stone walls. They hovered only a few metres above them and their proximity was like a constant tingling on his skin. If they dropped so much as a coin now, let alone broke through the invisible magical barriers, they would be surrounded by Dementors in seconds.
But that was not their plan. They had no intention of breaking through the wards, at least not physically, although Harry had no doubt that Daphne would be able to. No, they would stay up here, at a safe distance. But something would break through.
He exchanged a glance with Daphne, who nodded at him. Now her body also began to quiver with anticipation, not to mention their magical bond. But she said nothing. Words were no longer necessary. Words would no longer play a part in this destiny they were both forging with their own hands.
Harry closed his eyes and stretched his magical senses. He needed to be quick, he knew, for that alone might be enough to alert the guards.
But speed was no problem.
Even from this distance, his magical senses found the runes he had carved into the stone during the nights of his captivity as effortlessly and instinctively as a crow finds the scent of a bleeding mouse. Just as instinctively, his magic activated the runes – setting off a chain reaction. Harry felt himself twitch as he channelled all his magic into the activation. A pain shot through him, deep in his stomach, a twinge in his heart, a fleeting feeling of discomfort, followed by –
A loud, silent scream rang out beneath them, but it was too late. The Dementors were too slow.
The next moment, there were screams in the physical world as well.
Screams of pain.
Horrible. Powerful. Beautiful.
And not only that...
Harry felt it. He felt it clearly. He felt it as he had rarely felt anything before. It was as if lightning had passed through his body. As if, from one moment to the next, there was no longer blood flowing through his veins, but liquid fire. As if, at last, he was truly alive.
Daphne laughed beside him, and her laughter was clear and perfect. It was beautiful. Even more beautiful than the screams of their victims far below.
And scream they did. They screamed and screamed and screamed, so terrible and desperate that it reached them despite the distance and the howling wind. They screamed so loudly that even the walls of Azkaban seemed to shake.
The life power of their victims flowed through Harry, not just a stream or even a raging river, but a torrent, a hurricane, an unstoppable inferno that filled him with power and power and power. He felt intoxicated. The sky was spinning around him and only Daphne's sharp fingernails, digging deep into his hand, kept him from losing consciousness.
It hurt and he thought he was bleeding, but his pain was nothing compared to that of their victims. Humans, animals, even Dementors. Until that moment, Harry hadn't even been sure if those horrible creatures could feel pain, but now he knew: they could. Oh yes, they could.
He looked at Daphne, and the sight took his breath away. She was radiant, enveloped in a golden light that seemed to pulse from within her, making her appear otherworldly, almost divine. Dark tendrils of smoke surrounded the gold, enveloping it like smoke over a bonfire. The tendrils seemed to seep in and out of her at the same time, and they were particularly dark and piercing where her heart was. Where every person's magic began, and where their Impetus lurked greedily, always hungry.
A sudden desire gripped Harry as the screams faded beneath them, as more and more of their victims paid the bloody price for their offering on the altar of their ambitions.
Full of passion, he bridged the distance between them and kissed Daphne on the mouth. His movement unleashed a rush of air that swept away from them in all directions, churning the sea beneath them and ripping the cloud cover above. The moon's light broke through the opening. Its silver rays danced on Daphne's dark hair like a magnificent crown.
A moan escaped Daphne's soft lips as she returned the kiss and Harry's hands roamed greedily over her body. Her sides, her legs, her breasts. He couldn't get enough of her. He had to have her, here and now. He had to have all of her. Absolutely all of her.
But Daphne's fiery warm hand rested on his chest and gently pushed him back. "Not here," she laughed, her eyes splitting green and gold. "Let's wait until we get home. And first we need to clean up here."
She drew her black ebony wand and pointed it at the prison below. By now, the island was quiet. There were only corpses and Dementors left, their agonising cries inaudible to human ears.
But Dementors had no life power and were therefore worthless. They could burn.
"Puranaeros Stugaeto."
A tremendous surge of fire shot out of Daphne's wand and swept across the prison like a cannonball. These were no ordinary tongues of flame, no, the Fiendfyre unleashed flaming denizens of hell: Dragons, serpents, giant crows, hissing and roaring as if to destroy the world.
Harry felt a shiver run down his spine.
They had unleashed Fiendfyre before, when they had learned the magic, or when they had destroyed the locket, but this was different. This was another dimension.
This was a force of nature.
They were a force of nature.
Not even the bloody Dementors would survive this, Harry thought with satisfaction, imagining Sirius laughing in the afterlife.
It seemed like an eternity, but it was probably only a few minutes as they watched the Fiendfyre devour everything beneath them – stone, bone, blood. There was nothing left of the island of Azkaban when Daphne finally lifted the spell and sent the flames back to the hell they had come from.
Huge masses of water poured into the void that had once been the island. As the seawater met the remaining heat, huge clouds of steam rose into the night sky, briefly fogging even Harry's glasses.
Daphne wiped sweaty hair from her face, a bright smile playing around her lips. "Wow..."
"Wow," Harry agreed, taking a few deep breaths. His insides still felt hot, but no longer like fiendish fire was raging inside him. It was a pleasant, invigorating warmth that he knew would stay – because they had done it. They really had done it.
But he also knew that they couldn't allow themselves to be caught up in their triumphalism for too long.
"We should go now," he said. "Before we're discovered."
Daphne nodded. "True," she replied, an amused twinkle in her eyes. "After all, flying carpets are banned in Britain. We're such rebels."
With one last look at what had once been the island of Azkaban, they turned their carpet and flew off into the deep black night. The ocean below was eerily silent now, the only sound the steady hum of the wind as they disappeared into the darkness, long before the first news of their deed would reach the mainland.
But that was only a matter of time.