Into Darkness - Moment by Moment Book #1 (Harry Potter, Drarry)

Harsh Lessons

There were some constants in the wizarding world, and Harry stared boldly into the face of one of them. Lucius Malfoy, all that was bad about magic, cold, arrogant and merciless, stood on the steps of a dais at the other end of the room, waiting to greet his adversary. Harry had to admit that he looked impressive in the finery of ceremonial robes, all sable and purple satin. Malfoy had been appointed head of the New Order by a master who was now conspicuous by his absence. Voldemort was alive, his touch could be seen and felt throughout the now isolated part of the wizarding world, but no-one had seen him since the early days of the regime.

Lucius' robes contrasted dramatically with his almost white hair: he did make quite a sight. However, for Harry, nothing could mask the dark places to which this man had gone in his search for power, their touch hooded Malfoy's eyes and left him with a permanent sneer.

No expense had been spared for the arrival of the nameless item which held so many lives in the balance, and as its bearer, Harry was led between the ranks of the Death Eater government, flanked by the two Death Eaters who had never seen fit to introduce themselves. The pressed robes and preened bodies of their Highday best all felt vaguely absurd to Harry as his fate loomed heavy before him. It didn't matter how dressed up everything was, it still all meant only one thing, he was going to die, sooner or later, and, as he soaked up the hostility that was being aimed in his direction from either side of the aisle of faces, he hoped it would be sooner.

Harry locked gazes with Malfoy in an attempt to ignore the cold stares elsewhere. The Governor General's gaze was anything but cold, it held personal hatreds against which Harry had defences, and he raised every one he had. The nasty, surreal game Fudge and Voldemort had orchestrated for him was almost over, and Harry knew he was going to lose, but right at that moment, he could win a small victory. He stared down one of his oldest personal enemies, the man he had seen thrown into Azkaban, the man who had been behind many plots to dispose of The Boy Who Lived, the man whose whim could now see him dead or alive.

The focus worked, and Harry was barely aware of the hundreds of pairs of eyes that were on him as he processed down the hall with the ransom held out before him. Hatred was not merely the domain of his enemies, and it burnt inside him as he faced the destructor of all that he had held dear. Ron was gone, Albus, even Minerva and countless others, and he could place all of it at the feet of Lucius Malfoy, the Dark Lord in absentia. Harry hid none of it; as he stopped in front of the dais, he lifted chin one more time and glowered.

There had been music playing, something dramatic, but Harry only noticed it as it stopped, leaving shuffling silence behind him. He stood tall and showed his contempt of the pomp before him. Yet victory was snatched away from him in the blink of an eye, Lucius' eye, as the Governor General broke the protection of hatred and gazed over Harry's head to those beyond. Harry tried to hang on to the seething anger, but without his focus, it evaporated, leaving him feeling strange and a little lost. He glanced down at the polished box in his hands, wondering why he was holding it, and for a moment, the reason escaped him.

"Friends, welcome," Lucius announced, and Harry remembered.

The young man controlled a shudder that reality created and gripped the box so tightly his knuckles went white. Harry didn't hear what came next as fear decided to encroach on his world and threatened to bring panic with it. Everything had happened so fast it had been almost dreamlike: from freedom to this in little more than minutes, and the young man began to recognise that the shock of it all had protected him from this actuality and his situation finally sunk fully in. He had walked right in to sign his own death warrant, because a jumped up little man had told him to, but he didn't want to die. He glanced back up at his executioner, and all the foppery made him feel sick.