Chapter 7. The First Kill
A.N. This chronologically takes place before chapter 5. It's basically a flashback chapter.
It was an ordinary day in winter. The dark clouds formed an umbrella over England, withholding the sunlight and piling snow upon snow on the world below. Everything was blanketed in a thick layer of white. The trees, the ground, the lakes, the houses. And it was not just a blanket of snow that buried the land, but also a veil of silence, as if every beast and critter had packed up and left.
In the south, a large manor stood surrounded by snow-laden woods, perched on the edge of a frozen lake. And inside, an irrevocable tragedy was taking place. A boy's innocence was about to be smothered.
"Harry." Lily nodded at him, as he finally answered her summons. "Take a seat."
It might be winter outside, but the manor was warm and toasty. The air inside was clean and fragrant, as if the time here was running fast, as if spring had already come. The mother-son pair were in the living room, one dressed in a tank top and shorts, and the other in a t-shirt and joggers. The frigid weather had no reach here. But something precious was going to freeze and shatter despite that.
Harry came over and sat down next to Lily, curious why she had asked for him. He was about to go for his daily run before this interruption. So he hoped this talk would be brief, that it wouldn't hinder his routine. He disliked having to adjust his orderly routine to accommodate changes. And an extreme change had already taken place a few days ago.
He had advanced.
By this point, the Saitama training was a breeze. He could easily do a hundred push-ups, sit-ups, and squats, and even the ten-kilometre run no longer posed a challenge. So he improvised. Now, the counting only began once the ache kicked in. As a result, the physical exercises had started to consume too much of his time, but that was fine. It wasn't like he had much else to do.
"I saw you punch a tree yesterday," Lily said, her voice soft and hoarse, a hint of anticipation bleeding through. Her scarlet hair was loose and slightly wet, as if she had just stepped out of a shower. "The tree… disintegrated." A giddy smile broke over her face, and pride shone in her eyes. She put an arm around him, giving him a squeeze. "It was brilliant."
His chest swelled. He knew she sometimes took her Animagus form—an eagle—and checked on him when he was outside, but he hadn't felt her presence yesterday. Maybe because he was too absorbed in testing his new strength.
"I've reached another milestone," he confessed, leaning into her, addicted to the texture of her skin and her heat, to her scent and her praise. "I've completed tempering my body with mana. I'm way sturdier and more powerful than before. My senses have sharpened drastically. My stamina and reflexes have seen serious improvements too. And my core; it's… finally the size of a football rather than a tiny bead. Soon, I'll have enough magic to unlock the upper channel, to release magic with my will. I might be able to use a wand as well. Though I'm keeping my hopes in check."
Like Rose had suggested a few years ago, Harry spent all his attention and energy creating new tendrils from his single root, carefully spreading it everywhere in his body, laying the wirework to transport the mana into every limb. He had drawn magic from the outside and enhanced his physique through them. His core was too tiny to do it quickly and efficiently. It was akin to scooping up water in his palms and watering an entire forest; it took too much time. But it was worth it. Now he was a superhuman, outstripping wizards and witches in terms of sheer physical capability.
He felt like he'd been reborn. He couldn't imagine how he'd even lived with such a fragile body before. Now his strength and stamina were otherworldly. He could shatter trees and boulders with a single strike. He could sprint for an hour. He felt like a demigod, honestly. Like Hercules.
Lily's eyes had widened at the revelation, her mouth slightly ajar. Then she smiled a true smile. A kind one, a warm one. He could count on his two hands the number of times he'd seen her wear expressions like that.
She grabbed him by the shoulders, gazing at him with fierce pride, then pulled him in a tight embrace. "You make me proud, my boy," she whispered, planting a kiss just below his ear. "I'm relieved to see your progress. I was worried there for a moment, but I decided to have faith in your determination. I apologise for ever doubting you."
Something prickled his eyes, heat rushed up his throat. "Mmm." He made a soft affirmative noise, curling his own arms around her waist, afraid he'd cry if he attempted to speak.
He had never felt such satisfaction before, such contentment. Her hug was snug and pleasant, the scent of her shampoo lovely, citrusy, like a sprinkle of lemon. He greedily breathed it in, burying his face in her hot neck. Her soft chest was flush against his as she drew him even closer, and he could feel her heart beating against his, slow and mellow. His senses hyperfocused on the way she felt in his arms, on the way he felt in hers. He was complete. His life had meaning now. He wasn't useless to her anymore. If the world ended right then, he wouldn't have many regrets.
Then she pulled away with one last squeeze. The kindness in her gaze slowly seeping away, a fervent look taking its place. She cupped the side of his face and fixed him with her intense, emerald eyes. "You have at last gained power. But do you know how to use it?"
"What?" He blinked, still dazed from the earlier moment when she was in his arms, when he was in hers. He wanted to lie down with her on the sofa. He wanted to sleep beside her. He wanted to keep feeling her warmth, her kindness. He wanted her to whisper that she was proud of him with a lazy smile just before she dozed off.
Even her palm from his face was gone. She abandoned the sofa and paced before him, her arms crossed behind her back. "You have tremendous power, Harry. There's no doubt about it. But will you use it when it's required? Say, you see a man attacking me or Rose; will you kill him without hesitation?"
Suddenly, all the cosy warmth vanished. Even the memory of their embrace began crumbling, as if he'd dreamed it. He became conscious of her expectant gaze. Of her intense green eyes. They were a blinding spotlight, putting him on stage, exposing him before a thousand people and asking him to sing even though he'd never sung before.
"I—"
"You hesitated." She sighed, annoyed and disappointed. It drove the joy from his chest. "Harry, we are your family, your world. The moment anyone tries to harm us, you kill without a second thought. Their heads should explode like that tree trunk. Do you understand?"
"But I can simply target their limbs or something." He cringed even as the words left his tongue. But it was too late to take them back now. "I can incapacitate them with a well-placed punch. Wouldn't it be more legal and less likely to put me in Azkaban?"
She came to an abrupt halt and stared at him blankly, as if he weren't making sense.
"I mean, I'll do it if there's no other choice, of course!" He clarified quickly, afraid he'd made an unforgivable mistake. "But if there are options to subdue rather than kill, wouldn't it be more rational to choose that?"
"Harry, darling, sweetie," she whispered, kneeling on the floor with her palms on his knees, craning her neck to look up at him. "No subduing, no incapacitating, only killing. That is the best way to go forward. I understand you feel… icky by the notion. I really do. But believe me, child. Killing the enemy is always the better decision. Once, I was like you. Sweet and naive, hesitant and clean. Then my reticence cost me one of my friends. The Death Eater I couldn't kill ended up raping and killing Marlene and her family." Her whisper had gotten so quiet that he had to lean in to keep listening. "So never spare your enemy, never give them another chance to hurt you. Promise me that."
He gulped and nodded. "I promise."
"Good. You better not be lying." She rose, dusting off her knees. "I will test your word."
"What?" His heart sank. What did she mean she was going to test him? How would she even do that?
She didn't spare him an explanation, already walking away.
He pushed off the sofa and trailed after her, confused and deeply apprehensive. She took him to her bedroom, and it only flummoxed him more. He fixed his clothes, his gaze darting around, unsure what they were going to do here.
"Mu—"
She shushed him, tapping the blank wall on their right with her wand in a very specific pattern. His jaw dropped when the wall slid down, revealing a metal staircase. "You have a secret dungeon?"
"Yes," was her curt answer, and she beckoned him to follow her.
He did.
The metal staircase was short, and it led down to a small basement. It was a bare concrete room with a man chained in a corner.
A man chained in a corner.
Harry stilled.
There were four lit torches in each corner, illuminating the prison. It was really just a small concrete room. Because there was nothing else but the manacled man. He was slumped with his back against the wall, his narrow eyes facing the stairs, alert and strained. They were dark and full of rage. His skin was sallow and pale—an ugly pale. He was clean-shaven, probably Lily's doing, and he was… naked. His skeletal body was marred with healed scars. The pale flesh was crisscrossed with grey. Even the crotch was not spared. It was gruesome.
Bile rose up Harry's throat when he saw the way the cock was sliced. The cut was not clean. The man still had a bit of the… shaft, but the glans was gone. It was a mangled tool.
Harry looked away, swallowing back his bile. Lily was already pissed. If she saw a moment of weakness, she'd double down to make him 'stronger'.
"This is Severus Snape. My childhood best friend." Lily introduced him with an impatient wave. "He's also the man who killed your father. That's why he's here, repenting. Right, Sevvy?"
The man just glared at her. It was not a rabid glare but a tired one.
So that's where she went whenever he couldn't find her. She had been doing this for more than a decade and a half. How could someone hold onto their rage this long? Harry couldn't muster his own anger at his father's killer. Severus Snape had been in hell all these years. Nothing Harry could do to him hadn't already been done by Lily. All Harry felt was disgust and pity.
"I've decided that he has repented enough. He can die now. He can be at peace. Your job is to kill him." Lily squatted down before the prisoner, poking his scarred neck. "You don't mind, do you, Sevvy?"
The man didn't respond, not seeming to care about his impending death.
Harry was rooted in his place, his heart thundering, his palms sweating. He tried to rationalise this, that he was helping the man from future torment, that he was freeing him from a demon. But the look Severus Snape gave him punched through his rationale. It wasn't anger or despair, but a weary acceptance. This was not mercy. This was not justice. This was not even punishment. It was simply an execution. It was the slaughter of a lamb.
Harry could justify killing in the heat of a moment, in a do or die situation. But to kill a chained, emasculated man? To murder someone wretched and helpless? He… couldn't do it. His arms shook, his belly tingled, and his throat closed up as he turned towards Lily, gathering his courage to say no.
He needn't have bothered. Lily was watching him the entire time, and she knew his answer before he could utter it.
"I see." She sighed, rising to her feet. Her anger wasn't displayed in a scream, which might've been better, but in quiet, cold words. "You disappoint me, Harry. I finally thought you'd become my favourite. But no, a weakling like you won't change no matter how much power you gain. Maybe because you're a squib. Maybe something is wrong with you on a cellular level. Perhaps I should've strangled you in your crib."
He staggered back, the impact of her words worse than a physical slap. His lip trembled, each word a spear aimed to pierce. And pierce it did, finding his flesh, burrowing into it like maggots, hollowing him out from inside. His eyes welled up at her last statement. His sense of accomplishment at his progression turned to ash in his mouth, choking him. Tears dripped down his cheek. But he held onto a stoic expression, unwilling to break into sobs. That would mark him even weaker.
"Y-You vile creature," Snape mumbled in a hoarse whisper, his jaw ticking. "Y-You remind me of my father."
Lily flinched as if struck, then she swivelled around and backhanded him. "Shut up. I'm not like your father, Severus. I've never hit my children. I'm not abusive."
Snape just gurgled. No, it was a laugh.
"Harry." Lily spun and did one thing he'd never seen her do before. She dropped on her knees and begged him. "Kill him. Pass this final test. Do it, and I'll never say anything hurtful to you ever again. Prove to me you can last in this cruel world. Prove to me that I won't ever have to mourn your death. Please, son, do it for the peace of my mind. No matter how strong you are, it means nothing if you hesitate to use that power. And that hesitation will cost you. Life is not kind, Harry. It's full of monsters who'll devour your soul and taint your very being."
When Harry remained silent and refused to look at her, she sprang to her feet and shrieked like a banshee, her eyes lit with madness. "This hesitation will kill you in the end! I will force you to never hesitate!"
His gaze jerked to her when he heard the clank of chains.
She had released Snape.
"Go on, Sevvy, do whatever you want with me. Have your revenge. My son is here. He will save me."
…
…
Harry's breath stuck in his throat, his panicked gaze landing on the naked wretch. For a second, it didn't seem the man would do anything, then their eyes met: pained emeralds and enigmatic black ones. Snape must have smelled weakness, because he lunged with shocking agility, pulling Lily's legs from beneath her.
Crunch.
Lily yelped and broke her nose on the concrete floor. Before she could hiss or groan, Snape grabbed her loose scarlet hair and slammed her face on the floor again. He screamed indecipherable curses fuelled by anger and anguish, by pain and sadism, and he kept smashing her face on the concrete floor.
Harry was a statue; his legs were lead; and his mind was blank. It felt like watching a movie from a distance. His consciousness had fled inwards, turning him into an unresponsive husk. His breath was as fast as his heart rate; his head was not empty but brimming. He was brimming with so many thoughts that he couldn't act.
Snape had stopped smashing her face now. Harry's heart lurched when he saw the man tear off her clothes and grab her flesh.
It happened then. The world slowed down as if it were plunged to the bottom of the ocean. The moment his mother managed to look at him with her bloody, disfigured face, he moved in a flash. Her eyes were resolute rather than panicked; her wand was in her grasp. But he knew she wouldn't use it. She was willing to suffer the worst to teach him the darkness of the world.
Snape had just pulled down Lily's shorts when Harry's fist painted the concrete wall with a giant red splotch. He wished he could say he hadn't felt it, the exploding skull, the viscous blood, the spongy brain matter. But the world was in the ocean, you see, the moment stretched too long. Harry's fist was inside Snape's skull for eternity. He felt every single sensation.
Then time snapped back to normal, and there was a headless body crashed into the wall.
First, Harry looked at Lily, who was still on her knees with her face pressed against the floor, shorts pulled down, and knickers barely in place. Then he glanced at his bloody fist.
It was coated red as if he'd stuck his hand into a paint can. A red paint can.
He must've stared at his fist for minutes, because when he looked back at Lily, she had fixed her clothes and her face. No one could've guessed her perfect face was so mashed and lacerated moments ago.
Harry recoiled when cold water splashed on his fist.
"Unclench your hand, son." He'd never heard her talk so softly before, as she aimed her wand at his fist, not even when she had said she was proud of him in the living room.
He mechanically did. It felt like playing with a toy robot. It didn't feel like his own hand but a slab of plastic controlled by a remote.
The water kept flowing through his fingers, but the red refused to go. He began rubbing his hands aggressively, pleading for it to go. What if the blood never came off? How would he eat? How would he shake hands? How would he—
"More," he mumbled when she stopped dousing his hand.
"It's done. It was not water but a special liquid designed to dissolve and clean blood." She squeezed his shoulder. "Your hand is clean."
He could swear there was still a bit of red on the back of his hand. "You s-sure?"
"I am." She pulled him in her arms, cradling his head. "It's fine now. You passed."
He hated that he couldn't shove her away. Instead, he rested his chin on her shoulder, eyes closed, tears pouring down his face as she rubbed his back. "I hate you."
Her hand stopped its gentle motion on his back, her body stilling, but then she resumed stroking him. "I deserve it. I'm sorry. But I'll take it. All your hate. You won't hesitate in the future when you're in danger. I'd rather you live on to hate me than die."
"I hate you."
"I know."
That night, when Harry managed to fall asleep at three, he dreamed he was the man chained in the dungeon.