Bag of Depravity
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Dark Days: Chapter 32
🕑 Added 2025-09-09 08:59:48 +0000 UTCChapter 32
Rookwood
Harry awoke the next morning to a woman’s lips on his balls. He hadn’t been nude when he went to sleep, but had somehow lost his underpants overnight. He had strong suspicions that had to do with the blond on her knees between his legs.
Narcissa was dressed in formal robes that wouldn’t be out of place on the floor of Wizengamot. She was also bent over, her hands on Harry’s knees and her lips affixed below his swollen shaft. A letter sat on the sheets beside her, forgotten for the moment.
She caught him looking. Narcissa slipped her off lips his balls and pumped her head on his cock. After ten pumps, Harry’s sleep-addled brain allowed a load to be released, filling Narcissa’s throat with spunk. She guzzled every drop dutifully.
“Good morning,” Harry said.
Narcissa put a fist to her lips and cleared her throat. Her own greeting had been given without words. When she had gargled down the last of Harry’s cum, she lifted the folded letter she arrived to his bed with.
“An invitation,” Narcissa said. “Augustus Rookwood is requesting a visit.”
“Is he one of your husband’s men?”
“Never. Rookwood has always maintained a healthy distance from his compatriots, much of which was their doing. He acted as a spy within the Unspeakables during the war. His delicate position kept him away from typical Death Eater activities. As you might imagine, he was looked down upon.”
“Unsurprising,” Harry said. “He would’ve been considered a coward. If the Dark Lord praised the work he did, others would’ve been looking for an excuse to deem him such.”
“Jealousy is such a potent poison.” Narcissa giggled. “From what I’ve heard, Rookwood resigned from his position not long ago. He is officially retired. There were rumors he was no longer among the living, but corpses do not write letters.”
“The ones who killed them sometimes do.”
“The handwriting is his,” Narcissa said. “He used to write poetry as a hobby. A few of his pieces were published among purebloods years back. Daphne and I compared one of his old works to the letter and found a perfect match.”
Harry shrugged. He hauled himself out of bed and began getting dressed. Narcissa scooted to the edge of the bed, watching him with half-closed eyes and a smile.
“If it’s real, what does he want?” Harry asked. The name rang a bell to him, but he couldn’t recall where from.
“A meeting to discuss the state of the world,” Narcissa said. “Daphne sniffed out recent rumors about him. I’ll not give her too much credit— it turned out to be well-traveled gossip. Supposedly, when Rookwood handed in his resignation to the Unspeakables office, it came in the form of a quite scandalous rant. He raved about the ways our world had stagnated ever since the war. It came tremendously close to treason.”
Harry froze, his robes half-pulled on. “What, exactly, were his concerns?”
“Peculiar things. He was convinced that by claiming everything we wanted, we had killed our ability to grow as a culture. He cited all sorts of wonderful things as causes, from the slave trade to a cutthroat social climate. What ridiculous ideas, isn’t that right?”
Narcissa’s eyes glimmered. She didn’t care one way or another about the claims. But she knew of them. They were all things Harry had privately confided concerns about.
Harry finished dressing. For once, he was smiling slightly. “When did he request to meet?”
“Today. He even enclosed a Portkey.” Narcissa shifted the letter, showing that a single Sickle had been adhered to the parchment. “It says it will activate in precisely one hour. Will you make the trip?”
Her smirk gave away that she knew the answer.
“If I’ve been invited so politely…” Harry said. “How could I turn it down?”
O-O-O
Sickle wedged between his fingers, Harry withstood the squeezing sensation of Portkey travel. He appeared outdoors, surrounded by a stunning view. He shielded his eyes and looked over a narrow lake wedged between mountains. The Scottish air was sharp. He had arrived at a seldom-visited stretch of Loch Ness. This was the place Rookwood retreated to, when he chose to shrink away from public life.
Harry had finally recalled where he heard of the man. Yaxley mentioned him all the way back at the auction house. Even he noticed the similarity between Harry’s opinions and those in Rookwood’s resignation letter.
It was… exciting. Harry had found allies, but they fell into two camps. There were Fleur, Neville, Ginny, and the rest of the remnants of the resistance. They never bought into Voldemort’s beliefs and welcomed a chance to fight him again. Then, there were the purebloods who chose to follow Harry. Daphne and Narcissa were in this camp, along with — to a lesser extent — Blaise Zabini. These were people whose appreciation for Harry (or what Harry could do for them) outweighed their fear of challenging the Dark Lord.
Augustus Rookwood was different. He was a subscriber to Death Eater beliefs who managed to see the evidence in front of him and recognize that they had been wrong. He recanted and changed, if the rumors about him were true. That made him like Harry.
It was silly. But… Harry couldn’t deny the idea left him eager. He wanted to share thoughts with someone who had gone through the same things he had.
The Portkey had taken him to the edge of a country property. Ahead was a two-story shack made of firm wood that was rough around its edges. Harry walked forward confidently, feeling wards brush him and allow him to pass.
The curtains were drawn over the windows, preventing anyone from seeing in from the outside. Chopped firewood was stacked against the wall of the cabin. Smoke poured out of the cabin’s chimney, giving away a lit hearth inside.
Harry got to the door and cleared his throat, preparing to call out.
Something stopped his voice. A prickling feeling up the back of his neck made him stay quiet. He stood still, then slowly drew his wand. Harry prodded the door.
It swung open with a creak that was hundreds of times louder than it should’ve been.
Harry’s eardrums ached. He acted in a flash. First, a Disillusionment Charm on his body; second, he summoned one of the pieces of chopped wood, transfiguring it while it was in the air.
The hastiness of his casting made it an imperfect job. The wood turned into a small terrier. If you looked closely, you’d see its brown fur was spotted with bits of bark, and that its eyes looked conspicuously like balls of sap.
The dog took two steps before a green light struck it down.
“Taken an interest in pets, Rookwood? You never seemed the type.”
Harry barely kept his breathing under control. Only one voice could evoke so many of his memories just by hearing it. Harry felt the urge to run. His Disillusionment Charm was the best in Britain, yet he felt the need to hide. He wanted to dive into one of the nearby bushes and stay there.
What was Voldemort doing here?
The question pounded in his head, and Harry realized that he needed to know. Rookwood, while a stranger, shared Harry’s ideas. Voldemort did not make personal visits in order to offer praise or foster debate. The Dark Lord only sought out underlings like this for one reason.
Before the door, which had been enchanted to act as an alarm, could swing shut… Harry jumped into the room.
He silenced his footsteps. Disillusionment was another kind of illusion. It was Harry’s specialty. When he didn’t want to be seen, he could hide his body as well as any cloak. Harry moved through the foyer, over the body of the transfigured animal he created, and reached the room beyond.
He immediately buried himself in a corner. This room was crude, combining a table for eating, a stove for cooking, the fireplace and chairs for sitting, and a bed for sleeping. Rookwood had not been living in luxury. Why?
Because he didn’t want to be found. He had known that Voldemort would come— or that someone would come. Harry could see the man. He had a thick beard that hadn’t been cut for some time and curly hair that was just as shaggy. He had been reduced to his knees, his face grimy with soot from the fireplace, which his face was precariously close to. His hands were bound. He looked at the dog Voldemort had killed. The former Unspeakable would know that he had no pets. Although he wouldn’t know exactly what, he would be aware that something was afoot.
Augustus Rookwood managed to shed a tear.
“I’m sorry, Rick. You deserved better,” he said in a thick voice.
Voldemort giggled. When he stood in the fire’s light, he looked human. But whenever he passed through a shadow, his red eyes would glow without light, while his pale skin took on a waxy, luminous quality.
“You’ve grown weak, Rookwood. Attachment to a mere pet? Such things are weapons begging to be used against you.”
“So you say… but I’ve seen the way you stroke your snake,” Rookwood said.
“Crucio!”
Rookwood screamed his lungs out. He thrashed, his body threatening to tip forward without his arms to catch himself. To do so would bathe his face in the fire. Rookwood barely stayed up until Voldemort canceled the curse.
The Dark Lord Knelt in front of him, tilting Rookwood’s chin with the tip of his wand.
“The difference between Nagini and a mutt, is that Nagini can defend herself. I will feed her its body before the day is up. What do you say, Rookwood? Any more quips?”
“Oh, I was never a comedian, my Lord,” Rookwood said. “Jokes are not my specialty. Neither are teeth. But really, my Lord, even I can tell a charm wouldn’t go amiss for that kind of breath—”
“Crucio.”
Rookwood screamed again. This time, he couldn’t keep his face away from the flames. Harry watched his skin blister before he wrenched his head back. The ends of his beard smoldered.
Voldemort stood up, walking in a circle around him. “You have become far less pleasant since we last met.”
“I was hoping to never meet you again, my Lord,” Augustus said dryly; literally. His throat had been scarred by his brush with the fire, weakening his voice.
“A fool's wish. You bear my mark.”
“That’s why it was a hope, not a plan,” Rookwood croaked. “I much prefer plans, but alas I’ve been stuck with hopes for a long time. I think even those have run out.”
Voldemort stopped pacing, standing behind Rookwood like an executioner. “I remembered you as a clever man with a leashed tongue. Yet here I find a fool.”
“I’m going to die today. What could I do other than speak my mind?”
“You could beg. You served me well in our war.”
Rookwood laughed. Harry could tell it hurt his injured throat, but he couldn’t stop. “You just want to hear me plead before you do it. With all due respect, my Lord, I’d prefer to irritate the one who kills me. Being a mild annoyance is better than rolling over.”
Harry watched in fascination as Voldemort’s eye twitched but his wand remained at his side. Harry had never seen someone get away with half as much as Rookwood before the Dark Lord put them to death.
Rookwood knows something, Harry realized. He had crucial information that Voldemort needed. That was keeping him alive.
“Did you tell him?” Voldemort asked.
“You’ll have to be more specific—”
“Crucio!”
When the screaming stopped, Voldemort impatiently awaited his answer. Rookwood gathered himself with a shuddering breath.
“You mean the prophecy? No, I never told him,” Rookwood said. “I never even found a way to meet with Potter. The moment I lowered my wards to try, you can see what happened.”
“Good, good.” Harry thought he heard something approaching relief in Voldemort’s voice. “In the end, your lofty ideas will die with you, Rookwood.”
Rookwood chuckled, only to wince. “I suppose they will. But my Lord… Will your ideas fare much better?”
Voldemort aimed his wand at him— but stayed his hand. “I am unstoppable. Not even Albus Dumbledore could thwart me. I slew him and created a kingdom unto my own. What could topple that?”
Peculiarly, it sounded as if he already had an idea of the answer. It was like he wanted Rookwood to confirm his suspicions. The ex-Unspeakable didn’t play along.
“My Lord, that arrogance of yours will be your undoing,” Rookwood said.
Voldemort reared back. None of the insults or disrespect he’d been shown got so great a reaction as this line.
“He will never be strong enough to face me!” Voldemort screamed.
Rookwood looked back with dull, nearly pitying eyes.
“Even now, you can’t see the full picture,” Rookwood said.
Voldemort made those his last words.
The Dark Lord swung his wand. Rookwood’s head was forced into the fire. He screamed, but that only lasted so long. A sickeningly sweet smell that Harry was becoming familiar with filled the room— the smell of flesh burning. Voldemort didn’t release his spell until Rookwood’s fingers gave their last twitch. He stared at the body in silence for over a minute, and may have done so longer if the front door never opened.
Nagini slithered into the room. She coiled around Voldemort’s ankles and lifted her head. Voldemort ran his hand along her head. When she hissed, he bent down to listen.
Voldemort’s head twisted to look at her. “Truly? Here?”
Nagini hissed something else. Voldemort lifted his head and scanned the room. Harry felt chills.
“Best not to take risks…” Voldemort said. He made a jagged sideward movement with his wand. “Pestis Incendium!”
Harry’s breath caught— because the room filled with scorching fire. Voldemort and Nagini quickly left the house, but Harry couldn’t count on them going far. Portkey travel and Apparition was blocked inside the house. He couldn’t leave.
The flames Voldemort created took on the shape of a prowling serpent. Everywhere the snake slithered, the cabin caught fire. It moved with a voracious hunger that natural flames never could. This was Fiendfyre, powerful dark magic that was easy to lose control of.
Harry’s mind raced. He could use the countercuse. He knew it. But to do so would prove that he was inside the house. After watching Voldemort’s behavior and hearing how badly his master didn’t want Rookwood to reach ‘Potter’, Harry wouldn’t survive discovery here. He had to pretend he never made it here. But the Fiendfyre was all-consuming, and it kept coming.
He needed a fast solution. His eyes fell on Rookwood’s burnt body.
Their ideas weren’t the only things that were similar. Their heights and bodies were almost identical.
Harry canceled his Disillusionment Charm. He didn’t have time to doubt himself. “I’m sorry that it came to this.”
He fed Rookwood’s body to the prowling Fiendfyre.
The flames consumed him, leaving ashes and a charred husk behind. The Fiendfyre advanced on Harry. All it knew was how to consume, one thing after another. With no other choice, Harry hit Voldemort’s Fiendfyre with its countercurse.
The facsimile of a snake met an early end. Before its absence could be noticed, Harry used his own incantation, summoning Fiendfyre into the room. He was a spell he was familiar with using. Holding control of the flames, he directed them to eat the room everywhere but where he was. While doing so, Harry touched Rookwood’s corpse. His palm came away covered in ashes. Gritting his teeth, Harry rubbed them on his body.
He went on that way, burning everything and rubbing remains onto himself, until the entire building was burned into a decrepit husk. Harry collapsed on top of Rookwood’s body. He crafted an illusion to make his body look exactly like the corpse, disguising Rookwood’s remains as a heap of burnt wreckage. Harry forced himself not to move.
He felt disgusting. He wanted nothing more than to wretch, but he couldn't— he couldn’t even move. He had to stay still. Not just for himself. If Voldemort discovered him here, all those sheltering in his home would be killed or worse. He forced his body not to quake.
A hiss heralded Nagini’s arrival. Harry tensed his ears. The snake slithered across the blackened floor as the last bits of Fiendfyre were banished by Voldemort from outside. Nagini tasted the air as she methodically investigated the dead man’s burned home. When she got to Harry, she paused.
Voldemort sent her to investigate as the one who first smelled something. Nagini moved around and even slithered over Harry’s body. He didn’t move a fraction.
Nagini circled around him for minutes before returning to her master.
“No signs?” Voldemort asked, his voice carrying from outside. “Don’t fret, sweet Nagini. Even you can make mistakes. He wrote to the boy. Perhaps you smelled what the boy wrote back. In the end, it does not matter if they corresponded. Whether the boy knows what he is or not… will not save him.”
Harry didn’t dare move until he heard the sound of Apparition. Even then, he waited for minutes. Ten became fifteen. Only then did he spring up.
Limping to the edge of the wards, he turned on the spot, sending himself hurtling home. For once, his composure was broken.
When he arrived on the lawn of his home and found it exactly as he left it, no signs of damage or intruders, he dropped to his knees. Relief and unanswered questions mingled in his head until all he could do…
…was laugh.
