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“Battle not with monsters, lest you become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes into you”
A bead of sweat rolled down his back. Thorfinn stared at the young men in front of him, incredulous.
"You want me to..."
Potter – Harry, he had told him to call him – stared back, no emotion on his face, minus the barest trace of amusement.
"Yes."
Okay.
"Okay," he said, voice faint.
It's not like Harry was asking him – telling him – to betray his lord or his cause. Well, actually. His lord was already... well. It didn't really matter, right now. Thorfinn just had to focus on his task and... Yeah. It would be fine. Everything would be fine.
"And how am I supposed to...?"
He glanced at the floor near the coffee table, where a large puddle of dried blood could still be seen despite the absence of a dead body.
Harry waved his concern off from where he was lounging on the couch.
"Don't worry about it. I already took care of it. Just focus on what I asked you to do."
Throat dry, Thorfinn swallowed and nodded.
Harry's lips quirked into a smile, and he straightened up. The look he gave Thorfinn made him simultaneously tense and heat up.
"Take those and bring them to your little friends," the younger man told him, grabbing a few pots filled with questionable content that he handed to the Death Eater.
He stood up and rounded the table, his red cloak billowing behind him like a banner of triumph... or a heavy cleaver. Thorfinn knew which one he preferred, but he couldn't help but wonder if following Harry's orders wouldn't lead to his death.
"Is this...?" he trailed off, but the green-eyed wizard understood his question just fine.
Harry nodded, looking very proud of himself, whilst Thorfinn went a little green-faced.
Sighing with resignation, he accepted the pots of... confiture... stew... whatever, and nodded solemnly at the younger male.
"Here," Harry told him, pulling off the cloak to put it around Thorfinn's own shoulders. "It's cold outside. Wouldn't want you to get sick."
Thorfinn nodded nervously, his blush spreading over his face and down his neck.
It was all really unfair, he thought with a pout. Harry had no right being so... so handsome and kind, when Thorfinn knew how terrible he could be. Never with him, of course, and it's not like Thorfinn could talk. He was a Death Eater, after all, but he had never...
Finn glanced down at the pots he was holding and swallowed again.
Okay.
This was fine.
He just had to... What did he have to do again?
"You should go now," Harry spoke up, his nose practically touching Finn's chin. "Wouldn't want to worry the grandpas."
A sharp smile tugged at his lips. Grandpas. Lucius would never forgive him if he called him that to his face, no more than Nott or Travers would. See, Thorfinn had this little... thing he was supposed to attend in less than thirty minutes. Nothing grand, just a small gathering of merry Death Eaters. They usually met up once a month to rant about politics or deplore their past choices. Nott would be hosting this evening. That meant that beverage was covered, but it was always polite to bring something. Besides, the last time they ate anything done by the Nott elves, they got sick. Better not tempt the Fates again.
"Alright, I'll be going then."
Harry nodded and used a pin to fasten the cloak at Finn's shoulder.
"There. Much better. Now, off you go."
It would be easier to move if Harry wasn't looking at him like he wanted to devour him. At least, in a good way, this time.
Thorfinn swallowed, nodded, and apparated away, his arms tightening around the pots he was holding.
When his vision cleared, he was standing at the edge of the forest surrounding the Nott estate.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Thorfinn stepped forward and strode to the gates. His Dark Mark heated up, as it usually did whenever he was near to one or more of his fellow Death Eaters. It was inconvenient and helpful depending on the situation.
The door opened on a House-Elf, and, having been conditioned by Harry to be polite to those creatures, he – by reflex- greeted it.
An idiot. Thorfinn was an idiot.
Thankfully, there was no one else in the vestibule.
Thorfinn regained composure quickly and ordered the pitiful creature to lead him to its master.
He was the last one to get there, judging by the single empty seat at the round table. Travers, Rosier, Dolohov, Nott and Gibbon were all seated. Mulciber, on the other hand, was up, a lit cigar in his hand.
Thorfinn pushed down the nerves and unease that had settled in his chest on the way here and greeted everyone, as he usually did, before settling down in the last free chair, seeing as Mulciber had put his bag on the other empty one – the most comfortable one, of course. Arsehole.
The guy had the audacity to smirk at him.
Fucker won't be smiling anymore when he'll be eating that shit, Finn thought viciously, glancing down at the pots filled with dubious content.
Grinning, he pushed the pots to the centre of the table and told Nott to have his elf set the table.
"My mormor made this. You better eat it all, or she won't be happy."
They had all heard tales of the infamous Katya Gangestad, nee Hillsland. Thorfinn's grandmother on his mother's side lived in Norway before settling down with her husband in Sweden. Her Russian roots, Antonin told everyone since he had met the woman, made her a formidable opponent when it came to being the last one standing after downing shot after shot of vodka. Katya Gangestad was pushing 90, but she did not look a day older than 60.
All of his Death Eaters friends agreed that Finn hadn't inherited Katya's fierceness or liquor-holding strength, no. He had inherited her generosity, her need to feed those around her, to make sure her loved ones were always full and happy.
It wasn't unusual for Finn to bring food with him whenever they had those meetings. Most of the time, it was something he made, which was just fine. It was the things he brought back from his visits to his grandmother that made them wary. Thorfinn's grandmother was a formidable cook, but she also sometimes cooked some very... interesting meals. Like those times she made Kholodets, or Solyanka. It wasn't necessarily bad, but the latter clashed aggressively with their western taste.
Case in point, Travers and Gibbon gagged when the pots were opened, and the smell escaped. Rosier scrunched up his nose. He didn't say a word, but his expression said it all. Gibbon and Mulciber grimaced, but Dolohov and Nott stayed impassive. In fact, Dolohov looked almost... delighted, for some reason.
Did that remind him of some homeland meals?
Finn sure hoped not. Otherwise, he would have to ask him a few questions.
"Come on. Eat, eat, eat!" Finn exclaimed as happily as he could, once he had filled each plate with the... stew.
It certainly looked more like stew than it did confiture.
Nott looked dubiously at his plate, but he was also the first one to grab his fork and get a start on his meal. The others followed reluctantly.
Thorfinn forced himself to eat. He almost wished he was as ignorant as his fellow Death Eaters.
It... wasn't so bad, all things considered. As he ate, and to distract himself from his most pressing thoughts, Finn looked around the table. For all their whining, no one of his associates stopped eating. They enjoyed the red wine that accompanied their meal and settled to make small talk about the past week.
Antonin ate his fill without protest, smiling at Finn in a way that unsettled him. It was too knowing for his taste. It made him shiver. Antonin always knew too much for everyone's well-being, but if he truly knew and wasn't saying anything... Finn could live with that. He would mention it to Harry, but the young man seemed to... like Antonin. If anything, Dolohov was among the very few Death Eaters Harry had never badmouthed. Granted, he seemed to keep the badmouthing focused on Lucius.
Speaking of Lucius...
"He was held up by his wife," Antonin said, as if he could read his mind.
Finn watched him lick his fork clean and felt goosebumps.
He definitely knew.
A glance around the table showed him that everyone was finishing their plate. Travers may have been loud in his protest, but he was eating his own fill like a starved man.
Finn resisted the urge to gag. He was forcing himself to finish, having served himself only a ladle worth of stew. He had to look natural. If he looked more reluctant to eat than he usually did, his old friends would grow suspicious, and that was never a good thing.
After tonight, no one would be able to find any remains of Lord Voldemort. Finn would make sure of it, and Harry would take care of the rest. He had said so. There would be no resurrecting the Dark Lord. Not this time.
"It tastes better than it looks," Mulciber commented when he was done. "Think your grandmother could give me her recipe? I'm sure Melissane would enjoy it."
Finn raised a brow.
"Not you?"
The older man winced.
"A bit too tasty for my taste, but Melissane would love it."
True. Val's wife was a 'bon vivant'. She loved food – both cooking it and eating it. She wasn't a bad cook either, not anymore anyway. If there was one pureblood wife Finn knew could hold her own in the kitchen with no House-Elf and only a couple of spells under her belt, it was Melissane.
Finn smiled and nodded, but didn't say anything. He didn't think either Mulciber would want the recipe if they knew what it had been made with.
"You should finish it while it's still warm," Antonin advised Rosier, who was playing with his food.
Dolohov had gotten a second serving and was elegantly eating his meal, whereas Rosier was cutting the meat with the 'precision' of a woodcutter. He was making a mess.
Finn almost looked away, but found himself strangely enraptured by the sight Rosier made when he gave up any manners and finished his helping. Dark brown, reddish sauce dripped from his lips and the other man licked his fingers when he was done.
He looked more savage than he ever had before, and Finn wondered if the stew had something to do with this. Was it the knowledge of what truly went down tonight that made him think that way, or did Rosier truly look and behave like a savage?
Nott wasn't saying much, but the way he was drilling holes in Finn's head with his eyes made him sweat. Did the man suspect something? If so, why not confront him about it and be done already?
By 11:00 p.m, all three pots were empty – thanks largely to Antonin, and Finn breathed easier. It was done. His task was complete.
He stayed for two high-stakes games of Exploding Snaps, and had to hide a snicker when Nott won one of Travers' cottages in Ireland.
When he left, he didn't immediately apparate away. He walked a good mile away from the Nott estate before activating the Portkey Harry had slipped him without his knowledge earlier (Finn knew to expect to find unexpected things in his pockets now).
He landed in a familiar, cosy living room. Harry was already waiting for him, as proved by the steaming cup of tea waiting for him on the coffee table. The boy himself was curled up on the couch, with a half-empty cup of tea in his lap. He stood up when Finn appeared in the middle of the room, and embraced him when Finn regained his balance.
Mission accomplished, he thought, his lips curling into a smile.
He buried his face in the crook of Harry's neck, and breathed deeply. He was surfing on a wave of euphoria. His fellow Death Eaters all thought (minus Antonin) that they were safe, because they were in the Nott estate and no danger could reach them here. They were wrong. They had been tricked into a false sense of security; they had failed to see past the illusion produced by those habits. These little get-togethers were a monthly habit. Nothing new. They all knew each other very well by now. Years of serving together and seeing the other in the Ministry would do that. They got drunk together, played a game of cards, and occasionally ate dinner. They were almost... friends.
As Harry led him to the couch and let him lie between his legs, Finn allowed himself a small, smug smile.
He had done it. He had tricked them.
The Lord was dead. Long live its Murderer, Finn mused as he burrowed into the younger man's arms. Yes, long live Harry. Voldemort should have made sure he knew who he opened his door to. Things may have played out differently if he had. His former master had been arrogant, so sure that he was the biggest predator out there. He had completely overlooked the enemy hiding in his shadow until the last moment.
Let the people wonder where the Dark Lord had disappeared to. Harry would probably never tell, unless it suited his plans. Thorfinn would take that secret to his grave if asked to.
The hand petting his curls lulled him to sleep. The kiss on his forehead pulled him under.
There was nothing to worry about anymore. Finn had sided with a bigger monster, and was safe in his arms.