Harry was reassured by the presence of his long-time companion, Fleur Delacour, at his side. Even time couldn’t dull his reaction to her, his breath quickened, his blood sang. He knew she was the one for him. And more unbelievably, she chose him, to be with him.
“I bind my life to yours.” Her words still echoed in his mind, he heard them every night in his dreams.
And just as reliably as Fleur’s presence caused his heart to flutter, made him want to burst into song… so did it cause his scourge-mark to burn.
It took much effort, meditation and studying his own mind for him to recall the deal he had made in desperation. Of course he told Fleur whose eyes burned with passion, declaring for all the world to see her intentions, before she kissed him senseless.
After she calmed down, she fiercely assured him that no matter what deals a devil forced on him under duress, they would stay together and live their lives in full.
As Fleur’s wise grandmother reminded them, when they told her of their woes, where there are devils, there are those who fight them.
And so they ventured forth and after many adventures that would make lesser men and women quail, they now stood in an old temple, a Spartan looking building with little decoration.
In front of them, a giant statue of a handsome man in maille stood holding a sword, five wings splayed behind him, his visage fierce.
Together they knelt, holding hands and offering their prayers, two souls scarred by devious evil, begging for the wrong visited upon them to be righted.
Though nobody seemed to be in the temple, the braziers now lit up, providing warmth to the chilly building.
The world, for lack of a better word, blinked, and instead of the statue, a living figure stood before them. Were they not frozen, they’d avert their eyes from that awesome sight. Standing 20 feet tall, clad in golden maille and wielding a flaming sword, the figure commanded respect. And the five flaming wings moving behind his back made the figure fearsome indeed.
Instead of the fierce visage of the statue, there appeared to be concern in his flaming eyes.
“Upon your heartfelt call I have come,” though 20 feet tall, his voice sounded gentle. “How have you been wronged?” And so they told him the tale of Harry’s desperate struggle, of his Pyrrhic victory and of the “deal” forced upon a 12 year old boy by a devil. They told him of Fleur being haunted by a red figure in her dreams, of a horned fiend who dared call her his bride, who boasted of besting fate’s chosen one.
The figure’s flaming eyes narrowed with each word spoken, a heavy frown marring his brow. When they finished, it took a few seconds for the deity to address them.
“Wronged you have been, truly and gruesomely, by a fiend most foul. Your hearts beat for justice.”
At this moment, their hearts were pounding in their chests. “I offer you a chance. I shall purge you of that infernal mark and of the stain you carry, young wizard. However, there is much evil in this world. And oppose it we must.”
Harry and Fleur, both elated so far, nodded reverently.
“Walk out of this temple with my name on your lips and with my cause in your hearts. And I shall stand beside you, though you shall walk through shade and darkness, never shall you be alone. Do you accept?”
Fleur squeezed Harry’s hand, which she’d never let go during the entire encounter, and both nodded.
“Very well. Here, in this temple, kneeling in front of me, repeat these solemn vows: I will avenge evil wrought upon the innocent. I will not give my word lightly, but once it is given, I will uphold a promise until my last breath.
Those proven guilty must be punished for their crimes. I will not turn a blind eye to wrongdoing.
Rage is a virtue and a strength only when focused against the deserving. I will never seek disproportionate retribution.
Redemption finds hearts from even the cruelest origins. I will strive not to act upon prejudice against fellow mortals based on race or origin.”
With each vow sworn, Harry and Fleur felt their hearts beat faster, their eyes lit up with a flame not dissimilar to the one burning in the figure’s eyes.
Finally, the vows were done and the figure bestowed them with a weighty gaze.
“Stand now, my Oathsworn and present yourself to me. As you swore yourself to me, it is time to do my duty to you.” They stood tall, their spines straight. The tip of the figure’s flaming sword touched Harry’s arm, directly piercing the scourge-mark. The smell of sulphur arose, but no burning flesh. At Harry’s surprised look, the figure nodded and replied, “The righteous flame shall not burn an innocent.” Then the sword’s tip touched Harry’s forehead and in righteous flame he was cleansed.
Bellatrix Lestrange rightfully considered herself a true master of the Cruciatus. She understood that curse better than any other mortal, whether its casting principles or the effects on the victim’s body. Many a time she had laughed at a foe she’d provoked into casting it at her, replying that righteous anger wasn’t enough. That they needed to mean for her to suffer, to relish in the act of causing suffering.
She had cut a bloody swathe in the forces arrayed against her Lord, her True Love.
All that was in pursuit of Harry Potter, her Lord’s stubborn foe. He and his lover had vanished, even the vilest divination rituals couldn’t find them. The only sign she got were the entrails of the mudblood she used for the divination going up in flames.
So she busied herself with hunting down Potter’s friends. And it worked, Potter and Delacour stood against her, strangely dressed. She noticed that both had a necklace in the form of a crimson wing.
The battle was surprisingly short and one-sided.
And as her skin blistered and eyes bubbled, Bellatrix Lestrange finally admitted that the flames of righteous fury were enough.
The devil Ahpuch was looking forward to the culmination of his long-term plan. It was laughably easy, with the resources available to him. Finding out the fated connection between the so-called Boy-Who-Lived and the person who was of real interest to him. A girl of Veela lineage, descended from divine blood. Though mixed with humans, her connection to the divine was still close.
And thanks to a little flexibility and forcing a child into a deal, she would be delivered to him, by her supposed love to boot. It was all worth the effort he put into sabotaging the phoenix’s little scuffle with the basilisk.
And when the Veela girl gets delivered to him, broken and shattered by the betrayal of her fated, he would remake her, reshape her into his queen, one who would bear him children and elevate his station in Hell.
It was now time for the boy to fulfil his part of the bargain, so Ahpuch went to the pre-arranged meeting place, an out of the way plain with nobody present who could interrupt his dealings.
Potter and Delacour appeared promptly, but instead of the young man broken by his inner struggle or the innocent woman lured into his trap, both had the assured gait of warriors, their demeanor screaming their contempt. At their waists he beheld swords and around their necks, talismans of the crimson wing. That meddler.
“I see, young Potter that you have brought me my bride.” “Wrong, Ahpuch.” Potter put his fist on the pommel of his sword.
Delacour continued when Potter fell silent, “This little meeting has a different purpose.” And she too readied herself to draw her blade.
“Is that how wizards honour their words? No matter, you are bound by our pact, Potter, and shall honour it whether you like it or not.” Ahpuch was hissing silently, his voice gaining a hypnotic quality.
“Devils deserve no honour.” Potter spat on the ground. “As for our pact, look for yourself.” He lifted the sleeve on his arm, instead of the scourge-mark, a burn scar in the shape of a wing greeted the devil’s unbelieving eyes.
“Then I will take what is mine by force!” The devil roared, splaying his wings, getting ready to fight.
“Our Lord’s flames were enough to maim an infernal duke and melt his palace to slag!” Delacour answered his challenge as her and Potter’s eyes changed to resemble burning embers. “Our flame will be enough for scum like you!” Potter finished and they both drew their swords. Their milky white blades bore runic inscriptions and the air around the edges shimmered before both blades were engulfed by flames. A pair of flaming wings was now splayed behind both Harry and Fleur as, with a war cry, they charged the fiend.