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Harry looked down at the sword in his hands. A sharp blade was lethal enough on its own but the last months had seen it grow more dangerous. The once pristine and shining steel was now marred by twists and ripples of black and red. In his search for greater power for the fight against Voldemort he had sought out the most destructive substances with which to imbue the blade. Basilisk venom was joined by manticore venom, giants blood— even dragon blood, turns out there was a 13th use after all. Runes of power had been etched into the blade with the acid from a hydra and they glowed with a faint, sickly green in the darkness. Venoms, poisons, potions, blood, essence. All had gone to feed and strengthen the sword.
It had worked. With the sword Harry had torn through hordes of inferi, toppled rampaging giants, and cut down ravenous werewolves. With a single mighty swing he had brought down the wards over Malfoy Manor, sheets and strands of magic from the backlash of their fall wrapping brightly around the blade, which had hummed quietly ever since. It had always been deadly, even before his second year, now though a single nick would kill a man in seconds. Many Death Eaters had fallen to such miniscule cuts as Harry moved about under the invisibility cloak.
Yes, it had worked, but what had once been a symbol of bravery and courage had now been corrupted into a tool of pure devastation. That devastation had served him well, but its darkness was growing too much for Harry and he worried about how much influence the sword had on his actions now. The brutality with which he had put down the Notts was not the man he wanted to be. He didn't wish to be a destroyer, but a protector, and something had to change.
He pulled out a new vial of blood. Not of any creature this time, but his own. He hoped that some level of his mother's love, selflessness, and magical protection still lived on in that blood. It sizzled and burned as he poured it over the blade, acrid smoke billowing up into his eyes. There was no discernable difference in how the sword looked, but it somehow felt lighter in his mind.
Another vial joined the first, a potion he was loathe to part with, but as the blade grew ever deadlier any misfortunate mistake in cutting himself would be his last. He poured the liquid gold of Felix Felicis onto the edge of the sword, watching as a thin golden sheen spread across the entirety of the edge.
Next was the unicorn blood. A dangerous substance to be certain. He'd learned that lesson his first year. This vial however was drawn from an elderly mare, the matriarch of a herd, immediately on her natural passing. It had been a challenge to communicate with the herd, but acquiring their consent and having no part in the death was the only way he could be certain no curse lingered in the powerful substance.
Finally he prepared for his last restorative measure. He hesitated for a moment, as he had strong suspicions that success would prevent him from ever casting this spell again. Gathering his resolve, the shining form of his patronus leapt from his wand, turning this way and that to look for threats. The only one it found was in the twisted hunk of metal Harry held in his other hand. Harry felt tears in his eyes as he looked on the physical manifestation of love, hope, and protection in his life. He wasn't sure if he only imagined the look of understanding in those eyes, he couldn't match their gaze for long.
Grimacing, he brought the sword down on the bowed neck of his patronus, and the soft glow vanished.
At least until he looked at the blade once more. The twists of black and red still covered the steel, but no longer did they appear to mar its surface. Now they entwined gracefully with ribbons of glowing silver, shining brightly in the darkness.
Harry hung the sword at his hip and prepared to leave his camp.
He had business at Azkaban this night.