Prologue
The group treks up to the top of the hill. The leader, a tall man with cold eyes, searches the hill as if looking for a gateway, a portal. "Macmillan! Where did Rookwood say the portal was?"
A man with thinning blond hair drags with him an old man. The man, Macmillan, replies hesitantly. "My lord, he never said. He only said-"
"Said what, Macmillan? Don't be cowardly." The leader of the group turns to face his lieutenant, and his near colourness eyes betray nothing. Then, turning to the other members of his group, he tells them: "Interrogate the other Death Eaters. I want to know how to enter the portal, and they may know. However if they don't... I want nothing recognizable to remain when day comes." Turning to Macmillan again, he asks: "What did Rookwood say, Macmillan?"
"He-He said that he would rather die than tell a psychotic maniac his greatest secret." The man's face pales as he speaks.
The tall man's face betrays no emotion. "Give Rookwood to me, Macmillan. I will take care of him from this point onwards."
"My lord- but what do I do?" Macmillan asks, almost hesitantly.
"Remind the others of their duty, and remember- The only good Death Eater is a dead Death Eater." The man says without turning. Macmillan scurries away, supervising his comrades.
He turns to the old man laying on the ground. He is bound and his body is covered in filth, as well as scratches. He kicks the old man in the stomach, and the body stirs slightly. He kicks the body again. This time, the old man groans in agony. "Awake Rookwood- I have a few questions for you. You will answer them truthfully, or you will suffer."
The man, wandlessly and wordlessly, forces Augustus Rookwood in a prayer-like position. The old man, Augustus Rookwood, has a cut on his face but otherwise looks fine. "What is it you want?"
The man smiles. "You know very well what I want, Rookwood."
The old man shakes his head. "I have no idea what you are talking about."
The man smiles, almost as if he was talking to a child. "You do, Rookwood. Where is the portal located?"
The old man pales, as he realises what the other is asking. "I would rather die than tell you."
"I repeat: where is the portal located? " The man looks unalarmed, but his tone differs. His tone is impatient, almost desperate.
Looking around, the old man eyes the hill. Shaking his head, he whispers. "Not here, not here. All your clues, all your sources, and yet you still look in the wrong places."
The man looks around the hill. In the air, screams. Blood, guts, gore. The death eaters are being torn apart, slowly; piece by piece. "I repeat, Rookwood. Where is the portal?"
The old man shakes his head. Whispering, he says. "I already told you, Inquisitor. You are so close, yet so far away."
The man, The Inquisitor, has a cold look in his eye. "Rookwood, I will ask you one last time- where is the PORTAL?!"
Shaking his head, the old man chuckles. "I see no purpose in telling you, not when I am the father of time."
The man takes deep breathes- "Rookwood; I repeat: where is the portal?"
The old man, Augustus Rookwood, turns to face the Inquisitor- "The portal? Gone." Smiling, he looks around the bloody hill- "All this destruction, for nothing? Isn't that what you were looking for, Inquisitor? The location of my portal?"- The screams have all died down; what were once people are now shreds of muscle and bone. "You may strike terror to the masses, but I have seen terror. I have seen it, I have experienced it. I have lived through it, coped with it. I have survived it. I will not bow down to your will; not now, not ever."
"You may feel the need to rid of my friend, my companions, my family, but I am never alone. You and your society, they aim to get rid of the death eaters once and for all. They aim to erase our names, erase us as people. They aim to destroy our lives, erase us from the course of history. But even if you kill all of us, you will never destroy our impact. You can erase our legacies, our achievements; but you can not erase who we have touched, who we have loved, admired. We will live on, for now and forever. Remember that, Inquisitor. Remember that,-"
"And for what reason should I, Rookwood? You disgust me, in all ways. Your deeds? Despicable. Your achievements? Minor. Your family legacy? Gone. What do you have left Rookwood? What do you have left to proud of?" Curling his lip in disgust, the Inquisitor walks around. Examining the various shreds of bone, muscle, and skin, he turns to his followers. "You are all dismissed. Return home, you have done well. Macmillan? I wish to speak to you later, when I am done with this scum. Stay."
As the rest of the followers leave, Macmillan stands around and picks at the grotesque remains of the now dead Death Eaters. He examines the muscles, the bones, the skin. He examines the blood stained remains of fabric, and he smiles. "My lord, how do we dispose of these ruins?"
The Inquisitor, without turning, replies: "Leave them- Let the authorities find them; after all, no one will doubt it is yet another atrocity of the Death Eaters." Turning to face the old man, he knees down so that he and Rookwood are face-to-face. "Now Rookwood, where is your portal?"
The old man's face is impassive, as he speaks. "You intend to upset the balance of time. You intend to create massive chaos, by bringing the dead back."
The Inquisitor's face is empty, as Macmillan's shows shock. Clearly they were not expecting this.
Rookwood smiles, as he continues. "Shame… It's a rather clever plan, and now it will be ruined. Porta Tempus Temporis."
As soon as the spell is uttered, everything changes around the three of them. The sky, slowly approaching dawn; turns a startling white. The hill surrounding them disappears as they find themselves almost hovering over a river of gold. On either sides of the river, are shores. The one on the right is more lively, brighter; more alive. The left side of the river is darker, larger- the land of the dead. Between the shores, lies a river of gold. "Welcome gentleman, to my portal. Enjoy your stay here." Rookwood's tone is one of mocking, one of smugness.
"Ah, thank you Rookwood. Shame, now you have no longer have a use. Avada Kedavra." The Inquisitor is calm, almost excited. As Rookwood's body falls, he smiles in delight. Yet, there is no look of surprise on Rookwood's face- only calm. "The old fool was too confident for his own good- the father of time?" Sneering, he continues. "He may have made significant contributions to the field of time, but that sense of power has gone to his head."
Shaking his head, he eyes the river they are hovering above. Around them, the pieces of the Death Eaters are sinking- distance between the pieces and the river is slowly decreasing. As distance closes up, the waters start to bubble. Almost as if the waters are allergic to the pieces, the riverbed bubbles and fizzes and overflows. The once calm river of gold is now multiplying rapidly, as the mutilated pieces and Rookwood's body fall towards it.
What happened next, no one could explain. Almost like a chain reaction, the minute the pieces hit the river all hell breaks loose. The river water, once calm, explodes violently. The water overflows onto both sides of the shores, but what is interesting is the fact that there are almost silhouettes people in the water now. "Yes, yes. Yes." The Inquisitor's tone is quiet, yet in awe. "Yes."
"My lord…" Macmillan's tone is almost hesitant, yet he does so anyway.
"Yes, Macmillan?" The Inquisitor's tone is one of annoyance, one of anger.
"Are we almost done here? This realm... This realm is unnatural." Macmillan whispers this, in a near quiet tone.
Amused, the Inquisitor looks around the land they are around. "Almost… I just need to leave a signal if anyone stumbles upon this." Then, tilting his head slightly he pulls his wand out. Slashing letters into the air above him, he admires the blood red letters that appear. "Let's go, Macmillan. Follow me, from this point onwards."
"Of course, my Lord." Macmillan scurries after the Inquisitor, like a shadow.
The river is in a state of chaos. The souls of the dead are returning to their bodies, in the land of the living. The bodies will reform, shape when the souls arrive. The thick, definite line that defined the difference between life and death is now blurred, nonexistent. The river overflows, spilling death after death into a land they are foreign to now. Yet, this is not the most prominent part.
Because above it all is a message in a bloodlike red: The Inquisitor is always watching.