Disclaimer: Harry Potter and Co. Belong to Jk Rowling. I own nothing but the plot.
A/N: Hey everyone! This is my long-awaited project that I've been dying to put up, but never got around to. Note, this story WILL be taking priority over my other stories, including Irresistibly Delicious (yes, I'm subtly pointing you to go read that one too!).
I also can't seem to make my mind whether to make this slash or not... I guess I'll have to see what my characters want
Please review! Any thoughts, like, dislikes are ALL welcome! Enjoy!
My Heart, My Blood, Our Soul
Prologue:
A tall, nondescript figure stood in the distance, looking down a hill at the chaos beneath. It was a stormy night, with hail and ice-cold rain. It was a cacophony of sounds, thunder, cries, shouting, yelling, desperation, despair, rang clear in the dark blizzard night. The cry of a winged creature soaring above was heard also, it was the cry of anguished souls and inconsolable grief, but the figure did not notice his companion or chose to ignore it.
The foreboding night was further intensified by the dark ominous clouds that obscured the moon. It was darkness where no light hopes to penetrate. Only the occasional lightening and flashes of red and green light from below illuminated the battle at the bottom of the hill, but it was the high, towering flames that allowed the tall figure to follow what was happening. Following some obscure calculation, the tall figure began his descent to the village below, set forth to start off a chain of events that would touch thousands of lives all over.
Gliding into the thick of the battle, confusion and screams swirled around him. Curses strayed towards him, but with a casual flick of his wand, the spells were deflected or absorbed. Several men confronted the figure. But the figure had a purpose and did not stop to trifle with a duel. A lazy curse and a stream of green light dispatched of his opponents quickly. He parted through the mob like a hot knife through butter, his intent evident in his gleaming red eyes as he strode purposefully to a house at the end of the street. He was single-mindedly focused on the house that he failed to recognize the winged creature circling over him, seeming as to following him. But he was aware of the inhuman cries it emitted, prophesising cries of doom to the mortals beneath. Stepping over several corpses and skirting around many flames, he reached the house.
With a feral grin, he approached the door. Offering no resistance, the door opened under his touch, and he stepped over the threshold, and closed the door. The sounds of the battle were immediately cut off, leaving only a muffled rumble, a calm, homey silence descended upon the intruder. But he had sharp hearing and his ears picked up the distinct sound of two infants gurgling. Pleased, his feral grin widened. He quietly stalked up the stairs to the room above. The cooing and crying became louder with each step he took, indicating that he was getting closer to his goal. At the top of the stairs, he looked around and lazily called out.
"Wormtail." His voice was cold and smooth as silk.
Swiftly, a small man emerged from the room on the left, carrying a bundle in his arms. Trembling like a leaf, the man who was Wormtail deposited the small wiggling bundle in the intruder's arms.
"H-h-here she is milord," he managed to stutter out.
"Excellent work. They suspect nothing?" The man asked softly as he peered into the bundle in his arms. A pair of bright green eyes peered back from a tiny face framed with raven black hair. Her little fists waved around as she screwed up her face and started crying. A cold laugh escaped the intruder's mouth as Wormtail hastily shook his head. The child cried harder and the tall figure gently stroked her silky cheek with a long pale finger. "You're mine now." And he turned to leave. Reaching the landing, he remembered something and muttered something that rendered Wormtail unconscious. With his wand out, the figure cast some protective spell around the little child before exiting through the back door. As he left, he did not hear the tiny screams of a young baby boy with emerald green eyes and raven black hair, crying for his sister and his fate to come.
But upon emerging out of the house, the sounds of the battle were amplified, along with distinct, hollow footsteps. The winged creature had disappeared. Unconcerned, he continued walking, slipping by unnoticed as his dark cloak concealed the crying infant in his arms. But determinedly, the footsteps persisted. He felt, rather than knew, that someone or something was following him, someone or something unearthly. It was a nuisance, but did not worry him.
With several magically-aided detours, the figure reached his destination. Facing an inconspicuous face of the hill on which an imposing castle stood, a haven for the innocent, a circular stone relief of two snakes intertwined around a sword, with a border of snakes around the entrance. A low hissing sound emitted from the throat of the tall figure, and the snakes on the border slithered around until a gaping hole emerged. The figure entered the chamber.
It was an elegant chamber. Tall, black marble pillars supported the roof that seemed as high as the night sky outside. Mosaics and paintings of wizards and snakes and battles fought and forgotten were etched onto the walls. Green torches lined the walls, providing lighting to the dark hallway. The gentle tinkling sound of a fountain was heard. Twin streams of black water flanked the hallway. The sounds of the water were comforting, but neither the man nor the infant took notice. A long hallway stretched out before the figure and the infant. As he glided swiftly through the hallway, he noticed that the ground was made of pure onyx, as it absorbed all light, rendering the passageway eerily dark, where the torches did little to alleviate the darkness. In this silence, the figure was relieved to be free of the haunting footsteps, but in his relief he failed to notice the slight rustling of wings.
Veering suddenly left, at the end of the hall, the figure entered a primitive stone room that contrasted with the elegant hall and entrance. Upon entering, a great blaze flared up in the blackened stone hearth, licking the mantle above and yet, left no scorch marks. The stones and the fired radiated an intense and unearthly heat. The infant in the tall cloaked figure's arms stirred. Instantly, the fire leapt out and circled the figure. Its tongue of flame licked and caressed the figure and infant lovingly. A bone-chilling, but seductive voice whispered into the man's ear.
"The child. Now."
In front the stone earth, an altar-like table appeared. The flames retracted from the figure and infant. The fire in the hearth flared up impatiently. Wordlessly, the tall figure glided to the table and gently placed the crying baby on it. As the child was laid down, the blankets swathing it fell apart and a tiny little figure with kicking feet and waving arms was seen. The child looked almost angelic with the fire providing a glow around the child. Without allowing for more contemplation, the fire leapt out and engulfed the crying girl in its fiery arms. Immediately, unholy screeches arose from the turbulent enveloped flames, as the figure watched hungrily. The screams juxtaposed with the crying of the infant girl reminded the figure of the cries of the winged creature of the battle. In the heart of the inferno, the dark shape of the child could be seen writhing in pain. Slowly, the fire receded, leaving an incorporeal mist to dance over the child. With a eerie glow, the fire completely receded. A silvery mist hung around the child. Above the gradually withdrawing din of the roaring fire, a cooing could be heard. The mist lifted, revealing a vaporous, pale hand over her heart, before it too melted into the air.
There, unscathed on the table that was scorched black, laid the infant girl gurgling and waving her arms and legs happily. The figure walked over and inspected her. No telltale mark of the unholy encounter was found, except for her left eye that had deepened into an amethyst violet and a small lightning bolt shaped scar over her tiny, beating hear.
"Ah yes, my little changeling," he whispered, satisfied.