Chapter One: Plane-Wrecked

The fire burned.

Swirling colors of orange, burgundy, and gold penetrated the sky as the flames continued to flicker one, growing brighter and stronger as the sun continued to set. Gray, inscrutable smoke rings rose ceremoniously above the blaze, gradually forming bland loops of dust and grime. Sparks flew in all various directions, blazoning their presence for the entire world to see.

And besides the soft swishing of the waves and the slight brushing of palm trees, all was silent.

Silence.

A tear slid down a woman's cheek. She was watching, watching as she saw her world turned to dust. The bodies of her family and friends were slowly dissolving into the bright torrents of fire. The smell of burnt human flesh ingrained itself in her mind as she struggled to breath. The destruction of her life and world as she knew it penetrated her heart and soul as she struggled to live.

It was over. The Dark War was over. They had lost. They had failed. They were beaten. There was nothing left to it. The reign of the creatures – barely recognizable as humans – had begun. The Death Eaters were going to cheer and start spreading their impenetrable darkness across the earth, their fearful poison seeping into every single pebble, every creature, and every single grain of sand. Evil would corrupt the minds of the younger generations to come.

It was over.

The woman lifted her head slowly, her amber eyes engulfed with fresh, sparkling tears. She wasn't afraid anymore. She had lost. The Light Side was conquered from the moment the plane started to plummet toward the ground, faster and faster. Both muggles and wizards alike were killed. The failure of the plane's engine was attributed to a Death Eater's curse sent to destroy all that was left of lightness in the world.

They were defeated.

Shakily, the woman started walking towards the plane, ignoring the sudden impact of a heat wave on her skin.

Glazed eyes stared back at her – eyes that once were bright and shining and joyful. Now they were all dead – faint spirits that no longer lived.

The woman stopped as she neared a pair of eyes that were only too recognizable. They were dimmed emeralds, only ghosts of their once lively past. A lightning bolt scar ran through the man's head, a reminder to those that hope still existed in the world. Now, that ray of hope was extinguished. It was no more.

No more hope. No more faith.

Ever since the Dark Lord had obtained a body and his former power, the Order became restless. Spies roamed free and managed to infiltrate even the most protected secrets. No one was safe anymore. No one was to be trusted.

To no surprise, Voldemort's attempt to track down Harry Potter had kept the entire place scrambling on its feet. Aurors were trained to address even the slightest suspicious move. New members had to past a variety of different tests to prove their loyalty. Even then, they were not trusted completely.

The latest mission for the Order was to track Voldemort's location. After endless months of searching, they had finally managed to pinpoint a vague area that was strongly suspected to have been the Dark Lord's hideaway. With renewed determination, the Order had assigned a few members to sneak undercover and confirm Voldemort's position.

Their bodies were found a few weeks later.

It was then Harry Potter who suggested that he went, under the disguise of a morphing potion and various other strong security spells. Riots, protests, and arguments broke out. It was too dangerous. He would be killed. Death Eaters would be able to uncover him. The Dark Magic was too strong for him to fight.

But Harry managed to persuade the rest of the Order somehow. It was the best plan, he argued, because it was the least obvious. Voldemort would not expect Harry to try to confront him directly. Instead, Voldemort would expect him to be in hiding, while the Order sent troops of lesser importance to fight the war. Besides, Harry hasn't been seen for months on end – many Death Eaters presumed him dead or at least weakened terribly.

It made sense.

Hesitantly, the Order finally gave in to his wishes. Harry, after covering him up significantly and disguising as a common muggle, brought with him the best team possible – Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, George and Fred Weasley, Seamus Finningham, Dean Thomas, Ginny Weasley, and a few more trusted members. Just a few days ago, they were packing up to travel to Hungary – Voldemort's suspected hideaway – on an innocent vacation as tourists.

And suddenly, the plane engine started to sputter in the middle of their trip. And then, to everyone's surprise, it started to plummet towards the ground, accelerating greatly at each second.

The rivers of blood then began to run again.

Brushing her tears away, the woman broke her gaze from the man with dim green eyes and started to trudge back to the safety of the palm trees. Despite the burning of the fire, the island was quite peaceful. The palm trees slowly brushed the heavens, scraping their leaves across the sky. It was a somber moonlit night. The breeze gently weaved in and out of the vines, which were twisted among endless branches of trees.

The woman sighed slowly. She was too tired and shocked to cry any longer. The silence was suffocating. The people were dead, their bodies littering miles of the broken seashore. There was nothing she could do but watch. Watch as the fingers of death curled up slowly towards the brightly lit moon.

Then, she heard a sound.

Someone was moaning. Her heart beating rapidly, the woman ran frantically towards the noise, her footsteps dramatically dampened by the sand.

The person moaned again. Judging from the deepness of his voice, she judged him to be a man.

Someone was still alive. A glimmer of hope – however slight – was still burning.

"Hello?" the woman whispered softly, her voice cracked and hoarse from crying. When no one replied, she repeated the phrase in a louder voice.

"Hello?"

A grunt was heard.

Running as quickly as her feet could carry her, the woman finally reached her destination. It was a man. He was heavily wounded in his right arm. Blood encrusted his shirt, and deep cuts formed eerie patterns along his arms and neck.

The woman ripped a bit of fabric from her shirt and tenderly bandaged his cuts. He looked strangely familiar… Blonde hair, rigid and torn with sweat, lay raggedly across his face, which was bloodied from a gash across his forehead. He had ridiculously pale skin and a slightly pointed nose. His chin was strong and confident, suggesting an air of superiority, even though he was half unconscious.

The woman couldn't exactly put her finger on why he looked so familiar.

He moaned again and moved the arm that was still bleeding freely. The woman's gaze swept over his face and onto that arm. Lightly sweeping away the torn piece of fabric that covered his shoulder, she could make out a skull and a snake.

The Dark Mark.

Shaking, the woman dropped his arm onto the sand in shock. He was a Death Eater. A murderer. She couldn't possibly help him.

But the blood…

The woman closed her eyes to try to steady herself. Then she opened her eyes again. The boy – no, man – gazed back stonily at her; his face expressed little emotion except for the pain reflected in his gray eyes.

"Please…" he whispered softly. He apparently didn't seem to recognize her.

The suffering in his voice triggered the woman's heart.

With a new fixed resolution, the woman ripped off a part of her sleeve in an attempt to wrap another layer of bandaging around his first one. Death Eater or not, he was still a human.

Damn her guilty conscience.