This was a piece written for l0stinl0ve's Firefly/Serenity Quote Competition on HPFC. My quote was "Oh, I think you wanna reconsider that last part. See, I married me a powerful ugly creature." I also used another quote from the show, "Sweetie, we're crooks. If everything were right, we'd be in jail!"
Metamorphosis
How does a person become a hero? My friends, you have probably read that people are born heroes, but I theorize that heroes are not born, they are made. Through a great and terrible metamorphosis, they go from being every day nobodies, people not worth a second glance, to heroes written about in legends.
I am going to tell you a story of two such metamorphoses, taking place simultaneously. Much like the transformation of a caterpillar to a butterfly, this metamorphosis goes through many stages, and in the end, become something beautiful. These are the metamorphoses of two people who went from being Deatheaters to something else, far greater and more beautiful. This is their story.
Eggs
Our tale begins on bitter evening in late September. Our first protagonist, a man of about twenty-one, is preparing to join the infamous Deatheaters. He has been waiting for this moment for many months. Now that it is time for him to receive their mark, he finds he cannot sit still due to the excitement.
It takes only moments to receive the mark and afterwards, he has been branded with it forevermore. Just looking at it fills him with a feeling of awe that words simply cannot describe. He finds he cannot take his eye off of it for more than a few moments. He is drawn to it like a moth to flame.
"Does it hurt?" asks a voice at his back. He whirls and behind him stands a beautiful woman, our second protagonist.
"No," he lies. Truth be told, the skin still smarts, but he does not want to appear weak in front of this beautiful young stranger, probably no more than nineteen.
She can see through his blatant fib. "You don't have to lie to me. This is a place of truth. Now, you seem to have forgotten to introduce yourself."
Blushing slightly, the man gives her his name and sticks out his hand. She takes it in one of her own gloved hands. She offers him her name and the man is struck by two thoughts simultaneously. Firstly, he recalls who she is. The young woman before him was his housemate at Hogwarts, a few years under him. The second though is that her name is the most lovely he has ever heard.
When he tells her this, she laughs. "So, I have been told." She turns away and he stares at her retreating back. He cannot help feeling his life will never be the same. It seems to him that he has found who he truly is. It is almost as if he has hatched out of an egg and been reborn as something else entirely. He finds he quite enjoys the feeling.
As the woman walks away from the man, she feels different as well, although she cannot place why. Little does she know, her rebirth has begun as well. The rest of her life will be entwined with that of the man.
Larvae
Our story continues on a cold winter's night in December. The streets of the tiny town are nearly void of life, save for the pair bustling along the snowy sidewalks. The world is almost entirely dark, aside from the few stars that are brave enough to shine through the cold. Snow blankets the entire world, remnants of a snow storm that passed through a few days ago.
The protagonists of our story, the two Deatheaters whose identities are still not important at this point in time, are on a mission. Their job: find a known hideout for Mudbloods and kill all in sight. Leave no survivors.
For the first of our two protagonists, the man, this is his chance to prove himself, as this is his first mission for the great and powerful Dark Lord. For the other, this is just another mission, another of many. She trails behind the man on the street, her eyes downcast and face hidden by a black veil.
The duo comes upon the house quite quickly. It is a small one, only two floors. Its façade is painted a bright, cheery yellow that makes itself known to all, even in the dead of night. There is a faint shimmer around the house. Muggles who pass by might mistake it for the trick of the light, but experienced wizards such as the two know that the shimmer indicates protective enchantments around the perimeter.
Passing through the garden gate, the man approaches the door and knocks frantically. An older woman with hard, steel-gray eyes answers. Although she might appear to be a Muggle, her hand hovers over the pocket of the apron she wears. Both know that she is a witch, ready to fight them if need be. "What do you want?" she asks gruffly. "It's the dead of night."
"I am so sorry ma'am. Please forgive me. My wife and I are looking for protection. The Ministry is after us, and the friend of a friend told us that this was a safe place to stay."
The woman studies his face for a long while. She seems to be unable to match his to any know Deatheater. He smiles slightly when she nods her approval. This is all going to plan.
She asks for their names and he gives her the pseudonyms they have been going by. After a few more questions, which he answers with a practiced ease, he believes the woman is going to let them into the safe house without raising an alarm. But she must suspect something is not right about this situation, for she gives them one final request. "Would your wife take off her veil? I'd quite like to see her face."
The flaw in the plan has been touched upon. The woman's face is well known due to an association with a few well publicized murders that took place a few weeks ago. Transfiguration and Polyjuice would have failed, due to the protective enchantment around the perimeter of the safe house. If her face is revealed, alarms will be sounded and the two will be lucky if they got three of the dozen hiding inside. And, if they failed, they are as good as dead.
"Oh, I think you wanna reconsider that last part. See, I married me a powerful ugly creature," he says, in an attempt to joke his way out of the situation. The woman looks at him seriously.
The man's partner taps him on the shoulder. "It is all right. The plan will remain intact if you act quickly," she whispers. The veil is pushed back, revealing the infamous face. The older woman's eyes widen and her mouth opens in an attempt to raise an alarm. However, before she can even begin to call out, her lifeless body is hitting the floor and the green that was cast from the man's wand is nothing but a fading memory.
The duo methodically searches the entire house, murdering anyone they find. When they have finished their macabre mission, there are a total of thirteen corpses littering the house, men, women, and children alike. They reconvene in the sitting room.
"Is that all?" the man asks.
"I believe so."
They fall silent for a moment. However, a moment is all that is needed for the pair to hear the almost silent cries of a young child. The woman stalks over and flings aside the curtain she is hiding behind. Revealed is a girl no more than twelve, her face red and blotchy, stained with tears. She looks and them, and her chocolate brown eyes show nothing more than pure, unadulterated terror.
"Please, don't kill me," she begs. "Please. I really don't want to die. Have mercy. Spare me. Don't kill me. Pl-"Her pleas are cut short when a jet of green light originating from the woman's wand hits her square in the chest.
She turns to the man.
"She was only a little girl," he says.
"Our orders were to leave no survivors."
They exit the house and speak no more of that fateful night in December. Yet that is the very beginning of the duo's transformation.
It is midnight in February and both the man and the woman find themselves plagued by ever-worsening nightmares. The screams of the little girl echo through their dreams, and sleep is never soothing. If anything, it leaves them even more tired.
That night, they sit by the fire, neither speaking. The silence is louder than any words can ever dare to be. But sometimes, words are needed. The man speaks first.
"I'm tired."
"I think we both are,"
"I'm sick of this. The nightmares. Everything. I don't want to do it anymore." He turns to face her. "I just want to sleep."
"Well we cannot just leave. The Dark Lord does not take desertion lightly. We will be killed before we make it out the front door."
The man's eyes are illuminated with the light of what can only be an idea. "Not if we leave right now, while everyone is asleep. There's a tent in the closet. We can take it and leave in the night. They'll not even realize we're gone until morning."
Biting her lip, the woman looks at her partner's face. It is so excitedly certain that she cannot help being swept along. She has felt doubt in what the Deatheaters are working toward for long and this is her chance to act on her feelings of uncertainty.
This is the moment, her great choice. It only takes her a split second to decide. "I will meet you at the door. Act quickly though. If we get caught, this will no doubt mark our end."
Smiling widely, the man dashes out of the door and she follows. The fate of our two protagonists has not yet been sealed, but they are on the path to their metamorphosis.
Chrysalises
Our story continues yet again on a pleasant night in March. The nightmares have gotten worse, and that night neither of them can sleep, yet again. Every time they close their eyes, they are haunted by those that have died at the end of their wands. So together they sit in their tent, each feeling so very alone, listening to Potterwatch on the radio, a now familiar routine. The names of those who are missing are spoken. There are far too many. The woman stands and walks to the door of their tent. The man follows suit. Staring at the barren world around her, she sighs.
"Why won't the world make itself right again?" she asks.
"Sweetie, we're crooks. If everything were right, we'd be in jail."
He is right. They may just be two people who made the mistake of swelling the Deatheaters' ranks, and now, they must pay for that poor decision. Once the Dark Lord is overthrown, they will be forced to answer for their crimes, murder and thievery among them. Azkaban will probably be the best they can hope for. Right now, there is not a single person who does not want their heads. The Deatheaters do not like deserters and the Order does not like Deatheaters, former or not.
Shaking her head to clear if of her thoughts, the woman tries not to think of that though and instead focuses on the man's comment by saying, "Crooks? That word is little… light, don't you think?"
The man looks at her seriously. "I prefer the word crooks, to murderers, don't you?"
Her voice crescendos. "But that's what we are. We are not petty crooks. We have killed innocent people, who deserved death less than you or I do. I've seen the life drain out of the eyes of innocent children. There has not been a night where I do not dream of the final, desperate pleas of those I have murdered. I regret it so and I wish I could take it back, but I can't." Her voices grow quiet now. "No matter how much I repent, those people won't live once more." The woman finds that she is crying. The man offers her a small smile.
"That just shows that we are changing, doesn't it? Once upon a time, we didn't mind killing. Hell, we were happy to do it. Now, we can't stand the thought of the ending of another human's life." The man looks at the Dark Mark branded on his arm. The blackness of it stands out starkly from the paleness of his skin. Ripping his eyes away from it, he turns to her. "Once, I was happy to have this on my arm. Now, I wish that I had never received it. It has only brought pain upon myself and others."
The two exit the tent and stare that stars shining brightly overhead. The remains of the year's final snow crunch underfoot as they walk through the forest where they will spend their next week. After spending a long time bathed in silence, mulling over the conversation they just shared, the woman turns to the man. "I have a feeling there will be a time we must choose what side we will be on, once and for all. I'm not quite sure what side I will chose yet but I must ask you. When the time comes to make that decision, can I count on you to stand by my side?"
"Of course."
Their lips meet at that moment, neither able to stop it, and their first kiss is quietly uncertain. When they break apart, they look into each other's eyes and their lips meet again. This kiss is fiery with passion, and the man sweeps the young woman into his arms. They go back to their tiny tent in the middle of nowhere, and neither feels quite so alone anymore.
In that moment, our protagonists aren't Deatheaters, or deserters, or even murderers. They are two human beings who find quiet solace in their lover's embrace.
Their metamorphosis is not quite complete yet. They are still in transition. They have yet to make their final decisions. But that is coming in due time, dear friends. For now, let our two protagonists have peace.
Butterflies
Our story concludes on a warm night in May. May 2, 1998, to be precise. A battle is being fought that night. It is the final battle. Everyone know the Wizarding world lies upon this night. It is here our protagonists have come; it is here our protagonists will make their final metamorphosis.
The battle rages all around them. Hexes and Unforgivables mingle in the air before hitting their intended targets. Our protagonists have to dodge Killing Curses and Stunning Spells. All the while, they are getting rid of anyone in their path, no matter if they are friends or foes, for our duo has no side yet. There has not been time for them to make that final decision. Right now, they are just trying to keep living. They know each breath they take could be their last and they attempt to make that most of each one.
Their mad dash leads them to a secluded area of Hogwarts grounds. Aside from themselves, there are four others. Two are small and they duel a duo much larger than they are. When our partners draw closer, they see through the illumination of flying hexes that these two look smaller than they originally thought, too small to be of age. The oldest looks to be barely sixteen. The pair they are fighting are two large, albeit rather stupid Deatheaters. The sides are evenly matched, but the boys, who seem to be brothers, are tiring quickly and will not last much longer.
The two Deatheaters see our protagonists and call their names, seemingly forgetting that the two deserted them months ago. One of them, the biggest and stupidest of the lot, yells to them. "Come and help us finish these two off. They're getting a little too big for their britches."
When the woman can see them clearly, she can tell the smaller of the two boys is at most fourteen, too young to be fighting to his death. Although he puts on a brave face, she can tell the boy is frightened to no end. When she looks into his brown eyes, she recalls the eyes of another small child, one who haunts her nightmares.
An innocent girl pleading for her life, begging the woman not to kill her. The woman looks at the man. When their eyes meet, he can tell she has made her decision. He remembers the promise he made to her that pleasant night in March. However, had the promise not existed, he would still have made the same choice.
Our female protagonist turns her wand on the largest. "Avada Kedavra." There is a jet of green light and he falls over dead, just like that little girl she murdered all those months ago. His partner follows moments later, killed by the man.
"Dennis, run!" the older boy shouts and the smaller boy follows the elder's instruction. He takes off toward the castle at the speed of light, pausing only to make his brother promise that he will follow behind.
The remaining boy gives them his excited thanks but their heroism is a short-lived wonder, for moments later three Deatheaters storm the yard where they are standing.
The boy is hit first, and he falls where he stands. The man is next, just a few moments after the boy they just saved. His last thought is one of regret that the boy will never fulfill the promise he made to his brother. The woman is last. She takes one last look at the boy she saved. The green light is approaching and she braces herself for death. It hits her and she feels no pain.
The woman is dead before she hits the ground.
Their Final Descent
They say that those who climb the highest have the farthest to fall. However, even if you climb only a few feet, you still have a way to go before you hit the ground.
A butterfly, fluttering through the air, must make a final descent before it hits the earth. And it in all actuality, it doesn't matter how high you go. There comes a time when you will fall and the fall is still painful.
Our protagonists were buried as Deatheaters because of the Dark Marks on their arms. If only someone tried to look deeper, beyond the surface. If only everyone knew what they had done in their final moments. If only Dennis Creevey told of what they did for him. Then, maybe things would have been different for them. Maybe they would have been celebrated as heroes. But "if only" and "maybe" mean nothing to them now. They are just two more unsung heroes of the Second Wizarding War.
Even though our heroes were only butterflies for a short amount of time, the final descent was necessary. Falls are necessary part of life, and yes, a part of death too. I can only hope there was something there to cushion their landing.
I've been debating whether or not I should reveal our protagonists identities to you the entire time I shared with you their tale. I have come to the decision that I will not. You don't need to know who they are. You know what they did. They were heroes. But perhaps more importantly, they found love and happiness in each other.
In the end, isn't that all that really matters?