Chapter 1- The Plea: Introduction
Dumbledore heaved a weary sigh. As the Order meeting began to draw to an end and the last report was being wrapped up, the ancient wizard felt the first touches of anxiety prickle at the edge of his mind. Running a wrinkled finger over the course material of the severely aged book sitting securely in his lap, he gazed upon the young and old members of the Order of the Phoenix.
There was pathetically little left, considering that a good number of remaining light wizards in magical Britain were seated and standing before him. There was only 30 or so members comprised within the secretive Order and each and every one of them held either defeated or exhausted faces. Even the younger of the organization weren't without deep dark circles beneath their eyes and white pursed lips.
Moody, who stood in the furthest corner of the rather grand meeting room, met the softly twinkling eyes of Dumbledore and nodded stiffly. There was compromise in the aged Auror's deep set lips and stilted eye.
"Ahem," the Leader of Light cleared his throat and stood from his dark oaken chair, interrupting what seemed to be a bit of a spat between the Potter twins and the eldest Malfoy child. He raised a white eyebrow at their somewhat sheepish but tired expressions before he set about gazing around the room.
He saw the stiff backed and worn-out looking Bill Weasley standing beside the rest of his remaining family, a somber faced George and Fred and a pasty looking Ronald who hunched his shoulders just a bit more than any of his siblings.
He saw the drawn and brutally lined face of Minerva McGonagall standing near the back besides Moody, lips pinched and shoulders straight.
He saw the sickly-looking Severus Snape standing secluded in the corner opposite of Minerva and Moody, his skin drawn tight and dark brooding eyes much too wary as they switched from keeping a careful eye on the doors and then on everyone even somewhat close to his hunched black form.
He saw a worn and pale Lily Potter clutching almost desperately at her husband's arm and keeping a strong, almost, bone breaking grip on her two son's shoulders. Her husband, James, looked just as pale, if not more so, with just as many hard lines marring his much too thin face.
He saw so many more, worn and torn from battle. He saw their thin gaunt faces and their dimly lit eyes and their grief-stricken expressions. He saw them occasionally looking around, looking vainly for a face long ago lost. He saw them hide and shove their pain behind deeply lined and stiff, unfeeling faces.
And it hurt so much to know that he was perhaps the sole cause of their pain and grief.
All because he didn't end Riddle's reign far before it'd started, back when that charming and beaten child had come into Hogwarts, looking for power and those who'd follow him with the utmost loyalty.
Breathing deeply, Dumbledore addressed the room as whole. "I've stumbled upon something that," he blinked and tried to control his anxiousness- it wouldn't do to make them hope too soon. The ritual had a very high chance of going terribly wrong. "I've found something that could help turn the war in our favor- but," he interrupted himself quickly, gazing deeply at his audience, "this 'procedure' has a very high chance of not working."
"But it's a chance non-the-less." Lily Potter whispered fiercely and several more voices joined hers, agreeing or stammering that 'no, it was better not to hope'.
Minerva's lips thinned but she remained silent, having had brief discussion over the matter with Albus and several others, including the still wary Moody and the sour but silent Severus. Bill had joined as well but had remained in the back during the small group's heated debate over using such an old and obviously flawed dark ritual.
"Lily," Dumbledore's strict, no-nonsense, tone brought back the attention of the whole Order, drawing the meeting room into a very stilted silence. His aged face looked out amongst the crowd, dark blue eyes taking in the many apprehensive faces reflecting back at him. "Everyone, I wish it the be common knowledge that this help can only be achieved through very, very dark magic."
The previous silence delved into a quiet but urgent explosion of voices. None, though, raised above a few decibels.
"I honestly can't bring myself to care anymore, Prongs." A soft voice murmured into the ear of another.
"Outrageous! Doesn't that old man know how many of us died because of that hateful stuff!?" A harsh whisper that sounded like metal brushing metal rung out.
"I don't care… as long as it helps…" A feminine voice muttered to her mate, words hushed but meaningful.
Minerva, Severus, Moody, Bill, and many other older members of the Order remained stoically silent.
Dumbledore raised a hand and with nothing more than a few dwindling whispers, the hall quieted. "I find even myself hesitant to perform such a dark procedure," he admitted, face drawn in emotion, "but I will, as long as it is voted for."
The quiet remained, obviously waiting for the left out words of their leader.
The Leader of Light sighed deeply and met the eyes of each and every member of the Order, looking far more his age in that time than in any other. "I must say, this ritual may very well end my life and the lives of those who wish to aid me."
Many pursed their lips and other paled but dutifully, they all kept their quiet. It was a testament to how far they'd fallen to accept the death of one of their own if it meant winning the war.
"As well as that, this ritual has a very high chance of failing and taking me and my aids with it." Dumbledore continued, face drawn and voice heavy with graveness. The whispers started up again but he merely raised a hand once more and the silence settled.
"The purpose of this ritual, however is just as dark as the magic used to perform it." He looked out at amongst the faces of his friends and companions and even past students.
Moody seemed to finally have had enough and spat, "Spit it out already, Albus."
Several faces sneered back at the ancient Auror but the rest kept their peace, eyes remaining determinedly on their leader.
Dumbledore conceded with a small incline of his head and began, "This ritual is called Ο Θεός θα το χαλάζι- which translates to God we Hail- and it originated from ancient Greece. It was theorized and attempted during the ruling of Cecrops the II within the borders of Athens. It's main purpose was to hail to the most powerful being of a neighboring world."
Realization swept through the grand hall like that of a tidal wave, washing the many pallid faces amongst the thin crowds of the Order with dawning hope and pained grief. Those with the pain tightening their features, clearly began anticipate and draw up some of the consequences of such a ritual being performed.
Albus nodded to those with the grim expressions painting their brows, his own face pulled taut. "I see that some of you have clearly seen the problem I am laden with. Those of you who have not, I am hard pressed to say that the person we bring through, might very well refuse to help. Even worse, that person might even prove worse than that of Voldemort."
There wasn't even a single flinch or shudder at the name and Albus felt pride wash through him. Quickly, before any of the more nervous and anxious members could immediately refuse the idea or convince others of how much of a bad idea the ritual could be, he moved on, keeping a hand up just in case any of the more rebellious tried to speak over him.
"Please, keep in mind," Albus Dumbledore spoke with the utmost sincerity, dark, grieving, and sorrowful eyes pinning each and every Order member in place with the pure emotion that churned within them. "That I am only suggesting this as a last resort, and not as an immediate fix. We will vote but I need, I plead with you all to keep in mind, that for me to merely suggest this…"
Things have become much graver than ever before.
While it went unsaid, everyone understood.
Severus in the back corner grit his teeth but remained silent, as he had since the meeting had begun.
William Weasley, or otherwise known as Bill, frowned severely but kept his lips determinedly closed, a firm hand resting on young Ronald's shoulder who looked just about ready to protest loudly. The youngest Weasley shut his mouth and merely glared at the far wall, eyes smoldering.
Alice and Frank Longbottom stood resolutely but neither spoke, only staring ahead at their former Headmaster and now leader. There was a tightness around their eyes and their mouths were pursed into pale lines. Alice absently ran a scarred, thin hand over her flat belly.
Albus sighed heavily but this time it was much more profound. He absently played with the thin journal containing yellowed stiff pages that he held in one wrinkled hand. His mouth opened and when he spoke, his voice was subdued and yet all the more weighted and raw.
"Held by Order of the Phoenix, Albus Dumbledore," he didn't waste time on those time consuming middle names, "concerning the ritual ofΟ Θεός θα το χαλάζι, I hereby hold a vote." He looked once more into the eyes of those beholding him and he silently urged them to at least consider the chance for turning the war in their favor.
Breathing deeply, Albus stared into faces of each and every Order member. "Those in favor."
Nearly half of the hall's occupants raised their hands and Albus felt something grow and flourish within him and yet, another part of him, withered and died.
"Those not in favor."
The other half of the sad population raised their hands.
Hope and dread warred within the barriers of Dumbledore's mind, raging and roaring at each other. He knew this was what he wanted- he'd counted. The ritual would be used- but something cold, wet, and clammy coiled up within the bowels of his stomach, bringing such a terrifying cold with it that he almost shivered. He knew this ritual could, and possibly would, go terribly, terribly wrong and end in all their deaths and perhaps even the destruction of the world.
But at this rate, with the whole of Britain dissolving in a magical and muggle war and the rest of the European nation not so far off, Albus Dumbledore thought it might already be too late to use the forsaken ritual.
Hope brewed just as well as the already coiled dread within the aged and wizened Leader of Light. There was no telling what could possibly happen with no certain amount of clarity. He just hoped it wouldn't leave the already broken and losing side of light that much worse off.
One could only hope.
I would really appreciate any commentary or criticism. It's been quite a while since I've read or even watched the Potter series so please feel free to correct any mistakes or plot errors I make.
Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed and reviews would be most certainly welcomed.