Title: Advent Requiem
Author: wonderbread9
Website: N/A
Genre: AU (or AR? Um…), slash, Het.
Rating: PG-13, R for later parts
Pairing/Characters: Draco/Ginny, Sirius/Remus, Remus/Neville,
Ron/Severus, Hermione/Harry, Albus/Minerva, Lucius/Voldemort, Lily/James, Crabbe/Goyle, Arthur/Molly, Peter Pettigrew/Ron (one sided), Mudungus Fletcher, Tonks/Moody,
Summary: In the darkness, light can be found
Warnings: It's an AU-ficlet, but the characters remain the same…well, under the circumstances. What do you get when you combine zombies and Harry Potter? A fic of epic proportions of course! I've been steadily working on this fic since I read The Order of the Phoenix. It follows its own story line from when Lily, James and Harry was attacked by Voldemort those many, many years ago. After that event, well…Things get a little weird. Bare with me.
Author's Notes: I am an adamant fan of slash…Particularly that rare pair of RW/SS & RW/PP; however, those pairings most definitely are NOT the focus of this fic. Also, I don't care how the series ended or who ended up with whom. If I did, then this fic would have a few canonical elements, wouldn't it?
OoO
ad·vent (dvnt): The coming or arrival, especially of something extremely important.
[Middle English, the Advent season, from Old French, from Latin adventus, arrival, from past participle of advenre, to come to : ad-, ad- + venre, to come; see gw- in Indo-European Roots.]
req·ui·em (rkw-m, rkw-): a.) A mass for a deceased person. b.) A musical composition for such a mass. c.) A hymn, composition, or service for the dead. [Middle English, from Latin, accusative of requis, rest, the first word of the mass for the dead : re-, re- + quis, quiet; see kwei- in Indo-European Roots.]
*
PART ONE:
The World
Before
I.
Place: Godric's Hollow
Time: October 31st, 1981
OoO
/BEWARE/…
It was a strange, ghostly whisper that woke her on the pale, gray morning of October 31st. The rain went pitter-patter against the foggy windows of Godric's Hollow as James stirred restlessly in his sleep, and Harry sat, peeking his head above the gate of his baby bed with watchful, curious green eyes, sucking absently on his pacifier. He waited for her expectantly, fat, pink one-year-old arms outstretched, reaching.
Lily Potter yawned, rubbed her eyes and stood, feeling that brush of something strange drift across her mind as she went over to her waiting son and scooped him into her arms. She breathed deep and steadied herself, before turning to Harry's frowning green eyes and smiled.
"C'mon, love, let's get you something to eat before Daddy wakes up and gobbles up everything." She turned on her heel, ready to step forward and proceed to the kitchen—
/Beware/…
—and nearly stumbled, arms tightening instinctively around Harry, as a cold chill rushed up and down her back like freezing, wet fingers tracing their way over the ridges of her spine. Lily gasped in surprise, laying a free hand on the door frame to regain her footing and breathed deep. Harry pulled his pacifier from his mouth and made a dismayed sound, wriggling in her arm. She stood up right again and brushed the moppy black hair from Harry's face, smoothing out his frowning forehead.
"It's alright, Harry," she cooed. "It's alright." But she wasn't sure, and in Harry's semi-mystical state of one-year-old wisdom, she was sure her son didn't think so either. She continued to the kitchen with no further incident save the growing sense of something…/just something/…crowding her stomach, a premonition that something was coming. She sat Harry in his high chair and picked her wand up from where she left it the night before when Sirius and Remus had come over. As she waved her wand and a bottle flew out of the cupboard, positioning itself under her wand's tip and warm milk poured from the magical wood, she recalled that night in great detail.
It had started out as a personal call: Sirius with his barking laugh had come with mischief gleaming in his eyes and Remus with his quiet smile had helped Lily put Harry to bed before the two of them had joined James and Sirius in the living room. There the conversation had shifted from the glad old days of their time at Hogwarts to the current threat that hung over everyone's heads, wizards and muggles alike.
"You know, there are rumors that Voldemort's put a price on your heads," Sirius said in a hushed whisper as if speaking the Dark Lord's name would bring him down upon their wary heads. James wrapped an arm protectively around Lily's shoulders and frowned fiercely.
"Voldemort's not going to get us here," he replied confidently. "Dumbledore's put so many wards around this place, it's hard to cast any magick without tripping one of them off. You've no idea how many times he's flooed us warning us to keep our casting down to a minimum. S'gotten so bad that all we can really do is make Harry his milk and Accio a few things across the house."
"That's all the casting you should be doing," Remus said ruefully. "Handle it all the Muggle way. Cook your own meals, do your own laundry. The least likely it is for Voldemort to find you, the better."
James sighed. "I just wish this bloody war would be over with. I'm sick of not going out because one of his blasted spies might see us."
"We don't have much choice, James," Lily replied, finally speaking up. "For our sake, for Harry's sake, we've got to keep safe. When Dumbledore tells us it's alright, first thing we'll do is take Harry to a park, or the beach or anywhere our hearts fancy."
James grinned at her and kissed her forehead lightly. "Lily, whatever would I do without you?"
"Whither and die, I suppose," she replied sweetly. To that, everyone laughed.
"She's got you there, mate," Sirius said between barks of laughter.
"When hasn't she?" James replied in a sour tone.
"Still," Remus said sobering the group up immediately, "you've got to be careful. These are dangerous times now. Not like back at school when you two—" he glared pointedly at James and Sirius who both flashed him looks of pure innocence—"could fool around and do what you wanted. I want you to promise me, James, Lily, that you won't do ANYTHING unless Dumbledore tells you."
James sat forward and took Remus' hand in his, and it was the first in all the time that Lily knew him, that the mischievousness fell from her husband's face completely. Even when he had promised Dumbledore the same thing not too long ago, he had still had that typical James Potter gleam of mischief twinkling in his blue eyes. But now, it was replaced with a look of absolute seriousness.
"Trust me, Remus," he replied and squeezed his friend's hand. "I promise you I won't. Marauder's honor."
Remus uttered a relieved sigh. "Thank you, James."
"No problem," James replied and sat back, putting his arm back around Lily and squeezing her shoulders tightly.
Thinking back on it now, as she handed Harry his bottle and watched him suck the bottle's nipple hungrily, she had a growing sense that they could not--or would not--be able to keep Remus' promise.
"Well, bloody hell," came a sleepy voice from behind. "I wanted some milk, too."
Lily turned with a start as James shuffled into the kitchen with a sleepy smile, his moppy hair sloping messily to one side, his glasses perched precariously on the edge of his nose. At the sight of her husband, her troubled thoughts became momentarily forgotten, and he swept her squealing into his arms and planted a messy, playful kiss on her lips. She swatted him away with an, "Oh James, now that was gross."
He said huskily, "You know you love my kisses." And made to grab her again. She pointed her wand at him warningly.
"Keep it up and I'll turn you into a toad," she threatened. He wiggled his eyebrows at her.
"You know in fairy tale's the toad always gets the kiss," he replied nonplussed. She rolled her eyes.
"You mean 'frog', don't you?"
"I love it when you talk dirty," he teased. She shook her head, exasperated, as he made his way over to Harry and scooped the baby up in his arms. Harry momentarily removed his bottle from his mouth and offered it to his father. James grinned, said, "Well, I would love to join you for breakfast," and made gobbling noises before assaulting Harry with sloppy kisses. The baby squealed in delight, flailing his little arms and legs, as James spun them both in a tiny circle in the small space of the kitchen. He pulled back and planted a firm kiss on the boy's forehead then put him back in his high chair. "But I don't think Mum here would let me have that bottle."
"No, I wouldn't," Lily affirmed, turning to a cupboard and looking in. James rolled his eyes, turning to Harry and, said in a stage whisper, "Can't say what possessed me to marry her, mate. I think I was drugged."
Harry gurgled around his bottle as Lily whirled on her husband in shock. James snorted in laughter. He smiled cheekily at her as she shot him a dark look and turned back to the cupboard and removed a box of pancake mix.
"You know," James said coming up from behind and wrapped his arms around her waist. "I think we should have one more of those."
She glanced back at him puzzled. "One more of what?"
"Well, you know." His grin was goofy. "Another Harry, of course."
She snorted and reached into the cupboard for a bowl. "Really? And would you be willing to carry…one more of those?"
"Huh?" It was James' turn to look puzzled.
"Yeah," Lily replied, turning in his arms and wrapping her's around his neck. She planted a feather light kiss on his lips. "They've been making advances at the Ministry of Magic. Some new spells and potions and all that."
His eyes widened. James sputtered, "Wa-wa-wait. You mean, blokes…blokes…You mean, blokes…they're…I mean…wait a second."
Lily grinned wickedly. "Oh yes. Makes it easier for the witch, doesn't it? Wizards giving birth and all that."
James swallowed thickly and stepped away from her. "I will not give birth," he replied firmly. She smiled sweetly.
"Then don't talk to me about having another one of those." And motioned to Harry, who had finished his bottle and was reaching over the side of his high chair to drop the bottle on the floor. James glared at his wife as she 'accio-ed' Harry's bottle away from him before he could continue with his plan. The baby gave a dismayed cry and glared at her with his wide green eyes. James went over to his son and picked him up.
"C'mon, your Mum's talking crazy," he said to Harry, pointedly ignoring Lily's laughter. "We'll go out into the yard and play in the rain."
"Don't you dare," Lily growled, sobering quickly. "He'll get sick. Play with him in his baby room or so help me…"
"Okay, okay," James conceded. He added a bit quieter, "Mum doesn't know how to have fun anyway."
"Get out of my kitchen, James Potter, and take your rugrat with you," she ordered with a flick of her wand. James snorted and walked out of the kitchen with Harry in tow. She heard him toss loudly over his shoulder, "How d'you like that, Harry? We've been turned out of the kitchen like a bunch of common gremlins."
She shook her head exasperatedly and started on the pancakes, mixing water and the powdery mix into a bowl and stirring both with a simple wave of her wand. She summoned a spatula, oil and a pan over to the stove, turned the stove on and waited for it to heat up. The muffled sounds of Harry squealing from the next room came to her ears, and James crying loudly, "Up, up, up and away we go! Choo! Choo! All aboard the Harry and James Express! Choo! Choo!" Lily smiled widely, turned to the stove, picked up the spatula and—
/Beware/…
—dropped it as a wash of cold, cold dread rushed over her body and into the very core of her being. Lily turned this way and that, searching for the source of the dread and, finding none among the nooks and crannies of the kitchen, turned her attentions to the window. It stood across from her, right next to the kitchen's back door, letting in the gray light of cloudy morning. She walked towards it slowly and looked out, but there was nothing out there except a damp, water-logged backyard and some of Harry's toys scattered about. Her stomach shifted, twisting into painful knots of anxiety as she swallowed a suddenly dry throat.
What was happening to her?
Ever since last night, she had had the recurring feeling that something horrible was coming.
Voldemort?
Lily shook her head, not wanting to believe that possibility, but it /was/ a possibility. Perhaps, Voldemort had found out where they were hiding and was going to make his move some time soon. She tried to swallow again and found her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.
She had gleaned from the bits and pieces of news she heard from muggle towns surrounding Godric's Hollow that strange occurrences were happening in other parts of the world: fire suddenly exploding in the sky, men flying on brooms firing sparks of dangerous light at each other, women disappearing in and out thin air casting spells and crying out magickal incantations.
The Dark Lord was becoming bold, attacking muggles and wizards alike out in the open instead of in the shadows. He was spreading, reaching his ghastly claws from the wizarding world into the oblivious world of the muggles.
"James!" she called, gripped by sudden choking fear. "James, come here a minute!"
There was a muffled reply before he came walking swiftly into the kitchen with a frown.
"Where's Harry?" she asked. He motioned back the way he had come.
"In his pen," he replied. He eyed her strangely before going to her and wrapping her in his arms. "What's wrong, love?"
"Just something," she answered. She shook her head and hugged him closer. "I don't know what…I just have a feeling…" Her voice trailed off as she met his blue eyes. His look was one of concern.
"Lily, if this is about the other night," he began. "Don't worry. We're safe. Dumbledore wouldn't let anything happen."
"Are you sure?" she asked doubtful. "He's a powerful wizard, James, but he's still human. Dumbledore can make mistakes."
"He wouldn't," James assured her. "Not with us. Not with Harry here."
She shook her head. "But this feeling—"
"Is just that," he said cutting her off. "Nothing to worry about."
Lily wasn't convinced. Even when James planted a firm, loving kiss on her forehead and returned to the playroom where he left Harry, and she turned back to making breakfast, that growing sense of something dark approaching lodged itself in her throat and wouldn't budge.
OoO
"Dumbledore, sir!"
The youth was no more than nineteen or twenty, still a baby compared to the Headmaster's one hundred and twenty years, but as he rushed into Dumbledore's office with a franticly sweating face and wide, panic-filled eyes, Dumbledore cast aside all the wisdom of his old years and waited patiently for the boy to speak. The young man sucked in much needed gulpfuls of air as Dumbledore waited, a snaking tendril of dread curling like a coiled snake at the base of the old man's spine. He inquired, "Yes, m'boy, what is it?"
The young man, brown-eyed and blonde-haired, looked up and swallowed thickly. He answered in a frightened whisper, "It's the Dark Lord, sir. He's planning another attack."
Fawkes let out a high-pitched screech and fluttered his wings as the Headmaster leaned forward, his chair squeaking with the shifted weight. The normal, twinkling blue-eyed gaze that Albus Dumbledore fixed kindly on any visitor to his office was gone. He glared at the young man with an intense stare that pinned him to the spot.
"What do you know?" The tendril of dread uncoiled in the pit of Dumbledore's stomach, twisting a purposeful path through his veins and snaking about his heart. The beating organ was turning as cold as ice as each second passed.
The young man sputtered for a moment and swallowed again. Dumbledore's glare intensified.
"Tell me quickly, child! We don't have much time!"
The young man snapped out of his momentary stupor, sputtered and answered, "Heard it from one of the spies. Flew over here as fast as I could—"
"Yes, yes." Dumbledore waved the boy to hurry.
"Well," the young man looked away, nibbled his lip. "It's the Stone, sir."
"The Stone?" Dumbledore sat back in his chair, puzzled. He frowned. "What about it?"
"The Dark Lord—" The young man swallowed thickly—"he's found It, sir."
Dumbledore's silence was a shocked one as all color suddenly drained from his face.
"He-He knows—" Dumbledore's blue eyes widened in alarm. He stood abruptly, and walking swiftly from behind his desk, said, "Go now. Quickly. To Professor McGonagall. Tell her it is an emergency."
The young man nodded and hastily darted out of the headmaster's office.
Fawkes lifted off from his perch and landed on the older man's desk as Dumbledore went to stand before one of his office's many windows and looked out over the quiet grounds of a Hogwarts blanketed in the last rays of dying evening. The bird fixed Dumbledore's back with a pointed stare and after a moment the old Headmaster turned and met the bird's stare with his own unflinching gaze.
The Stone.
The Stone.
Voldemort knew about the Stone and he…
He was…
Dumbledore breathed deeply, willing himself not to panic, willing that tendril of dread to remain just that, a tendril and not become the grasping fingers of full-fledged alarm. He rubbed a weary had over equally weary eyes.
If Voldemort retrieved the Stone…
If the /Dark Lord/ retrieved the Stone…
Then everything—everything—Dumbledore had worked so hard to prevent would come crashing down about his ears. Everything—every victory, every defeat, every lost life and failed plan, everything—would be in vain. It would be as if he had not risen against Voldemort at all.
Dumbledore turned away from Fawkes' glare and looked out over the quiet grounds of Hogwarts. All of this, all the peacefulness of the night with the cold, pinpoints of stars twinkling into existence in the sky, the students he was sure—even now—still playing their mischievous holiday pranks despite the threat of Voldemort, would be destroyed if he did not…
If he couldn't…
Dumbledore did not like these 'what if's' at all.
"What's happened?" came Minerva's frantic question as she walked swiftly into the office with a stricken look. Dumbledore turned to her solemnly as the young man trailed in behind her. Dumbledore waved him away and the young man bowed, leaving the office and shutting the door behind him.
"He's found the Stone," Dumbledore replied simply, taking off his glasses and cleaning them on his robe. Minerva's face clouded up for a moment in puzzlement, her mouth forming a vague, "Who?" before her eyes widened and she covered her mouth, aghast.
"He's—He's—" Her eyes widened as she met the Headmaster's weary gaze. "The Potters! What'll we do? Are we too late to warn them?"
"Come," he ordered going to his fireplace and picking up the small bag of floo powder he kept on the mantel. "We will try to floo them."
Minerva nodded and stood behind him, hovering close as he took a handful of the iridescent powder and threw it into the flames. The fires flared up for a moment before Dumbledore spoke, "Potter's Residence. Godric's Hollow." Then waited.
"Nothing's happening," Minerva said, every word laced with panic. "Albus, nothing's happening!"
He waved her silent and tried once more to contact the Potters by fireplace. He tried to will the anxious knot forming in his throat a way, but when he threw the powder into the fireplace with the same result as before, the panic and dread came back to him full-force. He stood upright as Minerva looked first to him then to the fireplace then to him again.
"What's wrong? What's happened?"
"We're being blocked," Dumbledore stated in as level tone as he could muster. "It can only mean one thing." He turned to her as she slowly shook her head. "We may already be too late."
"Have you sensed anything from the house's wards?"
Dumbledore frowned, cocked his head to the side as if he were listening hard for something then shook his head.
"No," he replied. "Nothing. I feel…nothing is amiss."
"A false alarm perhaps?" she asked, hopeful.
Dumbledore shook his head. "No. Not a false…"
His voice trailed off as he looked about his office, studying each hewn stone, each nook and cranny, every painting from Hogwarts' Headmasters and Mistresses of the far distant past to the not so distant, every still tapestry and the other odds and ends that decorated this room. He frowned at every object his eyes lit upon. He met Fawkes eyes for a brief moment before turning back to Minerva with a gleam in his eye.
"Albus…?"
"We must take down the wards…" His voice sounded vague as if he were listening to something from afar and relaying the message.
"The wards?" Minerva questioned puzzled. "I don't—"
"The Apparating wards," he interrupted and gestured a vague hand about the room. "If tonight is the night, and we are too late to warn them, we can at least hope they will try to Apparate onto Hogwarts grounds."
"But they wouldn't know the wards are down, Albus," she replied. "They'd Apparate to Hogsmeade."
He nodded, his gaze as vague as his voice. "But then with the wards down, we can Apparate to them and then bring them back here as quickly as necessary." He turned a hardened gaze to her. "We must…It is the only way to save them."
"We'll need all the teachers to help us," she said. He nodded.
"Then we'll have them," he replied and rested a firm hand upon her shoulder, met her dark brown eyes with his deep blue.
"It is the only way we can save them now."
She swallowed and nodded slowly, placing a hand over his for a moment, squeezing and then disappearing from the office swiftly to gather the teachers for the task at hand. Dumbledore stood for a moment, flexing his hand, staring hard at it, but before he could pause to think—think about anything else except the Potters and the growing sense that time was short—Fawkes screeched and Dumbledore, startled, turned to look back at that ancient bird. He nodded swiftly, once, twice and then left the office.
There was a job to be done.
OoO
A few more minutes……
He watched from the shadows through hooded green eyes the flickering shapes of shadows moving across the dimly lit windows of the stone house that sat across from him, a million miles it seemed, but only a few hundred feet or so. There was a child's toy at his feet, muggle-made and he had a moment or two of familiar disgust burn through his blood at that damning object, before kicking it aside. It toppled over in the rain, but the sound was muffled by the muddy dirt and the loud pitter-pattering of watery droplets from the nighttime sky.
"My Lord?"
There was no answer to this query, but the young man who had spoken had long since given up on expecting one. For though the young man with the silvery gold hair and gray eyes had known the man in front of him longer than any of the other hooded men out there with them, had been the recipient of much of his good favor and the hissing voice that spoke of victory as a thing that was already achieved, it was still hard to interrupt him, and calling attention to himself still brought on a tendril of fear.
A few more minutes until…
He glanced back at the anxious young man, hidden behind the white death's mask that all of the young men in this select group wore, knowing that that young man was afraid of him, deathly afraid, and smirked.
"Yessss, my pet," he hissed quietly, but loud enough for them to hear over the rain. The young man swallowed, but asked the question that burned in his mind, burned in all their minds.
"My Lord, how long?"
He stared hard at the young man, saw him swallow a dry throat and tremble under the intense scrutiny, saw him fidget with his wand momentarily then—he could almost hear the reprimanding thoughts going through the young man's head like a cold whisper of silk—snatch his hand a way from the wood as if he had been burned, thrust his chin defiantly and meet this scrutiny with his gray, gray eyes of misty mornings and storm-covered seas.
"Sssssoon, my pet," he whispered. "Sssssoon. It issss only a matter of time. And then we ssshall move, like the thief in the night, and take what issss ourssss."
He felt a tendril of excitement and something more rush through the ranks of those gathered with him, felt a dark sense of purpose cloud his mind with the sweet, sinister taste of victory as another one of those shadowed figures moved across the window slowly. It was a woman's shape, holding something squirming in her arms it seemed. A child? The Child?
He felt something slither down his spine as that woman's shape loomed closer to the window and a curtain cracked. He caught sight of flaming red hair through the rain and green eyes that flashed with a worried gleam. It was indeed a baby in her arms, sucking his pacifier and playing absent fingers through her hair. His eyes narrowed into thin, angry slits as the curtain fell and another shape, a man's shape loomed up next to the woman's and the child's taking both in his arms and leading them away. He hissed in dismay.
"My Lord?"
He glanced back at the young man and breathed deep.
"We move," he hissed. "We move."