STORY INFORMATION

Name: Puppeteers
Author:
BlackToWhite
Rating: NC-17/M
Warnings: Graphic Violence, Bad Language


Chapter 2 – Tom

„Fuck!"

Neville Longbottom was swearing heavily and had been doing so for quite a while now. If everyone else hadn't been preoccupied with what they were doing, this would have surely turned quite a few heads, for he was normally a quiet boy – not shy, at least not anymore – but he was rather someone that exuded confidence through a silent, calming presence – not someone who swore. However, everyone would have also conceded that he had a damn good reason for swearing.

The name of this reason was Antonin Dolohov, Inner Circle Death Eater.

Neville had trained long and hard during the past three years, ever since Bellatrix Lestrange had escaped Azkaban, along with many others but nothing could have prepared him for what it was like to fight someone else to the death. He had, up until now, only been part of one minor skirmish in Hogsmeade, but that had been over quickly, as the Death Eaters had been overpowered by Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts before it could have resulted into a fully-fledged battle. Plus, they had all been new recruits, therefore their skills could not be really be compared to one of Voldemort's twenty-five elite Death Eaters. Especially not Dolohov, whose duelling skills had been legendary in the First Wizarding War – it had been rumoured that he had killed more people than Voldemort himself.

Therefore, Neville thought that he was holding his own rather well, as he ducked under a blood-red curse that he had seen Dolohov use earlier in the battle – it looked like a very nasty version of the Cutting Jinx Diffindo, but since he had no idea what the hell it was, he wouldn't be going around trying to block it.

The problem was that even though he was, for his experience, holding his own remarkably well, Death Eaters didn't tend to care about that. And Dolohov was slowly, but surely battling him into a corner, smirking all the time, only using minimal wand movements – as though Neville wasn't worth his full concentration.

Not that he minded – even though it was infuriating and humiliating, Neville was rather sure that he would dead by now, had Dolohov taken him seriously.

"Shit." He muttered again, as Dolohov started another chain of spells.

Yes, this was definitely a day that warranted swearing.


A few metres away from Neville, Hermione Granger was having similar problems. She was battling Alecto Carrow, another Inner Circle Member. Carrow was showing to be rather partial with fire spells, unleashing every kind of fire curse that Hermione knew of and many she didn't know of, short of Fiendfyre. Luckily Hermione was rather well-versed in duelling, having fought rather dirty with Draco Malfoy quite often, but this was still something different altogether. She was rather lucky that Alecto Carrow was one of the weaker Inner Circle members – she wouldn't have lasted a minute against Rabastan Lestrange – who was duelling Kingsley Shacklebolt a few feet behind her – or against Dolohov.

"Lancea Ignis!" Carrow had just hurled a fiery lance at her that would probably kill her impact – Hermione wasn't really keen on finding out, so she ducked to the side, casting a Banishing Charm at her opponent rather quickly and forcefully. Carrow, who hadn't suspected her retaliating this quick was caught unawares and flew – rather unceremoniously – into one of the marble walls of Gringotts, at the very least out cold, if not with a broken neck. This gave Hermione the chance to catch her breath again and to take a quick look around.

Despite the fact that the battle had only been going on for about ten minutes of so – time was really hard to estimate when fighting for your life – Diagon Alley was a mess. Most of the shops had been closed as soon as the first Death Eater had apparated in, but they were still rather damaged. Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour had been completely burnt, the charred corpse of the talented ice cream maker just sticking out under the debris that was still smouldering. Gringotts had also been locked and bolted rather quickly – Goblins didn't interfere in Wizarding affairs on principle.

All around her, many of her classmates were fighting the Death Eaters as well as they could, which was probably better than they had anticipated, due to the Defence Association that Neville Longbottom had founded during their third year when Voldemort had been on the move again, making himself known by busting his followers out of prison – including the person that Neville probably hated more than anyone else on the planet – Bellatrix Lestrange. This had, more than anything else, caused Neville to become the person that he was now.

Today was the Wednesday before the next school year, so naturally there had been quite a few Hogwarts students in the alley, buying school supplies for their next year of schooling. This was probably what the Death Eaters had anticipated when planning their attack – hit as many children as you can to make an impression. From a strategic point of view, Hermione had to admit that that wasn't really a bad idea – but then, nobody would say that Voldemort was stupid – and that it should have been expected, by increasing security in Diagon Alley or something. That schoolchildren had to pay the price of the government's incompetence was despicable, though, sadly, nothing new – the Ministry had proven to be wholly ineffective in the war that had been raging for two years now. Only the Order of the Phoenix got anything done at all and even that wasn't a lot.

All around Hermione, there were the dead and the injured and she was sure that she should probably be vomiting her stomach empty at the gory sight she was experiencing, but it somehow seemed surreal to her. Her eyes travelled the carnage a little more and she stumbled forwards, tasting the blood in the air consciously for the first time. She suddenly stumbled and looked at the ground, trying to find the cause of this. And she immediately wished she hadn't.

Lying on the ground was Wayne Hopkins, a year mate of hers from Hufflepuff. He had, she noticed with almost clinical distance, been hit by an Eye-Rupturing Curse and an Entrail-Expelling Curse and was barely even recognizable as a human. His intestines were draped over his face that was frozen in horror, his dead eyes forever pleading for mercy. She suddenly noticed that they formed the shape of penis on his corpse, which caused her snort softly.

A moment later she realized that she was either in shock or insane.

This was the last thing Hermione realized before she passed out.


"Sectumsempra!"

Dolohov grinned like a maniac as the blood-red beam shot from his wand once more. This time, Neville was to slow to dodge and the spell his shoulders, immediately slicing it open. Blood was now flowing freely down Neville's left arm and he could barely move it – luckily, it wasn't his wand arm. Still, he was exhausted, aching all over and couldn't see correctly with his right eye because a flying rock had hit him just above it, creating a steady drip of blood right in front of his eye. And his condition wasn't about to get better, either.

It was now or never.

He gathered all his remaining strength and raised his wand to the sky, saying the one spell that he had stumbled across while reading, the warnings that had accompanied it flashing within his mind: it needed a huge amount of magical energy, it could kill or severely injure the caster and it was uncontrollable – it simply hit everyone, without distinction between ally or enemy. Still, it was the only spell that he knew that was not possible to be blocked by magical means, only by physical barriers, so it would at least hit Dolohov.

With these thoughts flashing through his mind, he brought his wand down like a hammer.

"MALLEUS MALEFICARUM!"

A shock wave of blue emanated from Neville, hitting the unsuspecting Dolohov squarely in the chest and sending him flying. Luckily for the Death Eater, though , his impact was somewhat softened by landing on the corpse of two eleven-year-old girls, but he was still out cold and probably had at least some broken bones.

Others were not so lucky.

Terry Boot and Michael Corner, two Ravenclaws, who were duelling a masked Death Eater less than two metres away were hit and were thrown against Magical Menagerie. Terry was rather lucky, because he hit a window, which broke and scraped him but at least lessened his speed considerably. Michael, however, was thrown straight against the concrete wall of the building, his neck breaking with a crack, his attacker sharing his fate.

A Ministry employee, who was losing rather badly against another masked Death Eater – probably Crabbe or Goyle Sr., judging from the body build – was also thrown through the air, directly into Amycus Carrow. Both of them went down, unconscious and rather battered, but – as far as Neville could see when quickly scanning the consequences of his desperate move – alive. The masked Death Eater had, surprisingly quickly, ducked behind a rather large chunk of concrete that had been blown out of the street.

Before Neville could continue his survey of his surrounding somehow, he felt something intimidating and powerful. And something very, very bad. When looking up while wiping blood and sweat from his eyebrows, his fears were confirmed.

Voldemort had arrived.


Even though Voldemort looked rather normal, yes, even handsome with his aristocratic face, his black hair and his slender build and Neville had never met him personally before, there was no-one else who could radiate such evil, such a feeling of wrong.

The Dark Lord surveyed the battlefield with the hint of smile, seemingly not caring that all battle around him had halted.

"Well, well, well." Voldemort mocked, clapping his white hands together – a sound like thunderclaps in the sudden silence. "You fought valiantly – much better than I expected from a bunch of schoolchildren and a few Ministry officials, I must say."

A Ministry worker that Neville knew from somewhere but couldn't quite place whimpered rather loudly at that moment. Voldemort flicked his wand, shooting a Killing Curse at the man without even looking. He slumped to the ground as the curse hit.

"As I was saying, you fought better than expected. Not good enough to beat my Death Eaters, obviously, but you have potential. You have proven that by still being alive after fifteen minutes of battle – and by not running away from me like scared children, I suppose."

Voldemort surveyed the people standing around him, looking at him with glee and awe (Death Eaters) or fear with his red, gleaming eyes that clashed with his otherwise handsome face.

"Therefore, I'll make this easy for you."

Suddenly, the smile on the Dark Lord's face was gone and his expression became cold.

"Join me… or die."

Total silence was the reaction to these words. Then, after what felt like an eternity to Neville, a student from Ravenclaw – Peter Ashford, if he recalled correctly – stepped forward, to the shock of most of the people in the crowd. He nodded his head briefly to Voldemort when was only a few steps from him.

"My Lord, may I speak?" His voice didn't waver at all – it was impossible to read any emotions from it.

With a pensive look on his face, Voldemort made a careless hand gesture, prompting him to go ahead.

Suddenly, Ashford's entire demeanour changed, loathing written all over his face. He glared at Voldemort contemptuously for less than a second and, before the Dark Lord could do something, spat him in the face.

"My Lord, fuck you."

Even though it had been a highly stupid move that would probably result in a very painful death for Ashford, Neville had to admire the courage that he showed. He was also a little thankful, because if Ashford hadn't done that, he would have probably done something among those lines, if the silence had stretched on – and while Neville was prepared to die for what he believed in, there was a difference between that and doing something downright stupid.

As he contemplated this rather quickly, the crowd of people hold their breath as one, even the Death Eaters that were standing in the crowd watched their master with bated breath.

Voldemort just stood there for a few seconds, not moving a muscle. However, the rage was rolling off of him in waves so fast and thick that it was nearly palpable. He slowly raised his blood red eyes that were shimmering with power and stared directly at Ashford, who didn't flinch back from the gaze – something that Neville had trouble doing, even though it wasn't even directed at him.

"You dare to spit me in the face." Voldemort said, his tone cold and harsh.

"I do, my Lord." Ashford sneered at him, the sarcasm evident in his tone. Once again, Neville asked himself what Ashford had to gain from this suicidal action, but he came up blank. He didn't even really know the guy, only that he was a rather average student and that he was on the Ravenclaw Quidditch Team. He was a year younger than Neville, but almost as tall as he was. Nothing really extraordinary about him – expect that he had just insulted the most powerful Dark Lord of a few centuries and would doubtlessly die a very painful death very soon, that is.

It happened so fast that Neville didn't even see it – he was, however, sure that Voldemort had not moved. But suddenly Ashford was down on his knees, blood running from his nose that was oddly askew – Voldemort had evidently struck him with magic.

"You should respect your superiors." Voldemort drawled, twirling his whitish wand between his fingers.

"The hell I will." Ashford coughed blood, but still stared at Voldemort in defiance, who simply sighed, as though he were a child that was misbehaving and he would have to teach him some manners.

"You know…" He mused, rubbing his chin, while holding Ashford at wandpoint. "Dear Bella would probably just Cruciate you out of your mind for that." His eyes scanned the crowd and found Neville, whom he flashed a quick grin that caused his blood to boil, but he seemed rooted on the spot, unable to move a muscle below his neck. "I mean, it is certainly effective, I'll give her that." As if to prove his point, he silently cast a Cruciatus on the young Ravenclaw that was lying at his feet, who was suddenly flailing in agony. His face was crunched up – but he didn't scream, showing his enormous willpower once again. After half a minute or so, Voldemort lifted the curse.

"Th- that all you got, muzzerfugger?" Ashford slurred the words, blood running down his chin, but the meaning was clear. Voldemort, however, didn't curse him again, as Neville had though he would.

"No. No, it isn't." Voldemort grinned maliciously. "You see, I try to be… creative when doling out punishment. Skinning alive, cutting out internal organs, torching loved ones in front of them… it certainly encourages creativity."

"Fascinating." Ashford drawled in the most obnoxious manner that he could while spitting blood.

"While furthering my spell collection for moments such as these, I just recently came across a new spell that I would like to try… I'd tell you what it is. Unfortunately, it's Parseltongue, so you won't be able to understand it anyway, but the gist of it is that it is kind of a spell version of the Dementor's Kiss."

Upon hearing this, Ashford's face showed fear for the first time, but he quickly suppressed it. However, Neville had seen it and, judging by the triumphant look on the Dark Lord's face, he had as well.

"Ah, I see that you know what this entails." He paused for a moment. "Good. That makes this so much more entertaining." He chuckled darkly. "I'd let you stew in your fear for a few hours, but I've got things to do." He grinned at Ashford, who stared at him stubbornly. "Therefore… bid your soul goodbye."

Voldemort slowly raised his wand and started to – well, Neville would call it "hissing", though it sounded like a chant to those fluent in Parseltongue. As he progressed doing this, the air grew steadily colder and clammier, exactly like a Dementor and what looked like a whisp of white smoke slowly rose from Ashford's chest towards Voldemort's wand, who seemed completely unaffected by the chill. The young Ravenclaw's soul was sucked closer and closer towards Voldemort's wand and with each inch that it moved, Peter Ashford's eyes grew more lifeless.

However, just before his soul could enter the Dark Lord's wand, something akin to a miracle happened: a sharp and soft hiss resounded from behind the crowd that was watching the lobotomy of Peter Ashford ashen-faced and the spell broke off. The warmth returned to the air, just like Ashford's soul to its rightful owner. The moment that his soul re-entered his body, Ashford coughed blood again, right onto Voldemort's robe. However, the Dark Lord's interest was elsewhere at the moment – it was fixed upon the person that was standing behind the crowd.

The person that had interrupted his spell.

The person that had spoken Parseltongue.


He was tall, thin and had short, unruly black hair. He was dressed in Muggle clothing: blue, worn-out jeans with a few holes in them, a black hoodie that depicted the cover of Metallica's Master of Puppets and black sneakers. Sunglasses completed his outfit.

However, despite his Muggle appearance, he was obviously magical – he was not only holding a wand, but power was rolling off him in spades in a comforting way that reminded Neville of the song he had heard Fawkes sing once. When he saw the Death Eaters cringe, he knew that it had the same effect that Phoenix song had – it comforted those on the Light side and injected fear into the hearts of those that are evil, as it said in his Care of Magical Creatures textbook. Voldemort, curiously, didn't flinch, but he did eye the new arrival with a healthy amount of wariness. However, when he spoke, he exuded only confidence.

"Who are you that dares to cross wands with the great Lord Voldemort? In the noble tongue of Salazar Slytherin, no less." Try as he might, he couldn't quite hide his surprise upon discovering another Parselmouth, other than himself.

"Why should I tell you?" The other smirked.

"Because it will be very painful if you don't." Voldemort growled, raising his wand threatingly.

"I'm scared." For good measure, he added a yawn after that which only enraged the Dark Lord further.

"CRUCIO!"

Voldemort shot the Unforgivable at the young man with surprising speed and agility. However, he was nowhere quick enough. Within the blink of an eye, the newcomer had summoned a piece of debris in front of the curse that dissipated upon impact, causing the him to snicker.

"You'll have to do better than that, though." He chided Voldemort mockingly. "However - " He held up his hand to stop Voldemort to curse him again. "- before it gets violent… you can call me Tom."

Something about this sentence seemed to incense the Dark Lord like nothing before and he started firing a series of Dark curses at person who called himself 'Tom', most of which Neville did not recognize – he could only recognize the sickly green of the Killing Curse at least twice – which was a bit of an overkill, since any of these curse would have probably killed on impact anyway.

However, none of them hit.

'Tom' evaded each and every curse with a grace that Neville had never witnessed before – he jumped, ducked, dodged, pirouetted his way around every single curse that his opponent had fired, all the while grinning like mad. It was this grin that lead Voldemort to perform a move that probably no-one had expected.

"MALEDICTO INFERNUM!"

Neville and a few others in the crowd, who had recognized the incantation, gasped as hellish fire broke free from Voldemort's wand, forming a gigantic snake – a basilisk – that looked ready to cook 'Tom' alive. Before it could come even close to him, though, 'Tom' had waved his wand too, mumbling an incantation Neville couldn't quite hear.

Just as with Voldemort, a huge snake erupted from his wand. This one, however, was made of water – holy water, if the incantation was anything to go by. And, as incredible as it was, the water snake seemed to be winning. The hellish basilisk was fighting it with all that it had, but the water snake was simply bigger and it encircled it from all sides, ruthlessly squashing it until it extinguished.

As both the elemental snakes had disappeared, both of the duellists were panting heavily, though Neville though that Voldemort was panting harder (though it might have been wishful thinking). Once he had regained his breath, he shot him a dark look.

"You haven't seen the last of me, Mudblood. We will meet again – and then you'll pay." And with these words, he disappeared in a swirl of black. The wards that had separated the crowd and him, 'Tom' and a now unconscious Ashford, that Neville noticed just now, flickered and faded out of existence, while 'Tom' seemed unable to call something after Voldemort.

"He calls me Mudblood? Oh, that's rich!" And Neville couldn't help but fight a grin as the infectious laughter of their saviour echoed through the street.


Author's Note: Quick rundown on the non-canon spells used here:

Lancea Ignis - Spear of Fire (Latin, used an online translator)

Malleus Malleficarum - from "The Rise of the Gray Lord" by TheDarkestAngel16 (s/2091668)

Maledicto Infernum - from "Harry Potter and the Hand of Judgement" by Shadows of Vanity (s/7077718)

Anyway, not much edited here, just a few grammar errors and the like.