Disclaimer: Anything you recognized, I don't own. No, I'm not making any money off this story.
Chapter Ten:
They were sitting in the muddy corn field next to Irene's house in the middle of Mississippi. The corn was at the baby stage again, green leaves having just pushed their way up out of the dirt. It was growing thick, the only place untouched a small, circular clearing where two girls sprawled, one brunette with white stripes and the other blonde. They were both filthy, neither caring about the watery dirt that was slowly seeping between their toes, up their jeans and chilling their flesh.
They were too busy glaring at each other.
Carol, Rogue noticed, was the most solid psyche she'd ever played host too. It creeped her out that the witch was as physically there as her own hand. Even Logan and Remy, both of whom she'd zapped more often than anybody else, were still ghostly. Most of the psyches could be pushed when she encountered them mentally, so that they retreated into the silent depths of her mind, if only for a short period of time. Not Carol.
She just sat there, in the mud, glaring daggers at Rogue.
"Why are you so stubborn?" She asked.
Rogue remained silent, studying her. Thinking. She knew Carol had seen her past, just as she'd been dunked into Carol's memories. They knew more about each other than any other person in the world. Why was Rogue so stubborn? Carol should know the answer to that.
You didn't grow up as Mystique's daughter, raised by Irene, and deal with parasitic powers without being stubborn. Or else she'd long ago have turned emo and ended it all.
Rogue took a breath, "Why are you here?"
Carol looked confused. "You saw what happened."
She had, from both her own perspective and Carol's memories. She knew exactly what happened, up until the point when their hands touched and their minds were swept away from the pain, pushed together into Rogue's body.
"No," Rogue said, tilting her head. "Why are you here? Whenever the memories overwhelm me, the psyche winds up taking control for a bit. By all accounts, we shouldn't be stuck here, in my mindscape. By all accounts, you'd be running the show and I'd be stuck in here by myself, until you grew weak and I could break your hold. So why are you here?"
Carol looked, if possible, even more confused. She leaned forward, as though to share some deep secret.
"But Rogue," she said, smiling at me. Smiling! "you resisted me! You tried to drive me away, before I could even fully materialize. You nearly managed it, too." The smile faded a little, a distant look entering her eyes. "You nearly pushed me into the abyss."
Rogue had no response to that but to resume their glaring contest.
Carol rolled her eyes. "Are you at least going to work on getting us out of here, yeah? It's your mind after all."
Silence was her only answer. She crossed her arms then, feeling childish. "Then if you won't take control, I will!"
Snape kept his eyes trained on the stone floor beneath his knees. He was aware of his breathing, steady and deep. The masked Death Eaters around him were in the same position, knees grinding into the floor, hands by their sides and heads bowed, waiting for Voldemort to give them leave to rise.
Snape didn't think it would be occurring anytime soon. In fact, he didn't think any of them would be walking out of there without feeling the tender care of at least one Crucio apiece.
So he waited, reinforcing his Occlumency barriers, keeping his mind focused and clear. His purpose in the dark, dank room was to gather information, and he'd be damned if he didn't leave with some tidbit to relay. In particular: Why? Why attack at all? What was the purpose? Why at Platform 9 ¾ on the day when students returned from summer break, but only on the Muggle side of the barrier? Why were only twenty Death Eaters sent when they were outnumbered by the (granted untrained) students, yet at least seventy more currently shared the room, attending Voldemort's court? Lastly, why hadn't Snape been privy to knowledge of the attack?
He focused back on the present as a man halfway around the circle from him whimpered in fear. Everyone in the room tensed, not daring to even breathe too loud in the silence that resounded.
"Ahhahaha…are you scared?" The whispery, alto voice bounced off the bare walls of the room they were gathered in an almost singsong fashion.
The room resembled a ballroom, with a raised dais opposite the entrance, and a wide empty space between the two. But Severus knew better. After all, ballrooms weren't situated underground, with stone floors to trip dancers, and a chill that couldn't be warded off.
No, they were in the dungeons, cleared of the wood and steel cells, but still reeking of centuries of prisoner's sweat, tears, and blood. It was a fitting place for the Dark Lord's throne room.
Footsteps echoed as a gentle thump against stone stairs, once, twice, three times descending the dias. Then, a pause, during which everyone held their breath.
"I asked a question, Wormtail!"
Wormtail whimpered again. Snape could feel his lips curling up in disgust.
"Crucio!"
The Death Eater fell to the ground, convulsing and screaming, incoherent pleads bubbling from his mouth. The two wizards on either side of him leaned away, as though to avoid being struck by his spittle.
Then it was lifted and the Dark Lord was pacing around their circle, his wand jabbed into different Death Eater's faces, gripped tightly by bony fingers.
"Are any of you frightened? Clearly, you aren't, not of me at least. But of mudbloods! Filth! Scum that somehow managed to defeat your brethren! Crucio!"
Another Death Eater fell, the shouts betraying the voice of a female.
Bellatrix, Snape realized. If she, a favorite of the Dark Lord, was being punished there was no hope for the rest of them.
"I don't know how you managed to fail this! You, Death Eaters, you are supposed to be the best of the wizarding world, yet you let the diseased leeches bring you down? Crucio! You are a disappointment! Crucio! And I do not—Crucio!— tolerate— Crucio! Crucio!—disappointment! CRUCIO! Maybe you all are… inadequate to walk with me into the golden age, hmm? Crucio!"
He held the curse on another faceless Death Eater for nearly a minute, kicking their limp body away in disgust as he stalked back towards his throne.
"Does anyone bear good news? News of success? News of interest?" Voldemort hissed as he lowered himself, straight backed onto the ancient wood chair.
Hesitantly, a Death Eater approached from the ranks, sliding forward on his knees. "M-My Lord…" he reverently whispered.
"Ah, Yaxley. Tell me, what news do you bring?"
"My Lord, I was at St. Mungo's when several students were brought in from the battle. In my capacity as an Unspeakable, I took care of the dead, a mudblood. I stood in Dumbledore's presence, pretending to give the filth last rites as I listened to the words around me."
"Go on, Yaxley," Voldemort said, his eyes narrowed and following the man's every move.
Snape felt his blood run cold. He remembered the debriefing Dumbledore had given the Order after departing the hospital. If any of that information was leaked, the Dark Lord would surely use that information for more aggressive recruitment and Pureblood fervor.
"Harry Potter was talking to Dumbledore, my Lord. They spoke of a girl who dared to defy you by erecting a shield in the battle to protect the students. According to the healer and Dumbledore, she is nothing more than a muggle—a muggle who stole a magical core in some unknown way. The healer said it was growing and attaching itself to her, like it was a plant growing roots. Dumbledore convinced the healer to have her transported to Hogwarts." He paused for a second, heeding the gasps that arose from around him.
"Impossible!" someone breathed.
Voldemort rapped the heel of his wand against the arm of his throne, silencing the room.
"Impossible, you say? Did we not already know the mudbloods stole their magic from us? Pried it from the noble Purebloods like magpies filching something shiny, but unable to truly use it, because they are not wizards! They do not recognize the power of the jewels they have stolen! They are outsiders. Filth. A disease that must be cleansed. Is that not why you gather here, with me, your great leader? Isn't it?"
"Yes, my Lord…"
He stood, gliding down from the raised throne to stand in the center of the congregation. "We will purge the world. My brothers, we will strike this discord from the face of the earth and rebuild a perfect world from the ashes. All you need do is follow my word, to the letter—and I will reward you handsomely. Snape!"
Snape stiffened under the sudden scrutiny of the Dark Lord. "How may I serve you, my Lord?"
"I wonder that it is Yaxley, not you, that bears this news."
"My Lord, I did not consider it news worthy of bringing to your attention. As you said, it is not anything new for us to learn. The mudbloods are nothing more than leeches." It pained him to utter the word that had driven Lily so far from his side, but he pushed the hurt to some place deep in his mind.
"Let me be the judge of what is worthy of my attention or not, Severus." He approached Snape with deliberate slow steps and bent over, raising Snape's face with a long, thin finger under his chin. Snape willed his dark eyes blank. "Severus, you are to bring this girl and Harry Potter to me when next I call. They will be alive. They are to be examples of what happens to those who betray our cause."
Black eyes starred emotionlessly into scale-rimmed brown eyes, each warring for some form of upper hand. Voldemort's expression hardened as he released his grip on Snape's face. "Crucio!"
He was no stranger to the curse, but each introduction to it felt like a fresh plunge into the Arctic ocean while simultaneously being pierced by red hot needles along every nerve ending. He screamed and screamed, arching his back and twisting his hands into claws in an attempt to escape the pain until it ended what felt like centuries later. He didn't even try to pull himself off the cool stone, just panting, riding out the phantom shocks of pain and listening for any hint that there was more to come.
Footsteps, then a rustling of a robe indicated Voldemort once again had ascended his throne. Snape relaxed his mind, knowing he was safe.
"I believe you had something else to share with us, Yaxley?"
"Yes, my Lord. Harry Potter was injured in the battle along with his whore, Granger. It was implied, my Lord, in the course of their conversation, that a prophecy stated that Potter was to engage in a duel with you. However, he was… distraught and angry with Dumbledore because he had not yet received any training and would not in the future. They mean for him to be put up for slaughter like cattle, a sacrifice… for you, my Lord!" Yaxley uttered, leaning forward with his entire body, face earnest.
Voldemort stared at Yaxley for a long moment, breathing deeply as though he were a man who had come close to drowning.
"A sacrifice?" he tilted his head, the corners of his mouth creeping upwards. Yaxley nodded briefly.
Snape shuddered miserably on the stone floor as Voldemort—Voldemort!—threw back his head and cackled, the sound echoing throughout the dungeon.
Dumbledore quickly sidestepped out of the way as Madame Pomfrey rushed past to reach the other side of the bed. She pulled the curtains shut so that they might have some privacy and then turned her wand to the brunette on the bed.
"You're sure she's regaining consciousness?" Dumbledore inquired, studying the still girl through his half-moon glasses.
"Yes, her vitals have all picked up nearly fifty percent in the past hour. Really, it's safe to wake her with an Enervate now. I would have done it earlier, I just thought you'd want to be here is all. Whatever mental trauma she's been through, it's settled and the magical core has completely attached itself. It's functioning perfectly normally—only odd thing is that it functions too normally."
"What do you mean?"
"Take a look for yourself," she prodded him.
He tipped his head down to look past the glasses, relaxing the eye muscles. Bright blue eyes went unfocused for a moment, studying something elsewhere. The girl's magical core showed up as a forest green and navy blue mist focused around her hands and heart, as were many witches and wizard's cores. Dumbledore's own core, he'd been told, was a bright ice blue around his eyes, heart, and right hand (though he was still adept at dueling left-handed, he found it impossible to cast wandlessly with anything but his right hand).
"The definition and size…" he muttered to himself.
"Exactly." Pomfrey emphasized. "It's on the level of a mature adult core. As though she were a sixth or seventh year. But, from the description you and Healer Adonis gave me, she just acquired it."
"Yes," he replied quietly.
"I think, Headmaster, that she didn't just magically grow a core. I think she took it. From someone else."
Dumbledore turned his head sharply to stare at her. He opened his mouth to speak when a soft rustle from the bed caught their attention.
The girl was shaking her head upon the pillow, a furrow upon her brow. Abruptly, she stilled, even as Pomfrey started casting diagnostics.
"All normal," she declared.
The girl's eyes opened. "How curious," Dumbledore thought. The right eye was a dark green that went perfectly with her brunette hair and complexion. The left on, on the contrary, stood out as a bright blue that didn't seem to go with the girl's looks, somehow.
He broke out of his musings as her gaze focused on him. She smiled and took a breath.
"Headmaster, please, it's okay. She saved me—" her face went slack for a moment before restructuring itself into a scowl, mismatched eyes looking off to the side. "Don't do that!" Dumbledore was startled at the sudden American drawl. She focused back on him at the movement, a wary expression on her face. "Where am I then? The school? Why'd you bring me here— I'll be missed."
She threw back the covers, intent upon standing. Immediately Pomfrey was at her side, trying to usher the girl back into bed. The girl seemed to panic, cringing back from her.
"Don't touch me!" she shouted.
Pomfrey drew back, startled. "I'm not going to hurt you, dear. I'm a healer. You've been very injured and need to stay in bed until you are fully recovered. I think Headmaster Dumbledore has a few questions for you though. If you need anything just give a shout. My name's—"
"—Madame Pomfrey, I know."
Pomfrey and Dumbledore starred at the girl for a second as she sheepishly pushed her hair out of her face.
"Ahem," Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Perhaps we could start at the beginning? Who exactly are you?"
A/N: Review please! I'm actually really nervous about this chapter, it gave me difficulties...