Okay, I know I promised a chapter before Christmas so here it is. This is my Christmas gift to all you guys for being so wonderful!
Warning: Voldemort is somewhat out of character in this chapter. For that I apologize but I just couldn't bear to part with this chapter since I liked it. Voldemort's OCness may have something to do with the fact that I was sick when I wrote this chapter. Anyway, you have been forewarned. Don't worry, though. I can safely assure you the OCness will not carry to later chapters. Because it's Christmas, I'm making this one guilty exception. Happy holidays!
By the way, I started a new story recently. It's called Blood Key. Basically Harry, Ron and Hermione are assassins in a world where wizards are categorized as being either purebloods or commonbloods. But they get into a speck of trouble when a mission gone wrong lands them in the bad side of Lord Thomas Riddle. In exchange for freedom, they now have to help Riddle search for the mythical Blood Key. If you're feeling it, check it out.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
THE DARK CHRONICLES
Chapter Nine: Snippets - Of Chicken Soup and Flying
Several months later...
The Dark Lord was not in a good mood.
The only thing Voldemort lamented at the moment was that he could not kill off all of his Death Eaters because it would not do for him to simply wipe out all his followers. But he was going to ensure that they all went through a lot of pain. After his last torture session, er, pep talk with them he had certainly expected them to do better on raids and missions. Not only had the absolute morons not taken his words to heart, but they had - if it was at all possible - even grown weaker. The Dark Lord had just cast crucios on the whole lot of them and he was still feeling murderous. Even Nagini knew when to be quiet at a time like this.
It was not as if Voldemort was expecting them to take over the world or anything. Okay, so not yet. But surely a raid on the gathering of the Order of the Phoenix in the Hopkins' manor was not that impossible a task? Voldemort had taken most of his Inner Circle with him, to take another strike at killing the Eveleigh child who was there as well. Not only had he failed, but a good portion of his Death Eaters had been injured, three had been captured and to make matters worse the Light side had managed to take back Nicolas Flamel.
Voldemort blamed it all on Avery. If the idiot had not suggested bringing Flamel with them on that particular mission, the Light would not have taken him back. He would make sure Avery suffered for that.
So while the Dark Lord was sitting on his throne and busily plotting how to best torture his Death Eaters and cripple the Light, his four elementals were watching and arguing near him.
"I still think you should tell him, Gal," Aithinne pushed.
"Look at him! Master looks as though he's ready to eat anyone who approaches him. Including us," Gal hurriedly muttered.
"But out of the four of us, you're the one who's least likely to bungle things up," Braon added. "You're the one with the words and you know how to say them."
"I'm only doing it if you three are coming with me," Gal whispered back.
The other three shrugged. "Deal."
The four of them materialized out of thin air before Voldemort. The Dark Lord looked up with menacing red eyes. The elementals had to suppress the unconscious shiver of fear that threatened to rack their bodies. All four bowed and Gal stepped forward.
"Are you feeling particularly suicidal today?" Voldemort hissed.
"Master, something has, er, come up. It concerns young Stephen and I would not bother you if it were not important," Gal smoothly delivered.
If possible, Voldemort's bad mood multiplied tenfold. "What has the boy done now? Released a dozen nifflers in the manor? Destroyed an entire wing? Got bitten by a werewolf? Defected to the Light side? I would not put anything past that hellraiser."
"Er... no, master. Stephen is sick," Gal tried not to let his voice quaver.
Voldemort turned rigid. "Stephen is sick?" he whispered. "And what is he sick with, the plague, that it warrants your reporting it to me like this?"
"No, master. The flu."
Voldemort raised his blazing eyes and Gal and the other three elementals were bodily thrown back into a wall. "The boy is sick with the flu and that is incredibly important?! I give the four of you five seconds to get out of my sight or I will vaporize you where you stand!"
"No, master," Gal did not even hide the panic in his voice. "The house elves tried giving him medicine but he would not take it. They tried placing it in his food but he would not eat. He is in bed and steadily growing worse. We have tried to do all we could but, although sick, he is incredibly stubborn."
"Then why not ram the medicine down his stubborn throat?! Did you not think of that?!" Voldemort shouted.
The four elementals exchanged glances. "We, er, tried master. His power did not let us get any closer."
Voldemort abruptly stood up and clutched his wand in a way that meant someone would suffer and suffer dearly. He stood up and began to walk away. His elementals hesitated before following him.
Voldemort pointed his wand at the fireplace and flames burst to life, lighting Stephen's bedroom. The house elves gathered near the boy's bed hastily bowed away, carrying the trays of food with them. The elementals hovered near the door, well away from the bed. The Dark Lord strode purposefully towards Stephen and glared disdainfully at him as he lay on the rumpled sheets.
The boy was pale as death. His eyes were closed and his breathing shallow. From where he was standing near the bedside, Voldemort could feel the heat that the boy's body emanated. Blearily, Stephen half opened his eyes. A slight smile crossed his lips before disappearing.
"Why are you not eating?" the iciness in Voldemort's tone caused a palpable drop in the temperature of the air surrounding him.
Stephen frowned. "Tha's not... food," he whispered hoarsely. "Poison... they'll poison me..."
Gal stepped forward. "For some strange reason, master, he seems to think the food is laced with poison and that it is meant to harm him."
Voldemort signaled one of the house elves to come forward, bringing with him a tray of food. He turned to Stephen. "Boy," he began in the calmest tone he could summon up. "This food is not poisoned and you will eat it to get better and resume your training."
The house elf held the spoon to Stephen but the boy merely shook his head weakly and turned to one side of the bed. Voldemort's eyes flashed.
"Leave," he told the house elves. "Put the food on the table. That goes for the four of you as well," he softly told his elementals.
Braon couldn't help but feel worried as they exited Stephen's room. "Master looked murderous. You don't think he'll kill Stephen, do you?"
Scraithin snorted. "He won't kill the boy. Maybe just make him suffer a bit."
Voldemort looked down at the boy and for the first time in his life, he lost his patience. This was just the last straw! "Boy, I have had a very bad day that has just instilled within me how incompetent my Death Eaters really are. Unless you want to lose a limb I suggest you start eating right now!" He held out the bowl of soup to Stephen. "And I had better not hear another word about poison or else I myself will personally pour arsenic down your throat!!! Now eat!!!"
Stephen blinked at him and held out his hands but when Voldemort tried to put the bowl into his hands, the boy's hands shook and nearly spilled the soup on the bed covers. Voldemort felt like throwing the bowl at the wall. With a deep, disgusted sigh (and a silent promise that he would only do this now and on no other time), he lifted the spoon and held it to Stephen who opened his mouth and slurped it up.
"You should know," Voldemort began in a deceivingly calm yet dangerous tone. "That if one word of this gets out, I will skin you alive and roast you for dinner."
Stephen nodded as he was fed another spoonful. He looked up at Voldemort and his smile made the Dark Lord cringe. "Thanks, Thran."
Three years later...
"I trust you know what this is?" Scraithin asked Stephen as they were in another one of their lessons.
Stephen's face lit up when he saw what Scraithin had in hand. "Is that a broomstick? Are we going flying, Scray?"
Scraithin nodded. "Flying is an essential tool. Although it's far slower compared to Apparition, it comes in handy when there are Anti-Apparition wards about. Now, you stand beside the broomstick, hold out your hand and say up."
Stephen did as Scraithin asked and the broomstick zoomed up to his hand. "Cool! I've only ridden on a mini-broom, never on a real broom! This is so awesome!"
"This is for survival, not fun," Scraithin frowned. "Now, mount your broom like so..."
Everything else came naturally for Stephen. Even Scraithin was surprised by how fast the boy seemed to take everything in. He was obviously a natural. Even though the broom was old and slow and rickety, Stephen still came off as a superb flyer. What was more, Scraithin noticed that there was a passion in the boy's eyes when he was riding the broom. It was not the look of dark intensity that was so often in Stephen's eyes while training. This was... different. Flying was obviously something the boy already loved.
"Since you're so good at this, I think we can wrap this lesson up by next meeting," Scraithin gruffly told him. Stephen's face fell.
"I was hoping I could go flying all the time..." he muttered. "It was really so much fun."
Scraithin scrutinized the boy. He thought of saying something but deciding against it. "You're not here for fun," he gruffly told Stephen before sending him on his way.
Stephen nodded listlessly and left. He really, really wanted to go flying again. And on a better broom this time. Maybe a Cleansweep or a Comet. Much to Thran's utter disgust, Stephen was fascinated by Quidditch, a sport he had read about in the library. He spent hours staring at the pictures of games in the pages. He wondered what it would be like to play the game.
Stephen pushed the door to his room open. On a table lay a blue, glowing book. It was a sort of organizer Thran had given him. It glowed blue whenever a significant event was imminent. Stephen frowned. He couldn't recall any event forthcoming. He picked up the book and opened it. There in neat, block letters was the word 'birthday'. Stephen blinked. He had meant to remove that but had somehow forgotten. Tomorrow was his birthday.
He snapped the book shut. Birthdays were insignificant to him now. He was just about to shove the book in a drawer when a thought occurred to him. A slow grin spread over Stephen's face. Maybe he could get that broom after all...
Stephen had just finished polishing off dessert when Thran strode into his bedroom, robes billowing behind him. Nagini followed close behind. Stephen hissed a hello at the snake who replied in kind. Stephen knew Thran was here to ask how his lessons had gone this week. He gave Thran a winning, innocent smile that immediately had the Dark Lord's eyes narrowing in suspicion.
"What do you want this time?" Voldemort asked.
"Nothing!" Stephen's face was a mask of complete innocence. Voldemort did not buy it for a second. He merely glared holes at Stephen until the boy gave in.
"Okay, okay! I was just thinking... training's a little tough, you know. And I wanted to start a, er, hobby of sorts, to help me deal with all the stress that comes with training," Stephen gave Voldemort his most charming smile. "Don't you think I deserve it?"
He most certainly did. At a little over six years old, Stephen was a fast learner. He was on par with most fourteen year olds in terms of knowledge. Voldemort would not say this to him of course. "What might this helpful hobby be?"
"Well, I thought maybe flying. It's a form of exercise right?"
Voldemort blinked. "There is one little flaw in that plan of yours, boy. You don't have a broom."
"I was hoping you could get me one!" Stephen exclaimed.
Voldemort stared at him for a full minute, not comprehending. "And why in Salazar's name would I do that?" he questioned menacingly.
"It's my birthday tomorrow!" Stephen cheerfully announced. "The way I see it, you owe me three years' worth of birthday gifts, don't you, Thran? A broomstick should cover those three years up nicely."
The Dark Lord closed his eyes, reining his temper in. He muttered a hex that Stephen easily dodged. Throwing the boy a dirty look, he slammed the door shut on his way out. Inside his bedroom, Stephen sighed. "So much for the broomstick..."
Three days later...
Voldemort looked the wizard up and down. The man, per his orders, had not been harmed by his Death Eaters. The fact that the man looked ready to keel over from fright at being held before the Dark Lord was a fact that Voldemort dismissed. He nodded to his Death Eaters.
"Good job, Crouch, Lestrange, Malfoy. You may go now," he dismissed. They bowed and left.
He turned to the man. "Follow me, Mister Kenderson, if you value your life."
The Dark Lord led the chained man down a series of stairwells and corridors until they reached a room near the dungeons. Voldemort pushed the door open and motioned for the man to get inside. The man complied willingly. Voldemort stared at him impassively.
"You have everything you need here. If you need more materials, summon the house elves and they will give you what you need. You have a week to finish this task. I trust you will put your all into this or else I may change my mind about having to kill you," Voldemort threatened and left the man inside the room, locking the door on his way out. Inside, the man went straight to work.
One week later...
The man looked strangely familiar. Stephen frowned. He couldn't concentrate on his lessons. He had seen a man, one of Thran's prisoners last week and Stephen couldn't shake off the feeling that the man was very familiar and that he really ought to know him. Thran had called the man Kenderson. Kenderson... Kenderson... Where had Stephen heard that name before?
He sighed and tried unsuccessfully to purge his mind of all thoughts of Kenderson. Aithinne had not been pleased with his performance today. The fire elemental was teaching him to cast the Imperius curse. They were starting on spiders and Stephen's mind had been wandering all day. Needless to say, he was lucky Aithinne had not burned him because of his utter incompetence with that lesson.
Stephen pushed open the door to his bedroom, feeling a headache coming along. He turned to his bed only to see a long, thin package wrapped in brown paper lying there. His heartbeat quickened and he ran over to his bed. This could not be what he thought it was... could it? Excitement began to well up within him as he ripped the paper off the package.
And lying there gleaming in its magnificence on his bed was a brand new broomstick. Stephen's jaw dropped. It was far superior than any model he had ever seen. Reverently, he turned the broomstick over. Near it's handle, in spiky writing was the name of the broom. Nebula.
It was then that it hit Stephen where he had heard of the name Kenderson. He ran over to the book that was lying propped open on his desk. He riffled the pages and sure enough there it was. Aldritch Kenderson was renowned for being one of the finest broom manufacturers in the entire world. The man was retired now, but it was rumored that he was still working on something called a Nimbus line in his townhouse in London.
Thran's kidnapping of Kenderson and the brand new Nebula lying on his bed clicked in Stephen's mind. He grinned and vowed that from then on, he would work thrice as hard on his lessons. To prove that he really was that worthy.
TBCI want a Nebula. And I am going to put in some new companions for Stephen. Sorry, part of the plot. I'll do my best to make them interesting though. Not in the chapter yet. Read and review!
Coming up: final exams