Chapter 11: The Fine Line
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Star Wars because I am not J.K. Rowling or George Lucas. I am paid only in reviews and last time I checked those have no monetary value…
Author's Note: The wait this time around hasn't been too terrible, largely because of lexophile42 whose reviews made me want to get right back to work. Thanks a bunch!
Voldemort frowned. His circle of black-cloaked followers stiffened and shifted uncomfortably. The Dark Lord was always to be respected; when he was in a bad mood, he was to be respected and feared.
The room it seemed had been arranged with this fact in mind. It was large, luxuriously so with a high-vaulted ceiling and ebony-panelled walls. The Death Eaters knelt in a circle facing Voldemort, who was seated in a large, high-backed chair. A throne, some might say. For several tense moments, the leader stared down at the followers and the followers stared down at the floor.
Bravely, one of the followers, Death Eaters they were called, stepped forward and swept a low bow. A group of less-trained men might've gasped, but the Death Eaters were silent.
"My Lord," the follower said, "you are not pleased?" The question was a statement. There was a brief moment of silence then Voldemort gave himself over to a fit of high-pitched, manic laughter. Another ripple of discomfort passed through the circle. Their master had been given to fits of uncontrolled laughter increasingly often since the Boy's demise. With each outburst, the edge of hysteria grew ever sharper.
Voldemort continued cackling for nearly a minute, seemingly oblivious to the thirty or so men waiting, anxious and tense. Like a thunder storm on a summer day, the Dark Lord's demeanor abruptly changed. His face became a pale, blank mask, much like those his followers were wearing. His brows furrowed and he said in a low hiss, almost to himself, "No, Rookwood, I'm not pleased."
Rookwood shifted nervously, looking to his left and his right for support. There was none. The other Death Eaters turned their heads away from him. He was alone.
"We don't – I don't understand, my Lord. What so displeases you? What is it that you desire?"
The Dark Lord laughed again and the circle tensed, but it was just a short, dark chuckle. "Power," was the simple, predictable reply.
"My Lord, you have nothing but power! Hogwarts and the Ministry are in the palm of your hand!"
"You are stupid and ignorant. While there is any opposition, I cannot have absolute power."
"Opposition? There is no opposition. Without Potter, the rebel force will crumble. We will track them down and destroy them, it's only a matter of time."
"Be careful to never underestimate an enemy. Even the weakest of people can fight the bravest of heroes of they allowed hope."
"You speak of hope. Who is this rebel 'hope'? Dumbledore? He has grown old and feeble, too weak to confront you. They have no hope. The Potter boy is dead! Will you not be satisfied until –".
"Crucio!" Voldemort struck out like a cobra with his wand. Rookwood's sentence became a scream of agony. His entire body jerked spasmodically. The unreal scream sustained for a long enough time that even the Death Eaters, most of whom had experienced that very curse, became uncomfortable.
When the Dark Lord finally lowered his wand, the scream cut-off, but the silence was broken by Rookwood's harsh panting breathing. He attempted to drag himself back into his position in the circle, but could not. He laid face down, silent.
The Dark Lord looked down on Rookwood. Distaste colored his expression, but nowhere was there a drop of pity. "No. I will not be satisfied."
Voldemort took on a distracted quality. His snake-like eyes were open, but either they weren't seeing anything, or they were looking far beyond his throne room. It was almost as if he were listening to something the Death Eaters couldn't hear.
He whispered something so low that no one heard. Then, quite suddenly he struck out again, yelling "Leave me!"
The circle of Death Eaters quickly obliged, standing up quickly, although they were careful not to be too quick. Rookwood, hearing his master's dismissal through his haze of pain, summoned all his remaining strength to crawl out of the room after his fellow Death Eaters. They left Voldemort still looking at something they couldn't see and still listening to something they couldn't hear.
Lucius Malfoy had known Lord Voldemort for many years and had been in his service for almost as long, so he felt the significance and weight of every word when he said, "Something has to be done. He's losing his mind."
There was a silence following this statement as Lucius Malfoy said aloud what all the Death Eaters had been thinking for months. Lucius surveyed the group, waiting for a response, positive or negative. He was in his own house, among people he'd known for decades, but any evidence of a meeting such as the one he'd called would be his own death warrant if the Dark Lord ever heard so much as a whisper.
"And what do you propose?" Macnair asked scathingly. "He's the Dark Lord. Anyone who defies him is killed."
"And why is that?" More silence. Lucius waited before answering his own question. "Don't you see? It's because of us. We are his assassins, we do all the dirty work, we have the power!"
Lucius again allowed silence to take over. His speech was only vocalizing what he knew they were all thinking. "He needs us – we are the only force that can bring him down.
He couldn't let go of the last time he'd seen him, charging through the veil with that look on his face. It was the look he and Hermione had dubbed "the saving-people-face" in happier times. It was almost too much to think about the times he'd seen that face, but why not? As long as he was picking at scabs…
First Year when he mounted a broom for the first time to retrieve Neville's remembrall, and again just before they plunged into the wet and dark on their way to the Sorcerer's Stone.
Second Year, when he found and entered the Chamber of Secrets to face the monster within and save his sister.
Third Year, when they'd vowed to save Buckbeak the hippogriff even if it meant braving the library.
Fourth Year when Harry had pulled him and a total stranger out from the depths of the Lake.
Fifth Year when he saw Sirius fall through the veil and –
Now it really was too much. Ron took a deep, gasping breath, trying to anchor himself to the present. In the next moment, Hermione was hovering over him, her wild bushy brown hair framing a face ravaged with concern. He looked into her brown eyes and managed a genuine smile, even as tears welled in his eyes.
All Hermione had to ask was, "The dream again?" All Ron had to do was nod. This routine was becoming a nightly affair. He'd dream about that night in the Department of Mysteries. Events in his dream would unfold just as they did in reality.
He, Harry, Hermione, Ginny, Neville and Luna would find the prophecy, and they'd split up when the Death Eaters started chasing them down the aisles until they all ended up back in the huge room where the veil hung from an archway. Ron had taken to calling it "the observation room" if only in his mind. Partly because of the raised steps that formed seats to watch the veil and anything that might pass through it and partly because it was where he had observed ... Anyway, the events would play themselves out, as if he was watching a clip of film over and over again without a remote control. Some parts were in slow-motion, some parts were muted, but it was all there.
Just as the six of them had been cornered and Lucius Malfoy gave Harry an ultimatum – hand over the prophecy or watch me kill your friends – members of the Order of the Phoenix arrived and a battle began. Order Members versus Death Eaters. Both sides fought fiercely, the Death Eaters' only advantage was that they were fighting to kill. In the confusion, the prophecy, the weapon the Dark Lord had been plotting to steal for months was destroyed.
There was no reason for Harry to have gone through the veil, but Ron had had some time to think about it, and he reflected that the best candidate was Dumbledore being late. He'd seen him at the top of the raised stairs, light gleaming of his white robe and hair and beard and an overwhelming sense of relief flooded him. But then he turned to see Bellatrix Lestrange blast Sirius off balance and watch him fall through the veil. His heart fell. Sirius had been a bold and courageous fighter; it'd be a horrible loss. But then, he'd see Harry run after him. Ron knew that in the aftermath, Dumbledore gathered all the children up and sent them to safety. He knew that Sirius and Harry were the only two they'd lost that night. But his dreams would show him no more. The film would play in slow-motion and then fade to black.
Ron would wake up gasping, panting, and on some occasions, screaming. Hermione would rush to his side and beg him to take a potion for dreamless sleep, but Ron would not. Perhaps it was selfish, but Ron wanted to hold on to his friend. If the only way he could remember him was through his nightmares, so be it.
Author's Note: I was hoping to get back to what's happening on the Star Wars side of the veil, but I think I'll save it for the next chapter.
Please review, or something nasty will happen to our favorite Jedi(s?)!
La Nanita