June 21, 2009 - Late Afternoon
In the midst of experiencing the pants-wetting terror of his first battle, Phil Longbottom had not forgotten that he was able to talk to snakes.
"Sssnakes, come out," the child ordered in Parseltongue. In response to his hissed command, several snakes emerged from their holes and began slithering towards him.
While he had previously wished for a killer dog, Phil now wished his parents had a farm somewhere other than south Devonshire. If this were a rubber plantation in Southeast Asia, or a ranch in the Australian outback, his call would have brought forth an interesting assortment of venomous reptiles. Even in rural Appalachia, he could have rustled up a nest of copperheads and maybe even an Eastern timber rattler or two. As it was, he had nothing but small, harmless grass snakes.
Phil sighed. It was better than nothing. "Anyone who is wearing dark robes and a mask, or a leather jacket, I want you to attack them," he ordered the snakes at his feet. "Leave the people behind the car alone."
"How are we sssupposssed to attack them?" asked a small green snake. It was a reasonable inquiry.
"Twine around their feet to trip them, or bite their ankles," Phil suggested.
Suddenly, an icy blue light engulfed the skeptical little snake. It came from behind the Bentley. Phil was aghast at the treachery, until the little snake began to swell and grow. When it was the size of a large boa constrictor, but otherwise unharmed, the light moved onto the next snake, doing the same.
"Wicked," Phil breathed.
The not-so-little snake flicked its forked tongue in agreement. "Ssshall we go forth and crussh your enemies, Massster?"
"Yesss," Phil replied.
"Sssorry I'm late," apologized a snake from behind them. Phil turned to see an adder, a very shy snake and the only venomous reptile indigenous to England.
He smiled at it. "It's alright. You're here now. And I've got a ssspecial job for you . . . "
(x) (x) (x)
Behind the Bentley, Hermione, Draco and Harry's position was increasingly precarious. Death Eaters as a class liked to lurk and sneak, and small groups of them kept trying to lurk and sneak around the car in a textbook flanking maneuver. So far, the combined efforts of the brightest witch of her age, the youngest Death Eater ever marked, and the Boy Who Lived (To Become Head Auror) were enough to hold them off, but they were tiring fast.
Harry stopped flinging hexes for a moment, listening to something only he could hear. "The kid's a Parselmouth," he announced, jerking his head towards a dark-haired boy who had emerged from the house. "He's calling for snakes to come out and help us."
Draco snorted. "I appreciate the thought, but there's not much a little grass snake can do to a Dark wizard."
"You think?" Hermione asked, as she pointed her wand away from a now-collapsed Death Eater to one of the grass snakes slithering around Phil's feet. "Engorgio!" she cried, turning the harmless little reptile into a Death Eater-crushing monster.
"Nice use of the Engorgement Charm, angel," Draco smirked. "Did you perfect that when you were dating the Weasel King?"
Hermione rolled her eyes at him but did not answer, too busy magically enlarging another snake.
"Oi, I heard that, Ferret-face!" yelled an offended voice from behind them.
Draco whirled around. Then he sneered, carefully concealing any hint of relief at the sight of Ron Weasley's freckled face.
"The ginger cavalry has arrived," Draco announced, unnecessarily. "And I see you have no denial to offer," he added, snidely.
(x) (x) (x)
Rodolphus grinned in sick pleasure at the hissing sound of Parseltongue. The child was indeed a fitting vessel for the last fragment of the Dark Lord's soul.
"Come here, boy," he called. "You truly are my Master's son."
He needed the whelp to get close enough to smash in his head with Salazar's rod. Once he was unconscious or dying or both, Voldemort would have a clear path to move from the Horcrux and take over the child's body.
The boy stubbornly shook his head. Out of the corner of his eye, Rodolphus saw the curly-haired Mudblood frantically trying to get the boy's attention, to bring him behind the shelter of the Bentley. He narrowed his eyes and sent a nasty curse in her direction, but his nephew yanked her out of harm's way.
"Hurry up, Roddy," his brother urged. "They've got reinforcements arriving in the farmhouse."
Rodolphus nodded in grim agreement. There were several Weasleys poking their heads out of the upper-story windows, taking aim at the Death Eaters hunkered down behind the earthen rampart. He snarled at the sight of Molly Weasley picking off his fellows. The deceptively plump and motherly witch had killed his Bella, and he would make her pay for that. The Death Eaters still had a numerical advantage, and he could foresee this turning into a rout once they brought the Dark Lord back to a corporeal form.
"Come here, boy," Rodolphus repeated to the dark-haired child, with growing impatience.
The child did not move.
"Fine, we'll do it the hard way," Rodolphus sighed. "Ennervate," he said, pointing his wand at Neville. "Crucio!"
Neville screamed and howled in pain, writhing in the dust at the Lestrange brothers' feet. He was already hoarse from their torture in the orchard, but he hadn't yet lost his voice.
"Ah, music to my ears," Rabastan signed in contentment. "He sounds just like his father."
The boy was watching with a terrified expression. He looked like he was about to faint. Rodolphus hoped he would. That would make his job so much easier.
"Come to me and I'll end his pain," he offered.
The boy took one slow step in their direction.
Rodolphus decided to hurry things along. "How long did Frank Longbottom last under my wand before he lost his mind entirely?" he queried of his brother.
"Give it a few more minutes, and the brain damage will be permanent," advised Rabastan. "Unless you just want to kill him now."
"It would cut down on the medical bills," Rodolphus agreed. He let up on the Cruciatus Curse and aimed his wand at Longbottom's huddled, panting form on the ground. "Avada Ked -"
"No!" the boy screamed, dashing forward with a bread knife, of all the silly things, clutched in his hand.
Rodolphus lined up and swung Salazar's rod like a Beater's bat, straight at the boy's dark-haired head. The boy held up the bread knife in a futile attempt to ward off the blow. Except, before Rodolphus's astonished eyes, the knife lengthened and broadened into a pure silver sword with rubies set into the hilt.
Godric Gryffindor's sword, imbued with basilisk venom, sheered through the eighth Horcrux as though Salazar's rod were made of butter rather than metal. With a shriek like a dying banshee, the last piece of Voldemort's soul surrounded the boy in a whirlwind of coal-black dust and then disappeared.
For a moment, Rodolphus stood still, stunned at how his plans had been upset. Then he lunged for the boy, intent on murdering the brat with his bare hands. He never made it. One of the enlarged grass snakes rammed into the back of his knees, knocking him to the ground. The adder nipped in and struck, sinking his fangs into the Death Eater's carotid artery, leaving nothing to chance.