Warning Signs Read Desolation Chapter 21, a harry potter fanfic

Warning Signs Read Desolation

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter Twenty-One

"That is very good, Harry," hissed Voldemort's soothingly calm voice from the armchair next to him. "Keep taking calm breaths ... inhale ... exhale ... inhale ... exhale ... yes, good ... keep your mind clear."

Lying on his back in the plush, blue sofa, Harry felt like he was floating in water. Everything was soft around him; calm and quiet. No worrying thoughts graced his mind; no memories of unstable godfathers, easily angered Dark Lords or acid Potions Professors came to mind. He just drifted there, listening to his master's soft-spoken words in Parseltongue, feeling at peace.

"Yes, exactly ... Now keep steady ... and carefully focus your attention on the wand in your right hand ... don't raise it, or move it ... just take a firmer grip around the handle."

Very slowly, Harry did as told; sluggishly squeezing the handle of his wand until he felt soft warmth radiate out of it. A mental image of what his wand looked like flitted though his mind, but he immediately pushed the thought away, with a firm swipe of his consciousness.

"Excellent," Voldemort praised. "Just so ... Now, aim your wand at yourself ... any body part will do, so do not open your eyes or pay it too much attention."

Carefully, Harry turned his hand over, so that the tip of the wand poked lightly into the soft part of his stomach.

"Good, that will do ... Stay in this state ... And slowly, without thinking of anything else, imagine a protective bubble or all-encompassing barrier forming around your mind."

With great effort, feeling beads of sweat form in his hairline, Harry forcefully created an image of a glowing light-blue bubble enclosing his consciousness. The image flitted in and out if his mind's eye and he had to struggle to keep other thoughts and images at bay, but judging by Voldemort's pleased hum, he seemed to think it was good enough.

"Yes, and now, utter the incantation ... 'Occlumens'."

Harry drew in a deep breath and focused as much as he could on the blue bubble. "Occlumens," he uttered quietly, and with a rush of mana flowing down his arm and out of his wand, he was hit with the spell and immediately felt a sort of stiffness spring alive around him.

"Yes!" Voldemort exclaimed triumphantly, in such a loud voice that Harry lost all control of his meditative state. "Yes, that is it exactly, Harry. It is complete."

With a grin forming on his face, Harry opened his eyes and sat up, meeting eyes with Voldemort, who sat leaning forwards in his chair, studying him with a gleeful expression that inspired a pleasantly warm feeling deep down in Harry's stomach. He'd made Voldemort proud.

"Really?" he asked excitedly. "James can't speak to me now?"

For a second, confusion flitted across the Dark Lord's expression, and then the realisation made his brows fold into a frown. "I would deem it rather ... unwise naming a piece of one's very own soul after one's late father."

"Oh," Harry and hurriedly shook his head, "no it's not like that! It's not after my dad; it's my middle name ... I just did it to make this seem a bit simpler, that's all. I know that he and I are the same."

"I see," Voldemort murmured, leaning back in his chair and looking rather relieved. "To answer your question; no, he cannot. Try, if you are curious."

After a couple of mental tries of calling out James's name, an endeavour which inspired no replies, Harry grinned up at his bemused-looking master. "No, you're right. He can't!"

"Precisely," Voldemort said with a small quirk to his lips. "You have done well. The ground work is complete, and we can start to build from here. From this point on, you shall practice on this every night before you sleep. You shall start with shielding your entire mind, like you just did, but once you feel comfortable enough with the spell to try it out, you shall start to shield specific memories instead. Do you feel comfortable with this?"

"I do, master," Harry replied quietly, and sank back in his seat, feeling rather drained from the hard work. "It'll be good to get some privacy sometimes."

Slowly drumming the fingers of his right hand against the plush armchair armrest, Voldemort studied him closely. "As long as you do not use it unnecessarily. Recall what I have taught you. Occlumency is a very draining practice – especially to a young wizard with little training in controlling his mana flow. Speaking of which, how do you feel?"

"Tired," Harry revealed with a small smile, "but I think it's mostly because it was so hard to do it... By the way – why did you use Parseltongue?"

"Do not change the subject, and do not base your conclusions on guesswork," Voldemort chided in a quiet voice and stilled his hand, before he leaned forwards in his seat and narrowed his eyes. "I shall enlighten you if you wish – but your face grows paler by the minute. Now, sit back and close your eyes. Pay attention as I dismantle your shield, so that you might repeat the practice yourself the next time you have Occluded your mind."

With a weak nod, Harry did as told and did his best to think of nothing and not worry about what was about to happen. After a short pause, a foreign force slipped softly, but surely up against the shield around his mind; like a chilling gust of wind, wrapping itself around him in a swirl. He felt how it moved around his Occlumency Shield, and how it suddenly pierced and pushed through it as though it had been made out of butter. The careful attack made the bubble break apart and seep away, and at once, Harry felt a link between himself and the shield snap. Once the link was broken, he felt lighter and strengthened, and he let out a deep breath before opening his eyes, feeling relieved.

James? Harry tried tentatively, and when a patient voice replied with a deadpan "Harry," he smiled up at Voldemort's expectant face. "It worked," he said and straightened in his seat. "I can hear James again."

"And you feel better?" Voldemort pressed on, watching Harry's weary expression as though evaluating if he would lie or not.

"Yes, master," said Harry calmly, but with slight impatience.

"And you understood the mechanics of dismantling an Occlumency Shield?" Voldemort asked and relaxed his examining stare.

"Yeah – Err, yes, master. I think so," Harry replied with a small smile.

"Good," Voldemort murmured and leaned back in his chair. "Then, I feel confident that you will practice and manage it tonight without assistance. Doing it yourself requires working from the inside out, and it is far simpler than attempting the same on another person's mind. However, the method is largely the same ... Now, it is a couple of hours left before dinner at seven, and I do not have the time for any more lessons myself. However, I have asked my Head Healer, Mr Ilbert Abbott, to teach you some useful Healing Magic, if you do not feel too drained?"

Harry blinked in surprise and felt a sting of excitement. "No, it's fine – what kind of Healing Magic?" Would he learn how to mend broken bones and close open wounds? That would be extremely useful!

"Oh, something basic, I am sure," Voldemort supplied with a small smile. "Ilbert has had a penchant for using potions ever since Hogwarts –"

At the notion of being sent to a Potions lesson, Harry sneered and felt a deep sense of dread.

"– so it would not surprise me if he has chosen to teach you how to brew some useful concoction." A darkly amused expression transformed the Dark Lord's face as he caught sight of Harry's far from enthusiastic countenance, and he let out a low chuckle. "Do not despair. I am sure that Ilbert is a far more patient teacher than Severus Snape was."

"He'd better be," Harry muttered quietly before sighing and meeting eyes with his humoured master. "All right, so where am I supposed to go?"

"Elf!" Voldemort called out and swiftly arose from his seat, a motion which Harry mimicked right before a sharp pop was heard from his right, where the frail-looking Bleak had appeared.

"Yes, master?" she asked in a tiny squeak and twinned her hands together with an expectant expression.

"Lead Harry to Healer Abbott," Voldemort instructed shortly before striding over to his desk and sitting down.

"Yes, master, Bleak will," the house-elf promised with a deep curtsey before scurrying towards the door, which she then opened and held up.

Harry followed her and was nearly out the door when Voldemort spoke unexpectedly, halting him in his tracks. "By the way, since you asked; I used Parseltongue because you have proven to react well to it. It appears to soothe you, and you make very fast progress in the state of mind it inspires in you."

"Oh. Is that weird?" Harry asked over his shoulder, and watched his master raise his eyebrows.

"Weird? No. Intriguing? Yes," he replied smoothly. "I have never had the opportunity to interact to any great length with another Parselmouth before, which is why some details are still left unexplored. However, my guess is that it has something to do with our bond and the familiarity of a shared, magical language – there certainly must be some rational explanation."

With a small smile, feeling rather relieved that his reaction to Parseltongue didn't add to his already rather extensive freakishness, Harry followed Bleak to the dungeons and resigned himself to the fact that he would have to give potions brewing a second chance.

Slipping softly from his office to the battlements surrounding the roof of the fortress, Apparating soundlessly a few paces away from his destination, Voldemort took in the soft warmth of the descending sun and drew in a deep breath of the fresh ocean air. Then, quietly, he walked up to the hunched man, sitting staring out at the water with a vacant expression, clutching a slate grey wand in his right hand.

"Hiding again?" Voldemort suddenly called out, making Black jump in surprise and snap his head around to look at him with startled eyes. With a small chuckle, Voldemort walked up to Black's slowly relaxing form, getting a sudden urge to push the man over the edge of the stone railing he was sitting on. "You appear to have a tendency to end up in odd places," he said with a mocking grin. "It's as if you're deliberately seeking out solitude ..."

"Perhaps I am," Black muttered quietly, glaring out at the billowing ocean again. "I haven't been around people for over ten years ... Acting nice is pretty draining."

"That is understandable," Voldemort allowed indifferently and leaned casually against the railing as he, too, kept his eyes nailed to the water mass. "It is a relief that your solitude is not inspired by undesirable company."

In reaction, Black scoffed and looked down at the wand in his clenched fist. "Sorry to disappoint you, then. I have no friends here ... Many enemies, though. My work as an Auror seems to have been ... less than impressive, in their opinion. Can't blame the bastards – I don't find their work particularly impressive either."

"Careful," Voldemort murmured with a humoured twitch playing in the right corner of his mouth, "or I might think you have changed your mind."

Black grimaced uglily. "No," he said with a deep sigh and started glaring off into the distance again. "I took the damn vow, didn't I?"

"You did," Voldemort allowed, "but that only had to do with Harry; not your own position."

"Doesn't matter," Black claimed darkly. "It's an Unbreakable Vow – it means I'm bound to you now. To your will."

"I was under the impression that Harry's security was a personal interest of yours," Voldemort argued quietly. "So keeping him from harm's way should be as much your own will as mine."

"What are you getting at?" Black asked with a deep frown that aged his face immensely.

A crooked smirk curled Voldemort's lips. Quite the fool, aren't we? In the back of his mind, several soul shards readily agreed, sharing wicked sniggers. "That it was a mere formality," Voldemort explained neutrally. "However, come midnight, you will be bound to me."

Tensely clenching his jaw, Black turned to meet eyes with him. "I know that," he claimed solemnly.

"Good," Voldemort responded quietly, "because if you do not succumb willingly, sincerely, you will not survive it. And what a tragedy that would be; particularly since Harry will attend." Black's face went suddenly pale as a sheet. "How terrible for him, were he to watch his long lost godfather fizzle out and die, just when he had learned of his existence."

Furiously grinding his teeth together, hunching his shoulders, Black glowered up at him. "He won't; I won't let that happen. I'll do it."

"See that you do," Voldemort replied coldly, still smirking, holding Black's gaze until he yielded and looked away. Victorious, Voldemort straightened from his leaning position and took a small step back. "Perhaps after tonight, you will have friends here ... unless you decide to burglarise more of them; not a very endearing quality, I must say ... How is Rodolphus's wand working out for you?"

"Like a charm," Black growled and looked about ready to toss the wand into the sea below.

"Pity," Voldemort allowed neutrally, "but that is to be expected. You appear to have a good deal more mana than him ... You'd need a better match – something that will be provided for you after tonight, of course."

With a startled expression, Black twisted around in his seat to look straight at him. "I'll get a wand?" he breathed out with great suspicion. "I'll just get one?"

"Naturally," Voldemort replied simply. "Why ever would you be expected to make do without one? Can't I trust you with a wand, Black?"

Still peering at him suspiciously, Black climbed off the railing and stood to face him head on. "You have gone to great lengths making sure you can trust me. Seems to me the question is 'can I trust you'."

"You could still betray me, if you wished," Voldemort said in a very quiet, very cold voice that made a previously veiled fierceness sparkle alive in Black's eyes.

"Not as long as you have Harry, and you know that," he replied, just as quietly, but with a lot more bite. "And besides – why would I choose to when it would mean a continued life in captivity. No, it's not you who can't trust me, my Lord. What do you expect of me – what is your great scheme? Why spare me, why help me, when I have fought against you in the past?"

Ah, and there it is, Voldemort thought with glee. Just like so many before you, your weakness is curiosity. How predictable. Forcing his malicious smile to soften, Voldemort moulded his own body language to instil security in his target. "Because you have great value to me," he replied calmly, "as a person and as a wizard, and I do not enjoy seeing great skill and power wasted. You have fought against me in the past, that is true – but who were you then? An idealistic youngster with very little life experience. You didn't know back then how corrupt the Ministry is, and how little freedom a wizard like yourself had to make his own decisions. But you know that now; first hand. Although innocent, you were imprisoned for more than a decade – and it was supposed to be for life, wasn't it? How could I pass up on the opportunity to get you on my side? If you think about it, very few people have as much reason to wish to change the Magical Society as much as you do. Not only because of what you have been put through yourself, but also because of what your godson was put through in your absence."

At once, Black's gaze turned knife-sharp. "What do you mean?" he demanded hotly.

Hook, line and sinker, Voldemort thought triumphantly as he schooled his expression into solemnity. "You are aware of what conditions Harry grew up under, are you not?"

Doubt travelled into Black's cold-grey eyes. "I haven't had the chance to ask him yet, but ... Lily's sister; surely, she's the one who took him?"

"Yes, she took him," Voldemort allowed and deliberately made a pause. "But not much else – from what I can tell, Harry was severely neglected and abused by his relatives."

"He was beaten?" Black gasped with horror.

"As I understand it," Voldemort said slowly, "he was systematically abused, both physically and verbally, by his older cousin – his adult guardians did not strike him, however, they do not appear to have discouraged the cousin in any way. As a matter of fact, they appear to have rather encouraged him in his abuse ... Actually, Harry seems to be far more scarred by their neglect than his cousin's beatings."

"Of course he is," Black rasped out with murder burning in his eyes. "When someone who's supposed to look after you treats you like that –" Black broke off and looked away, clearly haunted by memories of his own dark past. "If I only hadn't gone back then," he whispered to himself, "I could have prevented ..."

"Be that as it may," Voldemort said in a clear voice, "you did not make that choice deliberately. However, there were people who did know; who did have a choice; and who did nothing to remedy the situation or to help Harry in any way. The Ministry is, naturally, a culprit. A magical child shouldn't have to suffer such abuse without a chance to escape and get rehabilitated. Moreover, the person who placed him there in the first place should have made sure it was a suitable home for him, do you not agree?"

With a red tint to the whites of his eyes, Black looked up at him. "Who?"

Voldemort very barely refrained from crackling evilly. "Albus Dumbledore."

After a wave of shock and betrayal washed across Black's face, deadly determination settled in, and he set his jaw before taking a bold step forwards, holding out the slate grey wand in front of him in an offering gesture. "I get it. I'll be ready by midnight, my Lord. I promise."

A sharp feeling of doubt rushed through him as there was a sharp knock on his front door, and once again, Severus wondered whether he had come to the right decision or not. The Unbreakable Vow he'd taken compelled him to make this choice, because if he succeeded, Potter would be safer than he was currently. However, the vow itself was purely mathematical and didn't consider surrounding matters or consequences of failure and thus shouldn't be trusted completely. Still, he knew he would have to act soon, or the vow would be considered broken and he would die – and what use would he be to Potter then?

Not letting the doubts faze him, Severus turned away from his position by the window, looking out to his ordered chaos of a garden, and opened up the door for his guest.

"Good evening, Headmaster," he greeted solemnly and stood back from the slim opening, so that the older man might push past.

"Good evening, Severus," Dumbledore replied in a rather chipper tone as he crossed the threshold and let his eyes roam around the rather cramped living room. "How kind of you to invite me."

As Dumbledore walked further into the room, stopping momentarily to look with great interest at the Muggle painting hanging over the mantelpiece of his quietly crackling fireplace, Severus twisted his face into a sneer. "Would you care for some tea, sir?" he asked with great reluctance as Dumbledore sank down into the threadbare sofa with a content sigh.

"Yes please, Severus, that would be lovely," he said with a warm smile. "I take two sugars, but no milk."

With a sharp, acknowledging nod, Severus slipped into the kitchen and poured from the kettle he had already prepared. While putting sugars in one of the tea cups, he steeled himself for the final time, forcing his own mind to accept that he had come to a decision. As he strode out of the kitchen, the tea cups followed him obediently and landed themselves onto the coffee table in between the sofa and the armchair into which Severus seated himself in.

"Thank you," Dumbledore murmured with appreciation and lifted the steaming cup to his lips.

"Did the meeting go well?" Severus asked tensely and took a sip of his own tea, keeping a close eye on Dumbledore's expression.

"As well as could be expected," replied Dumbledore with a humoured twitch of his lips. "Nicolas and Perenelle are both, sadly, at the very brink of death. But they have been immensely helpful, truly."

"In that they have recruited the French?" Severus pressed quietly.

"A few," Dumbledore allowed and took another sip of his tea. "The name 'Flamel' inspires quite the respect, still, in France and many of their old friends have agreed to support the Order ... in any way that they can."

"Meaning?" Severus asked stiffly. "Are we speaking three or thirty?"

With a small, regretful smile, Dumbledore put down the cup onto the saucer and placed them both onto the table. "I understand the curiosity, Severus, but I beg you to stay patient. As long as Voldemort has the upper hand, in that we cannot move until he has made his move, we cannot risk revealing our own plans and numbers."

Ah, Dumbledore, Severus thought acidly, here we are again. Once more, you prove how little faith you have in me.

"Very well," Severus hissed with a ferocious glare. "I will just have to trust that you have the situation under control then, Headmaster."

"We could all use a little more trust, I think," Dumbledore replied with an apologetic, and yet sharp, expression. "Especially in times such as this, when we are left reliant on each other to make a stand against evil." When Severus offered no reply, but only paid attention his teacup, Dumbledore leaned back in his seat and smiled kindly. "I was greatly relieved by your news, Severus. After weeks of mere whispers and suggestions of his survival, it is a great relief to learn that Harry is alive and well."

"Agreed," Severus murmured over the rim of his cup.

"I find it surprising that Voldemort chose to keep it secret from you," Dumbledore mused, stroking his long beard in thought. "I would have thought Tom would have liked to dangle him in front of your nose at first opportune moment; I do not know whether I should be relieved or not to have failed in my analysis."

"I believe he wanted to keep you unaware for as long as possible, sir," Severus lied smoothly. "But now that he has lost part of his army and has had to change his plans, it is probable that his plans for Potter are being altered as well."

"Yes that is possible," Dumbledore agreed thoughtfully. "But one has to wonder what those plans are. Why keep Harry alive? Why make him an apprentice? It is, of course a great relief that he has decided to do so – but it is peculiar. What value could the boy possibly have to him? He must remember the prophecy – and yet, he doesn't seem to care."

"It is odd, I agree, Headmaster," Severus agreed tensely. "Perhaps Potter possesses knowledge on the matter that we do not."

"Yes, we will have to hope so," Dumbledore said and pierced Severus with a suddenly very serious and sharp gaze. "You mentioned a plot to break him out."

"Yes," said Severus with a sharp nod. "I can get him out, but I will require some ... assistance."

Despite the late hour, Harry found himself walking out of the grand front gates of Ravenclaw Fortress a little before midnight, following closely behind Bleak as she lead him into the shrubbery of the dark pine forest. Having grown fairly accustomed to the elf's quick and rather dexterous gait, Harry moved smoothly over the uneven ground, keeping his eyes trained on the warm glow coming from a clearing further ahead.

After his lengthy healing lesson amongst the many Potion Brewers in the cellar, during which shrivelled old Healer Abbott had made him brew a rather foul-smelling concoction that was supposed to staunch heavy blood flow, and after having had dinner in the grand Dining Hall, Harry had been told, quite sternly, by Voldemort to squeeze in a good nap in his evening activities, since he was expected to be wide awake around midnight. What Harry was supposed to be wide awake for, he hadn't learned.

Trekking on, Harry saw that the light appeared to come from a large bonfire in the middle of the glen ahead, and once he had stepped out of the thick shrubbery and into the clearing, Bleak stopped and turned around before curtseying deeply to him. "Mr Harry Potter has arrived where master ordered Bleak to take him."

"Thank you," Harry murmured and pointedly ignored the infuriated look the little elf sent him for his politeness.

Without another word, she Disapparated, and at once Harry scanned the clearing for the familiar shape that was his master. There were several people in dark robes and cloaks moving around the fairly circular space around the blazing bonfire; some whom Harry recognised, but many whom he didn't. The first familiar face he saw was Sirius Black's, but not wishing to be seen and approached by the very unstable man for a second time that day, Harry moved off to the side and out of Black's line of sight. The second person he recognised was the young man who had approached him at breakfast a couple of days ago, introducing himself as Scabior and nothing else. He stood chatting amiably with a lanky, rather hare-like man and a regal-looking woman whom Harry vaguely recognised from somewhere.

Finally, his eyes found Voldemort's dark-clad form, a little off the side in the clearing, where he stood looking up at the half-dark sky, murmuring something to himself. Harry approached, and once he got close enough, he heard that his master seemed to be chanting something in Latin. Not thinking it wise to disturb, Harry settled by his side and kept a watchful eye on the proceedings around the bonfire.

A little after his own arrival, Healer Abbott limped into the clearing, leaning heavily on a polished black walking stick. In his belt hung a great number of fat leather pouches – more than he normally wore – and they made his hips swing oddly as he kept up his slow gait and approached the preoccupied Dark Lord.

"Mr Potter," he said to Harry in passing, and they both nodded to each other in acknowledgement. Harry watched reflections of the flames dance around in Healer Abbott's thick lenses as he slowly moved over to the Dark Lord and discretely cleared his throat to signal that he had arrived.

Very slowly Voldemort lowered his gaze, finished his chant and turned around. For some reason, his slitted eyes seemed to glow in the dark, shining brightly red – as if glowing from within with some powerful magic. "Is everything prepared?" he asked in an ethereal voice, looking deep into the old healer's eyes.

Stiffly, Healer Abbott nodded. "Yes, my Lord. It is time."

"Excellent," Voldemort praised quietly and slowly turned to look straight at Harry; his eyes glowing red as embers. "Tell them to ready themselves," he commanded dismissively as he walked up to Harry and laid a steady hand onto his right shoulder. "I have a very important task for you."

At once, butterflies came alive in Harry's stomach and he swallowed thickly. "What is that, master?" he asked in a whisper.

A wide smile spread across Voldemort's face, and Harry mused that he once might have thought such a smile to be malicious, but now he only saw excitement and affection in it, and it made him calm down ever so slightly. With fluid movements, Voldemort reached down into his left robe pocket and took out a small crystal vial with a clear liquid within it. "This is Veritaserum," Voldemort explained as he handed it over to Harry, who accepted it with careful hands. "It is a Truth Serum and an important part of the Ceremony. I want you to stay by my side throughout, and when I tell you, to drop one drop onto your finger – just one drop – and then place it onto the tongue of the person in front of us. Do you understand?"

"Yes, master," Harry replied, carefully committing the instructions to memory. "But I don't understand what's going on – what is the Ceremony going to do exactly?"

Voldemort looked about to tell him, but stopped himself with an amused twitch to his lips. "We shall see how long it takes for you to figure it out on your own. It will be good practice."

With one last, amused look at Harry's affronted expression, Voldemort turned away and gracefully strode towards the bonfire, efficiently receiving the rapt attention of every single person surrounding it. Under their watchful eyes, Voldemort placed himself so that he stood facing the waning gibbous moon, shining down from above the blazing fire warming their faces. Tentatively, clutching the vial tightly in his fist, Harry stepped up to Voldemort's right and waited with great anticipation for whatever was to come.

For a long moment, nothing at all happened. If not for the loud crackling of the fire, the moonlit glen would have been eerily quiet. But then, Healer Abbott, who had discarded his walking stick, stepped up to Voldemort and kneeled in front of him.

"I come before thee, my Lord and master,

I, your hands and mouth – an extension of your power,

to honour and serve thee, tonight and beyond,

as is your will and your need."

With measured movements, Voldemort reached out with his right hand and placed the three tips of his index, middle and ring finger lightly on the old man's wrinkled forehead. "I, Lord Voldemort, accept."

A pulse of black smoke radiated out of Voldemort's fingertips, and it moved into Healer Abbott's forehead, before vanishing from sight completely. Then, shakily but determinedly, the old wizard got back on his feet, curtseyed, and moved to stand in between Voldemort and the fire, digging his hand into the fattest of his leather pouches and then tossing a handful acid-green powder into the fire. At once, the fire erupted up towards the night sky and turned the same shade of acid-green, and watching it, a stark feeling of recognition sparkled alive in Harry. A green bonfire, he thought with widening eyes. Wait, it must be the Marking Ceremony!

"Bingo!" replied James sardonically in the back of his mind, and instantly, a wave of nausea and anxiety swept over Harry's entire being. He recalled his second night on the island, the night he'd lost Hedwig, and got a vivid memory of a terrible, desperate scream with terror and utmost pain. Worriedly, he flicked his eyes this way and that, trying to discern what about the Ceremony would be so horrifyingly painful.

Under his watchful gaze, Healer Abbott walked around the circle of soon-to-be Death Eaters, making them drink out of a silver chalice adorned with emeralds. As the cup was lifted to Scabior's pale lips, a trail of thick, deep red liquid escaped the left corner of his mouth and travelled down his neck, making him look like a vampire the moment the chalice was removed. Heart beating fast, Harry kept a close eye on the proceedings, not letting anything escape him. Dully, seemingly from no-where, the slow beating of a drum started, resonating eerily like heartbeats in his chest.

Once Healer Abbott had fed everyone the blood-like drink, he turned to the person immediately to Harry's right; the strangely familiar woman who was tall, dark skinned and had a pair of strikingly pale green eyes. Without a word, the healer beckoned her with a gesture, and she obediently followed him to the other side of the raging fire. Through it, Harry saw her shape step up to the edge of the bonfire, and to his utter horrification, into it.

The dark shape moved slowly through the green flames, seemingly without struggle, and after a short moment, during which the beating of the drum escalated to an ear-splitting volume, the witch emerged through the flames in front of them, looking completely unscathed.

With smooth motions, like the proud prancing of a lion, she moved up to stand in front of Voldemort and Harry, before kneeling in front of them. Without a word, she closed her eyes, leaned back her head and opened up her mouth.

"Now, Harry," Voldemort hissed discretely, and with a surprised jerk, Harry recalled that he had a task to complete. He fiddled with the bottle, his hands clammy and shaking with nervousness, but he managed to pry the lid open. After nearly dropping the flask, he took it in a firmer grip and dripped a single drop onto the tip of his index finger before slowly, hesitantly reaching out towards the woman's open mouth and placing it on her soft, pink tongue. Once he was done, he quickly retracted his hand, and watched as the witch closed her mouth and swallowed, before looking up at Voldemort with ferocious determination burning bright in her eyes.

"I pledge to thee, my Lord and master, my loyalty and faith;
my love and affection; my weakness and strength,
to do with as you see fit, from this point on and forever.
I lay myself into thy hands; mind, body and soul;
to wield and use; to cherish and hold; from this point on and forever."

The woman kept eye-contact with Voldemort for a long, silent moment, before he gently nodded. Then, she rolled up the sleeve of her left arm and held out the appendage in offering to her new master. Harry watched, wide-eyed, as Voldemort took it in a firm grip around her elbow before cruelly pushing the tip of his wand into the soft underside of her arm. In a low and rather hissy voice, he started chanting to the beat of the drum, and all throughout, the witch looked to be steeling herself for something. Then, with finality, Voldemort intoned "Morsmordre!" and at once, the woman scrunched up her face and let out a terrible scream.

Harry shivered from head to toe, watching her suffer, and whishing it all to stop. Just as he thought it, Voldemort retracted his wand and his hands, and the woman slumped at his feet, falling completely silent.

"Arise, Odelia Thorn; Death Eater, Dark Sorceress and servant of the Dark Lord Voldemort," Voldemort proclaimed royally, and after shakily standing up, eyes clouded with residue pain, Thorn curtseyed lowly at her new master and retook her place in the circle to Harry's right.

Before Harry could calm himself down from the terror of watching a person put through torture, the next person in like followed Healer Abbott to the other side of the bonfire and walked through the flames. Harry watched dully as the tall, muscular man kneeled in front of them, and shakily placed a drop of Veritaserum on his outstretched, rather dry tongue.

After he had recited the pledge, Harry braced himself and watched Voldemort lean in and brand the man's thick and rather hairy arm with his vicious-looking mark. To Harry's utmost relief, the man did not scream with the pain, but clenched his teeth together against it with a look of utmost concentration. Apparently, his pain tolerance was higher than Thorn's had been.

"Arise, Winston Yaxley; Death Eater, Dark Sorcerer and servant of the Dark Lord Voldemort," Voldemort proclaimed, and after a deep curtsey, Yaxley returned to his spot in the circle, showing no signs of being in any pain whatsoever.

After Yaxley followed a trail of men and women, who, in quick succession, passed through the fire, took a drop of Veritaserum, pledged and received the Dark Mark. Most of them screamed, but not all, and every time any of them refrained, Harry let out a relieved sigh.

Starting to get at least a little used to the routine of it all, Harry watched as the last but one person followed Healer Abbott to the edge of the bonfire. Scabior looked to the side at him, his bloodstained lips sporting a cocky and excited grin, and he winked mischievously before walking behind the flames and out of sight. Feeling a lot better from the young man's bold attitude, Harry relaxed even more and thought to himself that these people knew what they were getting into, and that they were not afraid. So I shouldn't be either, he thought resolutely to himself, and in the back of his mind, James agreed.

Staring right at Scabior's slim silhouette, barely visible through the fire, Harry watched as the young wizard took a bold step into the fire, and promptly recoiled. A terrible, soul-piercing scream sounded, ringing in horrifying echoes all around them, and off to the side of the bonfire, a thin shape, completely engulfed by vicious green flames, emerged. Scabior was flailing about desperately, screaming and crying out for help; but no-body moved a muscle. Throat full of terror, Harry made to bolt forwards, digging through his pockets to retrieve his wand, but a painful grip around the back of his neck nailed him to the spot.

"Stay still," hissed Voldemort in a quiet whisper, and at once, Harry felt a strong gust of soothing feelings stream into his terrified mind. "He has proven unworthy of our time ... He may have become one of those who try to ruin us from the inside; a spy, or something of the like. The Ceremonial Trial refused him, and so you shall pay him no more attention."

But knowing where the soothing feeling came from, Harry couldn't let it affect him, but kept struggling in Voldemort's hold until it tightened enough to send a sharp pain down his entire back.

"You will not interrupt the Ceremony," Voldemort hissed in a hair-raising voice, and as they both watched, Healer Abbott lead the last person from his spot next to the Dark Lord and up to the fire. Walking slowly, Sirius looked over his shoulder at Harry, his eyes shining like a pair of sharp blades in the light of the fire. Harry watched, terrified, how his godfather became a silhouette behind the fire, and his heart beat loudly as the drum as Sirius took a step into the acidly green flames. Harry nearly screamed out in terror, but instead sagged in relief when he saw the shape move closer and closer, until it emerged unscathed at the other side.

Overcome with terror-infused relief, Harry's eyes blurred with unshed tears and his breaths came out as gasps. Subconsciously, he knew that Voldemort had released his neck, but he still stood rooted in place, transfixed by the sight of Sirius Black, who knelt in front of him, held his gaze and opened his mouth. As though through a trance, Harry poured a drop of Veritaserum onto his fingertip and placed it in Sirius's mouth, which closed as soon as he had retracted his finger. Still keeping eye contact with him, something that to Harry seemed increasingly comforting, Sirius spoke.

If Voldemort was angered by the fact that Sirius hadn't looked once at him as he pledged, he didn't show it, but only held out his right hand in a demanding gesture. Sirius didn't scream, and didn't show any sign of pain all throughout his marking, but only looked at Harry with affection radiating out of his grey eyes.

"Arise, Sirius Black; Death Eater, Dark Sorcerer and servant of the Dark Lord Voldemort."

Then, in a blur, the Ceremony was over. Voldemort spoke to his new followers, but Harry didn't pay any attention to that. As soon as his master's focus shifted off him, he bolted across the glen, zigzagging between black-clad people, and fell to his knees by Scabior's fallen form. He lay face-down in the moss, still burning in a couple of places. Drawing in a shivering breath, Harry dug out his wand and hurriedly whispered "Decendio!" to extinguish the flames.

With the flames went all Harry's remaining strength, and he slumped at the scorched young man's side, wallowing in guilt. He's dead, and I didn't help him. I just stood there. Perhaps, if I'd only just ...

"Didn't you listen to what Voldemort said?" James interposed impatiently. "He wasn't worthy. He went into this willingly, knowing that there was a chance he wouldn't make it. What if he was another spy?"

With dark fury, Harry turned on James. You're on his side? You think he's right? Scabior is dead!

"Why do you care?" James returned with honest confusion. "You only met him once, and as I recall, you didn't like him very much then."

What does that matter? Harry questioned with growing ire. He didn't do anything! He didn't deserve to die!

"Yes he did," James contradicted pointedly. "He failed, so he should die."

You don't understand, Harry concluded darkly. How can you not understand – you're supposed to be ME!

Not giving his separated soul-shard any chance to defend himself, Harry emptied his mind with steeled determination and pointed his wand at his own chest. "Occlumens!"

Shakily, the shield sprang up around his mind, and at once, a heavy cloak of fatigue came over him. Blinking away the tears clouding his vision, Harry saw Voldemort's dark form approach. As he fell to the side, overcome by sleep, he thought darkly to himself that he had been right all along; Voldemort was evil.