A/N: The following chapter might disturb some. Violence is contained; read at own risk. As you may notice, the rating has been raised. You are warned.
The Prince-Who-Lived
Chapter Twenty-four
The night before the third task, Alan stayed in his father's rooms, enjoying supper alone with him, and just relaxing after all the revision he'd done in the month since he'd had the task revealed. It was also a good break from worrying about being hexed in his sleep, or worrying about a hexed door in the morning. Severus had reassured him that Geoffrey and Ginger would be there the next morning, to talk and just stay with him until the evening meal and the beginning of the task. Alan had been tired, and hadn't asked how they were going to keep his godfather in America. They'd have something, he was sure.
He woke after Severus had already gone to breakfast, and went to a late meal himself, pleased with the sleep, and eager to see Geoffrey and Ginger. Blaise frowned to see him show up later, and Daphne clucked faintly at him. There were several present; they'd taken to spending a bit more time as a group since the article had been published about Amber.
"Alan, where were you?"
"With my father, Daphne."
Daphne blinked, and then blushed slightly. "Well, tell us, alright? Lucille is double-checking the dorms." Alan's raised eyebrow brought a snort. "You've been keeping in contact with all of us at all times since this started, and then you disappear just before the task without telling us."
Alan shrugged, disguising his discomfort. He had disappeared. "I'm sorry to have worried you, but Severus just picked me up from class without telling me I'd be staying the night with him. I'll let her know I'm fine when she returns, but she may come after my guardians arrive."
Daphne sighed. "Fine, I'll let her know."
"How's Theodore?" Alan asked. Theodore Nott had been catching flack for tying himself to Alan and leaving his neutrality, and thus his group had been keeping an extra eye on him. Tracey hadn't seemed to mind the extra contact at all, and Theo had seemed unencumbered by the extra attention from her as well. Alan was amused, but kept it from his face.
Lucille did return before Severus came down the aisle to tap him on the shoulder and inform him to leave to the small room off the Great Hall. Grateful to leave Lucille's thorough practice in how to make him feel embarrassed for disappearing on them without making a single direct comment on it, Alan smiled at them, and waved them to their tests as he made his own way to the room and stepped carefully inside. Krum was talking avidly in Bulgarian to his own family, and Fleur was holding his sister's hand and speaking to her mother in French. To the far corner, however, Geoffrey was talking angrily into a mirror he had in his hand, as Andrew leaned against the wall nearby with a casual cast to his own pose, Koreol blending into the shadows further back. Andrew noticed him come in first, and a smile spread across his face.
"Alan! Geoffrey's having a conniption, and Ginger's keeping an eye on the little buggers and your bratty godfather."
Alan laughed lowly. "You mean Lyall didn't get to try out the new knots she'd learned? She was sure they'd hold."
"They do." Andrew reassured him. "But last night was the full moon, and it fell to Ginger, and the brat got out of her work, and so dad's busy sitting on him."
"Ouch. You're here to watch me get fried?"
"Nooo." Andrew glared. "I'm here to watch you win."
Alan rolled his eyes, and smiled, giving Andrew a short boy hug before turning his eyes to Geoffrey. He was talking so quickly it was almost unintelligible, but just as Alan was managing to figure out what he was talking about, Alan heard another demand come through, and Geoffrey lost his temper. His words of choice made the entire room turn and stare, and he didn't seem to notice, although he toned his voice back down to near silence after his singular outburst. Whatever he added made the person on the other end – most likely Alan's godfather – give up, and he put it away in time to hear Gabrielle Delacour innocently ask of her mother, speaking surprisingly good English,
"What's a 'Damn black pole-dancer', and why would he try on an English Setter?"
Geoffrey flushed as Gabrielle's mother glared at him, and Alan tried hard not to laugh. It was an effort. Andrew rolled his eyes and slung an arm around Alan's shoulders.
"So, whom can you introduce me to?"
"Next to nobody." Alan returned. "They're all taking exams. If you're lucky, Draco Malfoy and his gang'll accost us at lunch, but you're not allowed to threaten to bite them. Nobody really likes vampires around here."
Andrew growled. "Yeah, 'part-human' and all that."
"Andrew Arie." Koreol admonished. "We are outside of our sphere of influence."
Andrew ducked his head quietly, and then looked at Alan. "So, what can you show us?"
"Perhaps the library, or the grounds. Durmstrang came over on a ship that showed up in the lake." Alan offered.
"The ship showed up in the lake?" Geoffrey asked, startled. "How did it do that?"
"Don't know. It looked like a whirlpool when it came, but other than that I can't tell you." Alan shrugged. "You'd have to ask a Durmstrang student, but I don't know if they'll tell you or not. We can certainly go look at it."
"How'd Beauxbatons show up?" Andrew asked.
"Flying horses and a carriage."
"I haven't seen one of those in ages." Koreol quietly allowed.
Alan smiled. "Outside it is."
Andrew sighed. "And I was looking forward to scaring the poor studiers."
IIII
The time outside lasted until lunch, when Geoffrey insisted on checking out the Whomping Willow he'd glimpsed while they were looking at the carriage. Since both adults were interested, Alan and Andrew had allowed them their time. Upon heading inside, Geoffrey was nursing a bruise on his arm and Koreol was watching him with amusement as he quietly griped.
Sitting down with his group, Alan smiled at all of them as they looked at his companions with surprise, or suspicion.
"Everybody, this is Geoffrey Alfaerus, my uncle, Andrew Mayfair, my good friend, and Koreol O'Shaunel, Andrew's mentor." Alan indicated each of them in turn, and then turned around to look at his coterie. Most of them were staring at Andrew and Koreol, and it was easy to tell those that knew how to identify vampires and those that didn't: The ones that did were several times paler than normal. Stifling his amusement, Alan continued introductions, "Geoffrey, Andrew, Koreol, these are Lucille, Salvador, Blaise, Theodore, Daphne and Tracey. Stephanie, Dillan, and Malcolm are elsewhere." He indicated each student in turn, and behind him, he saw Geoffrey give a jaunty wave, while Koreol nodded solemnly. Koreol then leaned down to whisper into Andrew's ear and then he turned and left. Andrew sat comfortably next to Alan, and purposefully leaned against his shoulder, ignoring Alan's glare.
"Well, hello everyone. How are all you pretty Brits doing?" He winked at Daphne, who blushed lightly but didn't look away. Lucille rolled her eyes.
"Are all Americans crazy?"
"In magical Salem they are." Alan and Andrew answered together. Lucille gave them a cautious look, and then shook her head.
"Forget I asked."
IIII
Geoffrey insisted upon a tour of the castle afterwards. Koreol seemed to enjoy it as well, but Andrew was disappointed that Draco had avoided them and he didn't get a chance to intimidate the runt, to use his choice of words. Just before they went back to supper, when they were still out of general sight, Andrew stopped Alan and leaned over to peck a quick kiss on his throat. Alan pulled back shortly, and then laughed as Andrew gave him another flirtatious look. Alan shook his head; the gesture was tied to him being a vampire, and was supportive, but it still felt really weird.
"Gee, thanks." Alan drawled.
"Anytime." Andrew injected his innuendo once more, and Alan stalked past him to sit once more with his friends, Koreol and Geoffrey following. Koreol looked around the hall, and then sat bonelessly beside him, pushing Geoffrey aside, much to his annoyance.
"Alan, who are the men who joined the staff table?"
Alan glanced up, and recognized the jovial face of Ludo Bagman and, beside him, Kenner Templar. "Ludo Bagman and Kenner Templar. Templar replaced Crouch."
Koreol nodded his head slowly, and then sat back and gave Geoffrey a long look. Geoffrey didn't notice at first, but finally he looked up and frowned at Koreol.
"Fuck - off. There are enough expendable people hanging around you can pick someone else."
Alan snorted, and Koreol sighed, returning to gazing calmly around the Hall. Beside him, Stephanie flinched away slightly, keeping her eyes on him in a cautious but curious manner. Alan didn't know if Koreol noticed the attention or not. He certainly didn't respond to it.
Daphne, however, spoke up, "Couldn't the kitchens provide something?"
Koreol looked over at her, and sighed. "Packaged blood is rather … substandard."
"Which means vampires don't like eating leftovers." Geoffrey added. "If it's already been bled out once, they don't like drinking it back up. They can, but then you get a pissy vampire. And nobody likes a pissy vampire."
"But you'd rather he be pissy than drink from you, though." Alan added.
"And how often do you share with Andrew?" Geoffrey returned. Alan fell silent, and Andrew gave him another considering glance. Alan returned his gaze with raised eyebrows.
"I've got an obstacle course to beat coming up." Alan primly returned. "I need all my strength. Andrew can take a chunk out of someone else."
"You make it sound so violent, Alan." Andrew whined. "It doesn't hurt, and you know it."
"Fine." Alan drawled. "You still need to get your own donor. And hopefully without pissing off Dumbledore."
Geoffrey opened his mouth to comment, but shut it as Alan glared and muttered instead under his breath, making Koreol fight down a small smile. Alan sighed and turned back to his meal, pushing the remaining food around a moment without much appetite. This was the last task, and the last chance for him to get screwed over. This was the last chance … he doubted they'd simply put his name in to make everyone dislike him. No, they wanted him hurt …
"Koreol, wouldn't you have drunk before coming here anyways?" Alan asked, trying to distract himself from his own worries.
Koreol frowned slightly. "Yes, but I want to make sure I'm not working half-cocked in case you get in trouble. Andrew should be fine without anything more this evening. He drank this morning as well." He gave Andrew a short glare, which Andrew met with a puppy look for only a moment, before nodded shortly and dropping his gaze submissively. Beside Koreol, Stephanie cleared her throat. Alan and the rest of his group all turned to her.
"I'm seventeen." She offered. "And … and if it's … not going to hurt, or – or make me feel ill or something, I'd be willing to … help, to make sure you can help Alan if trouble hits."
Alan raised his eyebrows. "You don't have to, Stephanie." He commented. "Koreol would be fine without."
"I don't need you to feel obligated to offer, child." Koreol added.
"I'm not." She added, and then blushed lightly. "I'm … I'm also a … tad … curious …"
"Ah." Koreol smiled widely, and although Alan couldn't see his face, he strongly suspected Stephanie was getting a very good view of his fangs. When she squeaked lightly, Alan shook his head, and laughed faintly with Andrew. "If you would find a safe place where there would be no disturbances, it would be best." Koreol finished. "Preferably before we need to go down to the stands."
Stephanie nodded carefully, and then turned back to her meal. Koreol turned away, and immediately engaged Geoffrey in discussing the use of the Whomping Willow and possibly planting one at Salem. Five minutes later, during which Andrew somehow coaxed Alan to eat a small amount more, Stephanie blushed at her friends, and squeaked that she suspected she needed to go to the bathroom, and left, clutching her purse. The other girls laughed quietly, turning to their own discussion. Alan found himself smiling. That was an excellent escape.
Not two minutes later, Dumbledore stood, and smiled across the students.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, in five minutes time I will be asking all of you to make your way down to the Quidditch pitch for the third and last task of the Triwizard Tournament. Will the champions please follow Mr. Bagman to the stadium now."
Alan licked his lips nervously and stood, turning without looking back to leave the Great Hall with Viktor and Fleur. He held his silence as he went, and quietly allowed his mind to calm in preparation for whatever they might throw at him. He couldn't change anything now except to face what might come.
The thick, twenty-foot tall hedge running all the way around the edges of the stadium now hid the maze they were to traverse. Bagman led them to a single, dark opening and they waited there in silence for the five minutes to pass, and the murmur of the crowd to begin as they filed into the stands above. The four teachers who'd be watching for them to request aid introduced themselves, and then went back to patrolling the edges, as Bagman finally cast sonorous once more and began the announcement.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament is about to begin! Let me remind you how the points currently stand! In first place, with ninety points, Alan Prince!" The applause was loud, louder than Alan had really expected considering the lingering resentment for his appointment. "In second place, at eighty points, Viktor Krum!" The stands exploded in sound, which Bagman had to wait out for a moment before he finished. "And third place, Fleur Delacour!"
Alan's eyes scanned the crowd and lit not upon his family, but Harry and his family instead, the Longbottoms seated next to them. Harry was watching him in turn, but Alan didn't let his face change a whit as he continued to look around, stifling his nervousness as Bagman moved on in his announcing.
"So … On my whistle, Alan." Bagman raised the whistle, and Alan faced the opening with a firm push against his own dread.
The shrill blast echoed behind him, and Alan moved quickly into the maze, feeling both relief and mild worry when the sound from outside cut off as soon as he entered. The height of the hedges, and the growing darkness above made the ground shadowed and a small challenge to traverse safely. He watched it carefully, and then watched the sky once more, before moving on without casting any spells. Better to not ruin his night vision unless there was a need.
After fifty yards, the way forked and Alan paused before choosing left, moments before the whistle sounded again. Krum had entered the maze. Alan glanced ahead, still watching the ground before he moved forward once more, walking briskly. There appeared to be nothing along this branch, but the path turned right and Alan went around the corner and paused. Silently he cast lumos and studied the path ahead for what had made him suspicious. The whistle sounded again and made him jump, and then he caught sight of the lines against the hedges on both sides. He brightened his light, and picked out what had concerned him. They were ropes, leading to the ground that was littered with loose dirt and a faint pattern that shouldn't have been there. Alan couldn't help it; he smiled. It was a net, and the trigger was right at the edge, spelled only lightly and appeared to be … Alan cast a quick detecting spell and smiled. He was right. It was simply tripwire, jinxed to make one stumble off balance and forward into the net. However, he could find no other triggers, and cautiously he stepped over the tripwire and walked across the net, and continued up the path.
He went further, and took a left at the next fork, getting halfway before he heard a startled scream behind him. He laughed. Apparently one of the others had taken his path and had not caught sight of the trap, falling prey to it. He turned forward, and stopped completely, feeling something tingling just in front of his foot. Looking down, he saw a faint shimmering patch just in front of his foot, like heat off of pavement except this was dirt and cold, and Alan pulled his weight back completely before casting a detection spell. The patch was a confundus spell, waiting to take hold when he removed his foot from its edge. Alan frowned and countered it. He hadn't been paying attention and nearly been caught. That wouldn't do. But he didn't want to use too much magic. Finally, he just slowed down, and cast a quick point me spell. Without a specified target, the spell pointed due North. The middle of the maze was Northwest. Alan moved on.
The next two paths were empty, and then he moved forward, turned a corner and froze. On the ground before him, a dark-haired man was sprawled, facedown, his arm reaching forward before his drawn and pained face. Alan felt sweat break out on his back, and he swallowed.
"Riddikulus!" He cast quickly, and the man was suddenly standing, and leaned back to kick up into a handstand. Alan laughed as he always did, and then cast a quick banishment spell, sending the boggart elsewhere. Once it was gone, Alan allowed himself a moment to calm down. He hated boggarts.
Further through the maze Alan went, and he had to disable two more traps and passed several other spells laced across the ground. Walking past another entrance, he glanced inside and felt a sense of hopelessness in ever finding the end of the maze. Alan closed his eyes for a moment, and then glanced around curiously. As he'd suspected, on the edge of the maze near the bottom, a round rock was sitting there. Alan glared at it, and chose another direction. The feeling followed him, and when he turned, there was a rock just to one side of the path. Alan huffed. It was a damn pogrebin. For a moment, he couldn't think of anything that might get the ridiculous creature to leave him alone, and he carefully closed his eyes and occluded. It was just a silly creature. It didn't take much to get rid of them; they weren't actually rocks. Alan opened his eyes and aimed.
"Reducto!"
The creature shrieked as it shredded, leaving a darkening patch on the ground as it bled. Alan turned away with a faint twitch, and continued along the path ahead of him. He hit another dead end, checked his direction, and then turned back and took another turn. Ahead was a golden mist. Alan eyed it suspiciously. He thought he'd run into something like that before … possibly at Salem in one of the teacher's doors … He suspected it had been the Alfaerus patriarch who'd used it, actually, and it reversed the world … Alan had never gone through his door again.
Sighing, Alan walked forward, and hesitantly stepped into the mist. Immediately, he felt a tug on the soles of his shoes, and he shut his eyes firmly, ignoring the vertigo and purposefully stepping forward again, not waiting. The return of his centre of gravity hit him like a brick wall and he dropped to his knees breathing deeply and reverting to his meditation by habit. Once his heart had stopped pounding, he continued forward, and froze as a scream cut through the maze. It sounded like Fleur! Alan stopped, breathed, and then shook his head and moved forward. She'd gotten herself into this, and the teachers were to watch them. It was her prerogative.
Alan was still more cautious as he moved forward again.
Ten minutes later, and he was cursing himself for being a fool. He was presently stuck in net, hung at the top of the hedges. It gave him a good look at the stands around the maze, but he was more interested in getting out of it right now, than admiring the stars. However, the problem that was currently bothering him was that twenty-foot fall beneath him. He had to get the net undone, and then get to the ground without injury. Not a good combination. Of course, he'd been stupid to end up stuck here. He'd stepped over the tripwire, and dead onto the pressure pad.
Finally, however, he got himself shifted enough to get the switchblade out of his shoe, and he returned to glaring at the ropes at the top. He'd already tried ten different spells, and a conjured blade and none of them had worked, so plain steel it was. He heard something beneath him and prayed it wasn't one of the other champions – he did not need another complication – and continued eyeing the ropes to find the one he needed to cut to get more room without dropping him twenty feet. He found one, and placed the knife to cut before his mind caught up with him, and he looked down – and froze.
The skrewts had gotten huge. One crawled beneath him, the sting curled over only a few feet below him. It was at least ten feet long, with dark, shiny armour and scary-as-Hell pincers. He held his breath as it moved beneath him, but it seemed determined to move far too slowly for his comfort. He wanted this done with.
Alan turned and quickly stuck his wand just outside of the net before trying to cast a blasting curse. It didn't work, and Alan swore. The net was cancelling all his attempts at magic, dammit!
The skrewt still wasn't moving, so Alan finally just gave up and put his wand into his wrist holster. He was done waiting. He put the knife back against the rope and quickly cut several links on the side, creating a small hole. He was very, very careful; falling onto the skrewt would be worse than falling to the plain dirt. The dirt wouldn't actively try to kill him immediately if the fall itself didn't.
The hole was relatively easy. Getting out of it was harder. Getting down was looking fucking scary, because that skrewt still hadn't left. But Alan was determined, and stubbornly pulled himself out of the net, and then, once free of the stupid dampening effect of the net, conjured a nice rope ladder to get down on one side of the skrewt. He was halfway down when the skrewt shifted in his direction and Alan felt like cursing. They never had figured out how skrewts sensed their surroundings without heads, but he wasn't happy to have it confirmed that they certainly could do so. Stubbornly, he held onto where he was, and cast a reflection spell on the ground, followed by a stunner to rebound off the patch. The skrewt shuddered and dropped, and Alan quickly finished getting down, and left – very quickly – once more along the path he'd been walking before he got himself in trouble.
Moving forward was getting a little more complex, and finally Alan glared at the mess of wavering spells before and behind him. He was currently treading a path that couldn't be more than a foot wide between all of them, and was glaring at the jump required ahead. Even considering keeping a spell up long enough to be able to walk past these like he was currently doing made him feel dizzy. He was glad to be spared the necessity; he wanted to be as fresh as possible when he reached the cup, because he felt even more powerfully that something was not going to go right once he reached there.
Alan made the jump, and looked gratefully at the end of the shimmering ground ahead of him at the end of the same thin path. He could only thank that the spells stopped at the hedge, leaving the corner - about ten square feet - clear. He stepped past the corner, and swore as several dark creatures suddenly dove at his face. He stopped himself stepping backwards with effort – he'd foolishly just skirted the patches, and dove forward, stopping as he felt something press against his ankle and throwing himself sidelong into the safe corner, feeling sharp, tiny claws rake his hair, and an annoying buzzing hover around his head. Alan quickly rolled over and shouted a blasting hex, one after another. The claws retreated, and Alan sat up and opened his eyes, hexing the next dark creature to try dive-bombing him again, and then freezing a small grouping that was huddling above his head. He looked quickly around himself once more, and, feeling no other dive-bombs, he stood shakily and nearly tripped. He quickly bent to look over his ankle and swore at the numb feeling that was infusing his foot. A glance ahead showed another net hung high above, the wire ahead loose and on the ground, dim traces of a spell lingering around it. Alan tried several counters, and, at the second, feeling returned in a rush of pins and needles, making him gasp and shudder slightly. This was going to be trouble, but it should fade soon enough.
Alan checked the path before him, finding nothing hiding beneath or beyond the net and continuing down the open path. He had to pause at the next path, and smiled grimly. There was a plant blocking his way, thrashing and reaching for the food it could feel standing there: Devil's Snare. Even as he looked, however, he suspected it was two different plants. They wouldn't make passage impossible in any of the paths, unless they were going to be asses and block off a dead end to make it seem like a path, but if he could hold the spell that might just be the way to the middle and the end of this tomfoolery …
Alan cast point me and studied it carefully. He'd been circling around in all sorts of directions, and he felt a strong suspicion this was the way in …
Deciding to chance it, Alan quickly cast a circle of fire, and looped it into circling him. He then drew Harry's wand, borrowed with permission this time, and carefully cast a second, setting it higher around his head, before he walked carefully into the mess of thrashing vines. The Devil's Snare was extremely unhappy about him defying it so, but it wasn't careful enough, or smart enough to be able to foil his rings of fire and avoid his subtle adjustments to keep it away from him. It was a very long walk, however, and getting past it, he came into the light in the centre of the maze. Standing on a plinth ahead of him gleamed the Triwizard cup. Seeing it gave Alan a strong sense of relief. So little time left for something to go wrong.
There were no more traps he could see ahead of himself, and he cast two detection spells just to be sure, and then he jogged out of the paths and up to the plinth. He looked around as soon as he came into the open and saw a spider on the far side from him. It was huge, and Alan didn't want to have anything to do with it. He leaped forward to the cup, wanting the task to end, and grabbed it without thinking.
As his hand closed, he felt a sickening tug in his gut, and his eyes widened even as he was pulled away from the spider. This wasn't supposed to be happening! How could the cup be a portkey? He cursed himself as he spun away, and hoped against all of his sense that this was just part of the task, maybe it went out of the maze to a podium or something. The cold dread in his stomach told him otherwise, but for the moment, he hoped.
The landing knocked his balance off completely, and Alan hit the ground and rolled away from the cup. He came to his feet and looked around frantically, taking in the dark trees, the lower horizon where the mountains of Hogwarts were gone and the tombstones among which he stood. He heard a faint hiss ahead of him and his eyes locked onto it. It was moving away, hissing unintelligibly and he stepped several steps closer, eyes still scanning frantically. This wasn't Hogwarts. This likely wasn't even near it, and he hoped against hope that it was all just a mistake, but even as he thought it he felt a dull headache start on the right side of his head and ground his teeth, pulling back. Even as he did so he heard a rustle behind him, heard the spell cast and turned only in time to see a dark hooded figure and a flash of red light before he blacked out.
IIII
Alan felt the blackness pull back, and blinked the haze out of his mind as he looked into a pale, drawn face with gleaming red eyes. It took him a moment to adjust, and he realized quickly that he was blind in his right eye. Alan growled, and pulled back from the thin fingers he could feel caressing the side of his face. His head connected with stone before he got far, and he tilted his head to the side to get away. A high laugh greeted his response, and Alan quickly flexed against the expected bonds. They were tight, and encased him from shoulders to hips. He wasn't going to be moving anytime soon. Frustrated, Alan glared at the red-eyed … man before him who he suspected to be Voldemort.
The thought made his mouth dry out and sweat broke out on his back. He swallowed painfully and quickly looked around the graveyard.
He hadn't been moved from the scene he'd glimpsed when he'd come off the portkey, but the crowd had certainly grown. There was a broken circle of Death Eaters around the tombstone he was bound to, large gaps as though there were less numbers than expected. All of them were garbed in generic black robes, the hoods raised and white masks covering their faces. Upon one, a silvery hand gleamed at one arm, caressed lovingly beneath an unmasked, mousy face.
"Alan … Prince, I believe?"
Alan turned angrily to the sibilant voice, ignoring the warmth weeping from his right eye. It was expected, with the deep ache he could feel. His eye had never been the same since that night …
"Yes, Tom?" Alan spat.
Voldemort froze, and casually stepped forward and slapped him. Alan ignored the sting and returned his gaze unerringly. He wondered what he looked like, with his eye most likely staring blindly … weeping tears and possibly blood … the ugly scar bisecting the middle, a tight knot of tissue that never belonged in an eye, that he had disguised before he'd even known what it was, without even knowing it was there …
"You will not call me that, child. You are the son of Severus Snape, yes?"
Alan paused, and shrugged. "Nope."
Voldemort eyed him incredulously and then began to chortle darkly. A wave of laughter swept the gathered Death Eaters, faint and insidious. Finally, Voldemort stepped closer to him again and smiled. "Do you really expect me to believe that?"
Alan shrugged carelessly. "I don't care what you think."
"You will shortly, Alan …" Voldemort's voice caressed his name in a way that made Alan feel filthy. He was definitely having a bath after this …
"As you are well aware, I am Lord Voldemort."
"Anagram of Tom Marvolo Riddle, I know." Alan drawled carelessly. Voldemort's eyes flashed and his wand came up,
"Crucio!"
His senses burst into flame, pain crawling across his body in waves. Alan thrashed against the ropes, grinding his teeth into each other, and then screaming in helpless fury as it didn't go away. It was hideously painful, inescapable, and he needed it to just stop!
The pain faded, and Alan went lax against the ropes, inordinately grateful they kept him from falling to his knees. He opened his eyes – useless right eye or no – as he heard robes sweep towards him. Looking up put his eyes on level with Voldemort's and without even thinking, he fell into the barriers he'd practiced with Harry and Neville, and the Crystal shield enveloped his mind before he even considered it. Voldemort's eyes tightened.
"Intelligent child." He allowed. "And powerful. But then again, you are Slytherin." His voice caressed the name, putting the importance on it both of them knew was more than just the House. He raised his hand and stroked it down Alan's face again. Alan tried to pull away once more, and Voldemort grabbed his chin firmly with his free hand, holding him in place. "You could be great, boy. I'd make you my heir, to the Dark Order I build in this country. Power, wealth, respect …"
"What could you give me that I don't already have?" Alan asked bitterly. "My name, my uncle's name already gives me more than you have here."
"Your uncle?" Voldemort asked curiously. "What uncle is that?"
Alan remained bitterly silent, and Voldemort stepped back fingering his wand carefully. He turned to his Death Eaters silently, and one stepped forward gracefully.
"My Lord, the boy's uncle is Geoffrey Alfaerus, an American who claims to be pureblood."
Alan growled faintly. He recognized Lucius' voice easily.
"Are the Alfaerus not pure?" Voldemort asked carelessly.
"No, my Lord." Lucius spat. "They call themselves pureblood for never marrying muggles, but they freely allow in any mudblood and halfblood that comes their way. Supposing that so long as one has magic, one's parents or family are of no account. They have no standards at all, freely allowing half-breeds among them, and others with impure blood of all kinds."
Alan bit his lip. Oh, he so wanted to call them on their inbreeding but he felt he'd get cursed enough without it that he didn't need to add anything to the fire quite yet.
Voldemort had already turned his attention back as well, and he finally leaned over and grabbed Alan's arm beneath the ropes. A sharp sting of pain made him catch his breath, and he felt faint for a long moment as he became aware of the long cut down his forearm. What had they cut him for? He knew about rituals, he'd learned of them, and there were so many that could be done with blood, to so many ends … the possibilities made him feel ill. Voldemort watched his face as he came aware of it with an unholy grin.
"Indeed …" He breathed. "Bone of the father, flesh of the servant, blood of the enemy … you were instrumental in bringing me back, Alan Snape." He spat, and then slapped him again. It was on the right side this time, and the hit made pain radiate in waves from his sore eye, bringing on a powerful, further influx of nausea. Voldemort turned back to the gathered Death Eaters.
"You all know I disappeared without warning, and while none of you – not one! – searched me out, I will allow you to know why." He turned and put his angry red eyes on Alan's form. "This child … a boy foretold to bring my downfall, but only one child out of three. I went after him …" Voldemort's gaze was powerful, and Alan returned it. He knew the choices he had for that prophecy, of what he knew of the prophecy at least. It had been him, Neville, or Harry. And Alan was fairly sure he knew why he had been chosen …"And his mother stepped between us. A squib stood between me and my goal … I foolishly forgot the thread of magic she possessed, enough that her sacrifice had power, power that overcame the curse I threw at her son thereafter.
"My experiments, my goal to overcome death proved true when instead of dying by the curse, I was instead ripped – painfully, unimaginably so – from my body, and rendered powerless, weaker than anything, and meaner than the meanest spirit. I was less than a ghost, without form but I was alive. I hid, waiting." He turned and his red eyes pierced those that surrounded him unforgivingly. "I waited for one of my faithful to search me out, to find me. Instead, I was bereft, left to my own devices, which, in the aim of returning to power, were not enough. Any spells, any potions, required a wand, and limbs. The only power I had left was that of possession, but the only things I could find, and use, were mere animals, animals whose lives were shortened painfully by my presence.
"Finally, three years ago, I got a chance, a possibility. A foolish, weak man stumbled upon my goal and he proved very useful … a teacher at Dumbledore's school, I subdued him to bring me here, possessed him to keep a careful watch as he carried out my orders. But I was thwarted, by a mere child … the child who had survived when I hit him with the worst curse in my repertoire, because of his mother. Alan Prince …
"I returned to hiding, then, returned to my weakened state … and not even a year ago, the coward Wormtail showed up once more. Having wandered as a rat for years now, escaping the wrath of his former friends, he found his way to where I was hidden. What a curious affinity with rats, Wormtail …" Voldemort laid his gaze on the unmasked Death Eater who was stroking his silver hand, and Wormtail flinched. Alan watched him carefully, remembering. Any names he could acquire would be good. "But you were foolish, careless. Hungry one night, he wandered into an inn on the edge of the forest he guessed I stayed in, and ran into Bertha Jorkins, a witch from the ministry of magic. But instead of being the end of his search, Wormtail showed a most unexpected streak of clarity and talked her into walking with him. He overpowered her, and brought her to me and with her came a most unexpected windfall. Inside her mind, behind some very powerful memory charms, Bertha knew much that would aid me.
"The knowledge I gained came at the cost of her mind and body. She was disposed of, and because of Wormtail's most overzealous friends, he too was ill adapted to possession. I was forced to wait, and find a temporary measure for travel … a simple, weak body strengthened by blood of a unicorn, and my dearest Nagini …" A snake rose from the grass and pressed against Voldemort's hand, hissing pleasurably. Alan suppressed his self-recrimination – that had been what had distracted him so easily upon arriving here, while Wormtail crept up behind him. "Unable to gain immortality at the time, I settled for a return to my old power, my mortal body. For this, I would need three most powerful ingredients, for this old piece of Dark Magic. One was already on hand," Voldemort looked back at Wormtail, who cowered clutching his silver hand. "The Flesh of the servant."
Alan suppressed the irreverent need to groan at the pun. It was just nerves. Just.
"For the Bone of the father, we came here, to his resting place. But finally … Blood of the enemy. Wormtail wanted any wizard who hated me, but I, I had my sights set on a specific target … the boy who had destroyed me could bring me back, in quite the most ironic turn." Alan schooled his face into careful indifference as Voldemort stalked towards him. "But I didn't want a weak child. I wanted no pathetic worm, and with the discovery and ruination of one part of my plans, it became impossible to further my second goal anyways. I could not aid Alan with no faithful at Hogwarts, but if he was too weak to bypass all standards, then why should I use such weak blood? Anyone can be weak. I might as well use any wizard. Wormtail placed his name in the Goblet, and without any aid … his name came out, Hogwarts Champion. A Slytherin. A Slytherin who could be great …" Voldemort whispered harshly. "One to bring honour to his house … Without any aid, he bought his own victory, and, to make sure I could finish my ritual, I had Wormtail subjugate Karkaroff at the school to spell the cup into a portkey and place it in the centre … whichever child came through first would be brought here, to revive me. And lo and behold … it was Alan Prince. Alan Snape." Voldemort spat Severus' name with hatred glowing in his eyes. Alan prayed his father would not come and answer the call, even if he heard it. He would die, if he did. Voldemort was not pleased.
"And now, here is the child who stole me from my physical body all those years ago. Strong, yes powerful, yes. But nothing compared to my strength. Now I give him one choice …" Voldemort stepped forward and touched Alan's face again. Alan maintained his indifference and stared blankly back. "Choose between being my enemy, and being my heir. Everything between us draws us together … the blood of Slytherin in our veins … shameful parentage that never cared enough … we are alike, you and I. Now …"
"I never did want such a tasteless tattoo anyways." Alan drawled, and then he allowed his eyes to sharpen and glare. "And I bow to no one. Not even you, for a chance at power."
Voldemort stepped back with a look of disappointment, and then lazily flicked his wand. Alan felt the curse settle, and he squirmed as his body tingled painfully. It was a minor pain curse, dark, but nowhere near the mind-numbing torture of the Cruciatus.
"It is a pity, Alan, that you refuse me. It means I must kill you." He gave Alan a regretful look, and then raised the spell. "But I will be kind, and allow you the honour of duelling me before your death. I'll allow you to die fighting. Wormtail, loose him."
The ropes faded away, and Alan let them without struggling past it. A glance down showed him his wand not five feet away … but that was five feet closer to the circle of Death Eaters. A hesitant glance around, and he laid his hand carefully on his left pocket, mirroring the action on the other side to disguise what he had hidden. His hand brushed Harry's wand, the holly and phoenix feather reported to be a brother to Voldemort's. Alan hoped he never grew desperate enough to try and figure it that feature out, but for now … with his hand on the wood, even through his robes, he carefully summoned his own wand back to him, yielding a mutter of surprise from the gathered Death Eaters as it leapt seemingly on it's own into his hands. Alan stepped forward and faced Voldemort, his head held high.
Voldemort's mouth curved into a smile, and Alan easily bent into a deep, mocking duelling bow, his face watchful on Voldemort's. "I believe a duel starts with a bow, Lord Voldemort." Alan quipped, his tone wry upon the Dark Lord's chosen title. "But I suppose …" He trailed off as Voldemort bowed back, and then Voldemort straightened, and he danced away from a dark red light … the Cruciatus …
Getting his bearings, Alan returned fire with blasting and bone-breaking curses, worried about what would actually help. Voldemort shielded, and returned, still pandering to the Unforgivables, and only the Cruciatus … not the Killing curse. He was toying with him. Alan, irritated at the ridiculousness of this, and the strain, toyed back. The next curse he cast hit, and Voldemort wheezed as he doubled over for a moment. Alan couldn't help but laugh; he'd cast the ever-so-terrible tickling curse. It didn't hold; Voldemort broke free and returned fire and Alan didn't dodge fast enough.
The pain ripped through his mind, and Alan wasn't aware of hitting the ground. He couldn't think, couldn't breath, and he instinctively curled into a ball on the ground arms over his head, knees tucked into his chest, teeth clenched painfully tight as he struggled not to scream, not to give them the satisfaction …
When the pain lifted, he took several seconds to acknowledge it, and to believe it wasn't coming back. He straightened shakily, tremors running unbidden down his limbs, and he looked to the ground, searching for his wand before he faced his enemy again. He found it, dropped a little in front of his curled form. Before he could reach it, Voldemort stepped forward onto it. Alan froze as he heard a faint crack. No … his wand …
"I don't think you'll need that," Voldemort hissed, "if you don't even take this fight seriously …"
Alan looked up and swallowed, feeling the tremors that had subsided return as he stared into pitiless red eyes. And then it didn't matter that his nerve had weakened, because red light flashed from all sides and he screamed without thought, arching backwards into the ground and convulsing in pain. The other curses, two times before had been nothing, nothing to the all consuming agony that ran down his nerves like acid, fire and freezing, aching cold as his mind tried to make sense of the overwhelming sensation. It lasted forever, and then he was shivering on the ground as awareness trickled back into his mind, shaking and shivering without letup, his knees curling weakly into his chest, and his hands cradling his own head. Alan licked dry lips, and watched the ground before his eyes, not even daring to test his muscles quite yet. He blinked as a thin rod was dangled before him, and it took him a moment to focus past it on the face beyond. He wished he hadn't when he looked into amused red eyes.
"Do you feel like fighting yet?"
The honest answer was 'no'; he wanted to run away and curl up until the aches faded and his body felt like actually listening to him without screaming when he told it he wanted to move. But currently the only option he had was 'yes'. It took him three tries to get his mouth damp enough to answer, and even then it was croaked painfully. A chuckle echoed around him, and Alan ignored it as he forced himself to sit up. Grasping his wand from Voldemort, Alan grimaced. There was a crack on one side, breaking to the thick, stringy core. He wasn't surprised that that had been what had prevented a whole break, but his wand was now useless. Alan let his hands fall in apparent despair, and Voldemort laughed.
"Is your wand now useless to you, Alan? Perhaps you should have made better use of it while it still worked." The Death Eaters laughed with him, and Alan shakily exchanged his wand for Harry's, with a silent promise to not let his friend's wand receive the damage his had. His other hand sought the pocket opposite, and the newest gift from his godfather … he could only hope he could stomach what it would do.
"Perhaps you should just get this over with, Voldemort." Alan threw.
Voldemort turned another glare on him, and raised his wand. "I think you need some manners, boy. You should not be quite so eager to meet your own death. Shall we say we're sorry for your impudence?"
Alan merely shrugged, and leaned back with a look of boredom. It didn't last as, Voldemort cast, "Imperio."
Fog settled into Alan's mind, a fog of pleasant dreams, and kind words with no worries and no expectations. Beneath it, and below, and everywhere outside the fog, Alan fought and tried and struggled.
"Tell me you hate being impudent, boy."
Alan didn't even consider it. He would not listen to such ridiculousness.
"You will speak as I tell you to! Say it!"
The fog shattered.
"I listen to no one!" Alan screamed. The Death Eaters fell silent, and Voldemort frowned.
"Perhaps we will have to teach you, then … Dolohov, if you will …"
Alan glanced for someone to respond, and a masked Death Eater stepped forward, murmuring thanks, before he turned to cast a spell at Alan. Alan shielded; the spell hit like a battering ram, and he stumbled backwards. The second spell immediately after shattered the shield and disappeared, and then the last got through, striking his right shoulder. Alan dropped to his knees with a strangled cry as his skin split and blistered, blood seeping into his robes. Dolohov stepped closer and cast again, silently. Each flick drew a line of blood, shredding his robes and nicking flesh. Superficial, but stinging pain began to wear, and bleed. Alan flinched away, and tried to act once more, but his wand – Harry's, actually – was summoned from his hand and Dolohov held onto it as he kept stripping his flesh line by line. Another lashed across his cheek, below his right eye, and Alan surged angrily to his feet.
"Enough! Stop it!"
The Death Eaters laughed, and Voldemort blasted him off his feet. Alan fell painfully against a headstone, and slid down as his body refused to respond quickly to his command to stand. Dolohov apparently didn't mind; he quickly moved closer, and cast another spell. Alan bit back a yelp as his wrists jumped together behind his back, rope spinning out to wrap them tightly together. There was no time wasted, no chance given; Dolohov was shortly right beside him, his wand exchanged for a small knife. Alan swallowed the lump in his throat, and tried to struggle uselessly against the weight of Dolohov kneeling on his legs. It didn't work, he was powerless and feeling ill at the implications, as Dolohov removed the remains of his shirt and set the knife lightly, almost caressingly against Alan's pale flesh.
The cuts burned, whether by a simple trick of pain, or some deeper spell or potion, Alan didn't know. He just felt himself breathing quick and shallow after some indeterminate time during which he wished he could forget the feeling of steel digging into his flesh, of the goddamn helplessness where his hands were pinned so damn easily, digging into his back. His shirt was gone, his skin covered in a thin sheen of his own blood. Struggling only made the cuts go deeper. Dolohov shifted; Alan kept his eyes tightly shut and tried not to think about it, to just not think at all right then, but felt inordinately grateful when instead of Dolohov continuing, Voldemort spoke once more.
"Dolohov, you've done well. Give his wand here. Macnair …"
Alan breathed a shallow relief as Dolohov reluctantly stood and pocketed his knife, removing the tie on Alan's hands as he backed off. Alan forced the pain back and scrambled to brace himself once more against the headstone. He remembered that name; a Macnair had been a friend of Malfoy's he'd tried to bring into the school third year … something to do with the hippogriff. He'd been with the Disposal section of the Ministry, Alan was sure …
A thickset man stepped out of the ring, bowing deeply to Voldemort and then hesitating before walking closer. Alan calmed himself, trying to get his body to working for him properly, ignoring the burning pain that covered his chest, and by the time Macnair was closer, closer than he needed to be to use a wand, Alan felt secure in being able to at least make another good statement. Macnair stepped into range, and Alan kicked Macnair hard in the bollocks, hard enough that he overbalanced and fell against the headstone behind him again, hard enough that Macnair made a pained whine and sat down firmly. Alan sat at the bottom of the headstone and laughed bitterly. The Death Eaters shifted, muttering angrily, and Macnair finally recovered enough to glare, and pulled his wand.
"Crucio!" He growled.
Alan curled back into the headstone, keening fitfully as he blanked to anything but the pain, trying to pull away from it, to leave the source, but it was sourceless, raking his mind and body until there was no awareness beyond fighting for something to hold onto in the midst of the overwhelming, drowning pain. He fell – he knew he fell over, he didn't know why – and then began grasping at the ground beneath him as he writhed to make it stop, clawing at the ground and finally giving a rasping scream, trying to curl upon himself again. The pain ended, and someone grabbed his raw shoulder to haul him to his feel. Still incoherent, Alan tried to pull away, grabbing at the arm holding him and trying to claw his way free. His struggles made his shoulder scream in pain, pain he tried to struggle away from without thinking. Someone slapped him, and he choked off his screams, subsiding shakily as he tried to clear his wavering vision. Thin, skeletal fingers grabbed his chin and Alan swallowed as he saw red eyes again, unable to stop the shiver of fear that physically wracked his body. Voldemort smiled.
"Are you done being a fool, Alan, or do you still need to learn?"
Alan couldn't remember where this argument had started, and he remained still, watching Voldemort for any sign of what would come next, what pain he would face now. His lack of response made Voldemort smile, and Alan's scar burst into scalding pain as he felt his mind simply crumple as something ran roughshod over him. But it was just the shield he'd erected being thrown down as Voldemort forced his way into Alan's mind. Alan shivered uncontrollably, and Voldemort rifled through his memories, turning over each, seeking … seeking … but Alan had no clue what he was looking for, and couldn't remember if he should fear him finding it or not. As Voldemort continued to look, he seemed unaware of the tightly locked storm imaged at the back of Alan's mind, passing over it without thought, and pulled out with a deep feeling of dissatisfaction. His eyes, when Alan could see again, still held onto Alan's own gaze, and he sighed, turning Alan's face to each side and finally his hand traced around Alan's right eye.
"I never saw this when I encountered you before … never saw that I left such a mark on you when you were a child."
Alan flinched as Voldemort held his eye open, and drew his finger down the knotted scar bisecting his vision on that side. He could hardly tell it was happening amidst the constant pain he was experiencing. Finally Voldemort let go of his face, and Alan almost collapsed completely, panting in exhaustion and pain. He almost couldn't feel his arm anymore; his chest was blessedly numb. Whoever was holding him – he couldn't remember anymore – let go and he fell bonelessly to the ground, unable and unwilling to fight to keep his feet. The fall had made him feel nauseous, and he gasped as he struggled to keep his bile down. His ears were ringing, and he barely noticed Macnair's feet – that's who it had been – walk away, and another come over and stand by him, closer than was needed for curses and spells.
His warning was a bare whistle in the air before pain raced across his back, throwing him forward. Alan cried out and barely caught himself, turning back to see a Death Eater, masked and unidentifiable, raise his cane again to strike. Alan couldn't move in time, and the next blow forced him to the ground. Alan tried to get up, but stopped when he was struck again. He was hit again, twice more, prompting a muffled whimper, but Alan didn't try to get up again, didn't try to roll away, afraid of what would happen … Whoever it was hit him again until he screamed, several blows later, his raw chest burning against the ground. This was apparently satisfactory, and the man stepped back and drew his wand, leaving Alan to try to curl up once more. It was useless. The first spell completely dislocated his left arm from shoulder to wrist, and then his senses bled into convulsions of the unforgiving pain of the Cruciatus once more.
When it lifted, he was staring blankly at glinting stars, unthinking, unfeeling. He felt like he was wrapped in cotton, and while he knew it wasn't real, he desperately wished it was. He whimpered as a hand touched his right shoulder, and gasped when someone else grabbed the other, unwelcome feelings he couldn't place jarring through the cottony barriers. He was pulled roughly to his feet, but the men held on and didn't let go, a minor blessing since Alan was quite certain he'd be unable to keep his feet without them. Then again, he didn't really want to face anybody at this exact moment and staring into Voldemort's gleaming red eyes one too many times that evening left him both incoherent, and fatalistically uncaring. And at the moment, it was a bad combination with his lack of sense.
Alan blinked blankly at the face before him and said the first thought that drifted into his mind. "Your nose looks like you got it beaten into your face, sir."
Voldemort's face gained an ugly cast, and Alan choked as his senses exploded into white starbursts. It was a long moment before he could register what had really happened – nothing more than a slap – but after that time, Alan gazed dazedly back at Voldemort, almost without seeing him. It was with a complete feeling of detachment that he managed to stand enough that he didn't fall when the Death Eaters let him go, but he swayed drunkenly in place. Voldemort smiled indulgingly, and, when Alan didn't respond, walked up to him. Alan stared blankly at his chest, his thoughts still too sluggish to respond to anything as though it were real. Amused, Voldemort took Alan's right hand and pressed Harry's wand into it, curling his hand around it as he turned and walked away.
"If this will do you any good, boy, see that you use it properly. Perhaps you would still like to duel me?"
Voldemort's arrogant voice echoed around the graveyard, and the Death Eaters chortled grimly. Alan was still dazed, unthinking but for the wand curled in his hands. His thoughts were slow, but he knew it wasn't his wand, and wasn't he not supposed to use someone else's wand? But in his pocket, there … something was wrong, he couldn't remember what, but he couldn't use his wand. But in the other pocket, Alan knew there was something useful of his but he knew he wasn't supposed to use it unless he was willing to live with what it could do … but he couldn't think of what it could do right then, but he knew – he didn't know how, but he knew – that using it right now would probably be all that he could do.
Shakily Alan watched Voldemort stare at him, unhearing what taunts he might throw his way, and he awkwardly placed Harry's wand in his left hand. He couldn't grasp it though, and he dropped it. Alan crouched to pick it back up, awkwardly sliding it into his left pocket without looking, and pulling out in its stead the gun given him by his godfather from… somewhere. The Death Eaters murmured, and Alan began to shake as he remembered, slowly, that his life was in danger, that he was fighting to not die, and, rather ridiculously he thought, he only barely remembered that he could only really fight with his pistol – Harry's wand would be useless, he'd never be able to muster the strength to cast any proper spells.
"Alan, are you deciding you want this ended now?" Voldemort crooned.
Alan flinched from his voice, and he fought down his budding panic to breath deeply and calmly, steadying himself. He didn't have a choice. If he wanted to live, he had to get back to the portkey and hope like Hell that it would take him back … if it didn't, he'd have to see if he could spell it himself, and with Harry's wand as his only option, and the Death Eaters on all sides, that was a bit of a pipe dream that he could do so. But first, he needed Voldemort down at least for the time being. If Voldemort was against him, he didn't have a snowball's chance in Hell.
As Voldemort raised his wand, Alan moved, copying the motion, and raising his gun – a real pistol with live ammo, if aimed right it would kill and he was hoping like Hell for it – aimed at his chest, and fired. The recoil made him scream through clenched teeth as his shoulder jolted, his aim thrown off. Voldemort tried to shield and the bullet went through unimpeded, striking his chest and making him scream as a spray of blood left his back. The gun was loaded with hollowpoints, which went in small, and took a chunk out the back as the bullet expanded upon impact. The Death Eater's shouted in surprise, and Alan gritted his teeth through the wavering pain and aimed behind Voldemort, shooting again. He didn't see who was struck, but whomever it was crumpled around their gut and collapsed limply.
Around them, the Death Eaters milled in panic, completely confused by the damage done by his gun. Alan didn't wait to see what they were doing, he turned and ran to where he could remember the cup being, shouldering past two Death Eaters. One grabbed his shoulder to stop him. Alan panicked, turned, and pressed the barrel of his gun beneath one's chin and fired. The Death Eater gave a choked gasp as he seemed to just faint in place. Blood trickled from his nose and ears, and some ran down the barrel onto Alan's hand before the man collapsed limply to the ground. The Death Eater behind him let go in shock and confusion, and Alan stopped himself from thinking, and ran again, seeing the shining gold and hearing the Death Eaters behind him pick themselves up and turn after his fleeing form. Without thinking, Alan dove as spells began, and rolled, losing all thought to the pain in his shoulders, the nausea behind his eyes, and then he rolled into something hard and smooth, and his hand, his aching left hand closed in reflex as his tortured stomach was jerked from behind, and he fell into the rushing wind and tunnel feeling as he left behind the bloody ground.
A/N: Well. What do you think of the cliffie?
Also, just to ensure no offence: Geoffrey's comment was simply frustration, not racism on my or his part. And the girl may not have heard him correctly ... Thank you for reading! Please review? If I get over ten reviews for this chapter by next Thursday, I might update the next chapter a week early ...
Fire & Napalm