Finally, the new chapter. It took quite a while, especially because I never found a satisfying beginning for weeks. To be honest, when I wrote the last chapter with Harry and the Goblins, I made a crucial mistake and let myself be influenced by several movies I had watched previously (one of them, obviously, had been gladiator). Kinda maneuvered myself in a corner with that move, but I digress... the following chapter is supposed to give you a good and hopefully enjoyable/exciting overview of what happened on the Isles during Harry's long time away from home. So, don't be confused that the last chapter ended on April 6th, and this one starts on February 14th.
That's all for now: enjoy!
Magicks of the Arcane
Chapter XXIV
Aberystwyth - 14. February 1996
Aberystwyth, a small town located in the north-west of Wales, was renown to be a good holiday resort – the perfect place for muggles to leave their every-day stress behind and relax after months of gruesome work in factories, or behind administration desks. Witches and wizards, however, reaped further benefits from this town as it fulfilled another important purpose: Aberystwyth had the largest accumulation of magical families in Wales and thus was the largest population hub in the area.
Most muggleborn had a hard time accepting that this tiny town, placed at the outer edges of Wales and wedged between the Irish Sea and the Saint George's Channel, had more magical inhabitants than even Cardiff, the large city to the south-east that housed more than three-hundred thousand muggles.
Nonetheless it was the truth, and Aberystwyth, for its abysmal size, had qualities that Cardiff as well as other welsh towns and cities sorely lacked. Old and mysterious powers were at work there, driven by the sentient might of magic – and, more importantly, especially on days that had become significant for wizard-kind. In earlier centuries, such days encompassed the well-known dates of Samhain and Beltane. In modern society though, even a rather trivial festive occasion such as valentines day was powerful in its own way.
Aberystwyth was one of the places in all of Great Britain where the rising currents of magic could be felt on such days. Truly, intoxicated by the sheer intensity, witches and wizards alike acted like drunks – nearly drowning in the ecstasy that coursed through their bodies once the ancient magicks took hold.
On a hill that was safely secured against muggle interferences by several repelling wards, large bonfires had already been erected on the day before... and now, as the alcohol was flowing in tandem with the powers of seduction and magic, and the fires were lit, smoke reaching even the vast edges of the clear night sky, the witches and wizards of Aberystwyth, as well as their friendly and rambunctious brethren from all corners of Great Britain were delving into an ocean of pure happiness and contentment.
Some pure-bloods, especially those that had more money than common sense, considered the festive activities on the hills of Aberystwyth to be beneath them. They saw the dancing crowd as a mass of plebeians who had to be kept entertained and were ever so often blessed with an indulgent, but oh so deprecating smile.
It didn't matter though, because most other pure-bloods saw the fallacy in such thinking and took great joy from participating at the festivals in Aberystwyth. Truly, what benefit was there for wizard-kind, when the staunch supporter of old magic suddenly denied themselves the pleasure that went hand in hand with it.
Social boarders did exist, of course, but on these eve's, even they became blurry when muggleborns, half-bloods and pure-bloods alike danced with each other around the large pits of fire. Maybe the upper crust of magical aristocracy saw it as a den of hedonism because it was exactly in Aberystwyth that most old pure-blooded lines gained not-so-pure additions to their family tapestries.
All it took was one eager teenager, perhaps the heir of an old and noble line that had been forbidden to attend the celebration, and who, in return, snuck out of the ancient manor to indulge himself in the pleasure and ecstasy his friends had told him about. What then would happen if said heir arrived in Aberystwyth and was ensnared by a lovely muggleborn girl his age?
Well, maybe it was understandable that a lot of aristocratic magical families forbid their children to attend.
But enough of all this aristocratic nonsense.
Tim Warths didn't belong to nobility. He didn't even belong into the pure-blood category, and thus all the stuffy rules that governed important heirs didn't apply to him; good. His life was good: he had finished his education at Hogwarts with acceptable grades, he had a girlfriend that loved him – although he still had to inwardly thank Harry Potter whenever he thought about her, because it was the boy-who-lived who leashed Snape and made the liaison between a Gryffindor and a Slytherin possible.
Talking about his girlfriend... Tim, lying on the green, slightly wet blades of grass tickling his skin, looked over to Lydia and his smile widened a bit. Trough quite a bit of subtle trickery, his wonderful girlfriend had actually managed to escape Hogwarts for the weekend and was now here, directly next to him, enjoying this wonderful festival for all it was worth.
Her brown hair cascaded down her back as she danced sensually to the music – in this moment at least, just for him! The golden hair-clip he had gifted her on her last birthday glinted in the shine of the fire and Tim knew, there wasn't anything in the world that could make him happier at the moment than the beautiful face of her, flushed with excitement and love.
"C'me here," he slurred, opening his arms wide, grinning with boyish charm.
Lydia acquiesced instantly and fell down to the grass, snuggling deep into his side and tracing circles on his chest. "I still can't believe that we made it," she whispered, before placing a kiss on his earlobe.
"I know... but we did, that's what's important," he replied and looked at her. "Someday, I'll repay my debt to Potter."
"Mhh," she murmured in agreement, meanwhile rolling herself onto him and giving him a passionate kiss. "I love you, Tim."
His eyes widened a bit, and his own declaration of love got stuck in his throat as he saw something that she couldn't with her back to the large bonfires.
"Watch out!" he cried out, trying to roll himself and her out of harms way.
It was too late.
Before he could even comprehend what had happened, a large piece of flaming wood embedded itself in Lydia's back with incredible force, and the girl, the beautiful woman he had loved with all his being, was irrevocably dead.
Tim sat there, holding the lifeless body, unbelieving of what just happened, as the world around him exploded into flames.
Blasting curses erupted left and right – those that hit the bonfires sent flames high into the air, seemingly reaching the boarders of the night.
Screams of terror echoed over the hills... children crying for their parents – parents crying for their children.
And on this eve in Aberystwyth, death suddenly became a certainty that struck many who dared to raise their wands toward the cruel forces that attacked them from within the shadows of the night.
Tim, still traumatized, suddenly was lifted from the earth and thrown around – his eyes, despite the circumstances, focused only on the body of Lydia which was torn apart by dark magics just as he landed on the ground again.
A slap echoed through his head, and in wonderment he held a hand to his cheek.
Who had slapped him?
His eyes, which had till then seen, but not comprehended, suddenly showed him exactly what was happening. Green light shone in the sky – not the killing curse, but equal in its demoralizing effect – a snake, fangs of poison dripping deadly venom, moving through the vestiges of a gigantic human skull; sinister and maliciously.
Tim knew from the few history lessons he hadn't slept through that there was only one monster who had the power to command forces of the dark to such a degree. An involuntary shiver ran down his spine.
He was back.
Another slap, and this time Tim's eyes focused on the person in front of him – a grizzled old man, his face seemingly made of raw leather and scars, and most peculiar, a wooden peg-leg that balanced him and a blue eye that whizzed around in its socket.
"You with me, boy?"
"Professor Moody?" Tim asked disbelievingly.
The veteran Auror grimaced and shook his head. "Ain't a professor, boy. Get out of here, quickly... down the hill to the south – the anti-apparation wards should end once you reach the woods!"
"Wha-"
"Go!"
And with a not-so-friendly banisher, Moody sent the boy packing toward the safer areas around the town. Or, at least, as safe as they could be considering the circumstances.
Moody's eye scanned the terrain and saw more and more members of the Order storm in from beyond the apparation wards. His lone blue eye was alight with electrifying determination as he turned toward the incoming masses of Death Eaters. It was unmistakably clear that Tom Riddle had recruited quite a lot of people in such a short time.
And thus it started, the battle of Aberystwyth.
"Avada Kedavra!"
McNair's killing curse flew straight at Moody, who had no chance to dodge it in time. Nonetheless, the veteran auror looked toward the green light without flinching and continued to chain brutal, yet legal, blasting curses that sent quite a few of the less experienced Death Eaters flying. Before the incoming deathly piece of magic hit him though, a slab of stone rose in front of him and shattered under the impact of such dark magic.
A twisted grin split his gnarled face in two – that was exactly how they had envisioned it when they made the plans to turn the Order into a military group that could withstand the onslaught of Voldemort's forces. To his right, Lupin continued to conjure and transfigure as many things as possible to shield them from incoming Unforgivables, and to his left, Podmore used the fair bit of knowledge he possessed about the elements to drench Death Eaters in water, as well as raising walls of fire to halt their advances.
Moody felt a spell impact on his back, but didn't worry about the familiar magic. Behind the trio, Lydia, the beautiful Lady of House Abbott, cast generalized and improved healing spells whenever she noticed a treatable injury on some of the three fighters that cleared out a large portion of dark wizards.
The fifth member of the group, young Charlie Weasley, was wedged between them, his wand pointing straight into the sky and cascades of magic rippled in shield form over the group, intercepting smaller curses that could make their lives very unpleasant and shorten it unnecessarily; good lad.
Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody, last member of the Moody family, had learned early on that the weak died quicker than the strong. When his complete family was wiped out by Grindelwald's forces at the tender age of thirteen, he dedicated his life solely to the purpose of catching and punishing dark wizards – although even there a distinction had to be made between dark and evil as he later learned – and he had continued his noble quest during the first blood war.
He was paranoid, over the top, and had a personality not many people could handle, or even wanted to handle. Therefore, trust was something that was very rare in his life – for good reason.
Moody's life was saved once again by a slab of stone and his grin grew just a bit more, even though it seemed barely possible.
"Forward, five steps!" Moody shouted and felt vindicated in his training methods when the whole group took five collective steps toward the direction he indicated – without wavering, without hesitation.
Perhaps, having his brothers and sisters in arms covering his back wouldn't be as bad as he had imagined when Sirius first introduced the concept of organized warfare through larger groups...
And for the first time in decades, Alastor Moody found enough reason to trust someone.
Not to mention that it was indefinitely more satisfying to curse Death Eaters left and right when he didn't have to be overly concerned about his own defensive maneuvers.
"Sirius!" Remus cried out and came to halt next to the ex-convict that had done the impossible even after living with Dementors for over a decade; escaping Azkaban.
The werewolf's breath ran ragged despite the inhumane stamina his condition granted him. Short, gasping blasts of air left his mouth and a sheen of sweat marred his face. The brown, and often flicked coat that had been in the man's possession since he got it from Lily Potter on his eighteenth birthday was singed at the edges and muddied with grime and blood.
"Sirius – Trolls!" Remus managed to gasp out, steadying himself with his hands on his knees.
The fight on the front lines had taken a lot out of him, especially after more reinforcements for the enemy had arrived and Moody's group split up to combat inner circle members in one-on-one duels.
A nasty red light flew past him, effortless batted away by Sirius, and once again Remus saw the changes Azkaban, the war, and the responsibility for his godson had wrought in the man. It was astounding, a complete one-eighty compared to the carefree teenager he still held in fond memory when reminiscing about the wild times of the Marauders.
Sirius' steely gray eyes fell on him. "Where?"
"The hills to the north," Remus answered quickly – despite the long friendship with the man in front of him, he recognized the signs clearly. It wasn't his old friend that had asked him just now, but his leader.
"Have they broken our wards? How did they port them in?"
Remus swallowed. "I don't think they've ported them in. Probably hid them in the woods and waited for a sign or something like that."
A thundering crash echoed through the area and both men directed their attention toward the lumbering Giant that had suddenly appeared and had smashed his club on the ground. He was escorted by trolls and even more Death Eater, and the cruel yet slightly dense smirk announced his intentions quite clearly.
"Giants too?" Remus questioned horrified, whitening at the thought of going up against the gigantic creature.
In a perfect world, Remus Lupin, wouldn't have been bitten by a werewolf, and in a perfect world, he would have been a scholar, unconcerned with warfare and the darker sides of magic. Color came back to Remus' face and he shook his head ruefully. The world was far from perfect though, and there was nothing he could to against it. So, why bother to complain?
The werewolf righted himself and a determined glint entered his amber eyes as he pulled up his wand. "At least it's just one, eh?"
Sirius looked over to his friend, with him the last of the Marauders, and his lips twitched in amusement as he pointed his own wand toward the incoming enemies. "To right you are, Moony. Too right..."
Much later, after the blood war had ended, and when Hogwarts' aspiring students learned about the Battle of Aberystwyth, it wouldn't be the terrifying duel between Dumbledore and Voldemort – the ultimate conclusion of the battle – that they remembered and heard about, rather it would be just a small footnote they only knew because their professors would likely ask some meaningless questions about it.
No, students would remember how two men, despite being despised by their society, fought against Trolls, Giants and Death Eaters to halt the incoming darkness. They would remember how Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, an ex-convict and a werewolf – dregs of the world – held the line against all of their adversaries.
It would be Charlie Weasleys, then over eighty years old, who told his students: 'They had only reunited for roughly a year and had no contact for a decade before that... and still, they fought like they knew exactly how the other thought. A deathly dance were even the slightest misstep, the most miniscule error in calculation would lead to their demise – the Marauders though, made no mistakes.'
London - 27. February 1996
When people heard about The Hammer of Figeon they presumed it to be a weapon of death and destruction, bathed in blood and smelted in ovens that had been heated with human remains – it was their right after all to presume as much when every other wizarding tale informed them about such grand magical artifacts.
The Hammer of Figeon though, as important, foreboding and mighty its swing might be, never crushed any skulls, nor saw it a real battlefield. No, that wasn't the truth either. The hammer saw its fair share of battles, just not in the traditional sense.
Today, it would once again reside in the hands of the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Albus Dumbledore, as he presided over a matter of grave concern to the wizarding world. The headmaster's lips edged upward into a secretive smile as soon as he felt the familiar weight of the hammer in his hands; it had been long enough in the hand of Fudge's sycophants, far too long in fact.
The ceremonial dark blue robes with the golden trim that Albus wore went a long way to remind the old crowd in attendance just why they had once hailed him as the Merlin of their generation – not to mention his perfectly groomed beard, braided in complex patterns which became all the more confusing the longer one stared at them. The golden-red band that tied his beard to the robes rounded the image up perfectly. It certainly was a nice homage to his old house in Hogwarts.
His eyes searched the large, round chamber and lit up with concealed mischief when he found Cornelius Fudge, who looked decidedly disgruntled and quite a bit fearful. The man was a shrewd politician – he had to be after surviving two elections - but in the end, he was still just a puppet to powers far greater than he possessed... and Albus didn't necessarily consider himself with that statement.
He suppressed a chuckle as he let his thoughts spiral forth and a line from one of his favorite muggle songs flew through his head – and when you lose control, you'll reap the harvest you have sown.
Pink Floyd, truly one of the bands that Albus as a self-appointed connoisseur of music considered to be the best humanity had brought forth. A lemon drop was ported directly from a small pouch on his belt into his mouth; courtesy of a nifty little charm he had invented for such formal situations where sticky fingers had to be avoided.
Funny how the line fit Fudge's current political position to a tee.
"Chief Warlock," a scribe to his right muttered, "the honorable members of the Wizengamot are ready to receive you."
Ah, right, the reason of this hastily arranged session, Albus mused and rose from his throne-like seat. The fabric of his robe rustled a bit, but he didn't care too much for it. Nor did he care for the litany of boring, traditional phrases he spit out like a well-oiled machine, until he had finally finished with his obligatory duties and was able to do what he came for.
He didn't need to look at the members of his carefully created alliances when he spoke; he knew that he had their full support, even that of the illusive fence-sitter Greengrass.
"Honorable Wizengamot," Albus started his speech, merrily noting that the chamber had quietened down the instance his voice reverberated through its hallowed halls. "As most of you are already aware, the self-styled Dark Lord Voldemort is once again among the living; torturing, killing and causing mayhem. There is no doubt that he achieved this through copious use of the darkest magicks known to wizard-kind, so foul that I dare not to speak further of them. And his scrupulous attack on the town on Aberystwyth shows us, that just like before, he aims to throw our wonderful world into chaos."
The older generation looked grim, while most of the newer additions to the Wizengamot visibly blanched as soon as the Dark Lord was mentioned. Sympathizer of the Dark Cause watched the proceeding with neutral expressions – it wouldn't do to expose themselves unnecessarily.
Albus drew himself up to his full height, which was rather impressive for such an old man, and his eyes bored holes through the bowler hat of Cornelius Fudge. "But excuse me, valued brethren, for taking up so much time with useless rhetoric; I fear that verbosity and age go hand in hand. My point is an easy one, and I shan't delay any longer: Under the newly arisen circumstance of Lord Voldemort's return, I call into question the leading abilities of Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister for Magic."
His voice carried easily throughout the chamber and for a second, after his rather forward speech, silence reigned as each member of the Wizengamot digested and came to terms with his words. Then, barely the duration of a breath of air later, utter chaos and pandemonium broke out in the hallowed halls of Wizarding Britain's jurisdiction.
Members rose so quickly from their seats that some of the throne-like seats even fell backward and crashed against the wall; pieces of paper flew through the air as people did everything – even throw them – to make themselves heard and bring their point across.
Fudge's supporters were out of their seats the quickest, accusing Dumbledore with venomous fervor of undermining the natural order of the ministry in such trying times, while the alliance of houses that Dumbledore had forged argued back with equally deathly enthusiasm, quick to make Fudge a scapegoat for everything bad that had happened in Great Britain over the last decades.
Seven hours after Albus Dumbledore had entered the halls of the Wizengamot, he exited them with the poise and grace of a nobleman even though inwardly he felt tired beyond belief. In a last show of his power – illusions were just as much magical as what he did when he actually used his wand – Albus called Fawkes to him and left the Ministry in a fiery column.
The day hadn't completely gone as planned, but his main point had made it through: Fudge was no longer Minister for Magic and thus lost Lucius Malfoy the power to block every effort of the light he wanted to do block. Cornelius though had once again proven himself to be a very slippery man; and that to such a degree that it even forced Albus to subconsciously respect the man somewhat for it.
Cornelius Oswald Fudge was no longer the Minister, but that didn't mean that he was out of the Ministry completely. In a daring and cunning speech, he extolled his virtues as a minister in peace times and then voluntarily vacated the post for a better person to lead them in war times.
'I ask of you, honorable Wizengamot, to consider that I had never anything but the best interest of our world in mind when I acted as the Minister for Magic. I willingly step down now, as there are better men than I to lead us through these perilous times. But, I'm not willing to abandon the ministry in its darkest hour. There's still much good to be done; and I don't have to be the minister to do it.'
Despite the severity of the current situation, Albus chuckled when he thought back to Fudge's speech. The man was indeed a Slytherin to the core, and if Albus hadn't known beforehand just what kind of man Cornelius really was, he would've lapped up the fiery and passionate words of the man in a heartbeat.
Just as much as a large portion of the Wizengamot had done in the end...
Grimmauld Place - 13. March 1996
The loud sound of a shrill bell rang through the part of Grimmauld Place that functioned as a barrack for its members, and woke those who were currently asleep; startling those that weren't, too.
In a flash, over twenty members of the Order jumped into their combat gear, readied their wands and then quickly marched toward the gathering hall where they waited for further instructions.
Bill Weasley was one such member – part of the vastly younger generation, but highly respected and valued – and his clothing made for an interesting impression, because contrary to the other people in the room, he didn't wear robes at all. No, Bill Weasley was protected by a full-body dragon hide armor, and the cloak he wore only covered his left side. His red hair was pulled into a loose tail that went past his shoulders.
The eldest son of House Weasley was easily one of the most dangerous people the Order could field against the forces of the dark, something that most other members first learned to appreciate when they saw him fight against three Death Eaters and two Werewolves without taking any hits at all. Knowledge of the darkest, and most arcane arts in existence – which he got from his frequent trips through the world as one of Gringotts' premier curse breaker – made him a threat to nearly any dark creature or sympathizer he encountered.
Bill's head snapped up, when Moody limped into the room to muster the ready combatants.
"Where is the attack, Mad-Eye?" Doge asked, wand already tightly gripped in his fist.
"Not attack, attacks!" Moody replied disgruntled. "The dark tosser has hit several spots in the last few minutes – and he's still going strong."
The whizzing, blue eye kept spinning in its socket until it finally fell on Bill. "Weasley, you're leading Squad Six. Some trolls have been sighted near Wexford – go and take care of them!"
Bill nodded once and motioned the members of Squad Six to follow him to the apparation room; the only room in Grimmauld Place where magical travel was possible. In the background he heard Moody shout orders at the remaining people, segmenting them into smaller squads and sending them all over Great Britain.
Voldemort, it seemed, had outdone himself with this recent string of attacks.
The young man next to him, Edgar Eresworth, was visibly nervous and Bill patted his shoulder encouragingly. "No worries, Eresworth – Wexford is in Ireland. I doubt we'll see a lot of Death Eaters – it's probably just a distraction for us."
Karma is a bitch...
"Fortis Pressura!"
It was one of the few spells Bill still had to incant, but its effect was instantaneous as four of the incoming Death Eaters were pushed away violently as if they had been slapped by a large, invisible hand.
Bill looked over to Eresworth, barely glancing at the corpse of Midgarth – another member of the squad who had been killed the instance they arrived in Wexford – and was glad to see that the guy at least had his two enemies well under control. Not a small feat at all, considering that Eresworth dueled with Jugson and another fresh recruit, while being barely out of Hogwarts himself.
"Avada Kedavra!"
"Crucio!"
The first spell flew past him, and the second he evaded as he apparated away with a swish of his cloak, reappearing behind his foes. His wand had already been in motion the second he exited the rotational apparation, and with visible effort he traced a rune into the air – Laguz, one of the many runes that could be used for water.
What he attempted next was no concrete spell. With the traced rune and his Latin words that roughly translated into what he wanted, he hoped that magic would carry his intent and make it a reality. It was a very advanced form of spell casting, something he knew not many had mastered, or could do at all.
"Aqua Magna Confractus!" Bill whispered, pointing his wand at his enemies for good measure.
The Death Eaters that had sent the deathly spells after him were looking around frantically, trying to locate him. And, the first indication that something was very wrong, came when they felt the earth rumbling beneath them.
It took less than a second for the incredible amount of water to burst through the surface and slam the Death Eaters into the ground with such a force that most of their bones had to be broken, at least. Bill Weasley though wasn't content with that solution at all. Those were the men that had indirectly and directly caused his family harm for decades... and, even though the headmaster preached forgiveness and demonized revenge, Bill would rather curse himself than let those bastards get away with just a few broken bones.
His wrist responded to his darkening thoughts of vengeance and before he knew it, he had traced another rune into the air. Then he spoke, "Cavea!"
The three Death Eaters let out bloodcurdling screams when they were lifted into the air by the water and Bill watched dispassionately as each of them drowned in a large prison orb of water, suffocating from the lack of oxygen.
His attention was quickly brought to something else however, as he saw that a troll ran toward Eresworth with thundering noise. Edgar was a good duelist, a superb fighter even as his current duel against two showed, but he'd be overwhelmed quickly by the incoming troll in addition to his two enemies.
Bill concentrated and let loose a crescent shaped cutting curse that bordered on the Dark Arts. The curse wouldn't be enough to completely cut through the spell resistant creature, but it hadn't been his aim to kill the troll. The crescent cut deep into the troll's feet, completely severing both tendons; and, before the troll knew it, it was lying on the ground, grunting in pain.
A large conjured boulder later, and parts of squishy troll brain was splattered all over the field.
He was about to help Eresworth, when a sudden shiver wrecked his body and he nearly fell to his knees.
What a presence...
What utter malevolence...
His brown eyes automatically searched for the reason of his sudden collapse and then he saw him, clothed in robes as dark as the night – Tom Riddle.
A small part of his brain complained about the unfairness of it all; about the unbelievable bad luck to meet Riddle in Wexford. Another part was amused that to say Riddle was so much easier than to say Voldemort.
The cry that ripped through the temporary silence that had occurred with Riddle's sudden presence brought him out of his fear-driven musings and he looked over to Eresworth, who was held under the Cruciatus of Jugson.
Anger clouded his vision and he heaved himself up, the first spell flying Voldemort's way before he had even thought of an incantation. A part of him wondered if he had lost his mind, attacking Tom freakin' Riddle, but rationality wasn't high on his priority list at the moment.
For exactly such an occasion, when Voldemort appeared on the field of battle, the Order had made emergency plans. No one was supposed to engage the Dark Lord, rather, as long as Dumbledore wasn't there, the first priority was to get out of harms way and run. It sounded reasonable on paper, and the few times it was needed, it had worked well enough.
Now, however, Bill was an unwilling spectator to the torture of a trusted friend, a brother in arms; and he knew that he would forever regret it, should he simply turn away and flee Wexford.
For a moment, the cries of anguish ended as Jugson was too surprised by Bill's audacity to attack his master. Voldemort, too, hadn't anticipated the red-headed boy to curse him, but wasn't overly concerned. He simply swished his hand and the incoming curse changed its course and smashed into a brick wall nearby.
Bill knew that he had to hold out if he wanted to keep Eresworth and himself alive; sooner or later, Dumbledore would come and battle Riddle to a stand still, just like it had happened on several different occasions in the last months...
Just a bit...
Just a measly few minutes...
… against the darkest wizard Britain had brought forth in several centuries.
Spell after spell left his wand, most of them gray or borderline dark in nature, but the arrogant expression on Riddle's face stayed the same. The incoming curses and hexes – certainly deathly pieces of magic in their own regard – were batted away, vaporized in mid-air, or hit Voldemort without doing any damage at all.
Then, Riddle went on the offensive himself; and, suddenly, Bill had a lot more sympathy and understanding for the people who feared the mere name of the monster in front of him. Tears prickled uncomfortably in his eyes as a cruciatus clipped his left foot – he wouldn't scream, wouldn't give the monster the satisfaction.
He bit his lip bloody in the attempt to withstand the pain and managed to roll away, sending two very obscure curses of Mayan origin toward Voldemort, who's eyes widened perceptibly as he saw two spells he hadn't heard of before; something that definitely didn't happen often.
Voldemort stepped to the right and the curses hit the new recruit that had fought against Eresworth together with Jugson. The expression on Riddle's face was one of cruel intelligence and morbid curiosity; calculating, the beast circled the fallen recruit and observed what the two new curses did to him, batting away any follow-ups that Bill send his way as if they were only flies.
Finally, having seen enough, Voldemort turned around and his red, demonic eyes bored into Bill's own. "What a... delightful curse, young Mr. Weasley."
"There's more for you, if you're willing to step forward a bit," Bill bit out, showing far more bravado than he actually felt. One of the famous Gryffindor traits.
"Oh, such courage in the face of death... such... eagerness to join your dear uncles," Voldmort answered and his lips twisted into a cruel smirk. "Yes, I remember them well, Fabian and Gideon Prewett... such fierce fighters... and what a challenge they posed before I finally handed them over to death."
"But, I digress," Voldemort's eyes turned back to the now rotten corpse of his recruit. "I am far more interested in the curses that you just used... they looked delicious... dark and foreboding even."
He swished his wand and the corpse came flying over to him for further inspection; it was a gruesome sight. "This, Mr. Weasley, is truly the handy work of a master. You animated his intestines to strangle and finally squash his heart... beautiful, simply beautiful. Tell me, Bill, do your parents know what delightful dark knowledge you possess?"
"Screw you!"
And, with his trade-mark apparation move, Bill vanished after a pirouette with his cloak and re-appeared several feet behind Riddle, once again tracing the rune for water into the air. Voldemort though wasn't as easily fooled as his witless followers and in barely a second he had identified Bill's position, lazily sending a few blasting curses toward it with a wide arc of his wand.
Bill had to quickly abandon his casting and apparated away once more within the swish of his cloak. When he exited his pirouette though, he suddenly came face to face with the menace of Wizarding Britain, and his hairs stood on end as the red eyes were barely a few inches away from his face.
"Too easy, Mr. Weasley," Voldemort said, actually sounding disappointed.
With a flick of his wand, Voldemort sent the red-head flying, and Bill crashed into the wall of a house. The cracking of bones echoed through the otherwise silent area.
Bill's thoughts were jumbled through the pain, but his heart did a small flip when he saw that Jugson still hadn't resumed his Cruciatus curse on Eresworth.
Just a bit more...
Dumbledore will come...
"Now, Mr. Weasley, take care of your posture... it is unbecoming of a pure-blood like you to cower on the ground," Voldemort's smile was one of malevolence as his wand raced through the air.
Soon enough, Bill found himself stuck to a large wooden cross, helpless against the murderous ideas of the Dark Lord.
Still, he hadn't been a Gryffindor for nothing. Bill swallowed his fear and spit on the ground in front of Riddle, "Posture of a pure-blood? Who are you to lecture me, son of a muggle?"
In the second it took to process the answer, Voldemort's expression went from coldly amused into apoplectic, furious rage. Bill didn't even register that Riddle had moved his arms, when the sensation of pain made him scream in agony.
Voldemort had used a cutting curse and cut Bill's cheek down to the bone.
"Careful with your words, Mr. Weasley," Voldemort hissed enraged. "You intrigued me... I was even about to offer you a place at my side... but, I reconsidered."
"Jugson," Voldemort called his follower. "Finish your job and leave. I'll make sure that Mr. Weasley here knows the consequences of angering Lord Voldemort."
"Yes, Master. Avada Ked-"
Jugson's chant was interrupted and Voldemort turned around to see why his follower had stopped, only to notice that his minion was missing, as was the boy Jugson had tortured. He frowned and turned back to the wooden cross.
Voldemort's eyes widened, when he saw the red bird that had put his claws into the Weasley and vanished with him in a column of fire. Immediately, he searched the area and when he felt the magical signature of his old transfiguration professor, a crude curse left his lips.
Dumbledore, clothed in completely unnatural white robes stood in front of the two members from his Order; to his left was a bound and stunned Jugson.
"Ah, Tom, we meet again," Dumbledore said, gracefully walking toward Voldemort and swishing his wand, transfiguring and animating the debris around him into ferocious beasts. "In fact, we've met quite often in the last few weeks."
Three round shields of metal, engraved with Hogwarts' crest, rose in front of Dumbledore and intercepted the plethora of killing curses that flew his way.
"Perhaps, meeting in my office would be more agreeable to you? It certainly would stave off a lot of this unneeded aggression."
Voldemort used Fiendfyre to great success and fried most of the animated animals that had come close to him before replying, "As interesting as that sounds... old man... I'd rather see you dead."
Another killing curse left his wand and was avoided by Dumbledore who had conjured a lot of water to counter the gigantic flaming fists that were intent on squashing him like a bug. When Dumbledore retaliated and large spikes broke through the ground under his enemy, Voldemort showed one of his many talents and simply started to ascend into the air – without a broom, or any other outside help.
A cruel glint had entered his eyes and instead of targeting Dumbledore, he sent two streaks of black magic toward the injured Order members that were lying unconsciously in a heap on the grass.
Dumbledore had noticed Riddle's intent and quickly apparated over to the two young men, proving once again why he was a world-wide renown master of transfiguration. A large dome of stone rose around the trio, shielding them from the impact of Voldemort's curses.
When the dome finally gave in and Voldemort, intent on finishing what he started, conjured up even more dark magic, the trio had vanished into nothing; leaving the Dark Lord screaming in frustration.
His anger knew no bounds and with severely overloaded blasting curses, he changed the complete landscape until nothing but crater landscape remained. Then, when his madness had finally receded again, he fired his mark skyward, bathing the area in sickly looking green light. A quick Renervate later, and Jugson as well as his lord had left Wexford.
All in all, nobody from the Order knew whether to call the thirteenth of the month a success or not. On one hand they had won every battle they had fought against Voldemort's Death Eaters; in Inverness, Plymouth and Norwich, Voldemort's forces had taken such a large hit that the next large scale attack would be far away in the distant future.
On the other hand, they had lost valuable and loved people too, and there was no festive atmosphere in Grimmauld Place to be found at all. Upon return, Moody had laid into the barely conscious Bill like a man possessed, questioning rather forcefully why they hadn't adhered to protocol and left as soon as Voldemort made his entrance.
Even his short explanation of not leaving Eresworth behind didn't appease the man – Bill guessed that it was precisely this reason why Moody led the Order. In the end, he had disobeyed direct instructions, something that was punished with long, drawn-out observation jobs at best, or in the worst case, with even more insanely dangerous mission.
Well, Bill would've enough time to find out as soon as the healers cleared him. At the moment though, he was still on leave because he had overtaxed his magic in his ill-rewarded attempt to duel Tom Riddle.
Contrary to Moody's attitude, the rest of the Order saw him in a completely new light. He wasn't only respected for his curse-breaking skills anymore, but also for his tenacity to not leave anyone behind. It didn't hurt that he was one of the only people who could claim to have dueled Voldemort and lived to tell the tale.
Respect for him was found plenty in the eyes of the other Order members; young and old alike.
In a meeting that Bill didn't attend due to his stay in the hospital wing, the headmaster had openly defended Bill's actions against Moody's accusations of insubordination.
'Those that show bravery and courage when faced with the greatest menace that wanders these lands, those that do not hesitate to engage such a superior enemy when it is to the benefit of the weak... are the people that become heroes in such trying times.'
'And, Alastor,' Dumbledore had said,'make no mistake: Bill Weasley is a hero among men.'
England/Unknown - 24. March 1996
Severus Snape, enshrouded by his black cloak, walked through the barely lit corridor in front of him, ignoring the cries of pain and anguish; the disgusting grunts of arousal, ecstasy and release that would've lesser man gagging in revulsion. Truthfully, Severus too had to keep his revulsion leashed tightly behind his occlumency barriers, lest they would compel him to do something completely gryffindorish like helping those poor muggle women escape.
It was the darkest side of his occupation as a spy. The part that had made a bitter, cynic man out of him – watching, but not able to help, because it would blow his cover, costing not only his life, but probably the life of many more as he was the only spy in Voldemort's camp.
That didn't mean though that he wouldn't get revenge for the women that got abused in this particular hideout. Of course, he'd never be able to atone for letting them get raped, but at least he could get some satisfaction out of the fact that all these rapist pigs would sooner or later die through what seemingly were accidents – privately arranged by Britain's premier potion master.
He had to be careful nonetheless. Voldemort was intelligent and cunning, and his suspicion easily aroused if too many died too fast. No, the potions he brewed for Voldemort and the Inner Circle had to be perfect; all of them knew how to identify most poisons, and Voldemort would know immediately that something was wrong.
Snape flicked his wand through the air and redirected the intruder wards around the storage room of the hideout, confident that everyone was far too busy with satisfying their carnal desires instead of patrolling the halls.
Disgusting, but useful.
It didn't take him long to find the protective gear, robes and masks that the Death Eaters wore, and even less time to manipulate and curse them.
Indeed, Snape thought as he put the ward back in place and stealthily vanished from the hideout, all those men would be dead in the near future, and Voldemort would never be able to trace it back to him.
Because, at the moment, a blood-golem with his soul imprint was brewing potions in Voldemort's main bastion.
Hogsmeade – 27. March 1996
It was a typical weekend in Hogsmeade for every student in third year and upward. After having been cleared by Professor McGonagall at Hogwarts' front gates, they entered the village in large carriages. And, as soon as the students' feet hit the ground, they split into cliques, groups, and pairs to visit or discover every shop in the small village.
As decreed by the golden prefect badges they wore, Hermione and Ron, too, were walking through Hogsmeade, although it wasn't for their own satisfaction, but rather to make sure the other students were safe and that no trouble cropped up.
Contrary to popular belief, Ron didn't date Hermione, nor did he ever entertain the slightest notion of doing so after the trio had split apart. In fact, when the trio split, they didn't suddenly become a duo... no, each of them went a different way. Some believed it to be a shame, and perhaps it truly was one, but Ronald Weasley had grown up quite a bit since Umbridge's draconian measures had forced him to mature quickly.
Instead of whining over the unfairness of it all, he simply accepted the fact that he had acted like a prat and that no amount of apologies would mend the rift between him and his former best friend, Harry, who traveled the world with Dumbledore or something along those lines. It didn't mean he wouldn't apologize as soon as he saw Harry again, but it meant that he wouldn't insist on becoming best mates once more.
Some things simply weren't meant to happen.
Ron looked over to Hermione and his lips turned into a sad smile as he watched her giving directions to a pair of third years who didn't find a particular shop. His friendship with Hermione had ended the moment he had abandoned Harry. Without him, without the glue that held them together, they simply fell apart; and, as he now recognized, he and Hermione were simply too different to have a meaningful friendship on their own.
Hermione had denied it, but Ron knew that she held some resentment for him. It was his ridiculous abandonment of Harry, after all, that had led to the split – far more than even Hermione's faulty logic during that time. His former best mate probably wouldn't have turned away from them all if he had acted differently...
And, as Ron's only interactions with Hermione now were based on their duties as prefects, he did his best to atone for what he had done. He did so in the only way he knew – even if Hermione probably didn't see it – and took on the responsibility of truly being a prefect. Not just for the glory or the privileges, but to really help the younger students; a duty that had become even more necessary after Umbridge got her claws into the headmaster's position.
He felt a tug on his robes and looked behind him, where a small third year girl stood and held a fistful of his robes in her hand.
Ron smiled, turned around, and asked, "Hey, can I help you?"
The girl shook her head, and Ron asked another question, "Is there something else then?"
This time the girl nodded and answered, "I've got a message for you."
"A message?" Ron asked, and idly scratched his head. "Who'd sent me a message?"
"I don't know," the girl replied. "He just wanted me to tell you... he said it's a secret message."
"Well, whoever it was, I guess it's alright... come here," Ron said while smiling, and crouch down so that the girl could whisper into his ears.
The small girl closed in and leaned forward, her lips nearly brushing his ear, and whispered, "He wanted me to tell you... Morsmordre!"
Ron blanched, and jumped backward, while the girl's eyes rolled into her head and she keeled over. In a flash he was back on his feet; just in time to notice that Hogsmeade had erupted in chaos with the noise of explosion ringing in his ears.
He looked over to Hermione and his ears took on a red hue of rage as he saw how she was nearly cursed in the back by a Death Eater. Quickly, he pulled out his wand and fired a Reducto that vaporized a good chunk of the dark wizard's head. He felt dizzy – it was his first kill; then he shook his head and walked toward his former friend with the bushy mane of hair.
Feeling guilty could come later, for now he had to protect the younger students.
Just like a good prefect would do...
"Hermione!" He shouted over the masses of panicking students and fired two disarming curses at the Death Eater that had occupied her. As soon as the man lost his wand to the spell, one of Hermione's curses hit and bound him in chains.
"Hermione!" Ron cried out again, this time getting her attention. "Take the students and bring them to the castle! I'll warn McGonagall and secure your retreat."
"Don't be daft, Ron," Hermione replied, shaken by the events. "You can't fight against that many of them."
"Listen, Hermione, the students are our priority. Their safety is our priority!"
Hermione was on the verge of crying, the feeling of helplessness pervading her whole body. "They'll kill you!"
He gave her a trademark Weasley grin and said, "Watch me!"
With all the power he possessed, he let his magic tug on the debris of one of the ruined houses that had been destroyed early on. Dozens of bricks – large and small – heeded the call of his magic and flew directly toward the incoming group of Death Eaters, knocking out two of them.
"I'll survive," he continued. "Now, get those students out of here! Protego Maxima!"
The large translucent blue shield that snapped into existence buckled as soon as it came into contact with the large amount of curses that flew his way. He was lucky indeed that his elder brothers had insisted on teaching him a lot of defensive magic over the summer holidays. Without their grueling methods, he'd be death already.
From the corner of his eyes he saw that Hermione had finally gathered her wits and he watched in satisfaction how she herded all of the nearby students toward the castle. With a resounding boom, his shield came crashing down around him and Ron vaulted through a window and into an unoccupied house.
He was a strategist first and foremost, not a fighter. What he needed was a plan to delay them.
Ron gathered all the feelings of happiness inside of him, including from memories in which the Golden Trio had still been together, and cast, "Expecto Patronum."
The silvery form of a small lion cub exited his wand and patted near him. He quickly bent down and whispered in its ear, before sending it on its way to Professor McGonagall.
Splinters flew through the air, partly embedding themselves in his left arm, as the door exploded due to an unholy amount of blasting curses. He sent a quick Reducto through the now open door, hearing in satisfaction that someone had cried out in pain, before vaulting through a window in the back of the house. Surrounded by glass shards, but health-wise in pretty good condition, Ron heaved himself upward, finding himself in the nearly unexplored back alleys of Hogsmeade.
Despite the help of his brothers, he was totally outclassed and outnumbered by the Death Eaters. But, somehow, he had to delay them long enough for Hermione and the students to reach the castle without any casualties. Instantly, dozens of possible ideas went through his mind as he imagined the village of Hogsmeade to be a large chess board. Only problem was: his side only had one piece to play, and that piece wasn't really a king or queen.
Nonetheless, now it was time to become creative.
It was hours later, when a bloodied and hurt Ronald Bilius Weasley returned to the castle; though not on his own feet, and not of his own power. His battered and bruised form resided on a floating stretcher that Professor McGonagall directed through the halls of Hogwarts and toward the Hospital Wing.
What was new for Ron, despite the feeling of pain ins his abdomen, was the respect of the other students that hit him like a sledgehammer – a very good-feeling sledgehammer. The students who hadn't been in Hogsmeade but heard of his deeds were nodding toward him, and the students that had left with Hermione were unified in a concert of thunderous applause.
A weak grin stretched his lips, and when he looked up to McGonagall, he was surprised to see that the old witch had to dab away a few tears.
With a look of pride – a look that had so seldom been directed at him – McGonagall spoke, "Exemplary work, Mr. Weasley. You did your house, and Hogwarts, proud today."
Truly, during the months of Harry's absence in which he trained beneath the harsh earth, preparing himself for the show-down with Tom Riddle and gathering precious information, many heroes had been born in Great Britain.
Each of them different in their own way, but all of them fighting for the small spark of light that led them through these dark and perilous times. It were months filled with horror, but also months filled with deeds that restored the faith in humanity for many people.
And, in the end, it was just like Albus Dumbledore had told Harry before they began their journey: Tom Riddle learned that it was perilous indeed to tickle a sleeping dragon.
AN: Well, this was a rather large chapter; and, although I had a lot of problems bringing my ideas on paper, I think it went smashingly in the end. As usual, the biggest problem was actual finding a good beginning. Afterward, the whole thing practically wrote itself.
Used new spells:
Fortis Pressura – Great/strong Pressure (Blasting s.o. . Away)
Aqua Magna Confractus – Great Water Breakthrough
Cavea – Cage (Used in conjunction with the Great Water Breakthrough)