Title: When Death Comes a'Knocking: Book 1 – Of Revelations
Plot Mistresses: Shiozaki, Shaynie, Librarycat, Literary Eagle
Spell Researchers: Fellow wizards, witches & omnyouji at my Yahoo!Group
Scene Masters: Shiozaki and Librarycat
Beta-d by: Librarycat
Review replies:
Ghost Whisper: thank you very much for your kind words. Here's the next chapter then!
Hitomibishop: Aha! You caught out little clue about Narcissa! Yes, I figured Voldie would be evil enough to do that. Though, poor 'Cissa.
Quatre Winner: Great to see you at the list by the way! And how I planned this fic out? Well, it was more of a vague idea at the back of my head concerning the Prophecy, about the power the Dark Lord knows not. That, and I refused to let Kyo and Takashi go. If anything, my ideas were half-formed at best. It was Shaynie, Literary Eagle and later on, Librarycat that really gave the story depth; especially Librarycat/Lisa. Having another head to bounce off ideas is a great way to see the flaws in your story. My suggestion? Get a like-minded friend to do your fics with. They're a godsend!
Joonie, cmquietone, Bea-chan, tenshiamanda, Yui-mag: Thank you! And for you guys hoping for slash action with Harry. . .well, let's just say that the circumstances in WDCAK is not set in stone. The future is fluid, little grasshoppers, and no man (or author) can predict anything with certainty.
Daemonchan: Ah, you'll be disappearing again! But still, I hope your move goes well. Be waiting to hear from you again.
Tatsuken: The was your review pays attention to the little details is heart-warming. Thank you. And I'd love to see the runes! Would you happen to know where I can get information on it as well? A geas is a curse by the way, and Kannon is the Goddess of Mercy from Buddhist beliefs. You can find out about her on the website on Buddhist and Shinto beliefs I provided after the chapter.
Kaze: Ah, you caught the significance of the pain Kyo went through when Narcissa did that. And to answer your questions:
1. Why is Takashi afraid of Muraki when Muraki was already insane when they met?
Yes, that is correct. But keep in mind that Muraki was the one who killed Hisoka and the one mortal who knew almost everything about the Shinigami (I'm discounting Akuma here, by the way, since he's not human). After working so long at the Shokan, Takashi and Kyo would have to know at least some of the history involving Muraki. And remember; Muraki alone knew how to capture a Shinigami despite their abilities. A scary thought, ne?
2. Takashi/Tsuzuki teaching Harry mental shielding
That is addressed somewhat obliquely in this chapter. But he is sticking with Snape for Occlumency. Hisoka is actually the best choice in teaching Harry among the Japanese and in the future, we will bring this up, no worries.
3. Everyone's ignorance of Kyo's injuries thanks to Narcissa
The injury wasn't visible. Let me quote Chapter 28:
. . .a strangled yelp and Kyo fell out of his roll gracelessly even though there was no visible wound on him.
Narcissa's touch is insubstantial. It injures the spiritual matter, not the physical. Note how Lucius observes Hisoka and Kyo, while still unconscious, shaking in the aftermath of her touch. Imagine your insides dipped in nitrogen.
4. Why did Expecto Patronum shattered their kekkai?
It wasn't the Patronus charm that did it; it was Narcissa, fuelled by her anger.
5. Muraki's journals are from which part of his life? Pre or post-Akuma?
The journals are pre-Akuma. I figured Muraki would be too. . .insane to write in journals after his little episode with Akuma. And for those wondering, I'm afraid I made a mistake by saying it's coded. It's not coded per se, but more of it being worded such that British wizards would find it hard to make heads or tails of it. Only those familiar with Japanese mythology and legends would, and only then through careful study.
6. How old is Dumbledore?
Ah. . .that little fact I had established before I got my feet firmly on the ground. I had put him at three hundred plus but looking back, it's kind of ridiculous. I think I'll change it to a hundred something. A bit older than Tsuzuki.
7. How did Muraki die?
Quite peacefully I imagined. After all, him being insane is not conducive to sucking life force from unsuspecting victims so for me, he died when his store of reserve power dwindled away.
I hope that hss managed to answer your questions satisfactorily! Whew!
Nekoki Yakkai: Ooh, hope you're feeling better then!
Chapter 29
Mirror of Alatheia
Harry wondered whether the staring match he was currently engaged in with Professor Snape had any significance to the Occlumency lesson he was here in the potions classroom for, or if the greasy haired professor was actually contemplating the best way to kill him and dispose of the body without anyone being the wiser. The unwavering stare he was subjected to was that bad.
At least, Harry comforted himself, I've got the Headmaster as a witness in case he is thinking about killing me.
"If I had wanted to I would have done so the first time you set foot in this castle, Potter."
Harry winced and immediately tried to empty his mind of detention-inducing thoughts. No such luck. The gray stone slab that served Snape faithfully as table and formidable bastion seemed like such a paltry barrier all of a sudden.
The young wizard fidgeted uneasily in the stiff wooden chair, perfect for miscreants and the wannabe vigilantes to mull over their imminent doom. The professor himself was ensconced on a high stool that gave him the added advantage of height; not that the Potions Master needed it. Even with taller students, the man gave the impression of towering over lesser beings, his black robes a light sucking cape that heralded disaster.
"So here we are again, back where we started." Snape didn't sound angry. Not even peeved. Rather, the man's tone was indifferent to the point where even a hint of any emotion would make him sound marginally human. His long, clever fingers played idly with an eagle feather quill, the nib worn and bone-thin. His table was free of the week's work, reference books (not that Snape needed any) stacked aside in a tidy pile. Similarly, the rows of desks and cauldrons behind Harry were scrubbed clean, thanks to the ministrations of the latest unlucky fool to incur the professor's wrath.
"Tell me Potter—"
Harry started, trying to meet Snape's inky dark eyes and fervently hoped that the man hadn't caught on to his almost religious study of the man himself. Snape has that tendency on people, Harry thought glumly. He had the ability to draw attention to himself in a room full of people the way a black hole sucked light and gravity. It was a quiet sort of attraction, pulling you in as a quicksand does its victim, uncomprehending of your danger till it was too late.
"--Despite our rather. . .abrupt ending last year, have you practiced emptying that void you call your mind every night, at the very least?"
Harry fought to keep his face blank, even as he squeezed his hands together, fingers crushed and twisted painfully. You promised yourself to think first, then act. Getting mad won't help you. It'll only get people killed.
"I have, Professor," Harry replied neutrally, even as his right thumb was bent back excruciatingly.
Snape didn't blink. "How long?"
"For me to do it?" Harry clarified and was answered with a sardonic lift of an eyebrow. "Usually around half an hour, maybe more."
A sneer finally broke the impassive façade of the Potions Master's face, twisting the lines bracketing his mouth and eyes deeper and ageing him a decade in an instant. "Half an hour is not good enough Potter. You need to be faster, to do it instinctively. The Dark Lord would not be so courteous as to wait till you've rid your head of every useless bit of fluff inside."
"I know that. Kyo has been teaching me how to meditate," Harry bit out and immediately cursed himself for losing even that small margin of control. He refused to let more tumble free, ready and waiting at the tip of his tongue. He needed this lesson. Even if he had to do it with Snape, he would grin and bear it. Because the next time he might lose more than one person he held dear.
Alright, maybe he could at least grimace and bear it. Anything more would elevate him to the lofty status of sainthood.
The stillness that fell was heavy and expectant. Harry refused to make the first move. He had his limits after all. Even if his fingers promised to be red and throbbing after tonight and his eyes felt as if they were filled with sand, not surprising considering that it was nearly one o'clock in the morning. The meeting earlier in the Headmaster's office had ended on a tense note with Tsuzuki refusing to speak to anyone, leaving silently. Takashi, after the Headmaster had plied him with Firewhisky-laced tea, only mumbled something about Muraki being a long-time 'adversary' of the yamabushi, one they had thought they were finally free of.
"The Headmaster asked me to teach you, Potter. To make you proficient in the art of Occlumency." The eagle feather quill was laid aside in favour of white fingers interlacing together. Black eyes pinned him in his seat, aching hands forgotten. "He asked me to be. . .gentle with you." The sneer he was favoured with would have done a gargoyle proud in its ferocity. "Frankly Potter, in light of the current situation, we cannot afford to be gentle."
Harry swallowed nervously. "Wh-what do you mean? Sir?" he added hurriedly.
"Do you know what happens to a captive of the Dark Lord?" Snape asked instead.
Harry froze, eyes going blank.
Screams. A hiss piercing the white-hot pain that burned his skin. 'A little break. . .a little pause. . .that hurt, didn't it, Harry? You don't want me to do that again, do you?'
"Yes," he croaked. "Yes, I know. Sir."
The Potions Master leaned forwards, hands splayed flat on the surface of his table, eyes glittering with strange triumph and self-loathing. "Then you'll realise that your friends are merely waiting for their turn. The Dark Lord may even provide you with front row seats for the show."
Harry couldn't break free of Snape's hypnotic hold, his mind scrambling frantically like a cornered rodent under the assault. The barriers he tried to throw up were flimsy at best, half-formed and shady, merely slowing down the knife-thrust of a master Legilimens. He focused instead on one fond memory of a clear day on the shores of the castle's lake as a Japanese boy hugged him close and whispered that everything would be alright.
A firm grip on that cherished day, Harry threw out his hand and shouted "Expelliarmus!" There was a startled oath and a wand of ebony walnut flew into his hands. Harry opened his eyes and he smiled shakily in triumph. Snape glared though there was an indecipherable look on his pallid face, even as he held out a hand, saying coldly, "My wand, Potter."
Harry quickly gave up the wand he had appropriated, flushing.
"Well? What are you waiting for?"
He shot out of his seat and quickly scuttled over to the desk that Snape had pointed to imperiously without thinking twice about it. Only standing before it that Harry realised the desk was filled with jars of preserved snails, all waiting to beunshelled.
"I want them shelled and rebottled tonight. Discard any spoiled specimens."
The young wizard looked blankly back and forth between the snails and the professor looming over him. The narrow eyed glare he received made up his mind and he got to work without complaint. How shelling snails had anything to do with Occlumency, he didn't dare ask. But soon enough, he fell into an easy rhythm of pluck, crack, peel and clean, his robes stained with snail juice and preservatives. There was something soothing about doing such a mindless task, one that allowed his mind to quieten, savouring the stillness particular to this time of the night.
"Legilimens!"
He remembered this day. Or night, rather. He was standing at the very top of the wooden stairs that led to the house's cellar, a naked bulb throwing dim illumination into the darkness that waited beyond. If he strained his hearing, he could just make out the slow drip drip drip of water on stone and the chitter and scrape of claws.
Hisoka was eight years old and it was the night his mother locked him in a dark, dank cell underneath the house.
Because he was a monster.
Oh, Enma, no. Why this again?
He twisted around, grabbing on to his mother's yukata, the rich fabric crunched in his little fists. "Mama, please," he whispered pleadingly. "Don't make me go down there. I promise I'll be good."
The shadowy face of his mother did not coalesce into the features he remembered so clearly. Like a shroud of death, gloom veiled her face but her low, melodious voice he could hear clearly.
"Get your hands off of me, monster."
Hisoka whimpered, bracing himself for the influx of hatred and disgust that never failed to accompany that name he was given by his own mother. Quivering muscles tensed, waiting for a blow that never came.
But green eyes widened in disbelief. His empathy was silent. Blank. Refusing to believe it, he reached out tentatively with his mind only to run into a wall. His empathy was gone.
"Mama!" he gasped. "I can't hear you anymore! It's gone! You won't have to send me down there!" Jubilation flooded his small body, him beaming up into the shadows that were his mother. He didn't know what god that had granted him this favour but he thanked that being with every fiber in his soul. He wasn't a monster anymore. His mother would love him again. His father would look at him without sheer hatred for once.
Pale hands that never knew the backbreaking labor of work materialised out of the darkness and settled on to his shoulders, giving him a gentle squeeze. Hisoka couldn't help the huge grin that broke his face, ready to give him mama a hug and say that nothing needed to be forgiven.
"You will always be a monster."
And white hands pushed him into the darkness that waited.
Hisoka came to with a gasp and immediately regretted ever waking up. A headache throbbed fiercely, seeming to follow every beat of his heart like an accompanying band. He screwed his eyes shut, willing the pounding to go away but with no such luck. His face felt wet, sticky, generally yucky. So did the rest of him. He lifted a hand, wanting to scrub at least some of the grime off his face. Instead, he encountered a wad of cloth pressed firmly against his left temple. Hisoka realised that that was the spot where the pounding was worst and he shifted, trying to dislodge whatever it was that was causing the ache.
"Hisoka, no. You haven't stopped bleeding yet."
Kyo. Realisation jolted through him and the fight with the onryo flooded his mind. He had incapacitated the ghost, he remembered, only to end up getting dragged along for the ride as they discovered that the spirit was bound with a geas to its flesh. When they were transported forcibly, he had lost consciousness and now he knew that Kyo must have been taken as well.
"Kyo?" Gods, his throat felt like it had been thoroughly sanded down with diamond grade sandpaper. He forced his aching eyes to open and tried to understand the dizzying jumble of images.
All too familiar greyish-green stone walls, ubiquitous to dungeons everywhere greeted him. The walls gleamed wetly with condensation, not much different from the floor he was laid out on. Only his head and upper shoulders were relatively dry and comfortable; he was lying in Kyo's lap.
The boy who graciously became his pillow shifted slightly, Hisoka blinking as Kyo gently adjusted him to settle him more comfortably. From the little bit he saw at the edge of his vision and as he tilted his head back slowly, the wad of cloth Kyo was using as a compress was the older boy's outer black t-shirt. Blue eyes, unnaturally dilated met his and the bare traces of a smile curved Kyo's pale lips.
"Hey." Kyo's voice cracked at the end and he tried again. "Hey. 'Bout time you woke up."
Hisoka fingered the makeshift compress Kyo had made carefully. It felt damp, just the slightest bit sticky and he didn't have to see to know that it was damp with blood. His own fingers rested lightly on Kyo's and he swallowed painfully. "Wh-what happened?"
Thin shoulders lifted into a small shrug. "I have no idea. When she took us, I blacked out and the next thing I knew, here we are in the Hilton's best suite." The joke fell flat and Kyo winced. He blinked rapidly, his pale blue irises still drowned under a tidal wave of black. Kyo was in shock, Hisoka realised with a start. "You got a head wound and it's bleeding freely. I tried to stop it. . . ." A shudder wracked his friend's frame. "It's been over ten minutes, 'Soka. Your wound hasn't closed."
"What?" Hisoka gasped. And only then Hisoka became aware of the fact that he was still touching Kyo's hand and it was only through that skin-to-skin contact could he feel his friend's distress. His empathy was stifled. Stifled under a practically visible blanket of dark emotions that seem to emanate from his very skin.
He jerked his hands up to his face and what he saw made his chest constrict in pain that had nothing to do with any sort of injury. His body tensed, locking his muscles in fear and belated comprehension.
His arms were wound tightly with wire-thin, blackish strands. Strands that dug cruelly into the bare skin of his forearms as though a child had scribbled his pale skin with a pen. Scribbles that bound his empathy viciously, stifling his innate magic and without a doubt, his Shinigami-given capabilities.
For a brief second, Hisoka could swear that he saw the deep scarlet marks of the curse flaring into life again on his body.
"Human hair," he whispered brokenly. "We're bound by human hair. Infused with the pain and hatred of the victim's untimely, cruel death. The one prison a Shinigami cannot break free of." The words fell woodenly. It was an excerpt from a report by Watari, all those long years ago. A report when one man had haunted their lives, his and Tsuzuki's in particular. The very man who had killed him and granted him the twilight existence of a god of death.
"This is Muraki's."
The body underneath him tensed as well. Fingers dug into his shoulders and the boy above him repeated blankly, "Muraki's." The fingers flexed once. Twice. "But he's dead." Kyo said, bewildered. "He's dead and has received Enma's Judgment!"
That penetrated the icy grip of shock that had descended over him. Hisoka coughed, brought back to reality from nightmares that never completely went away. Kyo was right. Muraki was long dead with no chance of resurrection. No one could, not when they wereunder the sway of Enma's dominion. So this isn't Muraki's, Hisoka thought with almost blinding relief, causing him to sag into the cold, damp floor. But that means. . .his eyes widened, probably making him look like a startled owl, as Tsuzuki had teased him once. Dear Kannon and Enma, someone found out about Muraki.
He sat up abruptly, blistering the air with curses when that proved to be an unwise move as his head complained bitterly. He had to wait a minute or two for the throbbing to lessen. At least I can move. Their captors had been generous with the human hair binding; long strands of it trailed from them, pooling on the floor. He tugged experimentally and saw that the ends sank into the stones and that no amount of pulling could tear it free. Nor could he free himself of it. The hairs were impossible to remove by the captive himself, he knew; experience and current testing proved it.
"Shit," he swore. His store of colourful curses had been exhausted but that single epithet was satisfying enough. A whimper from behind him reminded Hisoka of Kyo who was most probably freaking out. His friend had never. . .experienced the joys of such helpless imprisonment.
He turned quickly, the hairs entangling around his legs but he paid them no mind. They were tucked into a corner of the dim cell, Kyo huddling as tightly as he could into the junction of the walls. The sodden t-shirt lay forgotten on the floor as Kyo brought his legs up, hugging his knees and rocking back and forth in quick, jerky movements. Hisoka tentatively touched his wound, relieved to find that the blood was slowly congealing. Ignoring his bloodstained fingers, he reached out for Kyo who immediately flinched, huddling deeper.
"I don't know what's going on," Kyo gasped, raising his face to Hisoka. He looked even paler than usual, his eyes standing out of his face starkly. Minute tremors worked his body even as he kept on rocking back and forth. "Your wound hasn't closed and I can't teleport out and I can't feel my magic and gods, I want Takashi, please please please I want Takashi!"
Hisoka demonstrated that he still had some unused curse words inside somewhere. He didn't blame Kyo for losing it; Enma knew he would have as well, if he hadn't gone through the same thing himself with Muraki. But the fact that their healing powers were also blocked boded ill; even Muraki hadn't done that. After all, what use was a dead Shinigami to the insane sensei when he wasn't through playing? The conclusion didn't make Hisoka any happier; either someone had done a variation to the spell, more likely a twist to the magic-dampening fields of the hairs as his empathy seemed limited to touch and severely weakened at that, or their identities as Enma's gods of death had been discovered.
Either wasn't a likeable option but Hisoka pushed it aside for now. His friend needed help first. Coming straight on the heels of Kyo's recovery from an Akuma-flashback, Hisoka wondered morbidly whether this was payback from the enraged Western gods.
His mind brushed delicately at the other Shinigami's, intuition providing a meagre foothold in the absence of enough real strength in his empathy. The gentle mental stroking let him tease open Kyo's natural barriers to see the form of the emotions beneath. At the very outermost edge of Kyo's consciousness was a trembling sickness, an awareness of something askew and painfully wrong. Hisoka couldn't feel it for himself; for once his well-trained shields kept it at bay. But he could tell by his friend's aura that whatever it was, was bad.Turning a blind eye to Kyo's obvious reluctance, he bundled the larger boy into his arms and with the contact, allowed some measure of calm to seep into Kyo, slowly subduing the tremors and the incessant rocking. Kyo managed to stop hyperventilating as well as Hisoka rubbed his inky black hair, murmuring soothing words and pressing a kiss on top of his head. It never failed to amaze the empath how Kyo was able to tuck himself into such a little, compact ball when embraced like this. It made his friend appear smaller, more vulnerable.
Hisoka wasn't sure how long he held Kyo; the glowing patch on the ceiling that acted as a light did not flicker or dim with time. But he wasn't complaining. It felt good to have another person here with him, that he wasn't alone and that he had a warm body to hug close.
"Better?" he asked softly, nudging Kyo's cold cheek with his own. Kyo swallowed, nodding jerkily.
"What's going on?" Kyo's voice was a reedy imitation and he did not let go of Hisoka, seemingly afraid to.
Hisoka managed to shrug. "I don't know. You're right though, it's not Muraki. Tatsumi did warn us that the wizards were investigating our background. They might have found out about Muraki in the process."
Kyo echoed his earlier sentiments, swearing fluently. Hisoka had to bite back a smile; it was good to hear Kyo's usual spirits trying to assert themselves. But Kyo still refused to let go so he settled himself as comfortably as he could against the wall.
After the heated words died off, neither seemed willing to break the silence again and the only sound for long minutes were the steady dripping of water somewhere outside their cell. Another ubiquitous feature of standard dungeons, Hisoka thought with black humour. Their cell door was made of thick, solid wood that much he could tell. The unrelieved blankness of the wood made it impossible to tell if there was anyone else outside but Hisoka had no doubt that with magic, anyone could look inside.
Kyo stirred in his arms. "'Soka?" he asked hesitantly.
"Aa."
The older boy fiddled with the strands that bound his own arms; his sleeves had been torn away to accommodate the bindings, letting Hisoka see the clear lines of red that showed how desperate Kyo had been in trying to get rid of the hairs.
"I'm sorry," Kyo sighed into his chest.
Hisoka gave a sigh of his own, shifting and saying to the far wall, "You have nothing to apologise for. I should be the one saying it instead."
Kyo looked up, uncurling from his foetal position to meet his eyes. His pale blue eyes were sad, capturing him in their color. He shook his head faintly. "You were only trying to protect me and Takashi. I know," he added. "And I'm sorry I made you do it. And I'm sorry for. ." he cast his eyes down briefly before looking back into his. "For forcing you to hurt me."
Hisoka closed his eyes, breaking the contact and his arms tightened around his friend, almost painfully so but Kyo made no noise of protest. He opened his eyes again and said, lightly, "Well, I've always said that you and Tsuzuki are the biggest idiots to ever grace the Shokan."
Kyo looked dumbfounded for a brief, endearing moment before he broke into a grin, chuckling weakly. "You love us anyway," he teased back.
"How unfortunate for me," Hisoka replied wryly.
The chuckles erupted into soft laughter and Kyo took advantage of their position to press his own kiss on Hisoka's forehead. "And how lucky for us," he smiled.
Deep green eyes narrowed playfully. "Don't y—"
They both stiffened suddenly, alarm crossing their faces and each reached for 'fudas which were no longer there. They quickly scrambled to their feet, backing into a corner side by side, chests heaving.
Something dark was approaching them. Something evil. Something vile. Something that made their bond with Enma Daioh, Lord of Death and Judgment, vibrate with keening resonance that nauseated them, icy sweat breaking out on their skin. Unthinkingly, Kyo and Hisoka clasped their hands together; whatever it was outside their cell door, it scared them. It scared them like no personal nightmares could because what waited outside was a Shinigami's nightmare.
The door swung open on silent hinges to reveal a figure in black standing in the doorway. Kyo fell back with a gasp, Hisoka barely stifling his own cry. Through their clutching hands, he felt the spike of terror, and a gut churning revulsion that carried with it the threat of physical collapse; Kyo was approaching a complete nervous shut-down.This thing was the source of the wrongness. This. . .aberration before them.
The dark figure glided inside slowly, steps silent on the stone and they could almost hear a sibilant hiss in the air. It stopped a few feet from them, a deep cowl covering its head and hiding its features.
Please, Hisoka prayed. Please don't let us see its face.
A skeletal hand covered in white-bone skin emerged from the depths of the black robes, reaching up. Thin fingers slid the concealing cowl back and Hisoka cursed whatever gods that ignored his plea.
The same dead, white skin covered the creature's face and Hisoka realised that the light glinting off some spots were actually scales. His stomach roiled in protest. This creature had no nose save for two slits in the middle of its face, and a lipless mouth stretched in a parody of a smile with a black, leathery tongue flicking inside. But it was the eyes that grabbed them, that flooded them with a tidal wave of fear. It was always the eyes. Eyes that burned red like the hottest blood gushing forth from a still-beating heart or the coldest rubies crowning a skull.
Hisoka uttered the creature's name against his own volition.
"Lord Voldemort."
The morning was a fine example of Scottish November; dark, scudding grey clouds ponderously heavy with rain, sure to be icy fat drops that were more of an inconvenience than a threat. But Remus walked the grounds of the castle diligently, cloak pinned securely as he made liberal use of warming and everdry charms. He trod the well-worn path down to Hagrid's hut, the smoking chimney indicating the gamekeeper and Professor's presence, but stopped short just shy of the borders of the Forbidden Forest. Even where the underbrush was thin and light actually filtered through the skeletal, bare treetops, Remus' sensitive nose could pick out the myriad scents of death; a decaying corpse somewhere nearby (probably a weasel, judging by the blood-rich stink), decomposing leaves, cold earth frozen over and more remaining unidentified, limited as he was with a human's capabilities, never mind how enhanced they were.
He teetered at the edge; the call of the wild was irresistible, the palpable violence of the Forest calling like to like. But Remus was a responsible professor. And he was a wolf in essence. No matter that his sluggishly flowing blood longed to run unchecked under the bare trees and howl unfettered joy in the lust of the kill, his very wolfish traits forbid him to; Hogwarts was his territory. His cub resided within and needed his protection. Instincts aeons old urged him to ensure that no more predators lurked nearby, that his cub be kept safe and his territory remain his. So Remus gave the Forest one, wistful, backward glance and resolutely veered away, back to the castle though taking the route that had him skirting the lake's edge.
The grounds deemed free of enemies, Remus made his way to the Great Hall, exchanging greetings with the students he passed by. The mammoth wooden doors were open; a tradition for mealtimes at the school. All students were required to make an appearance for at least two meals of the day, though the house elves' ability to whip up a good spread ensured that they were rarely skipped. Keeping the doors closed would bean exercise in irritation as sleepy, rumpled and bleary-eyed students trickled in throughout the hour.
But this morning, coming after last night's attack in both the Slytherin and Gryffindor dormitories, provided an exception. The Gryffindors, from first up to seventh year, were conspicuously absent and the long, empty tables were a jarring, discordant note in the usual routine. Even the Slytherins proved to be pared to the bare minimum who looked as though they wished they were still snuggled up tight in their conjured sleeping bags; the shadows under their eyes caused Remus to wince and sigh gratefully that Dumbledore kept to his promise of cancelled classes. Sleep-deprived Slytherins were not healthy for one's sanity.
Remus, taking his seat even more carefully than usual (there was an expectant hush to the Hall, each occupant taking care to make as little noise as possible as Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs exchanged curious glances), leaned over, catching the diminutive Charms professor's attention.
"Filius?" Remus said in a low tone. He gave the Hall a glance before looking back to his colleague significantly . "What happened?"
Flitwick sighed gustily, setting down his fork and knife. His long beard wagged sadly as he answered, "Poppy told me almost the entire body ofGryffindor students and most of the Slytherins requested Dreamless Sleep potions. This double attack has shaken them up quite a bit."
Sprout, noting their topic of conversation jumped in with her own titbit. "I'll say," she sighed, casting a fond, protective eye over her charges. "Poppy has just about gone through her entire year's stock and had to raid Severus's as well. I'm going to have to plant more valerian for new batches. And it's only November!"
This in turn prompted the two Heads of Houses not affected by the onryo attack to compare notes of last night. Tuning them out and catching only the bare drift of their conversation, Remus saw that most of the professors were missing as well; Snape, Dumbledore, McGonagall and even Vector. And, Remus sighed internally, so were Takashi and Tsuzuki.
The werewolf reached absently for his usual cup of coffee; a new weakness inculcated by Takashi who had introduced him to the addictive wonders of Arabian mocha blend and since then, the house elves had made sure that he got a pot full every breakfast. But somehow, the coffee tasted flat today without the two Japanese professors he had grown accustomed to, and was even fond of.
Making up his mind even as he gulped down an unsatisfying shot of his daily caffeine boost, Remus surged to his feet, nodding silent goodbyes to the other professors.
He let his feet direct him and he was led to the staff room. The absence of noise from within warmed him that it might be empty but he pushed the door open anyway. Remus smiled. Luck was on his side as the door swung open to reveal Takashi by his desk, staring out of the window.
"Remus." The weariness in Takashi's voice stopped the werewolf in his tracks. He paused just inside the door, wondering if he would be welcome as Takashi had yet to turn away from the window. As for how the Japanese knew that it was he, Remus simply attributed it to some uncanny sixth sense.
"It's bloody unnerving when you do that, you do realise?" Remus said lightly. He let the door swing shut of its own accord and crossed the room unhurriedly. He forewent his own desk to perch his hip on the edge of Takashi's, just beside the professor who only acknowledged his presence with the barest flick of his eyes.
Up close, Remus had to contain a wince. Takashi looked as though he had spent a sleepless night. His face was pale, almost pasty-white, serving only to highlight the purple shadows under his eyes. His usually immaculate robes wore a hint of shabbiness today, the knot in his tie just slightly crooked.
"I thought the purpose of me escorting you back to your rooms last night was to make sure you got some rest," Remus scolded gently. He brushed a hand lightly across Takashi's cheek, a distant part of him surprised that the man had at least taken the initiative to shave that morning. Takashi's eyes fluttered, blurring the dark green and gold that writhed in shadows.
"My shikigami couldn't find them," Takashi whispered to his hand which still cupped the Japanese's cheek.
Remus froze, not daring to remove his hand as a part of him murmured that he was only comforting a distraught friend. "There's always Tsuzuki's," Remus said thickly.
A soft whoosh of warm air ghosted across his palm; Takashi laughing soundlessly. "My shikigami may be my own conjuration but it's as much Kyo's as it is mine. I have little hope that Tsuzuki can break through whatever ward it is that's hiding them from our sight."
Remus opened his mouth, intending to offer some vague comfort but he shut it with a snap. In his experience, platitudes did as much damage as they did help. Instead, he carefully inched his hand away from Takashi's cheek, resting it at the nape of the man's neck and he gently kneaded the tensed muscles there. "We'll find them, you can be sure of that," he said softly.
Takashi did not answer him.
Feeling more and more at lost, wondering just how he could help his friend, Remus decided to fall back on the old standby. He snapped his fingers, calling up a house elf and putting in an order for a pot of tea and scones. No sooner had he given such an order, than a tray popped up on Takashi's desk. Remus, with a soft sigh of regret he couldn't check, ceased massaging Takashi's neck and carefully poured his friend a cup, adding in a lump of sugar.
"Takashi?" he tried.
Takashi took the proffered cup, holding it between his hands and still not saying a word.
Remus set down his own cup and tried to catch Takashi's attention. "Listen, Dumbledore says that we—"
He reared back in surprise as Takashi shot to his feet and flung his cup against the wall. The porcelain smashed, smattering the stone with droplets of tea. With a strangled cry, Takashi spun around and swept the tray off his desk, catching his stack of seventh year essays and books, the whole lot flying off in a whirlwind of quill and parchment. Remus stumbled to his feet, caught in shock at the sudden display of fury but he quickly got himself together and as Takashi was about to upend his desk next, Remus trapped the enraged man in his arms, holding on tight.
"No!" Takashi shouted. "Let—just let me go!"
"Calm down!" Remus shook Takashi hard. "Losing control is not going to bring Kyo back!"
It was to his own surprise when just as suddenly as Takashi had erupted into a rage, the taller Japanese sagged in his arms, forcing Remus to catch his weight before the both of them fell. Gently, he lowered himself and Takashi on to the floor, cradling the man close.
Takashi did not cry, but instead he buried his face in his hands, shaking uncontrollably. "I can't do this anymore," he said wretchedly.
"Do what, Takashi?" Remus whispered.
Takashi lifted his head, looking Remus straight in the eyes. "This," he answered in a hoarse voice. "I'm tired of not being there when Kyo needs me. We've given so much, just for the sake of our duty. I've watched Kyo getting hurt over and over again. We've done everything Enma has ever asked of us and I'm sick of being used and manipulated like this."
Remus floundered, unsure of what to say. Takashi's lessons in Defense had given the impression that onmyoujitsu was a choice, a profession rather than what you were born into, as wizards and witches were. But this heartbroken confession from a tired man showed another side. Of carrying out an obligation that was wearing his friend down to the bone and stirring sympathetic echoes in the werewolf's own soul. How many times had he himself lain awake, staring up at the ceiling and thinking 'No more. No more running and hiding and putting up with the prejudice and stigma of being a werewolf, all for the sake of the Order'? How many nights had he asked himself why he kept on going when his mate was gone?
"You could," Remus flushed dully at how raspy his voice was, "You could quit. Give up your position as a. . .as a yamabushi." And he could not keep out the deep longing evident in his words for himself to do just that. To give up and let go.
Takashi tensed up in his arms and just as quickly, drooped. His body was trembling in laughter, Remus realized. Laughter that was devoid of mirth. A full minute of Takashi shaking like that made Remus wonder whether he had inadvertently put his foot in his mouth, though he was puzzled as to how advising someone to quit their job could be so funny.
"I'm sorry," Takashi sighed, his empty merriment dying away. He covered Remus's brown hands with his own light amber ones, squeezing gratefully. "I just. . ." he cleared his throat, looking away.
Remus bumped his friend's shoulder lightly. "Just what?"
Takashi turned back, giving him a genuinely sad, weary smile. "I just wish it was that easy."
Voldemort was laughing. Unexpectedly painful, the sound sent a shudder through Kyo, and completely without meaning to, he met the Dark wizard's eyes. The sound sharpened into a sword's thrust, sending him flinching back against stones slimy with condensation. He fought to get his breathing under control, his head throbbing in reaction to the sudden exertion. As quickly as it had come, the panicky surge of adrenaline was gone, leaving him weak and trembling as he swayed unsteadily on his knees. The room twisted dizzily around him and he closed his eyes, seeking to center himself. There was something in those eyes, something unpleasant and alien that turned the tremors into a full out seizure of panic. The dimness of failing vision obscured even the radiant patch on the ceiling overhead. But those undead eyes were a sun in his blurred vision; a merciless blaze that drowned out all else. The now silent Dark wizard waved his wand and the ends of their bindings slithered out of the stone floor to coil negligently around his skeletal fingers.
"What does that old fraud Dumbledore see in you, I wonder?" Soft, musing. . .it cut like jagged ice and burned across his ears. Kyo choked back a gasping whimper. Everything was spinning, turning black. There was fire everywhere, agony in fine lace up his forearms and piercing the back of his skull. Pressure. . .a fiery touch that skipped across his mind, like and unlike Hisoka's empathy. Harsh and scornful, yet tasting of. . .the taste of. . .But, no, whatever the memory was, it was gone. Instead, there was a familiar pressure, gentle, and a heart and soul that he knew well. Kyo gratefully let it wrap around him.
There was a discernible flash of ire in the gleaming red eyes but the Dark Lord had barely taken a step towards him when Hisoka darted in front of Kyo, shielding his frightened friend with his own smaller body. Voldemort paused, considering. But the blond did nothing more than to cup the black haired boy's face with his cold hands.
The warm flow helped center Kyo, bringing order to the black turmoil of his mind, control stopping its descent. He revelled in that brief moment of sanity but the constant black hole presence of Voldemort just at the edge of his awareness hammered in the fact that he was treading thin ice. Already impatience was narrowing Voldemort's glare and Kyo quickly straightened, fighting valiantly to hold on to his returned composure.
There was a detached curiosity in those ruby red eyes as Voldemort tugged at the hairs he held, clearly wanting them out of their little corner. It was a gentle pull, almost kind, but nevertheless, the wire-like hairs dug into their skin and scarlet lines erupted. Rising, Hisoka stumbled, caught surprised by the pain, but without complaint he stepped out of their little huddle. Even as he complied with the unspoken command, Kyo saw that his friend hadn't given up, not by the set of his shoulders and the stubborn gleam he knew lit the green depths of Hisoka's eyes. Kyo didn't try to fight then and neither did Hisoka. There was something about the bindings that not only were their magic suppressed to the point of non-existence, but Kyo actually felt physically weak. He still couldn't get rid of the minute tremors that shook him head to toe in sporadic bursts. It was with some envy that he realised Hisoka was actually faring better than he was. Better in that the blond empath didn't look like he was going to fall down in a faint if the Dark Lord should even glance his way. Another tug dragged at them.
"No," Kyo whimpered, a pathetic sound that he loathed with all his being but the thought of coming closer to the light-sucking void that called itself Lord Voldemort scared him like no thought of another Akuma could. He tried to curl himself in, to make a smaller target. Nothing Enma-sama or Ami Shiina had said could have prepared him for this. Hisoka's wordless reassurance again flooded in, providing an anchor.
"What do you want?" Kyo croaked out.
Interest sparked; Voldemort was intrigued by the quick turnabout and his eyes lingered unpleasantly on the hand Hisoka still kept on Kyo's shoulder.
"I really don't think you're in the position to ask that, are you?" His voice, Kyo noted with another shudder, was the spitting and hissing of water on hot coals; dark sibilance that coiled around you and painted images too horrific to contemplate. "Now move, my little Japanese. We have work to attend to."
He obviously intended for them to precede him, and with obvious reluctance, they did, carefully edging away from him but another jerk forced Hisoka to drop his reassuring contact. The tidal wave of icy fear that hit Kyo almost caused his knees to buckle; in fact, he was about to but quick as a snake, Voldemort was beside him, thin yet strong fingers twisting his hair in a painful clench.
"Do you want your friend to die that much faster?"
Kyo staggered to his feet, sweat dripping from his face to splatter on the floor. He shook his head numbly, ignoring Hisoka's beseeching look and marshalled all the strength he possessed just to stand straight.
Again, Voldemort prodded them and they moved out of the cell, to be flanked on both sides by black robed wizards, white masks covering their faces. Death Eaters, Kyo realised and he felt almost sickening relief at their presence; needing their humanity to counterbalance the wrongness that was Voldemort. How he wished desperately that he had the talent of empathy to shield himself from the cancerous blight that was their Master. Hisoka's brief touch was not enough. He longed to hide in the blond boy's protective embrace, for the Dark Lord was the antithesis of a Shinigami; the very abomination that was a god of death's duty to prevent.
How could they? Kyo thought numbly as he automatically followed their guards through twisting corridors, up staircases, into majestically appointed hallways and past rooms that would have put the grandeur of Hogwarts' Great Hall to shame. How could the Tuatha allow this. . .this desecration to happen? Why didn't they stop him before he got this far?
He looked around dazedly as they were brought into a room markedly smaller than the ones they passed by. The tall shelves disappearing into corniced plaster ceiling, leather armchairs scattered throughout and the fortress of a mahogany desk in a corner led him to believe that they were brought to a private study.
But it was the enormous mirror that drew Kyo's gaze, distracting him from even the presence of the Dark Lord. He barely noticed shadowy furniture pushed back into the chamber's corners, didn't even register that another figure had joined the evil wizard.
The mirror was a void; a hole in the universe leading to some alternate dimension. And he didn't know whether to be scared silly and cower, or to try to leap through its door-like frame.
Kyo felt Hisoka tense marginally somewhere behind his back, and knew that while they might be bound and helpless, his friend was not going down without a fight. The realization brought with it a tiny measure of calm, driving back the mindless confusion that threatened to gobble up his rational, thinking side. So long as Hisoka was there, things would be all right, right? They had gotten out of plenty of messes worse than this one, and done so in one piece.
But there was always a first time for everything. Even failure. Even second death.
He blinked rapidly, fighting off the tears that gathered at the corners of his eyes, and concentrated on the mirror instead.
The thing stood taller than a man, a heavy, rectangular outline of wrought iron that enclosed a dully gleaming surface. Half-seen reflections of things that weren't there skittered across polished hematite, the darkened silver promising moonless nights and cold fog within its boundaries. Kyo took a step closer, compelled by a damned mortal's curiosity to know the unknowable, to see what ought to be left unseen. Twisting forms that might be winter barren trees, or maybe the tortured limbs of the dead, hovered beneath the slick surface. The young man inched closer. Pale glimmers that might be reflections of the room's candles, or possibly the cold faces of the damned, shone wanly in the mirror's depths. He was half aware of Hisoka's hastily indrawn breath behind his back.
The surreal landscape within the mirror's reflections beckoned. Kyo felt reality shift. This time, it was his heart that took the final step, leaving behind the shell of his body. He barely noticed the avid regard of two sets of eyes, one smoldering fire, and the other, winter sky gray.
Broken sky like jagged glass met spiked earth. The land barren, gray and dust-stirred. Kyo wanted to break the oppressive silence that pressed physically down on him; a tangible yet invisible tomb boxing him in a world where endless skies and land hurt the eye for want of a boundary.
Where am I? he called out and his voice was silence within silence. The shadow-felt trees did not heed his cry, twisted fingers reaching for a sky that ignored its entreaty. He was but a mote upon the landscape, the trees, rocks and sand said. Just as they were insignificant in a land where reality seemed nothing more than cardboard cut-outs pasted on a dingy canvas.
Yasas, Shinigami. Welcome, gods of death.
He whirled around on feet that did not pattern the shifting sands. She was waiting behind him, an indifferent smile gracing unearthly radiance. A goddess.
She could not be anything but.
It was her beauty that announced her immortal status; a beauty that pierced straight to the heart and defied mortal's words. She was dressed in a light chiffon dress, fastened at the shoulders with brooches that sparkled in this place where there was no sun, and falling in languid folds to her bare feet, swaying in a wind that did not blow. Her skin was a dusky olive that spoke of sun-kissed lands, her dark curls crowning her head and covered with a loose white cloth that cascaded to her shoulders. All at once she was beyond anything that the mind could perceive and yet, she was as real as he.
Who are you? he asked, and fear was in his heart. It was not for the fact that she was a goddess, an almost instinctive knowledge, but for the power that she wielded. He did not want to know.
She answered him. Ime o Alatheia.
Her voice echoed, rebounded, skittered and crawled. It was all around him and more. It seeped into his skin and turned blood into ice water. Within her words were more words; a voice within a voice and what it said was what scared him.
I am Truth.
No! he gasped. He wanted to run, to flee but there was nowhere to go. He was in her domain within the Mirror and under her thrall. The pressure beating against his mind intensified, and the echoes with the eerie voice converged.
Do you fear me? she asked, and the other voice echoed; Do you fear Truth?
He shook his head slowly, wanting nothing more than to crumple to the ground and block his ears like a little child. Mortals are not meant to know the Truth, he answered hoarsely and the goddess' smile dimmed, turning to sorrow deeper than the night sky.
And yet you speak the Truth, she said quietly. I fled here when men created lies to blind themselves to what is true. For I am that and nothing more than that. She took one step closer and for her, the sands changed shape; the pattern of a delicate footstep emerging. But you are a god of death. You are not mortal. You are beyond and you are less. Yours is a truth that bends time and history. Won't you listen?
Pain burst into life in the base of his skull and in his beating heart. He fell to his knees and through his graying vision, saw the hem of stainless white robes dusting bare feet come closer. There was something inside him, something that recognized the goddess Alatheia and the chords struck formed complete melodies that threatened to shatter him.
No! he shouted through the pain. No! I—I'm not- a thin shriek escaped him and that blossoming supernova inside of him was on the edge of consuming him whole. But at the edge of the precipice, fluid energy uncurled into a joyous rush that leapt across the gap between them as slim arms encircled him and dragged him away from the waiting Alatheia. A heady sweetness twined between his fingers and stole up his wrists. He shuddered at the embrace that seeped through his skin, enveloping him in warm colors that were a tangible touch. The intense pain diminished with each step taken farther away from her and the burning sun died down to a sullen ember.
My Lady! It was Hisoka. Hisoka with him in this realm within the Mirror. My Lady, we beg you, leave us be! Please!
God of death. She followed them, one step taken for each of theirs. Don't you want to know the Truth?
The pain blazed into life and Kyo howled in agony. He tried to contain the screaming monster in his head from clawing out of his skull and chewing though his heart. He didn't know what it was but he knew for sure that should it be let out, he would be destroyed. Destroyed beyond even Enma's recall and he would drag Takashi down with him. And the thought of Takashi dying at the hands of this invisible beast which promised destruction even with its mere touch, Kyo threw his head back and he shouted defiance to the goddess.
Alatheia! he screamed and he didn't hear his own double echo whose fury shook the jagged sky. Release us or I will destroy you!
The world cracked.
Their captives lay in a twitching mass on the carpeted floor, sweat staining the three hundred year old weaving but the Lord of the Manor paid it no heed. His steel grey eyes were fixed on his Lord who was leaning against the mahogany desk, a casual gesture that seemed at odds for a creature that was no longer human. The red eyes that haunted his every waking thought and lit his every darkest dreams were contemplative. They flicked from the dark Mirror to the two boys crumpled on the floor, oblivion claiming them.
"Interesting," Voldemort murmured. "Don't you think so, Lucius?"
Malfoy nodded cautiously, unsure what to say. While the Japanese were enthralled by the Mirror of Alatheia, the Goddess of Truth, the dark silvered surface of the glass had shown the wizards the 'truth' of their identities, stripping the boys to their bare powers and uncovered by pretensions and images formed by the conscious mind.
The reflections that unfurled had struck grudging respect and maybe even a hint of awe from Lucius. In fact, something in his chest had lurched unexpectedly at the sight of the younger boy. Stunning. . .he was simply stunningly beautiful. The blond one's reflection, 'Kurosaki' the brat had growled, wore layers of antique kimonos, each one a different shade of green, or peach, or black. Embroidery shone against the smooth richness of silk, colors trembling with the steady rise and fall of his chest. A closed fan was thrust through his knotted sash, his right hand holding a stalk of reed and the hilt of a sword visible between the open folds of the outermost kimono, that layer's vibrant jade green embroidered with the sword blade petals of tall, cream-white iris. Translucent pale skin shimmered with power that gathered like an extra set of robes around his slender frame and Lucius knew without doubt that the blond boy was a force to be reckoned with. The shimmering cloak of power puzzled him though, pulsating like an aura but not.
It was his Lord who enlightened him, saying in a low voice, "So I was right. The boy is an empath."
He had turned to Voldemort in surprise; true empaths were rare in the wizarding world, Legilimens and Occlumens like servants to royalty. But the Dark Lord chided him with a look and he turned back to the Mirror which showed then the other boy, Shiozaki's reflection.
And if his breath hitched at the ethereal image of Kurosaki, Shiozaki's was like a punch to the guts.
The boy's ebony locks were like strokes of ink on the palest cheeks, his face in calm repose. He was dressed in kimonos as well, richly embroidered in shades of white deepening to an outer layer of sun kissed gold. He had no sword but held in his two hands a stalk of reed as well. But what grabbed the eye, forcing awe and maybe even a frisson of fear, were the four animals surrounding Shiozaki.
A red phoenix was to his right, large wings splayed and tail fanned to full plumage. A pure white tiger with charcoal black markings lay purring by his feet while a serpentine blue dragon coiled its length around them and it was then that Lucius realize that the boy himself was sitting on a huge black tortoise with a pockmarked shell.
"Morgana's bastards!" he breathed.
The Dark Lord shushed him impatiently with one skeletal hand. Another image was forming behind and above the boy. Pale mist drew together to solidify into human shape; a woman with hair that equaled the dragon's length. Watery colors gave depth to the woman though her hair remained white as snow. She hovered behind the boy and to the wizards' perplexity, covered Shiozaki's eyes with her hands. Her own head was bowed, whether in grief, sadness or joy it remained a mystery and her river of hair curtained her face from view.
They saw the complete image of Shiozaki for only a few seconds before the Mirror's surface flashed brightly and the two Japanese had crumpled to the floor without a sound. That had happen a few minutes ago, with the silence finally broken by the Dark Lord.
"What do you think, Lucius?" a wry smile curved the lipless mouth, causing the disfigured aristocrat to frown. He himself wasn't sure of what the last image meant; the Mirror worked by symbolism and it irked Lucius to admit that he didn't know what to make of it.
His distress must have shone through for his Master to prompt him with a sharp, "Use the brains you have, Lucius. It is obvious to the most novice wizard."
Anger burned through Lucius, whether aimed at himself, or his Lord, he did not dare analyze. "The phoenix is a firebird," he said slowly, articulating his thoughts as he went, "Found in most mythologies as a symbol of rebirth. Represents the element of fire."
"There may be hope for you yet, my Lucius."
He flushed, the red a splotchy mix that sat ill with the scars on his face. "The dragon is a water species, closely related to the naga. . . ." he faltered. "The tiger and the tortoise. . .forgive me, my Lord," he sketched a quick bow. "But my knowledge is that of a child's compared to yours."
The Dark Lord's brief annoyance disappeared with his amusement at Lucius's quick appeasement. "You do know the right things to say, most of the time. But I did not expect you to know what it all meant. I myself knew about it through my efforts to understand Dr. Muraki's journals." His wand flicked out, phosphorescence fire trailing from the tip. As he spoke, his wand drew glimmering figures in the air, painting the symbols of the cardinal directions.
"Attend me, Lucius," he said sharply. "The ancient Chinese used the moon's orbit to mark the passing of the seasons. Seiryu, the blue dragon of the east represents spring and the water element. Suzaku, the phoenix of the south, represents summer and the fire element. Byakko, the white tiger of the west for fall and air and Genbu, the black tortoise of the north, for winter and earth."
He paused, waiting for the implication to sink in. Barely a moment later, Lucius' storm dark eyes widened and he allowed his cool mask of indifference to fall, showing shock.
"He is an elemental mage," Lucius whispered. He looked down to the seemingly frail boy at his feet, trying to match the revelation with the figure. "And he controls all four." But then a thought struck him and he gestured at the darkened Mirror. "But what of that woman?"
"A puzzle, still," his Master admitted but the Dark Lord refused to be swayed from his new prize. "An elemental mage who commands the four elements!" A soft hiss of laughter accompanied it and Voldemort glided on soundless feet to stand before the Japanese. "That senile fool who calls himself Headmaster has given us the perfect weapon. He will be the key to bring down Hogwarts and everything it symbolizes."
A matching smile, equally lacking in humanity and compassion twisted Lucius' scarred face. His wand was in his hand without thought, eagerness vibrating through the slim length of wood. "How do you propose to begin, my Lord?" he asked, the only sign of his excitement the lightening of dull slate eyes and the gloved hand that yet clutched his wand.
"Patience, Lucius," the Dark Lord murmured. He kneeled down, studying the unconscious figure of Shiozaki. "Our spy is sure of the friendship between these Japanese and Potter?"
"She is, my Lord."
"Very good." Voldemort got back to his feet, wand now held with purpose. "I believe that I've neglected dear Harry for quite some time. We should rectify that, don't you agree, Lucius?"
A feral smile was his answer.
"Enervate!"
to be continued
Courtesy of Lisa/Librarycat:
Yasas - Plural of "Hello" in modern Greek.
Ime o Alatheia = I am Alatheia.
Behind the significance of Hisoka's kimono:
Ayame: In Japan, irises are symbols of heroism. The iris plays a key role in the Japanese spring festival for boys, because of its blue color, which suggests "blue blood". (1) Iris are sometimes called "shoubu" which has the same sound as the words for "toward" and "warrior". This is why the iris also suggests heraldry and royalty.
In rural parts of Japan, the roof iris (Iris tectorum) is believed to give protection from storms and typhoons and was therefore frequently planted in roofs. (2) Another kind of iris, the kakitsubata, signal the presence of shallow water and the low lying plank bridges, yatsuhashi. This kind of iris is the most celebrated in Japanese art. (3)
In China, the iris is believed to ward off evil spirits and diseases. Disease-fighting ceremonies were held on the fifth day of the fifth lunar month, which always included the iris. (4)
Sources:
1. angelfire . com / journal2 / flowers / i.html
2. homepage1 . nifty . com / shorinji /entgrad . htm#tango
3. Baird, M. Symbols of Japan: Thematic Motifs in Art and Design. New York: Rizzoli, 2001 Pg. 84.
4. Ibid. Pg. 85.
Lisa changed Hisoka's iris to white because that color signifies death.
Courtesy of Kelly:
Meaning of colors for Japanese:
three-musketeers . net / mike / colors . html
About the Four Guardians of the Night Sky:
animeinfo . org / featured / fy / fylegend . html
This site is a good resource for Shinto and Buddhism information and the Four Guardians as well. Nothing too heavy but good enough.
onmarkproductions . com / html / ssu-ling . html
Mirror of Alatheia:
My own creation. Alatheia was the Goddess of Truth in Greek mythology. Information on her was graciously provided by Lisa.
1. "The Complete Fables" by Aesop ; translated by Olivia and Robert Temple ; with an introduction by Robert Temple. New York ; London : Penguin, 1998.
2. theoi . com / Kronos / Alatehia . html
From pg. 573, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.
