SEQ CHAPTER h r 1Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling and the following companies, including but not limited to: Bloomsbury, Scholastic, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. All original material is the property of the author.
Chapter Fifty-Four: Storm At Sea
'And you can't fight the tears
That ain't comin'
And the moment of truth in
Your lies
When everything feels like
The movies,
Yeah, you bleed just to know
You're alive.'
'Iris,' The Goo Goo Dolls
Albus Dumbledore laid his palm flat against the solid oak of the massive front doors and pushed. A hollow, eerie creak echoed through the abandoned hall beyond. The Headmaster cast an apprehensive glance over his shoulder, a look that spoke volumes to his companions. There was an electric feeling of anticipation. They all expected the worst and attempted to prepare themselves for it.
Bill Weasley hadn't realized he was holding his breath until he felt his father's hand on his shoulder as they both watched the old man push open the breeched doors of his old citadel. Arthur felt Bill's tension in his hand as it rested on the young man's shoulder. He was as tightly coiled as a spring.
Kingsley Shacklebolt shifted his weight from foot to foot, waiting for action. Beside him, Mad Eye Moody silently ground his teeth together. His magical eye was fixed unblinkingly on the door to the school, his real eye examining the dark figure in front of him–a convict. Despite Dumbledore's assurances, he couldn't take his eye off of the man.
Sirius Black stared at the door as if in a trance. His chest rose and fell with ragged, anxious breath, his fists unconsciously clenching and unclenching at his sides.
Glaring over his semi-circular spectacles the Headmaster riveted his piercing stare on the younger Mr. Weasley. In return, Bill nodded his head once. Dumbledore pulled the door open and Bill stepped through in one rapid motion, followed by the other, more experienced and battle-scarred members of their meager force. Wand pointed ahead of him, his other hand instinctively clutching the medallion that hung from his neck, Bill attempted to peer past the darkness. He felt only the presence of Dumbledore and the others around him.
"There's no one here, Headmaster," Bill said quietly.
"So it seems," Dumbledore pondered. He raised one hand slowly and the hall's many candelabras danced with tiny flames. The shadows fled and an empty corridor greeted their eyes. Immediately in front of them, the doors to the Great Hall stood open and darkness filled the void beyond. Dumbledore took a step toward the room but halted instantly and turned. The others had tensed and raised their weapons, every eye fixed in the same direction. A small scuffling noise had drawn their attention to the end of the corridor, heading off to the right of them. The light did not penetrate far enough for them to catch a glimpse of whatever it was.
Cautiously, the Headmaster moved in the direction of the noise, his eyes narrowed, his movements slow and measured. Quietly, the others followed him closely. Again they heard the soft, scrabbling sound, as if a small animal was hurrying along the stone floor. With mounting trepidation, the group followed the noise, rounding a corner and heading once again into darkness. When they had stepped beyond the edge of the light a shrill voice called out from the darkness, ordering the men to halt.
"Who is there?" a high, tinny cry sounded from no further than fifteen paces in front of them. "Tell us!" it demanded forcefully, trying its best to sound menacing. "Who comes this way, sneaking through the shadows!"
Dumbledore relaxed a bit and some of the rigid tension left his shoulders. He recognized the voice.
"Speak!" cried the voice, rising in squeaking anger and fear. "We will harm you, you be warned!"
"I do not doubt it," the Headmaster spoke finally. "I would not dare provoke a house elf." His tone was placating, but respectful. "Is that Flick?"
"Indeed, it is, Sir!" the house elf squeaked excitedly, elated to hear his master's voice. Caution, however, quickly took hold of the tiny creature. "But how are we to know it truly is our master?" he pondered quietly. "We know!" the elf chirped, holding brief counsel with himself. "We will ask him a question only the true master could answer! But…what question?"
Dumbledore waited patiently in the blackness, sensing his comrades' eagerness to move on. The slap, slap of the creature's feet on the stone floor sounded as it paced the width of the dark corridor, muttering to itself. Slowly, Dumbledore brought the lights to a dim glow, and he saw the small, bluish house elf, Flick, stomping back and forth, smacking his forehead with an open palm. Bill turned a quizzical glance toward Black, who returned it with an impatient scowl. Both, however, remained silent.
The elf jumped when the light was restored and stared long and hard at the bearded and bespectacled figure before him, surprised by the sudden illumination. "Looks like master, but we must be sure!" he counseled. "Ah!" he shrieked, jumping in the air. "I have it!"
Dumbledore smiled, waiting for the question, a patient bulkhead holding back the torrent of impatience simmering within his companions.
Flick eyed the old man skeptically. "What did we humble elves give the master for this Christmas past, eh? Tell us that!"
The Headmaster's smile broadened. "I could not soon forget. A pair of woolen, Argyle socks…the best present I have received these many years!"
Flick jumped up and down, clapping his tiny hands together. "We knew it was you!" he squealed in excitement. "Come with us! Come with us!" Flick squeaked impatiently and darted off down the dimly lit corridor. "We have been waiting for master!"
"Flick," Dumbledore demanded as they hurried to follow the elf, "where is everyone?"
"That is what we want to show you, master," the elf said without turning around or slowing his pace. "We have gathered everyone we could find. We keeps them safe." He motioned them around another corner.
Instinctively, Dumbledore knew where they were headed and was not surprised to soon be standing in front of a large still-life painting of a giant bowl of fruit. The short house elf stood before the painting and extended his arm as far as he could reach over his head, standing on his toes. Knowing that he would still be short of the mark, the creature jumped without preamble and tickled the pear above his head. The pear giggled and morphed into a worn bronze doorknob. Jumping once more the elf seized it in his small, bluish hand and turned before jumping back out of the way of the swinging portrait-portal. "This way," the elf commanded as he darted through the door and into the school's kitchens.
One by one, they stepped through and into the warm, spacious room where a pleasant fire crackled in a grate, the hearth surrounded by several sniffling students. House elves bustled quietly between the few children that were sleeping, tending to any injured and frightened ones that remained awake. Dumbledore scanned the room as he entered. Roughly estimating, he noticed about twenty students were missing. Among the missing, he noted without surprise, was Harry Potter.
When the door to the kitchen opened, every head in the room turned in its direction. All fear resided, however, when their Headmaster walked in. Minerva McGonagall, who had been seated at a rough table, staring blankly into the cup of tea in her grasp, stood abruptly. The china clattered softly as her hand shook.
"Albus," she said in a steady voice, locking a solemn glare on the old man, "our worst fears have come to pass."
Dumbledore strode fully into the room and the quiet chattering of the students died away. Bill, Arthur and Sirius stood just inside the doorway, eagerly scanning the faces for particular, familiar features. Instantly, three redheads jumped to their feet and ran to their father, eager for news. Fred, George and Ron Weasley were all talking simultaneously. Hermione Granger stood just behind them, watching Bill and Arthur's faces, waiting for any clues about Harry.
Arthur raised his hands to quiet them, noting immediately who was absent. "Where is Ginny?" he asked dubiously.
"We don't know," Fred answered,
staring at his feet.
"You don't know?" Bill
exploded. "It was late. Wasn't she in the common room with you?"
Fred looked sideways at George, who gulped and began, "We weren't in the common room. We were, er…"
"We were trying to break into Flitwick's office," Fred finished.
"And where were you, Ron? Why weren't you with her?" Bill demanded, not the least bit surprised by Fred and George's confession.
Ron shrugged his shoulders. "We were in the library," he said, jerking a thumb in Hermione's direction. "With Harry."
"Harry?" Sirius barked gruffly. "Where is Harry?" he asked anxiously. He grabbed Ron roughly by the shoulders and turned him bodily to face him.
Shaking his head, Ron answered, "Dunno. He said something about going to see Trelawney."
"Who?" Sirius asked.
"The Divination teacher," Ron stated blandly, looking minutely in the dark man's direction. "I asked if he wanted me to go with him, but he didn't."
"He went alone?" Sirius scolded.
Ron raised an eyebrow, favoring him with a defensively mocking look. "Yeah, he went alone."
Sirius let go of him and ran a hand through his dark hair, an agitated gesture. He took a deep breath and released it slowly, looking to Arthur and Bill. "I'm going to have a look around up there," he announced in a quiet and hollow tone. He stalked out the door. The others watched him go then turned to await orders from Dumbledore.
"Professors Sprout and Flitwick are searching the school as we speak," McGonagall informed the Headmaster, a hand nervously massaging her throat. "Hagrid is searching the grounds. Madam Pince and Poppy have been helping me tend the children," she said, nodding in their direction in the far corner. Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet sat nearby, pretending not to listen as McGonagall continued. "And Vector's useless." She waved her hand toward the great hearth where the woman sat, staring blankly at a hiccupping and snoring house elf.
"The others?" Dumbledore quietly prodded his Deputy Headmistress.
Slowly, she shook her head. "I have not seen them, Albus."
He turned to Arthur and the others, who remained standing by the door. "And the students, Minerva? Do you have a list of who is missing among them?"
"My Ginny," Arthur said heavily, closing his eyes and rubbing his temple. Bill put a hand on his father's shoulder. "And Harry, of course."
Dumbledore's eyes searched instantly for someone who was no longer there. "Black…where is he?"
It was Kingsley who answered. "Went looking for the boy."
"Harry went to see Trelawney…" Hermione filled in, "just before…" She looked from the Headmaster to Professor McGonagall, biting her lip as she fell silent.
"Mr. Longbottom, Ernie MacMillan, Lavender Brown," Minerva listed with a worried tremor in her voice, "the Patils, Miss Perks…" Her eyes continued to scan the room. After a few short moments she rested her attention on two silent figures seated against a wall, just next to Professor Vector. "Mr. Crabbe and Mr. Goyle," McGonagall asked in a commanding voice, "where is Draco Malfoy?"
One of the boys shrugged his shoulders while the other shook his head dumbly.
Minerva turned to Dumbledore. "Albus?"
Dumbledore turned in the direction of the Aurors. "Kingsley, Moody, would you be so kind as to find Mr. Black?"
They nodded curtly, turning to leave.
"We must get to Azkaban as soon as possible."
Sirius ran all the way to the tight, winding stair that he remembered so well. Divination was the easiest class Hogwarts offered, a class where he and his friends could get away with nearly anything. He couldn't remember having even put one minute's concentrated effort into Professor Evangelia's assignments. She hadn't lasted long in the field of education. He imagined her cooing to tourists behind a silk-laden table, plus twenty-five years, hocking her shoddy talents to suckers on holiday. The heavy smell of incense brought him back to the unbearably warm classroom where the short, toad-like woman waddled between tables surrounded by bored students staring into their own reflections, distorted by the convex surface of the fake crystal balls. He idly wondered if this Trelawney was anything like the laughable woman who'd inadvertently become the butt of so many jokes between him and his mates.
Remus was always asleep behind his book. Sirius remembered the one time he had been caught by the professor. He convinced her he was meditating to un-cloud his inner eye. He'd earned ten house points that day. Sirius began to climb the narrow stone staircase, smelling the dust and the cool, damp-earth smell of the stone masonry, feeling the weight of guilt for having believed Peter, leaving his last surviving loyal friend to whatever fate Voldemort had planned. Scowling at the thought of Peter, he raced up the stairs even faster.
He remembered Peter, sitting across from Remus, and eyeing a redhead over his friend's shoulder with mischievousness. With one deft move, he sent a wad of parchment sailing at her head, hiding behind a copy of Which Broom? even before the missile hit its target. When the girl turned around, glaring at them with a fiery scowl, Peter glanced up, unconcerned and nodded discretely in James' direction. The girl berated the confused boy mercilessly as Peter grinned behind his magazine. Sirius had watched approvingly, had even given Peter a proud thumbs-up when he caught his eye. Peter's grin reached all the way across his chubby face.
Sirius set his jaw in determination as he threw his shoulder against the wooden trapdoor above him. The guilt he felt for the other two was quite possibly equal to the rage he felt for the other. Sirius made a vow that when he saw Peter again, he would…
Sirius frowned in consternation. The door wasn't budging. Not easily, anyway.
He stepped back and ran at the wooden trapdoor, heaving all of his weight against it. With a loud crack and a low thud, he managed to move whatever was blocking the door from swinging upward. He threw the door open the rest of the way and climbed up into the smoky tower room, the setting of all those memories very much the same despite the years. He blinked, adjusting his eyes to the dark.
"Harry?" he called out, hearing nothing but the creak of his feet on the floor and a faint moan from somewhere in the distance. "Harry!" he called again, "Are you here?" He listened but heard nothing this time. Slowly, the dark forms gained distinction and he could make out a table here and a lamp there. He took a tentative step away from the door and felt something odd brush his foot. Bending down, he retrieved a long, thin piece of wood. A wand?
"Lumos," he said doubtfully and was surprised when a small, bluish light was projected at his command. He held the light high and peered around the room. A few steps ahead of him, a woman lay on her back in a heap of gauzy scarves and spangled beads. It must be Trelawney. Sirius rushed over to her and knelt close.
"Professor," he said urgently, "can you hear me?"
The woman moaned and rolled her head to the side, her large glasses askew on her ashen face.
"Professor," he said again, putting a finger to her pulse. He breathed a sigh of relief—it was slow, but steady.
"Harry!" Sirius bellowed, the sound of his voice cutting the dusty silence. No reply came back. He spun frantically, casting around for any clue, any sign. He turned back to the trapdoor and saw instantly what had kept it from swinging open easily. A body lay behind it. He must have rolled it off when he finally heaved it open. A crop of dark hair protruded from behind the wooden door, resting against the prone form. Black robes shrouded the rest from sight.
He couldn't breathe. Fearing what he would find, he forced himself to turn the figure over, pulling the body away from the door. He let himself fall to the floor, his knees impacting roughly. Fear like he'd experienced only one other time had paralyzed him. But when he forced himself to look, the face was not what he expected. It was Indira Sinistra's face staring back at him, not Harry's. He sank back on his heels, staring at the face frozen in horror. There was no mistake.
She was dead and he was grateful for it.
Sirius put his head in his hands and took a deep breath. He only opened his eyes when he heard his name.
"Up here," he said without emotion. Mad Eye Moody's head popped up beneath the floor and his false eye searched the room, rolling to a rest on Black's blank face. Sirius had his elbows on his knees, balancing on his toes. His fingers were laced together and his chin rested on his fists.
"What's the situation, son?" Moody asked in his signature gruff tone.
He jerked a thumb in Trelawney's direction. "She's alive," he said without emotion, "and she's not." His bland stare dropped to the body at his feet. "Harry's nowhere to be found."
"Christ," Moody whispered. "Okay," he said after a moment's pause, "Let's move 'em. Dumbledore wants us to move out."
"Where?" Sirius asked, not looking up from Sinistra's pale, frightened face.
"Azkaban," Moody said as he hefted himself through the trapdoor, his wooden leg giving him a few complaints. He saw the look on the convict's face. He was frightened. Good, Moody thought. He should be.
"Kingsley," he said without preamble, "help me move the old gal to the kitchen, will you?" His accent was thickly Scottish. Shacklebolt nodded without a word and pointed his wand at the woman on the floor. Sirius didn't move until they were gone.
With the tip of one trembling finger, Sirius moved the dark strands of hair from Indira's face and heaved a sigh. "Told you so," he said as he strained to lift the dead weight in his arms. He didn't like where this night was heading.
Dumbledore struggled to collect his bearings. Everything seemed off tonight. His grand castle was quiet, all of the occupants huddled together in the kitchens, fearing another attack. Minerva was on edge, Pince and Pomfrey bustled around with dozens of opportunities to stay busy. They all had a nervous taint, masked poorly as calm.
He was confident, however, that there would be no more interference with his beloved bastion of learning. They had come, after all, for something in particular. And they had succeeded. The next act of this colossal drama would have another setting.
Such a dark, forsaken place. He did not want to imagine dozens of his students, mere children, in a place like that. But he knew his foe. He knew what he was capable of. And therefore, he knew he had to act quickly. None, he hoped had perished yet–no bodies had turned up. He could only guess that everyone who remained unaccounted for was alive and relatively well. But time would not preserve that fact. Time now was counted among his enemies.
Just as his patience for their return was waning, Moody's wizened face appeared in the door. Dumbledore felt a momentary lightening of his mood, the heavy oppression slackening for just a bit. But the brief respite lasted no longer than the blink of an eye.
Dropping his attention from Moody's somber expression, he saw the limp body of Sibyl Trelawney and his wall of calm cracked as a wave of uneasiness broke over him.
"We have bad news, Professor," Moody growled in his low timbre.
Minerva stood abruptly, a hand to her chin. "Is she...?"
Moody shook his head. "Dunna worry yourself, Minerva," he soothed her anxiety gruffly. "Just out cold." He nodded to the nurse across the room and Kingsley silently obeyed, moving the unconscious woman to a resting place where she would receive attention.
"Black?" Dumbledore said in a low voice as Moody lumbered over to him.
Moody shook his head. "He's on his way, Professor." He leaned closer, a conspiratorial whisper meant only for the Headmaster's ears escaping him in a low hiss. "We've got a big problem on our hands, Albus."
But Dumbledore no longer heard him. Alastor turned to look over his shoulder, following the Headmaster's worried glare. Emerging from the portal was Sirius Black. In his arms was the limp form of Indira Sinistra, Professor of Astronomy.
Stunned, the Headmaster glanced from the pallid expression of distant horror on the young woman to the ominous blankness marking the features of her bearer.
Black sensed the question in the old man's face and gave a slow, desultory shake of his head. The first casualty. Sirius hoped that it would be the last. He knew that it would not be.
The Headmaster watched with mounting dread as the body was laid upon the floor. Releasing a wearied sigh as he removed his glassed, the old man pressed his finger and thumb to his eyes. He felt older than usual this night. The feeling was about as comforting as the sight of the dead teacher.
Forcing himself to act, galvanizing his nerves to tackle what must be done, he turned to his Deputy Headmistress. "Minerva," he began his directive, very much like a war general. He was not allowed to finish, however.
"Albus Dumbledore!" The shout came from the portal and echoed through the warm and silent space. "I think you owe me an explanation. You owe all of us an explanation!"
Cornelius Fudge stood in the doorway, bowler hat crammed forcefully down over his head, his scowl as immovable as the pyramids. He wielded his anger like a weapon, self-righteous as if his anger was the wrath of God Himself.
"What is the meaning of this?" he spluttered, his face accelerating from crimson to purple. He made an expansive gesture to the students huddled together in the bowels of the once invincible castle. "What have you done?"
Dumbledore fixed his unwavering glare on the intruder. "The question," the Headmaster intoned quietly, replacing his spectacles, "Minister, is what have you done?'
Fudge stood, agape, in the doorway, utterly shocked by this pronouncement. "What have I done?" He repeated the word with astonishment. "There is no explanation to this travesty, Dumbledore, other than the obvious."
"The obvious," Dumbledore said thoughtfully, looking around at the ordered chaos. A large black dog stood bristling next to him. The Headmaster smiled a quiet little smile. "So now you have come to reason, Fudge? I doubt that by 'obvious' you are finally agreeing that Voldemort has returned to exact revenge?" The question was dubious, supremely disbelieving. Dumbledore was simply drawing him out.
"Hardly," Fudge chuckled with spite.
"Then come to your point, Cornelius," Dumbledore said with thinning patience. "I have little time for wordplay."
"As you wish," Fudge said, removing his awful green hat and fingering it nervously, his scowl having never left his face. "I will not mince words. I will come straight to the point." He shifted from foot to foot, battling to retain a calm veneer. "What I mean....that is, what I intended by..."
McGonagall's stern features showed impatience. "Good God," she quipped with biting sharpness in her tone. "We'll be here all night. Out with it!"
Fudge jumped ever so slightly at her admonishment, but the indignity of being scolded like a child solidified his nerve. Wounded pride emboldened him. He stood straighter and matched the Headmaster's steady stare with coldness.
"What I mean," he said carefully, intending to be taken seriously at all cost, "is that this charade has gone on long enough. And this," he made a sweep of the room with his now controlled gaze, "is taking it very far indeed."
"Charade?" McGonagall said, shaking her head, turning to Dumbledore. "Albus, try as I may, I am not understanding the man one bit." She tutted, measuring him with a critical stare. "Minister," she said slowly and clearly as if talking to a small child, "we do not have time to pratter on like this. Please, make yourself clear or stand aside. We have work to do and if you are not with us, you are certainly against us." She took a commanding step forward, the black dog bristling and growling at her heels.
"It is you, Albus–you, Minerva! You are standing in the Ministry's way!" Fudge retorted angrily.
McGonagall scoffed and was about to begin another round of chiding, but the Minister held up a silencing hand. Minerval looked scandalized.
"Now hear this!" Fudge bellowed. "No one is going anywhere!" He stamped his foot as if to drive the point home that he was immovable on this. "You are all under arrest until a full investigation is completed on what happened in this school tonight!"
"You can't do that!" Minerva baulked.
Fudge shrugged. "Of course I can, Madam."
"Cornelius," Dumbledore said calmly, diplomatically. "Roughly twenty of my students are missing. I would like to find out what happened to them and to get them back at whatever cost. I am asking you to allow me that one concession."
"Absolutely not," Fudge ruled like a tyrant, without any further explanation.
"And so you would leave them to die?" McGonagall could barely contain her anger. Dumbledore put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, silently commanding her withdrawal from the confrontation. She obeyed grudgingly.
"How do you even know they are in danger?" the Minister asked calmly. "From what I have witnessed here, there were no visible signs of a break-in. It is the holiday, so there can't have been that many here in the first place."
"There were about thirty," Dumbledore informed him blandly. "You can see how many remain. There are many ways to get into a place undetected, Minister."
Fudge nodded his acquiescence to that point. "But not here, Headmaster," he corrected. "This place is a fortress."
"Was," the Headmaster said wearily.
"But how is that possible?" Fudge demanded. "Unless you staged this yourself." The Minister looked triumphant as McGonagall recoiled, utterly shocked at the suggestion. Dumbledore, however, remained curiously calm. He'd known what Fudge was driving at all along.
"You've been trying to convince us all that You-Know-Who has returned for sometime. And," Fudge continued, talking fast and slick, as was his politician's nature, "you've already proved that you are not above using the innocent to your advantage." He smiled an oily, reptilian smile. "Like you used Potter. The Tri-Wizard Tournament, remember?" He watched the Headmaster for his reaction. "The power you have over weak minds must be great."
"You would know," Moody growled behind Dumbledore. "He had you in his pocket for years, Minister."
Fudge's attention was diverted. Moody and the Minister held each other's glare unblinkingly, the heat of anger palpable between them.
Finally, Fudge glanced back to Dumbledore. "Honestly," Fudge admonished with mock-pity, "the people you ally yourself with. Criminals and madmen."
Dumbeldore sensed Black shift uneasily at his feet. Kingsley Shacklebolt stood silently by, watching the progression of events with an even temperament, his arms crossed protectively across his expansive chest, leaving no doubt whose side he was on. Arthur and Bill watched silently nearby. The Minister seemed to realize that many of his number stood against him at this moment. But he did not flinch.
Realizing he was at an impasse, the Minister changed tacks. "So," he allowed, "if you did not set this up yourself as some elaborate ruse, tell me, Headmaster, how did the forces of evil break through the defenses?"
"A portkey," Dumbledore answered without preamble.
Fudge snorted in disbelief, taken aback by the old man's frankness. "A portkey? And may I ask how You-Know-Who came to possess such a portkey?"
"He made one," came the simplistic answer.
Fudge was becoming impatient. "How did he make one?"
Dumbledore sighed, knowing full well what was to come. "By using an innocent person who had access to this school. It was simple, really."
The Minister felt the anger rising. "An innocent person. You really expect me to believe this?" Fudge shook his head. "Indulge me, Headmaster. Who is the fool we have to thank for one of the biggest security breeches in a decade?"
"Jude Elliot," the Headmaster intoned calmly.
The Minister's face fell instantly. He looked as if he had just been plunged into the depths of icy water. He gathered his composure around him like a great cloak. The edge in his voice was like a razor. "Impossible! My sources informed me that she hasn't been seen in the whole of the United Kingdom in at least a month!"
"It is quite possible," Dumbledore said, unaffected. "She is clever. Too clever for you, Cornelius."
He narrowed his eyes. "If this is true, Dumbledore, then you have found your Dark Lord at long last." He snapped his fingers and a hulking figure of a man appeared behind him in the doorway. He whispered a few short commands and the lackey was gone. "If she is in England, we'll find her. And when we do, it'll be Azkaban for life and longer if I can help it."
"Convenient," Dumbledore said, somewhat amused. "There's one step done for you, Minister."
Fudge cocked his head, striving to follow the Headmaster.
"Miss Elliot is already in Azkaban." His calm did not falter. "Haven't you heard that the prison was overrun by the Dementors–in connection with Voldemort."
"What–not possible," Fudge stammered. "I cannot believe this."
"Believe it, Minister," Dumbledore said with waning patience. "That is where I intend to go just as soon as you will give me leave. Several of my students are there as well as three trusted friends. I will not leave them to save face, for you or for myself, Minister."
"Not possible," he laughed, seeming quite deranged now. "There is a perfectly logical explanation, Headmaster, but Azkaban?" Fudge appeared to be reeling dizzily, as if he would faint. He could not comprehend it. It was madness. A madness cooked up by one senile old man.
"I forbid you to leave this place!" Fudge commanded finally, regaining a modicum of composure.
"And I defy you to stand in my way!" Dumbledore bellowed with awesome force of presence.
"I am the Minister!" Fudge said, stamping his foot again like a spoiled child not getting its way.
"Minister!" Dumbledore raged. He grabbed the struggling Fudge by the arm and pulled him across the room, standing him directly before the body of the dark-haired Astronomy professor. "It is your duty as Minister to save your people! You have already failed her. How many more will you fail?"
Fudge stood, opening and closing his mouth like a giant carp, his eyes transfixed on the terrified face of the dead woman.
"No one!" Fudge shrieked suddenly. "Nobody leaves this room! I forbid..."
The Minister fell silent just moments before he hit the floor. Minerva pocketed her wand discreetly and shrugged innocently as Dumbledore cast her a sidelong glance.
"That was very bad of you, Minerva," Dumbeldore said with the hint of a smile.
"I am an old woman," she said with prim composure and not much concern. "It will be forgiven and forgotten."
Dumbledore nodded before turning to the group at large. "Gentlemen," he addressed his companions. "Our presence is requested at Azkaban. Minerva, you get things in order here."
"Oh, no you don't!" Minerva said firmly. "I will not sit idly by. I am going."
Dumbledore debated whether or not he should challenge her on this point, but it would be a losing battle. He knew this as well as he knew his own name. With a silent nod, the warriors strode out of the castle and to battle. Little did they know what to expect. A tempest raged at sea and they were about to deliberately throw themselves into the torrent head on, a gold medallion and a bare thread of courage as their only weapons.
The sea birds huddled in any nook and crevice they could find in the rock, wet and bedraggled, waiting. The sea raged and foamed around the rock, sending spray high into the air. The mist mixed with the rain in one blinding sheet of water. The gray clouds swirled and churned above, mimicking the waves below. Thunder echoed the crash of the ocean against the foundations of the fortress driven by a mad Russian wind, but it was nothing to the storm that was brewing within.
A great, weathered seagull rustled its soaked feathers and turned its grizzled beak into the gale, preparing to ride out another squall.
Inside there was nowhere to hide. From the high windows in the dim hall, great bluish-white flashes lit up the space, followed by a great bellow of thunder that rattled the old and crumbling walls of the fortress.
The children cowered at the sound, casting frightened glances up at the lofty, slitted windows. Jude did not look away, nor did she flinch at the loud booming noise. She and the rest were safe from the rain and the wind and the lightening. But the fury of nature was pitiful compared to the rage and retribution that would rain down on them from the hand of man. A man who saw himself as God.
"Kill him," Voldemort commanded His docile but deviant servant with the barest hint of something akin to pleasure or satisfaction. It required a soul to feel such things, however.
The servant heeded Him but did not make a show that he heard the order. He simply turned to his task, blankly, methodically.
Jude watched with feline intensity, struggling harder with every passing moment, growing more and more panicked with every step the servant took.
"Peter!" she cried desperately, her tone however still haughty and demanding as ever. "Peter! Don't..."
He didn't even turn when she shouted his name, let alone stop his steady progress. As if seeing nothing, hearing nothing, he stared blankly ahead, his hands limp at his side. Jude calmed herself and assessed the situation. Peter held no weapon in his hands. How could he hope to execute his Master's order? The short, fat man staring comatose out of his pudgy face at the taller, more formidable figure of his one time friend was obviously ill-matched to the task, even if he was not empty handed. Usually, odds would have been highly in Remus' favor, but she knew her brother was as tired and as weak as she was.
Still...it was Peter!
A loud crack of thunder, accompanied by a few frightened and plaintive screams from the children echoed around the expansive stone space. Peter started at this, Jude noted, and for an instant, glanced up at the windows overhead, wearing an expression of acute confusion.
Voldemort's long, spidery fingers gripped the arms of the great stone chair in which He sat, watching the proceedings like a Roman emperor presiding over a blood sport. "Kill him," He reminded Peter patiently, the sound of His voice almost paternal, gently instructing.
Peter nodded, returning his bland stare to his friend.
Jude growled angrily. "Peter, listen to me!"
Voldemort turned His snake's glare impatiently in her direction. Peter quickened his pace slightly and Jude saw her brother's hardened expression flicker with fear. And though the stoical calm returned, the fear never left his flint-grey eyes, which shifted tellingly from the man's round face to his hand, nearly concealed beneath his dark robes.
Jude followed her brother's glare and saw it. The sharp wink of silver in the hands of his friend. Peter was so close now. Remus took a step back but was held in place by a dark hooded figure. Instead of struggling against his captor, Remus fixed Peter with an even glare. He spoke in hushed tones to the short man as he inched closer, the silver blade creeping from beneath the folds of his cloak. As he spoke, Jude could see that he was discreetly working at the ropes that bound his hands behind him. She focused all her attention on him, ceasing to struggle with her own captor so that she could hear.
The rope bit and stung as he pulled at it. Still he forced himself to remain calm and puzzle it out, ignoring the pain. Instead, he focused his attention on Peter. The man seemed in a daze, and Remus could not understand the cold hatred reflected in his eyes. At times he could not fathom how such a friend had turned on them. Had they been so bad? Had the decision been so easy?
"Peter," he said evenly, placating, "why are you doing this?"
He hadn't intended on answering and Peter was surprised to hear his own voice reply. "It is ordered."
"You don't have to listen to him. You know that, don't you?" Thunder boomed outside, swallowing the words.
Peter gripped the blade harder, his pudgy fingers glinting silver around the short handle. "No choice," Peter said without any feeling at all.
"You would kill your own friend?" Remus asked trying to push past the blank, robotic facade, hoping to reach far beyond to the boy he'd known at school. He hadn't thought before that the boy had vanished years ago.
Peter nodded once, his expression bland. "As you would have killed me that night two years ago, in the Shrieking Shack," Peter said simply. He raised his hand, the cold silver of the blade illuminated in one terrifying flash of lightening.
His eyes went wide at the sight of the glinting, malevolent weapon in the hands of a friend. Fiercely, he pulled at the rough ropes, a new urgency in his movements. The rope dropped finally and he swung his hands around to guard himself, immediately, instinctively defensive.
Peter, suddenly in a rage, as if possessed, darted forward as Remus broke free of his bonds and shrugged off the guard. The knife's razor-sharp point was between them as they collided, a hard impact that nearly knocked Remus off his feet.
They were close together and Jude could see nothing. She felt the hot sting of tears in the corners of her eyes, but they seemed to freeze and disappear instantly. Every joint hurt as she struggled mightily against the hands holding her, knees pressed painfully to the hard floor.
There was a swirl of motion, the rustle of action.
"Peter!" Jude shouted once more above the distant, expectant murmurs of Voldemort's minions, the cries of fear from the students. "I will find you! You know I will! There is no limit to how long and how far I will hunt you!"
When he heard her voice, Remus looked across the room, searching for her. He looked as if he'd only just remembered she was there. His face showed fierce determination, a scowl over his storm-colored eyes. He turned his formidable stare back to Peter, frowning even deeper. Perhaps it was anger, perhaps something more.
Peter couldn't have looked more different. His was a look of utter shock, horror even. Jude's angry words died on her lips as she watched, the panicked anticipation choking her. Peter staggered back, his mouth hanging open, his eyes dropping from the stern face of the other man.
Remus looked down, his expression still hard, unmovable. His unblinking glare remained fixed on Peter's familiar face, but it was as if he was looking at a stranger.
Peter backed away a few paces more, muttering to himself insanely. It was as if he'd seen a ghost.
Jude felt the surge of bodies around her as if the vampires at her sides would rush eagerly forward as one, but checked their movements, conscious of Voldemort's presence. Jude knew it meant only one thing: blood had been spilled.
The clatter of metal on the floor. Helpless whimpers from Peter. Remus gasped—a raspy, choking sound. Then he fell to the ground.
"No!" Jude felt the raw scratch in her throat, the sound tearing from her like an anguished, primal animal sound. That instant found her captors distracted and she was able to shake them off long enough to gain her feet. But they were quicker. The next instant found her with her face pressed against the cold hard stone floor, the air squeezed from her lungs by a knee in her back. She could no longer see her brother. But she could hear faint shuddering, gasping breaths above her own cries, halfway between sobs and choking coughs. With utter terror, she wondered which was going to be his last.
There was a colossal crash of thunder, nearer-sounding, more immediate. The sound of it startled Jude and she flinched against the knee pressed ruthlessly into her spine, pinning her in place. This crash, however, was followed by shouts and the scuffle of hundreds of feet on the floor around her.
Trying to look around her for any clue as to what was going on was difficult—all she could see was feet rushing by her toward some unseen central point. Trying to move was impossible—although it seemed most everyone else had hastened away, her captor remained, crushing her to the ground.
But then she found that she could breathe again. Gasping harshly, she frowned, lifting her cheek from the hard stone. When she looked up the hall was in utter chaos.
The battered old seabird closed its eyes against the torrent, but opened them wide at the sight of several figures materialize from nowhere. It watched with wary interest as the large creatures chattered back and forth, urgency in their tones.
In another instant they had all clambered up the rock and into the imposing fortress above. Wind and rain again was the only sound. The bird ruffled its feathers and snuggled closer to the hollow in which it hid.
Water dripping from his soaked clothes and his hair was the only sound Bill heard for a moment. Around him, others appeared, wringing their robes. Sirius Black shook out his bedraggled black hair like a dog after a swim. The pitter-patter of the little rivulets dripping from the silent intruders echoed quietly, letting him know he was surrounded by a vast, enclosed space. Indeed, he could feel the ominous black void above him, the weight of the openness pressing down on him oppressively. He felt deeply unsettled—this was not just another cursed tomb, but much more. He felt that something was about to be revealed and it was something that he didn't want to know.
He heard her voice clearly, cutting through the thick spaces and stone between them like an arrow through flesh.
"Jude!"
He couldn't help the sound from escaping him, darting forward instinctively. A steady grip at his elbow stopped him. He glanced from the hand to the face that stared solemnly back at him. Dumbledore was shaking his head.
In a whisper, he cautioned the eager young man wisely. "You cannot help her by charging in there, Mr. Weasley. Your task is to disarm Voldemort…first and foremost."
Bill dropped his gaze to the floor, biting back the arguments.
Dumbledore continued gravely, his voice very quiet now, "No matter what we see in there, no matter the danger. We are none of us safe until his power is destroyed."
Reluctantly Bill nodded.
The slight scuffle of feet pulled their attention in another direction. Arthur and Moody appeared through the gloom. "The corridor seems unguarded. It appears," Moody informed them in his distinct gruff tone, "that he has gathered everyone together in the main hall."
"How many do you suppose?" It was Kingsley Shacklebolt who spoke.
Moody replied, reluctant to give credence to a mere guess. "Twenty or so followers from the outside. Fifteen more from the inside, perhaps less."
"Inside?" McGonagall asked skeptically behind her severe spectacles.
"He released his followers once he overtook the prison," Moody explained with mechanical professionalism, not affected by the numbers or implications they seemed to be facing. "Less if they were no longer useful."
"No longer useful?" McGonagall's hand gripped her neck protectively, waiting for an explanation she knew she would not like.
Moody nodded. "Those who went insane, too crazy to serve him any longer…probably killed them along with the rest of the prisoners."
Minerva swallowed hard, turning a hard look on the Headmaster.
"There are others," Sirius spoke suddenly, the hoarse growl nearly matching Moody.
"Others?" Shaklebolt asked him, trying to get an accurate picture of the force awaiting them further down the corridor.
Sirius nodded once. "In Switzerland, he'd gathered a force."
"A force?" Moody grunted.
Sirius nodded again, staring beyond them at nothing, his mind miles from this place that threatened to hold it prisoner once more. "Vampires, mostly. A few werewolves."
"How many?" Shaklebolt asked.
"A dozen," Sirius said blandly. "Consider your troops outnumbered."
Shaklebolt fixed the insolent man with a shrewd, questioning glare. Instead of rising to the bait, he simply turned to Dumbledore. "What do you suggest?"
Dumbledore let a finger and thumb trace the line of his jaw, following his beard down its length, deep in thought. He frowned and fixed Bill with a curious stare. "Strike the shepherd."
Before they could question his logic, he was silently on his way to the main hall, the sound of people growing louder in the distance. Without preamble, the others followed.
Jude hesitated getting to her feet, unable to believe what she was seeing. Her captor, a large man with squared shoulders and dark features, had sprung forward, forgetting her entirely. Others had followed suit, joining a fray that had seemingly started from nothing. She looked around once more—everyone was distracted. Ignoring the fact that she ached everywhere, she put her feet under her and darted for the opposite side of the hall.
She ruthlessly shoved through a few broad shoulders and still no one seemed to mark her presence. Her eyes were fixed unblinkingly on Remus as he lay on the floor. He wasn't moving. The miraculous way she'd progressed, unnoticed was short lived.
A hand seized her roughly by the collar, choking her as she was pulled backward. She looked over her shoulder, angry at having been deterred from her goal—her brother was no more than twenty good strides in front of her, beyond a swirling mass of human chaos. White fingers were entwined in the fabric of her shirt, now rust colored from the blood that had saturated it, nearly dried by now. She could feel the wounds bleeding anew.
Antonia glared back at her with gleaming triumph, her eyes glinting, crazed with obsession and lust for blood. Her red lips twisted into a cruel smile as the woman, surprisingly strong under her long, graceful physique, spun her so they stood face to face. Jude took a shaky step backward, feeling her bare foot connect with something cold, but the feel was distinct. Flesh always recognizes flesh. She looked away quickly, her glare darting from Antonia to the floor. Andrei stared up at her with a vaguely menacing, but harmless intensity, accusing, but innocuous in death. Her other foot slipped. A pool of thick dark blood had covered the pale stone where she stood, oozing between her toes.
When she looked up again Antonia was laughing cruelly. Jude realized she must have looked truly horrified, wiping the expression from her face immediately, replacing it with rigid determination. She didn't have time for this. Not now.
But it was true that she was trapped. There was no one to help her now—everyone seemed to be locked in there own battles. She slipped again as Antonia advanced slowly, her sharp white fangs glinting in the luminous glow of the intermittent lightning.
"You are brave," Antonia hissed. "And foolish," she added with relish. "If you had only left it alone, little one. But no—you had to stand up to him. You killed our leader…now, a new leader must rise."
Jude smirked, valiantly attempting to swallow her fear. "Who? You?" she said, pouring on the skepticism.
"Whoever avenges his death," Antonia said matter-of-factly, surprised that it was not painfully obvious. "Do you wish that you had not been so rash now? Several of us want it…very much. You," she informed her with mock pity, "I am afraid, have placed yourself in an awkward position."
She sprang quickly. Jude hardly saw the motion. A blinding flash, a bright white wall of light had erupted off to her right. Antonia, thankfully, had been distracted as well and her charge was halted abruptly. Jude wrenched her mind away from the action around her, knowing that if she did not act first, she was as good as dead. Groping around her, she realized that the odds were stacked fatally against her. She had no weapon. Antonia's eyes returned to her with a devouring rage.
Her breath came in heavy gasps. She took another step backward and tumbled into a heap on top of Andrei's lifeless body. The floor was slicked with fresh blood and although she scrambled fiercely to push herself up, she slipped and slid, never able to gain traction quickly enough. Antonia's spidery white fingers reached out toward her, grabbing a fistful of Jude's closely cropped sandy hair, just below the base of her skull, forcing her chin up. Antonia looked disgusted, annoyed at how easy it was. That was when Jude's fingers finally felt what they had been searching for.
The look of shocked terror and disbelief that swiftly replaced the smugly perturbed expression on Antonia's once elegant features was grimly satisfying to Jude. A small trickle of reddish-black liquid ran like a tiny river down Antonia's pale chin from her lips, the deep crimson matching in color. Antonia's glittering black stare fell to her side where Jude's hand gripped the jagged piece of wood that she'd used to kill Andrei in a white-knuckled grasp. The wood was buried in her own flesh just under her arm. She blinked only once before pitching forward onto Jude, pinning her against the dead body.
"Save your ambition for the next life," Jude whispered close to Antonia's ear. Grunting under the extra weight, Jude put the heel of her palms against Antonia's lifeless body, pushing against the dead woman's shoulders. She managed to roll the body away and stand shakily to her feet. Covered in blood, she studied the spike in her hand, slick and wet, no longer resembling wood at all. She let it fall.
Reluctantly, she looked over her shoulder. The tempest within the hall seemed to be fading, although she could not tell who had won. Her eyes were locked with His. He regarded her for the briefest of moments, time obviously not on His side. His reptilian face showed nothing but the purest hate. If He could have killed her with sheer will, she would simply have been no more. But for some curious reason, He did no more than glare with rage burning in the dark voids of His eyes.
"I will dance on your ashes!" He hissed before disappearing in a cloud of smoke and a flash of light.
She stood dumbstruck. The hall seemed silent and the world froze around her. Yet all around snatches of movement tugged at her attention, instincts begging her to snap out of it. With a conscious effort she drug her feet across the floor, completing the path that she had been so fixed on before. She was very close to him now, but it seemed forever until she was by his side.
They burst through the door on the Headmaster's signal, sending several blazing white patronus figures before them. Quickly the dementors had fled to the deepest shadows of the fortress, fleeing into the darkness. The children's faces registered surprised terror then unexpected relief in unison at the sight of their Professor Dumbledore.
The scant attacking force, few in number but experienced nonetheless, split immediately, peeling off into the growing turbulence of the fray, taking on as many Death Eaters as they dared. Dumbledodre stuck close by Bill, clearing a straight shot to the heart of the beast.
Voldemort leapt to his feet, an eager smile spreading across his thin, pale face. This was what he had been waiting for. The arrogant Professor Dumbledore strode right through parting crowd, a defiant little mouse marching straight into the open paw of a lion. His grin spread wider. Perfect.
His minions scrambled for glory or escape, though he cared little of that. Do as they please, he had his gold. Anxiously Voldemort fingered the glimmering Ankh, gleefully deciding on the best way to kill his most hated foe. The young and eager pup at the Headmaster's side first, perhaps…
Voldemort watched every movement they made, puzzling slightly as the young man reached for some small trinket at his neck. The wink of gold was unmistakable. And then there were words—the kid was saying something. Bemusedly, Voldemort listened carefully to the commands, the words unfamiliar, yet he knew them as if he knew his own name. A sense of connection drew him closer, curiosity overcoming caution (a most unnecessary virtue for the all-powerful).
And then it happened. Like the snapping of a cable under an enormous burden, that connection broke, the ends recoiling like a whip's lash. Voldemort felt the backlash as if it had been a physical blow and for a moment he was stunned. Dumbledore and the kid stood before him, wands at the ready and he knew it was over.
For now, at least.
Still, the rage was intoxicating, dizzying. It seemed the space of forever that he stood, motionless and vulnerable. And then an opportunity, a hesitation—the young man had glanced away from him, his prey. He followed the man's imprudent stare. Voldemort felt the heat of betrayal and anger rise beneath his cold, inhuman shell. Jude's icy gray stare fixed his for the briefest of moments.
Harsh and hurried words from Dumbledore snapped Bill into such quick alertness that he quickly fired off a curse in Voldemort's direction, knowing that it would never hit its mark. Dumbledore tried to recover the situation, but even his expert aim and speed could not compensate. With a low hiss, the Dark Lord disappeared amid a cheap magician's trick, a mask of smoke and light.
And Voldemort was gone.
Bill watched eagerly as Jude shook herself from her daze. He felt a tightening in his stomach at the sight of her, a familiar pain. She was covered in blood and stared blankly ahead, as confused as a lost child.
With an eerie, unsettling calm, she walked away from the bodies drenched in blood behind her, ignoring the hungry, clawing presence of the vampire mob behind her. In their midst, two or three men were getting the upper hand and the immortals had begun to flee now that their leader was dead and their Master had run.
Bill watched as she walked by him, like a ghost. He watched her as she knelt down in the middle of the battle, untouched and unmoved by the violence that swirled around her like storm clouds.
Soon the wind had shifted. Those who could flee fled. Not many remained after Voldemort's flight to stand their ground.
His hand was already cold when she picked it up, but his smile was still the same. Remus looked on her as he always had, with a faith that would never be shaken. He looked on her with sadness, knowing it would not be long and soon she would be alone.
Jude feared every slow blink, knowing that he would close his eyes for good very soon. She saw it in his face, even though he fought to keep it from her. He suffered greatly and for his sake she prayed that the end would come quickly. But for her own sake, she would not dare make such a wish. She tried to smile back, to show him that she would be all right. But it was like trying to put on a brave face when the world was ending—a sham, a lie. She thought he was a constant, that whatever else happened he would be there.
She held his cold hand and fought back the hot sting of the tears. "You'll be fine," she whispered, her brave smile more like a grimace.
He shook his head slowly. "It was silver, Jude," he said faintly, calling her bluff.
Reluctantly she looked away from his grim, practical, accepting face. A short distance away she could see the bright wink of the silver blade covered in thick crimson. There seemed to be blood everywhere. Her breath caught in her chest, escaping in harsh, choking sobs.
"I'm sorry."
He smiled and closed his eyes. "You have…nothing," he said quietly, "to be sorry…for." He raised his hand, his icy fingers brushing her cheek. One warm tear raced down her pale, dirt-streaked skin as she leaned into the touch.
She choked on another sob. "Don't go," she cried like a child. "Don't go where I can't follow, Remus." Her hands clasped his, pressed tightly to her chest. She curled into him, resting her head on his shoulder. He touched her hair, but the gesture was already filled with an absence.
"I have to go," he said simply. "And you…you must stay…here."
Suddenly, she sat up violently. "I don't want to!" Her fingers were white from squeezing his hand so hard. "Everyone leaves me here!"
He smiled again, his gray eyes fixed on his sister. "I will…never leave you." He drew her back to him, her head on his shoulder, his hand in hers. She stopped sobbing and relaxed her aching body. She closed her eyes and knew he had as well.
When he breathed his last, Jude prayed that the next breath would be hers.
The smoke had cleared. The rain had slowed. The wind no longer howled in rage at the fortress perched upon the rock in the middle of the angry ocean.
They had gained the upper hand when Voldemort had fled. There were no heroes among the murderers, no honor among thieves. The vampires were the first to take to the wind—they had the least at stake and when they found that there was no easy prey to be had, they were gone.
Even fewer of the Death Eaters were willing to become martyrs. Those with reputations to uphold among respectable society wasted no time in leaving. Chief among them: Lucius Malfoy, especially careful that he had not been seen. Peter was not so careful.
Black fixed his dark eyes on the instantly recognized figure as he stood dazed, rubbing his palms together nervously, muttering silently. Sirius felt the familiar, galvanizing sensation of anger rising. He wanted Peter's blood on his hands so bad he could feel it. And when he'd assured himself that Harry was safe with the others under McGonagall's watchful guard, he charged after him, fighting his way through the crowds.
Pushing through the mob, however was like wading through thick mud. Very much outnumbered, Sirius found that he had to do a lot of damage to get a very short distance. Still, he remained fixated on Peter. So much so that he did not see where the blow had come from that had landed him flat on the hard stone floor, a sizable lump on the back of his head. Quickly he turned and saw her. The small figure, cloaked in a dark shroud although her hood had fallen and her face was unmasked, would have been unmistakable. Bellatrix Lestrange stared back with pure malice written on her face. She held a torch in one hand, its aged, weather-beaten appearance similar to every other torch in the fortress. In the other was a wand leveled lethally at his chest. On her lips was a smile that hid no smug triumph.
He swallowed hard as she threw her head back and laughed. "Say goodbye, Black," she said smoothly, her elegant voice having been little affected by years and years of Azkaban's hospitality.
"Goodbye," Black said, frowning. Bellatrix pitched forward, smile still firmly affixed to her frozen face. He jumped to his feet, glaring insolently at the figure that now stood where Lestrange had been. "I could have handled it," he barked ungratefully.
"I would have loved to see you try," Snape replied dryly. "Of course, I would have loved to see you as a crater." The professor, having narrowly escaped the hungry attentions of the vampires, quickly turned his back on his rival and scanned the crowd. "But I haven't got the time for games, Black." He suddenly saw what he was searching for. He turned back to Sirius, adding, "Neither do you."
They pushed through the last tatters of the crowd, coming to a halt just beyond where Sirius had locked eyes with Peter. Peter was there no longer, but Black continued to glare with rising anger at the spot. He was staring instead at a heap of fabric and limbs. Two bodies lay on the ground, one curled into the other. He recognized both.
Sirius felt the familiar stab of icy cold, but he knew that all the dementors had fled.
The intensity of the cold realization was nothing, however, to the cold, dead look in her eyes when she finally looked up at him—gray like frosted steel. Her jaw tensed as she gritted her teeth, reluctantly pushing herself up off the cold stone, her battered and abused body begging to remain there. The first step was shaky but the next one was easier. She moved deliberately, her eyes never moving from Sirius.
The icy anger was tangible all around her. She halted directly in front of Black, a few inches was all that separated them. She was shaking, but from cold, exhaustion or fury, he could only guess. In the next instant, Jude had summoned up the remains of her strength and slapped him. The force was surprising and Black was mildly dazed, the metallic tang of blood faintly startling. He registered confusion, pity, but little anger at her assault. This reaction seemed to only enrage her more, but when she raised her bruised and bloodied hand again, he caught it with a little too much might, feeling her slight bones beneath his crushing grip. Her fingers balled into a fist instantly, fighting to free herself of his grasp.
"Let her go," Snape ordered Black, stepping up to her side.
Black turned a scrutinizing glare on them both. Snape was just as ragged and worn as she—they looked as if they had been to hell and back twice. Looking at the pair of them, Black could still feel the tight scars of Azkaban on himself. His fingers loosened and he released her arm.
Snape wrapped an arm around her. They seemed as if they would fall over without the other to hold them up.
Black stared at her curiously, afraid to ask and fearing the answer he knew was coming. "Is he…?" The question escaped him as little more than a ragged breath.
Her face contorted in pain and grief. She covered her face and turning away from him. For her the loss was so eminent. She could not bear to watch someone else lose him.
For her sake, Black endured silently the loss of his last friend.
Author's Note: I am truly apologetic for having neglected this story for so long. These past few months have been uncommonly hectic—a death in my family, graduations, weddings, a job change…real life. Thanks to everyone for your kind patience and your continued readership. I cannot tell you what it means, really.
"Of course, I'd love to see you as a crater," comes from Toy Story.
Previously, I had Mrs. Lestrange named Cordelia, but after canon revealed her true name, I will change it in previous chapters.
