A/N My sincere apologies to the Muggles of Avebury.
The sun had set. Only the central bonfire remained lit. The wizards and witches who had stayed to enjoy the darker elements of the Solstice took turns feeding the flames, casting sticks into the crackling heat.
"My offering is beneath my throne, Harry. Toss it into the fire, then return at once."
Harry got down on his knees and rummaged under Voldemort's throne. His fingers brushed against something unidentifiable. He grasped it and drew it out, hoping he'd found the offering and not some frightened creature ready to bite him for his carelessness. It turned out to be a branch about the width of his wrist. Oak, judging from the few remaining russet leaves. Harry almost asked if he had his own branch to toss into the fire. Perhaps there had been one, tucked away. Perhaps his Master had vanished it, and this was his way of reminding Harry that he was but an extension of himself. Or perhaps he was overthinking it all, and he would be a lot happier if he just tried to enjoy the rest of the night.
The music shifted on his way back from his errand. Gone was the lilting song of harp and fiddle; the tambourines were silent. The cheerful instruments had been set aside and something more vital, more ancient, began. A tribal rhythm pulsed. It had begun so faintly that Harry hadn't known the music had even continued. Now, though, the throb of the drums was insistent, had become the earth's own heartbeat.
By the time Harry regained his seat, Voldemort had again risen from his throne. He cast a wandless Amplifying charm and called, "Bring out the Wicker Man."
Lucius nodded at Snape, and they exited the clearing, disappearing into the darkness beyond. When they returned they were levitating an enormous figure. Harry had seen something like it before, in one of the tour booklets the Dursleys had brought home after a holiday.
It was a cage crafted from woven boughs of willow. Inside were people, so many of them, all crammed together. They were crying out, but only the sharpest wails could be heard over the insistent drumming. Vernon was in the giant's head, his face a familiar shade of puce.
Voldemort didn't bother silencing the music as he addressed the crowd with his enhanced voice. "Friends, may I present to you the townsfolk of the Muggle village of Avebury. They are the first victims of our land reclamation projects. I know that rumours have been circulating these past few weeks, and I am pleased to announce that the ones concerning the restoration of Magical sites across the country are true. Muggle settlements surrounding key ley lines and wizarding monuments are set to be destroyed. In an act of mercy, the Muggles therein are given warning so they may depart with as little loss of life as we can allow.
"Avebury, however, acts as our example. As many of you are aware, the village was built in the very centre of the largest of our country's henges. In times past, acting on their superstitious faith, they had even dared to bury our sacred stones. Their descendants shall pay dearly for this arrogance.
"A Wicker Man has not been used for human sacrifice in many, many centuries. Tonight, witness its revival. Every Litha, from now until time ends, we shall stuff the giant's gullet with Muggle meat and roast them in the name of Lady Magic.
"But before we set them alight, I thought we might allow them one last pleasure. My Faithful, you must understand that even Muggles are not so witless as to miss the significance of the Summer Solstice. Of course-as ever-they appropriated it, stripped it of its true significance, and bestowed it with Christian meaning.
"Instead of Litha, it has become the day celebrating St. John the Baptist. I need not delve into the full mythos surrounding this figure as the only thing you need to know is how he died. As the story goes, a great beauty—Salome—danced before the region's ruler, Herod. He was so mesmerized by her that he promised her anything her heart desired. She famously asked for the head of John the Baptist, severed and presented to her on a platter. In honour of this titillating story I have proposed a contest, open to any free witch or wizard present. Dance for us. The most talented amongst you shall be granted a boon."
Cheers and the clamorous stamping of feet followed this pronouncement. The unwilling audience of Muggles seemed less enthused, though after the promise of death, the Dark Lord's generosity may have fallen flat.
Nagini was restless; she slid against her Master's neck unceasingly, hissing in agitation. Voldemort put up with it for a minute or so, but eventually urged her onto the ground beside his throne. "What is the matter with you," he asked her.
"Nagini does not like the storm."
"There is not storm. It is drums that you feel," Voldemort told her, but he was unable to reassure her. Her tongue darted in and out, nervously, before she hid herself under the throne with only her tail peeping out. "Foolish thing," he muttered.
Harry would have held her if she'd asked him to. Hell, if he could fit, he would have liked to have coiled up under his Master's throne with her, instead of having to watch the dancing. He supposed he didn't want to miss out on Vernon being cooked alive, though, so he just sighed and waited for the supposed entertainment to begin.
He didn't have long to wait. Silhouettes were forming in front of the bonfire, dancing and swaying to the beat. There were only a few performers, but they were mesmerizing. There was one witch, however, that was outperforming the rest: Bellatrix was in the centre of the contestants, and Harry hadn't known that hips could move like that. Her hands were never still, and she undulated her arms and upper torso pleasingly, erotically.
Harry slid from chair into a kneel and guided his Master's fingers to his hair. He needed human contact. Voldemort froze for a moment, perhaps to consider his reaction to this unsolicited and presumptuous move. Then, compliantly, he began to stroke Harry's soft, unruly locks, punctuated every so often by a violent tug.
The drums rolled faster. Then faster. Bellatrix never faltered. She was magnificent. The other dancers slowed, then fell away. Now everyone watched as she shimmied her chest, the music cresting to mirror her every movement. It was chaotic and it was beautiful. It was pure Bellatrix. Cymbals and bells joined in, becoming louder and louder, soon overshadowing the tribal thrumming of the drums with their fierce clanging. Bellatrix danced with the same wildness as the flames behind her. Harry knew then that, for this moment, his own ignorance meant nothing. Because this? This was witchcraft. Bellatrix was, at that moment, the embodiment of all magic, and as much as he hated her, Harry was grateful to see her now, in this perfection.
The hand in Harry's hair was steadily tightening. Harry would have whimpered in pain had he not relished the sting and the way in which he'd been drawn back until his head was pressed tightly against his Master's knee.
Bellatrix fell to her knees as the music rang out in a final crash of brass, her head tipped back, throat bared in a long, sinuous line. She paused there, an exquisite fallen statue, until the final bell finished reverberating. Then she sprang up and curtsied with one last, sultry flourish. Unsurprisingly, she was met by thunderous applause and more than one vigorous catcall. Voldemort released Harry's hair to clap. Though she'd earned every bit of the praise, Harry didn't join in.
The Dark Lord pushed Harry aside with his foot. With his voice still magnified, he said, "I believe we have a clear victor. This year, the title of Salome goes to our own talented Bellatrix. Come forward, my dear, and claim your reward."
Bellatrix, glistening with sweat, made her way to the throne, her hips still swaying to a beat that now only she could hear. She eyed Lord Voldemort with unconcealed hunger.
Harry raced back to his own seat, not wishing for her to stand so closely above him. Even so, was unprepared when she bypassed all expected obeisance and swung her leg up and straddled the Dark Lord's lap. Voldemort's quick intake of breath indicated that he hadn't expected it either. He didn't push her off, though. Harry hoped that Voldemort wouldn't moan as she pressed herself wantonly against him; the Amplifying charm was still active, after all.
The Dark Lord gently kissed her brow and ushered her off his lap. "My darling, you are as brazen as your dance," he said.
To the amusement of the laughing crowd, Bellatrix winked, then twirled much as she had demonstrated to Harry and Draco mere hours before. Her skirts, once again, rose to show the same uncomfortable expanse of bare skin.
"My reward, Master?" she asked. Her eyes shone with anticipation.
Voldemort inclined his head, then said, "As in the classic narrative, you may choose your prize. For how could I deprive you of your desires, my sweet Salome?"
"Then, my Lord," she said, "it is fitting that I ask for the very reward she demanded."
"Of course, my dear. Anyone—with a few exceptions." A sideways glance at Harry made it clear to her that he was off-limits.
She nodded, making the stray hairs that had come loose in her dance fly about. She declared, "I ask for the death of my husband. For the head of Rodolphus Lestrange."
Chaos—that is what Harry would have called what followed Bellatrix's demand, had he not so recently lived through the Battle of Hogwarts. The Lestrange brothers immediately tried to flee, casting red and green spells indiscriminately at anyone near them. That began several small but lethal skirmishes around the circle. There was a time when Harry would have been ecstatic to watch these Dark wizards and witches destroy each other. Now, though? This backstabbing mayhem was counter to his Master's wishes, as Harry's sudden, splitting migraine proved.
Voldemort didn't often brandish his full magical strength. Harry had seen it but once, at the Ministry of Magic when his Lord had done battle with Dumbledore. Normally, the sheer threat of his dormant power was enough to cow his followers into obedience.
Now, with his followers in such disarray, the Dark Lord leapt up, the black silk of his robes billowing out behind him. Guttural words accompanied the wild, spiralling gestures of his wand: "Gofvathda. Mergoushlavai. Herkospd Thrumas."
It sounded nothing like the Latin of common European spell-work. A dire, sizzling energy shuddered through the air. All the yelling, the cursing, the screaming stopped at once. Everyone stopped, held in place by the Dark Lord's magic. Even the curses flying towards unhappy victims were frozen in bright zigzags and flashes, and who knew that the Killing Curse had golden starbursts scattered amidst its deadly green?
It was beautiful.
Harry clenched and unclenched his hands, just to see if he could. In the quiet aftermath, Nagini had emerged from beneath the throne and was slinking about the circle, crawling up and down wizards and witches in a way that would normally induce heart attacks, or at the very least, soiled pants. She steered clear of the frozen spell-light. She'd been with Lord Voldemort long enough to know the danger there.
Now that his Death Eaters weren't at risk of annihilation, the Dark Lord turned his attention to Harry. "How interesting. I suspected you might not be affected by that spell. I am pleased that my supposition was correct."
"What was that?" Harry breathed.
"A time-stopping spell," he said, as if breaking even Wizarding laws of physics was nothing. That he hadn't just done something completely unprecedented. "Now Harry," Voldemort said. "I know you have heard of this spell. I suspect you are the only one here who has, other than myself. Before I wake these wretches and resurrect those who weren't smart enough to evade a simple Avada—"
—because such a thing was so easily done—
"I ask that you try to recall where you may have come across magic such as this. Perhaps in a fairy-tale?"
Harry frowned, trying to remember the different spells cast in Tales of Beedle the Bard. Hermione had read them one particularly cold winter night that last year as they huddled together in the tent. It had taken their mind off the futility of their mission for a few hours. There were no spells like this though...
"Think further back. Perhaps to your primary school. Even Muggles spin tales." A quirk of his hairless brow indicated that this was a hint.
'Spin tales.' There was the story of the girl who could spin straw to gold. "Rumpelstiltskin?" he guessed. But no, that was about boasting, about greed, and about an impossible payment. Nothing about stopping time.
"Really, Harry, I am surprised. I was thinking of Sleeping Beauty, of course. I admit that modern European retellings have focused on the wrong element: love," he sneered, "and weakened the magic itself to that of slumber. I suppose their infantile, Muggle minds had difficulty comprehending time in the first place, let alone conceiving that it might be possible to stop its flow.
"But the seed of the story germinated from somewhere. When I was younger, I thirsted to unravel the origins behind the last remnants of magic still found in a world otherwise devoid of it. My love of the killing curse, for example, began as a fascination with the bastardized use of the incantation in Muggle stage magic. Abracadabra," he said, smiling at some memory (perhaps of a small Tom Riddle being amused by a bumbling street magician). "As for wizards toying with time? Do you not recall the Time Room in the Department of Mysteries? Bellatrix told me of the havoc you and your friends wreaked there. And you've made use of Time-Turners before. Admittedly, all well-known Temporal Magic relies on artifacts imbued with the Sands of Time. Spells such as I have just now demonstrated are decidedly more esoteric. Still, it pleases me that you admire my sorcery."
"Why didn't you freeze me, too?" asked Harry.
"I did not, in fact, intend to omit you. The spell has but one target: all who are not the caster. My guess is that the magic recognized both you and Nagini as extensions of myself, thus sparing you the effects. It is an interesting occurrence and certainly worth exploring further. But not now." He sighed, then turned back to survey the anarchy scattered throughout the clearing. "Because now I have to deal with this mess."
Harry still had so many questions: Why hadn't Voldemort made use of such a powerful spell before? Was everywhere stopped in time, or just here? Where had his Master learned such wonderous magic? Could he learn it, too?
"Quiet your incessant thoughts!" Voldemort said sharply. "I must concentrate." He moved off to examine the damage his Death Eaters had done to each other.
Harry took a deep breath. He tried to clear his mind, though he knew from his awful experience with Occlumency how well that would go. He almost called for a house-elf to bring him some of his calming tea, before realizing that the poor creature would get stuck by the time-stopping spell. If they weren't already frozen, that was…
Harry shook his head, as if that would sweep his racing thoughts away. He needed to distract himself, without also disturbing the Dark Lord.
All at once, he smiled, knowing what to do.
The wicker giant was settled at the outer edge of the clearing. In truth, it should have been hard to ignore. Bellatrix's dance, however, followed by the short-lived uprising and then the beauty of his Master's impossible magic, had pushed the Muggle-stuffed cage far from Harry's mind. Now that all was unnaturally quiet, he might as well take a closer look.
It was enormous. A whole village was packed inside: men and women and children. It was impossible to tell now, as they were all suspended in time, but Harry wondered if some of them weren't already dead. The ones in the middle had to be. What would it be like to have a mountain of dead and dying flesh pushing you against these willow bars? And they stank, a hint of decay underlying the stronger reek of piss. How long had they been in this cage?
Vernon was still alive. His eyes were, if not bright with intelligence, ablaze with wrath borne of terror. His cheeks were puffed out, his lips pressed together tightly as if trying to reign in words that would only make things worse. Because there was worse than this, Harry knew. And if Vernon had been Voldemort's prisoner for the past six weeks, he would know it too.
Was this enough? It was enough for Vernon, to be sure. Burning alive in this hell would be enough for Grindelwald. But was it enough for Harry? Was it enough closure? The branches were woven in such as way that they could be climbed like a ladder. Harry had never been one to climb trees, but he'd been a star athlete. He could make it to the top, he knew. But the Muggles filled every cavity, bulging out of the bars. He'd have to touch them. Harry didn't need to be told not to. If he even brushed against their filthy skin, he'd never feel clean again.
Harry wished he had his broom. Or maybe some of that flight potion Snape had talked about. Then he could soar up, straight to Vernon. Maybe he'd even steal Bellatrix's knife. He'd carve his uncle's face right up, yes, he would. Carve 'freak' on his forehead. Carve 'boy' on his cheek. It wasn't enough. Maybe he'd stab his eyes out, cut off his dick and stuff it in the mouth that never said one kind thing to him.
He almost wished his friends were here to see it, see who he was now. The thought surprised him. For weeks he'd battled with his shame in choosing this path, for saving himself over them. He'd practically killed Ron, George, Luna. And those that were alive probably wished they weren't. Now what would they think of him? Would they be shocked at his vindictiveness? Appalled?
Fuck them.
No, burning Vernon wasn't enough, and he wanted horrified witnesses.
Voldemort was busy binding any wizards that had been involved in the skirmish. Nearly a dozen confiscated wands stuck out of his hip pocket. Three bodies were sprawled on the grass, but Harry couldn't tell if they were dead or just stunned. The light of spell-fire looked strange, hovering lonely in mid-air and cut off from a wand, almost like fireworks. What would happen if he walked through that flare of green? Would it hurt if he touched it with a fingertip? Would death come at once, or spread like rot, inching up his arm like the curse that had killed Albus Dumbledore?
"Do you want to see me restore them to life, Harry?"
The Dark Lord had the Resurrection Stone in his hand. It didn't look like much. Harry thought it resembled a die from that Dungeons and Dragons game. Dudley had begged for a set when he was about nine—probably so he could hide the pointy dice in Harry's trainers—but it had been too freaky for Vernon and Petunia. A group of older kids used to play it in the library at their primary school, and Harry could vaguely remember them whispering things like 'attack rolls' and 'saving throws.' Harry mused that the Stone was the ultimate saving throw.
"Would you bring me back if I died?" Harry asked.
"Why wouldn't I? You know you are precious to me."
Harry sighed. "Maybe as a Horcrux I am, Master. But what if death separates our souls? What if only mine comes back? Dumbledore said—"
"Dumbledore said many things," said Voldemort. "It is believed that the soul piece is lost when the Horcrux is destroyed. But a living Horcrux is undocumented, as is bringing a wizard back to life. That said, recall that I wasn't willing to risk you with the Basilisk. Do not seek your death, for I understand what you are really asking, and I have no ready answer."
Calling the souls of his Death Eaters back to their bodies was straight-forward. Voldemort rolled the Stone over in his hand three times, and a shadowy mist poured out of it. A single breath pushed the spirits towards their hosts, and with a shudder they gasped and came back to life. That was it.
"That's brilliant," Harry said after his Master shoved Rowle's soul back into him. "You're like a god."
Voldemort hummed. "Care to rephrase that, darling?" But he was smiling.
"You are a god." And my God, Harry thought, the word felt right, and he didn't even care how Muggle it was. "What will you do with them?"
"I promised Bellatrix a beheading, did I not? As for this rabble, they can watch the Muggles burn from a closer vantage point than is comfortable. Perhaps a few scorch marks will help them behave."
All but one of the wizards (and the lone witch) that had involved themselves in the fray were bound to the maypoles, which Voldemort shifted closer to the Wicker Man. Then he drew his wand and conjured a wooden device Harry recognized from history books: a guillotine. He floated Rodolphus over and placed him upon it, facing down towards the waiting basket.
"I had considered facing him upwards so he could see the blade fall. I don't care about being humane. He should have submitted at once, but instead I had to clean up the mayhem he caused in his escape attempt." Voldemort glared at the condemned man. "But I suppose face-down is traditional."
"Why don't you get McNair to behead him with his axe?"
"Because I like guillotines and have never had cause to use one before. Besides, Walden is a little tied up right now," Voldemort said, glancing towards the maypoles. "He's good friends with the Lestrange brothers. Asking him to execute Rodolphus would be a dangerous test of his loyalty. I won't push my followers too far over something as trivial as this. And, as I said, I like guillotines. It will be fun to chop off one of their aristocratic heads."
Voldemort was as finicky as a director lining up his actors. When everything was in place, he drew his wand and incanted the re-animation spell.
The noise of everything shifting back into time was startling. The fizzing of spells, the yells of Death Eaters. Even the bonfire was shockingly loud.
The most interesting sounds were the terrified shouts from Rodolphus and the delighted singsong from Bellatrix.
There was a bang and a grunt of pain.
"Now Rodolphus, the circle was sealed against Apparition before the festivities began, as is pure-blood custom," Voldemort said, his scolding half-mocking, half-serious.
"My Lord?" Rodolphus cried out and seeing such a terrifying man near tears was exhilarating. "Please have mercy—I'm still useful to you!"
"Bellatrix, will you do the honours? There is a rope knotted to the side of the guillotine. Once it is untied, simply release it."
She fumbled in her giddiness, but soon she held the rope in her hand. "Bye bye, dear husband," she said.
She let go and the blade fell.
Rodolphus's head dropped into the basket. Blood spurted from the neck, spraying several feet before the flow subsided and began to drip more slowly onto the wooden slats. Bellatrix giggled, then reached forward and pulled out the head.
Harry was close enough to see the man blink. "He's still alive."
"Not for long," sang Bellatrix. "His magic can only keep him alive for another minute or so." She poked her nearly dead husband in the eye.
"Spike him, Bella, and let's get on with the evening," ordered Voldemort. While Bellatrix sharpened the end of the maypole her now ex-brother-in-law was tied to, the Dark Lord explained to Harry what would happen next: "The Wicker Man will soon be moved to the centre of the circle near the bonfire, and the Midsummer flame will be transferred to it with a torch. I want you to do this, Harry. I know you were hoping for something more personal in regard to your uncle. I realize you want more, to pay him back for his abuses. But my dear, I do not believe you could follow through on those desires. I want to help you succeed. Placing you in a position where you might fail, and with such an audience, is untenable."
"But Master, I—"
The Dark Lord shook his head. "They will think you are weak. My men prey on lesser failings. No, I promised you a sacrifice; I've given you a sacrifice. Be content that I've kept my word, or perhaps I'll allow Draco Malfoy the honour of setting the cage alight."
"Please, Master, let me do it." Harry couldn't lose this last satisfaction. "But can I talk to him first? To Vernon? So he knows it's me?"
"Of course, pet. I'd have it no other way."
A/N Of course some Muggles celebrate Midsummer, not imbuing it with any particularly Christian meaning. Voldemort is caught up in his own rhetoric here and is using anti-Christian sentiments to vilify (in his own worldview) the people he is about to have killed.
