The night sky was dark like black ink, speckled with silver stars. They glowed in the far distance, like a thousand grains of sand on a beach. Closer, were the grey shrouds, floating with the wind, sucking all life and joy from the world.
Hydrus watched it carefully, through the window of the Shrieking Shack.
To get into Hogwarts, he would need to go under the passageway… close enough to the Dementors that he would feel their nasty effects… He shifted with worry and felt the silver-gold knife jab into his side. Within half an hour it would be red with blood. It would be his what - fifth life? Sixth? Did it matter anymore?
Hydrus supposed it did not.
And that's why your flames turn darker and darker.
He did his best to ignore the thought, and instead, turn his attention to the people inside the roughed-up living room. Throughout, a deathly silence lingered, as fifty of the one hundred and seventy-four recruits - the Inner Circle had begun referring to them as 'Neonates' behind their back - polished their wands, brushed invisible lint off their robes and tried to look dignified in the face of fear.
They were instructed to hold the Common Rooms against any professor who might try to thwart them. A simple task -
But daunting enough still.
Members of the Order of Phoenix would be patrolling the halls, for as stupid and blundering as Albus Dumbledore was, he still held to some sort of precaution. It would be another, twenty to thirty wands against them, but nothing compared to the force of some seventy wizards who would defeat them all.
On their faces were bronze masks - not the silver-gold that the Death Eaters wore - with holes for eyes, and scalish carvings on the cheeks. When they pulled their black hoods low over their faces, it was impossible to tell if they were Neonates or members of the Inner Circle.
They were twenty-five of the best duelists and another twenty-five of the worst; one was to be a meat shield for the other. A barbaric way to fight, but most likely, none would be killed.
Today, at least.
And what about tomorrow, when the Dark Mark will float in the sky, and Lord Voldemort's return will be announced to the world? To that, I cannot say.
Hydrus Malfoy looked around the room
The first signal went off: a tiny ringing that buzzed in his watch. Half-past one. Heads turned to look at him as Lord Black stood up from his perch by the window, his fingers fumbling when they pulled the Invisibility Cloak over his head. Someone wished him good fortune in a throaty German accent, but to Hydrus Malfoy, it sounded naught more than a whisper of the wind. He gave an absent-minded nod, unseeable under his Cloak.
The passageway was dark, his feeble reddish-brown flames giving meagre light, turning the packed dirt a dark copper. A crossbow was strung over his shoulder, complete with five quarrels, and for all its usefulness, his wand lay in the inner pocket of his robes.
He felt the sorrow as he walked on; the faraway scream of Hermione's cry, and the distant, ghostly pain in his palms. It was better than the time at Azkaban. He powered on.
Hydrus Malfoy appeared just beside the trunk of the enormous tree, ducking as a branch suddenly darted towards him. The students of Hogwarts used to dare one another, trying to see who could go the furthest without breaking a single bone.
Wormtail had told the Dark Lord who told him to aim for the knot in the trunk; a bulbous collection of bark that jutted outward like an ugly kneecap.
Hydrus spotted it immediately and readied his crossbow, pulling back the string, placing the only blunted quarrel into the slot. If he missed the shot - unlikely as it was - the Whomping Willow would be a fiery spotlight tonight, and any stealth the Death Eaters might have planned would be wasted.
The night was dark, and the moon a tiny silver crescent, but there was no wind, and when he let the heavy arrow fly, it thwacked onto the trunk, the crossbow making naught but a tiny chink. It lodged itself into the knot, and almost immediately, the large tree turned to glass, frozen in time.
The quarrel had lodged itself firmly into the Whomping Willow, and when Hydrus tried to pull it out, the very tip, coated in steel, snapped off.
Giving a dejected sigh, he let it fall to the ground, readjusted his Cloak and continued to the castle.
Hogwarts was quiet; an eerie stillness enveloping its quarters with a thick, invisible mist. Lanterns glowed along the edge of some of the walls, and Hydrus clambered through the open window of an abandoned classroom.
Wormtail, that lecherous bastard, had told him of all recent activities in the castle. Filch was being a stickler for cleanliness, now more so than ever, and was taking a prominent role in castle security. Nonetheless, Peter Pettigrew had managed to open the windows in one of the rooms.
He brushed the dirt off his robes, cringing as the sound of his rattling quarrels echoed throughout the castle.
Did the Headmaster know about tonight?
That was a stupid question - of course, he did.
And the only reason why he wasn't waiting for him in the abandoned classroom, sitting on an old desk, his arms crossed, a benign twinkle to his eyes was because the other Death Eaters were pooling in through Hogsmeade, waiting for the signal Lord Black would cast.
The hallways were empty during the late hour, and far away, he could hear the voices of prefects, speaking in hushed voices as they patrolled the corridor. Members of the Order of the Squawking Bird and perhaps some Aurors would be here as well; Hydrus passed a middle-aged woman with a shawl wrapped around her head. She didn't resemble any of the Hogwarts professors.
He was tempted to try his hand at the Stunning Spell - he had been practicing with Quirinus Quirrell - if only to mildly disorientate her for the battle to come, but when he reached for his wand, her head turned in his direction, and Hydrus Malfoy felt his heart creep into his throat.
For a long moment, she stared, and then slowly, began walking away.
When she rounded the corner and disappeared from view, Lord Black took a sharpened quarrel and laid it in place, drew back the string, knowing full well that holding it in firing position for too long could mean permanent damage to the accuracy of the arrow. That was alright. With luck, he wouldn't need to shoot a target from more than half a hundred yards away.
Hydrus continued to the second floor and then the third, up and up the stairs until he reached the seventh. On his way, he met some prefects, Professor Hooch and what must have been either an Auror or a member of the Squawking Bird. None of them noticed him, and so, Lord Black didn't need to shoot either of them. He thanked Merlin for that.
The entrance to the Gryffindor Common Room was the portrait of a pig-woman, draped in pearl white silks. She snored loudly, covering any of the sounds Hydrus might have made.
Wormtail had spied on the students, learning the password for the next fortnight.
"Brave as lions," Hydrus Malfoy whispered.
"You and your prefect duties," the pig-woman mumbled. She swung open.
Lord Black adjusted his grip on the crossbow, ensuring that the tip was pointing forward before he climbed through the portrait hole. It was so very late at night, and he was almost sure there would be no one sitting by the Common Room fire, doing last-minute homework… but if even the tiniest shriek came from anyone, he would be done for.
"Allanis," someone said as he stepped through. Hydrus felt his heart sink. "You're back early from prefect duties."
His heart was beating erratically, pumping, pumping… threatening to overflow with blood. Lord Black took a hasty look around the room and found only one girl. She couldn't have looked a day over sixteen.
His hands were shaking, but she had seen the portrait door open… his vision was beginning to blur with tears, threatening to stream down his face…
That can't happen, Hydrus told himself over and over. You can't aim if you can't see.
He blinked them away hastily, and as the girl got up from her seat, he let the quarrel fly. The distance couldn't have been more than a dozen yards.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
It struck the left side of her chest, killing the poor girl immediately.
In the dark, he could see the fine spray of blood, a brownish colour in the poor lighting. She collapsed almost instantly, flailing onto the carpet with a soft thud. Hydrus Malfoy looked at her, not quite feeling anything.
The girl died with her mouth hanging open, her clear blue eyes glazed and lifeless, her blonde hair already beginning to turn red with blood. The smell of feces hit him not too long after.
He slung the crossbow over his shoulder, adjusted his Cloak for the hundredth time and side-stepped the body.
The second-year boys' dormitory was to the left, on the second floor. With a strange calmness to him, Hydrus Malfoy walked up the stairs and opened the door to Neville Longbottom's sleeping quarters.
There were four boys, all snoring loudly.
A window let the barest amount of silver moonlight filter through, and Lord Black knew immediately which one was Neville Longbottom.
He lay slumbering in the last bed, breathing with loud, snorting breaths. His face was a pale and pasty white, pudgy sausage-like fingers clutching a fuzzy brown teddy bear. It was easy sneaking to his bed.
He brushed aside the curtain, lowering himself onto the bed with care. Slowly, he drew the silver-gold knife. For a moment, Neville Longbottom stirred. He blinked open his eyes lazily, and for a moment, his mouth opened, just as the girl's had, to utter a scream -
Hydrus clamped his hand down onto his mouth.
"Born as the seventh month dies," he whispered, forcing himself to stare into the boy's terrified eyes. "It had to be you."
Lord Black sliced the knife across his throat.
Neville Longbottom choked on his own blood, making a strange gagging noise as a torrent of fine red liquid sprayed across Hydrus Malfoy's robes. It was a sort of shock that filled him. Once more, his Invisibility Cloak was stained with dark crimson, drenched in blood and urine as he stood up from the bed.
Someone was stirring. "Was' happening?" Seamus Finnegan asked, his eyes struggling to open. "It smells like dung."
The window was right there… there was no need for any of them to lose their lives…
Lord Black rammed the back of his knife against the glass, watching as it shattered into a million pieces. That woke everyone up immediately.
"Bloody hell," Ron Weasley cried.
Their voices mingled, screaming as they saw what became of their classmate.
Hydrus Malfoy did his best to stop his racing heart. He looked out the window, far away, to where Hogsmeade would have been, and raised his wand. Quirinus Quirrell and he had spent long hours trying to master the spell.
Lord Black took a deep breath. "MORSMORDRE," he roared.
For a moment, the three boys stopped their panicked cries. They turned to stare at where Hydrus Malfoy stood, disbelieving, uncomprehending looks writ upon their faces.
Green light lit the room with a fluorescent glow as not too far away, a smoky skull-and-snake danced atop the clouds.
Lord Black dived through the window, feeling the wind whip his silvery Cloak into a frenzy.
The Second Wizarding War had just begun.
_(O.O)_
Wormtail waited at the bottom of Gryffindor tower, his rat-like features hidden by a silver-gold mask. He swished his wand, and Hydrus Malfoy rolled onto a bouncy surface. Getting to his feet quickly, he adjusted his crossbow, shifted his Cloak and whispered into the night. "Thank you."
Peter Pettigrew gave no response. He was a rat once more, his squirmy grey body already filching through the tall grass, disappearing quickly from view. It wasn't him who had died that day, so many months ago. An imposter, just as Hydrus Malfoy suspected. Even in the darkness, his bright red bands glowed on his thin wrists.
Lord Black watched him disappear, gave a final sigh, before he looked up above him, at the snake-and-skull that had appeared in the sky. It was a cloud of grey smoke, forever shifting, the mighty serpent crawling through the eye socket of the skull, and then the mouth, slithering in one hole, out another, snapping its ferocious jaws at an invisible prey. The world turned lime-coloured in its wake, bowing down before its new master.
There would be Aurors called… assuming Cornelius Fudge would be willing to believe the Headmaster… hopefully, he does not.
Members of the Order would also be there, who would be caught in the thick of the fighting - but those who were alone… unaware… the Dark Lord had ordered he do it...
To save my brother, to save sweet Daphne, to save Hermione…
The first screams pierced the night, the sharp whistle of a quarrel streaming through the air.
Hydrus Malfoy took a deep breath. "The price for salvation is often death," he whispered.
_(O.O)_
The first one was a woman, middle-aged, with fine sharp cheekbones, though Lord Black only saw her from behind. She ran down the hallway, a determined, fierce look to her gait.
Hidden in an abandoned classroom, crouched on one knee, crossbow poised delicately on the crook of his right arm, Hydrus Malfoy waited as she hurried through the empty corridors.
Her footfalls were getting louder… louder and louder, until he could hear her every breath, as distinct as the cry of birds.
Three…
Two…
One.
The price of salvation is often death.
He exhaled and watched the quarrel pierce her stomach. His hands had been shaking; slick with sweat, making him aim much lower than he intended. If he hadn't been only six feet away, the quarrel might have missed her entirely.
It should have hit her shoulder, the sheer force and weight of the heavy arrow enough to drive the sharpened tip to her neck, snapping the intricate network of nerves keeping her alive. An instant death. A quick one. Merciful.
Instead…
The witch collapsed onto the floor, clutching at her left side with a feeble hand… Hydrus had once stabbed Belvina Black there too… he tried not to think of her.
She was paling - it was easy to see, even in the dim moonlight. Her hand tried to stem the flow of blood, and the other was casting lightning-fast spells, but more of the crimson liquid seeped through, flowing in pulses.
Hydrus Malfoy waded through her pool of blood, his Cloak left in the classroom. He would not need it. There was already enough blood on the silvery fabric.
His hand was steady, a quick sweep across her throat.
In her very last moments, the woman recognized his face. Her eyes went wide, and her lips formed two words. "Hydrus Malfoy…"
He felt nothing but a gaping pit of apathy as he knelt to wipe his knife clean on her robes, sheathing it back in its leather scabbard. Two quarrels were remaining; another two lives he could steal.
Anything to help Draco, sweet Daphne or Hermione live.
Every life could be another to turn the war. The Dark Lord did not want the Ministry to hear a word of his numbers, and so had brought the bare minimum to ensure victory.
Wars are turbulent, Hydrus Malfoy thought. Ever-changing, the tides forever moving. If studying history with Nancel Fenwick has taught me anything, it is thus.
He left his Cloak on the floor. Stained with blood and urine, it would do him no good anymore. Later, if they won, he could go collect it.
Lord Black stood up and began to make his way down the hallway.
There would be more victims. Another life, to pay for salvation.
_(O.O)_
The castle was alive with the sound of screams, as all sorts of virulent spells were flung into the air, glowing all colours of the rainbow. Lord Black walked past the flashes of light, his robes swirling as he moved. Where he could, the knife was driven into sides and backs, lathered across the backs of knees, driven into shoulders. When he got sick of seeing his robes stained with blood, seeing the torrent of dark liquid spurt from their bodies, Hydrus resorted to torching them. It was almost pathetic how unaware people could be when fighting.
Lives dropped to the floor, turned to nothing as the fights went on.
I should have brought more quarrels, Hydrus found himself thinking as he lit his hands and shoved them against the dark blue robes of a witch. It caught like kindling, and as she burned, she screamed so loud it might have been possible to hear the woman from the other side of the castle.
He stepped back to give the body room to collapse, watching it jerk and shake as the last of her life left the world.
Only one Neonate remained of the pair who duelled the witch. His or her companion lay on the floor, his insides a bubbling mess of tissue and blood, pooling outward with every passing second.
"There will be more to come," he told them, his voice unusually commanding. "Go."
The Neonate towered over him, almost twice his age, yet the wizard went regardless, running down the hallway.
On and on, Hydrus Malfoy went, until his footsteps led him past small skirmishes, torching all opposition he could find, not bothering to hide his enflamed hands any longer. He was a god - a god of fire that needed no mask to hide who he truly was.
Witches and wizards alike were running, screaming… crying for mercy… but the Death Eaters outnumbered those in Hogwarts two to one, and within half an hour, Quirinus Quirrell was at his side once more. He walked with a slight limp, and there was a bruise beginning to form on his right cheek, but otherwise, the man looked fit and hale.
"Where is your Cloak?"
Lord Black shrugged, feeling a strange apathy as he stepped over the corpse of a burning man. "Somewhere."
They were silent for a moment, listening to faraway sounds before Quirinus Quirrell spoke once more. "Albus Dumbledore has led the few surviving professors and members of the Order to the Great Hall. They are holding it for the moment. Not for very long; the school will fall soon enough."
"And the Dark Lord?"
"He has sent me to fetch you. Lord Voldemort awaits your presence on the rooftops of Hogwarts… but first…"
He led him to the Potion's classroom, and then to the back where he filched through Severus Snape's potions. His fingers closed around a glass vial containing a bubbling muddy brown liquid.
"Is that -?"
"Polyjuice," Quirinus Quirrell told him, putting it away in one of the inner pockets of his robes. "Come, he waits for us."
The Dark Lord studied the black stones, kneeling upon the flat surface, stroking his chin. There was no one else around him. When Hydrus Malfoy arrived, he looked up. "There are five professors and the Headmaster in there. Sorcery envelops the hall… can you feel it? It is thick like blood… breakable with time… he hopes to keep us occupied, I have no doubt, awaiting the arrival of the Ministry… Cornelius Fudge is a fool… but Amelia Bones will have advised him to send out scouts. When no one comes to receive them at the gates of Hogwarts… they will return for more. The Dementors will take care of the first few, but a collective… wretched Patronus Charms… No, we must finish this soon. Did you bring the potion, Quirinus?"
Lord Voldemort took a strand of hair and dropped it into the muddy liquid. It turned to the colour of copper. "We outnumber him four to one. All we require is a chink in his infallible armour… this is the hair of some fifth-year prefect. They're all dead, unfortunately. Polyjuice is the way to go… .You can guess what must be done, can you? When you arrive, it will be important that you find a shelter of some sort. Demolition is a bloody business, but Quirinus has been assigned to ensure that no rubble shall cave in your skull. How long do you think it will take you to reach the Great Hall? Five minutes? Longer?"
Hydrus Malfoy took off his crossbow and handed it to Quirinus Quirrell. "Less."
He downed the potion in a swallow. The taste was of butterbeer, the thick tangy feeling of alcohol. He felt his stomach knot.
A strange tugging sensation began in his bowels. The world seemed to shrink as he grew over a foot taller, his arms and legs stretching like taffy. His robes were too tight for him, constricting his thick frame. When he spoke, it was in a deep voice. "Take good care of the crossbow."
He bowed to the Dark Lord. "My Lord."
And then Hydrus Malfoy was off.
His feet led him down staircases, through hallways strewn with corpses, past obliterated statues and a Neonate, trying desperately to hold in his innards as he bled to death. Hydrus forced his gaze away.
There is nothing I can do for him.
He met no Death Eaters, perhaps already in position, waiting for the Dark Lord's signal.
The doors to the Great Hall were elaborately carved wood, elegant as could be, swirls of magic and power coming from within. They graced his arms and legs, touching him, trying to see who he was.
"Headmaster," he roared, in the desperate voice of a fifteen-year-old boy. "HELP."
When no response came, Hydrus Malfoy banged his fists against the thick wooden doors and mustered another shriek. His knuckles ached, and a trail of blood was leaking down one of his fingers. "They're coming. The one with golden masks. Help, sir. HELP."
He'll come, Lord Black thought. That noble Gryffindor courage and nobility will trump any logical reasoning from his staff.
Just as the Dark Lord predicted, the door cracked open. A blue eye, as blue and watery as a summer sky appeared, hidden behind half-moon spectacles. "Come quick, Reginald."
Albus Dumbledore's hands were soft and gentle as they graced the small of his back, leading him inside. It was dark; a room barely lit by a handful of candles. For a moment, there was naught but the quiet of the Great Hall, a silent, mournful sound that shrouded the five remaining professors. And then, there was a bang.
The ceiling caved in, and the walls were turned to rubble as all around them, Death Eaters in silver-gold masks ploughed into their stronghold. They were here - the gods of death were with them tonight - draped in silky black cloaks, a maddening delirium to their every action.
Hydrus ducked as a large chunk of stone arched towards him, carving a path of destruction in its wake. When he looked up, it was possible to see the night sky, twinkling with stars, already a shade lighter than before, partially obscured by the dust. The moon was a silver crescent, filling the rubble-strewn room with a soft glow.
Chaos began, as the members of the Inner Circle rounded on them.
The professors, for all their intents, were just as noble as the Headmaster. Hydrus recognized McGonagall in their midsts, her tartan slashed to pieces. She flicked her wrist with incredible speed, but four Death Eaters rounded on her, and the witch could only do so much. She fell, her head splitting in two as she was shoved back violently by a blue-coloured spell.
Eighty-years old, her blood ran cold on the stones of Hogwarts, only a dozen feet from where Hydrus Malfoy stood.
There was Flitwick as well, and Hooch and Pomfrey and what he assumed to be Burbage, the muggle-studies professor. They fought until their very last breath, for however little it was. In the darkness of night, their every spell was as bright as an inferno, lighting the world a new colour.
Albus Dumbledore was a great force of magic, and it took five members of the Inner Circle before he was blasted unconscious, but the rest of the professors fell quickly, dropping to the floor like flies.
Lord Voldemort surveyed the darkness of the room and brushed the dust off of Hydrus Malfoy robes. "Easily done. The Headmaster, for all his glory, used to prattle on about the great blessing to wizardkind: the ability to love. He would spout to anyone, about the courageous testament of that virulent emotion, claiming it would be my downfall. Look where we are now. If he had not loved his students so very dearly, then perhaps he would still be alive. Take a seat at the High Table, my water snake. Know that there is worse to come."
_(O.O)_
Throughout Hogwarts, their screams reverberated, sounding over and over again, rings of brass bells clanging as one, heralding the arrival of their Lord.
Eight hundred students were rounded up with ease, guided to the Great Hall by the fifty Neonates, their bronze masks twinkling in the candlelight like molten gold.
Soon enough, Lord Voldemort will give them the true silver-gold mask.
Hydrus Malfoy took his spot where he always did; on the left-hand side of the Dark Lord, seated at the staff table, a clear view of all who was there. Part of it had been destroyed from the falling rubble, but with the flick of Quirinus Quirrell's wand, it reassembled itself.
The effects of the Polyjuice Potion were beginning to fade; his robes loosening their hold on him until it felt as normal and as unconstricting as could be.
The Mongrel was nude once more, his icy pale skin shimmering like glass as he hung the corpses on the wall, hammering McGonagall's arms and legs to the tapestries, pounding rusted nails into Flitwick's skull. He was so short, only three and a half feet tall. In death, his body seemed to shrivel in on itself, until he could not have been more than a fetus, dried to death.
The eight hundred students were kept in the back amidst the thick piles of rubble, grim, defeated looks to their faces. Many of the younger ones cried, their tears running pale streaks down their dirt-strewn faces. They were quickly hushed by their older companions, but only after Bellatrix Lestrange threatened to flay them alive.
From the destroyed ceiling, Albus Dumbledore hung like a rag doll, his head lifeless as it bounced against his chest, his half-moon spectacles a pile of shattered glass and bronze wire on the floor. His periwinkle robes were soiled and stained, ripped in some places, red with blood in others. An intricate network of ropes kept the old man suspended in the air, waving and wobbling from time to time, but never falling.
Hydrus knew the coils of string were for nothing but show. Magic held him up, a magic so strong even the seventh years and all their sweat-filled attempts would not be able to make him budge.
One had tried when he saw the Headmaster, and paid dearly for it.
His corpse had been hammered to the wall as well, his head lolling to the side, almost touching the leftmost bit of McGonagall's skull. The blood was beginning to dry.
Some part of him - a strange, apathetic part of his being - had become… had become accustomed to the blood and bodies. This was not the first time the Dark Lord had strung corpses onto the walls, slashing their skin until all sorts of curses were written on their pale bodies, but never before had Hydrus Malfoy seen so many hateful looks in his direction.
The second years were the worst of all - they had once been his classmates. Once, a lifetime ago, he might have helped Hannah Abbott with Transfiguration or walked with Daphne Greengrass along the Great Lake, or perhaps traded japes with Draco Malfoy in between classes, yet now each and every one of them looked at him as if he were some sort of twisted monster.
I suppose I always have been.
The stares made him feel ashamed regardless, and a part of him, the young, innocent child, begged him to stop, to leave, to take all those he loved and run far away where no muggles, no Dark Lords, no wizards could ever hurt him. That would never come true, and so he told the mewling child to shut up.
The Dark Lord stood up, and the room went deathly silent. Any first-year who might have emitted muffled sobs stopped crying entirely, their eyes unbelieving. "Albus Dumbledore still lives," Lord Voldemort announced, his voice booming across the room. "And he will continue to do so, so long as you cooperate. I am not an evil man, nor do I wish you harm. So long as you do as I command, your dear Headmaster will live."
The Death Eaters sat at his side, motionless, their silver-gold masks as beautiful as could be.
Lord Voldemort continued. "The first thing I ask from you all is to identify the mudbloods in your midst. Go on, quickly. I am not a patient man." It was strange just how very brave they could be. A student made to point at another, but someone shoved down his hand, and no one else dared. "Those who do so will have my favour and gratitude, which of course, may prove to be a useful thing when I am your captor."
An elder student, with a silver-green snake embroidered on their robes, stepped forward. Someone tried to stop him, but he sneered and knelt before the Dark Lord. "Margaret, Farrell, Gabath, Vylarr and Jennyfer are all the mudbloods in the seventh year, sir."
Idiot, Hydrus Malfoy wanted to scream. He is a Lord.
Lord Voldemort looked down at him, his red eyes aswirl. "And who are you?"
"Oliver Mundleton, sir."
"My Lord," the Dark Lord corrected, not unkindly. "Rise, Oliver. Know that my gratitude rests in your actions. A chamber shall be provided, and anything you may require will be delivered upon your request. Return, and know that your words have saved you."
With the reception Oliver Mundleton received, more and more stepped forward, until a complete list of all the muggle-borns had been made.
It was all for show, Hydrus Malfoy knew. Lucius Malfoy had a list of all the students and all their blood-statuses, as befit a member of the Board of Governors. The Dark Lord needed to keep the Death Eaters happy, and so one by one, the muggle-borns were pushed forward.
"Bella," Lord Voldemort said, his voice barely above a murmur. "You know what must be done."
The price of salvation is often death.
One by one, all of the muggle-borns were slaughtered.
The floor ran red with blood, the room shaking with the sounds of their pleas… asking them to stop… to help them… the professors… their mummies… their daddies… but only the knife came, slicing their necks as easily as it carved a cake. Bellatrix Lestrange laughed all the while, her dark curls thrown backwards, flipping in the air like springs. She had long ago ditched her mask, the maniacal grin upon her face growing wider and wider with every neck she snapped, every arm she cut and every eye she gouged.
Some could not have been older than Hydrus Malfoy, eleven or twelve like him. His birthday had come and gone weeks past, with no acknowledgement but a cupcake from Quirinus Quirrell. Did his age matter anymore? It seemed like nothing more than a number, another vague, meaningless thing that went on as time passed.
I don't feel twelve, he thought, watching as an eyeball skittered across the floor. A trail of crimson blood followed.
The four House tables, where the students ate their meals became the chopping block, where the Death Eaters wielded all sorts of barbaric tools.
Lord Voldemort watched on, his long, grey fingers clasped together, a look of mild interest upon his face. He turned to face Hydrus Malfoy. "You do not flinch anymore, nor do you recoil as a wounded kitten might have. You are learning, my water snake."
He did not know what to say in return, and so nodded his head and kept his eyes glued to the pool of blood, making its slow way across the floor. He dared not look away, for if he did, he might never look bad.
"Death with a purpose is a glorious one," the Dark Lord told him. "I am glad you have realized so, my water snake."
He took a deep breath and tried to ignore the growing smell of rust and feces. The knives swung, throats were slit, and the corpses began piling up. One after another… until one hundred and eighty-seven bodies were heaped onto the floor, mangled beyond recognition. Girls, who could not have been older than eleven had nails raked across their face until it reached bone; seventeen-year-old wizards who had cried for their mum as Bellatrix Lestrange spilled their sausage-like intestines onto the floor.
The Dark Lord looked at the mound of remains, his dark red eyes emotionless. "Chain the rest."
Bellatrix did so with a maniacal grin, attaching all of them in heavy shackles until they were all chained together.
Hostages had been taken; purebloods of rich and noble families. Any that might have been of questionable loyalty was taken, to be given chambers fit for their status. If their families continued to support the pro-muggle movement, they would be moved to the dungeons, with all the other unimportant students.
Hydrus watched with a numb gaze, as Daphne Greengrass was bound at the wrist, her light blonde hair messy and wilted, her face pale and shaking. Her blue-and-white striped pyjamas were torn in places, a particularly large gash running down the back of her shirt. Nonetheless, her spirit went on. She met the Dark Lord's eyes.
Fool, Hydrus Malfoy thought. Defiance will only lead to death.
There were more: Hannah Abbott, a cut that ran down her cheek; Ernie Macmillan, his pinched face beginning to bruise. Hydrus Malfoy remembered the childish feud between them and his flames. Now, watching him stumble feebly, a glazed, lost look to his eyes, it was impossible to imagine the pompous grin that was once etched on his lips. He felt no satisfaction in watching him get shackled.
Hostage after hostage it went until all the important sons and daughters of rich families were put away.
"It is every bit politics as it is bloodshed, my water snake," the Dark Lord had told him. "Why kill more wizards, if they will fall in line so very easily?"
Those who pledged their loyalty to the cause would live on, only once their food had been poisoned with the complex potion Severus Snape had brewed. If not, more lives were more mouths, and they would be ransomed or butchered - but one.
The lucky lad would be placed under the Imperius Curse, to tell the courageous tale of his escape from within the besieged walls of Hogwarts. He would babble to the Ministry, speaking of a hundred thousand Death Eaters in silver-gold masks, cloaks that rippled in their wake like black ink. He would tell the tale of Lord Voldemort and his mighty return, to describe the fearsome Dark Lord. He would say all he could, to frighten the Ministry into submission… not that it would be very difficult to do so.
Within a day, the lad would die, his food already poisoned with a potion - the same golden one Belvina had drunk, diluted with the same amount of nectar from a bulbous poppingale, to ensure at least twenty-four hours of delay.
The Dark Lord looked at them all. "Show them to their chambers, those who have merited the honour. The rest are to go to the dungeons."
House Black owned a hundred and twenty house-elves, all of which had been working tirelessly to clean the abandoned classrooms, layering them with plush carpets, spraying fine perfumes to cover the smell of mildew. They would bring in beds and feather-stuffed mattresses, silk blankets and pillows trimmed in lace. The rooms of the pureblood hostages would be clean and proper, as befit their rank.
Hydrus Malfoy watched as they were led away by members of the Inner Circle.
Daphne Greengrass met his eyes as she left, a strange sort of fear, swirled with disgust in her gaze.
Your father loves you, Hydrus wanted to reassure her. He will never raise a hand against the Dark Lord.
One by one, they all left, and Lord Voldemort dismissed the Death Eaters. Silence reigned as king in the Great Hall, as Hydrus Malfoy watched Albus Dumbledore's body, hanging limp from the ropes like a wilted plant. Moonlight filtered into the room, painting him with a silvery glow. From afar, he might have even looked like a god - an angel, descending from the sky.
"It has been a most eventful night," the Dark Lord told him. "Get some rest. The Ministry will fall soon enough. You need not worry about them."
Even he left, the doors to the Great Hall clanging shut behind him.
For a long moment, there was not a single sound, but the laboured breaths of Albus Dumbledore, as he hung from the ropes. And then, he spoke. His voice was lathered and exhausted, punctured by deep gasps, but his words were calm and clear. "You… you are the one, Harry Potter. You must defeat the Dark Lord."
Hydrus Malfoy stared at him.
A/N:
Dun dun dun duuun...
I'm thinking of upping (is that even a word?) the rating for this fanfic to 'M' because of how bloody and violent it is. Would that change much? I dunno know.
Next chapter will/should introduce the main conflict for Part 2, which will be interesting. (I hope)
Special thanks to KingZeRopL for taking the time to review Chapter 27!
I'm definitely glad you enjoyed last week's chapter. I can't claim to have any idea of what World of Warcraft is, but... one day I'll give the video game/novel a try and see how it goes. Hydrus Malfoy is a bit young to my liking - not the first time I've said this but, uh, I did not plan this out at all when I first started. If I had... maybe he would have been fifteen or around that age - but I definitely do agree that war and traumatic events in general do tend to make a person mature faster.
When i first started writing... oh boy I was in elementary school and absolutely swept up in that Percy Jackson craze. So the first thing I wrote was a PJO fanfic... which was essentially me retelling the story with the exact same plot because I had absolutely no idea of what to do. You can imagine how boring it was. I gave up after pretty much rewriting the first chapter of the Last Olympian. Since then I've thrown that out (thank god) and will never need to face that cringiness anymore.
I can't remember how I felt per se, but I knew that I enjoyed it, and so continued to write, at a rate of about one page a day all throughout elementary school. I wrote about... romance mostly, much to my embarrassment. You can imagine how bad they were, considering how clueless any kid will be about romantic relationships. But I went on, and... here we are today.
As to how I keep on writing one idea... oh boy... I'm not that great at pacing (you might have noticed) nor at planning (you also might have noticed) and as to how I stick with one idea for so long... actually, this is probably the first time I've gone so far with one idea for a novel/fanfic. Most of the time, I usually give up around 20-30k words. I think having regular readers that check up on this weekly is definitely a motivating factor. Along with that, I've often found that the reason I give up ideas so easily is because the stuff I'm writing... just isn't interesting. The idea and planning might sound super compelling on paper, but putting all of that into words and trying to make one cohesive plot out of it is easier said than done. You end up writing some boring/useless scenes (what happened a lot through Chapter 1-15 for me), which is okay, of course, so long as you keep powering through. But those scenes might destroy any passion you ever had for your idea... and if it ever feels like that, then you might want to ask yourself why it's boring. Is it another idea? Have you been writing for too long? Or is that scene just super slow/useless/boring? I've found that 99% of the time, a scene that you find boring to write will also be boring for you audience to read.
If you ever get a better idea - that's alright. Write it down somewhere, or even try and incorporate it into your storyline.
And as to your habit towards perfectionism... no writer is ever perfect, and no first draft, for sure, will be perfect. But that's okay. Most published stories have a zillion different drafts. Don't worry about achieving perfection on your first try, because (and we're being realistic here) it's not gonna happen. Don't be afraid to write stupid stuff, stuff that makes no sense, or stories with a ton of plot holes. The next time you go to write something, you'll want to keep in mind what you did wrong last time and do your best to correct that. It takes time to craft your art, and even still, after decades of work, it might not be to your satisfaction. That's okay. Just keep working, and you'll see the improvements.
But - take all of what I said with a grain of salt. I'm definitely not the best source for writing advice, and there are a ton of websites out there designed to encourage/inform writers. You know yourself best, and sometimes it is alright to drop ideas, but just know that if you never start, you'll never improve.
Wow that was long.
Well thanks to all of you guys who took the time to read this chapter, and I hope to see you all next week!
Cheers