Hello hello lovelies!
This chapter is very near and dear to my heart, so hopefully you all like it. I will say it is a bit graphic, so please keep that in mind. The reason I like it is cause it ushers in a new era in this story.
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Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and only the story line and any OC's belong to me.
After everyone retired from Harry's party, the Boy Who Lived and Ron "The King" Weasley cornered Remus.
The other Marauders and Lily are too busy ribbing and teasing Hermione about their new silvery pink scars on their shoulders to notice that the three wizards are missing.
The two boys don't say much, and their severe looks soon melt into vibrant smiles, but their message is clearly conveyed; they're entrusting Hermione to him, but he better not mess it up...or he'll have them to contend with.
Remus would rather not be on the wrong side of either of them: the two wizards are powerful—frighteningly so. Although, strangely enough Ron scares Remus more. Perhaps it's because he's seen Ron in action more than he has Harry—although from what he's heard, Harry is plenty powerful in his own right.
The three wizards return to the Sun Room to join their friends, and raucous laughter greets them. As Remus wraps his arms around Hermione's shoulders from behind, he can't help but think that he'll do everything in his power to make sure that Harry and Ron's faith in him isn't misplaced.
Thursday, August 9th, 1979
Potter Manor
"James only just recovered, Charlus...you know how he is—he'll want to dive back in, to make a difference," Dorea murmurs, a trickle of fear dripping from her tone. Her trepidation is perfectly rational, but, she knows she cannot keep him from fighting, nor would she particularly want to. James has always been a stubborn, strong-minded wizard—a fact that she is immensely proud of. She simply doesn't wish to toss him right back into the inferno of all consuming uncertainty—that surely awaits them outside the sanctity of the Manor—as of yet.
"I hate it too, dear," Charlus murmurs, slipping an arm around his wife's waist and dropping a quick kiss to her temple, "but, you know we need to tell them. The sooner the better."
Dorea makes a noise of agreement, her gaze affixing itself upon the small gathering of young wix just outside of the Sun Room, soaking in the warmth of the lazy summer afternoon.
"We'll tell them tomorrow…just…not today," Dorea states morosely, stepping into Charlie further.
Whilst they have been recuperating and regrouping, the War still rages on, never relenting, never letting up. They had been naïvely sequestered away, almost forgetting the tragedy all around them.
Dorea looks at them, and not for the first time she grieves the youth and innocence stolen away from them. No, they would let them have one more day. One more day to be gay and free.
Whilst the Potter Patriarch and Matriarch watch on, hearts and minds heavy with burdensome knowledge, Hermione Granger is otherwise concerned.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Hermione asks Remus gently, her fingers gently stroking his hair.
Remus hums gently, languidly trailing patterns across her thigh—sending shivers along her body, and slightly shifting about the thin fabric of her cornflower blue sundress. It is a floaty sort of dress, that looks like it belongs to the sky, and is friends with the fluffy clouds.
This morning, when Remus first caught sight of it, he couldn't help running his fingers across it. That is, until his splitting migraine forced him to lay still whilst Hermione crawled into bed beside him.
They are running low on Wolfsbane potion, so they shall soon need to go in search of fresh ingredients to brew some more.
That being said, yesterday's Full Moon had been as pleasant as the previous month's. Moony was surrounded by all his friends, not to mention that Remus vocalised the other day that he feels like Moony has been calmer ever since they'd sealed the pack bond. What the wizard doesn't tell her is that Moony is now displeased about another unsealed bond.
"I'm grand," Remus says eventually, prying open one of his hazel eyes and drinking her visage in.
Hermione's bouncy curls fall forward over her bare shoulders—save for the thin straps of her dress—and hides both of their faces from view of their friends; they have their own tartan blue blanket apart from the large red one their friends are sharing.
"Promise?" Hermione asks, ducking her head closer to his.
Remus's tongue darts out of his mouth to play with his lip ring before his lips curl into a playful smirk, "you're beautiful, do you know that?"
Hermione's cheeks blossom with heat. She wonders if she's always going to blush when he makes errant proclamations of affection, or random compliments.
"I love you, Remus," Hermione whispers, bumping her nose against his.
"I love you too, gorgeous," Remus responds, his eyes fluttering shut.
Hermione flips her hair over her shoulder and shifts so that her head is lying on his chest, and one of his hands moves to hold her close to him. Both of them deaf to the loud noises from the other blanket as Ron and Sirius prematurely set off some Fireworks that James had found in his old Zonko's stash.
All blissfully unaware of the tragedy that had transpired the night before.
The prior night, in a place far from the Manor, but also too close for comfort, things had gone in a drastically different direction for a quaint, close knit town in the middle of the English countryside. The moon morosely bathed the grim, crimson landscape with her cold light.
It is unnatural, and a fundamental affront to nature what occurred. Even if nature itself is violent, and cruel, there was no need for the bloodshed of so many innocents. The killing was not for food, or out of necessity, but merely for the sport; for the sheer delight of it.
Bellatrix Lestrange skips along a cobblestone path, bathed in blood, whistling a jovial tune as she yanks a recently deceased man behind her by his partially severed foot.
A maniacal spurt of glee came from her companion, and he giddily saddles up beside her—also drenched in blood, and relishing in every moment. Walden Macnair the 'Executioner Extraordinaire' as Bellatrix affectionately calls him. The two of them are a diabolical duo, and bloodshed is guaranteed whenever they get together.
Macnair is a spindly, gaunt man, with a long, jagged scar across his left cheek, his limbs are thin, and when he moves it is reminiscent of a tipsy spider, he sort of half jumps on one leg, only to drag the other behind him, causing him to move in an errant, odd fashion. One gets the impression that he is perpetually hardwired with an illegal substance of some kind, but truthfully, he's probably just a bit touched in the head.
Macnair licks the still warm blood off his lips, making a content noise, before he tilts his head in mocking pity at the dead man Bellatrix is tugging behind her. "It's a shame we didn't find those Muggleborns or their families. Normally Dolohov's intel is always solid."
Bellatrix pauses, and whirls around on Macnair—dropping the foot in the process, "someone must have tipped them off."
Macnair narrows his eyes at that, even for Bellatrix that is a fairly bold statement, especially considering that there is no proof of foul play. Knowing the unhinged witch however, one could draw the conclusion that she simply wishes to watch her Master torture some sorry sods; whether they are guilty of a grievance against him and their coalition or not.
Macnair grunts, shrugging, "or, maybe they wanted us to think they were here...and they tried to throw us off their scent."
Bellatrix scowls thickly at that, her hands coming to rest on her hips. The witch is about to hotly retort (not liking the idea of inferior Muggleborns, of Mudbloods, outsmarting them), but is cut short by the arrival of an unexpected—but not entirely unwelcome—guest.
A sharp crack tears the air apart, and the witch and wizard sharply turn towards the source. Bellatrix grins brightly, her starch white teeth shining in the darkness; a stark contrast against her crimson soaked skin.
"My Lord," Bellatrix inclines her head politely, and then glances back down at the discarded body of the man she'd been tugging around aimlessly.
She points her wand at him, and giddily yells, "bombarda!"
The body explodes, sending hunks of flesh, and organic matter in every direction imaginable. The witch simply cackles. Delighted. There is no rhyme or reason to the witch's actions, as everything she does is for the sheer twisted pleasure it brings her.
Theodus Nott fights to keep his expression impassive, but inwardly his stomach is tossing, turning, and twisting into an elaborate knot of violent waves and warped landscapes.
He didn't sign up for this.
Tom could not be allowing this to go on.
Why not? He isn't who he used to be...or perhaps, he was always this way, and he's now showing his true colours. He had you all fooled with his pretty words, radical ideologies and vast promises. You bought into it like gullible children, a voice hisses in Theodus's mind.
Weakly, Theodus tries to convince himself to the contrary. Tom doesn't—couldn't know about this. This was never something they'd discussed—not at the beginning all those years ago, and not once in recent times as Tom's vision is finally starting to come to fruition.
Of course, some bloodshed is necessary to pave a new way; to create a new order. There will always be resistance, it is simply the way of things, and with it comes casualties on both sides. It would be naïve not to think so; but this?
Theodus heaves in a large gulp of air. No, deep down, Theodus knows the truth. He's known it for a long time, far longer that he cares to admit—even to himself. (Trickles of doubt had been playing on his mind for weeks now, and he'd rationalised things that perhaps he shouldn't have.)
Theodus begins to think things that would get his head lobbed off if he ever spoke them aloud. Things that would endanger his wife and unborn child.
His mind whirls, systematically going through his options, as he gazes upon Macnair pilfering whatever he can find off the dead. The wiry man pokes and prods at an unrecognisable figure—so much so that Theodus cannot figure out their gender—and makes a noise of triumphant when he finds something shiny, and precious looking around their neck. The chain breaks with a neat snap, and Macnair promptly tucks it into his robes, and proceeds to pat the abdomen of the body he'd just stolen from. The man glances around him, grins madly as he spots his next target. The man excitedly hops up and heads towards the corpse.
The ginger haired boy that Bellatrix mentioned, Theodus ponders thickly, instead choosing to look down—which proves to be a gross error in judgement, as he discovers he is standing in a questionable pile of what he can only assume are someone's intestines.
Fucking grand, these are nice shoes. I'll have to burn them, Theodus scowls mentally. It's probably already sunk into the expensive material, and now they'll reek of death forever.
Theodus tips his head to the stars, at the bright twinkles that seem so innocent and pure compared to the mess he's surrounded by. He grips his wand tighter, lowering his gaze once more; he can't take his eyes off of the two unpredictable wix in front of him; they may start in on him next, just for the heck of it.
He was with James Potter, and the other boy, Lyall's son…can't remember his name, ah! Remus Lupin. At least I believe so, if memory serves, Theodus thinks.
(Theodus is quite surprised that Tom had not focused on any of the other persons there that night, only the ginger haired boy. It was as if he saw them all as unimportant, and not worth even a second thought.)
So many rumours have been spinning amongst their ranks as to his true identity, but Theodus thinks they are all hogwash. Something greater is at work here.
As it is, the Potters have been blacklisted amongst their organisation as Order members. If one sees them, or any of their known associates, they have been instructed to capture or kill them on sight. (Not that that made them particularly special in this case, as you could be a Muggle living a life of peaceful contentment, and you could still end up losing your life. Everyone is up for grabs, there are no limits on who lives and dies; there is simply us and them.)
To Tom, the Order and all of its members are merely expendable pawns on Dumbledore's chess board. None of them are the real threat, and thus he has written them off as puny, insignificant pests. His sole focus is Hogwarts Headmaster; Theodus had held his tongue, never telling Tom that perhaps Dumbledore was his blind spot, and that perhaps his obsession with the older wizard was unhealthy, and would most certainly be his downfall.
Bellatrix's wild cackling pierces his ears, thus pulling him from his heavy contemplation, and he winces. He glances at the witch as she spins in hasty circle before yelling something incoherent to Macnair.
Whilst keeping a sharp eye on the two unstable wix, Theodus pauses to picture how the future will unfold, and it is not a pretty sight in his mind's eye.
In spite of himself, he still finds a tiny part of him is torn as he settles on a decision (perhaps a foolhardy decision), but, nonetheless, if he has even an inkling of what is truly going on here, then it may be the best course of action. It may quite frankly be the only course of action.
He cannot allow this to go on any longer, and there is a slim possibility that he may be able to aid in preventing the bleak future that awaits them if they continue down this path. However, if he sits back and idly watches, then everything will most assuredly look like the dismal landscape before him. There will be nothing but senseless death and destruction.
Theodus lifts his foot, and shudders at the squelching, sticky sound that comes as a result.
Dorea, Theodus thinks, his brow furrowing together. He hasn't spoken to the witch in years, and he highly doubts she'll simply welcome an audience with him without a good reason. Knowing her, at the very least she'll chop off a limb first, and ask questions later. Especially if she thinks her family is in danger.
No, I must be smart about this, Theodus muses, stroking the length of his jaw with the back of his hand, the slight scruff there scratching against his fingers.
Theodus sighs heavily.
Tiredly he turns an eye on Bellatrix and Macnair: the pair is dancing joyously about, linking arms and then separating only to spin around. It's when Bellatrix skips over a mangled hunk of flesh that he's had enough. Loudly, he proclaims, "The two of you need to clean this up. We can't draw any more attention to ourselves than you already have."
Bellatrix steps forward, sneering, "why don't you clean it up?"
"Because it's your bloody mess," Theodus responds calmly, turning up his nose as she steps closer—smelling of death, defecation and something sour that he doesn't wish to identify.
"Fine," Bellatrix pouts.
Theodus shakes his head and backs away slowly, not trusting the two of them one iota so he refuses to turn his back on them.
He sees Bellatrix pick up a discoloured, bloody hand, and throw it at Macnair with a laugh. The man quickly parried with a thick foot.
It's all he can do not to be sick. I need to go see Abraxas.
