DISCLAIMER- In this part, I mangle history beyond any recognition. I apologize profusely to any Ancient Roman buffs out there and beg you to please suspend your disbelief.
PHOENIX ASCENDING X-- Dark Origins
Peter Pettigrew opened the door to his chambers, flinching slightly as the Death Eater standing guard gave a nervous cough.
"Yes?" Pettigrew raised a graying eyebrow. He noted with a smug satisfaction that the servant lowered his eyes rather than making contact with Pettigrew's own.
"H--he," the man's voice trembled uncontrollably, so he cleared his throat to try again. "He has arrived, m-my lord." Two months earlier, the guard would have been laughing in Wormtail's face, but Pettigrew had learned over many years of personal experience that the strong ruled the weak. Now, thanks to Voldemort's gift of the silver hand, he had the strength to rule, to command, and to oppress. After many long years of waiting, power was literally in his grasp. Pettigrew flexed the fingers of his silver hand fondly, holding it up so it caught the desert sunlight filtering in through a rough-hewn window.
"He who?" Pettigrew snapped. The guard opened his mouth to reply, but no sound came out, an expression of absolute terror stretched across the man's gaunt features. "He who?" Pettigrew repeated, reaching out and gripping the guard's arm with his silver hand. Ever so gently, Wormtail squeezed. He smirked in pleasure when the servant cried out in pain. "Now tell me who has arrived, you ignorant piece of filth, and tell me quickly because I don't want to spend any more listening to your disgusting voice than what is absolutely necessary," Pettigrew roared, accenting each word with a squeeze.
"H-he," the man was sobbing with absolute terror and pain. "He-who-must-not-be-named!" he finally choked out. "He-who-must-not-be-named is w-waiting for you in your ch-chambers, milord."
He gave a snarl of disbelief; the servant was obviously lying. Violently, Pettigrew tossed the guard aside, who trembled in a crumbled heap. He lay splayed against the wall, as if he were a rag-doll.
Spitting as he past the quavering man, Pettigrew strode into his chambers. He was looking forward to taking a long relaxing bubble bath while leafing through So You Wanna Commit Crimes Against Humanity? Becoming an Evil Overlord in 5 Easy Steps. Reciting the first tenet firmly to himself in his head (Get Corporate Sponsorship), Pettigrew nearly jumped straight out of his wrinkly skin. The door had slammed shut behind him.
He had not closed it.
Trembling, his heart in his throat, Pettigrew turned around. There was no one there. He took a deep steadying breath, almost laughing at himself. It must have been the breeze. "Boo." Pettigrew gave a nervous cry not unlike that of a wounded wombat. Spinning around wildly, he was confronted with a soft chuckle.
"Hello, Wormtail," Lord Voldemort was perched in a particularly large easy chair, his red eyes smirking up at his servant over the top of an ridiculously enormous self-help book.
Wormtail licked his lips, feeling his voice quaver when he spoke. "M-master," he stammered. Not for the first time in his life, Peter Pettigrew was at a total loss for words.
Voldemort turned the heavy tome over, humming quietly to himself. "The Idiot's Guide to Being Evil," he read the title aloud, heavy sarcasm dripping from his voice. "I found this on your bookshelf and thought I'd take a peek. You've found the perfect series, Wormtail, considering the lack of substance between your most disgusting ears. I have my own chapter you know," Voldemort smirked. "Right between Charles Manson and Martha Stewart." He gave a long sigh. "It feels so good to be appreciated, though the editors have gotten some of their facts wrong. I most definitely do not eat raw squirrels for breakfast. That went out of style with Edgar the Evil Ethiopian Eunuch. Then again, what do you expect from idiots? Wingardium Levosia," he purred lazily, waving his wand as the book flew pack to its place on Pettigrew's library shelf. It nestled itself between Mother N. Law's Guide to Psychological Torture and Evil Wizards: Deep Down, We're Just Softies.
"To what do I owe this honor, my lord," Pettigrew choked, bowing so low that his nose touched the floor. In truth, he was more than a little alarmed at Voldemort's sudden burst of sarcasm. He couldn't help to shake off the feeling that his master was playing with him.
"Oh spare me the sniveling, Wormtail," Voldemort snarled, flicking his hand. "It's truly disgusting, but while you're down there, would you mind licking my boots? It's been a while since I've gotten a shine."
Pettigrew stood there, his fat lips quivering in shock. He was about to protest when his common sense kicked in. What choice did he really have? Wormtail was dealing with Lord Voldemort. Ever so slowly he bent down and ran his gleaming purple tongue over the Dark Lord's shoes. Voldemort hadn't lied, his boots were quite dirty and Pettigrew found himself having to lick through so many layers of mud he would not be remotely surprised if he eventually hit fossils. As for Voldemort, he had a huge grin plastered across his reptilian face. The evil wizard was absolutely delighted at causing his minion so much discomfort.
"I came here into the past to see how our plans are progressing," the Dark Lord hissed, drumming his fingers on Wormtail's baldpate. "I trust the fortress is complete?"
"Mrgh," Wormtail muttered. His mouth was so full of mud it was impossible to make a coherent reply.
"Excellent," Voldemort smiled. "And as worthless as you are, you have managed to create the Innocintus Wards I commissioned?"
"Yes," Pettigrew gasped, looking up from his Lord's boot. Trembling, he wiped the dirt off his lips. "The wards are complete, only a creature of dark origins can enter this fortress in which we are standing. We had to steal some children from the Himyarties for the Innocintus Potion," Pettigrew added. Seeing the blank look on his master's face, he continued. "Himyarties are the native mudblood horsemen, my lord."
"Fool! I know what Himyarties are," Voldemort snapped, slapping Pettigrew atop the head.
"Ow!" he squealed before he could stop himself. "I mean, thank you, my lord," he amended, starting at the sight of Voldemort's unamused glare.
"Wormtail, Wormtail," the Dark Lord purred. "When will you learn to keep your mouth shut and spare us the agony of listening to your drivel?"
"I... I know, my lord," Pettigrew said quietly, bowing his head in fear.
"Take care you remember," the Dark Lord's voice was a guttural growl as he reached out and gripped his minion by the chin. "Next time, I will not be so forgiving," he jerked his hand away from Pettigrew's chin, raking his nails across the man's pudgy throat in the process. Suppressing a cry of pain, Wormtail forced his hands to remain by his sides. Wrenching pain aside, he could feel the blood drip slowly down the curve of his throat, into his robes and down his chest. As Voldemort reached forward again, he felt a wave of sheer terror wash over him, coupled by innate revulsion as the man's bone white fingers gently laced around his throat. "There is no place for disobedience within my followers. I can kill you, and I will. You are nothing to me, Wormtail, nothing at all." Voldemort's laugh was high pitched and self-satisfied, rolling across Pettigrew like a bolt from the heavens. Ever so gently, Voldemort drew his fingers away. Pettigrew collapsed into a relieved slump as the Dark Lord gazed at his hands longingly. His fingertips, bone white, were stained a vivid crimson by Pettigrew's blood. Still smiling at his minion, Voldemort extended his tongue and licked at the red fluid, sucking all of his fingers clean. His grin only broadened at the look of absolute disgust on Wormtail's features.
"I... I trust your ride was pleasant my lord," Pettigrew stammered, trying desperately to change the subject before Voldemort lost his temper again.
"As pleasant as a ride by Greyvillian Responder can be," Voldemort sneered, staring at Pettigrew with subdued amusement. "Though I daresay it would be much more enjoyable if I didn't have to see your ugly mug."
Pettigrew gave a nervous laugh, leaping to his feet before Voldemort could ask him to lick between his toes or something equally repulsive. "Of course, of course. Well I'll remove myself in that case--"
"Fool! I have not given you permission to retire!" Voldemort screeched, nearly leaping from his recliner. He motioned Pettigrew a few feet closer to himself, which his servant did, rather unwillingly. "I am here to talk business, not to suit your needs and wants. Do you understand me, Wormtail?"
"Yes, yes, my mistake, milord," Pettigrew sniveled, bowing deeply. He was trying to disguise that his hands were trembling.
"It is always your mistake, Wormtail," Voldemort ran a skeletal hand over his jaw. "You are sure we can transport this entire fortress into the future, wards included, once we've properly subjugated the Giants?"
"Of course," Wormtail chirped, his knees still shaking. "And if we can't, look on the bright side my lord. Property taxes are much less in the Roman Empire."
Voldemort was not amused. "You know how I deal with failure, Wormtail," he hissed, pointing at his servant's bloody throat as his red eyes glittered maliciously.
"Yes, yes, of course," Pettigrew stammered, throwing in a rather shallow bow for good measure.
Voldemort just smiled, and Pettigrew couldn't help but shake off the feeling that his master was laughing at him. "There's someone I want you to meet, Wormtail."
"W-who, my lord?" Pettigrew felt his blood run cold. All of Voldemort's friends were usually undead, unwashed, unwed and all around unappetizing.
"You can come out now," Voldemort purred softly as a figure emerged from the shadows behind Pettigrew. "Wormtail, this is Lucifer."
It was a young man about a foot taller than Pettigrew himself, his features hidden by a long black cloak drawn over his face. Wormtail felt a chill ran up his spine, Lucifer's menacing form was not unlike that of a dementor.
"The Lucifer, milord?" Wormtail asked, his throat growing dry as his confusion deepened. Lucifer, the legendary Death Eater, had been in his grave for almost fifteen years.
Voldemort only smiled. "Lucifer just killed Mad-Eye Moody," he said without really answering Pettigrew at all.
Wormtail looked up at the cloaked figure nervously. Somehow, he did not relish the ides of becoming aquatinted with a fifteen-year-dead-zombie. "Er, hello?" he ventured timidly.
Lucifer said nothing in reply, only extending a blackened hand out from the depths of his sleeve. Out of sheer terror and nothing more, Pettigrew took it. He noticed with a sickening shock that Lucifer's hand was red with welts and caked with blood. Peter drew away quickly, feeling the other man's eyes on his neck.
"I have one more task for you, Wormtail," Lord Voldemort hissed as Pettigrew's heart dropped straight through the bottom of his ribs. He was still staring at Lucifer's puffy, malformed hand, the soot clinging to it like a second skin. He felt a shudder of revulsion creep up his spine.
"Your wish is my command," he said mechanically, wanting with every ounce of soul to tell the Dark Lord to fuck off and run off to a safe little hole where he could take bubblebaths and read self-help books to his heart's content.
"What do you know," Lord Voldemort purred as he pulled out a small red vial. "About dragon's blood?"
----
A darkened room, hewn of stone.
A sputtering fire in a grate, burning closer to death with every tiny flicker of flame.
An oaken table, round as the earth itself, with seats as numerous as the stars.
Harry found himself in one of these chairs, his head in his hands. Sitting up abruptly, he saw that his fingers were wet with tears. It was another dream. By now, he was used to them. Harry simply let go, giving himself up completely into the vision.
"Father." It was Draco Malfoy, lounging casually against the rough-hewn door of the castle.
"Mordred," Harry felt himself reply, his voice toneless and dead.
"So, have you decided?" Mordred's voice was eager, far too eager, as he sidled over to where Harry sat.
"Decided what?" Harry said weakly.
Mordred snorted, disbelieving. "Whether or not you will burn your whore of a wife for high treason."
"Guinevere is no whore!" Harry's voice rose in anger as he smashed his fist down upon the round table.
Mordred leapt up onto the table, crouching down so that he was on the same eye level as Harry. "She betrayed you. She violated your marriage vows with your best friend. She killed all the trust and love you've ever had for her, Arthur."
Arthur. The name set off alarm bells in Harry's head, as everything began to slowly click together: the round table, Gawain, Lancelot, Ginny... Mordred. Half-remembered fairy-tales rushed back to Harry as real memory, an existence lived and past more than 1500 years before his present life. His fingers trembling, Harry looked down at the blade bound to his hip. His fingers slowly, almost lovingly, traced the words engraved onto its hilt. Rex Quondam Rexque Futurus. He did not need Hermione to translate the Latin.
The Once and Future King.
Harry felt a chill run up his spine. He was King Arthur. Draco, Sirius, and Ron were all old souls, whom he had known in countless lives before his own. He lived in constant flux, always fighting, never gaining much of a foothold, but striving on for right, good, life. This was not dream. It was a memory.
Mordred gazed at Harry curiously, his gray eyes narrowing in suspicion. His scathing drawl brought Harry back to the present, or rather, the past. "The men are calling for you to burn Guinevere. Need I remind you that the punishment for adultery is death? You wrote that law yourself." Scorn dripped from his voice, scorn that would sound identical in his other incarnation, born almost 1500 years later.
Harry licked his lips, and if he could find any humor inside of him, he would have smiled at the irony. But it was all too much to bear. "This could destroy everything we've worked for, Mordred." He paused slightly, staring around the round table. "I've spent my entire life uniting Britain. Knights that were enemies now embrace each other as brethren, united under the law."
"Yes..." Mordred rolled his eyes, obviously quite bored.
Harry ignored him, "If I set Guinevere free, I will flout the very law our kingdom is built upon. I will destroy everything this table has stood for 25 years: freedom, liberty, and justice. But if I burn her, I'm killing my own conscience, my soul, my love."
"That whore deserves no love of yours!" Mordred spat violently, leaping to his feet upon the round table. It gave an awful creak, but Mordred stood firm, towering over Harry. "She's been screwing Lancelot for the last twenty years! They were together in your marriage bed when we caught them. He was ravaging her, again and again and again," With every word, Mordred took a step closer to Harry until they were almost touching. The tension between the two men was palpable, something sentient, as it stretched from one to the other, ripping the air like a lash of a whip. Mordred reached forward, gripping Harry about the shoulder and dropping his tirade to a mere whisper. "The only thing louder than the moans of pleasure were the curses she threw upon your name." Harry said nothing; his head pulling him one way while his heart beat out another path. Mordred's next words would change history: "She doesn't love you."
With a sickening lurch, the Arthur within Harry knew it was true. "Let her burn," he whispered.
Mordred let out a wild whoop of triumph, leaping off the roundtable and rushing from the great hall to spread the word of Guinevere's demise.
Unbidden, a voice echoed in Harry's brain, a line from a time so far away, "If the time should come when you have to make a choice between what is right and what is easy, remember what happened to a boy who was good, and kind, and brave... remember Cedric Diggory."
His sword fell to the ground with a clatter, the dull ringing noise it made when it fit the floor all too reminiscent of the sound made a Hufflepuff boy not yet born, when his corpse fell to the ground of a graveyard that hadn't yet been constructed. The sound of the falling sword made him remember a cool summer night 1500 years in the future.
An image came to Harry's mind, a woman's head, screaming as flames slowly consumed her body. Somehow, he knew it was Arthur's Guinevere and yet, in that tortured face, all he could see were the features of Cedric Diggory.
This was Arthur's ultimate decision, a choice between what was good and what was easy. The High King of Britain betrayed his own heart and taken the primrose path. Now, his innocent wife would pay the consequences, just as Cedric had died for Harry five months ago and 1500 years in the future.
"Wait!" Harry called out, ready to change Arthur's ruling, change history, but the dream was already fading.
It was too late for Arthur...
..."Sirius!" Harry had dragged his godfather halfway across the campsite to a tiny log by the fire. "This is Romulus."
The thin man with the mop of brown hair looked up from the flames, a touch of amusement in his stormy gray eyes. Sirius felt a tightening in his chest as his lip drew itself up into a sneer he usually reserved for Snape alone. Romulus's reply was terse. "We've met." Breaking free of Harry, Sirius knelt down so that he was at Romulus's level. Slowly, their eyes me. He felt a wave of rage at the mocking sneer on the addict's face. "Heart still set in killing me, Black?"
If Harry hadn't been watching, Sirius would have gone straight for Romulus's throat, but instead he kept his hands flush to his side, although they clenched into fists. "No," he hissed, growling from deep within his throat. "I'm just wondering why you're not dead yet."
"If you wait long enough," it was Romulus, his gravely voice almost amused. "We're all corpses."
"What?" Sirius jerked his head up, as Harry knelt down beside him. With a pang of shame, he loosened his fists, unwilling to let his godson see the violent temper he had once been famed for.
"I'm trying to say it doesn't matter whether I live or die," Romulus retorted harshly.
Harry let the moment hang for a second before replying. "You really don't believe that."
"How do you know?" the twin said defensively.
"I don't know," Harry replied quietly. "It's an instinct." Romulus looked away bitterly, dropping his head into his hands once more, rubbing his temples harshly, as if he was trying to expel something lodged between them. Concerned, Harry tilted his own head to the side. "Are you all right?"
Romulus did not reply, looking down at the floor. Harry was about to turn away when he took a deep breath. "No. But I will be."
"Do you need anything?" Harry asked automatically, concern filling him.
Romulus's smile was bittersweet. "Not anymore."
----
"Er..." Remus found himself quite speechless as he peered into the clear blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore. "What are you doing here?"
Dumbledore didn't seem the least bit unfazed by Remus's lack of welcome. "Lucius Malfoy put out a warrant for my arrest and I was forced to flee Hogwarts. Since I had information that was of some interest to the Giants, I came here by Greyvillian Responder."
"What the hell is going on?" Sirius's voice gave words to the thought on every mind. All eyes turned to focus on the one man who seemed to have all the answers. In spite of himself, Albus Dumbledore blushed.
So they found themselves clustered around the campfire, bewildered and waiting for some sort of explanation to make sense of the insanity. Harry himself was seated between Sirius and Romulus, who were watching Hagrid with an amused stare. The Hogwarts gamekeeper was too plastered to sit down, so he was being supported, rather unsuccessfully, by two of Anan's horsemen. They both looked about ready to collapse under the strain of the half-giant's enormous and inebriated bulk.
"Ahem," Dumbledore cleared his throat, looking around at the haphazard camp of Brits, Giants, Horsemen and Romans. "First and foremost, it is our solemn duty as guests to thank the Giants for their hospitality." There was a lukewarm scattering of applause in which Dumbledore bowed to the mountain of a woman who had been toasting marshmallows with Maxime. "Over the past few decades I've gotten to know Grunhilda, Queen of the Giants, very well indeed. Right now, I would like to turn over our discussion to this very lovely lady," his eye twinkled mischievously as Grunhilda blushed.
"Oh, Albus," she waved a pudgy hand dismissively. "You're embarrassing me." She gave a girlish titter before continuing. "I'd like to welcome you all to our humble home, and hope we can give you the best hospitality available in the short hours we have left here."
"Short hours?" Anan spoke up for the first time, his dark face concerned. "You Giants have lived in these hills for almost thirty years."
Grunhilda gave Anan a sympathetic stare. "Times change, my dear. This isn't the kind world it used to be."
"What is going on?" Anan turned his furor to the one man who seemed to have the slightest inkling of what was about to transpire: Dumbledore.
Dumbledore ran his hands together, a funny closed look on his face. "Many things are 'going on', as you so aptly put it."
"You know what he is talking about, old man," a voice hissed. It was Posthumous, a look of absolute annoyance on his skintight face.
Dumbledore's crisp smile did not waver for an instant. "The Giants are in horrible danger, and they must leave their refuge before they are annihilated."
"What?" Anan's face went red, the firelight flickering menacingly off his blade. "You're lying!"
Hagrid may have been drunk out of his skull, but he could not take this new shot at Dumbledore's dignity. "What kind o' bleedin' ragnosed bastard do yeh think yeh are--"
"Hagrid, please," Grunhilda held up her hand and the half-giant fell silent, much to the relief of the two tribesmen supporting his indignant inebriated bulk. "Anan, I realize why you are upset, we Giants have been friends with your people ever since we first arrived in these hills 25 years ago."
"And now is the time that we are in the most need your friendship!" Innoch cut the Giant queen off desperately. Anan looked somewhat taken aback at this outburst, giving his youngest horseman a skeptical glare. "Bandits from the deep desert are attacking our villages, burning them to the ground and stealing our children!"
"Innoch--" Anan hissed between clenched teeth, obviously seeing his son-in-law's outburst as a loss of dignity.
"Well it's true!" The younger man exclaimed. He gestured wildly around the campfire. "Today, Harran here lost his family to these abominations! I don't wish to see my wife and son burnt to death when I return home!" Harry was somewhat taken aback by this exclamation, in his reckoning Innoch could not have been any older that 21.
"We can handle the bandits," Anan said, the look on his face absolute livid.
"No we can't!" Innoch said forcefully, watching Anan's expression growing increasingly furious. "We need the help of your Giants, Grunhilda, and if we don't have it, hundreds of our people could die. We're powerless against these invaders!"
"Innoch!" Anan roared, his brown hands clamped into fists. "Son-in-law or not, what are you trying to do to me?" The horseman glanced around the camp nervously before lowering his voice to a menacing hiss. "Are you trying to make us look weak?"
"No," Innoch's face held a small smile. "I'm trying to save our lives."
Grunhilda gave a small cough, obviously quite embarrassed at having interrupted the argument. She gave an apologetic smile to both parties before continuing. "Innoch, I'm terribly sorry, but we too are powerless." At this proclamation, Anan gave a frustrated groan, but Grunhilda pointedly ignored him. "Twenty five years ago, we Giants lived in the north of Britain. The year was 1969, and the Minister of Magic was a man named Otto O'Beanstalk. To make a long story short, Otto despised us Giants, one of his forebears was a man named Jack O'Beanstalk, and he got into some nasty squabbles with some of our ancestors. I believe there was a short fight over a golden chicken, But," Grunhilda gave a grin, "I digress." O'Beanstalk painted us as evil, dark creatures who ate full grown men for dinner and popped human babies like after dinner mints." There was a slight titter among the horsemen at this stereotype. "The British public had always been slightly mistrustful of us Giants and O'Beanstalk's propaganda just fanned the flames. Soon, the wizards were burning our forests and attacking our settlements. We were forced to flee for our lives, and so we turned to the one man whom we trusted. Albus Dumbledore," A warm smile spread across Grunhilda's face as she looked at Dumbledore fondly. "Albus gave us a Greyvillian Responder and urged us to hide in the one place where O'Beanstalk would never think to look for us: the past."
"So the Giants came here," Dumbledore interjected, his lined face suddenly becoming even heavier. "But now a new threat has transpired to threaten their safety."
"A war is waging in the future we left behind," Grunhilda said urgently to Anan. "A Dark Wizard named Voldemort is threatening the security of modern Britain. Albus has learned through spies that Voldemort has traveled back to this time with the intention of subjugating us Giants to do his evil bidding. Since the beginnings of our race, Giants have never concerned themselves in human affairs. We have even refused to help Albus fight this Voldemort, despite the opposite urgings of my most excellent Mr. Hagrid," at this Hagrid gave an appreciative belch before lapsing again into his drunken stupor. "Voldemort will not be as understanding of our neutrally as Albus was. We must once again flee, this time back to the home that we left, modern day Britain, which has the proper magical technology to protect us. If we stay here, we will undoubtedly be forced into working for Voldemort."
"This Voldemort," Innoch began hesitantly, ignoring Anan's pained stare. "Is he your Pettigrew?"
With a start, Harry realized Innoch was talking to him. "No, but Pettigrew is one of his men--"
"Wormtail is here?" Sirius tone was so low it seemed almost like a feral growl.
"He's the one stealing the horsemen's babies," Harry said, almost afraid of the bloodthirsty grin on his godfather's face.
"That complicates things," Dumbledore said quietly, almost to himself.
"How so?" Remus Lupin looked up from his place by the Asian woman, whom Harry vaguely remembered as Vix.
"I have learned through spies that Voldemort is creating a fortress in the Roman desert. He plans to use it to subjugate the Giants to his will and then transport the whole castle into the future so he can use it as his base of operations. My spies have not been able to obtain the exact ward spells Voldemort plans to use on such a construction. However, the fact that he is stealing babies leads me to only one conclusion," Dumbledore took a breath. "Voldemort must be using the Innocintus Ward."
"And what is that?" Posthumous's tone was skeptical and full of sarcasm.
Dumbledore ignored him. "It is a ward spell created by a potion which's main ingredient is the life blood of innocent children. The blood potion is then mixed into the foundations of a building, rendering it impenetrable to everyone, except creatures of dark origins. Only evil sorcerers, black wizards, monsters, and creatures of dark magic would ever be able to enter Voldemort's fortress. Once he has an impenetrable castle, none of us would be able to so much as touch a hair on the Dark Lord's head. Of course the Innocintus Ward is powerful dark magic and I doubt that any except Voldemort would dare attempt such a spell. And since Mr. Riddle has performed the Oedipii Curse, he is essentially invincible."
"He performed the Oedipii Curse?" Hermione's eyes were wide with terror, but no one else, adults included, seemed to know what it was.
"He did indeed, Hermione," Dumbledore said quietly. "Oedipii is another dark hex. Once performed on a human, he is unable to be killed by any natural cause or person except those who have the same blood running through their veins."
Harry felt as if a thunder bolt struck him straight on, singing through to the core. Voldemort had no known descendants or relatives, so that meant that there was only one person in the world who shared his blood. Ever since that fateful night in early summer, Harry had carried a scar on his upper arm, marking where Wormtail's dagger has pierced his skin. His blood has resurrected the Dark Lord, and now it may be the only key to bringing him down. Sirius, staring at Harry, seemed to be reading his thoughts. However, instead of sharing Harry's grim determination, Padfoot looked horrified. "No," he said forcefully.
"What, Sirius?" Dumbledore asked gently.
"Harry will have nothing to do with any scheme you're cooking up," Sirius said firmly, his hands clenching into fists as he spoke. "He's been through enough already."
"I'm afraid it would be impossible to keep Harry out of it," Dumbledore replied quietly.
"Sirius," Harry said quietly, feeling his insides melt at the look of horror on his godfather's face. "If Dumbledore is right, I'm the only one who can do anything to harm Voldemort."
"You're fifteen fucking years old!" Sirius yelled, his ragged black hair falling into his face as he spoke. "When I was fifteen I didn't even know who Lord Voldemort was and I didn't have to care. I had a childhood--"
"Sirius!" Looking up, Harry saw it was Remus. Warning filled his haggard gray face. Sirius remained silent for a moment, his brown eyes blazing as Remus gave him a cautioning glare. Amazingly, Sirius backed down, giving Harry a pained stare that looked on the brink of tears as he retreated even farther into his cloud of anger and resentment. Hardly wanting to admit it to himself, Harry was forced to realize that he agreed with Sirius. He wanted to run away from it all, go to school, hang out with his friends, grow up normally. The last thing he wanted to do was face Lord Voldemort again, he just did not believe that the choice was his own.
"Harry will do nothing to threaten his own safety," Dumbledore said soothingly as Sirius stared moodily off into the night. "You know I would never thrust him into danger knowingly, Sirius."
Sirius made no reply, the expression on his dark face hidden by his veil of scraggly hair. But Dumbledore seemed to take his silence as an affirmative. After a slight pause, he continued. "Tomorrow we will all return home, Giants, Faculty, Wizards, and Students, who are most definitely out-of-bounds." Hermione gave a slight titter, but everyone else remained silent, angry and confused, lost in their own tiny worlds. "I believe this evacuation will solve your problem, Anan," Dumbledore said quietly, meeting the gaze of the desert tribesman. "Once we are out of the area, Voldemort will have no reason to stay. He will trouble you no more."
Posthumous's face broke into a huge smile. "Then we ride tonight," he said to the horsemen. Anan's face darkened, but he nodded, bowing his head in resignation.
"Where are you going?" Hermione blurted out before she could stop herself and then turned bright red when everyone in the campsite wheeled around to stare at her.
Posthumous didn't miss a beat, "Carthage. Now. Tiberius docks in two days time."
He abruptly stood up, brushing the sand off his robes. Anan followed suit, and with their Chieftain's lead, all seven horsemen rose. Without a backward glance the nine men stalked out of the ring of the campfire.
----
Romulus got up quickly, following the horsemen's trail out into the darkness. No one saw him go.
"What do you want?" Posthumous snarled when he reached the edge of the camp. The nine men were already saddling their horses for their long journey across the desert.
Romulus bit his lip, and throwing all caution to the wind, he reached out a gripped the reins of Posthumous's insufferable mule. "Where do you think you're going?" he said quietly, trying to still the frantic beating of his heart.
Posthumous gave a derisive laugh. "A place that's no concern to you."
"Don't go," Romulus hissed between clenched teeth. "Please. You don't understand what will happen."
"I think you could be the one accused of not understanding," Posthumous said slowly, his voice a mere hiss, swallowed quickly by the thin mountain air.
"I understand more than you think," Romulus said quietly, flinching as Posthumous met his gaze. His clear green eyes were full of a fevered anger.
"You really think you can stop me," Posthumous said to Romulus, a touch of amazement in his voice as he cocked his head to the side. "You think you know what I'm doing."
"You're going to try to kill the Emperor," Romulus said between clenched teeth as Posthumous's weathered lips twisted into the semblance of a smile. "You said it yourself back at the campfire-- that he docked in Carthage in two days time."
"There is a long road between mentioning that the Emperor Tiberius is docking in Carthage and planning to assassinate him," Posthumous said smoothly, the smile pasted on his face making his expression unreadable.
"Not when your name is Posthumous," Romulus said quietly. He had done it. He had finally said the magic words. Posthumous's closed expression gave way to one of pure rage, as the sides of his lips twisted up into something halfway between a grimace and a growl. A feral sound issued from his lips, and Romulus instinctively took a step backwards as he watched the other man's lined hands clench into tight fists. "Posthumous Agrippa," Romulus began, shaking his head in utter disbelief. "Son of the Roman admiral General Marcus Agrippa and Julia, the daughter of Caesar Augstus."
Romulus watched as the other man spat in the dust, "Much good that ever got me," he sneered bitterly.
"You were the heir to Caesar Augustus's Empire," Romulus said quietly. "Then you got thrown out of Rome by Tiberius, leaving him free to take the throne. He alleged you raped his son's wife."
"I was framed," Posthumous snarled. "I never touched her." The silence hung in the air for a moment before the former prince's sneer ripped it to shreds. "Well, aren't you going to finish my wonderful biography?" he snapped bitterly.
"That's where it ends," Romulus said quietly, trying to avoid the other man's burning gaze. "You drop out of the history books completely."
"Let me enlighten you, then," Posthumous sneered, pulling Livia's bridle from Romulus's hand. The raw leather snapped across his palm, biting into his soft flesh like a whip. "Tiberius tried to have me executed, but the Senate refused to let him. So instead, they had me exiled, but the old pervert wasn't content with my mere banishment. He organized seventeen assassination attempts before his spies ran my slave through with a lance and brought his heart to Tiberius. They said it was mine. I fled to the Numidian desert and wandered aimlessly through the Sahara until I was found by Anan and his tribe, who took me in and had pity on me when the rest of the world had turned its back. That was seven years ago, and only one thing has kept me alive through this exile into hell."
"You want your revenge," Romulus said, shaking his head as the other man wrapped and unwrapped his mule's tether around his hand until it left red streaks on his sunburnt skin. "So you're going to Carthage to kill the emperor."
"I plan to run him through with a lance," Posthumous said brightly, as if he was discussing the weather.
"Why are they coming with you?" Romulus asked, gesturing around at the waiting horsemen.
"The Himyarties are the best mercenary calvary in North Africa," Posthumous replied, his voice full of annoyance. "I'm paying them to help me get past the Emperor's Praetorian Guard. Besides," he smirked, holding up his palm and revealing a silvery scar that stretched from one side of his wrist the other. "In the few years I lived with Anan's tribe, I become one of them by a blood ceremony. The Himyarties are duty-bound by oath to protect their own."
"You're going to get all of them killed," Romulus hissed quietly.
Posthumous grinned slightly. "Do you think I care? As soon as I see Tiberius's body impaled on a stake, nothing matters."
"Don't go," Romulus said again, reaching out a gripping Posthumous by the arm.
"Fuck you!" the other man cried, twisting out of Romulus's grip. His lip curled up into an unmistakable snarl and he turned away, stalking into the night.
Romulus almost followed, but he stopped himself, a great anguish bubbling up at the root of his soul. "Innoch!"
The tall horseman he had met while talking with Harry wheeled his mare around, his face unreadable in the cool night. "Yes?" Innoch drew his mount forward, reining the mare into a halt when they rested a few feet from Romulus.
"Don't go with Posthumous," Romulus said quietly. He felt that Innoch was the most rational of the whole lot of Himyaritic nomads. Even so, he knew that his chances of stopping the attack were slim
"An oath is an oath," Innoch replied coldly, his face unreadable. "We are bound to Posthumous."
"Look," Romulus began, trying to keep the desperate urgency from his voice. "In... in the future, I studied at Cardiff. It's a university in Wales... but none of that is important. I was an Ancient Studies major. I know my history." Innoch's expression remained stony and aloof, but he motioned his mount closer to Romulus. "There's a small blip in the textbooks. In 22 AD, the emperor Tiberius was attacked by a group of rebel Himyaritic horsemen when he docked in Carthage to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of the Punic Wars. All of the rebel horsemen were slaughtered by Tiberius's praetorian guards, and in retaliation, Tiberius had every one of the Himyarties's settlements torched and their wives and children sold into slavery. As for the emperor, he remained unharmed. I think," Romulus took a deep breath. "I think that's what's going to happen here."
Innoch said nothing for the longest time. "In the future, are people happy?"
"What?" Romulus could not have been more taken aback. "Sometimes, yes."
"Anan says that the causes of every event is incredibly complex," Innoch said quietly, twining his fingers in his mare's fair mane. "And therefore, a tragedy could give birth to a triumph."
"Killing yourself is no triumph!" Romulus almost exploded.
Instead of rising to the bait, Innoch smiled. "Who am I to change what has already been written? We die with honor."
"You're insane," Romulus hissed, anger hitting him full in the face. "Think about your wife, children–"
"If what you say is true," Innoch said quietly. "Then I don't have too long to wait before I see them again." Then he spun his mare on its heel, and cantered to where Posthumous, Anan, and the other horsemen were waiting. Together they turned away from the Giant's camp and rode out into history. Romulus watched them go, and in spite of his anger couldn't help but feel a small admiration for Innoch. Would he have had the courage to do the same?
"Lupin," wrenched from his thoughts, Romulus wheeled around. Directly behind him, was a short figure swathed from head to toe in black.
It had been sixteen years. His memory, so faded and decrepit on every other front geld this day so perfectly intact that Romulus remembered every detail. The bar had been a musty brown, he had been wearing green, and the drink he had been consuming was a sickly sort of orange, smelling strongly of petrol.
"Who are you?" He took a giant step backwards, panic flooding through him.
"Oh don't worry, Lupin. I'm a friend," the man said the word friend as if it was something nasty.
This only served to alarm Romulus more. "Get out of here," he hissed through clenched teeth. Whatever sixth sense he had was yelling danger with all of its might.
"How old are you?" Romulus hadn't even realized that the man was there until he was right beside him.
"Twenty," he replied, locking gazes with the stranger. His eyes were a funny metallic color, not gray like Romulus's own, but flat, dead, like cold tin. His black hair was slicked back behind his ears and on his patrician face spread a terrible smile.
"Ah," the man inhaled, deeply, never blinking. "Just out of Hogwarts are we?"
"I didn't go," Romulus replied flatly, watching the man with wary caution. "I'm a squib."
"Are you really?" the man raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow. "That's... perfect."
"There's no need to get nasty," the man smirked. "I know when I'm not wanted. I just thought I may be able to interest you. I have a small proposition."
"I don't want to hear it!" Romulus yelled angrily, trying to force his feet to move back towards the camp, away from this menacing figure.
The man in black gave a deep chuckle. "I'm afraid you don't have a choice in that department. Can I interest you in this?" Reaching deep into the folds of his robes, he pulled out a small glass vial, filled almost to the brim with a murky red liquid Romulus knew all too well. The man was trying to peddle him dragon's blood.
"Who are you?" Romulus said, feeling the sudden urge to back away.
Sensing his prey's fear, the man's smile only widened. "Oh don't be afraid, my dear. I just want to give you a little present." From the depths of his robe, the man pulled out a tiny vial filled to the brim with a smoky red liquid. "Dragon's Blood. The most amazing liquid known to man. When drunk, it brings with it visions the likes of which beyond even your wildest dreams."
"I don't need that anymore," he said quietly, trying to wrench his eyes away from the tiny vial. But he couldn't, he was mesmerized by its smoky mysteries, and the promise of new life held within its depths. Then something else caught his eye. The hand holding the vial was not flesh and blood, but pure silver. "Pettigrew," Romulus said quietly, immediately recognizing Voldemort's minion from Harry's campfire story.
Pettigrew made no reply, and when he next spoke, his voice was as smooth as syrup. "You know you want it."
"I don't need it anymore," Romulus said firmly, trying to keep his voice from betraying the turmoil he felt at seeing that tiny bottle. A pounding began in his temples.
"I think you do," Pettigrew hissed quietly. "I really think you do."
"I--" Romulus began, but suddenly his voice failed him, as the pain in his temples grew and his mind reeled, lost in the swirling spell of the red liquid.
"Why are you giving this to me?" Romulus said quietly, taking the vial in his hand and gazing into the depths of the liquid. Tiny shapes lurked within it, figures blending in and out of each other together and then separate, arching through eternity.
"I like the looks of you," the man had laughed, a long cackling snicker that would never stray far from Romulus's ears. "Consider this a present. It seems a shame to keep it all to myself."
Pettigrew's voice came to him as if through a mist, "There's only one thing you must do, and then all this can be yours," he moved his palm forward so that the dragon's blood was mere inches from Romulus's own face.
Then, as if in a dream, Romulus heard himself replying. "What must I do?"
"Kill Sirius Black."
The mist snapped as Romulus backed away horrified. Pettigrew pulled down the hood of his robes and on his pudgy face there was the ghost of a smile. "It would be so easy. You never liked him anyway."
"No..."
"Thanks, I guess..." Romulus said quietly, slowly uncorking the top of the bottle.
"You won't regret this," the stranger purred. "The Blood can cure... everything."
"You know you need it. It can cure... everything." Romulus turned and ran, the sound of Pettigrew's derisive laughter still ringing in his ears.
----
"Even now, Wormtail lays the last snares that will bring Harry Potter into our web," Voldemort purred to Gabriel, running his long white fingers over the plush surface Pettigrew's armchair. "What do you think of my master plan, Lucifer?"
"I fail to see the connection between Dragon's Blood and Harry Potter," Gabriel said stonily.
"My Lord," Voldemort amended. "I fail to see the connection between Dragon's Blood and Harry Potter, my lord." Gabriel said nothing, staring at Voldemort apathetically from the depths of his hood. When he saw that Gabriel had no intention to make deference to him he let out a low chuckle. "You will learn. You are young, and I am amused by your stubbornness, so I will let it pass this once. Besides, you remind me of your mother. I think she would have been proud of you," Again Gabriel didn't reply, though he strongly doubted that his mother would show any pride twined beyond any escape in the web of Lord Voldemort. "As for your father," Voldemort's reptilian face twisted into a snarl. "The best thing I can say about him is that he was pureblooded." Voldemort spat onto Pettigrew's immaculate carpet. "Sejanus Cox was probably the most difficult man I'd ever met. That's why I killed him. Take care you don't follow in his footsteps."
Voldemort's words had struck something deep inside of Gabriel. The Dark Lord had no clue that Sejanus Cox had never given Gabriel life. A small smile twisted itself onto Gabriel's lips in spite Voldemort's ravings, beyond his own apathetic shell, despite even the image that wouldn't seen to flee his memory. Moody's glass eye, fractured into 1000 different pieces, casting prismatic shadows onto the bits of blood, brain, and bone: all that remained of the greatest auror who had ever lived. Gabriel bit his lip, trying to force some reaction from his empty frame. Nothing came. Slowly, he turned his gaze back to Voldemort, who was staring at him, his red eyes narrowed to slits as he ran his blood-red tongue across his too-white lips. His father appeared to be deep in thought. His father, who would kill him without so much as a second thought when he outlived his usefulness. And when that time came, Gabriel would still have one card left in his hand. As long as Voldemort didn't know that he had a son, Gabriel could remain one step ahead of the Dark Lord. He wasn't about to drop the bomb on Voldemort until the time arrived when it could suit him best.
"As for Dragon's Blood," Voldemort continued, a fevered glow overtaking his pallid face. "It has absolutely everything to so with Harry Potter. Dumbledore had built an almost impenetrable chain of protection around the boy, and now there is a weak link."
"Really?" Gabriel said dryly, not even pretending to be interested.
"There is no way to touch Potter when Sirius Black is around," Voldemort drawled as he drew his claw-like nails across Pettigrew's plush armchair. They rent clear through the fabric, leaving a trail of scars in the chair's silken arm. "He would sacrifice himself for the boy twenty times over, so Black must be eliminated. One of Black's closest friends, a man named Remus Lupin, has a twin brother. This man, Romulus Lupin, is a Dragon's Blood addict, and conveniently, he is here in Rome with Black and Potter. So we bribe Lupin with the Dragon's Blood, he kills Black and Potter is unprotected, as good as mine." Voldemort took a long hissing breath, closing his eyes in something approaching ecstasy. "Potter is the only one able to thwart my Oedipii charm, and once he is gone, no one will stand in my path. The blood of Muggles will run like a river and the Dark Arts will rise once more!" Voldemort's red eyes were gleaming with a fervid mania as he raised one of his corpse-like hands to his lips. "I can almost taste the blood, Lucifer. I can almost taste it..."
----
"How did ve get here?" Everybody looked up at once, shocked that the silence after the horsemen's exit had finally been broken. It was Viktor Krum, speaking for the first time.
"Ah, Viktor," Dumbledore smiled genially, running his ancient hands together. "I'm glad you asked."
"Yes," Harry broke in, the questions racing around his mind finally crowding their way out his mouth. "Why are we here, instead of some random place in time? How can we understand Innoch and Posthumous when we don't speak any Latin? How--"
Dumbledore held up a hand to silence him. "It's all in the Responder," he said broadly, gesturing at the silvery tube lying at his feet. The firelight played twisting patterns across its silvery surface, winding in and out, through and between, spiraling off into infinity. "I often wonder if Ivan Greyvilliach had any idea what he was creating when he sat in his tiny St. Petersburg lab, trying to craft an object that would rip through the fabric of time. The Responders are sentient, you know," he said abruptly.
"They're what?" Ron asked, pushing a lock of red hair out of his eyes to get a better look at the shimmering tube.
"Aware," Dumbledore replied, gazing at the Responder in what could only be deemed respect. "They're conscious, just as intelligent as you or me, if not more so. You can spell a Responder to go back or forward to a certain time, which is what happened with the one you found, Harry, or they can simply be set on random."
"What happens then?" Hermione's eyes were wide; she was genuinely interested in Dumbledore's lecture.
"Then?" Dumbledore's blue eyes gave a mischievous twinkle. "The Responder sends you off wherever it thinks you will do the most good. It has all of history to choose from."
"But what about the language?" Harry began, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
"The Responder modifies your memory, making you fluent in whatever the dominant language of the time is. It is a most convenient charm of Grevyilliach's own invention. Right now, Harry, we are all speaking classical Latin, and if someone appeared talking in modern-day English it would seem for all the world to be complete gibberish."
"I think," Remus began, clearing his throat nervously. "That we should all go to bed." Harry had a sneaking suspicion that it wasn't fatigue that made him reach this conclusion, but the Asian woman leaning on his shoulder.
"A most excellent suggestion, Remus," Dumbledore said pleasantly, clapping his hands together. "I say we turn in, a good night's sleep will do us all good. We can sort out this mess in the morning."
Hagrid hiccuped his support and the meeting began to disperse. Harry was about to slip away to where he could think in peace when a hand caught his arm. It was Hermione. "Harry," she hissed, her brown eyes full of worry. "I hope you're not planning to do anything about You-Know-Who, it's horribly dangerous!"
"Hermione, I know," he growled between clenched teeth. She didn't think she had ever seen him so angry. "Sirius made that quite clear."
"Good," she breathed a sigh of relief and ventured a small smile.
He didn't return it. "I don't think I could live with myself if I let Voldemort rise when I could have stopped him," he said angrily. "But then again, I'm precious Harry Potter, aren't I? Heaven forbid anything happen to me." Jerking out of her grasp, he spun on his heel and stalked away into the night. Watching his retreating back, she felt a sudden emptiness invade her chest, a hollow kind of pain. But, she did not attempt to follow.
"Her-my-oh-ninny."
Slowly, Hermione turned around. It was Viktor. In spite of Harry, despite Voldemort, beyond even her own doubts in herself, she smiled. "Viktor."
He gave her a level sort of grin. "Professor Krum."
"No," Hermione shook her head. "Viktor." A slight pause reigned. "You came after me," she said matter-of-factly.
"I..." he began looking somewhat embarrassed. "I'm still owed a debt."
"A debt?" Hermione raised an eyebrow incredulously, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in her voice.
"Yes," Viktor began, more sure of himself now. "You still owe me something."
"And what is that, Professor Krum?" Hermione smirked, her hands on her hips.
"This." And then he kissed her.
There in his arms, Hermione could feel herself smile. Maybe it would be all right after all.
----
"Master." The young man inclined his head, feeling a sense of incredible fear and complete awe wash over him as the Dark Lord's hand brushed against his shoulder.
"What is this?" Voldemort's voice sneered from above him. "Who brought me this worthless piece of filth?"
"I brought myself, Lord," the young man continued, his voice trembling slightly. "I wish to enter your service."
"And what makes you think I want you in my service, boy?" Voldemort sneered, his red eyes narrowing.
"I..." the man's mouth went dry. "I don't know, my lord."
"You don't know?" Voldemort shrieked, his high pitched voice reaching the stratosphere, but never straying far from the fearful beatings of the young man's heart. "How dare you tell me that you don't know!"
"I-- I'm sorry, milord," the man bowed, feeling his fear rush through his veins like a wild animal on the rampage.
"Sorry isn't good enough," the Dark Lord hissed through clenched teeth as he drew the man closer to him. "You must pay."
"Pay with what, my lord?" the man asked nervously.
"Your soul," Voldemort's smile widened as he watching the dumbstruck look on the man's face turn into one of terror. "I want your soul. But a soul can only be taken willingly. Will you give yours to me?"
"To you, my lord?" the man stumbled nervously on his words.
Voldemort bent forward, his white lips twisted into a palsied grin. "To me."
"Yes," the man whispered, caught between utter despair and absolute terror. It was only one word, one single syllable, barely audible, but it would forever change his life.
Suddenly, without a sound, Voldemort gripped the man's bare arm and pressed it against his own flesh. Almost at once, a shooting pain erupted in the man's arm, melting away his skin, bone, soul-- ripping at it until he was bare and naked, the pain rifling though him to his utter center, scarring his core. It whipped at his heart until it shredded to shapeless mush and simply faded away, leaving him hollow: a shell.
As suddenly as it began, it was over. Voldemort pulled his hand away as the young man gazed at his burning forearm, knowing what he would find there.
The dark mark glared up at him. The scull and snake, locked against his flesh for eternity, was laughing. Voldemort said nothing. His brand needed no explanation.
"What's your name, boy?" Lord Voldemort hissed suddenly, tossing the young man away like dross.
"Severus Snape," the man whispered, his eyes wide with terror as his arm still throbbed with indescribable pain.
"Not anymore it isn't," Lord Voldemort hissed. "From now on, you're only..." he gave a soft chuckle, relishing the moment, "...Mine."
Snape opened his eyes, the dank cell materialized around him, but his imprisonment did not really matter anymore. He was trapped in the jail of memory. A hell of his own making.
And this time, there was no way out.
"Master." The young man inclined his head, feeling a sense of incredible fear and complete awe wash over him as the Dark Lord's hand brushed against his shoulder...
----
Lucius Malfoy was royally pissed. He had discovered far worse than any self-righteous auror of Dumbledore's.
Paperwork.
His frown deepening with every new document, Malfoy felt his frustration grow as he thumbed through the never-ending pile of Ministry form. Staring at the millions of slips of paper on everything from the density of wand cores to the migration patterns of yellow-bellied hinkypunks, a sudden thought crossed Malfoy's mind. No wonder Voldemort was winning the war. His resistance was utterly incompetent. Malfoy turned over one of the nearest forms and glanced at yet another document. It was a report on hippogriff mating rituals, complete with unnecessary moving photographs.
Giving a roar of disgust, Malfoy tossed the entire pile of documents into his grate fire, images of fornicating fowl frolicking through his brain as they went up in smoke. Malfoy shuddered. No wonder Cornelius Fudge had been uptight all of the time. In spite of his innate evil-ness, he felt a twinge of pity for the old man.
Malfoy was about to sink back into his office chair and nurse his scarred psyche with a packet of cigarettes when a raven flew in through the open window. It gave an evil squawk in greeting. Normally, Malfoy would have welcomed the raven and the message it was undoubtedly carrying. But, the images of birds engaging in acts that were illegal in 34 countries, not to mention under his own roof, still frolicked foppishly through his mind. Therefore, his enthusiasm at seeing the raven was a few shades pale of lackluster. He gave it one suspicious stare as it dropped a piece of parchment on his desk, ready to call "Rape!" if the raven put one claw out of line. After the hippogriff report, Malfoy never wanted to see another paper in his life. Nevertheless, he reached forward and reluctantly folded the letter open.
Lucius, my slippery friend--
It was from Voldemort. Lucius rolled his eyes; he despised the Dark Lord's nickname for him. Not only was he most definitely not a friend of Voldemort's but the adjective "slippery" put him in mind of an eel or a cockroach or something equally vile. "Sneaky" or even "sexy" would have been much more applicable and appreciated.
Oedipii charm is complete.
Voldemort was talking about his ridiculous Oedipii charm. Oedipii was an ancient dark spell that would render him essentially immortal, unable to be killed by anyone except a blood relative. What the old man failed to see what that his enemies had a fate in store for him that was far worse than death.
Cox has returned to the fold.
This honestly surprised Lucius, who did not like the idea of being taken unawares by anything. He had honestly expected the young reporter to go whining off to Dumbledore, then sulk around a bit and write scathing editorials against Voldemort with horribly bad grammar. The last thing he expected was for Cox to cross enemy lines.
Going to Rome. Wormtail will break down the last barrier to the Potter boy.
Lucius rolled his eyes in annoyance. The Potter boy. It was always the Potter boy. The stubborn little child who just would not die. If it was up to Lucius, he would just arrange a tragically terrible and quite regrettable accident. He would get Draco to "accidentally" drop his trunk on Potter's head or something of the sort, but Voldemort insisted on very long and elaborate schemes to bring about Potter's demise. Schemes that always seemed to backfire horribly.
The Slytherin team could not even beat the damn boy at Quidditch.
Lucius nervously lit a cigarette and took a quick drag before smashing the tip down on the word "Potter" in Voldemort's letter. He had a score to settle with that impudent child. Lucius felt slightly better when the tip of his cigarette burned through the paper, obliterating Harry's last name.
I am watching you.
--Voldemort
Lucius rolled his eyes. The Dark Lord was so horribly cliché it made him want to retch. Staring at the letter, he lit another cigarette and puffed moodily at it.
The note, terse and tacky as it was, gave him a lot to think on. If, for some reason unbeknownst to Lucius, Voldemort's scheme to get hold of the Potter boy actually succeeded, his grip on power would be cemented. Once again, Lucius would find himself forced to submit to Voldemort's domination, placing himself under the yoke of the mudblood snake-eyed fool just as he had been trapped twelve years before. God had given him another chance when that insufferable Harry Potter had defeated Voldemort a little over a decade ago. It was all so clear now. He was destined to lead the dark arts and he's be damned if some half-blood two-bit mudblood calling himself Voldemort would snatch the crown away. Lucius just wondered why it had taken him 15 years to act on his lifelong ambitions. He would not let power slip through his fingertips once more.
Energized, Malfoy pulled open his desk drawer, gazing fondly at the shiny silver tube nestled there. Malfoy's Greyvillian Responder had been stolen from a tiny shop in Druymenivitch Way, Moscow's equivalent of Knockturn Alley. Still smirking in a self-satisfied fashion, he raised his wand and muttered the words that would program the Responder to take him 2000 years into the past. Malfoy took one last look around his office. The scattered paperwork, roaring fire, and hardwood desk already seemed so far away.
A rare burst of humor struck him and he grabbed the nearest Ministry form, hastily scrawling a message onto the back. Then without further ado, he gripped the responder and disappeared.
The next morning, nearly eight hours later, his secretary would enter Malfoy's office and find it utterly deserted. In fact, the only clue to the Minister's whereabouts was a tiny scrap of parchment lying on his desk. On it were scrawled five words in the Minister's own handwriting: All roads lead to Rome.
----
"Tell me about your brother."
"What?" Remus blinked abruptly, looking up at Vix. She was lying with her head on his chest, playing absently with the ties of his robe.
"Tell me about your brother," Vix repeated, sitting up slightly so that she could look him in the eye.
"No, I heard you the first time," he began. "I was just surprised."
"Why?" she rolled off him and sat up, her onyx hair glowing in the dying firelight.
He gripped at the mountain's turf and pulled himself up beside her, "Have you asked Sirius about him?"
Vix gave a small smile. "He let out a string of curses that I will most definitely not repeat." Remus laughed as she smirked impishly at him. "Honestly, all Sirius said is that he could never forgive Romulus for what he did to you."
The smile instantly dropped off Remus's face as he looked down at the ground, tracing the blades of grass one by one with his fingertips. "It's not a nice story," he said quietly, refusing to meet her gaze.
Her reply was equally quiet. "Neither was Orien."
"All right," Remus sighed, defeated. "His name is Romulus," he began, groping for a foothold. "You already knew that. He's a squib--"
"A what?" Vix interrupted him.
"A squib," he repeated. "A person born into a wizarding family who is incapable of doing any magic. It's looked on as a source of great shame."
"Why?" Vix's face showed genuine confusion as Remus felt himself falter.
"What do you mean why?"
"There's nothing wrong with not being able to do magic," she said forcefully, giving him a defiant glare.
"Well, you wouldn't understand. You're a muggle," he said somewhat condescendingly.
"And you have a great big stick up your ass," she said pleasantly. When Remus opened his mouth to protest, she cut him off. "You wizards are so damn arrogant. None of you seem to understand that in the grand scheme of things, magic isn't really important. It seems like more of a curse to me than anything to be proud of."
"What?" Remus spluttered indignantly.
"Wizards still misuse their power. Wizards still commit suicide. Wizards still die alone," Vix reached forwards to brush her hand against the crescent-shaped scar on Remus's abdomen. "Wizards still hate other wizards." Remus didn't say a word, his vocal cords tied in knots as she drew herself closer towards him. "As long as we're human, it doesn't matter if we can make wands light up whenever we want." She paused slightly, running her fingers across his chest. Slowly, she drew herself close to him until he could hear her heart beat alongside his own, feel her body taut against his chest, and hear her shallow breaths in his ear. When she began to whisper, a tingle spiraled up his spine and out into the stars above. "As long as we're human, we'll be black and white, hot and cold, up and down, good and evil, all that the same time. That's what makes us so incredibly fucked up and yet, so amazingly beautiful."
"You truly believe that?" he asked breathlessly as her hands tightened around his waist,
She answered him in a roundabout way. "My brother killed at least twenty people without any remorse, but he loved chocolate ice cream and had to sleep with a nightlight. He was afraid of the dark."
"I love you," he whispered, a sense of amazement-- wholeness, completely filling him until he felt like his cup had truly runneth over. For the first time since that fateful Halloween 1981, fifteen years before, Remus honestly felt, pressed up against Vix's bony body, that he belonged. Vix made no reply, humming a nonsense tune softly to herself. Her fingers flickered across his stomach like butterflies, flitting nonsense patterns across his skin until they fell and lingered just left of his bellybutton, tracing the long crescent-shaped scar that lay there.
Taking a breath, Remus forced himself to remember what he had tried so long to forget. "We were five. My father was a scientist for the Department of Magical Creatures, and he was collecting data on flobberworms in their natural habitat. So we lived by a big forest in the Snowdon Mountains of Wales."
"So that's why you talk so funny," Vix joked gently, drawing him down into the grass beside her.
He forced a smile before continuing. "Romulus and I were four. We were playing outside just after nightfall. We head a noise in the bushes..."
A rustle of leaves.
A flash of yellow eyes.
"Romulus was several minutes older, so he told me I had to go see what it was."
What are you, chicken?
No! I--
"So I did." He paused slightly, biting his lip. "It was a wolf."
Snapping jaws and a savage growl were its only greeting as it tore out the bush by its roots, showering him with clumps of earth. He crouched low, folding his hands over his head, trying to block out the beast's bloodthirsty howl.
"We ran, but it chased after us. Romulus was a great deal ahead of me because I had gone to see what it was."
His tiny feet hit the ground, a panicked pitter, pounding a frantic rhythm he would hear the echoes of for the rest of his life. He was frantic, his breath rasping, reaching, retching, lost, and groping for any handhold, foothold, any lifeline at all. The beast remained a mere pace behind.
"We eventually reached out cottage, Romulus before me. He... he ran inside and bolted the screen door."
Let me in!
Chicken!
Let me in!
Go play with the wolf now. I'm sick of you.
"It bit me. By the time my father came with his wand, it was too late. Romulus stood and watched the whole thing through the screen door. He didn't cry for help once." Vix said nothing, running her fingers over his crescent scar, tracing its contours. "They rushed me to St. Mungo's hospital, but the damage was already done. It's funny, being a... werewolf didn't used to be a source of shame among wizards. It was common even. Godric Gryffindor himself was a werewolf. But, times change, and so do people. Nowadays, wizards are paranoid. Lycanthropy can be transmitted by blood as well as the traditional bites, so many people refuse to have anything to do with us, afraid that one day we will accidentally cut ourselves and they too will be doomed." He gave a bitter laugh before continuing the story. "My parents never quite got over the stigma of having a monster for a son, and when Romulus turned out to be a squib, both of them were inconsolable. I think he always resented me because I could do magic. But there was nothing we could do. I went to Hogwarts, Romulus to the Muggle University. He studied Ancient History, I believe, and was just about to graduate when he got mixed up in Dragon's Blood. It's the wizard's heroin, a powerful narcotic." Remus bit his lip. "The same night Harry's parents were killed, he disappeared off the face of the earth, and I didn't see him for fourteen years, until he showed up on my doorstep last Tuesday."
"I'm sorry," Vix whispered in his ear, gripping his hand tightly. "I'm so sorry."
He didn't reply, turning his eyes to the never-ending web of stars, and then beyond, to their mother. Luna, Diana, Artemis-- the great silver orb that had come to be the governing force in his life, the one thing that set him so far apart from the rest of humanity, and somehow, despite it all, made him whole. The moon as its never-constant tides had brought him Sirius, Peter, James, Harry, Vix. Himself. That was enough.
Without his curse, his gift, where would he be? Who would he be? Where did he end and the wolf take over? Or was there even such a clear definition? Man--wolf--wolf-- man, the lines became blurred into non-existence, leaving him just one single entity.
Who was he?
Remus Lupin. But what was in a name after all?
He was black and white. Hot and Cold. Up and Down. Good and Evil. Human.
And for his life to come, he would not have it otherwise.
----
Harry lay awake, his heart pounding in his ears.
Despite Sirius and Hermione's warnings, deep inside, Harry knew that it all depended on him. If Dumbledore was right and Voldemort had performed the Oedipii Charm, then there was only one person who could ever hope to defeat him: Harry. Ever since that fateful summer night in the deserted graveyard, Harry's blood had been running through Voldemort's resurrected veins.
And if he didn't act, who knew how many innocent lives would be needlessly lost before the insanity finally ceased.
Harry knew now why he had had the dreams of King Arthur. Arthur had been at a crossroads, a choice of whether to burn his wife or let her live, a decision between what was good and what was simple. And Arthur, King of Britain, had taken the easy road out.
It was so painfully effortless just to walk away, ignore Lord Voldemort and go live with Sirius, graduate from Hogwarts, play Quidditch for England. It was so easy to just let go.
But every morning, Harry had to be able to face himself in the mirror, and he knew that if he gave up, every day he would see the shadow of a murdered boy, whose haunted eyes begged him for some sort of vengeance, some sort of justification for his pointless death. Harry could not live with the ghost of Cedric Diggory.
How many more Cedrics would have to die before the madness would end? How many innocent lives would be lost if Harry didn't act?
Slowly, a haphazard plan forming itself in his head, Harry got to his feet, walking across the campsite to where he had last seen his old Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.
He didn't have long to look. Remus Lupin was sprawled across the grass, the Asian woman, Vix, entwined in his embrace. Both were fast asleep, and Harry noted that the slightest of smiles was spread across his former teacher's face.
Harry bit his lip. From now on, it was the point of no return.
Silently, he reached into the depths of his robe and pulled out Sirius's penknife. Ever so gently, he picked up Remus's palm, removing it from the curve of Vix's cheek. His teacher gave a grunt and rolled over, knocking his head against Harry's knee. With a start, his eyes opened. Harry remained frozen in shock as Lupin looked up, his gray eyes flicking from his own hand to Harry to the knife and then back again. Harry saw the cogs turn in his head, the realization dawn onto his face, and then the fear creep across his features. "Harry" he began quietly, warning in his tone.
Harry said nothing, dropping Sirius's penknife to the ground and reaching into his robes for his wand.
"Harry," Lupin said slowly, as if he was speaking to a very small child. "You're doing this to get past the Innocintus Wards, aren't you? It's not worth it. You don't want this."
"It's not my choice," Harry said between clenched teeth.
"Why don't you let me go and walk back to bed," Remus said calmly. "We'll both forget this ever happened--"
"I'm so sorry," Harry whispered, pulling his wand out of his sleeve. "Stupefy!"
Remus fell back onto the grass, his gray eyes vacant and his moth slightly ajar. Fingers trembling, Harry placed his wand back into his robes and picked Sirius's penknife up off of the grass. The early morning dew wet his palms as if nature itself was crying. Silently, he dug Sirius's into Lupin's skin. His teacher did not move. Giving a sigh of relief, Harry squeezed the cut so that a line of red blood welled to the surface.
Dumbledore's words echoed in his mind, "Only a creature of dark origins can even hope to enter the fortress." Harry was at a crossroads between what was easy and what was good. Biting his lip, he stepped over the threshold. He dug the knife into his own palm and then, before he could change his mind, pressed his hand against Lupin's. Their blood intermingled. Mixed.
Harry stood up, feeling slightly woozy. Before his eyes, the jagged slash on his hand, changed shape, healing into a small crescent shaped scar. He'd give Lord Voldemort a creature of dark origins.
Harry dropped the penknife into the grass, a gaping pit forming at the bottom of his throat, a hole that threatened to well up with tears. He wanted to say good-bye to Sirius, Ron, Hermione, but he couldn't even make himself turn around. It was too painful. The only way for him now was forward.
"Ubi es Lord Voldemort?" Harry whispered, watching as the Locates Charm sent a long thing trail of light spiraling away from the Giants's camp, through the foothills, and into the desert.
Harry Potter, boy, man, or something else entirely, took the first step towards his destiny.
----
Romulus sat and watched Harry go, a feeling of incredibly foreboding forming in his chest. But he couldn't bring himself to raise the alarm.
James Potter's boy had his right to become a man.
He sat and watched Harry walk, followed the trail of the Locates charm until he was a tiny speck in the night, and then gone, swallowed whole by the impenetrable blackness.
Romulus then turned his gaze back to camp, where the fire was still burning, its tantalizing flames reminding him so much a liquid he wanted desperately to forget.
He sat there for a long time, until the sun came up and the flames died down into ashes.
A/N-- Thanks to everyone that reviewed the last one, and also those who plan on (hint hint :O) ) reviewing this installment. A special thanks to Rowena and CLS, who beta-ed this chapter, I couldn't have done it without either of them. I'll blindly solicit here for a moment, if an of you haven't read their works, do. Now. You don't know what you're missing :O).
