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When Blood Is Spilled On Moontide: Convergence
by ravenhair
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PROLOGUE. Part I. Moonshine in the Dark, Forbidden
'It could've been anywhere but here, but for that damned tree...' Voldemort secretly let slip a sneer.
In the weeks that followed his reanimation, he had been patiently relearning all the facial expressions he could manage with his new flesh. His jaw was more cone-shaped, his cheekbones too sharp and the discreet oval slits which replaced his nose left little skin to be stretched. It was an arduous task to go about, but he knew regaining the value of intimidation would triple his efforts.
But with the acrid stench swirling in the mist-covered ground and the darkness that oozed from the twisted trees that he could clearly see from his red, lidless eyes, Voldemort felt that the Forbidden Forest was starting to get on his nerves. To think that he had survived this place -nay, thrived amongst the creatures of the darkest nature for 12 years, years far too long even for Albus Dumbledore to possibly endure...exposed, vulnerable, lacking a corporeal form to even have a chance to thwart the weakest of evils lurking in the mist...
The forest intimidated him. That much was obvious from Peter's point of view.
Even from his hunched and bowed position, a proper grovelling stance to show servitude to his master, he could feel the Dark Lord's frown close into that terrible serpentine face. Soon, he felt the freezing bite of his master's glare on his bowed head. Peter let out a wince, sensing he has been spotted at the wrong time.
"Wormtail." The venom in Voldemort's voice added poison to his glare.
Peter knew, from being closest to his master this past few weeks, and to have been with him a whole year before, when he was still in a more snake-like form, and with his dratted pet Nagini, that his master has been making work of his new face. The discomfort was palpable, and he would catch his master sometimes fingering his inhumanly smooth green cheeks, and that cone-shaped chin.
'Maybe that's why he wants this potion so badly,' Peter mused. 'He wants a human form so much so he would come back to this place...'
With that, he looked around at the black, gnarled trees surrounding their small clearing. Peter had lit a small bluebell flame when they arrived, and its light gave the trees an eerie palor. It was terrifying him, to say the least, but he couldn't possibly show his fear to an irate master now, could he?
"Wormtail." Voldemort barked out the name this time, a bit angry that his servant was taking his time to come into view.
"M-master, I have b-brought the ingre-ingredien-ts.." Peter stuttered while ambling forward to his master. The mist was so cold, his feet had gone numb already.
Voldemort gave a curt nod and took out a miniscule black cauldron from the folds of his robes. This he set on the stump of the gnarled tree at the center of the clearing, just as the full moon centered above the clearing and covered the trees with a faint silver glow.
To Peter's eyes, the moonlight transformed the mist into a shimmering white sheet. It blanketed the ground in swirling silk curls and, as his eyes followed the direction of the swirls, he discovered that the mist was spiraling up the trunk of the dead tree where his master had set up the cauldron. The moonlight danced on both the cauldron and his master, who was hooded in heavy, black robes. This picture gave Peter this feeling that he was actually witnessing the darkest of Dark Arts being performed tonight. He was honored at this thought, because his master had chosen him out of all the others, even that ambitious prat Malfoy or the Potions Master Snape.
"This here," Voldemort pointed to the tree stump, "is the trunk of what was once known as the Tree of the Dead. The muggles know this as part of a Halloween legend, as an active superstition during the late 17th century, the resting place of the Headless Horseman, and was even suspected to have been a Gate to Hell." Voldemort snorted, the slits of his nostrils puffing out misted breath. "Of course, once the wizard world caught scent of the tale, it had been too late. A witch has already been murdered, along with several muggles, although the former was reported to have been the cause of the Horseman's appearances. Having no other knowledge about this tree except that it was of the darkest kind, the wizard ministry had it chopped down and believed that they successfully killed the magic within it."
"Little did they know that the magic that founded this tree lies deep in the blood of its roots," Voldemort smiled openly, baring his fangs to a terrified Peter Pettigrew. A casual wave of his master's wand signaled the end of the mock lecture for Peter, and the latter watched as a fat twig floated into his view.
"Stand ready, Wormtail. When I tell you, pluck out its heart!"
The fat twig was transfigured into a sickle, which Peter grabbed as he instinctively backed away. Voldemort himself stood aside and aimed his wand at a spot on the ground near the stump. The mist parted, and the ground swelled. In seconds, black gravel and mud was shooting up into the air, forming a hole in the ground and Voldemort did not release his hold for a long time. When Peter saw that the hole must be deep enough for a man as tall as his master to be buried, Voldemort let out an inhuman screech and the ground gave a violent shake and vomitted a nasty heap of, to Peter's eyes, what looked like black bile.
"Quick! The heart! Pluck it out!"
Without a second's hesitation, Peter scurried into the pit in the ground. The sickle gleamed in the moonlight before he was wholly swallowed by the dark. The hole was deep, and he slid unceremoniously down the steep mud slope and into the very roots of the tree.
It was pitch black, and the earth surrounding him stank. There was this odd throbbing sound in front of him, and Peter used his silver hand to light a flame on his index finger. When the small flame illuminated the ground before him, Peter regretted lighting it in the first place. In front of him was the most hideous wall of black worms, some the width of a string, or a noodle, others as bloated as his thumb. They were all swarming in a concentrated mass and, as he peered closer, he noticed that they were swirling in a concentric circle. At the heart of this pattern, much to Peter's disgust, was a pulsing black root, as fat as his arm. There didn't seem to be any hindrances as to plucking it out, but Peter's grip on the sickle just tightened, because he knew it was not possible things could be so easy. Very carefully, he used the tip of his sickle to shove the worms aside and dislodge the bloated pulsing root from its pocket. The instant it fell with a plop on the muddy floor, all chaos ensued.
When Blood Is Spilled On Moontide: Convergence
by ravenhair
___________________________________________
PROLOGUE. Part I. Moonshine in the Dark, Forbidden
'It could've been anywhere but here, but for that damned tree...' Voldemort secretly let slip a sneer.
In the weeks that followed his reanimation, he had been patiently relearning all the facial expressions he could manage with his new flesh. His jaw was more cone-shaped, his cheekbones too sharp and the discreet oval slits which replaced his nose left little skin to be stretched. It was an arduous task to go about, but he knew regaining the value of intimidation would triple his efforts.
But with the acrid stench swirling in the mist-covered ground and the darkness that oozed from the twisted trees that he could clearly see from his red, lidless eyes, Voldemort felt that the Forbidden Forest was starting to get on his nerves. To think that he had survived this place -nay, thrived amongst the creatures of the darkest nature for 12 years, years far too long even for Albus Dumbledore to possibly endure...exposed, vulnerable, lacking a corporeal form to even have a chance to thwart the weakest of evils lurking in the mist...
The forest intimidated him. That much was obvious from Peter's point of view.
Even from his hunched and bowed position, a proper grovelling stance to show servitude to his master, he could feel the Dark Lord's frown close into that terrible serpentine face. Soon, he felt the freezing bite of his master's glare on his bowed head. Peter let out a wince, sensing he has been spotted at the wrong time.
"Wormtail." The venom in Voldemort's voice added poison to his glare.
Peter knew, from being closest to his master this past few weeks, and to have been with him a whole year before, when he was still in a more snake-like form, and with his dratted pet Nagini, that his master has been making work of his new face. The discomfort was palpable, and he would catch his master sometimes fingering his inhumanly smooth green cheeks, and that cone-shaped chin.
'Maybe that's why he wants this potion so badly,' Peter mused. 'He wants a human form so much so he would come back to this place...'
With that, he looked around at the black, gnarled trees surrounding their small clearing. Peter had lit a small bluebell flame when they arrived, and its light gave the trees an eerie palor. It was terrifying him, to say the least, but he couldn't possibly show his fear to an irate master now, could he?
"Wormtail." Voldemort barked out the name this time, a bit angry that his servant was taking his time to come into view.
"M-master, I have b-brought the ingre-ingredien-ts.." Peter stuttered while ambling forward to his master. The mist was so cold, his feet had gone numb already.
Voldemort gave a curt nod and took out a miniscule black cauldron from the folds of his robes. This he set on the stump of the gnarled tree at the center of the clearing, just as the full moon centered above the clearing and covered the trees with a faint silver glow.
To Peter's eyes, the moonlight transformed the mist into a shimmering white sheet. It blanketed the ground in swirling silk curls and, as his eyes followed the direction of the swirls, he discovered that the mist was spiraling up the trunk of the dead tree where his master had set up the cauldron. The moonlight danced on both the cauldron and his master, who was hooded in heavy, black robes. This picture gave Peter this feeling that he was actually witnessing the darkest of Dark Arts being performed tonight. He was honored at this thought, because his master had chosen him out of all the others, even that ambitious prat Malfoy or the Potions Master Snape.
"This here," Voldemort pointed to the tree stump, "is the trunk of what was once known as the Tree of the Dead. The muggles know this as part of a Halloween legend, as an active superstition during the late 17th century, the resting place of the Headless Horseman, and was even suspected to have been a Gate to Hell." Voldemort snorted, the slits of his nostrils puffing out misted breath. "Of course, once the wizard world caught scent of the tale, it had been too late. A witch has already been murdered, along with several muggles, although the former was reported to have been the cause of the Horseman's appearances. Having no other knowledge about this tree except that it was of the darkest kind, the wizard ministry had it chopped down and believed that they successfully killed the magic within it."
"Little did they know that the magic that founded this tree lies deep in the blood of its roots," Voldemort smiled openly, baring his fangs to a terrified Peter Pettigrew. A casual wave of his master's wand signaled the end of the mock lecture for Peter, and the latter watched as a fat twig floated into his view.
"Stand ready, Wormtail. When I tell you, pluck out its heart!"
The fat twig was transfigured into a sickle, which Peter grabbed as he instinctively backed away. Voldemort himself stood aside and aimed his wand at a spot on the ground near the stump. The mist parted, and the ground swelled. In seconds, black gravel and mud was shooting up into the air, forming a hole in the ground and Voldemort did not release his hold for a long time. When Peter saw that the hole must be deep enough for a man as tall as his master to be buried, Voldemort let out an inhuman screech and the ground gave a violent shake and vomitted a nasty heap of, to Peter's eyes, what looked like black bile.
"Quick! The heart! Pluck it out!"
Without a second's hesitation, Peter scurried into the pit in the ground. The sickle gleamed in the moonlight before he was wholly swallowed by the dark. The hole was deep, and he slid unceremoniously down the steep mud slope and into the very roots of the tree.
It was pitch black, and the earth surrounding him stank. There was this odd throbbing sound in front of him, and Peter used his silver hand to light a flame on his index finger. When the small flame illuminated the ground before him, Peter regretted lighting it in the first place. In front of him was the most hideous wall of black worms, some the width of a string, or a noodle, others as bloated as his thumb. They were all swarming in a concentrated mass and, as he peered closer, he noticed that they were swirling in a concentric circle. At the heart of this pattern, much to Peter's disgust, was a pulsing black root, as fat as his arm. There didn't seem to be any hindrances as to plucking it out, but Peter's grip on the sickle just tightened, because he knew it was not possible things could be so easy. Very carefully, he used the tip of his sickle to shove the worms aside and dislodge the bloated pulsing root from its pocket. The instant it fell with a plop on the muddy floor, all chaos ensued.