He surveyed the gathering of Death Eaters, black robes and masks almost blending them into the shadows of the great stones. He could feel it now: almost as if the very ground beneath his feet was a living, breathing thing. The power he had sought for fifty years now: the power he had given his body, his dedication, and more than a little of his very sanity, in order to find. Even the Muggles felt something of it when they visited this place, though the stupid beasts had no idea of what it was. His crimson gaze flickered for a moment to the bodies of the Muggle guards lying where they had fallen; killed with Avada Kedavra before they knew what had hit them. Pathetic: all too easy.
It was a good thing, he reflected, that he had not dismissed the arts of the ancients as worthless, as they had encouraged him to do at Hogwarts. The old Dark Arts had given him the powers he had, restored his body. Saved the damned Potter boy too, unfortunately. He should have remembered the ritual sacrifice to counter death: a life given freely, for a life. It was in the book.
The Field Museum had never been aware that its prized, ancient copy of the Talmud wasn't the Hebrew Holy Book at all, but a grimoire of the ancients put under spell to take the form of the innocuous Muggle volume. A desperate writing from the last of the fire dancers on the lam to preserve what he knew before he was caught and killed, it had lain innocuously in the sands of Jerusalem for over two thousand years. Until it was discovered, by filthy Muggles, of all the luck, and put in a display case to be gawked at, true purpose hidden.
Oh, but he had seen it on his first trip to the city of Chicago, in those years seeking power so wrongly denied. It had called him: there could be no other explanation. Nobody had really noticed a rather handsome young man staring at the display of Hebrew artifacts with an almost obsessed, transfixed look that hot summer day in 1952. He had seen through the guise right away: he could only conclude that the book had chosen to reveal itself to him. It knew he was worthy of its secrets: he was destined.
He had known then that he had to have it. It was laughably easy: child's play. A midnight visit, Transfiguration of an abandoned shopping bag to take the appearance of the book, replaced carefully on the evergreen velvet of the display, and the grimoire was safe in his care. The Heir of Salazar Slytherin became a force to be reckoned with.
All those long years he had studied: he had failed in 1981 because he had not studied everything, convinced he knew enough to claim his victory. He had forgotten his general meticulousness in the rush for power and conquest: a mistake he would not make again. Now the faithful grimoire would give him the power to destroy those who would oppose him. He stared at the Death Eaters in the glow of firelight, noticing them suppressing a shudder at the hellish red glare. His thin lips curved into a smile. Fear was control, and control was power. But now it was time for power beyond such meager parlor tricks.
"Bring him," he said calmly, reaching up and lowering the hood of his robes. The requisite brown that Laneric had specified in his hasty scribble: the color of Earth, to become one with it. Desdemona Lestrange and Lucius Malfoy brought a trembling, pleading figure forward garbed in robes of sacrificial white. The lamb to the slaughter: the glow of fire winked off the silver of his right hand.
Voldemort shrugged to himself. Wormtail had been useful at times: eagerly carrying out his bidding, giving his right hand to bring his Lord back to life. But he was weak: he did not do what he did out of loyalty, but out of fear of what would be done to him if he did not. The ritual required sacrifice, and rather powerful sacrifice to work optimally. The blood of a powerful wizard worked better to bond to Earth and draw the gift of power out than that of a weak one; and that better, of course, than that of a mere Muggle. He needed those who would be unquestioningly loyal to him this night: the Lestranges, Lucius, and the rest. Wormtail was powerful in magic, but weak in spirit. He was, in a word, expendable.
"M…my Lord!" Wormtail cried, struggling as he was dragged towards the altar, struggling pathetically. "What have I done to…"
"Wormtail," he said, in the sensuous, purring tone that one might use to a lover, "you have done no wrong." He drew the bronze-bladed knife from the belt around his waist and advanced towards the figure now struggling helplessly on the altar, held down by four of the strongest Death Eaters. Desdemona and Lucius backed off, bowing their obeisance to their master as he passed. He nodded slightly to them, indicating a job well done.
"Already you have been honored by giving your own hand to restore my body, and for that, you are further rewarded now. Now the ultimate glory shall be yours: your blood will enable our victory." He smiled at the doomed man's gasp of horror.
He had realized nothing amiss until a Petrifying Curse had been put upon him an hour earlier. Even then, he hadn't conceived of this. He was to die here, now, in this circle, before the silent gathering of his fellow Death Eaters. This was what had come of his life. He closed his eyes for a moment, not wanting to see the beauty of the night sky in his sheer terror. But he couldn't bear to wait blindly and opened them again, trembling like a willow in the wind.
The repellent corpse-pale face now loomed over him, red eyes staring at him as dispassionately as though he were an insect to be chloroformed. His own eyes stared wide at the man he had called master, horrifically aware now that the man, the creature, that he had served held no loyalty in return to him. He would now find that realization at the price of his life as he was roughly pinned down on this hard stone. His face was wet, whether with sweat or tears, he wasn't quite sure.
"Klyetka!" He started at the harsh, guttural word. One of Voldemort's favorite tricks on his victims: a Dark spell of Rasputin's. It was a paralysis spell dissociating the mind from the body. No matter what a person's thoughts, the body wouldn't obey. Somewhat harsher than the Body-Bind, because the Mind Cage was horrifyingly permanent. St. Mungo's had several specimens of its victims entombed within its walls.
Voldemort smiled his monstrous lipless smile again. "After all, we don't want you running away, do we, Wormtail?" No, this time he couldn't escape by assuming his Animagus form. In that moment, Peter Pettigrew repented every wrong he had ever done in the name of power and glory. His mind screamed out his betrayal by this man he had trusted. I was wrong. Give me one last chance, he thought, one chance and I swear I'll make it right…James, I'm sorry…Lily, Sirius…please! But it was too late. The slim blade flashed up in the firelight, hung there for an eternal moment, and then plunged down, carving a fatal arc directly into his chest.
As the soil below the altar was stained dark with the flowing blood, Voldemort lowered his head in respect to the Earth and began the incantation. Slowly he was aware of a tingling sensation up and down his spine, and a sudden feeling of wakefulness. No, more so than that--he was hyperaware of every detail around him, from the hushed murmurs of the Death Eaters, the soft sounds of animals in the grass, to the ebbing strength of Peter Pettigrew. The current of his magical power begun to thrum within him: flowing with almost roaring force, a riptide to the calm stream it had been before.
Paralyzed, strung up like a puppet, he was helpless to do anything except try to keep hold of the boundaries of his own self as his heart beat in time with that of the Earth beneath him. A moment's slip and he was lost. He heard a cry, an animal keen of pain, and realized only after a moment that it was from his own throat as the raw power burned him. Have to stop, his mind thought, alarmingly sluggish. Have to stop before it's too much…too fast… Wizards and witches had died taking on too much power. He painfully forced out a "So mote it be!" The iron fist of the bond released him, and he dropped to all fours, panting and trembling.
The Death Eaters crowded around, anxiously questioning him. He waved them off with an irritated gesture, stumbling to his feet as the pain slowly faded. The gasp of shock rang in his ears as the Death Eaters saw the scorches on his skin slowly fade; the injuries heal themselves in mere seconds. The sheer magic to heal without spell, potion, or any sort of wand work was unfathomable. He had succeeded.
Voldemort eyed them carefully and smiled to himself. It was done, and the call to battle was urging him on. He faced the Death Eaters and spoke: two fatal words. "To Hogwarts." A cheer went up and immediately several of the Death Eaters were dispatched to fetch their sworn allies: the Dementors, the vampires, and the werewolves. Some one hundred and twenty souls, in all, would attack Hogwarts this very night, led by a wizard with unthinkable power.
The hunting had been fairly rotten, though she had seen Arram again. She was sure the silver tiercel was flirting with her, though he probably made those sweet little coos to every female gyrfalcon north of Hadrian's Wall. Stomach not quite satiated, she still headed home, towards Hogwarts. Now was time to rest.
First night of May and it was cold as bloody December. The thought of a warm fire and her perch beneath her feet made her speed up just a little more in anticipation. So she was a captive bird and probably a bit spoiled because of it. So what? She more than earned her keep looking after Severus. Made her wish she could have been there when he was the lost, lonely boy who had grown up bitter enough to turn Death Eater.
Everything in the Forbidden Forest was in hiding tonight, it seemed, so all she had managed was a few mice. It was night and the forest should have shown some signs of life, but it was almost deathly calm. Even the Acromantulas weren't out and about. Odd, Tosca thought. No centaurs either…even the Dervishes aren't out, and God knows they're so stupid that they're not afraid of anything. She sighed and banked towards Hogwarts, irritated and wondering if she could beg food off of Severus or Hermione.
She was startled when a group of twittering finches came flying towards her at top speed. The little birds had such fast, high-pitched voices and childish intelligence that it was hard to tell what they were saying, besides the shrieks of Fly away, fly away!
She wheeled abruptly around and followed the flock, catching easily up to them. The shrieks now became those of, Hawk bird! Bad hawk bird! They thought she was out to catch and eat them, the stupid idiots.
Shut up! she shouted, easily heard over their chatter. I'm not hunting you. What are you flying from? If something was amiss in the Forest, she damned well wanted to know.
One finch called back, Flying from bad snake-man. Bad magic, bad magic…you fly away too, hawk bird.
What bloody bad magic? But that was all she was to be given as the finches hurried away from her, ignoring any further questions.
She turned again for Hogwarts, turning the comments over in her mind. Bad snake man, using magic. Oh, dear God. Was it possible that Voldemort was on the move?
She didn't stop long to ponder, beating her wings faster and faster until the Earth below here was a mere blur.
The sight she came upon as she slowed passing Hogwarts' gates to find Severus' window was enough to freeze anyone's heart: a contingent of slinking shadows heading right towards the gate. The wards, she thought. Don't those numbskulls think of these…
Her question was answered as she heard an incantation. A hole in the shield the size of a man flared a bright blue then began fading by bits. By the time it faded to black and Voldemort sent the first Death Eater through, she was already in Severus' room.
Landing on Severus' shoulder, she dug in her talons through his pajamas, knowing how soundly he slept, and shrieked in his ear.
"Tosca!" he sat up with a cry of pain. "Damn you!"
They're here! I just saw them! she protested, letting go and landing by the foot of the bed.
"But how did they deal with the wards?"
I don't know exactly how, but they did! Go look for yourself!
He leapt out of bed and practically raced for the window, which faced the gates. She heard his sharp intake of breath. "Oh dear God…" Back to the bed and grabbing for his wand on the bedside table. A curt spell and he was dressed in his robes. He grabbed for the tin of Floo powder on the hearth, fumbling and spilling some of it on the carpet, too involved to notice. He lit a fire with a rapid Incendio and tossed in the Floo, barking curtly, "Minerva!"
The Headmistress must have slept lightly that night. Her voice came floating into the room a moment later. "What is it, Severus?"
"They're coming inside the gates…he's created a hole somehow. Only big enough for one of them at a time, but they'll all be in shortly."
Something that was either Gaelic curse or prayer came from Minerva. "Get Hermione to awake the Gryffindors, and get the Slytherins. Now."
Without a word of acknowledgment, Severus grabbed another pinch of Floo powder, commanding it to link to Hermione's chambers, and stepped into the flames.
"Hester, is that someone coming?" William Monk was a trifle edgy about being in the Gryffindor girls' dorm, even if the bed curtains were closed and a good solid Silencio was in effect. But then God knew there was so little time in the day to spend with his fiancée that they resorted to sneaking around half the night, talking about their plans, kissing and cuddling.
"Stop fretting, William. Even if it is," she laughed quietly, "you're a Slytherin. You're devious enough to make an excuse for it..."
He rolled his eyes slightly at that just as the bed curtains were pulled aside and Hermione Granger stared in at them, ignoring their yelps of surprise. Good God, at least she hadn't caught them doing worse…he blushed at the thought. Make an excuse! Come on already.
"I…I…" Hester stammered.
"I really don't care," Hermione cut her off. "This is your business. But there's worse to worry about. I want you to help wake the Gryffindors up. All of them. Mister Monk, I might suggest you apply yourself to the same in Slytherin." In the middle of the night? Everyone? That means…
With one quick glance at Hester's worried expression, he practically ran for the Slytherin dormitory.
Within only a few minutes, everyone was crowded into the Great Hall. All the staff had reinforced the magical protection on the castle's front door, hoping to buy a few more minutes. The Great Hall's doors were also rife with spells. But they had been caught by surprise, and Hermione could tell that the pervading feeling was that of an animal trapped in its den.
Minerva stood, and for once there was no need to wait for a hush to settle. The Headmistress minced no words. "Fifth year prefects, please escort all students your year and under to the dungeons. Professors Malfoy and Snape will put wards up around you for protection." The younger students began to look a little sick, but it was only wise. To send them into the battle would be nothing less than mass murder, because they had no hope of winning.
The students exited hurriedly, followed by Draco and Severus. Those left in the Great Hall looked at each other, silently counting. Less than one hundred total were to try to save Hogwarts. A fleeting thought crossed Hermione's mind of how many of them would be alive come morning.
She approached Minerva just as Oliver Rathbone rushed up to them, looking profoundly distraught. "Mister Rathbone, what is it?" Minerva asked.
"I…I've got reports in from John and Hester and William and…well, we're missing students."
"What?"
"Those four first years…you know them? Boxhall, Andrews, Lowe and Lightoller. They weren't in their beds."
"You and your stupid ideas. You're not going to be able to catch a familiar out here. Especially not without bait." Harold Lowe glowered at Herbert Lightoller. "And it's your own stupid fault that your owl flew off. You treated him like…"
"Oh, don't start with that dumb Muggle idea of being your owl's best buddy. Owls are meant to carry your mail. Do you befriend your Muggle…what are they called again?"
"Postman," Joseph Boxhall spoke up. "But I think he's right. You're not going to be able to catch an owl out here."
"And anything you catch wild isn't going to be as happy about carrying mail as a wizard-bred bird," Thomas Andrews input. "Just tell your parents what happened and you can get a new owl over summer holidays. Until then, a school owl will serve you fine. Joe uses them, after all, since he has a cat."
"Of course he'll get a new bloody owl," Lowe muttered. "His parents are rolling in wizard gold." Though he wouldn't trade his sooty owl, Ellie, for any other.
"Well why did you come if this was such a stupid idea?"
Andrews, often the voice of reason, broke in. "Because you were going to go even if we tried to dissuade you, so it's safer for you to be out with others."
"Now let's get going," Boxhall pleaded. "You know we're not supposed to be out of the castle unescorted. And at night too…"
"Ooh, are the ghosties going to get you?" Lowe, being a Muggleborn, didn't have a magic-born child's knowledge that most things that go bump in the night truly are real. To him, they were mere stories that he had stopped believing in about the time he lost his first teeth.
"No, but wortsnoggles. And banshees. And…" Lightoller began nervously listing some of the creatures of darkness.
"Lions and tigers and bears, oh my," Lowe said sarcastically. "Now come on, let's get going."
But it wasn't halfway to the back door when a hand landed on his shoulder and a voice nearly purred in his ear, "Isn't a bit late for young students to be out?"