Bloodlines, by Tanks.
Chapter 2: The Physics of Unadoring Nags


Peter Pettigrew scrambled across the lawn towards the Apparition point on the grounds of Malfoy Manner. It was raining and the grass had turned into a marshy quagmire, almost impossible to walk through. He was on his way to meet a young Death Eater and escort him to Lord Voldemort personally. Peter arrived at the appointed place in time to hear a sharp popping noise and witness the appearance of their latest guest. He was a young, conservative looking fellow with burgundy-framed glasses perched on his rather long nose.

Years of experience in his current position told Peter that this new recruit wouldn't last long in the presence of his Dark Lord, but he kept that information to himself. Peter's rat-like nose started to twitch, he could smell the fear radiating off the young man. Whoever he was, he had something the Dark Lord wanted very much.

"Hurry it up," Peter barked at the now quivering Death Eater. "It doesn't pay to keep Lord Voldemort waiting." He turned and walked back in the direction of Malfoy Manner.

The man struggled to keep up with him, slipping and sliding in the muddy grass and finally Peter resorted to grabbing him by the arm and Apparating directly into the dungeons of Malfoy Manner. Only Voldemorts most trusted disciples were allowed to do so, had anyone else attempted such a thing, they would have been incinerated instantly.

"Bring him to me," whispered a sinister voice through he darkness. "I have been waiting."

Peter dragged the rather reluctant Death Eater towards a dais in the room. Seated on the dais, in a high-backed, wooden chair was Lord Voldemort.

There was no preamble, no casual hellos, no inquiries as to well being. "Where is my scroll?"

"I..uh…um..well..I…" the young man could barely speak.

"WHERE IS MY SCROLL?"

The Death Eater prostrated himself on the stone floor before the dais. "I'm sorry, master, I tried to find it but …"

"Silence fool!" Voldemorts voice echoed through out the dungeons then, "Crucio!"

The Death Eater was silent, his mouth gaping in a rictus of pain.

"Finite Incantatum!" hissed Voldemort, followed closely by, "Imperio!"

Voldemort crooked his finger and the Death Eaters chin rose from the ground as if pulled by a puppet string. Under the Imperio Curse, he was forced to look directly into Voldemorts eyes, and the skilled Legilimens used his powers to extract the information he needed, minus the fumbling excuses, from the cursed man. When he was done, he waved his hand and the man's head slammed into the stone floor, smashing his glasses into his eyes.

Voldemorts red eyes burned with anger. "He doesn't have it!"

Peter knelt in front of his lord, trying hard not to cower. "Perhaps if I knew what you were looking for, master, I could get it for you."

Voldemort said nothing. Only a select few knew what Voldemort was looking for and Pettigrew was not among that elite group.

*
Ginny arrived, Apparating with a pop underneath the shade of one of the hundreds of trees, careful not to draw attention to herself. She readjusted her canvas, overstuffed backpack and looked at her surroundings. Guarding her eyes from the bright sun peering over the Glastonbury Tor as it rose enigmatically above the flat Summerland meadows. Ginny had visited the Glastonbury Tor before, as it is said to be a part of the remains of a great three-dimensional neolithic labyrinth, a ceremonial way dedicated to an ancient British Goddess. As Ginny hiked up the hill, she noticed the strange system of terracing. Much weathered and eroded, but still well defined, it has been interpreted as a maze following an ancient magical pattern. If the maze on the Tor is real, human labour formed it four or five thousand years ago, during the period of the vast ritual works that created Stonehenge.

At the top of the Tor, Ginny looked down to the west and saw the excavation site blocked off with the typical yellow tape attached to wooden posts. Ginny climbed down and set down her backpack and toolbox. She sighed realizing that her wish had come true. Yes, she was finally the head of her own dig but it was only a team of one, her.

As the sun hit her back, tantalizing her pale skin visible by what her dark green tank failed to cover; Ginny continued chucking away at the hard stone for most of the day, breaking it down into small rocks and dirt that she would shovel out of the pit in one swift arm movement.

Tourists, visiting the outskirts of the Glastonbury Abbey, a large church covering some 36 acres, had wandered over to Ginny's dig. Although most took a quick look and asked ridiculous questions, or in one case, whistled at the site of her dirt covered bum, a couple sat down on their picnic blanket and shared a bottle of pop as they watched, almost as if she were a part of the tourist exhibit. Shortly after, other people, families and individuals began to do the same, much to Ginny's dismay. Technically, she had no right to kick them out since they weren't interfering, but that didn't stop Ginny's imagination from running amuck and picturing how fun it would be to scoop a bucket of dirt directly onto the perfectly manicured woman in the pink cardigan.

"Oh look Maxwell, she actually has the potential to be quite pretty if she wasn't so busy playing in the sandbox." The above-mentioned pink cardigan-wearing woman said cooingly.

Ginny stopped mid-dig and stood up so her head was barely poking out of the enormous hole in the ground. "Listen lady, you can take your cute little nails and-"

"Ginny!" a young voice interrupted. Suddenly, Cenwig was jumping into the pit, placing his two hands on her shoulders. "Ten deep breaths," he whispered. Ginny managed a smile.

"What are you doing here?"

"Pucey is having his personal photo shoot with the Daily Prophet and I decided I might just hop over here and have lunch with my favorite little dirt digger."

"Where's the food?" Ginny asked hungrily.

Cenwig lowered his voice, "Do you honestly think I was going to lug a picnic basket over here? That's what I keep this little beauty around for." He said with a grin, patting at the wand pocket on his waist.

"What about them?" Ginny asked, gesturing towards her Muggle audience.

Cenwig's grin broadened as he turned on his heel and peeked over the edge.
"Oh my god! It's Cher!" he screamed, pointing in the distance. Like magic, everyone ran in the pointed direction as quickly as possible.

Ginny laughed and sat down on a hump of dirt resembling a bench in the dig. "Who's Cher?"

"She's some Muggle woman. As long as she gets face lifts on the daily basis and continues crying into a microphone, people love her."

Ginny smiled, "And how do you know about this?"

"You forget, I'm Muggle born."

Ginny nodded. "Right, so how 'bout that lunch?"

Cenwig looked around quickly, making sure no one was around and pulled his wand out of his pocket along with a small basket, like something Cenwig had snatched from a dollhouse. He placed it down on the ground and muttered a little Latin. In an instant, it blew up into a life-sized basket.

Ginny got to her knees and opened it anxiously to find two glasses, a nice bottle of wine, and two hearty sandwiches.

The red head sighed, "If I wasn't married…"

"I'd be after your husband," Cenwig laughed.

Ginny began biting down on the sandwich hungrily.

"So have you found yourself anything in this pit?"

"Not much, actually. I think everything within a mile of here has already been excavated, and for some reason, this one was looked over. I just wonder why Blunder was so interested in it."

"Doesn't look like much," Cenwig said in between sips of wine. "Wonder why Pucey the Prick would have you working here?"

"Probably just to spite me, I'm sure."

"Well, maybe you'll make the find of the Century here, just to spite him!"

Ginny topped off their glasses of wine, "I'll toast to that!"

"To Ginny Wood," began Cenwig, "may this days discoveries bring her fame and fortune!"

Ginny giggled at Cenwig's toast, "To Cenwig Tunwulf, may his evening discoveries bring him fame and fortune!"

"Or at least a good shag!"

**
Tanks says: Last chapters anagram? A Retching Sigh = A Cher Sighting!
Feel free to email us if you think you've figured out the new one.