A/N I wrote this opening chapter a while ago, and never got around to posting it. Tell me what you think!
This is a story following one of Voldemort's Death Eaters.
I do not own JK's characters but the Death Eater that the story focuses on is my own creation.
A scream pierced the cold wintry night. It was a woman's scream. She yelled in pain and agony, writhing on the ground. Then, the noise stopped, and laughter rang out. Cold laughter. Laughter that should be feared. A green skull appeared in the sky. Later that morning, Aurors surrounded the scene of the torture. All that was left was a single note that read,
"Fear me in the nighttime,
Fear me in the day,
Fear me when the clock chimes,
And never go astray."
After the first murder, more and more deaths followed; every time with a note with the exact same poem.
Ron looked out the window of the attic in Number 12, Grimmauld Place. It was a dark day, with black clouds rolling overhead. He felt like flying on his Cleansweep 11 but he knew that it would be forbidden. It was too dangerous to be outside the enchanted walls of Number 12. It was dangerous because of Voldemort, and yet another man. Malachi. (A/N don't you just love the name Malachi?) Malachi the Poet. He was almost as notorious as You- Know-Who these days. He tortures his victims until they can't remember who they are, and then kills them. After every death he would leave a poem with the same warning.
"Fear me in the Nighttime,
Fear me in day,
Fear me when the clock chimes,
And never go astray."
That's what Ron couldn't do. Go astray. Now he knew why Sirius was so restless when he had had to stay here. Trapped in a musty old house with no one to talk to but that mental house elf Kreacher.
Ron sighed at his old friend's name.
Sirius's death had hit Harry hard. His owls to the Order had been short and to the point, as if he paid no attention to the fact that Sirius was gone. The only sign that Harry mourned his death at all were small spots on the parchment that were shriveled, as if his tears had dried on the long flight.
It must be awful.
Behind him, Ron heard Buckbeak scratch at the door.
"Looks like you miss Sirius as much as Harry does, Buckbeak."
Buckbeak wimpered in reply. Then he went over to a corner of the attic and lay down for a nap.
"Might as well not disturb you while you're taking a snooze." Ron walked down the stairs into the kitchen where his mother was preparing supper.
"What are we having tonight, Mum?"
"Oh, well I'm fixing meatballs and potatoes. You're welcome to help. Ginny is already skinning the potatoes."
"No thanks, Mum."
"I'll call you when dinner is ready." She turned towards him. Ron noticed the red around her eyes.
She's been crying again. Poor mum.
On a whim, Ron raced up to his room and started writing a letter.
Dear Harry,
How are you? Things are a nightmare here. Mum always seems on the edge of bursting into tears whenever Snuffles is mentioned. Buckbeak is doing well, considering. Write back soon.
Sincerely
Ron
Is it smart mentioning Sirius? He's going to have to talk about it sometime. People can't keep things bottled up like that.
And with that, Ron opened one of his books and started to study.
This is a story following one of Voldemort's Death Eaters.
I do not own JK's characters but the Death Eater that the story focuses on is my own creation.
A scream pierced the cold wintry night. It was a woman's scream. She yelled in pain and agony, writhing on the ground. Then, the noise stopped, and laughter rang out. Cold laughter. Laughter that should be feared. A green skull appeared in the sky. Later that morning, Aurors surrounded the scene of the torture. All that was left was a single note that read,
"Fear me in the nighttime,
Fear me in the day,
Fear me when the clock chimes,
And never go astray."
After the first murder, more and more deaths followed; every time with a note with the exact same poem.
Ron looked out the window of the attic in Number 12, Grimmauld Place. It was a dark day, with black clouds rolling overhead. He felt like flying on his Cleansweep 11 but he knew that it would be forbidden. It was too dangerous to be outside the enchanted walls of Number 12. It was dangerous because of Voldemort, and yet another man. Malachi. (A/N don't you just love the name Malachi?) Malachi the Poet. He was almost as notorious as You- Know-Who these days. He tortures his victims until they can't remember who they are, and then kills them. After every death he would leave a poem with the same warning.
"Fear me in the Nighttime,
Fear me in day,
Fear me when the clock chimes,
And never go astray."
That's what Ron couldn't do. Go astray. Now he knew why Sirius was so restless when he had had to stay here. Trapped in a musty old house with no one to talk to but that mental house elf Kreacher.
Ron sighed at his old friend's name.
Sirius's death had hit Harry hard. His owls to the Order had been short and to the point, as if he paid no attention to the fact that Sirius was gone. The only sign that Harry mourned his death at all were small spots on the parchment that were shriveled, as if his tears had dried on the long flight.
It must be awful.
Behind him, Ron heard Buckbeak scratch at the door.
"Looks like you miss Sirius as much as Harry does, Buckbeak."
Buckbeak wimpered in reply. Then he went over to a corner of the attic and lay down for a nap.
"Might as well not disturb you while you're taking a snooze." Ron walked down the stairs into the kitchen where his mother was preparing supper.
"What are we having tonight, Mum?"
"Oh, well I'm fixing meatballs and potatoes. You're welcome to help. Ginny is already skinning the potatoes."
"No thanks, Mum."
"I'll call you when dinner is ready." She turned towards him. Ron noticed the red around her eyes.
She's been crying again. Poor mum.
On a whim, Ron raced up to his room and started writing a letter.
Dear Harry,
How are you? Things are a nightmare here. Mum always seems on the edge of bursting into tears whenever Snuffles is mentioned. Buckbeak is doing well, considering. Write back soon.
Sincerely
Ron
Is it smart mentioning Sirius? He's going to have to talk about it sometime. People can't keep things bottled up like that.
And with that, Ron opened one of his books and started to study.