Thanks Fiery pirate bitch for reviewing twice! I'm going to update early again because of it. I would have posted yesterday but I had to transfer the story from a notepad to my computer to one of the engineering lab computers. Also there was an extremely upsetting incident involving one of my best friends running away from home again. After which I couldn't find sufficient motivation to sit up (never mind go to work or class). But anyway I'm feeling a little better now so here's the next chapter.

Day 7.

Snape Family Mansion:

'She's dead. She's dead. She's dead. She's dead. She's dead. She's dead.

She's dead. She's dead. She's dead. She's dead. She's dead. She's dead.'

'He killed her.'

With that thought Serverus stopped rocking. He stood and walked downstairs.

In the library he searched purposefully through the many leather-bound volumes. After a few minutes he pulled one out. Ornate gold lettering on the black cover read 'Dark Magick'. Ignoring the icy chill that filled the room upon opening the book he started to read.

It was several hours latter and Serverus had finished the first book and also 'Fell Forbidden Ritual'. He was almost half way through 'Binding Spells: Forcing Karma' when the dark mark on his arm started to burn. It was almost as bad as when it had been created. But with the pain came knowledge: he had to go somewhere, he knew the place. The voice of the dark lord commanded "come!" and allowed nothing else to take precedence.

He changed into his death eater robes and half in a trance stumbled outside to take an old broom from the shed. It was covered in dust and cobwebs. As he climbed onto it he vaguely recalled that he couldn't stand flying. But the burning in his arm was pulling him, pulling him towards his master.

Somewhere in the middle of a pine forest he dismounted the broom. The other death eaters were already there, Voldemort at the head of the circle. Hurriedly he took his place.

"Well," Riddle smiled, "this is the problem with initiating children too young to have an apparition license." He looked across at Serverus. "Don't be late again." A pause. "I suppose I'd better punish you. Crucio."

The curse wasn't held for particularly long and afterwards the teenager managed to pick himself up from the ground without having screamed. Voldemort looked pleased and continued on to the next order of business: 'sport'.

"Lucious, go get the muggles."

Bowing lightly the young man departed. A few moments latter he returned, grinning and levitating three muggles behind him. A family. A man with a gash on his forehead. A woman, her face covered with dried blood from her broken nose. And a little girl.

'She can't be more than five.'

Lucious dumped them in the center of the circle. The child started to cry.

'I can't let this happen.'

The mother pulled her baby into her arms.

'You can't stop it.'

Voldemort smiled and the 'fun' began. Serverus dug the nails of his unbroken fingers into his palm and fought not to be sick.

Number 12 Grimaland Place:

Sirus discovered that morning that the swelling had gone down enough that he could open his right eye just a fraction. It wasn't enough to let him see properly but he could at least have a general idea of what was going on. The new information was not encouraging. It seemed that he looked as bad as he felt.

There was a lot of half dried blood, sticking to his skin and to the floor. He knew it was probably covering up wounds but didn't really care. At that point trying to deal with his injuries just seemed like too much effort. He felt exhausted and horribly weak. After a few attempts he managed to get to his feet and stumbled over to his bed.

He lay there shivering against the cold, drifting between sleep and the painful nightmare that was reality.

Some time after the sun had set he regained consciousness fully. He decided to try the door.

'Ok. Now I just have to get to it.'

The pain and dizziness on standing made him want to throw up. Crossing the room he had to lean against the wall to prevent his legs from buckling. One bruised hand stretched out to tentatively push the door. It opened. Sirus wanted to cheer and jump for joy. But a sudden lightness in his head removed his sense of balance and he fell face first out onto the corridor.

It was several seconds before he returned to awareness. The fresh pain caused him to wince. Forcing himself not to cry out he got to his hands and knees and from there back to a standing position.

The journey downstairs took far longer than it should have. He was afraid of passing out and being found by one of his parents. But finally he reached the kitchen and breathed a sigh of relief to see that it was empty.

He found a bottle of milk and hurriedly took a gulp. A second latter he started coughing uncontrollably. It took nearly a full minute for the fit to pass and when it did Sirus drank again. More carefully though this time, with only little sips.

When the liquid hit his stomach it started to ache. His vision started to swim slightly. He put down the bottle. Looking through the presses he took a lump of cheese and a couple of pieces of fruit and shoved them into his trousers pockets for latter. Then, without warning, he froze.

He held his breath. His father was speaking to someone. The conversation was taking place in the sitting room but Sirus could hear through the open kitchen door.

"The attack will occur tonight."

He couldn't make out the response.

"Voldemort's forces will apperate to the out-skirts of Hogsmead at midnight."

There was a long pause, then an evil laugh.

"Indeed. We will take them completely by surprise. It will be a massacre."

He was barely aware of the conversation ending or of the fact that it must have been taking place through the fire. The words echoing through his mind at that moment were as loud as thunder and blocked out all other sound.

'Attack. Hogsmead. Tonight. Massacre.'

He needed to do something, to warn people somehow.

'But who can I tell? It's not like I know any aurors.'

Then it hit him.

'Dumbeldore."

He'd know what to do.

'But how?'

He couldn't go to Hogswort. His family would find him before he'd been gone ten minutes. But somehow he had to get a message to his headmaster.

'I can't use the floo network.'

His father was in front of the fire right now.

'And I don't have an owl.'

Then an idea occurred to him. He scanned the room, after a few seconds locating a scrap of parchment and a quill. Even taking the quill in his hand hurt. He could barely make out the words he was writing. But he forced himself to concentrate as quickly he scribbled a letter.

Professor Dumbeldore,
I heard my father say that there is going to be a death-
eater attack on Hogsmeade. It's meant to take place
tonight at 12. I didn't know who to tell, you were the only
one I could think of. This isn't a prank. Please believe me.
Sirus

Careful not to make any noise he went out into the hall. He picked up his mother's wand from the table top where she'd left it. It was made from beech wood, very long and slender. He could never have used it for spells, it was nothing like his own wand and reacted badly to him. But he could use it to call the knight-bus. Then he'd just have to convince the conductor to take the letter to Dumbeldore. He could do this. So why were his hands shaking?

'I'm just tired.'

He forced himself to walk to the door.

At that moment his father left the sitting room.

"And where do you think you're going?"

He stiffened. His father spun him around and slammed him against the wall. A dozen wounds started to bleed freshly.

"Are you a fool, trying to leave this house? Do you want to bring even more shame down on your family? Where would you have gone? Well? To the home of one of your muggle loving Griffindors? I think even they would turn away a stupid waste of flesh like you."

'Don't let him see the letter.'

The older man backhanded him across the face. He fell, smacking his head off the wooden boards. Instinctively he pulled his legs up to his chest, expecting further blows. But his had seen the parchment. A second later it had been snatched from his hand.

As Mr. Black read, his face turned scarlet. For a few seconds he stood silently as Sirus struggled to steady his breathing. It was too fast, jerky and gasping. It was sending shooting pain through his ribs.

"A blood traitor. A blood traitor for a son."

Rough hands pulled the boy upright. They pushed him forwards, towards the stairs. But he was too dazed, too hurt and too weak. His legs buckled and he fell once more.

"Get up." A kick to the ribs caused him to gasp. Fingers closed around his hair, yanked him upwards. His father marched him to the steps, where he tripped again. An already broken bone shattered and blood poured over smashed teeth and down his chin. He felt a hand grasp his shoulder with painful strength and start to pull him upwards. He tried to stand to avoid being dragged but only managed to get to his hands and knees. Another sharp tug caused him to fall from even that position and white-hot pain flared where his elbow connected with the banisters. Then up further and further till they reached the landing. Then Sirus was being dragged into his room. He tried to struggle but there was no strength left in his body. His father threw him against the wall. There was a loud thud and he collapsed in a heap. Then there were fists and feet, broken bones and blood, and finally, after what seemed like hours upon hours, merciful nothingness.