THE SEERS' TRUTH: BEYOND THE DARKNESS
By Lady Lestrange
Chapter 9
Misused Magic
15 Reviews: I really hate blackmailing you into reviewing, but hey, I'm a Slytherin. It's in my nature, so when there are 15 reviews, for this chapter, the next one will magically appear. Love my readers and reviewers. Answers to the reviews follow the story.
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter characters and previous situations belong to JK Rowlings. No infringement is meant or implied. No money is made from this fanfic. Thanks JK.
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Thank you to my faithful and hardworking beta, ennui deMorte
Ok, here are the notes to help everyone understand what is going on:
{.} - Parseltongue
[.] - Mindspeak
Italics - Thoughts
And the different page breaks:
+++ Changes in Points of View in Samara's head and Environments.
++ Change in realities: Going from playing in Samara's head to the Real World.
The next page break is the Beginning/End of the Story:
+++
Samara wondered if she was still in the Chamber of Forever. She continued to feel the power of the Elementals around her and through her. They were too powerful. She felt pulled apart by them. Was this what it was like to splinch? She remembered an Apparition. No. It was a portkey.
Was she a ghost? She wondered. She seemed to be fluid, made of air and water instead of flesh and blood. Perhaps, she thought, she could understand better if her feet were connected to the earth. She searched for it, but felt only fire coursing through her, dripping from her, she was reminded of someone. Someone in the fire. A dragon. She couldn't focus. Couldn't remember. She closed her eyes against the pain. Did she have eyes, she wondered. Why could she see nothing but a purple haze in front of her? Thick purple fog like cobwebs of magic obscured everything.
Someone. Something touched her face. She sensed power there and it frightened her. She ran into the fog and suddenly she was in a forest, running and colliding with an old man. She ran through him. She must be a ghost, she thought. Or he was. Had she died? No not through him, into him, becoming him. His magic was familiar.
"Harry?" she thought.
+++
Deep in the Forest of Forever, Meridius stood and looked at the night sky. The moons were rising. He waited until both of the moons hung full and lustrous in the sky. It wasn't often that both were full on the same night, but tonight, for the first time in nine years, that monumental event was taking place. On this, the most magic of nights, Meridius planned to bring to fruition a lifetime of work-several lifetimes, actually.
He knew the magic would be costly. He knew he would lose his sight and his hearing, perhaps other senses as well, for great magic was never without great cost. He counted the losses well spent. After all, once he opened the gateway to other worlds, he could enter the other realities and he would have all of his senses there.
If it worked. Bah-of course it would work. Wasn't he hailed as the most intelligent of all the sorcerers? Yes, when the others were stumped they always came to him, and he could ferret out the answer to any problem. Meridius' hand shook a little with unaccustomed excitement as he stirred the potion with his wand. He would be known as the greatest sorcerer of all time. History would remember him forever, and he had an unquenchable thirst to prove himself.
The potion, a bright neon green, was nearly ready. It only needed the last four ingredients. He had searched a lifetime through time and space for those ingredients. And his father had searched before him, dying at the base of Mount Ignatious, when he failed the Fire's test.
Before him, the old sorcerer laid the items: The yellow pearl from the oyster of tomorrow, signifying his oneness with the water elemental, and transcendence of time. The invisible butterfly that lived at the center of the whirlwind, the sylph, signifying his connection with the air elemental, and his ability to see beyond the physical. The creation loam, translucent dirt from which legend said The People were made, the creative force of the universe. And finally, the living rock, which was taken from the base of Mount Ignatious, where the fires never ceased to burn, signifying passion.
Every element: Water, Air, Land and Fire were represented in the items. The last of them was Spirit, represented by the old man himself. He was nearly ready.
He began to bring himself to a state of Spiritual readiness while the potion bubbled and popped. Only moments now, he thought. Moments to prepare himself. He emptied himself any feeling of doubt or greed. In his mind's eye, he embraced all the People and all of the creatures. He felt his oneness with them, and pulled the cauldron from the fire.
After waiting a total of three blinks of the eye, he dropped the pearl into the potion, thinking of all of the sea creatures-the merfolk and the nyads, the sentient plants which lived at the very bottom of the sea-their essence was in him, and he felt his oneness with them. The potion mellowed to a pale blue and Meridius breathed a sigh of relief-not that he didn't expect it to work, he did. He rarely made mistakes with his potions or his magic.
Immediately, he held his hands aloft and willed the butterfly to come to him from her holding place. When at last she flew between his outstretched hands, he saw her, a bright rainbow splash, between his fingers. Meridius prayed then, for she was a live thing, and he had no right to take her life. It needed to be freely given. Again, he sought oneness with the creatures of the air, the flying equines, and the phoenixes, and the winged monkeys and lions, the gryffins, and bats and birds. A moment later, the butterfly flew directly into the hot potion, and the color changed again to the color of mud, deep rich riverbed mud that grew all sorts of wonders.
Meridius thrust his hand into the ever-changing and liquid-like loam. A handful was all he needed, but it took his concentration and his magic to pull his hand from the loam. Immediately his fingers wanted to take root and grow, for this was the loam of creation. This loam was the reason that trees grew and flowers blossomed. This was the reason that every living creature had sought the female of his kind since the beginning. It was highly addictive. The sorcerer pulled his hand from the loam and dumped the great lump of the soil into the cauldron. It bubbled madly and when it settled down, it was yellow-orange, the color of flame.
The Fire Elemental, he dared not touch. He reached for his wand and levitated the lump of volcanic rock. It was still smoking and steaming for a thing like that would never give up its nature, except by magic, for its nature was the Fire Elemental. He dropped it into the cauldron and ironically, the potion immediately cooled. It was a thick viscous mixture and it was blood red.
Meridius looked at it for a moment. This was the moment he had been waiting for his whole lifetime. Suddenly, he did not want to do this alone. He wanted a witness for his triumph, but his son was dead, killed by a magical accident that was so stupid it doesn't bear repeating, and his granddaughter, although a dutiful child was not obsessed by magic like her father. She apparently took after her mother in that regard, a respectable sorceress but not outstanding. The mother preferred to spend her time among the unicorns, of which she was one. The granddaughter inherited the ability to shape shift into a flying equine, but she was afraid of heights and tended to gallop along the ground instead. Meridius sighed. Such was his legacy, but now, he would be remembered for this moment.
He wanted a witness. He wanted someone to capture his triumph. He knew his daughter-in-law would not come, and so, he quieted his mind and called for his granddaughter.
++
Voldemort backed away from Samara: his spirit reveling in the days of powerful, wild magic; his body drained by the toll taken by the Elementals. Sweat poured from him and he leaned his head against her bedcovers, taking a moment to recover himself. He glanced around the room. It was quiet and still, only he and Nagini to witness his weakness.
"Oh, no, there you are wrong," whispered the voice of his nemesis. "I see you. I know your weakness."
"Only in the Elementals," said Voldemort, "And that weakness is yours too, Tom. There is nothing you can do."
"Isn't there?" taunted Tom. "Perhaps next time, you will not make it back from the Elementals. Perhaps you will die there-"
"And you will die with me," said Salazar.
"So be it," said Tom harshly.
"{Master?}" questioned Nagini with concern.
"{I'm fine,}" said Voldemort. "{I was a little deeper this time, harder to get back,}" he panted. "{But I know now, she is indeed key to the Rift.}"
Nagini brightened. "{Then you understand?}"
"{No,}" said Voldemort. "{Godric kept things from me-secrets-}"
"{Gryffin Dung,}" stated Nagini in a superior tone.
"{Yes,}" said Voldemort, rising and calling a house elf. "Find Draco Malfoy and send him to me."
"{So, is she the prophecy child you seek?}" asked Nagini.
"{Perhaps. That is harder to tell. Such discernment was Helga's gift, not mine.}"
After a moment, Winky reappeared. Voldemort noted with pleasure the reddened scald marks from the dragon blood cleaner which she had used to scrub her skin. In several places, the elf's own blood had seeped through the damaged skin and scabbed over. She had indeed done a good job at scrubbing herself with the Dragon blood cleaner. "He's not at the Snow Castle, Master-" said the elf.
Voldemort frowned. He had not told the boy to leave, and yet he could be on some errand for one of his parents, or it could just be the house elf's laziness. "You are lazy," said Voldemort with narrowed eyes. "Look harder."
The house elf squeaked. "Winky looked. Winky finds him. Shall Winky go to Malfoy Manor?"
"No, just find me another Death Eater."
Winky Disapparated and appeared almost instantly with Wormtail.
"Where were you Wormtail? Listening at the door?"
"No. Of course not Master, I was j-just-"
"Nevermind. Give me your arm."
Whimpering, Wormtail held out his left arm and Voldemort pushed up his sleeve. "How is my bunny?" Voldemort asked conversationally before he applied his wand to Wormtail's Mark.
"F-Fine," stammered Wormtail, and then The Mark burned black and Wormtail's words were lost in his squeak of pain. Voldemort said a single name, "Draco Malfoy." Voldemort could have, of course, called Draco without the use of his Death Eater, but it took much less energy to use Wormtail's Dark Mark as a conduit of power instead of his own.
Seconds later, Draco Apparated into the room and sank into a low bow.
"My Lord," said Draco. "You wished my presence."
"Where were you?" hissed Voldemort.
"At Knockturn," said Draco innocently. "Selling some blood."
Voldemort touched him and although Draco spoke the truth, a different thought came to his mind. Draco was holding a silver diadem the exact color of his hair, a secret device made to block Legilimency. Over and over again the thought was rolling through Draco's mind: I didn't buy it. I could have, but I didn't buy it. I didn't buy the diadem! Please, let that mean something to him. I didn't buy it!"
Voldemort's eyes narrowed. "You deserve to feel my wrath," he said, "but I shall be lenient. You are lucky that you didn't buy it," said Voldemort, releasing him. "If you had bought it, I would have had to kill you, and that would be such a waste, don't you agree?"
"Yes," said Draco softly, blowing out his breath in relief.
"You have your father's charm and cunning; your mother's power. You can do great things. You are destined for great things. I can give them to you. But first, you must do something for me. Understand that I am being patient with you, only because you will need your wits about you for your task."
"What do you wish me to do?" Draco asked carefully, and Voldemort laughed.
"Don't look so fearful," he said. "It is nothing you won't enjoy. I want you to exercise this bond that you made with my Prophecy Child. She is taking too long to return to us. I want her back."
"I don't understand-"
Voldemort's red eyes glistened with mirth. "Do you understand so little of this bond you made with her? I want you to reach her in the Elementals. I want you to touch her," he said. "Touch her body. Touch her magic. Make her body a place she wants to return to, a place she desires more than the Elementals in which she is immersed." Voldemort smiled. "If you wish, I could stay an assist you," continued Voldemort, "But I had rather thought my presence might inhibit your-work."
Voldemort's mirth increased with Draco's anger, and he reached toward Draco, but he didn't even have to touch him. He felt the thoughts roll up like a wall: anger, mortification, and a fierce protectiveness toward the girl Samara, that protectiveness, Draco immediately tried to hide from him, filling his thoughts with anger instead. Magic rolled from Draco's hands in a spell, and then was sucked back as Draco seemed to realize who he was planning on cursing.
Voldemort reached out lazily and snapped Draco's right arm like a toothpick, the bones jutted through the skin, and blood poured. Draco fell to his knees a cry on his lips, but the anger was still in his thoughts.
Voldemort conjured a glass container to catch the blood. After a moment, he said, "Pure wizard blood, not worth as much on the market as Squib blood, but valuable to me nonetheless." As he pocketed the vial, he said, "You are a child. Never even think of raising your magic against me again. I could have just as easily broken your neck."
"I know," whispered Draco and Voldemort reached toward him, but the waves of hate emanating from him obscured all of his other thoughts.
"It's dangerous to hate so all-consuming," said Voldemort. "It makes you reckless. Stupid. I think I shall leave your arm as a reminder to control your temper." Voldemort stopped the bleeding, but did not heal the broken bone. "And here, I had thought you took after your mother in that manner. Perhaps it is because you care about the girl." Voldemort's eyes flickered to Samara, and he felt Draco's ire increase, so he turned his gaze to the boy.
Draco looked up, fear in his eyes.
"Oh, yes, I see you're protectiveness of her." Voldemort shook his head, his amusement evident. "You can hide nothing from me now. You gave up that right, for a few minutes pleasure, you foolish boy."
Voldemort turned and left the room, locking the door behind him.
++
Samara felt his arms around her. She sensed tears on her cheeks. The smell of blood in the air, and within her body, there was pain, but someone held her close. She felt his warm magic laced with pain. Draco? She felt his fear, and yet, there was a strange satisfaction as if he had succeeded in some great feat. The words were whispered in her ear. "Please come back, Samara." The time stretched endlessly in front of her, and the next words were almost lost in the swirling mists of the Elementals. "I need you."
"Where are you?" she asked, and the voice changed, floating away from her. It was no longer her Dragon. It was Meridius, the wizard in the Elementals.
"[Granddaughter!]"
"[Where are you grandfather?]" asked the child, using her mindspeak abilities.
"[In the Forever Forest, at the Oak Grove. Please come.]"
"[I will,]" she replied. He sensed her moving rather slowly along the ground.
"[Fly,]" said the old man, and he felt rather than heard her sigh.
"[Yes, grandfather.]"
Moments later, a jet-black horse flew into the clearing and landed unceremoniously in front to the sorcerer. She shifted back into the shape of a woman, with pale white skin and dark black hair that hung like a curling mane to her waist. She bowed her head, obediently. "What did you wish, Grandfather?"
"Only that you be a witness." He picked up the cauldron and poured the blood-red liquid into a drinking glass.
"You know what this is, I presume."
"The elixir," she whispered. "You have finished."
"Yes," said Meridius. "Just watch and remember," he said.
"Grandfather, what have you traded for this gift of magic?" she asked.
"My sight and my hearing. I think that, perhaps, it may also take my sense of smell and taste. I hope to hold on to touch, because it will be hard to complete the spell, if I cannot feel the magic in front of me."
"Grandfather, it is too much," protested the girl.
"For the ability to pass between one world and another? Nonsense. The price is acceptable. We will travel together to one of the worlds-you and I. You will see. Would you like to experience one of the worlds where there is no magic?"
The girl froze. "No magic," she said appalled. "How do they live?"
"Differently, I suppose," said her grandfather. "Wouldn't you like to see?"
"No," she said backing away.
"Very well, then. Just observe, so that you can tell your children's children about this moment."
The girl nodded in reply and the old man picked up the cup and downed the red liquid in several long gulps. The magic's effect was immediate and violent. The man started to shake, and he dropped the container that had held the potion, as the potent mixture, which held the essence of each of the elementals, coursed through him.
"Grandfather!" She cried, snatching his hand in hers to prevent him from falling and then wrapping her arms around shoulders suddenly frail. The magic coursing through him leaked into her and she cried out with the pain and power of it.
Samara recognized what was happening. Shared Magic. This must not be! The old man knew it too.
With effort he brought his attention to his granddaughter. It would not do for her to realize what the spell was costing him. "Hush," he said, and turning his head toward the sound of her voice, he disentangled himself from her embrace. He was already blind, his sight burned from him the moment he swallowed the potion.
He raised his hands, and using his own body as a wand, pulled the power of the elements through himself. His body ached with the strain, and he knew he had to finish the spell quickly or his voice would be lost before he finished. Then all would be for naught.
"Water," he called, "Which quenches Fire, which wears away the Land, which drags the Air from its heights and makes it heavy with your essence, fill me with your power.
"Air, which blows out the Fire, and scatters the Land, and causes turbulence in the Water with your presence, fill me with your power.
"Land, which smothers the Fire, and muddies the Water and stops the Wind with your mountains, fill me with your power.
"Fire, which dries up the Water, and burns the Land, and fogs the Air, fill me with your power.
"Spirit of the Source whose breath is the Air, whose passion is the Fire, who shapes the Land into living things and whose Water is the life's blood of all, fill me with your power."
Meridius stood glowing with a great purple light, magic dripping from his fingertips as it had never done before. He was in agony. His ears popping with the pressure of holding the spell, and his throat already as dry as desert sand. The conflicting presences of the elementals were tearing apart his insides. He needed to act quickly, while this frail body sustained its life.
He raised both hands in front of him and concentrated on the sacred Oak that he knew to be there. He could not see it. He felt the magic leave his body. He did not need to see it to know that the magic had connected with its target. He did not need to hear the great Oak crack down the middle, but he also did not hear the gasp of fear issued from his granddaughter.
In the very center of the Oak was a purple haze-the doorway to the other world. He felt the magic emanating from it, hot and primordial. He held completely still, willing the magic to obey him, but it had a mind of its own. It sought to open the rift more than he had planned. He felt the magic seeking more energy-energy he did not have. Taste left him, and smell and the ability to stand and control his muscles. Only his mind remained intact. His body was being consumed by the magic.
"[Get back!]" He called to his granddaughter in the mind speak. "[Fly! Seek the Five Lands and tell them I have opened a rift to another world. Tell them, it must be closed or we shall all die. I shall hold it until they come.]"
"[Grandfather!]"
He sensed her step toward him.
"[No!]" He screamed in the mindspeak. "[Come no closer.]"
The girl transformed back into a flying equine, and without looking back, began her mission to reveal this catastrophe to the leaders of the Five Lands. She had barely flown the breath of a butterfly, when a rainbow of color lit the sky and a great explosion rent the air. Bits of earth and fire showered down upon her and within them she felt her grandfather's essence. He was gone, but Samara took up residence within the girl.
After a moment of shock, she began to pray. "We are born of spirit, but belong to the land. We hold fire in our hearts and air in our lungs and water in all of our tissues, but we are none of these. We are sorcerers, meant to live forever within the Elementals. For a brief while, we have intellect, and then we return to the Source.
"I will remember the past and so learn by it. I will believe in the future and embrace it, but I will live in the present. Here and now, I will do my best, and therefore, have no regrets about my life or my death. I have spoken. It is so."
Another voice echoed, "I have no regrets."
She glanced down at the purple cloud that was spreading out like a cancer over the land, and she turned, hurrying to the leaders of the Five Lands to tell them of the catastrophe. Tears coursed down her cheeks as she flew, and deep in her heart, she felt loss. She felt the loss of her grandfather, and, even more acutely, the loss of the power of the magic she had contained with the old man. She wanted to stay there, but the old man was pushing her away. "[Go!]" he urged, pushing her away from the power.
Something? Something was taking the magic away. She fought it. The magic was hers! She tried to grip it in insubstantial hands, but there was nothing to hold and nothing to gain. There was nothing to cling to. The old man was gone, vanished in the purple smoke.
"Let it go," someone whispered to her. "Don't try to control it. All the magic is just US after all-our magic-joined. It's been inside of us all along. Just feel it, and let it be."
"It hurts," she thought.
"I know it hurts," he whispered as if he understood her. "But it won't last forever, Samara. Come back to me. Leave the Elementals and come back to me and then you can start to heal."
"I can't find you."
"I won't lose you!" She felt a surge of power, and she knew him. It was her Dragon.
She followed the heat, searching for the fire in which he existed, but she still couldn't find him. She whimpered in pain and frustration, and abruptly, the magic was gone. She was in another place, her body a single flame of pain. . . unimaginable. . . .unbearable.
"Samara!" The panic in the dragon's voice galvanized her efforts and she plunged straight through the flames, reaching for him, reaching, and for just a moment, she felt his magic brush against hers, and he whispered, "Dance with me." Then he was gone, and she was in another place, a desert.
+++
In a desert where there was no magic, called Earth, a youth was running, and Samara was with him in the way magic was within everything. He was a small boy, but wiry. Samara searched for a word to describe him and she found it. He was a Muggle. He had just turned twelve, and if you asked him, he would say he was a man for he had already killed a lion. Although he wore only a loincloth, sweat was shining on his back, and his muscles were tight with exertion. The boy's skin was the color of mahogany and his feet were bare. Slap. Slap. Slap. They sounded upon the hot desert sand and Samara felt the hot, gritty sand in some way, and yet she was not really a part of this world.
The boy was the messenger of the warlord of the greatest village of the desert. There had been three of the warlords in his short lifetime, and he had served them all, for he was cunning and strong and valued by those he called master. Now, he was the servant of the one they called Pharaoh, but if that one fell from power, the boy knew that he would survive, because he was blessed with a keen memory and fluent tongue. In his blood flowed the legacy of kings. Although he was taken from his homeland and made a slave, he would never forget. Even now, the message that he had been given was running through his brain. He would remember it verbatim, and tell it to the opposing leader, if that was likely to keep his skin on his body, but if not, he would change the message to suit his own purposes. Perhaps this warlord would be strong enough to hold the land. The youth hoped so. He liked him.
In the distance the youth saw the shadows of a village where only desert sand should be. He was not concerned. It was a mirage. He was used to such things. He still had quite a ways to go to end his journey, so he slowed a little, pacing himself and pulled his water skin from his waist. He wet his mouth judiciously and swallowed a little. The water had to last him and if he drank too swiftly, his guts would cramp. He ran on, looking again at the village mirage that seemed to be growing clearer in a mist of purple smoke. He kept his eyes on it now, expecting it to dissolve at any moment, but it did not.
At last, he ran into the heart of the village, wondering if he was going crazy from the sun. He still fully expected the village to melt into the place where mirages go, but instead, someone grabbed him from behind, and shouted at him in a language he did not know. Even though he did not understand the language, he understood the words. They were spoken directly into his mind. "You! Boy! What is this place?" The youth froze, frightened of this creature that could invade his thoughts. "I know you understand. Answer me," demanded the creature. A wild wind was blowing around the creature, threatening the calm sand.
The youth struggled and the creature easily loosed his hold on the boy. He ran. For a few moments the creature followed, but the youth quickly outpaced him. The youth could run all day and not tire. The creature could not.
After a while, the youth began to believe that the creature with the skin the color of ivory and eyes as blue as the sky could not have been real. It was part of the mirage, but he would tell no one that a mirage had attacked him. They would think he was possessed of demons. He took another drink of his water, and increased his pace. It would soon be dark, but he did not have far to go now. With luck, he could sleep in a tent tonight by the River called Nile.
Sleep. Yes, sleep was a good idea, thought Samara. She was tired of running. She was tired and it was too hot. She lay her head against the roughness of the sand and fell asleep Earth, she thought. It was safe and steady. It would do. The smell of the Earth was pleasant, like flowers and growing things.
Beside her, lying on the ground was a lavender rose, a forever rose. She reached for it, and closed her hands around thorns. A voice came to her in the Elementals, a voice she knew: "The same magic that made the Curse, made the Dance."
The same magic? She thought, confused, but she brought the rose to her face and inhaled its sweet scent. Her body was hot with the foreign magic, yet she could not seem to release it. She seemed to only be able to absorb the magic and not release it. She was so tired, and so hot, feverish she realized. Her body was aching with the magic. She pushed the pain away, and faced the Elementals again.
When she awoke, she was in a different place, a different person. The Elementals in which she existed flowed into the new person and, for a while, the pain dulled to an ache. The sound of the ocean slapping against the rocks roared in her ears. She could smell the salt sea.
+++
She rose and dusted herself off. She wasn't the type to be thrown from her horse. She was an excellent rider, for she was the daughter of the Laird and she had been on the back of a horse before she could walk. Her Da took her everywhere with him since her mother had died giving birth to her younger brother. Sadly the boy died too, leaving only her as her Da's heir. No matter. She was better than any boy. Even her Da had said so, but she saw the longing for a son in his eyes, especially when some of the men asked for her hand in marriage just so they could hold the land.
She sighed, stuck her fingers in her mouth and whistled for her mount. He didn't come. Being a stallion, he was a fickle thing, and only came when it suited him, but no matter. There was the house of McKinnon to the east, and if she was lucky she would come upon her horse in the meantime.
She began to walk. The heather was dry and crackled beneath her feet, but the fog ahead promised some moisture at least. As she walked, her eyes settled on the fog and she slowed. It was no natural fog. It was a strange purple color and thick as molasses. Ahead of her should be McKinnon house, but she saw nothing but the fog.
She kept walking, now taking herself in a circle, thinking that perhaps she got a little off track. The moor could do that to you. Still, she found no house, but there, standing amidst a strange array of stones, each set on their edge, she found her horse. He was grazing silently among the stones.
"Ha! You're a devil I think, ya ken?" she asked, as she caught him, but he gazed silently at her, totally content in the dark, among the stones. "Ya dinna think I would trade ya in on a docile mare? We could keep her belly full o' foal and she'd be dull and slow, not a devil, like ye."
The stallion lifted his lip and sniffed the air, using flehmen and she laughed. "Oh, ye be thinking that you'd be the one to fill her belly, did ye?" She patted him affectionately and he nipped at her. "Stop that! I'm not ye mare, ye great oaf," she spat, smacking him, though not hard, because she didn't want him to run from her. He turned back to nibbling the tall grass.
"Did ye not want to get back to yer warm straw?" she asked, perplexed that the grazing animal was content alone in the dark. "No matter," she said, grabbing his black mane and using one of the strange stones as a mounting block, hauled herself up onto his back. "Yer here now," she said. Expertly guiding with her knees, she turned the horse in the direction of her home.
She must have been lost in the dark, she reasoned. McKinnon house must have been further toward the sea, but still, what were those strange stones set in the purple fog? When she got home, her Da said he had never seen them.
+++
Dad? Samara heard them arguing again, her mother fun loving and frivolous, her father quick tempered and ambitious. They were a study in opposites, their only common trait being their stubbornness and perhaps their love for their children.
Both had come to Hogwarts in her dream, traveling in some mad way through the Elementals. Magic is everywhere, said Dumbledore. In everyone, even Muggles.
"In everywhere but your damned torture chamber!" spat Samara and the pain returned. As she collapsed sobbing, her father shot forward, grabbing Dumbledore by the neck and flinging him from the north tower, but he grew wings and flew away, the snowflakes melting against his white hair and beard and the wind blowing strongly in the window.
"Cassandra!" snarled her father. "Build the fire! It is you who must unfog the future! You must warn the prophecy child!"
Trelawney stood at the window for a moment and then, without shutting the window, turned to the fire and began piling logs upon it. "It must burn," she muttered in an insane voice. "It must burn for the snake. It must be ready."
She continued piling the logs onto the fire, and Samara tapped her shoulder. "{Professor?}" she asked. "{What must be ready?}"
Trelawney looked around wildly, but didn't answer and as she turned, her robe touched the edge of the hearth and flames leaped to it. In a moment her robes were burned black and she had transformed into Snape.
He doused his robes with Elemental water and the dungeon floor was slippery with water and ash. Harry Potter was sitting in a puddle in front of him."If you cannot control your magic, Potter, It will control you," he snarled. "Try again." And Harry Potter disappeared. Snape looked over his shoulder and spotted Samara watching. "What are you still doing here?" He snapped. "I told you what to do."
"{Sir,}" said Samara hesitantly, "{I don't know how. Can you help me?}" Samara asked again, and it was then she realized she was talking in Parseltongue.
"You do not belong here," said her father, stalking into the dungeon, and she reached for him desperately clawing her way forward.
"I want to come home!" she wailed. "Daddy!" But he melted from the father she knew into another father.
An oriental man with the same stern face said, "You must go now, my daughter." And she held her head high as she entered the jinrikisha.
+++
She was a dutiful daughter. She was riding in a jinrikisha borne by slaves, and following her was her entourage with her dowry and the men her father had sent to safeguard it. She didn't fool herself into thinking that the entourage was for her safety. No, she was quite certain it was for the gold and jewels, which would soon go into her husband's coffers.
There was no way to escape the marriage, but she had already befouled her vows. The heir born would not be the child of her husband. It would be the child of her lover, a lover she had already swore she would never see again. There was no other way to keep him safe. She would never reveal his existence. She had made that mistake once, revealing her secret to her maid, and now she had corrected that mistake. She pocketed the vial of poison that she had used to kill her maid, the only one who had knowledge of her indiscretion.
"Hime," said one of the guards as he knocked on the door of the jinrikisha. "A storm is coming," he said. "We can see a dense fog in the distance. We beg your permission to seek sanctuary at the Temple. Then we will continue onward to your honorable husband to be in the morning."
"Very well," she agreed. "My maid is ill. Perhaps a night's sleep will revive her." She knew full well that the maid would be dead by morning light."
She leaned back on her cushions and thought. She would have to ply her husband-to-be with drink on their wedding night. He must not suspect that she was not a virgin. If that didn't work, she had several herbs that would confuse his thinking. Deceiving him would be a dangerous business, but it had to be done.
The tapping came again to the door. "Hime," said the guard worriedly. "The Temple is not here."
"You are lost, you fool!" she accused.
"No, Hime, the Temple should be here, but all that is here is this accursed purple mist. We must continue on to the palace and your esteemed husband."
She looked out of the jinrikisha into the night. The purple fog blanketed the landscape. Her mind began working furiously. Perhaps there was some way that she could use this fog to her benefit. Beside her, the maid, with a soft cry, breathed her last.
+++
Who would be so callus, thought Samara. Who would do such things?
She was no longer riding. She was walking. Why? Why had she lived through so many of their lives, Muggles and Wizards, blended? That was it, she thought. They weren't supposed to be blended, but they were. Or were the Houses once together and now apart? Yes, that was it. The Houses were all once together because they were all magical, but now in the Muggle world they were divided-because of the Rift. It was all because of the Rift. What was she supposed to do about it?
Her feet ached from the travel and she was so tired. She stepped on a sharp rock and cried out, stumbling and falling heavily against the rocks. She realized that she was in another reality.
She had to walk far to the stream, twice, sometimes three, times a day. It was her job to draw the water, and water was not plentiful in this place. The growing fields were rocky and hard. Her village was poor, often attacked and rarely did they have enough to eat. As she was kneeling at the water's edge, she felt a cool fog rolling in from the north.
Nothing good came from the north, she thought. She dropped her water jug, cracking it on the sharp stones. She began to run. Mama would be angry for the loss of the water jug, but she didn't care. She was frightened. She ran with everything she had and behind her the fog settled into the land, warming it and wetting it. A strange liquid-like dirt settled upon the land and instantly, the trees began to grow. Vines and weeds began to grow. Flowers grew and the fog filled the air making it humid and hard to breathe.
When she had reached her village, she found them gathered in a small circle brandishing weapons. They were trying to cut back the forest that had sprung up after the strange rain. It was growing over their entire village. The holy woman called out to the spirits, but none came. It seemed as if they would be swallowed up by the vast forest that had come out of no where. "The Spirits come to live among us." Called the holy woman. "We shall be swallowed up by their wrath. The Raven flies no more."
The vines wrapped around Samara like lengths of devil's snare. She looked for her wand, but couldn't find it. She struggled against it, aware that someone else was nearby, watching her. It unnerved her. Who is there? Who? She had a flash of red eyes and then the image faded into the dragon. "We are on the same side," he said as he reached in to her and touched her neck. "You're bleeding-just there-"
She tried to think of a spell to escape. 'Incendio' should do it, she thought, but he was touching her face and she didn't want to hurt him. I'm going to do the spell she thought, Incendio!
"No. I don't think so," the Dragon said. "You're afraid of fire-"
"Not anymore," she cried. "Incendio!" and the vines disappeared in a rush of flame. In fact, the whole world disappeared in a rush of flame.
Samara tried to hold on to that Wizarding world, but it sizzled and melted away before her eyes and once again she was a Muggle.
++
It was nearly eleven o'clock when Ginny went to Samara's room. Draco said nothing when she entered, but he pulled his hand back from Samara's. Ginny pretended not to notice.
"Does she seem to be sleeping easier?" Ginny asked Draco.
"I think so," he agreed. "Perhaps he really did bring her back from the brink of death."
Ginny snorted.
"Don't laugh," said Draco. "He knows more about death than any wizard alive."
"I don't doubt that," said Ginny.
A long silence stretched before them, and Ginny wished Draco would leave. After all, she was here now to sit with Samara. He didn't need to stay any longer.
"I talked to your brother today," Draco said at last.
"My brother?" Ginny repeated.
"Yes. You do remember them, don't you Weasel?" he snapped.
Ginny just stared at him, tears gathering in her eyes. "Which one?" she asked in amazement. Why would Draco tell her this? She wondered.
"Ron," he said, still looking at Samara. "She has brothers too. Did you know that?"
Ginny nodded, unable to believe that she and Draco were almost having a civil conversation.
"I met two of them," said Draco. "Too bad they're Squibs. If they were magic, I probably would have liked them."
"Right, Malfoy," said Ginny, her guts twisting as she remembered what day this was and the Muggle killing to come. "Can't like Muggles or Squibs, though, can you?"
"No," said Draco. After a moment, he stood. "I have to go," he said, pulling his outdoor cloak around himself and gathering his broomstick. He bent and kissed Samara lightly on the lips and then strode purposefully toward the door. He did not look back
Ginny sat for a while longer with Samara, thinking that Draco had left so calmly for a night of Muggle killing. It gave her chills.
She reached out, touching Samara's forehead, brushing the hair back from her face. She was sweating, and her lips were parched. Ginny poured her some water and dripped it into her mouth with her wand.
++
Samara was a Sioux child, a youth. By moonrise, he would be a Sioux warrior. Today was the ceremony of the Sun Dance. He had eaten nothing. He took his last sip of water. It tasted cool and sweet on his lips. It was nearly time now. His mother was nervously smoothing the hair back from his forehead, as if he were a child. His father was standing proud and still, waiting for the boys.
There were eight of them. He was the ninth. His skin quivered as the shaman painted his chest. He trusted the Shaman, and yet, there was something different inside of him this day. His eyes glowed with a strange red light, as if he was possessed by a demon. At last the knife was raised. He stared stoically ahead while the cuts were made. Truthfully, he hardly felt them, just a quick burning. Perhaps his spirit animal, the mountain lion, was protecting him this day.
As the shaman threaded the cord from one slit to the other, he revised his opinion. Searing pain coursed through his chest. He gritted his teeth together. No one cried out. He would not be the first. Finally it was finished and the cords were attached to the mighty oak pole where the others were gathered. As he looked into the blood red eyes of the shaman, he knew something was terribly wrong.
"You will dance for me," the shaman said softly, drawing his finger down the youth's check, and searing pain exploded in his skull and then everything was still.
Two youths still had to have the cords attached and then the dance began. He tried to dance. He tried to forget the pain, but his muscles were crying out for release. Perhaps if he broke free quickly? He yanked himself hard from the pole and the warriors cheered. He did not notice. The searing pain blocked everything from his mind. One of the women threw him a kiss, but she was pushed roughly back. This was not a woman's ceremony.
As he danced it started to rain. It seemed to cool his burning skin, but it also cleared his mind, and truthfully, he wanted his mind as far from his body as he could manage. He called out to his spirit animal. Help me to break free he called as the rain began to pour. It was cold. Thunder and lightening filled the sky.
"It is an omen of ill fortune," called the Shaman. A thick purple fog followed on the end of the rain and many were huddled in blankets around the Sun Dance Pole watching and murmuring about the unnaturalness of the fog.
A figure came out of the fog. He stood like a man, but he was taller than a man and his skin was pale as snow, speckled like a sparrow's egg. His hair hung in long auburn ringlets, loose, like a woman's. He had never seen hair that color, the color of autumn leaves, or fire. It grew everywhere, around his head and down to his shoulders. It covered his cheeks and hung below his collar. The hair on his lip blended into the hair on his chin in a strange combination that made his face look like flames were spouting from it. It even grew on his arms in a fine spray like the sparse grass in mid summer. On his shoulder was a bird made of flame.
The man raised his hand, and it seemed as if lightening came from his fingertips. As they stood, a single flash of lightening lit the sky, glowing purple and hitting the Sun Dance Pole. He felt the tingle of the lightening course through his body and he threw himself on the mother earth, tearing his skin loose from the attachment to the Sun Dance Pole.
The pain was everywhere, but the sparrow man put his speckled face against his ear and whispered. "I cannot take you into the Elementals with me. It is not time. You must stay. You must repair what is broken. The sparrow seeks the eye of the serpent. You must help her. You must not fail."
"I must help this man," she murmured, but when she turned, he was gone, fluttering away like a butterfly.
"Don't leave me!" Samara panicked, feeling alone and frightened, but the sparrow man had already left her. Only the Shaman remained, red eyed and frightening, pulling her down into pain. She thrust him away and he fell a great distance to lie still on the Earth.
When the youth awoke, he was still in the Shaman's lodge. The Shaman was gently applying a poultice to his wounds and his eyes were no longer red. He wondered if his trust should lie with the Shaman or the Sparrow.
"Are the others all braves, now?" he asked in a voice parched with his time in the sun.
"The others have gone to the Spirit world," said the Shaman. "Only you were spared."
"Why?" he asked, struggling to sit up.
"We do not know the mind of the Great Spirit," said the Shaman. "But I have no doubt that you are destined for great things. Rest and recover."
"What was the purple fog?" he asked. "And the tall man?"
"You saw the Spirit?" asked the Shaman in surprise. "The tall spirit with hair of fire who took the weak ones away."
"Weak?" he muttered.
"Yes. You were the only one to break through the Sun Dance. The others were released from the Sun Dance pole and would have died as children. The Spirit took pity on them, and took them with him to the spirit world."
He closed his eyes. "I will see them again in the spirit world," he said. Outside, the purple fog surrounded the Sioux village.
"No," said the Shaman, painfully gripping her shoulder, and turning her to face him. His eyes were once again red. The invasion of his magic was like claws on her face. She twisted away from him. "Child, come back with me," he said, his magic threatening to possess her and force her to return.
"Why are you here?" she asked. He seemed foreign in the Elementals, alive in the world of death.
"To learn. To help," he said, but she did not know if she should believe him because he was not like the others in the Elementals. His intentions were bound in a hard knot that she could not penetrate. He said he wanted to learn, but he had no openness to learning. He said he wanted to help, but she had no recollection of him helping anyone.
"I must help this man first," she said, turning to look for the sparrow man, but he was gone. In his stead was a butterfly, and, as she watched, the butterfly transformed into a tall witch with auburn hair that peeked out from her wimple.
She reminded Samara strangely of Madam Pomfrey, although she looked nothing like the medi-witch. She spoke in a language that Samara didn't understand at first, an ancient language that sounded like music to Samara. She wanted to dance. With narrowed eyes she realized what about the woman was similar to Madam Pomfrey: it was her aura. It was a pure emerald green like her eyes. I'm seeing auras again! Thought Samara excitedly. "I'm seeing auras! The wizarding world is close!
"Ye shall lie down," she said. "Ye hath come to us through great peril. Where is your grandfather, girl?"
"I don't know," said Samara, then realizing that the medi-witch was speaking of the first wizard, Meridius, she said, "He is dead. I think-I am dead."
"Nay. He is not, and neither are you. He who hast created the rift shall return and seal it. I hath seen it. I hath seen the brave children who wilt mend the story. Thou hath seen the width and breadth of the Rift. Thou hath lived in the steps of the Muggles throughout this foreign land. Thou hath lived in the steps of the Wizards who once ruled the five lands.
"It is time to heal. Sleep now," the witch said, "Anon, thou hast much work to do, child of the house of Raven-My child." Samara had no doubt that the woman was a witch, because, as she leaned down to kiss Samara's forehead, she touched Samara's eyelids with her hand. She said the word, "Somnus," and Samara slept.
A moment later a phoenix landed on the bedpost, his silvery tears falling onto her face.
++
Ginny had asked Snape to speak to Voldemort for her. She had wanted this vigil. She had hoped that Samara might wake while she was on watch, and she certainly did not want his other task of killing innocent Muggles. She tried desperately to keep her mind off of the thought of their terrified faces. She remembered the Roberts family at the Quidditch world cup screaming in terror when they were levitated some thirty feet above the ground. She needed to think of something else.
"Yes, well, telling yourself not to think of screaming Muggles will hardly work, will it?" asked Tom in a bored voice. "Concentrate on something else, something that takes your attention. You need to learn to do this, Ginny Love or you will be in quite a jam, quite soon. Probably as soon as he touches you."
"I never said I was good at this sort of thing, Tom."
"You could let me do it," Tom suggested.
"We've discussed this before," Ginny said.
"And did not come to a satisfactory conclusion."
"Satisfactory for who?" asked Ginny.
"Satisfactory for whom," Tom corrected.
"For whom," Ginny snapped. "You think I give a damn about my grammar."
"Obviously not."
"And I think it's satisfactory!'
"Then why are you complaining."
"Oh-h-h!" Ginny clenched her fists, wishing she could smack him or curse him.
"Now, you are not thinking of the Muggles," said Tom with a chuckle.
"Well I wasn't! Now I am," said Ginny. "That was-that was just-mean-reminding me," finished Ginny.
"But you see how it's done," said Tom.
"How what's done?"
"Honestly, Ginny. What were we talking about? Hiding your thoughts from Him, of course."
"Oh," said Ginny softly.
"You need to think of something that consumes you. The more passionate you are about the predominant thought, the more likely you are to hide the thought you don't want Him to see. It's quite simple really, especially since you have the Occlumency wards. You shouldn't have any trouble hiding your thoughts, except those you feel passionate about."
"Which is pretty much everything I want to hide," muttered Ginny.
Tom chuckled. "You worry too much. It will be fine. You'll see. We can do this."
"I wish Samara would wake up," said Ginny.
"Well, talk to her," suggested Tom. "Tell her you want her to wake up."
"Like she'll hear me," said Ginny.
"You don't know that she won't hear you," said Tom.
"Oh Samara," Ginny whispered catching her friend's hand. "We need you to wake up. I need to talk to you. Everything has gone wrong."
"Well, not everything," said Tom. "You're still alive. Samara's still alive. Even Beatrice is still alive. You have to be thankful for that."
"Such optimism," said Ginny. "You sound remarkably like my mother."
"Well, since it is Christmas, that should be comforting," said Tom.
"Christmas," said Ginny and burst into tears.
++
The hand Ginny was holding squeezed hers gently. "Why are you crying?" asked Samara. Her green eyes were bright and looking steadily at her. "Your aura looks like hell," she said.
"Oh Samara!" said Ginny hugging her. "You're awake."
"Nothing like stating the obvious," intoned Tom.
"Shut up, Tom." Ginny said aloud.
"Oh fine, Shut up, Tom. You have someone else to talk to, so now I'm supposed to shut up."
"Sorry. You don't have to shut up." Ginny spoke aloud again, and Samara attempted to pull herself to a sitting position. She swayed dizzily.
"Lay still, Samara. You've been very sick."
"Who were you talking to, Ginny? Your aura changed color-yellow to blue. Blue to yellow. I'd forgotten how strange it is when it does that." She looked at her critically, touching the air in front of Ginny's chest. "So clouded," she said. Her eyes took in the strange room. "Where am I?" she asked.
"Oh," said Ginny. "What do you remember?"
The door banged open and Ginny startled. "I came as soon as I could," said Draco as he strode into the room, bringing with him the smell of smoke and the bottom of his robes were covered with ice. "Snape said I had to stay with my idiot cousins while he checked inside of the Longbottom's house."
"Longbottom?" said Ginny.
"It doesn't matter. Get lost Weasel."
"But He said for me to stay with her," said Ginny.
"Fine. Have it your way," said Draco. "Stupefy!"
+++
For further discussion, visit
--including roast of the author for that dreadful cliffhanger which is still hanging-now that I've added another one. --Lady Lestrange
Answers to Reviewers:
Thank you to my dear and faithful reviewers.
Katty: No not evil Harry. Sorry.
Trillium: Now the cliffhanger is plural: Samara, trio and Longbottoms. Happy?
Black Skylark: Thanks for the review and welcome. I hope you read the first book, otherwise you are probably severely confused right now.
Dragonheart2: All good points. I will keep them in mind. Actually, I already have a plan for Harry's basilisk. Thanks for reading, and yes, one of the whole points of both fics is that nothing is totally black and white, or should I say, light and dark?
Garrett: Yep. Voldemort is demented. I love writing him.
Choc: Missed your earlier reviews.
Silverfox1: Why would you think Harry won't need to make a portkey? I use everything I set up. I promise you he will use it. Never put a knife on the table or a wand in the pocket unless you plan on using it, either to cut bread or to kill someone.
Sky: Glad you enjoyed. One more cliffy. Sorry. Well, not really. You know us Slytherins are evil that way-- 15 reviews gets back to the trio.
Fuz: Wondering if you are a friend of Garrett's? Glad you like.
Anon: Another friend of Garrett's Glad you like
Jager: Glad you like all my characters. Thanks for reading.
Ennui deMorte: Yes, I'm glad someone remembers Samara. For those of you who are wondering who this chapter is about, please go read the first fic. And yes, Math is definitely a form of the crucio curse.
Kemenran: stunning as always
Dragonheart2: Thanks for reviewing every chapter. How ambitious you are! Must be a Slytherin. Welcome!
Now what are you waiting for, go review. 15 Reviews and we're back with the trio. Just a warning, better return with your wands drawn. It's getting hot!
For those of you who are saying what the hell happened in this chapter, I guess that's the 30 percent not Ravenclaws who are reading. I have to have a puzzle to keep the Ravenclaws busy. You should go to the yahoo group for further discussion.
--Lady Lestrange