"Crucio!"
The thing that had been Lucius Malfoy shuddered boneless on the floor before the Dark Lord's throne, too far gone to even scream anymore. Little did he know that his mantra–failed, failed, failed–was running through the mind of a certain Mudblood Auror at almost precisely that moment.
For Lucius Malfoy, Death Eater, however, there would be no second chances.
The sound of Voldemort's laughter, shrill and empty and horrible, reached ears that could hear, but no longer understand. The sight of Voldemort's face, alien and frightening, reached eyes that could see, but could no longer comprehend.
The power of the Eye was such that it more than doubled a Wizard's power; it could, given the proper emotions, quadruple it.
Vengeance and sadistic pleasure being two such proper emotions.
In a circle around Lucius, the other Death Eaters watched, faces hidden behind their masks. For some, it was fearful warning; for others, it was an opportunity to lick suddenly dry lips in pleasure. This was pain, and there were those who found it a delicious treat.
Though the room was crowded and hot with it, over fifty Death Eaters present, there were many more. Death Eaters awaiting the signal to create a bloodbath the likes of which the Wizarding world had ever seen before. It would be death; it would be carnage; it would be better sport than they had known in over twenty years.
Through their own spies, through their network of Ministry of Magic employees under the Imperious Curse, there was a long list of Aurors and members of the accursed Order of the Phoenix, and those Muggle-loving fools would bear the brunt of the first assault. Backed by the power of the Eye, channelled through their Dark Lord, the Death Eaters would be unstoppable.
Bellatrix Lestrange was laughing helplessly, almost doubled over. The Death Eaters knew where they lived. Oh, what an apropos and usually meaningless threat! And soon, the Order would find out just how meaningless it wasn't.
Voldemort paused, cocking his head to hear Lucius keening softly, like the death screams of a baby rabbit. Music. A symphony.
"Crucio!"
This was the price of failure. This was the cost of the Dark Lord's displeasure. Several Death Eaters shifted uncomfortably, staring at the wreckage of a man more powerful than they, more cunning than they, more ruthless. This had been Lucius Malfoy, and if he could fail...
Voldemort's eyes gleamed as he made mental note of those uncertain few. Because that was the way of the Death Eaters, the way of the Order that he had created. Those who were weaker, those who defied him, those who fought his vision of the world would be weeded out. His thin lips curled upward. That, too, was part of the fun.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Her head throbbed dully as she mounted the steps to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, pulsing with weariness, omnipresent worry, and dread at what she might find within. The Daily Prophet that morning had been hysterical with the sudden onslaught of the Death Eaters. Invading homes. Invading businesses. The Ministry had repelled an attack in the night, while she had been sleeping beside Draco...and the presses never stopped rolling, Hermione thought disgustedly, and half-wished the Death Eaters would do something about that. But no, as ever, the press was doing an admirable job of terrifying everyone. Lord Voldemort would be endlessly pleased.
Harry opened the door before she could knock and hugged her so fiercely, her bones creaked.
"Thank Merlin," he rasped. Several days' stubble of beard scratched her cheek as he picked her up, and then transferred her to Ron, who was equally stubbly and red-eyed with exhaustion. "They're picking us off, 'Mione. They know who we are."
"I know," she said, and staggered into the crowded and unusually silent living room. "I didn't get the Eye."
"You tried," Ron said fiercely. "Morag told us what happened."
Hermione's eyes went to the lean, dark man, who looked as if he hadn't slept since the skirmish in Romania.
"They got Ernie last night," Morag said tonelessly. "I was too late."
"And they got Rogier," said Fleur from the sofa, where she was clinging, white-faced, to Bill's hand.
"Roger Davies," Harry said quietly, and Hermione sank down into an armchair and pressed her fingers against her eyelids. The little dragon crooned soothingly.
"Hannah's gone off again," Ron said, kneeling beside Hermione. "We think she's been hunting Death Eaters by herself. Dumbledore says she...she couldn't handle it. Neville."
"Are we going after her?"
"Soon. Dumbledore's looking for her. Trying to figure out where they're going to attack next." Harry handed Hermione a cup of steaming black coffee, an odd mixture of host and soldier as he tapped his wand against his thigh, vibrating tension. "Sarah Fawcett betrayed us."
"Did she," Hermione said, feeling her way around the sudden harshness in her voice. "She's been dealt with?"
"She has," Morag said, equally harsh. "Ernie's dead because of that bitch."
Perched on the edge of the sofa, Susan Bones turned haunted eyes toward Hermione. "So's my Aunt Amelia."
"She killed three before they got her," said Harry, and straightened abruptly. Defeat was in the room, curling as insidiously as smoke, and his eyes went to Susan, to Morag, to Fleur. To gaunt Emmeline Vance, standing by the hearth, running her fingers over the laughing picture of Sirius, the smiling picture of Harry's parents on their wedding day. To the other members of the Order, all of whom had been too late, too slow to see, too stunned to act in time.
"We're going to stop them." He drew their eyes to him, willed them to believe it. Assumed, finally, the leadership he had so often shunned.
"Who haven't we heard from?" Hermione asked, forcing herself out of her stupor. "We need to know what members of the Order, what Aurors are still alive. Where they are. We need to organise."
"Moody and Kingsley are working on it," Ron said, "and so are Dad and George."
"Everyone's getting their families out," Bill added. "And some Aurors left with them."
"Cowards," Morag spat contemptuously.
Susan stood and put a quelling hand on his arm. Morag glanced down at her, drew a visibly calming breath.
"Parvati is looking for Hannah," said Padma from the floor, her dark head bowed as she plucked at the threadbare rug. "Hannah's been wandering Knockturn Alley in an invisibility cloak for months, trying to find out who the Death Eaters were, what they were doing. I didn't say anything, because I thought she had a right to her revenge. I should have...and Parvati hasn't come back..."
"We'll find them," Harry said quickly, cutting her off. "Hermione's right. We need to organise. We need everyone here, and we need them to know their families are safe, so they can fight without worrying. We need time," he added, a touch of desperation in his voice.
"Has anyone tried the mirrors?" Ron asked. There was a collective shaking of heads. "Alberic. Fleur, get Dumbledore's list and start calling everyone that way, too. Tell them to get here."
"And we need more Floo powder," Harry said thoughtfully. "We can send the families somewhere safe from here."
"I'll get it," Susan said, and grabbed Padma's shoulder in passing. "Padma, you come with me."
"Good idea. No one goes anywhere alone," Hermione said, shutting away all extraneous thought as she focused on the situation at hand. It was a relief. "What does Dumbledore have everyone doing? Conscripsi."
Scroll, quill, and ink pot appeared, and Ron, seeing which way the wind was blowing, Summoned chairs and table from the kitchen, sending the sofas and armchairs against the walls of the living room.
"We need maps," Harry said. "Every village, every city, and where the magic communities and businesses are. We need guards at St. Mungo's and the Ministry. And Diagon Alley," he added.
Hermione was writing furiously, and the rest drew up chairs, Morag going to the cellar meeting room to fetch maps.
"Ron, where's your Mum?" Hermione asked, starting her third list.
"With Ginny, trying to keep the refugees under control at the Ministry."
"Professor Lupin?"
"Flooing back from Spain."
"Dadelus?"
"With Professor Lupin."
"Hagrid?"
"Bringing back the giants," Harry replied, with grim pleasure. "The ones that agreed to Dumbledore's treaty, anyway."
"Tonks?"
"We don't know yet," Bill said, pinning the maps to the table.
"Sturgis?"
"Don't know."
"Elphias?"
Hermione met Bill's gaze and added another question mark to her list.
All told, fifty of nearly one hundred members of the Order were accounted for. Fleur reappeared moments later, tugging her curtain of silvery hair up into a ponytail as she handed Hermione her list.
"There were not many at 'ome," she said, sitting beside Bill. "I told them to come 'ere. They are–comment dit-on?–frightened."
"They'd best get over it," Ron said under his breath. "We need more than guards, Harry. We need to find out who and where the Death Eaters are, all of them, and take the fight to them."
"We need the Aurors Roster," replied Morag. "The Order can't do everything. I say we let the Aurors pull guard duty, and let the Order go find the Death Eaters."
"We'll wait until Moody and Kingsley get here to decide that," Hermione said quickly, forestalling the debate. "We need everyone here and safe before we do anything. We need to get their families away."
"We have to do something, now," he retorted. "We're not playing the fucking defensive game. They attacked us."
"Yes, and we're going to kill them for it," Harry snapped, "but we're not going to run off and hope we stumble into them. Which is what Hannah fucking did, and it's probably going to get her killed."
"I didn't say–" Morag began heatedly, and Hermione slammed her ink pot on the table, ink splattering all over the maps.
"And we," she snapped, "are not going to sit here and fight among ourselves about this! Scourgify." The ink vanished from the maps and she stood, eyes flashing. "We all want them dead. We've all lost someone, or two, or three."
"Or six!" Morag shouted, his chair overturning as he snapped to his feet. "Six Aurors the night before last, Hermione! On your damned watch!"
The silence was thick, and belatedly, he realized what he'd said. Righted his chair with a wave of his wand, and sat back down wearily. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It wasn't your fault. I just...can't sit here."
"I know," she replied through frozen lips. Sat down with six faces dancing before her eyes, all in various states of shock, surprise, pain...or peace, as Constance's eternally pale features flitted through her memory. All dead. "I don't know what I could have done differently, but I was in charge. I was responsible."
From her mouth, Draco's words. She managed a very crooked smile. It had been her responsibility, she thought, remembering his distinction. Fault implied some element of control.
Into the silence, Emmeline Vance glanced at her watch and spoke.
"Why haven't Susan and Padma got back yet?"
For a moment, eighteen-some witches and wizards gaped at her.
"Shit. Shit." Harry got to his feet and lunged for the mirror above the mantle. "Diagon Alley."
The mirror fogged, wavered, and cleared. Smoke. Flames. Dim cracklings of light from individual duels. One wizard clearly visible in the corner of the mirror, away from the smoke, clutching his midsection and soundlessly screaming. Witches throwing their children over their shoulders, grasping their hands, running as their packages scattered.
With a crack that shook the house like thunder, Dumbledore appeared. Glanced at the gathered witches and wizards, then at the mirror.
"Hagrid's on his way. Molly and Ginny are coming back here. We have to go now."
Hermione glanced at Morag and managed a tiny, rueful smile. He'd asked for something to do.
Author's Notes
This is another new chapter, which is intended to increase the scope of the war and hopefully add depth to the characters. If you've read the whole story before this, please let me know what you think of this chapter as far as matching the rest, and whether or not you think it constitutes "filler" rather than adding depth, et cetera. The old questions still apply as far as consistency and tone, as well.
The French "comment dit-on" means, "How do you say..." I've noticed that people tend to revert to their native language when they're stressed. Thanks again to my reviewers, and if you haven't–or if you have and feel the need–please do you review.