Disclaimer – It still isn't mine. Pity.
Chapter Three – Once Upon a Time at Gringotts – Part One
Posted March 8th, 2006
The night was young, and so was he. Well, technically, it wasn't true, for the sun had descended under the horizon for quite some time, and he wasn't in his primes either.
But he found the thrill of the unknown combined with the danger lurking at every corner to be intoxicating. Add to that a morbid curiosity, which had put him more than once in situations were he only had to thank his wit and quick thinking for saving his head, and you get the perfect recipe for trouble.
He always walked on the fine edge between imprudence and temerity, not once willing to turn his head to the sides.
Danger was his only companion and friend. Only in the time between heartbeats, when life and death were only a hesitation apart, did he truly feel alive.
So when the opportunity came, he went after it, consequences be damned.
He knew he shouldn't be here, in the deeps, in the dark. But he wouldn't have been who he was if he would have let this opportunity go to waste; for he was Nightshade, and the darkness was his bride. Wrapped in shadows, he followed, always on the trail.
His impromptu adventure started innocent enough.
He had been at Gringotts, the Wizarding Bank of London, minding his own business. He had the nagging inkling that the goblins would not have approved of his definition of the word business. In fact he was pretty sure of that.
So he had taken measures to prevent the greedy little buggers from noticing his presence; for his, and also for their protection, of course. If by some monumental misfortune he would have been found prowling the halls of the bank at night, he would have had to answer to too many questions, in very little time. And he wasn't confident enough in his ability to pour words upon words in the time frame required for their sharp weapons to pierce his beloved skin. He would have had to fight back, something he was certain would have lead to blood stains, tarnished clothes, lose of limbs and possibly of lives – a truly regrettable incident, more so if one of the lives involved would have belonged to him.
He was doing a favor for the goblins, sparing them from a night of worthless aggravation. Actually, the goblins should thank him if they ever found out of his trespassing. But the particular ways in which they used to show their appreciation for acts such as this had a tendency to shorten one's life expectancy dramatically.
Thinking that what they didn't know couldn't hurt them, not at the moment at least, Nightshade decided not to be sloppy and to do his best to avoid any encounters of the third degree.
As testimony to his skills he had breached the goblins' Archives. A truly successful culmination of countless hours of preparations in which his patience had been stretched to the limit. But everything had been worth it, for here he was, gaily digging up through mountains of secrets.
Almost there.
Three traps defused later, one annoying ward down and several nasty locking charms bypassed, and he had his prize in his hands. With the utmost care he rolled up the scrolls he had acquired and sealed them up in a cylinder which he tucked in his robes.
Now the sensible thing for him to do was to get out, and back to where he came from. And here it was where the quandary resided. Just leave did not go well with his professional code of honor. The precious manuscripts he had now safely packed in his robes were fine and dandy, but they were not really for him. He found the very idea of leaving the bank with empty hands to be repugnant.
But what to appropriate? Here he was, in the middle of one of the most secure buildings of London, and he didn't know what to take. Hmm... So many choices, so little time.
Thankfully, someone else made the choice for him.
He had been strolling from shadow to shadow looking for something to fill his pockets with, when a door banged open further down the hall.
In an instant, he hugged the walls, melting in the shade between two pillars. From his position he could not see who was approaching him, but he could clearly hear them. He had no trouble discerning the sound of four pairs of feet clamping down on the marble floor – two soft padded ones and two with heavy footwear. Two of the goblins were having a very animated discussion, the jumble of sounds and shrieks that passed as words to them harming Nightshade's delicate hearing.
They were getting closer and closer and when they finally came in his field of view, the flow of time slowed for the thief, his blood nothing more the ice through his veins. He couldn't take his eyes from one of the two goblins who were bickering, if bickering was the right name for a one sided conversation.
A high ranking goblin, judging by his highly ornate robe that adorned his body, held his head hung in shame as he listened to the admonishing of the other. Trailing him, several steps behind, were two hefty looking goblins that no doubt filled the position of bodyguards. Just like their employer, they were trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible as not to draw the ire of the fourth one.
The fourth one, the one who had all of Nightshade's attention fixed on him, was dressed in a blood-red robe decorated with black runes that were constantly blending with each other to form intricate new patterns in an everlasting dance of colour and shape. The hood of his cloak was pulled down bellow his eyes, obscuring the features of his face.
Nightshade didn't know if he should curse his luck or if he should fall on his knees to offer a prayer to Lady Fortune. Probably both.
He knew who that goblin was. And never in his wildest dreams did he think that his first encounter with him would have been due to father hazard. He knew him only as the Mage, first of the goblin Warlocks, greatest of them all.
Outside the protective walls of Gringotts, in the world of the tall walkers, the Mage was nothing more than a myth. Many stories were told about the fierce goblin spellcaster, his name whispered in the dark corners of the underworld, one more outrageous than the other. If only a fraction of them held a grain of sand, then the Mage would make for formidable ally, or a terrifying foe.
Naturally, the rumors about his abilities had reached the ears of Voldemort during his first raise to power. At the time, many resources had been spent by the Dark Lord in failed attempts of gathering relevant information about the mysterious goblin. His efforts had been to no avail. Until now.
The burden of tracking down the Mage had been laid on Nightshade's shoulders. When Voldemort bestowed this honor upon him, Nightshade relished the opportunity to test his abilities against him. But it was not supposed to be like this, in the dead of the night, on uncertain grounds, at the whim of a chance. Not when he didn't have a full deck.
When the group of four goblins passed him by, Nightshade still hadn't recovered from the shock of being in an arm's reach of the Mage.
As time regained its normal flow, so did his blood flow, and remembered to breathe again. A smile blossomed on his face. Pulling the shadows around him, he began to follow, silent as a ghost.
At one moment, with a last burst of well placed words, the Mage had separated from the other three. Nightshade didn't have to understand their language to figure that the parting phrase hadn't been a blessing in disguise.
Since then, the Mage, together with eight heavily armed goblins descended further and further bellow the surface world, in the land of the eternal night. Nightshade was on their trail, at a respectable distance behind, listening to the sound of their many heavy feet echoing throughout an ancient cavern.
While not very tall, barely reaching four feet in height, the small humanoids that were marching across the underground grotto were not something to be trifled with. A tight brown leather jerkin interlocked with chain mails covered their upper bodies. Their breeches, made out of the same material, ended with a pair of trampers with iron bottoms. The blazing torches they carried aloft in their hands were hardly dispersing the darkness surrounding them, but their flame greatly disturbed their lonely pursuer; their short black steel swords were drawn, ready to be used at the first sign of peril. On each of their wide backs, dual-bladed battleaxes were sitting comfortably.
The eight pointy-bearded, red-eyed goblins held a protective circular formation around the Mage. He held his hands in front of his chest, with his fingers entwined like in a prayer.
The group stopped when they reached the back of the cave, near two stalagmites. These tall stone structures, beside the fact that they were the only similar rock formations in the underground chamber, seemed to defy the natural laws. In their quest to reach the ceiling the pillars twisted and turned, screwing themselves in the dry air, and at the top, just like two partners frozen in a reverence, they leant towards each other, reaching across the gap to form a fabulous archway.
While the hooded-one stepped in the direction of the arch, the rest of the goblins scattered in the cavern forming a wide semicircle with their backs turned to the Mage. They sheathed their swords and then embedded their torches in the rough floor. Taking three steps forward, the goblins removed the battleaxes from their backs and adopted defensive positions, their eyes rummaging in the blackness.
No human could say that gobbledegook was a melodic language; far from it. But the sounds that started to come out of the mouth of the goblin with the red cloak almost held a harmonious flow. Almost being the key word.
As his voice started to get higher and higher, he reached out in his robe and pulled out a tiny pouch with his left hand; he then emptied its content in his right palm. It looked like dust - the only notable difference being that now and then a small blue spark would alit itself, sending small arrows of light through the goblin's closed fingers. With the song still alive on his lips he flicked his wrist with a sudden move, sending the dust through the arcade.
When the dust reached the arch, the song died as well. The Mage resumed his initial stance with his arms joined in front of him, waiting patiently. Not many moments after, the air between the two pillars started to shimmer; little strings of blue light emerging out of nowhere. The fabric of light that started to be woven began to take shape and it did not take long for a bright blue translucent door to fill the once empty space. One blink of an eye later and the door materialized to a solid form.
Lifting his arms in front of him with the palms facing outward…
"DENSAKAR MOKARA NEKTA!" the words rolled out of his mouth in a commanding tone, the sound hitting the walls of the underground chamber making them tremble. Bracing himself as if he was about to push a heavy load, he started to spread his arms apart.
"SHATASHIRA NEKAR!" he called imperatively. The resulted echo had the same effect upon the chamber as the first half of the invocation. Now that the incantation was finished, as his hands were slowly parting away a vertical crack began to appear in the door. The two halves of the portal followed the same movement as the goblin's hands, and when his arms were fully extended to his sides, the door was fully opened as well.
Sighing deeply, the goblin stepped into the darkness; the doors closing behind him without a sound.
The ritual did not disturb the vigilance of the eight remaining sentries. Enveloped in silence they stood still in their places; only their eyes betrayed them as living beings instead of statues. The distant rippling of a nearby stream was the only sound that tickled their sensitive ears.
Perhaps an hour had passed; maybe more, maybe less; when the doors opened again. After the goblin mage returned in the cave, the doors closed and with a small flutter, they disappeared from view.
As one, the goblins had immediately resumed their initial formation starting their long trek towards the surface, back to Gringotts, leaving the cavern just as they found it.
Soon they were far away, and just as the last sounds of their passing were dying, something moved along the cavern's walls. Blacker then black, a shadow within a shadow, the human approached the arch, his light step not making a sound. Behind him, not a trace of his passing could have been discerned in the pebble that covered the floor.
Here it was where Nightshade had to face another difficult dilemma.
What to do? Go back, to try and learn as much as possible about the Mage? It was tempting, for he did not know when he would have such an opportunity again. On the other hand, he had come to Gringotts for an entire different purpose. And what about what he had witnessed? His restful dreams were at stake, as the mysteries of the strange portal would not give him the much desired peace he sought until they were elucidated.
In the end he decided to solve his dilemma as all intelligent people who are faced with similar situations tend to do. He flipped a mental galleon, three out of five. Deciding not to tempt the hand of destiny, he accepted the result without complaining.
He went in the same place in which earlier the goblin performed the opening ritual. Lowering himself to the ground with his legs crossed beneath him, Nightshade began to plot his next move.
He was alone, just as he had been for as long as he could remember – or as long as it mattered anyway. Alone, always alone, playing a game of hide and seek, he being the titular for both positions. This was just the way he liked it.
Sitting in that one spot, surrounded by nothing but emptiness, he felt an almost unstoppable urge to leave everything behind and disappear forever in the endless subterranean labyrinth. He wondered for a brief moment how many other places like this one were around, how many secrets were they hiding and how many had paid with their lives for them. And he wondered if it was worth it. The temptation to get up and to fade out of the face of the world was there stronger then ever, but he would not be were he was now if he did not learn a long time ago to conquer it.
One day…One day… and with that thought he resumed his task. He had a job to do after all.
After one last sweep of the cave to make sure that no unwanted visitors were creeping around, others than him that is, Nightshade closed his eyes and began to concentrate on stabilizing his inner magic.
Soon he no longer felt the cold hard stone, he no longer smelt the musty air nor did he hear anything but the beating of his own heart. Following the gentle staccato rhythm imposed by his core he went deeper inside himself, into his center where his magic resided. And he let it free from its dwelling to posses him. For a brief moment, his body tightened, as if to resist the intrusion; he relaxed almost immediately, accepting the sudden burst of energy as a part of himself. Breathing slowly, with his eyes still closed, he focused all his attention on the outside world.
And that was the moment he saw it; and it was beautiful. His heart made a sudden jump – as it always did when he used his magic see the world in this specific way. In that moment, to his inner eye the reality surrounding him was no longer built from the basic shapes and colors.
Instead he could see into the essence of the things around him. He could see their magic flowing through them; multicolored rivers of energy traveling on coiled paths. Lakes and pools of thousands of hues reflecting into one another; bridges of light traversing enormous gaps; connecting spheres of pure magic between them.
Clearly, distinguishably on the black background, two tall spirals of soft blue light were standing right in front of him, a web of bright white lines hanging between them. Slowly, ever so slowly, he reached out with his own magic searching for templates and irregularities in the door's patterns.
He could feel the subtle enchantments that worked in this place and he was not very surprised when beneath the surface charms that he detected he found others, more complicated, hidden in the waves of the web… After all, it was to be expected in a place like this. Layers upon layers, and he followed them all, diving deeper and deeper trying to find the beginning.
But what came as a surprise was a feeling that started to make its presence known in the back of his head. The further he went with his inspection, the more intense that feeling became. So entranced he was by the puzzles that he found in the web, that only when the feeling materialized itself into his voice that shouted MOVE did he realized the danger he was in. And move he did.
He jumped instantaneously forward and to his left, arching his body into a ball.
The axe that embedded itself in the ground where he had sat only scratched his back with its tip. The cloak protected him from the sharp blade, averting a gash, but where he was struck, a huge diagonal bruise spread on his back. With a headache the size of a quidditch pitch, he rolled to his right on the floor evading yet another attack aimed this time at his head. Being dizzy from the sudden reality crash, it did not help very much that he could not hear anything else but the pounding of blood in his ears. And those torches were not helping at all by burning with their light the back of his eyes.
Trying to get up, another flash of pain sent him to his knees when an axe connected with his right leg just above the knee leaving a bloody mark behind. Seeing him kneeling in pain in front of him, the goblin let out a high pitched war cry as he span around bringing his mighty axe in a circular motion to slice in half the head of the trespasser.
Another goblin that came from behind the dark man pulled out his sword and he thrust it into his back as hard as he could, predicting an easy victory. The sword did not pierce his body but it did leave quite a mark breaking a rib or two, and it propelled Nightshade forward toppling him on the spinning goblin, breaking his momentum. So powerful was the sword strike that the goblin could not hold his equilibrium, and he tumbled on top of Nightshade.
Having found himself barely breathing pressed between two tough, angry goblins made Nightshade's wish to be someplace else burn that much brighter.
With every once of power he had, Nightshade pushed himself up. He desperately tried to untangle his body from the clutches of the goblins. Punching and kicking, he finally got his body free.
As he cursed his luck and carelessness, he began to hobble backwards towards a nearby wall trying his best to ignore the annoying pain and the blood dripping down his leg. Though his head was still spinning, his vision became somewhat clearer and he could easily see not only two, but five goblins that were slowly encircling him.
Viewing the small denizens of the deep with the mad glint in their fiery eyes and with their lips peeled back to reveal rows of sharp teeth, a shiver passed through Nightshade's body.
He prided himself with the fact that he could tell precisely when was the time to run, and when was the time to fight. And he knew without doubt that this was one of the former. Tapping what magic he still possessed, he flicked his left wrist, and a small obsidian ball materialized in his palm.
Just as the goblins charged in, Nightshade muttered a command word under his breath and he was gone a second later, the goblins' weapons finding nothing but air.
OoOoOoOoO
Far away to the north, in the mountains of Scotland, by the shores of a lake, at Hogwarts, up in a tower, in a circular office, behind a king size desk, propped in a squashy armchair, an old man was snoring loudly. His neck was twisted on one side, in a way that guaranteed he would awake with a stiff neck. His glasses were askew, ready to fall off at the slightest unwanted movement. A small stream of saliva was flowing through his parted lips and into his impressive looking white beard.
Albus Dumbledore was resting after a hard working day, a clear sign of his old age. Twenty years ago he wouldn't have been caught dead in such a compromising position, not when everything around him was going from bad to worse faster then he could spell quidditch. But alas, his physical condition wasn't what it once was, and even if his spirit was willing, his body couldn't keep up like it once used to.
Trinkets and gadgets of all sizes and shapes adorned his office. Most were just sitting there, content with being ignored by the age wizard. One of them was having different thoughts than its brethren and it wasted no time to communicate its displeasure to the world by letting out wave after wave of the most annoying piercing sound ever created.
Dumbledore awoke with a jolt from his fantasy, disappointed at realizing that in fact he wasn't seating on a throne of fluffy white clouds, and that the only thing flying around him was a lonely fly, and not a beautiful group of majestic winged lemon drops that awaited only his command to jump into his eager mouth to suck on them.
Fumbling with his glasses, he quickly located the source of the sound – the petulant device that should have known better then to disturb his much needed rest. With a well practiced wand flick he brought a swift end to the maddening noise. He, as well as all the portraits hung on the walls let out a relieved sigh. If this proved to be another false alarm...
Dumbledore mumbled a long incantation of hushed words, and streams of pink symbols appeared above the gadget. His eyes goggled behind his glasses.
"Fawkes, mayday, mayday," Dumbledore shouted at his faithful familiar, who was looking put out at him through his half-slit eyes, "there's trouble at the nest! Alert the core flock at once!"
Fawkes croaked, acknowledging the command before disappearing in a blaze.
"Phineas!" the wizard rounded up to the portrait of the late slytherin headmaster. "What can you tell me from your other portrait?"
"Nothing Albus," the man from the painting told him after several apprehensive moments, "it's like my other frame has disappeared entirely."
Albus nodded grimly at the news.
He quickly went to a side drawer and pulled an odd looking wool sock from his special emergency stock. It didn't take him long to transform the simple clothing garment into a brand new, highly advanced, state of the art, untraceable portkey.
With the help of his wand, Dumbledore erected protection charms around his body. Once he finished with his preparations, he closed his left fist firmly around the sock made portkey.
"Activate," he spoke the activation phrase, and he was whisked away.
He had programmed the sock to take him directly inside the Order's headquarters, in the middle of the kitchen. He had all the confidence that he would arrive where he intended. After all, he had taken into the account all kinds of possible, impossible, and then some more anti-portkey charms that might have been erected on the spot.
Great was his surprise when instead of the expected smooth landing he found himself intimately familiar with a wall of magic. He banged his head upon the barrier, and he bounced off it, landing in a painful heap on the lane in front of the manor.
"So nice of you to join us," a sarcastic bark greeted him from above. A gnarled hand was extended to him, and he promptly took the offered help.
"Alastor, old friend, weren't you suppose to be in bed?" Albus asked the ex-Auror, while still trying to regain his right footing.
"Bleah," the man dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand, "and miss all the fun? There is still life in these old bones of mine, and no fractures, contortions or sprains will keep me down for long," Med-Eye stated proudly.
"You would not talk like that if Poppy would be around," Albus couldn't resist, and he watched what looked suspiciously like a mild panic attack.
"Don't talk like that!" Moody snarled at his friend. His electric blue eye was spinning valiantly in an attempt to locate the aforementioned Healer. He breathed in relief when the result of his sweep came out negative. "That woman is scarier than a rabid pack of blood thirsty piranha poodles on a moonless night." Both wizards shuddered at the thought.
"So what do you make of that?" Mad-Eye pointed at something behind Dumbledore's back.
Dumbledore turned to look at where the Black Manor should have been. An impenetrable dome of magic presented itself to his observation. While he examined it through his glasses, two more wizards and a witch apparated out of nowhere around them, wand in arm and ready to fight. They landed right when Med-Eye was practicing his constant vigilance, and so they had to avoid streams of angry red stunning spells.
After making sure that all their limbs were still working properly, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Hestia Jones and Arthur Weasley joined the elderly duo.
"Albus, what happened?" Arthur was the first to ask, but his attention, just like everyone else's, was nailed firmly on the mysterious ward around their headquarters.
"As of seven minutes ago, the wards that we erected around Number Twelve Grimmauld Place have failed and were replaced by this," Dumbledore answered without tearing his eyes from the magical construct. "Unfortunately, I do not have any idea who or what may have produced it."
His last statement, more than anything else, shattered the hopes of everyone else of finding a quick and easy solution to their crisis.
Dumbledore turned his back to the house with a sigh of defeat.
"Alastor, I can not get through it. Do you see anything?"
"No, not a darn thing."
"Have you tried to simply walk through it?" Hestia asked in a hopeful voice. She was promptly the target of some incredulous stares. The shape of a stain on her left boot was very interesting all of a sudden.
To find an answer to her question, Kingsley levitated a boulder from the ground and slammed it into the barrier. The boulder bounced off and he had to duck to avoid obtaining a broken head.
"Fawkes," Albus shouted in the air, and the mighty Phoenix appeared on his outstretched left arm in a whirlwind of flame. "Can you get inside there?"
The bird tilted his head to take a better look at where his pet wizard wanted him to go. He then crossly ruffled all his feathers from head to tail and let out a long angry trill, all along battling his wings furiously.
"All right, all right, I apologize, I'm sorry, I didn't know," the greatest wizard of the modern days tried to appease the irritated bird. He hadn't lived with Fawkes for more than a hundred years without learning how to get back into his good graces. Acting on his accumulated knowledge, he fished in one of his pockets for his ever present bag of lemon drops. He swiftly opened it, and offered it to the mystical bird to serve himself. The proud Phoenix instantly vanished with the entire bag in his beak, but not before slapping Albus with the tip of her wing across the face.
"And that is precisely why I always carry two bags of lemon drops," Dumbledore explained to his perplexed colleagues.
By the time Dumbledore had made peace with his familiar, in his opinion, more members of their militant group answered the call of help.
It didn't take long for them to organize. Heeding the words of their esteemed leader, the witches and wizards of the Order had quickly agreed to the submitted plan.
The notice-me-not charms that already were in place around the Black Manor were reinforced for increased security. It would not do well for them to have a mob of curious muggles gawking at their every move. The only one who liked performing en masse obliviations was currently suffering from an overdose of his own medicine. And thank Merlin for that, or rather thank Ron's former broken wand.
Three witches formed a large equilateral triangle around the warded house As soon as they were in position they began to chant in complete synchronization with each other, streams of energy spinning out from their wands. Their purpose was to build and maintain a ward that would keep some of the magical emanations that were bound to happen inside the boundaries of their triangle. The last thing they wanted was to draw the attention of the magical community towards what they were doing.
The rest of the wizards spaced themselves equally in a circle around the dome. At Dumbledore's signal, they simultaneously cast their pre-agreed spells. While he was focusing his willpower to bring down the ward, he tried not to think about whom or for what purpose had erected it. To speculate at this point meant more time lost, and time was a luxury they could not afford.
Their prime concern was the fate of those trapped behind the barrier. They could not afford to wait until they studied the magic involved and came up with an elaborate solution. That could take from several days to months, if not years.
Dumbledore had made an educated guess based on the ridiculously little amount of pertinent information he had gathered. To his eyes nothing could get inside, and nothing could get outside of the ward.
Their tactic wasn't a strategy borne of a genius spark of a fructuous brain storm. It was crude, primitive and brutal. And they hoped that it would prove effective as well. It was all they could come up in such a short notice.
So they tried to overpower the ward using a variation of a siege spell designed especially for situations such as these. The spell drew its energy from the wizard or witch which was casting it, and tried to turn the magic of the ward against it, draining on its reserves. The down part of the spell was that it was very taxing on the caster, and in more cases than not, the targeted ward tended to outlast its assailants.
Dumbledore hoped that those trapped inside, if they had not been overrun by enemy forces, would notice their attempt of freeing them and would try to help from their side. After all Minerva was one of the ones trapped behind, and he had all the faith in her that she would have made it even if the situation would have gone terribly dire.
Dumbledore and the others were confident that they would succeed in their task. After all, they were some of the most powerful and skilled practitioners of the arts in the country. No ward created in a hurry such as this could stand a chance against their combined might.
And they were probably right. No ward created in a hurry could have resisted them. To their misfortune, this was not the case. It had become apparent to them as well when after minutes of continuous casting they were all panting with difficulty and their robes were soaked to the skin with their perspiration. Despite their efforts, the ward was barely reacting to their attack; only minor ripples had begun to form in its almost physical texture.
By now their wands were shaking furiously in their hands. And as more and more seconds were lost to the sands of time, one after the other the members of the Order were falling on their hands and knees swamped by exhaustion.
When more then half of them were too tired to cast, Dumbledore signaled the others to stop and to rest.
The situation wasn't progressing as planned. He took a seat on the grass near Mad-Eye and looked with spite at the ward that defied him. He pulled of his glasses and softly massaged his eyeballs through their closed eyelids. After a moment or two spent thinking at nothing, he slipped the glasses back on his crooked nose.
A loud slurping sound followed by a clogged pop alerted the wizard.
"By the three socks of Merlin," was what Dumbledore whispered incredulously when he opened back his eyes.
There was no ward around their headquarters, and no trace that it had ever existed.
"Alastor, you know what?" asked Dumbledore in a resigned voice.
"Hmmm?" his friend replied in kind.
"I'm getting too old for this..."
The news he received once inside didn't help at all in making him feel young again; on the contrary.
OoOoOoOoO
The portkey deposited him with the grace of an exotic hippo dancer twenty inches off the ground. He bit his lower lip to stifle a cry when he landed painfully on his injured leg. His leg gave up under his weight and he ended on his arse.
He paid no attention to his surroundings. If he would have been in any other place this would have been his first priority; but not here, not in his own dark hole that he called home. Here, with no light sources in sight he could feel his eyes relax and the pain he felt from them evaporated.
He fumbled quickly inside one of the pockets attached to his belt. Once he had found the vial he wanted, Nightshade wasted no time in pouring it on his leg wound. As the potion worked, a sizzling sound could be heard in the dark room, and irritating stings were sent all over his leg, making his muscles twitch. At least the bleeding had stopped.
He flexed his leg with care, testing to see if its mobility had been affected. It was more then a little sore, but it was operational. At any rate, he could at least walk.
Another incursion in his trustful belt and two more vile tasting rancid potions had taken the one way trip down his throat. One to fight any potential infections and the other a quick acting dose of skele-grow; if he could only stop breathing while the bone mender did its work.
Grunting in frustration, he climbed up to his feet. He used one more charm to get rid of the blood that drenched his trousers; and another one to mask the torn fabric.
And now that he was here he might as well deliver the prize to the Dark Lord.
He left the sanctity of his quarters and entered the corridor outside. He didn't manage to make two steps when a long series of shrieks coming from one of the adjacent rooms assaulted his ears; lately this had become an occurrence way too often for his tastes. Why couldn't they use silencing charms it was a mystery to him. It sounded like somebody was having his skin removed one inch at a time, which was probably true judging by the insane high-pitched laughter mingled with the cries. He could recognize that laughter anywhere. The resident psycho bitch was playing again. He picked up his pace. Running into her was very low on his list of priorities at the moment. He wasn't truly recovered from their last encounter. The marks on his body were clear evidence of that fact.
Lost in thoughts for a moment, Nightshade almost missed the scene that was happening in one of the rooms he had passed by. When the images of what he saw reached his mind he stopped dead in his tracks and began to carefully retrace his last few steps. When he took a better look he realized his imagination hadn't played a bad joke on his mind. He could feel a migraine building up. He closed his eyes hoping against hope that this was not happening. No such chance.
Nightshade knew that in the morning this chamber had played, and quite successfully at that, the roll of a well pecked storeroom, just as it did for years and years. Now it was a large room remarkable through the complete lack of objects that could be found in it.
Six not so young men dressed in nondescript robes occupied the room. They were standing in a wide circle in the middle of the room, and by the look of it, they were just completing a ceremony. A myriad of runes were etched on the floor under their feet; and they were glowing, an ominous shade of purple.
Nightshade watched with mounting dread as one the men wilding an elaborate sculpted staff raised his hands high above his head. The thief paid no attention to the words that were spoken. He didn't have to, for he knew what was going to happen. Yup, that migraine was starting to kick in. As a whirlwind of energy began to form in the middle of the chamber, Nightshade absentmindedly searched for a headache-remover potion in his belt. He found none. He closed his eyes and a low growl formed in his throat.
His growl was almost immediately joined by another one, deeper, more intense, more solid, a growl that had the power to shake the walls of the room. The second growl lasted only for a couple of fleetest moments before it morphed into a rampaging roar.
Reluctantly, small bit by small but, Nightshade opened his right eye, and then the other, and his shoulders sank. He was not dreaming. And in front of him, tied in ethereal bonds an eight foot tall abomination of muscles, colossal razor-sharp teeth, and five inch claws was looking at him from countless small lidless biddy eyes thrown on frog-like face.
While that thing was straggling to free itself from the magic bonds, the one with the staff turned to look at Nightshade, his wrinkled face split in half by the greatest smile he ever had the misfortune to see. He bowed low to him and turned to his newly acquired pet.
By some miracle Nightshade reigned in his desire to feed the damn summoners to the demon they have brought into his dungeon. He tripled cursed the day he allowed Voldemort to establish his base here. He had enough problems with his bothersome bootlickers, and now demons were roaming on his once peaceful and quiet halls. This hadn't been part of the deal.
Wanting to know just what was Voldemort trying to accomplish with the fluffy beasts from the abyss, Nightshade reached the entrance to the Dark Lord's throne chamber in no time. To his disappointment it was closed, the veil frozen. He placed his left hand in the middle of the door and he expanded his senses, piercing the thick dark substance into the space beyond. The emptiness of the room was only surpassed by its tenebrous ambiance.
He retreated back to his own body just in time to spot a lonely Death Eater tip toeing by him in the corridor.
"Where is he?" Nightshade's spooky voice scared the hell out of the poor man.
The lone Death Eater gulped. Why, why did he have to chose this passage way? Nowhere in his day's schedule said anything about him meeting with him!
He raised a shaking hand and pointed in the general direction of the where he came from.
"Lib-l-library!"
He delivered his highly important message and then took off, eager to put as much distance between himself and him. In theory, they both might have been on the same side, but the grim reality told another story.
Ever since Voldemort and his merry band of munchers had taken residence in his home, Nightshade's restful days had come to an end. If he had to, he would tolerate the Dark Lord. But he was not one to swallow the attitude of those who groveled at his feet. First and foremost this was his home, and they were mere guests. Many heads had rolled, literally, until the idea that pissing him off was a life changing experience from a healthy and breathing state into a dead and rotten one, that is.
Nightshade wasted a couple of moments of his precious life to watch as the Death Eater tried and failed to hide from him in the shadows of the hall. It always amused him to see the pathetic attempts of these humans at what they called stealth. When finally the disturbed man managed to turn around a corner and the show was over Nightshade resumed his trek.
On to the Library.
More than a few corridors and two sets of stairs later he had reached his destination.
Two guards dressed in full Death Eater regalia were stationed at the entrance to the repository of knowledge with the wands drawn in their hands.
As Nightshade advance towards them, the one on his left made a step foreword and raised his left hand with his palm pointed to him.
"Stop! You cannot pass!" the Death Eater commanded. Voldemort had ordered them personally that under no circumstances his lordship was to be disturbed. He would not fail. This was a chance for him to rise quickly in the ranks, his opportunity to greatness.
The other one looked from his colleague to the approaching dark cloaked man. He, above all else wanted to live. To hell with the other one, he was a new guy after all. If he wanted to play the hero, then he will let him. He had better things to do anyway, like breathe and enjoy life. So he did the sensible thing, and began to increase the distance between them.
"Stop!" the watchful one shouted again when Nightshade didn't conform to his order.
Seeing that he just wasn't going to stop and he was now only a few steps in front of him, the Death Eater threw his wand arm in front of him, a destructive spell already on his lips. He must have blinked or something, for one moment his wand was trained right at the intruder, and in the next, his wrist was in a vice-like grip. The pain of his bones breaking and piercing his skin was just reaching his brain when a gloved hand smashed into his face. He didn't even have time to scream before his head impacted the hard stone wall with enough force to make his skull shatter. He was dead before he even understood what was happening to him.
Feeling a little better, Nightshade stopped to watch the bloodied corpse at his feet. This one couldn't have been older than twenty; young and foolish. It was food for thought for Nightshade how some people could forgo all ideas regarding self preservation in the hope of achieving some fable recompense from their lord and master.
He then stared to his right at the second guard who promptly hid his wand arm at his back and tried to look innocent; all he lacked was a golden halo above his head. Dismissing him without a second though, Nightshade pushed open the double doors of the Library and stepped in.
If not for the squeaking of the door's hinges, his entrance would have gone totally unnoticed.
In the back of the Library Voldemort looked up from the maps he was studying. The self proclaimed Dark Lord was not alone. At his side was a mean-looking goblin – once upon a time, probably in a fight, he had lost his entire upper lip; the sight of his yellow-brown sharp teeth would have forced a lesser being to recoil in horror. Under a desk, Nightshade had no trouble to spot a rat scurrying from shadow to shadow.
While Nightshade approached the duo, he could hear the goblin speak.
"Voldemort, you allow your subjects to burst in unchecked like this? It is very unbecoming of you. A thousand whip lashes he should receive on his back for such disrespect, and his knees caps should be broken to teach him to kneel before his betters."
"Now, now Krengan, he is more of an ally, than one of my minions, just like you."
"My Lord," Nightshade gave a curt bow towards Voldemort. He reached inside his robes and retrieved the sealed scrolls he had acquired from Gringotts and handed them to him.
"Have you had any complications?" Voldemort asked while passing the scrolls to the goblin.
"None whatsoever," Nightshade replied, deciding to keep secret the meeting with the Mage and the adventure that followed for a more private discussion. He was lucky he was one of the few who could lie in the face of Voldemort and get away without being caught.
An angry cry brought the attention of the two humans to the goblin.
"You incompetent fool!" Krengan hissed in rage at the thief. "This was not what you were supposed to steal!" The goblin shouted some more derogatory words in his native language, waving the now opened scrolls in his hands.
Nightshade didn't say anything. He just looked bored at the short creature. Of course, having his face covered by an expressionless black mask ruined the effect to some degree.
Voldemort glanced at the thief, urging him to explain.
"I assure you I have followed the instructions I have received from you to the letter. This is what was at the end of the trail."
"Impossible!" the now fuming goblin bellowed again. "This is not the key to their outer wards. Do you know what this is? Do you? Ha? This is a list of the ten ways in which you can cook porkelscrump fish! It's a cookbook! A cookbook!" The goblin finally stopped to draw his breath.
"So?" Nightshade asked highly amused. He didn't really give a damn about what was written on the scrolls.
"Your informant was wrong, Krengan," Voldemort's scratching voice put and end to the behavior of the goblin. "We will torture and kill him later. It would have been nice to have an advantage such as this, but we will just have to do without. Your warriors and my Death Eaters will be more then enough to handle the situation. And I have prepared some surprises, just in case," he finished with the shadow of a smirk on his face.
The last bit perked Nightshade's attention. "Are they trustworthy?"
"As much as everyone else," Voldemort admitted.
A loud knock was heard at the door.
"Enter," Voldemort commanded and a Death Eater entered and kneeled inside the room.
"My Lord, I have an important message from the scouts. May I speak?" Voldemort gave his consent. "Potter and his mudblood Granger were spotted entering Gringotts Bank of London."
"So, he dared to show his face at last," Voldemort mused aloud. "Krengan, are your warriors ready?"
"They better be," the goblin spat, busy tarring apart the offensive recipes.
"Good. For now is a time as good as any to see if our plan is going to succeed or not." Voldemort then turned to Nightshade. "Our encounter with the boy should prove interesting, don't you think so?"
And then he laughed, the echo of his voice reverberated through the entire underground dungeon.
