AN: Hi, so as I mentioned in my last author's note, there's been some changes around here! Here's a quick summary of what I altered:
Daphne and the others decided to tell Harry he is a horcrux, which will happen in this story.
Harry admitted his feelings to Daphne earlier than before
Daphne did not leave her family, but they were all protected by Dumbledore
Astoria and Draco's 'romance' from Consequences of Living has been cancelled
And that's what you missed on If Not For Umbridge. As for Part Two, I've got plenty planned out, so I hope you guys enjoy this new direction and let me know what you think! I appreciate all of you taking time out of your day to give this story some love and can't wait to show you this first chapter of Part Two.
Part Two - The Consequences of Living
Chapter One: Slaughter
Lord Voldemort was not pleased. The boy had repelled him, him! Worse still, the Greengrass girl and her insignificant, infuriating family had managed to escape his grasp. He had been waiting for them at Greengrass Manor, but when no-one arrived and the house stood empty, he ensured that the house would never stand again. No doubt Dumbledore had moved them, but Rookwood had paid the price for his own inadequacies. His screams had filled the air like a symphony.
He had been patient too long. He had waited, and waited and still the prophecy was nowhere near his grasp. Well, no more. Lord Voldemort was not to be made a fool of. Dumbledore's mudblood loving filth had kept breathing for far too long. If Potter would not get it, then there was only one choice.
His Death Eaters played their part well. By the time he reached the Ministry of Magic, there was not a soul to be found. Aurors had been dispatched across the country, even as he strode across the empty halls of power, Voldemort could smell their fear. Mudbloods, blood-traitors and members of the 'Order of the Phoenix' alike. All had lived too long, he had stayed his hand for far too many months. The world would know he had returned again. He would not fail this time.
Nagini slithered at his feet, hissing with pleasure as she led the way through the darkened hallways, just as she had done the night that pathetic Weasley should have met his end. He could not feel Potter in his head this time, but wondered if the boy could sense him. It was a connection like no other, but it had its benefits and for now, Lord Voldemort had far more pressing concerns than the watching eye of a teenage boy.
Just as when Nagini had entered the Ministry as his scout, there was a figure hiding at the entrance of the Department of Mysteries. Others may have missed them, but Invisibility Cloaks were never truly invisible. There were subtle shifts, a vacuum that the wandering eye was forced to glance over, but Lord Voldemort was no fool.
"It appears we have company, Nagini," Lord Voldemort breathed, relishing the sharp intake of breath and the stench of terror. The cloak fell to the floor, revealing a young black-haired woman, her pink cheeks flushed with fear and panic at being discovered. Falling back, she drew her wand, her arms shook and the wand betrayed her, letting off a jet of red sparks that did nothing but highlight the Dark Lord's wand being aimed squarely at her. Lord Voldemort laughed, high and cold, his mirth echoing around the empty corridor, magnifying his derision at the foolhardy attempt to face him.
She was dead before she even hit the floor.
"Later, Nagini," Lord Voldemort chastised as the snake approached the fallen corpse. "You may feast when we are through here."
He knew where his path led him, knew what awaited him at the end of his journey. Not for the first time, he wondered how it would feel to hold the prophecy in his hand, what it would say, what it would reveal. His pace quickened. Doors flew off their hinges, shelves were smashed in his rampant glee. He would not be contained, would not be controlled.
The final room he entered was as high as the greatest cathedral. Towering shelves stacked with gently glowing orbs filled the entire vast space, ordered and catalogued. Candle light flickered, casting Lord Voldemort's shadow out behind him, making him appear like a storm cloud descending on this silent hall. The only sounds were the excited hisses of Nagini, a mirror of Lord Voldemort's own jubilation. After months of waiting, planning and scheming it was finally, finally, within his grasp.
It looked like any other prophecy. It did not appear special or extraordinary, it simply sat within the confines of its own dust and grim, glowing faintly as the rest did. Even the label was placed without pomp and circumstance, as if the creator was not aware of its subject or for whom it was created. Even here, the world sought to make a mockery of him. No matter. All he had to do was reach for it and all of his questions would be answered.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Tom."
Dumbledore, his long white beard bound with small golden bands, was standing at the end of the aisle like a peacock in a graveyard. All periwinkle blues, fantastical pinks and patient smiles. No doubt he had taken extra precautions since Weasley was almost killed by Nagini. But Dumbledore was one man. There was no Order at his back, no Ministry lackeys to fall behind, no Potter to throw on the fire of Lord Voldemort's anger. Just Dumbledore. Lord Voldemort had no thought he would be so rash as to face him alone.
"Fascinating things prophecies," Dumbledore said quietly, for he did not need to shout. Even his softly spoken words seemed to echo in the great chamber of prophecies. "So easily misunderstood, almost as easy as they are to rely upon. But what you seek is not contained within those words, Tom. You will find no peace here. Only more questions."
"You think that you can fool me, Dumbledore?"
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…" A small laugh escaped his lips, he had already heard those words, but then Dumbledore continued. "and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal. You chose Harry, Tom. Not the prophecy. It will not tell you how to defeat him, just as it didn't all those years ago. Your haste created your downfall."
"You lie! There is more!"
"Oh yes," Dumbledore smiled, "but you know it already. You will try to destroy Harry, just as Harry will seek to stop you. You created your own worst enemy and, just as you have been doing, you will attempt to kill him." It was at this that Dumbledore's smile faded. Pathetic. He pitied the boy. A boy who had survived hiding behind the robes of far greater wizards. Lord Voldemort's mirth could not be contained.
"And you came here tonight to stop me?"
"Certainly," Dumbledore's twinkling smile had returned. "Not indefinitely, of course, but at least for the moment."
The movement was instantaneous. Lord Voldemort's killing curse illuminated the hall in a burst of sickly green light, but not before Dumbledore had sent the shelves to his right crashing to the ground. A cacophony of voices sounded, echoes of long forgotten lives, or even those yet to be lived, sang around the room, drowning one another out as their fabled details were lost to the ether. The Dark Lord hesitated, torn between snatching for the one prophecy that could tell him everything and vanquishing his most egregious foe. It was a split second. But that was all that mattered.
The choice was removed from his hands entirely. The shelf turned to dust before his eyes. A great cloud that swirled around him, blinding him temporarily and causing him to lose sight of the one thing he had been set to treasure above all else. His scream was almost feral. Unadulterated fury burned up his throat and ripped itself free from his body.
He turned back to where Dumbledore had been standing, twisting his wands, bringing the dust to form around him and transforming every grain as he did so. Shards of glass swirled in the air between them, Dumbledore had retreated into the main aisle as Lord Voldemort sent the glass thundering towards him.
A pale blue shield absorbed them, so that they pooled around Dumbledore's feet.
"You will die tonight, Dumbledore!" Lord Voldemort shrieked, summoning several of the large torches that hung on the wall to him, aiming them at Dumbledore. He ducked the first, turned the second to bubbles, but his final spell was cut short as one of the final shards of glass sliced at his cheek as the last torch sailed over his head. Ruby red blood trickled down skin that was folded like ancient parchment.
"Alas," Dumbledore responded quietly, healing his wound with a simple wave of his wand. "I fear it is you that shall not be leaving here tonight, Tom."
Ropes as thick as cobras launched from the tip of Dumbledore's wand, intent on claiming the Dark Lord. Instead, Lord Voldemort diverted them off course, sending them limply into one of the few remaining shelves around him. Nagini slithered forwards, intent on striking Dumbledore, but the ropes turned into the literal snakes they resembled and lunged for her.
Their fangs would not penetrate her scales, but the distraction was enough to keep her from her task. To the background of violent hissing and biting, Dumbledore pressed his advantage, sending a lance of white-hot flame towards Lord Voldemort. Instead of ducking away, the Dark Lord parted the fire, sending it around him and scorching his surroundings.
"Crucio!" The torture curse he used so frequently on his own followers would have found its mark, if it were not for Dumbledore causing the stone-flagged floor to rupture and calling a vast shield of rock from the ground. He stepped out, his wand raised and light blooming from the tip. But the curse did not come and Lord Voldemort seized his chance. His killing curse struck home and with ardent glee he watched as the form of Albus Dumbledore fell to the ground. Dead. He laughed, triumphant, euphoria coursing through his veins. He had won!
oOo
Jason Davis liked to think that he lived a good life. He got on with most people, had a wonderful wife and a daughter he was proud of. Sure, his back hurt and if he stood up too quickly and sometimes the world would spin for a bit, but that was really all he could complain about. Work was great, his home life was even better and he'd just managed to get tickets to the Sex Pistols first gig since 1977 from Scottish Dave at the pub. His life rocked.
That was until the fire. The smell of smoke woke him before the fire alarm blared. He was at the door, when his wife asked him blearily, "what's going on?"
His daughter's door opened and Tracey, her hands clapped over her ears, yelled, "I thought you were replacing those?!"
"I did," Jason was the first to admit that he was forgetful at times, even downright useless where memory was concerned at others. One thing he did know though, was fire. Years in the motoring game had shown him all manner of machines and, by extension, all manner of electrical fires and tyre-burning to go with it. "Trace, get your wand, Clara you too."
Clara rushed to the window, fetching her wand from the nightstand as she did so. Tracey disappeared into the dark of her room.
"We need to get out of here," Clara said, in a voice far too calm to be seeing anything good outside. "They're here."
Jason did not need to ask who. He was a muggle, not a moron. They gathered at the foot of their bed, thick, dark clouds of smoke were drifting lazily up the stairs now. Jason had slammed their bedroom door shut, but try as he might to protect the room, smoke was creeping in under the crack in the doorway. At least, until his wife magically sealed the door.
He hated apparating, but clutched at his wife's hand for dear life. Her nails dug into the hardened skin of his palm, and even with the many calluses that covered his skin, her vice-like grip caused him to wince slightly. Tracey clung his arm. Seconds passed. Nothing happened.
"Must've put up anti-apparition charms," Clara cursed, releasing her husband and turning her gaze to the window. "Evanesco," the double-glazing that had cost Jason an arm and a leg a year and a half ago, vanished.
Another wave of her wand summoned them the winter coats they stored in the wardrobe. Jason had never been so glad to see his sheepskin jacket. The cool summer air, pleasant as it was, made it painfully clear he was only wearing his Wolves top and some shorts.
"You first Jace," Clara ordered, pulling her hair back into a tight ponytail so it was out of her eyes. "Then you Tracey. No arguments."
Jason knew better than to question his wife, but Tracey, with the impotence of youth and fear of being rudely awoken in the middle of the night yelled, "but the house!"
"Will burn to the ground," her tone was clear and firm, as if she were delivering a lecture not saving them from a burning building. "Do you want to burn right along with it?"
Deciding not to earn the ire of his wife, Jason fumbled his way through the window onto the sloping roof. Swallowing hard, he edged forward. His lips were dry and not because of the sudden heat from the tiles, God he hated heights. Tracey scampered up behind him with ease, as if being over ten feet in the air on a burning building was nothing to be worried about. Smoke was billowing out from the windows below them and not just from their house. Screams filled the street and Jason hastily estimated that more than six others houses were suffering the same fate as theirs.
Far below them, where the fall was, where the painful sudden drop could claim him at any time, a small group of people in hooded black robes patrolled the street.
"Get down," Clara hissed, grabbing his jacket and forcing him down onto the roof. "Merlin's beard, Jace, you'll get yourself killed."
He muttered an apology. It was at this point he'd normally tip a wink at Tracey, or roll his eyes behind Clara's back to make her laugh, but there was no humour here. Only the heart-racing, very real fear that they could die. His wife set about casting something called a 'disillusionment charm' on them all. It felt like having an egg cracked on his skull, but the moment Jason looked down he seemed to blend into the background. Like a chameleon.
"Alright," Clara said, trying to steady them somewhere from Jason's left. "We need to get down. Quietly. You two go first, don't look at me like that Jason." He wasn't entirely sure how his wife could see his frown and scowled for imagining that she wouldn't notice, despite the fact that he was basically invisible. "I'll cast arresto momentum on you and then Trace, sweetheart, I need you to do the same on me."
"But -"
"Life-saving situations," her mother said quickly, in the bedroom behind them Jason could feel the heat raging and hear the fire roaring. The roof creaked with their every movement as if the supports were on their last legs. They didn't have much time. "Do you know how to do it?" Tracey sniffled, sounding like she was trying not to cry. "Do you?"
"Yes."
"Good. Now go. Both of you. I'll be right behind you."
Jason fumbled for his daughter, holding onto her tightly when something vaguely resembling Tracey grabbed him. He wasn't going to let go. Not now, not ever. Flashes of memory bubbled to the surface, the way Tracey had looked in the hospital after being born. Her first bike. Their holiday to New York and the giant burger she'd tried to stuff in her face. Her Hogwarts letter. Flying. That Quidditch try-out. This wasn't how it ended. Not for her. Not for his daughter.
"Ready?"
"Ready."
And they leapt into the darkness below, Jason trying his best not to scream.
oOo
"I would think," said Dumbledore's disembodied voice from behind the rock he had summoned, "that you would recognise a rudimentary gemini charm when you see it, Tom. Or has your time away from the outside world made you forget yourself?"
It was anything but rudimentary to alter a charm designed to replicate objects, but Lord Voldemort neither cared about the skill nor wished to admire it. He wanted to be rid of Dumbledore.
The rock ruptured in the path of Lord Voldemort's fury, but Dumbledore was no longer cowering behind it. A swish of periwinkle robe signalled his movement behind an aisle, but then, far to the left, another Dumbledore appeared, wand aloft and glasses flashing in the flame of a nearby torch. Then another. And another. Until, finally, Lord Voldemort was encircled with forgeries.
"You cannot hide from me."
He was delaying, that was it, delaying until support arrived. That was why he failed to strike, why he hid and cowered behind fabrications of himself. The coward. "I expected better of you, Tom." The Dumbledores said sadly, their wands still raised. "You were always so bright, so talented. Pity that you had to waste it on attempts at immortality."
"I am immortal! Avada Kedavra!" The killing curse hit Dumbledore square in the chest, but his mimics remained. He knew. Of course he knew. Lucius ought to have been more careful with that damnable diary. What else did Dumbledore know? What about the locket? Or the Diadem?
"No-one is immortal, Tom," Dumbledore's voice echoed in the hall, as eight versions of the frailed headmaster taunted him. "We must all face our end, one way or another. You may have stayed Death's hand, but I wonder for how long?"
Again Lord Voldemort fired out a killing curse, his rage bursting forth. Again an imposter fell. From the coiled pile of snake corpses, Nagini unfurled herself, springing at the nearest version of the 'greatest wizard of their time'. Her fangs punctured his leg, drawing no blood as she dragged him to the ground. The other men did not falter, the five moving around Lord Voldemort now, steering clear of Nagini whose jaws snapped at the hem of his robes.
"And what do you know of my survival, Dumbledore?"
"I know you were foolish enough to split your soul more than once," Dumbledore said calmly, "and I know that you protect Nagini with a fondness you have for no other creature."
Lord Voldemort knew he had betrayed himself as his eyes flicked to Nagini, knew that his compassion for her, his need to protect her, borne from more than simply trying to keep his horcrux from harm, was his weakness.
"Ah," said Dumbledore, pleasure in his voice, "I suspected as much."
Several things happened at once. Darkness claimed their battleground as the torch lights around them were snuffed out. A loud birdsong echoed around the hall. Nagini reared up, aiming for her nearest target. Lord Voldemort turned his wand, not on spot where he knew one of the Dumbledores had stood, but on her. In the darkness she hissed and Lord Voldemort heard her lunge. The shield charm burst from his wand, white light illuminating her as the bubble-shaped shield lifted her from the ground. Most of her.
The head of his beloved snake, of the only thing Lord Voldemort cared about, lay unmoving on the cold, stone floor at Dumbledore's feet, the sword of Gryffindor dripping with dark blood in one hand and the tail of a phoenix in the other.
"Avada -" But he was too late. Flames erupted and Dumbledore, a serene smile on his ancient face, vanished.
It would be said later on that the Aurors were brutally murdered. They had just been doing their duty when they had finally been recalled and sent to investigate the break-in. Their obituaries would fill the pages of the Daily Prophet for an entire week. Their families were asked to pay tribute. Their lives were honoured. Eventually, people moved on.
Brutally murdered.
The phrase was not accurate enough to describe the bloodshed within the Department of Mysteries. Perhaps the only word, if any that could even come close to depicting what took place when they arrived minutes later to attempt to apprehend Lord Voldemort, was slaughter.