Disclaimer: The rights to the Harry Potter series go to J.K. Rowling. All original ideas present in this story belong to me.

Chapter Forty-Four | Trouble on the Homefront

"It's a fake! It's a fucking fake!" I shout, throwing the locket at the wall and watching it clatter across the stone, chain dragging behind it. "We almost died for nothing!"

Fleur sits on the bed and runs her fingers through her hair. "I don't know what to say." She shakes her head. "Who is R.A.B.?"

I throw myself down next to her, smothering my face in the sheets. "Haven't a fucking clue, but they've screwed us over is what they've done."

I can feel her hand on my back, rubbing absent-minded circles between my shoulder blades. "Unbelievable," she mutters, fingers digging into my flesh. "I guess… I guess we have to look into other leads, we've still got four others to get our hands on."

"That we do." I pull myself up, laying my head on her lap. "I just don't know where to start, apart from Little Hangleton."

Fleur taps her chin. "That would be the best place to begin." She waves her wand, summoning Dumbledore's journal into her hands. "If we're sticking with the theme of artifacts associated with the founders…" she narrows her eyes, flicking through the pages. "It wouldn't be entirely unreasonable to assume that their most famous – and not to mention missing artifacts are most likely the containers."

Sitting up straight, I lean over her shoulder. "One went missing around the time he would have been active," I mention, pointing at the dates Dumbledore had jotted into the margins. "Look, Helga Hufflepuff's cup went missing in 1946, after the collector who owned it was murdered. That can't be a coincidence."

"But the others have been missing for centuries, we can't just depend on the fact that they're missing to lead us somewhere." She holds the journal tighter, the pages crinkling. "That, and they're missing, and have been for a ridiculous amount of time, with no real lead on them apart from hear-say and failed expeditions."

"I wish we still had the Diary," I grouse. "We could have somehow twisted it. A piece of Voldemort's soul locked into something you can actually interact with? I can't imagine how much easier this would be."

Fleur tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. "How would we even go about doing that?"

I point to myself. "Necromancer, right? I would have been able to draw the soul out of it I think, try to talk with the bloody thing."

She stills, staring unblinkingly at the wall. "Helene, that's just it!" she shouts, startling me. "Could you draw that bit of soul you destroyed out of whatever hell it's in?"

I frown, mind spinning. "I could, maybe, but I doubt it would be all there, let alone intelligible – even if it does still exist."

Getting off the bed, I think long and hard about the feeling the Diary brought, trying to dredge up whatever remnant of its wrongness – the unnatural chill of it as it lay in my hands so many years ago. Teeth gritted, I pull on the threads that bind our world and the Underworld together, reaching into the abyss for the broken shard of Voldemort's soul.

Wisps of black creep out of the cracks in the ground, seeping out of the cobblestone. The immaterial substance tickles at the foot of the bed, coalescing into the vague shape of a human.

"Jesus Christ," I mutter, staring at the shattered remains of a soul. I can feel how unnatural it is, a tangible sickness in the fabric of reality. I focus everything I can in trying to stave off any attempts for other, less savory creatures to try and crawl out of the tear in the world. Just beyond the doorway is a sentient plague, flanked by the unholy amalgamation of a race destroyed by a monster whose very name holds the power to set the skies ablaze.

My brain swims with terrible thoughts, fighting off the taint brought about by the living darkness that clings so tightly to the fragmented soul before me.

"Is this-"

"Yes, this is a taste of the Underworld," I respond through gritted teeth. "I'm… a lot more closely linked to it now. I don't think I can call on my powers without bringing a bit of it with me."

She nods, unsure of how to react. "It's horrible, but magnificent."

"That's one way to describe it." I scoff, directing my attention to the incorporeal Voldemort. "Tell me, do you know anything of where your remaining soul is being kept?"

It lashes out against its bindings, only held back by sheer willpower. "Nothing, I know nothing," it rasps, it's voice like broken glass and molten stone. "I would tell you nothing regardless, filth. Half-breed! forgotten afterbirth of a muggle whore and the man who owned her! You are a child playing at being a God. You are nothing but dirt beneath my feet, and when my true self wipes you from the face of the Earth I will rejoice here in the depths."

I tear it apart, smiling as it screams in pain. "Tell me where you have hidden your Horcruxes."

It laughs at me, hunched over itself as it bleeds pure shadow, the substance spattering against the floor and disappearing in a cloud of smoke. "I am but the first of many. There is nothing I can tell you, and there is nothing you can do to me that has not happened at the hands of demons far more terrifying than you could ever imagine yourself to be."

Disgusted, I destroy it, listening in grim satisfaction as it howls, its death throes almost profane in their rejection of the mortal world – a sound that should not, could not exist.

"Why did you do that?" Fleur asks, looking somewhat haggard after the whole display.

"I knew it wasn't lying, it couldn't lie. I just… I know that, somehow, someway. I don't know how I know that, but I do. Anything from the Underworld… they can spin tales, they can dance around the question, but they can't lie."

"So… we've got nothing?"

I shake my head. "I'd have to get my hands on the real thing if we want to try and get any leads, but they'll probably answer us in riddles at best. We're on our own here."

She sighs loudly, looking somewhat lost. "So… where do we start? Little Hangleton?"

"Seems our best bet."

-::-

Amelia Bones sat behind her desk, staring at the wall dejectedly.

She'd never been so thoroughly trumped before in her entire life, let alone by a child. She was furious, yes, more than anything – but she couldn't do anything against the slightest bit of maternal pride that welled up inside her, regardless of what Helene had done.

Amelia was the definition of conflicted.

"That kid will be the death of me," she muttered, glancing sidelong towards her drink cabinet, before shaking her head.

She'd drank enough over the last day, anymore and she'd have to admit she'd entered into the world of functioning alcoholism.

Amelia yawned widely, reaching down to her cabinet and once more drawing out the file the Department had on Helene Potter, something she'd personally written – going over it ad nauseum to try and glean any bit of information she could as to why everything in Britain had gone tits up in the span of three days.

As far as she could tell, Helene had always been bright – terribly so – but to be that powerful at the age of fourteen?

No, she had to have been hiding it the whole time. There had to be something more at work.

Amelia sorely doubted that she was as evil as the Ministry was currently making her out to be, pumping out two stories a day on her ever since the 'Tri-Wizard Incident,' as it was now being called. Helene's fight in Diagon Alley, guesswork as to her motives, as well as extensive detailing of how she was most definitely a Dark Lady from the day she earned her scar were the common themes of each article.

No, Helene wasn't evil, but she certainly straddled the line in some ways.

Amelia knew that she had to have had a hand in Bagman's horrific death. Although the motive wasn't clear, the magic was much too similar to be anything but Helene, or her girlfriend and accomplice – Fleur.

Fleur was an odd topic for Amelia. She came from a well-to-do family, no history of violence, nothing. Yet she was running along with Helene not as a simple lackey, but as an equal to whatever war-like rampage the redhead was on.

Amelia cradled her head in her hands, letting out a slow breath as she tried to figure out what the hell to do, and better yet – what the hell was going on.

The appearance of Death Eaters in Diagon Alley, particularly ones who were acquitted so many years ago based on the incredibly popular imperius defence was more than unsettling.

Either Helene was much more dangerous than Amelia believed her to be, or the old guard of the pureblood world was beginning to stir again.

She didn't know which one scared her more.

A sudden knocking on her door caused her head to snap up in surprise.

"Yes?" she called.

Her secretary, a young girl by the name of Madeline poked her head through the door, a worried look on her face. "The Minister is here to see you, ma'am."

Amelia groaned, waving her hand in surrender. "Let him in."

Cornelius Fudge trudged into her office with a bluster in each of his steps, evidently worked up about the current state of the country. He took his bowler hat off with thick, pale fingers, setting it on her desk as he took a seat.

"We've got problems, Amelia," he muttered contemptuously, his bottom lip sucked between his teeth. "We need to do something about the Potter girl."

She sighed, already feeling a headache coming on. "I've already got my men out there searching for her Cornelius, what more do you want from me?"

"A manhunt, Amelia. I'm personally telling you that wanted posters need to be put out across every major wizarding settlement for Potter and Delacour," he declared, slapping his pudgy hand against her desk for emphasis. "We need to nip this in the bud and make sure she can't get murder any more of our citizens. If she's not put down soon, I may have to declare martial law."

"Cornelius, we don't even know what happened at the graveyard, my men haven't had a chance to properly investigate what's happened, nor have we been allowed to properly question the survivors," Amelia growled, furious that Fudge would deem it necessary to tell her how to do her job. "I need to have the full picture before we sentence this girl to death."

Cornelius lifted his nose, brow furrowing. "She's already murdered a dozen people, what more do you need to know? She's a killer Amelia."

She ran her hand across her face, letting a tense breath whistle through her teeth. "There's something not right about this Cornelius. I know the two of us have never gotten along, but everything's just not adding up." Amelia put her hand up to stall Fudge from interrupting her. "Everything that has happened so far has occurred between her, and the traditionalist pureblood crowd. While that wouldn't infer anything immediately, what does concern me is the fact that everyone involved so far apart from Potter and Delacour, everyone, was previously suspected to be a Death Eater.

"Four of those found dead at the graveyard were only acquitted due to the court believing them to have been under the imperius curse. The others who survived? Exactly the same." Amelia drew out a list of those found dead in Diagon Alley and placed it in front of Fudge. "These names? Yaxley? Nott? Avery? All found dead in Diagon Alley in full Death Eater regalia. These people were also survivors of the apparent attack in Little Hangleton." She leaned forward; hands held wide. "There is more going on here Cornelius."

He glanced over the sheet, face scrunched up in concentration as he thought over what Amelia had just told him.

"This is… interesting, I'll say that, but regardless of what you may think the Potter girl is still a mass-murderer – a brazen one at that. Ramp up your investigation, put out the posters." Cornelius stood up, taking up his hat and walking to the door.

He paused, turning towards Amelia, hand resting on the handle. "I'll speak to Lucius and see what must be done about the apparent… misconduct, of his compatriots."

As he left, Amelia sunk into her chair, head thudding against her desk.

Something was terribly wrong in Britain, and she wasn't sure it was all to do with Helene Potter.

-::-

A week has gone by and we've ransacked Riddle Manor.

As I expected, there was nothing to be found. Not a single trace of Voldemort was found in the dilapidated family home apart from the evidence of his short-time residence during the Tri-Wizard Tournament.

Empty potion bottles, a forgotten cauldron, and fresh wood stacked next to the unwashed fireplace – ashes scattered about in front of a small loveseat and scratches along the floor.

I assume those are from Wormtail being tortured. Nothing to be concerned about.

What does concern me is the shadows.

Ever since I had my psychedelic drop into the world of Death, things have been different.

I can sense creatures lurking in the darkest corners of each and every room I find myself in, only disappearing beneath the glare of Fleur's magic. Crystalline spiders made of rotten shadow skitter between this world and the next, their claws echoing into the nether. I find myself wracked with coughing fits, spitting out shards of a god's crumbled throne and watching as they spear through stone like its naught but water.

The voices are the hardest part.

They speak to me from crevices of broken time, the words of the dead and the damned bouncing around in my mind and leaking from my ears in a black, sparkling ichor. They sing to me, praise me as the second coming: the first and only Paragon of Death.

I crush them beneath my feet, admiring the way the creatures of muck and darkness scatter against the floor, fragmenting like glass before disappearing in a cloud of sentient decay.

Needless to say, Fleur has been concerned about my sanity.

She can catch glimpses of them, occasionally hear their voices whispering in her skull like the fog that settles over your mind just before a dream. They try to speak to her, to praise her as a Daughter Of All and All That Will Be; but she blocks them out much better than I, the demons – for that's all they could be – scream out their worship to me instead, praying that I will bestow their offerings upon the Bride of the Paragon.

I remind them that we've yet to marry, let alone speak about the possibility. They gnash their teeth in return, the sound of which ages the world around them ever so slightly – stone cracking and grass withering.

Turning over yet another page of drivel found in the Riddle library, I watch as the shadows twist about, dancing to a beat that would drive anyone but Fleur or I mad.

We've spent our time researching, hoping to find any shred of local lore – a sign of any sort that could lead us to a potential hiding place for one of Voldemort's Horcruxes.

According to Dumbledore's journal, he was determined that there was something to be found in the area in which Riddle was conceived, apparently by rape from what I've read.

A Dark Lord produced by love potions, the desperation of a madwoman, and the anger of an arrogant noble abused in one of the worst manners possible.

Doesn't seem like much of a surprise to me that Tom was an angry, broken child.

"Any luck?" I ask, glancing at Fleur, who's nose deep in a ragged book, the binding barely holding together.

"No luck," she answers, shaking her head. "There's no real evidence I can see of his mother's family having lived around here."

I nod sullenly.

One thing that Dumbledore was adamant about in his writings, was that Voldemort's other side of the family – the Gaunts – were poor beyond belief but held onto old family heirlooms with a desperation not seen by many. A comment of his mentioned him having seen the Lord Gaunt in court, wearing a very ancient-looking ring as he was sentenced to a short stint in Azkaban.

He went on to describe how its more than likely that Voldemort got his hands on one of the artifacts and utilized it to make a Horcrux, seeing as – surprise, surprise – his whole family wound up dead one day.

Unfortunately, Dumbledore had the nerve to write everything down except where the inbred bastards lived. Not to mention I can't get an exact date on when Voldemort's grandfather was put in-

Damnit.

"Aw for fucks sake, I'm an idiot," I groan, pushing the book away from me. "We didn't look for muggle newspapers."

Fleur's eyes look at me over her book, and I can see them narrow. "For what?"

"It says in the journal that he attacked a bunch of muggles in the area, but that wasn't newsworthy for the magical community, nor was his family turning up dead – as the lot of them were considered outcasts to begin with. It didn't even get a footnote in the Prophet," I say, prodding at the desk with one finger. "But the attack would have definitely made the local news. Hell, there's probably still people here that remember it, might even still be alive. It's a small town after all. Things like that don't just happen all the time. It had to have made an impact."

Fleur groans and smacks herself on the head. "You're not an idiot. We're idiots."

"Doesn't that still make me an idiot?"

She gets out of her rickety chair, the wood groaning as she does, and pats me on the shoulder. "At least we can be idiots together."

I laugh. "Always optimistic, eh?"

"Come on, let's go to the pub and see if we can stir up anything about Gaunt."

Fleur grabs a hold of my arm and helps me, waiting a moment to make sure I'm settled before apparating us into the village.

We appear in a small alcove next to a grocers, and by the look of things, the alley seems to be the employees smoke pit.

"Nice place," I mention, cocking an eyebrow at Fleur.

She shrugs at me. "It's the most isolated spot in the whole village. Those tend to be a bit shitty."

I nod. "Fair point."

"Come on," she laughs, tugging on my arm. "Let's grab a couple of drinks and see if we can figure out where dear Tom's family lived."

"After you," I say, letting her lead me off towards the pub, which is just around the corner.

Little Hangleton is a very small place.

I admire the local scenery as we walk up to the pub, classic English country through and through. Aged brickwork, wooden frames, white plaster, and a healthy smattering of ivy climbing along the walls of the cottages. The pub is just as idyllic. Complete with a wooden sign that creaks ever so slightly as it swings in the wind.

I read the sign as we walk in. The Red Lion.

Christ, how stereotypical can you get?

We head in, and I admire the homeliness of it all. Stained glass along the top of the bar, row upon row of various liquors and spirits, as well as carpeting that looks like it hasn't been cleaned in the last week.

Like I said, classic English.

Fleur and I seat ourselves at the bar next to an elderly couple – both sporting wispy hair smattered with gray and thin knit jumpers – smiling at them as we pull out our seats.

"New folk here love!" the woman announces, grinning at us. "Lovely to meet you two, my name is Marge, and this is my husband, George. Don't get many travelers 'round here."

I reach over and shake their hands, introducing the two of us. "I'm Helene, and this is my girlfriend Fleur."

"Please to meet you," Fleur effuses, repeating my gesture.

Marge smiles even wider. "Oh how lovely, don't get lovebirds here much either."

"Eh?" her husband looks at her confused, and she leans over and whispers in his ear. His eyes pop wide open after a moment, and he emits a low resounding, "Oh! No ma'am, not too often at all. What brings the two of you here?"

Fleur places a hand on my thigh, squeezing it affectionately. "We're on a road trip across the country, and this was on our route. I love old English architecture, so I asked Helene if we could stop here for a drink and a bite to eat before we continued on to Manchester."

"You two aren't too young to drive?" Margaret asks, frowning. "Or drink for that matter."

I laugh, waving my fingers as I cast a confundus charm at the two of them. "We're actually students at Leeds, on term break at the moment."

She nods as the magic takes effect. "Why, they just keep looking younger n' younger every day, don't they George?"

"Right they do," he agrees, raising his hand and calling over the sleepy bartender. "Let me get you two a pint, any preferences?"

"Just something light," Fleur says. "Thank you."

He waves her off. "It's nothing, least I can do for two lovely ladies such as yourselves."

Regardless, thank you. That's very kind."

He sticks his tongue out at Fleur, and I shake my head, laughing at his very retro charm. He must have been a lady-killer back in his hey-day.

"So, tell us about Little Hangleton," I say, taking a sip of my beer and humming at the pleasant bitterness. "We didn't know this place even existed apart from the sign off the motorway."

George drums his fingers across the table and hums loudly as Margaret pulls over a menu, handing it to Fleur. "Not much to say, really. We have a carnival every spring and that's a treat to experience, but unfortunately, everyone seems to be moving from here to bigger cities." He shrugs heavily, palms to the air. "Not too many jobs to be found here, so the young folk like you head off to do whatever it is you do now. Working with the e-mail and all that silliness."

Fleur chuckles, raising her glass to her lips and taking a long drink.

"You're right on that. I like cities myself, but I need to get out in nature every so often. Keeps things in perspective, oui?"

"Ah! I thought you had an accent!" Marge exclaims. "Are you French?"

"Yes, I come from the south, close to the ocean."

She claps her hands excitedly. "I adore France." Leaning forward, she stage whispers, her hand cupped around her mouth. "I'm more of a fan of coffee than tea, my husband and friends give me trouble about it all the time." Rolling her eyes, she continues. "Says I'm off my rocker."

"Well, there's plenty of lovely café's here as well. You're a train ride away from any of them, you could make a day out of it," Fleur offers.

Marge pokes George on the shoulder. "See that? She likes coffee too."

"I never said I didn't like coffee," George mutters, the corner of his lips tugging into a smile. "I just like a good builder's more."

"Agreed," I say, lifting my glass, garnering a chuckle out of him. "So, what else about the town? Any interesting historical facts? You always hear about mad things happening in little villages, and I've always been interested in those kinds of stories."

George stares off at the wall as Fleur orders a plate of chicken and chips for the group, sucking his bottom lip through his teeth.

"Been talk of aliens a few times, crop circles and the like when that was big over with the yanks," he thinks aloud, puffing out his cheeks.

"Other'n that, only thing I could think of would be an awful fight a few decades back. A few of my mates got into a scuffle with an old local, absolutely mad he was, landed all of them in the hospital. Heard he died a year after, disappeared for a while and then locked himself away once he came back. Probably went to prison for a bit."

"My God," Fleur utters, feigning shock as she stacks a compulsion charm on top of my confundus. "Where did this happen?"

"Off by the forest on the outskirts of town, between Great Hangleton and 'ere," he explains, tapping his fingers across the top of his wrist. "Musta' been where the road cuts by the forest, rumour was the nutter and his family lived in a shack in the woods. Dodgy, the lot of them."

I have to stop myself from grabbing Fleur and running off, instead pushing down my growing excitement and nibbling at the chicken and chips that the bartender has brought over.

"That's terrible," I manage, my voice quiet. "I'm sorry to hear about that."

"S'alright," he says, waving me off. "It's long in the past."

"You sure?"

He laughs at me. "Come on girl, I'm eighty-three. I ought to have skin thick as an elephant at this point in my life. No need to apologize."

I let out a sigh of relief, Marge smiling at my apparent discomfort. "So… anything interesting to do nearby?"

She grins widely, slapping the table. "Nothing but farms around here. I'm afraid you've come to the most interesting place in town."

Fleur places her hand on my back, nodding towards the plate. "We should get going now, but thank you for chatting with us." She reaches into her pocket and draws out her wallet, placing fifteen quid on the counter. "It was lovely meeting the two of you."

"Same to you," Marge drawls, her and George waving goodbye as we leave the pub.

As soon as we're out the door and around the corner I put my hands on Fleur's shoulders and shout excitedly, "We found it! We found it!"

She giggles, throwing her arms around my neck and pulling me into a deep kiss. "That we did! Let's get back, get some rest, and then get to it tomorrow."

I sigh but acquiesce all the same. It would be a bad idea for us to go hunting for this thing when we're not well-rested. "Alright, let's get out of here."

-::-

Octavius Greengrass had just brought the kids home the other day, and while he hated the fact that Helene couldn't stay with them, he knew she was a wanted fugitive at the moment.

He scoffed at the thought, still unable to wrap his head around that, let alone the fact that his daughter was an undead time-traveler from the year 1995.

My life definitely took an interesting turn when she entered it, he mused, smiling at Terra as she went to the sitting room to read a new book she'd gotten.

He sighed as he remembered how just that morning Amelia Bones and a healthy contingent of Aurors had dropped by unannounced to interrogate him and his family on the whereabouts of his adoptive daughter.

Thankfully, they hadn't been given the go-ahead to use veritaserum, so he and the rest of the family were in the clear.

"That'll just be the next step," he muttered to himself, stewing over his thoughts.

Octavius knew that that was just the beginning of things, and that the Ministry would be coming down on his family and political party with what they perceived to be a righteous fury. Already, families were leaving the banner he and Sirius had woven over the last few years, reclaiming old alliances and serving to dismantle all the good the two of them had accomplished.

He was by and large irritated by how capricious the representatives seemed to be, most of them having attained their titles and power through nothing but pure nepotism. He sighed to himself, know that there were worse things out there. Namely Voldemort.

Octavius pushed those thoughts out of his mind as he set the kettle on, whistling quietly as he looked out the window and upon the gardens of Greengrass Manor.

He smiled happily, knowing they didn't call his family that for nothing. The Manor had always been home to an incredible garden, and it was one of the reasons they earned their name so many centuries ago.

Thrown from his thoughts as the kettle began to whistle, he frowned as it grew and grew, until an unearthly screech ripped across the grounds. He pressed his hands to his ears as the wards were torn up and dismantled in the span of a single moment, the windows shattering in the wake of a brilliant, shining pulse of raw magic.

Octavius was thrown to the ground by the magical backlash, the cup he held shattering against the hardwood and his eyes throbbing painfully. Groaning, he pulled himself to his feet, cursing as he sliced his hand on a jagged piece of glass.

For a moment he didn't realize what was happening, stunned by the sudden burst of magic. Breathing heavily, he placed his hand on the counter, palm slipping across the surface and streaking it with his blood.

Ears ringing, he stumbled into the foyer, wand out and ready as he collected his thoughts and frantically urged the fog to leave his mind.

"Girls! Terra! Anyone?" he screamed urgently, voice echoing throughout the Manor and ringing in his skull as he raced into the sitting room to see a dazed, bloodied Terra lying on the carpet. "We need to get out of here!" he shouted, grabbing her and hoisting her up, slinging her arm around his shoulder.

After failing to apparate upstairs, Octavius dragged Terra along in his frenzied run up the stairs, sweat mingling with the glass dust on his face as they stumbled towards their children's rooms.

"Girls we need to leave! Now!"

Astoria didn't wait a moment and raced out of her room with Tracey and Daphne in tow, Sirius running behind them as the girls threw themselves into their parent's arms, sobbing loudly.

"They're alright," Sirius insisted, meeting Octavius' eyes, who quickly searched the girls for any sign of injury regardless, his heart pounding against his rib cage. "I ran to check up on them as soon as it happened."

"Come on dear, we need to go." Octavius murmured, his heart clenching at a thin gash running across Daphne's forehead, blood trickling into her eyes.

"Have you got your portkeys?" Terra asked shakily, her voice weak.

"Yeah," Daphne choked, attempting to wipe the blood from her face, her sleeve coming away stained in red. "Yeah, we got them."

"Alright then." Terra kneeled in front of them, nearly falling over, her legs trembling. "We need to get down to the basement and go through the passage, alright? As soon as you get past the property boundaries, use the portkey."

Astoria hiccupped loudly. "But… what if they-"

A massive crash interrupted her. Thinking quickly, Octavius grabbed the girls and ushered them towards the stairs. "We need to go, now."

They raced back down into the foyer, Tracey pausing for a moment to watch the door splintering under a barrage of spells.

"Go!" Octavius shouted.

There's no chance, he thought, knowing the wards on the door wouldn't hold for much longer. Resolute, he turned towards Sirius. "Get them out of here."

Sirius froze, eyes wide, before nodding. "Come on girls, let's get somewhere safe."

"No!" Terra's lip trembled dangerously, hands clenching and unclenching. "No… you can't-"

Octavius shook his head. "You need to go; the door won't hold."

Terra bit her lip, eyes glistening with tears as she rushed towards him, arms wrapping around Octavius as she kissed him deeply, desperately.

His eyes stung as he closed them, kissing her back with just as much ferocity, fingers digging into her back.

Terra let out an earthshattering sob, clinging to his shirt and pressing her face against his chest. "Please, please, please, don't do this. We can all get out of here. Please."

Octavius pulled away from her, and with a wave of his wand, he caused the floorboards to rise up, shuttling his family towards the basement in a makeshift ramp, Terra's screams echoing out into the manor before being silenced by the slamming of a door.

Sucking in a deep breath, he shook his head. "I'm sorry. I love you so much."

Collecting himself, Octavius turned to face the door as it buckled against another salvo of spells, the wood groaning in protest.

"Alright," he murmured, rolling his wand between two fingers, the handle slick with blood. "This is it."

He stood and waited for a moment before the door was blasted inwards, thrown off its hinges and crashing into the opposite wall.

Octavius immediately opened fire, sending off a spell-chain that would make even Dumbledore sweat a little, a combined burst of cutting and exploding curses shooting out of the open doorway and presumably into a waiting Death Eater, judging by the gurgling screams in the distance.

He had to duck as his spellfire was returned, the terrifying emerald green of the killing curse bursting against a summoned table, the furniture exploding and sending jagged splinters across the room, one of them slicing across Octavius' leg.

Cursing, he threw up a shield just as Lucius Malfoy strode into the Manor, hand twisting in a flourish and a jagged yellow spike bursting from his wand and shattering the sudden incorporeal defense.

Smiling widely, Lucius continued, assured that he had him outmatched.

Steadfast, Octavius rolled to the left, a barrage of multicoloured destruction streaming from his wand, which Lucius parried with a transfigured block of stone, a shield cast behind it for good measure. Furious, he continued his attack, conjuring up a globe of water before freezing it and sending it in Lucius' direction.

Shocked at the display of magic, Lucius threw himself to the ground, just narrowly avoiding the icy cannonball as he returned fire with a sectumsempra, Octavius hissing in pain as a line was cut across his shoulder.

Working his way into a frenzy, he ignored the wound, sending spell after spell towards Lucius, the room lighting up like a fireworks display.

Shouting in anger, Lucius let off a flurry of hideously dark curses, their very essence screaming danger.

Octavius grinned in reply, transfiguring the wall beside him into a barrier, before rolling out from behind it and turning the shards of wood behind Lucius into a horde of magical bullet ants, the massive insects rushing the pale man.

Shocked, he attempted to stave them off with a burst of fire, but couldn't get it off before he was bitten. Screaming in agony, Lucius collapsed to the ground, writhing as the ants bit every inch of skin they could find.

Just before Octavius could finish him, Voldemort walked calmly through the door, flanked by masked Death Eaters. He paused to survey the damage dealt, lazily destroying the ants covering Lucius as he continued to writhe on the floor.

Stopping to think, he smiled before casting a silencing charm over him as well.

"You got uglier," Octavius laughed, admiring the hooked teeth and sickly, grayish skin.

Voldemort sighed, holding his wand with both hands and twisting it lazily. "And I imagine you will refuse to join me, Octavius."

He scoffed. "I always will. Just because my nan thought one thing, doesn't mean I do too."

Calmly, Voldemort strolled towards the bannister, running his finger along the cherry, now scarred from shrapnel. "Lovely home you have here."

Octavius groaned as he put his weight on his damaged leg, hand clenching tightly around his wand. "Just get it over with, Tom."

Voldemort sniffed audibly, turning towards him. "I see your daughter has spoken to you of me. I wonder what else she has told you? How she murdered my… compatriots on top of my own, dear father's grave? How she and her trollop attempted to douse me in fire? Her Necromancy?" He leaned his head to the side, smiling widely, jagged yellow fangs peeking out from thin, cracked lips. "You raised a very interesting child. Now, I would like to know where she is."

Octavius shook his head, laughing loudly. "I don't know, she never told me. Not that I would tell you if I did."

Tutting, Voldemort pursed his lips. "I imagined so. Legilimens."

Teeth gritted, Octavius howled in pain as a drill ran into the front of his mind, claws scraping at his thoughts from every angle. Knees buckling, he collapsed to the ground, fingernails running gouges through his scalp as he pushed every fibre of his being into keeping Voldemort out.

Just as suddenly as it began, it stopped, Voldemort sighing as if dealing with a petulant child. "You really could make it easier on yourself you know. Just tell me where she is, and I'll let you go." Pointing towards Lucius, he smiled gleefully. "You really are quite impressive. The bite of an ant? At least, that's what I assume those were? Very creative my friend. It would be a shame to put an end to so much talent."

Moaning, Octavius spat a glob of blood onto the floor, having bitten his tongue. "Go fuck yourself, Tom."

Voldemort walked towards Octavius, lifting his chin with two terribly cold fingers. He stared into his eyes, deep crimson against pale blue. "Well, if that's the way you're going to be I'm going to have to take you with me. I'm sure Lucius here would love to get his just desserts," he uttered, fetid breath stinging Octavius' nose. "You can always tell me your secrets after you've been… loosened up."

Choking against the rotten stench, Octavius spat in his face, blood spattering against where Voldemort's nose should be. "Go fuck yourself. You attack me? You put my family in danger? I'd sooner kill myself than help you."

Voldemort cocked one empty eyebrow, amused. "Kill yourself? Why, by all means, go ahead," he encouraged, motioning for him to continue. "Trust me, it's your only way out of this."

Octavius studied his wand, before looking out across the room.

Every Death Eater stood at attention, ready in the case of him attacking them. His mind raced, trying to think of any way to get out.

Counter-wards were up, apparition and portkeying were out of the question, and he couldn't exactly expect anyone to come to his rescue.

Sighing, he clenched his fist, blood dripping from his knuckles.

Looking Voldemort in the eye, he drew his wand up to his head. "I'll make sure to say hello to Death for you," he coughed, smiling at his awestruck expression.

Voldemort howled in rage, jabbing his wand forward, the familiar red of an expelliarmus bursting from it before Octavius' entire world was suffused with green.