CHAPTER 45 – No rest for the wicked
Voldemort stared for a moment longer at Lucius' beaten and broken corpse strewn in front of his throne. He had killed the pathetic excuse of a wizard in a bout of rage –completely justified in his opinion– after he had admitted to not having the diary anymore.
The dark lord cared not that it had apparently been the diary itself that had orchestrated the plan that had resulted in its loss –for he wasn't enough of an optimist to believe Dumbledore hadn't destroyed the bloody book– but only that he was now almost certainly without any horcrux.
He was mortal again. He, who had made immortality his own name, could already feel Death's cold fingers closing around his neck.
The dark wizard imperiously stood up and marched into what had been the Minister's private quarters –provided in case an esteemed Minister had to work overtime and almost never used in centuries if not for the occasional nap or fornication– that he had appropriated and started scouring his old notes. They had been covertly recovered from a hidden cache that had miraculously survived Nalaar's fury, a small chest ensconced at Lestrange Manor.
He had to know: could he make even one more horcrux? Could he become immortal again?
Since Dumbledore had returned to the castle, things had changed in the school, the most notable of which was a far stricter take on where students could go or what they could do.
The Inquisitorial Squad was immediately stripped of its position, its members forced to stay in their dormitories or join the defenders, after a through screening by an auror of course. Be it their ideals, peer pressure, or simple fear of that interrogation, only one student "switched sides", if it could be considered that in Pansy's case. Of course, once word got around that she had always been Liliana's plant nobody was really surprised of her choice.
The members of Chandra's resistance group were offered a similar choice, with the only difference being that most of them went to man the ramparts as sentries. It had been a no brainer for those that did: they had stood up to Umbridge, they weren't about to roll over for someone else, not even for Voldemort. The pyromancer was torn about that: on one hand she was proud her students were raising to the occasion, on the other hand she didn't want them anywhere close to a fight they weren't ready for.
Ron Weasley was punished for his ill-conceived plan, along with all the others that had participated in the attack, but given the circumstances the punishment consisted in longer watches on the walls. They couldn't exactly spare the manpower.
As for the rest of the student body, they simply rolled with the latest change in direction. They were given the same choice as the others, but results were less uniform.
Lessons were obviously suspended, both since all the professors were busy with patrols –except Snape who was still entrenched in the enemy camp, looking for the best moment to flee the scene and get back to Hogwarts– and the fact that lots of students were confined to their dorms via temporary wards.
None amongst the heads of the resistance were actually happy with deploying the students, and none less than madam Bones, Dumbledore, and Chandra –albeit for rather different reasons: the natives were concerned with the students' age, the redhead with their readiness– but Liliana pointed out that having them where they could keep an eye on them was better than having them scurrying around, possibly getting underfoot or in trouble. Also, they were in dire need of people if they wanted to mount a meaningful defence, even considering that the pyromancer had prepared a number of summoning circles ready for use in key locations and that the necromancer had gotten her rodent army back on their putrid legs.
Jace contacted his two peers via telepathy, saying that when the attack came he would try to send help but it all came down to who didn't have their hands tied at the time. He also brought them up to speed on what he had discovered of Bolas' plans, which was sadly very little except that it probably had something to do with all his plants on Ravnica. After all, he certainly had at least two guilds in his proverbial pocket –even if Vraska was actually a double agent– and a suspicious number of others had recently had changes at the top, even if admittedly for some it wasn't such an exceptional event. Yet he didn't see how the dragon's army of eternals could help considering that the city-plane held its fair share of necromancers ready to snatch them away from him. Even worse, Jace hadn't the faintest idea about what Bolas could possibly use the planar anchor recovered on Ixalan for. He feared he was missing a key piece of the plan, but for all his smarts he simply couldn't figure it out.
A short funeral was held for Arthur Weasley in the courtyard. He had been a well beloved man and many of his friends and family were already in the castle. Given the sombre mood of the affair, even Liliana didn't came out with any indelicate comments about raising the man to fight again. She still considered the option, but kept it to herself.
Life soon settled in a new routine, with Dumbledore and Hermione working overtime with their respective phoenixes to bring anyone willing to fight to the castle while everyone else held the fort. Yet, routine was swiftly followed by unease: the constant tension, the worry and the fear dug deep in the hearts of the defenders, threatening to break them long before any attack came. Chandra tried to fight them by tasking some of the more easy-going students with keeping their peers distracted, amused and generally granting a morale boost, but she understood far too well that sooner or later even those measures wouldn't matter.
Voldemort entrusted what few of his inner circle still remained alive and functional with overseeing the attack on Hogwarts.
He couldn't afford the distraction himself. Too much to do, too little time.
Soul magic was as little explored as a branch of the dark arts can be. Even the unspeakables had done little research on it, for whatever reason. As such, everything he could consult pointed to him being the first to actually tear his soul apart more than once, which in turn made him the foremost expert on the subject of horcrux since Herpo the Foul himself. And while that was a nice stroke to his ego, it was maddening in and on itself.
He decided to attack the problem from a different angle: he had already thorn his own soul six times with no adverse effects he was able to observe, but when he went after the Potters he was defeated by unknown means. Could it have been that his soul had become unstable, in conjunction with whatever protection Lily Potter had dreamed up? Without knowing exactly what the damnable woman had done, it was impossible to actually tell, so he shelved that line of thought.
And yet, like a pebble tossed into a still pond, the possibility that his soul was too unstable to sustain any further tears kept nagging him, an insistent buzz in the back of his skull.
In the end there were only two possible roads in front of him: either he continued his almost complete conquest of Wizarding Britain without the safety net of his horcrux, or he tried creating one more, risking everything in exchange for immortality.
Voldemort had never been a gambling man. The only true risk he had ever taken –not a calculated one, but a true all or nothing deal– had been the creation of his second horcrux, when he had had no guarantee that it wouldn't destroy his soul. For the sake of his dreams, he had taken that gamble and it had paid off, making the most powerful dark wizard ever out of an ambitious nobody.
Did he dare take suck a gamble once again?
With a somewhat impulsive snap decision, Voldemort stood and left the room.
For his dreams, for the work of a lifetime nearly completed, for immortality, he was going to once again seize his destiny and forge it by his own two hands. For he was lord Voldemort, the most powerful dark wizard to walk the Earth, and only he could live forever.
Voldemort screamed in pain, such a soul rending sound that it was hard to believe it had come from him.
Tearing one's soul apart was hardly painless, yet for the first time it had been too much for the dark wizard and he shortly passed out.
When he came to again, it was to find his ritual room –it actually was one of the unspeakables', but since he controlled the Ministry it was somewhat his own– utterly destroyed. His victim, one of the few prisoners from the attack, was little more than a charred corpse pushed aside by an explosion, what had probably been the result of his failure. For there was no doubt he had failed: the object he had chosen to be his vessel was lying in a twisted, molten heap in the middle of what had been the ritual circle.
Yet, he himself was alive. A bit singed, a whole lot dazed, but still alive.
He was quick to come to two explanations: either there had been a limit to how much abuse a soul could suffer, or someone had discovered a way to prevent him from creating more horcrux. Since the latter sounded doubtful at best, he went for the first.
He stood shakily, bracing against the closest wall.
In the end, he decided, it didn't matter. He knew other ways to extend his life, far beyond a normal wizard's limits. As he made his way to the warded door and back towards his throne room, his mind whirled with plans.
First he had to break the last rebels at Hogwarts, then he could take some time to consolidate his power, maybe research another way to achieve immortality. And then, with nobody in his way, he would take the whole world.
Chandra wasn't sure if the long, wearing wait had been part of Voldemort's masterplan or just a happy coincidence, but it remained a fact that for two whole weeks they had not seen hair nor hide of the man and his army.
Meanwhile, refugees had kept coming to the caste, hoping to escape the dark wizard's clutches or to join the fight, each one bringing their story, each one adding to the mystique of Voldemort's threat hanging over them.
And as time passed, that larger than life image they had built started pushing down on the inhabitants of the fortified school. People jumped at shadows, doubting each other in case a spy had gotten in.
Weariness, mistrust, fear.
Even her own attempts –helped by the Weasley twins and a cadre of like-minded individuals– at lifting the populace's morale with jokes, small parties and even an impromptu firework show could only delay the spreading of those dark feelings and thoughts.
She herself had to admit to starting getting a bit weary of the wait. She knew perfectly well she was a bit of thrill-seeker, a girl of action, and waiting entrenched behind walls and wards made her feel like a caged animal.
It was like the Chamber all over again: they all needed an out for the tension. Thankfully, a recycled good idea was still a good idea.
Madam Bones organized a number of small expeditions, strikes against Voldemort's forces and sensitive targets, but also covert outings to gather intel, useful resources, or even just provisions and supplies. Anything that sounded useful, really. Of course, being much more dangerous than the sort-of guerrilla tactics they had employed from the Chamber only aurors and a small number of others could actually take part in those, but the general feeling was that something was being done to stop Voldemort.
It was exactly what they had needed to lift the spirits and tide them over for another week. Chandra guessed that tension would have started to rise once again by then if black-clad figures didn't start apparating in plumes of dark smoke in the vale.
The attack had finally come.
AN: next chapter –of which I own nothing like of the present one– the much anticipated final battle!
Also, next week will be double chapter!