Iridescent
Written by, AvalonTheLadyKiller
Beta'd and Cowritten by, UnburntKhaleesi
A Harry Potter Fan Fiction
No Copyright Infringement Intended
All rights belong to JK Rowling
As we continue onwards darlings, this story will continue to rise and fall through several dark concepts. I want to state that though I may write these characters to be hateful or cruel at times, I in no way condone their monstrous acts. This is fiction. Above all, it will get dark.
Chapter Seven:
[Memory from earlier, when she pulled him from his mind.]
He'd been so cold. His pale limbs, shivering in the starkly furnished room. The tall imprisoning walls of a child's crib surrounded him. Peeling paint flecked off the edges of the bars, making them sharp to the touch. He remembered this just as he grasped the splintered wooden bars, worn from many years of use. His hands were so small. So weak, he thought, as a paint chip brutally sliced into his palm. Red appeared where once there was none, but still he did not cry. He knew no one was listening.
Then, just as he gazed about the room for escape, the thin curtains shifted. The cold draft slipping in through the cracks under the window pane, causing him to curl in on himself uncomfortably. But the frigid breeze brought with it a view of the night sky overhead. Illuminating the room in the brightest of moonbeams. It was only then, that he saw her; the pale creature with the bright eyes. She leaned against the confining walls of her crib, a few meters away. It appeared to be in just as much disrepair, as his own. Though, he did not remember seeing it there earlier. The matrons must have brought her in after he'd been put down for his afternoon kip. He'd definitely have remembered her, he thought, as she continued watching him through the bars, admiration gleaming back at him.
She observed him, just as he did her. Each silently evaluating the other. Her white-blond crown of curls briefly caught his attention, before refocusing on their original destination; her eyes. Her eyes were brighter than anything he'd ever seen before. Not that he'd seen many beautiful things here, in the rundown nursery. Specks of dust sometimes floated around on the rays of sunlight. Then there were the birds' wings fluttering as they leapt off the roof, soaring high into the sky just outside his window.
But this pale creature, she was beautiful too. More so. Something about her just called to him. She was the brightest of stars to be seen in the coldest of wintery nights. And she watched him just as steadily, with that acute sort of fascination only a young child could have.
She was locked behind a similarly gated bed; staring endlessly through the grates, across the room at him. Patiently waiting to see what he'd do next. Watching him like he was the most curious thing she'd seen in all of her life. Which arguably, may not have been as long as it felt like, but he knew there was some significance in her fervent attentions.
He wanted out. This he knew. But it wasn't until his hands grew hot, that he realized something was happening. Fisting them tightly around the bars of his crib, the wood began to warp. His hands glowing an angry red, like the embers in the fire, when they were tended. Bending them to the sides just enough for him to slip through, and he was free. It was with a great thud, that he lowered himself to the floor. His small body, too young to yet know how to walk, so he crawled the last few yards over to her.
She was there waiting for him; extending her hand down to touch his. It was with steady resolve that he reached as high as his small body would allow, leaning heavily on her crib for stability. Then with the lightest brushing of skin against skin, he was inside. There with her, in her crib. He looked around curiously, before staring once more at his own hands. Then, realizing it was her hands that moved him, he blinked up at her entranced. He could not deny his greedy fingers from reaching out to touch her again. He liked what he had felt. She was warm. She made him tingle. She made sparks come from his hands. From both of their hands.
They didn't speak, they were still too young. But they hissed out sounds in some sort of almost-language. Not quite what the larger beings spoke when they picked him up to be fed. He liked these hissing sounds. They weren't choppy and complicated, like the large beings'. These just slithered off the tongue. His mouth seemed to form the sounds without even trying.
She looked on inquisitively as he responded to her hisses in kind, her eyes lighting up. They weren't milky, or clouded. They were the lightest silvery blue he had seen; as bright as the moonbeams that lit the room when it was so cold. She covered his hurt palm with her own, stroking the injured flesh gently. Before he even felt the instinct to retract from her gentle probes, the skin smoothed over once more. Causing his brow to pucker in confusion, as he looked back up at her curiously.
Her shivers, were what drew his attention down toward her well-worn blanket. Neither blanket really kept either of them warm, as they each held too many holes to protect them from the cold. As both had been born in the heart of winter, the bitter cold was all they'd ever known. But she felt warm to him. In fact, the air itself seemed to vibrate around her while they touched. He realized he could feel her warmth, even without touching. Something was happening in the air around them. He liked this feeling. It settled deep inside him, and made him never want to let her go.
He laid down next to her, hissing at her in their language. She seemed to understand what he wanted. Crawling down at his side, with a heavy exhale. They laid belly down, with their little fists clutching each other's hand in theirs. Each warming the other with their accidental magic. When her eyes finally closed in sleep, her pale lashes grazed her cherubic cheeks softly. He watched as her brow tensed and then relaxed in slumber.
She didn't snore. She didn't cry either. He wondered if the matrons had put them together because there was something not quite 'right' with them. A child was supposed to cry, but he didn't know why. He didn't understand why they looked at him with such frightened expressions. But if she was like him, maybe he wasn't so broken after all.
Yes, she was like him. Other. Because of this, he never wanted to let her go. Her warmth was so very addicting anyway. Even when he slept, he knew she was right there. Could feel her in his dreams.
Vera never even saw the flash of green light that took her life. Tom had been quick with the deathly spell and she was thankful for the small mercy. Her mind had peacefully fluttered away from reality as soon as he'd uttered those last words. His tone said more than a thousand words could have. That in that last moment, he'd felt, and that was all that mattered to her. Their bond was reigniting, his hesitation was proof enough of that. His head and his heart warred with his body over his actions. Every synopsis fired off in his brain, in some capacity. Millions sought to aid in her release, no matter the means. While the others fought to keep her safe from all harm, even by his own hand.
She knew that this was going to be a death unlike all the others, he'd dealt over the years. It was going to awaken the impulses he'd long since buried, and so it didn't matter if she'd been his first kill or his ten thousandth. The bond was built on the base desire to not simply survive, but to survive together. So, in some ways, he would be going against his very own will to live. Their very survival was dependent on the other, whether one existed across the world from the other, or beside them. Everything down to her very genetic makeup, made her different from any other he'd ever encountered. He seemed to sense it, just as she could.
It was there even in the way he looked at her; as though she was of a species the world had long declared extinct. Covetous as he was, she knew even if they had been of no relation, he would be hesitant against destroying such an artifact. More so, a treasure by which he would gain the upper hand over his enemies. Particularly when Dumbledore was so involved with her capture.
His reluctance toward delivering her to her death must have been quite a rare occurrence to him. His last command unto her still form had been one of complete and utter weakness. A raw moment of weakness that she wasn't sure he would still feel, under the effects of the horcruxes. But his actions seemed driven completely by the tight coil that seemed to constrict around his chest. Tightening more by her sheer proximity, and infinitely more by the abuse riddling her body.
Never before had he allowed himself such a repugnant response. But his inability to find pleasure in the task, staunched the ferocious greed he'd become accustomed to feeling. For Lord Voldemort had been the cause of a great many witch's and wizard's death in his lifetime. It mattered naught if it was for pleasure or for business, as he had never truly fought the impulses driving him to kill. Lesser beings, in particular those who fought to subjugate the Magical World from the Muggle, he punished with devastating satisfaction. His retribution unto their pathetic bodies brought him as close to feeling genuine emotion, as his deadened heart would allow. Others, he only savored in a numb state of mild indulgence. For while his lust for power drove him to kill at times, there had always been a darkness inside that fed on his deathly desires.
However, when he was beside Vera, her presence almost seemed to soothe the beast beneath his skin. His darkness purred within his veins when they had touched, as if a part hidden deep within him instinctively reacted to the proximity of her own dark creature. But just as still as the beast had become as he entered here cell, he now felt ready to destroy worlds when the spell lit the room in a sickly green glow. Her form remained altogether too still for the dark creature within him to endure, and though no words were spoken between he and the beast, he was sure his beast grieved for her. As disturbing as the thought was for someone such as he, displaced in the darkness that enveloped his despite this, the Dark Lord persisted in his tasks despite the gut-wrenching battle taking place inside his chest.
Before her attack, she'd read enough books to recognize the Unforgivable's notorious verdant glow. Studious as she was, she would've been bereft to only research spells devoted to the Lighter side of magic; even if they were the ones which came more easily to her. Tom, of course, thought she limited herself in relying solely on them, and perhaps he was right. The same happiness that once fueled her magic into mobility, wasn't quite as weightless as it had once been. It felt heavier, and she admitted Darker. She wouldn't be able to test her theory until she held a wand in her hands, but Vera was nearly certain there may be a few differences. But change or no, there were things to be done that would require sacrifice, and she needed to prepare herself. For Grindelwald would not wait to strike terror into the Magical World once more. He'd bided his time, and she alone was the only one to voice warning to the imminent attack.
After everything she had seen and everything she had lived though, she could still not deny the horror that the Killing Curse brought her. The very sound of the incantation pulled her heart south, filling her with memories of the night she'd lost everything. Her heart raced and her ears rang with terror. Her visions, themselves were the farthest thing from being forgiving in that regard. Her wants and desires mattered little in the grand scheme of things. Her premonitions seemed to delight in giving her glimpse after glimpse of the devastation her twin brought down upon the world. His most favored spell, the catalyst for so much unnecessary death. Magical blood spilling back into the Earth with nary a second thought; each glimpse chiseled further into whatever sense of peace she'd held fast to.
It was this death was far from thoughtless like the many others before it, far from the meaningless. When the fatal spell kissed her skin, she'd been ripped from her body like Death himself had swung his scythe down upon her flesh. Her soul took flight like an imperial bird, finally released from her confines. Surging forth toward her carefully sought after freedom, in a wisp of bold colors. The shell that had once been her body and her cage, remained behind. It was a freeing and harrowing experience, no matter how many times she had been brought to death's edge.
Vera could not help but to feel thankful for his last request. She had no doubt in her mind, that he was indeed capable of making this excruciatingly painful for her, had he wanted to. But today, The Dark Lord had a far greater purpose than giving in to his more sadistic urges. This was about far more than his thirst for blood.
Just like the days of long past, they seemed to communicate without thought. Subconsciously knowing exactly what needed to be done. Knowing with certainty that her body needed to die one way or another, then and only then could her flesh be severed from the manacles. Free from the painful affliction that had plagued her magic like a muzzle would a great fire-breathing dragon. There had been no stipulations made concerning the manner of death, nor did she care to waste time discussing them. But he had shown her mercy in a way that he, himself had thought himself incapable. That in itself, spoke a thousand words.
She knew he was not a man lead by his heart, nor such sentimental drivel as 'morals'. Any sort of loyalty that they once shared with one another had been long forgotten, when his memories had been so ruthlessly stolen his susceptible young mind. But she remained resolute in where her loyalty belonged even after all these years. Whether he knew it or not, her loyalty was his; just as her heart and her spirit would be, long after she was finally laid to rest. For all her life, she had relished in the sheer emotion that she held for him; and after this many years upon the Earth, she knew no other way to be.
His eyes remained on her, for a moment after her heartbeat went silent. A curious, yet painfully intent look reflected within his crimson orbs as he tried to comprehend just how truly divergent she had proven herself to be. His pursuits seemed fruitless, as he considered how manipulated he had been. She had effectively changed everything he'd known to be true. She was the variable that decided right from wrong, and more importantly would determine exactly how this war would end.
Had she heard the doubts floating through his conscious mind, Vera's heart might have swelled a little with pity. Not that she would ever dishonor him by acknowledging such a thought.
Even though she cared for him like no other, she was also aware that she could not test the link they shared. At least not yet. He was not quite hers again, at least not in full. He would not yet know the full extent of their bond, until his memories were restored. She despaired over the thought, knowing full well how difficult a task that may prove to be. Potions and spells aside, she hardened herself to the fact that they'd be fighting an uphill battle to break through Grindelwald's mental restraints. Even in her half-cognizant state, she could do little more than worry herself deeper into the pits of her mind. It was after all, in her nature to view the world a different manner. She only hoped she would mistake what she wanted to see, with what was really happening around her.
So as she fortified her heart from giving too much of herself to the man before her, she also refused to allow her hope to escape her. She even went so far as to explain away his 'kindness' as nothing more than a rational decision based upon analysis. This worked well, she almost believed her own heartless rationale. He'd simply chosen the path most efficient to have her released as soon as possible. After all, he wished to leave this wretched place nearly as much as she, it only would prove in favor that he bring her along. Even if it was for the sole purpose of acquiring the knowledge that she possessed and potentially locking her up in a cell much like this one. Lacerations and severe bodily trauma took longer for her magic to heal than the Killing Curse, that was obvious enough. He'd bore witness to that, after all. Still, she dared not to mistake his 'mercy' for anything other than the coolest of calculations.
Hope for anything else, could turn poisonous.
Nevertheless, she mused, he could have taken advantage of her position. As cruel as his inclinations leant these days, she wondered just what thoughts lurked beneath the surface of his mind. Deep and slick were that of his intentions, like pools of thick oil; ready to drown a trespasser without conscious thought. Those of a fragile mindframe were the first to always be destroyed, taken down with a single blow much alike a house of cards. Flimsy, at best. Weak, her mind hissed. Although Vera had been far from one of this description all of her life. she also knew that she would not be able to defend herself in such a state as she currently was. The manacles were a weakness meant to break her. He could have taken her magic, but he knew this would be more painful to her. A slow and painful death, one that she could not die from. It was far from the quick death that magic-stripping would have given, which would have dealt unto Death himself the life that he was owed from the manacles. However unlike Grindelwald, her brother had chosen another path.
The Killing Curse was not one she was unfamiliar with by far; but from all of the sessions she had been dealt by him, she surely found the curse to be one of the more merciful. The green light normally brought about an all-encompassing white blanket over everything she knew of, enveloping her within comfort and relief even if only for a mere moment.
Vera more than once contemplated that death would be a thing to offer relief to her soul; if she was truly unable to have her brother by her side. The only hesitation that thought brought unto her, was that Vera didn't feel comfort by the thought that her body was left unattended around Gellert. In fact it made her considerably uneasy for she worried his hands would touch her in ways she was not obliging him to. What was sickening of all of it was she knew not to put anything past the old wizard; if she could produce a shiver in disgust right within this moment, she undoubtedly would have!
But it was now within this moment, at the mercy of the one she loved most, Vera decided she felt no more at ease than she felt in years. For every second brought with it the looming fear of what was to come. Any moment during her absence, could mean the difference between making it out alive or being slaughtered. Both were scenarios she seen playing over and over behind her eyelids; suspecting different scenarios to come to pass, each one pounding fear within her as much as the last. Grindelwald would come in Albus's body, that she knew for certain.
There were too many benefits to wearing such a mask. Especially knowing that the Ministry-touting Aurors despatched to secure the prison, would be hard-pressed to defend the old fool until death. He would be remiss to abandon such a chance to wear Albus Dumbledore's face this last time. He had after all, been successfully masquerading as the Lord of the Light over the better part of a century, for Morgana's sake. But more than anything, he was close to enacting the first part of his endgame, so if there was any time for him to be particularly vicious, it would be now.
When he arrived, his bloodlust for her would be an unstoppable force. She represented the only loose end that he'd left unclipped. He would come for her in all of his rage; no matter the cost of revealing Dumbledore to the other Aurors as a killer, by default. Why would he even care if he destroyed Dumbledore's reputation - if he shattered her at the same exact time, once and for all? His hatred of her burned deep even after all these years, for he held a sick lust for her pain at the same time. In her nightmares she was hindered, unable to move; just as she was now. Watching the scenes play out with abject horror, while being unable to help or break free from her reconstructive state.
Finally after what felt like hours, she felt the abyss wane. Death reluctantly retracted his claws from her soul once again, bidding her goodbye as an old friend with the knowledge that they would cross paths again. Every sense within her body sprung to life as breath once again pulsated within her lungs, alerting her to an event that was to come to pass. It was with the slow, exhaled breath that left her parted lips, that Vera's consciousness drifted back into the world of the living.
As Voldemort struck her down, he made quick work removing the only things connected to the torturous devices. Every bit of flesh that the foul iron had sunk into had been compromised. So, with a grim expression upon his face, he'd set about amputating the damaged limbs. Blood shot heavenward as soon as he uttered the cutting spell needed, splattering on the walls around them as far upward as it could reach. Flesh that had been previously connected to her body fell upon the ground with a metallic clang as her irons released. The sound echoed sickeningly in his ears. But as much as it physically caused him pain, to maim her so brutally, he could think of no other way to successfully free her from her confines so quickly. She was like a trapped creature, left to chew her own arms off, for freedom.
He couldn't help but contemplate for a moment just what he would do if he were in her position, before cringing at the very idea of being stuck helpless… left to rely on others. He knew there was no other way though and something within him rose up, hoping that she too would understand. The manacles seemed to issue a sort of poison that caused her veins around them to darken. Evidence to their claim on her, written in darkened branches that webbed across her near translucent skin. Deadened as the tissue was underneath, he knew with a considerably long glance that it had all been compromised. He wondered if her immune system would still bear the trauma of her confinement, and made a note to have Severus examine her.
Taking as much as he could of the infection that shone through from within her flesh, Voldemort gritted his teeth as he struggled to remain clinical. The putrid smell of the deathly poison burned its way through his nostrils and attempting to cloud his head and though his mind remained unattached in every way, his heart pounded in his chest as heavily as it would have been as if he were naught more than a startled animal. Foreign sensations were pounding through his body at such a lightning fast pace, he could not hope to analyze their meaning. They almost succeeded in overwhelming him, drowning within the restless sea that these emotions created within him.
He took enough of the flesh to allow for clean regrowth. The familiar crimson of blood stared back at him, almost tauntingly bright against the dark stone. He thought to gauze the wounds, lifting his wand back over her form while wondering silently to himself when had he lowered it. But he could see the augmented limbs had already begun to take on that golden glow that intensified with each passing second, a sight that he now knew signified her body was healing itself. Bones lengthened and flesh regrew, her magic glowing from under the surface like a dozen fireflies caught in a jar. After glancing down at her blood and decayed flesh lying on the ground, he burned away any remainder of what was. Lest she be tracked somehow by it, or it be used for some sort of experimentation.
Her manacles, now starved of her blood and magic, opened invitingly. Eager to feed off the life force of another, like a parasitic creature. But he hissed in disgust, destroying every ward and rune binding them together. Choking the life out of them, as his magic crushed them beneath his will. Faults appeared along the bands, until they crumbled into nothing more than granules.
Only then did he allow his gaze to flick back up to the pale woman on the dais. Now freed from the only thing truly confining her, color began to return to her ashen skin. Vitality once more poured over her. His magic reacting at once to the vibrating sensation in the air growing stronger, as life returned to her. Infinitely valuable as she was in all of her glory, he longed to devour every drop of knowledge her moonstone orbs held.
Casting a contemplative look from her still form toward his fallen Death Eaters that lay immobile at his feet, he realized they'd lost valuable time in releasing her. Upon learning who she claimed to be, he greedily sought to discover all that she knew and to understand why he - Lord Voldemort - did not possess such knowledge. He had to know with certainty that she was not some spy, a mole that was left behind for him to discover under the pretense that she was his sister.
A fool's attempt since none matched that of his Legilimency, but if there were a ploy he would discover it one way or another. For he had not gotten to where he was today by not being careful. Even knowing what he did now, that his mind had been tampered with, he pulled at the strings of the netting furiously. He prided himself on being as paranoid as possible, as he trailed behind the stench of deceit until he discovered its owner. This was no different, only he was sure he would have passed her by if he had not heard her speak up. While anger clung to her, rolling off of her scent in waves, she held no deceit when she called him brother. A fact, of course, that was probably the most interesting aspect of all.
When his crimson orbs refocused, Voldemort found himself looking grimly back over their collapsed forms of his Death Eaters; immediately setting about casting a renervating spell toward his second in command. He would deal with the hesitance in their loyalty toward him later, as he did favor hearing their screams and begging for his forgiveness; a kindness that he had no intention of delivering to many. A Crucio burned upon the tip of his tongue, itching to roll off of it after all the deception he had bore witness to.
Later, Voldemort promised himself before he set to work.
He began his work healing their weakened bodies, all the while smirking at the thought of any lingering after effects their traitorous minds might suffer. Lifting his magic's subjugating weight from causing any severe long term damage was after all, his only pressing concern at the moment. He needed them mobile and able to hold a wand, for when the Aurors arrived there would be no holds barred. Blood would be spilled this night.
He sneered slightly as he recalled how the fallen bodies came to be in such a state. The treachery that had incapacitated all but one witch, made him truly question his followers' worth to him. Even his ever faithful Lieutenant, had allowed herself to waver from his magic's pull. Something which came as a great disservice, given all her years at his side. All the years he'd spent molding her into being the witch he almost trusted, if such emotions could be felt. It was these loose loyalties that had incited his magic to dole out necessary punishment.
As disappointed as he was in their budding dissension, he continued with his task at hand. All the while, heavily contemplating leaving them weakened for the dementors to feast upon. Helpless and unable to defend themselves upon attack. But as eager as he may be, he knew his patience would be rewarded when he culled the weakest from the ranks; enforcing their loyalty through their tenacious will to survive. If there was one thing he understood most about the human mind, it was that those innate survival instincts never failed to provide the proper leverage. Whether it was their own survival or those they loved most, Voldemort would have their loyalty.
Now that his control had been returned to him, the levels of oxygen surrounding the island seemed to be returning to normal upon its own accord. His Lieutenant, Bellatrix Lestrange whom he had awoken first, rose without apologies or irritating cries of gratefulness leaving her. Instead she bowed her head respectfully. Wild, dark curls bounced as she moved her head down further; her body bent low in immediate response to him. She could read by the darkening look that crossed his pale, serpentine face as she went; knowing instinctively that he wished to be done with Azkaban immediately.
The woman only moved when her Lord's voice commanded her to rise, softer than what he would utter to most, for she had been the last to fall. The most loyal out of all his Death Eaters. A title which she had once bore proudly, until she allowed herself to fall victim to her own body's needs instead of her Lord's. A lapse she was want to offer penance. ln the end, the Dark Lord found himself willing to be merciful in her punishment. For her failure was in her body's admittance that she was simply human. That, above all else, provided him the will to be lenient in her case; as weakened as she had become due to her stay here in Azkaban.
It was then that Bellatrix gazed off toward the prison walls that she realized her neighbor's cell had been nearly demolished in her time unconscious. What wonders did the pretty bird share that interested her Lord, she mused. Jealousy biting at her darkened heart, as she gazed at the glorious destruction her Lord had left in his wake to free the other female before mentally shaking her head from thoughts that would surely bring punishment. Her gleaming obsidian orbs cast out across the rest of her troupe, only to quickly realize no others joined their ranks from where they laid soundless upon grime caked rocks. Starving curiosity filled her, but she forced her mind onto the tasks the Dark Lord would bestow upon her. He, who had given her everything, would not look upon her form and see failure again. She would not disappoint.
"Bella, after the others are awake, you will lead them to the East Wing. You know who it is we seek; only those most worthy. Get your wands and follow my signal, the Aurors are already on their way. I don't need to elaborate on what will happen, if you fail me again."
"No, my Lord." She spoke clearly, enunciating her words to allow even a granule of hesitancy to color her reply. "It will be done."
He handled the strongest of his followers, those who had already begun to heal their most severe wounds. The most worthy of the lot, in his eyes. Their magical blood already aiding in their own recovery, thus only requiring the most languid of spells on his behalf. The weaker ones required more time and attention, than he had any inclination to giving them. But Bellatrix worked diligently in her efforts, determined to pull each and every one of them up by their bootstraps if need be. She refused to be punished because of their pathetic inadequacies.
These spindly fools would either grasp what was left of their dignity and prove themselves, or die horribly by either her hand or the Aurors. Weakness was something that she would eliminate as soon as she got the chance. Her own lapse was enough to turn her stomach in shame. But where she had slipped, Bellatrix now steeled herself further because of it. For her Lord's patience would not extend itself again, she knew. But every chink in their armor caused her Lord to appear impotent.
She planned to thoroughly remind them why they had chosen to take the Dark Mark in the first place. Why they had chosen to follow him and no other. They were not healed out of mercy, but out of necessity to aid their cause. But if they continued to lie limp, dozing away ashore like dead fish, she would just kill them and be done. They had no use for soldiers who could not so much as defend their very own selves, nonetheless guard their backs.
So as she helped her Master to regroup their weaker allies, she amused herself by kicking more than a few into movement; but only when they'd proved too dense to realize they were all bloody sitting ducks out here. Stupid, lazy guttersnipes! One of the ones with less than half a brain realized the next blow was going to be a wandless Crucio, and tried to grumble something smart to Mulciber about how effective she'd be without her wand.
She couldn't help but to cackle in amusement as her Lord sent his innards spilling out onto the cliffs below for blatant disrespect and for taking up more of their time. Clapping wondrously, she spun herself around in a circle, tatters of her skirt flaring dramatically. Her laughter taunting him further as he screamed in utter pain. One less gobshite to worry about cursing me in the back! Her laughter slowly began to die away as she let out an appreciative hum that vibrated within her throat. For someone so ugly, his screams are most pleasing.
"Death Eaters, listen or die." Their Lord's voice rang true through the roaring waves eating away at the shoreline, erupting sharply upward against the jagged rocks, and even the resounding thunder that had rolled above Azkaban seemed to settle at the sound of the magic encased in his words. The rising tide brought with it great promise. That of a new day, one of freedom, at long last. "The Aurors and Albus Dumbledore are on their way. You will follow Bellatrix to free the others then retrieve your wands from the armory, or stay here and wait here to be killed. If you lag behind, I will kill you myself! Do any of you have any desire to die right now?"
The cliff where they stood now grew to be as silent as the dead. The sound of their own pounding heartbeats played like the beating of war drums. The Death Eaters whom had finally picked themselves up with a few less threads of pure-blood arrogance than they started with, surrounded him. They each took a knee at his feet, bowing themselves over as close to the ground as they were able. Each refusing to give him anything other than their absolute fealty, knowing that if they did not, he would know and they would not drift far to discover Death's awaiting arms. Whether death by their Lord's hand or the dementor's it mattered naught. For while a dementor's brand of death was such a cruel thing that no living being should be forced to endure, their Lord was cruelly imaginative.
Until now, the dementors had shown no allegiance to another. But their Lord's call to the Dark was one that even the most wretched of soulless beings, could not bare to ignore. Maybe it was for the fact that Voldemort himself understood all too well the very unadulterated, primal instinct that fueled one's survival; that as well as the promise of sustenance. It was just like the Light to starve beings greater than themselves. Trying their hand at taming such creatures, standing idly by wondering why it all didn't go according to their plan in the end. But at his hand, they would feast for days. No more would the walls of Azkaban keep them from their meals. Voldemort had shattered those distinct wards against the dementor's entry upon his arrival; and after he and his most worthy Death Eaters had gone, the rest of the prison would serve as payment.
For he was nothing if not a man of his word.
The Death Eaters each understood by the Dark Lord's brevity, that to defy would mean certain death. The steel-like tone that encased his words slithered dangerously into their muddled brains, like the snake in which his appearance embodied. Dangerous and swift, they fought to remain still before the Dark Lord in fear of what he would subject them to if they weren't able to comply. It was with an ease that the majority of them understood, some had even coiled in anticipation at the mere thought of the looming battle.
Punishment for failing their Lord in this moment would be a most excruciating death indeed. Voldemort knew most feared him more than any follower of the Light ever could. He imagined that they thought they knew exactly what lengths he would take to achieve his rightful place of power. That they had seen the worst of his temper, had felt the anger they invoked within him, as they lay twitching from the after effects of his Cruciatus and had survived; even if they had only done so because he saw fit. They'd be wrong to suspect that he had any such limitations, for he'd never truly allowed his darker side to roam freely as he desired to now. Voldemort greatly wished to inflict immeasurable pain on one wizard in particular, and his time was swiftly approaching.
Magical feats as Dark as his own had not been seen since the times of Morgana, when she battled Merlin for absolute control of the Magical Realm. History books devoted to her power had long been forbidden from Hogwarts's vast library, which was why they'd been what he'd coveted most from his followers private collections. The difference between them being that where she had failed, he would conquer. That was a fact he would see to. Learning from others mistakes and promising to not fall victim to their follies, was what elevated his early understanding of the Dark Arts.
But now, learning what he had, he was beginning to see the error in his own plans. For though his control of the Dark forces, could not be matched by any Dark Lord or Lady in history, he had grown cocksure and not foreseen that one Dark Lord remained on the board. But as vulnerable as he felt in this moment, he now had the one weapon Grindelwald had never succeeded in destroying. The one thing that would lead to his demise.
A Seer made from the very same flesh and bone that had bore him such magical potential. She was the weapon that he would use to pierce the swine's heart; and as the coward dared to take in one last breath he would feel the fires of a thousand hells torch his very soul. For Voldemort would see to it that every trace of him was destroyed from this world, and into the next. As those whom had long ago etched their very name for the ages to remember, held little more than a candle to the blaze that burned inside him in this moment.
"Yes, just as I thought." He acknowledged in a softer tone, almost as if he were speaking to himself and not with that of his Death Eaters. Amusement enveloped within him as a wry smirk formed at the corner of his lips, for the sight of their subservience pleased him.
"Proceed." He hissed dangerously to the mindless fools that he called minions, but only a moment later he tilted his head to his Lieutenant's direction and began to speak in a more forgiving tone; though as vague as the details where. He held no doubt that with her leading the troupe, his commands would be accomplished; even if the number of remaining Death Eaters was cut in half by the time that she was though. "Bella, I will be along momentarily. There's a matter in need of attending. You will know when it's time."
That being said, he did not wait for a reply before Lord Voldemort soundlessly apparated away from them. His snake-like appearance twisted in a spiral of pale skin and dark clad robs before dissolving into nothing; his magic carrying him toward the subject that he was coming to desire most. But his exit revealed to them that the apparition shields were failing, and if one pushed hard enough to get through to their side, then they could be quickly over-run.
At first, Kingsley was sure his ears were deceiving him. It had started as a busy day at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, more so than what had come to be regular to them. The Aurors had been quickly overwhelmed by the sheer number of complaints being reported by witches and wizards all over Muggle London. It had been with full interdepartmental cooperation, that they'd been able to make their way through just half of the calls. In fact, the Minister himself had called in every able bodied witch and wizard from each end of Great Britain, all the way up to Scotland and then over to Ireland; just to deal with the matter.
Altogether, he and Tonks had been sent out to over a dozen calls; concerning just about anything from maimings to threatening the exposure of the Magical World. The usually vibrant Metamorphmagus looked nearly as ragged as he felt by that point, and he was willing to bet that he looked just as bad if not worse. The last two reports had been particularly gruesome, just as one would expect from a rampant werewolf attack. They still had few leads on who could've been behind such a trail of crimes, as there was practically no magical traces left near the bodies. Children, Kingsley shuddered at the mere thought of what he had seen. Once more reminded of the reason why becoming an Auror was not for the faint hearted.
It was times such as these, where Kingsley Shacklebolt only acted as if he was calm and controlled as ever. Though even he, in all of his years holding a job within the Department, felt like he was going to be sick. The children were practically ripped apart, as if the werewolves had fleetingly decided that they were going to crawl inside of them and use the once lively shell as a den. Large pools of blood had been scattered precariously around the children, and they'd begun to look at the possibility of multiple assailants. Especially with the rate at which they were attacking; for one could only assume that when they targeted one, the others would be reduced to their baser fight or flight instincts. Since the targets were only children and held no hope to win against fully grown wizards, they would choose the second option. That, however, would only be an option if there wasn't someone to... tend to them. Kingsley shivered as he thought about it, physically cringing away from where he currently stood.
It had been one of the worst days for the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. The Minister had already called for the names of the violent perpetrators, demanding that they be brought before the Wizengamot immediately. That is to say, before The Daily Profit got a hold of the story. For while the Minister spent a vast majority of his time these days, getting ahead of these 'outrageous' headlines, the public was quickly catching on to his tricks. Fear was the only thing keeping Fudge's slanderous accusations against Harry Potter and Dumbledore alive, for it seemed true that no one wanted to believe the dark times were upon them all again. Who would? Kingsley found himself murmuring internally amidst the ruckus of the Ministry, It was easier for them to believe it was all lies from a 'insolent student and a senile, old man' than it was to consider the very idea that it all wasn't blasphemy.
Still, it was with great chagrin that he and his partner had returned back to the Ministry empty-handed, once again. After alerting the others to the possibility of not just one, but multiple werewolf assailants at large, he'd returned to his desk to fill out the proper forms. Werewolf crimes weren't taken lightly after all; especially not with so many members of the Wizengamot on the fence about whether to allow them citizenship or not. These reports would need to be filed with the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, in order to issue any sort of warrant at a later date.
Tonks had just finished giving her official report to the Minister himself just moments before, and had finally went to go fetch them both something to eat. Tavish and Vern were over by the maps trying to etch out a clear timeline of the werewolves's trail of bodies since before eight the evening, but to no avail. More footprints appeared on the enlarged map of London by the hour, and with no rhyme nor reason there was little they could do to predict their movements. It was as if these werewolves were multiple steps ahead of them, as if it was a series of planned attacks and not simply for the sick fascination of the carnage that resulted in their actions. There was almost a control to their movements, if such a thing could be possible when a wolf was lost to his impulses.
They had to have been getting about with the help of a witch or wizard, that much was clear. The attacks, themselves had started off long before the moon had rose to its fullest, but it was their ability to jump from place to place spoke of a powerful entity assisting them. That many jumps would've left evidence of splinching otherwise. But, the question they kept asking themselves, was who would help them to accomplish such a thing? The obvious one Kingsley having already decided to keep to himself, lest the Minister turn on him for planting fear and suspicion where there needn't be.
As the night wore on, enough fear began to escalate through the building that the International Confederation would soon reign down upon him for endangering the Magical Statute of Secrecy, Fudge was left with little options. So with the weight of a thousand galleons resting upon his shoulders, he called for the Aurors to set up the network of Anti-Apparition Charms, as a failsafe, surrounding London. The network, acting as a shield to protect those outside of the barrier, while they closed in on the attackers. No one wanted to speak of the fact that they'd just locked thousands of witches and wizards in with them. Those of all ages. Nevertheless, at the end of the day Aurors were naught but soldiers that were left to follow orders, nothing more or less. It was frowned upon to pick apart the orders given, though the panicked flutter of the Minister's voice pleaded otherwise on more than one occasion. After all, who was the Minister if naught but a man? Fear was such a human emotion to feel in a time of disaster.
Overall, they'd managed to raise a halfway decent shield, though it had taken hours to achieve. The effort it took to strengthen it properly, drained nearly the entire office. They were all running on empty; downing energy replenishing potions and Pepper Up's like they were pints, at this point, before continuing on with the next task. To have done this all in a timely manner, they would've needed twice the manpower; something of which they just couldn't spare with the attacks still happening. Over a hundred from the Department were still out in the field, locked under the dome; and another hundred from all across the departments were maintaining the shield. Kingsley and Tonks had just been pulled off assignment and ordered in for reports, which was the closest thing he'd had to a break since breakfast nearly a day before.
Auror Shacklebolt couldn't help the niggling feeling crawling up his spine. That instinct that those in the Department gained, telling them when something was about to go ass over kettle. Fast. It wasn't a foreign sensation to him, in fact it was the same foreboding instinct that saved his life many of times throughout his Auror career. One that served to prepare him for the haphazard events that would soon follow, it caused him to stiffen suddenly in response. Coiled and scanning the room with an eye for detail in an effort to spot the threat before it became one; his right hand twitching for his wand. For Kingsley knew that when he suddenly felt such heart pounding adrenaline pulse through his veins, he was surely about to need it.
He understood that the Minister had ran out of options. At this point, cutting off the wolves' exits were their strongest offense and it would protect those outside the Ministry's immediate reach. For, it was both Muggles and Magicals that were being openly attacked. Dozens dead would be better than having hundreds dead come morning after all. Not to mention the danger that allowing a coordinated werewolf attack to carry on under the full moon would mean. If the papers got their hands on the fact that they knew and did nothing, it would be far worse. The wards in St. Mungo's were already packed with potential Lycanthropy patients. That being if those few surviving victims, didn't perish by morning from trauma.
Kingsley couldn't help but to feel a slight skip in his pulse, at the the thought that by doing this they'd be trapping thousands without means to magically escape. This could prove to be the most detrimental courses of action they could enact for the Ministry's cause. The Profit was already acquiescing to the Minister's will over the Potter boy, but this could very well mean mass murder at the hands of The Ministry itself. For with apparition being denied, it certainly wouldn't take long for the Floo Network to be locked up due to the heavy traffic. Muggle and Wizard alike were going to be left defenseless! It seemed though that the Minister hadn't spared but a moment to find fault in his own plan before ordering it unto them. Was it because the Minister trusted them to eliminate the threat with the least amount of casualties or was that simply wishful thinking?
It was all for naught though, Kingsley admitted. For with the clock striking three in the morning, the death toll had climbed higher in one night, than he'd bore witness to during the last Wizarding War. Sitting in his uncomfortable desk chair, with his hands steepled in front of his exhausted face, he knew naught what to do. Upon receiving word from Sirius that Remus had been safely locked away all night, and was in no danger of being responsible for the attacks, that left the many other werewolves that were still at large. The many that were bitten could be behind this; and even if it wasn't but a fraction of the werewolves in the Wizarding World, all would be suspected of involvement in these heinous crimes. He wasn't sure how much Dumbledore's opinions on the matter would be respected, or even his for that matter. But it eased his conscience to know Remus was safely slumbering due to his monthly wolfsbane potion. There would be questions, and with no 'reliable' witness to Remus's whereabouts, things would surely be grim.
With a flick of his wrist, the parchment began dissolving into a small cloud of ash. If there was anything the dark skinned wizard wanted less than Remus being targeted by the Ministry for perpetrating the attacks, it was Sirius's whereabouts being released. He may have been a person of interest in the crimes against the Potter family, but he'd been long absolved in Kingsley's books. In such the world they lived in, sometimes trust in a man couldn't be understood or measured. It either was or wasn't. Kingsley found that he did indeed trust Sirius Black, to protect those he loved; to have his back when the time came. That being only if he, himself, remained true to the cause, that was. That reliable hope was what the Order was built on.
He knew Dumbledore would have fought harder to get the Minister to halt his executive order, but with so few options he feared everything would fall back on him a few more hours come, should he speak out. With so many lives on the line, he could not say for sure he was right. But Merlin help him if he was, and did nothing! There was an old expression that his father had once told him about being in between a Hungarian Horntail and Death himself, and in this moment he didn't know which was worse.
Tonks had still not returned yet when the vibrations started. An alarm blared so piercingly at first, he wasn't sure what he was hearing. More than one trinket fell off his desk as the building shivered and shook. It was his realization of what the deafening screeching meant that had him instinctively pulling his wand from his holster as he bolted from his seat. The sound reminded him eerily of the old pensieves they'd been allowed use of, from the Second World War, in his Auror training. As Aurors from every department had done their part to monitor each side's movements, even at the risk of their life. There was such Magical involvement in the whole affair, he was surprised the Statute remained intact at all! Those brave witches and wizards who'd returned had donated memories meant to help guide the later generations of Aurors; gifted unto those of the Department, who hadn't yet experienced the true depth such a war could have on the mind.
Those same war sirens blared from a silver object in the corner of the room, attached to an old Muggle style record player stood a silver filigree trumpet horn. The commotion from the Aurors around the room went as silent as the coldest of winter nights at the sound that resounded against the walls around them.
Kingsley now felt true fear, shuddering within him was his heart as the emotion gripped it painfully. For after the few seconds of silence, every witch and wizard able to walk, ran. Every wand was fiercely clutched in hand in a grip that was so tight one would think that it was their lifeline, and every heart seemed to cease its heavy staccato. No matter how ragged the remaining members of the Department were, those who weren't locked into the Anti-Apparition Zone chasing werewolves on their most dangerous night of the month, moved like their very lives depended on it. Kingsley thought it was ironic in a way as he watched them flee for their lives. For once, they might be right. He just hoped he'd make it until morning, and hoped this was all just a horrible dream.
For if Azkaban was under attack, there was only one wizard he knew possessed enough brass to even attempt at such a thing.
Voldemort.
As tall as Kingsley's towering height allowed, he still couldn't see Tonks amongst those rushing around within the office. The Floos were flickering down the line, as the staggering amount of Magicals in Kingsley's Department and those neighboring, lended every man or woman they had to spare. As one of the leading Auror's in the field, Kingsley now understood what exactly the werewolf attacks had been, a diversion. Meant to scatter their forces, until it was too late.
Something within Kingsley desperately urged him to warn Dumbledore; but with the crowd growing violent in their haste to push through the line, he quickly began formulating other escape routes. Just as he was about to cast his patronus to send the Leader of the Light his message, witnesses be damned, Tonks appeared at his side. Her shoulder length hair now a shocking icy blue reflecting outwardly upon her body's fright. She looked toward him anxiously, seeking no other's explanation but the one that he provided. For their trust was a tangible one, and in their time together they'd learned to say more with their actions and gestures than words.
"Azkaban has been compromised." Kingsley confirmed to her in his deep voice, though the very words he spoke were underlined with the grave sensation that he currently held. Not wishing to waste any more time, he immediately aimed his wand upward, shifting into that of a noble-looking red-tailed hawk. Flying as fast as he could to the next Floo down the hall. Tonks remained hot on his heels, though she'd yet to successfully change into an animagus form as he had. There was a great many things her partner and most trusted ally had been teaching her in their time together, this was just one of the most recent teachings. However the transition was proving far more difficult than the Metamorphmagus imagined, considering she'd been shifting between guises since she was a newborn.
She could already feel herself getting flustered, wishing she'd given it more practice. For it surely would've come at the opportune time, as she unfortunately had to crawl through some of the tighter groupings on her knees in order to pass. The blooming idiots, what did the lot of them hope to achieve by simply standing around? Should've sent some stinging hexes their way, Tonks smirked to herself at the very thought, though refused to give into the temptation to do so. After all, there were much bigger things to tend to at the moment. Finally, despite the mayhem that engulfed their department at the moment, they'd secluded themselves apart from the crowd. Kingsley having already changed back into his rich indigo robes upon her arrival. He gestured at her with the wave of his hand to go first while he finished sending his message to Dumbledore, for he trusted her to not get into too much trouble in the mere seconds it would take him to follow.
The Floo abruptly flickered to life with the flame held within, and had crackled after Tonks had disappeared from the Ministry. The usually warm blaze engulfing her form to transport her from one place to another, didn't warm her in the slightest. When she reappeared just moments later to her desired destination, what greeted her inside was what she'd later call Hell on Earth. Tonks' surroundings, it seemed, closed in on her as soon as she took one step out of the Floo. Soot rose from her heels, seeming impossibly lighter than the cramped chambers around her. Having been as dark as pitch in color.
When her eyes slowly adjusted Tonks grew aware to the eight Floos whom faced each other in the circular room, one that she easily recognized as the inside one of the prison's largest Trial Chamber. The rusted, old cage that sat ominously in the bottom-most central part of the room, instantly made her skin crawl. Merlin knows how many Death Eaters had been packed in such a thing, like Muggle sardines. Tonks shivered in disgust at not only the very thought that her mother's rotten sister, Bellatrix had been housed in it, due to how insane she was. But also, she found herself shivering from positively bone-chilling wards spiraling off of it. Wards that Tonks knew from general Auror knowledge, that inflicted anguish upon the person inside as it affected their magical core. Leaving them helpless from the moment they were cast within, stripped to naught but a Muggle's abilities for as long as they remained inside. The vindictive, hidden side of Tonks which she was sure came solely from the Black side of her line, found it to be rather poetic that the criminals that despised Muggles so much could be reduced to the very thing that they hated.
The only sight she could make out within the room she stood in was the flickering lightning overhead through the cracks in the mortar, glaring with its jagged form from the darkened clouds that shrouded just outside these walls. Rain began falling from the skies in a light mist, the droplets that seeped through the sky above slanted her way. It was as if even the weather was trying to warn her off from the danger that lingered within the shadows of Azkaban, but even as a single drop of moisture touched her left cheek Tonks still raised her wand defensively. She wasn't willing to move far from the Floo, lest she lose herself in the abyss that seemed all-encompassing.
Impatiently, she silently began to count down. Furiously attempting to control her heart rate from skyrocketing as she awaited Kingsley's imminent arrival. For even though the darkness shrouded everyone else from her eyes, it didn't necessarily cloak her from theirs. Dread ran down her spine, as her wand arm ached from her stout refusal toward casting a spell to amend the darkness. The danger of lighting a Lumos could mean life or death in a place like this, Mad Eye had told her that on her first encounter with the tricky old blighter.
As a flame emitted from the fireplace across the way, barely making an audible sound within the tense atmosphere, and Tonks witnessed Vern stepping forward. What seemed to be only seconds later, two other wizards appeared from the Floos next to it; then almost in sync, fireplaces were suddenly aflame with life all around her. A dim light that this action caused momentarily lit the forms of the witches and wizards from the Ministry, whom wearing everything from uptight proper wizarding robes to the more unkempt lot she was used to dealing with. She worried what sort of battle they were walking into, and if any of them were truly ready for the utter chaos that they were about to face.
Then, just as Kingsley had predicted, silence engulfed them as the fire within the Floos sputtered and died off into nothing, leaving naught but shrouding darkness in its place, Tonks knew immediately what had occurred. The Floo had been jammed, and Tonks reckoned that every fireplace in London was being used as an escape route at this point. The wolves didn't exactly discriminate between bodies and as motivated as they were to keep on the move, no one was safe. Her hair must've went as pale as a ghost, allowing a flash of herself to be seen by the shadow to her right. Who upon closer glance, was wearing heavy robes and a his most favored kufi. Kingsley, she sighed in her mind. Thank Merlin!
Everyone else must've felt the same panic seeping into their bones, as she had felt a few moments prior. For it became quite clear that they were now as trapped here, as the others were trapped elsewhere. Whether or not they'd make it off the island, was another matter entirely. For with only these scant few Aurors making it through before the channels were blocked, their odds of survival lessened dramatically. Kingsley ran a few spells toward the surrounding Floos to detect any activity, but it remained dead. Remaining unable to move after all the congestion from the London traffic, they knew without a doubt, they were alone.
It only proved as Kingsley had feared, that wolves were attacking on the orders of a truly Dark entity. They sought and succeeded in forcing the Minister's hand into closing down the only means of arrival they'd have to the prison. For portkeys could not take one into prison, nor out; for it was the Ministry who had outlawed such things centuries ago. For as surely as Voldemort had known they would come, he'd known just how Fudge would cater to the general public's fear. Mass terror had reigned this night, and the Sun had still yet to rise. Now only nine Aurors stood here on the island, trapped for the Dark to hunt within the shadows that it took homage within.
That bastard! Tonks couldn't resist mentally shouting in response, fury pulsing through her veins as her lips twisted into a scowl, That foul, treacherous snake! She knew exactly who was behind these attacks, the same scum who thought to kill a mere newborn child. She despised him with every fiber of her being, what kind of monster sought to kill a defenseless child? It mattered naught that full grown wizards couldn't stand against him but the thought that it was a child, whose parents had died bravely trying to shield little Harry's life with their own - made her stomach turn sickeningly. While normally she'd try to keep her abilities more subtle, she could clearly feel her scarlet colored hair standing up on end as a molten gold colored its tips. Tonks ignored the change of appearance however, which was the outer reflection of the rage that pounded within.
"Shacklebolt, continue with Tonks toward the North Wing. Abbot, you and Thatch with head to the South. East will be yours Tavish, Hartley, Raintree. Lastly, it's you and me, Vern. We'll take up the West. We'll charge them head on." Warrick Tate, the cantankerous old Scotsman, recklessly demanded of them in a pompous manner of speaking. He'd been an Auror since Alastar Moody was in training, and while that normally would've earned her respect, he was as foul to be around as the lethifold she and Kingsley had found eating Muggle students at the university. Oxford, I think it was. Tonks absentmindedly tried to recall the name as she attempted to withhold the narrowed edge that her eyes threatened to take on as she stared at the man before her. She had always found him to be brute, so alike the others working in the Department who thought she was a bit too female to work beside them. Like the world needed another one of those misogynistic pricks!
Tonks herself couldn't say that she'd grieve over him if he showed up dead or dismembered, but it was here on one of the most treacherous places on Earth, every wand on your side counted. And if a real nasty curse heads his way, who's to say I'd defend him. Or if they'd know who cast it amongst the melee. Her last thought sending her into a beautifully malicious grin that resembled the very aunt which she despised so openly. Then, as a resounding noise echoed through the hall outside, Tonks and Kingsley assumed their duelling stance. Neither waiting for Tate's signal to charge blindly like a boar in the wild, instead sliding silently out into the hall with a strong disillusionment charm on their lips. Slipping around the exterior walls and back toward their assigned North Wing to investigate. It was far more important to the Order's cause to secure the wings of a higher security. Those that they knew Voldemort would seek to release first.
The minutes following the Dark Lord's disappearance had the Death Eaters traversing the rocks with newfound determination; fueled by their very desire to not be on the receiving end of the Dark Lord's wand. He had been, what many of them considered, lenient in their punishment for failing. Sure they were cast into unadulterated anguish for their incompetence, but they were still left alive and that was far more than the dead could claim after the crossed his path. Their Lord had given his orders before leaving them to complete the task at hand, for each of them knew that failure wasn't an option. In fact, it never was. But they each had knowledge of just who was being held in the East Wing of the prison; those whose crimes were so severe that they merely awaited the dementor's kiss by order of the Wizengamot.
Bella swung her arms frantically at her sides, pushing her body into a steady lope. The loose black robes she'd worn were the same ones she'd been tried and sentenced in, all those years ago; thus was a tattered mess that hung from her frame horribly. She was disappointed her Lord had seen her in such a state of disrepair, but Bellatrix thought that she looked in a right better shape than Jugson back there with his intestines painting such a lovely scenic view. He'll be quite a pleasing new addition to the real estate scene here. A nice prison that is very secluded, with many rooms available, intestines sprawling the grounds, all the while reflected by a peaceful oceanic backdrop. Just what every family needs! A wayward grin twisted unto her lips at the thought, barely containing the cackle that threatened to leave her lips as she humorously played with the idea of what the brochures would look like and the horror that the public would respond with it. That would be a sight to behold indeed.
She certainly wouldn't act cut up about the lazy swine's untimely demise, for Bellatrix firmly believed that Jugson was now as dead as Albus Dumbledore would soon find himself to be. And good riddance with the rate at which I could always hear him mouth-breathing from down the hall! Did they teach the young knuckle draggers anything these days in etiquette? Oh well, she thought with a shrug of her shoulders with an dismissing air, all that perverse staring at her lovely little neighbor, was going to get him hurt anyways!
The sickening part of it all was that Bellatrix clearly remembered that they all had done such a thing, gawking dumbfoundedly at her beauty; leering at her. Now, little Spectre was an anomaly, she thought. She was nearly the exact opposite of Bellatrix in looks, all that pale hair and those eyes. Bella couldn't deny that despite their differences, there was a certain draw she felt toward the girl even though she couldn't explain it. It didn't change the fact that within her body there was a pull that possessed her to come closer, to listen and to protect. But clearly, if her Lord was indeed assisting the girl, then he found no fault in her claim of blood relation toward him. That made her pale visage seem more regal than she'd thought to admit.
If she indeed was his family, then she was also one of the last descendants of the great Salazar Slytherin and by extension Morgana herself! But could she be the Dark Lady to their Lord? It was no secret among the prisoners in her wing, that the pale dove had been there for some time. Though she appeared no older than Cissy's boy, Draco might look after all these years. A woman, barely. Only, she was no mere woman. Her Lord didn't think so and so she wouldn't either. Especially given the way his magic had exploded from his body after what the young woman had shown him. A past that was anything but pleasant, it seemed.
Something which she would need to tread carefully, or risk angering her Lord. Particularly when it involve his past. Something which Bellatrix had learned could be a very dangerous thing to question, from imbeciles too stupid to hold their tongues. Oh, how I adore the shade of crimson that was blood.
The Pale One's carefully sculpted form certainly would increase the witchly wiles on their side, once her Lord acquired her. It was something which Bellatrix couldn't decide just how she'd allow herself to feel about it, given her adoration to the man she served, but she had a feeling that her last encounter wasn't the last she would see of the little dove. Especially having seen his familiar dark robes flashing inside her once neighbor's cell, only seconds after his departure. More to her than meets the eye, I think!
Even after hearing the whispered nonsense, as she had earlier, Bellatrix sensed that there was quite a deal more underneath the younger woman's flesh. She was as pale and as fair as the driven snow; quite the eye catcher. Through underneath the fair appearance that the girl possessed, Bellatrix would be lying if she didn't admit to feeling the throbbing power emanating from her cell over the years. Quite the conundrum, she thought slyly as she danced elegantly through the halls as if the structure around her wasn't collapsing brick by brick. The girl's aura read more Dark than anything, something that the Death Eater immensely approved of. After all, Bellatrix prided herself on her acute sense of the Magical forces. Her Master had taught her well, and she knew there was something familiar about the girl's aura. She just couldn't put a name to it however, but Bellatrix figured that it was because of this that drew her toward the girl in the first place.
By the time the lot of them had reached the East-facing wall, she was trembling with excitement. Her slender fingers were dancing with sparks concealed within, her veins surged with magical potential that desperately urged her to be put to use and her head clouded with mania. Shouldering her way through the crowd of dimwitted cretins she was shrouded by, Bellatrix placed both hands firmly against the black stone wall that was now in front of her. She eagerly breathed in through her nose, inflating her lungs with a deep pull of her magic, as she built up the strongest bundle of Dark magical energy she could hold within, before exhaling through her mouth. It was with this releasing breath that the witch had cast it from her body with explosive force. Her fingers felt like they were on fire from the excessive usage, but her veins lit up with magical potential. Charging her with a sense of renewed vigor now that she was able to use magic once again.
The cries of her fellow Death Eaters rose into the night air quite beautifully, and after a moment she waved them onward with a dramatic gesture of her arm. They trudged down the hall with a growing roar, splitting up into multiple groups. Each knowing exactly who to release, after their Lord's Lieutenant pointed toward the cells upon instinct. Bellatrix needed only to seek out the taste of the prisoners' magic, to define them as a betrayer or a worthy candidate. The lackeys at her back worked cohesively in identifying the worthy before they joined forces.
Working together to build up enough of their power to break through the proper cells. Azkaban's wards were far more dense here than any had encountered before, complicated in such a way that one would compare it to running within a maze. One couldn't just burst through but had to solve the puzzle, had to make quickened rational decisions in which would lead them to success. Which was no trouble for her, Bellatrix always loved puzzles and her Slytherin qualities earned her the spot within her house many years ago at the age of eleven. Her mind wasn't quite like those around her then and it certainly hadn't changed over the years. It wriggled and squirmed, to find its way in.
Those who were overlooked were clearly marked 'unworthy' by the Dark Lord, weaklings who would break under questioning. Those like Igor Karkaroff, who though still roamed free, would burn for what he did to Barty. Crouch was the second most devoted fighter the Dark had on their side, and she fondly remembered how hard she worked to help him build up his battle style. He was a beautifully wild dueller. It had always invigorated her, when her Lord wasn't there to train her. Not like Rodolphus ever had, Bellatrix struggled to hold a scoff at the very thought of how the idiot that had claimed her as his wife, but couldn't fulfill what she needed him to. She needed someone to duel her in their spare time and watch her back when they were on raids, for she would do the same for them. Someone to trust. Someone that invigorated her and who challenged her in every manner. Someone who understood what she needed.
She hissed in an annoyed breath. If a 'stray' curse were to hit Rodolphus square in the nose and resulted in him falling over dead, I might finally be free of his troublesome comments. Let him scold me from the grave, when all of his nightly escapades come to light, she thought maliciously. If father only hadn't bound me against harming the fool, he would've been dead long before I found out about the younglings. The filth.
Like herself, Barty's tastes laid outside the realm of what was quite 'proper' too. But their desires had never strayed from each other, in the years since he had first been brought to their Lord. Purebloods didn't usually speak of their deviant behavior, but she found herself quite pleased with the match. They didn't involve others in their affairs and each remained loyal to the other, neither willing to lose whatever it was that they had. He allowed her freedoms that most women were too demure to ask for, and it certainly suited her was one of a kind, after all and he didn't try to staunch her passions, any more than she would his.
Besides, Rodolphus had always known she was the best hope he'd possessed, to not ever have to father children. Something neither had ever wanted for themselves. Little dependents, the horror! She shook her head in disgust, her wild curls moving with the motion as her expression began to twist at the thought.
But her reasons grew exponentially more profound, the more she understood of his perverse nature. Bellatrix Lestrange was many things, but she had a burning hatred of the man she'd called her husband. Whether it was the way he demeaned her in public, or the way he'd relied so heavily on her forced Vow to protect him from any ill will on her behalf. The spineless excuse of a wizard! If her father hadn't made sure to issue a clause against her so much as plotting his death with another, she would've simply asked Barty to help. He was the only one she trusted to not abuse this knowledge. Something which she had been determined for years to handle without asking for anyone's assistance, as was her prideful nature. It appalled her to realize the shame she felt over being so useless. Oh what glorious pain he'll feel at my sweetest behest, one day. Azkaban didn't change a man, it made him worse.
Her reveries were broken off by humming sound coming from behind the walls, a melodious tune that instantly caught her attention. Hearing such an jovial tune within the walls of this prison, brought an almost carefree grin to her lips where just moments before she had been facilitating over her husband's imminent demise. The cells in the East Wing were lined on all four sides by a thick opaque wall, one meant to confine its occupant into a person's most punishing prison of all - one's mind. Even with the dementors gone, the hall was as foreboding as a funeral, yet still the maddening tune whistled out from the cell at the end of the hall.
Following the sweet melody, Bellatrix drew closer with a curious manner; her eyes alighting in anticipation. Fingers tingling and with her mind buzzing with ideas as to who it could be, though Bellatrix's heart already knew what her eyes had not yet seen. Her magic whirled around her frame, as she chased it around her body with a demented sort of glee. Visibly spinning with it on the spot, as it travelled around her like a mighty serpent, Bellatrix dared to hope that Aurors would come for them. Even for the sole prospect for her amusement than anything else. Her magic slithered dauntingly underneath her flesh, until she commanded it forward once more, the darkness within her veins opened its great maw and spewed a flame hotter than any dragon's breath toward the formidable wards. Burning them to naught but ashes, as she sent a quake through the heavily fortified wall. Her eyes following the crack all the way to the ceiling, wherein the darkness sealing it off from the world would have warned a weaker soul away. Finally, slamming her fist down to the battered stone floor in utter devastation, a shock wave barreled through the seam in the wall before her.
The force of her magic, raining bricks and mortar down in her wake; forcing her to shuffle back from harm before standing tall and admiring her work. Lightning flashed outside, rumbling and crackling from the sky above, and shining just enough like to see the dark figure sitting on the cot that was positioned to the side of the small room with their back at the wall. She stood proudly before the shadowed figure inside that stepped his feet to the rhythm that left his lips so jauntily. It wasn't until yet another flash of lightning illuminated the darkness for a mere moment, that Bellatrix's eyes zoned in on the sly lips curved around his merry tune as he tilted his head mischievously in her direction. Wetting his bottom lip with a quick swipe of his tongue, the man gave her a full boyish grin that had become all too familiar to her. One filled with an undeniable sense of ambition.
Bellatrix grinned and tittered effervescently, as though she'd drank a full pint of giggle water just a moment before. Her maniacal laughter echoing through the hall with a manic glee as she clapped her hands in applause. The sound of such a wonderous tune, was the exact opposite of the mayhem that was about to be unleashed within Azkaban. The man before her was like no other, and she respected one with that kind of madness. Two of a kind, he and I. Bellatrix smirked at the thought before tilting her head to the side in a teasing manner, her eyes glinting with the kind of humor that no one claiming sanity would understand. She parted her lips to speak, her voice adopting the baby talk that came so easily to her though this time the intent was far from mocking.
Bellatrix bowed theatrically, kicking one leg out behind the other as she threw her hands up into the air. Then landing lithely back on her tippy toes, she swung her hand around in offering. One hand landing on her hip sassily, as only the youngest of the Black sisters could manage to accomplish without looking too dour. Her eyes danced as she challenged him to join her. To once more, fight at her side, the way only a well suited dueling partner could.
"I wonder, will Barty come out to play?"
When the Dark Lord reentered Vera's cell after directing his Death Eaters unto their tasks, her body had nearly finished regenerating itself. Gone was the broken doll-like image that Vera had once embodied and in its place rested a sleeping, beautiful woman. Her fragile looking wrists were now unmarred by the years of torment that she had been subjected to, now that she was free the goblin-made manacles and all the anguish that such objects had to have brought her. To her, he imagined those first few moments back into the world, would feel weightless. For the relief she had to have been brought from their disappearance would be palpable in the air between them. Magical suppressors, Voldemort shuddered from the disgusting idea to place such base creations on the skin of what was his. His possessive afflictions of her were becoming more natural the more he dwelled upon it. Or rather, the more that he acknowledged it, the more that he felt it to be true.
The minutes appeared to have passed longer than he thought them to, for when Voldemort looked at her somehow time seemed to stand still. She had not even awoken from the spoken curse and yet it seemed that her magical signature came rolling over him unbidden, as he panned through different scenarios on how he would proceed with her. He didn't even realize he was doing it, at first, responding to her in a way that was so uncharacteristic of him but Vera invoked such things within him. It was daunting that he knew naught of her but only one day in their shared lifespans, yet here he was reaching out to stroke his own aura against her own in feather light caresses. The softest stroke of magical precision responding to him in return.
When he had entered the room, she had instinctively searched for him. All the while he struggled to remain impassive, while his magic purred in contentment at her healing form's proximity. As their contact continued Voldemort began to feel his shoulders loosen into a more relaxed posture, his brow easing from the tension he knew not was there, and his mind clear. It was only moments after the third gliding sweep of her magical aura that was a dark violet in color, that he took notice of the way that her lashes fluttered with movement for the first time. Drawing him near at the movement, he laid his palms flat on the stone basin where she rested head cocking in fascination. Eager to see every last bit of magical splendor accompanying her reanimation, from the golden light encasing around her limbs before seeping into her heart to give it beat and then finally reflecting through her eyes. He wanted to witness the light that breathed life back into her before it all evaporated to make way for the silver that he knew her eyes to be, just like he had witnessed within her mind.
Her chest during these final moments did not rise and fall, though he was not disturbed by her unnatural stillness. For he could see a faint glow of golden light traversing underneath her skin, repairing the damage so that she may arise once again. The thin fabric of her silken dress shone much in the same manner her skin did, as translucent as it was, through not as clean as he would have liked. Grime from being confined here as long as she had was clearly spotted one place or another on the fabric. A simple Scourgify cleaned her person of all the blood and grime that had collected upon her, the spell leaving his lips before he even knew that he had lifted his wand. Golden currents surged within her veins to repair every magical piece to the puzzle that the Dark Lord could not even bring himself to destroy, no matter what his brutally conniving mind told him. He wished to bind her in some way to him, to hold her to his person and claim Vera as his own in a physical manner. A way in which others would see his hold on her and tremble for fear of his wrath, for within Voldemort his beast demanded that he claim her as his Queen.
A Mark? He silently questioned as his crimson gaze trailed over her form, assessing what would be the perfect spot for something so important as this. A humming sound vibrated within his throat in appreciation in regard to the thought of marking her, before he began working on a new design within his mind. One that spoke not only of claiming but retribution for the one who touched what did not belong to them. Something not so mundane as the Dark Mark had become, for her skin was not just any blank canvas. She belonged to him in ways the others did not; his very magic was mirrored beneath her skin. He could see the statement reveal itself within her every feature now that he knew. The long proud planes of her face, echoing that of a once too familiar bone structure. His very own. High forehead, sharp cheekbones, even the much smaller nose adorning her face looked familiar.
Vera was his match in many of ways. His mate, as the caged beast within him claimed her to be. She certainly pulled from him a primal urge to defend and protect; to hold and to cherish such like he had never done to one before her. None before her had been worthy for the title Queen, a Lady to his Lordship. If they had been just creatures in the wild, he would be the strongest of beasts. He would be the most ferocious of his kind, capable of destroying worlds. In fact, he already found himself violently impassioned to do just that, so that she could bathe in the spilled blood of her enemies. Then he wondered just how much sweeter their blood would taste, after he chased it across her skin.