Iridescent
Written by, AvalonTheLadyKiller
Beta'd and Cowritten by, UnburntKhaleesi
A Harry Potter Fanfiction
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, canon or not, it will get dark. References made concerning WWII events may be inaccurate, or out of sequence.
Chapter 9: Mars is Bright, this Night
The moment Voldemort fled with the girl, Dumbledore seemed to collapse in on himself. He swayed dangerously, barely keeping his feet beneath him. His manic eyes grasped around fruitlessly, for something to anchor him to the present. Fallen debris shook and skittered across the stone floor away from him as the tempest brewed within. He was unable to sort through the memories he was drowning in. His mind force-fed these moments from a near endless stream. He, himself had no memory of his participation in them. It was like trying to navigate the seas with neither a heading, nor a compass.
The past and the present just would not settle enough for him to get his bearings. But no one seemed to notice him struggling for breath, nor hear the pops of disapparition amongst the group. The nearly two dozen nondescript Ministry workers, accompanying Fudge stood immobile from fear. Shock had only barely given way before the terror of the situation paralyzed them to the bone. Several had only seen the inside of their respective offices for the past decade, and most had fewer days experience in field work than they had daily cups of tea.
Their voices had seemingly been stolen from within their very throats. Their minds, racing to catch up with what their eyes had only just beheld. Stomachs rolling with the instinctual need to clammer to safety.
The selfish desire urging them to abandon the others to their inevitable deaths, was a hard fought instinct they had neither the experience fighting, nor the need in learning how to. For teaching oneself to ignore their body's defense mechanisms, went against the very grain and these people were no Aurors. Desk clerks and assistants had been pulled from their departments, to come to the aide of their Minister. But after slipping through the apparition barrier into the belly of Azkaban, they were forced to realize how utterly defenseless they all were. Their sense of security had been a rug ripped out from underfoot, and they were petrified of the return of the raids, the threats, and the deaths.
Members of the Order of the Phoenix had forced themselves to leave behind the man, who had taught them so much of the ideals they held fast to in times like these. Times when terror sunk its teeth into their blind trust of their Ministry, and tore deeper into their wells of hope. Without this sense of family and support, what did they have? A Minister who refused to hear when a mass murdering Dark Lord had found some way to cheat death, yet again. A monster who had no compunction in killing a boy in cold blood, and shortly thereafter releasing dozens of the country's most brutal killers upon the Wizarding World.
No, they held onto the same hope that told them, they would see their leader once more. They had faith in him, where their Ministry had failed them time and time again. They would find a way to help him. Abandoning their leader to face the wrath of the Ministry alone, was a price that they could not afford to pay; but were forced. Especially as the respite Voldemort had provided them while being sequestered, came to a close.
Every member was very much aware of the punishment for their crimes, had they remained. They would all have been taken in for illegal trespassing and conspiracy to aid in the greatest escape of Azkaban's history. Not to mention, their criminal history of interfering with government affairs. They would have ended up right back here in Azkaban, without so much as a fair trial. The Ministry would stop at nothing in seeing to it that even their families endured cruel harassment and faced charges of their own for conspiracy to undermine the Ministry.
The Ministry had no shame when it came to keeping their secrets tight-lipped. As soldiers to the Light, they all understood the implications if even one member was compromised. For while the Ministry 'stood united' against eliminating what was left of their common enemy's regime, the Order knew they housed nearly as many dark secrets that they didn't wish to be brought to light.
Most witches and wizards on the outside and in, seemed quick to forget just how similar that system resembled that of Muggle communism. Their control of the press, free speech, and their stifling control over the military, had raised more than a few suspicions of corruption. In fact, it smelled rife of it. A system when one could not even guarantee themselves a fair trial, was hardly a government of justice. Sirius Black himself could speak much at length to their many faults, as could others. At least, those that hadn't already been silenced permanently.
But still their hearts weighed heavy on this night, as they watched their friend, beloved professor, and much respected father-figure sway in his steps from whatever the blonde witch had done to him. Molly Weasley didn't care who the little trollop was, if she ever set eyes on her again, she promised swift retribution for Albus's suffering. She had stolen something from him during the ritual. It had made the air turn rancid in her lungs, as the Dark magic had set upon him. It sickened her to the very core.
Sirius Black had a hard time trying to remember if his family had participated in this kind of Dark ritual. Rendering a black oil like ichor to be pulled from another's body wasn't the typical rite he or Regulus had been taught. The private tutors of questionable moral standards focused far more toward new age Dark Arts offensive magic, than ritualistic rites. Even with their lessons having been structured and paid for, of course, by his darling mother; whom loathed the divergence from the olden ways. His memory wasn't what it had been before Azkaban, though, this he knew. But, it wasn't as though he'd read through every book written about or referencing the absolute horrors his family participated in.
He had listened to her force guttural sounds into words with his heart pounding out of his chest. Imbuing these runes with intent, an amalgamation of several languages, and fortified chants; the likes of which he couldn't begin to repeat. Though one struck him cold at its use. The spoken rune for 'Death' had caused his breathing to cease. But she had used it in conjunction with an old form of the rune 'Unto Myself.' If she had sought the old man's death, she had mercilessly failed, but he wasn't convinced that had been her intention at all. But to what end could she have meant by using such a combination of ancient runes? Under Voldemort's watchful eye, nonetheless.
The gruesome display wasn't like anything he had ever seen before. It was like something out of his uncle Alphard's tales. This brand of magic came from the first magical beings in existence. Their ancestors; primal perversions of both Light and Dark magics, used blood rites without judgment and carried them unto the next generation as they migrated to more fertile lands. It was an old way of magic that had never been separated by words like good or bad, Light or Dark. It held unbridled strength, as it was channeled through such a raw form of witchcraft.
Sirius knew he needed to return to the place he hated most in the world… Well, the only place outside of the prison cell he'd once found himself thrown in. The Black ancestral home, festering in its abandonment, was a scenic representation of his youth. So much so, that he debated whether to burn the whole place down with Kreature inside on a daily basis. He likely would remain with his Mistress's portrait, by choice. Sirius would, of course, have to ward the other homes on either side of that cursed place, so as not to kill any poor Muggles. He wasn't a complete monster, unlike his family you see. But first, he needed to go through his mother's hidden compartments in the study. There had to be something in there about blood rites. Sirius apparated the second he heard the Ministry arrive. His freedom had not been easily sought, nor would he risk being able to watch after his godson. He would not let James down, not this time.
The Order fled, one by one to their respective Apparition Points throughout London, before looping back around to Headquarters. Sirius had been forced to hide in the curtains of his loose curls, transfiguring several of his identifying features underneath with a practiced motion. Closely resembling one of the members of a Muggle band that Lily had introduced he and James to, in their school years. His prison ink, looking even more niche and artistic with his rugged new appearance. Sliding out of the night's downpour, he tucked himself into an alley, apparating once more. His next point was further north, leading any tails away from his final destination. Casting a quick 'Notice Me Not' charm, he disappeared into the bustling crowd being kicked out of a closing pub.
When he finally arrived at the place he stoutly refused to call home, Minerva was waiting just inside the threshold, wand raised threateningly as she flung him against the wall. Her reflexes, looking ever polished, as she looked ready to curse him to Hell and back, as Lily would say.
"Shite! Merlin's left nutsack, Minerva!" He grunted out in his usual manner. Following it up with a swift: "It's just bloody me," just in case his colorful language didn't confirm his identity immediately. He almost took out the potted plant Molly had gifted him for his 'homecoming'. Sirius swerved his eye away from the upheld weapon in her tightly-held grasp.
He removed his disguise swiftly, before she left his handsome mug horribly disfigured. The aging witch still didn't look completely convinced with his appearance, or perhaps just wanted to give him a good throttling for his neglect of any semblance of manners. She lowered her wand just in time however, as Molly came around to gather his leaking coat from his too-thin frame. Arthur was sending the kettle around the table, pouring the steaming liquid into waiting mugs across the table. Having just stepped into the less formal dining room, Sirius counted downturned heads. Grabbing his cup of tea, he swigged a gulp then made a face. Summoning his bottle of firewhisky over from the shelf. He brought the bottle to his lips, relishing the burn as it went down his throat.
Hearing a bustling crash on the doorstep, he whipped around with the agility of someone who had seen the horrors of the last Wizarding War. Drink forgotten, both he and McGonagall were ready and rearing to offer any unwanted guests a 'proper' Order welcome should anyone have been followed. Number 12 Grimmauld Place housed a great many of them these days with meetings carrying on so late into the evening. It was just easier on the remaining members to stick together. Whether the children were at Hogwarts or tucked away upstairs, this damned place was supposed to be a safe place. No one was being turned out on their ear after joining the ranks. The safety of their families and close friends relied upon it.
When the door burst open, Moody came lumbering in with Mundungus Fletcher gripped by the scruff of his neck. Which to be clear, only bore further resemblance to his basset hound-like appearance. Mad Eye looked furious, when he threw the rumpled man into his usual chair at the table. The four-legged rickety chair rocked back dangerously with the force of Moody's shove. Wands now lowered, Minerva cut a look at Sirius. Clearly letting him know she had no idea why they bothered trying to be secretive, when they employed the sloshed and blithering fool. Mirroring his own thoughts, completely.
"Found this one standing out by the rubbish bins on the street," Moody growled. "Looking all around like a complete imbecile. Wave to the Ministry and Voldemort next time, will you Fletcher! Since you're so bloody determined to lead them straight to us." Not even waiting to greet anyone, he steamrolled on.
"Did you even follow procedures?" Wiping back the stray water dripping from his hair with both hands, in hopes to not become physically violent with the man.
Mundungus grumbled something illegible before hiccupping, clearly still tanked. Sirius dove forward; landing a lick right across his oversized nose, before Arthur pulled him off.
"Pull yourselves together, would you!" Molly roared in fury, her cheeks reddening. "Alastor, are you alright? Do you need anything for your wound?" Her concern weighed heavy in her eyes.
Brushing her off, Moody mumbled something unintelligible about having been through worse and that a Black wouldn't be his undoing.
"He could've gotten one of us killed, Molly!" Sirius exclaimed furiously. "Mad Eye was maimed and we just left Dumbledore there! And if Dung had splinched himself, they could have traced his body parts back here to us. Not that I'd be complaining to see him ripped into pieces. But if he wanted that, we could've left him with Moony on tonight of all nights! You know how testy he gets when it's his time of the month."
Turning his accusingly cold Black family eyes on the man profusely bleeding in his house, he sneered at the globs of blood dribbling down onto his table.
"I can't believe that we trust this wanker to keep us safe. He can barely keep his head out of the toilet! It's a mistake that's going to get us killed!" Sirius could not understand Dumbledore's decision to allow him to join. Nor could he understand the man's reason to join in the first place. He was a drunken coward, and worse, an opportunist.
"Sirius, Kingsley and Tonks are still in the field on duty," Molly told him. "Mad Eye's been injured, yes, but he said himself, he's fine. And Fudge might be a right piece of work, but he certainly wouldn't let Albus die. I refuse to believe it. Dumbledore is probably already on his way to St. Mungo's. Kingsley and Tonks will make sure of it."
"I completely agree, Molly dear." Arthur came to stand at his wife's side and pulled her in close, sensing that she could use his support to steer the group back on track. They needed to keep level heads, if they were to survive.
"My concern lies first and foremost with Albus," Minerva declared, standing up from the table to pace. Her brogue came through loud and clear, in her anguish. "I'm not familiar with that kind of Dark Magic. Do any of you have any idea what it was?"
"Blood Ritual! Foulest of Dark Magic!" Mad Eye practically spit out. "Seeped in death. It's the damn reason Muggles still talk about witchcraft. The Egyptians and the Mayans were fool enough to write about it for archeologists to find. The Ministry has outlawed it for close to a thousand years."
"Sirius," Minerva said, "what about your family? Have you seen or heard anything like it?"
"Not exactly," he replied, rubbing his neck. "Mum preferred telling us about all the murders and power grabs our house was responsible for." That familiar shame of being related to a line of well connected criminals and blood purists filling his stomach with bile. "I'm going to look back in the study, to see if I can find anything."
"Thank you Sirius," Molly grinned sadly, "I'll head up after breakfast to help. Perhaps Remus will be up for a distraction when he wakes."
"I could certainly use the help, it's been years since I opened some of those grimoires upstairs. But if there's any chance one of them could help Albus, I'd be willing to risk the curses Mum probably put on them," he said gnashing his teeth together in irritation. "I can't believe we didn't anticipate this. Of bloody course the bastard would go straight for Azkaban, on the full moon no less."
"Not true Black, Albus suspected he would," Minerva argued. "But none of us could have had any idea when. Nor the sheer bloodshed he'd create by using the werewolves. Remus is going to be devastated."
"Snape should've known! I told you we couldn't trust ol' Snivellus," Sirius growled.
"Black," Moody cut in, "you damned well know Voldemort has kept his cards close to his chest since his return. His actions have been unpredictable. The full moon was used solely so Greyback and his pack could distract. As we suspected, he's recruiting magical creatures to do his dirty work. Just as he had begun last time. The only difference is he's now short a few Death Eaters and a nose."
Sirius scoffed. "Yeah, and the sick bastard has been chasing underage witches with a penchant for Blood Magic. Any of you see her goddamn eyes? Felt my balls shrivel up just from the look of them."
"Sirius!" Molly scolded before speaking to the group. "Identifying and capturing the traitorous little witch certainly needs to be a top priority."
"Tasty traitorous little witch." Mundungus slurred, finally lifting his head up from his stupor before passing back out. Everyone seemed to throw him the same disgusted look as his head hit the table with a loud thunk, before continuing on like he hadn't spoken at all.
"I can do a little digging at the Ministry," Arthur offered quickly. "See if anyone knows who she is. She's young though, probably a 6th or 7th year student, if not a recent graduate. If you don't recognize her Minerva," he paused as the Deputy Headmistress shook her head. "I have a contact at Ilvermorny, I can inquire with."
"She is no Hogwarts student, of that I can guarantee." Minerva declared with indignant fire in her voice; as the very thought of a student harming Albus was unthinkable. "Thank you Arthur. Have care of whom you speak of this to, as we don't know how the Ministry will spin this. Nor who is in the Dark Lord's pocket. I'll send an owl to Madam Maxime, as well." The aged woman nodded her head slowly, once, as she formulated her to-do list before continuing. "Severus and I will check the Restricted Section and the Headmaster's Study for any mention of Blood Rituals, then report back if we find anything."
She hereby ignored Sirius's fist slamming on the table at the mention of the Potions Master. If Albus trusted him, she trusted him and with times such as the ones upon them; there was no time for schoolyard rivalry anymore.
It was then that the front door opened once more, allowing a full head of red hair through, before a wand could be raised. Molly and Arthur felt all tension leave their bodies. "Bill!" Molly exclaimed, bringing him in for a tight hug, as Arthur nodded and softly said, "Son," his voice heavy with emotion.
The new arrival came to stand behind his parents' chairs, as he apologized for his delay. "Thought for a moment I was being followed," he explained. "So I made a few additional stops to be sure I lost them."
Minerva immediately asked the question, practically burning her tongue. "Bill, you were standing the closest, what was it that Albus said, when he looked at her? I was too far away to hear."
Turning to her with a chagrined face, "Nonsense, Professor." His voice was respectful as he spoke her title, from his years being her student. "It was complete and utter nonsense. He said: 'Ms. Riddle'."
Shaking his head disappointedly, Mad Eye cleared his throat as he lumbered up, sending his chair to the floor. "I'll get word to Tonks, that we need to find out which wing Albus is being treated in and who is on guard in the hall. Then I'll see how the Ministry is responding."
Slapping his palm down on the table, Sirius jumped up with his bottle of firewhisky. "Then I'll get started upstairs, and expect to hear from you tomorrow night with updates. But by Merlin, if any of you have more bad news for me then, at least have the decency to wait until I'm right and properly sloshed."
Rounding the bannister on the stairs, the Black kept climbing up. On the second floor, seeming to remember his earlier argument with the toe rag known as Mundungus Fletcher, Sirius's lips curled upwards into a snarl.
"AND FOR MERLIN'S SAKE, YOU PILE OF DUNG. QUIT BLOODY LEAKING ON MY TABLE, YOU MANKY BASTARD!"
Bill was staring after him in utter confusion as he heard a door slam some floors above, before finally noticing the dozing figure in the farthest seat with profound disapproval.
In the wake of the terror that had been wrought across the country from dusk until nearly dawn, the Ministry was left in shambles. Attacks had kept every Auror in the department, along with about three dozen agents on loan from neighboring departments, on the clock for damn near 24 hours straight. It was such an array of chaos that only those who had laid witness to it, would believe such an accounting.
Important papers, such as incident reports and the like, were carelessly discarded to the flooring. Cold tea either sat forgotten in cups across the office or spilled carelessly down the sides of the desks. Cups seemingly had been left where they fell, in their haste. The air smelled of smoke and old blood, reminders of the horrors the evening had held. Those whom had been in the office as the call from Azkaban had rung, had already been deployed.
Every Auror the Ministry had was in the field, chasing down leads or dead. They desperately searching the streets for the ones who had butchered all those innocent people. The spare few who were not actively pursuing or cleaning the scene, had spent the last 12 hours ferrying the injured to St. Mungo's.
As the alarm had rung out telling Cornelius Fudge the wards on Azkaban were about to fall, he rushed from his office to the Auror Department. The Minister was irritated and ready to demand just what they were doing at the prison, to have still not regained control of there or at the very least the chaos in London.
Fudge had come blundering down the hallway leading into the now barren Auror Department. He had absolutely no recollection of just how many people he had sent into the city. But more so in correlation, how few Ministry workers they had left that were field ready. It sent icy water right down his spine, realizing he'd received no reports back from Azkaban in the past several hours. Nothing. Not so much as a whisper.
Turning on his heel, he made his way to the neighboring departments, commanding every agent who crossed his path to drop whatever they were doing. The investigation into Azkaban's collapsing wards took precedence over all else, at the moment. It was what led several desk workers, filing clerks, and associates from the Magical Accidents and Catastrophe Department to the wizarding prison.
'What in Merlin's beard was going on?' Was, to be sure, the collective thought amongst the workers. The attacks on the city, then the alarm sounding from Azkaban. It was sheer bloody chaos, but once they had close to 15 wands at their side, Fudge led their party to the Apparition Point. From there, they barely had enough time to take back their breath when they arrived into the crumbling stone chamber inside the prison.
These witches and wizards were beyond the point of exhaustion, many of which hadn't had a decent meal since they'd shown up to work the previous day. The paperwork in the offices were piling up, and Muggle eyewitnesses to the attacks had to be obliviated swiftly before their reporters got ahold of anything tangible. Their respective departments had each overseen enough cases to account for the last three months overnight. So shock truly rocked their heads, replacing any outrage, as they puzzled through what they had just seen. Had it all been a hallucination, brought on by sleep and meal deprivation? Or had the Ministry and The Daily Prophet gotten it all wrong?
Every eye gazed unseeing in the direction from whence their worst nightmares had just been realized. Some turned to the person at their side to confirm what they had just witnessed. The Dark Lord Voldemort. Standing not twenty meters away from their Minister. Leering up into their Minister's eyes to mock him for his stupidity. The sly smile he wore told Fudge just how well and truly fucked he was. He was played for a fool. It only lasted mere moments; yet in that timespan it effectively disavowed everything the Ministry and the Prophet had touted these last few months.
His face, once said to have been devilishly handsome, now appeared horribly disfigured, just as the Potter boy had described. His eyes, a blood red crimson; a creature of nightmares. His magic however, remained the same. Like an absolute void, a black hole. Only tightly bound and strung taut, like a bow string pulled back ready for the sweet release and death that would follow. He stood proud and ready to deliver pain unto his enemies. He bore no fear of discovery.
Not one soul doubted his ability to annihilate every living creature on the island. Having now seen the eyes of the wizard who had killed more in his life span than dragon pox in five centuries, terror locked them in place. No one thought they might return to a world where Voldemort terrorized the masses once more. Nor did they suspect they would be leaving the island alive.
Up until that evening's chaos, Fudge had every ounce of the Ministry's workforce shutting down rumors far and wide, from the Americas all the way to Asia. Propaganda advertising 'He Who Must Not Be Named's Return' was to be killed. The conspirators were to be put out of business for inciting terrorist ideals, if not arrested. Thousands of witches and wizards worked around the clock to nip these underground movements in the bud. Freedom of the press had become a thing of the past.
Dumbledore and Potter's credibility hung by a mere thread, after the boy's hearing in August. The supposed 'sighting of dementors in Little Whinging' had become the topic of discussion around the offices. Especially when one really needed to bring about a jovial mood. After all, such outrageous reportings hadn't been recorded for well over 400 years, when the dementors had first been contracted to watch over the wizarding prison. The ground continued to crumble more and more, beneath Dumbledore and Potter's feet as the year wore on, much to Fudge's approval.
Suddenly, with a guttural cry, Dumbledore clutched his temples painfully. The shuffling sound of his feet broke them from their stupor. Seemingly able to stand no more, the headmaster's legs gave out. The fall seemed to jolt several witches in proximity into action. The somber witch who caught him just as his head would have cracked the stone, raised her wand. Lifting him into the air, she was determined to get him to St. Mungo's before any more damage could be done. She called to the Minister, requesting his permission to escort The Headmaster to the best hospital on this side of the world.
Fudge, however, stood stock still facing the direction where the Dark Lord had only just disapparated. His legs seemed to be permanently stuck in place, while his hands shook from pure unfettered panic. The Minister was beside himself, shouting out broken orders to several wizards at his side. Mumbling about the owls they'd need to send immediately.
"You four, cover the grounds for stragglers. And stick together for Merlin's sake!" His nerves were completely shot, and he doubted anything short of 10 firewhiskeys could help him now.
"Sir!" The grim-faced witch called out again, growing more impatient by the minute. Her woolen robes offered her little in the way of protection from the ice running through her veins. Vastly afraid that the longer she remained, she further away the unconscious wizard at her side drifted. So, first steadying her levitation charm, she then administered a hearty warming charm around her thin frame and the older man.
Enunciating every word succinctly, so as not to be talked over, she boomed: "I say, Minister! Do I have permission to escort Mr. Dumbledore to the hospital? He's about to lose consciousness and his color isn't quite right. I want to see if he's been cursed."
"What? Yes, yes. Get it done and do not return to the office, until you've been relieved of duty by the next watchman." Stomping forward in his haste to further distance himself from the looks of judgment he felt weighing heavily upon his shoulders. Crouching down, he removed his hat. Thoroughly examining the charred evidence of Blood Magic on the ground. Jerking his wand from his holster, he completed a few basic diagnostic spells on the black droplets, only to come up with several confusing results. It was certainly blood, but whose was unclear.
"Send the lab samples of this residue, as well as photos of these symbols. I want the Ancient Rituals and Rites folks down here immediately." Rubbing his eyes painfully, he realized he hadn't eaten since lunch, nearly 14 hours before. His stomach felt like it had consumed a stone the size of a quaffle. Standing up and squaring his jaw, he glared back at the team he'd put together as quickly as he could.
"Every one of us will be culpable if anything turns up in the papers, before we get all the facts. So, I want to see Lucius Malfoy down here at once, discussing possible avenues to divert attention off this disaster. We are on high alert until further notice! Speak of this to no one, not even family. If we incite terror and panic, we will be the only ones to suffer the consequences. I will not have us the laughing stock of the magical community!"
Glowering toward the youngest members in the group who were notorious for their loose lips. Many of whom hadn't even been out of nappies during the last Wizarding War.
"We are on the verge of all out mayhem. If the press hear about this before we get ahead of this..."
"Get ahead of this, Minister?" A deep voice called out from a far corner. Whipping his eyes over to where a broad, dark skinned Auror healed a laceration on his partner's shoulder that seemed to have hit an artery. It took Cornelius a moment to recognize the familiar robes. Kingsley's face was looking horribly disfigured, as though someone had used his face to open up the brickwork. The bruising was minor compared to the cuts and swelling. Meanwhile, his partner looked as though she'd drop like a sack of potatoes if he released her.
"Great Scott man, where have you been?! I didn't realize you'd made it through before the Floo jammed up. What the bloody hell happened?"
"There were too many of them, and they were well organized. When we arrived the dementors had been nowhere in sight. Tate had barely given his orders to secure the prison, when they were upon them. Tonks and I turned back immediately, when we heard fighting. But, they're all dead, Minister. Over a dozen trained Aurors, gone in minutes. Everyone who made it though the first jump with us is gone. This was a scaled attack, Minister! Even down to the chaos in London I'd wager."
"Cornelius-" a voice stuttered behind him. Swiveling around, he turned to gape at Dumbledore, who looked like he was having trouble remaining conscious. But trying to stop the witch from apparating quite yet.
"Albus, by Merlin, what were you doing here? And on this night of nights! How could you possibly know this was going to happen? I will have you held in contempt, mark my words!"
"This was not just the work of just Voldemort. If you'd just let me speak..." He tried to clear his throat as Fudge rounded on his limp body. The man seemed to have aged a lifetime in only a series of weeks since he'd seen him last. His fist lashed out to grab Fudge's lapels, to pull him closer to his face as he rasped out two words that drew the Minister aback and had him scowling down at the levitating man whom he once admired.
"It's...Gellert," he gasped. "Gellert, Cornelius!"
"Gellert?" He echoed. "Albus Dumbledore, you must take me for a fool! I know that creature could have only been one man, and one man only. Those were not Grindelwald's followers being released. Grindelwald is still in Nurmengard, and has been for the last half a century since you defeated him. Of this, I have no doubts!"
"No, you don't understand. He…I was…" His words died off as he lost consciousness. His pained eyes, rolling back into his head, as his lids flickered overtop. Gasps and syllables seemed to jerk from his body as he writhed in midair. Held up only by the female Auror's spellwork, he began shaking tumultuously. Fudge didn't know what to make of it. Seizures certainly weren't common for magicfolk.
Sweeping his wand up, he sent his Patronus scurrying away. Carrying a message meant solely for Percy Weasley. His overworked assistant whom he'd sent home earlier after he'd spilled ink all over some important legal documents. Fudge knew he needed the young man more than ever to get his affairs in order, since this night was so determined to go to utter shite.
Making arrangements for two Aurors to pulled from the werewolf attacks to monitor the comings and goings of the hospital. If anyone was to force themselves through security unwarranted, he wanted to make sure Albus and any survivors of the attacks had some protection. Albus's mind seemed in complete shambles, from the sounds of it. Absolute lunacy was the only answer, and Cornelius felt that no one should be taken advantage of in that delicate of a state.
He wanted to know exactly when Dumbledore awoke. The hospital would keep a close watch over him surely, but still something unnerved him about his ravings. Not knowing what to make of his wild accusations. But then he'd been pressing the Ministry to accept other wild stories about Voldemort returning to power for months now only to be silenced and shamed in the magical community. Cornelius looked like a complete idiot, and he knew it.
Making sure Kingsley and his newly revived partner were well enough to cover some ground here on the island, he began heading back to the Ministry to begin preparing his report for the other world leaders. The remaining witches and wizards he would leave behind, to make quick work in helping Kingsley secure the prison.
"I want a full report from you, on my desk in one hour, Shacklebolt." His tone booked no room for any response. "When I go to speak to the world leaders, I will have a detailed reporting of how Voldemort got in and what he was doing with that girl. Have there been any reported cases of missing witches I don't know about? I want to know who she is and what the connection to Dumbledore is. There's more to this, I know it."
Pressing his hat down further on his head with a nod, he took his leave. Knowing he'd need to send a missive to his wife, that he'd not be arriving home for another day. Marion was prone to worry herself into a state, if he didn't. Something he had practice in remedying with a delivery from the flourist down by Florean Fortescue's shop in the Alley.
What he'd tell her when he arrived home, he didn't know.
When Voldemort apparated them to the edge of his ancestor's estate, Vera and he were immersed entirely in darkness. No longer did they stand underneath the gathering storm, readying to release bone chilling rains unto Azkaban's shores. Here, the air was crisp and clear to the stars and beyond. All light from the moon's surface having long since died from this part of the country. Leaving only a scant few stars to light the way, as they each examined their surroundings.
Unfurling his magic toward the surrounding torches, he coaxed them back to life with the barest flick of intent. Their ethereal glow bloomed to life on either side of the slate path, guiding them from the Apparition Point up toward the manor's entrance. He allowed himself only a brief cursory down the alabaster strands; which hid her features from his view. Looking down at the strangely pleasant amalgamation of silvery blonde strands he thought of how very different they were.
Moreso, for one Riddle to have been born with hair as dark as pitch and the other to have such an ashen blonde, it was as if they were determined to become a study in contrasts. Her, a liquid unable to be held. He, a solid unable to be moved. For as he stood here now, he bore an even darker representation of the monster that lived within. The facade of the young scholar had melted away over time to reflect the truly malevolent creature beneath.
A frightening beast meant to make grown wizards fear even the mention of his name. He was Death personified. She, on the other hand, remained untouched by space and time. As though she was all breath and flame, life and resilience. Both emanated enough power to bring their enemies to their knees from the sheer will alone.
The hand that didn't grasp his wand, loosened its winding snare from around her emaciated waist gently. She felt lighter than she should, as though she remained on the knife's edge of sickness and starvation. Making it clear that the magic keeping her amongst the living, was not necessarily a kind one. Her chilled skin, too close to that of a corpse for his liking. To be so frozen to the bone, yet unable to warm oneself in the prison, nor simply die from the physical conditions meant one's suffering could last longer than he cared to imagine. Even he required warmth, in this new form.
His fingers tightened into fists, still remembering the feeling of her body's cool touch. From his neck down his chest, all the way down his arms and legs; his muscles shook in an effort to warm himself back up. Clenching his teeth against the chattering, he raised his wand, casting a warming charm around them both.
Her sharp inhale, the only outward sign her skin had felt the deliverance of such life-sustaining heat. Circling her still standing form, he began to make his way up the weathered pathway. Slowly at first, then picking up his pace as he neared the crest. His long legs ate up the carved steps ascending from the circular gardens, which ensconced the sunken dais.
But after neither hearing her footsteps, nor feeling the vibrations that her magic seemed to emit, he turned to find her planted right where he had left her. Quite sure that he should not have had to clarify that she was to follow him, he felt his patience wearing thin.
"Do you desire to remain outside for the rest of the night?" He demanded. When she did not respond, his tongue pressed against his clenched row of pristine teeth. It was then he realized her eyes were closed. Shifting underneath her eyelids as though she watched a moving picture play on the insides. Her brow tensing and relaxing as though she was experiencing a both perplexing and relaxing sequence of events.
Her form could have been carved from stone, with how rigidly poised she stood. Shoulders pressed back with her arms tensed at her sides. It was difficult not to force himself into her thoughts. Eager as he was to eat away at what details swam inside her mind. His legilimency had become somewhat of another limb, regularly used to appease his overwhelming need for control. Though he supposed he would do better in cultivating a connection with this female, if he didn't attempt to force his way into her mind immediately.
"Mars is bright this night, brother." Her radiant eyes gazed up at him full of mirth. "He shines bright with renewed vitality."
Flicking his eyes skyward, he observed only the pitch blacked night. He wished to know just what this vision meant for his carefully laid plans. Why did she vex him so with riddles, when clarity was what he desired. He liked carefully cultivated plans and words.
"And what wisdom does the red planet have to impart upon this world?" He didn't know why he allowed himself to be led into such a conversation, nor as to why he was immediately intrigued. Astronomy was hardly a subject he found all too captivating. At best, he considered it to be one of his weaker areas of study. Leading with the basic themes involved with Mars' astronomical symbolism, he questioned: "War? Death? Betrayal?"
"War? Yes, war is so heavy in the air I can all but taste it. And death? I see the dead everytime I close my eyes. Sometimes it's us I see, looking back at me. But do you know what I see in every single outcome?" She lifted her brow, before flashing him a cheeky grin. "The complete and immeasurable suffering of a cowering old man who will never know happiness, as long as he exists."
Her grin morphing steadily into something utterly wild by the end. An expression he was want to share, but he seethed with indignation at the possibility of his own death. The path forward could not lead to his own demise. He refuted it with every fiber of his being. The very fact that she neither seemed ill at-ease, nor bothered at all with speaking of her own death, should have shocked him; but instead he was beginning to see a bit of a Gryffindor-like ferocity in her.
Her tongue, readying to be whet with the lifeblood of her enemy. This blood thirst would drive her to the edge of the world and back. It was magnificent. Foolish perhaps, but glorious to see such passion set her alight. Ah, there is that intrigue again, he thought to himself.
In an attempt to sober herself from her darker desires, she spoke once more. Subtly trying to tell him more than she was able to fully unveil quite yet. "Betrayal however, that can be a taste not so easily washed from the senses."
So, it was betrayal that she'd foreseen. Who would dare? He asked himself. Trying to reflect back over his last conversations with those closest to him. He bestowed his trust onto so few these days.
"Who?" He hissed, knowing full well they would be dead by sunrise. If he could just catch the scent of their treachery...
"I will not say as he has a part to play in this next step. But he is closer than you would care to admit, yet farther than you realize."
Feeling both irritated and piqued by this knowledge, he decided he would let this conversation die for now. He would allow her to keep some secrets. Determined as he was to suss out who would dare disobey him. Altogether, he found his serpentine senses rather aroused by the idea of discovering exactly who this mouse could be. As a Master Legilimens, the question was not 'if' he would catch his betrayer, but 'when.' For he would discover their identity, and when he did, their death would be as robust and sweet as port wine on the tongue.
Her confirmation that it was in fact a he, did assuage any whiff of doubt he might have possessed as to his Lieutenant, her sister, and one of the Carrows. Bella, Narcissa, and Alecto were really the only females in his life, before his fall. He found himself quite at odds with the opposite sex. Such strange creatures women were; sometimes easily manipulated through their desires and emotions, sometimes more dangerous because of their desires and emotions. A conundrum to be sure, he thought, peering over the blonde female glowing in the fire light.
Sweeping her palm up in a small motion of wandless magic, the hem of her dress lifted itself up modestly enough not to hinder her feet, as she climbed up to stand at his side by the great doors. The simple gesture struck him as oddly aristocratic. It held a regality like something he'd witnessed when Abraxas's mother had welcomed him into the family's estate in his more formative years. Lucius's grandmother oozed finely honed mannerisms.
"This war is as inevitable as night and day. Not two, but three great forces, colliding. Two must work in tandem to defeat the third, but neither can rule at the other's side forever. Cohesively, these warriors could destroy worlds. Or build them." Outstretching her hand, she captured his own before he could refuse. Oh and my apologies, thank you. These words she projected to him through their mental connection.
For what? He inquired in the same manner, vastly at odds with her rapidly evolving responses. The fact that she seemingly desired his touch, still had him reeling. He did not know what to make of this female.
For keeping me warm, of course. Lilting words, flit through his vibrations were back. Turned up to a loud thrumming as she engaged him in physical contact. For a moment, they both stared at their hands. Taking in the sensations humming through their senses.
Flicking her eyes up to meet his, he was instantly reminded of that vision of devastation. Of what the future held if he had slain Albus Dumbledore, when the opportunity presented itself. But her riddles were no less amusing now, than the first utterance of a prophecy he'd heard all those years ago. He needed to know if the future had improved after showing mercy to the man he despised as much as his own father.
I know you have your doubts, She said in their shared mindspace. Seeming to have followed his thoughts. But showing mercy to the true Albus Dumbledore was the right move. I know you'd rather have killed him, but a wise leader doesn't always strike today if striking tomorrow would give him the greater victory.
"Do not speak to me of my own thoughts," he snapped aloud. Continuing through their link, he pressed. I will form my own opinion, based on evidence and facts. Now, what exactly have you seen of it? He demanded, feeling like he was only hearing half of a story, when he needed to hear everything. For Dumbledore's brief solace was nothing that could not be made undone, if he saw fit.
You should know, she admonished, the more you delve into a prophetic telling of your future, the more murky it will become. I navigate through only what I see will cause devastating rifts in the balance of the world. I haven't told you of the implications to myself, either. How it drains the body. The flow of all things is not meant to be tapped like some simple barrel of ale. The ether will shatter my mind, if I push too hard into the tide. Some things do not need to be foreseen nor fixed, they are just meant to be.
Then, he began, leaning a mere hairsbreadth away from her, I suggest you become quite liberal in your explanations. For I am not known for my patience. Causing her to chuckle warmly.
You make such humorous remarks now, blood of my blood, she replied, stroking his cheek. Not deflated in the least when he caught her free hand in his powerful grip. Utterly amused with his attempt to control her and in turn wanted to vex him, if only slightly. I do not remember you being so funny. Her cheeky grin promptly airing out the stifling mood.
With a furrowed brow at the female whom was currently plaguing his life, the Dark Lord swiveled toward the doorway at last. He required time and space to process what exactly was happening with this most provoking, infuriating, maddening…
Irritating, exasperating, trying… She finished his train of thoughts with a melodious laugh. Causing him to pull his hand away from her decisively at her impudence. Huffing at her gall to laugh at him. At him! He leveled her with a very stern look. Lifting his chin and setting his jaw.
"Now, now brother. Don't be so serious, I mean no affront." She spoke aloud this time, since he stole back his hand. "You used to tell me I was a culmination of all of these things quite regularly. It is comforting, I suppose, to know that has not changed. Even after all this time; what year is it again?" His jaw released some of its tension, but he remained nonplussed.
"2022," he replied succinctly. Voldemort continued up the last few steps, as she inhaled deeply at the response. Her mind steadily processing her own thoughts and emotions, as she made to follow.
The set of arched black lacquered doors stared back at him, finally sensing his intent to enter. The ancient slabs of stained ash wood opened promptly in a grand sweeping gesture worthy of the Lord of the Manor. Their spikes and hardware gleaming off the candle lit foyer just beyond. Their welcome to him was as practiced and expected as the low pitched bows of his followers. He garnered respect and subservience wherever he traveled across the globe.
It was an instinctual response to his dominant magical core, which refused to cower to another. It was also what unnerved him about Vera. Now that he was back in the privacy of his own thoughts, alone, he could make sense of it. Her magic continuously intertwined with his, and his responded in kind with no contempt or will to dominate. Her magic was consistently caressing his and dancing back just out of reach. Gliding around his, when they were close.
In response, his magic flared and waned in a pulsing fashion. Almost as though it was enacting some ephemeral dance, as if it was trying to coax hers closer, but at the same time refusing to let her stray too far. If he was to be truly honest with himself, he didn't know the exact moment it began, but he was well and truly addicted already. She belonged to his Darkness, and he was determined to keep her. He could feel her magic this instant at his back, and he had the feeling he'd always know where she was in a room.
Stepping into the foyer, the fireplaces sparked to life across the estate. Warming the stone and marble to a pleasing temperature that his Nagini would approve of. Far better than the balmy 10 degrees Celsius, of the prison's bespelled climate. It was gratingly uncomfortable, but nothing as frigid as the current night's weather. The storms hitting the wizarding prison tonight were unseasonably cruel reminding him of nights in the Orphanage. He really despised the cold.
Following him inside, she had scarcely enough time to take in how sterile and unlived it felt inside the home, before the air was knocked completely out of her. Vibrations shook the air around her, as tendrils of hair lifted around her, crackling with magical energy. The room resounded with a thunderous hum, and the Dark wizard at her side could not help but to feel his ancestral home's desire to keep her. To never release her from its eager appetite.
How very reasonable, he thought, feeling no qualms against such a thought. Knowing his own magic was quite taken with her as well. In fact, the idea of her leaving the estate, felt uncomfortable to the extent that his chest had begun to tighten.
Parselmagic whispered through the halls as the house keyed itself to her blood rights as an heir of Slytherin. Confirming everything he had come to know as truth. She was indeed, blood of his blood. Heir to his ancestor's legacy. Worthy to enter such a place, and no Blood Test could be performed to dissuade him otherwise. The torches burned brighter and the property's wards flared white hot. Upstairs, he felt a sealed door unlock and swing open to the Lady of the House's Suite. Almost as if the house sensed her weakened state, as she had begun to sway dangerously on her feet.
He leapt forward. His robes flying about behind him in an unkempt manner. Wrapping her up in his arms as one would something truly precious, he began the climb up the grand staircase. Her face turned toward his chest, as she breathed deep and in turn so did he.
If he had been thinking clearly, he would have realized her magic had been put through immense strain these last few hours. More usage than her body was ready to withstand quite yet. Dumbledore's voice echoed in his mind suddenly. Grindelwald's gloating words that her time was nearly up, struck him deeper than he thought possible. A very harrowing thought, as he'd only seen a brief snippet of her visions and her death had been so prevalent, that he'd allowed himself to be slain while his back was turned.
As he held her in his arms down the long winding hall, he paused at the crux of two mirroring bed chambers. The Lady's Suite beckoned from the left, and for the first time since taking up residence here, he allowed his feet to carry him through the more feminine version of the Lord's Quarters.
Gazing down the long slope of her arched neck, he could see her pulse fluttering beneath the surface. Compelled, as he was to confirm she was real and not some wretched hallucination spun together by some combination of his horcruxes and his occasional dabbling in Necromancy. He allowed only his fingertips to graze her flesh, as he would his Nagini when she was resting peacefully. If ruled by his more covetous impulses, he would have already pressed his face into the curve of her shoulder. Inhaling the scent that was distinctly her. An aroma that warmed him to his bones, and distracted him to no end. Deciding it was best to give her a small modicum of privacy, for her sake and that of his withering control, he made his way through the receiving room and into the bed chamber itself.
The Ladys' Quarters had remained intact in every way since Salazar's wife had passed away. He'd left the rooms undisturbed through every pass as he uncovered more of his ancestral home's secrets. Eyes flicking to the lit hearth, he swept his magic through the room; banishing every speck of dust into oblivion. The bed, in all honesty, was fit to be given to a queen; lined as it was with silk, velvet, and furs. The intricately embroidered curtains surrounding the grand four post bed were pulled back to allow him to lay her exhausted frame across the furs. Her limbs were carefully positioned, and her untamed locks brushed to the side to keep it from being tucked under her shoulders and pulling.
He didn't know how long he stood there with his arms crossed across his chest, leaning against a post at the foot of her bed. Gazing down at her, while his mind meticulously worked through how his current plans would need to be rethought. Certain assets would need to be brought in to care for the house in ways he had not previously required. Far preferring to live untethered to any house-elf or attendant, and keep his secrets his own. He decided he would keep only a select few apprised of the situation at hand, until such a time when he discovered his spy's identity.
When he realized just how late it had gotten, he backed away. Letting himself out of the room quietly, as he had just remembered where he was expected at this very moment. Pausing just long enough to consider if he needed to seal her in the room. He decided instead to give her a small modicum of freedom, if only to see where she'd try to go. Knowing well that should she try to leave the manor, his wards would alert him.
Vera awoke violently gasping for breath.
Ripping herself from her night terrors, she sat up while taking in her surroundings. Unfamiliar walls and curtains wrapped her in a sort of silvery cocoon. The material felt slick and rich under her fingertips, with threads that wove in between thousands of other strands. Sliding from the bed's glorious comfort, she admired the room's outright opulence.
She admired every detail with a critical eye, her pale eyes matching much of the bed chamber's coloring. What appeared to be feminine silvers and grays, if she was to guess, told her this was a Ladys' Chambers. From the plush carpets under her bare feet to the unlit silver chandelier overhead, she was wrapped in luxuries she'd never seen the likes of before.
The hearth at the foot of her bed called to her to warm herself by the crackling flames. Perching in the emerald green damask chair nearby, she stared searchingly into the roaring fire. Feeling off kilter as to what exactly had caused her to be waking up in this strange bed with no memories of getting here. Vera wondered what exactly had taken place the moment she'd stepped foot into the foyer.
The house was a strange thing, indeed. She didn't know what it was about the place that made her feel connected to the framework, but it was almost like there was a piece of her magic reflecting back at her from within the walls. This had to be ancestral magic she was sensing. Salazar Slytherin had imbued himself into its core, and it was quite a thing to admire. She assumed it was keyed to her signature now, but how restricted she'd be in the house, she would need to discover for herself.
The idea of being locked away didn't sit well with her, but her body yearned for one thing now more than anything and it wasn't to reminisce. Standing up, she searched the nearby doors. Finding first, what she supposed passed for a prominent pureblooded female's closet. The room, though pitch black at first had quickly morphed into a mottling of greys and pastels. The lack of light, would have made it impossible for any normal witch to see anything but shadow; but Vera's gifted eyesight persevered.
Her magic, more than made up for her poor eyes, sweeping out over the many items within. Glimmering in slightly different patterns and hues, she could admit that it was still difficult to notice every minute detail. She could feel her magic sink into the daybed's velvety texture long before her palm stroked down its material. She could see the patterned papers lining the walls. The smooth gold-lined mirrors in the corner. The hundreds of pieces of clothing hung neatly around the room, interspersed by cabinets and drawers. The robes drew her eyes in a way that convinced her to reach out, skimming her fingers through their softly woven sleeves.
Though more of another bedroom than any closet she had ever seen before, she felt her eyes travel from one wall of treasures to the next. Running her fingers over the beaded dresses, she shuddered with a feeling of touching something so reminiscent of a mother's belongings. Inhaling deeply, she withdrew her hand protectively to hover over her chest. She had nothing of her mother's belongings; not even a name given to her in her dying breaths.
The ashen grey wood cabinets remained unopened, as she swore to return many more times in the following days. Their gilded silver handles called to her to reveal their bounty, but she refrained. Eager to spend a future sleepless night uncovering lost gems and treasures. Vera walked from the room, and pulled the door closed behind her with all the care that she'd once showed her most beloved books upon finishing.
The next door led to the Morgana blessed room she was searching for.
The private bathing chambers were painted with intricate vines and flora she could only dream of seeing in person. Opalescent tile lined the floor, guiding her eyes to the pristine marble inlaid tub that could easily fit two and then some.
Curved around the tub, just on the otherside was a floor to ceiling window. It was obscured almost entirely from her view by the heavy draperies, just as those in the previous rooms. They kept the rooms cloaked in soothing shadows, so she left them as they were. Wishing for the privacy and solitude, which their being closed provided. Daylight had already begun to creep out from around the edges, but she desired privacy.
Seeking some semblance of normalcy, she reached for her newly acquired wand, still hidden in the magically crafted pocket in her dress. Balancing it in both hands, she rolled it between the pads of her fingertips. Then adjusting it to her dominant hand, she flicked it lazily around, encircling the room. Commanding her magic to breath fiery life into the lanterns.
"Incendere," she whispered. Watching light bloom from the vanity to the sconces, and the candles lining the tub's platform.
Catching movement in the corner of her vision, she turned to peer into the mirror's depths. But all she saw was the reflection of a woman, who looked as lost as she felt inside. Walking closer, she stared into very eyes that had been called freakish and ugly. They practically glowed with magic, even in the dimly lit room.
They disturbed others, for whether they spoke their thoughts or she skimmed the thoughts from their mind; she knew. The way anyone who has a deformity or some aberration would, especially when it conspicuously sat on the face of an otherwise beautiful girl. For she had no illusions that she had always turned nearly every head in the room. It was a perilous thing to feel so watched, as a child. Not in the hopeful way a couple might look upon a potential addition to their family. Particularly when all you wanted was to be left alone to your fixations. Now, they watched for different reasons.
Moving her sights to the dull clumps that made up her unkempt mane, she shuddered in disgust. It was steadily creeping closer to the floor everyday, even with her lack of proper diet. It hung in heavy disarray down past her hips, pulling painfully on her scalp. She was sickened by what it represented, a life away from grooming and freedom to wear her hair how she wished. The ends were damaged and in desperate need of a true cut. Years ago, she had even sharpened a piece of stone in her cell, to help her cleave the weighted mess from her, time and time again.
It was sickening to see what had become of her glowing waves that had once filled her with such pride. Now it refused to cease its unending growth like a malignant illness that grew stronger as her body grew weaker. Her fingers could only comb through it and braid the wretched length for so long, before she felt like it was smothering her. She could remember the terror of Grindelwald wrapping his fist in it, and yanking her head back, so she couldn't escape the vulgar look of what was shining in her once professor's eyes.
Now holding up the broken ends that looked eager to be put out of their misery, she raised her wand. Aiming the tip toward the line that would easily shear over a foot of its length from the rest, a simple charm which spilled from her lips with her next breath.
"Diffindo."
Admiring her handiwork, she set to work slicing the dress to ribbons and setting fire to their remnants. Wrapping a protective charm around the small pyre, so as not to set the house ablaze, with her ire. She admired every cursed thread being obliterated into dust. Whispering "Evanesco," to vanish any trace of ashes, after the fact. She did not choose that dress all those years ago, nor was she conscious as it was forced upon her.
Now here she stood, stark naked on the tile. Her only piece of clothing she previously owned, having disappeared from sight. She felt a mite deranged, but found herself chuckling at any rate, toward the progress she had come in the last hour alone. Spinning away from the vanity, she turned to the tub with renewed vigor.
"Aguamenti," she cast, wishing to wash Azkaban from her skin as much as her mind.
Tapping the inside of the tub with her wand, she had but to wait only a few seconds, before the level rose enough for her to lift her wand from its task. Sweeping a quick heating spell on the water's depths, she reached for some bath oils that would delight her senses. Finding some stored in the cabinetry nearby, she accio'd a few linens and such over from the far-most closet. Then resting her wand on the lip of the bath, next to one of the candles, she was finally ready.
Then with a deep inhale that seemed to settle in her core, she stepped into the near scalding hot bath. Instantly feeling the oils softening her skin, and the water washing her worries, grief, and tension from her body and mind. Leaning back, she dipped her head beneath the surface. Submerging herself completely and utterly in the blissful sensations. Lying back, she felt her magic pulse around her contentedly. The water rising and falling across the surface as some spilled over the lip of the tub. The burgeoning waves stemming from the tranquil vibrations rolling off her bare skin.
Running her fingers through the now weightless silvery lengths of her hair, she felt as if she was dreaming. Platinum blonde curls licked through the water around her like underwater flames. She was far from the nightmares that plagued her sleep, down here below the surface. But with lungs burning for air, she moved to sit up. Pouring some soaps into her hand, she washed her hair thoroughly; as though she was trying to also wash something less visible away, at the same time.
Springing back up from the water's depths, she gathered her hair down by her shoulder; twisting it free from the water. Lifting her hair up into the air, she spiraled it up into a high twist at the top of her head. Sticking it into place with a few wordless magical binds, her locks tightened around itself like a snake refusing to release.
Pressing her fingers into her eyelids and down her face, she cleaned off the excess water droplets. Using her wandless magic, she dragged the washcloth across the water's surface. Dipping it in the cleansing oils, before guiding it across her shoulders and down her back. Pressing it against the knots in her muscles, she hummed in relief.
One arm outstretched, as the material spiraled and stroked its way down to her inner wrist, before twisting back up to clean the opposite limb. Her magic flexed as she gained control back over the most rudimentary usage of magic she had ever learned. Her technique could use a little work, but it was like her magic was as ready to stretch its limbs as she was to let it.
Kneeling, she sent the cloth stroking down her breasts. She particularly liked pressing the cloth against her ribcage and circling her nipples that ached to be touched. It had been years since she'd felt comfortable enough to find release, with the open bars at the foot of her slab she'd slept on. Privacy was a long forgotten comfort to her. The other inmates didn't feel nearly as stifled as she did however, much to her repugnance.
The cloth slid further below the water's surface, and she lifted up. Spreading her legs further, as she felt the material glide across her pleasurably. Up and down it glided, electrifying her senses. Igniting every hint of desire she felt denied her all these years, in one fell swoop. It was strange, caressing her breasts with her hands as she focused all her will toward the sliding motions beneath the water. More, she demanded.
Closing her eyes, she could almost convince herself there was someone with her. Soaring, she only thought: 'More. More. More.' Leaning back, she wanted to feel his chest against her shoulders, not the unforgiving feel of marble. She wanted a strong arm twined unforgivably around first her waist then her neck, as she arched back. She would twist to bury her face in his neck, and she would feel his rapid pulse. She would taste his skin and nip at that one sensitive spot that made him growl. His breath would race out across her flesh.
Abandoning all pretense, she moaned as she grinded up against the hot material. Hand sliding down to hover just shy of touching herself in concentration. Her fingers tensed and outstretched as she quickened the gliding strokes to vibrations that sent excruciating light flickering behind her lids. Arching her back, she couldn't say if she cried out or not in the height of her climax. But coming down, she still felt on the edge of something powerful.
So without pause, she flung the washcloth to the floor.
Guiding her fingers into herself, she ached to feel the smooth slide of hot flesh on hot flesh. Water splashed rhythmically as she touched herself. But before she could do more than stroke two fingers deep into the place where she was all velvet and silken folds, she was shaking in pleasure. Head thrown back with lashes falling heavy across her cheeks, her teeth sunk into her bottom lip.
All the while, her thumb drove never-ending circles over her clit. Her thrusting fingers finding the pleasure center just inside her; pressing up and curving toward her abdomen. Thrusting and grinding against herself in utter bliss. Vera was suddenly all feminine sighs and cries of relief as she climaxed.
For a moment, there was nothing but absolute white noise.
Then the tears came clawing to the surface, fighting to break free. Glaring up at the ceiling with her teeth clenched fiercely, she refused their appearance. No tears would be shed tonight, she forbade them. Tears had been stolen from her, and she would not let them be given again. They were weakness, and she was nothing if not weak.
It was not in her nature to reside in somber thoughts. Her childhood had been rank with bitter misconceptions, lies, and an unforgivable hope that she and her brother would be taken in by a deserving family. But this was not about that. This was about more than allowing herself a good cry. This was her claiming her body back from the place her enemies had taken it. Perhaps there had even been a name on her lips, as she reached fulfillment, but this was above all hers.
She remembered the desire to be touched in a way that made her feel warm all over. Cherished. Like she belonged. That as a woman, she was more than wanted. That someone wanted to breathe her in and give her breath in exchange. More importantly that one would come for her if she disappeared from the face of the earth.
The candles circling her had long since been extinguished, along with the flames all around the room much to her surprise. When she came to, the room was once more cloaked in achromatic hues. Like the house realized she deserved this moment of peace away from prying eyes.
Coming to her senses, she stood and wrapped her towel around her. Grabbing her wand just long enough to lackadaisically banish her shorn hair and the washcloth from the floor. Evaporating the water in the tub and from the tile in the next swish. All in all, the room was tidied and no evidence remained of the absolute chaos and bliss that had just overtaken the room.
Stepping into the bedroom she dropped the towel, wand flinging it over to drape itself across a chair near the hearth. Walking over to the bed, she pulled down the many blankets. Tucking herself into its clutches, she sighed through her contentment, until she was fast asleep.
Several hours later, she awoke to a rustling sound above her head. Opening her eyes, she was pleasantly surprised to find a set of particularly beautiful scales peeking out from in between her pillows. Waiting patiently, she finally caught sight of the head peeking out over the rise of the other pillow.
"Hello lovely," she greeted the serpent, Parseltongue slipping from her lips breathily as she found her voice. Slowly blinking away the drowsiness, she moved her hands up to cup her cheek, as she remained on her side.
"Who are you, female sleeping in my Master's home?" Nagini spoke very clearly, wasting no time, in her demand for an explanation. The speaker before her had a scent that was very alike that of her Master. His mate? She privately wondered as Nagini stared with unblinking serpentine orbs.
"Vera Eleanora Riddle, sister of the Dark Lord. Speaker of serpents by right of blood."
"I see," she replied, pleased that the speaker answered quickly. "You speak the tongue very well. Have you a familiar of your own?" Her tongue slid out from her maw, as she tasted the air around this female. Sensing something eerily comforting in her magic and demeanor, the serpent chose to creep closer.
"Not anymore. I was taken from her many years ago. But I have foreseen what was to become of her in my absence. I am a seer of things unseen."
Her features turned from somber to a familiar rigidity, the snake recognized all too well. As the Dark Lord's closest confidant, she grew all too accustomed by his tendency to grow uncannily still when readying to strike. Or at the very least thinking of things that could drive him to commit murderous acts.
"Hmm? Claimed by another?" She persisted. Egging the female speaker on in hopes of hearing more or at the very least, seeing just how poisonous her bite might prove to be.
"Murdered. Slain by the Potter child, whilst protecting your Master."
Rearing up, the deep malachite snake stood tall. Respectfully inclining her head, to signify how high a regard she held for the nearly white-haired beauty.
"Then she was the Great Queen who lived in the school." Her demeanor shifting from nonchalant to new found deference in a second.
"Sashir was a Queen, yes. I mourned her loss with a heavy desire for spilled blood and ripped out organs."
"As you are owed, bereaved Mistress. Sister of my Master, I find your thirst for blood pleasing. You may call me Nagini, and tell me how lovely my scales are whenever you would like."
Winding down under the bedding closer to her new consort, Nagini intertwined herself up her topmost leg. Vera lifted it a few inches off her other leg, so the serpent could spiral her way up her body. Nagini was intent on absorbing her warmth, as she was in between meals and not as warm as she would like to be. The heaviest piece of her length laid securely over her new companion's waist, allowing for little movement to disturb her sleep cycle. She curled her top half up her spine and around her head on the pillow.
Wherein they both closed their eyes once more, as the pair of them relaxed into a restful slumber.