(At around 7:10 this morning, the twenty-sixth of June, Talriga is doing a dance around the house, screaming, "Yes! Yes! Yes!")

Well, the results for the June SAT I just came out online this morning. And—guess what?

2390! I got 2390 out of 2400! Yes!

My day has been absolutely wonderful. Not only did I make a nearly perfect score on the SAT I, I also hit a home run in a softball game (My very first one; it happened to be the one which broke a tie--the winning home run.).

Ah, but I'm probably boring you all with my account of today. So, about Ch. 18—

Warning: There is some description of torture in this chapter. Blame it all on Bellatrix.

Chapter 18

The holiday Severus hated most was probably Halloween.

First, there were those ridiculous jack-o'-lanterns floating around the Great Hall, grotesque expressions carved into the pumpkins, candles hovering within the orange spheres and flickering with a mellow light. Not to mention the hordes of bats that swooped overhead and irritated Severus to no end; he idly wished that he could set fire to some of the bats and see how they reacted.

Then there was the colour scheme. Orange. And black. Black was all right; black was black, and Severus wore that colour all the time. It suited his mood best, and it went along with his hair. Albus always said it made him look like a vampire, but Severus considered it perfectly fine to ignore him, since Albus was the kind of person who thought bright pink was a wonderful colour—"No wonder you like Nymphadora Tonks so much," Severus had said snidely one time. "Both of you have atrocious taste in fashion."

But orange—bright, ridiculous orange, contrasted with black—it looked dreadful. He had to admit, he thought it was worse than the red and green of Christmas (and just who had had the bright idea of putting Gryffindor and Slytherin colours together? Must've been an imbecile, Severus supposed). Worst of all, it gave Albus an excuse to wear robes of bright orange and black, with little dancing skeletons and snarling black cats on them, which only served to promote the image of batty old Albus Dumbledore. Then again, he was batty sometimes, and he was old. But still…

"Turbot, Severus?" Minerva asked, gesturing to a pewter dish next to her which was occupied by the European flatfish, its two eyes (disconcertingly enough, on the same side) dully staring upwards.

"No thank you, Minerva," Severus replied, and took another small stab at his beef sirloin.

And finally, Severus half expected something bad to happen. Again. He was forever aware of what had happened on Halloween. What had happened, fifteen years ago: when he had momentarily been released from the Dark Lord's service, but one of his friends had died. And he could never really forget why Lily Evans had died—because he had inadvertently set the Dark Lord on her and Potter when he had followed Albus's orders and reported the first part of the prophecy to him.

He knew he himself regretted it; he knew Albus regretted it, that instant when the old wizard had tried to play war leader and knowingly put people in danger, and yet had not quite succeeded in keeping his emotional detachment. Albus could be a war leader, sometimes, but he also loved others too much to stay that way for long.

Severus had broken his promise to Lily that he would keep the Death Eaters away from her; he had narrowly avoided the backlash of not fulfilling the life-debt with which James Potter had saddled him. At that time, Severus remembered, the Dark Lord had been fully terrorising the British wizarding world, and the prophecy had been intended as a way to distract him. Now he wished he'd never given it to the Dark Lord. Prophecies were self-fulfilling; not all of them came true, if no-one acted upon them; and that meant Lily might have survived. When he had first considered time-travelling, he had thought that he might even go further back in time and prevent Lily's death, but he had grudgingly recognised the fact that the world would be so changed through his actions that he would be unable to know anything that might happen.

And then, of course, there was that list of Halloween incidents that had occurred ever since Harry Potter had come to Hogwarts. Severus glanced over at the Gryffindor table to see Potter finishing off a baked potato. What a complacent boy, his messy black hair sticking up in all directions and falling over his scar. He wondered if Potter ever really thought about how he was supposed to defeat the Dark Lord. He wondered how Lily had managed to defeat the Dark Lord, the first time around (because Lily had defeated him through her sacrifice, not the Potter boy, and perhaps it was that which really infuriated Severus; why all this fuss about the Boy-Who-Lived, what about the Woman-Who-Died? Harry Potter had been a one-year-old, most likely some snotty little brat.). And he wondered how he was to take care of all the issues that crowded into his mind and demanded his attention. Eadmer ap Sirideainn's diary, which he had brought back from Percy Weasley's flat earlier in the day, was in his rooms; he had to keep an eye on Draco and Madam Rosmerta; and then there were the centaurs—

"Severus! Don't be grumpy, cheer up!" (Severus suppressed the urge to raise his eyebrows. No-one had ever told him that before in so open a manner.) "Here, have a mince pie, won't you?"

It was Horace Slughorn, although Severus had guessed as much. Only Horace had that peculiar quality of almost always sounding annoying jovial and actually telling Severus to be just as annoyingly jovial.

Just because his disposition is naturally jovial doesn't mean you should insult him, said Hogwarts chidingly.

"Very well, then," Severus said, taking the proffered mince pie from Horace, who was leaning around the ghost of Harold Binns and discreetly trying not to talk through the ectoplasmic being out of politeness. "And how are your classes?" It was a bland question, one that Severus was sure would have Horace talking for some time, requiring only some noncommittal reply from Severus here and there.

Horace's face lit up, and the tips of his mustache quivered with some emotion akin to enjoyment. "Oh, they've been proceeding quite nicely," he said. "Although the students are overly cautious at times. I've been encouraging Hermione Granger to experiment some more—she does tend to follow the directions too strictly—but she does have talent. I'm thinking that I may assign her an independent study project, as a matter of fact."

"I see," said Severus. Horace's conversations always seemed to gravitate towards Granger, his words full of effusive praise and whatnot. Many of the other professors, like Minerva, joined him in doing so; Severus simply found it all rather tiresome, and it amused him that the only other professor who agreed with him was Sibyl Trelawney. "What do you have in mind?"

"Well, I'm not quite sure yet—in any case, it would be after Christmas break. Two months isn't much time to brew a potion that requires more than that, and that's the kind of potion I have in mind. Maybe the more complicated ones, such as… oh, Veritaserum. Or Rememorari. I'm sure she'd like it."

"Undoubtedly," Severus said dryly. "Miss Granger tends to regard any kind of schoolwork with an excess of enthusiasm."

Hogwarts sighed. You and your backhanded compliments.

Backhanded compliment? Severus asked. I don't see any compliment in calling her a teacher's pet.

If she were a teacher's pet, she wouldn't have stolen potions ingredients from your supplies four years ago.

Severus simmered, unable to think up a quick retort. A thousand years or so of existence had given Hogwarts castle the unusual ability to be able to end a conversation with Severus on her own terms.

"Well, she's definitely enthusiastic." Horace beamed. "Much like Lily, you remember. Rather a shame to see that her Potions talent was not passed down to Harry."

"A shame, yes," Severus murmured. Under his breath, he added, "It probably would have been wasted, anyway."

"And he hasn't been able to come to one of my little soirees yet—he's very busy, it seems. The Chosen One, and all that." Horace sighed rather dramatically. "The poor lad, what a burden at such a young age."

"I consider the 'Chosen One' talk all rubbish," Severus replied. "As though there were some divine being out there directing our fates. I should think we make our own paths in life. In any case, Potter's just some reckless boy who has a tendency to be in the most improbable of situations." His voice was clipped and precise, sardonic and harsh.

"Now, now, Severus, you're being too hard on the boy. Especially considering You-Know-Who…"

"Well. Yes." Severus said the words evenly. "There is that, of course." There was always that to consider: the Dark Lord, in the shadows.

The conversation between Severus and Horace slowly sputtered and came to an end, and Hogwarts fell silent, contentedly basking in the gaiety of most of the students; Horace turned to chat with Magna Vector, who sat on his other side, while Severus was quiet and looked around the Great Hall. It was full of noise, brought about by the clattering of cutlery and the hubbub of voices, as the students set to devouring their food and demolishing the Halloween feast. Their cheerful conversations floated up to the ceiling, which showed the night sky, sprinkled with glinting stars.

But Severus caught sight of a hazy red object on the edges. Mars, the harbinger of war. It had been brightening for some time—just as the glowing, green Dark Mark was bursting above houses once again, with a whispered incantation—

Morsmordre.

Hogwarts twitched within his mind. She did not say anything, but he felt the sharp pain, the acute pain like that of a keen, flashing knife—twisting deeply, deeply, so very deeply, into his soul, and hers.

And he wondered when his Dark Mark would burn again, and bring more tidings of a capture, or an attack, or a death.

oOo

He had been an elderly man—probably in his late eighties, she guessed—but still physically healthy and quick on his feet. But Bellatrix Lestrange had won, in the end. Now Ellis Wyatt was dead, and nothing more than a waste of space.

Then again, he's always been a waste of space, thought Bella as she stepped over his body, not even deigning to look down at him. Mudbloods were like that, scurrying around and thinking themselves so equal to the purest of the pure. Pathetic, almost.

"Bellatrix." That was Coleus Yaxley, calling to her. He appeared in the open doorway. "We found the Wyatt woman. Trying to get past the Apparition wards." His lip curled slightly, showing his disgust at the woman's obvious stupidity.

"I'll deal with her," Bella said, smiling a smile like that of a shark descending upon its next meal. She turned her head briefly to survey the parlour, full of wrecked furniture and shattered possessions. Blood was smeared on the walls and splattered across her robes, and a growing dark red stain was discolouring the fluffy carpet where Ellis Wyatt was sprawled. Bella's smile only grew wider.

I think I will let the woman see her dead husband before I kill her, she decided. There's no point in letting her die without some torture before she does.

She walked through the doorway into the entrance hall. Amycus, the Carrow brother, was there, wand drawn over the bound and silenced form of an old woman with curly grey hair. Joanna Wyatt stared up at them, obviously terrified. Her wide eyes widened even more when she saw Bella.

"Her wand?" Bella said.

"Here," said Amycus, thrusting it into her hands.

Bella regarded it with something approaching revulsion, and then snapped it with an almost careless motion, throwing the broken pieces to the ground. "I'll take care of her," she said. "You haven't—done anything to her, have you, Amycus? I would hate it if you—spoiled my fun." She narrowed her eyes. Amycus Carrow, what a dimwit. And Yaxley always stood there and said nothing.

Amycus swung his head around to look at her, and sniggered. "I only wish."

Bella stood over the Wyatt woman and flicked her wand, removing the Silencio that had rendered her mute. "Mrs Wyatt," she said, her voice high and amused, "how very ill-mannered of you. Shouldn't you greet us properly?"

Wyatt only stiffened. Her eyes travelled over Bella, her face, her smile; rested upon her robes. Bella's robes were black, but she could still see the blood dripping down the cloth. "Where's Ellis?" she said, not quite managing to conceal the raw fear and hatred that showed through her thin veneer of forced restraint, her voice not yet a scream. "What have you done to him?"

"Silly, silly," Bella crooned, reaching down and tilting up Wyatt's head, her nails digging into her skin. "He was rather boring, you know. Both of you are. Poor, poor Ellis. Little Ellis." She gave Joanna Wyatt a poisonously sweet smile, but Wyatt only flinched back from her and shrank away, as much as she could while bound with ropes. "He couldn't even scream that long, such a pity. He had a wonderful scream, you know," she continued, her voice almost dreamy.

Joanna Wyatt's face went stark white.

And then Bella met her eyes—Legilimens—and dove into her mind.

A pitiful mind, she decided as she exited it. Weak, and feeble, and powerless. The woman's death would be all the more… enjoyable. Even if she did snap early on.

"Go ahead," she said to Yaxley and Amycus. "Look through their papers, as our Lord commanded."

Yaxley nodded, a brusque movement of his head that slashed through the air. Amycus looked rather sulky, as though he would have liked to stay with Bella and see what would happen, but he followed Yaxley upstairs, throwing a dark look back at her.

Bella smiled again, and the ropes around Joanna Wyatt fell away from her. Wyatt stared, her eyes full of astonishment and a touch of wariness, and then took a step back. "Come now, not so fast," Bella called out. "Wouldn't you like to stay and play?" Really, she thought, the Mudblood is being so very stupid.

Wyatt did not reply; she turned around, ready to run, but Bella sang out, her voice caressing the incantation, "Imperio." At once, Wyatt relaxed. Turn around, Bella thought lazily, and the woman turned. Her face had gone slack, although she seemed to twitch a little here and there.

"Let's go into the parlour, shall we?" Bella said, almost as though she were holding a conversation, and pushed Wyatt towards the entrance, the two of them going back into the wrecked room. "Kneel," she continued, and the woman knelt, the body of her dead husband before her.

Bella cocked her head to one side, and then slid a little bit more into Wyatt's mind, a feeling of intense pleasure within her. Oh, this is going to be so much fun. As she gave Wyatt more commands, Wyatt dipped her hands into her husband's blood, pooling around and in him, and began to paint a crude version of the Dark Mark on his face.

Bella stood to the side and admired her handiwork. And then she released the Imperius Curse.

Wyatt's face tensed; she blinked, realising where she was, and then she looked down and shrieked. Bella only laughed.

Ellis Wyatt had been rather messily killed; Bella had eviscerated him—slowly, painfully slitting him from the hollow of his neck to his navel while he had lain immobile under her Petrificus Totalus and his eyes had screamed silently and he had gasped his last breath while Bella watched, regarding his beating heart with a sort of dark fascination. His heart, lungs, and intestines spilled out of him and onto the floor; Bella had directed his wife to put her hands in his chest cavity, which Bella had filled with his blood. The Dark Mark on his face stared up at the Wyatt woman, mocking her with its very existence.

Joanna Wyatt screamed; she seemed to have lost all reason and all sanity. Her world had exploded in front of her eyes, and now it was only her, with her bloody hands, and her husband gutted like any other animal, and the marks of his struggle in the parlour, on the walls and on the floor. Her mind broke and splintered, like a fragile glass bubble now nothing more than tiny shards.

Bella laughed.

Joanna Wyatt was still screaming when Bellatrix Lestrange, laughing a laugh of pure malicious triumph, drew out a sharp knife and, in one quick sweeping motion, cut off the woman's head.

oOo

The newest edition of the Daily Prophet crumpled under Henry Wyatt's hands. The Auror tossed it to one side and strode out of the room. There was a strange smouldering look on his face; his eyes burned with rage and sorrow. They were not red; he had not cried when news of the murders had come in the early dark morning.

The others watched him silently as he went. Dagny bent down and picked up the newspaper, smoothing it out and looking at the front page. There was no picture accompanying the article, but they all knew that Henry Wyatt's parents had been savagely slaughtered. Disembowelled, beheaded.

Dagny bowed her head and thought, And then the rest is silence.

oOo

"Oh my," said Hermione in a small voice. "There was another attack last night."

Harry looked up from his plate, where he was slicing up a tomato. "Who?" he asked.

"Ellis and Joanna Wyatt," Hermione read from the Daily Prophet, her voice trembling slightly, "aged eighty-six and eighty-two, respectively, were murdered last night at their home on the outskirts of Bristol." She came to a sudden stop. "It's horrible," she finally said frankly. "They—they cut off her head! And they took out his heart and everything—while he was still alive!"

"Hermione," said Ron, turning to look at her, "please. We're eating breakfast, for Merlin's sake, I don't want to be sick!" He shook his head and returned his gaze to his food, but not before Harry noticed him sneaking a glance full of suspicion at the Slytherin table. Harry tried to see what Ron had been looking at, but all he saw was Malfoy, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle and prodding at his kippers with something approaching distaste.

Quietly, Harry brought a hand up to his neck. Hermione's gift, the gold chain with the rune, was around his neck, and Ron's pocket watch was attached to the chain as well. The rune and the pocket watch were concealed under the front of his robes, but he felt for them just the same. He had begun to wear both of them after the Hogsmeade incident.

They—they cut off her head! And they took out his heart and everything—while he was still alive!

Harry shivered, and thought of hands on the small platinum pocket watch, pointing to mortal peril.

oOo

I'm not quite sure if my portrayal of Bella is accurate, seeing that I've never known anyone like Bellatrix Lestrange (and hopefully never will). Dagny's thought, "And then the rest is silence," is from William Shakespeare's play Hamlet: "The rest is silence." (Act 5, Scene 2)

If you look very closely, you'll see a hint of foreshadowing. Shan't say where though! ;)

And after such a great day, I'd appreciate it if you could make it even better by reviewing:)

Talriga