Harry Potter and the Power of the Past
Disclaimer: All JKR's, not mine.
Summary: This is a complete AU- Harry Potter is a 21-year-old wizard, who's on top of the world. He's rich, in love, and loved by all, but his life is turned upside down as a spiral of events leads to the ultimate battle between good and evil. Can Harry lead the fight for the light, but yet manage to keep his life together?
A/N: Thanks for the reviews everybody. Oh, and review again!
S/N: Well, Despereaux makes his first appearance in this chapter, and you find out why he's such an important character to this story.
S/N 2: Three new characters will be becoming bigger characters now, who each have plots and storylines for themselves, beginning with this chapter: Despereaux, Rabastan, and Quirrell.
Chapter 23: Run to and fro
In a cottage that stood alone on a cliff overlooking the sea, Bill Weasley waited patiently in the sitting room, his gaze focused on the fireplace that adorned the far wall. The walls were covered in shells and were whitewashed, clean and professional. It was a lonely and beautiful place, and the constant ebb and flow of the sea could be heard from everywhere on the property. It was like the breathing of a great, slumbering creature, its lungs eternally going up and down, perpetually rising and falling. It had been his home for a few weeks now, just over six, and he had come to adore it with such great passion that he couldn't stand that he hadn't lived in it for longer, for all of his adult life.
Suddenly, the fire burned green and out stepped Fleur Delacour, her blonde hair framing her face, and soon followed by a man, presumably Despereaux Barnaud. The man, who was dressed in royal blue robes, had curly brown hair, brown eyes, and a slight stubble, though he wore it well. He was of slight stature and medium-height, smaller than Bill was, but in no way short. All in all, he was a pretty handsome wizard. "Bill!" Fleur cooed in her French accent, rushing over to the redheaded man with a large smile.
"Hello Fleur." Bill grinned, giving her a kiss on the cheek. Looking over her shoulder, he waved to the man, warmly and invitingly. "You must be Despereaux." He said, as Despereaux returned the wave with a smile.
"Bill, I presume." Despereaux replied, politely, his accent surprisingly not as thick as Fleur's. The pair shook each other's hands, introducing one another: Despereaux's grip was tight and respectful, and he made eye contact with Bill the whole time. Bill gestured to the kitchen, where a dinner spread was laid out, waiting for people to eat it. There was a chicken and ham pie, served with boiled potatoes and salad, and a silver pitcher of pumpkin juice. After pouring three glasses of juice, Despereaux grabbed his cup and raised it into the air in a kind of toast. "To a good dinner and weekend." He said, smiling and taking a sip, Bill and Fleur following suit.
"Harry," Tonks said, quietly, as she stood at the door of the library; Harry was sitting at his desk, perusing some papers. Her voice was soft and hesitant, though not warningly so. She waited patiently for him to respond as she played with her fingers.
"Hm?" Harry replied, not looking up. He dipped his quill into an inkbottle as he wrote a few words on an envelope. Harry Potter, Hitwizard, he scrawled in neat, elegant script on the manila folder.
Tonks took a breath, and gulped down the ball that was in her throat. She came into the room, slowly, inching closer and closer to Harry's position. Harry put his quill down, and flicked his gaze up towards her, smiling pleasantly. "I think…" She said, nervously, stuttering slightly. "No, not I think, I know that…that I'm pregnant."
Harry's jaw fell open as he stared at Nymphadora with wide, curious eyes. "You're serious?" He questioned, surprised. Seeing her tentative nod, he grinned, jumped up and raced towards her, engulfing her in a hug, twirling her around in the air. "Really?" He asked as excitement rushed inside of him, filling him with energy and adrenaline.
"Yes!" Tonks giggled, allowing Harry to spin her around. Harry put her down, looked into her eyes and kissed her, deeply and passionately, tasting her familiar flavor. "I love you." Tonks whispered, breaking apart. "I love you so much."
"And I you." Harry said, reaching down and running a hand over Tonks' stomach. Then, as if struck by lightning, Harry jolted away, looking at Tonks with fear and sadness, a mix of emotions. "You're not leaving the house. With Voldemort out there, it's too dangerous; too dangerous for you and our child."
"What?" Tonks replied, confusedly, stricken by the turn of events. Just seconds ago, he was so happy, so thrilled at the prospect of having a child, of having a baby. Now it seemed as if he was revolted, scared, and nervous. Did he think that less of her, that she couldn't handle herself, nor protect her child? Surely he was joking, wasn't he?
"Voldemort will go after you, to hurt me, to make me suffer." Harry said, turning around, not bearing to look at Nymphadora. Memories of growing up in the Dursley's house came rushing into his mind, flooding his thoughts and emotions with their terrible and wicked afflictions. They would lock him in the cupboard for hours on end, not even feeding him or granting him access to the bathroom. The only things he had to entertain himself as a young child were dead spiders and pieces of wood that were chipped off of the stairs.
"And that's different from the way things are with me only being your wife, rather than your pregnant wife, how exactly?" Tonks rebutted, her voice like venom. She was a good Auror, maybe no Kingsley, but still, she was good, how dare he treat her like a child! She knew, in her heart of hearts, however, that his intentions were good, but still.
"It just is, okay!" Harry shouted, his back still to Tonks. His reaction, which was so vehemently emotional, immediately made Tonks realize that there was something deeper to this, something that went past him and Tonks. Tonks moved forward, putting her hand on his shoulder, squeezing it softly. "I just…I just don't want whatever kids we have to not know us, okay? I just want our child to grow up with at least one parent."
His mind couldn't help but drift off to the prophecy that loomed above him, the one that steered his fate. 'One must die at the hands of the other…for neither can live while the other survives…' There was a serious possibility that he would die, die at Voldemort's hand, at the Dark Lord's feet. And if that ended up being his destiny, his fate, he wanted to make sure his son or daughter would know the love of his parents, unlike when Harry was growing up. The Dursleys had told Harry that his parents were nobodies, that they were losers and bums who had got what they deserved when they died in the 'car crash'—though, and Harry had found this out the first day in the wizarding world, that that couldn't be farther from the truth. And now, knowing what he knew, it hurt him to think that he would never know the touch of his mother, or be able to go flying with his father: it was a fate he didn't want his child to have.
"Harry, that won't happen to us, okay, but I will not stay inside and hide like a coward." Tonks said with an edge to her voice. She understood his feelings, really she did, but they deviated from hers so immensely that she couldn't stay mum about it. "I don't want our baby growing up in a world with You-Know-Who in it, Harry, and I'm willing to give my life to make sure he or she never has to live with that."
"I…I…" Harry whispered, turning around and looking at Nymphadora: tears were in his green, emerald-like eyes. "I'm sorry, all right." He cried; she tenderly wrapped her arms around him, allowing the man to cry into her shoulder. "I'm just so worried for you, for us, for everyone."
"I know, honey, I know." Tonks cooed, kissing his head. He cried for a few more minutes, releasing all the pent up emotions inside of him, before stopping, a small smile coming onto his face. "We're going to have a baby!" Tonks giggled, knowing what he was thinking. Harry grabbed her hand and dragged her down to the kitchen, celebrating with some ice cream and butter beer.
They stayed up for hours, until the early morning, just talking, imagining what it would be like as parents. Harry, admittedly, wanted a boy, while Tonks wanted a girl. Of course, however premature it was, the conversation couldn't help but change to possible names. Nymphadora, absolutely abhorring her name, wanted to make sure her child wouldn't have a name like hers—though Harry loved her name, finding it charmingly original. "Fine, let's make a deal." Harry said, slowly, as a grin appeared on his face. "Whatever children we have, I get to choose the names for the boys and you can choose the names for the girls, deal?"
Tonks thought about it for a few moments before nodding, shaking Harry's outstretched hand. "Deal." She said, knowing that she had a fifty percent chance of having a child grow up with a normal name like Jasmine or Allegra. Harry, she thought, wouldn't go too extravagant with his names, though she knew he would definitely go the wizarding angle. "I can't wait for her to grow up so I can give her my tiara—just like my mother did for me."
"Her?" Harry whispered, cocking an amused eyebrow. "How do you know it's going to be a girl?" He questioned, smiling at his wife.
"A feeling." Nymphadora shrugged, grinning. She leaned in, resting on Harry's chest. They laid there for a few minutes, both with their eyes closed before they fell into a deep slumber, having no idea of what the next day would bring.
The Order of Phoenix found out just what Voldemort had meant the next morning, with the arrival of the Daily Prophet. "There's been a mass breakout at Azkaban...twelve Death Eaters have escaped." Bill Weasley said, grimly, as Fleur and Despereaux walked into the kitchen—he was sitting at the table, reading the paper.
Despereaux's eyes went wide, his face lost all its color, and he had small, hate filled scowl on his otherwise handsome face. "The Lestranges...did they escape, too?" He questioned, his face ashen, his voice hoarse. His hands seemed the to be trembling, with either rage or fright, Bill did not know which.
Bill ran a finger over the mug shots and profiles of the escapees: There was Antonin Dolohov, who had a pale, long and twisted face, incarcerated for killing Bill's maternal Uncles, Gideon and Fabian Prewett; Peter Pettigrew, a balding wizard, convicted of killing 13 muggles; Quirinus Quirrell, who was turban-less in his picture, imprisoned for using the Unforgivables on the teachers of Hogwarts; Augustus Rookwood, Voldemort's spy, put in Azkaban for spying on the Ministry; Travers, who looked bored in his picture, thrown into prison for killing Marlene McKinnon and her family; Mulciber, who, like Travers, looked bored in his picture, was placed in Azkaban for being Voldemort's Imperius curse specialist; Jugson and Gibbon, who were screaming in their mugshots, then laughing it off, both put in for various dark deeds and Death Eater actions; Avery, sr., who was aged and stooped, convicted of burning down a muggle village in Scotland; and, finally, the three Lestranges, all convicted of torturing Frank and Alice Longbottom—Bellatrix, who was smiling arrogantly in her picture; Rodolphus, who was thickset and staring blankly towards the camera; and Rabastan, who was thinner than his older brother, and his eyes were shifting all about, almost nervous-like.
"Yes," Bill nodded, looking up at Despereaux. "They did, why?" He asked, wondering why the wizard would ask specifically for those three; their crimes were heinous and horrendous, sure, but they weren't that much different from the other crimes that imprisoned the Death Eaters in Azkaban.
"I've...I've got to go." Despereaux replied, now completely white and sweaty. He went to turn, but was stopped by Fleur's hand on his arm. "Please, let me leave." He said, almost in a begging tone.
"What's going on?" Bill questioned in a mix of worry and confusion. It looked as if Despereaux had had a fever come over him in seconds. He saw Fleur give a slight nod of her head to Despereaux, and the man sighed as a result.
"Rabastan Lestrange," He said, turning back around to look at Bill; his eyes were dull and listless, and had a flame of anger in them that flared up every so often. "Is my father. My real name is Despereaux Lestrange; my mother's name is Solange Barnaud. I use her name because, well, I'm ashamed of what my father did."
"Wow," Bill whispered, looking back down at Rabastan's picture; there was a resemblance there that he hadn't noticed beforehand. But now, knowing what he knew, he could see the pair shared the same face structure, and the same dark eyes. "I'm sorry."
"Not your fault," Despereaux replied, dropping down into one of the seats. "Unlike my uncle, Rodolphus, who went to Hogwarts, my father went to Beauxbatons, where he met my mother. They got married, and a year after they left school, I was born. His father, my grandfather (who died a few days after), and brother called on him to come back to England and become a Death Eater—because he, too, believed in pureblood supremacy—and, like a lost dog, he went running back. Well, my mother wasn't too thrilled with that, so she changed her name back to Barnaud, mine as well, and took care of me on her own. Almost a year and a half later, the Dark Lord fell, and my father was being carted away to Azkaban for torturing information out of two Aurors." Fleur reached out, and grabbed Despereaux's hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. "Fleur, here, is the only one who knows that I'm a Lestrange."
Bill cocked an eyebrow, continuing to stare down at Rabastan Lestrange's picture. Unlike his brother and sister-in-law, Rabastan seemed a little apprehensive in his picture, like he didn't want to be there, or not a hundred percent at the very least; where as the other two Lestranges' eyes were locked in a steely resolve. "Why, and I hope I'm not stepping on your toes by asking this, did your father go to Beauxbatons?" Bill asked, genuinely curious.
Despereaux gave a small, sad smile. "His father and mother made a deal: one child would go to Hogwarts, the other would go to Beauxbatons. You see his mother, my grandmother, was a French witch who went to Beauxbatons. The Lestranges immigrated to England from France just a few generations ago."
"So what now?" Bill inquired. "Are you going to go back to France, hoping to stay away from Rabastan until he's caught or killed or given the Dementor's kiss?" Bill asked, though, in the wizard's mind, he knew that the Dementors had gone over to Voldemort's side, just like Harry had said.
Despereaux's eyes flicked over to Fleur as she quirked an elegant eyebrow up at him, seemingly daring him to do something. Then, taking a breath, he said, "No, I'll stay. If he wants me, he can come get me."
Sirius threw the Daily Prophet down on the table, disgusted. How the Ministry could rely on such foul, loathsome creatures like the Dementors to guard their prisoners were beyond him. Though, admittedly, he knew that the Dementors, when loyal, were very, very good at what they did. Now, however, with them going over to Voldemort's side, the Dark Lord had twelve of his most powerful and loyal servants back on his side; those who had been loyal to him all this time, including Pettigrew. Sighing, he fell into the chair, grabbing a muffin on his way down. Andomeda and Ted sat across from him, all the way at the other end of the long, polished table. He wanted to eat alone today, being sick to his stomach by the other Azkaban escapes.
"You-know-who acted a lot quicker than Harry thought he would, didn't he?" He heard Andromeda ask, though she wasn't really expecting an answer. He knew she was asking because it had stressed Harry out before when Tonks had told him before he went into work.
"I don't know how he thinks this is going to be pushed under the rug. Twelve people escaping the same day isn't something that can be easily shrugged off." Sirius muttered, taking a swig of his pumpkin juice, and then popping a piece of his muffin into his mouth. "Bellatrix will be coming for Nymphadora, you know." He said, staring at Andromeda straight in the eye.
"I know." She replied, softly. Ted bit his lip, hating that his daughter would be a target just because he had been born to muggle parents. "And me and you." She said, knowing that her and Sirius, being blood traitors, would be just as big of a target for Bellatrix to wipe out, pruning them away from her supposedly 'pure' family tree.
"I can take her." Sirius mumbled, knowing that Bellatrix, though a good and powerful witch was not his superior; if anything, they were equals, though Sirius thought himself better. "If not me, or even Nymphadora herself, than Harry surely can, easily." Ted gave a small grin at that, knowing Harry was far better at magic than Bellatrix could ever dream of.
"Potter," Pius Thicknesse, head of the Hitwizards, barked, staring down at the young wizard with his beady eyes. "I want you to find them!" He slammed his hands against the desk, making a few of the devices on it fall off, where they landed on the ground with a soft thud.
"I don't know if I'm going to be able to, Pius." Harry replied, frowning. "You know as well as I do who they're with and how and why they escaped."
"Find them." Pius growled, repeating what he had said just seconds before. It was his job, as the head of the department that caught wizard criminals, to get these escapees back into prison, to hunt and track them down with such vigor that the wizarding society feels safe, knowing that the Hitwizards could do anything.
"I'll try." Harry said, rising to his feet and walking out of the office. He bobbed his head to the other four Hitwizards who were on duty, each sitting in the break room, casually. There were always five on duty, with only thirty-five Hitwizards employed at any given time: no more, no less. Five worked for twenty-four hours straight, once a week, with another team taking over the next day, and then another after that. The cycle kept repeating itself over and over, rarely ever changing.
In a dark, shadowy room stood a tall, cloaked man, with twelve individuals bowing in front of him. The fire that burned on the other side of the room danced off of his chalky, pale, skull-like face. He gave them a vicious grin, his red eyes blazing intensely. "I have granted you, those who were loyal to me, freedom. Lord Voldemort promised to honor those who help him when he gave you your mark, did he not?"
"And we thank you, our lord!" A woman screamed, maniacally; her violet eyes held tears of pride in them. "We knew you would come! We knew you would honor us with your presence." She crawled closer to Voldemort, taking his robes in her dirtied hands and bringing them up to her lips, kissing them softly and lovingly.
"Yes," Voldemort smiled, staring down at Bellatrix. "Now go, Severus has graciously made you the most potent strengthening potions he could; rest, relax, get your powers back for Lord Voldemort will need your services in a short time." They all rose, bowed lowly one last time, and walked out, knowing their Lord would need them soon enough. Voldemort turned, and walked over to his throne, plopping down in it as Nagini slithered out from the corner, wrapping around his shoulders. "Very soon, Nagini, very soon." He hissed, knowing that his plan would come into fruition by the end of the week.
Quietly, the members of the Order of the Phoenix whispered amongst each other as they waited for Albus Dumbledore to arrive. A meeting had been called, and they all rushed to Grimmauld Place, each knowing just what it was they were there to discuss: the breakout of Azkaban. With the exodus of his most powerful servants, Voldemort's ranks had been bolstered immensely, while the Order had been given a deathly blow. Now, being severely outnumbered, the Order would have to fight and recruit without revealing themselves.
Dumbledore appeared a few minutes later, his usually smiling face was wearing a tired and slightly angry mask. "By now, I'm sure we've all heard the news." He said lowly, taking a seat at the head of the table. "What we do from here on out will decide how the side of light faces the war this time around." He looked around the table, scanning their faces for a reaction. "So now we must ask ourselves: what now?"
Later that day, in the twilight hours, Harry walked down Diagon Alley, heading towards Florean Fortescue's for a sundae. With the long day that he had had, he needed something to ease his mind, and nothing was better than an ice cream sundae. Before he reached Florean's, however, someone pulled him into a side alley—the man's long arms all but dragging him away from the public eye. "What the…?" Harry asked, confused, instinctively reaching for his wand.
"Harry," A familiar voice said, easing Harry's nerves a little. Standing there, his eyes downtrodden, was Neville Longbottom, a deep frown lacing his face. "I'm sorry, but I needed to talk to you. I know you're in charge, with Shacklebolt, in finding the escapees of Azkaban, and…I want to help. I want to help you find the Lestranges and the rest of them."
"Neville," Harry replied, gathering his thoughts and taking a deep breath, hoping to calm his nerves: he thought it was a Death Eater grabbing him, not a friend. "This is bigger than the escapees. This is bigger than either of us now, I'm afraid. Look, I know, I know about your parents and Bellatrix, but…that's something that I can't focus on right now."
"What are you saying, Harry?" Neville asked, hoping the feeling rising in his chest wasn't real. He couldn't be back, could he?
"Voldemort's returned." Harry told him, looking straight into the man's eyes.
It was like a kick in the chest, a jolt of lightning ran through Neville's body, throwing his mind into disarray. Yet still, with his thoughts scrambled, a well of courage shot up, surprising Neville himself by the reserve that had overtaken him. "Then surely the Order of the Phoenix, the group of wizards my parents were apart of, have come together, right? Surely you, a son of Order members too, one of the best wizards of our age, is apart of it, right? I want in, Harry: I want to fight."
Harry gave Neville the once over before nodding slowly, agreeing. "Meet me at my house later tonight, and we'll discuss it, okay?" Neville grinned, nodded, and walked away, leaving Harry alone in the small alleyway. After a moment, Harry turned and headed towards Florean's, still wanting that sundae.
"Potter," Three figures sneered as he neared Florean's: Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott, and Gregory Goyle. "Isn't it a little too dark for you to be out here? Doesn't your mudblood wife have a curfew for you?" Malfoy laughed, and the others chuckled, too.
"Showing your true colors, aren't you, Nott?" Harry mocked, looking directly into Theodore's eyes. "I would have thought you would have had higher standards than these…" His gaze moved over to Malfoy and Goyle, and his lip curled slightly. "Supposed wizards, who are no better in magic than Filch."
"Watch your back, Potter, because I'll be after it now for that comment." Theodore growled back, gripping his wand underneath his cloak. "You're lucky we're in public, or else I'd kill you on the spot." He sneered, angrily and aggressively.
"If anyone's killing Potter, it's me." Draco hissed, insulted by Harry comparing him with Goyle and Filch. He was a Malfoy by name, a Black by his mother, and a Spungen and a Rosier through his grandmothers: he was practically wizarding royalty in his mind.
"Whatever you say." Harry rolled his eyes, moving to the side and walking past the trio. "You'll be in Azkaban soon enough if you keep threatening me, count on that." Not too smart, gentlemen, Harry thought to himself, you're all but admitting that Voldemort is back. I thought his return was supposed to be a secret. He didn't look back as he walked into Florean's, not wanting to instigate anything further.
Two new members appeared at the meeting the next day, having been given a slip of paper by Sirius: Despereaux Barnaud and Neville Longbottom. The pair sat, uncomfortably and awkwardly, at the end of the table, the two last seats that had been put their just moments before the start of the meeting. The table was almost full, with only two seats in the middle open, waiting to be taken. The door to the basement swung open, and two figures walked down: one cloaked in blue, the other showing himself as Severus Snape.
Snape's eyes gazed over the table, momentarily narrowing at Sirius, before moving on where they stopped at Neville. A cruel, vicious smirk came on the spy's sallow face. "Longbottom." He said, mockingly, before taking his seat.
"Yes," Dumbledore nodded, starting the meeting. "As Severus has said, and as you all have noticed I imagine, we have two new members: Despereaux Barnaud and Neville Longbottom." After allowing the pair to say hello, Dumbledore threw the meeting open, as they discussed coming plans, information that they had gathered, and what they believed Voldemort's intentions were from this point on. It was short, not having that much information since Voldemort was still in hiding, but it accomplished what the Order needed.
"A group of Dementors, six total, have stayed in Azkaban, apparently loyal to the Ministry." Shacklebolt supplied, looking up to Dumbledore. "I spoke to them myself, with the Minister, and they shunned the other Dementors, promising that Azkaban would be kept safe for as long as they were there."
"Dementors can talk?" Neville Longbottom questioned, confusedly. He thought they were beasts, unintelligently feeding off the good in the world.
"Not really…it's complicated." Harry answered, turning his attention back to Shacklebolt. "And, what, we're supposed to believe them?" He questioned, knowing that the Dementors were only saying that so they would get the wizarding world to trust them, for when Voldemort's Death Eaters were captured and sent to Azkaban, they'd be able to release them.
"I think," Kingsley replied, slowly, taking his time to gather his thoughts. "That these Dementors know that what they have, free reign on the prisoners in Azkaban, free to suck their emotions out of them, that they know not to blow it. So, for the time being, yes, I think we can believe them." He said, biting his lip, wondering what Harry and Dumbledore thought.
"Dementors should have never been anywhere near Azkaban in the first place." Dumbledore muttered, gazing over the table, almost disinterestedly. He went quiet for a second, then, looking up, he said, "That is all for today." After giving the group a wave, he left the room, returning to his office.
Dobby apparated in with a pop the second Dumbledore left, appearing in the corner, next to the fire. With a snap of his fingers, Dobby served up lunch to the Order members: sandwiches, chips, and jugs of pumpkin juice. Some of them dug in, others left the house, going back to their own homes. "Why does Snape hate you so much?" Gaetana questioned Neville, sitting across from the wizard.
"Because he's a jealous, pathetic vampire." Sirius interjected, scowling at the thought of his archrival Snivellus. Oh how he hated the greasy, sallow wizard.
Neville bit his lip, frowning. "We're related: second cousins, actually. My mother was his mother's cousin, a Prince—Alice Prince."
"Barty," Voldemort commanded. "Bring me Pettigrew." He watched as the Death Eater left the room swiftly, then, a few minutes later, came in with a weary, thin wizard, with balding brown hair and saggy skin. Even with drinking a strengthening potion, the wizard, as with the other escapees of Azkaban, was still a wreck, and barely able stay awake and moving for less than an hour. "Where is my wand, Wormtail?" Voldemort hissed, staring down at the mangled wizard who was bowing in front of him.
Pettigrew looked up at Voldemort, his voice quivering and his body shaking. "Hidden away with my wand, master. I'll go get it straight away, but I'll need a wand to get to them." He said, hoping to please the Dark Lord.
"Very well," Voldemort growled, impressed that Pettigrew had been smart enough to get his wand after his defeat at the Potter's so many years ago. "Someone give him a wand; you will get it back when he returns with his and my wand." He barked, looking up at his Death Eaters. None of them moved. "No volunteers? Lets see…" His eyes swiveled around the room. "Amycus Carrow, give him your wand." He said, a hint of laughter in his high, cruel voice. "Did I not tell you that you would pay for your betrayal?"
"Yes, yes, my lord." Amycus replied, fearfully. He reached into his robes, taking out a white-wooded wand, and passing it to Wormtail, who took it greedily. Wormtail bowed, then scurried out the room, turning into a rat with a pop the second he was outside of the wards. As it was, too many people knew he was a rat animagus due to his trial, but there were still a select few who knew just what he looked like as a rat. With the amount of rats that were in the world, it wasn't a big deal that people knew of the transformation, but his appearance was something that he wanted to keep under wraps, to keep secret and hidden.
He apparated to a wooded area with a small lake off to the side: the place where he had hidden his and Voldemort's wand before joining the Weasley family. Off in the distance, he could hear voices coming from a slanted shack-like house, home of the said family. Illuminating Carrow's wand, he trudged through the leaves and mud, looking for that hollowed out boulder he placed the wands in. Finding it, he swished Carrow's wand above it, canceling out all the spells, curses, jinxes, and charms that he had placed on it all those years ago, which was almost twenty. Again he flicked Carrow's wand, levitating the boulder up, and twisting it over, revealing a small hole in the underbelly.
He reached into it, grabbing the two pieces of wood that were wrapped up in a purple cloth that was meant to protect them. Pettigrew stuck Amycus' wand inside his robes, taking his wand out from the cloth: leaving Voldemort's precious yew wand untouched and unwrapped. He gave one last look at the Burrow, before apparating out, appearing in front of an iron gate. Keeping stride as he walked towards it, he raised his right arm in a kind of salute, and passed through the gate, as if it were made of smoke. He continued up towards his destination, walking over the hilly terrain, and entering the house from the side. A Death Eater raised his wand, guarding the room the others were in, but seeing who it was, he dropped it, allowing Pettigrew passage.
The rat inched into the room, holding the purple cloth out in front of him, hoping to be praised by his devotion to Voldemort. "Ah, Wormtail, back already?" Voldemort said, rising to his feet. He reached out and scooped up his wand, a feeling of power washing over him: he was complete, whole. And now that he, most important and precious, Lord Voldemort, had gotten back part of himself that was missing, the world would tremble at his feet, recognizing their true master.
Rabastan Lestrange wrapped his long, dark cloak over his thin and haggard body. He marched out of his quarters, out of the manor, and out of the wards that surrounded the compound. Gripping his wand, he apparated to the edge of England, just a few miles away from the English Channel. His brown eyes rolled over the land, seemingly searching for something; finding it, he bent down and picked up a medium-sized rock, just big enough to fit in the palm of his hand. "Portus," he whispered, the rock glowing blue and trembling for a minute, before returning to normal. Then, with a pull at his naval, he was gone, disappearing without warning.
He arrived outside of a large, bronze gate that sat upon a hill; a pond with a stream was off to the side, a few ripples came from the middle of the glistening blue water. He reached out to the gate, feeling the magic blocking him before it released, granting him passage: the gate swung open slowly, as if an invisible hand was pulling it. Unsurely, he headed up the stone pathway, inspecting his surroundings as he did. The place looked the same that it did the last time he saw it, a little over twenty-two years ago. As he neared the front door, it was thrown open, and out came a tall, pretty woman with long reddish brown hair and hazel eyes. She had a scowl on her face, and she was holding her wand in a threatening manor, pointing it directly at Rabastan. "What do you want?" She spat at Rabastan, stopping him from his continuation up the path.
"To see you." He said softly, his brown eyes meeting hers. "And to see Despereaux," He added, his gaze going to the ground as if he was ashamed. Her defensive stance instinctively softened a bit, seeing how downtrodden he was, as if he was actually sorry for leaving in the first place. He looked terrible—gone was the handsome and stout man, and instead there was a thin and unkempt wizard, whose face, with its sunken eyes, looked like a decaying corpse. "It's been a long time, hasn't it, Solange?" He whispered, shaking his head.
"Twenty-three years, Rabastan." Solange replied, moving over and allowing him entrance to her home. He quickly walked in, not wanting her to rescind her offer. His eyes shifted around the foyer, falling on an older man who stood at the top of the stairs, his arms crossed: Nicolo Barnaud, Solange's father. The man didn't say anything, instead just turned on his heels and walked away, not bothering to give another look to Rabastan. "You didn't expect a warm welcome, did you? Not only did you leave me, leave us, but you're a fugitive on the run: you're lucky I even let you into the estate." Solange said, her eyes staring at the spot her father just was.
"No," Rabastan sighed, shaking his head and turning towards her. "I guess I didn't. Does Despereaux live here? Is he here now?" He questioned, a hint of excitement in his voice: so long, so long he had been in Azkaban for, so long had his thoughts lingered on his one and only son, the boy he never should have left.
Solange's defensive, acidic nature came back, and her eyes narrowed at Rabastan. "No," She growled. "He's in England, visiting a friend."
"England?" Rabastan grunted, as his eyes went wide; it was ironic, he thought, that he had just left that country to see his son, and now his son was where he had left. Then, remembering how he had gotten out of Azkaban in the first place, he gasped. "He's got to get out of there, terrible things are about to happen."
"And you'll be doing them, will you?" Solange rebutted, pulling on his arm and pushing him into the sitting room, where she pointed to a seat across from a couch. She sat on the couch, while he lounged in the chair, easily and tiredly. "Killing mudbloods and muggles alike? Attacking blood traitors, and putting fear in the hearts of the innocent?"
"I spent way too long in Azkaban for Voldemort to give up now, Solange." He replied, his voice even. He didn't take offense by what she said, he never could: she could tell him to die, rot away in a grave, and he still wouldn't get angry with her.
"Even if it costs you your son?" Solange asked, her voice masking its venom. "He was talked into staying by Fleur, and he's going to fight. He floo called me this morning, telling me how he joined this group that is going to fight the Dark Lord."
"Fight to protect mudbloods?" Rabastan questioned, cocking an eyebrow. He couldn't wrap his mind around his son fighting Voldemort—he was proud that Despereaux, his only son, was that brave. Bravery was something that, no matter what side of the fight you were on, was an honorable trait, deserving of praise.
"His best friend is a half-breed, Rabastan, he's not like you or your disgusting brother, and don't even get me started on your sister-in-law." Solange said, mockingly.
"Don't group me in with her." Rabastan growled, repulsed by the thought of him and Bellatrix being alike. "The only trait we share in common is the same last name." He then rose from his seat, knowing that her patience was wearing thin. "It was good to see you, Solange. Give my best to your family."
She looked at him for a few moments, studying him, her eyes lingering on his gaunt face. "Don't expect him to hold out his arms wide for you, Rabastan: he loathes you. What you did…" She threw out her arms, not finding the words to explain it. She didn't know which part she was talking about, the part of him torturing people to insanity or the part where he left them, either one was just as bad in her opinion.
"Maybe," Rabastan answered, shrugging, not admitting either way. "But, at the time, we thought it was necessary." He answered, immediately thinking she was talking about the Longbottoms.
"Willing to please your father and brother, but never your son or your wife." Solange snarled, rolling her eyes in contempt. He gave her one last look, his gaze filled with an unknown emotion, then apparated out, leaving the room and the house. Solange sighed, walking away, knowing that Despereaux wouldn't be happy that Rabastan was out of jail.
Harry laughed at the dinner table of Grimmauld Place, losing himself in the peace that would come very rarely now that Voldemort had returned. Cedric had said a joke, making the group of nine burst out in laughter. It was time of calmness that surprisingly came after the Order meeting: all but Sirius, Remus, Harry, Nymphadora, Kingsley, Bill, Cedric, Hermione, and Emmeline had left. Dobby had made dinner, and they were all enjoying a good meal. Suddenly, Harry felt a swell of heat over take him, forcing him to close his eyes, as if he was about to pass out. He felt a hand roll over his back, presumably Nymphadora's, and went to open his eyes; but when he did, it wasn't his eyes he was looking out of.
It was like watching a movie: you can watch, listen, but when it comes down to it, you can't control what they do. Harry could see what Voldemort could see, hear what he could hear, and feel what he felt, but he couldn't overtake Voldemort's body. It was like they were one, yet fully separate. Voldemort's gaze rolled over the crowd, all of them being Death Eaters, and one of them was bowing down in front. There were ten of them, without hoods and unmasked, allowing Harry a visual of them all. There was Selwyn, Malfoy, and Rowle, the only three in the room who weren't in Azkaban at one time or another. Then there were the three Lestranges, Crouch, Travers and Quirrell—plus Rookwood, who was in the front, bowing.
"The Department of Mysteries, Rookwood," Voldemort said, calmly petting Nagini. "Are you sure I'm the only one, other than Potter, that can get it?"
"And the Keeper of the Hall, master." Augustus Rookwood answered; his gray hair was slicked back, and he had an arrogant smirk on his face. Being one of Voldemort's main informants and lieutenants during the last war, he was glad to be out of Azkaban, free again. "Surely, though, at this time of night, no one should be there."
"Good," Voldemort nodded in acceptance, a sense of purpose and power and rightness that always accompanied the feeling of triumph. "Go and clear a path, just in case there are people there. I'll arrive later on, then I'll get the prophecy." He ordered, gesturing for the door. The Death Eaters threw over their hoods, put their masks on their faces, and left the room, running past the wards and disapparating.
"We have to go!" Harry gasped, pulling himself into his own mind again, gaining full control of himself. He wiped the sweat off his brow with his sleeve, rising to his feet all the while. "Voldemort is going to the Department of Mysteries, he wants a prophecy about him; and if he gets it, loads of people will die."
"How does he know of the enchantments on the prophecies?" Hermione asked, worriedly. As an Unspeakable, one who came in personal contact with some of those prophecies, she was visibly worried for their safety. If anybody but Voldemort and Harry, and the Keeper of the Hall were to touch the prophecy orb, they would immediately go mad, losing themselves into the far reaches of their very own mind.
"Rookwood." Was Harry's simple answer, and then he turned and ran up the stairs, the rest of the Order, the ones who were there, following right behind. Quickly, he entered the parlor, where Regulus sat, looking bored. "Regulus, I need you to go and get Phineas, order him to tell Dumbledore to head over to the Ministry straight away: Voldemort's going after the prophecy." Regulus nodded, happy to help, and headed straight out of his portrait; appearing in Phineas' portrait, located on the second floor of the house.
They all disapparated from Grimmauld Place, arriving at the entrance of the Ministry seconds later, and immediately rushing down into the depths where the Hall of Prophecy was. They sprinted towards their destination, noticing that Eric Munch, the wizard that sat at the reception desk and weighed people's wands was stunned, surprisingly still alive, however. With Harry leading the way, they all hoped they would be able to stop the Death Eaters and Voldemort from getting the prophecy: an item that would grant him untold knowledge. Very few of them knew just what the prophecy said; Remus and Sirius being the only ones other than Harry, but neither knew the full contents, only part of it.
"You two, Cedric and Hermione, stay here, guard the entrance." Harry ordered, running towards the staircase that would lead down to the Department of Mysteries. "The rest of you come with me." He rushed down the stairs, six members of the Order following behind him, their feet clanking against the stone floor as they ran. They came into the wide, long, and large hallway that led into a circular chamber that, in turn, would lead into the different chambers of the Department. There, entering the circular chamber, were the Death Eaters, Augustus Rookwood seemingly in charge—or, at the very least, leading the way. Hearing the approaching footsteps, the Death Eaters turned, and looked at the Order, throwing their wands up in front of themselves.
The Death Eaters numbered around ten, each with their hoods up and their masks on. Some were bony, some were made of metal, but all of the masks blocked their identities: though, as Harry had seen Voldemort talking to them, he knew who they all were. There was Rabastan, Rodolphus, and Bellatrix Lestrange; Barty Crouch, Jr; Quirinus Quirrell; Lucius Malfoy; Travers; Thorfinn Rowle; Augustus Rookwood; and Selwyn. "You won't take a step further." Harry growled, coming to a stop around ten feet away; he was a foot or two ahead of the other Order members, in the front of the group.
"And who's going to stop us? You, Potter?" Lucius Malfoy's voice came, silkily, as a cloaked Death Eater took a step forward. His wand tip was alit, and the light reflected off of his metal mask.
"What's the point of a mask, Malfoy, if you're just going to give yourself away? I know the Malfoy's aren't known to be smart, but still." Harry mocked, alighting his wand tip, too, for more light.
"So this is baby Pottikins?" A woman cooed, mockingly; Harry knew her to be Bellatrix Lestrange. "Such a big mouth for a disgusting halfblood." On Harry's side, Sirius growled, making Bellatrix transfer her gaze over to him. "Aw, if it isn't the blood traitor, Sirius Black." Then, her eyes rolled over the rest of the Order, her smirk widening as she passed by each and every person. "A few mudbloods I don't know, and a werewolf, how disgusting."
"Mudbloods?" Emmeline Vance replied angrily, acting affronted. Truthfully, she didn't want a battle to erupt, knowing that they were outnumbered and, most likely, out skilled. "I come from a line of wizards that has been around since the creation of Freyjavangr!"
"Then you're a blood traitor, not much better in our book." Bellatrix laughed, as the rest of her group grunted. She loved taunting her prey, loving the added effect that it had on them.
"Yet, I'm not the one killing other purebloods, now am I?" Emmeline sneered, angrily. She held her wand tightly in her hand, ready to defend herself if need be. She knew about Bellatrix's reputation of being belligerent and insane, and willing to do anything for Voldemort, for her master, but she wasn't afraid: nervous, yes, but not afraid.
Bellatrix pretended not to hear her, as her violet eyes zeroed in on Nymphadora—she looked at her as if she hadn't seen her before, yet knew her somehow. "You look like my worthless sister. You're her mutt of a daughter, aren't you?" She scowled, accusingly, her eyes wide with fury and disgust. "You're the halfblood that came from her traitorous marriage to that filthy muggle, Ted Tonks, aren't you? He doesn't deserve to be known as a mudblood, he's too terrible of a wizard to even consider him a mudblood."
Harry, needing to defend his wife, took a step but was stopped by a hand, Tonks', grabbing his arm. "Well, you're a pretty little witch, aren't you, auntie? Though, I do say Azkaban has taken a lot from you, I don't think your sanity is one of them." Then, turning her head to the Death Eater in the middle, she said, "Uncle Lucius."
"You're no niece of mine!" Bellatrix screeched, sending a curse at Nymphadora. Harry, being the closest to the Death Eaters, stepped in front of it, and deflected it away, where it crashed against the stonewall, destroying one of the torches.
"We'll take Potter!" A Death Eater screamed, as the battle erupted in both the hallway and the circular room that led into the different chambers. Two wizards charged at Harry, forcing him to run backwards, away from the others, swishing his wand in defense, blocking the curses that came his way with powerful shield charms.
Sirius immediately went after Bellatrix, knowing that she was one of the most powerful Death Eaters there, and needed to be put down fast. Plus, after what she said to Nymphadora, she deserved to be punished. His attack, which came swift, pushed her into the circular room, where she blew open one of the doors, running into one of the many chambers. Sirius quickly followed her, a wide, arrogant smile lacing his handsome face.
Two of the Death Eaters, Selwyn and Rowle, attacked Kingsley fiercely and quickly, forcing the powerful Auror to fight them both alone in the hallway. He wasn't unhappy, however, for he would rather fight two than have anyone else do it—plus, in comparison to Crouch and Lestrange, Rowle and Selwyn weren't that tough. Being an experienced Auror, he came across Dark Wizards lots of times, and knew their ways, knew how they acted: how they attacked. Using that knowledge, he parried and dodged, shielded and deflected with ease, turning the attacks back onto the attackers.
Unlike Kingsley and Harry who were forced to take on two Death Eaters (though they would have done it by choice, too), Remus Lupin attacked two of them at once: Lucius Malfoy and a tall, thin Death Eater—Travers. His bombardment of curses and jinxes blew the pair back into the circular room, away from the other duels that were going on behind them. His attacks, however, caused no harm, as each Death Eater was able to get a shield up; they were measly, but still, they served their purpose.
While spells were being thrown around, Bill Weasley and Rodolphus Lestrange, hidden behind his cloak and mask, eyed each other, staring one another down. They circled around, creating room for the duel that was about to commence; it would be good, they both knew, as the feeling of anticipation swelled up inside. Then, as if he couldn't wait anymore, Bill threw an orange curse that zigzagged towards Lestrange, like a bright meteor. Lestrange quickly put up a defense, a counter-jinx that blocked the orange bolt, making it fizzle out after a few seconds.
Meanwhile, Rabastan Lestrange tossed a curse at Emmeline Vance, disinterestedly. He was good, real good, but was disappointed that he got the scrub. Sure, the witch had bark, but she had no bite—or so he thought. They were in the circular room, with Remus dueling his two Death Eaters on the other side, but the yells that echoed off of the walls made it seem as if there were a lot more people in the room: they were so loud that it was distracting to all the combatants, Emmeline taking it the worse, however. Then, suddenly, a red light whizzed towards Emmeline, hitting her square in the chest, and she crumpled to the ground, stunned. "Better than I thought," Rabastan mumbled, looking over to Malfoy and Travers. "Rowle and Selwyn will need help." He ran towards a door on the side, entering the room, the Space chamber, where Kingsley was fighting his two Death Eaters.
Which left Nymphadora with Augustus Rookwood. The aged, pockmarked, stooped wizard inched towards her, mocking laughter coming from his gut. Figuring this would be easy, not knowing who Nymphadora was, Rookwood sent a simple hex her way—she flicked her wand, carelessly, tossing it back at him. "So, little girl wants to play, does she?" He said, his accent thick. "Well, lets go!" He sent a killing curse straight at her, making her dive to the side, barely underneath it. She twirled her wand, conjuring her own spell and sending it at the former Unspeakable, starting the fight in full.
"Is that the best you got, cousin? You haven't even touched me yet!" Sirius yelled, his voice full of laughter. The pair had been fighting for a few minutes now, and Bellatrix had yet to land an attack, yet Sirius had hit the witch with two.
"Shut up, traitor." Bellatrix snarled, tossing a purple curse at her cousin. The curse hit the wall behind Sirius, blasting it to pieces, sending rock and dust up into the air.
Kingsley grinned as Travers was hit with a stunner, ending the duel—Selwyn had been knocked unconscious a few minutes earlier. Knowing that others might need help, he headed across the chamber, his feet clicking against the stone floor. As he neared the door, however, a Death Eater, his bone mask reflecting the torchlight, came skidding in, his wand held high in front of him. Without saying a word, and hoping that whomever the Death Eater had been fighting wasn't dead, Kingsley sent a spell towards him, igniting another fight.
Harry ducked under a yellow curse sent by Quirrell, then rolled away from another curse that Crouch had sent. Then came a killing curse, though Harry didn't know who sent it; Harry summoned the chair that was in the corner to block it's path, and once the green curse hit the wood, the chair was aflame instantly. Wanting to end the fight, Harry jerked his wand down towards the floor, releasing a silver light that streaked around the room: a gunshot-like sound emanated, too. Crouch and Quirrell acted quickly, however, and threw up a shield, that crumpled, though allowed them to dodge the spell.
"I see I taught you well when I was your professor, Potter." Quirrell sneered from under his hood and behind his mask. Harry grunted, preparing another attack, and the pair turned and ran into the circular room, wanting to regroup to fight Harry.
"Harry, he's here!" Hermione screamed, running into the chamber. Harry's head spun towards her, seeing the fear in her eyes; Cedric came running in a second later, he too looked alarmed. There was no need to question who she meant by 'he'. Reading the terror on her face, and hearing the horror in her voice, he knew it was none other than the Dark Lord, the most feared wizard of the age, Lord Voldemort.