Several Notes:
a. This is a very short chapter. Think of it more as like half a chapter.
b. I know I've kept a pretty consistent schedule of updating once a day, and this is actually the second day since my last update. The reason is that I've spent the past two days moving into my apartment for the upcoming school year. Fun stuff. That's also why the chapter is so short. I've been writing in odd, couple-of-minutes-of-free-time segments.
c. I had a reviewer ask if I was actually writing this as I go, or if I've already written it and am just releasing it over time. I am writing it as I release it. I realize that, if you look at my past chapters, that's a rate of 3-5k words per day. I don't really know what to say about that, except that I've always been a fast writer. That being said, however, the rate of my updates is going to slow down. School is starting. I won't be able to update every day, but I hope to be able to update every two to three days.
d. I also had a reviewer ask if Revelin would be going to Hogwarts. I don't think I can answer that without giving too much away.
That being said, enjoy this little chapter!
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Voldemort had, over the years, thought he had gotten a good grasp on the competency and idiocy level of the Wizarding population of Britain, that of his Death Eaters included.
He had obviously greatly miscalculated. He had been giving his Death Eaters far too much credit.
The whole situation was so completely and utterly stupid, and consequently so unexpected, that as Honeydukes erupted into chaos, Voldemort just stood there, for the first time in decades completely frozen in surprise, his mind blank with shock.
A few feet away from him, Sirius Black let out a noise like an angry dog and snarled, "I can't believe Voldemort is attacking Hogsmeade!"
Indeed. Voldemort couldn't believe it either!
As that thought crossed his mind, he felt his first emotion other than shock: anger. It thrummed in his veins, making his limbs tingle. Rage grew and swelled inside him, turning into a red-hot dragon, clawing at his chest. His breath came shallowly. Red clouded his vision. He could barely think straight, he was so angry. His hand itched towards his wand. All he wanted to do was march out there and destroy those stupid, imbecilic —!
Something tugged urgently on his arm, but Voldemort couldn't let himself be distracted. He had to go and kill his Death Eaters, punish them all for doing this, for attacking without his permission—
The tugs became a little harder and, annoyed, Voldemort snapped his head down, teeth bared, wand raised. The little boy shrunk back, looking terrified, and something tugged at Voldemort's brain. He didn't want to hurt this child…
"Shara!" the boy sobbed, terrified tears shining in the corner of his eyes, and Voldemort snapped out of it. Horror washed over him like icy water. He had almost cursed Revelin. He took a step back, feeling dazed, as the reality of it set in. He lowered his wand. His chest heaved. He started breathing rapidly. Some strange emotion sent tingles down his arms and legs and made his wand tremble in his grasp.
The inside of the store had mostly emptied, but from outside, Voldemort could hear screams and cries, the booms and crackling of spells, the sound of walls tumbling. A mother nearby was shouting frantically for "Bobby! Bobby!" Meanwhile Voldemort and Revelin stood still, just staring at each other in horrified silence.
"Were you going to hurt me, Shara?" Revelin asked in a small, nervous voice, peeking up at his shara through wet eyelashes.
Something snapped in Voldemort. His eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared. "No, child," he said, his voice trembling with the effort to keep it gentle. "I was not going to, nor will I ever, hurt you." His voice lowered to a savage hiss, and he turned enraged eyes to the pandemonium outside. "I am, however, going to hurt them—"
A stray curse shattered the front of the store window, sending glass shards flying inside. Revelin cried out in alarm, crouching down into a small ball, his tiny hands over his head, but Voldemort had reacted quickly. The shards stopped dead in the air some two feet away from them, turned around, and shot like knives back to the Death Eater. He only had time to cry out in horror before they sliced him into bloody pieces.
Snarling, Voldemort whipped around to the child. "Revelin!" he barked, in a tone that brooked no argument. "Come with me!"
The boy, whose big eyes kept flicking to the fallen Death Eater, as if they couldn't help themselves, looked much too frightened to disobey. Voldemort jerked him up off the ground and steered him out the front door, his hand clasped like iron on the child's upper arm.
Outside, pandemonium reigned. The entire population of Hogsmeade, plus the thousands of visitors from across Britain, had all converged on the main street in a desperate attempt to flee, but there was no way to escape. For the celebration, anti-Portkey wards and anti-broom wards had been erected all across the village, and the Floo network had been cut off. The minute the first Death Eater appeared, the gates to Hogwarts would have slammed shut. The only escape was through the Apparition Points, from which the Death Eaters had emerged and which they were furiously defending.
That meant the only way to get out of the village was by fighting through his own Death Eaters.
Voldemort's lip curled. That was fine with him. His Death Eaters had betrayed him by coming here tonight. They had best pray they didn't get in hisway.
Jerking roughly on Revelin's arm, Voldemort dove into the crowd, his heart beating fast and furiously in his chest, his claw-like grip on Revelin so tight the child would have bruises later. People were elbowing and shoving each other, some crying in their attempt to escape. Most of the Death Eaters were ahead, occupied with the Aurors and hit wizards attempting to open up the Apparition Points. A few of them zoomed overhead on brought-in brooms, cackling madly. One of them, upon seeing the mess Voldemort had made of their comrade, swooped down, wand pointed threateningly. Voldemort glared death at him, and, as the man opened his mouth, blasted him out of the air and through the upper wall of Zonko's with a single, rage-fueled spell. He fell like a rock through the second floor of the store and into a pile of something that exploded in a mushroom cloud of purple vapor.
Voldemort didn't know which of his Death Eaters he had just killed, didn't care, they were all going to suffer, once he got out of the damn village. It was his luck that his Death Eaters were just stupid enough to attack Hogsmeade without his say-so and just intelligent enough to make the place damn well near impossible to escape!
Ahead of him, Dervish and Banges exploded in a roaring fireball, and a witch in black next to it cackled loudly. Voldemort tensed. That had sounded like Bellatrix. But surely she wouldn't be so stupid as to…
No, as Voldemort shoved his way little closer, saw the way the masked woman was twirling her wand, it was her all right. Voldemort recognized that dueling method. He had trained the woman. Rage so strong it almost blinded him swept through him at the thought that his lieutenant, his most prized servant, was not just taking part in, but relishing this travesty—
Voldemort's head spun with rage. He started towards her, intent on cursing her into oblivion, when Revelin cried out in alarm behind him. Voldemort whirled around just in time to see a yellow curse whizz past where the child would have been had he not ducked down.
For the second time that evening, time stood still, as something cold washed over Voldemort, freezing his insides like ice. He felt horrified once more. He had been so focused on revenge, on punishing his Death Eaters for their indiscretion, that he had completely forgotten that he had a five year old child in the middle of a battlefield. His hand trembled. His eyes flicked between Revelin and the swarm of Death Eaters ahead. How he longed to torture them until their intestines leaked out through their eyes—But he forced himself to be reasonable. He could do that later. He couldn't resurrect Revelin if he died here.
Well, he could. But the child would never be the same. Resurrected children never were.
Gritting his teeth, his hate-filled eyes flicking back once more to where his Death Eaters crowed with glee, his head swimming with rage and loathing, he snatched Revelin off the ground. He knew and hated the fact that the best way to get the child out of the village with minimum risk was to defeat his Death Eaters completely. Voldemort could fight a hole through them, no problem, but he didn't want to risk dragging Revelin through at the same time, considering how many of his servants were there. Revelin would either be directly behind him, making him difficult for Voldemort to shield, or Voldemort would have to carry him, which would limit Voldemort's mobility. The best way to keep Revelin safe would be to keep him somewhere safe until Voldemort had managed to defeat these imbeciles.
The realization of what he would have to do made Voldemort's skin crawl.
He would have to help the Order of the Phoenix.
The thought was so utterly unbearable, and it filled him with such revulsion and loathing, that Voldemort wasn't sure if he could do it. Nevertheless, before Voldemort had even fully accepted the idea, his feet were wondering on their own accord a path to a hidden side street, where he had glimpsed several Order members protecting children, including the Potter and Longbottom boys. Before he was even aware of what he was saying, he was telling Revelin, as if in a daze, "Say as little as possible. Don't tell them my true identity. Remember who you are supposed to be. Don't look anyone directly in the eyes."
As a Death Eater swooped overhead, lighting on fire the face-painting stall, Revelin started sobbing. His hands tightened like iron around Voldemort. The acrid smell of paint filled the air. "Don't leave me, Shara! Please don't leave me!"
Voldemort reached the group. Lily Potter extended her arms to take Revelin, seeming to know what Voldemort wanted without him even saying anything. Revelin sobbed even louder—"Don't leave me! Please!"—but Voldemort pried him off, his face stoic.
"Remember what I said," was all he told Revelin, as he dropped the boy into Lily Potter's arms—A mudblood is touching my child, a mudblood is holding my child, a mudblood is rocking my child back and forth—and turned tail to enter the fray, his wand raised, his eyes cold with fury. Loathing boiled in his veins, making his limbs tremble, his nostrils flare.
The scent of blood and sweat and fear surrounded him, the cacophony of screams and spells and fire was deafening, but he didn't notice it. He moved in a silent world. His blood pounded in his head. All he was aware of was his own feet pounding on the cobblestone path, the consequent jolt up his spine with every step, his arms knocking about as he ploughed past people whose faces and forms were indistinct, his own shallow breathing, and the red tinting the edge of his vision. Whether it came from his own fury or the surrounding fires was hard to tell.
It was as if the world had slowed around him when he saw the first Death Eater: the man, in front of the burning entrance to the Three Broomsticks, turning slowly to face his direction. His cloak was tangled around his ankles. Voldemort leveled his wand, focusing on the Death Eater with cool, focused rage, and blasted the man through the front door of the Three Broomsticks in a shower of glass. Before the two other Death Eaters even had time to turn, Voldemort's arm whipped around, and two curses hit them almost simultaneously, and they fell like stones to the ground.
His Death Eaters stood no chance. Curse after curse chased them, some even whipping around to follow the ones who tried to flee. Voldemort became almost mindless with rage, the fury racing through his veins making his power flow easily. He had only the presence of mind to keep from using the Dark Arts. Everything else was fair game. Voldemort neither knew nor cared how many of his Death Eaters rushed to face him, how many Aurors and Order members stood behind him. The fact that Sirius Black shouted "Nice one!" when he blasted three Death Eaters with a single curse only served to enrage him further. He had only two goals, which hovered like a dim awareness in the back of his mind: to make the Death Eaters retreat, and, failing that, prevent them from passing him and getting close to Revelin. It crossed his mind, distantly, when the number of Death Eaters had dwindled and he was no longer shaking with fury, that he was probably also protecting Neville Longbottom and Harry Potter. The irony was not lost on him, and it made him want to kill someone. So he did.
It ended when Bellatrix chose to face him. Upon seeing the deaths of so many of her comrades, she screamed in fury and descended like a black, malevolent tornado before him. "You dare defy us?" she roared, raising her wand high to strike. "For the Dark Lord!"
Voldemort snapped.
Bellatrix managed to shoot out a curse at him, which he easily dodged, before Voldemort sent one straight at her. She managed to erect a shield—she had always been a better dueler than the rest of his Death Eaters—but Voldemort overpowered her through sheer strength and rage, his curse bearing down her, licking the edges of her shield, a constant outpouring of green flame. He kept it on her, focusing his power, utterly furious, and her shield wavered, weakened, and disappeared. His curse enveloped her, and she screamed in pain before slamming to the ground, convulsing in the street. The Death Eater nearest her, probably her husband, gazed toward Voldemort—Voldemort raised his wand, his lips curling into a snarl—and the man quickly slung Bellatrix over his shoulder, still convulsing, and dove into the crowd of Death Eaters, running toward the Apparition Point. Wise man.
Voldemort fought a few more, but it was over. One by one, the Death Eaters fled, till at last silence reigned in Hogsmeade. The fires had burnt out. Only embers crackled. The pier of a distant house cracked and tumbled to the ground with a boom like thunder. The remaining, ragged canvases of the stalls fluttered in the sudden breeze. Voldemort suddenly felt empty, hollow, like his purpose for existing had just vanished. He exhaled, lowering his wand. Slowly he turned around. His shoes crackled on the ash coating the street.
When he turned, the first thing he saw was Revelin, about a block back, peering out a shattered store window with an expression of awe on his face. Voldemort was too exhausted to try and dissect the strange sensation that flit through him upon seeing that the boy was okay.
The second thing he saw was about forty grown wizards and witches, a mix of Aurors and Order of the Phoenix members, with expressions on their faces ranging from awe to fear.
And the third thing he saw Albus Dumbledore, his hands folded into a steeple in front of him, his eyes twinkling full blast, staring at Voldemort in supreme interest.
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