Chapter Twenty-Two : Games of Truth
A lone wizard walks towards a house full of childish memories. A waning moon disappears behind the storm cloud rolling in, and the wind howls like a wolf, cutting through his robes. He pauses, his foot shaking as he hesitates to step onto the porch of the quaint little home. Memories of happier times flash through his mind, times when he was able to be a kid. Letters written by a loving woman were born here, filled with love, joy, anger, and astonishment for when he passed his N.E.W.T.s with the highest mark in his house.
Lightning cracks above him as rain begins to pour, hastening his decision to enter the charred remains of the house of his childhood. What remains of the Peterborough home are pictures of long-dead relatives and loving parents. Tears swell in his eyes and drip onto the pictures. He realises he's crying and wipes his eyes with the dirty sleeve of his grey robes.
Stepping over a fallen crossbeam, his booted feet slip on a shaft of oak wood that was not harmed from the fire. His head drops, and he inspects the object. A wand. Belonging to the loved one who died in this house, the one to whom he's come to say goodbye. Picking up the wand, he slips it into the pocket of his robes.
"Wands characterise the people who use them. Oak, for example, rules over life. It's as strong as the thunder gods and withstand time," a voice says from behind him.
Quickly, he turns, his light brown hair whipping in his hazel eyes. "W-who are you?" he stutters, shocked to discover that he's not alone.
"Forgive me, Young One. But that wand you hold is a family heirloom, used by my father and passed through the generations. It alone survived the destruction of this house where its owner could not."
The wizard slowly nods, but his interest isn't in the words; rather, it is in the stranger himself. Wearing a full suit of chain mail, an empty scabbard hangs at his side. A long, flowing mane of golden hair hangs loosely past his shoulders, and crystal blue eyes that have seen too much pain stare forward at the young wizard standing before him. In his right hand, he holds a shield with the Gryffindor house emblem upon it.
"Who are you?" the live wizard asks.
The apparition looks directly at him. "The question you should be asking is not who I am, but who you are."
He scoffs at this. "I already know who I am. I am . . . " the words fail him, and a look of betrayal creeps over his face as he realises his brain has left him.
The ghost's lips part into a warm and knowing smile. "I know who you are. It's now time for you to discover who you are, the power that you hold within." The ghost whispers words in arcane magick that the other wizard can't hear. Extending his left hand, he makes a gesture as if to capture air, and pulls it back towards him. In his palm an orb has materialised. "To understand who you are, you must understand your past, your present, and your future. The past is the hardest to remember; everything else will become clear with it."
The orb bursts into a metallic red and gold light, illuminating the house.
"Look into it, Young One. Welcome to the voyage of self-discovery."
The brown-haired wizard peers into the orb, and his eyes glaze over. What he sees before him are not images, rather they are emotions, secrets, truths, and lies. As he lives these memories, his mouth opens slackly, and his body relaxes. A silent howl of pain passes his lips as the lives of his ancestors pass through his eyes. The time when Hogwarts was founded to the time of his birth, these images and more are emitted from the orb.
The light dies, and the orb blinks out of existence, rejoining the air that it came from. The hazel-eyed wizard stares at the ghost of Godric Gryffindor before a rush of pain engulfs his entire body, leaving him falling to his knees and clutching his head with his hands.
"Don't fight it, son, let it happen," Godric says, his smooth voice relaxing the wizard who is wracked with pain.
A sweeping pain covers his back as his skin tears and bleeds feathers and blood. From the gaping holes left in the shoulder blades, wings are born, and golden-brown fur grows quickly over his body. Digging his nails into the charred soil, he rakes his them through the dirt only to realise that he has talons, not human hands. His tailbone breaks, and he wails, but the immense pain fades as the bones restructure themselves and break through his skin. A tail of bones lashes at the air, and as the transformation comes to an end with his nose and mouth elongating into a beak, skin and fur generate over the griffin's new tail, and feathers at the base of his head.
Rearing his head into the air, the griffin shrieks in triumph.
* * *
For as long as he will live, Oliver Wood will never forget the first infamous Quidditch match. Now, nearly a year later, when the snow is melting on the ground and dawn comes late, twenty-eight players dress in robes and leather gloves, clutching their broomsticks in their pale hands.
Emotions run as deep as the rivers of the underworld, and the players are stone statues. Some carved in nervousness, others in excitement, a few in fear, and the rest in despondence. Grim as if they are going into battle, the houses of Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw glance at each other in apprehension.
Oliver draws his tongue over his cracked lips, swallowing a lump of fear. He stares thoughtlessly across the Quidditch Pitch at the Death Eater who many either blamed or thanked for this event. Percy Weasley was set with the task of arranging the second Quidditch game, but as Oliver's eyes drag across the scene before him, he cannot help but think that Percy isn't responsible for the changes to the game. Oliver knows that Lucrece Lestrange, the new referee, has had her grubby hands on it as well.
Last year, the teams met in the centre. This year, they won't be able to. The roots beneath the Pitch don't sprout grass this spring; instead, silver barbed wire grows from the soil, bunching from goal post to goal post. Those who are unfortunate enough to fall from their brooms will become well acquainted with the wire. A great sadness comes over Oliver as he realises this.
Alexander Montague wipes his eyes before he curses himself for smearing his black eyeliner. Glancing at his team mates, his gaze lingers on the Beaters. The woman is still here, he thinks scornfully. But where his beloved Leland Derrick should have been was a burly, Irish bloke. Alexander recalls his name as Ezekiel O'Haire. Turning away, Alexander's thoughts drift to a shard of wood that guards his dreams on sleepless nights.
Terence Higgs fixes his eyes on Alexander and wishes he could know what the young man is thinking. Beside him stands Adrian Pucey, and though the silence is awkward, it is welcomed. It isn't until Terence's knuckles are white from gripping his broom that Adrian clears his throat and speaks.
"Terence, I . . . uh . . . listen . . . umm . . ." Adrian hesitates. "Here." He shoves a small box at Terence, and blinking, Terence takes it. Slowly removing the top, Terence pulls out two chromatic gloves. They're made from chain mail and latch just above the elbows.
"What are these?"
"You'll need them, Seeker. Just put them on."
Terence does as he's told. Rolling up his green sleeves, he slips the chain mail gloves beneath the leather ones that all players wear. "Marcus didn't say anything about this to me."
Adrian's face hardens. "Exactly."
And just as Adrian is warning Terence in his own way about the new Snitch with the razor wings, which the Seekers are forced to catch, the whistle is blown. Twenty-eight players mount, kick into the air, and take their positions, most staring down at the barbed wire below them.
* * *
As the whistle sounds, a private conversation between Lucius Malfoy and Percy Weasley begins in the private balcony overlooking the Pitch. With Marie and Fyre's safety in mind, Lucius requested that they watch the game from his box. But Marie has no interest in the game; instead, she plays with her four-month-old son.
"You know what makes me a good leader, Weasley?" Lucius begins, his eyes watching as Slytherin Marcus Flint and Ravenclaw Roger Davies take the Quaffles. "I can take a horrible defeat and turn it into a simple victory with the morale ever so growing. As I recall, you were there. Where are your battle scars?"
If looks could kill, Lucius's head would have exploded. "I don't have to explain myself to you, Malfoy." Percy's voice comes cold, his eyes remaining on the game below in the silver field.
"Lord Malfoy," Lucius corrects.
"Sod off," Percy grumbles as he then cheers on his brother, who just smashed a Bludger towards Marcus Flint, almost knocking him off his broom. With a smirk playing at his lips, he comments, "If your new honorary guard isn't careful, he's going to meet his end."
"I wouldn't cry." Lucius laughs to himself as a sadistic grin crosses his face.
A look of pure confusion crosses Percy's freckled face, and he turns to Lucius for the first time since he was invited into the private box. "What possessed you to promote him, then? He's likely to stab you in the back with your own knife."
Lucius taps the side of his nose twice, and winks with his left eye. "Exactly. He was promoted solely so I could keep an eye on him. Must keep that bloke on a leash tighter than the one he keeps his woman on. He's likely to kill someone when he's angry. Look what happened to Graham Pritchard."
"Why didn't you just execute Flint?" Percy furrows his red eyebrows.
Lucius gazes at Percy emotionlessly, before turning back to the game, his hands on his staff. "Do you notice what happens when Flint enters a room? People shake; they're scared to cross him. What he lacks in intelligence, he makes up for in brute force. What he lacks in skill, he makes up for in pure luck."
Percy nods, and an anxious hush falls over the crowd as a Bludger screams directly towards their leader. Percy and Lucius duck as it grazes their hair and bounces off the head of the Death Eater on the honorary guard standing outside the door on duty. He falls in a heap.
Gene Avery's voice booms over the speakers, "And--oh my--what a show! That Bludger zipped right past Lord Malfoy and Weasley, and right into Rede's face! Quite a show indeed! Ravenclaw and Gryffindor are back in possession now, Ginny Weasley soaring towards the Slytherin goal posts with Travis Nott hot on her tail! . . ."
Lucius sits back in his seat, idly brushing the creases from his elegant velvet robes. "Bloody hell, that was close." Percy nods an agreement, and Lucius continues. "I must say, though, that I'm depressed we lost Camp Phi, lost the Death Eaters who defended it, and lost the prisoners who were there. But we were able to repel them, so I'm torn between being proud and disheartened. Tell me, Weasley, what do you think?"
Percy doesn't have to stop to think about his position. "That was a defeat, Lucius. Through any other eyes, that would have still been a defeat. You said at the beginning that it takes a great leader to turn a defeat into victory. It takes a greater leader to admit defeat and pick himself up, brush himself off, and start again. In my humble opinion, sir, I'd double our defensives and discover where this Last Alliance is working from, where those refugees have gone. Ask Miss Nefertari about any information she could give us; surely being International Minister has its benefits," Percy says.
Lucius nods slowly, considering Percy's words with much thought and respect. "Excellent idea, Weasley. Of course, I've owled Tahirah already, and although the message was strictly pleasure, I had to tell her the good news."
"Good news?"
"I'm going to make an honest woman of her daughter."
Percy snickers. "And this was decided after the baby was born?"
Lucius casts Percy a death glare, his eyes reflecting swords and fire. "Fyre Angelus Malfoy was unexpected!" he reinforces briskly, banging his staff against the wooden floorboards twice.
"I'm sorry, Lucius. I didn't quite hear you. A mistake, you said, sir?" Percy asks haughtily, a self-satisfied smile spreading across his freckled face once more.
"Unexpected, Weasley! Watch your tongue, or I just may cut it out."
Appreciating the irony of that threat, Percy reacts with the same response as Lucius once did a little less than a year ago. "With a spoon, I hope," Percy chuckles.
". . . Michael Corner had the Golden Snitch . . . I . . . think," as Gene's voice roars over the speakers, he scratches his balding head. Under his breath, he's heard mumbling, "What the hell? It flew right through his hand! That lad's taken a lot of punishment, I wouldn't be surprised if his great grandchildren feel that pain. . . ."
And just as Michael Corner dives, he wraps his right hand around the Snitch, thinking this a sure victory for Hufflepuff. Before he realises what's happening, a glint of gold was showing through his skin, as though a scarab was digging it's way out of his flesh. Shock and adrenaline cruises through his veins, blocking out his pain receptors. It takes him a moment to scream, and when he does, everyone stops. Quidditch players hang in midair, and the crowd cheers at the sight of blood.
Lucius leaps to his feet, excited and elated at the thought that one of his Death Eaters came up with something so cruel. He turns to Percy, "Who came up with that idea? I'd love to meet him." He grins, his smile stretching from ear to ear, but it slowly turns into a frown when he realises Percy is laughing at him.
"I'd love to introduce her to you, but you already know who it is," Percy replies.
Shock washes over Lucius as he realises it was a female Death Eater. "Her?"
"Lucrece Lestrange," Percy informs sardonically. "It was her idea, she's judging the game. She promised us a lot more blood and a lot less death. That was the only way we could get the teams to agree to another game, although they don't know about the special equipment added to the balls."
"Balls?"
Percy sighs, "I thought you knew about this. For being our leader, you certainly seem to have your head in the sand. At a predetermined time, the Bludgers will turn into Razor Bludgers, and they are set to attack all but Slytherin. The Quaffles are quite explosive, and with Lucrece's own personal stash of blasting powder that she tinkered with, they're set to explode when the whistle is blown. And whoever holds it goes down with it." Percy frowns. "Hopefully it won't kill them."
Lucius begins to laugh a mirthless laugh. "I remember this all too well. I remember what happened to her when she blew up half the Slytherin wing of Hogwarts under the supervision of the late Professor Killian, the potions teacher back then. They got along quite well--some might have said too well--for their affinity for explosives. Oh, and you can't forget about her brother. He was the one who provided them with the ingredients. He was the kleptomaniac of the Slytherin house back then. If you had something shiny, he'd be on it just like a moth on a candle. You'd be lucky if you ever saw it again. Speaking of which, he still owes me--" for a moment, Lucius is distracted by the sight of a Slytherin falling from her now broken broom. And Gene's voice is heard again:
" . . . Foul! Cheater! Ref, do something about this! We can't have Slytherins beating on Slytherins! Someone catch that young lady before she hit's the ground. Oh. Bollocks. Too late. . . . And Ravenclaw is back in possession now . . ."
Just as Roger Davies dodges under Ron Weasley of Gryffindor, Marcus Flint passes the Beater's bat back to Ezekiel O'Haire with a crooked, cruel sneer.
Rae lands on her side among the strings of barbed wire; it cuts through her robes and penetrates her skin. From the corner of her eye, she notices Pansy Parkinson rush to her feet, wand in hand. Performing the necessary charm, Pansy levitates Rae's body and eases her onto the grass away from the Pitch.
With a wet cloth, Pansy wipes the blood from Rae's exposed skin and her forehead. Cringing in pain, Rae angrily brushes Pansy's hand away and attempts to stand. She falls back to the ground, though, her pupils dilating with anger as she glares at Marcus, who had just scored ten points.
"Miss Landon, are you all right?" Pansy asks urgently, swabbing Rae's forehead again.
"Of course I am!" Rae snaps, grabbing the bloody cloth and hurling it behind her.
Adrian brings his Firebolt Air to a stop, his heart in his throat as he fearfully watches Pansy attend to Rae. Whipping his head around, he scans the air for Marcus, who couldn't be bothered about his actions. Half the game stops around them as some watch the actions that the Slytherin might take, while others continue playing the game without caring what happened to the Slytherins.
"That's very poor sportsmanship on Marcus's part," Percy comments to Lucius. "Maybe you should talk to your honorary guard about the way he treats her. We don't need another dead Death Eater on our hands because of his actions."
Lucius nods, "I'll think about it. It's hard to put a leash on a beast like him, but that's what I'm trying to do. Besides, I think Pucey will take care of it," he says as glances up and sees Adrian driving towards Marcus with a balled fist.
The sound of cheers is drowned out by the thunderous roar of a glorious golden beast flying overhead. A beast that has not been seen in the time of the founding of Hogwarts, it cast shadows over those beneath it. Those true Death Eaters recognise the symbol of the Gryffindor house, and they cower in fear at the sign of the ill omen.
The game grinds to a halt.
Fear strikes the heart of Adrian Pucey as the griffin hovers inches away from his nose. Too afraid to move, and unable to speak or breath, Adrian's eyes widen in amazement that he's not being eviscerated by the vicious beast. The griffin takes a long sniff at Adrian, and rears his head back to snap at Marcus, who is near, looking ready and able to jump on his back. The griffins turns from Adrian and charges at Marcus, nipping at his right hand and catching a finger with his sharp beak, biting it clean off. With a look of absolute disgust on his face, the griffin spits the finger out and returns to his original prey. And just stares.
An eerie feeling washes over Adrian. He wants to run but he can't, locked in the hazel eyes of the beast. He starts to realise that something isn't sitting well. With a fleeting look at Adrian, the griffin turns and heads to the clouds. A few Death Eaters mount their brooms to give chase to this magnificent beast, but as they disappear into the clouds, the sound of flesh tearing from bones echoes down to the stadium. The robes of those Death Eaters are all that is found after this day.
