If every hour
Like this one passing that I have spent among
The wiser others when I have forgot
To wonder whether I was free or not,
Were piled before me, and not lost behind,
And I could take and carry them away
I should be so rich; or if I had the power
To wipe out every one and not again
Regret, I should be rich to be so poor.
~ Liberty by Edward Thomas (cont.)
It had been an hour since Dyre's abduction. Someone had suggested a search party, but where would they search? The cup was a portkey, and Hermione believed he might return. It was a slim hope but with no other news, the only one they could cling to.
The tournament administrators whispered. Dyre's association with Draco, his resemblance to James, the Potters' interest in him had brewed rumor, and it followed here. Lily was hunched over her dragon, staring at the color as if waiting for it to disappear. She'd stopped crying in the last ten minutes, but it had left her eyes red and swollen.
Karkaroff was nowhere to be found.
Amid the whispers and speculation, shouts had broken out. All the students had taken shelter in the castle, the common rooms locked. Only Victor and Hermione remained, arguing.
Hermione was not a warrior, and he thought it better that she retreat to the castle. Hermione would hear none of it.
Madame Pomfrey had been summoned, and there were a few aurors on standby, hired for the tournament, but no one, save Victor and the others who understood Dyre's curse, believed the pitch was dangerous. None of them could possibly understand why one of the champions had disappeared or why the Potters had crumpled in on themselves in fear.
The girl stood stubborn, her jaw fixed in the perfect expression of obstinacy. Victor stood more frantic, trying and failing to make her see reason. He cursed her in Bulgarian, harsh and offensive. Her eyes narrowed, as if memorizing the sounds to look up and reprimand him for later.
"I'm not leaving."
He cursed again. His red face had the look of a wild boar blowing steam. Hermione drew herself up and stuck her finger in his chest.
"You think I'm going to leave him! You dare think I would leave him!"
Victor huffed and backed away. "Not your battle."
"The bloody hell it isn't!" she yelled back at him, shooting a defensive glance at the professors, daring them to correct her language. "I know what you think about honor. You want to tell me it's honorable for me to hide in the castle while he's in danger."
Victor bore the face of a man cornered but still kicking. Hermione spared no mercy for death throes and continued.
"I'm not an idiot," she snarled, as if finding that the worst insult. Her gaze flickered about her, wary of her audience, but she had no qualms for Victor. "He's my friend. I am not going to sit in that castle and twiddle my thumbs like a... a... a stupid girl!"
"It is dangerous," he pronounced slowly.
She glared at him, hotheaded and furious, but her look was meaningful. "Everything is dangerous."
Victor looked away.
"It's like Lily all over again," Sirius mumbled.
Dumbledore stepped beside her. Gently, he touched her shoulder. "Lord Krum is right, my dear. You should be in the castle."
He had spoken kindly and reserved but with the authority of position. Still, she gave Dumbledore no more quarter than Victor. She did lower her voice, turning her body so she could engage him quietly.
"I don't mean disrespect, sir, but I'm not going into that castle."
"Miss Ganger," he said sternly, his grab tightening dangerously on her shoulder. "What do you think you can accomplish?"
Her lips tightened, but that was her only sign of weakness. "What do you intend to accomplish?" she whispered. Her eyes narrowed. "You gathered them here for a reason, didn't you?" She gestured subtly to the professors and administers.
Dumbledore was quiet. Hermione gave a brittle but triumphant smile.
"I don't know what I can accomplish, but I know it's more than if I was waiting in the castle."
He released her shoulder. "What would you have me tell your parents? If you are hurt here, when you should have been in the castle,"
She winced and looked down. A moment later, she shook off the blow and turned to him with clear, beseeching eyes.
"What would I tell myself, if I hid in the castle while my friend was in trouble?"
He had no answer for that. The old man sighed and placed his hand on her shoulder again, this time in commiseration.
"You are a good witch, Miss Granger, though I wish a little less so."
Her eyes were sad but her smile brimmed with pride. Victor eyed the headmaster suspiciously, but Hermione went to him, touching his arm. She stood beside him, speaking quietly of private things. Dumbledore left them.
There was roughly two dozen people on the pitch, most of them people he would trust with his life. But what about the life of a boy he'd only recently come to admire and love? This was a delicate position. He didn't want to believe that any of his professors had interfered with the cup, but he could not push the possibility aside. For Dyre's sake.
He skimmed the minds of the few people that met his eyes. There was nothing suspicious on the surface, and he dare not go deeper without some evidence. Save Karkaroff, everyone who could have tampered with the tournament was here, and he didn't Karkaroff would do such a thing. His disgust at having a clanless servant represent his school had been real.
A few others were more suspicious. The aurors had the opportunity but not the skill. It was the same with the Ministry officials. His staff had the means and the opportunity but why? What could motivate such a thing? He knew them inside out, all of them. They were no Death Eaters, not even people easily bribed. Blackmail maybe? He could not imagine a crisis in which they would feel that they could not come to him about.
His mind ran and ran and ran until he felt it going in circles. The crowd had gathered in groups, whispering amongst themselves. Most of it seemed innocuous, and why would it not be? Bragging would only draw attention to themselves. They'd been clever, and so far into the game, they were even less likely to slip.
Dumbledore had to think of something different. If he could not find a person with the motivation and the means to deceive the cup twice, what did that mean? That someone was hiding their ability as well as their intent. Thankfully that conclusion moved suspicion from his staff, but he could not let favoritism cloud his judgement.
He remembered Peter. He remembered the shy, anxious boy who had been so relieved to find friends among his house. He remembered thinking that James and Sirius overshadowed him and the guilt that followed that thought. Just because they were more exuberant, more easily lovable, did not mean that they were better. And even that had reminded him of a young lad named Tom Riddle, who had been just as socially awkward. Peter had not carried the cruelty of Tom, and Dumbledore had so badly wanted to believe that consorting with the bright fire that was James Potter and Sirius Black could only help him become brighter too.
It had worked with Remus. It had worked between Lily and Severus. Why not Peter?
That question haunted him at night. Why had he not seen the boiling resentment? For years, they had thought Peter the martyred hero, that Voldemort had obtained some mysterious magical object that let him pass through the wards. That he had let the monster in...
How could he miss it?
He could not miss it again. He could not let Dyre die again.
He made a sweep through the crowd again. There were no invisible compatriots, no animagi, no glamours. He trusted his ability, and Minerva's, to spot transfigurations.
Suddenly, he thought of something, the bit of prophecy they'd chewed on. Bewarethetrickster'sliesandthecaneofmistletoe. They'd thought of polyjuice but had not understood its part in the plot. Dumbledore had done his research and knew that the death of Baldur was the catalyst for Ragnorok.
He paled, hoping the symbolism was not literal. He shook himself and continued the thought. Now that Dyre had been spirited away, he understood the trickster. He was not looking for Hod, the blind god who had been used to slay his brother, but many-faced Loki, who bore the cane of mistletoe.
Surreptitiously, Albus moved through the groups, standing before the Marauders. They were weighed with silence and looked at one when he stepped into their circle. They had grieved with him, eaten with him, fought with him, and though so much younger, they knew the look of the Head of the Order of the Phoenix.
Like soldiers hearing the call of a bugle, they straightened, watching him with eyes like that of hunting hounds. Albus touched Remus' arm.
"My boy, why don't you circulate the crowd? We are not yet mourning."
Remus nodded. Albus' fingers tightened.
"Smell their breath," he whispered without moving his lips.
He released the werewolf. Kind, quiet Remus began the subtle job of slipping into conversation, as natural as the moon's waning. If his eyes were amber, that was not too significant. Sirius and James continued to watch him, waiting for his next orders.
He shifted his eyes towards the forest and the route to the school then towards the group that contained the Malfoys. They nodded and split. They would inform the rest of the plan. Severus would catch on. And they would cover the exits.
Albus drifted through the crowd again, finding Minerva. She was standing unbending, listening to her fellows without engaging in conversation. She had the look of a woman waiting to duel, serene and severe. She had only to glance at Albus before her eyes sparked. Unfolding her arms, she departed, finding a better vantage point. He smiled, as always, despite all these years, as impressed with her as he had been when a young witch from an old pureblood family told him she was going to surpass him in everything he had achieved.
He stood back and waited for the cards to fold.
o.O.o
Remus had never been a spy. They left that art to Severus, but he was patient and quiet by nature. No one noticed him sniffing around their conversations. When they glanced at him, all he had to do was smile and shyly shift away. Despite being a werewolf, and a beta at that, he had never felt the urge to assert dominance. He need only be acknowledge by a few. He had been bitten so young, he knew that was rare.
Sirius like to say it was the kindness in him, too strong even for the moon's curse.
He didn't often use his 'special abilities.' He felt like it was cheating. Why should he know who was coming around corners before everyone else? Why should he smell curses before they left the wand? Why should he know who wanted to have sex with who?
But when he'd been accepted into the Order and Dumbledore had patiently told him how to use his senses, for the first time, he'd felt pride in what he was.
Yes, he thought, and it was like that now. There were spells that could detect polyjuice, but there were spells to deflect those spells. And a cycle after that in a maddening circle of magic. It was much easier to use his nose, something no one could do.
He knew what polyjuice smelled like (thanks to a youth spend in the Marauders). It was as disgusting as it tasted. He would have noticed if someone he spent a lot of time was using it, so he could already discard half the people in the crowd.
It was not so odd to approach the aurors. He worked for the Ministry, and he knew one of the man, if only from his face. They were bored and thought this little camp-out a waste of time, but none of them smelled of polyjuice.
It did not take him long to notice that someone was avoiding him. There was the stench of apprehension, not quite fear. He moved closer to Ludo Bagman and the smell spiked. He was speaking with one of the administrators about quidditch and barely even registered than Remus was there.
Someone shifted in the edge of his periphery. He recognized the green bowler hat, infamous in certain circles. Barty Crouch was Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation. He'd been demoted after the first war from Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Remus had worked with him once. Though nothing official had been stated, everyone knew that the demotion had been because of the spectacle of his son being a Death Eater.
After the trial, Barty Crouch had lost just about everything. It was disastrous. Now, he was a shadow of the politician screaming for the Kissing of criminals and justice reform. Remus had seen him in the judging box but had passed him over, like everyone else.
Now, he had his undivided attention. He moved closer and Crouch moved away, keeping his head down. Remus was awash suddenly the absolutely foul stench of hatred. There was no fear, nothing of the sickly smell he associated with urine. This was hot and burned. His hackles rose, his hair standing on end just in defense of it.
Without pause, Remus lost control. He snaked between Bagman and the auror and caught Crouch's sleeve. He didn't care that his teeth had changed, elongated and choppy like a mongrel's. Or that he had lifted Crouch clean off the ground.
Crouch screamed in outrage. He fumbled at Remus' grip, kicking his feet as his bowler hat fell off. In the confusion, Bagman and the aurors went to grab him, but Sirius cast a jelly-legs jinx at them. Not expecting the attack at their backs, they did not shield and went down with yelps.
Crouch was spewing spittle and threats, his face an ugly pewter and red. Remus growled, his eyes flashing gold. Crouch paused to stare at him, eyes going wide.
Dumbledore interceded. Crouch hardly noticed as he disarmed him. Sirius gently coaxed Remus to release him and Severus bound him with incarcerous. He fell to the ground. That was enough to jolt him back to attention.
"What is the meaning of this?" he shouted, mustache shaking.
Everyone had crowded around them, mystified at the spectacle. Dumbledore added authority to the situation and no one tried to free him. Remus, the crowd backing away from him in apprehension, bent in front of his face. Crouch lost his composure and sneered. That was all Remus needed.
"Polyjuice," he told Dumbledore, the syllables falling like blocks around his new teeth.
The crowd backed away, the one word enough of an explanation.
"Bloody hell," Bagman whispered, still lain on the ground.
The Crouch impostor snarled, a hidden sheen of madness rising to the forefront of his eyes. His gaze darted among the crowd and found no supporters. They landed back on Dumbledore and he gave a cruel smile.
"You will tell us where Dyre Durmstrang is."
The impostor curled his lips, exposing the sides of his teeth.
What would have happened next would never be known. A shot of something passed through the man's eyes. Dumbledore's eyes widened and he had already begun countermeasures for curses that stopped heartbeats when he realized it was something else.
Severus screamed, dropping to his knees beside him. His fingers dug into his arm. The ropes holding Crouch had loosened, but the man was not in the position to take advantage of it anymore than Severus. He threw his head back and laughed. The pain traveled through his core in ripples. He held out his hands to welcome it and howled.
Sirius punched him across the face.
Dumbledore knelt beside his friend, but there was nothing he could do. The surge eased. Severus was left panting, slick with sweat. He looked up at his teacher, and there was horror in his black eyes, more than enough for Dumbledore to read.
"You're too late," Crouch cackled from the ground, blood spilling from his lip.
James picked him up by his robes. "Where is Dyre?" he demanded.
The doppelgänger gave him a free expression, as if to say he had no more reason for secrets. He smirked, both relishing and pitying James' expression. "With my lord," he said. "He's gone now."
James threw him aside. The man landed on his shoulder. He gave a high-pitched chuckle, curling on himself in delight.
"What is going on?" Pomela asked, eyes wide and searching.
"We must fortify the school," Dumbledore said. No one obeyed him. He turned, eyes fierce, his mouth foreign. "Go!" he shouted. "Fortify the school!" He swept out his arm and they ran. "Protect the students! Warn the Ministry!"
"Warn them of what?" a single green trainee asked, standing helpless.
Dumbledore let an iron gaze rest on him. "The Dark Lord is risen."
For a moment, they all stopped. Hermione pressed her fingers to her mouth. They all paled, a few crying.
"GO!" Dumbledore ordered, thunder in his voice.
They went.
"What do we do?" Lily asked, coming to his shoulder. She too was pale but for none of the reasons of the others.
Soon, they were the only ones left in the clearing, the only ones listening to Crouch's mutilated giggles.
He could only look at, no words of comfort to give.
Lily snarled. She marched to Crouch. He gave a hyena's chuckle. She jabbed her wand in his face until he quieted.
"Where is my son?"
He clamped his lips shut but it could not stop the giggles, spilling out as he looked at her face. Her nostrils flared.
"Creorhyra!"
He screamed. She felt the thrashing of his body, watched his face as it morphed into pain. She did not stop.
Finally, the spell eased. He trembled, and she shook him upright.
"Why is my son?" she asked again, her voice quiet.
The laughter rose and fell, exhausted by pain. "All year," he said. "I was under your noses all year and none of you even noticed." He paused to gather a painful breath. "I thought it was going to be harder, but you all made it so easy. You weren't even looking for me!"
Lily's eyes blazed. A calmness ran through her. She breathed in a spell. It was on the tip of her tongue, so close, so close.
Dumbledore touched her shoulder. The world came back to her, the calmness receding like ice in morning. The anger had not dispersed though. Furious, she kneed him in the stomach. He wuffed. She brought back clasped hands, not caring that her wand was in her grip, and mashed her full force against his head. He went down moaning.
James crouched in front of him. "Where is my son?" he asked, even calmer than he wive, the coldness in his eyes reveling death.
"You don't have the time to torture me," he panted, a manic gleam in his eyes.
James raised his wand. It was Severus this time who stopped him.
"He's right," he said. "We don't have the time."
James' eyes narrowed. For a moment, he almost cursed him. Lucius stepped in, grabbing his shoulder. His expression did not change, but his arm lowered.
"Think you can handle what exists in my head, traitor," he spat.
Severus gazed back at him. Unlike James and Lily, there was no insanity or desperation spurring his actions. The darkness in Severus Snape was as natural as mountains.
"Do you think you can handle what I'll do your mind?"
Crouch paled, but Severus gave him no time to answer. He grabbed his temples and shouted, "Legimens!"
He fell through layers.
Severus swam the currents, swift with experience. He left spikes in his wake and heard, in some distant part still connected to his body, Crouch's screams.
Good, his mind purred.
There was some training present, but Severus worked through the illusions and distractions with exacting skill. There was nothing here that Crouch could hide. He didn't care who he was or how he had come to be here. He didn't care if the real Bartimus Crouch was dead. He cared about one thing and threw it like spears through Crouch's mind until he found it.
Shadows formed around a creature, but Severus didn't care about that either. He focused on the words. The hisses formed and he waited, a beast in the thrush, until he heard what he wanted.
The connection snapped. Severus found himself suddenly thrown. He was pulled back into his body, his mind snagging on closing doors. He barely made it through the last, battering against the lips of death until he was once more on the ground, hissing and panting in pain.
"Well?" Sirius demanded, his fingers tight on his arm.
Severus clenched his teeth, refortifying the barriers on his mind. The impostor was dead, by suicide or the like. He didn't need to look to know. It was a few seconds before he could bear to speak or even open his eyes. If he had been slower, he would have been trapped in the corpse. Not a pleasant way to exist.
"It's a graveyard," he hissed, dividing his attention so he wouldn't suffer brain damage later. "Little Hangelton."
They moved to leave. Severus snagged the sleeve closest to him. It happened to be James.
There was still glazed look to the man's eyes but it was filled with resolve. How much of that resolve would wound him, Severus wondered.
"They've performed a ritual," he said, working against the pain still whittling his bones. He clung to James' robe when he tried to shake him off. "This is important!" he snapped, glaring at him. It was like calming a hurricane. "The... the Dark Lord is a creature. He was weak."
"That's good then," Sirius interrupted, eager to be on the way.
Severus bit his tongue against screaming and concentrated. "He's not weak anymore. He's used Dyre, James."
"What have they done?" Dumbledore asked, coming beside him.
He shook his head. "He's right. There is nothing we can do to save him. He was chosen for this."
James threw him off in disgust. Severus hid his wince. Surprisingly, it was Draco who caught. He and the other two students had held back while they tortured Crouch, but there was no sign of trauma on Draco's face.
"He knew this would happen," he said to James, glaring. "He warned you and warned you."
"I'm not-" the man started to scream, eyes wild.
"Shut the fuck up!" Draco screamed back, making Severus flinch if only from the volume. His hair flared like a halo around his head, his eyes flaring. "Can you not do one simple thing?" he demanded, in the same high-pitched shrill. "He said to wait for him!"
"You can't expect us to-" Sirius said.
"I can," Draco interrupted. "He fucking knew all of this would happen." He bit his lip, eyes downcast for a moment but he did not live in it. "He never says anything that he doesn't mean. If he said to wait here, then we will wait."
They stared at him. Draco stared back, alone and strong. He bore all the fierce righteousness of a man come into his own.
Cetis chose that moment to spiral on his shoulders. The wyvern slid in one smooth motion around his neck, stretching its neck and wings to yawn.
The blue burned brilliant in its heart.
Dumbledore lowered his hand, his eyes softening. He opened his mouth but that too, like so much, would be lost that day.
The world, rotten with Dark magic, burst open.
o.O.o
Voldemort breathed in. It had been so long since he'd breathed. It felt good.
He stretched his hands. He had the grey skin of old dead, tanned and fitted to him like leather. He felt blood running through his veins again, the weight of bones and muscles. He opened his mouth. Yes, he could eat again. He wanted to taste a human heart. His pulse fluttered.
Yessssss, this is what it felt like to be alive.
He was not completely human. He had the small, pointed teeth of a serpent, and he'd sacrificed his nose to have their scent. He'd never see colors again, only the flare of body heat. He felt it in his chest, cooler than the temperature of a human. He would not have imagined he'd miss the sensation of touch, but he did. Greatly so. To be able to feel his victims' flesh. He wanted to bury his hands in their intestines, touch the evanescent warmth.
He had missed the feel of blood, the smell.
"My l-lord," Bella whispered.
His gaze fell on her, and she crested beneath it, shuddering. His Bella, yes, he remembered adoration too. This body could accept it like his other couldn't. Yessss, he hissed. Yesss, yesss, yesss.
He was the God of this world.
One by one, his little death-eaters fell to their knees. When he had been granted immortality, he'd give it to them too, and he'd be able to take it away. Power swam between his fingers. It ran like a single lash of rain up his arms, tingling in his head. He'd kill everything. He'd kill everything and bring it back and kill it and bring it back and kill it again. The possibilities of what he would do. Delicious as blood. Oh lovely, heavy, flowing blood. He wanted to swim in it.
"My Death Eaters," he whispered, imagining the feel of it in this new body, the way it would warm his chest, the way it would slick over his shoulders.
The Death Eaters shuddered, catching the edge of his emotion. Their mouths swarmed with saliva. They were suddenly hungry. They wanted.
"What do you wish, my lord?" Powers breathed, eyes shining darkly. They leaned forward, ready, willing, eager.
Voldemort stepped down from the altar. Amycus jumped forward to wrap him in a black cloak. He stood a full head and a half above him, towering easily over even Fenrir, who did not fall to his knees but met his gaze with a rush of wild excitement.
"Oh," he muttered softly, touching a finger beneath Powers' jaw. The man's chest heaved. "Are your ears empty?" he crooned. He glanced among them. "Are your bellies empty? Are your hands idle?"
"Yes!" they shouted together. They crawled forward, staring at him. "Yes! Yes!"
Voldemort smiled, showing the tips of his teeth. They shuddered and swooned.
"Should I fill it with screams? Should I fill it with... meat?" he grinned. "Should I give you vengeance!"
"Yes!" they cried. They cried and begged and screamed and triumphed.
"I want the world," he said softly, making them ache for sound.
Powers and Bella reached his robes first, fisting the fabric to their lips.
"Always, my lord," they promised. "Always. We will give it to you. It is yours."
He smiled sweetly, petting their heads. "I will feed you, my children. I will feed you from my world. Does that not sound sweet?"
"Yes, my lord," Johnston said, weeping.
Voldemort straightened. They obeyed the unvoiced command and retreated to the edge of the circle. He surveyed them again, proud.
"Alecto," he called.
She rose to her knees.
"I want you to go to Hogwarts and find Igor," he purred. "Take Fenrir."
She nodded. Fenrir gave no motion but to grin, revealing sharpened yellow teeth, gritty with old flesh. They vanished together.
Voldemort watched them leave in approval. Steadfast, he walked to the angel.
Dyre hung from the ropes. They had taken nothing he could not do without. Voldemort swiped the blood trickling down his face and tasted it. It was right that the first blood he should have was his enemy, his servant, his love.
Dyre did not move.
Voldemort watched him. With a contented hiss, he took his jaw, lifting his head. "Do you want to see your precious Draco?"
Dyre gave no response.
Voldemort ran a hand through his hair, resting when his fingers reached his ear. He caressed the lobe then turned away, addressing the gathered Death Eaters.
"We should assure his mother that he is alright. I'm sure Dumbledore is worried as well."
He was met with mad grins and laughter. With a flick of his hand, the bonds holding Dyre up were severed. The boy fell to the ground. Voldemort's magic wrap around him, easily intermixing with the boy's own. The mass of it whirled, burrowing and squirming. He supposed it could be compared to maggots.
Voldemort walked with him back to the center ring. Without prompt, the Death Eaters enclosed them, offering their magic. Nightlee jumped up and down as he joined the circle, wringing his hands as his dirty curls bounced.
"London bridge is fallin' down," he sang softly, giggling. "Fallin' down. Fallin' down. London bridge is fallin' down. Dance o'er my Lady Lee."
Voldemort linked them and summoned the cup. The graveyard vanished in a swirl of blue magic.