Chapter Twelve
Master and Mistress of Death
Lily stifled a groan as she was roused, blinking as she rubbed her eyes to try and diminish the feeling of grains of sand stuck to her eyelids. She climbed out of bed, glaring at the full moon which shone through her bedroom window and scowled at the obvious reminder of the time. Judging by the fact that the moon had just reached its apex, she was able to conclude that it was midnight which led her to ask herself the very important question:
Why would somebody be knocking on her front door at this ungodly hour?
Of course, then the full severity of the situation struck her. Scorpius and James were still in Hogsmeade, dealing with the aftermath of the Cultist's assault. She had only fallen into restless slumber when after many long hours of keeping vigil at her fireplace for word from them, her eyes had grown too heavy to remain open. She had already dosed her niece, Aurora, with a vial of Dreamless Sleep and put the girl to bed in Orion's room – the attack of Malfoy Manor had been a shock to them all. It was one of the most secure locales in Britain, if not the world, and it troubled Lily deeply that it had been so easily breached.
She had been thankful that Cassiopeia had been still alive when Draco and a token force of Order Agents had braved the storm to recover her, though it had been a strike to her heart that she had been rendered catatonic by the severity of the attack. It was just a stroke of luck that she had been in Scorpius' office, closing up in the wake of the first wave of attacks, when Aurora had flown through the floo in a storm of jade flame and tears.
She would floo to the Ministry in the morning, where an emergency medical centre had been set up to care for the wounded and those evacuated from St. Mungo's, and see what she could do to help. Ideally, she would have gone now but someone had to remain behind to tend to the children. Almost every adult in her family and her fiancés family were knee deep in either fighting back the Cultists or helping those that were wounded, meaning that many of her nieces and nephews needed babysitting.
Lily slipped on her shoes, a pair of sandals, and stuck her wand into the waistband of her silky shorts – one could never be too careful when living alone these days – before she made the tiresome trek to the front door, fully intent on giving her unwelcome visitor a thorough tongue-lashing for waking her at this late hour. She would be furious if the frantic knocking woke any of the children she had already settled down for the night. Throwing open the door, her angry words vanished in an instant as she caught sight of the trickling blood framing her visitors lean face.
"Aunt Lily, thank Merlin" he managed with a ghost of a relieved smile before slumping forward. She grabbed him hastily as he fell, her breath catching as she took in his shredded clothes, torn skin and blood matted green hair. Lily struggled under his weight, her petite frame significantly dwarfed by his lithely muscled body as she half-dragged, half-carried him to the sleeper couch in her living room and settled him down as best she could. A dry hiss left his split lips as his raw back made contact with the cream velvet of the upholstery. She saw red in that moment, realising that he had been whipped at some point in the last few days.
"Remy," Lily's voice broke as she kneeled beside the couch so that her face was level with his prone body, "What happened to you?" Without thinking she was moving her wand through the air in an effort to staunch his bleeding and seal his wounds. Her question was only met with another hiss of pain before his eyes fluttered shut. Her heart plummeted for a moment before she noticed that he was still breathing. Remy seemed to have just lost consciousness, but at the same time, Lily noted how weak and erratic his heartbeat sounded.
"Expecto Patronum," she said, her voice breaking as the opalescent dove flew forth from the tip of her wand and landed upon her shoulder, its luminescent beak nudging at her cheek as it awaited her message.
"Victoire Lupin," she said, biting her lip as she pressed a throw-pillow against the deep gash – a stab wound that ran cleanly from front to back – on his abdomen, her heart sinking as it instantly began soaking through with blood, "Remy's at my apartment . . . He's is bad shape, please hurry." The dove inclined its head before taking off, leaving a gossamer trail through the air as it flew.
Remy shifted, his body subconsciously flinching as Lily aimed her wand at his wound and sealed them with heat, burning the flesh to keep more of her nephew's life's blood from spilling. His shriek of pain tore through the room and she was dimly aware of the sounds of scurrying feet emanating from the next room, the young metamorphmagus' screams having roused the children.
"Colloportus," she flicked her wand at the doors, causing them to slam shut and lock to keep the children in their rooms. She really didn't want them seeing Remy like this and being scarred for life. They would be fine, she reasoned as she tore of Remy's blood crusted shirt to inspect the worst of the damage; Trystane was ten and Amoretta – the eldest daughter of Fred II and Olivia Weasley – had just turned eleven. The pair would be able to calm the younger ones, as would Aurora, who was quite precocious for her age.
Her mouth went dry at the extent of the damage, mottled bruises and sluggishly bleeding cuts covered his pale chest, which had begun taking on a sickly greyish hue as his metamorphmagus genes began to physically reflect the state of his health. His neon green hair was already fading to ash and when she pressed her palm over one of the larger incisions to stem the blood-flow, she felt cracks ribs sliding beneath.
"Demitria . . ." Remy moaned in his unconsciousness, and Lily could see the anguish etched so clearly on his young face, "Demi . . . please . . . please. . ."
(*)(*)(*)
"Harry," Lily's voice quavered with emotion as she came to kneel beside her son, her translucent skin beginning to thrum with light, crescendos of white and gold spilling forth and throwing back the gloom of the salt-stained cell.
Her son rose to his feet, emaciated and skeletal, the blood of his breakfast still clinging to his lips as he turned to face her, eyes heavy and bruised from lack of sleep. His nightmares had been getting progressively worse these past few weeks, the memories of his failings clawing at every fragment of his being. Lily knew that it was her continued presence that was causing him such pain, her celestial aura banishing the darkness that had for so long lingered in the air. Her light, as a Daemon, washed away his superficial, physical ailments and by doing so, she found that it allowed his tormented subconscious to surface. Without having to focus wholly on his aches and pain, Harry was given more time to be wracked by his guilt and the traces of a happier time.
"They have the Mistress of Death," her voice was surprisingly steady when next she spoke, taking heart at the way her son's eyes steeled at the thought. They had spoken long and hard – when Harry's mental faculties permitted lucid conversation – and they knew what The Dark Lady would try to do.
Hallows. Harry had united them and mastered Death but by doing so, he had also made his consort Death's Mistress.
Lily often questions the decisions that had guided her to this cell, the choices that had led her to seek out her son rather than move to directly oppose The Dark Lady. It was a simple answer, had she fought Bellatrix, she would have perished and then there would be nobody to stand in the way of the Cult of Shadows. Just like every battle that had been fought across the eons, whenever the primordial forces of Light and Darkness had clashed, the war would be fought on earth.
The war would have to be fought, not prevented, because if they should manage to defeat the darkness now, then it would be an end to the suffering that had for so long encapsulated the world. Should they fail, however, no . . . Lily did not want to consider the price of failure.
"Can we do nothing?" asked Harry, and Lily was proud to hear the resigned bitterness in his voice. It was the easier path that would lead to saving the Mistress of Death and sparing the vessel of The Lord of Shadows and her son had for so long taken the easy path in his life. But now . . . now he was finally choosing to do what was right.
"You know the answer to that, Harry," she said softly, and two pairs of emerald eyes met in silent agreement.
"Will you stay with me?" he whispered, and there was fear laced through his raspy voice, terror of the otherworldly consequences he would face beyond the Veil. Lily reached out, warm tears hanging from the corners of her eyes as she reached out and cupped his cheek. She may not be able to truly touch him, but of course, the gesture was all that truly mattered in a moment such as this.
"Always," Lily choked out the last word, pride and sadness so evident in her voice in equal measure that for the first time in a decade, a smile creased Harry's tired face.
"Thank you," he muttered, before he turned away from her and cried out a command, his voice broken and torn from a throat dry as bone yet strong with the majesty and bravery that made him deserving of the name Potter.
"HALLOWS THREE, UNITED BY ME, AS MASTER, I COMMAND YOU, DEATH I WISH TO SEE."
The air rippled in the onslaught of a power far older than the bones of the earth from which the cavern had been carved, the water freezing, the moist dankness of the caverns beginning to solidify into specks of snow and ice. It was not cold, for that term implied that there was some semblance of misplaced warmth. No, this was the pure absence of heat, a feeling so bitingly intense that Lily, a Daemon of the highest order, felt her light begin to dim.
She watched as Harry shivered, his skin already turning blue as the blood began to congeal within his veins, his bones becoming brittle, his organs filling with shards of ice as the fluids froze within.
"Death," he gasped, "I command a soul be given flesh, heed me, obey, and be Mastered no more."
Tattered robes of darkest night, the fabric twisting and shifting as if weaved from the souls of the rightfully damned, Death, oldest and most fundamental of all the primordial entities, appeared before Harry Potter. Death was faceless, his hood pulled over a silhouette so shadowed that the robes appeared empty . . . but his claws were long and bony and sharp, five scythes growing upon each hand.
"Magnus est, gratia et revertere in amplexu natum Peverell firmetur percuti adventrit," Death spoke and in that moment Lily saw a blank expanse of darkness, quickly flaring with light as spheres of coalescing gas began to fill the dimension, lit now by stars and a sun. Then she watched a world be born and live and die, the sun slowly growing and then erupting in Supernova, but there were other worlds and other suns, all of which were created and destroyed over eons whilst Death itself remained constant and powerful.
The first true immortal, Lily shuddered as she tried to nurture the few sparks within her, fighting to sustain herself in the face of Death.
Then Harry stepped forward and Death reached out its arms, billowing robes of shifting souls wrapping around her son like blankets as he softened into Death's warm embrace. The world seemed to shudder and turn in upon itself for the briefest of moments, as a cloak shrivelled and fell to dust, a stone split in two and a wand shattered into splinters of elder wood. Then the world was righted as far away, across the storm-torn seas, a Daemon gasped and fell over, the breath of life entering his lungs and veins.
"It is done," said Death, and then the warmth returned to the cell as her ghostly tears began to fall, for like Ignatius, her son had gone willingly, greeting Death as an old friend.
(*)(*)(*)
Aurora froze, her eyes dropping open in shock as she contemplated the person standing across the room from her. He was staring out the window, not seeming to realise that she had turned back from the door and seen him. Her breath hitched in her throat, her heart seemed to stop and it took every shred of her will for her to not to rush forward and fling herself onto him.
He had the same shade of white hair that her mummy did, but it looked so much like daddy's. And she had seen him before, he had been there her whole life, unseen and unheard yet watching over both her mother and herself.
He had saved their mummy when she was falling down the stairs; he had been standing beside their daddy's grave the day she had wanted to play with daddy. She had seen him once in the library at home, even though she wasn't allowed to go into the library, when he seemed to be trying to use magic to drop a book from a shelf. A soft gasp left her lips as she watched him sink to his knees, groaning before righting himself and freezing at the sight of her staring.
His eyes widened as he took in the awe-struck expression on her porcelain features. Swallowing, he stepped forward and when her eyes moved with him, he froze as again.
"You can see me?" he asked, his voice breaking slightly, thick with emotion. He took a tentative step forward, his dishevelled hair standing up on end as only a Potters could.
"Always," she whispered, starting as she realised that his green eyes now shone ghostly blue. She frowned at the colour, the only place she had only ever seen it before was in the graveyard. Too her, it was the colour of death but it couldn't be, because his eyes were green not blue.
Why were they different?
Her lip trembled as she forced herself to walk towards him, tears spilling hanging from the corners of her emerald eyes like vines of twisting ivy. Her blood raced through her veins as she took him in, his sapphire blue eyes drawing her forward as if she was metal and he was a magnet.
Shivering, she reached up on her tip toes, her fingers grazing the bottom of his cheek and he winced slightly under her touch before starting in shock. But it was too late and her tears were falling like rain because he was warm under her fingertips, free of the icy stain of the grave. She buried her face into him as wrapped her arms around him, crying softly into his jacket, not bothering to ask herself how this was possible, how was he alive? Because her mummy had told her that he had died before she was born. But she had missed him so much without knowing him, drawing him in her pictures and visiting his grave alone when she had the chance to escape Grandma Hermione.
Because he was Leo, he was her brother.
"You can touch me?" he asked again and his voice cracked as he wrapped his arms around her, blinking away his own tears as he held her. He was taller than her by a fair few feet; he could feel her . . . he could touch her without hurting her. . .
"I can," smiled Aurora as she held her brother for the first time in her life.
Leo Albus Potter never loosened his grip as he clung to his sister, the sister he had spent years watching over, as he dropped to his knees and cried into her shoulder as she did the same to his because he didn't know how or why he was able to touch and speak to her.
All he knew was that he had finally gotten a chance to hug his baby sister.
(*)(*)(*)
Bellatrix grinned in delight as she her supplicants drew themselves away from the circle of runes that she had had them so painstakingly draw with the blood of seven virgins. At long last, her plans were coming to fruition. At long last, she would reign as a dark queen, a goddess who would shroud the world in darkness.
And she would have The Lord of Shadows at her side.
The cultists circled the runes, their breath misting in the chill wrought by the presence of so many Shadows. Their silhouettes, dark and incandescent in the gathering twilight, flitted from bough to bough as their grave-stained touch blacked the leaves and spread death and decay amidst the fruits and blooming flowers.
They were joyous this night, for the Lord would be returned to them in all his dark glory.
"Bring forth the bitch," cackled Bella, disguising her contempt when a collective shudder passed through her human supplicants, all terrified by the harshness of her voice. She knew many had only joined her so as to secure their places in the new world order. Foolish of them, really, for Bella planned to soon separate the wheat from the chaff until only that which was strong and truly loyal to her would survive.
She would fashion a new world, of which she would be the Goddess and The Lord of Shadows would be her consort. The thought made her giddy with demented glee. Because she knew, as the world knew, that Albus Severus Potter was more powerful than Voldemort had ever been.
A strangled shriek split the air, causing her to turn her attention towards the battered hostage that her Cultists had captured. Her red hair ran streaked with grey, falling across her wrinkled, freckled face as she spat and struggled, a Gryffindor Princess to the last.
Bella flitted towards her and made to slap her, solidifying her personal brand of Shadow magic to allow her claws to tear bloody furrows across the woman's cheek. Her first master had given her the inspiration for this spell, and Voldemort's greatest enemy had given her the tools to see it through.
"If it isn't the Weaselette," grinned Bellatrix with a sugary lilt as she leaned in to lap at the furiously pumping blood that cascaded down Ginny's cheeks. Her jovial mood quickly turned sour when a mouthful of broken teeth, blood and spit flew through insubstantial face.
"Bitch," snarled Bella, "Blood Traitor! I should have killed you when I had the chance!"
"But it was my mother who killed you," taunted Ginny, shrieking as Bella's second slap tore out her other cheek.
"Bring her to the circle," said Bella, turning and flitting to the edges of the bloody runes. Three of her supplicants came forward, each holding a talisman that would be required for her spell. Bella laughed, a high cold crackle like iron nails against your spine, as she realised that she was less than an hour away from succeeding.
"Bone of the son, unknowingly taken," she intoned, the runes flaring with trails of scarlet flame as the first Cultists tossed in a handful of tiny, grisly white tokens. She wondered absently if Ginevra recognized the skeletal remains of her miscarried grandson.
"Soul of the fallen, unwillingly restrained," her voice echoed across the still night, the flaming runes burning brighter as the Soul Jewel that had been used to capture Albus' Shadow was tossed into the conflagration. Bellatrix looked at her bleeding hostage and wondered if it would be worth the risk to tell Ginevra whose soul was but a few feet away from her. She decided against it, she had come too far to risk anything.
"Flesh of the servants, willingly given," and the air filled with screams of horror as all three of her supplicants stepped forward and drove silver blades into their bellies. With surprising calmness they fell into the fire, their flesh crackling as it blackened and spat.
"What is this madness?" stammered Ginny, for once at a loss for words, revulsion and bile filling her throat.
"Tell me, Ginevra," said Bellatrix sweetly, "What would you give to give your son life again?"
"Anything," spat Ginny, not comprehending what Bella had just implied, too stubborn and full of rage to allow The Dark Lady to throw her dead son into her face. She spat again, a globule of red sailing through Bella's breast and splattering across the leafy ground.
"That's all I needed to know," laughed Bella, her arms lashing out, tearing out Ginevra's throat in a gout of hot crimson and a gurgled scream. Blood spouted hot and wet into the fire, which exploded into a swirling column of flame as the first drops of Ginevra's blood hissed into the blaze.
"Life of Death's Mistress, Sacrificed in love's name."
The flames burned black, pure bonefyre, and Bella let out a delighted squeal of ecstasy as they parted and he stepped forth.
Merlin and Morgana, forbid, but Albus Potter rose, his eyes darker than night, not a single vestige of white filling the soulless depths, framed by shaggy, raven hair and pale, lightly tanned skin.
"My Lady," he said, in a voice soft as sin and twice as deadly, his voice devoid of all emotion, as he dropped to one knee and bowed his head, "I am yours to command."
(*)(*)(*)
A/N: Thoughts? Next Chapter is the Epilogue to Call Me Home.
Book 3: The Ghost Prince, will have no time jump and will take of instantly after the events of the upcoming Epilogue.