Time of the Turning Chapter 20 Part Two
Disclaimer: Kindly refer to disclaimers 1-19. This one would only be a variation on the same.
Dedicated: To japonicastar, for the wicked beta.
Written: A few months ago.
Rating: No idea. It's gen and stuff.
Genre: Pretty angsty...
Type: Novel-length
Title:
Chapter Twenty -- Causality Part Two: Casting The Dice
“I’m making up for lost time,” Sirius told him, his eyes never leaving the two bite-sized copies of him, who were presently discussing Harry, and the consequences of what they’d done earlier. “You've had years to do your staring, bear with me.”
“I did your staring for you, you ungrateful ponce,” James muttered, perching on the backrest of a chair between the beds and lobbing the ball hard against the floor, watching it ricochet off the walls, the furniture, the boys... “For years, too. I deserve some entertainment.”
In the past, this had sufficed for Sirius to pull some mad stunt out of his sleeve, and usually the most excellent of entertainments had followed…
“Prongs, a little quiet here?” Sirius prompted, looking nowhere near close to so much as pulling a kerchief from his sleeve, gesturing at the kids on the beds instead.
Well, then. Some things did change, apparently.
“It’s not like they can hear it,” James argued, gesturing at them as well. “Or… feel that ball bouncing off their heads, even. I hope.”
“Sadly.”
“Yeah… They wouldn’t know what hit them,” James agreed with a boyish snigger.
“Didn’t know they had our old notes,” Sirius said, sticking his head through the old trunk sitting at the foot of one of the beds. “Oy. This thing’s full of interesting stuff.”
“Angus got them out of the cottage after we copped it,” James supplied, sticking his head through the trunk as well. “And your puppies found some of them years ago. Dunno how Angus got the important stuff to get into the trunk, though. It was all at his place, last I checked.” Not that Sirius was paying much attention to this information. He was proudly surveying his offspring once more.
You’d think he’d have gotten over it by now.
“How long have they been studying for it?”
“Three years, give or take. They were making fair progress as of a couple of months ago,” James informed. “Whatever it is they’ll turn into, I reckon they’re the same big, furry sort of creature.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sirius swell up with pride even more, if that was possible.
The bastard didn’t even bother to hide it, and he reckoned it was alright that way. He deserved to have something to be happy over, and James couldn’t deny he was proud of the pups as well. Too bad Harry hadn't inherited that sort of interest in all things magical-- though he reckoned that having Voldemort on his case like he did sort of killed the will to rub his nose against the books, and learn to do things wicked beyond belief. Still-- the kid would have stood a better chance if he'd applied himself properly sooner. He'd been getting good lately, though, not to mention, his improvisations were getting better each time. “They’ve sort of let it go of late, though.”
“Well, they have been running for their lives," Sirius pointed out reasonably. "Giving every Muncher in creation the slip, and all that...” He trailed off, back to pursuing his favourite hobby these days, and James heaved a long-suffering sigh, which went largely ignored.
In truth though, he didn’t want to leave. Seeing Sirius watching over his kids all besotted like, more than made up for the boring wait… And if he was honest with himself, he didn’t really mind waiting, either. He’d done the exact same thing, after all, for years; he’d watched over them all, as they grew older, got in and out of trouble… More often than not in trouble than anything else, truth be told. He’d been there every step of the way, wishing Sirius could be there to witness what he was seeing, that he too, could watch their kids grow, like he was having the chance to. While the arrangement struck him as deeply unfair still, and he was limited to being an observer-often of deep injustice-he couldn’t deny this smallest of blessings was one he cherished above all others.
And if he was even more honest, he’d not exactly wished Sirius could be with them, but to have him by his side.
Like now.
Now he finally was here though, James found himself impatient for… something. It had been a while since he’d last felt this restless over matters linked to the living, and it was strange enough to give it more than passing notice; Sirius’ arrival had changed all of that as well.
Now, looking back, it was to James as if all the years between his own death and Sirius’ had merely been… Not a waste, perhaps, but certainly a period of inertia, in many aspects he had not even taken into account, but which, now they were together again, were changing, different. Evolving.
His lunatic brother had, quite without effort, upturned the proverbial applecart-and every other cart within radius as well-and brought to light matters they had hardly ever discussed anymore, questioning and challenging every rule to death, just as he had done in life.
To him, being dead was a poor excuse to stop doing what they had vowed to do in life; as he had put it once, it wasn’t over, not by a long shot. Those kids were still their kids, and he’d be damned if they left them stranded just because they lacked a living breath, particularly now, when they needed them more than ever. Every argument was shot down, every protest was analysed, discussed, then shot down… And now, a mere eight weeks (as per standards of the living) after his arrival in the Underworld, they had something they’d lacked for over fourteen years: A plan.
An utterly impossible plan, which involved great deals of danger-not to their lives this time, but their souls-and which contained equal parts of madness and genius.
James loved it.
Oh, but he’d missed Sirius.
What had once been hindrances to James, obstacles insurmountable due to the fact he was, well, dead, Sirius managed to twist into an opportunity, of all things. Being dead didn’t stop him thinking, wishing, fighting, protesting against what they all knew were humongous mistakes, mistakes that could not merely cost their boys and remaining friends their lives-but which were causing them suffering, and that was one thing Sirius was not going to allow to continue, one thing he was more intimately familiar with than most, one thing even James knew was worse than death.
Because being dead was alright, really.
When had he stopped fighting it, James wondered. When had he stopped trying to make things change, and taken to waiting, become a silent observer of matters that were out of his hands? When had he, rebel extraordinaire, decided to allow these oh-so-weighty matters to become out-of-bounds for him? When had he taken the most readily offered, logical excuse to stop being a parent beyond boundless love and well-wishes?
James shook his head a slight, to snap out of this train of thought. It was something he would get the answer to eventually, and if there was one thing he had learned in the past decade and more, it was to wait.
Which he realised, Sirius never would. He only did it when strictly necessary.
Such as now, when he was simply… there. Watching, waiting, turning every new piece of information over in his head until he’d cracked the riddle, fit it in with his desired outcome, and made it work.
And he would, James was sure of it, once they all managed to crack this particular riddle. It was hard to be sceptical anywhere in Sirius’ vicinity, after all; as much as his every emotion had spread to everyone around while he lived, now his determination had become a source of contagion amongst those who still cared a whit for the matters of the living world.
Sirius’ death, while a harbinger of despair amongst a fair number of the living, had turned out to be the opposite amongst the deceased. Voldemort had destroyed many lives, and there were many who were intent on seeing him fall, hanging onto every action of the famed Chosen One as much as the living did.
Or, as Sirius fondly called him, Bambi Jr.
His son. A boy who hadn’t the faintest idea of how to go on surviving, never mind bringing justice to all the wronged, whose numbers were increasing exponentially.
James sighed again, burying his hands in his pockets as deep as they would go. He’d maybe hoped that the watches would be more fun with Sirius around; but he’d been at it for weeks already, and rarely even spoke. He just… stared. Thought, stared, watched. Lather, rinse, repeat. Maybe cracked a smile here, or gave them a bemused look there… and sometimes he’d comment on matters, argue with the living who could neither see nor hear him, swear at them when they were getting everything wrong. Just like James himself had done, for years.
As it were, he was more talkative tonight than other times. James suspected it was because there was a whole hell of a lot going on; they’d just left a mighty battle where the Longbottom kid had gotten himself in a boatload of trouble, Remus had nearly copped it…twice-“He’s losing his touch,” Sirius had commented lightly-and the Weasley Twins had popped out some wicked bits of magic-"Those two are getting better and better," Sirius had said proudly-They’d cheered their former mates on, and placed bets on who’d do what next, and it had been... Refreshing.
Just like in the old days.
It had been fun, and they were both some hundreds of Galleons richer for it.
They’d jumped back and forth between Sirius’ childhood home and the Longbottom house, where Connor had given Harry a lesson in brawling and an earful - “Harry needs to brush up on those skills, Prongs. It’s pitiably pathetic.”-But that had been pretty much the last thing he’d heard from Sirius' mouth.
Not that he could blame him; Harry had never once talked about him or Lily the way Connor did about his own father. Sirius took it surprisingly well, at least outwardly. James tried to get him to leave, but he’d wanted to stay. Said the pup had every right to be mad at what he couldn’t understand; that he wouldn’t have been much happier about it if it had happened to him.
He’d watched, bemused, as Chris filled Harry in with parts of the real story, falling deeper and deeper into thought as time wore on; everything they covered hit close to home, after all, and they had, as yet, no way of communicating with any of the kids to set their perceptions right, other than following them and listening in to their conversations. It was clear to James that Sirius had a few things to say about all of it, in particular about how they discussed Harry. But that was Sirius for you, withholding any sort of judgment until he had gotten his facts straight; he’d been misjudged and on the receiving end of prejudice for too long to make the same mistake, after all.
“Do you think they’ll ever understand?” James wondered aloud, as the boys fell silent again, and resumed their reading… Or whatever it was they were doing, he’d stopped watching them for a while now.
“I don’t know, Prongs. I never got around to do much of any sort of parenting, did I?” There was a definite note of regret in Sirius’ voice. “You’ve watched them all their lives, though. You know them better. You tell me.”
“Pfft, as if I’d gotten to do much more parenting than you.”
“Hello, boys,” a deep voice interrupted from behind them, and James turned around to see Angus standing there, half in through the wall. He silently thanked him for sparing him from having to answer Sirius’ question.
“You’re late,” Sirius commented, without taking his eyes off Chris, who was doing the crossword, Sirius’ favourite bit of the paper. On the other bed, Connor was brooding, looking exactly like Sirius had when he was a kid.
Funny, how that works out. James sincerely hoped his own brooding expression didn't resemble Harry's-it was loads less than flattering.
“Aren’t we all?” Angus replied dryly, making the other two snort. The shorter wizard pulled out his pipe, lighting it and leaning against the wall next to Sirius.
“Harry’s having trouble sleeping,” he informed. “I popped in for a bit.” James nodded.
“He usually does lately,” he answered. “I’m thinking he didn’t take too well to the story he heard earlier.”
“No, he didn’t,” Angus confirmed. All three fell silent, watching the boys once more.
“We were wondering if they’d ever understand,” James said, breaking the silence. “All of this. Do you think they will?”
“I’m supposed to tell you that, you cheeky blighters?”
“Either that, or you share the gillyweed with your old mates and in-laws.”
“It’s not gillyweed, Sirius.”
“Sadly,” Sirius raised his eyes to the ceiling. “The lands of the dead are sorely lacking in that regard.”
“You’re the one with most experience raising kids, Angus,” James prompted again, impervious to Sirius’ feeble attempts at a change of topic.
“I wouldn’t exactly call any of them kids anymore,” Angus said, sobering up. “But... Yes, I do believe they could understand.”
“Eventually?” Sirius sounded hopeful, despite trying not to. He’d never really been able to fool James, though, and the implications were obvious.
“Eventually,” Angus confirmed. “With some luck.”
“Good, because I don’t need my name dragged through the mud even more than it’s already been, at least not by them.” Which was nothing but the truth. James didn’t reckon that would change anytime soon, though. People believed Sirius was guilty of scores of crimes, and they clung to their villains as much as they did their heroes, if not more. No matter what the paper said today, it would be hard to change most people’s minds.
“I ought to have told you when you came to me,” Angus was saying to Sirius, drawing James’ attention back to the present. “But they didn’t want to see you.”
“Can’t blame them. I wouldn’t have wanted to see me either.”
“But you should have gotten the chance. We could have explained things to them, they’d have understood, and--”
“They’d have been in more danger,” Sirius finished for him. “You did the right thing,” he added evenly. “I did agree to it. All of it. It was the only way.”
“You shouldn’t have,” Angus countered, shaking his head. “And I shouldn’t have asked that of you.”
“Perhaps not,” Sirius conceded, clapping the older wizard on the back encouragingly. James wondered briefly how he managed to make light of such things. “But there’s a great many things we did wrong, and what’s done is done and all that rot. You do realise we have a lot of explaining to do, though.”
“That I do. To all three of them.”
A wince broke the quiet exchange, drawing all eyes to the source; it was followed by sudden movement, as Chris fairly flew to Connor’s side.
“Are you alright? Connor, Connor, can you hear me?” He snapped his fingers before the other’s eyes, which were fixed on a spot straight ahead, unfocused. Connor’s body went rigid, arching off the bed a slight. As one, James and Sirius cringed. “Dammit, not again!”
James could sympathise with the boy’s frustration. He’d had to witness the same sort of thing for long enough to know what was coming, but getting used to it was another matter altogether. He ought to go check on Harry…
There was a dull thud outside, and Angus poked his head out of the wall.
“Your kid just nearly toppled off the stairs,” he informed, and James hurried to Harry’s side, who was on the third floor landing, clutching the banister for all he was worth.
It didn’t last long, thankfully, though to James it felt eternal. It always did.
He stayed with Harry until he raffled himself up, resuming his rather unsteady walk to the kitchens.
“Is it like this every time?” Sirius asked Angus, as James stepped into the room again. The pup had also stopped pitching a spaz; he was being made to drink some water, but it also looked like it would come right back out before long.
“Yes, lad.”
“Any chances of that stopping?”
“Not that I know of. Perhaps with proper management it could be more bearable, but I doubt things will get better anytime soon.”
“Did you ever get used to it? Those, er…” He gestured vaguely at Connor. “… spaz attack… things?”
“Never, Padfoot. Every time it’s like the first.”
“So it isn’t just me, then. Good.” Sirius let out a slow breath. For all he was trying for nonchalance, it was getting to him. It got to them all, and tough James was the one with most experience watching the living-"Professional voyeurism," Sirius had said it was-he was feeling much the same as the other two: impotent to help, and worried about what else was in store for the kids.
A silence fell amongst them, pensive and tense. There was no need to ask; all three wizards were wondering the same thing-what would have been different, were they still alive, with the boys.
“You’d have made a great father, Padfoot.”
“You’d have made a wicked father too, Prongs,” Sirius answered after a moment, cracking a grin right after. He did that a lot lately as well. “Particularly taking them out on stag nights.”
“And you’d have been unbeatable teaching them to hound the girls.”
“Before you two start kissing each other's arses again," Angus interrupted, clearing his throat, "We should try Harry.” He gave his grandkids a parting look, leading the way out of the room.
"It's called complimenting," Sirius argued, “you’re just jealous because we’re not doing it for you.” But he too cast his kids a last glance, before following out through the wall.
“We should try the mirror again,” he told the other two, once they were in the corridor. "Who knows, it might work this time." He’d been very insistent on that, but up until now their results had equalled zero. Sirius was convinced it would work, though, and no amount of protesting, or the evidence of fifteen years’ worth of failed attempts at communicating with the living were enough to dissuade him from his plan, which was, admittedly, much different from anything they'd tried before. But then, he hadn't died a normal death, and how many souls got to keep everything they'd died with-body and clothing and assorted items included?
“It won’t work if he doesn’t want it to-and right now…”
“He does, but really doesn’t. I know.” Sirius said. “Can’t hurt to try again, how else are we going to get it done?”
“They could go to the Department of Mysteries… We could try the resident Unspeakables.” James couldn’t hide his misgivings on the matter, though he was trying to sound encouraging.
“Yeah, no problem,” Sirius replied, scoffing. “Let me check the temperature in Hell first.”
“I’m not getting you out of there again,” James warned him. And this time, he did mean it.
“As I remember it, you were the one who wanted to go ice skating…”
“Yeah, but did you have to go to that particular lake?”
“Where’s the fun otherwise? Did Voldemort kill your sense of adventure too?”
“No,” James said, snorting. As if! “He merely destroyed my feeble mortal shell.” He gestured for the other two to follow him downstairs, which was where Harry had gone. They found him at the very same spot James had left him at.
“Smashing sense of interior decoration,” Angus commented, hands clasped behind his back as he looked around the dinghy old house along the way, even as the tell-tale sounds of the Order returning from the Longbottoms’ were heard.
“No kidding," Sirius agreed, watching Harry get to his feet, to greet the Order, no doubt. "Even after all these years, the place has retained its vile essence without any significant change.”
“Your mum really knew how to make this environment child-friendly,” James said, suppressing a shudder. Even after all the cleaning, the house still had the overall feel of a morgue, and the overall look of a muggle horror flick set. And he was playing it down. Sirius’ mum’s screeching certainly didn’t help make the feeling fade.
“He’s right, kid. How did you manage in here?” Angus asked over the din, looking at the mounted elf heads on the landing they were crossing. Sirius shrugged one shoulder, hands in his pockets as he descended the stairs. The answer was, perhaps, obvious.
“I didn’t.”
* * *
“It was a slaughterhouse.” Rasmus stood, covered in dust and something very sticky, before Voldemort’s chair, which was raised upon a dais; it added to the foreboding feeling, to the commanding presence towering over them all. It was, perhaps, why everyone else was kneeling, prostrated before the Dark Lord, already beseeching his-entirely nonexistent-mercy, before he had even heard the facts.
Cowards.
Or perhaps, they were being clever, something they could not, under any other circumstances, claim to count amongst their traits.
Survival instinct, then.
Whichever the cause for all this groveling, Rasmus was not focused on it. He had always had a problem with submission; his bad knee, and also his excellent upbringing and lineage were to fault for that.
The Death Eaters who had managed to escape the ambush staged by the Order of the Phoenix-mostly thanks to Rasmus’ timely blasting apart of the half of the dining room he had been attached to, his undergarments somehow glued to his face-numbered a round dozen. Few others were present, all members of the Innermost Circle, all of them groveling just like the rest.
It was easy to tell the Death Eaters who had been in battle from those who had not; all were injured, to a greater or lesser extent, and a vast majority of them sported bits of fabric, ranging from cotton to lace and silk, or else red-raw patches on their faces, sustained whilst trying to rip their underthings from their visages.
“Why am I not surprised?” Voldemort’s voice was a harsh hiss, chilling everyone present to the core. He surveyed them coldly, the anger emanating from him so tangible Rasmus fancied he could taste it. It was fascinating, how so powerful a wizard could indulge in so base a feeling. Perhaps, were he to keep his emotions in check, he could be invincible; as it were, Rasmus could only speculate what the Heir of Slytherin, one of the Nine, could achieve despite this greatest of flaws.
But that was for later-pastimes ought to be set aside when facing potential death, after all. Rasmus met the Dark Lord’s eyes levelly, without bothering to affect fear or unease. That was for all those other, lesser sorts. Presently, his only focus was aimed at delivering his report, at coming up with another plan to get the Longbottoms, and then return to his manor for a freshly-made dinner.
And some red wine as well, 1801 had indeed been a good year for chianti. He would have to visit the Tuscany again soon…
Others could deal with His Royal Darkness and his temper tantrums.
“What happened, Rasmus?”
“We arrived with time to spare, and met no hindrance whatsoever,” he began with his report. “The Longbottoms arrived from their weekly trip to St. Mungo’s a little later than expected, but they did not suspect anything, My Lord,” he said. “They gave fair battle, but were ultimately no match for our numbers. We had the woman cornered when the boy escaped. The Order arrived whilst Dolohov was leading the hunt for the boy.”
“Someone warned them,” Voldemort hissed furiously. “That Potter brat.” He spat the name out as though it were poison. Rasmus nodded his agreement.
“That, my Lord, would certainly explain matters.”
“Out! GET OUT!” Voldemort erupted suddenly, rising from his chair. In the time it took Rasmus to bow his head in parting and turn on his heel, the chamber was empty, save for a couple of stragglers, who were limping to the doors for all they were worth.
Which was not much, as might be surmised.
“Stay, Rasmus.” For all that he had expected the invitation-order, rather-to stay, it still managed to convey the threat that lay behind it.
“If you so wish, my Lord.”
“Potter warned them,” Voldemort stated, dropping his foreboding manner and pacing up and down the empty chamber, his every step echoing through the room, worry evident in his every feature. “This cannot go on, I need that new body as soon as may be contrived, otherwise our every move will be foreseen by him, passed on to those Muggle-loving scum.”
Rasmus thought keeping his emotions under control would help greatly, but he was wise enough to limit himself to nodding.
“I am doing my utmost to find the boy in question, my Lord.”
“He will be hidden by now,” Voldemort muttered, shaking his head. “Did you find any sign of him at the Longbottoms’?”
“No, my Lord.”
“How do you suggest we find him, then?”
“I do not suggest we do that,” Rasmus countered. “Not unless he comes into the open and gives us a chance to take him.”
“We both know that’s nearly impossible, especially if he’s reached Dumbledore. He’ll have him at that school, and I am not ready yet to attack it.”
“He shall come to us,” Rasmus decided. “The McAlpins’ cousin, the girl-I believe I shall take her with me tonight. I am certain to find a way to bend her to your will, she shall bring the boys to us.”
“You shall be handsomely rewarded,” Voldemort said, visibly pleased with Rasmus’ plan.
“As long as you give me the spare, I shall be content.” Though he had already been offered, Rasmus had to make sure his payment would still be the same. Thus were the problems one faced when doing business with someone so volatile; he could change his mind at any given moment.
“He is yours,” Voldemort confirmed, clapping his hands together.
A second later, the doors opened, revealing Crabbe.
“My Lord?” he asked, with a clumsy bow.
“Bring Bellatrix and Severus to me.”
They were brought in-or in Bellatrix’ case, dragged in-with an impressive celerity. Nobody was willing to risk the Dark Lord’s wrath, or indeed test his patience. Little did Bellatrix' health matter in the face of the Darl Lord's anger: In such a setting, Rasmus reckoned that being known for bipolarity did have its uses.
Voldemort did short work of handing out his orders. Snape was to supervise the healing of those Death Eaters injured immediately, and to work under Rasmus’ direction for the special project they had discussed. An intelligent move, seeing as they still had to complete the collection, and time was beginning to press.
Whereas Bellatrix was merely ordered to hand the girl over. To judge by her reaction, one would have thought Voldemort had asked her to kindly remove her spleen with a spoon.
“She’s my ward, my Lord,” she wailed, and there was no telling whether it was because of the fall out of the second floor in the Longbottoms’ house, or because of the loss of her toy. Ward. “I never had any children of my own, and-”
And Rasmus was certain she was not precisely being a mother to the girl. The Dementor Pit was hardly a place fit to raise any child, not Muggle, not belonging to two ancient pureblood families. For all they preached about pureblood supremacy, the Death Eaters often forgot how to treat their equals as, well, equals.
“The child shall go to Rasmus,” Voldemort said, in a final tone, never one for negotiations. “You have plenty of others to play with. Dare you disobey me?”
“My Lord-I would never.” This time it was her who seemed outraged. Everyone had a button to be pushed.
“Then do as I say. Have Severus fix you up, there is plenty of work for you to do.”
* * *
A series of cracks and gunshot-like bangs broke the silence in number 12, Grimmauld Place, setting the former owner’s portrait off and bringing an end to the tense silence and complete immobility prevalent in the old house up until that moment.
Harry had been sitting on the third floor landing, waiting for the Order to return while staying well out of sight; he didn’t want to talk to anyone, or see anyone, not after that vision he’d had earlier, or indeed everything that had happened in the past handful of hours.
Voldemort had been talking to the same wizard he liked seeing so much, and there had been talk about getting a boy-not him for once-and Snape had been tasked with healing a bunch of bashed-up Death Eaters. Harry sensed there was more to it than that, and whoever the girl they were talking about was, he didn’t reckon anything they were planning with her was remotely good.
He’d have to go to Dumbledore about it; nobody else would believe him.
Provided the old coot ever showed up.
Thinking was getting him nowhere, speculation was a lonely affair, one he’d usually pursued with his best friends, whom he had heard not a word from since he’d left the Dursleys’ to go rescue Dudley, and he felt dizzy and ill, random disconnected memories welling up without apparent reason or prompt. He had reason to believe that it was the link between him and Connor asserting itself, and wondered absently what, if anything, he could do about it.
Nothing came to mind.
However, when he finally heard the Order returning, he all but leapt to his feet, pushing the thoughts he had so far entertained aside, to start making his way to the doors.
Confused voices could be heard, and there was a great deal of clatters and thuds amidst the screeching of the portrait. He headed downstairs as fast as he could, even as Mrs. Weasley emerged from the kitchen, hurrying to meet them as well.
“SCUM! HALF-BREEDS! BEGONE FROM THE HOUSE OF MY FATHERS!” Mrs. Black thundered. It was so loud the floor was vibrating.
“Someone shut that hag up!”
As Harry came closer, he could make out some more of what was being said, but it was a veritable confusion, everyone speaking over each other, bumping into one another as more wizards and witches returned, some quite battered, from the Longbottoms’. The corridor was crowded as ever, and people kept arriving, adding to the racket.
“Can you walk?” Harry heard Bill ask Hestia, whose face he couldn’t see. She shook her head, even as Moody stumbled, almost bowling one of the Twins over.
“Weasley, get out of the-”
“FILTH! MUCK! BE DAMNED FOR ALL ETERNITY! YOU DESERVE TO DIE FOR BESMIRCHING MY HALLOWED HALLS WITH YOUR UNWORTHINESS!”
“Blimey, she’s loud.”
“How many fingers can you see, Hestia?”
“My God! Are you alright, George?”
“MOLLY, CALL HEALER TONKS,” Moody bellowed, to make himself heard over the racket. “AND SOMEONE PLEASE SHUT THAT BLOODY HAG UP!”
“Let me through,” Harry muttered, pushing his way towards the portrait. In between trying hard not to stare at the state of the Order members returning, and making his way through the narrow corridor to where the portrait was while everyone else was pushing the other way, it took longer than he thought.
“Mum, honestly-it’s just a scratch,” George was saying, freeing himself from Mrs. Weasley’s grip. “It’s Hestia who needs you, go on.”
“STAINS OF DISHONOUR! SONS OF FILTH, DRAGGING MUGGLE SCUM INTO MY HOUSE--”
“SHUT UP!” Harry bellowed, wrenching the flapping curtains shut in Mrs. Black’s face. It worked, just like it always did of late, and for one moment, the babble subsided, except for a crash right behind him.
“Cor. He’s even louder,” Fred stated, jabbing a thumb at Harry. “Are you alright, Tonks?”
“Sorry-didn’t see that troll leg,” Tonks said from the floor, dragging herself up to a stand. “Why did we never bin it, anyway? All it ever does is trip me up.”
“Sirius liked it,” Remus replied through gritted teeth, limping much like Mad-Eye usually did. “But I reckon it was just because he found how you always trip over it entertaining…” Harry wasn’t listening, though, having just spotted Neville, who was supporting his grandmother.
Harry hurried to Neville’s side; he was looking quite in need of support as well.
“Are you alright?”
Neville nodded once, but didn’t say a word.
“Alright?” Mad-Eye echoed, clapping Neville genially on the back and nearly making him topple over. Out of all of them, he was easily the one in the best mood, now Mrs. Black had shut her trap-though he was by no means unhurt.
“It’s a right miracle he’s alive-amazing, what he did,” he told Harry proudly. “Blasted Bellatrix right out of the house, didn’t he. I bet she didn’t see that coming.” Harry’s stomach had knotted itself together as Bellatrix was mentioned, but it turned into amazement the next moment. He was willing to bet nobody had seen that coming.
“Really?” he asked. Neville smiled tightly but didn’t answer, eyes fixed on the floor ahead. Now he could see them properly, his gran looked quite ready to pass out; her eyes were unfocused, her robes torn and ripped, and she had lost her trademark vulture hat, which somehow made her look smaller and more frail than Harry could remember. He didn’t focus on that, though, eyes drawn to her off-grey, matted hair, which was caked in some dark, sticky substance he suspected, was blood, and she was dragging one foot in front of the other with great difficulty.
“We should get her upstairs,” Harry suggested, taking her other arm and putting it over his shoulders.
“Right you are, Harry. Move aside now, I’ll take it from here, dear,” Mrs. Weasley took Mrs. Longbottom’s arm from him, casting a levitation charm on her. “Augusta, help is on the way,” she said to the woman, hurrying upstairs with her, and Neville followed wordlessly. Hestia was being taken upstairs as well, looking cross-eyed and lost, and everyone else was filing downstairs. He could hear Kingsley offering Firewhiskey around, and McGonagall’s voice joined the rest moments later, only she was handing out bandages and healing potions, not booze.
Harry remained at the foot of the stairs for a few moments, looking up until he saw Neville disappear in the room right off the first floor landing, which was slowly becoming a sick bay of sorts. Chris passed Hestia on his way down, his expression rather pinched. Not a word was exchanged between the two boys, but their eyes met for a moment, and the one look sufficed to convey an entire message to Harry; that vision earlier had taken its toll, and he hadn’t even tried to make it stop. He averted his eyes. He couldn’t do anything when it happened; he’d never been able to. How could it be done, at that? He was hopeless at Occlumency.
If anything, it had made matters all the worse.
* * *
Dedicated: To japonicastar, for the wicked beta.
Written: A few months ago.
Rating: No idea. It's gen and stuff.
Genre: Pretty angsty...
Type: Novel-length
Title:
Chapter Twenty -- Causality Part Two: Casting The Dice
“I’m making up for lost time,” Sirius told him, his eyes never leaving the two bite-sized copies of him, who were presently discussing Harry, and the consequences of what they’d done earlier. “You've had years to do your staring, bear with me.”
“I did your staring for you, you ungrateful ponce,” James muttered, perching on the backrest of a chair between the beds and lobbing the ball hard against the floor, watching it ricochet off the walls, the furniture, the boys... “For years, too. I deserve some entertainment.”
In the past, this had sufficed for Sirius to pull some mad stunt out of his sleeve, and usually the most excellent of entertainments had followed…
“Prongs, a little quiet here?” Sirius prompted, looking nowhere near close to so much as pulling a kerchief from his sleeve, gesturing at the kids on the beds instead.
Well, then. Some things did change, apparently.
“It’s not like they can hear it,” James argued, gesturing at them as well. “Or… feel that ball bouncing off their heads, even. I hope.”
“Sadly.”
“Yeah… They wouldn’t know what hit them,” James agreed with a boyish snigger.
“Didn’t know they had our old notes,” Sirius said, sticking his head through the old trunk sitting at the foot of one of the beds. “Oy. This thing’s full of interesting stuff.”
“Angus got them out of the cottage after we copped it,” James supplied, sticking his head through the trunk as well. “And your puppies found some of them years ago. Dunno how Angus got the important stuff to get into the trunk, though. It was all at his place, last I checked.” Not that Sirius was paying much attention to this information. He was proudly surveying his offspring once more.
You’d think he’d have gotten over it by now.
“How long have they been studying for it?”
“Three years, give or take. They were making fair progress as of a couple of months ago,” James informed. “Whatever it is they’ll turn into, I reckon they’re the same big, furry sort of creature.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sirius swell up with pride even more, if that was possible.
The bastard didn’t even bother to hide it, and he reckoned it was alright that way. He deserved to have something to be happy over, and James couldn’t deny he was proud of the pups as well. Too bad Harry hadn't inherited that sort of interest in all things magical-- though he reckoned that having Voldemort on his case like he did sort of killed the will to rub his nose against the books, and learn to do things wicked beyond belief. Still-- the kid would have stood a better chance if he'd applied himself properly sooner. He'd been getting good lately, though, not to mention, his improvisations were getting better each time. “They’ve sort of let it go of late, though.”
“Well, they have been running for their lives," Sirius pointed out reasonably. "Giving every Muncher in creation the slip, and all that...” He trailed off, back to pursuing his favourite hobby these days, and James heaved a long-suffering sigh, which went largely ignored.
In truth though, he didn’t want to leave. Seeing Sirius watching over his kids all besotted like, more than made up for the boring wait… And if he was honest with himself, he didn’t really mind waiting, either. He’d done the exact same thing, after all, for years; he’d watched over them all, as they grew older, got in and out of trouble… More often than not in trouble than anything else, truth be told. He’d been there every step of the way, wishing Sirius could be there to witness what he was seeing, that he too, could watch their kids grow, like he was having the chance to. While the arrangement struck him as deeply unfair still, and he was limited to being an observer-often of deep injustice-he couldn’t deny this smallest of blessings was one he cherished above all others.
And if he was even more honest, he’d not exactly wished Sirius could be with them, but to have him by his side.
Like now.
Now he finally was here though, James found himself impatient for… something. It had been a while since he’d last felt this restless over matters linked to the living, and it was strange enough to give it more than passing notice; Sirius’ arrival had changed all of that as well.
Now, looking back, it was to James as if all the years between his own death and Sirius’ had merely been… Not a waste, perhaps, but certainly a period of inertia, in many aspects he had not even taken into account, but which, now they were together again, were changing, different. Evolving.
His lunatic brother had, quite without effort, upturned the proverbial applecart-and every other cart within radius as well-and brought to light matters they had hardly ever discussed anymore, questioning and challenging every rule to death, just as he had done in life.
To him, being dead was a poor excuse to stop doing what they had vowed to do in life; as he had put it once, it wasn’t over, not by a long shot. Those kids were still their kids, and he’d be damned if they left them stranded just because they lacked a living breath, particularly now, when they needed them more than ever. Every argument was shot down, every protest was analysed, discussed, then shot down… And now, a mere eight weeks (as per standards of the living) after his arrival in the Underworld, they had something they’d lacked for over fourteen years: A plan.
An utterly impossible plan, which involved great deals of danger-not to their lives this time, but their souls-and which contained equal parts of madness and genius.
James loved it.
Oh, but he’d missed Sirius.
What had once been hindrances to James, obstacles insurmountable due to the fact he was, well, dead, Sirius managed to twist into an opportunity, of all things. Being dead didn’t stop him thinking, wishing, fighting, protesting against what they all knew were humongous mistakes, mistakes that could not merely cost their boys and remaining friends their lives-but which were causing them suffering, and that was one thing Sirius was not going to allow to continue, one thing he was more intimately familiar with than most, one thing even James knew was worse than death.
Because being dead was alright, really.
When had he stopped fighting it, James wondered. When had he stopped trying to make things change, and taken to waiting, become a silent observer of matters that were out of his hands? When had he, rebel extraordinaire, decided to allow these oh-so-weighty matters to become out-of-bounds for him? When had he taken the most readily offered, logical excuse to stop being a parent beyond boundless love and well-wishes?
James shook his head a slight, to snap out of this train of thought. It was something he would get the answer to eventually, and if there was one thing he had learned in the past decade and more, it was to wait.
Which he realised, Sirius never would. He only did it when strictly necessary.
Such as now, when he was simply… there. Watching, waiting, turning every new piece of information over in his head until he’d cracked the riddle, fit it in with his desired outcome, and made it work.
And he would, James was sure of it, once they all managed to crack this particular riddle. It was hard to be sceptical anywhere in Sirius’ vicinity, after all; as much as his every emotion had spread to everyone around while he lived, now his determination had become a source of contagion amongst those who still cared a whit for the matters of the living world.
Sirius’ death, while a harbinger of despair amongst a fair number of the living, had turned out to be the opposite amongst the deceased. Voldemort had destroyed many lives, and there were many who were intent on seeing him fall, hanging onto every action of the famed Chosen One as much as the living did.
Or, as Sirius fondly called him, Bambi Jr.
His son. A boy who hadn’t the faintest idea of how to go on surviving, never mind bringing justice to all the wronged, whose numbers were increasing exponentially.
James sighed again, burying his hands in his pockets as deep as they would go. He’d maybe hoped that the watches would be more fun with Sirius around; but he’d been at it for weeks already, and rarely even spoke. He just… stared. Thought, stared, watched. Lather, rinse, repeat. Maybe cracked a smile here, or gave them a bemused look there… and sometimes he’d comment on matters, argue with the living who could neither see nor hear him, swear at them when they were getting everything wrong. Just like James himself had done, for years.
As it were, he was more talkative tonight than other times. James suspected it was because there was a whole hell of a lot going on; they’d just left a mighty battle where the Longbottom kid had gotten himself in a boatload of trouble, Remus had nearly copped it…twice-“He’s losing his touch,” Sirius had commented lightly-and the Weasley Twins had popped out some wicked bits of magic-"Those two are getting better and better," Sirius had said proudly-They’d cheered their former mates on, and placed bets on who’d do what next, and it had been... Refreshing.
Just like in the old days.
It had been fun, and they were both some hundreds of Galleons richer for it.
They’d jumped back and forth between Sirius’ childhood home and the Longbottom house, where Connor had given Harry a lesson in brawling and an earful - “Harry needs to brush up on those skills, Prongs. It’s pitiably pathetic.”-But that had been pretty much the last thing he’d heard from Sirius' mouth.
Not that he could blame him; Harry had never once talked about him or Lily the way Connor did about his own father. Sirius took it surprisingly well, at least outwardly. James tried to get him to leave, but he’d wanted to stay. Said the pup had every right to be mad at what he couldn’t understand; that he wouldn’t have been much happier about it if it had happened to him.
He’d watched, bemused, as Chris filled Harry in with parts of the real story, falling deeper and deeper into thought as time wore on; everything they covered hit close to home, after all, and they had, as yet, no way of communicating with any of the kids to set their perceptions right, other than following them and listening in to their conversations. It was clear to James that Sirius had a few things to say about all of it, in particular about how they discussed Harry. But that was Sirius for you, withholding any sort of judgment until he had gotten his facts straight; he’d been misjudged and on the receiving end of prejudice for too long to make the same mistake, after all.
“Do you think they’ll ever understand?” James wondered aloud, as the boys fell silent again, and resumed their reading… Or whatever it was they were doing, he’d stopped watching them for a while now.
“I don’t know, Prongs. I never got around to do much of any sort of parenting, did I?” There was a definite note of regret in Sirius’ voice. “You’ve watched them all their lives, though. You know them better. You tell me.”
“Pfft, as if I’d gotten to do much more parenting than you.”
“Hello, boys,” a deep voice interrupted from behind them, and James turned around to see Angus standing there, half in through the wall. He silently thanked him for sparing him from having to answer Sirius’ question.
“You’re late,” Sirius commented, without taking his eyes off Chris, who was doing the crossword, Sirius’ favourite bit of the paper. On the other bed, Connor was brooding, looking exactly like Sirius had when he was a kid.
Funny, how that works out. James sincerely hoped his own brooding expression didn't resemble Harry's-it was loads less than flattering.
“Aren’t we all?” Angus replied dryly, making the other two snort. The shorter wizard pulled out his pipe, lighting it and leaning against the wall next to Sirius.
“Harry’s having trouble sleeping,” he informed. “I popped in for a bit.” James nodded.
“He usually does lately,” he answered. “I’m thinking he didn’t take too well to the story he heard earlier.”
“No, he didn’t,” Angus confirmed. All three fell silent, watching the boys once more.
“We were wondering if they’d ever understand,” James said, breaking the silence. “All of this. Do you think they will?”
“I’m supposed to tell you that, you cheeky blighters?”
“Either that, or you share the gillyweed with your old mates and in-laws.”
“It’s not gillyweed, Sirius.”
“Sadly,” Sirius raised his eyes to the ceiling. “The lands of the dead are sorely lacking in that regard.”
“You’re the one with most experience raising kids, Angus,” James prompted again, impervious to Sirius’ feeble attempts at a change of topic.
“I wouldn’t exactly call any of them kids anymore,” Angus said, sobering up. “But... Yes, I do believe they could understand.”
“Eventually?” Sirius sounded hopeful, despite trying not to. He’d never really been able to fool James, though, and the implications were obvious.
“Eventually,” Angus confirmed. “With some luck.”
“Good, because I don’t need my name dragged through the mud even more than it’s already been, at least not by them.” Which was nothing but the truth. James didn’t reckon that would change anytime soon, though. People believed Sirius was guilty of scores of crimes, and they clung to their villains as much as they did their heroes, if not more. No matter what the paper said today, it would be hard to change most people’s minds.
“I ought to have told you when you came to me,” Angus was saying to Sirius, drawing James’ attention back to the present. “But they didn’t want to see you.”
“Can’t blame them. I wouldn’t have wanted to see me either.”
“But you should have gotten the chance. We could have explained things to them, they’d have understood, and--”
“They’d have been in more danger,” Sirius finished for him. “You did the right thing,” he added evenly. “I did agree to it. All of it. It was the only way.”
“You shouldn’t have,” Angus countered, shaking his head. “And I shouldn’t have asked that of you.”
“Perhaps not,” Sirius conceded, clapping the older wizard on the back encouragingly. James wondered briefly how he managed to make light of such things. “But there’s a great many things we did wrong, and what’s done is done and all that rot. You do realise we have a lot of explaining to do, though.”
“That I do. To all three of them.”
A wince broke the quiet exchange, drawing all eyes to the source; it was followed by sudden movement, as Chris fairly flew to Connor’s side.
“Are you alright? Connor, Connor, can you hear me?” He snapped his fingers before the other’s eyes, which were fixed on a spot straight ahead, unfocused. Connor’s body went rigid, arching off the bed a slight. As one, James and Sirius cringed. “Dammit, not again!”
James could sympathise with the boy’s frustration. He’d had to witness the same sort of thing for long enough to know what was coming, but getting used to it was another matter altogether. He ought to go check on Harry…
There was a dull thud outside, and Angus poked his head out of the wall.
“Your kid just nearly toppled off the stairs,” he informed, and James hurried to Harry’s side, who was on the third floor landing, clutching the banister for all he was worth.
It didn’t last long, thankfully, though to James it felt eternal. It always did.
He stayed with Harry until he raffled himself up, resuming his rather unsteady walk to the kitchens.
“Is it like this every time?” Sirius asked Angus, as James stepped into the room again. The pup had also stopped pitching a spaz; he was being made to drink some water, but it also looked like it would come right back out before long.
“Yes, lad.”
“Any chances of that stopping?”
“Not that I know of. Perhaps with proper management it could be more bearable, but I doubt things will get better anytime soon.”
“Did you ever get used to it? Those, er…” He gestured vaguely at Connor. “… spaz attack… things?”
“Never, Padfoot. Every time it’s like the first.”
“So it isn’t just me, then. Good.” Sirius let out a slow breath. For all he was trying for nonchalance, it was getting to him. It got to them all, and tough James was the one with most experience watching the living-"Professional voyeurism," Sirius had said it was-he was feeling much the same as the other two: impotent to help, and worried about what else was in store for the kids.
A silence fell amongst them, pensive and tense. There was no need to ask; all three wizards were wondering the same thing-what would have been different, were they still alive, with the boys.
“You’d have made a great father, Padfoot.”
“You’d have made a wicked father too, Prongs,” Sirius answered after a moment, cracking a grin right after. He did that a lot lately as well. “Particularly taking them out on stag nights.”
“And you’d have been unbeatable teaching them to hound the girls.”
“Before you two start kissing each other's arses again," Angus interrupted, clearing his throat, "We should try Harry.” He gave his grandkids a parting look, leading the way out of the room.
"It's called complimenting," Sirius argued, “you’re just jealous because we’re not doing it for you.” But he too cast his kids a last glance, before following out through the wall.
“We should try the mirror again,” he told the other two, once they were in the corridor. "Who knows, it might work this time." He’d been very insistent on that, but up until now their results had equalled zero. Sirius was convinced it would work, though, and no amount of protesting, or the evidence of fifteen years’ worth of failed attempts at communicating with the living were enough to dissuade him from his plan, which was, admittedly, much different from anything they'd tried before. But then, he hadn't died a normal death, and how many souls got to keep everything they'd died with-body and clothing and assorted items included?
“It won’t work if he doesn’t want it to-and right now…”
“He does, but really doesn’t. I know.” Sirius said. “Can’t hurt to try again, how else are we going to get it done?”
“They could go to the Department of Mysteries… We could try the resident Unspeakables.” James couldn’t hide his misgivings on the matter, though he was trying to sound encouraging.
“Yeah, no problem,” Sirius replied, scoffing. “Let me check the temperature in Hell first.”
“I’m not getting you out of there again,” James warned him. And this time, he did mean it.
“As I remember it, you were the one who wanted to go ice skating…”
“Yeah, but did you have to go to that particular lake?”
“Where’s the fun otherwise? Did Voldemort kill your sense of adventure too?”
“No,” James said, snorting. As if! “He merely destroyed my feeble mortal shell.” He gestured for the other two to follow him downstairs, which was where Harry had gone. They found him at the very same spot James had left him at.
“Smashing sense of interior decoration,” Angus commented, hands clasped behind his back as he looked around the dinghy old house along the way, even as the tell-tale sounds of the Order returning from the Longbottoms’ were heard.
“No kidding," Sirius agreed, watching Harry get to his feet, to greet the Order, no doubt. "Even after all these years, the place has retained its vile essence without any significant change.”
“Your mum really knew how to make this environment child-friendly,” James said, suppressing a shudder. Even after all the cleaning, the house still had the overall feel of a morgue, and the overall look of a muggle horror flick set. And he was playing it down. Sirius’ mum’s screeching certainly didn’t help make the feeling fade.
“He’s right, kid. How did you manage in here?” Angus asked over the din, looking at the mounted elf heads on the landing they were crossing. Sirius shrugged one shoulder, hands in his pockets as he descended the stairs. The answer was, perhaps, obvious.
“I didn’t.”
* * *
“It was a slaughterhouse.” Rasmus stood, covered in dust and something very sticky, before Voldemort’s chair, which was raised upon a dais; it added to the foreboding feeling, to the commanding presence towering over them all. It was, perhaps, why everyone else was kneeling, prostrated before the Dark Lord, already beseeching his-entirely nonexistent-mercy, before he had even heard the facts.
Cowards.
Or perhaps, they were being clever, something they could not, under any other circumstances, claim to count amongst their traits.
Survival instinct, then.
Whichever the cause for all this groveling, Rasmus was not focused on it. He had always had a problem with submission; his bad knee, and also his excellent upbringing and lineage were to fault for that.
The Death Eaters who had managed to escape the ambush staged by the Order of the Phoenix-mostly thanks to Rasmus’ timely blasting apart of the half of the dining room he had been attached to, his undergarments somehow glued to his face-numbered a round dozen. Few others were present, all members of the Innermost Circle, all of them groveling just like the rest.
It was easy to tell the Death Eaters who had been in battle from those who had not; all were injured, to a greater or lesser extent, and a vast majority of them sported bits of fabric, ranging from cotton to lace and silk, or else red-raw patches on their faces, sustained whilst trying to rip their underthings from their visages.
“Why am I not surprised?” Voldemort’s voice was a harsh hiss, chilling everyone present to the core. He surveyed them coldly, the anger emanating from him so tangible Rasmus fancied he could taste it. It was fascinating, how so powerful a wizard could indulge in so base a feeling. Perhaps, were he to keep his emotions in check, he could be invincible; as it were, Rasmus could only speculate what the Heir of Slytherin, one of the Nine, could achieve despite this greatest of flaws.
But that was for later-pastimes ought to be set aside when facing potential death, after all. Rasmus met the Dark Lord’s eyes levelly, without bothering to affect fear or unease. That was for all those other, lesser sorts. Presently, his only focus was aimed at delivering his report, at coming up with another plan to get the Longbottoms, and then return to his manor for a freshly-made dinner.
And some red wine as well, 1801 had indeed been a good year for chianti. He would have to visit the Tuscany again soon…
Others could deal with His Royal Darkness and his temper tantrums.
“What happened, Rasmus?”
“We arrived with time to spare, and met no hindrance whatsoever,” he began with his report. “The Longbottoms arrived from their weekly trip to St. Mungo’s a little later than expected, but they did not suspect anything, My Lord,” he said. “They gave fair battle, but were ultimately no match for our numbers. We had the woman cornered when the boy escaped. The Order arrived whilst Dolohov was leading the hunt for the boy.”
“Someone warned them,” Voldemort hissed furiously. “That Potter brat.” He spat the name out as though it were poison. Rasmus nodded his agreement.
“That, my Lord, would certainly explain matters.”
“Out! GET OUT!” Voldemort erupted suddenly, rising from his chair. In the time it took Rasmus to bow his head in parting and turn on his heel, the chamber was empty, save for a couple of stragglers, who were limping to the doors for all they were worth.
Which was not much, as might be surmised.
“Stay, Rasmus.” For all that he had expected the invitation-order, rather-to stay, it still managed to convey the threat that lay behind it.
“If you so wish, my Lord.”
“Potter warned them,” Voldemort stated, dropping his foreboding manner and pacing up and down the empty chamber, his every step echoing through the room, worry evident in his every feature. “This cannot go on, I need that new body as soon as may be contrived, otherwise our every move will be foreseen by him, passed on to those Muggle-loving scum.”
Rasmus thought keeping his emotions under control would help greatly, but he was wise enough to limit himself to nodding.
“I am doing my utmost to find the boy in question, my Lord.”
“He will be hidden by now,” Voldemort muttered, shaking his head. “Did you find any sign of him at the Longbottoms’?”
“No, my Lord.”
“How do you suggest we find him, then?”
“I do not suggest we do that,” Rasmus countered. “Not unless he comes into the open and gives us a chance to take him.”
“We both know that’s nearly impossible, especially if he’s reached Dumbledore. He’ll have him at that school, and I am not ready yet to attack it.”
“He shall come to us,” Rasmus decided. “The McAlpins’ cousin, the girl-I believe I shall take her with me tonight. I am certain to find a way to bend her to your will, she shall bring the boys to us.”
“You shall be handsomely rewarded,” Voldemort said, visibly pleased with Rasmus’ plan.
“As long as you give me the spare, I shall be content.” Though he had already been offered, Rasmus had to make sure his payment would still be the same. Thus were the problems one faced when doing business with someone so volatile; he could change his mind at any given moment.
“He is yours,” Voldemort confirmed, clapping his hands together.
A second later, the doors opened, revealing Crabbe.
“My Lord?” he asked, with a clumsy bow.
“Bring Bellatrix and Severus to me.”
They were brought in-or in Bellatrix’ case, dragged in-with an impressive celerity. Nobody was willing to risk the Dark Lord’s wrath, or indeed test his patience. Little did Bellatrix' health matter in the face of the Darl Lord's anger: In such a setting, Rasmus reckoned that being known for bipolarity did have its uses.
Voldemort did short work of handing out his orders. Snape was to supervise the healing of those Death Eaters injured immediately, and to work under Rasmus’ direction for the special project they had discussed. An intelligent move, seeing as they still had to complete the collection, and time was beginning to press.
Whereas Bellatrix was merely ordered to hand the girl over. To judge by her reaction, one would have thought Voldemort had asked her to kindly remove her spleen with a spoon.
“She’s my ward, my Lord,” she wailed, and there was no telling whether it was because of the fall out of the second floor in the Longbottoms’ house, or because of the loss of her toy. Ward. “I never had any children of my own, and-”
And Rasmus was certain she was not precisely being a mother to the girl. The Dementor Pit was hardly a place fit to raise any child, not Muggle, not belonging to two ancient pureblood families. For all they preached about pureblood supremacy, the Death Eaters often forgot how to treat their equals as, well, equals.
“The child shall go to Rasmus,” Voldemort said, in a final tone, never one for negotiations. “You have plenty of others to play with. Dare you disobey me?”
“My Lord-I would never.” This time it was her who seemed outraged. Everyone had a button to be pushed.
“Then do as I say. Have Severus fix you up, there is plenty of work for you to do.”
* * *
A series of cracks and gunshot-like bangs broke the silence in number 12, Grimmauld Place, setting the former owner’s portrait off and bringing an end to the tense silence and complete immobility prevalent in the old house up until that moment.
Harry had been sitting on the third floor landing, waiting for the Order to return while staying well out of sight; he didn’t want to talk to anyone, or see anyone, not after that vision he’d had earlier, or indeed everything that had happened in the past handful of hours.
Voldemort had been talking to the same wizard he liked seeing so much, and there had been talk about getting a boy-not him for once-and Snape had been tasked with healing a bunch of bashed-up Death Eaters. Harry sensed there was more to it than that, and whoever the girl they were talking about was, he didn’t reckon anything they were planning with her was remotely good.
He’d have to go to Dumbledore about it; nobody else would believe him.
Provided the old coot ever showed up.
Thinking was getting him nowhere, speculation was a lonely affair, one he’d usually pursued with his best friends, whom he had heard not a word from since he’d left the Dursleys’ to go rescue Dudley, and he felt dizzy and ill, random disconnected memories welling up without apparent reason or prompt. He had reason to believe that it was the link between him and Connor asserting itself, and wondered absently what, if anything, he could do about it.
Nothing came to mind.
However, when he finally heard the Order returning, he all but leapt to his feet, pushing the thoughts he had so far entertained aside, to start making his way to the doors.
Confused voices could be heard, and there was a great deal of clatters and thuds amidst the screeching of the portrait. He headed downstairs as fast as he could, even as Mrs. Weasley emerged from the kitchen, hurrying to meet them as well.
“SCUM! HALF-BREEDS! BEGONE FROM THE HOUSE OF MY FATHERS!” Mrs. Black thundered. It was so loud the floor was vibrating.
“Someone shut that hag up!”
As Harry came closer, he could make out some more of what was being said, but it was a veritable confusion, everyone speaking over each other, bumping into one another as more wizards and witches returned, some quite battered, from the Longbottoms’. The corridor was crowded as ever, and people kept arriving, adding to the racket.
“Can you walk?” Harry heard Bill ask Hestia, whose face he couldn’t see. She shook her head, even as Moody stumbled, almost bowling one of the Twins over.
“Weasley, get out of the-”
“FILTH! MUCK! BE DAMNED FOR ALL ETERNITY! YOU DESERVE TO DIE FOR BESMIRCHING MY HALLOWED HALLS WITH YOUR UNWORTHINESS!”
“Blimey, she’s loud.”
“How many fingers can you see, Hestia?”
“My God! Are you alright, George?”
“MOLLY, CALL HEALER TONKS,” Moody bellowed, to make himself heard over the racket. “AND SOMEONE PLEASE SHUT THAT BLOODY HAG UP!”
“Let me through,” Harry muttered, pushing his way towards the portrait. In between trying hard not to stare at the state of the Order members returning, and making his way through the narrow corridor to where the portrait was while everyone else was pushing the other way, it took longer than he thought.
“Mum, honestly-it’s just a scratch,” George was saying, freeing himself from Mrs. Weasley’s grip. “It’s Hestia who needs you, go on.”
“STAINS OF DISHONOUR! SONS OF FILTH, DRAGGING MUGGLE SCUM INTO MY HOUSE--”
“SHUT UP!” Harry bellowed, wrenching the flapping curtains shut in Mrs. Black’s face. It worked, just like it always did of late, and for one moment, the babble subsided, except for a crash right behind him.
“Cor. He’s even louder,” Fred stated, jabbing a thumb at Harry. “Are you alright, Tonks?”
“Sorry-didn’t see that troll leg,” Tonks said from the floor, dragging herself up to a stand. “Why did we never bin it, anyway? All it ever does is trip me up.”
“Sirius liked it,” Remus replied through gritted teeth, limping much like Mad-Eye usually did. “But I reckon it was just because he found how you always trip over it entertaining…” Harry wasn’t listening, though, having just spotted Neville, who was supporting his grandmother.
Harry hurried to Neville’s side; he was looking quite in need of support as well.
“Are you alright?”
Neville nodded once, but didn’t say a word.
“Alright?” Mad-Eye echoed, clapping Neville genially on the back and nearly making him topple over. Out of all of them, he was easily the one in the best mood, now Mrs. Black had shut her trap-though he was by no means unhurt.
“It’s a right miracle he’s alive-amazing, what he did,” he told Harry proudly. “Blasted Bellatrix right out of the house, didn’t he. I bet she didn’t see that coming.” Harry’s stomach had knotted itself together as Bellatrix was mentioned, but it turned into amazement the next moment. He was willing to bet nobody had seen that coming.
“Really?” he asked. Neville smiled tightly but didn’t answer, eyes fixed on the floor ahead. Now he could see them properly, his gran looked quite ready to pass out; her eyes were unfocused, her robes torn and ripped, and she had lost her trademark vulture hat, which somehow made her look smaller and more frail than Harry could remember. He didn’t focus on that, though, eyes drawn to her off-grey, matted hair, which was caked in some dark, sticky substance he suspected, was blood, and she was dragging one foot in front of the other with great difficulty.
“We should get her upstairs,” Harry suggested, taking her other arm and putting it over his shoulders.
“Right you are, Harry. Move aside now, I’ll take it from here, dear,” Mrs. Weasley took Mrs. Longbottom’s arm from him, casting a levitation charm on her. “Augusta, help is on the way,” she said to the woman, hurrying upstairs with her, and Neville followed wordlessly. Hestia was being taken upstairs as well, looking cross-eyed and lost, and everyone else was filing downstairs. He could hear Kingsley offering Firewhiskey around, and McGonagall’s voice joined the rest moments later, only she was handing out bandages and healing potions, not booze.
Harry remained at the foot of the stairs for a few moments, looking up until he saw Neville disappear in the room right off the first floor landing, which was slowly becoming a sick bay of sorts. Chris passed Hestia on his way down, his expression rather pinched. Not a word was exchanged between the two boys, but their eyes met for a moment, and the one look sufficed to convey an entire message to Harry; that vision earlier had taken its toll, and he hadn’t even tried to make it stop. He averted his eyes. He couldn’t do anything when it happened; he’d never been able to. How could it be done, at that? He was hopeless at Occlumency.
If anything, it had made matters all the worse.
* * *