moment thirteen: sigils (July 1974)
Mr Pritchard habitually got off the Underground at precisely 6:45, and managed to walk quite smartly, briefcase in hand, towards his nicely terraced house: number 8, Evans Avenue, Shoreditch. He turned precisely from the street up the small garden path, admiring the clean lines of the lawn and neatly trimmed rose bushes, stopping for a moment to set the garden gnome on the correct angle so that it faced out towards the street, welcoming all and sundry.
Inserting his key into the door at 7:03pm, and turning it the precise quarter-turn the stiff lock needed, he could hear the burble of the television set from inside, and true to form, Mrs Pritchard was in the living room, laying out the table for dinner. She herself had gotten home a few hours previously from her position as librarian at the local primary school, and was always there to support him when he arrived from a busy day – he worked as the accountant for a boot manufacturing factory in the East End, and as previously, her dedication to simplicity and order reassured him. The same photos were on the mantle: the same familiar tablecloth laid out, the one with the lace trim, and the old dinnerware and cutlery that they had received as a present for their wedding, many years ago. The table was set for two: they had no children.
He took the coffee she offered him, and sank into his comfy chair, the crotchet cover a familiar sensation against his back, the coffee cup warm in his hands. Mr Pritchard bent down to take off his shoes and slipped on his slippers, comfortable in the glow of the technicolour news from BBC1.
“In our headlines news today, a local councillor in Cardiff has been found dead in his house. Police are treating the death as suspicious, and were summoned to the house after strange noises and a glowing green light were reporting to have emanated from the house that night. Upon arriving at the house, police reported a strange glowing skull in the air, which soon dissipated. The glowing skull has been associated with two other murders in recent months: that of Southwark pin-up girl Jennifer Dalby, and Soho celebrity David Tynes. Police are confirming they believe a link exists between the three murders, and the skull symbol is most likely a sign of gang warfare by the growing punk population against ordinary, respectable citizens.”
A few minutes later, and Mr. Pritchard was at the dining table, digging into a pile of nicely-soggy peas with his fork. He swallowed the large mouthful down, masticating it between his lips, making noises that vaguely resembled a cow as it ate its cud. His wife was the opposite: small, distinct movements as if she intended to dissect her lamb chop rather than eat it. Mr Pritchard waved his now clean fork airily, and swallowed the peas, getting ready for one of his evening pronouncements.
“Kids these days,” he said, huffing. “Punks and glowing skulls and whatnot. It’s bad for Britain, Edith, you mark my words. Need to be taken out and given a good thrashing, eh?”
“Yes dear,” she remarked absently, and swallowed a skerrick of chop.
moment fourteen: lie and silence (November 5, 1974)
Malfoy Manor. The ancestral home of the Malfoy family had existed on this spot for nearly nine centuries. It was almost a millennia: almost, and like all things Malfoy, it was the almost that itched. The awareness of being nearly wealthy enough to snub all others, but not quite; of being almost powerful enough to function independently of the wizarding society the family turned its nose up at. But almost and not quite are not certainties, and so the Malfoys always teetered on the edge of respectability, trying to live in two different worlds.
Right now, Lucius was seated in the formal reception room, doing his best to please one of the Manor’s more unusual guests. The human servants had left for the day, and the house elves had locked themselves away in their quarters, so there was no-one to see him behave deferentially, tipping the flask of rich red wine to fill the goblet that lay in his guest’s hand.
His guest tightened pale fingers around the goblet, and lifted it his thin lips, tongue lapping at it first like a snake to get a sense of taste before swallowing the wine in a gulp. Lucius wondered briefly if he still tasted things as other men did – if he tasted things at all. But he seemed to appreciate the wine, and if nothing else, that indicated some good sensibilities. He did his best not to quail under that gaze: Lucius Malfoy had always considered himself a brave man – nothing had scared him for nearly ten years, and yet…
When the Dark Lord looked at you, there was no comfort in that gaze. There wasn’t even any shared humanity, as if whatever made one human had been purged from Voldemort, and the void had entered in return. Lucius had heard whispered rumours, tales of the dark powers, and other things – all too horrifying to think about. Lucius prided himself on his willingness to do what was necessary to achieve his aims: but to sell his soul, even for the best of reasons? He did not think he could do that.
As Lucius bent his head, waiting upon the Dark Lord like a vassal, he felt fingers stretch out to cup around his head, absently stroking the smooth flesh on the back of Lucius’ neck. Those hands weren’t unnaturally cool, or hot for that matter. The skin wasn’t especially dry, or scaly, or strange in any other way. The touch of Voldemort was surprisingly normal, and all the more remarkable for it.
“Your mother died when you were younger, did she not?”
Lucius swallowed, and kept his head bowed. Discussing family history was the last thing he expected. “Yes, my Lord.”
“I understand your father treated her abominably.” There was caustic judgement in that cool voice, a probing of his weaknesses.
“My father was a needy tyrant,” he stated, bitter anger enunciating each syllable. “He drove her into an early grave with his pathetic need for a second heir.” He felt off-guard by his own fury, awkwardly attempting to rise, and nearly upsetting himself in the process. The wine bottle that stood on the silver platter swayed slightly, and he caught it with a hand, returning both to a state of equilibrium on his knee. He took the white serving cloth from his shoulder and wiped away the condensation from the bottle, acting as if his outburst had never happened.
He looked up at Voldemort, ready to refill his goblet if need be, and gasped slightly at the merry amusement he saw in those green eyes, glinting with red. “You have a good temper, Lucius,” he announced, as if the proud father commenting on a favoured son. “And you have a certain righteous ardour that interests me. My father…” he paused, seemed to gather himself in, before continuing. It was the closest thing to weakness Lucius had ever seen him exhibit. “My father was less kind than yours.” He rose from his seat then, Lucius nimbly getting out of the way, and Voldermort edged over to the mantelpiece, taking his time to peruse the family portraits and cameos that littered the pale surface. He picked up one: a young woman with grey eyes and full gold hair caught laughing at something out of view. She had high cheekbones and a strong jaw: she would never be beautiful, perhaps, not classically, but her obvious joy at life, and her full mouth marked her as handsome, and rarely so. “Your mother?”
Lucius nodded.
“She looked to be a rare beauty. I was told my mother was beautiful, too.” He turned to Lucius then, and the red fires gleamed in his eyes. “Now, you know your father virtually sold you to me before he died?”
Lucius nodded again, trying to ignore the bile that was building up in his throat. “I am aware that certain…obligations were made to you.” He could all too easily remember being dragged from his bed at wandpoint two years previously by his father, raving and possibly drunk. In the middle of the night, Lucius had been marched down through the Manor to here and forced to kneel at the waiting feet of Voldemort. Voldemort had inspected him, and left, leaving his father to gloat about what this new alliance could mean for the Malfoy family. However, it seems the powers had not approved: far from being able to enjoy any prospect of elevation, Vortigern Malfoy had died soon after, in early 1973.
Voldemort chuckled, pleased. “Certain obligations. Vortigern treated you like cattle at sale, Lucius, and not especially prime beef at that. But I have no need of unwilling followers. I know enough about you to see you do not oppose my plans, but I would prefer you as an ally and supporter now than a neutral party. Soon, there will no room for neutral parties.”
“Yes, my Lord. I wish to be your servant. For my own reasons.”
Voldemort raised an eyebrow, and stroked his jaw, looking at Lucius intently. “And what pray, are those?”
“If a farmer finds that a plague of locusts infects his crop, he sees no compunction at wiping them out. As owner of this estate, it is my duty to make sure that my client farmers and the like are taken care of, that their crops are free of…plagues. Muggles kill one another for the most trivial of reasons, because one has a different colour skin or worships God by a different name, or lives behind a different line that just happens to be demarcated on a map. They kill, and they breed, and they fear anything that is different from themselves. Because they have no magic in their lives, they seek to tear the mystical down from around us all, and replace it with their science and their logic. They create boundaries, rules, limitations to the universe, because that way they feel in charge. And they poison the sky, the air, the ground, and destroy it for all of us, with no thought for any of the other creatures on this planet but themselves.´ He tightened his hand into a fist. “I see no greater plague of locusts in our world than the Muggles. And I merely want the ability to take care of my lands. I am tired of letting all others have the power, with their talk of compromise and assimilation. Why should we assimilate, scared to show ourselves? Are we wizards not the power? Are we not the only ones with an obvious clue?”
Lucius sighed, and felt some of his anger seep from his body. “I want to be in control of my own destiny for once, to have the power to protect what is mine from this plague of Muggles, and all who would support them. I am sick of being weak.”
Voldemort smiled thinly, and nodded once. “I think I can help you with that.”
moment fifteen: here with me (October 31, 1975)
Remus steepled his hands together, and looked at the board in front of him. A rather battered, tatty old thing, the black and white paint faded upon the cloth. The pieces too were chipped, overall, the impression was of aged familiarity. It was, all in all, rather typical of the teenager sitting opposite him, knees bent awkwardly, as if his legs were somehow too long.
“You’re taking your time,” he hinted.
“I know,” said Sirius, beaming up at him, before reaching across the board to take one of Remus’ pawns in a move that would leave his own rook clearly open to attack. The chess board wasn’t even magical; but it was Sirius’, and despite James’ constant attempts to convince them to buy a proper set – “You know, something where the pieces actually match?” – they had gotten used to it after nearly two years of playing with one another.
It had been an apology of sorts: the day after Remus had returned from the Shack, unaware of his own discovery, he had found Sirius waiting on his bed in the dorms, the chess set laid out and an amused grin on his face. “Want to play?”, he’d asked, and Remus had accepted. The sight of the taller, scruffier boy and the shorter, more precise one, heads bowed over the chess set had become a common sight in the Gryffindor dorms. James would usually keep a lazy eye on their game, legs curled up under him, and make comments that both would ignore. Peter would go through his homework for the day, marking things for Remus to help him with later on: unlike most Gryffindors, Peter Pettigrew was brilliant at Charms, but god awful horrible when it came to Transfiguration.
Right now, they and other Gryffindors were biding their time in the commons: Peter in front of a mirror he’d summoned, trying desperately to re-arrange his tufty hair for the fifteenth time that night, in addition to retying his tie and smoothing down his dress robes. They were all in dress robes, of course, although Sirius typically had his collar undone and tie askew. Tonight was the night of the Halloween Dinner, and as a special occasion, Headmaster Dumbledore had invited the Head Boy from 1971 – the year before Remus or his other fifth-years had started – back to give a speech. It looked to be a pleasant, if boring formal event.
But for the moment, there was chess. Remus wondered briefly if he should take the obvious choice and remove Sirius’ rook from play. It was certainly the logical, methodical thing to do: even if Sirius himself was never logical in the slightest. That was one of the first things Remus had noticed about his friend’s playing style: it was reckless abandonment, frenzied, almost manic. Sirius would take pieces and lose them on a whim, with no apparent logic or game plan. It was if the victory was not important to him, but rather half way through a game he would ask himself ‘I wonder what would happen if I lost my Queen here?’, and did so, as if playing out the possibilities was more important than the ending. Remus followed him, doggedly, playing by proper form and stricture, and after near two years they seemed to have won and lost a roughly equal amount of games. Remus himself preferred to win; he liked the idea that there was something that worked rationally, something he could control, defeat, set aside and leave be. The logic the game demanded was a form of self-discipline, and a cry against the wolf within that he was still a man, and could win as one.
Sirius leaned forward over the board, and reached under the table to lightly pat Remus’ knee. “Go on, take me,” he said, grinning, and gesturing to the rook.
Remus blushed and pulled back, flustered. He caught a fond glance from James’ fellow Prefect, Lily Evans, who seemed far too aware of the dynamics within their little group for Remus’ own liking. But she never said anything about Sirius and his gentle flirtation, and often seemed to distract the others – especially James – from making a similar realization. She was technically engrossed in conversation with him now, sitting on the couch facing him, head resting against her hand, nodding enthusiastically at one of James’ stories from the weekend’s Quidditch match against Hufflepuff.
Feeling a little braver perhaps, with Lily’s prodding, Remus swept the rook from the board and looked Sirius squarely in the eye. “See? You’re not that big and tough, Sirius, not if I can take you.”
Sirius laughed, and spread his hands non-committally. “Remus, you can take me any day of the week and I wouldn’t complain,” using a pawn to take Remus’ bishop. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Lily suppressing a smirk behind her hand, and clutching at James’ arm when he looked at her puzzled, imploring him to continue.
Remus looked at the board, and withheld a snort of glee. Sirius’ king lay completely undefended, and all he needed to do was move his knight so to trap it. “One day, Sirius, my friend,” he said, reaching across the board to make the final move. “I might take you up on that offer. Checkmate.”
The other boy cocked his head to one side, and tipped his king over with a finger. “What makes you think that isn’t what I wanted all along? Sometimes losing is worth it, you know.”
Remus felt a sudden urge to jump up, to mark Sirius for being so defiant and willing all at the same time. Noticing the change in his demeanour, Sirius reached across to cover Remus’ twitching hand with his own.
“You all right?”, he asked softly.
Remus nodded, tight lipped. He could never give into his feelings for Sirius, or what Sirius offered. Werewolves mated for life, and he had no desire to chain something so full of life and promise to a monster. “I’m fine.”
The bell sounded, and the students rose, that Sixth Year Prefect whose name Remus couldn’t remember leading them towards the portrait hole. He caught onto Sirius’ hand before they left, and whirled the taller boy around, reaching up to button the collar and fix his tie, amused by the somewhat startled look on Sirius’ face. I guess this is as much of a claim as I can ever make, Remus thought somewhat sadly, patting the other boy on the shoulder and forcing a smile. “Didn’t want people to think I hang round with a scruff, you know.”
Sirius laughed, and mock-grabbed the shorter boy in an armlock, ruffling his scalp. “Thought everyone would have known by now that it’s Black and Lupin forever, right? Face it, Remus, no matter what my reputation, you’re stuck with me.”
Remus laughed out loud, and positioned his body, bracing himself against Sirius in the beginnings of a mock tussle, before Sirius quickly let him go. “Hmph,” commented Remus, smoothing down his dress robes. “You know better than to mess with me, Black.”
“Course I do, Remy!”
As Prefects, Lily and James led the contingent of Fifth Years, and Remus and Sirius followed behind in the group, never moving far apart from one another, Sirius absently tangling his fingers in the other boy’s robes. And behind them a little while came Peter, still struggling with his tie, lost in the mass of Gryffindor scarlet and gold.
Sirius Black had always believed he could read people quite well. He knew from the moment his parents had introduced him to the Potters that he and James were going to get along quite splendidly. There was a similar bold streak in both of them, a similar sense of humour, and a tendency towards practical joking that had brought them together, and kept them that way. They didn’t always agree on everything, but it never mattered, as long as they could make each other laugh. Sirius had been certain that the day would come when James turned to other, more respectable pursuits, and he had been right – James’ day as middle-class rebel were now over, and he was a Prefect. Sirius sometimes wondered if that was all James had been trying to do, to be the rebel and play out his teen angst. It wasn’t that James had gone complete over to the other side: it was well known that out of all the Prefects, the best two targets for any prank were the fifth-year Gryffindors, Lily Evans and James Potter. James would invariably congratulate the prankster, and Lily would usually end up on the floor laughing at herself. That was one of the things Sirius first noticed about her: her readiness to laugh. He wouldn’t say he knew her, or that they were friends by any means. They had hung round together mostly because of James: she and James would talk about Prefect things, duties and responsibilities, and play ‘rock, scissors, stone’ in order to see who would deal with the detentions this week, or give the Third Years that talk. And Sirius could tell, that amongst all the friendly banter, something indefinably more was growing between James and Lily.
Something similar had sprung up between him and Remus ages ago, although neither of them talked about it. His first impression of Remus had been accurate as well: he’d seen glimpses of a man divided against himself, and it had taken him a while to work out why. He had caught glimpses of a lonely fury within the other boy. Remus had never snapped, not quite. He’d come close, when schoolwork or life itself was getting him particularly under the weather – but the moment he’d even come close, a cast iron will had sprung up around him, smothering all emotion, and the two impulses had fought. Sirius had done extensive research on werewolves, and it seemed that Remus lived like that every second of every day. The wolf could only come out physically every full moon, but it still lurked deep within his mind, it and its ravaging hunger, tainting every single thought and need he had. No wonder Remus always seemed so tired. He constantly had to monitor his thoughts, and ask himself, if they were really his anymore.
Right now, Sirius lounged back in his seat, his elbows slung over the back. He was hoping he might look like something in the vicinity of ‘devil-may-care-rebel’, and from the looks Professor Linitus was shooting him from the row ahead, it seemed to be having the desired effect. Remus was sitting next to him, doing his best to concentrate on the words spilling from the podium at the front of the Hall. Sirius brought his attention to bear fully on the speech, and after a few stirring sentences about ‘responsibility’ and ‘the challenge of youth’, Sirius turned off again. It was not that speech was bad: far from it. From what he could tell, the words themselves had been written by a master of his art, someone who knew exactly how to capture the attention of all. It was never the words that Sirius looked upon so disparagingly; but rather the man who was saying it.
The Head Boy of 1970 was a tall lean figure, one of those people whose features seemed to be more angles than soft lines. Even his blond hair, swept back, seemed sharp, and his gaze was pointed. This Lucius Malfoy was a good speaker, of that Sirius had no doubt. He had most of the crowd in the palm of his hand: Sirius purveyed the gathered assembly from his chair, seated as he was two-thirds of the way down with the rest of the Fifth Years. His eyes narrowed as he came to the Slytherin section, to see that great prat, Snape, idolising Malfoy with something akin to worship in his eyes. It seemed appropriate that Snape would promptly fall in lust with someone who could convince everyone except himself of his beliefs.
Sirius felt his respect for the speaker lessen as he watched Severus, enraptured. Surely anyone that he liked couldn’t be of value? Snape had always tagged around James and Sirius during their first few years, making trouble, catching them out of curfew, reporting their pranks. Snape had acted as if every time James or Sirius broke the rules it was a personal insult to him. And once or twice, Sirius had caught him watching Remus across a crowded classroom, and felt an ugly jealousy gnaw deep within him.
He shrugged off the thoughts. He just didn’t like this Malfoy bloke because the Malfoy bloke was patently hollow, and self-deceiving. Even if Sirius was the only one who could see it. Remus seemed vaguely interested in what he was saying, but then Remus was always too generous for his own good, as if he had something to prove. Which, of course, he thought he did. James and Lily didn’t seem quite as involved, but then as prefects, part of their job was to watch the crowd for any misbehaviour, so Sirius supposed that took up the majority of their concentration.
Remus slipped his hand onto Sirius’ leg, and patted it lightly, abrading Sirius for his apparent nonchalance and lack of attention. Sirius removed his elbows from the back of his chair, and quickly covered Remus’ hand with his own, fingers curling around. He felt Remus tense momentarily and then relax, and allowed himself an inward smile. Remus rarely allowed anyone to touch him, and he seemed to distance himself from Sirius more than from other, as if Remus feared giving into what the sensations might mean. For now at least, Sirius was content to hold his friend’s hand and lightly stroke his palm, trying to pour emotion through the fragile touch. I’m here for you, Sirius was saying, I love you. He hoped that Remus would hear, and not be frightened. Just hold on a bit longer. Just a while more.
His researches had led him to a few half-remembered myths about animals running with werewolves, and one thing had led to another, and he and James had ended up scouring the library for everything they had on Animagi. That had been a few months after the discovery, late in third year. They had made numerous late night trips into the Restricted Section, barely escaping Filch – although James’ recently-awarded Prefect status had made things slightly easier. Sirius itched to make the attempt, although they still hadn’t told Peter, and he would obviously need time to go through the theory and various preparatory rituals. He had faith that James would be able to guide Peter through the transformation: James had become almost as knowledgeable as Remus in his studies, due to the goal that hung before him, and well, Sirius would drag Peter by the scruff of his neck into animal form if necessary. He didn’t know exactly how many would be required to help calm Remus’ bestial side, but Sirius was determined to have as many as possible.
Lost in his thoughts, he barely noticed the tall form stepping back from the lectern to take his seat, and just managed to join in the audience applause in time. Remus was looking at him with a mixture of fondness and reproach in his eyes, suggesting that he not only expected Sirius’ lack of attention, but was reassured by it, like an old friend. Sirius snorted to himself. That didn’t necessarily meant Remus liked it, of course. As the students rose from their seats, eager to stretch their legs and return to their dorms under the watchful eye of the staff, Sirius heard Dumbledore’s quietly booming voice calling all Prefects to the stage, and saw James and Lily slip between the exiting crowd, heading to the front. They were probably supposed to meet the ex-Head Boy, and exchange the usual pleasantries while he nattered on about their responsibilities. Typical pedantic bullshit that Sirius had no time for.
He gave a gentle squeeze to Remus’ hand, feeling a tentative squeeze in return, and jostled his way through the crowd, one arm coming up to land on Peter’s shoulder, as they both headed towards the doors with the flow. Peter turned, surprised, and not a little hostile.
“What is it, Sirius?”
“I need to speak to about something, Peter. In private. Do you have some time before bed?”
Peter raised his eyes momentarily, pondering, inwardly marking the fact that Remus was still straggling behind. “Of course.”
“Good.” Remus finally caught up to them, and grasped hard onto Sirius’ hand, keeping himself from being dragged along by the waves of students exiting.
The three young men stood there, not talking, and Sirius turned back to see how James was going. He was on the platform, being over to Malfoy, who was chatting with that daft old Professor, Linitus. Dumbledore politely tapped Malfoy on the shoulder, and Lucius excused himself, turning round to come face to face with messy black hair, and wire-framed glasses over a pleasant, square-jawed face.
Sirius always believed he could read people quite well. Right now, he was certain that neither Lucius nor James were thinking about anyone but each other. And damn, but he had a bad feeling about this.
moment sixteen: ozymandias (December 9, 1975.)
John slumped in his chair, and ran his hands through his hair, taking a moment to make some vague attempt to knead out the mounting pressure in his neck. Rod was still typically composed, fingers curled in front of him on the desk. Their investigation had grown substantially since those early days: the squad of eight (including themselves) had grown with the body count. Eighteen months later, they had roughly 15 permanent bodies working underneath them, from most of the boroughs around Greater London and the Home Counties, not to mention various temporary support staff or specialists breezing in and out. Eighteen months, and another 37 more dead Muggles.
Not to mention that, but two new taskforces had had to be set up: there were mysterious leaks being reported from the Ministry and Home Office, and wizards had turned up dead, if in smaller numbers. A few wizards had even been captured in the process of torturing Muggles, but when arrested, they claimed to have known nothing, using Imperius as their defence. Moreover, the attacks had spread to continental Europe, with Muggles turning up dead in every darkened laneway and disused ditch from here to Prague. The Ministry was approaching blind panic, and the United Nations’ closed committee on the Magical Arts was already past sensibility. The incursions by magical creatures continued, with werewolves and giants attacking isolated communities in the Baltics, Ireland, and most recently, Eastern Europe. Everything showed signs of a larger, malign influence. The coincidences were too chancy to just be coincidences. Someone, it seemed, had a plan. The last time a dark wizard had been dealt with, the world had gone to war, and from the signs of things, this new player in the game could make things much, much worse.
And against all odds, they had finally gotten a break. An off-duty Auror had visited an old Muggle friend, to find the Muggle dead and a wizard in his kitchen. This wizard. John opened the file once more: it was a typical delaying tactic, used by police to stretch out the time of the interview, and thereby the suspect’s nervousness, and likelihood to snap. The piece of paper didn’t tell him anything he didn’t know before, but he couldn’t help feel he was missing something. Michael Hadsen, mid-thirties, never married. Graduated from Durmstrang in the late 50s and then worked freelance as a consultant to various magical defence firms. Name popped up every now and then as a petty arms dealer in the magical Cold War, dealing in bent wands, and fragmentation charms, and the like. Never enough evidence to build a case, however. And now he was killing Muggles.
Rod’s voice was clinical. “Please tell us what you were doing at 41a Acadia Street Southwark, please, Mr. Hadsen.”
Hadsen was just as cool in his reply, but there was an undertone of humour, like he was laughing at them. “I honestly have no idea. I suspect I was placed under the Imperius Curse, you know. I hear there’s a lot of that going around.”
“So you were under Imperius?”
“I could have been. I’m sure I didn’t intentionally kill those Muggles, you know. I love Muggles. After all, it wasn’t till I washed the blood off my hands that I even knew they were dead.”
John smacked the folder onto the desk, satisfied that it made the sick bastard jump a bit. This was getting nowhere. “You’re going to tell us who you work for, or are you going back to your cell?”
Hadsen examined his fingernails. “Oooo. Scary. Guess it must be the cell for me then.”
Just as John was about to pull out his wand to summon someone from custody to take the suspect away, there was a knock at the door. Duly, John went through the correct procedure.
“D.I. Tanner has just left the room, and the prisoner is about to be returned to custody, therefore the interview is terminated at…” He checked his watch in the harsh glare of the lumos charm that hung suspended from the ceiling. “Sixteen-fifteen hours, on the ninth of December 1975.”
Rod poked his head back through the doorway, and jerked his thumb, clearly indicating John to come outside. John glared at Hadsen, warning him not to try anything funny while he was gone, and rose from his chair, shutting the door behind him. His deputy was leaning against the wall, his heart clearly racing, doing his best not to sniffle. Both uniform and plainsclothes police were scurrying around every hallway, from the looks of things.
“What the fuck happened?” demanded John.
Rod avoided his gaze. “There’s been an attack on the ministry.”
“Merlin. How many dead?”
“48 at last count.” There was a pause. “Another 13 aren’t expected to pull through, and there’s roughly sixty or so who have injuries of various degrees. It looks like about twenty wizards managed to apparate past the wards somehow – obviously sabotage is suspected. They, uh, John, they brought fucking trolls and banshees with them. They brought fucking trolls.”
John breathed deeply, and tried not to give into a total sense of futility. “Anything else?”
“They were being led by a mean-arsed motherfucker in a big black robe. Witnesses – survivors, more like – said he had red eyes. Other than that, nothing.”
“Right.” The D.C.I. allowed the younger man a few minutes to regain his composure – and that in itself was disturbing; he’d never seen Rod show his emotions like that, before turning the door handle and pushing open the sound-proofed door.
The first thing they noticed was the smell of burning flesh. Hadsen was up on the table, his hands clamped around the lumos charm, the horrid smoke and stench as the heat coursed through his body, cooking him.
Without time even to hurl an expletive, John pulled off his jacket and wrapped it round his hands, reaching out to jerk the man sideways, seeing Hadsen’s body fall hard against the desk. The man was a smoking wreck of charred flesh and fabric…you could even see what looked to be bone in places. And yet somehow, he was still alive. Barely. “Get a fucking healer in here!” John roared, and Rod ran down the corridor.
“Why?” John asked him, without emotion.
“I was dead already. We are all dead, Detective Chief Inspector, unless we turn to him.”
”Who is he?”
“He has died, and so cannot die. He is the life eternal, and you cannot stop what you cannot kill. He will baptise you in blood and fire, and he will take your soul.”
“Oh, by Godric Gryffindor, give me a name!”
Hadsen laughed weakly, the last of his energy slipping away. “He has many names. But he knows himself best as Voldemort.” John watched the light in the man’s eyes slip out. Rod arrived with the healer, although upon reflection, there was never anything that could have been done. The healer left with a nod, and the two men were alone in the small interview room, with a corpse on the table.
“He’s fucking with me,” John growled suddenly.
Rod blinked. “Who is?”
“Voldemort. Our char-grilled friend was kind enough to tell me the name of the dark-power aided wizard while you were running down the corridor screaming like a girl.”
Rod didn’t take the insult personally; he’d worked with Tennyson for far too long for him not to recognise that the D.C.I. lashed out when he was frustrated. “Why do you think he’s fucking with you?”
John absently stroked his upper lip. “After three years of killings, we just happen to get lucky and arrest someone? On the night before they launch a major attack? No, this was intended. He knows we’re investigating him. He wanted to send a message.”
“What was the message?”
John chuckled softly under his breath, and looked at the mottled corpse lying on the table next to him. “‘Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair.’”
“What?” Rod looked at him as if he had gone insane.
“A quote. Or, in other words, we’re fucked.”
moment seventeen: into the wilderness (December 11, 1975.)
Molly looked around the Burrow, seeing stacked boxes and cartons of belongings. Her married life, her family, was in the end, reduced to a series of possessions, to be packed up and carted away. It somehow didn’t seem right.
Arthur was outside with officials from the Ministry, discussing their travel arrangements. They would move via a blindingly complex system of Portkeys , all the while changing direction and distance, trying to throw any potential…oh, what was the right word? Spy? That didn’t sound quite right. Traitor? Perhaps. Although anyone who was gathering information on their movements was certain to be a traitor. Since the attack on the Ministry just under a week ago, the order had gone out to go to ground. The Ministry itself had devolved, filling cramped office space across the country – one section in Glasgow, another in Carlisle, another in bloody Tunbridge Wells for all she knew. Families sent to live in safe houses while their husbands or wives worked away, only coming home for weekends, and then not possibly that.
And now it was their turn. She and Charlie and Bill would be sent away to live in Manchester, Muggle Manchester, with the hope that all the surrounding Muggles would hide their presence and make them less of a target. She should feel lucky, Molly knew, that Arthur had not been injured or killed in that first opening battle of what they were now referring to in whispers as “the War”, but there was only a terrible sadness for having to leave everything she had built behind.
She felt a gently tug at her skirt, and smiled, looking down. Perhaps not everything. Little Charlie was standing there, five years old, and his face still smeared with breakfast. Kneeling down to keep him still, she reached for a tissue from one of the open boxes, and wiped his face. “We’re going on a holiday, love,” she said, softly, making sure he was clean. “Do you like the sound of that?”
Charlie wriggled under her grasp, trying to inch away from the scrubbing. “Yes,” he said, just as softly. “Will we be on hol’day for long?”
Molly forced a smile, and held his shoulders in her arms, letting her hands run down the sleeves of his top to grasp his small hands. “I don’t know, dear. That’s part of the adventure.”
Taking him in hand, she wandered through her house, one last time, and found Bill in his room, looking at the boxes on the bed. “C’mon Bill love,” she said brightly, and held out her hand. “We’ve got to go. I’m sure the movers will take care of all your stuff.” Bill scowled with the patient fury of a seven year old, but gripped on tightly, and followed her from the room.
moment eighteen: with a little help from my friends (April 20, 1976).
James sauntered through the corridors, trailing behind the mass of Gryffindor and Ravenclaw students who had just attended fifth year Divination. His robes stunk of the incense Professor Trelawney used, and he wrinkled his nose in distaste. One of the reasons he’d even continued the subject was that he presumed it would be easy – all his friends had dropped it after fourth year – but even James Potter had found it difficult to come up with a constant stream of bullshit and vague prophecy to keep the weird old woman happy. He figured that Trelawney was ultimately harmless, despite an annoying tendency to ask for a new star chart every week; if nothing else, she always prophesised that James would settle down with his loved one, have many children, and live a long and happy life.
James suddenly felt himself pulled grabbed by the scruff of his robes, and hauled into a darkened side corridor. Before he could do anything more then widen his eyes in surprise, soft lips were descending to cover his own, and firm arms were wrapping themselves around his waist, drawing him closer to a distinctly male form.
After a few moment, James pushed off, startled, and inwardly pleased at the sight before him. “Luce?”, he asked, “what are you doing here?”
Lucius Malfoy leant against the wall and chuckled, raising an eyebrow in wry inquiry. “What, I can’t visit my boyfriend now?” He looked down his nails, and then up at James, still trying to form words, and laughed again, curling one arm around James’ torso to bring him in again. It was not the first time that Lucius Malfoy has turned up on campus to visit one James Potter, and it would probably not be the last. Their relationship was the best kept secret in the school, which meant that everyone knew about it.
“I’m certainly glad to see you, but what if you get caught?” James pointed out, kissing the older man on the cheek, his Prefect status lending his at least a veneer of common sense. He reached up with his own arm, leaning against Lucius’ taller frame, absently rubbing his back.
“You are looking at the newest member of the Board of Governors for Hogwarts’ School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Jamie my boy,” Lucius assured him, eyes bright. “And the youngest appointed to the Board in near a century too,” he added demurely. “It will be made official, next week, apparently.”
James blinked. “Congratulations.”
“I’m allowed to inspect the school now, any time I see fit – and converse with any of the student or staff body if I believe they could aid me in raising the educational standard here.” Lucius’ lips quirked into a smirk. “Can you imagine the possibilities?”
James grinned back at his boyfriend. “Oh, I think I can.”
Lucius moved slightly closer, his tongue emerging to flick against the curve of James’ ear, causing the stockier man to shudder slightly. “Despite my busy schedule, I think I could fit you in tonight, if you want. You know we both like it when I manage to fit you in.”
“I can’t, Luce.” James’ expression was pained, conflicting with his obvious interest. “I have …stuff to do, with Sirius and Peter. It’s a special research project of ours.” Which was entirely true, he inwardly reflected. In fact, he was already late – Sirius and Peter would have probably gone through the ritual by now.
“Oh.” Lucius stepped back, trying to maintain his composure, unused to the brush-off. “Well, I guess as Governor of your school, I can’t very well interfere in your study, now can I?”
The younger man moved forward, capturing Lucius’ face in his hands and kissed him soundly, until Lucius melted against him. “I love you,” James affirmed, breaking the kiss. “And if it were anything else…I’d be in bed with you right now.”
Lucius snorted in response. “Remind me to hate your friends, then,” he proffered lightly, reaching inside his suit to pull out a bundle wrapped in brown paper and string, handing it to James. James looked at it, bewildered.
“Don’t unwrap it now,” Lucius cautioned him, “and keep it secret. Keep it safe.”
“What is it?”, James asked, raising his eyes from the bundle to his lover’s face.
“Our fifth month anniversary present,” Lucius said, blushing slightly. “It’s an old Malfoy family heirloom – an invisibility cloak.”
James nearly dropped it. “An invisibility cloak?! Do you have any idea how much these things cost?”
Lucius laughed, low and rich and deep. “Probably a better idea than you, love. I wanted to give it to you – because although my arse is covered if I visit you, you might need to scarper quickly, and avoid that odious man Filch.”
James nodded, still coming to terms with the present. “I could never pay you back for anything like this.”
“James, you pay me back just by living. Now, go off to that study of yours. I’d hate to think your grades are declining, now,” Lucius murmured, softly mocking.
James grinned, and tucked the parcel inside his robes. “Yes Luce,” he chorused fondly, and with a quick kiss on the cheek, ran back into the main corridor, and after gaining his bearings, scooted off into the distance. Lucius watched him go.
James raced through the corridors, making breakneck turns and skidding several times and nearly falling over, so desperate was he in his haste. For all his status as a Prefect, he was still remembered as James Potter, back in the old days when he and Sirius used to spend most of their time running from the people they’d played pranks on, so most of his fellow students gave him a cheery grin or wave as they scrambled out of his way. James tore across the courtyard, hearing some Professor call out his name in protest as he ran towards the glasshouses. Oh well; he could deal with it when they got back to the dorms. He wanted to get there as soon as possible so they could get back to the safety of Gryffindor Tower as soon as possible. All their families had written them about the recent attacks on isolated wizard houses in the countryside, and the curfew that the Ministry had enforced in rural Britain to combat them.
James darted from side to side, leaping over ditches and small mounds, seeing the dilapidated hut in sight. It was similar to the place of the groundskeeper, Hagrid, except used for storage, and located out past the greenhouses. Finally slowing down, he felt the air burn in his chest from all that sprinting, and took a few moments outside the door to both recover himself and make sure no-one was watching. Panting, and quickly realising he was no longer as fit as he used to be, James knocked three times on the wooden door.
He was greeted by a familiar shape with scruffy hair, reduced to a tall silhouette by the fire inside the hut. “You’re late,” Sirius grunted, and stepped aside.
“Sorry,” James panted, entering. “Got distracted.”
Sirius shut the door behind him. “Did this distraction have blond hair, pointy face and an abysmally small dick?,” he asked, clearly pissed off.
James wasn’t sure if it was just this lateness till he saw the prone form of Peter laid out on the floor near the fire, and raced over to it, his own face wide with shock. “What the fuck happened?”, he demanded to know, gently slapping Peter’s wrist in an attempt to raise him.
Sirius shrugged. “We went through the ritual, just as we did for each other. Ancient Germanic text, predatory act, blah blah blah….he collapsed before he could transform.”
James peered at Peter’s face, which was all screwed up, and continued the prodding. “It’s possible we didn’t give him enough time to get ready. He’s always been a bit slow at Transfiguration.”
The slow person in question took this moment to open his mouth and groan loudly, causing the other two to jump back. Peter groggily hauled himself to a sitting position, rubbing at his forehead. “You remember the Yule Ball in fourth year?”, he asked weakly, not pausing to see if the other two did. “You sneaked in some real alcohol and got plastered. Well, now I finally understand how you felt the morning after.” He felt back onto the floor with another groan. “Does it always hurt like that?”
Sirius was acidly bitter. “Well, there was some amount of pain for both James and I, yes. It got better as we became used to the transformation. However, considering it didn’t even work in your case, I have no idea!”
Peter rolled onto his side to glare at the taller man. “Perhaps you should have thought of that before dragging me into this insane quest of yours on six months notice!”
“It is not an insane quest!” Sirius hissed back. “We’re doing this for Remus!”
“You might be doing this for Remus,” replied Peter, just as angry, “but the rest of us don’t want to go through this kind of pain every bloody month just because you want to be fucked by a werewolf!”
Sirius growled then, a lot like the canine Animagi form James had seen him assume, and he quickly wrapped his arms around Sirius, restraining him in case things got nasty. “Look,” he said to both of them. “I don’t know why Peter couldn’t make it: it probably was our fault for not letting him in on the plan two years ago-”
“Thankyou”, said Peter, with a definite nod of his head. “It’s good to see some people trust me.”
James held tight to Sirius, keeping him in his chair as the other man bucked once to get free, turning his gaze to Peter. “That still doesn’t allow you to make unwarranted personal attacks. I don’t know what you meant by that comment about fucking, and I don’t care to know-”
Peter butted in again, incredulous. “You mean you haven’t realised?” he gasped, turning his gaze on Sirius, who was stony faced during the exchange. A glint came into Peter’s eyes, and his mouth grew cruel. “Well, I guess that shows just how much trust you have for your best friend, Sirius. Do you want to tell him, or shall I?”
Sirius glowered, but eventually gave in. “I love Remus,” he whispered softly, the words falling from his lips. “We’re not lovers, but I love him.”
James scratched his head. “Ah.”
Sirius gave them both a pointed look. “And I can’t see him go through that every month without wanting to do something. We should all feel that way: we are all his friends. I mean, Peter, you virtually passed Transfiguration and DADA because of him. Can’t you feel grateful?”
Peter blushed. “Of course I do. I just think doing an illegal and risky procedure is going a bit too far. Especially as it seems it doesn’t work for me!”
James shushed them both. “I think I have a way to make it work.”
The other men turned to him, startled into passivity. “You do?”
James nodded. “When I was researching, I found references to an old incantation that hasn’t been used for ages. The full spell’s in one of the books in the restricted section.”
Sirius bit his lip. “We can’t go back to the Restricted Section,” he cautioned after a pause. “Filch nearly caught you last time.”
James, triumphant, fished the brown paper and twine parcel from his coat, dumping it on his knees. “Remember the man with the very small dick? – which is so not true, by the way – he gave me this today. An invisibility cloak. Should be able to get past Filch and find out whatever we want, now.”
The taller boy raised an eyebrow, and looked at James. “Hmmm. Maybe I misjudged this ‘boyfriend’ of yours.”
“Maybe you did.” James retorted, smiling.
Peter sat up, clutching his head at the sudden movement. “What does this spell do anyway?” he asked, a faint note of whining in his voice. “Please tell me it removes headaches.”
James laughed. “No, not quite. Basically it’s an incantation that allows a group of wizards or witches to join their energies, allowing a pooling of talents and abilities. I figure since Sirius and I are already Animagi, it might be enough to push you over. That’s if you’ll do it, of course.”
Peter waved the concern away. “Of course I’ll do it. I’d hate to deprive Sirius of his happy ending, now,” he finished, levelling a mocking grin at the other teenager, which Sirius returned with a glower.
James slapped his hands together. “Good. I’ll go to the Restricted Section tonight: it should take us about a week to get all the stuff together, so we’ll perform the spell and then try the Animagi transformation on Peter again.” He stood, reaching down to lend a hand to Peter, and helping him up.
“James?”, Peter asked, a curious expression coming across his face. “If this spell sounds so cool, why is it in the Restricted Section?”
James shuffled from foot to foot. “Uh, it’s been kind of….bannedforawhile,” he finished in a rush.
“Banned?!” Peter giggled, nervously. “And you want us to try it?”
“Well, from what I read, the side effects aren’t…bad, just weird and long-lasting. It creates a bond between the wizards in the group, but it’s nothing you can feel or affect. Rather, you only feel the bond when it breaks.”
Sirius looked at him. “And what causes that?”
James’ response was simple. “Nothing, except when one member causes the death of another.”
moment nineteen: being for the benefit of (July 6, 1976).
Lucius opened the door, coughing slightly at the dust the movement produced, attempting wave it away with his hand before resorting to his wand. A quick spell and a refreshing breeze blew past the pair, collecting dust into a ball and depositing it at the end of the hall. James removed his arm from around Lucius’ waist and gingerly stepped inside, looking around him in wonder.
“The entire wing was sealed off, you said?”
The thinner man nodded. “It has been…for more than ten years.”
“Merlin Lucius, when you said you wanted to show me your house, you weren’t kidding were you?” James chuckled softly, and reached out to slide one of the rich tapestries between his fingers, marvelling at the quality of the fabric. “Why did this place get sealed up, anyway?”
Lucius lightly held onto James’ hand, leading him onward until they came to a small staircase, beginning to climb the wrought iron frame, James a comfortable presence behind him. “This was my mother’s wing,” he said absently. “It had all her possessions in it, all the things she collected, all the gifts my father gave as part of the brideprice. Father ordered it to be shut up when she died. Didn’t want to be reminded she ever lived, really.” He felt a reassuring squeeze, and returned it, stepping out onto another level.
“I’m sorry.”
Lucius shook his head and tugged slightly on James’ hand, bringing the other man close to him, nestling him in his embrace. “It’s alright,” he said softly. “Ancient history and all that.”
James paused, looking at him, reaching up to caress Lucius’ cheek, the other man turning into the touch. “Why did you want to show me this, Luce?”
“This.” Lucius pushed open a doorway and they both peered inside. The room was quite small for the Manor, but anywhere else it would have bordered on large. There was a four-posted bed up against one wall, and furniture scattered about, covered in white sheets. “It’s yours.”
“What?!” James fixed him with a quizzical look, and Lucius took the opportunity to slide his hands down to James’ hips, kissing James gently on the nose.
“It’s yours, whenever you stay here. I don’t want you to feel you don’t have to be in my room all the time. You can come here to study, or just to be alone, or whatever. There’s an entire wing you can lose yourself in, and you can use it whenever you need to – if you want to get away from school, or your family or even me. You can spend the entire holidays here, if you’d like.”
“Wow.” James repeated himself, a little louder. “Wow! That’s…incredible, Luce. I kind of feel overwhelmed.” He paused, and grinned wickedly, looking askance at the other man. “I still get to sleep in your bedroom, right?”
Lucius chuckled darkly. “We never get to sleep much in there,” he observed.
“I know,” James replied, snorting gently. “I love you, you know?”
“I love you too,” said Lucius in turn, gently stroking James’ chin with his forefinger. “Even if not brooding is bad for the family reputation.”
James chuckled, and wrapped his arms around Lucius, drawing him in closer, resting his head on Lucius’ shoulder and softly kissing his earlobe, nibbling slightly.
Lucius felt himself shiver. “I have one request,” he said, not without some difficulty.
James pulled back to look at him, hands grasping Lucius’ shoulders. “What’s that?”
“I want to paint you. I want to paint your portrait. I used to paint at school…and I want to paint you.”
James smiled, somewhat goofily. “Just as long as you don’t make my head too big or anything.”
“I’ll do my best,” Lucius replied, leading him back down the passageway to the staircase. “I just have to find my old painting supplies…I packed them up halfway through school and never really looked at them again…Father never thought painting was that respectable of a tradition…”
“I’m sure you’re a brilliant painter. It’ll be a masterwork.”
Lucius laughed. “Come see me in twenty years, and we’ll see how you reflect upon your portrait.”
moment twenty: that’s the end of the dream (September 11, 1976.)
Peter lay helpless and sniffling in the Hospital Wing, his arms ontop of the covers surrounding his body, his head resting on about five pillows. And still he felt awful. Madam Pomfrey was busy in the medicine room mixing up some remedies for the typical Quidditch injuries that were expected in tomorrow’s match, and had no time for a Sixth Year with a particularly nasty dose of flu. Magical healing, like Muggle medicine, hadn’t progressed much further beyond the ‘take lots of bed rest and drink lots of fluid’ prescription, and so Peter was confined to the Hospital Wing to rest and get better, hopefully making sure the flu wouldn’t spread much beyond him.
There was a slight tap at the door, and Peter inched his head in a vain attempt to see who it was. “Come in!” he hissed through a sore throat, “Madam Pomfrey’s just in the annexe,” which caused a bout of coughing. He heard someone lightly step into the room, and hold onto his shoulder, adding another pillow to the pile while the coughing fit worked its way out. He looked up, surprised. Out of all the people who could have visited him, this was not one he expected.
Lily Evans stood there, a gentle smile on her face, her green eyes alert as always. In her hand was a small steaming bowl of something. “I got the house elves to make you up something when I heard you were ill, Peter,” she said, acknowledging his glance at the earthenware bowl. “Chicken soup. My mother always used to make it up when I was ill with the flu and stuff.”
She took the food tray off the bedside table and settled it on his lap, keeping it stable with a softly muttered spell under her breath, and placed the bowl in front of him. Digging a spoon out her pocket, she brushed it on her robes and placed it next to the bowl, blushing slightly. “I nicked that from the kitchen too, so don’t you tell anyone,” Lily admonished, sitting onto the chair next to the bed, brushing her red hair off her face.
Peter blinked, and greedily started slurping up the soup. He’d been served dinner less than an hour ago, but the flu left him weak and hungry, and it smelt awfully good. In between gulps, he asked her why she came to visit him.
“Oh, Madam Pomfrey noted you hadn’t had any visitors all day,” she replied, nodding, “and as one of the Gryffindor Prefects and someone in your own year, I felt I should pop in and see how you were.”
Peter’s heart sank. It wasn’t anything personal, then. She didn’t know him, didn’t care, was just doing it for the House. Typical. He thought that perhaps she might consider him a friend by association, as she did hang out with James quite a bit, before he started going out with Lucius. But it seemed not. He was always destined to be the one in the shadows. “Thankyou,” he mumbled, finishing the soup. His appetite was gone, but it seemed rude to refuse it now.
Lily looked around. “I would have thought James or one of the others would be here.”
Fat chance, thought Peter, but didn’t reply. They only see me when they have a need for me.
“Where is James, anyway?”
“Spent the day with Lucius, as far as I know. And from the looks of things, he’ll be spending the night too.”
Lily snorted, and Peter understood with a sudden insight that she was jealous, and in her own way, just as needy for reassurance as he was. “He’s spending all his time with bloody Lucius bloody Malfoy, and paying no attention to his responsibilities! We were supposed to be meeting up tonight to discuss what to do with this tosser from second year, but no, James has other plans. Doesn’t he realise his grades are slipping, not to mention the respect people had for him? And I have to do all the damn work now.” She took a deep breath, and smiled bashfully at the man lying besides her. “Sorry.”
Peter shook his head. “It’s fine. I can imagine what you’re going through.”
“I just needed someone to talk to, or rant at…it’s probably rather selfish of me.” Lily rubbed her forehead, and moved on from their brief moment of connection. “What about Remus or Sirius?”
Peter resisted the temptation to laugh. Remus might see me, but there’s no love lost between Sirius and I. We just happen to have the same friends, really, he reflected, musing on their friendship. “Perhaps. What date is it again?”
Lily looked at him. “The eleventh. Why?”
Peter bit back a curse. The full moon. With him sick in bed, and James off having sex, it seemed that Sirius had been left to temper the wolf by himself. “Oh, nothing.”
The redhead nodded, her curiosity absent. After a few moments, she spoke. “I should probably go now, Peter. Is there anything you need?”
Everyone to stop treating me like a thing would be nice, he chorused internally, bitter. “No, of course not.”
“Bye, then.” She rose to go, and walked toward the door.
“Lily?”
“Hmm?” Lily turned to face him, her face cast into shadow in the pale lamp-light, her eyes sparkling and the soft colour of her hair suiting the half shadow. She looked gorgeous.
“Do you think I’m a pity case?”
Her smooth brow was furrowed in thought. “No, whatever do you mean?”
“Sometimes I think they use me as a pity case. Look at us, aren’t we clever, we rescued this loser from mediocrity and allowed him to hang out with us, the cool people, and helped him pass his classes. Aren’t we bloody clever.” His tone was bleak.
“I know they don’t think of you as a pity case,” she said gently.
“I’ve always felt that I’ll never get to be one of the cool people. I’ll always be the outsider looking in.”
Lily smiled softly. “Peter, everyone thinks that. That’s what makes you just like everyone else.” She turned, and left without another word.
Peter sagged against the pillows and tried to sleep. Great. He really was mediocre.
He felt somewhat better the following morning, and managed to stagger down to the Great Hall for breakfast, his body aching. Curious as to how Sirius had coped on his own, Peter was greeted with a sight that indicated that things had indeed gone well: Remus Lupin and Sirius Black sitting side-by-side at the Gryffindor table. This was in itself hardly a special occurrence – except that Remus – the same Remus who refused to dance with anyone during the Yule Ball, and had more physical intimacy issues than anyone – had his arm draped around Sirius’ shoulders, and was whispering in his ear, a wide grin on his face.
As Peter painfully sat down to eat, Remus nodded to him, beaming, clearly on top of the world. “I heard you were sick.”
Peter nodded back, stirring the cereal round his bowl. “I was. Somewhat better now, though.”
Remus nodded again, absently playing with Sirius’ shaggy hair, and leaned over to Peter. “Do you want to meet up for study after class? Go over anything you don’t get?”
Peter tried not to stiffen in his seat. Thanks, Remus, he bitched internally. Just make me look like an idiot in front of the whole House, why don’t you?
At that point, James made his way in, his face tired, but happily so, and a few moments later, Lily sat down next to him, both of them trying not to grin at the sight of Remus and Sirius, although Peter noticed that James and Lily barely glanced at each other – indeed, Lily seemed almost to move away from her fellow Prefect, as if shunning him. Maybe she’d had that talk with him when he’d returned this morning. Maybe it hadn’t gone so well.
Finally, the woman could resist it no longer, chiding them fondly. “It’s about time!”, Lily said, leaning over the table to beam at them.
Remus and Sirius paused and looked at each other. “Yeah,” said Remus. “We thought so too, didn’t we?” Sirius just smiled, and bent down to kiss his partner chastely on the lips.
“What,” James catcalled, “no tongue?”
Sirius turned to grin at his best friend. “I thought you would have gotten enough of that last night,” he commented dryly, which sent James staring into his cereal, and blushing a bright red.
Peter watched the tableau, all the more aware of his place as detached observer. Everyone had someone else, in their own way. Everyone had a place in their little soap opera.
Everyone except him. And the thought dug into his heart, and cankered.
moment twenty-one: out of the mouths of babes (September 15, 1976).
They gathered in the small hut, each not entirely sure when they had come. Remus sat back in the old chair, Sirius sitting by him, one hand absently ruffling the young man’s hair, resting his seat on the armrest. Peter stood nervous, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. And in front of them, his hands placed awkwardly in his lap, clearly struggling for words, was James Potter.
He adjusted his glasses. “Look, I should thank you all for coming, I guess. I know we haven’t gotten along that well recently, and I know that’s at least partly my fault. I haven’t been there for any of you of late, and I’ve been neglecting all my responsibilities.” James winced inwardly. Lily had been less kind when evaluating his shortcomings. After that breakfast five days ago he had largely lurked around the Tower, apart from venturing out for class, unable to face his friends. Finally, guilt had driven him to come up with a solution. This was it.
No-one spoke. James cleared his throat, increasingly aware that this was a hostile audience. “I’m going to make that I spend more time with all of you, because you are my best friends, and that does mean something to me.”
Remus spoke first, his tone gentle, but firm nonetheless. “Look, James, I’m very glad you’ve met Lucius, and been so happy, but yes, you have fucked up. Quite a lot. I was thinking it through the other day, and normally, the wolf in me just wouldn’t be sated with only one animal to tame it. If anything, the wolf would probably get riled even more with only one Animagi in the shack – as a potential rival for territory and all.”
Peter’s face was shrouded in shadow, flames flickering across his skin. “Then why didn’t you go psychotic?”
Remus blushed, and his hand rubbed Sirius’ leg. “Because werewolves can recognise the scent of their mates, Peter…if it had been you-”
“If it had been me, I probably wouldn’t have been there on my own.”
Remus didn’t respond in words, but his thoughts were brooding. And even though Sirius is my mate, the wolf wanted to tear him apart, just so no one else could ever touch what was mine.
James could see the hackles on Sirius’ neck rising, and decided to break up any potential fight by directing the blame back upon himself. “Look, it’s obvious we’ve drifted apart, and I want to stop that. I want things back when we kept no secrets, and hung out and played jokes, and dammit, I want things back the way they were.”
Sirius grinned sardonically, and James was reminded of the canine form that had chosen him. “What do you suggest we do then? Form a club?”
“Yes!”, exclaimed James, exultant. “Look. That way we’re all on the same level - all dedicated to the same purpose.”
“And what purpose is that?” asked Remus, his curiosity rising.
James looked at Sirius, and tried to hide a smirk. “Sirius and I used to have quite a reputation for doing pranks. I don’t see why we can’t all join in the fun.”
Peter raised his eyebrows, not convinced. “Oh, and I suppose we all take the rap if we get caught, too.”
“We’re in a war. This is the one of last places left that’s safe. And every morning we hear of a new death, or disappearance in the Daily Prophet. Every day there’s another attack, or the Dark Mark is sighted. Every day there’s nothing but fear and loss. We have to remind the school that there’s still something left to live for, that we can still laugh! That’s a noble cause, isn’t it?”
Sirius chuckled, and James knew he had his support. “There’s the Gryffindor in you, Jamie. Finding a just reason for making mischief.”
“Not making mischief,” James informed him with a wry smile, “managing it. Using our powers for good, instead of evil.” He reached out, and gently tapped Remus on the knee. “What do you say, then Remy?”
Remus bit his knuckle, considering. “I’ll give it a go.”
There was only one holdout. “What about you Peter?”
Peter let out a deep breath, and moved away from the wall. “I don’t want you to keep things from me again. I don’t want to feel like the fourth wheel.”
James nodded. “That seems perfectly reasonable: besides, we’ll all be equal partners in this.”
So you say, thought Peter, but I wonder how it’ll turn out.
“We’re all agreed then?” There seemed to be consensus on that. “Fine then. We need nicknames. Every club needs nicknames.”
“What about the Lions?”, suggested Remus, not the most imaginative in the group.
Sirius shook his head. “The Laugh Makers?”
Remus was indignant. “That’s even worse than mine!”, he exclaimed, which lead Sirius to fondly ruffle his hair, and the two were for a moment lost in each other’s eyes, before James discreetly coughed and brought them back to earth.
Peter spoke from the sidelines. “What about the Marauders?”
James beamed. “That sounds perfect, Peter! What do you guys think?”
The other two nodded their assent to the name, and James continued, a gently babble of words. “I thought we could also have individual nicknames, you know, like a code, in case we ever needed to identify each other secretly or somesuch, as well as claiming responsibility for our pranks. I already chose mine: based it on my Animagi form, y’know.”
The three looked at him expectantly, and James got a clue. “Oh!” he burst out, sheepish, “Prongs. I thought Prongs suited.”
Sirius took a few moments, before coming up with his own. “Padfoot,” he said, leaning back against Remus. “It’s got to be Padfoot.”
“Wormtail,” Peter murmured almost imperceptibly.
Remus looked uncomfortable. “I don’t have an Animagi form though,” he said, before inspiration hit. “Moony,” he announced with a wicked grin. “Call me Moony.”
James rubbed his hands together and ignored the impulse to caper like a three year old. “This is going to be so cool,” he announced, taking a roll of parchment out of his robes. “And this is going to be even cooler.”
“What’s that, Ja…err, Prongs?”, asked Remus, ever the academic.
“I found this spell amongst the Restricted Section. It imposes the awareness of a particular space onto an object, creating a living map of that space. Think of it – a map of Hogwarts, one which only we – and the people we want – could access. With our Animagi forms – especially Peter, who can get anywhere – we could know this castle better than Filch!”
“How does it work?” pushed Remus, moving out of his chair to sit besides James, his intellectual curiosity now firmly focussed on the parchment.
“Well, we all crowd round it, speak the incantation, choose a key phrase, and bam! It’s a map. The Marauder’s Map, even,” he announced, smug and somewhat carried away with his own cleverness.
Sirius looked at him. “Well, what are we waiting for?”
James blinked; he clearly wasn’t prepared for the idea they’d actually do it now. “Alright, then, everyone get your wands out and hold them over the parchment.” He unwrapped the parchment, and laid it flat in his lap. Sirius and Peter moved closer, getting their wands out, as did Remus. James was the last to unsheathe his wand, taking a moment to remember the incantation. “Wait! What shall we use for the key phrase?”
Their collective shoulders slumped as they searched around for a possibility, then Sirius’ eyes lit up. “What about ‘I solemnly swear I am up to no good?’”, he suggested with a wicked smile that was directed mostly at his partner.
The others nodded, and bent back over the parchment, wands at the ready. “Everyone, repeat after me,” James said, mentally preparing himself. “And think of Hogwarts.”
Each tried to fill their minds with images from the school and grounds: the very feel of the place, as James intoned the correct spell, an old thing in Welsh with more vowels than consonants. The parchment glowed white once, and each of them felt their minds being drawn along by it, as they saw the castle in their imaginations. The familiar figures turned to hollow lines, as if the blueprints were being revealed to them in three-dimensions, and at the same time, they felt the impulse to chant in unison “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”
Black lines matching the one in their minds appeared on the faded surface of the parchment disappearing as soon as they appeared. It folded itself up, black ink neatly inscribing words on the outer layer before that too faded into nothing, and the four were left with a folded sheet of parchment lying on James’ lap.
“So,” he said, picking it up. “What’s say we test this puppy?”
Sirius gave him a pointed look.
“Sorry, Padfoot,” James apologised. “No more dog references, I promise.”
moment twenty-two: norwegian wood (September 1977).
Detective Chief Inspector John Tennyson waited in a chair, and fiddled with his tie. He had a pretty good idea of why he’d been summoned to the Chief Super’s office: rumour had been flying round the station faster than a snitch, and John always did like to keep himself informed. Finally, the communications charm on the secretary’s desk glowed white, and she nodded politely to him. “The Chief Superintendent will see you now.”
John stood up, and knocked on the door before entering. Chief Superintendent Brownlow sat his seat, a slightly portly figure with brown hair, greying at the temples. He closed a manila folder, and set it straight on the surface of the desk, before looking up at the other man, gesturing for him to take a chair.
“We’re closing down your investigation, John.”
John squirmed in his chair. “Can I ask why?”
Brownlow sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Your taskforce was originally created due to Ministry support. Now, it’s believed that the Aurors could do a better job, especially after their restructure is complete.”
“We’re being taken off the job because Barty Crouch wants to show off his private army, you mean.”
“I don’t deny his appointment as Head of Magical Law Enforcement changed a lot of things, John. He has a lot of new ideas, fresh ideas-”
“It’s also a well known fact that Albus Dumbledore opposed his appointment, and he’s the only wizard who’s faced a dark wizard in living memory and defeated him!”
The Chief Super looked fit to spit. “Oh yes, and when asked to be Minister, and actually do something to help, he smiles and makes noises about ‘having to keep the halls of learning open for future generations’. Man’s gone senile, if you ask me. He certainly hasn’t got any kind of real solutions.”
John raised an eyebrow. “And Crouch has?”
The other man picked up the manila folder and tossed it across the desk, papers spilling out. “More than three years, John, three years, and you’ve got fuck all to show for it. Yes, you managed to get this loon’s name, but that’s it. The few suspects you managed to apprehend have claimed to have been under Imperius, and conveniently know nothing.”
John near exploded, and slapped the folder shut with a hand. “We’re dealing with a dark fucking wizard, not some punk who uses accio to lift people’s wallets in Diagon Alley!”
“Exactly,” replied his superior, evenly. “And that’s why the Aurors are better suited to the job.”
“They haven’t got the detecting skills.”
“And just how have your detecting skills helped you, hmm?”
D.C.I. Tennyson glowered. “The Aurors aren’t police. From the way things are heading, they’re going to be soldiers.”
“Remember what happened in March, John? The Battle of Reykjavik? I’d say we’re already in a war.”
The attacks on isolated communities had come to head earlier in the year, when entire hordes of ravaging giants and trolls had come sweeping down from the Arctic steppes, attacking Northern Europe with a vengeance. The wizarding community of Reykjavik had fought a particularly bloody conflict, giving the Muggle population three days to escape whilst they kept the giants at bay. In the end, the city had fallen, and it was estimated that several hundred wizards and witches had been lost. The Muggles had been told it was volcanic activity they were fleeing from, and memory charms had managed to keep the truth from being outed, while the magical world mourned for its lost sons and daughters. The city had been retaken by an international force of Aurors two months later, but the very fact it had fallen was enough to shake everyone up – and had, indirectly, lead to calls for more direct action: hence the appointment of Barty Crouch.
John, of course, chose to skip over it. “Have you see the new powers they’re being given by the Ministry? Merlin, they’re little more than Dementors with wands!” He snorted. “And of course, putting the Dementors in charge of Azkaban is a master stroke.”
When the Chief Superintendent spoke again, it was in a cool tone, with the full force of his authority. “John, you have another twenty years in the service. I’d hate for you remain at D.C.I. for those twenty years, just because you like pissing off people. And the people in charge won’t like you mouthing off about them, if they hear about it.”
John met the other man’s eyes. “Who’s going to tell them about it?” He broke off, and nervously tapped his fingers on the leather armrest of his chair. “Alright then. When are we being formally reassigned?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
“And where am I being sent?”
“You’re going to Manchester. We’ve got a whole group of Ministry employees – and their families hiding out in safe houses there. I’ll assign you to take over the protective detail.”
John gave a wry grin. “You tell me you’re concerned for my career and then you put me on protective detail. Merlin, why don’t you just bury me?”
Brownlow looked at him, his face betraying no emotion. “If you’d prefer.”
“I’ll go to Manchester,” said John, somewhat defeated. “And I’ll take care of these people.” He rose to go.
“This is for your own good, John. Upstairs thinks you were getting too involved; you need to cool down, take a step back. And don’t tell everyone how much of a tosser you think Barty Crouch is. Word does get round.”
“Fine. I still don’t trust the man. What’s the point of trying to beat a tyrant if we end up tyrants ourselves?”
moment twenty-three: the judgement of life (February 28, 1978).
Voldemort looked around the dank expanse of the cave, trying not to wrinkle his nose in disgust. It had taken him much planning to be here, even just to afford to be here in Nicaragua, away from the centre of his web. Events were moving quickly, and he needed to feel the pulse, to feel his touch as the world screamed. The hard core tactics of the new look Aurors weren’t working nearly as successfully as the Ministry might have wished. More Muggles were dropping like flies, and wizards both Imperius-controlled and of their own volition were committing acts of sabotage and murder all around the world. The Death Eaters had spread to North America and Australasia, and would only grow further. And yet, he needed to be here.
It had not been easy, getting here without detection. The kind of long-distance Apparation would leave a trail of magic easy to follow, not to mention causing severe jet-lag, and so Voldemort made the journey in a series of short hops. All to see the scruffy man sitting opposite him, next to the fire that smelt of sacred herbs. The seer had no name, or at least none that Voldemort knew. He had a reputation though, and it was one that Voldemort would gladly kill for. According to rumour, the seer had started experiencing visions so potent, so real, that at fifteen he had abandoned the society of his tribe and gone to live in the mountain caves, so that the constant presence of people would not keep stirring the future into stark reality in front of his eyes.
Voldemort had seers in the Death Eater ranks, certainly. He had seers and prophets and visionaries, but he didn’t dare entrust anyone of them with the question he was about to ask. He had trained his followers to believe in the survival of the fittest, which meant they fought and jockeyed against each other for position and status. He himself had no doubts that if any of his most loyal lieutenants thought they could best him, and carry his plan to fruition, he would have been dead by now.
It was fortunate he could not be killed.
“You seek Ixiptla”, the seer said softly.
“I seek a vessel,” responded Voldemort. “I seek a child who will be Ixiptla. I cannot be killed, but I feel Time grabbing at me, dragging me down…” His hands started to shake nervously, and he held them out, looking at the tremors, the pale skin, now lined with wrinkles. “The enemy mocks me even now.”
The seer looked up at him. “You chose to give away your humanity. Why do you now protest?”
“Because I don’t know what I’m turning into!” hissed Voldemort, and balled his hands into fists, so that they stopped shaking. “That is why I need the child. One of my followers have volunteered himself, and I have agreed, on the proviso he brings his partner over to my side.”
The seer started back into the fire, breathing in the pungent smoke. “A birth from two men will be difficult,” he intoned in the same soft low tone as always. “You will need to use many charms: one will need to transform himself into a woman to bring the child to term. Why do you go through this difficulty?”
“Lucius is my favourite,” Voldemort murmured through thin lips. “He reminds me of myself – I am like a father to him, and what father is not indulgent of his son?”
“You are impotent in soul and body, Dark Man. You can have no son.”
Filled with a sudden rage, Voldemort grabbed the elderly sage by his shoulders and hauled him to his feet, his own red eyes glowing hotly in the firelight. “The Ixiptla will be my son”, he spat, “no matter whose seed goes into his conception. But tell me!” Voldemort grated, shaking the other man like a leaf. “Malfoy and Potter – what are the prospects for the birth?”
The seer looked at him with sightless eyes. “Theirs will be a fruitless union,” he warned. “But Potter and Malfoy aligned will kill even you, Old Man.”
Voldemort stepped back, shaken, musing over the knowledge. Potter and Malfoy aligned will…kill me? This could not be allowed to get out. Bending down, he picked up a lighted faggot from the fire, and in one quick stroke, drove it through the other man’s chest, rubbing his hands together to clean them as the body slid to the dirt floor.
“Well,” he murmured, turning to go. “Better go break up the happy couple, then.”
moment twenty-four: the name of the game (March 24, 1978).
James walked to the arranged meeting place, his heart uneasy. Lucius had asked to meet him, and so James had come, but he’d been unable to ignore the rumours that had sprung up recently, ones that spoke of how Lucius had followed in his grandfather’s footsteps and aligned himself with powers blacker than night.
Luce was waiting, as he always was on the edge of the Quidditch pitch, looking at James with a mixture of fondness and sadness. James wrapped his arms around the man he loved, kissed his cheek, felt Lucius melt into his embrace, and asked the one question he didn’t want to.
“Are you a Death Eater?”
He rocked Lucius in his arms for a few moments before the older man replied with a soft “Yes”, in James’ ear. James didn’t know whether to scream, laugh or cry, or all three at once, and absently stroked the other man’s back.
“Why? How could you do such a thing?”
Lucius stepped back, and looked at him. “They’re just Muggles, James,” he said, as if discussing what he was going to eat for breakfast.
This was the first argument they’d ever had, and James was suddenly struck just how different he was from the man he loved, and how little he actually knew him. “They’re not just Muggles,” he retorted back, his voice getting heated. “Just because they don’t use magic doesn’t make them any less people.”
“Perhaps not,” replied Lucius, getting defensive. “But you’ve got to admit they thrive on hate and violence. Look at their history; look at the way they treat the world.”
“Oh, and your solution is to kill them all? Who died and made you fucking God, eh?”
“Don’t be juvenile,” snapped back Lucius, his eyes narrowing. “Those in charge have always made decisions about who’s fit to be included in society and who’s not. Next thing you’ll be telling me that the Ministry doesn’t have a right to sentence people to Azkaban.”
James looked at him, silent, and Lucius spoke still heated with emotion, determined to shrug off the power that silence had over him. “It doesn’t matter what you think, anyway. I can’t see you again.”
The raven-haired man’s eyes opened wide in shock behind his glasses, and he gaped in surprise. “Merlin. You’re doing this cause he told you, didn’t he? This mysterious leader of yours, this Voldemort? Just told you to dump me and you scurried off to do it, like a good little pet.” There was bitterness in his voice, and beneath that, a keening pain.
Lucius reached out, attempting to make things better, although he felt the truth of James’ words sting him. “James-”
James snapped his arms up, warding off the other man’s touch, backing away. “No, fuck off.” He stood there, his chest heaving, his tone intense with anger. “I love you, I fucking loved you, and now I find out I don’t even know you. For I know, everything might just have been a ruse. Everything a lie. What, is this your master’s new plan? Seduce all the good wizards, and then break their hearts so they don’t have the guts to fight you? Guess I was just a bit too pro-Dumbledore for his liking.”
“I never used you, James, I never lied.”
“And you expect me to believe that? Playing people like fucking chess pieces for all I know. Got me where you want me now, too broken to keep playing, eh?”
Lucius held his arms at his side, his hands tightly curled into fists. “James, don’t be stupid-“
“Don’t you fucking call me that, Malfoy.” James retorted. “Just….go and torture some innocent fucking Muggle, why don’t you?” he hissed, his eyes streaming with tears. “Probably gets your rocks off.” He staggered back a few steps, still facing the other man. “I never want to see you again. I know you have to come to graduation as a Governor, and because I’m Head Boy I’ll have to smile and shake your hand. But you come near me for any other reason, and I’ll report you to the Ministry.”
James turned, still shaking with emotion, his shoulders slumped, and walked back the way he came.
Lucius stood there, his lean frame as still as a statue. You could only tell he was alive due to the constant rising and falling of his chest. A twig snapped behind him, and he whirled, wand at the ready.
“Whoever you are, you’d better make yourself known to me,” he said darkly. “I’m in no mood for games.”
A shape detached itself from the shadows under some trees and made itself known to him. A young man, James’ age, in Hogwarts robes. He seemed pale, almost sickly, a Slytherin scarf wound around his neck for warmth. His two most distinctive features were a large, prominent nose and dank, limp black hair, down to his jaw. “Who are you, boy?”, Lucius called, keeping his wand fixed. “I know I’ve seen you around.”
“Severus Snape,” the boy said, quaking with fear. “I’m in Potter’s year.”
“Oh yes.” Lucius smirked with recognition. “I’ve heard about you. You were always getting James and his friends into trouble.” His eyes widened. “Didn’t Black nearly get you killed, oh, two years ago? They don’t like you at all, from what Ja-Potter used to say.”
“The feeling is more than mutual,” Severus muttered, glowering. “They don’t like me because I act against them. They break the rules,” he blurted out. “It’s not fair to have one set of rules for one people and another for everyone else. I just point this out to the Professors.”
Lucius ignored him. “How much did you hear?”
If anything, Snape’s face drained of colour even further. “Everything,” he whispered softly.
Lucius immediately considered killing him where he stood, and then just as quickly dismissed it. There were wards surrounding the campus; the body would be too difficult to dispose of; his absence would be noticed in the morning. “Well then” he murmured, moving forward. “What do you want? Money? I can give you that.”
Snape immediately lowered his eyes, refusing to meet Lucius’ clinical gaze. “N-no,” he stuttered. “I want…to join you. To become a-” he looked around, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “-A Death Eater.”
Lucius snorted, incredulous. “You? Why?”
“I want to make the world a better place,” Severus said earnestly, tripping over words. “The Muggle are chaos. They make no sense. The world needs…order. It should be like a Potions experiment: everything in its correct place and a clear set of instructions.”
Lucius considered this. He’d heard worse excuses. But there was something more in the young man’s demeanour, something more than fear. By Morgaine, he realise, resisting the temptation to grin, he wants me. This scared little boy of a man wants me. He reached out with a hand, grabbing the other man’s chin, and kissing him hard, forcing his tongue between Severus’ lips to ravish his mouth. The young man, so very inexperienced, clutched at Lucius’ shoulders and moaned softly, offering no resistance.
James was a weakness, Lucius decided. And it is time to be strong. But he didn’t quite believe it.
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