moment one: the absence of light (1950.)
The frostbite was….inconsequential, and that was a sign of how bad it was. The young man gripped the robe more tightly around himself, almost mummifying his body in the process. Fingers barely functional, possibly even black and gangrenous held his wand rigidly against the storm, pointing vainly into the whiteness before him.
He’d been climbing for…days? Weeks? Simon Magus, it seemed like forever, and the guides were all dead now, dead and frozen under snow: their limbs convulsed, the bodies like husks from where he had drained the energy from them.
Tom hadn’t regretted it. Oh, there was the old twinge of pain, guilt, conscience, and irritation bordering on rage that he still somehow possessed the former qualities. They were so human, so weak; the products of an unfeeling deity. Such emotions were meant to put fetters on His creation, to chain them so they wouldn’t pick up the power lying around for the taking and challenge Him, cast Him down like the bitter old sadist He was, and create a world without pain, or sadness, or the bitter tang of death.
He whispered a word, a brief incantation, and felt heat surge through his wand. It burned the skin. A brief burst of white light spanned forward and around him, creating a shield from the snow, and allowing him to make better progress forward – at least for a few minutes before it failed against the inexorable force of nature. It didn’t matter anyway; the only thing he could see for an eternity was white, white snow glaring in every direction, the snowstorm raging around him that hampered every sense, and taunted him with his own mortality.
Tom Riddle placed one foot slowly, torturously, after another, and cursed his feeble body. No wonder the Portal had been placed here, high amongst the Himalayan peaks, a test and a challenge – near impossible to get to, and equally as impossible to remove. It was a test of one’s worthiness, he reflected. It was not merely to have ambition, but one must be prepared to sacrifice in order to achieve it as well. He gritted his teeth, maintaining the stiff pace. It was all very well to be a hero. Heroes were as numerous as pence, or holiday-makers heading to Brighton in December. It was so easy to be a hero; save a cat from a tree, rescue a child from its own stupidity, help someone out in their time of need, with food or clothing. Half the world must be heroes, if only because feckless humanity could never get enough of congratulating itself.
And so it took…persistence to become a true servant of the Darkness. Like his persistence, right now. One needed no accolades, no public adoration: merely the quiet satisfaction of a goal achieved, of power and control. The overthrow of this torturous realm was his one purpose, in following those who would help him kill Death itself, and the enemy, Time.
Just one step.
And one more.
Pushing himself beyond the breaking point. Not questioning his reward, or his faithfulness.
It seemed like an eternity as the cold bit into his skin, his bones, his soul. Even the new sunlight wasn’t a relief, nearly blinding him due to the glare. But he wasn’t going to die on some bastard mountain in the middle of nowhere, an abject lesson in the frailty of the flesh. A relic for the monks and sherpas to point out, and shakes their heads at, a case in point of the futility of serving the dark powers.
He would be better than human.
He would prove them wrong.
And then finally, he saw it…a cave entrance, black highlighted against the blinding white, an impossibly arched cave entrance at that. Obviously created, manufactured…built.
He had heard the stories, hidden away in ancient manuscripts. It had taken him nearly three years of searching amongst the papers in the library of St. John the Beheaded, but finally one old Norse saga spoke of this place.
One mad Viking wizard had foreseen it in a dream, and set off on a expedition deep into central Asia to find it, going beyond the usual line of Viking influence, which by the 11th century was Russia. They had moved through barren cold land, and reached the fringes of Asian-influenced territory, ringing with the peals of bells from Buddhist temples.
The monks had warned them not to go up the high mountains, to where it could be found, but the wizard persisted, splitting his company in two with the decision. And so, having beggared himself to buy supplies, he and his small group had made his way into the peaks. They had found the cave, and restructured the entrance to make it safer.
There were four keystones set into the rock. One at the top of the arch, one on either side, and one directly under one’s feet as you passed. Tom spent a brief moment perusing them, finding them exactly as the fragment had described.
On the left was Thurisaz, reversed, warning of an unpleasant journey. Tom snorted; he knew by now what price his dedication demanded of him, and was prepared to pay it. On the right was Wunjo, also reversed. Self-sacrifice and delay. Hardly surprising. At the top was one he could never remember the name of, also reversed. Isolation and detachment lay in store if he entered, which was exactly what he hoped. It would be a time spent in dark places, separating himself of his hated humanity.
And lastly, as he stepped across the threshold, the rune forecasting fate, karma, the inevitable implacably stared up at him. There was gentle torchlight, coming from lighted faggots that ringed the room, but it was what lay at the centre that drew his attention. The warmth spread throughout his body, triggering aching pain, a painful remnant of the humanity he hated so. His flesh was finally waking to the realisation it nearly died from the cold, and screaming in protest, and Tom collapsed against to the floor. After what seemed like an eternity, Tom Riddle managed to control his frail body, and looked around, every movement a further stab of pain.
It was raised on a dais, a series of stone steps leading up to it. It emerged upright from the stone as if it had grown there, a frame of white gold, oval, and taller than any man. The frame was grooved, but with little ornamentation.
Inside it, darkness lived. An impossible black that seemed almost to eat the light from the torches, it swam with flashes of colour if one looked too closely for too long. It sang to Tom’s soul like a mother to a lost child, wanting to embrace him and never let him go.
This then was the Portal of Bifrost, a gate between worlds, crafted by ancient Powers in time immemorial. It was the absence of light, more than its death; as if the sun had no place here.
The Viking wizard had entered that, and never returned. His party had waited three days before the portal had ejected his robe, empty, and then they’d decided to leave. Most of them had died on the way down, victims of sudden coincidences – ground suddenly turning unstable where once it was solid, or storms blowing up out of nowhere.
Only one had survived to return to the Himalayan foothills, and gathered his fellows who had stayed. They had all departed back to Europe, only to find the same bad luck haunted them, as one by one they died, taken into the mist that surrounded them at night.
The survivor from the journey to the portal was the only one left in the end, and he had written this account down in a frenzy upon reaching Moscow. Eventually though, certain of his own fate, he had chosen to determine it himself and drowned himself in the river Rus. Before he died, it was claimed he had cried a final, mysterious epitaph:
I could not fight myself, and thus I am worse than dead…
The story had been fragmented, and parts lost, but enough had found it’s way to the Library of St. John the Beheaded, and when Tom had read it, he heard the call.
According to another half-debunked Norse legend, it was from the Portal that Fenrir the wolf would escape to eat the sun in the last days. The local monks spoke of a scar in the world, where Mara retreated to after he failed to tempt the Buddha.
Tom faced the portal, knowing his own worth. He alone would find out the truth of these myths. He had come here well aware of his own inexperience; he might have power, and knowledge, but what good were they without direction, without purpose? He appeared before the portal as a supplicant, and taking out his wand, he chanted an old spell with a wry smile. It was oddly appropriate, this reminder of his past life, the skin he tried so hard to slough off.
“Alohamora,” he whispered, and the torches dimmed suddenly, before returning to their natural brightness. Tom stood for a moment, silent, before bending closer to inspect the inky blackness in front of him. Ripples seemed to cross the surface, crisscrossing and rebounding over each other and the oval frame, like night given form. Tom stepped backward, uncertain, nearly tripping over his feet in his haste to remove himself to a safe distance as the ripples pooled themselves together, and slowly stretched out, like a shape being pushed through tar or molasses.
The shape gained features – a nose, mouth and eyes, all hooded by the inky black. Its mouth was open – in placation, Tom wondered, or was it silently screaming? In fluid motion, the neck pooled out, followed by shoulders, arms and a torso, as if the portal was giving birth. The features grew in definition as the body extended itself, still emerging from its cocoon. The portal too, seemed to be making this being without any cost to its own mass, a fact Tom stored away for later study.
Tom could see the beginnings of shoes emerge from the bottom and noticed the shape standing up, as if it was merely walking through a waterfall. With a sickening realisation, he recognised the features carved into the liquid ebony: the cold brow and firm jaw, the high cheekbones. His own obstinacy looked back at him.
I could not fight myself, and thus I am worse than dead…
With no sound at all, the figure stood separate from the blackness, and at the last moment of separation, the inky liquid pulled back like a coating over the shape, revealing pale ruddy skin, black hair and an infinite air of condescension behind the murky green eyes. The head snapped to attention, and the figure stretched its fingers gently, as if trying out shape and sensation, eyes that mirrored Tom’s own locking onto him as those lips curved into a sardonic smile.
Tom scuttled back, this time tripping and falling down the stairs, landing on his behind. The thing that wore his face laughed, and stepped from the dais, offering Tom a hand up.
“So this is the esteemed Lord Voldemort,” he chuckled, easily pulling the other man up. Tom noticed with deference that it wasn’t an exact copy, by any means. The dark power that had assumed his form had gone back in time, taking the appearance of Tom in his sixth year at Hogwarts. He even had the most minuscule details correct: the cut of his robes, the polish of his Prefect’s badge in the soft light. The creature noticed Tom’s glance and responded with a cool one of his own. “I suppose you would be impressed. You’re like a child playing with candles, Tom. You’re going to burn yourself and have your matches taken away.”
This cold mockery make Tom swallow nervously. “I came,” he began, voice quavering, trying to recover some of the strength that used to cower his housemates. “I came…as a supplicant, bound in ancient ties of shadow and fire, seeking knowledge and beseeching a boon.”
The thing waved its hand dismissively, and Tom found himself pinned against a wall. The comparison to being an insect under a dissection charm was not a pleasant one. “The old forms, yes…I suppose you nearly died in the journey to get here.”
Tom nodded, dumbly, before finding his voice. “Why…why do you wear my form?”
He was rewarded with a bitter smirk. “Because I can.” The other self leaned forward suddenly, and Tom gasped at the cold, dead breath upon his cheek. “I could not fight myself, and thus I am worse than dead…That is what it said, does it not, Lord ‘Voldemort’?” Suddenly, Tom was released. He slid down the surface of the wall to thud against the floor, pain blooming from his coccyx up his spine. “All those scrolls you’ve been studying.” The dark power turned from him then, to gaze around the room. “All men fear themselves, ultimately. They fear what they have been, what they are, what they will or can become. You fear your own youth: that you have left it behind, and will never again grasp it – that for you there is only faded dreams and lost ambition, a pale march to death.”
Tom struggled to his feet, wheezing and spluttering, trying to ignore the fear that seized his chest like a vice. “That is why I came!”, he implored, knowing all too well that the situation was far out of his hands. “I came to seek your aid against the mad God who let death into the world.”
“You think you know what’s to come, Tom? Think you know what price will be asked of you, what you can be when we’re finished with you?” There was quiet fury in those green eyes. “You haven’t a clue.”
“Please,” Tom begged. “Show me.”
Faint laughter. “Tom, you are not the first to reach us, even here, and at other secret places in the world. If we showed everyone, what distinction would lie in that? No. Better that you return, and prove your worthiness. Go, Tom. Live. Show us what a child of the darkness, a real son of Chaos would do. And then perhaps you’ll be worthy.” With that, the apparition disappeared into nothingness, and Tom scrambled for the exit.
moment two: under shadow’s gaze (1953).
Tom scuttled across the open plain, ensorcelling any onlookers with a web of his own making. See nothing, he whispered, and they saw nothing. Hear nothing, and so it seemed silent.
Finally, the appointed time had arrived. A dark moon, perfect for magicks that were never meant to be seen. Stonehenge: a place of ancient power, steeped in blood and ruin, left as a curious relic for Muggles. Hefting the sack from over his shoulder, he deposited it on the weathered altar stone, and gently opened the sack to reveal a sleeping fawn. He had found it on the sacred Isle of Mona, a dying breed associated with rituals of royal power going back to the Celts.
The apostate had learnt much in these three years, years in which he almost became a fixture amongst the Library of St. John the Beheaded, searching through arcane and dark texts, remnants of legend, and those in which legend had already turned into myth.
In his studies, he had come across a trace of an ancient ritual, long since purged from the text, thanks to Christian piety and later magical ethics. He had managed to piece part of it together based on the ancient tales of Ireland, and had figured out the rest himself. He hoped.
During millennia gone past, druids would stand here, where he was now, and chant. What happens to the King Stag when the Young Stag is grown? The cycle of time continuing as power moved from old to new.
Tom grunted, feeling the groan of nature against this. He would kill the Young Stag, and no-one would follow to usurp his power. He fumbled in his pocket for the obsidian knife he’d made, and stifled a cry as he cut himself upon the razor-sharp blade. Licking at the blood, he whispered the few words that would rouse the young fawn from its spell-induced sleep, and it rose, kicking and afraid, the smell of fear in the air. Tom slashed once, and then again.
The fawn struggled, and was still, its heartblood pouring out upon the altar. Looking at the ugly cut across his palm, Tom shrugged and squeezed out a few drops into the mixture. He swirled it with his wand, and marked the stone with old symbols, before marking his forehead in a similar fashion.
He called on darkness, in its purest form, here on the blackest night to guide him. “Nox.”
The whisper rolled out from the land like a thunderstorm, and the night seemed to get colder, the darkness drawn to him like a lover.
“As blood calls to blood, and life to life, so I offer life in place of mine, and my life in place of you who does not die, so that I may be worthy of eternal service.”
He bowed his head ritually, and marked his cheeks with blood, his voice softly speaking the invocation. “I call upon thee, father of darkness, to help me as thy would thy son, for I will be thy flesh and thy blood and through me thou shall rule amongst glory and ruin forever.”
The blood started to swirl of its own accord, and Tom could see the heart of the fawn begin to beat again, wildly, madly.
He turned to the east. “I summon thee: Apollyon, angel of destruction.”
He turned to the south. “I summon thee: Huitzilopochtli, warrior God, champion of the Mexaca.”
He turned to the west. “I summon thee: Mara, master of temptations.”
He turned to the north. “I summon thee: Fenric, wolf who eats the sun.”
Tom could feel the darkness gather form and substance, moving around him as the blood became shot with black, crimson dissolving in a pool of night. The fawn’s eyes snapped open, black and empty, devoid of life, its open heart still thumping wetly.
“I summon and beseech thee, master of all names and none, that thou will bind me to thee as a faithful servant, and live in me, so that I may know thy Glory!” His voice rose to a scream, and without hesitation, Tom took the knife and slashed each wrist in turn, blood pouring from his veins.
“I am only the vessel – you are the life. I am only the vessel – you are the life. I am only the vessel – you are the life!” He could feel the power raging within him, and around him. The fawn’s heart exploded, covering him with flesh and blood, and he exulted in the sacrifice, mouth open in a rictus-like grin. “Let the life enter in!”
“Deus hominem intrat!” The words burst from his soul. “Permittere ianuam aperit!”
And before he collapsed, Tom could feel that other self smiling at the back of his mind. “Very good, Lord Voldemort,” the voice whispered on the edge of consciousness, chuckling softly. “The door is opened, indeed.”
Then everything went black.
moment three: fate (1960).
Tom stood, staring at the Portal that was set squarely in his sights. Power crackled along his arms: most likely the result from the killing he’d done on the way here. A small party of Tibetan monks had attempted to stop him, but he’d soon drained them dry, and was bloated with their energy. All that abstinence and meditation concentrated their magic to such an extent that Tom was constantly surprised they didn’t just burst with the force of it. However, all that power didn’t do them any good, he remarked inwardly. By the end they had almost begged him to split them apart and tear their flesh to the four winds.
He smiled softly to himself. Such pretty screams.
But he couldn’t afford to lose himself in the sentimental cage of memory: he had a higher purpose. In the ten years since he had come here, he had learnt much. It had taken him three years of research, the pain growing inward, embittered, until he discovered the ritual of Opening. It was rather crude, compared to other techniques he had learnt subsequently, but it had worked, binding his body and blood to that of the dark powers, supplicant to patron and servant to Master. Since then he had visited one of the last remaining Aztec wizards surviving, and studied with him, gaining great depth and proficiency in the old left-handed way of blood magic. He had made his way through the maze of sewer tunnels under Mexico to find the Great Temple with the old sage, and following three years of study Tom had believed he had nothing more to learn.
It had been relatively simple to kill the old man, slicing open his chest on the old stone of sacrifice and dedicating the heart to Huitzilopochtli. Huitzilopochtli had brought war to the Mexica, sustaining the Aztec’s ancient empire in order to quench his eternal thirst for blood: a thirst that increased with every single year of sacrifice, and kept the fields in corn and the sun in the sky, until the conquistadores came. The spirit of the stones had slept then, after that final bloodletting, until Tom had woken him up with his most precious offering.
He had been blessed by the Powers that day; a confirmation that his training was following the path the dark powers intended. There had been much more to learn, and time spent amongst packs of werewolves, and Giant tribes, learning their ways, their magicks. The wizarding world consisted of such fools: they saw brutes; muzzle and fur and crude strength, forgetting that power called to power, and there were other ways of focussing it than using a wand. He was constantly aware of power now: his tie to the dark powers sustained and taunted him, pulsing darkly in the back of his mind. All around Tom could see ruin and decay, the product of the world, a world that was doomed to die, its energies spent and its purpose failed. And finally, that need had called to him.
With that most primal of forces, blood, he had entered into pact and treaty with Giant shamans and werewolf mystics, gaining their support for the upcoming battle ahead. He had of course hidden his ultimate objectives; they were undoubtedly unworthy of the knowledge, but Tom had learnt much, and venerated their Gods.
In the forests of Yugoslavia, he had howled into the night, calling upon Fenric, the werewolf who was prophesied to swallow the sun and end the world. Amongst the Arctic wastes, he had offered up burnt offerings to the fallen angel Apollyon, who had rebelled against God and been cast down, his blood mixing with the whores of humanity to give rise to the Giant race.
He was certainly not the same person who had come here ten years ago. Summoning a deep breath, he strode purposefully towards the black surface and without breaking his stride, Tom stepped through.
The first thing he noticed was the lack of any reference frame. It appeared to be an infinite emptiness, bounded by darkness…except the closer he looked, the more he found colours twirling in the darkness around him, moving almost too quickly for him to see. He had opened the door seven years ago, turning himself into a living portal for the dark powers to act in the world. Now he had come with a boon of his own to ask.
The colours encircled him, finally coalescing and swirling to a point where a shape walked from the colour, to face him. His otherself, calm and composed.
//Why are you here?//, it asked simply. There was no need for words; the thought merely made itself known in Tom’s mind.
Tom had gone over the speech several times in his mind; almost every day for the past three years, since he had seen exactly how capable he had become. The irony being that when he needed it the most, it flitted from his conscious, leaving him searching for words. “I…I want to be one of you.”
He was met with his own laughter, and the shape circled him, clearly unimpressed by what it saw. //You want to become one of us? You? Some half-breed who styles himself ‘Lord Voldemort’, who’s greatest achievement thus far has been managing not to fall over the footsteps of Salazar Slytherin?// There was a mocking pause. //He couldn’t even conceive of us, boy. Too entrapped in his feeble dreams of flesh, too easily held back by love.// White teeth shone in the darkness. //What makes you think you can just become one of us, anyway?//
Other shapes hovered next to the incarnate power, smoky phantoms watching Tom, assessing his responses. Tom summoned the focussing techniques he’d learnt, all those years ago at Hogwarts, so familiar he could call them up in an instant. “One hears…traces,” he offered with a slight smile. “Dark wizards who disappear, whose bodies are never found. Half a dozen myths speak of you between the lines. You create this one place where the great enemy, Time, cannot touch. Besides, it stands to reason you were once human. God wouldn’t have created you from scratch, but he gives all his Creation the choice to Fall.”
He could feel a fond appreciation in the space around him, and it strengthened his resolve. “I have been your eyes and ears, your willing servant in the world outside. I have done what I thought was right, without any guidance from yourselves.”
//You have done…adequately.// The dark power’s visage was filled with amused condescension.
“I wish to become like you; an equal rather than a servant, the cage of my humanity burnt away, so that I may more openly achieve our aim in the world outside.”
He felt an intelligence examining his mind, probing for weaknesses, the scar of the mental bond almost a physical presence in his body. //What is our….purpose then, boy?//
“I will help you blind the great enemy, Time. The serpent that eats its own tail will be no more, and God Himself will fall in blood and fire. There will no pain, no suffering, no death. The world will be as it was meant to be.”
//Very well. We will purge you of your humanity, of your death.// The other self stepped back, and the iridescent smoke curled around Tom, grabbing a hold of his form and suspending him in nothingness. //Not all have survived the process, however. If you do, you will be as one of us.//
Tom nodded, dumbly, and shrieked as his form was filled with a terrible light.
Around him, the smoke danced in patterns, a kind of curious amusement at his torment.
//Ah….this is pain. We remember this.//
moment four: the hounds of winter (1965).
Lucius had his head down, quill furiously scribbling some notes from the board, his attention focussed on the task in front of him. Professor Flitwick might indeed be some kind of hyperactive dwarf, as his father called him, but he had some kind of knowledge to impart, and Lucius was determined to master it. Even if he was only in first year.
He didn’t notice a lanky fifth year enter, face solemn with the import of the duty they were carrying out, and make his way up to the platform, passing a note to the Professor before leaving. The Professor opened said note, and finally attracted Lucius’ attention with one of his patented little dances; the gleeful hop he made every time he had something to announce. Placing down his quill somewhat sourly, Lucius looked up, one hand automatically smoothing down his hair, and rather disconcertingly, found that the bright eyes of Professor Flitwick were focussed solely upon him.
Lucius looked around, certain that it couldn’t be so. He hadn’t misbehaved, or anything. Flitwick had to be looking at someone else…didn’t he? Uncomfortably, Lucius settled back in his seat, all too aware of that gaze. It seemed his classmates were aware of it too, focussing their attention on Lucius’ desk. The young Slytherin wished the ground could just open up and swallow him right now; or that he had the family’s invisibility cloak, or something.
Smiling hopelessly to the class, without realising any of the social implications of what he was doing, Professor Flitwick read the note aloud. “Ah, I’ve just been asked to make sure that Lucius Malfoy,” he turned his smiling gaze to the student in the front row, and emphasised the name: Lucius cringed, and his teacher continued, “reports to the head of Slytherin House after this lesson.” Lucius slunk further into his hard seat, as if he could somehow curl up in a ball and become one with the wood.
Fortunately, Flitwick seemed completely unaware of the class gaze that was now focussed upon the young Malfoy, and sent them scurrying back to notes and quill by demonstrating a new wand movement. Lucius sat in dreary silence, all thoughts of charms having vanished from his head, airily gazing out the window. When class was dismissed, he picked up his books and rather than making his way with the rest of the first year Slytherins to Transfiguration with McGonagall, he left them at a corridor junction and silently padded his way deeper inside Hogwarts, heading towards the Slytherin quarters.
After some time, he reached the office of the head of Slytherin House, and knocked.
“Come in,” a low female voice greeted him, rather coolly. He scuttled forward, placing his books behind one of the chairs that rested in front of the plain oak desk, and waited for permission to sit. His head of House took the time to look up from her writing, and her lips softened noticeably. “Ah, Malfoy, this won’t take long.” She took a few more minutes to scribble away on parchment, allowing them both a respite.
Psyche Aurelius was dressed as she normally would be: a severe and unadorned long black dress, the sleeves slashed with Slytherin green. Her long hair, daringly crimson, was set as it normally was, bound tightly and piled on top. Blotting the page with a quick incantation, she set it aside and took a small square envelope from her desk, carefully fishing it out from amongst papers and confiscated objects d’magic. Handing the envelope to Lucius, who took it, bemusedly, she sat back in her seat, eyeing him with concern. “I’m sorry, Lucius,” was all she could say.
Lucius, for his part, was more than a little worried. His head of House actually knew his name: dear Morgaine, and she was sorry? Sorry for what? He glanced down at the envelope, noting the familiar neat writing of his father, his own name being the one it was addressed to. Professor Aurelius was sitting back in her seat, hands steepled in front of her, trying not to notice him whilst at the same time seemingly incapable of doing anything else.
Like many, she had heard the rumours of the Malfoy family, long and old and fallen from grace centuries ago, torn by ambition and driven by pride. For the past four generations, despite every incantation the midwives knew, the Malfoy family only ever produced one male heir, finally resulting in the boy before her, pale and handsome, in a faintly absent way. Lucius gave the constant impression of emptiness, as if there was nothing behind the perfect skin and blond hair, although this impression was just that: a definite impression, which made its artifice all the more obvious to someone such as herself.
Psyche had heard the reports of the Slytherin prefects, how this seemingly fragile boy drove himself night after to night to study until he fell into a rigid slumber, body curled upon covers topped with sheets of parchment; notes and study guides from the library. He certainly had the ambition, and the cold drive of a Slytherin, so desperate to prove himself to his brute of a father. Psyche had met Vortigern Malfoy for herself, and it was a singular experience she’d prefer not to repeat. She’d been introduced to his mother as well, that delightful blossom of a woman, who’d been brought in as a brood mare in an attempt to rid the Malfoy’s of their curse.
It was why she was so sorry, after all.
Lucius gasped once, and looked up at her, his eyes suddenly wet with moisture. He stammered something about needing to go, and half-ran out the door before she even assented, his books hugged protectively to his chest. Psyche smiled sadly after him, and picked up the parchment from where he’d dropped it, uncaring in his flight.
Lucius.
It pains me to have to inform you of your mother’s recent departure. As you know, she had been extensively weakened by your brother’s birth several months previously, and then when her son had failed to survive, she was, like myself, most disheartened. The subsequent depression is believed to have sapped her strength, as the doctors tell me, and she simply lost the will to continue, finally passing away early this morning. The funeral will be held in the grounds of your ancestral home in one week, and I trust you will not need to take more than a day from your studies to fulfil your duty.
I look forward to hearing of your progress at Hogwarts.
Your father,
Vortigern Malfoy.
Psyche curled the parchment up in her fist, and tossed it into her fire. Vortigern was a typical Slytherin brute: no finesse, no tact, no heart. He had no awareness of just how valuable weapons such as trust, emotion or compassion could be.
Lucius made his way shakily into his small room, glad that the Slytherins had private dormitories. He absently dumped his books on his desk and crawled onto the soft comfort of the bed, clutching the pillow in his eyes as if was a real person, his tears staining the white sheets. He made no sound as his body was wracked with sobs, his mouth open in a silent horrible keen.
After what seemed like hours, Lucius blinked, aware of a small noise coming over from the corner of his room. It was his tawny owl, Chronos, fluttering around his cage, the cage itself placed next to the neat stack of Lucius’ mostly-disused art supplies. He didn’t get much time to draw, or paint, not between all his studies.
Lucius had brought Chronos down here for some company, and because he wanted to keep his eye on him, feed him himself. He didn’t trust the school’s house elves to take proper care of him in the Owlery, and Chronos had been a special gift from his mother upon his acceptance…
His mother. His mother was gone, and he needed space, and all the owl could do was flutter?
His face set in cold resolution, he grabbed his wand from his desk, kneeling next to the cage. “Chronos,” he began, cold but not unkindly, “please be quiet.”
The owl hooted and flapped its wings.
“Chronos,” Lucius repeated, a warning tone in his voice.
It did it again.
Lucius’ father had been very thorough with his education. For most of his life, his father had given him extra coaching beyond the basic magical theory that all young children had. Grey eyes cooling blazing, Lucius pointed his wand at the tawny owl and ground out the word “crucio.”
The owl started squealing then, beating its wings frenetically as it tried to escape the constant torment. Lucius, impassively, concentrated his will and his rage on the helpless creature until finally it stopped.
Wiping his hands on his robes, Lucius shoved the brief feeling of being somehow dirtied from his mind, his eyes examining the bird lying dead on the floor of the cage, its mind having been unable to take the stress. His father would get him a new owl, he knew. Besides, he thought he needed a new one.
“Don’t blame me,” he told the corpse, his voice cool and flat. “Nothing lasts forever.”
moment five: the rock of ages (October 30, 1970).
Deep within the mountain the Portal stood, waiting. Around it, the torches dimmed once, and flared up again, the light and heat they exuded somehow being eaten before it could pass into the surrounding atmosphere. The inky black surface of the Portal pulsed, a man shape exuding itself from the hollow, form carved like night transforming itself into flesh, and reality.
Lord Voldemort drew himself up to his full height and looked about, taking the time to breathe deeply for the first time in ten years, and enjoy the physical sensation that life brought as it coursed through his body. Upon reflection, the sensation was not quite the same: but then, never was he. He had been tempered in the dark flames for an eternity; honed like a sword for the battle ahead, the humanity burnt out from him.
Its absence radiated from his form like a glow, as if nature itself retreated at the vile intrusion of his corruption. Physically, he had not changed in ten years, and yet he had. The only obvious difference was his eyes – red glinting through green, like something caught in the depths. It was not so much what he looked like as how he appeared: pride rang out from his body, pride and a dreadful certainty of his own righteousness. He seemed wrong, and that wrongness would draw your attention to him; because despite any conscious belief, deep within that instinctive connection one shares with all mankind, with all life, you would see him, and know that he was not one of you. That at his core, whereas you had this subconscious thing prophets called ‘soul’: a bond, between all creatures, Voldemort would only have a pit, blacker than any night, and a ravaging hunger brought about by his own lost humanity.
There was no Tom Riddle. Not anymore. Perhaps there never had been, and this had always lurked deep within. To him, it seemed patently obvious: he had forsaken his fellow man, just as his fellow man had always forsaken him. He now attempted to bring down the God who had shown him nothing but pain, loss and rejection. The crucified God of the Muggles claimed to treat all things as their wont, but He taken Tom’s mother from him. Left him in that hellhole orphanage, nearly going insane when he discovered he could do magic, branding himself freak and outcast. It was, in his own mind, perfectly fair to bring such a god down in turn.
Striding down the platform, he closed his eyes, extending his mind with a word out into the rugged peaks. Nestled in a small valley a short way down was a minor Buddhist monastery, largely forgotten except by those who still believed in the dark places of the world, and monsters, and attempted to cage them in. He smiled predatorily, feeling their quiet unease. They could sense his darkness, but they couldn’t pinpoint it, due to the overwhelming influence of the portal. With any luck they wouldn’t even be able to guess where he was until he turned up at their front door.
Whistling jauntily, he exited, the sleet and snow making no impact on a man whom death had no power over; who was, in fact, no longer a man, as that implied mortality, and Voldemort had none left. He roamed in his mind over the mental images of the young monks, so innocent and steadfast in their purity. The dark powers had shown him much during his transformation, and part of that had been the weaknesses of the flesh. Tom Riddle had ignored such things, holding them to be below himself, cheap and tasteless. Voldemort had no such qualms: these fools maintained a corrupt fallen world in the name of good, it was merely fitting to show them the true face of what they defended – their own capacity for depravity.
Yes, he thought, smiling to himself, thinking of those deliciously innocent monks. He would kill them all, certainly. They did nothing to change the world, or its eventual demise, and therefore Voldemort saw no reason not to give them the fate they obviously wished for. They refused to struggle against death, and so death would be visited to them. But first…he would have some fun.
moment six: brave new world (February 1971).
On the morning of her eleventh birthday, Lily Evans received a letter. Her older sister, Petunia, had been sitting on the stairs after breakfast, and saw the shape being placed through the letterbox, and watched as it fell to the mat below. Carefully – for Petunia, unlike her sister, never did anything dashing or without cautious consideration – she stood up, and climbed down the stairs, bending down to pick up the curious new arrival. It seemed old fashioned, with musty yellow paper and black ink on the front. It definitely was addressed to Lily, but Petunia’s curiosity was aroused – even more so than when the Boy Next Door had been caught kissing the Girl Over the Street. She sniffed it. It even smelled funny. And it wasn’t like any other letter she had seen, and Petunia prided herself on having seen a lot for a thirteen year old.
She padded into the kitchen and silently sat down to breakfast, passing the offending item to her father. Lily was still asleep, having been allowed to sleep in due to her birthday. Mother was at the stove-top, cooking Lily’s favourite breakfast: Pancakes with sides of bacon and egg. Petunia hated pancakes. Her father made a show of the envelope to their mother, and then opened it, reading it to himself. He looked at it, puzzled, and read through it again.
“Dear,” he said, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. “You might want to look at this.” Her mother wiped her hands on her apron and took the letter in two fingers, taking care not to leave a drop of grease. She laughed, and passed it back. “Surely it’s someone’s idea of a practical joke David? They can’t be serious, can they?”
“Mother, can I have a look at the letter?”, Petunia piped up. She tried not to squirm in her seat, so desperate to find out what had happened, and how it involved her younger sister.
Mother went back to cooking. “No dear,” she said fondly. “Whatever it is, it’s Lily’s problem, not yours. You can ask her when she’s up.”
Petunia felt her shoulders slump. Maybe she could spend the day in her room, doing homework or something, avoiding the fact that there was something she didn’t know about. It was hardly that she enjoyed school, but at least it gave her something to do.
There was a knock at the door.
Petunia squealed, and jumped up. “I’ll get it!” She ran from the kitchen and back out to the hallway, and opened the door. There was a lady there she’d never seen before, with raven-black hair tied behind her in a bun, and a lime green pants suit on.
“Hello!”, said the lady, bending down to greet the young girl. “Are you Lily Evans?”
“No,” she said, shrinking back from the door. Why did everyone always want Lily? “I’m her sister, Petunia. Lily’s still asleep.” And she tossed her pale gold hair back, as if unconcerned.
“Well, are your mother and father home?”
Petunia nodded.
“Could you see if I could speak with them? Tell them it’s about the letter Lily got today.”
Petunia went back to kitchen, and announced the lady’s presence. Her mother and father shared a glance. Her mother took breakfast off the stove, and her father picked up the letter from the kitchen table. “Breakfast will be delayed a little today my sweet,” her mother cautioned Petunia, planting a small kiss on her hair. She could hear the grown-ups talking outside in the hall, and could catch snatches of some of the things they said.
The lady spoke first. “Good morning, Mr and Mrs Evans. My name is Julia Redfern, and I’m one of the Muggle/Wizard liaisons from the Ministry of Magic. I’m here to discuss your daughter’s acceptance into Hogwarts’ School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”
There was a pause and then her mother asked if the lady would mind going into the study. Petunia couldn’t hear them for a while, and then suddenly her name was called.
She raced into the next room, brushing her long hair back from her face. “Yes, father?”
He smiled at her, and then back at the lady who was sitting opposite. Petunia noted that he was holding hands with Mother, and a nice black leather briefcase sat opened on the coffee table. Some pamphlets and documentation lay on the table – her mother was going through some of it. “Get your sister up, will you? There are some things she needs to hear about.” He then turned his attention back to the lady and asked her something about primary education. Petunia stayed in the doorway, somewhat taken aback. Everything was about Lily. Everything was always about Lily.
After a moment, she turned and bolted up the staircase to her sister’s bedroom, right next to her own. Lily was snoring softly, her red-brown hair spilled out over the pillow like strands of copper. Petunia poked her not-so-gently until she awoke, emerald green eyes opening to the morning. “Father says you’re to come downstairs,” she said, curtly, before turning to go to her own room and closing the door behind her.
She went to her dresser, and took out her hair brush, combing her long pale yellow hair, one hundred strokes each side precisely. Petunia heard Lily pad down the stairs to the living room, and the excited babble that lasted for about half an hour. She heard the door open, and goodbyes being made, and the lady left. A few minutes later there was a gentle knock on her bedroom door.
“Petunia?”, her mother called.
Petunia didn’t respond, and as she guessed, the door was opened anyway.
“Petunia, come downstairs. We’ve got some lovely news.” That being said, her mother closed the door behind her.
A few moments later, Petunia turned up in the living room, to find her mother and father seated on the couch, Lily cuddled between them. All were beaming, and Petunia was struck with sudden clarity: she was the outsider here. Some of the documents still lay on the table from the lady’s visit, although the briefcase was of course gone. Her father picked up one of the pamphlets, and passed it to her.
Petunia took it, noting the title, navy blue against white. So Your Child Can Work Magic, it proclaimed. She looked up at her parents, eyes wide. Her father mistook her wide-eyed caution for surprise, even joy, and ruffled Lily’s hair. “That’s right Petunia. Lily’s going to be a witch.”
moment seven: under your spell (April-June 1971).
William Lantry was a typical Ministry of Magic official: a wizard of middling power, and not overly great intelligence. He was personable, friendly, did what he was told, and was neither a brilliant leader nor a good follower. He lived in a small suburban area in east London, a narrow semi-detached two story unit his home, surrounded by a somewhat patchy lawn and a few shrubs. He worked in the Ministry five days a week as a senior Archivist, collating, organising and filing the myriad pieces of information and paperwork that flowed through the Ministry’s purview every hour.
His sister was non-magical, and she and her Muggle husband lived with their three children not far from him. It was the birthday of his middle nephew, Jacob, and so William apparated to a safe location and walked the rest of the way, swinging his satchel high in the air. Apart from his sister, her family did not know of his magical status: they knew he was employed by the Government, but talking of musty files and old records soon turned even the most inquisitive children bored.
Upon knocking, he paused, finding it curious that there was no answer. The family car was in the driveway, and there was no sign that anyone had left. William cautiously tested the door, and found it to be open, steeping inside as he reached for his wand. There was no one in the small hallway, and the flowers looked fresh in the vase. Stepping through to the family room: still no-one. It was in the kitchen he found them: slumped over the dining table, bodies contorted in a danse macabre of pain, bodies bleeding from where they had apparently gashed at each other and themselves with knife, forks and hands, nails scrabbling over flesh.
William froze, hearing a slight noise behind him. There was a cool voice, infinite in its mockery. “I really should have remembered to lock the door, you know – but then, I never realised I’d be set upon by a wizard.” The voice made the word sound as though it was an insult. He turned, slowly, garnering a glimpse of pale flesh and wavy black hair, almost shiny, of a thin arm grasping a wand, before the voice spoke a word that he could not remember, and everything narrowed down to that sound.
As if in a dream, William stepped around the bodies, not seeing them, and hauled them roughly down to the basement where they could more easily disposed of. He tidily cleaned up the bloodstains in the kitchen, and cleared up after dinner, doing the dishes and putting what leftovers remained in the back of the refrigerator. It seemed that there were two voices in his head: one being that of the man telling him to do things, the other being his own, explaining and rationalising.
So. He had to dispose of the bodies – despite the fact there were no bodies there. He had to clean up – because it wouldn’t do to leave a mess, now would it? He told the someone in the house who he was – because it was hardly an unreasonable request, really…
When William went to work the following day, he greeted the questions of his fellow workers with the usual pleasantries and detailed his nephew’s birthday party for them, letting it be known that the family had gone camping in the Midlands for a few weeks as a birthday holiday, and he did not expect to see them any time soon. He sat down at his desk, and worked diligently, making few mistakes. Occasionally he would make a copy of a file here or there, or scribble notes down onto parchment: he was trusted by the security staff, so they didn’t question or search him as he left.
And every night William would return to his small unit, cook himself some dinner, and hand over the documentation for perusement by the man who wasn’t there. At times, the man suggested ways of narrowing the search, or wished greater information on specific cases. Some of the documents took time to reach William’s desk from the vaults, or special clearance, and he had to come up with many excuses.
But the man assured him, in that gentle tone of voice, that it was all for the good, and William could never remember the man long enough to fight him. What he did know: even during the haze of the day, was that it was very important to compile a list of all the major wizards with a history of violent and/or anti-Muggle tendencies, as noted through surveillance reports from MI7 (the Magical Secret Service), political assessments of the aristocracy, or criminal records from the Home Office. Some of the names he recognised by reputation, some surprised him, and some came up more than once. Vortigern Malfoy was there, and the Lestrange family, the Macnairs, the Basinghamstokes, Sir Ian Devine, Susan Walthampton and many more…a whole litany of the corrupted individuals at the heart of wizarding society.
It took him many weeks to gather all the information, scurrying it away in pieces, taking the time to assemble the whole at home. When he finally handed over the completed list, he saw the white hand creep from the darkness to take it, the man moving from his resting place in the cloth-covered chair, green eyes gleaming with a faint tinge of red. The man took several hours to look at it, whilst William looked down, his service complete. His mind was empty and waiting for further instruction – he could have stood like that until eternity. Finally, he was rewarded with a thin smile, and the pale hands crept around to cup his face as the man stood up, cold lips brushing against William’s in a parody of a kiss.
Then with a sudden movement, Lord Voldemort jerked his hands sideways, neatly snapping the man’s neck and letting the body fall to the floor. He folded the long parchment and tucked it away inside his robes, glad that he had come across a fortuitous opportunity. It seemed that the Powers worked for him, here, as well. The inches of minuscule writing would be most helpful to him in the future. Taking his wand out, he whispered “incendio”, and watched as the corpse burnt to ash under a green flame, and ground the remains into the carpet with his heel. He remembered to leave the latch on, on his way out. There was no cause to attract undue suspicion, not this time.
William was reported missing after not turning up at work two days in a row. His body was never found, nor was his status as one of the first casualties in the War ever recorded.
moment eight: strong of voice and sure of purpose (July 1971).
Narcissa sat, nervous amongst the attendees, all in their fine robes. First she twiddled her fingers. Then she sat on them when the people on either side of her started giving her funny looks. Then she bit her lower lip, teasing it with her teeth.
She wished Dumbledore was giving the speeches; he was always amusing, if a little peculiar, as her mother was fond of saying. But today he had delegated to his deputy, that horrible pinch-faced little man, Professor Linitus, and he droned on much as he had in advanced Arithmacy – one of the reasons she’d given up on the subject after fifth year.
Looking around, she noted the names of some of the people sitting in their finest gowns and robes; she’d been introduced to a few by her parents, whilst in London, or on her family estate on the isle of Mona. Her mother preferred the estate; she always told Narcissa that one should always meet anyone on home territory, as it gave you the natural advantage, and in wizarding society, one needed every advantage one could get.
At the moment, Narcissa certainly had no advantages, no certainty. This was the first graduation she had ever attended, and thus had no idea if it was proceeded smoothly or not. She supposed that many of the family members here also had no idea as to the proceedings, having their eldest child graduate today, with no past experience if the parents themselves had gone to Durmstrang or somesuch; but they were not her, and she wanted it very much to be over.
She started to bite at her fingernails, nervously, knowing that this was no seemly way for either one of the Morgan clan, nor a Ravenclaw, nor a Prefect, and one in their Sixth Year to behave. But Narcissa knew the families sitting on either side of her, and she knew that her mother could turn them into social outcasts with a word. It was not that she bragged of her family’s influence, or cared for its use much herself; but it hung like a certainty, reassuring in the back of her mind.
If she craned her neck slightly, just a tad off to the left – yes! – she could see him, sitting straight in his chair, but not rigidly so. Amongst many talents, Lucius Malfoy had the gift of elegance, poise, and he didn’t hesitate to show it off. He was placed next to the empty seat of the Deputy Headmaster, as befitted the Head Boy on his final day, and was seemingly engrossed in everything that was being said, every single boring syllable.
Narcissa noted this: her mother had told her that if there was ever a family given to dissemblance, to acting a part and out-and-out lying, it would be the Malfoys. It was part of their reputation, their mystique. They were fallen angels amongst the great wizardring families, spoken of in whispers, derided but never openly so, as if they had unknown powers to call upon. It was well known that Lucius’ grandfather, Julian, had openly supported the dark wizard Grindelwald and his muggle puppets Hitler and Moseley during the thirties, only to recant when war broke out. It seems they had realised that if Grindelwald succeeded, and Britain was invaded, then Julian would probably see his estate confiscated and granted to some Aryan pig.
The Malfoys were nothing if not self-centred, and that had been their weakness – even since Lord Francis Malfoy had chucked his lot in with Cromwell’s lot during the Civil War, apparently in the hope of setting the Lord Protector’s crown on the brow of him or his heirs, or even better, waiting out the Republic till the monarchy was restored, with a Malfoy as King. Of course, events had taken a rather different turn, and so the Malfoys had been humbled when the Stuarts had returned to power, but Francis’ son had grovelled appropriately, and condemned enough of his fellow Parliamentarians, and managed to keep his land and money. The title though, had passed into memory, and that had always grated.
Narcissa herself was in line to be the 23rd Baroness of Anglesey on her mother side, and her father was technically Lord of the Isles: even if the title had been extinguished by law several hundred years ago. She wondered briefly if that bitterness on behalf of the Malfoys was what gave them their reputation for entering into rather risky alliances, just for the potential reward. Grindelwald was not the first black stain on the Malfoy reputation, and her mother had lectured her severely on the fact it would not be the last. She had seen through Narcissa’s gentle questioning of Lucius and his family, and told her daughter to fix her sights on higher, and more lofty ambitions.
Narcissa pouted as some overly large woman with a similarly overly large hat moved, blocking her view of the stage. Well, blocking her view of Lucius, anyway. She’d always been interested in him from the first time she’d seen him: sitting alone at the Slytherin table, brooding, defiant, surly, and not giving a damn about anyone else. She was in first year, he in second, and already he’d seemed more real than anyone she’d ever met. One of her friends had whispered to her who it was, and Narcissa felt the pieces come together in her head: this was what her mother’s set meant when they talked about ‘those sorts of people’ – this gloriously proud young man, who could be both strong and broken at the same time. She’d watched him for ages – at lunch, or breakfast, or dinner; in corridors, and in the library. Like her, he seemed to have a great fondness for learning, and books, and the musty smell of acceptance and trust she gleaned from the old pages she poured into her ideal of him.
He was like history, come alive, the product of a thousand years of breeding made explicit in one man, and as a history student she knew no greater temptation.
History. There was a thought. She needed to think up a topic for her consultation with Professor Binns: it was nearly the end of the academic year, and all sixth years were have supposed to have decided upon the subjects for their advanced seventh year papers by now. Hmm. Something she could connect with the Malfoys, perhaps, she wondered, smiling at herself inwardly. No. That would be silly of her, as if she weren’t already silly enough, fawning over some sensitive try-hard rebel who barely even knew she existed, and by all reports, probably wouldn’t care if he knew. Dormitory gossip said that she was the wrong gender for Lucius Malfoy.
She shied away from that painful possibility, and concentrated instead on the proper conduct of a Ravenclaw, learning. She could do something about the muggle second world war, she supposed. It always fascinated her, the parallels between muggle and magical culture and history. The Axis powers had had their own wizards, led by Grindelwald, and Churchill had depended upon Hogwarts, and more frequently, Albus Dumbledore, in the last months of the war. It had needed a victory both magical and muggle to finally win. What frightened her most about that bloody conflict was perhaps the Japanese onslaught: look what a people could do, without magical help. It was beyond belief. Except they had their Emperor, who presided over public ceremony, and represented the soul of the nation. Yes, there was a possibility. Royal magics were some of the most ancient, and most deeply rooted in the psyche. Something about the subconscious effect of royal magics upon a populace then, with perhaps previous examples from various dynastic bloodlines, then.
Narcissa set the question to one side, allowing it to cogitate by itself in her mind, idly listing a set of sources and potential research with another. She’d put quill to parchment after this interminable ceremony and work something out for real, and go see Binns with it tomorrow. He was sure to approve it: she was one of the few history students who hadn’t had their own love of the subject destroyed by his farcical way of teaching it.
Blinking, she realised someone was watching her, head cocked slightly to one side, and with a sudden horror, realised it was Lucius Malfoy. He was looking oddly at her face, and as the colour drained from her face, she knew she was biting and sucking on her bottom lip: a subconscious reaction Narcissa had whenever she was thinking deeply about a problem. Mortified, Narcissa stopped immediately, and attempted to retrain her blush, her eyes not quite meeting Lucius’, one hand snaking up to absently tuck a few threads of gold hair into her bun, the other smoothing her robes. Nevermore had Narcissa Morgan cared about appearances, and at this instant she wished she could look beyond perfect. Letting her breath go in a hiss, she looked back at him, certain of how foolish she must look. Instead, he merely gave a small smile, infinite in its capacity for arrogance, as if he knew everything about her, and found her amusing, like a house elf.
Narcissa’s blood began to boil then, and she sat silent amongst the applauding crowd as Lucius Malfoy, Head Boy of 1971, rose to give the valedictorian speech. She wondered if she stood then, wailed and weeped and gnashed her teeth and pulled her hair, whether he’d actually see her, or just smile his little smile, and go on regardless.
For a second, she wanted to kill him.
moment nine: the death of kings (May 1972).
Old Bill knew every rolling hill and sloping dale in this here parts, Jacob knew. He was the perfect companion for a good walk. The small scruffy black terrier trotted in front of his master, eager for the exercise. The lake district was their part of the world, and right now, as the sun shone down, Jacob felt like a god surveying His creation.
It had been a while since they’d walked along this particular path: months, easily. The winter storms had all but ruined the track with snow and rain, and Jacob knew that there were few in the area who knew of its’ existence. Well, save for him and Old Bill.
The dog stopped then, looking strangely off into a thicket some yards off. He growled, his hackles rising, and Jacob felt a queer fear come into him, all alone amongst the countryside. “What’s that there then?” he asked, ambling back to the dog. “What you fussing about, Bill? We got to be off home now: Missus Jacob is cooking us both dinner, and you know how she gets when we’re late.”
Still the terrier growled, and it seemed Jacob had no choice, sternly admonishing Bill to “stay there, ya stupid little shit,” and clambered down the rise to the extensive thicket of brush and thorns at the bottom. He fumbled in the half light, finally sliding over on the leaf covered ground, the sudden jolt shuddering through his body.
Slipping again in an enfeebled attempt to rise, his boots seemed to gain no purchase on the muddy, turgid soil. Raising one fist in pointless anger, he cursed Bill’s name until he was blue in the face, the dog responding by barking loudly, and finally Jacob gave up, his body going limp as he slid onto the ground.
Peering closely at the area between his legs, he saw that his attempts to get up had dislodged some of the leaf matter, and the soil underneath. Indeed, it seemed almost as if he’d wiped something away; revealing something buried close to the surface. Jacob wondered momentarily who the hell would be burying things in the blasted Lake District, of all places, and his curiosity roused, reached down to wipe some of the soil off, his wrinkled and liver-spotted hands still capable of some action, despite his age.
After a few moments he leapt back with a cry, and scrambled from the thicket, shuddering, and ran off down the path, Bill yelping at his heels. He didn’t stop until he got home, and walked a mile or so to a local campsite with phone, so he could call the police.
Framed by the earth, eyes closed, was the shape of a human face, frozen in a terrible rictus.
The two men flashed their credentials at the police cordon, and were allowed inside the area. Forensic photographers stood in the thicket, angling themselves for different shots, cameras flashing harshly in the twilight. The men nodded in turn to the young police constable who stood by the now partially-exhumed body, and knelt down.
“What have you got here, Constable?” It was the shorter one, older and a tad stockier, with thining amber hair and alert hazel eyes.
“Local farmer found them on his afternoon walk, Sir,” stated the constable, fresh-faced and desperately not trying to show he didn’t want to look down.
“Them?” This time it was the other one, taller but younger, with dirty blond hair.
The constable nodded, and pointed to small markers in the ground, shallow pits opening the earth to bear witness. “They dug around the first corpse in a few places in order to exhume it properly. They’ve found others. They reckon there’s about four: probably a family that came up here from Manchester on holiday last year. We’ll know properly once we get them all out.”
“Last year?”, the older one murmured, bending down to snap on a latex glove and poke the exposed dermis with a finger. It held, and sprang back, still supple. The constable tried not to gag. “But the flesh shows no signs of degradation.”
The young constable, now distinctly green around the gills, nodded, swallowing. “That’s what the forensic people said, Sir. They don’t know how to explain it.”
“Right,” the man agreed, taking out a small rod of wood from his tweed jacket and extending it towards the corpse. He spoke a few words under his breath and there was a small flash of light, white and pure.
The constable cleared his throat. “What’s that, Sir?”
“New forensic instrument,” his superior assured him, somewhat dismissively, snapping off the latex and stuffing it in a pocket of his tweed jacket with the other object. “Come on, Rod” he said to the other man, and they left, striding out of the thicket.
The constable stood next to the partially-exposed body in the darkening night, and desperately wanted to be somewhere else.
DCI Tennyson of Scotland Yard’s Magical Division, of which very few people in the Muggle world actually knew about, emerged from the brush and took a deep breath of the cool night air. Soon after, DI Tanner also emerged, and Tennyson took a moment to get his bearings before walking off, Tanner moving into familiar step next to him.
“No wonder they asked for us, John,” mused the younger man, almost enthused. “Did you see the corpse? That can’t be natural.”
“I’ll agree there. This was definitely the work of wizards.”
“What was the reading from the tempora finis spell?” His tone was somewhat jerky, as if dreading words he didn’t want to hear.
The DCI pulled his wand from the coat pocket, and twirled it in his hand, catching the opposite end, grinning at the other’s man familiar wince.
“One day John, you’re gonna do that and turn your arm into a fishtank or something accidentally.”
John clapped the other man on the back, and stopped, whispering the recall incantation into the wand. A few numbers appeared in front of his eyes, then vanished. “Time of death: last November.”
Rod’s eyes went wide, and he swore. “Last November? Merlin, that can’t be natural”, he said again, as if for emphasis.
The two men walked in silence for a while, the elder leading the way.
Rod started gesticulating, as he often did when formulating a theory out loud. “You think it could have been an accident? You know these off-the-road places. And it was last November. A small group of wizards were drinking too much around the Samhain fires, some Muggles disturbed them, the Muggles freaked, the wizards went for their wands – it just all got out of hand.”
Tennyson stopped for a while and lit a cigarette, stamping out the match underfoot, taking his time. “Murder’s still murder, Rod,” he pointed out, plainly, “you know that. Besides, the look on the corpse’s face: that was fear. Our murderer wanted to revel in that fear. Then, there was the state of the body itself.” John started moving cross-country, at a faster pace, his movements full of purpose as he puffed along.
“What about it?”
“The state of preservation,” he called back. “I’ve only heard about it in a few cases, Rod. It’s happens when someone is placed under the Cruciatus Curse, in extremis. The power that floods the victim is intense enough to kill them, and it happens so quickly that the body is pickled, almost, before the pain could cause any damage to the tissue.”
Rod was speechless. “Bloody hell.”
“Bloody hell’s right. We’ve got some powerful loner who gets off on torturing people to death, probably Muggles.”
They were approaching a small hill, and made their way up it, the older man surprisingly spry for his age and smoking habit, Rod lagging behind. He called out, if only that his question might make the other man stop to consider, to allow Rod to catch up. “Do you think they’ll be more, Sir?”
John turned, his face bitter with anger, stopping at the crest of the hill. “Oh, I’m sure there will be. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” He scowled, and put out his cigarette, which didn’t make him any happier. “When we get back to the office, I want to go through every unexplained death we’ve got on record for the past six months. Anything that could be connected with this one, we flag it.”
Rod’s eyes widened in protest. “But that’ll take weeks! Months even!”
“I don’t care!” John spat out. “We have a potential serial killer here.” He calmed himself, and the two men stood on either side of the empty plastic bag that had been caught in some twigs, dancing in the gentle breeze. “On three, right?”
The two men counted to three, and as one, reached out to the bag, disappearing in a haze of light as the Portkey returned them safe to Scotland Yard.
moment ten: oh I do like to be beside the seaside (May 1973)
Narcissa Morgan lay on the pier, fanning herself and sipping iced tea from a straw. Her family’s estate looked over the Irish Sea, and so, it was hardly out of the question for her to be reclining upon the private jetty. Tortoiseshell sunglasses (real tortoise shell – a Morgan would never buy anything fake) covered her eyes from the sun, although the effect was largely cosmetic. The British sunshine was pale, even in summer, and as an added precaution Narcissa had cast a Diffusio charm around her in a semi-permeable bubble, coupling it with a focussing spell so that the harmful UV rays were excluded, and the sun’s heat concentrated just that little bit more to keep her warm. She had spent the entire week like this, curling up on the pier with an iced tea and a good book, dozing away the weeks until she took up her place as an undergrad at Oxford’s Faculty of Magick.
The year she’d taken off from graduation had supposed to do her good, but all it had left her with was a vague sense of unease. Narcissa had travelled around the world: from Egypt to Brazil to Nambia to Japan and everywhere civilised in between. She had taken in the sights, she had turned her nose up at the patently ludicrous local customs, and she had visited Merlin knew how many sacred shines and places of worship, fascinated by their historical importance and yet disbelieving of their reality.
No God had chosen to speak to her, anyway.
She had browsed, she had flitted, she had bargained, traded, connived, swindled and bought. Entire trunks of robes and gowns and dresses, books and manuscripts, scrolls and texts, objects d’art, objects d’magique…all these she had bought. And within minutes of buying each, she had tossed it aside, and bought something new. Her mother had commented that Narcissa’s spending had been ravenous – although certainly nothing beyond what the Morgan family’s well-endowed coffers could handle.
But her mother had been right. Nothing had satisfied her. The world had lain at her feet for a year, and she had seen all its glory and delights, and found them turn to sand and ashes in her mouth, leaving only a vague uneasiness, a longing for what she did not have and could not name. And so she had bought everything that caught her eye, pursued by a constant terrible “if only”, disturbed by the fact that the ‘only’ was always beyond her grasp, an itch she could not scratch.
Narcissa had returned home, and ordered the servants and house-elves to cart her new purchases into her rooms, and promptly never looked at them again. She preferred to find refuge here, by the water, away from her mother and her father, where the open vista was enough to reassure her that the wideness of the world meant that she always had a choice. And so she sipped her iced tea, and read her books. Perhaps all she needed was a return to study: to the determined pursuit of evidence, argument, refutation, the comforting challenge and boundary of scholarship. She would go to Oxford, and everything would be well, losing herself between pages, in constructing footnotes, as the past took her out of herself again. There were so many options for her: she had graduated in the top five of her class, first overall in History of Magic and Divination. Her mother’s family had been blessed with many Seers – proper ones, not like that incense choked hag who taught Divination to the lower years back at Hogwarts, and from what Narcissa had heard was poised to take over as the senior classes too, now that Professor Kemp had left. Narcissa could use that familiar gift: she dreamt true on occasion, and could scry better than most – perhaps a position as a Forecaster then, or somesuch. University beckoned, and would save her from this “if only” that threatened to drive her mad.
Setting down her drink, she opened up her book to the correct page, and wondered absently what Lucius could be doing right now. She had heard through the grapevine that his father had died a few months ago, leaving him as sole heir, and he had visited the various Malfoy properties and interests around the world upon his assumption to the estate. She had half expected to come across him on the beaches of Crete perhaps, fucking a local rent boy senseless, courting a younger lover. He probably would have been most polite to her, had they met, and smiled his little smile, with its’ infinite capacity to know she wanted and yet could not have.
Snapping the book shut, Narcissa grabbed the towel than hung over the deck chair to wrap around herself: it wouldn’t do to walk up to the house in a bathing suit. She dissipated the charm with a word, and stormed off.
The pier had suddenly lost its appeal.
moment eleven: tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow (January 1974)
Remus was at his bed, silently folding up a faded woollen jumper (Gryffindor crimson) and placing it in an overnight bag. The other boy watched him, arms folded across his chest, leaning against his own bedpost. Remus was aware of that watchful gaze, as always, and tried not to hunch his shoulders against it. Sirius was always so non-judgemental, and that always made Remus feel even more guilty…for the things Remus couldn’t tell him.
Zipping up the leather bag sharply, he looked down at it, this horrid brown dead cow thing on his bed. He ignored the similarities with a doctor’s bag, and tried to suppress that small voice in the back of his head that was currently discussing wolf/cattle relations, and picked it up. Remus was always surprised by how light the bag always was, the assortment of belongs that made up his life. Every month he packed it: the few things he wanted to take for obvious reasons, such as clothes; and then there were the things he just didn’t want to part from, in case anything happened in the night. There was his Hogwarts’ letter, which he seemingly carried around with him everywhere; a set of his favourite pencils and drawing parchment; a quill and ink; and finally, his much loved and worn copy of Hamlet.
“O that this too too sullied flesh would melt, thaw and resolve itself into a dew,” he quoted to himself, turning to make his way from the bed. Sometimes he did wish he could just melt away; for every month Remus promised himself that there would be more left behind, more to leave behind, and every month the same half-empty bag damned him. He was only 13, admittedly, but this was all he was. And there was always the chance that something could go wrong, and this was all he would ever be.
“Where’r’ya going, Remy?”, Sirius Black asked him, with the same look of gentle concern on his face. Ever since they’d become friends, he’d stood here, every month and asked the same question.
The shorter boy stopped at his side, refusing to look up. “Same place I’ve always gone,” he muttered, softly, ashamed. “And no, I can’t tell you.”
Sirius’ tone changed to one of injury. “You can’t trust me, Remus?”
Remus sighed, forcing his mind away from a bitter response. They always had the same argument – what did it matter? “It’s not that and you know it.”
“I care about you. You’ve gone Merlin knows where every month for the past three years-”
“We weren’t friends in first year, so that doesn’t count.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow, faintly amused. “You’re telling me it didn’t happen in first year as well?”
Remus refused to rise to the bait, refused to give into their friendship. “It’s a medical condition, Sirius. I can’t say anything more.”
Sirius stepped aside sharply, and let Remus pass. Neither boy looked at one another as Remus left the dormitory.
It was past nightfall as two young boys made their way over the small rise, clad in thick winter robes against the cold. Sirius, intrepid and eager, led the way, striding with a determined air that suggested that even if he didn’t know where he was going, he was certain to get there as quickly as possible. The cool night air whipped softly at the end of his shaggy hair, cut just over regulation length with the constant promise that he would get it shorter, one of these days. Trailing a small distance behind him was another young boy, slightly bulkier in his build as opposed to Sirius’ clean form. James Potter absently adjusted his glasses, wishing they had the time to stop so he could clean them properly. They’d been spattered with vapour in Potions, and large smears distorted his view. It was typical of James that he hadn’t bothered to so far, but now that it was dark, vision suddenly became an issue.
Fortunately, the light of the full moon was such that they didn’t need a lamp, as it would have drawn even more attention to them. James winced as a twig snapped audibly under his foot, and pointedly asked, “are you sure he went this way?”
Sirius sighed, but didn’t slow down. “Of course I am.” He pointed off to the large tree, despite the fact that the shadow of night made it near impossible to judge any distance. “It’s just a little way to the Whomping Willow, and he was definitely headed towards that.”
“Well, yeah,” replied James, stuffing his hands in his pockets, “but we didn’t see where he went after that. I mean…he wouldn’t have just gone near the Willow, the Tree’s a nutter!”
Sirius paused. “Hmmm. He must have gotten around somehow?”
“To the Shack? Why would he have gone to the Shack? Even I’m scared of the Shack, and you know me, I’ll do anything,” James commented, darkly humorous.
“Maybe the noises aren’t ghosts, like we thought,” Sirius mused to himself, still trapsing over wet ground, a spring in his step.
“Well, what are they then?” The younger boy looked across at him, pushing his glasses back up with a sniffle. James was always susceptible to the night air.
Sirius shrugged. “Maybe they’re designed to keep someone out, Jim me boyo,” he joked in an admittedly shoddy Irish accent.
James pulled ahead of Sirius, interested now. “No, I think you’ve got a point. Maybe it’s something Remus is involved with…maybe his family. You know he never hears from them, and he always has those talks with Dumbledore…”
They finally made it over the rise, the sprawling shape of the Whomping Willow indistinct in the moonlight. James was just about to ask Sirius what his brilliant plan was now, when a sound came just on the verge of his hearing.
James went deathly pale, and pulled at Sirius’ robe. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“Hear that.” It sounded again, a little louder.
Sirius turned to him. “I did hear that.”
They made their way closer, huddled and talking in whispers. “What do you think it sounds like?”, asked James.
“Dunno.”
“What do you think it is?”
“Dunno.”
“You’re no help.”
Sirius grunted. “If you want someone who has no life and therefore knows everything, ask Snape.”
“Remus knows more than Snape,” pointed out James, somewhat unhelpfully.
Sirius stood out the range of the baleful tree, peering into the night. “Remus is different,” he muttered.
The noise sounded again.
“Well, we can hear it louder,” James piped up. “It’s definitely coming from the shack.”
It was a long, baying noise and it made both boys want to leap in terror. But, one way or another, they were bound here, by ties of loyalty to each other, and the one who’d wandered out here in the darkness.
“We really should have gotten Peter to come with us,” hissed James.
“Peter would have run off by now and asked McGonagall where Remus was,” Sirius replied smoothly, assessing the situation. “And that would have been no help. He’s better off asleep.”
James could see Sirius concentrating, the wheels turning in his head. “I think I know what it is,” James said finally, not wanting to disturb the other boy.
“What is it then?”
“Listen.” They listened, and the long mournful note sounded around them.
After a short pause, Sirius looked at James, wary, and waited for the answer.
“It’s a werewolf. Look, it’s got to be,” James stated, excited. “It’s full moon tonight, and I think he does this around full moon.” James continued, unaware of the expression that was growing on Sirius’ face. “I guess some member of his family was bitten, you know, and they brought him here cause Hogwarts is safe. He must spend all his time locked up there; and you know it’s been said that close friends or family members can help werewolves retain some of their humanity during the transformation.” His brow furrowed, and James pouted. “Not fair to Remus though, being locked up with a werewolf, even if there is some kind of protection. I guess there must be - he’s always seemed safe before.”
Sirius barely spoke. “I caught him coming out of the Hospital Wing once…he had these cuts up his left side, like claw marks, but he made me swear not to tell anyone. Said he’d ventured into the Forbidden Forest as a prank.”
James started getting furious. “Well, they really should take better care! Everyone knows that werewolves are beasts – that’s why they have those institutions for them, so they can kept away from normal people.” He felt Sirius take a firm grasp of his shoulder, and stopped, both frightened and puzzled.
Sirius’ voice was low in his ear. “Merlin help me James, you call him a monster again and I’ll kill you, even if you are my best friend.”
James felt the threat implicit in the tone, and the firm grip, even if he didn’t understand it. “Eh?”
The taller boy whirled him around, bending his knees slightly to look directly at James. “He’s the werewolf, James. Not someone from his family. Remy is.”
James looked shocked, his eyes wide. “But!”, he spluttered, trying to form coherent words. “They don’t let things like that into Hogwarts!”, his voice rising in pitch at his sudden fear. “It’s against the charter or something!”, he finished, and was shaken for his efforts.
“I told you, James. He’s not a monster. He’s our friend.”
James still had some difficulty taking this in. “But…”
Sirius roared at him, fury in his face. “He’s our friend!”
James stepped back, and composed himself. “You’re right…of course. Even if he is a werewolf, I know what he’s like normally. I just…what must life be like for him, do you think?” he offered timidly.
“Bloody hellish, that’s what,” was Sirius’ quick reply.
They stood in silence for a moment, before James saw something glistening in the moonlight – a tear down the other boy’s cheek. He awkwardly reached forward to wrap his arms around Sirius, hugging him, as Sirius gazed across the dewy landscape and into the cold night.
“Gods, James!”, he hissed, angry and bitter. “Remus…His entire life, perhaps….And his family doesn’t even talk to him!” he muttered. Pulling himself out of the embrace, he wiped his face, before looking back at the Shack in the distance. “We’ve got to do something for him, James. I’m not letting him suffer like this.”
James was used to seeing his friend take charge of pranks, yes, but this was different. There was nobility in that gaze now, and sanctity, as if Sirius’ dedication to his friends could be glimpsed in him, raising him. “What can we do?” James asked, softly, squeezing Sirius’ hand.
“I’ll look stuff up,” was Sirius’ trusty reply. “I’ll find something, and then we’ll help him.”
“And in the meantime…?”
Sirius nodded, and set back the way they came, to the dorms. “In the meantime I’ll be there for him,” he said, firmly, and James absently noted the fact Sirius said ‘I’ and not ‘we.’
After a few minutes of silence, Sirius turned to call back to James. “Oh, and don’t tell Peter, alright?”
James looked at him. “Why not?”
”Because Peter couldn’t keep a secret to save himself,” Sirius curtly replied. “You know he’ll try, but then he just makes it so obvious he’s hiding something…” He broke off sighing, and James reluctantly agreed.
“Alright, I won’t tell him. But you know how he hates not being told about stuff.”
Sirius grumbled, his mind set. “Fine then. He can get me back sometime, alright? If he ever finds out.”
The two continued the journey in silence, and managed to get back to Gryffindor Tower without incident.
moment twelve: whispers in the dark (March 1974)
Deep within the corridors of Scotland Yard, a solitary cleaner pushed open the door to a medium-sized room, and fumbled around in the dark for the light switch near the door. When he didn’t find it, a series of curses followed, as the cleaner sighed, looked up at the ceiling and said, in a very strong Lancastrian accent, “Lumos.”
The lights went on like a charm, and the cleaner quickly bussed his cart inside, wheels rattling over the line in the carpet. He muttered to himself, and went about his usual business of emptying trash and cleaning up the whiteboard before the day’s work. He’d certainly never been in a place with voice activated lights before, but when he took the position here, he’d been warned to look out for all kind of advanced forensic technology. Didn’t quite know where voice-activated lights came in, but he supposed the police knew what they were doing. The room didn’t seem that special, after all: the plaque on the door read “Conference Room 2a”, but there were enough funny objects littered upon desks and the like to make the man wary.
And what kind of language was “Lumos” anyway? French, maybe. Something European. Hmmm. The cleaner felt disgusted that even Scotland Yard wasn’t buying British. But he was there to do a job, and he did it, remembering to turn off the lights with a drawn-out “Nox” that sounded as though it had at least five syllables.
In the breaking dawn, various individuals apparated to the outer boundaries of the complex, some more blearily eyed or formally-attired than others. All walked in through the high metal fence, and were only accepted into the building after passing the most stringent security checks known to both Muggle science and Wizard magic. This, then, was the home of Scotland Yard’s covert magical division. One-by-one, six individuals soon found their way into the newly-cleaned Conference Room 2a, taking their time to politely ignore one another, gazing around the room, arms folded over chests, straightening skirts or stockings or shirts and ties, opening up satchels to muse over the daily papers yet again – the Times sharing space with the Daily Prophet.
Shortly after 8:30pm, two figures marched sharply into the room, wanting – and getting – the attention of the gathered crowd. DI Rod Tanner strode quickly to stand next to the enchanted whiteboard, looking everyone over in turn.
As for the second arrival, Detective Chief Inspector faced the crowd, and sized them up. They were tough, but he’d had tougher. Firstly, there were certain proprieties to be considered. He nodded to them, and rubbed his hands together.
“Look,” he began, “I’d like to thank all of you for getting here for such an early start. I’m DCI Tennyson and this is DI Tanner, both from the Division’s homicide squad. Most of you don’t know the specifics of the case, just that this taskforce has been set up by the Ministry to investigate some unexplained deaths. Rod?” He turned to his DI, who was as always, coolly efficient.
Rod drew everyone’s attention by slapping a series of photos up on the enchanted whiteboard, affixing them there with a word. From each, you could see grass or leaves or rubbish twirling gently in the wind, a horrible contrast to the stillness of the faces that glimpsed out, faces contorted in fear.
“12 victims,” he said, tapping each one in turn, and set up another set of 7 photos beneath it. “Another 7 with a related M.O. That makes 19 deaths - all in the past two years.”
John settled himself on the desk, and glanced across the people gathered before him, registering the growing shock on their faces. They were experienced detectives, all of them, but serial killing still tugged at something primal in their hearts, and made them want to bleed.
Rod continued, inexorably, tapping the third picture. “First victims found, May 1972. The Bridgsen family, found in the Lake District, by a local tenant farmer. They were a family who went up there on holiday about eight months previously, and were reported missing soon afterward. DCI Tennyson and I were asked to come out due to the unusual state of the corpses. As you can see, even after eight months, there’s no obvious decomposition. After some checking, we discovered two cases with the same lack of decomposition.” He tapped the first two photos in turn. “A homeless man found in a dumpster in Redding, February ‘71. Local plods just figured he’d frozen to death. And an elderly woman, found dead in her house in Suffolk, August 1971. Presumed to be a heart attack.”
One on the DCs brought in from Brighton raised his hand, and Rod nodded, taking the question. “Sir, how’s that possible? The lack of decomposition, I mean.”
The DCI clambered off the desk, and put his hands in his pockets. “Good question there…DC Felton, isn’t it?”
The young man nodded, and pushed his glasses back up his face, taking a moment to brush back his hair. “DC Alex Felton, yes sir.”
John turned to look at the photos, lengthening out the moment. Leading any team was as much about looking the part as doing it. “In some extreme cases of the Cruciatus Curse, the energy levels pouring through the victims’ body not only kills them, but freezes the flesh in place. Some had theorised that it’s nature’s way of making such an unnatural crime so obvious. I don’t know, myself. But after forensic testing, it’s clear that these 12 victims were not only killed with Cruciatus, but almost certainly by the same wizard, due to the power levels required and some similar residual traces detected on the bodies.”
A young black woman stepped forward, dressed smartly in jacket and trousers. John recognised her from her file: DS Rachel Makhanyezi, lately from Vice, dealing with prostitution charms and the like. He nodded to Rod, letting him take this one for the moment.
“Yes, DS Makhanyezi?”
“If that’s so, what about the second line of victims? You can clearly see physical degradation on those corpses.” She stood there, arms crossed, jaw defiant, looking for an answer.
Rod turned back to the whiteboard, and spoke clearly. “The DS has raised a good point.” He pointed to obvious deformities on the corpses indicative of decomposition. DC Felton looked faintly ill. “As you can see, these other victims haven’t been preserved. Forensics concurs that they were not killed by the same wizard as the first set, but by less powerful magical practitioners.”
DS Makhanyezi still wasn’t satisfied. “What you’re saying is that we’ve got some powerful wizard going round killing people, and he’s got his friends in on it too.”
There was a low murmur at this, and John cut over the top of it. “Not just people,” he said sharply. “Muggles.”
The murmuring stopped.
Taking a breath, he continued. “That’s right. All victims so far have been Muggles, and so far only relatively obscure ones. Homeless people, the elderly, holiday makers, runaways: those without people to take care of them or notice them when they’re gone.”
Makhanyezi looked down at her feet, and back up again, her ebony face now all business. “What kind of strength are we talking about here, Sir? I certainly haven’t heard of Cruciatus having this kind of effect before.”
John sighed heavily. “The last recorded case was during the second world war, when Grindelwald performed experiments on some of the Jewish kabbalah wizards.”
DC Felton raised his hand again. “We’re…we’re supposed to be catching a dark wizard, Sir? Isn’t that what the Aurors are for?”
”The Ministry itself has decided that the talents of Scotland Yard are far more suited to the task, DC Felton,” DCI Tennyson replied curtly. “We track criminals and investigate cases all the time. The Aurors are far more ‘take ‘em down’ type of guys, and judging by movements within the Ministry, they’re going to get that way even more. We’re policemen: this is what we do.”
There was a mumbled assent at that. “Basically, what I want us to do is go over each single case again: try to look for anything distinctive. How does the killer choose his victims? How does he contact his followers?”
Makhanyezi had one more question. “What about forensic reports from the crime scene? Have they been helpful in establishing a profile of this wizard or his followers?”
John winced inwardly: he dreaded having to tell them this. “Well, from what we can tell, the followers are all quite powerful in their own right, and all perfectly adept at using Cruciatus. They were all, of course, shrouding their magical signatures.”
“What about the ringleader though?”
“From what we’ve been able to tell, there are some…non-human elements in his make-up that make identification near impossible.”
They all picked up their ears at that. Owens, a bulky, square shouldered DC with mousey brown hair and a face like a concrete block, spoke up. “Non-human, Sir?”
John nodded. “It looks there’s some kind of dark power involvement.”
The assorted group looked stunned, and Makhanyezi was the first to crack. “And we’re supposed to go after this guy?”
”Settle, Rachel,” DCI Tennyson warned. “We’re treating this case just like any other. Whoever this is, wherever they’re from, they’re committing criminal acts of magical homicide and it’s our duty to stop them. Part of the reason we’ve been assigned the case is because we’re low-profile. Aurors attract attention, and the Ministry’s having a difficult enough job of it trying to conceal the sheer number of victims from the press let alone they were committed against Muggles. What do you think would happen if the Aurors got brought in? They’d swarm all over it, and even the Muggles would be able to tell what’s going on. How do you think they’d react? Oh, there is magic, and there are wizards, and by the way, one of them is randomly killing you one-by-one.”
Felton was quietly reflective. “They’d probably try to attack us, Sir. Make it a war.”
John nodded. “That’s right,” he said, looking across at the faces of his taskforce. “And we’d slaughter ‘em, after a while. I think that could be what this guy wants.”
The other female in the room - DC Amanda Jones, John remembered, from the Psych unit – chose that moment to break her silence. “Could this have anything to do with the recent attacks by werewolves and the like, Sir?”
John turned to his DI, shrugged, and looked back. “It’s possible. The recent increase of attacks by werewolves, vampires and other monsters had taken place in the Baltic states and Ireland, rather than the UK itself. Obviously, it’s outside our jurisdiction. But with potential dark power involvement, it does remain a possibility – however, our focus is the murder cases. We have to find this person, and his friends, before the panic hits the streets. Anything gets too serious, then we hand it over to the Aurors. Till then, it’s just us.”
|
