Review Responses:
Rawaiya Prabhakar, bamer, and RYUDO: Thanks so much for your reviews! Encouragement is great.
Lady Apolla: Thanks so much! I'll definitely consider your ideas. ;-) Loved your review. So enthusiastic! XD
Garnet Runestar: No, this is not a dead fic, but its come pretty close to it, hasn't it? My apologies. Thanks very much for the compliments.
Acciodanrad9: Your compliments made me glow. Harry's illness? Well, basically…. Something very good comes out of it. Harry would probably say it's not worth all the pain but the Wizarding World would say otherwise, I'm sure. wink wink
B.B.T.W.: ACK! I reread your review and felt horrible because I had this vision of you checking your mail every day for like two months! Sorry!
Jayde Green: The throes of fic-love? I feel so honored… and giggly! Giggles
Misao Demon Master: Voldemort on crack… lol bet you could seriously write something off that though. Oo Anyway, Latin words I found on a Latin dictionary website. Very easy to find, just use Google or Yahoo! or something.
Author's Note: backs away from angry readers Uhh… will the old "real life" excuse work this time? Sweatdrop I'm really sorry you guys. Any time I sat down to write I had to do other things or had to get off or… you don't want the whole sad story. But here's this chapter and I promise it's longish, and hopefully good. crosses fingers
Petroselinum
Chapter Seven: The Weapon
Weapons are an important factor in war, but not the decisive factor; it is people, not things, that are decisive. – Mao Zedong
Hermione Granger was sitting Indian style on Ron Weasley's bed, a wall of books encircling her and covering most of his Chudley Cannons bedspread. A book was open in her lap. Her eyes scanned each line quickly, absorbing every word, analyzing every meaning. In a past visit to the Burrow, Hermione had jokingly commented that whenever she read in Ron's room she felt like she should be reading James and the Giant Peach, because the color made her feel like she was stuck in a great citrus. Harry had gotten the joke and laughed. Ron had been confused, but when Harry had carried the joke a bit farther and added that the room made him think of a sick rabbit's throw-up, Ron had been intensely offended and had stomped off to sulk while Harry and Hermione held each other up, laughing uncontrollably. The memory was humorous and brought a small smile to Hermione's lips. The glaring orange would normally have distracted the bookworm while she was pouring over her volumes, but for some reason she felt that Ron needed company. Silent company, friendly silence.
The owner of the Chudley Cannons bedspread and rabbit throw-up color pallet was sitting on his window sill, staring moodily out into the rainy sky with his legs pulled up to his chest, his arms folded and latent on his knees. Slowly he put his head down and rested it on his arms, still staring out into the sky.
Hermione snapped her book shut with a loud crack. Ron looked up from his gazing and frowned.
"You can't just stare and wait for an owl all day, Ron," Hermione cried exasperatedly. "Hedwig probably can't travel in this kind of weather and it's been going strong for days! Harry will write. You're making me nervous."
"Nervous?" Ron laughed incredulously. "How am I making you nervous?"
"Oh… you know!" Hermione said exasperatedly, pulling a hand through her bushy hair and tugging at a few knotted curls. "Just… it's making me all antsy!"
Ron gave her a look that clearly said he thought she was nuts, but said, "Well, I guess I'll stop then…"
Hermione scowled, and Ron noticed.
"What do you want me to say?" He asked testily.
"Well, I don't know," Hermione said, just as testily.
"That's a first," Ron retorted with biting sarcasm.
Hermione's face fell and Ron realized he had hurt her feelings. His tone softened. "It's just weird. I feel like something bad's going to happen.
Hermione uncrossed her legs and scooted off the bed, knocking off a few books in the process. She made her way to Ron and hugged him tight. He winced a bit and she pulled away, concern etched across her features.
"Ronald!" Mrs. Weasley yelled from the bottom of the stairs. "Ron, it's time to change those bandages!"
Hermione held her hand out to Ron and helped him up off the window seat, and the two made their way down the rickety old steps. Standing at the bottom of the stairwell was Ron's mother and a small man of whom Hermione knew not the name. Mrs. Weasley sat Ron down on the kitchen table, and Ron peeled off his shirt. There were bandages covering Ron's torso and a few on his arms, and the teen held back a wince as Mrs. Weasley pressed her fingers down on a bruise. She made a tsk tsk noise reminiscent of Madam Pomfrey and turned to help the man prepare some sort of creamy healing salve.
The brains had had more of an effect on Ron than had originally been thought. He was permanently scarred, said Poppy Pomfrey and Healer Edmund Ashby, but would generally suffer no other lasting damage. Edmund Ashby was practiced Healer and longtime friend of the Arthur Weasley. It was by his own choice that he had come to the Burrow to bestow free treatment of all Ron's ailments in repayment for Arthur's many years of loyal friendship to him through a difficult period in his life.
Ashby was a Scottish man and the first impression one had upon looking at him was that he was round, in every sense of the word. He was short and gave the impression of being rather circular. He had a very round body and a very round head, and his nose was a round little dot on his face. His eyes were round and very blue, and his sandy hair was short but still long enough to show the beginning of what promised to be round curls. He had round ruddy splotches of color on his cheeks and kind disposition. He was… round. Geometric in the softest sort of way.
Ashby peeled off Ron's bandages layer by layer until Ron's chest was bare. There were purple marks that looked like the kind that would come from contact with octopus tentacles scattered across his torso. Most of the bruises had disappeared by now, and scars had already begun appearing. With a gentle hand, Ashby took some of the salve handed to him by Molly Weasley and rubbed it onto the purple spots before replacing the bandages. Hermione grasped Ron's hand and interlocked her fingers with his in encouragement and he smiled at her.
"Well!" Ashby said at last. "Good news for you, sonny. In a few days you'll be done with this and there'll be no need for physical healing."
"Yes!" Ron pumped the air with his fist and Hermione stifled a fond laugh.
"But," Ashby said, and Molly, Hermione, and Ron paused. "We still don't know exactly how long you were in contact with the brains… there could be some mental and psychological damage that remains undiscovered as of yet. It might manifest itself without anyone knowing, so tests will have to be taken to make sure that you are still the same as before."
Molly and Hermione let out simultaneous gasps, and Ron stared.
"Are you saying I'm going nutters?" He asked incredulously, looking alarmed.
Ashby chuckled softly. It was a round sound.
"No, of course not. I mean, there's a slight possibility, but the chances are so slim that –" He stopped short as he saw the stricken looks on the female's faces. "I'm just joking, of course." He said hurriedly.
Relief filled their expressions and Ashby was satisfied.
Ron gently squeezed Hermione's hand untangled his fingers from hers. He grabbed his shirt and pulled it on, mussing his flaming hair as he did so. He slid off the table and stretched.
"No worries, mates." He said confidently, puffing out his chest and looking very Gryffindor. "I'll never go crazy."
He rumpled his hair with his hands and grinned at Hermione, but for a moment something in his eyes stirred. They glinted and shone for a second, and the corner of his mouth twitched, but then it was gone, and the same Ron Weasley that Hermione Granger had known since she was eleven years old was beaming at her. She forced a weak smile onto her face, suddenly uncomfortable in his presence.
It was the fourth day and the storm had not stopped. The rain still beat the ground in rage with her liquid fists, and the wind howled in competition with the thunder, who bellowed with his limitless lungs. The world was soggy now, the floodwaters having soaked into every underground crack. Lighting danced threateningly across the sky, beautiful and dangerous, secretive and quick, so that for miles around a golden flash would hesitate for only a second before vanishing, gone before it was even there.
A group of figures indistinguishable in the rainy darkness slopped through the terrain, making their way through the sodden woods. The man at the front pushed away the thin brush in front of him, breaking the brittle branches and clearing the path for his fellows as he did so. They walked on, the mud clinging desperately to their legs so that each step was accompanied with a disgusting suction noise that, fortunately, could not be heard over the din. There was very little talking aside from a muttered oath or a snide comment, and they continued in this vein until suddenly stopping at an abrupt clearing. There was almost two inches of water over the ground, and the dirt and constant showers stirred the water into a murky slop. They stood silent in the center of the clearing,drenched through in their black cloaks and robes coated with slimy mud, waiting for something.
A beat of silence, and,
"Why are we standing here in the rain?"
"Shut up, O'Connell," Came the biting voice of Severus Snape. The new recruit shrunk back a little at being addressed so harshly by a senior Death Eater. Snape pulled up the soaked sleeve of his robe and looked at his watch – less than a minute to go. "We're waiting for the portkey initialization."
"Yeah, be quiet, O'Connell!" Chimed in Wormtail importantly. He stood hunched over beside Snape, making him seem even more pathetic and short than ever. With his matted strands of hair (for he was balding), squinty eyes, and pointed nose he looked rather like a drowned rat. The only thing imposing about the shabby man was his silver hand, which glinted menacingly in the flashing storm-light.
Snape's upper lip curled and he raised his right hand.
"I would strike you, Wormtail, but I'm quite allergic to filth, and it seems that you are practically the definition."
O'Connell snickered.
A thin figure pushed its way through the crowd and stood next to Snape with its hands on its hips.
"Since when do you lead us, Sevvy?" Simpered Bellatrix Lestrange. Her long black hair was wet and limp and a large lock hung directly down the middle of her face, creating a line of black that covered her nose and split her heavy-lidded eyes away from each other. It was as though with the help of her dripping hair one could diverge which Bellatrix was which and see the two sides of her; on the left side of her face her mouth turned upwards, and her eye seemed alight with curiosity and mirth, and on the right her lips fell downward, and her eye gleamed with a sadistic sort of sadness and pleasure all at once. Her violet eyeshadow and mascara was smeared into a dark scar across her cheek, and her vibrant red lipstick was smudge around her mouth, making her look as though she'd drunk a glass of blood. That, Snape thought, wouldn't be too out of character anyway.
"Since this group of fools ran out of competent leaders," Snape replied acidly, and Bellatrix glared.
Snape reached into his cloak, and pulled from his pocket a length of braided rope. He impatiently beckoned with his hand to his fellows and each of them, about a dozen or so, grabbed on to a section of the rope. Bellatrix bumped Snape playfully with her hip to get him to move over, and he stifled a look of disgust before stepping as far away from the former Black as was possible while still holding the portkey. Unfortunately for Snape (and Wormtail too, for that matter), this happened to be directly next to Wormtail. Snape watched the second hand tick slowly, one hand gripping the rope, and counted out the last seconds.
"Five – Four – Three – Two –"
He was cut off as he was jerked off the ground and pulled forward by his navel. He was vaguely aware of his companions speeding along beside him, and then he was thrown onto a cold floor. Momentarily disoriented, he shook his head and stood quickly, wand in hand. His robes were sticking to him unpleasantly; he scowled at them and waved his wand over his body in a quick-drying charm.
The room they had found themselves in was an extremely large room with no doors or exits. It did have several long, sideways windows rectangular in shape at the very top of the room (too far to efficiently escape out of) that gave a clear view of the turmoil that was the night sky. The room looked like it had only recently been paid any attention. The room, which was so large it was more like a hall, or a chamber, wasn't very well ventilated and currently chilly. Drip marks were spreading slowly from corners of the tall ceiling and down the gray walls from roof leaks, and in the darkness they were rusty and brown, like tainted blood seeping into the very woodwork of the house. The flat stone floors were chipped and worn in places, and gleaming in others. They held scratch marks where things had been pulled across the floor and light patches where other things had previously laid. There was a gritty texture in the air that gave even more evidence to recent, perhaps even current, habitation. Lightening flashed outside and Snape could see thousands of dust particles floating in the air.
There was something else, too. Snape couldn't place it, but there was something was different from the normal atmosphere of Voldemort's various lairs. It was a feeling that seemed incredible familiar to Snape, as though he'd known it for a long time, and at the same time foreign. It was like seeing a long-forgotten face from the past and remembering the person but forgetting the name.
The other Death Eaters were in the process of picking themselves up off the ground and drying themselves. Or, in the case of those less bright than others, wringing out their robes with their hands and splattering water all over the Dark Lord's floors. Snape glanced at Crabbe and Goyle with a look of disbelief, followed by derision, and the two dropped their handfuls of fabric and shrugged at each other. Snape scowled again.
"Nice to see you're on your guard, my servants..."
Snape spun around so fast he was sure to have whiplash, and saw that a throne had emerged from seemingly nowhere. It was tall and set upon platform that was led to by long, imposing stairs and took up the entire far wall. The back of it extended to the ceiling, and Voldemort's fingers were strumming the ornate armrest of the chair, staring down at his minions. Snape immediately fell to his knees.
"Master!" He heard Bellatrix exclaim. She stood from where she had been squatting on the floor and began to sprint toward Voldemort. In a second his wand was out and "Crucio!" rang through the hall.
Bellatrix's screams were piercing and she writhed on the ground in pain until finally the curse was lifted, and she lay on her stomach gasping for breath.
"Bellatrix," Voldemort hissed. "You do not move unless I wish it. But now, you may come to me, for you have learned your lesson."
"Y – y – yes! Yes, Master!" Bellatrix choked, crawling on her hands and knees toward him. She fell once, but picked herself up, sliding helplessly across the floor, and eyes wide and sobbing, she reached the foot of the four tiers before his throne. Still gasping for breath she reached up and ran her fingers over his hand, and when that went without punishment she shoved herself up off of the floor and knelt beside Voldemort's throne, cradling his hand in hers and sobbing her love for him.
Snape was sickened.
"The reason for our meeting," Voldemort said, waving the still-hysterical Bellatrix off of his hand. "Is that I have decided that we have waited long enough."
There was a murmur through the robed crowd before him, but as none truly knew what he was talking about, it was neither a murmur of agreement or argument; it was merely a murmur.
"We will attack as soon as we can gather the necessary forces," Voldemort hissed. His red eyes swept the room. "And this attack will be successful."
There was something in how he said it that made it clear to all present what he meant. Be defeated, and pay dearly.
"But some of you may be questioning, 'How can my lord do this when our ranks have not become nearly what they were in the beginning?'"
There was some murmur of agreement and Snape cursed the fools who chose to respond. He knew Voldemort could turn this question on them, use it as an excuse to torture ignorant newcomers. But it seemed that Voldemort was eager to share his secret, and refrained from Cruciatus – so far.
"Snape!" Voldemort called out suddenly. Snape stiffened and stepped forward.
"Yes, Master?" He asked subserviently, his head bowed.
"Is the potion complete?"
"Yes, my lord, it is. I can bring it to you whenever you ask." Snape answered.
"Good, good…" Voldemort said slowly. "But do to recent circumstances; it may not be needed after all." He opened his mouth to speak the word –
"Wait! My Lord!" Bellatrix cried suddenly. "Let me do your work! Allow me to be your hand and let me show you my worth with the strength of my punishments!"
Voldemort considered Bellatrix for a moment, and inclined his head.
"Let this be worth my while, Bella." He said warningly.
Lestrange raised her wand in joy and Snape tensed, his muscles preparing for the onslaught of pain that he knew would come. He was hit with the curse and could not help but scream, still unaccustomed to the wrenching of his nerves and he jerked and thrashed on the floor, lost in pain just as Bellatrix had been notfive minutes before; but suddenly it stopped. Snape stopped, panting andcovered in sweat. He lifted his head up, and stared.
Severus Snape was rarely truly shocked. He prided himself in being unshakable, impassible, and many more adjectives meaning the same. So when Snape looked up and saw Harry Potter standing just a little ways away from the Dark Lord, Bellatrix's wand in hand, glaring defiantly, he thought he'd been hit a little too hard with the Cruciatus.
But there he was.
Snape stared, and it clicked into place. The feeling he had gotten before, the familiar strangeness, however oxymoronic it seemed, was Harry Potter. Harry Potter was here, with the Dark Lord. Nymphadora Tonks' voice flowed unbidden through his mind, "Merlin! You don't even give a damn if he's alive or not! He could be taken by You-Know-Who!"
He was jerked from his reverie by a voice that sounded so menacing he could barely believe it was coming from the Boy-Who-Lived. He shivered, than surreptitiously glanced around, hoping that his clansmen would take his shudder as an effect of Crucio. He had only heard Potter speak the same way once before, and it was back in the boy's second year… he had hoped never to hear the horrible sounds again.
"Escruacia men crula shelseeheska shan."
The high windows let in the brilliant flashes of lightening outside, quickening into a strobe light effect and accompanied by loud thunder. The Death Eaters were deathly silent (ironic, concidering the name), staring at Potter.
Voldemort's smirk fell as he looked on the boy.
"Don't tire yourself so, Potter. You and I both know you can barely maintain consciousness, let alone duel with a wizard of my caliber."
Potter glared at the Dark Lord, but now, with closer inspection, Snape could see that he looked far from fit. He was pale as death, with a sheen of sweat across his parchment skin and the purple bags under his eyes showing his exhaustion. His eyes were not the vibrant orbs that Snape was used to meeting in the Potions classroom, but instead were dilated and glazed, and kept losing focus, as though he was on the verge of sleep. His hair was damp and the unkempt mess hung on his forehead, covering his famous scar. He was clearly using all his energy to hold himself upright, and his legs were shaky from the effort though his wand hand was surprisingly steady.
Voldemort turned his gaze from Potter and his gaze rested on his followers. "You may not understand now, but you will all soon come to understand. This is our weapon. This is the weapon. This is our key to victory! This… this is Harry Potter."
Harry dropped his wand and fell to his knees, unable to stand any longer.
"Look how he kneels before his master!" Voldemort crowed, and Bellatrix burst into raucous peals of laughter, followed by the majority of Death Eaters.
"He has grown powerful," Voldemort addressed his followers in a more somber tone. "Very powerful. But with his power has come some sort of ailment which makes him incapable of using this power. I fear that this is only a short stage in his development, however, so we must act quickly. His pain and fever have caused delirium, but the boy has sudden bouts of sanity such as what you have just seen that could unfortunately leave some of my less… capable followers surprised.
"But as I had begun before…" Voldemort continued silkily. "We have been dormant long enough. It is time to strike. We attack Hogsmeade at dawn!"
There was a roaring cheer of excitement from the Death Eaters. Voldemort let out a high-pitched laugh.
"Enough, my servants. This attack will be the first in a line of many. From the defeat of Hogsmeade will come a clear pathway to the fortress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and we shall claim it as our own!"
As Voldemort's voice grew louder with the dramatic conclusion of his speech, the Death Eaters erupted in laudation and laughter, already congratulating themselves on a victory, except for one. He wasn't even a true Death Eater yet, but if he put his heart into the trade he could become great. He was ambitious and clever, and he nervously stepped forward. He was young, very young, and still in school. He reminded Snape so intensely of himself at that age that the Potions Master could not help but cringe. Snape watched, unable to stop him, feeling helpless, his earlier fears confirmed. The boy, for he was young enough to be called boy, kneeled reverently before the Dark Lord.
"My lord," Said the voice of Draco Malfoy, sounding nervous and surprisingly humble. "I trust your wisdom beyond any other's, even my father's –" Snape had to commend the kid; he knew what to say, and said it well. At least so far. "– and I do not wish to question your intentions or your abilities, but I must ask. How is it that you plan to overcome Hogwarts, especially with the fool Albus Dumbledore inside?"
Voldemort's eyes scanned Draco's form, from his bowed head to trembling hands.
"You are Lucius' son, I presume?" Voldemort hissed. His slender fingers fiddled with his wand. Draco noticed.
"Y-yes, my lord, Lucius Malfoy is my father."
"I assume you are aware that he is imprisoned in Azkaban? It is a pity for he was amongst my greatest followers."
"Yes, my lord, I am."
"Your question," Voldemort said. "Is a valid one. And so I will answer it–"
Here Snape breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. Idiot boy doesn't know what he's getting into, Snape thought. If he gets hurt… Snape swallowed the thought, his mouth dry. And Potter, there's another matter. How did he get here? How to get him out of here alive?
"I have found a way to control Potter, and his power." Voldemort said, somewhat proudly. "Let give a sort of... demonstration."
Voldemort stood abruptly, standing from his regal throne. Harry was doubled over on the ground, hissing things in Parseltongue, and looked up as Voldemort approached, half-straightening with his hand clasped over his scar. SuddenlyVoldemort was behind Harry. Voldemort pulled Harry (who looked horrified)upright, took a deep, steadying breath and held his right index and middle fingers pressed to the boy's scar. The reaction was instantaneous.
Harry threw his head back and let out a scream that echoed in the chamber, and the rain that had been falling relentlessly on the rooftop picked up speed, beating on the roof as if it wished to break in and save the boy. Snape jumped. The thunder bellowed outside, screaming louder than Harry himself, and O'Connell and Goyle let out surprised yelps as the windows they were standing under exploded outward in a tinkling shower of glass. The rain poured inthrough ruptured glass, soaking the Death Eaters for the second time that night, but Voldemort was absorbed in other things. He was staring at Potter with an evil grin plastered over his serpentine face.
Harry was floating a foot off the ground, surrounded in a shimmering golden glow that seemed to extend and light the room. His head was bowed, and his black coiffure was waving in an invisible wind that seemed to be swirling around him. Voldemort prodded his wand in Harry's back and his head snapped up, revealing a pale, expressionless face. The wind whipped his fringe off his forehead, exposing his famous lighteningbolt scar. His eyes were frightening, with no whites or pupils, merely molten gold that churned as though boiling.
Snape's own eyes were wide and he was sure his mouth was open in shock and horror, but he was frozen, rooted to the spot and unable to find the right muscles to close it. Draco was trembling like a leaf, terrified of this unfamiliar Potter and the immense power he possessed, and the rest of Voldemort's men had backed away, pressed with their backs against the walls and shaking, not noticing as they were drenched over and over again by the water pouring in through the windows. Wormtail seemed to have wet himself.
"So, Draco," Voldemort said, a smirk on his face. He stepped out from behind Harry and swept down the steps that led up to the platform his throne and prisoner were on. Standing before the terrified Malfoy, he drew his wand. "Does that answer your question?"
Draco's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.
"I believe it was an effective demonstration, yes. But you questioned me, Draco. Never question Lord Voldemort. Crucio!"
Author's Note: Okay, no Mad-Eye/Dursley interrogations in this chapter… but I just couldn't resist putting in Ron and Hermione. You see, I had this burst of inspiration (that was what got me off my butt to write), but it totally led me away from my original storyline. Bear with me, this one's much better.
Some notes for those of you who did not pick it up from the text:
- Harry has been with Voldemort for about three days.
- The Parseltongue was nonsense words I just put together. No clever Latin there, folks.
- If my brain does not come up with an even better plan, Ron will be playing a crucial role.
- Sick rabbit vomit, you know, they eat a lot of carrots… which are orange… yeah.
If you have any questions feel free to ask and I will answer!
Review for me, your long gone but much deserving (I hope) authoress:-D