Post by SALINA! on Jul 23, 2009 20:34:50 GMT -5
• • •
"I honestly don't see why it was planted, Barty."
The sound of clanging dishes accompanied the soft chatter of man and wife. The woman had her wand pointed in the direction of the sink, where a large black pan was dutifully washing itself, but her eyes were on her husband in front of her. The two of them were sitting at the kitchen table. They did this often, when Barty would come home. Lately, it had been later and later. Newspaper headlines made it clear that something was stirring in the shadows. Of course, what with being the wife of a valuable Ministry official, one would think she would know more than others, but this was not the case. Barty remained tight-lipped and unwilling to divulge any information.
The topic of discussion today, however, had nothing to do with the dark and terrible times that were sure to come. Instead, they were discussing matters including Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, in which their son was to attend his second year this upcoming term.
"I don't either, Margaret, but it's there. And it's Dumbledore, after all. The Ministry wouldn't do anything to interfere with Dumbledore's wishes. Why he wants a tree that could beat anything that came within a few meters of it to a pulp, I'll never know, maybe he just looks it looks nice with the scenery. Besides, it was built three years ago, I don't see why it's just becoming news now," explained Barty, taking a sip of his tea. His hand was shaking slightly, the tea lopping over the sides. The dark circles under his eyes were difficult to miss.
Margaret narrowed her eyes severely. "Are they working you too hard over there, Barty? Surely they have more than just you. You don't have to work so late. I'm worried about you. There are rumors, whispers, and when you come home hours after you say that you're going to, I don't even know what to think --"
"Mum?"
A boy of around twelve stood in the kitchen doorway. His straw-colored hair was unkempt upon his head, his eyes awake and alert, a thick book in his hand. He was glancing from his mother to his father suspiciously.
"Barty! Oh, dear, why aren't you in bed?" Mrs. Crouch popped out of her seat as though she was sitting on something very hot, rushing toward her son with outstretched arms.
"I just want to know what's happening," said the boy sulkily. "I was up doing my homework for Hogwarts, but if the rumors are true, there may not even be a Hogwarts next term ... There will be Hogwarts, won't there, Mum? Dad?" He looked past his mother, an expectant expression plain on his face as he locked eyes with his father.
Bartemius Crouch Sr. opened his mouth, only to shut it once more when his wife shot him a warning glance. He cleared his throat, then began to speak again. "Of course there will be, son. Why wouldn't there be? There's just a couple of wizards who think it's all good fun to muck about with the Muggles, but we've got them handled. Everything is going to be all right. You have my word."
• • •
CRASH.
Lightning crashed outside of the run-down house. At least, on the outside it looked run-down. Any innocent passerby would whisper to his friends about how sorry he felt for the person who lived there, especially on a night like this. The rain was slanted sideways, powerful and strong. Outside for two minutes, and you could guarantee on being soaked to the bone. How would you feel if your house didn't even have windows to protect you from this kind of weather? And the roof was barely holding on? Not to mention the rather large birch tree that swayed dangerously next to the shack. It could come down any moment, the person would whisper. And the poor souls wouldn't even know what hit them.
It was a different story on the inside, however. It was a decent-sized abode, with homely wallpaper and small lamps scattered throughout. The lights in most of the lamps were out. The only one on, in fact, was in a single room, from which loud voices were emitting. It was clear that an argument had broken out in the enchanted house.
"-- We have to act now, Molly, we can't just wait, don't you see? The longer we wait, the more powerful he'll become, and then what will we have then? His followers are few at the moment, but there's no telling what they'll be in a couple of months, a week, or even a day!"
"But we're not prepared, Fabian!" a short, plump young woman with fiery red hair insisted. She gave her brother a hard look, as though daring him to go on.
Apparently the look didn't frighten him, for the man continued. "We are far more prepared than we'll ever be! What do you expect to do, just wait until he knocks on this very door and asks to come in for dinner? It isn't going to work like that, we've --"
At that moment, a tall man with a long, silver beard and mane of hair stepped forward, raising his hand in a gesture to stop. The man was clad in a pair of deep purple robes, a matching wizard's hat, black boots, and his half-moon spectacles. His hat somewhat drooped, and it was then that the people present realized that he had just arrived. He took up the bottom of his robes and wrung it out slowly and calmly, watching as a small puddle of water gathered on the floor.
"I believe that both of you have made excellent points," said the man, smiling at them both as he fished up the other side of his robes, "but I think that this conversation is better suited for another day. We are being watched, you see. Charming young man. Peeking through that window over there" -- all heads turned in the direction in which he pointed, where they saw a distinct flash of black disappear below the window -- "and insisting that he is searching for a summer home for his family. I suspect the Death Eater Mulciber."
The man next to Fabian opened his mouth in disgusted. "Then we should kill him now, Dumbledore! They would do the same to us, only much more painful, I'm sure!"
Molly gave him a furious look, but remained silent.
"Yes, Gideon, I'm afraid that you are correct," said Dumbledore morosely. He was on his hat at the moment, and was wringing it out in a nearby plant. "Unfortunately, I do not think today is the day. There will be plenty of time for fighting later. Right now, a better place to discuss these matters would be much more ideal."
Gideon and Fabian exchanged glances. It was clear from their expressions that they would like nothing better than to go against Dumbledore and murder the spy outside their window at this very moment. However, they pursed their lips and nodded solemnly.
"Excellent," said Dumbledore cheerfully. He placed his wrinkled hat on his head. He began to turn on the spot, but stopped in the middle of it. Picking up a magazine on the table, he read over the front cover. To all of the confused wizards and witches, he flourished the magazine and said, "Knitting patterns. They're having a special on them. I do rather like knitting patterns."
With a sweep of his cloak, he disappeared with a sharp pop! The rest of the congregation followed suit, until the house was once more empty.
• • •
Silence echoed off of the walls in the tiny, dark room. It smelled of dampness and something else -- death. At the front of the room was a large throne-like arm chair. Curled around the back of it was a long, green snake, its tongue flicking in and out of its mouth. It hissed hungrily, as though it lived off of the fear of the men in the room. The men didn't dare look at each other. Instead, they stood stock-still in the middle of the room, a straight line. They kept their expressions blank and their eyes firmly on the chair in front of them.
Suddenly, a door behind them opened with an audible creak. Even at this display of other human life, they remained silent and unmoving. The person who had entered walked to the front of the room. He was donned in a billowing black cloak, the hood pulled up over his head in order to hide his face. He slid into the mildewed chair. Just like another certain wizard we know, this man gushed power and influence. His spider-like white hands rested on the arm of the chair. The snake slithered around to put its head on the man's shoulder, nuzzling against his neck like a dog would its master. Out of nowhere, his cold voice pierced the silence.
"Rosier. Your report first."
The man all the way on the right stepped forward. He was around his mid to late twenties, with dark hair and nervous, dodgy eyes. Wringing his hands nervously in front of him, he began to speak.
"Well, my Lord, not much has changed in the ways of Bartemius Crouch. He has a son, however. I-I don't think we knew this before, and if we did, my apologies. His son is young, around eleven or twelve, and will be attending Hogwarts next year. There is also apparently a sort of tree on the grounds now. It's ... apparently, it's different than the others. It is destructive, and has a mind of its own. It was built on the grounds a couple of years ago. Perhaps it could be used in some way. I do not think it arose suddenly."
"A tree, Rosier? And what use could a tree do to us?"
At these words, Rosier began to shake frightfully. He began to stumble around his words. "Erm, I-I-I don't know, my Lord. Simply that I do not believe it is a coincidence that --"
"You are not here to believe things, Rosier. You are here to report to me the facts. Step back into line. Next time, you better have new information, not including nature. Mulciber, you next." The snake hissed in agreement, and the man hissed back, as though communication was possible between human and reptile.
Another man stepped forward. His hair was jet black, cut rather shaggily, and a tad older than Rosier. He cleared his throat before speaking, and when he did, his tone was much more confident than Rosier's.
"They plan to strike, my Lord. The Order of the Phoenix. The Prewetts are spearheading the idea. What they plan to do is send their own spies into our ranks, in order to strike us in our most vulnerable places. They ... they mentioned Phillip Travers, sir. That he had already infiltrated our ranks and --"
"NO!"
A shout from the left cut Mulciber off. The man, Travers, wore a furious expression. He lunged at Mulciber, his arms outstretched. His actions were not seen through, however, for the man on the chair, with a flick of his wand, sent the man in a writhing. He scream and shrieked for what seemed like hours, until finally the Dark Lord lifted the spell. Travers lay twitching on the floor, sweating and sobbing quietly.
"Thank you, Mulciber. I had already had my suspicions on Travers myself. You will be rewarded. Step back into line."
"I give you my deepest gratitude, my Lord. Thank you." Mulciber nodded gratefully, a smirk playing on his face. He inched backward into the line. His fellow comrades seemed to shrink away from him, as though he had some sort of disease. He, however, looked and felt the way someone did when he had one a terrific prize, a prize that only he had a chance of winning.
On the floor, Travers continued to sob. He kept muttering, "No, he's a liar" and "I would never ..." The cloaked man turned a deaf ear to all of this. Instead, he raised his wand once more.
"You have betrayed me, Travers. Now you will all see what happens to people who cross the path of Lord Voldemort."
The crowd took a deep breath of uncomfortable anticipation. At this point, Voldemort lowered his hood, revealing his pale features, his bloodred eyes, and his dark, tidy hair. He stood up to his full height and glided toward Travers.
"Travers, look at me," he said softly, his voice laced with poison.
Travers continued to shudder something horrible on the floor, crying real, salty tears. Despite this, he brought his bright blue eyes to look up at the Dark Lord. He mumbled gibberish, incoherent sentences that seemed to make heads nor tails of anything. The Death Eaters pretended not to notice the scene unfolding before them, and instead stood facing the chair once more, their eyes transfixed on the great snake.
"I do not know what death is like, Travers. I have never died. Maybe ... sometime ... you could come back and tell us all what it's like to be dead."
"BUT MY LORD --"
"AVADA KEDAVRA!"
A flash of green light, then nothing.
• • •
Peace. It was a thing the wizarding world knew well. A darkness hadn't swept the group of people since Grindelwald, and even then the evil had not stretched its fingers to its full extent. Wizards and witches prospered under the same sun and moon, reveling in new ideas, people, and events. Even though there were many disagreements, wizards could agree on one thing: Life was good. They believed that the good times would never end and they would forever grow and develop. Nobody could destroy their strong, protective walls.
But people undergo certain changes, as does the world. There are always the people who want more for themselves than they are willing to give to others; the ones that believe that one race of people is better than another, and is therefore more worthy to survive; and there is always a group who is willing to follow this leader, through any obstacles and by any means necessary. Evil destroys walls. And so the construction begins.
The people of Hogwarts believe that nothing can happen to them. They are with Albus Dumbledore, after all; who would dare strike against them? The students continue with their daily lives, stressing over such mundane things as who to take to Hogsmeade, what they're going to get on their Potions final, and how to help one of their best friends who just so happens to be a werewolf. The atmosphere, however, is tense. Sides must be chosen. Neutrality is not an option. A battle is on the horizon, and nobody will be spared.
And yet, there is something else on the horizon as well. There is talk amongst the Hogwarts' faculty of a competition of sorts taking place at the school this year. Some of the braver students are eager to say that it's the Triwizard Tournament reincarnated. The brainiacs counter this idea with the fact that the tournament hasn't been held in almost two hundred years; why in the world would it be reinstated now? Either way, the competition will surely spur tension between the students of Hogwarts, whether it be by gender or House. In light of the tough times ahead, they will surely need something to take their minds off of things.
Hogwarts is the last safe haven. Which, perhaps, is the reason why it continues on its way. The children here are not really as childish as people think. They know and understand more than even the most mature adults. And they are willing to fight for any cause they believe in, for whatever reasons. It is both the advantage and the downfall of adolescence. Despite this -- or perhaps because of this -- hope still exists. Even if it's just a
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