Whispers of a Raven - My Haunting Companion
Although the summer was ending and his NEWTs exams were looming on the horizon, James was looking forward to returning the castle for his final year at Hogwarts. As much as he loved being home with Sirius and his parents, he missed playing Quidditch, being in the common room with Remus and Peter, and the company of a certain redhead he had been writing to over the holidays.
Mostly, he and Lily had been discussing the NEWTs and school life, but it was certainly an improvement from being called a prat and the looks of disapproval she often sent his way.
“Your letters are here,” Dorea announced over her cup of tea, nodding towards the window where two owls waited to be allowed entry.
Charlus opened the window to let them in and the birds landed in front of the teens, offering their legs the missives had been tied to.
“I wonder if they’ll tell us who the defence Professor is,” Sirius mused aloud, retrieving his letter from the school and opening it.
“I doubt it,” James muttered. “It’s not like they can hope to compare with Peverell.”
Sirius nodded his agreement as he read and James sighed before opening his, frowning as two badges fell into his palm.
“What the hell is this?” he questioned.
The first one filled him with excitement, a position he had hoped for ever since being selected for the team. He had been made the Quidditch captain of Gryffindor.
The other was one he had never wanted nor expected in his wildest dreams.
“Is that…?”
“No,” James denied, “it must be a mistake. Why the hell would they?”
Sirius appeared to be equally horrified by the other badge and James dropped it on the table as though it had been coated in Doxy venom.
“They must be bloody mental,” Sirius declared. “I couldn’t think of anyone worse…”
“Sirius,” Dorea chastised. “Now, what has upset you, James?”
The boy said nothing but pointed to the discarded badge disgustedly.
“Surely that isn’t…”
“It is,” Dorea confirmed, smiling proudly at her son. “Oh, James,” she cooed as she stood and wrapped her arms around her son.
“Mum, get off,” James grumbled, smiling despite himself.
Dorea relented and took in the demeanour of the boy.
“This is a good thing,” she pointed out. “Why would you be upset?”
“I don’t want to be Head Boy,” he mumbled. “I don’t deserve it for one thing, and it means I will have to follow the rules. McGonagall did this!”
Sirius nodded his agreement.
“The woman is an evil genius,” he declared. “She thinks that making you Head Boy will mean no pranks. Bollocks to that. We missed out last year because Peverell was there.”
Charlus snorted as he shook his head.
“It appears as though you have been neutralised,” he said amusedly.
“We will see about that,” James replied defiantly.
“James Potter!” Dorea warned. “You have been given a position of responsibility and you will take it seriously, and if you make a joke, so help me, I will curse you,” she added to her great nephew who slumped, pouting.
James met the glare of his mother for a moment before relenting. That was a contest he wouldn’t win.
“Fine,” he conceded grumpily, eliciting another smile from the woman.
“I suppose that is the end of our fun,” Sirius muttered. “I suppose if you look on the bright side, Evans will be the Head Girl,” he predicted.
A grin tugged at James’ lips as he nodded thoughtfully.
There was a silver lining after all, though he would prefer to be able to go on as he had been.
“It had to end some time,” he sighed.
Charlus shook his head at the boys who were acting as their very lives were over.
“Well, there is something in here that may cheer you up,” he consoled, sliding the morning edition of The Daily Prophet towards the teens.
James picked it up with a frown and found himself looking upon the sports section of the paper, his eyes widening as he took in the headline.
Peverell Signs for the Falcons!
By Adrian Carrington
In a move that many would deem to be a risky gamble, the Falmouth Falcons have signed Lord Harry Peverell from the Hemel Harriers for an undisclosed fee. The Harriers, for those of you that don’t know, are a team that have only just finished their first season in the fifth division of the Quidditch league, winning it soundly and without facing defeat.
Such a transfer, however, is unprecedented and when questioned about it, Falcon’s manager Titus Jones had this to say:
“Signing Peverell was a no-brainer. I watched him play and knew I was watching a star in the making. Mark my words, within a year, the other teams will be begging for us to part with him and I’d even bet my house that the national team will showing an interest. In all my years as a player and coach, I have never seen anyone with such potential. Peverell will do great things here.”
Will the resounding vouching by Coach Jones prove to be all bluster? That remains to be seen, but there will undoubtedly be those questioning the motives behind such a signing.
When asked for his own thoughts, Lord Peverell was very candid with his response:
“I am pleased to have signed with the Falcons who are taking a chance on me. For anyone doubting what I can do, I let my playing do the talking. Doubt me as you will, it only makes me more determined to prove you wrong.”
With the new season due to begin in only a matter of weeks, this reporter is looking forward to seeing just how Peverell will compete with the Seekers at the very top of the game.
“Bloody hell, no wonder he left,” Sirius gasped having read the article over James’ shoulder. “He’s actually playing professionally!”
James smiled as he nodded.
“Can we get season tickets?” he asked.
“We already have them,” Charlus chuckled. “Harry insisted on it as part of his contract. He even secured us a box for the home games.”
“I think I’ve forgiven him for leaving now,” James declared. “This is much better than having him as a Professor.”
Sirius nodded his agreement.
“At least the weekends will be bearable, Mr Head Boy,” he mocked, grunting as James punched him on the arm.
(Break)
As the weeks had gone by, he could slowly feel his strength returning to him, though not quickly enough. He had reached the point that he was once again able take care of himself for the most part but would certainly feel the fatigue of his efforts at the end of each day. What energy he did have was expended into the research of his foe and what was ailing him.
The latter had yielded nothing, no medical diagnosis from either the muggles or magical healers. Reluctantly, he decided that he would have to wait for it to pass, for his own body to purge itself of the foreign magic, something that was slowly, but surely happening.
Still, despite his improvements, he was far from ready for anything strenuous. Peverell’s magic had sapped him of that ability, and although the Dark Lord was not such a patient man, he knew he needed more time to recover fully from whatever had happened to him. As such, he was taking it as easy as he could with the continued help from Bella who was running errands for him and ensuring he was cared for in his weaker moments.
It had been her that had provided the books that sat upon his desk, each of them mentioning the Peverell family in some capacity. Much to his charging, however, the references were obscure at best and only added to the mystery that was this family.
It irked him so but there had never been anything he had been unable to unearth, and the Dark Lord certainly would not allow himself to be come undone by something so trivial.
“My Lord, you wished to see me?” the voice of Bellatrix pulled him from his thoughts.
“I did, take a seat,” he offered.
The woman complied, crossing her legs and looking upon him as reverently as ever.
“What is the mood out there?” the Dark Lord asked, pointing out the window of his study.
“I don’t understand, my lord,” Bella replied.
“Are the people happy? Do they believe that I have been defeated?”
Bellatrix nodded reluctantly.
“They believe that you are dead, my lord and they have forgotten you.”
Voldemort nodded thoughtfully.
“Then it is time they are reminded, don’t you think?”
Bellatrix’s eyed lit up with excitement as she too nodded, the very same way a child would when offered a treat.
“When?” she gasped.
“Soon,” the Dark Lord assured her. “I would like you to begin assembling the inner-circle and then the rest of the followers. Tell them that I yet live and that I will soon return.”
“Will you, my lord?”
“When I am ready, Bella, but that does not mean our mission need wait any longer than it has. I would like them assembled as soon as possible.”
“Of course, my lord, I will begin immediately.”
The woman all but skipped towards the door, evidently pleased with the decision he had made.
“Bella?” he called before she was gone. “Have you heard from Lucius at all? I wrote to him more than a week ago and have yet to receive a response.”
Bellatrix scowled and shook her head.
She was not fond of the Malfoy heir, was not fond of any other that garnered her master’s attention, but she would have sent the missive, she had learnt not to defy him.
“No, my lord. He has not responded.”
Voldemort hummed unhappily.
“Then seek him out first and remind him what happens when those that have sworn to follow me are disobedient.”
The woman positively beamed at the task she had been given and continued skipping away, her echoing footsteps drifting further down the hall.
With an amused shake of his head, the Dark Lord turned his attention back to the pile of books with the intent of looking through them once more. There simply must be something to explain who this damned Peverell was.
The only thing that had been consistent in all his readings thus far was one thing.
“Death,” he muttered irritably.
It always came back to death, the one thing he had put much effort into avoiding. Not that he had failed, of course. A lesser magical may have fallen to what Peverell had done to him, but not Lord Voldemort.
He had taken steps that others dared not to secure his legacy, one that he never intended to leave behind. Indeed, Dark Lord’s before him had come and gone, but not him. Where others had perished, he would succeed, he would thrive and live on.
His creations would see to that.
“Death,” he snorted this time.
Death meant nothing to him, it was something he had conquered long ago and no longer feared. If he didn’t fear death, then there was no need to fear the reaper. For that’s what the world believed, or the fools within these pages at the very least; The Peverells were Death’s chosen, those that reached where the deity itself could not to carry out the noble work of the gatherer of souls.
None could hope to harvest that of the Dark Lord’s. Not even death himself could reach him and certainly not his champion.
The next time their paths crossed, it would be Peverell that would meet with his master, a failure, and Lord Voldemort would prosper.
It was his fate, after all.
(Break)
“Alright, settle down. I know you’re all excited to be back, but we have things that need going over before you go out there and rid yourselves of the rust from sitting on your backsides for almost three months,” Titus Jones said pointedly, addressing the assembled team and staff. “Firstly, of course, is the welcoming of Peverell, who we acquired over the break to replace Glover.”
The gathered team and staff clapped politely, and though Harry knew none of them, he appreciated the warm reception.
“None of you need to worry about him. He will do his job, so carry on as you have been,” Jones continued taking notes on his clipboard. “I suppose you’d best introduce yourselves, one at a time, starting with you, Collins.”
The man, Collins offered Harry a wave in greeting.
“I’m Albert Collins, the keeper and captain of this lot here. This is my eighth season.”
Harry gave Collins a nod before shifting his attention to the next person, a younger man than Collins with a thick scar below his left eye.
“I’m Steve Jones, one of the beaters,” he said simply.
“I’m Craig Thorpe,” the man seated next to Jones continued. “The other beater.”
“And now we have our chasers,” Titus acknowledged pointing to the three final men in Quidditch robes. “Aldon Ogden, Paul Cresswell, and Christian Bode.”
Those three family names were ones Harry had heard before. Broderick Bode had gotten himself strangled by a pot of Devil’s Snare in St Mungo’s, Tiberius Ogden was on the Wizengamot, and he vaguely remembered another Cresswell. Dirk, perhaps?
Not that it mattered, none of those men were to be his teammates and he greeted the trio with a respectful bow.
“The last person you need to know, is the older gentleman in the back,” Titus explained, pointing to an exceedingly old man leaning against the wall next to the changing room door. “That is Arthur Bagnold, our healer. Anything you need, he can fix you up, but then again, you’re married to one, so you should have no issues,” he added with a frown.
“Bagnold?” Harry questioned.
“Millicent is my great niece,” Arthur informed him. “She’s a good girl if not a stubborn mare at times.”
Harry snorted.
“Anyway, we will run some drills today, just to get you back on your brooms for a while. Nothing too strenuous,” Jones assured them. “Peverell? You might want to show these sods what you can do. I won’t have us finishing outside the top three this year.”
Harry followed the others from the room and out onto the pitch in a stadium much larger than he was used to playing in. Here, he guessed that around 5,000 people could be seated comfortably, a bigger crowd than he was used to.
“You’ll be fine, Lord Peverell,” Collins, the keeper, said from beside him. “Jones isn’t one to take risks, not with players, so he must have seen something in you.”
“You don’t have to call me Lord Peverell, Harry is just fine.”
Collins nodded appreciatively.
“That makes everything easier,” he mused aloud, “now, let me see how quickly you can catch this.”
Without warning, the man released a Snitch he had been grasping, and Harry took to the air in pursuit of the evasive ball. Twisting and turning through the other players and even the stands, snatching it from its flight quickly.
“Well, I think this season will be very interesting,” Collins commented, eliciting nods of agreement from his teammates. “How long did that take?”
“Twenty-three seconds,” Jones revealed with a large grin adorning his features. “Bloody hell, we might even win the league.”
Collins nodded.
It was certainly a possibility. The only thing that remained to be seen was how Peverell would handle the atmosphere and being strongly opposed whilst he attempted to catch the Snitch.
(Break)
Recently, it was seldom that any news Abraxas received could be considered good tidings. His efforts to court the Black family had fallen flat and had resulted in nothing but leaving him somewhat humiliated when his son was snubbed in favour of the Lord Peverell. Not that Abraxas could blame Arcturus for that move. The prestige of the family exceeded his own and Narcissa had not been opposed to the match.
If that had been the end of his misfortune, he could have accepted it readily. He’d endured his own share of failings in life, but it was not to be the end, merely the beginning.
In the pursuit of finding a suitable match for his son, his wife, the Lady Malfoy, had become deathly sick. Although her illness was a short one and her passing not having left her suffering, Abraxas now found himself a widower, a man that mourned for the times his wife was here to comfort and guide him when he needed it.
Her death had hit him hard, that he would not deny, and he could not help but realise just how much he had taken her for granted throughout their married life. He missed her, and without thought, would empty the family coffers to have her returned to him.
Such a thing was not possible, however. Since her passing, he had taken each day as it had come, not knowing what he was doing, and seemingly fumbling through life.
His own grief was proving to be overwhelming, but it paled in comparison to that of Lucius.
Abraxas’ already fraying relationship with his heir had been all but torn apart at the seams with the passing of the woman that had held them together. Throughout their differences, it had been the Lady Malfoy that settled the clashes between the two with her easy demeanour or even her outright damnation of how stubborn the two men were proving to be.
Without her, there was nothing to bring them back from the brink of a collapse in their relationship. With the fall of the Dark Lord, Lucius had already pulled away, and the subsequent death of his mother had only widened the chasm between them.
Lucius had not left the house in weeks, had kept himself to his own rooms and had refused the company of any. A pile of letters his son had received remained unopened on Abraxas’ desk, but the one the Lord Malfoy had just been the recipient of was a pressing issue that needed to be discussed with his heir.
They had mourned long enough, and it was now time to begin moving forward once more. Things couldn’t remain as they were.
Making his way through the quiet and empty halls of his home, he longed for the sounds of his wife puttering around, or her distant, tinkling laughter as she entertained her friends. The sound of silence only served to remind him that he would not hear such again, and his pace quickened, wanting to leave it all behind.
Shifting his focus to the task at hand, he took a deep breath and entered the wing of the house that Lucius had taken for himself. Knocking on the door to the master bedroom here, he frowned at the lack of response.
“Lucius, we need to talk,” he called, his voice hoarse due to the lack of use. “Open the door.”
Nothing but the silence he had come to loath.
“If you do not open the door, I will force it,” he warned.
Again, nothing, and Abraxas removed his wand from his sleeve before levelling it towards the lock. With a muttered incantation, it opened, and he was met with a musty and unpleasant odour.
The smell, however, was nothing compared to the sight of his emaciated son who was trembling in the corner, muttering nonsensical words.
It broke his heart to see his once vibrant boy in such a state and the older Malfoy felt himself suddenly plagued by guilt. He had given little thought to Lucius over the past few weeks, but evidently, he had been suffering much worse than first thought.
“Lucius?” he questioned gently, approaching.
“No, no,” Lucius whimpered, his eyes bulging in their sockets, the effect made only more horrifying by the dark circles around them and his protruding cheek bones.
“Son, what is wr…”
“Shh,” Lucius cut him off frantically. “It will hear you.”
“What will hear me?”
“The raven,” Lucius whined, his eyes darting around the room. “It’s here, it’s always here.”
“Lucius, there is no raven,” Abraxas comforted, worrying for the welfare of his son.
“YES, IT IS!” Lucius suddenly shouted, shooting to his feet. “It’s always watching with those damned eyes. DEATH!” he screamed, ducking and covering his head with his arms.
Abraxas could only look on in utter disbelief as Lucius began running around the room, upturning furniture has he desperately attempted to escape a foe that wasn’t there, screaming about death and ravens.
“FATHER!” Lucius wailed, “FATHER, please, make it stop.”
Not knowing what else to do, Abraxas stunned the man and looked upon his still form worriedly. Whatever had happened to Lucius was not caused by the death of his mother, but something else. It was as though he had lost his mind, was being haunted by something, and Abraxas had a very good idea just who was behind it.
Swallowing deeply, he lifted the starved and lighter-than-was-healthy body of his son. Cradling the man in his arms, he called for his house-elf.
Lucius needed help, and lots of it. Already the family reputation had suffered, and it appeared it must endure more before they could even begin to recover. For now, his son was his priority, but he would not forget who was responsible for his current condition.
What he could do, he knew not. Peverell was a dangerous foe, and not one that should be crossed lightly.
Despite this, Abraxas could not allow the transgression to pass.
(Break)
Although adjusting to living in a new home with Harry had been quite the upheaval for Narcissa, who was used to only having to care for a single room within her parent’s home, she had taken it in her stride with little issue. Harry, for the most part, kept their house clean and tidy whilst she was working at the hospital, and she found that married life suited them.
Often, he would cook as well, but he would have less time to do so now that he was training as many hours as he was for Quidditch. She had broached the idea of them getting an elf, something he was not opposed to. It would allow them both to do what they wanted without the additional stress of maintaining their home.
Disregarding her marital bliss, and all wonderful perks that came with it, adjusting to her new name had been an unexpected obstacle. To the staff and even herself at St Mungo’s, she had always been Trainee-Healer Black. Now, however, she was officially known as Lady, Trainee-Healer Peverell, though she insisted only the latter title be used to save time and avoid people fumbling their words. It was difficult enough familiarising herself with her new name, let alone expecting others to address her in such a longwinded way.
In all, despite the changes, Narcissa was enjoying her new status and the life she was building with Harry. They were happy, living well together, and she couldn’t think of anywhere she would rather be than with him when work was done.
“Bla-Peverell, we’ve just had someone brought in you know. They’re taking him to the Janus Thickey Ward,” Camden informed her, still stumbling over her change in name.
“Who?” she asked confusedly, no one coming to mind who would need such treatment, other than perhaps her sister or Walburga.
“Lucius Malfoy.”
Narcissa frowned.
Why would Lucius be taken to the Janus Thickey Ward? He had his shortcomings, was flawed in many ways, but he always seemed stable. What could have happened?
Curiously, she made her way towards where such patients were admitted and found a rather frail-looking Lord Malfoy seated in the waiting area, his skin paler than usual and eyes devoid of life.
Narcissa had heard of the passing of Lady Malfoy, a woman that had always been polite and respectful on the very few occasions she had met her. Her heart went out to the Lord in front of her who had always seemed so unshakable.
“Your husband did this,” he suddenly muttered, his gaze meeting her own. “Ravens, death,” he added. “Lucius is ranting about it, seeing the damned birds everywhere.”
“Harry?” she questioned.
“There certainly isn’t any other like him!” Abraxus snapped.
Narcissa shook her head.
“Harry wouldn’t do this,” she denied firmly. “Other than the Lestrange wedding, they only met once and were civil with one another.”
“THEN WHY IS MY SON A RAVING LUNATIC?” Abraxas roared, standing suddenly and trembling in fury.
Two of the guards charged with the security of the ward rushed over, one standing on each side of Narcissa with their wands drawn. She held up a hand to prevent them doing anything, the man was grieving and was upset. Narcissa, however, was not going to allow him to take it out on her.
“I would urge you, Lord Malfoy, to remember who you are speaking to,” she returned. “I can assure you that my husband is not involved in this, but I will speak with him. Harry has not voiced any grievance with Lucius and, whatever you may think, he is not one to cause misery without reason.”
Abraxas deflated and nodded.
“I’m sorry,” he offered, “it has been a difficult time, and with this…”
“I understand,” Narcissa consoled.
Despite any ambition the man once had towards gaining the Black title, he was not an awful person. Her grandfather had always respected Abraxas Malfoy who had once been a strong ally of her family.
“Will he be okay?”
Narcissa released a dep breath.
“The fact that he has been brought to this ward means that the healers believe Lucius is suffering with a serious ailment. They will do all they can for him, and they will discuss what treatment options are available. I would suggest that you take whatever is offered. Whatever it is, they will do all they can for him.”
Abraxas nodded.
“They’ve already mentioned using Legilimency to understand his mental state, and a course of nutrient potions to build him back up. They believe the starvation has only made him more prone to these hallucinations.”
“That would likely be the best course of action, but they will not intrude into his mind without permission, or unless he is stable enough for them to do so. The Mind Arts expert here is one of the best, so I would listen to everything he has to say.”
The Malfoy Patriarch nodded once more.
“Thank you,” he replied. “I will bear what you have said in mind.”
Narcissa offered the man a sad smile before taking her leave of the ward.
He was not coping well. The smell of alcohol wafted from him and it was evident he was sleeping little. What he had endured was taken its toll on the man who had seemingly aged a decade in only a few months.
If he were to carry on this way, it would not be long before he too perished, likely leaving behind a son incapable of managing the responsibilities that came with being the lord of such a prominent family.
She shook her head at the thought of the accusation levelled at Harry.
He would have told her had he exacted such an attack upon Lucius, but the involvement of a raven and death could not simply be dismissed.
Had Harry unintentionally unleashed something upon Lucius? Or was it merely coincidental?
(Break)
Life as a professional Quidditch athlete consisted of much more than Harry had anticipated. Playing for the Harriers, he had been expected to train a few times a week with the team for an hour so, with little else to do outside that obligation. Playing for the Falcons, however, was not so simple.
His commitment to the team came through much more than simply training a few times a week and playing games. At this level, his health was monitored very closely, he needed to follow a strict diet and exercise regimen, and training went beyond what happened on the pitch.
Hours were spent discussing tactics; using wind speed as an advantage during flight, and even what material of robes were to be worn in different conditions. Quidditch was no longer a hobby for Harry, but a lifestyle he had to adopt.
Not that such a thing was a problem, he loved the sport and anything he could do to improve his own performance would only serve him well during his career, he merely had not considered these things prior to signing his rather lucrative contract.
If things went according to plan, himself and Narcissa would be wealthy, without the additional benefits that could be reaped such as endorsements and bonuses.
The gold was not such an important factor, but Harry could not deny that his salary alone was obscene compared to what he had been making as a Professor. A few seasons of Quidditch under his current, lucrative agreement would see him set for life.
When he asked about the gold offered, Jones had been very frank with him.
“Peverell, when people see how good you are, they will offer you the world to join them. I never want you to be tempted by the things they will throw at you, not when you are given everything you could want right here. Prove you’re worth this contract, and even more will come. Our benefactors are generous, love the sport and will pay through the nose to brag to our rivals.”
Harry had been rather taken aback by the bluntness, but appreciated the honesty, and already, there was much anticipation to see him play throughout the Quidditch community who had not done so already.
What he did appreciate more than everything, however, was the rather seamless transition into married life he and Narcissa had made.
They had honeymooned on a private island in the Caribbean and had returned a fortnight later to pick up their lives as the Lord and Lady Peverell. In truth, not much had changed other than they now lived in a home, shared a bed with one another and had breakfast together every morning.
If Narcissa had worked a nightshift, she would return, they would eat and then she would rest whilst Harry went to train. During her working days, they would leave together and have dinner in the evening.
For many, this would probably seem a rather normal existence, but Harry had never had such a thing and he appreciated it all the more. The woman brightened his days without effort, and he knew he did the same for her.
There was little else in life he could imagine wanting than what he already had. He was content, happy even, and that was all that mattered.
“Dinner will be ready soon,” he said, hearing Narcissa enter the room, “I was back a little later than usual.”
When she didn’t respond, he turned to find her staring at him questioningly.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she denied. “It’s just been a strange day. Lucius was brought in to the hospital?”
“Malfoy?” Harry asked, confused.
Narcissa nodded.
“In a bad way,” she confirmed. “According to Abraxas, he was raving about death and ravens.”
“DEATH!” Olin squawked excitedly from his perch, flapping his wings and standing proudly.
“Olin, did you have something to do with it?” Harry questioned.
The raven continued to flap, and Harry approached, meeting the white eyes of his companion.
“DEATH!” was the response he received, before he flinched, feeling a presence in his mind.
These odd moments between the man and bird had become more common since Harry had read and gotten a better understanding of his magic from the book. It seemed that the more he understood, the closer his bond with the raven became.
Often, it felt as though he knew exactly what Olin was thinking or feeling and could even feel where he was when not within his skin or away from the home.
There was much to be said for the magic Harry wielded but his relationship with the raven was an unexpected development, though not an unwelcome one. Olin had proven to be useful over the years and could be even more so when the inevitable day arrived that Voldemort returned.
“What did you see, old friend?” Harry asked when the bird continued to try to meet his eyes.
Relaxing his occlumency shields, he felt himself be drawn into the mind of the raven, the sensation unsettling to say the least.
The sensation was unfamiliar, the body to small to contain his presence for long, but he found himself staring through a pair of a pair of eyes much sharper than his own.
He did not know where he was, but he was perched on the branch of a tree, staring intently at a muggle house. Harry could not be sure how long he waited, but a figure emerged, one garbed in dark robes and wearing a white mask.
Harry’s eyes narrowed as he noticed the man adjusting the belt on his trousers and his heart sunk as rage filled him.
“DEATH!” he squawked, startling the man who was already taking aim with his wand at another raven.
In only a matter of seconds, he joined the fray as dozens of others swooped towards the man who ran and disappeared with a crack to escape.
Harry shrieked once more as he felt himself flying towards an upper window of the house. Peering inside, he saw a woman, naked, beaten and curled up on the floor, trembling.
He wanted nothing more than to help her, but with a final squawk of fury, he was surrounded by a thick, black fog.
When his surroundings swam into view once more, he was perched in another tree, staring at a lone figure removing a white mask.
“DEATH!”
The word alerted the man to his presence, and Harry recognised him immediately as he turned to face him. The fearful gaze of Lucius Malfoy met his own, and the man ran pell-mell towards the large manor house only a short distance away.
Despite his best efforts, Harry could not catch up and the front door was slammed on him unceremoniously, jolting him out of Olin’s mind.
He returned to his own body with a gasp, his own thoughts taking a moment to become lucid once more.
“Bloody hell,” he groaned. “That’s an experience I don’t want too often.”
“Did you use legilimency on him?” Narcissa asked.
Harry shook his head.
“No, I think he used it on me,” he replied uncertainly, rubbing his throbbing temples. “Being inside his mind is strange.”
“Death,” Olin grumbled, still staring at him intently.
“Was that real?” Harry asked the raven.
Olin flapped and nodded.
“Then the git deserves exactly what you did to him,” Harry snapped. “I hope the bastard suffers.”
“What did Olin do?”
Harry shrugged uncaringly.
“I don’t know, but whatever it was, Malfoy got off lightly. If it was up to me, he would be dead!”
“And what did Lucius do?” Narcissa pressed.
It was not often Harry would become so enraged as he was now, allowing a cooler head to prevail under most circumstances, but not this. Lucius had done something to provoke his ire.
“Well, for a start, he was one of the ones swanning around in a cloak and mask attacking the muggles, but it’s not just that. If what Olin showed me is true, it seems he took a liking to forcing himself on some of them.”
Narcissa swallowed deeply, the faces of all the women she had treated passing before her eyes.
“Forcing himself on them?”
Harry nodded grimly.
“He would rape them, beat them and leave them.”
Narcissa’s hand twitched towards her wand, anger and a sense of nausea overcoming her.
She could have been married to this man. That thought alone sickened her, let alone the realisation that he would visit her at St Mungo’s after he had carried out one of his attacks, the very same building his victims were being treated in.
“It was him,” she muttered, chastising herself for not considering the possibility, but when she pondered it further, the clues all fell into place.
Lucius always seemingly arrived after one of the attacks against the muggles. Narcissa had thought nothing of it at the time, her mind occupied with treating her patience, but it had always been after an attack.
“How did I not see it?” she mumbled to herself.
“That Malfoy is a scumbag who gets his kicks out of attacking people who can’t fight back?” Harry asked.
“Not just that, but the women. I treated them, patched them up after what he did to them. Honestly, what he did was evil.”
Harry released a deep breath as he wrapped an arm around his wife’s shoulders.
“You weren’t to know, Cissy,” he comforted. “Malfoy is the kind of person who only lets people see what he wants them to.”
Narcissa nodded sullenly.
“That could have been me, Harry,” she replied. “The last ones I treated were all like me in some way. You don’t think…?”
“If he ever tried, I would have made the last moments of his life more miserable than he could have imagined,” Harry replied. “Well, not that I need to now. Olin has done a good job. Maybe I should get him a treat.”
“Death!” Olin chirped happily, eliciting a chuckle from Harry.
“Abraxas thinks you are behind it,” Narcissa sighed. “He outright accused you.”
“Then let him think it,” Harry snorted. “I only wish it was me that discovered what he was up to. He wouldn’t be in St Mungo’s now. Abraxas should feel grateful that he has something remaining that resembles his son.”
Narcissa nodded.
“He could cause all manner of problems for you, Harry,” she pointed out. “He has a lot of connections.”
Harry nodded thoughtfully.
To him, the best thing to do was nip this in the bud before the man got any delusions of grandeur.
“Is he at the hospital?”
“He is.”
“Then I will speak to him now,” Harry announced. “Put an end to this before he makes issue of it.”
“Harry, he just lost his wife.”
“I know,” Harry sighed. “I’m not going to hurt him, but I need to set the record straight. As things are, Abraxas has been respectful towards me, but all it will take is a moment of stupidity on his part and I’d rather avoid any potential fallout. You remember what happened with Avery?”
“How could I forget.”
“I will only speak with him, assure him I had nothing to do with what happened to Lucius and hope he doesn’t decide to be an idiot.”
“Then I’m coming with you,” Narcissa declared. “Not that I don’t trust you, but he is a Malfoy, a slippery bastard as my grandfather would say.”
Harry snorted and nodded his agreement. Narcissa’s presence could only serve to be a good thing after all.
(Break)
They came scurrying back like rats ready to feast, as though nothing had happened, answering the call of their master like no time had passed at all. The sight of them gathered sickened her. Where had they been? Why had they not sought him out?
Bellatrix’s nostrils flared beneath her mask.
They had simply returned to the mundanity of their lives, continued as they had lived before their lord had brought them into the fold, allowed them spoils of glory from his endeavours. She wanted to punish them all for their abandonment and more so for their belief that they could just return without repercussion.
Their punishments, however, would have to wait.
“Where is our lord?” Rabastan questioned.
“He is currently indisposed,” Bellatrix answered shortly. “He will return to us when the time is right, but he has asked me to convey a message.”
“A message?” Dolohov questioned. “And what does he have to say for himself?”
His tone irked Bellatrix and her fraying patience snapped.
“Crucio,” she spat.
Dolohov screamed as he was sent sprawling, his body wracked with wave upon wave of pain.
She ended the spell a moment later, enjoying his whimpering before turning her attention back to the rest of the group.
“Does anyone else wish to question our lord?”
The others shook their heads and Bellatrix placed her wand back up her sleeve.
“Our lord will be ready to join us soon. He has taken some time to re-evaluate our position, but the time for our work to continue is now. Our lord wishes for us to remind the world of who we are, remind them that we are still here and that the Dark Lord is not gone. Those beneath us have grown comfortable, believe that they are safe. Tonight, they will learn they are wrong.”
The Death Eaters muttered unhappily, and Bellatrix narrowed her eyes at them.
“What about Peverell?” one of them asked.
“What about him?” Bellatrix returned challengingly.
“Are we to pretend that Hogsmeade didn’t happen?” the man who once held her position asked.
“Hogsmeade is in the past,” Bellatrix bit back. “Our lord will deal with Peverell personally. I do hope that you are not underestimating him.”
The man shook his head.
“I know of our lord’s power better than any, I am more concerned about ourselves. Do any of you believe you can defeat him?” he asked.
The masked figures around him muttered, none proclaiming such.
“I will handle him if needed,” Bellatrix declared.
The man laughed uproariously.
“You stupid girl, Peverell has already proven he is superior to you,” he replied humourlessly.
Bellatrix growled, her wand snapping into action once more, though the man was quicker, her Cruciatus Curse being quickly intercepted by a conjured chunk of stone.
The rest of the Death Eaters took several steps back, unwilling to stand between the two.
“You may think you’re good, Bella, but I have been training with the Dark Lord long before you knew of our existence. I would think very carefully about your next move.”
Bellatrix’s grip tightened around her wand in anticipation, though a soft voice cut through the atmosphere before any further violence could be exhibited.
“That will not be necessary,” the Dark Lord said calmly as he seemingly emerged from the shadows. “Bellatrix, lower your wand.”
The woman complied reluctantly, sliding it back up her sleeve once more.
“I will not have blood spilled between us,” Voldemort said firmly. “We are allies, are we not? Or do we no longer share ambition?”
“Of course, my lord,” the man replied, “but I will not be attacked by any, let alone a foolish girl who has delusions of grandeur.”
The Dark Lord nodded.
“And it will not happen again, will it, Bella?”
The woman pouted but shook her head.
“Then it is settled,” Voldemort declared. “Now, let us put the petty squabbling aside and remember why we are here. Hogsmeade, was an error on my part. I was confronted with an enemy I knew not, who wields magic like no other. That will not happen again. The next time Peverell and I meet will be the last. He will die just as any other who opposes us will. That, I can assure you of.”
The Death Eaters nodded, the Dark Lord’s calm demeanour settling their warring thoughts.
“I believe the only pertinent question that needs to be answered, here and now, is if you all continue to stand with me? Or have you lost your faith, given up in the face of adversity?”
“No, my lord,” the Death Eaters chorused.
“Then let us not stand on ceremony, my friends,” Voldemort declared. “Go and remind the world of who you are, let our mark reign supreme this night and watch those beneath you tremble under your might.”
The Death Eaters gave a resounding cheer and the Dark Lord nodded satisfactorily. With little more than an appeal to their ego, they had flocked to him once again and were ready to carry out his will.
(Break)
With the departure of Professor Peverell at the end of the school year, much of the summer holidays had been dedicated to appointing a new instructor in his place, and Albus Dumbledore had not had an easy task of doing so. Few that were qualified to take up the post had come forward, and those that did simply were not right for the post.
In truth, Dumbledore knew he needed someone who would prove to be as good as his former employee, someone that could engage the students and push them as Peverell had, something that only became more apparent when the OWL and NEWT results were awarded for the year. Under Peverell’s guidance, the students had achieved the best results in Defence Against the Dark Arts in many years.
As a headmaster and one that cared deeply for academic attainment, he wished for such excellence to continue, and as mid-August arrived, he knew time was short to find a successor.
Much to his surprise and relief, he didn’t manage to find just one, but two who were capable and willing to fill the post. His decision to accept their offer had come with scepticism from some members of staff who remembered the rambunctious duo from their own school days, but the Prewett Twins were undeniably gifted wizards when it came to defence, and Albus was pleased to have them on board, as he hoped the students would be also.
With his staffing issues solved, and the new school year finally in swing, he could finally focus his attention on the things that he had neglected. Being the headmaster of a prestigious school involved overseeing much more than one would imagine, and currently, he was looking over the potions budget for the past few years.
Having Horace as a Professor was not only a boon because of his sheer brilliance in the subject, but the man had made friends in all the right places. As such, he was awarded the privilege of discounts on his spending, and the budget was in excellent stead. Every galleon was accounted for, and Albus decided that the school could absolutely afford to invest in some more exotic and rare ingredients.
With a satisfied nod of his head, he began writing up the approval. Horace would be ecstatic, and the students would benefit greatly. There was no risk or downside to the venture.
With that job done, he picked through the pile of parchment before him and pulled the notes on the transfiguration department before setting them aside. There was no need to look over those. Minerva was a meticulous in her duties, more so than him and his time would be wasted checking her spending in comparison with the budget afforded her.
If only all his staff were so diligent.
It was when he began searching for the Astronomy figures that his work was interrupted by the arrival of a patronus, his stomach filling with dread as the toucan spoke.
“Albus, the sensor in Taunton is going crazy, I think we should check it out,” the voice of Dorcas Meadowes urged.
A small part of the aged man longed to cling on to some hope that the sensor was malfunctioning, but he was not so naïve. Peverell had warned him that this was not over, that Tom would return, and things would be worse than ever.
With deep swallow, he sent a plethora of hurried messages to alert the Order.
Whatever respite they had been granted had seemingly come to an end.
(Break)
Abraxas prided himself on his ability to predict what his political peers or opponents would do next in any given situation, and he had been correct in his assumption that Lord Peverell would seek him out for his emotional outburst earlier in the day. Despite his usual confidence, he could not even fathom what Peverell would do next.
His mere presence was unnerving, his poised and calculating demeanour belying his inexperience in the political field. In truth, men like Peverell needed no political acumen, their presence alone commanded respect, and his deeds had only elevated his already formidable reputation.
Abraxas could not be certain the man wouldn’t attack him for the accusation he had levelled against him. Peverell was impossible to read, his emerald eyes giving nothing away, but his jaw was set.
He was not a happy man, and the room felt colder for his appearance.
“I do not believe there has been any crossed words between the two of us,” he spoke, his tone casual. “Even though I took your son’s intended bride, you accepted it with the grace all would expect from a man of your position.”
Abraxas nodded.
It had been a reluctant acceptance, his months of planning for now and the future having been shredded by the man stood next to him.
“Unlike your son, I respect you, Lord Malfoy,” Peverell continued, surprising the older lord. “You are an ambitious man, have grasped for more than you should have, but are ultimately quite decent. Even those that have differing views to yourself speak highly of you. The respect I have for you would see me seek you out if I had grievance with anyone in your family.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” Abraxas denied immediately, hearing the insincerity in Harry’s voice. “Forgive me, Lord Peverell but diplomacy is not your strength. Yours lies in your wand.”
Peverell smirked and nodded his agreement.
“That is true,” he conceded, “but your son’s condition is not my doing. My raven, however, took exception to what he witnessed and is responsible for Lucius’s current state, and you will get no apology from me.”
“If it was your raven then you are responsible for it!” Abraxas hissed.
“Perhaps,” Peverell returned unapologetically, “but if I had discovered what Lucius was up to, he would no longer be breathing.”
Abraxas swallowed as the white eyes of the younger lord turned to him.
“Let us not play these political games, Malfoy, they serve no purpose than conceal a truth we already know. Your son is a Death Eater, has sworn himself to another man that is not the lord of his family, but you haven’t.”
“And how can you be so sure?”
“Because you are not a fool,” Peverell replied candidly. “You’re too bright to back someone who has ambition but has achieved little. You also do not carry his mark.”
“His mark?”
“On your left forearm,” Peverell answered. “He marks his prominent followers, and you are not carrying it. If you did, I would be able to feel it and you would already be dead.”
Abraxas was taken aback with how nonchalantly the man spoke of killing.
“And Lucius is marked?”
Peverell nodded.
“He is, but it is not the mark that should concern you. It is his actions under the guise of supporting the pureblood movement that should. If he recovers, I will be ensuring he spends the rest of his days in Azkaban. The Wizengamot will not take kindly to the rape, torture and murder of muggles.”
Abraxas laughed bitterly.
He had long been tormented by just what Lucius got up to when hidden beneath the mask and robes the pureblood movement donned during their excursions. It was just as he expected.
“I do hope that you have proof,” he replied.
“I have all the proof I need,” Peverell assured him, “and besides, if Lucius wishes to recover from what is ailing him, then he must confess.”
“Confess?” Abraxas returned, his eyes narrowed.
Peverell nodded.
“He will not be freed of his illness until he confesses,” he reiterated. “If he does not, Olin will continue to haunt him, and his mind will eventually break. One way or the other, he will face justice.”
Abraxas hummed.
“So, my family is ruined,” he commented. “Then I have nothing more to lose.”
“Other than your life and your legacy,” Peverell countered. “I will only advise you once not to even consider seeking vengeance for your failure of a son. If I sense even a hint of threat from you, I will ensure that what Lucius is experiencing is nothing compared to what I will do to you.”
Abraxas smirked.
This was the Peverell he understood.
“What would I have to gain from that?” he asked.
“Nothing but misery,” Harry answered.
Abraxas snorted.
“I am to merely live out the rest of my years with my family reputation ruined?”
Peverell shook his head.
“Not necessarily. You could condemn what Lucius has done, preserve your family reputation and be remembered as the man I believe you to be,” he offered.
“That consoles me very little.”
“I expected no less, but they are your choices,” Peverell said bluntly.
Abraxas acknowledged his understanding with a bow, frowning as a phoenix patronus appeared in the room and spoke in the voice of Dumbledore.
“Lord Peverell, I would appreciate your assistance in Taunton.”
The phoenix vanished and the young man nodded grimly, his countenance shifting from one of amiability to dangerous in a heartbeat as he turned to face his wife.
“Go,” she urged worriedly. “I will alert the healers.”
“Olin,” Peverell whispered sharply.
The raven responsible for Lucius’s condition appeared in a cloud of black fog, landed on Peverell’s shoulder and the two vanished without further words.
“What is happening?” Abraxus asked Lady Peverell as she headed towards the door.
“The purebloods are attacking,” she explained before hurrying from the room.
Abraxas released a deep breath, concerned for his son but equally relieved that Lucius would play no further part in the conflict.
Thinking no more of what has happening outside the four walls of the waiting room he had taken his vigil in, he took a seat and merely waited for any news on Lucius’s wellbeing.
Not that he expected anything good. Peverell had spoken honestly with what he had said regarding Lucius. The Malfoy heir would either go to Azkaban or remain as he was, and for the life of him, Abraxas did not know what would be worse.
(Break)
The smell of the burning houses and sounds of screaming muggles had been sorely missed over the past several months, and Bellatrix was revelling in the chaos once more. Already, she had killed three muggles as she commanded the Death Eaters, leading from the front in the absence of their lord.
She all but skipped through the streets that were illuminated by her master’s mark above and cursed anything that moved not garbed in black and sporting a white mask, giggling in ecstasy as they fell to her wand, offering no resistance.
Muggles truly were pathetic.
Bellatrix was readying to bring down another of them that had wandered into her path when an icy chill passed over her, followed by an eerie silence.
She could only look on as the fires around her were snuffed out, plunging the streets into darkness when the dark mark exploded in a shower of emerald sparks. It angered her, and she searched for the source of the interruption, ready to punish who had dared do such a thing.
“IT’S PEVERELL!” one of the death eaters shouted, and Bellatrix turned to see a lone figure walking towards her, his eyes white and his raven perched on his shoulder. “RUN!”
Bellatrix would not run. She did not fear Peverell, not when her master had spent hour upon hour training her in magic, teaching her how to bring any enemy to their knees.
She cackled in anticipation as the cowards allied with her fled in the face of the feared lord.
“You know, it would be quite a shame to have to kill my sister-in-law,” Peverell spoke.
Bellatrix did not bat an eyelid that he knew who she was. She didn’t care who knew and she removed her mask to show that. Peverell did say those that believed in a cause should not hide their face from it.
“I have longed for this day,” Bellatrix replied, taking her stance.
“Then let us see how you fare,” Peverell offered with a shrug, unmoved by the danger he was in.
His dismissal of her ability angered her, and she sent forth a flurry of spells, gasping as each one was intercepted by a raven that materialised in front of them.
“I am beyond you, Bellatrix,” he sighed. “Leave whilst you can. I do not wish to be the one to break the news of your death to my wife. Despite all the things you have done, she still loves you.”
“She is a fool,” Bellatrix spat. “She should have aligned herself with the Dark Lord, but instead, she chose you.”
Peverell shook his head.
“No, you chose him over your family,” Harry countered. “Dumbledore is approaching with fifteen others. You can flee now, try to fight and die, or end up in Azkaban. I have granted you the last of your favours.”
“Then you should have killed whilst you had the chance,” Bellatrix returned as she placed her mask back on and prepared for her former headmaster’s arrival.
“Olin,” Harry instructed.
Bellatrix could only scream in fury as she felt herself engulfed in coldness and was deposited outside the home she shared with her husband.
Try as she might, she could not apparate back to where she had been, the cold magic of Peverell holding her firmly where she was.
(Break)
Bellatrix had vanished not a moment to soon, the woman disappearing as Dumbledore rounded the corner with his wand drawn and the rest of the Order in tow.
“They’re gone,” Harry announced as Olin reappeared and landed on his shoulder.
“It was them?” the older man asked.
Harry nodded, already questioning his sending of Bellatrix away.
Were it not for Narcissa, he would have killed the woman, but it was not something he wished to come between him and his wife. Narcissa would never forgive him if he were to kill her sister.
In the moment, he had done all he could and sent Bellatrix away. She would not allow herself to be apprehended and doing so would have likely cost the lives of more than one member of the Order.
Still, letting her go went against everything he stood for but the only person he had been thinking of was Narcissa.
“He wasn’t here?” Dumbledore pressed.
“No,” Harry confirmed, knowing that his time to prepare was now up, “but he’ll be back soon enough.”
Dumbledore nodded his agreement, and Harry looked towards the sky where the dark mark had stood prominently.
He had made use of the time granted to him, had read the Peverell tome from cover to cover, and had learnt much about the nature of his magic. His hand unconsciously tightened around his wand, the weight of the ring on his finger and cloak he carried suddenly heavier than usual.
It was time to take this final step and become what the cloaked figure intended. He had pondered it for months and knew that it was inevitable, he just hoped that it wouldn’t have come so soon.