A/N—ok, getting back on the horse. I forgot where I was going with this here fic, which means I’m free to come up with wackiness as much as I like. And apologies for the mangled up version I posted last night—nanowrimo wrecked my grammar.
Previously---
Ed and Al arrive at the Burrow in time for the holidays with the Weasley Family.
Ed had sought out Jon, a Muggle technician friend of his, to do the difficult chore of getting his automail adjusted, but before he could get much of anything done, Jon’s place in Europe was wrecked. The current list of those who could be responsible for the damage includes the Death Eaters, who are known to be seeking both Ed and Al. As a result, Jon is also a guest of the Weasleys.
Fred and George test out a translation spell on their ear device, which allows Harry to listen in on the private conversations that night occurring between the brothers.
He learns that Ed had arrived sick with a high fever. Ed is stubbornly insisting to get his automail worked on in spite of his illness, but Al thinks it’s a real bad idea.
At the ministry—
The Ministry is reeling from the fiasco created by the previous regime’s epic mishandling of Voldemort, but the Dark Wizard is currently the least of the Wizarding World’s troubles.
The Ministry has no idea what to do with the message delivered by one Bridger-General Mustang through the Veil, which firmly established “first contact” between the alchemical and magical worlds. The Order of the Phoenix, in general, knows precious little of the incident in question, other than it was quite flashy and involved the burning of stone.
ooooo
Once free of the green roaring flames of the floor, she rolled smoothly to her feet. The spikes of her boots clicked upon the smooth dark tile, and she frowned at her toes for a scant moment as she wobbled. This was an annoyance, this side effect left to her from her years spent prison. The place called Azkaban left her with such unseen scars, and she hated it for the weakness it was.
The dark lace of her black robes rustled as she teetered back to her proper balance, and she proudly straightened her spine. She glanced at the green flames behind her, and frowned.
The fireplace was large, nearly three times her height, and made of dark stone that looked quite expensive. The stone was cut into neat squares which extended out and wrapped about the high mantle she could not see the top of. Twin elaborate sculptures, which vaguely resembled oversized peacocks, stood guard at either side of the open hearth, and she warily eyed the long feathery stone tails which draped out in low relief along the walls. The surfaces gleamed, as if properly polished to a high sheen of gloss.
The fire flared out twice, spewing forth two dark draped rolling bodies, and she watched the wizards rise to their feet. They looked her way before darting their gazes back to the fire as it again flared out twice more, and deposited two more dark draped forms. Her upper lip curled at the group of four staggering before her, and she listened to their low muttering.
“Long distance floo..” One complained in French as he rubbed at his lower back.
“Not so bad as I thought it would be..” Another added in reply.
An unearthly shriek filled the room, and the four fool wizards looked to each other with clear nervousness. She did not know any of their names, but then, she did not need to know, either.
“Quiet you fools.” She snapped at them in their tongue, and held her head high. “You wish to have audience with the Dark Lord?” It was a statement, and not a question. The fools knew that at once by the commanding tone she infused into her voice.
She eyed them steadily, and one shook his head. That one darted back into the floo like the coward he was. The fire flared green in his passing, and, after a few moments, those that still stood before her, nodded. She narrowed her eyes, then spun about on her spiked heal.
She strode with dark purpose towards the source of the chill noise, not bothering to look behind her to see if she was followed. The shuffling of footsteps told her all she wanted to know. The dark curls of her hair flew wildly over her back, and the stunted shuffles struggled to keep up with her strides.
She hutched her shoulders up as she approached the grand archway which served as the entrance to the adjoining room, and when she reached the corner, she quickly bowed her head. A faint tingle upon the skin of her hands told her that the wordless hovering charm her Dark Lord had cast was still very much active, and she glanced up at the awesome sight floating above.
The once favored wretch of a thing, trapped by the forceful will of her Dark Lord, was a huge beast. It was in the form of a snake, and it coiled about wildly, constantly writhing. Her Dark Lord stood dwarfed below it. A deft flick of the wand freed a jet of red that struck against that massive form, and the thing roared as if it were a dragon.
The Cruciatus curse tended to do that, especially when it was cast by such a master, and she marveled a moment at the effortless strength Voldemort possessed with his magic. The feat was all the more impressive if one happened to know, as she did, that the wand he wielded was a borrowed one. With a wand properly tuned to him, she knew her Lord could do much more impressive feats than this.
She quickly clasped her hands to her chest while his back was turned her way, and bowed so low that her knees and elbows touched the polished stone at the same time. She rested her forehead to the cool tile, and slowly slid the palms of her hands forward against the floor.
It was often said that she took sadistic pleasure in her magical ability, and gleefully breathed in the reek of fear he skill in the Dark Arts caused in lesser Wizards. It was also said that she proudly wore the dark mark, emblazoned years ago upon her left forearm by the Dark Lord himself. Both of these things were often true, but she buried them deep within herself at this time.
Bellatrix Lestrange was not a woman seen cowered in fright often, but today she crouched low, and took great care to linger her gaze on the pooling dark dampness creeping along the stone floor from the center of the room. She wasn’t quite certain what that fluid was, but she knew the house elves would collect it for Severus Snape. Sometimes, the creatures would burn off their fingers should they be careless enough to touch it. Since she had no name for it, in her mind she came to call it “ichor”, and likened it to the closest thing to blood the snake thing had. She glanced at the floating beast: the ichor dribbled from numerous slashes that ran along the thing’s slithering body, and its eyes especially seemed to weep with the stuff.
She flicked her gaze behind her, to the few foreigners she had gathered. Most had said they wished to join the Death Eaters with eager voices, but she could see the weakness in their faces. It was clear to her that they were fools. They would never understand that there was no room for weakness here.
She could easily hear the slight crunching of the Dark Lord’s footsteps before her, and shifted her focus. The foreigners were not her concern; they were a matter that the Dark Lord himself would sort out. His steps sounded neatly out of reach of the slick, and she dared not to raise her head just yet. She knew that his rage was far from being spent.
A blinding flash of red burned to white, and it seemed as if the dark stone of the chamber had been bleached to white. Her ears filled with the awful noise that the snake thing produced, and she squeezed her eyes shut for a heartbeat. It was far better to cover the wince the shill sound forced out of her than to show it. She blinked rapidly, desperate to see, but it wasn’t working. Not after a spell fired so grandly as that.
Lord Voldemort is certainly in a mood tonight, she mused. She decided that since fate deemed her eyes unworthy to see, that she must instead use her ears.
The yowling abruptly stopped, and in the hush which filled the air after, she judged her breath to be a burden. She violently willed her air in, all to better tune her ears. She was rewarded with a few shuffled steps, and a great whump of a sound which vibrated deep into the earth.
Her vision cleared. A hurried glance to her left told her what she already had guessed. The Dark Lord had ended his hovering charm.
The slithering thing in snake form had fallen, and now lay limp on the floor. It lay near the tip of her booted foot, but she resisted the savage urge to kick it with the sharp spike of the boot’s heel. That action would displease her Lord. This task of punishing a traitor was his alone to accomplish.
She darted her eyes away as she glimpsed the pale skin of slippered feet. She watched as they stepped calmly beside the great lump of a snake and eyes the black robe billowing slightly behind the bare ankles.
“This thing has no place on this world, and is worse that trash. “ She heard the cold high voice say somewhere above her. It was filled disgust, and she swallowed it down. She banished the thought that a few months ago, this thing in snake form was the Dark Lord’s most favored of treasures.
Within her chest, her lungs were on fire. Her eyes darted about the floor, and for a time, she watched her fingertips as they gradually faded to a dull shade of blue. She was sure that hearing his will held a vast more importance than her next breath, and she curled her fingers to hide her weakness from his sight.
“Ah, my most devoted servant. “
“My Lord.” She exhaled.
“I set you a simple enough of a task. What was this I hear about your continued failure? “
“It was not I which failed you, My Lord.” Bellatrix said from her place on the ground. She infused her voice full with respect and reverence that she dredged from the depths of her heart. Without looking behind her, she swept her arm wide with her fingers outstretched. “I have gathered for you, those who did.”
Lord Voldemort did not say a word, but she heard his footsteps as he strode to stand beside her.
“Rise up, Bellatrix, and face me.” She heard, and she quickly pushed herself to her feet. She looked to the nose-less pale face of her Lord, and she felt the beating of her heart quicken as she looked upon his red irises for the first time in nearly a month. “I am a busy man. Be quick and tell me what happened.”
“You are seeking new followers, but useful ones would be best suited to our struggle. I wished to see if these fools were worthy of joining us. They hesitated to act at the opportune time, and as a result the pair we seek slipped away in the rubble of a Muggle village.”
“A Muggle village, you say?” Voldemort said, his disgust dripping off the word “Muggle” The term referred to the non-magical people that were worth less than mud. She knew her Lord would rather see the vermin exterminated, and often encouraged his followers to kill as many as they could. She rather thought all potential Death Eaters knew this of him. “Then why bring these here, if they are so incompetent the most basic use of magic?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” She said thickly as she looked to the throbbing lump at his pale throat, the very proof that his heart still beat within his chest. She swallowed. ” They’re for your evening’s entertainment.” She added softly.
Voldemort lifted his chin and turned his head away from her gaze. His eyes narrowed, and she felt the corners of her lips rise.
She knew her new recruits would be ensorcelled and appropriated placed, but not before a proper demonstration of the use of the Cruciatus curse of them each.
