The Sky is Black-The Reign of the Death Eaters

The sky is black, the stars barely visible to the naked eye. A long beam of light pierces the darkness painfully, and many eyes follow it up to see the craters upon the face of the moon, but he does not smile. In times before there had been many sounds in the darkness, sounds of crickets and owls, and some of magical creatures, but now only the wolves still howl, and even then softly. Black cats still wander in the darkness, but only scamper out of their hiding places quickly, so as not to be seen. The mind of the black cat is unfathomable, although one would wonder why the mind of the black cat differs from the mind of a cat of any other colour. To this question, there is no answer, or perhaps there is, but even the oldest and wisest of wizards and witches cannot seem to put it into words. These cats come and go, and then are gone on nights such as these.

There is a long, narrow street lined with houses, but this too is empty. Long, tall street lamps stand on the corners, a tribute to the days of cobbled streets and carriages. Do not be fooled, these are not Muggle houses, far from it, but they have been altered so that no Muggle may see the magic. The windows of the houses are tinted, the doors are locked in every conceivable way, with heavy bolts and chains as well as with spells. There are no lights on inside of these houses. The street lamps have no light. Rumors of war and conspiracy. Silence.

In one of the houses in the dark street there sits a man, a very important man. Indeed, he is a powerful wizard, one who has seen many days of joy and happiness, days so beautiful that it seemed that they would never end. Of course, he had seen many days of darkness as well, but none so dark as these. The curtains in this house are drawn aside, and the man sits at the window silently, waiting. Thinking to himself, he strokes his long, white beard, and stares out at the sky. A cold draft enters the room, startling him, and he realizes that a door has been opened. Strange. He does not remember leaving any doors open. With great ease for a man of his years, he gets up from his chair, and pulls out his wand. The cold draft hits him again, and it chills him to his bones. As he walks down the hall, his footsteps are not audible at all. After some time, he comes to the end of the hall, pauses, and then rounds a corner. Ah yes, he can see the door now, he can see it as it sways, and he hears the hinges squeak. Without a word he closes it, being wary of the hinges, and resolves to walk through the rest of the house. As he turns, a shadow darts out from behind him, and like a cat, it glides through the long hall.

He turns, aware that something is out of place; that something has moved. The door should not have been opened, the locks should not have been broken. When something like this occurs, there is only one explanation. He quickly walks into the hall, his back against the wall, wand outstretched. Ahead, the shadow stumbles, and he hears this. He runs up behind the shadow, uttering an incantation. The figure then falls to the ground with a loud thump that echoes through the hall. He lowers his wand, and bending down, turns the figure over in order to see his face. Illuminating his wand, he then pulls off the black mask, and moves a bit closer, staring. He does not recognize the face beneath him, and he lets out a long awaited breath. This man must not have gone to Hogwarts; he did not study beneath him. He grabs the limp hand, pulls up the sleeve, revealing the mark he had feared. The arm falls to the ground, and the old man bends down and grabs the feet, pulling him to the back of the house. When that is finished, he moves toward the fireplace. He opens a sack, which sits on a dusty mantle. He hesitates, thinking about the dangers of his actions. The fireplace sits untouched before his eyes, and his mind begins to wander. Of what use is floo powder now? Or apparition for that matter, for pot holes can easily be tampered with. Perhaps the Death Eaters have truly infiltrated all systems. No one knows, he does not know, for no one has used either in some time for fear of being captured. Maybe he should not use the fireplace...but he had not been the target, for the shadow crept past him. Why had it not attacked him? Dumbledore pondered. Surely there had been some mistake. In a final decision, he decides that it is not safe to go outside, nor is it safe to apparate. It would be wiser to use the floo powder. Within minutes, he is gone.

*****

Hundreds of miles away, a young man with greasy, jet black hair gazes silently into the darkness. Shadows play about his pale, angular face, then fall back against the tall alley walls as he walks. Although it feels quite unlike him, he can not help but feel a bit of uneasiness. It is not so much as if he were being watched, but more as if someone knows something which he does not. If a person such as himself could have felt fear, at this moment it would have escalated into something beyond that, into something more resembling terror. The member who was to meet him back near Hogwarts had failed to appear. In panic, he had taken a drink from an invisibility potion and, grabbing his broomstick, had abruptly taken to the air. This had all been in violation of the code of the dark order, and with all his might he had wished that he could have apparated, but such things were strictly monitored. The moment he had risen, he wondered whether this move had been wise, whether the dark lord would be benevolent. Yet things such as this had happened many times before. He would not suffer death for his actions, not with his respected position, only perhaps a few personal grievances. Within a week he would talk with Lucius to better his understanding of the current dilemma, for he knew something had gone wrong. The mark had told him, as the mark always would; the mark seemed eternal to him. He turned around quickly in the dark alley, then turned back, reminding himself that there would be others out and about around here, and hopefully soon. Hogwarts was the closest place to the Dark Lord's lair, a move of great importance for Voldemort, a testimony of his power. Indeed, it was amusing that those who fought on the side of light had searched the globe far and wide, never to realize that it was right under their noses.. Then a thought came to his mind, and he felt a dagger within his heart as he realized that he should have waited for Lucius! Damn! Why had he not remembered that, of all things! Why could he never-

"Why Severus, I would not have expected such behaviour from you," came the quiet whisper, "and at such a critical time, it seems." The voice had a certain tone of authority, with a hint of malice that was easily conveyed to all, even towards his own dark brothers.

"Curiously, Lucius, I do believe that you yourself did not make an outstanding effort to find me either." Severus had always felt anger every time he heard that quiet, condescending tone from Lucius. He held a position alongside of the Dark Lord that was just as important as that of Lucius, one which had been acquired from the hard years he had served by his side. They were brothers together in this darkness, and he would not consent to being patronized by the older member.

Lucius had heard the anger in his tone, and silently wrapped an arm around the shoulder of his comrade as he replied, "I did not mean to imply that you had disobeyed orders, only that your recent behaviour has been...peculiar. Come, there are places to go and things to be gained." The two dark figures glided through the shadows together, and after a moment Severus cleared his throat

"What went wrong?" It seemed like such a simple and childish question, having been put so simply, but in light of this Severus was surprised at the reply.

"One of our own has failed."

*****

Indeed, a mistake had been made. All mistakes are handled quickly, with precision, in such a way that situations become quieted among the outer circles. The dark order is like a rippling pond, as circle encompasses circle, each circle growing smaller in number towards the middle, until finally the Dark Lord himself is reached. The circles grow from the middle outwards, so that the masses only know enough to keep themselves safe from destruction. Ah, the poor innocent ones on the outside. They are to be pitied, for they are given the lowest, most loathsome tasks.

Inside the forbidden wood, among branches and brambles, there sits a cave. At first glance, it does not appear to be a particularly large cave. In fact, it is so nondescript that even the most wary who passes it by could have come upon it and not even known, not that that was even possible. Curses, charms, and spells of all sorts had been placed around the perimeter at key locations, transforming the area around the cave into a labyrinth, leading the traveller into peril. It is through this labyrinth that the dark followers now walk, wands outstretched, invisible and silent but for the soft, crisp sound of leaves crunching beneath their feet. They follow the calling, leaving all behind, and they continue forward in their dark cloaks. The man with the dark, greasy hair stares out from underneath his hood, and watches as the fog which follows after them becomes thicker. He listens to the whispered spells around him as others hope to gain some protection against the bitter cold of the night. He grips his wand tightly, and with his left hand grabs his right in a futile attempt to steady his shaking hands. What a night this will be, he thinks, as he mutters a spell. How odd his wand looks against the moonlight...he draws it closer to his face, examining the patterns of the darker wood on top of the lighter wood. It seems to almost glow, and he gazes even closer at the tiny etches inside the darker lines. What a fool I must be, to stare at my wand, as if it is not with me every second of the day! Thinking this, he quickly puts it away, and curses himself yet again, for he had stumbled away from the group in his useless fascination. What has brought this on? He scolds himself for once again becoming unnerved: it is a small incident of no importance, just like those of the past several months. Surely it was not an omen...but a hint of a doubt had already formed in the young wizard's mind. He knows he must report this to Voldemort...But what if this was not so, that it was not an omen, only his mind playing tricks as it so loved to do? No, he is a strong enough wizard to discover the truth for himself. He stops dead still, quieting himself as he listens to the mark, but then no answer comes. Perplexed, he drops to his knees behind a large rock, closes his eyes, and again clears his mind. He slowly counts his breaths silently. Silence was strength, silence was control. Then, thankfully, he felt the tug and knew the direction in which he must now go. He reaches out his hand to pick up his wand, only to jerk it quickly back as he hears a soft sound.

In one slow, controlled movement he glances out from the side of the immense boulder. Searching the darkness for the source, he finds nothing, and waits a few moments with shallow breaths. It must be my mind playing tricks on me, the traitor inside myself. He moves to stand up, but once again stops. Against an old tree he sees a shimmer, almost like a wavering in the very bark, or perhaps the movement of a large cloth. Then, suddenly, the shimmering relents. In its place, a form which Severus knows well rests against the old tree. The form gazes about boldly, and gathering the invisibility cloak about itself again, vanishes in the same rippling sort of manner. Severus coldly stares out for several moments, then steps out to follow his old arch rival, the intrepid James Potter.

*****