Outcasts

Chapter Two- The Dark Lord's Call

Soot crumbled from the rafters like sinful snow as several large men barged their way into the lab. Each blink drew them closer to my dishevelled body; each foot shattered my aching ribs.

"She's alive," muttered the chief fire-fighter. He scanned the rest of the room and observed the destruction carefully. He stood next to another; he was tall and strong, but seemed to be uncomfortable in himself.

"Thank god. At least we have one survivor," sighed another man.

They stepped through the sombre wreck cautiously, kicking their way through the remains. They drew to a halt abruptly. Disgust and pity was sketched over their posture.

"Another dead'un, take her for a post-mortem with the others, Bill."

Concern showed on the other man's face. He started to object.

"But-"

"But nothin'. Go!"

Defeated, he shuffled along, dragging his feet along the debris, with Dr. Phelps cleaning the way as a distasteful floor polisher. As he trod once more, a soft metal twang echoed through the room's silence. A key... an escape... murder... Barty... Dr. Phelps' cruel words.

The silence snapped.

"We'll wait for the paramedics to check the others," reported the chief in a gruff tone. He had seen worse.

"They're not coming," said the remaining man.

The chief looked up at this man - the man who was usually compassionate.

"Sam, what're you-?"

Before he could form the next ugly syllable, a green light was fired directly into his stomach. He fell rapidly; his eyes dilated in confusion. Sam lowered his arm and pocketed something in his large fireproof suit.

"On the hour," he croaked, "every hour."

I knew this.

I responded robotically, "Disguises will become unveiled and identity no longer concealed."

He threw his helmet dramatically to the ground. A whirlwind of ashes sprayed my cheeks as I stood looking at the stranger indifferently.

"What have we become?" he rasped.

My teeth clenched nervously. No good could come out of this encounter; I was sure of it. The man, the stranger called Sam, extended an arm, pointing a finger at an incinerated wall.

I wasn't sure why he did that. I just uttered a sour sentiment.

"It's burnt. Yes, that's what happens in a fire,"

A frown appeared on his face. It looked like concern in his watery eyes. He paced towards the wall, kicking aside the crumbled remains of Dr. Phelps' ring-bound folder. Raising a hand to the surface, he started to brush the ash away. As he lowered his hand once more it became clear what he pointed at before.

"A mirror?"

He inclined his head.

"Look, for you dearly need to realise."

I pushed up with my arms frantically, but my muscles had collapsed in silent protest. The man grimaced and politely offered a supporting hand. I grasped his wrist remorselessly. He placed another hand on my back and slowly brought me up. His gentle caress seemed familiar, but the past did not concern me right now. I allowed myself to be led towards the reflection; I faltered feebly on the way.

"These steps are for you to make," he said sorrowfully. He let go of me, but I didn't fall.

I mourned the loss of his grip. Taking a deep breath I faced towards the distant reflection. Something was wrong.

"I'm not burned!"

I blinked. I opened my eyes. I definitely wasn't burned.

"No, I prevented that. Look closer."

His hand silenced me from asking anymore. I stepped forward tensely, like I was stepping towards a cliff's edge. The face--my face had significantly changed. Once the very essence of youth now resembled a bitter sorrow. At a glance all looked the same. Each freckle was in place; every strand of hair the same length. But it was the eyes that cried out in pain; they had been shattered, smashed apart by some dastardly act. All that was left had been carelessly pieced together by an insane drunkard. Sorrow and misery entwined with confusion and more than a spark of insanity. My pasty lips were uncharacteristically pursed and my eyebrows low and beaten. With one glance I was disgusted at what I'd become.

I twisted round slowly and gasped at the fire-fighter's new appearance. While my eyes were drunken mosaics, his seemed to be clotted with rotting blood. His pallid skin had melted with the radiating heat of them. I then realised the signs, the light, the words, and the grip.

I was lost in a desert of recollections and photos of the past. I embraced a boy with straw hair. I talked wistfully to a student on the sofa. I wept over an article. Before me was that black and white newspaper-face. Although distorted, it was definitely him.

"Barty!" I screamed ecstatically.

I fled from the reflection of reality into his comforting arms.

"You rose again?"

There was a pause; he lowered his gaze.

"From Azkaban. Not from death."

But none of this made sense. He had died in Azkaban long ago, buried by the dementors. He answered in a riddle before I could question him.

"Mother. Once an hour, every hour. She finally regretted her neglect to me."

I hugged him again, struggling to find words for my elation. Our mother had taken the Polyjuice potion; she must have assumed his form. But that means she died, not Barty.

"Mother is dead?"

He simply nodded. There was no pity in this brief movement. A moment passed for this startling truth to wash over me. Before I could ask anything, Barty said seriously, "You don't know how long you've been here, do you?"

I shook my head, becoming the eleven year old looking up to her older brother once again.

"Thirteen long years we were imprisoned by our scum of a father."

He spat on the crisp floor - a pool of disgust lurking amongst the destruction.

"I don't understand"

He intertwined his long fingers. They were dirty and scarred, but nimble as they'd ever been. He'd been known for his quick wand-work. And other things besides...

"I was not entombed in Azkaban just because of my father, but of my own stupidity."

My eyes lit up; he was renouncing his old ways.

"I should never have allowed myself to get caught that night."

My heart heaved and became not just broken, but empty. All love for him had drained away in an instant.

I wished.

"Our mother: sick and dying of guilt convinced father to undertake a deception. We drank the Polyjuice potion and took each others form. The Dementors did not know. Only I, Winky, father and mother knew. And she died with the secret ...so will our father."

"Winky?"

"Winky... I owe every ounce of my freedom I possess to her. Father kept me incarcerated by the Imperious Curse. I was just a slave to his will. It's funny really; the whole law-abiding country must have felt like that. I escaped at the Quidditch World Cup and since then I've been searching for you. I hoped that you wouldn't still be here. I was worried, and obviously my concern was founded."

I looked at his ashen, battered face; his eyes were evidence enough of what else he sought, but I would rather pursue something less dark. I wished with my heart's stone-shell that he would desert his Lord. This exasperation spurred me to voice my confusion.

"I still don't know what you mean! What has father got to do with me being here?"

His eyes widened dramatically. He choked in shock and stared at me in obvious pity. I almost screamed at his face weakening in anguish. Before my throat ached with sound, a fire so deep arose in him--Loathing crackled beneath every layer of his skin. His knees sunk to the floor. I looked up at him. His rancid eyes blazed with an answer I did not need words for: anger.

"He will pay!" he shrieked. "He shall meet his end for the sake of our shattered existence!"

His face contorted with the sheer rage that dwelt inside him; his straw hair clinging to his shaking head. Indeed, his whole body was trembling at such unvoiced injustice.

Such loathing made me dread what was coming next. I didn't know if I could bear it... my father had loved me, surely?

I stared intently at my brother's face.

"What has he done?"

He was barely masking his hot-white anger.

"I'll tell you, but you must tell me the Prophecy."

He was ruthless, my brother. Always bargaining, always weighing out his selfish benefits. How I despise my beloved brother.

I did not answer him. Nevertheless, we fled together from the ruins. Each step was vital to the dance we performed. His firm arm didn't let me falter or flail in the torrent of harsh memories shrouding round us like wind. All I concentrated on was holding my head high, trying desperately to break out of the poisonous smog of disease. A quick glance between us interspersed every precision. I yearned to scratch and decapitate his destroyed features. How could he have left me for Voldemort? Didn't love or friendship, even blood mean anything to him? Had he become just another clone of Voldemort?

An arm blew all the air out of my stomach. I wheezed while turning round hazily. I looked to the arm that stilled our dance and saw that it belonged to Barty. He, who was staring me in the face, had delayed my escape.

"You hate me, don't you?" he croaked.

"Been pouring through my mind with Legilmency or something?" I spat.

"No. Your expressions and body language are enough."

I stared at his stupidly blank face, defiantly. "I detest you!" I yelled. "I both loved and hated you when you ran off to your Lord. And I wonder why you have come back for me - if you have received instructions from your master - your SLAVE DRIVER."

His response was wavy and stuttered, "The Dark Lord was d-defeated, for now by Harry Potter. And no, I have not been to him," He paused and seemed to add with a childish afterthought, "and how dare you speak of him like that!"

I didn't see the wand emerge from his pocket, nor did I shriek with pain when the Cruciatus clutched me firmly, rattling harm through my bones. I remained standing, looking at my brother disgustedly. I wished to tear his flesh, but I doubted his gaunt expression would ever change.

"Do you not feel pain," he said pitifully.

"I felt it, yes. But I enjoyed the curses hold. Physical pain is a welcome distraction from the ache of reality."

I poured my heart out to him there and he did not extend a comforting arm but raised his jaw in a sour laugh. Such grief I have can only turn into rage.

"You maniacal fool! You are worse than father - far worse. And you want to hear the prophecy - to have me translate it before your ears." I snarled, " Forget it and run back to - run back to your protector. The only one you care for!"

I was breathless in my heart-break. I had to pause and suffer his next words.

"Bethany! Sister, I care about you more than anything in this world. I came back for you; I put the Dark Lord behind you. I love you."

"You have an odd way of showing love," I snapped incredulously.

Once again his expression enraged me. I looked away antipathetically and nearly cried at what I saw. A ring of fire surrounded us, tearing and jeering at my fear they crept closer. I could feel the torturous heat on my face just like before.

"You started the fire in the hospital, didn't you?"

He nodded; his face still plastered with an idiotic grin.

"So now you have decided to finish me off? Was there not a good enough view of my death before? Is there more of a show out here? Do you now wish me to writhe in some distant world beyond pain." My scream echoed out amongst the burning ring of flame as I continued in a faint, steely hush, "I hate you. I don't care what you say. I shall never give up my knowledge of the prophecy and that will be the last satisfaction that I have."

My words were not left to linger long. Their threat was not properly absorbed.

"A memory charm..."

"Excuses! All dirty excuses! Do you know what, brother? At least father loved me. Now I finally see why he detested you!"

Barty's face was suddenly paler. The blankness of his expression and his resigned, fallen shoulders resembled the after-effects of a dementor attack. He mouthed silently for a while, deciding whether to utter such a sorrowful fact.

"Father hated you too," he whispered. "I...I cannot believe this is a result of solitary confinement for nearly thirteen years. He must have performed more than a simple memory charm to obscure such truth..."

His voice, which was barely anything at the start, faded into the flame entangled air.

Each second produced a salty tear. As they dowsed the grass I started to remember things that had been locked away from me for thirteen long years.

Instead of me skipping happily through the beautiful garden and then turning to comfort Barty, I dragged my feet through a path of weeds with only one hope left: Getting away from the home that was no home, and being accepted into Hogwarts. And I too had cried whilst locked in a lingering embrace.

"Why?" I sniffed, drawing in an intoxicating whiff of smoke.

He frowned and pulled me towards him. For all the tricky deceptions that my father had pulled it looked pitifully like the memory I had just seen. Except this time my tears sizzled on the golden snakes of flame.

"Do you wish me to burn?" I sobbed weakly, muffled by his sweat soaked robe.

"I wish you to be happy: to smile and forget the past. I pray for forgiveness and atonement. I yearn to be free of the ivory mask that I am trapped by. I can now see that destruction does nothing to ease this pain."

I smiled wider than moments before when I witnessed his return. And then the smile melted once more into a grim line of defeat. Another figure was standing beside us. Cloaked and hooded, it spoke in attempted craftiness, "Bring the woman and I'll never tell the master what I just heard."

"Pettigrew, you traitorous fool," Barty sighed sadly.

I was at a loss. Should I run? But no, I couldn't desert Barty. I had been waiting for his return all these long years.

"Hurry up and bring the Muggle."

"Muggle?" I gasped.

Barty seemed pained. He frowned and said very quickly, "She's a squib - and a pureblood at that so hold your tongue."

"Right," Pettigrew said playfully, "bring the squib."

Must my name be the magicless-disease that I am cursed with?

"She's my sister and you will call her by the name she was given: Bethany."

My brother was impatient now; he looked around us. His words were curt and short.

"So it's true about your sister," the small rodent-like man squealed.

Barty stared murderously where Pettigrew's face was hidden underneath his mask and turned back to me.

"Run."

"No! He'll kill you!"

What was he thinking? I could not possibly do such a thing.

"No he won't. Trust me. You don't know him as I do. He'll tell the others, but either way...oh, you're right. Death would be a light punishment in comparison."

Concern. I always felt concern towards him.

"Voldemort will come after you?"

"The Dark Lord was denied power by Harry Potter; he lies in hiding. Pettigrew would not dare to contact the Death Eaters as Voldemort's downfall is partly his fault. But when he returns--"

"If, you mean."

"No - when. He will return more powerful than ever. I must make it seem as if I'm on his side."

"Then I must come with you!"

He looked strained as Pettigrew lead us off. He kept checking back to see how I was or if I'd changed my mind. I don't know what to do anymore, following this tunnel with no light. For so long I'd been sure that I had been loved and now I find my memories are corrupted. But this can't be much worse; I've suffered too much and for too long for anything to phase me now.