Leader of Men

Chapter One: The Stuff of Heroes; The Pride of Villains

Friday July 13, 2001

Cold hands slip around her neck and a whispered warning of silence follows. Brown eyes widen in fear as an ashen hand covers her mouth. Leaning forward, a low voice hisses in the young girl's ear. "Do you know what it feels like to die?" He traces his index finger along her neck, sending chills down her spine, resting just above the collar of her blouse. "I can imagine you do. You felt it. Your twin died. And you felt me snap her neck."

At the mention of her twin, her other half, she forces her eyes shut. She's shaking beneath the Death Eater's grasp, tears rolling down her cheeks, and he does not notice, too high on power to notice anything but his own emotions. After all, it's not about the reaction anymore; it's about the high he gets upon realizing he is truly in power. It's now something he thirsts for.

"She didn't put up a fight. She begged. Pleaded with me for her very life. It was... irritating. She was not worthy to be referred to as a Gryffindor. Bravery does not apply to her." He slips his finger below the yellow silk of her shirt for a moment, seeing those tears wash over her for the first time, then pulls back. Black robes chafe against her smooth complexion, and ice gray eyes sparkle with a sense of vivacity and amusement as the Death Eater completes his mission.

With a snap, she's laying on the floor. Motionless.

"Avada Kedavra is so cliché." He smirks at his success. Inhaling deeply, he takes a moment to appreciate his work. He exits the house, stepping over his other victim. Black hair has been yanked from the braids; she may not have fought, but this blonde Death Eater is ruthless.

Saturday July 14, 2001

The rustling of worn summer leaves is the only sound in this forest. Thirty-two wizards occupy this area, all clothed in robes of ebony velvet. Dark masks cover the eyes of thirty-one; they are silent and do not even breath too deeply. The last stands in the middle of a circle the others create; his face bared to the world. He holds his head high, crimson eyes staring down each Death Eater in turn, and his skin is blanched and arid. He is feared; the followers, the lesser Wizards, bow in silent respect. With the parting of his white lips, Lord Voldemort speaks.

"Malfoy."

A Death Eater stands with self-satisfaction.

"I understand that your task has been successful?" Lord Voldemort inquires, an air of boredom about him. He does not need Malfoy's word that his mission was indeed victorious; he has the unnerving ability to know what others do not.

"Yes, my lord. The death of the Patils will unquestionably cause the Ministry of Magic and the Order of the Phoenix to shake. We again have the upper hand." Malfoy's voice comes confidently and he does not take his eyes from his Master's.

"Excellent." And with that one word of praise, Voldemort slinks away, and Malfoy resumes his position as a crouching follower. All others remain silent and wait in anticipation. "I have waited far too long for my goal. It seems so long ago when I stood in my new body at the grave of my father. We've taken small steps since then and have unfortunately lost a few of our finest. But the Ministry is still blind, believing that they have it all under control and the advantage. They are fools who follow an even foolish leader. The Order of the Phoenix is growing stronger, and the last battle was their victory, but we do not need to attack them physically. The war must also be fought on an emotional level -- it is the only way to ensure our success. Our numbers are jaded, and incompetence has taken the best of the best. A few have landed themselves in Azkaban. Let it be known that Lucius Malfoy will undeniably walk free again; I have that much faith in you, my loyal Death Eaters, that this war will be fought and won in our court. Remember, I do not take well to absurdity."

"Yes, lord." The many voices come in unison.

Voldemort nods. "In two weeks time, on July 31, we will succeed in our greatest triumph yet. With the death of the Seventh Son, in addition to the mission set before Malfoy, this war will be complete within the year. To the very day, mark me. And our world will no longer be corrupted with dishonorable blood."

Monday July 16, 2001

"Thank you, miss, I will remember it," are the last words the Ministry official speaks before leaving the waitress with her pink bubblegum lips and lascivious robes. He goes to sit alone in the isolated corner of the Leaky Cauldron, away from all prying eyes and noisy chatter of the dank pub. Sighing, he unfolds the note, written on a napkin in a very swirly fashion, and discards it to the floor, sticky with years of spilt drinks.

What do I want with her number, anyway?

With all that has been taking place in Britain, she must think it's a mortal sin not to be getting decent sex. Handing your number to a complete stranger is not the best thing to do. But then again, the girl wasn't exactly looking for the best thing.

"Excuse me, are you Terence Higgs?" A shorter woman with frosty Prussian eyes stands before him. In one hand she holds a Muggle tape recorder, and she twirls a piece of her thick blonde hair with the other. "I'm Pansy Parkinson, freelance journalist for the Daily Prophet. I'd like to interview you about your position in the Department of Magical Games in the Ministry of Magic." She extended her hand in greeting, and Terence immediately stood.

"Good morning. It's nice to see you again, Pansy." He shakes her hand with a firm and confident grip and then motions for her to take a seat. Terence remembers Pansy from Hogwarts, although he graduated seven years ago and has not seen her since. He does not forget easily. "Never thought you'd take a job with the Daily Prophet."

Pansy shrugs, not making eye contact as she sets up her equipment for the interview. "It pays the bills, and that's all that matters." She glances up, ready to get down to business. "Please state your name for the record." She presses the play button.

Terence speaks his name, and Pansy dictates the date, July 16, 2001, in her elongated scrawl. She pauses before asking her first question. "Would you like to inform the media about your involvement with the Ministry against Voldemort?"

"I thought this was about Quidditch." Terence leans back and crosses his arms. He shudders belatedly at the Dark Lord's name before raising an eyebrow, realizing that he's not too bright; most reporters will tell any falsehood to get their stories. Why would Pansy, a fellow Slytherin, not do the same? Especially when she was like this at Hogwarts?

"Well, I lied."

"How like you."

"Thank you," Pansy simpered.

Terence sighs and shakes his head, amused that Pansy took that as a compliment. "I can only tell you what I know, and that isn't much. I don't deal directly with the Aurors; Justin Finch-Fletchley does. And sometimes Percy Weasley, but Weasley is always sticking his nose where it doesn't belong."

"You know me, I'll make up the rest."

"Rita Skeeter would be proud," Terence comments before pausing for contemplation. "The Ministry doesn't see You Know Who as a problem of epic proportion like Dumbledore's crowd does. We are fully confident that we can handle any situation that arises."

"What about the death of the Patil twins last night?" Pansy leans forward, chin resting on her palms and elbows on the rough wooden table. "Apparently the Ministry cannot handle Death Eaters if they still kill innocent people."

Terence suddenly finds himself at a loss for words. The option of lying is perpetually open, but the public does have a right to know what these dark wizards are capable of. "The Aurors cannot be everywhere at once," his reply comes rather neutrally. "If these Death Eaters have crossed the line and indeed are practicing more malicious means of murder, it's still no different than the killing curse. A death is just a death, after all."

"Are you telling me that the Ministry is willing to let people suffer?"

"What? No. Of course not. I am saying, Miss Parkinson, that no matter which way these Death Eaters kill, they are just as bad as before. We will not increase our efforts." For a split second, this seemed like an interrogation. Terence closes his light brown eyes, groaning at the aspect of exactly how bad that just went. And if she asks exactly what our efforts are...

Pansy nods. "Thank you for the unnecessarily lengthy response. Three years ago, there was word on an attack on the youngest of a very prominent family with the Ministry as well as the Order. She was only eighteen years old, and her death was preventable. Why didn't the Ministry try to save her?"

"One life will not make a difference." But Terence himself cannot believe that.

"Right," Pansy senses that there's more to that than meets the eye. "Am I correct in assuming that the Ministry doesn't want this to escalate into a national crisis?"

"Yes, that is accurate."

"Is that why the Ministry covers up any activity by Death Eaters in the Muggle world, Mr. Higgs?"

"Yes, we are doing all in our power to keep this war in our eyes alone. The Muggle community is not yet prepared for the world we have created for ourselves. If the Death Eaters don't kill us first, angry and misunderstanding Muggles would. This war is being fought behind the curtains of a perfect, untouched world. And the Ministry intends to keep it that way."

Pansy licks her lips. "For the record, exactly how does the Ministry of Magic view the Order of the Phoenix?" She suddenly fiddles with the tape recorder after a spark emerges. "Damn Muggle equipment..." She bangs it on the table with a hollow thud.

Terence ignores Pansy's little outburst and stays on topic. "The Order of the Phoenix is incompetent. We at the Ministry have caught more Death Eaters than they can even count. I'd suggest for them to stay out of it; we have it under control." He crosses his arms over his chest, watching her as she puts the recorder back between them.

"Control... I see... What precautions has the Ministry taken to ensure Harry Potter's safety? It's common knowledge that he is the main target in this war. So many have died, and some believe that it is all because of Potter. Harry himself may very well be a part of that group."

"None."

After another awkward silence, Pansy offers, "Terrence, would you like to talk about Quidditch now?" She smiles warmly, knowing that Terence Higgs is in his element here. At Hogwarts, he was Seeker until Marcus Flint, captain and Chaser, replaced him with Draco Malfoy. To Terence, Quidditch is everything, and he believes that is the way it will always be.

*

Never go to a graveyard in the middle of the night. That was always something he was taught as a child. So, naturally, it's daylight when he Apparates to the heart of the cemetery, red robes faded by the sunlight and his flaming red hair a disordered mess. He distractedly walks past the tombstones, gazing at the names and realizing for the hundredth time since he's been here that in times of war, people die.

It's as simple as that.

But, not people close to him. They aren't supposed to die. War touches everything but your own family. Time to wake up, this Weasley realizes, this is war. And as glorious as war is perceived by ignorant Muggles, people close to you will always die.

Kneeling by a grave worn by time, he drops a red rose over the compact dirt. Verdant green grass has finally started growing over the soil. Three years ago, all was taken from him, and things were never the same. The one person he was close to was taken by a free Death Eater with two short words. The only person he could ever open up to was lying under that new rose now.

Reaching over, he traces the engraved name with a slender finger, the cool stone reminding him of what he's lost, war or not.

Penelope Clearwater.

With the touch of a warm hand on his shoulder, Percy spins around. His youngest brother stands before him, a worried expression crossing his face. "I thought I'd find you here." His voice is soft and comforting; he's frequently had to come to this graveyard to find Percy.

"I wish I could catch the Death Eater who did this." Percy turns his water-rimmed eyes back to the grave, staring at the inscribed dates:

May 1976 to August 1998

"Leave that to the Aurors."

"I swear it, Ron." Percy finally forces himself from the grave and turns to his brother. "I'm not the only one who has lost someone they loved. We lost Ginny, and you let them get away with it? Your Order is failing at catching these Death Eaters, and my Ministry ignores anything and everything that's important. It's been seven years since the Triwizard Tournament, and they still won't look at the significance of the situation." His voice is quiet and on the verge of cracking.

"Penelope was a random killing; there was nothing we could have done to prevent it," Ron states, defending the Order he belongs to. "As for Ginny..." Ron casts his cerulean eyes down. For a year, the death of Ginny has been on his mind. The Order had heard news of an attack on a Weasley, the youngest, but there was nothing that could be done about it. But the Ministry... The bloody Ministry refused to do anything to protect her.

*

Blaise Zabini is never one to be kept waiting. And now, very impatiently, she sits in the Leaky Cauldron, tapping her wand against her Butterbeer. From the corner, she can see Terence Higgs and Pansy Parkinson conversing. Pansy finished her interview, as her equipment has disappeared. Blaise is waiting for her connection, an old friend from her house, Slytherin.

Looking up when another young woman enters the pub, Blaise tosses her silky, jet-black hair over her shoulders. Black eyes shine, and she parts her painted lips in a smile. The woman nods an agreement and walks over.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Blaise," the woman greets, sighing. Dark green robes hang from her weary frame, and her hair is tied into an unusually tight bun. Empty blue eyes stare at the younger Slytherin behind dark oval frames.

"Don't give it a second thought, Rae. I never did." Blaise lies, obviously annoyed but not ready to admit it. "I understand Flint didn't want you to meet me?" Marcus Flint, a troll-like twenty-six-year-old Chaser for the Falmouth Falcons, is the love-interest to Rae Landon.

"Marcus doesn't want me to do a lot of the things I do." Rae comments, monotone, as she motions over a random barmaid. "He believes I'll land myself in Azkaban."

"Will you?"

Rae glances at Blaise but remains silent as the barmaid comes over. "What can I get for you?" Her sickly sweet voice makes both Rae and Blaise quiver. It's people like her who remind Rae why she does what she does.

"Vodka and coke."

The barmaid turns to leave.

"Without the coke."

She nods, walking away. The girls are silent as they watch her walk away, hips swaying slightly in a way that makes a few of the men in the bar turn heads.

Blaise clears her throat. "Drinking again?" She leans back. "I thought you gave that up years ago. After you killed..." Blaise stalls at the name, unsure if she should speak it in a public place when Aurors could be lurking around any corner. Rae closes her eyes, as if thinking.

"You can say it, Blaise." Rae is anything but ashamed in of her actions. "I killed Clearwater because I hated her. She had everything that I didn't. Head Girl with perfect marks, beauty, and a loving family." Rae furrows her thin eyebrows.

"You're forgetting something." Blaise fakes a smile, responding in a singsong tone. "You loved her boyfriend as well. A Weasley. You Know Who didn't send you to kill Clearwater, you did it yourself."

Rae is silent as the barmaid returns to the awkward silence that had crept over them, her drink set before her with a smile that could have meant any number of things.

"Do you regret it?"

"Not ever."

Blaise pauses, remembering back to the time following the death, before she comments. "You should have killed Percy as well. I don't see why you didn't; you made him go mad. You realize he loved Penelope, and yet you forced him to watch her die?"

"I love Percy, that's why I didn't kill him." Rae may have not killed Percy Weasley of her own will but she would if Voldemort commanded. She never meant to hurt Percy as much as she did; she never means to do many of the things that she does. "I didn't want him to go crazy. I love him."

"You love him?" Blaise chuckles, incredulously. "Like you loved Marie?"

Rae sharply looks up. "I did love Marie. Killing her was the hardest thing I ever had to do." She fiddles uneasily with her glass. "But if I had to do it again, I wouldn't change a thing."

"You're amazing, you know that? You kill the people you hate and torture the ones you love. What's the story with Flint? Why hasn't he been tortured or killed?" Her voice is laced with the sarcasm that Rae has grown to love in Blaise.

"Marcus is not a part of the Order or Ministry. There is no reason for him to die. Besides, I wouldn't want to kill such a good Quidditch player," Rae defends sarcastically, drinking the vodka in one shot. Holding her breath, she waits for the fire to disappear from her throat.

Friday July 20, 2001

In the middle of a tedious Friday night, two young men Apparate into a darkly lit shop. One takes his wand out of a pocket and mutters, "Lumos." He looks to the other, identical to him in every way, flaws and all.

Both are worried, and they glance quickly around to ensure their solitude. Stacks of thin and slender boxes line the perimeter of the shop. One twin steps up beside his brother, and whispers in his ear. The other nods after a short pause. Both go separate ways, careful not to make a sound.

Red tresses fall before azure eyes as he crouches on the dusty wooden floor, staring into the glass display case. Looking over to his brother, he finally enquires into what's been on his mind since he heard of this task from him.

"What are we getting for this job, anyway?"

"Our lives."

"Oh."

For a moment even that seemed insignificant. But these twins haven't spent the last seven years drawing everyone out of their lives only to die a godforsaken death at the hands of a Death Eater. All they need is each other. They were told not to ask questions, and if it helps them live, then they will do as told. Maybe that's why they're doing this; they don't really know what they're getting into.

George sighs and stands from the counter display case, disappointed that this is taking longer than it should. He'd rather Apparate in and Disapparate out. Stepping slowly around to the opposite side, he searches in drawers for an object they had only heard of, never seen. Wrapping his slender fingers along the chrome handle of one of the smaller drawers, he yanks, to no avail. Smirking, he takes his wand and mutters the simple unlocking spell they learned in their first year. When they had learned it, they never imagined they'd use it under such circumstances.

"I think I found it." George takes out a small, unmarked black box that is nearly weightless and which they alone cannot open. He pockets it quickly and then closes the drawer, relocking it. He Apparates away and Fred sighs and follows.

Saturday July 21, 2001

With his head in his hands, Harry Potter collapses down onto the hard brown sofa. His black hair damp and disordered, he exhales sharply and abruptly looks up at the mirror across from him. The worn robes that hung limply from him are a dark shade of blue, slightly tattered at the seams and stained with mud. His jade eyes, once alive with soul and life, are now stale and empty, tired of the life he has been living.

Padma and Parvati Patil count as the fifth individuals Harry knew personally who have been killed in the Dark Lord's name by heinous Death Eaters.

The first was Neville Longbottom, at the age of sixteen. Everything was quiet for a year, but then, almost as a surprise, Dean Thomas was murdered two weeks after their 1998 graduation from Hogwarts.

Two people, close to him, and in the same year, fell victim to the Dark Lord as well. Dumbledore considered the idea of planned attacks, and that was confirmed when an attack was launched on Ronald Weasley and Seamus Finnigan at their flat during the summer of 1998. They both survived, and Lucius Malfoy was sent to Azkaban.

Then, for a year, there was nothing.

And the Ministry was foolish enough to think that it was over. But the Order knew better.

July 31, 1999. Twenty-five Death Eaters raided eighteen Muggle, Muggle-born and Wizard's homes. Two were caught: Vincent Crabbe and his father. But, not before they murdered Hannah Abbott's parents and the remaining Diggorys in cold blood with the unforgivable killing curse. A total of thirteen families were slaughtered that night, and the Ministry washed their hands of all the blood and blame.

They had a tip-off from an insider that they chose to ignore.

That was nearly two years ago.

Close to three hundred are dead in London alone, and both Wizards and Muggles comprise those numbers. So many people close to Harry have died. He's seen things in his twenty-one years of that no one should ever have to see.

He is the target.

Harry was forced to grow up and serve in an order dedicated to battling and defeating Voldemort. The Ministry is blind; they cover up attacks, make excuses, and fight against the Order. These Death Eaters are growing more and more sadistic.

Needless to say, the Ministry and the Order have their own internal war to fight, on top of the one staring them straight in the eyes. Which side is winning that war has yet to be determined.

Sighing, Harry stands, ready to resume sleep. Tomorrow night will be Seamus Finnigan's wedding, and Harry is the best man. Hopefully, the images won't come this time.

But, they usually do.

*

The pale moon hangs low in the sky, seeping a dusty white light into the tinted windows of Quality Quidditch Supplies. The lower shop is quiet and deserted, and only one light shines in the upper level. Three figures sit around a low, iridescent fire. The room is small, a cozy little place for the owner and his lady to spend their lives.

One of those present is a woman, possessing sleek silvery-blonde hair; she sits with her hands folded neatly on her lap. Baby blue robes with silver seaming flow from her slender yet curvy frame, spread around her in a perfect circle. Her lips are stained a deep blood red and her eyes are a dark blue with silver matte.

Beside her sits a young man who has his arm around her protectively. Vivid brown tresses fall before his eyes, and his jaw line is masculine and strong.

The last is another woman, but she is simple in contrast to the other two while holding power above them both. Her eyes are closed, a white eyeliner bringing them out. Her robes are red, a blood shade and new, comparable with the hair that falls just below the small of her back. In her ashen hand is a stretch of cloth, black with an emerald snake slithering from a skull. Taking a deep breath, she lets the band of Death Eater cloth drift to her lap.

"What?" Comes the other woman's voice in a rush of urgency.

The young Irish woman takes the band back with slender fingers and smiles warmly. "An image, Miss Delacour." She tightly closes her eyes, straining to remember faces and words. "A man... Red eyes. With nearly thirty others. All cloaked in black satin and velvet. Only one was speaking... About twins of flaming hair and a crystal that shines like a Phoenix."

"Zat was it?" Fleur looks over to her man. "Zere must be more."

The clairvoyant raises her hand to silence Fleur. "He was speaking, a hiss-like tone of deaths past and present. But," she finally looks up, "I didn't sense any immediate danger towards you. Their fight is with the Ministry and the Order." Taking one last look at the Death Eater band, she sighs and tosses it into the flickering flames. It catches quickly, as if wanting to be turned to nothingness. "Mister Davies and Miss Delacour, you have nothing to fear. I am most positive that you are not targets in this war."

Roger takes his girlfriend's hand and strokes it in a comforting way. "Thank you, Miss Wakefield. I will see you to the door." He stands and takes the upset woman with him.

Rain Wakefield smiles and nods as she thanks her clients for their hospitality and business. Following the couple down the staircase, she lets her fingers slide across the wooden finish. When she reaches the bottom, she gives her final goodbye before heading off to a small manor to be with her fiancée.

Roger watches as Rain walks down Diagon Alley before closing the door and pulling the chain across. Turning to Fleur, he notices as she holds herself and her eyes cast the floor. She seems to be silently second-guessing what Rain told them.

"Rain Wakefield is the best clairvoyant in the area." Roger restates the truth. Eversince Rain discovered her abilities to predict the future at the very young age of fourteen, she has yet to make a completely false reading.

"Zat I know. I'm just scared. Roger, I want to leave zis place." Ever since Voldemort was reborn, Fleur had wished to return home to France. Roger had hoped Rain would quell her fears, but it seems to have not helped. He does not want to leave; he's put everything he has into this shop.

Roger says nothing, he just looks around. This has been his store and his home for the last five years. He can remember vividly when he shook hands with the previous owner and signed his name to the contract. That was two years after his Hogwarts graduation and one year after Marcus Flint ensured a position with the Falmouth Falcons.

Damn troll. He has cursed his name every day for the last six years, but he has never thought about going back. Roger has a nice life here; things aren't perfect, but, then again, in times of war, what is perfect? He has Fleur, which is all that matters.

Fleur nervously around, still hugging herself.

Saturday July 22, 2001

It is ten o'clock in the morning, and an alarm goes off. It's an annoying, steady beeping sound like a small truck backing up. Rolling over, a brunette woman in her early twenties presses the snooze button for the fifth time that hour. She finally sits up, her lavender bed slip falling from her slouched shoulders. Large brown eyes focus as she remembers the day, and she fights the urge to resume sleep. But, as reluctantly as can be, she crawls from bed, unwilling to face what came next.

Her bridesmaid dress is a sickly canary color.

She chuckles, realizing that the old saying must be true.

"A wedding is a time for the bride to look radiant and her best friends look dreadful."

What her friend, Rain Wakefield, was thinking at the bridal shop is beyond her. But then again, Rain is the one who landed the man. Lavender's man. He had belonged to her. But not anymore.

Seamus Finnigan. Her ex-husband and now her friend's groom. Ironic.

The war is not something Lavender dreads.

It is existence she fears.

Life is unfair, she realizes. Everyone she has ever cared about is either dead or getting married to another woman. It's not like she hates Rain. No, she actually loves Rain; she just hates what she has. Finnigan's love.

But, it is Lavender's fault the marriage fell apart in the first place. They were married right out of Hogwarts. Everyone said they were moving too fast, and only now she realizes that they were right.

Or, maybe it was Seamus' disinterest in her that caused the fairy tale couple to fall apart and for Seamus to look for love in another place.

But, that place was never supposed to be in the arms of their mutual friend.

Sighing, she enters her lilac bathroom to take shower.

Today will surely be a day to forget.

*

Seamus Finnigan has never thought twice about the actions he's taken. Today is his wedding day, his second in three years, and he still cannot believe that his ex-wife is one of his bride's bridesmaids. He never talked to Rain about it, though. She said she knew what she was doing. And Seamus had certainly learned not to argue with her.

But Seamus hopes she won't regret it.

Upon entering, Rain merely smiles at him. Seamus looks at her with a warm grin. He remembers now why he never regretted loving Rain. "How did it go?"

Rain shrugs. "I don't believe I helped Miss Delacour at all. She still wants to leave. I told her there's no threat to her or Roger, but it seemed not to have helped. Yet I don't blame her; I want to go back to Ireland." Rain Wakefield was born in Ireland. She moved to London to attend Hogwarts only a decade ago. "We should return with my father. There's nothing left in London for us, Seamus."

He stares at her, open-mouthed and infuriated. "Nothing! How can you say that? We have friends here, life long friends. Not those... those bloody posh people we entertain at parties there!"

"Friends?" Rain chuckles. "Like Parvati and Padma Patil? Neville Longbottom and Dean Thomas and Ginny Weasley? Have you not noticed the people dying all around us, Seamus? All of our friends are gone. I don't blame Fleur for wanting to flee; she fears for her own life. As I fear for mine. Promise me that we will return to Ireland, after this is over."

Seamus brushes a lock of claret hair behind her ear, and kisses her forehead. It usually helps to calm her, but nothing can relax her from perceptible death. "I promise not to let anything happen to you. I promise you that."

"Put it in the sodding vows."

Wednesday July 25, 2001

Oliver Wood sighs and flops down on the only wooden bench in the locker room. Orange robes with a black insignia flow from his shoulders, and he wipes the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. Another game lost; it wouldn't be so horrible if it wasn't against the Falmouth Falcons.

Marcus Flint's team.

Since Oliver can remember, he and Marcus have had an unspoken rivalry. Quidditch is all they care about. Both cannot be bothered about the war with the Death Eaters or the internal struggle between the Order and Ministry. Quidditch is the only thing that they see, Oliver more than Marcus. Oliver knows that there is another thing Marcus loves -- a young woman by the name of Rae Landon. Oliver barely remembers her, besides that she had an eccentric personality and a fixation on Quidditch and women. What she is doing now would certainly be news to him. He's never thought twice about her, and he's never wanted to.

Like at Hogwarts, Marcus comes to gloat. Oliver has fought the urge to punch him several times. Marcus's robes are a dark gray, and a white falcon emblem graces the front. He wears a smirk across his troll like features as he leans against the locker across from Oliver. "I never thought you'd still be with the Chudley Cannons," he comments, his eyes never moving from Oliver's.

"It's a team. A good team that doesn't resort to violence in order to win a match."

Marcus glares and quickly looks down at his hands. "You still can't be compared to me, Wood." He exhales sharply and mimics the Cannons' motto nastily, "Let's all just keep our fingers crossed and hope for the best." The grin on Marcus' face is unnaturally wide.

"Oh, shove off."

Marcus snorts. "I sincerely hope that your motto isn't your attitude when we're drafted to fight in this war." With that, Marcus straightens. "And I hope you are drafted by the winning alliance." He departs, leaving Oliver to ponder his last words.

*

A silver sphere of light shines hazily from behind the trees as a lone woman runs alongside them. She shivers beneath her robes, and her eyes are wide as they once again dart around her dark surroundings. She hears, once again, the cry of a wolf somewhere near her.

She sees her life now. Dances with a handsome Hufflepuff, and games of Quidditch high in the air. But there are also fights with her father and stepmother in her fake little fairy tale life.

The only sounds are the wolf and her feet crunching over the dewy, rotten leaves littering the forest ground. Everything moves quickly, and she is unexpectedly launched forward by the heavy weight of the animal pouncing on her.

She wants to scream, and she opens her mouth to do so, but no sound comes out. Rolling over, she manages to tackle the large beast, but as strength is not one of her strong points, she is soon the victim in the struggle. Yellow eyes stare at her through a gray world as the werewolf snarls and claws in all directions, not caring if he strikes the young witch.

With the cool and damp grass soaking her dark skin, the werewolf raises himself from her torso on his hind legs and howls at the moon. It was an unnaturally hollow sound.

She coughs only once from lack of air, her ebony hair falling from her ponytail, and her coffee Asian eyes widen in fear.

The last thing she remembers is staring into a blood red sky.

*