Dahlia

DAHLIA

By Classy Cat

Prologue.

The man, in thick, black robes was bowing in front of him, cloak pulled over his head. He felt very alone, although he was sure that they were behind him...thousands of Death Eaters. He could hear their whispers of excitement, whispers of fear, whispers of mock...sometimes it got mixed up, even inside his head.

She was behind him; he could feel her robes grazing his back. Perhaps she was also bowing in front of the Dark Lord? He did not know. He did not have the courage to look behind him.

There was a high, shrill laugh. It curdled his blood. Behind him, he could sense the Death Eaters joining in, with their low, deeper rumble. It was less frightening, nevertheless loud. He shuddered at the thought of being captive in this place. The masses that had produced that sound...they were well capable of killing him.

"You are in debt of Lord Voldemort. What will you offer him?"

The night was cloudy and dark over number Twelve, Grimmauld Place that night. Stars were trying to peak, unsuccessful, through the clouds to lighten up. Gloom had taken over.

The street was empty, letting the wind howl, but for two people sitting on a withered seat under the lights - that wouldn't light. Pedestrians that looked around could not possibly suspect the woman - who had now stood up - with her hand raised, clutching a silver gadget, for turning the lights off - or rather "catching" them off...

"There now..." the woman said in satisfaction, sitting down. "No one will see us here."

"Thanks to your Out-Putter..." the man next to him smiled mildly. "Put-Outer, Teddy dear..." the woman corrected, trying to stuff the Put-Outer into her baggy sweater, but not succeeding. "Oh, dear...how confusing! It's a lot less hassle to put it into my robe pockets. Help me out, will you Ted?" She absentmindedly tugged at the sweater, looking for pockets.

The man called Ted laughed. "Your sweater doesn't have any pockets. Try your jeans, there - pockets on the sides." He took the Put-Outer and gently helped her with her pockets. "I thought it was funny enough, you being a witch, Andromeda," he said, smirking. "This is funnier though - you can do magic, but you can't put your Out-Putter into your pockets."

"Oh, cut it out...it's all because I'm worried sick about them..." she muttered tersely, patting the Put-Outer in her pocket. "They should have been back by now."

"They?" Ted asked. "Exactly how many - "

"Oh, we were supposing that old Rookwood would go and pay his debt alone, but things didn't go as we expected, did they?" The last two words came out very sarcastically.

"What exactly - "

"He goes and gets messed up with Goblins and Death Eaters and You-Know-Who himself..." she hissed angrily, her voice starting to rise. Ted looked around. People were staring out of there windows. He saw an angry old man yelling croakily at them, with a slipper in his hand. He caught a phrase that uncannily resembled "crazy old bat". Andromeda, however, seemed to have not heard.

There was a low mutter as he thought to himself. Indistinguishable words that even he had the difficulty of understanding came out of his mouth, words flying in his head. These were short phrases like "My vault" and "Gringotts", and "Galleons".

There was another high laugh. He clenched his teeth to prevent himself from shuddering. To his surprise, the Death Eaters did not join in this time.

"Lord Voldemort does not need your gold," he spoke. The room was shaped like a high dome, and no one was talking; yet his voice was not echoing. It was clear and sharp. "No...what he wants is flesh." His eyes widened.

"Flesh and blood to serve him. A life to sacrifice." He gazed at him, and then his eyes went to the back, at his wife. "Tell your wife to step forward..."

" - but does he get out of it himself? OH, NO! He has to pull his whole family into it! Yes, all of us...and don't forget her pregnant wife!" She yelled so venomously that she bore close resemblance to people who had lost their minds, spit flying out of her mouth.

"Not that I care about her- miserable old bat, I doubt that she'll be used as a virginal maid and be sacrificed. Why, she had slept with half of Slytherin House before she had even reached her seventh year at Hogwarts...no, it's the child I'm worried about...what would He do to her...I shudder at the thought..."

"Come on Andy," Ted muttered, looking around furtively. He could see more heads peaking out now. He was pretty sure that this was a "Muggle" district. It would not be quite safe for Andromeda to rave about "Death Eaters" and "Slytherin" to a street full of people. "Let's go to your place...people are waking up, it's five o'clock in the morning. You've been yelling at the top of your lungs..."

Andromeda gave a derisive snort. "You want to go to the House of Black? They'd Stun you off to Timbuktu..." The Blacks, being purebloods, were extremely hostile against both Muggles and Muggle-borns. Their racism went up to such an intense degree that any member of the family that sympathized with Muggles would be cast out. Andromeda recalled the burn in the tapestry that had her name.

"Maybe you should be nice to them, and all...they might accept your return then?" Ted suggested. Andromeda smirked. "I could always kill Kreacher...nasty little bugger. That would go along with the family tradition of beheading house-elves too..." Ted sighed. "Alright, we'll wait here then."

"Darkness Us to You shall bind

Strings of Magic, Blood of Life

Come to the Dark when You are Called

To your Master when you are Bound"

"Morsmordre..." the Dark Lord whispered, pointing at her swollen belly. She did not as much as blink. He knew nothing about her past, perhaps she was used to being tortured. Still, he suddenly respected his wife for taking this so well.

"Retreat."