Veni Vidi Vici

"When one door closes, another one opens; but we so often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door, that we do not see the ones which open for us." Alexander Graham Bell


Veni Vidi Vici(I came, I saw, I conquered)- Caesar



A black fog seemed to swarm in the castle. Spinning and wilting, floating in it's weightlessness. Covering everything and devouring it in such a hunger that was indescribable. The ghosts moaned in terrible pain and anguish, the statues creaked in ominous durability.



The wind shrieked and howled in dismay and anger, the tree's groaned their disappointment and sorrow. The angry yowls of hunger permitted the dark, looming forest, evicting fear and anxiousness.



Moisturized drops of hail reigned on the land, coating it in a sheer cloak of invisibility. Shielding the dark, rolling green hills of uncertainty with his veil of courage. The thick gray covering drowned the agonized cries and groans of the vast and sagely trees, the whistle and shrieks of the anguished wind. Drowning out the fear and adrenaline, leaving a serene calmness, a numbness achieved by no other.



The rain was soft as it tumbled down to the soiled earth, leaving small supple streams and dew on the bent grass. The leaves tired and grieved with the weight of the tireless drops, the branches shuddering with the calmness of the soothing crystal.



In it all, the maker and the makee, stood as one in the solid downcast of gray skies, and the relentless downfall of wet drops that slid off the resistant cloaks and protective skins.



A figure cloaked in seamless black, had gleaming, emotionless gray eyes that were riveted to one point in the distance, where a looming structure could be seen.



The object seemed to the epitome of darkness, it was clouded by the hail of rain and the fog that seemed to blanket the earth. It's shadow was clearly seen, although it wavered with every pass of the downed cloud. The spires were sharp and clean, it was a castle of mystery, something seen but not owned.



"S-sir?" The trembling, not nearly so unyielding a figure glanced warily at the cold gray eyes.



"Hogwarts, Pettigrew." The murmur of quiet ascension, of approval, the need to see. To conquer.



"Yes, s-sir." The trembling voice seemed confused, but the figure had the wit to avoid asking.



"A castle in the distance." The cold, sneering voice was louder, more sure. "So hard to reach, but so desirable."



"Of course, sir." The voice trembled just that much less. This was who this man was, no some dreaming prat.



"Do you think I could conquer the impenetrable Hogwarts, Pettigrew?" The voice sounded so sure of it's self, so demanding.



"Of course, sir," said Pettigrew quietly, glancing up to the sharp face that held a self-satisfied smirk.



"Yes," the word was hissed, drawn out in a desirable notion. Pettigrew shivered. He felt a rising pity for any who provoked such hatred, such loathing.



The looming castle in the distance was like a paradise, something not reachable. Lucius felt exhilarated at the thought of conquering the quested land of unattainable. To show the innocents that Hogwarts and Dumbledore are not omnipotent, are not immortal.



Hogwarts shows this immortal gleam that catches anyone's eye, he saw it and embraced it in his first year. The glow, the mantra of the castle, was soothing and persuasive. It reeked of approval, of desperate desire, of want and admiration. Of ambition to reach your greatest.



He'd reached his greatest, and now to destroy what rooted him on, what drove him, only then would he be great. To do what no man, or creature has done before.



To do so, will take time and patience. Something he was well acquainted to. He will conquer what's not conquerable before his time, before he lay dead and rotting. He will die to do so.



To show them that he really was what they thought he was, cruel and heartless. He would destroy their hopes and dreams with a swipe of his hand. And then he would be happy.



A cruel sneer formed on his face, a gleam on malice in his eye as he stared at the nearly discernible castle.



"Our Master awaits us, Pettigrew--or should I say Wormtail?" Lucius purred with petty mock friendliness. Peter looked up from the iced ground and Lucius could see the terror and sadness in his eyes. A grin spread over his face as they Apparated. Of course, the real intention may not have been what Pettigrew thought.



The man could have a heart attack if he so wished. It wouldn't be so bad, to see him writhe and twist in agony before him. Who says he won't betray them? He did it to the Potter's, and they had been good friends. Offer him the chance to live in power, to breath and eat it as if it lived, to be it, and he would give the secrets of the world.



If Pettigrew even so much as harmed a hair on the Potter brat, Lucius would single-handedly strangle the pitiful man until his death. After subjecting him to many different, painful hexes. It would not due to betray.



Betrayal is worse than death. To betray is to live a lie, to be a lie.



The future is an impossible thing. To change at a curve, a poorly tended thread. A lie.