The Osiris Song

"This could be easy, Weasley," Pettigrew's voice echoed his master's words. "This could all be over, and you could be in that bed, waiting for your pretty wife to get home. All you have to do is tell me where the map is. I think that's quite a reasonable offer, don't you? One life for another. More than reasonable."

The Weasley raised its head and glared through its mane of red hair. His lips were bloody from where he'd bitten them to resist screaming, only to fail. "Go back to hell," he hissed, voice hoarse from howling. "You're not getting anything from me."

Voldemort clucked Pettigrew's tongue. "Tut tut. It's still early.

More screaming. Quite a pleasant sound; richer than past victims. Even Lily Potter's wails sounded reedy and thin compared to Bill Weasley. "You're stubborn, Weasley. You think I'll give up. What you don't realize is that I won't. I have no reason to. If you won't tell me, I'll take it against your will. Or maybe I'll kill your wife. Maybe I'll make you kill her." He laughed and released the

Like a puppet, Bill sprang nimbly to his feet and began dancing about like a prima ballerina. "Do you see, Weasley?" Voldemort chuckled with Pettigrew's voice. "I can make you do anything. I can make you take me to the map. But I prefer to do it the other way. I'm really not a bad man. When you show me to the map, I want it to be something you really, truly want to do, not something I've made you do. I want you to beg me to let you take me there. I want you to crawl on your hands and knees and grovel at my feet for the opportunity. Do you understand?

Bill went stiff, about to throw his head back to scream, but Voldemort held up Pettigrew's hand. "No noise," he whispered. Bill, trapped between the searing agony of the

Bill began to dance, a slow waltz.

"Very good. I'm sure this is agony for you. I'm sure you want to scream. I'm sure you want to die. Dying would be preferable to this humiliation, wouldn't it? Dancing for your captor. This isn't difficult for me. I can do more. How would you like to make love to your beautiful wife like this? She wouldn't be any the wiser. Or perhaps I should reverse it. Perhaps I should do this to HER, while she makes love to YOU." He laughed. "Oh, yes, that would be PRICELESS. She's a quarter-veela, isn't she? I remember her from the Tournament. I think her screams might be better music than even yours."

With a disinterested flick of Pettigrew's wrist, Voldemort released Bill from both curses and watched as the young man collapsed, sobbing, to the floor. The crying that came after the screams had never interested Voldemort. It annoyed him more than anything.

"You're beginning to bore me, Weasley," he said with a yawn. "How long have we been at this? Surely your wife will be home soon. You've already gone through so much trouble for this anniversary party - the rose petals, the champagne. One year is it? I'm surprised you didn’t snatch her up sooner. Certainly you don't want it ruined when I kill her, do you? You don't want this to go THAT far. All you have to do is tell me what I want to know, and when she comes home, Fleur can kiss it and make it better. Won't that be nice?"

Bill made an indistinguishable sound.

"What was that, Weasley?" Voldemort moved Pettigrew closer. "I didn't hear you."

Another sound, a muffled whiffle.

"Speak up." VoldeGrew crouched down beside the exhausted man. "What are you saying."

With a speed that surprised even Voldemort, Bill reached out and snatched the wand from Pettigrew's silver hand. He rolled to the side and pushed himself up onto shaky knees, blue eyes flashing with renewed fire. "Stay away," he rasped.

VoldeGrew stared at him, then started laughing. "What are you going to do, Weasley?" he asked, standing and dusting off his robes. "Kill me? You're far too weak for that kind of magic right now. And you wouldn't succeed. You might kill this host, but you wouldn't harm me, and I'd come back again. I'll keep coming back, Weasley, until you tell me what I want to know."

"I don't know anything, you bastard."

"But you do, Weasley, even if you don't KNOW you know. But I'll get it out of you. I always do."

The fire was dying from Bill's eyes as he realized the truth in Voldemort's words. Still, he had not released the wand.

"Give me the wand, Weasley." Voldemort held out Pettigrew's silver hand.

Bill stared at him.

"Give it to me," Voldemort said, more firmly this time.

"You can't make me do anything I don't want to," Bill whispered hoarsely, eyes glazed but alert. "Not anymore."

"I already told you, I don't want to do that anyway. All you have to do is tell me everything you know about the Osiris Song."

But Bill shook his head. Slowly at first, then faster. "I won't tell you anything," he growled. "I won't give you anything."

"Give me that wand!" Voldemort demanded.

"No!"

"NOW!" His voice boomed, overpowering Pettigrew's weasely snivel.

Bill stood, remarkably fluid despite his protesting joints. "NO!" He raised the wand to his temple.

For the first time, Voldemort felt his confidence falter. "Stop that!" he snapped.

Bill smiled. "No," he said softly. "This is my choice, bastard, not yours. And I choose to leave you wanting.

"NOOOOOOOO!" VoldeGrew howled as his wand flashed, and Bill Weasley collapsed, dead, to the floor.

All was silent in the bedroom for a very long minute. When it was broken, it was by Voldemort's voice, not Pettigrew's.

"Clean him up and put him in bed," the dark Wizard snarled through Pettigrew's lips.

"B-But…" Peter stammered.

"Make it look natural." The voice simmered on Peter's tongue and tasted like acid. "When his wife screams, I want everyone from here to London to hear her. I want to hear her. And I want her to know just who killed him."

Making Peter's legs carry them across the room, Voldemort bent the man at the midsection, leaned down, and pressed Pettigrew's palm against the back of Bill's neck. There was a sizzling sound, like bacon fat in the skillet, and when the hand was drawn away, a black, smoking mark was burned into the cooling flesh. The Dark Mark. Voldemort's mark.

"Bastard thinks he's won," the Dark Wizard snarled. "Not yet, Weasley. Not for long."

They stood. "Be gone before the witch gets back." And without another word of instruction, he left his supplicant's mind and whisked back to his body, hidden somewhere in the Transylvanian mountains. He knew he couldn't remain there much longer. Potter was close; so close, he was almost tempted to take him, ready or not. But the time wasn't right yet; wouldn't be right for a some time yet. But soon enough.

Back in Egypt, Peter Pettigrew barely noticed his Master's departing thoughst as he set about cleaning the blood off Bill Weasley's lips and hauling the taller man's body onto the bed. Redistributing the rose petals over the comforter, he rested the man's hands in his lap, propped him up against the headboard, and reached up to maneuver his face into a smile rather than a death mask. He didn't need to, of course. A shadow of the man's final smile still rested on his lips. Peter debated fiddling with it, but decided not to. The veela would be home soon, and he wasn't supposed to be here when she got back.

After making his way downstairs - careful not to disrupt the rose petals along the way - he clambered out a side window and dropped nimbly onto the hardy desert bushes Fleur had planted around the house. Morphing into a rat, he scurried away from the house.

He was less than a mile away when he heard the veela scream.