Promises Remembered

Promises Remembered

The Sequel to Promises Unbroken

Chapter Twenty-Five: A Vision of Peace

The black owl landed on the foot of James and Lily's bed at midnight, having somehow circumvented the deep layers of defenses on Grimmauld Place to land there just as soon as James and Lily finally headed for bed. It had been a long two days since the attack on Diagon Alley, and James had not slept since before then. He'd been too busy with reconstruction and public relations to even consider resting, but now he was ready to collapse. James was planning on traveling to Avalon early the next afternoon (wheelchair or no, his Auror qualifications were still current), and he was looking forward to doing so off of a reasonable night's sleep.

Until the jet black owl arrived, and stared at him with flat red eyes.

Red eyes.

Sitting up, James snatched the letter from the owl before something untold could happen--those red eyes were intensely familiar. How or why he did not understand, and never would. The owl disappeared the moment that he took the letter.

"What is--" Lily started, but James cut her off.

"I don't know."

Shivering, he broke the seal. A part of him did not want to open it--every instinct he had was screaming at him that this letter was bad. Years as an Auror had taught James to trust his instincts...but they hadn't taught him how to run away, either. All his life, James had faced threats head on. He would not stop now.

The letter crinkled in his hands as James unrolled it. The parchment was ancient, and had the kind of texture that told him that it had to be handmade. Even in the Wizarding World, such paper was rare--and hugely expensive. Even the Fourteen Families never used such things, save for the most important matters. Magic could never create paper like this.

That alone should have told him. But not until he saw the elegant, old-fashioned handwriting did James realize.

Dear James,

I have recently become aware of a yearning for peace in our world. As you know, but contrary to what pedestrian individuals may believe, I am not opposed to the establishment of peace. War serves no one. I am, in fact, highly amendable to such a cause.

Our world has suffered enough. No one realizes more than I how this war has harmed our people. Such was never my intention, as a wizard of your status undoubtedly knows. However, twenty-one years of conflict have warped my motives in the public's eyes, and I write to you in response to that.

I desire peace. This I say to you without reservations, and I extend my hand to you, James Potter, in hopes that you will join me in this endeavor. Join with me and end the darkness. Help me stop this war, James, before anyone else need suffer.

I ask very little. I do not ask for submission. I do not require surrender. I do not seek to break our world in my effort to save it. All I require is that your government turns Sirius Black over to me, and our conflict will be at an end.

Consider my offer with open eyes, James, and think first of those who depend upon you. I desire peace with all my heart, but if you deny me, I shall prosecute this war to the best of my ability, and I will not lose. I give you one chance, Minister of Magic. Do not squander my kindness.

Ave Atque Vale:

Tom Marvolo Riddle

of the Second Family, Marvolo

descended of the Slytherin line

Lord Voldemort.

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The island knew. It always had.

There were certain places in the Wizarding World that were simply...different. There were places that had magic embedded in their very roots, in their soil, in their essence. Oftentimes, these were ancient sites, homes or foci of magic users throughout time. Many were known. Some, however, had been forgotten. All, however, were unique.

And Avalon was the oldest.

Unlike Hogwarts or the better known of such places, Avalon seemed to have no consciousness of its own. The island had no soul, no warmth, and no personality. But it was different. Few, however, could explain how, and it often seemed that the word "magical" had been created with Avalon in mind. But no one ever would have called the island alive. Only powerful.

That feeling, however, was not the only unique attribute that the ancient island possessed, nor its only mystery. The weather patterns were another.

Avalon did not have seasons. No spring, winter, summer, or fall ever fell upon the island; instead, the weather reflected the mood of the world: harshest in the most hopeless times, and gentle in peace. The Aurors who made the island their home knew to watch the weather, because it was often an indication of how events fared across the water. Gray skies indicated darkness rising, while cloudless and sunny days were a sign that all was not lost. Still, the weather patterns were usually only a mild reminder--never before had they seen anything like this.

Storms rocked the island that evening. Unexpected thunder and lightning threatened to tear the ancient Roman-style buildings down to their foundations, yet still the storms raged on. And on.

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Tom Marvolo Riddle.

James shivered. Never, not once, had he ever seen or heard the Dark Lord acknowledge that name. He had never admitted to the Muggle name that also told the world that Voldemort was the heir of two of the oldest Fourteen Families, that revealed the past most of the Wizarding World was afraid to even wonder about. James swallowed. Voldemort had used the forbidden name--and he had done so openly, without fear. Purposefully.

It was as if he was throwing a gauntlet to the ground in challenge. He was saying that he no longer cared for the consequences, that he no longer had anything to fear. Clearly, Voldemort was confident that he had won so much, so easily, that he could use that old Muggle name--because no one would dare question where he had come from.

"What is it, James?"

He swallowed again, feeling numb, and passed the letter to Lily without a word. He didn't know if he could even speak--his mind was still twisting into knots as it tried to wrap around the implications of those three little words. Not until she gasped did James begin to think of what had been said instead of just considering how. Her hand felt like ice on his right arm.

"That bastard," Lily swore, something she never did. "How dare he...?"

"Oh, it's very smart," James replied calmly. "I'll grant him that."

"What...?"

He sighed. "Think about it, Lily. I'm not the only one who is going to hear of this. I can't be." James frowned. "He knows what my reply will be."

"Then what in the world does he want?" Out of the corner of his eye, James watched her bite her lip, and his wife's pretty face creased in concentration. "Even Voldemort must understand that you would die before betraying Sirius to him."

"In a heartbeat."

"Then what?" she asked worriedly, absently toying with a strand of hair. "He always has a reason."

James nodded. "That's what I'm afraid of. You notice the signature on the letter?"

"Ye--oh." Lily blinked. "He's sending you a message."

"More than one," he breathed. "But why? And what?"

She had no answer, and they sat in silence once more as everything began to sink in. Voldemort couldn't possibly think James would give in...could he? No. He wasn't that blind, couldn't think James as disloyal as that. It had to be something else. Something more.

"'If you deny me, I shall prosecute this war to the best of my ability, and I will not lose,'" Lily read quietly. "Is he looking to shift the blame?"

"Is that possible?" James countered.

"It depends upon who else sees this letter," she replied sensibly.

James growled. "Oh, I'll be destroying this thing. There's no way that I'm going to play his game."

"He might expect that, James."

"That's why I'll be calling every editor of every magazine and newspaper there is and cashing in every favor I've accumulated," he said grimly. "This will not be getting out."

Lily nodded. "I only hope that's enough."

"Me, too," he admitted quietly, taking the letter out of her hands. For a long moment, he stared at the ancient paper, looked at the elegant script, and wondered what he wasn't seeing.

Unless Voldemort really wanted Sirius that badly.

He bit his lip. "I think that Sirius scared him, Lily," James said thoughtfully. "I think he really did."

"What do you mean?"

"This letter is almost a sign of weakness," he replied slowly. "He's acknowledging that Sirius is a threat to him...that he has to eliminate Sirius or he can't win the war."

"I doubt that was his intention."

"That makes no difference." James shook his head. "He might not want to admit it, but Voldemort needs to kill Sirius."

"Or worse," Lily whispered.

James swallowed. "Or worse," he agreed.

It seemed horrible to discuss his best friend this way, as if Sirius was simply another chess piece to be manipulated. But Voldemort's letter had made James' mind go click, and it was his duty to consider every angle. Still, it wasn't right. How had four innocent boys been transformed into...into what? Heroes? That was a strange thought. Twenty-one years ago, when he had first met Sirius on the Hogwarts Express, James would never have imagined that the obnoxious and lighthearted boy would become the only wizard to have faced Voldemort and survive. Twice.

And now that bastard wants my best friend. He wants the man who spent ten years suffering because he was too loyal to betray me--and Voldemort expects me to betray Sirius. He claims that doing so would serve the Wizarding World. James felt sick, and knew the truth. Sirius would do it. But I cannot. Even if it were for the best, I could not.

No matter what the future brings.

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His eyes flew open in the darkness, and Sirius gasped for air. It felt like cold fingers were gripping his throat, and he had to struggle against the instinctive need to scream. Shaking, Sirius forced himself into a sitting position and fought for control. It had only been a nightmare. Nothing more. Just a nightmare.

Am I? the cold voice asked, and Sirius almost tumbled off of the bed in surprise. He shivered.

"Go away," he said to the air, needing to hear the words aloud. But it was a weak response, and Voldemort laughed.

I will never 'go away,' he responded matter-of-factly. I will never leave you. I am here until you surrender...or until you die.

"Or until you die," Sirius shot back, climbing out of bed. He needed to move.

More laughter.

Sirius did not bother to turn on the light, mostly because he knew Voldemort expected him to, in order to try to combat the darkness inside his soul. But Sirius was at home in the darkness; he had been for years. Besides, the moon provided enough light through the giant skylights. He was in the Old Suite in the Main Villa, where every luxury was extended to those who led the Aurors. Not like that mattered at the moment--Sirius only cared that there was enough room to pace in the spacious quarters.

Pacing helped to calm his frazzled nerves a little. The silence, however, did not. Even the echoes of the Dark Lord's laughter had faded, leaving Sirius in utter stillness. The only sound came from the soft patter of his bare feet on the polished wood floor, and Sirius was loathe to admit that the stillness unnerved him. Someone else might have interpreted Voldemort's silence as absence, but he knew better. Sirius could feel the Dark Lord lurking on the fragile edges of his consciousness.

"What do you want?" he demanded. The answer was immediate.

You, Sirius. Just you.

"No."

No?

"You do not own me."

Do I not? Soft, almost gentle, laughter. What of my Mark burned into your arm?

Pain engulfed him before Sirius could reply, and he collapsed to the floor, gasping in agony and trying not to scream. His body convulsed, and his head smacked against the hard wood as he struggled for control. For a moment, Sirius blacked out completely, and then came to with a start, wheezing for air and forcing the pain back. But effort was not enough, and he heard the laughter in his mind--fight as he might, Sirius knew that he was completely at Voldemort's mercy.

Then abruptly, the pain stopped, as if the Dark Lord could read his mind. Maybe... He clambered to his feet.

"Flesh and blood only," he snarled, "Not heart or soul."

There was only cold laughter, but he felt the link strengthen. No, Voldemort could not hear his thoughts...but he could read him like a book. No. Not quite. He could read pain and despair. And he could use them.

Finality sunk in. Voldemort was right. He had won.

It is over, my friend.

He was staring out the window, staring and shaking. Clinging to the windowsill didn't seem to help, either. He had fought so hard and so long...and all for nothing. His heart, which had carried him so far, was no longer his own. Deny it all might--there was nothing left. No chance. It was over.

"No."

The word escaped before he meant to speak, and it startled Sirius as much as it startled Voldemort. No?

"No."

Pain almost made him black out, but somehow he stayed on his feet. He felt the attack tear in on him, but it felt strangely distant, strangely unreal. Sirius stumbled into the windowsill and caught himself, seeing stars. Breathe in. Breathe out. And Voldemort was amused by his defiance.

You cannot win, Sirius. Not now.

He shook his head. The words wheezed in his throat. "I can. I will."

Soft laughter, almost genuinely sad. You will never be powerful enough.

"I am stronger than you think."

Yes, you are strong, came the matter-of-fact reply. But not strong enough. Men like you never are.

"Never?" Sirius challenged. Even when the years of pain had ground him down most, his instinctive defiance had persevered, and now it raised his ugly head again. No one had ever taught Sirius to give in--Voldemort had tried, but the lesson simply hadn't stuck.

What you are cannot resist what I am.

"I will." The words came out without thinking.

What?

He felt cold.

"I will become what you are."

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