The Phoenix and the Serpent

The Phoenix and the Serpent

Chapter XI: The Coming of the Cold

Dreaming. He knew he was dreaming again, the way the world around him seemed so real yet just beyond the grasp of focus. Figures slipped through his vision like fish in a glass bowl: a sinister shadow, eyes like glaring green lamps, double dagger hands reaching out; a tall boy, hair like golden fire, pointing a wand made of moonlight; an old man, one eye stark blue and round as a coin, whispering to him. And lastly, that brilliant flashing jewel, redder than Mars, redder than lifeblood, rending his mind and memory to pieces. He dreaded it, that thing and what it contained. Fear clutched coldly at his chest and he struggled against it. 'I am dreaming. Dreaming...'

The Dark Lord jerked awake. For a moment he sat still, shaking and gasping as afterimages swam before his eyes. He was alone, sitting on his chair in the darkened quarters of his tower. He had fallen asleep while watching the hearthfire burn down. It had long turned to ashes, and beyond his window the gibbous moon glowered down at the western sea.

For many minutes, Voldemort willed the pounding in his chest to slow. He touched his hand to his brow and felt cold sweat. Then, with a snarl, he leaped to his feet, snatched up his chair and hurled it at the fireplace. The chair shattered like a bag of bones.

"Yet again this happens!"

Breathing hard, he paced the room. He had tried everything: meditation, self-hypnotism, dreamcatchers; he had taken various sedative potions that numbed his brain and blurred his thoughts. He had even tried staying awake. Nothing helped. Eventually he would drift off, and then the dreams would come.

Since he had turned to darkness many years before, he had needed very little sleep, and each time he did succumb he never dreamed. But now he found himself, incredibly, doing both. Not every night, but often enough. He had not thought much of them at first, perhaps an anomaly caused by a sudden return to human form, or maybe some psychic residue unearthed from his former human life. But some of the visions were unfamiliar and inexplicable. Worse, his dreams recurred, clearer than ever, frightening him with their force and mystery.

And he hated it. He hated how it scared him, how weak it made him feel. There were nights when he would wake up shouting, one hand rising to shield his face from...from something painfully bright. Something red.

"Why?" he hissed as he quickened his pace. "Why is this happening?" His power should be complete, unquestionable. Any sign of weakness, any slip of control, could invite a threat to his rule.

Back and forth he strode, fast enough for his robes to whirl with each turn. He only started having these dreams after his rebirth, but that wasn't enough of an explanation. He had to pin down their source. Were they mere conjurations of troubled thoughts, or something else? Were they premonitions? Omens? Warnings?

Part of him scoffed at the idea. He was no seer. Having traced his mother's lineage far enough into the past, he knew there was not a drop of prophetic blood in his veins. No, these could not be visions. But if not that, then what?

He had to be know. He had to test it somehow.

Voldemort came to halt, closed his eyes, and tried to call back as much as he could from his dreams. The images flickered in his mind, bits and pieces dredged up from sleep. He examined them like a man sifting through silt for gold.

They came. The hated face of his old headmaster. A girl with flame-red hair. The school, Hogwarts, glittering in the twilight. He would have that place in his grasp, someday.

More visions. A faceless fetus, suspended in a jar. An old man, one eye whirling in his socket (he saw that man once before, the one they call Alastor Moody). A tall boy, this one was unfamiliar, a young sprat with the look of a loon. The still forms of headless angels. A jewel, and that terrible bright light.

Voldemort gritted his teeth. He was going nowhere. These conjurations were meaningless.

One more image floated up to the surface. A grimy, two-story building, and a sign over the door, swinging in the wind.

Welcome to the Everglade

Hillsdale's finest inn

His eyes flew open. It was as if someone had struck a match in the darkness of his mind. He tried to draw out more from the memory, but the flame died as quickly as it had come.

Hillsdale? A name of a town? Or was his mind playing another trick on him? No, it couldn't be. He had never been to Hillsdale, or a place called the Everglade. This was something else. He had to find out. Now.

Voldemort strode across the carpeted room and flung open his chamber door. He snatched an unlit torch hung on the wall and set it aflame with a whispered word. He hurried down the short corridor and turned left, opening a side door to the staircase.

It was, in fact, not quite a staircase. Instead of steps it had vertical steel blades, each a foot wide and an inch thick, jutting out from the circular wall and spiraling down to the lower floor. Each blade was sharp enough to cut through a thick iron chain, but the Dark Lord stepped onto the stairwell without the slightest hesitation. Before his foot made contact, there was a metallic shriek, and his booted heel landed on the flat side of the blade. The next blade followed suit, matching his stride, as did the next. Where Voldemort's boot landed, the blade became vertical, and where it left, the blade shifted back upright.

After exactly two hundred steps, he came to a door in the wall. He opened it with a wave of his hand and entered. Another whispered word and the lamps in the room all lit, throwing long shadows onto the walls. This was Voldemort's laboratory--or as he called it, his personal playground.

The door was made of bolted ironwood, the floor of cold granite. Long tables divided the room, stacked end to end with alembics, calcinators, mortars, pestles, burners, vials, flasks and glass tubes that snaked from one bloated beaker to another. On the sides of the room, creatures hissed and squeaked and rattled their cages. A steel cauldron, sides burnt gray from long use, stood at the center of the room. Against the far wall was a table with nothing but long needles, and on the wall itself hung one of Voldemort's prized possessions: the last remaining copy of the Torturer's Map. Created in the 15th century by the alchemist Nightgaunt, the parchment was a complete life-sized map of the human nervous system, with all the pressure points painstakingly catalogued with hundreds of tiny flags. Touching a flag caused a note to appear, revealing what striking that pressure point would do. Paralysis, muscle contortion, blindness, stomach cramps, diarrhea, asphyxiation, heart failure, reversal of blood flow, unending agony, madness--each reaction was carefully marked for varying degrees of intensity. Looking at that Map always cheered Voldemort up. Who needs poisons? The human body was already quite capable of self-destruction.

But he had no time for these foibles now. He stalked towards a cabinet and retrieved a parchment case. From it he took out an altogether different map, that of the British Isles. The Dark Lord unrolled it on the floor like a small carpet. From his pocket he retrieved a pouch made of black velvet. He loosened the string and set it gently on the floor beside the parchment.

"Out," he said.

The pouch trembled, then many little black seed-like things marched onto the map. These were insects called groucans, or more commonly, glow-beetles. They possessed a limited sentience in that, provided with a point of reference, they could be trained to remember certain locations.

"Cities," said the Dark Lord.

Chittering mindlessly, the groucans trundled onto the map. In a minute they had all settled into position. Their lower segments began to glow a light blue, and every city in Britain on the map was lit.

"Towns."

More groucans streamed from the pouch and took positions. This time, violet lights began to glow all over the map.

Voldemort nodded, satisfied. Now for a final test. He reached into the pouch, caught a lone beetle between his thumb and forefinger, held it up.

"Hillsdale," he whispered.

He put the beetle on the map, and watched with narrowed eyes as it skittered about its brothers. It crawled over Wales, over Davenport, then stopped in a location some distance from London. There it attacked and tore apart another beetle, took over its position, and began to glow green.

There.

Voldemort exhaled a deep breath he had not been aware of taking. So. It was no figment of his imagination--the place did exist. His dreams contained a kernel of truth. But then, what of it? What did it matter if he had seen that place in his head? What was the significance?

The old man. The one with the round eye. He whispered a word. It was...

"Harry..."

Voldemort's eyes grew wide. Him? This has to do with Potter?

He had to know more. Teeth bared, hands shaking, he strode to the other end of the room. There a candelabra stood on a low cupboard. He grabbed it and blew on the middle candle, which sparked a green flame.

"Heed me, my servant," he said. "Your master commands you."

The flame flickered at first then flared up. A face, blurry and indistinct, appeared in its core.

"I am here, lord," spoke a disembodied voice.

Voldemort held the candelabra closer. In the light his sallow face glowed a sickly lime. "Have you been vigilant in your watch over the school, darkling? Have you kept my command?"

"My lord, no one sees me, yet I see them all. The walls are my ears and the windows are my eyes. I have been watchful, as you have bidden me."

"Very well. Tell me, have you seen the Potter boy today?"

"My lord, I have."

Voldemort brought the candelabra even closer; the heat seared his eyes, but he paid it no heed. "And what has he been doing? Has he gone anywhere?"

"My lord, he does what any student does in this school, and acts the way any student acts. I see him often in the halls and in his classes, walking with his two companions. As for your other question, he has not left the school since the beginning of his term, and that was to go to the Hogsmeade celebration. Beyond that, there is nothing out of the ordinary."

Voldemort relaxed a little. So, Potter was still in Hogwarts. He had not gone into hiding or taken any drastic action. All was still well.

And yet...

"There is nothing strange about him? You are certain?"

His spy paused, then said, "He seems more cheerful than usual, my lord, less burdened by something, as compared to before..."

Voldemort gestured impatiently. "Anything else?"

"That is all, lord."

"Very well. If you observe anything different, report to me at once. Otherwise, continue with your task." He put the candle out with his fingers, then blew on the left branch of the candelabra.

"Gallowbraid."

The candle sputtered before surging into a towering flame, and the sharp face of Andros Gallowbraid appeared before him. He still wore those dark round glasses. For all his faults, the man was a light sleeper.

"My lord Voldemort, this is a pleasure," he said, bowing his head.

"I am sure you find it so," replied the Dark Lord. "I want a report on your progress. Now."

"Everything is going according to your plan, lord. I am planning on paying our friend a visit tomorrow--that is to say, in a few hours--to convince him to side with us. My men are in place and awaiting any instructions to support me, though I doubt I'll be needing them."

"You notice nothing out of the ordinary?"

"I have been careful, lord. No one suspects me, if that's what you're asking."

Voldemort relaxed some more. "Very well. I want another report tomorrow, after your meeting."

"Of course, my lord. Will that be all?"

Voldemort paused. While there was little that could possibly for anything to go wrong, he had nothing to lose with being sure.

"I have one more task in mind for you," he said. "There is a town, some miles southeast from where you are. It is called Hillsdale. You will send some of your men down there, posthaste."

"I shall, my lord. What shall I instruct them to do?"

Voldemort paused again. "I have received information that our foes may be up to something there. There is nothing definite. Your task is to make it so. Have your men search the place, in particular an establishment called The Everglade. Tell them to be thorough. If there are any wizards there, capture them for interrogation. Kill everyone else."

"Yes, my lord. That will be done."

"Continue with your work. I expect success." He put out the flame and set the candelabra down.

He stood there in his laboratory for long moments, eyes roaming the cracks of the wall. All his plans were intact, his agents still undiscovered. Like a spider he had spun his trap for the wizarding world, and all he had to do now and then was to test it for weaknesses. So far he had found none. All was well.

"Yes," he whispered to himself. "All is well."

His voice sounded weak and tired to his ears. He left laboratory and walked back to his room. There he sat by his window, watching the sea, willing himself not to fall asleep.

~~@~~

Lyle Bishop woke up with a start.

He could tell by soft night wind from the window and by the silence of the lark that it was still far from morning. He had been dreaming, he realized, of his grandfather. It was not one of his sightless dreams, where all he could sense was sound and heat and motion. He had dreamed in shape and color, of being young again, sitting on his grandfather's lap under a summer sun. His grandfather had been telling him stories of the bravest of Aurors, and how the old man's eyes gleamed as he narrated the glorious duels where the Aurors defeated Dark Wizards through wit and skill and élan...

The Commander of the Order of the Phoenix sat up in his chair, stretched his back and rubbed his eyes. He had long ceased to expect to see light whenever he opened his eyes, but he had never lost the habit of rubbing them. "How long was I asleep?" he muttered.

A feather-light pressure on his shoulder announced Aria's presence. The pixie's response was heavily accented by clicks.

Lyle frowned. "An hour? Damn it, it's three in the morning?"

He shook his head to clear it, then felt around his oakwood desk. His fingers knocked away the crumpled balls of false starts and middle-ground mistakes and touched a tray on his right. The twenty-seven letters that had taken him all night and most of the morning to write were all neatly stacked there, each sealed with red wax and bound by ribbon.

He found himself wishing his grandfather was still alive. He would know how to be brave at times like these.

He fingered the unfinished letter before him, then retrieved his wand from his pocket and touched it to the start of the letter. He had made it a habit to check his work. Though he had trained himself to write legibly, he could never be certain of the evenness of his margins and spacing. He drew the wand slowly across the parchment, like a finger feeling engraved words. The letter magically emerged in his mind:

Mr. and Mrs. Whitewood,

I bear sad tidings on behalf of the Order of the Phoenix. It is our deepest regret to inform you that your son, Harold, died in battle last night during a Death Eater attack in Southampton.

He had stopped here. What more could he possibly say? That the battle was a complete debacle? That Voldemort's monsters had caught them completely unawares? The Death Eaters hardly even fired a shot, allowing their beasts to overrun and decimate the shocked members of the Order. The few who escaped were shaking and near-hysterical. Asked about the rest, one woman whimpered, "In pieces. They're all in pieces."

This letter was one of the harder ones to write. He had not personally known Harold Whitewood, could not comment on his character or if he had made a good end. He had spent the better part of the night struggling to find the right words. At some point, his strength gave out and he'd fallen asleep.

He sighed and put down his wand. Writing private letters was an alien art, like poetry or painting fruits. Certain people had that talent and he was not one of them. After a moment's reflection, he picked up his quill, inked it, and tried again.

Harold and his comrades were strong and upright and faithful, but most of all they dreamed of a future where none lived in fear of the Dark Lord, and together they gave their lives for this dream. It deeply saddens us that we have lost many like him, and that since they fell deep within enemy territory, we cannot even honor them with a proper burial.

Lyle knew no amount of sympathizing could comfort these families. Some of them might even blame the Order for their loss. He could not make them change their minds. But in the end, this was this. It would be an insult to the dead if the living could not fulfill what they had started out to accomplish.

For your loss, we can only give you our deepest condolences, the sympathies of those who have also lost loved ones in this struggle, and the solemn vow that, for however long this war lasts, this terrible crime will not go unpunished.

Till we meet in brighter times, walk in the grace of the Godland.

Lionel W. Bishop

Lyle signed over his name. He had long considered and reconsidered if it was a wise thing to do. He had written the letters in Secret Ink: the letters would appear as a blank page if the wrong person opened them, and fade away two hours after the right person did. But there was no assurance that his recipients wouldn't give him away. In the end, though, he decided to trust them. Even if they did report him out of spite, what of it? The Ministry would sooner or later find out about their little black sheep. He wasn't afraid of them. There were graver matters to be afraid of.

He folded up the letter and sealed it. He heard the bustle of paper as Aria laid out a fresh parchment. He was about to begin another letter when someone knocked on the door.

"Commander."

Lyle snapped up straight, twisted around his chair. "Come in, Arabella."

He heard the door opened as Arabella Figg stepped in. Lyle had long learned to distinguish between her manners of calling him. If she used his name, it was not anything important. But Commander meant areport.

"News from Sirius and Remus?" he asked her.

"No," Arabella, rustling a piece of paper in her hand. "We've just received a coded message from our mole."

It took some willpower for Lyle not to bolt out his chair. "Will you read it for me?"

Arabella walked towards him, perhaps to hold it to the light. She read:

"Found their port. Well-guarded. Ghost ship. May lead to Onyx Isle. More creatures disembarked--twenty at least. Awaiting instructions."

Lyle's heart sank. A ghost ship was the Dark Army's means of transportation? How on earth did they manage to get one? He asked her to read the note again, to be sure he heard all of it, then asked, "Have you told Marius yet?"

"I was about to, but I thought I should tell you first."

Lyle nodded. "All right. Let's go."

He retrieved his wand and moved to the door, but Arabella spoke up again. "Lyle, I know Dumbledore asked you to write to the families, but he didn't specifically said you should be the one to do it. Shouldn't you leave it to someone else?"

Lyle gave her a sad smile. "This task I'm afraid I can't delegate. I owe it to the dead, Arabella. As their Commander." And he thought, Dumbledore would have done nothing less. He would have done the same for me, had I also fallen.

"Of course," said Arabella, "I don't question that. It's just that when I see you, you're always so tired. You ought to be getting more sleep."

He entered the hall with wand in hand. He brushed the rings on his fingers briskly; each vibration returned to his wand a stark picture of the surrounding area. Arabella beside him looked like a colorless specter.

"How about you?" he asked her. "Why aren't you asleep?"

She was fiddling with her sleeves, which she often did. "Well, I just couldn't, I suppose," she said. "I didn't lack for trying. But it's hard when I've got so many of my friends out there right now, staying awake and trying to keep an eye on the Dark Army. And I don't just mean the two-legged ones, mind you." She sighed. "I stay awake for news from our spies, but mostly I just miss my darlings. I hope they'll keep safe."

"Their mistress trained them well. I'm sure they will be."

"Thank you," she said, a smile in her voice. She added, "I can't stop thinking about those letters, and those families who'll get them. I can only imagine what it's like. I don't envy your job at all."

"Nor I yours." He paused, then asked, "Is Marius doing all right with his vigil?"

This time he heard a bite of exasperation in her voice. "Oh, he's being vigilant all right. Last time I peeked in the library, he was sitting in front of the Vision Lamp and looked like he was about to nod off."

"Then let's hope he's a light sleeper."

They arrived before the oakwood library doors, which stood ajar. As Lyle entered, he heard the sound of snoring. He struck his rings together once more and the room sketched itself in his mind. At the center table, a stout old man sat asleep before a lit gas lamp with his head tilted forward.

Lyle stepped behind the old man's chair. "Mr. Chief Strategist."

Marius jerked awake so fast his monocle popped off his eye. "Sir! Wide-awake, sir! Merely resting my eyes!"

Lyle moved to the chair next to him and sat down. "When it's just us, please call me Lyle. Any news from our captains?"

"Ah, still quiet there so far...at least, I believe so. I'm sorry--must've nodded off..."

"It's all right to rest now and then, Marius. They would've woken you if there was something important."

The old man picked up his monocle and wiped it with handkerchief. "I wanted to keep watch," he said. "Command responsibility and all that. And, well, I suppose I am a little more protective of the younger ones..."

"More like you wanted to know if your plan worked," Arabella said, sitting down beside Lyle.

"And a good evening to you too, Mrs. Chief of Intelligence," he replied, giving her a mock frown. "I trust you take pride in your vigilance tonight?"

"More so than you, it seems."

Lyle smiled at this. She had still not forgiven Marius for nominating her as the Order's Commander.

In truth, he reflected as he leaned back in his chair, the Commander's job did not rest solely on him. It took three people to fulfill the roles Dumbledore had left behind. Arabella handled Intelligence: she and her spies stood with their ears to the wind and caught all news of the Dark Army's movements. All reliable information went to Marius, who used it for formulating strategies. The final decisions, however, fell to Lyle. He was the one who decided which plans would serve them best, the one who took final responsibility for their actions. The Order would stand or fall by the decisions they made as a team. Sirius had affectionately referred to them as "The Tripod."

Lyle waited as Arabella read the message to Marius.

"A ghost ship!" breathed the old man. "The Dark Lord has found some worthy allies, indeed. No wonder our mermen friends have trouble finding it. Near impossible to track, I fear. This will take some planning." He nodded to Arabella. "An excellent piece of espionage, my dear."

"Thank you," she replied, "but the credit goes to the agent. I just pushed the pencil."

"For whatever else you can say of the man," said Marius, "Snape certainly knows his work."

"There is no better choice," Lyle reflected, "than one who best understands the Death Eater mind."

"Indeed." Lyle heard Marius's heavy feet pacing the room. "A ghost ship, hmm? That ensures their mobility over sea, meaning all the coastal regions of Britain are vulnerable. I find it strange, then, that all reports show that our enemy's concentrated his forces in the south. Normally, how you'd go about that is to come into the mainland en masse and push towards the interior to capture the capital. But he's not doing that. Nor is he consolidating his allies, like the Dementors and the giants. What's the Dark Lord thinking? Why's he wasting his time there when he should be expanding his territory?"

"For now, it's the smart thing to do," replied Lyle.

"Pardon?"

Lyle leaned back on his chair. "He's stone-walling the south and quietly staying there, at least for the meantime, because he's taking pains not to give the Ministry any sign at all that this is Death Eater handiwork."

"Absolutely," said Arabella. "He doesn't want the Ministry to know it's really him. Fudge won't be inclined to admit he's back--he'll give some kind of excuse about insurgents or troublemakers of some sort. The Dark Lord knows that and he's playing on it. That way there's no chance for us to make an alliance. He wants to keep the wizarding world off-balance, without a united opposition."

"Therefore," concluded Lyle, "he's going to wait, at least for now. He knows he's got the upper hand. He'll come for the Order first, then conquer Britain."

"The bastard," muttered Marius. "The only way to get the Ministry on our side, then, is to show some hard evidence."

"By tonight, that's what we're going to get." Lyle leaned forward and turned up the flame of the Vision Lamp. "Captains?"

The fire fanned outwards as the face of Sirius Black appeared on the glass. "Hearing you loud and clear, Commander."

"Glad you're wide awake. What's going on down there?"

Sirius grimaced. "Well, my men have been reduced to slapping themselves to stay awake, the temperature's about 18° and still dropping, and we're fresh out of hot chocolate. It's quieter than a wake out here. Are you sure they're headed this way?"

Arabella said, "Our spies say they spotted a large group heading towards your location. They know we have an outpost there and they're coming to get you."

"Yes, well, are you sure they'll get here anytime soon? They didn't stop for coffee somewhere?"

"Given their present speed, they ought to be right on top of you. That's why we're losing sleep over here."

Lyle said, "She's right, Sirius. Keep a sharp eye out or they'll get the drop on you. You two have a reputation to keep, after all."

"Whatever you say, Chief Crazyhorse."

It was Lyle's turn to grimace. "Mr. Black, I thought I told you not to call me that."

"But it's an excellent codename, sir."

"No, it is not." He turned to Marius. "Where in the world did Dumbledore get that name, anyway?"

Remus spoke up from somewhere behind Sirius. "North America, sir. Chief Crazyhorse, chief of the Oglala tribe of the Sioux Native Americans. Famous for the line, 'My lands are where my dead--'

"Thank you Mr. Lupin, that will do." Beside him, Lyle heard Marius and Arabella stifle chuckles. His face eased into a smile and he said, "I want to wish you two good luck. You're the best we have, and we're counting on you to win this one. Don't embarrass me, all right?"

"Don't worry," Sirius grimly replied. "We'll make Voldemort regret he ever set foot on Britain. This I swear."

"We'll get those monsters, all right," agreed Remus, "whether two-legged or four, we'll get them."

"That will be all, gentlemen," said Lyle. "Keep us informed. Till then, the Godland keep you." He felt the heat dissipate as the Vision Lamp died down.

"Well, what now?" Marius asked him.

"Now?" Lyle sighed. "Now comes the worst part of being Commander. The waiting."

~~@~~

Sirius Black had not slept for the last twenty-four hours, and while his body was starting to feel the fatigue, his mind was not. He was preoccupied with the whereabouts of the Dark Army, and getting more and more agitated as the hours slid peacefully by.

Their outpost was an abandoned wizarding village called Vespers, located some twenty miles southwest of London. The residents, mostly farmers, were on good ties with Dumbledore, and had listened when the Order asked them to flee from Voldemort's advancing forces. He, Remus and their battalion had been waiting in position since nightfall. Their mission was clear from the start: first and foremost, they were to capture as many of those beasts as possible. These shock troops had been their undoing in the previous battles, swiftly charging into the ranks of the Order and tearing their men apart. Remus had long been investigating the missing Muggles, and now it seemed they had discovered what Voldemort had done with them. Now they had to find out how it happened, and if could be reversed. Second, they also had to capture as many Death Eaters as possible. This was for intelligence purposes--each man could be a source of valuable information on the Dark Army's strategies.

Sirius put the Vision Lamp back on the shelf and sat down at their rickety wooden table. Remus, who was busy journaling, looked up at him.

"So," said Sirius.

"So," said Remus. "The Dark Army's really on its way here."

"That's what Arabella says, and she's rarely wrong."

"I was kind of hoping they'd take a different route."

"'We must rely not on our enemies failing to arrive, but on having ways of dealing with them when they do.' Your words, Remus."

"Sun Tzu's, actually." Remus closed his notebook and looked down. "It's just hard to believe that just yesterday we were having drinks with Lyle in headquarters. And now, here we are, at the frontlines."

Sirius thought about his letter to Harry, and wondered if it was going to be his last. They were silent for a tense minute, then Remus spoke up again.

"Are we really out of hot chocolate?"

"Sorry, I finished off the last cup an hour ago. It's bloody freezing out here. We'll probably see an early winter." Sirius stretched both arms over his head.

"I hate this," he said. "They could be just outside the village right now, just watching us wait. I hate it."

Remus smiled thinly. "You'd rather be fighting and risking our lives?"

"At least we'd be doing something."

"You're starting to sound a lot like Galino."

"DON'T say that!" Sirius immediately straightened up. "I'm bored--that's my excuse. Galino simply wants to get a lot of people killed. Doesn't matter which side they're on."

"I personally think his skills are wasted as rear guard."

"Well, I'm personally glad you're not in charge, then," retorted Sirius. "Galino's as brave as they come, but he's also bull-headed, narrow-minded and vengeful. It's a good thing Lyle keeps him reigned in. Left alone, he'd likely do something rash."

Remus shrugged. "If you're bored," he said, changing the subject, "then how about we do another inspection."

"Fine," Sirius replied, getting up. "Least we can keep ourselves warm by moving about."

Putting their cloaks on, they left their cottage and made their way to the village square. Vespers was composed of a few closely nestled cottages, only a few of which were two floors high. The cobblestone streets were narrow and well-lit by firefly lamp posts, and farmland surrounded the tiny village on each side. All these things suited their plans perfectly.

The cold air around them was dry and bare of mist. It stole the warmth and moisture from their skins. Sirius looked up at the night sky. The moon was out, and a few stars peered down at them from between the clouds.

"I wonder how Harry's doing?" he said, more to himself than to Remus.

"Hasn't he replied to your letter yet?"

"Actually, I asked him not to. It's too dangerous." He sighed. "I didn't even tell him where I'm stationed, because I didn't want him to worry."

They turned left into a narrow side street. Ahead of them, the road no longer stretched forward but opened up into a circle some thirty feet across. The houses here nestled together, forming a surrounding wall. At the center of this circular road was a small island ringed by a low hedge. Some of their men were there, sitting on huge boulders half- buried in ground. They saluted when they saw the captains, and Sirius saluted back. This keyhole-shaped area was critical to their plan. The enemy had to be lured and defeated here.

Sirius and Remus approached a house on the right side of the narrow street, before it turned into a circle. Sirius knocked five times on the door, three sharp raps followed by two soft ones. It opened just a fraction, and a rough voice demanded, "How do I know it's really Captain Black, not some dirty Death Eater trickster?"

Sirius casually replied, "Well, Rubin, a Death Eater wouldn't know about the time you got sorely drunk and tried to molest a cactus you mistook for Aliora Syrrh."

There was a short pause, then the voice said in a hurt tone, "Sir, I thought we agreed not to bring that up again."

"Then quit with the airs. Anything to report?"

"All quiet out here, sir. The men are itching for some action, is all."

"We'll be seeing some anytime now. Stay sharp." Sirius and Remus left as the door shut behind them. They crossed to the other side of the street, and Sirius repeated the knock on another door. This time, however, there was no answer.

Sirius tried again. He had no sooner struck his second knock when the door slipped ajar and an arrowhead poked out, aimed at his forehead.

"Do you humans even understand the concept of an ambush?" snapped an irritated voice.

"No need for that, Magorian," Remus hastily said. "We were just checking up on you."

"If our condition interests you," the voice went on, "my comrades and I have been standing for hours in a cramped room that still carries a lingering human stink. Nevertheless we were doing our best to stay out of sight, until YOU decided it a good idea to give our location away, simply to make a social call. I find myself wondering how either of you earned the rank of captain."

Sirius reminded himself there were more genial centaurs like Firenze. "You know," he said, "your attitude does not help the war effort."

"We are here simply because our elders wish us to be. Other than that, we owe you humans nothing. I shall remind you now that not all of us even agree to this alliance."

"Well said. I'll remember that when Voldemort comes knocking on your doorstep."

The arrowhead drew back into the shadows. "Begone. And do not return unless the enemy is yapping at your heels, like the fodder you are." The door was shut in his face.

"That went well," said Sirius. "At least he didn't call us 'descendants of apes' this time. Maybe he forgot."

Remus, however, looked pale. "You all right?" Sirius asked him.

"It's nothing," he muttered. "Let's just go check the perimeter."

They walked to the outskirts of the village, which was six minutes away from the keyhole area. Men had been stationed in every direction of the compass, and the captains made sure they were still on alert. Throughout the trek, however, Remus kept a pensive silence.

When they finished checking the final post, it was a little past four in the morning. They stopped to rest by the eastern road.

"Well," said Sirius, gazing about at the open fields. "I guess that's it."

"Yes," Remus softly agreed. "I guess so."

"Shall we head back then? The guards can take care of things here, I'm sure."

When his friend didn't answer, Sirius nudged him. "Remus? Are you all right?"

"I am. I was just thinking..." He turned to look at the town behind them. "It's quite peaceful here, don't you think? Sometimes I can imagine people still living in these houses, asleep in their beds, their children tucked in for the night. There's no one, of course, Dumbledore made sure of that. But...strange how deceptive peace is, isn't it? One moment you're living your life, just trying to get through the day, and the next moment some stranger comes knocking on your door, telling you to evacuate because the Dark Lord's coming. One moment it's peace, in the next it's war. One moment you're a scholar...in the next, you're a soldier."

Sirius did not speak, waiting for his friend to finish. After a long pause, Remus said, "We're worms on a hook, Sirius. Aren't you scared?"

"Yes," Sirius murmured. "I am."

Remus laughed. There was no mirth in it. "I have to commend you, then, since you certainly don't look it."

Sirius gazed out over the field, where the moonlight glistened on the tall grass. He said, "I can't afford to look scared, Remus. Neither of us can. But I'll tell you this much. A while ago you told me you couldn't believe we're suddenly out here on the frontlines. I had that same feeling just this morning. I realized I wasn't in my bunk anymore in the Summit. I wasn't surrounded by a solid mountain, just flimsy walls, a thatched roof and a handful of men. And somewhere out there, some monstrous thing's just waiting to get me in its jaws. I felt so sick I couldn't get up. I lay there for a long time, wondering how someone as soft-bellied as me ever got to be captain.

"Then a thought crossed my mind--many miles from here, Harry is getting up and going to his classes in Hogwarts. He's doing what he has to do as a student and a young man, never mind the terrible fate he's got hanging on his head. And I realized that given the chance, he'd trade his life of peace there to take my place here. He wouldn't even think twice about it, if it would keep me out of harm's way.

"And when I thought that, I found myself getting out of bed and putting on my boots. I was still scared, and I still am. But not scared enough to run and abandon Harry to the Dark Lord. That's why we're here, Moony. We didn't choose to be, maybe that's true. But we have to be, just so the people that matter to us get a chance for a future."

Remus silently regarded him. Then he smiled. It eased the lines on his face somewhat, making him look younger. "You're know what, Padfoot?" he remarked. "You almost sound like James."

Sirius laughed. "Yes, I'm glad you like my impression of him. It took me years to come up with that one."

"Don't flatter yourself," chuckled Remus. "The delivery wasn't that good."

"Oh no? Well, should we ever see him again I'll--"

A sudden biting gust blew in from the east, and the moon slipped behind a cloud. The long grass of the field beside them rustled in the wind. Sirius fell silent, shuddered, and realized it was not from the cold. Something icy gripped around his heart. It must have shown on his face, because Remus suddenly said, "Sirius?"

Sirius turned to face the wind. The grass still whispered to itself in the darkness, and the shadows shifted to and fro beneath the hidden moon.

"Sirius, what is it?"

"I--" don't know, he was going to say. But he knew how to find out. In an instant he had Transfigured and leaned into the wind, ears cocked and nose held high. He heard the sound of heavy feet a bare second before the stench of sweat and dried blood assaulted his nose. He snarled at the darkness, hackles raised in warning.

Remus did not hesitate. He drew his wand and fired into the air. The white flare scattered into sparks, illuminating the field. They landed on gaps on the grass, and the colors began to shift and fade as Disillusionment Charms were abjured. And they saw them--hulking figures in the gloom, their eyes glowing beneath the sudden light. Beyond them, the silhouettes of hooded figures.

Remus shot a red flare, crying out at the top of his lungs--

"HERE! SOUND THE ALARM! THE ENEMY'S HERE!"

Sirius's barking joined his warning. Some thirty yards away from them, snarls rose up, commands were shouted in the dark. The beasts ceased all attempts at concealment and charged, roaring and clawing through the field. Remus aimed and fired his wand at the grass. A wall of flame ignited from the ground, momentarily blocking the Dark Army. As one, the two captains turned and charged down the path into the village.

Sirius did not bother returning to human form, nor did he look back to see how many were behind them. He would not lose one precious second of his run. He sprinted as fast as he could without leaving Remus behind. Behind them he heard the crackle of the burning grass and the heavy thuds of bodies landing on their side of the flaming wall. A greenish bolt of energy shot over their heads, missing Remus by scant inches.

An answering shot came from ahead of them. Four of their guards had emerged from their stations, faces white in the lamplight. They returned fire at the approaching enemy, but Remus shouted, "Forget it! There're too many! Just run!"

They rushed past the guards without slowing down, and their men fired another volley before they too turned and fled. Together they ran, down the lamp-lit road, light, shadow, light, shadow. A few bolts whistled past them, but they were already deep amongst the houses, where the winding streets made them difficult to see. But the sound of the approaching beasts drew closer, close enough for Sirius to catch the scraping of claws on stone. They were the Death Eater's hunting pack, and could not be evaded for long.

Another one of their men had stumbled into the street. Sirius caught the look of surprise in his wide, bleary eyes before they shot past him. Remus yelled a warning, but it was breathless and unintelligible. A moment later he heard shots as the man fired his wand, then his footfalls as he too turned and fled. A scant second later, a hoarse cry that was quickly cut off. Sirius did not look back--the images in his head were horrible enough. It gave his legs renewed strength and he nearly pulled ahead of their group. Terror flooded his heart to near euphoria--he'd never felt so alive.

At last, the bend at the road came into view, signaling the entrance to the keyhole area. They turned into it, skidding and slipping as they ran. Six of their men were already assembled at the far end, wands drawn. The captains sprinted across the circle, leaped over the hedges and stones in the island, and finally halted before their battalion. Remus collapsed and one of their men caught him. Sirius returned to human form and finally turned back.

The hunting pack came into view as he did so. They slowed down as they saw the battalion, and came to a halt at the mouth of keyhole. For the first time, Sirius and Remus laid eyes on Voldemort's creations.

There were eight creatures in all, down on all fours and covered in filthy, matted hair. Some resembled apes, others had long, doglike snouts and snub tails. Their pointed ears were cocked forward, their huge hands clawed at the ground in anticipation. Their eyes, burning and hateful, glared hungrily at the men. Strange crimson lines stained the fur of their cheeks, touching the curled lips that dripped drool and bared jagged teeth. Their growls were deep and rumbling; they resonated through the air and the very rock of the street.

The final stand. No one of the Order fired a shot or even said a word. As one they waited for the enemy to close the gap. Sirius drew his wand and held it before him, even as Remus came to stand beside him. At that moment, he no longer had any uncertainties. He felt empty and unfettered, like the clear autumn air.

With a collective roar, the beasts charged. In a heartbeat they had bounded into the circle, in the next they had leaped into the hedged island.

A huge stone fist burst from the ground, bashing the lead beast from below as it leaped over the boulders. With a strangled yelp it flew twenty feet into the air. Its companions leaped away, scattering to all sides of the island as their pack leader hit the pavement with a sickening crunch. The soil of the island roiled and swelled, and the Golems pushed themselves from out the ground.

Each of the three Golems stood ten feet tall, carved completely out of solid yellow rock. They were human-shaped, but their chests and arms were almost comically huge. Their domed heads had no necks, their faces featureless but for two slitted eyes. They held their outsized hammer-fists before them as they trudged forward in separate directions, scattering dirt and grass as they moved.

Howling with rage, Voldemort's minions charged at them. At that same moment, Sirius raised his wand.

"Fire!"

The men of the Order flung curses at the attacking beasts. One went straight for them and was cut down beneath their barrage. There was a thunderous crash as the rest closed in with the Golems. Claws raked against stone skin and sightless eyes, heavy fists smashed against yielding flesh and bones.

Sirius felt a thrill run through his body as the melee began. The plan had worked. Sure their strategy would succeed again, the Death Eaters allowed their creations to spearhead the battle. But they let them get too far ahead, leaving a gap in their ranks--a weakness the Order exploited.

At the opening of the keyhole, the doors on both sides of the street burst open. From the right, seven centaurs galloped out with their bows at the ready. From the left, eight wizards rushed forward and formed a battle line before their allies. Both groups awaited the coming of the Death Eaters.

Sirius turned his attention back to the fray. One of the Golems toppled over with a crash, its left arm shattering into a dozen pieces as it struck the cobblestones. Three of the beasts lost no time swarming over it, attempting to finish it off. The Golem did not give up. With its remaining arm it picked up one of the beasts and smashed it into ground.

"Remus," Sirius cried, "you take over here! Stun as many of those things as you can. I'm going to the firing line!"

Remus nodded and motioned to the rest. The battalion fanned out, staying just beyond the reach of the fight. Sirius avoided the clash altogether and made it to the centaur line. "Now, Magorian," he puffed as he came to stand beside the centaur, "now's the time to put your money where your mouth is."

The centaur nodded grimly. He raised his hand, and his troop drew and notched arrows. They were no ordinary missiles--the blunt tips were made of fine glass, and inside was a small amount of Pixie Dust. One whiff of it would instantly put any man to sleep.

From ahead of them came the sound of running feet, and two dozen Death Eaters came jogging round the bend. Some were laughing, thinking the tumult was as a massacre of their enemies. The mirth died when they saw the firing line, and they all skidded to a halt. Sirius saw the look of confusion in the leader's eyes and relished it.

"Wandshields up!" he cried.

The wizard line raised their wands. The tips glowed and spread outward, each forming a golden semi-corporeal shield a full meter in diameter. They would not be able to cast spells while the shields were active, but they did not need to. All they had to do was protect the centaurs.

In a panic, the Death Eaters threw themselves towards whatever cover they could find--walls, lampposts, mailboxes, hedges. Magorian dropped his hand and shouted, "Fire!"

Six bows twanged in unison as the centaurs let fly. Two arrows quickly found their mark and a pair of Death Eaters fell face down, asleep before they hit the ground. The rest crouched behind cover and pressed their hands to their noses in an attempt to keep out the dust. Some raised their wands and fired wildly. Most of the shots missed. Those that didn't were deflected by the Wandshields. In the blink of an eye, the centaurs had fired another volley. And another, and another. More Death Eaters dropped in silent stupor.

"Keep at it!" yelled Sirius through the exchange of fire. "Don't let any close in!"

He ducked a shot aimed for his head and returned it. Some of the enemy had cast their own Wandshields, while the rest fired from behind them. Windows shattered, holes were blown through walls, and the street took on a prismatic glow as curses were flung and deflected.

After a few moments, the enemy captain started barking commands. The remaining twelve Death Eaters slowly huddled at the center of the street, forming two ranks. The lead rank maintained their Wandshields while the rest ducked behind them.

"What is it?" asked Magorian. "What are they doing?"

"A phalanx maneuver, same as us," replied Sirius. "They'll try to close the gap to use Killing Curses."

True enough, the huddle began to inch towards them. The centaur captain clenched his teeth. "Let them come," he said, drawing his dagger. "We fight just as well up close."

'But not without casualties,' thought Sirius. Wandshields would break against the Avada Kedavra, and there was no room for their men to dodge within the narrow street. The enemy would close in, the second rank would fire in unison. Unless they pulled back now, their whole troop would go down.

Sirius turned around, surveying the melee behind them. As it turned out, their mission was halfway done. Six of Voldemort's minions lay either dead or Stunned on the street, while a Golem had the other two pinned down. Said Golem had lost both legs, but leaned its full weight on its arms to hold its struggling captives. One of its companions lay inactive not far away, head and both arms smashed to bits. The last Golem was the only one still intact, standing tall amidst the wreckage of the street.

He looked back ahead of him. The Death Eaters were closing in, slowly but surely. The centaur arrows were no longer effective--the enemy must have known some kind of countercharm. Within moments they would be within range for Avada. There were no real options left. He had to order a retreat.

Then an idea came to Sirius, an idea so reckless he thought he'd gone mad.

He turned to Magorian. "Pull your men back three steps, but keep firing!"

The centaur gave him a questioning look, but Sirius was already sprinting back to the interior of the circle. He ran behind the standing Golem, clambered up its back, and sat on its shoulders. He was vaguely aware of Remus calling out to him, but his heart was pounding too loudly in his ears to hear exactly what was said.

Sirius struck the Golem's head with the butt of his wand. "CHARGE!"

The stone giant lumbered forward, reaching the entrance of the keyhole in five quick strides. The centaurs turned at the sound of its hulking steps, and their eyes widened at the sight of the juggernaut.

"Out of the way!" bellowed Sirius.

Neighing in surprise, they vaulted from formation. The wizards also dove out of the way. The narrow street lay open before him, as did the huddled group of Death Eaters. The enemy stared at the oncoming giant in wordless shock.

Almost as an afterthought, Sirius held out his wand and conjured up a Wandshield. The night wind whistled in his ears, blew through his hair. Harry's face floated to his mind once more, then Sirius let him go.

The Death Eaters brought up their wands and fired. Curses riddled the Golem's body in quick succession. Bits of blistering rock sprayed on Sirius's face and his vision dissolved in a wicked green light. He let out one last, defiant cry.

The Golem smashed through the ranks like a child diving through a pile of leaves. Men and wands flew through the air. Sirius took a split-second to realize that he somehow survived the barrage, another to realize that the Golem he was riding no longer had any legs. It pitched forward and he sent flying through the air. He was suspended in space for an impossibly long moment, then the ground rushed up to meet him. He landed rolling. Pain exploded in his head in red lightning bolts, sky and street traded places many times before he finally lay still and his vision grayed out.

He came to as someone was roughly shaking him. "Wake up!" a familiar voice shouted. "Wake up! You can't die after making a speech like that! Wake up, damn you!"

Sirius opened his eyes. Everything was blurry and indistinct. Someone was hovering over him: a very angry Remus.

"I'm alive?" wondered Sirius.

"Not for long!" Remus shook him even harder. "What the devil were you thinking! Did Azkaban drive you out of your mind? Do you want to get yourself killed now?"

Sirius looked around. He was lying spread-eagled on the pavement. All around him were smoldering pieces of the Golem he had ridden, and some feet away, the scattered forms of unconscious Death Eaters. Memories of his feat came back to him, and Sirius gave a low chuckle.

"Oh no," he said. "I'm not going to die. I'm going to live forever."

Remus snorted and took his shoulders, pulling him to sitting position. Sirius choked back his laughter. "That hurts!"

"I'd expect it to, if I broke my left arm," retorted Remus. He slung Sirius right arm over his shoulders and hefted him to his feet. "I swear, if you die on me over the course of this war, I won't lift a finger to prove you were innocent. I'll scrawl CRIMINALLY INSANE on your headstone!"

"He he he ...ow, ow, OW! Are you trying to kill me!" Sirius clenched his teeth as a fresh round of pain broke out over his body; he felt he might fall apart if he laughed too hard.

They limped towards the entrance of circular road. The place looked liked it had been pummeled by a hurricane--the roads were wrecked and most houses had more holes than windows. But their men paid it no heed--they were running back and forth, shouting jubilant cries and shaking each other's hands.

Magorian and his centaurs were more sober, standing to the side and tending to their wounded. He looked up as Sirius approached. "So," he said, "you did survive."

"Yep," croaked Sirius. "I guess I'm just too stubborn to die."

"Stubborn, among other things." The centaur inclined his head, as if debating something with himself. Finally he muttered, "You fight well. For a human."

Sirius blinked. He wasn't expecting that.

"We'll take care of our own here," Magorian went on in his usual peremptory tone. "Go tend to yours."

Sirius nodded, and he let Remus lead him onward. "How did we do?" he asked, gazing about at the aftermath.

"Five beasts were killed. We've got one intact and Stunned, two injured but will probably live. They should be enough for our research team. As for the Death Eaters, they have two casualties and the rest are unconscious. The captain's one of those who survived."

Sirius grinned. "So. We won. And we're still alive."

Remus glared at him, but soon his frown also gave way to a relieved smile. "So we are. That's all I can really ask for."

They made their way to the beast they had Stunned. Three men were guarding it with their wands, but it lay still on its paws, completely helpless.

"An amazing creature," breathed Remus. "Dreadful, but no less amazing."

"Moony, look." Sirius pointed at its face, where twin rust-colored tracks traced down its cheeks. They were tearstains. Even as they watched, moisture leaked out of its half-open eyes and dripped onto the street.

"They're still human enough to cry?" marveled Sirius.

"Maybe," replied Remus, watching the twisted face with the human eyes. He said, "I think I have a name for them now. 'Weepers.' So we'll never forget what they once were, and may still be again."

~~@~~

Many miles north of Vespers, the meeting room of the Summit was alive with celebration.

"Victory!" cried Marius. He had thrown up his hands and was doing a wild little jig around the table. "VICTORY!"

"Marius, really!" admonished Arabella. But she, too, was flushed and grinning. It was, after all, their first successful battle, all the more glorious since it was won through a cunning and well-executed plan.

Lyle was speaking to the Vision Lamp, getting a final report from Sirius. After a few moments, he turned off the Lamp and turned to them.

"A complete success," he said, smiling. "Sirius and Remus are now heading for Birmingham via Portkey. They're bringing with them three of these 'Weepers' and twenty-two captive Death Eaters. They're also bringing a casualty: Carrius Mulligan. Marius, please send word to Bernard at Birmingham. Tell him to get our Medi-Wizards ready, and make preparations to transport our prisoners of war. Arabella, please give Mundungus my regards. I'm sure he's eagerly awaiting news on how his Golems performed. Tell him they were a complete success, but will need redesigning. Also, please inform Dumbledore about our captive Death Eaters. He'll be expecting to hear some results."

He grinned. "We've struck a blow against the Dark Army, and it's not one they'll soon forget."

Arabella laughed and clapped her hands, while Marius was busy conjuring up a rain of confetti. Lyle, however, simply walked past them to the door.

"Lyle, where're you going?" Marius exclaimed. "We still have to celebrate!"

The Commander paused by the doorway. "Did either of you know Carrius Mulligan?"

Arabella and Marius both shook their heads.

"Neither did I," murmured Lyle, "but I have to write his letter."

To be continued