Music of the Night

First, I have changed the genre of this story to drama, namely because there hasn't been much romancing going on yet and I hate to lead anyone on. This chapter gets a bit angsty, but I'm hesitant to classify it as such. If anyone has any thoughts about where this story should go, please let me know.

Second, the poem at the beginning is extremely important. It explains many of the imagery and metaphors that I will be using as this story progresses. It's also very relevant to the plot itself; that will become more evident as more chapters are added.


* * * * *

The sun dips low beneath the hills,

A day has ended and a new one will

Be arriving very soon,

But for now the sky grows ever darker,

The moon in its orbit begins to sparkle,

And the stars twinkle their timeless tune.

A dark, imposing specter waits,

Lifts the pipe to his lips and hooks his bait,

Glinting in the light of the moon.

He blows and makes a sound so pure,

Whose purpose is but only to lure

Rats and children to the tempting tune.

The air rings with the melody's sound,

It echoes to the sky and into the ground.

The rats, rodents and raccoons'

Ears are filled with the euphonious voice,

And they're so enthralled that they have no choice

But to follow the alluring tune.

The little feet echo "pitter patter"

And the villagers look to see what's the matter,

And there is the scampering platoon.

The innocent children watch in awe

At whatever it is that seems to draw

The rats to that soothing tune.

The young ones start to follow suit,

As if those notes of the wooden flute

Were playing an ancient rune.

Some feel a sense of wonder

Or protection as their ears fill with thunder

Of the piper's glorious tune.

They march past mounds and epitaphs,

Littering candy wrappers on the path.

Exhausted youth threaten to swoon,

But one among them starts to play

A horn, the others dance and sway,

Revived by the contagious tune.

"It's just a phase," the adults say,

And kick their feet back, waiting for day,

Oblivious to impending doom.

The children all join in the song,

Attracting new members to the throng,

United by the bonding tune.

The group eventually withers away,

The memories fade to yesterday,

Lost to all but the moon.

Years later a new phantom arises,

Takes out a pipe and starts to chime his

Relentlessly immortal tune.

And the stars are ever watching.

Music of the Night

Chapter 8: The First Note Sounds

Dear Mum and Dad,

Thank you so much for the air freshener. It's so much more convenient than using various spells to improve the rather strange odors in the dormitory. That, of course, does not necessarily mean that Thalia hasn't been trying to experiment...but suffice it to say that she's always had ghastly results. So thank you for providing me with the means to make her quests for french vanilla scent much more attainable without leaving me to do the charms myself, thereby causing her to become rather offended.

Speaking of Thalia, she has been positively giddy over the last week due to the upcoming birth of her new niece or nephew. (Not that she wasn't always giddy - you've seen her on numerous occasions and have needed your sanity replenished - but now she's even peppier than usual.) I personally think it's wonderful that she and her sister-in-law are so close. Andromeda's family disowned her after she ran off with Thalia's brother. I remember the whole scandal quite well...but I don't think you'll be much interested in that.

As for the other girls in the dormitory, things are sailing rather smoothly. Karen had been a bit put-out for a few days because the Quidditch match against Hufflepuff had been postponed to some time later this autumn due to Gryffindor's failure to find a Chaser while Patrick Beauragard is unconscious in the Hospital Wing after being hit in the head by a jinxed armoire. Thalia was a bit upset too; she's a passionate Quidditch fan and an even more passionate Gryffindor. In her misery she led the four of us in a round of mournful WWI songs. She wanted me to strum along, but I refused. Much as I love her, at a certain point, I just stop indulging in her antics. Hannah's sweet as always, of course, but I wouldn't expect anything less of her. I've been talking to her a bit about the Ministry. Her father works for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. I have no interest in that particular field, but she has a fair understanding of the political system in general, so she's had some very useful information. I'm thinking about perhaps joining the Law Enforcement or the Department of Mysteries. They just sound very intriguing. Ah, I don't know, but I don't have to make a definitive decision for another few months yet.

And Daddy, I thought you'd be interested to know about the latest photograph that Hannah got from her father. Apparently, some wizard in Eastern Europe thought he might have a bit of amusement and crossbreed birds and dragons. Well, I don't know about the danger that the product might reek upon its entire habitat, but it certainly looks rather funny. It strongly resembles a featherless chicken that breaths fire. Honestly. And the picture moves. I'll have to see if Hannah can get a double. No doubt you'd love to get a glimpse of it.

I'm working hard of course. I'm taking about five N.E.W.T. level classes plus a few others on the side. Although, knowing myself, even if I were only taking one simple course I'd still be wearing myself ragged. Not to worry. I like working. It keeps my mind off of things.

Oh, and I couldn't possibly forget to mention Head Girl duties as well. My job for the most part is very agreeable. Some of the Prefects (namely Slytherins) aren't particularly pleased with the prospect of answering to a Muggle-born, but I say it's revolutionary. Everyone else is extremely supportive of me. In particular the Head Boy, James Potter. When I first heard that he had been appointed to the position I had been rather mortified; now I humbly stand corrected. James Potter used to be the quintessence of superciliousness, and while he's still rather proud, he no longer hexes innocent students on a whim, and he's actually rather pleasant. We've been working together on a project of a different sort for a few weeks now, and I am proud to announce that we get along rather well. You would like him, Daddy. He has one of those minds that you wish you could pick apart but can't because its wiring is much too complex. Some of the things that come out of his mouth really make me think...probably because our outlooks on life are so totally different and I've never really considered philosophies such as the ones he presents. Some are rather disturbing as a matter of fact, but I'm too tired to go through them right now. I am currently experiencing yet another bout of crazed insomnia. Or maybe it's just a continuous bout that never ends, but simply pauses for brief periods of time, leading me to believe that it is in actuality comprised of separate segments.

That said, keep safe and warm. And don't worry too much about that rat-infestation that I've been reading about in the papers. Just remember that the old wives' tale that rats like cheese is just a myth; put peanut butter in the traps instead.

All my love, and give Petunia and Vernon my regards,

Lily

Lily put her pen down next to her letter read it critically. The light and content tone in which it was written did not convey emotions and events anywhere near to the ones she was experiencing just then. Only that morning, two gray owls bearing envelopes of the bleakest shade of colorlessness had glided into the Great Hall. They were for the three McDougal children and their cousin, a fourth-year. Their parents had all been sitting down at the dinner table when they were shocked by the Apparation of two Death Eaters into the dining room. Details of the story were sparse, and the only definite pieces of information in circulation were that both of the McDougals were found dead, glassy-eyed and warm, that Mr. McDougal's brother's mangled corpse was only found in parts, with some dismembered limbs in one room and some in the other, and that his wife was currently unconscious in St. Mungo's, bleeding profusely.

What bothered Lily was not only that it happened, and so brutally, but that tomorrow that's all it would be: something that simply happened, that couldn't be corrected and that wouldn't be worth tearing anything apart over because now it would be just part of the normal course of events. And that it would tomorrow be just another attack, regardless of the three dead bodies and of the seemingly lifeless figure lying in a hospital bed, regardless of the four children who collapsed on the floor after Dumbledore had told them the unfortunate news, regardless of the rigid gloom that had settled over the castle that day, was unacceptable. All would be forgotten soon, until a similar catastrophe would take place, which would soon be shoved to the backs of the minds of men, still present, but forever common.

She pressed the bases of her palms into her eyes so that little stars danced in front of them and glanced at her watch. Two thirty. She pulled her blanket closer around her and shivered. The spindly flames in the fireplace had long since dimmed down to a faint glow and crackle. She expected she'd be seeing the House Elves soon.

But it wasn't a House Elf that was making its way down the staircase that led from the boys' dormitory. It was instead a rather frazzled-looking James Potter, bleary-eyed and wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and a thin T-shirt. If Lily hadn't been so delirious at the moment she might have wondered what in the blazes he was doing awake at such an hour. But she, clad in heavy plaid flannels and thick wool socks, could only marvel at his stoic immunity to the cold.

"Hey, Lily." He stuck a hand up in the air and jerked it slightly. He paused, waiting for a response, but none came. He walked in front of her and waved a hand in front of her eyes. "You in there?"

Lily blinked twice and snapped her face up to look at James. "Yeah, sorry. I think my classes are catching up with me." She didn't dare say what she had really been thinking about. He would most likely say that it wasn't healthy.

He flopped down in an armchair across from her and draped his legs over one side and let his head fall over the other so that he was in a half-lying, half-sitting position. "What do you do this late at night? You haven't been up this whole time, have you?"

Lily gave a small abashed cough. "Er, yes."

The corner of his mouth quirked up ever so slightly, suggesting that he was waiting for her to elaborate.

"I'm about to sleep, and then I remember something. It could be an assignment, a profound thought that begs to be pondered over, a divine literary inspiration...So I do whatever it is I got up to do and can't go back to what I wanted to do in the first place, that being sleep."

"So why don't you just ever not get up?"

Lily tugged on a lock of hair that had fallen in front of her eyes. "Pardon?"

James shrugged, but did so with difficulty, being as he was nearly hanging upside-down. "When your muses call you, why don't you just say 'To the hell with them' and go to sleep?"

She pulled her blanket more tightly around her and leaned her head against the sofa. "That's a nice thought." She left the rest of the sentence - which would probably have been something along the lines of 'Cause that ain't the way it works, Jimmy -- hanging, although from the amused smile on James's face, she knew that it was understood.

"So what's your excuse for being up this late?"

"Oh that." James grinned. "Actually, it was because Sirius wouldn't shut up."

"Really! I never thought I'd say this, but I'm glad to hear it. Is he talking at all?"

"About his family, you mean? No. Nothing. Just about all the mischief he's planning." He sat up slightly. "A year ago, I would have been thrilled. I mean, I'm still thrilled...that he's back to normal...well, that he's at least relatively normal...but now it'll be my responsibility to clean up after him."

She closed her eyes and gave a weary smile. "You better believe it. Or I'll come stalking you."

"Yeah, and what do you call this?"

"An unavoidable coincidence of fate that just happened to land the two of us in the same room at two thirty in the morning. Nothing deliberate."

"How can you jam so many words together in such a weird, flowery way this late?"

She closed her eyes fully now and leaned her head against the back of the sofa. When she spoke, her voice was directed toward the ceiling. "Fact of nature. Lily Evans is of a rare breed and speaks with the air of one who permanently has her head in the clouds or elsewhere, excepting the rare cases in which she is unwillingly slammed back into reality and can't escape for the life of her."

"Oh, okay. That's nice."

Lily glanced at him for a second out of the corner of her eye and then resumed her comatose position. "Yeah, but it gets me a lot of strange looks, from yourself included."

He chuckled. "I can't deny it." There was then an awkward silence for a few seconds.

"Lily?"

"Hmm?"

"You in any state to have a thoughtful conversation right about now?"

She looked at him startled for a moment. She let one shoulder rise and fall. "As good a state as any, I suppose. But you'll probably wind up getting strange, circuitous answers that make sense to me but barely anyone else. You mind?"

"Nope."

"So shoot."

He swung his feet around and scratched the back of his head with his hand, making the back pieces of his inky hair stand up on end. She looked at him oddly for a moment. She had been spending enough time with him over the past few weeks to know that this subconscious mannerism only tended to reveal itself under one of two circumstances. The first situation was generally taking place when James was trying to impress someone else, show off his cocky self-assurance for his own personal pleasure, or enjoy looking thoroughly disheveled. Lily knew that this certainly wasn't the case; he had no one to prove anything to. And that meant that he was uneasy and slightly insecure.

Looking back at whatever snippets of dialogue they had just had, she should have realized right away that he wasn't that cheerful at the moment. Both she and he had been feigning common fatigue in place of their insomnia, but she knew that more was on both of their minds. Of course she would never let on that she found him this easy to see through. He would be positively mortified and would likely abandon all thought of their growing friendship. So instead she prompted him with her eyebrows and waited for a moment for him to begin what was sure to be a most interesting conversation.

"Ah, well I suppose it's just an issue of contradictions...Anyway, you have a Death Eater like...Bellatrix Black-"

"She's a Death Eater?" Lily opened her eyes wide with shock. As little as she was surprised to hear that Bellatrix Black had rather shady connections, she didn't think that she'd actually find a Death Eater in Hogwarts.

James shrugged. "I don't know. Probably. I was really just using her as an example because I couldn't think of anyone else who better fits the Death Eater mentality." He frowned. "But I wouldn't be surprised if she became one."

Lily shuddered slightly. "Right, so you were saying?"

"A Death Eater kills with no rhyme or reason, really just for the sake of killing. But someone like Sirius's cousin or that Sixth Year Slytherin, Nott, doesn't need to kill to make himself feel better. He's confident enough already, isn't he?"

Lily furrowed her brow. "Sorry. I don't follow."

James let out a sigh and bent his knees into his chest. For someone with such apparently complex thoughts, right then, he looked incredibly young. "I don't know...But if you're six or something, and someone at school is bullying you, the first thing anyone will tell you is that the bully's insecure and that lowering someone else makes him feel stronger and more important, right?"

She raised her head and nodded once in understanding. "Oh, I see where you're going. You want to know why Death Eaters need to boost their self-esteem if they clearly have such a high level of self-assurance already." She hoped she was being clear. It was odd that at an hour like this one, her nerves and brainwaves whirred and sparked uncontrollably, yet she had trouble keeping her eyes open and speaking in coherent and less-than-muffled speech.

He scratched his head. "Something like that, I guess. Yeah."

She thought for a few moments. It wasn't like she'd never considered this issue before; it's just that she'd never had to translate her thoughts into words. This was really the first time she could remember actually being asked to discuss a topic of such philosophical weight and morbidity.

"Well," she said. "I think what we have to ask is what would make a person become a Death Eater, because it seems that the only type of person we're considering is one like Sirius's cousin. But I'm willing to venture to guess that most of the Wizarding world wouldn't be especially keen on letting Voldemort go through with his plans. I think most people are just afraid."

"Of course they're afraid," James said. "Wouldn't you be afraid?"

Lily involuntarily shivered. "Lord, James. I'm terrified. I'm just saying that maybe not all of Voldemort's followers are willingly carrying out his orders because of some strange misconception that what they're doing is right. They're probably afraid, and awe-stricken...even impressed. And those are the dregs that He summons, because He knows that they'll do anything to raise their status and power."

"And those are the bullies..." James gazed into the faint glow of the crackling sparks in the fireplace. Fireworks danced across the lenses of his glasses. "So then what you're really saying, is that they're...I don't know...maybe innocent, in a certain sense? And that they only go to the Dark Side because they need guidance, or because they have nowhere else to turn?"

Lily yawned. "I don't think anyone's completely absolved of all responsibility, James. No one forced those people to become Death Eaters." James quirked his eyebrow up slightly. "Okay," she relented, "so maybe they are threatened to be killed if they don't cooperate, but there always is that option of getting killed." James looked at her in disbelief for a moment. "That's not to say that I wish any one dead," she said quickly, "but what I'm trying to say is that I don't really think that anything in the world, save the occasional natural disaster, is beyond human control or human influence. If someone is a Death Eater, it's because he chose to be a Death Eater. Whether or not he realized what that would mean for the rest of the world, he accepted the conditions and willingly carried out orders."

She looked for a moment to see if he was turned toward her. He was, attentiveness and amazement etched in her face. "And as for the other type of Death Eater, the Bellatrix Black type..." She put her hands up and shrugged. "That one's still up in the air. I don't exactly think anyone could claim that she joined that cult because of her insecurities. There must be some sort of thrill involved...Your guess's as good as mine.

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He seemed to have drifted off over the last few seconds. "I'm not disturbing you, am I?"

"No," he said airily, "not at all. I was just thinking...I'm never going to be one of them."

"One of what? Death Eaters?"

"Well, not one of them either, but I was talking about those people. The ones who abandon all self-worth and accept a sadist like Voldemort just because he makes them feel 'special.' I'm never going to give everything up by joining him. Life's too precious to chuck like that, even though at times it does seem pointless. And if they do happen to take my life away while I'm trying to save it from them, at least I won't throw it away for something I don't believe in." He set his jaw, and something made Lily feel like he was reassuring himself more than he was her. He didn't seem to be speaking to anyone at all, save for his own conscience and heart.

He turned to look at her full in the face just then, and she knew without a doubt, that James Potter was completely unlike anyone she had ever met. It wasn't just the confident façade he wore to attempt to conceal his inner conflicts, and it wasn't just his unceasing desire to prove himself. It was his unquenchable curiosity, his thirst to unravel all of the secrets of the universe, the craving to delve deep into the minds of man to figure out exactly what led the world to reach its pitiful state. It was as though his very lifeline hung solely basedon the prospect of unraveling the world's secrets, merely so that he could foster them and learn how to see past the woes and troubles of society. He didn't necessarily need to do anything about any situation, but he had an insatiable, almost desperate urge to unlock the impetus of man, just so he could acknowledge that different things did exist -- different, horrible, wonderful, perplexing things. And even if he couldn't fathom actually being dragged into such heinous actions, simply being aware of their existence and of their source gave him some comfort, because then he would be able to breathe, accept the world's undying, relentless evil, and then say 'Now let's find a way to make it better.'

Most would have turned away, naming the situation beyond human comprehension or control. They would say that to the ordinary man there was no way out, and that only the Ministry was fit to deal and to save all. They would accept willful blindness, until they themselves were personally hurt, and then they would despair completely, because they had never bothered to wonder about what torturous forces were at work.

And they wouldn't be able to cope when those forces struck.

But James wasn't one of them. His face was a swirl of emotions, but the one that dominated at the moment was determination. Whether or not he knew it, Lily saw it as clearly as she knew that he was the only person she had ever known to voice her thoughts. His interpretations of the human character were different than hers, but just the fact that he listened to what she had to say and that he contributed in return was the only source of comfort that she could gain strength from, because she knew that somehow, they really weren't that different after all.

James sighed. "You're rather cynical, aren't you?"

"Brilliant observation, Sherlock." She gave a wry smile and then frowned. "I could say the same about you, you know."

He shrugged feebly. "No you couldn't, because my cynicism only comes this late at night. Yours is there 24/7." He cocked his head to the side. "These wee hours of the morning really do something to my sanity, heh?"

Lily generally didn't like to make eye contact, but she felt that this occasion warranted an exception. "You're saner than the lot of them, James."

He raised his eyebrows in surprise, but then lowered them almost as instinctively as he had lifted them. He nodded. "I just want to thank you, Lily. I needed to talk about this." He scratched his head. "I mean, I don't know if I'm completely satisfied with any answer...and I don't know if I ever will be, but..." He looked up with imploring, almost wretched gratitude in his eyes. "It's just comforting to know that someone else out there also wants to know about...everything." He laughed nervously. "The world really is shit sometimes, isn't it?

She pretended to look shocked. "Scandalous, James. But yes, sometimes it is." She chuckled for a moment and then put her hands on her cheeks mockingly. "Oh my, is the Great James Potter actually growing up?"

He moved a finger to his lips. "I wouldn't go so far to say that, but even so, don't go spreading that around. We wouldn't want to spoil my reputation." He got up and jerked his hand in a sharp wave. "Thanks again. Get some sleep, Lily."

She thoughtfully watched him head back upstairs. And she knew that somehow, even though she was even more wired than she had been before, she was more thankful for this conversation than she could have expressed. The revelation of ideas she didn't know anyone else on Earth had and the knowledge that James Potter was much more than he seemed gave her a sort of relief. And she thought that maybe with people like James in the world, there might be some hope left for it after all.

* * * * *

"You guys ready?" James held up an oddly wrapped package. He looked expectant, and almost excited. After a few haphazardly scheduled meetings, he and Lily had managed to procure the spells necessary for a set of visual Loquerers and it was time to present them to Sirius. Remus had been more relieved than words could describe when he heard this news. Sirius had been nowhere near as mopey as he had been a few weeks earlier, but he certainly wasn't back to himself yet.

"Are you sure this'll work, Prongs?" Peter's eyes darted nervously back and forth between his two friends.

James shrugged. "Look. I know Sirius's isn't going to be completely normal for a little bit, but maybe he'll see these, get some wild ideas, know we still care." He brushed a piece of lint from his robes. "I'm hoping maybe he'll open up a little. We obviously want to help him."

Peter nodded in ready agreement. Remus just scratched his head. "I don't know Prongs. I mean, what if he's not ready to talk?"

James leaned forward across the table they had been sitting at. It was late, and the only other students still in the Common Room were Lily, Hannah, and a couple of fourth-years gathered around a particularly lengthy game of wizard chess. "Come on Remus. Weren't you the one who commissioned this whole 'Save-Sirius's-Soul' campaign?"

Remus looked from Peter to James, worried. "Of course, but...I don't know...It just seems to good to be true. What if we're just not the ones he needs to talk to about it?"

James's eyes narrowed. "I'm not going to sit and watch him do this to himself," he said in a low voice, much too steadily.

Peter fidgeted, probably because he noticed the tinges of red that were forming on James's neck. Remus, also sensing tension in the air, got up. "Yeah, you're right. Let's go."

The three got up and made their way to the stairs at the back of the room. As Remus looked behind him at the fireplace, he could have sworn that for a fleeting second, Lily looked directly into his eyes, hoping and anticipating that everything would go smoothly. But then it was gone, and she once again continued to write on that parchment she so often carried with her.

Sirius was sitting on the window ledge when they walked in, eyeing the stars outside with an almost maniacal gleam. His lip was curled up in slight amusement -- a mischievous plot was undoubtedly underfoot. He glanced up when his friends walked in and grinned broadly. "Hey, guys. What's up?"

James looked disconcerted for a moment but then he shook his head and seemed to get a hold of himself. He grinned. "We got a little something for you." He held out the package.

Sirius rubbed his hands together and eyed the parcel. "Excellent, mate. How'd you know I love presents?" He jumped off the windowsill and grabbed the gift, tearing off the paper.

"We've been your friends for nearly seven years, Padfoot. And you like presents." James said casually, still wearing a smile that Remus couldn't help but feel might have forced. "So what do you think?"

Sirius had torn off the rest of the paper, and upon seeing what his gift actually was, his grin turned into a look of completely befuddlement. He turned the mirrors upside down. "Come on guys. Is this some kind of joke? You don't think I'm that vain, do you?"

Peter snorted, trying to hold in his laughter. James shot him a fierce look out of the corner of his eye and then smiled once again. "They're Loquerers, Padfoot."

Sirius raised his eyebrows. Remus felt himself smile. "You get it Prongs? You could hear and see someone you're speaking with at the same time."

Sirius let the words sink in a bit, and then his eyes lit up with newfound discovery. "Holy...Do you have any idea what this could mean?"

Peter's eyes widened with curiosity.

Sirius clapped James on the back, letting out a burst of laughter. "Think of the possibilities, mate! Think of the stunts, the sneaking around! It'll be almost like having eyes in the back of your head, or a lookout even. We'd be able to talk during detentions, have fun when no one else is the wiser..." He shook his head in amazement. "Stroke of genius, this is."

James ran his hand up the back of his head. "Er, well, I'm glad you liked it, Padfoot, but I was wondering if maybe you'd like to talk a little bit?"

Sirius broke into a wide grin. "You can't really expect me to have a tête-à-tête now, do you? I've got to show this to Thalia." He made to go to the door. James grabbed him by the arm, now looking genuinely upset.

"Really, Sirius, I mean it. You're going through tough time now. Maybe you just want to cool down a bit, let off some steam..." His words died away pitifully. His eyes betrayed render, because Sirius wasn't about to reveal anything.

"Come off it, Prongs. I'm fine, really." Sirius looked pointedly at Remus. "Honest." He ten turned around and bounded down the stairs.

Remus turned to look at James, afraid of what he would see. He expected James to be frazzled, exasperated, maybe even crestfallen, but he didn't expect what was in front of him. James was literally trembling. He didn't look as though he was angry or even defeated. The only word that came to mind was...helpless. Pathetically so.

Peter noticed it too. "Prongs?"

James walked stonily to the window and stood there rigidly, silently. His stance was tall, but in a forced sort of way, as though James was trying to convince himself over and over that everything would be all right and that he could deal with his ignorance. And then for a fraction of a second, James's knee faltered and his left shoulder bent. And Remus knew that James was going to crack.

"Damn it!" James's carefully arranged form broke loose, and all that remained were the shattered fragments of a confident façade. His body leaned against the gray dormitory walls, hunched of its own accord. He pounded his fist into the stone with a sickening crack. Only once he heard the noise did he seem to be aware of what he had done, and he clutched at his fingers with his other hand; his knuckles were bleeding.

"James!" Remus steped forward to help. He no longer felt merely anxious; now he was actually scared. James was usually the one to make light of a situation and pretend that everything was copasetic. Granted, he had an explosive temper, but never in the face of an issue like this. For James to have a breakdown was genuinely terrifying, because the ever-optimistic lifeline of the Marauders was abruptly severed, leaving its torn segments buried deep in the soft, absorbent ground.

James was still trembling, and Remus found himself hoping upon all things left to wish for that James wouldn't explode. "Prongs, this isn't like you...please, just...sit down maybe..."

"Sit down?" James whispered in horrified disbelief as his voice stretched to a startling crescendo. "You want me to SIT DOWN?"

Peter widened his eyes. "Prongs..."

James rounded on him suddenly. "How can you expect me to just let everything go when my best friend is so fucking unhappy? How can you just sit back and be satisfied with the fact that he isn't telling you anything? Huh?" Peter looked at the floor. He looked ashamed and abashed, but as though he almost didn't understand why.

James began pacing back and forth angrily, occasionally glaring at Remus, who refused to look away. "And I can't just let everything go because he's going to explode! But of course, he's not letting me help him because he won't bloody tell me what's going on in that thick head of his!"

He collapsed against the wall, shaking. Peter took a step forward, as if to try and say something to assuage James's confusion, but Remus held him back and shook his head. Not now, Pete, he mouthed.

Peter looked at him with desperation, trying to motion in James's direction, silently asking how Remus could just stand by and watch, how he could do exactly what James was reproaching them for doing. Remus knew though, that Sirius wasn't James, because while Sirius got upset when he felt that others could not possibly comprehend his distress, James tended to thrash out when he didn't understand his own.

James looked up from the floor and gazed sullenly out at the stars. His hair was down below his eyes; his face was half-concealed by a shadow. The pallid moonlight washed gently over the Hogwarts grounds and thousands of tiny specks of sparkle dotted the sky, glinting and pulsing in their steady, eternal rhythm. "I wish things were the way they used to be..." he whispered, seemingly unconsciously, as though only the stars in heaven could hear his words.

Remus looked past the head of his friend, and past the faint mist of gray suspended across the moon. He would let James be for the time being; there was nothing he could do at the moment. The sensation he felt just then was indescribably different than the one he had experienced when Sirius first retreated into seclusion. Then he had been the cause; now the cause was unknown.

Remus knew that that was exactly what had James torn apart right then - the absence or intangibility of anything foreign to blame. And even though Remus would have given up anything just to see his friends happy again, he resigned himself to the unhappy realization that sometimes there was nothing that he could do and that sometimes there was no one to cure a person's melancholy other than that person himself.

* * * * *

It is a most unnerving and peculiar sensation to discover that one's entire code of observation and discernment into the characters and minds of men might just possibly be completely flawed.

I am speaking, of course, of my views of my "fellow Slytherins." I state that with the use of sardonic quotation marks, because the condition of brotherhood has always been a foreign concept to my mind. To me, the term "house" has always been rather loosely defined. I experience no camaraderie, nor do I feel bound to the others of my dorm. In fact, the only conceivable reason that comes to mind for my endurance in this dungeon is my loyalty not to my house, but to Salazar Slytherin himself. He, the Greatest of the Hogwarts Four, is what sustains me and encourages me throughout every moment of desperation and difficulty. It is he who fuels my desire to prove myself. It is for him that I strive to achieve.

It has recently been called to my attention a possibility for the base of all antagonistic feelings harbored (or previously harbored - this topic will be discussed shortly) by other students, of my own house included. I believe it is my determination and its foreign, transcendent source that frightens them. There are, I believe, very few to whom are attributed the exact qualities most revered by the noble Founders. Some might possess a compilation of various traits selected from throughout the spectrum of Hogwarts students. However, I believe it is rather rare to find someone who holds within him a fire so bright, a fire that physically burns its vessel with nearly tangible determination and resourcefulness. It is that purity of heart that I believe I can truthfully call my own that frightens others away.

The only other I can summon to mind that personifies all the Salazar Slytherin stood for is Bellatrix Black, who also happens to be my purpose in writing today. I had always felt that I had accurately discerned and evaluated her character. She has always been a Slytherin to the core, if I may say so freely without fear of being accused of stereotyping. I do not feel that I am guilty of stereotyping in the slightest, because she is not what most would likely consider to be a conventional Slytherin. Slytherins are often associated with bitterness of disposition, a general contempt for those that do not strive to prove themselves, and an intense abhorrence for anything remotely Muggle. Though Bellatrix Black does possess the latter, I do not feel that these qualities accurately depict all that Salazar Slytherin stood for, and furthermore, continues to stand for today, regardless of what most others would be misled to think.

Bellatrix Black is not unlike myself. She is a shrewd, careful observer. She meticulously weighs all sides of a situation before forming an opinion or objective. She does not speak very much, but when she does, all revere her words. And with that last point, I believe the similarity stops. When she speaks, everyone gathers to absorb every pearl of wisdom that flows from her lips. When I speak, I subconsciously form a barrier around myself, though my thoughts are of equal importance and truth. My theory perhaps is that we both view the world as it is, though while I tell it as I see it, she contrives her speech in such a way as to make her listeners feel that they too see it just as she does, and so they have all along.

She never speaks unnecessarily, nor does she raise her voice. When passing someone she disapproves of in the corridors, she does not sneer or snicker with her fellow dorm mates. She merely strides past coldly, sometimes with a deadly, yet modest glare, but more often in complete indifference.

I denounce all of those ignoramuses who feel that proper Slytherin pride entails jibing Gryffindors and Muggle-borns. If anything, such behavior grossly contradicts everything that the Serpent stands for. How could anyone sincerely think that Salazar Slytherin could have acted as such? For someone to be such a prominent figure of society, one needs to have friends in high places, authoritative influences, and the support of the populace. In all honesty and reason, could Salazar Slytherin have possibly achieved such a high level of social hierarchy if he loudly and brazenly announced to all exactly how much he reviled a large percentage of Wizarding kind? One thing is certain; he most definitely would not have been named the fourth Hogwarts Founder.

But I digress. I suppose anyone presently reading this would be at a loss for any possible qualms I should have about befriending her and for the befuddling source of the animosity that has existed between us these past six years.

It is imperative to be aware of the situation in order to understand this relationship. Bellatrix Black is revered as a goddess in the Slytherin House. She is from a highly connected family, descended from a long line of prominent Sytherins. Her great-great-grandfather, I believe was a former headmaster of this very school. Her relations, her pride, and her suaveness all make for excellent reasons for her worshipers to bestow upon her the lavishing attention that they all assume she deserves.

However, in what seems like good-natured fun, the underdog is never left untouched.

Bellatrix Black has never appeared very fond of yours truly, and so her entourage has always regarded me with loathing and contempt. Why am I the underdog? Because she says so. Bellatrix Black: the woman with the ability to raise you up to have the capacity to walk on air, the one who may preach and spread glory and wonderment to all with whom she associates, the sacrosanct divinity that stands for all that is Slytherin. But she is also the one who, by lack of association accompanied with a few disparaging glances, may alienate someone to the point of complete isolation and depression.

I have never considered myself to be of the dross of society. I was never one to lower myself to the level of the diseased and disturbed. I would never on my own label myself the underdog. But that is what Bellatrix Black has made me, and so shall I remain until she chooses otherwise.

Be that as it may, these past few weeks of observant contemplation have bore an indelible impression in my mind, the realization that no consistency exists and that contradictions are inevitable. It perhaps started with the glance that Bellatrix paid me over her morning toast, or possibly even with the rather uncalled-for greeting she bestowed upon my humble self in the corridor. But regardless of when the madness began, it soon precipitated into a slew of conversations and compliments. My knowledge of the Dark Arts and of Potions might be to blame; I cannot be certain. The only point that I am sure of though, is that my faith in human character, however tenuous it may have been, has proven to be grossly misconstrued.

My cynicism lies not with Bellatrix Black. I cannot discern any fathomable reason for her less than hostile expressions other than selfishness, because she somehow fervently needs something I have to offer her, something that is not attainable from any other source, because she would only associate with yours truly under the direst of circumstances. What it is that she is looking for I do not know. But it undoubtedly exists. I do not think this assumption to be skeptical; I merely believe it to be true.

Where my true errors lie is with the followers, with the lowly, mindless scum with no opinions to speak of. The pitiful creatures that have opened up a small window of acceptance to allow for some minor association with myself. They are as capricious as the moon's cycle, and only act as such on the whim of Bellatrix Black. They are all the same, all of them: male, female, tall, thin, solid, smug, and narrow-eyed. They are all identical; no physical features help to differentiate between their pitiful forms because they all wear the same sycophantic expressions. They all chase after the same unattainable fantasies. They all simultaneously thrive in boisterous company while living lonely, meaningless existences. They are all blank slates, waiting to be written upon, because they have no ink of their own.

This is my revelation; this is my curse. I cannot resolve nor expect to be rid of it, but can only turn to hope, because certainty is nonexistent.

-S.S.

* * * * *

A small white rat scuttled along the forest ground, beady eyes kept at a low level, sniffing the moist earth for signs of long-forgotten scraps of anything edible. It brushed across several coarse, fallen leaves, leaves that crinkled spookily in the stillness of the crisp October evening.

The rat was so intent on its quest for food that it failed to notice three tall, thin figures striding past its nest, shrouded in cloaks of death-imbued black, hooded and masked. They moved securely, with a sense of ill, almost defiant purpose.

They were out in the open air now; the quaint little wood in the French countryside was not nearly spacious enough for any sort of the work that needed to be accomplished. A light whisper of wind brushed across the hems of the figures' robes; they whipped suddenly. The combined motions of the air and the figures' powerful, silent strides swirled the black fabric around in curling ripples. A mighty fortress stood a slight distance away, its dominant, unsuspecting turrets dark and shadowed.

One of the forms, undoubtedly the leader of the three, stretched out his wand and uttered a few choice words. A haze of lush jade smoke snaked out from its tip in twisted tendrils of mist. The flimsy particles slowly drifted together and then condensed, forming the visage of a sickening skull, hovering loosely a few feet about the ground.

The third man, one of a slightly stockier build than the other two, questioned his head of operations. "What've you got that for, Lestrange?"

"Don't be thick," said the first man tersely. "You heard the Dark Lord just as I did. When the sign is given, we enter the castle, snatch the girl, modify a few memories, exit seamlessly, and present the wretch to His Lordship."

"And the skull...?"

"The sign, Crabbe. An attentive and competent Death Eater is much more successful than a blundering idiot. You should do well to remember that." The figure never turned around to directly address the man with whom he was speaking; his eyes were fixed unwaveringly on the scintillating image before him. His voice never grew louder, nor did it betray any emotion. The choice of words and the caustic blandness with which it spoke penetrated far deeper than any knife could. If a knife induced blazing, bubbling, pain, then Lestrange's tone pierced like a thousand shards of freezing, fine ice.

"Yes..." said Crabbe, somewhat abashed. "I will."

"Excellent."

They waited silently for a few minutes more, occasionally glancing in the direction of the castle for any signs of unusual movement. There was none. The lone rat scuttled across the second man's boot, circling back in its endless spiral of a path, seemingly devoid of destination. The skull glowed brighter, tinged with silver, enhanced by moonlight. A single serpent oozed out from the gaping hole where the nonexistent corpse's mouth should have been. It emitted a low, sizzling hiss, which then turned into a faint whistle. The rat picked its head up suddenly, as if entranced. It cocked its head to the side, a mannerism very uncharacteristic for a rodent, and then it streaked off towards the woods, heading north.

"It's time," Lestrange said gruffly, and he led the other two men up to the noble doorway of the castle.

The figures set off silently down the path. The second man's eyes darted from side to side. Out of the corner of his vision, a small patch of black whipped itself around the stately castle walls. It was the cloak of a fellow Death Eater. The reinforcements had arrived.

Lestrange stepped up in front of the door and hammered on it three times with a forceful fist. The bangs echoed listlessly in the room beyond.

"Une minute," called a voice from inside. There was a fumbling of a lock, and then the door creaked slowly open. "Biens ven-" the old woman's voice slowly trailed off as she spotted the three dark shapes in the doorway.

"Good evening," Lestrange said smoothly, although he was in no mood to make small start, as the other two men stepped inside and stood behind the woman. "We have come for a certain student. Cooperate and no one will get hurt. Should anyone protest, we will attack." Crabbe held the woman's arms behind her back with one massive hand and covered her mouth with the other. She strained against his grasp, but in vain.

In one swift movement, Lestrange pulled out his wand and pointed it at the woman's chest. "Now if you would be so kind as to direct me to the Great Hall?"

A passerby would not have looked twice at the castle under usual circumstances. But that night, there was a piercing scream that shot through the sky, piercing the heavens. Shrieks and shouts were soon echoing through the wood, seeping deep into the earth's very core. The wind carried the cries to the royal expanse of sky where the stars watched in agony as the degeneration of consistency began.

They began to weep in torrent floods, summoning the ethereal lightning flashes to strike down, illuminating the sky with first white, and then green light. The castle was brightened with radiance just then, streams of green, purple, and scarlet, molten jets ricocheting off of walls and stones. The screams and cries intensified, and the stars wailed when the first body fell down dead.

And then the colored flashes stopped; only white lit up the sky before rumbling drums sounded in the distance. The three figures burst open the door and stormed out. One was carrying the limp body of a young girl. Six other pillars of black Apparated beside them.

Lestrange was striding ahead of the others; his steps were angry, but his voice still remained apathetic. "You had to attack, didn't you, Karkaroff?"

"The old man tried to stop me," said a weak, fruity voice from underneath one of the hoods.

"Killing one man," said Lestrange with disdain, "is entirely different than attacking schoolchildren whom were supposed to remain unharmed. The Dark Lord will not be pleased with you, Karkaroff. He does not like to be disobeyed."

Karkaroff said nothing. The mob just kept marching onward toward the wood, where they would then Apparate to the graveyard on the hill.

Two gray rats followed into the trees, and the stars shone brightly in the sky, as if determined to last onward and forever, through any strange twist of fate.

All that you touch

All that you see

All that you taste

All you feel.

All that you love

All that you hate

All you distrust

All you save.

All that you give

All that deal

All that you buy,

beg, borrow or steal.

All you create

All you destroy

All that you do

All that you say.

All that you eat

And everyone you meet

All that you slight

And everyone you fight.

All that is now

All that is gone

All that's to come

and everything under the sun is in tune

but the sun is eclipsed by the moon.

"There is no dark side of the moon really. Matter of fact it's all dark."