Trust and Betrayal: A Prequel

12. Descending into Darkness

1978 - 1979

~*~ Autumn 1978 ~*~

Peter

It was hot for November in this part of England, wherever this 'part' of England might be, for none of them knew the exact location of their headquarters. It was even hotter in the old, dusty farmhouse, crowded with Order members who were clustered in several small groups, speaking in lowered voices, waiting for Albus Dumbledore to arrive and for the meeting to begin.

Peter sat in the back, off by himself, wiping his sweating face with a handkerchief he now kept with him at all times. He was perspiring a great deal lately. He also found himself startling at odd moments, like when someone touched his head or at the sound of high-pitched laughter. Moody had apparently noticed it too, for Peter had been chastised for being less vigilant than he should have been during training exercises. He couldn't seem to help it, though. He felt trapped, paralysed as if under the Imperius Curse. Only it was worse, because he wasn't. Peter had been forced to spy for Lord Voldemort, to turn traitor on his friends, on the Order, unwillingly bound to the Dark Lord's service. I have no choice, he repeated to himself hundreds of times each day. I was kidnapped! I've no choice! Indeed, the despair Peter felt in his heart was genuine. All he could do was to ferret out some information that would keep his master happy, and Peter, his family, and friends alive.

James certainly wasn't making it easy. If only he'd stay out of the press, Peter thought with despair. Since James had first spoken out against pure-blood politics in the Prophet, he'd become a bit of a celebrity, and other articles about him had followed. Moody wasn't happy about it either, since publicity of any kind was bad for the Order. Peter was there when the Auror bluntly admonished James to 'keep his bloody opinions to himself!' But he knew that it was too late. Voldemort had taken notice of the 'outspoken boy and his Mudblood wife' who had managed to defy him. His master had instructed Peter to 'keep an eye on Potter.' Every time he thought about it, he felt like a hand was tightening around his throat and he found it difficult to breathe.

I'll do everything I can to protect him, affirmed Peter, wiping his sopping brow and the back of his neck. I don't care about anyone else, but he can't have James!

Fretting about his friend, Peter scanned the room in a momentary panic, needing to reassure himself that James was all right.

To his relief, he found James and Lily sitting together on a frayed sofa in a corner, her head resting on his shoulder. He knew he was being silly, but the sight of the two of them together was calming.

Glancing further through the crowd, he saw Sirius and Emmy Vance sitting on the floor near the fireplace. Sirius was leaning in such a way that he was able to snake his arm around the young witch's back. He was whispering something in Emmy's ear, and she smiled and blushed. Sirius edged himself closer to her side and looked smug.

Peter grimaced and briefly wondered if he should warn Emmy about Sirius' ongoing game of Seduce, Conquer and Abandon. He then looked around the room for Remus, but the man wasn't there. Now that he thought about it, Peter realised that he hadn't seen Remus for over a month! Perhaps he was on another special mission for Dumbledore. He'd have to remember to talk to Dumbledore later, just to make sure Remus was all right.

********

Dumbledore enters the room. The crowd grows quiet and Peter sits at attention, preparing to listen carefully for any information he might be able to give his master. He feels his soul being battered every time he's called to Voldemort's side, and yet he truly believes that he won't have to betray his friends, the ones he loves. I'll find some way, he thinks fervently. I have to.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Lily

Lily found it hard to pay attention during the meeting. It was hot and she'd had a very stressful week. In her first full week as a 'Harvester,' she'd been at the deathbeds of an elderly wizard, a middle-aged witch, and a child. It was her job to cast the difficult and precise spell that drew out and captured each donor's unique bit of Elemental Magic, the essence of the love both given and received during his or her lifetime; she marvelled at how this powerful magic fit into the tiny, heart-shaped vessel.

In addition to her work, she'd spent the past three nights with Alice and Dorcas creating healing potions and draughts to replenish their supplies. She loved her job, and was devoted to the Order, but the combined efforts had left Lily both physically and emotionally drained.

Dumbledore was speaking, and James' hand was gently stroking her arm. The words in the air around her seemed to blur, but she didn't care. The repetitive touch of her husband's fingers on her bare skin was soothing.

She jumped in her seat, startled as her left foot received a decisive kick.

"Stay awake!" Alice whispered loudly.

Indeed, she had dozed off, and Lily shook her head so vigorously to rouse herself that it prompted Dumbledore to ask, "You disagree, Mrs. Potter?"

She felt the heat rush to her face in embarrassment. "Sorry, sir. No, sir." Of course she had no idea whether she disagreed or not. Alice sniggered, and Lily kicked her foot in return.

"In that case, we shall proceed as planned," Dumbledore concluded. "Thank you all for your kind attention." And the meeting came to an end.

Lily saw Moody scurrying through the crowd, his eye fixed on James. "Potter!"

"Sir?" James asked, turning to Moody.

"Glad to see you've not been in the paper this week. Keep it that way!"

Lily knew that James wasn't happy to have been anointed by the press as the 'spokeswizard' for half-bloods and Muggle-borns. That Rita Skeeter was horrible in the way she always managed to twist his words. But she also knew that it was hard for James to remain silent if asked his opinions. Moody was right, though. It wasn't safe to be in the limelight. So, Lily had drilled James to use the phrase 'no comment,' and so far, it seemed to be working.

Lily left James to be further tormented by Moody as she made her way to Dumbledore, who was speaking in the corner to a very animated Dorcas Meadowes. As Lily approached, she noted that a Silencing Spell had been cast, since their mouths were moving but their voices could not be heard. So, she stood patiently, waiting for their conversation to finish, and tried not to stare or read their lips. She did wonder what Dorcas was going on about, though. It must be something very sensitive, she thought, and recalled that no one had been assigned to work with Dorcas in the last few months.

Finally, Dumbledore released the spell and Dorcas stormed out of the room, clearly unhappy with the outcome of their conversation. The old wizard turned to Lily with a sigh.

"Yes, my dear?" He sounded as tired as she felt.

"I wanted to apologise, sir. I didn't mean to nod off like that."

Dumbledore dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand.

"No need, Lily. I know how difficult it is to work all day and then have Order duties on top of that. I'm sure that James will fill you in at home."

"Thank you, sir. I'll make sure to have Alice kick me regularly throughout future meetings, just in case," she said with a smile.

"I always find it helpful to have a plan, Lily," Dumbledore remarked with sage nod and a wink.

********

Lily turns from Dumbledore and scans the room, looking at the determined faces around her. Faces that belong both to people she has loved for many years, and to those she has come to love more recently. She tries to imprint their faces in her memory, to fix this moment in time. She knows that the danger is growing and the risk to all of them is higher than ever. It is important to capture this moment, she thinks, so she can recall it in the dark days certain to come.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Severus

Severus was running a fever, but at this stage of the process the bubbling ingredients in the Consentire Potion had to be stirred continuously for two hours. By hand. He had the presence of mind not to stand too close to the cauldron, so the sweat pouring from his brow would not drip into the potion by accident and ruin the painstaking work of the past few months. Glancing at the timepiece on the bench, he noted there were five minutes left.

Sparks of pain ignited in his aching fingers and shot up his arm like fire. He gritted his teeth, ignored it and kept on stirring. He had worked hard to master his response to pain, and so, to distract himself, he closed his eyes and concentrated on thoughts of the book he was currently reading, Delicate Poisons and Dangerous Draughts.

Severus joyfully soaked up the knowledge his master had provided him and threw himself into his tasks with a fervour he didn't know he had. The more complex the potion, the harder Severus drove himself. His hands were never idle, and he worked himself so relentlessly that he slept only when his body could no longer remain upright. He ate sporadically, indifferent to the gnawing pains in his stomach.

It was discomfiting to him, however, that when it came time to turn over a completed potion to Lucius Malfoy, Severus felt something within him tear, the parting from his work a painful, keening loss. He actually found it difficult to breathe, and one time he had to fight the urge to hide the phials. He didn't understand why this happened or why he couldn't prevent himself from being overcome by such feelings. He certainly didn't like it. Inevitably, his concern would evaporate, forgotten, as soon as he received new orders and started to create a new Dark potion.

His eyes snapped open, and seeing that exactly two hours had passed, he stopped stirring. Stepping away from the cauldron, Severus stumbled. It felt like his arm was still moving in a ghostly echo of itself. His body was screaming to sit, to lie down, but Severus ignored it. Instead, he made his way to the shelf holding the restorative potions and salves, found the small blue phial with the Fever Reducing Draught and swallowed it quickly. His breathing came in gasps, his grip on the phial slackened, and it fell from his hand, shattering on the stone floor. Severus didn't notice, as he swayed and fell to the floor himself, unconscious.

********

When he awoke, he found himself lying on the pallet that he used to catch one or two hours of sleep. He heard Lucius Malfoy speaking with someone he didn't know. The constant thud in his head argued against opening his eyes, so he opted to listen instead.

"He'll be assigned to your cell, Mulciber." This was Malfoy's voice.

"But can he handle it?" The man Severus assumed must be Mulciber spoke, the doubt in his voice evident.

"Our master is certain, and that is all that matters. You and Dolohov will help him to recover, prepare him, and ensure that he is capable and ready."

A long silence followed, and Severus, though the fever still addled his mind, realised that they were talking about him.

Cell? Ready?

He must have moved or attempted to speak because he felt Malfoy sitting by his side and holding up his head.

"Drink this," Malfoy said, and Severus forced his eyes open enough to see a goblet of water being held to his lips.

He drank and recalled that he hadn't had food or water in nearly two days.

"You're no good to anyone like this, Severus," Malfoy said quietly, as if he didn't want the other man to hear.

"But the Consentire..." he croaked, sounding like a frog had taken up residence in his throat. Severus moved as if to stand, but Malfoy pushed him back down.

"You will finish the potion, but then you will move on to a different sort of task. Drink more."

He sat up and drained the goblet, feeling the relief of hydration at once.

"Different task?" Severus asked, feeling suddenly alert and anxious.

"Our Lord has been very pleased with your work, Severus. You have exceeded all our expectations, but you must be prepared to serve our master in all ways."

Severus was alarmed. What did he mean?

Malfoy continued. "You will report on Monday to Mulciber and Dolohov, who will oversee the next phase of your training. I believe some of your schoolmates are in their cell as well."

Severus tried to process what Malfoy was saying. He knew that his master's servants were divided into small groups, or cells, each responsible for a piece of some larger mission, and only those in Voldemort's Inner Circle--such as Malfoy--knew how the pieces fit together. Even the identities of Death Eaters outside their own cell were unknown, as they wore masks and hooded cloaks on the rare occasions when they gathered as a group or worked together in the field.

"Training?" Severus asked, stiffening.

"Physical training, Severus, to prepare you for field missions. You already have a wide knowledge of curses, hexes and other Dark spells, all of which will be valuable to the work of Mulciber and Dolohov's unit. But you need to build up your stamina, which has been, unfortunately, severely neglected."

Severus had to fight a growing panic. He was needed here! He was Voldemort's Potions master! The thought of leaving the safety and certainty of the laboratory made him break into a cold sweat that had nothing to do with his fever. "I've been working hard, sir," he said, controlling his tone and careful not to use Malfoy's given name. He couldn't recall, in fact, when he had last called him Lucius. "There is so much work still left to be completed and--"

Malfoy interrupted him, placing a hand on his knee and squeezing it gently. "You have performed brilliantly, Severus. And you have provisioned our stores so completely that our master feels he can spare you to other duties for a while."

Severus glanced up at Mulciber, who stood silently, watching them carefully.

He looked at Malfoy, suddenly understanding. "I will no longer report to you?"

Malfoy stood and smoothed out his robes. "Mulciber will keep me informed as to your progress, but you'll heed him in all regards," he said. "I'm sure you will not disappoint us." He considered Severus' appearance with a frown. "Eat your dinner, then go home and get some rest."

Malfoy inclined his head to the other man and, without a further word they both left the laboratory.

********

Severus drops back down on the pallet, his head throbbing against the thin pillow. Despite Malfoy's words of praise, he feels that he has failed. He has been demoted, handed off. Pushed aside. A horrible dread fills him. He has heard about the raids, the attacks, the bloodshed. Then, he begins to shake violently, an involuntary reaction to the caustic and terrifying combination of fever and fear.

~*~ Winter 1979 ~*~

Peter

He never knew when the Dark Lord would call for him. This uncertainty, combined with a constant state of fear and dread, and the knowledge that these requests always came in the middle of the night, made it difficult for Peter to get a good night's sleep. Half awake, half-asleep, Peter had learnt to keep an ear open for the telltale tapping on his window that indicated a summons from his master had arrived. To keep his identity secret from his master's other servants and the members of the Order, Peter had not been given the 'Dark Mark' and could not be summoned in the usual way.

On this very cold winter night, however, Peter left the window open. He was so very tired that he didn't trust himself to hear the tapping if it came. He had to get some sleep. Others had begun to notice Peter's increasingly haggard appearance, and he'd made more than a few mistakes at work. Fortunately, since Stemwithers' surprising and sudden 'retirement,' his new--and less strict--supervisor had easily accepted Peter's explanation of long nights spent caring for his sick mother. Those among the Order barely noticed his demeanour because they were all suffering from their own exhaustion.

Tossing and turning under his blankets, more tired than he could ever remember being, Peter was frustrated to find that he was unable to shake tonight's events out of his mind and fall asleep. They played like a Muggle film loop--over and over again--behind the curtain of his eyelids.

~ * ~

Earlier that evening, he had been upstairs in the farmhouse study, completing his inventory notations and thinking about the freshly baked pasties Doge had made that were now cooling on a rack in the kitchen. He was hungry and thought that maybe he'd nick one or two of them before heading home. Moody might complain about Doge's silly chef's hat, but Peter thought Elphias was a right brilliant cook and could wear whatever the bloody well he liked.

A sudden crash below him and voices--screaming, yelling--made him drop his quill with a start. He scrambled out of the study and rushed down the stairs.

It was pandemonium and blood was everywhere. He had never seen that much blood before. Suddenly, hands grabbed hold of him--it was Sirius.

"Peter, call for Dorcas! Then get water and clean flannels! Hurry!"

He could finally make out two people lying on the hearthrug. Emmeline and Sturgis were moaning, pale, barely moving, and blood was pouring from multiple gashes and wounds. Sirius and James were also covered in blood, but they appeared to be fine--or less injured. It was hard to tell.

"Didn't you send a Patronus?" Peter asked, fighting the queasiness that had suddenly come upon him.

James was trying to squeeze a bit of torn fabric around Sturgis' arm to staunch the bleeding--he didn't dare use magic until Dorcas had diagnosed the spells that had caused the injuries in the first place.

"We tried, but it came back," James said with a wince. Peter noticed James' arm was at an odd angle. "She must be undercover. Try the Floo."

Peter ran upstairs to the emergency Floo and, grabbing a handful of powder, threw it in and called for Dorcas. Miraculously, her head appeared in the fire, but she looked pretty bad herself. Her brown curls were flying in every direction and there were deep, dark circles under her eyes.

"Sorry... just got back. Have you been trying to contact me?" she asked, breathing heavily.

"Just come! We've injuries!" urged Peter.

"Right. Be there in just a moment." Dorcas' head retreated from the flames.

Rushing back down to the kitchen to fill a bucket with water, Peter saw the cooling pasties and sighed with regret. It was unlikely he'd get to them any time soon.

A few minutes later, Dorcas was there, tending to Emmy and Sturgis. They had come around a bit, but were finding it difficult to talk. James and Sirius stood to the side, out of the way, looking worried. Peter handed Dorcas the bucket and flannels, and she began to wipe away the excess blood to get a better look at their wounds.

"Are you all right?" Peter asked his friends, alarmed at their appearance. "What--what happened?"

"We're fine," said James, his voice tight as he held his arm. "We got there too late...."

"It was lucky that they managed to send a 'help needed' Patronus at all," muttered Sirius, his fists clenching and unclenching. "If we hadn't arrived when we did, there wouldn't have been anything of them left to bring back."

Peter felt the blood run cold in his veins. He had to force the words out of his mouth. "They... were ambushed?"

James nodded and suddenly dropped to the floor as if his legs were too weak to support him any longer. He removed his glasses and wiped his eyes, which only served to smear more blood across his face.

"I don't understand it," James said hoarsely, trying to work it out. "They've done this sort of reconnaissance mission dozens of times, and each one with some variation to avoid just this kind of thing. But this time--"

"They walked into a half-dozen Death Eaters who were there waiting for them," Sirius finished.

They sat quietly for a while. With some direction from Dorcas, Sirius attended to James' arm and smiled when he had mended it successfully. Peter watched Dorcas work, apprehensive.

Then Emmy began to scream, as if reliving the attack all over again. Sirius ran to her side and lifted her slightly to hold her in his arms.

"It's all right, Emmy, it's us... you're safe now," he said softly, rocking her. Sirius looked questioningly at Dorcas. She just shrugged and released a ragged sigh.

"They really need to be at St. Mungo's," she answered his unspoken question with quiet frustration, "but they're too weak to transport. The wounds are deep, but I think I've knitted the worst of them. Fortunately, the bastards used straightforward slicing hexes--nothing Dark or wonky to make them worse." Dorcas stood with a groan, forcing herself to her feet. She cleaned her hands with a swipe of her wand and then vanished the bloody water. "Let's get them into beds upstairs. I'll monitor them overnight and see how they're doing in the morning. Help me move them, then get some Blood-Replenishing and Strengthening Solutions from the stores and bring them to me. All right?"

Sirius nodded, looking grateful for Dorcas' no-nonsense manner. James rose and gestured to Peter, and the three of them levitated their two injured friends upstairs. Peter found it hard, though, to keep his wand hand steady in the face of Emmy's continued horrific, piercing screams.

~ * ~

A sharp pecking in his arm rouses him from a deep sleep. He leaps out of bed with his heart pounding and finds his master's bird--a large raven--perched atop the blankets, staring at him with its dark, beady eyes.

Wide-awake now, Peter takes the small object from the bird's outstretched leg, and, relieved of its burden, it takes flight out of the open window. The object is a Portkey that will take him directly to the Dark Lord, to one of more than a dozen hidden locations that Peter would never be able to find on his own. He is always summoned in this way.

Peter quickly dresses, dons his warmest cloak and picks up the object. He feels nauseous when he recognises it as Emmy's bracelet. The one he stole from her just last week, as instructed. He is shaking from head to toe when he picks up his wand, taps the bracelet and whispers, "Take me."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Lily

Lily and Alastor Moody Apparated to an oddly-shaped house. She had never seen anything like it before and concluded that it could only have been constructed with magic, for, if gravity had its say, this strangely configured building would have come crashing down long ago.

Standing outside in the cold night, they heard laughter, scraping chairs, babies crying and all the usual sounds of a family enjoying their Christmas Eve at home.

"Are you sure you need me here, Moody?" Lily asked, shivering more with apprehension than from the cold. "I don't know what good I'll do."

"Another pair of hands is helpful in situations like these. One to tell the story and the other to bear witness. It's just how it's done." Moody shrugged. "I'm afraid that you'll all have a turn at it sooner or later. This first one's yours." Moody sighed and rubbed his calloused hands together. "Are you ready?" Lily nodded, and he rapped on the front door.

She heard footsteps approach from inside and then the door opened. A thin, red-haired man appeared and looked at them with wide-eyed surprise through wire-rimmed spectacles. He cocked his head and squinted at them at first, then grinned broadly.

"Hullo!" he said genially. "I know who you are! Moody, isn't it? Auror?"

Unexpectedly, Moody bristled. "Are you daft, man! Don't you know there's a war on! We could have been anyone, and you just openin' the door like that! Constant vigilance, young man!"

Lily, seeing the man back away and turn pale in the face of Moody's gruff assault pushed herself in front of the older man. "Yes, he's Alastor Moody and I'm Lily Potter. Are you Arthur Weasley?"

"Y - yes," he replied, the colour returning to his face, which then brightened. "You know me? Of course, I've only been at the Ministry for a few years. I don't know how you would have heard about me!" Mr. Weasley put a hand to his chest. "But, I'm forgetting my manners. I'm pleased to meet you both! Please come inside! Molly will have my head for letting you stand out here in the cold!"

After fussing to take and hang their cloaks, they were ushered into a small, but cosy, living room, where a blur of red-haired children were in mid-chase around a large, gaily decorated Christmas tree that was so tall that its tip bent at an angle where it met the ceiling.

"My dragon is faster than your broom! You'll never catch me!" said one of the children. His dragon appeared to be a well-worn stuffed one that was held out before him.

"Not so!" the one who was obviously the eldest retorted with a determined grin, tapping something imaginary in front of him. "My Nimbus 1500 is the bestest and fastest model. Your mangy old dragon won't keep up with this!"

"Dagon! Boom! NO FLY!" admonished a toddler in a loud, demanding voice. He trailed behind his older brothers, startlingly serious for someone so small.

Lily noticed Moody looking rather apprehensive at the scene before them, and she stifled a laugh.

"Can take on a dozen Death-Eaters single-handed, but you're right terrified by a bunch of kids, eh, Moody?" she whispered with a giggle. He grunted something she couldn't make out for all the noise in the room.

A small, round woman, who seemed to be a few years older than Lily, appeared in the living room with two infants in her arms, her husband by her side. She smiled sweetly at her guests, but then turned to the children with narrowing eyes.

"Boys! Stop flying this instant!" she boomed. Her commanding voice stopped the children in their tracks, although the one with the stuffed dragon hissed some pretend fire at his brothers. The smallest one waddled over to his mother, little hands on his hips.

"Mum! Chalie, Bill bad, Mum. Fly bad!"

She ruffled his head. "Well, Percy, it's time now for everyone to stop flying. Dragons to bed and brooms in the closet!"

The elder children moaned and the toddler beamed.

"I'm so sorry for this chaos," the woman sighed in resignation to her guests, handing off one of the infants to her husband. "Christmas only makes them more excited than usual."

"Molly," Mr. Weasley said, perching the baby on his shoulder, "this is Alastor Moody and Lily Potter."

Molly's eyes went wide. "You're that Muggle-born girl, the one married to James Potter, aren't you? I've read about you!"

She must have looked dismayed, because Molly took her by the arm and bent her head towards Lily's.

"Now don't you mind what that woman writes, dear. I find her column is best used to wrap fish in."

Arthur interrupted. "Where did you say you were from? Some... order?"

"We're with the Order of the Phoenix," replied Lily, but the name didn't seem to mean anything to them as they didn't react.

Mrs. Weasley nodded in greeting. "As you've probably gathered, I'm Molly, and these young hellions are my children, Charlie, Bill and Percy," she said with a gesture towards her respective sons. The boys, noticing Moody for the first time, took a few steps back in alarm.

"These two," said Mr. Weasley, lifting up the baby in his arms with evident pride, "are our newest additions, Fred and George."

"They were named after my brothers!" Mrs. Weasley added with a huge smile. "Maybe you know them? Fabian and Gideon Prewett?"

Lily was unable to stifle a gasp and was relieved when Mrs. Weasley turned away from them at that moment, as she swept the children out of the room and pushed them all up the stairs. "Off you go, all of you! Bill, can you see to it that they're cleaned up and in bed within ten minutes?"

"Right, Mum," Bill replied, pushing Percy and Charlie forward with a loud dragon roar. They ran from him up the stairs, squealing and laughing.

Mrs. Weasley turned back to her guests and eyed them critically. "It's freezing outside," she concluded. "Sit down, both of you," she said, herding them towards two armchairs. "I'll get tea to warm you up, and then you can tell us why you've come."

They tried to decline but quickly discovered that Molly Weasley wasn't one to be dissuaded from taking care of anyone who voluntarily crossed her threshold.

In a few minutes, everyone was seated and tea was poured. Moody took a polite sip, put his cup down and cleared his throat.

Lily focussed on her breathing to remain calm, hating that, in the next moment, this lovely family would have their lives turned upside down.

"I'm afraid we've come at a terrible time with some bad news, Mrs. Weasley," said Moody.

The colour immediately faded from the woman's face, and her husband reached out to take her hand.

"What news?" Mr. Weasley asked.

"It's your brothers," Moody said directly. "They're one of us, part of the group Mrs. Potter here just mentioned. Well, tonight those two courageous young men faced the forces of evil and fought bravely. But, I am so sorry to tell you that... they died. You must know, Mrs. Weasley, that they died as heroes."

Mrs. Weasley shrieked, stricken, and burst into tears. Mr. Weasley gasped and wrapped his arms tightly around his wife. Lily felt helpless. All she could do was watch and listen and erect the mental barriers that would prevent the Weasleys' pain from tearing her up as well. But, this was so hard. This was personal. She knew and loved Gideon and Fabian as well, but this was the time for their grief, not her own. Lily started to shake, buffeted by waves of deep sadness.

Moody continued in his steady, gravelly voice. "I was with them at the end, and it is my deepest regret that I couldn't save them. But I'm honoured to tell you of their bravery, and that this loss will be felt deeply by all of us who knew and respected them. They were two of the best men I've had the privilege to know and work with."

Lily was moved, suddenly aware that this was a ritual that Moody must have had to perform dozens of times as an Auror. She wondered if she'd have the strength to do it nearly as well. Mrs. Weasley was weeping on her husband's shoulder, and Mr. Weasley nodded for Moody to begin.

The old Auror pushed himself to his feet.

"We received information that a wizarding family had been targeted for attack by Vol--er--You-Know-Who. I can't tell you who they were, or why, but I can tell you that your brothers were assigned to monitor their home; their comins and goins. The family didn't even know Gideon and Fabian were there, but they were, every night for the past two weeks. They were under orders to report any Death Eater activity directly to the Ministry. They were not to instigate an attack, just report. But last night--" Moody paused and cleared his throat.

"Early last night, they were watchin' the house and the children were playin' out in the front. Then, Fabian and Gideon saw Death Eaters comin' at the house from two different directions. They were about to send a message, but they were attacked from behind. Luckily, there was only one that jumped them, and the boys dispatched him fairly quick. Despite their orders, though, they knew that the Aurors and the Hit Squad would never get there in time. Of course, being the clever blokes they are," Moody said with a fond smile, "they had a back-up plan.

"Gideon Apparated to the house and tossed up an incendiary device--it created a screen of smoke that surrounded the house. At the same time, Fabian drew their attention away from the house and towards himself by settin' off some firecrackers that lit him up like a torch. While the Death Eaters rushed on his brother, Gideon pulled the kids and the rest of family out the back and away to safety, and that's when he called for me. Fabian was fightin' off five of the bastards by himself until Gideon finally joined him." Moody paused as he reflected on the scene. "When I showed up, there were four dead Death Eaters, the last of the live ones had Disapparated and... Gideon was gone. Fabian was holding his brother, and he was hurt really bad himself. I knew that there was... nothin' I could do, 'cept hear him tell me the story."

Mrs. Weasley's sobs were quiet but steady, and her husband held her, gently stroking her head. Lily willed herself to contain her own anguish at hearing Moody tell the story.

"You should know that he was happy at the end, smilin' in fact. His last words were, 'We saved them, Moody. Gideon was brilliant. I held them off. Now you go after the rest.'" Moody paused. "If anyone has the right to be called a hero, Mrs. Weasley, it would be your brothers."

Moody sat back down and drank his now-tepid tea.

********

Lily stumbles home just past midnight. James is waiting for her and she collapses into his arms, finally able to release the pain, the anguish and the grief she's been holding in for hours. She sobs for Gideon and Fabian and Molly and Arthur and their little ones. She sobs for all that was lost and for all that will be lost.

James holds her tightly and mutters soft words that, to her ears, are mere sound but resonate with solace. After a time, Lily pulls herself up. She doesn't bother to wipe her face, but looks deeply into James' eyes, reaching for all the love she knows is there, drinking it up with the desperation of one long-parched with thirst. Then, her shaking hands unbutton his now-soaked shirt. He removes her robes and then, her jumper. The rest of their clothes are soon lost amidst a tangle of limbs, fevered kisses, sharp moans. She pushes him down onto the sofa and claims his lips, his arms, his heat, and his heart with abandon.

"Now, James. I need you now," she hisses into his ear.

She reaches and he gasps. They join and fill each other with a healing power so strong that it surpasses the magic that sparks violently around them.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Severus

In the following few months after his 'exile,' as he called it, from the laboratory, Severus acknowledged that his physical health had improved significantly. And, as difficult as it was to be kept away from his Dark potions, a separation that has left him with a painful and lingering ache, he now understands the dangerous, powerful, and seductive power of its Elemental Magic. He would certainly be more careful the next time.

Still, Severus wasn't happy to have been thrown into Mulciber's 'pack of wolves'--or recruits--as he reminded himself to call them. He resented what he perceived to be a demotion of status in the Dark Lord's ranks. He was careful, however, to hide his feelings and work diligently to the meet the rigorous demands of his training.

The recruits gathered each day in a large, vacant mansion that sat atop a hill, surrounded by wild, overgrown trees, whose boughs hid the house from prying eyes like so many large protective hands. They were not told, nor did they know, the exact the location of the mansion, but had been given Portkeys that were spelled to bring them there for training, or whenever their leaders required their presence. They did not know what went on in other parts of the mansion, since they only had permission to use what must have once been a ballroom, but was now used for training. Their instructors were Antonin Dolohov and Gerald Mulciber.

The room was set up each day to meet the needs of whatever instruction they were to receive. Some days it was filled with obstacles to be used in stealth and attack exercises. Other days, weapons of various types and sizes lay upon tables as they learned to use them in effective ways in battle or to extract information from enemies. Severus was surprised to see that there was also a cupboard filled with potions, and he was eager to examine its contents.

Although Severus had started his training a several months later than the other recruits, it hadn't taken him long to catch up and, in some cases, exceed them. He might not be as nimble on his feet at Cranford, but his aim was always true and he hit his targets more often. He wasn't as physically strong as Goyle, but he was able to counter a physical assault with more finesse. Rosier might know more spells, but Severus' spells did more damage. He may have started late, but he knew he was more than their equal.

Then, in his third month, the recruits began their training in casting the Unforgivable Curses.

The Imperius Curse was the easiest to learn and invoke because the magic that they needed to call upon to cast it successfully lay just under the surface; they all had within them a deep desire for control. The curse forced the object to do whatever they were told and, as they practiced on each other and laughed at the stupid things they made each other do, they felt giddy over how easy it was to master.

On the morning they knew they were to begin their training in the use of the Cruciatus Curse, the recruits entered the training room more subdued than usual, and Severus felt tension sparking in the air.

Wilkes had the terrible misfortune to laugh at one of Cranford's off-colour jokes the moment Dolohov came into the room and missed the flashing gleam in Dolohov's eye as their instructor pulled out his wand and pointed it at Wilkes.

"Crucio! Silencio!"

In response to these simultaneous spells, Wilkes collapsed to the floor and the others sprinted backwards in shock. They watched as Wilkes' body mangled itself brutally in pain, his contortions ringing out in a fury of silent screams.

Severus was mesmerised, revolted and curious in equal measure, as Dolohov stood over Wilkes, ignoring the boy's spasms, and looked at them sharply.

"The Cruciatus Curse directs its magic to the object's pain centres," he said, continuing to point his wand at the writhing figure at his feet.

This is how their instructors referred to those to whom the curse was directed; they were 'objects.'

"The curse fires repeatedly throughout the body's central nervous system."

Severus forced his gaze away from Wilkes and tried to attend to the instructions.

"Prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse can result in permanent mental damage, so you need to control its duration. If you want to obtain information, you need to make sure not to over-cast, so the object is not impaired beyond the point of coherence. Control it, and you can provide just enough--incentive--to reveal their secrets."

Dolohov raised his wand to release both spells, and Wilkes moaned, his body continuing to jerk involuntarily as tears washed down his twitching face.

"The pain impulses take some time to recede, so the object will continue to spasm for a period of time relative to the amount of time spent under the curse."

Wilkes retched over himself and the floor. Cranford went to help but he was stayed by Dolohov's hand.

"He'll clean it up himself," Dolohov growled. Cranford retreated quickly.

"Sir?" Evan Rosier asked, raising his hand tentatively.

"Rosier?"

"Why use the Cruciatus Curse to obtain information when Veritaserum is so effective?"

Dolohov stroked his goatee for a moment, considering his reply. Wilkes, meanwhile, had risen to his feet and spelled away the mess. Severus watched him surreptitiously, curious about the after-effects of the curse, while attending to Dolohov's instruction.

"While Veritaserum is, as you note, effective, it isn't always available at the moment one needs it. And, despite common belief, it isn't always reliable. It is often overused by the more zealous of your comrades and ends up killing the object before they can offer anything useful. Or else it fails because it hasn't been prepared properly."

Severus bridled at this, knowing that his stores of Veritaserum had been brewed perfectly! But he bit his tongue to keep himself from making the snide retort that was begging to be spoken.

"And, in some very rare cases, the object resists it," added Dolohov. "The Cruciatus, on the other hand, is always available and, if carefully applied, is an almost infallible tool. Any other questions?"

No one had any.

The recruits were relieved when their instructor pulled out a box. They would begin their practice on spiders, Flobberworms and Billywigs. It was easy to hate these sorts of creatures; they were ugly and annoying.

"To cast the Cruciatus Curse," Dolohov barked to his recruits standing at attention, "you have to want the object to feel pain." He looked at them critically. "You may think this is easy, but it isn't. You have to summon, from within yourself, a genuine and clear desire to inflict harm."

Dolohov instructed them to recall images, memories from their past--from home or school--anything that would help to spark their anger and ignite their will to cause pain.

Severus found this easy to do. He simply thought of James Potter and Sirius Black. A long tunnel and a bone chilling howl. Being humiliated by a lake. Hatred nearly dripped from him when he invoked the curse, causing spiders and worms to scream and writhe. He never knew that they could make sounds at all, least of all ones that loud.

The second week, Dolohov brought in crates of small creatures: Bowtruckles, Nifflers, and Clabberts. These were good for practice because they moved rapidly, so they had to work on catching them before they could cast the curse. By the end of the week, Severus found it easier and faster to summon his will. He didn't register the first lick of joy when it coursed through him as he watched his Niffler contort in pain.

The third week, Dolohov didn't bring anything with him. The recruits began to shuffle with nervous anticipation. Wilkes looked exceptionally pale and Severus thought he might be sick again.

Dolohov's eyes gleamed as he turned to his class, sending shivers down Severus' spine. "It is easy to inflict pain on a small animal, or on a creature that can't look you in they eye and beg," Dolohov said in a measured tone. "It is far trickier when face-to-face with a human being," A flicker of excitement flared in the older man's eyes. "Most often, that human is an enemy--a Mudblood, a Muggle, or a blood-traitor," Dolohov said with disdain, practically spitting out the words. "But, sometimes, on rare occasions, that human might be a fellow Death Eater."

Severus was amused to see mouths gape open in surprise. He shook his head and suppressed a laugh. How many times had his fellow Slytherins turned on him? He cast a sideways glance at Cranford. Traitors should be punished, he thought reasonably.

Dolohov looked at each of them in turn and then asked, "Do I have a volunteer?"

Most of them took a few tentative steps backwards.

********

The following week, the recruits were on edge and picking fights with each other. Suspicion and resentment were running high after several rounds of practice with the Cruciatus Curse. No one, though, had picked a fight with Severus, who had been the first to volunteer. He was pleased to see that they were a bit afraid of him, a lesson he'd be sure to remember. But they were mostly on edge because this week they were to be taught the final Unforgivable: the Avada Kedavra--the Killing Curse.

As they entered their training room, Rosier quipped, "Well, it's a good chance we won't have to practice this one on each other!" The others laughed, but there was no mirth in the sound.

Severus was surprised to find he was highly anxious the first time he invoked the killing magic, and the spider flipped upside down, its tentacles curling inwards. But, by the fourth go on a Niffler, he felt a brief rush of--something indescribable flooding his body. Finally, by the tenth time, he finally recognised that rush as the same heady sensation he had when creating his Dark potions. It was a wonderful feeling, and he welcomed it back with a sense of relief, like a long lost friend: his extremities tingled, all his senses heightened, his heart rate increased, and a joyous euphoria filled his body.

The next day they arrived in the training room to see several crates lined up along the floor and heard the unmistakable whimpering of small dogs. These would be harder than insects and small creatures to kill; these looked at you with sad eyes. Goyle and Rosier, both of whom had dogs or crups as pets, found that they were unable to complete the spell. It only took them one more day--and several rounds of the Cruciatus Curse--to summon up the will to kill the objects of their torment. Severus, on the other hand, looked into their eyes and, for some reason saw Sirius Black looking back at him. The dogs were dead at his feet in an instant. The backrush of magic was intoxicating; chills of pleasure spread throughout him.

"Well done, Snape," praised Mulciber. Severus preened at the rare compliment.

On the last day of the week, Mulciber faced the recruits and Dolohov stood to the side.

"Today will be your final examination in the Unforgivables."

They stood a little taller, proud of having accomplished learning such difficult and important spells, and looked around the training room, a bit surprised at the absence of cages, crates or boxes. Severus guessed that they wouldn't be casting the curses on animals or insects, and he felt his heart pounding in anticipation.

Mulciber instructed them to take a seat around the perimeter of the room. He stood before them, his expression blank and his arms clasped behind his back. "Before you begin your examination, Dolohov and I will demonstrate on two objects each. You will observe carefully. Then, you will be called forward, one at a time. An object has been selected for each of you, and you will cast the Unforgivables in the order in which you learned them. If you succeed, you will be assigned to field missions starting next week. If you fail, you will repeat this sequence of training until you pass. And trust me when I say that you do not want to repeat this course. Do you all understand?"

They all nodded.

The first object was dragged into the room, a derelict Muggle, clearly Stunned and immobile. The recruits around Severus began to whisper excitedly to each other.

Dolohov revived him and waited for the disoriented man to stand. He was elderly, with white, scraggly hair, a filthy, unkempt beard, and the few teeth remaining in his mouth were yellow with decay. The man pushed himself to his feet, blinking with incomprehension at the sight before him. The recruits all leaned forward, watching intently.

"Imperio!"

The man went slack-jawed.

Dolohov threw a long piece of thick wood at the man's feet. "Hit yourself with that piece of wood. And laugh while you do it," Dolohov commanded with a sneer.

Mechanically, the man picked it up. It was a bit heavy, and it sent the man stumbling backwards. But he steadied, raised the wood in front of him with both hands and smashed it onto his head. Blood spurted from his brow, and the man emitted a sound that resembled a laugh only to someone who had never heard the sound of one before. He hit himself again and again. Severus felt a tightening in his gut as he watched this demonstration.

Dolohov released the spell, and the man fell to the floor shrieking in pain, clutching his head.

Severus was surprised to find that he felt queasier than he had expected. Perhaps it was just more difficult to watch than to do, he thought.

"Crucio!"

The man convulsed in pain, his screams echoing throughout the room. This one was oddly easier to watch, Severus reasoned. Probably because he'd watched his fellow recruits in this state for a whole week.

Dolohov ended the spell and, without a pause, cast the final curse.

"Avada Kedavra!"

The by-now familiar jet of green light silenced the man on the floor, and he was dragged out of the room.

By the time the remaining demonstration objects had been dispatched by their instructors, the recruits were more than eager for their turn. After watching the repeated onslaught of curses, it made it easier to see these Muggles as the foul objects that they were.

Unsurprisingly, Severus' name was called first, and he walked to the centre of the room and waited. His heart was pounding, and his wand emitted sparks of anticipation. For some reason this made Dolohov laugh. It was the first time he'd ever heard the man laugh.

The door opened, and Severus was startled at the unexpected sight of a woman being dropped at his feet. She was dishevelled, like the other objects, but this one was young, maybe only ten years older than he. Her hair was long and dark brown, in wild disarray, and there were bruises on her face. His musings about her appearance were interrupted, however, when the woman was revived and she clambered to her feet, looking around in a panic. Her eyes fell on Severus.

"Please!" she begged him through flowing tears. "Don't hurt me! I done nothing wrong!" Severus was taken aback when the woman suddenly threw herself at him, clutching his legs. "Sir! Please! I have babies at home that need me!" she wailed. "Please--"

Severus grabbed her roughly by the hair and forced her face up to meet his eyes as he pointed his wand in her face. "Imperio!" he muttered. He released her head with a jerk and she fell backwards, hitting the floor with a bounce. Her pleas quieted and she stared at him blankly. Severus cast his eyes around the room, considering what would impress his instructors the most. Then he decided.

"Accio knife!"

From the weapons table, a long-bladed knife flew across the room, and he caught it carefully by its hilt. He felt the heft of the knife in his grip and hesitated for a moment as he looked into the woman's vacant eyes. Not a woman. An object. It's an object, he repeated to himself. He tossed the knife on the floor, and it landed with a loud clang that reverberated throughout the room.

"Remove the clothes above your waist," Severus commanded. The woman's blank expression remained unmoved as she awkwardly removed her blouse and her bra. Her breasts were large and pendulous, and Severus heard the boys snigger. He cleared his throat. "Take up the knife from the floor and carve it into your breast." Severus' voice cracked at the end of this. He'd never said that word out loud before.

There were gasps behind him when she did what she was told. She didn't flinch as the sharp edge of the knife found purchase in the soft tissue of her left breast, and she cut deeply through it from top to bottom. Blood spurted from her wound, splattering Severus and unnerving him so much that he quickly ended the Imperius and cast the Cruciatus in turn without a pause.

The woman, who was still holding the knife in her hand, screamed in deep-throated agony. Her body contracted and contorted so violently, that she unwittingly began to stab her legs and torso repeatedly with the blade. Streams of viscous blood pooled together on the floor, forming a giant red pond.

He ended the spell and watched the object twitch in its own filth. Then, with a deep breath, he tried to cast the Killing Curse... but nothing happened. He panicked for a moment and then realised that he hadn't summoned the will--the powerful magic that was needed to complete the spell successfully. He forced himself to breathe steadily, to be calm. He focussed on the filth on the floor, the foul scents assaulting his nose. It was a mess, something to be banished. He reached deep inside... and the image of his mother, injured on the kitchen floor, abandoning her child to the angry father, came to his mind.

"Avada Kedavra!" he intoned, and in a flash of brilliant, green light, the object stopped moving

********

Mulciber steps towards Severus, looking at the now silent and blood-covered object on the floor. "Well, Snape, I'll have to take a few points off for unnecessary damage on the Cruciatus, but you got the job done well enough. Have a seat!"

Severus walks back to his seat unsteadily, his breathing ragged, as Dolohov and Mulciber clean up the mess, preparing for the next examination.

He hears his fellow recruits speak to him, but there is a strange buzzing in his ear and he can't make out their words. Then, the room begins to spin, and Severus feels the familiar and unwelcome sensation of losing consciousness.

"I will not faint!" he berates himself silently, grabbing onto his chair tightly and trying to regain control of his breathing. "Master yourself!" he demands. Ever so slowly, the room begins to right itself and return to focus. Glancing at the blood covering his robes and his hands, he shuts his eyes tightly, waiting for the euphoria that he craves to come. And finally, it does, washing over him with relief. But this time, for the first time, a second wave of feeling follows. The acrid, coppery-smell of blood emanates from his body, and the sticky feeling on his hands assaults his senses and he feels sick. This wave rises up and overwhelms him with loathing, the stench of death and horror.

***********

A/N: I acknowledge that the violence in this chapter IS upsetting, hence the warning at the beginning. The methods described here (adapted, of course) are based on research into the training methods of real-life terrorist cells. While they do not train their recruits in the magical Unforgivables, there are plenty of real-life, equally horrific Unforgivables. I also know that JKR would never go into this level of graphic detail, but I want to convey, to some degree the reality and horror of war. Finally, no offence is intended towards animals or women. Having one and being the other, the acts described were as upsetting to imagine and write and they probably were to read. I sincerely hope that this has not turned you off from reading the rest of the story.

My betas were heavily consulted on the content of this chapter and I owe them for more than checking punctuation. Thanks to both celtmama and capella_black.