Raven Feathers

---------Chapter One---------
-Claiming Territory-



The very moment Harry Potter laid down on his deep crimson bed at exactly 11pm, he was obscured by dreams. Not to say he was in a deep sleep, but he dreamed nonetheless. He moved not at all as the images flooded his mind; rather, he stayed eerily calm. One finger on his left hand twitched just slightly as a particularly bloodied picture flickered behind his closed eyelids. The red life stained the dim mental screen at the front of his mind. But, these were images he was accustomed to.

Ringing in his ears were the screams of people being thrown yards at a time by dark and pale green bursts of light. One young girl was tossed suddenly from beyond his line of vision into a small brick building, blood seemingly carrying in the air behind her. From what? Simple-her left leg was severed roughly from the knee down. A tall dark man rushed over to her, limping on his right leg. A flash of realization dawned on his face when he saw that her neck was crooked, bones shattered. The realization was followed closely by shock and pain, then rested on calm defeat.

Slowly, the man drew his wand from his torn coat pocket and aimed it steadily at his own temple. Eyes locked on the broken girl's body, he whispered two words, muted by the limits of the dream, and a brilliant flash of green light threw him to the ground.

Dead.

At exactly 11:15pm, Harry Potter's eyes opened, dark and liquefied from sleep. Slowly he rose from the bed and drew the almost black curtains back. The moon was gleaming, half full, from the stone rimmed window, white rays smooth on the thick carpeted, wine red floor. With a pale hand, he pushed the glass panes open and a rush of cool air struck him, brushing back the messy midnight black hair. Slowly, as if almost uncertain, he lifted his leg onto the sill, resting heavily on his knee, and hoisted the rest of his body up.

There he kneeled for minutes, eyes trained on the bleak stars in the far distance.

Then, in a single animated motion, he lunged forward into the dark.

From outside, it appeared that a large black raven had emerged from the open window, wings spread in a span of freedom. It fluttered for a moment, then disappeared completely into the night.


++++++++


It was approximately a quarter to two in the morning when the last man able to strand straight was slain. The blood that had been leaking from his earlier head wound had long ago dried to a brittle film over his forehead and matted his smooth mahogany hair. He was lying flat, on the hard, cold ground, arms and legs spread-eagled, eyes close in death, on his stomach.

All seemed peaceful for a time, save for the hushed whisper of voices a few yards away. The man was dead now so his cries were no longer heard, his limbs no longer flailing, his eyes-eyes of a pale blue hue- were no longer wide with horror and pain. He was tranquil in death, seemingly happy with the afterlife. He was undisturbed until a tall dark shadow grew over him, blocking the few moon rays from reaching his languid corpse.

The figure casting the shadow was cloaked in a thick black material. His narrow face was covered completely by a nondescript white mask. The hood of the cloak was drawn over the top of the mask, securing it in its place. In his right hand, pale, spidery fingers clasped his wand.

This man, disguised and masked, stood stock-still over the body, contemplating his next action. He was reached up with his left hand and took the mask off. Cool air licked his now bare skin, sending the tiniest, barest shiver through his nerves. Also, a heavy scent of burning human flesh met his senses. It was good though; it meant another small victory, even if it barely met the needs for the overall plan.

Only a little ways away, a group of some twelve people were talking in low monotones with one another. Their masks had been removed from their faces and were now resting gently atop their heads. A few of them had small, almost invisible bruises on their faces. Every few moments, one or two of them would glance up towards the sky. The sky remained empty.

This was how it went on for about twenty minutes of time. The sky was faintly beginning to lighten. No one would come. The little town had been very excluded from real civilization. Not to say they weren't keeping up with times, no. There had been plenty of Muggle devices-computers, telephones, stereos- in the homes. It was merely that the town had been many miles from the closest city. There was little doubt in the conclusion that no one would realize for some time the massacred state the town was in.

It seemed, after time, that the group was waiting for no one. They had acted out orders with no command, it seemed, destroying what was in their wake and waiting blindly for the voice that wouldn't follow.

And then there was a muffled, faint pop.

As one, the men (and few women) turned towards the noise, faces expressionless and eyes filled with eagerness. An overly tall form was standing before them, hidden entirely in the folds of a thick gray cloak. The moon reflected two narrow glints of burning ovals behind the drawn hood. The material fell all the way to the stony ground, pooling slightly around hidden feet. Slowly, a thin, unmarred hand appeared from the folds of the cloak and reached up to drop the heavy hood back.

The pale, narrow face was a perfect porcelain replica of serpentine. Smooth and flawless with tilted deep red irises ringed with a dark circle of black. It was snake-like in appearance, drawn long with high cheekbones and waxen, hard flesh. The lipless, smooth mouth was curved faintly in a smirk as the crimson eyes surveyed the damage of the little village.

Behind his figure, in the bleak sky, a raven's cry rang out nearby. It echoed twice and faded. A great sum peered up towards the glowing moon, searching the sky for the bird. There was nothing but the dim yellow stars and the gleaming globe among them for some time. The raven appeared to the left of their gaze; its head cocked downward, another shrill cry bubbling up from its throat. A single glossy feather floated gently from where it flew, landing desolately on the ground.

Following the feather in a graceful dive, the large bird landed beside it, its clawed feet digging into a soft shallow spot of dirt. It tilted its head and looked closely at the eyes watching him.

Then, the raven was a man. Well, maybe not a *man*, per say, but a *young* man, about sixteen or seventeen.

"Potter."

He lifted his gaze sharply, jade eyes meeting the much darker, blood-coloured ones, but pointedly ignored him and parted a way through the Death Eaters. The scene that met his eyes was both sickening and disgusting but at the same time, all together relieving. They hadn't fouled up the plans, at least. The buildings were still intact, which had been the main task.

There were three piles of bodies down the road between some houses. They were charred and smoking, and he realized with a raw suddenness that they had burned the bodies. He didn't bother wondering why though, it was pointless to ask. He looked around the clearing before the town and saw the single bloody-headed body lying in front of a red-bricked home.

He walked over to it and stared down at the serene face caked with dried blood. Were the man not dead, he would've been infinitely attractive. Soft dark hair that was glimmering, even in the dim moonlight, like woven silk, it looked like it was almost asking to be touched. The man, physically, had been beautiful. A stunningly gorgeous specimen of modern life, he supposed. But then he imagined the soft, too pretty face twisted in pain and despair. He decided then that he looked better in death.

Calmly, he turned back. Not only were the Death Eaters following him with their eyes, but also so was their master. They were all calm now; some sneering at him half-heartedly, some truly irritated by the sight of him, the rest completely impassive. This was the evil that had haunted him so long. These people, nearly untouched, were who had caused this disaster, this destruction. But he was like them wasn't he?


No, no, Raven; don't think about what you're doing. Just think of what you want to be doing.

He smiled faintly, an eerily cold expression. "Everything seems perfect from what I've seen," he said softly, watching the Death Eaters from the corner of his eye.

"Good. We'll begin bringing them here tomorrow, then, shall we?"

"That should be fine. No one will notice what has happened for at least a week, I would think. That's time enough to settle for a while." He spoke easily and fluently, as if the coolness wasn't settling heavily on his chest. He turned back to the Death Eaters. His eyes passed over them slowly, running through the names of who was currently present in his mind. "Knott." A dark-haired man stepped forward, head inclined. "Which of the houses have cellars?"

"We marked them in red. There-"

"How many?"

"I… I think about nine."

Harry nodded. He looked to his former foe, contemplating for a moment. Nine. Twelve or less could fit in each. It sounded about right. "Is that enough," he asked suddenly.

"For now," was Voldemort's only reply. It was absent minded, and Harry saw that the Dark Lord was studying the surroundings carefully.

'For wards,' he thought. Yes, they would need wards. Even if it was for only a week, maybe less. They couldn't risk it.

He looked up towards the sky. It was paling awfully fast. If he left now he could make it back by just six, if he was lucky. Maybe by seven. "I'll take my leave," he said. "I have to make it back by eight, if anything."

With an acknowledging inclination of the head, he took flight, taking on the air-born form and drifting into the morning sky.

Below him, the ground was scattered with more wreckage than had been noticeable from the ground. They, himself and the Dark Lord, had only to hope that there *were* no other rural villages around.


++++++++


At 7:30am, Harry J. Potter was sitting on the edge of his bed in the Gryffindor Boys' dorm, yawning and stretching languidly. The rest of the boys were crawling out of their own beds, mumbling to themselves absently about 'waking growing students up too bloody early just to go to class.'



-----To be continued in next chapter-----