Raven Feathers

---------Chapter Two---------
-Night Flees the Day-


The Potions classroom, a mere dungeon at the heart of Hogwarts' lower levels, was stifling hot for once, instead of the usual damp, groggy coolness. Most of the students were sweating horribly, little beads of liquid trickling down their backs, causing their clothing to stick to their flesh. They were all pleased when the class ended and they were able to flee into the cool corridor.

Harry was walking between Ron and Hermione, leaving the hated classroom behind them, and listening to them argue half-heartedly about something or other, when an occurrence he would describe as downright odd happened. The three of them were about to turn a corner with the rest of the Gryffindors when Harry heard someone call his name behind them. Frowning slightly, he turned to see who it could be and was met with the impassive face of Pansy Parkinson, who was walking slowly towards him. Loosely held in her right hand, he noticed an envelope. What in the world could she have for him?

"Potter, I need to talk to you," she said stiffly, stopping a foot or two away from him. No one moved for a moment. "Alone," she added, glaring contemptuously at Ron and Hermione.

"Sod off, Parkinson," Ron started, returning the glare. He nudged Harry in the side. "C'mon, Har, maybe she'll go away if we ignore her."

"No, Ron, go ahead without me. I'm sure I can handle Parkinson for a moment." Ron looked at him incredulously, as did Hermione, who had been rather quiet during the past few minutes. "Really, Ron. Hermione. Just go on. I'll be there in a minute."

"Alright, Harry. We'll see you in a few then, right?"

"Yes."

Harry turned to Pansy after his two friends had rounded the corner. She was standing with her arms folded, the envelope still in her hand, her expression a cross between confusion and doubt.

"Well, Parkinson, what do you want?"

"I have something for you," she glanced around the empty corridor cautiously, as if expecting someone to be listening in. "My father sent it to me today, asking me to give it to you directly." She handed him the envelope, careful not to touch his hand. She gave the hall another cursory glance and said, "He also mentioned it not being safe to send owls."

Harry stared at her. "What?"

"No need to be like that, Potter." She suddenly smirked. With a slight inclination of her head, she abruptly turned and quickly left towards the Slytherin common room.

He stood, completely still, staring at the envelope in his hands, dumbfounded. Pansy Parkinson's father? He turned it over slowly, looking at the delicate scrawl of black ink. It said, simply, "Raven". Raven? Something tickled the back of his mind, and he suddenly felt as if he was missing some important piece of a bigger picture.

Swallowing hard, he glanced behind him, but the moment he turned back, he felt ridiculous. There was no need to be so nervous, right? Right. Taking a deep breath, he opened the envelope, tearing the top off as cleanly as possible. Inside he found a single folded piece of lightweight parchment. With two fingers, he slid the letter out and opened it. There was only a single sentence written out.

"There is a settlement south of ourselves."

He blinked and glanced away for a moment. Then he glanced back. 'There is a settlement south of ourselves', it read. What did that mean? South of ourselves… The tickle was back, and again, he felt like he was forgetting something dire. What else was it Parkinson had said? It not being safe to send owls? To whom? Her father? Why would he send owls to her father?

Feeling ill and more tired than he had been before, he stuffed the parchment back into the envelope and fled the corridor for the Gryffindor commons.


++++++++


He had ignored Ron and Hermione's questions when he'd come in through the Fat Lady's portrait. He'd hidden the letter, concealed in its envelope, in his bag, inside his Potion's book. He didn't need anyone finding it, even if there were no names or signatures. He wasn't sure he wanted to tell his friends, either. Something told him that maybe they shouldn't know about this right yet, whatever 'this', was.

He'd gone directly to the boys' dorm room and tossed his stuff aside. Maybe if he slept for a bit, just a small nap before dinner, he wouldn't have to think (or worry) about his encounter with Parkinson for a while.

It felt promising.

Without getting under the covers or removing his school robes, he crawled onto his bed and charmed the curtains shut. He fell asleep quickly, fully clothed and rather troubled, curled on his side atop the soft crimson blankets.

His mind was plagued with dreams.

It usually was.


++++++++


The boy, whom the Death Eaters rightly called Raven, awoke late in the night. He didn't remember falling asleep, but he rarely ever did. He was still in school robes, and he felt sick when he saw the Gryffindor crest glaring at him from his chest. He lied silently on the bed as minutes passed, staring intently into the darkness above him. He was listening. The names wouldn't come to him but he heard three different breathing patterns and someone's snoring. He was alone in his wakened state.

Calmly he sat up and, pulling the curtains opened on the side closest the window, slid his legs off the edge of the bed quietly. Moonlight was spread across the floor, coming to a rest on his feet. He stood, pulling the robes off himself. He despised wearing them. Once they were off him and lying on the floor, he silently got down on his knees and reached an arm under the bed. He felt around a bit until his hand came to rest on a pool of soft fabric. He pulled it out and smirked, looking at the more dignified set of robes.

It only took him a moment to dress. He stood in front of the window, hands resting on the sill, staring at the moon. He knew he had to do something tonight, something important. But it wouldn't come to him, it wouldn't surface. But then…

South, south, south, south, south…

There's a settlement south…south of ourselves.

He was vaguely surprised but his face remained impassive as he watched the moon. Who'd told him that? Someone…

Parkinson.

Calmly he raised a hand and pushed the windowpanes open. The cool, brisk night air brushed a few strands of black hair from his face. Seconds passed and he stood there, eyes now closed, concentrating. In his mind he saw the shape and he could feel the smooth gloss of inky black feathers. The image melted into that of himself, and then back to the bird.

And then, he simply was.

Unfurling his wings, he took off into the air, merging with the dark sky. The sudden rush of wind picked him up and he pumped his wings, striving to catch rhythm before he tumbled to his death. It didn't take much effort, although it always felt like it did. Beneath him, the Forbidden Forest passed by for a stretch of two miles, and then it became fields, roads, and homes. And then forest again.

South…south…south

The town they had stationed themselves at was nearing several miles ahead. He could already sense something nearby. Catching the light of the moon on his feathers, he dipped, nearly brushing the tops of the trees. If it were not for the increased, sharper sight of the raven, he knew he probably would not have seen it. A little house was ahead, encased in trees. It was almost impossible to spot.

Taking the advantage of a conveniently placed opening in the treetops, he swooped downward, narrowly avoiding a branch. He caught himself and wove between the trees, glaring black eyes focused on the small cottage ahead. There was a faint reddish hue dancing on the windows- a fire. So, the inhabitants were awake. Good, it would make things slightly simpler.

The air roughly pulled at his wings as he pushed them back, throwing his feet forward. He closed his eyes against the cold breeze and his talons embedded themselves in the hard ground. Cocking his head, he looked up at the windows. How many lives were at his mercy tonight?

With his eyes firmly closed, he concentrated on his transformation. The lithe, pale form of a human, the feathered black body of a raven, and a human; a human with dark, unruly hair and raw, jaded eyes. And, again, as simply as before, he was. There was no feeling to it, no sensation or pain. It just happened.

He smiled bitterly to himself, eyeing the oak door in front of him. He'd always felt more alive in his other form. Less awkward. But nonetheless. Slowly he raised a hand and rested it on the knob. He tightened his grip and twisted; the door swung open easily, revealing a scene that looked like it had been taken from a child's storybook.

A woman, not old, but nowhere near youth, was sitting in a rather worn chair with a book in her hands. She looked up, startled, when the door creaked open, nearly dropping her book in the process. In a far corner a man, similar in age, was in the middle of finishing what looked to be his dinner. He looked up and froze, a fork loosely held in his right hand.

The murder itself was too easy.

He had easily snapped the woman's neck, leaving her body slumped in its place, the book thrown unceremoniously to the floor. The man, upon seeing the swift death of his wife, had put up a bit of a fight. But it had been fruitless. First, his wrist had been broken; twisted and mangled in the brutal grip. Then, his skull had crashed into the wall with a sickening crack and he'd fallen to the ground in a heap, blood seeping slowly from an unseen wound.

The fire in the hearth had been snuffed out- there was no reason to risk the house burning down. He'd even allowed himself to pick at the dead man's unfinished meal. But, in all honesty, it had been completely tasteless.

With the deed finished, he left the little home, in all its sweetness, and took flight for the second time that night.


++++++++


Raven looked at the emotionless creature before him, holding a cup of warm mint tea in his hands. He'd been there for less than an hour and already he was growing tired of the Dark Lord's pointless words. The ideas that were constantly thrown at him always seemed to sound rather naïve and desperate. And, they bored him.

His mind drifted as the cool voice talked on. He thought of the man and woman he had killed earlier, the fear that had flitted through their eyes, the unsuspecting terror. They had both been very beautiful in their last moments. The woman had looked younger and the man more alive, with more vigor. Death seemed to do that.

He was about to fall further from reality when his consciousness caught the word 'recruit'. He blinked and turned his critical green eyes to the malevolent face.

"You wish to begin recruiting so soon? It's not even been two years since you rose."

"Ah, but my Raven." The lipless mouth smirked. "The quicker our numbers grow, the quicker we can over throw Dumbledore and his Order of fools."

Raven returned the smirk, eyes dark. "You would think that."

The Lord's expression quickly became a glare. "You don't think so?" he asked distastefully.

"I think we should wait another year or more. But seeing as this is your," he said and paused, "operation, I will let you make the decisions." He looked directly into the sneering face solemnly. "When did you wish to begin the recruitment?"

"A month. Possibly sooner."

"Mmm, and who did you think would be most suited for inclusion this soon?" Another glare, but it seemed more imploring if not curious.

"Parkinson. Malfoy. Maybe Nott and Flint."

"I wouldn't include Parkinson. She appears to be more loyal to her family than you, Lord. That can only lead to her failure."

There was a moment of silence in which Raven emptied the china cup and set it down on a small table by his chair.

"How are things going with the werewolves?" he asked, glancing towards a dark window. When he'd arrived, the men had been moving the imprisoned lycanthropes into the cellars of the emptied houses.

"Well. I'm sure they will prove useful when the time comes."

"Will there be any chance of someone missing them? We've had them for two days already."

"It's unlikely. All were loners and had no family to speak of. I made sure of it."

Raven raised an eyebrow. He was sure he knew what the Lord meant when he said he 'made sure of it'. "I think I'll take my leave of you," he said abruptly. "I should see if those incompetents need any assistance."

He stood, inclining his head and left the little house.


++++++++


There were several Lethifolds* a few meters from an external cellar doorway. Eight Death Eaters were trying to herd them in with feeble Patronuses and none seemed to be succeeding in their purpose. He watched them, eyebrows raised. Then he came forward out of the shadows of the doorway, catching the men's attention.

"Watch it, Macnair," he said as a Lethifold began drifting forward. The man lifted his wand and made another meek attempt at a Patronus. The creature faltered for a moment before going out of its way to avoid the deformed silver cloud. Macnair took a few steps back, bumping directly into one of his fellow Death Eaters.

Raven shook his head and raised his arm, giving his wrist a sharp jerk. "Expecto patronum." He felt the jet-black stag draw on his energy and closed his eyes, focusing his strength on controlling the disembodied animal. It circled the small group of animated cloaks, conjuring up invisible puffs of dust around its hooves, and pressured them backward into the open cellar doors.

When the task was completed, the doors closed with a second flick of the wrist and the stag walked lazily to its master, nuzzling his shoulder. Raven smiled coolly, rubbing its neck gently. "That really wasn't so hard," he said, watching the Death Eaters with narrowed eyes, "now was it, men?"

His hand fell away from the stag's neck and the image faded away into nothing. "I think you all should be much more skilled than that. But maybe I'm wrong."

With that, he merged with his other half and in flight, made his way back to Hogwarts.


++++++++


"You look awfully tired, Harry," Hermione said worriedly, glancing over the top of her book.

"I am," he replied, picking at his breakfast with a fork.

Ron, on his left, frowned. "I thought you got plenty of sleep last night, mate?"

"I did. Maybe it's just stress or something. I don't know."

"Anything to do with what Parkinson wanted you for?"

Harry sighed, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. "I already told you, Ron, that it was nothing. I can't even remember what it was about. Something pointless and stupid."

"Alright, alright. Whatever."

Hermione glanced between the two boys, shaking her head. Whatever it was, it would come around soon, most likely. Anything concerning Harry seemed to surface at the worst possible time.


------To Be Continued in Next Chapter------