Irreversible Destiny

A/N: I’ve moved back to my 2 week update schedule and hopefully I’ll be able to keep it going. Thank you for the wonderful reviews and comments! Here are 26 pages for you to enjoy.

Thanks to Random Dispatcher for the beta and those of you who gave me opinions about other scenes, I appreciate it.

Parseltongue, foreign words, letters/articles etc.
Emphasized words, headings,
((d)) dream ((d))

Chapter XXIII
Action

Take time to deliberate, but when the time for action has arrived, stop thinking and go in.
-Napoleon Bonaparte, French general & politician (1769 - 1821)

---

The Assembly Hall
Casablanca, Morocco
Sunday the 5th of October 1997
9:15 PM

Cyriacus’s lips curved into a smile as he stared at Dimitar Rakyn, the Clan Elder of the most powerful Vampire Clan on the surface of the planet. Incidentally Rakyn was also the father of his good friend and former Potions Master Stephen Dumont. This was a meeting he had been looking forward to as the confrontation would no doubt have some sway over the others present.

“Stephen sends his regards and apologizes most profusely for deciding to forge his own path,” Cyriacus commented with a smirk.

Rakyn’s hazel eyes narrowed at the insolent tone but he proceeded with caution, this man was dangerous after all. “So the rumors are true, my eldest son is alive.”

“Oh yes, Stephen is very much alive and doing quite well for himself.”

“How has he managed to hide his existence from our Clan for so long?” Rakyn asked sounding frustrated.

Cyriacus idly crossed his arms, resting his hands on his hips. “He took refuge on the Isle of Shadows of course; Arcanum is the only place in the Mortal Realm that anyone could feasibly hide their existence.”

Rakyn stiffened and spoke flatly. “I wish to see him, can you arrange it?”

“If Stephen had wanted to speak with you he would have contacted you before, it is not my place to interfere in his life. I will let him know that you would like a word with him but, I cannot force him to meet with you…at least, not unless I am getting something in return for my efforts.”

Sariyah got to her feet. “It is a punishable offense to hide the whereabouts of a missing Heir to a Vampire Clan.”

“And you would propose to bring such charges upon me?” Cyriacus tilted his head back and started laughing. “You are a fool indeed, if you think you could even attempt to make threats to me of all people.”

Rakyn’s face flushed with fury and he would have spoken harshly but Shadrak had grabbed hold of him and leaning over whispered in his ear at length. Cyriacus watched them, still very amused. Eventually Rakyn sat back down and Shadrak turned to address him.

“You have not explained what you are or how you came to have Primordial blood and you have yet to explain the relevance of the Lost Prophecy of Merlin or how it impacts your War.” Shadrak pointed out reasonably.

Cyriacus smiled as he studied Shadrak approvingly; here was someone with a firm head on their shoulders and enough sense to be cautious of him. “I would be more than happy to explain both since you asked so nicely.”

Cyriacus then went ahead and explained the situation as it stood beginning with the Asadyl and Imryn’s War, the downfall of the Primordials minus the Chylla and their subsequent banishment. Once that was explained, he spoke at length of the Chylla’s time consuming effort to fulfill their own Prophecy and how that had led to his current arrangement with Voldemort and their goals to take the Wizarding World. It took nearly two and a half hours to explain the history behind the current situation and another hour of answering questions.

“And so this is the how things stand, I am burdened with the weight of two Prophecies and assigned a rather laborious amount of tasks.” Cyriacus finished with a sigh.

Rakyn was still attempting to understand the repercussions of Cyriacus’s birth and running a hand over his temples muttered, “We don’t really have a choice do we?”

“About serving me and fulfilling the oaths you swore to your respective Parents? No, I wouldn’t say you have much of a choice, you’re about as fucked over as I am really.” Cyriacus said wryly, astonishing a good number of those present.

Voldemort merely shook his head, bemused at his lover’s eloquent words. Even Nusayr’s lips twitched but he was happy nonetheless, that his charge had retained his sense of humor at the least.

“I, however, would be an idiot to simply throw you all in the front lines as soldiers and since I’m not an idiot, I’ll make a deal with all of you. Simply put, I’ll give you until next July to make up your mind about whether you will serve me and in what capacity. I’m willing to take: Soldiers, Healers, Scholars, Artisans, Craftsmen, Entertainers, Fabricators, Seers, Architects, Financers and Spies. I’ll assign you to serve in whatever capacity you choose and you do your best for me, I’m not asking for more than what any of you or yours is capable of doing.”

Several of those who were Oath bound to serve were mollified that Cyriacus was intelligent and would not force any of them to do something they obviously were not suited for. This swayed several into making their decisions.

“If you choose not to serve me, that’s fine too but don’t expect to survive the War. I won’t kill you if that’s what you’re thinking but I wasn’t joking when I said this is the War that will change everything. You choose not to act and you’ll be swept away, your kind will become obsolete in the new Age and you’ll die out most likely. Finally, if you’re suicidal enough to join forces with my enemies, I’ll not only crush your respective group but I’ll make sure that not only will your deaths be excruciating but that even written history will remark about your idiocy.” Cyriacus finished, coolly.

Shivers spread throughout the room, as that ever so frightening power washed over them, giving them a taste of the terrible fury that would be unleashed if any were bold enough to betray him. This too, swayed the most wavering into finalizing their decisions.

Two hours before dawn, Cyriacus left the Assembly Hall with a written document which pledged the allegiance of all the Vampires, the Werewolves, the Dementors, the Incubui and Succubi, the Banshees, the Veela and the Dwarves. Three Fae Monarchies and seven Goblin Houses had also pledged their allegiance, while the remaining groups had chosen to take the time to deliberate about their choices.

Satisfied that he had made as much progress as he had, Cyriacus told the leaders of the newly formed Magical Covenant that he would keep in touch with them and they would have their first official meeting in late December or early January. Re-joining his lover, the Wizards made their departure, very pleased at having increased their forces nearly tenfold.

---

Asadyl’s Room
Riddle Mansion, Little Hangleton UK
Monday the 6th of October 1997
5:18 AM

Asadyl paced in front of the windows of his room, which had a view of the front drive which led down to the walled and gated entrance that sealed off the non-magical world. Though he had never been on the other side of the gates, he had been told that from outside the walls the view was of a decrepit manor. The illusion was heavily layered with wards to cause any mischievous or adventurous humans who might have attempted to cross the walls or gate, to suddenly remember something they had forgotten to do and scurry back to their homes. It was ingenious, he had to admit but then Asadyl realized just how much things had changed.

Before their banishment, the Primordials had never had to hide what they were from anyone; in fact they had been highly respected by the humans of their time. That however, was not the case in this era and he found it most annoying that the offspring of the Primordials had resorted to hiding their presence in the world as the humans had eventually attacked and then hopelessly outnumbered them. Asadyl had read many books about the history of the Wizards and the other offspring of the Primordials and knew that the forced hiding had bred a most glaring hatred towards the foolish, non-magical humans. History had shown the instances of repeated attempts to conquer any portion of the ever-growing non-magical world and the subsequent defeats.

After hours of reading history books and several more spent talking to the other Primordials present, Asadyl had come to a sudden conclusion. He was no Chylla but considering how many thousands of years had passed and how Imryn and his own bloodline had dwindled to only these Wizard-born descendants, maybe it should not have shocked them that another Prophecy had been made about his Heir. It was true that Cyriacus could trace his ancestry back to Imryn and himself but none of them had taken into consideration the fact that the dilution of the original Primordial bloodline, combined with the passage of time, might have caused Cyriacus to be more susceptible to the Prophecies that befell his Wizard-born ancestors.

Kohinoor and he had spoken at great length about that topic for hours and came to the conclusion that it was highly possible that had happened. Though it had been unheard of for such a thing to happen, if the Prophecies were as different as both were, yet also hinted at the possibility of the effects of fulfilling one would advance the other, it might not be as horrifying or impossible as it had first seemed. That conclusion had dramatically calmed the fraying nerves of all the Primordials present, Kohinoor and he especially.

Unfortunately, the moment they had resolved one issue, another had reared its head and this one proved to be even more troubling than the previous issue. They had honestly tried their best, they had done as much as they could but somehow they had failed. Or perhaps, Razul had anticipated what they would do and had made the necessary precautions to prevent their meddling. In any case, it was obviously now a very pointless issue to argue about. The fact was that Razul had succeeded, they had failed and now they had to guess how exactly Razul’s unexpected sacrifice would effect Cyriacus. And when and what they would tell him, clearly the changes had already begun and if they waited too long and Cyraicus found out about it on his own…

Yes, it would be in Kohinoor and his best interest to confess all before Cyriacus realized that something wasn’t quite right about those gifts the Chylla had awoken in him. Asadyl shuddered. They had known in the beginning that the vessel for their freedom would be more powerful than even the Eldest of each group of Primordials but none of them could have imagined the sheer power Cyriacus had at his disposal. It was clear that Cyriacus was exactly what they needed to free the others and would be a good leader, capable and wise. But he was also quick to temper and far too swift to mete out punishments for perceived wrongs.

Asadyl suddenly became aware of Cyriacus’s power drifting around him like morning mist dangling above grass, allowing Asadyl to know Cyriacus’s exact location. Steadily his awareness of Cyriacus grew as he made his way through the building, no doubt intending to sleep in the rooms assigned to the Necromancer. As the presence came closer to his own location, Asadyl held his breath, hoping that his Heir would not seek him out until he was ready. Closing his eyes and releasing his breath as he felt Cyriacus step into his room across the hall, Asadyl’s awareness of him abruptly vanished thanks to the heavy, complicated Wards protecting his Heir’s room. Staring out onto the grounds which were slowly beginning to become more visible as dawn approached, Asadyl began thinking of ways to gently break the news to Cyriacus. It was best to confess their error as soon as possible, if they waited too long and he believed them to be keeping secrets about what they had intended him to be, Cyriacus’s punishment would be harsh and merciless.

---

Voldemort’s Suite
Riddle Mansion, Little Hangleton UK
Monday the 6th of October 1997
5:30 AM

Cyriacus was unsurprised to see his lover still awake, sitting behind his desk and looking through a pile of reports about the attacks that had taken place over the weekend. Having showered and changed into his forest green silk pajamas, he looked out of place standing in the doorway to Voldemort’s Study. Nagini lifted her head up, sitting off to the side of Voldemort’s desk.

Greetings mate of my Wizard, Nagini greeted as she lazily stretched.

Cyriacus smiled, Greetings Nagini, where are the hatchlings?

Most have gone to other places and those that remain are sleeping as you should be youngling.

Cyriacus was a bit surprised at being nagged by a snake, even if it was his lover’s familiar. The sun rises soon, but I have little need for more than a few hours of rest. I thought it best that I lend my help to your Wizard.

Nagnini flicked her tongue at him. He is your Mate and my Wizard youngling, do not confuse the two.

Voldemort glanced up from the report he was reading and interrupted whatever Cyriacus might have responded with. Your help is most appreciated, fy draig. (my dragon)

Shrugging, Cyriacus walked over and picked up a report before glancing around for a chair. Voldemort watched him wondering whether he would conjure a chair or sit on his desk. Cyriacus however, surprised him entirely. Pulling back his chair, Cyriacus climbed onto his lap, sitting down sideways throwing his legs over the side of the chair. He wrapped an arm across Voldemort’s shoulders to stay balanced and rested his head half on the chair and half on Voldemort’s shoulder. Catching a glimpse of Voldemort’s surprised face; he smirked and then leaned forward and kissed Voldemort gently. Voldemort stared at him as he grinned and then turned his attention to the report in his hand. Shaking his head, Voldemort decided that Cyriacus’s seating choice was more than fine with him. Wrapping his free arm around his lover’s waist, he drew the younger Wizard closer to him and then returned to reading through Rookwood’s report.

Nagini watched them as she settled down to sleep and was satisfied that all was right between her Wizard and his mate. Despite the strange lengths her Wizard went through Courting the younger male, he was strong and was exactly what her Wizard needed in a mate. Together they would build a fine nest and have several strong and healthy hatchlings. Letting out a contented hiss, she slipped away into sleep.

Voldemort and Cyriacus continued reading and analyzing the reports, speaking in soft murmurs. Everything had gone smoothly while they were absent and Severus’s report had detailed the futile search efforts of the Light. It was nearly seven o’clock when they finished and Voldemort was unhappy about his lover’s soon departure. He had grown a bit too used to sharing a bed with Cyriacus as they had spent most of their sleeping hours in Morocco, together. Even though they had only made love twice while they were gone, Voldemort had suddenly begun to enjoy innocently sleeping together.

Yawning, they both headed into the common room stretching their stiff muscles. About to kiss Cyriacus goodnight, he was surprised again when his younger lover just headed into the bedroom with another yawn. Voldemort watched him pull down the covers and climb into his bed before turning to fluff some pillows. Smiling, he went into his closet to change and then joined his lover in the bed.

When he was settled against the mound of pillows behind him and the covers pulled up around his body, Cyriacus moved closer and threw an arm and a leg across his body and once again, used his shoulder as a pillow. Voldemort chuckled softly, shifting so they were both comfortable.

Pressing a soft kiss onto his shoulder Cyriacus mumbled a sleepy, “’Night.”

“Sweet dreams, fy draig.” Voldemort murmured closing his eyes as he inhaled the herbal fragrance clinging to Cyriacus’s skin and hair.

---

Charms Classroom
Hogwarts, Scotland UK
Monday the 6th of October 1997
4:30 PM

Cyriacus pushed open the door of the classroom and smiled at Professor Flitwick as everyone turned. “I’m sorry I’m late Professor, I just got back.”

Professor Flitwick beamed. “That’s perfectly alright, happy to see you back at school Mr. Snape. Take your seat please and I’ll continue with the lecture.”

Nodding, Cyriacus took his seat in between Draco and Blaise, ignoring the lingering look Hermione shot him. Nusayr, in his guise as Shadow the Ocelot, had already claimed a spot on top of the desk. The Professors had, by now, gotten used to the presence of Harry’s ‘final’ gift to him and ignored the presence of his bodyguard. Once he was seated and had taken out a parchment and a quill, Flitwick continued lecturing about Conjuring Charms. It was a boring period for Cyriacus, as he had already mastered all three stages of Conjuring. Quick to perform the necessary spells during practice, Flitwick awarded Slytherin twenty points and continued inspecting the spells of his fellow classmates.

Draco cast a Conjuring Charm and a silver tea servicing try appeared on their desk and Flitwick awarded Slytherin another ten points. While banishing it, Draco calmly asked how he was feeling.

“Much better actually, Healer Biondi has assured me that my arm should be fully useable in two weeks. Thankfully I only have to wear the sling and bandages for another week.” Cyriacus said with a relieved smile, knowing very well that he was being watched.

Draco nodded and shot the eavesdropping Gryffindors a sneer. “It is troublesome, I understand. Thankfully that buffoon of a half-giant isn’t teaching Care of Magical Creatures anymore.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Cyriacus saw Ron flush with anger but Hermione grabbed his arm and kept him from jumping up and cursing them, or trying in any sense. The rest of the class period passed by quickly and once it was over, Cyriacus led his fellow Slytherins out of the room, well aware that the Gryffindors were walking behind them. As it was the last class of the day, everyone would be heading to their Common Rooms or to the Great Hall for snacks, as dinner was not held until seven o’clock.

Changing the subject, Cyriacus asked his fellow Slytherins what they were planning on doing over Christmas break two months hence. Several mentioned going to visit relatives or going on holiday out of the country. Cyriacus smiled and answered that he too, would be traveling out of the country most likely without his father. That turned the topic of conversation back to the status of Cyriacus’s Emancipation. Cyriacus told them rather bluntly that it would be going through by the end of the week or Fudge would regret it.

Ron, who had finally had enough when they reached the hall in front of the Great Hall, glared and sharply demanded, “And what are you going to do if he doesn’t grant you Emancipation?”

Cyriacus calmly stopped and turned around. “I don’t expect you to know, but I’m sure Granger knows very well the kind of power I have as the Lord of Gryffindor. Despite that however, I happen to have three Seats on the British Wizengamot and two Seats on the International Wizengamot. Fudge has grown unpopular and everyone knows that if Dumbledore wasn’t telling him what to do, he’d have been thrown out of office years ago! If he’s foolish enough to deny me Emancipation to become the Lord of Gryffindor in fact instead of the Heir Apparent, I’m going to make it my personal quest to have his political career destroyed!”

“You don’t deserve to be Lord of Gryffindor! Everyone prattles on so much about how you loved Harry so much and how you two were practically married because of that Blood Bond!” Ron shouted face flushing with rage as he stalked closer, unheeding of the crowd his shouting was creating. “You’re nothing but a leech Snape! Harry left you everything he had because he loved you and you love him so much that you’re letting Marcellus Arvell Court you and fuck you, not a month after he died while you’re still in Mourning!”

“Don’t talk about things you don’t know anything about, Weasley! Harry was my life and without him, I am nothing!” Cyriacus snarled, stepping closer until they were only a foot apart. Shadow attempted to step between them, snarling at Ron but Cyriacus calmly nudged him out of the way with his foot and graced him with a dark look, he could handle Ron.

Dean and Seamus had stepped forward and grabbed hold of Ron, attempting to hold him back, while Hermione attempted to reason with him and stop causing a scene.
Ron, however, was beyond reasoning. With a shove, he was free of their hold and right back in Cyriacus’s face.

Sneering he venomously spat out, “You’re nothing more than a whore Snape! You’ll spread your legs for anyone with enough money, even if they’re as old as your own father! Are you fucking him too?”

Cyriacus saw red at that comment; no one would call him a whore or imply he was engaged in an incestuous relationship with his father! Ignoring the fact that he could have cast curses and hexes that even Dumbledore wouldn’t have recognized or countered, Cyriacus swung his fist at Ron’s face. Ron dodged back, raising his knee and slamming it into Cyriacus’s stomach. Taking the hit, Cyriacus grabbed hold of Ron’s shirt and pulled him down, smashing Ron’s face into his knee and then kicking Ron away from him. Ron fell down and grabbed Cyriacus’s foot as he was about to kick Ron in the stomach. Pulling on Cyriacus’s leg the heavier man fell down and Ron was on him, slamming his fists into his stomach and face. When Ron attempted to slam on top of him and pin him, Cyriacus raised his legs and using Ron’s momentum sent him flying over Cyriacus and into the wall of bodies watching the fight.

By this time, they had drawn a huge crowd and Ron had more than enough bodies to cushion his fall. Distantly, over the exclamations, betting and comments of the crowd, Cyriacus could hear Professors yelling for the crowd to let them pass. Giving it no more thought as Ron came charging back as he scrambled to his feet, Cyriacus waited until the last moment before countering Ron’s rush with a kick to the face. Ron fell down and just as Cyriacus was about to kick him, someone had cast an Impediment Curse at him, slowing him down but not stopping him.

“Mr. Snape! Mr. Weasley! Stop fighting this instant or I will see you both expelled!” Professor McGonagall roared over the noise.

Cyriacus reluctantly came to a stop, shooting Ron a glare before turning to face the Transfiguration Professor. “Weasley with his big mouth started the whole thing!”

“I do not care who started it, Mr. Snape but fighting will not be tolerated! Your father will be most displeased with you!” McGonagall retorted angrily.

“Not as displeased as he will be with Weasley, Professor McGonagall. Considering the red haired menace suggested I was having intimate relations with my father, I don’t think Professor Snape will be that displeased with me.”

McGonagall gaped in shock before turning her glare on Ron. “Is that true Mr. Weasley?”

Ron sat up and spat out blood, “It doesn’t matter what I said Harry’s beloved Cyriacus is still a whore!”

Cyriacus turned on Ron and bellowed loud enough for his voice to echo through most of the nearby hallways and half of the first floor. “I AM NOT A WHORE, YOU DISPICABLE, LOUD-MOUTHED, SON OF A BITCH!”

As Cyriacus attempted to lunge at Ron, a familiar hand had grabbed the back of his robes and jerked him away from Ron. Looking over his shoulder, he saw his father looking balefully at him before turning a positively venomous look at Ron.

“Enough,” Severus practically whispered, his voice frigid. “Mr. Weasley, a hundred points from Gryffindor for provoking a fight, fighting with an injured student, and slandering a Professor and a fellow student. Also, two month’s detention with Filch!”

Cyriacus smirked but his father shook him, his ebony eyes glowing with rage.

“Fifty points from Slytherin for allowing a Gryffindor to bait you and for being foolish enough to get into a physical fight after just being released from the Asclepius Sanatorium!” Severus snarled. “If Weasley had hit your arm, it might have been permanently damaged, you imbecile!”

Draco was about to protest, as Cyriacus’s arm wasn’t injured at all, but a furious glare from his Godfather quickly silenced him.

Severus glared at the rest of the crowd. “Go about your business but get out of my way! My son and I need to have a few words.”

The hallway began clearing out and Cyriacus grumbled to himself as he was dragged down to the dungeons and specifically, to his father’s Office. Shadow followed, sprinting every few feet to keep up with them. Cyriacus grumbled as his father began his usual ranting and raving about his behavior and lack of subtlety and wondered just how badly the day was going to go, little did he know what fate had in store for him.

By the time he had climbed into bed later that night, he was cursing Dumbledore and his role as the Light’s junior spy. As if things hadn’t been complicated enough before Dumbledore had set a date for his first ‘date’ with Krum. With a muttered curse he stared at the canopy of his bed and wondered how he was going to make it through the next couple of months.

---

Cyriacus’s Room
The Slytherin Dormitory, Hogwarts, Scotland
Tuesday the 7th of October 1997
3:45 AM

((d))

Cyriacus found himself standing in a room covered in shadows. A single silver framed mirror stood in the middle of the room and he found himself drawn to it. As he took his first step he became aware of something sticking to his skin. Staring, at his reflection he realized his body was completely covered in it and his hair was completely soaked in the metallic fluid. Blood…there was so much blood. Instinctually he knew that this was the blood of those who had died to give him life, nine lives sacrificed to ensure his forsaken, unnatural birth.

Restraining the mixture of horror and disgust welling up inside of him, he stepped closer to the mirror and examined himself. A distant glance had revealed nothing other than the fact that every inch of his bare body was covered in blood. However a closer examination showed that though the first statement was true, there did appear to be a slight design hidden in the blood. A slightly thicker outline showed an intricate network of runes of an unknown origin covering his body. The runes were arranged in spirals and circles, triangles and pentagons, overlapping and yet not. Some of the patterns looked familiar, Fortifying designs he would guess, along with a plethora of designs that looked similar to the Transferring designs used in Blood Magic and Necromancy.

Of the several thousand runes overlaid across his body, the most important were located on his torso. The area above his heart was heavily covered and overlapped by more designs and runes than even he could hope to decrypt. Several runic designs beginning from his hipbone moving inward to the center of his body gave him a minute of pause before he realized what they were. It was their Marks! Now that he recognized them for what they were, he could picture the figures each set of runes created. The Chylla’s Fox head, a hawk head, a cobra, with its hood flared, a regal horse head and a jackal head.

With a roar of fury, he swung his fist, smashing the mirror into bits and watching as the pieces fell onto the ground. The darkness that surrounded him seemed to become darker and he could sense a presence, similar to the Primordials yet, in its own way, distinctly different.

“Such a life you live, kyndrak! It is enough to cause even one so Gifted as I in the Sight to quiver in fear at the Journey ahead of you.” An amused male voice commented from the sanctity of the shadows.

Cyriacus glared into the darkness surrounding him. “Who are you?”

“In the eyes of my Brethren, I am nothing more than a madman, a mistake, if you would. As though any of our kind come into being so easily, without purpose.” The voice replied with deep annoyance at the idiocy of his fellows. “However who I am, is of little importance, only that what I have intended has come to pass as I saw it would. By the time you will dream of this, I will have long since died and bestowed to you a terrible, yet awesome Gift.”

“Great, as though I needed more of those!” Cyriacus grumbled irritably.

The voice laughed merrily. “Though I sympathize about your predicament, I believe that unlike most of the Gifts the others may have unknowingly given to you, mine will be of use and more than worth the trouble it will give you.”

“How will it cause me trouble?”

“It is the nature of the Gift to show you things that many would consider to be…unseemly or distasteful. It will show you treachery, it will show you failure and it will show you death.”

Cyriacus didn’t bat an eye at the ominous words. “I am Death incarnate, for good or ill, long sought or long dreaded, whatever your Gift is I will not fear it.”

“I did not say you would, merely that it would cause you some trouble for a time. It will take several weeks, if not several months, before you master it fully and learn to control when you See things and how they effect you.”

“Is that all you have to say about your Gift?”

“It is all that needs to be said, you are not a fool and once you begin to use my Gift, you will learn all that you would have needed to know. For my Gift does not only allow one to see the past, present and future, it fully immerses the viewer in the Vision. This allows the viewer to experience the Vision as if they themselves were there in truth and it also allows for the viewer to sense the intentions of those displayed in the Vision. I have found it very useful in preventing potentially dangerous or hostile situations.”

Cyriacus frowned, thoughtfully. “That is very different than what most Seers experience.”

The voice chuckled slightly. “There is no other Gift like it and now it is yours only, I have specifically altered my Sacrifice so that it will remain a Blood-bound Gift. You will never pass it onto another born of your seed and so, you need never fear someone using it against you.”

“It sounds…useable, most certainly.” Cyriacus commented. “Does this mean that the dreams I have been having are because of this Gift?”

“In part but most are due to the unexpected channeling of Chylla’s energy into you. In time the random dreaming will pass and you will begin to See things that effect your purpose. Within a month of this dream, my Gift will have fully woken and taken root within you.”

Cyriacus paused. “You…are not the same as the others.”

“No, I am not the same but I am similar enough to pass.”

“Why are you different?”

A faint hint of amusement, “Because it was my purpose to be different. Unlike the others, I had no delusions of grandeur and no lust for any earthly possessions or affairs. I lived for my Visions alone and they have labeled me as a man consumed by his Gift and that maybe so, but I at least, was not consumed by what destroyed them. You will not make the same mistake…that was the only thing they did right.”

Cyriacus was instantly suspicious. “What do you mean ‘the only thing they did right’?”

“You will understand, eventually. My time here is at an end, we will not speak here as this is the only memory I arranged for you to have of me at all. If you desire to converse again, you will need to find the Wyverns Lair but that will not be for some months yet. Keep it in mind though, kyndrak. May my Gift prove useful.”

“Wait! What is your name?”

“Razul.”

((d))

Cyriacus jerked awake with a start, sitting up and unconsciously turning on the lights in his bedroom. He had barely a few seconds to orientate himself before he felt his stomach twist. Clapping a hand over his mouth he jumped out of his bed and threw open the door of his room, running to the 7th Year Communal Bath at the end of the hall. He was vomiting violently by the time Nusayr and several of his sleep disheveled Year mates joined him in the large marble Bathroom. Though aware of their presence, he ignored them and wondered weakly when he would stop being ill.

Draco yawned and stretched, his silver silk pajamas sliding over his body. “So…what’s all the fuss about this early in the morning?”

“No idea,” Blaise commented, standing in his sapphire blue boxers. “All I heard was a loud crash and then someone vomiting their guts up.”

Greg frowned when he checked the time on his watch. “Not even four.”

“Bloody hell,” Vince replied irritated.

Nusayr was hovering directly behind Cyriacus, who was still vomiting. “Shall I send for a Healer? Should I wake your mortal father? Would you like me to get something for you? Run a bath? Fetch something for you to eat?”

Cyriacus gagged at the implication of eating anything and spent another five minutes after emptying his stomach dry heaving. Finished at last, he absently cast a few Cleaning and Freshening Charms on his person before flushing the toilet and staggering weakly to his feet. A part of him was extremely embarrassed at having been caught so weak in front of his future…minions? Cohorts? Followers? Well, whatever they were.

“You look horrible,” Draco blurted, gazing at him with worry.

Theodore Nott, who had remained silent up until this moment, had his eyes focused on Cyriacus’s midsection. “Er…we shouldn’t be able to see those tattoos right?”

Blinking, Cyriacus glanced at his lower body and cursed when he saw that Glamour disguising the Chylla’s Mark had somehow been destroyed. With a grumble, he also noted the new additions, some clearer than others but Five Marks were now arranged in a direct horizontal line from his right hipbone to his left.

Nusayr reached out and gently touched each Mark, lost in thought. The first was the silver-white fox of the Chylla with its wise, all knowing ice blue eyes. Next was the brown and gold streaked feathers of the Revenants hawk, proud and fierce like the Revenants themselves. A sand colored cobra represented the Wraith, its hood open and body posed to strike at any enemies, poisonous as the Wraiths and just as deadly. The Deviant’s regal horse head was next, colored oxblood red with a black mane and eerie orange eyes. The final Mark was the Savage’s black jackal, its face screwed up into a snarl showing sharp teeth, its silver eyes glowing.

Blaise gaped, “Fuck.”

Yes, that summed things up nicely. Cyriacus thought as he weakly slumped over, now experiencing the worst migraine known to humanity.

---

The Strategy Room
Riddle Mansion, Little Hangleton UK
Friday the 10th of October 1997
9:45 PM

The room was fuller than usual as Voldemort had called all his Inner Circle, all his First Tier Death Squad Captains and the few Elite who could attend without arousing suspicion. Kohinoor and Asadyl were also there, though they were waiting to speak with Cyriacus as opposed to being interested in Voldemort’s affairs. Voldemort had been the first to arrive this time and was waiting impatiently, Samhain was one of the most important occasions of the year and it required a great deal of plotting. This year he wanted to do something even more daring than usual, but for that to happen, he would need Cyriacus’s help and the use of his Summoned creatures.

“My Lord?”

Voldemort turned and looked at the Captain of Manticore who had addressed him, “Yes?”

“As you requested Captains Abraxan, Kelpie, Salamander, Dragon and I have taken roll. All First Tier Death Squad Captains are present.” The Captain replied, bowing.

“Thank you, Captain Manticore. Please return to your seat, we will begin as soon as everyone has arrived.”

“Of course, My Lord.”

Lucius cleared his throat, “All the Inner Circle have arrived, including Severus.”

“Excellent, but where is Cyriacus?” Voldemort questioned.

“Severus said that he had come directly from Diagon Alley,” Lucius responded.

Voldemort frowned. “I see. He is the only one yet to arrive then.”

Severus joined them. “My Lord, may I have a word with you? It is about Cyriacus.”

“Of course,” Voldemort pushed his chair back from the table and gestured for Severus to follow. They exited the Strategy room and turned to the right, heading for the smaller Drawing Room. Once they were inside and Voldemort had activated the Privacy Wards, he glanced inquiringly at his Potions Master.

Severus frowned. “Before I left to pick up a special order from the Apothecary in Diagon Alley, Draco approached me and told me that my son has been violently ill in the mornings and quite dizzy during the rest of the day. Apparently, his illness began on Tuesday and he swore the rest of the boys in his Year to keep quiet or face the penalty.”

“Why would he be so ill? Better yet, why has he not been to see a Healer yet?” Voldemort wondered aloud.

Severus’s eyes darkened and he grit his teeth. “My son is not incautious but even the best contraceptives do not work as fully unless both parties are taking such measures. I have not questioned Cyriacus about his relations with Marcellus Arvell or the courtesans he slakes his Incubus desires with, but his symptoms and secrecy would imply that he is with child.”

Voldemort gaped, “I…suppose that is a good possibility.”

“I am not pleased by this situation My Lord! If the child is truly of Arvell’s get then this will highly complicate an already hugely complicated situation! I do not believe my son is so gauche as to bottom for a courtesan but I have little doubt that he would do so for an older male, especially one he is attempting to seduce!” Severus grumbled furiously.

“I will speak to him of it,” Voldemort assured Severus. “It was not my intention for this to occur Severus, you have my utmost apologies.”

Severus crossed his arms. “What will you do if he is with child?”

“It would inconvenience my plans but a child born of the Arvell and Snape lines would be very powerful in their own right. We will see, Severus.” Voldemort said distractedly, mind racing.

“Of course, my Lord.” Severus agreed curtly, leaving at the obvious dismissal.

The moment Severus left the room, Voldemort began pacing. They both had been taking contraceptives but with Cyriacus being what he was, who could say if they were effective at all? What if Severus was right? If Cyriacus was pregnant, it was his without a doubt and though the timing was not right, Voldemort would not terminate his first born child. But the child would add so much additional stress to an already fragile relationship as well. How did things get so complicated?!

Voldemort closed his eyes and took a deep breath, now was not the time to panic he had to stay calm and get through this meeting first. Cyriacus’s illness would be addressed later tonight, after the meeting. As he dismantled the Privacy Ward and replaced his public persona, he could not help but wonder what a child fathered by the two of them would look like.

---

It was nearly another fifteen minutes after Voldemort and Severus had their private conversation before Cyriacus arrived. Surrounded by his Carapace (minus the Dementor Lord), Voldemort caught only the glimpse of bronze satin and a sable cloak. As was his wont, he led his Carapace to the end of the table and modified his blood colored divan into a black and gold sofa that easily could seat all of his guards. Taking a seat in the middle of the sofa, Cyriacus lazily pushed back the hood of his cloak and coolly looked over those gathered.

“I apologize for my tardiness, something unexpected waylaid me.” Cyriacus replied smoothly.

Voldemort observed him for a minute before dismissing his apology. “It is of little importance but now that we have all gathered, let us begin. Samhain is in twenty one days and this particular year, I should like to show the Light a small extent of the full power we have at our disposal.”

“Will you bring in the Covenant forces, my Lord?” Bellatrix questioned.

Cyriacus quickly vetoed that idea. “My Covenant forces will not be used in this particular battle, it would be best to wait until the usual holiday attack in December or the annual summer battle. I will not waste the element of surprise so early in the War.”

Bellatrix raised an eyebrow. “Your Covenant forces?”

“Despite the fact that I have to serve Voldemort, the only reason the Covenant was formed was because of a Debt that was owed to the Primordials. You have no means of calling in that Debt through anyone else but me, and as I stand to become the future Primordial Lord, I will reiterate a point I made long ago. Voldemort needs me far more than I need him, and I would suggest you remember that this time.” Cyriacus retorted sharply.

Voldemort quickly stopped their argument from accelerating further. “I had no intentions of using the Covenant at this time; I was more interested in using some Summoned Creatures to be perfectly honest. Something horrific to suit the occasion.”

Cyriacus glanced at his lover. “That would be easier to arrange but I will limit you to Level Nine Summonings only. I should be able to manage at least six, possibly seven Summonings of that rank before overstraining my resources. We could do this two ways, I could Summon them all the evening before the battle or I could Summon more by taking a few days to rest between Summonings. It depends, on what you would rather do.”

“How many Summons do you think you can manage if you space them out?”

“Four Summonings a day with two days to rest between them, so I’d say…twenty eight Summonings total.” Cyriacus replied slowly as he did the calculations.

Narcissa gaped at him, “You can’t be serious? That is…a great deal of Necromantic power, even for someone born of the Hawthorne line.”

Cyriacus looked amused. “I am what I was born to be, isn’t that so Asadyl?”

The Eldest Wraith twitched at the knowing stare Cyriacus sent his way. It appeared that he already knew far more than he should have which meant that Razul had planned his Sacrifice very thoroughly indeed.

“Will this be your test then?” Kieran asked Cyriacus curiously.

“No, this is not my battle.” Turning, Cyriacus caught Voldemort’s gaze again. “I will Summon you the necessary Creatures and give control to whomever you see fit but I will not personally engage in this battle. The time is not right yet.”

Voldemort frowned, “Will it ever be? You have managed to avoid being seen fighting in all the recent skirmishes since summer, are you not worried what they will believe you have been doing all this time?”

“No, the Light is most ignorant in the ways of Necromancers; they would hardly know what would be considered ‘normal’ behavior. I am recovered fully from my recent injuries that is true, but I have not recruited a full Carapace yet and until I am completely satisfied by my personal Guard, I will not be risking my neck in a full out battle.”

Rodolphus glanced at him warily. “Are you suggesting that even one of the highest ranking Death Squads would serve inadequately?”

Cyriacus glanced around the table. “I am a Necromancer and the sort of things I consider to be a threat to my so-called existence, would easily be something that can and will kill faster than most mortals can react to. Scourge is a Vampire; Nusayr is a Primordial as is Asaph. You have seen me battle a Primordial, and if I can barely survive it what makes you think you will survive anything that has their level of strength or higher?”

Silence.

Voldemort frowned. “The Light is expecting you to be Marked soon, are they not?”

“That is true,” Cyriacus replied with a scowl. “I suppose then, that I shall have to make an appearance as Cyriacus Snape and I have barely enough time to get my Battle Robes finished in time.”

Lucius looked intrigued. “You are having them exclusively made? By whom, if you do not mind my asking.”

“By someone who’s paid in blood, not exactly normal currency but the armor is exquisitely made if one is willing to pay the price. No one you have heard of as anything other than a legend,” Cyriacus smiled slightly, green eyes dark with remembrance. “He who is cloaked in blood and walks in shadow…Mephistopheles, the pride of the House of Käaten.”

Kieran flinched, “The House of Käaten was purged in 1207! The entire Household was put to the Flame.”

Cyriacus snickered, “You cannot kill Käaten’s Red Sun with Flame, Scourge. The fact that Mephistopheles survived is merely proof of the idiocy of the Vampire High Council.”

“How did you meet him then?!” Kieran demanded.

“Rather like how you and I met, actually. Only he came upon me by accident rather than being sent by the Arcanum Headmaster.” Cyriacus rolled his eyes. “And he wanted a bit more than a few words in return for his help…”

---

FLASHBACK

---

Harry scrambled to the left, just barely getting out of the way of his savior. It was one thing to get abducted by a pair of drooling, lusty Incubi but getting rescued by a very powerful Vampire, who now wanted a bit more than a ‘thank you’ for his efforts, was a bit…stressful at the end of a long day.

“You are quick.” The Vampire complimented, his golden gaze sparkling with a mixture of excitement and admiration.

Harry glanced around the dimly lit cave desperately. “Um, not that I’m not grateful and all for you helping me out of a bad situation but…I don’t really think I’m up to giving you a Blood Price in payment for rescuing me and all.”

The Vampire smiled, showing off sharp fangs. “Unless you have something better to barter with boy, I suggest you stop struggling. I promise not to kill or Turn you, I just want my due.”

“That’s reassuring,” Harry mumbled before clearing his throat and speaking up a little louder, “I don’t suppose you’ll take an I.O.U.?”

“If you wish to incur a Debt to me, it’ll be double later for what you could pay with now.” The Vampire said smirking.

“Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.” Harry sighed, “Very well, double the amount next time but that means two separate Feedings and I want it all written out before hand so you don’t try anything sneaky.”

The Vampire actually laughed, “You are far too amusing to kill, boy. What is your name?”

“Harry…Harry Potter. And you?”

“Mephistopheles…of the House of Käaten.”

---

END OF FLASHBACK

---

Cyriacus slowly got to his feet and looking over his shoulder at Kieran said, “You’ll have to find someone else to Feed off of for a few days, Mephistopheles has a greater appetite than you do. Makes sense really, he’s 4,760 which is seventeen hundred years older than you since you’re 3,060 and you’re thirteen hundred years older than Stephen as he’s only 1,760.”

“Where are you going?” Voldemort asked curiously.

“I have things to attend to, if I’m to Summon you the necessary Creatures and participate in the battle, I’m going to have to begin tonight. Between the Summonings and paying off the Debt for my Battle Robes, it will be a busy couple of weeks. You can brief me about the finalized plans later; I haven’t the time for it tonight.” Cyriacus said a bit irritably.

“Very well,” Voldemort agreed, yielding on the issue.

Cyriacus headed for the door, surrounded by his Carapace but he paused and glanced back at Voldemort. “Dumbledore has arranged my first Courting with Krum on Sunday afternoon, it will interfere with your plans for Arvell but I’m sure something can be worked out. I will return on Tuesday evening to give you a full report about the Courting and Arvell’s reaction.”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed and a mixture of jealousy and worry flared throughout his body. “You will owl me after your Courting but we will discuss it on Tuesday.”

“As you wish,” Cyriacus agreed with a nod before exiting the room.

---

The Summoning Circle
Riddle Mansion Grounds, Little Hangleton UK
Saturday the 11th of October 1997
10:30 PM

Cyriacus frowned from his position on the ground. The October air was cold and damp but he was contently sprawled out on the obsidian Summoning Circle, his body soaking up the heat from the perpetually warm magical structure. Around him, Kieran and Nusayr stood guard, staying close enough to keep an eye on him, yet far enough away to be able to intercept any dangers. Drumming his fingers on the rune carved structure, he idly wondered how much longer Asadyl and Kohinoor planned on keeping him waiting.

Thanks to Razul’s Gift, his every sleeping hour was spent lost in a myriad of Visions and he woke every morning having to vomit. If he was particularly lucky, he’d spend about an hour with a migraine which thankfully went away on its own, if he was not as lucky, he’d spend the rest of the day having dizzy spells that came and went. Cyriacus could only hope that he would somehow adapt to things soon because the prospect of spending a month in this condition was not enticing in the least! He’d caught the strange looks the other boys in his Year had graced him with and he’d had to swear them into silence. His illness, though explainable, was not something he wanted to flaunt! The last thing he needed was his father or Constance Fawcett doctoring him and treating him like a helpless four year old.

“Nusayr, go and fetch them if you would, I have an appointment with Mephistopheles in two hours and I do not have the time to waste waiting for them!” Cyriacus ordered.

Nusayr frowned, “Very well.” He walked towards the edge of the Circle but stopped as he felt a Doorway opening.

Asadyl stepped out of a torch shadow, releasing his hold on Kohinoor’s arm. “Our apologies kyndrak.”

“Start talking already, I haven’t all night.” Cyriacus commented, twisting around so he was lying belly down on the ground, his arms and head pillowed on a plush cushion.

Kohinoor sighed. “You have begun to manifest Razul’s Gift, have you not? I can sense the taint of his Gift already.”

Cyriacus narrowed his eyes. “Why do I get the feeling that Razul is the Black Sheep of the Chylla?”

“He was no such thing!” Kohinoor snapped. “He allowed his Gift to consume him until he was nothing more than a madman, obsessed with his Visions!”

Cyriacus closed his eyes. “To his own face you called him the ‘Lost Chylla’ but you all referred to him as the Brykri (Exile) because he dared to use his Gift for something more than material gain or social prestige. His blind devotion to his Visions shamed you all and yet, it inspired the collaboration that led to my birth. You despise the fact that without his example, the Chylla would not have thought to synchronize the use of your Gifts to Divine and forge a single path to your goals.”

Asadyl paused, “We are not here to discuss our interaction with Razul or his standing amongst the Primordials we are here to discuss what his interference in the Blood Ritual may have done.”

Kohinoor glared at Cyriacus but his indifference simply irritated her. Asadyl however, shot her a sharp look and with a sigh she reined her temper.

“It was as we were closing the Blood Ritual that he acted, the blood of the Sacrifices had been stored into a large basin which drained into a large gold urn. As I was closing the ceremony, Razul appeared and using the force of his will alone, held those gathered frozen as he slew himself. When we were released by his death, it was too late his blood had already mingled with the blood of the other sacrifices. Asadyl and I attempted to modify the Blood Ritual to negate passing on his Gifts or Power but it appears that we are too late.” Kohinoor explained flatly.

“His Gift was strongest by far than any of the surviving Chylla, it was possible that he could have Foreseen our intentions and modified his Sacrifice accordingly.”

Cyriacus opened his eyes and focused his pale green gaze on them. “Or, it could be that what he was negated any of your attempts to alter the ritual. He was not a Primordial but similar enough to pass.”

Kohinoor’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know this?”

“Because he told me and because if I will it, I can do more than just See what once was but to experience it fully as though I could read the secrets of those I See. All is laid bare before my Sight and should I choose it, I can experience it more fully than that if I wish it.” Cyriacus replied lazily as he closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were dark green. “But that is neither here nor there and considering how much you envied and feared his Gift, perhaps it is best we not speak of it again.”

Asadyl was wary; his Heir had accepted this latest revelation far too smoothly. “You are not…angry?”

“Why should I be? This Gift is useful if unorthodox and he did nothing more than what you have already done to me. I am irked that you went through the effort of hiding what you did but…it does not matter. What I wish for and what I receive are two very different things and nothing can change what is dealt to me.” Cyriacus answered, getting to his feet. “However, I would suggest that if you both have any more secrets that may be of importance in regards to the Blood Ritual, you confess them now. I will not be as indifferent to your follies at a later date.”

“There is nothing else.” Kohinoor replied cautiously.

“Then we are done with this discussion,” Cyriacus replied turning away from them and walking away. He extinguished the torches as he went and waited for Nusayr and Kieran to reach his side.

“But, do not think for one moment that I trust either of you. The amount of blood and years of constant monitoring prove that much was invested for my birth and despite your claims to the contrary, I know that you should desire more than simple freedom from your prison. We will have another discussion about that someday…” Cyriacus reached out and set his hands on his guards and effortlessly drew them with him into the shadowed doorway of the Chaos Plane.

Asadyl watched him leave and shivered. So many lives had been Sacrificed and so much blood spilled to bring forth one who would be strong enough to open a Rift between the Planes. Yet he had to wonder, had they made him too strong?

“I can feel the roots of Razul’s Gift stretching through him, entrenching itself into the very wellspring of his power…”

“And?”

Kohinoor sighed and tilted her face up, staring at the stars and the moon. “It mingles…one taint to another. One day, when he has reached the end of khanel, when he comes fully into his Adulthood, they will have blended together. They will become a miasma so potent that merely being in his presence will slowly destroy his enemies and bind his servants and allies even more tightly to him.”

“Tell me Kohinoor, you have devoted so many years to this, have we erred?”

“We have made many mistakes; we each carry the guilt our downfall even the Chylla. Yet, one must ask what is worth the survival of our kind. Is Sacrificing the blood our strongest worth creating one who can lead us not only to freedom but to our own salvation?”

Asadyl sighed. “Our future is worth any price and you know this, yet I cannot help but wonder… if we have chosen wrongly. He is too strong, too…unbalanced.”

“He is the one we sought there is no mistake but, perhaps, we made our greatest mistake in attempting to make him flawless. We were the first yet look how we fell and these mortals as flawed as they are, they still live, they still rule. Perhaps, we did not learn as much as we had thought.”

“And now?”

“Now it is too late to change things, he is born and he is nearly ready to do what he was created for. The price of his existence will be a burden to him throughout his life but he is innocent in regards to the circumstances that led to his birth. It was our choices that lead to his birth and it will be you and I who pay the most heavily for it. The lot of a Blood Child is to be cursed, but it is even worse to have created one knowingly. And what we have done and the lengths which we have gone to…there is nothing like it and I doubt there shall be anything like it again.” Kohinoor replied slowly.

Asadyl took a deep breath. “Our folly will not be his; we have made sure of that. Of all those who have gone before and all those will go after, I alone will happily give my life’s blood and my very essence to make him whole. I had my chance and I failed not only my Brethren but all of the Primordials. Cyriacus will not make the same mistake and if it takes my life to make him Lord of the Primordials, it is a small price to pay for the years of imprisonment and frustration of our kind.”

---

The Headmaster’s Office
Hogwarts, Scotland UK
Sunday the 12th of October 1997
3:05 PM

Cyriacus calmly entered the room dressed in black trousers, an ivory silk shirt and a red velvet duster with black pearl buttons. He’d braided his long hair and wore no extra accessories other than his dragonhide gloves and his sling, which normally wouldn’t be categorized as an such, but since he had specially ordered an assortment of ‘fashionable’ medical wear, (like the Wizarding Gucci leather sling he was wearing currently) you really couldn’t call it anything but an accessory.

The room hushed as everyone turned to stare at him, some completely surprised at his elegance and others gaping at the mix of Muggle and Wizarding clothes and designs. His father, he noted, was one of the latter and Krum, one of the former. Though well dressed, comparing Viktor and Cyriacus was like comparing a sparrow to a phoenix. Cyriacus was actually rather disappointed; one would think a famous Seeker like Krum would be able to dress a little more fashionably. Image was everything after all and the first impression made all the difference in the world.

Krum shook his head. “I really do not think this will work…”

“I’d have to agree with you,” Cyriacus said nodding.

Dumbledore smiled. “Nonsense! I am certain things will work out just fine.”

Cyriacus looked at him skeptically. “Whatever. Now, what’s in the game plan today?”

“We will browse the shops in Diagon Alley, join my family and your father for tea and then take a walk through the gardens in Leisure Alley.” Krum answered moodily.

“That’s all?” Cyriacus asked taken aback.

Dumbledore beamed, “Simplicity at its finest, my boy.”

Severus snorted.

“Right, shall we go?” Cyriacus asked his date, rolling his eyes at Dumbledore’s foolishness.

Krum nodded and walked over to the fireplace, handing Cyriacus the jar containing Floo Powder. Cyriacus sighed and took a handful, tossing it into the fireplace turning the orange flames into harmless green flames.

“I truly hate getting soot all over my clothes!” Cyriacus grumbled before stepping into the Fire and calling out his destination. “Diagon Alley!”

---

The Dining Hall
Riddle Mansion, Little Hangleton UK
Sunday the 12th of October 1997
7:20 PM

Voldemort looked up as the Post arrived, various owls flew through the room, dropping off copies of the evening Daily Prophet and other publications. A large Peregrine Falcon landed in front of him and offered him a plain pale blue envelope. Accepting the letter, he pushed the remains of his roast in her direction as he opened the envelope.

Voldemort-

You have requested I write about my Courting today and I have one word to describe it: fiasco! From the moment we arrived in Diagon Alley, things began going downhill. I shall be brief for fear I will spend forty pages detailing the Courtship from Hell!

Statistics from our shop browsing:

Number of reporters: 45
Number of undercover reporters: 21
Number of photographers: 19

Number of comments about Krum’s drab clothing: 46
Number of comments about my classy clothes: 54
Number of publications I’m probably going to be featured in: 67
Number of publications I’ll probably be on the front page of: 29
Number of best dressed lists I’ll probably be on: 32
Number of worst dressed lists Krum’ll be on: 42

Number of times approached by lovestruck fool: 62
Number of times propositioned by said fool: 36
Number of love tokens received from said fool: 21
Number of free gifts received from shopkeepers: 320
Number of gifts from Krum: 0

Number of pranks attempted: 88
Number of successful pranks on myself: 0
Number of successful pranks on Krum: 15
Number of gag gifts received from various people: 45
Largest size of the crowd following us: 82

Time spent browsing: 2 hours and 15 minutes


Statistics from our tea:

Number of times Krum answered my comments or questions with a stare: 109
Number of times Krum answered my comments or questions with a monosyllable answer: 73
Number of awkward silences: 32
Number of dark, inviting and/or disgusted looks given to me by Krum’s family: 14, 8, 4
Number of veiled threats/insults exchanged by our parents: 58
Number of times father snorted derisively: 52
Number of times father glared: 42
Number of times Krum’s father referred to me as ‘Potter’s boy’: 64
Number of times I had to kick Krum’s siblings: 7
Number of times I wanted to castrate Krum’s siblings: 13
Number of times Krum’s sister batted her eyes at me: 27
Number of times Krum’s mother offered to pour tea and select pastries for me: 33

Time spent at the tea shop: 2 hours and 42 minutes


Statistics from our walk in the gardens:

Number of times various people giggled, pointed or made suggestive comments: 240
Number of times Krum let go of my hand: 16
Number of times I let go of Krum: 8
Number of times people bumped into me: 84
Number of times people bumped into Krum: 92
Number of glares I gave to various people: 120
Number of glares Krum gave to various people: 160

Time spent walking in the gardens: 1 hour and 52 minutes

Aaaaargh!!!!!!! Dating Viktor Krum absolutely sucks! The man has no class at all and no conversation abilities for that matter too!

I can’t wait for our date on Wednesday, ‘Marcellus’!

Yours faithfully (no pun intended),

Cyriacus Snape

---

Many lovely surprises still ahead, hope you liked the chapter! For those of you who are getting lost with all the OCs, I have begun work on a Character Appendix for the Destiny Arc but it’s very, very slow going. My hope is to have it done by January but I’ll be uploading it as I finish each new section. It will be found at the Group in the ID files section soon.


NEXT CHAPTER: A boys’ and gals’ night out, Arcanum style! Samhain Celebrations- Murder & Mayhem 101. A ‘DE’s only’ announcement about our favorite Dark Lord and our moody hero’s true relationship! And yes, for those of you who have been begging and asking for it, smutty Cy/Ascyltus lovin’!

Read, review, inspire me!

-SheWolfe7 (11/15/05)