Biding Time

Disclaimer: I own nothing; I make nothing from this.

Chapter 7: Checkmate

The old Potter cottage stood in the middle of a dusty plot of land. Over twenty five years before, the grass had withered away and the fruit trees had ceased to bear fruit. Instead, the bare trees stretched their branches skyward like skeletal hands grasping for purchase. The once cheerful cottage had broken windows, and painted slogans on the brickwork. The chimney was crumbling to dust and one look through the windows would reveal piles of dirt and dust spilling across the wooden floors, like a strange desert landscape. The cottage looked like a hobgoblin’s cottage from some nasty fairytale.

The Dark Lord stood at the centre of a very small semi-circle – bounded on either side by only two dark, hooded figures. The battles had been hard fought. Many of the other Death Eaters had fallen – often one by one – defeated and claimed like mere pawns in a child’s game of chess. It had been staggering to discover just how weak his followers could be. He had thought that he had the most powerful wizards and witches in his ranks – even he had to admit that he must have thought wrong. He chose to blame their weaknesses rather than give credit to the Mudbloods, Muggle-lovers and other magical weak links.

“Despite our losses, today is a day of celebration.” His voice was high and haughty. His dark eyes had a reptilian cast to them. The Death Eater to his right suddenly understood why the Dark Lord had a special bond with snakes – he looked like one. The Dark Lord clapped his hands and, suddenly, two young men dropped to the ground before them. Rising to their knees, one helped the other up. The first to his feet had untidy dark hair and glasses askew on his nose. His frame was thin, almost wasted. His clothing was in tatters, he was filthy, and yet, despite it all, he looked jubilant. The other young man didn’t look nearly so pleased. Once pudgy, his face was still soft looking. His hair was finer and lighter, with a slight curl. His eyes were wide, and he looked as if he had seen a ghost. Purple shadows hung beneath his eyes, looking like bruises on his pale face.

“We must welcome our guests accordingly.” The Dark Lord said, as he cast a binding spell.

“After all, they are our guests of honour.” He said that last word as if it were a curse. He touched the dark-haired boy’s scar, tracing it with his bony finger, while the scar glowed like an ember. He pressed his fingertip into the other boy’s cheek, leaving a dimple there like a fingerprint in bread dough.

“You see, my infamous prophecy actually referred to two possible enemies. Both boys born at the end of July in a certain year: Both boys had parents who thrice defied me. So, I decided that both young men should join me. After all, I’ve never been much of a gambler. I like certainty, a sure thing. If I destroy both, I am rid of all possibilities. I wouldn’t like to kill one only to discover that it was really the other who should have worried me.” He shook his head mournfully, his dark eyes gloating.

The Death Eater who had been to his left dropped to one immaculately-tailored knee and bowed his head. His light hair slithered out of his hood, shining like gilt.

“My Liege, let me help you at this historic moment.” His voice was hard, yet there was pleading in his tones. The Dark Lord brought his leg back and delivered a fierce kick to the bent knee. The kneeling figure sprawled forward, face into the dirt. His death’s head mask hung crookedly on his face.

“I think not, Lucius. You have proven yourself an unworthy aide. Your sniveling son was a coward – he couldn’t even bring himself to kill Dumbledore. My, my, my….” He made a clucking sound with his tongue. “He must be such a disappointment to you and your fair wife.”

“He is, my Lord. He has been struck from both the Malfoy and Black family trees for the disgrace he has brought to our families.”

“Oh dear, what a bitter pill that must have been to swallow - to be struck from the noble Malfoy and Black family trees. What a hardship.” He sneered, his flat-featured face contorted. “Do you know the hardships I have suffered for all these years? Ah, I think not.” He stepped forward, bringing his booted foot down on one of the outstretched, grasping hands. He slowly shifted his weight, reveling in the chorus of breaking bones.

“My Lord, those are the wrongs of my son, not mine. I have always proven myself to be a loyal and willing servant.” His voice was weak, strained.

“Perhaps.” The reptilian eyes closed a moment in silent contemplation. The white face was perfectly immobile and flat, a mere mask. Then, the obsidian eyes snapped open. “However, your son is a weak link, and you know how I detest weak links.” He flicked his wand idly and, suddenly, the prostrate man was in the grip of the Cruciatus curse.

“Well, Severus, you are the last wizard standing, so to speak.” An evil grin crept across the thin, bloodless lips. “You get to help me make history. How does it feel to be my last hope and my last confidante?” The hooded figure gulped, momentarily speechless. Then, he shook his head and his hood fell back, revealing his hair, glossy as a raven’s wing. He snatched his death’s head mask from his face in one swift movement. From beneath his arching brows, his dark eyes swept over the two young men before him. Longbottom and Potter: two of his most trying former students. A broad smile spread across his face.

“It feels delicious, my Liege.”

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Somewhere in Canada, behind the pile of musty, leather-bound books on her desk, the young woman known as Philippa Shaw felt a fierce chill shoot up her spine and she felt a sudden sense of panic grip her.