Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ Harry Potter and the Halcyon Phantasmagoria ❯ Cataclasm ( Chapter 4 )

AN :I'd just like to warn you guys, updates will be coming slower after the next week, because school will be starting for me. Going into sophomore year in high school, if you care. And if you don't, then, whatever.

 

People seemed to respond well to me answering their reviews last time, so I guess I'll stick with that.

 

Bah : No, it didn't annoy me. I honestly don't mind if you review twice. In fact, I absolutely encourage it.

You make a good point on the Tom Riddle Jr/Sr issue, so I'll cede that to you. Honestly, I really don't think it's something to get worked up about.

Hmm, so you caught that Stunner bloop? `insert twinkly eye' Maybe it's not a bloop? We'll get into that later. Stay tuned.

 

Felkin : The `realistic' angle was really what I was going for, so I'm glad to see it's working to some effect.

Your comment on desirability is something I'd like to hit upon. There'll be a more complex explanation of what I think the Veela aura is, so stay on for that…

And PLEASE! Ugh, speak not to me of the Mary Sue fics! Their ridiculous, guessable and annoying plots bring dishonor to my eyes. Will NOT happen, Gods of fanfiction willing. Please, anyone reading, if you see me falling into that trap, please notify me. Because that is a slippery slope I have no intention of getting too close to.

 

Nim istar : Yaoi fangirls, right? `shudders'. And the eye…yes, it was over the top. OR WAS IT!!??? 'bulging eyes'

 

Nuhuh : I'm glad you've had a change of heart, so to speak. I took your and the other DLP peoples advice and toned it down a bit.

Yeah, that sentence was a tad awkward, I'll go back and jiggle it into shape…

Bit on when the flowery language is needed is a welcome tip, thanks for that. I'm glad you liked the monologue, I was cackling in a slightly insane manner when I wrote it.

And yeah, I kinda did leave that Dumbledore thing hanging around, didn't I? Don't worry, I have an idea to plug that hole a bit later now that you mentioned…hmm…

Tinn is closed? Damn. As for the joining DLP thing…well, I've heard a lot about the sheer brutality of DLP, honestly, only witnessing a bit myself.

To be completely and utterly honest, I actually wrote a very offensive reply to your rant there, before I went to my kitchen, downed a Coke, and calmed down before deleting it and swallowing your points with a bit of salt. I can barely handle some light criticism, as it seems, so I don't think I can handle it from all sides there, yet. Maybe later. I think I'll wait and see if the damned bots get the FFnet Beta back into shape and hence, accessibility.

 

Passive Slytherin : Right, I can tell you really don't want to do it, so I'll look to other options first, before consulting you. I've found I always work better at things I like doing, and you don't sound like you want to Beta my fic. That's perfectly respectable.

 

I just thought I'd add this one last little thing, if anyone was wondering. `Halcyon' is a word meaning peaceful, tranquil, calm or happy and golden, while `Phantasmagoria' is a series of shifting illusions, as if in a dream or fever. Dictionary dot com, gotta love it, folks.

 

Well, the long review section is now over, enjoy chapter, yes?

 

 

Harry Potter and the Halcyon Phantasmagoria

Chapter 4

`Cataclasm'

 

 

In the town of Little Hangleton, in the dining room of the Riddle Manor, Tom Marvalo Riddle, the Dark Lord Voldemort calmly surveyed Lucienne Delacour, the Honored Fourth of the Veela Nation.

 

There were only six other people in the room. Bellatrix and Rabastus Lestrange, and Amycus and Alecto Carrow, his most trusted Death Eaters, and most powerful in his ranks in terms of magical power. They stood silently against the wall, ever so often cocking their heads challengingly at the two Veela attendants. Bellatrix in particular seemed quite vindictive, leering at them any time they so much as glanced at her.

 

The two Veela attendants were Colette Seraphin, and Aveline Sylvestre, both the Matriarch's finest soldiers. The third captain was likely handling her base of operations, while she was gone.

 

This brought to Tom's mind another question that had been nagging him, as he picked idly at his very rare steak, part of a rather extensive dinner he had had prepared, in the interest of courtesy. Why exactly was she here?

 

Certainly, she had gone through the proper channels to reach him, personally, contacting one of his known followers with the promise of an interesting proposition for him to listen to if they were to meet in person. The fact that she'd very obviously charmed the man into running it straight to him, running roughshod over the man's natural instincts to avoid a good Crucio (He cursed the man anyway; it was always good to enforce a lesson, after all), told him it was rather urgent.

 

She had even been wise enough to offer a bribe, a substantial one that was enough to bring his eye upon her, over several other dignitaries he had been toying around with.

 

Then, she'd really grabbed his attention when the sealed letter she left his minion was a blunt request to speak with him about a prisoner he had recently acquired. One of the questions running through his mind was how the hell she had found out about his capture of Harry Potter.

 

Dumbledore would not have let slip that. Fudge might have, but the Dark Lord had everything but his trips to the loo monitored. He would have heard of a Veela meeting with him.

 

Watching her daintily pick apart her side of meat, you might think the woman the most innocent person in the world. Voldemort felt a slight sneer slide onto his face, at any fool who would dare take this woman lightly. There was a good reason he had four Death Eaters in the room, besides a power show.

 

The fork spun idly over his skeletal fingers. His crimson gaze flickered towards her.

 

“I trust the meat is not overcooked?” He inquired lazily. His voice seemed overly loud in the silent room.

 

“It is perfect; give my compliments to your chef.” She replied, only a hint of lilt to her English. Her blue eyes rose momentarily, as she offered him a polite smile. Tom felt none of the giddy rapture most men would have felt before this woman.

 

Woman? No. Veela. Voldemort fixed the female with a calculating gaze, which she seemed not to notice, as she brought her fork, upon which a small square of meat was impaled, past her red lips.

 

He had dealt with magical creature races, before. He had met with Fenrir Greyback in his own territory, broken bread with vampire clan leaders in their own cold dwellings. But the Veela, they were to be slightly more cautious with, simply because they seemed so…human. Lacking fangs and pale skin, or hulking figures and weak times during a month, they could fit in with society, or even nearly be embraced, thanks to their enthralling auras and stunning beauty. It was hard not to underestimate them as being another of the same species.

 

Human? Me? No, not anymore. No, I am something else. Something more.

 

“As much as I would delight in engaging in pointless small talk with you for the next hour or so, I believe there is something you wish to discuss.” Voldemort drawled, the fork spinning effortlessly over his knuckles.

 

Her utensil paused in its descent, before she laid it lightly upon the table, and fixed her piercing yet soft azure stare upon him.

 

The Dark Lord scowled as he felt…something…brush against him, like a fish beneath the water. Ineffectual and fleeting, to him, yet he saw his followers shift uncomfortably against the wall, and saw Bella's eyes narrow in venom.

 

“Keep your aura in check, Honored Fourth.” He spat venomously. “It will do no good against me.” He had made quite sure of that, a long, long time ago.

 

There wasn't a single flicker of surprise on her face, unlike the small glances the two Veela bodyguards sent each other. He hadn't expected one, either.

 

“Fair enough, Lord.” She replied demurely, before the tendril was withdrawn. “I believe we both know what I came here for.”

 

“Harry Potter.” Tom replied, feeling a touch of distaste at even speaking his name. “What of him?”

 

“You have him here.” She added, as if a fleeting afterthought. “In this manor,”

 

Voldemort's scowl became a tad fiercer. Where was she getting this information, Merlin damn her!

 

He crossed his fingers in front of his face. “And if I do?” He asked calmly, as calmly as he could under the circumstances.

 

“I would like to take him off of your hands.”

 

The Death Eaters jumped as he slammed his palm on the rich ebony table. “Absolutely not.” The Dark Lord hissed. He raised one, dire finger at the woman…at the creature who dared even presume in such a way. “Harry Potter is mine!”

 

“Very well.” She replied instantly, taking a casual sip of the fine wine he had procured for the occasion. Not poisoned, to his deep regret at the moment.

 

Her casual reply took him off guard. His eyes narrowed in suspicion, and he drummed his fingers slowly on the wood of the table.

 

“You would give it up? That thing which you worked so hard to appear before me to ask for? Just like that?” A small nugget of curiosity lodged itself in his voice, along with a wave of disbelief.

 

“Give him up?” She asked amusedly. “Heavens, no. I have no intention of giving him up.” This made Voldemort tense slightly, in anticipation, feeling his bone white wand in its holster on his wrist. “But I am willing to make a compromise, a bargain, if you will.” She cocked her head slightly, watching as the Dark Lord's sneer regained it's foothold on his features.

 

“All the gold in Gringotts would not convince me to hand him over.” Tom instantly replied, chuckling richly and darkly. “What else have you to bargain with Fourth?”

 

For a moment, she was silent, taking another sip of her red wine. At the moment, the Dark Lord would have seriously considered trading his wand for a Time-Turner just to go back and poison that wine.

 

“You haven't been able to get near him, have you?” She asked, innocently studying one of the torches that lined the walls, their green flames flickering with Everlasting Fire.

Tom hissed under his breath. Now there was some information she had no right knowing. He silently glowered at her.

 

“Oh hit a nerve, have I Lord?” She said coyly, smiling ever so slightly. “None of your Death Eaters will touch him, correct?” A scowl twisted Voldemort's angular mouth. “And it frustrates you so, that they fear him more than you.”

 

“…Get to the point.” He snarled, seeing no point in denying the truth of her statements.

 

“You haven't killed him yet. And your Death Eaters fear to do it for you. My guess, is that you are uncertain if you could do it, no? If you are wrong, you might be gone for another thirteen years. Perhaps fewer followers will wait for you when you get defeated twice by the same little-“

 

She was interrupted the angry roar of the Dark Lord, as he tore the arm off of his own chair. The fires on the walls and candles flickered and jumped to new heights as his rage sent his magical aura blasting about the room. His Death Eaters cowered slightly, pressing themselves against the wall.

 

“Do not patronize me, you insignificant whore!” He screeched.

 

There were quiet hisses and growls from the two Veela at the door, as their nails grew a tad longer, and faces a bit more angular. The Death Eaters palmed their wands in a very suggestive manner.

 

Lucienne simply watched the tension with a delicately arched eyebrow, raising one hand to still her overprotective bodyguards in their tracks. The fires eventually returned to normal, although they flickered wildly still.

 

“One reason,” The Dark Lord breathed venomously, his eyes like crimson lasers. “Give me one reason, Veela, why I should not strike you down where you stand!”

 

As if to needlessly antagonize the already furious Dark Lord, she took a casual swallow of wine, before letting her glass drop to the table, and resting her face casually on her palm.

 

“That is an interesting scar you wear, Lord.” She remarked idly, staring at the black handprint upon his forearm.

 

Voldemort's eyes flickered to the enflamed wound, calculating, confused, enraged.

 

“It burns, does it not? Like nothing else you have felt. Whenever you approach him, it throbs, fights you, and twists your gut into knots.” She whispered; her angelic face seeming morphed into almost that of a demonic mistress in the poor light. “I can make it stop. Make your follower's terror disappear. All in exchange, for one small request.”

 

Tom's breathing slowed, and he slowly brought his temper to a slow simmer. “And what…would that request be?”

 

She smiled, and the Dark Lord once again had to fight down images of innocence and trust.

 

“A talk, one little private chat, all on my own, with Harry Potter. You can watch, put as many Death Eaters around the room as you like. As long as I can have one private discussion with the boy, I can make all of your troubles,” She clapped her hands together, and smiled a little wider as she finished, “disappear.”

 

And the Dark Lord felt a slow, delighted grin spread across his face.

 

 

 

“Quickly. You must come quickly, now.” Dumbledore barked to the two men following him. Sirius and Remus hastened their steps until they too walked beside the legendary wizard.

 

Dumbledore was actually slightly irritated at their presence, if empathetic. He would have preferred that the two remain at Grimmauld Place, but he knew that they would never accept that. The two were riding high on rage, the only thing that had kept them up for this long without sleep. He couldn't exactly trust their judgment. It was likely that the first thing they would do when they saw the Dark Lord would be to die vainly in some attempt at revenge.

 

But then, can I trust my own? That question troubled him greatly, considering the way that revenge was sounding rather tantalizing in this situation. The last time he had even considered such a notion was the day he nearly killed his once-greatest friend, Grindelwald.

 

They made their way hastily through the long, long rows of glass orbs, each shining with their own individual light of prophecy. Some fulfilled, some not, some trivial, and some important.

 

And they were now forced to unlock the most direly important one of all. The Unspeakables had been working around the clock to unravel the indescribably powerful wards they had placed around the prophecy, some of Dumbledore's design, some not.

 

Indeed, he had spent a good, long nearly twelve hours arguing with the Minister. It had been especially annoying considering the man's tendency to repeat himself, “He's not back, I tell you! He's not!” Had been heard enough times to make the old man's teeth ache.

 

Truly, I had no idea his delusions of power had gone so far…to leave an innocent boy in the clutches of the most dangerous Dark wizard of all time? Madness… He found himself somewhat glad he had left his wand at the desk. If he had had it with him, he likely would have cursed the Minister several times, just on general principle.

 

But Dumbledore himself felt regretful for the action he had to partake. Simply give Tom the prophecy, after so many years of concealing it? Perhaps he was a bit mad himself.

 

It was a very dangerous trade-off they were making. Give Voldemort the knowledge that he could, in fact, kill Harry, in exchange for the boy's safety. In any other situation, Dumbledore might have found it terribly ironic.

 

But now was not a time for humor. First Harry's safety, even if it might break the uneasy cease-fire that had held since Tom became leery of attacking Harry, lest he take the chance of another Ariana.

 

It was selfish, completely so. As soon as Tom gained that knowledge, the Death Eater attacks would double, triple. He would feel secure in his feeling of apparent immortality. Lives would be lost.

 

Is it fair? One innocent life saved at the cost of countless others? ...No, it is not. But we have no other choice. Dumbledore felt the weight of these murders, even yet uncommitted, press down upon his conscience like a lead chains around his chest. But he walked forward regardless.

 

“Here. Row Ninety-Seven.” Dumbledore muttered, before turning sharply.

 

The orb in mention was blatantly obvious, having four Unspeakables crowded around it, wands at the ready. A fifth perked up and quickly strode to Dumbledore as he stopped outside of the half-circle around the glowing orb.

 

“We've got some bad news.” He announced, without greeting or any such formalities. “We've only got about half the wards down. We had to improvise.”

 

“Explain.” Dumbledore ordered curtly. If his mental count was right, he had a single hour before the time limit was up.

 

“If you go in now, those wards will obliterate you instantly. Period. What we're going to do is pump it full of power, from five different sources at once. It should confuse the wards. They won't be able to tell who to kill. Overload them, one by one. Problem is, it'll take a while.” The Unspeakable's mask concealed any emotions, but Dumbledore detected a hint of strain in his voice.

 

“A while? How long!?” Dumbledore replied, a bit sharply.

 

“Half an hour, maybe more. We've been at this all day, rotating shifts. Those four are the strongest in the division. They're also the last. We've been holding them in reserve so you could work with them.” The Unspeakable jerked his head towards the four. “They're waiting for you.”

 

Dumbledore brushed past him, drawing his wand in a single motion, taking a place as they shuffled aside to allow him a place.

 

“How shall we do this, gentlemen?” He inquired, his eyes locked upon the softly humming blue orb.

 

“Constant stream of power at the same time. The same amount from each person or the wards will target the strongest and focus on them.” One of them tersely replied. “Five's the minimum to keep it at bay. If one of us goes, we all go. It's been an honor working with you all.” His voice held not a hint of fear at the possible death that waited for him. A common trait among those who dared traverse the halls of the Department of Mysteries.

 

Numerous repetitions of this statement passed along their short half-moon. Dumbledore's brows knit in concentration as they drew closer, wand tips hovering above the cool glass surface.

 

“On three…one, two, three.” There was no shout or yell. They were professionals.

 

Their wand tips met the glass at exactly the same moment.

 

Immediately, Dumbledore had to fight the urge to send every iota of power blasting into the orb, as he felt his magical core and wand get locked onto like a sharp pincer, yearning to reach his heart.

 

He steadied his breathing, and forced his power to the level he felt his comrades in arms displaying, a steady, yet strong flow into the powerful protections that threatened their lives.

 

The pincer slowly grew weaker, after about a minute, drawing back, before the ancient wizard felt a sensation almost like that of pimple popping. The ward was broken.

 

“One down.” The Unspeakable to his left commented.

 

Suddenly, another grabbed his power and started greedily sucking it up. Dumbledore wiped sweat from his brow with one hand, and narrowed his eyes at the innocent looking orb.

 

He would get the prophecy. He would save Harry Potter. Failure simply wasn't an option.

 

 

Harry gasped as he was brought awake, his face shining with sweat, by a cold voice all too familiar in his feverish dreams.

 

“Kill the spare.”

 

“Pathetic.”

 

“Disappointing!”

 

“JUST LIKE YOUR PARENTS!”

 

A brief flash of crimson flame. Choking, blinding rage.

 

Redness everywhere.

 

Harry let out a low moan of pain, as his hands suddenly awoke with him, throbbing painfully. The cool steel around his wrists was almost a comfort, even so tightly drawn as they were.

 

His muddy thoughts swirled around that sensation. Wait…metal…wrists…?

 

He looked over at one of his arms, pulled above his hands in an unpleasant way by a shackle, bolted to a planked wooden wall. He twisted his head around one hundred and eighty degrees, and found his other hand similarly bound.

 

He tested them, pulling his hand towards him. He had a bit of leeway. Enough to put both of his hands in his lap, although he couldn't quite touch them together.

 

He looked up, from where he was slumped against the wall. The square room he was in was utterly bare, save for one lamp hanging from the ceiling, and a door on the other side of the room. Its light hurt Harry's eyes, and he winced, before looking down.

 

“So,” Harry's voice was raspy from fever and sleep. “You finally got me, did you, Tom?” The tone was indescribably bitter.

 

There was no answer. It didn't matter. He talked anyway.

 

“Well, it took you bloody long enough.” Harry snorted, at the sheer ridiculousness of his own statement. “I mean, you're-what? The self-proclaimed big bad Dark Lord Voldemort, ooh, scary! All rights reserved, right? Got a whole fuckin' lotta minions and grunts to work with!”

 

His words were slightly slurred. His lips didn't seem to want to obey his brain's commands, stumbling over the words he wanted to use.

 

“But it takes you fourteen…almost fifteen years to catch me! That's pretty sad, Tom, if I do say so m'self.” Harry made sure to put special emphasis on the name he so despised.

 

There was silence in the room. This annoyed and pissed the feverish boy off, for a reason he couldn't precisely place. It was almost as if the Dark Lord were mocking him with silence.

 

So he decided to make some noise.

 

“Come on in here, you foul, murdering son of a bitch!” Harry howled, stretching his restraints to the limit as he tried in vain to reach that coyly shut door. “You think I need my wand or fucking love to beat you!? Well, come on in, Tommy boy, so I can lovingly BITE YOUR DAMN EYES OUT!”

 

Harry could almost hear the high pitched laughter echoing around his skull. He pulled as hard as he could against the chains. The metal did not yield an inch.

 

He took a deep breath, and screamed his lungs out. A wordless roar that needed no explanations, transmitting its message loud and clear. Defiance. Rage. Helplessness. An almost primal challenge.

 

“COME ON! COME ON! COME ON! COME O-uck!” Harry's throat caught, and suddenly hoarse coughs racked his chest. He fell over on his side, wheezing dryly, his head dizzy with vertigo and nausea.

 

Eventually, he was left simply curled into a ball against the wall, his throat raw and his body shivering uncontrollably from wasted adrenaline.

 

After a few minutes, he gained enough strength to push himself back against the wall, and simply put his head between his knees and wait.

 

He didn't know how much time passed. It felt like hours. He busied himself with pushing little piles of dust into the space between his skinny knees, and then spreading them out, before starting all over again.

 

His stomach grumbled. Harry rubbed his eyes sleepily.

 

“…Oi, Hey!” Harry called, almost playfully to the door across the room. His voice sounded rough even to his own ears, like sandpaper. “You know, if you're going to kill me, can you just cast the Killing Curse on me already? I'm knackered, and fuckin' starving! HEY! TOM! VOLDEMORT!” Harry scowled, when there was no answer. “Hey, fuck you, then!”

 

He then chuckled, before letting his chin rest on his knees.

 

“You know, Tom,” Harry began conversationally. “Molly Weasley would have already killed me. I've sworn more in the last two days then I have in probably my entire life. Yep! She would'a torn my ear right off and left me to bleed. How does it feel being beat by a house wife, Tom? How does it feel, Voldemort!?” Harry snarled.

 

The hushed shadows in the corners of the room did not answer. Harry sighed, craning his neck so his hand could reach his head to slap a mosquito he was pretty sure should not have been able to get in.

 

“You'd think a fuckin' Dark Lord could at least get some decent fuckin' screens…” He muttered darkly. He didn't know why he was swearing so much. Maybe it felt good? It did, sort of.

 

The next hour, he developed an even higher fever than before, along with shaking and chills.

 

His hands gripped the denim of his jeans, his teeth chattered, before he moved his hands back to bury them in his armpits. His shirt was dark and sticky, sticking to his chest with sweat.

 

“It's…it's f-f-fucking freezing in h-here.” He ground out, as best as he could. Something clicked in his mind, and he pulled his hands out, and stared at the bandages that covered them. “F-F-Fuck.” He cursed shakily. They must be infected…I knew I should have stopped to see a Healer or something. He berated himself uselessly.

 

Then, his head snapped up as the door opened. His teeth bared themselves in an instinctive snarl, his lip curling over his teeth.

 

“Bring it on, you-!” He began, before trailing off. “…pretty?” He finished dumbly.

 

It was the truth; the woman was pretty. Hell, she was bloody gorgeous, the kind of perfection that you remembered for your entire life. Silver hair, a slim yet lush figure that seemed to radiate femininity and grace from every pore. The fine gown she was wearing only accented that and blue eyes that seemed to snatch your soul from your body and caress it gently.

 

She smiled slightly. Harry sucked in an uneasy and shaky breath.

 

“Who…who are you?” His voice cracked slightly. He had expected Voldemort, not some woman who looked like an angel descended from heaven.

 

“Someone who's been waiting to meet you for a very long time, Mr. Potter.” Her soft voice sent goose-bumps rippling up his skin.

 

“Who…” He gritted his teeth as he asked his next question. “Who are you working for? …Voldemort?” He demanded roughly, mercilessly squashing any pangs of remorse he had. He couldn't afford any trust at the moment.

 

“No one but myself.” She replied simply, folding her hands in front of her, and pacing a step to the side. “You've had quite the trying few days, haven't you…Harry?” An uncontrollable shiver raced up his spine. “No one's acting like they used to, you can't control your emotions properly, am I right? I'm sure it's all very hard to understand.” Her voice was cool, sympathetic.

 

“How did you-?” Harry snapped his jaw shut, and cleared his throat roughly. “What do you know about me?” He snapped suspiciously.

 

The look on her face spread into honest surprise, and a bit of hurt that hit him like a dull weight. “I've been looking for you for a while. I was a friend of your mother's, Lily Potter.”

 

“Mum?” The raw hope in that one word shocked him into instant defensiveness. “Don't lie to me! Who are you!?” Harry snarled angrily.

 

She smiled gently. “No lies, Harry. As for what you're going through, well, let's just say I have some experience with what you're facing.”

 

Harry felt a moment of indecision. Or maybe it was him weakening. It was hard to tell through the feverish haze.

 

“Wh-…What do you mean, `experience'?” He asked slowly, feeling a small spark of hope flare up in himself regardless of the situation he was currently in.

 

“I'm a Veela, Harry.” Just the way she said his name…Harry felt his already flushed cheeks grow hotter. “I went through the same thing when I awakened my powers.”

 

Harry frowned, blinking blearily. It was hard to think at all with the heat pressing in on his cheeks.

 

“You…Veela…awakened-“ Harry muttered sluggishly. An epiphany hit him like a lightning bolt, and he sat up straighter. “What you're saying is…impossible. I looked it up. There's no such thing as a male Veela with powers.” He answered, his eyes boring into hers, searching for answers.

 

“Not anymore, no.” She laughed softly. “Would you like to hear a bit of history that's been very carefully blotted out and declared taboo by governments all around the world, Harry?”

 

Harry blinked. That was certainly blunt. “Err…it's relevant, right?” She nodded. “Then…I suppose.”

“There once were…true male Veela.” She replied. “Not called such yet, of course. The Greek called them sons of Adonis. The English called them incubi. There are dozens of different names, for different cultures. They were few in number, perhaps only a thousand in the world at a time, but each wielded tremendous power. Then they died; The End.” She finished blandly.

 

That abrupt halt sent Harry's mind crashing into a wreckage of a thousand questions. “Died? How did they die? What about all that `tremendous power'?” He blurted out.

 

She smiled again, but this time, it was sad. “Jealousy, Harry. Fear and jealousy. You have seen how the men around you act. You are the proverbial alpha-male. They can not help but feel threatened by you. And when many fearful individuals gather together, that which they fear, inevitably becomes that which they hate.” She sighed. “And that much hate and fear inevitably leads to revolt. It has happened many times in history, and if humans ever cared to record both sides, you would know it.”

 

“So…what?” Harry asked. “The humans revolted, and killed all the male Veela? Just like that, for something I…they couldn't even control?” He queried; a growing feeling of unease building in his stomach. “That's…that's stupid! Barbaric!” He protested weakly.

 

“Yes, it was. But then, humans fear what they do not understand.” She replied somberly. “It is an unfortunate truth, but a truth nonetheless.”

 

Harry was silent for several moments, staring at his hands lying in his lap. “So, I'm a…son of Adonis? Male Veela? How? Dad was a wizard, Mum was a muggleborn. I don't have any Veela blood in me.” He asked, feeling out several of the doubts and holes he saw in this mystery Veela's theory.

 

“Oh, but you are wrong, my dear.” She replied, almost exuberantly. “You do have a mite of Veela blood in you. An unawakened line from your mother's side. And that mite is all you need. You are an incubus; a male Veela, Harry. You've seen those effects for yourself. Your own aura, perhaps a hint of fire?” She asked.

 

Harry raised his hands for her wordlessly. Despair was slowly starting to dull his senses back into reality. “My hands. I got angry, and burned them.” He replied flatly. He stared at the ground around her fine hard-toed slippers. “Look, it doesn't matter if I'm a male Veela or not. Unless you have some sort of fool-proof escape plan cooked up, or I'm just imagining all this and there is not a Dark Lord and all of his army of highly trained magical psycho-paths, then I'm going to die, regardless.” He deadpanned.

 

To his surprise, he heard her laugh. He looked up, furious. “It's not funny! I'm really going to fucking die!” He snarled.

 

She covered her smiling mouth with one hand. “Language, Harry. And you do not need to worry. Your safety is quite assured. Your Headmaster is on his way, to bargain for your release. I have no doubt he will be successful.”

“Dumbledore…!” Harry murmured, feeling that spark previously crushed roar to back to life. “How do you know?”

 

“I have friends in high places, Harry. Now, I believe, it is time for me to go.”

 

This sentence brought Harry back the issue at hand like a cold slap to the face. He lunged and desperately stretched out a hand towards her retreating form.

 

“Wait! What am I supposed to do about my powers? Who are you!? What's your name?” He pelted her relentlessly with questions.

 

She stopped in mid-stride, before turning, a small smirk on her face.

 

“Ah yes…we cannot have you running around like that, can we?” She murmured.

 

She advanced upon him quickly, crossing the room in several quick steps. Harry froze when her hand drifted to the side of his face, brushing his skin in the process as she knelt. She was perfectly composed as her hand brushed aside his hair to suddenly grab the end of his glasses.

 

Warm…her hand is really warm…were the only coherent thoughts he could gather, being in such close proximity with her perfect, heart-shaped face.

 

Suddenly, Harry felt a brief stab of pain, in the side of his neck.

 

“I-Err-W-W-What are you doing?” He stammered, as she smiled. This close, he could see just the way her full, red lips curved ever so slowly upwards…

 

She just as suddenly withdrew her hand, and stood back up to her full height. “You shouldn't have any more problems, now. I've enchanted your glasses to keep your aura inside you, along with the rest of your male Veela powers.”

 

Harry gaped a little, one hand rising to feel the plastic end of his glasses, where she had touched. It felt warm to the touch. “Just like that?” He asked.

 

“Just like that, my dear. Do keep those glasses on.” She advised. “Now, one question, darling. Would you like to control them?”

 

“Huh?” Harry replied stupidly, still somewhat dazed by all of his fears being so suddenly lifted like that. “Control what?”

 

She snorted slightly, and smiled. “Your powers, silly!”

 

“Oh!” Harry blushed rather hard, thankfully hidden by the fever. “I…”

 

Memories flashed through his mind. Black robes burning. Death Eaters burning, running from him. The Death Eaters surrounding him.

 

The graveyard. Cedric's death.

 

It was his entire fault. All because he was too slow, too weak to stop them.

 

“-…They were few…but each wielded tremendous power.”

 

“…tremendous power…”

 

All because he wasn't strong enough. Because he didn't have enough power.

 

“…yes. I do.” Harry replied firmly. “Can you teach me?”

 

Her smile widened, and Harry felt, oddly, a trickle of fear.

 

“But of course, my dear Harry. Rest assured, I will contact you, once you're back at that school of yours.”

 

She patted his cheek, which Harry had to concentrate not to lean into, before she turned, and began to open the door. Another question struck Harry.

 

“Y-Your name! I never got it!” He blurted quickly.

 

She twisted her head around, a kind smile on her face. Harry could feel his knees damn near turn to jelly, though that might have been a side effect of the infection.

 

“You may call me Lucienne. Stay strong, Harry.” She offered softly, before letting herself out. The door closed with a sharp click.

 

Harry stared at the closed door a moment longer, before letting his gaze drop to his hands, his thoughts in utter turmoil.

 

But one thing was for sure. Dumbledore was coming. He was getting out of here. That one thought brought such a painful burst of happiness that he could not help but smile weakly, even totally nauseous as he was.

 

He flexed the digits of his hands, wrapped firmly in cloth as they were. They moved slow, too slow, because of the lack of proper muscle on them.

 

“…so it can be controlled…” Harry whispered; his green eyes wide in the darkness.

 

Slowly, he began to unwind his bandages.

 

 

The smile disappeared the moment the Matriarch stepped out of the room, replaced with cool disdain. The two Death Eaters on duty cringed slightly. Voldemort stared silently through the glass window at Potter, charmed to look like part of the wall from inside.

 

“It's done? He's…reachable, now?” The Dark Lord queried, staring with narrowed eyes at the small form of the Boy-Who-Lived, curled up into a ball like he was.

 

“Not by you, no. It's the wound that's magical, not him. It will heal in time.” The Fourth replied indifferently. “But yes, your Death Eaters will desist from fearing him.”

 

The Dark Lord's mouth twisted into a scowl, but he said nothing. “What did you do to him? How did you do it?” He demanded, staring straight into her eyes.

 

Lucienne smiled as she felt the lightest prick of Legilimency, before bringing up her barriers with the ease of long practice. Tom's scowl only deepened.

 

“I've fulfilled my part of the bargain, as have you, despite your attempts to breach the silencing ward I placed around us.” She offered a wry smile, to which he snarled and snapped his head aside, though out of anger or embarrassment at being caught, she did not know. “My business here is finished. I will take my leave.”

 

As she brushed past him, he reached out and stopped her with one hand. Her eyes narrowed dangerously as he leaned in closer.

 

“I will know the truth, one way or another. I know that something has changed within the boy.” The Dark Lord hissed. “I believe it would be in your best interests to cooperate.”

 

Her mouth twisted into a silent frown.

 

Suddenly, Voldemort roared in pain, and released her shoulder, grasping the palm-mark scar on his arm, which had chosen that moment to suddenly explode in pain. The Matriarch brushed an invisible speck of dirt off of the shoulder he had touched, while he stared in undiluted fury at the Veela.

 

“What you believe is no concern of mine and you're no position to assume anything about the boy, considering you can't take a single step into that room.” Lucienne replied icily. “And I warn you; do not try, until those scars have healed up, unless you very dearly wish for a rather short and abrupt demise.”

 

With that, she turned sharply and headed down the stairs, where her two bodyguards were waiting. Colette held out a length of silky black cord, which she laid a strong grip on, along with Aveline, before there was a tug at their navel, and they were Portkeyed away.

 

The Mistress of the Forsaken Nursery didn't miss a step as they landed in her room at the bottom of her tower. Instead, she simply reached two slim fingers up the sleeve of her dress, and pinched out a needle, full of a familiar red substance.

 

“Take this to the analyzers on the second floor.” She ordered them quickly. “It's the boy's blood; we need to work on cracking his genetic code before we can proceed with our dream of the future.” My dream, she mentally corrected.

 

Aveline took it almost reverently, plucking it from her fingers before sprinting up the staircase, three steps at a time.

 

“Colette.” Her voice was like a whip crack.

 

The Veela righted herself and stood at attention. “Yes, my Mistress?” She inquired politely.

 

“Take a team. Get into Hogwarts. I don't care how. I want updates on the boy around the clock. Spare no expenses. Whatever you need, get it. Money is not an issue.” Her mouth curved in a predatory smile. “When the boy changes his stripes,
I think it wouldn't be at all polite if we kept him from his herd too long, would it, darling?”

 

Colette felt her mouth go a tad dry. “Yes, Mistress.” She replied. “I will not let you down.” She replied, a zealous tone and a heated edge to her voice.

 

“I know, my dear.” Lucienne replied gently. The Matriarch did know. There was a reason she had assigned Colette to her most rebellious squad, after all. Who else to lead the squad she trusted least then the Veela she trusted most? “Go.”

 

Colette was gone in almost an instant. The Fourth sighed, and sat down on her heavily cushioned chair, satisfied for the moment.

 

“Harry Potter…hmm, the bitter irony.” She murmured, picking up a cup of tea on her desk. Cold. “I greatly look forward to spending more time with you, boy…”

 

She snapped her fingers, and a green flame appeared above one fingertip. She waved it under the cup several times; heating the drink back up to it's original temperature.

 

She took a delicate sip. Soon…soon, the male Veela shall rise again…and who else to guide the fledgling lords but the one who brought them back?

 

 

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed; his old skin shown with a faint sheen of sweat. The many, varying wards' minor effects were taking their toll on him.

 

The Unspeakables around him were in similar states of exhaustion, slumped over, but keeping their wands firmly pressed to the orbs.

 

His mental count told him he had only three minutes and thirty seven seconds remaining. My own protections are killing me…the irony is positively sickening. He mused.

 

He didn't have enough time to wait. Those protections had to disappear.

 

“…please forgive me.” He murmured, so soft that only the Unspeakable on his left heard, turning slightly.

 

“What?”

 

“We are running out of time. The wards must fall now.” Dumbledore replied, a bit louder, so the rest could hear.

 

There was only a brief pause, as they took this in. Then, their team leader nodded.

 

“Very well. Switching to full power…now.” It was incredibly calm, for a man who had just then signed his death sentence.

 

And they blasted the orb with all of their might.

 

Dumbledore gritted his teeth, as the ward naturally targeted him first, being the most powerful magically of the group. He battered it down with a brutal blast of magic, before another claimed him.

 

The Unspeakable next to him shuddered, before falling silently to the ground in a heap, power stolen and utterly dead.

 

Dumbledore's teeth bared in a silent snarl as the wards set upon him and the other Unspeakables in an almost gleeful manner. Two Unspeakables fell dead without a sound, leaving only Dumbledore and the leader.

 

The leader of the Unspeakables, in an act of almost infinite calmness, turned his hooded head to Dumbledore, his face nearly illuminated by the lights show of their auras battling with that of the protections on the prophecy.

 

“It is done.” He uttered softly, before crumpling slowly to the ground, claimed by the vicious protections.

 

Dumbledore let his magical aura fade, before slumping wearily. The only Unspeakable left, the one set as the watcher, stepped forward, and hoisted one of the corpses up by the arms. “I'll tell their families. I've just let the wards down. You've got thirty seconds before I bring them back up, and travel in and out by magical means becomes impossible again.” His voice was cool, and completely emotionless, as he hauled away the remains of his comrade, quite possibly his friend.

 

Dumbledore nodded wearily, before reaching out with one gnarled hand and grasping the almost innocuous seeming orb in one hand, and turning away, guilt weighing heavily on his heart.

 

The two former Marauders were at his side in almost a second. Their faces were set in hard, grim lines.

 

Dumbledore fumbled in his pocket and produced the eyeball. A growl rose in Sirius's throat, and the legendary wizard watched the skin around Remus' clenched fists turn white with strain.

 

“All hands.” The Headmaster ordered softly, laying a single finger upon the morbid Portkey. It was soon joined by two other reluctant ones. “Portus,” He intoned.

 

Soon, the three men were gone from the Department of Mysteries, leaving it in silence and gloom once more.

 

 

SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF

 

Dumbledore's brows knit in concentration as they drew closer, wand tips hovering above the cool glass surface.

 

“On three…one, two, three.” There was no shout or yell. They were professionals.

 

Well, most of them.

 

Suddenly, one of the Unspeakables turned. “Wait, d'you mean one two three GO, or one two THREE?” He asked, a bit sheepishly.

 

“You fool!” The leader exploded angrily, his wand firmly touching the glass orb. “You have-urgh!” He gurgled, before he fell to the ground, along with Dumbledore and the other two Unspeakables, their bodies smoking in their death.

 

The watching Unspeakable sighed and palmed his forehead.

 

“I'm new here!” The only remaining Unspeakable cried defensively, before fleeing down the corridor. “DON'T JUDGE ME-E-E-E-E!!!!” He wailed.

 

SPOOF END SPOOF END SPOOF END SPOOF END SPOOF END SPOOF END

 

Well guys, I've finally managed to acquire a Beta. I'd like you all to give a big round of applause for Ivan D. Wright, who's agreed to work with me.

Feedback is always welcome. Posting this chapter un-betad first, might want to read it again when I post the next one.