Chapter 22 A snake in the grass. Hermione's breath turned to
sludge in her lungs. Rotten, stinking stench filled
sludge that melted her insides with the viscous fluids.
Her stomach churned as an insidious murmur slithered
through the room, originating at the teacher's table and creeping
through the rows of students like an infectious plague.
The space around them vibrated with an unseen force, tendrils
of dark magic weaving and snapping like spider silk
between the cloaked figure of the Unspeakable and the twisted
shell of Alastor Moody. Or what appeared to be Alastor
Moody. The figure standing before them
was wrong. He should be dead.
Moody's body struck down mid flight as he fought for the
order, had been lost, his death confirmed.
There was no coming back from that.
Yet here he stood, his sallow skin sagging like a corpse that
had been ripped from the grave, his once sharp blue eye replaced
by a hollow, unblinking void. My.
Lord. Death.
Moody hunched in a low bout of Voldemort.
Would you do the honours? Certainly.
Voldemort hissed satisfactorily, lushing his wand around him, the
magic swirling in a miniature maelstrom and forming a hard
silver ball that dropped into Moody's discoloured purple palm.
Magnificent creature. The Dark Lord murmured to
himself while Moody sank the magically procured eye into his
hollow socket, the squelching noise sending a bile to rise up
Hermione's throat. Tell me you didn't know about
this. Hermione's thoughts struck out
at Draco like a jinx, the frantic edge betraying her usual
composure. Granger.
His voice returned in her mind, quieter, bruised with sorrow.
Of course not. This is necromancy of the
blackest kind. I knew nothing of this.
I didn't even know he was having such magic.
Studied. Her heart clenched at the
sincerity of his tone, but the uneasy silence pressing down on
the Great Hall left no room for comfort.
This was a nightmare made real, the kind of fringe magic
whispered only about in the deepest shadows of wizarding
society. Not even the Unspeakables should
have dared to meddle with magic this vile.
But what concerned Hermione more was what this type of power, in
the hands of the most powerful dark Wizard of all time, meant
for the future of the wizarding world.
The sound of Moody's wooden leg stomping against the stone floor
reverberated through the hall. Quiet.
His voice grated rough, as if gargling with gravel, and it
caused several students to flinch back in their seats, eyes
wide with fear. A satisfied chuckle rose from
the Lord on the throne, his face twisted with cruel mirth.
The Carros exchanged smug looks, as though they were proud of
this macabre display they'd clearly had a hand in.
Hermione's blood boiled hot, violent fury rising in her
chest, making her vision blur with white rage.
They were monsters, all of them, but she couldn't allow herself
to unravel, Not here, not now. Moody, or the darkness that
puppeteered him, continued, the eyes of the students, fixated on
his every word. Didn't expect to.
See this old broken face today, did you?
Each syllable spoken from the podium sent a shiver through the
room. The air around him seemed to
ripple, charged with an unsettling power, as though the
dark forces that had raised him from the dead still clung to him
like shadows. Even the Death Eater's lying in
the walls looked uncomfortable. Hermione's breath hitched as her
eyes flicked among them. Spotting Theo's familiar face in
the crowd, he offered her a Wan smile, devoid of any of the true
lightness or humor she had come to expect from him.
She craned her neck to view Narcissa sitting with regal
stiffness, her face a perfect mask of control, yet paler than
usual. Mulsiba and Avery, positioned
near the stained glass windows, exchanged furtive glances before
Avery looked at something outside through the panels, his
posture tense, restless. The whisper of the wind outside
grew into a full throated howl. Moody's lips twisted into
something resembling a smile, though it was more of a grimace,
his face pulling at the decaying flesh.
Thought I was dead, that I was gone, H.
His laugh was a jagged sound. No one is gone, not truly.
Not in the world we're living in now.
The hall was steeped in a heavy silence, the students too
horrified to respond. Even the teachers sat frozen in
their seats, eyes wide, mouths drawn tight as Moody continued
to stalk forward, his wooden leg striking the floor like the slow
beat of a death March. Things have changed.
He intoned, his newly constructed magical eye spinning
wildly. The old school days are dead,
burned to ashes in the battle, and from those ashes a new world
has risen stronger. You've all been chosen to be a
part of it. This is the rising Phoenix.
You can stand. By.
Hermione's stomach churned at his words.
The students around her sat still as statues, haunted
expressions on their little faces.
The dark circles on the olive skinned boys sat closer to the
front, blackening to a deep, chalky Gray.
Moody's crooked grin widened. There will be no more school
houses. He growled, his words
reverberating through the hall like an incantation.
No room for childish rivalries in this new world.
We don't have time for your petty Gryffindor bravery or your
Hufflepuff loyalty, Ravenclaw wit, or Raven Slytherin cunning.
It's all meaningless. Now.
He spat the words as if they were poison.
From this moment. On, Moody continued, his voice
growing darker, more insidious. Yo Wobby trained in the only
things that matter. Magical white, ancient, untapped
magic. Combat strategy these.
Are the skills that will forge you into soldiers for the new.
World. Hermione clenched her fists, the
skin of her knuckles going white as the enormity of the situation
settled over her. Moody's voice dropped lower,
more intimate, as if he was sharing a dark secret with the.
Room, This is not the school you want to know.
This is a place of war now, of survival.
And I am. Here to make sure you're
prepared. Constant vigilance.
He paused, his lips curling into a snarl.
Hermione's heart hurt and pounded in her chest, her mind
racing as his words took root, twisting inside her like venom.
This was so wrong. A murmur of dread rippled
through the hall, the students whispering among themselves,
their terror palpable. This is insane, she cast into
her mind for Draco to hear, but what returned was silence.
Flicking her eyes to Draco, she could see his pale complexion
had gone practically translucent, bloodless.
Moody's iridescent silver eye turned to the top table and
landed on her, just for a second, but it was enough to
send a cold shiver down her spine.
She felt exposed, vulnerable, as if he could see through every
facade, every defence she'd ever built.
Moody gave one final, dark smile.
Welcome once more. To Moore's.
Mordre, he said, voice dripping with malice.
Ah, suggest. You learn quickly.
Or else you'll find yourselves buried with the rest of the
past. The Great Hall fell into a deep,
oppressive silence, the only sound the soft, gasping breaths
of terrified students. Hermione's skin prickled with
cold dread. This was no longer a school, it
was a boot camp. A maniacal cackle broke through
the tension and the students thawing gratefully, some
shifting and crooking their necks to search for the source.
Hermione spotted Peeves brilliant blur of colour
ghosting through the new enchanted ceiling's clouds, his
singsong voice brightening the room like the first birdsong of
spring. Madame.
Moody's back looking all dead. What a treat.
Though it should be said darkly, Magic is at play.
It's even spooking poor Peevesy. I'll be on my way.
The spectre flew down, exiting the hall through the oak doors
and leaving a poof of pink, ghostly smoke in its wake.
Oh deary me, not that way. Peeves cried re entering the
Great Hall. Not a second later.
Hermione felt a thump in her abdomen that stood separate to
her racing heartbeat, and she held her hands to her stomach,
but the sole stirring feeling of the babies moving inside her was
stolen away as quickly as it had come, the fleeting joy now lust
amongst a cold dread. She heard them before she saw
them, the death rattle of fear itself.
A wave of murmurs rose among the students as the unnatural,
deadly rasp encroached, growing louder.
Avery and half of the Death Eaters swarmed to the centre of
the room, their wands drawn in multiple directions, while
Mulsiba and the rest moved to block the exit.
Was this their move? Had they brought the Death
Eaters onto their cause? Some of the older students had
risen to their feet now to get their eyes on the danger,
peering around the Death Eaters who were crowding the central
walkway. The temperature in the Great
Hall plummeted further, frost creeping along the windows as
the doors opened an inch and the dark creatures spilled into the
room, their cloaked forms seething with an aura of
despair. The hall erupted into chaos,
students jumping from their seats, craning their necks
towards the doors. Draco shot up from his seat.
Get ready to cast a Patronus, she thought to Draco.
I can't. What do you mean you can't?
Her tone was sharp and urgent. I needn't repeat myself.
You can't cast a Patronus. His reply was bitter.
If you'd recall, I didn't have the happiest of childhoods, nor
was I invited to Professor Potter's little club.
Hermione gritted her teeth. This would have been important
information to know when I'm meant to be hiding the fact that
I still have my own wand. I'm.
Not in the habit of sharing my weaknesses, Granger.
That's exactly the problem, Malfoy.
He looked to his master, who rose alongside him, though with
much less urgency or concern. Their mentors began to close in,
their rasping breaths filling the space between them and the
gathering Death Eaters. Hermione felt for her wand under
her dress skirt. She could have it in her hand in
a second. Mark me Malfoy.
Voldemort requested, and Draco shadowed him, the pair taking
the two steps down from the dais and toward the gathering crowd
of Dementors. Alastor, prepare for the ritual.
He asserted without a glance back.
The deftly cloaked figures that hovered on nothing but black
smoke appeared to be honing in on a singular source.
Voldemort's voice rose among the whispers, cold and amused as he
and Draco broke through the frigid crowd.
Is something the matter? Avery, the sharp nosed Death
Eater, paled under the Dark Lord's scrutiny, looking between
the fixed coven of Dementors that he suddenly found himself
encircled by. No, my Lord.
Curious. Voldemort's voice dripped with
malice. The sweat on your brow says
otherwise. The dementors only attack those.
Who have hope to feed on or. Those who hide treachery, I
believe we have a snake. In the grass, Avery's face
crumpled, fear bleeding in through his words.
Please my. Lord, it's, it's Malfoy.
He's he's been lying to you. We only wanted to prove you
couldn't trust him. Voldemort's gaze, sharp as a
knife, pierced through Avery's trembling form, and his breath
hitched as his eyes darted desperately around the room,
seeking some invisible escape, though there was none.
The walls of the Great Hall felt as though they were closing in,
the shadows from the candles pressing in around him like a
noose tightening around his neck.
The death he had only just evaded.
What? Is this?
Voldemort's voice was soft, too soft, like a calm before a
storm. He glanced darkly at Draco
before his features twisted into a mockery of curiosity.
A final confession or a. Hail, Merlin.
Draco appeared to smirk back, a nonchalant shrug freeing itself
from his rigid shoulders. Avery's hands shook and he
looked around, seemingly in search of an ally.
Any ally. S Sir.
He stammered, his voice thin, brittle.
Is dried parchment about to tear?
He is weak, Malfoy. He is only working for his own
gain. We wanted to make you see.
Voldemort's shriek cut through the Rheem like a defender, sharp
and unforgiving. Do you think me ignorant, Avery?
Hermione's breath caught in her throat, her pulse roaring in her
ears as she watched the scene unfold.
The Dark Lord's rage was a living thing, palpable and
fierce, swirling in the room like a dark storm, threatening
to consume everything in its path.
Hermione's eyes flicked to Draco, standing unnervingly
still, his posture Immaculate, his face a mask of cold control.
How could he be so composed? She thought, her own heart
throbbing so wildly it threatened to burst from her
chest. Every muscle in her body was
coiled, ready to spring. But Draco?
He barely seemed to breathe. Malfoy already informed me of
your pathetic little mutiny. Voldemort continued, his voice
low, laced with a chilling amusement.
He has proved a virile ally and. An excellent successor to my
reign. Hermione's stomach twisted at
the words. There it was an open
declaration. Her whole body gave sickening
lurch as Voldemort turned toward Draco and placed a cold,
skeletal hand on his shoulder. She needed to do something.
Sitting here pretending to be the delicate, submissive pet was
driving her mad. The smile that curled
Voldemort's lip was a grotesque imitation of affection, an
abomination of what it should be.
His hand lingered there for a moment, squeezing with just
enough force to communicate ownership.
A sick, perverted approval. Hermione's gaze darted.
Tumulsiba, who stood near the great oak doors, shifting
nervously, his eyes refusing to meet anyone's.
Avery's last hope bled from his eyes.
In desperation, he choked out the words like a man already
drowning. He's in love with the Mudblood.
The room froze. Hermione felt her heart stop.
The air gave an oppressive weight as every eye turned
towards her, some filled with shock, others with disdain, a
few with dark curiosity. Her cheeks burned, but her
insides froze. Voldemort's gaze twisted into
something even more hideous than before his slit, like nostrils
flaring as his eyes narrowed into blazing red hot coals.
Genuine fury, that. Voldemort said, voice dropping
to an almost reverent whisper. Dangerous and cold.
Is enough. The words were a death sentence.
Before Avery could beg, before he could plead for more mercy,
the hall plunged into a glacial cold, all torches guttering out.
Dread filled the space like a rising tide as the Dementors
swarmed forward, gliding silently towards Avery.
His eyes widened in terror, hands rising in a futile
defence. But it was already too late.
The many cloaked forms descended upon him, their decayed fingers
grasping his face from all angles.
He screamed, a sound of pure, primal terror that reverberated
off the stone walls like a ghostly whale.
Hermione watched in horror as his body convulsed.
His soul was being sucked out of him, pulled away in shivering
threads of silvery light until there was nothing left but an
empty shell. The Death Eaters floated back,
their job done, leaving Avery slumped on the floor, his face
slack, eyes wide but devoid of life.
A husk. A reminder.
Voldemort surveyed the hall, his mouth curling in a sneer of
satisfaction. This is what happens when you
defy me. His voice was cold, commanding,
as if addressing each and every person in the room, daring them
to question him. Do you think?
Any of you are so far ahead of me.
Make no mistake, I have eyes and ears in all corners of my new
empire. There are no secrets from Lord
Voldemort. As if on cue, the door at the
back of the hall creaked open, and from the shadows emerged
Moody, carrying something in his twisted hands, his faithless,
cloaked entourage. Behind him, Voldemort raised 2
arms to the congregation. Now sit, sit, he called out,
traversing back to the old podium where Moody placed the
item with a dull, dusty thud, a crusted, ancient book, the edges
blackened and frayed from what looked like centuries of use.
You are among the most. Privileged to witness such an
event? Your ancestors.
Will be retelling the. Story of tonight until the end
of time. So shall it.
Become legend. His eyes narrowed on Malfoy.
Come. By me, boy.
Draco obliged, his fitted cloak matching the unyielding nature
of his posture, and he met Voldemort at the front of the
stand. Draco's voice pierced through
Hermione's racing thoughts, exacting and precise in his
intention. Whatever happens, don't
interfere for them. For me.
Her gaze snapped to Draco, pulse still beating like a ticking
time bomb, but something in his expression stopped her from
pushing back. His face was set, his jaw
clenched. This wasn't the time for
questions or unplanned heroics. Mother will care for you.
His edict hit like a hex. What was he thinking?
Did he know more than her of what was to come?
The atmosphere shifted again as Moody stepped forward, opening
the book. His bloated hands shook slightly
as he began to chant, the words of an ancient language slipping
from his lips like venomous whispers.
A new kind of magic, black as night, enveloped the space, as
though the very soul of the room was being drained.
Draco staggered back as the first wave of dark energy hit
him. His face contorted in pain, but
he didn't fall. A mixture of Glee and ecstasy
morphed Voldemort's features into something even scarier than
Hermione thought possible. Flesh of the father given in
offering. Moody encanted, while Voldemort
spelled a slice of dermis right off his arm.
With barely a wince, he placed it delicately into Draco's palm
and guided the hand to his mouth.
Draco took the flesh within himself, barely blanching, and
more weaves of black and now reddish magic curled around them
both. The room watched on, horrified,
enraptured. Hermione wanted to, needed to,
was desperate to do something, anything.
She could scream, but that would just create a diversion.
She could grab her wand and launch their incomplete Avada
Bombarda at Moody. Surely that would halt the
entire debacle. She could even just apparate out
of there, straight into Mcgonigal's safe house.
Nothing was stopping her except the babies.
They would be at risk of splintching.
Could she do that? Leave them all behind?
But no, even if she were to take any of the chances her mind
offered her, she couldn't leave Draco.
Not now. Not ever, really.
Blood of the. Air gratefully consumed.
Draco's hands trembled, and he gripped the edges of the podium
as though his life depended on it.
The splatter of blood was all Hermione saw first before the
gash at Draco's wrist revealed itself.
Voldemob pulled Draco into him, a vampire stealing the life
essence from its prey. Treaco, stay with me.
Hermione called out to him. Tell me what to do, please.
She searched the crowd for Theo once more, finding that he had
come to stand by Narcissa, who had risen at the table to make
sure she could see her boy. The ghost of a single tear lined
down her porcelain face. Draco shook in his master's
arms. The ritual was tearing him
apart. Hermione could see it.
His mind, no, his soul, was being cracked open.
The raw agony across his usually stoic features, his body
slumping under the strain. And still he didn't cry out.
The tension in the room grew unbearable as Drako's body
finally gave way, crumpling to the floor in a.
Heap he was. Gone.