Unofficial Portkey Archive

Author's Note: Business as usual-I told you I'd do better now that I've begun the sequel. Chapter two's even been started already.

For the record, Eagle's Sapphire is pre-OotP canon, a sixth-year fic following Truest Power. The rape warning from my previous story will in some ways carry over, as it is a sequel, and that sort of thing doesn't just go away. I've had to take an "R" rating with this series of fan fictions, so I'm not going to feel bad about really using it in this one.

I plan on using some ideas from OotP and HBP, albeit not actual events. I know for sure you'll see characters like Nymphadora Tonks and Bellatrix Lestrange because I love them, and there's the concept of the Order and the notion of thestrals, and pretty much anything else I see fit to include later.

Sit back and enjoy. I want you to like ES more than you did TP (which I assume you liked since you're here, aren't you?) because I think it's going to be better now that everything's been set up. :) I'm still working on some kind of an update list, or else a Yahoo! group or LiveJournal-just let me know what would work best for you­, for you are what this is about. I love you all, and thank you for always reading.

-Elle (emoxley@kc.rr.com)

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Chapter One

FOUR PRIVET DRIVE

It had happened in November. After living at number four for close to twenty years, the Dursley family had moved away from Privet Drive. The street's other residents, for all their differences, had agreed at the time that the move hadn't come a moment too soon.

Mrs. Petunia Dursley was a snoop; Mr. Vernon Dursley, an arse. Their dread son, Dudley, was an over-grown git who picked on children half his age. The least obnoxious occupant of number four had been the Dursleys' nephew, and he had attended a school for the criminally insane! No, the other residents of Privet Drive were glad to see the Dursleys go-that is, until they met (or rather didn't meet) their new neighbor.

He was a small man, a sniveling sort of fellow with watery eyes. He was hardly taller than a number of the neighborhood children, and his skin was grey and unhealthy looking. He was a heavyset man, though the few residents on Privet Drive who had seen him more than once or twice claimed that he looked as if he had at one time lost all that weight only to gain it back again. He didn't have black hair, or brown, or blonde, or even grey, because he wasn't all that old. Rather, his hair was colorless, and wispy, and he was without a doubt balding. His clothes were all secondhand, or maybe just very, very old, but worse than anything, he had let the house at number four go even more than he had himself.

No one knew this man's name, though not for a lack of trying. Mrs. Georgina Gambette, of number six, who had only become the nosiest woman on Privet Drive after Mrs. Dursley moved away, had gone so far as to try stealing this man's mail. However, after a week of unsuccessful attempts, she had concluded that this man could not possibly take mail in the usual manner.

So Mrs. Gambette had given in and called Mrs. Dursley, asking for the man's name. And Mrs. Dursley, to her surprise, had not been able to tell her. She would ask her husband, though, Mrs. Dursley assured Mrs. Gambette, and she would call her back as soon as Mr. Dursley got home from work. They had driven by the day before; they were sorry to see the lawn looking so unkempt. Mrs. Dursley had typically been a woman of her word, however slippery the implications of it, so Mrs. Gambette had waited by the phone for days.

But Mrs. Dursley had never called.

Rarely did this little man come or go from number four, and perhaps it was that fact alone that had the neighbors so curious. If he did leave the house, it was usually around nightfall, though typically not at all. And one other thing that had their heads spinning: although the man would enter his home one day and not come out for seven more, it was hardly as if he was in the house in the meantime.

In other words, though the Dursleys had been the worst of the inhabitants of Privet Drive, the other residents weren't all that much better. Most of them were just as pretentious, just as cautious, just as snobby, and just as ready to snub those who did not fit in. It was no surprise that the little man attracted so much curiosity because even the nicest of neighbors in the kindest of neighborhoods would have wondered what could make a house dilapidate seven years in a span of seven months.

The little man's name was Peter Pettigrew. He wasn't the cleverest man, or the most observant, and he honestly did not realize how much curiosity he had generated. This was one of the few things Pettigrew came by honestly. He wasn't an ordinary man, Pettigrew, he was a wizard, even a special kind of wizard, called an Animagus. He could change into a rat whenever he liked, a transfiguration that generally took a great deal of skill. But Pettigrew wasn't particularly skilled or particularly smart, and he had only learned to transform himself with the help of much greater wizards.

These days Pettigrew did not transform much. Years before he had cut off his own finger to frame one of the much greater wizards for the murder of the other one. That had not stopped him from transforming; in fact, he had changed into a rat after that and spent the next twelve years as one. Then, about a year before present day, Pettigrew had lost the rest of his arm. Actually, he had cut it off, too. He had done it to help a particularly nasty wizard return to power. Other people who had powers like Pettigrew would not speak this wizard's name (which was Voldemort) and preferred to call him You-Know-Who. As one of this wizard's followers, Pettigrew just called him the Dark Lord.

It was one of the Dark Lord's assignments that had Pettigrew living at Four Privet Drive among Muggles, or non-magic folk, hiding his hand (wrought of silver, a gift from You-Know-Who for Pettigrew's many years of service) in his pocket whenever he did have to leave the house via the front door. His master had interest in one of number four's previous occupants, and to give a hint as to which one, none of the Dursleys were the least bit magical.

The nephew, on the other hand, was. He had long been a menace to the Dark Lord's cause, but as the sun set one evening in early July, it was the wizards and witches who followed You-Know-Who that were particularly annoyed with him.

Even Pettigrew was cursing the boy's name under his breath as he scrambled up the pathway to his home, carrying a sack of groceries from the Muggle store with one arm. He was to receive visitors that night, important visitors, and he had realized that he had nothing to serve them. He probably needn't serve them anything, but where his mother had failed to mold him into the most upstanding of men, she hadn't failed to teach him proper manners. There had been no time to done a disguise and Apparate to a wizarding center to shop. Disguises were necessary for Pettigrew when he ventured into the wizarding world, as his name had been on a death certificate for fifteen-odd years now.

In everything he did anymore, Pettigrew twittered. He made faces and wrinkled his nose and muttered things, "Potter this..." and "Potter that..." (for Potter was the nephew's surname). Cutting cheese into cubes and slicing up meat and placing olives on a tray was no exception.

"Potter's done something to Master!" murmured Pettigrew. His laugh was high and unnatural. "It's always Potter!" He laughed again. "It's when Potter makes a mess of things that the others make a mess of me!"

Pettigrew had not always been such a wrecked little man. At one time, he had been a sweet, round-faced boy. At another, he had been a decent wizard, in the way that he wasn't particularly skilled but stayed out of trouble. But he had also betrayed his best friends, lived twelve years as a rodent, lost a limb, and been tortured numerous times. Any one of those things would have changed a person. Experiencing all of them had reduced Pettigrew to something hardly human, to little more than the nerves and tics of one.

"Hah!" laughed Pettigrew. A floorboard had creaked, and it was enough to send him into nervous hysteria.

Although the structure at four Privet Drive had long since housed foul people and foul activities, it was nothing compared to what it had seen since Pettigrew had moved in, opening the house to a steady stream of Death Eater activity ever since. No, this was something the house had not been prepared to deal with, and it had quickly fallen into disrepair. No matter how often he cleaned, the counters were always filthy with grime, and by the second week he had lived there, the specially-designed curtains Mrs. Dursley had hung new in September were ratty tears of fabric.

Pettigrew was careful to avoid that floorboard as he scurried around the kitchen. "At least I held onto that bottle of wine," he tittered, fetching the bottle in question and cleaning the proper number of glasses. One for Malfoy, one for Lestrange, one for Snape, one for himself. Pettigrew did not drink; he would have not more than a sip, but he knew that all three of the people he would serve that night were unlikely to trust the alcohol otherwise.

All of this was being done without magic. Pettigrew was hardly versed through seventh level charms and incantations, and he found that he sometimes preferred Muggle methods. He worked slowly, methodically, and he was so focused on the task at hand, as well as not making the floorboard creak again, that he did not hear Malfoy or Lestrange Apparate in.

"Hah!" exclaimed Pettigrew. His gasp of surprise rather resembled his laugh.

"Wormtail," said Lucius Malfoy silkily, using the man's alias, "did I not warn you the last time I came to call to strengthen the anti-Apparation magic on the house?" Malfoy gave him a smooth smile, careful not to expose his teeth, though Pettigrew did not see why, as they were perfectly straight and white, as polished as every other aspect of the man. "Well?"

Bellatrix Lestrange snorted. "I'm sure he surely tried, Lucius. But really, did you think him capable of fulfilling your request when you made it?" Lestrange was Malfoy's sister-in-law, and Pettigrew imagined they had an interesting working relationship, as it had just come out that Malfoy had murdered her sister, his wife, months before. Either she was silently plotting revenge (something she was known for) or her stint in the wizard prison Azkaban had made her crazy enough not to care.

Pettigrew froze. "Master wants Travers to do it!" he sputtered. This was not a lie. The Dark Lord had insisted that his most powerful magician would strengthen the wards, eventually, and until then, it was unlikely he would call himself.

"Ah," said Lestrange, the strange sound she made hardly a word. She had scooted around the kitchen and grabbed an olive from Pettigrew's neatly-prepared tray. She sucked it into her mouth with a pop. She smacked her lips together when she had finished chewing and clapped in front of her face. Her eyes were as black as ever, filled with more insanity than usual that night. Pettigrew gripped the counter behind him with his real hand.

"Now Bella," scolded Lucius, "don't scare the rat."

"Hah," said Pettigrew nervously. "Hah-"

"Is that all you can say," said Lestrange slowly, drawing her words out. Pettigrew, who had caught a Muggle movie several days before on the television, found himself instantly reminded of the lead actress's portrayal of an insane woman. She sing-songed, "I think it is!"

Malfoy beckoned Lestrange towards him, wrapping his arm around the woman's waist. He sensually tipped her head with the other hand and gazed into her eyes. "Bella... behave."

Lestrange snapped to attention. She wiggled away from Malfoy and, unblinkingly, wrapped a long-fingered hand around Pettigrew's neck. "My husband is dead."

"I-I-I'm sorry," stammered Pettigrew. She had squeezed his throat just enough to make him uncomfortable, not enough to hurt him.

"He led a raid on a Muggle town," said Lestrange. "That was one of the Dark Lord's final orders. He was a bad man-" she said this proudly "-trying to do his best for Master. And he was killed by a do-gooder."

"B-b-by an Auror?" Pettigrew wanted to know. Now it seemed as if she might actually mean to choke him.

"By one of Dumbledore's little men," Lestrange said airily. "He was killed by my own cousin, the fugitive Black. Had Master not disappeared on us, I think my dear Rodolphus would still be alive."

"Master does always try to protect his most loyal servants!" squeaked Pettigrew. "And what servants are more loyal than those who went to Azkaban for him!"

He had not been careful enough with his words. Although Lestrange was appeased enough to stop pressing so hard against his jugular, Malfoy's eyes had flashed. While Lestrange spent many years in Azkaban with her husband, Malfoy was yet to see the inside of the place.

"Are you calling me traitorous?" whispered Malfoy, his hand resting atop his sister-in-law's in no time. "Or are you trying to tell us something, Wormtail? Have you switched sides? You live among Muggles, but that wouldn't change your loyalties."

"Hah!" That was all Pettigrew could manage. He was quivering in fear, however, and Malfoy called it off. He cleared his throat, and Lestrange dropped her hand as well, averting her eyes.

"The Dark Lord has returned," said Malfoy dramatically.

Pettigrew fell to his knees, kissing the hem of Malfoy's expensive robes just as he would those belonging to the one they served. "You bring me great joy," he breathed. "Thank you, thank you, for delivering this news to me!"

At once, Lestrange kicked Pettigrew in the side, causing one of his ribs to crack sickeningly. "Get up," she ordered, "up, up, up! He is not in physical form, you fool!"

Pettigrew's eyes widened in both pain and surprise. He clutched his remaining arm with his silvery hand. "Does he need my other arm?"

"What he needs," said Malfoy coolly, "is for it to be October. You see, Wormtail, as a result of his recent battle with the Potter boy, Master has found himself suspended in time, and it won't be until Halloween that our reality catches up to his. He has managed to transcend his corporeal form and project his essence on our current reality."

"He's a ghost," snapped Lestrange. "A ghost, a ghost, a ghost! Not acceptable, Wormtail, not acceptable..."

Again Malfoy took Lestrange in his arms. This time, however, when he tilted her chin, he lowered his lips to hers. "Now Bella," he said, still hardly more than a breath away from her when they parted, "you promised you wouldn't accuse."

"And you promised you'd let me have more fun than Rudolphus did," murmured Lestrange. "Ah, ah."

Although he addressed Pettigrew, Malfoy did not break eye contact with Lestrange. "Wormtail. I have to say... even in light of the reappearance of the one we serve... I am not sure everyone is ready for your reappearance. It was fine that you came to the General Assembly when the Dark Lord first disappeared and Dumbledore killed Krum, but I would ignore the tinge of your mark until He calls on you after his return. I must say it is... tiring the rest of us to hear of his fervent search for Potter, when you are one of the few remaining souls who knows why he so seeks the boy."

"So selfish," muttered Lestrange. She finally slipped from Malfoy's grasp to widen her eyes for Pettigrew. "No one likes it that you won't tell... and had Master not returned to demand we leave you be, I would have been the first to torture it out of you. In fact, I might... still."

Lestrange was known for her frequent use of the Cruciatus Curse, a method of torture forbidden by wizards with actually purity and light to their credit. It was said that the incantation was practically her child, for she said it every bit as lovingly as a mother would an infant's name. Pettigrew had been tortured by her before; in fact, she had been the one that had broken him years before and brought him over to this side. He had also been tortured by the Dark Lord for disobedience, yet Lestrange still scared Pettigrew more.

"Bella," Malfoy said again, his tone increasingly more warning. Malfoy, with his sleek blond hair and amazing wealth and tremendous sadism, scared Pettigrew, even though he knew that the Dark Lord despised the man on most occasions. Besides blaming Pettigrew for their master's many downfalls before Harry Potter, many of the Death Eaters hated him for having achieved placement within the master's innermost circle. "We have to play nice with the stupid little man for the mean time."

Pettigrew didn't know who whimpered more-him, over the prospect of what was to come, or Lestrange, over having her fun delayed. "Please..."

The corners of Lestrange's mouths curled into a smirk, as she did love it when they first began to plead. "Not yet," she hissed anyway. "Not yet. Business before pleasure. You've found us nothing useful since you discovered Potter's blood and a few of his effects under the stairs-and even that took you long enough. Four months to yank boards from a crawl space?" She clucked her tongue.

"And we find it hard to believe," continued Malfoy, "that there are no other traces of the boy elsewhere in the house."

"No," said Pettigrew fervently. "Hardly anything at all! They kept him locked up, it's the only explanation!"

Lestrange scoffed. "Dumbledore's prince? The Boy Who Lived? It's madness!"

Malfoy cleared his throat. "She means, Wormtail, that it was hard enough to believe that the one time savior of the wizarding world was raised by Muggles, and even harder to believe that Dumbledore would entrust his care to people that locked him up under the stairs."

Pettigrew couldn't help but think of Malfoy's own son, who certainly had position and status, but had also spent a fair amount of his childhood beaten into a closet. "H-h-he did not like his Muggle relatives!"

"Something you learned as rat, isn't it?" demanded Lestrange. "While some of us lost almost fourteen years of our lives to maintain our loyalties, others would not even face the light of the wizarding world!"

"I-I-I-" stammered Pettigrew, but he had no idea what he was saying. Then he remembered something. "The boy did perform magic here once!" he exclaimed, pointing past the rickety kitchen table to where the Dursleys' had been. "Inadvertent! But perhaps it can be-"

Malfoy snarled at him. "A month ago it would have been great for you to detect that, Wormtail, but as it stands currently, Master believes that the boy's original powers have been lost forever, and that he has since gained new ones." He had drawn his wand, leaving Pettigrew to cower against the kitchen counter.

"H-h-how is that possible?" Pettigrew wanted to know.

Lestrange's eyes flashed. "We should be asking you that!" she hissed, shoving the little man to the floor with one swift movement and yanking him up by the shirt collar with another. She had drawn her own wand, and the tip of it sparked as she traced Pettigrew's jaw. "You are the one who knows why Master so longs to be relieved of the Potter boy's presence!"

Pettigrew whimpered, all too aware of the fact that the other two Death Eaters had probably been sent to torture him, not tell him what had become of the Dark Lord. Lestrange smiled; her eyes began to twinkle at the sounds Pettigrew was making.

"Crucio," she said lazily, but despite her drawl, the word still rolled from her tongue with ease and familiarity. There was a pause.

And Pettigrew began to shriek. His body began to shake first, and soon he broke into convulsions. As his arms and legs flailed, his tongue fell from his mouth and his eyes rolled back into his head as if he were having a seizure. His close proximity to the counter only added to the torment. Lestrange just watched serenely as Pettigrew's body twisted and turned until the back of his head pounded against the counter with every spasm. In the days to come, Pettigrew's Muggle neighbors would whisper about the shrieks and moans that permeated the humid air that night.

"Do you remember the night I broke you?" drawled Lestrange as she let up her wand, running her fingers down it in an admiring fashion, completely ignoring that Pettigrew continued to moan. "I tortured you for three hours, on and off-three hours. The Dark Lord laughed and clapped as I worked, singing praises, but when you began to shriek that you would tell him everything, he asked me to leave. I resented being used like that-not by Master. By you. This time, when I torture you, just blurt it out."

Lestrange jabbed her wand into the flesh near Pettigrew's eye. As he howled, Malfoy carefully wrapped his arms around her from behind, reaching over her head and gripping the tip of her wand.

"Bella, my love, I cannot abide this," said Malfoy, but the twinkle in his grey eyes betrayed him. He had lifted Lestrange's chin for a third time, and the two seemed lost in one another's eyes.

Pettigrew could only snivel from the floor. Whatever show they were putting on, it disturbed him, but it also gave him a moment's rest from her cruel games. He did not take it to catch his breath, however, or to regain his footing. Instead, he just stared at the two Death Eaters above him.

He hated them, and his stomach turned at the thought of what terror they managed individually, let alone together, but the more something frightened Pettigrew, the more something terrified him, the less likely he was to turn his head and ignore it. It would intrigue him to the point of transfixion, and he would remain, appalled, until the horror ended. Such was the case now-and so mesmerized were Lestrange and Malfoy with one another, so mesmerized was Pettigrew by them, that no one noticed a fourth person in the room until he cleared his throat.

"Bellatrix," said the man, stepping through the shadowy kitchen doorway and staring at the Muggle light bulb overhead with disdain, "is Rodolphus's body even cold yet?"

Lestrange did not miss a beat as she spun around in Malfoy's arms, ducking around him to face Severus Snape directly. "I don't know, Severus-weren't you supposed to be seeing about it? Or were you too busy braiding Dumbledore's beard?"

Snape's dark eyes shifted and his large, hooked nose twitched as he stepped passed Lestrange and offered Pettigrew a hand up. The gesture wasn't as friendly as it seemed. As soon as he was back on his feet, Snape clapped his shoulder so hard that he very nearly toppled over again.

"My service to Albus Dumbledore has everything to do with my service to our mutual master," said Snape silkily as he eased around the counter and surveyed Pettigrew's spread of food. "And while some of us spent fourteen years with the dementors, our natural allies, and others like us for company, I spent sixteen years in the service of a mad, righteous fool-and are in his service still. Wormtail, what is all this?"

"R-r-refreshments," stammered Pettigrew, still gripping the counter for support. "P-p-please help yourself!"

"How you manage to say your own name has been a mystery to me for many years, and I remain, as ever, intrigued," said Snape smoothly, going for a cheese cube. As Potions Master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he had used the same voice to insult Pettigrew that he often used to insult students not from his own house, Slytherin, which produced more dark wizards than the other three combined. "Muggle products. How boringly predictable, Wormtail."

Malfoy was studying Snape. "You're here early," he said calmly. They had been friends once, until quite recently in fact, thanks to an unfortunate incident in Snape's classroom with Malfoy's son. "Why?"

"Change of plans," said Snape, now helping himself to a slice of ham. "The Dark Lord is coming here."

"Why?" repeated Malfoy.

Snape arched an eyebrow. "Should I tell him you now question his actions, Lucius?"

Malfoy tried another approach. "Why here?"

"Change of scenery," said Snape coolly. He had poured himself a glass of wine. "He has just transcended a great setback, Lucius. Surely you can gather that he wishes to evaluate the state of things following his absence."

"The one he caused?" Lestrange had inserted herself into the conversation, pointing an accusatory finger at Pettigrew.

"The one Potter caused," corrected Snape. "Really, Bellatrix, it's been fifteen years. When are you going to get over Pettigrew?"

"Really, Severus," Lestrange shot back, "it's been twenty-five years. When are you going to get over Potter?"

Snape often told Lestrange she needed to get over her hatred of Pettigrew, for the day would come where they had to work together and she couldn't just kill him. Just as often, she told him he needed to get over his hatred of the Potter boy's father, for the day would come where he would want to strangle the younger Potter and he couldn't just kill him. Lestrange was too sadistic for Snape's taste. Snape was too smart for Lestrange's.

The two stared calculating at each other.

"It's a General Assembly," said Snape, shifting his focus to Malfoy. "The Dark Lord is going to induct new members tonight." His eyes flashed.

"Oh?" said Malfoy, his eyes flashing just the same. Lestrange, her attention on Snape, had missed the second part of the exchange.

"I just thought you would be interested," said Snape silkily, "when rumor has it that the only thing to prevent Draco from receiving the Mark in the past few weeks is the master's absence."

"Draco is at home this evening, studying." Malfoy was lying, and Snape knew this. "Since he was expelled from Hogwarts, per your directive, he has had to become twice as diligent in his schoolwork."

Snape just smiled. "Your son has always been a ready mind," he said. "What was he, thirteen, when you taught him to Apparate illegally?"

"Twelve when I taught him to Apparate," said Malfoy evenly. "Thirteen when I taught him to Apparate from the Manor."

"And he still hadn't managed to produce a properly chilled Swelling Solution," Snape challenged. He shook his head sadly, daring Malfoy to keep his temper in check.

"You're supposed to be his godfather," said Lestrange, her eyes dancing at the prospect of conflict. Pettigrew, on the other hand, had his eyes squeezed firmly shut.

"As your cousin Sirius was supposed to be Harry Potter's," said Snape. "Until recently Lucius believed him to have betrayed the boy's parents as one of our number." Under his breath, the Potions Master would add, "Fool."

Had the crack of another wizard Apparating not resonated through the kitchen, it was likely Malfoy would have cursed Snape. Even when the two had been friends, and they had been for a number of years, they had often fought. Snape was the more level-headed of the two, and he was also the better wizard. Malfoy had money, and as a result, he had never learned to properly carry himself when things did not go his way.

This Death Eater had obviously come for the General Assembly. He donned the standard black robes and already wore his mask. He turned his head in the direction of the others before rolling down his sleeve. The Mark on his arm, something they all bore, had clearly cooled and faded now that he was where he was meant to be. The turn of his head was enough to prompt Snape, Malfoy and Lestrange to done their own masks before he could truly glimpse at them.

Pettigrew wasn't fortunate enough to have his on him, and he went scampering up the stairs to his room to change. In the process, he nearly splinched one Apparating Death Eater and tripped over two on the way up.

They came in groups, one after another, two or three arriving in any given minute. Pettigrew, bumbling down the stairs just as he had up them, frantically tried to put out more hors d'oeuvres, but Snape caught him by the shirttails and cleared what he had out already with a tricky wandless charm. In no time at all, the house teemed with Death Eaters, some daring to take off their masks and make small talk while waiting for the Dark Lord, others more sensibly hanging to the shadows.

Then came others, others that did not yet bear the Dark Mark. Some Apparated, others tumbled from the fireplace, having taken the Floo. A pug-faced girl. An olive-skinned boy. Twins with wide, dark eyes. There were about a dozen of them, most of them teenagers, all of them terrified. The Mark prickled on the arms of the others, signaling the Dark Lord's approach. Two more Apparated in.

The first was tall, and thin, with dark hair and dark eyes. He wore an expression of complete indifference. The second was an average height and of an average build, and his dark grey eyes and pale blond hair were reflections of his father's. In stark contrast with his black robes were the white bandages that extended from above his knee to his foot. He walked with the aid of a cane, but he still wore a smirk as he took his place with the others. This was Malfoy's son Draco.

It was typical, actually, that these two were not scared. There were always a few, a fraction of the new recruits brought in that did not shake and tremble, shriek as their arms were imprinted with the Mark, those that did not anger the Dark Lord enough to use the Cruciatus Curse. Unlike his son, Lucius had not been one to stand unaffected. Pettigrew had kicked and screamed more than anyone else in the room had. Snape, on the other hand, had taken his indifferently, and Lestrange had closed her eyes as if to savor the moment.

By half past ten, more than an hour after the first Death Eater had Apparated, the room had grown quite quiet. One of the new recruits, the second of two girls to arrive, had broken down into tears and a masked Death Eater had strode across the room to strike her across the face. When she had cried out, he had snapped back her left arm, the crack of the bone audible over her pleas to her father. He had thrown her to the floor and hissed, "It'll be twice as bad when you receive the Mark-and Master won't be half as kind as I."

The incident had had a sobering effect on the houseful of Death Eaters. When the lower rooms chilled, and a breeze blew through the house, it wasn't too soon. As the house rattled around its occupants, another wizard arrived.

This man was Geoffrey Travers, an extremely powerful magician that the Dark Lord seemed to trust implicitly. This is why it was not surprising to his other followers that Travers had made such a grand entrance, especially not when the mist about him did not clear. It swirled and sparked and changed into a massive ball of blinding light, from which the hazy image of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named emerged.

The Dark Lord was far wispier than the vaguest of ghosts, his form blood red rather than pearly white, and parts of his body would fade in and out. He wandered a circle around Travers, who had Apparated to the very center of the living room and already cleared most of the Death Eaters from the floor. Voldemort's footfalls-or perhaps lack thereof, as he could scarcely do more than float-cleared it further. He drew his wand (which appeared only slightly more solid than his body), and in a low, angry whisper, demanded, "Crucio Merendé."

Everyone else in the room, save for Travers, dropped to the ground in spasms at once. As Voldemort watched his followers writhe on the ground in pain, he found himself debating for a moment whether he valued the efficiency of that spell, which tortured them all at once but to a lesser extent, to the pleasure of the singular Cruciatus Curse, which tortured just one fully. He reasoned that he would have to spend time later punishing each Death Eater, as the hour grew late and he had much to achieve.

Before even half his supporters had managed to pick themselves off the floor, the Dark Lord had set his ghastly face to snarl. The ones that had stumbled to their feet were quick to notice that their master's arms were folded across his chest; it was Travers that still extended the curse with his wand. Voldemort's eyes flashed, causing him to fade out entirely for a moment.

"Yes, you have it," he snapped. "Thanks to the Potter boy, I've been reduced to a shadow of my usual splendor, forced to rely on a mere magician to punish the insolent fools I will be forced to rely on until Samhain!"

Now most of the Death Eaters had risen to their feet, the exception being young Malfoy, who had taken a seat calmly on a tattered old sofa, his cane resting against his good knee with his hands rested across it. The Dark Lord took less than a second to hone in on this unusual display, and many of the Death Eaters were forced to mask their sudden intake of breath as coughs or sneezes. They were all thinking the same thing: He's lost it, his father's blood teachings have broken him, how could he not know that standing was expected?

But rather than channel his magic again through Travers to torture Draco, Voldemort sent his magician to enthusiastically pump the boy's hand. "Draco," he said, his lips curling upwards in a disturbing smile. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I have come for the Mark," said Draco composedly. "I wish for your initiation to the cause, Master."

"Finally!" chortled Voldemort. "Finally. I shan't wait-who knows how long I have before your insufferable father changes his mind?" His ghostly form swiveled in midair, glaring at once at the masked figure that was almost certainly Lucius. "It is just my luck that he would come around when I am without the ability to mark you myself."

Travers drew a canvas bag from beneath his plain robes as the Dark Lord spoke. He was not dressed like the other Death Eaters, but this was not unusual. His role in Voldemort's circle had always been peculiar, however, so no one thought anything of it as he drew a heavy, glowing stone from the bag and allowed the snake Nagini to twist around his left forearm. Nagini was suddenly the size of a coral snake not a boa, and beneath her coils, Travers's arm was strangely devoid of his master's telling mark. He held his arms out to Voldemort, who reached one translucent arm through him. Travers's head snapped back for a brief moment, but he recovered.

The Dark Lord was addressing the fourteen who would soon join his ranks. "I will feel better explicating my plans after you have formally entered into my service," he said. He lifted his arms. "Draco? Will you begin?"

"Sure," drawled the young Malfoy, causing more gasps to be covered with hiccoughs and the like. Voldemort just chuckled.

"Take the stone," he urged, and the rock in question began to smoke immediately upon being dropped by Travers into Draco's waiting hands. He allowed the young man's hands to burn and blister to bleeding while he addressed his other followers. "You will come to envy this one, no doubt."

Draco's hands were black beyond recognition when Travers removed the stone from them, but he maintained eye contact with the Dark Lord and did not seem to be affected by the pain. When two wands, one wispy and one real, were lowered to his exposed forearm and seared his flesh, he just arched his brows as if impressed by the scope of the magic.

The process used to induct Draco to the Death Eaters was repeated on the tall boy with the dark hair that had Apparated to four Privet Drive at the same time. He did not receive the praise Malfoy did, but he did not earn the Dark Lord's scorn either. Upon receiving his own Mark, he dropped to his knees and bowed low. "Master."

The pug-faced girl was next. She was trembling in anticipation, her small, piggish eyes darting furtively in Draco's direction, as if she could channel his composure while receiving her own Mark. This girl was Pansy Parkinson, one of his housemates at school. Unlike the two boys before her, she squeezed her eyes shut while Voldemort's stone scarred her flesh, but the Dark Lord chose to overlook her nerves as she dropped to her knees and ducked her head. "Master."

They were the only three not to suffer the Cruciatus Curse as part of their induction. Every new member after Pansy seemed to anger Voldemort for whatever reason, and while he merely tormented the boy whose induction came next for a few seconds, the ninth to be inducted shrieked and howled below his wand for a good five minutes. When it was the other girl's turn to take the stone, she could not even manage a brave face as the stone was dropped into her hand.

What happened then was peculiar. Immediately, it began to smoke, more than it had all night. The girl let out a shriek not of this world as it consumed her. Without much further ado, she had disappeared, the stone dropping to the ground. Travers retrieved it. A few heads cocked beneath masks, but no one dared breathe a word, even though many were confused. Voldemort had moved on, meaning they were expected to as well.

There were four wizards to go. What had happened to the girl was something that happened occasionally, though not often. The stone the Dark Lord possessed had once laid at the foundation of the great Salazar Slytherin's childhood home, and it had been one the famed founder of Hogwarts had taken with him when the house was destroyed. After his death, it had passed from one Dark wizard to another, forced into perverse activity such as this. Voldemort's enchantments to the rock included the tremendous heat it gave off, as well as its power to dissolve anyone he found unworthy.

The eleventh in line did well for himself, though he still endured the Cruciatus Curse. This wizard was Joseph Marks. He had long been in the service of Voldemort, his father of course longer, but he had only recently been offered the Mark by his master. The twelfth and thirteenth were the twins, who each cringed more for his brother's suffering than his own. The final inductee kept having twitching fits, for which he was tortured by three additional curses, and left to spasm when the Dark Lord turned his back to the newest members of his ever-growing circle of Dark wizards. Voldemort, of course, ignored this.

"Yes," he breathed, his arms fading in and out as he raised them, "yes-it is hard for you to see me like this, it is equally hard for me to address you as I am currently. A mere shadow of my greatness, that is all I am before you tonight..."

He trailed off, and one nearby Death Eater seized the opportunity, dropping to his knees and kissing the wispy swirls that indicated the hem of Voldemort's robes. This man's daughter had been dissolved by the Stone of Slytherin, and perhaps he was trying to redeem himself in his master's eyes when he opened his mouth. He had no such luck.

"Master, Master-my lord! Surely you have not been taken from us again by the Dread Child! Whatever it will take to restore you, my lord, whatever means necessary, I for one, am willing to exploit them if only you will be whole again, Master!" the Death Eater begged. "I beseech you to consider my service!"

When will they learn not to beseech me?

Voldemort looked bored as Travers's arm rose behind him to cast the Killing Curse. Every bit as much as he wanted followers that would obey him blindly, he wanted those clever enough to terrorize within his constraints and smart enough to keep their mouths shut, as a rule. Maybe I'm asking too much, the Dark Wizard thought as he held the Death Eaters under the Cruciatus Curse. The corners of his mouth turned upwards.

"Fools," hissed Voldemort, finally lowering his wand. "I was trying to remain humble, but it seems as though the words I spoke brought delusions of usefulness to heed. I need none of you, remember that. I have allowed you to be here tonight out of the blackness of my heart only. Try to avoid angering me-otherwise I cannot allow you to bow before me once I rule as pureblood king.

"Yes, yes, I intend to someday address you from that vantage, but tonight is not the time. I do not have long with you, I may only linger a few minutes more, for I have transcended time and body to be here as I am. Just a few short weeks ago, as I'm sure you are aware, we were prepared to take Hogwarts School, to overpower Dumbledore and crush his ill-conceived resistance movement, to slay the Potter boy and drain his blood.

"But things did not go as planned." Voldemort's laugh was high, false, and cold above all. "I still cannot decide if it was to my delight or my horror to learn Potter was not yet a part of the headmaster's Order. He fights well, but not with any idea what for, and not nearly well enough-the rumors you have heard are true-I killed the Potter boy at long last."

The Dark Lord's eyes flashed so intensely he seemed solid for a moment.

"I could feel my reign beginning. My magic pulsed within me, his blood was on my hands-but the manipulation of time I used to kill Potter worked against me. The boy, the Dread Child, lives still. And I, the greatest wizard of any time, have disappeared-suspended, caught in limbo between realities." It irritated Voldemort to hear a strangled sob coming from the direction of the kitchen: Wormtail. He clucked his tongue impatiently, for he did not have time to discipline the idiotic rat. "Now, now, there is no cause for alarm. I only remain caught in the balance until Halloween, and I can promise you the most curious events on All Hallows Eve.

"Unfortunately, time is as long as it is short-the moon must wane and wax many times before I return, and with each moon cycle, communication between the realms will become more difficult. There will be sacrifices to be made the next few months-difficult ones, as I'm sure Bella Lestrange could tell you. To Rudolphus."

It was a testament to how depraved the Lestranges were, given that Rudolphus's passing had brought pause to the Dark Lord himself.

"I will ask you to stay the moons," said Voldemort. "I will ask that you wait for my return. The Ministry is not a threat anymore, not without Bom. Any army Dumbledore assembles can be fought. And yet you should prepare for the worst, for we will sustain many casualties. Your incentive to push forward is my promise of what is to come: a pureblood kingdom, where I rule and my court is those who served faithfully to put me in power.

"It is time that we restore society to what it was, only better. Remember the teaching of our fathers, the mythic battles fought between the Magicians and the Muggles. Recall the Forgotten Gates, consider the source of the magic that courses through your veins. Perhaps some of you doubt that if just one pureblood family could be eliminated entirely, then all the others could stand to triumph in unimaginable power."

Suddenly the Dark Lord did not sound so silky. He had settled into a smooth rhythm, saying each word of his little speech with loving caress. His eyes flashed just as much as they had earlier with the mention of Harry Potter. "For those of you growing irritated with my preoccupation with the Potter boy-Avada Kedavra."

The spell he worked through Travers was a complex version of the Killing Curse that dropped at least a half dozen Death Eaters outright. A second curse, Cruciatus again, tortured several others-including Lucius Malfoy and the otherwise praised "Bella" Lestrange-into quivering heaps. Granted, these two seemed to recover sooner than others, but it pleased Voldemort to see how disconcerted some of his other followers looked through their masks.

"Each and every one of you is to study and become familiar with the origin of our powers. Each and every one of you is to appreciate the significance of the Dread Child's demise to my plans for a pureblood kingdom. Each and every one of you is to seek out the boy's Muggleborn whore, Hermione Granger, and see that she does not live to see Samhain. Overseeing you will be the most trusted, most loyal of your ranks-examples to you all."

It came as no surprise to anyone that Lestrange was put in command. (Even if she had until recently despised knowing why her Master sought the Potter boy, she had still followed every directive ever given to her exactly.) Malfoy was assigned several tasks, which also was not a surprise, for the pale-haired wizard was every bit as effective as he was irritating. Travers, the magician, could be called on as well, though the Dark Lord himself did not recommend it. It was only his last appointment, Lestrange's second-in-command, which seemed out of place.

Not that the wizard in question wasn't to be trusted, for he had a habit of poisoning anyone that dared question his loyalties.

"Lestrange, Malfoy, Travers, and Snape," concluded Voldemort. "My loyal servants, listen to them as you would me, as from now on I may only be able to communicate with them-and someone do something about these bodies."

And so the Dark Lord parted. The air crackled around him before there was a great burst of light, consuming not only him, but Travers and Nagini as well. Outside the house, the temperature dropped so severely that the next morning reports of light snow near Privet Drive would make the Muggle news and be ignored by the Daily Prophet. And there wasn't any arguing, and so the Death Eaters parted as well.

As the others Disapparated from four Privet Drive, one of the masked figures elbowed his way through the group waiting to use the Floo. He had hovered in the kitchen doorway throughout Voldemort's visit, remaining perfectly still, even when his role as lieutenant had been announced. His movement across the living room was equally calculated. From each pocket he withdrew a vial of potion, and he slipped one into the folds of Draco's robes as he passed. The second vial went to the tall boy.

"For your hands," muttered Snape. "Shrieking shack, half an hour." Without breaking his stride, he Disapparated, the young wizards careful not to exchange even a glance before following suit.

* * *

HARRY POTTER AND THE EAGLE'S SAPPHIRE (full summary)

Failing marks are the least of Harry's worries after arriving at Hogwarts for his sixth year. Still recovering from his last confrontation with the Dark Lord Voldemort, he can scarcely handle the intensive defense training he is thrown into just hours after stepping off the Hogwarts Express. Hermione's unwillingness to deal with the events of the year before has her and Harry's relationship at a standstill while another relationship progresses much too quickly. Working with Draco proves more challenging than working against him, and there's a third-year causing more trouble than even the Weasley twins ever managed. The new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor just wants to be everyone's friend, and members of one Hogwarts house seem to draw Harry into uneasy alliance after uneasy alliance. Outside of the castle, Voldemort's attacks on Muggle towns grow bolder with each passing day, to the point that the corrupt wizarding government cannot maintain even the slightest sense of order.

Yet the war brewing between Dark and Light is nothing compared to the war Harry is waging within. By day, Harry struggles to understand the blood burden he bears. By night, he dreams of the life he was meant to have. It is torment unlike the Boy-Who-Lived has ever known, and it is torment he's ill-prepared to handle. He can't forget about everything, no matter how much he wants to.

Because while the fate of the wizarding world might lie in the usual hands, its destruction lies in those long-forgotten.

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