Sorcerer's Creed
Chapter 2
Written by: Lord Raine
Disclaimer: In Soviet Russia, fic doesn't own you, comrade.
===========
The shadows of two men, one garbed in dusty brown robes and the other a set of deep red, deftly slipped between the trees. It was an ancient forest in the closing chapters of of autumn, untouched by the march of modern man, and the two interlopers slipped smoothly between the shadows of the giants around them, wary and quiet.
ôAre you certain zat he came here? Of all ze places he could æave run?ö
The man in the crimson cloak glanced at his companion, and then back at their surroundings. His eyes were distant and unfocused, as though he was looking at something beyond what was there, but his steps were still true, and he did not stumble or falter.
ôYes. He was here. But. . . I do not see him leaving. Strange.ö
The man in brown robes snorted softly.
ôHe æaze no reason to linger. Why stay?ö
The crimson man knelt and spread his fingers wide over the decaying loam of the forest floor.
ôThatÆs just it. I do not believe he did.ö
ôDeception, then? Did he cover ze tracks he left behind?ö
The crimson-robed man softly brushed some freshly fallen leaves away. He smiled, and held up what he had found. It was a feather, in the same sense that a kingÆs chalice was a cup. Redder than the richest rubies and with a delicate lattice that would make gold itself seem dim by comparison, it seemed to shine faintly in the twilight with itÆs own luminescence, and was warm to the touch. The man twirled it slightly between thumb and forefinger, and a faint sound was heard on the breeze, a distant echo of something he could not quite identify that that stirred his heart and warmed his bones.
ôMore like an unexpected encounter, I would say. It seems as though Albus had planned even for this eventuality.ö
ôWe must find them. Before zey are found themselves. Dumbledore said his skills were impeccable, but zere is only so much one man can do. If zey catch him. . . it iz unacceptable.ö
ôI agree. Time is of the essence. Let us depart from this place.ö
A pair of cracks sounded through the forest, and the men were gone.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
A bedraggled, filthy, half-naked man walked down the cobbled street of GodricÆs Hollow, a magnificent glowing bird perched on his shoulder. Snow fell softly through the night air, but neither man nor bird seemed to notice. The man had suffered through the very teeth of the North Sea, and didnÆt even feel cold. The bird, by contrast, was untouched by the weather, the flakes of snow evaporating before they ever reached itÆs plumage.
They would have made a truly fantastic sight, had any been present to see it.
None were.
GodricÆs Hollow had once been a proud place, a village of secrets and shadows. Many magical families of old blood and older magic had called it home, living alongside one another and their nonmagical brethren. The Dumbledores and the Bagshots. The Abbotts and the Wrights. The Potters and the Peverells. It had been a place a legendary brother had once called home. It had been a place where an infant with a destiny had bested a wicked Lord of Magic. It had been there when crowns had been forged and castles built, it itself founded upon far older ruins, and it had weathered war and darkness in equal measure.
No more.
The lights in the houses were dark. The few streetlights that still worked were dim and choked with the dust and grim of the outdoors, casting dirty pools of wan light. The sidewalks, the road, the backpaths. All of it was unbroken white. Not a footprint in sight, not a single wheel track or drag mark. Many windows were broken. The shops were boarded up. The pub was wrecked, evidence of a vicious struggle having taken place. Sharp eyes could still see the splatters of damage caused by spellfire. Far fewer wizards, though, would have recognized the tiny, worn craters of bullet impacts scattered across the face and sidewalk, all originating from outside the building.
The man approached the village square, bare feet padding silently through the layer of snow. There, in the very center of GodricÆs Hollow, was an obelisk. On it was carved the names of the people from this village who had died in the first and second world wars. As he walked closer, the obelisk shimmered, and faded away. In itÆs place was another, larger monument. It was a statue of a family; a man, woman, and infant child. The man and woman were sitting down and looking at the baby, who was cradled in his motherÆs arms. Snow had covered the upper parts of the monument, spreading a blanket across their laps, but even the paintbrush of oncoming winter was not enough to hide the damage. Half of the fatherÆs face was missing, shorn off with a clean edge that was wholly unnatural, and the motherÆs chest had been mutilated by an impact, shattering her bosom and nearly shearing one of her arms off. Only the child had escaped relatively unscathed, itÆs cherubic face burbling happily up at itÆs disfigured parents.
At the feet of the statues was what was left of an inscription. Small parts of it were still partially legible, but most of it was gone, torn out of the base in great chunks and pieces.
The man looked at the damaged inscription and narrowed his eyes, concentrating. Faintly glowing splotches on the bare stone became visible, splatters that rain had washed away years ago but that his eyes could still see.
Blood.
People had fought here. People had died here.
The man bowed his head and closed his eyes. The phoenix on his shoulder let out a soft cry, a quiet dirge to the forgotten who had stood and fallen in that place. The snow drifted down, and the town was quiet as a grave.
He turned, and started walking down one of the branching paths away from the square. Scattered here and there along the way was more damage, more ruin. More evidence of a battle that had been lost before it had ever even begun. He could see the splatters of blood and the harried footprints beneath the snow, and could almost hear the screams and shouts echoing in the silence of the night. A woman, indistinct and wraithlike, ran out of the middle distance, stumbling on her skirts, mouth open in a silent scream. Something struck her a blow from behind and she fell, her back a ruin. Another wraith calmly walked into view, itÆs face masked. The man watched with quiet interest as the second wraith raised an assault rifle and emptied it into the back of the womanÆs head in a silent barrage, not stopping until the clip had run empty. Strangely enough, the phoenix had also turned to watch, and itÆs dark eyes seemed sorrowful.
The man took a right into the residential area, and walked down the sidewalk to the side of the road. His head was bowed, and one hand was gripping the top of the dividing brick wall as he went, following it like a guiding rail. All around him, he saw death. Wraiths of witches, wizards, and muggles alike, running away from unseen attackers. The few brave souls that stood to fight were cut down, riddled with bullets or blasted to pieces with spellfire, all in absolute silence. Menacing shapes flitted through the far alleys and between the trees behind the houses, and with quiet detachment the man realized that the victims were being herded towards the village square.
The brick wall transitioned to stone as he walked into the oldest part of the village, and the wraith of a child ran past him, arms outstretched and face bloody.
Suddenly, he stopped. Without looking, he felt it, carved so faintly into the stone that if you were looking at it, you would have never noticed it. Only touch gave it away.
He rubbed a thumb over it gently. He knew that shape. It was the same shape that had been carved by his own fingers a thousand times across his cell, and a thousandfold more in his dreams. It was an upward pointing arrow, like a compass or a pair of calipers, and beneath, an embellished curve closing up the opening. It was a symbol of defiance and rebellion against a quiet tyranny. A symbol of those who sought the truth, and died to protect those who were ignorant of it.
The silence was so intense that he could actually hear the gentle hush of the snow falling. Slowly, he turned his head, and looked.
He was standing in front of a home, too large to be called a house but too small to be considered a mansion or estate. The stone of itÆs walls was old, as old as any he had seen in the village. Half of the house looked whole and intact, though like all the others it was dark and and fallen into disrepair. The other half, however, was an abject ruin. The walls had buckled outwards, nearly causing a collapse, and the roof near the second chimney had been blown completely off. The front door was a dozen yards from where it was supposed to be, prone and forlorn in the front lawn, and every single window was gone, burst outwards by some intense force.
It was clear, even to an untrained observer, that some sort of explosion had taken place on the second floor, and had it been any larger, it would have likely brought the entire building down.
All along the wall was graffiti, markers of paint and magic that had faded to near-oblivion over the years. They were still discernible as messages of encouragement, notes of thanks, words of cheer and apology and promise. Scattered along the foot of the wall were dozens of dull laminated cones and tarnished glass vases filled with dried and brittle sticks, all that remained of the bouquets that were left by mourners and well-wishers.
A second inscription, this one a gold plaque, was embedded into the wall at elbow-height. Like the first, it had been rendered illegible, something having scorched it black and melted the letters into slag.
The man didnÆt need the plaque. He knew this place. He had seen this in dreams, too. Dreams of fire and green light, of flying motorcycles and high, cruel laughter.
Stepping over the remains of long-dead flowers and broken glass containers, the man reached out his hand towards the iron gate, but stopped, sensing the enchantments that had been set upon it. Carefully feeling the slow swirl and turgid current of the fading magic, he plucked at it delicately with his fingers, and felt more than heard the protections fall.
With a push, the gate swung inward with a faint creak, and the man walked down the path to the front door.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
ôHow dangerous do you think he iz going to be?ö
ôOur hypothesis about what he might have experienced in Azkaban was confirmed during the escape. You saw how he fought. How he moved. He jumped without any hesitation whatsoever. It is likely that we are dealing with the equivalent of a Grandmaster. A magic-capable Grandmaster. Depending on how much of his time he spent unconscious or in an altered state of mind, he may even have more experience than I do.ö
ôMerde.ö
ôIndeed. All the more reason to recover him before he is found. He is an asset that cannot be allowed to be taken by the enemy.ö
The brown robed man nodded, slid a mask over his face, and pulled up his hood. The other man did likewise.
ôLetÆs do æzis, then.ö
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
The ragged man stepped through the doorframe, and made his way into the house. Dirt and leaves were scattered all through the entryway, and piles of snow had gathered beneath each of the broken windows. Faded and scarred paintings covered the walls, once lifelike and intelligent, now still and dead, the magic of the house having long-since leeched away. Picking his way through upturned and broken furniture, he could see the scars of the battle that had taken place. Scorch marks, seared carpet, melted stone, shattered hardwood. Powerful magic had occurred here, for he knew that it had been worked long before that which he had seen outside, and yet the remnants still burned brighter underneath his eyes.
He ignored it. He walked up to the fireplace in the sitting room and examined it. An enormous affair large enough for a grown man to stand upright in it, it was crafted from solid stone. A coat of arms stood proudly over the mantle, a symbol of the family that had once dwelled here. Swords crossed behind a shield emblazoned with a massive æPÆ, supported by twin lions roaring. It was framed by a pair of carved trees, their branches whorling and intertwining together, and the latin motto that crowned it was illegible, a stray spell the most likely culprit.
To look at the insignia, even closely, one would not have seen it. But if one was expecting it, it was not that hard to find. Nestled in the complex weavings of the gothic latticework of the trees above the æPÆ, there was a symbol that could be discerned.
The man looked at it harder, concentrating, and the symbol he knew was there grew bright, even as the rest of the coat of arms faded away.
Symbols within symbols. Secrets within secrets.
He reached out with his hand, and pushed on the insignia in that exact spot. There was a soft click, and the sound of stone against stone.
With the soft flapping of wings, the phoenix left his shoulders and flew over to perch on a tarnished hatstand in the corner. The man looked at his companion for a moment before nodding, and turning back.
Stepping into the cold, dusty fireplace, he placed his hand on the back wall and pushed. It swung smoothly open on silent hinges. Hunching slightly, he stepped on through into the darkness beyond.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
A tall man with cloth stretched across the lower portion of his face squinted through the scope of his semi-automatic anti-personnel rifle. Through it, he saw a ragged form disappear into a distant house on the far side of an abandoned village. They had tracked the fugitive to the Somerset county of West Country after receiving a tip from local English surveillance about an anomaly, and had quickly dispatched a team to retrieve
ôWeÆve located the package. I repeat, we have located the package.ö
The radio crackled to life, the voice on the other end commanding and harsh. The masked soldier held his hand to his ear for a moment, then nodded.
ôUnderstood. WeÆll bring it in.ö
He held up his left hand and made a circle in the air. The three dozen soldiers behind him loaded their guns. One of them pulled out a wand and began muttering, pointing it at the earth, erecting an Anti-Apparition field.
They spread out in a loose fan and began walking down the hill towards the village.
Unseen by them, two disillusioned figures followed from the trees.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
You guys know the drill. Read and review, comments, questions, and criticism welcome.
A.N.//
I wrote this entire chapter listening to a loop of the AssassinÆs Creed Revelations Theme Song, with lyrics. So if youÆd like an appropriate soundtrack to listen to while reading, you know where to go.
Also, we donÆt actually know æwhereÆ in West Country GodricÆs Hollow is located, but a lot of wizarding homes we know about are or were in Devon (Diggory, Fawcett, Lovegood, Weasley, Hagrid), so I deliberately chose another county to try and indicate that the Hollow is far away from most other settlements.
Chapter 2
Written by: Lord Raine
Disclaimer: In Soviet Russia, fic doesn't own you, comrade.
===========
The shadows of two men, one garbed in dusty brown robes and the other a set of deep red, deftly slipped between the trees. It was an ancient forest in the closing chapters of of autumn, untouched by the march of modern man, and the two interlopers slipped smoothly between the shadows of the giants around them, wary and quiet.
ôAre you certain zat he came here? Of all ze places he could æave run?ö
The man in the crimson cloak glanced at his companion, and then back at their surroundings. His eyes were distant and unfocused, as though he was looking at something beyond what was there, but his steps were still true, and he did not stumble or falter.
ôYes. He was here. But. . . I do not see him leaving. Strange.ö
The man in brown robes snorted softly.
ôHe æaze no reason to linger. Why stay?ö
The crimson man knelt and spread his fingers wide over the decaying loam of the forest floor.
ôThatÆs just it. I do not believe he did.ö
ôDeception, then? Did he cover ze tracks he left behind?ö
The crimson-robed man softly brushed some freshly fallen leaves away. He smiled, and held up what he had found. It was a feather, in the same sense that a kingÆs chalice was a cup. Redder than the richest rubies and with a delicate lattice that would make gold itself seem dim by comparison, it seemed to shine faintly in the twilight with itÆs own luminescence, and was warm to the touch. The man twirled it slightly between thumb and forefinger, and a faint sound was heard on the breeze, a distant echo of something he could not quite identify that that stirred his heart and warmed his bones.
ôMore like an unexpected encounter, I would say. It seems as though Albus had planned even for this eventuality.ö
ôWe must find them. Before zey are found themselves. Dumbledore said his skills were impeccable, but zere is only so much one man can do. If zey catch him. . . it iz unacceptable.ö
ôI agree. Time is of the essence. Let us depart from this place.ö
A pair of cracks sounded through the forest, and the men were gone.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
A bedraggled, filthy, half-naked man walked down the cobbled street of GodricÆs Hollow, a magnificent glowing bird perched on his shoulder. Snow fell softly through the night air, but neither man nor bird seemed to notice. The man had suffered through the very teeth of the North Sea, and didnÆt even feel cold. The bird, by contrast, was untouched by the weather, the flakes of snow evaporating before they ever reached itÆs plumage.
They would have made a truly fantastic sight, had any been present to see it.
None were.
GodricÆs Hollow had once been a proud place, a village of secrets and shadows. Many magical families of old blood and older magic had called it home, living alongside one another and their nonmagical brethren. The Dumbledores and the Bagshots. The Abbotts and the Wrights. The Potters and the Peverells. It had been a place a legendary brother had once called home. It had been a place where an infant with a destiny had bested a wicked Lord of Magic. It had been there when crowns had been forged and castles built, it itself founded upon far older ruins, and it had weathered war and darkness in equal measure.
No more.
The lights in the houses were dark. The few streetlights that still worked were dim and choked with the dust and grim of the outdoors, casting dirty pools of wan light. The sidewalks, the road, the backpaths. All of it was unbroken white. Not a footprint in sight, not a single wheel track or drag mark. Many windows were broken. The shops were boarded up. The pub was wrecked, evidence of a vicious struggle having taken place. Sharp eyes could still see the splatters of damage caused by spellfire. Far fewer wizards, though, would have recognized the tiny, worn craters of bullet impacts scattered across the face and sidewalk, all originating from outside the building.
The man approached the village square, bare feet padding silently through the layer of snow. There, in the very center of GodricÆs Hollow, was an obelisk. On it was carved the names of the people from this village who had died in the first and second world wars. As he walked closer, the obelisk shimmered, and faded away. In itÆs place was another, larger monument. It was a statue of a family; a man, woman, and infant child. The man and woman were sitting down and looking at the baby, who was cradled in his motherÆs arms. Snow had covered the upper parts of the monument, spreading a blanket across their laps, but even the paintbrush of oncoming winter was not enough to hide the damage. Half of the fatherÆs face was missing, shorn off with a clean edge that was wholly unnatural, and the motherÆs chest had been mutilated by an impact, shattering her bosom and nearly shearing one of her arms off. Only the child had escaped relatively unscathed, itÆs cherubic face burbling happily up at itÆs disfigured parents.
At the feet of the statues was what was left of an inscription. Small parts of it were still partially legible, but most of it was gone, torn out of the base in great chunks and pieces.
The man looked at the damaged inscription and narrowed his eyes, concentrating. Faintly glowing splotches on the bare stone became visible, splatters that rain had washed away years ago but that his eyes could still see.
Blood.
People had fought here. People had died here.
The man bowed his head and closed his eyes. The phoenix on his shoulder let out a soft cry, a quiet dirge to the forgotten who had stood and fallen in that place. The snow drifted down, and the town was quiet as a grave.
He turned, and started walking down one of the branching paths away from the square. Scattered here and there along the way was more damage, more ruin. More evidence of a battle that had been lost before it had ever even begun. He could see the splatters of blood and the harried footprints beneath the snow, and could almost hear the screams and shouts echoing in the silence of the night. A woman, indistinct and wraithlike, ran out of the middle distance, stumbling on her skirts, mouth open in a silent scream. Something struck her a blow from behind and she fell, her back a ruin. Another wraith calmly walked into view, itÆs face masked. The man watched with quiet interest as the second wraith raised an assault rifle and emptied it into the back of the womanÆs head in a silent barrage, not stopping until the clip had run empty. Strangely enough, the phoenix had also turned to watch, and itÆs dark eyes seemed sorrowful.
The man took a right into the residential area, and walked down the sidewalk to the side of the road. His head was bowed, and one hand was gripping the top of the dividing brick wall as he went, following it like a guiding rail. All around him, he saw death. Wraiths of witches, wizards, and muggles alike, running away from unseen attackers. The few brave souls that stood to fight were cut down, riddled with bullets or blasted to pieces with spellfire, all in absolute silence. Menacing shapes flitted through the far alleys and between the trees behind the houses, and with quiet detachment the man realized that the victims were being herded towards the village square.
The brick wall transitioned to stone as he walked into the oldest part of the village, and the wraith of a child ran past him, arms outstretched and face bloody.
Suddenly, he stopped. Without looking, he felt it, carved so faintly into the stone that if you were looking at it, you would have never noticed it. Only touch gave it away.
He rubbed a thumb over it gently. He knew that shape. It was the same shape that had been carved by his own fingers a thousand times across his cell, and a thousandfold more in his dreams. It was an upward pointing arrow, like a compass or a pair of calipers, and beneath, an embellished curve closing up the opening. It was a symbol of defiance and rebellion against a quiet tyranny. A symbol of those who sought the truth, and died to protect those who were ignorant of it.
The silence was so intense that he could actually hear the gentle hush of the snow falling. Slowly, he turned his head, and looked.
He was standing in front of a home, too large to be called a house but too small to be considered a mansion or estate. The stone of itÆs walls was old, as old as any he had seen in the village. Half of the house looked whole and intact, though like all the others it was dark and and fallen into disrepair. The other half, however, was an abject ruin. The walls had buckled outwards, nearly causing a collapse, and the roof near the second chimney had been blown completely off. The front door was a dozen yards from where it was supposed to be, prone and forlorn in the front lawn, and every single window was gone, burst outwards by some intense force.
It was clear, even to an untrained observer, that some sort of explosion had taken place on the second floor, and had it been any larger, it would have likely brought the entire building down.
All along the wall was graffiti, markers of paint and magic that had faded to near-oblivion over the years. They were still discernible as messages of encouragement, notes of thanks, words of cheer and apology and promise. Scattered along the foot of the wall were dozens of dull laminated cones and tarnished glass vases filled with dried and brittle sticks, all that remained of the bouquets that were left by mourners and well-wishers.
A second inscription, this one a gold plaque, was embedded into the wall at elbow-height. Like the first, it had been rendered illegible, something having scorched it black and melted the letters into slag.
The man didnÆt need the plaque. He knew this place. He had seen this in dreams, too. Dreams of fire and green light, of flying motorcycles and high, cruel laughter.
Stepping over the remains of long-dead flowers and broken glass containers, the man reached out his hand towards the iron gate, but stopped, sensing the enchantments that had been set upon it. Carefully feeling the slow swirl and turgid current of the fading magic, he plucked at it delicately with his fingers, and felt more than heard the protections fall.
With a push, the gate swung inward with a faint creak, and the man walked down the path to the front door.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
ôHow dangerous do you think he iz going to be?ö
ôOur hypothesis about what he might have experienced in Azkaban was confirmed during the escape. You saw how he fought. How he moved. He jumped without any hesitation whatsoever. It is likely that we are dealing with the equivalent of a Grandmaster. A magic-capable Grandmaster. Depending on how much of his time he spent unconscious or in an altered state of mind, he may even have more experience than I do.ö
ôMerde.ö
ôIndeed. All the more reason to recover him before he is found. He is an asset that cannot be allowed to be taken by the enemy.ö
The brown robed man nodded, slid a mask over his face, and pulled up his hood. The other man did likewise.
ôLetÆs do æzis, then.ö
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
The ragged man stepped through the doorframe, and made his way into the house. Dirt and leaves were scattered all through the entryway, and piles of snow had gathered beneath each of the broken windows. Faded and scarred paintings covered the walls, once lifelike and intelligent, now still and dead, the magic of the house having long-since leeched away. Picking his way through upturned and broken furniture, he could see the scars of the battle that had taken place. Scorch marks, seared carpet, melted stone, shattered hardwood. Powerful magic had occurred here, for he knew that it had been worked long before that which he had seen outside, and yet the remnants still burned brighter underneath his eyes.
He ignored it. He walked up to the fireplace in the sitting room and examined it. An enormous affair large enough for a grown man to stand upright in it, it was crafted from solid stone. A coat of arms stood proudly over the mantle, a symbol of the family that had once dwelled here. Swords crossed behind a shield emblazoned with a massive æPÆ, supported by twin lions roaring. It was framed by a pair of carved trees, their branches whorling and intertwining together, and the latin motto that crowned it was illegible, a stray spell the most likely culprit.
To look at the insignia, even closely, one would not have seen it. But if one was expecting it, it was not that hard to find. Nestled in the complex weavings of the gothic latticework of the trees above the æPÆ, there was a symbol that could be discerned.
The man looked at it harder, concentrating, and the symbol he knew was there grew bright, even as the rest of the coat of arms faded away.
Symbols within symbols. Secrets within secrets.
He reached out with his hand, and pushed on the insignia in that exact spot. There was a soft click, and the sound of stone against stone.
With the soft flapping of wings, the phoenix left his shoulders and flew over to perch on a tarnished hatstand in the corner. The man looked at his companion for a moment before nodding, and turning back.
Stepping into the cold, dusty fireplace, he placed his hand on the back wall and pushed. It swung smoothly open on silent hinges. Hunching slightly, he stepped on through into the darkness beyond.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
A tall man with cloth stretched across the lower portion of his face squinted through the scope of his semi-automatic anti-personnel rifle. Through it, he saw a ragged form disappear into a distant house on the far side of an abandoned village. They had tracked the fugitive to the Somerset county of West Country after receiving a tip from local English surveillance about an anomaly, and had quickly dispatched a team to retrieve
ôWeÆve located the package. I repeat, we have located the package.ö
The radio crackled to life, the voice on the other end commanding and harsh. The masked soldier held his hand to his ear for a moment, then nodded.
ôUnderstood. WeÆll bring it in.ö
He held up his left hand and made a circle in the air. The three dozen soldiers behind him loaded their guns. One of them pulled out a wand and began muttering, pointing it at the earth, erecting an Anti-Apparition field.
They spread out in a loose fan and began walking down the hill towards the village.
Unseen by them, two disillusioned figures followed from the trees.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
You guys know the drill. Read and review, comments, questions, and criticism welcome.
A.N.//
I wrote this entire chapter listening to a loop of the AssassinÆs Creed Revelations Theme Song, with lyrics. So if youÆd like an appropriate soundtrack to listen to while reading, you know where to go.
Also, we donÆt actually know æwhereÆ in West Country GodricÆs Hollow is located, but a lot of wizarding homes we know about are or were in Devon (Diggory, Fawcett, Lovegood, Weasley, Hagrid), so I deliberately chose another county to try and indicate that the Hollow is far away from most other settlements.
