Pax Dona Eis, Domine

~*~

She stares at the clock, as she has for days.  Any moment now, she can feel it in her bones, someone’s hand will tick to Mortal Peril.  She puts some obvious effort into the knitting between her hands, but her eyes flicker up again, and not relief but further foreboding floods her even though no hand had moved yet.

Her hands move quickly and earnestly, leaving a big yellow “R” in the middle of the sweater.  How many days until Christmas?  Surely even Voldemort wouldn’t attack on Christmas…

~*~

“Hey Malfoy!”  He turns his head.  “Have much Defense homework?” 

That’s code.  There’s never any real Defense homework, not for these anyway, they’ve charmed one thing or another to keep their scrolls full and essays done.  At first, he thought it was an adventure, the secret, the code.  Being on the inside had its benefits, at least for him.  Answering in the affirmative, telling the junior Death Eaters of his house of a meeting, always gave him a sense of importance.

He had been given the Cruciatus for the first time only a week ago and his insides still clenched and churned even thinking of it.  A reward, the Dark Lord had told him.  Punishment is the reward… 

What were they fighting for, again?  He wondered.  Purity?  Power?  The Dark Lord.

He swallowed hard.

“Malfoy!”  He looks up.  “Have much Defense homework?”

His father hadn’t been in contact.  “Dunno,” he said.  But God, I hope not.

~*~

She preens unenthusiastically, picking little hairs out of their place and smearing red on her cheeks.  She is still gaunt and gray, but her eyes have, much to her pleasure, returned to their dark, mysterious brown.  She smoothes her dress.

“What are you thinking?” She asks him.  “Are you ready?”

“Bella, my love, always.”

And she smiles.  “What is appropriate dress for a battle, Rodolphus?”

And he smiles too.

~*~

His eyes are much older now.  He gazes sadly into the fire.  How many have died now? He asks himself.  How many will die before this is over?  There’s a soft cooing in the corner where Fawkes, plumage in full color and brilliance, stands preening.  The song isn’t as much of a comfort as it once was but nonetheless it soothes him, if only a little.

He strokes his long white beard and questions.  In the end, will it be worth it?  Is he leading his people into hopelessness?  Can he win again?

~*~

It is far too important a night for petty theatrics.  He could easily dwell on his misfortune, at being caught in the middle, at the disrespect, the cruel words he is given when he has given so much.  But then he remembers, it was his choice.  His choice.  He chose servitude.  And he owes his life.

Next to him, Avery has been given the Cruciatus, for something small, something insignificant.  If Voldemort knew, he thought, where would he be?  Far worse than the twitching heap at his feat. 

Voldemort calls his name.

“Yes, my Lord.”

~*~

“Harry looked awful today,” he says to her, and she nods with a kind of understanding.  “You think he knows?”

“He’s always known,” she tells him.  Her arms cross over her chest.  She looks a little forlorn, but mostly confused.  “You know we have to, too.”

“We’ve always known,” he reminds her. 

She smiles at him and lets her head droop onto his shoulder.  He kisses her gently.

“You think he’s afraid?” she whispers.

“Yes.”

~*~

Twitching like mad is his way, mostly, of showing any emotion.  He twitches when he is happy, twitches when he is frightened, and twitches when he is excited.  Of course he is twitching now, a combination of the above-mentioned.  It is his nose, really, that starts it.

Light reflects oddly off his silver hand.  That had been a gift, and he had been grateful.

It was certainly worth the lives it cost, he tells himself as an image of a black-haired, green-eyed boy burns in his mind.

Yes, he tells himself, it was worth it.  He twitches again.

~*~

“Finally, finally, finally,” he hisses and everyone around him stops breathing.  “Tonight is the night.  We will finally have what we have been waiting for.”

He extends his long, white fingers, then balls his hands into fists.  Pacing inside the circle of his most loyal.  He looks into their eyes and can see some are afraid.  Some may not be as loyal as he gives them credit for.

But that is his strength, his mercy.

Oh, to hear that stammer, those words caught in a man’s throat, that complete abandon of emotion out of wholly engulfing fear.  He shakes with power.

He breathes, a cloud of white in the bitter cold.

Swiftly he pulls his wand from his pocket and wails a reckless “Morsmordre!”.  There are poorly concealed gasps and hundreds of hands shaking more out of fear than the cold.

But he feels them.  His red eyes survey the circle again, and he feels all of them.

“It begins.”

~*~

Author’s Note: Lots of things I had rolling about in my mind that never really came to fruition.  I had actually planned a whole series of final battle pieces, but it turns out this is all I really wanted to say.  Review please!

Disclaimer:  Not mine, stole ‘em briefly, put them back in mint condition, thank you very much.