Post by SHEILA on Dec 15, 2008 6:36:44 GMT -5
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ELEMENTARY, MY DEAR WATSON: THE MARAUDERS AND THEIR CONTEMPORARIES GET SENT BACK TO 1947, RIDDLE ERA, BY ACCIDENT, AND ARE NOW STUCK THERE. GO WITH IT! IT’S FUN!
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“You’re absolutely, infallibly convinced that this will create Imperi?” Tom Riddle hedged his bets, and this latest experiment had incredibly dubious odds. He glanced imperiously across the empty field. “Will the lack of corpses not pose a slight logistical problem?” Secretly, he had something resembling hope, but midnight’s shadowed mask kept that hidden nicely from his face. In any case, he was already cloaked in black from head to toe, as were the select few followers he’d gathered to witness this landmark event. A sea; one moving body with its head nicely detached from the rest. Tom faced the Knights of Walpurgis, scrutinising their eagerness and envy, but they were not his concern. The man in white was. Nott. Tom was well aware of it, too. Nott hadn’t been quite in in their Hogwarts days, and this trick, apparently, was his way of rectifying it. If his spell worked, he would join Tom’s followers as the most prominent, most honoured, just like he told all the others they were. If it failed, they would have a real corpse to try it out on. Win-win, no? Confidence was something that the Dark Lord carried well, and so, he gazed at last, crushingly, at the petitioner before him. Watched. Saw the man’s eyes flicker away, hide where he couldn’t see them from the several metre’s distance. Fear; so delicious. At last, Nott managed to speak, choking out assurances. His one chance. He’d grasp it for what it was worth. “Positive, my Lord. It’s been in the family for generations. We’ve kept it secret through our entire six centuries of purity. I can assure you that no-one has revealed it before… no-one else has been worthy… but it works. It -- it--” he tried to stammer out more endorsement, but a single, elegant raising of his master’s hand stopped him. “Yes, thank you, Nott. That’s quite enough grovelling for one day,” Tom sneered. He ignored the nervous half-laughs that came in rising, resultant gurgles from the twenty or so lurking behind Nott. People. So petty and irritating. Corpses suited his inclinations much more nicely, although that was a sentiment that could be very easily taken in the wrong way. Tom took one last step back, making him nicely away from the great unwashed. Imbecilic, idiotic -- any ‘i’ word, really, except ‘intelligent‘. He let silence reign, knowing that no-one would dare to break it before he did. Nott, in particular, squirmed like a slug under his shoe. Good. Tom eventually decided that the fool would need a prompt. “Do you expect me to cast it myself when I lack the incantation? Show us your amusing little trick, or I’ll show you the killing curse.” Crunching together, not daring to whisper, the Knights of Walpurgis shivered yet stood proud. Collective. That was the word. Nott gathered his courage. “N-not yet, master. It must be at midnight. In the, the, the minute between 11:59 and 12:01. It won’t work any other time. And… it summons the dead from exactly forty years ago. Mignight, December 6th, 1907. They will r-r-rise from the soil and walk.” Tom wringed his hands, deciding that he would have to sort out Nott’s verbosity complex. “That’s lovely, truly, but I’m more interested in their ability to kill.” Nott nodded fervently. “That too, Master. Anything.” A pause, tweaking, stretching, Then: “I hear that church bell striking midnight now,” said Tom. “What are you waiting for?”
“At exactly midnight, December 6th, 1977, I, Bartemius Crouch, head of the Department of International Magical Co-Operation, will declare this Quidditch pitch to be up, running and succeeding in its mission of promoting the goodwill between ourselves and our wizarding brothers through the medium of sport.” “Fuck’s sake,” said Sirius Black none-too-subtly to the scruffy-haired man beside him, “Can’t he just say, ‘right, open sesame’?” A sharp poke in the ribs was Sirius’s answer, though it came not from his friend but rather the redhead who had been linking arms with him. “It’s a milestone!” she hissed, bothering, unlike Black, to keep her voice down. “Let him have his fun. This day will go down in history, and he’ll want his speech to be there too.” Sirius rolled his eyes. Well, obviously. “Therefore, he’s a wanker and he should get on with it. What’s with this ‘midnight’ shit?” The crowd were starting to ruffle and turn their heads in a vain attempt at shaming the dissenter into talking more quietly. Everyone who was anyone had gathered, along with a fair number of people who were nothing at all. War was rising, and this was the Ministry’s answer to it. Turn the other cheek while pretending not to even more. Everything was just super, and if a giant, shiny new Quidditch stadium in what was once a field wouldn’t prove it, then what would? Yeah, sweet fuck-all. Britain’s first attempt at a stationary stadium. It hadn’t seemed safe before -- they’d had to keep moving them for every match. Muggles were smart. Now, they weren’t. It just wasn’t convenient for them to be. They wouldn’t notice this monstrosity, not with the right charms. Besides, it spread joy, excitement. Furthermore, it was a kick in the balls to You-Know-Who that they were arsed to build such things. The gathering was a mixed one, Malfoys and Weasleys standing mere metres apart, but the boundaries were clear. This was no Order of the Phoenix party. It wasn’t a Ministry mixer. What was it, then? Crouch had gone through about six pages of his speech, and he hadn’t quite summed it up yet. No-one else had any hope. The buzz was building, though. Even Sirius clamped his mouth shut in anticipation, while couples clinged and singles huddled in an attempt to be part of it. This was it. The answer. Quidditch, sport of kings. Vanquish the enemy. Who the enemy was seemed irrelevant in that moment. And gradually, like a bud flourishing into petaldom, it began. A count-down to exactly twelve o’clock, December 6th, 1977. “Ten, nine, eight!” came the dispersed mutters; and slowly, they joined and expanded. The “Seven! Six! Five!” came more confidently, people shouting freely from the knowledge that no-one would hear their voice above the others. “Five, four, three!” It resounded, and even Crouch joined now, his magically magnified tones raising it all to a wonder. They sweated and shouted and waited. And it sailed along, bounced. Imaginary fireworks, sparks flying, tears wrenching forth. “THREE! TWO! ONE!”
They closed their eyes, and when they opened them at zero, the sight was enough to make them clamp them shut again.
Nott’s spell had gone wrong, drastically so. Instead of raising the dead of 1907 from the grass, he’d raised the living from 1977. Not all of them, just the 300 or so who’d converged at that very spot in that very frame. A flash of green light would take care of Nott and his stupidity, but Lord Voldemort was faced with a larger and more daunting problem, namely what the hell to do with this pack of strangely-clothed people and how to hide them from the Ministry. He thought quickly, and decided that playing innocent was key. No-one suspected him -- yet. He’d keep it that way. With an all-encumbering glance that told the Knights of Walpurgis to play along, Tom feigned confusion, questioning what they were doing there. People were too addled to notice his strange composure and his air of responsibility. And that’s how it’s remained. Wizarding Britain is now housing a sea of odd people telling all sorts of ridiculous things about the future, and, supposedly, no-one knows anything about how they came there or how to get them back. Tom wants them to stay, you see. He’s curious about the future -- about how his later followers will be called Death Eaters, about how he’ll be on the brink of world domination in forty years. There’s an end to every story, but he’s positive that the ending to this one will be good. If they stay, that is. They have to be examined. And, for now, they live. Survive. Some can stay with bemused parents or grandparents, and some have to find their own dwelling places. They scrounge for things to do and explanations, and they struggle to come to terms with a world that has less technology and more fear. There’s no war, yet. Why, then, does it feel like one’s coming? Because one is. It’s carried on the wind. It might get you, it might not. For now, it’s circulating with the BUTTERFLIES AND HURRICANES.
