AN: Well, so it begins. This is the rewrite of my original idea for Sealed Fate, but I didn't like the Time-Travel aspect and so decided that an AU would better fit my plot. I'd like to give a big thanks to my BETA, Owl Writer, who did an amazing job at pointing out my stupidity and making this much more readable. Thanks, Dark-Stallion.
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It's a funny thing, irony.
One day I was simply going through my usual routine, stuck in a baron existence where I was the lower being and my superiors, my last remaining blood relatives, ensuring that it was also a hated one. I would have given anything to have been somewhere else, taken away in the middle of the night so I could start my own adventures.
By the time the sun had set on the next day I was wishing, no-praying, the opposite; that I was back in my cupboard, where the only thing that I had to fear was my Uncles' wrath.
I take it back, actually. Irony isn't funny; it's simply a bitch.
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The benevolent shades of red and yellow slowly gave way to the barrage of blue and violet as the sun set, casting the trees on the horizon and distant buildings of the Woking town centre in a dark silhouette. The near-full moon shone brightly in its reflected splendour, yet despite the cloudless sky, which was dotted with the aged ever-glowing light of far off stars, no moonlight fell on the streets of Privet drive. Curious, one would think, but it could easily be explained away as a natural phenomenon; a repercussion of the latest industrial smouldering polluting the air from the close by factories of Guildford, perhaps?
The simple, contemporary gardens of the working class houses which dominated the south-eastern county were cast only in the artificial light cascading from the towering lamps lining the street. Renowned as a Conservative council, it came as no surprise that the Labour-controlled government had constricted the County Councils budget to such an extent that many of the streets lampposts were, in fact, broken. However, it can not be taken as merely coincidence that the residence of number four, on that very street, was flanked by two street lights which were not in working order. Especially considering the shadowy figure lurking just at the edge of the driveway, standing between the green estate car parked half on the pavement and the hedgerow between properties four and five.
The small hedges separating the detached houses, offering inadequate privacy from the inquisitive neighbours, were what gave Privet drive its name. Privet, known also as ligustrum vulgare, was a European semi-evergreen shrub whose four curled panicle flowers gave off a slight fragrance. The species is known more commonly for its colourful stamens which seem to reflect light in a beautiful amber glow. Being late autumn, the flowers, naturally, had been fertilised and the glowing stamens were now falling from the hedge onto the low-cut yellowing lawn below.
The figure was clad in what seemed to be a dark cloth, possibly a clerical cassock, with a hood drawn to cover its head. The loose fitting robe gave no indication of gender as it seemed to blend into the night. Glancing around carefully, and pausing as if to assess the situation, the figure began moving, in a crouch, towards the large bay windows at the front of the property.
Light gushed outwards from the building, landing on the neat grass brightly, before being swallowed in the shadows of night. The figure drew close to the window, and with infinite care raised its head over the low frame to peer inside.
The furniture was Spartan, plain and spread in an open-plan fashion in an attempt to create the illusion of space where in fact there is little. A simple darkly stained dining table, probably made from oak or pine, stood close to the large windows with six chairs placed carefully around the edges, and a single art deco candlestick adorned the bare wood surface. Beyond that was a suite of a two man couch and pair of stand alone armchairs, all made from a white-leather imitation and fastened with worn bronze fittings. The sofa was filled with the bulk of a large man wearing a green sweater and khaki trousers, his many chins wobbling in tune with his laughter as he faced the television squeezed into the corner. The other occupant of the room, a thin woman whose long face was wearing a seemingly constant grimace, was cleaning with zeal using an extended brush to dust away cobwebs anchored in the corners of the walls.
Slinking back into the cover of darkness, the figure made its way around the house towards the back door, softly brushing against the hedge as it grew outwards and over hanged the narrow pathway. Once around the property, the unknown person leant against the pebbled wall and removed its hood. The visage of a man was barely visible from the extra light spilling from number fives' windows; short cropped black hair, strong cheek bones with somewhat shrunken eyes and a light covering of stubble on his chin. From his left ear descended a small microphone which ended just on his bottom lip. Reaching up a hand, he toggled a switch on the device hooked around his ear and a quiet voice echoed around him.
“Report, agent Delta,” he heard, followed by a small click which represented an end of transmission.
“I'm in position, awaiting confirmation of orders,” he said gruffly in reply while removing a pistol, a Walther by design, from inside his robes with his right hand. Now inserting his left into the folds of clothing he withdrew a silencer and screwed it into place tightly without a sound.
“Your target is the boy, the others are expendable,” replied the voice in his ear. “Main priority is to take out the target and evac without trace. You know the rules if you are found; we can't risk alerting the Council of our actions. Report back when you have completed the objectives and are ready for extraction.”
Nodding his head to no one but himself, he turned off the communiqué device and pulled the hood up to once again mask his face. Standing from the crouch, but remaining hunched, he began to pace towards the glass door which served as a back exit for the house. Halfway there he stopped immediately as the sound of a snapping branch assaulted his strained hearing. He held his breath and crouched, knowing that the robes he wore consisted of an interwoven magical thread which camouflaged him with the darkness. Looking around he neither saw nor heard anything out of place, yet as he went to move forwards he was halted by a blade pressed beneath his hood and against his neck.
“You know, if you're going to invest in a Chameleon Cloak then you should ensure that you keep it clean,” said the daunting figure which rose over him in a deep whisper. He too wore robes, but didn't bother with the inconspicuous nature of the agents'. Made from a hoary thread, the silver robes were open fronted, more like a cloak which was drawn around his entire body, and there appeared to be feathers stitched neatly into the fabric. Beneath the robe he wore a plain white tunic, belted with leather and attached to that in turn were a sword scabbard and an empty dagger holster.
The blade was swiftly removed from the agents' neck and replaced in the sheath at the mans belt, and with a flick of his left hand the pistol was summoned into his gloved grasp. That too was placed within his robes.
“A wizard,” snarled Delta quietly while backing up a few paces. Risking a quick look behind him he nearly groaned as he noticed the glowing stamens from the hedge clinging to his clothes down his side and back, where he had brushed against the hedge.
“Is this really the best that the Dragon Court can send? An assassin foiled by foliage?” asked the silver cloaked man with amusement. Leaping to the right, Delta attempted to catch his assailant, whom he guessed was an operative of the Council, by surprise. He swiftly found himself incarcerated by invisible bonds, with the feeling of magic coursing over his skin made him feel physically sick as he struggled to free himself.
“No, can't be having that,” whispered the wizard as he brought his hands up to remove the hood. The moonlight was finally able to shine over Privet Drive and the wizards' closely cut white hair became apparent. His aged face bore both wrinkles and scars while his deep blue eyes absorbed any light shining into them; clearly he was recognisable as the immobilised agent drew a quick drew. The azure eyes turned cold as the wizard tore through the agents mind, scouring through surface memories relating to the mission before delving deeper into somewhat forgetting recesses of his consciousness.
Being a non-magical operative for the Dragon Court he had been trained to survive tortures so cruel it could turn mother against son; yet here he was revealing everything without so much as a cohesive fight. His body was forced to endure the most unthinkable pain time and again, and yet if he could he would have screamed in agony as the wizard ripped recklessly through his mind. It finally stopped, and Delta fell to the ground unceremoniously, gasping for air while his limbs twitched and spasms coursed through his nerves.
Without a word the wizard stooped down and with a gloved hand removed the elegant dragon pendant from his neck. He examined it for a second and seemingly weighed in his open palm before placing that, too, within the folds of his silver robes. When he withdrew his hand he now held a single silver coin. Palming it in his left hand, he flicked his right and a dark wand appeared from within his sleeve; stained wood, possibly holly or rosewood, contrasting deeply with his white gloves and silver attire. Tapping the coin once, causing it to be ensnared in a blue haze, he dropped it on the agent and as the three second time release ticked away he disappeared without a sound.
The wizard turned his head to now look upon the house before glancing over towards the edge of the garden where he could faintly detect the humming wards. Frowning, he ensured he would not be disturbed with a few well placed charms and then set out a runic tablet on the floor which he had enlarged after removing it from an inner pocket. He then began to inscribe the stone with the tip of his wand, burning into the grey rock a collection of powerful hieroglyphs which he could manipulate to serve his purpose.
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The sun had not properly risen in the sky, infusing dark crimson with light gold against the clouds, yet the Castel Sant'Angelo seemed to act as a reflective beacon. The night time artificial lighting, consisting of six set floodlights positioned around the base of the cylindrical fortress, had not yet been extinguished, meaning that from the west side it seemed as if it was made of pure white stone set against a blazing fire sky drop.
The castle, now acting as a museum, was originally a mausoleum for the Roman Emperor Hadrian and his wife, Sabina. However, in the Year of Our Lord 401, the Emperor Honorius decided to use the building as a fortification and included it as a defence after he improved the Aurelian walls. Much of the structure was then destroyed, conversely, nine years later when Rome was sacked by the Visigoths. It was reconstructed, and soon came under the hand of the Vatican to be as a prison and fortress. It was in the early 13th century that Pope Nicholas III connected the castle to St. Peter's Basilica via the underground tunnel called the Passetto di Borgo.
Within said fortified corridor an elderly man was briskly walking towards the Castel Sant'Angelo, his footsteps echoing around him in the archaic tunnel. His wore a white and scarlet cassock, along with a crimson mozzetta around his shoulders which he was currently attempting to remove. His grey hair was kept short and a pair of silver framed circular glasses rested easily on his nose. Tied around his neck, and hanging down to his waist, was a large golden crucifix which he also removed along with the mozzetta cloak.
Cardinal Antonio Ortas, official Librarian and Archivist of the Roman Catholic Church, had arrived late to lead the Congregation for Divine Worship and the Discipline of the Sacraments and now was running delayed for his second, and more important, meeting. After climbing the wooden steps and slipping out of the heavily reinforced iron and oak doors, he entered a large chamber in the Castel. Sighing, he marched swiftly to a cupboard whilst loosening the purple sash tied around his waist.
Opening the plain wooden doors, something only he was able to do, he revealed the brightly coloured silver cloak, white tunic and leather belt he had left there earlier after returning from his mission. He folded his mozzetta neatly and laid it on a shelf, while his cassock quickly followed. He deftly donned the tunic and cloak, securing the belt at his waist, before opening a hidden panel where he had placed his sword, dagger and wand. One they too were equipped, Antonio closed the doors, which were then automatically sealed with magic, and with rushed steps made his way to the eastern side of the castle.
Arriving outdoors he sighed at the heightening of the sun, a clear indication of his lateness, and continued on a winding path that led away from the castle. The gardens were neatly kept, flower beds supporting the last sprouting azaleas and daffodils of the season added colour, while an orchard of apple blossoms added a depth and contrasted against the stark brown of the Aurelian walls which encircled the fortress. The path of grey slate he was walking suddenly stopped and was replaced by a small plaza of limestone mosaic stones.
The colourful pebbles, ranging from simplistic white to heraldic gules, were aligned into a symmetrical image of an Angel. The wings were spread wide, touching both sides of the meter square mosaic, and two swords, one held in each hand, diagonally crossed over his chest. Lines of anagrammatised words in Enochian, the language of Angels, encompassed the borders of the stone canvass. Antonio stood directly at the base of mosaic, and looked to the roof of the Castel Sant'Angelo where the bronze effigy of another Angel, created by the Flemish sculptor Peter Anton von Verschaffelt in 1753, stood sheathing his sword and looking westward.
As the sun blazed behind him, illuminating the fortress in immaculate red fire, Antonio withdrew his wand and held up, as if in salute, to the statue on the roof. “Hall of Angels, open to me, for I am Michael,” he incanted in his native Spanish before instantly lowering his arm, allowing his hoary cloak to fall around his shoulders and completely encompass his body. He counted the seconds in his head, 'one, two, three, four, five, six…' and as he reached the seventh a glimmer appeared before him in the very air, similar to waves of heat, as the light from the new sun began to become distorted.
The distortion spread slowly, becoming larger, before it reached the ground and quickly stabilised. From where there was once nought but air there was now a large gateway supported by two towering twin marble Solomonic columns, each capped with a capital similar to the ones found in the Baldocchino designed by Bernini, which rose an impressive twenty feet. The laced argent ivy leaves, which decorated the caps, fell into the serpentine twists of the pillars and ran down to the flat base where they seemed to congeal into a tarn of gold; it was molten and flowed as if water, continuously replenishing itself from the pools at the stem.
Held between the two colossal supports was a large door of thick panelled oak with two braces of ancient mithril, adding both physical and magical fortification to the wood, fixed in place at regular intervals by large adamantine nails; clearly it was a dwarven creation. It opened on its own accord as Antonio stepped towards it, stoic to the phenomenal display of wealth which surrounded him. As he walked into the dark tunnel, which was puzzlingly angled upwards, the doors snapped shut behind him; the slam of wood on stone was accompanied with the crackling resonance that signalled the collapse of the magicks which summoned the gateway.
The corridor he was climbing was of crudely hacked stone, and yet fasted to the walls were numerous pictures and works of art displayed in intricate gilded frames. Hundreds of portraits littered the tunnel, each with a platinum plaque naming the subject, but Antonio kept his eyes focused on the rising red carpet and steadily walked onwards, until finally reaching the door at the end which he opened, swiftly entering into the meeting room. The other two Council members were already sat around the single table which was centred in the large chamber, also decorated with numerous portraits along with tapestries and various coats-of-arms, with their hoods up masking their face.
Located directly on the centre of the wall facing the entrance was the largest and most obvious insignia, the area around it being bare of any other decoration so as to not distract from its importance. It consisted of a single silver sword pointing downwards with twin waxen wings enfolding and encompassing it protectively. This was captured upon a shield, and a winding scroll beneath depicted the words 'Senatus de Umbra'. The Council of Shadow.
Located on a hidden floor of the Castel Sant'Angelo, the three leaders of the Council of Shadow had met here since the late 14th century when the exiled papacy was returned back to its seat in the Vatican from their temporary base at Avignon. The organisation had been created in the early 6th century by the Eastern Roman Emperor Justin I as an elite defence for his kingdom against the rising number of magical attacks, which was why this period of history was referred to as the 'Dark Ages'. The group soon parted from the megalomaniac emperor, after he attempted to use them as a tool of conquest, to serve and defend the Western Empire. And there they stayed, eventually growing large enough to be an active force which acted in defence for all of Europe when needed against the forces of evil. With each new generation came greater success, financially and politically, yet while each member would bring something new tradition was always honoured.
The main Council would always consist of three male commanders, one of whom would take precedence, so as to ensure fair and advised govern. Each commander, known as an Arch, was given a name from which to hide behind, enabling them to stay influential the public world. The presiding leader was known always known as Michael, while the other two were called Gabriel and Raphael- an analogy, drawn by Justin I, to the Archangels.
“Michael, so glad you could grace us with your presence,” growled out one of the seated members, who had his black leather boots resting on the table as he reclined into the velvet covered chairs. “Too busy preaching…”
“Enough, Gabriel,” interrupted the other seated member in heavily accented English; his mother tongue was clearly Slavic by the way he rolled his 'r'.
“I trust that your missions went off well,” said Antonio, while he seated himself in the only remaining chair and placed his joined hands on the stone table.
“Not exactly,” started Gabriel, lowering his hood and revealing his shortly cropped white hair and blue eyes. “I ran into a Court member,” here he threw down the dragon pendant he stole from the agent, “he was completely non-magical, and was wielding this,” the pistol he had disarmed Delta off joined the pendant in the middle of the table. “What is it?” he asked Raphael.
“A gun,” he answered simply, before smiling at Gabriel's annoyed face. “Fine, it seems to be a Walther designed pistol, but looks nothing like the PPK or PPK/S edition.” He clasped the gun in his gloved hand and examined it carefully. “I can ask around, but if it's a model in the making then that would limit it to Germany; perhaps that's where the Court is currently hiding?”
“Perhaps, but we have more important things to be dealing with at present,” said Antonio-come-Michael quietly. “And you, Raphael, I take it your mission took the same turn?”
Raphael then lowered his hood after being directly addressed by Antonio. His hair, greying with age but stubbornly staying predominately black, reached his shoulders while his eyes were a dark hazel; a large scar ran down the left side of his face, starting above his eyebrow and ending by his ear. He removed the dragon pendant that he had obtained from the agent he encountered the night before and added it to Gabriel's. “Same for me as well - he completely lacking any magical abilities; perhaps the court underestimated the importance of the targets?”
“No, that's can't be it. They must know that the calendar marks this generation as those born in late July, when the Altarf star was at its brightest.” Antonio paused for a moment and brought his hands up to rest against his mouth. “Perhaps… Perhaps the rumours are true, and Whitstone is dead?”
“Surly you jest, Antonio,” grunted Gabriel, glad that the formal usage of their rank names can be forgotten after the first use; tradition must be upheld, after all. “Whitstone wouldn't have been stupid enough to be caught in the Vampire Conclave.”
“You give him too much credit, Richard” Antonio stated. “He was not as great a wizard as we were led to believe, and if a new leader is now in charge of the Court, one who is not magical, it is reasonable to assume that they would favour non-magical warfare.” Sighing, he leaned back into his chair and brought out a third dragon insignia. “I, too, was met by a Muggle agent. Strangely, though, he seemed immune to a few of my spells.”
“Perhaps you are loosing it in your old age, Antonio, ehh Tomas?” barked out Richard in amusement, the question being aimed at the aforementioned Raphael.
“Possibly, it has been a while since we sparred, has it not?” he added with a chuckle. “At least we have the chosen; when do we begin the first stage?”
“Yes, we have all three of them.” Antonio sighed deeply, hating himself for what he was about to command. “They have to be broken first, before we can build them back up; just like we were, decades ago.” He managed to repress a shudder at what he knew was about to happen to the three soon to be eight year olds. “Once that is done, we can begin their training. However, the wings of death swiftly approach me; we must be quick to teach them.”
“Oh, you're such a drama queen,” Richard exclaimed while swinging his feet from the table and standing. Arching his back in a stretch, he let out a long yawn. “Now, if you don't mind me, I think a rest is in order. Shall we meet back here in a fortnight?”
“No, I will contact you when we need to begin the training. It depends on the length of time needed for stage one to be completed.” Antonio also rose from the chair, quickly checking the time with a tempus spell. “Are you going to the Convent?”
“I am,” interrupted Tomas before Richard could answer. “I will see to it that everything shall be in order when we are ready to start; I need to get Kumar to sharpen my blade, anyway.”
Richard snorted as he walked towards the exit, “been using it to cut your toenails again?” He exited the doorway first, with Antonio and Tomas behind him, both shaking their heads slightly. As they appeared once more in the gardens of Castel Sant'Angelo they took note that sun had now risen midway through the sky, standing directly above the angelic guardian atop the fortress. The soft breeze running through Rome cooled Antonio's face, but internally he was churning; there is nothing I can do, he said to himself. They have to go through this.
So as the light fell gracefully amongst the azaleas, daffodils and apple-blossoms upon the surface, beneath the Castel, in three separate cells, three young boys awoke at the same time as their throats unleashed screams of surprise and pain.
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Cold fire spilled over the back of his bare legs and back; pain shot through every nerve as his muscles cramped and seized, contracting tightly and forcing him into a foetal position. Harry felt rather then heard the scream erupt from his open mouth as the icy water washed over him. A faint smell of methanol wrapped around his sinuses, and his young mind linked it with the odour of the anti-freeze his uncle used to make him put into the car engine and water pumps during winter; even at seven he understood that it allowed water to be colder then zero degrees Celsius and not freeze.
Another wave crashed down on him, just as the original pain was beginning to subside, enticing another strangled cry from his winded body. Even with his eyes screwed tight the tears escaped. He tried to scramble blindly away from the cold, but quickly realised he was trapped in a corner. Within the recesses of his sleep-addled mind he tried to note he was lying on stone, obviously not in his cupboard any more or anywhere within number four Privet Drive, but as a third load of water was dumped on him his mind exploded into stars of light. His heart began beating faster as all the blood rushed to warm the body's most vital organs, thus making him light headed and nauseous.
Suddenly he arched his back as he gave a guttural roar which slowly turned into a moan, due to his body being starved of oxygen, as now what felt like boiling water was dumped over him. Even though the temperature was only mild it set ablaze his nerves, cramped his muscles to maximum tautness and burned against his bloodless skin. Vomit spilled from his mouth as another scream curdled around his cracked lips. Loosing control of his bowels resulted in a large mess covering his lower body and shame racked through as the pain began to dissipate.
With ragged breaths he repaid his oxygen debt, removing the lactic acid from his limbs and slowly regaining control of them. He opened his eyes but was blinded by light, dazing him once more as he tried to move, only to slip in the mess of his own excretion. The ache in every one of his muscles and tendons was devastating, and only now, as he stopped screaming, did he notice the voices shouting at him. He was scared, beyond scared, and he tried to shy away from them. Curling into a ball, wrapping his arms around his sullied legs, he tried to ignore their yells; freak, sub-human, filth. The usual Dursley insults were there, but Harry knew that this was too far for them; they had never done something as traumatic as this. There was also laughter integrated into their howls and people, men, exclaiming how he had soiled himself.
He opened his eyes again, but without his glasses and the continuous flood of tears he couldn't make out anything other then a group of six blurs now ordering him to get up. He shook his head defiantly, physically unable to comprehend moving.
“Get up, you pig shit!” screamed one of the men into his ear, spittle flying from his mouth. “Get up now, or we'll beat you to within an inch of your life!”
Harry whimpered while tears rapidly cascaded down his face and his mind went blank; what was he supposed to think in this situation? Slowly moving to a crouch he was swiftly kicked in the ribs, causing him to crash back down and grasp his chest in agony; he opened his mouth in a silent scream but no sound emerged. His body was slowly moving into shock, loosing the grasp on reality.
“Get! Up!” the man shouted again, grabbing him by the collar and thrusting him against the stone. Harry spluttered and leant heavily on the wall, his knees trembling and muscles protesting. “Now follow me! Move!”
They were the only ones left in the room now, and as he began to leave Harry obediently fell in behind, tears falling from his cheeks and he hunched himself further in on himself. Without his glasses all he could see was a large green blur of the hulking man before him, but he walked with a slight limp on his left leg. They turned a few corners while Harry just questioned what was happening over and over again to himself; what had he done to deserve this? He had no idea, and he was scared beyond comprehension.
“In there,” he was told by the man who motioned to the open door on Harry's right. Stepping inside, he was pushed to the centre where he could just make out two other boys his own age in similar conditions as himself. “Get your arms up, you worthless bags of shit!” commanded the man who had led Harry in, and he was forced into a line with the other two boys either side of him. His arms were brought up to be perpendicular to his body, palms upwards, but they fell once the man lifting them let go.
The crack was heard before Harry's already beaten nerves located the pain at the back of his knee. He fell hard, tears again pooling around his eyes before falling, and a gurgling sound was emitted from his throat. “Get them up or you won't eat for a week!” someone screamed from his right, and he weakly obeyed. It continued for hours, all three of them being forced to hold their arms up straight or be beaten; all the time being told at how worthless they are, how pathetic. Harry was sick again when one of the men bellowed at them how it was their defects which meant that their parents weren't here; it was their entire fault, they were responsible.
Harry soon passed out from exhaustion, blissful bleakness shutting off his mind from the pain. Yet there, in the faux-security of his subconscious, is where the second attacks came; nightmares wracked through him as he passed into normal cognisant sleep. He was salvaged from this punishment with the same cold water treatment the next morning, leaving him begging once more for unconsciousness as fresh screams were ripped from him.