Harry Potter and the Prince of Slytherin

Chapter 10: The Quidditch World Cup (pt 3)

The boy lay in his bed dreaming a strange dream. A disturbing dream and yet one with an odd familiarity. But above all, a dream from which he could not awaken.

In the boy's dream, he was in a chair near a roaring fireplace. Odder still, the chair seemed unusually large, as did everything else in the room. But then, the boy suddenly realized the truth. The chair and the room were normal-sized, but he was somehow small, much smaller than he should have been. The boy wondered at this in confusion, for he soon realized that he was not actually sitting in the chair but rather was being held by someone who was sitting in the chair. Someone who he couldn't see, for his head would not turn the way he wanted it to. But he knew one thing. Whoever was holding him like he was a babe in his mother's arms ... was very, very, cold.

"Report," said the boy in a raspy yet sibilant voice so unlike his own and yet so familiar. "Miss Direction?"

An incredibly beautiful woman spoke first. She also seemed familiar, though in his dreaming haze, the boy could not put a name to the face.

"I have confirmed that Chevenoir is no more. While it grieves me to have lost the great citadel of my ancestors, it also means there is no chance of anyone interfering with that aspect of the plan. The Devil's Tor will be unattended. Indeed, with the manse itself destroyed, the ley lines which once powered it have reset themselves to their original course. The Devil's Tor is more magically active than it has been in over a thousand years. Ideal for our needs."

The boy nodded imperiously. "And Mr. January?"

"I have conveyed him to the site personally, and he has mapped out its coordinates. He will have a reversible Portkey available well before the moment it is needed."

"Good, good. This also means, does it not, that killing Sirius Black is no longer essential to our plans? No matter how desirable you might consider it?"

The woman hesitated. "It is as you say, my Lord, though it may still be necessary since he will no doubt try to protect his Heir from us."

The boy nodded. "It matters little. Advise Mr. Nimrod that the Wilkes children are his primary objective. Kill Sirius Black if he presents himself as a target of opportunity, but not if it endangers his main goal."

"It shall be done, my Lord."

"Mr. Misericorde?"

A man in a long brown coat stepped forward and bowed respectfully to the boy.

"Security arrangements have been ordered according to our specifications. DMLE personnel assigned to the campgrounds have been briefed to expect violence from the Australians. More importantly, the personnel specifically assigned to that sector were chosen for their temperament and the likelihood that they will exacerbate any conflict rather than resolve it. Our people at the Daily Prophet will focus their reporting on inflaming nationalist fervor while spreading as much anti-McAvity propaganda as they can get away with. Through third parties, we have used a mixture of bribery, blackmail, and mind control to suborn Crick, Schultz, Chavez, and Gunnersdottir to ensure that they will act as needed leading up to the finals."

"You have done well, Mr. Misericorde ... in most things. But I have one additional thing I need from you."

"Anything, my Lord."

"Your badge of office. Leave it on the table when you depart."

"My ... badge? My Lord, I do not..."

Instantly, a wand sitting on a nearby end table leaped into the boy's tiny hand.

"CRUCIO!"

The man in the long coat dropped to the ground screaming. The curse lasted just under two seconds before the boy released it, but the man's agony lasted far longer. From somewhere beneath the boy, a soft yet deep and resonant "Ki-ki-ki!" could be heard as a snake of some kind registered its amusement at the man's suffering. A very big snake. Far from being alarmed by this, the boy shared the snake's pleasure at the man's pitiful weeping.