Chapter 2 - Death Eaters

2. George Smith, and Peter have their defense against the dark arts class together. Pompey Pomp is introduced. He teaches about cursed artifacts.

3. Smith apologizes and be-friends Peter and takes him to the broom shack to show him his new Nimbus 2027. He then locks Peter betraying him and calling him a Deatheater.

4. Smith misguides Stewart and Alison on Peter's whereabouts, and submits his name to Professor Flamel. While Stewart and Alison submit Peter's name on his behalf.

5. Peter is rescued by Miranda King a pretty first year, who recognizes him. Peter furious rushes to George and knocks him down punching him. He is seen by Professor Flamel, who takes sides with Smith.

6. Peter storms down to the Weeping Philosopher, and accepts him as his mentor. Voldemort is happy.

“Edward Black!” the fat guard called out. “You have a visitor.”

Eighteen-year-old Edward was puzzled. In three years at the juvenile prison, he hadn’t had a single visitor. Even his mother had been too ill to come. Who could possibly be here to see him now?

Edward stepped into the cafeteria, where the other prisoners sat chatting. He was still in his prison clothes, his face as grim as ever. On a bench sat a man in his fifties, wearing a long coat and a hat that made him look as though he’d stepped out of a black-and-white detective film. Whoever had told him how Muggles dressed must have been about fifty years out of date. His waxy cheeks sagged, and his wrinkled face showed no pleasure at the sight of Edward.

Edward recognised him, though. It was Mr. Strout from Gaunt Village, the man who ran the charity club his mother belonged to.

Edward approached him slowly. He didn’t know why Strout was here, but his heart was already racing, as though he knew something bad was about to happen.

“Edward, my boy,” Mr. Strout said. “It’s good to see you at last.”

“Good to see you too, Mr. Strout. How’s everything in the village?”

“The village misses you, Edward.” Edward didn’t believe him. “We really do.”

“Really?” Edward’s face twisted. “None of you cared until yesterday. You’re the first visitor I’ve had in three years, and now you’re telling me you care about me?”

“Your mother died, Edward,” Mr. Strout said, looking down.

Edward froze. His heart was pounding. He didn’t know what to say or how to react. He’d known how ill she was. He’d thought about this happening before, but somehow he’d never believed it would.

“I’m sorry, dear boy,” Mr. Strout said. “I’m really, really sorry.”

Edward could only nod. He kept his eyes off Mr. Strout.

“But there are things your mother forbade us to tell you.”

Edward looked up.

“She made us promise to keep them from you until she died,” Mr. Strout said. “I suppose it falls to me to tell you now.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We don’t run a charity club.” Mr. Strout lowered his voice to a whisper. “We’re all former Death Eaters. We were trying to bring the Dark Lord back to life.”

Edward’s eyes widened.

“My mother?”

“Yes, your mother too,” Strout said. “When the Dark Lord was alive, she painted portraits of him. They say he loved them so much he enchanted them himself. Brought them to life.”

Edward couldn’t picture it. He thought of the woman who had raised him, who had always been kind and gentle with him. How could she have been one of them?

“Ministry officials burned the portraits,” Strout continued. “She’d spent years painting them when she was young. Seeing all that work destroyed broke her heart. She collapsed one night, and her health never recovered.”

“So what you’re saying is…” Edward was still trying to make sense of it, but he could feel himself getting angry. “My mother was a devotee of that Voldemort?”

“Lower your voice, boy!” Strout hissed. “And don’t say his name. We call him the Dark Lord.”

“I can call him whatever I want!” Edward snapped. “I’m not doing this bullshit! I’m nothing to you or your people. In fact, I could tell these guards about your little club in the village. They could hunt you down and feed you to their Muggle dogs!”

“You bloody piece of filth!” Strout snarled. “I came here to give you a chance to get outta here! But no, you don’t deserve any better.”

Edward was shaking now. Strout reached into his coat, pulled out a locket and flung it at him. It struck Edward hard in the face.

“Here! Take it! It’s all that’s left of your mother’s things,” Strout said. “And good luck in Azkaban. Don’t expect anyone to visit you there.”

He got up and walked away.

Still shaking, Edward snatched up the locket his mother had always worn. Tears filled his eyes as he stared at it.

When the Muggle guard heard that Edward’s mother had died, he took pity on him and let him keep the locket. Then he locked Edward back in his cell, where all he could do was count the days until his transfer to Azkaban.

“Edward Black…”

A cold whisper from the locket woke him in the middle of the night.

“I do hope no one hears us talking…”

Black peered into the locket. Something inside it was moving. The pretty landscape had given way to the grim, lifeless figure of Lord Voldemort.

“Edward Black… so nice to finally meet you…” Voldemort was still whispering.

“H-how?” Edward’s hand shook.

“The important question is why,” Voldemort replied. “I can help you, boy. I can get you out from behind those bars.”

“I don’t need your help,” Edward said. “Get lost.”

He threw the locket into a corner and lay back down, turning away from it. He was still in shock. Had the last surviving portrait of Voldemort really hung around his mother’s neck all those years?

He wasn’t the boy Voldemort thought he was.

Until this morning.

At thirty-one, Edward Black was back in Azkaban because of what Peter had done. He had been staring into the locket for hours. His hands were shaking again. This time, he was afraid of losing the only man who had ever given him a purpose.

“My lord… My master…” His voice trembled. “Where are you?”

There was no reply. His body was bruised, and he was shivering with cold. The blanket beside him was little more than a rag and did nothing to keep him warm. Black was back in the place he had called home for so long.

“My master…” Tears filled his eyes. “Don’t leave me… Take me home…”

He held the same locket open in front of him. Inside was a bare canvas.

Empty.

PRESENT DAY

The commotion had began again. The time table was on the breakfast table. Travis' time table fell in his bowl of poridge. He was grabbing it out with a disgusted look on his face, while Oliver and Redmon lauged at him.

Harper came up to Peter, "Hey Pete! no time for Quidditch practice this year!"

Peter had been ignoring the time table by now when he quickly took a look at it. Their classes had been scheduled at early morning seven o'clock.

"What the hell is wrong with Flamel!" Stewart gasped, "Why did we even saved his life?"

Peter was disappointed.

"Seven o'clock!" Alison dropped her glass of milk, "Is this a joke? Tell me it's a joke,"

Peter shook his head.

"So no early morning practice, and no evening practice, as everyone will be tired," Harper remarked, "Let's wish some miracle lets us win this year,"

"Peter!" Redmond's eyes widened, "It's the contest this year! Quidditch will be counted in the final score, how are we going to win?"

"Relax you all!" Peter finally spoke, "We'll figure something out, if we won't be practicing, the other houses will also be affected,"

Oliver and Travis nodded.

"Defense against the dark arts, it's in a few minutes from now," Peter continued, "Let's go guys, I really wanna see what Professor Pomp is like,"

They all stood up from the table and headed towards the corridors.