The Event On The Horizon

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The evening moon rose in the blue sky, ushering in the time of night, tugging the cover off from over the arrays of stars, revealing all the constellations that peered down on the mortals of the world. But in a clearing by the woods, away from the excitement of the city — bright flashing lightbulbs strobing all around like a disco ball in an eighties nightclub, ushering a different sort of zest and zeal.

A gigantic multi-colored sign lined with bulky tinted lightbulbs hung on two beams under which people walked past from a put-up stall with bored attendants talking to each other while stamping tickets to a cityside carnival.

People with families, friends, or their lovers on dates entered the beat-down grounds, occasionally housing the visiting carnivals and concerts. The music climbed louder, recorded clown laughter cackled through speakers, and the melodies of children's joy as some ran around with carnival food in hand while others rode on the chugging motor powering the rides.

Outside the raucous circus establishment, near a growth of trees that cast ghastly shadows under the weightless moonlight, space itself twisted and turned like being sucked through a tube before the one by one, the fabric of space spat out people dressed in black robes with air popping loudly, but only to be drowned out by the loud circus music.

In a few seconds, twenty people stood blending in the shadows, all looking at the inviting put-together fairgrounds of wood and metal with life thrumming with vigor.

"I can almost taste it," said the woman with thick, shining dark hair, long eyelashes, and heavily hooded eyes, "the joy, the delight, ah, it's almost palpitating," she stuck out tongue as if wanting to taste the emotions.

Bellatrix Lestrange's companions turned their eyes hidden beneath their masked faces to the woman, many wondering how the woman could descend further into madness; she had been twisted as writhing horrors behind her once great beauty — but that was Azkaban for you, it never failed to leave its taint on its guests, and Bellatrix had stayed long enough to call it her home.

She cackled, her body shivered, and her shoulder involuntary twitched as she turned to a robed matchstick figure standing in the middle of the groups, a hood covering the bowed head that sat upon a slouched back.

"Rivers!" Bellatrix called as she hopped to him like a schoolgirl. "So what do you have planned today? Tell meee~! I. Am. So. Looking. To. Having. Some. Fun. Tonight!"

Rivers looked at the crazy woman swaying her waist in front of him as her curls bounced from shoulder to shoulder. How had it come to this? How was he roped into this?

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- (Scene Break: Flashback) -

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Rivers had heard tales about Azkaban and its notorious jailers, but never could he have realized that hallowed eyes and depressed voices couldn't even scratch the surface of the realities of the most harrowing prison on living lands.

Being imprisoned in a shoddy excuse of a room — something that even by the most losest of the standards couldn't be called a jail room. Floors and walls seeping with moisture from the surrounding sea kept the cell uncomfortably wet all around the year; the days and days he had spent trapped not being able to find a dry spot to rest with the crazy screams, crying, and the woman's laughter ringing in his ears had driven him longing for the simple bed back home — he would even beg for the cold wood floor, or anything as long as it was dry.

Then there was the chilling abrasive air coming from the barred window that scraped the skin, leaving it cold and raw. He and the prisoners were given an old matty blanket with a thick weave that did a poor job of keeping anyone warm — but that was a negligible problem when the only cover he had gotten wet like everything else.

The food was always cold mush that had left his teeth without exercise for years, and the water was limited, hastily thrown down their gullet by the Aurors who were always in a hurry to get out of the Dementor's sight that always stared at them from under their robes as if the Aurors were fresh, juicy prey.

No one talked in Azkaban. There was plenty of screaming, crying (and the woman's laughter) but never any talking.

Rivers hadn't minded it when he had newly arrived, but as the days passed by and the Dementors gathered around in his cell for a mint meal every day for weeks, he hoped someone would tell him that there was a way to escape the daily nightmare, but no one spoke a word — even after he called and cried for someone, anyone — no one spoke — not even an "It's no use," that he had read in the books.

Rivers had soon come to realize that in Azkaban, there was no hiding from the Dementors. As long one stayed in the fortress, they were nothing more than feeding beds for the hooded monstrosities.

As long as they stayed.

He couldn't lie if he hadn't thought of breaking out, but those mentations were squashed by his own hard logic. He wasn't a magical savant; neither he possessed a crew of minions for a breakout, nor could he assemble one — the people had long lost hope; he lacked leverage that would make the Aurors for him.

In short, there was no way out for him.

'Without help,' Rivers thought bitterly, 'I can't get out of here.'

Then the walls of hell broke open, and his face was hit by cold rain and windy gusts after years. He was so thirsty that he stuck out his tongue and let the raindrops hit his tongue — it felt heavenly.

It must be a dream, he had thought. But then he realized why the damned woman had been laughing for so long.

Before his mental faculties could catch up, he was dragged out of his cell. They, whoever they were, didn't technically drag him out; they didn't even touch him — magic lifted him off from the ground, and he was flown through what he inferred as corridors, he had only vaguely seen them only once when he was brought in, but at that time, he was taken by the sight of the doomed prisoners without light in their eyes.

Soon he was out of the fortress, just like that. He was out of the prison; he had spun his brain into hopelessness by thinking on how to escape — but here he was, seeing the moon without the rusted black iron bars in his way.

'It's raining,' he thought, but the shower wasn't falling on him — it was perfect.

"Rivers Lock."

For a second, there was no reaction from Rivers; it had after all been so long that he had been called by his name — he was always Prisoner — no guard had called him by his name, he doubted they even knew about it.

"Rivers Lock."

Rivers finally weakly lifted his thin neck up and fronted his gaunt face to the caller. In the weak light of the pouring and thundering rain, Rivers couldn't see the face; all he could see was a short and thin man dressed in heavy robes.

"It's nice to finally meet you after so long," said the man, "though I wished it would've been in better circumstances," Rivers could feel the man's eyes looking all over him, "hmm, your condition doesn't seem to be great," and he said it like it was surprising

How dare this man say that and have the nerve to be surprised, he thought. Rivers was sure this man was some sort of pampered imbecile who hadn't tasted a day of hardship.

Rivers growled at the man, but all that came out was a frail groan from his unused voice box, and his neck couldn't keep his head up, and it fell back down.

The man chuckled humourlessly, "It seems you have some vigor left in you. Good, that's good. Well, that aside, we are here to break out some friends, and I thought it would be appropriate if we took you with us, because without some help, there's no getting off this island without dying in the sea," there was a chuckle, "and it was sort of my fault that you ended up here."

Rivers painfully cranked his neck up: "What?"

"Hmm? You don't recognize me?" the man crouched down and pulled off his hood to reveal a thin but healthy face.

Rivers' blank eyes stared at the face; it took a few seconds for his muddled mind to pull up a memory. It was one of a half-torn, stained, wanted poster he had seen stuck on a pub wall, and on it was a chubby man, who sweated as his mugshot was captured.

The man in front of him was nothing like that, but his brain still brought up the memory, and even in his current state, Rivers trusted his mind, and another blink and look at the man's face, his pupils shrunk in recognition.

"You-you. . . are. . . P-Pettigrew. . . Peter Pettigrew!"

Peter flatly smiled, "Glad you recognized me. We have only conversed once through my sole letter to you, but that one time has led us to meet here again."

"You!" Rivers hoarse voice raged. "You are the reason I-I. . ." he fumed, anger fueling his weak body.

"That would be incorrect," said Peter, "I simply provided you information; it was your decision to act on it. Blaming me won't take away from your foolish choices. But let's put that behind us, cherish the present, and look forward to a bright present."

Peter's voice was so miserably flat that all his word sounded unmotivated and thus totally false. Rivers was left without words — there wasn't anything he could say; he was a man with a broken body, while Peter Pettigrew was a man who had seemingly just broken Azkaban.

"Now, I would like to meet my Master," said Peter. "I'm sure you had heard of him. . . he goes by the name. . ."

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And that's how Rivers Lock ended up banking up with the Death Eaters. He went from the leader of Novellus Accionites to a lower-middle circle member of the Dark Lord's Death Eaters.

For the first time in his life, he had been bound, his freedom chained. He was below the upper and inner circle members, any of them could order him around, and he couldn't refuse — not if he wanted to face the wrath of some individuals who wouldn't think for a second before either torturing or straight out killing him.

Then there was the Dark Lord, who would talk to him for hours about his work with Novellus Accionites. Rivers hoped to smooth talk to the Dark Lord, hoping to get into the good graces, but that went nowhere. The Dark Lord would call him to ask questions, and if he tried to deviate to build some relationship, the Dark Lord would put the conversation right on track.

It didn't help that the man was a Master Legilemens, and there was nothing he could hide. Rivers wouldn't even know that his mind was being read without his knowledge, but he did doubt that such was the case.

Finally, there was Peter Pettigrew, his handler in the Death Eater organization. He served the Dark Lord under Peter and was essentially Peter's subordinate.

Subordinate, Rivers had scoffed in his mind. Rivers' was sure that in Peter's mind, he was just a tool for Peter to use. His life was in Peter's hands, and it was all but a law because Dark Lord had decreed it.

He had no way of running.

Rivers was brought out his thoughts by a snapping of fingers in front of his face.

"Rivers? Mr. Lock?" called Bellatrix, and Rivers looked blankly at her.

"There are reports," he started, "that there is a pair of Aurors present there in that carnival today," Dark Lord's Death Eaters had a reach that his Novellus Accionites could only dream of, "both of them are muggleborns, and from what it seems, are on a date."

Bellatrix giggled, twirling her wand in locks of her hair, "Oh my~! Maybe we will play with one while the other watches."

Rivers ignored the mad woman's ramblings and continued with his plans, "Our motive today is to gain the pair's attention," he looked around the other Death Eaters. "All Azkaban ten members are here and will be entering the carnival without any disguises."

He was also part of the escapees, but he wasn't of importance and wasn't publicized as the escapees, which he was glad about.

"All of you will enter the carnival and make it look like that you're meeting in a muggle carnival, away from the wizardkind's eyes, but you're going to purposefully make yourself seen by the Aurors, so they will contact their friends back at the DMLE, and —"

"Have a party!" said Bellatrix, and there was a light on the top of her wand, thrumming with magic as wanting to rip free.

"We are not to use magic unless it's not necessary," said Rivers, "we need to keep the arriving Aurors here as long as we can, so please situate yourself near the muggles, so the Aurors won't use magic as well." He turned to the remaining Death Eaters, "All of you'll wait for my signal before doing what you were ordered to do and put the plan into motion. Be careful because we are going to be working with the place brimming with Aurors, one mist—"

"You don't need to tell us that, kid," said Augustus Rookwood, ex-Unspeakable, and one of the Azkaban Ten. "You just make sure that your ends happen smoothly."

". . . I see," said Rivers, "well then, I have nothing more to say. It's time to start."

The twenty Death Eaters trained their eyes on the carnival, planning to set off the biggest event of the year and a starting point for a chain of events to come.

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FictionOnlyReader - Author - I have no idea why, but I have gotten slow. I'm writing really slow, and the chapter content is going through a change I'm not liking. This is the second short chapter in a row. I'll try to figure it out by the new year. I'm not going to stop posting, so don't worry about it.

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The link is in the synopsis!