A/N: At long last… Welcome to COH, Part III: The Master of Death! Beyond excited to begin this instalment of our tale, which will see new POVs, new adventures, and much, much darker happenings. I hope you enjoy the ride.

This chapter, like all my introductory chapters, should be treated as a 'prologue' and is therefore shorter than those which will follow. Because I try to post the first instalment of a new Part and the final of the previous book at the same time, I will post all review responses for the last chapter of Part II and this first chapter of Part III at the end of Part III, Chapter 2. I promise the interlude will be short – the chapter is already completed and just in editing now.

Enjoy 'The Yew Wand', and…

Please read and review!

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DISCLAIMER: Any and all familiar characters and/or story lines are the property of Joanne Rowling.

Chapter 1: The Yew Wand

The scent of fear was thick upon the air, enveloping the two figures in the clearing.

With the birth of the seventh month, one would have expected southern Europe to be balmy; perhaps even unbearably warm. And yet this particular patch of wood was steeped in an unnatural chill that stunted the growth of flowering plants and sent forest creatures scurrying away through the underbrush.

The woman floated a few feet off the ground, spinning slowly, bound ankles to neck by thick, tight ropes. She had large, deep brown eyes, widened in terror and leaking tears onto the ground as she stared ahead, unable to move. Her colourless hair fell dully to cover one side of her face, then the other, as she turned like a hen upon a spit.

The man held the wand.

His hand was shaking as he kept the woman aloft, and every few seconds she dropped an inch or two. He was pale and perspiring: sweat glistening on the bald patch in the middle of his mousy hair. He did not weep, as the woman did, but his eyes were terrified as he darted them between whatever lay ahead and the darkened trees that surrounded their clearing.

They were weak. Pathetic, the pair of them. The man he might have killed on sight, had he been capable of the task…

But perhaps… there was possibility.

Clearly the man had sought him out – the first to do so, in more than twelve years. He was cowardly and small; of negligible magical talent and no particular interest. A snivelling man far more likely to fall in line in hopes of escaping death than stand for any principle. A man with no higher cause, other than his own survival.

Which made his appearance all the more intriguing… this person who would be the last he'd expect to come to his aide, when he himself was incapable of providing much in the way of defence.

'You are holding my wand,' he whispered. His voice seeped like a breeze through the wood.

The man jumped violently, and the woman fell almost to the forest floor before he righted the spell again.

'Ye-yes, my Lord,' the man confirmed. His voice was high and squeaky, exactly as it had been all those years ago… when this worthless little man had gifted him the information he sought above all else.

And sent him to his destruction.

'You are holding my wand,' he repeated.

His voice was no higher, but this time the trees groaned their protest as a chill joined the breeze. A few forest rodents scampered hurriedly into deeper cover.

The man shivered. 'A – a gift, my Lord,' he said quickly, his eyes on the forest floor. This time he allowed the woman to fall to the ground without an attempt to right her.

'How?' he demanded.

The man swallowed. 'I… I went to the house, that night, my Lord,' he said in a quiet, excited rush. 'I sought you immediately – I sought, sought to aid you –'

'You lie,' he whispered.

The wind kicked up again as his voice gathered strength.

'You did not come for me, Peter… you came when you felt the mark upon your arm burn… and saw it fade. You came in fear, as you have always lived your life. Do not lie to me, Peter… Even after all this time, surely you recall how I feel about deception? Look up!'

The man raised small, terrified eyes, and he fell into their depths. It was harder: in this state. He could not have done it to many; but Pettigrew's mind was weak and thoroughly unprotected.

He saw the memory of the night, the foremost thought in the man's head. Saw a younger, slightly fatter and just as sweaty man running through an open door… gulping thickly as he stepped over the body of the man he'd betrayed… taking the steps two at a time toward the nursery, where that insufferable child was wailing insistently…

He felt ill at the sight of it – the blown apart room. There was the boy, holding the bars of his cot and screaming his distress, a jagged cut bleeding on his forehead. The child stopped his wailing when Pettigrew entered the nursery, hiccupping himself into calm as he stared up through huge, emerald eyes. He half-moved his hands, as though hoping the newcomer would lift him… Recognising him, perhaps…

But Pettigrew spared the boy only a glance, looking more terrified than he had yet that evening. His eyes fell to the mudblood: sprawled on the floor where she had died for her scrap of a son. The child began to wail again at the resumption of his neglect.

The yew wand was inches from the woman's face.

Pettigrew bent, taking the weapon in shaking hands…

And there was a distant creak on the stairs, the sounds of someone running… another, come to see the destruction that had befallen this forsaken house.

Pettigrew darted a petrified glance toward the open door, clutching the wand tight to his chest like a child hiding a broken jug.

And he spun on the spot, disapparating.

'You took it in fear,' the Dark Lord spat as the man gave a yowl and fell to his knees, clutching at his head. 'You feared your treachery would be discovered… feared what they would do to you, Wormtail.'

The man gave an involuntary flinch.

'That was what they called you, was it not?' he continued in a whisper. 'Your friends… it was clear in your mind, Peter. Wormtail… an apt name, for a rat in every sense. I think I will take up the tradition.'

'M-my Lord,' the man pleaded. 'My Lord, please, I never –'

'What did you do with my wand, Wormtail?' he cut across him.

Wormtail swallowed hard again.

'I – I brought it to my mother's house, my Lord,' he said squeakily. 'In Ulster. There's… there's a old tree in the garden, with a hollow. I placed it there, protected with a charm. I thought – thought to keep it safe for you, for your return.'

'Such liesssss,' he said again, the word becoming a hiss. From the shadows, a great green snake slithered forward at his crooning. The man jumped backward in panic again as she came, but wisely did not run.

'You hid the wand for your own sake, Wormtail,' Voldemort continued. 'You hid it to keep your treachery in the shadows. You feared a Ministry inquiry would examine the wand, and that it would prove your allegiance to me… It would have been very difficult to go to ground then, wouldn't it? If the world had known who gave the Potters up.'

Wormtail swallowed heavily. 'I – my Lord,' he threw himself prostrate to the ground, in a placating bow. 'My Lord, I am weak. You have always known this. I – I do not deserve your forgiveness or your trust. You are right, of course you're right. I could never keep secrets from you… I am not a brave man, my Lord. I never have been. I hid the wand, and then I faked my own death. The Wizarding World thought Sirius Black the Order's traitor; they blamed him for the Potters' deaths and… and for mine. It was the only way I could stay free… the only way I could aid you.'

'And yet you did not,' Lord Voldemort noted.

The breeze kicked up again, and the snake began to hiss. Wormtail whimpered on the ground.

'You did not,' he repeated. 'You could have killed the brat that night… and you did not. You have been free these twelve years hence, yet you have never sought me until now. Why, I wonder…'

'I –'

'Look up!' he commanded again. And, again, he threw himself into the man's mind, searching the answers for himself. He was drained when at last he emerged, leaving Wormtail snivelling on the forest floor once more… he was not strong enough for these repeated attacks.

'You spent three years in Harry Potter's company,' he hissed. 'Three years, Wormtail. You did not kill him –'

'I knew you wanted him, my Lord,' Wormtail insisted, sweating more heavily still. 'I did not wish to take that from you; did not want to steal your –'

'You could have brought him to me,' Voldemort pointed out. 'Clearly, you were capable of finding me. It took you not a month. You could have brought me Harry Potter, had you not delayed your return to the moment when you could no longer outrun those you had once counted friends.'

'I – I should have thought it through, my Lord,' Wormtail apologised. 'I did not know you were–'

'You knew,' the Dark Lord disagreed. 'You knew, Wormtail, that I survived. You knew it from the beginning… and certainly you knew from two years ago. You were at Hogwarts when I sought the philosopher's stone. You did not come because you feared the responsibility. You feared the danger, as you have always done. You would not return now, while I am still next to helpless, if you were not out of options...'

'I – no, my Lord,' Wormtail disagreed fervently. 'That is not why I have –'

'Enough,' Voldemort said lazily. And Pettigrew broke off as if suddenly struck dumb.

'I am weary of excuses, Wormtail. But what am I to do with you, I wonder? Perhaps dinner, for Nagini…'

He hissed, and the snake lifted her head. Wormtail gave a squeal of panic.

'No, my Lord!' he insisted. 'I… I have found you. I have come to… to be useful, my Lord. To help you to return.'

'And how,' Voldemort challenged, 'Could you possibly assist in that? You are believed dead by most of the wizarding world. Your body would be ill-equipped for possession, as doing so would mean you could not transfigure or disguise yourself through magical means. You are a mediocre wizard at best… not the person I would trust, Wormtail, with the delicate magic required to remake a body. I can think of no purpose you might serve, and every possibility that your continued existence might bring the Aurors down upon my current whereabouts.'

'The… the girl,' Wormtail said desperately, pointing the middle finger of his mangled hand at the bound woman on the ground. 'I brought her for you, my Lord. As a gift. To show my –'

'You brought her in cowardice,' Voldemort disagreed dismissively. 'In cowardice, and with little other choice. She recognised you, did she not? And what were you to do with her… kill her in the wayside inn where you'd met over pints? Leave her body for the Aurors to follow? No… you had little choice but to lure her away; subdue her, bring her to me… You hoped I would get rid of her for you; that you need not kill her yourself. Did you not? You are using my wand, after all… you have no wand of your own. You could not hope to wield its power. Not enough for that curse. For my wand, like its master… rejects weakness, Wormtail…'

The man snivelled on his knees in the earth. 'It's true, my Lord,' he grovelled tearfully. 'It's true. I could not hope to use its power… could not hope to do this on my own. But I would have killed her the Muggle way, master. I would have. But she… she is a Ministry witch, my Lord. And she has information… I thought it might be useful to have –'

'Ministry?' Voldemort cut in, interested for the first time. 'What department?'

'Ma-Magical Games and Sports, my Lord,' Wormtail squeaked out. 'She was at school with me, you see. A few years older. She's called Bertha Jorkins.'

'A fairly useless department,' he said dismissively, his momentary excitement fading again. 'But still… worth investigating, to be sure. Hold her head up for me, Wormtail…'

Pettigrew was quick to obey, shuffling over toward the fallen and bound woman and shifting her. He lifted her head by the chin, forcing her face upward.

He fell into her mind as he had done to Pettigrew's, ignoring the exhaustion of a third attack. Hers was nearly as pliable… yet, there was something off about this one's thoughts: something stale; unnatural…

He pulled out again.

'Remove her gag, Wormtail,' he hissed.

The man's eyes widened, but he hastened to obey. He tore the wad of fabric from between the woman's teeth, and she coughed and sputtered; her head, now Wormtail had released his hold on her, lolling against the earth.

Disgusting.

'Look at me, woman,' he commanded.

Bertha Jorkins choked out another whimper, her shoulders heaving in their restraints.

'You do not wish me to force you,' he warned. His voice was still a whisper, but the chill of the breeze underscored his threat. Trembling, the woman turned her chin.

'Very good,' Lord Voldemort praised. 'Who are you, girl?'

'I… Bertha,' she squealed, terrified. 'I beg you, please! I'm just… just Bertha, Bertha Jorkins. I live in London, alone. I'm just on holiday here – for a few weeks. I work at the Ministry like… like he said. But I don't have an important post; I never have… And I don't have anything that could –'

He rushed her mind again, just to shut her up. She was howling when he withdrew.

'I do not require a monologue,' he told her. He watched her weep for a moment, deep in contemplation.

He had never heard of this woman before… she was of no importance, as far as he knew. She had no magical defences to speak of; no power that thrummed in the air. Yet the charm was a strong one, and placed by a talented hand.

'Who put the block upon your mind?' he demanded harshly.

The woman was quaking, but her face was confused. She shook her head. 'I… I don't know what you…'

'My Lord?' Pettigrew asked, brow furrowed.

'Her mind has been tampered with,' the Dark Lord explained. 'A Memory Charm, and a powerful one… too powerful, in fact. It has done permanent damage.'

'I… what are you –'

'Silence!' he commanded.

The woman, like the man before her, fell quiet as if choked.

Wormtail's eyes were full of fear. 'I did not,' he said, panic in his voice again. 'My Lord, it was not –'

He gave a high, cold laugh. 'Of course it was not you, Wormtail,' he mocked. 'I said the charm was powerful, did I not? No… but it is a most curious phenomenon. There are not many who could perform such a spell. And memory charms are highly regulated, after all. Nearly always illegal. A Healer might have dabbled… but I doubt even the fools at the Ministry would have kept her about, had they known her psyche was damaged at St Mungo's. Which means this charm was placed by another… One of their own, perhaps, acting without authority; or the Order; or else, it was one done by one of mine…'

The snake began to circle, hissing softly.

'Which begs the question,' the Dark Lord continued softly. 'What is it you have in your mind, Bertha Jorkins, that someone would rather you did not? What knowledge do you keep… that poses a threat to either the Ministry or Albus Dumbledore… or to the Death Eaters?'

The woman's quaking had grown so great that the earth around her shook with her terror. A puddle had formed beneath her, and Wormtail wrinkled his nose as he took a small step out of range.

'I… I have nothing, sir,' the woman squeaked. 'Please! I swear it – I… I don't know this Order, or any of your… your followers. I haven't spoken to Dumbledore since I left school almost twenty years ago! There is nothing I can –'

'I think,' Lord Voldemort said lazily, 'That I would prefer to be sure, Bertha. I would prefer to see, for myself…'

'My Lord?' Wormtail questioned in a hoarse whisper. 'If… if there is a block upon her memory…'

'Charms can be broken, Wormtail,' he replied. 'You, of all wizards, ought to remember that much. But to do so shall require the use of a wand…'

Wormtail swallowed heavily, raising the Dark Lord's own in shaking hands. 'I can… I shall try,' he said. 'If you can tell me –'

Lord Voldemort laughed again. 'Oh no, Wormtail,' he disagreed. 'No… I shall need to do this one myself. But you… you would do well not to resist…'

He moved closer. Wormtail realised, at the last moment, what he planned to do. His beady eyes went wide in alarm, the flash of an instinct to flee ran through his thoughts…

But it had happened before he could move.

He opened eyes that were not his; raised a mangled, sweaty hand. The woman was sobbing, her eyes bugging out as she watched him advance – his own stride more straight-backed and confident than this body had ever known. He could feel the turmoil of Wormtail's panic, trapped as he was in the recesses of his own mind… but Lord Voldemort's magic was far more powerful.

The wand, even held in Pettigrew's hand, could feel its master's Core within. The reunion sent a wave of heat through his borrowed bones and, as he flexed Wormtail's fingers over its handle, the yew wand sent forth a burst of green light that sheared the nearest oak tree in two.

He turned it on the woman, the heady sense of purpose he had so missed these long years building in his soul…

It was hours later that he finally released his servant, returning to his own pitiable state.

He had debated remaining. Weak and pathetic though the wizard might be… it was a body. A human body. And he had not had that prospect for more than two years. But to perform magic, through another, was difficult and draining… even with his own precious weapon. Quirrell he could allow to cast on his own; but Quirrell had not been believed dead. Quirrell could mingle in society – Wormtail could not. If he had to flee because Wormtail was discovered, he would be without a servant, once again. And even still, prolonged possession could kill Pettigrew before Lord Voldemort had obtained what he needed. The risk was too great… and he must not squander another opportunity.

Not when Peter – foolish, pathetic little Peter – had unwittingly handed him the greatest opportunity he had seen since the moment he fled that accursed nursery, through this Ministry witch…

Not when there was another out there… one who could assist in helping him to rise again…

Not when there was a way to get to Harry Potter…

No. He needed a body of his own.

Wormtail moaned, coming to on the leaf strewn ground. He clutched at his head as he pulled himself to his knees. His watering eyes focused on the woman. She was not weeping, any longer.

She, perhaps, might have been useful for possession… but no soul could inhabit her body now. She was a ruined husk: staring vacantly through unseeing eyes; bits of spittle and blood oozing from the corner of her mouth, smearing the pink lipstick she had worn when she so unwisely entered the roadside inn. Lord Voldemort had severed her bonds. There was no longer a chance that she might flee. Her limbs were askew at unnatural angles, their flesh battered and leaking. Most of the wounds he could not have repaired even should he be inclined to do so.

There had been no choice. Her information was far more valuable than her pitiful shell.

'You will have heard everything, Wormtail,' he observed.

'Ye…yes, my Lord,' the man whispered back. 'If he is alive…'

'I cannot make the journey back like this,' the Dark Lord continued. 'There is a task I must complete… and then, I shall need a body, for the transport.'

'You… you wish to use mine?' Pettigrew asked, his terror paramount once more.

'No,' Lord Voldemort answered. 'Yours is ill-adept for such a purpose, and for such a time. But you will help me to create one… a temporary solution, until I can truly rise again. Take the woman's wand… it, perhaps, might bend more easily to your inferiority.'

'Anything,' the man said, bowing low again in his relief. 'Anything you need, my Lord, I shall do it. You have my undying –'

'I will need to rest, before we might begin,' he said. 'There is a cave, just beyond the ridge. Come… you will need to milk Nagini.'

The man rose to unsteady feet, brushing the forest from his knees. He lumbered forward to retrieve the woman's weapon. Then he paused, staring down at her broken form.

'What of the girl, my Lord?'

'Keep her, for now,' the Dark Lord insisted. 'I will have a use for her yet.'

'My Lord, she is damaged beyond repair,' Wormtail pointed out, looking ill.

'Yet she is alive,' Voldemort countered. 'And thus, she can be killed.'

'My Lord?' Wormtail asked in confusion.

'Death can serve a purpose, Wormtail,' the Dark Lord explained. 'And hers… hers will. Come, Nagini,' he finished in parseltongue.

The great snake gave a compliant hiss, and followed her master's shadow toward the cave.

More than a thousand miles away, Harry Potter screamed himself awake.