At the age of sixteen, Basil Bulstrode learned that his father had been a Death Eater. He had neither sought out nor stumbled upon this information; rather, his father thought Basil's birthday was the opportune time to reveal his colorful past. Basil was a simple boy who wanted little more than to be left alone to sort his Chocolate Frog cards. Normally, his father spent most of his time at the local Muggle pub, leaving Basil to this hobby. It was what the teen preferred.
"It was - and still is - an honor to serve the Dark Lord," the Bulstrode patriarch declared as Basil shoveled spice cake into his mouth, "as it was for my brother Baker."
"Uncle Baker is a Death Eater as well?" Basil asked after swallowing thickly.
"Yes. And it is my desire for you to take the Mark, like your cousin Murphy," said Balfour Bulstrode.
Basil looked to his mother. Her watery brown eyes were cast down to the floor. "But - I don't - "
"It is family tradition," his father interrupted gruffly. "And I'll hear no argument against it. Perhaps earning the Dark Lord's favor will repair some of the damage to your reputation."
Basil winced. He had always been a rather average student, but his teachers liked him, and he stayed out of trouble. His father was referring to being in Hufflepuff. "But I am not nearly as skilled as Cousin Murphy."
"You will improve. Murphy is four years older than you, after all."
Basil's mother still stared at her feet. He wished she would say something to defend him, but he knew his hope would not come to fruition. She never said anything to oppose her husband. Not after the last time he had punished her for it years ago.
Two nights later, Balfour grimaced and grabbed his left forearm during dinner. His fork clashed down to his nearly empty plate as he stood. He shuffled up the staircase to the main suite, not bothering to hide the silver mask in his hands when he came back downstairs.
"You just wait, boy," said Balfour to his son. "Glory will be yours in time."
But Basil did not want glory. He wanted to be left alone so he could enjoy his hobbies in silence. His mother understood this about him, but why not his father? He pondered this conundrum as he removed his wizard cards from their sleeves so he could sort them once again. The last time he had done this, he had put them in order of age, from youngest to oldest. Tonight he decided he would organize them by Hogwarts house, and if they received their education elsewhere, they would be in an entirely different section of his worn leather binder.
Did his father expect that Basil's likeness would be forever ensnared on a card if he became a Death Eater? No, that could not be. No Death Eaters were honored in such a way. Suddenly, the prospect made Basil wish he had convinced his father that he could not do it.
Even with this thought running through his mind, he fell asleep as the minutes ticked by. He awoke when his father reappeared in the living room fireplace.
He learned the outcome of his father's conversation with You-Know-Who. He would not accept Basil into his inner circle or brand him with his Mark. Not until he had proved himself.
It was the third week in June when the supposed opportunity presented itself. Basil was expected to accompany his father to Seaton, wand at the ready and his features blurred with a charm instead of a silver mask.
Basil did not know what they would be doing, except to watch and wait.
Watch for the three wizards that lived there, two adults and one teenager like himself, to be in the little blue house. Wait for six other witches and wizards to arrive. Balfour said only he would be the one bearing the Dark Mark, and the rest were all hopefuls like Basil.
But Balfour misunderstood. Basil did not want the Dark Mark, and he did not want to be in Seaton. Especially after learning they were watching Harry Potter's house.
The six others arrived late into that cool June night. They wore hoods over their heads, their faces swirling and blurred. Basil felt dizzy as he looked at them.
"They are home, all three of them," said Balfour from behind his silver mask.
"Then let's not waste any time," a witch insisted, her brown wand gripped in her hand.
"How do we know it's safe?" a much shorter wizard asked.
Balfour chuckled. "Safe? Do you really expect a surprise attack on Black and Lupin to be safe?"
Basil's stomach lurched. He felt stupid for not realizing this sooner. He wanted to point out that Harry was skilled at dueling and therefore should not be counted out, but he feared he would vomit if he opened his mouth. More chatter passed between his father and the others with blurred faces, but he couldn't focus on it. When Balfour instructed him to approach the back door of the house, but quietly, he had to be told twice.
Basil's thoughts returned helplessly to his cards. He could be sorting them right now. He could be deciding whether the Hufflepuffs belonged alphabetically or by year. There were rules for cards. There were systems. Cards did not suddenly appear in your home and demand that you murder someone.
He did as instructed and crouched low to the ground with his wand out, but even if Black or Lupin or Harry confronted him, he didn't know what he would do. How did one cast a stunning spell? The precise movements he needed were evading his memory. Was it swipe up and then immediately to the right? No, no. That was an herb straightening charm, that would not help him tonight -
A loud bang followed by a flash of light knocked the thoughts right out of Basil's brain. Balfour had burst through the back door of the house, and three others followed right behind him. Was Basil supposed to follow, or stand guard out in the yard? He couldn't remember. Oh, if he screwed this up, Balfour would be angry, and then he would punish him.
Basil had learned long ago that his father's anger was easier to survive when he agreed with everything.
He wondered if his father would let him decide which finger was to be forcibly removed, a choice he had granted his mother. Perhaps he would be so angry that he would take his whole hand.
After eight heartbeats that were deafening in Basil's ears, he decided to enter the house. Better to try to help than to remain frozen in the yard. At least if he made an effort, his father might spare him.
His hands were so sweaty that he almost dropped his wand as he followed the sound of his father's voice. When he entered the small sitting room, he had nowhere to stand but behind a tall witch whose identity he did not know.
Black, Professor Lupin, and Harry were all there. They stood with their backs pressed together, wands at the ready, but they were outnumbered two to one. Maybe that was why Balfour was laughing so heartily.
"Drop your wands!" he commanded jovially. Basil stepped beside the tall witch to get a better look. Black stared back at Balfour, but he did not reply. That was odd, thought Basil. When he saw Black around Hogwarts, he would talk nonstop to anyone who would listen.
A swirl of magic whipped through the room, like a sudden wind that appeared with an approaching cold front. Basil gasped as his hood was knocked back, and the others seemed just as stunned. The wind seemed to blow right through Harry and the other two wizards, and then their faces faded into the surrounding room. In seconds, they had disappeared altogether.
"What is this?" one of the hooded wizards exclaimed, stepping backward and knocking into an armchair.
Balfour's laugh had died on his face. Now, his sharp inhales were the loudest thing in the room. Basil's heartbeat echoed in his ears, and he clapped his hands to them to try to make it stop. His wand fell to the floor, forgotten.
"Retreat!" Balfour yelled, pushing past the wizard beside him, "Retreat, now!"
They didn't have time to do as Balfour demanded. Loud pops and bangs sounded from outside the house, so many that Basil lost count. As he tried to make sense of what was happening, the others around him were panicking. Those with swirling faces shouted and fumbled over each other.
The tall witch started the couch on fire. Basil didn't know if it was an accident or on purpose, but it was quickly growing hot, and black smoke made him cough; he didn't know whether to try from the direction he had come or make for the front door like one of the others.
Balfour hollered as he grasped Basil's arm and yanked him against his side. He seemed to be contemplating the same decision, but it did not matter. The Saints of the Blood had already entered the house.
Basil screamed as bangs and colorful flashes of light filled his senses. Whereas the Dark Lord's peons shrieked in fear, the Saints were eerily quiet. The only communication evident between them was subtle hand gestures before more spells were cast.
Basil slammed his eyes shut, and then a spell hit him squarely in the chest.
When consciousness slowly returned to him, he realized someone was dragging him across the ground by his ankle. He didn't dare open his eyes, for fear that whoever it was would notice. Where dark robes did not cover his skin, he felt cool grass gliding across his skin.
"My favorite armchair," a familiar voice said, "was that really necessary?"
"It can be fixed, Padfoot," said another, and Basil instantly recognized it as Professor Lupin's.
"It's charred, it's barely recognizable, it's ruined - "
"Then you will get another," a female voice interjected. "Ask Cass. She has a few Galleons to spare."
"I have my own Galleons," said the first voice Basil recognized as Sirius. He sighed, "But it's not the same."
"More important things to attend to," Tonks said with a smile, shaking her head at her cousin's lack of priorities. "Like what we're going to do with this lot."
Lupin, who had removed the blurring charm from the last cloaked figure, glanced at the young Auror. "I thought we already had a plan."
"Sure. Dispose of any Death Eaters, Obliviate the rest," replied Tonks. "But this one..." She stepped over to one of the stunned bodies. As she leaned over the young wizard, his eyes shot open.
"Please," he said softly, "I don't want to be disposed of." A few feet away, Balfour Bulstrode, the only one who had been using a silver mask to hide his face, stirred.
"Leave my son alone!" he yelled, struggling against his invisible bonds.
"You bring your kid into this, and now you're concerned for his safety?" Sirius said incredulously. He spat in the Death Eater's uncovered face.
Bulstrode hollered in indignation. Diolinda stepped closer to Tonks so she wouldn't have to speak over the yelling.
"It seems he is underage," she said. "In this case, I think we must consult our mistress."
Lupin stepped beside Tonks, giving her a quick sideways glance before crouching down to study the wizard in question more closely. "Basil Bulstrode. He'll be going into his sixth year." Tonks muttered something nearly undetectable under her breath, but Lupin's canine ears were sharp enough to hear her swears. He smiled.
"It's simple," said Sirius. "Not a Death Eater, then he gets Obliviated." Balfour roared, the sound cut off abruptly by Diolinda's spell.
"It is not that simple!" Diolinda said sharply. "Lady Snape did not give us instructions in this scenario, and I am not about to assume her wishes - "
"Lady Snape," Sirius argued, his nose wrinkling when acknowledging his cousin's recent change in surname, "specifically requested not to be disturbed this week."
"But if we do something she does not approve of - "
"Then she will have to accept it. She left us to handle this on our own, didn't she?" Sirius pointed out. "If we leave his memories intact, we are intentionally endangering everything."
After a few more minutes of discussion, the fates of Basil and his companions were decided. He whimpered on the ground as a witch with an auburn braid began erasing memories and minds. She finished with the witch next to him and stepped over to him. Balfour began to plead when her wand was pointed at Basil's head.
"Wait," Tonks said, and the witch glanced over at the Auror. "We can't do this to him."
"We must," Sirius countered.
"There is an alternative," said Remus evenly. "We can bring him to Romily." Sirius simultaneously scoffed and rolled his eyes nearly to the back of his skull.
"She is much more skilled than me," the auburn-haired witch said, her wand now at her side. "While I can assure complete decimation of a person's memories, she can sort through them and erase specific ones."
"He doesn't deserve to keep specific ones!" Sirius balked.
"He's only a boy," Remus pressed softly.
So it was decided that Basil would be brought before Romily. But not before the rest of the wannabe Death Eaters were taken care of, and that meant executing Balfour.
Basil sobbed when Diolinda aimed her wand at Balfour's chest. The flash of green was so bright that it lit up the entire neighborhood.
Remus pulled the Hufflepuff to his feet. He trembled as the werewolf guided him away from his father's corpse and the others that had now forgotten that night, along with all the other nights of their lives.
Basil retched after their swift Apparition to Hogsmeade. Remus wanted to reassure the boy but remained silent. There was no point in offering him comfort. He would not remember the entire ordeal in a few minutes.
Remus dragged him to the staircase outside Madam Puddifoot's. The novelty of the pink building was lost on him tonight. He wasn't sure he would ever be able to look at the tea shop the same way after leading his former student to this fate.
Romily, while irked at being interrupted on her night off, was thankfully willing to charm the boy. Of all the Saints, she was by far the most skilled at erasing minds. Basil snorted and sobbed as Romily removed her wand from her pocket. He slumped in Remus's grip as she pruned memories like they were the shriveled leaves on a neglected houseplant.
Her expression changed when she reached the memory of Balfour striking his wife. It lasted only a second before her features hardened again. "How much of this?" she asked quietly.
Remus hesitated. "As little as possible."
Romily pocketed her wand after Basil stilled. She wiped the tears and snot away from the Hufflepuff's swollen face with a satin white kerchief.
"I don't know how you managed to find your way all the way to Hogsmeade, but that is enough mischief for one night," she said to him. Basil blinked a few times, surprised to be in an unknown flat with this witch and his former Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.
"Professor Lupin," said Basil, turning toward the familiar face, "I'm afraid I don't recall how I got here - "
"It's alright, Basil," Remus said with a forced smile. "Let's get you home to your mother."
Remus did just that. When Basil was safe inside his house, Remus made his way back to Seaton in case loose ends needed tying up. He wasn't sure what idea Sirius had concocted for Balfour's body, but was sure it would not be pleasant.
The next morning, Basil awoke to an unusually quiet house. The first thing he noticed was that his cards were scattered across his bedroom floor. He couldn't remember dropping them.
He didn't hear his mother approach. She stood in the doorway, watching him with tears in her eyes.
"What happened?" Basil asked.
She shook her head. "Nothing, sweetheart." Basil frowned. Something about that answer felt wrong.
He began sorting his cards anyway.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The small white cottage belonging to the Snapes, which sat unoccupied for nearly ten months out of the year, finally had inhabitants. The flower garden, which Molly Weasley tended for most of the season, looked as colorful and pristine as ever. A small curl of smoke ascended from the chimney toward the heavens, as if in celebration of its first use of the summer holiday. Candlelight flickered inside the house. The Potions Master did not allow electric lights to flood his potions laboratory, as they had too many potential adverse effects on some of the more delicate ingredients he had so carefully procured.
Not that Mrs. Snape minded the gloomy atmosphere.
When she slowly opened the door to take a peek at her husband, the small flames accentuated the stark contrast between his pale skin and black features. It reminded her of how he looked when he worked in the dungeons, his dark eyes fixed intently on whatever concoction he was preparing. Then her mind wandered.
She wondered what she could do to distract him from such a meticulous task without making it too obvious that she wanted his attention. Perhaps she could change into her white silk nightie. If she entered the potions laboratory wearing nothing but that, it might be obvious to Severus what she was up to, but he would not be able to resist her nonetheless.
"Either come in," said Severus, his eyes remaining fixed on the cauldron as he stirred clockwise, "or shut the door." His baritone voice cut through the silence of the laboratory, making Cassie jump. She had incorrectly assumed she had been stealthy enough to avoid his notice.
"Sorry, Sev," Cassie said with a small smile as she peered through the opening. "I didn't mean to distract you."
"Yes, you did."
Cassie scoffed as she opened the door wider and stepped into the laboratory. "Do you think me so obnoxious?"
"Not always," Severus replied coolly.
He released the ladle from his hand, and his black eyes locked onto her. The candlelight made him seem almost ethereal, and Cassie's breath caught in her throat. If it were up to her, she would swipe the ingredients and test tubes from the table and send them crashing to the floor to make room. He might banish her from ever coming into the room again if she did.
One side of Severus's mouth turned upward into a small, gratified smirk. She knew he had guessed what she was thinking with irritating accuracy.
"Don't look so pleased," she retorted, crossing her arms over her chest.
The faint smile grew.
"I've only a few more ingredients to add. Then I will be free to join you in the bedroom."
Cassie didn't hide her delight when she turned to leave the room. There was no point. It was unlikely he had missed the heat rising from her bosom to her cheeks, anyway.
The white nightie was still on her mind as she started up the staircase. A tap at the kitchen window cut through her preoccupation like a blade.
An owl, at this time?
If it were from one of her Saints, there would be hell to pay. She had specifically instructed them to leave her alone for the week. She had full confidence they could handle whatever crisis arose for a mere few days. All she desired was to be holed up in her home with her husband, even if the idea that she could be left alone for any length of time was slightly delusional.
A thousand scenarios that might require her immediate attention ran through her mind as she turned back toward the kitchen. She cursed under her breath with every step she took. If this was something trivial that Romily or Diolinda could have dealt with, she swore she would hex the entirety of her entourage without a single drop of remorse.
The owl dropped the letter into her hands as soon as the window opened and took off before Cassie could make out the little emblem tied around the bird's neck. She turned the envelope over in her hands.
A large M was stamped into the wax seal. Despite an overwhelming part of her that wanted to throw the piece of mail directly into the fireplace, Cassie opened it.
To Cassiopeia Snape (nee Black),
I do hope this letter finds you well. I myself, having been promoted to Junior Assistant to the Minister for Magic, have been extraordinarily busy with the most important of tasks. That is why I am sending this at night; I found no time during my working hours to compose it. I do hope that my words are easy to understand despite my lack of sleep lately.
Renowned journalist for The Daily Prophet, Rita Skeeter, wishes to interview you. She has approached me on several occasions, asking me to inquire about your stance on this matter. I believe giving her insight into your activities would be most beneficial to both you and Britain's magical population. Many of those that I work with would be immensely pleased if you permitted Skeeter to write an article covering whichever topics you feel are most important. Of course, Skeeter would also have questions.
I hope you will consider this proposal. I can hardly maneuver any more requests that involve tasks outside of the most important ones Minister Fudge assigns to me.
Sincerely,
Percival I. Weasley
Junior Assistant to the Minister for Magic
Cassie read it over twice. Percy's words conveyed his audacity in approaching such a topic, especially when he was quite aware of Cassie's views on such things. Arthur had mentioned more than once how much his son's position at the Ministry meant to him, but Cassie sensed that Percy's hunger to advance his career would become much more of a problem than it already was.
She gave in to her initial desire to rid herself of the letter and tossed it into the fire. The glossy parchment shriveled and curled before succumbing to the orange flames. Within minutes, it was nothing but ashes. But Percy's message had pushed all thoughts of Severus joining her in bed far from her mind.
As she slowly made her way to the second floor, her mind swirled with thoughts of what Skeeter might write if Cassie refused to meet with her—and whether Fudge had put the guileful journalist up to the task.
She would not fulfill this thinly veiled demand. Fudge could try to tarnish her public image all he wanted.
Cassie let out a groan of frustration as she sat on the edge of her bed. All she had wished for was a few days to be left alone, to pretend that nothing but she and Severus existed. The current state of the wizarding world could wait for her.
Until it couldn't.
She got to her feet and stepped over to the little black cupboard beside the dresser. It contained a small store of potions, mostly Dreamless Sleep Tonics and remedies for minor illnesses. Tonight, however, she was after something a bit more alluring.
She pushed her pink contraceptive potion aside to find a little vial containing an opaque scarlet liquid. Drinking Severus's carefully brewed Risveglentine was a treat she rarely allowed herself. For all the wonderful sensations it would bring, it would surely incapacitate her if something dire should arise.
She uncorked the vial and downed the potion in one swallow. When her husband entered their bedroom minutes later, she was hardly aware of the sight that greeted him. She had already rid herself of her clothing and was lying on her back, waiting for him.
A mixture of a chuckle and a groan left Severus's throat.
Her gaze was heavy-lidded when she noticed him. Her unoccupied hand gestured for him to come closer.
"Getting started without me, I see," he mused. He felt nothing but impassioned desire at the sight of his wife already so aroused. Then he noticed the empty Risveglentine vial that had been thoughtlessly tossed onto the emerald-green coverlet.
"I drank the whole bottle," said Cassie, her words punctuated by heavy breaths.
"I noticed," Severus quipped.
He knelt beside the bed, but not before grasping Cassie's hips and pulling her toward him. Her response was immediate, and soon his carefully maintained self-control was a distant thought.
He took his time with her, savoring the opportunity to give her his undivided attention. His own desire was nearly overwhelming, but there was something deeply satisfying about watching his usually formidable wife lose herself completely in him. When her release finally came, she cried his name to the heavens.
He would not cast sound wards, neighbors be damned. Let them hear. Let them understand that she belonged to him.
She spent only a few moments catching her breath before pouncing on him. Most of her strength had returned after ingesting countless blood replenishers and getting several nights of potion-induced sleep. It was little effort for her to climb on top of Severus and push him onto his back.
He dragged his fingers over his eyes and down his face, a failed attempt to regain some self-control as she went to work unbuttoning the white shirt he had been brewing in.
Cassie kissed his neck and then his collarbone before her hands found his belt. Her lips trailed down his chest as she freed him from the last of his clothing.
"My vixen," he breathed. Any sensible words that might have formed in his mind dissolved beneath the intensity of the moment.
There was nothing quite like the sight of the brooding Potions Master coming unraveled under her touch. Cassie loved it. Every twitch. Every breath. Every desperate grasp of his fingers in her hair as her tongue swirled around him.
She knew she would never crave anything more than being with the man she had married.
Severus's pale face twisted into an expression of unchecked pleasure, his breathing uneven as his fingers tangled painfully in her hair. His composure, so carefully guarded everywhere else, had completely deserted him as he finished in her mouth.
When his breathing finally began to slow, Cassie crawled toward him and cuddled her naked body against his partially clothed torso. She loved listening to his heartbeat slow in the aftermath of their lovemaking.
"Sickle for your thoughts?" Severus murmured into the dark room. Cassie smiled against his sweaty chest.
"Little else is going through my mind," she said, the tip of her finger drawing small circles across his collarbone, "besides that I love you."
"I love you, too."
Cassie lifted her head to look at him. Even in the darkness, his black eyes seemed to glitter. "Don't think that gets you off the hook."
His eyebrows rose in genuine surprise. "Meaning?"
"Being a highly skilled brewer," she said, her blue eyes twinkling, "you ought to know that Risveglentine in one's system demands a proper fucking."
Severus groaned in mock exasperation. "I thought it was time for sleep."
"We can sleep when we're dead."
"I've created a monster," he declared.
She giggled softly before grinding herself against him. The barrier between them was no longer something Cassie could tolerate, and with a wave of her hand, Severus's remaining clothing disappeared.
"Hmm," said Cassie, feeling his body responding to her. "It seems I'm not the only one." She shrieked in delight as her husband wrapped his arms around her and flipped her onto her back once again.
He cradled her face in his hand as his lips crashed into hers. Every kiss, every brush of his tongue against hers seemed to reinvigorate the elixir coursing through her blood, and soon she was digging her fingers into his hips.
Severus's lips found the nape of her neck. She spread her legs wider, inviting him closer.
Then his sharp cry startled her from their reverie. Severus was still holding himself above her when she noticed the tattoo on his left forearm burning an inky black—the Dark Mark.
Before his muddled thoughts cleared, before he had the chance to pull away from her, Cassie's fingers encircled his forearm. She gasped as his pain shot into her like a burning blade.
Tears that had formed from his sudden agony now glistened in frustration as he leaned away from her.
"I told you—never again—" Severus choked as he ripped his arm from her grasp.
"Stop," said Cassie, her arms circling his naked torso. "Just stop."
"It's my burden to bear!"
"No." She shook her head, her own tears beginning to form. "It's ours, Sev."
He shook his head in disbelief. He tried to remove himself from her embrace, but she held fast.
"Don't go."
"I must—"
"No," she repeated. She squeezed him harder. "I want you to stay." Her eyes stared him down, challenging him to go against her wishes.
His onyx eyes never blinked as he studied her. "I cannot, Cassie. You know this."
She returned his stare intently. It was one of the few times he could not confidently read what she might be thinking.
"I demand it," she said quietly, the hard resolve evident in her blue eyes. If he could measure the changes within his wife over the last few years, he suddenly realized it would be unfathomable.
She had recently grown accustomed to compliance and fealty. Legions of wizards and magical creatures alike now swore their loyalty to her, obeyed her every command.
Who was he—a wizard from Cokeworth who had somehow emerged from indigence—to refuse her?
Slowly, careful never to break eye contact, he moved back over her.
Her hand wrapped around his forearm again, covering the Dark Mark that had been etched there so long ago.
She whispered his name as they resumed their lovemaking. He could feel her body quiver beneath him as she neared another release, but she broke his rhythm before guiding him onto his back.
Her knees on either side of his hips, she lowered herself onto him. Her fingers dug into the flesh of his forearm with such resolve that there would surely be bruising.
She rode him to her liking. Every movement of her hips had him gasping for air like a man nearly drowning.
When the searing pain returned to his arm, it dissolved as quickly as it came, absorbing into her as though their nervous systems were one. She only grimaced lightly.
She was too intoxicated by the feeling of him inside her, too devoted to giving them both release, to do more than barely acknowledge the pain.
For tonight, at least, the Dark Mark belonged to both of them.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The village of Pilton, located in the heart of Somerset, was a sleepy village for fifty-one weeks out of the year. It contained the Church of St. John the Baptist, Cannard's Grave, and little else. Most of the local villagers, whose numbers did not quite break one thousand, knew nearly every documented fact about Joseph of Arimathea and would gladly spout them to any tourist willing to listen.
For one weekend in June, Pilton would be invaded by tens of thousands of outsiders. Michael Eavis, a local farmer, hosted the Glastonbury Festival on his farm with the help of his children and the Somerset parish council. He welcomed all the help he could get. Every year, the festival's attendance increased dramatically, and he knew this year would be no different. They had booked Oasis and The Cure, along with a handful of other well-known artists.
Well into the first night, Michael learned of a breach in one of the security fences. Thousands of unpaid concertgoers flooded onto his nearly two thousand acres of farmland, but he could hardly be cross about it. Alcohol and food sales would far surpass those of previous years despite the lack of paid tickets.
With a dance tent added this year, Michael spent most of Friday night watching Massive Attack while workers shouted in his ear about the little problems that needed solving. The main beer tent was running low, meaning he would have to call his vendor first thing in the morning to restock.
He rose early on Saturday to ensure this was done. He also called on Wiltshire Council to provide more first responders to tend to the nicks and scrapes that were unavoidable with such a crowd. No doubt, with Glastonbury's attendance nearly doubled, the number of hangovers requiring a bit of resuscitation would double as well.
Michael managed to catch at least a few minutes of most of the acts throughout the day, but the one he really hoped to see in its entirety was Jeff Buckley. He told his daughter, Emily, to field any issues that might arise during this time. He doubted he would remain uninterrupted, but he knew Emily would make every effort to allow her dad such a small pleasure.
Chaos ensued during Jeff Buckley's set.
At first, Michael attributed the swell in screaming to the crowd watching Carl Cox. It wasn't until Buckley's audience began to panic and push into one another that he realized something was very wrong.
"Emily!" he yelled, hoping to find his daughter, both to learn what was happening and to keep her safe. "Where are you, Emily?"
The musicians had stopped playing, but his shouts did little except add to the mounting confusion. He clamored over the row of metal chairs behind him and joined the small group of people trying to exit the side of the stage, likely hoping to find their own loved ones in the crowd.
Michael was a few feet outside the massive tent when he noticed the first bloodied person lying on the ground. A medic was already attending to her, pushing desperately on her sternum. After a few stunned seconds, Michael tore his eyes away.
The young woman's corpse was the first of many he would see that night.
He didn't know what to do. People screamed in terror and ran in every direction. As he pushed through the chaos and neared the dance tent, almost every person he saw was covered in blood.
"Emily!" he shrieked again. He shielded his eyes when a bright, emerald-green light flashed near him.
More screaming.
"Daddy!" His daughter grabbed his shoulders. He saw her face swimming before his eyes, but he could barely focus on the fact that he had finally found her. Blood covered her face, her shoulders, her hands.
"Are you hurt?"
"Blood's not mine. C'mon, Daddy, we have to get out of here!"
He allowed Emily to lead him from the dance tent. Another flash of green. This time, it was followed by pointed, cruel laughter.
There was a loud boom, and the ground shuddered beneath their feet. The main tent, where Michael had been enjoying Buckley's set only minutes earlier, imploded on itself. If anyone were left inside, they would be crushed. The tent was massive—so massive that the weight of it would surely kill them.
Emily pulled on Michael's arm, forcing him to move again. A young man, possibly not even of age yet, tripped in front of them, and Michael instinctively reached toward him.
The young man disappeared from view as countless running feet trampled him, crushing his bones and grinding his skull into the ground. Another loud boom—close enough that Michael felt its power as he was knocked to the ground.
His ears rang, deafening the nightmarish sounds around him. He tried to find Emily through the sea of legs, shoes, and dirt mixed with blood.
A boot landed on his shin, and he screamed as his tibia fractured. He turned over and reached for his injured leg just as another stomp landed on his temple.
The pain vanished from his awareness as blackness overtook him. The last thought in his head was of Emily.