On a far, frozen, snow-covered hill, there stands a circle of stones with two stones standing upright, one on top of another, and which muggles called Stonehenge. Some muggles whispered that the formation was the gateway, the door to another realm others that it was an ancient tombstone or altar to ancient gods. All foolish beliefs.
To wizards, the ancient site possessed another name, Magicae Lapis, meaning "stones of magic." For the stones marked the precise location where ancient magic gathered naturally together. Though the muggle governments had long since transformed the sacred holy land into a muggle tourist destination. It is easy to trespass at night with a bit of magic.
Hooded figures stomped through the snowmaking their way to where the ley lines of magic intersected. The sky above them is frigid with not a single cloud in the frozen starry sky. The moon is cold and white gleaming harshly from on high. The planets, stars, sun, and moon were aligned perfectly as they should be.
The hooded figures wearing orange-colored stone masks assemble except for the one that wears a pale stone mask of Zeus. The stone masked man stands in the middle of the stone circle, while the remaining witches and wizards stand between the stones to form a complete circle.
"We are many but only one," the stone white figure said as the rest of the orange figures answered back with the same, before falling silent.
"Before we commence the Feast of Fate speaks freely," the white stone-masked figure instructed.
"Our two youngest vessels are not present," observed with a smirk a middle-aged man's voice.
"It is ironic, but the youngest vessel after being forcibly converted is the most useful," drily said an intelligent, suave voice. "The youngest vessel has two Ravenclaw students under the Imperius curse to act for him."
"Yet what of the second youngest vessel, the Gryffindor?" Impatiently asked a young woman's voice.
"We have long possessed the vessel, but the vessel has begun to fight back," admitted an older female with a soothing voice. "It is rare, but there are vessels as they grow in power regain the ability to be independent."
"Take care of the problem, we cannot afford any signs of weakness," a male voice arrogantly instructed.
"It will be taken care of, but we must move slowly. With Zephyr dead and gone, it is difficult to meet much less convert a third new vessel much less stabilize the tedious vessel with further fragments. Furthermore, with the presence of the centaur at Hogwarts our hands are further bound. We cannot at this crucial juncture risk being discovered," cautioned an elegant, suave male voice.
"Alas, it was my house's turn too," murmured a cheerful male voice with great disappointment. "Hufflepuff is always left for last."
"Then what am I?" The young woman's voice snapped in irritation.
"Ah, well, you're very lovely my dear, but we need another member from our dear house," the cheerful male voice retorted.
Before the two Hufflepuff vessels can commence to squabble, a young man's serene voice says, "Enough, there are for more pressing matters," causing silence to fall in the clearing. "Devante Nott has been lost and we still remain blind to the intentions of the puppet, who has cut off his strings. The puppet is one more enemy that we must destroy."
"Can we not covert another?" The young woman's voice impatiently asked.
"Not with that vile serpent of the puppet," the middle-aged man with the cunning voice responded. "It can smell us; it is no ordinary serpent that much Nott confirmed before his death."
There is a lapse of silence as a cheerful male voice says, "In that case, shall we commence the Feast of Fate? We all know that we cannot allow this to continue, the puppet must be killed tonight. Shall we commence?"
"Aye," they chorused in unison.
The white-stone-masked figure raises a glittering silver knife in the air in the direction of Capricorn, the 10th house ruled by Saturn. "I bow to the Three greatest of spirits, the past, the present, and future," he said, before deeply bowing, "the ventured Moirai."
The white stone-masked hooded vessel raises his wand his sharp blade in the air, before making a deep cut on the top half of his hand. "To Clotho, who spins the thread of life, I offer the breath of life."
Crimson droplets dripped down onto the pure snow tainting it red. Raising his knife again, he sliced again a second time in the middle of his palm. "To Lachesis, who weaves the thread, I offer all that is living." Before finally one last time making a third cut. "And to Atropos, who cuts the thread, I offer life itself."
The spilled crimson droplets on the snow begin to evaporate as if water beneath the hot sun. Ancient magic that holds not a hinge of humanity begins to gather in the circle. "Ancient Moirai, we humbly offer these a willing sacrifice," the white stone masked vessel cried out, before drawing his wand and pointing at the sky.
The remaining hooded, masked witches and wizards each drew their wands and pointed in the sky, and began to chant, "Festum Fatum Nos Sacrificium Est Infima Inter Nos," meaning, "we sacrifice the weakest among us."
The ancient magic begins to almost in a predatory manner circle about them, before plunging forth towards the weakest among them. "No!" Shrieked, a witch in panic as her mask fell down to reveal the face of an older bronzed witch with kohl-lined eyes full of fear and terror. Her dark, salt-peppered hair hangs limps on her shoulders as Fiona Bly futilely struggles against the grip of the ancient magic.
The ancient magic coils around her like a serpent, before swallowing her whole. The essence that is Fiona Bly is consumed leaving only behind an empty physical vessel. The corpse of Fiona Bly limply falls onto the frozen ground with limbs outstretched and eyes devoid of life.
A hush falls upon the clearing as the ancient magic gathers to form a door out of air. A dark figure stands in the doorway, the doorkeeper, Papa Legba. The unnatural tall figure stands there in silence causing the hair on the back of the neck of the vessels to quiver. At long last, the doorkeeper to the realm that exists beyond at last steps aside.
From the dark void, a single young woman emerges wearing an ancient Greek-style robe. The beautiful young maiden with rosy cheeks laughs gaily and says, "It has been centuries since we were last fed." She hungrily licked her crimson licks in emphasis. "What is that you desire, mortal?"
"The destruction of the puppet," the white stone-masked vessel demanded.
The young maiden abruptly transforms into a middle-aged version of herself. "Death comes to all things, mortal," She solemnly replied. "However, if that is your desire, so it shall be."
"This very night, Moirai!" Another orange masked vessel growled.
The middle-aged woman transforms into an old crone with a pair of razor-sharp scissors. "Very well," the elderly crone rasped pulling a small black string from her robes and snapping it cleanly in half. "It is done."
The old crone like a puff of fog transforms back into a young cheerful maiden with a bounce in her step. "Mortals are always so naïve, it is always such a delight interaction," she giggled, before skipping back towards the door. She paused and impishly glanced over her shoulder, "The doorkeeper requested that I give thee my regard. Papa Legba eagerly awaits to open the door for Death," before vanishing into the void. The door snaps shut behind the spirit leaving no trace in the mortal world.
The ancient magic that had surrounded them simply vanished leaving them in dead silence. "Treachery," hissed in warning a middle-aged man's voice.
"The Horcruxes," snapped another.
"We shall not forgive this offense," they roared in fury. "Flesh for the flesh, the living descendants of the Moirai shall be found and taken."
The still bleeding hand of the white stone masked vessel is raised high in the air. "Sanguis Enim Sanguis," (Blood for blood, the debt must be repaid). They swore, before dispersing into the night still enraged.