Betrayal of the Highest Order

Dragen7

I do not own Harry Potter. All characters and plot lines from the original story are property of JK Rowling.

Firstly, this is my first story. Actually my first narrative of any length greater than a couple pages. Convinced by a certain author to try, so… here I am. I'll generally try keeping these ANs short. Constructive criticism is welcomed, especially as I do not have, nor do I plan on having, a beta, nor do I have much experience. Please no ranting of how astoundingly bad of a writer I am. Actually, on second thought, any reviews at all would help.

Chapter 1: Once Upon a Dream

Harry and Cedric touched the Cup together. They suddenly felt the gut wrenching tug of a portkey. Landing roughly on the ground, Harry heard the chilling voice, "Kill the spare." It was cold and condescending, high and silky smooth. Instantly, Harry launched himself at the Hufflepuff Champion, both narrowly escaping the flash of green directly above them.

"Cedric, circle around to the other side and get him. I'll cover you," Harry whispered under his breath. Frightened yet still surprisingly calm, Cedric complied, slowly making his way under the cover of gravestones.

"Come out, Potter," the voice said tauntingly, "this is no place to play. Wormtail, actually get the other boy, you incompetent fool," the voice commanding, switching from sickeningly playful to commanding.

Harry sucked in a breath, realizing who exactly the voice was commanding. His vision went red with rage; Peter Pettigrew was still actively assisting Voldemort. Even after everything that happened. Jumping from cover, he yelled, "Expelliarmus!" The flash of light was only met by a shield charm. Quickly, Harry jumped back to cover when a sickly purple spell flew straight at him. He then saw a stunner from the other side narrowly miss Wormtail. Recognizing Cedric, he leaped to his feet and again uselessly cast a Disarmer. Thinking quickly, he figured that he must use stronger spells if he was to actually stand a shadow of a chance.

"Wormtail." The voice sighed, almost as if chuckling. In a flash, Wormtail spun and transformed into a rat, avoiding Harry's next, more powerful, reductor curse. The blue light streaked across the graveyard, and Harry watched in horror as it impacted upon Cedric. Time seemed to stand still as Cedric's eyes met Harry's one last time, conveying horrified confusion; the body then exploded outwards, covering the proximity with body parts. Harry stared, his mind seemingly unable to process what had just occurred. Taking half a step forward, he stopped, eyes widening, as if suddenly realizing what had just happened. Opening his mouth in a silent scream, the last thing his mind registered was a flash of red light before all went dark.

Harry woke up slowly, only regaining consciousness to realize that he couldn't move. His limbs were bound by rope to a large gravestone. He was still in the graveyard, that much was clear. There was no other word for it. Haunting, dark, sinister, without a star in the sky. A ring of light circles surrounded the encampment, most pulsing slowly. The rat himself, Wormtail, was working below him, stirring a clear potion. Eyes wandering, his gaze fell upon a bundle, in which there lay something that appeared vaguely human, but clearly part snake. Rat-like, Wormtail scurried to pick up the bundle, placing it into the cauldron. Facing Harry, he shoved a gag into his mouth to keep him from uttering noises. He could taste the filthy grime on his lips. Harry silently wished the bundle would drown, but it was to no avail.

"Bone of the father, unknowingly given," Wormtail began softly, chanting in a guttural voice. "You will renew your son!" The potion turned dark. He continued to pick up a silver knife. Slowly raising it,he sliced his right hand off without so much as a grimace. He picked it up with his left hand, and dropped it into the potion, chanting "Flesh of the servant, willingly given. You will revive your master." Harry winced at this stage, and looked at Wormtail in horror as he approached him with the knife. Wormtail took his left arm and cut a long slice into it, collecting the blood into a vial. Harry shouted in pain, but it was silenced by the gag. Wormtail continued without pause, for all the world looking like a normal potioneer going about his business. He tipped the vial into the now bubbling, white potion. "Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe."

The cauldron exploded in a cloud of black smoke. The silhouette of a tall figure emerged in the dissipating cloud. "Robe me, Wormtail," the high voice commanded. Harry watched in horror as the newly robed and resurrected Lord Voldemort stepped into the light. The laugh emanating from the new body chilled Harry to the bone. He was completely hairless, his face the stuff of nightmares. A pale, grey complexion, combined with the lack of a nose, the long, thin fingers, and the black, billowing robes painted the very image of evil. He grinned suddenly, and moved around. Taking the wand handed to him by Pettigrew, he turned to face Harry directly.

"It has been far too long, Harry Potter," he said, almost tasting the words on his lips. "You have caused me much… grief. But I have much to thank you for!" He quickly approached Harry, taking his hand to shake it. As soon as Harry came into contact with Voldemort, his scar seemed to explode with pain. He grimaced and shook while Voldemort held in him in the personal torture, cackling with laughter. Turning away, he commented in a falsely cheery voice, "Just a taste of what's to come, I'm sure, Harry."

As he turned to his servant, his mood instantly changed. "Wormtail, hold out your arm," he hissed. Wormtail obeyed, holding out his severed right. "You fool!" Voldemort kicked him to the ground. "Your other arm!" The cowering rat held out his left arm, opening his mouth to protest silently. Lord Voldemort pulled back the sleeve of his shirt, and extended a long, spidery finger to touch the Dark Mark on his skin. Harry opened his eyes to watch the coming spectacle.

The circles around the graveyard began to glow brightly. Instantly, robed, masked figures appeared in them. Harry could not believe how many Death Eaters remained loyal. Easily fifty or sixty of the circles were filled. Many, many more remained vacant.

The Dark Lord surveyed his followers closely, his form tight with rage. "Where are the rest? Where are the rest of my faithful? Is this all that will respond to my call? Tell me."

A timid voice replied from the crowd, "My Lord, many of us were placed in Azkaban in your absence. Some ran, fearing vengeance."

Voldemort nodded slowly, only wanting to confirm his suspicions. He now asked the question that he was truly angry about. "If so many of you respond to my call, where were you these fourteen years? Why have none but the gutless Wormtail seeked me out!?" None of the Death Eaters dared give a reply. Voldemort snorted inwardly in disgust. The best of his servants were missing in action. Only the most cowardly of the cowards had appeared before him. Sycophants, the lot of them. They had nothing; not the guts to face Azkaban, the bravery to seek him out, nor the audacity to flee.

Voldemort chuckled slightly, easing the rising tension. He knew he'd have to work with this group until his beloved brethren, his inner circle, were before him. Meanwhile, he had a more pressing issue: Harry James Potter. He stated coldly, "I suppose all can be forgiven, can it not, my Death Eaters?" He smiled slightly. "In fact, as a reward for your timely arrivals, I have entertainment!" The Death Eaters were completely taken aback by this new attitude. None protested for fear of the Dark Lord's wrath.

His followers followed Voldemort's finger, finally seeing the dark figure on the tombstone. Gasps ensued as they realized just exactly who was tied to the stone. "Witness, my followers, the end of this boy's pathetic resistance!" He strode to Harry, casting away the ropes.

He handed the boy his wand and laughed as Harry instantly cast a charm, enjoying his spirit.

Harry watched as Voldemort watched it fly by. He knew he was outclassed. Voldemort was simply toying with him. "Come my dear Potter. Wouldn't you like a nice, fair Wizard's Duel? Just you and I? Come, Imperio!" Harry felt the great pressure on his mind, commanding him to bow to Voldemort. Bow down to his wishes, bow down to die. But he was unable to resist Voldemort. Moody was not at Voldemort's level; neither did he have his intent. Harry was forced to bow, jerkingly, slowly, humiliatingly.

As soon as he was released, Harry spun, ducking for cover behind the nearest gravestone. His mind racing, he realized the only way out was his way in: the Portkey, the Cup. His cover shattered suddenly, and he was impaled by several pieces of stone. "Crucio!" Harry writhed in pain, falling to his knees. It felt as if thousands of white hot knives were driving into his body.

Voldemort held the spell, enjoying watching the Boy-Who-Lived screaming on the ground.

Those five minutes had felt like an eternity to Harry. He slumped to the ground, not even attempting to waste his energy in getting up. He could hear the chorus of laughter, but his mind, for once, would not focus. Harry didn't even wince as he felt the vicious kicks aimed toward him. He had given up. He would be tortured for however long Voldemort wished. Then killed. Nobody even knew where he was.

Voldemort sighed exaggeratedly. He had hoped that Harry would take longer to break. "Well, well. It seems that our very own boy hero gave up. Too easy," he laughed.

"Avada Kedavra!" he suddenly screamed, spinning back around to cast. All the Death Eaters flinched as they heard those dreaded words leaving his lips once again. The green spell flew toward Harry.

Harry had no idea what occurred. Something had happened, but he was not even sure that it did. He heard the killing curse, attempted to move, and then felt his wand act of its own accord. It twisted in his hand, casting a silvery spell that connected with Voldemort's. Receiving a sudden infusion of energy, he stood warily, holding his wand tightly, and glanced at the shocked face of the Dark Lord. The colliding spells suddenly gave out in a burst of energy, causing everything within a hundred feet to go flying away from the epicenter. By sheer luck alone, Harry saw the Cup lying a measly ten feet away. He got up, felt his wand still in his hand, and felt his legs go out again just as he collapsed upon the portkey. He heard Voldemort's scream of anger and saw the familiar flash of green just as the tug of the portkey caused him to disappear.

He opened his eyes to see the field in front of the maze. It was a place of utter chaos, as two of the champions were gone. But Harry did not look around. He did not announce his presence. He simply curled up in a tight ball, repeating two phrases: "He's back. I killed him. He's back…"

Harry woke up in a cold sweat, shivering. He was lying in his bed at Privet Drive. After quickly glancing at the clock, he returned to his thoughts. He had been having this recurring dream for the weeks after the Tournament. It was now the end of summer, and although he hadn't yet come to terms over what had happened, the dreams had stopped. At least, until now.

The first weeks had been difficult, to say the least. Somehow managing to finish the year in a daze, he had almost welcomed the prospect of returning to this house of horrors. He knew that many, many people didn't believe him, assuming he interpreted the whispers that followed him, not unlike his first year.

Harry chuckled inwardly as the thought that some may actually have been commenting on his bravery hit him. If only he had that type of luck. Unfortunately, his life was inundated with all this Dark Lord drama. It would probably have been better if he had just died and left the job for someone-

Harry shook himself, breaking his line of thoughts. He had promised himself not to constantly berate himself and fall into a self induced pseudo-depression. Getting up, Harry put on his glasses and sat on the edge of his bed. He could hear the waking Uncle Vernon and sounds of Aunt Petunia making some food. And Dudley, attempting to chat up some girls over some online site. They had been somewhat ambivalent this year, quite surprisingly. Perhaps it was his newfound attitude. But he wasn't complai-

"GET DOWN HERE, YOU UNGRATEFUL FREAK!" Aunt Petunia's shrill scream broke his reflective mood. That was what they resorted to: childish verbal sparring. Not really unlike Malfoy and himself the year before. Harry sighed, wishing that Malfoy could've just ignored him that year. He didn't need petty distractions, and he vowed to himself to put their differences behind him. Perhaps they could somehow reconcile and go their own ways.

Aunt Petunia's yelling interrupted his thoughts yet again. "YOU THINK YOU'RE A BLOODY PRINCE? MAKE YOUR OWN BREAKFAST, YOU MISERABLE BRAT!" Harry got up and sighed. He hated this place, barely even considering it a home anymore. He left his room, and encountered Uncle Vernon, slightly brushing against him.

Vernon bristled. "Watch your step, boy. You should be washing the carpet I stepped on, and instead you dare touch me." Harry shook his head and continued; he had stopped replying to his family's mocking weeks ago. This was nothing compared to his physical abuse in years prior. Walking into the kitchen, he turned to see Dudley wolfing down a cake, a gift for his aunt and uncle's anniversary, in the fridge. Upon seeing Harry, his piglike face turned pale, and he hastily closed the fridge and hobbled away on his large legs.

Harry grinned; he loved his newfound power over his cousin. Especially after the dementor incident, Dudley would never dare to cross him, let alone look at him. He was grateful, as he had no desire to see his cousin's face. Ever.

It was then that Harry sensed something was wrong. He couldn't say how or why, but he felt something behind him. He twisted on his heel, only to be met with - nothing. Harry shook his head warily. He had learned to trust his instincts.

He then turned to to the table to reread the headlines from the day before. SEARING HEAT WAVE CONTINUES. None of Voldemort's doings had been reported. Yes, a couple odd deaths, but nothing with a tangible link to "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named." He snorted at that title. Wizards had a ridiculous tendency to name things obvious,,hyphenated phrases. The Boy-Who-Lived. You-Know-Who. Why not Boy-That-Kinda-Sorta-Died-One-Night-But-Really-Didn't and Really-Evil-Dude-We-Are-Scared-Shitless-Of. From a Muggle standpoint, wizards truly were quite queer.

Harry chose not to linger in his kitchen for long. He needed to do something. Sitting in a house all day with abusive relatives was nothing short of boring. Nobody had deigned to contact him; he hadn't even seen anyone he knew other than Dumbledore at his trial. And Dumbledore refused to even look at him. Bitterness welled up within Harry. He had felt confused the first couple weeks. But after complete isolation, worse even than the summer before second year, the bewilderment had quickly turned sour. His thoughts turned back to Dumbledore momentarily. Although the headmaster had quickly and effectively proved him innocent, Harry couldn't feel grateful to him. He had acted aloof, and for all intents and purposes, could have just been a random lawyer. If only they'd tell him something. Harry shook his head. Not even one letter had arrived from his friends. Not even Dobby responded to his calls. It was as if he was literally cut of from the magical world. The other thing he hated was that Dumbledore was forced to take Harry's magical possessions, other than his wand and Hedwig, from the house. Apparently Minister Fudge was trying to make sure Harry would cause no further trouble. Dumbledore had written that he was powerless over that matter. It sounded like a partial lie to Harry, but he had to trust Dumbledore in his actions, for he was far more knowledgeable than Harry. At least he would be excused from his summer work. Or so he hoped.

For the third time that morning, Aunt Petunia rudely interrupted his thoughts. Whacking him with a magazine, she ordered, "Go get the mail. And the newspaper. And take out the trash. Don't forget-

"-to water the plants, wash the car, get the groceries," Harry finished, rolling his eyes. "You'd think after fifteen years-

"-that you'd be grateful. Instead your dirty little mouth still talks back to me. You'll get payback one day," Petunia threatened. She walked back to where she came from, apparently done with Harry for the day. This new minimum contact policy really appealed to Harry. If he did his chores, he'd be ignored. For the most part. If not, well, he didn't really care for that confrontation.

He slowly walked outside. The blazing heat made even a small stroll harmful. The Dursley's well loved garden was slowly turning brown, each plant shriveling and withering. It was pretty symbolic of Harry's summer, he thought wryly as he strode to pick up the newspaper. He felt no morning breeze. Everything was eerily still, and Harry got another bad feeling. Something just wasn't right.

The new headlines were hardly new: HOT WAVE OF HEAT SLAMS ENGLAND. How calamitous, Harry thought, feeling that the news really didn't report anything worth writing about. He walked back to his- or rather, the Dursley's- home. He stopped, staring at the house, memories of abuse welling up in his mind. His hatred of this house was unmatched by that of any other physical object. For the million and a halfth time in his life, he trudged slowly up to his front door. He opened the door, and turned to close it. Turning back, he thought of how hard his life -

BANG! A metal pan slammed into his face. Harry felt his nose break from the first hit and tears filled his eyes as he recoiled from the first blow. It was quickly followed by two more, one on his back and another to his legs, causing him to collapse. Obviously, the Dursleys were done with him. After the first blow, his head was mostly avoided. It was as though they didn't want to kill him. But they weren't doing a very good job. He quickly curled up in the well practiced routine of his childhood, instinctively attempting to protect himself from severe injury.

Harry woozily heard the distinct snap of his own arms breaking. It was then that all the blood rushed from his head and he quickly lost consciousness.

The Dursleys continued, heedless of both their and his actions. For Dudley, this was his first time getting retribution for his four Summers of Fear, as he called them. It all started with the huge man and the tail. The horrid, disgusting tail. He was so glad when the freak left. But he had to come back every summer. He hated school, and every summer he came home, the place that was supposed to be safe and welcoming, to the person he hated most in his life. It was endless torture, incessant fear, punctuated only with getaways with his friends. And then the freak caused the life sucking coldness. That was the most miserable moment of his decade and a half of life. He didn't deserve that life, he thought, as he pummeled away at Harry, now with bare fists.

Vernon didn't really have any reason for doing what he did. He hated the boy. That was that. The boy - no, freak - was a good-for-nothing bastard that had become a drain on his financial resources. How could he take care of his precious Dudley when that freak would reside with them over the summer. He had almost killed him. The freak deserved what he was getting. He should be thankful for what he had gotten. But instead he returned every year, presumptuous and arrogant, unwilling to follow the most basic of rules. A normal-hearted person would have thrown him in a burning pit faster than Dudley could eat a cake.

Petunia was the least conflicted about her actions. Before Harry, she had managed to erase all memories and relations to her sister and the magical world she so envied. Then perfect Lily had gotten into trouble, died, and brought Petunia's misery back. The freak represented everything bad about her life. She had been so happy for one glorious year. Just her, Vernon, and darling Dudley. Then Potter came and ruined it all. Ruined years of her life spent in recovery. Ruined a young, happy family. Ruined Dudley's childhood forever. Ruined everything.

The Dursleys stopped after a while, their limbs thoroughly exhausted by their efforts. They left Harry lying outside the front door, in the blistering heat yet hidden behind the bushes from prying eyes. Going inside, they started laughing and talking happily, glad to rid themselves of stress and long-repressed anger.

Harry groaned, regaining consciousness. His whole body ached like it hadn't in a long, long time. Attempting to move, he realized that his legs would be unable to support his weight. It was then he saw - or rather, didn't see - that he was blind. Dried blood matted his eyelids, sealing them shut. His unhinged jaw hung loosely from his skull. His left arm, his only usable limb, was stuck underneath his torso. He had to move to retrieve his wand. He rolled slightly, wincing as the renewed sensation of sharp pain temporarily replaced the dull ache.

Holding out his wand, he felt a certain heat emanating from it, and he knew the sparks were successful - the Knight Bus had been called.

Harry lay on the ground, wondering what exactly had motivated the Dursleys. He had been avoiding them pretty damn well this year, he thought. That thought, accompanied by a sharp stab of pain with his next breath, reminded him where he was. He really ought to learn more healing spells, he thought, at a loss over his next action. The Bus hadn't arrived yet, for some reason. Perhaps it was busy. In the meantime, he had to get out of the heat or risk infection. He knew he was someplace in the front yard, probably out of view. So he had to move so the driver - Stan - would be able to see him. Which reminded him that he had to make sure he wasn't recognized.

Sighing, and wincing, he lifted his arm, aimed his wand at his face, attempting to cast a Stinging Hex. He felt a slight burn as sparks flew out, but as he couldn't enunciate the spell, he didn't swell up. Something did happen. Hopefully it disguised him further. Otherwise,the bloody face would have to do. He slowly rolled over, feeling the dry grass scratch his bruises.

He then heard the distinct pop of the Knight Bus, and Stan's falsely enthusiastic voice. "Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. My name is Stan Shunpike and I will be your conductor this morn - Woah. What happened to you, bud? Who are ya?"

Harry shook his head. "St. Mungo's please," he said, in a half whisper.

"Hold up a sec. What did you say your name was again? San Mundo?"

"Nev-Neville. Long-

"Oh yeah, I remember you. You were nearby oh, two years ago, right? When Black escaped?"

Harry groaned, partly in pain and partly in exasperation at Stan's apparent inability to concentrate for more than ten seconds, bringing Stan back to reality. "St. Mungo's," he repeated, louder. "Just take - already," he said through his pain.

Stan rushed to pick him, and placed him on a seat in the Bus, ignoring the many sound of pain escaping the young man. "Well here we go Nev. Gonna be a bumpy ride, but I'll get ya there right quick." Harry was only half-conscious as Stan hurriedly drove towards the famed hospital. His dazed mind only registered the large bumps, and he felt an odd feeling of detachment.

The Knight Bus arrived in front of St. Mungo's, stopping abruptly. Medi-wizards rushed out to grab Harry, casting sedating spells on him. Harry's world went dark.

"Your name, young man," a voice was saying, quite warily, as Harry woke up. "Your name." Harry opened his eyes, and a flood of light blinded him for a couple seconds. He saw an older medi-witch staring at him, an annoyed look on her face.

Harry took in his surroundings. He was obviously in St. Mungo's. In some unknown wing. People bustled about, visiting and recovering, busy and crying faces all around. He returned his focus to the waiting witch. "Piers. Piers Polkiss." His voice sounded normal. Not totally healed, he could see patches of dry blood and small bruises pockmarking his body. Instinctively, he brought his hand up to cover his scar, only to discover it was hidden; there was hair stuck on the bloody scar. He rose up, and the witch took his name.

"Thank you. Now how…"

"Can I leave? I really need to leave," Harry asked petulantly.

"Piers. You are not doing anything till you tell me how exactly you got in this condition."

Harry swallowed nervously. This would not be easy.

"And your name. Your real name."

Well there we are. First chapter done.

There will not be any bashing in this story. Well with any luck. Ratings and Genre/s will be changed with the progression of the story. Thanks to everybody who has hung on with me so far.

Also, please review, as it will help me decide if I should change how I write, if I should change the characters, or even if I should continue at all.

Finally, I doubt my releases will be very consistent. Unless my time opens up and my muse starts rolling.