Harry Potter and the Trials of a Hero:
Part One
By Locke
Author's note: Please don't think I'm trying to copy JK, I'm merely trying to fill the void in all our lives until Book 5 is completed! I know this part is very short, but the next ones will be longer and this is essential set-up, so please keep reading as big things are planned. How long it turns out depends on how you feel about it! Enjoy, and please review.
Thanks to Abi for ensnaring me into all this and for inspiring me to try my own version :)
*****
On the northernmost edge of a thick forest stood a mysterious set of ruins, overlapped by the blackness cast by the forked trees. Wild murmurings about the purpose of these ruins held the nearby villages in their sway; and the site itself held a rumour that even the shadows there held their gazes fearfully to the ground.
Long, long ago, the site had played host to a number of ancient, druidic rituals, the mark of a cult that had terrorised the villagers for nearly a century. The earth was still tainted with the sickly touch of black magic, attracting sinister wizards there like flies to jam for many hundreds of years after.
Four weather-beaten stones stood in a rough circle, twisted, mottled knives stabbing through mud and dirt. Moss and lichen scrabbled for purchase, snaking in a shroud of green down each surface.
The first death had occurred there four years ago. A pair of tourists, eager to scour across the local jungles in search of ruins and remnants of lost civilisations, was found dead in the centre of the stone circle. Their bodies were unmarked; and no one could account for the tiny spots of blood found smeared across the stone.
After that, the ruins became something of an attraction. The villages - basic, tribal arrangements of mud huts and market places - were filled with holidaymakers, eager to see what all the fuss was about. An enterprising young businessman set up a stall around the stones, where he charged the tourists exorbitant admission prices and sold a variety of cheap, gimmicky souvenirs that took ample advantage of the couples' gullibility and willingness to believe that there was something in the legends.
So, during the long, hot, Amazonian days, the spirits and the ghosts remained undercover, frankly afraid of the tackiness of it all.
Under the cover of night, when the shadows had deepened around the stones and sent long, twisted hooks of black to choke the last slivers of light that hid, tentatively, in the far corners of the site, things were very different. The forces that remained hidden all through the day returned and made the scene their own.
Froth boiled and bubbled in amongst the flames of the seething cauldron; a polished black so deep and dark that it could have been formed from the velvety night sky itself. The shadowed forms huddled around it stared into the liquid broiling inside as it began to ripple and shake, resolving into a vague, ghostly image.
'We are sure that he is the one?'
'We can be no surer. It is he, or else all the legends fashioned since time began are but lies.'
Smoke rose in a thick cloud as the first figure raised its arms, its black cowl hanging and billowing in the slight breeze as it raised thin, pointed fingers.
'Then he must be summoned. We must ensure he meets his destiny.'
A sudden cloud of flame gusted over the cauldron as the heavens opened with rain.
???
Many thousands of miles away, a teenage boy called Harry Potter drew his blankets tight around his neck as a cold wind crept in from the night.
He turned his attention back to the book open in front of him, adjusting his grip on his torch so that a shaft of light illuminated the tiny print. He squinted as he tried to make out each letter, his mind working as he struggled to understand what he was reading: The Many Properties and Uses of Tangleweed went far deeper than anything a student about to enter the fourth year at Hogwarts needed to know; yet, it was what he had to struggle through before the end of the month.
Sighing, his forehead covered in a deep frown, Harry slipped a bit of paper between the pages of the book and carefully shut it. His gaze wandered over to the scroll open beside him on the bed, which had already been labelled with the title 'Explain how Tangleweed can be used to make a sleeping draught, and how other substances may be used to influence the effects. Also describe its uses through the ages, with reference to the differing perceptions towards it.' That on its own seemed to cover almost half the page. Harry's former Potions teacher, Snape - who held an obvious disregard towards anything related to his pupils - had made sure that his last task was to issue an essay that would devour the entire Summer holiday. His final promise to the class – before leaving on whatever task Dumbledore had assigned him - was that their new teacher would certainly be collecting it in.
Harry yawned as his pen wavered over the paper. A quick look at the clock hanging on the wall opposite revealed the time to be nearly midnight. He stared back down at the page; yawningly empty, the blank space waiting to be filled almost taunting him. It wasn't that he had to be doing it now, in the dead of night – not since the Dursleys had discovered he had a convicted murderer for a godfather. But he desperately needed something to do until midnight – until the dawn of his fifteenth birthday. The thought of Snape demanding to know why his essay hadn't been handed in was enough to keep him awake until the morning.
The excitement of looking forward to a birthday was still new to Harry. For the first eleven years of his life, he had expected nothing and received exactly that. Since he'd made friends at Hogwarts, however, he knew that the day should be special and awaited whatever gifts he would be sent via owl post. This year, he was especially excited: there was something about turning fifteen that made this birthday seem even more of an event.
Outside, the black sky crackled with thunder as the rain began to hammer against the window, the ribbon of white that was the moon shadowed as cloud trailed over it in a ghostly grey smear.
Harry felt his eyes start to close as fatigue gnawed at him. He didn't seem to be getting anywhere with his essay; and his eyelids were starting to feel as heavy as lead, begging him to let them shut. He yawned once more, his mouth opening wide.
The pen dropped from his grip, rolled from the bed and thudded onto the carpeted floor. Harry leant over to pick it up, his body brushing against the comforting softness of his pillow. Deciding that he could rest for a few minutes – he had ages left before the new term began – he curled up and let his head fall back, sighing contentedly as the material sagged beneath him.
A moment later, he was fast asleep.
???
Harry opened his eyes. He was no longer in his room; instead, he was looking down on a vast, blackened landscape, shadow obscuring all but the land directly below him, a stone floor surrounded by pointed turrets and battlements, bathed in darkness. It was though he was a giant eagle, swooping over a grand, medieval castle.
Screams of battle rang in the distance. Cries of pain echoed back from the horizon, greeted by the whoosh of flames and the deafening explosions of war.
Then he heard voices. He fought to move, fought to get closer, but he was powerless to see more as two distant figures, locked in a duel, moved into his view. Colours twisted around them in a blaze of light, spells crashing into spells, reflecting off each other as each wizard fought to gain an advantage.
A sickly green light rushed between them as the taller of the two figures charged forward, its skeletal face held in an evil sneer. The other leapt back, a wall of flame rising to deflect the spell.
Shades of mauve, red, orange and yellow flashed in the night sky and swept across his vision as the figures danced back and forth. Harry could see that they were among the most skilled wizards he had ever witnessed; able to block each others work with ease. Twirls of all colours flew between them, spirals painting shapes of death in the chilled air.
Eventually the figures stopped, panting for breath, leaning back against the battlements. He heard faint whispers as they eyed each other beadily.
'You hope to win? You don't have the strength to take me, you fool. You'll die at my hands, just like your parents before you.'
'It takes more than strength to win. I have qualities you could never even dream of possessing.'
With a final, violent cry, the figures hurled themselves back into the fray, an explosion of light engulfing them in magical energy, billowing out in a mushroom cloud as spells collided.
A scream shook the castle walls. The jagged scar across Harry's forehead throbbed with pain.
A brilliant white glow radiated from the heart of the battle, sweeping over the scene in a gust of power. When the light subsided, Harry could see only a broken body lying torn against the battlements, its enemy standing proudly before it, its wand held high. He leant forward, fighting to strain against the force holding him as the victor slowly turned to face him, jerking between each second as if in slow motion, its face wrapped in shadow.
The clarity evaporated to nothingness before his eyes as the pain in Harry's head surged in a roar of anger and the dream died.
???
The clock struck midnight as Harry leapt onto his feet, sweat streaming down his face.
He quickly looked up at the time, a slow smile breaking the fear of the nightmare as he realised the new day had begun.
He was fifteen.
*****
What will Harry get for his birthday? And what precisely is the dream trying to say? Find out soon.