They had done it. They had finally done it. It had taken years of careful planning and hard work but tonight they were finally going to do it. Tonight was the night that they would resurrect the Dark Lord Voldemort.
It was years after the final battle, but this small group of fanatics did not believe that their lord could truly be dead. They were too young to be marked at the time of the great war, a fact that allowed them to escape the clutches of Azkaban. However they had been ever faithful and, once the night was over, their lord would reward them above all others.
They were confident in the ritual they had created. They were intelligent wizards, amongst the top of their classes at Hogwarts. And of course their pure blood meant that they were more powerful. First, they had searched through the hundreds of dark texts kept in their family libraries, studied the spells, potions and wards within, to enable them to plan a grand ritual to suit their purpose. Next came the months of scouring black markets and thousands of galleons spent bribing the merchants, with the occasional bit of torture thrown in, to get the dark ingredients they needed without drawing the notice of the Ministry of Magic. Finally, they located a distant cousin of Tom Riddle senior, a simple muggle, to act as the host for their lords' soul, believing that the blood connection would make the magic stronger. Also a muggles body wouldn't contain any residual magic to fight against the ritual. It had taken them several years, but they were confident. This ritual would bring the Dark Lord back to them; give him strength, give him youth and, with a bit of luck, make him impervious to magic. And they would rule at the Dark Lords side, as his most trusted lieutenants.
In the end, the part that they felt was going to be most difficult, capturing and killing the muggle without bringing any attention to themselves, had just fallen into place. Stupid muggle had gone and caught himself some new disease that was spreading round. Some sort of "virus" according the muggle healers. Up and died of a fever that he'd caught whilst out touring the world. A slight setback occurred when the muggle government ordered the body to be sent to a research facility – the seedy-see or some such nonsense – but after a few quick obliviates and the odd imperio the body never arrived. Instead it was transported to a small village in England. A place not known to many. Little Hangleton.
And now, it was time. The body was placed upon the altar they had created on the exact spot that the Dark Lord had been resurrected upon once before. The candles were lit. The potion was ready. The pentagram was drawn in the blood of innocents upon the floor and a single wizard in hooded black robes knelt at every point, wand in one hand and a ceremonial dagger in the other. It was time.
The chanting began. Slow and steady, quiet at first but increasing in volume as they became more confident. A gentle breeze which ruffled the hoods of the men gradually grew stronger, until a powerful gale was whipping around them, howling in their ears. The night grew darker as the wind extinguished all their candles and clouds gathered to block the light of the stars and moon. Behind the howling of the wind, the screaming began. The noise was terrifying, but the men continued chanting. They were so close. Each wizard could feel a power building up within his body, a burning power that begged to be released. Together, they stood, still chanting, and stepped towards the altar. One by one they sliced the palms of their hands, allowing their pure blood, their life essence, the source of their magic, to drip into the dead muggles mouth. The wind grew stronger. The screaming grew louder. The night grew darker. And the power grew stronger. Stronger and stronger. Until suddenly it burst forth from each of them – connecting them all in a pentagon of pure, dark magic.
They collapsed to the floor, spent of energy, as the night fell silent around them and the light of the stars returned. Eventually, one of them gathered the motivation to raise his wand and cast a lumos.
The eerie blue light it conjured fell across the body before them. They waited in anxious anticipation. Minutes passed, then hours. Still they were hopeful. Still they waited.
Eventually, dawns first rays broke across the horizon and just as the wizards gave up hope and stood to leave, it happened. It started with a twitch of single finger. Then a croaky rattle of breath. Slowly and jerkily, the body upon the altar sat up, its head turning to view the men before it. Its legs swung round and it shakily rose to its feet.
The men gasped in awe and dropped to their knees, heads bowed, in deference to their newly resurrected lord. They had done it. They had actually done it. Their euphoria lasted until the screams began.
Four men looked on in horror as the creature before them tore into the throat of the fifth. His terrified screams turned to gurgles as the thing he believed to be his lord chewed on his flesh. The men were pulled from their stupor as the monsters fingers tore into the soft belly of the wizard and began dragging his mangled entrails up to its mouth.
With an angry cry, the smallest wizard cast the most deadly curse he knew at the thing. The shocking green light of an avada kedavra rushed towards the creature, hitting it straight in the centre of its back. Satisfied, the man lowered his wand, believing that it would keel over, dead once more. How wrong he was.
Whatever this creature was, it paused in its feast, blood dripping from its mouth and turned its eyes upon the man. Slowly, it lumbered to its feet and lunged towards the wizard that cast the spell. In a panic, the others began casting any spell they could think of, light or dark. Not a single one did anything other than draw the attention of the creature and, one by one, the wizards fell to its teeth.
The final man standing looked at the bodies of his friends around him. He believed himself to be the smartest of them all He noticed how magic did not seem to affect the creature that they had created and his mind quickly made the link to the part of the ritual designed to protect their lord from magic. But they did not design it to protect their lord from all harm – for who would dare to attack the Dark Lord Voldemort with inferior muggle methods.
Summoning his dagger towards him, he cried out with rage and leapt towards the creature, plunging the blade into its head as it knelt to feast upon the remains of the wizards. Blood sprayed onto the face of the wizard as he removed the dagger, splattering across his cheeks. The creature collapsed and moved no more.
The wizard looked round in horror, before apparating away, intending to forget about this night, but knowing that it would haunt his dreams for years to come. He did not expect the consequences that followed, but always suspected that he had been the cause. Even the wisest witch or wizard alive could never have predicted this.
The dark resurrection magic used was notorious for twisting the intentions of the caster for its own purpose, its true desire was to spread its evil. Instead of returning the body, it gave life instead to the virus still residing within it. And with Voldemorts soul lost forever, shattered into pieces due to the horcruxes he created, there was nothing to fill the void in the body where the soul should reside. The result; a walking corpse intent on spreading the virus that gave it life and an endless desire to sustain that life by eating both the flesh of innocent and the wicked alike.
Within seconds, the blood that dripped down the wizards face had reached his lips, and he was infected. Minutes after the man fled the scene, he kissed his wife on the cheek, his children on the forehead and passed the virus on to his entire family. Hours later, the bodies of his fallen comrades began to move. Days passed and these reanimated bodies had devoured the entire village of Little Hangleton. Weeks went by and the virus had been transmitted around the entire globe. Within months, the whole world had gone to shit.