Hello, this is a story that I've been neglecting for ages, and I've finally decided to do something about it.
A little warning: there will be swearing, violence, scenes of gore and scenes of torture. Most of it won't be until later chapters, but I just thought I might warn you. If you find any spelling mistakes/grammatical errors/plot holes, please tell me, I'd rather end up with a quality story than to have a go at anyone. Also, I changed the summary and, consequently, the plot.
Now, I won't keep you any longer, I hope you enjoy.
The room is dark and shadows seep into every corner, trying and succeeding to cloak the room in a menacing blackness that seems as if it'll swallow any being that comes to close whole. A single candle is lit in the centre of the room, but the light is weak; the lone candle is thick and a rusty red, with strange runic symbols carved around its centre. Across from the candle are two small lumps that glisten a frightening bone white in the light of the opposing candle; the trio make a perfect triangle. Cold, white marble makes up the floor; the wan light of the candle is seemingly sucked in by the ever-chilly floor instead of reflecting it as one would expect. The room is sparse of any furniture and is instead decorated by a circle of still-standing pillars clothed in heavy cloaks of ebony and masks of dimly glinting silver; intricate carvings are barely discernable across the surface and gruesome grins give way as a gaping maw for the strange creatures, as eye sockets vary from circular holes of nothing to sharply carved slits. In the centre of the room a strange array of symbols and designs glisten wetly on the snowy ground, the ruby red an almost black as the flickering flames of the thick candles do little to brighten their colour.
Around the scarlet triangle, of which each tip is placeholder to the trio of aged bones and a candle that tries and fails to light the room, of mysterious substance smeared in a variety of symbols and shapes, all carefully drawn by a practiced hand. A circle fits inside the triangular shape perfectly, the curves just gracing its tri-walled prison, and, finally, a straight stroke of glistening red splits the imprisoned circle in half. Right in the centre of the circle, the triangle and the line lies the most important part of this intricately delicate rune: a baby.
The child lays on her back, completely silent and as naked as the day she was born – which just so happens to be yesterday. Her eyes are a dark blue as they stare up at the dark abyss that is the ceiling, short tufts of dark brown sprouts from her small head as her pale skin is illuminated slightly by the three ritual candles.
Two figures kneel on opposite sides of the child set in runes; the first is a man in sharp robes of ebony and emerald, his face is pale and handsome with a decidedly blank expression as ruby eyes rove over the carefully drawn array, checking its perfection as thick locks lie atop his head in a matching shade to the infant's dark mop. Besides the man is a medium sized basin that's stained with dried and drying blood, the bottom has only a thin layer of the scarlet substance left and the man, his eyes still appraising his work, slowly wraps his bloodied fingers on an already soiled cloth. The woman that kneels across from him wears robes of crimson and white, with jade thread twining itself through the fabric in elegant patterns; her hair is a shade of blonde so terribly light it can easily be considered white and skin that's seems to be just as pale, her eyes, clones of the eyes of the child, stare forward, unseeing. Her hands are just as blood-stained as the man's. A previously pristine strip of gauze surrounds her left palm and wrist, a futile attempt to stem the blood flow.
Finally done with inspecting his work the man looks up, his gaze seeking out the woman. "It is time." is what he intones once he catches her eye. Giving a nod in return, the albino woman slowly unwraps the stained and dirtied strip of fabric from her hand to see it bleeding sluggishly. Agonizingly slow, she reaches her mutilated hand across the space between them and resting it in the air directly above the small child. Both adults stare down at the infant whose eyes focus dazedly on the bloody fingers. The calming spell seems to be holding.
"Gan esgyrn dy hynafiaid a gwaed dy fam rwyf yn rhoi i ti galluoedd a trosglwyddwyd gan genedlaethau drost y flynyddoedd. O tad i fab, o fam i ferch. Gan y pwerau a rhoddir i mi gan y teuluoedd pur-gwaed o hen, rwy'n rhoi i ti, fy mhlentyn, y Pwer o Golwg, fel y'i defnyddir gan dim ond yr Etholedig o'r teulu, Glyndwr, am filoedd o flynyddoedd. A chafodd ei ddweud, a chafodd ei wneud." At the woman's words the bloody runes that encircle the child begin to glow a dull blue, the light it emits is on par with the candle. Carefully reaching over for the small chunk of cracked bone she slowly presses it into her bleeding palm, coating it with the red substance. Drops of her blood slowly fall onto the midriff of the child, splashing slightly; she moves the bloodied bone over the candle's miniscule flame and watches as the blood quickly catches flame as if it were oil. Still with the utmost care, she replaces the bone in its corner where the blood continues to burn but doesn't touch the bone, or the bloody runes surrounding it.
The man now opens his mouth, preparing to repeat a similar version of the woman's chant, only this time in his native tongue, and not hers. Alas, to the rooms other occupants the things they can discern from their Lord's words are a series of serious sounding hisses. "By the bones of thy ancestors and blood of thy mother I give to thee abilities given by generations once passed. From father to son, and mother to daughter. By the powers bestowed upon myself from pure-blooded families of old, I give unto thee, my child, the Powers of the Serpent, as used by only the Chosen of the Slytherin line for millennia. So let it be said, so let it be done." Slowly and just as carefully as his companion, he grabs the slight bone from its corner and presses it into the cut on palm. Blood dribbles down onto the child once more as he elevates his bleeding limb but half a foot away from the woman's. Setting the scarlet substance alight he returns it to its corner of the triangle as the blood that coats it burns merrily.
Finally, both adults intertwine their bloodied fingers together over their shared creation as the dull sapphire glow of the array brightens slightly. Simultaneously they repeat the last line of their ritualistic oaths and the glow of the array turns blinding, opening the abilities passed on to the child by Rite of Blood.
Just as quickly as it began the light dies down and disappears, and with it, the bloody runes and previously burning bones, sealing the Blood Ritual completely.