"Unite all three, and death beckons at thou command."
Youthful folly saw me testing this claim, and I've been paying the price ever since.
For in the end - everything bows before death.
Harry James Potter – unknown date
A shimmer in the air signalled the arrival of a lonely figure amidst a field of green. The knot in his stomach slowly loosened as the after effects of the journey subsided. A careless glance around him showed a collection of hills covered in grass, large collections of rocks, and the occasional Oak, Birch, and Dogwood tree. The sky was empty and limitless, save for the blazing sun that stood proud and mighty as a beacon in the heavens. His feet slowly carried him away, across hills, through a small forest, and passed several streams. He finally stumbled upon a lonely dirt paved road, and followed its tracks north until he met a single worn-down sign made out of rotten wood. The white painted letters were barely visible, but the message was still readable.
Little Hangleton - 2 miles
The remaining hike didn't take long and he was soon met with the sight of a small village. It was nestled between two large hills; dozens of houses in various sizes dotted one hillside, amongst them a church and a graveyard at the far end. A large manor was planted on the opposite hill surrounded by large green fields and greenhouses. He turned right and gave a fleeting look towards the graveyard before proceeding to his destination. He left the main-road, following the ever twisting trail deeper into the forest. The terrain got rougher and the sun was soon blocked away underneath the canopies of the trees. The road itself vanished several times before he found it once more: having been reclaimed by nature itself.
In the centre of a clearing he found a large dead Elder tree, its leaves long gone and its trunk twisted and deformed. The tree had an eerie humanoid look, standing protectively in front of a large run-down shack: like a mother shielding a child. The building had seen better days, the stone walls had nearly collapsed underneath their own weight, and on the roof several tiles were missing with the remaining being cracked or broken. The door was partly unhinged with a perfectly preserved brown-spotted Adder nailed in the wood.
His wand slipped into his hand as he cautiously started to walk around the decrepit building, never venturing closer than twenty-five feet. He spotted a wooden chopping-block, the rusted axe-head still firmly stuck in the wood while the handle had rotten away. At the back of the house he met a small collapsed stable almost completely overtaken by vines.
He couldn't help the small scoff that left his lips as he finished his survey. How the mighty had fallen and withered away throughout the ages. The Gaunts had a history far richer than most houses, both in Great-Britain and beyond. Having followed the Roman Empire's conquest of Britannia, they served as court-wizards for general Aulus Plautius: the first governor of Roman-Britannia. After the untimely collapse of the empire several centuries later, the Gaunts remained in Britain, establishing themselves as one of the most powerful magical houses and becoming renowned nobility in their own right. They owned large squats of land and had numerous people sworn to their service for centuries. The house of Gaunt had been fundamental in creating the first vestiges of wizarding society: namely the Wizards' Council and the Wizengamot.
Proud, unyielding, and knowledgeable. Those were traits associated with the Gaunts for centuries. That, and their ability to magically communicate with serpents of both regular and magical kind, causing them to be referred to as the 'singers of the serpent songs'.
Now the only thing that was left of their legacy was a decrepit old building and a megalomaniac who's delved far too deep in magicks better left alone; a man who's mutilated his own soul in search of false immortality.
He trailed his wand alongside the protective magic surrounding the shack; the vibrations trailed through the Holly wood as two sources of magic met and interacted with one another. Any further actions were halted as the snake on the door suddenly twitched and moved. Its head turned in an unnatural angle and its forked tongue shot out and tasted the air. Two black beady eyes locked with his own; as if on cue he heard the magically fortified words resonate throughout the clearing.
"Beseecher and defiler, turn back now; only death will greet you here," the snake hissed in Parseltongue.
When he gave no response the snake craned his head back to its original position. The sounds of crickets and birds dwindled into obscurity while the earth slowly started to move. Nearly two dozen mutilated and decayed corpses slowly dug themselves out of shallow make-shift graves. His eyes narrowed as he observed the Inferi, the piece of Holly twitched in his hand, a steady trail of black smoke leaving the tip. He only felt a twinge of pity in regard to the corpses that barely resembled what they once embodied. Remains of tattered and rotten muggle-clothing clung to their bodies, along with the numerous physical injuries that'd caused their deaths.
The Inferi slowly descended on their target with grunts and groans echoing through the clearing. With a small flick of his wand, a torrent of purple fire raced at closest group. There were no screams or cries as the fire consumed them whole; some still wobbled-on until the fire damaged their brain enough for the reanimation to lose its effect. Tracing his wand in various patterns, a stream of curses sped at the corpses that blew their torso's apart, and severed their heads from their shoulders. In a final act he transfigured a large slab of stone in a lion that pounced on the remaining group: tearing them to pieces.
Silence rang true save for the crackling of purple flames as it spread throughout the stalks of grass. Banishing the fire, he returned his attention back to the shack. The inferi were nothing more than a warning. Any seasoned wizard or witch was capable of taking out several of them, as long as they could let go of their fear in regard to death. They only became dangerous in large groups and when the bodies of friends, family, and loved ones were used as a demoralizing tactic.
The protective measures surrounding the building itself were complex and rather unique, woven together flawlessly with each piece of magic accounting for another. Anchored in the Old-Norse runic language of fuþark and casted through Parselmagic. But Voldemort had not accounted for another Parselmouth to come into contact with these protection. It was not an unreasonable claim on Voldemort's behalf, as there were only a few magical families in India that had retained the ability through the ages. Well… and him of course, but he was a rather… unusual case. He reached in the pouch on his waist and pulled out a short, silver knife. With a swift clean stroke he ran it alongside his palm, his blood seeped freely as the knife fell on the ground.
"Leysa," he intoned softly in Parseltongue while he rested the tip of his wand against the ward.
The result were instantaneous as the tendrils of magic that held the ward together loosened. Placing his bloodied hand on the ward, another word parted from his lips.
"Auka."
The magical dome shifted into an unnatural red colour as he used his blood as a conduit to seep his own magic through the gaps he'd created. With a final touch he drew several Old-Nordic runes in white light as the final word was released from his mouth with a hiss.
"Heimta."
A large surge of magic enveloped the clearing as he wrestled the wards from Voldemort's control, and claimed them for his own. He felt a dull throb in his head from the intensity before letting out a long, deep breath. He slowly stepped inside the boundaries of the shack, carefully studying his surroundings for any other defensive measures the Dark Lord might have put in place. When he only heard the returning chirping from the canopies, he felt the tension slowly ebb away.
"Well, that was easier than expec-"
The last word died on his lips as wood creaked, cracked, and snapped behind him. When he spun around he saw the ancient Elder tree moving as if it'd been given life. The thick branches swayed back and forth, the trunk split open and formed into two legs that broke free of its roots and stepped out of the ground. On the upper part of the trunk a single yellow eye snapped open.
"Baz Bura-Dêm," a harsh baritone voice called out, causing trembles throughout the earth.
"Ah, bugger me sideways," he said morosely before he was forced to throw his body away out of the impending sweep. He clumsily fell on his arse, his wand raining spellfire through the air while he managed to get back on his feet. It mattered little to the approaching Elder as the spells splashed harmlessly of the bark without any adverse effects. Shooting another large stream of fire was equally pointless, the flames licked and danced around the tree, but the Elder did not lit aflame. Instead it stalked ever closer to his position. Seeing no immediate alternative, he Apparated to the other side of the clearing at the last moment to regain distance and giving him time to think.
Apparition in magical combat was often a last resort. The act of Apparating caused one's magical body to become completely dissonant for a short period of time, making it impossible to actively use magic until the aftereffects subsided. Such vulnerability would often be the difference between winning or losing, life or death.
His mind ran through his options; regular curses and hexes were ineffective, the use of magical fire had no effect as well. The Elder was an unknown, one that was absolutely soaked in a foreign type of magic he'd never encountered before. A possibility ran through his mind, but not one he felt entirely comfortable with. Any further inner-debates were halted as the Elder was on the move once more. Instead of another charge, it did something he'd not anticipated: in a swift motion, several of the tree's branches grew and pierced the earth: sending tremors through the ground.
His body went into action as he darted around the clearing, wishing desperately for time to hasten so he could use his magic once more. But the roots travelled faster, and it didn't take long before the first branch erupted from the ground and wrapped itself around his leg. A second one followed, and a third one. It wasn't long before he was completely immobilised while the Elder slowly moved forward, a predator closing in on its prey. He struggled and fought against the thick branches, but with every action the branches constricted more and more, like a coiling snake.
He could feel the slight tingling in his fingertips: the first symptoms of his magic becoming whole once more. Closer and closer the Elder came, he mentally prepared for the incoming pain in whatever way it would come. But instead of trying to pulverize him into the ground, it halted - spending more effort in keeping him immobilized. His tongue raced over his dry and chapped lips, his mind whirling around for answers, and it came in a sudden moment of clarity.
'It's been ordered to keep me alive.'
Voldemort wanted whatever intruder that challenged his protections alive before he killed them. The man's sheer paranoia would never allow for a quick and clean death in the face of someone who knew about his greatest secret.
The tingling sensation in his fingers had spread throughout his body, enveloping him in a sense of warmness. His wand was still in his hand, poised to the ground. He could make no wand-movements, but for his next spell he wouldn't need any. What he needed was the purest desire to consume, to envelop… to burn. Memories he'd rather not recall were brought to the forefront of his mind, fuelling his desire. His breath became laboured as a heath coursed throughout his entire body.
"Bellua Ignis," he spat, the words tasting foul on his lips.
A small careless spark of fyre hit the ground, sending the blades of grass alight. It spread, further and further until it covered the immediate area like a stampede; growing in size with every passing second. The fyre caught his sneaker and jeans just as greedily as the branches from the Elder. The hot searing pain became an ever present factor in his mind. The Elder seemed aware of the danger that the cursed fyre represented, loosening its branches in a desperate attempt to withdraw before it spread further. Feeling the coils loosen, he swirled his magic around him and broke free of the Elder's hold before pointing the piece of Holly to the ground.
"Ascendio," he called out.
His body propelled into the air, and with a quick movement he managed to transfigure a large rock into an oversized matrass before landing on its comfort. The once small spark had grown into a twenty feet high bonfire. The fyre forming into non-cohesive forms of dragons and vipers as it grew in size and greed. The Elder was now fully alight, its branches swayed back and forth in some desperate humanoid plea to relief itself of the flames.
"Nōs Derêm Wrav," the creature bellowed loudly.
The words were foreign and held no meaning to him, but the pain and anger that evoked them was undeniable. It wasn't long before the Elder fell to the onslaught and was steadily devoured. Its remains fell to the ground, quickly turning to ash, until eventually the ash would burn as well. He kept his wand focussed on the Fiendfyre, slowly trying to force it to subside. He wasn't surprised when the fyre lashed out and tried to continue its path of destruction. A large fiery Gryphon shot out of the fyre, but it dissipated mere feet before it hit him. Beats of sweat trailed down his face. His wand moved left, then right, a circle, followed by a vertical swipe. The motion was repeated over and over again, paired with words in an old tongue that left his lips as a mumble. The Fiendfyre steadily lessened, until it finally dissipated in a rather barren way: simply vanishing from existence.
He let out a deep breath as fell onto his knees. The pain in his right leg and foot didn't agree with the position, and he soon found himself lying on his back. The world danced around him in a non-coherent fashion. Luckily, the constant pain kept him from falling asleep. When his vision finally steadied, he studied his right leg or what remained of it with a grimace. He must have subconsciously used some magic to fortify his leg. All layers of skin were destroyed along with most of the muscles. It was a gruesome sight: he could spot pieces of bone between the burned flesh, and only a two toes remained on his right foot. He was certain that all his nerves were burned to a crisp, only the cursed magical nature of the Fiendfyre could still cause pain in such situations.
He swallowed loudly, his eyes never leaving the wounds. This was it, the final piece of evidence should be delivered any second now.
And it happened.
The pain morphed in a way that felt completely alien. It didn't leave… but it felt like it had a… purpose? He didn't know, the sensation made little sense to him. Any further thoughts stopped, his leg and foot shredded itself of the burned pieces of flesh, simply vanishing into nothingness. New muscle tissue grew, slowly at first, going faster as time progressed. New tendons aligned themselves and new skin tissue came into existence afterward. He couldn't divert his eyes from the morbid display.
His curse. His folly. It was real; any lingering remains of doubt were washed away.
He'd no idea how long he sat there on the transfigured matrass. Contemplating his new fate as he'd finally come face to face with reality in a way that he could no longer lie to himself: Death had denied him.
Taking a deep breath, he managed to regain his bearing. This was not the time to wallow in self-pity. The past was the past, the only thing that lied ahead was the future. He banished the mattress, and magically repaired his jeans and conjured a new sneaker; leaving no shred of evidence that he was burned by Fiendfyre. The clearing where the Elder once stood was nothing more than a charred wasteland. His mind wondered away towards the Elder; he'd never encountered or heard of such a creature before. There were various pieces of magic that Druids used to enhance, animate, and control flora in various ways, but nothing resembling this type of sentience. It reminded him of ancient legends from Greece, where a grove of 'Prophetic Oaks' sang songs of past, present, and future. Oaken trees that climbed and moved on their own accord.
A lazy pull of his wand broke the shack's door free of its remaining hinge, and sent it flying through the clearing. When he entered the rundown building his nose was attacked by the scent of rotten-wood and decay. The furniture was broken and thrown around the room, covered in a thick layer of dust. His gaze was soon drawn to an unexpected sight that caused a knot to be formed in his stomach. There, in the back of the room, sitting on the only undamaged chair was a beautiful woman. Her fiery red hair was in stark contrast to the grim scene, her face was gentle with a kind smile directed to him, her forest coloured eyes holding the same intensity as his own.
"Harry!" Lily Potter exclaimed with a wide smile. "You've done so well darling, but you've suffered so much."
He kept silent. Arguing with himself wasn't going to solve anything. Especially when his own thoughts were masked by the appearance of his mother. Instead he tried to ignore the visage and turned around to study the bleak and downtrodden interior, searching for any signs of the ring. Letting the barriers surrounding his mindfall apart, the Horcrux sang a song to him of a thousand untold promises. Verses that filled him with pride and shifting melody's that invoked nothing but sorrow. He took a deep breath, focussing on the source.
"I've known you were special since the very first moment I laid my eyes on you."
"Every mother believes their child to be special," he bit back before he could stop himself.
"True," she responded while studying him. "But you're unique even amongst those who are special; you know this as well as I do."
He pursed his lips. "Of course you know that, you are me!" He spoke with an underlying tone of venom.
"Your greatest fear," she spoke, her appearance changing into himself.
"Your hidden desires," her tone turning sultry while she shifted into the form of a naked red-head.
"Your biggest triumph," her face shifting to the pale mask of Voldemort.
"Your ultimate failure," her voice turning grave as she once more turned into himself; his body deformed, burned, and marred with scars.
"In many ways I am the real you. The you that does not bother with empty lies to himself. The you that does not shield away from your shrouded desires. The you that's not afraid of what you may become. The you that can embrace the darkness you buried away," whispering the last words.
He remained stoic and steadfast as he looked at the mirror-image of himself. "Are you going to shuffle some cards and divine my future next?" he asked, more annoyed than anything else.
The visage changed shape and tactics once more, returning to the shape of his mother. A kind smile on her face - exactly the same as the one of his pictures, and he hated the visage for it.
"Don't you think you've done enough, Harry? You could rest and be selfish for once in your life. No one would claim it to be undeserved."
"And what then, let the world fall into ruin? Let nature perish along with everything else?" He asked through gritted teeth.
"You're not responsible for the fate of everyone."
His eyes marginally narrowed. Something wasn't quite right. He was responsible, he knew that without a single doubt in his mind. There was no choice on his part, his opinions were irrelevant. He would stand vast in the eye of the coming storm willingly, or it would be forced upon him. A puppet, dancing to the tune of another as his strings were controlled. Why didn't the visage in front of him know this? It was supposed to know everything he knew. Whatever magic was at play here completely circumvented concepts such as Occlumency.
'Unless..'
The realization caused laughter to escape from his mouth. It was hoarse and lacking, yet it filled the shack all the same. 'Of course'. For all Voldemort's might, for all the man's ruthlessness and power – it was absolutely insignificant in the face of Death.
"Be gone! Your words are hollow. You know nothing, and your creator will not escape the fate he so desperately tries to flee from," he said resolutely.
The visage's questionable expression turned into a snarl.
"You will fail. You will perish. Nothing will stand in the way of his desire. Everything that refuses to bend will break," her voice was filled with ice, and he swore that the temperature in the shack lowered for a second.
"He fell the last time, and will do so again. His destruction all those years ago severed him from the magical protections of this place. Your efforts to stall are futile. He will not come," he finished emotionlessly.
And with those last words spoken; the apparition of his mother slowly faded into nothingness. Leaving him alone in the downtrodden shack as the song played in the back of his mind.
He cleared the wall of its dust in grim. The heraldry of the Gaunt family: a green Runespoor with three heads on a black field, it was faded but still visible. The song originated from the floor boards directly beneath the coat of arms. Pulling away the boards he was met with a single non-descriptive black box that he levitated on the shabby table. When he removed the lid, a compulsion to grab the ring and put it on his finger filled his being. He stopped himself mid-motion and narrowed his eyes.
Aiming his wand at the ring he identified the simple but strong Charm that was active. This compulsion had felled Dumbledore the last time. Then again, a compulsion was infinitely stronger if the target already desired said object. He didn't want the stone… no, if he had the option he would never touch that foul rock again, but he needed it; no matter how much he loathed that fact. He levitated the ring into the air and forcefully pulled the stone from the band. It took more magic than he anticipated, when the two items finally came undone a small shockwave travelled throughout the shack, throwing all the dust in the air and sending him into a coughing fit.
Regaining his bearing, he slowly opened his hand, revealing the small stone that was blacker than absolute darkness; on the surface, the mark of the Deathly Hallows was engraved in white lines. It felt as if he had regained a part of himself that had been lost to the streams of time. He pried his eyes away from the stone and turned to the golden ring band that was still hovering mid-air. With a flick of his wand he levitated the Horcrux inside his pouch and made his way to the door. He gave a last fleeting look at numerous corpses and the charred area in the middle of the clearing. Taking a calming breath, he focussed his magic around him, the three 'D's' of Wilkie Twycross ran through his mind as reality collapsed around himself and he Apparated away.
This was only the beginning.