I'd like to thank nuhuh for brainstorming with me and helping me flesh out the plot, and Xiph0 for being an uber-beta.
Disclaimer: I don't own it.
Chapter one
It was one of those rooms that give you a bad feeling when you walk in. Murky, you could call it. It was damp and had no windows. A solitary, irregularly blinking, light fixture hung near the right hand corner furthest away from the door, though it brought no light to the room; in fact, it would seem as if the shadows in the room were slowly eating away at the meek glow.
A tall lanky man pulled his cowl up and dusted off his robes, not disguising his disgust as he took the first couple steps in.
"Ah, Sebastian, my friend. Good of you to join us." Said the silky voice of Adrian Malchavé. The hooded figure started, then moved with freakish grace, is if he were gliding, to the middle of the room.
"I understand you came across some troubles on your journey here." Said a third man who was sporting a long flowing robe, adorned with an overly large upraised collar. He stood to the left of the large, tall-backed brown leather chair Adrian was sitting in.
'Jerome Courson' he thought, internalizing his contempt with a short struggle. 'It would not do to lose my composure in front of the Clan Leader', he thought to himself. Jerome had been a rival of his since before he had even turned, and he always had a way of bringing out the worst in him.
The one named Sebastian bowed his head respectfully, "It was but a bump on the road, nothing stands in my way, Your Grace."
The one he had addressed chuckled, his deep baritone carrying effortlessly though the room before getting lost in the soggy drywall, the second however was not as amused. 'We know all to well of your abilities.' Jerome snapped, causing Sebastian to take a hasty step backwards.
"Calm down, Jerome. My patience with you is wearing thin enough as it is.' Adrian turned back to Sebastian, 'Now, what have you to report?"
He composed himself, then stood tall as he spoke confidently, 'The one calling himself 'Voldemort' has approached several of the higher ranked clans. He's gained support from the Segnar and Asciar, but the Lathaar and Gehskari have remained loyal to the High One. Several of our contacts in the Werewolf packs have reported being visited by his messengers, though most dealt with them in their usual brutal manner, I've been told that Fenrir's pack has aligned themselves with that... wizard." He spat the word as if it were poison in his mouth.
Jerome let out a bark of a laugh, "As if anyone is surprised by that." He said mirthlessly, the beginnings of a scowl twisting his at lips.
Adrian leaned forwards in his chair, the light temporarily dancing across his aristocratic features eerily, his sunken eyes the only thing giving away his old age. "Our alliance with Fenrir's pack has always been tenuous at best, though this news is disturbing none the less." He said tiredly.
There was a pause as the seated one was apparently lost in thought. After a short while, he looked up and asked, "What of the Giants?"
"Neutral as always." Sebastian said shortly. He never liked these meetings, and he wasn't eager to stay any longer then needed.
"Very well," is there anything else?"
He hesitated, but opened his mouth to speak again, "Several of our agents were on an assignment in northwestern Scotland," He started, receiving a nod in return. "They were supposed to rendezvous with several of the Gehskari Hierarchy to discuss a few delicate matters, but they were intercepted. A few wizards belonging to the 'Order of the Phoenix' attempted to dispatch of them, futilely of course. They. . . extracted information from a few, and we learned some interesting things." Here he paused, shaking off his last bits of doubt about what he was going to say.
"Have you heard the story of Harry Potter?"
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Harry might as well have been paralyzed. He lay in bed, wrapped ridiculously tight in his covers. He let out a pained groan as he worked himself up to a sitting position on the edge of his bed, bloodshot eyes gave the window opposite him a dirty look, as if it were responsible for the dim light slowly invading his room.
Harry yawned and stood up on wobbly legs. He absently noted that the planks of wood that made up his floor were colder then usual on his bare feet, then made his way towards the loo. After he had taken a shower and brushed his teeth, he went to make himself some morning tea, which he hoped would clear the cobwebs from his head. After a short while Harry was back in his room, a steaming cup of Twinings English Breakfast in hand. A splash of milk, two lumps of sugar brought it to, in his opinion, perfection.
A still half-asleep, though considerably cleaner Harry threw on some jeans and sighed, rolling his neck in a lackadaisical fashion.
Loud footsteps crossed past his door and went down the stairs, Harry's ear need not have been keen in order to hear the shouted "Bloody Hell!" that accompanied a rather loud crash.
'Ever gifted with the grace of an elephant.' Harry mused with a vindictive smirk.
Harry sat his cup down and took a seat on old wooden chair, taking a look out his window. Harry's jade eyes dryly observed the bleak outside weather; it seemed it'd be another cold morning in Surrey. The dreary, almost reluctant pale rays of sunlight rose over the horizon, failing to break though the dense clouds that filled the sky, and the morning dew looked like little pebbles, reflecting that great expanse of slate grey.
He absentmindedly picked at the flaking paint-chips that made up the rough exterior of his desk, his mind reviewing once more the events that had happened on the ninth floor of the Ministry of Magic no more then a few months ago. Unlike one would think, however, instead of remembering his godfathers fate at the hand of one Bellatrix LeStrange, he instead remembered what he had done to said witch afterwards.
'Crucio!' He had snarled, incensed at the hag who had dared to murder his godfather.
It was over as soon as it started, a flash in the pan as it were. 'Unfortunately' Harry thought, not feeling guilty in the slightest. 'If only it had lasted longer' he added, a wistful sigh slipping past his lips.
To him dark magic had a disconcertingly calming effect on him. A pleasurable tingling that seemed to eat away his every thought other then what was happening then and there. The effect was similar to being intoxicated into a state of hyper-alertness. He became increasingly aware of everything and anything happening near instantaneously.
Even thinking back on it now, the feeling sent a chill down his spine.
He looked down and gave his tea a stir before taking a sip. 'A proper cup of tea is a fine thing, indeed.' Harry thought, a content look replacing the sullen mask that had previously adorned his features.
His brief reprieve lasted only a few seconds before his thoughts brought him back.
Ever since that night, he had craved it. The feeling of all outside thoughts burning away, all his cares, hopes and worries cast aside…
He shook his head ruefully, righteous anger seemed to have a diluting effect on the magic. Pure hatred, malice, that was what made it stronger.
Harry wanted to be strong.
It was unsettling to say the least. Some nights however, when he lay in thought, staring at the crack in the ceiling right above his bed, he wondered whether it really was a bad thing. Behind the constant itch for that sense of serenity was a eagerness to learn, to make a means to his ends. His currant repertoire was pathetic, and he admitted it. After all, stunner's, disarmers and body binders won't help much when you're getting turned inside out and your skin is on fire, now would they?
Harry let out a derisive snort, he was supposed to be the savior of the wizarding world? He was a teenager with naught but five years of standard training, which was woefully pathetic in comparison with Voldemort's. The man had been alive four times as long as Harry, and had probably studied countless tomes that Harry would be lucky to even hear of. Rituals, Harry considered, were also a major advantage on the Dark Lord's side. Whereas Voldemort had undergone many magical enhancements and was more then likely the most powerful wizard alive, Harry remained weak.
Harry hated being weak.
Harry made a promise to himself that morning, that he wouldn't remain the helpless prophecy child. That he would train, learn, and make a proper fighter of himself. And that one day, he would watch the life trickle from the eyes of the man that had taken everything away from him.
And he would smile.
Dark magic. Harry had dwindled away many hours internally debating the subject. The conclusion was the same every time - he weakening his arsenal against Voldemort for the sake of morals. Morals, however, would not fulfill the prophecy, power would. Dark magic was necessary evil, and sat comfortably convinced of this fact.
Harry nodded.
That was the last thought he managed before his chin slipped from his palm, and his mind drifted into oblivion.
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He shuddered as a crisp wind blew though his window, dragging him out of his fitful nap. He blinked, and rubbed what would have been the sleep from his eyes had he had gotten any decent rest.
He sighed, taking a glance outside. The sun had moved from it's previous place in the sky, now casting weak rays of light on the rows of roofs dotting Privet Drive. He looked down to the early risers who took to their near-obsessive lawn duties with gusto.
Harry shut the window about three-quarters of the way down, leaving an opening for any owls that might be on their way then stood up, hearing his back audibly pop, and made his way over to Hedwig's cage, tossing a handful of treats on the table in front of it and filling her water bowl. She gave him a less than affectionate nip and a glare for waking her up then ruffled her feathers.
Harry knew he couldn't do another summer here. Order members were no doubt keeping an eye on him and although he had his invisibility cloak, should Mad-eye be watching, he would just make a fool of himself.
His dry tongue licked his lips and he noted with a cringe that they tasted of humid summer and dust, only a hint of tea left. He looked down to his cup, which had been half-full when he fell asleep. It now lay empty, and for the first time he noticed the regal brown owl who was right next to it.
Harry jumped backwards, almost tipping his chair over in the process. Gathering himself back up, he glared at the owl who, at the moment, had an infuriatingly smug look on it's face.
Harry untied the envelope from the owl's ankle and examined it. The paper it was made of was fresh, white thick material, unlike most parchment he was used to, and there was a fancy 'G' pressed into the wax seal that held the lip shut. On the front, in elegant red lettering were the words
To be delivered to one 'Harry Potter' at Number Four, Privet Drive, Surrey
Harry's eyes darted to his bedside alarm clock, seeing '9:12' glow dully back at him.
Before he could open the letter there was a short knock on his door, twice he noticed. His left eye twitched.
"Potter!" Came the disgruntled voice of his Uncle. "There's a freak here for you." He sounded like he wanted to say something else, but instead waddled away as per usual.
Harry perked up at that, 'this could be my ticket out of here' he thought happily. He looked at the state of disarray his room was in, and shrugged before throwing on a muggle shirt and stuffing the letter in his pocket to be read later. He hesitated a second - then threw on a cloak just in case.
He reached over and closed his curtains, ripping a hole in the worn and moth eaten cotton. Grabbing his wand off the small stand beside his bed, he made his way downstairs. Harry stopped dead in his tracks half-way down the staircase, eyes narrowed. He took a step backwards and straightened the picture on his left, and stepped back, dusting his hands with a satisfied nod before continuing down.
He stepped into family room and took in an interesting sight. Professor Dumbledore stood near the fireplace, clad in purple robes dotted with yellow squares which seemed to be moving around, as if trying to escape their dreaded purple prison. Harry couldn't blame them, and felt a sense of sorrow for the poor little squares. A tall matching wizard's hat was perched atop his head, adding to his already freakish height. Harry followed his eyes, and noticed his aunt sobbing in the arms of Uncle Vernon.
The Headmaster's eyes looked weary, his posture tired, as he shifted his attention to Harry.
"Mr. Potter," greeted the Headmaster briefly, "Go pack your things, we need to leave quickly."
Harry raised a questioning eyebrow, but made haste returning upstairs and set to gathering his belongings which were haphazardly strewn about the room.
Harry finished and, after making one last sweep for any forgotten items, closed the lid to his over-stuffed and worn out trunk. He wished he could charm it to be light, or even to float behind him, but after remembering what happened last time he tried using magic over school break he quickly decided against it.
Harry felt a bit nervous, Dumbledore's words were laced with worry, something that sounded out of place in his usually kind and grandfatherly tone. An anxious feeling settled itself deep in his gut. After giving Hedwig instructions to fly to Grimmauld Place and wait for him there, he set about dragging his trunk back downstairs.
Harry walked into the room and saw Dumbledore having a whispered argument with his Uncle. The bright colored walls made it feel no less gloomy in the room, and although the fireplace was cracking and popping with the sound of burning wood, it added no warmth. Harry gave into boredom as he got tired of trying to listen in on the hushed argument and began tapping his foot in rhythm with the cracks and pops coming from the fire while he waited for them to finish. Every now-and-then he'd pick up a couple words, but they made no sense spaced apart the way they were. Harry looked up to see Vernon on the brink of exploding in anger, and Petunia wailing away in her annoying voice.
He was about to add his hands to the beat when Dumbledore voiced a rather loud "Fools!"
Rather miffed at the intrusion, Harry watched as the Headmaster hurriedly grabbed a small pillow of the couch and mutter under his breath, tapping his wand on it once creating the familiar blue glow of the Portus charm.
"Harry," the Headmaster began. "The wards keeping you safe here have been compromised. Voldemort and his followers are, for now, unaware. But I have no doubt they will not remain ignorant. We have to get you away from here as soon as possible." Dumbledore's face was lined with worry and the wrinkles on his face had never seemed so prominent.
Harry's mind was going a thousand miles a minute, trying to think of what would break the ward which had kept him safe for almost sixteen years. The ward that was responsible for his, if it could be called so, 'childhood.' In a way, he felt a sense of bitterness towards that ward, and was almost happy it was gone. Then he remembered what had brought it into existence, his Mother's sacrifice.
The Headmaster sent a cold look towards the Dursleys.
"Your relatives have made the unfortunate decision to risk their safety by staying, I'm sorry to say I was not able to convince them that without the wards they are in mortal danger."
Harry's eyes took on a detached look, "Works for me", he said airily.
Dumbledore looked surprised, but he didn't press the issue, and instead held out the portkey silently.
"Mr. Potter, this will take us to Headquarters There is an Order meeting in progress and I'll explain then." The Headmaster said, extending the little tan pillow to him.
He reached out, grabbing onto the pillow. Dumbledore whispered something under his breath, and Harry waited for the tell-tale tug behind his navel. It never came.
He heard the old wizard next to him mumble about anti-portkey wards while he fumbled in his robe pocket for something.
Dumbledore retrieved some sort of pendant on a chain and held it out to Harry, who repeated the process of holding onto it. The second his hand touched the necklace the Headmaster closed his eyes, as if focusing intently.
"Activate!"
Harry's vision went black.
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Horace Slughorn sat in his private dungeon, located a few hundred feet below his house. The walls were made of black stone, worn and cracked with age. Three cauldrons were arranged in a triangle in the middle of the room, each simmering with a different color sludge inside. Next to those were counters full of labeled containers and vials.
Puffs of steam drifted about the room, and a toxic green glow cast thick shadows across his face. A large oak bookcase stood behind him, filled to bursting with his precious collection of tomes old enough that the ancient words on their spines were almost unrecognizable.
Horace sat in his plush oversize chair, pondering the so called 'return' of the Dark Lord.
He was in a foul mood. Scratch that, he was in a horrible mood. An opened letter lay on his polished cherry table, amongst other scattered pieces of parchment containing endless notes and papers which pertained primarily to potions, (Though he was sure his Mother's goulash recipe was hidden in there somewhere.)
This certain piece of parchment was the source of his current feelings however, as it contained what was an informal 'Invitation to his initiation into the Dark Lord's ranks'.
Horace had been supplying old members of the 'Slug Club' with various potions since it's inception. But a large number of those students, more then he would like to admit, had grown rather shady in their dealings with him as they grew up. Years had passed since he had been a Professor, but guilt trips and old favors kept rolling in .
As more and more of his prized club members took the mark, he became, though unwittingly, the Death Eater's primary potion supplier. They had tried to keep him in the dark, as it were. Explain it off as innocent testing and such, but he didn't have to be the former the Head of Slytherin House to see through such blatant lies. Horace wasn't about to stop though, he could scarcely imagine the consequences for defying Lord Voldemort.
The Dark Lord was made aware of him by one of his star pupils, Maria Zabini. Horace had been supplying her with Pepper-Up and Skelegrow potions since she finished her seventh year at Hogwarts, she always said that she kept a private stock at home, and she had to use them on a regular basis. Slughorn, being the kind of man he was, always helped his old students when he could.
Years later, once she had been sure of his trustworthiness, Maria went to the Dark Lord with the name of a skilled potions master who would be willing to help their cause. Horace had never taken the mark, for that matter, he had never even seen the Dark Lord in person. He had too many contacts on the light side to risk being branded with the Dark Mark, so he was told. For this he was grateful, because since that Halloween night in 1981, he considered himself a free man.
Letters from the Dark Lord requesting potions had always been the same, and he had not seen one for more then fourteen years now. Yet here one was, sitting there, as if mocking him.
This time, it was not a request however, but a demand. Lord Voldemort had found another potions master, who even had rank within Dumbledore's Order. The Dark Lord had no use for him now, but he had too much information on many of his followers to be ignored.
He picked up the letter once more, and re-read it for the third time,
Slughorn,
I have no doubt that you are aware of my return by now. You know what I require of you.
Riddle Manor, eleven o'clock. Tomorrow you will take my mark.
His bushy mustache twitched, and he reached into his robe pocket. After retrieving his handkerchief, he wiped his brow with a shuddering breath. A last ditch option came to mind, and it seemed to be his last hope.
He pulled himself up and walked over to the other side of the room, his footsteps echoing shortly. Horace flicked his wrist, and his wand made its way into his hand from his holster.
He pointed it at the already blackened logs in the fireplace and intoned 'Incendio'.
A myriad of orange, red and yellow flames sprung to life, quickly morphing into a pale shade of green as he threw in a handful of Floo powder.
Horace took a step back, then jumped into the fire with a scream of -
"Hogwarts!"
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A pale hand flopped around like a water deprived fish, connected to it was the slowly waking form of Harry Potter. After what seemed like an eternity, they clasped upon his glasses.
He put them on and let out a thankful sigh as everything came back into focus, that's when he noticed a note attached to them by a piece of muggle tape. He pulled it off and flipped it over. There, in Albus Dumbledore's unique scrawl were the words,
Harry, the item we used last night was set to let out a powerful pulse of magic that would make a rift in the anti-portkey wards surrounding your house long enough for us to get out.
I regret not warning you that it could happen, but you suffered a magical overload and were knocked out from the blast.
There will be an Order meeting tonight to discuss what has happened, I will contact you before then.
AD
He sighed and tucked the note into his robes. Harry was in what looked like the library of Grimmauld Place. He looked around the somewhat dusty room, rows upon rows of books made up most of it, and he was laying on the only couch in a small and scarcely furnished nook.
High placed windows let beams of sunlight streak in, and the rhythmic tick tock coming from the grandfather clock cornered a few feet away from him rung in his head loudly.
The beginnings of a headache stirred in the back of his head, and an aching pain shot through his neck as he stood. His feet carried him out the door and into the kitchen by memory. Seeing no one there, Harry reached up to the top shelf in the cupboard next to the sink and grabbed a bottle of firewhiskey.
He poured himself a glass and sat at the large mahogany table. He took a sip, and after the smoke cleared he noticed the pain had dulled a little.
After a little while, and a few more glasses of whiskey, he got up, the chair he was sitting in making a resounding dragging noise against the floor. After a quick internal debate, he found himself walking up the stairs to the bedrooms to see if anyone was around. Mrs. Black's portrait was quiet as he passed by, thankfully. He continued climbing staircase after staircase, the creaking wood making annoying 'squeak' noises every step until he reached the third floor.
Voices drifted down the hall, smothered and garbled. He walked around the corner and up the to door the noise was coming from. This time, the voices were clear.
"Honestly, if I didn't respect Dumbledore so much I wouldn't even so much as think of doing this. . ." His eyes widened slightly as he recognized the voice, Madame Pomfrey had lectured him enough that he'd never forget it.
"I know dear," said the curt voice of Professor McGonnagall, "You'll only have to check in on him hourly." she finished.
Poppy's voice took on a bewildered tone, "How in the world did this happen in the first place?"
McGonnagall chuckled humorously, "He had been here all of ten minutes before he ran into Severus."
The nurse interrupted with an understanding groan.
"Yes, indeed. It was quite the spectacle, those two dueling. Slughorn managed to get himself in this situation before Moody was able to stun them both," she added wryly.
"What is he doing here anyway? I would've thought he'd be in Azkaban by now, or at least in custody at the Ministry."
"That's what ridiculous about this whole thing, he came here with the hope that Dumbledore would protect him, but refuses to divulge anything. There's a meeting tonight at nine, you'll be there?"
Harry snarled at that, this Slughorn character, whoever he was, sounded like a twit trying to save his own neck by dangling 'vital' information.
"Yes, Minerva. I should be able to handle it from here, so I'll see you at the meeting tonight." Madam Pomfrey finished.
There were some shuffling sounds, then footsteps started towards Harry. He quickly bolted into the only other room on the floor, closing the door just as McGonnagall passed by. He leaned against the door in relief, eyes closed. He took a deep breath then looked around the room he was in.
The window's were hastily boarded, and whatever little light they would've let in was drowned out by the thick dust in the air. Thick wooden planks made up the floor. The entire room was empty except for a small table in the corner. He pushed himself off the door and walked over to it.
Unlike everything else he had seen in the house, this table was sparkling clean, as if all the dirt floating in the air had avoided it entirely. On top of it was a single, battered book. He picked it up to read when he heard Madam Pomfrey pass the door and go downstairs as well. Harry tucked it into his robe and made a mental note to read it and his letter later. Right now, he had a job to do.
He went back to the room holding 'Slughorn' and opened the door. There was a middle aged and more then slightly fat man lying in the queen size bed towards the back of the room. Next to him was a window with red drapes, and underneath that was an end table full of what looked like medical potions.
Harry walked up to Slughorn, the guy wasn't in great shape. Bruises and cuts were littered about his body, and his left arm hung at an odd angle. Judging by his loud snores, Harry guessed he had taken a dreamless sleep potion. He steeled himself, and looked back down at him. This man had information on Death Eaters that Harry wanted, and Harry had made a resoloution to let nothing stand in his way.
His left eye twitched.
Harry picked up the wand laying on the bedside table and cast a quick locking charm at the door. After setting down the wand, he cracked his knuckles and licked his hand.
His fist collided with Horace's jaw with a loud 'crack!'
His piggish eyes snapped open and he groaned in pain. Harry rolled his neck and glared at him.
"Slughorn, that your name?" Harry tried to sound intimidating, but noticed his voice crack a little.
His eyes shot up to Harry and he sputtered, "P-Potter? What the hell are you doing?"
"Shut up. I have questions, you have answers. You will not speak unless I ask you to. Understand?" Harry felt satisfied with his work that time.
Slughorn looked at him with contempt. "I've already told Dumbledore that I've given you people all I'm going to until he promises me protection in front of the Order!"
Harry sighed, this was going to be harder then he thought. He knew he couldn't get answers out of him through sheer interrogation, and he couldn't use his or Slughorn's wand to help speed up the process.
Harry searched the room for something he could use, a blunt object maybe, but there was nothing there but the bed and. . .
A sadistic smile curled Harry's lips upwards. He went around the bed and to the little table, eyes drifting over the various bottles and vials until he found the one he was looking for. He turned back to Slughorn with Skelegrow in hand and prepared to take advantage of the situation. Horace was in a full bodybind.
"Now, I see you understand what's about to happen. Are you going to talk to me, or am I going to have to. . . persuade you?" Asked Harry.
Slughorn looked furious, his bushy silver eyebrows furrowed in anger. "You wouldn't dare! Dumbledore took me in -"
"I could give a shit, honestly, about what Dumbledore did." Harry sighed and rubbed his forehead. This was turning into more trouble then it was worth. If he was going to do this though, he had to be ruthless.
It was for the greater good.
"It looks like we have to do this the hard way then."
He leaned over and looked him in the eye. "Open wide buddy, here comes the pain." Harry said mockingly.
Slughorn started to scream, but it turned into a gurgle as Harry poured much more then was safe into Slughorn's mouth. The effects were immediately noticeable. Slughorn started thrashing as much as he could, his skin tightening and bulging in random places.
The scream that ripped from his throat made Harry wince.
"Now, I need names."
Slughorn started blurting out a list of names, most of them Harry already knew, some however were surprising. He took out the note Dumbledore had left him and picked up a quill from the table, quickly scribbling down everything the potions master said on the blank side.
Slughorn's cheekbones ripped from his flesh jaggedly, and he only screamed louder.
"There we go. Now, wasn't that easy?" Harry said, patting him on the forehead. He wiped the blood that got on his hand on the bed sheets.
As he was doing so, Slughorn's left leg swelled, and before Harry could react it exploded in a brilliant splatter of bone, muscle and veins.
Harry stood up and took his glasses off, cleaning them on his robes.
"Gross. . ."
When the bones stopped protruding from his skin, and after screaming himself hoarse, Slughorn lay whimpering like a pathetic whale.
Harry looked dispassionately at the mutated, gory and yet somehow still breathing mess in front of him. In the end, Slughorn was as unrecognizable as the ancient words on the spines of his precious books.
Minutes earlier
In the kitchen of number twelve Grimmauld place, Minerva McGonnagall fixed Madam Pomfrey with a stern glare
"You didn't give him anything for the pain, did you?"
The nurse just shrugged and took a sip of her tea as another scream drifted downstairs, "Would you have?"