Chapter One

November 1st, 1982

The circular room was lit with the soft, warm light of many oil lamps, some of them fixed in brackets on the gray stone walls, others in an iron chandelier which hung from the center of the room's high vaulted ceiling. At the end of the room was a raised dais, and in the center of the dais stood a massy writing desk shaped like a Gothic altar. Its dark walnut panels were covered with ornate carvings and scrollwork, and its face was studded with the silver knobs of a dozen cabinets and drawers. On its polished top lay a neat arrangement of glass ink-bottles and artistically trimmed quill-pens, along with a few leather-bound tomes and a collection of small curios. The flickering light glinted on the burnished surfaces of a great many clockwork devices that cluttered the tops of small tables all around the room, spinning and oscillating with little hums and clicks that echoed off the concave walls, providing the only break in the otherwise perfect stillness.

At the front of the room was a great oaken door set in a tall archway. At the far end, behind the desk, were two wide bookcases that spanned the entire wall from floor to ceiling; their shelves were filled with books of every imaginable size, many whose once brightly colored canvas and leather bindings were now faded with extreme age. Between these bookcases was a large painting of the room itself, centered on the unoccupied armchair at the desk. Cabinets full of strange and fantastic items lined the side walls, and above them portraits of elderly men and women, all seated at similar desks in similar round studies, filled nearly every available square foot of space. The subject of each portrait had been painted drooping in his chair, his eyes closed and his head hanging down or resting on his folded arms in the attitude of deep slumber.

The door in the archway opened noiselessly, and into the room walked a very old man. He was wrapped in cloak the color of twilight, over which hung his long, silvery gray hair and beard. A pair of half-moon spectacles was perched on the bridge of his crooked nose, and behind them, half hidden under the brim of a pointed purple hat, flashed eyes of piercing blue. They were wise eyes, deep with the memory of a long life of joy and sorrow, eyes that had witnessed triumphs and tragedies, and had not been blind to their lessons. Now, as he entered, they were filled with sadness.

He hung his hat on a brass hook by the door, then, crossing the flagstone floor with a light tread, opened one of the cabinets that stood against the wall. Inside, resting on a pedestal of pale marble, was a shallow basin of black stone and transparent crystal; its dark rim was carved with flowing runes that glowed faintly silver in the dim light. He took the basin and carried it to the dais, placed it in the center of the desk, and seated himself in the empty chair.

He ran his fingertips around the rim, over the silver runes, and as he did the basin began to fill with an airy fluid that shone with unearthly light, brilliant, but remote, as though it came from a great distance. Fine wisps of lesser and greater brightness writhed and twined around each other in a mesh of dreamy confusion. At times, though, they would weave themselves into a single intricate pattern, like a spider web, which for a brief moment would show faintly through the swirling disorder, and then fade once again.

Reaching his thin hand under his cloak the old man brought out a small glass vial, which contained a wisp of the same ghostly mist. He poured the wisp into the basin, where it joined the others in their restless movements. He stirred the contents with his hand, and they began to seethe, shining brighter and swirling faster, sending up a thick vapor that overflowed the basin and ran down the sides of the desk. He leaned forward, gripping basin's rim in his hands, and stared into the light; the pupils of his blue eyes dilated and began to gleam.

The room and its furnishings melted away into a mass of dark, impenetrable fog, which closed in on him like a crashing wave. The shining mist rose up and bloomed, the wisps of ghost-light dispersing and threading themselves into the shadowy billows that now swept around him in a silent whirlwind. Slowly, the fog began to thin and recede, and finally vanished, revealing the four walls of a small chamber. A nursery.

That same instant the air was filled with the reverberating blast of a nearby explosion. The floor shook, and across the room a small figure sat up in bed with a gasp of fright. There was a confused exchange of angry shouts, then the hellish cry of a man in mortal agony. It was sustained for nearly a minute in a rising crescendo, every moment intensifying in proportion to the anguish it voiced. The old man closed his eyes, pained grief etched into every line of his pale face, but he remained where he stood.

As the cry rang through the house, pounding footsteps could be heard rapidly approaching the nursery. The door burst open and young woman rushed in. She passed the old man without a glance, crossing over to the child in the bed. He was a young boy, about two years old, and he had begun to weep and call for his parents in terror. The young mother lifted him into her arms, paused momentarily to whisper comfortingly in his ear, and then turned back to the open door to flee the way she had come. Something halted her, as though rooting her to the floor. She stood motionless, clutching her child to her breast, and trembled.

Barely visible against the darkness of the open doorway loomed the form of a man, tall and shrouded in black; the hood drawn over its head completely concealed its face in shadow. For a moment it stood there, or hovered, facing the mother in menacing silence. Then it spoke:

"It is often said that mother love is the most powerful force in all of human nature, but could it really be stronger than the love of life? I wonder..."

The words were spoken as a whisper, low and harsh, but with such intensity that they rang in the old man's ears.

The mother raised her face and stared back into the emptiness beneath the hood. Then, with a tremor in her voice that she could not suppress, she replied:

"You must be him, the one they refuse to talk about. Why have you come here? What do you want? Vengeance for your imprisoned followers? Kill me then, as you have killed my husband, but I beg you to spare my son! You have no reason to want him dead. Please, let him live!"

"Hush, foolish girl. You are ignorant, but that is excusable. What could you know of my intent? There is no need for you to die this night. A great lord does not seek vengeance for his servants, neither does he avenge himself on the servants of his enemy. Of what importance do you think you and your husband are to me? Lowly Aurors, two of a hundred working for the Ministry. If it was vengeance I sought, you would not be receiving this visit; that honor would be reserved for the old fool, Crouch. No, I am not here for your sake or your husband's. I have come for the boy."

The woman uttered a strangled scream and fell to her knees, her trembling becoming even more agitated.

"Neville?" she shrieked. "No, not Neville! Not him! Oh God! why? Why must he die? What could you possibly gain?"

The robed figure laughed: a high, dry chuckle that made the old man's skin crawl.

"The answer to that question you may never know, and at this time it is hardly important. I am offering you your life. Relinquish your son, watch him die at my hand, and you will live."

The kneeling woman's free hand flew upward with startling speed, and at the same instant she shouted with all the vehemence of desperation:

"DISSILIRE!"

A bolt of brilliant red lightning shot toward the dark figure in the doorway. Effortlessly, the figure raised his hand and redirected the bolt, sending it crackling across the room. It struck a dresser next to where the old man was standing, and blew it to splinters in a burst of sparks. The force of the blast knocked the mother prostrate on the floor, and there she lay, on her side with her legs partially drawn up, shielding her frantically crying son from the flying rubble with her own body.

"IDIOT WOMAN!" The dark figure's voice was like the roar of a cataract. "The Lord of Shadows offers you your life, and you throw it away with both hands. Did you think you could save your son with this infantile attempt on my life? He shall die all the same, and you will wish that you had joined him."

He raised his hand again, holding in it a thin wand of delicately carved wood; he pointed it at the mother's heaving form, and hissed:

"Cruciare!"

She screamed in pain, and her body began to convulse uncontrollably. The dark figure stooped and lifted something from among the fragments of wood at his feet: a wand, similar to his own, but shorter and plainer. He laughed again, this time madly, ecstatically, and it burst apart, falling back to the floor in pieces.

The woman's screams became more choked and her convulsions more violent, but still she remained with her back to the robed figure and her arms wrapped around her son, shielding as much of him as she could. He wept and called out to her again and again, his arms around her neck and his tear soaked cheek pressed against hers.

"A brave woman, I must concede, but foolish. Such a display of courage and endurance will win you nothing in the end."

The robed figure gave his wand a small twist and jab, and the young woman responded with an inhuman shriek. Her body bent backwards and twisted halfway around, her limbs stiffened and twitched for a few seconds, and then it ended. She lay silent and still.

The boy, having been flung a short distance from his mother in her last paroxysm, now crawled back to her side. Taking her upturned face in his pudgy hands, he caressed her contorted features, trying to call out to her again. He could not: his voice was too choked to make a sound.

The dark figure took a step toward them and drew himself up. Once more he raised his wand, directing it at the boy's kneeling form. The boy lifted his eyes, looking up the length of the cruel wooden spine into the empty shadow beneath the hood. There was fear written on his round face, and even more clearly, bewilderment: his mind was unable to grasp or accept anything that had taken place. It was a nightmare, nothing more, a meaningless and impossible vision of terror and despair. It wasn't real.

The figure in black robes drew back his hand and flung it forward with a triumphant shout:

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

At that same instant the boy leaned his body over his mother's face and raised his tiny arm to shield her from the blow. There was a brilliant flash of green light, a blinding explosion of white fire, and a long, wailing, chilling cry. Then, darkness.

The gray fog rose up, taking the place of the empty blackness, and again vanished. The old man was in his study, seated at his desk. Before him lay the crystal basin with its silver runes and swirling, shining fluid. He took off his spectacles, laying them lightly beside the basin, and buried his face in his hands.

Author's Notes:

This is my first real literary attempt, and my inexperience, combined with my obsession over detail, could cause long waits between chapters. I expect the story to be a some time in the making.

All reviews are welcomed, and I look forward to receiving constructive criticism from more experienced amateurs.

A quick note on spells: for Latin incantations the standard suffix '-o' (active; declarative; present; first person; singular) has been changed to '-are/ere/ire' (passive; imperative; present; second person; singular). Thus, Crucio (I torment) becomes Cruciare (Be tormented!). Dissilire is a non-incendiary explosive hex.

S. C.