Harry Potter and the Rise of Balor
Can we fight our true nature?
Become something we are not?
Can we use our light?
To conceal our darkness?
To bury the demon below?
Finn Balor
Chapter One – The Opening
On a quiet, open little street in Surry, the residences of Privet Drive were all taking advantage of the good weather. With lawns freshly trimmed, cars bright and sparkling in their drives, with the world seemingly trotting along at its more than reasonable pace; however, one resident of this prim and conservative street was far from welcome or accepted.
Known as the grubby offshoot of the more than likeable Dursley family, Harry James Potter was more of a blight on the street than anyone really understood. Yes, his hair was never neat and tidy, through no fault of his own, his clothing was always baggy and worn in a chaotic scruff, owing to his overly large trousers and peeling trainers. Again, unbeknownst to the residents, who naturally assumed that the boy enjoyed adorning garments several sizes above his lean and athletic frame, this was because the only raiment that was bestowed upon him were old hand-me-downs and discarded tat from his overly weighted cousin. These things, however, were but trifles to the one trait of character that was in his power to control, the one which also garnered him this appalling treatment from his blood relations. The trait that Harry James Potter, scruffy, youthful and ostracised, was a wizard.
Harry pounded the streets of Little Whinging, posture burdened and his stride lacks. In his hand, he carried a long, thin stick, something that the residents may assume to be the sapling of a much larger branch. In truth, the item Harry carried was a source of power beyond anything these simple Muggle's could ever comprehend.
A wand.
Harry had tossed caution to the wind, following the end of his fifth year at Hogwarts, the famous school of Witchcraft and Wizardry which at one point had served as the only place he could truly call home. Harry's upper lip curled into a furious snarl as he contemplated what he was going to do; he looked down at his hands, could almost feel the power rising from The Earth as fury spread throughout his body. Why? Why had she not squealed? Why had she not broken as so many of her own victims had?
'Righteous anger won't hurt me for long … I'll show you how it is done, shall I? I'll give you a lesson.'
The words of that murderer: Bellatrix Lestrange resounded deep from within the fathoms of his mind. It had been her that had caused this pain deep within his heart, when that evil bitch had sent Sirius, Harry's Godfather, his only true family, her own cousin, through the Veil of Death.
Harry felt the tears return to his eyes, felt his entire body tremble with a cold, dark, hatred. At this moment, Harry didn't care about being a wizard, didn't care that his true enemy had returned to flesh, blood, and bone with a means of enslaving the world. At this moment, all Harry cared about was seeing that bitch of a woman lying dead at his feet.
It came to him in a subtle whisper, a dark, ominous voice, at the edge of hearing, almost like the words found in a dream. It breathed into his ear, alien, portentous, and powerful.
'Rebmuls a sa hdaeried ra nekow nomed na ta. Leiús liacso nomed na ta."
Harry felt a slow, creeping chill enter his spine. His rage festered, pushed into the deepest recesses of his soul, while his eyes, for the most fleeting of moments, sifted with darkness. Inside, Harry felt something snap, though his mind, his body and his soul remained. This was not a breaking of a man, it was a breaking of chains, a destruction of wills placed upon him ever since Voldemort had first tried to strike him down as little more than a child.
The surge was silent, exhibited no pulse, no shock, no force. But across the country, three people felt this rending, this gathering of intense power: Albus Dumbledore, Tom Marvolo Riddle, and Hermione Granger.
Hermione sat up from her position on her bed, the book she had been nosing through tumbling from her hands and onto the floor. Her heart began to pound, felt her breathing heighten. She had never felt anything like this before. Herself a studied and attune witch, Hermione was never far from the either, the stream of energy that bestowed upon witches and wizards the power of the arcane.
This shift was one of building devastation, an insurgence of power so great that it could only come from one source: The awakening, the opening of the Eye of Balor. Erupting to her feet Hermione hastened to her bookshelf and scanned the spines, reciting their titles as she searched.
"Arcane spells of the Norse Gods… Pagan Magic in the Muggle World… Ahh Yes!"
Hermione pulled the leather and gold bound book from its place of rest: The Rise of Balor. Immediately the dark-haired witch set the book down on her desk, throwing open its pages and began to speed through.
"Balor, king of the demons and slumbering god… yadda, yadda, yadda …" Hermione flicked through page after page. She found the page she was looking for, taking in the ancient depictions of Balor, the demon who ruled all. He who slept in silence, his single eye of destruction closed until the time of renewal. Only then, when he had chosen his vessel, when the world was to be remade, only then did the Demon king open his eye and reap his will upon the world.
"Why me…?" Hermione breathed, wondering why she had been the one to feel the opening of the eye. She felt no different, knew she was not the one Balor had chosen to bestow his power upon. But then… Hermione closed the book tight with a snap, her concern making her reckless, even if there was more to read. Reaching for her inkwell and parchment Hermione readied herself to inform Professor Dumbledore on what she had felt. He had to know, he would understand why this was happening.
A hollow, cautious roil curdled in his core, ink dripping from her quill and onto the parchment in a soft dripping resonance. No… for some reason Hermione didn't want to reach out to Dumbledore, her heart knotting in protest as it fought to override her head.
Instead, Hermione cleansed the parchment of ink, recharged her quill, and began to scribe a letter to Harry.