Prologue
A baleful full moon shone down upon a dark, damp graveyard. The graveyard was a special sort, covered with strangely crooked gravestones and filled with an odd smell that suggested the corpses may be far too fresh and the graves far too shallow. In fact, the graveyard seemed designed to host evil rituals and hauntings, practically oozing evil all over the place like a particularly nefarious snail.
The graveyard's evilness was aided by the characters shifting (because in a graveyard like this, they never just stand) within. One rat-faced man with a hunched back and severed arm, one messianic teenager twisting and turning in anguish while strapped to a wooden cross, and one corpse with an oddly pale complexion and dead eyes (and dead hands, dead legs, dead teeth... dead everything really) all added to the general aura of sinisterness that all evil rituals needed. Yet, this concentrated menace paled compared to the figure rising from the cauldron.
This man, if it could be called such, radiated bad vibes so great they made Sauron cream his pants in awe. He was 6 feet of pale gaunt terror, a body the nightmare of every anorexic and a face the envy of every snake. This man was Lord Voldemort, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the greatest Dark Lord in history, and the centerpiece of all PSA drug posters. His red eyes glared at the graveyard's other occupants, prompting a fearful whimper from the rat/man and a defiant responding glare from the boy on the cross (the corpse didn't respond). Slowly, You-Know-Who (Voldemort, in case you didn't know who) unfurled to his full height, sniffed the air, and asked, in the raspy ominous tones of Ralph Fiennes,
"Where the fuck am I!?"