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Chapter 1- Prince of Darkness
The man screamed again; his throat was raw and dry. It had been four hours, but this man seemed unwilling to yield. The information this man held was the only thing keeping him from an instant death.
"Now Weasley, there is no reason not to say anything now."
"That's enough for now, Lucius. He'll crack eventually. For now, however, let him lick his wounds. Dolohov, take Weasley back to his cage, he gets no food, just water. Macnair, if he hasn't cracked in the next hour, drive a spike through his left hand. If he hasn't in two, drive another into his right hand." The men nodded, bowed and departed.
Peter Pettigrew came stumbling in, his rat-like face contorted in pain and fear. "M-m-master, it is time to go." He bowed low to the ground, his nose hitting the floor.
"Rise, Peter. We must make haste."
"Yes, master."
Nobody really ever knew who to fear more. They were both cruel. On one subject, one would be crueler, but on another, the other was equally as cruel. The Dark Lord was big on the Cruciatus Curse, but that never seemed to be enough for his son. No, Harry Riddle was one for physical torture, maximum pain for minimum damage.
When together, their victims tended to die within the first few hours. No one really knew who was more powerful though, so following both seemed to be the best thing to do in order to survive.
There is one thing that every Death Eater has noticed, however. The young son of the Dark Lord had a tendency to disobey his father. He was very much similar to his father, and yet so different. His father refused to touch the prisoners (besides the female ones he wished to "accompany" him to his quarters) whereas his son used every resource available to him, including his fists, for torture (although he would also take some of the female prisoners as well).
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It was a bright morning. Or at least it was on the outside of Malfoy Manor. There was no light that could penetrate the thick, stone walls, or the thick, green and silver drapes that hung over each and every window. The only light inside the house was a brightly burning fire in the hearth of a crowded room. It was loud, nearly 30 voices floated through the air. But one voice rang above the rest, a sharp voice they all knew too well.
"I hope I am not interrupting, Malfoy?"
"Not at all, my lord."
"If you think I do not know about the proceedings here, you are sorely mistaken."
"I am sorry, my lord."
"It is fine, I am not my father. He will not be here, do not worry. He has urgent business to attend to in Russia. As for myself, I will tell him nothing, on my magic I swear."
"He is much better than his father at least," one of the Death Eaters spoke up. A cynical smile spread across the young heir's lips.
"I would hope not, then there would be others stepping in to take my place. So what goes on here?" The Dark Lord's son looked around the room expectantly.
"We basically gripe, moan and bitch about our lord mostly," one obviously drunk Death Eater slurred.
"You're all fools. If you could remember how great it felt to do a job right, you would have the Dark Lord as a greatest companion," Lucius sneered.
"Yeah, well you weren't there that day when he set us into an Order ambush." The group leaned in expectantly; even the young lord leaned in to hear this tale. "There we were, waiting for the signal. Macnair over there, the blundering idiot, yelled and gave away our position. There was a good hour or so of fighting before we even came close to getting out of there. So we get back and guess what?"
"Go on," Yaxley said.
"There was no signal; we were just supposed to be bait to see how much the Order can do. They got Goyle and Crouch. Crouch is dead now and Goyle is being held in a Scotland prison."
"That's it?" Harry asked. He looked around at the glares he was receiving. "You guys complain because my father almost got you captured?"
"So what's your story then, oh dark and sinister lord?" One Death Eater asked, the drunken one. He said it with malice and ill meaning that Harry smiled widely.
"Do any of you know what a manticore is?" At the shaking heads he nodded. "I didn't think so. Well, my father had me fight one to prove myself to be worthy of being his son. I was 10. It was a difficult fight. A manticore is a blood red beast with the head of a man, body of a lion and its tail in the shape of a scorpion stinger. It can shoot barbs for up to 100 meters with deadly accuracy. Each is poison tipped and will cause instant death if it so much as pierces your skin. Best to keep a distance and fire from away, some may say. The problem though, is that most spells bounce off of its skin. Unforgivables won't work, it feels no pain, and the Avada Kedavra curse is too easy for it to dodge. The only true way to defeat it is to tear it piece by piece. Sectumsempra works the best, but that is a close range spell. It has a very deep laugh, and yet a crooning, soft voice."
"Soft voice, eh? Been talking to animals have you, Potter?" It was known to be taboo to all Death Eaters, drunk or not, to use the young dark lord's last name.
"They are capable of human speech and make a very convincing argument. After about an hour of fighting, when it is telling you to give up, that sounds like a very good idea. After another six, it sounds like a god-sent message. After twelve hours have passed and you have done nothing to be able to harm it, giving up to exhaustion sounds bloody amazing. Anyway, I must be off, father will be home soon." With that, the young lord left.
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"So father, shall we go?" It was mid November and the Dark Lord was preparing to take his son to Hogwarts.
"In a moment, I need to finish punishing Macnair for his... mistakes." Lord Voldemort's smile widened as Macnair's screams continued to fill the room. He was pretty loud, especially when the blood started to foam around the corners of his mouth. The Cruciatus Curse was lifted and Macnair lay there in a heap on the floor. With a swish of his cloak, the Dark Lord ushered his son out the door and towards the fireplace, which they were taking to Hogwarts.
They got there as the feast started. Screams erupted and both Dark Lord and son smiled cruelly at a group of fourth year Ravenclaws. They made their way up to the staff table, where all the teachers (excluding, of course, Dumbledore) were glaring at them.
"My son is here in order to receive his education, Albus. You have agreed to allow him shelter in this hall of learning, to let him learn as your teacher's pupil." Dumbledore nodded. "Then, he must be sorted?" Voldemort asked, as if it were obvious.
"Oh, I do believe we all know where he is going, Tom. But if it appeases you and your son, then we could." He clapped twice, on the first a three legged stool appeared. On the next, the sorting hat appeared on top of the stool. It looked around.
"I do believe I am a few months too early Albus, about ten to be exact."
"Yes, Gideon, I do believe we are early. There is a sorting to be had, however, that cannot wait. Mr. Potter, please sit down."
As the hat came into close proximity to his head, the students and staff leaned forward to hear 'Slytherin' ringing out across the hall. But it didn't come. As the hat reached his head, whispers broke out. Malfoy had gone faster and he couldn't be nearly as evil. It would have truly been a shock if they could hear the conversation going on inside the young dark lord's head.
"Ah, a Potter. Let's see. A manticore, expertly handled. Courage was shown there, but more so was the clever approach you took. Murder taints your soul, but I do believe that in time, there will be hope for you. Only if you allow it that is. You should know there is also a Potter curse that will not elude you. You will fall in love with a redhead. There are two here, and one is male. Take your pick. You are cruel and foul, so you would not fit in any other house other than- SLYTHERIN!"
No one besides Slytherin clapped and cheered. Reproachful glares followed the young lord as he made his way to the Slytherin table. He saw a pair of chocolate brown eyes glaring at him, challenging and uninvitingly cold. He was clapped on the back by his new peers; this would be an interesting year.
Ending note to my readers: The long wait is due to an overworked writer, school and family matters that are hard to ignore. bob the monkey and his owner, valorousknight.
Stats: Don't we love 'em?
Pages: a measly 4
Lines: 33
Words: 1631
Time this took to write: 6 months. It actually took about 3 days, but as I have already mentioned, I have had far more important things to do.