Harry Potter: Wrath of the Ascendant By NeverGonnaStop
Chapter 2:
Breakout
All Hallows Day: 1981
Havelock Sweeting and Dorcas Wellbeloved walked into existence upon the docks of Azkaban island.
They did not appear as if by portkey or apparition. They walked into being. To most this would be an odd sight, and some would assume they had simply been disillusioned and discarded their protective magic mid-stride.
Those people would be wrong.
You see, there is a certain hierarchy of skill when it comes to apparition. At the bottom you have a person spinning in place like an idiot and going nowhere. Above him you have someone who can flicker, that is, disappear and reappear at the same spot in a split second.(Which if practiced can be rather useful.) Above that you have the poor fool who can apparate to several thousand places at once, leaving his shredded remains to fertilize the landscape. Above that you have plain old apparition, as advertised.
While most wizards stopped advancing the skill after reaching this stage, those who did rarely learned more than side-along apparition or apparating while moving. Occasionally they will practice disappearing and reappearing silently. But there was one last level above that, not counting flicker phasing, Lagrange-point wombs - which is more a theoretical concept than an actual possibility - or self-portkeys.
It was called the apparition stride.
It was a rather simple concept. You apparate while walking and reappear without breaking your pace. Whereas most people stumble or at least catch their bearings when appearing, you would appear to simply walk into existence. It was pointless and not particularly impressive as far as magical feats go, but it looked damned sexy.
The Aurors guarding the docks didn't seem all that impressed with it. Shocked that two mysterious figures managed to achieve the impossible and apparate past the wards? Certainly. Terrified of their upcoming demise at what they inevitably concluded were dark wizards? You could bet their soiled underthings they were. Rapidly firing every offensive spell they could at the approaching Ascendants? Not for long.
In their defense, the Azkaban wards were impenetrable, even for them. But the wizarding world as a whole never did bother discovering, or mastering, other forms of faster than light travel. No point really. You already have a hammer, why develop a better alternative for driving a nail?
The folded-space transplantation they just displayed is proof enough that there is merit in advancing study into new ways of doing things. One advantage being most places held no wards against the art. You can't ward against something you don't know exists.
To be even more fair to the Aurors, they had indeed died gruesomely, and much greater wizards than them found themselves unable to hit a flickering opponent with a stunner. Most people assumed that their spells were passing through illusions as that's exactly what it appeared to be doing.
The duo was feeling somewhat rowdy today and decided to take the intimate measure of killing the five Aurors with their bare hands.
This was easier for Dorcas, whose current form was that of an exquisite raven-haired beauty in a black satin dress with v-neck plunging so low that you could practically peer up her birth canal. Her ability to jut fangs and claws from every bodily surface made her someone you don't want to get close to despite her alluring appearance.
Sadly, these men weren't aware of that latter fact and were reduced to quivering cubes of jelly in a matter of seconds. Oh and Havelock killed one too. A one hundred and eighty degree turn of the man's head was all it took.
Mortals are so delicate, but would they be so much fun if it were any other way?
"Do you know our target's cell block?" Havelock asked as his partner burst open like a grotesque venus flytrap from throat to naval and devoured the Auror he killed whole.
It was a few moments before she could respond. Her preferred method of eating - shredding her victims with thousands of fangs and lapping up the the liquids from the ribbons of flesh leaking out of her - was more time consuming than the average vampire. But it allowed her to drain every last drop of bodily fluids, hemoglobin carrying or otherwise.
"Check the visitors ledger in the booth." She responded as she knitted herself back together into the form of the Auror she'd just consumed.
Havelock had mistook the dyke for a man while shattering the vertebrae of her neck, but in the scant clothes Dorcas wore her Aphrodite-gifted assets were much more obvious. Dorcas really had an eye for good bodies.
Verily, just within the gate was a check-in booth with a visitors log. Besides which was a reference sheet listing cell blocks and their occupants, but not the individual cells they occupied.
"Eighth cell block. West wing."
Their heading thus determined the pair waltzed right into Azkaban prison.
The dementors didn't so much as notice them. They aren't great at sensing non-humans, and are wholly incapable of sensing undead. A sensible prison would have other safeguards to counter break-ins by entities that dementors couldn't sense.
Oh right! The Aurors they'd just slaughtered. Nevermind, the DMLE knew what it was doing for once.
Seven flights of stairs, three U-shaped hallways, a nasty iron-maiden door and thirty ineffectual dementors later found them triapsing through the cell block containing their target. Havelock did a double take upon entering.
Every other section of the prison held no decor beyond the igneous rock bricks of the foundation and wrought-iron tools of imprisonment. The walls, floor and ceiling of this particular cell-block couldn't be more of a contrast if he'd set out to design it himself.
The floors, walls and ceiling were wallpapered with some kind of scaly leather with silvery rivulets as stitching. Each corner of the room and gap between cells held a potted plant that he immediately identified as infant mandrakes. The pots themselves were formed of metal pieces latched together and were clearly designed to burst open and release the crying creatures to knock anybody present unconscious.
Then there were the cell doors themselves. Each bar formed of some kind of black carapace carved into the proper shape and, like the leather along the walls and ceiling, held together by glistening silver of obviously goblin origins.
It didn't take a genius, which he was, to discern that the entire cell block was made of magic-resistant materials. Dragon hide, Skrewt cartilage and goblin metal chief among him. He wouldn't put it past whoever designed it all, whom he thoroughly wished to meet, had used some more esoteric materials in forming the glue binding the hide to the walls.
"What's so special about the prisoners in this block?" Dorcas asked him offhandedly.
The answer to her question came in the form of a fiery whip lashing out of the nearest cell and cleaving the woman's head from her shoulders.
Havelock stifled a snort of derision as her body crashed to the floor, limp and lifeless. Well... More lifeless than before.
He busied himself with observing the prisoner who had beheaded his vampric companion with an impressive display of wandless magic. Lo and behold, it was a Veela. A rather incensed one at that if the jagged beak peeking through the bars were any indication. Or the illegible profanities he assumed she was screaming but couldn't understand.
So. This cell block was designed for prisoners who were perfectly capable of using magic without wands. Either through skill or non-human heritage. Prisoners for whom anti-appirition wards and dementors weren't enough to contain.
His opinion of whoever ran this prison just increased. The Veela prisoner, on the other hand, was beginning to irk him.
"What was that?" He yelled back at the screeching harpy while holding a hand to his ear. "I don't speak vulture!"
The prisoner made to hurl another stream of enchanted flame at him, but was decapitated herself by a tooth-lined tendril of undulating flesh.
"That bitch!" Dorcas groaned as she rose rose the ground, reverting to the raven-haired form she initially arrived at the prison with. "I just got that body!"
"What does that leave you with? Twenty thousand?" Havelock mocked.
"Meh. Give or take." Dorcas answered as she brushed herself off.
Naturally she was already over the loss. Bodies to her were like toilet paper. Easily disposed of, easily replaced, and well-stocked regardless. She certainly tended to go through them like toiletries.
"If you're really upset about it you could have taken hers?" He offered, indicated the now dead Veela in her cell.
"Nah. Non-human meat disagrees with me. Besides. She was past her prime."
Havelock examined the corpse, having reverted back to human form upon death, and indeed the beautiful woman was up there in age. Likely post-menopausal. Still lovelier than the average thirty year old which, but not as youthful or dextrous as the body Dorcas had lost.
"Let's find this activist and get a move on."
Carlotta Pinkstone wasn't difficult to find. The majority of prisoners present were male, unsurprising considering the rarity of women with the strength and fortitude necessary to master something as challenging as wanted magic.(Dorcas' words, not his.) As such, she stood out.
They found the sixty year-old shackled in a cozy cell beside one that had a thick, shifting hedge plant in place of bars. He successfully stamped down his curiosity of what that hedge contained and focused on freeing the prisoner they knew.
"Miss Pinkstone?" Dorcas softly called to the huddled form in the cell.
The spectacled woman glanced up and greeted them with deep emerald eyes. Eyes consternated with a deep suspicion.
"You are not familiar to me." The prisoner said as she stood and approached the bars.
"I'd be genuinely surprised if we were." Havelock replied dryly.
Carlotta wasted no time with pleasantries and quickly hurled a fireball of her own at the pair of immortals. Why did everyone in this cell block love fire so much?
This time Dorcas was ready and batted the spell away with a sense of boredom she surely didn't have to fake.
"Is that any way to treat birthday guests?" Dorcas admonished.
"Birthday guests?" Carlotta asked without a hint of surprise at the ineffectiveness of her spell.
"Indeed. Don't you know what today is?" Asked Dorcas.
"I'm sorry to say that calendars and Daily Prophet subscriptions are in short supply here." Dorcas answered dryly.
Havelock chuckled at that, but told her the date regardless.
"And a happy Hallows Day to you both, though saints you are clearly not." Carlotta said in mock cheer. "Do you bring gifts?"
Dorcas smiled, showing Miss Pinkstone the horrific serrated fangs of her mouth. Havelock was impressed with the prisoners lack of response to the sight.
"In addition to your freedom, I was sent with a present from an anonymous benefactor whom you've impressed with your devotion to ending the statute of secrecy." Dorcas said as she buried her hands into the valley between her breasts.
Carlotta watched with obvious interest and curiosity as the vampire opened her own chest cavity and fished around the black sludge within for said gift. She pushed aside clusters of steadily beating hearts held together by bundles veins and arteries as she searched through the stinking medium.
How she could find anything in that nearly bottomless pit, one containing the vascular muscles of her every victim, was beyond him.
"Ah! Here we are."
She withdrew a tattered shard of rubber and passed it through the bars to their beneficiary.
"What is it?" Carlotta asked as she held the dripping object at a safe distance from her face.
"I reckon it's burnt piece of tire." Dorcas deadpanned
"Is it a portkey?"
"I dunno. Probably." Dorcas said with a shrug.
Deciding not to let his companion rile the woman up, Havelock stepped in.
"The passphrase is Morrigan, and it will take you to your benefactor. Once there, he will give you more gifts." He told her.
She clearly didn't much enjoy their company, as she said the passphrase immediately and disappeared when the portkey took effect
"She didn't even ask how a portkey could possibly get around the wards." Dorcas bemoaned
"She didn't ask any of the inane questions we've come to expect." Havelock reasoned.
"Who are you?" Dorcas said in a mocking impersonation.
"What do you want?" Havelock said, playing along.
"Why should I trust you?"
"Where are we going?"
"What did I ever do to you?"
"Is that my spleen?"
"Why are you doing this?"
"Oh god! What are you!?"
The two laughed mirthfully.
"Ah. Good times. So what now?" Dorcas asked.
Havelock glanced around and shrugged.
"I mean. We're in a massive prison. Filled with some of the world's deadliest criminals. Who nobody would miss." He reasoned
The vampire smiled as she adopted a more combat ready form, replete with jagged bony protrusions and gaping maws where they didn't belong.
"Well then. Let's have some fun."
And so they did.
Hogwarts: Later That Morning
Bill Weasley descended the floors of Gryffindor tower in his usual funk.
Halloween had landed on a Saturday that year and so the usual Sunday brunch, a meal in which the Hogwarts elves served leftovers from the previous week, was going to be nausea-inducing.
That every first-year student in the school, Bill very much among them, was stuffed to the brim with candy and pie from the night before added to how reticent they all were to make the trip to the great hall. The other years had learned to be a bit more conservative in eating during the feasts, but that didn't stop them from pressuring their younger peers into doing the opposite.
And oh boy, did Bill fall for that pressure.
Still, they all had little else to do on the weekend but steal Daily Prophet issues from older Gryffindors and mourn the many deaths it would surely list from He-Who-Must-Not-be-Named's latest Halloween massacre.
Halloween was by far Bill's least favorite holiday, not to say any of the others held much joy for him. Death Eater's didn't hold any day sacred and, indeed, they enjoyed bringing death and pain on holidays in particular.
At least this year it had been marked with a Hogwarts feast and celebrations of nearly a thousand students. It was by far his best Halloween yet. He had almost enjoyed it.
But now it was time to go back to reality. A reality that had kept them all from truly enjoying any holiday. A reality where Lord Voldemort still lived.
His solemn mood was interrupted by a tsunami of roaring cheers and hollers as he and his fellow first-years opened the doors to the great Hall.
He was nearly floored by the sound of unrestrained joy, and was nearly floored again by the sight of the entire student body taking part in a celebration that threatened to collapse the castle.
Banners and streamers and conjured trumpets and dancing lights and confetti and every other colorful decoration possible filled the air above them. Considering they were wizards capable of creating from thin air any animal or object possible and enchanting them to float, fly glitter and glow, it was no surprise that the enchanted ceiling was completely blocked from view.
He would have begged to know what was going on but a seventh year prefect was already upon them, gleefully espousing the good news.
"He's gone!" The blonde-haired Ravenclaw exclaimed as he flashed them the whitest smile Bill had ever seen. "The dark lord is no more!"
Bill was neither elated nor shocked. Convinced or unconvinced. The news, despite the atmosphere around him, left him numb in disbelief. Fast succumbing to the fear of disappointment.
But when the Gryffindor girl beside him lit up like a Christmas tree at the news he allowed himself a moment of hope.
"Gone?" Emily Tyler breathed with the same tears Bill himself was fighting to reign in. "Do you know what this means Bill?"
Bill, due to a combination of shock at the news and a stomach full of butterflies at being addressed by the pretty girl, nodded dumbly.
"It.. I.." the brunette sputtered beside him. "Yes!"
Apparently she settled on joining in the festivities and ran into the crowd laughing madly.
"Lockhart! Come on!" Another seventh year, Slytherin by the look of her, beckoned the prefect to leave the hall with her.
"Oh! Time for me to go my young lion cub. Now you be sure to celebrate responsibly because I sure as a sunrise won't be." The prefect told him with a wink as he chased after the girl who had beckoned him.
His ridiculously wide smile hadn't faded one iota during the entire conversation.
Bill was well known for being a dour child. Most children his age and younger were similar in temperament. But here, now, with the largest contributing factor informing said temperament gonee, Bill felt a great and terrible pressure melt away.
Something broke. A chain of some kind he hadn't known was there. One shackling him to a weight Atlas would struggle to lift. One moment it was there, the next it was gone, and Bill felt free. Truly free, for the first time in his life.
He smiled. He smiled so wide that it hurt and he let a roar to to the heavens as eleven years worth of tears finally broke through. Tears that blurred the line of sorrow and happiness. His roar turned to laughter as he leapt to a seat at the table and made to fill his already aching stomach.
The Gryffindor table shook violently just as he lifted the first spoonful of pumpkin pie to his mouth. He was going to throw some nasty comment to one of the upper years to stop dancing on the table when a sudden crashing noise jolted him from his indignation.
The entire Hall went silent.
Somewhere above them another crash, muffled and distant, shook the castle again. They all listened as a third, fourth and fifth crash joined the first. Each louder than the one before it, and each causing tremors greater than those that preceded.
The banners, confetti and animate objects above slowly rained down on their heads in the silence as each and every student pointed their wands at the massive oak doors Bill had just come through.
A few more moments passed, but when the sixth crash never came the gathered students reluctantly lowered their wands.
The doors to the great hall came crashing down just as they did so and through it came not a dragon, not an occamy, nor even an erumpet. All of those would have been much more reasonable things to expect.
In through the doors flew a biplane. A shabby, rickety biplane made of splintered tables and chairs, all of which was literally held together with duct tape. At the driver's seat, making flying noises with his mouth, was Peeves the poltergeist.
"Vrrrrrrrr! Grrrrrr! Boosh! Boosh! Boosh!"
And as the resident poltergeist went "boosh" a third time pulled a lever and dropped a volley of engorged pies onto the newly declared battlefield.
"Everyone take cover!" Professor Slughord, one of only three faculty members at the head table, called over the crowd.
Bill was among the faster students to follow the head of Slytherin house' order.
As the first casualties of the Great Hogwarts Food Fight of 81 fell to Peeves' onslaught Bill huddled beside his fellow Gryffindors to prepare for the counter-offensive.
Notes:
I still haven't used a single OC. Every named character thus far is Canon. Whoot!