Harry Potter characters do not belong to me but to J.K. Rowling.
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In Terms of a Name
By Taliya
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Chapter III: Darkness Claims Him
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Satisfied, Voldemort left the study to announce the planning of a Muggle raid to his faithful.
He never noticed the faint black smoke that surrounded Harry Potter's body.
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Harry had been thrown back into the same room he had been kept in for torture. He still breathed, his heart still beat, he was still warm, but one look after peeling his eyelids open revealed glazed, deadened green eyes. His glasses were no longer perched on his nose, having been broken and lost some time during the torture session. Seven hours more had not changed his condition. This only further proved to Lord Voldemort that Harry Potter was truly no more and that the Dementor's reaction was a fluke. But to be safe, the Dark Lord had a Dementor remain stationed within the same room with instructions to Kiss the body if it showed any signs of conscious thought.
The Death Eaters left his body there under orders to let the body starve. Only when the body started to stink with the putrid stench of rotting flesh were they to remove it. Until then, the Dark Lord wanted to be able to see, to experience and savor for as long as possible, this very decisive victory against the Potter brat and transitively, the Light Side.
The sun rose, bringing forth another brilliant summer day. Songbirds heralded the coming of the morning; dew sparkled off various plants in the early morning sunlight. Afternoon produced warm rays of sunlight revealing honeybees buzzing about busily from blossom to blossom, birds and butterflies flitting about in the bright blue sky. Evening brought forth long shadows and rosy hues coating everything the dying sunlight touched. Chicks peeped sleepily in their nests as their parents settled over them like a warm blanket. Night brought the land a reprieve from sunlight with a peaceful, welcoming embrace. Insects chirped and frogs croaked in the coolness of dark as fireflies sporadically lit up the grass.
And through all this, Harry Potter remained oblivious to it. His eyes, although closed, were now darting to and fro rapidly. He appeared to be asleep, given how his eyes imitated the REM cycle portion of natural rest. However, it was more that simple sleep. Harry's mind was slowly, chaotically, assimilating lifetime upon lifetime of memories—names, faces, places, times, and above all, fears—that were not his. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he shifted in his unconsciousness.
The Dementor had sensed that there was something familiar with its charge. When Harry let out a groan, it reacted. The Dementor knelt by the boy, recognizing the "taste" of the black smoke that the human had been faintly emitting ever since he had been placed here. It let out a soft, rasping click as it took Harry carefully up in its arms and melted into that same black fog before exiting the Manor via a broken window.
The black smoke streamed along the surface of the earth with great speed, breezing south from Little Hangleton to just two miles west of Amesbury. Just ahead, the giant shadowed stone monoliths of Stonehenge appeared out of shrouded moonlit fog created by the gathering of thousands of Dementors. Many had arrived already, while others were in the process of coming, whether from the same black smoke or emerging from the shadows cast by the moon. They were assembling into orderly arcs in accordance with the ruined arrangement of the geologic monuments, filling and spilling beyond the area of the great circle etched into the surrounding grounds.
The black smoke expanded, revealing the Dementor with Harry in its arms. It let out another soft, rasping click as it approached. The other black-clad figures parted to allow the single Dementor carrying Harry to glide to the centre of the arrangement, with Dementors to the fore and towering stone structures behind. By now Harry's fingers were twitching every now and then while his eyes still rolled about rapidly beneath his eyelids. Every now and then a whimper would escape his lips as his brain continued incorporation. In a relatively short amount of time, Harry's complexion had paled. The dark fog that emanated from Harry had thickened with physical contact from the Dementor.
The Dementor placed Harry on the grass in the centre where an ancient stone altar had once stood. Raising its skeletal arms, it addressed its brethren in hoarse rattles, screeches, and clicks. The Dementor audience responded with clicks and screeches of its own. At length the Dementors seemed to reach an accord.
---
Lucius Malfoy was not happy. Granted, he had been freed from Azkaban Prison, but at one point the Dark Lord's most favored servant, it had been his duty to make periodic reports to his Master concerning the state of the Manor, its surrounding grounds, and the missions other Death Eaters had been sent off to. It had also been his job to keep tabs on the happenings of the Ministry of Magic and to mislead them—particularly the Minister of Magic—if he had to. But now, with no influence in the Ministry and his reputation shattered, Lucius was now only a monetary donor to Voldemort's war.
All of the Death Eaters within the Manor were on edge due to the unseen yet felt presence of the Dementors that were now allied with their Lord. They were scattered about the great room, some settled in the various couches, others standing. While not outwardly displaying their anxiety, they could nonetheless feel the tension in the air.
It was no surprise that they all looked around in confusion as the coolness from the Dementors' proximity ceased almost immediately. What are those Dementors doing?
Stepping out, Lucius addressed his colleagues, "Find out what those Dementors are doing. The Dark Lord will not be pleased to know that they upped and left. Bella, see that the body is still within the compound. Report back here in five minutes' time."
The Death Eaters fanned out within the Manor, intent on finding the wraith-like creatures of Darkness. Bellatrix Lestrange meandered downstairs to check up on "the body," as they had all taken to calling Potter after being Kissed. Lucius had only been waiting for barely a minute when he heard the cries of "Lucius! Arse buggering shit! LUCIUS!" coming from the stairwell. Moments later, Bellatrix tumbled into the room, a wild sort of look on her face.
"What now, woman?" he snapped.
"Lucius," Bellatrix panted, "The body is gone."
Only years of masking his emotions kept Lucius Malfoy from blinking in surprise. "Come again?" he asked in confusion.
"The body is gone!" hissed Bellatrix, "Harry Potter's bloody corpse is NOT THERE!" she ended in a scream. The wand clutched in her hand fizzled with red sparks.
Malfoy Senior's already pallid countenance paled even more. Tensing his jaw he growled, "Show me."
The two Death Eaters traveled down the stairs to the cell where the body was kept. A glance through the door revealed it to be empty.
"What happened?" he snarled, rounding on his step-sister.
"How should I effing know?" she spat right back, "You were the one our Master designated to place the wards around the cell! It was your own handiwork! Why don't you know?"
Gritting his teeth, Lucius muttered a few incantations. After a few moments he growled. "Damn it. The wards were never breached."
"Then how did the body—a bleeding soulless corpse, I might add—get out?" Bellatrix demanded.
"I DON'T KNOW!" Lucius exploded. Collecting himself, he stated, "Come. We must inform our Lord immediately."
They both swept out of the room.
---
Cornelius Fudge sat in his bedroom, propped up by giant, fluffy pillows as he skimmed over proposed bills and old copies of the Daily Prophet. Two Aurors were stationed outside his bedroom door, giving the Minister of Magic the impression of feeling safe. Fudge's mind was not on the bills. They were on the storming of Azkaban. Many of the Death Eaters caught in the Department of Mysteries by Harry Potter and his little friends had all escaped. Potter himself was gone as well. The Aurors that survived the battle revealed that the prisoners not in He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's service had all been Kissed by the former guards of the island.
Fudge furrowed his brow as he sipped his glass of Ogden's Firewhiskey. What to do, what to do? I need to talk to Dumbledore about how to boost public morale…
He downed the rest of the firewhiskey and banished the tumbler to his kitchen sink. I can do that first thing in the morning, he thought as he set the papers on his nightstand, flicked his wand while muttering, "Nox," and snuggled under his covers.
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Lord Voldemort was having a good day. He sat in his chair, petting his familiar's head as she snoozed on his lap. He had planned a Muggle raid that was set to take place the following evening if his information was correct. He had effectively killed the Boy-Who-Was-A-Bleeding-Thorn-In-His-Side, thereby delivering a crippling blow to the Light Side, although they did not know it yet. He had the allegiances of the Dementors. What more could the Darkest Lord of the Century ask for? Ah, yes, divinity, the ability to have the world at his mercy, the ability to use the universe as his play toy, the list could go on and on.
Unluckily for him, Lady Fortune had decided to abandon him and find someone else to bestow her precious gifts upon.
His pleasant musings of immortality, power, and domination were shattered with the stagnant knocks on his study door.
Voldemort let out a growled, "Enter."
One of his servants entered and bowed. "My Lord, your presence is requested in the great room," he said.
"And what occasion, pray tell, requires my presence?" Voldemort asked with irritation.
"It concerns the Dementors, Master," explained the Death Eater under explicit directions not to mention the body's disappearance.
The Dark Lord turned his full attention on the messenger. "Very well. You may go."
The Death Eater bowed again and left.
"Nagini," he hissed, waking the serpent, "It ssseemsss asss though there are problemsss with the Dementorsss. Care to go with me to sssee what thisss isss all about?"
The snake seemed to ponder his invitation before replying with an affirmative.
Gently coiling the reptile about his neck and shoulders, he donned his cloak, carefully sliding it under the resting serpent. He swept out of the study, his cloak billowing out menacingly behind him.
The great room doors were closed, but Voldemort could hear the whispers among his servants.
With a wave of his hand, the two doors opened with a resounding bang, effectively silencing the gossip. Voldemort crossed over to the front of the room and arranged himself on the chair placed on a permanently conjured dais next to the fireplace. "Now, what issue with the Dementors needs my attention?" he asked, red eyes roving over the prostrated forms of his Death Eaters.
His Inner Circle remained quiet, knowing that if their Lord wished them to speak, he would designate them. A more recent recruit to Voldemort's ranks obviously had not known this silent agreement between Master and servant, and had to learn it the hard way.
"May I suggest, Mast—"
He was silenced with a flick of his Master's wand, shortly accompanied by a muttered, "Crucio."
As the recruit writhed in pain, the Inner Circle members, faces hidden by the skull mask, rolled their eyes at the newbie's stupidity.
"You will learn to hold your tongue unless spoken to," reprimanded Voldemort in a lazy manner after lifting the curse.
The recruit choked out, "Yes Master," as he struggled to control the spasms in his muscles in order to stand.
"Rookwood."
"Milord?"
"Tell me, what is the reason I am now before you?" he stated, easing back into the chair and stroking Nagini along her back.
"My Lord, the Dementors—every single one of them—have vacated the grounds."
Voldemort's jaw tensed. "Do you have any reason as to why they would leave?" Nagini, sensing her Master's displeasure, rubbed her head against the bottom of the man's chin.
Rookwood apologized. "No Master, I don't know why."
The Dark Lord took in a slow breath to contain his rising temper. "Anyone else? Lucius? Bellatrix? Walden? Rodolphus? Rabastan?"
None of them spoke.
"Very well. Anything else I need to be informed of?" Voldemort questioned testily.
Lucius seemed to visibly gather his courage and spoke up, "Milord." The infamous Malfoy façade was unable to hide to tiny quiver in his voice.
"Ah, Lucius. What have you to add?"
There was a hesitation before Malfoy replied. "The body, my Lord… is… gone."
There were a few moments of unbearable silence before the Dark Lord roared, "WHAT?"
The Death Eaters cowered.
The Dark Lord exploded in what could only be described as a full-blown rant. "YOU LOST A SHELL OF A HUMAN? ARE YOU ALL DAFT? CRUCIO, CRUCIO, CRUCIO, CRUCIO! I CANNOT BELIEVE HOW IDIOTIC MY SERVANTS CAN BE! DAMN THAT POTTER BRAT, HIS PARENTS, AND HIS PARENTS' PARENTS! CURSE ALL THOSE NAMED POTTER TO ROT IN THE DEEPEST DEPTHS OF HELL! EVEN NOW, AFTER HE IS BLOODY KISSED, HE IS STILL AN EFFING THORN IN MY SIDE!"
And so the temper-tantrum continued for the next two hours.
---
Harry's mind fairly buzzed and reeled with new information, giving him a rather nasty headache. He groaned, unaware that he was surrounded by Dementors numbering in the thousands. He only outwardly noticed a slight chilliness to the night air, but groggily dismissed it as a lack of heat in the cell he was in.
He was just surfacing from the grasps of unconsciousness when he stiffened and let loose a hair-raising scream as his scar exploded. Foreign images flooded his already overloaded brain: visions of Voldemort standing before his assembled Death Eaters, face contorted with rage—Death Eaters convulsing on the floor while pitifully crying their apologies—a long snake winding about Voldemort's feet in clear agitation—Voldemort's temper tantrum as he cursed each and every one of Harry's ancestors, all the while throwing Cruciatus after Cruciatus at his ill-fated followers…
The assembly of Dementors immediately grew restless. The ritual had been about to commence when the boy began his screaming, his body stiffening and his back arching to a painful degree. They all screeched, indicating their alarm. The Dementor that brought Harry clicked back and initiated the ritual.
It was a haunting, unearthly ritual with chilling incantations that only the Dementors understood. In a series of complex movements and chants, the centre Dementor summoned a strange sort of wind energy that lifted Harry off the grass, leaving him hanging midair before the Dementor ritual performer. Another set of incantations brought forth that black smoke from the very earth they stood on, seeping upwards and enshrouding the still-shrieking human in an opaque cloud. There was a choked hiccup, then all went silent.
The Dementors waited.
The pale fog swirled ever thicker around the gathering; the wind grew cooler by degrees.
The Dementors waited.
And waited.
And waited.
At length, the smoke seemed to bubble upwards, creating a column of swirling blackness that was unaffected by the surrounding mistiness. Slowly it fell, dispelling from the top and pooling on the ground, still swirling about, revealing a young man that seemed suffused with a dark sort of light, bright enough to easily draw the eyes, but not overly so. He had his eyes closed and a serene expression, with tousled black hair and milk-white skin. He slowly opened his eyes to reveal nearly-glowing, Avada Kedavra-green irises.
---
Harry had felt as though his head was splitting open, so great was Voldemort's anger. His throat was hoarse and painful, yet he could not help the scream that erupted. His world was black as far as he could see as a surprising coolness enveloped him, causing him to hiccup as he sucked a breath into his oxygen-deprived lungs. The pain faded into the background as he felt something fundamental to his very being shift and change. It did not hurt, it felt strange, it was an unwelcome change, it felt wrong-but-right. Harry could find no words to explain how he felt as he changed.
He felt empowered, he felt erudite, and he felt strangely alive. Peaceful. Ready. For what, he had no idea, but he knew he would work through whatever obstacles life threw at him as they came. It was then that he realized that he felt that way because his mind had finally assimilated all the memories from past lives that—he just knew—were from every soul that the Dementors had collectively taken. He had integrated these memories into his mind, and was now able to draw upon lifetimes of knowledge. I know how to sword fight, sing with the proper technique, sneak soundlessly about, play croquet, drive a car, work as a waiter, and practice martial arts. This might come in handy… Harry mused.
Realizing that he was now somehow standing on his own two feet as opposed to lying down, Harry slowly opened his eyes, blinking them in disbelief at the sight that met him. Multitudes of Dementors stood before him, silent as usual, and seemingly waiting for something. Harry reached up to check his glasses, only to find that they were no longer there. Yet, he could see perfectly; actually he could see even better than he remembered in the dark. As he pondered this newest development, the Dementor that performed the ritual glided around to stand at his right side.
Harry was puzzled and more than a little afraid. Why are they not affecting me? I don't hear the screams and the laughter anymore. I don't feel the cold as acutely, although I can tell that it is present. "What has happened to me?" he breathed, horrified, as he gazed at his deathly-pale hands accented by long black nails honed into claws.
"You are one of us, my Liege," the Dementor rattled as it seemingly expelled a breath. Harry watched in terrified fascination as it sunk into a graceful deep bow that was emulated by the entire Dementor audience assembled at Stonehenge. On this night, the moon illuminated the landscape not a gentle cream, but a clinical blue.
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Five days had passed since Harry Potter's disappearance. The entire Wizarding world in Britain was in an uproar as they speculated what had become of their hero. Some claimed he had died in the Battle of Azkaban, as they now called the conflict. Others believed that he had inexplicably escaped, in presumably the same manner as the once-feared-but-now-dead fugitive Sirius Black. And yet others thought that he had been Kissed.
Hermione Granger sat in her room in Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, carefully arranging her belongings in her trunk. Sirius had now been… dead… for nearly two months. Since Harry's late Godfather had been the owner of the dwelling, his death meant that the House of Black was no longer a secure location to house the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. No one had any knowledge whether Sirius had changed his will—or even if he had a will to begin with. Regardless, Dumbledore and the others agreed that it was time to pack up and leave no clues behind concerning their stay and their mission in the event that the home came under the custody of one Bellatrix Black Lestrange.
A crash downstairs echoed in the hallways, promptly followed by the shrieking from the portrait of the late Mrs. Walburga Black, Sirius' mother.
"FILTHY MUDBLOODS AND BLOOD TRAITORS! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!" she roared.
Hermione rolled her eyes, guessing that Tonks had once again upset something with her clumsiness. She continued folding her clothes, listening to the Order members trying to pull the curtain, with rather loud curses, back over the enchanted portrait.
The young woman with long bushy hair sighed deeply as she set her clothes down. She wondered where Harry was, or even if he was alive. She could only hope for the best. Hermione held no illusions that Voldemort might have killed him by means other than the Killing Curse. She also knew that Harry could have been Kissed, considering the Dementors sided with You-Know-Who. She had often wondered what life would be like had she not been rescued by a certain Harry Potter and Ron Weasley in her First Year from the troll. If, under incredible circumstances she survived that terrifying night, how might her life have been different? She knew that it was useless to continue that train of thought because she knew in her heart of hearts, that she would not give up what she had for the world.
Hermione knew Harry had done many hair-brained things in his short lifespan, one of which included saving her life from that troll on Halloween. He had also, with the help of Ron and herself, gone to find the Philosopher's Stone and coming face-to-face—alone—with his parents' murderer, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. He ventured alone into the Chamber of Secrets his Second Year and, with the aid of Professor Dumbledore's pet phoenix, Fawkes, and the Sorting Hat, had practically single-handedly killed both an ancient basilisk and a memory of sixteen-year-old Tom Marvolo Riddle, otherwise known as Lord Voldemort, in addition to rescuing Ginny Weasley. In his Third Year, he managed to conjure a Patronus in the form of Prongs, his father's Animagus stag form, to save his recently-found Godfather from a fate worse than death: the Kiss of a Dementor.
While in all of these episodes Harry had been a willing participant, the events in his Fourth Year were different. The Goblet of Fire had spat his name forth, ensuring that he would compete in the dangerous Triwizard Tournament, battling a Hungarian Horntail, fighting off various underwater creatures, making his way through a perilous maze filled with hazardous creatures, only to find himself Portkeyed, along with Cedric Diggory, to the graveyard of Voldemort's father. He watched Cedric die, watched Voldemort's rebirth, and managed to escape—only to fall into the hands of a Death Eater in disguise. It was Professor Dumbledore's timely arrival that kept Harry from being killed that night.
So many things had happened in his Fourth Year. But it was this past year, his Fifth Year, which sent Harry spiraling into depression at the end of it all. First, the Dementor attack right before the start of term in his supposedly "safe" home in Little Whinging. Then, that ghastly mockery of a professor, Dolores Umbridge. She seemed to live solely to inflict suffering upon Harry, what with using that thrice-cursed Blood Quill, banning him from Quidditch, and the formation of the Inquisitorial Squad. Hermione could not help but feel so proud of Harry for stepping up to substitute the poor Defense Against the Dark Arts classes with the formation of the DA—the Defense Association, better known in jest as Dumbledore's Army. Everything escalated into the fight at the Ministry of Magic in the Department of Mysteries—where a destroyed prophesy was kept—where Sirius died.
Hermione wished she had been able to stay with Harry and help him cope with his grief and guilt, but Professor Dumbledore was not to be swayed. Gripped by disbelief and shock, Harry had been shipped back to the wretched Dursley residence to work though his sorrow alone, allowing the pain and guilt to bubble and congeal into a deep, black melancholy that pained Hermione when he wrote back to her after the second week of summer, several weeks ago. And for that, Hermione Granger could never forgive Professor Dumbledore.
Now…
Now, Harry was missing; he was most likely dead. While Hermione could not squarely lay the blame on Albus Dumbledore, indirectly it was his decision that led up to Harry's incarceration in Azkaban and subsequent disappearance. Unwanted tears welled up in her eyes and she brusquely brushed them away.
Fate always seemed to enjoy pulling Harry's strings. It's so unfair that he has to go through so much, and others can go on without ever once getting snagged in a perilous situation. What was the prophecy about anyhow, and why would You-Know-Who want it so badly?
Hermione looked up into the sky with the strangely hued moon through her window. It cast a pale blue shade to all it touched. Once in a blue moon, she mused, repeating the old phrase, I wonder what extraordinary event is happening this night.
---
Had Hermione been there, she would have remarked, "You know, you might be able to catch a fly standing like that." As it were, Harry's mouth closed with an audible snap and all he was able to do was to sputter, "I—what—excuse me?"
The Dementors rose as one. "You are one of us, my Liege," repeated the Dementor beside him.
Harry blinked in consternation. "I can talk to you," he rattled, brow furrowing. "I'm a Dementor… How?"
"I—we—changed you. You reacted when we tried to take your soul. You fought back as few were able, and even managed to take from us. It is rare to find a human that can withstand having their souls taken. It is even rarer to find one that takes from us. The last person like you existed over a millennium ago."
To say Harry was stunned was the understatement of time eternal. "Over a millennium… ago?" he repeated weakly.
The Dementor nodded. "There is something inside of you that keeps you from dying. It is something warm, something that we do not understand; we only feed off it to survive. It makes the humans smile, laugh, and cry. You have it in great abundance; so much, in fact, that it binds your soul to your body. From what we have learned and understood through the ages from our previous Overlords, this something is the result of selfless sacrifice by someone else to protect them."
Harry's thoughts instantly focused on one person even as the Dementor's words seemed to echo those of another that he had seemingly heard so long ago: Albus Dumbledore's. "My mother." Gazing up into the hooded blackness where a face would have been, Harry murmured, "She protected me."
The Dementor tilted its head downward in thought. "So it is proven yet again."
Harry mulled over the new information he had received. "I am a Dementor now…" he rasped slowly.
"Not quite, my Liege, not quite." When it saw Harry tilt his head with a confused countenance, it elaborated, "You see, my Liege, we Dementors are neither dead nor alive. We simply come and go into existence. If there are enough human feelings to feed us, more of us emerge from the shadows and darkness. If there are not enough human feelings, we fade away from existence, rejoining the shadows. You, on the other hand, cannot do that. You cannot fade away if there are not enough human emotions. You do not need to. Rather, you have enough of that something within you to feed us at no injury to yourself."
"Oh…" Harry glanced down at himself, abruptly noticing the black smoke that continued to curl about his legs. "Whoa!" Harry jumped in fright, noting absently that it followed him wherever he moved.
The Dementors let out a series of clicks that Harry understood to be their form of laughter. "My Liege, that is a part of you as much as it is a part of us."
"What?" he screeched as he danced about, trying to detach himself from the smoke.
"My Liege," the Dementor, began with a hint of amusement in its tone, "You are still different from us in that you are still human. While you can produce the same effects we do upon the other humans, you can to an extent control it, from what our past Overlords have done. You can will the blackness to fade, become invisible. However, you cannot control the coldness humans feel when we approach; this ability is intricately tied to your emotions. If you are in a content or happy phase, you will allow those around you to feel happy. It also allows us to feed without affecting the other humans; we simply draw from you alone. However, if you were to be unhappy or angry, you would radiate coldness like we do, only far more potent. It would reduce people to madness within moments. That is what we have observed. If you so wanted you could also Kiss humans and feast on their souls," it added, cocking its head.
This night can't get any better, Harry thought sarcastically, feeling a little green at the last tidbit of information. I suppose I figure out what I can and can't do. No use walking about like the bleeding Ghost of Christmas Future… Hold up—Liege? Harry's train of thought ground to a halt with that word.
"Wait, you called me your 'Liege?'" Harry asked.
The Dementor nodded again. "That is correct. Did you not want us to?" the Dementor queried in slight puzzlement.
Harry's thoughts skittered away like startled ants. "I… er…" was all he managed.
"You do realize, my Liege, that the ritual used to change you granted sovereignty over us, your subjects?"
Harry stared at the Dementor gormlessly. "Er… I had no idea," he replied honestly.
"That is what we meant when we said we could feed off you at no injury to yourself," the Dementor explained.
"Now you tell me," Harry grumbled darkly, earning several clicks of laughter from his audience.
"It is time we finished the ritual," the Dementor screeched, "Unless you have any more questions, my Liege?"
Harry dumbly shook his head in the negative.
"Very well." The Dementor called forth and three of its peers came forth. They strode to a shadow cast by the towering blocks of rock. The first Dementor bent down, seemingly grasping the shadow and giving it a tug. From the darkness it drew forth a robe so black it seemed to absorb any and all light cast upon it. Unlike the robes the Dementors themselves wore, it was not ragged and torn. It appeared to be freshly pressed—for there were no wrinkles to be seen—and intricately embroidered.
The second Dementor reached down and produced an animated silver medallion attached to a delicately wrought silver chain. The medallion depicted an impression of a shorter, more distinguished-looking Dementor wielding a sword flanked protectively by Dementors.
The third Dementor retrieved a hooded cloak in the same manner. The cloak was of the same material as the robe with a small, animated silver clasp imitating the smoke on the chest near the neck.
The last Dementor brought forth a scabbard-encased sword decorated with carved silver and polished onyx on the scabbard and the hilt.
The first Dementor approached Harry and slid to stand behind him. With a gentleness Harry never believed they were capable of, the Dementor helped Harry slip the robe onto his small, lithe frame. Harry fingered the material, inspecting in awe the delicate needlework in silver thread. The cloth felt akin to the material of his father's invisibility cloak, but smoother, finer. The stitch work was incredible in its detail, working in geometric patterns around the hems and collars of the robe.
The second Dementor advanced with the necklace in hand. It carefully draped the chain around Harry's neck; the medallion rested against his sternum.
The third Dementor draped the cloak on Harry's shoulders with the same tenderness as before. The moving silver clasp fastened itself, securing the robe around Harry's shoulders and neck.
The last Dementor presented the sword to Harry, who took it and expertly fastened it to his hip.
The three Dementors from the audience returned to their places, and they collectively knelt into a bow once again. "These items were worn by the first of our Overlords. May they serve you well, Lord Sovereign of Darkness," intoned the ritual performer.
Harry knew that these items possessed magical properties. The cloak and the robe both had a number of magical and physical damage protection charms on them, as well as self-repairing and fitting charms. The cloak also had a nifty little spell that completely blacked out his face if the hood was worn.
The medallion possessed the ability to protect Harry from the effects of others' Patroni, while still allowing him to produce one himself should the need arise. His own would never be able to harm him. Harry sighed with relief. At least he knew he would still be able to see Prongs. It also protected him from an assortment of curses, hexes, and poisons, and greatly shortened his recuperation time from any injury.
The sword had charms to keep the blade from chipping and cracking; it had self-cleaning and self-sharpening charms as well. It also had a nasty little hex that allowed no one but the Lord Sovereign of Darkness to wield it. The hex, Harry knew, burned the user's hand and injected a lethal poison into the bloodstream. The antidote was a drop of the Lord Sovereign's blood onto the wound. The sword also provided Harry with a shield that was completely impenetrable should he be unconscious.
While Harry held the knowledge of thousands of souls, he did not know anything about the previous Lords. Somewhat apprehensive, Harry asked, "What became of your previous Overlords, and how many were there?"
The Dementor replied, "They died. There have been only three before you. While the transformation makes them immortal and immensely more powerful, they still have human limitations. They all died of magical exhaustion, the first trying to bend humans to their will, and the other two trying to control the grief they felt at the loss of a human close to them. The two had driven themselves mad before they died."
Harry gulped. "So…" he ventured, "It would be advisable to learn Occlumency, right?"
"If that is what you humans call 'shielding the mind and suppressing emotion,' then it will help greatly," replied the Dementor.
"Oh, goody," Harry muttered. "I need to look for another teacher. Someone far better than Snape," he added with distaste.
Harry suddenly yawned. Blinking, he asked, "Where do you all stay at? Don't you need rest?"
More clicks of laughter sounded from the crowd. The Dementor standing next to Harry clicked in mirth itself. "No, we have no need for rest. There is, however, the Fortress of Dark. It is located everywhere and nowhere; only Dementors and, now you, can travel there. You merely have to find a shadow to enter. It is a means of transportation and perhaps, storage if you so wish it, my Liege. It is how we are able to travel great distances. Some of us have Slipped from places such as America, Australia, India, Sudan, and China. Distances like those are too great to travel by Streaming—dissolving into the smoke and traveling in that manner."
"So how do you Slip?" asked Harry.
The Dementor motioned to a shadow. "Will yourself to go somewhere. If you are so inclined, we can travel to the Fortress of Dark."
"Let us go then," Harry replied.
The Dementor placed an emaciated hand on Harry's shoulder. They stood together in a shadow and Slipped.
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Harry materialized in a darkly lit antechamber of enormous proportions. Polished onyx and obsidian met his eyes.
The Dementor swept its arm out. "Welcome," it rattled, "To the Fortress of Dark."
"It's beautiful," Harry murmured, studying the graceful, sweeping architecture, "How old is this place?"
"It has been around for as we have been in existence," was the reply. "We cannot say with certainty."
"Ah." Harry roamed around the Fortress, noting that there were bedrooms, padded workout rooms equipped with various weapons, and great rooms. There were no kitchens or bathrooms. Harry asked why.
"Here, we are not material, we are simply substance. Time stands still in these hallways. Once you exit the Fortress, time resumes its normal pace," the Dementor explained.
"Brilliant," Harry breathed. "I can do so much here!"
The Dementor continued. "Here, you will not feel anything physically. No pain, hunger, dirtiness, or—what was it humans said—the 'need to use the loo'?"
Harry stifled a chuckle. "I see."
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Another chapter done, my friends. I hope you enjoyed it and please, review. To my reviewer Echo, you must have read my mind! I will do my best to keep writing throughout the school year. College can be a little difficult at times. I believe I will not be doing any major 'ships in this story—if I do, it will not be the center point of the plot. I thank those of you who already reviewed. I am still looking for someone to help me with Briticisms and possibly beta.
-Tal.
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Completed: 8.14.2006
Edited: 8.14.2006
Re-edited: 1.03.09
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