A/N: Thanks to in caverns dark again for being the only reviewer. If this is a pattern (inductively speaking) then I don't like where it's going. I'll still write though.
Apologies for the one-month absence: I have recently re-discovered Killing Floor, and it has been thoroughly occupying my time.
Oh, and I like the occasional bit of alliteration.
Any complaints about OP characters will be addressed in the next chapter (or in a PM, if it is a minor issue) when I receive them.
So: I do not own Harry Potter.
For the purposes of this fiction, I shall be using the reason of artistic license, since I feel that some real-life texts are inadequate (and also because I'm simply too lazy). I have drawn on both Hellboy and myths for part of this chapter.
Thoughts: Italics
XxXxX
After the Ball.
If one were to enter the Headmaster's Office in Hogwarts after the spiraling staircase, one would not immediately notice a massive, tattered incunabulum placed on a marble plinth worn away by time and corrosive magic, as it blended in perfectly with the wall behind it, and the exotic and glimmering contraptions located everywhere would only contribute to the unnoticeability of the tome.
It was one of the most important artefacts Hogwarts held, dating back to the time of the Founders.
It was the Book in which all Hogwarts students' names – past, present and prospective – were recorded. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, current Headmaster of Hogwarts, the Wizard with a Title too Many, was contemplating a few names in the Book. Nearby, Fawkes sang softly, his soothing song succouring the somnolent schoolmaster, providing him the strength to continue his train of thought through the tiresome tiredness that troubled him. The portraits of the past headmasters and headmistresses, all bound to obey the Headmaster's every command, either slept in their chintz armchairs or argued over minutiae in most everything.
So. Harry Potter.
Having just left the Ball, using his old age as an excuse to retire for the night and review the information he had gained about the new children of the Families, Albus Dumbledore's mind was naturally on the mysterious star of the Ball that never showed up.
Still going nicely. The Dursleys have been treating him badly, as per Arabella's reports. No encounters with any wizards or witches except Dedalus. I... should have done something earlier. No matter. Hagrid will frighten them - I'll slip in a few hints about how they've treated him, and he'll do the rest. Speaking of Hagrid, I must ensure that he remembers to retrieve the Philosopher's Stone from Gringotts. The Goblins do not know about it, and I pray they never will. Nicolas would never forgive me.
Another page.
Hermione Granger. A prodigy. Complete eidetic memory, probably because of the influence of her magic. Socially inept. Bullied by her peers, too afraid to report it to any authorities. She will be a problem at Hogwarts. Too reliant on books. The Muggleborn will inadvertently insult Pureblood families and become known as a know-it-all. She needs friends - Hufflepuff? Gryffindor? Ravenclaw will be too unwelcoming of her, even though she fits right in.
Ronald Weasley. A prat. Lazy. Gluttonous. He has some measure of courage – that should sort him into Gryffindor, since he has none of the traits the other houses have. Not magically powerful. Average or below average aptitude in every subject offered at Hogwarts except possibly Muggle Studies, if only due to his father. Excellent in chess - but it is not enough for Ravenclaw. Not that being good in chess implies intelligence. How do I improve him? He needs to look beyond himself. Friendship will help him.
He shook his head, attempting to banish the drowsiness from his body.
Last one then for tonight.
"Note: Review obtained information at Ball in the Pensieve as soon as possible."
A quill wrote the words on a piece of parchment. Dumbledore placed his wand to his head and withdrew the relevant memories and placed them within the Pensieve before returning to the Book.
Evan Zabini. A strange one. More mature than most adults, albeit having some childish moments. Plays the piano rather well. Ancient Runes prodigy, and fluent in Old English, Old Norse, Latin, Sanskrit, Welsh, Italian and Chinese according to reports and his family members. Shows some proficiency in French, but he appears to be only starting on the language. Probably due to expensive Language Lozenges, but he must have spent time on practicing them, since the effects will fade without frequent usage of the language. Very suspicious for one so young to be such a polyglot. Must investigate that. Also trained in Occlumency – as are all children of the prominent Pureblood families. His magic is average for children of his age, though more refined. A possible Muggle sympathiser. Well-spoken, careful in the usage of words. Evan will most probably go to Slytherin or Ravenclaw. Correction: Evan will go to Ravenclaw. Blaise will go to Slytherin, being the Zabini heir, and garner connections for his future. Evan will continue drawing attention away from Blaise, and that will benefit the Zabini family in the long run.
His mind is sharp – he may have detected my Legilimency probe even at a moderate level of subtlety. But he is in no danger of being Dark, as far as I can tell. I detected hints of strong emotions when I spoke of Riddle's plunge into the abyss, and there was definitely disgust and revulsion. Evan may very well help my dream for England come true.
XxXxX
The Malfoy Manor. Morning. Yule. 21st of December, 1988.
I threw a book on Sumerian mythology to the side, frustrated by the esoteric cuneiforms used to write it. It was slow-going, using several books for cross-reference to translate the cuneiform – they could either represent concepts (concrete or abstract) or simply sounds. No scholar, Wizarding or non-Wizarding, had completed translating the Sumerian cuneiforms fully, and different writers had views on what the translations should be. One of the Malfoys' house-elves picked it up before it touched the ground, dusting it with a feather-duster before replacing it on the shelf.
"Don't touch anything on the table, Dobby."
The house-elf nodded before Disapparating. Just then, Draco came into the library, his broom floating by his side, appearing almost eager to be ridden.
"Evan! If you can't play Quidditch, come and watch us instead of spending all your time in this stuffy place. You're not looking too well anyway," he gestured to the vexed expression on my face, "so you need fresh air. It isn't that cold out there."
I acquiesced, snatching a self-refilling quill and some parchment from the table before running out after Draco. I nearly collided with his father. Thankfully, he was preoccupied with a letter from the Minister of Magic – probably another request for 'funds' or a donation to a 'charity' (said charity giving a portion of all received monies to Cornelius Fudge, naturally) – and simply muttered "On your way then, boy" after I hastily apologised.
It goes without saying that Draco had a top-tier Quidditch field with a few stands at each side. There were features such as cushioning charms on every square inch of the field, Snitches and Bludgers with customisable difficulty levels and magical recording equipment that could give a play-by-play analysis (albeit analytic in nature) and as many statistics as anyone could wish for.
I waved at the two teams of seven, each composed of some of the children of the families in the three factions in the Wizengamot, before joining Neville (who had been poisoned by a strange hybrid he himself had created, and was thus recuperating and in no condition to be physically active). Quidditch was not very fascinating to one such as myself, since the basic premise was rather flawed.
Instead of ending the game when the Snitch is caught, a time limit should be imposed. Perhaps an hour and a half, just like football matches? Catching the Snitch will win points equivalent to Chasers scoring fifteen times. That's really stupid. Too much importance is accorded to the Seeker. He gets most of the glory.
"You alright, Neville?"
He winced, remembering the spores that had been blasted into his face after he prodded a benign-looking bulb with a small glass rod one time too many. The symptoms had included incontrollable regurgitation of all his meals and a nasty rash that covered his entire body.
"Yes… I think."
"Want me to try to fix something up for you, just to relieve any irritation or pain?"
"No need. Gran says a bit of pain's fine, it'll just toughen me up."
"If you say so…"
I leant back on the cushioned seat, idly watching Malfoy dart around the field, most probably imitating every professional Seeker in the most horrifying and aesthetically unpleasing (due to his relative inexperience) way possible, while the other members of his team attempted to score against the Keeper again and again. Crabbe and Goyle were flying upside-down around the field, hitting the Bludgers while attempting to right themselves.
A quick scribble on the parchment to craft a rough rune array and a magical cigarette lighter (the proper term was Smeltington's Excellent Pipe Lighter – used by gentlewizards since the 1600s!) to provide an initial burst of energy, the catalyst, was all that I required to amplify my voice.
"Draco! If you continue doing that, you'll tire yourself out –"
I cut off the rest of my words as I noticed his father walking towards me, gesturing for me to approach him.
"I'll be right back, Draco, Neville."
I burnt the parchment, following Lucius Malfoy as he turned and returned to the Manor, entering his office. As he sat down on his chair, I stood in front of his desk, waiting for him to speak.
"Evan Zabini. Draco says you have… something to ask of me."
"Yes." A pause, to consider the next few words correctly.
"I have need of an unregulated Time-Turner. I know you can obtain one for me."
A slightly raised eyebrow to signify some measure of surprise, then he regained his composure.
"And what do you offer in return?"
I took a deep breath, knowing that the next few words would be of utmost importance.
"I have a clue to the location of the current home of Harry James Potter."
I enjoyed the look of extreme surprise on his face – it wasn't often one got to see that, after all. It was something totally unexpected, something he had never expected me to say. But this was a gamble. If I told him the clue, he would pass it to Voldemort once his Lord was resurrected, and Harry Potter would not be safe. In the near future, he could use it against Dumbledore – I did not know what kind of person Dumbledore was, but I had a vague idea of a deluded master manipulator, one on the brink of a God complex, tempered by rationality and over a century of experience. But I judged it to be a safe gamble, one that I could win. Harry Potter would return to the Dursleys after Voldemort rose, but I could cause a gas incident.
"Ah. And how would I know that you would be telling the truth?"
"You will be able to prove the truth of what I tell you on the day the Hogwarts Express leaves for Hogwarts with all the students. Until then, I will not say anything more."
He remained silent for a minute, allowing me to feel nervousness, anxiety and an urge to finish the deal as fast as possible.
"The Department of Mysteries is… not as easy to obtain something from, especially a Time-Turner. I can give you an exception based on your academic prowess. You know enough runes to do what you want to do. You will tell me the rest of the information on September First."
The unspoken "or else" was implied.
"Harry Potter lives in Number 4 with a Muggle family, who mistreats him. If Draco can avoid antagonising him inadvertently, you will know more. I will send you a letter then."
"Be off, then."
XxXxX
Night.
"Are you sure this is safe?"
Draco spoke in a whisper, a faint fearful tone present.
"It is said Odin rewards one who participates in the Wild Hunt willingly and sincerely, and punishes any person who mocks it or impedes it deliberately. If we survive, that is."
Draco and Blaise both frowned, displaying an unusual nervousness in their body language. I ignored it. The tales told of Odin were many, but Rúnatal Óðins, the stanzas in Hávamál that spoke of how he obtained the runes, was of utmost interest to me. That was the reason I wanted to risk myself in the Wild Hunt, doing something few had done before.
"You may leave if you do not want to risk your life."
Blaise turned almost immediately.
"Goodbye then, Evan. I will not tell Mother about this unless you do not return. Do try, though. I know you well enough that stopping you would be useless – you have a reason for this, and I will not interfere. Draco, come along. Your father will be displeased if he hears of this."
The Zabinis were unaccustomed to showing emotion, and a potential last farewell would not deter Blaise from adhering to the unspoken rule.
Draco cast one last look at me before hurrying after Blaise.
"See you all later… I hope."
I was ready for the Wild Hunt. Or rather, I hoped I was ready. I had created defensive arrays, myriad runes written all over my own body and clothes to protect them from the dangers I could gleam from the old tales (and a few more). My wand was safely secured in a holster attached to my wrist. I reviewed the few spells I could cast with at least a small degree of proficiency (having focused mainly on other areas of magic). Aguamenti. Expulso. Arresto Momentum. Incendio.
My forte was not in magnitude, for I would never be a powerhouse like Voldemort or Albus Dumbledore. What I had was precision in spades. Aguamenti could be restructured as a thin, high-pressure stream of water that could cut through soft tissue in an instant. Expulso was normally a spell that caused explosions, but I had adapted it to exert pressure in a single point or in a small area, greatly improving its piercing capacity. Arresto Momentum could stop a person's heart. I could not set fire to an entire building with Incendio without falling unconscious, but producing a small flame of high intensity was within my meagre abilities.
"Evan Zabini."
The wind howled, bringing with it the smell of mead and cold metal, the howls of the hunting hounds and warriors of Valhalla; I met Odin in his eyes for a moment before nodding. A shiver ran through my body involuntarily as he continued to stare at me; power immeasurable lay burning behind that single eye. Was it not true that the diminution of one's faculties simply concentrated one's powers behind what remained?
"Well met, Lord Odin."
His eye swept over my appearance.
"I see you bear my runes, child. Wear them well, for tonight we hunt Draugar."
Tales of the dead men with superhuman strength, the ability to shape-shift, and a body that emitted a constant stench of death and decay, one that could literally corrode my fragile, mortal flesh from my bones, flashed through my mind, but I steeled myself. I wanted something, and Odin could give it to me. I tried not to dwell on the powers they were said to have – seeing the future, albeit in a limited fashion, and controlling the weather to facilitate the temporary satiating of their eternal hunger.
I took his hand, and we were off, off into the cold night, against the winds of ill fortune; exhilaration and joy in the wind rushing through my hair soon took over the fears, and I shouted (with a higher-pitched voice) with the others who rode with me. It soon became a blur, as we travelled over hill and glen, one filled with roars and constant mead-fuelled singing of snatches of Norse songs that, as unintelligible as they were, still made sense to me subconsciously: they spoke of Wild Hunts long past, of the coat of intermingled blood and sweat a berserkr would wear after a battle, and of the Bloodwrath that sang in their veins, always eating away at the multitude of chains that normality, mundane peaceful matters, l'ennui terrible, would throw over their bodies and minds.
And then we stopped, cutting off the flow and containing all of the built-up excitement within our bodies. We had arrived at the barrows of the Draugr, who were already creeping out in force, their forms shifting every now and then according to their whims; a frail hag, an anthropomorphic wolf resembling the Úlfhéðnar, wolf-skinned berserkers who took on forms betwixt man and wolf, and a dwarf of dark countenance, short and stout. Here it may be noted that, unlike chocolate teapots, Draugr tend to succeed at killing most they meet.
Odin hefted his spear Gungnir and threw it over the soon-to-be battlefield, mimicking his action at the very beginning of the Ӕsir-Vanir war.
"I dedicate this battle to Odin."
It plunged into the chest of a fully awaken Draugr before returning to Odin, its blade and length as clean as the day it was forged.
The warriors of Valhalla charged into battle first, their shields and all manner of weaponry raised high; a morning-star here, an axe there, a hammer not unlike Mjolnir, but barely approaching the power of the Eitri-forged creation. All roared, filled with the exhilaration of war.
Their battle-scarred skin would withstand the corrosive effect of the Draugr's fumes, but mine would not. My defences would only hold for so long, as I had not the time to tailor them to specifically counter the gases that, upon making contact with moisture, would turn into deadly acids. I made a mental note to stock up on useful chemicals before turning to attack them.
"Incendio."
Miniscule capsules of flame found their way into the throats of the seven Draugr who were only just emerging from their own barrows, igniting the flammable gases that were created upon decomposition of their bodies. They would stay down for a minute or so while they regenerated – enough time for the warriors to cut them down. Sheathing my wand, I moved closer to the fray, grasping a spear one of them had passed to me. I became more prone to panic the closer I went to the Draugr, becoming nauseous after breathing in the tiniest part of the fumes before the air filters I had set up went to work.
As inexperienced I was in the art of the spear, I managed to down one by chance. A Draugr broke through the ranks in the form of a giant, and an well-aimed Expulso broke through both of his knees, sending him down to the ground. In my unsettled state, I rushed at him, shouting incoherently, so caught up was I, and heedless of the danger that such an idiotic action would provide to myself, started to stab him in the face, one hand grasping the spear and plunging it down on him, the other holding my wand and waving it wildly in the air.
"Gah!"
A tentacle caught me the next moment, pulling forcefully at my leg, but I cut through it with another Incendio even as I fell. The giant had shape-shifted into a large octopus, and was attempting to capture and devour me. The next instant, I had cast an Aguamenti, and I tore through the soft tissue of the gargantuan octopus, slicing it into half with ease.
"Yes! Oh, for goodness' sake…"
The tentacle, wrapped in glowing ooze that was about as corrosive as the gases, had initiated a cascading collapse of the defensive wards on myself. Later, I would review my wards, and determine that the acids had upset the balance between stability and defensive power to such an extent that my wards drew too much power from the rune arrays that kept me breathing clean air, initiating a failsafe that reduced the magic intake of the defensive wards. They soon failed after that, and the backlash collided with my other wards and took them out.
Then I breathed in the gases, and collapsed to the ground, coughing out what I could, saliva dripping from my mouth (a biological mechanism used to maintain the pH level of the mouth at a normal range, given that saliva acts as a buffer solution, but wholly useless in this situation) as I grasped and scratched at my throat, yearning to erase the burning sensations within. It overpowered my mind to such an extent that I could not even sense the gaping wound on my leg that had opened when the severed tentacle brushed at it.
Then a firm hand grasped my shoulder, and the cessation of pain was so sudden that I collapsed on the ground, a mess of sweat and Draugr body fluids.
"Stand, boy. There are still more to fight."
I watched as runes flowed from where he touched me in the form of lines, glowing whenever they intersected with each other, restoring and optimising my wards. He walked forwards, continuing to throw his spear again and again.
My throat and nasal passages would still feel burnt, and I would have an infected leg wound, but I would still survive. A low-powered Aguamenti cleaned it as best as I could, and one of the warriors who were less battle-hungry bandaged it swiftly before running towards the remaining foes.
I rested there, on the body of a slowly disintegrating octopus/Draugr, for a few moments before lifting up the spear again, moving towards the slowly advancing line, where the Draugr and Asgardians still fought.
"Expulso. Arresto Momentum."
The words came as a whisper, barely audible in the cacophony of battle, but they soon made their effects known.
Holes appeared in place of eyes, blinding the creatures for a few moments. Draugr about to deal the killing blow struggled against the magic I had placed into the binding spell, slowing down enough for their foes to escape and counter any further attacks.
An hour before dawn, the last one was finally killed. I was already tired out before then, and lay against the side of an old ash, attempting to draw enough air into my lungs, fighting against the pain that came with every breath.
"Drink, child."
I gulped greedily at the golden mead offered to me, feeling a momentary cooling sensation as it flowed over the acid-burnt tissue. It gave me enough strength to struggle to my feet and, with ample help, get up on the horse that had brought me there.
The return journey was swift, but Odin led my horse to a secluded grove near the Malfoy Manor before I would leave.
"You have survived the Wild Hunt, child. But with my help. I cannot offer you much then, except a word of advice."
I nodded.
"I have seen your heart, and I see a hard path in front of you. Take up my mantle then, as a few have done so. Hang on the tree – but not Yggdrasil, for that is not yours. Find your tree with unknown roots. Apotheosis, in a manner. You will gain much, but you will sacrifice a part of yourself permanently. Fare you well, Evan."
XxXxX
A/N: There. I will not deign to respond to flames. However, I will accept proper criticism. If you think my SI character is becoming too OP, well, you should see how much I've given Voldemort, Dumbledore, and pretty much every other antagonist in future chapters. Until then, farewell.