Broken Dolls Wield Rusted Swords
Fandom: Harry Potter
Genre: Horror/Angst/Mystery/Romance
Main Characters: Harry Potter, Voldemort
Pairing: Harry Potter/ Voldemort
Rating: M
Summary: When the present is so very wrong the only hope is the past. When you give a king a sword all you can hope is that he will use it wisely. In a dark future the immortal man, Harry Potter, is a prisoner turned weapon for the people he once saved. But a single hope finds him and sends him back in time where a broken man might one day find himself again. Unfortunately his savior doesn't know the Dark Lord. Without memory and only ordered to serve, Harry is rocketed back into the past during Voldemort's first rise.
A/N: Chapter warnings...mostly just more Stockholm syndrome level mind screwy stuff. And a few more glimpses into Azrael's past.
Disclaimer: It shouldn't need to be said but I quite obviously own none of these characters or their world. My wallet firmly agrees with me on this- it has pocket lint.
Chapter 6: An Angel's Wings
Miles from anywhere, in the dark bowels of a castle that could not be laid to map, a dark cloaked man gave a hesitant report. Danger followed every action he took with this deed. Serving two masters was forever a balancing act and he feared soon he would fall. He could only pray for his safety should it go on.
.
.
"A man appeared in the middle of a death eater meeting."
"A new member?"
"He is now." The cloaked man took a breath before continuing.
"He arrived during the first meeting that his followers were dismissed from. They were dismissed when the dark lord himself could not revive the man. Before that meeting no one had ever seen him before, not even the dark lord. He may as well have sprung up from the ground for all that is known. Yet he was presented last night standing next to the dark lord's throne."
"I see. That is troubling."
"That is hardly the most distressing part. He came from nowhere. A man with no history, who managed to break past the dark lord's wards, has sworn fealty to him"
"What is the measure of this man, I wonder? Is there a way to convince him away from him."
"He has no measure. He's nothing more than a broken doll that dances for the dark lord."
Voldemort sat at his desk with a small book in hand. The volume before him was indeed much more than it appeared. It was the sum of Azrael's history. The slim journal had an endless page charm like his own boyhood diary, as well as charms similar to a pensive. Both these sets of charms made this little book quite possibly one of the single most valuable resources he had at his disposal. It was a century's research and study of an immortal man with entries studying him from every possible angle. This little book held thousands of unspeakables' journals, studies, and tests regarding that one man. A man whose existence fascinated him so.
.
.
April 16th, 1999
The weapon's son has been studied extensively. It is truly a remarkable creature, a credit to the wizard that created them both for sure. Even after all this time we have found no way to replicate the last great dark lord's creation. Whatever abomination the son is, was only able to infect the father. For the time being we have found that a blood sharing ritual grants a greater deal of control to the weapon's handlers. Our first attempts were disastrous. The creature in the son's blood, while it couldn't change them, it did affect them. It drove most of them mad. The few it didn't all had a creature heritage historically in their lines. They spoke of senses they had never felt before. We then tried to use handlers with a creature heritage. Pure creature handlers died almost instantly their bodies rejected the blood sharing and burned themselves up. Half-breeds didn't die immediately but stayed ill for some time before expiring. We went through every iteration we could think of and dozens of species. We have found that handlers with veela bloodlines, anything less than a quarter, did not have the initial reaction to the blood sharing that others did. However the control is not absolute as we believe the dark lord's was. Any attempt to pass the trait from handler to handler proved fruitless. It would seem the blood of the son is as diluted as the control will allow.
We have come to believe that there must have been some kind of mind altering potion in the original dark lord's blood that allows for this effect. Whatever it was still eludes us. The sample in the son's blood is too degraded for us to trace. If we had known what we do now back then we could have taken a sample from the dark lord's body.
.
.
This entry was truly...enlightening. The handler woman's actions made a bit of sense now. Azrael was a creature of his own creation as was his son it would seem. She had desired his safety and seemed to think that the man who created him would be where he was safest. It also explained the memories he had seen before of the dark haired boy, Harry. He didn't fight back while being marked because he couldn't defy his lord. It was why the mark took even though the boy had been clearly against it. His will was surmountable by the dark lord's own.
There was a magical photo attached to the page. A young boy perhaps three or four running around a stone room, a cell if he guessed right. He had short curls of black hair and green eyes so bright they glowed like an oncoming killing curse. He lept into the arms of a man...Azrael, he was young and far less scarred. Only the line crossing his blind eyes and the jagged ropelike one trickling down his cheek were present on his face. There was so much emotion on Azrael's face, emotion he'd never seen the silent warrior show. It was obvious from the display that he didn't know the picture was being taken. Early in his blindness then. The man who stood at his side would never allow anyone to sneak upon him.
Closing the book once more he left to find his newest servant.
.
.
Unsurprisingly he found him in the hall that they had first dueled in dodging dummy spells from practice opponents.
"The journals say you had a son." The silent man seemed to freeze in time. Eight dummy spells suddenly collided with his impenetrable hide before dissipating in a shower of sparks before he responded.
Once. There was a odd sort of pain in his stance. As if he was held standing by force of habit while some unknown emotion tried to force him to his knees. An old wound then. One that had never had the chance to heal.
His name was Kiran.
"A beam of light?" Curious thing to name a child of a dark being.
"You can't remember who or what you were before this but you remember your son's name?" Interesting if not a little odd.
They took him from me in the beginning. I know I was a man once….a long time ago. But I don't remember it. I can barely remember him.
"What happened?"
I defied them. First they took my voice. Then my sight. Then they took my son. I fought them but still lost him. That was when they put these on my wrists. He held up the silver manacles that still adorned his wrists. I don't know how much time has passed since then.
"According to the notes made by your former handler. You have been in captivity for ninety seven years."
Feels longer.
"It likely was. A number of the tests they ran on you were done under the influence of Time Turners. Perhaps it would be better to say to everyone else you were captive for ninety seven years."
The dark lord found himself met with absolute silence. It would appear that small talk was both too dark a subject and something Azrael had no input on.
"I have studied the runes on your cuffs. I believe I can remove them from you now." Azrael's right hand clasped over its brother's manacle rubbing it and twisting it in thought. After much hesitation he offered his metal bound wrist to his master. The dark lord took both his servant's wrists in hand and waved his wand in complex patterns over the cuffs. The cursed objects reacted to the dark lord's magic and glowed brightly before going cold once more. A single line was traced down each with the tip of his wand leaving a seam behind that sprung open when he finished. The century old manacles fell loudly to the marble in a heap.
Azrael rubbed both his wrists seemingly in disbelief that the part of his prison that he carried with him was now gone. A strange look crossed the scarred man's face a split second before he began to change.
Just as in the memory of Harry's mark Azrael changed but this time he didn't stop. Glass shards peeked through skin that darkened. A crest of spines crowned his head. Fingernails grew to sharp talons and dragon-like feet ripped apart his shoes. Great black wings spread from his back, jointed at the center just under his natural shoulder blades.
The scars on his face stretched and pulled as his maw extended just slightly and his features grew more elfish and sharp.
His name never suited him more than that moment. Azrael truly looked the part of the angel of death.
Tentatively he spread his wings and claws. If what he had said was true then it had been nearly a century since they had.
The feathers of his wings were actually strong hardened scales that resembled darkly shadowed glass. The largest of them was as long as a short sword and easily as sharp. They tapered down in size as the came closer to his body. From the dagger sized outer scales to the softer underscales no bigger than his thumbnail.
"Can you fly with them?" The didn't seem particularly aerodynamic but neither did dragons' and they were fearsome beasts in the air.
A strange yet beautiful chorus of ringing of bells entered his mind. It confused him for a moment before he realized that was what Azrael's laughter and pure happiness sounded like.
That and more my lord. Azrael's vicious teeth were drawn into a smile. How long had it been since this man had anything to smile for?
This Dark Lord is like no king I've ever served before. He is a proud man certainly but not in the way others have been. In the past my kings have bloated their egos on my power and their position. My lord is confident in his own power and with right to be. I have never met another class seven warlock in all my years much less served one. His magic permeates everything around him. To these dead eyes of mine he looks as I've heard people describe stars.
He smells of aged paper, sage, cedar, and snake. His voice sounds like velvet feels. When he walks every stride is soft but purposeful, powerful even. In our duel I could hear it, his legs were strong and his reflexes were honed as sharp as any human's could be...perhaps more. To any normal being his steps would be silent, deadly as an assassin. I will never know his face as others do and for the first time I find myself wishing I could. I wish to see this man I now serve. I have no doubt he will not let me see with my hands of that I am sure.
He doesn't wish me to be idle like my past kings. Nor is he for that matter. My lord is constantly moving, constantly thinking and planning. Even when he has no plans to attend he is still in motion. He trains his magic to a deadly precision. Every spell is cast in an instant...and it is like nothing I've ever felt.
He acts like no one I've ever observed. After so long of always knowing...of everything being the same, I ...I am fond of my new king.
It is strange to me. This man who trusts no one still places more trust in me than anyone in my memory. He named me not a weapon but as a being. Perhaps not human still but of worth. I've listened to others when they think no one can hear. My lord was correct in others thinking him monstrous. But I have not found anything to despise in this man. He has killed and will kill. He has tortured and will do so again. But so have I. It is the way of things, my king orders and never do I ask why.
But it feels much different. My king doesn't hide behind a handler and guards holding me. His word is my law and it is given to me from his voice. I'm not a sword on a dusty shelf. I'm not made to hurt by wizards wanting to know how I work. I'm not locked away cut from my remaining senses.
My king is many things but I believe he is no monster.
He gave me back my wings.