Chapter 45: The Beginning of a Threat
Training the Death Eaters on the ways of sorcerous black magic was hard, to begin with. They were weakened, physically, mentally, magically, and emotionally, following their incarceration in Azkaban, subjected to the draining presence of the Dementors for so long. The difficulty of the teaching was further compounded by the mile-wide streak of arrogance possessed by each of them. As their strength grew, so did their capacity for snark and derision.
It took Mordo pointing out that while sorcery was a different kind of magic than what they were used to, it was also not what the Aurors were used to, meaning that once they were capable of using it, the Aurors would be powerless to stop them. The obstreperousness was swiftly replaced with a hunger and desire to progress in their study, that they might rain terror upon whosoever they pleased all the sooner. Despite their keenness, the Death Eaters struggled, and Crouch grew more restless with each passing day. Eventually, though, Mordo pronounced them ready.
Gathered in the main hall of Castle Mordo, each of the Death Eaters stood in a circle of blood, painted into runes, sigils, and glyphs. A few of them clutched their freshly bandaged forearms as Crouch and Mordo strode in and took their places. Mordo had instructed them in the performance of the ritual they were about to undertake for the past fortnight, and with a nod from him, they began.
Chanting and gesturing, speaking in a language that, of those assembled, only Mordo alone understood the true meaning of. The almost liturgical manner of the ritual carried on for some time, before drawing up into a roaring crescendo, then settling down and fading into silence. But the silence did not come before each and every participant spoke a single word thrice: "Dormammu! Dormammu! Dormammu!"
The Death Eaters did not see what happened next, but they all felt searing pain around their eyes and in the space just above and between their eyebrows. An observer would have gasped in horror as the skin around each participant's eyes became as black as volcanic ash and almost scaly, as well as the symbol that branded itself upon their brows before fading.
Then the fire crackling in the large stone fireplace grew in size and intensity all by itself, before the flames resolved themselves into the form of a face that Mordo knew well. "You have done well, Mordo, in finding me these servitors. Their hearts and minds were already black with evil before you got your hands on them, and you have extinguished the last spark of light that remained in them. Now, take them and go, spreading darkness and fear in my name; in the name of the Dread Dormammu. Soon, Stephen Strange shall fall…"
The End - To Be Continued…
A/N: Merry Christmas, here's the last chapter of this story. The sequel shall come…