The Power He Knows Not
Harry Potter and the Second War: Book 4
Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it isn't mine. I'm just borrowing it and mucking around for a while.
Summary: Emotionally devastated by the treachery of his third year, Harry also has to deal with unwanted trials at Hogwarts, both legal and magical – but everything is overshadowed by prophecy: betrayal is just the first step towards Voldemort's return… 4th in a series, so read the others first.
Warnings: Violence, language, character death. Rated M for safety more than anything.
Prologue: Ritual Violence
It was the night of the new moon, a night most suitable for such a ritual; the ritual that formed the first step of their Lord's rebirth.
The Death Eaters knelt in a circle around a wooden altar, which had been carefully painted with strange runes that hurt the eyes if you looked too closely. On top of it was a shimmering silver bowl, containing a potion, and the small corpse that would serve as their Lord's temporary vessel. It would be destroyed in the true rebirth, when He would reclaim His true form, but He needed His own body before that ritual could be undertaken, not some mere Muggle who had happened to pass by His dwelling. Rosier had taken an obscene glee in obtaining the corpse for his Master. The Muggle in question was bound tightly to a chair in the corner. He was sobbing in terror.
The true Death Eaters – Sirius Black, Evan Rosier, Barty Crouch and the Carrow twins – were shrouded in shadow black robes, their faces obscured by bone white masks. There were two others though, dressed in ordinary robes. The first – a tall, fierce looking man, his dark hair flecked with grey – was very still, his back rigid, a proud gleam on his face, as if this were the fulfilment of all his possible desires. The second – a younger man, with very short hair and a distinctly unkempt look about him – was fidgeting, his gaze constantly shifting, as if he had realised he had made a big mistake.
The young man shuddered violently as Nagini, the Dark Lord's familiar, slithered past him, hissing softly to herself. The others in the circle cast contemptuous looks at him, but said nothing, unwilling to break the silence. The candles that ringed the room flickered, as if a wind was blowing through the room, and Sirius stood up, drawing his wand. He paced to the altar, and held out his arm over the corpse.
"My Lord, I offer you magic, that you may be restored."
His body spasmed as a tendril of darkness snaked from the mouth of the tattoo on his wrist. It seeped over the corpse's nose, and its eyelids opened with a jerk, revealing empty sockets. Sirius bit back a manic laugh as he felt the raw magic flow through and around him. Dazed by the sensation, he nearly forgot to complete his part; he drew a thin line up his arm with his wand, cutting the flesh. Blood trickled out, falling into the corpse's mouth. He forced himself to step back so that the ritual could continue. One by one, the Death Eaters and the two others stepped forward, uttering the same pledge as Sirius, each donating a portion of magic and blood to their Lord.
As the final devotee – the young man, who had stumbled over his words – knelt back down, the corpse gave out a loud cry, a hideous sound that made their teeth buzz. It echoed around them, not stopping even as the corpse climbed uncertainly to its feet. It looked around the circle, unseeing, still screaming, and Sirius saw the young man close his eyes, sickened. He concealed a scowl. The man was clearly unworthy. Couldn't he see how glorious this was? Never mind that their Lord was returning, could the boy – not man, boy, pathetic, blind boy – not appreciate that this was magic most never dreamed of?
On the other side of the circle, Rosier climbed to his feet, his eyes shining almost lustfully. From within his robes, he produced a shining diadem. He handled it carefully, almost reverently, and placed it gently on the head of the corpse. The corpse ceased to scream. In the corner, the Muggle began to twitch. Rosier withdrew a potions vial from his sleeve, and carefully, ever so carefully, tilted it over the diadem. A foul smelling dark liquid spilled out, and the diadem sizzled where it touched. It began to melt, silver pouring over the corpse, and there was the distant echo of a scream. Something smoked out, spreading around the corpse before being sucked into it.
A vaporous form spread from the Muggle in the corner, somehow managing to hiss in delight, and flowed between the Death Eaters. It mingled with the dark cloud over the corpse, and was sucked into the corpse along with the darkness from the diadem. The corpse began to shudder, suddenly going rigid with shock, splaying itself out with such force that they could hear the bones crack. The dying flesh began to peel off, falling to the glowing potion bathing the corpse, and under the flesh, ugly scales began to form. It looked like a baby had been sown into snake skin.
The thing began to scream once again, but this was different. The Death Eaters could feel the power behind it, and the silver bowl rose from the altar, the thing still inside it. The scream rose in pitch, and the bowl shattered, the potion spilling everywhere. The thing hung in mid-air, and as they watched, they saw red eyes begin to form within the empty eye sockets. There was a pulse of power, and the Death Eaters were thrown to the floor. The thing sank slowly down, landing on all fours, and it looked up malevolently.
"My wand. Bring me my wand."
Sirius stood up, and placed the wand gently into his Lord's outstretched palm. The scaly little fingers clasped around it lovingly, stroking it. With a high, cold laugh, the thing swished the wand, and the Muggle was torn in two before he even had time to scream. Nagini slithered over and began to swallow, noisily.
"It has been too long, my servants. Too long since I felt my magic soar."
Sirius sank to his knees once more. "My Lord, your magic shall sweep across the world like a wave – we shall all feel your magic soar!"
The thing smiled, revealing tiny fangs. "Would that you all had such faith old friend. I sense one amongst us who is not so sure… Master Spitewinter, perhaps you could introduce us to your young friend?"
The older man, with grey flecked hair, bowed his head. "My Lord, this is Damien Stark, a member of our humble group. I assure you, his loyalty is without question – "
"No-one's loyalty is without question – as Dumbledore and his band have found out to their cost, eh Sirius? But I do not doubt his loyalty… Merely his faith. Look at me Stark."
The young man raised his head, trembling, and looked at the thing that was his new Lord. He was unable to repress a shudder, unable to stop himself looking away, just for a moment. The thing's eyes narrowed.
"It causes you distress to look upon me, Stark? When you look upon your Lord, you feel only… revulsion? I cannot say I blame you; truly, my form is hideous to the mundane eye. But you are my follower – you are not mundane Stark. Can you not look beyond this exterior, see the majesty of my power? Answer me honestly now…"
Stark trembled, terrified, but managed to stutter, looking more and more horrified as he did so: "N…No my Lord…"
The Dark Lord smiled without humour. "I see. Well, if it pains you to look at me so much Stark…"
He swished his wand again. Stark shrieked in agony as his eyes boiled in their sockets, and he fell to the floor, clawing at his face. Spitewinter took a step away, careful not to look. The Dark Lord watched Stark's torment with joy, before tiring of it.
"Nagini… Finish him."
The great serpent looked up from her feast in the corner, and hissed softly. She wound her way around the watching Death Eaters and approached Stark. In a flash, she had wound her way around his chest, and slashed her fangs into his neck, tearing it open. His screams were cut off abruptly, blood pouring from his wounds. The Dark Lord looked away, towards Spitewinter.
"I trust that none of your other acolytes will have this problem?"
"I assure you, they will not my Lord." Spitewinter responded, bowing deeply.
"Excellent…"
On the other side of the country, Harry James Potter woke up, his scar burning.
A/N: For those of you interested in such things, Spitewinter is the name of a small village in the UK, which I happened to stumble across while map-reading. I just had to use it somehow, so here we go.