Chapter One—At Privet Drive
It was a dark and stormy night.
From his tiny bedroom, Harry Potter watched as the trees tossed in the frenzied lashing of the wind. Black clouds scudded frantically across the sky that was being ripped across by bolts of lightning that hurtled rapidly across, sometimes stopping to hover over the skyscrapers like black-haired giants. Every now and then the moon ripped through them, creating wraith- like shadows that raced along the ground.
The house shook.
Wrapped in his old quilt, Harry shook, not simply from the occasional cold chills that were creeping up his spine, but also from the sense of impending doom that the ominous storm had filled him with, settling over him like an insidious poison-cloud. Harry was a wizard, fresh from his fourth year of magical education at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. His fourth year had been highly traumatic for him, and, with ghastly images of his ordeal flashing past his mind, Harry shivered even more. He knitted his fevered brow, furrowing the thin, lightning-shaped scar that slashed his forehead and his memory with a distant yet indelible sense of apprehension.
It was this scar that made Harry so unusual, even for a wizard who was part of a world where hardly anything could even be deemed "unusual".
About fifteen years ago, a thin, black-robed man with slit-like nostrils that highly resembled a snake's and flaming red eyes in which glowing embers of hatred and evil were forever burning had appeared in Godric's Hollow, the village where Harry and his parents lived. This man was the most powerful, most feared sorcerer in the land, and his name was Voldemort, a name which wavered with precarious uncertainty on the tongues of many, for the mere sound of it was enough to chill to the bone marrow, to send shivers up anyone's spine. Voldemort had arrived in Godric's Hollow with the cold-blooded intention of killing Harry and his family. Voldemort had killed James Potter, Harry's father, and Lily Potter, his mother. Then he had turned his wand on the squalling baby Harry. But the deadly curse that had polished off so many of the finest wizards and witches of the age could not kill Harry, who was barely a year old. Instead, the curse had rebounded upon Voldemort himself, reducing him to mere shadow and vapour. His powers diminished, Voldemort had fled, leaving Harry unscathed, with nothing more than the burning ashes of his ruined family and home, and wearing a thin, lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.
Since then, the tangible fear that had so stalked the Wizarding community had been lifted, till Harry's fourth year. Pushed into last-year's Triwizard Tournament not out of his own free will, Harry had reached the Triwizard cup first, along with another competitor, Cedric Diggory. Unknown to them, the cup was in actual fact a Portkey, that had transported them to an eerie clearing far away from any form of protection. Voldemort had then ordered Cedric killed. Using an ancient piece of Dark Magic that had long since been lost in the wreathing mists of time, Voldemort had been reborn, with something new—Harry's own blood now flowed through his veins. In Harry's blood had resided the one thing that had protected him from Voldemort's onslaught fourteen years ago—Lily Potter's love for him. Lily Potter had so willingly rendered her own life to save Harry out of her mother's love. For Voldemort, the epitome of evil, it was a catastrophe for him to even lay hands on Harry, who had been marked by something so clean and pure and good. So Voldemort had taken a phial of Harry's blood for himself for the protection it rendered him. Now Harry was desolately alone, with nothing to protect him from Voldemort's likely attacks.
The high, cold voice that seemed like a blast of cold wind still reverberated in Harry's mind. The spell that Voldemort had unearthed to resurrect himself—Harry tried to shake it off—but it was there, still there, clutching him with a vice-like grip that refused, simply refused to let go.
"Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son.
Flesh of the servant, willingly given, you will revive your master.
Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe."
His blood….He was the enemy. Voldemort had taken his blood. It was this thought that Harry clutched at before drifting slowly off into an uneasy, but deep, trance-like sleep.
* * * * * *
"Basking contentedly in the sun-drenched, yet icy areas of Northern Europe, mystical Norway is a beautiful country, filled with intrigue and enrapturing beauty. Its snowy, ice-blanketed background glistens like fine ivory in the sunlight, while glimmering light rays dance upon the frosty ground in a fluid motion that so resemble a troupe of dancers prancing gracefully across a stage. Beyond its vast green fields lie Norway's renowned fjords. These fjords make Norway so unique, that thrust this land away from the monotony of the rest of Scandinavia. To wake up while each glittering star fades from the cold Norwegian sky, watching the waves of after-night twine ever so gently around the slow swirls of before-dawn, and be enthralled by the sheer beauty of these highlands as the morning mist slowly settles over the country before a brand new day begins is truly a god-given blessing……."
Harry was sitting contentedly on the couch watching the blaring television, listening to the advertiser's long rendition of Norway's "enrapturing beauty". Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia and Dudley had all gone to visit Aunt Marge, Uncle Vernon's sister who was highly reminiscent of a pug. She was in hospital for appendicitis, and had just undergone surgery. The Dursleys had left Harry behind, with no more than a few words of warning from Uncle Vernon, "Now you listen to me, boy... and look at me while I'm talking to you! Any of this…this….funny business of yours while we're away and you'll find yourself locked up in your room for the whole summer!"
Harry had hardly believed his luck. Now he sat snoozing blissfully on the couch, watching Dudley's new television set. Hmmm, he thought to himself, Norway wouldn't be a bad place to visit….its away from the Dursleys, away from…away from Voldemort. The sheer thought of Voldemort violently snapped Harry back into reality. He tried to remove the thought from his mind, but it remained there like an annoying fly.
Harry switched off the television and walked into the kitchen for a snack.
Unknown to Harry, Norway was the last place in the world he should have wanted to visit. At that moment, basking contentedly in the Norwegian fjords was the feared Lord Voldemort and his henchman, Wormtail.
Plotting something. They were plotting something that would involve the loss of more lives, the devastation of the world that the Wizarding community had sweated and bled to establish during the years of Voldemort's absence.
"Yes, my lord. It has been done as you ordered. The shipment will arrive here shortly." It was Wormtail speaking meekly, with an air of servility.
"Good. The goods will be highly useful to us, Wormtail, for us to execute the next plan." Lord Voldemort said in his cold, icy voice.
"My lord, if I may ask, how will they help us in achieving our goal?"
"Wormtail, your ignorance certainly does amuse me at times. They are an essential tool for an incantation of mine. They will be extremely vital for our plan. You see, Wormtail, there is an ancient incantation that enables one to become telekinetic. However, that incantation only works if the drinker has the purity of soul. Of course, both you and I know that we do not fulfill that requirement. But sapphires, however, can be used in a potion that can turn a drinker's soul pure, yet allowing him to keep his inner thoughts safe and sound. Do you understand me, Wormtail?"
"Yes, my lord."
* * * * * *
It was a dark and stormy night.
From his tiny bedroom, Harry Potter watched as the trees tossed in the frenzied lashing of the wind. Black clouds scudded frantically across the sky that was being ripped across by bolts of lightning that hurtled rapidly across, sometimes stopping to hover over the skyscrapers like black-haired giants. Every now and then the moon ripped through them, creating wraith- like shadows that raced along the ground.
The house shook.
Wrapped in his old quilt, Harry shook, not simply from the occasional cold chills that were creeping up his spine, but also from the sense of impending doom that the ominous storm had filled him with, settling over him like an insidious poison-cloud. Harry was a wizard, fresh from his fourth year of magical education at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. His fourth year had been highly traumatic for him, and, with ghastly images of his ordeal flashing past his mind, Harry shivered even more. He knitted his fevered brow, furrowing the thin, lightning-shaped scar that slashed his forehead and his memory with a distant yet indelible sense of apprehension.
It was this scar that made Harry so unusual, even for a wizard who was part of a world where hardly anything could even be deemed "unusual".
About fifteen years ago, a thin, black-robed man with slit-like nostrils that highly resembled a snake's and flaming red eyes in which glowing embers of hatred and evil were forever burning had appeared in Godric's Hollow, the village where Harry and his parents lived. This man was the most powerful, most feared sorcerer in the land, and his name was Voldemort, a name which wavered with precarious uncertainty on the tongues of many, for the mere sound of it was enough to chill to the bone marrow, to send shivers up anyone's spine. Voldemort had arrived in Godric's Hollow with the cold-blooded intention of killing Harry and his family. Voldemort had killed James Potter, Harry's father, and Lily Potter, his mother. Then he had turned his wand on the squalling baby Harry. But the deadly curse that had polished off so many of the finest wizards and witches of the age could not kill Harry, who was barely a year old. Instead, the curse had rebounded upon Voldemort himself, reducing him to mere shadow and vapour. His powers diminished, Voldemort had fled, leaving Harry unscathed, with nothing more than the burning ashes of his ruined family and home, and wearing a thin, lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.
Since then, the tangible fear that had so stalked the Wizarding community had been lifted, till Harry's fourth year. Pushed into last-year's Triwizard Tournament not out of his own free will, Harry had reached the Triwizard cup first, along with another competitor, Cedric Diggory. Unknown to them, the cup was in actual fact a Portkey, that had transported them to an eerie clearing far away from any form of protection. Voldemort had then ordered Cedric killed. Using an ancient piece of Dark Magic that had long since been lost in the wreathing mists of time, Voldemort had been reborn, with something new—Harry's own blood now flowed through his veins. In Harry's blood had resided the one thing that had protected him from Voldemort's onslaught fourteen years ago—Lily Potter's love for him. Lily Potter had so willingly rendered her own life to save Harry out of her mother's love. For Voldemort, the epitome of evil, it was a catastrophe for him to even lay hands on Harry, who had been marked by something so clean and pure and good. So Voldemort had taken a phial of Harry's blood for himself for the protection it rendered him. Now Harry was desolately alone, with nothing to protect him from Voldemort's likely attacks.
The high, cold voice that seemed like a blast of cold wind still reverberated in Harry's mind. The spell that Voldemort had unearthed to resurrect himself—Harry tried to shake it off—but it was there, still there, clutching him with a vice-like grip that refused, simply refused to let go.
"Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son.
Flesh of the servant, willingly given, you will revive your master.
Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe."
His blood….He was the enemy. Voldemort had taken his blood. It was this thought that Harry clutched at before drifting slowly off into an uneasy, but deep, trance-like sleep.
* * * * * *
"Basking contentedly in the sun-drenched, yet icy areas of Northern Europe, mystical Norway is a beautiful country, filled with intrigue and enrapturing beauty. Its snowy, ice-blanketed background glistens like fine ivory in the sunlight, while glimmering light rays dance upon the frosty ground in a fluid motion that so resemble a troupe of dancers prancing gracefully across a stage. Beyond its vast green fields lie Norway's renowned fjords. These fjords make Norway so unique, that thrust this land away from the monotony of the rest of Scandinavia. To wake up while each glittering star fades from the cold Norwegian sky, watching the waves of after-night twine ever so gently around the slow swirls of before-dawn, and be enthralled by the sheer beauty of these highlands as the morning mist slowly settles over the country before a brand new day begins is truly a god-given blessing……."
Harry was sitting contentedly on the couch watching the blaring television, listening to the advertiser's long rendition of Norway's "enrapturing beauty". Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia and Dudley had all gone to visit Aunt Marge, Uncle Vernon's sister who was highly reminiscent of a pug. She was in hospital for appendicitis, and had just undergone surgery. The Dursleys had left Harry behind, with no more than a few words of warning from Uncle Vernon, "Now you listen to me, boy... and look at me while I'm talking to you! Any of this…this….funny business of yours while we're away and you'll find yourself locked up in your room for the whole summer!"
Harry had hardly believed his luck. Now he sat snoozing blissfully on the couch, watching Dudley's new television set. Hmmm, he thought to himself, Norway wouldn't be a bad place to visit….its away from the Dursleys, away from…away from Voldemort. The sheer thought of Voldemort violently snapped Harry back into reality. He tried to remove the thought from his mind, but it remained there like an annoying fly.
Harry switched off the television and walked into the kitchen for a snack.
Unknown to Harry, Norway was the last place in the world he should have wanted to visit. At that moment, basking contentedly in the Norwegian fjords was the feared Lord Voldemort and his henchman, Wormtail.
Plotting something. They were plotting something that would involve the loss of more lives, the devastation of the world that the Wizarding community had sweated and bled to establish during the years of Voldemort's absence.
"Yes, my lord. It has been done as you ordered. The shipment will arrive here shortly." It was Wormtail speaking meekly, with an air of servility.
"Good. The goods will be highly useful to us, Wormtail, for us to execute the next plan." Lord Voldemort said in his cold, icy voice.
"My lord, if I may ask, how will they help us in achieving our goal?"
"Wormtail, your ignorance certainly does amuse me at times. They are an essential tool for an incantation of mine. They will be extremely vital for our plan. You see, Wormtail, there is an ancient incantation that enables one to become telekinetic. However, that incantation only works if the drinker has the purity of soul. Of course, both you and I know that we do not fulfill that requirement. But sapphires, however, can be used in a potion that can turn a drinker's soul pure, yet allowing him to keep his inner thoughts safe and sound. Do you understand me, Wormtail?"
"Yes, my lord."
* * * * * *