Disclaimer: I did not, actually, invent the characters mentioned herein.
Someone else did. JK Rowling, I think the name is. If I could write as
well as she does, I'd be rich and famous too. Maybe. Anyway, I make no
money off of this. None whatsoever. So please don't sue.
Spoilers: If you haven't yet read all the books up through OotP, what are wasting your time reading fanfic for?
Dedicated to my sister, without whom this would still be sitting on my computer and I'd never post anything.
A/N: So, after lurking around the Harry Potter fanfic world for way too long, and writing sporadically, I've finally decided to post this. It will be the first time anyone other than my sister has seen any of my work. But I'll save review-begging until the end.
------oooooo------
He was widely considered to be the best (or worst, depending on your point of view) Dark Lord since Grindelwald. Some even said that he surpassed Grindelwald, and although it might be claimed that they really weren't about to say anything else in the interests of self-preservation, the claim probably wasn't too far from the truth.
The position of Dark Lord carried with it certain responsibilities, however. And Voldemort was finding that there just weren't enough hours in the day to do everything a really top-notch Dark Lord should be doing. First on his list of priorities, for example, was the eternal duty of villains; he had to make the hero as miserable as possible before the inevitable final confrontation. This seemed fairly easy, actually; all he had to do was give the Potter brat constant nightmares. The Potter brat, however, was more jaded than anyone his age had a right to be, and the old shadowy-creatures-under-the-bed type of nightmares just weren't having enough of an effect. It was only three weeks into summer vacation, and already the Dark Lord's creativity was feeling the strain. And while it was rather enjoyable to think up new horrors to torture the boy with, it was taking up more and more of his time. He had other things to do, after all, from recruiting new followers to torturing and killing Muggles and Mudbloods, to sabotaging the Ministry and concocting evil schemes designed to get around the old fool, Dumbledore. He just didn't have time these days to personally ensure the Potter brat's misery. And yet, no one but he had the connection that enabled him to do it.
This was the reason he'd sent Avery off to India on rumors of an ancient artifact that might be able to help him. Avery had been gone almost a week now, and had sent word not two hours ago to expect him back shortly, bringing with him the Talisman of Dreams. Which was why he was currently seated in the throne room of his stronghold (all the best Dark Lords had to have thrones, of course, and a room to put them in; it was one of the basic rules of Evil) and examining his claw-like fingernails (a side- effect of an experiment years ago. He didn't really mind; they suited his image nicely, and sometimes came in useful for things like gouging out eyes.) The Death Eaters attending him -- Wormtail had no other place to go, pathetic thing that he was, and Lucius Malfoy was trying not to be too obvious about the fact that he was sitting there doing nothing in an attempt to curry favor by spending his free time at Voldemort's beck and call -- were uneasy at his presence, and trying to hide it, ineffectually. He considered toying with their minds out of boredom, but it would really be too easy, no fun at all.
When Avery finally arrived, escorted by Crabbe and Goyle ("Idiots!" snarled Lucius. "You're supposed to stay at your posts! Who's guarding the door now?") he was bearing two packages, which he presented to Voldemort with unnecessarily pretentious ceremony. Both packages were labeled, the Dark Lord noted, one with "Talisman of Dreams" and one with "Instruction Manual." Typical Avery. He opened the Talisman first, expecting, perhaps, exquisitely carved precious metal, or a giant crystal, or the mummified head of something. Instead what met his eyes was a simple, crudely shaped coil of pottery. There were a few words sloppily painted on the bottom. He raised an eyebrow at Avery.
"This is it?"
"Yes, my Lord."
"Well, we shall hope, for your sake, that appearances are deceiving. I don't suppose you managed to translate what it says, did you?"
"According to the instruction manual, it says, 'Powerful magical artifact. Treat with caution.' The words weren't part of the original clay, they were added when it was about a century old after some idiot tried to use it to collect rainwater from his leaky roof. They're still trying to figure out what happened to his house."
Lord Voldemort sneered. "Thank you, Avery, that was really more than I needed to know. Dare I ask what type of ancient magical artifact actually comes with an instruction manual?"
"Ah, er, well, it didn't originally, but some scholar apparently decided it would be a good idea to write one. He spent some years researching and wrote down all his findings. I, er, thought there might be something of use, so I -- er -- brought it along," Avery finished lamely. He was wilting under the Dark Lord's continued scowl. A good scowl, Voldemort reflected idly, was really absolutely essential if you wanted to command forces of evil. He neatly slit open the second package (yet another time claws came in useful) revealing the musty tome inside. Opening the book to impossibly cramped handwriting, he began to read out loud.
"The Talisman of Dreams, being debatably classified as a class five- oh-twenty-nine (my contemporary, Wulfric the Third, insists that it is actually a class five-oh-thirty, but I believe that the circumstances of the maker's grandfather's living accommodations were such as to outweigh the unfortunate circumstances of his having been blind and therefore disadvantaged -- for more details of the argument, see page 427 -- place the object definitively within the parameters of class five-oh-twenty-nine as explained in Artifacts of the Ancients: Random or Coordinated by Pots Digger, a recognized authority) is also considered to be among the thirty three and a half percent of artifacts which are attributed to a single creator, rather than the work of a partnership, team, or government or created in freak accidents . . ."
Voldemort frowned and skimmed ahead, then flipped a handful of pages forward and began again.
"The records of how the Talisman fell into the hands of Uric the Oddball are not clear, but most believe that he won it betting on a horserace. This is substantiated by only circumstantial evidence, however, and there are indications that while he did win the bet at a horserace, he was already in possession of the Talisman and winning the bet only allowed him to keep it, also gaining him several hundred live billywigs, with which he . . ."
"Avery," the Dark Lord said, in the tone of voice he reserved for people too dim to know that they were trying his patience, "does this dust- brained imbecile say anything at all of use?"
Avery stuttered something incomprehensible.
"I beg your pardon?" Voldemort asked silkily.
"Ah, well, you see, I actually didn't think it was necessary -- that is, I wanted to -- or not really, but . . ."
"You didn't even read it, did you?" Voldemort said coldly. "No matter, I suppose -- at least you got the Talisman. Dismissed."
Avery gratefully scuttled out.
That night, the Dark Lord sat alone in his chambers. Slowly, he put his wand to his temple and drew out a single glistening memory, the memory of the night he had so briefly possessed Harry Potter. It would be best if he had something directly from the boy himself, of course, but considering the connection this ought to do just as well. Carefully he placed his silvery strand in the Talisman of Dreams. It sunk rapidly into the cracks of the pottery coil, and for a moment nothing happened.
Then he sat up in bed with a start, even though this should have been impossible since, last time he had checked, he was sitting, and on a chair at that, and it became obvious that not only was he no longer in his own chambers, he was no longer in his own body. And there was a familiar voice in his head demanding to know what on earth or elsewhere he thought he was doing.
------oooooo------
A/N: This is the point at which I lose all personal dignity, self-respect, etc. and start shamelessly begging, blackmailing, and threatening to chase after you with blunt objects and pepper spray, and steal your first-born children, or (gasp) withhold the next chapter. Please, please, please review? Tell me what you liked, what you didn't, which parts only made sense before they left my brain and which probably never made anything resembling sense?
(Ahem.) Sorry about that. Be sure to check out my Favorite Authors list, because it has quality recommendations, mostly not as strange as this little brainchild of mine.
Spoilers: If you haven't yet read all the books up through OotP, what are wasting your time reading fanfic for?
Dedicated to my sister, without whom this would still be sitting on my computer and I'd never post anything.
A/N: So, after lurking around the Harry Potter fanfic world for way too long, and writing sporadically, I've finally decided to post this. It will be the first time anyone other than my sister has seen any of my work. But I'll save review-begging until the end.
------oooooo------
He was widely considered to be the best (or worst, depending on your point of view) Dark Lord since Grindelwald. Some even said that he surpassed Grindelwald, and although it might be claimed that they really weren't about to say anything else in the interests of self-preservation, the claim probably wasn't too far from the truth.
The position of Dark Lord carried with it certain responsibilities, however. And Voldemort was finding that there just weren't enough hours in the day to do everything a really top-notch Dark Lord should be doing. First on his list of priorities, for example, was the eternal duty of villains; he had to make the hero as miserable as possible before the inevitable final confrontation. This seemed fairly easy, actually; all he had to do was give the Potter brat constant nightmares. The Potter brat, however, was more jaded than anyone his age had a right to be, and the old shadowy-creatures-under-the-bed type of nightmares just weren't having enough of an effect. It was only three weeks into summer vacation, and already the Dark Lord's creativity was feeling the strain. And while it was rather enjoyable to think up new horrors to torture the boy with, it was taking up more and more of his time. He had other things to do, after all, from recruiting new followers to torturing and killing Muggles and Mudbloods, to sabotaging the Ministry and concocting evil schemes designed to get around the old fool, Dumbledore. He just didn't have time these days to personally ensure the Potter brat's misery. And yet, no one but he had the connection that enabled him to do it.
This was the reason he'd sent Avery off to India on rumors of an ancient artifact that might be able to help him. Avery had been gone almost a week now, and had sent word not two hours ago to expect him back shortly, bringing with him the Talisman of Dreams. Which was why he was currently seated in the throne room of his stronghold (all the best Dark Lords had to have thrones, of course, and a room to put them in; it was one of the basic rules of Evil) and examining his claw-like fingernails (a side- effect of an experiment years ago. He didn't really mind; they suited his image nicely, and sometimes came in useful for things like gouging out eyes.) The Death Eaters attending him -- Wormtail had no other place to go, pathetic thing that he was, and Lucius Malfoy was trying not to be too obvious about the fact that he was sitting there doing nothing in an attempt to curry favor by spending his free time at Voldemort's beck and call -- were uneasy at his presence, and trying to hide it, ineffectually. He considered toying with their minds out of boredom, but it would really be too easy, no fun at all.
When Avery finally arrived, escorted by Crabbe and Goyle ("Idiots!" snarled Lucius. "You're supposed to stay at your posts! Who's guarding the door now?") he was bearing two packages, which he presented to Voldemort with unnecessarily pretentious ceremony. Both packages were labeled, the Dark Lord noted, one with "Talisman of Dreams" and one with "Instruction Manual." Typical Avery. He opened the Talisman first, expecting, perhaps, exquisitely carved precious metal, or a giant crystal, or the mummified head of something. Instead what met his eyes was a simple, crudely shaped coil of pottery. There were a few words sloppily painted on the bottom. He raised an eyebrow at Avery.
"This is it?"
"Yes, my Lord."
"Well, we shall hope, for your sake, that appearances are deceiving. I don't suppose you managed to translate what it says, did you?"
"According to the instruction manual, it says, 'Powerful magical artifact. Treat with caution.' The words weren't part of the original clay, they were added when it was about a century old after some idiot tried to use it to collect rainwater from his leaky roof. They're still trying to figure out what happened to his house."
Lord Voldemort sneered. "Thank you, Avery, that was really more than I needed to know. Dare I ask what type of ancient magical artifact actually comes with an instruction manual?"
"Ah, er, well, it didn't originally, but some scholar apparently decided it would be a good idea to write one. He spent some years researching and wrote down all his findings. I, er, thought there might be something of use, so I -- er -- brought it along," Avery finished lamely. He was wilting under the Dark Lord's continued scowl. A good scowl, Voldemort reflected idly, was really absolutely essential if you wanted to command forces of evil. He neatly slit open the second package (yet another time claws came in useful) revealing the musty tome inside. Opening the book to impossibly cramped handwriting, he began to read out loud.
"The Talisman of Dreams, being debatably classified as a class five- oh-twenty-nine (my contemporary, Wulfric the Third, insists that it is actually a class five-oh-thirty, but I believe that the circumstances of the maker's grandfather's living accommodations were such as to outweigh the unfortunate circumstances of his having been blind and therefore disadvantaged -- for more details of the argument, see page 427 -- place the object definitively within the parameters of class five-oh-twenty-nine as explained in Artifacts of the Ancients: Random or Coordinated by Pots Digger, a recognized authority) is also considered to be among the thirty three and a half percent of artifacts which are attributed to a single creator, rather than the work of a partnership, team, or government or created in freak accidents . . ."
Voldemort frowned and skimmed ahead, then flipped a handful of pages forward and began again.
"The records of how the Talisman fell into the hands of Uric the Oddball are not clear, but most believe that he won it betting on a horserace. This is substantiated by only circumstantial evidence, however, and there are indications that while he did win the bet at a horserace, he was already in possession of the Talisman and winning the bet only allowed him to keep it, also gaining him several hundred live billywigs, with which he . . ."
"Avery," the Dark Lord said, in the tone of voice he reserved for people too dim to know that they were trying his patience, "does this dust- brained imbecile say anything at all of use?"
Avery stuttered something incomprehensible.
"I beg your pardon?" Voldemort asked silkily.
"Ah, well, you see, I actually didn't think it was necessary -- that is, I wanted to -- or not really, but . . ."
"You didn't even read it, did you?" Voldemort said coldly. "No matter, I suppose -- at least you got the Talisman. Dismissed."
Avery gratefully scuttled out.
That night, the Dark Lord sat alone in his chambers. Slowly, he put his wand to his temple and drew out a single glistening memory, the memory of the night he had so briefly possessed Harry Potter. It would be best if he had something directly from the boy himself, of course, but considering the connection this ought to do just as well. Carefully he placed his silvery strand in the Talisman of Dreams. It sunk rapidly into the cracks of the pottery coil, and for a moment nothing happened.
Then he sat up in bed with a start, even though this should have been impossible since, last time he had checked, he was sitting, and on a chair at that, and it became obvious that not only was he no longer in his own chambers, he was no longer in his own body. And there was a familiar voice in his head demanding to know what on earth or elsewhere he thought he was doing.
------oooooo------
A/N: This is the point at which I lose all personal dignity, self-respect, etc. and start shamelessly begging, blackmailing, and threatening to chase after you with blunt objects and pepper spray, and steal your first-born children, or (gasp) withhold the next chapter. Please, please, please review? Tell me what you liked, what you didn't, which parts only made sense before they left my brain and which probably never made anything resembling sense?
(Ahem.) Sorry about that. Be sure to check out my Favorite Authors list, because it has quality recommendations, mostly not as strange as this little brainchild of mine.
