Title: Harry Potter and the New Alliance (Subject to change at later
date)
Author: Snuffles
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoliers for HP books 1-5, and all the LotR books and movies.
Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or places and never will. :sighs:
Authors Notes: Woot! Two chapters at once! Don't expect this to happen ever again. X_x But do expect quick updates, I'm on break! The only time I won't be able to be write is Christmas Day and the two days following. Yay!
And if you can't tell who it is that shows up, you need serious help. Either that, or, well, you don't know me at all. X3
**************************************************************
Chapter One-Dreams and Visions
Hundreds of miles away, a thin, wild-haired boy sat motionless on his thin, tattered bed, surrounded by untouched parcels, all on which his name was scrawled. He knew, even without releasing the contents from their cardboard and paper confinements, what they held. Each held a different object that had no real value in the grand scheme of things, but clicked and whirled enough to trick the casual passerby. Also included were short letters laced with sympathy and pity, neither of which he desired. It did not matter if the entire world sobbed for his loss; it would change nothing. It would not change the fact that the one person in the world whom he would have loved to call family was dead, lost in body and soul. It did not change the fact that an entire world looked to him, a young boy who had just turned sixteen no more than ten minutes ago, as a savior. It did not change the fact that any time he closed his eyes, the dark lord would send him visions of murders so terrible that he would wake retching, yet at the same time wishing the same fate for himself.
He did not want to close his eyes. He did not want to see whatever horror was in store for him this night. Some things, however, cannot be stopped, and the will of the Lord of Dreams is one of them. Harry Potter would sleep, yes, and see the event that may very well change the shape of the battles to come.
If he had not suffered such things every night since the death of his godfather, he would have dismissed the events playing before his eyes as a dream. He saw the death eaters first, all huddled in a circle, eyes made dark by the faceless masks they wore, staring at something curled into a sobbing mass on the floor. He started to turn away, not wishing to see the face of whatever poor victim Voldemort had captured, nor the new tortures he had conjured up. Yet something made him pause; maybe it was the abnormally high pitch of the sobbing, or the fact that none of the death eaters were laughing, nor smiling wickedly as they were prone to do when they had prey to satisfy their morbid cravings. He turned back around, his footsteps like lead as he walked towards the dark robed figures. His skin prickled as he stepped unnoticed through one of the death eaters in a way akin to a phantom.
Tear-filled eyes met his. They were green in color; not the emerald color of his own, but green as new leaves in the first days of spring. He stood for a second, enthralled; he saw the tears, yes, and terror, much like the terror that he had seen in all the eyes of Voldemort's victims. Yet there was something more. Something prowled deep in those eyes, underneath the terror; something wild, yet mesmerizing; it was curled in the darkness, screaming volumes of sorrow and anger that Harry had felt only once before, during the days following his godfather's demise. Then the moment passed; leathery eyelids squeezed shut over the eyes, drawing Harry's eyes to the deformed, goblin-like body of the creature. A house elf.
The absurdness of the whole situation nearly made him laugh. The death eaters were all so silent, fixated on a little house elf that barely came up to their knees; yet they were tense, as if they expected the wailing creature to leap up, all teeth and claws. His mirth was quickly squashed, however, as a familiar figure strode forward. A dark tongue flashed over thin, milky-white lips; his restless eyes, glowing like embers in the semi-darkness, seemed to pierce the soul of everyone assembled. Finally they rested with a predatory grace on the little house elf, whose sobs caught in its throat as it tried to scramble backwards. It then smacked its head into the floor with a whine; it must have been commanded to stay where it sat. Harry felt bile inch up the back of his throat. This was wrong.
There was a rustling of parchment as Voldemort opened an old book. The binding was tattered and failing; the pages were yellowed with age and stains. A long white finger traced the letters, eyes following until it found what he desired.
When the chanting started, Harry's head began to swim. The words would have been beautiful, had Voldemort's foul lips not twisted them into curses. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and he shivered involuntarily. The house elf screamed, writhing as thin wisps of green and silver magic wound its way around the gangly body. It was light and darkness all in one, tearing and mending with a single, pulsating motion. The screams continued. Harry looked towards Voldemort, nearly panting with the effort it took to tear his eyes away from the chaos in the center. To his surprise, he saw no smugness, no satisfaction; all that he saw was confusion, and anxiety. Voldemort did not know what he was doing; he did not know what the spell was going to do the elf. This fact made Harry's blood run cold. It was a morbid sense of security that he had, whenever he watched the horrible scenes that the death eaters created. At the very least he knew what was going to happen; everything was set in stone, with no surprises. Here, however, the outcome of the twisting magic was anyone's guess. That frightened him.
The screams stopped.
Harry's head snapped back towards the center. The light was dimming, and he could hear soft gasps. He peered into the light, searching for what remained of the poor elf. Green eyes, the color of new leaves, met his, full of rage, sorrow, and an unnamable power, something ancient and perilous that had not been seen on the face of this world for uncountable ages. Slowly, as if in a dream, the eyes closed and reopened.
Then all hell broke loose.
date)
Author: Snuffles
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoliers for HP books 1-5, and all the LotR books and movies.
Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or places and never will. :sighs:
Authors Notes: Woot! Two chapters at once! Don't expect this to happen ever again. X_x But do expect quick updates, I'm on break! The only time I won't be able to be write is Christmas Day and the two days following. Yay!
And if you can't tell who it is that shows up, you need serious help. Either that, or, well, you don't know me at all. X3
**************************************************************
Chapter One-Dreams and Visions
Hundreds of miles away, a thin, wild-haired boy sat motionless on his thin, tattered bed, surrounded by untouched parcels, all on which his name was scrawled. He knew, even without releasing the contents from their cardboard and paper confinements, what they held. Each held a different object that had no real value in the grand scheme of things, but clicked and whirled enough to trick the casual passerby. Also included were short letters laced with sympathy and pity, neither of which he desired. It did not matter if the entire world sobbed for his loss; it would change nothing. It would not change the fact that the one person in the world whom he would have loved to call family was dead, lost in body and soul. It did not change the fact that an entire world looked to him, a young boy who had just turned sixteen no more than ten minutes ago, as a savior. It did not change the fact that any time he closed his eyes, the dark lord would send him visions of murders so terrible that he would wake retching, yet at the same time wishing the same fate for himself.
He did not want to close his eyes. He did not want to see whatever horror was in store for him this night. Some things, however, cannot be stopped, and the will of the Lord of Dreams is one of them. Harry Potter would sleep, yes, and see the event that may very well change the shape of the battles to come.
If he had not suffered such things every night since the death of his godfather, he would have dismissed the events playing before his eyes as a dream. He saw the death eaters first, all huddled in a circle, eyes made dark by the faceless masks they wore, staring at something curled into a sobbing mass on the floor. He started to turn away, not wishing to see the face of whatever poor victim Voldemort had captured, nor the new tortures he had conjured up. Yet something made him pause; maybe it was the abnormally high pitch of the sobbing, or the fact that none of the death eaters were laughing, nor smiling wickedly as they were prone to do when they had prey to satisfy their morbid cravings. He turned back around, his footsteps like lead as he walked towards the dark robed figures. His skin prickled as he stepped unnoticed through one of the death eaters in a way akin to a phantom.
Tear-filled eyes met his. They were green in color; not the emerald color of his own, but green as new leaves in the first days of spring. He stood for a second, enthralled; he saw the tears, yes, and terror, much like the terror that he had seen in all the eyes of Voldemort's victims. Yet there was something more. Something prowled deep in those eyes, underneath the terror; something wild, yet mesmerizing; it was curled in the darkness, screaming volumes of sorrow and anger that Harry had felt only once before, during the days following his godfather's demise. Then the moment passed; leathery eyelids squeezed shut over the eyes, drawing Harry's eyes to the deformed, goblin-like body of the creature. A house elf.
The absurdness of the whole situation nearly made him laugh. The death eaters were all so silent, fixated on a little house elf that barely came up to their knees; yet they were tense, as if they expected the wailing creature to leap up, all teeth and claws. His mirth was quickly squashed, however, as a familiar figure strode forward. A dark tongue flashed over thin, milky-white lips; his restless eyes, glowing like embers in the semi-darkness, seemed to pierce the soul of everyone assembled. Finally they rested with a predatory grace on the little house elf, whose sobs caught in its throat as it tried to scramble backwards. It then smacked its head into the floor with a whine; it must have been commanded to stay where it sat. Harry felt bile inch up the back of his throat. This was wrong.
There was a rustling of parchment as Voldemort opened an old book. The binding was tattered and failing; the pages were yellowed with age and stains. A long white finger traced the letters, eyes following until it found what he desired.
When the chanting started, Harry's head began to swim. The words would have been beautiful, had Voldemort's foul lips not twisted them into curses. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and he shivered involuntarily. The house elf screamed, writhing as thin wisps of green and silver magic wound its way around the gangly body. It was light and darkness all in one, tearing and mending with a single, pulsating motion. The screams continued. Harry looked towards Voldemort, nearly panting with the effort it took to tear his eyes away from the chaos in the center. To his surprise, he saw no smugness, no satisfaction; all that he saw was confusion, and anxiety. Voldemort did not know what he was doing; he did not know what the spell was going to do the elf. This fact made Harry's blood run cold. It was a morbid sense of security that he had, whenever he watched the horrible scenes that the death eaters created. At the very least he knew what was going to happen; everything was set in stone, with no surprises. Here, however, the outcome of the twisting magic was anyone's guess. That frightened him.
The screams stopped.
Harry's head snapped back towards the center. The light was dimming, and he could hear soft gasps. He peered into the light, searching for what remained of the poor elf. Green eyes, the color of new leaves, met his, full of rage, sorrow, and an unnamable power, something ancient and perilous that had not been seen on the face of this world for uncountable ages. Slowly, as if in a dream, the eyes closed and reopened.
Then all hell broke loose.