Hello. This is the first chapter of what will hopefully be an interesting series. This is my first fanfic so I would appreciate any reviews.
The Aftermath of the First Coming
-Chapter One-
The Dark Mark
It was a dismal night, as the rain poured down on the outskirts of Cedig, a Welsh mining village. Hidden beside a precipice cut into the mountainous terrain, stood a lonely house. Its dulled brick exterior blended flawlessly with the backdrop; so much so that it would seem invisible to passers-by outside of a hundred yard radius. Although there was an isolated road leading up to the house, it looked as if it had not been used for quite some time, and had fallen into a terrible state of disrepair. A heavy rain cloud drifted across the gloomy sky.
Suddenly, out of what appeared to be nowhere, a bus came hurtling down the road, bouncing over the pit-holes, and screeching to a halt in front of the house. It was the most peculiar bus – a violent shade of purple and as tall as the house, incorporating three separate decks. Where it is accustom for the destination to be displayed on a standard bus, it said The Knight Bus written in sparkling gold letters.
'Have a good evenin' sir,' said the conductor, as he ushered a man wearing a long dark cloak and carrying a briefcase through the exit.
'Same to you,' replied the man half-heartedly. He had pale skin with brown scraggy hair and a thin layer of facial hair across his chin and cheeks. His grey eyes had wide pupils that reflected the light leaking from the bus. The words Evan Rosier were scribed into his luggage.
As he crossed the overgrown front garden the Knight Bus took off along the road, disappearing into the night. Even though Evan had only travelled a few feet, the rain had already soaked his clothes and his hair was dripping as he entered the house. He pulled off his cloak and hung it onto the coat stand. Beneath it he was wearing dark green robes with dull grey trimmings.
He picked up the copy of the Evening Prophet, along with the array of letters sitting on his mat, and headed into the living room. There he sunk into the sofa and let out a weary sigh. It was nearing the end of a particularly arduous working week which he wouldn't be sorry to see the end of. The book shop where he worked had been inundated with howlers from disgruntled customers claiming their copy of Wilfred Worthington's autobiography Adventures in Peru was printed on picadura paper. As Evan had found out, parchment created using the wood from a picadura tree, although cheaper than conventional paper, stung the reader's hands, leaving throbbing blue boils that were most uncomfortable. All week he had dealt with the angry clientele, whilst trying to contact the publishers, who had mysteriously disappeared.
After reading over the Prophet's front page story ("Fourteen Injured in Faulty Portkey Disaster") he decided to relax with a warm bath. When he emerged an hour later he was feeling much soothed. Now that he was wearing a short sleeved shirt it was visible that on the inside of his right forearm there was an unusual tattoo; it was inked in bright green and was the image of a human skull, with a snake protruding from its mouth.
The Dark Mark was one of the few visible signs of Evan Rosier's other life. For if you were to look closer, you would see that there was something beyond the tattoo - a realm of persecution, power and Dark Magic. Unlike most wizards, Evan existed outside his nine-to-five job; he lurked in the dark and played with the shadows. For he was a servant of Lord Voldemort, the most powerful, and evil, sorcerer in modern magical history.
It had been an easy decision to make - to join forces with evil. For so long had he looked out upon the world and been disgusted with the non-magical population and the way they feared everything they failed to understand. He had signed-up when Voldemort had still been growing in power, yet to be feared within every wizarding household. And in the 10 or so years that followed Evan had always proved himself to be one of the Dark Lord's most faithful servants.
As he stared at himself in the mirror, he rubbed a finger across the Dark Mark. It was twitching slightly and a cold smile spread across Evan's face - the mark usually twitched when the Dark Lord had killed. As he turned to head downstairs, without warning, he collapsed to the floor. A searing pain shot across his arm and Evan cried out as his body erupted in pain. The feeling likened to being under the Cruciatus Curse; expect that instead of every particle in his body being equally exposed to the agony, this pain was focused on his forearm, which felt as through it was being ripped apart. Curled up in anguish, Evan was screaming out, begging the pain to cease. After what felt like an hour, it did, ending as abruptly as it had begun, leaving only a twinge in his arm. Edgily, Evan rose to his feet. He was covered in sweat and glancing at his forearm he noticed that the Dark Mark was coloured an orangey-red, as through it was burning. He paused for thought. The Mark usually burnt when he was being summoned by his Lord, but it had never once before caused the agony he had just experienced. It had meant something, but what?
With various thoughts flying across his mind Evan rushed into his bedroom and pulled out a small, square mirror from a drawer. Although it was small it had an elegant bronze frame that had an engraved dragon set into the metal.
'Antonin Dolohov,' he said, holding the mirror up to his face.
The surface, which had been reflecting Evan's face, rippled so that the reflection was broken. Following three undulations the glass's surface was restored, yet staring through it was the face of Evan's good friend.
Antonin had smooth black hair that hung across his cheeks. Thick dark eyebrows hung above his eyes. Whereas Evan had always kept his facial hair thin, Antonin had let his grow so he had fuzzy black hair above and below his mouth and covering his chin. He looked harrowed, with droplets of sweat dripping from the strands of hair.
'You felt it too?' asked Antonin, who'd been expecting the call.
'I thought I was gonna die,' admitted Evan, feeling slightly embarrassed. 'What the bloody hell was it?'
'It must be a sign,' Antonin responded. 'Perhaps a warning-'
'Do you think He wants us to come to him?' Evan said, with a trace of scepticism.
'Then why wouldn't he just have called us normally,' Antonin relied thoughtfully. 'He's never done that before, has he?' he added rhetorically.
Evan paused, and expressed the thought that he feared, 'Maybe we felt his pain…maybe he's been hurt.' Although he didn't know it, this was the truth.
'Maybe…' said Antonin apprehensively. He had a look of dread on his face.
After a substantial silence Evan interjected, 'Is there going to be a meeting?'
'Probably, I expect one has been called,' Antonin said airily.
'Well, I'll see you there buddy,' said Evan, deciding to end the conversation.
'Yeah. Later.'
The image rippled and the mirror returned to its normal state. Evan dropped it into his drawer and headed to his closet. Open opening it he pushed the assortment of clothes to the side and slid a finger across the back of the wardrobe. Apparently he had activated some sort of latch because with a pop a secret compartment opened up. Inside hung a long hooded robe, as dark as the night. Although it looked fairly regular this was Evan's Death Eater robes. He pulled it from the hangings, closed the closet door, and headed downstairs into the living room where he slipped on the garment.
He looked out of his window and up at the bleak sky looking for a sign. Sure enough as his eyes searched the skyline, a large owl came streaking down and landed on the window frame. Evan wrenched open the window and let the owl in. It was soaking from the rain and looked at Evan expecting comfort. Evan however ignored the owl's look and pulled the letter clasped to its leg. There was no writing on the front of the envelope, but on the reverse he saw that the wax seal was shaped in the form of the Dark Mark. Ripping it open he pulled out a small piece of parchment. Written in long handwriting was the single word Whyle. Evan turned over the paper looking for more writing, although he didn't expect to find any as the letter had told him everything he needed to know – simply where to meet the Death Eaters.
He ushered the dejected owl out through the window and went back into the hallway. There he grabbed his cloak, which was still damp, and pulled out a Comet 210 from the broom cupboard. As he reached to open the front door he realised that in his haste he had forgotten to pick up his wand. Cursing, he strode into the living room and found his wand lying where he had left it hours ago.
As it picked it from atop of the newspaper he noticed something strange. The Evening Prophet's headline was no longer concerned with faulty portkeys. Instead, in large letters that took up most of the front page, there was a new title:
You-Know-Who Defeated?
Evan felt his throat constrict. He examined the page further, but instead of a following story there were only a few lines of text.
Breaking news: Rumours are emerging that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has been defeated. Nothing more is yet known. More soon…
Evan stared back at the paper, feeling sick. In a mixed of fury and fear he hurled the paper into the fire place where it was engulfed by the flames. Turning in his heal, he stormed out through the front door, trying not to think. So many thoughts and emotions had emerged in his head that it was overwhelming and he tried to block it all out, concentrating only on getting to Whyle.
The rain had not ceased and Evan was already drenched by the time he had mounted his broom and kicked off, flying at a frantic speed into the night sky.
The Aftermath of the First Coming
-Chapter One-
The Dark Mark
It was a dismal night, as the rain poured down on the outskirts of Cedig, a Welsh mining village. Hidden beside a precipice cut into the mountainous terrain, stood a lonely house. Its dulled brick exterior blended flawlessly with the backdrop; so much so that it would seem invisible to passers-by outside of a hundred yard radius. Although there was an isolated road leading up to the house, it looked as if it had not been used for quite some time, and had fallen into a terrible state of disrepair. A heavy rain cloud drifted across the gloomy sky.
Suddenly, out of what appeared to be nowhere, a bus came hurtling down the road, bouncing over the pit-holes, and screeching to a halt in front of the house. It was the most peculiar bus – a violent shade of purple and as tall as the house, incorporating three separate decks. Where it is accustom for the destination to be displayed on a standard bus, it said The Knight Bus written in sparkling gold letters.
'Have a good evenin' sir,' said the conductor, as he ushered a man wearing a long dark cloak and carrying a briefcase through the exit.
'Same to you,' replied the man half-heartedly. He had pale skin with brown scraggy hair and a thin layer of facial hair across his chin and cheeks. His grey eyes had wide pupils that reflected the light leaking from the bus. The words Evan Rosier were scribed into his luggage.
As he crossed the overgrown front garden the Knight Bus took off along the road, disappearing into the night. Even though Evan had only travelled a few feet, the rain had already soaked his clothes and his hair was dripping as he entered the house. He pulled off his cloak and hung it onto the coat stand. Beneath it he was wearing dark green robes with dull grey trimmings.
He picked up the copy of the Evening Prophet, along with the array of letters sitting on his mat, and headed into the living room. There he sunk into the sofa and let out a weary sigh. It was nearing the end of a particularly arduous working week which he wouldn't be sorry to see the end of. The book shop where he worked had been inundated with howlers from disgruntled customers claiming their copy of Wilfred Worthington's autobiography Adventures in Peru was printed on picadura paper. As Evan had found out, parchment created using the wood from a picadura tree, although cheaper than conventional paper, stung the reader's hands, leaving throbbing blue boils that were most uncomfortable. All week he had dealt with the angry clientele, whilst trying to contact the publishers, who had mysteriously disappeared.
After reading over the Prophet's front page story ("Fourteen Injured in Faulty Portkey Disaster") he decided to relax with a warm bath. When he emerged an hour later he was feeling much soothed. Now that he was wearing a short sleeved shirt it was visible that on the inside of his right forearm there was an unusual tattoo; it was inked in bright green and was the image of a human skull, with a snake protruding from its mouth.
The Dark Mark was one of the few visible signs of Evan Rosier's other life. For if you were to look closer, you would see that there was something beyond the tattoo - a realm of persecution, power and Dark Magic. Unlike most wizards, Evan existed outside his nine-to-five job; he lurked in the dark and played with the shadows. For he was a servant of Lord Voldemort, the most powerful, and evil, sorcerer in modern magical history.
It had been an easy decision to make - to join forces with evil. For so long had he looked out upon the world and been disgusted with the non-magical population and the way they feared everything they failed to understand. He had signed-up when Voldemort had still been growing in power, yet to be feared within every wizarding household. And in the 10 or so years that followed Evan had always proved himself to be one of the Dark Lord's most faithful servants.
As he stared at himself in the mirror, he rubbed a finger across the Dark Mark. It was twitching slightly and a cold smile spread across Evan's face - the mark usually twitched when the Dark Lord had killed. As he turned to head downstairs, without warning, he collapsed to the floor. A searing pain shot across his arm and Evan cried out as his body erupted in pain. The feeling likened to being under the Cruciatus Curse; expect that instead of every particle in his body being equally exposed to the agony, this pain was focused on his forearm, which felt as through it was being ripped apart. Curled up in anguish, Evan was screaming out, begging the pain to cease. After what felt like an hour, it did, ending as abruptly as it had begun, leaving only a twinge in his arm. Edgily, Evan rose to his feet. He was covered in sweat and glancing at his forearm he noticed that the Dark Mark was coloured an orangey-red, as through it was burning. He paused for thought. The Mark usually burnt when he was being summoned by his Lord, but it had never once before caused the agony he had just experienced. It had meant something, but what?
With various thoughts flying across his mind Evan rushed into his bedroom and pulled out a small, square mirror from a drawer. Although it was small it had an elegant bronze frame that had an engraved dragon set into the metal.
'Antonin Dolohov,' he said, holding the mirror up to his face.
The surface, which had been reflecting Evan's face, rippled so that the reflection was broken. Following three undulations the glass's surface was restored, yet staring through it was the face of Evan's good friend.
Antonin had smooth black hair that hung across his cheeks. Thick dark eyebrows hung above his eyes. Whereas Evan had always kept his facial hair thin, Antonin had let his grow so he had fuzzy black hair above and below his mouth and covering his chin. He looked harrowed, with droplets of sweat dripping from the strands of hair.
'You felt it too?' asked Antonin, who'd been expecting the call.
'I thought I was gonna die,' admitted Evan, feeling slightly embarrassed. 'What the bloody hell was it?'
'It must be a sign,' Antonin responded. 'Perhaps a warning-'
'Do you think He wants us to come to him?' Evan said, with a trace of scepticism.
'Then why wouldn't he just have called us normally,' Antonin relied thoughtfully. 'He's never done that before, has he?' he added rhetorically.
Evan paused, and expressed the thought that he feared, 'Maybe we felt his pain…maybe he's been hurt.' Although he didn't know it, this was the truth.
'Maybe…' said Antonin apprehensively. He had a look of dread on his face.
After a substantial silence Evan interjected, 'Is there going to be a meeting?'
'Probably, I expect one has been called,' Antonin said airily.
'Well, I'll see you there buddy,' said Evan, deciding to end the conversation.
'Yeah. Later.'
The image rippled and the mirror returned to its normal state. Evan dropped it into his drawer and headed to his closet. Open opening it he pushed the assortment of clothes to the side and slid a finger across the back of the wardrobe. Apparently he had activated some sort of latch because with a pop a secret compartment opened up. Inside hung a long hooded robe, as dark as the night. Although it looked fairly regular this was Evan's Death Eater robes. He pulled it from the hangings, closed the closet door, and headed downstairs into the living room where he slipped on the garment.
He looked out of his window and up at the bleak sky looking for a sign. Sure enough as his eyes searched the skyline, a large owl came streaking down and landed on the window frame. Evan wrenched open the window and let the owl in. It was soaking from the rain and looked at Evan expecting comfort. Evan however ignored the owl's look and pulled the letter clasped to its leg. There was no writing on the front of the envelope, but on the reverse he saw that the wax seal was shaped in the form of the Dark Mark. Ripping it open he pulled out a small piece of parchment. Written in long handwriting was the single word Whyle. Evan turned over the paper looking for more writing, although he didn't expect to find any as the letter had told him everything he needed to know – simply where to meet the Death Eaters.
He ushered the dejected owl out through the window and went back into the hallway. There he grabbed his cloak, which was still damp, and pulled out a Comet 210 from the broom cupboard. As he reached to open the front door he realised that in his haste he had forgotten to pick up his wand. Cursing, he strode into the living room and found his wand lying where he had left it hours ago.
As it picked it from atop of the newspaper he noticed something strange. The Evening Prophet's headline was no longer concerned with faulty portkeys. Instead, in large letters that took up most of the front page, there was a new title:
You-Know-Who Defeated?
Evan felt his throat constrict. He examined the page further, but instead of a following story there were only a few lines of text.
Breaking news: Rumours are emerging that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has been defeated. Nothing more is yet known. More soon…
Evan stared back at the paper, feeling sick. In a mixed of fury and fear he hurled the paper into the fire place where it was engulfed by the flames. Turning in his heal, he stormed out through the front door, trying not to think. So many thoughts and emotions had emerged in his head that it was overwhelming and he tried to block it all out, concentrating only on getting to Whyle.
The rain had not ceased and Evan was already drenched by the time he had mounted his broom and kicked off, flying at a frantic speed into the night sky.