- chapter two -
Something More
The following week was an exception to a very lulled first couple of months in school. With the recollection of Malfoy nearly dispersed, Hermione was able to fully enjoy the following week. The air surrounding Hogwarts was saturated with a calming November, and even though the air seemed to bite at her skin whenever she went outside, she was left with an almost soothing sensation – that of a fresh, imminent winter.
Both Ron and Harry were exceedingly excited about the approaching Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Slytherin. Now that Ron had been made Quidditch Captain, the anticipation brought on energized chatter from the both of them. Hermione noticed that Harry was even more eager than usual for the first Quidditch match of the season, and this was probably because he had been wrongfully banned the previous year. This left Hermione out of many conversations. She had never quite grasped the reasoning behind all the Quidditch enthusiasm. It was only a mere sport for her, but she did support her friends whenever she could.
'-so I don't think she'll be able to do the Hawkshed Attacking Formation,' Ron was telling Harry.
Hermione had only caught about half of what he said, but apparently Ginny had hurt herself during the first practise of the season and was now unable to do a specific move.
They were seated in the Great Hall, and it was sometime after dinner. Ron and Harry, besides discussing Quidditch antics, were fastened to a game of wizard chess. Hermione had her nose in the latest edition of The Daily Prophet, and after ruffling through it a few times, she sighed laboriously and closed the paper. For once, however, the Ministry wasn't dispensing itself with supposed realities, but rather focusing on what was actually occurring. All the Death Eaters Harry had named in their previous year were now securely locked away in Azkaban prison. This, to Hermione's great contentment, included Lucius Malfoy, as well as Crabbe and Goyle's fathers. Now... now they were all caged in a place far away from Hogwarts, from the Ministry of Magic. It was very hard to believe that just a few months ago they had lost Sirius, the closest person to a family Harry had left. All the horrendous madness that had occurred at the end of last year's term... it was only a memory now.
Harry was looking livelier then he had a few months ago. He seemed to be drenched in the positive atmosphere of the school – and for the last few weeks, not once had his scar prickled with Voldemort's emotion. In truth, Voldemort had vanished right under Dumbledore's nose and most of the Ministry – but wherever he was now, he was keeping his distance. Even though this meant he was vying his time, undoubtedly scheming a plan, it still welcomed a great, long break for everyone.
Ron's fingers had just pinched Hermione's arm, and she faced him, baffled. 'What on earth was that for?'
'Oh good, you're still alive,' said Ron. 'You were looking oddly still for a moment there.'
Apparently she had been too lost in thought. She placed a hand where Ron had pinched her. It prickled a bit. 'I was just thinking.'
She watched one of Harry's knights kick the shins out of one of Ron's small, helpless pawns. 'Oh yeah? What about?' asked Ron, but his eyes were transfixed on the game.
'Nothing important,' answered Hermione.
Ron ordered his Queen to where Harry's Knight now rested, causing another smashing of pieces. 'Speaking of nothing important, look who just trotted in,' said Harry.
Hermione's head automatically faced the entrance of the Great Hall. Her heart gave a violent wriggle of dislike as Draco Malfoy, accompanied by his usual Slytherin posse, walked over to the Slytherin table. Why did he have to return to the hall and ruin her perfectly good mood?
Malfoy made a note of throwing her a nasty smile before taking a seat. She frowned and glanced back at the chessboard before standing erect, 'I just remembered I haven't finished Professor Binn's essay. I'll see you two in the common room.'
'We've got a whole week left for that,' said Harry, puckering his eyebrows.
'Yes, but I can't afford to lose track of the schedule I set up for myself.'
Ron didn't look up at her, 'Don't try talking her out of it, mate. You know she won't listen to you.'
Feeling somewhat grateful yet also annoyed with Ron's words, she turned her heal and walked out of the Great Hall and into the first floor corridors of Hogwarts. She felt somewhat puzzled that the mere appearance of Malfoy had caused so much hatred and irritation to rise within her. Usually she was able to ignore him, but today something more had lurked in her heart.
He wore a long, dark, sinister cloak, and the atmosphere of the dungeon was reflecting his shadowy appearance. On his right rested grimy shelves – evident that no one had tended to their purity for years upon years. Piled on those shelves existed bottles and boxes of the most mysterious, most ominous of all potions in the world of magic. Directly in front of him lay a table, just as unkempt and bedraggled as the shelves – but there was one entity that varied greatly with the rest of the gloomy cell. The arms and legs of that entity kicked freely in the air, and sounds of obliviousness, of complete innocence came from it – filling the man's mind with a dreary, unwelcoming sensation.
He inched closer to the being, to the small baby. He sneered at the look of unmindful joy on the baby's face, and couldn't help but grow disgusted and dismayed. He hated babies. He hated anything that smiled so carelessly to its surroundings. To make it worse, this baby was his child, carrying his blood, staring with the same brilliant grey eyes – and even though it wasn't over a month old, it was evident that its looks would undoubtedly mirror his father's.
The man drew his eyes away from the baby and gazed deviously at the bottle in his gloved hand. It seemed to burn his fingers, desperate to break free – frantic to seep through the neck of the bottle and flow into the arrogance of humanity. In the man's other hand rested his wand, the tip pointing at the baby's forehead, waiting to release a spell of significance.
'Be on with it,' came a cold, shrill voice from behind the man.
Wincing with a touch of fright, the man held the bottle over the baby, gave one last apprehensive sigh, and poured its contents over the baby's forehead. The soft green liquid dissolved through the baby's skin, leaving behind an oily, colourless essence. Not bothering to keep the silence, the man threw the now empty bottle over his shoulder, causing it to shatter against the corners of the menacing dungeon.
The creature, who was the owner of the cold, shrill voice, strode beside the shaking man.
The man caught a glimpse of the creature before quickly facing the baby once more. The being was immensely drenched in utter wickedness. Just like the man, the creature was covered with a black cloak, its head hooded heavily. Its murky, yellow eyes had red slits, making its face look like that of a famished snake's. Its skeleton-like hands reached out from under the cloak. In one hand it held a blade – the sharp edge catching the only light that came through from under the massive doors of the dungeon.
The man watched as the creature placed the blade on its opposite wrist, pressing the edge into its skin, causing nearly black blood to seep out. Holding its wrist over the baby's forehead, the creature shook its arm indistinctly, causing the blood to drape onto the baby's skin and dissolve just like the potion had.
The point of the wand in the man's hand was shaking more than ever. The final step of the spell had finally approached, and the man knew what he had to do. He opened his mouth, and as firmly as he could, spoke, 'Orior Pessimus.' A crimson light emerged from the tip of the wand and washed over the baby's entire body – enclosing it before evaporating into nothingness.
'So it is set,' the creature spoke, piercing through the mind of the man.
'Yes my Lord,' said the man, his voice unstable – his mind still unaware of the horror he had just done.
The creature's lips curled into a disturbing, baleful smile, 'You have done well Lucius, but I sense uncertainty in your mind.'
'N-no my Lord.'
'Do not lie to me Lucius,' Lord Voldemort hissed inaudibly, 'I realize it may seem obscure now, but my future, our future, will indubitably flourish – and such, you shall be rewarded beyond your dreams. Give it time, Lucius. When the days of his sixteenth year unfold, the spell will be whole, and we will endure the dawning of a new age of Dark Magic.'
'Yes, my Lord. Thank you...'
Sixteen years later, on a silvery green lined bed in the Slytherin dungeons, awoke a boy with a pointed chin and white blond hair. He thrust off his blanket and sat up, staring confusingly at his surroundings – unaware of why he had felt so drowned in a sweat of nothing but unexplained evil. It was as if something new had risen within him – something that wasn't there before - an essence that yearned to haze the world with wickedness.
Something More
The following week was an exception to a very lulled first couple of months in school. With the recollection of Malfoy nearly dispersed, Hermione was able to fully enjoy the following week. The air surrounding Hogwarts was saturated with a calming November, and even though the air seemed to bite at her skin whenever she went outside, she was left with an almost soothing sensation – that of a fresh, imminent winter.
Both Ron and Harry were exceedingly excited about the approaching Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Slytherin. Now that Ron had been made Quidditch Captain, the anticipation brought on energized chatter from the both of them. Hermione noticed that Harry was even more eager than usual for the first Quidditch match of the season, and this was probably because he had been wrongfully banned the previous year. This left Hermione out of many conversations. She had never quite grasped the reasoning behind all the Quidditch enthusiasm. It was only a mere sport for her, but she did support her friends whenever she could.
'-so I don't think she'll be able to do the Hawkshed Attacking Formation,' Ron was telling Harry.
Hermione had only caught about half of what he said, but apparently Ginny had hurt herself during the first practise of the season and was now unable to do a specific move.
They were seated in the Great Hall, and it was sometime after dinner. Ron and Harry, besides discussing Quidditch antics, were fastened to a game of wizard chess. Hermione had her nose in the latest edition of The Daily Prophet, and after ruffling through it a few times, she sighed laboriously and closed the paper. For once, however, the Ministry wasn't dispensing itself with supposed realities, but rather focusing on what was actually occurring. All the Death Eaters Harry had named in their previous year were now securely locked away in Azkaban prison. This, to Hermione's great contentment, included Lucius Malfoy, as well as Crabbe and Goyle's fathers. Now... now they were all caged in a place far away from Hogwarts, from the Ministry of Magic. It was very hard to believe that just a few months ago they had lost Sirius, the closest person to a family Harry had left. All the horrendous madness that had occurred at the end of last year's term... it was only a memory now.
Harry was looking livelier then he had a few months ago. He seemed to be drenched in the positive atmosphere of the school – and for the last few weeks, not once had his scar prickled with Voldemort's emotion. In truth, Voldemort had vanished right under Dumbledore's nose and most of the Ministry – but wherever he was now, he was keeping his distance. Even though this meant he was vying his time, undoubtedly scheming a plan, it still welcomed a great, long break for everyone.
Ron's fingers had just pinched Hermione's arm, and she faced him, baffled. 'What on earth was that for?'
'Oh good, you're still alive,' said Ron. 'You were looking oddly still for a moment there.'
Apparently she had been too lost in thought. She placed a hand where Ron had pinched her. It prickled a bit. 'I was just thinking.'
She watched one of Harry's knights kick the shins out of one of Ron's small, helpless pawns. 'Oh yeah? What about?' asked Ron, but his eyes were transfixed on the game.
'Nothing important,' answered Hermione.
Ron ordered his Queen to where Harry's Knight now rested, causing another smashing of pieces. 'Speaking of nothing important, look who just trotted in,' said Harry.
Hermione's head automatically faced the entrance of the Great Hall. Her heart gave a violent wriggle of dislike as Draco Malfoy, accompanied by his usual Slytherin posse, walked over to the Slytherin table. Why did he have to return to the hall and ruin her perfectly good mood?
Malfoy made a note of throwing her a nasty smile before taking a seat. She frowned and glanced back at the chessboard before standing erect, 'I just remembered I haven't finished Professor Binn's essay. I'll see you two in the common room.'
'We've got a whole week left for that,' said Harry, puckering his eyebrows.
'Yes, but I can't afford to lose track of the schedule I set up for myself.'
Ron didn't look up at her, 'Don't try talking her out of it, mate. You know she won't listen to you.'
Feeling somewhat grateful yet also annoyed with Ron's words, she turned her heal and walked out of the Great Hall and into the first floor corridors of Hogwarts. She felt somewhat puzzled that the mere appearance of Malfoy had caused so much hatred and irritation to rise within her. Usually she was able to ignore him, but today something more had lurked in her heart.
He wore a long, dark, sinister cloak, and the atmosphere of the dungeon was reflecting his shadowy appearance. On his right rested grimy shelves – evident that no one had tended to their purity for years upon years. Piled on those shelves existed bottles and boxes of the most mysterious, most ominous of all potions in the world of magic. Directly in front of him lay a table, just as unkempt and bedraggled as the shelves – but there was one entity that varied greatly with the rest of the gloomy cell. The arms and legs of that entity kicked freely in the air, and sounds of obliviousness, of complete innocence came from it – filling the man's mind with a dreary, unwelcoming sensation.
He inched closer to the being, to the small baby. He sneered at the look of unmindful joy on the baby's face, and couldn't help but grow disgusted and dismayed. He hated babies. He hated anything that smiled so carelessly to its surroundings. To make it worse, this baby was his child, carrying his blood, staring with the same brilliant grey eyes – and even though it wasn't over a month old, it was evident that its looks would undoubtedly mirror his father's.
The man drew his eyes away from the baby and gazed deviously at the bottle in his gloved hand. It seemed to burn his fingers, desperate to break free – frantic to seep through the neck of the bottle and flow into the arrogance of humanity. In the man's other hand rested his wand, the tip pointing at the baby's forehead, waiting to release a spell of significance.
'Be on with it,' came a cold, shrill voice from behind the man.
Wincing with a touch of fright, the man held the bottle over the baby, gave one last apprehensive sigh, and poured its contents over the baby's forehead. The soft green liquid dissolved through the baby's skin, leaving behind an oily, colourless essence. Not bothering to keep the silence, the man threw the now empty bottle over his shoulder, causing it to shatter against the corners of the menacing dungeon.
The creature, who was the owner of the cold, shrill voice, strode beside the shaking man.
The man caught a glimpse of the creature before quickly facing the baby once more. The being was immensely drenched in utter wickedness. Just like the man, the creature was covered with a black cloak, its head hooded heavily. Its murky, yellow eyes had red slits, making its face look like that of a famished snake's. Its skeleton-like hands reached out from under the cloak. In one hand it held a blade – the sharp edge catching the only light that came through from under the massive doors of the dungeon.
The man watched as the creature placed the blade on its opposite wrist, pressing the edge into its skin, causing nearly black blood to seep out. Holding its wrist over the baby's forehead, the creature shook its arm indistinctly, causing the blood to drape onto the baby's skin and dissolve just like the potion had.
The point of the wand in the man's hand was shaking more than ever. The final step of the spell had finally approached, and the man knew what he had to do. He opened his mouth, and as firmly as he could, spoke, 'Orior Pessimus.' A crimson light emerged from the tip of the wand and washed over the baby's entire body – enclosing it before evaporating into nothingness.
'So it is set,' the creature spoke, piercing through the mind of the man.
'Yes my Lord,' said the man, his voice unstable – his mind still unaware of the horror he had just done.
The creature's lips curled into a disturbing, baleful smile, 'You have done well Lucius, but I sense uncertainty in your mind.'
'N-no my Lord.'
'Do not lie to me Lucius,' Lord Voldemort hissed inaudibly, 'I realize it may seem obscure now, but my future, our future, will indubitably flourish – and such, you shall be rewarded beyond your dreams. Give it time, Lucius. When the days of his sixteenth year unfold, the spell will be whole, and we will endure the dawning of a new age of Dark Magic.'
'Yes, my Lord. Thank you...'
Sixteen years later, on a silvery green lined bed in the Slytherin dungeons, awoke a boy with a pointed chin and white blond hair. He thrust off his blanket and sat up, staring confusingly at his surroundings – unaware of why he had felt so drowned in a sweat of nothing but unexplained evil. It was as if something new had risen within him – something that wasn't there before - an essence that yearned to haze the world with wickedness.