"There is nothing more frightful than ignorance in action."-
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.
The first one fell before he could scream.
One second, he was pacing, fantasizing about the drink waiting for him after his shift, the next it was over. The cutting curse that did it wasn't even vocalized, just a light he'd never see that took the light from his eyes.
The next two to fall were together. They were the second line of defense that never expected anyone to pass the first. Easy banter rolled between them- old friends so utterly secure in their position that they forewent caution entirely. After all, who would dare cross their master?
A precise blasting curse sent one's brain matter splattering across the room…and his friends face. The other didn't have long to dwell on his loss, a piercing curse quickly boring into the side of his head. Their killer glid past the bodies, hoisting up his cloak to keep the rim clean.
From there it became a search. The manor was large- far larger than its occupants required. One empty corridor led to another, into a third, and so on. The invisible intruder didn't care in the slightest. He had come with a purpose, and he would see it done. He had no need for doubt because he would succeed.
Eventually, the sound of chanting faded in. A smile wormed its way across the intruder's lips. Unconsciously, his tongue flicked out. It was close enough to taste.
The hall's end was dominated by a massive oaken door. Faded, ridged wood stood like a solid wall- heavy and firm. It had stood for decades – possibly a century – and it was ready to stand for many more.
Then a wand was waved, a spell intoned, and the hunks of oak were sent barreling into the room beyond, utterly torn from their hinges. Screams wrang out, exclamations of pain and surprise mixing in the cacophony.
The center of the newly revealed room was dominated by a massive design: a hideously elaborate rune array stretching across the floor of a cavernous dining room fit for an army. No tables were visible, having long since been sacrificed for space, and the only furniture was a midnight-black throne positioned exactly in the rooms center. The entire scene was illuminated only by candles, a multitude of them floating in evenly spaced rows just above head height.
It was clear some time had gone into preparing this room, fine tuning every detail for a grand purpose. It was a stark contrast to the chaotic atmosphere.
Limbs stuck haphazardly out from under where the heavy doors had come to rest. It left only a handful of figures standing – 9 to be exact – with all but one in identical outfits.
Hooded black robes and ornate, featureless white masks were the uniform of the majority. Twin eyeholes offered the only sight of the people beneath, all other skin being meticulously hidden away.
The exception to the rule was the ninth occupant. He wore no mask nor hood, displaying his pale head to the world. He was sat regally in the throne, breathing through his strange two-dimensional nose with eyes closed, uttering the chant Harry had heard from outside. He showed no sign of noticing the chaos that had fallen on the room.
Deciding it was time for the conductor to take the stage, the intruder discarded his cloak and shimmered into view. The need for stealth had passed- now it was time to put on a show.
Immediately spells rocketed toward him. A dismissive flick of his wand repelled the attempts with contemptuous ease.
"How hasty," he chuckled. "Is that really any way to greet a guest of honor?"
"Potter?" One of the figures asked in shock.
He didn't answer, instead letting his wand blur. The massive slabs of oak rose up, morphing, shifting, and crunching into distinctly serpentine shapes. They lashed out with surprising speed, shrugging off the desperate spells of their prey, and crunched their massive fangs down. The number of enemies shrank to 6.
"You can'tbe here," a female voice insisted, sounding shaken. "You're dead. I checked."
Her fellows took a more practical approach. Four bolts, three green one purple, rushed forward. Their target was unbothered though, somehow dropping bonelessly to ground, joints bending in ways they were never intended to.
Before the spells could dissipate against the back wall, their casters became preoccupied. The serpents of oak were still up and active, and they took a moment to remind the room of that. They lashed out in tandem and, while one was repelled by a shield, the other found unsuspecting prey. A muted cry paired itself with a sickening crunch and another body was added to the floor.
With that death attention shifted. A barrage of spells from five separate wands beset the transfigured beasts. Writhing and reeling, one was torn to pieces under an onslaught of blasting curses. Seeing its partner's fate, the remaining snake took up evasive action, slithering in circles to make itself a difficult target.
"That wasn't very nice, you know."
Potter's voice came from just behind one of the figures, sounding impossibly close. The man whipped around, raising his wand as he did so, only to find his wrist suddenly caught. He squirmed and yanked, trying to overpower the scrawny young man in front of him, but couldn't win an inch of ground. The grip was like iron, almost superhuman.
"Oh, but it couldn't be! Lucius, is that you?" Green eyes glittered malevolently, and his cruel smirk tilted up an extra degree. "How wonderful to see you."
Then he squeezed. Pops and cracks rang out as bone was compressed, and Lucius dropped his wand with a scream of pain. He looked up desperately into the eyes of his attacker, a boy that should be dead, and swore the thing in front of him was a demon wearing a corpse as clothing. Then he died, never learning just how close he had come to the truth.
Potter tilted his head back, dragging his eyes away from where Lucius severed head was rolling. "Whoever should be next?"
There were only four others standing now, and only three of those were moving. The other, who had first identified the intruder, was utterly paralyzed.
"He is a boy! One boy!" A woman's voice wailed. "Kill him, torture him, punish him…hurt him. For our Lord!"
The cry was accompanied by a chain of spells, the speaker's wand flying, powered by fanaticism. Taking heart from the scene, two other wands took up her cause.
Faced with more spells than could be countered or shielded, Potter stood unmoving. Then the remaining snake was there in front of him, wooden frame soaking up dark curses like a sponge. They tore into the wood, digging through it in seconds until only a thin strip remained between them and their target.
"Expulso," Potter's voice said from behind his protection, and wood was launched forward, propelled by the exploding curse that stuck it from behind. Slivers became projectiles and two of the attackers fell to the ground, skin pierced. A pair of precise cutting curses quickly cut their moans short.
"No! This will not stand!"
Potter's eyes glinted in amusement as he took in the figure. "Oh, but I think it will, Bella."
Bellatrix's eyes narrowed from behind her mask. "My master will kill you, just like he did before. But this time he will make you scream, make you beg, until death is your greatest desire."
"Poor Bella, so behind the times," Potter crooned. "Your master never bested me; I assure you."
Her only answer was a killing curse, and Potter met it with his own, letting them collide and sputter in the air. If she wondered at his spell choice, she didn't show it.
A deadly dance began, bright racing lights striking against each other again and again, not one among them promising less than death should they hit. Both casters slowly began to pick up the pace, daring their opponent not to fall behind.
Then Potter stopped vocalizing his spells, still keeping pace. He raised an eyebrow challengingly, but a sweaty Bellatrix showed surprising restraint and didn't rise to the bait. She knew she wouldn't be able to keep up if she did.
They returned to stalemate, for a while, and Bellatrix felt vindicated. He'd tried to mock her into making a mistake, and she'd seen through him. He could cast his spells silently all he liked, but it was useless if she didn't let herself get hit.
Then a woman's voice said "Crucio," and Bellatrix fell to the floor.
"Thank you, Narcissa," Potter said, taking a moment to enjoy the show. The only other person standing, the hooded figure who had first identified him, who had frozen at Lucius death, stood blankly with her wand still raised.
"Aren't you happy Bella?" Potter asked, strolling forward casually. "I know how you love that spell. Personally, the Imperius speaks to me more, but to each their own, I suppose."
Bellatrix only whimpered, still writhing on the floor. Potter sighed and clucked his tongue. "Narcissa, be a dear and release the spell. I want her to enjoy what comes next."
Immediately Bellatrix stilled. Then she lunged for her wand. Snatching it up and rolling forward, she took aim, and sent a killing curse at point blank range. Watching it strike its target, she threw her head back and laughed, triumph and relief mixing in the sound.
"Is family really so cheap nowadays?"
Her cackle cut off and Bellatrix froze. It was Potter's voice, and it had come from behind her. She watched in horror as the corpse she'd just created shimmered and shifted. Instead of a young boy, it was now her sister's eyes that stared glassily forward, unseeing.
Splurch.
Bellatrix looked down at the wet noise to find a javelin of solid ice sticking out of her chest. Slowly, she fell forward and lay face down, a pool of blood growing around her.
Potter took a moment to survey his work, before nodding in satisfaction. There was only one part left now. Striding across the room, he leaned down and inspected the still-unconscious figure that sat on the throne, chanting. He hadn't stopped or paused once, even as his servants died.
Potter poked a pasty cheek and got no response. So he wound up and delivered a forceful slap. The man's face whipped to the side and his eyes snapped open, furious.
"Minister!" Potter said. "How kind of you to join us. Your receptionists were doing a great job keeping me entertained, but it seems they've hit their limit."
Blue eyes darting around, drinking in the scene, before locking on their emerald counterparts.
"You are making a mistake," he said in a raspy voice. "I do not know how you are here, but I will make certain you do not leave."
"Tut tut, Voldemort," Potter chided. "Is that anyway to treat an old friend? Amazing what becoming minister can do to a person, even if they don't officially take up the title.
Voldemort tightened his grip on his wand. "You will not joke for long. I don't know how you survived, or where you've hidden yourself all these years, but it matters not. You lost. All your friends lie dead, and the country is mine. Soon, Europe will follow. You have nothing left to win- the match is long ended."
Potter tilted his head back and laughed. "You still don't understand what is happening, do you? I suppose I will have to show you. Strike me down…if you can."
He needed no second invitation. Voldemort was on his feet in a flash, three curses materializing, staggered to prevent dodging. But instead of going left or right, the target went down.
Potter collapsed to the floor and slithered away, body undulating like a snake. He slid back to his feet with a chuckle. "Now do you begin to see it?"
"You performed the Sui Serpentis ritual," Voldemort said, staring in shock. "Do you have any idea what you done?"
"Oh, I have every idea." Potter's tongue flicked out, showing off a forked tip. "Created by Aitor the Scourge, it gives your body all the benefits of a snake. Movement, taste, even feeding style- all within the users grasp."
"You know all that, yet not the cost?"
Potter laughed again. "Of course I know the cost. Within three years the user will die, just like the creator found out first hand, centuries ago. Venom is not intended to occupy the human body, and neither is that body meant to slither and bend. Such things take a toll that no magic can alleviate. It's why you never used the ritual yourself, even after finding it in that old book all those years ago. Asphyxiation, Alteration, and Assaulting unless I'm mistaken."
"You cannot know that," Voldemort hissed. "The connection between us was severed years ago when I struck you down. You never learned to manipulate it before it was broken."
Potter looked at him sadly. "Just when I think you're ready to understand, you go and let me down. Come now Tom, use that Clever brain of yours."
The use of his birth name set Voldemort over the edge.
"Avada Kedavra!" He cried, over and over again. A veritable wall of green rushed forward. Yet Potter dodged them all, slipping through the cracks like water, before returning fire with killing curses of his own. Voldemort conjured a metal shield, an enlarged oval shape, like a knight would carry into battle. The object shrugged off the spells before being reshaped into a massive spear that was sent flying at blinding speed.
Potter simply leaned back to a ninety-degree angle effortlessly, letting the projectile fly harmlessly over him. He chuckled as he straightened.
"Are you any closer to understanding?" He asked his opponent, and received only a growl in response. "I suppose that's a no. A hint is due, then."
"This was my birthright," Potter hissed, switching to Parseltongue. "Not an unintended gift."
"Losing everything has driven you mad," Voldemort growled in frustration. "You must be, to use a ritual that costs your life. I have neither the time nor the patience for your ramblings."
The humor bled from Potter's face. "Very well, Tom," he said, spitting the name like a curse. "If you wish to forego thought, I will gladly skip to your defeat. Prepare yourself."
This time it wasn't Voldemort that took the offensive. Potter sent a host of blasting curses at the ground around his opponent, looking to stagger him and leave him off balance. Voldemort simply raised a shield between them, and the clear shape repelled them all with a reverberating clang.
Seeing his first strategy fail, Potter turned to his now shredded wooden snakes. Suddenly the scattered shards rose up and coalesced, forming a single serpent twice the size of the earlier two.
Seeing the construct rush toward him, Voldemort let his shield drop. A look of utter concentration on his face, he summoned a serpent of his own- A hulking beast made of raging fire. Fiendfyre.
The roaring flames reared back and struck at Potter, whose own snake was forced to intercept it. Instantly the wood began to blacken and blister, but it paused the assault.
Within thirty seconds there was only one, fiery snake and a pile of ashes. But in the time he'd been blocked from sight, Potter had disappeared. Voldemort stalked forward warily, scanning for any sign of his opponent.
A flash of movement appeared to his left, and he whipped toward it, casting. Potter stood there, a smile on his face as spells rushed toward him. Then they passed through him, the illusion distorting as it was pierced.
Suddenly, Potters began popping up left and right, until at least a hundred stood around the room, all identical down to the smallest detail.
"You adore the killing curse, but where will you aim it now," Potter's voice called out, coming from every direction.
Rather than answer, Voldemort raised his wand up high. Behind him his snake lost its shape before forming a ring around its caster. Then he sliced his wand down violently and the ring expanded, bathing the room in flames.
Another sharp wand movement let the flames sputter and die, and Voldemort let his breathing settle. Keeping Fiendfyre in check had left him sweaty and winded.
But now was not the time to let his guard down. Bathing the room in molten heat had cleared the multitude of copies, but the real Potter had yet to show himself. Voldemort's head moved on a swivel- nothing to his left, nothing to his right. But where in the world could-
His eyes widened and his wand flashed, raising a shield just in time to repel a wicked cutting curse. Floating in the air, directly above the man, Potter tsked. Then he dropped straight down, casting a killing curse as he went.
Like earlier, Voldemort dispelled his magical shield in favor of a metal one. The killing curse sparked off the physical object, but Potter didn't slow his descent. He landed on the object mere seconds after his spell and immediately slid to the edge, moving like water on a slanted roof. As he flowed past the rim, he grabbed the rim and swung himself forward, right at Voldemort.
He was on top of him in a flash, one hand aiming his wand while the other searched for Voldemort's wrist. The metal he'd just slid off morphed into an array of swords, blades facing down, and rocketed toward him. It was too late, though. He already on top of Voldemort, and the older man could not finish the attack without risking self-injury.
Then Voldemort made a mistake: he tried to apparate. It was only for a moment that he forgot the meticulously crafted wards he'd put up himself, wards that blocked all forms of magical travel, but it was a moment too long. By the time he recovered his baring there was no more opportunity for thought, only reflex.
His wand fired a killing curse mere inches from his target's head. It was so close, happened so fast, that anyone should've fallen to it. But Potter was no longer human, not completely at least.
Crunch!
Head snapping sideways like a car crash victim, Potter had slid past the deadly light and sunk his teeth deep into Voldemort's arm, fangs passing through skin, bone, and sinew like paper.
Eyes widening in pain, Voldemort tried to shake his opponent off of him. He wrenched his arm with all his might but didn't gain an inch. So he raised his free arm and tried to claw Potter's eyes from their sockets.
Potter saw it coming and relinquished his jaw's hold, grabbing the arm's wrist as he did so. He glid behind Voldemort, dragging the arm with him, before wrapping the man in a bear hug. Scrawny arms gripped with the force of a body builder as Voldemort thrashed and thrashed.
The dark lord was desperate, clawing with strength he didn't know he possessed, but Potter always managed to keep hold of him, if barely.
Then Voldemort's left arm, the arm that was free, stopped its desperately scrabbling and fell limply at his side. His right leg was next, giving out and forcing him to his knees. Third was his right arm, his wand arm, which went slack, the elder wand clattered uselessly to the floor.
Panting, Potter let go and stepped away, letting Voldemort fall weakly onto his back.
Everything was still for a moment, as if the world were catching its breath. Then Voldemort spoke.
"I know who you are," he said, voice faint and hollow.
Potter strode around to stand in front of him, looking bored. "And who would that be, Tom?"
Voldemort was flat on his back now, looking up with his body nearly useless, but he met his opponents' eyes.
"You're me," he said, sounding utterly confused, yet certain at the same time.
Potter stared blankly for a moment. Then, ever so slowly, his lips began to curve into a wide, manic smile.
"Yes!" Potter said fervently. "Yes, yes, yes! Finally!"
He whipped his head back and laughed a high-pitched laugh.
"I knew you were in there, Lord Voldemort," he said exuberantly. "Oh what a relief."
"How is this possible?" Voldemort asked. "How could you come to be?"
Potter looked down at him. "You really have no idea, hmm? I suppose an explanation is due. I've had my fill of riddles and hints for the day, and you don't have the time left for either. Very well."
Potter sat down cross-legged, like a mother telling a child a bedtime story. "There was once a boy – we'll call him Harry – that was born to a grand fate. Prophecy sunk her teeth into him, and made him enemies, very powerful enemies. Which is why, before the age of one, he found himself facing certain death at the hands of a man who had struck down his mother just seconds before. Then the man attacked, and the child was sure to die."
"But it is here that things get…interesting. Two powerful magics were at work in that room. One, the sacrifice of a mother, stayed death's hand as it reached for her child, and turned that fate back on the would-be killer. You are, I'm sure, all too familiar with that part. But it is the other magic that matters here."
"A dark spell- possibly the darkest. Fueled by the cold-blooded murder of an innocent, to the selfish end of personal survival, it really is so…useful."
"A horcrux," Voldemort croaked. His voice was growing weaker, but his shock was clear. "But I never made the necessary preparations. How could that be?"
Potter shrugged. "Magic works in mysterious ways. Sometimes, intent is everything. I don't complain- I wouldn't exist without it. Now, it's time to fast forward."
"The boy and his would be killer clashed as he aged, tussling again and again over all manner of things, in all manner of situations. But every time, by the skin of his teeth, the boy escaped. His luck lasted him years until, finally, he faced his great enemy, in a clearing just outside his home, and chose to lay down his life. Self-sacrifice…very noble."
His tone said just what he thought of that decision. Nothing good.
"The boy, now nearly a man, thought he had done his bit and made his great sacrifice. He was ready to die and see all those he had lost or never had the chance to know. Instead, he was given choice: he could pass on, as he had expected to – hoped to, even – or he could return and live his life. A second chance."
"But he had faced a basilisk, dragons, trolls… abuse, the fickle nature of public opinion- and he was tired. He thought long and hard, but in the end, he chose to let go. So, he died."
"What he had no way of knowing, was what that opened the way for. If he had chosen to return, the curse that struck him would have taken my life as compensation. Because of his decision, it took his, and left this wonderful body…unoccupied."
Potter stretched out an arm and stared down at it lovingly. "Powerful magic and a rich lineage, I fell in love with this vessel at first step. Its previous owner didn't care about his last name, about the history it represents. He didn't deserve it. But while little Harry may've ignored what he was, I do not. Your servant got it exactly right when she introduced me- I go by Potter. For now, at least."
"You speak of that body so highly," Voldemort said softly, struggling to project his voice. "And yet you have destroyed it. The Sui Serpentis will see it ruined, utterly."
"By which point it will have served its purpose," Potter said. "It was a means to an end, and it has done its job admirably."
He stood and walked across the room to the black throne Voldemort had sat upon. He reached out and brushed a hand across its back. "This body gave me time to plot and prepare. It was a simple matter to learn how to manipulate the connection between us. Without Harry's clumsy presence, you couldn't even tell when I was watching through your eyes. All I needed was one opportunity, and tonight you presented it. Sending away guards and using hidden base does little to defend against one with access to your mind."
"An opportunity for what?" Voldemort croaked. "To kill me and my followers, using in the process a ritual that kills you? You gain nothing from tonight, from any of this."
Potter sat down on the throne and spread his arms grandiosely. "Kill you? I admit, the idea appeals to me. I despise the thought of having an equal. Much as you do, I'm sure. We are the same person, after all. But no, what I wish is to supersede you."
"A fools dream," Voldemort insisted. "None will follow you in that body, and none will my abandon my cause."
"Bold of you to assume they will know you've been replaced."
Horrified comprehension flashed across Voldemort's face.
"No!" He cried with surprising strength.
"Oh, yes. It was so kind of you to prepare the perfect opportunity for me." Potter glanced around the room, staring at the first the rune array, then the bodies spread across the floor. "Those fools didn't even know tonight would've been their last, even without my intervention. Sacrificing your most loyal subjects just to restore your appearance- so delightfully nefarious."
Voldemort tried to force his way up to no avail. "You can't do this! Not to me!" He cried, his fear making him sound like a petulant child.
Rather than answer, Potter silently conjured a pair of gloves on Voldemort's hands and a mask over his face, like those his followers wore. Then he began to chant, falling into an unconscious stupor, as Voldemort had been when he entered.
The entire time the dark lord struggled in his position, trying to move himself. He was desperate, having realized what was coming, but his body failed him. The venom in his system had done too much damage.
It took nearly twenty minutes for the ritual to show results, but when they came they were dramatic. The sprawling rune array flashed red, then blue, then back to red. Suddenly, the candles went out as one. The only light in the room now came from the floor, blood-red glow painting everyone and everything.
It was here that the door appeared.
Materializing from nothing, it was massive, standing almost twenty feet tall nearly brushing the towering ceiling. It was completely black, like a starless sky, and impossibly smooth. Halfway up stood an ornate handle, and it began to turn.
Slowly, the door swung open, and a figure crossed the threshold.
It was a horrifying hodgepodge of things never meant to go together. Furry brown goat legs led to a human torso, with the right arm of a tiger and a hissing serpent on the left. The head was strangely normal – a handsome, bearded human face – except for its pitiless red eyes. It was so tall that it had to stoop to enter the room, but after a quick glance toward its summoner, it began to shrink.
"Much better," a deep, cultured voice spoke, coming from the now seven-foot creature. "The importance of healthy posture can never be understated, Potter."
Without even questioning how it knew his name, Potter inclined his head respectfully. "Demon."
The creature eyed him with humor. "I have a name, you know."
"And I'm not fool enough to speak it," Potter replied, meeting its gaze neutrally.
"A pity, then." The demon turned and surveyed the room. "You seem to have lost a great many sacrifices. I have no use for those that are already dead."
"I offer something better."
Its eyes fell upon Voldemort. "This one?"
Potter nodded.
Abruptly, the room began to shake. Thick marble grumbled uncomfortably as it bounced, pulled and pushed by some unseen force. A complete collapse seemed only moments away.
"Do you take me for a fool?" The demon hissed. "You mean to barter with one, dying soul? I can see the life this wretch led- you offer nothing but what will not soon be mine."
Wicked black lightning began to crackle around the demon, but Potter looked back calmly. "You are wrong."
It took a menacing step forward. "Tell me then, wizardling, what it is that I have missed."
"He has split his soul."
As quickly as the shaking came, the room stilled. "You know this for certain?" The demon asked, curiosity piqued.
Its summoner nodded. "I do."
"How?"
Some humor returned to Potter's face. "I am one of the pieces."
The demon squinted at him, studying something no human could see. Then it leaned back and laughed happily.
"So you are. So, you, are. Very well, name your price."
Potter's eyes glinted. "I desire a body."
"For the one you ruined?" It asked, eying his serpentine traits knowingly.
"For the one I lost," Potter replied.
They made eye contact, and he felt his meticulously crafted occlumency shields brushed aside like they were nothing. He couldn't quite hide his flinch.
"Very well," the demon agreed. "You have yourself a deal. May I?"
Potter gestured for him to go ahead, though they both knew his permission was superfluous. Once the deal was agreed, there was nothing capable of stopping a demon.
Stepping up to Voldemort, the demon looked down at him and chuckled. "Oh, Tom. You thought you could escape my grasp." It reached out a hand and a massive whip of bone and sinew materialized in its palm. With one striking movement it lashed out, somehow rapping around the man's throat, and went taut. Slowly, the demon turned and clopped its way back to its door, now tiny in comparison to it.
Just before it crossed the threshold, it stopped and snapped its fingers. Gusts whipped up from nothing in the windowless room, filling the air. A low whine echoed off the walls, then a bright, red flash. When the light faded, the figure sat on the throne looked dramatically different.
"Enjoy yourself," the demon said conversationally. "Because one day, you will be mine, Potter."
"So you say," the figure on the throne said noncommittally. "And the name, is Lord Voldemort."
The demon just chuckled and stepped out of sight, Tom Riddle dragged in its wake. The massive door swung shut behind him unaided, and for a second the new Lord Voldemort could see his reflection in its black polish.
The handsome face of a young Tom Riddle stared back. With a satisfied smile, he rose and walked from the room without a second glance.
He had a country to run, and a world to claim.
(-)
Author's note- This is a bit of a weird one. In a moment of particularly pronounced writers block while working on some longer works, I gave into frustrations, opened a blank word document, and started type type typing away. Any plot or goal of even characters was only added as I went, making it up on the fly, if you will. I got to the end and liked it more than I honestly expected to, so I actually edited it and jumbled together something that I felt was worth posting. Don't really have much to say about it, other than that I hope at least someone enjoyed this strange little one-shot.