Chapter eleven: the crystal skull

The first thing Harry noticed was the air. It was thick and humid, and seemed to cling to his skin, creeping into his pores. Warm, and damp. Jungle air. The Amazon.

Despite the damp, his throat was incredibly parched, his lips dry and cracked. He longed of water, cool, even lukewarm, trickling down his throat, filling his mouth. But when the liquid did come, trickling between is lips; it was not soothing, but burned. Harry swallowed on instinct and gagged as the fiery alcohol burned its way down his throat.

Harry finally opened his eyes, surprised at how difficult it was. That must have been a powerful stunner. He was in a tent, sparsely furnished, and made of plain olive green tarp. He was sitting in a chair, unbound. Across from him, in another, much more comfortable armchair, sat Mundungus Fletcher. Dung did not look well, his eyes were bloodshot, his mismatched clothing was soaked with sweat and his hair especially disheveled. In his left hand a half-empty bottle of firewhisky, and on his lap was his wand, where it could be easily reached.

"You sure know how to wake somebody up," Harry mumbled, his voice hoarse and slurred by the effects of the spell. Mundungus smiled, but Harry was already judging the distances in his head. The con man sat maybe ten yards away. If he had the element of surprise, he could reach the wand…

Deciding to risk it, Harry tried to leap out of his chair, diving across the room at the smaller man's weapon. But his body didn't seem to agree with him. He stayed exactly where he was, and was hit with a wave of dizziness.

"Sorry mate," said Mundungus, with a slightly regretful expression. "That's just the spell wearing off. You'll be right as rain in twenty minutes."

"I don't doubt it," Harry mumbled. "Where are we?"

"The Amazon," said Mundungus, confirming Harry's suspicions. "Out there somewhere is the city of gold," his eyes lit up. "Imagine it Harry. A whole city of treasure, more than the Death Eaters are paying me, more than the ministry is paying you. We'll be rich men, Harry, the richest."

"So that's why you're with them," said Harry, feeling his voice getting stronger, clearer. "All about the money."

Mundungus sighed. "Not quite Harry. Just-"

He was interrupted as a girl strode gracefully into the room from deeper inside the tent. Natasha Lestrange was dressed much the same as she had been during the Ministry infiltration. Black boots, black combat trousers, a long sleeved black t-shirt, all tightly fitted enough to show off her figure. Though she was in no way muscular, there was strength to her. Lithe athleticism, and with it, the same feeling that something about her was off, unfitting, wrong. Also, run through her belt was a naked sword, a thin-bladed rapier. Harry had no doubt she knew how to use it.

"Keeping him company, Fletcher," she said, lightly.

"Urm, yes," Said Mundungus, stumbling to his feet. "I'll be going now." At the tent flap he looked back and mouthed, just play your part.

After the man was gone, Natasha first switched her attention to Harry. She sat on the arm of the chair, rather than the seat, and crossed her legs at the knee. "I must thank you, first of all," she said. "Without your cunning we would never have found the skull. No, that's not true, but you did help, and sooner rather than later is still preferable."

"In Hogsmeade…" Harry mused, the pieces fitting together.

"We allowed the letter to be sent. We wished you to interpret it. We were watching you every step of the way, and you delivered. The operatives sent to terminate you were simply to throw you off track. I apologize, however, for the actions of Mr. Dovchenko, he can be a bit…enthusiastic. Your usefulness to me has yet to be exhausted."

"You Death Eaters are all the same," said Harry. "It's all about the latest and greatest weapon. The Elder wand, the Ark of the Covenant, the Holy Grail."

"Yes, Harry, you're right," she answered calmly. "It is about the weapons. Even the late dark lord, himself, for all his power, still searched for greater and more devastating tools."

"And that's what the crystal skull is?" Harry questioned.

"To a point," she said, "but the skull is unpredictable. It decides who it talks to, who it blesses."

"You sound as if it's alive."

"I don't think it's dead. The skull can be a weapon. But more importantly, it's a key."

"Take the skull to Akator, unlock the power, I've heard the story before."

"Akator is real, Mr. Longbottom has been there, we think. Akator was a city of supreme beings, of technology and philosophy far beyond our understanding. It was not built by human hands."

"Aliens," Harry chuckled. "Just like the pyramids and Stonehenge."

"Laugh if you wish, but the skull is not of this earth. The body we recovered from your Ministry is not the first; two more have been recovered and studied. They are like nothing we've ever seen before. Their skeletons are crystal, but smaller than the skull, impure. We believe others were sent to search for the original thirteen, to bring them back."

"You're mad."

"That has been said of every great man throughout the ages. Dumbledore, Fowl, Merlin, Christ." She let her words hang in the air, accentuating her point.

"Wait," said Harry after a moment. "You think Neville's been to Akator?"

"Yes. He tried to return the skull, he failed, and so sent the task to you."

"Is he here."

"Of sorts."

"Then why do you need me?"

She smiled, humorlessly. "The skull has spoken to Longbottom. Perhaps it's best if you see him yourself."

She stood, Harry tried to stand as well, and found he was able too, if shakily. However, Natasha motioned for two grim-faced Death Eaters to join them, one on either side of him. They weren't so much to keep him standing as to make sure he didn't cause any trouble.

And so, tightly escorted, he followed her out into the night. Once outside, he was hit with a whole degree of previously hidden sounds. The faint wind, the chatter and conversation of countless primates, insects, and other wildlife throughout the jungle beyond. Harry could see little through the dense foliage, but he knew that out there was the closest he would get to prehistoric earth. The jungle primeval.

They were in a wide circle of tents, from the outside all were primarily identical, a drab shade of olive green, and far smaller than they appeared from inside. This caused Harry no great alarm, he was used to the camping customs of wizards.

Despite the late hour, Harry guessed from the moons position it was around midnight, the camp was alive. Death Eater's, male and female, were bustling about. Cleaning, eating, talking, sparring. Yet, Harry noted, they were still disciplined soldiers, quickly leaping to attention at the notice of Natasha.

In the center of the mass of tents was a huge smokeless bonfire of magical blue flame, licking against the bare ground. More Death Eaters were seated around the fire and, as they approached, Harry saw someone dancing. It was not much of a choreographed dance, simply random, yet intricate, steps around the bonfire, accompanied by an invisible musical element, existing only in the dancer's mind.

As they neared the magical flames, one of Harry's escorts went foreward and caught the dancer roughly by the shoulders, stopping him. He pulled the man over to face Harry. Though the man was illuminated by the fire behind him, it took Harry a moment to recognize who he faced.

It looked as though someone had taken everything neat and orderly about Neville Longbottom, and reversed it. His dark hair was messy and far longer than usual, cascading wildly over his face. He was skinny, almost sickeningly so, what fat he'd had depleted through malnourishment and difficult living. His normally round face had been hollowed out; his bloodshot eyes were wide, staring, not at Harry, but vaguely into space. His clothing was torn and ragged, stained with dirt and blood.

"Neville?" Harry waved a hand in front of his friends face. When Neville took no notice, Harry seized him by the shoulders. "Neville?" he questioned again, louder.

Now Neville noticed him, his vacant eyes refocusing on Harry. " Are you all right?"

"Through eyes that last I saw in tears…" Neville whispered.

"Neville, its me, Harry Potter. What are you playing at? Please tell me you're tricking these blokes."

Neville once again looked at Harry. "Harry James Potter," he whispered, the ghost of recognition in his gaze.

"Yes, that's me Neville, everything will be alright. Now what's going on, what are you doing?"

Neville opened his mouth, as if to answer, and then, as soon as it had come, the moment was passed. The recognition was gone, the answer died before it was spoken. Neville scrutinized Harry once again, as if eyeing him for the first time. "Through eyes that last I saw in tears…" he said again.

As Neville vagually drifted away into the darkness, Harry turned to Natasha, angry. "What'd you do to him?"

"Nothing," she said, innocently, enjoying his distress. "The skull conversed with him, his mind was obviously weak. Perhaps yours is stronger."

Harry made to retreat, but was seized tightly by the two Death Eaters. Though he had overall recovered from the spells effects his struggles proved unsuccessful. He was half marched-half-dragged, away into a tent. Inside was a room not unlike that he had woken within. It was differently furnished however. There was only one chair, and one that did not seem nearly as comfortable. As soon as Harry was forced into it, a Death Eater conjured tight black cords binding him to it, incapable of moving.

Across from the chair stood a camera tripod, its peak covered by a sack of thick brown cloth. "Neville stared into the skull's eyes for so long that it drove him mad," said Natasha. "We want you just mad enough to tell us what he's mumbling about."

"Oh I'm quite mad enough already," said Harry. "Just ask Ginny."

Natasha slapped him on the cheek. It was not an especially hard blow, he was sure she could have administered far worse, but it stung, and he shut up. For a moment.

Natasha crossed to the tripod, and he was struck with a question, serious, this time. "If this is so important, why don't you do it yourself?"

"The skull is particular about whom it speaks to," she said. Her voice was level, but Harry could tell he had struck a nerve. "I can't say much for its taste."

She pulled the brown sack away revealing the crystal skull. Immediately Harry looked away, screwing his eyes shut. He remained so, until Natasha his head from behind, twisting it to face the skull. Her grip was strong, and he failed to fight it. He could feel her breath on his ear, her hair brush against his cheek. Finally, when he couldn't stand it any longer, he opened his eyes.

For a moment, the skull appeared as it had when he had first uncovered it in the cemetery. A lifeless, if masterfully created, piece of crystal. And then, suddenly, there was something more. A sparkle within its cranium, a subconscious pulse. And now he could not look away, could not bring himself to, the skull held his interest, and his gaze, and it seemed to draw him in toward its blank eye sockets.

Natasha Lestrange began to speak. Though she whispered into his ear, it seemed to Harry as if she was speaking from a great distance, perhaps underwater. Discernable, but faint.

"I do not wish to unlock Akator simply because it is the city of gold. Gold is valuable, and has its uses, but with the skull, and others like it, I will have no need for currency ever again.

"Imagine it, the power of hundreds upon thousands of such skulls. Not the power of destruction, of creation, of preservation, far more than any of these. The power over the human mind.

"Imagine it, authority none will be able to resist. Every order, every suggestion. I will be within the minds of each leader, each citizen, each person, man, woman, or child. Your politicians will make decisions of my own design, your schools will teach curriculum of my own specification. Your soldiers will fight my battles. You will live your petty lives exactly the way I want you to, and the best part: you won't even realize its happening."

Whether Lestrange had stopped talking, or had simply receded so far Harry could not hear, he did not know. His life, his memories, his past, were nothing. Harry Potter was nothing, a speck in the vastness of the universe. Unimportant, little more than memories.

He was a void, unthinkable huge, immeasurable. And then there was the skull, pulsing with an undesirable light. And from it a wave, not of words, not exactly communication, but emotions. Fear, anger, loneliness, deprivation, envy, boredom, lust. None seemly, yet all beautiful, far more than they could ever be manifested within himself.

Natasha Lestrange watched silently, as Harry Potter stared, wide eyed, unblinking, into the eyes of the crystal skull. He did not move, his breathing was slow and even. He had been that way for the past forty-five minutes.

And from the corner of each eye, a single trickle of blood ran down his face, crimson tears. From cracked lips, a guttural moan put a single word, a label, to the massive amounts of information and feeling pounded into his unconscious mind.

"Return."