HARRY POTTER AND THE UNFORGIVEN

A Sixth Year Harry Potter Fanfiction

BY

Jayiin Mistaya

"Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus."

...never tickle a sleeping dragon


COPYRIGHT DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter or anything related to Harry Potter. Those rights are held, exclusively, by JK Rowling, and any other entities, corporations, subsidiaries, or groups not named here possessing legal rights to the aforementioned books and/or trademark.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The first chapter of Part II. A large hint of some of what is to come and a small hint at what Voldemort plans.

The very next chapter...Harry wakes up!

Thanks to everyone for their patience with me! I'm trying to get back to updating once ever 7-10 days.

On another note, I'm soon going to be starting a Livejournal about this story, including my comments about writing it. There will be spoilers, comments on character and motivation and even hints of the deeper plot.

You can find it at the masterscircle LJ. There's not much there now, but there will be soon. It'll be public, so you won't need to be a member of LJ to read it. Post comments and questions, and I may even answer.

More information on Harry Potter and the Unforgiven can be found at my website, which is linked in my Author Profile. This includes update dates, hints about upcoming chapters, and even a few spoilers.

Feedback of any kind is always appreciated. Remember, the more reviews I get, the faster I post.

And feel free to email, IM, PM or otherwise contact me to harass me to post. I enjoy talking to my readers.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:Thanks to Elusive Evan for making me continue to post this and to ElvenLaughter for support, encouragement and not giving up on me when she probably should have washed her hands of me!

Check out her newest stories here on FFn – "Drabbles" and "The Shrieking Shack." Both are excellent reads.


PART II

NOTHING ELSE MATTERS


CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Among the Standing Stones

Britannia was a land of myth and magic; legend and mystery wrapped in the mists of coastal fog. There are some myths and legends even wizard-kind believed were tales; whispers of powers any properly educated modern witch or wizard knew to be muggle faerie tales.

Yet, Draco Malfoy found himself trudging through a forest some would say didn't exist, on a trail leading straight to such a myth. The trail they followed curved around and up a steep hill, and seemed to go on forever. Fog played around his tired legs and primeval trees rose far above him, creating a canopy of verdant leaves, leaving the small group in shadowed semi-darkness, occasionally passing through patches of dappled sunlight.

He was exhausted. His lungs and muscles burned, and his clothes were soaked with condensation and sweat, but despite his exertion, he was still as cold and clammy as the heavy air lying strangely still around them. Sore and tired he was, Draco didn't falter, didn't allow himself to show even the slightest hint of weakness.

Just ahead of him, barely out of arm's reach, moved a tall, lithe figure, wrapped in flowing robes so dark they seemed to simply be cut from the fabric of the world around them. Under the hem, Draco could see basilisk skin boots, each step leaving no trail, not even a single leaf or stick disturbed. The Dark Lord wasn't so much as winded by the hours-long climb. But Draco would not flag; he would not relinquish the place he had earned.

The fog grew thicker the deeper into the forest they went. The overpowering scents of decomposing plants and the tang of blood mingled, turning the fog into a perverse parody of incense, threatening to drown Draco with each labored breath he took. But he – Draco Malfoy, useless child of the disgraced Lucius Malfoy – had managed to keep pace with the Dark Lord when fear and exhaustion had driven 'real' Death Eaters meters back, gasping for air and stumbling every few steps. He was trembling from both fear and excitement, knowing the Dark Lord rewarded perseverance.

They came to the top of the trail, and the fog simply stopped at the edge, surrounding the clearing in an eerie barrier of billowing translucent gray.

The clearing was an eldritch realm, hovering on the brink of our world and the next, an unstable link between two places that were never meant to co-exist. Draco shivered from both the damp cold, and the sudden feeling that if he took another step, he would be standing where no wizard was meant to stand.

What is this place?

Without hesitation, the Dark Lord strode through the invisible barrier and into the clearing.

Without hesitation, Draco followed.

Or, at least, he tried to.

His feet didn't want to seem to move, as if they were trapped by the fog.

The Dark Lord stopped and looked back at Draco with an expression that could have been amused or impatient. Or both.

His eyes, glowing blood red, surveyed the Death Eaters who had chosen to follow him, for not even the Dark Lord had dared command or coerce anyone to follow him to this place. Nor would he punish those who could not – or would not – follow him all the way.

But he waited to see who would dare take the final steps.

The Death Eaters had caught up with Draco, but were also stopped by the invisible barrier.

The Dark Lord's eyes flared a brighter red under his hood, but he did not speak. He glanced between the Death Eaters and Draco, disappointment now evident on his inhuman face.

One of the Death Eaters whipped out his wand and pointed it authoritatively at the fog. "Finite Incantatem"

The fog billowed upward, creating a taller, thicker wall, obscuring the Dark Lord from view. The wand exploded in the Death Eater's hand, splinters of wood driven through his palm. Blood dripped to the ground, and with each drop of red on the dry ground, the fog fell back, almost to its original place.

Draco saw the fog react to the blood, and drew his wand. He rolled up the sleeve of his dark silver-grey robes, and placed the wand tip against the thin flesh of his wrist, right over the largest vein. "Cruento exsanguis."

Blood welled up through his pores, flowing over his wrist, down his arm, staining his robes. He drew his wand away, not bothering to wipe the blood from it.

He ignored the pain, knowing that even if he was wrong, the Dark Lord might at least be less disappointed that he was willing to accept pain and danger to himself to stand with his Lord.

This is magic like any other. This place was meant to be here, built by magic to be here. The trail was the way and this is the door.

Clenching and unclenching his fist to bring more blood to the surface, Draco dripped drop after drop onto the ground where the fog ended, careful to create an unbroken line of blood from one side of the trail to the other.

The fog parted and Draco stepped through, standing behind and to the right of the Dark Lord. It was not a place that had been given to him, but was one he would take. He had found a way to cross the threshold and the others were still fighting the barrier, even though they had seen what he'd done.

The Dark Lord might still punish him for his impudence, but he also might be rewarded for his initiative.

Is this what it's like for Potter? To see 'adult' wizards trying and failing to do what he does so easily?

He canceled the spell on his arm with a touch of his wand and pulled out a small crystal vial from a pouch at his side, quickly draining the contents of the blood-replenishing potion.

One did not go on a trek with the Dark Lord unprepared.

The Dark Lord turned and looked at Draco from under his hood and nodded. The message there was clear; he could stand at the Dark Lord's right hand. For now.

Draco lowered his wand to his side, stunned at what he saw. The barrier was protection against more than intruders. It had hid the nature of the place.

The Standing Stones stood around them, two concentric rings of stone archways; each two tall pillars of rough gray rock standing on their ends with a third across the tops. Thirteen arches drew the outer ring; seven smaller arches drew the inner ring. The ground was a perfect circle of blood stained bedrock, swept clean of dirt and dust. Arcane symbols and runes were etched into the stone and the entire circle pulsed and thrummed with magic drawn from the earth itself. It was primal, elemental and Draco knew his first impression had been correct; this was not a place wizards were meant to stand.

What is it the Dark Lord saw in Potter's mind that brought us here?

Draco knew the Dark Lord shared a connection with Potter; everyone who went to Hogwarts knew. Draco knew the Dark Lord had peered into Potter's mind the night before. When he had come out of his meditation chamber, there had been a flurry of preparation.

Newly-minted Death Eaters had been sent to find Harry Potter, torture him, and bring him before the Dark Lord. If all went according to plan, the Dark Lord would return to his current headquarters and find a broken Harry Potter waiting for him.

Somehow, Draco didn't think they would succeed.

Draco looked to the Dark Lord and knew he would not be pleased.

But that was the future. Draco pulled his mind back to the present, clearing his mind and focusing himself on the here and now. He would stand with the Dark Lord.

He was one of the few who had dared to follow the Dark Lord to the Standing Stones. The Dark Lord had called for volunteers to come with him after those sent after Potter had departed. Few had been willing.

Purebloods were raised to fear the ancient magics.

Draco could hear, faintly, one or two of the Death Eaters trying to break through the fog, but it seemed none of them wished to spill their blood.

A sound like a gong rang out and the fog rose higher, sealing the circle.

Draco looked up and saw there was a man standing before them where there had been empty air only moment before. He was tall and broad shouldered; his face was weather-beaten, and his dark brown hair was streaked with gray. His mottled gray-green robes brushed the ground. In one hand, he clasped a bronzed wood staff wrapped with living vines.

His eyes shifted between the stormy gray of a cloudy sky, the muddy brown of dirty water, and the rich green of grass. Wind swept across the clearing as he appeared, bringing the scents of rich loam and flowering plants.

He was motionless, as if rooted into the rock under his bare feet or grown from the earth itself.

"Take your pet and leave this place, Abomination. You are not welcome here."

His voice rumbled, echoing from the depths of the ground beneath them, carried by the winds above them, reverberating from the stones around them.

This was his place, and here his word and his power were absolute.

The Dark Lord bowed mockingly. "I can see that you are much like your mother, Cedric McGonagall. Far too caught up in the moment to remember the simple niceties." The Dark Lord's voice was the soft sound of dry skin sliding over silk; whispered, but heard across the clearing as if the intervening space meant nothing.

Draco started in surprise. This Loremaster was related to Professor McGonagall?

The Dark Lord smiled amiably and bowed slightly.

"Cedric McGonagall, may I introduce Draco Malfoy, one of my brighter followers and one of your mother's students."

The corners of Cedric's mouth tightened. "Once more, Abomination, I tell you to leave this place. You and yours are not welcome here."

The Death Eaters pressing against the barrier where hurled backwards, and Draco could hear cries of pain and the sick thuds as they crashed into trees and fell to the ground.

Voldemort slowly shook his spidery finger at Cedric. "Tsk, tsk, Master Druid, you haven't yet heard what I came to tell you."

Cedric lifted his staff. "The Dark Lord himself, reduced to the role of door-to-door salesman?" He chuckled softly as he swung his arm so his staff was in front of him. "I have no interest in your words, snake."

He spun the staff and drove its end into the stone; blue fire erupted along its length. It wrapped itself around his hand, but did not burn him.

With solemn ceremonial dignity, twenty brown-robed figures stepped into their places beneath and beside the outer arches. They stepped from nothingness; birthed by fog, beckoned by flame.

Voldemort laughed. "Fool." The Dark Lord raised his wand, throwing open his robes so they could billow behind him on a breeze that didn't exist. His scaly white hand was bare, but his arm was covered in the faint glittering black of basilisk skin. "But if we must resort to this foolishness, let us do the thing right."

Draco gripped his wand with a sweaty, unsteady hand. His muscles tensed and his mind whirled with everything Peter Pettigrew, Bellatrix Lestrange and Severus Snape had driven into his mind. Patience. The right moment to strike. Spells whirled in his thoughts.

Hewould fight. He wouldn't give into the fear making him tremble. The Dark Lord was more powerful than any Druid. He would fight, and he would survive.

I will be the only one of his followers to fight the Old Lore at his side!

The Dark Lord stepped into the center of the circle and pointed his wand at the Master Druid. "Cedric McGonagall, do you accept a challenge for Mastery of your Circle?"

His face lit by the flickering eldritch blue of his staff, Cedric shook his head. "No. But feel free to pit your powers against mine, Abomination."

Voldemort laughed aloud, throwing his arms wide. For an instant, Draco was struck with the vision of the Dark Lord as a demonic conductor, each flick and cast of his wrist guiding the magic as a maestro guided an orchestra.

Draco wanted to run, to hide – even he could feel it, but he was frozen on place by fear of the Druids, fear of his Lord – and the certain knowledge that he was nothing to these men.

In that moment, Draco Malfoy did not so much learn humility as have it thrust upon him like an avalanche.

Voldemort thrust his wand forward. "Avada Kedavra!"

The blast of green light leapt out from Voldemort's wand but instead of the blinding speed and power of the Killing Curse, the magic was slowed and thinned, stretched into a narrow line of light. Cedric stepped aside and the thin green light splashed harmlessly against the stone behind where he had been standing.

Cedric invoked Power, and lines of light and white fire burned around them, flowing like liquid through and around the circles of stones. It was both hot and cold and neither; it was not quite like electricity and almost unlike the tingle of swimming through crushed ice.

The Dark Lord whispered, his wand moving in precise patterns, drawing symbols of blood-red light that hung in the air, humming discordant notes that set Draco's teeth on edge.

The Dark Lord flicked his wand negligently, and the runes flew through the air like missiles, unerringly finding their target, some slicing at Cedric's flesh while burned him. A few were absorbed by the Druid's fire, but most struck home.

The runes blasted the Druid to the ground, felling him like a great tree struck by fire and lightning.

Voldemort's wand whipped through a pattern as he cast the spell the runes had created an opening for.

"Abalieno strinxi vis!"

Draco didn't know the spell, but he felt its potency as the magic was drained from the air.

The fire of the Druid's Staff dimmed, but did not extinguish. With an effort of will, Cedric pulled himself upright and spoke Words of Unmaking, the air shuddering with thunder that had no sound; reality shimmered and threatened to snap where it did not bend as McGonagall' son exerted his will upon worlds both magical and mundane.

Draco screamed and almost fell to his knees as he heard the Words. Blood poured from his ears and eyes, but he still held his wand.

The Dark Lord staggered under the weight of the words as they tried to Unmake what he had become.

Cedric held his free hand high in the air and bellowed a single syllable that rang out like the peal of a bell, silence falling as the echo faded into silence. The lines of light flared gold and poured into the Druid as he spoke.

He pointed the end of his staff at the Dark Lord.

Light dimmed until only the blue glow of the staff was visible; Voldemort was forced back, step-by-step as he gathered his own will, his mouth moving in the words of incantations that made Draco's hair stand on end.

Cedric uttered phrases that ran together, liquid syllables causing the air around his mouth to shimmer and twist. Voldemort's body trembled and shuddered, the strain apparent.

Finally, the Dark Lord seemed held motionless, frozen in time and in space, trapped by the Power of Old Lore.

"This is the difference between my arts and your magic, Abomination. I have no power that does not come from the natural order you have flaunted!"

With an inarticulate cry, the Dark Lord straightened and threw his arms out, as if throwing a great weight off his shoulders. "I am Lord Voldemort. I. Am. The. Dark Lord!"

Flickers of red light played around Voldemort, as if his aura were trying to catch fire.

Draco wanted to scream as the edges of their magic wracked his body. He convulsed, his insides feeling like they were being wrenched out of him.

He bit his lip hard enough it bled, and he forced himself to stay on his feet.

I will not fall to my knees before McGonagall's son!

He watched the contest between his Lord and the Druid, his mind reeling.The Dark Lord? Was the title more than an affectation, then?

Voldemort's wand flicked through the air, trailing blood-red tracers that drew lines in the dim light. "I have broken free of your precious natural order! Who are you to name me Abomination, Loremaster?"

Cedric was drenched in sweat and leaning heavily on his staff as he strained against Voldemort's magic; he opened his mouth to speak – whether incantation or retort Draco didn't know – and Voldemort's triumphant whisper rang out like the toll of a bell.

"Crucio!"

Cedric fell to his knees, his face contorted with the pain.

"Your arrogance will cost you your life, Cedric McGonagall." The Dark Lord spoke calmly, intimately. "You could have accepted my challenge, dueled me for Mastery of your Circle. With their power added to yours, you may very well have defeated me." He strode forward, a lithe shadow in black leather, black robes flowing behind him, red light flashing around him. "But your nobility," he sneered the word, making it sound like childish naiveté instead of a virtue to be sought, "compelled you to save them. To stand alone and pit your pitiful powers against the might of a true Dark Lord."

Draco was even more confused. A moment before, Voldemort had called himself 'the' Dark Lord.

Not for the first time, Draco Malfoy realized he was, quite possibly, in over his head.

He reveled in it.

The blue fire along Cedric's staff flickered, but did not die. His jaw was clenched shut and his body shook with the pain, his eyes full of hatred for the creature holding him prisoner with a single spell.

"I came to you in peace. I came to offer you a place in the new order I will build from the ashes of the world I shall lay to waste. I came to return to you the places of Power taken from your Order."

The Dark Lord took another step further and slowly twisted his wand.

"Your ancestral place. Your ancestral power. Your true purpose restored to you. I wanted nothing in return, Master Druid, nothing. I would have granted you all the aid my power could give you. All you would have to do is take back what is yours from those who stole it from you. You would not have to fight my war. You would not have to aid me. You would just have to take back what is rightfully yours."

Cedric had fallen to his knees, only his staff keeping him from writhing on the ground.

"Now, you kneel before me. All the Lore at your command, brought low by a 'mere' wizard. Once again, High Magic has triumphed."

Some of the Druids were no longer still as the stones they kept vigil beside; some of them looked between each other, eyes flicking between their fellows and the spectacle unfolding before them.

Voldemort's voice grew in urgency, now laced with the rage his followers knew to fear. "Now, because you are your mother's son, I am forced to destroy that which I wanted to preserve! Once again, what is my sacred calling is perverted because you failed to heed the lessons of those who came before you!"

A small whimper escaped Cedric. Blood dribbled from his mouth as he chewed his tongue and cheek and lip to keep from screaming. Draco wanted to laugh aloud. A Loremaster, one of the High Druids, brought low by his Master. The dread Powers of Old Lore shattered by the wizard who had conquered death!

And he served that power.

I understand Potter so much better now. Dumbledore has this kind of power. As Dumbledore shares with Potter, the Dark Lord might share with me!

"You will die, Cedric. You will die knowing that it was not me or mine that brought harm to your mother, but the Ministry she serves. You will die knowing you have left those you swore to protect to die. You will die knowing the Power you have given your soul to is nothing. You will die knowing that you have failed.

"But I am not without mercy." Voldemort breathed these last words, silence falling as their echo died. "Your sacrifice will save your Circle. I will not harm them. I give you my Word; I am a Dark Lord, bound to the magic as you are bound to the land. I swear upon that power I will harm none of your followers once you are dead. But I will break their power. I will break your Circle."

Tears ran down Cedric's face, but his face was defiant; enraged.

Draco saw movement out of the corner of his eye; one of the Druids had thrown back her cowl and swept her staff toward the Dark Lord, her mouth opening to speak even as the first hints of pale fire played around her hands.

"Silencio!"Draco snapped his wand around, and no sound came from her mouth. "Reducto!"

Her Staff exploded into splinters. Draco's wand whipped through the air.

"Stupefy! Petrificus Totalus!"

The woman did not crumple as much as fall, her unconscious body frozen.

The Dark Lord turned to Draco. "Well done, young dragon."

It was a split second of distraction. Cedric stood and whirled his Staff, slamming back into the ground. "Ignis imber fulmen tempesta!"

White and gold lighting crawled along the ground from the bottom of the staff, climbing the stone arches. It leapt from one stone to another, completing the circle. Bolt after bolt of lightning slashed towards the Dark Lord, striking him again and again.

Draco felt the lightning sizzle his skin, and his hair stood on end.

Voldemort laughed and raised his wand, ignoring the lightning. A single flick of his wand dispelled it. Cedric's eyes widened in fear, and Draco saw as the Druid finally understood who he had challenged.

With the elegant grace of the conductor Draco had thought him earlier, he extended his arm toward Cedric even as the Druid's flames seemed to grow brighter, seeming to leech energy from the very air around him. He was gathering all the Power still at his command but his eyes told Draco all he needed to know: Cedric knew it would not be enough to stop the Dark Lord.

Draco caught the motion in the corner of his eye. Another of the Druids – a large man with a wild black beard – drew a bronze and iron knife from a sheath at his belt; pale shimmers of yellow fire crackled along the edges of the blade. Draco recognized the athame; his father had once had several as trophies mounted in his study.

Draco knew he wouldn't be fast enough this time. He seemed to be moving through treacle instead of air as he brought his wand to bear, the words of a spell forming on his lips.

The bearded Druid moved like a striking snake, stepping from his place in the circle, his arm jabbing forward, driving the point of the athame into Cedric's back.

Cedric gasped a strangled cry of surprise, pain and despair – it was like music to Draco's ears, the climax of the concerto the Dark Lord had been conducting.

The blue flames around Cedric's staff flared higher and leapt from the wood, flowing over Cedric and into the knife embedded in his flesh. From the knife, it crawled along the bearded Druid's arm until he was consumed in an aura of azure flame.

His eyes were wide and hungry, his face contorted in a perverse parody of fierce joy. Slowly, the blue fire became yellow.

The flame dimmed and flickered, until the only remnant of Cedric's power burned in the betrayer's eyes.

The body of Cedric McGonagall fell to the ground, leaving the bearded Druid standing with his knife outstretched.

"I am Alaric Duathan, and I claim his Power for my own! I am Master of this Circle. Are there any who would challenge me?"

Alaric was met by silence. He lowered his blade.

"You offer us back our lands and our purpose? The 'Forbidden' Forest?"

The Dark Lord smiled and gave a small bow. "I do."

"What of the school? What of Hogwarts?" Alaric was breathing hard, his face flushed with exhilaration and anticipation. "Will you stand with us, aid us in its fall?"

The Dark Lord slid his wand into his sleeve. "That, and more, Loremaster. I will return you to your former glory and power and I will laugh as those who cast you down kneel at your feet."

"Why should we believe you?" Alaric was breathing heavily, his own Power swelled with the addition of Cedric's. "Why shouldn't I call upon the Circle and destroy you where you stand?"

Voldemort smiled. It was the kind of expression people had nightmares about; it promised all the unnamable things that lurked in the dark corners of every man's soul, but it was an empty and hollow expression.

"I wish to destroy the muggles, the mudbloods and the other filth that poison the magical world. The Old Lore is at the center of what we are – it is where we began and even now it defines what he have become. Who better to rule under me than those who command the most primal of magics? Who better to inherit the sacred grounds Dumbledore and his fools desecrate than those who first made it sacred?"

"What if we fail?" Another voice from the circle.

The Dark Lord tilted his head to one side. "I suggest you do not fail."

"We do not fail! We are not lesser magicians who play with parlor tricks and simple incantations!" Alaric held the bloody athame high.

"Excellent!" Voldemort crooned. "But there is now a price. It is a high price, Master Druid. Would you pay it?"

"Name your price, Dark Lord." Alaric held out his hand, his own Staff shimmering into existence.

"You – and you alone – of your Circle will swear yourself to me. You will accept my Mark." Voldemort walked forward slowly. "You will surrender Cedric McGonagall's staff to me and return the rest of his possessions to his mother. Lay his body at her feet. And you will allow any who wish it to walk free from this place."

"Why?" Alaric rasped. "Why should I let any who would walk away from what you offer live? You gave your oath to a dead man. I am not bound by it!"

Voldemort's laugh was a soft, cold sound. "Let them walk free, but strip them of their powers. Break their staves. Cast them from your Circle, and let them seek out Albus Dumbledore and tell him of what I have done. Let him fear what I will become."

Alaric pondered this, his eyes still bright with the remnants of Cedric's fire. "Your will be done, my Lord."

Voldemort held out his wand. "Then kneel, Loremaster."

End Chapter

Posted 02-09-08