Welcome one and welcome all to another chapter of a Bad Moon Rising.
In which, Harry prepares for his quest and we get to see the world through another set of eyes.
On with the show.
Harry Potter, Hogwarts, 6 pm.
Harry rushed through the halls and corridors of Hogwarts, shoving his way through the students in the midst of going to the closing feast of Hogwarts. He could hear Ron and Hermione shouting from behind him, telling him to slow down or stop, but Harry couldn't. He needed to get to the third-floor corridor and quickly, it was the fastest way to the defense tower where both his teacher and his armor were. "It's time, Harry," the words of The Morrígan rolled through his head as he shoved a sixth-year aside as his stomach twisted with anxiety and the Hunt growled, eager to be on the chase once more.
Harry didn't know how or why The Morrígan chose this day of all days to come to Hogwarts, to gather her champion and send him on the hunt for the monster; but he didn't care. As much as he resented the fact that it had to be him, he also knew that no matter how much he hated the hand fate dealt him, it had to be him.
"The boy he marked as his equal," Harry thought to himself bitterly as he took the steps up to the third floor three at a time.
"Harry! For the love of-stop!" Hermione called from behind him in between huffing breaths as she and Ron pushed themselves to keep up with him.
Harry grits his teeth and forces his feet to stop moving before turning to look at them at the bottom of the staircase. "What!?" he hisses at them, the impatience of the Hunt leaking into his voice, but neither Ron nor Hermione flinches at either his tone or choice of words. They felt the Hunt's fangs at their throats, but they had been around Harry too long for it to bother them anymore. They had hunted with the great beast and knew it was hungry; but still, it didn't stop them.
"Harry," Hermione says in between deep breaths, as she looks at Harry with concern. "You need to stop and explain what is going on. The Morrígan shows up and tells you it is time and you take off without explaining a thing," she says, irritated at her best friend.
Harry closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before reaching out for the cupboard door, shutting the Hunt within it for the moment to clear his head. He opens his eyes and looks down at Ron and Hermione. "I'm going to go get my armor from teacher, then I'm going to the tower to grab my cloak. The only reason The Morrígan would come here to get me is to fulfill my duty as her champion," Harry tells them, far calmer than he was a moment ago, for if there was anyone Harry owed an explanation to, it was Ron and Hermione.
Ron looks confused at his words, but Hermione pales immediately, already understanding what he means. "Voldemort," she says in a hollow tone of voice. "She wants you to go fight Voldemort," she says once more as Ron's eyes widen before looking between Hermione and Harry.
Harry, face set in unshakeable determination even if he could feel the fear grip his heart, nods.
Voldemort, early July 1995.
A sneer crosses his lips as he glares down at the evening edition of the Daily Prophet, his red serpentine eyes gleaming in the hearth light with barely restrained malice and rage. "Talia Peverell, that is the dead bloodline she chose to impersonate?" Voldemort thinks to himself before tossing the paper into the flames of the hearth. He stands before the fireplace, watching as the pages curl and burn in the flames while scowling. Voldemort folds his arms behind his back as he turns this new information over in his mind while standing in the Travers' family study.
Why the Wizengamot? Why would a being of such power like an arch-fae debase herself to pose as a human? Why the Peverell family? His brow furrowed as he tried to recall all the information he had about the Peverell family, which admittedly, wasn't much.
They were an old family that existed around the time of the Wizards Council but, for some crime, their family was beset at all sides by the other families back then. After the male line was wiped out, the other families picked over the remains, fighting one another for what secrets of magic the Peverell family had once held.
"Like the one Irish Circle that was wiped out around the same time," Voldemort ponders before pausing. "This isn't like me," he thinks to himself. He had changed his line of thinking as soon as something else popped into his head. He takes a deep breath before closing his eyes; his mind is a mess.
Where once were pristine and orderly halls of dark granite that were modeled after the Chamber of Secrets with bookcases upon bookcases of his knowledge, it now looked as if a typhoon had passed through it. His breath slows as he focuses, reordering his mind with but a thought, clearing it of confusion and disorderly thoughts. His eyes flutter open before he lets out his breath as a deep sigh. He looks back to the fire in the hearth, his mind turning once more to Taila Peverell. He would need to either get her on his side in some way or remove her from the board completely, which would be easier said than done from the power she had shown off. But he wasn't worried; all would bow before his might, one way or another.
Knock, knock, knock.
The sounds of someone at the study door sound out through the room; Voldemort frowns at the sound but lifts a single finger and bends it to open the door to the study before turning around. He wasn't surprised to see Jeremiah Travers and his son Rodrick enter the room, both bowing their heads to their master.
Jeremiah was one of his original Death Eaters from even before the first war; he had taken an oath to serve him even when he was known as Tom Riddle. Like the other three of his first Death Eaters, Jeremiah was both smart and cunning enough to avoid any association with him, and the first war. To most, he was a smiling, doting grandfather of a man who was a staunch supporter of upholding their most ancient beliefs and pillars of Magical Britain. But to those who truly knew him and his family, he was a ruthless and cunning man who had bought out, forced out, or simply torn down anything remotely muggleborn owned in Diagon Alley to keep the shops pure. He had done it in such a way as to hide any backroom dealing from the papers, he was a slumlord to mudbloods and a businessman to any pure or half-blood in good standing.
That is why when his oldest daughter, Elberta Travers had snubbed her nose at her father by running off with a muggle (of all things!), Jeremiah wanted her killed. After Voldemort had spent a good ten minutes alone in his chambers, laughing at such a turn of events, he had agreed to send a few rank and file unmarked Death Eater hopefuls to go kill her and her family.
It was a rather odd turn of events when the unmarked never returned, so he had sent a few of his marked followers, those who had, through blood and power, proven themselves to him. He was sure they would return with news of Elberta's untimely and painful demise, but when they hadn't, he decided to go himself after he had dealt with the Potters, and that didn't go as planned. The only thing that he regrets is the fact he wasn't around to see the look on Jeremiah's face when the daughter he cast out of the family for marrying a muggle had found the Sword of Selection; bringing honor and prestige to herself and not the family she was born into.
"My Lord," Jeremiah says with a bow of his head and a proud smile on his lips. "Rodrick has completed his task," he tells Voldemort, and the Heir of Slytherin turns his attention to the younger Travers.
Rodrick's head was still bowed in respect and fear, the youngest Travers child flinching slightly as Voldemort extended his open hand forward; expectantly. The young Rodrick says nothing but doesn't disappoint either as he reaches the pockets of his robe and hands over a crystal vial filled with the silvery strands of a memory.
Voldemort smiles; large and predatory as he holds the vial up to the light of the witchfire that illuminated the study. "Excellent work, Rodrick," he says without turning to look at the young man. "And what of the one who you took this from?" he asks, finally turning to the young man; looming over him.
"I obliviated him, my lord," Rodrick says in a small and meek voice that had Voldemort narrowing his eyes at him.
Voldemort raises his brow at the young man before him. "Is that all?" he asks, his voice smooth like silk with danger dripping off of every word. He watches the boy look up at his father in question, but Jeremiah's face is carefully blank even to his own son.
Rodrick swallows the lump in his throat before nodding his head. "Yes, my lord. I did not think it wise to- to remove him, and I have no talent for curses so I could not put him under my control with confidence," Rodrick says, his voice strong and unwavering when he spoke; but with how he never looked up and into Voldemort's eyes spoke much of his fear.
Voldemort doesn't speak for a long moment, merely watching the young man in front of him. Watching him shake with uncertainty and fear before smiling.
"Excellently done, young Rodrick," Voldemort says and inwardly cackles at the breath of fear the boy lets out. "Know this, Rodrick. I do not expect perfection from my followers, but I do expect them to complete the tasks I give them to the best of their abilities," he informs the young man, who nods his head in understanding. "Keep this up and we will see you marked soon," Voldemort says with a smile.
"Um, my- my lord?" Rodrick says, picking his head up a bit as he sounds unsure of himself. "I do have a concern about what I've done," he admits and Voldemort's smile turns into a scowl.
"About what?" Voldemort asks in a harsh and sharp tone that causes Rodrick to shake.
"The guards of Azkaban go- go through a regular legilimency check once a year with-with my office, and, well…" Rodrick says, trailing off pathetically as Voldemort looms over him with a glare. "I covered my face and used an obscuring charm but if they find out his- his memories are tampered with…" he says, flinching under Voldemort's attention.
"When is this check done?" Voldemort asks, his voice like a whip as he does.
"J-January sixth through the eighth, my-my Lord," Rodrick informs him.
Voldemort nods once before holding up the crystal vial once more. "Then we will need to free our brothers and sisters in revolution from Azkaban before then," he says with a smile before dismissing Rodrick from the study and turning to Jeremiah. "And of the task, I have asked of you, old friend?" He says before Jeremiah lets out a deep sigh and informs his lord that Elberta had stolen the tomes of the circle of sea and skiff from the family vaults in Gringotts days before he disowned her from the family.
Voldemort no longer found Elberta Travers entertaining after that.
Harry Potter, June 30th 1996.
"Teacher!" Harry calls out as he slams the door to the Defensive Arts classroom open, desperation in his tone as he does. But inside the classroom that doubled as Scáthach's sanctum on the mortal plane. He didn't find his teacher, only her hound lying before her desk with The Morrígan standing over him.
"Scáthach isn't here," The Morrígan says, a snarl of anger in her voice as she glares down at Cú. The great hound whines at The Morrígan's words, a sound of sadness as great as the hound himself.
"What?" Harry asks, confused as he stands in the doorway of the classroom. "Where the hell is she then?" he asks, looking between Cú and The Morrígan. Scáthach would never be willing to abandon her school under any circumstance, Harry knew this for a fact, and in the back of his mind he knew something was very wrong.
The Morrígan turns away from Cú to look at Harry, anger flashing in her eyes. "My guess? The Land of Shadows," she says, scowling as she does. Harry could see the rage in the goddess' eyes as she spoke the words, it was something that she didn't foresee for some reason and she couldn't figure out how.
"Well, can you go get her?" Harry asks as he rushes across the room and up the stairs to Scáthach's office; to where his armor was kept.
"No," The Morrígan answers with loathing. "Dún Scaith is the one place on the islands I can not control, and that goes doubly in the Land of Shadows. It is where Scáthach's power reigns supreme and she had long ago forbidden me to step foot in it," The Morrígan explains with a frown before following after Harry.
Harry had crossed the office and thrown open a wardrobe before pulling his silver jacket off and hanging it on one of the doors. "What the hell is the problem between you two anyway?" Harry asks as he starts to pull out the pieces of his armor kept in Scáthach's office; he didn't want to keep it in his trunk in Gryffindor Tower because he wanted to avoid any unnecessary questions from his dorm mates.
"We have never seen eye to eye," The Morrígan informs Harry as she leans against the door to the office, crossing her arms as she watches Harry slip on his armor. "She is fiercely independent of the rest of the Dé Danann, and would not submit to any rule other than her own. She carved off a small piece of the islands for herself and rejected any other governance other than her own. Not to mention that when she ascended as a god, she was a goddess of death and I thought she was going to try and replace me at some point," she says with a shake of her head, as if to show she found the thought more amusing now then anything else.
"The only thing we ever agreed upon was her training our children, they needed a teacher and a place safe from the Fomorians that remained. She would give them both, it is the only reason why I never tried to bring Dún Scaith under my control. Because she cared for nothing else but her school and her students," The Morrígan says with a huff and a shake of her head as if she still couldn't believe it.
Harry slips on his bracers before channeling his magic through them and his lorica segmentata. He feels the lorica lock into place as the bracers tighten around his forearms thanks to the enchantments laid on them by Sirius and Remus. He pulls out the greavees next before sitting on the floor to strap them on.
"And what did you do to piss Teacher off so much?" Harry asks her as he slips his leg armor on. He was honestly curious about why Scáthach hated The Morrígan so much, he had never broached the subject with Scáthach because talking about the Queen of the Dé Danann normally put her in a sour mood.
"I killed Sétante," The Morrígan says with a dismissive tone of voice as if the fact that she had caused the death of Scáthach's greatest student was nothing more than idle gossip.
Harry pauses and looks back to The Morrígan with wide eyes. "That's why Lugh almost killed you," he says breathlessly, The Morrígan pauses for a moment, a flash of pain flickering across her face before she nods.
"Yes, Sétante spurred my advances, quite rudely I might add, and earned my wrath," The Morrígan says before pushing herself off the door with a frown on her face. "With it being so soon after his grandson died, Lugh was beside himself in his rage. It took the strength of my beloved, Lord Nuadha, and Ogma to pull Lugh off of me and restrain him enough for me to get away from him," she informs Harry, who is still looking at her with wide eyes. "Hurry," she reminds him before the boy once again continues to don his armor.
Harry soon stands and pulls down his (thankfully) oversized jacket over the armor. With everything in place, Harry turns back to The Morrígan, his face set with confidence and eyes cold. "Ready, all I need is my cloak, and Hermione and Ron are grabbing that and my scarf from my trunk," he tells her, his tone is like steel, ready and eager for the hunt to come.
Voldemort, October 31st, 1995, 11:00 pm.
Voldemort walks down the pavement on a muggle street, his hood drawn up to conceal his face from any still wandering the dark roads. With every lamp post, he would flick his wand, killing the lights and leaving nothing but darkness in his wake. His mind drifts back to another time he had done this, fourteen years ago to the day, back when he had paid the Potters his first and last visit.
Of how James Potter stood against him to give his family time to escape.
But how little that had mattered.
Of how Lily Potter begged for her son's life, declining his offer for her to live, to goad him into being an unwitting participant in her ritual that saved her child's life.
But how little that will matter in the end.
He scoffs to himself as he counts down the numbers of the houses. It was quite easy to find where the boy had once lived, he knew from Wormtail that the boy had once lived with his aunt on his mother's side. It was trivial to look up Petunia Evans' marriage certificate and learn about her change of name and her husband; from there it was just following the trail of breadcrumbs they left behind.
He stops before the house he was looking for, Number Four Privet Drive.
He smiles as he approaches the house, stopping just before stepping on the lawn. He could feel them, a set of wards placed over the house to protect those within. "Dumbledore no doubt, he probably set them up to protect the animals within," Voldemort thinks to himself as he draws his wand up. The ward scheme was simple, much to his disappointment, but he could tell they were built upon another set that had long fallen; a far more powerful set.
He hums to himself as he unravels the wards, turning them on those who lived inside before placing a few of his own. One that allows no sound from inside to escape, one that will allow those who see something out of the ordinary to dismiss it as normal, and one to allow no muggle to cross over it. He smiles to himself before stepping onto the lawn and up to the door, the lock giving no resistance to the silent charm he casts before stepping into the first-floor landing.
His nostrils contract at the smell of cleaning products and aerosol sprays, his disgust and distaste for such things showing in a sneer as he moves deeper into the house. The first-floor landing led further down, past a small cupboard under the stairs, and into what he assumed to be a kitchen. To his right was a set of stairs that led up to the bedrooms on the second floor, and to his left was a sitting room. He enters the dark of the sitting room first, a quick swish of his wand makes sure that no darkness, whether natural or magical, would impede him. His eyes gaze over the room with disinterest, sweeping over the muggle gadgets and furniture before landing on the mantle over the hearth.
Above it was a family portrait of three muggles, unmoving in the frame. Voldemort moves closer and begins to inspect the pictures that sit on the mantle, while they did indeed show a young child in various stages of his life, none of them, however, was of Potter.
Voldemort frowns as he picks up one of the pictures, even Jeremiah still has pictures of Elberta in his home; for his wife if nothing else. His frown turns into a scowl as he thinks of that infuriating woman and how she absconded with the tomes, scrolls, and memories of the Circle of Sea and Skiff from which her family had looted many generations ago from her family vaults. Which now no doubt sat in her personal vaults in Gringotts and, while, yes he had the skills and power to break into the ancient bank of the goblins, there were two reasons why he wouldn't.
The first was time. He simply didn't have enough of it with everything currently on his plate. He barely had the time for this little excursion. Between commanding his forces, recruiting old allies, and planning to break his most faithful from the heart of Azkaban, he would need another one of himself to break into Gringotts.
The second and most frightening reason was the dragon. There had always been rumors of the goblins having dragons guarding the oldest vaults under their care, but that was nothing more than a rumor; for Gringotts only had one dragon.
The white dragon, Albion.
There were very few creatures on this earth that he felt he could not overcome, the Nunda was one, and while any normal dragon would fall before him; Albion was anything but normal for its kind. For it was the single oldest dragon still living on the islands and one of the very same dragons that Merlin had prophesied to Uther Pendragon over a thousand years ago.
Voldemort blinks, wondering how he had come to these thoughts. He growls before closing his eyes once more and finds his mind in ruins once more, a scowl appears on his lips before he fixes it once more. Focusing on the task at hand, and not the same problem that had plagued him for months since his return. A sharp crack catches his attention before he opens his eyes, the picture frame he held pinched between his fingers had cracks now running through the glass.
His scowl deepens as he inspects the picture. "I didn't even grip it that hard, are all these muggle things so fragile?" he thinks to himself, turning the picture in his hand he spies something in the reflection of the glass. Moving slowly and carefully in the half-moon light was an overly large man, creeping across the room with what looked to be a muggle rifle. He silently scoffs at the ridiculousness of the pea-brained fool before his wand twitches in his hand; transforming the firearm into a cobra.
The muggle screams as the cobra strikes his throat and wraps around his wrists, binding them together. Voldemort turns swiftly around and banishes the muggle against the stairs with nary a thought.
"Vernon!" another voice calls In a panic as footsteps echo down the stairs. "Vernon, are you okay? Did you get the-" the female voice says right before her legs come within sight of Voldemort, and with a twist of his wand; he breaks her ankles. She screams in pain as she falls down the stairs before landing in a heap at the foot of them.
Voldemort strides out of the sitting room to look down at the woman as she sobs in pain. "Petunia Evans," Voldemort says in a hiss and a malicious smile as she looks up at him with wide eyes. "Such a…pleasure to finally make your acquaintance," he says politely as he looms over her, his wand spinning between his fingers.
"Who-who are y-you?" Petunia asks shakily, through panicked sobs, as she looks up and into the crimson serpentine eyes of her attacker.
Voldemort scuffs lightly, shaking his head slightly as he reaches up and draws his hood back. "Come now, Petunia," he says with mock disappointment before tisking at her. "We both know that you know exactly who I am. After all, did the boy not warn you of me?" he asks, already peeling back the layers of her mind; for it offered not even the slightest resistance to him. She was no witch, not even a squib. If she was then the natural magics of her body would offer some protection. But it was just more proof of how much magical kind was removed from the animals called muggles.
"You're him," Petunia says through the fear and tears, looking up unflinchingly into his eyes. "You're the one who killed- who killed Lily, my sister," she says, her face twisting into anger and despair.
"Lord Voldemort, at your service," Voldemort says with a small grin and a mock bow to the animal on the floor in front of him. He rises from his bow, his polite smile never wavering from his face. "I'm afraid I must apologize to you and-" he turns his head and gestures to the downed and dying man on the floor. "-Whatever that is, for showing up in your home so late into the evening without a forewarning, but as you can guess, I'm dreadfully short on time," he tells the woman before tossing the picture he had picked off the mantle in front of her.
"I admit I find it rather odd that you do not have a single picture of the boy in your home, a place he was raised for most of his life," Voldemort informs her and watches as she looks at the picture and then back to him, and in her eyes, he sees his answer.
Anger at the boy who dares to look her in the eyes from the cupboard. The same eyes as her sister, the sister that the boy had killed by just being born.
Resentment at the boy when unexplainable things keep happening around him. Of course, of course, the little monster would be able to use magic; the same gift that got Lily killed.
Shame, deep bleak shame of what she let happen as she looks into the broken emerald eyes of the boy in the cupboard. The boy looks so hollow, his eyes now nothing like Lily's was back when she was his age. The pain those eyes bring is all but gone, but at what cost?
Voldemort laughs. His voice echoed throughout the house which was never a home for the boy. "I do not know whether to applaud you for tormenting the boy for me or to punish you for doing such a thing to a magical child," he says with a hint of a smirk as Petunia looks down in shame.
"Come now, Petunia, we both know how this night ends for you," Voldemort says as he kneels down. "The only thing you can choose is if this will be painless or painful," he says softly, reaching out to grab Petunia by the chin and forcing her to look him in the eyes. "Tell me everything you know about the boy, how best to hurt him, how best to make him suffer, so you won't have to," he informs her gently.
It was then that Petunia Evans did something that no one had dared do since his third year at Hogwarts; she spat in his face.
As Voldemort reels back as if he had been struck, Petunia speaks her last words to him. "I hope you die screaming, you snake-faced cunt," she shrieks with defiance at Voldemort.
"I see a foul tongue and disrespect runs in your pathetic bloodline, Petunia," Voldemort says as he wipes the spittle off of his face with the hem of his sleeve. "Well, never let it be said I was not trying to be merciful to you," he sighs before brandishing his wand at her and begins to peel the skin from her arm.
The torture curse, in his honest opinion, was unimaginative. While pure and undiluted pain could be leveled against someone with amazing results, but used too much and it breaks who you use it on. But by causing pain in a way that they could see? That gives it something special to Voldemort, a psychological factor that he couldn't explain, but could point out as the look of horror spreads across Petunia's face as she sees and feels Voldemort claiming his pound of flesh from her.
Harry Potter, Hogwarts, June 30th 1996.
"Pot-head? What the hell are you doing here?" Harry hears from his right, quickly turning he sees the only person in the world who ever called him that. "I thought we were doing the whole picnic thing with everyone, and why are you wearing your armor?" Delphini asks, looking at him confused and lost as she holds two envelopes in her hand. Delphini had come across Harry's armor when he was unpacking his trunk when he returned from Christmas Holiday.
Harry opens his mouth, before closing it. He didn't know how to tell Delphini what was happening, what he was about to go do, and that he, more than likely, would have to meet and kill her mom and dad. But as Delphini raises her hands and looks at him expectedly, waiting for an answer, her eyes shift to look behind him; over his shoulder before gasping and taking a quick step back.
"Well, well," the voice of The Morrígan says softly as she steps into the hall behind Harry. Her eyes solely focused on Delphini as the schoolgirl looked at the queen of the Celtic gods with wide shocked eyes. "Who do we have here?" The Morrígan asks, one hand sliding onto Harry's shoulder. It felt like a protective gesture in some way, as if she was readying herself to pull Harry from harm's way. Harry shrugs The Morrígans hand off as he turns to the goddess, looking at her oddly as her black eyes flick to him in irritation before looking back at Delphini.
"This is Delphini, she's my, ah, girlfriend," Harry says a bit nervously, not because he thought The Morrígan would do anything to Delphini, but because he was sure some backhanded offer of the "Non-con Cavern" was about to come up. But to Harry's surprise, The Morrígan neither makes an offer nor cracks a mocking joke as he expected her to do; instead, she just continues to glare at Delphini.
"Seriously Pot-Head, what is your secret with pulling all these birds," Delphini says with a forced laugh as she doesn't turn away from The Morrígan.
"I didn't pull anything," Harry says with a nervous chuckle, his eyes flick back to the goddess in the hallway before he tries to walk over to Delphini, only to be stopped by The Morrígan. "Hey, what gives?" Harry asks as he looks back at the goddess, his tone toeing the line of being rude. "It's just Delphini,"
"She's never told you her last name, has she?" The Morrígan asks, her eyes never leaving the girl in the hallway.
"What?" Harry asks, his face scrunching up in confusion at The Morrígan's words, never seeing Delphini's wide pleading eyes and slightly shaking head at The Morrígan words. "Her last name is Lestrange, so what?" Harry says.
Delphini mouths "Please, Don't," to the uncaring goddess before her.
The Morrígan turns to finally look at Harry, her eyes cold and joyless. "Is that what she told you?" she asks in a flat, dead tone of voice that catches Harry off guard for a moment before he turns to look at Delphini.
She looked terrified at The Morrígan words, Delphini turned to Harry with the same pleading eyes. Her mouth opens before closing as if she is trying to think of a way out, of how she could explain; but The Morrígan beats her to it.
"Her name isn't Delphini Lestrange, nor is it Black, no matter what her aunt or cousin accepting her as one may have caused with the magic of her name," The Morrígan states evenly as she turns back to the now pale Delphini. "Her actual name is Delphini Riddle-" The Morrígan says the name with a sneer, "-And she was sent with a very particular task in mind, weren't you dear?"
Harry freezes, slowly turning to look at The Morrígan with wide eyes. He argues with himself, trying to rationalize the last name to himself, it was a common name, wasn't it? For muggles maybe, but not for wizards and witches. The Morrígan looks straight ahead directly into the eyes of Delphini, Harry turns back to his girlfriend and sees the truth reflected in her blue eyes.
Lord Voldemort, late December.
His robe fanned out as he moved quickly down the dark hallway, he was searching for someone who was hiding away in Malfoy Manor; for until recently the man was kept in the lowest circle of the frozen hell that was Azkaban. Voldemort had broken him out with the rest of his faithful not two nights prior. He had allowed the man to have a few days of recovery before he called upon him once more.
Voldemort had ordered him to be brought to Malfoy Manor along with Bellatrix, though the latter only upon request of Narcissa. It wasn't that he minded or cared much about the small request by the matriarch of the Malfoy family; Narcissa was not only an excellent politician but also a trained healer and refused to let anyone but herself to watch over dear Bellatrix. But it wasn't Bellatrix he was looking for, it was the man who had come with her.
Voldemort had apparated to the manor not too long ago just to find the secret room in the west wing that the man was supposed to be housed in was empty. This did not surprise Voldemort, the man he was looking for was not only exceptionally slippery but fearsomely brilliant as well; the dark lord honestly doubted that, barring the ancient ones like Hogwarts, there wasn't a ward scheme the man couldn't slip past. Which was now a problem since he couldn't find the man.
Voldemort sighs before holding out his wand in the palm of his hand, casting a silent modified "Four-Point Spell" to steer him towards his quarry. He turns his head before taking the left that leads to the kitchen. As he grows closer to the domain of the house elves, he hears shuffling and cursing coming from behind the swinging door that leads to the kitchen. With a quick swish of his wand, Voldemort pushes the door open quietly before stepping inside. In the back corner of the kitchen, his body half buried in the pantry was the man he was looking for.
The man had wrapped himself in thick comforters over his bone-thin frame to try and keep himself warm, his hair was a matted mess that reached past his neck. One hand gripping the blankets in the front to keep them on as the other was digging through the cabinets, looking for something.
Voldemort rolls his eyes at the sight, even before Azkaban the man didn't have any manners to speak of, acting more like a muggle than anything else. "Rookwood!" Voldemort snaps, causing the man to jump at the sudden sound of his name before the thump of Rookwood hitting his head echoed in the night.
"Mother magic's misshapen milkers!" Augustus curses as he extracts himself from the pantry to round on Voldemort. The dark lord is surprised to see the wide brown eyes of Augustus Rookwood shine with surprise, sanity, and intelligence that he had come to respect from his Death Eater. "Voldy, by Merlin's magical meat mace, don't fookin do that!" Rookwood hisses at him before rubbing the spot on his head that he smacked against the wall.
Voldemort rolls his eyes at the man's crude words and ignores the nickname the man had given him long ago. "A pleasure to see you as well, Rookwood. But if you do not mind me asking, what are you doing in Narcissa's kitchen?" Voldemort asks as he sweeps into the room and moves to the island sitting in the middle of it.
Rookwood humps before turning back to the pantry. "Looking for the bloody tea, the bastard Aos sí wouldn't bring me any, nor would they bring me any bourbon," he says angrily as he continues to dig in the pantry.
Voldemort, with a great amount of willpower, forces down a sigh before flicking his wand and casting one of the many household charms he had learned in his younger years. Tea, sugar, honey, and everything else one would need to make an evening cuppa fly from the cupboards and cabinets before settling onto the island in the middle of the room. With another wave of his wand, he conjures two chairs on either side of the island before Voldemort takes his seat. Rookwood humphs once more before taking his seat as Voldemort begins to prepare the tea for the both of them.
"I admit surprise, Rookwood," Voldemort says as he taps the teapot with his wand to both conjure the water inside and heat to the perfect temperature. "I was rather sure that I would have to use Legilimency to piece your mind back together over the next few weeks before we could talk," he says as Rookwood hums, shivering in his seat.
"Well, working at the Department of Mystery for as long as I did, you tend to pick up on a few things," Rookwood says as he leans back in his chair, a smug smirk on his face that makes Voldemort chuckle and shake his head. Rookwood was an anomaly among his Death Eaters, he wasn't a blood purist in any sense of the word and honestly did not give one lick about the other purebloods in his inner circle. Augustus Rookwood was a researcher through and through, wishing to test and push the boundaries of what magic was capable of. Rookwood had grown tired of the limitations of what the Department of Mysteries had placed on him during his research and had come to him offering knowledge for a chance to change the department once he had taken over. The two of them wait in silence for the tea to steep as Voldemort, once again, fixes his destroyed inner world and gathers his thoughts.
"I wish to play a game of hot and cold," Voldemort informs Rookwood as he pours them tea. Rookwood eyes flashed over to him, his eyes sparkling with curiosity for it had been many years since they had played this game. Rookwood was bound by several magical contracts that stopped him from speaking about anything he knew or learned of in the Department of Mysteries. But Voldemort could always tell him his own theories about certain things and Rookwood could tell him if he was on the right path or not and even drop hints by using analogies during their game.
"Well Voldy, that's a game we haven't played in a few years, even before the end of the last war," Rookwood says, using that infuriating nickname as he does. Rookwood has been calling him that since they started their acquaintanceship, but only when it was the two of them; the man didn't have a death wish after all. "But sure, I'm game," he says with a smirk before picking up his cup and taking a sip from it.
Voldemort picks up his cup, swirling the tea within for a moment before taking a sip. "The gods from myth exist," Voldemort says, pausing as his eyes turn up to look at the surprised and grinning face of Rookwood.
"Finally found religion, have you, Voldy," Rookwood says with a grin before Voldemort glares at him. "Hot," he says with a smile.
Voldemort frowns. He was hoping he was wrong, but if anyone knew about the gods of old, it would be the bloody Department of Mysteries. "The gods exist, so, therefore, their children also must exist. The demigods," he says looking back over at Rookwood.
"Hot," Rookwood says before taking another sip of his tea.
Voldemort almost growls at Rookwood's confirmation. "The Gaelic gods, known as the Tuatha Dé Danann exist on the islands," he states smoothly, hiding his rage.
Rookwood blinks twice. "Cold," he says.
Voldemort pauses for a moment, frowning in thought as he turns what happened in the graveyard over in his head for a moment. "The Tuatha Dé Danann were once on the islands but were somehow imprisoned," he says.
"Hot."
"I can learn and recreate how to imprison them."
"Cold."
Voldemort cursed at that, causing Rookwood to look at him oddly for a moment before a flash of understanding entered his eyes.
"The Irish Circles are worshipers of the Tuatha Dé Danann."
"Cold."
"The Irish Circles are descendants of the Tuatha Dé Danann."
"Hot."
Voldemort taps his fingers on the table, half-formed plans and ideas swirling in his mind as he turns this new information around in his mind. He knew full well that nothing in his repertoire of spells would affect any of the Tuatha Dé Danann, and that thought alone made his teeth grind in anger. It infuriated him that there was a foe he could not bring to heel and crush underneath his own. His lips thin as a new line of thought turns in his mind. The Olympians had the Titans, the Æsir had the Vanir and Jötunn, Izanami had Izanagi, and even God had Satan.
Every god or group of gods had their opposite.
"There is a group of beings opposed to the Tuatha Dé Danann."
Rookwood's answer doesn't come immediately, his eyes narrow at Voldemort as a frown comes over his face. "You know, all this myth talk has reminded me of one of my favorite myths, Voldy," Augustus says before taking another sip of his tea and sitting it down. "Tell me, do you know the myth of Icarus and his wax wings?" he asks.
"I am very well aware of it and the meaning behind it, Rookwood. But that doesn't answer my question. Now, am I hot or cold?" Voldemort asks, his scarlet eyes glowing embers in the dark of the kitchen.
Rookwood scoffs and shakes his head. "Hot, but I would suggest asking Bella about an Irish Circle that her family helped kill off a while back," he says before downing the rest of his tea and standing. He pulls the blankets over his thin form before he starts off back to bed.
"What Irish Circle?" Voldemort asks, without turning in his seat.
"If my memory is correct, I believe it was called the Circle of Starlight and Winter," Rookwood says before heading out the door and leaving the dark lord with his thoughts.
"Starlight and Winter," Voldemort mutters to himself in the dark. "Now where have I heard that name from?" he wonders out loud.
Harry Potter, Hogwarts, evening.
"Don't think about it," Harry thinks to himself as he rushes through the school, gritting his teeth. The scene once more played out in his mind as he was helpless to stop it.
"Pot-Head- Harry, please!" Delphini said, tears trailing down her cheeks. "I-I didn't-"
"Didn't what?" the smooth, cutting voice of The Morrígan slices through the air. "Didn't mean to spy for the very man who wants nothing more than Harry dead at his feet? Didn't mean to pass along everything you knew about Harry-"
"No, No! I-I di-" Delphini tried to defend herself, but her words drowned under The Morrígans wrath and his heartbreak.
"Lies," The Morrígan says sharply beside Harry.
Betrayal twisted in his heart like a knife, righteous rage lit in his belly, and his eyes stung with unshed tears. Harry now knew why Delphini was around him so much this year, why she had wanted to go to the Halloween dance with him, why she had wanted anything to do with him at all.
Because Voldemort, her father, had sent her to entrap him.
Every touch, every kiss, every secret and intimate moment they had was nothing more than a ruse to lull him into loving her; and what had hurt the most, she had succeeded. It hurt too much, it hurt too deep, he didn't need this right now. So Harry stops on the grand staircase, closes his eyes, and focuses.
"You have to grab the emotion with your magic and force it into a shape that can be stored away until later," Delphini's voice plays in his head from all those months ago when she was teaching him how to better control his emotions. So, Harry reaches into the back of his mind to where the tap for the Hunt sat and reaches beyond that. He finds the pain, the anger, and the heartbreak so freshly carved into his heart and seizes it by the throat. He struggles with it at first, with clumsy hands not knowing what to do or how to do it until he grits his teeth and forces it to bend to his will. The emotion contorts and twists as Harry forces them into a new shape with a new function, something he could hunt down later to deal with.
When the emotion, in its new form, was in his hands, Harry knew instinctively where he was and he hated it. He rushes down the familiar hall of Number Four, fleeing from the sight of his cupboard, to throw open the door to the house and toss the snow hare outside. The small prey animal lands in the snowy field just outside the door, illuminated by the full moon above. Harry watches as it dashes out into the petrified forest of alder wood trees where the great beast slept before slamming the door shut. Harry opened his eyes, he hadn't moved from the spot where he stopped at, he could still feel it, the snow hare running around in his mind but he paid it no mind.
Harry swallows the lump in his throat. "I'm fine," he tells himself on repeat as he continues on his way. He reaches the main door to the castle in no time to find Ron and Hermione waiting for him as well, to his surprise, Theodore and Luna.
"What are you two doing here?" Harry asks, his voice dull and flat after shoving his emotions aside; reminding himself of Snape for a moment.
It was Hermione who answered him. "They want to help," she says, looking at him with concern as she holds his cloak and scarf out to him.
Harry quickly takes the scarf before winding it around his neck. "No, absolutely not," Harry says hotly as he looks over at the Slytherin and Ravenclaw. "And no offense to either of you, but this isn't a game. You've got no training from teacher and we are stepping into a possible warzone," Harry tells both of them with a slight glare.
"But Ron and Hermione can go?" Theodore says in a challenge as he carries his own gold and gray cloak folded over one of his arms.
"They had at least a little training under Scáthach, they know what they're about to get into. You two don't," Harry says right back to Theodore.
"No," Luna says, her dreamy voice hard, surprising Harry for a moment. He had never heard Luna speak like that to anyone, let alone him. "I need to come, this is important," she tells Harry, her voice coming out softer this time.
"Luna," Harry says with a sigh before rolling his head back to look at the sky, looking to all the world as if he were praying for more patience to deal with the small blonde girl in front of him.
"Harry," Luna says just as softly back, drawing his attention to her once more. Luna steps forward and places both hands on either side of his face and smiles softly at him. "If I do not come, then he will never show up. I have a feeling that he's a lot like you in that way. He tries to avoid trouble whenever he can," she tells him, confusing Harry for a moment before Theodore speaks again.
"And you heard the queen, if Voldemort is really trying this then I can't sit this out. I have to go, for my people, if nothing else," the heterochromatic eyed boy tells Harry with determination and conviction in his voice.
"You almost died last time, Theo, or did you forget that?" Harry asks, turning to his most snakey friend.
"That's why I have this," Theodore says as he holds up his gray and gold cloak, shifting and twisting mists seem to pour off of it and pull around his feet as he holds it out.
Harry groans out in frustration but finally tenants. "Fine, but that damn thing better be big enough for Luna as well because you're going to be in charge of protecting her," he says as he points at Theodore. The other boy just smiles and nods before Harry turns to Ron and Hermione once more.
"What about the others?" Harry asks.
"Ginny and the twins went to break into McGonagall's office to use the floo and warn the order," Ron quickly fills him in before Hermione speaks up.
"I gave Susan the password to the gargoyle, so she should be heading to the headmaster's office to use the floo there to contact her aunt," Hermione says with a look of concern. "But I'm not sure if the Headmaster locked down his office, so if she can't get in she'll have to run to McGonagall's office to use that,"
"That's fine, so long as she gets through to Madam Bones one way or another," Harry says with a nod of his head before looking between the four of them. "Last chance to back out, are you all sure about this?"
"Harry, we've been doing this crazy shite since the first year, what makes you think I'll be backing out now?" Ron tells him.
"Well, I'm going because who else is gonna stop you and Ron from leaping before you look?" Hermione informs him as she tilts her chin into the air.
"I won't let him do this, Harry. If he succeeds then I don't even want to think what will happen to the isles," Theodore says with a frown.
Luna merely looked at Harry with the same wide-eyed dreamy look she always gives him before smiling and nodding her head.
"Alright, let's do this," Harry says looking at his friends and ignoring the snow hare running around in his mind.
Voldemort, early January.
It was quite easy to get his hands on the tome, shockingly so, in fact. Voldemort had half-expected something to cock up to the point he would have spent some time torturing an elf for it. But no, the house elf had done its job and fulfilled what Bellatrix had asked of it.
The Eagla Dearmadta; the Book of Forgotten Fear.
The tome was off-putting, even to him. The soft leather of preserved human skin was warped into a screaming face with eyes of onyx. When opened, the fetid stench of stagnant briny sea water and foul pollution assaulted his nostrils and choked out the scent of candle smoke and burning lamp oil. The parchment that made up the pages was yellowed with age and weathered, every time he would turn a page it would feel slick as if covered in some type of secretion. Everything about the book was repugnant and foul, if he was a lesser man, Voldemort would have tossed the cursed thing into the fireplace and be done with it.
But Voldemort was far from a lesser man.
So, on did he turn the pages with a scowl on his face. Voldemort's biggest hurdle at the moment was translating the ancient Celtic (one of the first attempts to write down the language) into something actually legible for him to bloody read. Celtic was an infuriating language to try and translate on the best of days, almost as bad as Welsh, so it wasn't uncommon for Voldemort to flitter back and forth in the Carrow Library looking for books and texts on translating the ancient language.
He was currently at the table, hunched over and inspecting the script while periodically turning his head to read from another book propped open against another stack. A quill in hand as he wrote down the translations, the parchment he wrote upon was covered in scratched-out words and drips of ink. It wasn't until the door to the library opened, letting light from the hallway shine into the dark room that Voldemort finally looked up, his eyes aglow with anger at the intrusion.
"M-master?" the fear-laced voice of Wormtail scratches against the silence of the library. "I've- I've brought you your supper," he says with a bow of his head as he holds out a silver tray stacked with food.
Voldemort frowns in confusion before looking over to the grandfather clock sitting off to the side of the fireplace. He blinked once in surprise, it was far later than he thought it was. Voldemort let out a sigh before rubbing his eyes, normally Nagini would have snuck into the room by now to annoy him into feeding her, but that was no longer a possibility.
For Nagini had been killed.
That single thought alone almost sends Voldemort spiraling into a rage once more. His serpent, a piece of his soul, and the only being he would actually call a friend to him, was dead. Killed while trying to sneak into the Department of Mysteries to steal that bloody prophecy about him. He had sent Mangraus to find out who had done it a week ago, but the man not only failed at his task, but also got caught in the middle of doing it and was sentenced to Azkaban all thanks to one Harry-Fucking-Potter.
Voldemort looks over to the small pile of broken quills that accumulated thanks to his short temper and frustration, with but a gesture of his hand he vanishes the pile. "Put it down there, Wormtail," he says before turning back to the tome.
Wormtail moved to fulfill his master's orders, but as he placed down the tray of food, a loud slam echoed throughout the library causing Wormtail to jump at the sound. The fool sent the food flying upwards, threatening to spill it all over the desk Voldemort was working at. To Voldemort, it looked to be happening in slow motion, the dishes overturning in the air, sauces, and soups spilling downwards to cover all his hard work. Voldemort's wand snaps to his hand before pointing up in a blur before he freezes the food in midair with a charm.
Voldemort's wand is then leveled at Wormtail as the fool looks at the frozen food stopped in mid-motion. "Crucio," Voldemort says almost listlessly.
Wormtail's screams ring out down the hall as the pathetic fool collapses to the floor in agony. Voldemort holds the curse for a full minute before, with a flourish of his wand, he banishes Wormtail from the library, sending the rat flying and crashing into a wall with a crunch and with but a gesture of his other hand, Voldemort slams the door shut once more.
"Useless fool," Voldemort says with a growl as he reverses the motion of his evening meal to be placed perfectly back on the tray before levitating it to the table. He pauses for a moment before looking down at his wand with a frown, he had reacted faster than normal- much faster than normal. Voldemort shakes his head and banishes the thought from his mind, turning to find what had made the sound in the first place.
It does not take him long to find the now-opened window in the library, the double-sided windows still swing back and forth slightly in the breeze. Voldemort frowns at the sight before marching forward and softly closing the windows before inspecting them closely. Both the wards around the window and the latches were intact, it was as if something had unlatched the window so the cold night air could knock them open. Voldemort stops and his eyes narrow as the light from behind him begins to slowly die, the candles and fireplace that brought light and warmth into the room grow dark and cold. He slowly turned around his wand in a loose grip as he walked forward, his eyes scanning the now pitch-black room.
"Come out," Voldemort orders, his voice hard and as cold as the darkness around him. "I know you are there, you have but one chance for mercy," he warns the darkness. He waits only a moment before raising his wand and lighting the tip of it to illuminate the dark.
"Now, there is no need for that," a voice like oil speaks out from the dark just before tendrils of shadows slither into the light of Voldemort's Lumos charm and wrap around the tip of his wand to suffocate the light from it.
Voldemort doesn't even flinch as he pours more power into the simple charm. The edges of the darkness begin to burn away like embers in a hearth, sending out streams of light into the room and casting shadows of two men in the room instead of the one standing in it.
"Now- now hold on just a moment!" the other voice says strained as if it was in pain. "There is no reason for this, Lord Voldemort. I am not your enemy, I beg reason," the high and highborn voice says pained, but politely, as it hid in the dark.
"Reason?" Voldemort asks, cutting the flow of magic to his charm but keeping it at the current intensity. "You beg reason but sneak into a manor like a common thief! Why should I even begin to entertain this?" he asks with a sneer.
"Well, if I could walk through the front door and introduce myself, I would. But sadly I lack a- let's say, personable form to do that," the voice explains as the second shadow holds up his hands, one looking to be holding a cane, in surrender. "And the reason that you should entertain this, is because I am here to help you with your challenge of faith, shall we call it?" the voice pleads, causing Voldemort to pause.
"Excellent, you seem to understand," the voice says with a sigh of relief. "Now please, the light, put it out if you would," the voice asks.
"Why?" Voldemort asks calmly as he draws himself to full height.
"To quote an old… acquaintance of mine. Sometimes not seeing something is quite a good thing," the voice says with a hint of amusement to his voice. "Besides I find the light offensive, and if this conversation will bear fruit for the both of us, I would ask for this small favor," the voice says in a pleasant and gentle tone. Voldemort paused for a moment before he allowed the light at the tip of his wand to die and heard the voice sigh in relief. "You have my thanks, Lord Voldemort. But I believe introductions are overdue at this point, I, of course, know of you. But you may call me Rayner," the voice says in the introduction and Voldemort has the oddest sense that the shadow had bowed to him during it.
"What are you and how did you get into the Manor, Mister Rayner?" Voldemort asks as his glowing red eyes sweep over the darkness.
"Ah, such interesting questions," Rayner states before the sound of a chair being pulled out from the table rings out. "To answer the second one, a long time ago the same acquaintance of mine found his way inside this very home for a liaison with a woman who resided here. He had returned many times for the same reason until the woman gave birth to twins before he whisked her away," Rayner informs Voldemort, sounding smug about it.
"Victoria Carrow," Voldemort says under his breath. She was the middle child of Mangraus who had gotten pregnant a few years after graduating Hogwarts. Victoria had refused to name the father before giving birth to Hestia and Flora Carrow and falling ill. Not even he knew what was infecting her. She had seemingly disappeared during the last year of the war to never be heard of again. Once more, Voldemort senses the shadow nodding his head wordlessly. "And what happened to young Victoria after she was whisked away?" Voldemort inquired and felt Rayner shuffle in his seat as if he was uncomfortable.
"She is, sadly, dead in all the ways that matter," Rayner says, not sounding remorseful at all at the girl's apparent death, but more unnerved at her fate. "One does not lay with my kind without facing the consequences of it. The twins know, of course. Nikola told them himself when they were old enough," Rayner informs Voldemort dismissively. "But to answer your first question, well, you already know the answer to that," he says slyly, and Voldemort could picture the man smiling in his mind.
Voldemort's eyes drifted over to where the book of Forgotten Fear sat. "You're a Formorian," He states and the shadow chuckles.
"Yes," Rayner says with a smirk. "I was chosen from a group of my contemporaries to make contact with you in the hopes of working together toward a common goal," he says, crossing one leg over the other.
Voldemort frowns before blindly feeling out for a chair, pulling it out, and taking his own seat. "Why me and why now?" he asks the shadow.
Rayner chuckles once more. "Well, as for why now, it is quite simple. The Tuatha Dé Danann have all been freed from the prisons, something my contemporaries and I find unappealing in the greatest sense of the word. Something we hoped to never come to pass, but now must sadly deal with," Rayner explains to Voldemort with an air of annoyance. "As for why you?" he chuckles again, this one deeper and far more amused. "It really boils down to two simple reasons, the first one is because you have set yourself up to oppose the Tuatha Dé Danann and the washer in the fens' champion, which all of us approved of simply on principle. The second reason is far more simple, and that is we like you," Rayner says with amusement coloring his tone as he spoke. Voldemort also noticed that Rayner didn't stop even once to take a breath during his little speech.
"You came to our attention during your last campaign, where you, like the masters of old, painted these islands in terror and fear so potent that the mortals still weep, scream, and flinch at the very sound of your name all these years later. Oh, those were good years, we feasted like kings and queens of old on the horror and fear you spread in your wake," Rayner says with a loving sigh and a smile of fond remembrance on his face. "And that is why I am here, Lord Voldemort, to help you in helping us. Though to be frank, we have already been helping just a tiny bit," the shadow admits.
Voldemort looks at where he hears the voice coming from curiosity. "How do you mean?" the dark lord asks.
Rayner chuckles once more. "You are playing a game against the washer of the fens and the six-eyes, two beings that can peer through fate and perceive every possible thing you could do with an honestly disturbing amount of precision. Do you really think you were able to break your followers out and hide their presence from them without a little help?" he says before humming a bit in question to the dark lord.
Voldemort leans back in his chair, considering the shadow's words with narrowed eyes. "And what would you want out of this partnership?" he asks as he taps his fingers on the table.
"It is as I said, Lord Voldemort, we share a common goal," Rayner says with a gesture of his cane. "This can be summed up into three things, the first is casting down the Tuatha Dé Danann, rendering them weak and powerless. The second, one that you are already working on-" he says as he taps the book of Forgotten Fear, "-Is freeing our sires, our lords, and kings, so they may walk these isles once more and turn it into a never-ending banquet of fear. Balor the Lightless Flame, Cathlenn the Ceaseless Watcher, Cichol the Bloody Piper, and my own sire, Indech the Forever Blind. These are but four of them, but with just those four free we could rival the Tuatha Dé Danann in power," Rayner says with a mad smile as Voldemort hears a sound like wet meat sliding against the floor in excitement.
"You do realize that I wish to set myself up as king over these Isles, correct? Would that not interfere with what your sires want?" Voldemort asks, his tone flat and demanding.
"And I think you will find Lord Indech quite agreeable with that. He doesn't care who rules, so long as the fear keeps flowing to feed us," Rayner says, leaning back in his chair. Personally, Voldemort found that laughable, why would a being of such power abdicate his throne to someone like him? It was then the answer slapped Voldemort in the face.
Hunger.
A smile crosses the dark lord's lips.
"Yes, I could work with that," he thinks to himself before turning his attention back to Rayner. "And the third goal?" Voldemort asks and feels as the room grows colder as Rayner's smile drops.
"The boy, we must kill him and as soon as possible," Rayner states, his voice as hard as steel.
"Which boy?" Voldemort asks with a raised brow.
"Do not play coy, Lord Voldemort. You know which boy I speak of,"
"Harry Potter," Voldemort says, frowning at the very mention of the vexing boy who wouldn't die. "Why do you want him dead?" he asks curiously.
Rayner is quiet for a moment, as if he was debating on telling Voldemort anything. "The boy is a threat. The important Dé Danann do not see him as such due to their earthly attachment to the boy. He is protected by them greatly or else I would have suffocated him in his bed already, but we can not afford him to live long enough to reach his full potential," Rayner says through grinding teeth of anger. Voldemort scoffs at Rayner's reaction to the boy, Harry Potter survived him during their last meeting on luck alone. The freeing of a goddess wasn't something that even he could plan for and thanks to The Morrígan's interference the boy had escaped.
"The boy is not a threat," Voldemort states to Rayner and it is quickly followed by the sound of Rayner's cane striking the ground.
"Do not be a fool!" the shadow shouts in anger, before taking a deep breath to calm himself. "You only know the boy as a demigod or a wizard, you are ignorant of the boy's true nature. I doubt that even his teacher, the Scaithanna, truly understands what the boy is," he says with a hard edge to his voice as the sound of cracking wood fills the room and the shadow grips his cane hard enough to crack it.
"And what is that?" Voldemort asks calmly.
Rayner takes a moment, but when he speaks, Voldemort hears the unmistakable ring of fear in the Formorians voice. "The boy is the living legacy of Tethra,"
Harry Potter, June 30th, sunset.
It didn't take The Morrígan long to join the small gathering of students at the front doors of Hogwarts and she wasn't alone either. Fúamnach marched behind the Queen of the Dé Danann, her face a mask of living stone, the Bella of the Wych-Elm didn't even embarrass Theodore as she joined them.
"Are you sure?" was all Fúamnach asked of Theodore and watched as the descendant nodded his head sharply once, which she returned. Fúamnach dropped the act of the ditzy school teacher then, her robes faded in a mist as she stood before the students, armored and armed with the shield and quindent of Midir. "As you wish, little descendant; to battle we march," she tells Theodore before turning to face The Morrígan as she looks at the gathered students with a frown.
"I dislike this," The Morrígan announces before turning to look at Harry. "You are all still considered children, even after all you have faced, and children have no place in war. But sadly, you are all I have at the moment for our first strike against our enemy, but you are not the only ones," she says, her eyes sweeping over Harry and his friends. "My crows gather our allies as we speak, but I fear they will not make it in time. This is why I am sending you first into the fray," she says, looking directly at Harry with a blank face that seems to be carved from ice. All Harry could do was nod at The Morrígan's words. As much as he hated it, he knew this day would come for him eventually.
"Anand gathers the Order, as Macha has gone to Point Nemo for the Headmaster. Badb is gathering my kin, but so long as the Formorians remain sealed we cannot step foot on the island by our agreement with the Circles so long ago," The Morrígan tells Harry, her voice soft and reassuring. If nothing else, Harry knows reinforcements are coming. "I feel that your objectives are clear?" she asks, and Harry nods, steel in his eyes.
"Get to Mag Tuired, stop whatever ritual that is going on to free the Formorians, and kill Voldemort," Harry says flatly.
The Morrígan nods her head before she speaks. "Killing Voldemort should be paramount, or at the least forcing him to abandon the ritual. He is the only one powerful enough to pull it off and release the Formorians," The Morrígan says to Harry, confirming what he had to do. "Put everything out of your mind other than your goals. I know you can do this Harry; kill the man before he can free the true monsters of the isles," She says as she places a hand on his shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze.
"I will," Harry says truthfully. He could still feel the snow hare in the back of his mind, but he was fine; he'd deal with it later. "How are we getting there?" Harry asks.
"I'm sending you to the island myself. The only way to get there is by going through the Hedge," The Morrígan informs Harry as the facade of a fearless hero melts away with a groan.
"Are you kidding me? Really? The fucking Hedge?" Harry whines like a child being told he has to leave the playground.
The Morrígan couldn't help the small smile that cracked the carved ice that was on her face as it turned surprisingly warm towards Harry. "Indeed, boyo. But you won't be wandering around like you did when Macha found you. I'll be making a straight path to the island, less than a hundred feet," she informs her champion.
Harry lets out a sigh of relief. "Thank the gods for small mercies," he mutters mostly to himself.
"You're welcome," The Morrígan says, causing Harry to glare at her. "But time grows short, and the last protector of the school has noticed that neither you nor Scáthach is at the feast. I will have to take care of him before I leave," She states before waving her hand at the grand entrance to Hogwarts. A dark mist filled the door from ever to even, twisting and welcoming all into its embrace. Harry turns to face it with the rest of his friends, each of them drawing their wands. He turns back to face The Morrígan one last time before nodding to her once.
"Let's hunt," Harry says grimly as he turns back to the doorway to the Hedge before charging through with Ron, Hermione, Theodore, and Luna racing after him.
After the children cross over the bounds into the lands beyond our own, The Morrígan turns to Fúamnach with a grim look on her face. "Are you sure about this, Fúamnach? Your presence will not change much, you could stay," The Morrígan tells the Bella of the Wych-Elm. Fúamnach scowls and looks as if The Morrígan laid a rather rude insult at her feet as she turns to the Queen of the Dé Danann.
"Like I'm going to let a child run amuck and play with things best left alone. The seal of the Formorians is a masterpiece of mine and I will not have it ruined by a boy throwing a tantrum," Fúamnach says banefully as she turns her nose up to The Morrígan as if she is insulted by the very thought of it. Fúamnach turns away from The Morrígan and begins to march toward the dark mists of the gate to the homeland of the fae. "Besides, if Voldemort is successful in freeing them, someone is going to have to recreate the seal so you and the rest of the Dé Danann can shove the demons back into it and if it was anyone else, they might get it wrong," Fúamnach says with a small assured grin on her face as she passes through the gate.
Voldemort, June 30th, half an hour later, Mag Tuired.
Fate was an odd and fickle thing to Lord Voldemort. When he was younger, a wide and bright-eyed boy during his second year at Hogwarts, he had obsessed over which electives he wished to pursue, over which one would bring him closer to, at the time, some unknowable goal he was reaching for. Divination was not one of the electives he chose for himself all those years ago; he found the subject far too filled with guesswork, interpretation, and conjecture for his liking.
But now, all these years later, he couldn't help but curse himself for doing just that.
He had lost his last war to Lily Potter and foolishly kickstarted a prophecy that he only half knew which led to being reduced to nothing; more than a ghost but far less than he should have been for thirteen long years. Now, a year after his rebirth, he stood on the precipice of his greatest victory yet.
After his first meeting with the Formorian named Rayner, Voldemort had met several more of the shadow's contemporaries, as Rayner called them, and Voldemort could see why he did. None of them got along, each one snapping and stabbing at the others with sharp words and even sharper teeth. But, if there was one thing they could all agree on, it was their hunger.
The Formorians were a ravenous race with a bottomless stomach and gluttony worthy of the third circle of hell and they all wanted to feed on one thing: fear. But it was never the same kind of fear. Rayner fed on those who were scared of the dark and what lay within it, while another Formorian who went by the name of "Drifter" wanted nothing more than to taste the fear of unpredictable violence and bloodletting.
Voldemort happily fed them all.
Over the last few months since meeting Rayner, the exact nature of his plans has evolved to fit the current state of the board. While he could not defeat the Tuatha Dé Danann head-on, he could undermine them at every possible opportunity. Children of the Stranger could shift and twist their forms and the memories of others to insert themselves into the lives of ordinary people to gather information. The Children of the Dark could slip into anywhere at any hour of the night without setting off or triggering any wards, blinding any to what they were doing. The Children of the Lonely could ensnare their prey in ways that would often erase the memories of anyone who knew that person for a time.
The talents of each of the Formorians were as varied as their looks, but seemed to follow a general theme for each bloodline. Voldemort had learned to use these beings to great effect these last few months, even when they constantly bickered and fought with one another. All he had to do was offer them their next meal if they worked together and they jumped at it.
They were, in all respects, simple-minded but powerful creatures, so Voldemort was not surprised to learn that the Dementors of Azkaban were the children of Balor.
It had taken months of subterfuge, reconnaissance, and abusing the Formorian abilities to change memories to gather all the information Voldemort needed to free their sires. Thirteen sacrifices, each one touched by a fear that represented each of the sires, brought to their resting place and bled dry upon a ritual circle before a Draoi of sufficient power turns the key to their prison and lets them out. The most difficult part of it all was finding the thirteen mortal souls so deeply scared by fear. the Formorians had known of only three in the modern age.
As Voldemort had thought, the lesser Formorians were simple-minded creatures that lacked his creative problem-solving skills.
Why look for them, when you can just create them?
He had captured the other ten damned souls with the Formorian's help and made sure they were from the Irish Circles just to thumb his nose at the Tuatha Dé Danann. Voldemort had forced each of the mortals through a circle of hell filled with unending terror and fear to mark mind, soul, and flesh with the fear needed before using the Imperius curse on them.
Now the time had come. He had recalled them and their broken minds, bodies, and spirits back, for now, Voldemort was ready.
Mag Tuired was like a Mecca to the Lesser Formorians. They would flock to it like flies to bask in the putrid atmosphere of the island which crawled on the skin like thousands of ants. It felt as if eyes were watching you from every dark corner, just out of sight. Everything that slithered and clawed and burned came to Mag Tuired to pay respect to their sires. Coming to the island was something of a double-edged sword, while the Formorians could come and go from Mag Tuired, nothing else could.
The Tuatha Dé Danann could not step foot on the islands thanks to an agreement with the Circles, the Circles and mortal mages couldn't get to the islands because of the wards surrounding the island that only allowed Fae gate travel. Voldemort had destroyed the only Fae gate on the island when Rayner had brought him and his Death Eaters to Mag Tuired. Now the only way onto the island was the Formorians, but Voldemort wasn't fool enough to think this plan was foolproof.
So he stands in the ruined grand hall of an ancient fortress on the islands that sat off the west coast of Ireland. Whatever grand and formidable fortress was once here had fallen to ruin and desolation; walls that once stood so grand now lay upon the shattered and low. Grand mosaics that lined the floors were now nothing more than shattered rubble due to both age and war wounds that broke the very foundations. The towers that dominated the landscape were laid low during whatever climactic battle took place on the island and now were nothing more than piles of rubble or broken hallways with doors and stairs that led nowhere. A haunting mist hung over the ruined fortress, like a ghost of the battle long past that still clung to a shade of life to replay the sounds of war if one were to listen closely enough. The mist was illuminated by both the floating witchlights and the full moon that hung overhead, and smelled like the stench of fear and sweetly rotting death; not even the grass grew green here, only yellow and dead.
Voldemort had Rookwood leading a few of his more useful servants in carving the ritual circle into the broken foundation of the fortress as he stood guard by the door. He and his Death Eaters were not the only ones on the island; the lesser Formorians of all kinds gathered in mass for this momentous night. Rayner himself was circling the island, keeping a lookout for anyone who shouldn't be there but as useful as the shadow was, he was no fighter.
Which is why he had given Voldemort a "gift" in the form of the Still and Lightless Beast. The Lightless Beast was a mindless Formorian that was created by their King, Indech, long ago. It was a fear of moving shadows and claws and fangs in the dark that had deeply ingrained itself in the psyche of all mortalkind. Formless and ravenous, the Lightless Beast had only grown in strength by devouring a Half-Formorian long ago and a slew of demigod heroes when the Roman gods inhabited the isles. The Lightless Beast normally stayed in his shadow, prowling and hungry. Rayner had told him not to rely on the Beast to fight the boy all by itself, for no matter how fearsome the Lightless Beast was, the boy would have the advantage.
"A distraction if nothing else," Voldemort thinks to himself as he watches Rookwood completing the ritual circle while he rolls his own wand between his fingers. It was then the shadows flickered and Rayner made himself known.
"It's the boy," Rayner's hollow and cold voice whispered from the dark, the edge of bone-deep fear to it. "Remember, do not play with him any longer. The boy must die here tonight," he says in a hiss of pain from the light and fear of the boy.
"That is why I stood aside, Rayner," Voldemort says as he pulls back his hood and turns to the door that leads into the grand ruined hall. "No one is allowed to kill him but me," he says as he lifts his chin, unquestionably confident of the totality of his power.
It was then that the door to the grand and ruined hall opened.
It was not charmed open as any decent wizard would do, nor was it blasted open with a curse like any true Wizard-Knight had done in the past. No, the door was simply pushed open, like some common muggle by the boy.
Harry Potter was dressed much like the last time they had crossed wands. The steel gray muggle leather jacket hanging off his frame, the glint of dark armor hiding beneath it, wearing nothing more than muggle clothes as if the boy was trying to spit in the face of his heritage.
But some things were decidedly not like the last time they had met. For one, the boy was dripping with red gore and black sludge from Voldemort's followers and the Formorians alike. His head was encased in a helmet much in the style of the suits of armor at Hogwarts that shined the same steel gray color of his jacket. In one hand he held a white wand aloft, and in the other a golden short spear.
Harry Potter had come dressed and armed for war.
The boy stops just a few feet into the ruined hall, scarlet serpentine eyes meet silver cat's eyes. Neither of them spoke, for no words were needed. They both knew why they were here, at this time and in this place, for they had both come to meet destiny in a dance of fate, fear, and death.
As one, they both raised their wands, aiming to kill the other and, in a torrent of hellfire and spears, their final clash had begun, both knowing that one way or another, one of them was not leaving Mag Turied alive.
Chapter done!
That's right boys, girls, and everything in between!
Harry V Voldemort, Round Two!
Let's hear your cheesiest fighting game lines!
This chapter was edited by Politically Problematic Prose Pundit.
Kingsaxcul, out!