THE MANOR OF MORTIS
December 31, 9 years after Godric's Hollow
Manerium Mortis, Little Hangleton, Lancashire
Harold Mortis snapped his eyes open as dawn's light streaked across the sky.
Though the bastion of fog that surrounded his new home diluted the sun's rays, Harold maintained the sharp circadian rhythm he developed during his years of servitude. Indeed, he learned his control over his sleep schedule to be a manifestation of his deep connection to the life-sustaining energies of the world.
With a deep inhale and misty exhale, the boy lowered himself from his kingly bed and soundlessly landed on the chilly wooden floor. Harold shivered, then focused on the anger and hatred memories of freezing nights in a cupboard brought him. Flexing his fists to the rhythm of his shortening breaths, Harold connected with the power of the manor until he banished the heat-stealing air from his person.
Satisfied, the young Mortis bathed, groomed and took his monthly ocular potion in the bath adjacent to his room. Then, upon donning a black chiton, he descended the stairs to meet with the awake and waiting lord of the manor.
"Master," Harold spoke in serpent tongue upon entering the main parlor, before genuflecting on his left knee.
"Apprentice," Vastator Mortis hissed from his muggle-skin throne, around which a thirty-three foot reticulated python stood guard. Crimson eyes glowed as spectral power penetrated Harold's soul.
"Do you know what this day signifies?" the black-cloaked sorcerer questioned, his piercing rasp echoed in resonant baritone.
"The passing of ages," Harold answered.
"The sages of antiquity deemed Time a force that devoured life insatiably, until his son transcended his power and claimed it," his master recounted. "As goes the myth, often goes reality."
"Walk with me," the master commanded as he rose from his throne as smoothly as a serpent.
Naturally, the dark lord did not lower his feet to the ground despite his turn of phrase, but rather levitated them under the cover of billowing robes of shadow. As master and apprentice approached the front door, an undead muggle, head bowed in dutiful reverence, opened the door.
Walking under the dark-clouded sky and through the swaying stalks of grass, Harold followed the Destroyer of Death into the surrounding woods that sheltered their abode from the vermin that polluted the town beyond. They walked to the center and stopped before a stout, many-branched tree that stood seventy-seven feet tall.
"I planted this tree when I was but a boy," Vastator Mortis revealed. "Soon after destroying the muggle that sired me."
Harold nodded. He knew that in an age past, his master's manor once belonged to a family known as the Riddles. In fact, their sudden deaths one summer evening half-a-century ago generated most of the muggles' aversion to the property.
"Indeed, just as a tree of yew, I poisoned all who scorned me," the master mused as the pale-olive chin of his host body flexed to form a smirk. "Yet in death, I found life. Tell me, do you know what happens when you cut the branch of a yew tree and bury it in the ground?"
Harold shook his head.
"It grows anew," his master answered. "A second life. And so the yew bears the secrets of immortality. The Greeks of old dedicated the tree to their mistress of souls. The old Irish identified the tree as a gateway to paradise. The Celts revered the tree as a holy sanctuary of protection. Death, rebirth, eternity."
He then turned and trained his crimson gaze on Harold.
"You have wondered about the depth of the connection between us, yes?" the master remarked. "Why I would one night seek to strike you down, only to return to bring you the nurture all others denied you?"
Harold nodded.
"Through the womb that bore me, I am heir to the most ancient of bloodlines," his master began. "Lilith of old, primeval speaker of the serpent tongue, primordial sorceress, brought forth my forefathers. For thirteen millennia, the descendants of Lilith were revered by all wizardkind. However, when Salazar Slytherin warned his fellows of the coming war between magic and the mundane, of the need to guard our powers from infection, he was ridiculed and reviled."
"But he kept faith," the master continued. "Kept faith that when the mixing of magic and muggle weakened wizardkind such that the vermin would steal this world, his heir would arise and lead his people back to glory. This is the cause I made my life's work. And after twelve years of struggle, I found myself on the verge of purifying the wizards of Britain. Until word of a prophecy spread. A prophecy that foretold my doom, one who would be born as the seventh month died."
"I dismissed it at first," the Destroyer of Death explained. "How could I, culmination of the greatest dynasty to walk the earth, find my match? But you see, my powers do not hail from the noble Slytherin line alone. Some of my greatest abilities descend from the Masters of Death. The Peverell Triumvirate. Antioch, Cadmus…and Ignotus."
Crimson eyes gazed on Harold meaningfully as the last name was spoken. The boy gasped at the implication.
"Indeed," Vastator confirmed. "As the daughter of Cadmus married a scion of Slytherin, the granddaughter of Ignotus married one of your own forefathers. When I realized a boy was born to this line, carried in the womb of the greatest witch of her generation, I saw a challenge to my power. And so I hunted you, and nine Halloweens ago, I cast a curse I believed would destroy you. But, in my haste, I overlooked one critical detail."
Harold couldn't help but lean forward in anticipation. He flushed slightly when he felt his master's amusement at his blatancy.
"Your mother, born of muggles though she was, surpassed all witches of her time," the sorcerer praised. "I did not wish to kill her, no, she was nothing like the bumbling mudbloods that disgrace the sanctity of magic. And so, I gave her the chance to step aside. But she defied me, demanded death's embrace! I obliged of course, and thus fell into her trap. As my killing curse struck her, she sacrificed her life to bless you with protection from that very spell. When I levied my wand against you, my curse rebounded onto the only other living being in the vicinity. Myself."
Harold gasped.
"So violently was I expelled from my body that, in my panic, my magic erupted — and with it, my corporeal form," the dark lord recounted regretfully. "A lesser sorcerer would have been flung beyond Death's Veil, but I, like your mother, had prepared for my physical expiration. A piece of my being flung itself into the closest living tether it could find. You."
The Destroyer of Death traced a finger along Harold's scar in emphasis.
"It is for this reason you can speak Lilith's tongue," the master proclaimed. "And it is for this reason Albus Dumbledore enslaved you to the filthiest of muggles. Our bond runs thicker than blood, and it shall endure far beyond yew."
"I'm immortal?" Harold asked with wonder.
"You hold a piece of my soul within you," his master answered. "So long as I am on this side of death, should you be evicted from your body, I shall simply summon you back."
"And…and if my body is destroyed?" Harold couldn't help but ask.
"There is a ritual to recreate what is lost," his master divulged with a measure of annoyance. "But it requires an assistant strong in the black arts. Do you believe yourself ready to aid in the reforging of my true body?"
Harold hung his head.
"Despair not, apprentice," Vastator Mortis declared. "In the three years we have together, I shall teach you more of the old ways than even most of my Death Eaters care to remember."
Harold beamed.
April 30, 9 years after Godric's Hollow
"The sun sets," Vastator Mortis observed from his throne.
"So begins Walpurgis Night," Harold hissed in answer to his master's unspoken question.
"Half a year ago, you came under my care on Hallow's Eve," the master recounted. "In the old days, our people observed the end of harvest and the commencement of the dark half of the year on that night. The night of Samhain."
Harold nodded.
"Thus, they devoted this night to welcoming the bright half of this year," the master continued. "They celebrated growth and renewal on a night marked by some as Bealtaine, the night of bright fire. Others observed a thinning of the veil between our world and the otherworldly. But still others tributed this night to a fertility figure they named Waldborg."
Harold sensed where this story was going, but listened with rapt attention.
"But the muggle missionaries of a long-dead messiah sought to kill our traditions when they polluted our lands," the dark lord hissed. "Worse, blood-traitor scum welcomed them with open arms, aided and abetted the attack on our way of life. Traitors such as the wench Walpurga, who prostrated herself before the vermin. Cured their illnesses, banished their plagues! And so, her betrayal was commemorated by the muggles, who then bred like rats and sent their mudbloods to plague our ranks."
"So," the Destroyer of Death smirked as he approached the crux of his story. "In my fifth year as Hogwarts' most diligent student, I paid tribute to the esteemed Saint Walpurga. From Samhain to Bealtaine, I cleansed the halls of Hogwarts. But on the final night, when I came face to face with the worst mudblood to ever stain that school, I sought not just to banish it from Hogwarts, but from this world entirely!"
Harold waited with baited breath, wondering how a young Vastator Mortis could kill a student of Hogwarts, even one of shameful origin, and get away with it! Not even Salazar Slytherin had dared.
"You will find out one day how I rid it of life," the master answered Harold's thoughts. "If you are competent, you will discover it when you complete the mission I now give you. For you see, although I killed the moaning mudblood within the blink of an eye, she somehow managed to defile the school as a ghost! I dared not exorcize her, tempted though I was, for Dumbledore's eyes followed me closely after my noble work. Thus, I will require you to finish what I started forty-nine years ago. You will remove that thing from this realm!"
"Master," Harold began his question with a deferential bow of his head. He looked up and continued speaking only when a ping of allowance touched his mind. "You've said Hogwarts is a sanctuary for ghosts. A source of life energy that lets them stay on this side of the Veil. How would I take out this mudblood?"
His master simply smiled.
"Tonight, Harold Mortis, I introduce you to the art of necromancy," Vastator Mortis replied.
Communion with the dead proved difficult for Harold in spite of his Peverell ancestry.
Clear your mind, his master spoke into his mind. Connect with the necromantic energies that surround our abode.
Harold attempted to follow this simple instruction, but he could not feel much beyond the dense fog of black magic that sustained their undead servants and his master's host body.
And where does that magic come from? the master questioned. How do I animate inferi that should be rotting below to have the full appearance and functionality of living muggles?
It certainly wasn't white magic, Harold knew that much. Such spells, like the blessing his mother cast over him, required a measure of self-sacrifice. And never would the Heir of Slytherin give part of his own power to vermin, nor would he sacrifice his familiar Nagini's. This meant that the dark lord was draining life energy from some source. But where?
Harold thought of the trees surrounding their abode. However, while they added to the haunting aesthetic of the manor, they were not dead. He also knew that the Mortis power did not extend into the town of muggles, lest the vile Ministry come knocking at their door.
He briefly considered whether his master used the power of the storms that frequently thundered about them to animate the inferi, but he dismissed that thought. But what could it be?
Inferius translates to below in English, Harold pondered. Below in the origin. Below in their origin. But what if…their power also comes from below?
The boy sorcerer certainly did not believe in myths like the Ancient Hellens' Underworld. But out of options, he reached down and…
"Oh!" Harold gasped as he found the power source. He fell forward and gagged with horror as the resounding agony of the mangled souls rushed through him. Souls of teenagers, preteens and even children who dared venture into their local haunted house.
"How," Harold choked out, barely keeping his bile within, "How is this possible?"
"Many among my Death Eaters could not hold the contents of their stomach when introduced to true black magic," Vastator Mortis hissed complimentary. "Even now, you show yourself to be among my elite."
Invigorated slightly, Harold remembered himself and returned to his cross-legged pose before his master's throne.
"Necromancy ranks among the oldest arts," the master began. "What true sorcerer would not seek power over life and death? But while the wizards of our continent and the East focused on corporeal means to return to life, the old sorcerers of Haiti focused on the incorporeal. Bokor, as they were called, discovered they could not just raise the dead for unquestioning servants – zombies they called them – but that they could capture the spirits of the dying and bind them."
"For what purpose you ask?" the dark lord answered Harold's unvoiced question. "You could, of course, consume these astrals into yourself to enhance your powers. Sadly, this is a temporary boon, as magic will reclaim them. You could seal them into talismans, which will prolong the astrals' stay in this realm. Unfortunately, this is temporary as well. Or, in acceptance of their transience, you can use these astrals for minor tasks you do not care to perform with your personal power."
"In fact," he smirked wryly, "I have found that using astrals to power their own undead corpses tricks magic into prolonging their stay far beyond usual."
"How long have they been here?" Harold wondered.
"Decades for some," Vastator Mortis replied with a note of triumph. "Long enough that they have stopped begging for release, which prolongs their rightful service."
"I see," Harold monotoned.
"You will, and you must," his master hissed sharply. "Your potential exceeds any of my servants, and I will not allow you to remain vulnerable to common deaths. I will teach you so that even if your corporeal form falls in battle, you will still ruin your enemies before they escape! Perhaps even take ownership of a body of their own ranks."
"I look forward to it, my master," Harold answered with a bow of his head.
"When you are ready, you shall visit a cave where you will witness true power," the dark lord promised. "But for tonight, you shall meditate on this morsel and learn to bask in it."
By morning, Harold had not exactly learned to bask in it. He did, however, know not to dole pity to the astrals' wails. After all, was it not the duty of the weak to serve the strong?
July 31, 9 years after Godric's Hollow
Harold Mortis woke excitedly before dawn's light pierced the manor's veil. It was finally here. The day that the seventh month died.
The mundane, both among muggles and wizards, would refer to such a day as a birthday. Harold well remembered the ruckus at his foul prison on the June day Diddykins called his own.
Basking in the memories of reducing that boy to a bloody beggar, Harold connected to the power of Manor Mortis and conducted it by way of chant. Whispering an Old English invocation of air, fire, shadow and spirit, the boy sorcerer levitated from his bed.
Embracing the tortured cries of the astrals that served the manor, Harold hovered all the way to the bathroom. Though he set himself on the ground to perform his morning cleansing and grooming, he levitated a foot off the ground again before returning to his room.
"Clothe me," he commanded a servant. Today was a special occasion, so he would not simply wear a shadow chiton, golden serpent-shaped belt and muggle-skin boots. No, he would don an attire that honored the Slytherin and Peverell bloodlines.
The inferius started by dressing Harold in an ankle-length skirt akin to the attire of wealthy Sumerian men. The dried-muggle skin, extracted from a mundane that he had practiced his potion training on, hinted at the desert sands of Ancient Mesopotamia.
Next came the broad collar in honor of the Egyptian origin of what would become the House of Peverell. This, Harold created with a set of black roses he managed to conjure out of the ground with copious sweat and blood.
The inferius then clasped calf-length laced boots to honor the great Pasiphae and Herpo of Ancient Greece. These, Harold wove in serpentine patterns from some gold his master had alchemically provided after learning of his project.
With the attire near complete, Harold hissed for the final and greatest portion. A hatchling king cobra, brought to life from Harold's blood and Nagini's venom, slithered toward the boy sorcerer and wound up his waist until he formed an obsidian-and-flame colored belt.
Harold hissed approval at the month-old Halogi before nearly faltering from his levitation. Gritting his teeth and chanting furiously within his mind, he hovered toward the staircase.
Only by the grace of the manor's magics did he make it to the throne room. Harold had never been so happy to kneel before his master.
"Most impressive, my apprentice," the Heir of Slytherin hissed.
"Only by the grace of your training, master," Harold hissed back.
The dark lord hissed approvingly.
"Eleven years ago, a halfwit refuse of the once-revered Trelawney bloodline sought to stun the world with the most shocking prophecy of all," the Destroyer of Death reminisced. "The Dark Lord, who wielded powers not even the mighty Albus Dumbledore could comprehend, would meet his end at the hands of a boy to be born as the seventh month died."
Harold bowed his head.
"What none, even myself, knew was that as the seventh month died, all hope for mudbloods and muggle-lovers died with it," Vastator Mortis declared. "For who else was born but you? The final son of Ignotus Peverell, a Master of Death. The only son of the most brilliant witch of the time. The only wizard of his generation cast from his birthright to the dungeon of the muggle world. The only wizard other than myself who could truly understand all that it is at stake. The only wizard I could name as my army ruler."
"The only wizard," the Lord of Mortis Manor spoke softly. "That I could anoint the title of heir to my house."
Harold gasped.
"It is tradition, among the old houses, to formally declare their heir the year they are to go to Hogwarts," Vastator Mortis informed. "Though you are not to go to that castle this year, I would be remiss to deny you an honor the sons of Nott and Lucius have received."
"My master," Harold whispered while holding back emotion.
"It is not for nothing I chose to share a name with you," the enthroned lord stated. "I often told my Death Eaters that they were my friends, but they were in truth my coven and nothing more. None could comprehend Lord Voldemort, and none will fathom my ascension since. None except you, perhaps. Truly, you were the only worthy of becoming my apprentice. And one day, you will have the supreme honor of sharing my very blood!"
Harold could barely believe his ears.
Vastator Mortis then rose from his throne, shakily due to the infirmity of his now gaunt host. With trembling steps, the master walked toward his apprentice, who barely kept out of his eyes the horror of seeing the dark lord in such a state.
When the Destroyer of Death reached Harold, he began a recitation.
"By the blood of Peverell that runs through your veins, by the power of Slytherin that courses through your soul, I am minded to anoint you as Heir to the Supreme House of Mortis. Will you accept this honor?"
"I will," Harold said.
"Are you so-minded to uphold the old ways and reject the current direction of wizards?" Vastator Mortis queried.
"I will," Harold promised. It was the most either could say on that subject without breaching Dumbledore's vow, but the boy sorcerer felt invigorated all the same.
"Shall you dedicate yourself to the pursuit of magic henceforth, with no self imposition of restriction?" the Lord of Mortis questioned.
"I shall," Harold declared.
The dark lord then reached into his robes of shadow to produce a thirteen-inch wand of red snakewood.
"I accept your words," Vastator Mortis proclaimed. "And so, Harold Mortis, I do now name you heir to the Supreme House of Mortis."
Shadow emerged and engulfed Harold as the elder Mortis conducted magic from the core of his being to embrace his heir's soul. Though the connection lasted for a moment, Harold nearly fainted at the mere glance of his master's true might.
"Rise, my Harold," the master commanded. "For I bear gifts."
"Master…" the boy began to protest, but was quickly silenced.
"It is as well you have forgone a tunic, for I bestow on you a cloak as my first gift," Vastator Mortis revealed. From his very robes then emerged a garment of the blackest black.
Sensing his master's will, Harold reached for the gift and gingerly put the sleeveless, hooded cloak about him.
"This Mantle of Darkness," Vastator Mortis rasped, his voice giving way to a slight cough, "Shall connect you to the sorceries of shadow. With it, you can become one with the darkness itself. Unseeable, undetectable, untouchable to all but the greatest of wizards."
"Master…" Harold spoke with complete gratitude, but the Lord of Mortis held up his right hand…and held out his wand with the other.
"Do…do you mean?" Harold stammered, uncomprehending of the gesture.
"Do you know the significance of this wand?" Vastator Mortis asked. Knowing Harold's answer, he continued on. "Upon his death, Salazar Slytherin left his descendants three heirlooms of significance, one of which was his very own wand of snakewood."
Harold gulped.
"Sadly, this is not the very wand he built," the Heir of Slytherin said with a hint of regret. "The Irish branch of the Slytherin line ended with a traitor who buried her heritage. However, the wand Salazar built with his own two hands would not be so easily dismissed. It grew into a mighty snake tree, from which I plucked wood to construct a new wand."
As his master outstretched his hand further, Harold gingerly took hold of the noble wand. He felt serpentine sorcery etched deeply into the wand, and he instinctively guessed not all came from Slytherin's legacy. In fact, the base of the wand felt like…
"Nagini?" Harold blurted out with a quick glance at the python.
"Salazar used a horn of his familiar for his wand's core, I used a fang of my familiar for mine," Vastator Mortis commented, before reaching into his arm to cough. Repeatedly.
"Master!" Harold exclaimed.
"I cannot provide you with this wand beyond today, I am afraid," Vastator Mortis hissed raggedly. "But, loathe as I am to admit it, I will need your aid. And you will need the wand."
"Whatever you ask, I shall do!" Harold promised fervently.
"As you can clearly see, this host does not have much longer," the dark lord rasped. "Fortunately, my new host will join us this evening for dinner."
The inferi had been dismissed from view, so when a wizard of his mid-twenties made the final approach to Manor Mortis, Harold stood outside to greet him. When his azure eyes met maple-brown, he smiled welcomingly.
"Professor Quirrell," Harold welcomed with a bow of head. "I am honored to welcome you to our abode. I trust your journey has been safe."
"Y-yes it has," the Hogwarts professor answered with a slight hitch of his voice. Doubtlessly, a soon-to-be Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher could feel the aura of the Mortis domain.
"Please do not be discomforted by the magic that surrounds our house," Harold placated. "We are simply a traditional family."
"Yes," Quirrell remarked warily. But with a boy leading the way, the Hogwarts professor surmised he could not be in any true danger from his correspondent.
Harold led the professor to the dining hall, where at the head of a seven-seat obsidian table sat his master. The boy walked to his usual place at the right of the head and encouraged the professor to sit across from him.
"Welcome," Vastator Mortis greeted, speaking in English for the first time in months. Having prepared his host body with various potions and elixirs for a final performance as a healthy man entering his middle age, the dark lord radiated seniority and handsomeness.
It also helped that he alchemically altered his body's eyes to match Harold's.
"Thank you for inviting me, Mr. Mortis," Quirrell returned. "I have learned much from our correspondence, and it is a true pleasure to meet you at last."
"The pleasure is all mine, I assure you," the Destroyer of Death returned, before motioning for Harold to bring forth the first course.
While inferi typically cooked for Harold, they were at this point too used to modern British cuisine to produce a dinner plucked from the Elizabethan era. As Heir to House Mortis, Harold gladly took the task of putting his cooking skills to good use.
As Harold returned with beef stew, bacon, goose pie, roasted veal and custard, he found his master and their guest already in earnest conversation regarding their fire-scrying conversation. Apparently, upon learning that the former Muggle Studies professor was returning from a year-long sabbatical to serve as Hogwarts' next Defense instructor, Vastator Mortis introduced himself as a father undecided about sending his son to Hogwarts due to the teaching quality of the last decade. He raised questions that piqued the intellectual curiosity of Quirrell, and an earnest correspondence ensued.
"It is truly sad how much propaganda overshadows the subject materials now," Quirrell bemoaned. "Dueling has been abolished as an upper-year elective, Charms religiously focuses on enchantments to ward off dark magic, and my predecessor devoted Defense Against the Dark Arts to white magic exclusively. If Stupefy and Petrificus Totalus are the most aggressive combat spells students are taught, how can any who learn solely from Hogwarts be prepared to fight for their life?"
"Truly concerning," Vastator Mortis remarked.
"But I promise that I will change that," the young professor said earnestly. "And if I get resistance, I will simply argue that with the six incoming students whose parents had ties to the Death Eater movement, it is only prudent to prepare the other students for any hallway shenanigans."
"Well, the accused Death Eaters in five of the six families you mentioned did receive full pardons from the Wizengamot," Vastator Mortis conversationally countered.
"The headmaster certainly doesn't believe in their innocence, with him homeschooling Harry Potter for the next year or two," Quirrell divulged.
Both Mortises raised an eyebrow.
"Apparently, the headmaster does not have faith in his own school's curriculum, but he is okay with stunting every wizard who wasn't born to an old family," Quirrell huffed. "No offense to you, of course."
"None taken," Vastator Mortis smiled. "Harold, what are your thoughts on the Hogwarts curriculum?"
Though he knew they were prolonging the conversation so the suggestive potions laced in the food would do their work, Harold legitimately pondered the question. He would, unfortunately, be subjected to this curriculum for five years.
"The weaker the wizards of the next generation, the less work for the Ministry's aurors," Harold answered. "And I'm sure the bureaucrats would keep their guard dogs muzzled too, before they get ideas."
"So you think it is mainly the Ministry, and not Dumbledore?" Quirrell asked before the master gave him leave.
Harold nearly hexed the wizard for his impertinence, but he deferred to the staying command he felt from the lord of his house.
"Maybe they're interchangeable, with Dumbledore as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot," Harold offered. "But I think it serves both of their purposes. The bureaucrats fear another revolution, and Dumbledore would prefer to secure the loyalty of his followers before he trains them properly."
"An astute assessment," his master approved.
"Perhaps Dumbledore would have more followers if he were not so removed from his students from the beginning," Quirrell commented bitterly.
"If I may say, it sounds as though you do not hold much love for your headmaster," Vastator Mortis observed.
"Headmaster Dumbledore is a great wizard, perhaps the greatest from the time of the Founders," Quirrell began cautiously. "But I fear his rivalry with the Dark Lord Gellert Grindelwald in his younger years has made him too dogmatic to see magic objectively. Much less properly encourage its study."
Harold filed a mental note to ask his master about this Grindelwald at a later date.
"But has this not always been a feature of Hogwarts leadership?" Vastator Mortis prodded Quirrell. "Legend has it that one of Salazar Slytherin's primary grievances with his fellow founders was their disallowance of a dark arts course."
"Sometimes…sometimes I wonder," Quirrell allowed.
"Perhaps it is time for our second course," the Destroyer of Death directed Harold.
The boy sorcerer wove his master's wand through the air and enchanted the dishes from the first course to softly move down the table. Temporarily retreating to the kitchen then, Harold returned with a selection of roasted lamb, roasted rabbit, roasted capon and baked venison. At the center of this new selection, he placed a sauce he specially made for their guest.
"You must try this sauce!" Vastator Mortis urged as he poured an ample amount over his modest helpings. "It is pure majesty."
Harold beamed, even though the praise was for Quirrell's benefit. Now that the professor acted in a more pliable manner, it was time to reinforce his body for the initial pains of the dark lord's entrance. What better agent than sauce cooked from unicorn blood?
"Delicious!" Quirrell genuinely complimented before adding more of the sauce to his food. Faint smiles graced the lips of the Mortises at this sight.
"We have spoken much regarding the curriculum of Hogwarts," Vastator Mortis began. "But what social atmosphere would young Harold encounter should he go to Hogwarts?"
"Not to be too forward, but do you have an idea of what house you would be sorted into?" Quirrell asked.
Receiving his master's permission to be frank, Harold answered he would go to Slytherin.
"That is what I thought you would say," Quirrell accepted gravely. "Slytherin has fallen on hard times recently. For centuries, half of Britain's young dreamed of sorting into the house. But after the Death Eater crisis, Slytherin students are now shunned by the rest of the school. From the moment you are placed into the house, most of your classmates will think you to be a 'blood supremacist,' a 'muggle hater,' and 'a dark wizard'."
Harold held back a smirk. He would be unworthy of the Slytherin tongue if he were not those things.
"Do you believe most Slytherin students to be sympathetic to purity or darker magic, whether by upbringing or reinforcement at the school?" the Heir of Slytherin asked.
Quirrell shook his head vigorously.
"They maintain an appearance of unity in front of the other houses, but only a minority seem to truly support the Death Eater movement," he elaborated. "And fewer still would have raised their wands for it. Having four roommates with Death Eater connections, should Harold be sorted into Slytherin, would be a situation unique to his year alone."
The Mortises shared a look at this troubling news.
"But you do not have to worry about his safety," Quirrell misinterpreted. "For all the criticisms I have given the headmaster, I promise he will ensure the safety of your son. He has none of the incompetence of his predecessor."
Harold hoped he could learn to replay his memories some day so he could laugh loud and long at the things the professor said.
"By the time Harold arrives at your castle, I am sure no student will pose a threat to him, Dumbledore or not," the master assured.
"Then it is certain? You will send him?" Quirrell asked with undisguised excitement.
Harold's jaw tensed momentarily at the assumption. Had it not been for the wretched Dumbledore, he would never set foot in that magic-forsaken castle. However, the babbling professor at least proved informative.
"He will go," the Heir of Slytherin affirmed. "In fact, in honor of this decision, how about you bring forth the wine?"
Harold rose to retrieve it, barely keeping the bounce out of his step. The wine was crafted not from pressed grapes, but the blood of his master's current host body. This would form a faint corporeal thread to ease the dark lord's transition.
Enchanted by the robust meal, Quirrell did not notice the artificial flavor of his drink. The compounding inebriation weakened his mind as the conversation carried on, leading the professor to offer significant details regarding his colleagues and students.
"The groundskeeper will become a professor soon?" Vastator Mortis questioned with a raised eyebrow.
"Quite amazing isn't it, given Hagrid was expelled when he was a student!" Quirrell voiced.
"It certainly seems Dumbledore is opening Hogwarts' doors. You mentioned the Charms professor is half-goblin?" the Heir of Slytherin inquired.
"It is unknown how much goblin blood he possesses, but yes," Quirrell affirmed.
"Mmm," the Heir of Slytherin hummed neutrally. Harold on the other hand swallowed bile at the thought of a spawn of bestiality teaching him for five years.
"I promise you, Filius is one of the friendliest professors on the Hogwarts staff. Nothing like a full-blooded goblin," Quirrell directed at Harold.
The boy sorcerer felt his master's displeasure drill through his mind like a glacial spike. This time, he was sure not to show outward signs of his inner thoughts.
"Harold," Vastator Mortis addressed in a deliberate tone. "I believe it is time for dessert."
"Yes, my master," Harold answered eagerly as he reached into his mantle to withdraw his master's wand. "Imperio!" he roared, directing the full force of his will to command Quirrell's submission. The throbbing pain Harold felt from his master's reprimand fueled his imposition of the dark spell.
"Very good," the master appraised. "Now, Quirinus Quirrell, I must reveal the full extent of my intentions. I spoke true when I claimed to be concerned about sending young Harold to Hogwarts, for my apprentice is the closest thing to family I shall ever have. However, I intend to train him for two more years before that. Unfortunately, my current body betrays me. Even now, I can feel it dying. You, however, possess a healthy body in the prime of its youth. I shall commandeer it for myself."
Quirrell's mind attempted to rise against Harold, only for the boy to surge his will forward and wrestle the professor back into submission.
"I suggest that you do not fight. Spare yourself agony and accept bliss," Vastator Mortis advised. "Surely you can feel my apprentice eclipses you in power. He is a boy of a most special kind – I believe many refer to him as 'The Boy Who Lived'?"
Harold smirked at the astonishment of the wizard in front of him, which compounded when he tossed his dark bangs to reveal the lightning-shaped scar above his right eyebrow. Quirrell would have gasped if not held under the Imperius, which naturally allowed Harold to further tighten his mental grip.
"Indeed, Harry Potter, the boy Albus Dumbledore professes to school privately, resides with me," Vastator Mortis announced proudly as he began the final preparations for dislodging his spirit. "This surely gives you insight into who I must be, yes? The one sorcerer capable of mentoring Harold?"
No, it can't be. Not him! Impossible! No, no, no! Quirrell despaired as his will caved further.
The Mortises laughed.
"Shortly, you will have the honor of hosting the greatest sorcerer to grace this world," Lord Voldemort proclaimed. "Not even the fabled Merlin escaped his doom, while I have made a liar of the last Trelawney. Share in my glory, friend. Serve me as none of my Death Eaters did, and your kin shall be blessed!"
In the fading mind of his captive, Harold saw flashes of a freckled, brunet, hazel-eyed boy about his own age. It seemed Quirrell had been especially looking forward to teaching this boy – this nephew!
"Harold will seek this Oliver of yours when he reaches Hogwarts," Vastator Mortis assured. "I believe that with my apprentice's guidance, Oliver will achieve a premier position in my ranks."
Quirrell broke, and Harold took full control over the wizard. The Destroyer of Death looked at the boy sorcerer for confirmation, to which Harold gave an affirmative nod.
"Get ready," Vastator Mortis ordered. Black magic reverberated through the manor as the dark lord's once vigorous Albanian host decayed rapidly. Black mist enveloped the decomposing corpse, growing and density and potency until it freed itself from a shriveled husk.
Harold channeled all his power into freezing Quirrell's body and mind as a tenebrous cloud descended upon the professor. Following his training, he basked in the screeches of Quirrell's soul as a far more powerful being took residence in the body.
When the boy sorcerer believed his master's hold to be secure, he released Quirrell's corporeal form and hissed a soul-binding chant created by his master. Drawing upon the netherworldly aura of the manor, Harold caught Quirrell's spirit just as it was evicted from its former body.
The boy sorcerer opened fully to the spiritual forces that flowed through Manor Mortis and anchored a portion of his power to it. Wrapping the rest of his power about Quirrell's spirit, Harold fervently hissed to root the professor's spirit into the manor's magics.
Though his power was tested like never before, the boy preserved against the final resistances of the wailing astral. Harold wheezed in satisfaction as he felt Quirrell's spirit bound amongst the astrals that served Manor Mortis. He then collapsed to the ground from exhaustion, barely remaining conscious.
"Well done, my most worthy apprentice," Quirrell's voice complimented in the cadence of Lord of House Mortis.
Harold smiled before fading into the bliss of unconsciousness.