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Hogwarts, of course, was ablaze with activity, in spite of the airshow being disrupted. Even though a ghost had set loose every single enchanted cannonball they had in storage, it still teemed with life as none had been lost.

Of course, Malcidor was surprised to see the weapon of his demise show up and save the life of some damsel. Perhaps he'd claim his prize for rescuing the fair damsel but it mattered not to the ghost.

Malcidor, following his ignoble defeat at the hands of what was almost a physicalized deity, had returned. Of course he returned, that's what dark lords did. His form may have been transparent, capable of flight, but he was who he was.

Specifically, a man of commitment, focus and sheer will. He wasn't going to move on, he wasn't done with the world at large.

Which only begs the question, why come to Hogwarts?

To ingratiate himself in the community of ghosts? No.

He was seeking a powerful artifact, of course. Well, three of them. A necromancer of his stature could feel them, these artifacts crafted by death itself.

And of course, to see what the Wizarding world of Britain was celebrating.

Of course, the fame of Voldemort had barely reached the shores of America. He had tried to take over and was defeated by a heroic chosen one. Just as Malcidor himself had been.

Malcidor, eyes made scarlet through the albinism enforced by his magical discipline, set eyes on the small grave which held the Dark Lord. Here lies Tom Marvolo Riddle – may his evil fade from the world, and the lessons never be forgotten.

"An ignoble tomb for such a famed lord of the dark arts," the ghost of Malcidor said.

There was a reply, carried on the wind itself, spoken by seven different mouths with one voice. "And who are you to disturb my imprisonment?"

"I am Malcidor, a peer in the pursuit of darkness, though a stranger to the use of a wand," Malcidor said. "Am I speaking to the shattered soul of Lord Voldemort?"

"You do," Voldemort's many voices confirmed. "I confess to have never heard your name, Malcidor. What brings you to my squalor this horrific night?"

"A chance to pay my respects, and to learn from you the story of three artifacts," Malcidor replied. "I, of course, speak of the Deathly Hallows."

"And why would I speak to you of them?" Voldemort's many voices betrayed many emotions. Irritation. Outrage. Hope. Despair. "When I may yet use them to return from darkness?"

"Oh, I'm afraid your hope is unnecessary, Voldemort," Malcidor said. "I can sense them. I know where they are. I don't need you to find them, I merely wanted to know their history."

Voldemort's voices were wroth, the despair amplified and the hope turned to anguish. "Of course. You are but the first person capable of stirring my broken soul to the waking world, I had hope that perhaps you may use it to assist me that I may then assist you."

"A trite suggestion," Malcidor replied, rolling his eyes. "But not a bad one. But you realize, Voldemort, that while you studied the arts of control, torture and murder, I studied the arousal and binding of ghosts. If I were to bring you back, what makes you think you'd escape my clutches?"

Voldemort's voices spoke as one in a single, enraged and horrified voice. "Leave me!"

Malcidor hummed. "No."

"Leave me!"

"You surprise me, Voldemort," Malcidor continued on. "You see, from one practitioner of the black arts to another, I saw that you confined your studies to mastery and prevention of death. Avoiding death was your obsession, wasn't it?"

"If you had spent any time in this black hell you would know," Voldemort said. "There is no light, there is no joy. None to serve me and none to crush beneath my heel. I am trapped in this horrid box, never to know the joys of life ever again. Never again to taste sweet wine or to feel the scales of my poor Nagini beneath my fingers."

"A horrible fate to be sure," Malcidor said, smirking and trying not to laugh at the drama of it all.

"And you will share it," Voldemort snarled in anger.

"Voldemort, we are both dead," Malcidor informed him. "Yet I am free to roam the Earth as a ghost. But you? You are bound to your grave, your spirit too weak to leave the rotting corpse of your mortal form."

Voldemort didn't answer immediately.

"You see, that's where we truly differed," Malcidor continued, stroking his long, white beard. "I always understood that death was inevitable. The Reaper, I'm afraid, is a relentless hunter who has few rules to follow and there comes a point when all of those rules dictate that we die. But you? You spent all your time, energy and resources trying to cheat The Reaper."

At that moment, Voldemort's many voices, carrying spite and vengeance returned. "A curse upon you. If I had the strength I'd spit on you."

"But alas, you don't," Malcidor continued. "Yet I can move freely, for I spent all my time, energy and resources learning how to return from that endless darkness that awaits all practitioner of the darkest disciplines."

"Then go," Voldemort hissed. "Go restore your life. Leave me to my suffering."

"Oh, but you had that wonderful idea, didn't you?" Malcidor said, his smile carrying the poisonous bile of a rat. "After all, there are things you know that I don't and I'm afraid I will need a fair bit of instruction in the use of those three artifacts. Worry not, Lord Voldemort. Rest well! For on the morrow, you will return to the land of the living as my servant."

"I would rather rot in the depths of hell than serve another." Voldemort's seething spite erupting like a volcano.

"Ah, that's just the thing, isn't it?" Malcidor said. "What you would rather do no longer matters. Ta!"

The ghost rose into the sky, flying over the grave. Regrettably, only two were in the vicinity. The first, as he flew into the woods, a simple stone. It had been taken by a crow up to it's nest and it was swiftly plucked.

He could feel the power of the stone even in his ghostly fingers. Could it restore him to a physical body on its own? Doubtful, but it was on the right track.

The second was ensconced in a white marble tomb, gripped in the hands of an old wizard whom Malcidor neither knew nor cared. He could sense the Wand's power, a perfect and flawless weapon that could defeat anyone. It was a proud thing. An arrogant thing. A useless thing, until it was properly broken and taught humility.

Malcidor would do it, but later.

The last artifact, regrettably, was not here. But, with the two in hand, cooperative or not, he would find the last. Then?

Well, step one was complete.


Author's Note: Yeah, this story sucks. I kind of like Malcidor but...this was not the right way to introduce Davis. It's really, patently obvious that Ms. Rowling's magic system and my system don't really mix well. On top of that, this story doesn't make much logical sense, either. Harry is kind of OOC, the conversation with Rick, Ron and Hermione doesn't really have anything interesting.

Eh.

I'll be honest, though, I'm still glad I wrote it. I gave myself permission to suck, used it and...it was kind of liberating, actually. I mean, obviously I want to write good stories but this project was interesting for my mental health.

Anyway.

Until the next time!

~Fulcon