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Scourge	By : Tainted_Blood_Lust Category: Harry Potter Crossovers > General - Misc Views: 2170 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter franchise. I also do not own the Naruto franchise. I make no money in writing this.

Chapter List
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Scourge – Year of the Immortal

TBL: Hey, hey, hey (fat Albert)! :awkward cough: Yes, anyways... Welcome all to the first chapter of Scourge. Please do not touch anything during the tour – shit's poisonous here. And, if you didn't before, read the warnings from the prologue; they just might come in handy. Also, make sure you check out the NOTES at the bottom. They'll probably clear some things up for you.

Now hang on tight and remember to not piss your pants because it's going to be one bumpy ride.

Disclaimer: I, Tainted_Blood_Lust, do not own the Harry Potter franchise. I also do not own the Naruto franchise. I make no money in writing this.

Also, the definition for 'scourge' is directly from Wikipedia's sister dictionary/thesaurus website. Therefore, it is not mine.

Enjoy.

X

SCOURGE

(n.) a persistent pest, illness, or source of trouble; cause of suffering to people

X

August 21, 1351

I was in the odd and colorful world of –

reachable power, immense and godly in nature

– witches and wizards: Diagon Alley. My –

minder, chaining me already and just when the game had started

– guide was a cheerfully oblivious giant named Hagrid, who was alienating in his stature. I could see those passing giving him looks of distaste, most presumably for his heritage, his difference.

It was a senseless hatred, disgusting and pitiful. Real hatred should have focus and purpose.

This stain on perfection, this vile behavior settled in the back of my mind like –

the beast, but different, something that could not be cherished

– molasses, thick and slow to remove itself. It was an ever-present reminder to –

look over my shoulder, paranoia shifting through and changing my thoughts

– me of the world's cruel disposition, even as I –

evaluated

– marveled at the Alley's many wonderful wares. 'Wares' could be defined in many ways, for mythical pets, potions ingredients, and sentient books counted just as much as –

meat

– the wizards. My imagination, a wild and insatiable creature, presented to me images of what I could be doing if even this society, to which it seemed no laws could apply, would accept me as myself.

Their eyes told stories, grand epics of the human nature. Acceptance of freaks, as a result, was taboo.

Fire raged in my mind's eye, leaping and twisting in a dance lost to mere mortals. The wizards' silent screams privy only to me were beautiful, erotic prophecies of painful deaths.

The first one to see me, flames –

that I could almost hear, speaking in the tongue of demons

– slithering about my body like numerous little snakes, was a woman accompanied by a young child. She held the face of my first kill, so fearful and filled with a permanent sorrow, and the child was a younger clone of her, a matured head on a youthful body making her look –

like a myth, all hidden meaning and dark imagination

– unnatural. They held twin expressions as I walked slowly closer, visages as those of a person in their last moments, ones begging for salvation from an inevitable death. With a single command, hissed in the ancient tongue of snakes, the fiery –

legless dragons, evil incarnate sent to poison the maiden

– creatures swirled down my form in a tornado then raced towards the two. Their eyes widened in tandem, one the shadow of the other, and they began to run, to attempt to escape me. Anger easily filled my soul, combined with a heady excitement to create a potent mixture, one that would later visit me time and time again.

The duo was unable to –

hide from me, their god

– run very far, as the serpents gained ground at a rate reserved for –

nightmares

– creatures outside Mother Nature's realm. The serpents multiplied, and as they reached the woman and child, they transformed into a yajna cyclone, attempting to touch the Spirits with its sacrifice. It reached to the sky with a greedy fervor, sucking out –

life

– oxygen at a rapid pace. The two females burned quickly, skin blackening within seconds.

Watching a living being burn was intoxicating. Just one was not enough, even if only reviewed in the mind over and over again.

Flakes floated off of the duo like an unholy snow, carried by the wind to my position. They blackened my face and clothes, a warpaint for murder. The muscle underneath was revealed next and sizzled, blood boiling into the air.

The very thought of blood being in my breathing air was ecstasy. It was absorbed into my being, a permanent memento of this moment.

As the scent of –

every malicious deity’s grand feast

pork filled the air, I suddenly wished I had left some portion un-torched and readily available to eat.

“'Arry,” a voice called, deep and rumbling. Hagrid, the owner of said voice, broke me out of my –

disconnection from reality

– trance. It was slightly disconcerting to see that I was now –

in real life again

– standing in front of what was apparently a wand shop. It was a rather shabby place with windows so dirty no light shown through, and a sign hung above the door with barely-legible writing. I, not being very learned, sounded it out silently: Ollivander's Wands. Hagrid looked at it with a familiar sense of longing, and I could immediately tell the giant couldn't read those two words. I didn't feel pity but –

a bottomless pit of hatred, dark and eternal

– anger at the populous in general, at their denial of abnormalities. It was not for Hagrid's sake but was something to add to the list of humanity's wrongs.

Justifications were unnecessary for loathing against humans. They were just excuses, made to dress up the truth: humans craved death. Some just followed their calling more than others, but this was seen as wrong and evil. A strange paradox, for sure.

I walked through the battered door first, leaving the giant behind to swim in the deep sea that is sorrowful thought. An invisible bell heralded my entrance, but I ignored the sound, focusing instead on –

the beast, snarling wildly as it was and filled with a blood-colored haze that urged tearing and fire and chaos

– a sudden alertness to danger. I froze, muscles tense and whole body ready for a fight.

Never flight.

I sensed him seconds before the mysterious, otherworldly man emerged from the thick shadows, darkness clinging to his form like a fine mist, even in the dull light from a nearby torch. His eyes, every little part an opaque white, were staring straight through me, and his ability to see was –

the inverse of all that was natural and sacred

– not questioned. We stared at each other, a contest of wills, and yet it was also an unnameable challenge. By what rules we played and their prize were –

unimportant, as rules often were

– unknown to me.

The moment was broken, however, when Hagrid –

intruded

– came in, a different bell tone announcing his arrival. He looked a bit bewildered at the palpable tension in the room but didn't say anything, thus stretching the absence of any sound. I normally didn't mind it, silence being enjoyable in my opinion. Coupled with the dark, it should have been comfortable, even. However, the wandmaker twisted this into a mutated atmosphere, on the verge of uncomfortable.

Then, Ollivander broke the silence with a –

warning, subtle but powerful

– greeting. “Hello, Harry Potter.”

If it were possible to stiffen even more, I did. My name – how did he know my –

identity, the only thing left of parents whom I imagined to be the greener grass

– name?

The beast growled, displeased and seething. It bared too-large dagger-teeth at its foe, a fellow predator.

I didn't reply in turn, though Hagrid gave one in a whisper, the atmosphere demanding it with an iron grasp on the throat. The wandmaker appeared to be unaffected.

“Let us get your wand, then,” he said, and his voice held a gravely, low tone that put one on edge –

predator or prey

– with a single word. Thankfully, he disappeared into a back room and out of sight. I, in his absence, finally looked around at the store.

It was mostly filled with high shelves filled to the brim with ornate, wooden boxes. Each had a subtle magical aura, but together they emitted a strong, almost overwhelming pressure that weighed on the senses and made my neck hairs stand up. It was quite obvious they contained a wand each. Dividing the shelves and the small, open space we stood in was a long, waist-height counter with think dust coating it. Just as my eyes finished roaming the store, landing last on the few torches lighting the room with eternal fire, Ollivander came back with a black box made of some sort of crystal. It was –

beautiful and intoxicating, singing out to me in a song that could reach only my ears

– not very smoothed down, all dips and sharp points. My eyes were glued to it, focus entirely on what I knew to be –

the tool that would change the world

– my wand. My heartbeat quickened, and my breathing changed just the slightest bit, both –

results of an ecstasy that transcended all else

– uncontrollable reactions.

“Unknown dragon shell and half dementor heart core,” Ollivander announced, as if from through a tunnel and –

yet the beast roared, near and deafening, almost tangible

– far away. I reached out with a viper's grasp, striking hard and fast, to grab my wand. The moment I touched it –

the beast rose up, mighty and awesome, more present than ever before

– an electrical shock went through me, exhilarating and energizing. I slowly brought it to my chest, reverence in every move I made. Suddenly, my moment was interrupted when Hagrid shifted a bit towards my form. My head snapped to him, and in an unconscious gesture, my –

teeth were bared, mentally and physically, a creature standing over a fresh kill, defensive and yet fully prepared to harvest more

– eyes narrowed. A shocked look took a hold of the giant, and his subconscious –

bowed out, sensing a great predator among the trees, cloaked then abruptly revealed

– urges made him take a step back, an obvious and empowering gesture.

The wandmaker broke the silence and interrupted the scene, saying, “May the Spirits aid you in your journey.”

It was a strange saying, yet clear in its dismissal. My handle on my new wand tightened as –

images, terrible and hateful things, filled my head with Ollivander's utter destruction

– a dark emotion possessed me, fueled by –

the beast

– his disregard of me. Nevertheless, I glanced to a frozen Hagrid, tossing my head in a clear message. As oblivious as the giant was, he still got it and followed me out.

I could feel the wandmaker's eyes following me intensely, even after I exited the store.

X

September 1, 1351

The small, beat-up boat I was on swayed gently as it was propelled through calm waters and inky darkness by an invisible force. The air was still, proving the force to be a water-based Spirit. Accompanying me was –

an intruder, one for once I couldn’t tear, shred, crunch

– some boy, bushy-haired and curious as to my existence. Despite –

his pathetic excuse for a stalk that nevertheless held potential

– his following me, though, he somehow wasn't an annoyance. It reminded me deeply of a newborn following its mother, seeking protection and advisement.

Humans were all, in a sense, newborns following their mother. Some, those transcended above, could lead them and show them the way to godliness.

I hadn't gotten the boy's name, but in the scheme of things –

names were just useless titles, the truly worthy crafting their own name

– it wasn't important. He was now quiet, maybe basking in the presence of the Boy-Who-Lived like so many wizards who craved to do so. Perhaps, though, he sensed –

the beast

– the atmosphere and the aura I held that demanded silence. He was just like the rest if it were the first option, a normal human being.

Normal, a relative term, was something to be loathed. It meant one was a follower, sheep led by the ram. To rise above, to become the ram, was to be revered.

The Boy-Who-Lived subject was disgusting. Yes, I had survived Voldemort's Killing Curse, and was the only to do so in history. Yes, his rising empire had been halted. But was change something to be hated?

I could respect Voldemort for being –

a monster, so very much like me

– the proverbial ram, a leader of the masses. My future held a similar –

transformation

– rise to power, I was sure. Every wizard expected me to be a figurehead and –

I was, just not in the way it was expected

– an opponent for him. He was more than an opponent to me; he was a rival.

The gasps of every student around me broke me out of my thoughts, and looking up, I saw they were all gazing at Hogwarts, not too far ahead of us.

“Beautiful,” I heard one of them whisper. Beautiful? I criticized the castle with a harsh eye. To me, it seemed –

used, thrown away by its wizards and left to decay over time, an abandoned child destined to die in time

– a bit dark and gloomy, the lit windows doing little to help this. I spotted several toppled over towers, the chunks of stone lain about the grass like misplaced organs. Still, it held an incredible power, probably due to the highly magical ground it was built upon: a long-gone shrine that had been dedicated to Minerva.

The boats soon hit the shore, signaling our journey's end and the edge of Hogwarts' inner wards. Hagrid stepped out, and holding a hand twisted into a certain symbol up, he murmured a long spell under his breath. I didn't catch any of it, but the effect was clear. The wards suddenly became visible, a transparent lavender wall, and then on entrance cut itself into it. There was a flash of the image of some goddess high on the wards, her pose of one praying.

“Well, go on!” Hagrid urged, looking a bit strained at the effort to do a spell without a wand. The students were finally spurred into action, scurrying like timid mice through the hole. Hagrid went last, the wards immediately filling in the hole and going invisible again after him.

X

“Granger, Hermes!” the professor, a stern, old woman named McGonagall, called out into the silence of the Great Hall. Everyone's eyes, most drooping in boredom and showing an impatience for the feast to begin, tracked the boy, as did mine, for he was one of the few that held –

potential, raw and begging to be smoothed out

– my interest.

There were few here – that much was very, very obvious – that could be shown the way. It was rather disappointing. Quality before quantity, though.

The boy, the one from the boat, nervously tip-toed up to the high, wooden stool and sat down before McGonagall placed the ratty old hat on his head. His last visible expression before the hat obscured his face was one of shock with veins of fear running through it. I wondered what exactly went on during the sorting to provoke such a reaction. Perhaps the magnitude of such a powerful and ancient artifact did that.

After several minutes, the magical aura, visible to few, flared, and a seam opened up like a mouth, teeth just below the surface, to scream out his house.

“RAVENCLAW!”

McGonagall pulled off the once-again still hat, and Granger went off to the politely clapping table. A faint wind lazily whirled around his form, and his robes colored themselves a navy blue, while the crest also changed, forming into the Ravenclaw eagle.

The rest of the sorting until my turn took a while, even with the low amount of students to be sorted, and I kept only half an ear on it.

It was a separation, a system meant to mold students into convenient little roles. The houses were barriers in the children's minds, uncrossable walls not worth the effort. The less they stuck together, the less things changed – divide and conquer.

“Potter, Harry!” the old witch called. I caught a hint of –

involvement, a necessary duty for a reason not yet known

– interest in her eyes. The rest of the school was less subtle, most straightening up for –

the wrong reasons

– the Boy-Who-Lived, their living idol. They were still silent, though, as years of discipline had trained them. A thousand or so different pairs of eyes were directed at me, the collective gaze very intense.

I walked to the stool with an air of confidence and –

the beast growling in pleasure at the challenge ahead

– my head held high. I sat on the stool with the grace of a noble, and before the lowered hat covered my face, I gave them them all a look that signified my superiority.

Quite the mind you've got here, a voice, rumbling and dark, sounded in my mind, echoing in that way powerful beings tended to use.

The beast rose up swiftly, furious and just a tad bit curious. It bared its teeth in warning. All others were powerless, for this was its domain.

The voice chuckled and announced in a whisper, ah, something I have not seen in quite some time.

I got the feeling it was giving a crooked little smile, its amusement dark.

Such a hard one to sort, the hat said, and I knew that it was thrilled at the prospect instead of disappointed. It made a 'tsk' sound a few times. Slytherin or Gryffindor for this one? It's such a hard decision...

Slytherin or Gryffindor, it didn't matter to me, quite frankly. Either way –

I would continue to rip, maim, kill and to get what I wanted, one way or another

– my rise was assured.

The hat laughed again, as if privy to my thoughts. It randomly said, such fire...

Briefly, the image of shifting fire wrapping its claws around the widow's house entered my mind before it was suppressed.

The beast twined itself around its domain like a basilisk, fatal eyes daring anyone to enter.

You'll do well, the hat said, and I got a sense of smugness. Set aflame the world from – GRYFFINDOR!

The last part was yelled aloud to the crowd, and I caught the end of it as the hat was lifted off of my head, the world making itself known once more. I hopped off and went to the excitedly clapping table, all of whom looked about ready to stand up and cheer. A few of the first years were wildly gesturing for me to –

indulge them

– come over, but I ignored the fools. As I sat at a section near the doors, the steady, strong flames that had been surrounding me finally extinguished, but I could sense their reluctance to leave. My crest had changed to the Gryffindor symbol, a golden lion composed of fire, and my robes to a deep crimson that –

reminded me strongly of raw flesh, pulsing and ready to be devoured

– was a rather nice color.

The table quieted down after several glares from the professors, and I was glad for it. The rest of the sorting passed without much excitement. Still, I eyed Ron Weasley closely; the Slytherin was sure to be one of interest.

X

October 13, 1351

Classes had been going by quickly so far. They were easy at this point, even if they had been getting progressively more difficult. Magic just seemed –

far too easy to bend, to shape with my will

– to come naturally to me, a fact my peers were envious of. To make it worse, I read many, many books, earning a dubious position in Gryffindor, as they, as a general rule, loathed books.

No knowledge would be hidden, no matter the cost. Knowledge was power, and power lead to godliness.

The Gryffindors, being sorted as thus because their main element was fire, were a temperamental bunch. Thus, they had ostracized me without much of a thought. The rest of the houses seemed disinterested after the hero worship wore off, something that provoked contradicting feelings. On one hand, I deserved to be –

worshiped

– remembered; on the other, they, in the end, were mostly insignificant, undeserving maggots. Though, while they ignored me, I didn't ignore them, especially those that had interested me on the first day.

One such boy had turned out to be a failure – name: Draco Malfoy. His true personality had been revealed in time, and it was a disgusting thing. His inevitable and eventual elimination would be wondrous.

Currently, I was in Potions class, brewing by myself. There was an odd number of children in the joint Slytherin-Gryffindor class, and almost automatically, I had been left to make that day's potion on my own. It, though enjoyable, was a slow-going class, as a potion always required a decent amount of time to brew. Still, the results were worth it, making me want to create –

vile concoctions spoken only of in back alleys in the dead of night, forbidden things with infinite possibilities and power

– some on my own time.

I was broken out of my thoughts when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. A flash of yellow-white assured me it was Draco Malfoy's doing. A stray ingredient not on the list for today, a rooster heart to be exact, soon came flying toward my cauldron. The intent was clear to me, as I knew it would explode my current brew with the faint possibility of it releasing a fatal, invisible gas. As entertaining as that would be, I was still in the room, and thus, not having –

an empire, my visions for the future, the world in flames

– a death wish, I caught it, squeezing tightly, as it was slippery with spell-preserved blood. The crimson liquid began to flow down my arm and stain my hand, so I brought it out of cauldron range. Catching Malfoy's eye, I, unable to help myself with such a temptation, licked a path up my wrist, tasting the slightly spicy blood of a rooster. His eyes widened in a familiar fear, and I could –

hear his inner thoughts of terror in my imagination, sense his nature: prey

– tell he would think twice about doing something like that again.

Snape looked up right after my display and seeing the heart in my hand, immediately swooped over like a vampire descending upon a victim.

“Mr. Potter,” he whispered in a dark tone, “what do you think you're doing?”

I spoke bluntly, “Draco Malfoy threw this at my cauldron, and I caught it.”

He stayed silent for a moment, and I could see –

his battle of wills against his own mind

– the conflict within his eyes. Snape had an obvious prejudice against me, for reasons probably best left untouched. He always tried to put me down and make a fool of me in front of my peers, though I was –

above that, their matters of a lower importance, and a budding hyena amongst the masses of antelope

– too intelligent for that. Some of his insults amused me in their level of mediocrity.

Such a pathetic, pitiful man he was.

However, anyone with a brain (or even half of one) could tell that potions were his life and that mistakes in his classroom were not to be tolerated. And Malfoy had crossed that line. Finally, Snape made up his mind and turned to Malfoy, a thunderous expression on his face. The boy paled.

“Mr. Malfoy, is this true?” The Slytherin, wanting to save his own hide, immediately denied it in a suspicious manner. There was a minute of eye contact between the two, and a second-long look of irritation crossed Snape's face. Malfoy turned away first.

“Stand,” Snape commanded. Malfoy didn't move, eyes darting around the classroom to each student's face, looking for some sort of help. None answered him. His eyes landed last on me, and –

the beast took on the guise of Harry Potter

– I gave him a predator's smile. Snape repeated his command with a bit more force, and the boy stod up on shaky legs. Snape stalked over and got in his face.

“Throwing ingredients,” the professor whispered then took a small pause, “is unacceptable.”

He whipped out his wand and flicked it quickly while saying, “Devourer of Souls, judge this weighted and damned offering! Your mighty rage attacks with teeth and claws – come swiftly!”

I felt the rush in power, the rapidly dropping temperature before the red light actually shot out to hit Malfoy.

It was a preview, a short window into the world of deities with power beyond mere mortals. That was something that should be, would be harnessed. Such did not belong in the hands of Spirits.

The students blanched to a sickly color when the boy fell to the floor with a high-pitched, tortured scream. His body spasmed there in a violent manner, eyes rolling to the back of his head. It continued for several minutes, the screaming not stopping once. Finally, it ended when Malfoy banged his head a bit harder against the stones, knocking himself out in a bloody mess.

Throughout the whole thing, I had remained –

pleasantly tingling with a concealed pleasure

– fascinated and alert, searching for every last detail. I soaked it all in, especially Malfoy's pain. As I watched, I vowed to myself to find out more about such spells.

Unconsciously, I licked my lips at the delicious, imagined scenarios that conjured.

X

October 31, 1351

The whole of Hogwarts, professors and students alike, was in the Great Hall, eating supper. I was tearing into some bloody steak myself, pretending it was Malfoy.

Then, Quirrell, the Light Arts professor, ran in, slamming the doors open with a loud bang. He had a panicked look on his face, one of terror and desperation.

“Troll!” he shouted, waving his arms in the air madly in incomprehensible gestures. “Troll, troll! It's there – in the dungeons!”

After that, he screamed –

at an invisible image in his head, looming over common sense to overshadow it

– in fright – and fainted abruptly. The student body, despite their discipline, created full out chaos. The majority stood up, whether in order to escape or for bravery. Some rushed about for whatever reason. I just sat and continued to eat, calm as ever.

“SILENCE!” Dumbledore yelled over them, gaining just that immediately. He gave us an extremely disappointed look. He eyed us all up in –

a calculating

– an annoyed way. The headmaster continued, “Swiftly – and calmly – go to the Safety Room. All first year students, please follow your respective Head of House if you do not know the way. The remaining professors shall deal with the problem. Do not leave the Safety Room until such orders are given.”

The students, with nervous expressions, then did just that after a bit of that confusion that came with such a large crowd. I shuffled behind some older Gryffindors, absently noticing Quirrell was nowhere to be seen, a suspicious occurrence to be sure. Some first year Slytherins passed by, gossiping all the way. Normally, this wouldn't interest me, and I did indeed tune them out. However, something filtered through that immediately had me stopping in my tracks.

“I can't see Weasley here again.” A snicker. “He must be wandering about.”

“I hope so. Bastard should be killed by the troll, hopefully...”

Weasley was missing? My eyes narrowed, thoughts racing through my mind. Decision made, I abruptly changed direction to sneak off away from the herd; I had to protect my interests.

X

It took a while to find Weasley, especially with what little information I had. He turned out to be in a bathroom on the fourth floor, far away from –

help, the inhabitants of Hogwarts as they huddled together in fear

– the Safety Room. I entered it to hear suppressed sobs coming from one of the stalls by the far wall. I stopped at the entrance, contemplating how to go about this.

And then, there came a rumbling from behind me and down the hall, heavy footsteps hitting stone. There was also a sound like something big was being dragged.

My eyes narrowed to green slits, body slowly –

transforming into the beast

– turning to face that direction. A growl, primal and low, issued from my throat at the sight that greeted me: the troll. My attention focused on it, and I vaguely noted the sobbing noises ceasing.

“Shouldn't have come here,” I spat out, voice –

that of the beast's, its control exerted over my body

– deep and gravely. The troll, an oblivious creature lacking in intelligence, finally spotted me, and it let out a deafening roar, a battlecry.

It repeated from within the beast's domain, a more horrible and terrifying noise that chilled to the bone.

It lumbered toward me, going as fast as its tree-trunk legs would carry it. Still, it was slow, and I had to wait for it to be in optimal range. As soon as the troll crossed that –

boundary between life and death

– invisible line, I called out a spell, one I had only read of, it being advanced for my age. “Vulcan, forge thy sword and thrust it thus into the vat of eternal fire! Your enemy is lanced from Olympus with the wrath of a thousand wicked suns!”

The spell, intended to create a moderate blast of fire, instead formed a yellow-white lance made entirely of –

godly power

– fire above my head. And though it didn't harm me, I could feel its intense heat, hotter than any forge I knew of. This only lasted for several seconds before an unseen hand threw it forcefully, leaving it speeding towards the troll. The lance hit without sound, piercing through thick hide as the lance were material. The creature stopped abruptly and looking down, was uncomprehending. It reached out a massive hand to touch the weapon with a puzzled expression.

Then, it exploded, erupting in a giant sphere of expanding flames. The force of the resulting wave of air pushed me back a fair bit. I closed my eyes against the blinding white light that accompanied it and was left unseeing a minute after that. When my sight returned, I could see –

another thrilling death at my hands, beauty made tangible

– that the troll had been torn in half by the explosion. The two pieces had split just under the sternum, and rib bones poked out like spears from the top part. From the bottom part, intestines spilled out like ragged, discarded ropes. Other organs lay spread about, scattered far by the spell's force. Blood pooled in a large lake around the dismantled corpse, and buckets of it had been splattered on the walls and floor. There was a small patch of it just before my feet, not quite touching yet wholly eyecatching.

Thirst hit like a sledgehammer, demanding a life, that crimson liquid flowing freely from a severed head and just begging to be lapped up.

A shocked gasp intruded upon my thoughts, reality coming back into focus. I turned slowly, eyes blazing with –

bloodlust and that high that accompanied a successful kill

– rage, to face who I immediately knew to be Weasley, even without seeing him. He had the look of one shocked to the core and terrified for his life yet still disbelieving of the obvious truth, pale and shaking. His cerulean eyes were as wise as they could go, eyebrows disappearing into his hairline.

I opened my mouth to comment but was interrupted by the sound of footsteps hurriedly falling on stone. Thinking quickly, I grabbed Weasley and pulled him to the shadows of one of the bathroom's corners. Just in time, it seemed. I pushed both of us closer to the corner, narrowed eyes examining –

the bastards that dared intrude

– Severus Snape and Narcissa Malfoy, the Dark Arts professor. They were conversing in harsh whispers, despite the apparent lack of witnesses.

“-heard that this is his fault.” Malfoy gave an unladylike growl, frustrated at whatever the matter was.

“It cannot!” Snape almost roared in his rage, just barely keeping it down. “He is gone – destroyed! Not coming back!”

He was huffing with repressed emotions, and I could tell he was close to a breakdown. I wondered at just who could get unflappable Snape to degrade like this.

“Do not rule out anything,” his fellow co-worker spoke cryptically. He fell silent, a troubled expression contorting his face. They then finally glanced upon –

my art

– the troll, quickly turning grave.

“This was done by a student,” Snape stated, a subtle, bitter loathing coating his voice.

“Perhaps,” Malfoy replied, and she knelt down to get a closer look without touching it. Her face scrunched up in disgust as the smell became more pungent. Nevertheless, she shifted closer and sniffed the dead troll. She observed, “Smells like ozone, and the flesh looks burnt in some places.”

“Fire Arts, then,” Snape said mostly to himself as he took on a contemplative look, lost in his thoughts. Malfoy stood up and turned to him.

“Let us report to Dumbledore,” she suggested, breaking Snape from his pondering. He eyed the troll one last time before he absently nodded. He led the way, cloak billowing behind him like some black ghost. Malfoy followed, and they were out of range quickly. After that, I emerged from the shadows, pulling a slowly recovering Weasley with me. I turned on my heel sharply to face him, face contorted into a dangerous expression. I had my wand out and pointed at him, and he grew pale as he saw the tip glowing –

with the color of his potential death

– red.

“You saw nothing,” I whispered darkly into his ear. I then grinned –

with the face of the beast

– viciously, and Weasley nodded frantically in response. I let him go, stepping back with that grin still dominating my face. He hastily ran off, and I watched him with a predator's gaze the whole way.

X

December 22, 1351

It was the Winter Solstice, and most of the students had gone home to celebrate. It was unsurprising that the wizarding population observed this instead of Christmas. After all, the Christians were the biggest persecutors of my kind, and having a party in honor of this Christ man, the whole reason for the persecution, was a certain kind of heresy, a betrayal to wizard brethren.

Cannibalism was another kind of treachery, and to the whole of humankind. It was one far more enjoyable, though.

I would rather not return to the Dursleys any time soon –

as I would be likely to murder them in a most brutal way, something that this early was far ahead of schedule

– and thus was staying at Hogwarts for the time off from schooling. During my stay here, I had been freely exploring the castle in more depth, as I had only seen a limited amount so far, not having much time to spare normally. It was an easy task to avoid being caught wandering after hours (students were forbidden to be out of their common room or bed after the sun had been fully engulfed by the night). The shadows helped greatly in this.

The shadows almost seemed sentient, powerful monsters lingering in this plane, chained and unable to express their rage. They held favorite mortals, clinging to the form with a deceptively caring touch.

I was currently wandering in a hallway that held empty rooms filled with various knickknacks, forgotten by all and left to degrade. I looked into a room on occasion, not wanting to peruse them all because of their massive quantity. So far, I had found nothing of interest. I was about to go back and give up on this section of the castle but then decided to check out one last room.

I walked in the small space with low expectations. In it, however, I found –

something deceitful in nature, an otherworldly portal to the deepest recessives of my heart in a guise wholly unsuited to it

– a mirror, taller than me and surrounded by a pure gold frame. It was had a simple beauty about it with no elaborate etchings on it, just simple vines creeping up the sides. The mirror itself was a shiny black with little ability to reflect. Dark violet, smoky swirls lazily drifted about in the black, barely visible. Above it, a strange set of seemingly nonsense words was written in fancy cursive.

Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.

I wondered what they meant, if they were –

a line meant to enchant, drawing in the unwary with a call unlike any other

– in another language or simply letters thrown together. I said them aloud slowly, unsure of the –

results

– pronunciation. As soon as the last syllable left my lips, the mirror suddenly began to clear, a regular glass color spreading out from the edges and rapidly taking over the black region. The purple swirls sped up their dancing then vanished in the blink of an eye. I stepped forward out of –

a strange, magnetic compulsion

– curiosity. A meter away, I could see my reflection in it, but there was something –

evil lurking in its depths, a perverted parody of all things natural and right

– wrong with it. Proving this, my mirror image moved on its own, like a demon trapped in there with the ability to mimic life. It first grinned with shark's teeth, three rows of razor-sharp triangles predicting death.

The beast just bared its own teeth back, taking this as the challenge it was.

Its mouth closed with the smile remaining on red lips, and I wondered how they all fit. It lifted a wickedly clawed hand to wave hello, a disturbing glint in unnatural green eyes. Then, it mouthed something, all through that grin.

Your heart's desire.

Suddenly, the image changed, now showing –

a fantasy of mine, depraved and delicious

– my inverse crouched down low to the bottom of the mirror, hunched over something. I quickly realized what that something was – the bloody corpse of my first kill. She had chunks missing in the shape of a mouthful, rows of teeth marks on the flesh. After ripping off another one, my inverse looked up as it was crunching the raw meat and swallowing it down. Its face was a mess, bits of the woman littering it to the background of skin completely painted with crimson. It lifted its face to stare upward at something and silently laughed. I could hear the chilling sound echoing in my mind.

My lips twitched at first as it continued on, wanting to form an identical grin. I let it do so with a sinful delight simmering in my eyes. A bubble of demented laughter escaped me, and quickly, a full-blown version developed. It bounced off of the room's walls, creating a cavernous effect.

I stopped abruptly as my bloodthirst, before growing slowly but steadily behind the scenes, hit me like a monsoon, sweeping me along with a swift, monstrous force. My craving for flesh, ever-present beneath the surface, now snarled and dug in with fishhook claws.

I would not deny it.

X

I was in the Forbidden Forest, having run here after my interaction with the –

demon-infused portal

– mirror. I was silently stalking for a meal, looking for a substitute for a human, as that option was unavailable to me. So far, I had found small things, like rabbits, and unreachable birds sitting high in their posts. I froze several minutes into my quest, hearing a horse-like snort to my left. I turned to that direction and stealthily moved forward after whispering a barely audible spell to turn myself temporarily invisible and soundless.

“Neith, the sacred hunt begins with your given gifts. Sight and sound are veiled as the master approaches the prey, bow at the ready.”

As I got closer, I saw what it was: a unicorn. It was –

pure and untainted by the world, a rare delicacy to the corrupted

– a shining white, luminescent in the moonlight. Its mane and tail were a gray-silver, flowing lightly in the night's gentle wind. A spiraling golden horn sat atop its head, pointing toward me as it grazed on the grass below. Large eyes, all white and having the guise of being blind, roved around slowly. However, they darted around quickly as the unicorn raised its head in sudden, startled alertness. I, having apparently crossed the line into its awareness, ceased movement.

All except the motion of a tongue licking thin lips, hunger in mind.

The creature neighed, moving about nervously and stamping its hooves in agitation. Obviously, it sensed –

the beast not bothering to hide its presence, waiting patiently for the reward

– me, the lack of purity in my soul. As its confusion and movement increased, I knew I had only one chance at this and that it was now. I hastily devised a half-baked plan, unfortunately not having very much time to work out the details.

Taking full advantage of my invisibility and silence, I rushed forward, grabbing the unicorn's mane before it had a chance to do anything and used it to hoist myself unto its back. Immediately, it panicked and bucked to attempt to dislodge me. I gripped the handful of its mane with one hand, the other holding onto the horn, in order not to be flung off. The instant my hand wrapped around the gold spiral, the unicorn let out a long, disturbing –

cry to the Heavens, full of despair and askance for a help that would never come

– wail and struggled even harder. I was barely hanging on now and furiously cursing the fact that I couldn't get out a spell like this. Then, an idea, terrible and grand, came to me.

With all my might, I pulled at the horn, making the creature wail again.

The beast helped freely in this task, excited at the prospect of what was to come. Its strength seemed a bottomless pit, comparable to the Spirits.

Harder and harder I pulled until it broke at the base, leaving only jagged peaks. The unicorn's eyes rolled in the back of its head, and time seemed to stand still as I quickly reversed my grip on the detached horn and drove it with that same strength through –

innocence

– the unicorn's skull into its brain. The tip skewered to the underside of its jaw with little effort, leaving a few centimeters sticking out on wither side. Blood, a strange opaque white color that shined, flew out in an inevitable spray, coating the creature's head and myself. It fell in clumps to the ground in thick rivers that started at the top to join the gushing wound below. Some of it had landed on my mouth, and I reached out my tongue to taste –

the product of my damned deed

– its sweetness. The blood tasted of –

ambrosia

– sugar with a hint of something spicy, the flavor exploding on my taste buds. As I jumped off the unicorn when it began to fall, I knew I needed to have more. I immediately set upon the corpse, eagerly sinking my teeth into its meaty flank. The blood had tasted better than the meat, but both still ranked in the top five best flavors. Even the fur did not bother me, the fine hair like the sweetest honey.

A feast fit for the greatest of kings.

I ate with an insatiable hunger, something coming from –

the beast

– deep inside. It seemed as if my stomach were a bottomless pit, forever craving more. However, this was denied to me when I heard shouting from not too far away with the sounds of someone hurriedly tearing through the forest accompanying it. With a barely audible snarl, I abandoned my meal, knowing they were coming straight my way. My spell had worn off by now, and it would not do to be seen. Thus, I swiftly and expertly made my way up an ancient tree to perch in a sturdy branch.

That someone turned out to be two people – Snape and Quirrell to be exact.

“W-why did you w-want to meet h-here o-of all p-places?” Quirrell asked in his usual stutter, and I could see from my position that he was terrified beyond belief. For what reason remained to be seen. He was following Snape, who suddenly stopped his fast-paced walking to turn around to face Quirrell. The Light Arts Professor, not being prepared, bumped into him, paling as he hastily backed away. His whispered apology was ignored.

“I thought we should make this a bit more private meeting,” Snape replied in a promising tone, a demented little quirk of the lips briefly appearing. It dropped in favor of a grave frown as he took in the unicorn's corpse, having finally walked into the clearing where my meal lay. He muttered something inaudible under his breath, looking faintly worried. Quirrell, upon catching sight of it, let out a small scream.

“It's d-dead!” he whimpered, brown eyes darting to Snape's form. The other man gave him a wry look that clearly stated that Quirrell was being obvious.

“Yes,” was all he said as he crouched down to get a better look. He eyed the bite marks with curiosity and puzzlement, fingers reaching out but not quite touching. Quirrell looked ready to say something in objection but then closed his mouth when Snape got up. Ignoring the unicorn now, he turned to the other professor, all seriousness. He asked a seemingly random question, “Did you know that someone has attempted to steal the Philosopher’s Stone, Quirrell?”

At this, the mentioned professor became –

calculating, something dark hidden deep in his eyes coming to life and taking notice

– nervous, hands absently twisting together in a classic gesture.

Quirrell's fear was a strong smell in the beast's nostrils, bringing excitement to it.

“O-oh, they h-have?” Quirrell asked –

in perfect imitation

– timidly, not once looking up.

“Yes,” Snape hissed darkly, stalking closer to the other man. He continued in a low whisper, “I have my suspicions, Quirrell.”

He leaned in, mere centimeters from the other professor. “And I have my eye on you. Every time you sleep, eat, and shit, I will be watching you.”

Quirrell then finally looked up, this time gazing directly into Snape's black eyes with –

that deeply hidden thing revealing itself for those precious few seconds, issuing its challenge

– a different perspective, personality apparently flipping. In a quiet tone that spoke of danger and playing with fire, he replied, “You're welcome to try.”

The Light Arts professor gave Snape his own demented little grin, somehow managing to make it more. And with that, he turned around, heading towards Hogwarts at a swift pace. Snape glanced one more time at the unicorn behind him, silent in the aftermath and contemplating of this new twist. He followed after Quirrell several minutes later, disappearing into the dark of the forest with naught a sound. I watched him the whole time, shifting minutely on my branch in interest.

Just what was this Philosopher’s Stone?

X

May 31, 1352

Immortality – that's what the Philosopher’s Stone was.

I had finally found –

the beginning of my dreams made reality, the first tool required to build my empire

– this out by sneaking into the Restricted Section of the library (a quarantined collection of books that were of a higher level and more sinister in nature) at night. It had been a small reference in a tiny book entitled Secrets of the Divine, easily missed. This had been the only mention of the Philosopher’s Stone in the whole library (as evidenced by my Locating Charm), and though it was small, it was a goldmine of information. From what I had learned, it was a –

godly

– peculiar stone made by Nicholas Flamel that secreted what was known as the Elixir of Life, a liqiud that somehow provided immortality after being ingested. It also turned lead into gold, something that wizards had been puzzling over for centuries apparently.

The allure of the Philosopher’s Stone was strong, and it was so near, within grasp. With greedy claws and eyes, the beast craved.

However, it was, quite obviously, hidden from the students. I had briefly wondered what such an item was doing here, away from its creator, but dismissed it for the most part. Still, a side of me calculated in its dark corner, looking for –

the motives of Dumbledore, the most likely suspect in allowing the Stone to be housed here

– possible reasons.

In my search for it, I had first used a Locating Charm, an attempt that failed. I figured there was a ward blocking it to prevent something like this, as it was a student's spell. It was worth a try, nevertheless. I had searched the library for information on anti-tracking wards after that, not having the time (or patience) to manually search the whole castle for a sign of the Stone. Listening in to another Snape and Quirrell conversation was also out of the question, being way too risky.

Luckily, there was a potion called the Locating Potion that could circumvent anti-tracking wards. However, the ingredients for it were a bit difficult to obtain. It had taken me until the middle of March to get them all, and it had been completely brewed just today.

I grinned in twisted delight as I walked down the hall to my next class, and students avoided the sight with a few frightened expressions.

The beast bared its teeth as well, a far more dangerous display.

It was time to hunt.

X

I was filled with –

bloodthristy anticipation and fantasies of the violent variety

– a cold, numbing feeling radiating from my stomach, a magical ice. It came from –

knowing someone was ahead, their magical aura easily giving them away, an unwary prey

– the potion I had drunk earlier after solving the word puzzle. It was the last in a series of 'challenges' set up by the professors in order to guard the Philosopher’s Stone. They had been ridiculously easy, and I highly suspected Dumbledore had had a hand in this. There was no way these could possibly keep a full grown wizard away. They were obviously designed for a dim-witted first year. I was highly disappointed.

I shook my head to rid myself of my thoughts and then walked through the border of indigo-purple fire separating me from –

immortality

– my goal. The flames, reaching the ceiling, had blocked my sight before, but now I saw a small, almost empty room with only two things filling it: Quirrell and that –

demonic portal

– mirror I had found in December. Quirrell was muttering to himself, eying the mirror in an angry consternation. He seemed not to have noticed me yet, so concentrated on it as he was.

Images of the possible ends for Quirrell flashed by. One in particular stood out, a vision of slowly peeling his skin off section by section.

With a decidedly sinister grin, I stepped forward and announced my presence by calling out Quirrell's name. He calmly turned around, revealing that he had known I was here all along. His face was neutral and carved of stone, but brown eyes raged silently.

“Potter,” he stated, a sickeningly sweet smile slowly being birthed into existence, “what might you be doing here? This isn't a place for-”

I cut him off silkily, “The same reason you're here, no doubt.”

That smile was abruptly aborted. His stare intensified, but I matched it –

with the beast's basilisk stare

– perfectly. Suddenly, his whole demeanor changed, just like that night in the Forbidden Forest. He gained a look that clearly said he had some big secret to tell me.

“I sense something in you, boy,” Quirrell said with a bare hint of wonder in his tone, “yes, yes, I do. I'm sure of it.”

I didn't tense, even if his suspicions were –

beyond my understanding at the moment, a wicked and powerful revelation just waiting to be unearthed

– correct. He wouldn't be leaving this room alive; I would make sure of it. With no witnesses and just the two of us, it was only a matter of time before –

I had my fill

– his demise. Still, I knew he would put up a fight, and that winning a fair duel with a full grown wizard would be, at this point, relatively improbable. Good thing I didn't follow the rules.

“Do you?” I asked with a vulpine grin, starting to –

circle like a shark scenting blood in the water

– move around him in order to herd him to a better position. Quirrell, to my delight, followed my lead to keep an eye on me, wholly unaware of my plan. By now, we both had our wands out and at the ready by our sides. This fight for the Philosopher’s Stone was inevitable, and both of us knew it would be to the death.

And, finally, he stood where I wanted him to: in front of the mirror. He started to say something, and using his distraction, I quickly raised my wand to point in that direction. He had good reflexes, I admitted, but they were not enough. His wand was halfway to being leveled at me, but that was as far as it got. In an impressive feat for a first year, I cast my Blasting Curse silently, aimed at the fragile glass behind him. The effect was impressive, to say the least.

The reflective surface bulged solidly for a split second, as if there were some force trying to prevent it from breaking. Then, it burst into a thousand little pieces, each deadly in its own right. As Quirrell had no chance to dodge the shards, they flew hard and fast into his back, digging in deep. His screams were Nirvana's call after so long without such.

He fell –

from the possible position of winner

– to the ground, falling hard and undoubtedly bruising something with that landing. He struggled through the pain in a somewhat admirable effort to regain the wand he had lost grip on while falling, hand shakily searching in an almost blind manner and getting cut up in the process. I walked over with a smug expression, and just before his fingertips touched the wand, I brought down a foot on –

his hopes and dreams, his sole chance of survival

– the questing hand. Hard. I delighted in the sound of breaking bones, the fragile yet oh so necessary things snapping like twigs under –

the beast's rage that held no depth, infinite in its reach

– my strength. I chuckled, a low and foreboding sound that spoke –

of my victory and a thousand things both vile and nasty

– volumes.

“Now, now,” I whispered, “none of that.”

Quirrell growled in impotent anger, having been defeated by a mere boy. I ground my foot into his already broken hand, and the growl ended in a pathetic whimper. Satisfied, I took my foot off and crouched, leaning in to put my lips next to his ear. This added a bit of intimacy to the scene and set the mood just right.

There were shivers of a demented elation. Killing was meant to be personal.

“Game over, Quirrell,” I breathed excitedly and then licked my lips in anticipation. I continued, “You should remember me, etch the name of your executioner into your mind permanently. Harry James Potter.”

With a quick motion, I pulled out the knife I had stolen from the Dursleys from my robes and sunk it deep into his forehead.

That first unicorn being impaled by its own horn was replayed. Whoever said history repeated itself was very correct in this. It was welcome to do so.

Quirrell's eyes widened for a split second before he slumped limply in death. I immediately lapped up the blood flowing from the fatal wound, feelings reaching a new high. It had been so long since my last taste of this. However, the cloud starting to envelop my mind receded when I noticed something on the floor behind him, an island in the middle of glass.

The Philosopher’s Stone.

X

June 1, 1352

Albus Dumbledore, back from his meeting that had lasted the previous day and this morning, strode with a surprisingly fast pace to the wall of flames. He dispelled it with a few waves of his wand and a four-line incantation.

“The God King's fire stolen has been taken to the mortals. The Great Pyre burns those who wield it with unworthy hands. Punishment comes on wings of gold with a beak of unending hunger! Let the flames die in justice's wake!”

Snape came in mere seconds later, a subtle worried look upon his face. He walked in to the sight of Dumbledore standing as still as a statue, wearing a hard look and eyes cold and serious. He was staring at the Mirror of Desire and the small sea of glass at its base, at the black abyss that the glass had previously covered. And he stared at the space void of what should have been there: the Philosopher’s Stone.

Snape's gaze stayed with the headmaster for a moment before straying to Quirrell's body among the shards. It was hard to tell how old the corpse was, but he guessed about one or two days, three at the most. What made this so difficult to identify was the fact that Quirrell had been almost completely deprived of his skin, revealing raw muscles to dry in the stagnant air. Only his face remained, mocking the two with Voldemort's snake-and-skull symbol carved into his forehead. Somehow, his lips had been curved into a mock-happy smile after death and stayed that way. Brown eyes seemed to stare directly at Snape, glazed and questioning.

There were small bite marks on the muscles and parts missing, as if someone had eaten him. The thought of it made him queasy, the man's hand twitching in his efforts to hold back the action of it wrapping around his stomach. Snape averted his eyes, unable to look any longer. He had seen some pretty horrible, nightmarish things in his time as a spy for Dumbledore against Voldemort, but this...

“I suspect,” Dumbledore began in a grave tone, “Voldemort is behind this.”

Snape wanted to deny this with conviction, believe that Voldemort had not risen again. But, deep in his black, black heart, he knew that the Dark Lord had something to do with this. Still, his gut feeling, instincts he had learned to trust, told him this was not the whole truth, that the puzzle was incomplete. With years of training born of necessity, he managed to clamp down on his emotions, not voicing anything in response.

“Yes,” Dumbledore said, agreeing with his own theory, “he was attracted by the Stone and his obsession.”

He did not name this obsession, but they both knew all too well what it was: immortality. After all, 'Voldemort' meant 'flight from death' in French – a fitting alias.

“Then,” Snape suggested after a moment of silence, “should we take action?”

“No, I should think not,” Dumbledore replied after some thought. “We should wait, prepare, plan.”

The younger man felt immediate anger coursing like lava through his veins, and even his mental capabilities could not fully suppress it. Wait – wait? That was all the old man had to offer? The Dark Lord, if it was true he was coming back, would not wait. They could not afford to do such a thing! He would slaughter their forces – men, women, and children alike! – if they spent their time planning. No matter how much they prepared, it would not matter on the battlefield, especially since Snape knew Dumbledore's people would argue against each other to the end. The Potions Master wanted to take preventive measures, strike at their heart while Voldemort and his Death Eaters were unprepared.

But, he did not say anything. The look on Dumbledore's face said such an action would be inadvisable. Snape sneered in the safety of his own mind, at Dumbledore and at his own pathetic weakness. Damn his position! Sometimes, on miserable, drunken nights in his quarters, he wished Dumbledore had not pulled him out of Azkaban after the Dark Lord's fall, that he had not accepted that offer so sugar-coated that it covered the poison within. Wizarding prison, he acknowledged to only himself, would be preferable.

And thus, with a dark bitterness, Snape obeyed his Master.

X

July 23, 1352

Ah, Diagon Alley, how wonderful it was.

I was currently walking through the –

filth, invisible and covering this illusion of a haven, that went by many names, one of which was ignorance

– streets, gazing at –

my world

– all the wares on display. It was just before sunset, and there weren't many shoppers out and about now.

The lurking threats, vampires and ghouls and all those the antithesis of what was considered good, crawled out at night, the Boogeyman made real. Human nature dictated that such were avoided. Though, the more dangerous ones hid behind suits of skin, smiling faces luring in the unwary.

I was satisfied with this, preferring to be on my own. After pretending to be interested in a vendor's selection of dried livers, I decided to head back to my room at the Leaky Cauldron. It wasn't that the Alley was boring; no, it was that I had certain projects waiting for me there. Even at the thought of them, I couldn't help the curling of my lips into something secretive that did not bode well for what I was thinking of. There was a small bounce to my step as I ascended the stairs to room number six.

As I opened the –

way to my real self, where I could fulfill my heart's desire

– door, I was again tempted to practice a new combination Light-Wind Arts spell I had learned from a less-than-legal book on it to keep –

the wrong sort

– intruders away. However, with the money I had inherited from James and Lily Potter, my parents, it was unnecessary, as I had given the bar/inn's owner a fair tip. If the Dursleys had taught me anything, it was that money takes you far. Of course, they had also taught me that –

flesh is the best delicacy of all

– it was better living away from them. Thus, I had –

skinned their living bodies, laughing at their screams, and burned the rest, concealing my involvement

– rid myself of them and come to the world of magic.

Where anything went and there was always a price to be paid.

It was, by far, more free being here, where I could live without much notice with certain precautions.

And also, the abundance of prey, walking the streets with nary a care. It was easier here, the wizards caught up in their own naïve world and blind to the world's truth. But, that was the joy of it – showing them.

I closed the door quickly after myself, not wanting any prying eyes. In my room, the world transformed in my eyes. Multitudes of human skins in varying states lay around, my trophies greeting me like long-lost lovers. In one corner, there was a stack of meat, preserved with a spell and the blood frozen in time to forever be creating a lake underneath it. It smelt of –

heaven

– a butcher's backroom, something that was quickly becoming addicting. Blood also decorated the walls, all the life of my ever-rising number of chosen. The echoes of their pained noises were the soundtrack to it all, playing over and over again to only my ears. I would miss this when I went back to Hogwarts.

But, perhaps, I could began again over there.

The beast urged with impatience and visions of the future. It met no resistance.

X

END of Year of the Immortal

NOTES:

“legless dragons, evil incarnate sent to poison the maiden”: This refers to the Garden of Eden story in Christian mythology. A creature in the Garden of Eden (a perfect place created by God as a sort of try-out) offered the first woman (Eve) a special, knowledge-giving fruit against God's orders. God cursed the creature to forever roam the earth on its belly from then on, implying that it had legs to take away. And what could a snake with legs be? A fucking dragon. (Or a lizard, if you want to be that way.) It descendents would nip at the heels of Eve's descendents, but hers would crush them with said heels. The creature (or snake or whatever) is considered by many to be Satan.

“yajna cyclone”: Yajna is a sacrifice ritual (though not with humans) meant to offer stuff to the gods with fire. This is from Hinduism. I didn't really understand what I read about this...

“Minerva”: Minerva is a goddess of “poetry, medicine, wisdom, commerce, weaving, crafts, and magic” (so says Wikipedia) in Roman mythology.

“Devourer of Souls”: The Devourer of Souls is another name for Ammit. Ammit is the crocodile/hippopotamus/lion creature in Egyptian mythology that ate the souls of the unworthy dead (their souls had been weighed against a feather, of all things). She is not really considered a goddess, but I thought it was fitting. This spell would be considered this world's Cruciatus Curse.

“Vulcan”: Vulcan is a god of fire in Roman mythology.

“Olympus”: Olympus, as I'm sure you know from Disney, is the home of the gods and goddesses in Greek mythology.

“Neith”: Neith is a goddess of war and hunting in Egyptian mythology.

“The God King's fire stolen has been taken to the mortals. The Great Pyre burns those who wield it with unworthy hands. Punishment comes on wings of gold with a beak of unending hunger! Let the flames die in justice's wake!”: This spell refers to the story of Prometheus in Greek mythology. Basically, the dude took fire illegally from Zeus (the highest-standing god there is in this mythology) and gave it to the humans. Zeus, being Zeus, found out and got super pissed at Prometheus. He tied the guy to a rock and sent an eagle to eat out his liver everyday (it grew back). Ouch.

TBL: Hope you liked it (and read the notes). It's the chapter with the shortest amount of writing/typing time to date! But don't be expecting a repeat... Anyways, if I've got something wrong with the notes, please tell me. I got most of the information from wikipedia (mostly for the quickness, not the correctness), and you all know how that goes.

Next up is going to be an interlude. It'll explain some of the magic system employed here. If any of you have questions that can be answered in the interlude, I will try and make a scene to do so. So, please, ask me the questions you have about this story so far! I accept anonymous and signed reviews, PMs, emails, you name it – just tell me and I'll try to get to it. This chapter is way long, so I'll let you go with just this.

The few. The proud. The strong. The reviewers. Be a reviewer today. Help your writer.

11/26/2011

EDIT (12/8/2011): I originally had Athena for the Spirit protecting Hogwarts, but several people pointed out that it doesn't fit. I changed it to Minerva, as suggested by one anonymous reviewer. I'm very thankful to those that did this.

EDIT (6/5/2012): Updated and added a few things for the AFF version. Most of everything left unchanged.
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