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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 Beast

TBL: Hey, fans. Ummm.... sorry for the wait (almost four months since last time). Though, I hope the length of this monster (18,020 story; 20,490 total) will make up for it. I'll leave you to it, then. After all, this is 40 pages typed. As an afterthought, make sure you read the NOTES if you happen to be confused. Though, reading all of them might take a while.

Just to warn y'all, there's a hugely small scene of slash later on. And no, I'm not going to section it off.

Grab onto that handlebar and hang on tight 'cause we're ridin' hard and ain't no seat belts allowed.

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

July 27, 1352

I was in –

the jaws of the monster, a dark place far from unwanted salvation

– Knockturn Alley again, this time bartering in a dreary, little Potions shop tucked away in a shadowy corner at the end of a street off the main branch. I was doing my best to haggle for –

sweet, sweet ambrosia that sung to one's body, asking to submerse it in ecstasy

– unicorn's blood, apparently a rare commodity among wizards, Dark or otherwise, even if most of it was forcefully taken. It was a skill that transcended the barriers between magical and non-magical and one I was quite good at, having done this many times before as part of my duties for the Dursleys. However, it had been a long process even convincing the owner that yes, I did want unicorn blood and no, I was not a Ministry official in disguise.

I had had –

an overwhelming urge, a hunger that ascended above all reason and born of starvation for so, so long

– a strong craving for the silvery substance ever since that night in the forest. My dreams were constantly filled with that scene repeating over and over after a while, and I could even see it vividly behind closed eyelids, playing out just the same way.

The tip of the unicorn's own horn skewered its skull, driven by all the force of the beast. Blood sprayed in all directions, a shower for the most tainted of kings. And the first taste of what the Spirits must feel, a power so alluring and encompassing in its might, was divine.

Since then, I had only killed two more unicorns when the need became too great to –

hide from all the watching eyes, hold down the thin veil distinguishing demon from human

– function. So far, no one knew about it, but I knew I couldn't keep doing this, that I needed another way to obtain the blood without always going to the Forbidden Forest. A Potions store that legally shouldn't exist was the perfect answer (seeing as buying unicorn blood was an illegal dealing).

“You're a little young to be buying this,” the owner stated, seemingly at a random interval, and gave me a look of –

fear, pure and raw, that lurked underneath his own conscious thoughts but perfectly visible to those thriving upon such terror

– skepticism and was clearly convinced he shouldn't sell the blood to me anyway. I was currently disguising myself as a vampire turned at a young age.

The beast crooned in delight, free after a small eternity of chains. Close to the surface it came, lava churning hotly under thin earth. This skin-deep mask pleased it, inferior yet oh so similar to the beast's real self.

Though I knew I could handle myself fairly well, it would not do to have the denizens of Knockturn – as well as the stalkers of supposed evil – knowing the Boy Who Lived was here. Acting as a vampire –

hid the beast while exposing it, no one ever the wiser

– allowed me some leverage in the dealings of Knockturn, serving to intimidate foolish wizards that dared approach and to convince the residents of my natural belonging. It was best used in a situation such as now. Thus, I bared –

the beast's long dagger-teeth, dripping with death and ready to strike

– vampire fangs, a simple trick found in a purely Dark Arts book I had bought earlier that week, with a feral expression.

“You think me too young?” I asked and then snapped my teeth once with a loud sound, an obvious warning to him. “I'll have you know that my sire turned me five hundred years ago! You know not what you talk of, boy.”

“Yes, yes,” he said hurriedly, treading the line between defiance and cowering. I had noticed it was a contradiction all Kockturn shop owners exhibited. They needed to stand up to the tough clientele of the Alley, and yet complete defiance would get them nowhere. “I will get you what you require.”

The man looked nervous, a hand reaching halfway to gray hair in an aborted attempt to swipe through it. He jerkily sent the hand back to his side and turned around to –

hide from the judging gaze of a great predator, hungry and hideous

– peruse the shelves behind him. He mumbled under his breath incomprehensible words then took an unmarked vial that was seemingly –

innocent

– empty. He pulled out a short, battered wand and waved it with a muttered spell to Epona. The vial's image flickered for a few seconds before a –

wine for the vilest of creatures

– substance, quite obviously unicorn blood, was suddenly filling the container. With a critical look to it, the man brought it over and set the vial on the well-worn, wooden table that separated us.

Its angelic song, a hummed melody from the spirit contained within that vial, reached the ears of the beast. It was as beautiful as it was haunting, enticing in its entirety.

“Your galleons?” he asked, and his eyebrow twitched minutely, wanting to raise in a condescending gesture. However, with my presence, he avoiding that, fearing –

claws and teeth, nightmares made reality

– my wrath. I calmly took out a pouch filled with some gold I had taken from Gringotts. It was about five hundred in total, barely a dent in the whole account inherited from my parents. I counted out that amount we had agreed upon, his greedy eyes watching the whole time. I flashed him my spelled canines again, eyes burning with –

the nature of a tiāngoǔ, war in every step and thunder its breath

– violence, and his gaze instantly averted. Fear was a heady cloud around him, and my nose took in the scent with joy. I snatched up the vial after handing over all the required coins and inspected it myself. I tucked it into one of my cloak's many pockets and whirled around to leave, not sparing the shop owner another glance.

Only to see Severus Snape as invisible, spelled bells tolled, deep and ominous.

X

Severus Snape was, as he always seemed to be, in a bad mood. This time, however, it was not because of the brats he was forced to teach or even because of Dumbledore. It was because Trelawny, in her ever-present wisdom, had seen fit to steal – borrowing without permission, she called it – from his potion ingredients stock – again! It was a good thing he had checked if he had the ingredients he needed beforehand, for the potion he had intended to brew was a highly volatile one. He was missing five – five! – of the needed components for his potion, something even substitutes – loathe as he was to use them – could not fix. Thus, he had grabbed his cloak and exited Hogwarts in rush, knowing he needed to brew it as soon as possible. Chewing out the crazy Water Arts professor could, unfortunately, wait until later.

Severus, being one to absolutely hate traveling by floo, apparated to Diagon Alley. However, he didn't go to the Diagon potions shop and immediately headed to Knockturn Alley, entering the darkness with confidence. This was his domain, and he did not fear it. His feet took him automatically to where another shop was, the route well-ingrained by now.

On the way, people, faces new and old, eyed him warily. He had a reputation down in the underbelly of the world of wizards, and if that didn't work on the fools, he certainly looked intimidating enough. Because of his fast pace, the onyx cloak billowed behind him like the wings of Typhon, great and terrible. It was an apt comparison, with a fire as dark as midnight blazing in his eyes, fearsome as the serpentine body of the god. Severus, like the many dragon heads of Typhon, kept a watchful, hungry gaze upon all those nearby, jaws with the strength of a hyena ready to snap at the slightest provocation. People with enough sense in them stayed clear of him, even the hardened criminals, wanted for their many sinful deeds. They, perhaps most of all, knew to avoid the professor, that primal animal within everyone in them honed to a javelin's point and able to see an equal in Severus' soul.

The professor, having had years of experience in the vilest of magics, surpassed most of these wary Knockturn-goers, and it showed, as the invisible aura around him radiated darkness. He, back in the days of the war with Voldemort, had quickly made it to the top of the ranks, a favorite for not only his skills in Potions. It had not been an easy feat, but Severus exemplified the meaning of the Slytherin house he came from. Water Arts practitioners were best known for their ambition, a trait Salazar Slytherin had greatly encouraged when still alive. The Dark Lord, known to everyone else as that asinine monicker 'You-Know-Who,' had picked up on this, being one to recognize what he himself highly valued. A tiny part of Severus still wished for the old days, when the blacker side of magic had been encouraged (even if by the Dark Lord, his followers, and no one else), when he had purpose. He shoved it away, knowing dwelling on the past did no good.

He, upon exiting his deep thoughts, found himself at the Knockturn Potions shop's well-worn door, unmarked and not indicative of the wonders within. He pushed it open, not expecting to find anyone in there, as it was fairly uncommon knowledge that it even existed. However, upon entering, he found what he least expected.

Harry Potter.

The boy was easily recognizable, though not by appearance. He certainly pulled off his disguise well, able to hide from even those that knew him. Still, underneath the fake vampire exterior, there was that aura Potter carried with him perpetually. It was a wicked, evil thing and revealed the monster within the boy. Oh, Severus knew the student tried to conceal it, and the attempt did work – on most. The professor's soul, his own internal monster, reached out to the boy, the urge to follow him strong for some reason. He could see that Fate had great plans for the younger male, just as he had sensed the same in Voldemort upon meeting the Dark Lord for the first time. And because of that, the man knew, beyond a doubt, that it was Potter.

The question was: just what was he doing here?

Severus thought all this in seconds, staring stonily at Potter in the meanwhile. The boy met his black eyes steadily, not challenging and lacking judgment. That gaze held, though, a hint of curiosity, looking for some sign as to how to plot the next move.

“What might you be doing here?” the professor demanded more than asked with his eyebrow raised in the usual manner of Severus Snape. He did not release the boy's actual name, well aware of the listening shop owner – and feeling it would have been a grave mistake. Potter eyed him a bit longer and then reached into a pocket to hold up a filled vial. In the meager light available, the Potions Master could just barely make out what it looked like, and its identity shocked him. The blood shined with an internal light, thick and clingy on the glass, which was what gave it away. Unicorn blood.

Potter seemed unconcerned with the implications of possessing such a thing, perhaps uncomprehending. Yes, Severus realized as the boy nonchalantly put the vial back into his pocket, Potter was uncomprehending, but it was not ignorance. No, it was an outsider's view of a new world, knowing only their native logic and not understanding of a new and different thinking. Potter simply could not see why humans thought this immoral and wrong, certainly knowing, though, that this view existed. He only knew the outsider's logic.

Without a single word, the boy brushed past the man, not sparing his professor another glance. Severus gathered himself and not showing any of his inner trouble, snapped at the owner the list of ingredients he needed. After paying for them and when safely in his quarters in the dungeons of Hogwarts, and only then, did he release his pent-up emotions. He didn't physically react, but clear as day, it showed on his face the terror at the thought of another Lord Voldemort.

X

August 31, 1352

At a few hours before sunset, it was already dark in Knockturn Alley. I watched its street-wandering inhabitants through the dirty window in the almost bare room I had rented in one of the rare Knockturn inns.

They were rats, scurrying in that quick, shifty way these particular rodents did. They were trapped on a ship eternally at sea, unable to escape this life and destined to die with only the company of those that, at their bare core, were copies. They bred only to produce more lowly rats in a vicious cycle. Knockturn's vast maze was a sad place.

Though their actions repeated time and time again, it was still amusing to me. What was the most amusing was what I saw beyond their daily routines. Every time I watched them, I imagined –

rending flesh from bone, blood oozing its way down thickly to a stomach crying infinitely for more

– delightful scenes, ones that set my blood aflame with an encompassing passion. They all lived their lives below –

the god they did not yet know

– me, unaware of what could be and ignorant of their superior. Oh, how I longed to correct this naivety, tell them that they were, in a truthful reality, only mere sacrifices for a greater purpose. My fingers, lying at my side, started to twitch with restrained violence. The grin on my face, already –

reflecting the beast

– crazed, grew wider to reveal blood-stained teeth. I had not eaten anything since my last meal, a weedy man I had cornered in the depths of Knockturn, and didn't have the heart to make an effort to clean up. Just thinking of –

a blade sliding into soft flesh while teeth viciously tore out more than half his throat to graze spinal bones in a seemingly impossible move; an intimate whisper into dying ears, Harry James Potter

– his demise set off the hunger again, and I hastily reached for the few scraps left of the nameless man, eyes gleaming. As quick as a viper, I grabbed a piece and shoved the whole thing into my mouth, little grace in it all.

How humans could savor the meat of a pig or cow was a thought unthinkable. The flesh of one of their own transcended such inferiority.

Just as I turned back to my entertainment, snack finished, there came –

the toll of a bell signaling the trouble to come

– a loud sound, like the roar of thunder on the horizon. Eyes wide and feral, I whirled around, sensing the presence in my room in the same heartbeat I pulled out my wand in. The sight that greeted me was all too confusing, but the fires of my anger still raged. There stood in front of me a strange creature, a cowering little thing I had never seen the likes of.

And how strange it was for the first one to bow to be a being bred for bowing. Though a creature insignificant in the scheme of things, its subservience was a thing to savor.

I snarled wordlessly at it, and its too-huge, alien eyes filled with fear, the floppy beagle ears twitching and moving about with their own nervous mind. It then spoke in a squeaky voice, the high-pitched kind that grated on the nerves, “Harry Potter!”

Suddenly –

falling into that dark pit called Rage, a mindless monster colored the hue of blood

– filled with the need to hurt, I motioned with my wand with harsh, quick movements. I cast the spell without words, seething beyond reasonable thought and a red haze covering my eyes. I was unaware of what I cast, body moving on its own warpath without the thoughts normally needed for such a thing.

Lightning, a deep violet that was almost black, came streaming out of my wand, crackling and vicious. I could feel the heat of it, high and smothering, and the almost-sentience of the creation surprised me, snarling mindlessly in my thoughts with the primal nature of –

the beast, as if a tiny shard of it were within the lightning

– a chimera on rampage. However, what was the most unexpected was what the lightning did after it emerged. It did not –

follow the rules of the universe

– simply move in a straight line and dissipate upon striking the obstacles in its path. No, it collected itself into a ball floating above the floor, and I could tell it was beyond my command at this moment. It pulsed, tendrils reaching out and pulling back at random. The sphere, still a semi-vague presence in my mind that kept growing in intelligence by the moment, then elongated and started to form –

an ungodly thing, created unknowingly and yet the greatest of all

– some shape. I barely noticed the ugly creature popping out of the lightning's projected path and appearing again a few meters away, but I kept it partially in my view, wary of the lightning and thus not wanting to release my sight of it.

“Harry Potter!” the creature tried again and this time realized the error of this. My attention fully focused on it again, heavy and suffocating in its entirety. My wand was already moving to –

grant the creature the death it fully deserved

– cast another spell, mouth opening to complete the action.

Then, the lightning came alive.

It abruptly formed into a clearer shape, moving –

like a viper in the grass, prey in sight and ready for the taking

– fluidly towards the creature, as swift as the element that it was made of. I knew what the form it took was as soon as my eyes laid upon its – no, her – deadly beauty: a drakaina. She, from the waist up, had the naked body of a mature woman, the lightning a 'skin' like a statue carved from pure onyx. She had the regal features, a queen –

from the depths of the underworld, damned and powerful

– in her own right, with long, violet hair that flowed in its own, immaterial wind. Sharp, needle-like fangs, small but numerous, could be seen in her open mouth. Below the waist was a large, muscular snake tail colored a charcoal gray with black patterned on it in –

symbols long lost to humankind, the language of Spirits long since departed to their own Realms

– unknown runes that were difficult to make out, as they kept moving around the serpentine tail in a random manner. She had no eyes or even eye sockets, just a straight transition from nose to forehead, which was, perhaps, the most unsettling part of all.

The creature did not pop away another time, preferring to snap its gnarled fingers. The gesture was, to me, a useless one, incapable of saving the thing. Then, a split-second later, I was proven wrong as the world froze abruptly, my body stilled in mid-cast and the drakaina made a statue mere centimeters from ripping the creature's head off. There came a wordless hiss from within my mind, and I knew, the answer clear as day, that it was the drakaina. It was a drawn-out, angry call and held a strange accent, crackling like the lightning she was made of with the rumbling of thunder behind it.

The creature definitely felt her intent to kill, for it leaped back, arms crossing in front of its face in defense. Shakily, it backed up even more to put its back against a wall.

The beast could hear its heart beating wildly, trapped beneath fragile ribs and begging to be ripped out with bloody claws.

Its eyes flickered to me, and it recalled its reason for intruding. It opened its mouth to presumably –

speak of the sacred, defile the name with its unworthy tongue

– call my name but stopped, thinking better of the action. It instead said, “You are in grave danger.”

Abruptly, it perked up, becoming vigorous in its passion for its cause. “Hogwarts is not safe! You must not go back!”

Not go back? To Hogwarts? Rage, great and as heated as Vulcan's forge, engulfed me at this –

heresy

– command. Hogwarts, though I had only stayed there one school year, held a special place in my heart, was a sanctuary to me. To abandon it was a thought unthinkable.

Hogwarts was a stepping stone to godhood, a necessary tool that could not be lost.

I tried to struggle against the invisible bonds holding me, but I could not move.

The beast thrashed and snarled and strained against its chains. Its wings longed to ride the winds of Death and bring down its fiery wrath upon the heathens disbelieving and unaccepting of it rule. The fool that dared bind it would experience an agonizing death.

I could feel the drakaina doing the same, her longing for bloodshed and the –

force of the underworld, her domain, behind it

– power of Thor's hammer, laced with lightning and swinging down in an inevitable arc. Her presence in my mind and her emotions enhanced my own, only fueling my struggles against this foreign magic. The creature sensed this, and the effort of holding us in place showed on its ugly face. Still, it again attempted to persuade me.

“You must not go!” it shouted with enthusiasm. In its excitement, it forgot what mattered most. “Harry Potter-”

And the universe exhaled mightily, a gust made of the winds of change and fate.

The spell, in the face of my anger that had reached a new summit, immediately broke after the last syllable left its mouth. I was free once more but not close enough to reach the creature first, as the drakaina's momentum carried her there quicker. Her claws dug deep to get a good grip as needle-teeth buried in the skin of its face. Savagely, she ripped the skin off, blood following in its wake. The thing screamed, a –

sweet melody

– cry filled with pain and terror mixed with that hint of disbelief a soldier feels after the blast of a landmine has torn off a limb. As it screamed, more blood rushed out with nothing to hold it back. It was an intriguing thing to see pure, raw muscle move unhindered by skin, tendons and ligaments a stark white against the dark crimson of uncooked meat.

Its eyes bulged obscenely in their sockets, and I felt the need to pluck them out for later display, trophies well-earned. And thus, moving forward while putting away my wand, I did so. The drakaina backed off without any command, even if her form shifted in obvious impatience. Quick as a viper and before the creature realized it, I had my hands, one to each eye, curling around their spherical shapes, claws cutting through bone and muscle like soft butter. I pulled them out with gleeful force, their previous owner screaming all the while. The thing fell over to land in the small lake of its own blood.

It was a scene worthy of art, and what a grand painting it would be, poetry in motion forever preserved.

The screams tapered off as –

Charon reached out a thin, rotting hand in demand for payment to cross Styx, one last trip through a river of departed souls

– it quickly died of blood loss.

Death's icy hands gripped its soul and departed on the wings of shadows and smelling of sulfur.

I inhaled the imaginary scent of brimstone and then looked to the drakaina. As I looked at her, our –

souls met and twined in the dance of lovers, two halves of a whole, reuniting

– eyes did not lock, but some message nevertheless passed between us.

“I am yours,” she said, the deep rumble of thunder coating her words spoken in Parseltongue. She nodded once in –

acknowledgment of a million things not spoken

– respect. Then, with the sound of a raging storm finally upon its victims, which –

was familiar in some way, a missing piece from the back of the mind come home

– rang loudly, her beautiful being of lightning disappeared. I, in the depths of my black soul, felt her presence, heavy and demonic, settle within me.

X

September 1, 1352

I met him today, was written sloppily, hurriedly in the blank-paged diary, the excitement she felt bursting from those four words. The ink sunk into the page, disappearing unnaturally, even by magical standards. Quickly, words not her own faded into view to replace what she had written, and she got the feeling of an intense hunger fueled by curiosity, not an unusual emotion to be projected.

What was he like? She giggled, feeling a warmth course through her at the thought of actually having a real friend, a dream she had had many times before. She was so lucky to have found the diary, to have found Tom Riddle. An involuntary grin, wide and happy, spread across her lips as she wrote back all the adjectives that even then could not fully describe the wonder that was Harry Potter. As she detailed out things both imagined and perceived as real about him, she knew that she was in love. Ever since hearing that first bedtime story of Harry's grand heroics, she knew she was destined to be his.

Hero worship, her brother Ron would mutter under his breath darkly. Hero worship is what it is.

But no, it wasn't hero worship. It was love, pure and simple. It had to be.

She and Tom talked about various things (mainly Harry) from then on, and as the conversation continued, that warm feeling of friendship grew stronger. It grew into a possessiveness that rivaled a dragon protecting her clutch of eggs, a parasite that latched unto her mind and slowly took over her bit by bit, transforming her centimeter by centimeter, and though vaguely and only peripherally aware of it, she was okay with that. Even if she didn't wholly understand the implications of such a feeling with the naivety of an eleven year old.

She was in the middle of writing a reply to one of Tom's inquiries when the door to her current domain opened. The boy who came through – without knocking! – was one of her brothers, Percy Weasley. Paling a bit, she quickly closed the diary and fumbled in an attempt to hide it from him. Percy, looking around the space with a bored gaze, spotted his sister and got a brief look at her diary. His demeanor became a bit more interested, and his stare upon her tense form was intense.

“Hello, Ginny,” he greeted her after a moment of silence in which she bowed her head to avoid his gaze and hide her blush. The curtain of curly, orange-red hair did nothing, however, to shield her from his intrigue. He inevitably asked, “What do you have there?”

Ginny's head abruptly snapped up, blazing eyes meeting his in a challenge. Of what, Percy didn't know. Her eyes flashed something disturbing and anger-filled, and her brother could have sworn they turned red for that brief moment. He didn't seem to notice taking a step back, eyes wide and mind rejecting of this image. Hallucinations, he figured, nothing but figments of the imagination cooked up by a brain tired from his pre-school studying.

“Nothing,” she whispered harshly, and it was practically a hiss, something dark and foreboding in that one word. Her hand was absently petting the slim wand in her lap, a silent malice in that simple repetition. Percy swallowed past the lump in his throat and smiled weakly. He felt like asking her if she was alright, what was wrong. Something prevented his concerned questions, though, and the boy's mind refused to name it, as that would make it all the more real.

“Okay,” he agreed simply. His smile fell, and he averted his eyes, his sister's own gaze overwhelming. Percy gave an awkward goodbye and left to continue his prefect duties. He told himself he wasn't rushing out and that it wasn't an escape.

X

October 31, 1352

Flitwick's Wind Arts class had just ended, and I was making my way to lunch in the Great Hall. It was a mindless journey, as I knew the passages of Hogwarts well. I was reviewing the spell Flitwick had taught us in my mind to keep myself –

from grabbing the nearest student to claw, bite, consume

– occupied. It wasn't an easy thing to do, as the cravings for human flesh and unicorn blood were slowly –

bringing out the vast ocean that was the beast to submerge and drown

– overcoming me. I had lately become restless, wanting to –

spread wings of strife and shadow and take to crimson skies

– run free. I had been more silent than usual (which didn't really amount to much). Hermes understood in his own way and also remained silent when in my company. By now, most of the other students had learned to avoid –

their potential demises by some painful, messy manner

– me at all times.

It was a double-edged arrangement. The silence was blissful, and yet to get the opportunity to gaze upon muscle moving under the thin, delicious barrier of skin was a temptation equally so.

The route I was taking was a sparsely populated one, and thus, I was surprised when I saw a cluster of students huddling in a semicircle around a section of wall. I was about to dismiss it as something stupid and childish but getting closer, realized that Dumbledore was there, his voice unusually strict and serious. Something –

foretelling, like a prophecy from the veiled Skuld, a prediction that bound even the mightiest of gods

– stormy was underlining it. I neared the edge of the crowd, sticking to the shadows of a nearby alcove, to listen in.

“Mister Weasley,” Dumbledore said in a manner similar to Snape, that cold, cutting tone that would have been a yell with anyone else.

The power wafting off of the Headmaster was a heavy sensation, and while few could sense such a thing, it gave away the deep well of his anger. There was a creeping fear there too, like a remembered and reviled enemy coming back from the slumber of the dead. They were an insidious and parasitic pair, able to fell most men with a silent, unavoidable force.

I couldn't see through the crowd to see which Weasley it was, but then, another spoke above the whispers of the crowd, the words giving away his identity as George Weasley. “I-I didn't... Honest!”

Surprisingly, there was no sign of the boy's twin and partner-in-crime, Fred, or another other Weasleys, who, with the exception of Ron, protected their own with the ferocity of a mother dragon. I shifted to try and get a better view and as I did so, caught a brief glimpse of –

the substance that set the body on fire and engulfed the senses, the only worthy drink

– blood on the wall, still wet and making its way slowly down with its usual viscosity. I could barely make out that it formed the shape of words but not exactly what they were. I growled softly as a tall student, a fifth year perhaps, moved to block my gaze.

“The evidence is irrefutable,” Dumbledore continued. He didn't go into what this evidence was, but I picked up from the whispers that Weasley had been the first – and only – one on the scene before some professor had found him. Definitely guilty, they hissed to each other, laughing in little, mocking chuckles.

Dumbledore said something else, but it was lost, as McGonagall, silent until now, started to break apart the crowd, pitching her voice higher than the students' with little trouble. I, intending to –

forcefully wedge a way into the impossibly knotted yarn called fate

– stay, blended deeper into the shadows, becoming one with the black. The clusters of students broke up, dispersing like spilled water in all directions to destinations unknown. When they left, the only ones remaining were Dumbledore, Weasley, McGonagall, and me. The Fire Arts professor also departed after a silent, subtle nod from the Headmaster. Said wizard then turned to the Weasley, who was glaring at the floor with the bitter anger of a man wronged. He also held a certain lack of hope in his whole body, seeing –

the future that was rushing to meet him with wicked, poisonous claws, snarling out words of his utter destruction

– a vision only he could view. He looked up only when Dumbledore cleared his throat loudly then followed the older wizard when he beckoned, the Weasley holding an air of one off to the gallows.

The blood on the wall called my gaze sweetly, and unresisting, I finally made out what the words were.

Open is the Chamber door

This contained Secret of lore

WILL HUNT THEM DOWN

The first two lines were almost neat for a writing done in blood, in cursive and perfectly spaced. The last four words, in contrast, were made angrily in large, jagged letters, as if –

an alternate personality had take over, that familiar devil inside waiting to make its move

– written by another person entirely.

I got closer to the writing, nose pressed against the mostly-dried blood and inhaling its scent deeply. The familiar smell excited me, heat rushing through my body and a wide grin forming. Shuddering and unable to resist the call, I licked a path up the D in DOWN, an attentive lover in my tasting of what I craved. A small moan, deep and passionate, escaped me. It was Nirvana, this small sample, yet still left me without satisfaction, a drop in the ocean of my want.

A noise, loud in the otherwise silent corridor, came to me, and it was obviously the sound of something falling. I did not –

jump away in shame, adhere to the normal perceptions of this society, as theirs was a logic flawed

– cease my path across the word I was lavishing my attention on. I twisted my head ever so slightly, still devouring but looking out of the corner of my eye for this intruder. I caught a glance of the youngest Weasley, a girl whose name I couldn't be bothered to remember. Her freckled face was pale, something like horror in her eyes with a separate, hidden delight lurking there. It was an alien emotion for one such as her to have here.

The beast sensed a companion, a rival in all things vile and forbidden. It longed to reach out and coil around the other, to test and question and extinguish. Competition, though a curiosity to be studied, was unwanted in a world where staying predator, the only one to hunt, was alone in being the way to survive.

Her mouth was open in shock, though at the message or me, I did not know.

“Oh Spirits...” was her only verbal response to the scene, the broken whisper of someone whose world was falling to pieces in front of them. She shook her head, long, orange-red hair flying into disarray, in denial of some evidenced deed. A nagging idea developed in my mind that said she might have been the one to paint this beauty. It would be, on the surface, an uncharacteristic thing to do, but there was a –

leviathan, eyes bright and gleaming with the light of a thousand dying suns, peering out from the depths of her self, fins breaking the stormy waves teasingly, threateningly

– creature, parasitic and growing, that fed from her, twisting thoughts and perceptions. I could see the paranoia in her, the constant need to check and double-check to make sure this deceit’s strength held.

The work of an inferior, no doubt.

The girl let out a quiet, frightened whimper, tears beginning to leak out in small bursts from her sorrowful eyes.

She knew she was playing with fire, something bigger than herself. It was a grand design she held little place in, and a mouse amongst the snakes was she. She was bound to be devoured whole, slowly and painfully digested in the belly of one greater than her. She could not escape from it, for this was the basilisk, the mighty Snake King whose paralyzing gaze held no rival and whose venom had no first.

With a –

banshee's wail, the signal of death to come

– mournful cry, she turned around and fled. I watched her run –

into the labyrinth, pursued by shadowy foes, immaterial in imagination and yet just as deadly as those material in reality

– from the pain of it all with interest. There was one inquiry that rose above all else in that moment.

“Where will you go, little mouse?”

X

December 3, 1352

The yellow-white moon was pregnant and shining with radiance, casting her pure light upon the half of the world currently in her kingdom. It streamed through the glass-covered windows of Hogwarts to create tombstone shapes on the floor of the corridor I was wandering through. It was a wonderful night, and –

the beast hungered for the chance to bathe in Tsukiyomi's rays, to become one with the night

– I, unable to resist the temptation, took full advantage of it. A tiny quirk of my lips displayed to the moon and shadows my delight in this simple journey. No one disturbed me, and my evades of the patrol in Hogwarts were nonexistent, for, somehow, I never chanced upon them.

It was their lucky night tonight. The beast would have ripped anything that blood coursed through in its path if their fates crossed. It bubbled under the surface, closer than ever and a half-participant in the conscious actions taken.

Then suddenly, a sound disturbed my evening and roused my temper, the inferno beneath my skin and bones directing its attention after a brief slumber.

“Rip and... tear...” it whispered with a rough, raspy voice that brought to mind dried reptile scales sliding over stone. That voice held a power behind it, something ancient and knowledgeable. It was familiar in a distant way, the call of some animal reappeared from its hiding after that first, memorable glance ages ago. I struggled to remember it as –

the beast pushed against the bonds holding it, snarling out in a fit of rage left uninterpreted

– it said something else.

“Hungry... soooooo hungry...” it rasped, and the sheer longing for violence and flesh was identifiable and mirrored in me. My stomach clenched, making its displeasure known, and my mouth filled with excess saliva, tongue projecting the taste of what I could have.

“Flesh!It nears!It nears!” the voice suddenly shouted, a crazed, wild joy in it that made the words fuse together into one. My own being echoed the excitement, even if I could not see the potential prey. A low growl escaped me, and my fingers twitched with the urge to dig in.

Then, he rounded the corner to come within my sight.

It was Draco Malfoy, his blonde hair luminescent in the moonlight and with –

the scent of him cloying in the beast's nostrils, a heady perfume

– a forlorn look on his face. He sighed as his gray eyes were attatched to the full moon outside, not noticing my presence in the slightest. I didn't even bother with stalking through the many shadows, body trembling in anticipation yet feet silent on the stone floor.

The thought briefly crossed my mind that, perhaps, this wasn't the best of ideas. Killing a student didn't bother me, so much as that it was a murder at Hogwarts, where I was likely to get caught in time. Though, I realized, I could put the blame on George Weasley, who, even if he wasn't the one actually writing in blood, would be the most likely one those in a position of authority looked at. It wouldn't be too difficult to lead them to believe he was guilty.

When I stood directly behind Malfoy, he still didn't sense me. All the better for him not to fight, then. I reached out a finger to caress his naked neck, long nail digging into skin to betray my intentions. The boy startled with a yelp and turned around, eyes wide and terrified.

The background cooing of prey from the unidentified voice was a chant that the beast copied, matching repetition for repetition with vigor. It had been so long since the last taste.

I leaned in to quickly cover his mouth with my hand, the other moving down to grasp his slim, fragile neck.

His screams could be let loose later to be bottled up inside the glass of memory. It would be a wine most sweet.

He wanted to yell, I could tell, but was unable to make naught but a whimper. While he was shocked for a brief moment, I cast a Dark spell to hold him.

“Great snake, your shadowy coils do bind the world. Let the scales of Midgard reach down to this mortal. Biting your tail, there is no escape.”

Black ropes, immaterial but realistically shaped, came into existence to chain Malfoy's wrists, ankles, and abdomen to the wall behind him. I let go of his neck to grasp silky strands of hair then pulled his head forcefully back. I got closer and licked a path up his neck, ending at the hastily pulsing jugular. My tongue stayed on there for a moment, just –

putting an experience to my faceless fantasies of bloodshed

– feeling the blood pumping under it, begging to be released. Malfoy started to squirm a bit, but with only a thought, the ropes curled tighter around him to painfully prevent any sort of movement. A steady stream of whimpers continued under my hand.

I took my tongue off of his neck when he tried biting my hand, which I also removed. Immediately, he began to scream.

“Help!” he cried out hoarsely, tears running in steady rivers down his cheeks. “Help!”

I cut off that third call for a savior by using my only other option available. As my lips crashed roughly against his, it was –

the start of a new addiction, a drug taken in gleefully

– not a gentle or intimate kiss but forceful and unwillingly placed. If Malfoy could have moved, I could tell that he wouldn't have, even then. Taking advantage of this, I tilted my head for better access and sought out his tongue. Without a second thought, I placed my sharp teeth around it then bit down harshly to cleave it in two. Blood immediately filled his mouth, accompanied by –

the sensation of swallowing a scream, taking it in to course through the bloodstream

– a muffled scream, and I pulled back, prize in mouth. In front of Malfoy, who looked ready to faint, I loudly chewed the meaty appendage, savoring each and every one like a fine wine. The taste exploded on my taste buds, making me moan in pleasure. Through half-lidded eyes, I watched the copious amounts of blood spilling out of his mouth and down his chin. I captured the image as I swallowed the piece of his tongue, branding it into my mind for later perusal.

I pushed up against Malfoy again to devour his blood and tears and in doing so, noticed the hardened piece of flesh between my legs. A spark of pleasure coursed through me as I brushed against him, so seeing no wrong in it, I ground my hips against his. This took the excitement to new heights, creating the haze of arousal to wrap around rational thought. As my hips moved uncontrollably, I clamped my teeth around his jugular, which stifled the continuous chain of groans. Feeling the trapped blood left me crazed, so I tore out his vein. Crimson followed in its wake in a large spray, coating my face frozen in rapture and my whole front. For once, I didn't really feel it, as a typhoon of pleasure overcame me, sparks playing behind my closed eyes, and mind blank of everything, I could only vaguely register my own scream.

When I came –

back from the blanketed, rose-tinted world in which everything was bliss

– down from my high, I took in the scene we made, engraving it into my memory. I slowly removed myself from Malfoy's corpse, not wanting to –

leave that wonderful place of make-believe

– let go just yet. I closely observed the work of art he now was, absently licking the blood from my fingers in a feline fashion. I stopped when I heard the distant sound of approaching footsteps. I growled shortly in annoyance. Why couldn't I be allowed to enjoy this? Quickly, I cast a spell to summon a blade of fire extending from my wand's tip and used it to cut off his left arm, the scent of burning flesh filling my nostrils. After taking it, I released the bonds tying the shadowy ropes to existence and ended the Fire spell also. I wrapped my –

mask around the beast, once again veiling the wicked truth

– invisibility cloak around my form, including the arm that I couldn't wait to take a bite of. And just in time. As I began my journey back to Gryffindor Tower, I passed the professor who came upon the scene, moving ghost-like and unnoticed.

It was Narcissa Malfoy.

Her wail of soul-deep shock and sorrow –

was a thing of beauty, a soloist's greatest masterpiece

– echoed quite loudly at the sight of her dead son. She immediately ran over to him, chanting out his name desperately in broken, half-disbelieving screams. A crocodile's grin spread across my lips at this, her useless calls resounding over and over in my mind.

How wonderful it was to cause such devestation.

X

January 13, 1353

“Alright, class!” chirped that fool of a Light Arts professor, Gilderoy Lockhart, in that highly irritating, high-pitched voice of his. “Today, we're going to do a little something extra.”

The way he spoke every word made what he said sound disturbingly sexual and condescending at the same time, an odd combination that I could tell –

put images of forced deeds and favors in the heads of his students, making their skin crawl and thoughts turn paranoid

– disturbed those he taught. That and he didn't smile, so much as bare too many teeth in a decidedly leering way – all the time. His whole vibe, from the touch-heavy gestures to the choice in flashy robes, screamed of someone dirty and all too interested in –

innocence, corrupting the pure and sullying their white souls permanently

– children.

It was not a kindred spirit the beast sensed but one of greed, of taking without physical means and without blood. His was a mental game, illusions heaped upon delusions, and something to nevertheless respect, this expertise.

“We,” he continued, giving a small, sly glance to the Potions professor lurking in a shadowed corner, “are going to have...”

Here he gave an unneeded, dramatic pause.

“Dueling lessons!” His teeth-baring grin only got that much larger, what would have been strained on anyone else. On him it only looked strangely natural. “Isn't that great?”

At this announcement, the students perked up a bit, whispering to each other their thoughts on the matter. Lockhart's leer just intensified as he eyed the –

prime cuts for sale, a mouth-watering feast for his hunger

– young kids. His gaze, at one point, locked on mine, and –

the beast intimidated with a roar, subduing with little effort his spirit

– a certain understanding passed between us, suddenly making him very aware of his barely-concealed predilections. He hastily averted his eyes, and for the rest of class, he was a bit pale.

“Al-” he started with a hoarse voice that gave away his fright then coughed to play it off as a normal thing. Snape, as observant as ever, caught this, if the subtle look in his eyes was anything to go on. Lockhart went on, “Alright, then. Today, we will-”

He was abruptly cut off by Snape's silky drawl calling out, “Parkison and Boot.”

The students, upon hearing him, automatically shut up, a deeply ingrained response born in the man's Potions class. They were –

sheep, mindlessly following the ram

– obviously confused by this but didn't voice that aloud.

“Parkison and Boot,” he repeated in a monotone then, solving their puzzlement, elaborated, “step up on the dueling platform.”

Parkison, a rather plain Slytherin girl who bordered on ugly and was late to experience puberty, stepped up to said platform, a raised, wooden construct in a severely-elongated oval shape, timidly. She got on it after a quick, unsure glance to Lockhart, the –

wolf in sheep's skin

– apparently more trustworthy-looking professor. He nodded to her in a cheerful manner with a wink. Boot, a tall and snobby Ravenclaw boy, walked to the other side and hopped up confidently, a suave smile on his lips.

Snape gave a small lecture as soon as they had gotten on the platform, describing the official process to be preformed before the actual dueling. After that, the two students turned their fronts to each other and bowed from opposite sides.

“May the Spirits guide you,” they both said the traditional pre-duel saying, horribly out of synch. They then turned their backs on each other, raising their wands by their sides. There was a tension in the air, heavy and pressing, and the duelers felt it most keenly, rigid in their stances.

The forecast predicted strife, and the beast trembled with anticipation.

“Begin,” the Potions professor snapped. Parkison and Boot immediately began to turn around, spells on the tips of their tongues. They were slow in doing so, compared to –

a harpy, speedily chasing down her prey and desperate in hunger to snatch it

– someone who had actually experienced strife, and it amazed me how slow they were. It occurred to me briefly that Hermes would probably be the same, unfortunately. I made a mental note to remedy this; I would not accept such failure from him.

The two's following battle was disappointing, no flashy or powerful spells and naught in the way of actual skill.

“The life of Spirits breathes Wind! The storm of their anger strikes!” Boot cried out, using his Wind affinity in a general spell to summon a short, weak gust that knocked Parkison down, her wand flying off into the crowd. Boot's smile grew cocky, the minor win going to his head. He stepped off the platform with a swagger after Snape announced the obvious win, not bothering to even look at his defeated opponent.

Several more duels proceeded after that, Snape (with occasional 'help' from Lockhart) providing commentary on each one. He was surprisingly fair in his judgments, and we were actually learning from him.

Finally, after ten or so relatively quick duels, he called my name.

“Potter and Weasley.”

He didn't say my full name, but nevertheless, my fingers twitched with suppressed violence. A growl almost escaped, but I held it in check.

We both got on the platform with a quiet confidence that was subtle yet so much more powerful than Boot's. We bowed shallowly at a depth that bordered on rude, but neither cared about such disrespect. Our eyes met as we said the standard line, his cold with determination and mine as hot as the Hellfire I could control. With a wary reluctance, we turned around and waited tensely for Snape's signal to start.

“Begin.”

Immediately, we faced each other with a speed that awed the –

pathetic lot watching young Titans battle, mere ants next to manticores

– audience and made a few gasp. We both started off with small spells to test each other's strength.

“Spirits' Earthly element, show your rolling waves.” I flicked my wand down then in Weasley's direction to direct the flow of the spell.

“Oppose your opposite, Windy element,” Weasley cast in return with a general counter to mine. The oscillations under the platform stopped as soon as they had started with the introduction of the spell's opposing energies.

We stared each other in the eyes for a moment, a silent –

opposition of wills, a challenge spoken and yet not

– stand-off.

Then, the real battle began.

“Cold winds of the North do turn snow. The giantess does brave this cruel blizzard. She harnesses the winter! Ride, icy shard-daggers!” Weasley's spell created large, jagged daggers of ice. Their thin forms were clear with that frosty white center the substance always had and glinted, reflecting –

his nature, deadly and frigid

– the crowd around us. They hovered around the boy in a rough circle, sentinels of winter. I watched him intently, waiting for his next move. In the meanwhile, we circled each other as best as we could with the platform's shape.

It was the dance of warriors, an intricate and deadly series of movements.

Weasley then suddenly twitched his fingers, a subtle move I had been looking for. It sent the icy daggers flying toward me with –

all the intent of Arawn's hounds, tracking the scent of their target and devouring the soul with abyssal jaws

– a speedy force. Quickly, I snapped out a short spell, wand twirling in a downward spiral.

“Chains of the storm, descend! Your electric shackles are forged in the Earthly Realm!” Chains made of electricity shot out of the tip of my wand and directed by my intent, wrapped their long lengths tightly around my form, close to my skin yet not touching. And just in time. Weasley's shards crashed into my creations with a mighty crackling noise, sinking their tips in but not enough to touch me. Electricity arched over the shards, turning them to water with an intense heat, and this sent a resulting pulse of magic out that slammed against the barrier meant to protect the audience surrounding the platform. Previously invisible, the strong ward briefly colored to a very light blue before fading back to its unseen state.

Weasley cast a speedy, general spell to control the water made by our colliding spells and directed it to form into the shape of a snake. I flicked my wand several times to change the electric chains into the form of a bear. As his water-serpent tried to strike, however, the chains –

gained a sentience of their own

– began to turn into something else. A clawed hand and arm developed to bat away the watery creation and vaporize it into a mist before another appendage formed, followed by –

the beginnings of the damned queen, beautiful to hide the nightmarish interior

– a naked, feminine torso and head. Immediately, I recognized her – the drakaina.

“Master,” came her stormy voice in the language of serpents, the lone word drawn out and said with a malignant type of obedience. The crowd of students around us was completely silent with –

a vague sense of horror, the primal urge to run ringing in their minds loudly as something beyond their understanding forced her way through a portal to this Realm

– shock. Weasley was still, freckled face pale and –

peripherally aware of the whole of this great danger and her sheer need for destruction in consciousness but fully comprehending of it in that cold, reptilian part of his brain

– terrified. Snape, whom I could barely see, had a look that suggested a sense of familiarity with this and spoke of a nightmare materialized before his eyes.

“MASTER,” the drakaina hissed again, now halfway formed and non-eyes searching for prey. As much as I wanted to –

bathe in innocents' blood

– let her loose, I knew that it was not the right time to do so.

“RETURN,” I commanded in our shared talent, willing her to go back to where she came from. The drakaina stopped shaping herself from the chains and cocked her head like a dog trying to figure out the situation.

“If Master wishes it...” she replied reluctantly, a spark of anger hidden in her tone. Order received, she began to –

retreat to her own world, a vile place filled with the worst of man's imagination

– reform back into chains, lightning-based body unraveling like threads from clothing. It was a quick process, leaving my audience little time to –

return to reality

– adapt. Snape, I noticed, was the first to come back, though his haunted expression remained. However, it was guarded well behind impassiveness; the little things gave it away. Weasley was next to do so, followed by the students and, lastly, the Light Arts professor.

“Class dismissed,” Snape announced, his voice loud in the otherwise silent room. The students didn't understand at first, but then Snape repeated himself with more emphasis, “Class dismissed.”

Suddenly, realization dawned on them. There was then a rush to exit, nervous students pushing and shoving to –

run from something that didn't factor into their normal worlds, gone but lurking

– get away. Weasley and I were the last to leave, Snape's intense gaze watching us the entire time.

X

May 20, 1353

Aurors, the law force of the Ministry of Magic, had come to Hogwarts, their presence abrupt yet expected. They had arrived because there had been another mysterious death in the school accompanied by yet another message written in blood – the seventh one (excluding mine of the Malfoy boy). The whole of Hogwarts was scared and paranoid, seeing monsters lurking in the shadows at every turn. It was inevitable that, after so many deaths, the government would get involved, and they were here to arrest the prime suspect: George Weasley.

Ron and the rest of the school were in the Great Hall having supper when the Aurors burst in, wands and eyes blazing with their perceived justice. As soon as the tall doors had been slammed open and those distinctive maroon robes came into view, Ron stiffened, immediately knowing what would happen.

The Head Auror, robes lined with a telling white, lead their formation as they marched toward the headmaster. Dumbledore, who was in the middle of eating, just continued chewing nonchalantly and after swallowing his pork, gently patted his mouth with a napkin in an out-of-place gesture.

“Yes, gentlemen, how may I help you?” he asked with a perfectly polite tone, as if he didn't know what this was about, as if they were at some tea party. However, Ron could see that Dumbledore's sky blue eyes weren't twinkling in their usual manner. They were instead flinty and resolute, yet there was a deep sorrow in them, a decision made with great reluctance. It may have been the Weasley's imagination, but the wrinkles of old age on the powerful wizard's face seemed that much more pronounced in that brief moment.

An Auror to his superior's right took a scroll from the magically-expended space of his pocket and opened it with a little 'hehem' of self-importance. He waited in a stiff, exact position until the Head Auror signaled to his fellow that he could start reading.

“George Gideon Weasley,” he announced, his nasally voice loud and young. The entire hall was silent, listening intently with vindictive ears. Ron, in that moment, felt a great hatred for his fellow students rise up in him. Though he didn't hold any love for his brother (or any of them), Ron nevertheless resented all of them for condemning George. It was a strange sort of possessiveness but one he didn't question. To examine it further would require looking deep into himself, a place he didn't dare go. “You have been hereby called to trial for suspected crimes. You have been charged with eight accounts of murder. Peacefully hand over your wand and surrender yourself immediately. Further charges will be added if you resist this arrest. Thank you.”

The Auror who had read handed the scroll to his superior, who then passed it off to Dumbledore. The old wizard took it with a calm demeanor and set it to the side without a single glance. He stood up gracefully, like a king before his subjects, and cleared his throat, even though everyone was already devoting their whole attention to him in silence. He asked, “Mister George Weasley, will you please come here?”

George, sitting stiffly at the Gryffindor table, a rabbit frozen by the hungry gaze of a wolf, had been paralyzed so far, but with this polite request, he snapped out of it. He abruptly got up, all eyes trained on him with nasty gazes to accompany their thoughts. Ron was, perhaps, the only one who did not stare, repulsed by what was happening and not wanting a memory of this. If he looked now, it would haunt him forever, this last view of his brother.

The boy pushed back his chair with a harsh sound, scrambling backward and almost tripping over it in his panic. His terror and vivid imagination of scenarios were obvious, and yet the children of Hogwarts eagerly lapped this up like a sweet wine, wanting to watch the pure suffering of another human being. Human nature, Ron decided, was a vile thing.

Despite knowing there was no escape from this torture, George attempted to run, to flee from the world and its injustices. He didn't get very far. A nameless Auror, watching carefully for such an action, quickly fired off a spell to knock George unconscious. The red light easily found its target, and the boy crumpled to the ground, barely avoiding a broken nose.

“NO!” Fred, George's twin brother, could finally take no more. He made to run to George, but two Gryffindors beside him also stood up to hold him back. He struggled in their grasp mightily but could not break it. He gave up, slumping in the two's arms and watching with dead eyes as the Aurors dragged his twin away. With tears flowing fast down his face, Fred wailed in the cries of an animal destined to die slowly, life slipping away like water with each passing second, “Nooooo...”

It was a heartbreaking scene, but those cruel eyes watched this with entertainment. Ron shut his own eyes, trying to block it all out. In the safety of his own mind, he too wailed in what he refused to identify as sorrow. The Great Hall's doors shut with the final sound of a fate being sealed, and Ron, thinking it was over, opened his eyes. In his direct line of sight was Percy. The self-righteous prefect had a smug expression that screamed of a situation happening in a way he favored.

“That murderer! I'm quite glad he was finally taken away,” he proclaimed, that annoying voice rising above the sudden roar of whispers that had erupted. A hot rage, uncontrollable and blinding, took a hold of Ron and was the only thing in his thoughts, greedily consuming them. Revenge, he vowed, would be his one day. For it not to be was an impossible concept.

X

While everyone was feasting in the Great Hall, I was away, having my own meal in the Forbidden Forest. I had once again –

forever stained my soul

– killed a unicorn, a task made easier by all the practice I had so far had.

Its last, dying noises still echoed mentally. It was a soothing melody with an addictive quality.

I had torn open the creature's stomach with my beloved dagger, the one I had bought in a Knockturn shop during last summer. It was a beautiful piece of work, made of a rare, elven metal and charmed with over a dozen spells. It also had been dipped in a potion that when it came into contact with anything, secreted a corrosive acid. The acid was a bit slow-working but did its job well. The weapon and additions had cost quite a mound of galleons but were well worth it.

After slicing it open, I reached in carefully, avoiding the light green acid that was chewing through the skin and muscles. I pulled out the long string of organ that was the large intestine with haste as –

the beast's hunger

– impatience ran through my body, making my whole form shake violently every so often. I brought it up to my nose, inhaling deeply the scent of death and bloody meat.

The beast growled low in satisfaction. Though not human, it was a tasty meal worthy of consumption.

I brought the organ to my lips without delay and tore off a piece. I chewed it with vigor and quickly swallowed, forgoing savoring it in favor of getting what I craved, like a bear starved after a long, cruel winter. I greedily devoured the whole thing in mere minutes.

The hunger was seemingly without end, a drop trying to take the place of an ocean. Full and true fulfillment was at the end of an undoubtedly long trail.

I plunged my hand next into the wet, squishy innards and under the ribs to grasp the unicorn's still heart. I pulled it out and had to use a bit of strength in the process. Once I held it before my eyes, I admired it with a wonder that never faded. It was such a small thing, having once fueled the bodily functions of a foal I estimated to be at about one year old. Still, it was as beautiful as all those before it. All unicorn hearts were this strange pearly white color, as were all their other organs (probably having something to do with the reason for their similarly-colored blood). They tasted a bit –

less like perfection

– sweeter than the blood, but it was a satisfactory flavor. Unable to hold back anymore in the face of these remembrances, I finally opened my jaws –

in the manner of a snake, seemingly impossible but only yet another of Mother Nature's gifts

– wide to engulf the whole heart, swallowing after a minimal amount of chews. I closed my eyes in bliss, and a small, pleased sound escaped me.

Abruptly, the mood was ruined by the noises of something crashing through the forest in a hurry. I reluctantly pulled away from my meal and with hawk's eyes, tried to pinpoint the source. It turned out to be a someone, the human form, short and distinctively feminine, that came into view rushing to the far left of my position. She crossed one of the few patches where the dying sunlight shone through the thick foliage, and her hair color, a particular orange-red, was revealed.

It was Ginny Weasley.

Though my meal was important, this seemed to be more intriguing. As the girl ran past, she didn't notice me at all, and I could see that her eyes were glazed in –

that half-awake state in which dreams seemed reality and what was real was viewed as just an elaborate fantasy

– an odd fashion. This gained my attention, and thus, abandoning the foal with some regret, I ran to follow her. I didn't bother with stealth, as she took no notice of me being there. Brittle, dry branches cracked loudly under our feet, and the living ones whipped us in retaliation as we forced a path through the forest. It was dark, but I could see just fine, as I had cast a spell to aid in this earlier before my hunt. Weasley, I could definitely tell, had not done so, thus her movements were clumsy and uncoordinated. Several times, the girl tripped over a log, only to immediately get back up and continue at that rapid pace.

I followed her for a while, the distance we traveled completely unknown to me, and it was clear we were now deep in the Forbidden Forest. As we went on, a very large, ancient tree started to come into view. It had a pearly white bark that, like metal, shined, and the other shade it shined was a light mint green, even without much light. The thick branches were bare of any leaves but held barely visible fruits, black as the night and wrinkled, as if they were rotten. A sweet and minty scent filled the air, and as we got closer, it only grew stronger.

Weasley, at about ten meters from the great tree, somehow began to run even faster toward it.

It was a joyous thing, the last of the path to the City of Gold and a goal long-imagined.

She made her way to the only low-hanging branch and plucked off one of the ten or so fruits on it. She examined it briefly with the rapturous look of one gazing upon their salvation, upon a Spirit materialized. She bit into it slowly, eyes closing in utter bliss, and clearly savored each chew. When she finished it, her eyes remained shut, and Weasley just stood there, face turned to –

a world of her own making

– the sky and clearly waiting. For what, I could only guess.

Then, after a brief moment, it came.

Her body started to glow softly with a bright emerald hue, and a warmth even I could feel from my position radiated from her. There was a small spark at her feet, like flint meeting stone, and a flame was born. It grew then wound snake-like around her without doing any apparent harm. The warmth I felt increased in temperature.

It was an ocean of heat, bringing with it memories to share in its ever-ceaseless, churning way. The shapes of monsters made of angry fire trying to claw their way to a solid existence were so vivid that they seemed to be real.

Within her fiery cocoon, Weasley's body began to disintegrate, appearing to turn to dust which disappeared instantly. I watched with an intense fascination, yearning to –

become a reborn phoenix as well, to rise from ashes in true immortality

– find out where she was going. For, even as she crumbled into nothingness, I felt in an inexplicable way that she was still alive, just removed from this place. A strong curiosity rose within me, so I went over to pluck off one of the fruits for myself. I didn't study it for long before sinking my teeth into it. It had –

the flavor of damnation, bitter and addicting

– an indescribable taste, one that words could not accurately convey. As soon as I had swallowed the mouthful of it, the sensation of numbness came over me, like being in an ice bath. There was a spark before my feet, and then dark, sickly green flames, long and serpentine, loosely circled me. They hissed and crackled, as if an animal, as they consumed the oxygen in the environment. They did not give off heat but instead were –

winter's immaterial hands caressing in that cruel, unforgiving manner of all nature

– cold. The spiral tightened a bit, and a constricting feeling grew in my chest, the vice of this strange magic strong yet exhilarating. I lifted a hand to my face to watch as it crumbled away and then followed the degradation as it continued up my arm. It was a painless process and left some part of me freer and lighter in spirit. The last part to go was my head and with it my view of the forest.

The first thing to come back to me was my knowledge of self, the realization that my existence was material. I quickly discovered that I had eyes and in doing so, opened them. I surveyed my surroundings as the rest came back to me in an experience most surreal. I was in a small study, a comfortable and relaxing room with well-loved furniture and muted, earthy colors. The smell of musty books invaded my nose, coming from the many shelves filled with them. The whole room was without any source of light, but unlit torches had been placed on the walls periodically.

There was only one exit from here, a rather plain, wooden door that was already open. Seeing as that was the only apparent direction Weasley could have gone, I made my exit through it to come into an impersonal, stone corridor. There was a heavy layer of dust on the floor of the passageway and footprints imprinted there, a single person's placed there many times and all in one direction. I made my own marks in the dust as I followed hers, ignoring the occasional hallway that branched off in favor of this route.

It was eerily quiet as I went on, the only sounds being my softly-falling feet and the constant drip of falling water droplets. The stone was icy beneath me, and in trailing a hand absently along the wall, I discovered just how cold it was.

The beast disapproved of this lack of heat, preferring the rage of an inferno, wild and scorching.

After a –

countless amount of time, meaningless seconds and minutes and hours passing by with nothing to mark them by

– while, the light at the end of the corridor had grown to a size that told of its nearness. The frigid temperature did not abate, even as I finally got to the end, which lead to a huge, cavernous room with many, many lit torches. I went further in to see it looked like the grand hall of –

Odin, radiating a glorious and dominating power, even in the absence of its master

– some king's castle. Large statues made of a pearly stone that shined as brightly as the day they were made lined a wide path straight from the only other entrance, two closed, stone doors with the carving of some great serpent, to the largest statue that had its back against the wall. The statues were of various –

deadly nightmares come to life and cursed to be frozen for all of eternity

– magical creatures, all in reverent poses that worshiped some unknown Spirit yet still retained their violent, chaotic natures in subtle but meaningful ways. Their eyes were not stone but gems set in, colored in many beautiful shades from the rainbow. Upon closer inspection, I saw that each gem trapped a –

soul, aged and longing to be freed

– white mist inside that swirled endlessly at a slow pace. The whole effect was stunning yet unsettling.

The beast wanted to reach out to these kindred spirits, but it was a futile dream.

The largest statue, reaching nearly to the vastly high ceiling, was of a man, noble-faced and arrogant, with a pure obsidian staff in hand that twisted at odd angles, wild and –

lacking a will to survive, the very essence sucked out of it in a way that was barbaric, unnatural, and sheer heresy

– lifeless. His long robes were made for royalty, and his hair was straight and well-kept. The feature that caught my attention the most was his eyes – deep sanguine rubies containing a black mist that felt malicious even from this distance.

Upon sweeping my gaze along the floor covered in about an inch of water, I saw the Weasley girl's form shuffling slowly and trance-like down the statue-lined path. Curious, I began to follow her. I didn't get very far before she reached some invisible boundary and crumpled to the floor like a puppet –

whose master had let go, their creation's purpose fulfilled and its existence without further use

– with its strings cut. The second Weasley hit it with a harsh noise, a faintly white, semi-transparent, ghost-like figure appeared from nowhere at her side. From my position, I could barely make out that he was male and dressed in what appeared to be a Hogwarts uniform. He was tall, and I estimated his age to be about fifteen or sixteen, perhaps seventeen.

My first step toward –

a new life, hidden and waiting for the right trigger

– him made a soft sound as my foot landed in the water's edge, and he sharply turned around at this, surprise and annoyance very briefly crossing his face. The expression that stayed was cocky and challenging, that of someone assured in their supposedly superior position. My own face was stony, revealing nothing, but I knew my fierce green eyes –

revealed the beast and its bottomless vat of rage, ready to meet this unspoken challenge with the full force of its might

– were darkened with malicious intentions and an eagerness for bloodshed. This unexpected reaction caused him to rid himself of his outward arrogance, a determined look taking over.

“I cannot allow any witnesses to my revival, boy,” he said with a deep, drawling voice, eyes turning hooded as a small, almost intoxicated smile slowly formed. The thoughts of his demise grew and raged like wildfire in my mind, burning all others to ashes.

You'll regret ever being born, boy!

Vernon's voice echoed horribly in my head, bringing with it memories better left buried and yet, at the same time, those of that final, glorious moment of their deaths by my hand.

“Revival?” I asked with a low, mocking chuckle. I had no idea what he meant by that, but it was better to –

let no weakness show

– act as if I did. “I foresee no such thing happening in your future.”

I could tell he thought this to be a denial of the greatness existing only in his eyes, and thus, his entire body radiated indignant anger, form tense and facial features twisted into an ugly, snarling mask.

“I am Lord Voldemort,” he growled sharply, “and Lord Voldemort always gets what he wants!”

The beast roared in outrage. It would take no orders from anyone.

The boy calling himself Voldemort (a concept I highly doubted) then quickly whipped out a wand to point it at me. Mine was in my hand and ready just as swiftly, pointing in the direction of his torso. He stalked forward like this, trying to be menacing, and I matched him step for step, not needing to put up an act to look vicious and demonic.

“The Binder of Fate intertwines her threads. She controls the grand tapestry of existence with resolute hands. So weave the destiny of this mortal,” he cast hastily with two opposing swishes of his wand, and a spell the yellow of nature dying came shooting toward me. It slammed into my half-formed shield, easily destroying the barrier with the sound of breaking glass. Before I could dodge, it hit my torso, knocking the breath out of me as if it were physical. For a brief few seconds, it seemed to have no effect at all. I started to cast another spell but wand waving furiously, only got out the first line.

My world abruptly turned hazy, my surroundings there but with their meaning removed. My eyes stared ahead blankly, body lax as I became trapped in my mind. A strange magic, foreign and powerful, wrapped around my mind, and distantly, I deduced that it belonged to boy-Voldemort.

Come to me and serve, it crooned, sickeningly sweet and –

unnatural, disgusting with vile demands that suppressed the beast's nature with rough hands

– harshly bitter all at the same time. It dug poisonous claws into my thoughts, molding and twisting them to its desire. It was a painful process, and with all my might, I tried to resist it, pushing back with a desperation to stay who I was. However, it seemed I was fighting a losing battle, as the full weight of boy-Voldemort and a Spirit's combined magic suffocated my efforts. Though I dreaded to say it, everything, at that moment, seemed hopeless as my doom approached on swift wings. My struggles became feeble, hardly holding them off.

Then, there came the sensation of magma churning in my gut, potent and burning me from the inside out. It spread like fire through my veins to engulf my whole being in its protective heat. I heard a dreadful roar, the whole of natural order's reverse and the screams of infinite tortured, dying souls contained within that otherworldly call, that sounded loudly from everywhere, mental or physical, and echoed off the chamber's walls, as well as those in my head. There was a foretelling silence in its absence, the eye of a hurricane, calm but with inevitable, impending destruction.

The sharp claws raking my thoughts and soul stopped, and a curiosity filled with suspicion from their caster leaked through to me. Undoubtedly, he could sense the brewing chaos and wondered at its cause, especially when he had been so near to –

ripping apart that control, that domination the beast needed, a necessary component to living

– taking me over. His presence cautiously prodded at this new element, trying to rate its level of threat.

It immediately became apparent that this was the wrong thing to do.

The fog in my mind abruptly disappeared, revealing the hall and boy-Voldemort standing close with his eyes shut in concentration. They snapped open to give me a view of his furious stare, face contorting into a nasty, twisted expression equally as enraged. He stepped forward, obviously intending harm, only to cease, stopped by the heavy magic that filled the air and weighed upon us. I felt a vicious satisfaction at this accomplishment rise up, half my own and intensified by the beast, who bubbled beneath my skin like a corrosive acid that was agonizing and ecstasy all in one breath.

A wide grin, full of threatening teeth that I could feel lengthening and sharpening, formed without any complaint from me. There was an indescribable sensation filling me to the brim, starting with my rapidly-beating heart and spreading outward, as the magic grew thicker and heavier, caressing my skin with small, electric sparks. Then, as the last of it reached the tips of my toes and fingers –

the heat of a dying star, wheezing out its last breath after blazing for so long, only to expand in one last, final show and the finale that incinerated everything within its reach, remembered by and mesmerizing generations for ages

– something exploded. The thick blanket of magic was sucked back into my body, fueling –

the rebirth of a champion, lost in their way only to return from death in a magnificent shift from nearly gone to someone to be written of in legends, a conqueror rivaled in force by nature itself

– my transformation. I could feel my whole body changing physically, the beast fully breaking away from its bonds to meld with my soul in a way more complete than ever before.

It was a blissful thing, this exhilarated joy beyond words and the becoming of one, two halves of a whole coming together with a bond transcending all else. There was one being and one only, now.

My face elongated into a long, crocodile's snout, shiny onyx scales growing over my softer, human skin. My eyes became larger, my vision sharpening to beyond hawk-like proportions, and moved to the sides a bit. My hair grew longer and bushier, reaching to mid-back. Scales also appeared on my thickening neck, stopping mid-torso with a few, stray ones here and there past that. My legs and upper body gained muscle mass, expanding to test the limits of my clothing. Curved, black talons came out of my finger and toe nails, and two similarly-shaped, spiraling horns, at least a meter long each, grew from behind my eyes.

Hair, also pure midnight, started thin at my thighs then, continuing down to my ankles, thickened to a coarse fur. My tail bone lengthened then separated into several, new bones thin but powerful muscles following it. Tiny scales covered this new appendage, some periodically turning into barbs along the way, and seven bone spikes, varying in length and the longest reaching seventy-five centimeters, extended from the end in a deadly array.

All of this happened at once, the changes swift and without pain. As the final part, bones and leathery skin grew and moved beneath the skin of my back until two pairs of bat wings, the top set larger than the bottom one by one hundred-twenty centimeters or so of total wingspan, burst out in a spray of blood. With barely a thought, they spread and shook off the blood before folding and settling against my back.

My eyes, slitted almost to the point of closing during this, opened fully to see boy-Voldemort, frozen in shock and a deep fear lurking in his eyes that he failed to hide.

“You are so pathetic, mortal,” I said, my voice dark with promises and deeper than usual, each word spoken slowly and with a growl. It was the voice of a creature damned, powerful and echoing, seductive and violent. Boy-Voldemort unfroze and, his panic and desperation obvious, acted to attempt to get rid of me.

“Reveal yourself to me, Guardian of the Chamber of Secrets! So requests an heir of Slytherin!” he hastily shouted in Parseltongue, backing away with his wand aimed shakily at me.

His body, though still ghostly, was gaining color at a steady rate, but he didn't seem to notice this, or much of anything. With my new depth of sight, I could see, though barely, a wispy, mist-like cloud connecting the prone Weasley to boy-Voldemort. Her life force was being funneled to him, I deduced with annoyance. I would not allow him to rise, to escape the realm of the dead, and intending to break the parasitic bond, I reached out my hand in an instinctive manner, not really aware of how I was going to do this but trusting in the beast.

However, before I could get any further, there was a rumbling sound, the grinding of ancient stone upon stone after an age of staying still. The largest statue's mouth opened wide, like a snake unhooking its jaw to swallow its helpless and paralyzed prey. There was a wordless hiss, most definitely serpentine, from within, before with the sound of hard scales against rough stone, the large, sleek head of a forest green snake popped through. Its abnormally large eyes were each concealed behind an unusual flap of skin much like an eyelid.

“Who dares to summon me?” it demanded as more of its body came out and dropped to the water-covered floor with a surprisingly quiet thump. As it slithered over to boy-Voldemort, red, forked tongue tasting the air, I immediately knew what it was – a basilisk. I growled lowly and threateningly at this challenge, features twisting in a foreign way to a snarl. This basilisk I was clearly destined to fight would be a worthy opponent indeed, and I looked forward to it.

The giant, aged snake started to turn its head in my direction after hearing this and scenting my presence. However, before fully facing me, it snapped back to boy-Voldemort when he spoke to it.

“You will obey Lord Voldemort, basilisk,” he demanded, and even if nothing outwardly changed about it, I knew the basilisk was displeased. He pointed to me and continued his command, “ELIMINATE HIM!”

Its displeasure increased, the serpent wanting to eliminate the very boy ordering it, but bound by some unknown force, it nevertheless did what boy-Voldemort wanted. It turned to me, mouth open to reveal long, white fangs dripping the most powerful of all known venoms, and hissed out its own version of a battle cry. My muscles tensed and my wings flared out a bit in preparation for our clash. I let out my own roar, loud and menacing, in accept of the challenge laid before me.

The basilisk closed its mouth and lowered itself completely to the floor and then, in the blink of an eye, was moving. Unluckily for it, I was just as fast. As it lunged for me, fangs exposed and ready to inject death, I spread my wings and jumped into the air. With a mighty flap and a resulting gust of air, I rose up to narrowly avoid those snapping jaws. I wasn't prepared, though, for the weakness of them, so when I felt my wings' strength draining, I had to make a hasty landing on top of the basilisk. I landed roughly, almost falling off, but dug my claws into its hide to stay where I was. They didn't go in very deep, as the serpent's thick hide put up a lot of resistance.

The basilisk screeched, more enraged than pained, and began to thrash about, twisting and bucking wildly to dislodge me. I roared loudly, echoing with my own anger, and held on the best I could. Despite my efforts, though, I soon lost my grip with my right hand. I struggled to dig the remaining claws in further, flailing about. When that didn't get me very far, I, in desperation, clamped my jaws around a section, and even though they unhooked to allow a greater diameter, I could barely wrap my teeth around a quarter of its width. The sharp points had a significantly greater amount of skill in piercing the basilisk's hide. The more it struggled, the deeper my teeth went, until the bitter, sour taste of its blood trickled unto my tongue.

Then, I knew I would do anything for more.

I got the strength to dig in my right claws again and dragged them down the scales. I ripped into it and raked again, over and over, until I got through the scaly layer to the muscle and blood underneath. I didn't stop and shredded it to ribbons, making the basilisk screech again in agonizing pain. It, still thrashing wildly, made its way, knocking down statues that didn't break or otherwise gain a mark, to one of the walls.

I, completely focused on more, more, more, didn't notice this until the serpent slammed itself into the wall. I abruptly came back to myself, but it was already too late. Its second slam hit true, knocking me into the very much solid rock with no small amount of force. Temporarily stunned, I let go, involuntarily falling to the ground below. I hit with a painful crash but without breaking anything, somehow. I recovered enough to barely jump over the tail about to smack me but could not prevent the serpent's next move.

It twisted about to wrap around me, its grip vice-like and inescapable. I tried to slip out but couldn't, and as its coils briefly tightened in warning, I knew I wouldn't try that again. Despite having the pressing urge to fight my way out no matter what, it was clear that this was not the time for that.

The basilisk's head turned to me, eyes glaring heatedly even through their still-covered sockets.

“You,” it said with a honed patience and ill-hidden anger, then, after tasting the air directly in front of my snout, continued, “have been a most troublesome pest.”

I gave a dark, hissing laugh as insane as the glint in my eyes. “Troublesome?”

“You shall make a delicious meal,” it said, ignoring my non-question as its 'eyelids' twitched. My laughs, one after another continually without any sort of control, turned into cackles, strange and raspy coming from these new vocal chords. With gleaming eyes free of fear, I met its concealed gaze with a confidence lacking any thought for consequences.

“Try all you want!” I shouted, surely spiting at the death that awaited me. And yet, I somehow felt this was not the end. No, this was merely a stepping stone to godhood.

It wasted no time in meeting my challenge, revealing the trademark golden orbs that killed with only a look. I caught a brief flash of them, as beautiful as a poisonous flower, alluring in its faked innocence, before my vision went black. My surroundings and feeling suddenly ceased to exist, as did my body. It was almost the blindness of death, detached from reality and seeing nothing, understanding nothing. Yet still, underneath this blanketing abyss, I could feel the beating of my heart, strong and true. And with this, I knew that I was alive, that I existed.

The thick blackness, infinite and all-encompassing, shifted its great mass in response to this revelation, it seemed. It moved slowly, a frog frozen under the earth for winter awakening to its changing environment, coming back from a near-death state to live once more. There was then a heavy pressing upon me, a gravity from all sides, and a presence, ageless as the universe and knowledgeable in the ways of everything, spoke to me with the voice of all living things to exist – past, present, and future. It spoke not in any language but the universal tongue of feelings and instinctual truths.

A freedom from bonds. An awakening from a long slumber. The everlasting resistance of all that was, is, and will be. The rebirth of a recycled soul.

Before I could comprehend any of this, there was the sensation of free-falling through an abyss with no end in sight. It was the wait, not knowing when it would end, that was the most agonizing. It seemed like forever when, at long last, it ended. It was jarring, being pushed back into my body, into reality, like something huge forced into a tiny jar. It was the reverse of Pandora's predicament, all the sins of the world going back to whence they came.

I opened my eyes and discovered that I was back to the very second I had left. I was still wrapped by the basilisk and staring at it. Boy-Voldemort was still watching from the side lines with that smugly victorious look and aura of uncontrolled chaos bubbling under the surface. The Chamber was still in the state it had been left in.

And yet, the world had completely changed.

It was a new face of reality, the layer under what mortals knew to be true. This view was an image superimposed on the normal, a copy that had been horribly twisted and yet was recognizable as being borne of the original.

The Chamber, all the stone, water, and the largest statue, remained the same, only colored in gray-scale. Everything beyond that was an alternate vision. The great serpent was now not flesh, but a skeleton. The bones were held together by nothing visible, except, perhaps, the ghostly spirit trapped in them. Inside the confines of the bones, there was the semi-transparent figure of a man, the very same one as depicted by the largest statue. He was painted only in a shiny silver that was as reflective as a mirror and a deep green that resembled a kelpie's watery, seaweed-like skin. His body was unnaturally long, a human-to-snake transformation interrupted and frozen, and his head wasn't visible, as his neck started at the base of the basilisk's skull. Twin orbs of fire, as white and blinding as the sun, filled the serpent's eye sockets, and though they were the same from every angle, I knew they were staring directly at me.

The statues lining the path had turned into the various creatures they had depicted. They were all hunched over, curling in on themselves with the pain of their enslavement. Chains, a dull and dark gray metal, tightly wound around each one and anchored them to the floor. Their eyes, each and every set of them, were two white wisps of smoke, exactly like the ones trapped in jewels previously. Their attention, I could somehow tell, was not focused on either plane of existence I had experienced, instead staring off to a deeper layer.

Boy-Voldemort no longer looked like the spirit of a deceased Hogwarts student. Rather, he was much similar to an inferius, rotting skin and muscle hanging unto bone by a thread. Half of his head was pure, bleached white bone, with the rest in various stages of decay. There was a thin, insidious line pulsing in black that connected him to what was, presumably, Weasley. She was only a small, sickly yellow pile of glass-like sand that, with each pulse, slowly decreased in size. As she disappeared bit by bit, boy-Voldemort's decay regressed in the same moment. At this rate, he would soon be whole again.

That was not acceptable.

Turning back to the basilisk, I pondered on how to break free on its hold. Then, as if it had heard my thoughts, the serpent's jaw opened wide and headed toward me, ready to tear as its sun-eyes burned brighter. In that instant, a highly compelling need arose in me, though it was unclear as to what exactly it urged me to do. Acting on instinct, I opened my own mouth and in one mighty inhale, sucked in as much air as I was able to. The basilisk froze mid-motion, and I knew I was taking in more than just air. I was consuming its very soul.

There came a long, terrible wail as nature was defiled and sullied as part of it was torn forcefully from the whole. The fiery orbs turned the black of the dead before disappearing completely, the ghost's spirit leaving in that same second. The skeleton, no longer held together by anything, fell to the ground soundlessly and lifelessly.

I could feel the foreign soul settling within me, easily subdued by the combined one of the beast and myself. It gathered in my chest, and a comfortable warmth spread from there like the heat of a fire after braving the fierce weather of winter.

Released from my bonds, I went over to boy-Voldemort, my stride quick and purposeful. Meanwhile, boy-Voldemort seemed puzzled, looking around with an annoyed expression that looked grotesque on his slowly-rebuilding face. I realized, belatedly, that he couldn't see me for some reason. I left the wondering on why to later, deciding that this was more important.

When I got to the bond between them, I could sense it giving off an aura of maliciousness. It, as I got closer, started to radiate a vicious emotion, like a tiger defending its territory and fully prepared to to do so by any means, and seemed almost sentient. Offended and not intimidated by this inferior thing's challenge, I grasped it with the speed of a striking viper. It was surprisingly materialistic in my hand, squirming and thrashing like a live snake caught in the talons of a hawk.

I tightened my grip and clasped another section with my other hand. Then, I pulled strongly in opposite directions. When an ear-piercing screech, the bond ripped apart like twine, tightly packed threads unwinding and parting frayed. The broken ends writhed briefly before evaporating into a black mist that swirled into one mass that was absorbed by Weasley's glass-sand form.

Boy-Voldemort stumbled forward two steps, hand outreached toward life and an unseen savior. As he did so, his body started to reverse into decay at a rapid rate. Skin and muscle fell off and turned to ash upon hitting the floor, soon leaving only bones. His skeleton, frozen in that position, rattled as the bones vibrated. They then exploded outward in a cloud of dust and tiny shards. The shards that came my way passed through me without any pain or harm.

With one last view of the glass-sand rebuilding into a humanoid form, this alternate world faded from sight. When I next opened my eyes, I was once again –

back to the reality that concealed the true selves of all those living

– in the mortals' realm. I was no longer in the shape of the beast and felt a faint pang of sorrow in my heart with the separation of our souls.

And yet, the beast moved just beneath its skin bindings, closer than ever and remaining that way. The thin soul-thread had grown in size and strength, the connection deepening even more.

When I surveyed the Chamber, I found that boy-Voldemort had vanished, leaving no trace of his half-existence. The basilisk lay limp and unmoving on the floor, dead but without a –

journey to whatever afterlife had awaited it, the cycle of rebirth altered

– single mark on it to suggest the cause of death. The only thing different from its living appearance was the pair of eyes. The golden orbs no longer existed in their sockets, looking like they had been neatly plucked out. Their absence left two gaping holes and cords of muscle and nerve hanging out, all cleanly cut.

Turning my attention to Weasley, I saw she was alive, if just barely, and breathing shallowly and raggedly. The hunger for human flesh hit with the force of a tsunami, enveloping me in its depths. I imagined the addicting taste and licking my lips, walked over.

I definitely deserved a reward for all of this.

X

June 17, 1353

The whole of the Great Hall was in black and Hogwarts in mourning. It was supper on the last day of that school year, and a mass funeral for the year's victims was being held.

It was a gathering of people unaffected by these deaths. They would continue on in life, uncaring of what had happened. If it didn't concern them personally, tragedy was beneath notice.

The food had not yet arrived, as we awaited Dumbledore's speech on –

Death's icy presence here, indiscriminate and without mercy

– all that had happened. Finally, the headmaster stood, commanding instant silence from those few still quietly whispering. He wore a solemn look with sorrow and weariness in the aged lines of his face. He looked every bit the age he was, perhaps even more in that world-weary, jaded way.

“Students of Hogwarts, fellow wizards and witches... friends,” he started off, slowly enunciating each word to convey all the meaning, the entirety of this raw emotion. He briefly closed his eyes in what seemed like regret, avoiding the sight of some figment of memory. In opening them, he seemed to accept –

his role as Atlas, cursed to carry the world with tired arms but unfailing strength

– some heavy burden, and a gusty sigh escaped him. He continued, voice strong, “We gather in this place today, and in our hearts with shared sentiments, to remember and honor our losses.”

The powerful wizard looked over the collection of students, gaze sweeping over each one in seconds but piercing in their ancient knowledge. This seriousness was different than the norm and served to drive home his point. All eyes, all of the Houses looked at Dumbledore in rapt attention, whether they were so inclined or not. Even I watched him –

through dual eyes, half beast and all calculation

– intently.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “the word loss can mean many things. Yes, we are here for the passing of nine students, each that had different things to offer to the Earthly Realm and, eventually, the Spirits. Each of them is a tragedy by themselves, and we all miss them. But, it is also a loss of another sort, for as their bodies are turned to earth, each of their souls departs to one of the other Realms.

“With loss also comes hope. Just as it is at the bottom of a jar filled with disease, death, and despair, hope remains true at the end of all of these. It is a guiding force capable of any feat. Hope, you see, is the base of dreams and ambition and makes them reality. It is, above all, what we must not cling to.

“As we feel the loss of something physical, parts of them remain, forever in the heart and mind. Memories are things to be cherished, held onto as long as possible. With memories, the dead live on.

“We must also remember that their bodies contained a soul, the essence of life. The souls of the dead pass on to the other Realms and before they become a new life, the highest forms of peace and bliss are experienced. In their final moments, our brethren are happy at a level that cannot be described with words.

“Let hope, everyone, be what you hold on to, despite what may seem like the end, for death is only the beginning.”

After the headmaster's speech, there was an awed silence as this knowledge and inspiration sunk in, reaching to their souls to make them see the sense in his speech.

However, a select few had a different reaction. Those that had known the first seven to die (Malfoy excluded) were quiet as Dumbledore's words washed over them without any true understanding. They stared at visions only viewable by them, eyes and faces blank. Black shadows curved under their eyes, the products of many sleepless nights spent with the company of sorrow and thoughts of what if's. These still circled painfully in their minds during the day, and their bodies, in response, wasted away, as sustenance became an afterthought.

Those around them, friend or not, kept their distance.

They, whom were needed most in this moment, avoided the problem, choosing to deny that there was anything wrong. Ignorance, after all, created a world where there was nothing to worry about, no one that needed help. It was a false creation built with the bricks of human cruelty.

Those staring off didn't seem to notice this neglect, or more likely, they were resigned to the suffering they endured. It was a tragic sight yet not wholly unexpected of humanity.

The remaining Weasleys, excluding Ron, fell into this category, but at least, they had each other, as evidenced by the lot of them huddling together tightly. In this storm of grief, each was an anchor for the others, tying them to reality lest they be lost. It was yet to be seen if the rope from anchor to struggling passenger would stay unbroken.

Ron, sitting alone at the end of the Slytherin table, held –

an iron will, a determination which could not be broken by any mortal tool

– something else within him. It was evident in his stony face, blue eyes filled with an iceberg – slow to gain speed but unstoppable in its journey until the whole of it was exhausted. A snarl twisted his lips, but it was something he was unaware of. He radiated his intention to kill, a mindless and chaotic rage barely held in check. Though, it was not a trapped emotion. Rather, Ron was awaiting the perfect moment to unleash its mighty wrath.

Dumbledore soon reached the end of all that had to be said, and the food finally appeared. In the mouths of those select few, it tasted of ash.

X

END of Year of the Beast

NOTES:

“...a muttered spell to Epona.”: In Gallo-Roman mythology, she was a goddess that protected horses, donkeys, and mules. Since a unicorn is basically a horse with a horn, I thought this fit well.

“...nature of a tiāngoŭ, war in every step and thunder its breath...”: This is a mythological creature from China. Supposedly, it makes a sound like thunder and brings war to everywhere it goes. Generally, it resembles a dog. And, somehow, a... comet? Don't really know how that works.

Typhon: In Greek mythology, Typhon was the monster to end all monsters and, rightly so, called “the Father of All Monsters.” He had dragon heads (and a lot of them), though some people depicted him as having a human one. From the waist down, he had a snake tail, and his fingers were made of snakes also. He had fiery eyes and many, many wings.

“...strength of a hyena...”: Hyenas, especially the striped and spotted variations, have a great amount of biting power. They can kill a dog in a single bite to the neck. According to the vet at my nearby zoo, the strength of a hyena's jaws is more powerful than a tiger's. I think he said something about them having the most biting power of all land mammals, but don't quote me on that.

“Knockturn's vast maze...”: I'm not exactly sure how J. K. Rowling depicts Knockturn Alley in relation to its size and shape (one alley, many, etc). In the movies, though, I think it was just one alley. That, however, makes no sense. Seriously, how would all those different shops fit if there was only one straight path? Thus, my Knockturn has many, many alleys branching off from the main one in a confusing labyrinth.

“...laid eyes upon its deadly beauty – a drakaina.”: Drakainas are from Greek mythology. They are always female and are dragons. Occasionally, they have some human features.

“...a chimera on rampage...”: In a general sense, chimeras are a mixture of several different animals all in one body. In Greek mythology, this combination was a goat, lion, and snake. It breathed fire, and a sighting of one foretold of natural disasters and things like that. Sounds like a pretty angry creature to me.

“...as heated as Vulcan's forge...”: In Roman mythology, Vulcan was a god of fire and smithery. He made things for the gods and goddesses – weapons, jewelry, armor, and that sort of thing. Naturally, he'd need a forge to make all this crap, and forges, as a general rule, have to be hot in order to be of any use.

“...power of Thor's hammer, laced with lightning...”: In Norse mythology, Thor was the god of thunder, lightning, storms, strength, and a whole bunch of other stuff. He wielded a hammer, which was called Mjölnir, that held a great power. I'd say he's a pretty cool guy.

“...Charon reached out a thin, rotting hand in demand for payment to cross Styx, one last trip through a river of departed souls...”: In Greek mythology, Charon is the person to go to if you want to cross the river of Styx. Styx, along with another river – Acheron, apparently – go from where the newly dead reside to the underworld. He carries the dead in a ferry, but only if they have a coin. So the deceased had said coin, they were often buried with one in their mouth.

“...like a prophecy from the veiled Skuld, a prediction that bound even the mightiest of gods...”: In Norse mythology, Skuld is the Norn (a trio of women who decide what destiny everyone will have, man or deity) that sees the future. If I remember correctly, one of the books I had on Norse mythology said that when the Norns make up their minds about someone's fate, it's sealed for all eternity. Even the gods and goddesses had to bow down to these inevitable happenings.

“...leviathan, eyes bright and gleaming with the light of a thousand dying suns, peering out from the depths of her self, fins breaking the stormy waves teasingly, threateningly...”: From Hebrew (or Judaic; I'm not sure) mythology, there comes the leviathan. It's a giant sea serpent in most versions, though some paint it as a fish or dragon. All three have the possibility of having fins, so I thought this was an accurate portrayal. Basically, it's the monster under the bed... but in the water. Its eyes shine brightly, as does its body to a lesser extent.

“...mighty Snake King, whose paralyzing gaze held no rival and whose venom had no first.”: This one, quite obviously, is the basilisk. It's from European descent (mythology-wise, of course) and is called the “king of serpents” because it can insti-kill with a single look. It also has a very potent venom.

“...banshee's wail, the signal of death to come...”: The banshee is a female figure from Irish mythology. She wails when someone dies or is close to doing so. Over time, the myth developed to her actually foretelling death.

“...chance to bathe in Tsukiyomi's rays...”: In Japanese mythology, Tsukiyomi is the god of the moon.

The “Harry x Draco” scene (in which Draco dies): Let me let you, this was definitely not planned. At all. But, as all writers know, the pen takes you by the collar and tells you where to go. I also didn't intend for anything involving Harry and Draco even getting anywhere near each other in a sexual situation. Quite frankly, Draco Malfoy isn't exactly one of my favorite characters (cannon or not). Anyway, just so you know (and don't get little ideas in your head), Harry was not attracted to Draco. Rather, he was aroused by a combination of “sexual awakening” and the food on the menu. More so the food. So, I like to think of this scene as Harry x Random Victim, instead. Best pairing ever, guys.

“Great snake, your shadowy coils do bind the world. Let the scales of Midgard reach down to this mortal. Biting your tail, there is no escape.”: This a spell to the Midgard Serpent (also called Jörmungandr), a creature in Norse mythology. The Serpent wraps around Midgard, one of nine worlds and the one where humans live. It covers the earth by curling into a circle and biting its tail. This position, when taken by a snake or dragon, is called an ouroboros, representing the cycle of life (death, rebirth, and all that) and, consequently, eternity.

“...harpy, speedily chasing down her prey...”: Harpies are half-bird and half-human women from Greek mythology. They're known for stealing and being able to track down people/food. I wanted to put some really fast creature here, but the harpy was all I could find.

“The life of Spirits breathes Wind! The storm of their anger strikes!”: This one's just another general spell, this time for Wind. It's really nothing special.

“...pathetic lot watching young Titans battle...”: In Greek mythology, the Titans were powerful deities. They reigned for a while until, later on, a younger group of deities (the Olympians) took over (thus the “young” part).

“...mere ants next to manticores...”: In Persian mythology, manticores are creatures with the body of a lion, head of a human (with sharp, pointy teeth), and the tail of a snake or dragon. It gained the title “man-eater” because of its appetite for humans. Originally, they were called something else by the Persians until the ignorant foreigners changed it to “manticore.” Obviously, ants, the small things they are, cannot compare to manticores, for they are too awesome to be real.

“Spirits' Earthly element, show your rolling waves!”: Just another general spell, this time for Earth (duh). It creates a very mild earthquake.

“Cold winds of the North do turn snow. The Giantess does brave this cruel blizzard. She harnesses the winter! Ride, icy shard-daggers!”: This spell is to a giantess (female giant) from Norse mythology. I didn't really specify which one because there are many and, quite frankly, I don't want to look for hours to try to figure out which one would be best. Hrímthurs, the race from which this random giantess would come, are beings made of ice (and are, obviously, giants). They live in Niflheim, a land of eternal snow, winter, and everything cold.

“...all the intent of Arawn's hounds, tracking down the scent of their target...”: In Welsh mytholgy, Arawn was the king of their version of the underworld, Annwn. His hounds, called the Cŵn Annwn, tracked down souls and brought them to him. Apparently, this bit of mythology was adapted (read: vilified) by Christians later on.

“Chains of the storm, descend! Your electric shackles are forged in the Earthly Realm!”: This a general spell, but to Lightning this time, the combination of Fire and Wind. It creates, as you have read, chains of lightning. They can be used in any way your little heart desires once you make them.

“...path to the City of Gold...”: The City of Gold, which sometimes people add the word 'lost' to the front, is a reference to El Dorado. Some explorers (read: idiot foreigners) have tried to search for it – eternal wealth and all that. None of them found it, of course. I'm sure all of you have heard of this at some point or another.

“...reborn phoenix as well, to rise from ashes in true immortality...”: The phoenix, which is from several mythologies (not just Greek), is a bird that lives for a long time then bursts into flame. After that, it's reborn, though some say it dies and a new phoenix is born. Either way, they won't become an endangered species any time soon (if they actually existed, that is).

“...grand hall of Odin...”: Odin is an important god from Norse mythology, though Odin is only one of his bazillion names. Seriously, this guy has way too many – how does he keep track of them all? He has several different residences associated with him. One of which is Valhalla, a hall in Asgard, where all the dead people go to celebrate and generally have a good party. Dying in battle brings great honor to your family, too.

“The Binder of Fate intertwines her threads. She controls the grand tapestry of existence with resolute hands. So weave the destiny of this mortal.”: This is the incantation for what cannon calls the Imperius Curse. The 'Binder of Fate' could refer to any mythology's fate-maker(s). Most times, I've found, they're female. I figured that if the Imperius Curse controls people, then I should make a reference to fate/destiny, which also controls people. Of course, like the Imperius Curse, this would be a temporary thing.

Harry's transformation: In case I don't get to it later, Harry transformed into his animagus form (aka “the beast”), which is a wendigo. A wendigo, traditionally, is a spirit that possesses people and turns them into man-eaters (in a cannibalistic sense). Thus, it has no real form. I was free to make up whatever the hell I wanted. So no complaining.

The “alternate world” Harry enters in the Chamber of Secrets: I know it seems really weird right now, but it'll get better. It does have a specific name that will be revealed later (probably in the fifth chapter). Basically, it shows the 'true nature' of people represented in alternate images. The ability to enter it is one Harry will always have (and only him) and a quite useful one at that. However, it comes with a price, as he has unleashed something by going there. Buahahaha....

“...the reverse of Pandora's predicament, all the sins of the world going back to whence they came.”: Pandora, as I'm sure you've all heard of, is a woman from Greek mythology. She was given a box/ jar (whichever translation you choose to believe in) which contained, unbeknownst to her, all the evils of the world. She, though she specifically was told not to, opened it and released all these. She tried to stop it, but didn't succeed, only to find that at the bottom was hope.

“...deep green that resembled a Kelpie's watery, seaweed-like skin.”: In Celtic mythology, a kelpie is a horse that lives in water, luring in people (especially ignorant children) to drown them. Then eat them. Some versions say its hide is white, others black, and other various colors. It makes more sense for the thing to have a green and/or blue hide. You can't hide anything in the water with white.

“...much similar to an inferius...”: An inferius (plural: inferi) is a creature solely belonging to Harry Potter cannon. TBL actually using cannon – amazing, I know, right? It's the zombie of the HPverse and doesn't like fire very much. However, it isn't repelled by holy water, magic bullets, and silly things like that.

“...his role as Atlas, cursed to carry the world with tired arms but unfailing strength...”: In Greek mythology, Atlas was that guy who had to hold the world on his back. In this myth, Zeus cursed him to stand on Gaia (the earth) and hold up the sky as punishment for being on the losing side (harsh, dude). If you had to carry all that, you'd probably be pretty tried, too. Unless you lift, bro.

TBL: Ugh. O.O So. Many. Words. Hope you liked it, guys. See y'all in another few months! XD

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

5/21/2012

EDIT (6/5/2012): Updated and changed things for AFF version; again, nothing major.
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