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Blood From Whence He Came	By : Ladygreychaton Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 17519 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: Do not own Harry Potter, characters, rights to, any books, movies, songs, poems or references made. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling, this is just for fun, with no intentions of profit.

Chapter List
- 5
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[[Do not own Harry Potter, characters, rights to, any books, movies, songs, poems or references made. Several hints to Harry Potter books, but again belong to J.K. Rowling. Any further things belong to their original owners, aside from original characters. Used with no intention of profit!
Quotes from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Pottermore, Wikia, hints at other books/movies, or other things I may have forgotten, none of them belong to me! ]]
(( Sorry about delays, I was working on a bunch of chapters for this... and... personal issues. Very personal, but I'm still here and uploading three chapters! Hope you like.))

It had been weeks since the last time they'd seen a witch or wizard other than themselves. Their race was dying, that much they knew. Magic was harder to grasp, like sifting drops of water through tunneled grains of sand. It trickled pitifully when one attempted it, leading only the desperate to do so.
Ever since He had died. Yes, the magic had slowly been bled from the world, an entire generation passing like witches and wizards had suddenly heaved a great sigh and then breathed no more. Without the older, more powerful magicals, without their powers, the youngers had no chance. The world had absorbed the dead, and now the young and new were stumbling around on fumbling legs, searching for a reason.
The world itself seemed to be grinding to a sputtering halt. Occasionally you'd find another, but for the most part you were on your own. You made do with what you had, scavengers all around searching for goods and food. The best managed to preform miracles, even those who had never lived in a world without magic in their lines before this.
It felt strange to be sitting around a campfire, working with their latest kill. The gathered group was small, closeknit and had really deteriorated. Together they cleaned the meat, skinning, gutting, and deveining it. The skin they carefully put aside, knowing by now how useful it could be. Some of them were better at it than others, and could scrape and tack it, drying it out to make a good pelt. Hides were scrapped out, cleaned and tanned to become clothes or blankets, sometimes belts or tools. Very useful to keep around indeed, if a bit of a tedious process. The guts and gizards of the larger animals were cleaned and rinsed, set aside for the camp guard dogs. The mix-breed furry companions were offered the rich treats that would keep them healthy and strong.
The hounds often scrabbled over bones, but it depended on the nature of the beast. Certain prey animals had brittle bones and would fracture in the pup's gums or mouth, causing damage. Dogs were good pack animals, good for helping with kills. Having an injured hunter was terrible, or worse, having to put it down? They couldn't afford that. Rarely, they'd find a dog hacking up the raw bones and unable to digest the pieces. Cooking them allowed some of the large bones to be used for soups, or for the dogs to suck out the grainy and healthy marrow. They'd learned a lot in seclusion.
Soon they had a fire roasting the racks of meat over spitted wood. They didn't have much seasoning besides bits of grass or herbs they recognized, but they'd learned to live naturally. It was better to eat, a full belly was better than empty. Complaining hardly did any good, and the fare was good tonight. A rich meat with good fat, not the lean game that lead to the shakes that they'd had before. They often caught rabbits or hare, and though the fur was soft and made for good pelts, the game lead to headaches after a while. Bodies need fat, they need sugar to survive. There wasn't anything to store, nothing they could survive off of with the pitiful meat the slender muscled hares provided. Local berries helped stave off some of it when they could, but they weren't always available. Big game or fish was better.
Hygiene was also something that had become a bit of a luxury. Oh, they did the best they could, and didn't neglect their bodies. But it was hurried washing with what little they could find or spare. Water was a scarce commodity, and hardly on the top of the list for bathing.
They had adapted the best they could, trying to keep down on the bugs. The flies and ticks in the woods were something terrible, worse than the smell. So they used mud when they could find it, smearing it into their hair, matting and twisting it. Turning it into something similar to dreadlocks or frizzed braids. Many opted to simply shave or whack their hair into a short cut, but others couldn't bear the idea, despite what it was becoming. No matter how unsightly, it was a part of them.
Braiding leaves into the matted mess also helped, as depending on the variant, it provided an earthy or pleasing smell. The world had become a place where one didn't seem to notice if what had once been pearls was now sodden and muddy leaves in your hair. The change was vast and difficult. What would it matter if you had pearls on strings in your hair anyways? They held no monetary value anyways.
It took at least a year to get the mud-coated and ratted hair to resemble anything pleasing to the eye, so perhaps the ones who had shaved their heads had it right all along. Each time it rained, their greasy and dirty faces were stained with the tracks of their attempt at a new culture. Or, at the very least, their attempts to avoid bites and bugs. Fleas, mites, things that crawled often avoided the matted and dirty haired brethern much to the scorn of the bitten bare-scalped society.
Things like salt were used for currency, rather than diamonds and gold. Baubles had very little value, but salt? Salt could save a person's life, could provide multiple uses in times of need. One could trade with nonmagicals even, provided you kept on the low about your own status.
Cloth, wire, the bare essentials. Anything to make things easier. The strangest things that many had scoffed at were now considered desperate commodities. There was a rumor that a city far to the north had found fuel. Not for cars, no. Cars had little use in this day and age. But fuel like vegetable oils, fats, shortenings, stored fats that were still good in cold storage. They were living it up like kings and queens up there, able to trade and barter with whomever they chose.
Really, it was hard conditions that had lead them to thinking that this was preferrable to making a community and trying to build it up. In large numbers they were found out. Magicals were shunned, hunted, and killed. Even now they were not welcomed, now at the end of times. To even have young ones was dangerous as it made them weaker, harder to travel. More mouths to feed, less available men or women working. New births were no longer celebrated, as until that child was old enough to pull their own weight, they were a burden.
They could never stay in one place for long, never settle. There was no time for fun, no time for rest. Too long in one place and they might stumble upon someone else's territory. Worse still, they might be accused of being magical. Even if they were accused out of pettiness, jealousy, or anger, it was dangerous. Whether you were or weren't didn't matter. To be accused meant they'd send out the Raiders. There was no coming back from that. No pleading, no mercy. They could not be swayed, not by age, not by gender. A child just from the womb would be slaughtered alongside it's mother to ensure the end of the magical line, whether there was any present or not. To be a witch or wizard was a death sentence.
In a time where last names and old bloodlines were long forgotten, in a time where the world was falling apart at it's very seams, one name was still whispered as a silent prayer. A story of a man who had existed, a story of a man who had passed. When he had gone, this hell had risen. Some cursed him. Some called him god. Some prayed to be with him. Some begged him for help, to save them. But it was always the same name upon their lips.
"Harry Potter!"

******
Harry woke in his bed, covered in sweat. The dream was still heavily upon him, and he could almost hear the anguished cries in his ears, ringing. His nose was bleeding again, and this time his mother wasn't there. She wouldn't wake to his cries, stifled as they had been. She wouldn't find his glassy, horror-filled gaze, still swimming with the visions of what he had seen.
Glancing around curiously, the boy spotted the old clock and could barely make out the placement of it's hands. It wasn't a magical version like Mrs. Weasley's had been with the names of her loved ones and placements for where they were, signs for home, danger and safety. His mother had one, yes, but hardly found it practical to place one in every room.
One o'clock exactly the clock said. Far too late to be awake, he decided. Or was it too early? Either way, he ought to be sleeping. Recovering.
Pinching his fingers around his nose to stem the flow of the blood, Hardwin's head pounded in agreement with his thoughts and he found himself wincing. The blood was irritating him, and the sheet he'd been using to catch the steady copper stream was turning a bright poppy red. Somehow, it seemed an ill omen.
Quietly, he lay back against his over-stuffed pillows, listening to the quiet of the night. If what he saw of the future was true, and he usually was, then he had to change it. Things couldn't be allowed to progress that way. No, things had to change. He would have to find a way. Something had to give, after all, nothing was infinite, set in stone. Dumbledore had proven that often enough. It was the choices we made, after all.
Harry's eyes held a grim sort of determination that night. For while Hardwin hadn't recognized many of the grimy faces, some parts of his soul had. The shape of their noses, the way their mouth had moved, or the way they'd walked. A smile, or even the colors of their hair, their eyes. It had all told a familiar story to Harry, one that had tugged hard at his heartstrings.
His descendents had been begging him, calling him, cursing him. Pleading with him. His grandchildren, his great nieces and nephews and great-godchildren. Now, his stomach was roiling with guilt. That was the timeline he had left behind, the one in which Death had come for him. How had it turned out this way? Why would Death show him the future he had abandoned, the one which would never be? What purpose did it serve?
Harry hiccupped softly, and shed several tears with a shattered smile. The bleeding had stopped and he lay quietly now, whispering to the empty room. "I'm sorry Ron, Hermione... Ginny... everyone. I didn't mean to leave you all. Will you forgive me for what I have to do?"
His place in this timeline, his job as the Angel of Death was now cemented. Harry Potter would not let that future come to pass this time. Not ever.

******

The Dark Lord was a formidable man. Many called him mad. Some followed him for his vision. Still more desired the way he could force the world to fall at his feet with his manipulative tactics. Others didn't care, they wanted his power, the sheer force, to be a part of it all. After all, better to be a part of this madness, to be the right hand man of the devil, than against him. That way when the time came that he finally destroyed it all, they wouldn't be caught in the waves of his fiery wrath... or so they thought.
Tom had been called the Devil since he had been in Wool's Orphanage. It made little difference if pathetic Christians did so now. He was immortal, he was powerful. He was a God. Petty things like Devils and their likeness didn't bother him. It sounded more like the wicked with something to hide. Perhaps they wanted atonement, and that was why they ran from him. Either way, he found himself incapable of sympathy.
He'd once seen a muggle shrink, just for fun. After hours of talking, in which he had described his life, from start to finish, he'd watched her squirm. He'd begun with his love for killing, his first kills to be exact and lack of empathy nor care-- it never bothered him to see the life leave someone's eyes. He never felt guilty. Rather, it was satisfying in most cases. Occasionally, he would find it disappointing if he had expected more of a battle, a chase. But he never felt any twinge of sorrow.
She'd called him a psychopath. Possibly schizoid as well, she'd said. Said that he was a classic case, to start with animals like Billy's rabbit, and preying on children. The bullying back at the orphanage and his current "delusions of granduer". Believing himself to have magic, or to have gone to a school for the gifted. Being charming, highly intelligent and handsome had only made him more dangerous to the public. Straight out of textbooks for serial killers. Tom had smiled when he'd killed her, thanking her for delightful insights and paying her in full. Not that she'd need it, dead as she was, filthy thing.
He had no heart, he'd long since decided. Only curiosity. A thirst, a desire. A burning need that could only be filled by the world. He wanted to be acknowledged. For the world to know that he was the most powerful, that he had done what they could not. That he had gone where none had walked. He was empty but unafraid.
So it came as little surprise to many that he was building an army. Making a name for himself, gathering forces. Marking them with his branded skull and snake, forever to go down in history as a Dark Lord, the most powerful there ever was. Lord Voldemort's star was rising.
His Death Eaters sought to ride the trail of his stardust, clinging tightly to his shadowed figure. They wanted to be known as the future, the Earthshakers. The Rebels that had hand-crafted the society that everyone spoke of in the history books. When everyone looked back, they wanted to be able to say, "I had a part in that!" even as a lackey. Tom tolerated it, provided they were useful. Even footmen and pawns were important in the sagas of battles.
Such as now, when a minion was bringing him information from Germany. Smiling serenely, he rewarded the follower with a simple 'Crucio', holding it a bit longer than absolutely necessary. Not long enough to cause damage, however. The cruciatus was a spell that caused direct pain to the nerve endings, and with enough force could be permanent. Dulling the mind, the senses, and causing shakes and tremors that preceded far longer, often incuding seizures. Madness was another symptom of prolonged exposure to this specific Unforgiveable.
Though his own magic cast a significant punch, much stronger than the average magic user, Tom was careful. Truthfully, this was not a punishment, it was a sign of being one of his faithful, his favored. If you were not, you would receive something... worse. For there were things that were worse than a torture curse. Something that lasted far longer, something that came from the twisted corners of the world, or his own dark mind.
When his servant had hobbled to his knees and swept his sweaty hair from his face, he looked at his Lord, desperate. What he saw there was only a stone mask of charm, the twisted sort of snakelike beauty that reminded one of a poisonous viper, deadly and unfeeling. Unflinching in the face of your screams. It always chilled the bravest soul to the bone, knowing they before a monster in human skin. Even the hardest of hearts would flinch before him.
"I will look into the matter personally, Rookwood, and you will be rewarded accordingly should this turn up something that interests me," Voldemort purred, his high voice carrying a slight accent that came with the slightly sibilant tones of a natural born speaker of parseltongue. "Whether it is a matter of good intrigue or bad remains to be seen."
Ruby eyes roved to the grovelling figure and he gestured dismissively. "Away with you, I shall summon you if I have need. Your lord is pleased for now," the figure motioned authoritatively, somehow managing to look both intimidating and bored all at once. The regal tones he used sounded rather archaic, referring to himself in a manner that Kings usually did.
The cloaked wizard nodded and shakily crawled backwards, heaving himself to the edge of the wards in the room. From there, he raised his head enough to keep his slightly mad Lord in his sight as he raised his wand and Apparated with a loud and startling 'crack' that probably spoke of the pain the other was in. It amused Tom to no end to know that they always felt the urge to watch him thus, with wide injured eyes. So damaged. Almost as though they didn't trust him not to attack as soon as their guard was down!
Loud laughter filled the chamber, echoing off the walls and ringing back to him clearly. It was a pleasing sound, and jangled pleasantly. There was nothing wrong with the voice if one listened. No, it was the underlying tone, the way one could hear the hinges and gears of his mind grinding. His amusement was dark, and sounded like things creeping in corners.
Like an eager child with a new toy, the Dark Lord trailed off into the next room to interrogate his 'guest', the prisoner brought to him by the Unspeakable. After all, he had many questions, questions about magic that no one had seen before. Surely the guest wouldn't mind entertaining him for a while, and he had been most hospitable as to offer him the rack!
Naturally, the Dark Lord was presumed to only enjoy magical torture, which was an overall failure in pasttime hobbies as far as he was concerned. Loathe as he was to admit it, Tom was a half-blood, and he had grown up amongst muggles. They had a surprisingly nasty culture, but were full of inventive ideas when it came to torture or violence. To only use implements provided by magic, well... that was simply unimaginative. You'd be missing out on so much!
Tom had spent many days during summer holiday, forced as he was to return to the muggle world by the horrid Transfiguration Professor, and he had searched for ways to entertain himself. New ways that he wouldn't grow weary of within a few short hours, such as it was with the orphans and their tears. They really needed to learn a new way to appeal to him other than sniffling, for it was tedious to hear the same cries after all these years. He could command them to be silent, for many of them had grown accustomed to his methods. In fact, they knew he grew bored with them when they were still like dolls. He liked screaming, or brave and indepent faces. Backbones, determination, that was the fire he wanted to put out. Not this pathetic begging and moaning.
On rare occasions he would try and break through their numb walls, to breach the tower that held their minds, high above the pain. Drifting endlessly on above the games he played with their bodies, they separated consciousness until they could cling to whatever sanity they longed for. Some never spoke again, as was the case for Amy and Dennis. Their minds fractured like glass, and no matter how many trips into their mindscape he took, he could never seem to put them back together again, as captivating as the task was.
So he learned new games, games that didn't always involve his magic. Of course, he'd never bothered with a wand at the orphanage. One had to be careful about that, didn't they? Couldn't have the Ministry showing up and poking their noses into his business. He'd found books on mundane torture through the ages --- not simple things, oh no. Whipping was far too simple for him. That was child's play! Tom had found himself fascinated by things that went... beyond.
Placing a man in a giant vat, cauldron or bathtub, forcing them to eat sweet things, filling the tub with it. As they ate, there body would empty itself, the honey and milks causing a laxative reaction. Wallowing in their own filth, they would gradually begin to attract bugs and vermin who would eat them alive, using their bodies as nurseries for maggots and eggs. In some cultures the victim was pushed out in their 'boat' of feces, filling it with additional sweet milks and honey, feeding the victim till they were stuffed. Pushing it out into the river, they offered the suffering and tormented soul to the denizens of the water. Afloat in their 'boat' of said disgusting concoction, they managed to attract all sorts of creatures to feast upon the hapless fool. They'd reel the living in, force the rotting victim to eat again, and if possible, send them back out if they were still alive after twenty-four hours. Marvelous! Why had they ever done away with such torture? Such a death was truly fascinating. The Dark Lord preferred to be a learned scholar on all subjects, especially ones that interested him.
Really, he was the best at his work. His victims should feel proud knowing that they had such a knowledgeable and proficient guide in the world of pain. But did they ever consider that he might be learning for their sake? No. Tom smirked widely, privately admitting to himself that no, he never learned anything unless it was for himself. Just like now. He was about to learn about an incident in Germany with a torture Curse he'd rarely heard whisper of, and the impossible Seal.
"The Angel of Death, hm?" Voldemort mused, twirling his yew wand between his slender fingers. With a twisted and sinister smile, he moved into the torture chamber, humming in delight. "We'll see which side he falls on after all... hopefully he makes things... interesting."

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Blood From Whence He Came