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The Novice's Ascent Part II: Acquisition By DoubleDoors
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Category: Alternate Universe, Post-OotP
Characters:All
Genres: Action/Adventure, Angst, Drama, Fluff, Romance
Warnings: Death, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Situations, Violence
Rating: PG-13
Reviews: 6
Summary: Part 2 of The Novice's Ascent series. Harry must come to terms with the many consequences of the artifact found within the Vault; not least of which the near-constant presence of a rather irritable spirit and a power that has the potential to change everything. As Voldemort's presence spreads over the Wizarding world like a cankerous shroud, can Harry master the power in time to save all he has ever known?
Hitcount: Story Total: 3554
Disclaimer: Harry Potter Publishing Rights © J.K.R. Note the opinions in this story are my own and in no way represent the owners of this site. This story subject to copyright law under transformative use. No compensation is made for this work.
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*~* Prologue: Whispers of the Dark *~*
Rain, torrential and chilling, fell through the black mist that was spreading slowly from a point above the mansion. Expansive grounds swept leisurely across the horizon in an opulent display of freshly cut grass, roaming peacocks and florid gazebos. Five people, four men and a single woman, stood a short distance from the large dwelling, garbed in robes of the darkest charcoal.
They were spread in a pentagon around a sixth figure, who was dressed in flowing, tattered robes that fluttered softly in an invisible wind. A silken cowl tailored in the image of a serpent was draped over his face, revealing nothing but burning, terrible eyes that seared malevolently, as if the owner would like nothing more than to watch the entire world burn.
The woman was gaunt; her skin an unhealthy yellow tinge. Her hair tumbled down her back in a tangled mess, the thick tresses flapping wildly around her, slapping her face. Her thin lips were set in concentration, though a hint of a smirk was forming in the corner of her mouth as she gazed lovingly at the cowled figure.
The men had similar expressions; though rather than desire, they conveyed gleeful anticipation. One had a diabolical grin that stretched from ear to ear, which, combined with his pale, lightly freckled skin, gave the impression of a skull. Another man was smiling tightly, his platinum blond hair whipping the air. While his expression revealed nothing but satisfaction, his stance spoke of a fragile wariness, a perpetual fear lingering in his shadow.
The five figures were chanting in low voices while directing a sickening wave of fog towards the cowled figure, their faces strained. As the foul vapour collided with him in the centre of the pentagon, it appeared to dissolve into fine particles of dust before rising up in the sky to merge with the black mist.
Abruptly, the figures halted the streams and fell to their knees, gasping for breath. Lord Voldemort lifted both his arms, as if welcoming an esteemed guest, controlled euphoria on his face. He hissed softly, a sound made up of strange, twisted words that seemed to thrum in the air. As he spoke, sharp prickles seemed to assault the casters, causing them to wince slightly.
A green flash illuminated the grounds and an eerie moan pierced the silence. Nothing happened at first, and the moan stretched out endlessly, sending chills down the spines of those who heard it. Then, slowly, very slowly, the mist began to curl in the air, slicing dark lines in the grey canvas above. The unmistakable shape of a skull began to form; a mockery of the diverse life beneath it. As the last line fell into place, a serpentine tongue emerged from the jawless mouth, swinging from side to side in a dance that was both horrifying and entrancing.
Voldemort started to laugh then; a cold, sinister cackle that echoed across the grounds. He sprang into motion, throwing off the cowl in one fluid movement; revealing a bone white face that almost glowed in the shadow of the floating skull above.
Uncaring red eyes examined the figures kneeling in supplication on the damp and muddy ground beneath. He paused, letting them remain in the uncomfortable position for a while longer, reminding them of their place, before lifting a thin, elongated finger. “Rise…”
The voice was high-pitched, and ended with a drawn out hiss, though it was certainly not the voice of a child. It had a certain quality to it that was as sickening as it was poetic; a rhapsodic drawl that hinted of a darkness beyond imagining.
The figures stifled back groans as they climbed steadily to their feet, the strain showing in the tightness of their eyes, but they obeyed without complaint - indeed, they were looking reverently at the speaker; their faces alight with a strange madness.
“My Lord,” they spoke respectfully, their voices almost drowned out by the gale of the rain.
“It is done.” Voldemort intoned calmly. “You have performed well, my most loyal followers. Your actions this day shall not be forgotten.”
He grinned as they responded with murmurs of thanks, revealing pointed, yellowing teeth. “We shall convene tomorrow now that we have a secure home. Yes, all of us. The time has come to return to our glorious task, at long last! Fifteen years of waiting, biding our time in the shadows of a corrupt and egotistical society, a society that has not only ignored the growing blight of Muggle filth, but has encouraged its growth!
“No more shall we remain ignored. We shall spread across this world, eliminating the plague and scum wherever we pass. This is the dawn of a new age, my friends, and we are the harbingers who shall pave the way for its beginning!”
Weary cheers and exclamations followed the impromptu speech, and after a swift gesture of dismissal, the figures began to disappear, vanishing in loud cracks until only the man with the blonde hair remained.
“Come, Lucius.” Voldemort commanded, already making his way along the path that led back to the mansion.
The man called Lucius nodded stiffly and hastened his pace until he was walking a step behind Voldemort.
“I must offer my gratitude once again, Lucius, for allowing us to make use of your humble home.” said Voldemort, though his voice expressed nothing but a mocking distaste.
“It was no trouble, My Lord,” muttered Lucius, his eyes fixed towards the ground.
“Of course.” Voldemort smirked. “I would so hate to impose upon your hospitality, Lucius. You are — or were — a busy man.”
Lucius grimaced, his head still turned away from his master. It has barely been a month since the prophecy’s destruction, and he still persists in these veiled jabs. Reminding me of my failure.
The two men, if Voldemort could still be called that, reached the base of the grand marble stairs that led to the mahogany double doors of the house, and began to climb. Lucius winced as his legs ached from the strain, and for what felt like the hundredth time that week, he cursed his decision to indulge in impressive architectural designs. Those damn stairs were going to be the end of him at the rate the Dark Lord was going.
The weeks following the events at the Ministry, and Lucius’ subsequent escape from the Aurors before they could take him to Azkaban — a bribe that had significantly depleted his already draining funds — had been pure torture for him - literally. The Dark Lord had, with methodical regularity, held him under the Cruciatus Curse for a minimum of ten minutes each evening, and it was starting to take a toll on his health.
What truly haunted Lucius, however, was the observation that Dark Lord did not seem to enjoy the torture. It was almost an obligation that he felt he had to carry out rather than a method of punishment. Lucius had lost many hours of sleep dwelling on what his Lord had in store for him, for he knew there would surely be something more. Something far, far worse than physical pain could achieve.
The Dark Lord gestured with one hand and the doors opened silently. “Meet me in the library in one hour, Lucius.” said Voldemort lightly, already moving away from the Death Eater.
Lucius nodded sharply and bowed, before walking rigidly towards a door to the side. As he left the foyer, leaving the Dark Lord to whatever diabolical activity he had planned — in Lucius’ own house! - he heard the words that drained the blood from his face.
“And Lucius…bring the boy.”
Draco…
He stumbled against the closed door, leaning against it for support. He should have guessed. He should have guessed that the Dark Lord would have found his greatest weakness. It was hard to believe how devoutly he had followed in the man’s footsteps for so long, now that he knew first-hand what those who had slighted the Dark Lord had gone through, but follow he had, and now his family — the most important people in the world to him — were paying the price.
This isn’t what I wanted…
Lucius sighed heavily and peeled himself off the shining oak. He hesitated only briefly — inaction would not accomplish anything - before beginning the slow walk up the manor.
He could not deny that he was a Dark wizard — the very magic thrived in his veins. He knew that ordinary magic could never be enough for him now. He had tasted the forbidden fruits of the blackest secrets of magic, felt their seductive whispers shiver through his skin.
It had seemed only natural, then, to pledge his wand and his loyalty to the Dark’s champion. And at first, all was well. Buoyed by his father’s success, Lucius had entered the political scene immediately after leaving Hogwarts. A talented wizard, both in the art of subtle manipulation and duelling, he had proven his worth early on in the Dark Lord’s campaign against the Ministry and the rising influence of Muggles.
Since the Dark Lord’s return, though…things had been different. Nothing had seemed amiss, not at first. But then, changes began to emerge in the Dark Lord’s behaviour. Whereas before he had been truly cunning, focused entirely on a single goal, he now seemed easily distracted; easily influenced by his raging emotions.
Lucius would never forget the first time the Cruciatus was used as punishment. It was almost unthinkable — that they, the noble followers of the Dark Lord, would be reduced to such a state, at the hand of the very wizard they served. He knew that doubts had been sown that night — they were Purebloods! Civilized people, not filthy Muggles! What right did even the Dark Lord have to use such a curse on them?
Even this disturbing change was not the most frightening. Lucius had caught the Dark Lord muttering to himself, as if in the middle of a terrible feud…with himself. His eyes, too, had changed. Gone were the cold black depths that had even the bravest man begging for his life, replaced by burning red orbs that practically glowed with hatred.
Yet, despite these ominous changes, Lucius remained loyal — not that he had a choice. He had thought that the Dark Lord had ample reason to be angry at his followers — they had essentially abandoned him on Death’s doorstep, after all — but the nagging whispers that this was not how he would have behaved before the rebirth followed him; whispers that increased in volume the longer the anger continued.
Before his death, the Dark Lord would never have raised his wand against the Death Eaters. He expressed disappointment, true — sometimes violently; he had even cast some overeager or incompetent fools out of the fold (they would rarely live to see the next day), but this constant, volatile rage simmering in the background was completely uncharacteristic of him.
It was only after the prophecy had been destroyed, and Lucius himself became a target, did it all fall into place. The Dark Lord was utterly insane, fixated on his own mysterious agenda as well as the Potter brat, and he would lead the entire Wizarding world to ruin if he was left to his own devices, which the Ministry seemed content to do. The fact that Lucius could likely convince Fudge did not even occur to him — indeed, despite now knowing the terrible truth, he knew taking action against the Dark Lord would be futile. He was too vulnerable; his family were too vulnerable.
He could do nothing…nothing but comply.
Please forgive me…
The door that led to Narcissa’s study stood innocently before him, unaware of his inner turmoil. Lucius found himself feeling curiously envious of the wooden barrier — how simple a life it had! How little suffering! None of the tragedy that human life was wrought with…he closed his eyes, drew a comforting breath and gently turned the handle.
Sure enough, his son was in the room, his back facing him as he gazed out of the window. He must have watched the ritual, Lucius realised, and cursed himself for not insisting the boy stay away from rooms facing the front.
“Draco.” Even now, he noted, his voice betrayed none of his despair. He was not sure if that was a blessing or a curse. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Narcissa raise her head sharply, a small gasp leaving her lips.
“Yes, Father?” Draco turned away from the rain to face Lucius, automatically standing up a little straighter as he had been taught.
“The Dark Lord has requested your presence. You are to accompany me to the main library, where…where he will offer further instructions.”
An expression of utter surprise crossed Draco’s features before he could control it, and he immediately began to grin. “Of course, Father.” His excitement was almost palpable, and Lucius inwardly groaned. Draco was likely to take the summons as an indication of favour, rather than the punishment it was…as if a schoolchild could offer the Dark Lord any considerable talent!
“I do not need to remind you that the Dark Lord expects utter submission, Draco.” Lucius said sharply. “Any…outbursts…would make him most displeased.”
“I am not a fool, Father,” Draco frowned slightly, the hints of childish anger brewing in his eyes.
“Nor did I say that you were.”
Draco looked as if he was going to argue before a glare from Lucius cut him off. “I apologise.” he muttered stiffly.
Lucius nodded in approval. “Come, Draco. The Dark Lord does not appreciate tardiness.”
As Draco strode towards him, Lucius lifted his head to meet his wife’s gaze. He noted the glitter of unshed tears, his heart breaking at her distraught expression, and nodded in answer to the unspoken question. Taking Draco by the shoulder, he left her, alone, the echo of wrenching sobs — imagined or not — ringing in his ears.
Silently, he led Draco down the stairs, each step bringing him closer to his worst fear. He was offering his son — his only son! — to the Dark Lord in a twisted form of sacrifice, and, worse still, the naïve boy was going willingly. Not that he had any choice, really, but…
Had he really fallen so far, to raise his son to be a mindless sheep? While his mind screamed that it was not his fault; that he could take no blame for his son’s actions…his heart spoke another story. In his ambition, he had forsaken his family; forsaken the name of Malfoy. It was ironic, Lucius mused bitterly, that it had taken utter humiliation and brutal torture at the hands of the Dark Lord — the Dark Lord he had served willingly in his youth - to show him what truly mattered.
Perhaps — just perhaps - Arthur Weasley had been right all along. Blasted Muggle-lover.
The sound of knocking brought Lucius out of his troubled thoughts. Dammit, even the boy’s knock was subordinate! Lucius had never shown weakness thus, even when he was at his most loyal. He shook his head, unseen by Draco. It was too late…too late for all of them.
“Enter.”
Draco glanced behind him once and, seeing his father’s head turned downwards, smirked faintly before striding through the doors to the library. Lucius took a deep breath and followed. He was not a religious man, but as he crossed the threshold and took in the Dark Lord’s malevolent, gleeful stare, Lucius Malfoy prayed to all the deities that were listening that his son would live through the night.
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