Chapter 41: Chapter 41
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Chapter 21—Fall of the Ancient
AN: Beta'd by Kaladin1707
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It was a dark day, cold and terrible; the sun hidden behind a curtain of black clouds. Powerful waves of the North Sea crashed against the stony beach; silent, save for the miserable howls of the gusting winds.
A crack of splintered air announced his coming, the robed man stepping forth upon the wet soil, feet bared against the black soil.
Around him stood his retinue, already present and waiting for their Lord, some standing upon jagged rocks, some kneeling upon the harsh ground.
But all, without exception, knew to bow low upon his arrival. For he was Lord Voldemort, and a perceived insult may well cost you your life.
The Dark Lord slowly stepped past his servants—pale feet landing softly against the sharp rocks—casting his gaze across the wild sea, where the decrepit walls of Azkaban stood high.
His eyes, orbs of chaotic blood-red, shone in dark amusement, a chilling smile twisting his ghostly pale face up. "At lassst..."
The words were mere whispers against the drowning winds—not meant to be heard by any—bringing with them the dark tidings about to maraud this country. A promise of death and destruction.
"Come…we have a grand day ahead."
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It was time.
With a deep breath, Harry clicked the doors of the Minister's office open and saw himself out. His were the only steps clacking upon the tartan patterned marble floor—glinting golden and yellow—as he made his way through the silent and gloomy corridors of the Ministry Headquarters' first level.
The elevator was mostly empty, only a single guard present outside to cast the Revelio charming upon each entrant, looking bored out of his mind, slumped against the wall...
The man jerked up straight when Harry passed him, snapping out a quick Revelio and giving him a hasty bow. "Sir!"
There was a basin of shimmering liquid jutting out of the wall beside him. With cupped hands, Harry quickly took a hold of a fistful of liquid and splashed it upon his face, gaining access to the Elevator. Then, folding his sleeves, he drenched his arms under the basin as well, before turning to present them to the guard.
"Uh…yeah, clear sir."
With a grunt and a parting wave at the man, he boarded inside, all alone, as the doors closed and the platform started jerking downwards. With no passengers, it didn't stop at any floor, taking him straight from the office of Ministry on level 1 down to the Atrium on level 8, where the public was supposed to gather today.
The crowd's murmurings reached him in the elevator, well before his arrival at the destination. The Minister was speaking over their ramblings; usually her voice would've been enough to silence any crowd—their respect for her bringing them to heel—but today was a different story altogether. Today the crowd wanted more.
Today…they wanted him.
Harry closed his eyes, the calming beats of his heart reassuring him of his course of action. He was about to do something that might—as Amelia suggested—blow up on their faces horribly. Should he fail, their reputation would be in tatters, their political might at a nadir, and Bones would end up becoming the least powerful British Minister of all time.
They would lose the war before it even started.
And it would all be his fault.
Harry snorted. 'Nothing new.'
It was a testament to the amount of trust Amelia had come to place on his counsel in the recent days that she'd even entertained the idea, let alone give it a green flag... though he wouldn't deny some of that 'trust-building' had been quite pleasurable for the both of them.
Still, he knew just how important his purpose today was. Should he accomplish his mission, should they manage to overthrow the Wizengamot, it would be a huge victory against Voldemort. They'd be demolishing an entire corrupted part of the Ministry in one fell swoop.
And if, on top of this, Voldemort bites the trap...
No. That was too much to hope for. Incompetent wasn't something Harry would judge Tommy to be, not after he'd witnessed the serpent conquering the entire world with his own eyes before. He would have to assume this version was just as cunning and cautious. Chances were, the trap would be discovered from a mile away, though it would still be sufficient in at least distracting the Dark Lord away from here. He wanted no interference for today.
Whatever the case, today was bound to be their first step towards this war...and Harry hoped for success.
Even though he was just as prepared for failure.
The cool voice of the elevator announced his destination, and Harry submitted himself to the ministrations of the Security as soon as he stepped out.
Similar to level 1, first was the mandatory baptism from Thief's Downfall that each entrant had to undergo; splashing their faces and arms with the liquid specially set aside for the purpose in a warded stone basin sticking out of the wall.
Each floor carried a basin that not only acted as a disguise-remover and Dark Mark revealer, but also as a switch, or pass, to grant access inside the Elevator.
Next was a group of expert casters whose job was not only to apprehend anyone revealed to be in disguise or carrying the Dark Mark, but also to cast an assortment of spells; determining the identity of the person, their job in the ministry, and keeping a track of them throughout the building.
Harry smiled slightly, feeling just a little proud. The current security—while not yet at the level of his vision—was still far better than what it used to be. He was thankful for Voldemort's slow and subtle approach in this war really. Had the Dark Lord hammered at them with brute force from the start, they wouldn't have gotten the time needed to make all these changes. As it was, they'd managed to act quickly and secure the Ministry from outside forces. Now it was simply time to clean up the inside.
Once the ritualistic checkup was completed, Harry was finally allowed to proceed ahead.
The moment he stepped out of the warded hallway and towards the whispering crowd however, a pandemoniac scene came to greet his eyes and ears.
The whispers were no longer mere whispers, surging up in intensity as if someone had turned a radio's volume all the way from low to max.
A large podium was placed in front of the golden statue in the middle of the atrium, and at its front stood a sea of chattering heads, all divided in levels with the highest standing at the forefront, the lowest at the very back. They thronged every corner of the enormous hall, mobbing even the public elevator booths, effectively ending any chance for anyone else to enter today.
Though talking was all they did, for even they knew better than to act as a mischievous mob, what with their best Aurors currently standing guard at the borders. Should some hidden Death Eaters try to incite the crowd with panic or otherwise, this time Harry was absolutely certain they'd find themselves short a head before anyone could do more than scream 'Avad—!'.
He might not trust anyone in the Ministry yet, but even he knew just how effective Moody can be when properly motivated.
Over the top of the noisy crowd rang the Minister's amplified voice, delivering the finishing of her speech.
Harry didn't pay it much attention, already knowing how the speech was supposed to go, having been directly involved in its planning. They'd decided that Amelia wouldn't be the one dropping any bombs today. That was Harry's job. Hers was simply to reassure the crowd that they were doing their very best in handling this sudden turn of events, as well as to introduce the changes taking place in the Ministry, from Dementors' disbandment to ….and one of those changes also marked his own introduction, letting him know his time has arrived.
"And with that, I am pleased to announce our new head of Aurors—Harry Potter!"
The talking and whispering crowd suddenly quietened into a pin-drop silence. Harry could once again hear the clacks of his shoes upon the wooden floor as he made his way up the stage and behind the podium, where the Minister stood waiting.
Flashes of cameras welcomed Harry as he revealed himself to the world. The moment his feet touch the dais, an ear-splitting cheer blasted across the atrium, intermixed with screams of 'Harry Potter!', 'The-Boy-Who-Lived!', 'Will you kill You-Know-Who!?', 'Do you know where he is!?', 'Will you go to America to fight Grindelwald!?'
Harry ignored the chatter, eyes on Amelia who turned to address him, giving a handshake and whispering a quiet 'Don't screw this up' before she vacated the stage.
Only then did he turn to the chaotic mass of heads currently chanting and hollering on top of their voices.
The English weren't the only Wizards gathered here today, Harry observed. There were foreign reporters buried between the jungles of heads; people from all around the world wanting a chance to see him with their own eyes, to hear the assurances their savior would hopefully give them...
And boy was he glad for their trust. He could only hope for the same reception when the day unleashed upon them a shower of surprises.
Harry stepped forth, raising his hands—palms out, as if to bless the crowd—asking for their silence.
Surprisingly, they all obliged. Even the quiet whispering that would normally be present in any crowd was absent right now, all the eyes—bursting with anticipation—stuck to his figure religiously.
Had he not known the zealous belief most of the wizarding world had come to place on him, he would've been rightly disconcerted by their trust. Even when he was validated about Voldemort's return the last time, people had never come to hold him upon such a grand pedestal as they did now.
"Before the Red Hour," Harry started straight to the core—his voice amplified—not bothering with any polite greetings. "You simply knew me as the brother of Jacob Potter, the one you considered The-Boy-Who-Lived. Some of you might recognize me as the latest European Champion. But for most of you, until recently, I was an unknown entity, a humble Hogwarts student most wouldn't concern themselves with."
The silence maintained its hold, stark and true.
His eyes scanned the room carefully, sustaining an image of a poised and confident leader as he spoke, the words carrying a solemn note of understanding. "Things have changed now. In the course of an evening, you have come to know me as the fated vanquisher of the two Dark Lords running at large around the globe as of now. You've come to place your trust in me, wishing, and hoping, that I may present to you an answer. An answer for the plague that has devastated an entire continent. A plague that threatens your lives and the lives of your families, now more than ever. You hope for me to be your savior…the one who will finally put an end to a decades-long threat. I'm afraid to say...I cannot do that."
As the words settled upon the crowd—for a brief moment—a deafening silence forced its dominance upon the Atrium, its nature changing from excited and anticipatory to dreading and uncertain. He could see the shift visibly, the slight widening of eyes, the sudden birth of uncertainty. The uncertainty breeding fear, fear birthing anger.
And amongst the sea of faces, he saw the Weasleys and Tonks, standing along within the crowd, the same bewildered uncertainty and grim-visages wrecking their personages. He saw the Longbottoms; Alice's thoughtful-eyes a stark contrast to Frank's grimacing frown. He wondered if Dumbledore himself might not be watching these proceedings, crouched up in some corner; hidden and mysterious.
Even his own family, his sisters and Lily, the Delacours and Bella….all stood stunned.
Had it not been such an important event, Harry would've taken an evil pleasure from the clueless sea of faces that blinked up at him in such bewilderment.
Unfortunately, he had a job to do.
And thus, just when the crowd started waking up from their stunned silence—on the verge of giving words to their uncertainty—he continued. "I cannot do that...without your help."
Almost comically, the crowd grew relieved. 'So just a political gesture', their faces said. 'Nothing to worry about.'
Well, they had plenty to worry about.
"The Dark Lords are not alone, you all know this. They have the strength of an army behind them; wizards who are just as evil and malefic. Just as power-hungry and dangerous. And no matter how much I may try…I am but one man."
He spread his arms, bowing slightly to project humility, though his eyes did not leave them for a second. "And as one man I can only do so much. Which is why I stand here, stuck upon a delicate choice. A most important decision that may change the face of the war for you…and for the entirety of Magical Britain."
Now he bowed completely, head dipping down. Taking the chance to peer behind, he gave a subtle glance at the Minister, mouthing the next words, 'It is time.'
When he straightened up again, he had to force his excitement behind determination and heroism to meet the crowds' eyes again. "And I ask you, people of Britain, to help me in this most difficult endeavor. For I present to you…the dishonorable members of our Wizengamot!"
'It is time.'
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The sea stirred calmly beneath the twelve brooms that tore through the air, scaling the width of the North Sea in a fixed spear formation. Tails of their black robes trailed behind like wild kites, each moving over a hundred miles per hour.
The one heading the spear carried no broom. He did not need one.
After all, what use was a broom, when you commanded the air itself?
Vaporous black smoke slithered through the skies, making up for a large part of his body. The only thing visible within the mixture of shadow and smoke was his head. Hairless and sharp, paler than moon, and with two malevolent crimson gems for eyes, Lord Voldemort might as well be devil incarnate as he flew across the ocean unassisted, his body nothing but a bundle of dark mist.
The Air element was firmly beneath his command; an entire section of his mind having been compartmentalized for this sole purpose, Occlumency keeping it prepared to summon the element at all times.
It was a long way to the walls of Azkaban however, and the Dark Lord found the rest of his mind to be...unusually distracted.
Or perhaps, not so unusual as of late.
It had all started around the month of July, when he'd still been stuck inside that wretched body of an infant. Pain, unlike any, had suddenly split his head apart like a fissured ground. He hadn't known then what happened, having theorized it to be one of the curses of inhabiting a weak mortal body.
Over the course of a few months since then however, he found his mind being more and more... disarrayed. The shackled weakling inhabiting the tiniest corner of his mind-castle had managed to put up a slight bit of resistance for the first time since its imprisonment.
That single incident had made the Dark Lord more alarmed than anything Dumbledore could hope to achieve.
It was a testament to the fear he inspired amongst his servants that no one questioned his distracted mind. Even when he'd given in to his childish urge of suckling upon some milk in the blatant view of his Death Eaters. None had dared to question him.
Yet, Voldemort wasn't willing to tolerate such an existence. Afraid of his own mind; ever cautious, ever paranoid.
No, that certainly won't do. Thankfully he already had an idea of the cause behind it.
Harry Potter.
That day, which marked his resurrection, had brought with it a startling realization. When his eyes had fallen upon those grim emerald green eyes, shining with barely restrained hatred...he knew he'd found the culprit. His mind had begun throbbing like a beating heart, and only an actively focused attention to his occluded mind had managed to control that pain.
Harry Potter...the bane of his peaceful world domination plans. And the source of his misery.
Voldemort couldn't wait to end the blight upon the world that the boy was.
Hopefully that time shall come soon. In the very next year, if all went according to his plans.
"M-my Lord!?' Came the hesitant call from behind him, barely making its way through the wild wings to reach his ears. "S-should we fly lower!?"
Only then did Voldemort focus back upon what his eyes were witnessing, taking in the gigantic towers of Azkaban, its powerful wards clear to his senses.
His retinue, too afraid to speak up, waited for him to take command, even as they grew closer to bypassing the prison altogether.
Voldemort's lips curled in a sneer as he guided his flight path downwards. 'Useless cretins.'
It was a shame that his truly useful servants were rather busy with their Ministerial duties today—having been tasked to avoid suspicions and keep an eye on today's proceedings—for his current company left much to be desired. All novices and new recruits, wanting to follow upon the footsteps of their parents.
The first batch of recruits who thought too highly of themselves; the young, self-proclaimed evil doers who believed they would find their purpose in life serving under him.
Voldemort was none too happy to introduce them to their new way of life. That job belonged to one of his inner circle members.
Still, it was an important task that cannot be skipped. They may just prove to be the best of their generation—All pure-bloods and decently powerful—and that knowledge would inflate their already gigantic egos.
The Dark Lord could not let that happen. They were all potential members of his inner circle, and a single field of bad crops could ruin an entire section of his new army.
The prison's walls grew closer and Voldemort dismissed them from his mind. This was an important day for him; bringing in a task worthy of his attention. For only he was capable of breaking through Azkaban's wards. More pivotal though was the fact that only he was capable of bringing to heel the hungry Dementors.
Voldemort led his servants onwards, coming to a gliding halt a dozen feet or so away from the decaying main gates of Azkaban. The sprogs landed upon the ground, stowing their brooms away as had been instructed.
They were in the Azkaban graveyard; crammed to the brim with bodies of dead prisoners. Voldemort caught the whiff of Death Element wafting from the lands, smelling it like a mockery of his failure.
'How could you ever hope to wield us, Vol-de-mort?' He could almost hear the sneer behind the element's mocking. 'You who are so afraid of Death, to name yourself its flight. How long can you possibly run from that which is eternal?'
Before rage can overtake his being, the Dark Lord shut off a part of his mind completely—the part that had failed in wielding what he considered the most powerful of elements—forcing himself to focus ahead.
The Dementors were already aware of their arrival, it would seem. For over two dozen of them hovered in midair—just like him—behind the gate, waiting patiently.
Voldemort cast his gaze beyond them, upon the lifeless land that awaited their entry. Silent and gloomy…and utterly, utterly abandoned. Almost like it were welcoming his presence, gifting him back his most loyal servants; those who braved through Azkaban for him.
But the Dark Lord wasn't convinced.
Even distracted as he was, he still had enough presence of mind to wonder if this could all be a trap. Perhaps an ambush set up for him and his servants. From the little news that he'd kept up on, Bones did not seem the kind to place her entire trust upon Dementors. She was alive in the last war, he knew. Alive to witness the true nature of these creatures. She would make for a truly pathetic Minister—especially in these times—if she'd forgotten about it already.
And yet, as he accessed the third compartment of his mind—reserved solely to channel Soul element—casting his spirit searching gaze across the entire Island…he couldn't find a single soul present, save for the damaged ones of the prisoners. While there were a few ghosts in the deeper parts of Azkaban, where no one ever ventured, Voldemort had long theorized them to be the tortured souls of Ekrizdis' victims.
He didn't bother extending his magical senses. The entire island was so saturated with magic, it would be similar to sensing water in the ocean.
Of course, there were also parts of the fortress that even his senses could not penetrate through. Yet, the chances of anyone succeeding where he failed were less than nil.
He could only conclude that the foolish Potter boy had truly managed to convince Bones into abandoning Azkaban in the hands of Dementors somehow. Then again, it was entirely possible that they may simply not have enough enforcement to guard the prison. And surely they couldn't expect Lord Voldemort to work so quickly…it had barely been over a week and a half since his resurrection.
Whatever the case, he shall accept the Ministry's kind generosity with open palms. It was time to free his most loyal servants….and gain an army of deathly fiends on top.
The Dark Lord closed his serpentine eyes, his occluded mind strengthening his will—preparing his power—as he raised his bone-white wand to the sky, aiming high towards the peak of the fortress. The crimson gems opened anew and Lord Voldemort unleashed his might upon Azkaban in the form of a crackling white beam, rendering its defenses moot with a single, powerful attack.
"Go." Smiling, he waved his stunned servants away. "Bring back our friends to safety. I shall handle the creatures."
They were hesitant, and understandably so. No one sane would wish to traverse through the haunted lands of Azkaban. But between certain death and potential soul-sucking, most would choose the latter. And Voldemort was sure that the cowardly cretins could see nothing but their deaths in his eyes should they tarry any longer. Something they were completely correct about.
It was a good thing they heeded the command with barely a squeak.
The Dementors let them pass, the leader of their hive simply tilting its head at them, the dark shadows—that made up his cowl—gently swaying along. However, that subtle motion was enough to startle half the group, evoking a combined jump forward to escape the soul-sucking fiends' reach…
The Dark Lord sighed, feeling a rare moment of empathy for his Mark bearers' complaints.
Perhaps the next batch will be better than this…
He, however, doubted it.
Soon as the worthless recruits were out of sight, the Dementors as one glided around Voldemort, surrounding his entire front.
But the Dark Lord stood smiling, unconcerned and unafraid as his naked feet came down to touch the corrupted lands of the island. If there was someone that could truly threaten Voldemort, it would be the Dementors. The creatures could damage his soul itself, and he did not have a Patronus' protection—being unable to cast it as he was.
Yet, he remained smiling. For he had something most wizards won't: the ability to harm a Dementor.
"You all remember me still, yes?" Voldemort smirked, the red in his eyes glowing stronger. "I am Lord Voldemort, your one true benefactor. I have returned from a...very long sleep. And it is time you join me again. For only I can provide you a feast grander than anything you've ever witnessed. My intention to conquer the world still lives…and you may have your—"
Voldemort stilled, growing silent. His eyes flickered behind his audience, where his servants had disappeared, feeling a disturbance in the air.
The Dementors grew restless themselves, approaching closer, but his attention was elsewhere…
In the end it was his magical senses that warned him ahead of time, picking up on the explosive aura that rose up in intensity like a volcano about to burst…
'A trap.' He realized, stunned. 'A trap.'
"No!" Voldemort roared out, eyes widening in fury, magic already manipulating the air to take flight,
He blasted through the gates of Azkaban, hoping to save at least the more important ones…
Yet, he was too late.
The rising magic burst out in an explosion so powerful that the Dark Lord had to cut off his magical sensing to avoid being stunned from its intense glare—almost like witnessing the sun with bared eyes in the late afternoon.
Yet, his senses were the least of his concern. The inferno blasted the fortress apart and the next moment his entire world was drenched under a raging volcano of fire, with only a mundane Protego shielding him from the thirsty flames, giving him the time to concentrate and escape from the apocalyptic scene with a crack of air—having felled the Disapparition wards earlier—leaving behind only a wrathful wail, and some of the most loyal servants of his army, all soon drowning under the powerful flames.
And thus fell the walls of Azkaban—the decrepit fortress unable to survive the damage without its ancient magic—taking with it all of its unfortunate inhabitants.
…Except the now homeless Dementors, who were free to roam the earth, ready to taste their newfound freedom.
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