Harry Potter and the Hybrids of Voldemort

Chapter 1: The Attack

It was cold. IT was a biting venomous cold that crept into one's skin and froze one's marrow. No trees grew in this barren tundra and those few bushes visible were stunted.

It was day but clouds covered the sky, casting but gloom over the land.

A white rabbit was miserably feeding on some coarse grass. It had idled during the warm months, playing and frolicking instead of feeding heavily to store up for the long dark months of winter hibernation. Lean and hungry now, the rabbit was forced from its warm den to brave the agonizing cold in search for a few mouthfuls of food. Grass was hard to find, for what grass that did occasionally poke through the permafrost was coarse and unappetizing.

As the rabbit was chewing... something began to happen. It was difficult to say what was happening, for such a phenomenon had never yet been seen in this reality. However, it was clear that something started to form, a mere four feet in front of the feeding rabbit. The very view of the bleak hills began to twist and bend around an epicenter, as if the landscape was a giant watery canvas and an invisible finger had poked it.

The morphing grew more violent, until a hole formed directly in the middle of the disturbance. The hole itself was black but grew rapidly in size. Peculiar sounds seemed to be emanating from the hole.

The rabbit tensed in fright but remained motionless, unsure of its best course of action.

The hole grew larger and larger, until it was roughly six feet wide. The sounds coming from the hole were now clearer: they were voices... human voices.

Abruptly and beyond all comprehension, a man stepped through the hole into the tundra reality. The rabbit dashed to its frozen burrow. The man was very tall, dressed in long black robes. A matching black hood covered the head, shrouding the man's face. But two red eyes gleamed in the depths of the hood like dying coals. The man turned to the hole.

"Hurry!" the man hissed, "The tear will not last long."

Three more men scrambled through the hole, one short balding man with a pointed nose and a silver-colored right hand, and two hulking figures. The short man seemed to be in a great state of agitation, shaking and constantly looking this way and that. All three of them were dressed and hooded in black robes identical to the first man's. Once the last man fell through, the hole quickly shrunk until it disappeared.

"My Lord," trembled the balding man, rising to his feet. "Where are we?"

"Where we came from, fool," hissed the first tall man. "Have I not explained the plan in simple enough terms for your benefit, Wormtail? Already I begin to doubt the wisdom of using you for this task."

"No! No! My Lord, please forgive my ignorance," cried the short man, falling to his knees and prostrating himself before the tall man.

"Then cease your questions," ordered the tall man. He turned to the two hulks, who were waiting and watching silently.

"Crabbe, Goyle, are the Muggle weapons secure?" asked the tall man.

The two men pulled away the billowing robes from their waists, revealing the gleaming butts of four automatic rifles.

"Good. Give one to me and one to Wormtail," said the tall man.

His orders were hurriedly obeyed.

The tall man surveyed the area. There were several tall guard towers visible in the distance. Several ramshackle buildings were situated nearby. They were silent and seemed deserted.

"That building must be the storage compound," said tall man, pointing at the closest building. But I must first perform a test."

Lord Voldemort pulled back the hood of his robes, revealing a skull-like head, with pale white skin stretched smoothly over the bone. The Dark Lord closed his red eyes as he sniffed the air with his snake-like nostrils.

"There is something over there," hissed Voldemort, pointing in the direction of a low hill. "Follow."

Voldemort walked toward the hill, followed by Wormtail, Crabbe, and Goyle.

Pacing slightly behind Voldemort, Wormtail suddenly squeaked out, "My Lord, what of the Hybrid Generator? I fear for its safety."

"I left it in Lucius's care," replied Voldemort. "He is fairly competent with such matters."

"Of course, My Lord, but..."

"Are you questioning again, Wormtail?" asked Voldemort quietly but dangerously.

"Oh no, My Lord! Of course not! Forgive me, please pardon me, My Lord," stammered Wormtail, who had gone very pale. He fell to his knees again in submission, groveling at Voldemort's feet and halting the entire group's progress.

"You stall us, idiot! Do you wish for a dose of pain?" said Voldemort menacingly.

In a flash, Wormtail was on his feet, his eyes wide with terror.

"Please, My Lord. I beg of you," he whispered.

"Never delay us again!" hissed Voldemort.

"Thank you, My Lord. You are ever merciful, My Lord," said Wormtail, bowing his head in gratitude.

The group trekked over the hill in silence. The only sound was the crunching of snowbeneath their heavy boots. Lord Voldemort seemed to be pondering.

"No," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "I have reviewed every single strand of the plan, and I can detect but few weaknesses. It involves substantial risk but the discovery I made about Harry Potter this past month opens an opportunity far too valuable to be wasted."

Suddenly, Voldemort halted his musings and barked, "Silence!"

He had suddenly spotted a large caribou, grazing on some lichen unconcernedly, several feet away. Motioning the others to remain still, Lord Voldemort pulled out his wand and pointed it at the caribou.

"Avada Kedavra!" he screamed... and nothing happened.

Although the caribou was startled by the sudden noise, it was most definitely still alive; there was no bang of a firecracker, a whooshing sound, nor the flash of brilliant green light. After several moments of alarm, the caribou returned to its feeding.

"I suspected as much," said Voldemort. "Now, for the other test."

Voldemort raised his rifle.

"I never thought I would ever resort to Muggle weapons," he muttered.

He pressed the trigger. Several rounds went off and the caribou screamed in agony as its hide exploded in red. It moaned with pain before collapsing into the pool of its own blood and gasping its last breath.

"Very well," said Voldemort. Imported Muggle weapons do work here. Come, to the storage compound. We have not a moment to lose. And stay sharp. Do not make my tedious planning fruitless." The four men walked toward the low building.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mikhail Andreyevich Zhupin was tired but too anxious to fall asleep. He had not been paid for nearly two months. His wife, his adolescent daughter, and his infant son were gradually starving. Last night, they were forced to steal straw from the roofs of some abandoned cottages to supplement the little food they caught by setting traps in the forest. It was late winter and the catch was diminishing. Mikhail never felt hungrier in his life.

Mikhail Zhupin was an interior guard at the supposedly secret Niznazertovsk Thermonuclear Warhead Reload Compound in Western Siberia of the Russian Federation. Not long ago, his two fellow guards and his best friends were fired for lack of funds. Mikhail stayed because, they claimed, he was recognized for his valor and intelligence in Afghanistan.

The guard shifted angrily in his uncomfortable worn seat at his guard post.

"Hrmmgh!" snorted Mikhail in disgust. "They fire Yasha and Igor just when they need us more than ever!"

Mikhail had heard dark rumors about the disappearance of three SS-25 MIRVs (Multiple Independent Reentry Vehicles) in Kazakhstan.

"Most likely sold by desperate people like me to some Muslim hooligan terrorist," thought Mikhail sullenly. "Well, as long as they don't use it on us. Or, even better, they teach those damn Americans a lesson."

Mikhail's thoughts returned, as did millions of his fellow countrymen, to those bitter past few years.

"The Americans!" Mikhail swore. "They took everything. When we lost the Cold War, their stinking paid thieves, those capitalists, swooped into our country and devoured it like a plague of locusts. They stole everything, leaving nothing but a nation of gangsters and prostitutes."

Mikhail swore on his dead body that he would never let his daughter sink down to prostitution. But times were never more desperate. His daughter was even pleading to do so, to support the family.

"Maybe," mused Mikhail vaguely, "I could also sell some of these."

He glanced at nondescript green cases that held mankind's most powerful weapon. They were worth billions of rubles to the right customer. It was not as if the state was using them. But if he sold one, that would mean food, decent shelter, clothing, and even education for his children...

Mikhail leapt up in alarm as he gunshots fire close by, but then sank slowly back into his chair in relief, laughing at his own stupidity.

"It's the forest rangers," he assured himself, "Trying to catch something for dinner."

The multiple shots meant that they caught something big.

Maybe even a caribou, thought Mikhail excitedly. He was on good terms with the local rangers. Their numbers had shrunk drastically by state layoffs as well. There would be enough left over to support his family for a few more days! His stomach growled at the very thought.

But Mikhail heard a noise, unmistakably to his trained ears that brought his mind down from dreams of a feast. It was the sound of the rusty back door to the storage compound being forcefully opened. Mikhail grabbed his AK-47 and stood.

"Who's there?" he barked. He heard a unearthly high-pitched hissing voice say something in a foreign language. Ignoring the hairs that suddenly stood on his back, Mikhail concentrated on recognizing the language; they sounded familiar. It was... English! Mikhail was one of the top students in his Foreign Language class during secondary school in the Soviet times.

"Americans!" he spat, filled with rage and fury. How the hell did they bypass the outer perimeter of guard towers? They had come to seize the warheads from the facility! I'll teach them a lesson!

Mikhail leapt up and around the corner, bringing his Kalishnikov to bear at the source of the hissing voice.

The rifle clattered to the floor as Mikhail screamed at the most hideous face he had ever imagined in reality and in dreamworld. Wormtail raised his rifle and fired, but missed wide. Zhupin threw himself aside and behind a stack of cases. He sweated coldly as he heard the high cold voice order something to the others, then the sound of someone lumbering closer. Mikhail grabbed a metal bar lying nearby and swung it as hard as he could to approaching sound. He heard several rounds go off, then the scream of metal scrapping against metal.

But then the bar was wrenched from his grasp with terrible force, and smashed into his face and stomach. Mikhail Andreyevich Zhupin crumpled at the feet of Goyle. His last thought was wry contentment that his family will now receive a substantial pension because of his death.

"Good work," hissed Voldemort. "Now, Crabbe, Goyle take one of those cases, just one, place it on this cart, and wheel it outside."

Crabbe, Goyle, and Wormtail scrambled to obey their master's instructions. Crabbe and Goyle strained as they lifted the massive green case onto the metal cart. They pushed the cart to the back door but the opening proved to be too narrow.

"Wormtail," commanded Voldemort.

Wormtail came forward and punched his silver hand into the concrete wall on the side of the door, causing the wall to collapse into rubble. The dust settled, revealing a large hole. Voldemort through the newly made hole, followed by Crabbe and Goyle pushing the cart, and rear guarded by Wormtail. They walked briskly through the snow, stopping near where they first arrived.

"Any moment now," said Voldemort. Suddenly, the canvas rippled again, forming a new hole. Through it, the sound of many voices could be heard, all yelling, "Chronogate!" repeatedly. The hole proved to be smaller than before, barely large enough for a thin man to squeeze through. But it was enough.

Voldemort hurled himself through the aperture and his high voice rose over the multitude of yells, as he screamed,

"CHRONOGATE!"

The tear widened as never before, becoming large enough for Crabbe, Goyle, Wormtail, and even the bulky cart to slip through. Once the last of them ducked through the tunnel, the rip began shrinking yet again.

It finally disappeared, along with all traces of its presence, leaving the cold tundra as barren as before.