Harry Potter and the Legacy of the Ring

Chapter One - The Shadows of the Past

Author's Notes: With a title blatantly borrowed from Professor Tolkien himself, we begin. If I can, I'm aiming to use his chapter names where it is possible simply because I love them dearly. I vowed I wouldn't become a Tolkien-geek. Too late :) Believe me, there is a lot to be covered in this story. I simply hope I can answer all your questions in the process of the tale. Oh, and the quotes at the beginning of each chapter are the ones I can cite as inspiration for the storyline. Tolkien really was an awfully amusing foreword and letter writer.

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Summer had once more come to the South of England, winter long since brushed aside by the kiss of spring, which had given way to the present season, long days and short nights filling the months. Seldom had the seasons been so generous in their warmth and dryness, the land near baked solid by so many days of sunlight.

Row upon row of houses basked in the rays of the face of the beaming sun, each one indistinguishable from the next to the casual observer, the heat beating down upon them, driving the inhabitants into the shelter of the buildings.

All but one person.

A boy treading the path to manhood.

Harry Potter.

Almost unnaturally slender for his almost sixteen years, his features were worn with fatigue and grief, his threadbare clothing hanging from his body. Beneath the dark waves of his hair and behind the scratched glass of spectacles, his eyes, as vivid as emerald, were shadowed by things unmentionable and rimmed by red.

He had, for years, been credited as the Saviour of the world of the gifted ones - of the wizards and witches whose powers were concealed from those who were without abilities - due to a moment of sheer luck and chance that had saved his life only moments after his parents had been struck down.

Little more than a year in age, the protection and sacrifice of his mother had cast an unseen charm upon him that had saved his life, marking him only with a scar when he was touched by a curse that had smote down so many others.

The simple scar was the very thing to carry his fame, his otherwise indistinguishable features made famous by the lightning-shaped line that marred a brow that had recently grown lined with worries and turmoil that no child ever ought to bear.

The charm of love that repelled the curse which had been directed upon him had reversed that curse upon its caster, the wizard known as Lord Voldemort, who had thus been vanquished for night fourteen years, his body little more than a shapeless mass.

For years, he had remained so, in spite of attempts to restore himself. Even when Harry had joined one of the schools for the gifted ones, he had been the one to drive the Dark Wizard away once more.

Until early in the previous summer, shortly before the end of his fourth year.

Mingling the bone of his own father, the flesh of one of his many servants and the blood of Harry Potter, Lord Voldemort had once again acquired physical form, once more eager in his desire to kill the youth.

Fortuitously, Harry had managed to escape through his own skill and the aid of the shades of those killed by the Dark Lord, but that had not been sufficient to dissuade Voldemort in his desire to see the boy dead.

Only recently, had Harry learned the truth of the matter: A prophecy made before his birth had foretold that he - or some other child born at the latter end of the seventh month - would be the one to defeat the Dark Lord. It had proven to be him.

Word of some part of the prophecy had reached the ever-listening ears of Lord Voldemort, who had desired at once to kill the child as soon as he was born.

His reason had been simple fear, an emotion even he had never harnessed.

Not only had the prophecy carried the foreboding news that the birth of the one able to vanquish him was nigh, but also the ringing warning that 'neither can live while the other survives', something which Voldemort had taken to heart. It had become a choice of himself or the child.

In killing the child before Harry was capable of striking back with his own hands, the Dark Wizard had believed he would be safe from harm, but instead, his attack had nigh resulted in his destruction.

Even so many years on, Voldemort's fear of the prophecy was still strong. His most recent assault upon the world of the Wizards and Witches had struck at the very heart of the world, in the Ministry of Magic, in a vain attempt to retrieve the prophecy and, in doing that, to discover the means to destroy Harry.

He had failed, but in the chaos, battle had still taken its toll upon those who fought on the side of the light.

Now, in the wake of the events of previous months, Voldemort had once more vanished, leaving Harry Potter once more languishing in the loveless care of his only blood kin, his mother's sister and her husband and son.

This was something else he had of late been informed of: the blood shared by his mother and his aunt had provided a protection for him that still lingered, as long as he resided in the house of the Dursleys at least once yearly. Thus, he had no choice but to return to them for the summer.

As he had the previous year, he languished amid the flowerbeds, if only to be out of the house he was forced to live in with them, his intention to avoid their company and wrath. If Voldemort hated him for who he was, then his own family despised him for what he was.

Resting upon his back on the sparse summer grass, his attention lingered upon the faint wisps of cloud that clung to the clear blue of the sky above him, his thoughts cast even further afield than the sun above him.

Much had he on his mind and, in his isolation from friends and those he cared for, too often did his thoughts stray to that which troubled him most, to the battle so recently lost, to the friend and guardian so recently... killed.

Harry Potter closed his tear-drained eyes once more, the hands woven behind his head balling into tight fists. It took all his effort to suppress the wild, ringing scream that he longed to release, his throat closing at the very thought of that which had been lost, because of him.

The man who had been his father's closest friend and who would have become his guardian and surrogate father had died, because Harry - in his childish folly - had walked straight into a trap that had been arranged by the dark wizard who desired him dead.

Sirius Black.

He had fallen in battle, fighting one of his own kin, the very kin he had abandoned so many years before because of their very ideals, the ideals that were followed and supported by the Dark Wizard whom had been Harry's greatest enemy since birth.

Even to think on him caused a pang of pain so very great that it stole the breath from Harry's lungs. The boy's face shifted once more in a vain attempt to quash all tears that still lingered beneath his lids, yet one still escaped, sliding freely down the pale skin of his face.

With a sigh, he pushed himself upright, his eyes closing in brief remembrance. This, he knew, was not what his Godfather would have willed for him, to spend every hour of every lonely day contemplating that which was lost, in vain hopes that it was little more than a nightmare.

Nightmares he already had in abundance.

Ever since his memory would permit, he could recall dreams of darkness, but only of late had they become increasingly clearer and truer, an overlap and sometimes invasion of his mind by the Dark Lord.

At his School, Hogwarts, the prior year, it had become essential that he learn to block this invasion by learning the skill of Occlumency, but he had not; and, because of it, Voldemort had succeeded in planting a vision in his mind which had resulted in his error. It was this that meant his godfather was evermore gone from his sight.

Still, the guilt lingered and he had struggled and practised every night since the fateful one, hour upon hour, as he tried to find sleep, to bring his mind entirely back under his own control.

Yet, dreams still breached the mantle.

Some were simple to understand; faces, masks, anger and impatience. Others, more recent ones, had felt smothered somehow, as if there was something distorting the connection between him and the Dark One, the images that permeated his mind no longer accurate but staggered, random.

Especially of late.

It almost seemed, to the boy, that the Dark Wizard was deliberately evading his mind, ignoring his very existence, which seemed a strange mode of behaviour for the wizard who had spent years trying to kill him.

Suspicious of the Dark Lord's motions, Harry had scoured the news for word of anything amiss, yet naught appeared. It did seem that the Dark Lord had dropped from the very face of society, concealing himself once more.

With some of his allies incarcerated and others in hiding, there seemed little Voldemort could do but conceal himself, yet that only raised in Harry a sense of concern about what the Dark Lord had in mind.

An image that had haunted him, night after night, was that of something aflame. It was blurred, perhaps by the very heat of the air in the location, but clearly flaming, bright and dangerous; vivid, flickering, flaring orange and reds before him.

On one occasion, he was sure he saw a thin hand extended and something small, barely even visible, glittering in the sweat-dampened palm, eerie by the fickle light.

Sometimes, in the distance, he could see the face of rock and stone, dark and scattered with light from the glow beneath, the heat waking him, tangled in his bedding and sweating.

From whence it came, he knew not, the place arousing no memories in him.

In the wake of such dreams, though, his desire to master the art of Occlumency had increased tenfold and he had finally succeeded in easing the pain in the scar that marred his brow, simply by focussing upon closing his mind to others.

For that blessing, he was grateful and it had been days since he had suffered such a dream, leaving him only concerned by his own guilt and grief.

How he longed for the day when he could join his friends and be once more in the company of those who cared for him. Tilting his face once more to the sun, he pushed all thoughts of his enemy to the back of his mind.

Soon, he knew. Soon he would be with them once more.

***

Far from any towns of villages, concealed by spells and charms of all varieties, a Mansion, crouched in the gloom of a valley, spread gracefully upon the grounds like a panther preparing to attack.

Only recently had the Master of the Mansion acquired his liberty from the wizarding prison, where he had briefly been imprisoned, once more able to depend on the strength of his gold to gain liberation.

Returning to his home, he had vowed to those in power that he would change for the better, nevermore to be held under the control of the Dark Lord.

A lie indeed.

His contact with his Master had never failed, his loyalty unwavering, his home the deceptively beautiful container of powers dark and deadly.

While many would be fool enough to assume that the building was nothing more than a simple, if large and beautiful house, those who knew the inhabitants better also knew that there was nothing about the house which could be considered normal.

Indeed, one of the present residents of the Mansion was certainly as distanced from 'normal' as was possible.

Of late returned from distant lands, his task there unknown even to his most loyal of followers, his powers seemed drained. Even so, though his flame seemed somewhat smothered, it was still faintly aglow, and he had been counselled to take some rest.

Seldom one to obey, he had acknowledged the words of his allies. Indeed, he knew what his task had entailed and knew that, in time, his brief weakness would be replaced with the strength of ages.

Despite bearing the look of a starved skeleton, pale and gaunt, he was strong in mind and spirit. Carrying with him all darkness, he was biding his time, his absent powers waxing as the days past, unknown to his followers.

Only months earlier, some of his more foolish followers had voiced their doubts in him, as he seemed to be spending many long hours in research, poring over ancient manuscripts and histories of histories. His thirst for knowledge, it seemed, had dimmed his desire for domination.

Those very followers found themselves under the scrutiny of his displeased eye, death capturing both of them and silencing any whispers that might have otherwise brought his control into question.

He had vanished for nigh three months recently, none aware of his location, not even the wretched worm whom he maintained as a servant. Doubt and fear had once more surfaced among his followers and that was when he had chosen to return, stooped and weary.

And now, he rested.

The room where he was housed was cool, and dark. A sense of deep unease permeated the very walls, shadows peeling away from the dark wooden panels of the walls to caress his motionless form where he sat.

Seated at the desk that looked out upon the grand grounds of the Mansion, steeped in silence, the only sound to escape the deceptively frail figure was the rasp of his breathing upon the smothering air. Slants of moonlight cut upon him, shadow and light bisecting his features, his eyes closed.

Long, skeletal fingers depressed upon the smooth, polished surface of the desktop, a sigh fluttering from the lipless maw which served as the figure's mouth, little more than an angular slash in a face as white as bone. The flicker of the light of candles sharpened the shadows on features already distorted and nightmarish.

"My Lord?"

Upon the barely spoken words, the once-man at the desk turned eyes as red as burnished carnelians upon its owner. "Lucius," he said, in a voice soft and deadly as quicksand. "Did I give you leave to speak?"

The form of a man, clad in dark robes that countered his silver hair, and silhouetted in the frame of the door, stiffened. "No, my Lord," His voice betrayed his fear, at which his master smiled, cold and thin. Fear was good. That his servants still feared him assured him that, in spite of his current condition, they were not all fools. "It is simply that... that is, we were curious as to your recovery..."

Silence clung upon the air, corroding the atmosphere like a cancer.

"You believe I am weak, Lucius," the voice was soft. Calm. Reproving. Mocking. A lift of the narrow mouth was reflected in the polished surface of the window, scarlet eyes hooded. "Don't you?"

"Never, my Lord!"

The figure at the desk pushed the heavy chair back, a squeal of wood on wood deafening in the silent room, and rose, dark robes loose about his narrow body. "You lie, Lucius," he said quietly. "I know your mind. Simply because I have temporarily displaced my strength does not mean I am weak." One spider-like hand splayed upon a chest that was bone-thin beneath the thick fabric of the robes. "Only a fool would believe so."

"Yes, my Lord. I did not mean to doubt..."

"Of course you did not, my dear Lucius," There was a soft chuckle. "After all, we all know how very fatal that might be for you." The man in the doorway shuddered, but said nothing, clearly recalling the mutilated bodies of his former cohorts.

Before the desk, the tall, thin, wraith-like man turned away from his servant, his eyes drifting to the surface of a small, engraved box, which lay close at hand. It gleamed by the light of the candles upon the walls and desktop.

"No one realises, yet, the power I have discovered," he said thoughtfully. Thin fingers traced the pattern upon the lid of the box. "A power that only the few from times past, those who no longer linger in our world, would know how to destroy." As he spoke, he smiled. It was terrifying. "No one knows all that I do and none will be able to take it from me. "

"It, my Lord?"

The narrow slits that served as the thin man's nostrils dilated, a soft gasp trailing from his parted lips. "Power, my fool," he breathed, a tremor in his voice that spoke of excitement. "A power which belongs to me as much as I belong to it."

In the doorway, the silver-haired man's eyes glittered with consternation. "What do you mean, my Lord?"

The Dark Lord smiled, a mere, brief shift of the line of his mouth, tapping the small, insignificant box. "I mean, Lucius," the wizard once called Tom Riddle said, "that I have found the key to unlock all power that should be available to me."

His aide said nothing for several moments, although his expression suggested that he believed his Master had lost his mind. Finally, he spoke. "If I may ask, my Lord..."

"You may not, Lucius," Voldemort's voice was as cold as the winter's snow upon the mountains. His eyes closed briefly, a tremor moving through him as he lifted the lid upon the box. Lucius Malfoy craned forwards, trying to gain a glimpse of the object upon which his Master was so intent.

By the faint, flickering light of the candles, he could see a simple trinket: a gleaming ring of gold nestled in a bed of black velvet, flame casting warming hues across the surface, which seemed to ripple with glimmering letters.

His brow furrowed in puzzlement. "A ring?" So bemused was he, that he forgot the standard honorific, Voldemort's eyes moving to him. Hairless brows rose in silent challenge, as if daring the fair-haired wizard to question him further. "My Lord, pardon my ignorance, but what use is a ring...?"

Voldemort's lipless mouth twisted somewhat. His fingers ghosted lovingly over the surface of the simple gold band, a shiver of pleasure running through his body. "It is not merely a ring, my fool," he whispered, more for himself than his servant. "Now, it is the Ring that will solve all."