Seven ways to change a life

Prologue

The figure, cloaked in shadows, stood upon the hilltop. The surrounding ruins loomed out of the darkness, crackling with black magic. Lightning raked the night sky, illuminating an imposing castle perched atop a neighbouring hill. Pooling next to the castle was a lake, which caught the flashes and mirrored them, glinting dangerously. Nestled in the valley between two hills was a picturesque village, all signs of life secured behind heavy shutters protecting the inhabitants from the storm. The figure spat. Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers the lot; but the village wasn't where his anger was directed. He picked up the vial of red liquid that stood by his foot and poured it onto his palm. It was thick and sticky but he managed to spread it over both hands. Holding them up to the heavens, he began to recite.

'Wine of the mother,

Ash of the father and son,

Reveal thy self.'

The red liquid in which his hands were immersed changed hue to a deep blue as a halo of crackling light spread up his arms. The soil beneath his feet began to seethe and churn. He stumbled back.

'Reveal.'

Slowly the ground upon which he stood resumed its solidity, with only a slight indent in the centre to show anything had happened at all. The figure fell to his knees, scrabbling frantically in the indent. After what seemed to be an eternity of searching, he sat up clutching something tight to his chest. He stood up slowly; unfurling his hand to reveal a tiny tear shaped pearl.

'The tear of Saint Bridget.' he whispered hoarsely. He let it lie there on his palm, watching it with bated breath, as if he did not believe it could be real.

A malicious smile spread across his face, his red eyes glinting with hidden pleasure. This was it, the last piece of his plan falling into place. This plan, so unlike any of his others; if this worked it would set in motion a chain of events that could not be stopped. Try as hard as he like, that Potter boy could never stand in its way. This flawless plan of his began with this one simple thing. And it had to work: you could only go on losing so many times before fate catches up with you, and you have to win. This was his chance.

He stretched his hand out before him as if in an offering. Summoning all the power within him, he spoke.

'Take from me to do thy bidding,

My power is as to thine.

Send on fleeting wings

Seven plagues unto the castle great:

One to hinder, with Dionysus' gift;

One to reveal what is concealed;

One to voice inner fears;

One to stall time, to be seen again;

One to unite past with present;

One where guise will become reality

On the Hallowed night;

The last to strip thoughts from the mind

And leave none.

Powers distant I call upon thee,

I invoke thee, comply

What is said will be done.'

The tiny pearl glowed, throbbing with pure light, and began to melt. The light seeped along the cracks in his hand, trickling along his fingers to the tips, gathering there to shoot out as bright white beams.

The figure crumpled, his face twisted in agony. But still his hand was held aloft, the light surging off into the distance. Visibly, he began to fade as the strength poured out of him.

The five beacons of light spread out across the countryside, running like a river over field and forest, finally alighting onto the distant castle.

'Be done,' he whispered.

* * *

In the Gryffindor common room at Hogwarts, the fire was flickering low in the grate, casting shadows across the room. It was the first week of the new term, and little homework had been set yet, so there was no one burning the midnight oil. Practically every one had gone to bed - everyone sane that is. Harry Potter and his best friend Ron Weasley were playing wizard chess. Ron was winning.

'Check and mate,' he grinned as he moved his knight across the board, 'I don't even know why you keep playing, mate. Not that I mind winning all the time, but it must get a bit depressing for you.'

Harry grinned back, setting up the pieces for another game. He was about to reply when a bright beam of light shot through three windows simultaneously.

'What the . . . ?'