Born Under A Bad Sign

Chapter 1: And So It Begins

By Peeler

You know, traveler, I can feel it. I can feel my life's energy failing. That feeling of self-righteousness that has sustained me for an eternity. But I feel a strange guilt. There are so few left, from both sides...Wait! I have it! Do you know the tale of Harry Potter? The conflict that destroyed the very earth we now walk upon?

What's that? Speak up man! Ah, yes. The old days. When Hogwarts still stood, and order ruled the land. You know of the fairy-tale. But I was there during the war, you see. That was no fairy-tale. Will you oblige an old man his last wish? Listen to my story. This has been my life's work, you see. I know more about the war than any other alive...and soon, so shall you!

Come here, yes, sit by the fire. And listen...

The breakers roll in, grey and green, crashing against the beleaguered stony coast. The very air on this isle is damned. Nothing has changed on this shore for centuries. Perhaps millennia. The air tingles with magic...no. This is not magic, this is a pestilence. The compass of a ship, perhaps from the middle ages, rests between the cracked rocks. Tendrils of dirty ice creep up the cracked glass. But change is coming to this place. Not even magic can stop the passage of time. The first sign of change in this barren waste: a poor fisherman has moored his boat within sight of the isle. Soon, the ice forming on the hull will drag the boat and it's occupants to an icy grave. All but one. In the shadows of the fortress rising from the isle's surface, a disturbance ripples the air, shimmering, rippling, and then, a man is there. The wind fans his cloak as it ripples out behind him. He seems powerful, majestic. But his face betrays him. It is as pale as death, fear! etched into every pore. The man walks purposefully to the fortress wall, where he stumbles briefly. A hacking cough rises from his throat, and white wisps of steam spill from his mouth. He is dying. Leaning on the wall of the fortress, he pulls a small, pulsing globe of light from the folds of his robe. He presses it against the wall of the fortress, and collapses. Suddenly, he gasps. "No! Not yet, No!" With a last effort, he stands, wand suddenly in hand, and shouts Apparecium! The globe of light turns red. The man collapses. His eyes roll back in his head. He is dead.

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"The name of the man is Lucius Malfoy. Yes, that's right, my father. He met his end, as the sun set on Azkaban for the last time. The ball of light? It was an Apparition beacon. Yes, they had that sort of thing before the war. You see, Azkaban was unplottable. It took great efforts to finally find its location, but the beacon would ensure the fall of the mighty prison. You see, this is where Lord Voldemort enters our story."

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The man known as Lord Voldemort Apparated onto the most secure soil in magical Europe, the ancient gaol of Azkaban. Voldemort appeared in the midst of transformation. His sleek black hair was patchy, and his frighteningly dark eyes still showed tinges of red around the edges. He was extraordinarily tall, and extraordinarily pale. He spoke a single word, and the wall in front of him crumbled, weather-beaten mortar and stone tumbling into the sea. With a purposeful stride, he entered the courtyard. And that is when they appeared. More than one hundred in number, silent, chilling grey-cloaked creatures. The Dementors of Azkaban. A few moments with the attention of so many Dementors on him should have killed him. But he seemed, if anything, to grow more powerful. The Dementors seemed in doubt, and hung back. Voldemort, in a single leap, was upon the dead fountain in the center of the courtyard. His chill voice echoed.

"Dementors of Azkaban! How long will you languor in this place? Surely you realize that the Ministry of Magic holds you as captive as those you guard! Here you have precious few souls for your thirst. Is the Ministry really so powerful as to keep so many of you contained? Join me, and you will have the ability to use your power in something great! Together with the Death Eaters, we will overthrow the corrupt Ministry, vanquish the Muggles, and claim our place as rulers of the earth! Are you with me?" A Dementor glided slowly towards the Dark Lord. Its voice was thin, and rattling.

"My Lord, we will follow you. For too long have we guarded those who would help us. For too long have we served, rather than led! We will claim our right, with you, Dark One!"

"Excellent! Tell them to remain in the courtyard. And take me to the cells."

The prisoners whom Voldemort released congregated as far from the Dementors as possible. Finally, the Dark Lord found the one whom he sought. A woman lay on the floor of her cell. Like most of the other prisoners, she was malnourished almost to the point of death. Her ribs were framed sharply by the fleshless skin hanging from them. Her face looked dead, sunken eyes gleaming with a feverish light. She seemed to not have the strength to lift herself to her feet. But when she saw the Dark Lord, she rose, unsteadily, to her feet. She spoke in a hoarse whisper.

"My Lord, I knew you would return! You must believe me, I never doubted you!"

"Of course you didn't, Amanita. Of all people, you should know that I trust you. You have given the ultimate sacrifice for me: A fate worse than death, and you remained true. Lean on me, now, you are weak. The time has come for the true Death Eaters to return to the world of the living."

Within hours, Azkaban was ruined, and devoid of any creature. In the courtyard, a monument to Lucius Malfoy was erected; it still stands, as a remnant of this cursed isle's past.

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"And so Azkaban was destroyed, and the Dementors joined the Dark Lord. I myself did not join the Death Eaters for about a month after that. Voldemort was still biding his time..."

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Narcissa Malfoy answered the door-chime and was met with the frightening visage of Lord Voldemort.

"My Lord!" exclaimed Narcissa. "I wasn't expecting you! Lucius isn't here, you know, I thought he was helping you."

"Yes, Narcissa, he was with me. I'm sorry you have to hear this, but...Narcissa, he did not die in vain. I'm sorry for your loss. He will be remembered always." Voldemort placed a small black urn on the table next to him, and Disapparated. Narcissa's ivory-hard face seemed to melt, and she fell to the ground with a haunted sob.

A week had passed since Draco had heard the news, and Malfoy Mansion seemed diminished somehow. Outside the mansion, of course, no-one knew anything of Lucius Malfoy's demise. Officially, he was on an extended holiday in Mexico to get away from the stress of being one of the most important business-wizards in England.

Draco Malfoy had taken the news of his father's death surprisingly well. Perhaps this was because his father had never paid much attention to him. It was as if he had been told of the death of a great-uncle. After all, business and 'business' kept Lucius away from Malfoy Mansion a great deal, and school meant Draco was only home three months a year. What Draco had not taken well was the extra workload placed upon him in Lucius' stead. Following Narcissa's nervous breakdown, Draco had sold the family's minority shares and handed over control the Malfoy family finances to a broker who happened to be a Death Eater. The servants ran the house. Draco was supposed to make executive decisions on subjects he knew nothing about, necessitating the hiring of numerous advisors.

Two weeks into his summer holidays, and ten days after his father's death, Draco had become sufficiently restless to leave the mansion. He had done this often enough before, but then, he had never had responsibilities before. This thought did not cross his mind. Draco landed his broom at a local inn-and-tavern, The Troll & Crumpet. The innkeeper was a fat, surly man with graying hair and an impolite disposition. However he knew the Malfoys well, and he asked Draco for a word.

"Young Master Malfoy, it is good to see you again! I was sorry indeed to hear about your father, he got me started up here, he did. Now, I understand this is a rough transition time for you, and your family's estate. If you want some stability, you're going to have to talk to some people about things. Lord Voldemort's very interested in your good fortune, Draco. But you have to get to him first. I'm just a sympathizer, I don't know where he's hiding out. It's up to you to find him. Now, you want anything to eat or drink? It's on the house."

Draco returned to the mansion somewhat buzzed, and thought about what the man had said. His memory was a little fuzzy, but he knew he had to find Voldemort, somehow. He also knew he needed a plan. The innkeeper had suggested something after dinner, hadn't he? Something about if anyone could find where the Death Eaters were hiding, it was the media...That was it!

The next day, Draco sorted through his father's documents until he found what he was looking for. 'A Detailed List of Residences of Current Hogwarts Students and Professors. Children whose parents are sympathetic to our cause are underlined...' and so on. There were reams of parchment; after all, Hogwarts was home to over 300 students, each of whom was given a detailed report. Fortunately, the students were listed by house, by year, and in alphabetical order. Finally, Draco found who he was looking for. 'Granger, Hermione - Fifth Year, Gryffindor. Address: #720, 42^nd St., Southampton. Classification: Mudblood. Possibility for recruitment: Hopeless.' With no forethought whatsoever, Draco left immediately, in search of one Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet reporter.

After a hard day of flying, Draco arrived in front of the Granger residence, a nice two-story suburban home that perfectly matched all the other nice, two story suburban homes on the street. Draco knocked on the door. The look of disgust on Hermione's face when she answered the door and saw him is difficult to describe. Somewhat easier to describe is the pain of having a door slammed in your face, which is what Draco immediately experienced. On trying to force the door, he also discovered that Hermione had set up a rather complex set of friendship wards around the house. Only someone with good intentions towards the occupants and their belongings could enter. Draco found himself thrown sideways into the shrubbery by the wards.

"Bloody hell!" he spat. Unable to think of a solution, he did what he usually did when in a pickle: he went to the nearest wizarding pub. After a few hours of asking drunk people for advice on his predicament, one mumbled that "They always forget to guard the roof." That was it! Grabbing his broom, Draco flew over the darkened streets, Ministry regulations be damned. Blasting a hole in the Granger family's roof and slipping in, he found himself in a rather nice bathroom on the second floor.

After looking into a number of rooms, he found Hermione's bedroom, and the large glass jar which contained Rita Skeeter, unregistered Animagus, sitting on the night table. He snatched up the jar and prepared to leave when he saw a large terrarium, holding two fine specimens of the Cornish Pixie. Carefully, he lifted the screen off the terrarium, and watched the pixies fly out. As he was making his way out the window, the pixies suddenly started to sing 'California Dreaming' in two-part harmony, very loudly and in irritatingly high-pitched voices. Hermione, and probably the entire block, woke up immediately. Draco saw just enough of her face to want to leave faster than he already was.

Still quite on edge from his close call, Draco proceeded to a quiet area on a nearby farm, where he released the beetle who was Rita Skeeter from her jar. Understandably, she was most upset at being held in a glass jar for over a month, and had some choice things to say about Hermione Granger. When the expletives had stopped flying, she finally thanked Draco, and asked him what she could do to make it up to him.

"Well, I need a rather big favor, actually, Miss Skeeter. You see, I had a reason for rescuing you. There is no reporter better than you at finding out hidden information. I know you can disguise yourself very well."

"All right, Draco, enough flattery. What do you want?"

"I need you to write a report that will tell the world that Lord Voldemort has risen again. Phrase it to cause as much panic as possible. Don't mention any names except Voldemort's. Also, you will find out the location of a Death Eater safe house and include it in the article written in hidden ink, so that the address will reveal itself when I perform the Dark Mark incantation on it. I believe you can buy this ink at Borgin & Burkes in Knockturn Alley. Have the report out within a week." A wave of dismay passed over Rita's face. "Draco, I'd love to, but Ms. Granger of the unspeakably poor hair has threatened to reveal that I am an Animagus if I write anything!"

"Rita, after this news hits the stands, no-one will care if the Mudblood says you're actually a bloodsucking bugbear!"

"I suppose you're right...but I'm a reporter, not a Death Eater!"

"I'm not asking you to kill anyone! It's for the general good! The job of the media is to report goings-on, including Voldemort's return! And remember, I rescued you!" Rita looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Well, yes, you did rescue me...but it'll be very dangerous to find this safe-house. How about a little incentive?"

"Very well, Rita. Do this little thing for me, and I'll pay you as much as you make in a full working year. Deal?"

"All right, Draco, you have a deal. Keep an eye on the news!" And she Disapparated.

Draco waited patiently for an entire week before he saw the headline. It was exactly what he'd wanted.

I know many of our readers, bless their souls, have been worried about my absence, and I would like to reassure them. I am in perfect health; though this is a surprise, considering what I have been through. I, Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet reporter, have spent the last few weeks on a harrowing investigation into the rumors that are currently flying; and I have discovered something terrible: that the Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, has returned.

I began my search for the truth in Albania, where some believe Voldemort may have been hiding since his defeat. Albania is also where Ministry of Magic witch Bertha Jorkins was last seen. Joris Knapov, innkeeper in the town where Bertha disappeared, had this to say: "She seemed fine the whole time she was here. Two days before she was reported missing, she met a short, stocky bald man. I assumed he was a Ministry contact, but I could be mistaken." Jorkins, who fellow employees have described as 'dim-witted and forgetful', has not been seen since approximately this time last year. Is it possible that she was meeting not, as Mr. Knapov thought, a ministry contact, but rather a Dark Arts contact? Could Bertha Jorkins be a Death Eater?

I followed the trail of Bertha Jorkins, and it seems that she was escorted very carefully back to England. Here, I lost her trail. However, while waiting for an interview with Hogwarts headmaster Albus Dumbledore, I overheard something shocking: Dumbledore and Minister Fudge were discussing, with great urgency, what to do about You-Know-Who's return. I was understandably shocked, but even more so when the Minister said that the Ministry of Magic's official position was that the Dark Lord was dead, and he wasn't coming back. This is the same position maintained today, against the wishes of Albus Dumbledore. You-Know-Who has returned, and our own Ministry is denying it!

Look for part two of this Daily Prophet exclusive in my column tomorrow.

Draco put down the paper with a satisfied sigh. Good old Rita...now to try the message. Draco pointed his wand at the paper, and shouted 'Morsmordre!' The writing on the front page flickered briefly, and the ink ran together, forming the words: 'Sorry, Draco, no safe house yet. Give me a couple of days.'