Rising of the Dark

HARRY POTTER AND THE RISING OF THE DARK

by Meta4. Chapter 09.

The Eleven (Elven?) Commandments

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1. Thou shalt bow to J.K. Rowling, creator of the Potterverse!

2. Thou shalt acknowledge all characters created by Her.

3. Thou shalt acknowledge the trademarks of Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.

4. Thou shalt not read the story herein if Slash offendeth you.

5. Thou shalt not read this story if thou art not old enough so to do.

6. Thou shalt not pass the work herein as thine own.

7. Thou shalt not gain profit from distributing the work herein.

8. Respect thy mother and thy father - only read this work when they are out.

9. Thou shalt acknowledge My copyright

10. Thou shalt contact Me if thou likest or thou detesteth this work.

11. Thou shalt never piss off an Elf...

HARRY POTTER AND THE RISING OF THE DARK

by Meta4 meta4@meta4.org

CHAPTER NINE:: For Better Or For Worse?

A short walk and a truly shredded book later, we arrived at an obtusely grand building that looked rather like a miniature castle. Hermione led us into the rather dingy, damp-smelling cavern of a room and approached what looked like an overgrown lectern. On the top of it was an ornate name plaque that read "Tugloach - Chief Cashier". She pressed a button on the face of the lectern and almost instantly a hideous, hook-nosed, balding creature appeared. The creature's teeth compliment even rivalled Monty's and made me feel rather ill at ease.

"Miss Granger," it said sharply and precisely, "how may we help you today?"

The creature, whilst addressing Hermione, took the opportunity to size us all up. To be perfectly honest, I thought he looked as if he was deciding which one of us would go best with boiled potatoes, carrots and peas...

"Mr Blackdon here would like to open an account and transfer some funds from his muggle bank."

"A very wise decision, if I may say so. Mr Blackdon," Tugloach snapped. "Can I assume you have your muggle account details about your person?"

It took me a moment to collect my thoughts as the creature's eyes had me transfixed as he stared at me.

"Uh, yeah,"

I fished my wallet out of my pocket and presented my debit card. Tugloach bent forward from the lectern, extending a bony, sinuous hand and took the card from me. The click his claw-like nails made as they came into contact with the plastic made me shiver involuntarily.

"Thank you. Now, what quantity of funds do you wish to transfer?"

I figured that as I hadn't spent anything in the last week I should be fairly wedged. "Three ought to do it."

"Pounds?" asked the creature incredulously.

"Thousand," I corrected. He raised its eyebrows almost imperceptibly before bowing precisely and klacking off into the recesses of the bank.

The rather astonished looks on my new friends' faces suddenly - and for the first time - made me feel rather embarrassed at the amount of money I had at my disposal. Normally I gladly took any excuse to show off, and having a shit-load of cash in your back pocket was quite a good way of doing so. Here, however, it just made me feel awkward.

"I'll explain later," I said rather sheepishly. "What is that thing anyway?"

"A goblin," explained Hermione, quickly recovering from fiscal shock. "Not the most agreeable of creatures, but anally retentive in the extreme."

"Textbook beancounter, then," I smiled.

"Yeah," grinned Harry. "They're also rumored to be rather vicious - no one has ever broken into a Goblin-run bank and made it out alive, never mind stealing anything."

A moment later, Tugloach reappeared. "The transfer is complete, Mr. Blackdon. Here is the key to your vault. Might I add that your considerable assets might be better protected at Gringotts?"

"Considerable?"

Tugloach handed me a sheaf of folded parchment. I took it and read the bottom of the ledger. An eight-figure sum was double-underlined.

"I think there must've been some kind of mistake," I started, but Tugloach bristled menacingly.

"I assure you, Mr. Blackdon, there is no mistake. Gringotts' Wizarding Bank does not make mistakes."

"But according to this I've got..."

Tugloach cleared his throat. "As I said, Mr. Blackdon: Perhaps your CONSIDERABLE assets might be better protected at Gringotts."

My blood ran cold. I remembered as if it was no longer ago than yesterday the conversation my Father had had with me when I was thirteen:

"Liam - now I don't care what I might have said or done in the past, but you are - like it or not - my son. As such, you are my sole beneficiary should the worst happen. Your bloody mother can forget about getting her claws on my cash and as far as she knows there ain't a whole lot of it. But what she don't know can't hurt her," he chuckled, winking at me.

"Also, the bastard Inland Revenue doesn't know about the most of it and I intend to keep it that way. To keep the money where it is now, I need to contact the entity that's acting as a holding company at least once every three days. If that doesn't happen, the money gets wired straight to you. If you find that you're a lot better off than you normally are, it is IMPERATIVE that you move that cash into another account - the more obscure the better. D'you understand?"

At that stage I could only nod and was more than mildly disinterested, but now those words rang clear in my and and made me feel sick to my stomach. There wasn't anything in the world dear old Dad loved more than his hidden fortune that he'd amassed via a range of varied and no doubt nefarious means, and he wouldn't let it go to me without a damn good reason.

"Uh - Mr. Tugloach, please could you transfer the remainder of the balance to this bank?"

Tugloach smiled. At least I decided to interpret it as a smile as any other potential interpretations were just plain scary.

"Of course, Mr. Blackdon."

"And may I withdraw some cash as well?"

"Of course. What value and in what denomination?"

"Uh - a couple of hundred quids' worth in whatever you think most useful," I rambled.

Tugloach nodded once more and vanished into the bowels of the bank.

"Liam? What's wrong?" asked Harry, concerned at my sudden blanching.

"I need a drink."

==========

Dumbledore still sat in his chair, infuriated at himself for not being able to think himself out of the situation he found himself in. He had totally lost track of time due to the lack of windows in his prison and was becoming more and more aware of the oppression of the wards placed around him.

Just as he started to run over the scenario in his head for the umpteenth time, he heard a key in a door, followed by a shaft of light streaking across the room as it was opened. Dumbledore squinted into the light and saw a silhouette of a hooded figure standing in the doorway.

A gentle yet sickening cackle reached Dumbledore's ears, gradually building in volume. As Voldemort's obvious pleasure at having managed to incarcerate Dumbledore subsided a little, he entered the room.

"My my," the reedy, sibilant voice croaked out. "Is this the great Albus Dumbledore I see before me?"

Dumbledore bristled slightly, but did not dignify Voldemort with a response.

"I see that Wormtail has been lacking in catering for such a prestigious guest as yourself," he continued, unabated. "I must apologise for him - he is unused to catering for visitors of such stature."

Voldemort waved his wand around the room and the six or so gas lamps, dormant until now, spluttered into life. He then walked over to the opposing chair to Dumbledore, now bathed in a deep amber glow from the lamps, and began to sit down.

"Where is Mr. Creevy?"

"The boy? He is safe. For the moment at least."

"Why am I here, Tom?" asked Dumbledore in is perpetually calm, collected voice, peering at the old student over his glasses that he had once considered most promising.

Voldemort paused slightly as he sat before relaxing into the chair totally.

"Tom Riddle died a long time ago, old man, as should have you." he spat.

"Oh come now, Tom," said the Headmaster, a slight glint returning to his now unusually dull eyes. "He is as much a part of you now as he ever was. Now, why am I here?"

Voldemort chuckled a hollow, sadistic laugh. "You underwhelm me, Dumbledore. Surely your perpetually irritating network of informants has managed to gather enough information to give you some clue."

"I prefer not to speculate, Tom - to do so only aggravates fear, uncertainty and doubt - all traits I try to avoid and yet which you, it seems, have embraced whole-heartedly. The Dark is few in number and waning even now. You will fail, sooner or later..."

"The Dark is more than a name," hissed Voldemort with extreme force from beneath his cloak. He paused for a moment to compose himself. "Surely, Dumbledore, a wizard of your great experience can feel it - the unrest, the irritability, the wrongness encroaching upon this country? It surrounds us like a black tide, gently lapping at the ankles of the innocent souls in this land. The Dark Is Rising, Dumbledore, and there is precious little you - or your students for that matter - can do to stop it. The Dark is older than both of us and it yearns for its rightful omnipotence. And as for it waning? I hardly think so. The Dark is Rising this winter, Dumbledore, as it has risen in ages past. It is not me the world should fear - oh no - it is what I represent..."

Dumbledore sighed. "I have to admit that you are correct in that the Dark has Risen in the past, however you seem to forget that at each Rising the Light also rises to meet it. It has always been defeated and ever more shall be so."

Voldemort cackled once more. "The Six are yet to meet and the Circle is yet to be initiated, Dumbledore. The Signs are scattered throughout the land and there is no Orchestrator in sight. The Light is in disarray and time is running out. You will not succeed this time."

"You think I am the Orchestrator?" smiled Dumbledore. Voldemort seemed to stiffen slightly. "I am truly flattered, Tom, however I am not and never shall be the one. That burden still rests upon the shoulders of another much older and wiser than I."

Voldemort considered this for a moment before standing.

"If that is so, then I have no use for you. AVADA KEDAV..."

The door burst open as Wormtail stumbled through it, holding Colin in a headlock. The half-cast curse of Voldemort's struck Dumbledore square in the chest, sending him and his chair flying backwards and crashing into the wall with horrific force.

"NO!" yelled Colin, twisting himself out of Wormtail's grip. He ran over to the far side of the room where Dumbledore was slumped. To his amazement, the headmaster was still breathing: Unconscious, but alive.

"What is the meaning of this?" roared Voldemort, causing Wormtail to cower in front of his master.

Wormtail tried to construct an explanation, but the best he could muster was a pathetic whimper.

"You tread a very fine line, Wormtail," Lord Voldemort hissed, closing his bony fingers round Wormtail's neck and squeezing until he could hardly breathe. "First you excel yourself by bringing me Albus Dumbledore, and then you manage to do something like this..."

"I... I'm sorry my lord," croaked Wormtail between inhibited gasps.

"You will receive a reprieve this time. You will not live to receive a second."

Voldemort dragged Wormtail out of the room, leaving Colin sobbing over the motionless form of Albus Dumbledore.

==========

It was a particularly grey day in Surrey and, despite the lack of snow in previous years, Will Stanton found himself looking out of his bedroom window at a white carpet stretching as far as he could see in any direction. In fact, it was still snowing - generous white flakes falling lazily to the ground, occasionally being whisked and flurried by the odd gust of wind.

The sky, whilst being an ominous grey, was offset somewhat by the blanket of intense white, giving a rather false impression of brightness when in fact it was rather dingy and murky.

School was nearly over, making way for the Christmas holidays - and not a moment too soon in Will's opinion. Gazing down at the quite immense amount of snow that had fallen overnight, he surmised - correctly - that the holidays would be starting sooner rather than later.

Either way, today was a Saturday so school didn't even come close to being on the agenda. He dragged on a jumper and jeans and trotted down the twisty, narrow stairs into the large, low-ceilinged kitchen. As he pushed the heavy oak door open, the smell of frying bacon and eggs hit him. The noise of the frying combined with the chattering of the rest of the family and the small, tinny transistor radio that was squeaking out Christmas carols to the best of its limited ability made for a raucous but happy scene.

"My God - it's awake!" grinned his eldest brother, Jim, from across the table. Will was mid-yawn and rubbing an eye with the back of his hand. He exhaled quickly in amusement and smiled at his sibling. It wasn't often Will got to see Jim as he was in the Navy and hence usually posted at some obscure location around the globe, but this year he'd managed to get leave to stay home over Christmas.

"Would someone turn that radio down? I can barely hear myself think!" exclaimed Will's mum as she prodded bacon and sausages around the frying pan with a spatula.

Will practically had to mountaineer his way over dogs, cats, siblings, furniture and family to get to a seat at the kitchen table. As he was passing the little radio, it let out a huge burst of static that both made will jump and the rest of the assembled family complain loudly. What's more, the cats made themselves scarce rather quickly and their two dogs, usually pleased to see him, raised their hackles and backed away.

"Will someone PLEASE TURN THAT BLOODY THING DOWN!" yelled Mrs. Stanton in exasperation as the sausages spat hot cooking oil at her hands.

"Where's dad?" Will asked Jim as he helped himself to a round of toast from the rack in the middle of the table.

"He's out frowning at the drive - I think we're all being roped in to help clear it in a bit."

"That's hardly fair, now, is it? I mean the first Christmas you're back here in..."

"Six years,"

"Six years and he's getting you to shovel snow?" Complained Will as he poured himself a glass of orange juice from the jug on the table.

Jim chuckled at his youngest brother and tousled his unruly mop of dirty-blond hair. "I don't mind - it's just nice to be home for a bit."

"So - what have you been up to? How's school going?"

"OK I s'pose," sighed Will. He wasn't an academic per-se, but did well enough to tantalise his teachers with his potential and then repeatedly confound them through 'repetitive under-performance', according to his end-of-term reports.

Jim leaned towards him and lowered his voice slightly. "Got a girlfriend yet?"

Will snorted the mouthful of orange juice back into his glass. "N... No, not yet," he coughed, causing Jim to laugh.

"Yeah, right," he kidded.

"No, really!" exclaimed Will looking rather exasperated.

Jim just nodded with a wry smile on his face.

"Honest!"

Thankfully, Mr. Stanton broke the moment by storming through the back door looking like a yeti. He was wearing a heavy sheepskin coat that had quite obviously seen better days (even the patches had patches) and was covered head to toe in snow.

Much to Mrs. Stanton's disapproval he stamped around vigorously on the door mat, shaking the majority of snow from himself onto the floor.

"Morning all," he grinned as he unwrapped himself from the multitude of scarves, hats, gloves and such with which his wife had lovingly mummified him. "It's quite something out there this morning. Feels too cold for snow, and yet it's still falling."

"I've never understood that," frowned Luke, one of a pair of twins and second eldest in the clan. "I mean, it's frozen water..."

"Did you hear the weather report at all today, Dad?" asked Paul, the second youngest brother, between bites of his toast and marmalade.

"Yeah - the Met. Office don't know where it came from, but as far as they can tell it's here to stay for a while yet."

"So you think we'll get a white Christmas?"

"At this rate I don't see how we can't..."

"Cool!"

"I can't remember ever having a white Christmas," mulled Will.

"You did, but you were only a baby," smiled his Mum as she placed a plate fully loaded with a full English breakfast in front of himself and Jim.

"Yeah, I remember that - I think I was thirteen and a seem to remember giving Chris a right pasting!"

Chris poked his head out from behind the IT journal in which he was engrossed. "Huh?"

"S'alright - go back to sleep, Chris,"

"'K"

"And Merry phoned yesterday - he's going to be staying with us for a while."

"Great Uncle Merry?" spluttered Will, breakfast now seeming rather inconsequential.

"Mmm hmm," nodded Mr. Stanton, now fully de-scarved and able to move his limbs more than ten degrees in any direction.

Merriman Lyon wasn't actually related to the Stantons, but somehow he'd always seemed to "just be there". Even Mr. Stanton couldn't clearly recall when he'd first met Merry or even how they'd met, only that he was a good friend and always gave accurate, insightful, sage-like advice.

When he was around, that is: He often vanished and would subsequently be out of contact for extended periods of time. Then, just as if nothing had happened, he'd invariably appear on their doorstep, beaming down his hawk-like nose at them benevolently and brandishing some exotic presents or other trinkets he'd picked up on his travels for various members of the family.

Although superficially it would appear that he lavished attention upon each of the Stanton children equally, he always seemed that little bit more interested in the things Will had to tell him, and any gifts he gave to Will always had a slightly more involved story behind them than did the others.

Either way, Merriman was a firm favourite with the Stanton family as a whole. Although he was without a doubt the most eccentric person any of them had the pleasure of knowing, they easily overlooked this fact due to the immense amusement and intrigue he provided whenever he graced them with his presence.

"He reckons he'll be here for a couple of weeks at least," continued Mr. Stanton, squeezing himself into a place at the already crowded table.

Mrs. Stanton frowned at her husband in a 'why didn't you tell me this earlier?' kind of way before continuing to distribute breakfast to her offspring.

"Where's he been this time?" asked Will.

"He wasn't particularly specific, although he did mention the term 'safari', so I'd imagine somewhere warm."

"What does he actually do?" asked Paul. "I mean, does anyone really know?"

"I think he's supposed to be a professor of some kind - he does all this travelling for research purposes, I think."

"And what on earth could he possibly be researching?"

"Knowing Merry it'd be something like migration habits of the lesser-striped wombat. You know what he's like."

And with that - as it always did wherever Merriman was concerned - the conversation seemed to steer away from what he was actually up to and concentrate just on the fact that it would just be good to see him again.

Thanks to the ten years that separated the six Stanton boys, the topics of conversation were always disparate and hence never short on material. Arguments, though frequent, were nearly all amiable in nature.

The discussion at breakfast that day regarded sleeping arrangements: Although their house wasn't exactly small, it was not as large as it might have been and with Jim, Chris, John and Luke, Paul and Will all home simultaneously, it left precious little room for visitors.

Jim, having handed his room over to Will (much to Paul's disgust) when he left for the Navy, found himself sleeping on a camp bed in his old room along with his little brother. It was decided that Paul would have to move in with Chris for the duration of Merry's stay so that Merriman could use Paul's room.

Paul, after expressing rather vocally that he always seemed to be the one that had to move around when anyone stayed, was soon reprimanded by his Mother. Grudgingly, he admitted that it was the most logical move and, after all, didn't Merry deserve somewhere better to sleep than on the couch?

Somehow all arguments were settled and feeding themselves took priority over sleeping arrangements.

After breakfast, Mr. Stanton cajoled his collective offspring to don hats, gloves, scarves and wellington boots and head out into the snow to try and keep the driveway clear. The Council had seen fit to send a snow plough down Old Bakery Road late last night, but the incessant snow had rendered that single, isolated pass it had made totally pointless. Paul had tried to point out that there was little - if any - point in keeping the driveway clear if there was nowhere to drive to, but such was the comradery between the Stanton brothers at that point that he was simply pelted with snowballs and ignored.

A half hour later they'd made an almost totally clear pathway from around the side of the house down to the road itself, only to hear a rather lonely sounding shovel from the driveway diagonally opposite the Stantons'. Their own conversation died down as their ears strained to hear where it was coming from, the eerie deadening of sound created by the heavy snowfall providing a caricature of every noise they heard.

The area they lived in was rather sparsely populated, the nearest house being about thirty meters further up the road with the massive Greythorn Manor being another half-mile or so further up.

"Is that Mrs. Pettigrew?" asked Jim, leaning on his shovel.

"It must be," replied Mr. Stanton. "What the devil she's doing out in this weather I'll never know - she'll catch her death of cold. Jim, Will - will you two go and see if she's OK?"

"No probs," smiled Jim.

"And stay together."

"We're only nipping up the road, Dad!" exclaimed Will.

"I know, but the weather's doing some very odd things - it almost seems to be snowing even heavier now than before."

"We'll be careful, Dad," smiled Jim. "C'mon, scruff," he winked at Will, and they trudged off up the road towards old Mrs. Pettigrew's.

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