Roll for Initiative

Milo stared up at the dark, dank masonry ceiling, following the patterns of the stone above him, shaking his head in disgust — something he regretted instantly as his vision swam blurrily. At some point —he couldn't remember when, which, all things considered, was concerning —he'd been searched for anything even vaguely magical-looking. His Belt of Hidden Pouches, his Amulet of Protection From Evil, his anti-vampire paraphernalia, and, amusingly enough, his wand were all missing.

All that left him with were his magic robes, 'Headband' of Intellect, and Arcanist's Gloves, and whatever spells he still had memorized — which was to say, most of his best stuff.

Except for his spellbook, which, if he didn't get it back soon, would leave him only capable of preparing the 0th-level spell Read Magic and... Milo frowned.

He felt oddly like there were a pair of other spells he should know already but somehow... didn't. Like something was missing. He dismissed the notion that he'd been memory charmed; the now-familiar feeling he had could only mean one thing: he'd levelled up.

Must have happened when I disarmed Quirrell, Milo mused. Even including the steep XP reduction for nonlethal combat, the Defence Professor had given him more than enough to level up.

"Parchment," Milo said suddenly. "I need parchment now."

When a Wizard increases in level, they learn two new spells for free. This is supposed to be an instantaneous thing — in fact, it is generally assumed that the spells learned were from ongoing research the Wizard was doing before levelling. This doesn't change the fact that if a Wizard goes through an incredibly violent day and, say, increases in level three times — an unusual, but not impossible feat — he can somehow perform months of spell research, not in the space of that one day, but in the weeks leading up to it.

Right that moment, Milo's brain was packed full of roughly three hundred and thirty-six hours of retroactive potential spell research. The fact that this was blatantly impossible didn't mean that it wasn't happening.

His hands twitched. His head felt like it might well explode if he didn't get these spells on paper soon. Looking around the dimly lit room — a single flickering lamp provided what could generously be called light — he noticed that his considerate hosts had failed to furnish his cell with a stationary kit.

Milo rolled up the left sleeve of his magically-augmented Hogwarts uniform, cursing like a level 10 Half-Orc Dread Pirate.

"I can't believe I'm reduced to this," he muttered (after heavy censorship, that is). Little-used rules allow a Wizard's forearm and upper arm to be used as three pages of spellbook each — more than enough for his purposes. The long-term thinker in him was screaming in protest at the wastefulness, both in terms of time and money, of his plans, but cold pragmatism ruled here: he still had all of his 3rd-level spell slots filled, but he'd used the lion's share of his 1st- and 2nd-level spells in the battle with the Acromantulas (or was it Acromantulae? Milo could never tell).

He had his paper analogue, but he still needed ink. With one last, choice curse (it was Orc, and it wouldn't translate, so don't ask) he bit deeply into the skin of his right index finger.

How long had he been unconscious? Eight hours? More? Wincing with pain, he frantically scrawled the mystic words of power that were the keys to Benign Transposition and Shatter on his arm. The blood ran and spread, but it would do for now. It would have to.

As for his feat... Craft Magic Weapons and Armour was all but useless to him for now, but he'd need it, soon. He could always retrain it later.

Some time later — how long, Milo wasn't sure in the dark — he heard footsteps, ringing out loudly on the cold stone floor. He quickly doused the nearby lamp and turned to face the door, Readying himself.

The doorknob turned slowly, and eventually, the heavy wooden door opened. A masked, robed figure who Milo recognized by his stature as either Crabbe or Goyle senior entered, his wand out and its tip glowing.

"Shatter." A thunderously loud ring erupted from the thin wooden stick as if a heavily optimized Hulking Hurler had thrown a boulder at a gong the size of a small barn. The light went out as the wand fragmented into splinters, leaving the two of them in near-total darkness.

In most circumstances, a young boy trapped in a dark room with a grown man built along the same lines as the USS Iowa would hardly be thought to have the advantage.

This was not most circumstances.

"Silent Image." The words were barely more than the ghost of a whisper, but in the hands of a Wizard, whispered words could be more dangerous than a rampaging Wyrm.

What Crabbe (or Goyle?) Senior saw made the illusions Milo had used on Peeves and Ollivander look like a toddler's crayon drawing.

After a moment, the man screamed.

"Take it away," he whimpered through the mask. "Please, just — just take it away."

"It's out of my hands," Milo lied. "I brought them, but they'll only leave when they're... appeased. You wouldn't want to know what they eat." Goyle (or Crabbe?) made an incoherent wordless sound. "Although..."

Milo would have bet his spellbook that, had he possessed darkvision — and had the Death Eater not been wearing a mask — he would have seen a manic glimmer of hope in the man's eyes.

"I suppose there's another way. I might be able to... intercede, on your behalf, if I had reason to."

"Yes! Anything!" An interesting quirk of the way Illusions work is that the only way to determine their true nature without magic (or by having them pointed out) is to succeed on a Will Saving Throw. A viewer is only allowed a Save against Illusions after either physical interaction or by studying them carefully. Milo doubted Crabbe (or Goyle) was blessed with a high Will save bonus, but even a 1st-level Commoner could roll a twenty. So long as Milo kept the image from actually touching the Death Eater — and kept him distracted — then Bigby himself couldn't tell the difference. In short: Illusions are like movie monsters. With a little care, even the staunchest audience will believe in them completely — until they appear on screen in clear lighting.

"Tell me where I am, where my gear was taken, and why I was brought here."

"You're in M-M-Malfoy's M-Manor." Milo was reminded briefly of the treacherous Defence Professor's stammer. "Y-your w-wand is in a st-storeroom down the hall, and you're here for the Ritual." Something about the way he said it implied a Capital Letter.

"One last thing. Give me the key."

"Key?" Of course, he thought. Wizards here wouldn't use keys; they'd just use Alohomora to open locks — and Colloportus to close them again. Great. Now what do I do with him? Seeing as how he was without his standard-issue fifty feet of hemp rope — a cardinal sin among Adventurers — and he couldn't just lock his captive in the room, he was in something of a dilemma. Eh, what the Hells. He could sit here moralizing over what to do with captured enemies, or he could act and hope for the best. "Don't even think about moving, or I'll let them have you." Without bothering to wait for a response, he walked over to the Death Eater and tore off strips of the man's robes to bind his arms and legs. Milo didn't have any Skill Ranks in Use Rope (because, seriously, who trains Use Rope?) but he hoped his crude knots would do. As an afterthought, he shoved the horrid mask into the man's mouth as a gag. Milo turned to leave, but paused in the doorframe. "I put a Contingent Curse on those knots," he said simply. "If they ever come undone, you'll die."

A Silent Image could last as long as Milo concentrated, so he changed the Illusion from the writhing mass of Indescribably Awful Unspeakable Horrors to a tiny, dull grey ball that orbited his wrist slowly. Normally, he wouldn't bother going through such measures to save spells, but without his Spellbook, they were going at something of a premium.

Closing the heavy door behind him, Milo stepped out into a dimly lit hallway. He was somewhat surprised to find it free of guards, but it made a sort of sense — this mad society was entirely populated by wizards, and wizards, by-and-large, had better things to do than guard prisoners. Not that a couple of low-level Muggles with pointy sticks could stop him if he really wanted out, if it came to that.

To his right was a narrow, slightly crooked staircase; to his left, a thick door like the one behind him. Didn't take a Genius Loci to figure out which way led to the storeroom. The door was, unsurprisingly, locked.

Shatter could destroy any nonmagical object of up to sixty pounds. The thickly Reinforced door weighed well more than that, but, when it came to it, what, exactly, was an object? A door? A plank? certainly. Part of a door? No, that was part of an object. But one of several planks making up a door? If they weren't an object, then neither was the door — by the same logic, the door couldn't be destroyed because it was part of the house, and the house because it was part of the planet.

"Shatter." Regrettably, he had to dismiss his Silent Image. The thick chunk of mahogany connected to the polished brass hinges holding up the door exploded away from Milo's outstretched palm. The rest of the door teetered precariously for a moment before falling to the ground with a deafening clatter that could likely be heard from the top of Mount Celestia. Well, stealth has never been my strong suit in any case. Zook — assuming he was still alive — would be ashamed of him. Are any of them alive? Am I the last one?

Stepping over the ruins of the once-fine door, Milo entered a surprisingly comfortable-feeling ten-by-ten stone room. All it needs now is an orc guarding a chest, he thought wryly. Dusty boxes were scattered about the floor space haphazardly.

"Locate Object — My Belt of Hidden Pouches." Heaving a sigh of relief, he allowed the gentle tug of his Divination to lead him to a box seemingly indistinguishable from the others, the lid of which came off easily. Neatly stored inside were his various magical doodads. Milo was about to reach for them, but hesitated.

This is far too easy, he thought. Overconfidence was pretty well standard-issue among archvillains, but this was ridiculous. They left him — a Wizard — alone in a room? He hadn't even been bound, blindfolded, and gagged (not that any of those would be a guarantee; Still and Silent Spell existed for a reason, after all). And putting his Magic Items in a room right next to his cell was simply insane. Frankly, he should have been executed, looted, and left in a ditch by the road somewhere.

Milo had made too many mistakes by rushing in blindly and ignoring the signs around him. He needed to stop and examine this from every angle before he got himself killed. It was time for an Intelligence Check. Time to Take Twenty, in fact. What did Milo know?

Fact: the Death Eater had said he was needed for a ritual. Presumably, they needed him alive, or they wouldn't have gone through all the effort of capturing him when it would have been much, much easier to kill him before he knew they were attacking him. He reckoned it wasn't unreasonable to assume that this ritual had something to do with the one that had summoned him here in the first place, if only because it was the only other time the words 'ritual' and 'Malfoy Manner' had coincided in this particular story arc. So... what was the goal? To send him back? Somehow, Milo doubted that a group of villains who could, apparently, 'eat death' would take pains to see him home safely.

Fact: Lucius had taken grossly inadequate measures to keep him imprisoned once captured. This either implied a serious lack of knowledge about Milo's magical capabilities — something he doubted Lucius had, seeing as how Snape, presumably acting on Lucius's orders, had nearly had Milo thrown out of Hogwarts by exploiting the differences in their respective magical abilities — or that he wanted Milo to escape. But that was stupidity. Why capture Milo only to give him what amounted to a key, a bagged lunch, and a map out of his cell? Was Lucius looking for some sort of climactic showdown? Surely not. Milo knew little of Voldemort's lieutenant, but among the list of things he did know, 'self-destructive flair for dramatics' was conspicuously absent.

Fact: all of Lucius's actions known against Milo to date had been with the end goal of capturing him alive. To do that, Milo would need to be taken outside of the grounds, where the faculty and wards would be unable to protect him.

"None of this answers the question of how I escaped so easily," Milo muttered. Maybe... could he have had help from inside Lucius's camp? It was far too tenuous to be listed among his 'facts' (many of which, Milo was sure, were tenuous enough to make any respectable logician shudder), yet it seemed the only reasonable conclusion. The only other reason Milo could think of would be some sort of trap, but he couldn't see any reason for the Lucius and the Death Eaters (a part of Milo's brain idly noted that 'Lucius and the Death Eaters' sounded like the name for a group of travelling Chaotic Evil Bards) to lay a trap for him while he was unconscious and in their hands.

If the good guys really had a mole, he had to be someone with enough decision-making power to oversee the placement of Milo's stuff, but not enough to simply leave it with him in prison. So. One of Lucius's right-hand men was a traitor.

Regardless, the room was unlikely to explode if he touched his Belt, so he suited up.

Fact: when Milo had been Imperiused, his controller had made no effort to order him outside of the Hogwarts grounds. Therefore, Lucius — and by extension, Snape and Draco — had not been responsible for having him Imperiused after Christmas.

Fact: he had, however, been ordered to investigate the Mirror.

Fact: Quirrell was a traitor, yet not in league with Lucius. Thinking back to The Plot, Milo realized he'd made a serious error: he'd assumed that the evil would be monolithic; one giant, shadowy organization out to get him. This was evidently not the case.

Fact: the Philosopher's Stone was obviously hidden on the forbidden third-floor corridor in Hogwarts.

Fact: the day the Troll was released, both Quirrell and Snape had immediately gone to that corridor.

Fact: Quirrell had killed what was at least one of the guardians of the Stone.

Fact: the Philosopher's Stone was one way for Voldemort to return.

Fact: Quirrell had uncharacteristically volunteered to lead the investigation to find whoever was killing unicorns in the Forbidden Forest.

Fact: Unicorn blood was another way for Voldemort to return.

Milo's pulse quickened.

Fact: Milo had been a blind idiot to believe the Troll was responsible for killing the unicorns.

But that wasn't the end of it.

Fact: Milo himself was another way for Voldemort to return.

Fact: Quirrell knew this, and also knew that Milo required more Experience Points to do the same.

Fact: Quirrell had taken an unusual interest in Milo, and had asked several questions about how he levelled up.

What was it the Professor had said? You, Milo, are a prize greater than any Philosopher's Stone.

Milo felt chilled to his spine, and it had nothing to do with temperature.

Conclusion: Quirrell was trying to bring Lord Voldemort back from the dead.

No, wait. That's wrong. He already has unicorn blood.

Conclusion, Revised: Quirrell has already brought Lord Voldemort back from the dead.

Milo's knees turned to jelly, and it wasn't because of the Jelly Legs Hex. His breathing accelerated into a staccato beat of shallow gasps; the edges of his vision began to darken. I told him everything he asked. I may as well have gone up to the Dark Lord Voldemort and handed him a copy of the Rules on a platter.

And he called himself a Wizard. One of the Wise. He wasn't worth his pointy hat. What had he accomplished? He'd as good as told Voldemort — Godsdamned Voldemort — about the secret workings of Arcane Magic and the D20 System. Milo had almost killed one of his best friends. With a dagger. Reality was his plaything, and he'd resorted to throwing a block of sharpened metal.

With effort, he steadied his breathing enough to speak. He felt a sharp, metallic tang of metal in his mouth.

And he called himself an Adventurer. A Hero. An Optimizer.

I dumped Constitution. What kind of Optimizer am I?

"Pazuzu." The walls of the room seemed to distort slightly, but it could have been a trick of the flickering light. The slight tremors could well have been muscle spasms.

"Pazuzu." The lights — what few there were in this basement — went out. He thought he could hear quiet laughter.

"Pa —" He yelped at a sudden, sharp pain in his hand. The light returned as if nothing had happened.

"What the Hells are you doing? Are you trying to get us killed?" The voice was small, but it seemed to fill the whole room. A small, slightly overweight, white-and-brown rat was hanging onto Milo's right hand, his fingernails dug into the fine fabric of Milo's Arcanist's Gloves.

"Mordy?" Milo asked in astonishment. "I thought you'd still be in the Forbidden Forest."

"One of the first things a familiar learns is how to disappear when not needed." Mordy took on a dry, lecturing tone. "And when Save-Or-Dies start flying is the first sign a familiar isn't needed. I ducked into my Belt as soon as you got paralyzed."

"I think you mean my belt," Milo said indignantly. "And where do you get off biting me?"

Mordenkainen snorted, a slightly incongruous sound for a rat.

"Look at it this way. What happens to you if I die?"

"I lose a bunch of Experience Points," Milo shuddered.

"And what happens to me if you die?"

Milo frowned.

"I have no idea," he confessed. "I could look it up when we get home —"

"Don't bother," the rat interrupted. "There's no mention of it anywhere. Centuries ago, when the ancestors of modern researches first began testing the laws of the universe to determine the rules, they didn't bother investigating it. That hasn't changed since. Nobody knows what happens to a familiar whose Wizard dies. Let's keep it that way, shall we? I don't fancy waking up as an ordinary rat again. Your fool stunt could have killed us both. Trying to summon a Demon Prince? What were you thinking?"

"Look—"

"My Intelligence is less than half yours — though you wouldn't know by looking — and even I know that's a terrible idea."

"It was the only way—"

"You're True Neutral. He'd have no obligation to enter negotiations with you. Once summoned, he could have gutted you like a fish and gone on to do Gods know what to this Plane."

Milo paused.

"You're right. I'm sorry."

"Did you — did you just admit a mistake?"

"Mistake? I've made nothing but mistakes. Quirrell is working for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Now that he knows I'm on to him, he's probably killing my friends."

"This isn't like you. What's wrong with you?"

"Like you don't already know," Milo said sullenly. "You can read my mind, remember?"

"It's an empathic link, not a telepathic link. Moron." Despite his words, Milo felt a flash of concern through the bond.

"Whatever."

Mordy's expression — such as he had, being a rat — hardened.

"Oh, look at you, summoning Demon Princes and moping and making rules errors. You know what you remind me of?" The familiar's words were positively dripping with contempt — an effect undermined slightly by the emotions drifting through their bond. Worry. Concern. Love.

"Don't say it." But it was hopeless, Milo knew exactly what Mordenkainen was going to say — possibly because, in a manner of speaking, they were two sides of the same person.

"An Apprentice-Level hack NPC, that's what. Are you a set piece, or are you a Player Character?"

"Says the glorified Class Feature."

"Hey, at least this Class Feature knows why he's here."

"And why, pray tell, is that?"

"I'm here because you're here. I'd follow you into Orcus's Throne Room. And, more the fool I am, I'd trust you to get us back out again. But I've only got the Intelligence of an average NPC Half-Orc. Now, what are we going to do?"

"You know, you suck at giving pep talks."

"I work with what I'm given. We share Skill Ranks, and it's hardly my fault if you find better uses for them than Perform (Orator). Now. What are we going to do?"

Milo paused, his mind racing.

"We're going to find Quirrell and stop him. But to do that, we're going to need to get out of this manor. Again."

"And why are we going to do that?" Mordenkainen pressed.

"Because..." Images flashed into Milo's head. Images of Voldemort, all cloaked in black with glowing red eyes, torturing Harry and Ron and Hermione. And... and Hannah. "Because..." Of Voldemort, walking unopposed into the Potters' house eleven years ago and murdering Harry's parents. Of him committing acts so foul that, not only did nobody mention them to this day, but that caused fully trained, battle-hardened wizards to fear to even speak his name. Quirrell wanted to unleash him again on this absurd, pathetic, broken, confused, third-party, inconsistent, beautiful Plane. "Because he'll hurt my friends. Because it's the right thing to do." It should have felt more profound, more impressive, changing one's alignment. Milo felt vaguely cheated.

"Go forth and kick ass, my master."

o—o—o—o

It was the smell, of all things, that first clued Macnair in that something was awry. It started faint, and he simply ignored it. In a few seconds, it became overpowering. A dank, musty, earthy scent which reminded him of a crypt. Frowning beneath his mask, the executioner drew his wand and stuck his head into the hallway to see what was going on. Snape, relaying Malfoy's orders, had told him to keep an eye on the corridor while the others prepared for the Ritual. The oily Potions Master had been very specific; Macnair was to stand just out of sight of Crabbe. He said it was to optimize sightlines, whatever that meant.

A rat scurried between his feet — this was unusual; Dobby would likely be punished severely for his negligence — but, otherwise, there seemed nothing unusual.

"Goyle?" Macnair called out softly. Crabbe had been sent to Stun the prisoner again in case he came close to waking, but Crabbe should have been just around the corner. Idiot must have wandered off. He was about to return to his post when he noticed, just in sight at the end of the hall, what looked like a pair of feet sticking around the corner. With a sudden lurch, they were gone.

"What the H—"

"Benign Transposition." Macnair heard a tiny crack, like a mouse Disapparating, and suddenly the crypt smell was strong enough to make him want to gag. Macnair whirled, and found himself face-to-face with a walking, waking, nightmare. Empty sockets in a huge, misshapen skull stared at him, its jaw grinning grotesquely. The... thing, whatever it was, had to hunch over to fit in the cavernous hallways of Malfoy's manor, and its disproportionately long, skeletal arms ended in sharp, serrated claws. Bleached bone thudded against the polished mahogany wood as it walked calmly towards him. Macnair didn't know what it was, and wasn't about to wait to find out.

"Avada Kedavra!" A green bolt of hate-fuelled death flew at the monster and exploded harmlessly on its ribcage. Macnair stared at it in absolute amazement. "Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra!" Again and again, he fired the most powerful spell he knew, the spell that killed without fail, but the abomination simply ignored him and maintained its sedate pace.

With sudden, lightning speed belying its utter lack of visible musculature, the nightmare leapt. Briefly there was pain, and then darkness.

o—o—o—o

"Shatter." The aged, expensive, polished, exquisitely-crafted wooden door fell inwards, revealing a familiar dining room.

Lucius Malfoy stared at Milo in utter astonishment for a split second, but quickly schooled his face to calmness.

"So," the elder Malfoy said. "I see you've bested Crabbe and Goyle. No more than I'd expected. I suppose you wonder why we've brought you here?"

"Some," Milo said neutrally. There were twelve other Death Eaters in the room, all anonymous beneath their masks. One of them, at least, was probably a mole; the rest could be anyone. Despite his promise to never jump through a window again, he figured his best way out was the same as last time. This time, however, he could summon Skeletal Trolls — being mindless and Undead, they were immune to all three of the Unforgivable Curses, and, for some reason, Summon Undead III was Conjuration (as opposed to Necromancy, one of Milo's forbidden schools) so he could cast it without problem.

"Well, I think you will find that, if you will but listen for a moment, our aims are much the same," Lucius explained. Despite himself, Milo was intrigued.

"Go on," he said skeptically. If worse came to worst, he could always fight his way out.

"You were brought here quite by accident," Lucius said, "and — I swear this by the Most Noble and Ancient House of Malfoy — we are preparing a ritual that will send you back."

Milo gaped with genuine astonishment. This was completely out of left field.

"You do realize that I'm not naturally predisposed to trust someone wearing a skull mask, right?"

"What, these?" Lucius pulled off his mask, revealing his long, platinum blond hair and politely smiling face.

"And this... this ritual of yours," Milo said, "it won't, by any chance, return me home dead or horribly dismembered?"

"Not to my knowledge, no. So, what say you?"

"I... have to ask. Why?"

"The ritual we... mistakenly used to bring you here cost us something," he said reluctantly, "something which can only be regained if you are returned. It is no concern of yours, however. I'm sure you have your own problems to deal with, where you came from."

Well, there was the matter of resurrecting his almost-certainly-dead teammates...

It was tempting. It was really, really tempting. He could go home, back to a world that ran on sensible, predictable rules, a world where he didn't have to re-invent the wheel every time he wanted to learn a new spell, a world where not every single citizen had access to At-Will No Save Death Spells. He could see his home; Myra, City of Light! City of Magic! more than lived up to its name. He could show Thamior the Unimaginably Horrid who was boss. He could fight Orcs again. Gods, I miss fighting Orcs. And yet...

"Sorry," Milo said finally. "I still have work to do."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Things would go... easier, for both of us, if you were alive for the ritual, but, alas..."

Milo could practically feel the Initiative Die rolling in his head as he unleashed his Readied Action.