The ritual

The dragon's carcass lay at the centre of the chamber, its scales gleaming dully in the torchlight.

Harry had reversed the shirking charm placed on the body and now stood before the massive creature, its true size restored.

Harry walked near the once magnificent beast and ran his hand along the beast's cold scales, feeling the magic that still clung to its form.

"Incredible," Harry murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harry's thoughts drifted to his first meeting with the dragon and how scared he'd been.

However, by the time the first task came, he decided to face the dreadful beast in battle…

And somehow, against all odds, Harry managed to emerge victorious through that fight.

'To kill. Kill,' he suddenly remembered his mad rumblings during that day; he hadn't been all there.

That single hour continued to plague his life even now.

Sometimes at night, he'd wake up screaming and sobbing, thrashing as if he was engulfed in flames.

The first time it happened while he shared a bed with Fleur was particularly bad…

.

Fleur was soundlessly sleeping on her bed, her silvery hair spread across the pillow like a halo.

Her long slender legs were tangled with another pair.

It was quite a beautiful sight.

Suddenly, a violent tremor wracked Harry's body, sweat beading on his forehead.

His eyes darted wildly beneath his closed lids.

A strangled cry escaped his lips, startling Fleur awake.

"Whaz 'appening?" she murmured tiredly, turning to look at her companion.

Her eyes widened as she saw Harry thrashing about, his face contorted in anguish.

She immediately sobered up and without hesitation reached out to him.

However, her touch didn't have the desired effect; Harry jerked away from it

"Harry, mon chéri, wake up. It's just a dream," Fleur cooed, gently trying to stroke his arm.

His eyes fluttered open, confusion and fear evident in his deep emerald ponds.

Harry's breath came in ragged gasps.

For a moment, he stared at Fleur in confusion, his mind still caught between the nightmare and reality.

Then, recognition dawned in his eyes and Fleur's concerned face swam into view, her silvery hair catching the moonlight that filtered through the window.

He collapsed into her arms, his body shaking.

"F-Fleur?" he whispered hoarsely, his voice trembling.

"I'm here, mon amour," Fleur reassured him, pulling him close.

"You're safe now. It was just a nightmare."

Fleur held him tightly, her fingers gently running through his hair as she murmured soothing words in French.

.

'That can't have been fun for her,' Harry thought, a pang of guilt washing over him.

He knew his nightmares were intense, but didn't know just how intense before that incident.

Not wanting his episodes to strain their relationship, Harry found a way for his occlumency shields to block out the most traumatic memories during sleep.

It wasn't a perfect solution, but it significantly reduced the frequency and intensity of his nightmares and had to do for now.

It also wasn't healthy, and that's why Harry tried to find a better way to cope with his trauma.

He had briefly wondered if there was such a thing as Mind Healers but didn't pursue the idea much further.

'I totally forgot about that. I should ask around and try to learn if there are any of them in Britain. Hermione could be a starting point,' Harry noted to himself.

The wizarding world, for all its wonders, was woefully behind in some matters…

Shaking his head, the boy's gaze focused on the body that lay in front of him.

"Ozeth, The Black Dread," Harry said with steel in his voice, recalling the dragon's name.

"Your sin was your arrogance, and you paid for it with your life. May you rest in peace and find a semblance of peace in your next life," Harry murmured, his voice tinged with a mix of respect.

The dragon had been a fearsome creature and had Harry not had so much help from outside sources, he'd have died a terrible death.

'It's time to start the ritual though,' he mused as he cast a tempus charm.

The glowing numbers in the air showed it was almost midnight.

Harry surveyed the chamber, noting that all the preparations were in place.

Intricate runes adorned the chamber's stone floor, drawn not only with his blood but whatever venom Harry could harvest from the late Asmodeus and Fawkes' tears.

Those lines were probably of the most powerful ones ever drawn.

Sadly, most of their meaning was imperceptible to Harry.

He had studied them extensively, not because he doubted Salazar's ability, but for the learning experience. Despite his efforts though, most of their meaning remained a mystery.

The runes formed a 7-point star, with the dragon's body at its centre.

Each point of the star corresponded to a different sacrifice Harry was going to make.

Harry at least knew that this intricate design was what allowed for the ritual's success.

The meticulousness required to conduct the ritual baffled him.

For example, the blood taken from his body, the old venom and the tears, were precise down to their last millilitres.

Salazar had also taken into account the time that passed from the basilisk's death, Harry's harvest of blood and the potency of stored phoenix tears.

In addition, the lines weren't simple strokes of the magical mix, but words.

Countless words in as many languages, each carefully chosen and seemingly placed at random at the same time.

The languages ranged from ancient Sumerian to modern English, with countless others in between.

Harry marvelled at the sheer complexity of it all.

With a final glance at the intricate runic array, he stepped towards the first point of the star.

"Alright," Harry muttered and took a deep breath, centring his mind with the natural grace of a master occlumens.

He started by breaking the restrictions he placed upon his magic when he underwent the first part of the ritual.

During the first three weeks of December, Harry had followed Salazar's modified animagus ritual.

The preparations, unlike the traditional ones, didn't reveal his animagus form but forced a new one in place.

That had the consequence of Harry's magic growing wilder by the day as it tried to resist the unnatural changes.

It was right to do so because the magical discharge of a profound change such as becoming part dragon would have no doubt killed him in a most gruesome way.

'That wouldn't have been much fun,' Harry thought wryly and dismissed that line of thought.

The three days following the magical buildup were mostly spent in meditation and careful magical exercises designed to prepare his body for the impending transformation.

Harry had adhered strictly to Salazar's instructions, knowing that even the slightest deviation would probably result in catastrophic consequences.

That's how after three long weeks and three days, Harry found himself standing at the first point of the runic star.

He could feel his magic thrumming beneath his skin as if it knew it was about to be unleashed.

Casting a quick tempus again, Harry noted the time.

11:35 PM.

In one minute, he'd have to start the ritual.

"Verius tempus," Harry intoned and magical numbers shimmered in the air before him, this time counting down the seconds as well.

As the final minute ticked away, Harry's heart raced.

He took a deep breath.

This was it - there was no backing down now.

'Who am I kidding? I wasn't born with the choice of backing down,' Harry thought with a dark smile.

His destiny had been set in motion before he was even born…

As the countdown reached its final seconds, Harry steeled himself.

The air around him began to crackle with magical energy as the grasp of his magic dwindled.

Taking one last breath, the boy who lived opened his mouth.

"Mother Earth, womb of life's grand tapestry. I stand before you, humble and aglow. Heed my call, as I offer my essence, a mortal's prize," Harry intoned and with trembling fingers, grabbed a dagger from his pocket.

Clenching his teeth, he carefully raised the dagger and touched his upper arm… and sliced.

The blade bit into his flesh as if it were butter and drew a thin line of crimson across his skin.

Harry hissed in pain but didn't flinch.

He watched as his blood welled up and began to drip onto the words inscribed beneath his feet, causing them to glow with an eerie light.

Thankfully, he knew what he was doing and didn't do something as stupid as cutting his brachial artery; he would have bled into unconsciousness within five minutes.

The precise cut he had made would allow him to bleed approximately two litres of blood—enough to complete the ritual while remaining conscious.

Harry felt a weak tremor as the first sacrifice was accepted, and moved towards the next point.

Following life, was death…

"Death… Sovereign of shadows, reaper of souls. I invoke thy presence as my lineage allows. Heed my call, oh timeless one, and claim thy due. What was borrowed must now be returned anew" Harry's voice echoed in the chamber.

As he spoke those words, Harry felt a chill run down his spine.

The air around him seemed to grow colder, much colder than when Dementors were around.

Harry saw his breath misting in the air and shivered.

He felt a presence manifesting in the middle of the room.

It was feeble and flimsy as if it wasn't quite there, and Harry wondered if that was what Death felt like.

He felt his spine bend as the presence grew stronger.

It was unlike anything he had ever experienced before; Ozeth felt like a tiny ant in front of the deity that appeared in front of him.

The air around the chamber thickened as reality itself was bending to accommodate the otherworldly entity.

A dreadful and maddening silence encompassed the room, and Harry felt a gaze directed at him.

He felt as if every single pore of his body was being looked upon and judged, as if his very soul was put on a weighing scale and examined for its worth.

And it probably was…

The weight of Death's presence was unbearable, and he should have buckled down, yet he wasn't allowed even that.

As the moments stretched into what felt like an eternity, Harry wondered if he had been found wanting or if Death would accept his offering.

.

Where are my power stones?

If I get 10 different people to share their thoughts about a fic of Tom Riddle's life before he became the monster known as Voldemort, I'll post the next chapter immediately.

Just answer these 2 questions:

- Would you read a slow story about Tom Riddle rising to power, starting from before his Hogwarts years?

- Do you think I should go completely cannon or not? If not, where do you think I should diverse?

[https://www.patreon.com/Mr_0ne] -> "Ch. 47 - Twin Talks"

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