14

Hearing the door open, Harry looked up from the pile of sketches, books, reference cut-outs and minor knick-knacks on his table. A gaunt figure strolled to him and without warning perched itself on the said wooden object, encrusted with stones similar in appearance to emeralds and liberally decorated with bone motived alabaster ingots.

"You look like shit," the visitor told him bluntly. Harry smirked at the admission, knowing from the numbness of his face that the bags under his eyes could rival the sea over the Mariana Trench in the colour department.

"It seemed like it was a job requirement. Have you recently used a mirror?" was the dry retort. The visitor shrugged.

"I'm albino, we're pale from birth. What's your excuse?"

"Determination."

"'Determination without proper care for yourself leads you to nowhere', as Master Luen said when looking at the remains of yet another guy who didn't apply all needed precautions when summoning a Bone Man. Even in our dusty, pale, deathly cold society, everyone knows to eat when you have to and rest once in a while."

Chapter 14 – Lurking Menace

The morning of the 5th of November was a chilly, crispy clear one, promising a similarly nice continuation of the day. It looked like there simply couldn't be anything wrong with the world.

That was why Harry felt like someone had sneaked up on him and strangled him with his favourite pants.

He was re-reading an article that sat right on the front page of the Prophet, glaring at everyone who looked at it with the eyes of Harry's photo, taken quite obviously (to him) right before he called out Malfoy for that duel. He was looking rather feral, with his eyes glittering wildly and a manic grin sometimes spreading his lips. The wind that constantly ruffled his already messy hair only added to the image of a guy a couple runes short of an aett.

The article was even worse.

Who is the Boy-Who-Lived?

"The wizarding world was always more than slightly enamoured with the image of the national hero, Harry Potter. He defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named when he was in his crib, and then vanished into the night while all across the islands glasses were raised in his name. Ten years later, he returned to the public eye, taking his place at Hogwarts. He was sorted in Gryffindor, as his parents were, and then it was as if he wasn't there – there were no great feats of magic, no brilliant academic results, and no remarkable achievements that reached the attention of our society. Of course, some know that he was immediately chosen as a Seeker for Gryffindor – the youngest player in Hogwarts in a century – but aside of that, our hero faded away from notice, seemingly content with the lack of attention.

The next thing we know, he is revealed to be a Parselmouth, which was always counted as a mark of a Dark Wizard. Some say that it was an obvious conclusion that the only one who can destroy You-Know-Who was the one who was just as dark. Others laughed it off, declaring it preposterous that a baby could be evil. But... who is right?

Recently, this reporter witnessed herself that Potter indeed is a singularly powerful individual, soundly defeating five peers without being as much as touched by any spell the victims sent. The attack, though not by any means sudden and not resembling an ambush, was seemingly unprovoked.

Knowing this, shouldn't we ask ourselves: just who is Harry Potter?

I am determined to find the truth.

Special Reporter Rita Skeeter

"Damn."

"U-hum," Susan agreed, eating her Harry-made omelette with gusto. When Harry asked her to come with him down to the kitchen in the morning, she was reluctant to agree, but the second she understood that her new boyfriend was capable of cooking on par with (sometimes even better than) the house-elves, she was sold. As soon as she tasted the eggs fried with toasts – heavily modified and featuring a rather hot sauce of Harry's own creation – she firmly declared that she intended to keep Harry around for quite a long time. 'At least until you tell me the recipe', she added slyly. The boy was quite happy to hear that in addition to her sweet tooth, she also was in love with food that was so hot it almost made you look like you drank Firewhisky – something they both shared.

The article was careful, not very decisive, not hanging labels and pointedly lacking any pointing fingers. For someone like Skeeter, it was extremely mild. Despite this, Harry could feel it in his bones that it only marked a start of similar articles, each one sounding worse than its predecessors and culminating in the complete and utter decimation of his reputation.

He clearly saw the plump hand of Umbridge behind this.

"Damn. Shit. I'm screwed if I let it lie."

"Why so?"

He explained.

"Can I just... sue her? Or the Prophet?"

"Won't work. They have very good lawyers. No one ever won a case against them, which is why she still writes," Susan generously applied the sauce to the toast and bit into it. "She's made a career on writing sensational articles that bust big careers."

"Maybe hire some muscle to scare the damn woman?" Harry mused half-jokingly. The girl lifted her eyes from the tea and glared at him, making the boy slightly shrink and raise his hands in an 'I come in peace, please don't eat me' gesture.

"Joking, joking."

"Don't even joke like that," Susan warned him in a Very Serious Voice. "I can laugh about your casual disregard for the school rules and think it fun and roguish, but the law is the law."

"Hey! I'm not that I'm some sort of... of... you know," Harry waved his hands in the air in indignation. "I respect the law. As long as it actually makes sense, I wouldn't just break it without a damn good reason."

"Makes sense?" Susan rose from the table in agitation, forgetting about the breakfast. "Makes sense? It's always about sense!"

Harry shook his head.

"Not in Wizarding Britain, it's not. Here, it's about higher-ups wanting to get some profit."

That deflated the girl instantly.

"Auntie sometimes rants about the corruption in the Ministry," she murmured quietly. "She says it's something that she just can't do anything about except for protecting her department from it to the best of her ability."

Harry shrugged.

"The first things every government loses are decency and common sense. Don't worry too much about it. It's normal."

"But I don't want it to be normal!"

Harry quirked an eyebrow at the passionate outburst.

"Is it your ambition? To make the Law work as it is meant to be?" he asked. After a short hesitation she nodded.

"Yes. Auntie has always wanted to clean the Ministry and its laws from any corruption. Unfortunately, the progressives are few and far in between in the Wizengamot as well as amongst the usual workers."

"Progressives? Do tell."

"Well, it's a movement that calls for the change in our way of life and stopping the constant bribery. It consists mostly of those who view Muggles favourably. Muggleborns, purebloods not affiliated with the other factions."

"Dumbledore?"

"Dumbledore has his own followers. He supports the progressives verbally, but rarely actually does anything. He's much too old to fully embrace the philosophy, though to give credit where it's due, he's amazingly tolerant of us and is one of the only people to actually listen."

"I see," Harry frowned. "What of the other factions?"

"Well, there are the moderates, which mostly consist of opportunists who don't know themselves what they are going to vote for next week. Wild cards who love sitting on the fence, but they are quite numerous. Lastly, there are the Dark traditionalists. I don't think I need to say anything about them."

"Death Eaters and sympathisers, filthy rich, have the Ministry in their collective pocket, inbred and ugly."

"Right in one."

Next day

Surprisingly, no staff members approached Harry about the duel that was spoken about in the article. Snape glared at him with heightened intensity during the dinner and Flitwick was much more demanding than usual during their evening lesson, but that was it.

Harry was really glad that he got away scot-free, even if he regretted the missed opportunity to publicly humiliate Malfoy. Nevertheless, it did not save him from the headache he was feeling now, listening to Luna and Hermione bicker.

Well, it was more like Hermione snapping at Luna, who was still talking in her serene not-quite-there voice.

"And I said that there is literally no evidence whatsoever to support the existence of the creatures you're talking about!"

"Of course there isn't. Crumple-Horned Snorkacks produce a mild Notice-Me-Not effect which makes it very hard to look for them without the needed tools. Daddy made them, and with them he can see Snorkacks."

The bushy-haired girl closed her eyes and silently counted to ten. They had been going at it for ten minutes already, and her patience was running thin.

"Has he ever seen one?" she asked very quietly and very slowly.

"No," was the cheery answer.

"Then what makes you think they exist at all?"

Luna looked at her with eyes that even for her were very large, conveying her state of extreme surprise.

"What makes you think they don't?"

Hermione moaned slightly and sank her face in her hands, muttering something under her breath.

"I can't... lunacy... warped logic..." were the only things that Harry heard when he stood up and dragged the still dismayed and frustrated beyond belief girl away.

When they reached a secluded place, Harry released Hermione and turned to her.

"Hermione, please, pretty, pretty please stop antagonising Luna."

"But Harry, she..."

"No buts. My head won't survive another spat between you two," he started to pace. "I understand that you have a problem with her beliefs..."

"Harry, it's her logic I have a problem with! The lack of such, to be exact!"

"For her, having proof of something isn't required to believe in it. So what?"

The girl sputtered.

"Let's look at what's happening from another perspective, shall we? When you think about, what you're trying to do is to force your views on others. Luna, specifically."

"Force... beliefs?" her mouth kept opening and closing. Harry nodded seriously.

"Yes. For you, one of the defining principles of life is logic. For her, it's faith. It doesn't mean that her views are deficient, or in any way inferior to yours. It's like comparing a thermometer with seismometer as to which is able to determine air pressure better!"

They were silent for some time, each deep in thought. Finally, Hermione nodded grudgingly.

"Fine, Harry. You made your point. I'll try to keep from arguing with Luna from now on."

"Good. Thanks."

"So I was forcing my belief upon her. What did you call me two months ago? Dark Lady Hermione?" she wore a pained smile. The boy turned to her and on an impulse put his hands on her shoulders.

"Hermione. Listen. You are the kindest, most compassionate and loyal person I've ever met. Don't ever doubt yourself."

He let her go and pointedly ignored the slightly misty look in her eyes. After coughing into a fist to banish the momentary awkwardness, he continued:

"It's just that you sometimes go overboard in your attempts to help people and try to correct them even when it's not needed. That's where your problems lie. The only reason you got into a debate with Luna was that you liked her and tried tohelpher as you saw fit. Now, I think that you've gotten much better in the past months. It'll come as you mature, I think."

"I'm much more mature than you are, Harry," Hermione retorted dryly, but she obviously took his words to consideration. The boy shrugged with a relaxed expression.

"Yep. That you are. But hey, who's counting? After all, we're all are downright wizened old warlocks compared to Malfoy."

"An eight-year-old would seem mature and wizened compared to him."

"Precisely," Harry grinned and immediately received a swat to his arm for his trouble.

15Th November, Crouch Residence, outskirts of London

Bartemius Crouch Junior was feeling completely apathetic.

It was a norm for him. The victims of continued exposure to the Imperius often suffered emotional stunting even when freed from the curse's influence. The First Unforgivable left very deep scars in a person's psyche if someone was under it continually for over a month.

And he was under it for nearly twelve years.

He sometimes thought that being freed from it would be extremely uncomfortable even for him, who was taught Occlumency by an absolute master of the art. His master. His Lord.

He knew that the Dark Lord was still alive, as he has told his Inner Circle about his immortality in passing. Barty knew that his duty was to search for his Master, and search he would… Just as soon as he broke out.

His father was not a professional in the Dark Arts, far from it – he resented them with a passion. It was rather ironic, taking into account the sheer ability he demonstrated for the Imperius. The spell required intent to completely and utterly control, dominate, and subjugate another. And that intent Crouch Elder, being the control freak that he was, had in spades. It would be almost enough to smash through the Occlumency barrier around his son's mind – almost, but not quite. So in response, the Head of the Department of International Cooperation of the British Ministry and the erstwhile Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had come up with a solution. The Animus Shatter.

It was a heavily restricted potion – and for a good reason. The Animus Shatter, as the name implied, completely eradicated all mental defences and sapped the will of the recipient. A couple doses a week were enough to keep Barty leashed, trapped in the cage of his own mind.

The first few years, at least.

Crouch Elder wasn't a complete master when it came to the Imperius, never bothering to learn it in all its intricacies, just using the method of blunt force. Therefore, he wasn't as successful as he hoped. A proper Imperius, cast by a Death Eater who knew what he's doing, like Rookwood or the Lestranges, would halt any thoughts in the victim that were not related to the orders given by the caster. And those orders were long and comprehensive, not leaving a single hole in them to be exploited by a rebelling brain.

Crouch, though, was not such a master. His instructions were basically "Stay in your room, keep quiet and don't start any trouble." Barty nearly laughed when first subjected to them, but the emotion-dulling effects settled in before he accidentally gave up the fact that his father was doing it wrong.

He obeyed the orders, naturally. The curse kept a strong hold on his weakened mind. But he was able to twist the rules a bit. He asked Winky for books, and she obeyed without bothering to tell his father, as she thought it to be all right for the Young Master to be able to read. The books were what kept him from going completely insane.

With every year, the grasp he had on his mind was strengthening. He was slowly, but steadily building up resistance to both the spell and the potion. Already he could completely break the shackles on his will on the third day after the administration of the potion. Barty has been planning his escape for quite a while, but he was careful to make sure that his father did not see any signs of his increasing independence. He wouldn't sabotage his only attempt to get out from his father's control and seek out his Lord.

He already knew how he would do it. A week from now he would use his admittedly not very impressive talent for wandless magic – the only kind he could practise during his house arrest – to unlock the door. Winky would try to stop him, so he would knock her out when she appeared in his room in the evening before doing anything else. After that, he would kill his father in his sleep, take his wand and destroy the whole house with Fiendfyre. It will not leave any clues for the Aurors, therefore, it will not make them suspect that he was still alive and complicate matters. They will, in all likeliness, decide that it was the work of Death Eaters or sympathisers, but he was dead and therefore, not guilty. Case closed.

After that, he was going to seek out his Master. His Dark Mark, together with a simple ritual designed just for that purpose, would aid him in that.

Barty closed his eyes, willing the apathy to disperse. After a brief struggle, the curse lifted. He smiled slightly.

Soon.

Deep in an unspecified forest, almost midnight, 28th November

"Faster, Wormtail!"

"Yes, my lord, I'm trying!"

Anyone who by some strange caprice of fate passed by a certain clearing in Northern France would be very mystified and/or frightened indeed. The snow was stained with goat blood, spilled in four careful circles around a big ring of black soot. Four slightly smoking urns were placed in the sacrificial circles (for that was what they were). The unfortunate watcher would be strongly advised not to look inside of them and even stop thinking about what the contents could be at all.

To top the occult ambience, the middle ring had a wraith floating inside it, hovering a meter above the earth and slightly fidgeting (if the word could apply to what seemed to be a formless mass of black smoke). The only material person nearby was a man seemingly in his forties, of that rare kind who are fat and at the same time could be said to be rather gaunt. A somewhat repulsive combination on a good day, it was further worsened by the fact that the man by his mannerisms strongly resembled a rat.

Peter 'Wormtail' Pettigrew was not having a very good day.

First, his master had him run errands to get him some rather suspicious, not to mention disgusting, ingredients for a certain ritual that he hadn't bothered to explain to his servant until just before the said servant was ordered to perform it. Fortunately, it was rather simple, the Latin and a bit of Hebrew required was easy to remember and there was no need to inscribe any kind of runes.

Despite this, Pettigrew was very, very unsettled by the transpiring events. He would bolt from there, but the thought about what waited for him in Britain stilled the thoughts about fleeing his master.

Finally, the last words of the chant were said and the circles of blood flash-ignited with tall, dark green flames. With a sound that sounded disturbingly like a pained moan, all fire lifted in the air and started spinning around the wraith, slowly moving closer and closer to the disembodied wizard. The closer it moved to its target, the brighter it burned, changing its colour from deep green to blue and then pure white. Pettigrew was forced to look away and cover his eyes lest he be blinded with the unbelievable brilliance. In his soul, full of fear and concern for his own skin, appeared a feeling rare for him. And that was awe: Awe of magic that was much more powerful than he was able to perform, infinitely more ancient and frightening.

Amongst the roar of the arcane flame a long, agonised scream sounded. Wormtail winced and tried to cover his ears as well, awe leaving as abruptly as it came, giving place to a much more familiar emotion of fear.

The tortured wails didn't continue for long. Gradually, the light receded, and the cries turned into moans of pain, and when the darkness again covered the place, the whimpers changed into chuckles, then laughter.

And after that – full-blown cackling.

Peter risked looking back and was struck speechless when, instead of a black cloud, lacking any kind of definition aside from a spectral face in front of it, he saw what seemed to be a young, handsome man with black hair and green eyes. The only clue that pointed towards the man's status was that he was slightly translucent, not as much as a ghost, but enough to see the burning grass behind him, the snow long since melted under the unrelenting heat.

"You have done well, Wormtail. It is not as good as a physical body, but it will do for now. Do you have my wand?"

"Master," he murmured, taking the piece of yew that he had preserved for all those years from his pocket and offering it to Voldemort handle first. The wraith reached for it with something that could be taken for reluctance, but in reality it was anything but. Reverently, the Dark Lord touched the wand with translucent fingers and lifted it in his favourite loose grip, handling his wand as one would a whip.

"Oh, how I missed this," he whispered and with a sharp gesture sent a spell into the closest tree. It cracked, but still stood upright.

"In this form I can interact with magical objects, but I lack any physical strength," he explained to his still bowing servant. "In addition, without a body to serve as a conduit of my power the strength of any spells I do will be greatly diminished. But, if everything goes according to plan, I will not need to cast anything powerful until I walk this earth in a body of my own once again."

"Plan, my lord?"

"Yes, Wormtail. I always have a plan."

4th December, the Diagon Alley

As the Christmas was closing in with the determination and swiftness of a freight train (one with bells and whistles on it) the Alley was already busy. The relaxed air, created by the fact that there was no rush to go buy this or that, was a balm on a certain wizard's soul.

Said man was sitting in Florean Fortescue's ice-cream parlour, eating the divine dessert in front of him and trying very hard indeed not to indulge in nostalgia. It wouldn't be a very smart move to allow himself to start crying and attract attention. Plus, it wouldn't be manly by any means.

Sirius had to blink and rub his eyes to ward off another flashback of him sitting here together with the other Marauders. James was a real glutton when it came to ice-cream, not that the others were opposed to eating the frosty goodness. It was just that no one could eat it in the same ridiculous amounts that Prongs could. Wormtail tried once on a bet and lost spectacularly, but not for a lack of effort on his part. Florean had to Floo them both to St. Mungo's with tummy-aches and migraines.

Sirius shook his head, chiding himself for remembering that day. Remus has recently departed to the continent in order to contact the many acquaintances he made during the war. He promised to return with news in a couple of months, and told Padfoot many times not to do anything stupid. The man smirked slightly. Sometimes Moony worried too much.

He was distracted from his thoughts by the sound of someone sitting down on the table behind him. Several someones, to be exact.

"Who wants what? My treat today."

"You sure? I seem to recall a certain Auror telling us that she's broke..."

Sirius very carefully schooled his expression under the glamour he was wearing. He would have to be doubly wary as long as there were Aurors in the vicinity.

"Nah, it's fine. I've got a bonus for 'being vigilant'. Moody complimented me in front of Scrimgeour, so I am about to get a raise in the near future."

"Good for you. You deserve it, despite being Miss Disaster Zone."

"Hm."

The trio of women got their desserts levitated to them and tore into them with gusto. After a minute the woman that kept silent so far said:

"Damn, I'm so jealous of you. You get to live in Hogwarts while I'm stuck behind the table doing paperwork."

Sirius, already rising to leave, sat back and called for a second ice-cream. This was getting interesting.

"Oh, it's not that good. Sure, I get the Hogwarts food, a nice room that the house-elves clean, all I have to do is patrol for four hours a day, and... Yeah, it's that good!" the Auror laughed.

"Damn, Tonks, you don't have to rub it in!"

Sirius choked. Tonks? As in Ted Tonks? Ickle Nymphadora went on to become an Auror?

"Yes, I have and you know it. Would you remind me who paraded her promotion to us a year ago?"

"Touché."

"Has the school changed since we were there?"

"Not much. Hagrid's now the Care of Magical Creatures professor."

"Oh. Bet the big guy's happy."

"Radiant, he is. Moody's the Defence for this year, so..."

"Merlin help them."

"What she said."

"Stop it. The little munchkins love him. Workaholic said he was the best thing that happened to the subject in his years apart from some guy named Lupin who taught last year."

"The werewolf?"

"Yeah. Good teacher, he said."

Sirius smiled slightly and made a mental note. This remark could become a good source of teasing.

"Wait. Who's this 'workaholic'? A student?"

"Oh, right, I haven't gotten around to telling you. Guess who I met in Hogwarts."

"No idea."

"Come on, do tell!"

"Harry Potter."

"Ah. Read the article?"

"That was before that piece of crap. Workaholic swore at Skeeter for days after."

"'Workaholic'?"

"I met him when he was limping from a study session with Flitwick. From what I gathered, he works like a bee. So ... workaholic."

"Charms guy, huh?"

"That too, but he's learning duelling."

"Oh. Hot for our department?"

"Nope. He told me once that trouble keeps finding him, and he wants to be prepared for what they'll throw at him next."

"He must be in love with Moody."

"He is. Sings serenades to the old bastard. Oh, and he's a terror with illusions. Loves to prank people with them."

Sirius barely held himself from sacrificing a spoonful of ice-cream to the gods of spit-take.

"He didn't like me teasing him and made it seem like everyone was walking upside-down. The weirdest morning of my life."

And on it went. Ten minutes later Sirius had to leave as the company was starting to throw him strange looks.

Harry's a prankster. Hah! I hope James is looking from wherever he is. Sirius stopped outside the Leaky Cauldron with a wide grin on his face, looking up at the cloudy sky. Well, I just need to help him in this noble calling, don't I?

After a minute he nodded resolutely and turned on a heel, Apparating away with a crack.

He appeared in front of a house he hadn't set foot in for over seventeen years. Even when he was on the run last year he didn't even come close to the street it was on. Sirius looked over the worn-down, grim exterior with a lifted eyebrow. He knew that his bitch of a mother died when he was in Azkaban, but the house still shouldn't be as... decrepit as it was. Steeling himself, he opened the door with a swish of his wand and strode inside.

The house was a mess indeed. Sirius conjured a bubble of air in front of his face with a wince, as the amount of dust that his steps sent in the air was just obscene.

"Seems like Kreacher's dead..." he muttered. "Good riddance, I suppose. Damn it!"

He stumbled over an extraordinarily ugly umbrella stand shaped like a troll's leg. The racket it made was rather unpleasant in the empty house. The voice that came after it was even more so.

"YOU! WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN THIS HOUSE?"

Sirius jumped, startled, and reflexively sent a Reducto in the vague direction from whence the shout came. The spell splashed harmlessly against a painting of a rather ugly old woman.

"What the... Ah, so you have made yourself a painting. Long time no see, mother," a deaf man couldn't deny the loathing in his tone.

"YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE! GET OUT!"

"I will, as soon as I get what I came for," he responded and turned away, lifting his wand, its end shining with a Lumos.

"YOU WILL GET OUT NOW! KREACHER!"

A house-elf in filthy drags appeared on the floor before the portrait with a loud crack. His skin was yellow from age, but his beady eyes still shone with life and intelligence. And with hatred directed at Sirius.

"The disappointment has come."

"Shut up, Kreacher," Sirius threw tiredly. "And get lost."

The elf stiffened, and, to the man's surprise, vanished from sight with the characteristic sound of house-elves.

"Huh. That's... wait. Father didn't disinherit me. Therefore, I was the heir even after I pulled the runner," Sirius muttered. "This house, the elf, they are mine!"

This thought didn't come in his head when he got his money from the goblins the first time and was told that he was given the control over the Black family fortune. He took the money, glanced over the properties, and that was it.

He walked up the stairs, completely disregarding the screams of the painting. The library doors were spelled shut, but he managed to find the needed counter-spell in a couple of minutes.

The Black Library.

It was something that every pureblood in Britain, and some abroad, knew and dreamed about. Filled to the brim with tomes of knowledge that were thought to be long lost, the books on magic so dark even Voldemort would find somewhat repulsive, ancient manuscripts of rituals employed by all magical traditions ever since the time of Pharaohs, it was a secret that everyone knew, but didn't talk about.

And it was here that Sirius searched for the perfect present for his godson who had recently taken up pranking.

As a young boy, he had taken to using the dusty hall of the library as a sanctuary. No one would ever suspect him of using it, so it was a good thought to stay there in the times when his family got absolutely unbearable.

Which was quite often.

As a result, he knew the room and how it was organised very well. He knew which books weren't really dark and were just valuable, which ones he needed to stay well away from and what he really didn't want to read or even touch – the result of many, many close calls.

He was currently standing in the section that was dedicated to Illusion and Mind Arts. With a slight crease in his brow he looked through the titles, selecting what was actually useful for someone who wasn't willing to die in the process of reading and/or possessed some shred of morals.

After a while, he had narrowed down the search to three books. Packing them in a conjured bag, he walked to the Rune section and added a book that was, in his opinion, pure gold, as he learned more about the practical side of the Ancient Runes from it than he did from the professor.

He left the house with a spring in his step and a mocking wave in the still shouting painting's direction.

Wilderness somewhere in the ass of the world, jungles approximately in India

The storm was sudden and staggering, like the burst of cold water out of the shower head in the morning that kicks you in your sleepy, unsuspecting face.

The thunder rumbled in the boiling clouds, and the rain drops started falling at the leaves with speed, force and bull-headed determination of bullets. The sound was also rather reminiscent of a mini-gun battery firing.

The rain itself, however, wasn't that notable in this particular climate despite its capability to make an unprepared person look around in search of their brown pants. No, what was unusual was the bright flash of light that pierced the darkness and temporarily blinded a grumpy, hungry python which was about to pounce on a monkey that was sitting on a low branch, covered from the waterfall on steroids that was occurring outside of its temporary sanctuary. By the time the snake regained its vision its intended prey has long since jumped away with great fervour. The python hissed out a few swear words in Parseltongue and left to contemplate its disappointment.

Was the snake to linger further, it would bear witness to the flash repeating with even increased intensity. The light came from a... hole in the space-time continuum, not that the reptile would think of it in any terms other than whose-idea-was-it-to-drop-the-sun-in-front-of-me. The tear in the fabric of the universe closed in a blink, but not before spewing out a figure in dark robes. It fell on the grass with a muffled grunt. After a brief time spent lying limply, it suddenly shook and stood up with a decent amount of speed and grace for one who was so not-gently deposited on cold, hard ground. From the form that the rather high-quality dull-green robe hinted at, it was a male. The stranger coughed with a slight wheeze.

"Unbelievable... I made it out alive. Take that, Mad King," he said in a soft tenor, lifting his face upwards.

Said face was covered with a richly encrusted white mask painted with black swirls that depicted an expression of complete contentment. Two blue lights glinted from behind the eye holes.

"But where, by the Cycle, am I?"

The man seemed to listen to something for a while, and went completely rigid from shock.

"I... did it. I am out. At long last, I have reached my ambition," he started chuckling. The quiet laughter gradually made way to maniacal cackling that stopped just as soon as it started.

"Now what?"