Categories > Books > Harry Potter > Return8 Reviews
It's 2200, and the world has known peace for hundreds of years. Now, a dark power thought to be destroyed is returning, and the world shall find itself woefully unprepared. Meanwhile, at Hogwarts, ...
The year is 2200, and hundreds of years have past since Harry Potter defeated the dark wizard Voldemort in a deadly duel. To the wizarding world, which has known peace ever since, the name of Voldemort is but a legend to scare small children, and Harry Potter - well, they don't remember him at all. War is but a memory in the minds of the oldest of the old, and while magic continued to progress, as is the nature of things, the world - both magical and Muggle - has grown complacent. Harry Potter never told anyone of the immortality rituals that Voldemort used on himself, and with Harry and his friends, that dangerous knowledge had died. The world is in for a rude awakening...but from whom?
At night, Hogwarts' school of witchcraft and wizardry becomes a very different place. Corridors that were filled with activity in the day become dark and empty, the only light for any wayward student coming from the strands of moonlight that find their way through the long and thin windows of the castle, casting evil shadows that seem to leap out at any unsuspecting passer-by.
On this night it was the full moon, and the Dark magic of the night made wandering in dark places all the more perilous. It is said by some students that if you strained your ears, you could hear the howls of the werewolves in the forbidden forest. Of course, none of this mattered to a young Slytherin first year, who believed he was safe within the walls of Hogwarts. He was, as is practically a rule of his house, black haired, tall for his age, and of an aristocratic appearance, though his face had not yet lost the softness of his youth. His eyes flashed a rather dull looking hazel as a shaft of moonlight caught his face, and he quickly hid behind a suit of armour in case a teacher saw him at his night time explorations.
Peeking out from behind his metal cover, he looked down the cold hallway before him, hoping to catch sight of any professors before they caught sight of him. The corridor was empty of any other activity: on the left of the hall frosted-up windows looked out onto a snowy courtyard two floors below, and the right wall was unadorned but for the odd portrait or suit of armour breaking the monotony of the grey stone.
Though he thought it awfully clever, the boy's "plan" for that night was quite innocent, and indeed rather naÃ¯ve. He was going to sneak into the defence professor's classroom, and steal one of the dusty books - full of "forbidden knowledge" - from the professor's personal collection, kept in a glass case at the back of the room. It probably never occurred the young boy that if the books really were full of such knowledge then they would not be out on display. Perhaps he was so wrapped up in the glory that he would receive after displaying his knowledge of arcane magicks, that he did not really think idea through. Nevertheless, he was going through with his plan, and the corridor was empty, so he quickly jumped out from his hiding place and ran with a light step down the hall, until he reached an ordinary looking wooden door on his right, where he stopped.
Taking one last look around him, the boy took the handle of the door and it opened up for him without the slightest bit of resistance. He frowned slightly at this: surely if the books inside were so valuable, the door would at least be locked? But again, such thoughts were quickly discarded next to the idea of glory, so with a shrug of his shoulders the boy entered into the dark classroom, softly closing the door behind him.
The room was a large and rectangular, with an oak desk in front of the blackboard facing rows of Victorian style tables with inkwells, all neatly arranged with chairs behind them. Professor Henwell - the defence professor - was rather particular about neatness. The walls were covered with the usual posters of wand movements and dangerous creatures, except for the back wall, which was dominated by a large bookcase, filled with old books, and guarded by a glass screen. This was the boy's target.
He purposefully stepped towards it, taking out his wand and holding it in front of him. Fame within Slytherin house was almost upon him. With more flourish than was necessary, though just the right amount for the magnificent occasion, the boy waved his wand, and a rather feeble, "Alohamora!" escaped his lips, whispered so silently that it could almost count as non-verbal magic.
To the boy's great disappointment, nothing happened. The glass stayed exactly where it was, rather than sliding to one side into the wood of the bookcase as he had seen his professor do so many times. All his careful planning had been for nothing. The boy briefly considered smashing the glass, but such an act seemed rather Gryffindorish to him, and he had no idea how many alarms the case might have had on it.
Desperate for all his efforts not to be wasted, the boy cast his eyes around the room once more, searching for something - anything - to take away with him as a prize. Just as he was going to give up hope and leave, his sight landed on a door than he has previously disregarded. There, next to the blackboard and on the farther side of the classroom from the door, was the entrance to the defence professor's office. As far as the boy knew, the office was not in use, as the current professor preferred to use the deputy headmaster's office on the first floor.
Still, there might be something of interest in there, the boy thought, and his mind was already conjuring up images of ancient treasures and lost artefacts. All thoughts of the book cabinet forgotten, he crept towards the heavy-looking door. Reaching it, the boy gave it an experimental shove. It did not move an inch. Either it was too heavy or locked. His wand still in hand from his last attempt, the boy waved it again, in a more subdued manner, and yet this time it had far more powerful effects. Before he had even finished the incantation of the unlocking charm, a strong wind swept through the classroom, seeming to illuminate the boy's face in dark light, before forcefully opening the door with a loud bang. The boy winced at the sound, and hoped that there were not any teachers about.
After spending a minute or so standing in silence, listening out for wandering professors, he decided that he had not been heard and stepped into the pitch black of the room, lighting his wand with a, "Lumos!" as he went. The room was quite obviously abandoned. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, faded pictures were peeling off the walls, and the only window in the room was so dirty that you could hardly see through it. All in all the room was quite empty; the only furniture left in the room was a large and sturdy looking desk facing the door. It looked like it had draws down the side. Smiling with victory, the boy moved to the desk and knelt on the hard stone floor behind it, looking at the draws. There were three in total. Hoping that none of them were cursed, the boy put his wand down and started by dragging the top draw open: it was empty. Closing it without little difficulty, he tried the second draw down. It too was empty, though a few spiders crawled out as he opened it, causing the boy to jump with fright. All his hopes resting on the last draw, he closed the second and moved his hand down to the metallic clasp of the third. He could not help himself from gasping as he laid his hand on it: it was freezing cold, and sent a chill to the boy's very bones, even as he drew his hand away.
If he were sensible, he would have walked away then, and history will always doom him for what he did next. For he was not sensible, and even at such a young age was drunk with the idea of power over his peers, so he braced himself and once more grasped the handle of the draw and gave it a good pull. The draw slid open without any resistance, smooth as if it had been oiled recently. The sound of a wolf howling drifted up from the forest outside. Disregarding this, the boy reached his hand, now almost blue from the cold, into the draw, and took from it a rather plain, small, leather-bound book. The boy was rather disappointed: after that curse on the handle, he had expected something far more exciting. Nonetheless, he pocketed it inside his baggy robes, reckoning that there must be something special about it to be locked in that draw behind a curse.
Satisfied by his prize, the boy quickly and rather recklessly kicked the draw shut and strode out of the office, pulling with all his weight on the heavy door to get it closed with a long squeak. As soon as the office door was closed the boy walked straight out of the classroom and back into the corridor. And that was his first obvious mistake of the night, for he had walked out right into the path of a professor.
"You! Greengrass!" shouted the professor, her voice echoing around the corridor, "What are you doing out at this time of night?"
The boy - Arctarus Greengrass - was rooted to the spot. This was not part of the plan.
"I'm sorry professor," said Arctarus, trying to put on his most whiny voice, "I forgot the password to my common room, and couldn't get inside..." He trailed off and tried to screw up his face in what he thought a tearful face would look like. This professor was the head of Hufflepuff - no doubt she would fall easily for some emotional crap, or so Arctarus thought. Fortunately for him, he was right.
"Oh you poor thing! In your first week here as well!" the professor exclaimed, now in full mothering mode. "Let's get you back to your dorm then - I know the password!" she ended this last statement with a small wink: no doubt she was trying to cheer him up after such a terribly traumatic night.
She started to amble off down the hall in the way of the Slytherin common room, calling for him to follow. It was not a long walk, and within minutes Arctarus was back in his dorm, under his covers and looking at the book he had found by wandlight. It appeared to be a diary, filled with someone's scribblings. Arctarus only had to read a couple of entries before he knew that he had hit a jackpot: whoever had written the diary had been a magical genius - even a first year could tell that - and every entry was filled with little magical shortcuts, spells that it appeared that the man had created, and stories of a magical world now hundreds of years in the past. Not only that, but it quickly became apparent that the diary was enchanted: there were far more entries than should have been able to fit into a book of that size, and each entry was far longer than should have fit in the tiny space allotted for each day. Pushing down his excitement, and realising that most of the magic within was far beyond his current level of understanding, Arctarus decided to leave the diary for the next day, when he was more awake. Taking one last peek at the inside cover, he placed it under his pillow and quickly fell asleep, dreaming of all he could do with the diary's help. He wouldn't learn until years later the significance of the writing that his last peek had shown him that night.
This is the diary of Harry Potter.
Far away from the comforts of Hogwarts, something stirred in the wastes of Siberia, wakened from its long sleep. A Dark presence was regaining form, its power beginning to pull all that is attracted by such forces towards it. Werewolves, giants, vampires, hags, even wizards...though they knew not why they came, a slow migration was happening, as all the Dark powers of the world began to come together, waiting for an unknown master to rally behind. The world was in for a rude awakening.