Harry Potter A Hellish Imprint
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She watched the figure walking casually through the newly fallen snow, cutting a line through it as droplets of blood upon a porcelain doll.
A slight shiver at a shift of the boys, no the mans, head sent a shiver through her, unsure whether it were truly that motion or just the cold reaching her more than the fire. But still her attention stayed on the figure that haunted her dreams, both pleasant and nightmarish, as of late.
He did not, she noticed, seem effected by the cold as a normal person would, and he paid it no heed, as if, per chance, it was but an illusion.
The bored look was unlike what she expected of someone her age, and it was similar and yet somehow unlike the one others had commented about her during school before discovering magic.
And yet, that look with its seeming lack of emotion, was far preferable to the other look she had seen on those features upon the Eve of All Hallows.
No, that look of twisted amusement was something that she doubted would ever leave her darkest nightmares as he calmly eviscerated a troll before her while taunting it.
That look of disappointment for a moment afterward was almost worse.
Another shiver as her eyes met the bloody crimson ones far below as the object of her thoughts casually tipped his hat and laughed.
A slight shiver at a shift of the boys, no the mans, head sent a shiver through her, unsure whether it were truly that motion or just the cold reaching her more than the fire. But still her attention stayed on the figure that haunted her dreams, both pleasant and nightmarish, as of late.
He did not, she noticed, seem effected by the cold as a normal person would, and he paid it no heed, as if, per chance, it was but an illusion.
The bored look was unlike what she expected of someone her age, and it was similar and yet somehow unlike the one others had commented about her during school before discovering magic.
And yet, that look with its seeming lack of emotion, was far preferable to the other look she had seen on those features upon the Eve of All Hallows.
No, that look of twisted amusement was something that she doubted would ever leave her darkest nightmares as he calmly eviscerated a troll before her while taunting it.
That look of disappointment for a moment afterward was almost worse.
Another shiver as her eyes met the bloody crimson ones far below as the object of her thoughts casually tipped his hat and laughed.
A book sat open upon his lap as he turned his eyes upon the symbol of life within the room, the Christmas tree beside the roaring fire.
Mrs. Umbralun had sent him another interesting tale as per the custom he'd had with the family that had cared for him, his own response being a few trinkets that they should appreciate.
The Vampyre was one of the few literary tales of vampires which had eluded his acquisition and now he relaxed within the pages of the work. Something to take his mind off those about him, or at least that was the emphasis for the first few books.
She had believed that if his attention was cast upon a work of fiction, then it would not be upon his "peculiar" method of relieving boredom.
Amusement was something that was rare for him, and thus far he had been blessed, as it were, with more things to keep his interest since his first encounter with Hagrid.
Casually, he plucked a grape from the bowl upon a table beside the arm chair he was sunken into and held it up for Carmilla.
She swooped down from the shadows cast upwards and the ceiling beyond, snatching it in a flash before slowing slightly, gliding to settle down upon the tip of one of the arms.
"Yes," he whispered with the fanged grin spreading slightly, "Delightful."
A squeak and a seeming nod from the bats smaller features before she began to devour the given treat.
Christmas had always confused him to an extent, but he could, always, respect a man in crimson.
Mrs. Umbralun had sent him another interesting tale as per the custom he'd had with the family that had cared for him, his own response being a few trinkets that they should appreciate.
The Vampyre was one of the few literary tales of vampires which had eluded his acquisition and now he relaxed within the pages of the work. Something to take his mind off those about him, or at least that was the emphasis for the first few books.
She had believed that if his attention was cast upon a work of fiction, then it would not be upon his "peculiar" method of relieving boredom.
Amusement was something that was rare for him, and thus far he had been blessed, as it were, with more things to keep his interest since his first encounter with Hagrid.
Casually, he plucked a grape from the bowl upon a table beside the arm chair he was sunken into and held it up for Carmilla.
She swooped down from the shadows cast upwards and the ceiling beyond, snatching it in a flash before slowing slightly, gliding to settle down upon the tip of one of the arms.
"Yes," he whispered with the fanged grin spreading slightly, "Delightful."
A squeak and a seeming nod from the bats smaller features before she began to devour the given treat.
Christmas had always confused him to an extent, but he could, always, respect a man in crimson.
His sanctuary was in ruins and his forces decimated.
The graveyard was the perfect trap, there was nothing that a mere half-trained boy should have been able to escape, much less eliminate the forces he'd had there.
Lucius had warned him, and he had ignored it.
Voldemort pondered his defeat as he considered what had happened that night.
He had referred to Malfoy as a coward for hiding then, remaining a public face for his influence but had mentioned that to engage Potter was to taunt death.
A warning he had not heeded, council given in earnest not taken.
In his time, he had seen many things and remembered atrocities his loyal subjects could not.
He had watched the bombs fall upon London as a boy, and now that grim thought tied to this new nightmare.
The prophecy had damned him, Voldemort reasoned.
And the boy, no, his foe was no mere boy, neither was man the correct descriptor.
That thing born of his darkest nightmares had become his enemy in flesh and blood.
Those deaths in the graveyard were something that he could understand, a glimpse of the bigger picture.
Harry Potter had declared war.
A grin crossed his lips, deformed as they were by those rituals which grew his power.
The papers had spoken of the uncaring slaughter the boy had caused, and that would deprive his foe of allies while his own should return to his fold and the young believers would flock to his banner as they once had in search of recovering their past power and glory.
War was coming, and Voldemort was quite pleased.
The graveyard was the perfect trap, there was nothing that a mere half-trained boy should have been able to escape, much less eliminate the forces he'd had there.
Lucius had warned him, and he had ignored it.
Voldemort pondered his defeat as he considered what had happened that night.
He had referred to Malfoy as a coward for hiding then, remaining a public face for his influence but had mentioned that to engage Potter was to taunt death.
A warning he had not heeded, council given in earnest not taken.
In his time, he had seen many things and remembered atrocities his loyal subjects could not.
He had watched the bombs fall upon London as a boy, and now that grim thought tied to this new nightmare.
The prophecy had damned him, Voldemort reasoned.
And the boy, no, his foe was no mere boy, neither was man the correct descriptor.
That thing born of his darkest nightmares had become his enemy in flesh and blood.
Those deaths in the graveyard were something that he could understand, a glimpse of the bigger picture.
Harry Potter had declared war.
A grin crossed his lips, deformed as they were by those rituals which grew his power.
The papers had spoken of the uncaring slaughter the boy had caused, and that would deprive his foe of allies while his own should return to his fold and the young believers would flock to his banner as they once had in search of recovering their past power and glory.
War was coming, and Voldemort was quite pleased.
Draco Malfoy felt the weight at his side while he stood there.
He had hated muggles as he'd been raised to, but that hate was replaced.
As a child, his father and his friends spoke of them as mere cattle and fools ripe for the slaughter, but something happened since then.
Harry Potter had changed that, had changed everything.
The creature taunting them, laughing at them for his own twisted amusement was not inspired by a wizards power, but from a muggles tale.
Muggles had inspired such a power and monstrosity that it couldn't be matched.
He had seen things that changed him, saw what no man should.
Draco had not been unchanged by those events, nor would he have desired to do so if he could.
It was almost as if the blinders had been torn from his eyes, and for the first time in his young life, the young Malfoy could see clearly.
His fathers master was not his own, and he was not willing to sacrifice himself in one mad fools dreams of defeating a greater monster.
The cross dangling from the chain around his neck was a comfort, one gained the previous summer when he'd decided to see the world he was to hate.
A bookstore had seemed safe as anything, and it was there that he'd found the books.
Images that had caught his attention and held it.
Hellsing...
Books with art that told a story that horrified him and yet intrigued him.
This was the key to the terrors past, a key that just the door to more questions.
Hours later he found himself in a church, just staring at the stained glass, trying to process what he had learned, the cross, a simple wooden thing the priest had given him with the words.
"Peace be with you..."
But there was no peace for him.
No, there could be no peace, for a monster still stalked his world.
He had hated muggles as he'd been raised to, but that hate was replaced.
As a child, his father and his friends spoke of them as mere cattle and fools ripe for the slaughter, but something happened since then.
Harry Potter had changed that, had changed everything.
The creature taunting them, laughing at them for his own twisted amusement was not inspired by a wizards power, but from a muggles tale.
Muggles had inspired such a power and monstrosity that it couldn't be matched.
He had seen things that changed him, saw what no man should.
Draco had not been unchanged by those events, nor would he have desired to do so if he could.
It was almost as if the blinders had been torn from his eyes, and for the first time in his young life, the young Malfoy could see clearly.
His fathers master was not his own, and he was not willing to sacrifice himself in one mad fools dreams of defeating a greater monster.
The cross dangling from the chain around his neck was a comfort, one gained the previous summer when he'd decided to see the world he was to hate.
A bookstore had seemed safe as anything, and it was there that he'd found the books.
Images that had caught his attention and held it.
Hellsing...
Books with art that told a story that horrified him and yet intrigued him.
This was the key to the terrors past, a key that just the door to more questions.
Hours later he found himself in a church, just staring at the stained glass, trying to process what he had learned, the cross, a simple wooden thing the priest had given him with the words.
"Peace be with you..."
But there was no peace for him.
No, there could be no peace, for a monster still stalked his world.
First off, this is a very different Draco, and secondly, he's not going to be either at this point.
He's at the point where he's both afraid of the monster gloating from under his bed and unwilling to sacrifice himself in someone else's war.
He's the mouse running for his life, and has learned a few things along the way so that he doesn't end up dead. Certainly, he isn't as stupid as the normal Draco or he'd be dead by this point.
He's at the point where he's both afraid of the monster gloating from under his bed and unwilling to sacrifice himself in someone else's war.
He's the mouse running for his life, and has learned a few things along the way so that he doesn't end up dead. Certainly, he isn't as stupid as the normal Draco or he'd be dead by this point.
Dumbledore froze as he appeared.
Death reigned the streets of London, and the flames seemed to be mothering the ghastly effect.
An eerie song, one sung by one he couldn't place but knew somehow.
It was one of the nursery rhymes he remembered Ariana loved.
He had only just gotten word of what Voldemort had done, something quite foolish it now seemed.
Tom had invaded the muggle government, forcing the Aurors to intervene as well as the muggle military.
It was a bloodbath and a nightmare scenario, the Statute of Secrecy was shattered by the impulsive actions of one madman.
To make matters worse, the muggle soldiers didn't make a distinction between the red robed Aurors and the masked Death Eaters and shot equally at both sides.
Then the flashes of spells and roar of muggle weapons seemed to stop in the distance as the song echoed clearly through the nightmarish scenario.
"London bridge is falling down..."
Then he saw her and realization came flooding through.
If Lovegood was there, eyes now lit as crimson as Harry's had been, something had happened and it all made sense.
Voldemort wasn't after muggles, the attack was something else.
A trap, and a cunning one, one for Harry Potter.
And from the song, the Boy-Who-Lived had arrived.
Only question was who the trap would be sprung upon.
"...my fair lady..."
Death reigned the streets of London, and the flames seemed to be mothering the ghastly effect.
An eerie song, one sung by one he couldn't place but knew somehow.
It was one of the nursery rhymes he remembered Ariana loved.
He had only just gotten word of what Voldemort had done, something quite foolish it now seemed.
Tom had invaded the muggle government, forcing the Aurors to intervene as well as the muggle military.
It was a bloodbath and a nightmare scenario, the Statute of Secrecy was shattered by the impulsive actions of one madman.
To make matters worse, the muggle soldiers didn't make a distinction between the red robed Aurors and the masked Death Eaters and shot equally at both sides.
Then the flashes of spells and roar of muggle weapons seemed to stop in the distance as the song echoed clearly through the nightmarish scenario.
"London bridge is falling down..."
Then he saw her and realization came flooding through.
If Lovegood was there, eyes now lit as crimson as Harry's had been, something had happened and it all made sense.
Voldemort wasn't after muggles, the attack was something else.
A trap, and a cunning one, one for Harry Potter.
And from the song, the Boy-Who-Lived had arrived.
Only question was who the trap would be sprung upon.
"...my fair lady..."
Severus Snape was, most of all, a survivor, though some would also call him a coward and petty tyrant.
Voldemort had once said that if the world would end, Severus and Cockroaches would still be around, something that prompted Lucious to ask which of the two was more obnoxious.
That was one of the few times that the sallow faced man remembered the Dark Lord laugh at something that didn't involve death and destruction in some way or another.
It was September first, a day that would forever resound in his thoughts as the day the bell tolled.
Snape remembered the eagerness for Harry Potter to come, a chance to show the world that a Potter, even one with the possible strength from his mother, was incapable of anything.
No, he would never try to ruin the boys schooling, after all, that would mean that he'd probably end up with extra years dealing with someone who probably inherited his fathers arrogance and reckless disregard for lives that mattered, namely his own, and that was without tacking on how the boys head must have been swollen by his own legend.
Before the sorting, there were still pitchers of juice and goblets out on the tables, the returning students and the faculty were busy discussing things.
It was the same routine he remembered from his own time as a student.
Then things changed as dead silence seemed to slam down upon the room as ghostly pale students were led in.
Only one seemed without the seeming feel of a panicked animal.
Potter.
The brat swept into the room as if he owned it and all eyes locked on the boy for a moment as it seemed even breathing was put on hold.
Something was definitely going wrong.
Voldemort had once said that if the world would end, Severus and Cockroaches would still be around, something that prompted Lucious to ask which of the two was more obnoxious.
That was one of the few times that the sallow faced man remembered the Dark Lord laugh at something that didn't involve death and destruction in some way or another.
It was September first, a day that would forever resound in his thoughts as the day the bell tolled.
Snape remembered the eagerness for Harry Potter to come, a chance to show the world that a Potter, even one with the possible strength from his mother, was incapable of anything.
No, he would never try to ruin the boys schooling, after all, that would mean that he'd probably end up with extra years dealing with someone who probably inherited his fathers arrogance and reckless disregard for lives that mattered, namely his own, and that was without tacking on how the boys head must have been swollen by his own legend.
Before the sorting, there were still pitchers of juice and goblets out on the tables, the returning students and the faculty were busy discussing things.
It was the same routine he remembered from his own time as a student.
Then things changed as dead silence seemed to slam down upon the room as ghostly pale students were led in.
Only one seemed without the seeming feel of a panicked animal.
Potter.
The brat swept into the room as if he owned it and all eyes locked on the boy for a moment as it seemed even breathing was put on hold.
Something was definitely going wrong.
Given that the Magical World acts in a restained manner, there must be something holding them in check. My opinion is that it is the Vatican that has enough power to make the magical communities somewhat restrained in their actions, lest they bring about the attention of the Vatican on themselves. However, while I think that while the Vatican has enough power to make the magical communities at least think twice about some actions, I also think that the Vatican doesn't have the full manpower, info, or training needed to deal too much with the issues that they let the magical governments usually deal with. In this case, Harrycard is enough of a threat to warrant the creation of an organization created solely to deal with the biggest magical and supernation threats to civilization, such as rising Dark Lords the Magical Governments are unable to stop, or Uncontrollable Beings of Extreme Power and Malice such as Harrycard.
So, given the right connections, Malfoy could easily become the creator of the equivilant of Hellsings Section Thirteen, I.E. Iscariot.
tl;dr version, The Vatican has people trained to deal with wizards, and doesn't really deal with most of the magical creatures in the world, as the Magical Communities have to deal with magical creatues anyways on a daily basis for potions ingredients and wand cores, and having the magical creatures do stupid shit is bad for business and creates too much drama for the wizards to want to deal with if it gets out of control.
So, given the right connections, Malfoy could easily become the creator of the equivilant of Hellsings Section Thirteen, I.E. Iscariot.
tl;dr version, The Vatican has people trained to deal with wizards, and doesn't really deal with most of the magical creatures in the world, as the Magical Communities have to deal with magical creatues anyways on a daily basis for potions ingredients and wand cores, and having the magical creatures do stupid shit is bad for business and creates too much drama for the wizards to want to deal with if it gets out of control.