The Erlking

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In no way did I ever mean to insinuate that Draco was meant to replace Harry as the ‘beloved’. Just to clear it up, Draco was intended to be a friend to Harry, because he is close to Severus – and Severus was meant to be Harry’s teacher but then they both went to Hogwarts, and the Erlking found Remus anyway.

Sorry for the delay. I’ve had a stressed couple of weeks since the last update – and my fingers don’t seem to want to type! I do believe I am getting sick. My entire family is dying from something, bar my 16-year-old brother and myself, and I am convinced I’m slowly succumbing to its evil effects. I’m so tired! And dizzy, and my eyes hurt and I’m fucking freezing!

And – I forgot to put a warning on the previous chapter (even though I have warnings for the whole story), so whoever complained should just move on with their life.

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Words: 3,476
Chapter 7
Resurrection
May 1992

Snow White has always been remembered as the fairest maiden in the land. Skin as pale as snow, lips as red as roses and hair as black as ebony. A stunning young woman to be sure, but there was another in the tale that rivalled her beauty, at least a little. Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest of them all? Yes, her beauty was rivalled but not surpassed. She may have been more striking than her stepmother, however Snow White’s beauty paled in comparison to the looks of a certain beloved boy.

Snow White was beautiful, all right,
But Harry is a far prettier sight.

It had been more than a year since he had seen the boy. Such a long time to have to wait before laying his eyes once more on near perfection. The child, like a botticeli angel, or a painting by Michelangelo, was perfectly beautiful and alluring. His eyes, the colour of envy and death, shone so bright they seared the very soul of any who dare to look at him. Hair as black as night, darker than the magic that coursed through Voldemort’s very being. And his skin, to pale and soft to the touch, would blush a faint pink across his cheeks as he was pleasured at the hands of the Erlking. The boy was short for his age, but that was all the better because it meant that Harry would fit perfectly, seated in the Dark Lord’s lap.

He was so close to achieving his first goal. So very close to having a body of his own. His own hands, to touch Harry with, his own lips with which to kiss the boy, and his own –

He shook the thought from his head, fixing his mind on the task at hand. The Erlking had found a way to contact Lucius Malfoy, and had ordered the blond to allow the circulation of Tom Riddle’s old school diary, which Lucius had in his possession for safekeeping. The blond had been terrified at first. Draco had been secreted off to Hogwarts a whole year early to protect him from the Dark Faerie, and with the boy safe the Malfoy’s had no reason to believe the Huntsmen would bother them again. However, one evening in 1991 Lucius came home from the Ministry to find his dining room filled with a thick, choking fog that swirled and curled up and around his legs, hiding his lower body from view.

His wife, sat at her place at the dining table, her hands trembling as she lifted a goblet to her lips. The red wine dribbled down the side of the cup and onto her dress. It was not the only stain on her. Lucius narrowed his eyes, trying to see what had distressed his wife so. What he saw made his heart jump.

“Good evening, Lord Malfoy.” A voice, from the chair at the head of the table, caressed his ear and Lucius automatically lowered himself into a small bow. “A great pleasure to meet you.”

Narcissa continued to tremble, and Lucius’ wide eyes met hers before turning his gaze onto the chest of the Erlking – he did not dare look upon the creatures face.

“How is your son? Enjoying his first year?” Lucius couldn’t make himself answer. His mouth moved, but there was no sound. It was as if someone had wrapped his or her hand around his throat, slowly cutting off the ability to talk and breathe. “Never mind.” Audenarde took a sip from his own goblet, then swirled the blood around in his mouth a little before swallowing. “Your Lord requests your services, Lord Malfoy.”

That seemed to snap Lucius out of his stupor, because he gave another bow and cleared his throat. “How may I be of service, my Liege?”

The Erlking rotated his hand, causing the blood in the goblet to swirl and nearly spill over the edges. The fog that held Lucius prisoner eased somewhat, and the blond made his way to the table and sat beside his wife. Narcissa still shook with fear. Only when he had sat down did he notice the small being directly opposite his wife – in his son’s seat. The boy had dark hair, lily-white skin with a tint of pink over his cheeks, and a wide smile on petal pink lips. His head reached just over the top of the high table, making him a few inches shorter than Draco at eleven-years of age. The boy grinned widely at him, before reaching for the goblet in front of him, needing two hands to bring the cup to his lips.

“Ah, how remiss of me. Allow me to introduce to you my beloved.” Harry’s smiled widened a fraction if that were even possible, and then his attention was stolen by some wine, sloshing out of the goblet and onto his bare chest. He pouted, and with that expression on his face, he looked more of a child than Draco ever did. And Lucius felt great pity for the child who should be at the mercy of such a monster, of such a creature.

“Your Lord wishes you to allow a certain black book to fall into the hands of certain people. I would complete his orders as soon as the occasion arises, Lord Malfoy.” The Erlking cautioned, pushing back his chair and rising fluidly.

Harry lifted his arms and allowed the Erlking to lift him from the chair and into the man’s arms. Harry’s legs locked around Audenarde’s waist, his hands around the long neck, his hands hidden inside of the black cowl to tangle in the creature’s dark hair. He looked at Lucius and smiled again. “Voldemort may be a merciful Lord, but he is not a patient man.” The beloved turned his face to the Erlking’s neck and nuzzled against the hollow between neck and shoulder. In a flurry of rising fog and wind, the two dark figures disappeared. Narcissa Malfoy finally allowed herself to throw the goblet away from her and at the nearest wall, before sliding from her seat to the floor, sobs wracking her body.

Lucius had done what he was told. Upon meeting the Weasley’s while shopping for Draco’s second year school supplies, he had slipped the diary into the cauldron of the youngest Weasley child. Ginny had been none the wiser until she discovered it while unpacking her trunk at Hogwarts. But she didn’t tell anyone. It didn’t look dangerous, and when she wrote in it, someone wrote back and she was convinced she had made her first friend. And so, on it went, Ginny and the spirit of Tom Riddle communicated for most of the year, until now, when unaware of her own actions Ginny had opened the Chamber of Secrets again. This time, though, she was not unleashing a monster on the school. This time, she was trapping herself within.

She was leaving herself at the mercy of Lord Voldemort. Who, despite his protests to the opposite, was not really merciful at all.

And so, Voldemort found himself hovering in the Chamber of Secrets, his feet mere millimetres above the ground, pacing to and fro as a red haired girl came into view. She left the anti chamber and the stonewall slid shut behind her, trapping her. She walked jerkily towards the spirit of the Dark Lord, a black diary clutched in her pale, shaking hands. Her brown eyes met those of the disembodied Lord, before they rolled back in her head and she slumped to the ground, her head making a dull thump as it cracked off the hard floor. Voldemort watched, and waited, as his Horcrux grew stronger and stronger. Soon Tom Riddle was strong enough to maintain a form of his own, glowing slightly but standing alone, unaided, nonetheless. His eyes met those of Lord Voldemort’s and widened. Before he could react, the Dark Lord flew at him, their souls merging together, as the body of Tom trembled and shuddered.

The shallow breathing of Ginny Weasley stopped the moment Tom Riddle opened his blood red eyes and sat up, his body no longer convulsing.

Lord Voldemort laughed. His cold, high pitched, cackle echoed off the high stone ceilings, caressing his own ears and making the water pooled at his feet ripple. He laughed more, and louder, celebrating the ability to laugh. He was able to laugh now, after so long of being denied the simplest of pleasures. He could touch, and kiss, and kill again.

And he was desperate to lay his brand new eyes on the almost twelve-year-old Harry Potter. His soon-to-be botticeli angel, his very own work of art. The Erlking’s beloved boy, in four more years, would be all his.

But first, he knew, he would have to find his wand, and gather his followers around him again. There was much work to be done, and he would accomplish nothing laughing like a lunatic in the Chamber of Secrets while fantasising about lily-white skin and rose bud lips, (as pleasing as the image was).

Voldemort allowed a smirk to settle upon his lips as he took from the dead girl her wand. His own, innate magic battled with the wand core, forcing it to change and adapt to better suit Voldemort’s needs. When the wand gave off a low, powerful hum, Voldemort was satisfied. It would do, for now. Fortunately he knew exactly where to find one of his loyal servants. The self same servant who was in possession of Voldemort’s cherished Yew wand. With a smirk, he waved the stolen wand and felt his body shrinking and his hair growing longer. He did not change his gender, there was no need, he merely wanted to pass for the girl, and not to be her. With slow, measured steps he made his way back to the anti chamber, and the haunted girls bathroom. He walked slowly, unused to the shortness of the girl’s legs. He had always been tall as a child, and then as an adult.

The Basilisk was awake, and following him through the plumbing. The king of snakes would lead him to Gryffindor Tower, where he was let inside without even being asked for the password. He supposed even the portraits were happy to have Ginny Weasley back from the Chamber alive, especially after Dumbledore found the message Tom Riddle left them.

Voldemort made his way to the boy’s dormitory, climbing the spiralling staircases one by one until at least he found the second years. Ronald Weasley was sleeping soundly in his bed; on the one side of him laid a half-blood and a Mudblood, on the other, a pureblood slept, beside an empty bed. The bed was no doubt meant for Harry Potter.

On the bedside table next to the Weasley boy, sat a small glass cage, inside of which slept a rat with one toe missing. Voldemort tapped the cage with the stolen wand, and Wormtail jumped awake at once. The cage opened, and Wormtail scurried out of it, he dropped to the floor, where he changed back into a human. He clutched his left arm in pain, falling onto his knees before the red haired girl.

“My Lord?” He asked hesitantly, head bowed. When he finally dared look up, he noticed he was staring at the Weasley girl, whose eyes were now a dark garnet red that sparkled, the moonlight casting them as the colour of blood before they darkened again. He gasped, “‘And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming, and the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor.’”3 Peter Pettigrew trembled before the form in front of him.

“Poetry, how droll.” He sneered, the look very out of place on Ginny’s face. “Give me your arm, Wormtail.” The wizard complied hurriedly. Voldemort pressed the dead girl’s wand to the man’s Dark Mark, which writhed and pulsed with magic causing Wormtail to gasp in pain. “Fetch my wand, then apparate to Malfoy Manor.” Wormtail ducked his head, scurrying backwards on his knees before standing and opening Ronald’s trunk. From a secret compartment that the red head probably didn’t know existed, he pulled forth the wand. Voldemort took it, caressing it reverently, before allowing Wormtail to place Ginny’s wand in its place.

“My Lord,” Wormtail bowed once more before touching his fingers to his Dark Mark and allowing the magic within it to act as a Portkey. The Dark Lord wanted to meet at Malfoy Manor, so that was where Wormtail’s Dark Mark brought him.

He was met by many other shocked, but excited, followers. Two of which were Malfoys. But Severus Snape was missing.

XXX

The Dark Lord had sent word to the Erlking. He had borrowed the owl of the Mudblood who shared a room with the Weasley boy. He did not care either way if the owl returned or not. More than likely, though, the Erlking would pick the creature’s bones clean. Upon arriving in the great hall of Malfoy Manor, a room that every old establishment had, he was greeted with bows and hesitant cheers. His followers who were free had lied and cheated and denounced him to the world, but he could forgive them because as long as they were loyal in their hearts, it meant less people to free from Azkaban.

“My followers, those loyal to me and those loyal to the cause, I welcome you together once more. It has been many years, my faithful, and in that time, much has changed and much has come to pass. In the last war, we had enemies and we had allies. The same will be said this time around. However, we have a very important advantage over the Light side.”

His followers looked captivated, hanging off of his every word. Voldemort allowed a smirk to settle on his lips, and some of his followers flinched at the sight. “Upon his sixteenth birthday, the Boy-Who-Lived will be joining our side. However, in this world, no one gets something for nothing. In return, I have pledged your services to the King of the Alders. You will, in time, have to gather children and adults, our enemies, light sided only, and on July 31st 1996 we will bring them before the Erlking and celebrate the coming of age of Harry Potter.”

“My Lord?” One of the Death Eaters mumbled. He waved his hand, allowing the Wizard to speak. “The Erlking, he has been here before. He brought with him a child. Was it Potter?”

“Lucius,” Voldemort drawled. “You are slippery indeed to have escaped not only Azkaban, but the Erlking as well. I commend you, my friend.” He allowed himself a small chuckled before schooling his features into one of blank indifference. “It may well have been. Actually, it is more likely, as the Erlking only has one beloved at a time.”

“‘Dost thou not hear the words that the Erl-King now breathes in mine ear?’”1 One Death Eater breathed, almost unable to believe that such a creature could exist. Soon he was writhing on the floor, held under the Cruciatus for not remaining silent in Voldemort’s presence. The Dark Lord brushed his short black hair from his eyes and surveyed his followers with red eyes that were narrowed.

“This summer, you will collect a vial of blood from each of your children and when I summon you next, you will come directly with the vial on your person.”

“Yes my Lord,” the whispered together, unsure whether following orders would be in the best interests of the child or not, but none willing to risk their own safety at present, to ask. “For protection purposes of course,” Voldemort added with a smirk, as if reading some of their minds.

He dismissed them. With a raised eyebrow he watched Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy talk. Hesitantly, they offered him a room in their Manor, which he accepted, ungraciously as if the room had belonged to him long before Lucius had any claim over it. And in a way he did. Lucius’ father had been Voldemort’s servant long before the Manor was in Lucius’ name.

XXX

August 1992.

The Death Eaters felt their Marks burning, just as an owl swept through the skies, dropping a piece of parchment by the Erlking’s foot. The owl left again, before it could be caught, and Ramon, dressed in mermaid scales, bent to pick the parchment up. Handing it to the Erlking, he took a step back, bowing slightly in the twelve-year-olds direction.

The Erlking read it quickly, before holding it in Harry’s face. “Show me,” he ordered, and Remus Lupin watched on fearfully to see if Harry had learnt the spell they had been practising. If the spell failed, it would undoubtedly be Remus’ fault, not Harry’s. Harry blinked once and the parchment caught fire. The flames spread from one end to the other, burning the Erlking’s spindly fingers, but the creature did not feel any pain. He let the parchment drop, it turning to ashes as it fluttered to the ground, before he bestowed a proud kiss to the beloved’s pursed lips.

“Come, the Dark Lord is ready for us.” The Huntsmen gathered around the Erlking, creating a semi-circle behind him, curving in towards him, shielding him. The beloved sat in front of him on their shared Thestral, while Galhar, Morfis and Ramon were seated on their Thestrals directly behind him, but in front of the others. Remus would not be going, and Quirrell wasn’t in any state to go anywhere after last night.

As the fog rose to cover them, they charged, the Thestrals galloping and the Huntsmen racing behind them, the Canis closing in, before outstripping the steeds. When they arrived at the Forbidden Forest, a fairly large group of black cloaked being waited for them. They all wore masks, either silver or bone white, but the Erlking could still feel – if he couldn’t see – their shock, fear and amazement as it crashed over their features at the sight of him.

One of the Death Eaters gasped, seeming to sway on his feet, before another’s hand came out to steady him. “‘I met Murder on the way - He had a mask like Castlereagh - Very smooth he looked, yet grim; seven blood-hounds followed him.’”4 He whispered to his companion and Voldemort’s eyes narrowed. Everyone seemed to be quoting poetry all of a sudden. It was rather tiresome.

His low spoken words made no difference to the Erlking or the Huntsmen, all of whom heard. Harry’s voice, however, was the one that answered. “‘All were fat; and well they might be in admirable plight, for one by one, and two by two, He tossed them human hearts to chew.’4” His head turned, previously his face has been hidden by the Erlking’s cloak, but now the Death Eaters could look upon it, and on the scar the marred the boy’s pale forehead. They gasped and whispered to one another; eyes wide, only now starting to believe that their Lord may one day have a claim on the Boy-Who-Lived.

“Ye of little faith,” the Erlking said with a small chuckle, his hand running through Harry’s hair, the vines on his fingers knotting and tugging the locks but Harry didn’t protest the discomfort. Instead he leaned in closer, butting his head off of Audenarde’s palm. “Have you the blood?” His question was addressed to the Dark Lord who answered with a nod.

One by one, the parents of children at Hogwarts, or younger, went forward offering their vial of blood to the Erlking. None would look upon his face, but Harry. Harry uncapped each of the vials one at a time and poured the contents onto the floor. The Canis Demonata growled and fought; vying with each other for every precious drop that Harry had spilt. When all of the vials were empty, the Erlking clapped his hands and the Canis’ fell still.

“Those you have sampled are not available. Should you encounter them, they are to be left alone.” The hounds whimpered, cowering at their master’s words, before they began to yip loudly, realizing he had yet to become angry with them. But the Erlking considered them warned.

The Death Eaters were dismissed, and the Huntsmen returned to the Lodge. All that remained were Voldemort, the Erlking and their beloved. Voldemort savoured the few interrupted moments he had to drink in the boy’s beauty. Since his birthday, he seemed to have grown. He would never be as tall as the 16-year-old Lord was, however, he wouldn’t be too short either. Voldemort smiled softly at the child: he would be perfect. A masterpiece worthy of the finest painters, an art work that put their own to shame.

And soon, he would be Voldemort’s alone.

XXX

3 The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe, the final stanza.
1 The Erl-King by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe - http:// www . cs . rice . edu / ~ssiyer /minstrels /poems /920 . html
4 The Mask of Anarchy by Percy Bysshe Shelley, 2nd and 3rd stanzas.

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Explanation (requested by so many, even though I replied individually as well) as to why the Erlking is giving Harry to Voldemort.

Harry is the Beloved; he is special to the Erlking because he is alive. When Harry grows up, the Erlking knows that, as the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry will have to fight, and possibly die in a war. If Harry dies, he is dead. He won’t be alive anymore, and so he wont be special to the Erlking – who is surrounded by the dead.

Therefore, the Erlking will not grieve for Harry’s death. He will take Harry as one of his own, to be a Huntsman, or if Harry displeases him in death, food. Which the Erlking does not want, as he does care for Harry.

So, in the Erlking’s mind, if he should lose Harry but the boy remain alive, then he may grieve and remember Harry, as he should wish to. As opposed to forgetting Harry in death, and either way he is free to find another beloved. If Voldemort has Harry, then Harry remains the Erlking’s beloved (for he is not dead) and the Erlking can let him go and live. And, if Harry should still die, the Erlking will still own his soul, and he will be one more dead boy – but he will be remembered as Beloved in life.

Did anyone understand? It turned into an epic…

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Thank you for reading, yet again. I don’t know what else to say except…. “Adversity makes men, and prosperity makes monsters. - Victor Hugo”! Review!