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ACT4CH34 - Ekrizdis
🕑 Added 2024-09-30 10:19:18 +0000 UTCStudents of NEWT-level Wizarding history know that the island fortress of Azkaban was converted into a prison for dark witches and wizards in the Wizengamot Summer Solstice session in 1489 under Damocles Rowle’s leadership. It was swiftly followed by dragging the dark wizard Ekrizdis through the Ministry, and pushing him through the Archway, commonly known as the Veil of Death, an ancient artefact located deep within the confines of the Department of Mysteries.
The official reason was that dementors, being amortal, would be a potential asset, and serve as guards, saving time, expenses and lives of British Aurors and Hit-wizards that could be better spent in fighting crime elsewhere. While originally the plan faced a lot of dissension, a report from the Department of Mysteries suggested that the dementor’s aura had the passive effect of draining a victim’s emotions. Since emotions were the primary fuel for most acts of magic, the dementor’s aura could be a useful tool in leaching away one’s magic, something that was the biggest hurdle when it came to holding powerful criminals in captivity. Between that, the island’s geographical insulation and the outer ward that prevented standard enchantment, the island of Azkaban would serve as a perfect prison with zero-breakout rate.
From that point on, the dementors were placed in charge by the Ministry of Magic as guards of Azkaban, with the management allowing them to feed off the emotions of the prisoners within its walls. With Ekrizdis flung through the Veil, there was no contention over the fact that the beasts would be under complete control of the British Ministry of Magic.
What remains erased from the history books are two pieces of trivia that later found place in the Official Secrets Act, legislated by Minister Rowle in the same session.
The first was that despite Minister Rowle’s grand statement, the British Ministry never quite gained control over the wardstone of Azkaban. For one, they could not find it, and those that went searching, never returned.
The second was that the Wizengamot had unanimously agreed to not destroy the Azkaban tower, let the dementors fester, despite knowing what lurked beneath. The truth of what was found deep in the heart of the island was so horrifyingly dangerous, that the information was deemed Need-To-Know basis, the highest degree of secrecy in the government, and every single Auror, Hit-wizard and bureaucrat involved in this had to go through summary obliviations to forget them. Even the Minister himself.
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“You know what they say….” said the voice that sounded less humanoid and more of a dementorish deathrattle. “The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world it didn’t exist!”
“Yes, yes,” said Harry, with a pinch of disdain in his tone. “That would be great if you were an actual Devil. What happened, did things get so tiresome that you decided transforming into a soul-sucking, amortal, faceless wraith was a better option than becoming a Dark Lord and dealing with the British Ministry of Magic?”
“Potter…” hissed a tensed Amelia Bones. “Is it really such a bright idea to antagonise that thing?”
“Lesser beings once knew to respect their superiors.”
“I respected the hell out of you. And then you turned out like this. Really, never meet your heroes. They always disappoint.”
Both the dementor and Amelia expressed surprise at that statement.
“Ekrizdis,” said Harry. “Warlock. Grand-sorcerer of the Thirty-third degree. Warden of the Sunken Vault. One of the brightest minds to ever exist, rendered to this…. waste.”
The dementor tilted its head slowly, observing him.
“I have made it my business to learn about you since I became Warden, Ekrizdis. You were the first that dared to spit in the commonly accepted paradigms of blood purity and address the corruptive effect of the Anima upon the otherwise mundane reality. I always thought it was a sad, sad thing that history paints you as a rabid madman that tortured muggles and created the dementor race.”
A half-truth. Harry had only really started delving into the topic ever since he had started studying the discipline of Contagion in the Lair. Half the resources on the subject were filled with notes added by Ekrizdis while he was studying the interconnectedness of magical creatures and the way their unique mental and spiritual constitution lent themselves to their unique brand of magic. Apart from Ignotus, Ekrizdis was the only one that shared his beliefs about the Anima encroaching upon Reality. Even Nicholas Flamel, for all his research on materia phase transmutation, saw the Anima as an asset to be used, not the corruption it was. And while Harry’s unique thaumaturgy was dedicated to the annihilation of these corruptive effects of Magic, Ekrizdis wanted to delve deeper into this phenomenon and see if it was possible to create something that did not share a mundane counterpart in this reality.
A formidable and constructive goal, everything considered. It was a pity Ekrizdis wasn’t born from the Greengrass line. The power of Summer could have massively boosted his research.
Then again, with what he ended up being, he was better off without the power of Summer. Knowing him, he’d have ensured that dinosaurs… no, dragons became the dominant species on the planet.
“That can’t be Ekrizdis,” said the DMLE Director. “Ekrizdis was flung through the Veil back in the early fourteenth century, when the Ministry took control of Azkaban. Everyone knows that.”
“Just like everyone knows that Voldemort is dead?” asked Harry sassily, shutting her up. “You are thinking a bit too small, Director. Nicholas Flamel has been alive for a lot longer than that thing, and he did that without losing his humanity. That thing, it is an entity that once answered to the name Ekrizdis. Nothing else.”
He gazed upon the dementor. “What happened to you?”
“Transcendence,” said the being. “I always knew that human life was too ephemeral for any significant discovery. Too limited. The Anima is an existence beyond Reality, beyond space and time. Beyond death. If I were to understand it, I needed to get past those constraints as well.”That future would not be possible as a human. Speaking of,” it tilted its head again. “You shouldn’t hope for much of a future either.”
“Yes, I already know that,” said Harry, rolling his eyes. “Megalomaniacs like you only go into monologues when you think nothing can stop you. Voldemort has done that to death over and over, and I thought he had it bad. Turns out he’s just imitating his forebears.”
“Levity,” said the dementor. “Amusing. But it won’t change your fate. Neither will your attempt at stalling.”
“Stalling? Oh no, I was planning on threatening actually. Let’s put it this way. You and I are both Hogwarts students, Gryffindors, fellow Warlocks, and members of one of the most selective fraternities of the magical world. Both of us share similar views about the Anima, so how about you let the others leave safely? That way we can come to some respectable arrangement, perhaps even trade research, and I don’t have to just skip to the part I am apt at.”
“Potter!” Amelia Bones hissed. “What are you doing?”
“Saving your arse,” Harry muttered. “Get your taskforce and yourself out of this place. And if you really want to be productive, just transfigure something into a large hammer and smash those crystals with it.”
“Won’t work. We have tried blasting curses. It just reflects the damage upon us.”
“That’s because you are using magic to conjure force. Next time, try something natural for once. Like smashing it with a conjured hammer.”
“Why would that matter?”
Harry growled, growing annoyed.
“The difference is, anything we just make out of our will, using modern spellcraft, they can slip most of the punch.” Harry gave a side-along glance at the dementor that looked perfectly at peace to let him tell her the way-out. “You said it yourself. The outer wards don’t allow modern spellcraft to work. What makes you think these crystals, inferi or even bloody dementors would be any different?”
“Clever, clever Warden,” said the dementor. “But ultimately, fruitless. I was just trying to gently disable them earlier. You are only prolonging their suffering.”
“That was gentle?” scoffed Amelia.
“You didn’t die instantly, so it was gentle. Why aren’t you —” He paused, and gritted his teeth. Seriously, it was just one thing after another. Ever since that piece of Diabolis magic had warned him, he had been facing one eldritch monster after another. The Prison of Possibilities, the Diadem horcrux, Flamel, the Ritual Circle and now this, not to mention that constant feeling of being watched from all sides because of that Lament he was carrying.
That well-justified sabbatical from all things crazy better be coming soon.
“Look. I ain’t got the time to give you a graduate seminar on intention versus the natural operation of the universe until you’ve completed my ‘why it’s a damned stupid thing to stay here for another second’ course.”
To make his point, his right hand morphed into thick, metallic skin and he smashed a nearby piece of crystal with it. The man inside dropped down to the floor, nearly half of his body turned into dementor-fabric.
“I have seen your power, little Warden,” said Ekrizdis. “Binding. A useful tool. Not as nauseating as your other power. But it’s not enough.”
“Yeah?” said Harry. Master of repartee, he was. “Why don’t you ask your people above and see how getting nicked by this blade felt like?”
“Your confidence does you credit, little Warden. But I recognize that blade. Godric Gryffindor’s enchanted sword. It has grown stronger than I remember.”
Yes. Having it doused in basilisk venom, copious amounts of Death energy, the flames of Summer and the Black Family Magic would do that to a sword.
Also, that revelation punched Harry slightly in the gut. He had accepted that Godric’s legacy wasn’t his to bear, but he had believed he was the first one to pull it out of the Hat. The fabled blade was supposed to have been lost at all.
“Hogwarts’ Knight,” the dementor’s words were dripping with disdain. “You shone like a beacon for my dementors from afar. No wonder they attempted to feast upon you.”
Harry looked at the blade in awe. He didn’t want to believe it, but Ekrizdis’ words made a strange amount of sense. Godric’s autobiography had mentioned how the Sword would present itself to anyone rising up to protect his beloved Hogwarts. But goblin-enchanted silver blade or not, it was still just a sword. A glorified needle. A splinter.
Useful, but nothing extraordinary, compared to the other artefacts.
At least, that was what he had assumed it to be.
But back there, in the Prison of Possibilities, when he had stood against the limitless army of illusions conjured to serve the Diadem horcrux, the sword had come to him, and with it, had come power. A presence, at the back of his mind. Not the magic-consuming, endlessly-devouring, cold, wintry power of Death, but warm, fiery power that answered from the deepest depths of his soul. An intangible energy that came from life, from his positive emotions. One that was made up of the good, the bad, the crazy, a power that kept him fighting and warring, kept him shoving more and more magic out of his wand, even though he should have crossed his limits and exhausted himself multiple times by then.
He had imagined it was Summer’s power, flowing through his veins. But he was no Vessel, and Summer only managed to trickle through when he had overexposed himself to the Anima in his demon-form. That meant….
That meant that the power had come from the sword.
From Hogwarts.
Fueling its protector.
“I see,” he said at last, repeating Dumbledore’s words. “Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those that ask for it, or rather…” he looked evenly at the remnants of the former Warden. “Help will be given by Hogwarts to those that deserve it.”
“True words,” said Ekrizdis. “But you are far away from your source of power. That sword will not help you now.”
Harry silently raised the sword up, and poured Death through it. Both the DMLE Director and the dementor reeled back instinctively, staring at the malice, the severity, the potency of the malignant power surging within the blade. Disgustingly ancient, and quite literally, beyond anything they had ever witnessed. That Harry was able to not just wield it, but channel it from within without dying in the process was making them draw pause.
And it was not just them.
The entire cavern around him let out a hollow, metallic groan, as if reality around him was contorting itself, as the potent Death energy devoured magic from its surroundings like a literal black hole. In a matter of seconds, the entire place seemed devoid of colour. Even the darkness had turned into a dull, monochromatic, dark grey, and the crystals looked paler. Hell, even Amelia Bones looked like she would fall apart any time now.
“You were saying?” he said, and this time, the dementor had no comebacks. Harry thrust his left hand in Amelia’s direction, and a wave of Summer energy erupted out of it. Instantly, colour returned to her features, and the members of her task force were stirring, awakening…
“Gryffindor’s blade might be enchanted to serve the protector of the castle, but it’s also a goblin-forged sword. It assimilates that which makes it strong, rejecting what weakens it. And right now, it’s coated with the power that can end all things.’
He levelled the blade at the dementor’s head. “Even you.”
And then Harry threw the sword at Amelia again, surprising everyone. It said something about the Director that despite her surprise and hesitation, she managed to catch it by the hilt. The woman must have had lessons in fencing, just like Sirius.
“Go,” he said. “And just stab that blade at anything that comes your way. Dementor, inferi, whatever, just make sure not to point that blade at anything you don’t want to die horrifically.”
Amelia swallowed. “Understood.”
She turned around and raised the blade to stab the first crystal tomb she came across, when the dementor spoke.
“You are right. That sword can definitely destroy everything. It might even end me. But you of all people should be on my side, Amelia Bones…” Ekrizdis was modulating his voice to sound human-like. “After all, it was your forebears that helped me fester in the first place.”
Amelia froze.
Something was happening in front of them. The inferi bodies were spasming, their body parts were slowly disintegrating, and yet, coalescing, forming something… someone.
Ectoplasm, Harry recognized. The substance borne of magic to conjure something solid. Every single conjuration was an ectoplasmic construct, which was why they dissipated the moment the energy fueling them was gone.
The dementor had vanished, and in its place, was a man with slender, almost frail physique, with piercing, amber eyes. His weathered skin showed the marks of time, and his angular face ended with a thin, long beard.
Was this how Ekrizdis looked when he was alive?
“Oh yes,” said the construct, now sounding completely human. “Haven’t you wondered, why your family, that produced some of the greatest wardmasters in the entire world, never did anything to seal me and my dementors away?”
She looked at Harry, eyes widened. Harry couldn’t blame her. Just hours ago, he had pondered over the same question. Why had the Bones family never so much attempted to seal the dementors away? Why let them fester inside this tower, just to torture the imprisoned inside it?
“Oh yes,” said Ekrizdis, and Harry could almost feel the amusement in its voice. “All of your forebears agreed to let me fester, let me continue my grand plan. It was for… as you say, the Greater Good.”
Harry considered this. “I don’t care about the Greater Good. Your dementors are a scourge upon the world, and it’s my job to end them. Your little play with Ectoplasm won’t make a difference.”
“Harry, wait,” said Amelia, taking a tentative step forward. She regarded the conjured form. “Ekrizdis was physically dragged across the Ministry of Magic and thrust through the Veil. That much is true from recorded history.”
Her words were drowned in what sounded like multiple sheets of metal dragging across concrete. Or perhaps the catatonic laughter of a dementor.
“Silly witch! What is history, but a fable agreed upon?” challenged the ancient wizard.
“A tiny thing that most magicals don’t understand. You are a soul. You have a body. And by the time the British Ministry came for me, I had no use left for my body. It was but a little puppet, drawn by strings from afar.”
Harry’s stomach did a flip. That… that was exactly what he had been looking for when he had asked Daphne to look for resources on Contagion. A way to exert his presence within the Vault without being physically present, and more importantly, without sundering his soul and creating horcruxes. Could it be that he had unknowingly ventured into Ekrizdis’ shoes without even realising it?
Coincidence was a concept he did not entirely trust. As someone with access to one of the largest repositories of archaic knowledge, researching the hidden interconnectivity of disparate powers and systems, Harry viewed the reality around him as a web of profoundly intertwined histories, rules and events. The connections might be invisible, but they were always there, buried just beneath the surface.
“How?” He demanded. “How did…” he paused, narrowing his eyes. “I see. A horcrux.”
Ekrizdis let out another shrill, screeching sound of laughter.
“Nothing so contrite…” it said. “You mortals get all hung up about your precious souls. You’ve never seen your soul, never touched it, never done anything with it. Yet, you scream like little girls at the bare mention of manipulating it. But it exists. It carries your memories, defines your existence, it is what churns your emotions to cast magic. But have you ever wondered, little Warden, why would the soul need emotions to generate magic? Why not create magic directly?”
For once, Harry didn’t have a comeback.
“It… it couldn’t be an innate process too,” he agreed reluctantly. He, more than anybody else, knew the effect emotions had on magic. Apart from the most baseline spellcraft, a certain mindset was necessary to cast most spells. Emotion was everything.
“If souls could just produce magic by themselves, then muggles… no, every soul in existence could do the same.”
“I am not Herpo,” said Ekrizdis, something feral in his features. “That fool came so close to discovering the truth, only to shift to his obsession with fleeing from Death. Sundering the soul into shards to keep myself anchored was not enough for me. Neither was I satisfied with Godric’s belief, condemning the mundane souls as accused, damaged systems. No, little Warden. I delved deeper, deeper into the fundamental essence of the soul, that which synthesises magic in magicals yet stays dormant in the mundane. That is where I discovered them. Animons.”
“...Animons?”
The name did not ring a bell.
“Soul particles. Tiny shards of the Anima infused in souls. It is what churns out magic at the expense of emotions. Some are born with a higher percentage of Animons at birth, and those that aren’t, can conduct rituals and enact sacrifices to raise that number. The more Animons, the greater one’s affinity towards powerful and terrible magics —”
“And with that, the Anima’s hold on the person becomes even greater and more terrible,” finished Harry.
“Precisely,” said Ekrizdis, smiling. “Gather enough Animons, and you would not need standard spellcraft. I would cast no spell. I would wave no wand. Yet what I spoke would come to pass. From the great Shesha, I learnt that the ancient Indians knew of such powers — Vaak siddhi, they called it. Even in ancient Aramaic, there existed a phrase to describe that power that would be mine.”
Ekrizdis met Harry’s eyes.
“Avrah Kedavra.”
“I create what I speak,” Harry translated out aloud.
“From luring muggle sailors at sea to sucking out the souls of the damned, every single soul my dementors have imbibed found its way to me,” said Ekrizdis, taking several steps back. “Crafting dementors was the easy part. An ectoplasmic construct, controlled by animons, and connected to the Hive-Mind. To myself. A spiritual vacuum designed to suck souls in, adding to my expansion. I grew and grew, and before I knew it, I had silently and cluelessly crossed a critical threshold. A tipping point. I could exert enough metaphysical gravity to exist in this plane without anchoring myself in a physical body. I was still alive, but I needn’t be so. My consciousness, my soul, my Animus, expanded outward, and my physical body remained behind, not unlike a marionette.”
“Which the British Aurors paraded through the Ministry and flung off through the Veil,” Amelia concluded.
It made a frightening amount of sense. With enough Animons, Ekrizdis would be expanding his potency to degrees where he’d be able to shatter the foundations established by Wenlock’s Arithmancy, and enter the realms of Wishcrafting, operating with the raw, unbound magic of the Anima directly, without any bodily limitations. He would become — was becoming — a God.
“Yes,” said Ekrizdis in a ringing voice. “And you, little Warden, will be the final piece of the puzzle I need to complete my magnum opus.”
Harry clenched his wand tighter. “...Me?”
Ekrizdis gave him a sardonic grin. “Imagine my surprise, when my dementor was killed at Hogwarts. The soul, the indestructible soul, that which can be sundered by the killing curse, can be shattered and be made into horcruxes, but never destroyed, suffered exactly that fate.”
Harry stayed silent.
“I was perplexed. How was it that a person, alive and breathing, was channelling a power that destroyed animons? Destroyed the soul itself? You were a walking-breathing contradiction. An abomination to this Reality. I had faith that such a thing would inevitably destroy itself, or be destroyed by other powers without my interference. Yet look at yourself, not just alive, but in possession of two more powers just as potent as Death. And then I finally understood what I was seeing with my own eyes…something I’m certain you yourself have felt at times, isn’t it?”
A shudder ran down Harry’s spine.
“... what?”
“I am a hive-mind,” said Ekrizdis, extending both hands out. “I know souls in ways you cannot even begin to fathom. Even the greatest witches and wizards are lucky to have a quarter of their soul crafted out of animons. But you, little Warden, you have little else.”
Harry went still.
Even Amelia went still.
“A walking-breathing instrument of the Anima,” said Ekrizdis. “One that allows the power of the End, the power of Binding, and the power of Awakening to flow through it. Fate and Magic have marked you. Destiny stalks you. In all my centuries, I had yet to set my eyes upon a soul as primal. A Nexus Child.”
“Does that mean you’ll let him go?” asked Amelia slowly.
“Let him go?” repeated Ekrizdis in amusement. “He is my perfect meal, little witch. With the potential of his soul, and the gravity of my own Animus, I shall become the greatest spiritual existence upon this world. Greater than gods, greater than the Family magics and their Vessels… I shall become Animus Eternum.”
“Well…..” said Harry Potter. “Shit!”
Comments
Michael Ashryver
Hey there’s a story on AO3 that bears a striking resemblance to your story, Vessels, Cedric kidnapping Harry and being found dead in the cemetery with a number of pure bloods…. https://archiveofourown.org/works/58800157/chapters/149850151
TheMoistSoul
Having it be particles is silly. Makes it feel less like magic and more like high end particle physics. Which ig is what you're going for? But I vehemently disagree. Making MAGIC more scientific is boring and over done.
