Chapter 1 - The Dark Lord Calling

It was an early August morning. The grey mist was falling on the surface of the earth. Still green, but covered with white and frosty icing, the grass was glistening in the feeble sunshine that was slowly climbing over the edge of the earth. Everything seemed to be sleeping. Suddenly a sharp sound of a bird's wings cut across the absolute silence that was wrapped around the surroundings. Looking for a place to rest the blue bird circled around for a few moments until spotted and landed on a road sign that announced 'Spinner's End'.

'Spinner's End' was a small village. Its only road was lined with tiny, shabby houses on both sides. The wide road was deserted but for a dry-boned ginger cat who had stretched his whiskers towards the rising sun. At the end of this very road was a bigger and much gloomier looking house. It looked like no one would ever want to knock on the large wooden door – the house was as unwelcoming as a graveyard. The garden was unkempt, and the black curtains of the dirty windows drawn. Everything looked dead and abandoned.

But not everything in the house was dead. Despite the early morning, a dim light was lit and a young man was bustling, in an ancient looking kitchen. He was murmuring quietly and waving a thin wooden wand, causing objects in the kitchen to fly around. Just as he summoned a large cup of tea there was a knock on the window. For a moment the man looked slightly alarmed but then hurried over to the window and wrenched it open. Frowning he looked down at a brown owl who carried a large, rolled-up newspaper attached to its leg. The man untied the newspaper, paid the owl for the delivery and slammed the window shut. Within seconds he had settled in a creaky chair and taking a large sip of tea, he unrolled the paper which was called 'The Daily Prophet'.

Looking down his large and hooked nose, his black eyes scanned the articles without interest. His black hair was falling around his face like a curtain. Although quite young he had an air of a tired and worn-out man. There was a deep crease between his eyebrows and his eyes were bloodshot. No doubt, he had not been sleeping for many days. He looked up having completely lost interest for news. Only few days were left until he had to return to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and resume to his post as a Potions master. It seemed very unlikely that the Headmaster Albus Dumbledore would ever allow him to take over his desired position of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. Had not he shown that he could be trusted? Having worked as a spy for him against the most dangerous Dark Wizard the world has ever seen, for nearly half his life. Dumbledore trusted him in every aspect, except for this. As if it would not be annoying to teach those blockheads at all. And Potter, precious Potter. What does Dumbledore see in him? He is an arrogant, attention-seeking, rule-breaking boy. Not to mention his mediocre skills of magic. But after all that happened at the Ministry? Even he had to admit that Potter had done pretty well there. Of course he was not supposed to be there at all, but he never managed to master Occlumency, which cost him a high price – his Godfather's life. What about the prophecy? How much of this 'Chosen One' rubbish is true? He had not heard the full prophecy. Oh, it was such a long time ago… The man rubbed his eyes. He would rather forget everything what happened then. He was ashamed. He made a mistake, probably the biggest one in his life.

As he was thinking this his left forearm suddenly burned painfully. He rolled up his left sleeve to reveal to his eyes the Dark Mark that was brandished into his skin. It was bright black. Yes, it has been so for a while now, as the Dark Lord was back. Now he was calling him again. Sighing deeply, he got up and touched the Mark with the tip of his wand. He was summoned instantly.