Most goblins hope and pray that the Lightning Speaker is merely a myth—for if he is real, so are the Spider and the Viper.

-Sayern nar'Hazozh (History of the Treaty), translated circa 1952

He was vaguely aware that he wasn't quite there, wasn't present to stop this atrocity. He was vaguely aware that his body tossed and turned far away, sweat beading on its brow, scar in agony. But most of his awareness was taken up by the scene before him.

One of his classmates, the Slytherin Gregory Goyle, fidgeted in the corner of the room. He too stared at the ceremony—for what else could it be but a ceremony?—in fear. The light of the flame, dim red like smoldering embers, and the unnatural luminescence of the potion simmering above it cast the boy's face in sharp shadows, making his rough features more brutish than normal, his chin more pronounced, his nose a mountain. The flames reflected in his enormous eyes.

A thick man fussed over the fire, prodding at it with his wand. Once in a while he would glance up at an equally stocky woman, who stood guard over a bundle of cloth. The watcher did not like that bundle of cloth; he loathed it with an automatic, unreasoning hatred. It seemed to contain all that was wrong in the world.

"It's ready," the man—Goyle's father, he must be—grunted. The woman jerked her head in a nod. Arms trembling, she picked up the bundle.

Far to the north, a sweat-drenched boy let out a low moan.

The woman who could only be Goyle's mother staggered towards the cauldron. Jaw tight, trying not to look at the abomination in her arms, she unwrapped the bundle. One layer gone, and the boy shuddered. Two layers were removed and the monstrosity underneath was revealed to the world. Maggot-pale and slightly slimy, it vaguely resembled the fetus of a monster: large head; weak, spindly limbs; sunken chest. And the eyes: crimson eyes, bright and dark and horrible like blood whipped into foam, like death itself.

Goyle's mother could not bear to see it either, for she dumped it into the cauldron and half-sprinted backwards, her expression one of utter disgust. The watcher found himself hoping, pleading, praying that the thing was dead, that it had drowned, that the potion had been specifically designed to kill it. It was a blight on the face of the world, wrong to an extent he could not comprehend.

Something flickered in the atmosphere, a strong presence that he slipped behind. It felt like safety and home and hope, and he desperately needed those things. He needed them even more when the ritual began.

Goyle's father unwrapped another bundle. The watcher dreaded seeing what was inside this one, for after seeing the thing emerge from the first…. But no. The contents of this package were by no means good, but at least they were a natural foulness, something that did not make the universe rebel. The bones were yellowed and fragile with age, the flesh mercifully stripped away. Goyle Senior handled them delicately for such a large man, though he could not stop his hands from trembling.

"Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!"

The bones fell into the cauldron. Light flared as the liquid changed color. Cyan light tinted the Goyles' skin, giving them the pallor of corpses.

The watcher whimpered. 'Renewing' did not sound like the monster was going to die. Why are you doing this? Can't you see how foul, how unspeakably WRONG, this is? Stop it Goyle! Stop it! Make it stop! He wished with all his heart that he was here in person, that he could do something other than bear helpless witness to an atrocity, a perversion of nature and magic and all that was right and good with the world. But at the same time, he was so, so grateful that his true self was safe and snug and sound in bed, possibly hundreds of miles away from this terrible terrible scene.

Goyle Senior blanched. He glanced at his wife, at his son, and swallowed once. One hand reached into his robe, extracted a dagger that glowed blue in the potion's unnatural light. The other hand lifted up his shirt, revealing a rather large belly. The watcher really could have gone without seeing that belly. He took one glance and returned his attention to the knife, which was objectively more important.

"F-f-f-f-flesh," the man gasped, "flesh of the servant, willingly given—" His eyes squeezed shut; the muscles in his face jumped. "—you will revive your master!"

No! the watcher wanted to scream. It's not worth it! Stop this insanity!

But Goyle did not hear the spy's desperate, silent pleas. He plunged the dagger into his ample belly, gouging out a chunk of fat and skin and meat. If the watcher had been there in person, he would have gagged. Gasping, almost sobbing with pain, the man threw the piece of his own body into the potion. The blue brightened to hard red, not the color of blood or fire but something worse than either. The very light of it burned.

The sweat-drenched boy whimpered.

Goyle Senior gestured at his son. The younger Slytherin started, swallowed, his Adam's apple bouncing up and down. Very slowly, he reached into his pocket, withdrew a single scrap of fabric, rust-colored fabric, lurid in the red light. The watcher had no doubt that it was blood.

The protective presence seemed to snarl in fury.

The younger Goyle surrendered the stained cloth to his father, who brought it over to the horrible cauldron. Hand outstretched, the older man incanted, "Blood of the enemy—"

The watcher couldn't bear it anymore. He tried to charge the older wizard, to knock him to the ground, but he could not. His body was back in Scotland, writhing in his bed, and he could not move this new spirit form. He was paralyzed, his limbs frozen, even as his true body tossed and turned.

"—forcibly taken—"

But he had to try, didn't he? He railed against his limitations; it felt as though he were pinned under tons of stone and was trying to push them off his chest. It didn't work. The stones were just too strong.

"—you will resurrect your foe!"

The boy in Scotland howled in despair.

The potion flared, blazed more brightly than ever before. The flames beneath it leapt up, licking the sides of the enormous cauldron. Bubbles rose to the surface of the liquid and burst, releasing a thick curtain of steam.

Nonononono, let it have failed, pleaseohplease let it have failed….

But he knew in his bones that this ceremony, this abomination, had not been in vain.

Sure enough, a figure as long and pale and slender as the bone which had brought him back was rising from the mists. "Robe me," it hissed, its voice like that of a snake.

Without a word, Goyle Senior offered a fine dark robe to the figure in the smoke, to his master.

The mists cleared, revealing a face and form out of nightmares. Crimson eyes, white face, slitted nostrils. Thin lips twisted into an evil smirk.

Voldemort.

Hundreds of miles away, Mark Potter woke with a scream.

Duh duh DUH!

Yes. This is obviously going to be a big part of Book 5's plot. I... still have to make an outline (and a start) on the book itself, but it'll definitely involve old Voldie here. The first chapter (or maybe prologue) should be up on November 15, assuming that school doesn't kill me first. I think it's trying. I'll post a brief note on this story, too, when the first part of Book 5 is up.

You can still vote for the changeling's name on my profile poll. The poll will stay open until the changeling actually shows up.

Happy Halloween!

-Antares