Chapter Nine: The Fourth Mistake

"I only joined the Death Eaters in the first place to get a shot at Bellatrix."

Magical rituals are fickle things.

"I—sometimes—enjoy Muggle jazz music."

They aren't spells. That's the first thing people get wrong. Spells are simple and well understood. Use a wand, focus your mind, channel your inner magic through the wand, say the words, and bam. Magic happens. The more accurately you perform the incantation and the gestures, the more efficient your mind and wand can channel the magic to get the desired effect. But wands are barely two thousand years old—new inventions, in the grand scheme of things. They were the product of human ingenuity at its finest, creating a simple tool that allows anyone (well, anyone that mattered, anyway) to perform simple, reliable magic. The real beauty of a wand is how safe it is. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, botching an incantation results in nothing happening at all. When something does happen, ninety-nine times in a hundred it's harmless magical discharge—sparks, light, noise. Uncommonly, there are minor magical side effects, easily remedied. Still, very rarely, reckless wand usage can result in severe injury or even death. Nevertheless, they are considered safe enough to be given to children. But rituals are not like spells.

"My family is deeply in debt because of my gambling problem. My husband hasn't found out yet."

Rituals are dangerous. One wrong word, one wrong ingredient, and you're lucky if all that results is death. It's the ones that create life that you have to worry about.

"I like to kill insects just for the fun of it."

Rituals are not invented, either. That is the second thing that people get wrong. Spells have inventors, often famous ones, who work to tease out the shifting, often nonsensical rules of magic and create spells that allow one to repair glasses, to chop onions, to turn rats into teacups, to speak to a crowd, or even to kill. It was a field of lore that Lucius Malfoy knew little about, but that wizards and witches with much more skill and much less ambition than he could regularly work with to produce hundreds of new spells every day, usable by anyone in the world with the patience and time to learn (except for Muggles, of course). But rituals are not invented. They are discovered. Chant a little Old Aramaic, burn a little sandalwood, sprinkle a powder made from the canine teeth of a child murdered by his brother over a bowl containing stone from a fallen star under the light of a crescent moon and, in three days, it will rain vinegar. (This is true. Try it at home; see for yourself).

"I still pick my nose."

And nobody knows why. That terrified Lucius. Who out there was watching, waiting, to see that someone performed the ritual and had the power to follow up with the effects? More troublingly, why would they do it? What possible gain could this shadowy entity get from powdered teeth and space rocks? Or maybe there was no entity, and it was a fundamental property of the universe that vinegar would rain in the middle of the lunar month because somebody said the right words in a dead language? Lucius wasn't sure which was worse.

"I killed my sister's cat with a steak knife after it vomited on my bed. Everybody thinks he ran away."

Almost more frightening was that rituals were, apparently, timeless. Worse than the chanting in dead languages was the chanting in languages that hadn't yet been created. In the early 1600s, Italian explorers discovered an apparently isolated tribe living on an island in the south pacific whose magical population regularly made use of a rain-causing ritual whose incantation, it was discovered in 1976, was in perfect, modern Esperanto.

"Ever since my injury, I've had nightmares of that Muggle girl with the metal wand coming back to finish the job."

All of this brought up the uncomfortable question of who it was who first figured that out. It can't have been coincidence, or even experimentation. Maybe there was one Neo-Assyrian dentist with a weird thing for meteorites who stumbled across the vinegar ritual. But that such an event would have happened many thousands of times in written history defies imagination.

"I wanted to be a Hufflepuff."

All evidence suggested that wizards and witches across all cultures and throughout history and pre-history were, on occasion, suddenly inspired to collect a series of essentially random articles and chant complete gibberish. Stranger still was how often they felt the desire to pass this information along. Even supposedly 'secret' rituals still wound up written down and preserved through fires, Muggle witch hunts, wars, and natural disasters, despite the self-evident fact that the best way to keep anything secret was to not write it down in the first place—and, of course, kill or Obliviate any witnesses. Rituals, it appeared, wanted to be discovered—and, more troubling, wanted to be shared.

"I haven't loved my wife in years."

All of this is to say that Lucius Malfoy did not generally approve of the use of ritual magic. In fact, the one timethat the situation had grown desperate enough that he decided to overcome his natural suspicion of ritual magic, he'd accidentally set in motion a series of events that culminated in the precise opposite of his desire. Rather than prevent the Dark Lord's return, he'd brought it about.

"I wanted to be an Auror, but couldn't get my Transfiguration Owl."

And now here was the final product of that ritual, preparing to perform it again. Lucius wished he could bring himself to believe it was mere coincidence.

"I'm worried I might be an alcoholic and don't know who to talk to about it."

And now it was Lucius's turn. The ritual required all participants to reveal one secret that they had never spoken aloud to anyone before. What he hadn't mentioned, however, was that it didn't need to be an important secret.

"I don't have strong feelings either way about American versus English spelling."

The only one who hadn't spoken was Riddle, their thirteenth. Lucius found himself strangely curious—would he fall into the trap of the others, and allow the drama of the situation to colour their choice of secrets? Would he follow Lucius's route, and reveal something meaningless? Would he choose a secret that, when revealed, would provide some sort of gain?

"Sssthisss kerasshe ssslan ssssshira."

Clever. By speaking in Parseltongue, Riddle could both avoid revealing any information he desired to keep secret, but also reminded people that yes, despite his youthful appearance, he really was the Dark Lord. Hardly subtle, but subtlety was often lost on the other Death Eaters.

Riddle kicked the sacrifice into the middle of the circle. Who had Riddle chosen as an equivalent exchange for Bellatrix, supposedly the greatest Death Eater who ever lived? Who was, in Riddle's mind, greater than anyone else present in the circle? Was it McGonagall? Or perhaps a great Auror, like Moody? The alchemist, Flamel? Lucius began to worry that, maybe, Riddle decided the best way to find a close equal would be to choose Bellatrix's own sister, Narcissa Malfoy...

Riddle removed the sheet covering the victim, and Lucius had to strangle a laugh as their face was revealed.

Riddle's chosen equal for Bellatrix Lestrage, widely considered the greatest duelist of her generation, killer of an unknown number of wizards, witches, and Muggles alike, famed for torturing Alice and Frank Longbottom to the point of insanity and well beyond was none other than Gilderoy Lockhart.

For a moment, Lucius wished the ritual actually worked the way that everyone else believed. It would make his life so much easier. As it was, this would only serve to cement Lockhart's reputation. How strange the way the world works sometimes...

o—o—o—o

A bored rat is an unhappy rat, and it's up to you to provide fun and games for your little guy. Hannah looked up from the pamphlet she'd gotten from the pet store and watched Mordenkainen. She hadn't ever really realized what a big rat he was. He'd always seemed so tame and friendly around Milo, but ever since his... disappearance... Mordy hadn't been the same.

Hermione had been almost too happy to give him up to Hannah. Almost suspiciously happy, actually. She really should have thought to ask why the bookish girl's hands were covered in bandages...

Hannah sighed. Her parents were not going to like this.

o—o—o—o

A dark, flickering orb slowly grew out of Bellatrix's chest. She didn't appear particularly perturbed by it.

"I though this might happen," Milo muttered. He glanced outside. He hadn't been keeping track, but he was willing to bet it was within a few seconds of exactly three days since Boccob had brought him back. The old Wizard hadn't ever intended for him to beat Bellatrix, all he'd wanted was for Milo to be in this room at this precise moment.

"What's happening?" Relkin asked. "Is that—oh. Oh." Comprehension dawned on her face. She—like Milo—had never seen this from the outside, before.

"I don't have a lot of time," Milo said. "Wellby," he said, turning to face the Wellby. "I'm sorry you had to spend so long in her thrall. I wish we had more time to talk. Look after my sister for me, okay? And tell Gerard and Zook I said something appropriate."

"You're talking like you're about to—hey, wait," Wellby's mouth dropped. "Your sister? Since when do you have a family?"

Milo turned to Relkin. "Sis..." No, gross. Never again. "Relkin. This world is in your hands, now. Level up a little, then go after that vizier guy, kay? He's bad news."

"I know, I know," Relkin said. "He probably has four or five high-level, quirky underlings for us to work through, first."

"Look after Mom," Milo said. The sphere had almost completely enveloped Bellatrix, now.

"Look after yourself," Relkin said. "I don't think you can count on another deus ex machina like the one Boccob threw at you." She sighed, and unbuckled her belt reluctantly. "Take this with you," she said. "You'll need it more than me." Milo grabbed it. The leather felt familiar—it was almost identical to the Belt of Hidden Pouches that he'd once had.

Milo shook his hands out of his sleeves once again, Readying a spell. He knew what was coming, this time. The sphere had almost completely enveloped Bellatrix, now.

Milo sprinted towards the disappearing witch and dived towards her. Just as he was about to make contact, he shouted, "Feather Fall!"

The world turned dark and cold.

o—o—o—o

The circle of candles flared into life, burning dozens of times brighter than any natural flame could.

Gilderoy Lockhart looked around with his eyes wide, a rag shoved into his mouth as a gag.

"Bellatrix Lestrange," Tom Riddle spoke. Despite the light, his face was dark as night, except for his eyes... Lucius shivered. The Parseltongue hadn't been necessary; one look at his eyes was all that was necessary to prove his identity. "Bellatrix Lestrange," Riddle said again. A west wind buffeted them, almost knocking Lucius from his feet. The flames, however, weren't affected at all. "Bellatrix Lestrange," Riddle said for the third and final time. The air went perfectly still, and, between one second and the next, Lockhart vanished.

Maybe it won't work, Lucius thought. Last time, we specified a great and powerful wizard by name—by name—and look what happened. Instead of the great Archmage, the enigmatic Ninth of Eight, supposedly the first wizard that ever existed, all they got was some half-crazed, semi-human child.

There was a flash of darkness that left Lucius blinking spots out of his eyes, and Bellatrix appeared a few feet above the ground, covered, for some reason, in grey dust.

She slammed into the moss as if she'd fallen from a much greater height, and there was a gristly snap of bones breaking. She lay on the ground, groaning faintly.

Lucius almost lost his usually iron control. He felt like breaking something. After all that work I'd gone through to get rid of the woman, she just comes right back.

Lucius closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, calming himself down. The damage was done. The important thing now was to establish his position as—

"Glitterdust!" Everything went yellow-white. Oh, no, Lucius just had time to think before the inevitable happened. "Evard's Black Tentacles!"

o—o—o—o

Mordenkainen looked up, directly into Hannah's eyes.

"Squeak?" he said.

Hannah blinked. Sure, rats tend to squeak a lot, but...

Well, they just sort of squeak. They don't really say 'squeak.'

"Mordy?" She said. "Is that really you in there? You're… back?"

The rat nodded impatiently "Squeak!" he insisted.

Hannah tossed the pamphlet away and opened the latch on the top of the cage. Mordy climbed his way up the bars and brachiated, monkey-like, across the top. With an acrobatic flourish, he flung himself out of the cage and landed on the top.

Hannah was barely watching, though—instead, she was fishing her broomstick out from her closet. As an afterthought, she also pulled on the spell-enhanced robe Milo had given her. She also pocketed her wand, though she knew she wasn't allowed to use it.

"Coming?" she said, holding a hand out for the rat.

o—o—o—o

Milo touched the ground gently.

It was a nice change from his usual method of entry to alternate planes of existence.

Among the writhing mass of glitter-covered, black, rubber tentacles generally ruining the day of a not-insignificant number of Death Eaters was none other than Tom Riddle, who was attempting to hack his way out of the mess with a sword. A tentacle had firmly grabbed his wand hand.

Milo narrowed his eyes.

"Return," he muttered. The sky-coloured crystal in the sword's pommel flashed briefly, and it appeared in Milo's hand. Riddle blinked in surprise, staring at his now-empty hand. Then he looked up, and met Milo's eyes. To think, Milo had gotten a discount when he'd made the item by making the return functionality only work for capital-"W" Wizards. Technically the item was weaker by being more limited, but in practice, it was strictly an advantage.

"Fourth mistake, pretty boy," Milo said, bashing the sword's golden hilt into the Dark Lord's nose with an enormously satisfying cer-UNCH.

Sure, a spell would be more effective, but when would he get the chance to punch He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in the face again? Besides, it was a free attack of opportunity; his turn's real action would have to be used getting the heck away from this mess.

Riddle touched his nose. His fingers came away red.

"PCs are never beaten in battle. They can always come back for another go." Milo sheathed the sword in Relkin's Belt of Hidden Pouches. Without his amulet of Mirror Move, it was more a liability than an asset. "Now, eat Kelgore's Fire B—"

"Stop," Riddle commanded, his eyes flashing red.

Milo blinked. His hand was outstretched, but the spell was gone from his mind.

Riddle smirked, despite his precarious position and broken nose. "I'd been doing magic long before that fool gave me a wand," he said. "Now. Draw." Despite himself, Milo found himself drawing his sword once more. "Now, Kill Yourse—"

Something huge and heavy slammed into Milo from the side, knocking him well clear of the tentacles. An enormous black dog pinned him down against the dewy grass.

The dog looked him in the eye for a moment, and the next thing Milo knew, he was being carried through the forest by a gaunt, skeletal man with long, dark hair.

"Idiot," the man said.

"What—who—why—no, let's stick with who. Who are you?" Milo asked.

"Hang on," the man said. At first, Milo assumed he meant it as in, 'wait and I'll tell you,' but he quickly realized the man was speaking literally.

A moment later, Milo was hanging on to the back of the giant black dog again, being carried through the forest at speeds that were, frankly, irresponsible given the darkness and density of trees. As requested, Milo hung on for dear life.

A green bolt slammed into the tree in front of them. Brown and red leaves rained over them as the tree died.

Milo attempted to throw up an Illusory Wall to screen them, but the dog's mad sprint threw off his concentration.

He'd have to be a little less ambitious with his spell choice if he wanted to be able to cast with any reliability from the back of a sprinting dog, he realized. "Dancing Lights," he muttered quietly, firing a spray of vaguely hostile-looking red bolts behind him, shouting, "Diddlum's Deadly Death, er, Bolts!" With their pursuer presumably cowering in fear from his 'attack,' he risked a glance around. A couple of Death Eaters—he couldn't distinguish them between their hoods and the darkness—were following on broomstick, weaving between trees. Just to confuse them, he had his Dancing Lights swoop around again from behind and just barely miss the one in front, this time green, making a passable imitation of the Killing Curse.

The lead Death Eater veered away from her partner, making a rude gesture with her hand.

"Can't you, like, Apparate or something?" Milo shouted at the dog as they ran. The dog didn't reply, which Milo took as a negative. Technically Milo could use Dimension Door to teleport them away, but its range was pretty limited, and he wasn't sure he could pull it off from horse—er, dog-back. Similarly, he could summon a Phantom Steed and run significantly faster than this dog, though the Steed couldn't carry the both of them and he didn't want to leave his rescuer (?) behind.

Milo did some rapid arithmetic in his head.

"Grease!" he cast again, targeting the broomstick under the rear Death Eater. The broomstick, now frictionless, continued to accelerate, but the Death Eater did not. The results were fairly predictable.

No, that didn't really help them escape—two more Death Eaters flew up to take the place of the one he'd taken out—but it did push him just over the experience-point threshold to level nine.

In addition to getting him to level four of Rainbow Servant, which came with all kinds of goodies, this allowed him to have been retroactively researching two spells—and also allowed him to more ranks in Concentration. For his spells, he snagged the 5th-level Wall of Stone and Teleport, both spells he decided—in the thirty seconds or so in which he had to consider this decision—would be useful in this world.

Not immediately helpful, of course, because as Wizards have to rest for eight hours in order to prepare any spell slots of their level.

Well. A lesser Wizard would, anyway.

As this was his ninth level, he was able to choose a feat—in this case, Versatile Spellcaster. He hadn't been planning on taking this one, but he couldn't see any other way out of the current situation without it.

Versatile Spellcaster was never intended for Wizards, but Sorcerers. Technically, however, it only requires one to be able to "spontaneously cast spells," which Milo could do thanks to his ridiculously powerful Spontaneous Divination ability.

Outside of a few unnecessarily complicated, if powerful, tricks that Milo wasn't in any position to utilize, Versatile Spellcaster was a strictly mediocre feat that allows one to burn two spell slots of a lower level in order to cast one of a higher level, bypassing the whole "preparation" business.

"This is going to feel weird," he said to the dog. "But don't fight it if you want to live." Without waiting for a response, he began casting. This was the most complicated spell he'd used to date, and the circumstances were hardly ideal. He'd to bring all of his focus to bear.

"Teleport."