Alias of Chaos

Oh, my, Goddess. I seem to have jumped on the bandwagon as well. I'll tell you this now, this is a Yugioh/Harry Potter crossover. And, there is also a shounen-ai(slash) alert in future chapters. Probably not with any of the Harry Potter cast. We'll have to see.

Enjoy, my kiddies… Mwahahaha…..

~ * ~

Wormtail quavered as he brought over the Mason jar containing a mass of internal flesh and muscle. It was warm in his hand, still beating with a dying life through the thick glass.

"Wormtail, bring me the dragon's heart. We have much to do before the ritual is ready." The voice of his master hissed harshly in his ears. Wormtail shuttered yet again, remembering back to when He Who Must Not Be Named slew the graceful and terrible beast. Glimmering red it had been, with shimmering jaws the likes of which neither had ever seen. His master had said that it was the perfect one. Only the best and the rarest could be accepted to summon what his master was calling 'the ultimate vehicle of power and destruction.'

The man set down the glass jar on a tree stump behind the Dark Lord and went back to where the last of their ingredients was still waiting.

Everything had to be just right to perform this ritual. The person daring the summon had to be strong willed, almost as invincible as that of which they were summoning, and have such powers too powerful to be spoken of.

He Who Must Not Be Named. You Know Who. The Dark Lord.

If his powers weren't strong enough to summon this awesome creature, then nothing on the earth could. Only Voldemort himself had the power to call upon it. The Wielder of Chaos. The Prince of the Darkness. The Spirit of the Shadows. Midnight's favored son.

And I'm the only one that will be able to control it.

"Wormtail, quickly now, the girl. Bring her here." The Dark Lord finished arranging the runes in a triangle, lining them up perfectly with the purple colored candles and the dragon heart in the center.

The girl that Wormtail brought up with his new hand, a gift from his master, was very small, even for her age. About eleven years, her parents had said. That was, of course, before Voldemort blew their tiny little bodies all into pieces. Her powers of being a witch had been promising, her beauty beginning to blossom as she grew in height and age. Pure golden hair fell about her blind-folded head.

It had been forbidden that she look upon the Dark Lord. She must remain pure for the ceremony. She could not be tainted, or else she could not attract this powerful beast.

Wormtail placed her directly in the center of the triangle, forcing her to hold the Mason jar with the dragon's heart that was somehow still beating. She whimpered slightly, afraid at what would happen to her.

"Now," Voldemort hissed. "We begin."

Streams of summer moonlight began to diminish as He Who Must Not Be Named began a chant in an old language, forgotten by the common man. Wormtail could not understand it. It seemed too choppy for him. Too concise.

There was only one word that Wormtail heard the most as it echoed in the empty cemetery.


What did it mean? His master had not told him much. Only that they would need to be at a burial site, as this kind of creature and all others like it had a strange affinity for the dead, an infinite respect for those who have passed on. And the ritual had to be performed at night. And only on a full moon.

The dark fire emitted by the purple-hued candles began to rise, circling up around the shivering girl placed in the center. An invisible barrier seemed to have been placed outside of the triangle and the fire, the purple and crimson swirls, and the magic escaping from the stone runes, it all circled upward in a pyramid-type fashion.

Faintly, Wormtail could hear the dragon's heart beat faster as the chanting grew louder. The Dark Lord kept his serpent like hands up, magic of crushing forces flowing around him. Laughing echoed through the still, darkening night.

The very air felt like it was constricting Wormtail's breathing as he tried to watch his master's evil work, tension and stress and electric waves crashing into him. Closing his eyes to clear his vision, white and gold and crimson and blood flashed before his closed lids.

Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he opened his eyes once again, seeing the girl try to scream as the purple colors from the candles dug into her flesh, tore out her blind-folded eyes, traveled down her throat and forced her blood from the very pores of her flesh. The Mason jar shattered, and the still-beating heart exploded in all directions, filling the rest of the contained little word of chaos and pain. Wormtail felt as if his head were about to explode as well, the noise so loud now it was deafening, drowning out the chanting of his master.

It was so cold… the darkness was going to close in any minute now…

Consume him soul… his mind…his flesh…

An earth shattering moment later, all was silent. And all was eerily still.

Wormtail starred into the departing colors of purple and red, noticing with a mild shock that the young girl was gone. In her place...

Darkness. Complete and utter darkness.

There was not much that he could see. A dark figure perhaps? Clouded in darkness and secrets and ancient pasts?

Red eyes snapped open in the midst of the ever flowing shadows about this figure, endless pools of stark red blood. Raging and furious and insanity aglow.

Not like his master's, whose glowing red eyes were cold and harsh and had no pupils.

No, these eyes had pupils, dilated with rage and a calculating cruelty.

"Who dares to summon me," a deep voice commanded. Regal, dark, smooth like honey and rum and yet so cold it could freeze moonshine.

Voldemort laughed. It had worked! It actually worked! "Spirit of the Shadows, Chaos's favored son. Your powers have been called upon to wreak havoc upon the mortal world. Slave, thy master calls. Come to me!"

Spirit? Wormtail looked harshly at the dark figure with the glowing bloodied eyes. This didn't look like any spirit. He looked, in fact, quite solid.

All was silent for a moment as the dark figure stood there, starring down Voldemort with a vengeance.

"I will do no such thing."

Wormtail shivered. This could not bode good for him or his master.

Voldemort seemed undeterred. "I am your master, I summoned you with my own blood. You will be bound to me to do my bidding. Now come!"

The darkness growled, angered at the title he had been given.

"Listen well, human. I am a God. I will do as I please. And you," the darkness paused, bringing his lowered hands from his sides out just slightly, dark purple and crimson shadows forming in his dusky hands. "You have tampered with a sacred balance. A balance that I will destroy the earth in order to protect."

This was not good. It appeared that the Dark Lord would have to get rid of this one precious tool. If he could not control it, nothing could, and would thus get in his way. He Who Must Not Be Named sneered, preparing his wand for the forbidden curse. "And what balance is that," he asked, buying himself more time.

"The balance of Order and Chaos."

"Avada Kedavra!" The Dark Lord cried, pointing his long wand at the Shadow's favored son.

Wormtail watched horrified as the green hued energy bounced harmlessly off the darkness as if it had never been.

The shadows sneered. "And you will learn what happens when you summon what you cannot control. For you have just unleashed the powers of Chaos." The darkly glowing orbs of shadows expanded viciously, licking outward towards its prey. Wormtail could only remember hearing his master's scream, and the cold, harsh laughter of the darkness as his whole world went black.

~ * ~

Professor Albus Dumbledore, Head Master of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Head Mugwump of International Confederation of Wizards, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Order of Merlin First Class, and overall renowned Wizard Good Guy, stood quietly as he observed the wreckage surrounding him.

This was a very small muggle cemetery that was about thirty miles away from Nowhere, Great Britain. The Order had called him via floo-powder about two minutes ago, telling him to apparate immediately.

He didn't need them to tell him of this carnage, though. He felt it half-way around the world in Chile. He had hoped to get a nice summer vacation, even if he couldn't wear the favored Speedo of the native men there. A nice pair of blaze orange shorts and a canary yellow shirt had sufficed.

He had been in the middle sipping his virgin strawberry daiquiri when he felt a sudden surge in power, the balance of good and evil suddenly thrown terribly out of whack.

He needed to scour the area before the Ministry could get their grubby little paws on the site. With Voldemort on the loose, if the Order didn't find critical information first, it could, and most likely would for that matter, get last in the hands of Cornelius Fudge, and a devastating accident could occur, simply because the Order had not been prepared.

So far, there was absolutely nothing.

Well, all right. So there was a strange silvery hand that had been found, scathed and punctured and yet no blood drawn, but no bodies. No magical evidence anywhere. There was absolutely nothing that Albus Dumbledore was able to trace.

He followed the path of destruction in the pale moonlight, wishing that there had been at least a bit of debris to follow. Everything in the area had been decimated.

Suddenly, his sharp eyes noticed a lump of black in the very center of the non existent cemetery.

Walking up, closer inspection revealed the pile to be, indeed, a young boy soundly asleep on the scorched black ground. Albus held up his wand. "Lumos." A soft light flooded his vision.

It was the strangest thing he had ever seen. Soft, cherubic features greeted his eyes, spiked black hair tipped in a vibrant ruby. A golden crown of spiked bangs fell gracefully across peach infused cheeks, framed ebony eyes closed peacefully. The boy looked to be no older than twelve, thirteen maybe, wearing clothing strange for even the wizarding world. Midnight black leather pants and shirt, buckles strapped across his chest. Black leather wrist bands studded with silver around both wrists, and gold bands adorning his biceps and forearms. He also donned a leather collar around his neck, and a rather large trinket was faintly twinkling in the moonlight. Professor Dumbledore recognized it as a miniature of an Egyptian pyramid, the faint lines around its surface revealing it to be a three dimensional puzzle.

What is it muggles called others like this? Goths?

The boy was out cold. The question now though; what was he doing in the middle of one of the worst scenarios of destruction, and what was the Order going to do with him?

~ * ~

Harry Potter had woken up quite early that morning. Of course, he'd been waking up early quite frequently these days. Now that his worst enemy had risen back to power, and now that everyone actually knew about it, Voldemort had decided to have a bit of fun over the summer.

People in the Wizard world were scared out of their mind. Harry didn't have to get the Daily Prophet or hear about it in his letters from his friends. He could feel it. Every time Voldemort killed. Every time he was happy.

Harry's lessons with Snape the previous year, though short, had done nothing to help him through this. But Dumbledore told him that as long as he remained here at his aunt and uncle's house, he would be safe.

That is, of course, if he didn't starve fist.

Aunt Petunia had been particularly harsh this summer. After he seemed to simply 'vanish' last summer, much to his relatives' delight, they had been particularly angry when he came back home, escorted by none other than Arthur Weasely, the man that had decimated their living room a couple of years ago.

Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, and his cousin Dudley had been nothing but pure Hell for ten weeks and counting.

This night had been slightly different, though. He felt unbelievable amounts of pure and unsuppressed pain coursing through his system tonight. Voldemort had actually screamed in agony.

Harry was still shaking slightly. He wondered how his scar looked right now. Did it ever glow when he felt like this? It sure felt like it did.

He brought his hand up to his head, surprised when he saw a red liquid on his fingers when his brought it back down.

The pain had been so horrendous, it actually made his scar bleed tonight.

Using his pajama sleeve, he wiped the perspiration from his forehead, smearing the blood in the process.

'Fabulous. Wonder what Uncle Vernon will say about that. 'Trying to hurt yourself to get our attention? Well, it's not going to work boy!'' Harry was so angry, in so much pain, and so flustered about Voldemort and what he could have possibly done tonight, he wanted to spit, scream, stomp around and maybe even destroy one of Aunt Petunia's terrible crumb cakes.

'Wonder when I'll be picked up this year,' he thought idly, remember that every time he went back to Hogwarts, someone or other picked him up a month or so before school start and brought him back to the Wizarding world where he belonged. After all, he realized that years ago the Muggle world was not, by any means, his home.

Not in the least.

There was a crash from somewhere downstairs. The kitchen, perhaps?

Harry suddenly became very alert. What if someone broke into the house? Maybe Voldemort had somehow found a way in? What if…

Stumbling down onto the floor, Harry reached for the loose floor board under his bed, pulled it up, and then quickly grabbed his wand. Since Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon locked away all of his Wizarding things in the summer, when he got off the train he remember to stash it under his sweater, then hide it under his bed just in case he might need it to protect himself.

Steeling himself for what was to come, he cracked open his bedroom door, (which thankfully hadn't been locked yet) and headed downstairs.

And it was really odd that his aunt and uncle had not yet woken up. They were still asleep? And Dudley?

Slowly, Harry eased his way down the creaky stairs, listening intently to any noise. Sounded like chairs were being scuffled about in the kitchen.

Easing open the kitchen door just slightly, Harry saw none other than the House Elf Dobby tripping over his guinea sack.

"Dobby!" Harry whispered loudly. "What are you doing !?"

The little elf whirled his too-large head around, blinking up at Harry with big watery eyes. "Harry Potter! Dobby is so glad to see you, Harry Potter! Dobby has missed you!"

Harry blinked. Not the answer he was looking for. "Dobby, what are you doing here? I could get in trouble if my aunt and uncle see you!"

"Oh, Dobby is very sorry, Harry Potter, but Dobby has important news for you." He made one final whirl of his small body, finally freeing his meager garments from the chair. Harry noted with amusement that this time Dobby had on three pairs of socks. Two of them were miss-matched green and blue polka-dots, while the other pair had more holes than Swiss cheese.

"News?" Harry blinked.

The little elf nodded his head vigorously. "Professor Albus Dumbledore said to get all of Harry Potter's things together right away!" Dobby lowered his head, whispering even more quietly. "The Order must speak immediately to Harry Potter."

Harry stood quietly for a moment, slightly taken aback. The Order needed to speak with him? Now?

"Order members will be hear shortly to pick you up, Harry Potter. Get packing! See you at Hogwarts, yes?"

"Ah, yes, see you at Hogwarts," Harry replied.

With a pop Dobby was gone.

The Order needed to speak with him now? About what?

Probably about what happened tonight. Ask him about his scar. What else could it be?

Harry sighed, heading back upstairs. He could at least get dressed. That way he wouldn't show up with everyone starring at him in his pajama clothes. Harry had been packed all summer, though. So there wasn't that much to do. Except maybe lock up Hedwig's cage.

Turning around, Harry headed back upstairs, wondering if the Order was going to knock on the front door or fly in through a window. After all, last year, they appeared into his kitchen, playing with the toaster and marveling at the little wonders that muggles use on a daily basis.

Such as, for instance, a 'fellytone.'

It seemed this summer was turning out to be just as mysterious as the last one.

~ * ~