It's the year 3003. Myths and legends of the famous Harry Potter are no more than that-myths and legends. The world is 1000 years more advanced. Instead of Quidditch (which first lost the use of Bludgers and then was outlawed completely due to the frequency of injury) they play the game Quid, which is based on the old game, but without the actual being on the field. They use 3D devices. This world has little to no problems except for the centuries old cult that worships the spirit of evil. What happens when the cult goes a little too far? What if they bring back something they are not prepared to handle? How will the world defeat the ancient evil that uses cunning and magic over technology and computers? The same way it was defeated 1000 years ago.

A/N: I couldn't quite figure out how to start this fic. My original idea was to introduce a new character, but that was out when I realized they'd have to be mentioned throughout the story and I really don't want to do that. So, the beginning may suck, but just go with it. I assure you it will get better soon.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.


The security guard for the Hangleton historic site shivered involuntarily. Those guys were back again. They were some sort of strange group that came by here every single night to the centuries old graveyard to one grave in particular. The writing on it had been carefully preserved-Tom Marvelo Riddle. It must have been either the son or the father because next to it were the graves of Tom Riddle and Nancy Riddle. But this group never went to the other two Riddle graves.

Every night they did some sort of strange ritual and the guard would have loved dearly to tell them to leave and never come back, but the site was open 24 hours a day and as long as they didn't try to destroy anything, they were allowed to be there.

They swept out in their long black cloaks, even in the summer's heat, oblivious to everyone. The first time he had seen them, the guard had looked on in curious interest, but now he was loath to look upon the site again. But as he kept his eyes carefully averted, he still heard every word. Not that he understood it. They were speaking in what was obviously an ancient language. They made strange lights appear, as though they thought they were doing magic. Even though the guard had never seen the devices to make such lights and sounds, he was sure they were hidden up their cloaks somewhere.

He started. Tonight was different. He had practically memorized their little routine. They would presumably call roll, then they would begin the typical ritual.

Tonight they didn't call roll. They called only one person who did not respond with the typical words. The figure walked forward and fell to his knees before the grave. The guard watched in fascination. The man took out a knife.

"Hey!" the guard yelled seeing his opportunity to kick them out once and for all. "No weapons at the sight!" He began running over to the strange men. They ignored him completely.

The man with the knife held out his hand and, the guard's horror, cut off his own hand!

The guard clutched his stomach. There was blood everywhere. The man made a small noise of pain, but began speaking.

"Ancient one! Come to us.we have given a small sacrifice!" He stopped, gasping in pain, but seemed determined to continue. "Please accept this offering such as was given during your last and fatal rein! Rise again to destroy those who destroyed you!"

The ground began to shake. The guard stumbled, stricken still by the hand lying on the ground.

The others in black robes seemed at last to acknowledge his presence. One of them grabbed him roughly by the back of his uniform and threw him onto grave where a horrible symbol of a skull with a snake protruding out of its mouth had appeared in the stone.

"Accept the greater sacrifice!" the man who had thrown him yelled. "Let this Muggle's death be your rebirth!" A long knife appeared suddenly in the man's hand. "Let you rise from the blood of the unworthy and join your faithful servants of the new age!" The knife fell. The guard's scream pierce the night.

The ground shook more violently. The people in black robes backed away from the grave where a giant crack had just appeared in the earth. A hand reached out of the crack, a bony, skeletal hand. It pulled itself up and attached to it was a sight that would make even the strongest of people quake in their shoes. It was a man such as hadn't been seen in over a millennium.

The jet black hair was long and matted. The red eyes gleamed in the night like portals to hell itself. And on his deformed face was the rage of built up anger that needed an outlet. An anger that could destroy the world. Lord Voldemort was back.

A/N: Whoop! I'm putting another story out! Amazing! Okay, not really. I know, really short chapter, but it's called the prologue for a reason. My next chapters should be a little more than 2 pages. Please review!