Green Eyes, Black Sand

Abby Ebon

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Summary: Mozenrath x Harry. Slash. Set after "Two to Tangle", and at the end of OrderofthePhoenix. Voldemort just wanted a magical servant – what he got was Mozenrath, who wants to do more to Harry then just kill him…

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I do not own Aladdin the TV series. Or Movies.

Notes; to those like myself who had mostly forgotten Mozenrath until recently, he is one of the bad guys in the "Aladdin" TV series; he never played a part in the movies though Disney did leave vague hints to him being Aladdin's brother. This lets me raise an eyebrow and snicker because Mozenrath uses a lot of...um...possessives concerning Aladdin.

Also, in the last episode with Mozenrath, he made an appearance as Jasmine, nearly got kissed by Aladdin - and tried to take over Aladdin's body. He speaks like something out of a wet dream, slow, rich, and very educated. He has pale skin (to put a contract to Aladdin's dark), dark eyes (showing similarity), and dresses elegantly (while Aladdin dresses in "rags") I'm assuming black hair but we never see it in the TV series. To add a bonus – a talking shape-shifting flying eel, so much more cooler then a misspoken monkey, a parrot, a flying carpet – or even a genie! It speaks in first person but it's so damned cute with its cuddly feelings for Mozenrath you forgive its annoying tendency to be a bitch to write its dialogue. It also serves as an informant to Mozenrath's plots which otherwise we would have no clues to. This will be one of my darker stories, not only will Harry turn dark – he's going to enjoy it. Mozenrath's just the man to see to his corruption…so, read, I dare you!

Author Note; Or "Why Abeo Wants To Write With LynnGryphon."

To those confused with this author note, see "Spandex Clad and Superhuman" and "What Happened At Mardi Gras", or the upcoming "Mistakes of Animagus Proportions". In short this is, again, all her idea… – I love her for it – no matter that I have a third story –this one not a one-shot - to lay at the blame on her feet, she comes up with the most fantastic worlds for me to play in. This is my attempt to coax her into writing with me, who knows it might very well be successful... –gives LynnGryphon big puppy eyes- ...please-please-please?

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Rising the Dead

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"…Master, are you sure you wish to do this? It speaks of the darkest kind of magic…" A pentagram lay engraved - filled with the blood of a dozen children born of Voldemort's greatest enemies – muggles, on earth that had not seen sunlight for a hundred years, out of the corner of his eye it seemed to glimmer guiltily.

Voldemort paused as he looked over the words in the ancient scrolls – the foolish man that had spoken held his breath, likely hoping for reconsideration.

He should have known better – he was merely a loyal follower of the Dark Lord, born and bred for service – but not powerful. None of the five men who stood, their feet on either side of the lines that pointed toward them like dragger tips were powerful. None of them would be missed.

"I assure you, I know what I am doing – this will not even take very much longer." Voldemort soothed them, his gaze going over their faces, where once their eyes had flickered nervously in the dark, they steadied, unwilling to look afraid with the eyes of their master on them.

"…Yes, my Lord…" The man who had spoken murmured softly, when Voldemort's eyes fell on him – Voldemort smiled, perhaps they thought he had meant it to be reassuring – for some of them smiled back. After a final look over the ancient spell, Voldemort spoke to them one last time.

"Now – we shall begin, remember you are to chant the words after me – alike an echo, there will be no second chances." His tone promised many things – that if they failed, they would be worse off for it – that if they succeeded, the rewards would be great.

Voldemort was right – it only took five words – repeated by five willing sacrifices, for the ancient spell found buried in the sands to take effect. In front of Voldemort's very eyes, they were slaughtered ruthlessly; ones limbs were removed with only a shrill shriek – he bled out, dieing in the seconds it took for him to take one breath.

One unfortunate had his blood pour out of him like sweat in a matter of seconds – leaving him dry and his heart rupturing with the strain. Another's bones seemed never to have been – his own weight once supported by those bones smothered him in seconds.

The fourth had lost all his senses – could not hear, or taste, or smell, or see, or touch – he screamed, over and over until his throat was slashed by the last, who had gone murderously mad.

That one was the only one killed by Voldemort in a flash of green light. He had determined that there would be no evidence of this, the darkest of magic. As if to answer his request that this be unseen, the shadows within the cave moved, gathering in the pentagram like a thick fog.

On the ground the blood was glimmering – evaporating to keep a line of red around the shadows, keeping whatever lay on the other side - away from Voldemort.

Just as suddenly as the shadow fog arrived, it lifted – parted smoothly, two walls of it on either side of the pentagram… in the center was a naked man reborn again with all the knowledge of the ancient past.

His name, Voldemort knew – was Mozenrath.

Then, as if it had never been, the pentagram flared once – then task gone, completing the last part of the ritual – to bind Mozenrath to him, until Voldemort released him by dieing – or by giving him information on the spell used to raise Mozenrath from the dead. Voldemort intended to do neither.

Without much effort, Voldemort knelt beside the young man – appearing only to be two dozen years old - and lifting him effortlessly from the ground.

Jolted, the boy's brown eyes fluttered open – taking in the scene around them, and then, as if in after thought – Voldemort himself. Voldemort smiled – this time he did not even attempt to make it reassuring.

He had known the boy would speak a different language, so he had twisted what Mozenrath would hear and see so he could understand it. It had been the final element that had drawn him to that particular casting – for what use was a servant that did not understand?

"Where…am I?" The boy demanded softly, his voice was pleasant – dark, but smooth – a bedroom voice.

"It doesn't matter where you are, Mozenrath, I am your Master." Voldemort told him in sinister triumph, Mozenrath's eyes lowered to the cave floor before Voldemort could read his expression.

It is too bad, Voldemort thought as he guided the boy – who was weak and walked like a wobbly foal - out of the cave… that he is already broken – I would have liked to teach him his place.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Unknown Location; Later in the Year

"The boy is on his way – the trap is set, do not disappoint me." Voldemort murmured to the boy in front of him – his boy, who he had recalled from death. Mozenrath had not looked at anyone directly, nor spoken unless first questioned – he was, in Voldemort's opinion, the perfect servant.

Mozenrath bowed, his eyes locked to the floor – in the depths of his eyes was fury. He was careful to mask it, he was never tense – his eyes never narrowed, never pressed his lips together – never clenched his hands – never questioned.

There was no need for any of that – he knew he would escape, his…Master thought only he knew of the ways to rise the dead – did not know Mozenrath had written the very scroll Voldemort had entrapped him in.

Mozenrath knew the way out too, the way out was a thing nearly impossible, to have someone fall in love with you – to be worth saving in the eyes of someone. It would be a cruel irony if that person was Voldemort – but it was not, would never be.

Voldemort could not feel love – he had done something so foolishly idiotic Mozenrath had never considered it – his Master – the dark wizard they called Lord Voldemort had shredded his soul to try to become immortal.

It would not work – Mozenrath's own master had taught very well that it only made you all the more vulnerable. Still – the problem persisted, how was Mozenrath to make someone fall in love with him if he was only allowed to speak to Voldemort? Mozenrath had a plan – one that included the boy Voldemort planned to trap.

With his features to the floor, Mozenrath dared to smirk only slightly as he mused on the fear he knew would soon adorn his 'Masters' features – when he found Mozenrath free from his control. Then he would truly make the Death Eaters….meet Death, only to serve Mozenrath from that day forward, their souls would be trapped in the rotting corpses that their bodies would become.

"You will follow my orders, do you understand?" Mozenrath knew then that he had been silent to long, and slowly – as if he couldn't quite understand the question (he did this because he knew it made Voldemort fear to think he might have done something wrong) nonetheless he was still bound by magic to answer.

"Of course, Master." The tenseness in Voldemort's frame eased for a moment.

"Come along…Moze…" Voldemort's voice was filled with a twisted humor – Mozenrath knew the man liked to try to get a response from him – he only stood and turned to follow, letting Malfoy see, if only for a moment, the loathing Mozenrath dared not show his…Master

Surrounded by twelve other men in skull masks and black robes – Mozenrath felt quite displaced, Mozenrath wore only a distasteful robe – it was full length and a shade off black with no mask at all – only a deep hood. The same kind Voldemort- who stood with Mozenrath to the side, wore.

Mozenrath had long ago decided to consider him self lucky he did not receive the honor of a "Dark Mark" – his wrist, unlike those around him, was bare. It was a mark – as good as a brand, meant to show the Death Eaters that Mozenrath was less then them – a servant, brought back from the dead to, unwilling or not – faithfully serve Lord Voldemort.

Unlike them – Mozenrath knew he had a way out of the arrangement. If Voldemort's enemies were made to see that Mozenrath was an unwilling prisoner, and think him – as those who considered themselves 'good' often did – worth saving.

All Mozenrath needed to do was to meet these enemies – and ask them just one question. Was he worth saving? Then they would pity him – and it would go in either direction, killing Voldemort was as good as someone falling in love with Mozenrath –it would, after all, have the same effect.

"Go now." Voldemort ordered his Death Eaters – in a moment, Mozenrath watched then disappear, envy stirring within him.

"An orb." Voldemort murmured – and Mozenrath knew what he wanted, the globe of clear stone was clutched in Voldemort's skeletal hands – without looking at him, Mozenrath laid a hand on it – forcing his power to meld with Voldemort's and create the image Voldmort wanted to see.

Lord Voldemort's greatest enemies were mere children – Mozenrath hurriedly bit back the urge to laugh, though despite his best efforts his eyes glimmered with suppressed amusement. Lucius, of course – chose then to ask rather politely for one orb among the thousands that lined the shelves, fools that they were they admitted why they wanted it – pointed out the trap, and though he would have expected better, they then mocked the children.

Throughout the spectacle, Mozenrath searched among the children for one that looked like a "Harry Potter" – then chaos erupted as the children unexpectedly threw spells at the Death Eaters – even managing to harm one of them.

They watched the group of six children split into two groups of three – and the eleven Death Eaters had to struggle to keep up. To say Mozenrath was amused was an understatement. Voldemort's great plan – which he had spent month going over - was falling apart because of one black haired boy. It remained Mozenrath eerily of Aladdin.

They watched the three children rid themselves of the Death Eaters that chased after them – only to arrive in a room with a veil, a veil Mozenrath remembered…Mozenrath watched expressionless as things unfolded – it looked almost as if – amazingly, the Death Eaters would pull it off – then the Order of the Phoenix (or so Mozenrath took them to be, as Voldemort spit the name out like a curse) arrived to aid the children.

A clammy hand grasped his arm painfully, and with a sinking feeling in his stomach Mozenrath felt himself 'pulled' along with Voldemort…only to land rather awkwardly in front of a white haired old man.

Mozenrath looked out from beneath his hood, seemingly unruffled from the abrupt turn of events, he – once released from Voldemort's hold, straitened his robe as he looked around him. The old man demanded answers – and Voldemort absently answered him, his attention obviously elsewhere.

Mozenrath knew the old man hoped to draw Voldemort's sole attention to him – but Mozenrath sensed something amiss. Just as the orb Voldemort had tucked away in his robe had revealed – there were obvious signs of a fight, then Mozenrath's attention was drawn irrevocably to the boy Voldemort held some connection to.

The boy had foolishly looked Voldemort in the eyes, Mozenrath had a moment of pity for the boy – before he felt Voldemort claw into his power – feeding from it, Mozenrath did not scream, no matter that he wanted to go mad with the pain. Mozenrath gave a choking, surprised gasp, his knees buckling – he fell, hands harshly hitting the ground as he lay panting on his side – his magic swiftly leaving him, he was helpless - powerless as he was swept into Voldemort's mind-link with the boy.

Mozenrath had long ago learned to stand by and watch – to do nothing when one like Voldemort abused him. He was smarter then that – he would wait, plan – and then, when Voldemort least expected it – when it seemed nothing could go wrong – only then would Mozenrath strike and use the ritual Voldemort had used to become reborn in this world against him. It was the perfect plot.

Mozenrath had not thought he would be swayed from it by a mere boy.

But the boy – this Harry Potter, he had thought Voldemort a fool to fear, was fighting back, ripping his mind away from Voldemort's hold. It reminded Mozenrath of his last encounter with Aladdin, how he had attempted to take over his body. Mozenrath had failed – as Voldemort was failing now.

Mozenrath was impressed, and could not help the glimmer of hope that stirred within him – ruthlessly; he hid it before Voldemort could take notice. Then, just as he thought Voldemort might succeed in killing him – he was…gone – the presence of the dark wizard that had seeped into his skin and crawled at his very spirit had abandoned Mozenrath to the fate his enemies chose for Mozenrath.

Mozenrath opened his eyes, all over, he ached – but he was, for now, free. He was no fool, he knew that Voldemort could recollect him – but if Mozenrath was anything, he was clever – if he made himself a spy for Voldemort, his…Master…would not dare to remove him.

Mozenrath did not stir from the ground – not even when he felt the boy hover over him, undecided.

"Harry, what are you doing?" Mozenrath heard, as if from a great distance, one of the other children – perhaps friends of the boy speak out against Harry approaching Mozenrath's fallen form.

"I'm checking on him – Voldemort…Voldemort was feeding on his power, while he was trying to invade my mind." Mozenrath had to give the boy credit – he was stubborn, almost as bullheaded and determined as Aladdin had proved to be many a time.

"No need – he is likely dead, Voldemort would not leave such a valuable…tool, alive." A man spit out, it was not the elderly one who had made the statues move to defend them – nor was it the man who had stopped the boy from following… "Sirius", Mozenrath thought it was, into the veil.

Harry knelt by his side, his aura felt bright – his power reaching to Mozenrath's even as his hand tilted the robe's hood back, exposing Mozenrath's face for all of the strangers to see. Some of them were surprised, Mozenrath by inspiration, most found him lovely to behold – but Mozenrath himself was unmoved by such sentiments.

All that mattered to him was his freedom – and his survival. In the boy – he saw a way to achieve both ends. If the boy had the power to resist Voldemorts and his own power combined, then Mozenrath knew he had to use him to be free.

Harry's hand was soft on Mozenrath's wrist, a dainty weight he could not ignore. Mozenrath shuddered as he breathed in – suffering from the lack of magic Voldemort had seen fit to strip him of.

"He's alive!" The boy hollered to those watching, seeing fit to confirm Harry's words, Mozenrath's eyes squinted open.

"What's your name?" Harry asked him in a hushed tone – blessedly soft among all the grating noise of the other, more foreign voices.

"Mozenrath…." He hissed out through chapped lips – from behind Harry came a spell to put him to sleep – Mozenrath sighed softly as it hit him, closing his eyes – in the corner of his mind still awake he heard the boy exclaim something, but it did not concern Mozenrath at the moment – so he let darkness claim him.