In the dead of night, footsteps were the only sounds heard, other than the ghostly whistle of the wind.
Peter Pettigrew's obese, pathetic form struggled its' way across the sands, his eyes burning a bright red. The thing that was staggering across the sand was not, in fact, Peter Pettigrew any longer. No, the repulsive traitor, the one who had orchestrated the near downfall of the House of Potter, was dead.
And no one in the Wizarding world was any the wiser. Nor could they work out how on earth Pettigrew had escaped Azkaban back before his death. None of them knew that Pettigrew had been an Animagus, capable of morphing into a rat and slipping away.
Prior to last summer, though, Pettigrew had never had the confidence to escape. But last summer, a former Death Eater, a fellow cold-hearted criminal and follower of the Dark Lord had arrived in the cell beside Pettigrew's, and they had revealed to Pettigrew a rumor involving a forest in Transylvania, a rumor that their master lived yet.
So Pettigrew fled Azkaban and made his way to Transylvania, which is where he met his grim end. Pettigrew had gone seeking a reward, and had met a mangled, destroyed Voldemort who latched instantly upon Pettigrew, possessing his body.
Pettigrew's very soul was overcome by the Dark Lord, and now the Dark Lord drove Pettigrew's body forwards. The Dark Lord had left the confines of Magical Europe, and was instead in a very northern part of Magical Africa, off in the vast deserts of Egypt.
Here in Egypt, there was incredibly ancient magic, and the Dark Lord needed something ancient and powerful. His resources were depleted, his ranks drained. He no longer even had a body to call his own. Instead he was driving the husk of Peter Pettigrew as far as it could take him.
The old wizards of Egypt had been capable of incredible feats, and their research was entirely unheard of and unmatched by any other culture of wizards on Earth.
The Egyptian wizards, a small sect of them, that is, were obsessed with powerful beings they wrongly labeled gods. These beings, their gods, they toyed with the people of Egypt, magical and Muggle alike, and this sect of Egyptian wizards, the sect the Dark Lord cared about, they were exploring avenues of incredibly powerful magic that would be capable of killing something even as mighty as their so-called gods.
In truth, the Dark Lord suspected, the 'gods' might be nothing more than long-living supernatural creatures, the only difference between them and common scum werewolves being the strength they wielded.
Pettigrew's body was about ready to collapse, but that did not trouble the Dark Lord, for they were here.
Pettigrew's hands lifted as if drawn up by strings, and they twitched slightly as the Dark Lord began to chant.
The words came out awful, twisted, raspy things. The language they were in was vile enough, but the mangled vocal cords of Pettigrew's rapidly crumbling body made it only worse.
The sands around Pettigrew's body began to shake, and from the depths, buried beneath the desert, rose up three pillars, and between them, a stone altar, with a strange twisting object in the center, some kind of symbolic image that Pettigrew's feeble eyes couldn't make out.
This altar had been mentioned several times in history books that the Dark Lord had been studying prior to that fateful night thirteen years ago. Once he yet again had mobility, he had made for this place instantly. The Serpent's Jaw, this altar was called, and the Dark Lord could see why. The shape of the three pillars resembled the fangs of a serpent.
The Dark Lord had always favored a serpentine motif, due to pride of his heritage being descended from Salazar Slytherin himself, so the irony that his rebirth would occur here, at the Serpent's Jaw, was not lost on him.
When Pettigrew's body took one step onto the Serpent's Jaw, the entire thing began to twist and writhe, and the Dark Lord felt his control of Pettigrew's body fading, and completely out of his control, Pettigrew's body sank to the floor, falling over and lying, drained of all life. But the Dark Lord remained standing.
The Dark Lord looked down at his hands, and saw in surprise they were spectral blue and half-transparent. The spiral in the center of the altar began to recede into the floor, and the ghostly Dark Lord moved forwards smoothly and soundlessly. As he walked, his foot slid through Pettigrew's body, and the Dark Lord jerked in horror. Was he dead? Was this what the Serpent's Jaw had done to him? Kill him?
He'd come here fleeing death, but the cold touch of it had found him anyway, it seemed. Fury rose up in the Dark Lord, and he hardly noticed what was happening at the center of the altar.
From the black depths beneath the deserts of Egypt was uncoiling an enormous serpent. This serpent made the basilisk that the Dark Lord had discovered beneath Hogwarts look like a common earthworm next to it. This serpent was absolutely enormous, and each time the Dark Lord thought it was done emerging from the enormous hole in the center of the large stone altar, much more of the serpent continued to emerge.
The impossibly huge serpent reared up, and the ghost of the Dark Lord looked up at the serpent. The top of its' head was as far above his head as a skyscraper might be, and there was still a rather large coil at the base of the serpent's body, so this giant could probably reach taller.
Tom Marvolo Riddle. a vast voice spoke, a voice which seemed to rumble the whole world. Out beyond the Serpent's Jaw, the Dark Lord could see huge dust clouds shaking up from the bass of this monstrous serpent's voice.
"What are you?" the Dark Lord rasped.
I am all that has come before. I am all that will come after. I am the serpent of the world. I am the destroyer of the world. I am the herald of death, and its' executioner. I have had many names across the vastness of time. Quetzalcoatl, the maker of the world. Jormungandr, the slayer of man. Apophis, the devourer of light. There have been those who have fallen to their knees and named me god. There have been those who have ran in terror from me, and those I devoured. Do you understand, mortal? You think yourself mighty, you think yourself deathless, you think yourself important. You are nothing. I? I am everything. the serpent spoke, and there was nothing of pride or bragging in its' voice. Just cold fact.
The Dark Lord was terrified. It was not an emotion he was used to feeling, but right here, he had never known such fear. In his terror, the Dark Lord did the unthinkable. He knelt.
The serpent seemed to laugh.
Faced with a choice between eradication and servitude, you chose to serve me. You, who once thought yourself a god among men, have knelt before me. I think it interesting how little mortals comprehend about the world they live in. I see your black heart, Tom Riddle, and I know the greatness you dream of. In my service, your dreams are possible. I confess, I am not without need of you, and that is why I have drawn you to this place, to my prison. the serpent god spoke.
"Your prison?" the Dark Lord blinked. "What could possibly have imprisoned you?"
I am not the only being of might to exist in this world. It took the combined efforts of many to bring me down. A being named Ra, curse his name, attempted to defeat me, and him I killed. A being named Thor attempted to slay me, and I poisoned and killed him, too. But Thor injured me severely, and I was weakened, weak enough for a collection of beings to chain me here, in the desert. I am Apophis, and I will have my vengeance against Isis and her cabal. On this I swear. And I need a champion, a hand to execute my will among mortals. Tom Riddle, will you become my champion? Will you bear the might and mandate of Apophis? Apophis demanded of him. The Dark Lord bowed his head.
"If serving you will bring me life eternal and power incalculable, then yes, I will serve you… Lord Apophis." the Dark Lord said, hating it, but understanding that he had no hope against Apophis, and he did not even have a physical body at the moment. If he wanted rebirth, a second chance at conquering the world that had wronged him… then he must serve the Serpent King.
The triumphant screech of Apophis filled the night, and as the black, vile noise quieted, the Dark Lord found himself restored to flesh and blood… his flesh and blood, but his features… slitted nose, burning red eyes, cold, pale skin…
It seemed as if Apophis had bestowed a very snakelike appearance upon his champion.
Voldemort knelt in front of Apophis.
"This being you spoke of… Isis. Where can I find her?" Voldemort questioned his new master.
This is the reason I chose you. Isis, too, has a champion, a champion you might find very familiar… a young boy by the name of Harry Potter.
Dark glee rose up inside Voldemort. Serving Apophis, it seemed, would bring Voldemort directly to the person who he hated most in this world.
Good.
Harry Potter would pay for his crimes in blood.