Harry Potter: The art of divination

*Narrator pov* 

Somewhere far from civilization on the rocky coast of Europe boarding far from any magical or muggle presence a man appeared as if he was a phantom in the night. His long dark robe swept him in a comforting embrace even as his hands trembled while he held the hood down on his head. 

He walked toward the hill overlooking the coast he veered to the right searching for a path down to the rocky ground. 

The man stumbled as he found his footing down the narrow path his heart beat faster and faster as he descended the path to the shore.

The salty wind bit at his exposed face as he reached the jagged shoreline, waves crashing against the rocks in a deafening rhythm. The sound was relentless, but the man seemed unfazed, his focus trained on the towering hill belly ahead. The rocky terrain was unforgiving underfoot, his boots scraping against sharp edges and loose stones, but he pressed on, the weight of his purpose driving him forward.

As he neared the hill's base, the faint outline of the circular stone became visible, its massive form standing like a silent sentinel before the hidden entrance. He paused for a moment, his breath visible in the cold night air, and then reached out with trembling fingers. He knocked—a deliberate sequence of taps that echoed dully against the ancient stone.

For a moment, silence hung heavy in the air, save for the roar of the sea behind him. Then, with a low, grinding rumble, the circular stone shifted, sliding aside as though moved by an invisible hand. Warm, flickering light spilled out from the newly revealed opening, bathing the rocky ground in shades of orange and gold.

The man stepped through, and the scene before him took his breath away. The cavern was immense, its ceiling so high it disappeared into shadows. Torches lined the walls, their flames dancing with a mesmerizing intensity. The air was thick with the mingling scents of wax, damp stone, and something more elusive—an energy that seemed to hum just beneath the surface of perception.

Scattered throughout the cavern were figures cloaked in darkness, their features obscured by the deep hoods they wore. Each bore a silver skull mask, the torchlight gleaming off their smooth surfaces like liquid mercury. Their heads turned as one to regard the newcomer, their silence more oppressive than any words could be.

The man swallowed hard, his earlier confidence faltering under the weight of so many piercing stares. Still, he straightened his spine and stepped further into the gathering, the echo of his boots on the stone floor reverberating through the vast space.

Somewhere deeper within the cavern, a low, commanding voice rang out, cutting through the heavy air like a blade.

"Welcome, brother. Step forward. We have been expecting you."

The man stepped forward suddenly his nerves were back and at full force as he crossed the barrier into the room. 

"Thank you." he stumbled out 

He was led forward joining the pack of men without skull masks, "Wait here our lord will arrive soon." 

"Are you new as well? What family are you from?" one of the men asked him quietly 

The man nodded slowly, "Silvas." he replied ready to defend his family name 

Instead of the usual reaction the man before him smiled, "Ah a lesser house just like mine. I'm Alber Porter, the bloody half breeds are polluting the system keeping people like us from rising." 

Andrew Silvas couldn't control the warm smile that spread across his lips, "Exactly, my father thinks he should wait. Why wait when we can take back what's rightfully ours right now?" 

Suddenly the thundering of footsteps entered the ears of all present, they seemed to wrap around the room bringing in a heavy oppressing atmosphere. 

A thin pale figure appeared his skin seemed to reflect the burning flames from the torches lining the room. His eyes were blood red, and his scalp was devoid of any hair. 

"Welcome." when he spoke everyone listened, his words seemed to sound with a hiss, " 

"Welcome." His voice slithered through the cavern, a whisper that carried the weight of command. Every hooded head bowed low, and silence fell so completely that the crackling of the torches seemed deafening in comparison.

The thin, pale figure stepped forward, his crimson eyes scanning the gathered masses with a predatory glint. The Dark Lord's presence was as suffocating as it was magnetic, drawing every gaze to him even as a sense of dread settled deep into the hearts of those present.

"You have come," Voldemort began, his voice smooth and venomous, "to pledge yourselves to a cause greater than any one of you. Tonight, you shall cast off your old lives, your fears, your doubts. Tonight, you will become part of something eternal."

He gestured toward the group of new recruits, his long, spindly fingers curling as though drawing them closer.

"Step forward, initiates."

Andrew Silvas felt his knees weaken as he moved, the weight of the moment nearly crushing him. Alber Porter followed beside him, their shared zeal now tempered by the oppressive aura of the Dark Lord. They joined the line of unmasked recruits, standing exposed before Voldemort's piercing gaze.

"You seek power," Voldemort continued, his tone both mocking and inviting. "You seek to reclaim what is owed to you. But power comes at a price, and loyalty is the coin I demand. To serve me is to serve a future where purity reigns and strength triumphs over weakness. Do you swear yourselves to me?"

A chorus of shaky voices answered, "We do, my Lord."

Voldemort's lips curled into a serpentine smile. He drew his wand, its tip glowing faintly in the dim light.

"Then let the world see the mark of your devotion."

One by one, the initiates stepped forward, their arms bared. Voldemort pressed his wand to each forearm, and a searing pain erupted as the Dark Mark burned itself into their flesh. Andrew bit back a cry, his jaw clenched as the snake and skull writhed to life on his skin.

When the final mark was made, Voldemort stepped back, addressing the room once more.

"War is upon us," he declared, his voice rising in intensity. "The time for secrecy is ending. No more shadows, no more whispers. We shall strike where it matters most. Hogsmeade and Hogwarts will fall, and their destruction will send a message to all who defy me. There will be no sanctuary, no haven for the unworthy."

A murmur of excitement rippled through the crowd, and Voldemort's eyes gleamed with malice.

"Prepare yourselves. Gather your strength. When the time comes, we will show them the power of those who dare to dream of a pure world."

The cavern erupted into a chorus of cheers, the sound echoing off the walls like the roar of an oncoming storm. Andrew glanced at his newly branded arm, the pain still fresh but already fading into something darker—pride, ambition, and a hunger for what lay ahead.

***

 Inside the quiet dormitory of Hogwarts, the castle's ancient stone walls seemed to breathe with the rhythm of the night. A faint moonbeam filtered through the high, arched window of a small dormitory tucked away in Ravenclaw Tower. The room was silent, save for the gentle rustling of the enchanted banners that hung above each bed.

In one corner, a boy with pale hair and wide, curious eyes twisted and turned in his sleep. Xenophilius Lovegood, a student with a reputation for odd musings, was caught in the grip of a dream or something far darker. His body jerked violently as his breaths quickened, his brow slick with cold sweat.

In his mind's eye, the cavern came alive. Torchlight flickered against jagged walls, casting eerie shadows over the cloaked figures gathered in silence. He saw their silver masks glinting in the firelight, felt the oppressive weight of their collective malice. His heart pounded as the pale, snake-like figure stepped into view, crimson eyes burning with intent.

"War is upon us," the figure hissed, the words reverberating through Xenophilius's very soul. He saw flashes of fire, screams, a snake entwined with a skull branded into trembling flesh.

And then he felt it—a sharp, searing pain that lanced through his temples like a blade. The vision seemed to tear through his mind, a storm of sights and sounds too vivid, too horrifying.

Xenophilius woke with a start, his scream piercing the dormitory like a knife through silence.

"No! No, stop it!" he cried, clutching his head as though trying to force the images out. His voice cracked, raw with fear. "It's coming it's real! They're coming!"

His fellow dormmates shot up in their beds, alarmed by the sudden outburst. A boy scrambled to his side, shaking his shoulder.

"Xeno! Xeno, wake up! What's wrong?"

But Xenophilius couldn't hear him. He rocked back and forth, his hands pressed tightly to his temples as he whispered fragments of what he'd seen.

"The masks… the mark… Hogwarts… they're going to destroy it. They're going to destroy everything."

Tears streaked his face, but his eyes were distant, wide and unseeing as if still locked in the nightmare. The sharp edge of his panic infected the room, and one of the boys bolted to fetch the Head of House.