Death Eater has a minion!

Hydra the Zodiac Snake Spirit

Death Eater
Legacy Name: Death Eater

The Nightmare Neela
Owner: SEOUL

Age: 7 years, 3 months, 4 weeks

Born: April 20th, 2015

Adopted: 7 years, 3 months, 4 weeks ago

Adopted: April 20th, 2015

Pet Spotlight Winner
April 6th, 2016


  • Level: 1
  • Strength: 10
  • Defense: 10
  • Speed: 14
  • Health: 10
  • HP: 10/10
  • Intelligence: 0
  • Books Read: 0
  • Food Eaten: 0
  • Job: Unemployed

Do not test my patience..

My lord will never truly be gone.. He was defeated yes.. but gone? If you think that, you have gone mad. He lives on in those of us who still follow and believe. We will restore his ideals and bring a new reign of terror on those who oppose us...We wait among you, planning for what comes next.. We walk among you unknowing fools who would believe all traces of dark magic are gone. It is not, nor will it ever be gone from this world.


The old wizard's fear stink is a perfume much more alluring than the dragon musk he pours over his skin to try to impress the other members of his Gobstones Club. Pathetic. I have slain dragons and wrestled with a lord of the merpeople. For the Dark Lord to assign me such a menial task...I cannot help wondering if I have displeased him in some way.

There is no sensation that compares to running in my animagus form. Not even appiration is quite as satisfying as the sensation of racing the wind on four hooves that barely touch the ground. My skeletal sneer is death to those witches and wizards who would spit on the name of my master. They do not dare to speak his name, yet they find solace in the lie that he was defeated, brought low by an infant. The fools, the fools! The day of reckoning is coming.

I hear your heartbeat, Diggalus Dorfindor. Your concealment charm does you no good. You do not have the strength to fight the Dark Arts nor the wit to utter the counter-curse.

It takes no more than a thought to resume my human form. My wand is warm in my hand, a dear companion purchased at a terrible price. I cannot think of that now. Diggalus realizes his error. He is trapped by his own inferior knowledge of the allies in this oversized Muggle city. The pouches beneath his eyes are made all the more noticeable by a lamp that glows through some Muggle means. How annoying it must be to replenish the source of their light. I really cannot understand how Muggles have not driven themselves to extinction.

He sees me now. His breath comes in short gasps as he recognizes the flowing black cloak of my Lord's most loyal followers. I have been told my grin could frighten the life inhabitants of Azkaban. By the look in his eyes, I must believe this rumor to be true.

His mouth falls open then snaps shut. Something is wrong. The fear is gone, replaced with a look of mild disgust. Does he not understand the significance of the cloak on my shoulders and the mark on my arm? Where is the terror I am due? I must taste his fear!

"Your master is losing his touch. For a man of my distinction, I would have expected him to send Lestrange or perhaps Dolohov, not a mere boy."

How dare he belittle me? He has not heard the way Bellatrix dotes on our master's every word like a lap dog. She has the passion for dark magic, but not the aptitude. What does this old fool know of true talent?

"You are the one who values himself too highly. What was it you even did again? Wrote some rubbish on the habits of house elf colonies in Ireland?"

His long beard wags back and forth. "It was Scotland, blast it, Scotland! Young wizards these days have no mind for detail!"

How can I resist smirking at the doddering old fool? "Class is out, Professor. Nobody cares what you did. All that matters now is what you know..

There it is, that spark of unease in his eye! How can I keep myself from grinning, even having a little laugh at his expense?

The moon emerges from behind a cloud. I do not like the way he looks at me, the slight parting of his lips.

"Poor, lost boy. You would not remember me, but I remember you. They surrounded you, tortured you, forced you to beg for your life. I was watching from the shadows. I did not see their faces, but I knew what they were. Now they have made you one of them."

"So what if they have?" Hold his gaze, do not allow him any power over you. "Call me a monster, call me the wand hand of Voldemort, I couldn't care less. Besides, this job has its perks." He knows pain is coming and the twisting of his lips reduces me to another roar of laughter. It takes me a moment to regain my voice. "Crucio!"

He writhes on the ground, legs dancing in the air like a beetle flipped on its back, falling limp at a flick of my wand. His words unleash the memories, those dark pools in my mind that I have taken such care to lock away.


The figures are dark and so much taller than me. They taunt me, pull my long locks and jab my body with the tips of their wands. I am clad in only my pajamas, the ones with the little yellow ducks. I hated those ducks, but they were what the widow gave me to wear.

She was not my mother. She was not even my grandmother. My mother was a Muggle, terrified of her own flesh and blood. She left me on the widow's doorstep when I was six months old, the first time she caught me playing with a light globe of my own creation. My father was a wizard. I never learned his name. The widow was a Squib but unlike many of her kind, she was not bitter about it.

She cared for me but not about me. She was passed out drunk when the shadow men began to kick my petrified form. They lifted the curse long enough to hear me beg through bloody lips. It was only when one made the suggestion of fire whiskey that they finally grew bored and wandered away. Or so I thought.

I awoke the next morning not in my small bedroom that smelled of mothballs, but in a cramped closet with a moldy mattress and a wooden chair. My tutor was a manwith a bulbous nose and a thick black mustache. I never knew his name either, but I called him Sir. It was Sir who presented me with my first wand and Sir who gave me lessons in the Dark Arts. My tenth birthday came and went with no letter from Hogwarts. Sir convinced me that I was too advanced for such a school. I had no idea the enchantments placed upon me to keep my identity from the Headmaster's notice.

The Dark Lord called me into his presence on the day I came of age. Sir took me only so far as the door of a ruined mansion with a snake carved on the door. I never saw him again and thought of him rarely. I had a much worthier master, one who would teach me magical secrets I had never dreamed could be possible. My lord, my master, my only friend. Let me serve you, let me prove that Orion is the greatest among your servants though no witch or wizard knows my name.

And he invincible? Why shouldn't Renwick be the name every magical creature fears? Why should Renwick not enjoy the bounty of Gringott's and have his picture on the cover of the Daily Prophet?

Enough of such thoughts! Renwick is loyal to the Dark Lord! Lord Voldemort's time approaches!


Diggalus wheezes for breath now. Another Cruciatus Curse has reduced him to a lump and still he will not tell me what my master desires. My master will forgive me. There are others who can give the information we seek, in pieces perhaps, but we will find the artifacts my lord desires. The old man is spent, beyond the point of usefulness. Renwick is death and death has come to seek his due.


Credits: Profile by: Ringo

Story by Pureflower
Inspired by J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter series
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