Chapter 2 : Igor Karkaroff: The Powers in Weakness
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Three days of prison time had already begun to take it’s toll on the man. He stood in the corner of his stone walled cell shaking with madness, madness brought by the Dementor’s wrath. At one point in his life, this man had been full of energy, full of talent, and full of life but it seemed he cracked easily when in Azkaban. The man also once used to have a magnificent beard but now his facial hair had wilted away into a pathetic goatee, once he was a little plump but now the man was best described as skinny and suffering from malnutrition. Azkaban was a horrible place and the only thing that Igor Karkaroff could think of were his worst memories, the moments in his life that changed him so, the memories of all the horrible things.
That was the cruellest thing a Dementor could do; make you relive your worst memories. And to make even worse, the Dementor’s would never register the kiss on you while you were in their cells. They would much rather feast on your pain and anguish, the lived on the people’s screams and tears. Watching people go insane was a gluttonous trait of the magical guards of Azkaban but their gluttony was even more great when it turned out a person was dying. After being captured from Auror Mad-Eye Moody, Igor Karkaroff was sent to Azkaban and these past three days had been the longest days of his life. They were completely unbearable, Igor couldn’t stand the memoirs of his past.
A man was yelling his head off at the Wireless radio. He looked to be alone in the room but under the table sat a small boy, only seven. He was frightened, it was clearly obvious but at the head chair of the table his father was yelling about how the new Minister wasn’t a pureblood. “BLOODY PIECES OF SCUM!” Mr Karkaroff roared. “Has no RIGHT!” and he slammed his fist down on the table which little Igor felt in his very bones. A single tear streamed down his cheek and he couldn’t help but think of how things had changed since his mother died.
He shuddered at the thought of the memory. He had never saw his father so mad. Perhaps it was the empty bottle of Firewhiskey that sat on the table that brought on the intense level of rage, perhaps not. Most likely it was the fact that the new Minister of Magic was half-blooded. His father was fanatic about blood lineage. He always took things seriously, he always had fettered over what kind of person was in power. Up until this day, Igor had stood by his father’s beliefs. Only then did it waver, only when his father’s rage grew so strong it scared Igor.
Igor Karkaroff was eleven years old, his first year at Hogwarts, and was floating across the Black Lake with a less than friendly group of boys. He had only chose to ride across the lake with them because there was no where else to go. One of the boys smiled at him wickedly and then, it seemed come out no where, the boy pushed him out of the boat and into the water. The boat didn’t halt, instead all the boys roared with laughter. Igor spit out a large amount of water from his mouth and then he noticed an outstretched hand. A boat had stopped for him. Igor reached out and grabbed the other boys hand, who hoisted him into their boat. “You wouldn’t want to make friends with the wrong sort. Stay with us and all will be fine.” the brown haired boy said. “But first, before we let come to the castle with us, you must tell us, are you pureblooded?”
It struck Igor as odd to see that memory as one of his worst memories, odd that the Dementors made him remember the day he fell in the lake. Perhaps it was the humiliation that made him think of it as a horrible memory, maybe it was the fact that he was sorted into Slytherin along with those boys. Not that anything was wrong with Slytherin but after all, many of Karkaroff’s Slytherin’s mates had landed in a cell alongside him in Azkaban. It didn’t take a Dementor to let Igor remember his Sorting for the memory, however old, was still fresh in his mind.
“KARKAROFF, IGOR!” announced Professor Dumbledore, Hogwarts Deputy Headmaster. Tentatively young Igor Karkaroff stepped forward, his robes still wet from the boat trip. He took a seat on the stool where students before him had sat and caught a glance at a few of the kids before him. In the pack of first-years, he could see the group of boys who had pushed him in the water laughing at him but directly beside them was two of the four saviours of Igor. Before he could catch another glance at the Great Hall, the Sorting Hat was placed on his head.
“Not very loyal, are you?” a voice seemed to say in his ear. “You’ve got a ready mind though, a very keen mind. A thirst for knowledge. But not just a thirst for knowledge…I can see a thirst for power. Oh, you want to be in command, don’t you? You know what, boy, I know just what house that can help you on your way to power,” the Hat said. “SLYTHERIN!” the Hat yelled for all the people in the Great Hall to hear.
The Sorting Hat was taken off Igor and he trotted down the steps and went through the pack of first years. Igor gave his new enemies a little shove whilst high fiving one of his rescuers.
And in Slytherin, he had learned many things about power. He learned more of the beliefs, that of a noble pureblooded Slytherin. The Slytherin prefect made sure to inform the new students that they should behave like purebloods for they were the one’s who deserved power. The power’s Igor learned in the Slytherin dungeons were not all together good for mainly they were the Dark Arts but they simply fascinated Igor. It turned out there was a lot the Dark Arts could to do help gain power, there was a lot people would do to avoid such Dark Magic. It was at a young age that Igor Karkaroff decided that the Dark Arts would help him on his way to power. It was in Slytherin that lead him to the Dark path he had travelled, the Dark path that had lead him to this cell. Igor could sense a chill in the cell as another Dementor glided eerily his way. Like an animal before it’s prey, Igor scrambled in his little corner, trying to make himself smaller so that the Dementor’s would not effect him. But this was no use.
Sixteen year-old Igor Karkaroff walked down the village of Hogsmeade alone, without his friends of Slytherin. He was muttering nonsense under his breath and it was apparent that he was furious. Igor kicked a small stone on the ground with his boot and to his surprise, a group of Gryffindors walked ahead of him and the stone hit one of them. They all looked back at the weedy sixteen year old. They all looked no older than fifteen but still they looked at Igor with a sense of hunger. Igor just glared at them but inside, he was scared.
“What is your problem?” one of them demanded.
“Nothing of your concern.” Igor replied in a sneering tone.
“We can make it our concern.” another said, twirling his wand. Igor reached for his wand but he was not quick enough. His wand had been disarmed before he could even do anything.
“Please!” Igor pleaded but the boys only laughed. A Leg-Locker curse hit Igor and he tried to move an inch but toppled over. A roar of laughter from the boys. Next thing he knew, Igor was hoisted into the air, upside down, hanging from his foot. More laughter.
“Come on, let’s go.” one of them said and they all grinned, leaving Igor hanging there. He watched as the Gryffindors left and couldn’t think of anything but revenge. He needed power, he wanted the power to stop them. He would not allow himself to be humiliated like that ever again.
Igor moaned at the thought of that day. That had to be the most embarrassing day of his life and thus one of his most hated memories. He couldn’t imagine another time in his life where he had felt so humiliated, so weak, so powerless, so ashamed…so un-pureblooded. If only his fellow Slytherins had saw him that day in Hogsmeade [not that they didn’t find out - oh the how he was teased!]. If only his father had saw him then. But his father did find out and it wasn’t pleasant, it wasn’t pleasant at all. The next memory was not brought by any Dementor but by Igor’s own conscience.
“You what?!” screamed Igor’s father.
“I … was ambushed by a bunch of Gryffindors.” mumbled Igor.
“FIFTEEN YEAR OLD GRYFFINDORS! You didn’t even curse them! Have I taught you nothing!?”
“No, no of course not father.” stammered Igor.
“What of the Cruciatus Curse? Can you not even cause people pain?” bellowed Mr Karkaroff. Igor nodded eagerly.
“I can father, I can.” he said with a small, sadistic smile.
“You’re right, you are causing pain right now even. You are a disgrace anyone who calls themselves a pureblood!” boomed his father’s voice. Igor glared coldly at his father. He was not a disgrace to the blood. He was going into his seventh year at Hogwarts, he was a Slytherin, he cared about the blood linage as much as any other wizard in his family, he had earned eleven OWLs.
“I am not a disgrace.” Igor snarled.
Without a warning, Igor’s father withdrew his wand from his waist and sent a curse soaring at his son. It seemed Igor had expected this and at the same time, his wand was drawn and he simply deflected the curse with a Shield Charm. Apparently his father had not expected this nor had he expected the spell that Igor used next: from his wand came the Killing Curse.
After that, Igor left his father’s body lie on the cold stone floor of the kitchen as he packed his bags. He packed all his school clothes and took the stash of Galleons that hid in the cupboard. Instead of just leaving his father where he was, Igor made arrangements to make his father’s death look like something else had happened.
“I’M SORRY! I DIDN’T WANT TO KILL YOU!” Igor screamed from his cell. The madness, the insanity, could be heard in his voice all through Azkaban. “You made me.” whimpered Igor and he slid down from where he was standing against the wall and held his knees. A few tears were streaming down his dirty cheeks, his body was already unkempt from his three days stay. “I’m sorry. Sorry. I’m sorry.” he mumbled under his breath and rocked on the heels of his feet.
Out of all the memories, the recollection of how he murdered his father was the most disturbing to him. To a Slytherin, it was horrible to relive the moments where you felt so powerless, like of how he had felt when the Gryffindors attacked him. When Igor killed his father, he had actually felt a strange sense of pride. That was then. Now when Igor looked back on that day, he was sickened by his own actions. He was unable to comprehend the reasons behind the murder. Now, Igor couldn’t manage to think of why he had killed his own kin, the one man who was really responsible for his existence. He killed the man who took care of him, however neglected, after his mother perished. His father was the one who taught him his ways, his father who was the one who told him of the importance of being a pureblood. Igor was sickened by his former self. But all he wanted then, all he wanted when he was young was to be powerful, to be successful, to be known. But not anymore. Now, Igor Karkaroff was a prisoner of Azkaban. “I AM SORRY! FORGIVE ME FATHER!”
The Dementor’s were attracted to the noise coming from Igor Karkaroff’s cell. Dementor’s loved when their prisoners were dying, insane or weak and so more than just one Dementor glided to his cell. Four of the black creatures came to the bars of Igor’s cell came and he looked up from his knees to see them, still caught up in the gloom of his last memory to notice the new chill to the air. “GO AWAY! GO AWAY! GO!” Karkaroff screamed wildly, waving his arms. If Dementor’s could laugh…In their own way they did, with the power of all the coldness in the Dementor’s, Igor was forced to remember his worst memory of all.
“Who’s there?” eighteen year old Igor Karkaroff demanded, pointing his wand at the tree before him. He was in a small park now, late at night and in the Muggle world. It seemed that Igor had suspected something although there was no Floo Network here nor had he heard the crack of Apparation. “Show yourself!” Igor demanded again but this time his voice wavered slightly. While Igor pointed his wand at the tree, in his other hand he held a letter, a letter from one of the world’s most powerful wizards at the moment. This wizard also happened to be one of the most frightening wizard around, and the most lethal.
At the command, a man stepped out from behind one of the few trees in the park. It was late and the man stood in the shadows of the tree so it was hard to tell who it was. It was clear though, that this man was not a like the people who slept in their homes next to this park. The man was tall and he wore a cloak, a black hooded cloak that covered any expression. All that really could be seen of him was his pale white face and his red eyes.
“Igor Karkaroff? You have come?” the man said in a low tone that could be heard over the distant noise.
“Yes…” Igor replied in a shaky voice. There was no hiding it this time, he was scared.
“The Dark Lord appreciates when people adhere to his requests.” the Dark Lord said but he did not sound at all grateful. “You know why you are here tonight, man. What is your response?” He said in a cold voice, tone low. Unnoticed by Igor, the Dark Lord’s hand wandered to his hip where his wand was holstered.
“Yes, yes milord. I will.” Igor said in a rather slimy voice.
“You will, what Karkaroff?” the Dark Lord asked.
“I will join you. I will join your Death Eaters.” Igor declared loudly so that any animal in the park could hear them.
“My Death Eaters…” Voldemort said softly. With those words, there was a loud cracking noise and suddenly, the two men were joined by plenty of witches and wizards. “These are my Death Eaters. Welcome, Igor Karkaroff, welcome to the path to power.” The crowd tittered excitedly for they now knew why they were called tonight: there was a new follower amongst them. Voldemort lowered his tone so only Igor could hear him. “You will never feel weak again, you will feel powerless no more.”
Igor’s cheeks turned bright red and wondered in his head if You-Kn-- the Dark Lord - knew of his trials in school. Voldemort spoke again but loud enough so that everyone could hear. “Karkaroff, your left arm. This won’t hurt too much.”
A piercing scream was heard through out Azkaban from Igor’s cell. That was his worst memory. He screamed at the remembrance of the pain caused by the Dark Mark on his left arm. He screamed because that was the day he sold his life to the Dark Arts, that was the day he sold his life to the devil in disguise. The scream was because of all the dead faces that now swarmed Igor’s thoughts, the faces of those he killed in his day. He screamed because of how weak he felt, he screamed because of how the Dark Lord had been defeated by a baby and had left him to run away from the Aurors. He screamed because he was weak.
“I CAN GIVE YOU NAMES!” Igor yelled from his corner. He stood up and ran at the metal barred door. “I KNOW WHO SOME OF HIS FOLLOWERS! I HAVE NAMES!” He shook the metal bars as he yelled. He would not suffer through this torture anymore. “PLEASE! I CAN HELP YOU! I KNOW WHO WERE IN HIS CONFIDENCE! JUST PLEASE, LET ME OUT OF HERE!”
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