AN: Welcome back, dear readers! This new story is the result of the labour of the better part of a year, and is also my first complete novel-length work. Descent Into Madness was quite a lot of fun to write, I must say. I've never written anything that could be classified in the Horror genre before, so my apologies in advance if this does not live up to your expectations. I like to follow canon up until the point that I just don't want to anymore, at which point I veer off on my own tangent. That is a general rule I follow anytime I'm writing fan fiction, so if anyone seems a little OOC, that's why. I also appropriate mythology and use it for my own ends, and adapt it as I want, again following the traditions up until the point I feel like doing something different. If this bothers anyone, I apologize, but I stand by what I've written. My purpose is to entertain, not write an historical dissertation. And once more, as Harry Potter is a British character, I've chosen to use British English instead of my own American English.

This story is solid Harmony, and almost-but-not-quite Lunar Harmony. I've always felt that Harry and Hermione belonged together, and I've never really liked Ron. He's always struck me as a useless buffoon, frankly. IMHO, the so-called "Golden Trio" would have been infinitely better if Luna had been the third member instead of Ron.

As far as locations are concerned, I used the White Hound Fan Fiction website as my chief source. "Location, Location" and "The Map of Hogwarts Project" are both simply amazing, and the attention to detail is unsurpassed. Coupled with Google Maps, I was able to add quite a lot of detail that I otherwise just would not have had.

My other major sources were several Dungeons and Dragons handbooks, particularly the Book of Vile Darkness and the Book of Exalted Deeds, and the Call of Cthulhu RPG handbooks. Most of the spell descriptions I use were taken straight from one of the two D&D books, as well as weapons and armour.

While I have not deliberately put any clichés in here, neither have I avoided any. Clichés, as a rule, do not bother me, and as there are well over 700,000 Harry Potter fan fics on this site alone, I suspect one would be hard-pressed to find a story that didn't have any. Thus, while constructive criticism is always welcome, I am completely uninterested in hearing about the presence or absence of clichés. I simply don't care. Flames, as always, will be consigned to the outer darkness where there is wailing and gnashing of teeth. At least there they may provide a moment of warmth to the souls of the damned.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and Company belong to Ms. Rowling and all entities she has authorized. Call of Cthulhu et al I would ascribe to the Lovecraft estate, despite much of it being in the public domain, or to the various authors that expanded that particular mythos. Cruiser-Destroyer Group Five and the USS Louisville belongs to the United States Navy. The only things I can take full credit for are the Sentinels of the Holy Cross and the plot. Enjoy!

***DIM***

Dark clouds scudded overhead as the steady rain beat down. The light from the full moon tried in vain to find a break in the thunderheads, though occasionally some of the thinner clouds glowed a ghostly white as the moon's location in the sky was revealed. The occasional bolt of lightning revealed tree-covered hills of the gently-rolling northwest Wiltshire countryside, not too far south of Wales. In the middle of a shallow vale, hidden from the casual observer behind an impressive series of magical wards designed to obscure vision and deflect notice, as well as many others with much more nefarious intents, lay an imposing yet stately manor with square walls and tall, narrow spires. A thick wall surrounded the sprawling front lawn, broken only by the drive that led straight to the front door. A pair of tall hedgerows flanked the drive, allowing the person walking up to see nothing but the rigid architecture of the manor house before them. An ornate iron gate barricaded the drive midway down. The effect was meant to intimidate and awe, and it seldom failed to succeed.

The manor itself consisted of a ground floor, a first floor, and a second floor, with some of the squared towers also containing a third floor. Narrow, rectangular floor-to-ceiling windows designated the different storeys. Most of the windows were dark at this hour, but a few gas lamps still burned inside. Though unseen from the outside, there was also an underground dungeon level where, despite the modern mindset to frown on such behaviour, captives were frequently held, tortured, and finally murdered.

A cloaked and disillusioned figure watched the manor from the vantage point of an oak tree on the edge of the property, far enough away that no alarms would be triggered. A jagged bolt of lightning lit up the night as the rain increased, though the hunter's magesight was not affected in the slightest. The manor's wards could still be seen in all their multi-coloured splendour. Most witches or wizards would pale at the sight of so many, especially those of malevolent nature, and none but the bravest or most fool-hardy would even consider trying to break through. Even those who were powerful enough to break through the wards would tread carefully. There was no telling what other traps or surprises awaited.

The accompanying peal of thunder rolled across the valley, and there was a whispered incantation, a sudden blur of movement, and the hunter was safely through the wards and stepping out of the shadows of the colonnaded porch. A moment later the unseen figure was climbing up the wall to one of the darkened first storey windows. Peering inside, the hunter whispered the same incantation and a moment later was inside.

The room, a conservatory if the grand piano was anything to judge by, was darkened along with most of the rest of the house, but the hunter moved across the chamber as if it were midday, never once stumbling over any of the furniture. A doorway led to a dim landing where the main stairway led down to the great hall. On the other side of the landing, opposite the conservatory door, a balcony railing overlooked the library downstairs on the ground floor.

Below, sitting at an ornate desk, a tumbler of firewhiskey off to the side, an aristocratic man with long blond hair studied a stack of papers. The hunter smiled and dropped the disillusion spell before vaulting over the railing.

Lucius Malfoy was reaching for his glass of firewhiskey when a thud sounded from behind, startling him and causing him to knock the glass over. Cursing, he grabbed his wand and disappeared the spilled alcohol before it could stain his desktop. He spun his chair around and leapt to his feet as he caught sight of the cloaked figure rising to its feet. Its face was hidden in the shadows of its hood and he could not even tell if the figure was male or female. All he could tell was that it was wearing what looked to be black leather armour of some kind under the dark grey cloak.

"I have no idea how you got in here," Malfoy sneered as he raised his wand, "but it is the last mistake of your pathetic life!"

Two impossibly long lengths of chain burst out from under the stranger's cloak, accompanied by writhing, shadowy tendrils of pure darkness that dissipated into the air. Before the startled wizard had time to react, the chains, moving as fast as striking snakes, had wrapped around his arms, torso, and legs, completely immobilizing him. Malfoy was stunned. He'd never heard of a spell that could do this, and the stranger had cast it silently and wandlessly to boot!

He tried to move his wand, but a quick glance showed him that the rushing chain had splintered it beyond repair. "Do you know who I am?" he bellowed in rage.

"I know exactly who you are, Lucius Malfoy." A black gloved hand reached up and pulled back the hood, revealing the feral glint in the hunter's eyes.

The blood rushed from his face as his bladder voided itself. "You…" he whispered. "Impossible!"

The hunter smiled, a truly terrifying sight. Even as Malfoy watched in growing horror, razor sharp blades sprouted from the chains like leaves on a vine, slicing through cloth and flesh alike. A terrified scream escaped his lips despite himself. Only then did the chains start twisting around his body again.

***DIM***

Barnabas Cuffe strode down the narrow predawn street of Diagon Alley, the gas lamps casting flickering shadows on the wet cobblestone. Few people were awake this early in the morning, other than the proprietors and suppliers of the various shops in the alley. The shopping wouldn't really begin until around midmorning, giving the workers here several hours to get ready for the day. He himself, as the editor for the Daily Prophet, had tomorrow's paper to lay out and an editorial to write. Other staff would be coming in as well, getting the last-minute touches on articles and photographs together for the next day's edition.

A terrified shriek echoed down the alley from the direction of the Prophet's offices. Quickening his steps, he came upon several of his employees staring at a scene from a nightmare. One of his male reporters had actually fainted at the sight of the grisly scene before them, and both of the witches on site were huddled together in tears, both hyperventilating and on the verge of a breakdown. Another of his reporters was busily snapping pictures from different angles. Cuffe himself began to feel lightheaded as he took in the horror, and was grateful that he had not yet broken his fast. It appeared that several of his employees were not as fortunate.

A human body had been nailed spread-eagled on the outside of the Daily Prophet office, right beside the front door. The body had been completely flayed except for the left forearm, which bore the distinctive tattoo of the Dark Mark of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The exposed muscles of the corpse had been deeply scored countless times, as if a hundred swords had slashed every inch of the body. The corpse had also been disembowelled and beheaded, but the ultimate horror was that the head had been placed inside the empty abdominal cavity.

Another chill ran up Cuffe's spine as he recognized who it was. The long blond hair was matted with gore, and dried blood dripped down the face, but the terrified, screaming countenance of Lucius Malfoy was unmistakeable.

Cuffe grabbed the nearest person that looked semi-coherent. "Notify Amelia Bones immediately," he rasped. "Minister Fudge, too." The shaken type setter was only too happy to comply. Anything to get away from the horrific sight.

The editor looked up at the writing painted above the mutilated corpse and wondered what it could portend. A single word, written in what he could only assume was the victim's own blood.

Justice.

***DIM***

The response to Lucius Malfoy's death was immediate and vocal. An apoplectic Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, denounced the brutal murder of such a "fine, upstanding citizen" as Lucius Malfoy and swore that he would not rest until the murderer had been brought to justice. It was whispered that Fudge was more upset that his primary source of "donations" was no longer able to grease his palm than he was at the actual death of the man. Malfoy's tattoo was conveniently ignored, as was the one-word message left scrawled on the Prophet's façade.

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement, led by Director Amelia Bones, was at a loss. The killer had left behind no evidence whatsoever that might lead to an identification. That dark magic was used was unmistakeable, yet no magical signature or recognizable spell residue could be detected, even with the most detailed arithmantical scans. Physical evidence also came up empty. Even bringing in the Unspeakables from the Department of Mysteries yielded no results. It was rare that even they could be stumped, and they did not take it well.

No one could determine whether the killer held a personal grudge against Malfoy in particular or Death Eaters in general. Though protected by his wealth and influence, it was common knowledge that Lucius Malfoy had earned many enemies over the course of his life. Even Minister Fudge, Malfoy's staunchest supporter, would acknowledge that.

A week later the body of Walden Macnair, executioner for the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures, was found dead inside his Ministry office. He had apparently died from massive ruptures all over his body, almost as if something had burst out through his flesh, though no further evidence could be found, magical or otherwise. The corpse was hung by its ankles by meat hooks dangling from the ceiling. The left sleeve of Macnair's shirt was torn off, exposing his Dark Mark for all to see. Just as at the Malfoy crime scene, the word Justice was written on the wall behind Macnair's desk in his own blood. Director Bones immediately took the approach that there was a serial killer targeting former Death Eaters on the loose and steered the DMLE investigation in that direction.

Two days later Minister Fudge called a press conference in the Ministry atrium, during which he condemned the vigilante actions of this killer. "These are upstanding pureblood citizens!" he ranted. "The Wizengamot itself determined these two unfortunate men and many others just like them to have been under the Imperious curse. Does anyone for a moment honestly believe that that august body can be fooled to that degree?"

As if to mock his words, yet another body fell from the shadows overhead, trailing smoky tendrils of darkness behind it, and splashed down into the Fountain of Magical Brethren. A horrified Cornelius Fudge recognized the contorted features of Corban Yaxley, whose corpse had inch-long dagger-like thorns sprouting from what looked like thick vines burrowing under his skin throughout his body. And once more, the word Justice was present, though this time it was carved directly into his naked chest, the only area besides his face and his Dark Mark that was free from the deadly plant growth. Fudge shuddered to think of the pain the man must have endured.

As DMLE aurors rushed into the atrium to contain the scene, one of the more jaded reporters turned back to the Minister, whose mouth was still hanging open in shock. "It would seem, Minister Fudge," the reporter said drily, "that someone disagrees with the Wizengamot's assessment."