Title: Harry Potter and the Hope of Salvation
Author: Japhu
Beta Reader: antipyro
Pairing: still in the clouds
Rating: M
Disclaimer: I own nothing of Harry Potter and his world and don't make any money with it.
Summary: Harry Potter must lead, but Harry is led; a prophecy, though – a real one – cannot be forced. It will find a way to fulfil itself. What does it mean for the Wizarding world that Harry is not Harry Potter and never has been since that fateful night at Halloween? (will be AU)
Category: General/Suspense
Feedback: Would be nice to have.
Prologue – Sad Duty
The old man at King's Cross station came from a small village, four hours way with the train. He did not like the big cities, full of constant noise and hectic people. However, his grandchild, little Amanda, was having her eleventh birthday today; and it had been a long time since he had come to London to visit his only daughter, anyway. She had wanted to pick him up from the station, but now he prayed that she had not come and hoped that his sweet angel did not let it ruin her party when her grandpa came a bit late to bring the presents.
When the first explosion rang through the air, shook the surrounding buildings to their foundation stones and threw Paul Higgins painfully to the ground, he had still been a whole block away from the centre of destruction. Now he got groaning up to a knee with the coppery sweet taste of blood in his mouth. Old age and arthritis burned in his joints and made it even harder for him to get his trembling body up from the asphalt. He did not know what was happening, but he definitely felt too old for such things and somehow detached from all of it, as he could barely believe that it was real.
Paul Higgins squinted his eyes. All he could still see behind his broken glasses was a fragmented world of chaos hidden inside a floating cloud of dust. Never in his life, would he have thought that he would see such things again after that bloody war had finally ended forty years ago. People ran left and right aimlessly, passing him in fright, wanting to flee from where more explosions and shouts were coming from. Other people sat crying on the ground or lay dead next to those crying. Adults pulled screaming children behind them, trying to get them to safety, all their eyes wide with fear, the clothes bloody and torn from their bodies. It could not be real, not here in London in the midst of the city.
This nightmarish feeling grew. Maybe it was because his ears still rang from the explosion. He had to strain himself to hear more than the loudest pleas for help, the most desperate screams of the injured and mourning and the worrisome sound of what he believed to be gunfire.
Blinking, Paul Higgins watched another of those curiously dressed up people walk into his line of view. Maybe it was those men who made everything seem unreal, those men and their strange green lights that flashed here and there wherever they went and made another body fall in front of them, they were the only ones who moved around as if they were taking a walk in a park.
Then a boy stepped somewhat cautiously around one of these strangers, took a wide stride above a fallen body and spotted old, watching Paul Higgins. No one else seemed to be able to see the boy as he moved undisturbed around.
The boy was not supposed to be here, but clad in ripped, dirty jeans and T-shirt he drew no more attention than anyone else did. He moved resolutely directly towards the dumbly staring Muggle with a confidence that should be forbidden, and even in his torn clothes, he was surrounded by an aura of arrogance as if his dark curls were not covered in soot and dust. It seemed not to bother him noticeably to leave bloody footprints behind.
"Are you alright, Mister?" The boy's grip sneaked firmly but carefully around his shaking shoulders and led him away from the masses of people. The boy did not want to have a witness, but he wanted to be part of it. He felt that it was time for him to do what he was born to do.
"What happened?" The Muggle's voice was hoarse and he made the boy nearly go deaf he spoke so loud. Luckily, the man he had chosen to be his was not the only one screaming. The boy smiled and patted his shoulder comfortingly.
"Everything will be okay, sir." He said a bit louder. "They say it was a gas explosion that destroyed some houses over there."
The Muggle followed the way the nice lad pointed and did not fight against the helpful hands that pulled him further. It was right that he took him aside, lest an old guy like himself stood in the way of the rescue personnel when the fire brigade and police arrived. Warm, brown eyes watched him worriedly, a slight smile twitching around his lips.
Paul Higgins did not hear the whispered words of the spell, but he saw the light moving towards him. It was not green, but in the back of his head, he knew that he had made a mistake and that lastly he would fall to the ground like the other people before him.
A young police officer found Paul Higgins' body a few hours later in the same side street the boy had taken him to, hidden behind a rubbish container and covered with old newspapers and cardboard boxes, lying in a rapidly drying pool of blood.
With narrowed eyes, the young officer looked around. Maybe the old man had hidden himself after hell broke out in London. He would have bled to death when he was badly injured. A purse laid only a few steps away from him. Should it be the old man's wallet that must have been found in his hiding place? The young man sighed. The street rats were never far away when they smelled something worth their time. In chaos like that, they would never be found. Poor old guy. This had been slaughter.
Swallowing back the bile that rose in his throat the young man pulled out his radio to call for his colleagues … and found himself in another part of the street, confused for a moment. Then he did what he had been sent for and helped to erect even more barriers to prevented curious bystanders and desperate residents to go near the destroyed buildings. A gas explosion was nothing easy to take.
At the same time, the first special edition of the Daily Prophet went on sale and the Wizarding world's cry of despair rang through the air just as loud as the explosions of several gas tanks the Muggles of London were going to be convinced to have heard without exception.
It was late evening when the old wizard sat back in his office with a cup of tea and a pouch of lemon drops. He paid the frenzied delivery owl on his desk a worried look. He rolled out the parchment, humming an insignificant melody; a magnificent bird at his side calmly preened its feathers. Then Albus Dumbledore read the article that would burry the hopes of thousands and would change the future of many else.
The Boy-Who-Lived GONE
By I. Emma Bugg
It is our sad duty to inform you that Harry Potter, the only wizard ever to survive the killing curse, has gone missing this afternoon in an ambush by unknown forces on his way to his last living relatives' home, where he spends his holiday heavily warded and protected from You-Know-Who.
The attack on Harry Potter occurred within London only a few hundred meters away from King's Cross station. Reports of several eyewitnesses show that dozens of dark robed and white masked wizards and witches (known sign of recognition of You-Know-Who's followers) apparated suddenly into the highly populated area within Muggle London.
According to unofficial statements of different members of the Wizarding Law Enforcement Agency it is highly suspect, that You-Know-Who himself led the attack to bring the Boy-Who-Lived into his hands.
The number of dead surmounts a hundred; more are recovered by the minute. Most of the victims are Muggles. Among the identified dead is Vernon Dursley, Harry Potter's uncle. Harry Potter's aunt and cousin, both Muggles themselves, have been taken under protection for their own safety. Only but a few selected Aurors to guard their lives know where they are hidden, as it is not out of the question that followers of You-Know-Who or You-Know-Who himself will once more try to kill the only living family of Harry Potter.
A specially assigned unit of Aurors has taken over the task of future investigations to find the whereabouts of the fifteen-year-old Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, whose fate is still unknown.
The Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge is, as of yet unavailable to the public. To our question of what will be done to ensure the Wizarding world's safety, now when the Boy-Who-Lived may well be gone forever, no member of the Ministry of Magic was willing or able to comment.
In his enormous bathtub in the west wing of a centuries old wonder of Wizarding architecture the master's only son and heir of Malfoy Manor leaned lazily back, an evil smile on his usually calm, aristocratic face. The unusual color in his cheeks did not only come from the hot water he was soaking in to get the grime and dirt off his smooth, white skin. He glowed with satisfaction and he did not try to hide it. Nobody was there to watch the cold gleam in his gaze growing tenfold when he held up the latest edition of the Daily Prophet, his eyes caught in pictures full of destruction and blood, to relish again in what had been accomplished today. It had been a great day and if it got any better than hopefully Harry Potter was finally dead. With a broad smirk on his face Draco Malfoy dove under, happy with fate and the world at large. His laughter was quiet, but for once it was true as he tried to imagine how that bloody fool of a Gryffindor must feel right now – if he felt at all.
The boy who was known as the Boy-Who-Lived had a strong will, but a mind that was open for attack. He was not dead, not yet anyway, although he began to wish that he were. To begin the next adventure (as his headmaster preferred to call the inevitable) could not possibly be worse than what he lived through now.
He had not seen many Death Eaters, but the ones he had glimpsed through his nearly swollen shut eyes were bad enough. Harry did not know which fingers he could still move after more than one boot had stomped onto them. He felt as if he was holding his hands into open fire. He would have curled together to get some warmth if it had not brought back that piercing ache within his chest. His every breath hurt like hell and his scar had not stopped bleeding since King's Cross station, never once had he felt even the smallest sign of relief. It felt just as if Voldemort was standing right next to him the whole time, touching him, bringing with him excruciating pain that pulsed through his body with unnatural force.
Much worse than every physical torture could be though, was the game that Voldemort played. Harry shuddered when he thought about an eternity locked up in his own mind without seeing anything, without the ability to hear or to smell or taste. Nothing would be left for him but the knowledge that there was a life, that somewhere, just out of reach, were people feeling emotions and watching the world through their eyes. For eternity Harry would crawl within … nothing, always remembering that once he had been able to cry and to laugh.
It seemed as if his luck had finally run out on him. Harry breathed a sigh of relief when darkness closed in on him, hopefully taking him to the next adventure before his tormentors came back or worse – Voldemort himself ended this game of his and finished what he had started so many years ago.