ACT ONE: Of Dark Lords and Orphans
CHAPTER ONE: HERE WE GO AGAIN
"He can't have put up that much of a fight; he's only a kid…"
"... said You-Know-Who as he walked over to the cot."
Prophecies, Secrets and Lies, Shinysavage
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Wednesday 31st July, 1991
"Get out here boy, it's time!"
Harry rubbed sleep from his eyes. He'd been up late, and now he was paying the consequences. A glance at the alarm clock in the corner, visible thanks to phosphorescent hands, showed that it was the late morning, about eleven or so. He'd slept in on his birthday, and the candles placed around the small room had long since died out. He reached for his glasses that lay on the floor beside the mattress, unfolding the arms and slipping them on.
Stretching, he hit his arms on the underneath of the stairs, then reached out to pull the cord attached to the light. The cupboard under the stairs lit up with dim, yet harsh white light from a hanging low-energy bayonet light-bulb. The mattress he had been lying on was crumpled, a couple of books splayed out nearby, a propelling pencil lying on top of one of them. Naturally, said books were covered in notes, drawings and diagrams written with the pencil. The cupboard itself was deceptively large, containing not only a mattress but also shelves full of books and various objects, from an old-fashioned broom leaning in the corner to a small pile of large, golden coins. Despite the annoying presence of a fuse board, and with the cosiness of the candles, it could be a particularly nice place to relax and read, particularly for an eleven year-old boy. Then again, Harry was not a typical eleven year-old boy.
Harry pulled two bookmarks from a pile in the corner and closed the books, leaving them atop the mattress, before getting up. He was still small enough to be able to stand in the relatively cramped space, for which he was glad. He pushed open the door, running a hand through his hair and hoping it'd stay in some resemblance of order. In vain, as he'd learnt from experience that his jet black locks could never be cut, nor controlled.
"Hurry up, boy!" came his uncle's voice once more.
Harry James Potter Evans lived with his aunt and uncle, Petunia (née Evans) and Vernon Dursley, along with his cousin Dudley. His parents were killed in nasty circumstances when he was one year-old, and he was sent to live with his nearest and only relatives, the Dursleys. Now the Dursleys lived at Number 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging. An uninteresting little place in Surrey, built in the post-war period, and the street was filled with identical box-like houses. A perfect little suburb, yet absolutely banal. Harry had always been thankful for his monumental stack of books, as there was bugger all to do in Little Whinging.
He stumbled into the kitchen, still bleary from his quick awakening, and encountered a plate piled with a classic "Full English", sitting in front of an empty chair. The others were already sat and ready to begin. Petunia Dursley smiled at Harry. "I know you love cooking, but it's my turn today," she explained. Harry grinned back in thanks, and sat down, and they all tucked in. Petunia had really gone for this breakfast no holds barred: sausages, bacon, egg, black pudding, tomatoes, mushrooms, fried potato slices, baked beans, even fried bread (which she tended to frown upon, due to the high fat content). He dolloped some brown sauce onto the side of his plate with a look of glee, beginning to mix it into his baked beans.
"I wonder when it's going to turn up," commented Vernon with a raised eyebrow. Harry shrugged in return; and as if on command, a small bird swooped into the kitchen through the open window. The owl had a letter strapped to its leg, and the family smiled in anticipation. Harry detached the letter, putting some bits of sausage onto the table for the bird to eat, and broke the wax seal on the envelope. He slid out two pieces of old-fashioned parchment with a look of pure glee lighting up his face.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Harry Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1st September. We await your confirmation owl by no later than 15th August.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress
Of course, such a letter might have surprised some, but Harry had been expecting it, and had been waiting for it for the past four years with growing anticipation.
Harry was a wizard, capable of performing magic with the use of a wand, given schooling. His parents before him had been wizards too: his father from a long-running noble family, the Potters, and his mother from a family of Muggles – that is to say, non-magical folk like you and I. As such, Harry was what most wizards would refer to, often in a derogatory manner, as a "halfblood".
However Harry was far more than the average wizard. His parents had been killed on Halloween 1981, a year and three months after Harry's birth, in what was known in Great Britain as the "Second Wizarding War" by a sadistic, insane wizard named Lord Voldemort, who had caused so much death and destruction that his mere name struck fear into the hearts of wizardkind; as such, he was referred to as "You-Know-Who" or "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named". But the Dark Lord's plan to conquer the British Isles was thwarted on that fateful night by Harry himself.
Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived.
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Saturday 31st October, 1981
Sirius Black drew his wand from his right sock as he approached the wreckage of a house. It was Halloween in the idyllic village of Godric's Hollow, Devon, and he would think it were snowing, were it not for the fact that the house before him were burning. The Muggle neighbours probably thought it was snowing, as the house was covered with a Muggle-Repelling Ward, a spell that had stopped them from noticing it for the past two or so years. Though Sirius wasn't sure the Ward would have survived the destruction of the house, as it was tied into the very foundations of the building.
He walked carefully down the garden path, well-kept flowerbeds to each side contrasting with the destruction before him. Wand raised and at the ready, he stepped over the burning remains of the front door, which had been blasted clean off the hinges. A tear swept down his cheek as he beheld the limp, lifeless body of James Potter, his best friend. He quivered in anger and sorrow, but kept on his guard. Even though Voldemort hadn't conjured the Dark Mark – his symbol, a giant floating skull circled by a snake, which he cast into the sky whenever he killed someone – Sirius knew to expect anything. Maybe it was a trap. The shaggy-haired wizard cast a hasty Shield Charm in anticipation.
He took a few cautious steps up the staircase, before steeling himself and rushing up. He knew he had no chance against a wizard as powerful as the Dark Lord, but the least he could do was try his very hardest to avenge James.
So far, the inside of the house was relatively intact: save the destroyed door and a few scorch marks in the kitchen from James and Voldemort's duel, there was very little damage. Then he followed the breeze, stepping towards the bedroom with the door labelled Harry.
There was no longer a roof. The wind blew freely around, threatening to put out the small flames licking at the walls. The wooden floorboards were almost untouched by the fire, and there was a neat circle of floor undamaged and free of debris. Within the circle lay Lily Potter Evans, dead like her husband, and Sirius growled. He remained on the alert as he stepped towards the centre of the circle, towards the cot. He beheld the bundle of cloth, seeing young Harry. Another tear slid down his cheek, and he spun around to check the rest of the house for Voldemort.
A soft giggle.
Sirius twirled on the spot, wand raised and a spell on the tip of his tongue, ready to let loose his grief and fury. But he realised, in that second, that it was Harry. His godson, who was unharmed, save a fresh cut on his forehead in the shape of a lightning bolt.
He dashed over to the crib, and gathered the baby up in his arms. Tears swept down his cheeks, tears of joy. He raised his wand to cast the Patronus Spell, sending a message to his greatest ally. A soft pop not a minute later announced Albus Dumbledore's arrival, and Sirius murmured, not turning back.
"He's alive, Albus. Harry's alive."
The older wizard nodded, before raising his wand to cast a diagnostic spell. He muttered the incantation, then raised an eyebrow at the results. "The Killing Curse was cast twice in this room. Both hit their targets."
Sirius nearly dropped Harry. "What? If two people died here, where's Voldemort? Did Lily kill him?"
Dumbledore bent down to pick up Lily Potter's wand that lay beside her and ran another test on it, to reveal the previously cast spells. "As I suspected... Lily did not cast the Killing Curse. Her last spell was a Cleaning Charm."
Harry only just avoided being dropped again. "Then who..." Sirius began, before spotting a stick on the floor, near the edge of the circle of non-devastation. Dumbledore followed his gaze, and strode over to pick the wand up. "Oh shit," the wizened wizard said uncharacteristically. Sirius had known him since his schooldays, when Albus had been his Headmaster, but even when he was at his worst he had never heard the man swear. Dumbledore ran the previous-spell test once more.
"Albus?"
"This is Voldemort's wand, with which he cast two Killing Curses. Merlin..."
"What happened?"
"I'm not sure," Dumbledore growled, "I need to do some research. Now."
Before Sirius had the time to speak, Dumbledore had disappeared in a soft pop, teleporting away to his office at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He didn't want to stay much longer in the house in which two of his best friends had died; he turned on the spot and disappeared with a slightly louder pop, his godson in his arms.
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Wednesday 31st July, 1991
With a delighted grin Harry discarded the second parchment – he knew that it only contained a list of what he would need to acquire in order to attend the school. That is to say robes, potion-making equipment and a wand, as he had obtained – and read at least twice over – the necessary books already. All four inhabitants of the house were happy, and they made light talk about the letter over breakfast. It was a little later that morning that there came a knock on the door.
Harry rushed to the door, yanking it open to be caught in an ambush hug from his godfather.
"Harry birthday!" Sirius roared as he rubbed his godson's head with his knuckles.
"Surely you can't be Sirius..."
The shaggy-haired man chuckled, "If only you knew how many times I've heard that one. Oh, and don't call me Shirley. Let's get inside then."
Harry led his godfather through to the kitchen, where the shaggy-haired man greeted Petunia and Dudley with a hug – and Vernon with a "manly handshake". He was soon sat down with a cup of tea, his present lying on the table. The way it was wrapped made it look like a thin jumper or some sort of piece of clothing. Vernon disappeared into the living room, returning shortly with three other packages, one from each member of the family.
Harry had always liked his family's birthday celebrations – never anything too complicated, and never too many presents; and the few that they exchanged were almost always practical. At the four others' urging, he tore open Dudley's present first, to reveal a flat box labelled "Broomstick Care Kit". He let out a squeal of delight and hugged his cousin, wondering how on Earth he'd managed to acquire it, before moving onto the rest. Petunia's present was a book on etiquette, as Harry had already mentioned that it'd be a good idea for him to learn some respectful manners, as one could be sure that mastery of flattery and comportment would be necessary later in life – particularly when faced with the more aristocratic wizard families. Vernon's was a stack of boxer shorts ("To be perfectly honest, I couldn't think of anything; and pants are one of the most useful things you'll ever have, boy") and Sirius' turned out to be a piece of strange, silky fabric that seemed to reflect – no, displace the light, in a very odd manner.
"I got this off Albus for you. It's not really a present, as it is actually yours, but here it is nonetheless," his godfather explained.
"Actually mine? What is it, anyway?"
"It belonged to your father, so it's now yours. Albus had borrowed it to study it, and forgot to give it back. It's called a Cloak of Invisibility. Three guesses as to what it does," Sirius added with a wink.
"Oh, so it keeps you warm?" Harry suggested.
They all laughed as Sirius cuffed his godson around the back of the head.
"He let me give it to you as long as I urged that you not use it to break any rules..."
Harry snorted, "I'd like to see you try to forbid me from breaking rules, you Marauder."
When he was at Hogwarts, Sirius had been part of a band of friends who broke the rules from time to time – "from time to time", of course, meaning "all of the time". The "Marauders", that is to say Sirius, James Potter and a couple of other friends, had been the scourge of Hogwarts during their time there.
"Ok, you got me," his godfather grinned, "Just don't get caught doing it."
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Friday 24th July, 1987
Drip, drip, drip.
Screams echoing down the long corridors. Constant drip of water, slowly driving the man insane.
Drip, drip, drip.
A guard strolled past the prisoner's cell, keys clanking as he went.
Drip, drip, drip.
He began to shiver as the unearthly creatures that ensured his imprisonment and torture approached once more.
Drip, drip, drip.
Dementors, unnatural wraiths seeking to feed upon happy thoughts and memories, causing anguish amongst even the greatest of wizards.
Drip, drip, drip.
The cold was getting harsher and harsher as three, four of the foul creatures congregated before his bars.
Drip, drip, drip.
The Dementors drifted onwards, and the unnaturally cold depression faded as the human guard approached once more.
Drip, drip, clank.
Keys rolled in the lock, and the man shot up straight. It wasn't time for a meal, and it sure wasn't a visitor, as visitors weren't allowed in the prison of Azkaban. The guard stepped into the cell and offered a hand, which the man took, and was pulled to his feet. Silently he was led out of the cell, through the drab, dark corridors of black stone, and through a series of doors, before reaching a warm guardroom.
"You are being released," the as yet silent guard murmured. The prisoner raised an eyebrow, then his face lit up in joy as it sunk in. He was offered a chair, and the guard pulled a cloth sack from a nearby cupboard.
"Your personal affects when arrested." His wand, a handful of coins, motorbike keys and house keys, along with some clothes he knew to have been soaked in sweat, blood and ash when he last wore them. When the guard handed his wand over, he set fire to the clothes with a muttered incantation. He felt a wave of joy at having his wand again, and using magic once more after those four long years, and the guard smiled back at him.
"I also have a small letter for you from your advocate," he added, handing over a piece of parchment.
Sorry I couldn't come, Wizengamot business. I've had Kreacher prepare a meal for you at Grimmauld Place, and it promises to be a veritable feast. Surprisingly, he is warming to you.
Take care.
The prisoner grinned, happy that his greatest ally had managed to not only release him, but also have a meal ready for him. Damn, that man was good. He thanked the guard and quickly left the room, heading outside towards the docks, so as to escape that godforsaken island once and for all. Once beyond the wards preventing magical teleportation, and within sight of an exterior guard, Sirius Black turned on the spot and disappeared with a soft pop.
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Wednesday 31st July, 1991
"...then we'll head to pick you some more books up, alright?"
Harry nodded. His godfather's plan to take him shopping for the few remaining things on his school list seemed fine. They'd head to Diagon Alley – a hidden street in the centre of London, inhabited by wizards – on Friday, to pick up the last requirements on the list. Namely, a wand and some robes. It also seemed that Harry was in luck, as they'd be taking a trip to a bookshop... Sirius didn't seem to realise what he was getting himself into, taking the boy around a bookshop. And the man would probably have to pay for and carry the books. Harry rubbed his hands together mischievously, Petunia and Vernon looking at each other with a worried expression on their faces.
Best. Birthday. Ever. Now all he needed were an evil goatee and a cat to stroke. Mwahahahahaha.
"Er, Harry?"
It then occurred to the eleven year-old that he'd actually laughed evilly out loud, judging by the strange expressions on his family's faces. Sirius laughed, and it soon proved contagious.
"An evil laugh isn't very becoming of the Boy-Who-Lived," teased his godfather, who narrowly avoided the orange that his godson threw in retaliation.
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Monday 10th November, 1980
In the centre of London, far underneath the streets, deep beneath the Underground lines, lay the Department of Mysteries of the Ministry of Magic, research centre for the magical government of Great Britain. All sorts of strange experiments took place here, and the actual Department was incredibly vast, covering over ten acres of underground chambers.
Deep within one of these deserted chambers lay a device, resembling a sort of seismograph. A roll of paper in the centre, attached to a needle and what looked like a typewriter. The paper was as yet blank, and the only sign that the magical device was activated was the small, green light bulb at the top.
Suddenly, at about 10 AM, the light changed colour, flashing between deep cobalt blue and bright pink. There was a whirr as the needle shot up and down the roll, marking fluctuations in... something, whatever the machine studied. No-one was nearby to watch, at the time. The roll shot through the typewriter, which began tapping letters and numbers onto the sheet. Fluctuation, reception, 1002-10-11-1980 ,Headmaster's Office at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland.
The machine suddenly dropped back into its dormant state, before jerking to life once more, a minute later. Fluctuation, reception, 1003-10-11-1980, Department of Mysteries, England. The small explosive device that had suddenly burst into existence next to the device beeped once, before obliterating the roll of information and lightly damaging the graph – not beyond repair, but simply enough that there be no record left whatsoever. Smoke drifted upwards from the device, and the light faded out.
That morning would prove to be a strange morning indeed for the Headmaster of Hogwarts.
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A/N: Well, this has been in the works for a long time. I can't even remember what I was going to write here. :)