The Sacrifice

A Harry Potter fanfiction

By Anna Muehlenhaupt

Disclaimer: the author does not own nor claim to own any of the following characters or places. All characters, places, and previously established storylines are copyright Joann Kathleen Rowling, and copyright Warner Brothers Studio.

Author's Note: I don't pretend to be this amazing author. This is pretty much the compilation of the extent of my writing talent, but I hope you like it anyway. This is dedicated to Libby, Rita, and Gus, who were the first to read it in its ratty old journal, Alex, my first beta, and Whitney, who kept bothering me to finish it. It's also dedicated to Adrian, who was my beta reader for all of it, and was pretty much the awesomest thing ever. Thank you all. To Rita: you ain't seen nothin' yet!

Prologue

Molly Weasley walked quickly along the dark, cobblestone street, clutching the paper bag to her chest with one hand and holding the small wrist of her oldest son, a boy of barely four, with the other. He was holding the hand of a barely walking two year old boy, which happened to be her other son. Shadows had crept out onto the stones in the road, stretching like gnarled fingers toward some dying soul, pulling it into the depths of Hell. Shadows had always frightened her. She knew this was no time of night to be out, what with the masked murderers, who called themselves Death Eaters, roaming the streets, just looking for someone to kill. Her heart pounded in her ears. She wished desperately that her husband had gotten the car fixed, or that rugs were still legal. She couldn't take both of her children on a broom, unless it had baskets or rear seating, and her husband didn't think they were at all safe. But, she thought, just about anything is safer than walking down an empty street these days. She held her son's grubby hand tighter in hers, and pressed the bag closer to her chest, feeling the celery against her fingers through the thick, brown paper and prayed that the sun would come soon, and she would have more light than the fragile sliver of a moon, which vainly tried to throw some light from its cage in the dark night sky.

A quiet scratch of heavy boots on cobblestone caught her attention. Curious, she almost turned to see where it had come from. A terrified thought came over her suddenly; what if it was one of them? A ragged, raspy voice whispered, "Alohomora," and she stopped breathing. A door creaked open in the dark, then shut with a click. She searched the house in the direction of the sounds, but saw no evil signs. Her eyes crept up the house's yellow trim with the ivy, coming to the one, lit window in the house. Cheerful orange played out onto the street below, and laughter was slightly audible from the bright room. She stepped toward the bright window, shaking, then drew back. She felt helpless; hopeless. She turned away, dreading to see the happy lights flicker and die.

"Mummy," the oldest boy, Bill, pulled on the sleeve of her robe, then shoved his orange hair behind his small, freckled ears with round fingers, "we have to go home. Daddy'll be home soon." Her children. She held the boy's hand tightly in her own and watched the window intently. A dark silhouette appeared in the window, and screams came from the small room. A flash of green, the bright light extinguished. The paper bags dropped onto the cobbled street, their contents spilling over the deep greys and blacks. Molly grabbed her boys and ran behind an old, gnarled tree. A green mist crept along her ankles and legs, trying to swallow her into the deep void of death. She shut her eyes tightly, loosening her grip on her older son, and hoped that she wouldn't hear what she knew what was next.

"That was too easy," a man sniggered. "Morsmodre!"

She opened her eyes when she felt Bill leave. He was peering around the trunk of the old tree, his back to her. She grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him back. He landed with a thump on her lap.

"Look, Mummy!" He said happily, "They know it's my birthday. They drew me a picture. Look!" He pointed to a green skull hovering in the sky.

Chapter 1 - The Haunting Dreams

Ron, I'm worried about Harry. He hardly responds to his owls. Usually just a few sentences. I know this whole... thing... has been tearing him apart... I just wish there were something we could do. Have you gotten any information about... the Quidditch Team, from... the gang? You know. I hope Dumbledore lets him visit you. He needs something to take his mind away from all of what happened.

Love,

Hermione

"Although wizards knew the nature of the five elemental powers for centuries, they did not attempt to harness the power until early 600 A.D."

Harry stifled a yawn, trying not to wake the Dursleys, who were not on good terms with him at the moment. Uncle Vernon was much less than pleased that he had not been able to keep Harry out of the house and was even more suspicious of the sight of Moody at King's Cross, but did not say anything about either, hoping not to displease Harry enough to make him write to any of the Order. Aunt Petunia had finally given up hiding in Harry's old cupboard and had resorted to sneaking into each room with a cricket bat gripped tightly in both hands. She had mistaken every person in the house for Voldemort at least once, and had repeatedly believed Harry a magical killer at first glance. Uncle Vernon was convinced Privet Drive was a much safer place for Harry and asked frequently how soon Harry could return to Hogwarts and if possibly he could be sent back for the remainder of summer holiday. Harry's strange dreams had not helped.

Harry now spent as much time outside as possible, climbing the trellis in the back garden to the roof with his books and wearing his invisibility cloak. Dudley had been sent a few days earlier (on Harry's birthday, to be exact) to a prestigious boxing camp, and while Uncle Vernon couldn't be prouder, Aunt Petunia now cried whenever a meal was served. Though she continued to keep Harry on Dudley's grapefruit diet, Harry looked a good deal healthier. His skin was no longer pale, but was almost beginning to develop a humanly shade of pink to his skin, even through the invisibility cloak, and he was living again off the current year's birthday cakes. Aunt Petunia seemed to understand his emotional state, however, and seemed almost civilized. However, he had noticed very little of this. He spent most of his time staring blankly at walls, trees, or anything that stood still. He thought of trivial things, such as the shape of his glasses, or the laces of his trainers. He liked those thoughts. They drove away the pain that tore at his stomach just before he went to sleep. He was mostly afraid of the dark, and constantly heard small noises around the front door. He was afraid of returning to Hogwarts as well, but not for his safety. It had been his only home, and everything had suddenly changed. He only wished everything would be the way it was before. But it never would be.

Harry yawned again and closed his Advanced History of Charms book in the flattened roll of parchment that held his half written essay, hoping the ink had dried, and slid it under his bed. He needed sleep; Mr. Weasley was coming the next day with a Portkey and it would take quite a bit of talking to the Dursleys about it, especially if Mr. Weasley didn't remember the layout of the house. He turned onto his back, set his glasses on the nightstand, and fell asleep.

He was sitting in a cemetery. He knew by the headstones illuminated in some green light coming from far away. They stood in the dark clearing, spaced apart, revealing the emptiness of the cemetery, like a group of crazed monks on the floor of Hell, clawed hands clutching the wilting flowers left to remember the dead. He had no shirt, and his pants were soaked in blood and ripped around his knees. Rain pelted down on him. Except it wasn't rain. Deep crimson stained his pale skin. The deep red clouds let no light in, but the eerie green glow was becoming more defined on the cold stones. It was coming closer. The green fingers crept along the red ground, slipping between the still monks and their dying flowers. His heart caught in his throat as a strangling fear consumed him. He didn't want it to come closer. He had to get away. The wind sliced through the grass, whispering, "Rip you... tear you... kill you..." He tried to get up, but his legs hurt too much. The light advanced, its sinister mind reaching out, trying to twist his own, playing around his ears, echoing in his head, clouding his thoughts. He pushed the ground with his bleeding feet and tore at the grass with his hands, trying desperately to get away. The gravestones loomed in front of him, and sealed his way out. He screamed at them, and pounded his hands against the stone. His hands began to bleed, and vines crept around his wrists, cutting into his skin. He tore at them, trying to stop them, in vain. They coiled around his arms and pulled him to the cold rock. He tried to scream, and the vine snaked into his throat. His arm began to bleed, slowly at first, then poured down onto his fingers. The searing, burning pain began, travelling down his spine, along his arms and in his chest. Flames scratched at his eyes. He could see nothing. And he couldn't get away...

Aunt Petunia woke up to the somewhat familiar screams. She hurried out of bed and wondered how even after Harry's first two years with them, even after this entire summer, how those screams could still terrify her. She rushed into the room and took in the scene: Harry was sitting straight up, his back rigid, almost arched, as if he were in physical pain. His eyes were rolled back in his head, but the whites of his eyes were clearly visible from his wide-open eyelids. He stared through her with those vacant white eyes and shrieked, "NO! I won't! You killed my parents!" His scar had begun to bleed. The red stained his white skin and ran into his mouth. Petunia sat on the bed and grabbed his shoulders, shaking him. "Shut up!" she whispered furiously. "Shut up!"

His mouth closed, and his eyes blinked, then fluttered, and the green irises returned to their proper place. His eyes closed, and his dark eyelashes became wet with tears. He began to shake violently, and tears ran down his face, making white lines in the blood that lay there. Aunt Petunia loosened her grip on his shoulders, and he collapsed, sobbing, into her arms. She stroked his dark, tangled hair, and a strange, almost maternal feeling came over her. She looked back at Vernon, who was leaning on the doorframe, watching with a mixture of concern and the ever-prominent suspicion and disgust. She smiled weakly, and he, approving of the situation, tromped back into the master bedroom.

Petunia stayed there, watching the crying boy, until his breathing changed from ragged to calm, and his tears ceased. She lay him back on his pillow, brushing the tears and remains of blood from his skin. Her fingers brushed his scar and she shivered. She had read what had happened in that letter so many years ago. Even with an unbiased formality, the undeniable truths were terrifying. She wondered briefly, what it would have been like if Lily had survived. Her vision became blurry, and she blinked furiously, scolding herself for giving in. She kissed her fingers and put them to the jagged scar. He would not remember the nightmare in the morning. He never did.