Harry Potter And The Reign of the Innocent

By MujakiX

Chapter One... The New Zero

It was unusually cloudy that day, with a heavy fog rolling over the horizon... at least that was Harry Potter's vantage point as he gazed out from his second story window. He was seated at a large, mahogany desk that had mysteriously appeared during the time that he had been away at school. It was just the first of a number of things that had changed while he had been gone. A small bookshelf had been installed just above the desk on the wall, and it contained various exciting titles like How to Determine when the Customer is Wrong and Upgrades: Why Name-Brands Are Better. Although neither his Aunt nor his Uncle would divulge it, Harry's mountainous cousin Dudley gleefully told him that Vernon had converted Harry's room into a study while he had been at school.

"You're only here half the time anyway." Dudley shrugged before losing interest and wandering to the den.

Which was actually true - for a majority of the year, Harry attended 'Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry' and only returned to his Uncle's house for the summer break. Not that Harry's return mattered to Vernon Dursley, who had simply left everything in his nephew's room upon his return. Not even Alastor Moody had shaken Vernon that much. Much to Harry's chagrin, he found that his chest of drawers and his bed had been removed in order to make room for the mammoth desk. In poor compensation, a small, plastic four-door and a cot had taken their place. It was better than nothing, Harry mused, if his Uncle hadn't been so afraid of the Order, he would have stuck him beneath the stairwell again.

But today, three days before his birthday, Harry had other things on his mind. Hermione Granger, one of Harry's best friends, had been owling him the Daily Prophet everyday since school had let out. It had been relatively tame thus far, (although Harry was almost certain that Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, had been playing down the facts to avoid panic in the populace,) but on the seventh page, circled in bright red ink, was the article that grabbed Harry's attention.

Theft of jewel baffles Aurors

by Vincent Lockhart

At approximately four 'o clock a.m. yesterday morning, a large obsidian jewel was stolen from The Museum of the Ancient Age. Demetrios Hellion, the wizard deigned to study the jewel, gave his comments to the Daily Prophet this morning.

"We had just received the gem a week ago from The Museum of Natural History. One of our representatives was sent to retrieve the jewel under the pretense that we were experts in restoring ancient artifacts. We were actually drawn to the gem when it was confirmed that it resonated magical energy." Reymond Glover, the chief curator of the museum also adds, "The shielding ore that surrounds it, thought by the muggles to be rough diamond, is actually a particularly hardy protection spell. But that is the extent of our research. We didn't even have the chance to find out what it can do!!!"

Nearby Aurors were dispatched to the site of the theft, and upon arriving, found several unconscious security trolls and the night watch wizards - all afflicted with memory charms. The whereabouts of the gem are, of course, unknown at this time, but it is believed that it will emerge for sale in underground circles. Despite heightened security, the Museum is still open for the Wizarding public, and no changes in hours will be made...

Harry had stopped reading by this point - the article went on about the new Aztec exhibits and how thefts were going to be prevented in the future. Yet something gnawed at Harry's thoughts: if a mystical gem of some kind with unknown properties had been stolen, why wouldn't it be on the front page? He gazed at the corner of the paper and saw a picture - the black and white photograph alternated between displaying the gem, (Harry thought that it looked like a misshapen rock, albeit with flecks of black,) and a shot of Aurors scanning the room where it was held. After staring at it for a few moments, Harry noticed the large, distinct frame of Kingsley Shacklebolt among the scattered Aurors. He seemed to be inspecting the hinges of the back door.

I guess that means the Order is already investigating, Harry thought as he folded the paper and tossed onto his cot. The phone downstairs rang with its cheery whine, but Harry slumped against the desk and put his head down. So much had happened in the last month that processing it, even after all this time, was still a challenge. The entire Weasley clan - with the notable exception of Percy - had written him a letter offering their condolences for his Godfather's... Sirius' passing, and sent a care package of some sort: Fred and George sent him a mammoth box filled with samples of their products, (none of which Harry would dare try in the house,) all neatly labeled. Ron and Ginny each sent models and posters of famous Quidditch teams, (including Ron's favorite, the Chudley Cannons,) and a rather pricey-looking book called The Indivisible Soul: The Origins of Defense. Harry suspected the book to be Ginny's gift rather than Ron's. And finally, Mrs. Weasley sent a picnic basket overloaded with snacks of every kind, as well as a tearful letter that only reminded Harry of the anger he had exhibited at the end of last year. It was difficult to fight the tears after reading Mrs. Weasley's letter, so Harry cried himself out the second night he was home. After the first week, Harry's sadness had gone, leaving only a lingering guilt that he hadn't felt... more. By the second week, he had been well enough to leave his room, reminding the Dursleys that he still existed, and he was hardly left to himself since. Today was a Sunday, the first Sunday since he arrived that there hadn't been anything to do, and Harry woke up feeling disturbed... and then realized that he hadn't any thought of Sirius for nearly two weeks.

Truth be told, he hadn't really had the time to mourn, with his never-ending list of chores and homework. After a moment, he reached into his trunk and produced a piece of parchment and a quill. He opened the ink bottle, but froze.

What would I tell her?

Harry chewed on the feathery tip of his quill for a moment... what would he write about? Hermione was the only one who hadn't written a letter of some kind, or sent anything. She simply sent the Prophet and occasionally pointed out things of interest. It was a different form of correspondence then Harry was used to, but not unwanted. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard the downstairs phone ring, but he quickly returned to his thoughts. He and Ron had exchanged a few letters, but Hermione hadn't even crossed his mind during his late-night writing sessions. He doubted that she would want to talk about the rock, but at least that was something.

The low rumble of thunder echoed in the distance, and he realized that he would have to write something soon or the rain could catch his owl.

"Potter!!!" Harry almost jumped right out of his seat at the sound of his Uncle's booming voice. He never could anticipate when his Uncle would suddenly shout his name from the den. Last week, when he was replacing the shingles on the roof, a shout from his Uncle nearly sent him tumbling off the side of the house. With a sigh, Harry replaced the top of the ink bottle and walked downstairs.

Vernon Dursley was a large, beefy man with very little neck and a perpetually reddened face. Right now, he sat at the kitchen table with his reading glasses donned and a calculator in front of him. When Harry walked in, he gave his nephew a quick glance and simply grunted.

"Phone. For you." He grumbled without moving his lips. Aside from barking instructions, Harry's uncle seldom said more than a few words to him. Harry walked over to the threshold of the hallway and saw the phone off the hook and on a bookshelf. Warily, Harry lifted the phone to his ear, having the same thought he knew his uncle had when he answered the phone: Who would call me?

"Hello?" Harry unintentionally whispered, gripping the phone more tightly than necessary.

"Harry?" a familiar, feminine voice inquired in the same tone.

Harry immediately jerked backwards, almost tumbling into the back wall, "Hermione?!?"

The voice hesitated for a moment before sheepishly replying, "Yeah."

A grin spread across Harry's face, "My god, how did you get the number, I mean-"

"Well, I figured that there could only be so many Vernon Dursleys in the directory," Hermione calmly interjected, "but it did take a bit of trial and error to figure out exactly what to tell them if you weren't the one to pick up the phone."

Harry cast a furtive glance at his uncle, who was busy ranting about property taxes to the calculator, "What did you tell him?"

"That I'm a friend, from that special school you attend," she said, her voice barely containing laughter, " I think he got the message."

Well, that explains a lot, Harry thought as Vernon suddenly threw the calculator against the refrigerator. It struck the metal with a musical bong that reverberated through the house, and Harry chuckled softly.

"What was that?" Apparently, the sound carried into the phone's receiver as well.

"Just my uncle," Harry sighed, "He's having problems with the refrigerator."

Hermione laughed out loud, "Is he being horrible?"

"Not so much. He mainly ignores me, which is just as well."

She was silent for a bit. Harry glanced from side to side in an effort to find his uncle - and he was relieved when the faint sound of the television reached his ears - Vernon must have settled in the den. When he returned to the receiver, something bothered him: Hermione hadn't said anything for a while and he began to worry.

"Hermione?"

"I'm here." She was whispering again, and an unnerving sensation settled in his stomach. But before he could talk, she began speaking again.

"Did you read the article," Her voice had regained its strength.

"Uh, yeah." Harry absentmindedly replied.

"Then I'm sure that you saw Kingsley in the photo," Hermione said, "So why do you think they did that?"

"I just assumed that the Order was already getting involved."

Hermione sighed patronizingly before answering, "True, but remember that Kingsley also works for the Ministry, which in turn means that he works for Fudge. That itself bears a single question: Why would Fudge appoint a powerful Auror like Kingsley to investigate what the Prophet makes out to be a minor robbery?"

"Hermione, the Prophet already said that it was because they didn't know what it could do."

"The Museum didn't know what it could do, but who's to say that the Ministry didn't already have at least an idea?"

"What? I'm not following you."

"Do you remember the Department of Mysteries?"

Harry suddenly felt the need to sit down, and he slumped against the back wall, "Yeah."

"Harry, it..." Hermione gasped audibly the moment she realized it, "Oh god, Harry... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... I'm sorry!"

"Look, don't worry about it," Harry interrupted, trying to calm her, "You don't have to -"

"BOY!!!" Uncle Vernon's voice carried over Harry's voice, "GET OFF THAT PHONE THIS MINUTE, YOU'VE BEEN ON IT FOR HALF AN HOUR!!!"

"Damn." Harry thought aloud before returning to the phone, "I have to go."

"I heard," She muttered, and Harry was sure that she uttered a few curses under her breath.

"Listen, 'Mione, I'll talk to you later, but what did you mean about the Department of Mysteries?"

Her whisper was barely audible, but the words burned into Harry's mind, "We were all there, you saw them. Not all artifacts go to the Museum."

Harry lay in his cot the next night, counting the minutes until midnight, until his birthday. Thankfully, Hermione had not called back, but her words still lingered in his mind:

Not all artifacts go to the Museum...

The Department of Mysteries... they saw so much, so many things that shouldn't have been possible, he thought, which of those could she have been talking about?

He glanced at the digital clock on the desk - the display read 11:58 p.m. in bright, red numbers. It just didn't seem worth it anymore, to spend everyday going through the motions of life at his Uncle's house or to go to the Burrow. Harry just wanted to sink down into his cot and disappear, to sleep and never wake up. It hardly seemed fair, to be teased with a normal conversation and suddenly have his life intrude upon it. A warm breeze gently blew the curtains apart, the night sky thick with clouds and air that smelled of rain. It was about this time when Harry realized that Hedwig still hadn't returned from her nightly hunt. Her cage was vacant and the open door rattled in the wind.

Odd, he thought, but he didn't think much of it for some reason. Something didn't sit well in his mind, and the vitriol was spreading throughout his body. He was numbing all over, and as he opened his mouth to protest, he yawned. With a last effort, he turned his head to read the clock.

It read 11:59 p.m.

His eyes closed of their own accord, despite mental protestations. With a final breath, sleep took him into her arms and he let go.

---

This place was dark, but he walked down the path as if his sight was active. With every step, a violet torch flared violently on both sides of him. He immediately noticed that he was much taller than he normally was, and he never wore the hood of a Death Eater. In the diminishing darkness, he saw other figures cloaked in black, some tall, some short, but all wearing porcelain masks of tragedy and with their forearms bared. As he walked forward, the dark figures kneeled onto all fours and held their arms out in reverence. He took great pleasure in this, and he ascended the stairs at the center of the room. Violet flame encircled the platform and raced to every corner of the room, forming an arcane rune of burning light on the ground. It looked like half of a shining sun and half of a cloudless night. He approached a pillar of granite as wide as he was tall and stood about eight feet in height. There were stairs that curved around and to the top of this pillar, but instead of ascending these himself, he kneeled at the base of the pillar. A torch of purple fire erupted before him, but he sat erect on his knees. There was movement at the foot of the stairs, and from a hole, something emerged. A snake sixteen feet long and as thick around as a dinner plate slithered towards him, and it circled him twice before coming to a stop.

"Nagani," He hissed. His voice was as brittle as glass, but there was something dangerous beneath it, something wrong, "The ceremony can commence."

The dark men began to chant, their refrains of bastardized Latin echoing within the dark halls like a cathedral. The fires burned higher, reaching for the endless skies above.

"Sacrifice," he whispered, and the dark men stopped, rising to their feet with arms still outstretched, "A sacrifice of flesh must be made, of blood, and of innocence."

"Flesh, flesh, flesh," they chanted the mantra into the black heavens.

"Of flesh, that is the rule of nature." He thrust his arms into the fire, and he screamed.

"OF FLESH, THAT IS THE RULE OF NATURE!!!" The dark men also thrust their arms into the fires, and they screamed. All of the men had tattoos upon their forearms, the image of a skull devouring a snake. Soon, the air was thick with the scent of burning flesh, and there was the sound of screaming and the gnashing of teeth. He pulled his burning arms out of the fire and held them out. The air stung the cooked flesh, and he collapsed in pain.

Soon, he thought before his body numbed and sleep took his mind to rest, soon...

---

He woke up screaming, and he felt whatever it was holding him up collapse. Harry hit the ground hard and his eyes jerked open. He found himself looking into the face of an incredibly brassed-off Vernon Dursley.

"What in the bloody hell do you think you're doing!!!"

Harry blinked a few times before his eyes could focus... and there was a blinding light before him.

Am I dead, he thought just before an intense pain clutched at his forearms.

"Damn it all to hell... PETUNIA!" Vernon roared to his wife, who was still upstairs, "Get the first-aid kit!"

There was a sound of footsteps coming down the stairs, and a shriek that undeniably belonged to his Aunt Petunia.

"Don't just stand there gawking, help me!"

Harry looked around madly, as if searching for something, and he found that he was in the kitchen. The blinding light was the electric light and he was laying flat on his back upon the shattered dining room table. When he glanced down, he saw several jagged cuts across his forearms, streaming gore onto his uncle's lap. Vernon was doing his best to clean the wounds, but when the sterilizing swab came into contact with his cuts, Harry began to thrash.

"Petunia, hold him!" Vernon said as he struggled against the surprising strength of his nephew, "And make sure that he doesn't pass out!"

Petunia did her best to restrain Harry, and lightly slapped him across the face when she saw his eyes roll into the back of his head. He snapped back to reality, but his uncle began shaking his head in frustration.

"There's too much blood, I can't clean this. We need to get him to a hospital."

Vernon improvised a compress by using the wash towels from the sink and he toted Harry outside and into the car.

"Nothing but trouble," Vernon muttered as Petunia brought an extremely drowsy Dudley into the back seat, "Nothing but trouble."

"What happened," Harry drawled, his tongue not wishing to work correctly, "Did I get attacked?"

"No!" Vernon retorted, a bizarre look of disgust and pity in his eyes, "I heard rattling in the kitchen, and when I came down to see if it was a thief, I found you with Petunia's butcher knife, trying to carve your bones out."

(Author's Notes: Well, I managed to reformat this thing, and I hope you all will stick around for the rest... the next few days should prove quite interesting for Harry...)