Disclaimer: I uploaded this story a long time ago, under and old user name and completely forgot about it, but now I have decided to revive it. So here it is. I own nothing bar Elizabeth Potter. The rest is all the GENIUS of J.K. Hope you enjoy, R&R. Thanks xx
Chapter One
The Girl Who Waited
The night was deathly quiet. No people talking, no wind blowing, even the birds ceased their chirruping. The sky, a wash of purples and blues; clouds full of bruises. Each raindrop fell like a silent tear, as if the heavens themselves had been wounded by the recent tragedy.
From the silence a man appeared in front of the ruin that was once a beautiful family cottage; now the aftermath of a massacre, the like of which would unsettle even the strongest of minds; thaw even the most frozen of hearts. The man appeared so suddenly and silently that you would have thought he had just popped out of the ground. This man had been seen many times in the small village of Godric's Hollow. He was tall, thin and very old judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He wore long robes, a purple cloak which swept the ground and high-heeled, buckled boots. His light, bright eyes were shimmering behind half-moon spectacles that were, almost, as famous as the man on whose, slightly crooked, nose they found a perch. This man's name; Albus Dumbledore.
Everything from Albus' name to his boots would have been warmly welcomed by most of the inhabitants of Godric's Hollow. Staring up at the cottage he was unsure, given the state of it, whether it still be might referred to as such. The only thing Albus' mind could come up with to truly describe the horrors, which now affronted his eyes, was the remnants of a battlefield. Evil seemed to exude from every crevice; death in every shadow; sadness in every raindrop, each of which seemed to miss Dumbledore no matter how heavy they fell, as if the man were holding an invisible umbrella. Dumbledore's immunity to the downpour made one thing clear; the droplet of water making tracks down his pale cheek, to vanish into the tangles of that silver beard, had nothing to do with the weather.
Enough, Dumbledore wasn't here to mourn, that could be left for another time; he came here to do a job. It was that thought that gave the old man the resolve to push open the creaking garden gate. He began to follow the gravel path to the front door which now hung perilously from a single hinge.
She had to be there. Hagrid had been certain that the only living thing left in the house was young Harry… Dumbledore paused. The thought of that poor little boy and everything that lay before him pulled at the old man's heartstrings as if someone was playing him like a violin; slow and melancholy. However, Harry was not his priority right now; he delegated that complication earlier that evening and would have to leave it be. Harry would be safe.
As he entered the hallway the gravity of what had happened there, but a day ago, became clear. It made Dumbledore sick to think of it. No more just bricks and mortar; pictures of smiling face that once smiled back at him were burnt and charred. Scraps of Christmas wrapping paper littered the floor; Christmas was a whole two months away; Lily always was one for being prepared. The splinters of a toy broomstick lay scattered on the floor, a birthday present. All echoes of lives destroyed in nothing more than a flash of light and a word. Words; the most powerful weapon we possess, at least, that was the old man's opinion.
As he surveyed the madness around him it struck Albus that something seemed out of place. The entire hallway held evidence of a tragedy, except one door. One, pristine, white door; it stood out against the darkness and desolation almost blindingly, and it was clear to Dumbledore that this was not a natural phenomenon. No, whatever lay behind this door had been protected by powerful magic and Albus at last understood why Hagrid had been unable to find her. As he approached the door, which led to the cupboard-under-the-stairs, he began to hear a soft whimpering coming from within. The ghost of a smile made its way onto his thin lips. She was safe.
On opening the door a pair of big hazel eyes greeted him. Staring back at him, tears threatening to spill; even though it looked as though she had already cried more than any child ever should. She could have been only one and staring up at him with eyes that said one thing, "I'm scared." The old man would have considered her a fool had she not been. With a gentle reassuring smile; the usual twinkle returning to his blue eyes, he picked up the child in her small bundle of blankets; with one last look at the horrors that surrounded him, he sighed, turned on his heel and with a pop he vanished.
He appeared only moments later outside a house. This was no ordinary house. It looked as though, at one point, it had been a large stone pigpen. However, extra rooms had been added here and there until it became several stories high and so crooked it could only have been held up by magic. Four or five chimneys were perched on top of the red roof. A lopsided sign stuck in the ground near the entrance read 'The Burrow'. Albus looked down into the bundle of blankets; barely visible beneath a tuft of jet black hair was the baby girl, fast asleep. Dumbledore allowed himself a chuckle, most people vomited the first time they apparated, only James' daughter would choose it as a pleasant moment to get some sleep.
Dumbledore held the girl tighter in his arms and headed towards The Burrow. He laid the bundle gently on the doorstep. Taking a letter from his robes he tucked it in the blankets and returned to the spot where he stood, with the small girl in his arms, not moments ago. "Good Luck, Elizabeth Potter – until we meet again," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak he was gone.
A breeze blew the ruffled hedges outside the burrow. Under the inky sky, with its twinkling stars looking down upon her the small child slept on, one tiny hand clamped around the letter beside her. Not knowing she would be woken in a few hours by Mrs. Weasley's shocked scream, as she went to fetch the eggs from the chicken coop for breakfast. Not knowing that she would spend the next few weeks being oohed and aahed over by three of her six now adoptive brothers, whilst being poked by the youngest, him being only older than her by months. She dreamt on, oblivious to the fact that in that moment, all over the country people were raising their glasses in salute to her brother. Toasting in hushed voices, "To Harry Potter – The Boy Who Lived." She was the forgotten Potter; that was how it needed to be. Until, she was ready.