Harry Potter and The Dark Lord's Daughter – Summary – The stunner Hermione sends at Nott in the Department of Mysteries hits Harry instead, driving him back into the shelves in the Room of Prophecies and knocking him unconscious. When he wakes a short time later he finds a battle being waged around him and is unable to remember who he or anyone else is. Terrified, he runs, only to be found wandering London by a young witch named Moira Carnahan and her muggle family. Isolated from the magical world, Moira and her parents take Harry in unaware of who he is or that the wizarding world is frantically searching for him until Moira sees his picture on the front of the Daily Prophet. While Harry struggles to come to terms with a past and a destiny he can't remember, Moira's mother struggles with a secret she's kept from her daughter for years, a secret that could put Harry and Moira in even more danger: Moira is Voldemort's daughter. Both bound irrevocably to Voldemort, Harry and Moira feel a shared obligation to bring an end to his war. The Chosen One and the Dark Lord's daughter – can they rid themselves of the Dark Lord's shadow? And having been forgotten by Harry, will his friends still stand with him against Voldemort? Will the wizarding world forgive them if they do?
I'm thoroughly enjoying writing my HP crossover and thought that I would give a full HP story a try. Now that I've started, I've got about seven to choose from. Here's the first! Hope you enjoy it and I hope to hear from you! I accept correspondence of all shapes, sizes, and flavors. Cheers! ~ Sierra
Chapter 1: Waking Up
The sound of voices shouting faded in and out beneath the tattoo of his pulse pounding in his ears.
For a time it was the only sensation.
He was aware of his extremities next, the stiffness of his fingers and the ache in his knees. His elbows were at odd angles and his feet were splayed as if he'd fallen from a fatal height. He was fairly certain he wasn't dead though. Nor did it seem to him as if he'd fallen, although he couldn't have explained why he felt that way. Thoughts were not coming easily and when they did they were wispy and hard to get hold of. The shouting of curses and the recurrent detonations of missed spells wasn't helping.
Breathing was difficult. The surface he was lying on didn't yield at all. It was cold and coated in a thin layer of grit that was cutting into his cheek. A floor, he reasoned, he was lying on a floor. He felt the backdraft of a stunner as it flew uncomfortably close and then exploded, raining down tiny bits of stone on top of him.
Had that spell been meant for him?
Where was his wand?
As if trying to ease his confusion, his body provided him an answer, making him aware of the thin rod digging into his ribs. The possibility of being in danger hadn't previously occurred to him. Now the idea was suffocating, an uncomfortable, strangling, numbness that spread quickly out from his chest. He needed to have his wand in hand. He needed to defend himself, although he still had no idea what from.
His first attempt at movement was disheartening. He'd meant to slide his left hand down toward his hip so he could slip his wand out of his jeans pocket. Instead the index finger of his right hand twitched almost imperceptibly.
Maybe it would be easier to try and open his eyes first.
Maybe if he could see what he was doing it would help.
The decision made he faltered, unable to remember the mechanics of opening his eyes. He could feel them and the metal cutting into the bridge of his nose from his glasses. They were still there. Beneath his lids he slowly moved his eyes left to right, startled when the movement produced a surging swell of nausea. Instinctively he braced his tongue against the roof of his mouth and laid absolutely still, waiting for the wash of cool sweat to pass. However, as uncomfortable as the sensation was it did raise his consciousness.
The voices and spells were no longer intermittent. They assailed him from all sides, magnified as if the room they were in was mostly empty. His mind no longer felt separate from his body and with only the slightest of intentions he fisted his right hand. Without warning his eyes opened and he immediately closed them when the brilliance of a dozen spells being fired in a dozen directions brought back the nausea he'd suppressed only moments earlier. Tongue against the roof of his mouth he drew slow, deep breaths through his nose. When the uncomfortable heat had passed, he opened his eyes in small increments, giving his body time to adjust to the light.
Finally, he could see where he was. Unfortunately, it wasn't a place he recognized. It was a cavernous room with walls of stone occupied primarily by what looked like stone steps or bleachers, the type one might find in an old-fashioned theatre. He was lying at the top of the steps. At the bottom, some twenty feet below him, a battle raged. Most of the combatants were adults, but there were a few bedraggled teens scattered among them. It was hard at first to understand who was fighting who until he noted that within the duelling pairs one participant almost always wore long black robes. He wasn't sure why. Nor could he fathom what he would be doing here. None of the faces on either side of the battle looked the least bit familiar.
A grizzled man with a misshapen face and a protruding false eye let loose a roar and with a sharp jab of his wand sent one of the black-robed fighters flying into the wall. The man crumpled like a piece of paper and then lay very still. His assailant quickly bound him and limped back into the fray. Two women – neither wearing robes – were fighting just below a small dais he hadn't noticed before. On it was a freestanding archway covered with a curtain that drifted curiously in an unseen breeze. The two women ignored it. The smaller woman with shocking pink hair appeared to be concentrating, while the taller woman with madly merry eyes grinned, lobbing spells wildly, apparently unconcerned by her opponent. Everywhere he looked people were fighting. A haggard man with greying auburn hair in shabby robes appeared an even match for his reedy black-robed foe, while a towering black man with a single gold earring dispatched his challenger with polished ease. People of every shape, size, and dress, yet not one was familiar. Where in Merlin's name was he?
Another spell whizzed past his shoulder, the resulting explosion coating him in dust. Wherever he was, it apparently wasn't safe. He needed to move. He needed to find a way out. Making use of his new-found ability to move he put both palms flat to the floor and levered himself up onto his knees. As the world fell out from under him and a lancing pain shot across the back of his skull he realized a number of things simultaneously.
The warm liquid creeping across his neck and down over his shoulder was not sweat, it was blood. The blood was coming from a wound at the back of his head, which if the pain was any indication, would kill him at any moment. Whether it was truly that severe or only his imagination, he would not be moving anywhere quickly. He didn't even know where to go. He felt his eyes widen as a chain of panicked insights wrapped tightly around his neck. He didn't know where he was. He didn't know how to leave. He didn't know where to go if he could leave. He didn't know where his home was. He wasn't even sure if he had one. Why on earth didn't he know where his house was? Taking a deep breath he tried to force himself to remember the address, but came up blank. He couldn't remember his home town. He couldn't recall his street name, his primary school, the name of his local park. He couldn't remember his parents' names or... His body went rigid.
I can't remember my name.
His knees turned to jelly and his eyes jammed shut as pain and panic induced a nauseating array of whorls and colors beneath his eyelids. Unable to catch his breath the nausea intensified until he turned sideways and retched violently. As he spit the last of the vile liquid from his mouth his knees gave way and he found himself lying in a sticky pool of his own blood. His only consolation as his face hit the floor was that at least he'd missed the vomit.
Well and truly spent, he laid motionless. For how long he wasn't sure. The same thought kept running on a loop through his mind: I don't know who I am. I don't know who I am. I don't know who I am!
Squeezing his eyes tightly shut he took a deep breath and tried to relax. He ran every name he could think of through his mind, dozens of them, and none of them – not one – did he recognize as his own. The sensation this knowledge produced was more disorienting than his head wound. He felt adrift, lost in a whirling void of confusion and fear. He had a name. Everyone had a name. Perhaps one of the people fighting below knew what his name was. Surely someone here must know him. It seemed very unlikely that he would be caught in the midst of what could only be described as a mêlée by accident. It was 1996, not the Victorian era. People – wizard or muggle – simply didn't find themselves drawn into duels under regular circumstances.
Carefully, he opened his eyes and decided this hardly counted as regular circumstances. The man with the fake eye was now duelling two of the black-robed men, one of whom kept taking shots at his false leg. The woman with pink hair was lying upside down near the bottom of the stairs, her feet up over her head while the crazed woman duelled a gaunt man whose barking laughter was nearly as mad as his opponent's. At his back stood a girl with tangled blonde hair and luminous blue eyes who dodged her black-robed foe's spells with a spritely grace that was at odds with her grim expression. The tall black man was cutting down another opponent with ease while a slightly overweight teen fended off a volley of spells from a rotund man in a black robe, his face an odd mix of determination and terror. The shabby man was being backed into a corner by a towering man with a scar on his face, but a perfectly timed spell sent his opponent flying halfway up the stairs barely missing a teenage girl with bushy brown hair as she fired spells with disturbing skill.
No. This was hardly ordinary. In fact, this was as opposite to ordinary as anything could possibly be. These people were mad! Someone was going to get killed. As if to prove his point, another spell spun wildly in his direction blowing a hole in the wall at his back. Another spell like that one and he could be dead. Whoever these people might be and whatever answers they might have, it was too dangerous to stay where he was. He had to get out of here now, while he still could.
Slowly – the acrid stench of his own sick a burning reminder to move gradually – he levered himself up onto his elbows. Pausing to test his equilibrium he decided to venture a little further and slid his knees up under his chest. The wound on the back of his head pulsed in protest, but he ground his teeth and pressed on. It was when he'd managed to make it up on all fours that things began to go wrong.
"He's awake," someone bellowed from below. "Stop the boy! We can't let him escape!"
His head automatically swivelled toward the cry and he regretted the movement immediately. Forcing back a wave of nausea he nearly swallowed his tongue at the sight of an enraged wizard with long blonde hair and slightly avian features charging up the stone steps, his black robe billowing behind him. His body froze, but his thoughts were twirling faster than ever.
Me? I'm the boy? Escape? Am I a prisoner here? I'm the one he's after? Where is here? Who is he? What does he want with me?
The blonde man was drawing closer. He could see the sweat glistening on his high brow.
"Moony," the gaunt madman roared, his eyes strikingly sane as he slashed his wand at the cackling woman in front of him and sent her tottering back a step. "Stop him!"
The gaunt man might have said more, but with an indignant expression the mad witch pitched a thunderous stunner that forced him to dive off the dais where they'd been duelling. His attention fixed on the gaunt man, the nameless teen nearly missed the lithe blur that slammed into the blonde wizard.
"I won't let you serve him up to your master on a silver platter, Malfoy."
The shabby wizard – presumably Moony – had pinned the blonde man called Malfoy against the steps less than a dozen feet from him. Malfoy's wand had flown from his hand and now lay three steps down from them, well beyond his straining reach. He found it odd that Moony would attack Malfoy physically while he had a perfectly good wand in hand until a low rumble sounded deep in Moony's chest. Malfoy stilled instantly, eyes wide as he came to the same realization as the teen watching them from above – Moony had creature blood.
The teen scuttled backward until his shoulder blade connected with the wall behind him. Malfoy was trying to get him. Moony was a creature, but was protecting him. He wasn't sure whether to be reassured or frightened.
"I knew you were nothing better than a beast when I got you sacked from Hogwarts, Lupin," Malfoy sneered, the effect of it somewhat lessened by his horizontal position. Apparently Malfoy had known that Moony was a creature, although of what sort the nameless teen could only guess. "Anything you do to me will only prove I was right. A werewolf, I'll have the Ministry arrest you!"
"I'd wager that will be rather difficult to accomplish from your cell in Azkaban, Lucius," Moony growled, the gold flecks in his eyes glinting eerily in the dim blue lighting. "Incarcerous."
Moony stood, Malfoy bound at his feet and turned to face the teen where he was crouched against the upper wall. The werewolf didn't see the spell until it hit him, driving him into the stairs just above Malfoy. The gaunt man howled in fury.
"Bastards!" The madwoman whooped and the gaunt man's mad grin slipped. "I don't have time to play anymore, Bellatrix."
The woman's smile cut a frightening line across her pale face.
"You're no match for me, Cousin. You never were." She beamed at the gaunt man's severe expression. "The Dark Lord shall have him. He will beg for his death. You cannot save him from it."
"Maybe not, but I'll die trying."
The woman giggled gaily and the pair renewed their duel, the gaunt man hurling spells with a vigor that fast ruined Bellatrix's mad smile. In its place was an equally unsettling frown, the corners of which quivered as the force of the gaunt man's disarming charm send her skidding back a yard, the ground cracking under her heels. Her hastily cast shield had barely held. The gaunt man did not wait for her to recover her footing. He was on her in an instant, his spells slipping past her panicked defenses with increasing ease.
"Mulciber, let me up this instant!"
Malfoy's incensed command diverted the teen's attention from the duelling cousins to the much nearer threat of Malfoy's compatriot. Apparently unconcerned by Malfoy's increasingly violent threats, the broad man with flat features called Mulciber cast a wordless silencio in the blonde wizard's direction as he ascended the stone steps. His eyes were fixed on the panicking teen whose heart was bashing about the inside of his ribcage like a trapped bludger.
"You think I'm going to let you get all the glory just because the Dark Lord put you in charge, Malfoy?" Mulciber's voice was low and guttural. A stark contrast to the blonde's cultured tones. "You oughta know by now that with Him it's every man for himself."
Mulciber was only three steps from him. The teen scrabbled backwards, all feet and elbows as he tried desperately to put more distance between himself and his newest stalker.
"W-what d-d-do yo-ou w-want w-with me?"
Even pitched and strained, he recognized his own voice. So why couldn't he remember his name?
"Don't play coy with me, lad," Mulciber warned, his wand pointed at the teen's chest. "You know perfectly well why we're all here."
The teen wanted to scream at Mulciber, to tell him that he bloody well didn't know why they were all here. Point of fact, he didn't even know where here was and if Mulciber was so bloody well informed he might do him the courtesy of explaining things. Mulciber appeared uninterested in explanations and the teen's voice being stuck somewhere between his stomach and his tonsils, he couldn't ask. Even if he could have, he wouldn't have had the time. With a ferocious howl the gaunt man launched himself at Mulciber, firing a cutting hex as he sprinted up the stairs. Mulciber whipped around, wand drawn, and the nameless teen caught a glimpse of Bellatrix slumped against one of the far walls as his body finally took charge of his befuddled mind and sent him pelting for the doorway.
Mulciber tried to run after him, but was stopped by a tripping jinx. He kept running. The gaunt man shouted at someone named Harry, telling him to get out of there. He kept running. A stunner and a blasting curse whizzed past his left ear and exploded against the wall. He kept running. A door slammed shut behind him and the room spun at a sickening rate, stopping abruptly when a door to his left banged open. He kept running. His trainers slapped hard against the marble floor, echoing in the vaulted atrium of a room he knew – the entrance to the Ministry of Magic. He kept running. He veered sharply, his mind supplying the location of the lift for the public entrance. He kept running.
Latching the door to the lift shut behind him he wilted against the golden cage as it ground steadily upward. His body was slick with sweat while his mouth was far too dry. His chest ached, his throat burned, and his knees shuddered as they struggled to keep him upright. Colored spots danced like taunting pixies all around him and the floor of the lift tilted dangerously, sending him careening into the opposite wall. He felt his left shoulder pop out of joint and cradled it wearily against his chest, too spent to even manage a whimper of pain.
Dropping his chin against his chest he drew a deep breath in through his nose and released it slowly through his mouth. The pain in his head was getting worse. He could feel it pressing against the back of his eyes and he struggled valiantly to keep from retching again. The doors to the lift sprang apart and he registered the dim light of dawn peeking through the grimy windows of the phone booth. The automated voice of the Ministry service thanked him for visiting and invited him to have a nice day as he slid the door open. He turned his head slowly first left, then right. A sparse map of London formed in his head marking places like Diagon Alley and Kings Cross Station. There was no address he recognized as his own – no street name, no house number, no vague image of a house or neighbourhood. Stymied he stood shivering in the early morning cold.
A hair-raising crash at his back made him jump off the pavement. He whirled, wand in hand, to face whichever of the madmen had followed him even as his vision swam. It was a few minutes before the shifting colors in front of his eyes brought the orange tabby atop a trash bin into focus. His heart eased its painful rhythm slightly and he steadied himself against the phone booth, light-headed from the rapid breaths he'd unconsciously been taking. It was only a cat, he assured himself, watching the animal as it pawed at the opening of the trash bin it had overturned. Unfortunately, at any moment that cat could become Malfoy, Mulciber, Moony, Bellatrix, the gaunt man, or any of the other maniacs he'd narrowly escaped in the bowels of the Ministry. They would be coming after him. He knew it with unshakeable certainty. You didn't fight with that degree of fervour over something you were willing to give up.
He had nowhere to go, but he knew they would be coming. Drawing every ounce of stamina and courage his muddled mind could manage he turned on his heel and ran.
And he kept running.
To say that Albus Dumbledore was distraught would have been an understatement of colossal proportions. He was as near to hysterics as he'd ever been in his life. Learning that six of his children had been lured to the Ministry by Voldemort had brought him closer than he'd thought possible, but now he stood at the very precipice of his control. He could feel the sharpness of its edge as he curled his toes around it and prayed the wind would not send him plummeting to his doom. A part of him wondered absently if doom was too dramatic a word for his situation, but as he surveyed the scene around him he decided that if anything it was too mild.
The detritus of this night's battle was spread wildly about the room, scattered much like the people that had fought it. Moody was perched imperiously atop a prone Death Eater at the base of the dais, his false leg having been shattered by a particularly inconsiderate spell. However, his immobility had not hampered his capacity to give orders in the slightest and aurors of all ranks were racing hither and thither to comply with his commands, the most vehement of which was to 'find me a damn leg!' The paranoia and vigilance that had made Moody a laughing stock since his retirement were now welcome commodities to everyone, with the exception of Rufus Scrimgeor, Head of Magical Law Enforcement. Scrimgeor seemed to be taking Moody's directives as an affront to his authority. With his back to dais he was making a clear attempt to ignore the grizzled ex-auror, but each time Moody bellowed his jaw clenched slightly, interrupting his instructions to the army of elite Aurors that would ferry the seven incapacitated Death Eaters to Azkaban. The Dementors were no longer answering the Ministry's call.
Their absence and the huddle of black-robed men in ghoulish masks at the foot of the stairs was the only remaining tangible proof of the war that was coming, but tangible proof was no longer required, not even by Cornelius Fudge. The Minister was still sitting at the top of the stairs where his knees had dropped him at the sight of Voldemort an hour ago. Head bowed, he acknowledged no one. To his left stood Kingsley Shacklebolt – a pinprick of calm amid the chaos – as he directed a room by room search of the entire Ministry. The blanched faces of those that had returned told Albus that their search had been unsuccessful. The three worried teens at his feet were beginning to panic and he had no doubt that the two he'd sent back to Hogwarts were in a similar state. They were not alone. He could see fear in the faces of even the most experienced aurors, chiefly fear of facing the Dark Lord without the boy-who-lived. Harry Potter was missing.
The boy's absence had caused more panic than the Dark Lord's presence. It had taken every ounce of Remus Lupin's considerable strength to restrain Sirius Black when the man realized his godson had not just run into an adjoining room. Albus had been forced to put the man to sleep so that his friend could secret him away before the shock of Voldemort's appearance wore off enough that one of the dozens of aurors present realized a wanted fugitive was standing in their midst. He'd instructed Remus to stay with Sirius at 12 Grimmauld Place in case Harry happened to arrive there. It had been clear that staying at Grimmauld Place was the last thing Remus wanted, but as usual, the young man's reason overruled his emotions. Remus understood that if everyone were running around looking for Harry, it was very likely they'd miss him. Severus was on the lookout for the boy at Hogwarts, Bill was at the Burrow, and Arabella Figg was watching 4 Privet Drive with extra care. He knew that a thorough search of the Ministry was necessary to be sure Harry hadn't gotten lost in all the confusion, but Albus was almost certain the boy was not here. His certainty brought no comfort.
Kingsley Shacklebolt caught Albus' eye and discreetly shook his head before approaching Scrimgeor. The search of the Ministry was through. Harry Potter was not here and no sign had been found as to where he might have gone. Unfortunately, the most likely of scenarios was the least appealing. Tom had probably encountered Harry in his flight from the Ministry – or to be more precise, his flight from Albus – and either killed the boy outright or taken him captive. Albus' only consolation was that if Voldemort had killed Harry, he probably would have left the boy's body for them to find or put it on display as some sort of macabre demonstration of his power.
Haunted by the image of Harry Potter's corpse, Albus slowly lowered his aging frame to the top step to sit alongside his students. It felt like an insult to their bravery and skill, but Albus knew before he opened his mouth that he would not share his fear of Harry's capture or death with them, that he would not reveal the contents of the prophecy or Harry's true importance, and he would say nothing of horcruxes and the daunting task that now lay before him if he was to try and bring an end to Tom. They might have fought like adults tonight, but in his eyes they were still children. He wanted them to keep as much of their childhood as they could for as long as possible. He would shield them with the kindness of a lie, much as he had Harry for all these years.
Neville Longbottom was the first to notice Albus' presence, his pale face set in an expression of protective resolve as he sat with his arm around Hermione Granger's shoulders. Albus had been surprised to find the boy still standing when he arrived, fighting alongside a wounded Remus Lupin against Yaxley and Dolohov. Although he had always believed the heart of a lion was hidden somewhere beneath the boy's ungainliness and timidity, he had never expected it to manifest itself with such undeniable ferocity and strength. Neville's wandwork had been a match for Yaxley at every turn, a mighty feat considering Yaxley's ruthlessness in carrying out his master's orders. Furthermore, it had been to Neville the other students had turned when the battle was over. Admittedly Mr Weasley's compromised state of mind and Miss Granger's raw emotional state had made them unsuitable candidates for donning Harry's mantle of leadership, but it was still startling to see Mr Longbottom take it up with such calm assurance.
"They didn't find him, did they Sir?"
Albus sighed and shook his head.
"No, Mr Longbottom, they did not. Mr Potter has left the Ministry."
Miss Granger bent forward, her hands fisted against her mouth to stifle her sobs. Mr Longbottom drew her gently against his chest while on her other side, Miss Lovegood laid her head against Miss Granger's shoulder and stretched her arms around both of her companions. Albus was torn between swelling with pride at their impressive display of solidarity and renting his robes at the sight of their anguish.
"It's all right, Hermione," the Lovegood girl soothed in her usual sing-songy voice. "That's just the nargles talking. Harry will be okay. He's Harry."
Had it been any other moment, Albus might have wondered what nargles were, but it wasn't and as much as it pained him, he knew that he needed to press them for answers.
"I know you have all been through a great ordeal," he began slowly, uncertain at first if the three were even listening to him, "but there are some questions that I must have answers to." The three continued to hold each other in insular silence. "Why did you come here tonight?"
"Voldemort sent Harry another vision, a vision of Sirius being tortured here at the Ministry," Neville explained, his voice slow and measured. "Hermione managed to convince him to check headquarters and see if Sirius had actually gone. He had to sneak in to use Umbridge's floo to do it. We all tried to help him, but she'd put sensoring charms on her office after all of the niffler incidents and she caught us. But not before Kreacher told Harry that Sirius was gone. We thought that meant he'd been taken. Now I'd bet Kreacher was lying." Mr Longbottom scowled, clearly incensed at the idea of the decrepit elf's subterfuge. "Hermione managed to trick Umbridge into taking her and Harry into the Forbidden Forest. Not quite sure what happened to her in there, but suffice it to say that by the time the rest of us got free from her goon squad, Umbridge was no longer a problem."
"Don't forget about the thestrals, Neville," Miss Lovegood chirped excitedly. "I was so thrilled to get to ride one. They're such beautiful creatures. I don't understand why people are always forgetting them."
"I hadn't forgotten them, Luna," Mr Longbottom assured the younger girl with an indulgent smile. "I just hadn't quite gotten there yet." Mr Longbottom turned back to Albus, his small grin still in place. "At Luna's suggestion, we used some of Hogwarts' thestrals to get here. Harry didn't want us to come." The boy's smile faded. "He kept insisting it was too dangerous. I think if he'd felt like he had more time, he might have argued with us longer, but he was so worried about what V-Voldemort might be doing to Sirius that he gave in. If only we'd insisted he stay with us instead of us going with him."
"Knowing Harry as I do, Mr Longbottom, once he had made up his mind, there would have been very little that anyone could have done to stop him from coming." Mr Longbottom nodded silently, looking decidedly unconvinced by Albus' attempt to assuage the boy's guilt. His own guilt twinging painfully, Albus pressed on. "What happened after you reached the Ministry?"
"Harry led us through to the Department of Mysteries. He had a bit of trouble after we got through the first door. Apparently his visions had left part of the corridor out. We had to try a bunch of rooms at random. This was one of them, although at the time the only thing in here was that archway. Do you know what it's for, Sir?" Albus followed Mr Longbottom's gaze to the veil. "Luna and Harry said they could hear voices coming through it, but none of the rest of us could."
"An explanation best left for another time perhaps, Mr Longbottom," Albus stated with quiet finality. The last thing these children needed tonight was to realize how close they had been to death in the most literal fashion. "Did you make it out of this room before you were found?"
"Yeah, we went back out to the room with the spinning doors, although it was a bit of work getting Harry and Luna to leave, I'll tell you. I was never more glad to see a door close. The next door we tried wouldn't open, but the second did. Harry led us through the room with all the clocks to a door at the far side. We went through and that's where things started to go pear-shaped on us." Miss Granger sniffed loudly and held tighter to Mr Longbottom. "Row 97 is where Harry told us we needed to be, so that's where we headed. Ron saw it first, the prophecy I mean. We didn't know that's what it was at the time, but the second Harry laid his hands on it, they appeared."
"They," Albus prompted gently.
"The bone munchers," Miss Lovegood snapped unexpectedly with a startling amount of spleen. She glared at the black-robed knot below them. "They laughed at Harry for thinking Sirius was here and because we'd followed him. They thought Harry was weak and stupid. They were wrong."
Her opinion shared, Miss Lovegood fell silent as abruptly as she'd begun. Mr Longbottom continued as if her interruption had been altogether natural, expected even.
"Malfoy and the others tried to get Harry to give them the prophecy. Instead, we blasted the shelves and ran off. Ginny, Ron, and Luna got ahead of us. I was at the very back. I saw Nott grab Harry's shoulder as he passed." For the first time since he'd begun, Mr Longbottom hesitated, glancing worriedly at Miss Granger whose skin was as white as muggle paper. Mr Longbottom cleared his throat. "Hermione, she sent a stunner at him, but he swerved at the last second and i-it hit Harry instead. The spell took Harry off his feet, driving him back into one of the shelves. Hermione tried again and hit Nott straight on. H-harry was on the floor. There was b-blood everywhere. He wouldn't open his eyes. Hermione was panicking. The other Death Eaters were right behind us. I g-grabbed Harry and swung him up over my shoulders, dragging Hermione with me. We made it to the door we'd come through, the Death Eaters just a step behind. Hermione had come back to herself a bit. She sealed the door behind us and that's when we realized that we'd been separated from the others."
"It's my fault," Miss Granger whispered, her gaze vacant. Albus was beginning to fear the girl was going into shock. "I-it's my fault he's gone," she repeated listlessly as tears skated down her cheeks. "It's my fault. If I hadn't hit him with that spell then he'd still be here."
"You couldn't have known what would happen, Hermione," Miss Lovegood soothed as the elder girl dissolved into tears. "You were trying to help Harry, not hurt him. He knows that."
"Everything after that is a bit of a blur," Mr Longbottom continued quietly, his eyes gleaming with unshed tears. "Hermione cast a featherlight charm on Harry. I could hear the Death Eaters just beyond the door, but I didn't wait around to hear what they had to say. We bolted. Lot of good it did. They broke through Hermione's seal. I shoved Harry under a desk and took cover. There were spells flying everywhere." Mr Longbottom looked down at Miss Granger and squeezed her shoulder, smiling. "Hermione had the best luck, as usual. She's ten times the dueller I am. There were two of them and she dropped them both. I'm just glad I didn't do us any damage. I've never been much with my aim."
"Don't sell yourself short, Neville," Miss Lovegood admonished distractedly as she stroked Miss Granger's hair. "You were the best of us tonight. Your stunner took that pock-faced man right off his feet and I bet Yaxley will think twice before he crosses wands with you again."
"It shouldn't have taken Harry nearly dying for me to manage it," Mr Longbottom mumbled. "I should have protected him better."
Albus' vision blurred as he laid his gnarled hand against the back of Mr Longbottom's head.
"We cannot know which moment will be the moment that defines us, Mr Longbottom. We can only hope that when the moment arrives we are up to the challenge." Hesitantly, Mr Longbottom met his gaze. "What has come before this night doesn't matter, Mr Longbottom. What matters is that when your friend was hurt and unable to lead you, you were willing and able to take his place, protecting him and the others."
"But I didn't protect him, sir," Mr Longbottom cried. "He's gone Merlin only knows where with Merlin only knows who. He could be kidnapped, hurt, o-or worse."
"Until presented with evidence to the contrary, Mr Longbottom, I find it is best to assume the most positive outcome." Mr Longbottom looked dubious, but nodded. "Now, perhaps we might continue your narrative."
"We left the two unconscious Death Eaters in the room with all the clocks and dragging Harry between us Hermione and I tore for the revolving corridor. We shut and sealed the door behind us as another two louts came through one of the doors in front of us. I disarmed the nearest and Hermione locked him in a body bind, but before either of us could touch the second he hit Hermione with a wicked stinging hex. I hit him with a stunner and he knocked me ass over teacups with an Impedimenta. Next I knew Hermione had me on my feet and the doors were spinning. Hermione's marks were gone, but before we could even try a door Ron, Ginny, and Luna tumbled through one of them."
"Ron was as gone as a bloody loon and Ginny's ankle was a mess. We weren't sure where to go, but we could hear their voices getting closer. We knew we had to keep moving. Hermione took Ron, Luna helped Ginny, and I grabbed Harry and made for the closest door. I hadn't taken two steps when Bellatrix was on us. The door I'd opened led to this room and we made it in with just enough time to seal it behind us. It didn't keep them out for long though. There's more than one way in." Mr Longbottom's expression was grim, his gaze distant as he clenched his wand in his right hand. "We didn't stand a chance, not just the three of us. I laid down Harry next to Ginny, who petrified Ron just to keep him from blithering about. We took up positions in front of them, but we were outnumbered three to one. We couldn't hold our position. W-we had to leave them."
"Ginny did her best," Miss Lovegood continued, patting Mr Longbottom's hand as he swallowed hard, "but Dolohov levitated Ron away from her to use him as a projectile. He hit against the wall pretty hard and it broke the body bind. He took off running out of one of the other doors, laughing and going on about jelly with Jugson and Macnair at his heels. Ginny crawled after them, managing to trip Jugson as she went. I lost track of them after that. The others had grabbed us and were trying to make us give them the prophecy. Malfoy had searched Harry and couldn't find it. He assumed one of us had taken it, but we hadn't."
"When they wouldn't believe us, I told them I'd hidden it, hoping to buy us some time," Neville said quietly, having regained his composure. "Bellatrix was quick to use the cruciatus on me, to try and loosen my tongue I suppose. I've never felt the like. I wanted to tell her anything she might have ever wanted to know just to make her stop. I-I can understand now why my parents –"
"The Order arrived then and saved us," said Miss Lovegood, carrying on as if Mr Longbottom's abrupt stop had been completely natural. "There were spells flying all over the place. Rookwood kept trying to upend me, but I was too quick for him. Neville gave Yaxley a good go too. Hermione just kept trying to get through everyone to Harry. She almost made it once or twice before he woke up, but then Malfoy and Mulciber were in the way. I'm not sure what happened after that. The pesky rook had me trapped in a corner."
"I'm not sure what happened either," Mr Longbottom admitted, his eyes flicking to the crimson puddle to their right where he'd indicated he'd deposited Harry earlier. "I got in a good shot on Yaxley and it made him mad. Not a good idea, getting him mad."
"Remus fought Malfoy off and kept him away from Harry," Miss Granger stated softly, "but Mulciber hit him from behind. I tried to get to him, to help Harry, but Avery got in my way." Miss Granger paused, worrying her bottom lip as tears welled in her coffee eyes. "I've never seen Harry look so scared. He didn't even try to defend himself. Mulciber might have taken him if it hadn't been for Sirius. I've never seen anyone fire spells so fast. Mulciber had to turn round to defend himself. When he did, Harry ran."
"Did he still have his wand with him?"
Miss Granger nodded miserably, dabbing at her eyes with Miss Lovegood's handkerchief.
"Then we can be confident he will be well able to defend himself," Albus pronounced with more buoyancy than he felt. "The Ministry will be alerted the moment he uses his magic. We will soon have him back with us, safe and sound."
The three teens beside him said nothing. Albus considered pressing them for details regarding the events between Harry's departure and Tom's arrival, but decided against it as he watched Mr Longbottom follow the progress of the aurors guiding the captured Death Eaters out of the room, no doubt dwelling on the fact that Bellatrix Lestrange was not among them. Beside him Miss Granger's eyes were dry, but they held a glassy quality that worried Albus as she stared vacantly at the crumpled handkerchief in her hands. Miss Lovegood's pale hand was tracing some unseen pattern on the elder girl's back. At first glance the blonde appeared as oblivious as always, but Albus caught the trembling in her fingers and the nervous chewing of her hair. He sighed.
"There is one more thing I must know," he prompted quietly. Only Mr Longbottom acknowledged that he'd spoken, his eyes leaving the receding backs of the Death Eaters to meet his headmaster's gaze. "I must know where the prophecy is."
"We told the Death Eaters the truth, Professor," he assured Albus wearily. "We don't know where it is. If Harry didn't have it then it could be anywhere between here and the room of prophecies."
Albus nodded gravely, pausing when Miss Granger spoke, her voice barely a whisper.
"Harry probably dropped it when my spell hit him. The last time I remember seeing it was just before Nott grabbed him. It probably shattered when he hit the shelves."
"If the prophecy explains why Voldemort is after him, why didn't Harry know about it," Miss Lovegood asked dreamily. Albus' eyes narrowed, knowing that beneath the girl's vacuous exterior lurked the analyzing intellect of a Ravenclaw. "I should think it would be very important for him to know, more so than Voldemort as surely he knows why he wants to kill Harry."
"That, I believe, is something for Harry to ask, Miss Lovegood," Albus chided gently, trying to curb the girl's curiosity. "If he wishes to know I shall explain it to him when he returns."
"Whether he wishes or not he ought to know, I would think," the girl continued, her eyes accusing as she looked at him over Miss Granger's head, her hand still doodling absently. "Voldemort is willing to kill over it. It must be very important."
Albus pursed his lips and stood.
"It is important to Voldemort, yes."
Miss Lovegood would not be deterred.
"And to Harry."
"I think," said Albus, choosing to disregard the girl's keen persistence, "that it is time you three returned to the castle. You need Madam Pomfrey's care and a great deal of rest."
Mr Longbottom stood, guiding Miss Granger to her feet as Albus turned and called to Moody. When he looked back Miss Lovegood was still glaring at him as she clutched Miss Granger's hand and Albus was surprised to find himself uncomfortable under her discerning gaze. Harry's disappearance was bringing out all manner of latent qualities in his friends – first Mr Longbottom's steadfast bravery and now Miss Lovegood's uncomfortable insight. He knew Miss Granger and the two youngest Weasleys would not be far behind. He would need to be careful or they would learn more than was wise.
"Time to get this lot back then, is it Albus," Moody growled as he thumped toward them. "I'm sure your healer has worked herself into a right fit by now."
Alastor's grimace suggested that he had not enjoyed his time under Poppy's care last year, not that Albus could blame him.
"Yes, Alastor, I do believe they've seen quite enough for one night." The ex-auror grunted his agreement. "You may use the floo in my office." Moody nodded and motioned for the three teens to follow him. "Rest well, children. I imagine you will wake tomorrow to find Mr Potter waiting for you, none the worse for wear."
Moody snorted contemptuously, muttering about the outrageous scope of some peoples' imagination. Albus frowned, well aware that Moody and he were of two different minds with regard to how much Harry and his friends should be told. Had he doubted Alastor's loyalty he might have worried that the ex-auror would tell the three teens everything he knew, but he didn't doubt it. However, he did acknowledge – if only to himself – that Harry's disappearance might break the man's already strained tolerance for Albus' shielding of the teens they both knew would play crucial roles in Voldemort's undoing. He had told Moody no more than any other member of the Order, but the man was exceptionally talented at divining meaning from the meaningless. Albus was certain Alastor knew as much about what was to come as he did, maybe more.
"You will find him, won't you Sir?"
Miss Granger's question startled Albus from his grim thoughts. He had never seen a person look so lost.
"Be it my final act, Miss Granger, I will see Mr Potter returned to us."
The fragile girl nodded listlessly, her fawny brown eyes brimming with tears as she allowed Mr Longbottom and Miss Lovegood to lead her out of the room.
"I notice that you did not promise to return the boy alive, Headmaster."
Albus flinched, his shoulders tightening uncomfortably as he turned to face Kingsley Shacklebolt. The man's words had been gently spoken, there was no censure in his gaze, but Albus felt more condemned than if the man had outright accused him of Harry's murder.
"I assumed my intention of finding Harry alive would be implied," he returned with more bite than was strictly required. "I do not believe he has fallen into Tom's hands yet and I mean to do all within my power to see that he doesn't."
"I did not mean to suggest otherwise," Kingsley replied mildly, apparently unaffected by Albus' ire. "I would have done the same. Despite our best intentions, we know the likelihood of finding the boy alive decreases exponentially every minute he remains lost. We are not the only ones searching for him."
Albus shuddered, the grim reality of Harry's situation undeniable when stated with such calm certainty.
"Have you summoned the Order," he murmured, wordlessly casting several charms to prevent their conversation from being overheard. Kingsley nodded. "I want you to go to Grimmauld Place. Tell them all of what has happened. Stress to them the importance of finding Harry quickly. Having revealed himself in such an unquestionable fashion Tom will likely be far less reticent than he has been this last year. I worry what implications such boldness might have for Harry."
"What of Malfoy, sir?"
Albus' gaze reflexively flicked to the satin draped figure lying motionless at the bottom of the stairs. Tom had not taken kindly to Lucius' failure to obtain the prophecy, but Harry's escape had been an intolerable error. Although Albus had spared no love for the Malfoy patriarch, his heart wept for the man's son. The boy would now be faced with the most unfortunate of choices and Albus wondered, having watched over the boy for five years, if Draco would be able to withstand the trials that were to come, not the least of which was his father's death.
"Lucius will be well taken care of by your comrades at the Ministry. If there's one thing they've a knack for it is pomp and ceremony."
"What of his son, Albus? Should we not take him and his mother into protective custody? The Dark Lord spares no more love for his followers than his enemies."
"For the moment the boy is safe within Hogwarts' walls. Tom may be more daring now that he's proven his return, but he is not so much a fool as to attack me openly. Not yet." Albus frowned, feeling the lines of his aged face deepen. "Moreover, until Harry is found I believe he will be the focus of Tom's considerable attentions, meaning that the widow Malfoy is safe for now."
Kingsley nodded.
"Will you return to Hogwarts then?"
Albus paused, his eyes skimming the room absently.
"Not as of yet." He sighed, wanting nothing more than to return to the castle that had been his home for most of his life. "First I must locate the prophecy."
Kingsley scowled.
"I'm surprised at you, Headmaster, putting so much stock in such an indecipherable and undependable trinket. Prophecies are made by the dozens every day and mean only as much as the person hearing them wants them to mean."
"Precisely why this prophecy is so important," Albus countered with a grim smile. "Tom places great stock in this prophecy. He wants it to mean a great many things. It is therefore vital we find it before he does."
"And what of Harry," demanded Kingsley, the first hint of temper edging his deep voice. "You can't tell me that finding this prophecy – no matter its value – is more important that finding the boy."
Albus recoiled as if he'd been struck and he was ashamed to find his eyes stinging with tears.
"Do you truly believe me so callous a man as that, Kingsley," he managed through parched lips.
Kingsley's accusing expression softened only slightly.
"I did not accuse you of not caring for Harry's well being, Albus," he corrected gently, "merely of putting the Greater Good above the life of a boy to whom we all owe a great debt."
"I seek the prophecy for Harry's protection and commend those whom I trust above all else in this world to find him. I may be powerful, but better one man search for the prophecy and a legion for the boy than the other way around." Kingsley's lips parted fractionally, as if he might offer an apology, but Albus continued without pause. "Harry may not be my blood, but he is the child of my heart. I would not have him suffer needlessly. My greatest failing with him is only perhaps that I have tried so hard to protect him that I have left him ill-prepared for what is to come." This time Albus let his tears fall without shame as he met Kingsley's steady gaze. "Find him, Kingsley. Bring him back to those who love him. Fate will manage its course without him, but too many hearts will never be whole."
Kingsley's massive hand closed firmly around Albus' thin shoulder.
"We will find him, Albus."
Albus nodded, squeezing the man's hand weakly in farewell as he trod with heavy steps toward the ruins of the room of prophecy to begin his dreary search. His only thought was that he wished he could lie to himself as he had the children, to tell himself that when the next morning came Harry would be with them once more. He could not rid himself of the sense that it would be a long time before things were as they should be again, unaware that fourteen blocks away a nameless teen was watching the first light of day with the same belief.
To be continued...
So...what do you think? Changes big and small are already afoot and shall come to further fruition as we continue. I'd love to hear your thoughts on them and hope you will join me for the next chapter where we'll see Harry found – but not by those most hoping to find him – and meet Voldemort's unknowing child Moira Carnahan!