~Guess what, guys? I'm editing my chapters!~

Oh happy day! No longer will you have to deal with the embarrassment of how the beginning looks and reads. Element's Sole Protector is on the case!

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I wish I did, but I know J.K. Rowling didn't make this many mistakes when she created this wonderful world.

Pairings: ...They're not canon. They will be canon at first in some areas, but they will not end up this way. You will be upset by this. But, hopefully, since romance does not dominate the story, you will not hit the Back button in a rush, huffing "God, what a RETARD!!! I'm not reading one more word she types!!!".

Summary: Harry is mourning Sirius and resisting Voldemort's wrath--Dumbledore is trying to sort out new, raw feelings--and even Voldemort is experiencing rocky new changes. And what does a secret organization of Flash Searchers have to do with anything? Sixth year is a wild ride...

I warned you now. Don't say I didn't x amount of chapters later.

(In memory of Michael Jackson, who died only yesterday. I will miss him. In memory of Farrah Fawcett, who I did not know but would have been privileged to know.)

Please review my babies! Reviews are the ink for my pen…and I need a refill…

Harry Potter and the Lost Flash

Welcome to the journey.

Chapter One: A Malefic Plot

"Let it not be said that I do not...keep my word. Eh?"

Within this tightly-knit circle, every last Death Eater laughed.

One arriving Death Eater in particular brought a young boy to the center of the chilly, forbidding circle; once they got there, the boy turned and spat into the unseen face of his captor.

"Dirty little...! Thought we could trust you...you slime!"

"It is dangerous for you to think, Jonathan--I thought you knew that?" The man's voice, though a murmur, was smooth and layered.

Jonathan sneered and spat at the man's feet.

Another, shaking hand reached out and gripped the boy's flimsy wrist; even Jonathan, who might have normally been described as quite weak, could tell that overpowering this man would be simple. The only problem: about sixteen wands would obliterate him from existence without thought.

And that wasn't counting--

"How nice of you to join us--it is Jonathan, I believe?"

Lord Voldemort.

His voice was sibilant but, strangely, smooth as silk, much like his captor's--it reminded Jonathan of a pond near his home, where the rapidly-moving water was silent as it slid over stones small and large.

"An odd thought to have, especially so near death," the Dark Lord pondered, and Jonathan pushed the vile presence out of the recesses of his mind, gasping. He was suddenly angrier than he'd been seconds ago; it swallowed any possible fear.

"You shall not speak to one of my status, vermin!"

A short pause.

"An interesting speech," Voldemort murmured, twirling his yew wand. "Crucio!"

Jonathan fell to the ground, but his screams came only from within; those of his kind did not show their pain to any sort of adversity, ever.

This seemed to annoy the majority of the Death Eaters (that and the fact that he knew their lot loosely and they knew nothing of him), who muttered threateningly and shifted restlessly. But not one, even the more arrogant ones, stirred. They were angry but not irrational; everyone knew that for the Inner Circle, Outer circle, any Circle of Lord Voldemort's, to dare defy the Master was suicidal.

Now the Dark Lord whistled tunelessly. "Who do you believe you are? One so important that yours would come and rescue you?" His wand went back and forth between his hands, but not in a menacing way.

Jonathan realized, with a thrill of fear, that he'd made Lord Voldemort curious.

Well, he thought, I've always been a good storyteller. Might as well indulge myself, seeing as I've nothing better to do...

"You don't know who we are for a reason."

"Oh-h-h-h?" He stretched the word out needlessly.

Jonathan smirked and straightened--it seemed not all of his magic had left him.

Who would have ever guessed he'd need his flair for storytelling?

"If you did..." He faltered, now, feeling his first twinge of sadness. "If you did, you would know that...none of mine will come for me."

It pained him to admit it in more ways than one. He missed his fellows terribly, most importantly--and it removed the birthing seed of fear he'd sensed he had planted in Lord Voldemort when he'd said "my status". He knew exactly what his new enemy had been thinking at that moment: If he can openly defy me--what does that mean he is?

That advantage was now gone. The Dark Lord knew no powerful friends would come to his captive's aid, so...

Hard way it is, then.

"But--I am a Senser, which means you're in trouble anyway. I know what you're seeking, Lord Voldemort."

"What?" The red eyes narrowed; the lipless mouth tensed. He was marble-white, though it was impossible to tell if it were from rage or if it was, as usual, natural.

I've got him now.

"You know what I'm talking about. Need I party the information around to your lessers?"

Jonathan turned to his former captor, the slime who had carted him here. "I'll bet you are one of his most trusted servants, eh? Top of the Death Eaters and all that? Well..."

His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper.

"...Do you know of the Lost Flash?"

Voldemort's sudden scream was shrill and (just barely) panicked; he was not skilled enough to hide it.

"Silence!"

Jonathan's former captor twitched; and once again the boy shielded himself from a mental attack--stronger, he noticed, than his master's.

But "I guess they don't know," was all he said.

"I said silence! --Wormtail!"

Jonathan's second, weaker captor stepped nervously (if quickly) forward and pointed his own wand at the boy. His arm shook as he uttered, "I-Imperio..."

A thin, orange aura surrounded Jonathan very suddenly, and the spell seemed to bounce right off.

Jonathan started to laugh.

"Quiet! Imperio!"

Once again the boy laughed as the orange aura blocked every possible entry. Even Voldemort's own casting was not strong enough to break through his shield.

"Sensers are immune to such trifles as the Imperius Curse! Just like your other enemies, Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter..."

Such trembles and twitches of rage befell the Dark Lord then, at that statement, that Jonathan knew those names had had the perfect effect on him; he did not know what to say or how to feel now.

If this keeps up, perhaps I can escape after all...

He rambled on. "How many times have they defied you now? Counting birth, I believe...hmmm...five times for Mr. Potter... And I have heard tell of battles upon battles that occurred between you and the other before my birth...perhaps twenty or more! And all twenty-plus times, Professor Dumbledore has bested you and kept his temper! Ha, my mother used to say he was such a saint he didn't have a temper..."

He stopped himself from going into a childhood reverie. That's right...the Temperless One. That is how he is known there.

Now Voldemort was gnashing his teeth. His scarlet eyes were wide and depthless; his breathing and that of the boy's were in a strange syncopation.

"Crucio! Crucio! Cru--"

Jonathan prepared to hit the ground and not get up again for quite a while, but two of the red beams did not seem to be meant for him just now.

He got once again to his feet, spat a disturbing amount of blood, then looked toward the Death Eaters Voldemort had attacked; all perilously close to him.

What...?

"Avery! Goyle! And dear Narcissa... This boy is mine to torture. I sensed his presence, and so I will finish him off. Interfere again and I may need my Imperius Curse for other matters...!"

Narcissa Malfoy! I've heard about her! ...Wow, she's trembling...

His other captor, the one called "Wormtail", interrupted his train of thought rather rudely; he gripped him again and nearly shoved him into another man--as he turned to fight him off, another man's low, rough hiss reached his ears, teasing and cruel. This, Jonathan knew in a split second, was the kind of man who enjoyed torturing children.

"Levicor--"

"Avada Kedavra."

A scream that was undeniably an adult's came and went as the dreaded green light shot over two heads and hit a taller, thicker body behind them. He collapsed slowly, as if in a deathly sort of daze.

A low moan sounded in two throats; Jonathan's and the Death Eater's who went to the dead man's side, shaking him fruitlessly.

"Oh no oh no oh no..."

Goyle Senior was dead, and it was Crabbe Senior who knelt, sobbing softly, beside his closest friend.

"No, no, please no..."

Jonathan was frozen in fear and terror and disbelief. Hardly an adult, he had never been allowed to fight or see the dead, much less tending to them as that poor, lonely-looking man was doing...

Those eyes...those cold, empty eyes...

His mind was spinning. He couldn't say the word "dead" aloud, couldn't think of it at all for too long or else... He longed for his friends, even one of them... he missed his Avöy, his teacher...and he wanted nothing more at the moment than his family, right now...!

Jonathan was hovered over the nearby grass and brush and retching before he knew it.

Someone gripped his shoulders and hoisted him up; the fingers were a female's. Shock would have had him reeling, but he was too sick to contemplate shock.

"Mrs. ...Malfoy..." he gasped, trembling despite himself.

She gripped his wrist painfully, but her voice--to the shock of any listener who knew her--was gentle. "He says 'he's sorry'."

"Who? Voldemort? He will be soon."

Narcissa flinched, then pointed toward the boy's captor--and for the third time that evening, Jonathan gazed at the man--but now loathing was gone, replaced by curiosity. The man seemed to be--was he slipping off? Was he mad?

"Where is he going?" He could not keep the question down.

Narcissa shrugged. "Beats me."

"Liar."

Not surprisingly, they were promptly interrupted. "Jonathan..."

The boy flinched as Voldemort glided over, pushed away the suddenly silent Malfoy wife and put his arm around him; and the Death Eaters' silence deepened eerily.

"Where is Severus, Lestrange?"

Yet another man stepped forward, forgetting to kneel at Voldemort's feet (had he noticed, the man would have been eating dirt at that moment). "He has just left, My Lord--"

"Not tha--"

"My Lord" stopped dead, noticed whom he was holding, and faltered with a sickly smile that made the whole population around the field shudder.

"Ah, perhaps we shall talk of this later on...at a more private time."

He maneuvered Jonathan to the center of the circle once again, then shoved him a few feet away.

"You know how wizards' duels work, I suppose?"

The moment of truth, Jonathan thought, his heart sinking. There would be no escape from this. Soon he too would be like that cold, lifeless body on the brown grass. No matter what his teacher said or did to prove such a thing--who here, in this crowd, could know of or assist a freed soul?

Outwardly he remained confident, even cocky.

"Of course I know how wizards' duels work. I know how all your stuff works!"

Then we bow first, said Voldemort's voice within his head, and he sighed. He was rather used to the penetration of his mind by now. Ick, though...he feels like salt rubbed over blood.

"It's rude to invade another's mind among our people."

"Is that so." It was hardly a question. "Excuse my impatience, but who--WHO--are 'your people'?"

He is angry now. I am most certainly going to die. But does he really think that I am distracted--or frightened--enough to give him such information?

"My people shall not let me divulge such incriminating information--to use legal terms."

But in his mind, as a last sense of identity before the inevitable, he rattled it all off in a secluded (and heavily guarded) corner, rather pridefully: We are the Flash Searchers, a small people who are like family to each other. We are special--and more powerful than any wizard ever born if you ask me. Our mission is to protect such temptations from snakes such as you, like the...

It, that beautiful, terrible object, suddenly came to mind: the Lost Flash.

Thunder seemed to rain across the field. He felt as though he were naming his destiny.

Like it.

The Dark Lord abandoned all formalities. His face pinched seriously.

"Well then--do the pathetic slime you persist in calling 'your people' wish to live still?"

Cheekily the boy repeated, "My people shall not--"

"Enough! I understand, boy."

"You do realize that, since I am not a wizard, we cannot duel properly?" Duh?

The scarlet orbs gleamed. "Oh, I realized that." Then, "Sectumsempra!"

Jonathan felt a tremor move toward him and leaped away, sneering once more; from behind him he heard a scream as the spell hit a different mark. His stomach turned; he did not think he could stand much more of this.

"Abale!" he heard Bellatrix Lestrange hiss.

"Quiet, Bella," Voldemort murmured calmly.

Then, to Jonathan, "A nice little spell I...borrowed...from dear Severus. Go on--turn around--see what it is like."

"I refuse. Besides, I was taught never to turn your back on an enemy."

Voldemort laughed pleasantly at the coolness in the boy's voice.

"I heard that from an enemy, once..."

I can't believe I'm going to be dead soon. Isn't this all a little sudden? Couldn't I have been given time to, you know, tie up loose ends?

He stalled for time. "Why did you kill your own servant?"

"Simple. He disobeyed me and moved to attack you--and with another of Severus's spells, no less! Insubordinance I do not tolerate."

"You do not tolerate much."

He rattled off another Cruciatus Curse, robbing the boy of breath.

"Before you die," he snarled, "I will have my answers from you. I will not kill you until I have been enlightened."

Jonathan retorted bravely, "And my lips will stay sealed, for I would never betray my people or mission. I will die defying you; and you will thus remain ignorant by my hand." But he was shaking; he didn't much like his own part in this moment of truth; he was so scared he was reverting to slightly proper language (or what the wizards called Old English. Bah!).

Funny, they always said at home that I'd die before I got rid of the habit...

"Cooperate!" Voldemort hissed; he flailed his arm in his fury, making his sparking wand an impressive sight. So frightening a sight was he that the Death Eaters' tightly-knit circle expanded, broke in places from the tremors of fear.

"Tell me of what the Lost Flash is."

The young man smiled. "Not only am I forbidden to tell, I would not tell if you chained me to a cliff and Crucioed me day and night."

A noble statement, Jonathan.

Almost immediately, he rejoiced within the safety of his own mind. Avöy! My Teacher! You are here!

But just as quickly, his joy faded.

I wish you to leave, Avöy. I am to die here, alone.

I realize that. The rough, calm voice sounded amused. Jonathan, you were among some of my finest pupils--have I told you that? I am honored to teach you, now and forever.

Now...and forever? Avöy...soon all traces of me will be removed forever!

A short pause. Then--

Jonathan. His Avöy's voice was scolding. You have forgotten what I taught you in your fear: we are special! We do not fade as others do. And we can bestow this ability upon trusted ones. ...How old do you think I am?

What a strange question to be asking--or answering--now!

Jonathan pictured his teacher's face, not for the first time that night. Well...um...

I...um...at least a hundred. A hundred and six.

Wrong, young one. I died many ages before your time, at eighty-nine. My teacher then gave me the last secret, thinking me worthy...and so I am ageless. --As you can be. Believe me, it really is not a myth.

Imp-impossible!

Only for wizards, retorted Avöy's scathing voice, sound young as he sometimes (though rarely) did. This was a sensitive subject for he and many others like him; so his voice went soft. Unless one of ours passes our gift to them, long life is all they get. Then it reverted to youthfully scathing. Ha, wouldn't Tom Riddle love to get his hands on our arts! Thankfully none of ours would sink so low.

But we trusted in my captor, the--

No. Firmness returned. We allegedly trusted in him. I gave him little information; later we shall find out if he is trustworthy, despite his...status. I have suspicions...

Jonathan did not pursue that. He was sure that even in the perils of this moment, his beloved teacher would still keep his lips sealed secret-wise.

Yes, even in his peril--

Wait. He started suddenly, anxiously. What's going on? I haven't spoken for at least three minutes--why aren't I dead yet?! (To himself he privately thought, Or at least eating mud again...)

Calm, calm, his Avöy soothed. And look and listen. I have stopped time around you, so you may be at peace with your fate and ready--for you were right. We cannot come to your aid. --And much as you would like to, you will not run. I sense it in you.

He was right on all counts. Jonathan could not even see the enemy breathing, though he knew they must have been...somehow. And he could not run from destiny. Death wanted him, and so Death would get him.

Leave me for a moment, please, Avöy.

If I leave, it is forever.

Jonathan bristled. Then dampen your voice.

The other receded without a glimmer of protest.

He walked quietly, not daring to upset the frozen forms, even though he knew such a thing wasn't possible. For a moment he considered spitting in Voldemort's motionless face, but he decided that would be letting him in on secrets, and so refrained. Instead, he shoved between the circle of Death Eaters and found what he most desired--a pool of clear, untainted water.

He knelt, became one with the ground.

Gray, stormy eyes blinked back at him, disturbed by the slightest ripple in the glass-like surface. He'd cut his hair recently, so the silk chocolate bangs that usually identified him (by their outrageous length) were absent. Otherwise, he was still looking the same as ever. Except that...

He was crying.

Is it natural to cry when you know...when you know you're...?

A single tear fell into the pool, distorting his face. The emotional moment of weakness made Jonathan realize he was truly not yet ready to die, to give up his lot in life. Everything meant something to him just now...

But still he did not flee.

He lay there instead and cried, remembering his whole life in a flash of color, sound and blackness. No escape from this meant... meant he'd have to take it bravely. After all, no one said everyone got to be happy.

It took a very long while for him to recover. Jonathan rubbed his eyes blearily, feeling as if he had been crying for hours instead of minutes; but it had helped. There was little left now--just numbness.

He called out to the only one who could save his soul.

Avöy. I am ready now.

That is good. The voice returned in full, gentle. Are you at peace?

Yes. There is no regret left. Jonathan made his mind's voice low and pleading. Now, please... I wish to teach myself and others, as you do... I do not wish to waste away.

Then it shall be such. The voice quieted. Repeat after me, and mind that Voldemort is not repeating after you.

Now. We shall recite...

And Jonathan lost himself, momentarily, in the joy of the magic of his people, the words that seemed so new and yet so old, and then so a part of him...

It is over, little one. Open your eyes.

I don't feel any different, Avöy.

You will not feel it until he tries to kill you.

Will-- Jonathan stuttered. Will--he know?

Of course he will not know! Sorry excuse for even a wizard, that one is.

Then Avöy's voice became softer, more pleasant.

Jonathan. I am extremely proud of you. Your mastery of your feelings and powers, especially during your adolescence so far, has amazed me and all of your other teachers. You will grow more slowly in this 'phase', but will still have the same freedom to live--if that makes you feel any better.

The youth blushed handsomely. Thank you, Avöy. G-good-bye.

Good-bye, my stubborn boy.

Jonathan felt a shift, as if he were being pushed back into time. And back within the folds of time, Voldemort weaved his own confusion into the boy's mind.

"Who do you think you are?" Mocking was mixed cleverly in. "Some sort of Wonder-Boy-Who-Cannot-Die? I do not know you, Jonathan, but I do know that you are not Harry Potter--even if you choose to believe and act as such. There is no confusion there."

Jonathan rolled his eyes, but his morbid thoughts rolled inside him as well. My time has come.

"I know who I am and am not--and I know that, with a simple spell, your kind will never get to the Lost Flash!"

And now Voldemort was charging, starting forward, his scarlet eyes spelling rage, impatience and, now, lack of mercy...

But he was too late, too foolish, too far away and not powerful enough to stop what came next. The double-meant magic was whispered.

"Obfirmo."

Far away, two entwined seals were thus set in place. The deed was done.

In doing so, the half-grown, arrogant boy sealed his own fate. Voldemort had had enough of games.

Jonathan counted down slowly in his mind.

Three...

"I will find what I seek, Jonathan. But you won't be around to see me prevail."

Two...

"I beg to differ, vermin. I'll 'be around' to do a whole lot."

One.

"Last words, boy?"

"You will have a binding trial in two weeks, as is the law for killing one of my people. You will go to Flint Wake Lane, number Four-Six-Five, Waterfall, and be tried. My law gives no exceptions."

The Dark Lord sneered. "You expect me to show up for some sort of trial?"

"Flint Wake Lane," the boy repeated firmly, "number Four-Six-Five, Waterfall. No exceptions! Bring your cult if you want. Sorry for the inconvenience, I'm sure--but you did it to yourself. Hope you like the next life when you get there--"

"I have two words for you, boy."

"Bring them on."

"Avada Kedavra!"

The charismatic spell on the surrounding circle was broken at last; all watched as the light in the boy's gray eyes faded as he died. His body fell with a soft flump into a brown patch of grass, face up and rapidly becoming cold. A little redness began to form at his mouth, glowing.

Voldemort turned away. He was more shaken than his circle, if possible. Something about that boy...who was he that he could somehow have what he, the Dark Lord, could not? Even in death...?

"Take him away and dispose of him!" His barked command restored life to the Lestranges and Narcissa Malfoy. "I do not ever wish to see him again."

Avery moved forward, bowing humbly.

"Master...might it be wise to--to use this trial for answers?"

He was rewarded with a Cruciatus Curse for bothering to think and for mentioning the "wretched boy!" who had driven his master thirst-crazy.

Foolish boy...over such an object of power...one only he could truly possess and master...

Narcissa Malfoy, meanwhile, was thinking about her son.

Jonathan, she had realized, as she saw green light take him, was just around Draco's age--but Draco was involved in a dangerous game he didn't know how to play.

And we are doomed to our coming fates, with Lucius in his state--unless...!

"Cissy!" Bellatrix hissed, leaning in close. "Get moving NOW!"

In a daze, Narcissa moved with her sister--she bent and touched the flushed face of the dead boy--and gasped.

Then she and her sister screamed.

Jonathan's body was glowing green and rising into the air; the redness left his mouth as a sphere of light and shot off to the northwest, whistling shrilly.

An echoing, boyish laugh was heard, and a chill descended upon them as they all stared toward the middle of the circle. Their silence was fear, was confusion, was longing to understand.

Rodolphus Lestrange put it simply. "His body is gone."

An inhuman growl escaped Voldemort's throat; he twisted his marble-white fingers, then whipped out his wand and destroyed a row of tombstones resting in the graveyard in the distance. His calming breaths came slowly, gradually.

"Good riddance."

Wormtail went to his Master's side and muttered in his ear for a while; then Voldemort pushed him away and sat down, still breathing in short bursts.

"Leave."

The circle dispersed without a murmur. Voldemort was left with the body of Goyle Senior and disturbing feelings.

"I have not felt so trapped," he mused aloud, "since I first found out the cursed prophecy was so close by..."

The prophecy!

Instantly a boy with darker hair and brighter eyes flashed into his mind. A grim smile rested itself on his face.

"The prophecy shall be mine, if I have to dispose of all my Death Eaters and every Mudblood in Hogwarts!"

With his old goal back in mind, his pale fingers twisted the yew wand, stroked it, and held it up to the still-rising moon.

"The only thing in my way," Voldemort whispered, "is a half-grown boy and his protectors--who are away from him this night."

In the darkness, a large snake burst from the brush and wound her way around her best friend's legs.

"Sss..."

He spoke, almost lovingly. "Oh, Nagini... I have all the time in the world to secure my victory. With just a few minor adjustments...everything will be mine..."

She curled around his waist and fell asleep to his sibilant, soothing songs, knowing that somewhere a boy's sleep would not come so easily. But as a serpent, what did she care?

"Blood of pure, take your place...right their wrongs..."

Chapter One is now edited!

I hope you could actually read all of this without flinching now, like I did!

(I am a stickler for spelling. However, computers hate me. How does this mix?)

I will have other chapters reposted soon, with the exception of Chapter Six, possibly Chapter Five, and all future ones. Hopefully computers will cooperate with me by then.

See you soon.