Prompt: The Forgotten Child

Characters: Aberforth Dumbledore, Albus Dumbledore, Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Kendra Dumbledore, Lucius Malfoy, Luna Lovegood, Minerva McGonagall, Narcissa Malfoy,

Summary: Dumbledore's dead, leaving the Order of the Phoenix in disarray and their only hope for defeating Lord Voldemort lies within Harry Potter. The only clues, however, lie within Dumbledore. Harry is joined by his best friends on a hunt for horcruxes as they try to figure out the thing that Voldemort's obsession lies, providing a journey that none of them foresaw that they would have to undertake.

AU; Death reincarnate; Horcruxes; Portraits; Veil

Author's Note: This work is definitely AU (Alternative Universe) in regard to information (though introduced and related appropriately.) In order to fit this plot, Harry isn't as informed with how the Horcruxes work and Voldemort's reason behind all the madness. Understandably, it is suggested as part of the original work (Canon) that Harry accompanied Dumbledore along with him whilst figuring out where the other Horcruxes were located. Dumbledore's own history remains a mystery, as it continues to remain until the last installment. In this work, Harry doesn't understand why the items were picked to be Horcruxes, though I will be sure to relate to you why they were, their history, and how Tom Riddle/Voldemort came into possession of each one. Mind, there will be several tweaks to some of the information to fit the plot. Harry wasn't as entrusted with information as he was in the books, either.

Another thing: Portraits. It is said that portraits are only to use certain phrases and keep the general demeanor of the person in question. However, what if there was a way to subject said painting to hide certain pieces of an individual and retain more than portraits are normally able to? Keep that in mind, and we'll get back to that later!

Lastly: Death/veils. It is not said whether or not portraits are created before/after a person dies. I'm going under the assumption that portraits are created under the permission of the deceased.

Original Publication: Unknown; Edited it heavily once I took it down for revision. First chapter is mostly original, aside from a few added pieces to flesh out the chapter.

As always, enjoy.

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Caesura

Prologue

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Noun- A pause in a line of poetry that is formed by the rhythms of natural speech that can occur at the beginning or the end of a line.

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Give sorrow words;

The grief that does not speak whispers

The o'erfraught heart…

…And bids it break.

-William Shakespeare

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Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland

July 2nd, 1997

In Loving Memory,

Albus Percivial Dumbledore

August 7, 1881- June 30, 1997

May he remain in peaceful, everlasting slumber.

"It is not easy," Elphias Doge began slowly," to forget someone that has gone. We mourn the dead with the heaviest sentiment that is human compassion, but just how far does that compassion reach?"

An uncomfortable shift coursed through the assembled audience. Crestfallen faces and reddened eyes looked back at him as he continued with the obituary. As his spoken words reached even the furthest ears, the gravity of their loss finally settled among them like a disturbed dust. It was then that they came to terms with the loss of their dear one.

In the candlelight of their wands as they raised them one by one into the air, one blurred face came into focus. His tired eyes were the main attraction, showcasing weeks without sleep fell into view first. They were an odd hue, almost the exact distribution of green and the slightest taint of grey. In them, a storm of vengeance brewed.

Albus Dumbledore died unjustly, and at the hands of a man that could have been thought of as his most trusted ally. The blood of the most powerful wizard stained the hands of a man that deserved no awards, no glorified praise, not even an ounce of liberty. Before he could even hit the ground, he deserted them, fleeing the scene in a cloud of dark. Few knew what happened on the Astronomy Tower, which felt like eons than two nights of restless turnings. Even fewer knew the truth, and that was Severus Snape murdered the Headmaster.

While Elphias Doge proceeded on with his soliloquy, the reflections of one tired escapade grew into its physical manifestation. Harry Potter was among the restless. The horrors of that night played like the most haunting, interrupted piece that was written to be repeated for as long as his suffering lasted. Inside the white tomb was the greatest man he's ever known, and yet there he was sitting against the darkened robes and brightly lit wands like a fish out of water. There would be no justice, no retribution, especially if Snape had anything to say about it. He has fled to the furthest reaches of this world, leaving behind the only man that ever had the nerve to befriend a sad excuse like him. He left the world without a cause. He left him without so much as a single attack left to fight.

Harry leaned back in his chair, clasping the hand that would not tear away from his. Ginny was a wonderful comfort that he has been abusing all year, and despite his better judgement, he continued to exploit her many uses as a friend and lover.

"It comes a time when we must say goodbye and move on from the plane that is the living space. We must grow, as all things in nature have done and will continue to do for all time, and regress back to the elementary notation. With these words, we must remember that this is simply not the end, but the road in which is taken to a new beginning."

"Albus Dumbledore's did not die in vain, but rather of an unfortunate accident."

Harry bit back an asinine retort. Everyone that was attending the funeral did not know the truth. As the last several years played before him, each of its own accord and same prominence, he knew not to draw too much attention to himself, which was something he was prone to do at times. He was already an outsider as it was; he didn't need the disapproval of the entire Wizarding World weighing down upon his shoulders. Knowing what Snape did was already enough of weight to carry.

He had been murdered.

Given the most disrespectful death that any wizard could give to another, he had died at the hands of a Death Eater, and not just a regular one at that. Severus Snape had been the one to pick up the wand, and now the most powerful wand in existence.

"Albus Dumbledore was never proud or vain; he could find something to value in anyone, however apparently insignificant or wretched, and I believe that his early losses endowed him with great humanity and sympathy. I shall miss his friendship more than I can say, but my loss is as nothing compared to the wizarding world's. That he was the most inspiring and the best loved of all Hogwarts headmasters cannot be in question. His remembrance shall not be in mourning, but rather in fondness. Let us mourn that he is dead, but celebrate him because he had lived. And, indeed, he lived."

There was an unnatural break that came between his words that the entire expanse of the funeral picked up on. Like a breath of wind. Everyone looked around, astounded by the bereft sense of what they felt, and not the passing of Dodge's words. In some far-off reach, Dumbledore was there. Smiling as if nothing happened, the summit of health and virtue as his wildly accepted embrace of opening his arms came into view. Regrettably, the weather mirrored the fact that he was gone, never to be reached again. Gloom seemed to grip the very fountains of the world, showering them with dashes of scorching release. When the rain finally came that day, Harry looked up to the clouds in a momentary bid to silence. In his own way, he was mourning the only other father figure he knew and the break that he felt earlier could be felt again.

It seemed that no matter how many people excused themselves from the mass and sauntered up to greet the audience and pay respect to the deceased that the feeling of watchful tendencies remained looming over them. As if the wrongful sin of the matter could not stop replaying moment after moment and Dumbledore was trying to speak so them beyond the grave. Harry learned quickly, as he grew to loathe the feeling, that he could not take it no longer. With the final words of the last speaker, he stood, ignoring the pleading stares of his friends, peers, and Professors. He stormed off and back into the castle. In the distance, he could have sworn that he saw the break of day shine through the dark, heavy clouds that set the foreboding tone of his departure.

There was something about death that he couldn't escape. Whether he found that the character the semblance of everyone's rightful end chilling a remorseful sign or not, Harry couldn't drop the fact that he had seen the death of far too many people this early in the battle.

Voldemort's uprising hadn't been a secret; though, it was thought to be a hoax according to the Ministry. It was almost fate that he was found in the woods, picked up by his only remaining servant and brought back to life from the very brink of death. He was sure that he had once come face to face with death, though his connection had to have been more miserable than most. Anyone who split his soul that many times and was alive to tell the tale was surely was surely more heroic than normal. Harry drew his attention back to the damning evidence and to the steady beat of his steps as he tried to convey exactly what he witnessed.

When he reached the Great Hall, he found salvation in the fact that he was not alone. As he marched in silence, he came face to face with Luna Lovegood, whose own distraction lured her from the funeral earlier than anticipated and much to his loathing confusion. He had learnt quickly to ignore her. Though, her current predicament was questionable at best. It was her words that stopped him in his tracks.

"Er… Luna," he greeted her absentmindedly as she almost walked into him. "What are you doing?"

The acentric Ravenclaw removed her absurdly flamboyant spectacles and looked at him with those wide eyes that made it appear that she was looking right into his soul. He wouldn't be wrong, of course, seeing as she was very fond of the peculiar. It was this day that her peculiarity was at its peak.

"My glasses," she told him in that soft voice of hers. "I can't seem to find them."

"Aren't… weren't you wearing them?" he asked, looking between her face and the pair that she was now holding in her hand. "If you just-"

"I'm not talking about those, Harry. Silly." Her twinkling laughter fell upon him heavily. "I'm talking about another pair."

If what she was telling him was true, then the pair she was holding was of no significance at all to her.

"What do you mean?" he asked her instead, completely unaware of the trance that he was succumbing to. He felt the unbreakable hold of a Veela who has captured its mate. Only this time, it was his interest that she spared and not his love. "Listen, Luna. You've only ever worn one pair of glasses. I don't see-"

"We're always looking for things in all the wrong places," she said in a soft, dreamy voice. Much too high for her stature, though it was strangely becoming of her. She stared at him as if she knew something he had yet to find out. He waited in complete panic anticipation. "We don't stop to think maybe it's not in the places we expect, but rather the places we wouldn't think to look."

"Meaning?" he tried to lead her on.

"Meaning," she repeated thoughtfully," that we ought to open our eyes if we have any chance of finding out what we lost."

Harry didn't know then, but Luna had given him quite the bit.

"How do you know that I lost something," he asked then, looking at the girl with intrigue. Granted, hadn't lost something, he was simply confounded by the things that he didn't understand.

Was she trying to say that he ought to look for his answers in another venue? If so, why?

"It's very unfortunate what happened to the Headmaster," she said, again her tone quite soft. This time there was a hint of sorrow weaved into her words. "Sometimes, it's always good to start back from the beginning."

Turning abruptly, ignoring the full-fledged calls of the girl who sparked his intrigue, he headed back toward the staircase. Taking them two by two, he raced back down the corridor, toward the Great Hall until he reached the spiraling staircase that would lead him to all his answers.

During his trips to the Headmaster's office, Harry had been given the brief intermission and chance to travel back into the past and learn how Voldemort became who he was today. He could still remember it now- Dumbledore taking in a deep breath. In the corner of his eye, he saw Harry shuffle from one foot to the other, expelling all anxiousness in a manner that he had no custom to. His was remarkably well controlled. They were about to dive into a world to which they had no right to be a part of, a world that he has breached and defiled so many times that his reality almost melted into one seamless stream. He hardly could tell it a part. Even now, watching his memory mingle with the thousands of others, he could feel the disconnection and it was disheartening.

"You're wondering what you should expect," he noted carefully. His hands were on either side of the basin. His blackened hand even more pronounced against the porcelain. "There is nothing that I could tell you that could prepare you, Harry. Just… be prepared for the worst."

"What would that be, Professor?"

Eyebrow poised questioningly above his eye, he looked at his pupil and sighed. "I've seen these memories countless times, and even now it befuddles me. To think that this boy… nevermind. You will see."

Albus knew that his questions were as endearing as they were endless. Everyone was fond of their secrets, and this was one secret that he wasn't quite ready to divulge. Their lessons were just beginning. His mind was still running rampant that he needed just a little more time to slow it before he could even think about sharing any information he was able to gather. If this night went well, he will find himself with more answers than he could have hoped for.

There was something that could be said about what they were about to do.

"Where the true nature of one's soul lies within in the past, and that is where we are going tonight, Harry. I don't know why Voldemort chose to split his soul into seven Horcruxes, but we are about to take a journey that will soon lead us to the answers we seek."

"Why do you think he did it?" his voice seemed more distant than it was. He felt mature in a way that he was least expecting.

It hadn't been the most civilized of connections, but it had been one nonetheless. One that he hoped to find the answers to.

"Harry, wait!" the desperate cries of a familiar voice punctured the hazy serene of his contemplation. He ignored her, finding her presence as he ascended the stairs back inside the walls of Hogwarts more annoying than productive. He heard her huff, speaking faintly beneath her breath to the body next to her. No doubt that Ron was tailing close behind her as well.

Harry continued in silence, preferring the stillness of twilight more inviting than a deep discussion with his friends. He was exhausted, terribly confused and distraught. Dumbledore had been the guidance in the dark, and now when he needed him the most, he was gone. Without him, there was nothing.

However, he was not without hope. Hope that the Headmaster could somehow serve them beyond the grave.

He could not say he knew why he was going. Rather, he knew of the destination. The moment he left the funeral and spoken to Luna, his search brought him to the one place that he knew that he could convene to.

Dumbledore's office had always been a refuge, a haven to him. Not one day went by that he didn't think of the man that has always been like a father figure to him. Harry was unbearably close to the deceased Headmaster; his death was more than a toll than he could take, but it was the whisper permeating around him was the drive that forced him to go on. Without it, he would not even bother. For the death of his closest ally could bring the world to crash down upon them all. This was a risk he was willing to take.

"Oh, if you won't slow down at least tell us where we are going!" Hermione insisted, brusquely. Her hair was a wild mess against her flushed skin. Ron was in no better state- his eyes were swollen and there was a tender redness about them that Harry hadn't noticed until then.

"Headmaster's office." he told her crossly. "There's something I want to check."

"Must you do it now?" Her voice begging. "If you insist we look, then can it at least wait until the morning?"

This caused Harry to stop in his tracks and turn abruptly. He looked at her coldly, the sheer weight of her words bearing down on him like cobbled stones.

"Wait until morning?" he asked, angry. "Are you mental, Hermione? We can't just wait like we did in the past. This is war. Voldemort isn't just going to wait until we figure out our next move of action."

An eerie silence cascaded down around them.

There it was again. That same dreadful feeling that Harry has come to loath. Whenever he spoke of the Snake's name, silence would prevail, and this foreboding sense of dread would envelope him. As at the funeral, he could not escape the atrocities behind the simple action of his preserved devotion. He had to act fast, and if his friends weren't going to assist him, then he would have to do it alone.

"Listen," he let out an exasperated sigh," I haven't the time to dwell. I need to do this now and if you don't want to help me then fine. Don't waste my time by telling me that what I'm doing is pointless or unworthy of at least attempting. Dumbledore would have wanted us to at least try."

"Dumbledore would have wanted you to think it over," murmured Ron.

Hermione was quick to hit him on the chest before turning her attention back to Harry. "Of course, we want to help, Harry. I just don't see the point of going back to his office and searching through his things…"

"He left a clue there, Hermione." He said, softly. "Can't you see it? Certainly, you felt it?"

She shook her head.

"In the portraits, then?" he said. "I've been asking him all year why the Horcruxes were important. After all the lessons we had, he never once told me why we were going after them. What Voldemort's obsession was with them."

"Oh, Harry…" she began, shaking her head as he realized that her eyes were glistening. "It doesn't work like that."

"That I can't talk to the one that Dumbledore took up?"

"They're meant to imitate their general dispositions. Not replace them after death." Her knowledge behind the portraits was intermediately frustrating. He had been so sure, so certain that he could ask Dumbledore's pre-death state about what they were going to search for. Blindly, Harry thought then. They were going in this blind.

Harry nodded, understandingly. "Let me at least look. If we don't find anything, then we'll call it a day and look again later."

This seemed to appease her. A smile stretched across her face, as did Ron's. He would always have their help; it was their trust that he was dying to obtain.

The Golden Trio looked for what seemed like hours, but came up with nothing that would aid them on their journey to destroy the Horcruxes. Although Dumbledore was prone to riddles, it was in his words and guidance that they found the need to search through his personal belongings. For hours they looked. Across the planes of old tomes, and in wardrobes that lead to nowhere- they came up empty each and every time until Harry's intuition pulled away from the mundane environment of books and possession, and to the portrait of the man they wanted to speak to himself.

Dumbledore was found sitting in a comfortable chair, his hands drawn together in the same fashion as his lifeless form. His eyes were closed shut, his spectacles on the edge of his nose, and the air held a kind of elegance rarely seen. Harry gazed at the deceased Headmaster. How was it possible for him to feel such profound emotions for someone who died naught three nights ago? Had he ceased time itself? As his eyes glossed over, he pondered that question, and another moment of eerie matrimony of foreboding swept over him.

He looked away, and when he looked back his green eyes met blue.

"Ah, young Potter." The Portrait of Dumbledore smiled warmly at him.

The trio returned that gracious favor.

"To what do I owe this pleasure? Shouldn't you be asleep?"

"No, Professor." Harry hesitated for but a moment. The call of sleep was a tempting one, but he was before him for a reason. "I now I should be… but, actually, there was something that I needed to discuss with you. About the Horcruxes?"

He didn't understand how these portraits worked. If they knew anything about their lives beyond the enchantments, but he held onto that theory. If he could tear the information from the portrait, then he had some hope in retrieving the remaining Horcruxes.

"What is it that you want to know, Harry?" Dumbledore's voice was weak, yet demandingly soft. It was as if even in death he could not escape the mistakes of his past. Whatever they may be, that is. "I trusted that you could have figured this all out on your own. Was my trust misplaced?"

He shook his head. "No, Professor. I just… I just needed to ask you a couple of questions then I'll be on my way."

"You are more than welcomed to ask me whatever you like." He smiled. "And, you may come and visit me any time you wish."

Harry internally groaned. Leave it to the old Headmaster to make things even more complicated when the situation did not call for his blatantly boisterous soul. It was times like this that he truly felt the admission of servitude. Whatever Snape's excuse for executing Dumbledore had better be a good one. Deep down, however, he felt he would soon see the reason behind the terrible act.

"Professor." Harry halted his attempt make light of the situation at hand. "I need these questions answered. We can't afford to wait around while… While Voldemort grows even stronger."

As always, Dumbledore did not flinch at the sound of his name. In fact, for the briefest of moments, his eyes lit up. Maybe it was a horrible trick that his eyes were playing on his own mind, but he could have sworn he saw blue turn into blood red.

"I hardly think this is an appropriate time to discuss such things, Harry." White eyebrows drew together worryingly. "You must take your leave."

"All of it was a lie, then?" Harry offered, his voice finding its own legacy. A balloon of anger swelled up inside him at the Headmaster's words. "All these years you've told me that you would be there any time that I needed help. Are you saying that you're taking it back?"

"That is not what I am saying."

"Sounds like it is," quipped the young wizard. "I saw what Snape did to you. Your trust in him is astoundingly vast, yet you can't find the nerve to even trust me."

Dumbledore looked back at him. His eyes filling with tears as a hurtful sob broke from his throat. No sound was heard, and it was only then that he realized the meaning behind his silence.

He had been too late, too careless. Even Harry was not as heartless not to forgive all his indiscretions across the last several years. Harry's heart clenched within his chest.

It was not Dumbledore who should feel ashamed. It was Harry's crime because he was too untrusting of the man that has protected him all this time.

It was in the silence that he was able to find the message.