Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Harry Potter. Beware, for this chapter contains more circular writing, a Good Dumbledore - because bashing is just so mainstream – and competent Aurors. Yes, you read that right. Also, unbeta'ed. Like everything I write.
Chapter 4: Warlocks, Werewolves, and Vampires
There are different kinds of thirst in the world.
And there is only power, and those too weak to seek it.
Hogwarts School of Withcraft and Wizardry
Late August, 1988
Albus Dumbledore was worried.
Harry Potter was missing.
Hence, Albus Dumbledore's worrying.
He had tried Apparating all over the United Kingdom; he'd tried interrogating every link to Harry Potter, from his family to his elementary school teacher. He had even tried to try and use the Blood Wards around Privet Drive to try and trace Harry.
He'd failed miserably on all counts.
Harry Potter was still missing.
And Albus Dumbledore was growing increasingly worried.
The boy had been gone for almost three weeks, and it was getting increasingly difficult to keep the news of his disappearance from the public. The Auror office was going berserk trying to track the boy down, and Rita Skeeter had been seen skulking around the Ministry – always a bad sign.
Almost like clockwork, Albus reached out for the magical register that lay near his desk. Turning to the list of students who would be joining Hogwarts in about a couple of years, he breathed a sigh of relief as Harry's name showed up in the tiny cursive script.
Contrary to popular belief – even amongst the staff of his school – this was his only means of tracking the Boy-Who-Lived beyond the regular updates from Mrs. Figg. Any devices to track Harry would have been nullified by the wards around his house, and despite his many shortcomings, Albus had never considered spying on a child one of his priorities.
The Headmaster's blue eyes bored into the three words on the page, trying to make sense of the mystery that was the boy.
Harry James Potter.
The fact that the name was still on the book indicated that the boy was still alive, though there was no guarantee for his health or sanity.
He was jerked out of his musing by a knock on the door, and he called out, "Come in, Minerva!"
His Deputy walked into the room, her lips a thin line. "One of these days, Albus," she said dryly, "I'm going to figure out how you always know who's outside the office door."
Dumbledore merely smiled at her and made sure that the map on his desk was still charmed to be visible only to him. While it was a truly wonderful piece of magic, it wasn't one of a kind, though.
He chuckled as he remembered the original which he had filched from his caretaker's office and duplicated; of course he'd dutifully remembered to return it to its rightful place later. It wouldn't do to not give future pranksters in the school an edge against the school.
He chuckled a bit more at this train of thought – from what his network told him, the map would probably fall into the hands of the young Weasley twins, who would start school the following year.
"Albus!" Minerva's sharp voice brought him out of his thoughts again, and he turned his attention to her.
Seeing that Dumbledore was now listening, McGonagall drew herself up to full height, and asked, "I take it that the boy hasn't been found?"
He shook his head no, and the proud light in Minerva's eyes seemed to diminish somewhat. "How can he have disappeared, Albus? Do you think some Dark Wizard got hold of -?"
She couldn't finish her question; the thought of the son of two of her favourite students' son being kidnapped or even harmed seemed to terrify her.
"No," said Albus, "any Dark Wizard would have been driven off by the protections around Harry's house, Minerva. It seems the child left of his own volition –"
"And why would he do that, Albus?" asked Minerva, her eyes narrowing.
Albus hestitated for the first time, and McGonagall caught it at once. Her mind working blazingly fast, she immediately came to the worst – and correct – conclusion.
"I told you, Albus!" she said, her nostrils flaring. "I told you, they were the worst kind of Muggles possible. I shudder to think of how they might have treated him, that he was driven to run away from home!"
"Now, Minerva..."
"Don't Minerva me, Headmaster," he winced at her formal manner of address. "This could have all been avoided if you had listened to me in the first place."
She was getting increasingly incensed; almost out of instinct, Albus' hand tightened against the hilt of his wand.
Immediately, he could feel his senses grow sharper, every detail grow a bit clearer, every sound a bit louder. And immediately, he could hear the crooning whispers in his mind.
It was almost automatic how he tamped down on them with his Occlumency, though they persisted, always haunting a tiny corner of his mind.
"He could be lying face-down, dead in a ditch somewhere for all we know –"Minerva had descended into a rant now, but Albus cut her off.
"No," he said firmly. "No, I'm sure he isn't dead."
He pointed to the magical register, and he could see the relief and understanding flash across her face.
"He's alive, Minerva, and he's out there somewhere."
"But surely you can find him then," protested Minerva. "Albus, if anyone can find him, it's you. You're the most powerful wizard of the age!"
Power, yesss. Almost at once, the volume of the voices in his head grew louder. Fighting the thrall of the Elder wand, he managed to say, "You flatter me, Minerva, but I have tried my best."
"It seems my best isn't good enough," he finished heavily.
"But Albus," desperation flashed across the aged Transfiguration Mistress' age. Her voice descending to a whisper, she leaned forward to address him.
"Surely you felt it too, that night?" she asked him. "There was a shift, a shift in the balance of power somewhere. There are rumours flying about Albus, and for once, I fear that the people are right in suspecting the Boy-Who-Lived."
Yes, Albus had felt it that night. He told his Deputy as much.
"The last time the Wizarding World felt anything like that, Albus, was during – "
"Halloween 1981, yes," Albus completed her sentence, and she nodded in agreement.
"You don't think – it's him, Albus? Could a little boy be powerful enough to cause such tremors all over Magical Britain?"
"He can, yes," he quietly confirmed. The last such tremor he'd personally felt was during the early stages of what the Muggles called the Second World War.
When a certain boy named Tom Marvolo Riddle had been born.
Albus sat back in his chair, his brain working furiously. Recognizing the signs, Minerva let him spend some time thinking; content to wait.
Without a word, Albus stood up sharply and strode over to the phoenix resting on the perch next to his desk.
He was gone in a flash of flame.
There are many different kinds of thirst.
The first and foremost, of course, is the thirst that all men suffer from, the thirst for water.
The second, that is also common amongst men, is the thirst for freedom. Only rightly has freedom been called Man's greatest right.
The third, which is common, but not rampant, is the thirst for company. This can come in many forms – friendship, family, and love, to name a few.
The list goes on and on, but the rarest of thirsts – which can be quenched, that is – is the thirst of power. Throughout the ages, a single thirst has connected all men who have risen from their normal, monotonous lives, and become something...greater.
The thirst of power.
For of course, there is only power and those too weak to seek it.
British Countryside
Hours Later
Harry Potter was in a tree.
While this may not seem the best way to introduce a hero, there was a very specific reason for him to take to the art of tree-climbing.
The light from the full moon shone down on the branches, falling through the leaves and bathing the lonely glade he was in a patchwork of dark green and silver.
Harry was strangely hypnotized by the combination of the two colours.
And to think, only this morning, he had been entranced by the hints of red and gold slowly taking over the world around him.
A howl broke him out of his reverie, and he was brought back to terrifying reality. Panicking, he flipped through his copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.
Why was it always him who ended up in such terrible situations?
Short snout.
Check.
Thin coat of fur.
Check.
Small upper limbs, with a tendency to move on its hind limbs unless running.
Check.
Fearsome claws.
Check.
Unless he was much mistaken, there was a wild werewolf running around the copse.
Gulping, he shifted under the cover of his Invisibility Cloak and read the next few sentences.
Extremely painful - can even kill – almost superhuman and speed –scars inflicted will never disappear -
He gulped again. Nothing seemed to be particularly encouraging, not even the five X's next to the heading. The only piece of advice given was that they were vulnerable to silver. He angrily shoved the book back into his bag, cursing his luck for dropping him into such situations.
He shifted again, and then almost fell off the tree in shock when he brushed up against a shoulder.
Sitting next to him, dangling her legs and smiling brightly at him, was the strange girl from the rooftop.
"You!" he hissed, and then flinched wildly when another howl rang out through the area. "What are you doing here?"
Her eyes took on a distant look for a second, before she focused on him and just shrugged somewhat apologetically.
"It's not safe here!" he whispered frantically, "there's a werewolf around! You could die!"
"So could you," she retaliated, her voice extremely casual; almost like she was commenting on the weather.
Harry was startled by her offhanded comment he almost fell off the tree again. Were all girls this rude?
"Can werewolves climb trees?" he asked, his voice cracking slightly, as he concentrated on a more pressing matter.
"I don't know," he girl said conversationally."Do you think we'll find out?"
Harry looked at her like she was insane. Remembering their little dance on the rooftops, he decided that she probably was.
"They have extremely sensitive noses," he said fearfully. "I only had time to shove my tent in the bush underneath us before I climbed the tree," he explained. "I thought it was a wolf at first, but it turned out to be something much worse."
He turned, and was incensed to find the girl counting stars in the sky.
"Hey!" he said, feeling a bit angry. "You could help me out here!"
"I dunno," she said, shrugging again. "If you had time to climb the tree with that bag on your back, you have time to figure something out on your own."
Despite the situation, Harry blushed. "I couldn't leave it behind. It's my entire world in there..." he trailed off, realizing something.
"Hey, you can see me!" he exclaimed, "even when I'm under the Cloak!"
"I can?" she asked, turning to see him. "You're under a Cloak!" she suddenly exclaimed, her eyes wide.
Their conversation was cut short when a dark figure thrashed into their sight, before stopping on its haunches. Harry went completely still as the werewolf lifted its head and sniffed the air.
The girl's hand clamped down hard on his, and he revelled in the fact that he wasn't alone during this terrible moment. The werewolf tilted its head, as if confused, before it retreated back into the darkness.
Harry released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His heart pounding, he turned to check on his companion –
"Are you smelling my cloak?" he asked incredulously.
The girl blushed a bit, before saying, "I had a cloak once. It smelt funny."
For some reason, the way she said it made Harry inexplicably sad.
"Well, you can share mine for now if you want," he offered kindly, though he was somehow loath to do so.
The girl looked at him inscrutably for a long, long moment, before she finally cracked a smile.
"Thanks," she said, "I think I will."
He lifted the edge of his cloak, and she shifted next to him. The Cloak was big enough for both of them to fit comfortably under it, and the warmth of another person so close to him was surprisingly welcome after nearly three weeks of solitude.
"Thank you," she repeated, and he only nodded embarrassedly.
Until she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
Harry moved away so fast he might as well have been electrocuted. While doing so, he did not notice the dark triangle that appeared on his cheek for a moment, before it faded away into nothingness.
"What was that for?" he hissed, furiously rubbing at his cheek like he had been possessed.
First there was a werewolf that might kill him at any second, and now this girl was giving him cooties?!
Was the entire world out to kill him?
His terror was replaced by fear of another kind, though, when he heard a snarl right beneath his tree. Almost afraid to move down, he shifted to find a pair of glittering dark eyes looking up at him.
"Damn," muttered Harry, and he didn't even feel the childish satisfaction from using the only curse word he knew.
There was a moment of silence – a long, stretched out moment – as the werewolf looked up at the seemingly empty tree above it.
Harry, equally quietly, stared down at the terrifying creature below.
And then the werewolf started tearing at the tree like mad, almost dislodging poor Harry from his branch.
Harry almost screamed, but his throat seemed to choke at the last moment. He pulled out his wand, taking comfort in the familiar warmth.
But it was very small comfort, indeed.
The werewolf was now snapping at the trunk, saliva dripping down his muzzle. Harry found himself so scared that he seemed to be rooted to the tree. He furiously told himself that he was only imagining the slightest of wetness in his pants.
Almost as if by magic, he felt his pants warm and then dry. Between bouts of panic, he realized that it was probably magic anyway.
He felt a tug on his hand, and suddenly he was pulled up decisively by girl. The Cloak slipped from around him, but he suddenly realised that the little girl was wearing it instead. Which meant –
The werewolf howled and redoubled its efforts as the little boy came into view. Harry was glad that he'd managed a Feather-light charm on his bag, he was sure that he would have overbalanced or fallen over otherwise.
At the very thought, the girls hands seemed to tighten around his wrist.
"Let's dance," she said with another crazy grin, and Harry almost wet his pants in fear again.
His protest was rapidly swallowed, though, when she pulled on him with her inhuman strength and whirled him around.
The werewolf howled in anger as the rock it had thrown whizzed past Harry's head.
Harry realized that this meant bad news; if the beast was smart enough to switch tactics.
Another projectile went whistling over his hair as the girl led him onto a slight dip in the branch.
"Stop this madness," he hissed, unmindful of how he was twisting around the items the werewolf was throwing at him. "We're going to die! Stop!"
"Ok," she said blandly, and stopped so suddenly that Harry stumbled into her. A broken branch whizzed past her back, and Harry's eyes widened as he realized what was going on.
And without warning she restarted her crazy dance, and the werewolf below howled in anger as the boy dodged all his weapons with inhuman ease.
They twisted and twirled and dipped and swayed, avoiding the werewolf's projectiles, unmindful of his attempts to shake them out of the tree by butting the trunk.
"Spells," she said suddenly, and Harry, who was almost getting into the dance, snapped his attention to her. Seizing his right hand, which was still carrying his wand, she commanded, "Cut."
Her voice had changed, it was suddenly irresistible, hypnotizing. Almost in a trance, he raised his hand, and incanted, 'Diffindo.'
Nothing happened, and she hissed in displeasure.
It wasn't his fault, Harry thought in a split second, the wand seemed almost unwilling to perform any destructive spells.
"Again!" she commanded, and Harry concentrated as they halted for a split second.
'Diffindo!'
The branch opposite them began falling, and she barked, "Transfigure!"
Harry did the first spell that came to his mind, the first Transfiguration spell he'd mastered from his books.
The splinters at the end of the broken branch gleamed reflected the colour of the moonlight as the branch fell to the ground.
"And now," said the girl, a smile appearing on her face, "we bow."
She bent backwards, pulling Harry down, and then yanked his hand forward.
"Push," Harry was instinctively pushing even before she commanded him to.
He had said no words – as he would realize months later – but nevertheless, the branch shot forward like a canon and embedded itself into the werewolf's foot forcefully.
The werewolf howled ear-splittingly in pain, collapsing to the ground. At the same time, the girl let go of Harry and pushed.
He found himself hanging from the branch, and the girl hissed, "Go."
And she was gone.
Clutching the bare cloak, Harry slid down to the ground, stuffing his most prized possession hastily into the bag. He was almost in tears from the fear as he saw the outline of the werewolf mere feet away from him.
He seized his tent, thankful for its small size and the charm on it as well, working furiously to shrink it. For once, his magic responded at once, and he shoved it haphazardly into his pocket and took off running like crazy.
Behind him, the werewolf moaned. It struggled to get to its feet, and Harry took that advantage to put as much distance as he could between the creature and himself.
The wolf managed to stand, but collapsed back to one knee almost immediately, its infecting right foot refusing to bear his full weight.
Harry turned ever so slightly to check on his quarry, and half-moaned when he saw the werewolf lowering itself to its forelimbs.
With a howl, the creature took off, and the tears started falling down his cheeks in earnest.
The werewolf, even though it was injured, gained ground at a prodigious rate. Within seconds, Harry could feel the ground under his feet trembling slightly as it neared him.
When he was certain he could almost feel its breath on his feet, he suddenly found the strange girl running next to him. She seized his hand just as the werewolf snapped its jaws, and Harry could feel the back of his pants tear away.
Instead of the usual ice-cream –through-straw sensation though, the world contracted around him and suddenly he was in a completely new surroundings, the werewolf no longer behind him.
He realized through his tear-blurred vision that he was nearly fifty metres away from where he had been a second ago, somehow moving through the distance in a matter of seconds. Nearly stumbling in shock, he somehow kept running.
Next to him, the girl started laughing, an exhilarated, free laugh, and he suddenly found himself joining in.
Again, the werewolf neared, and again, the world around him contracted.
Another burst of magic, and he was transported metres ahead of his original position, almost like he'd received an inhuman burst of speed.
The werewolf howled in frustration, and even though Harry's energy was beginning to sag, he laughed in earnest, a crazy, adrenaline fuelled laugh.
On and on they went in the ridiculous game of Chase, until the place Harry had sought directions to that very morning came into view.
It was a small two-storeyed building, lying on the outskirts of the village he knew was a few miles away. Raising his wand as he bulleted up the front stairs, he roared 'Alohomora' and heard the locks on the door clicking open audibly in response to his magic.
He had only managed to make it inside and put the first couple of deadbolts in place before the werewolf crashed against the door, almost throwing him back.
Hands shaking like mad, he somehow managed to lock the door and back away, quivering in fear as the werewolf rammed wildly into the door again and again.
He turned to the girl, but she only winked reassuringly. Then she was gone.
At the same time, a flash of light so bright it illuminated the entire room nearly blinded Harry. There was a deafening bang and a yelp – he was sure it was the werewolf – before he heard the sound of something being hurled bodily against the ground.
He never had the time to investigate, though. He felt something sharp puncture his neck, and he fell into the oblivion of darkness.
Albus Dumbledore may have been old, but he definitely wasn't senile, thank you very much.
He prided himself on being meticulous, being able to seek out patterns, where others saw none.
And the most obvious link between himself, Voldemort, and Harry was power. And while he agreed he didn't know too much about either Voldemort or Harry, he knew enough about himself.
And remembering the time that he had run away from his own home in a fit of childish pique, he began to actively rifle through the minds of Muggles in the towns in and around little Whinging for a little child asking for directions to the nearest school.
For he fondly remembered how Percival had found him under the window of his village's school, listening raptly to the tale of Merlin's conquest of Morgana.
In conclusion, there is power and those too weak to seek it. But true knowledge - as those who have risen to power know – and the thirst to seek it out, is the first step to gaining it.
Dumbledore hit gold in a town nearly seventy miles away from Surrey, and he had been impressed by Harry's tenacity.
His emotions, though, had ranged between fear and wonder, though, as he rapidly pieced together what had happened that night.
The full moon, the foot and paw prints, and the magic cloying the air were all clear indications of what had happened. There was no doubting that it was Harry who had been at the centre of all this, because the magic had been pure and raw, like all children's were.
He did stop short and rack his brains, though, when he saw the traces of the spell Harry had left behind. It was familiar, yet seemed rather obscure at the same time.
His face split into a wide grin as he realized what Harry had done. "The Charge Step," he whispered in amazement, equal amounts of pride and wariness filtering through him.
Better known as Sight-Line Apparating, it was the ability to jump to distant locations in a straight line, as long as they were in the line of sight. Highly useful in duels, and highly advanced magic for a mere child.
Amazement outweighed apprehension, though, because the sheer innocence he could taste in the magic drove all fear he had of another young Riddle from his mind. With a burst of flames, Fawkes appeared next to him, drawn by the feelings he was experiencing.
"Beautiful, is it not?" he asked in a whisper, almost afraid to disturb the sanctity of the magic, so pure it seemed. It was such a shame that Harry, like all children, would slowly outgrow this purity with age.
The phoenix let out a melodious trill of agreement, but there was a sense of urgency in his familiar's voice.
Driven back to the current situation, Dumbledore immediately drew his wand and began duplicating Harry's jumps, until he came upon the duo of Aurors battling the werewolf. With his help, the beast was put down in seconds.
"Second time this week, Professor," said the Auror whom he recognized as Kingsley Shacklebolt, "and seventh time this month. Release of large amounts of magic, and the target avoids us every time. Only this time," he kicked at the prone form of the werewolf lying on the ground, "we find Greyback messing around."
Albus smiled at this news, happy that one of the worst criminals in recent memory had finally been apprehended. The smile slid off his face, though, as he confidently made his way into the school only to find it empty.
But instead of a little boy, he found traces of a very special brand of Apparition, one that was employed only by –
Vampires, thought Albus, disbelief showing on his face. What next?
Harry groggily opened his eyes to the sound of voices.
"Do you think you overdosed him?" asked a female voice, rich in tone and timbre.
"Of course not, darling," another voice assured her, deep and powerful. "He's already awake."
Giving up the game, Harry opened his eyes, and found himself in a strange stone room. It was completely bare except for the bed he was lying on, and a small window through which moonlight was filtering in.
Three figures loomed over him. Two of them were tall and pale, with sharp, aristocratic features and glowing, almost iridescent eyes. Male and female, they exuded an indomitable presence, and Harry couldn't help but feel that he was in the presence of royalty.
The third was much younger, with tiny fangs poking out of the corners of her mouth. Her eyes were a light blue, and framed by tresses of dark hair.
"Father," she piped up without any warning, "I find this human pleasing to look at. I wish to marry him."
Harry's thoughts were highly similar to those of the Headmaster of Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry right then.
What next?
Harry groaned.
Author's note: Well, that's that for now. Before you start throwing tomatoes at me for being so irregular in updating, I'd like to point out that my Grandmother passed away near the end of 2012. As such, it hasn't been easy to write a fic with a weird, crazy-girl version of Death. I do try, though. The second of Harry's helpers – tutors? – companions? – To supposed greatness has been revealed.
Note: These vampires do NOT sparkle. And they won't, not even if you cast the Sparklicus Totalus charm on them.
And hints abound in this chapter, hints abound. The question remains – is it really the silver and green of the night that attracts Harry, or the red and gold of fast-approaching autumn?
Read and review, you know you HAVE to.
