Chapter four: boomtown

When Harry Potter awoke, he was laying on his side in the darkness. His cheek rested on rough stone. His head ached, and there was a dull throbbing in his arm. He felt at the wound. It had scabbed over, but the cut was deep, and would likely become infected. Harry's expertise did not include healing, and all but the most basic scratches and bruises were beyond his ability.

Harry felt about in the darkness, and found his glasses. He slid them on, but it did little good, as it was still completely dark. He sat up, and his fingers closed around his stolen wand. He still preferred his own, but that had been taken by the Death Eaters. At least he was armed.

"Lumos."

The green light from the wands tip illuminated a low-ceilinged cave of rough stone. The cave was not deserted. The floor was littered with broken beer bottles and cigarette butts. In the center of the floor a blackened ring of stones outlined what had once been a fire pit. That must have been his way out. Harry was surprised, he had never heard of anyone connecting a fire pit to the floo network before. But apparently, someone had, and it had never been disconnected. By chance, this was the portal he had fallen out of, after leaving the Ministry behind.

He cast his eyes around, but saw no spare floo powder lying around. It seemed he would have to make the best of his surroundings. Harry got up to leave, ducking under the low ceiling. He heard a crunch as he stepped on a pack of crisps. Finding it half full, he drained the contents in a few mouthfuls.

The cave was not deeply set into the mountainside, and ten minutes later Harry emerged, blinking under the sun's glare. The chips had only reminded him of how hungry he should be. He hadn't eaten otherwise since before he had been abducted. The Death Eaters, Harry was reminded. He had to get to Ministry, or someone else. Tell them what had happened.

Harry had emerged at the base of a rocky hillside, a small cliff. The ground was dry, gravel and sand, and the air hot. In the distance he saw a sprawling mass, a town.

Harry needed food and water. He needed rest and care. This seemed a good enough place as any, considering he had no idea where he was.

The town was closer than Harry realized. It didn't take him too long until he was stumbling into its suburbs. It seemed a simple muggle community, middle-class housing, a fast food restaurant, cars parked at the curbs. Except for one thing. It was entirely deserted.

Harry walked up the driveway of a random house. There was a minivan in the driveway, next to a bicycle. Harry passed this to an immaculate porch. There were too plastic chairs on the porch, looking out over an immaculate lawn.

Harry rapped sharply on the door. Then, remembering muggle customs, he pressed the small plastic button beside the door. A chime rang from within the house. Harry waited, but no one came to the door. He made to knock on last time, but the door slid open under his touch.

Harry peered inside, then stepped forward. He was in a sitting room with a couch, coffee table, and bouquet of flowers. Very clean, very impersonal, very American. Except for the fact that the magazines were in French. "Hello," he said carefully. "I don't mean to be a bother. I just need some help, can I use your phone, or something, I guess."

There was no answer, but Harry realized peppy music was issuing from farther inside the house. Fighting down the urge to bolt, Harry slowly passed through an orderly kitchen into a TV room. A family of four was seated in front of a modest television set. While it was currently displaying commercials, they seemed captivated, unmoving. Typical muggles.

"Excuse me," said Harry, but there was still no response. He approached the family cautiously. He tapped the father on the shoulder, and screamed as the man's head came of his shoulders, rolling away under the couch. The people were fake, nothing more than elaborate mannequins.

Harry back into the kitchen. He seized the phone on the counter from its mount, but when pressed to his ear, he heard nothing. There was no connection.

"Don't you understand," came a voice from the TV room, some movie trailer probably. "Nothing here is real."

Fear gnawed at Harry's stomach. He had no idea what he had stumbled onto, only that it felt wrong. He hurried out of the house, tripped over the stoop, and tumbled onto the lawn. The grass was real at least.

Getting to his feet, Harry scanned his surroundings. The town was in a bowl of a valley, isolated, the roads leading out of town going nowhere. His eyes were drawn to the top of the mountains. There, nestled between the crags, supported by steel pylons, was a spotless metal canister.

Suddenly an omnipotent voice, an intercom, encompassed the town. Its words were entirely in French, but Harry understood their meaning. The countdown had been initiated. The clock was ticking. How long did he have. Five minutes? Ten? One?

Harry needed to leave. He took out the wand, pressed himself, intending to apperate himself away. But he was unable to focus, he was too far away from locations he could picture, and he didn't have the strength. Apperating worked best when one was calm. He wasn't.

The French voice rang out again. This time it didn't stop. It was counting down, Harry knew enough French to realize he had only a minute. He had to get out of here.

The cave. The way he had arrived in the first place. He had no chance of making it there in time. Whether he ran or commandeered a car. But maybe, if he had enough strength…

With a pop, Harry disappeared. As the dizziness of transfer faded, he was in the cave once again. He had less than thirty seconds, and no floo powder.

What had happened back in the Ministry with Dovchenko? He had been scared, he had been dying. Well, that much was the same. Harry closed his eyes. He tried to call up a feeling of desperation, of panic. He had no way out, he was going to die. He would never again see Ginny, Ron, Hermione, the kids.

When Harry opened his eyes he was worried that nothing had happened. And the fireplace burst into flames. Green light reflecting off his surroundings. As the countdown reached the lower numbers, Harry wasted no time in time in leaping into the flames, washed away into the floo network.

As the world exploded behind him, Harry shouted the name of the first location that popped into his head. A place he subconsciously connected with happiness and safety.

"Hogwarts."

As the green flames retreated, Harry stumbled out into a redly decorated room he vaguely recognized as Gryffindor house common room. There were few people there at this time of day, but all of them screamed. He realized he must look quite a sight, covered in dried blood and sweat and ash. And then he was on the ground, and Harry once again lapsed into unconsciousness.

Harry Potter was not at all what Natasha Lestrange had expected. She had been curious, of course, of what Lord Voldemort's killer would be like, and she had been both impressed and disappointed. At first, Potter seemed very ordinary, too ordinary. And then he had changed, not transforming, but becoming a dangerous, powerful, and clever wizard. A force to be reckoned with, not unlike herself. Though Dovchenko had been overall unharmed from their duel, he had recounted Harry as being a very unpredictable individual, if nothing else.

And Harry had escaped, that was the worst part. No one was supposed to have escaped. No witnesses. No one to know what they had taken, no one to know what they had taken. No one to know who she was, what she was.

Natasha sighed. She took one look back at the unremarkable building that held the hidden offices of the Ministry. The Aurors would arrive in force. She needed to be gone.

Potter was a loose end. One that could work to her advantage. She had realized and had tried to utilize Potter's greatest weakness. He cared about others, and she had tried to use this with Fletcher, but the fool had blown his cover. Though still useful, Mundungus could not be trusted. He would need to be dealt with in good time. However, Potter was the priority. Or, she reminded herself, his family was.

Harry had seen her, he knew about her. And therefore, she had to predict that before long the whole ministry would know what had happened here. At least she could give them something to contemplate in the coming dispensation.

"Give them a sign," she said to Dovchenko, as she slid into the backseat of the car. He nodded, and before slipping in beside her, sent a jet of light blasting upward from his wand.

The light soared high over London, and unfolded into a sickly green cloud. It took the shape of a leering skull, a rearing serpent twisting from its mouth.

The Death Eater's were back.