A.N.: Well, hello…

This is actually my third return to this site, with another idea that can be the death of me, and probably won't have time for. Can you blame me though? A writer never really stops, and many hiatuses aside, this is the first Harry Potter fic I'm writing. All the earlier ones were PJO, some TV series's, and a crossover. Here's to hoping that I am able to get in a few chapters before I get bored of this idea.

I'm not gonna go into detail, but this fic is basically a brainchild of what I thought of when I discovered that there are almost no fics of the kind I need to read. Same with my earlier fics. I hope you enjoy the product of my brain. If you don't, well, the invitation to adopt this from me still stands.

CHAPTER 1

The day of thirty-first of October was a day of celebrations for the Wizarding World. Everyone sang praises of the Boy-Who-Lived, who survived an attack by the Dark Lord Voldemort. The wizards rejoiced the fall of this dark creature. No one stopped to pity the little boy who had lost his parents in the fight, nor did they pay any mind to his whereabouts They were more concerned with partying, and did not pay attention to their surroundings.

In one way, it was beneficial to Lady Naraka, Dark Lady of India, currently disguised as a reveler in the Leaky Cauldron. In truth, she was just waiting for someone to turn up – someone who was her only point of contact between her and her boss.

Naraka was in the guise of a redheaded woman, with grey eyes. She had been going for the 'blonde meanie' style, but it didn't suit her. She settled for this.

Soon, though, she heard a heavy plop in front of her. A dishevelled man with stringy hair and dirty clothes had seated himself in front of her. Before she could draw her wand and snap off a Stunner or Cruciatus – she had a reputation to uphold, after all. She wasn't a Dark Lady for nothing - the man's physique shrank, his hair lengthened, and his dirty, matted hair became luscious locks of silver.

'Rangana,' she breathed. 'What do you have for me?'

The beautiful Indian witch chuckled, then deposited some notes on the table. 'Here are the plans for the takeover that Sesha is planning.' Unlike her appearance, her voice was raspy, like a snake. This was clearly no Veela, this was a half Naga. Nagas tended to be beautiful on the outside, yet have all the qualities of a crusty shopkeeper. The more savoury ones behaved like drug peddlers. 'He says that you are to round up any and all Nagajihva to our side. Not complying would be…unpleasant.'

A chill stole its way down Naraka's spine. She knew that the newly vanquished Dark Lord, had been a terrifying creature. She had heard rumours that Sesha had trained Voldemort for some time. That meant that he was even more terrifying than him, and that he would make a good example of her.

Rangana smiled at her look of terror, a snake tongue flashing between her teeth. 'He says that all of the Nagajihva are to report to his base in India. I presume you know the location?'

Naraka shook her head. Her boss was more mysterious than the supposed great wizard Merlin. He had to be, to keep his bloodthirsty minions in line. Oh, if only these Britons knew what dangers lurked in the shadows, waiting to strike out, reined in by the Dark Lords and Ladies of the East!

Rangana passed her a slip of paper. It was in Hindi, their native language. It read,

'The Den of Snakes is found at 56, Naga Lane, PatalLok, Delhi.'

She felt a buzz of magic as the spell – unknown to her – took hold, imprinting the image of the gateway in her mind.

'I will be waiting. Don't disappoint Sesha, Naraka,' Rangana hissed, before she popped out of existence. A snake slithered away, a symbol on its hood. It slithered out of the pub.

Calmly, yet hastily, Naraka came out into Muggle London. Then, she found a secure alley, from where she Apparated to her private quarters. It seemed that she would need a lot of sleep tonight.

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It was a normal enough morning for Privet Drive, except for the occupants of Number Four. There was a great rush, as Petunia Dursley nee Evans hurried to pack up all their belongings and her husband Vernon Dursley frantically conversed with his boss. All while their son Dudley screamed about food, and an infant was set in a crib in a corner, sleeping.

'Yes, sir- No sir, I'm not leaving Grunnings! I am asking for a transfer to India! I know I'm needed here, but Grunnings has only one branch, and that in India! I have to move sir- no sir-yes sir – no sir-no sir – yes sir-'

'MUMMY, I WANT MY OATS!'

'VERNON, WHERE ARE THE CUTLERY SETS?'

'THEY'RE IN THE CUPBOARD UNDER THE STAIRS- yes sir- no sir-'

Finally, two hours later, an exhausted Vernon and Petunia collapsed into chairs, while their Dudley happily munched on two boxes of oats. The baby in the corner was rudely awoken, bathed, then force-fed some of Dudley's old baby-formula, and put to sleep.

'Petunia, I still don't understand why we have to move to that-that hovel of a country.'

'I told you, Vernon! They already murdered my freak sister, what's to say they won't come for us?'

Vernon's face purpled as his eyes fell on the baby. 'And this thing?' he ground out.

Petunia looked at the child with fear and disgust. 'Harry will have to come with us.' She hesitated. 'He might be useful.'

Vernon's eyes gleamed. 'But Dudley comes first, yes?'

Petunia looked at him fiercely. 'Of course, my Dudders always comes first. Now let's catch that flight to India, we don't want to stay here any longer.'

Nodding, Vernon grabbed the huge suitcase and lugged it to the car, while Petunia picked up Dudley and the basket in which the child was snoring. With a longing look at her beautiful house, she left, carrying a small bag of belongings.

The car started up, and rumbled off to the airport.

A tabby cat rounded the corner just as the car disappeared. The cat walked into the house, and inspected all of it, seemingly not finding anything. The cat turned into a woman, who sent out a ghostly version of her other form.

'Albus, they have left the house. Harry is nowhere to be found. Come here at once,' she muttered. The cat sailed away.

The woman stalked outside, and waited.

With a faint pop, a tall man appeared. He had a long white beard, and was dressed in garish purple robes.

'Albus! Those people went away somewhere!' the woman exclaimed. The man frowned, and raised a length of wood. He waved it in a large pattern, and a few numbers and letters appeared. They appeared to be in a different language, yet the man seemed to understand it. He touched one letter, and it presented a script type wall of text that seemed to mean something, for he paled. He waved the wand and a chair popped into existence. He plopped heavily onto it.

'What is it?' the woman snapped. The man looked up wearily, his half-moon glasses flashing.

'The Dursleys have decided that Britain isn't safe for them, so they are moving to…to India.'

The woman gasped and collapsed into another chair conjured up. She put her head in her hands. 'What do we do now?'

The man sighed. 'For now, we can only alert Ministers Fudge and Sharma, and I'm afraid that the Wizengamot needs to reconvene. Again.'