Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns the Harry Potter series and its universe. No profit is made here and no offense intended.
Prologue
The little girl couldn't have been more than seven years old, and yet her hazel-eyed gaze showed a wisdom beyond her years. The eyes seemed to pierce through him, straight to his soul.
To be honest, it frightened the young man.
She's not just a little girl, he reminded himself. She's a monster. But, as he examined her pitiful form - her hunger-starved body, her limp and dirty scarlet-brown hair, the flecks of dried blood that dotted her clothes - he couldn't bring himself to fully believe that.
She couldn't be more than seven years old, and yet, she was the oldest of the chil-witches, they'd captured.
They were children, for heaven's sake!
The young man had been fighting his doubts for several weeks, now. As a boy, like all his other siblings, he'd been devoted to their cause. Witches, demons, lived among them, hidden within their society, until the moment came for them to strike and wreck havoc among the innocent. It was up to the young man, up to their cult, to save all the normal folk. All the people who had no idea.
He hadn't signed up to torture children, though.
This little girl was the scariest of them all. The others reacted like children. They cried and screamed when they were hurt, begging for their families, begging for food and water, begging for the pain to stop. The hazel-eyed girl was different. She never screamed. She strengthened and comforted the others, never shedding a tear of her own. When she spoke, it was always for a reason; it was thanks to her that the children were bathed once a week, thanks to her that there was a separate room for the toilet, thanks to her that there was always clean water and food at least once a day.
She was the most like a monster of them all. And the young man had hoped that, upon seeing her, his resolve would strengthen.
It did not.
"You're conflicted." The girl's voice was soft, but with a tone of steel underneath. Despite the perpetually weakened state the children were kept in, she always stayed strong. And, despite all his efforts, she could always read him like a book.
Witchcraft, he once might have said. Magic. Monstrosity. But now, he wasn't so certain.
"Yes," he admitted, his voice sounding awfully childlike, even to his own ears. "I don't know … You're children." Even her.
"And we just want to go home." It was a plea, but not from herself. That much was clear, despite her use of the word 'we'. She spoke for the other children. "We miss our families, our lives. Do you know Clementine? The girl with blond pigtails and light blue eyes? She's three years old. She has a sister, who's older, by three years. She told me yesterday that she used to hate her sister, but now, all she wants is to fall into her arms and hug her and tell her that she loves her. Or Edison? He goes by Eddie. He's five. He's always hated school, but now he wishes he was there, counting and singing and playing with his friends. Or Percy, the two-year-old. He doesn't remember how his mother looks like anymore. Or Eva, or Leila, or Allen, or Abigail… We're not monsters. We're people, just like you. We want to go home."
"I…" his voice broke. He tried again. "I don't know what to do."
Was it his imagination, or was there a triumphant gleam in her eyes, at his words? "You can help us," she said gently, as if he were the younger one, the one who needed comfort and guidance. "Help get us home. Tell our families where we are. They'll come get us, but only if they can find us. Help us go home."
Their war was on witches, but these children were not the monsters. He made his decision, then. He couldn't stand by anymore. Not when the girls reminded him of his younger sisters, and the boys of his brothers. And, with what they'd done to them, weren't they the monsters, more so than these children?
"Who… who do I contact?"
A small smile in response. "Go to the Ferry Plaza Farmers Market, in San Francisco, on Tuesday at noon. Look for the lady in the white coat, with honey-blond hair in a bun, gray eyes, and thin glasses. She's about average height. Her name is Libra Fawley. Tell her you know where her daughter is, tell her 'Felix Felicis is a hoax'. She'll ask you for more information, tell her whatever you know."
"Is she…?"
The girl nodded. "She's my mother." The young man's stomach dropped at the idea of confronting the woman whose child he had stolen, but he pushed the feeling away. This would be repayment, for his past wrongs.
Hazel eyes softened. "She won't hurt you, as long as you tell her the phrase. Repeat it."
"Felix Felicis is a hoax," the young man repeated. He had always had a perfect memory. "What does that…?"
"Not important," the girl replied. "It's a … joke, between the two of us."
The young man nodded. "I won't let you down," he promised. He began to walk out of the room, just as the footsteps of two others sounded down the hallway. The girl hid a flinch. Unlike the young man, these newcomers were here to hurt. "I won't let you down," he repeated. "And… what's your name?"
The corners of her mouth twitched up, before her face was sincere and melancholic again. "You can call me … Phoenix." It wasn't like the names of the other children. Of course it wasn't. The girl, Phoenix, wasn't like the other children, in any way.
Libra Fawley. Ferry Plaza Farmers Market, Tuesday at noon. 'Felix Felicis is a hoax.'
He would not be a monster.