Unplottable Island

Chapter One: Escape

The waves beat against each other, sending white foam high into the air. Even as the water reached skyward, the rain pounded it back down. The broomstick plunged up and down as the rider fought to hold on, fought to stay above the water. The baby clutched against the rider's chest screeched out it's protests at being jerked around, yet the rider couldn't hear it, such was the noise of the storm.

The rider's dark hair, cut to her shoulders, was plastered against one side of her face. Her blue eyes squinted out. It was here somewhere—the Unplottable island, where they could be safe. Or rather, where the child could be safe, since after all, he was the one she had made this idiotic flight for. Her black robes were nearly invisible over the dark waves, but they offered little protection from the wind and rain. She shivered. The child squalled.

An island! Quickly she glanced around, trying to find the landmarks. Not for nothing was she the best seeker Ravenclaw ever had: she spotted them quickly and moved to land. She crashed head on into the ground, staggering as a fresh howl of wind knocked her aside. The book had said there was a house on the north end of the island. She had to get inside before the child froze.

Grabbing her wand, she hissed "Point Me." The wand spun around, pointing to the left. She ran, ducking against the sheets of rain, until she saw the house. The door was ajar, so she ran inside, slamming the door behind her. Panting, she leaned against the door and slumped to the floor, water running out of her robes and hair, dripping onto the floor.

"Ahgoo.." the baby burbled, smiling as though he had not just flown nearly a thousand miles in a torrential storm. In fact, he didn't look as though he had been in a storm at all, the woman's cloak had taken care of that. The red curls on the top of his head were dry, and the blue eyes were completely happy.

"You, little sir, are a little too optimistic for my tastes," the woman groaned. "Remember, you're only with me until James comes back for you."

"Daddy?" the little boy wailed, his mood changing as fast as the weather. "Daddy!"

The woman heard him not. Her head had drooped, and she was fast asleep.

A thousand miles away…

"What do you mean, Lily and James are dead?"

"They—they are, sir. You-Know-Who…he…killed…"

"But the Secret Keeper!"

"Betrayed them, sir. It was awful. The house was burning down, sir, and in the bedroom was James and Lily, both dead without a scratch—"

"The Avada Kedavra then."

"I don't know sir, but the little boy, Harry, he's not dead—and You-Know-Who is sir!"

"Don't joke with me, boy. I may be old, but I'm not stupid."

"Excuse me, Minister sir, but Harry Potter lived! The boy lived through You-Know-Who's curse!"

Kirkle Grundo pushed his wire-rimmed spectacles higher on his nose. "You don't say! Send someone to get him at once, Peter!"

Peter Pettigrew smiled. "That won't be necessary, sir."

"What do you mean? I told you to go get the—" there was a crack as the Minister of Magic's neck snapped, and his body draped itself uselessly across his paperwork.

"Good riddance, sir," Wormtail smirked, then ran out of the room.

At Hogwarts…

Dumbledore absentmindedly tapped his quill on the roll of parchment, wishing that someone else could tell the world about Voldemort's downfall. It was so bothersome, putting it in a way everyone could understand.

A boy dressed in a student's robes raced in. "The Potters, sir," he gasped. "I've been told to tell you—"

"I already know," Dumbledore said sadly. "Have they found the bodies?"

"The bodies of the Missus and the Mister, but the boy lives!"

Dumbledore frowned. "No others?"

"No sir."

"That will be all, Mr. Smith."

Dumbledore arose, mentally preparing himself for the scene, and he Apparated.

At Godric's Hollow…

The house was utterly destroyed.

Piles of smoke-blackened brick were everywhere, bits of molten metal pierced what had once been a flower patch. At one end of the house, the smoke-blackened and twisted cradle that had held the Potter twins lay melted. Dumbledore looked there first, swallowing bile. Disgusting that any human could do that to a little baby. But his search in the crib produced no remains.

At the other end of the house lay James's body, his spectacles cracked. His body was slumped on the floor, one hand out-stretched towards (Dumbledore supposed) where his wife had stood. But now Lily was crumpled face-down, in front of the charred remains of what had been her own Invisibility Cloak. Her long, brilliant hair flowed across the ground, her pale fingers just brushing James'.

Reminded of the Invisibility Cloak, Dumbledore made a mental note to withdraw James' Cloak from Gringotts. Now he closed his eyes, and pressed his wand to Lily's head. "Tell me…" he whispered, "Tell me what was…" It was harder to draw a memory from a corpse, but since this was her death, it wasn't as hard as it could have been.

"Take him and go! Just go!"

James, Dumbledore thought bitterly. One of the faults of being a true-born Gryffindor: the lack of ability to realize that sometimes it was better to be safe than noble.

"James—he's coming! Oh, God, what'll we do?"

A tear splashed the pavement. Lily, the beautiful Ravenclaw. Gone.

"Go into the bedroom—take Harry and go! Don't worry about me!"

"Catch up with me later, alright?"

"I will."

Dumbledore withdrew his wand, long fingers trembling. He needed to know no more. He could see what had happened. Lily ran into the back room, wrapped Harry in the Invisibility cloak, then opened the door on James' dying body. She wouldn't have let Voldemort through without a struggle, because he never would have killed her otherwise—it was well-known that Voldemort had always been interested in her. Beautiful, smart, and she bore twin boys without a hitch. What more could a twisted mind ask for?

Dumbledore conjured white sheets and gently placed them over the still bodies, aligning them next to each other. They would have wanted that. He repaired James' glasses, smoothed Lily's hair, and pulled the sheet over the still faces of the two he had loved as the children he had never fathered. Another tear escaped, but by the time it hit the dirt, Dumbledore had gone.
Author's Note: This was written out of the frusteration of having to read story after story about Harry's twin sister. If you don't get it, oh well. Read it again. I'll be posting more whether you like it or not. So there.