Remus Lupin jumped so badly that he knocked his inkwell onto the crimson carpet of the headmaster's room. "Albus," he shouted, "the alarm has gone off!"
Albus Dumbledore drew his finger out of his pensieve before opening his eyes, blinking benignly. "What is it, Remus?"
"The alarm!" Remus repeated just as a shrill tinkling sound echoed through the room again.
The old wizard's eyes widened. He moved swiftly to the fireplace and threw in a pinch of green. "Ministry of Magic, Department of Misuse of Muggle Artifacts! Arthur Weasley, please. Tell him that Headmaster Dumbledore seeks him."
"What's the alarm for?" Remus asked, looking around for the source of jangling.
"The wards over Number 4, Privet Lane have been alerted," Dumbledore replied. "Arthur! I'm afraid there has been magic done at the Dursleys… yes, that's the place. I expect that certain people in the Ministry will have been waiting for such an opportunity. No, not Voldemort… The wards are still standing. But you know what to do… yes. Yes. Kingsley, too. Good luck, Arthur."
The connection closed, and the headmaster straightened slowly. Sometimes, he seems old, Remus thought. Of course he seems old. He is old.
"Albus," Remus asked worriedly. "Will Harry…"
"The Ministry will try," the headmaster said, sighing. "It might even succeed. No matter what justification Harry has, I'm afraid he'll find it hard to escape the Ministry's clutches this time…"
qpqpqp
Dolores Umbridge watched her two Aurors knock down the door to Number 4, Privet Drive with a hard gleam of triumph. This will teach that brat a lesson, she thought, a smile on her lips. She had been waiting for just this kind of chance, just this kind of opportunity, and it had presented itself to her on a silver platter.
Her smile widened. She wondered if she could possibly get Potter into Azkaban. The amplitude of magic he used was extremely strong, even though it was a simple unlocking charm, but amplitude was what mattered. And even if he didn't land in Azkaban, there were several other… charming places she had in mind…
She turned at the sound of running footsteps.
"Weasley!" she exclaimed before recovering herself to arrange a sickly smile on her face and moving in front of the doorway. "Why, Arthur Weasley, I did not expect to see you." She examined him with disdain. Thin, balding, Muggle-loving old fool. One day, she'd get rid of him too.
"Ah—hello Umbridge," he babbled, "I was—I mean, the Department of Misuse of Muggle Artifacts needed someone to check, to see if—er—" He turned very red. Interesting.
"Mr. Weasley, I fail to see how the Department of Misuse of Muggle Artifacts could possibly require one of their members to come here…?" She smiled at him, waiting, knowing that she had her prey.
A sudden scream issued from the house, following by a yell, and then a woman's shrill voice stuttering.
"I think Mr. Weasley had better go in."
Umbridge whirled around. Shackbolt. Her eyes narrowed. She had wanted three Aurors—three of her Aurors—to come along, to make sure that Potter boy couldn't escape, but Shackbolt had somehow wormed his way in. Suspicious.
"Yes," Mr. Weasley said shortly. "I concur." And darted in before the woman could stop him.
The nerve! Umbridge fumed. Upstart, poor, pretentious Muggle-loving fool! She glared at Shackbolt, who seemed completely unperturbed, before huffing and made for the door.
"Madam, I wouldn't advise you…" Shaklebolt began, but stopped when a yell issued from the house. Umbridge stopped, too, before narrowing her eyes maliciously. It sounded like Weasley. Probably, the Potter boy had bitten him, the little lunatic…
One of the windows facing the street popped open, and Moulton, one of her Aurors, peered out. "The Potter boy! He's gone!"
Umbridge swelled and stepped forward furiously. "Gone? What do you mean, gone?"
Moulton waved his hands around in confusion. "He's not there! Just—gone!"
Umbridge fumed. Trust these incompetent fools not to be able to nab a nasty little boy! She was a step from the doorway when Shackbolt somehow got in before her, a worried look on his face.
She spared a moment to mentally note to get rid of Shacklebolt before she stomped forward another step. Just then, though, a flicker of movement at the side of the house caught her eye. She glanced at Shacklebolt's disappearing form and crept stealthily towards the movement.
"Well, Potter," she whispered under her breath, dimly hearing muffled thuds from inside the house. "It seems your time is up…"
She peered around the corner. It was rather dark, being on the eastern side of the house and thus cloaked in shadow. A large magnolia tree grew there, and its leaves moved gently in the wind.
Strange, she thought, taking a few steps forward…
A fierce hissing reached her ears—
She nearly screamed when she noticed the snake, green and laced with silver, coiled near the base of the tree. It was poised, ready to strike, ready to kill—
She did scream as she took a hurried step back, fumbling for her wand, but the snake was following her from the tree, lashing out his head—
"Stupefy!" she shrieked shrilly.
The jet of purple hit the snake squarely in the head, and it fell to the ground, utterly still.
Dolores Umbridge took a moment to regain her breath. She glared at the snake, and then smiled. She lifted her foot and smashed her heal on the snake's head, hearing a satisfying crack as bones broke and were crushed under he heel.
She banished the snake disdainfully, but as it whisked past the tree, a part of its tail caught against… something. And for a moment, she thought she saw a flash of—
She hurried forward, kneeling down and feeling—
A low moan reached her ears.
Aha! An invisibility cloak! She clenched her hands into fists, grabbing onto the liquid cloth, and ripped it off.
A boy lay curled up in a fetal position on the ground. Blood covered his body, and bloody welts criss-crossed his back. Bruises covered the rest of the once-pale skin, and she noticed that his left leg was bent in a decidedly unhealthy manner. Hair, streaked with blood, covered his face.
Not Potter, she thought, critically examining his features. She wrinkled her nose, disgusted and repulsed. The boy groaned again, and she was about to get up and leave when his eyes, half-veiled behind his hair, flickered to bare slits for the smallest of moments.
Green.
She leaned forward excited and pushed the disgusting hair out of the boy's face. No, it wasn't Potter—this face was too sharp, too angular, the lips, though swollen, too thin, the eyebrows too expressively fine—there was some resemblance, perhaps, with the Potter boy's face, but this was not the boyish brat—
And then she saw the scar.
A full smile swept over her face as she gazed at that scar. At last… at long last… The boy's eyelids flickered open again, and Umbridge tightened her grip on his face—no escape for you, brat, she thought—but they closed again, like the limp wings of a dead moth.
She smiled. Couldn't stop smiling.
She heard footsteps and Shacklebolt's voice. She'd have to act quickly. Taking the invisibility cloak, she cast it over the boy before standing up, the simpering smile on her face coming quite naturally.
"Oh, nothing, Shacklebolt," she purred at the Auror's query. He still looked quite suspicious, but then a shout from that redheaded idiot inside the house got rid of him fast enough.
There were more people coming, apparating from the other end of the street. She'd have to act fast. She had a plan in her head, a plan that would outfox that doddering fool Dumbledore. She slipped a hand into her robes, took out a portkey, and vanished.
qpqpqp
Remus Lupin and Albus Dumbledore looked at the images that floated up from the basin of coppery gold. They had agreed to try out Severus Snape's newest potion—one that connected sight from one of the Order to Fawkes, who would then relay it to the Seeing Pool, which was what Dumbledore had taken to calling the basin of coppery gold. (Severus was still grumpy, after the name he had proposed—ridiculously long and Latin—had been turned down.)
"That Umbridge woman!" Remus started, staring at what Arthur was staring at as well.
They watched tensely at the conversation, only relaxing when the man whose eyes they were looking through managed to get through the door.
"Good for Kingsley…" the werewolf muttered.
The interior of a home, nicely furnished and with pictures hanging on the walls. A glance given to the pictures before moving quickly to the other room. Two things were in it, a trembling whale that resembled a boy, and a stick that resembled a woman. A bit closer, and yes, it was a woman, with wild eyes, and a boy so fat it seemed incredible…
"I presume those are Harry's relatives?" Remus asked, a bit disbelievingly.
Dumbledore nodded absent-mindedly.
"Good lord," Remus muttered. "Fancy Lily having a nephew like that…"
Up the stairs, several steps at a time. The top of the stairs now, and the carpet seemed slightly disarranged. The gaze was directed immediately to a door at the end of the hall. Quickened footsteps, turning—
Dumbledore started and paled.
"Wha—" Remus began.
The gaze swept over the barren room. An open window and a bed, a pan of bloodied water on the bed, and that was all, besides a sheet on the floor—
Eyes turned to the strangely colored sheet—
Remus made a choking sound.
Blood. Blood it was, brown and red, on the sheet, stared at fixedly. Blood, red, fresh— Up, to the cot. Blood. Handcuffs, opened, lying nearby; another sweep of the floor, and the gaze stopped at a belt, covered with crusted blood—
"Albus, what is this?" Remus demanded in a strangled voice.
The gaze lingered on the belt, the bed, the sheet, the bloody floor, one to another then back again. Then to the auror who had cast a cursory glance out the open window, and then to the wall on the other side, perhaps to hear someone shout…
"Albus!" Remus sputtered, feeling his blood run cold. "Is that—that can't be—Harry's—"
The gaze shifted, and the vision receded as though the seer was moving backwards, out of the room until arrested by a noise, a movement to the side. An Auror, crouched on the ground, a piece of floorboard lying aside. Closer now, and the contents, a few cakes, biscuits, stale, crumbling, and a book… Hands lifting the book, the auror's hands, then opened—
"It's Harry's," Remus breathed hoarsely. "Those are photos of James and Lily." He paled, shaking. "Then that is—it's Harry's room, it's his…"
Blood. Blood on the ground near the loose floorboard. The vision zooming up to see a figure in the doorway—
"Kingsley," Remus said with a hint of smile on his face.
The gaze shifted, moving out of the room. A thorough scan of the hall, then the room nearby. A wand out, a spell cast. Nothing. The next room, a bathroom, a quick glance through, in the bathtub and under the sink, nothing. Next room—nothing. Nothing. The upstairs scoured, now downstairs, a kitchen, the mantel, the fireplace, the dining room, under the counter, under the table, under the sink, another room—
"He's not there," Albus Dumbledore said suddenly. His eyes were fixed on a small silver object on his table. There was jewel on top of it, tinted red, but now it was dull as a pebble. "Harry's not there anymore."
He took out his wand and wearily tapped the coppery gold basin.
Remus Lupin, eyes wide and face still pale, turned to face the headmaster, but the old man was looking the other way. "Albus—that was Harry's blood… How could—"
"I cannot answer all the questions, Remus," Dumbledore interrupted. The man looked old, Remus thought. "The question now is: where is Harry?"
qpqpqp
A soft bell in Matilda Malone's owlery rang gently. A light, on one of the neat mailboxes lining the walls, lit up, glowing gold.
"Sixteen years," Matilda murmured thoughtfully as she took a tiny key out of her pocket. She turned the lock and took out two things: a small envelope, the color of milky dawn, and a receipt:
Lily Evans Potter
Date received: March 24, 1981
Date due: August 2, 1996
"Iris," Matilda called gently. An owl with white wings streaked with black fluttered down. "Take these. Make sure the recipient gets them."
The owl hooted in acknowledgement.
"Good girl," Matilda murmured as she watched the owl fly away into the evening sky.
qpqpqp
"Good afternoon, Dolores," Halley Shaw growled as he swung his baton-wand. It was his standard greeting—'good afternoon.' After all, nobody could tell the time of day from the sun here in the depths of the Jaeggar Prison, where the sunlight never ventured. "And what brings you here?"
Dolores Umbridge simpered a smile before flicking her wand. The invisibility cloak slithered off, and a boy, battered and bloody, was revealed.
"Bloody hell," Shaw swore under his breath. "He needs to get to a hospital, Dolores!" He pointed his baton-wand at the still body, but the woman stilled his hand.
"Surely, you know what kind of treatment is afforded for enemies of the Ministry," she crooned.
Shaw gazed uncertainly at the body, so thin it looked like a skeleton with skin, more broken than whole, hastily wrapped over the shivering frame. "But he's a boy, Dolores…"
"Yes, and I'm the Senior Secretary of the Minister of Magic himself," Umbridge snapped, about to run out of patience. She hitched the sickly sweet smile back onto her face before adding, "The Minister, you know, has been quite anxious to deal with his particular delinquent… He deserved what he got, you know…"
Shaw spared one more hesitant glance at the boy before he crossed his arms over his chest. "All right," he said carefully, "but this one's going to be quite expensive…"
"Of course," Umbridge replied.
"Ah, yes," Shaw said airily. "Where do you want to put him? We can decide the living expenses later…"
Umbridge smiled again, looking down at Harry the way a toad would look at a juicy fly. "I know just the right cell."
She flicked her wand, muttering, "Mobilicorpus," and marched down the corridor with the invisibility cloak under her arm. She noticed with a dark gleam of satisfaction that Shaw was nudging the boy's dangling body roughly with his baton-wand.
She paused in front of a cell at the end of the corridor. The only light in the corridors came from the torches guttered and coughed along the dirty stone walls. Coughs and the clanking of heavy chains echoed in the silence.
"Horace!" Shaw shouted. "Horace! You've got a visitor!"
Umbridge had to strain her eyes to make out the hulking shadow in the deepest corner of the cell. She thought, maybe, that it had stirred, but there was no clanking of chains. A very brief glimmer of blank, crazed eyes glowed and died in the cell.
"He'll wake up in time," Shaw explained, grinning wolfishly. He tapped the bars with his baton and a purple barrier appeared behind it. The bars bent open. "Kick 'im in, Dolores!"
Umbridge smiled, flicking her wand and sending the body into the dank cell. It fell into a crumpled heap, motionless except for the barest of quivers.
"There you go, Horace," Shaw grinned. "A nice boy for you, Horace."
At last, Umbridge thought, a dark flame burning merrily in her heart. The giant shadow had stirred, and she heard a distinctive sniffing noise… Enjoy, Horace.
This was what she loved about Jaeggar Prison. It was much lesser known than the other wizarding prison, Azkaban; in fact, very few people knew about that Jaeggar Prison even existed. Furthermore, the wards over the prison blocked out all but the most potent tracking spells. Azkaban had its dementors, but Jaegger Prison had the wards constructed four hundred years ago by a mad wizard of exceptional power…
Most importantly, Jaeggar Prison was completely under the thumb of the Minister and several higher-up officials (herself included). Its low profile was perfect for hiding… distasteful cases. Such as with Horace Fish, who had been arrested years ago for the alleged rape of twelve Muggle boys. Of course, his case wasn't too difficult to deal with, but years before his final arrest, he had already been arrested by Aurors, and the Minister had made the slight mistake of letting him go free and letting his decision get widely publicized… It certainly wouldn't look good to have such a mistake emerging; no, it wouldn't. And so here was the perfect solution: letting him rot here before he somehow… disappeared.
Harry Potter, too. He was clearly a criminal and a great threat to the peace of mind of dear Cornelius. If the Potter boy somehow died during his stay in prison… well, she couldn't be held responsible, could she? And if the public was too concerned, well, she had her contacts in the Daily Prophet. Nothing quite like another scandal to forget a figurehead, or unearthing (or creating) skeletons in the closet to push a famous name out of existence.
Of course, it was very likely that nobody would find out that the Potter boy was here. She was quite sure not even the old fool Dumbledore knew the secrets of Jaegger Prison.
Yes, it was working out beautifully. Dolores Umbridge, a smile playing over her toad-like face, was pleased.
qpqpqp
Number 4, Privet Drive, was empty.
In a large park a few miles away, a woman and her fat son were dragging a body through the undergrowth. The body's face, though already bloated with fat and multiple chins, was stiff in death, with purple lips and milky eyes. The poison he had died of was truly quite potent. His limbs were curled over in a most awkward manner because minutes after his death and seconds before wizards burst into the house, he had been stuffed into the trunk of a car.
The mother had taken a chainsaw with her. Mother and son rolled the body to the edge of a large stream, and then the mother began her work. Her son, shivering and sneezing next to her, threw up several times as she poured out a continuous stream of shrill words, justifications.
Finally, the uneven and mismatched pieces of Vernon Dursley floated peacefully out to sea.
qpqpqp
Hidden under the bushes next to Number 4, Privet Drive, ants were crawling over the crushed body of a snake. The head, once sleekly green and silver, was mangled beyond recognition, and the body coiled limply next to it.
As the full moon glided lazily over the sky, a pale form lifted itself from the snake's body. It was shaped just like the dead snake, but it was the pale silver of the sky before dawn, and it was translucent.
Slithering to under the magnolia tree, it hissed at a few drops of blood, before it twisted around and darted with unwonted speed through the tree trunk, through the underbrush, skimming the grass as it whispered through leaf and stone…
But it paused near a running brook, poised and waiting. In another moment, a shadow swept through the snake, and an owl alighted next to it. The snake reared, wary, until the owl hooted softly. Gentle hissing followed, rising and lowering in volume, until the owl nodded, and took flight. The serpent watched for a moment before darting again through the undergrowth, north to Scotland, to its birthplace: Hogwarts…
The owl winged through the air. Its eyes glowed silver for a moment as it scanned the horizon. Not all owls were truly owls, and no animal was as stupid as it looked. Strange as it was that the recipient would be in Jaeggar Prison. Not many people knew about it, and it was quite shady… But the owl learned not to question it. After all, through its life, it had delivered many letters to many strange places…
qpqpqp
"I trust you, Severus."
Snape scowled at the headmaster. Damn the man, those words never failed to coerce him into doing whatever the old man wanted.
But he understood the severity of the situation. The Potter boy was missing. And if the Potter boy managed to kill himself at last, Voldemort would inevitably win. Stupid, spoiled brat, always getting himself in trouble…
He frowned slightly as he swept down the halls into his dungeons. Now, whenever he indulged in whole-heartedly hating Harry Potter, those images—nicked from Potter's mind during the Occlumeny lessons—would come up and shake his unshakable hatred.
He couldn't understand. Of course, the Potter boy was spoiled; neither Albus nor the wizarding world would allow anything less. There had to be an explanation. Probably more Potter idiocy, he thought.
He continued stalking down the corridors, with a single, short, jet-black hair in his fingers, thinking of what he would need to create a tracking potion…
qpqpqp
The petals from the flowering tree drifted down like snow. Arms held him, soothing arms that rocked him as he half-slept, half-watched the falling petals…
"Come away, oh human child
To the waters and the wild…"
A voice was singing to him, a voice both soft and sweet.
"With a faery hand in hand
For the world's more full of weeping…"
He did not need to know whose voice it was. He knew already, just as he knew that this gentle snowfall of petals would be the last they would see together.
Was he a stolen child? Stolen from death, one of the petals, stolen by the wind and drifting through the dapples of green-gold sunlight…
"…Than he can understand."
Something was touching him.
He opened his eyes but could see nothing but darkness.
Something was touching him, a hand that barely brushed his lacerated back, going over slowly, like a hovering ghost…
The last of the petals swirled away, and he tried to move himself. The ground beneath was hard and cold. Where was he? It was dark, everything was dark…
"Don't trouble yourself," a deep, raspy voice purred. "Don't trouble yourself at all, my little son…"
Harry swallowed, his throat still scratchy and painful. He was getting scared. He couldn't see a single thing, and he didn't know where he was…
He opened his mouth to say something but a rough, grimy hand went over his lips.
"Quiet now, my little son," the voice continued.
I wouldn't have been able to scream anyhow, Harry thought, panicked. His hand reached out, searching for anything that might help—a stick, a rock, something—but his fingers just touched a slimy puddle, and more cold, hard stone—
A large, rough hand had grabbed the hem of his boxers—
Harry's eyes widened, frozen for a disbelieving moment. The hand that brushed the swollen wounds on his buttocks, now bared, was trembling, almost reverent…
He bucked. He lashed out his legs, and nearly fainted from the pain when he realized too late that his left leg was broken. A hoarse scream ripped itself from his throat but died behind the unyielding hand. The pain was all encompassing—he felt himself drifting away for a terrible moment, but when then he realized that he was being shifted—moved— The panic was real this time, unlike anything, anything he had ever felt before, not even with Dursley… Here, in the dark, alone, lost, broken, a hand ripping off his bloodied garment…
He struggled again, but there was no use. He was weak, tired, broken, and his attacker was strong. The hand on his mouth clamped cruelly, but the voice, quivering, still crooned words…
A familiar burn tore his eyes. Tears, but no tears would come—he struggled still, choking and screaming inside from the pain and the fear… But it was no use, no use, as he felt the first vicious thrust…
He let himself drift away.