Author's Notes: Hi!! Guess what, I'm back! Welcome all, to my brand new tale, Evanesco. My writing improved a lot during the writing of 'Fifth Year' and this time I get to have a decent start as well as a happy ending (hopefully). I also have a plan and betas this time, so the quality of writing will be much higher.
Disclaimer for entire story: I do not own Harry Potter, though someday I wish to own something similar that will make me a whole ton of cash! ;)
Thank you to my super betas – Alaranth88 for spelling and grammar, citcat299 for sentencing and expression, and liddlebee for all round loving and ranting!!
For those who do not recognise it, the word 'evanesco' means 'to vanish' - the vanishing spell used in Order of the Phoenix several times.
I have uploaded the Prologue and Chapter One at the same time – so don't forget to read both, now!
Evanesco
Prologue
AZKABAN NO LONGER SECURE
A recent visit to the widely-renowned prison Azkaban has revealed that several top security prisoners have escaped from the island. Some of these prisoners, including Mr. Antonin Dolohov, were among those who escaped during the mass breakout in January this year, and were recaptured after the raid of the department of mysteries last month.
Other fugitives include Mr. Lucius Malfoy, former Ministry Employee, Mr. Jonathan Avery and Mr. Theodore Nott (snr). The public is warned that all the escapees (see full list on page 2) are highly dangerous and all sightings should be reported to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement immediately.
The Dementors, the prison guards of Azkaban, have been questioned and appear to have no idea as to how these men made their escape, although Aurors who investigated the scene once the break out was discovered reported traces of red smoke in a thin layer covering the ground floor.
'They can't be trusted,' remarked an Auror on the scene, who preferred to remain anonymous. 'Foul things, Dementors. They'll support whoever offers them the most. Dumbledore's been saying it for years – they'll join Voldemort as soon as it's convenient for [them]. I blame the Ministry – they should have been watched much more closely. Constant vigilance!'
Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was unavailable for comment, but Minister Cornelius Fudge had this to say: "Azkaban is and always has been the strongest and safest institution we can provide to contain villains of this magnitude. But despite the reassurances of the Minister, there have been three breakouts from the island prison over the last three years, the first being the escape of the infamous Sirius Black (deceased). Dumbledore, who with the help of Harry Potter himself, revealed the return of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named last month, has announced publicly that of all the Dark Lord's alleged followers, Sirius Black was innocent of all charges upon which he was convicted without trial, and was trying to protect 15-year-old Harry Potter when he was killed by Bellatrix Lestrange, another January escapee, in the Department of Mysteries. 'Lestrange, on the other hand,' the aged wizard continued, 'is, sadly, completely insane and quite dangerous. Even in her current state of mental health, it is likely that she could become [You-Know-Who]'s right hand.'
It is unsure as to which of the Dark Lord's followers was his previous right hand, but of the two candidates, Lucius Malfoy and Peter Pettigrew, one has not been seen for over a year. Pettigrew, a former close friend of Black, is, according to Dumbledore, 'the man who led Sirius to his fate'. (Full details, page 8). He was sighted once more after 12 years of charading as a rat, by Black, Remus Lupin, a close friend, Harry Potter and two of his school mates. One of these, Ron Weasley, says: 'he's short, and very thin but kind of flabby, and he's got a silver hand. He betrayed Sirius and he was my rat for three years.' Weasley (15), goes on to tell of Pettigrew's part in the rebirth of Lord Voldemort (full story, see Issue #65321) 'He took blood from Harry and chopped off his own hand,' says Weasley. 'And the most horrible thing is, he still owes Harry a wizard's debt.'
Dumbledore and Ministry Authorities have forbidden reporters to approach Potter.
Lucius Malfoy, a once highly respected Ministry official and St. Mungo's donator for many years, has been unveiled as one of the most prominent of The Dark Lord's supporters. But, after only a month in Azkaban, he is once more on the loose and no doubt struggling to maintain his old position. Nott and Avery, both once respected followers, are no doubt in the same dilemma.
'A struggle for power is the most dangerous thing there is,' said Arthur Weasley, political liaison for Albus Dumbledore. 'And with Azkaban no longer safe and all the Death Eaters wanting to gain favour in You-Know-Who's eyes – there's just no telling what they might do'.
- Daily Prophet, Issue #65340, July 5th 1996.
------
This is the world. Everyday life continues. Men and women go to work, children go to school, and parents look after their children. Penniless people beg for food, African women travel miles to gather water from a well. Businessmen in big cities lie and cheat and roll in money. This is the world.
The other world is simply waiting.
Owls are flying from England to every single corner of the world. Scientists cannot find a reason for this strange activity. On the edge of London, underneath a telephone box on the side of the street, people bustle around trying to keep order while informing the remainder of the world of the impending danger.
Miles away from the telephone box in opposite directions; two boys are staring at their bedroom ceilings.
-----------
Harry Potter lay on his bed amid a mound of chaos. His room had never been so messy. In the absence of all his magical or 'unnatural' items, Aunt Petunia had come in during the summer and done a brisk tidy-up – obviously unable to stand the thought of a dirty room anywhere in her house.
Harry had managed to mess it up again quite quickly, trying to maintain some sense of self in the place. He had to admit it was nice not to walk over a carpet infested with dust and crushed owl treats, and to work at a desk that wasn't so dirty it smeared the parchment he wrote on while at Privet Drive, but that didn't stop him piling clothes, books and various potions apparatus all over the floor, draped over the back of his chair and in heaps on the shelves.
It made him feel safe, for some reason. Hedwig, his owl, often made it quite clear that she did not approve of the pig-sty they were living in, and went out flying frequently, stopping only to eat or pick up letters. Privately, Harry thought there might be something else warranting this behaviour – perhaps Hedwig had made a new friend last year at Hogwarts and was pining – but his faithful owl had never failed him before and he wasn't going to bother her unless she, in her unique way, asked him for his help.
The summer had been completely uneventful so far. His aunt and uncle had almost completely ignored him for the last few weeks, except to occasionally ask him, gruffly, whether he wanted anything. The small 'talk' Moody, Tonks and Lupin had given Uncle Vernon at the train station seemed to have had a numbing effect on them. Harry had spent all his free time in his room reading. By now he'd read and reread every single one of his school books through all of his five years at Hogwarts and yet could hardly remember anything from them. Concentration eluded him at every turn, even when he was trying to mentally practice the spells in his DADA books. Most of those spells would do him absolutely no good in a duel to the death, anyway.
The article a couple of days ago had not added to his good feeling. He supposed it didn't make too much difference – Voldemort would either have broken them out anyway or gathered new followers. But Lucius Malfoy was dangerous, and apparently, so were Nott and Avery. Ron's comments about Wormtail had made him smile a bit, though he wondered how the Daily Prophet had got anywhere near his friend without Molly Weasley beating them off with a frying pan.
There was no one to talk to – in person, anyway. This might not have bothered him if it weren't for the fact that he was practically forbidden to leave the house, and the only room in this house he remotely liked was his own room. And in there, the only one to talk to was Hedwig. His owl was a great listener, when she wanted to be, but wasn't excellent at talking back. He knew for a fact that there was at least one Auror outside the house at all times, but none of them ever made any attempt at conversation. He'd even tried calling out of the window, quietly so that the neighbours wouldn't notice. But aside from the occasionally affirmative rustle of bushes, no one even seemed willing to say hello.
He'd written plenty of letters, of course. The last thing he needed was his self-appointed protectors coming over to curse the Dursleys into smithereens, though the thought itself was sort of funny. The letters were beginning to grate on his nerves, however. While during the previous summer he'd had little or no correspondence with his friends in the wizarding world, this year he got daily owls – sometimes carrying information but usually just asking stupid questions.
Are you ok, Harry? Mum's really worried about you; do you think Dumbledore will let you stay with us anytime soon? Are you really bored, Harry?
No, he was not okay. No, there was no chance that Dumbledore would allow him to visit Grimmauld Place this summer. And no, he was not bored. How could he be? Every time his mind went black from lack of things to think about, in floated Sirius and Sirius' death. No one else could possibly understand how that felt. It didn't even occur to him that some of his friends may very well have suffered similar losses, it didn't matter. His godfather had died smiling and laughing, and Harry had seen it. Been unable to stop it.
It made him feel ill. Time and time again he'd told himself to get a grip, but the more he tried to erase the feelings from his mind, the further they came. He found himself continually wishing that he'd tried harder at Occlumency. And that was when he wasn't worrying about exam results, or how to survive the summer with only his relatives for company, or the prophecy that foretold that if he, Harry, did not kill the Dark Lord Voldemort then the Dark Lord would kill him in turn.
He supposed he might not have been so nervous about receiving the results of his OWLs had not Dudley not failed his GSCEs spectacularly earlier in the year. After his cousins' results had landed on the doorstep one morning, Harry had found it safer to stay in his room while Uncle Vernon raged for hours about the terrible schooling systems and corrupt examiners, and how the country was going to the dogs and it was time they got some scandal –free people in government. Harry guessed that Vernon was still fuming over the slip Harry had made last summer about the Ministry of Magic.
Aunt Petunia kept sobbing over how Dudley's career was ruined. Dudley himself seemed quite indifferent to his inevitable academic doom.
Harry was quite sure that the Dursleys would not care in the slightest whether or not he had scraped an A in Potions, but Professor Snape most definitely would, and it looked very much like his chosen career as an Auror was going down the drain.
Harry wasn't even all that sure he wanted to be an Auror anymore. Every time he thought about trying to kill the most powerful Dark wizard alive he felt something heavy drop into his stomach, but he had to do it and even if by some miracle he actually managed it, he was sure that he wouldn't want to do anymore of that sort of thing afterwards.
He'd enjoyed the DA, up to a point. Helping people defend themselves had felt sort of good. Could he do that for a living? Harry imagined himself teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts and couldn't suppress a slight chuckle. He'd be better than at least three of the Defence teachers they'd had so far. But he'd need top marks in Defence, Care of Magical Creatures, Transfiguration, Charms, and (most probably) Potions to get a placement at any magical school. And he'd have to live that long, first.
Think positive, Hermione would say. But it was hard work.
Neville Longbottom was also staring at his bedroom ceiling. He was lying on the floor, for no reason he could explain to himself, breathing in the musky scent of the carpet and fiddling with the bottom of the thick blue curtains with one hand.
His Gran had not been angry with him for breaking his father's wand. On the contrary, she had told him in her stiff, uptight way that she was proud of him for helping to bring the Ministry around to recognising the return of You-Know-Who. A week afterwards she'd taken a nasty fall down the stairs and been whisked off to St. Mungo's.
Neville's uncle Algie had come to the house to look after him. Neville didn't like Uncle Algie. He was fat and he smelled and he shouted. He made messes in the kitchen which Neville then had to clean up. He slept most of the day and left hair in the bathroom sink. But he didn't nag Neville about his marks or lecture him on how great his parents were compared to him, or routinely check his bedroom for specks of dust or dirty clothes on the floor.
It was… kind of a relief not to have his Gran around, although of course they had to take a train into town to visit her every other day. Each time she asked him about his OWL results, and each time he told her they hadn't come yet. He knew they wouldn't be good enough to get him any of the careers she wanted for him. But all he needed was a passing grade in Herbology and Potions to become an initiate at St. Mungo's.
And he knew he didn't stand a chance.
Potions was easily his worst subject. He'd never get more than two out of ten for a piece of work and that was only when he spent all night writing 15 inch essays and evaluations. He often wondered why he bothered - Snape would mark him down whatever he did. But then he would answer his own question with: because I'm terrified of what he'll do to me if I don't hand anything in.
Often he wished he wasn't such a coward. True, he'd gone to the Department of Mysteries with Harry, but really it was only out of guilt that everyone else was prepared to go and he wasn't.
He rolled over and pulled his potions text book towards him. He'd been attempting to memorise the rules for stirring and crushing – something that would save him hundreds of sickles on cauldrons if he managed it, but he didn't seem to be able to focus.
A strange sickly smell that made him think of strawberry jam reached his nostrils. Curious, he pushed the book aside and went to his bedroom door. "Uncle Algie? What are you doing?"
No one answered. The smell was much stronger on the landing – it made him feel dizzy and sick, much like the fumes from Professor Trelawney's tower room. Neville was more than just a little worried now. Covering his mouth and nose, he started to descend the stairs. He had to stop to regain his balance several times as the smell was now intoxicating and was making his legs feel heavy and useless.
The ground floor had looked slightly misty from the top of the stairs, but when he reached the last step he found himself enveloped in a thick, candyfloss-blue fog.
"Uncle?" he called again, inhaling a mouthful of the foggy stuff as he did so. He tried to cry out through his coughs, or at least reach for his wand, but his muscles seemed useless and his throat too constricted. The last thing he saw before he collapsed was a dark figure coming towards him through the fog.