Title: Harry Potter and the Summer's Secret
Author: Japhu
Beta Reader: Nagi
Pairing: HPSS
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I own nothing of Harry Potter and his world and don't make any money with it.
Summary: For one week in summer Harry disappears without trace. When he comes back he claims to have no memory. But something happened and it changed him. It remains to be seen if for the better or the worse. (will be HPSS)
Category: action/adventure/angst
Feedback: highly appreciated
Chapter 2 - Disturbing Revelations
In the past he had made terrible mistakes, but he never made one twice in his life.
That was the reason the dark figure crouched silently behind the bushes at the edge of the woods and observed watchfully through narrowed eyes the ruins of the former residence of Lord Voldemort.
He had come here to the pit of doom on order of his mentor, who wanted to know what had happened as much as he himself.
It was a risk to have come here, for if the Dark Lord was still around it would be his death to have come without summoning.
He could not sense another presence in near vicinity, so he did not rush forward, for too many had seen the end of life for being too sure of oneself.
It urged him to know what had been going on, but he was slow to go further. Whatever it was the Dark Lord had thought to accomplish, it was a puzzle, whose resolution would change more lives than his own.
A few days ago, the tremors of an outburst of raw magical energy had been noticeable throughout the whole country. Even the lesser gifted wizards and witches had felt something shift in the core of magic that penetrated every living being and surrounded the world itself.
He himself had stood numb for a moment, forgetting everything else and relishing in the feeling of liveliness and power in an amount as frightening as it would taint the purest of souls.
As suddenly as it had come, the feeling had given way to the dull grey of everyday life and left him gasping for breath, his heart throbbing painfully in his too-tight chest.
Half an hour later, he had still felt slightly dizzy and unable to catch a clear thought, recounting the unbelievable experience and reliving every second like a drug addict.
That was the moment the Dark Mark had disappeared, and he could not do anything else but sit on the ground and stare at his forearm like it was a foreign being.
Before he could get a grip on himself and possibly go to the headmaster, he furled up in pain when only moments later the Dark Mark appeared again, but now in a dangerously glowing purple that faded after minutes to a hardly visible shade of violet.
The whole event had left him panting on the ground, his voice screamed raw. He had been shaken to the core. Something like that had never happened before; at least it was not heard of.
Hell, he still felt his whole body tremble when he thought about it and he, like all of the others who were marked for life, whether committed to the cause or not, had waited for hours with growing expectation for a summoning by their master.
However, until now it never had occurred. The more time passed without a call from the Dark Lord, the steadier the man grew in his belief that something like that would - just maybe - never have to happen again. Then a repulsive and, in its matter ridiculous, thought had crossed his mind.
That the grating Potter-child had somehow done what nobody wanted to say out loud.
Though, if for some reason the Potter boy had accomplished what was told to be his destiny, one had to ask doubtfully, why the Dark Mark kept burning away his nerves with excruciating pain.
The Potions Master kept himself rigorously from falling into the same trap as everyone else. He refused to believe that a boy as irresponsible and arrogant as that one should be able to do something any grown wizard wasn't competent to do with as easy a snap of the fingers as that.
There had to be a snag somewhere amidst that whole mess.
The figure scowled darkly. Why ever it had happened? Potter had been amidst of that; and to put the lid on it, now the awful boy could not even remember what had caused an outburst of that tremendous strength.
It was absolutely ludicrous and if he were not who he was, he would long since have lain rolling on the ground yanking out his hair or laughing, at least after the report the werewolf and consorts had given rather reluctantly to Dumbledore. Understandable, when they had finished their account of being outsmarted by a dunce.
Apparently they had not noticed the boy coming home. The werewolf and that crazy girl had been sitting in the kitchen indulging an early breakfast when Moody arrived at Privet Drive only a few hours after he had gotten the order to check on him from Albus.
Allegedly the boy had been peacefully asleep, and of course Moody had ranted about Potter's lack of respect for his elders; the wolf seemed rather subdued and lost, as if not knowing where to go.
The shadowed figure, while lurking in the darkness, honestly could not gather what that mangy beast of carnivore found of worth in that child.
The boy was too much like his father. He could not stand that bad egg and its attitude, as much luck as fate seemed to throw on this child. The occurrences of the last days were taking it a bit far.
He could see the Dark Lord obliviating the boy; that much he admitted. However, from whatever directions he looked at the whole charade, he could not bring himself to believe that the Dark Lord would let the Potter boy walk out of his reach with nothing but his memories changed.
It simply was not possible. For too long the wizard had searched for a way to get his hands on him, trying to end his pitiful existence for good.
Why would the Potter boy be telling everyone that he had lost his memories instead of gloating and relishing in his new heights of popularity?
No, somewhere the Dark Lord was still very much alive. He had to be, for the Dark Mark was, even if changed, still burned into his skin and an everlasting reminder of his past deeds.
The new experimental potion he had been making that day had obviously been ruined. That, of course, was Potter's fault, too. However, he did not loathe the boy as wholeheartedly as he displayed during the school year. Loathing was a strong word and solely reserved for the Dark Lord.
When he thought about the boy and his open, bright and mischievous grinning face, he found that he hated the wretched child immensely, at least as long as he could not fire some well aimed insults at its swelling head. The boy did a good job as - he thought the term was punching bag, which Muggles used to get rid of their piled up aggressions. On his list of people not worth knowing Potter held steadfastly his place among the top two.
Deeply immersed in his thoughts, his attentiveness never failed and he stopped like dead on his way when he picked up the rustling of leaves and the breaking of branches just a few meters away from his position in the forest.
His muscles as tense as steel springs, he watched the quietly swaying rows of trees, highly alert, waiting for the source of noise to leave the shadows behind. His breath caught in his chest the nearer it came to his hiding place, which was in itself not really a safe point to stay unnoticeable for a long time. Moving would just have called them over sooner, so he stayed were he was, gripped his wand tighter and hoped his stars were lucky today.
They were four men who stepped out of the woods without care for dangers, and full of themselves if their way of arrogantly strutting in the dirt was any indication. Dark, crimson coloured robes were wrapped tightly around their bodies, the hoods pulled down deeply into their faces.
Oblivious to their silent watcher, one could just make out the outlines of masks, similar to the ones the Death Eaters wore when summoned or at work, but much different in appearance. None the less when they strolled past him as if they thought themselves to be the masters of the world.
Robes and masks alike were from the finest quality, hemmed with black bands of velvet and on one of them a gold border surrounding the sleeves glittered in the sunlight like one of the finest grounded gems.
They talked to each other in low voices, a strange humming noise erupting now and then from their throats. To his utter surprise the watcher couldn't understand one word of what they said.
The puzzle was just getting greater than anticipated.
It was as if Albus had had his own hands in it. He would pull something like that whilst pretending complete innocence to whatever resulted of his scheme and watching with that mad twinkle in his eyes, when everyone else tried to save their hide with as few casualties as one could manage.
The only thing that spoke for Dumbledore's innocence in this matter was his real show of surprise after the Potions Master had gone to the man with the astonishing news of the Dark Mark's changing.
Everything had frenzied at that point. The search for the Potter boy magnified for a short amount of time until Albus called them back all at once without further notice. Only Moody got the order to check on Privet Drive.
Everyone was looking for the centre of the sudden outburst of magic that never had been seen before in its density and strength. The Potions Master did not even know it was possible to call that much magic in oneself and still be able to use it. Maybe it was not possible, and that was the reason for the Dark Mark's change.
The Potions Master looked thoughtfully down on his covered left forearm, aware of what he would see should he pull back the black cloth of his robe.
Nearly invisible, the tattoo was just a thin violet image on his arm. It looked like a badly painted children's picture, but quite often during the last days it would flare up and heat painfully at the most inconvenient times possible.
His contacts that had served years long confidentially as one of the order's most reliable sources for information suddenly were untraceable and the Dark Lord's right hand man still sat rotting away in Azkaban, unaware of any plans his master had come up with during weeks of dwelling on carrying out his revenge on an obnoxious child who had bested him once again.
Despite of his innards squirming like a living beast, the man ignored his instincts that told him to run as fast and far as he possibly could. On countless times these instincts had saved his life in the past.
This time around he consciously decided not to notice his own magic's warning and stepped further into the remains of a monstrous castle, hideous in his gargantuan dimensions and utterly fitting to a man who had left humanity behind long ago.
He waited patiently for a sufficient time for the unknown visitors to disappear in a fissure twice as high as a grown man but just wide enough for a child to wedge through. With a deep breath and a long glance cast at his surroundings he sneaked forward, attentively staying out of the light.
Careful to set his feet on sturdy ground, the Potions Master cursed his fate to leave him with a task like this. Excitement pumped through his veins and the knuckles of his hand turned white until he realized how hard a grip he had on his wand and forced his hand to let loose to be able to flick his only weapon with all his expertise should such a need arise.
He was aware of the risk he incurred when following further, but he needed to know what these strange foreigners were doing in a place where, until days ago, the most feared Dark Lord had resided.
The Potions Master knew the stakes in his job; hence, he listened cautiously for movement before giving up his position to a safer place.
Hidden away behind a much darker part of the collapsed wall, he merged in the shadows as if he himself was nothing more.
Only when his eyes had become inured to the twilight of his new surroundings he took his course down to the subterraneous arches, where the dungeons and laboratories where situated, as well as the torture hall.
Countless Muggles and wizards alike had left their lives in this room whilst the Death Eaters had laughed themselves hoarse with delight at their suffering and participated with mad gleams in their eyes when their victims' screams for mercy echoed through the hall.
He wrinkled his nose when something foul-smelling drifted through the corridors, in which stones, broken columns and knocked over statues bared his way.
Something, or better someone, had obviously been dying in these rooms not too long ago. It was the rotten scent of death the lone spy followed amidst dirt.
Several times he stopped and searched for the magic that surrounded them. Not just their careless behaviour seemed strange in a place like that.
The Potions Master hid his body in a small, partly collapsed alcove and warily looked at the centre of the room where the red robed men had gathered in a loose circle.
His whole being grew stiff and he tilted his head to the side, his eyes going wide in a rare moment of freely displayed, blank astonishment.
Some daylight shone through the cracks in the ceiling and illuminated floating rays of dust. The whole scenery seemed to be taken from a bad novel and the dozen or so lifeless bodies on the ground, all of them clad in the dark robes and white masks, a sign of their service to the Dark Lord, only appeared to emphasize this impression.
What had awoken his rare display of emotion? It was not the corpses of fellow Death Eaters, although he possibly had talked to most if not to all of them at one time.
It was their magic that had caught his interest, for the whole lot of it was utterly ... deranged.
There was no other word to describe it. It was not bound to their inner core the way everyone else's was. In fact, their magical core was not much more powerful than that of an average wizard or witch.
It was the way their magic reacted with the environment that left him awestruck.
Continuously they seemed to draw the magic out of the earth itself in an amount surprisingly strong. It was a task even Dumbledore would have struggled with; impossible for anyone else. These men didn't even need to consciously try. They just did it, and how they did it!
Abruptly the lone witness of the actions that the wizards set in motion sunk deeper into the obscurity of undulating shadows, though he never averted his eyes for one moment for not to miss anything of importance.
The tendrils of magic surged through the space, sucking in violently whatever energy they could get.
From his hiding place he had a good look around the hall, but he was cautious not to get closer. It would have been a temptation for fate to go much further. It was hardly possible without being noticed, anyway. Every sound in this room echoed widely throughout the whole castle.
The Potions Master had chosen his hideout with care. The torture hall was an ample room, but from his vantage point he could see into every corner and the centre lay open in front of him.
He could not fathom them. Unfazed by the dead men, the buzzing of the flies and the penetrating smell, they kept chanting wordlessly, and to his utmost amazement without wands. Arms raised high above their hooded heads, open to receive the whirling wild energy they still soaked up from their surroundings, it seemed as if they tried to invoke some sort of ritual, but up till the unsighted amount of magic they used, they did nothing for him that indicated what the dangerous wizards where doing.
He did not know whether they were allies or foes. There was nothing left for him from which he could draw conclusions to explain the unbelievable happenings.
With a feeling of uneasiness, Severus Snape turned his back to them while blending deeper in the darkness. Deep inside he knew that he would see the mysterious men again much sooner than he would ever want to.
With that thought, he apparated straight to Hogsmeade and hastened to reach the headmaster as soon as possible to inform him of what he had witnessed.
A third party had arrived on the playground and had to be reckoned with.