!For Those Of You Who Are Confused! Please don't worry, you're supposed to be. I have written with the intent to raise questions, they will all be answered in due time. Some things can be solved with logic though, for example…a special event occurred in Book 4 – 1999, that enabled Voldemort to fully return. If you look back at the previous chapter a certain event took place during 1994, all the clues are in the chapters and a lot of things can be solved with a bit of thinking. However if you, like me, would rather wait than strain your brain, then by all means do, all will be revealed. In due time, in due time…
!Second Warning! Certain relationships soon to be revealed may upset certain readers, although I personally cannot see why, and so, this is hereby the first and only warning you will receive! (Oh and I mean HarryxGinny kind of stuff, before you get worried. Although it won't be HarryxGinny. Ever.)
!Author! Happy Fingers
The-Boy-Who-Fled
Chapter 3: How Things Have Changed…
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"Either Dumbledore had been kept out of the loop on social etiquette and the ways of the young, or, it was still, as he suspected, not considered the norm to answer the door completely naked"
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It was cold, the beginnings of Autumn beginning to creep through the late-summer air. The light breeze that rolled gently off the nearby mountains traveled gently through the extensive maze of Hogwarts' corridors, rattling against the ancient (and sometimes, rather dangerous) armor display's that stood as a kind of decoration against the lavish walls of the ancient school. The occasional (and somewhat spooky) sounds that usually accompanied the arrival of the evening could be heard throughout Hogwarts, and as such, were doing nothing to aid in the attempts of one young man's strained efforts to fall asleep. Harry James Potter lay on the extremely comfortable bed, staring at the high ceiling that stretched before him, allowing the cold evening air to spread across his naked skin. He couldn't sleep, he'd tried, however his mind was swarmed with the day's events, Dumbledore's face and voice clouding his mind intermittently, between the elaborate escape attempts that subconsciously crept in from within him. He chuckled to himself, he was so used to escaping, avoiding capture, and now, now he was laying in a bed, his wand returned to him, with an open window merely a few meter's away. He was no one's prisoner, in fact, he'd been given the chance to leave, and yet here he was.
How things had changed…
It was amazing really, how only a few words could turn someone's life around so completely that their sense of living, their purpose, could be overturned in milliseconds. Any plans, desires, ambitions, could be shattered into a million pieces by someone's voice, by someone parting with, what was presumed to be, necessary, essential knowledge.
Yet as Harry lay there he could not fathom the intent behind Dumbledore's actions. For no amount of pacing, nervous finger-tapping and endlessly painstaking dramatic actions such as washing his face and peering into the cracked, dirty mirror could dispel the sense that he still, despite Dumbledore's reassurances, didn't know everything. How could he, a runaway, a 'disappointing non-existent legend' (as the Daily Prophet had once put it) defeat the most powerful Dark Wizard in the world? The mere thought of it caused Harry's head to throb painfully. But even as it did, Harry was not prepared to accept the fact that either he or Voldemort would die. Harry didn't live by destiny or fate. He made his own future.
Frustrated Harry stood from the bed and walked to the open window, smiling as the wave of bitter evening air washed over him, the moonlight reflecting, as if like some kind of picturesque painting, against the dark, mysterious lake that lay far below. He was not prepared for this, and as he watched the moon, he couldn't help but doubt what he'd been told.
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Below the Bolshoi Theatre – Moscow, Russia – Present day
Albert Cavos had celebrated his 182nd Birthday as anyone who had lived that long would have. Mind you, he sincerely doubted the fact that any human would enjoy the subtle niceties of having three young Russian virgins to bleed dry after a gourmet meal of veal and pig's blood, and so, in actual fact, he had celebrated the way any 165 year old Vampire would have, never mind any pitiful humans. The stacks and stacks of presents that were piled high in the corner were a pleasant reminder of just how much Albert was respected by the numerous Vampire Clans around the world, and as such, he allowed himself to feel relatively loved at the prospect of what lay within the peculiar boxes and bags.
As with any Vampire, Albert had steadily grew in rank, becoming a fatherly figure to any 'newborns' around the bustling city of Moscow. The Bolshoi Theatre was a grand building, something Albert was exceptionally proud of. As a human, he had been commissioned to restore the Theatre in 1836, and due to his untimely demise at the hands of a recently deceased vampire, he continued to rebuild, with the intention to build a marvelous layer for the vampire population of Russia. The fruits of his labour were clear to see, the luxuriously crafted underground halls, a welcome dwelling from the harsh sunlight above ground. The numerous halls and corridors were filled to the brim with satisfied Vampires, relishing in the glory of having recently killed, and drunk dry, numerous people who, according to their murderers would not be missed, or even noticed in the first place. Albert was now what was commonly known as the Suveran (king vampire – in Romanian) and as such was extremely concerned when his messenger, Kayshaii-Lan, had reported Harry potter's disappearance. Yes, it was extremely worrying, for the young Mister Potter, was someone the Suveran was indebted to. And Vampires always repaid their debts, especially to a Wizard.
"Sire, there's something else…" Kayshaii added, his glowing, silver eyes cautiously flicking about the room for people listening in.
Several people, vampires actually, were not favorable to the young Mister Potter, doubtlessly due to the fact the young boy had once, set fire to several of their kind.
"I'm listening" the Suveran said, leaning forward from his throne. Well aware the surrounding crowd would not take kindly to the Suveran inter-mingling, once again, with the affairs of Wizards…
"It's The Association Sir…" Kayshaii started.
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Harry knew someone was behind him, he could sense them. His training several years ago had enabled him to become strikingly aware of any presence, magical or not. Yet he didn't move, not a muscle, instead, staring wide-eyed at the huge silver moon that floated menacingly amongst the starry sky, watching the way its reflection mixed together in the glass of the window. Harry wasn't worried, he was always prepared, he'd be able to strike the intruder down before he could even think. The second rustle came from Harry's bed, clambering about in the darkness, apparently the intruder was finding it difficult to see through the thick blanket of darkness, and still, Harry made no move to apprehend the him. Instead watching the small little person potter about behind him. Harry waited for the perfect moment, he always enjoyed this part.
"Hello Dobby" Harry said suddenly, watching him jump in the window's reflection.
Harry laughed gently, as Dobby's eccentric personality began to return within his memory, he was most certainly, the most bizarre…person, he'd ever met in his life. (And that was saying something) especially when you considered the likes of Richard Borkagule – now he was a funny one.
"Oh-Sir-Harry, Harry-Sir, Dobby-is-so-sorry, I-was-so-startled, Sir-Harry-knew-I-was-here, but-" Dobby rambled, covering his slightly-grubby head with the duvet on the bed, pushing his long ears down the side of his face. His scrawny little legs shaking so much, that his nobly knees clanged together violently.
Suddenly aware he was stood topless, Harry walked around the bed, plucking a t-shirt from the messy pile of clothes that lay in heap on the floor. Dobby, who was watching him like a dog watches his food bowl, could only just be seen through the darkness, his huge fish-like eyes glinting in the moonlight sifting in through the window.
"So…whatcha' doin here?" Harry asked, his face momentarily covered by the small white t-shirt he was pulling over his head. The last time he had seen Dobby was under slightly strenuous circumstances. Or, as one might say, absolutely, hair-raisingly terrifying…
"Dobby had heard that Harry Potter was at Hogwarts! Dobby didn't believe it but…here you are!" he chirped, his thumping knees subsiding to a faint chatter.
Harry laughed as he sat down opposite the house-elf, fastening his undone belt around his waist. The usual twinges of guilt that came hand in hand with meeting with the little house-elf, begun to bubble within him. Dobby had kept Harry's whereabouts a secret for years, even from Dumbledore, and, in doing so, had found suitable punishments for it. The most stomach churningly awful consisting of, whacks around the head with a spatula, an iron to the head, and perhaps the most-terrible being, several painful visits to the Whomping Willow.
"Yeah…here I am" Harry muttered, shaking his head, unable to hide the whisper of sadness within his voice.
"Dobby wanted to check Harry Sir was alright sir!" Dobby twittered, he jumped off the bed and had moved to face Harry, locking his eyes with the young man.
Harry smiled, shrugging slightly. "Well…here I am…I'm fine" he answered, doing his best to maintain the happy-go-lucky attitude he had unknowingly acquired over the years.
Dobby smiled widely, his large pointy ears drooping ever-so-slightly, he knew Harry was lying and yet he said nothing, knowing full well Harry was not a sharer, and whatever it was that was bringing him down, would remain safely locked away deep inside him.
"Dobby hasn't seen Sir Harry in so long, not since Siberia, he hasn't!"
Harry had known Dobby for nearly 5 years, and they had parted under, let us say… interesting circumstances. Shaking his head to dislodge the unpleasant memories that came hand in hand with the mention of Siberia, he knew the question was coming, and as far as he could see, there was no way out of it.
"H-Have you s-seen…him s-since sir-" Dobby asked, his quirky little voice not able to hide the nervousness that intermingled with it.
"-No. I haven't. And I don't intend to" Harry said quickly shaking his head, he knew Dobby would bring him up, but he wasn't ready yet, he didn't know if he ever would be…
Harry's eyes fell to the package Dobby was overturning in his hands.
"What's that?" he asked, intrigued, and delighted that the small package provided another talking point.
Dobby took a few steps towards Harry, his watering eyes widening further still, at the sight of his scar. Slowly he started to unwrap the brown box, and shoved his hand inside, pulling out a shiny, silver necklace. Like any other piece of jewelry the small silver chain seemed delicate and expertly crafted, and, at the end of it, hung a lavish symbol, that at first glance appeared to be a kind of cross.
Harry stood from the bed, watching the necklace with a frown, he knew what that meant.
"I think it's time you had this back" he squeaked, holding it out for Harry to take, while his eyes flicked about the room.
Harry watched the Pendant as it swung in the slight breeze, he hadn't seen it in nearly three years and knew, as he took it from Dobby's grubby hands, that receiving the Pendant meant nothing but trouble, the kind of trouble that Harry was all too familiar with.
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Veretia Tricksalonge and Dolores Umbridge were the subject of wide speculation throughout the political hemisphere of the Wizarding community. The two frightfully obnoxious women were at the centre of one of those family issues that had so many layers, delved so deep. So complicated, that no-one dared to ask as to why the aura of hatred that floated between the two women, filled the air with such an intoxicating sense of awkwardness, that any innocent bystander would be reduced to a mere speckle of what they were, inching away to the farthest place available, while, in turn, avoiding the gaze of anyone that happened to be nearby.
To safety.
The two hadn't spoken in nearly 20 years, and, as a result, had resorted to ignoring the others' presence whenever the two were forced to share the same room, relying on the age old comfort of the (now extremely familiar) steely silence, the answer to everyone's problems…
As a result of this, the room in which they were sat was deathly quiet, pierced occasionally by the exhausted looking Minister that sat across from them, moaning in apparent pain. It was hot in the office, and as per usual, the large closed windows remained painfully shut, the sun pouring in through the tiny gaps in the dusty blind, that, like the windows, were never open, no matter the circumstances. The Minister sat in his usual position behind the desk, his slightly balding head slumped in his hands. He was in the process of his, (now almost ritualistic) habit of moaning and groaning unpleasantly, in the face of the increasing pile of problems that steadily appeared on his lap. Across from him, the two sisters were watching with mild-disinterest, apparently far too busy avoiding each others gaze, to take any notice to the distressed man.
"So-" Veretia started, leaning her pointy nose forward towards the exhausted looking man.
"I take it that you have been in contact with him?" she inquired, her eyebrows raised abnormally high.
The Minister looked up from his sorrowful position, his bloodshot eyes flicking between the two women that sat before him.
"No, I talk to an associate, they'd hardly let me talk to him would they, if he's even alive yet…" he sighed.
Scrimgeour had always known he was brighter than the average wizard, hence his current position as Minister. Yet as he sat in his secret meeting, the third one of the month, he knew he'd made a mistake. It was clear he was in over his head, it was all very well his two most trusted advisors nodding in understanding, agreeing to whatever he said, despite the constant drabble of nonsense that spilled from his quivering mouth. Yet they knew little of the extent to which the Ministers problems delved, and thankfully, were blissfully unaware of the mounting problems that, despite their ignorance, involved them just as much as it did the Minister.
The two women had understood the Ministers position, they might've even done the same, although they most definitely would have approached it in a completely different matter. Honestly, the Kiminari were a lethal group, and their ties with the boy may well only complicate matters. But if there's one rule the two women had stuck to all their lives (drummed into them by their rather overly-cautious father) it was that Dark Wizards never kept their promises, no matter what they said, or promised.
"So…when will it happen?" Dolores asked, leaning just that little bit further forward than her shorter sister. Dolores had always strived upon the fact that she was far taller than her sister, most likely due to the fact that her mother was over 6ft tall while Veretia's was, what Muggles commonly referred to, as a Hobbit.
"Soon…I don't know when…" The Minister muttered, shaking his head.
The dimly lit office, once again descended into the comfortable silence it was used to, each of it's occupants thoughts drifting to the future and what it would hold for them. They had just averted the most dangerous political scandal in the history of Wizarding Politics, and yet, each of them continued to battle the demons that resided within them. For no amount of reasoning could dispel the awful fact that, collectively, they had just arranged another persons death…
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Harry was awoken by the sharp twitterings of a robin, perched merrily upon the window sill, his red chested feathers illuminated by the summer sun that strived to gain control over the creeping Autumn clouds. He lay there exhausted, amongst the fluffy duvet and pillows, his scar unusually throbbing. Shaking his head he sat up, desperate for his brain to have at least five minutes peace. Unfortunately, the sleep he had been so desperate to have, had done nothing to ease his mind, and had, with the help of an extremely awful dream, catapulted his anxiety so high that Harry felt as if the best thing to do would be to run and hide.
And why not?
He'd done it for the past six years.
Another fifty couldn't hurt…could it?
Sighing he threw back the bed covers and proceeded to the showers, not bothering to remove the silver chain that hung around his neck.
The bathroom was smothered in steam as Harry stepped out the shower, grabbing a towel as he walked back into his room. As he began to dry his wet hair, knocking sounded from the door. Without hesitation Harry turned and opened it, smiling as the rather taken aback Albus Dumbledore stood there.
Harry only smiled, continuing to dry his hair.
Dumbledore fixed his eyes to Harry's. His rose tinted cheeks nicely contrasting his dark blue robes.
"Good morning" he smiled, careful to maintain eye-contact.
Either Dumbledore had been kept out of the loop on social etiquette and the ways of the young, or, it was still, as he suspected, not considered the norm to answer the door completely naked. Harry however seemed completely oblivious to this and continued to dry his hair while watching Dumbledore with an unreadable expression.
"Yes…just informing you that breakfast will be ready shortly…I trust you can find the way to the great hall once you're…" Dumbledore coughed slightly before continuing.
"…fully dressed. The paintings will give you directions if you get lost" he smiled and swiftly left.
Harry shrugged and closed the door, apprehensive as to the day's upcoming events. He was to meet some of the Order today, something he definitely did not want to do. Sighing he got dressed, forcing himself to focus his attention on anything but the resisting the urge to run and jump out the window.
Half an hour later, he was ready, smoothing down his expensive (if he'd have bought it) jacket. With one last longing look towards the window he left the room, holstering his wand in the custom made holster that hung nicely on his jeans. He begun to make his way through the halls of Hogwarts careful to ignore any pictures that seemed to have an undying need to talk to him, stopping occasionally to admire the extravagant armor and numerous, and most definitely lethal, weapons that were presumably displayed for visual beauty only. Harry had always wanted a sword, he found their whole nature to be…enticing. He'd once been given a one, the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, however it was soon destroyed, along with anything else that was once precious in his life.
"HARRY POTTER!" one of the paintings shrieked at the top of their voice. So loud in fact, that two nearby owls that were lounging happily on a particularly fanciful window-sill, almost fell off, before regaining their balance and flying away in a huff.
Harry, who had endured a constant barrage of these outbursts the moment he had left the safety of his room, thought nothing of this distinct cry, and continued to walk down the corridor, despite the sobbing of the two little hobbits that followed him through the paintings. It was only after they yelled a second time that Harry's hairs began to stand on end, and he began to take notice, turning his head to listen.
"THEY'VE BEEN ATTACKED!" one of them bellowed, clinging onto the horse they were riding through the paintings. His voice was old, as if he'd lived for several years, and was slightly muffled, most likely due to the curly silver moustache that twitched above his mouth.
Harry turned at this, drawing his wand instinctively.
"Who's been attacked? Where?" he asked, his voice calm.
One of the hobbit's had jumped of the horse now and was clawing against the surface of the painting, desperate to escape, his rather chubby belly seeping out the small gap where his shirt met his trousers.
"Oh thank god! I saw it all, absolutely everything! I couldn't believe it, they were attacked, before my very eyes!" he stuttered.
Harry rolled his eyes, he had no time for this.
"Yes but who attacked them, where are they? He asked, struggling to keep is voice from shouting, at the little man, painting…thing.
"I-I don't know! They had tattoos, h-horrible tattoos!"
But Harry was already gone, he was ready to fight…
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Voldemort sat in the worn chair, enjoying the sound of the leather protesting to the weight pressed down upon it. His long, bony fingers wrapped around the edge of the armchair as he tapped his foot gently against the floor. His black, velvet cloak rubbed against his snake-like skin as he was handed the message he had been waiting to receive.
Xcne'ug snhmw Kdffg Ohnnwu!
Voldemort smiled as he unfolded the yellow bit of parchment, reading the encrypted note that was sprawled messily across it. Indeed, he had been disappointed in the efforts of his spies within the Order, and had considered 'removing' one of them to set an example, but now, now his patience was paying off. This was what he was waiting for.
They've found Harry Potter!