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Chapter 2 - The Disappearance of Harry Potter

It took a bit for Albus Dumbledore to be roused. Trapped in old nightmares, he wasn't quite able to distinguish his alarm from the cacophony of his dreamscape.

This turned out to be a rather substantial problem. Especially as he did not, upon waking, immediately perceive the origin of the alarm. He got dressed too sluggishly, and when he saw the label on the alarm, he grew light-headed.

The blood ward had broken on Number 4, Privet Drive.

It was open season on Harry Potter.

He disapparated straight to the home, into their very living room.

"Where is he?" Albus demanded, "Where is Harry?"

The loaf of man, Vernon Dursley, turned a peculiar shade of purple before he bellowed, "HE STOLE MY WALLET!"

Albus was most unimpressed by this reaction to the man's missing nephew.

Grabbing a fist full of his robes, Albus climbed the steps. Anxiety swirled inside him at the thought that Harry had left of his own accord.

Better than the alternatives, certainly, but the boy had put himself in so much danger and once broken, the blood wards could never be repaired. Just as Albus feared, the room was packed, not so much as a wall decoration remained, the bed unmade.

What had persuaded the boy to pack up in the middle of the night?

Noticing one of the floorboards was askew, Albus dropped to his knees to reach into the hiding space.

He came up with one piece of sugar free candy.

Albus got back to his feet, and scanned the room with detection charms. But no magic had left a residue here. The house was empty of magic save for the Ministry's ward to detect if underage magic was being practiced.

Harry had run away last year, but that had been after he attacked his Aunt, a memory that the Dursleys no longer had.

Albus returned down the stairs, wand raised. He noticed the lack of pictures of Harry anywhere in the house. He pointed his wand at Lily's sister and peered into Petunia's mind, and watched as she clambered out of bed, woken by her nephew yelling to be let out. The unlocking of the door, Albus found disturbing, as if these people thought they were keeping some wild beast locked away in the spare bedroom.

Albus watched Harry push past his Aunt, his wand, owl, and trunk in hand.

Petunia had heard the sink turn on.

Had they been allowing the boy water? Albus wondered, horrified. Sure, he knew Harry wasn't welcome at the Dursleys, but surely they provided for his basic needs?

By the time Petunia got down stairs, the back door was left open, as was the back gate, the kitchen window was wide open, and Vernon Dursley's wallet was missing.

Albus lowered his wand and took off running. Forty minutes had passed, surely he would have enough time…

He ran over the spot where the trunk drag marks stopped in the grass. He had to backtrack to it, and Albus was horrified by the magical imprint of apparition. Very few people were trained enough to follow the thread of a magic left over from apparition.

Albus was trained; however, it scared him that he didn't sense a trace that came from an underaged wizard using apparition.

Had someone been waiting for Harry? An enemy? An ally?

Albus disapperated with a pop, appearing in an alley in London. Panic swamped him as he performed a series of deduction spells, but there was nothing to find. Whoever had taken Harry was smart enough not to use apparition twice. London, unfortunately, even at this hour wasn't completely dead. Someone might have seen Harry, but more likely than not, he had been lost in the regular traffic of people.

Albus placed his wand in his palm, Point me.

The spell would work only so well. It brought him to a bridge, which scared him more than anything else had. He scanned the area for bodies and found none, Accio Harry.

But the boy was too far away. The spell, even with the Elder Wand, didn't even tug, the magic falling silent.

He tried the Point Me spell again, and it pointed downward.

Albus frowned, then spun his wand, Accio Vernon's Wallet.

A small splash sounded, and Albus found himself holding a sodden wallet with Vernon Dursley's ID and bank cards. A picture of his son and wife, but no image of Harry, unsurprisingly. The wallet, which was stretched where paper bills might have been kept, was empty.

Harry had run away.

And he had had an adult's help.

Anger filled him, he knew of only one adult that would help Harry like this, and why the blood ward would have broken.

It had broken because Harry found another place to call home.

Albus disapparated with a crack, on the hunt for a hound.

Sirius had no information for him, but when Albus returned to the castle, Severus did.

His Dark Mark was black ink again, burning against his skin.

Voldemort was back.

Fred and George were amused as they stepped through the rubble of the fireplace. Harry's Aunt and Uncle were screeching.

Their dad brushed himself off.

"First my wallet and now my fireplace!" Harry's Uncle bellowed, spraying spittle everywhere.

Fred leaned against George's shoulder and asked casually, "What happened to your wallet?"

"That good for nothing freak ran off with it. Thief! We should have dropped him off at the orphanage!" the walrus man roared.

Fred's smile faltered, "Harry's gone?"

"What do you mean he's gone?" Ron asked. "He knew we were coming."

"Harry Potter is gone?" their father demanded.

Harry's uncle sneered, "That's right, gone, and not even that Dumbledore fellow can make us take him back now. If he does come crawling back, we will call the police. And if you don't fix our fireplace and go yourselves, we will call the police on you."

But Ron, Fred, and George were running up the steps. Spotting Harry's door was easy, it was the one with the flap at the bottom and the forty-something locks. It was empty. Everything but a few pairs of truly ratty clothing and an unmade bed left behind.

Ron was the first one out. "Dad! He's gone! He's really gone!"

Their dad didn't waste any time, "Come, go back home, I need to go to the Ministry."

"What about my fireplace!?" Vernon bellowed.

But none of them paused to help the ruddy muggles whom Harry had run away from, again.

Kingsley was disheartened by the disappearance of Harry Potter. Not just at the possible danger he had fallen into but because of why he had run away from home in the first place.

The first red flag was his family more upset about Harry's uncle's wallet and their fireplace than their missing charge.

Looking into Potter's background, Kingsley hadn't liked the pieces he had found. There had been the Hogwarts letters that hadn't been delivered, the lack of Professor McGonagall going to introduce the boy to the magical world, the hovering charm in his second year (attributed to a rogue house elf?), his blowing up his aunt at thirteen with accidental magic, and that followed by running away from home.

There was a pattern there, a pattern made worse by a second runaway attempt, despite knowing who was out there after him. This, of course, was excluding everything in his school record.

For the saviour of the Wizarding World, the child hadn't been taken care of well, either outside or in school.

When Kingsley had personally arrived at Harry's Aunt and Uncle's house, he was frankly disturbed by what he found. The house was freakishly clean, and there was not a single picture of Potter in the entire house. The boy's room was a sordid affair, cheap furniture, a pile of broken toys, and a smell that came from a youth not showering enough.

But Kingsley was hesitant to blame that on Potter, because there were locks on the outside of his door. Had his guardians allowed him to leave his room, and if they did, how often?

On further examination, Kingsley found marks on the windows where he thought bars might have been attached at one point. He also found evidence in the closet beneath the stairs that it had been a room of some sort.

There was an old mattress and a drawn picture that broke Kingsley's heart. An image of Hagrid riding on a flying motorbike.

Kingsley knew more about the night the Potters died than most after investigating Sirius's case.

A child had drawn not his family, but a picture of a man he must remember only in dream. Kingsley was certain after that the little closet had been the boy's room in his early childhood.

Kingsley had looked into Potter's primary school records. He found an incredibly bright child who had suddenly dropped off in scoring. He had been written up almost constantly by teachers, and the nurse had an alarming medical record for him.

It was a phenomenon that Kingsley had recognized before. He wasn't sure if it was magic or human nature, but what people wished to explain away they did. Instead of seeing a magical child whose spurts of accidental magic was a sign of great distress, they explained away by believing him to be a misbehaving child, a troubled youth. By the reports, Kingsley might have been led to believe that Harry Potter was a bad and stupid kid.

But Harry's Hogwarts records proved quite the opposite, though it seemed that to Kingsley the boy was holding back. Because, he suspected, Harry had been trained to underperform in school to not show up his stupid cousin.

No wonder he had run away.

Kingsley was staring at a map of London when a red haired man came barging into his office.

"Harry Potter-" Arthur Weasley began.

"Is missing," Kingsley finished for him. "Yes, I'm aware. We've been searching for hours. Someone apparated him to London and from there the trail goes cold. We don't have a way to track muggle transportation. We contacted the muggle police, but it's a weekday. Many young people travel the train while commuting to work or school." He ran a hand over his face. "Even at four in the morning."

"But-" Arthur spluttered, he took a suspicious look around the small office, then stepped closer, "Sirius-"

Kingsley shook his head, "Dumbledore interviewed him already. He doesn't know where the boy is. No one does. As of this minute, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, is missing. We have days, maybe hours until that information is leaked and old enemies begin hunting him down."

Arthur's face showed terror at the idea, "But…" His shoulders straightened. "What can I do?"

Kingsley sighed, "Go on as normal, you had tickets to see the Quidditch World Cup."

"Yes, Harry was meant to go-"

"Take someone else, one of your daughter's friends, perhaps. Don't let on to anyone that Harry was meant to be with you. Impress upon your children the same."

Arthur nodded, face solemn, "Are there any theories as to what happened?"

Kingsley sighed and looked up to meet his gaze, "Mr. Potter ran away from home, and someone was waiting for him, and got to him."

Arthur paled. "There's more, isn't there?"

Kingsley nodded, "Dumbledore has put out a call out for a reassembling of the Order. He Who Must Not Be Named is back."

Arthur looked defeated, and Kingsley couldn't blame him.

Harry Potter was likely in the clutches of the Dark Lord, the Wizarding World's symbol snuffed out before the first warning sign had been raised.

Harry found camping a hell of a lot more fun when he wasn't Undesirable Number 1. Sure, people were still hunting him. Voldemort had his body back, so he was definitely being hunted.

But Harry had been on the run for over a year, and knowing that his friends and others weren't dying and/or being tortured made the whole hiking experience kind of nice. Also, it was summer again. The insects were annoying, but he wasn't freezing his balls off.

Always a plus.

He kind of thought it would be awkward when he saw Hermione again. Not just because she was three years younger again, but because the last year had… marked a lot of milestones. After Ron had run out on them, things had seemed darker and more desperate. So they had done what any teens might do when the world was ending.

Harry shook it from his mind as he relayed the protection wards around his camp site. Careful to cast a spell that hid his smell, not just sound and sight.

He didn't have a tent, but that was okay. The weather held and he fell asleep under the stars each night. He had gotten off at a stop that was pretty far north, but a little west from the stops that perhaps might have been quicker to get to Hogwarts.

Harry knew that had Voldemort returned in body, that Snape with his Dark Mark would already know. There was no need to rush, but still Harry needed to speak to him before 'Moody' came back to school and before Dumbledore started moving the Order of the Phoenix.

Snape deserved to know what Dumbledore had planned for them in this war. As Harry's bit of Horcrux was gone, he couldn't sacrifice himself again. Well, he could, but it wouldn't do anyone but Voldemort any good.

In any case, there had to be a better strategy for using Snape as a triple agent than as the fall guy.

It took him four days of hiking to reach the Forbidden Forest, in which time Harry had settled somewhat in the reality that he was fourteen again and that the playing field had changed.

He was wearing the invisibility cloak, in case Hagrid or the centaurs were about. Harry did pause to greet the thestrals, however, and they welcomed him like old friends.

He felt more connected to them than ever now, having not just seen death but experienced it himself.

He passed the place Voldemort had killed him, and didn't fear it.

He didn't fear death at all, really, not now that he knew what was waiting on the other side for him. Who was waiting for him.

Despite the time travelling and knowing many of the people he loved were alive, he still felt like there was more on the other side for him than in this life.

As Harry walked across the grounds, then climbed inside the inner castle through a cracked window, he really had to wonder at Hogwarts security. He did not go to Snape immediately. First, he went to the Room of Requirement.

He found the diadem. It was broken, and as Harry laid his hand on it, he felt that the evil inside it was gone.

His mother's words had come true. Harry's choice had taken reality.

Voldemort had his soul pieces back.

Which meant that he had his body back and that he was more powerful than ever.

Except that if he ever tried to split his soul again he would die, so at least there was that.

Did Voldemort remember the future?

The thought alone chilled him, but again, Harry looked on the positive side. Voldemort had killed Snape not because he thought the man was a traitor, but because he thought him the owner of the Elder Wand.

Really, all there was to know about the future that Voldemort didn't already know was that Harry and Dumbledore had been killing his Horcruxes.

Which was a moot point now.

Harry destroyed the cabinet Draco had used to help the Death Eaters into the castle before he left.

As Harry descended into the dungeons, he hoped Snape would give him the chance to speak before docking a thousand points from Gryffindor before the term had even started.

Severus Snape hated life.

Not just his life, but life in general.

The Dark Lord was alive and well, and pissed off.

And the Boy Who Loved, Harry Bloody Potter was missing, and in Severus's opinion the boy was probably dead.

Because that would be his luck, the boy runs away the summer the Dark Lord comes back to the world of the living in physical form and gets offed in the night.

Yeah, that sounded all too plausible.

There was a knock on his office door.

"Come in," Severus called, knowing it wouldn't be a student, which meant he didn't have to put down his whiskey.

Only it was a student.

Severus jerked up right and almost spit his last sip as the amber liquid swished in its tumbler. After a moment to regain himself, he growled, "Potter."

James's demon spawn held up his hands in an 'I mean no harm despite all the fucking bloody chaos and mayhem I've caused' gesture.

"Professor, we need to talk," the boy said warily.

"Oh, do we, Potter?" he snarled. "Do you have any idea-"

"I saw Lily, my mum," Potter interrupted, "I know about you and her, and the prophecy. I know why you make everyone hate you, and I know that you're doing all this to keep me alive, not for my sake, but for her memory."

Severus froze, trying to get that to sink in. Betrayal swept through him. "Dumbledore-"

"Dumbledore is the reason I died."

Severus frowned, "What the hell are you on about? Dumbledore is the reason you breathe."

"Sure," Harry said, shrugging. "Just like he's the reason you're not rotting in Azkaban, yet both our lives suck ass. Can I sit, please? This is going to be a long talk."

Severus mulled that over for a moment. The boy was here, at Hogwarts. He was safe, momentarily, even if Severus desired nothing more than to strangle the spoiled brat. But he acquiesced with a nod, "I doubt there is anything you can say that will spare you from a lifetime's worth of detention."

He couldn't take house points off until term started, but he didn't imagine he would lack opportunity.

Potter sat, his ratty clothes hanging on his frame far too loosely. Both because the boy was skinny and because the worn clothing was several sizes too big.

Aside from the winter time when the boy would wear Molly's sweaters, something her sons only did during holidays, Severus realized he had never seen Potter wear anything but his school uniform and Quidditch uniform.

He probably thought he was too good to wear proper clothing. Too cool for school or decency.

"What do you know about Horcruxes?" Potter began.

Funny, Severus never realized one could have a near instantaneous, full-fledged migraine at mere words strung together in a sentence.

But he was wrong.

He also realized he didn't have enough whiskey for this shite.

The next three hours proved to him that, no, the Dark Lord being back wasn't the worst that could happen.

There was a long silence after Potter had finished answering Severus's last round of questions.

Then Potter asked, "Should we tell Dumbledore now?"

"No!" Severus shouted, because, Merlin, he felt like screaming. He knew he was a bit drunk at this point, but he didn't care. "We aren't telling that bastard shit. I didn't do all of this," he gestured with the open bottle of whiskey to the room around him, "to save the world." He pointed at Potter, "I did it to save you, to save Lily's son. So fuck no, we are not telling the man who betrayed us."

"To his credit," Potter said lightly, "it did work."

"Shut up, Potter," Severus snarled. He waved his wand and turned his office chair into a cot. Then swished his wand again to his private rooms. "Door to the left, go and take a fucking shower. You smell disgusting."

Potter's lips twitched, but he stood and went to do what he was told without a word.

That seemed like a bloody fucking miracle, if nothing else proved the boy was a time traveller, that sealed the deal.

Bollocks.

Severus sank down into his chair, nursing the whiskey as he mulled over everything he learned.

Okay, brooded over everything he had learned, all the while ignoring the burn on his arm.

The first thing he decided he needed to do was shrink some of his clothes to replace Potter's rags.

Lily, it seemed, was getting back at him from beyond the grave.

Severus sank further in his chair as he admitted to himself he probably deserved it.

Merlin, he fucking hated life.

Fleur's feet struck the ground, jarring her body, but she didn't let up, didn't slow for an instant. She didn't hear the crowd screaming at her, or her fake friends chanting her name, or the boys jeering at her.

There were eight boys ahead of her. Eight.

She smiled even as she sucked in air through her teeth.

Eight was nothing.

The finish line was in sight and she kicked it into the next gear. She couldn't feel her legs; she didn't need to. One by one, she passed them.

She was faster than them, better than them.

Not because of her hair, or her eyes, or her Veela powers, but because she worked harder, pushed harder. Because, at the end of the day, she was intelligent, powerful, and an athlete. Fleur might not have any true friends outside of her sister, but one day someone would see her strength before they saw her looks.

She passed the last boy. He was the top runner in their school. His name was Gary Schultz and his father had won the muggle Tour-de-France some years back. Fleur saw from the corner of her eye Schultz struggling to keep up.

But she didn't spare him as much attention as he was sparing her, which is why when the final magical trap was sprung, she leaped over the snapping giggle warts, which if they made contact with sweating skin would cause boils that, when popped, released a giggling sound. It was quite disturbing as well as painful.

Schultz tripped over the trap and rolled into them.

Fleur crossed the finish line and her body wanted to collapse, but she would not make a fool of herself. She put her hands on her head and tilted back, trying to get air into her lungs. Her body was warm and tingling, an exhausted mass of receding adrenaline, but she was victorious.

'Fitness Pratique' at the Beauxbatons Academy was a serious class. It went hand in hand with Defense Against the Dark Arts and Magical Creatures because the belief and the truth was that in matters of self-defense dueling was not an idle event, nor was being chased by some mythical monster muggles could only dream about.

In Fitness Pratique (FP), everyone battled against everyone else. It was the one course that the boys more than often had the leg up in. Not because witches were weak or slow, but because the average healthy wizard had more muscles.

And Fleur had just beaten everyone in the sixth and seventh years at the start-of-term evaluation.

She had trained all summer for this moment.

Her hearing came back to her in pieces as the adrenaline simmered and she gained control over her breathing.

And the first thing she heard was, "She only won because she isn't human."

It was as if someone had poured a bucket of worms over her head.

Fleur didn't know why she was surprised as she spun on her heel and walked stiffly to the girls' changing rooms and the showers, ignoring the people who heaped praise and adoration on her. None of their words mattered. They didn't know her, couldn't see past or get over her physical beauty.

Because at the end of the day she wasn't a person to any of them, she was just another Veela.

The Triwizard Tournament was coming up. Perhaps there she could make a statement. Being top of her class, of her generation, apparently wasn't enough. But if she became the Triwizard Champion things would have to be different. After all, history wouldn't remember her face, they would remember her name; Fleur Delacour, the first half-breed to win the Triwizard Cup.

The thought didn't cheer her as she banged open the locker room doors. No, she wasn't a practically cheery witch in the least. But she was determined.

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