Chapter One
"We have a Priority One case just in!" The Head Auror marched in, his fiery glare dragging across the room of his charges. His powerful presence demanded attention – more so than the slight limp in his right leg. His appearance resembled that of a lion. His dull brown hair scraped past his shoulders like an unkempt mane. He was freshly shaven, having abandoned his peppery stubble, and his oddly yellowish eyes were intense and concentrated. If one looked closely enough, they might spot the aura of confusion his gaze held. Bushy eyebrows were slightly furrowed and his thin lips were even more so.
"Shacklebolt, Robards, Dawlish and Potter," Rufus Scrimgeour's eyes landed on each of the Aurors as he called their names, then abruptly turned and walked into his office.
With little hesitation, the men emerged from their cubicles and hurried after him, closing the door behind them. They stood to attention, waiting silently for their orders.
It was quite a dull office – the size of the room left much to be desired, and messy piles of paperwork were strew over most surfaces. It smelt vaguely like stuffiness and mould.
Fleamont Potter somehow found himself a few inches behind his colleagues, their shoulders barricading him from the conversation. He sighed wearily and leaned against the cabinet behind him quietly, running his calloused hand through his unruly grey black-streaked hair.
"Alright, an hour ago the Improper Use of Magic Office recognised an extremely rare and powerful burst of magic in the Muggle borough of Samlebury in Preston. This is the first magic seen from the area for quite some time, due to the 'bad karma'. I have little information of use for you – but I do know the UIM Office stressed the sheer power behind this surge, so you all need to be careful."
"How do we know it's not Death Eaters?" That was John Dawlish, a broad and wiry-haired man.
"We don't – your job is to figure out who is the cause, and arrest the target."
"And babysit Potter," Gawain Robards snickered, smirking at the carpeted floor. Only Dawlish gave a few chuckles at his comment.
Fleamont rolled his eyes, but did not rise to the bait his colleague constantly dangled in front of him. Robards was a committed and valuable Auror, far more than Fleamont could claim to be. The passion he had for his career could be deducted from the battle scars that painted his visible skin and his unshaven beard. He was of a similar build to Dawlish, but surpassed him in height. He also had a full head of thick mousy brown hair.
"Enough, Robards," Scrimgeour snapped, rubbing a hand over his face wearily. "This is a capture not kill. We don't know nearly enough about this magic surge to let our only information source die."
Scrimgeour revealed the parchment previously held by his side, showing the map etched into it. He pointed to one building on the magnified street map. "This is an orphanage. It appears to be the location of the magic. Either-"
"Wait," Robarbs interrupted in confusion, "if it's an orphanage, couldn't it just be a Muggleborn child using accidental magic?"
Although silent, his comrades tentatively shared the same line of thought.
Scrimgeour glared at the interruption, the heavy bags under his eyes indication of his exhaustion. "It's extremely unlikely. The Muggle Liason Office have not noticed any even living in this area, let alone having performed previous bouts of accidental magic. And this magic is far too powerful to be from a mere child. Now," he shoot another scowl at Robards, "Shacklebolt will lead this mission. Robards, I need you to secure the area and Obliviate any Muggles you come across that have witnessed anything. Dawlish, you're on defence – keep up shields and keep Shacklebolt and Potter protected so they can focus on the task at hand. Shacklebolt, you know what you need to do. I'll have a team on standby, signal if it gets messy."
Fleamont pushed gently off the cabinet he was leaning on, only to be unsubtly shoved by Robards as he passed him to the door. Shacklebolt offered an apologetic smile to Fleamont as they followed Robards out of the office.
Unlike many other Aurors in the department, Kingsley Shacklebolt was always kind to Fleamont. He'd somewhat taken the older man under his wing when Fleamont had joined the Aurors a few years ago. He generally always wore his gentle smile – his white teeth contrasting against his dark skin. He was a tall man, always wore a layer too many of robes and had the respect of the entire department.
"Alright everyone, hands in," Shacklebolt ordered. His voice was deep in the warmest and softest way. With one last look at the map Scrimgeour had handed him, he folded the parchment and deposited it in the pocket of his robes. The team of Aurors hand their hands out and Shacklebolt tightly clasped his own on top.
Then they disappeared.
Fleamont had never been to Samlebury before but if his first impression was anything to go by, it wasn't any more special than other Muggle townships he'd visited. Although, on what should have been a sunny May day it was stormy-skied and the clouds released rumbles from above. Oddly, the sky was only dark and ominous above the village in question.
The orphanage standing in front of them was unsuspecting. The bricks that lined the exterior were rickety at best and dead vines climbing up the walls, brown and leafless. Several small windows were broken and boarded up with soggy plywood. A tall iron fence bordered the building, decorative daggers pointing from the top. On the closed iron gate was a rusted sign. Hopkins Girls' Home.
It was indeed a sad looking building – exuding misery and uncleanliness. Fleamont noticed the lack of children and the sound of their laughter. It was eerily quiet.
Silently, Robards dispersed from the other Aurors, his wand ready as he began scouting the area around the orphanage. Dawlish was already mumbling protection shields around himself, Shacklebolt and Fleamont.
"What do you need me to do, Kingsley?" Fleamont murmured. He attempted to keep his voice sure and confident, but he was sure Shacklebolt noticed how uncertain he was.
"Just stay out of the way, Potter," Dawlish snapped, pausing in his spellwork. "You're not a real Auror – so do us all a favour and don't ruin the entire operation."
Fleamont, once again, let the insults slide off his back.
"Just be ready," Shacklebolt whispered, ignoring Dawlish completely. He also offered a small smile of reassurance.
They approached the orphanage. The gate whined in dispute as Shacklebolt pushed it open. The uneven cobblestone path was riddled with weeds and moss, clearly not maintained at all by the orphanage's supervisor. All three wizards tightened their grip on their wands as Shacklebolt pushed open the door. Like the gate, it too gave a long-winded groan.
It was dark. Above the small entrance foyer was a single lightglobe, but it was not working. The smell of the orphanage wafted up Fleamont's nostrils and it took him a few moments to place the stench. It was like laundry that had been left wet in a basket for a week and rotting vegetables. They moved through the foyer, where the condition of the building did not improve. Beige paint peeled from the walls, the wooden staircase banister splintered and the worn floorboards were covered with mismatched squares of stained brown carpet. To their right was an archway that led to a dining room. Three tables of different height and size were lined up, the chairs that were hazardously pushed under them just as unalike in style. On top of the chipped and weathered tables were littered pieces of paper – possibly children's homework.
In the corner, there was a crate half filled with broken toys. Fleamont grimaced. He had a son of his own and he was undoubtedly spoilt with toys as a little boy. Having been conceived when Fleamont and his wife had long accepted they could never have children they perhaps overindulged him. Momentarily stumped by the sight of filthy and broken toys, Fleamont slightly shook his head to himself and continued following Shacklebolt's shadow through the house. They'd still yet to come across a working light globe in the ceiling and as such Shacklebolt had spelled a small lumos from the tip of his wand.
The kitchen at the end of the creaky hallway was abominable. The sink was stacked high with dirty dishes and cutlery. The smell coming from the refrigerator was a clear warning that it should definitely not be opened. Curling linoleum covered the floor, painted with stains and remnants of old food. A quick glance at his colleagues was enough to know they were both disgusted by the conditions of the orphanage.
The lounge room was situated on the other side of the kitchen, donning russet carpet that had featured in the hallway. It was filthy with dark blotches, crumbs and dirt. There were three lounges in the room, all facing towards an unfortunate looking coffee table. Every lounge had lumpy cushions, as if there were soft toys hidden in the fabric. Now that he thought about it, Fleamont thought the idea wasn't as farfetched as he would've liked.
There was a sudden thump, presumably from upstairs. The Aurors shared a look before silently moving back to the staircase they had passed with a hastened pace. They all took the stairs two at a time, grimacing as several groaned loudly under their boots. They paused at the top of the stairs to quickly familiarise themselves with their foreign surroundings and where the noise had originated. It was only a few moments before they heard a muffled scream. Bracing their wands, they followed the sound down the dim hallway. They passed several untidy and stench-riddled bedrooms until they reached the one at the very end. As soon as they approached the doorway a breeze swept over them. Bizarrely, all windows were tightly shut and there was no evidence of fans in use.
Shacklebolt discarded his small lumos charm, readying himself for a spitfire of spells and curses. As if perfectly in sync with one another, the three Aurors charged into the room.
Fleamont hadn't really contemplated what they might find in this mission – although he was sure his colleagues had. Of the little thought he had given it, this was definitely not what he imagined.
Against the far wall, a young girl was pinned. Her limbs were splayed and her lips firmly shut. She was an average looking girl, the blood matted in her dark hair and snot falling from her nose not doing her any favours in that department. The white dress she wore was definitely no longer white; instead it was covered in dirt, rips and blood. Her eyes immediately flew to the Aurors as they ambushed the room. Fleamont could now see them much clearer – bloodshot and teary and hazel. They widened in relief as she frantically attempted to shout something at them but whatever was sealing her lips was incredibly strong. Only blanketed sounds come from her throat.
Standing a few feet away from her was the culprit. A complete contradiction to what Scrimgeour insisted; she was only but a child. Possibly the same age as his son – fourteen or fifteen years old. She had messy golden hair that waved and curled to her waist. Even though she was the obvious culprit of the events unfolding, she had multiple scratches up her arms from the flying debris in the room and an extremely nasty bruise around her throat. Past the ill-fitting clothes she wore and the filth that marred her face and arms, she was a pretty girl.
Even when they burst into the room, she paid no heed to their presence. Whether it was because she was simply unaware or didn't care was yet to be seen.
Fleamont looked to Shacklebolt unsurely. She was just a little girl – to what lengths were they expected to go to for her capture? Fleamont couldn't see a wand on her person, unexpected for a magical child of age to be a Hogwarts student. The hair on the back of his neck prickled as he realised she was performing controlled wandless magic, a feat unknown in witches and wizards as young as her. Nothing about her was adding up – in fact, during Fleamont's attempted study of her, he'd become even more confused about her. Who was this girl?
There was only one thing Fleamont did know for certain – she was an emotional wreck. Her hands were shaking and she swayed side to side ever so slightly. If they ambushed her with wands blazing it would be disastrous. Normal Auror tactics were not going to be sufficed here.
Suddenly, her eyes whipped to them, wild. And brilliant eyes, at that. They were a shade darker than the sky – perhaps azure. They were bright and sharp, but wild.
"Get out." Her voice was almost silent, somehow soft and hard at the same time. It was so quiet that Fleamont almost thought he'd imagined it. Her tone could've been described as firm and formidable – but Fleamont heard the whisper of a tremble within it. It was all he needed.
He held out his wand pointedly to her, before slowly pocketing it. There was a flicker of confusion in her eyes, and then it was gone. With his hands now free, he held out both his palms, never taking his eyes off the girl.
"It's okay," he whispered, "We're not going to hurt you." He heard the unhappy disagreement from his colleagues. The girl suspended on the wall made desperate noises from her throat, watching on anxiously.
"Get out." The air cracked under the heaviness of her voice. Tumultuous winds picked up in the room, picking up clothing, paper and settled dust. Fleamont's robes began to flail and billow around him. But he didn't take his eyes off the girl.
"Potter, get back," Dawlish hissed, his wand pointed at the small girl in the middle of the room.
In every situation Fleamont found himself as a new Auror, he'd been obedient. He listened to his colleagues and his superiors and did exactly as they told him. He was a Potioneer, after all, he wasn't an Auror. Not really. So he remained quiet, followed orders and kept his head down.
But this time, he would do no such thing. He would not stand by and allow harm to come to this girl – especially with as little information as they had.
So, instead of getting back and away from the girl, he stepped forward.
The storm in the room exacerbated. Frustration and wildness showed in the girl's expression as she stared at Fleamont.
"It's going to be okay," Fleamont promised her, holding his ground as he battled the ferocious winds. The door flew off its hinges, rocketing down the hallway. The window shuddered and quavered until the glass shattered. Shards of the window were picked up in the cyclone of wind and sent whirling around hazardously. Despite the apprehension that bubbled within, Fleamont didn't back down.
"No," she choked.
"Potter, get back. Now," This time it was Shacklebolt warning him, his voice thunderous. Fleamont had never heard it in such a way – it made the hair on the nape of his neck rise.
"It's okay," he soothed, his palms still outstretched nonthreateningly. He didn't take his eyes off the girl, hoping to express his good intentions with his wide hazel eyes.
Treacherous tears slipped down her cheeks despite her tightly clenched fists by her sides and the anger that knotted her eyebrows.
Fleamont took another small step forward.
Instantly, a large shard of glass cut along his jaw. A hiss escaped his lips and he flinched – but he forced himself to remain as he was; hands stretched out, eyes steadily staring at the girl and his feet one step closer to her.
"No!" She screamed. The ground began to rumble violently, sending Dawlish and Shacklebolt stumbling for a moment. Fleamont managed to hold his balance – if only due to his intense determination to help the girl glaring at him. She was just scared, he found himself mentally chanting to himself.
Fleamont's silvery black-streaked hair whipped his cheeks and exposed neck, while small glass shards drew blood. The ruthless storm in the room was so incredibly intense he was finding it difficult to see the girl properly. She stood in the eye of the storm, only a moderate breeze giving flight to her messy long hair.
He could only just barely see her, but he could tell she was muttering to herself – the words unknown to him.
Harnessing his renowned courage, Fleamont stepped forward again. He'd managed to now come within two feet of the girl, but unfortunately now found himself in the full force of the whirling storm. It was incredibly loud – rumbles of unknown origin pulsed in his very core and wind whistled incessantly in his ears.
Fleamont was momentarily startled by what he noticed as he got closer to the girl. Wisps of blackness, alike thick smoke, clouded where her body ended. It was torrential, zapping from her shoulders, arms, clothes, legs. Mesmerised by its strange oleaginous nature, Fleamont watched it flicker around her, seemingly engulfing the girl in its black amorphous and incorporeal flames. He'd never seen or heard of such magic in his life.
"It's okay," Fleamont called softly, his voice swept away in the wind.
"No," she sobbed. "No, no, no…" Her words became so gentle and subtle that Fleamont could no longer read them on her lips. For the smallest moment, he saw the exhaustion in her eyes. Tears continued to fall off her long lashes and her shoulders were slightly slumping.
"It's okay," Fleamont repeated for what felt like the hundredth time. His arms lowered slightly as he stepped closer again.
His heart thrummed against his ribcage fast, adrenaline pumping through his body. It was just enough to be able to ignore the painful cuts he continued to receive from airborne glass and debris. His eyes were watering from flicking dust particles and his robes had succumbed to dozens of tears.
He knew if he stretched his hands out, he could reach the girl. But he waited, staring at her with what he hoped were pleading, reassuring eyes. She weakly shook her head, her face distorted with tiredness and fear.
Fleamont took his last step towards the powerful young witch. Suddenly, her eyes whipped up, alert.
"Get away from me," she screamed. Tears streaked down her face faster and the ground beneath their feet quaked aggressively. Debris lashed at Fleamont relentlessly, the sharp and stinging pain following close behind.
"It's okay." Fleamont opened his arms slowly and, despite the pain the girl was persisting on inflicting on him, he gently enfolded her within them.
Anguished cries tore from her lips, croaky and pained. Fleamont only held her tightly, whispering soothing words as she sagged against him. She was inconsolable – her legs started to give way underneath her weight, so Fleamont maintained his hold and smoothly lowered them both to the floor.
She continued to sob into Fleamont's battered robes and he continued to rock her back and forth tenderly.
The onslaught of ferocious winds, flying debris and the trembling ground began to subside. The other girl, the target of this magical explosion, dropped to the floor like a limp heap, where she stayed and cowered as she watched her attacker with wide eyes.
Soon, the only sounds that could be heard were one girl's quiet sobs and the distance wailing noise of a very strange siren.
