The first of year three. A short and, sadly, rather uneventful chapter, as most firsts are . . .

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The next chapter will be published the coming Saturday.


Harry Potter: A Flaw in Fate

The Blackest of Nights

I. Shards of Ice

Eyes latched to the snow, watching as thick, scarlet blood sank into its depths. The ice was stained a dark crimson. She watched as it twitched, shifting as a man sank to his knees. His boots fell upon his robes, and he sank further into the snow. His eyes were a deep, peaceful brown.

The spirit watched as the life slowly left him.

Dead, just like all who came before you.

Her form flickered. A slight frown spread where her face might have been.

Not me, though.

Eyes like coals turned from the corpse, tracing the sides of the tower that stood before them. They quickly narrowed to slits. Frost melted beneath her, and the storm that raged around the spirit grew more violent than before.

But he knows.

The spirit flickered once more, slowly making its way towards the triangular tower that loomed in the distance. Large, rusted gates coated in peeling black paint creaked open as she approached.

Harry Potter knows . . .

Stone cells lined the walls, complete with prisoners covered in poorly-made prisoner uniforms and thin, ragged sheets. A few lay limp, their lips blue and their forms thin. Many others were pressed against the walls of their cells, their throats slit by their own hands.

Weak.

Cold stone stairs sat at the end of the hall. They cracked as she glided up them, and the frost that covered them thawed, froze, and thawed once more. Shards of ice melted and reformed, almost like they were trying to keep up with the pace of the flickering spirit.

The cells were smaller now, their occupants cold and lifeless. But they weren't small enough -

Higher and higher she rose. Scarlet eyes traced the outlines of cells smaller than those that came before them. The prisoners they encased were pale and unmoving. Shards of shattered glass littered the floor, and a can of aged soup sat in a corner. Both looked like they had been there for a long, long time -

Close.

The stairs disappeared, leading her into a small, dingy hallway. Harsh winds blew through windows made of rusted bars, blowing thin sheets and stained pillows to the floor. Something horrible hovered beside a cell to her right - something dark, adorned in torn black robes that hid scabbed grey skin -

"Leave, now."

It turned to her, black cloth sliding across the floor. Dull, unseeing eyes stared at her, and its mouth slowly opened -

Dark, gloomy walls surrounded a young girl in shabby clothes. She was young - no older than six, at the very most. Her hair was long and dark, and bits of dirt stained her hands and legs. The girl paid it no mind. She threw her intricately braided hair over her shoulders, staring determinedly at a small coin by her feet.

"Please." she pleaded, her knees buckling, "Please, just move. I know you can -"

But the coin stayed still. The girl's eyes watered slightly, and she brushed them with the back of her hands. She gave the coin one last, determined glance.

"I saw it." she whispered, "I know I did. You moved - I made you move. Please -"

The shadows stretched from the corners of the dark, gloomy room, and the coin stayed determinedly still.

Scarlet eyes burnt like hot coals. The dementor fell, the hem of its tattered robes pressed against the floor. It screeched horribly, writhing as the cold air that surrounded it grew unbearably hot.

You dare . . . you dare -

The dementor fell silent. Voldemort watched as the wind forced its limp form through one of the small windows by the side of the hall.

"Master . . ."

The spirit turned.

A woman stood opposite her, her arms wrapped around the bars of her cell. Curly black hair fell past her shoulders, framing a face with high cheekbones and dark, heavily-lidded eyes. The woman leaned forward slightly, smiling cheerfully.

"Is it time, Master?" she crooned softly, "Is it time?"

"Yes, Bella, it is."

Bellatrix giggled. Long curly locks pressed against the bars as she leant against them, taking a closer look at her master. A slight frown marred her features.

"You're upset." she murmured "Why are you upset?"

The spirit flickered, and shadows jumped across the room. Bellatrix watched curiously as the frost that coated her cell melted at once.

"Not upset." corrected Voldemort, "Irritated."

The spirit flickered again. Shards of jagged ice flew through the window, crashing against the cold, rusted bars. The metal rods slowly split in two. Bellatrix giggled, jumping up and down in her cell. She leaned forward, gently pressing a finger against a bar coated in ice. Her eyes shined with mirth as it crumbled into nothingness.

"Come, Bella." whispered the shade, "There is much to be done."

-(xXx)-

Happy Birthday to me.

A now thirteen year-old Harry Potter rolled to the corner of his bed, gently plucking a small stack of letters from his bedside table. There were five of them, each of varying sizes and shapes. Harry had already read three of them - from Daphne, Nott, and Hagrid, respectively - but the other two he hadn't yet touched.

Harry separated them, returning the other letters back to their place on the bedside table.

Several months had passed since the end of last term. They hadn't been bad - not really - but they were perhaps the most dull Harry had ever experienced.

Still, it could have been far worse. He had been allowed his belongings this time around. Many of his textbooks currently littered the floor of his room. His cauldron sat by his desk - he had turned it into a makeshift trash bin of sorts - and his trunk sat by the end of his bed, clamped firmly shut.

And all because they think I can use magic.

Harry shifted, turning to rest on his other side.

I suppose they're not wrong.

A younger him would have been overjoyed; he could come and go as he pleased, was actually given a healthy amount of food, and Dudley point-blank refused to be anywhere near him. It sounded like a dream.

Harry wished it was.

But there was only a month left now. Soon, he would be home again, where he belonged. Harry longed for the day when he would see the Hogwarts Express once more; it loomed in his dreams, taunting him before slowly fading back into the abyss.

Then she returned.

High cheekbones, hazel eyes and long, dark hair. Her hands wrapped around his shoulders, her head resting upon his . . .

"Back again, are you Harry?" she would whisper in the same smooth voice, "Don't worry . . . I helped you escape them once, didn't I? . . . I'll do it again, and again, and again -"

Harry sat up, shivering. His eyes jumped to the trunk that sat at the end of his bed. There was only one thing in it. He felt it, sometimes. It was weak - faint, like the ghost of a smile - but it was there. An odd sense of familiarity leaked from the gaping whole within it, pressing against Harry's senses -

Harry's eyes looked over the first letter. It was covered from top to bottom in stamps of all sorts. Only the top left corner was bereft of them; his name was written there in small, neat writing.

I dunno whether to laugh or be worried.

Harry ran a finger against the envelope's slit, turning it upside down. A thin roll of parchment fell upon his bed. Harry picked it up and began to read.

'Dear Harry,

I know we don't know each other very well, but I wanted to wish you a happy birthday. Sorry about all the little stickers on the envelope, too - I asked dad about sending a letter to muggles. He probably won't be happy about sending this with Errol anyway, but what he doesn't know won't hurt him.

Fred and George - my twin brothers, you've probably heard of them - wanted to say thanks for saving Ginny, by the way. I suppose I do, too. I know you said it's alright, but it doesn't feel like it. So thanks again, I suppose.

Anyway, Fred and George would've sent their own letter, but mum's not very happy with them at the moment. She caught them setting off fireworks in their rooms again - Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, they call it. Either way, they're not allowed to write to anyone for the rest of the summer. They still want to thank you, though. I reckon they'll probably corner you at school.

Hoping you have a Happy Birthday,

Ronald Weasley'

Harry gently set the letter aside, a thoughtful expression etched upon his features.

That's nice.

Harry turned to the other letter. It was unmarked, made of a thin white parchment. Harry turned it around, running a finger against the letter's edge. He removed the small sheet of parchment from within, flipping it over.

'Wishing you a Happy Birthday,

Emily'

Harry froze, his heart beating violently in his chest. Emerald eyes jumped to the trunk at the end of his bed. Something roared angrily within him. It clawed angrily at his insides, yelling in his ears -

Burn.

Sparks flew from his fingers, striking the parchment's center. The note quickly caught fire. Smoke wafted up towards the roof as it burnt, and a moment later it was gone.

A small heap of ashes sat upon the bedsheets before him. Harry watched as they gently scattered, falling to the floor beneath him. Regret seeped into him, and something else wept silently in his chest. A lone tear trailed down his cheek.

"Happy Birthday to me." muttered Harry glumly, sinking back into his bed, "Happy Birthday to me."

-(xXx)-

Harry stared at the letter that sat upon his bedside table, disappointment and irritation flaring to life within his chest.

'Dear Mr. Potter,

Please note that the new school year will begin on September the first. The Hogwarts Express will leave from King's Cross station, platform nine and three-quarters, at eleven o'clock.

Third years are permitted to visit the village of Hogsmeade on certain weekends. Please give the enclosed permission form to your parent or guardian to sign.

A list of books for next year is enclosed.

Yours sincerely,

Professor M. McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress'

Harry pushed the letter aside, picking up the Hogsmeade permission form that sat beneath it. An inky black line sat near the bottom, almost taunting him. There was no signature written upon it. Harry tucked it into his back pocket, making his way towards the door and down the stairs.

All three of the Dursleys were already downstairs. Dudley was sat by the television, a large bowl of sweets resting within his palms. Behind him, Uncle Vernon was eating breakfast at the table, and Aunt Petunia was cooking another strip of bacon - for Dudley, most likely.

Harry eyed the burnt piece of bacon sitting on the kitchen table. A slight frown marred his features. He sat down, gently running a finger against the thin strip of cured meat.

Come on, I'm hungry.

The bacon curved in on itself. The edges remained as burnt as ever, but it was certainly better than before.

Good enough.

Harry helped himself to his breakfast, plucking a piece of toast from the plate at the center of the table. Uncle Vernon tapped the table irritably as he did, turning his beady eyes to the television. A besuited reporter was speaking now, halfway through a report on an escaped convict.

". . . the public should note that Lestrange is considered armed and extremely dangerous." said the man, "A special hot line has already been set up. Anyone who comes across Lestrange is asked not to engage her, but to report it immediately."

The man stepped to the side, and a picture of a woman flashed upon the screen.

Long, curly dark hair surrounded pale white skin. She had high cheekbones, too, and above them sat a pair of heavily-lidded eyes that shined with a sort of insane mirth. It looked like she was laughing in the picture; her lips curved upwards, revealing slightly teeth that clearly hadn't been taken care of. Her body was frail, and she was adorned in striped grey prison robes.

Harry froze, staring at the screen in disbelief.

The Mirror of Erised. She was there.

Harry had seen her. She had been standing off to the side, watching him and Em - and her. She had the same insane smile, the same wild gaze, the same curly black locks and the same pale white skin. Harry jumped slightly as Uncle Vernon began to speak.

"'Course she's no good." he was saying, glaring at the picture on the screen, "Look at the state of her! Look at her hair!"

He shot a nasty look at Harry, his eyes flicking up to Harry's untidy hair. Slowly they lowered, latching on to the boy's emerald eyes.

"Now then," he began, pushing his toast aside, "There's a few things I've been meaning to talk to you about."

Harry nodded, raising what was left of his bacon to his lips.

"Your Aunt Marge will be staying with us for the next week." he said, his eyes narrowing as Harry choked on his food, "There's a few things we'd better get straight before she arrives here.

"Firstly," growled Uncle Vernon, "you'll be keeping a civil tongue when you're talking to Marge."

"I will if she does." said Harry bitterly.

"Secondly," said Uncle Vernon, acting as though he had not heard Harry's reply, "as Marge doesn't know anything about your abnormality, I don't want any - any funny stuff while she's here. You'll be behaving yourself, got it?"

"I will if she does." repeated Harry through gritted teeth.

"And thirdly," said Uncle Vernon, his beady eyes now slits in his great purple face, "we've told Marge you attend St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys."

"You what?" Harry yelled.

"And you'll be sticking to that story, boy, or there'll be trouble." spat Uncle Vernon.

Harry stared back at Uncle Vernon, white-faced and furious. This was, without a doubt, the worst birthday present the Dursleys had ever given him, somehow even surpassing the time he had been gifted Uncle Vernon's pair of moldy old socks.

"I'm off, then." said Uncle Vernon, heavily getting to his feet, "Marge's train arrives at ten. Want to come along for the ride, Dudders?"

"No," said Dudley, whose attention had returned to the television now that Uncle Vernon had finished threatening Harry. Aunt Petunia smiled softly, plucking a black bow-tie from the counter.

"Diddykins has to make himself smart for Auntie Marge," she said, pressing the bow-tie neatly against Dudley's porky neck, "Doesn't he look good, Vernon?"

"Just like his father!" chuckled Vernon, clapping Dudley on the shoulder before turning around, "I'll be back in an hour."

Harry watched as Uncle Vernon slowly waltzed down the hall, stuck in a sort of horrified trance. He sank back into his chair, wincing as something poked against his back. Harry pulled the folded Hogsmeade form from his back pocket, flattening it against the table.

An idea flashed through his mind. Harry jumped up, abandoning his toast and running down the hall. Uncle Vernon was pulling on his coat, halfway through the door.

"I'm not taking you." he snarled as he turned to see Harry watching him.

"Like I wanted to come." said Harry coolly. "I want to ask you something."

Uncle Vernon eyed him suspiciously. Harry pulled out the Hogsmeade form, holding it just before Uncle Vernon's gaze.

"Third years at my school are allowed to go to a nearby village sometimes." he said, brandishing the paper, "But they've got to get their form signed if they want to go."

"And?"

"Well," said Harry, choosing his words carefully, "it'll be hard work, pretending to Aunt Marge I go to that St. Whatsits…"

"St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys!" bellowed Uncle Vernon, and Harry was pleased to hear a definite note of panic in Uncle Vernon's voice.

"Er - right." said Harry, the ends of his lips curved slightly upwards, "Well, if you signed the form, I might try a bit harder not to let anything slip."

"You're not going to slip, boy," snarled Uncle Vernon, his fists raised, "or I'll be knocking the stuffing out of you."

Harry's eyes narrowed. His mind went blank as he forcefully cleared it.

""Knocking the stuffing out of me won't make Aunt Marge forget what I could tell her." said Harry coolly, "And it definitely won't make her forget what I could do to her. Remember Dudley's pigtail?"

Uncle Vernon growled, but no noise came out. After what felt like several minutes, he spoke.

"Fine." he snapped, "I'll monitor your behavior while she's here. If by the end of the week you've stuck to the story and behaved, I'll sign your blasted form."

With that, the eldest Dursley spun around, slamming the door behind him.

-(xXx)-

Harry forced his eyes shut as joyful shrieks echoed from downstairs.

Too soon. Far too soon.

Harry irritably got up from his bed, waving his hand. The bedsheets lazily smoothened out, becoming something Aunt Petunia might have frowned at. To Harry, however, it seemed passable enough.

Emerald eyes flickered around the room, roving over the countless books that were littered across the floor. They first came to rest upon his cauldron, then his trunk, and finally the golden cage that sat upon his desk. A snowy white owl was perched within it. Hedwig watched him carefully, her amber eyes boring into his own.

"You'll have to be quiet for the next week, alright?" Harry whispered, "I'll be in really big trouble if you don't - you can fly outside for most of the time, alright?"

Hedwig hooted softly, her head lowered to the opening of her cage. Harry slid it open, allowing her to gently hop onto his arm. He made his way over to the window by his bed, forcing it open.

"Be back by night time, okay?" said Harry, "And if you get hungry, I suppose."

Hedwig hooted again. She gently nibbled his fingers before taking flight. Harry watched as she soared through the window and out of sight. A loud creaking noise came from the stairway. Harry sighed, turning around and making his way to the door.

"About time." hissed Aunt Petunia as Harry stepped into the hallway, hurrying past him, "Hurry down, your Aunt Marge needs help bringing her luggage up. Go on!"

Harry slowly made his way down the staircase, his eyes carefully scanning the first floor of number four, Privet Drive. To his left was the kitchen, complete with a dining table and one of Aunt Petunia's potted plants. In front of him, the television roared, bright light spewing across the room. To his left -

"Where's my Dudders?" roared a large, beefy woman who looked quite a bit like Uncle Vernon, "Where's my neffy-poo?"

Harry grimaced, watching as his oversized cousin came waddling down the hall.

Aunt Marge was Uncle Vernon's sister, and though she wasn't a blood relative of Harry's, he had been forced to call her 'Aunt' all his life. She lived in the country, in a house with a large garden, where she bred bulldogs. She loved her dogs very much - enough so that she would only ever leave their company once every few years to visit her brother, his wife, and her darling neffy-poo.

Thank Merlin for that.

Harry watched as Dudley quickly pulled away from Aunt Marge's hug, his fat fists wrapped tightly around a twenty-pound note his aunt had given him. Harry looked away, his eyes landing on the suitcase Aunt Marge had dropped. The large, beefy woman slowly turned her gaze to him. Her eyes narrowed.

"So!" she barked, watching him with beady eyes, "Still here, are you?"

"As far as I can tell."

Aunt Marge growled.

"Ungrateful little whelp, aren't you?" she said, spit flying from her lips, "It's damn good of Vernon and Petunia to keep you. Wouldn't have done it myself. You'd have gone straight to an orphanage if you'd been dumped on my doorstep."

That might've been nicer, actually.

Harry paused, the faint image of a worn-out building pressing upon the insides of his skull. Wool's Orphanage loomed in the distance, bits of shattered glass lining the cracked stone path leading up to peeling black gates. The forced smile slowly slipped off his face.

Or maybe not.

Harry frowned, reaching towards Aunt Marge's suitcase and lifting it up from the ground. It was very heavy.

"That's better." said Marge, nodding, "Now you go put that up in the guest bedroom, understood? And if there's anything missing . . ."

She left her threat hanging, following Dudley into the living room. Harry tapped his fingers against the side of the trunk, relaxing as the suitcase suddenly felt lighter.

Growl.

Harry spun around. Sitting by the front door was an old, evil-tempered bulldog. Harry glared at it, watching as its claws pawed at Aunt Petunia's favorite rug.

Ripper.

Harry remembered the dog all too well. Ripper was Aunt Marge's favorite - he had chased Harry up a tree the last time they had visited, a few months before Harry's Hogwarts letter had arrived. The ghost of Dudley's laughter rang in Harry's ears. Harry snarled at the creature.

"Piss off." he snapped dryly, his emerald eyes narrowed at the growling dog, "Or you'll be the one stuck in a tree - and you're not coming down."

Ripper snarled, his sharp paws ripping small tears in Aunt Petunia's rug. Harry stalked past him, dragging Aunt Marge's trunk behind him as he made his way up the stairs. By the time he reached the second floor, Harry was certain his feeble Weightlessness Charm had already faded. He tapped the suitcase again.

A few minutes later, Harry found himself back in his room - or Dudley's second one - staring up at the ceiling. He shifted slightly, the dingy old mattress beneath him shaking.

"Just a week." he muttered to himself, "Just one more week."