L.O.S.T III

LAST CHAPTER: Harry, Susan and Daphne venture into Knockturn Alley, seeking to complete a 'potion' to uncover Harry's potential ancestral connection to Salazar Slytherin. Unfortunately, they prove the opposite and are interrupted by an unfriendly- sounding knocking on the door of their room…

"Who is it?" Harry called, keeping his wand pointed squarely at the door. He turned into his preferred stance and bent his knees slightly.

For a moment, there was silence – as if whoever was on the other side was debating with each other how to respond.

"Auror Department," came the answer. His accent was rough and southern—a Londoner, and not what Harry would associate with the Magical police. "We've 'ad reports of queer happenin's in this room. Open the door."

Glancing down at the ritual-imbued paper – it was still writing – Harry thought they were more right than they knew. But, of course, they were lying. He turned to his friends, ice in his veins.

They were by the window. Susan looked angry, ready to fight; Daphne… Daphne looked afraid.

Very afraid.

"Open the curtains," Harry stage-whispered to them. "Get ready to jump – and hold hands. Trust me."

He returned his attention to the door before either could respond. "I don't believe you," he told them. "Why don't you leave instead?"

…

…

"Okay, lad," said the voice beyond the door, "you asked for this."

BANG!

The door groaned in protest, bulging around its hinges.

Harry swallowed heavily. These people weren't messing about.

BANG!

Screeching in protest, the door was ripped away from the wall, falling with a clatter on the carpet. Smoke blew from the doorway, concealing two distinct figures. Adult figures, he saw, and likely men. No way was it a fight they could win.

But they had to get through the narrowing of the doorway; that was his only advantage… "Relashio, Rictusempra, Locomotor Mortis!" The school-hall spells flew from his wand at pace, a gaggle of bright lights. They looked rather pathetic, Harry thought, outside Hogwarts. He almost felt embarrassed to cast them, especially after reading Curses Most Terrible. Though that was the point; they were no danger at all, so easily shielded against… Come on, Harry thought, use a shield.

While Curses Most Terrible had revealed his weakness, it also showed him a method to stall. All he needed was for one of the attackers to cast a shield.

The spells flew inexorably toward their target. He still couldn't see the glint of a shield. Harry felt his heart hammering in his heart. Come on, do it…

"Protego," the taller figure said. The smoke was vanishing now, revealing that the Wizards arrayed against him were dressed plainly in dark cloaks, their hoods concealing their faces.

They were not dressed as Aurors. "You'll 'ave to try 'arder than that, kid."

"Oh," Harry said, eyeing the glimmer of his shield. He made two wide loops with his wand, then flicked up once. "I know. Excrumptura!*"

A great green arrow burst forth thus, rocketing straight at the doorway.

The shorter Wizard gasped. "Put your shie-"

It was far too late. Excrumptura pricked the Protego like a thorn, embedding itself within. It was a particularly nasty shield-disruptor, a type of spell that interfered with the workings of most shields. Excrumptura was an interesting one. While useless against anything except a shield, the thorn would burrow itself inside when it came into contact with an immaterial shield. It became like a virus, sucking power from the shield to wield against the caster. Power down the shield, and it would explode; interact with the shield, and it would explode. Now, his own shield was blocking his way into the room.

Harry didn't wait to see their reaction; he turned toward the window, where Susan and Daphne were still waiting. He sprinted toward them.

"Come on!" he said, taking Susan's hand. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes!"

"No!"

"-Never mind. Get on the ledge." He waited just a moment as Daphne breathed a shaky sigh before acquiescing. "Arresto Momento!"

Ever since he'd seen Professor Dumbledore employ the charm during a Quidditch game, he'd been practising the spell. As he jumped out the window, Harry hoped he'd gotten it right. He fell alarmingly quickly toward the cobbled ground below, the wind whooshing by his ears. He could hear Daphne shrieking beside him, her voice caught in the air.

And at that moment, Harry realised that, in casting the charm on three people at once, the spell's potency was definitely reduced… Merlin.

He bent his knees and braced as best as he could.

The ground came up at him hard, and then there was the moment of impact. He felt his ankles protest; pain sprung from his feet, climbing upwards like a coil of terrible ivy. He heard Susan cry out beside him.

Harry took a moment to reorientate himself. He still had four limbs… and his legs weren't broken. He hoped. Daphne was looking at him angrily, while Susan was holding her ankle.

Damn.

"Are you okay?"

"You idiot!" Daphne said, butting between them, her finger wagging, "why didn't you tell us you were going t-"

"I'm fine!" Susan shouted. "I'm fine, and your concern is appreciated, but we don't have time to argue!"

No, Harry thought, glancing up at the window. They didn't. "Back to Diagon, let's go." He set off at a quick march, knowing that running would only attract unwanted attention. He heard Susan breathe out shakily beside him. Daphne had gone very white; once more, he wished he could see behind her glasses. Both were looking back occasionally, and Harry didn't blame them.

Soon they had turned a few corners from the Merlin's Regard. They had heard nothing behind them, no clue of where their attackers had gone. Had his curse stumped them, Harry wondered? One of them, at least, seemed to recognise it.

Whapp whapp whapp; Daphne almost cried out as a dark shape launched past her. Harry's hand darted to his now sheathed wand… until he saw that it was a raven. He heard the Slytherin girl mutter something that sounded like Latin.

Susan, meanwhile, was grimacing. And, Harry saw, limping – though she'd been trying to hide it. That was his fault, he knew. His momentum-slowly curse had been too weak. Perhaps he should've pushed them out the window first, then followed? Had he been panicking himself? He cast his mind back to the momen-

"Harry?"

Harry blinked. They were suddenly back in Diagon Alley, with its drifting lights and its safety.

And Susan and Daphne were staring at him. "Sorry, I was miles away." "You took the paper, didn't you?" Daphne said, almost pleadingly.

The paper… as he searched the pockets of his robe, Harry's mind returned to that moment – the moment it had started writing. M-A-R-R-O-K.

He grasped the sheet and sighed. That was not a Muggle name. "I have it." They crowded around him as he unfolded the paper.

"Morgana," Daphne cursed.

Susan's grimace only intensified.

For above his mother's name sat her own mother and father, his grandparents; Marrok Gaunt and Apollonia Black.

"I don't know who those people are," Harry said, "but I'm guessing they're not Muggles." Daphne tore her gaze away from the family tree; she was looking at him with new intensity, with something incomprehensible hidden behind her dark-shaded glasses.

"They aren't, Harry. In fact-"

"-Wait," Susan entreated, "can we discuss this tomorrow? You know – in Hogwarts, where we're actually supposed to be?"

Daphne paused. "... That's probably for the best."

…

…

Susan had been staring at him all morning. She'd woken up early to go to the Hospital Wing for her sprained ankle (her excuse being she'd hurt herself on a trick stair) and had returned as Harry settled down for his reading before breakfast. She hadn't said much but had watched him pensively, a strange expression on her face.

Her attention had followed him through Charms, then through a dull History of Magic lesson. Binns had waffled on about the third Wizard-Goblin War, while Professor Flitwick demonstrated a rather charming charm that made ink sketches leap off the page and perform tiny, animated scenes, much to the delight of the class.

It hadn't quite been enough to settle Harry's approaching sense of dread.

Finally, lunch arrived. Harry and Susan set off toward the old Duelling Hall. He felt rather like a prisoner marching to the block.

Daphne was already waiting for them at the customary table.

"Hello," she said. She didn't even look at Susan.

"Afternoon," Harry managed to return. He sat opposite her, and Susan sat beside him. Then there was silence. They all looked at each other. What, Harry thought dryly, was the Wizarding expression? There was a Nundu in the castle, and no one wanted to see it. "Well," Daphne finally began, "well, you are the Heir of Slytherin-" At Susan's angry look, she was quick to correct herself. "-one of them. Your cousin is meaner than you, whoever he is." My cousin, Harry thought. It was true… whoever it was, was probably his cousin. He felt strangely numb. "Who are they? My… my grandparents, I mean. I recognise the name Black from somewhere, but the Gaunts…"

He watched Daphne and Susan share a long look. They knew, and it wasn't particularly good. "The Gaunts are one of Slytherin's descendant families," Susan said. "The only family that survived the purges."

"They were once called the Gants," Daphne said, "that's what they were called in that book – Slytherin's Strategy. They continued with his ideas after all the other distaff lines were hunted down and… you know."

There was a tinge of redness to Daphne's pale cheeks, and Harry suddenly realised why.

Slytherin spawned a dozen cousinly families to retain his gift within the Slytherin line, but if the

Gaunts carried on after all the other lines were dead… "Oh."

"They, er, lasted quite a while," Susan interjected. "The Gaunt family was large, and magic has a way of fighting… problems like that. But eventually even magic couldn't help generations of – of cousin marriage, and they fell into poverty."*

Daphne nodded. "Little more than Squibs at the end."

Was that who Marrok Gaunt was, then? An angry, inbred Squib?

"And Apollonia Black?"

"That's interesting. It doesn't make any sense." Daphne said. "Do you really not know about the Black family?"

Harry tried to trace the name through his memory, but came up with very little. "Not really. I think I've heard of them. I gave up learning British Magical history a while ago. It's bloody mind-bending."

"The Blacks are probably the premier Magical family in the country – or they were," Daphne explained. "Before the Eeyrian faction was called the Eeyrian faction, it was the Black Block.

The Blacks were the most powerful, wealthiest family in the country–"

"–And they were known for their ruthlessness and cruelty–" Susan interrupted.

Daphne frowned. "That's more a point of view than the truth. But the Black Block rarely held true power; the other factions always outnumbered them. Eventually, they grew tired of fighting a losing battle, and with the rise of the Dark Lord, they joined the Gampists. Black gold funded the Dark Lord's army, and Bellatrix Black married a Lestrange. Soon she was feared – a madwoman, the Dark Lord's most feared lieutenant."

"And then," Susan continued, looking at him meaningfully. "The Dark Lord fell, and the Blacks with them."

Harry took a long moment to absorb it all. His eyes glanced back down at the paper, tracing over the names. Marrok Gaunt; Apollonia Black. No dates were given, but since his mother was born in 1960, that placed their own births at around 1940 or earlier…

"So, if the Blacks were still important until a decade or so ago, when did the Gaunt family fall?"

"Ah," Daphne said, "you've noticed. That's what's interesting: the early twentieth century. You're right; it's too late. Marrok Gaunt and Apollonia Black, whoever they are, shouldn't have met. Marrok would've been living in poverty – too poor to go to Hogwarts – while Appolonia was a daughter of a still-great family. Something strange happened, something inexplicable."

Harry felt his stomach turn. Technically, Daphne had repaid her debt for the Poglotki cube; she didn't have to investigate his grandparents now he knew who they were. Would she? He hated the idea of asking for help. "Magic, maybe," Harry said wryly, pushing his anxiety down. "I'll figure it out," Daphne said, "but it may take a few weeks. They'll be something in the archives."

Thank Merlin. He gave her his best smile. "Thank you."

It was then that Susan coughed pointedly, and Daphne's lips thinned; her expression darkened at once. Looking between the two, neither seemed particularly happy. Both appeared as though they would rather be anywhere else.

"What?"

"Well," Susan began, "That's… not all. There are… rumours, you see, ones you should probably be told about. There's a… well–"

"The Black family is cursed," Daphne blurted out. "Probably twice over."

Cursed? He'd heard the gossip that the Defence Against the Dark Arts post was cursed, but a whole family, cursed? "Is that even possible?"

"Yes," Susan assured, "they're not the only ones. The Wilkes family have suffered for two centuries now from a curse cast on them by Aldous Rookwood. He died a few years ago, and the Wilkes family hoped the curse would die with him. It didn't."

Harry struggled to imagine the stretch of time, the depth of hate required to cast such a thing.

The thought made him ill; and worse, his own grandmother was a Black. "So, what about the

Black curse? Who cast that?"

"That's the thing," Susan said gravely. "No one has claimed it. There's no evidence of a great ritual, either. Aldous Rookwood had to kidnap a Wilkes to use his blood. Nothing of the sort has happened to a Black in the last hundred years, which is as long as it has supposedly been active."

"But still," Daphne continued in a hushed tone; for once, they seemed in a terrible synchronicity, as sombre as a storm-stricken funeral. "Members of the Black family are… unlucky. They die long before their time. Squibs appear unusually often in their line, and…"

For once, Daphne seemed reluctant to say something. She could barely look him in the eye. "And," she murmured, so quietly he strained to hear, "and they are – they are vulnerable to bouts of… instability and obsession – truthfully, they… they often go insane."

Ice settled in Harry's veins, searing cold and fearful. That was why she couldn't look at him.

Insanity, the word echoed in his head, obsession.

His head felt like it would split open and break like a cracked egg. His vision swam; Harry blinked rapidly, choking out the words, "It's… it's just one grandmother. Right?"

"Two," Susan corrected solemnly. "Dorea Potter was born Dorea Black. Honestly Harry, looking at your family tree, you're more Black than Potter."

Harry stared down at the accursed paper on the table, and he suddenly felt like it was taunting him. His eyes, unbidden, traced the name Black. It couldn't be right. It was just superstition, right? No one ever claimed the curse. Yes, that had to be it; that was where the story crumbled. Who would be able to resist boasting about their victory over the Black family if they were as vital as he'd been told?

Merlin, his head was pounding.

"I-I don't know what to say… what to say to that." Harry said weakly. "No one claimed responsibility for the Black curse, right, but surely there are theories?" Susan and Daphne exchanged long, meaningful glances.

"The Malfoys, people say, or the Burkes, but both are unlikely," Susan explained. "The Malfoys had motive as political rivals, but not the means. The Burkes and the Blacks had disagreements at the time, but nothing so bad they'd risk such a risky ritual."

Daphne swallowed heavily. "Others – and I'm not saying this is true – others say it was a Daemon, or… or the Devil himself."

The pounding in his head was like a hammer now. Smash, smash, smash against his forehead, right on his scar. Incest, curses, hatred, fear; his mind was full of too many terrible things. What was he supposed to do with it all? "Great," he eventually croaked out, "I'm the child of a cursed family and incest. That's not what I set out to prove with all – all this."

Susan smiled sympathetically and, gingerly, took his hand in hers. Her touch was soothing. Harry tried his best to steady himself. He breathed deeply, forcing his eyes away from his family tree. He examined the old Duelling Hall, smelling the familiar scent of varnished wood coming to the fore. Slender, golden light was dappling through the slits in the long, thin windows.

Susan, her hair red like blood, was smiling at him still.

And there was Daphne. Her dark glasses obscured her eyes, but her body language betrayed her discomfort. She, too, didn't know how to handle this.

Harry felt the pressure in his head begin to recede.

"I suppose," he eventually said – and he was pleased to hear that his voice was stronger now,

"that I need to know how my mother's grandparents met. I need to know how it happened." Susan squeezed his hand. "It probably won't lead us to the Heir," she warned.

Despite himself, Harry smiled and squeezed back. Susan, he thought fondly, always practical; she had already moved onto the backup plan – if they couldn't prove he wasn't the Heir, then if they could still find the real culprit.

"The other Heir, you mean," he said. "I've still got to know. Call it my new obsession." Susan's other hand arced straight into Harry's shoulder. "Idiot."

"I'll figure it out," Daphne reassured. "And it's not all bad. Now you can call yourself a Pureblood."

While Susan rolled her eyes, Harry quickly fired another joke. It was better than crying, wasn't it? "Perhaps a little too pure."

It was then Daphne's turn for the customary punch to the shoulder.

…

…

Yet two weeks later, Daphne had found nothing. It showed, too; she was becoming frustrated, and her frustration bled into her duelling. Susan had been winning most of their bouts as of late, as had Corner when he'd turned up a week ago. Harry, meanwhile, continued to work through Battle Transfiguration.

Outside of practice, his 'cousin' had become strangely silent. There were no more attacks, and the castle seemed to simmer down once more. It helped, too, that a warm spell arrived at Hogwarts as March approached.

Though still chilly, a bright sun was more often than not breaking through the clouds, casting ethereal light on the grounds of the school. Students were spending more time outside – where, it was reasonably assumed, Slytherin's Monster could not reach them. A few daring sixth years even had a picnic, wrapping themselves in so many wintery layers they resembled beached seals. Others – perhaps more sensibly – organised pick- up Quidditch games to compensate for the lack of a Quidditch cup.

Harry watched them enviously. He enjoyed flying and loved competition but didn't know how they'd react if he asked to join. Nowadays, most of the students seemed to carefully ignore him. Sometimes he found it quite funny, knowing what he knew – in a sense, he was an Heir of Slytherin.

Just not the Heir. It was a fact he'd had to reconcile quickly. He had no other choice; he couldn't break down in the middle of the year, not when he was under so much pressure, when so many eyes were watching.

Harry hadn't had any luck discovering the identity of his 'cousin', either. Leads were scarce, to say the least. No Gaunt had been enrolled in Hogwarts for a century. None before his mother, at least, and she had gone under the name of Evans… a family, he now knew, who must've adopted her at some point.

That made his past complicated. From Hagrid's descriptions, Lily Potter was a fierce and willfully Muggleborn witch - much like Hermione Granger. She'd fought for Muggleborn rights against Voldemort, who also claimed to be the Heir of Slytherin; and who must've been her cousin. Did his mother secretly know it? Had she discovered her own Parseltongue ability? Or had she died – unknowingly – to her own family?

The thought kept him up at night, staring at the canopy of his four-poster bed.

As did his other central quandary, should he approach Alan, Hermione and Longbottom? They, too, were researching the Heir of Slytherin; they could have some clue he'd missed. Hermione especially he knew to be an excellent researcher.

On the other hand, she only had access to the same books his own group had. Since the Gaunt connection went nowhere, Harry and Susan (Daphne was busy researching the Gaunt-Black connection, and couldn't be seen in public with them anyway) were spending their time trying to narrow down the nature of Slytherin's Monster.

It was a long process of elimination. There were more creatures in the Magical World than Harry imagined, more than he'd gleaned from his perusals of Creatures of Land, Sea and Sky and Adelita Land's lectures. But nothing could easily evade detection within the school walls, live a thousand years, and petrify its victims. It was impossible.

Harry sighed, turning another page of Most Macabre Monstrosities. No, he thought, it couldn't be a Chinese Flying Wyrm. Its wingspan was wider than the corridors. A fascinating creature, though; apparently, it could speak human languages and had a penchant for telling lethal riddles.

Sighing, Harry glanced around the room. Except for him, the old Duelling Hall was empty. Susan had gone to the toilet.

Rain pattered against the window. A yellow flame emitted from four charred sconces, casting mellow light through on a sea of stacked chairs and century-old desks. He'd seen it many times… except what was that?

Something gleamed beneath a chair, something that hadn't been there before. Harry focused on the object. Whatever it was, it was small. Curious, he stood and wandered over to the desk, bending down to retrieve… a book?

No, he realised, faint interest stirring within him, a diary. 1943 was written on the front in faded golden letters. He caressed the rutted spine and opened it. The owner had written – likely back in 1943, judging by the smudging of the writing – T.M. Riddle. Who was T.M Riddle? And how had his old diary found its way under a chair in the old Duelling Hall?

Just then, the door creaked open. Harry felt the strange urge to hide the diary behind his back as he turned to see Daphne enter. She was pacing – smiling, even, as she saw him. She was clutching a faded photograph in her hand.

"I've found it," she said, "I've found it."

"Found what?"

Harry found the back of the photograph shoved in front of his face. It was full of loopy handwriting, even more faded than the diary, which was rapidly losing his attention. He tried to read it but got nothing beyond the odd first name. Jacob? Florentina? "Erm…"

Daphne scoffed and flipped the picture around. Robed, smiling figures – all in black and white – faced him. She pointed to a tall, dark-haired woman. "Appolonia," she said (Harry's eyes widened), "and Marrok." Beside Appolonia was an even taller, though much broader man, whose similarly black hair hung to his shoulders.

Harry desperately searched for himself in their faces but felt he couldn't be sure. They were smiling, though. He tried his best to absorb the warmth in their eyes, to burn their image into his memories. "Who… who are these people? The whole group, I mean."

Daphne's face seemed to tighten, her brow furrowing. "I don't know. All it says on the back is L-O-S-T. Lost."

Harry frowned. Lost? He gingerly took the photograph from Daphne, who relinquished it willingly. She was right; in the top left corner, neatly underlined, were the letters L.O.S.T. An acronym, but what did it mean? He scanned the names again but couldn't make out any of them beyond Jacob and Florentina. "These people," Harry said, "most of them should still be alive, right?"

"I could only find one," said Daphne. "Which is worrying – they wouldn't even be a hundred. Lucinder Avery lives above Magical Menagerie." Daphne smiled sardonically. "You've been walking past her every time you go to Diagon Alley."

Harry looked back down at the names on the photograph. Now she'd said it, he could see her name clearly. He turned the picture around again, and if the names corresponded to faces, Lucinder was a slight, pretty blonde woman with a dimpled chin.

"Looks like we're going to Diagon again," Harry said.

He couldn't help but notice as Daphne paled. Had their last visit to Diagon affected her? Soon after, he tucked the diary into his book bag. They waited for Susan to arrive, then discussed their latest endeavour to break the rules.

GLOSSARY:

*Excrumptura - from the Latin excrumpere, to burst or break out.

*When repeated over generations, cousin marriage becomes an increasingly bad idea. Saying that, I've seen some research that marrying your second or third cousin is actually the most genetically healthy option… not that marriage is that simple, of course! I'm not sure that most younger teenagers would know the specifics of this, but Harry has read enough Magical History to understand.

A/N

Fair warning, L.O.S.T's tale is as gruesome as it is tragic.

On a lighter note, has there ever been a Hufflepuff-Harry-who-is-also-a-legitimate-Heir-of-Slytherin story? Not that The Duellist's Harry is a very good Hufflepuff.

If you've got a moment, please leave a review. :)

NEXT CHAPTER:

Harry and his friends venture, once more, into Diagon Alley, this time to visit Lucinder Avery.