MoP

Harry Potter and the Myriad of Possibilities: Betrayal

Chapter 4: The Flight of the Fat Lady

Disclaimer: This is solely a not-for-profit fan activity and does not intend to infringe on copyrights held by Time Warner, DC Comics, Bloomsbury et al, or JK Rowling. Any characters that are original to this work remain the property of the author.

A/N: The Myriad of Possibilities Series primarily uses the background from the Harry Potter books but some elements and scenes have been borrowed from other sources – including the movies, Langmore and my own headcanon – that will be covered where they fit into the narrative. The timeline of the DC Comics elements borrows heavily from Young Justice (2011) and may adapt elements and characters from the comics and several additional other media instalments – including but not limited to Smallville (2001) and Superman and Lois (2021) – and relocates events of Young Justice to the Eighties and early Nineties rather than the New Tens and Twenties as screened and includes several 'legacy' and original characters as a result.

A/N: Thanks to Jon and 6f5e4d for their help on this chapter.

Lochaber.
February 5, 21:16 GMT.

The Gryffindor common room hummed with a low, studious thrum. February's chill seeped in through the stone walls, countered only by the crackling fire in the hearth and the warmth radiating from the huddled groups of students.

Suddenly, a bloodcurdling scream sliced through the quiet. It was followed by another, higher-pitched and laced with terror. Then a series of thudding sounds as if someone was chopping into wood. The low hum of conversation died, replaced by a stunned silence.

Hank jumped to his feet, knocking over his inkwell. Hermione gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. The screams had come from the direction of the portrait hole, their primary exit out of Gryffindor Tower.

Angelina was the first to rise, followed almost immediately by her fellow Prefect, Kenneth Towler, his blond hair gleaming in the firelight. Together, they approached the portrait hole, Angelina knocked on the portrait, her brown knuckles rapping sharply against the wooden frame. Silence. Then she gave the password, but that didn't help either.

Panic began to ripple through the room as it quickly dawned on the students that they might be trapped in the Tower. Whispers turned into anxious murmurs, then into outright chatter. But before complete chaos could erupt, Percy – who had risen to his feet only a breath behind his Prefects but remained behind when they approached the Portrait Hole – strode purposefully to the fireplace and scooped a pinch of Floo Powder into his hand, the emerald dust shimmering in the firelight. With a deep breath, he tossed it into the flames, turning them into an emerald hue. "Professor McGonagall! Urgent!"

The tense waiting that followed felt like an eternity but was probably only a moment or two. Students shifted on their feet, fidgeting, their eyes darting back and forth between the portrait and Percy until the reassuring face of Professor McGonagall appeared in the flames. "Yes, Mr Weasley? What appears to be the problem?"

"We just heard screams and a chopping sound from outside the Common Room and now we can't get out of the Portrait Hole."

"I see," replied the professor. "Are all the Gryffindors accounted for?"

Percy paused, then turned did a headcount, dispatching two of the other prefects –Sakura Akagi and Zakir Akram – to check the dorms when he came up short.

When they reported back a few minutes later that everyone was accounted for, there was a general sigh of relief and everyone relaxed a little, though a slight undercurrent remained as Professor McGonagall promised to investigate immediately and update them as soon as possible.

12:00 GMT.

Nobody had wanted to go to bed, but several of the students had fallen asleep in their chairs while waiting for news. All of them startled awake and looked at the Portrait Hole as it swung open, and Professor McGonagall, her stern face etched with grim determination, stepped through the opening, followed by Remus Lupin, his usual gentle demeanour replaced by a look of steely resolve.

"Sirius Black attempted to breach the tower tonight," Professor McGonagall announced, her voice cutting through the hushed room. "The Fat Lady refused to let him in without a password and he attacked her canvas with a knife, destroying it."

The students began to murmur but quietened when Professor McGonagall cleared her throat. "She fled before her canvas was destroyed and an attempt will be made to restore her in due course."

"What about Black, Professor?" Hank asked.

"The castle has been thoroughly searched and there is no sign of him," Professor McGonagall replied. "However, Professor Lupin has offered to stand guard outside Gryffindor Tower for the remainder of the night just in case he returns, and a temporary guardian will be put in place in the morning."

A collective sigh of relief swept through the room and the Gryffindors rose, making their way back to bed for the last few hours of the night.

February 7.
15:40 GMT.

Taking a break for a moment, Hank glanced around him at the rest of the class, taking in the mixed results that his peers had had with the latest spell: Dean's rabbit had sprouted an extra ear; Neville's had simply fainted; while Hermione was one of only two students to execute the spell flawlessly, her rabbit transforming into a pristine, white satin slipper with a perfectly formed bow.

Professor McGonagall, her spectacles perched on her sharp nose, surveyed the scene with her usual steely gaze as she took in Ron's unfortunate attempt, which had resulted in a rather disgruntled bunny twitching its nose inside a half-formed sock. "Mr. Weasley," she said, her voice ringing clear across the room as she non-verbally reversed the spell. "A little more…finesse… and concentration next time."

"Yes, Professor."

Dropping his head to hide his grin, Hank looked at his own effort, two perfectly executed silver slippers with elaborate rabbit-themed designs on it.
After the class, as the other students bustled out, Professor McGonagall stopped Hank. Her expression was grave, a stark contrast to her usual composed demeanour. "Mr. Lang," she began, her voice low and her expression somber. "I need to speak with you."

"Yes, Professor," Hank agreed and moved to stand by her desk as the classroom emptied.

"There's no point hiding it from you any longer, Potter," she said in a very serious voice. "I know this will come as a shock to you, but Sirius Black…"

"Is after me," Hank finished for her. "Or at least that's what the Ministry and the Headmaster believe."

"How? When?" asked the professor, briefly losing her momentum.

"I was informed about Black's escape at New Year, shortly after the British government was briefed on the matter," Hank told her. "They have a slightly different attitude on disclosure on the Ministry of Magic."

"I see…" McGonagall began. "Why do you think Black escaped?"

"My contacts are… unsure on that," Hank admitted. "But there are some questions about his 'murder' of Peter Pettigrew and the group of Muggles. In fact, they believe that he may have been framed for that by Pettigrew himself."

"Why would he do that?"

"That's the part that they're not sure about," Hank conceded. "There are a couple of theories, but I doubt that we'll know until one of them is found."

"Regardless, I don't think it's a good idea for you to be practicing Quidditch in the evenings… out on the field with only your team members, you'd be very exposed…"

Hank paused for a moment, "You're not wrong, Professor, but I've got to train, or the team will lose…"

"Hmmm…" said Professor McGonagall, getting to her feet and walked to the window, staring out in the direction of the Quidditch field, just visible through the rain. "Well, goodness knows I'd like to see us win the Cup at last… but all the same, Lang… I'd be happier if a member of staff were present. I'll ask Madam Hooch to oversee your practises."

"Thank you, Professor."

Lochaber,
February 10, 20:00 GMT.

"Have you heard from London or the League about Black?" Hank asked as he entered the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom.

Remus nodded. "Faust and Looker searched the surrounding area for most of Sunday, but they didn't find him."

"I guess giant black dogs can be elusive," Hank conceded. "Shall we take another crack at the Dementor?"

"If you're ready?" Remus asked.

Hank nodded. "I've been reworking the spell into my preferred language," he noted. "I think part of the problem last week was that I was trying use words I didn't understand… that might work for wand-magic, but that's not how my magic works, I've got to understand exactly what I'm saying and what I want to happen, or it doesn't work properly."

Remus paused for a moment, then nodded as he moved towards the Boggart's packing crate. "Giovanni said something similar when we talked over Christmas."

"Mi brilas mian lumon super mallumo... ĉar mallumo ne povas elteni la lumon!" Hank chanted. This time, when the fire sparked into life it was now a mixture of green and silver-white flames, which shimmered into a flat, wispy, disk as Hank fled power into it for a moment, then dispelled it.

"Definitely more Patronus-like this time…" Remus observed, hand on the lid of packing crate. "Are you ready?"

"Ready!" Hank confirmed, his voice loud and confident, standing well-braced in his combat stance.

Lupin grasped the lid of the packing case and pulled. The Dementor rose slowly from the box, its hooded face turned toward Hank, one glistening, scabbed hand gripping its cloak. The lamps around the classroom flickered and went out as it stepped out and began to sweep silently toward Hank, drawing a deep, rattling breath.

A wave of piercing cold broke over him. " Mi brilas mian lumon super mallumo..." Hank chanted. " Ĉar mallumo ne povas elteni la lumon!"

The magical shield billowed out from his hand and moved to hover between him and the Dementor. Hank bore down on it, putting as much power into it as possible, but after a moment felt his awareness drifting away again and his knees beginning to buckle…

21:16 GMT.

"You're doing well, Hank," Remus assured him after rousing him for a third time. "You held it a lot longer this time, so I think that even if you can't improve before the match next month, you'll still be able to hold them off long enough to get you to the ground if needed."

"Maybe if there's only one," Hank countered. "It needs to be a long stronger to protect me from a group, and I'd rather see of a single Dementor rather than just hold it at bay."

"I can understand that," Remus agreed. "But I have confidence that you'll get the hang of it in time."

"Hopefully sooner rather than later," Hank said. "I want to take one more run at it tonight… it felt like I nearly had it at the end last time."

"Only once more," Remus insisted as he took his position once more. "It's already after curfew and you have lessons tomorrow."

Hank mumbled agreement, then took a deep breath as the Dementor stepped out of its prison again. "Mi brilas mian lumon super mallumo... ĉar mallumo ne povas elteni la lumon!"

This time the spell felt different… stronger… and sure enough its form solidified, snapping into a silver-white diamond-shaped shield with green flames picked out a familiar logo.

The Dementor stopped, apparently trying to sense this new magic, then started drifting backwards, losing coherence and briefly flickering into the form of the full moon before Remus was able to return it to the case.

"Well, that doesn't really surprise me," Hank observed. "The symbol – the el mayarah glyph – might have meant 'stronger together' in the original Kryptonese… But on Earth – and to me in particular – it means hope and protection."

Smallville.
February 12, 08:16 CST.

The weak winter sun did nothing warm the humid, cloudless day as Linda stepped out of her aunt's sedan, her breath making clouds around her and walked toward the Freeman cabin, then knocked on the door, which was opened by Mrs Freeman.

"Linda!" said Mrs Freeman, the frail old woman's face twisting into a smile. "I can't thank you for what you've done for my granddaughter."

"It's just what I do," Linda said, offering her own smile. "Is Savannah around?"

"Is that Linda, Bibi?" asked a soft voice from inside the cabin.

"Yes, my child," replied Mrs Freeman, stepping aside to allow her granddaughter to come to the door.

"Ready for that makeover?" Linda asked Savannah, brightly.

Savannah's first response was a hesitant nod. Her large, amber eyes held a flicker of confusion. "But… I couldn't… I tried, but…" Her voice trailed off, the unspoken difficulties hanging heavy in the air.

Linda chuckled, a bright sound in the crisp morning. "Don't worry about that. A friend of mine sorted it all out as favour."

Savannah frowned, "Why would you use a favour for me? How can I?"

"Friends do favours for each other and don't keep count," Linda assured her. "Besides, he feels that he owes me his life and livelihood, so even if he was keeping track…" Which she reflected, wasn't impossible, Lucas wasn't a typical friend. "I'm well in the 'win column'."

"Linda, the appointment is at nine-thirty, we need to get going if we're going!" her aunt reminded her.

"Savannah?" Linda asked curiously.

"Bibi?"

"If you want to, my child."

Savannah nodded and then slipped on her parka and boots and followed Linda to the car.

Edge City.
09:20 CST.

Studio 16 buzzed with activity. The air hummed with the quiet intensity of powerful hair dryers and the cheerful murmur of stylists and clients. Lana, ever practical, asked, "Should I wait, or do you two want to explore after you're done?"

Linda, already pulling Savannah towards a colourful display of hair products, declared, "Savannah and I will be fine, Aunt Lana. We'll meet you at that restaurant Lucas recommended for dinner tonight."

The salon was a whirlwind of scents and sounds, a stark contrast to Savannah's quiet existence. Linda, thrilled with the opportunity to play chaperone, pointed out quirky details, engaging Savannah in small talk to ease her visible apprehension. The stylist assigned to Savannah, a bubbly, motherly Senegalese American woman named Candy, was patient and gentle. She listened intently as Savannah, with surprising precision, explained her desires: a style that wouldn't require excessive time or elaborate products. A short, sleek Afro, she declared, something manageable and stylish.

While Candy worked her magic, Linda explored the salon, peering over shoulders and admiring the various transformations. She observed the way Candy's deft hands moved over and through Savannah's hair, shifting between tools with the confidence of a seasoned professional.

When Candy revealed the finished look, Savannah stared mesmerized in the mirror. The short Afro framed her face perfectly, highlighting her cheekbones and the surprising brightness of her eyes. A smile, hesitant at first, gradually bloomed across her features. It was a smile that reached her eyes, a transformation as profound as the one in her hair.

"I… I love it," Savannah whispered, her voice choked with emotion. It wasn't just the new hairstyle; it was a symbol of a fresh start, a shedding of the past.

11:30 CST.

"Why is it so cold…?" muttered Savannah as they left Studio 16 and glared up at the sun. "There's plenty of sun."

"You'll get used to it," Linda told her, and reached over to pull the other girl's hood up. "Maybe that'll help."

"A little," agreed the other girl after a moment.

"On the plus side, it's dry and there's not much wind," Linda noted, and set off without any particular destination in mind.

Savannah trotted for a moment to catch up, then slowed to keep pace. "Where are we going?"

"I'm not sure…" Linda admitted. "But something's telling me going this way is a good idea… maybe even important."

Savannah's breath caught for a moment at the comment, then relaxed again. "After you then."

The two girls continued on, following Linda's vague sense of where to go, with Savannah holding up most of the conversation chattering about her experience at Studio 16, until they reached the churned up, half-frozen bank of the river and Linda spotted a small piece of dark wood floating amongst the debris and chunks of ice.

Something about it hummed with a low, almost imperceptible energy. This piece of wood was more than just wood; it felt… charged… maybe even dangerous.

Without thinking, Linda reached out a hand, pointing at the piece of wood. "Lasse dieses Okject schweben," she muttered, and it was enveloped in a fiery-red globe of magic that tugging it from the river. "Komm zu mir."

"It's a mask?" Savannah noted curiously as it got closer. "Why would that be…?"

"Halt!" Linda insisted just before it got close enough for either of them to touch it. "There are a few possibilities, none of them good."

Savannah eyed the mask warily, which had two simple eye holes, a mouth hole and a metal nose piece and almost looked like it had been carved from tree bark, rather than regular wood. "What are we going to do?"

"Get rid of it properly," Linda replied, switching the hand that was controlling the mask and its containment orb so that she could burrow a packet of her puffer jacket for her phone. She thumbed a speed-dial button and held it up.

"This is the Watchtower."

"Steel, this is Raven, I need a specialist containment team for a possible high-risk chaos magic artefact to this location… Priority Red."

"Understood, should I contact Zatanna?"

"Negative, it's not an active threat, we just need to make sure it doesn't become one," Linda replied, then remembers something that she and Lucas had talked about. "It may be related to the 'green-faced lunatic in the Zoot suit' reports back in October."

"I think I read about that," Steel said. "I'll make some calls."

16:00 CST.

"I think that's our back-up," Linda declared as a black helicopter appeared from behind a building and began to descend towards them, kicking up a swirl of mud and water.

Two warmly dressed men emerged and walked towards the girls, their bearing typical of governments of some sort.

"Which one of you is Raven?" asked the taller of the two, an imposing silver-haired man in South Carolina drawl.

"And you are?" Linda replied, trying to ignore the slight aura of menace that he exuded by shifting her focus to the other agent, a shorter, stockier slightly nervous man.

"I'm Dr Arthur Nielsen," replied the stocky man, a little gruffly. "He's James MacPherson, we're with the Secret Service."

Linda doubted that, a belief that was not assuaged by their identification, but decided that the timing pretty much required that they were the collection team that Steel had commissioned, so she floated the mask in their direction.

"The Mask of Loki," observed Dr Nielsen once he got a good look at it. "We've been looking for this since October."

"Zoot Suit Man?" Linda asked him as he drew a pair of purple examination gloves and a large plastic envelope from his holdall.

"What do you know about that?" asked MacPherson suspiciously.

Linda shrugged. "Not much," she assured him. "Just what a friend of mine spotted in the newspapers at the time. I didn't even bother to check the Justice League's files."

Dr Nielsen, now wearing the gloves, held the empty envelope towards Linda. "Drop the artifact slowly in here… there may be a discharge."

Linda did so, blinking slightly at the cracking electrical sparks that emanated from the envelope for a moment before Dr Nielsen was able to close it. "That should keep it contained until we can get it back to the Warehouse."

"Thank you for your assistance and co-operation," said MacPherson as the two agents turned back towards the helicopter, his smile not reaching his eyes.
Linda smiled back but remained silent until they were out of earshot. "I don't like him."

"MacPherson?" asked Savannah.

Linda nodded. "And I don't think they're Secret Service either."
"So, what should we do?"
"I'll make a report to Black Lightning and copy in Tigress, they'll decide what to do from there," Linda replied. "Let's go, I'm hungry."

17:16 CST

"Good afternoon, girls," said Aunt Lana as she joined them outside Kuaizi, a Pan-Asian restaurant that buzzed with the low hum of conversation and the clatter of chopsticks. The air inside was thick with the aroma of ginger, garlic, and something subtly sweet and spicy that Linda couldn't quite place.

"Welcome to Kuaizi," said the hostess, a young woman with a severe bun and a broad smile. "What name is it?"

"We haven't got a reservation," Aunt Lana admitted. "We were hoping…"

The woman face fell a little, but she retained her professional poise. "I'm afraid we're very busy today, so we're not taking walk-ins at the moment."

"That sucks," Linda said with a sigh. "I've wanted have dinner here ever since Lucas first mentioned it."

The woman's poise began to falter. "You know Mr Lowell?"

Linda nodded, "Well, I know Lucas, I haven't… had the pleasure of meeting his father."

The hostess made an unprofessional snort – Linda had a feeling that she didn't think there would any pleasure involved – and consulted a small clipboard, then, as Linda suspected she might, gave a slight nod and signalled another member of staff.

"Take them to Number Sixteen, Mei."

The other woman paused for a moment, giving the hostess a confused look, then nodded. "Follow me, please."

"After you," Linda confirmed, and the waitress led them through the crowded restaurant, past tables laden with steaming dishes and chattering comfortably dressed diners. She stopped at a secluded booth tucked away in a quieter corner, a perfect vantage point overlooking the bustling room. It was undeniably Lucas's booth, a special one set aside for a loyal and favoured customer.

As they settled down, Lana's gaze fell upon Savannah. "Studio 16 did an amazing job with your hair, Savannah," she commented, her voice warm and genuine. "It really suits you."

Savannah, momentarily shy, touched the coils gently. "Thank you, ma'am," she said gratefully. "I feel much better too."

"So, what did you do after you finished at the salon?" Lana asked.

"We went for a walk," Linda told her. "We ended up spending most of the day down by the river."

"By the river?" Lana repeated. "It's a bit cold for swimming."

"Yes, ma'am," agreed Savannah, only now comfortable enough to shed her coat.

"I was… drawn to something," Linda admitted after a moment. "A wooden mask that was floating the water."

"What happened then?" asked her aunt, a nervous edge creeping into her voice.

"Don't worry, Aunt Lana, I didn't put it on," Linda assured her, dropping her voice to a whisper. "I didn't even touch it. As soon as I realised that it was real I contacted the Watchtower and Steel sent someone to pick it up and lock it up somewhere safe."

"I'm glad to hear it," said her aunt, relief clear in her voice as the waitress returned with some water to ask if they were ready to order.