Harry Potter and the Babylonian Deity: A Harry Potter/Sinister Crossover Fan Fiction Story

Picture done by me, May 2016

*Author’s Note:  This short story is a crossover between two movies, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone (and the other movies) and Sinister.  I do not own the rights to either movie.  Most of the events in the story take place two years before Harry got his Hogwarts letter, and it takes place when Ellison Oswalt published his first book Kentucky Blood—so it takes place before the events in the first Sinister movie.  As this story jumps back and forth in time, pay attention to the year so you can keep it straight.  This story is probably more geared to Sinister fans.  Harry Potter fans may not like what I’m doing with their characters, as to make them fit the Sinister theme, I’m making them less admirable.  There may be spoilers to the movies.

If anyone is interested, I'm also doing an audiobook of this story on one of my Youtube Channels.  Here is the link for the first video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C0SfyaKeTD4

CHAPTER 1: The Letters and the Owls

YEAR 1998

The owl swooped down from the clouds.  It stared intently at the scenery below, which was rather uninteresting in its uniformity.  There were rows upon rows of identical houses on evenly proportioned lots.  This area was all about conformity.  Not one house even dared to paint its walls a slightly lighter shade of the agreed upon tan color.

If anyone had been out, they may have been shocked to see an owl.  It was not an extraordinary looking owl.  However, owls were not common in this area.  Lack of trees and even the scarcity of shrubs discouraged most wild life from taking residence.  This was probably the intention, for wild birds would make a nuisance of themselves by bombing cars and laundry and singing too early in the morning.

This owl, though, wasn’t quite as ordinary as it seemed.  It was from the wizard world, a world that most people that lived below didn’t not even know existed.

Spotting its destination, the owl dived lower.  It instinctively knew where to go, but the destination was easy to spot—sticking out like a sore thumb among its well-manicured neighbors.

At one time, 4 Privet Drive had resembled the neighboring houses in being well-maintained and conforming to the cookie cutter mold.  However, two years earlier, something bad had happened—something that wasn’t supposed to happen in neighborhoods like this.

Since the tragedy, the house had become a stain on the neighborhood.  Though it sported the same paint color as all the rest, it seemed darker…more brooding and spooky.  The yard was overgrown.

It was an eyesore the neighbors all begrudged, particularly those who lived next door to it.  In fact, one of the neighbors soon sold her house to move into a matching house down the street, not being able to stand living next door to THAT house.

It was the house that everyone tried to pretend didn’t exist, as if that lot had a void.  People walked by it as quickly as possible, and some crossed to the opposite side of the street.  The hair on animals would stand up when they neared the property.  The friendliest of pets would suddenly whine with fear or snarl.  Sometimes they seemed to see something no one else could see.  Children would dare each other to enter the yard, but stray balls or Frisbees became permanent residents as no one was brave enough to enter.

The owl didn’t pick up on any of these bad vibes, intent on its task—which was to deliver a letter.  It slowed and neatly flung the letter through the mail slot.

Mission accomplished, it landed on the roof.  It had a long journey, and it was feeling a bit peckish.  Fortunately, the overgrown yard was perfect for attracting mice.  The owl scrutinized a corner of the yard in particular.  Suddenly, it flew down with lightning reflexes and grabbed something in its talons.  There was an abruptly cut off squeak.

Inside the house, a letter laid on the floor.  Its contents would have upset the former owners, and probably would have made one little boy happy.  However, no one now would come to pick it up.  The house was empty, and the only creatures that stirred within were the spiders and mice.

*     *     *     *     *

Professor Dumbledore was standing in the clock tower, admiring the view.

“Professor Dumbledore?” Professor McGonagall’s voice interrupted the headmaster’s reverie.

Dumbledore turned and smiled, “Yes, Professor McGonagall?”

Though they had worked together for years, they rarely called each other by their first names.  He could only recall her calling him Albus once—and that was the night the Potters had been killed.  The shock of the situation, no doubt, had caused her to resort to familiarity.

“Harry Potter’s…guardians,” she said with distaste, “have failed to respond to the letter I sent.”

Dumbledore sighed heavily and sat down, “Ah, well, that was to be expected.”

“What do you propose to do about it?”

He smiled wryly, “Keep writing until the letters become impossible to ignore.”

*     *     *     *     *

Nobody had noticed the one owl, but as time went on it became impossible to ignore the growing army of owls that came down from the heavens and seemed drawn by a magnet to 4 Privet Drive.

“As if it isn’t bad enough what happened there!” complained the neighbor that lived next door to 4 Privet Drive that hadn’t moved, “Now we have to deal with this!”

To the residents, it seemed as bad of luck as the Ten Plagues of Egypt.  The owls were a bother.  They hooted incessantly, even during the day.  They weren’t particular where they aimed their droppings, whether it was on a pie cooling on a window sill or on a bald man’s head.  One had flown into an open window and snatched a beloved hamster.  As if the droppings were not bad enough, they also left regurgitated pellets of their digested food.

One Sunday morning, the peace of the neighborhood was disturbed by the sound of exploding glass.  The neighbors came out onto their lawns to see what the commotion was, some still in their robes and pajamas.

4 Privet Drive was bursting from the inside.  The house bulged and groaned as what looked like confetti came flying out of the broken windows and the splintered doors.

It wasn’t confetti, but letters that the house was puking out.  Letters had filled the house until it couldn’t hold any more.  They had come through the chimney, the tub, the sinks, and yes—even from the WC.  They had filled every room in the house from floor to ceiling, including the cupboard under the stairs…which is where the boy who the letters were addressed to use to live.  Some of the braver neighbors picked up the letters that littered the ground or caught them as they dropped from the air—and the one thing they all noticed was that the letters were identical in content, all came from the same destination, and all were addressed to the same person:  Harry Potter.

In the wizard world, everyone knew Harry Potter’s name.  He was the Boy Who Lived, the boy who had miraculously survived a death curse and who had destroyed the Dark Lord.  He was the boy everyone was looking forward to seeing attend his first year at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Sorcery.

In the muggle world, many people knew Harry Potter’s name too, particularly the people who lived in the vicinity of 4 Privet Drive.  He was the Boy Who Mysteriously Vanished (and Probably is Chopped to Pieces Somewhere).

CHAPTER 2:  The Foundling on the Doorstep

YEAR 1987

“Oh, please, Duddums!” Petunia Dursley cried as her fat year old son threw himself on the ground and screamed.  His face was turning a bright red, and his wails could be heard at the end of the block.  Petunia could feel a hundred unseen eyes peering out of the windows of the other houses, judging her and branding her a bad mother.

There was a pair of eyes watching her, belonging to a cat that was perched on top of the neighbor’s fence.  Its eyes were outlined in silvery gray, giving it the appearance that it wore spectacles.  It looked at the child throwing a tantrum and the coddling mother in disgust.

Petunia was too busy trying to calm her son down to notice the cat, or otherwise she would have shooed it off.  They were filthy creatures, cats—and cleanliness was even more important now that she had her little Diddykins to worry about.

“Diddy, diddy, duddy, poo!” Petunia cooed, “If you come inside, mommy will give you a treat.”

The promise of food always pacified her son, which was how he came to look like a little beach ball at a year old.  However, ever since they had moved into the new house, Dudley had seemed inconsolable.  Petunia was at her wits end on what to do about it.

She looked up at the house and sighed.  This was supposed to be the start of a better life.  Vernon had reached a point in his career where he was able to buy a home in the right type of neighborhood.  It was a vast improvement over the apartment they had lived in before, which had been filled with odious people and whose hallways always smelled like spoiling cabbage.  To make matters worse, they had found out after moving in that the reason why the landlord had offered them the spacious apartment at a reduced rent was because the last family that had lived there had been murdered—and their seven-year-old daughter had gone missing.  Petunia, a new mother, had not been able to rest easy in that apartment—always fearing that every sound was the murderer returning to get her little Dudley poo.

When Vernon called at lunch to tell her he had invited a client to dinner on Tuesday, he could hear his son screaming in the background.

“Our boy has a fine pair of lungs on him,” Vernon Dursely smiled with pride as he took a bite out of his crumpet, “Mark my words, Petunia, he will be someone the world will listen to.”

Petunia, on her end, rubbed her head—trying to ward off a headache.  She wasn’t enjoying her son’s good lungs at the moment.

“Oh, Vernon!” she cried in distress, “I don’t know what to do about him! I’m beginning to worry that he is ill!”

Vernon snorted, “Ill? Don’t be silly! He is the healthiest boy I have ever seen! I haven’t seen any indication that his appetite has been affected or that he is losing weight. He can’t possibly be ill! He is a Dursley after all! Why don’t you call Marge?  I’m sure she can give you good advice.”

“What does she know about children?” Petunia sighed in exhaustion, “She doesn’t have any.”

“Marge is very sensible, “Vernon defended his sister, “Besides, breeding dogs and raising children is no doubt very similar.”

Petunia’s face expressed doubt, but her husband couldn’t see it over the phone.

“Anyway, I’m sure Dudley is fine! Maybe he is disrupted by the move and the new surroundings.  I’m sure he’ll settle down.  Listen, I have to go! Remember that the Kryceks are coming to dinner on Thursday and—”

Petunia nodded as Vernon gave her a list of instructions concerning the dinner.  Her husband was easier to hear now because Dudley had quieted down as something caught his attention.

A seven-year-old girl with blonde curly hair had materialized in the room.  She was wearing a yellow raincoat that was splattered with blood.  Her eyes, which looked huge because of the dark rings that outlined them, watched the woman on the phone, whose back was towards her.

The child turned towards the baby and made funny faces at him.  Dudley was distracted and forgot his tears.  He laughed and smiled at the girl.  Then she suddenly grabbed his teddy bear and ripped its head off before throwing it on the ground.

Petunia had just gotten off the phone when Dudley renewed his howls.  When she turned around, the little girl had vanished.  However, the evidence of her destruction was found on the floor.  Petunia picked up the decapitated teddy bear and tsked, “Things are not made the way they used to be.”

*    *    *     *     *

It was midnight, fittingly what they called the witching hour.  Peace reigned in the neighborhood.  All the houses’ windows were dark.  No light from an insomniac’s television flickered in even one.  Even the crickets had ceased their music.  The street lamps stood as sentries, casting their bright light to ward off the evil things that hid in the darkness beyond.

With a faint pop, a wizard stood in the middle of the street, bathed in the lamplight.  He held up his hand and squinted.  As if he found the light offensive, he removed what looked like a lighter from a pocket in his robes and clicked it.  Instead of creating light, it stole it from the nearest lamp post.  He repeated the motion until every streetlamp was out.

“Lumos!” he whispered, and a ball of light appeared at the tip of his wand, illuminating the now darkened street.

A cat rushed up to him and meowed.  It was, in fact, the same cat that had watched Petunia Dursley earlier.

Albus Dumbledore stared down at the cat and smiled, “I should have known you would be here, Professor McGonagall.”

Suddenly, the cat morphed into an elderly lady, dressed in green robes and a crooked witch’s hat.  She herself seemed to walk crookedly, her left hand held out as if to balance herself.

“Is it true, Albus?” she asked in uncharacteristic familiarity, brows knitting in concern.

“It is,” he replied sadly, “The good and the bad.  Lemon drop?”

She glanced down at the bag of sweets, taken aback. 
She frowned at him, thinking this was no time to think about candy.

Professor Dumbledore didn’t seem to have such beliefs, as he commented, “I’ve always been fond of lemon drops.”

Professor McGonagall shook her head dismissively, “Are you telling me, that after so many people—some very talented wizards and witches—have died from You-Know-Who’s hand, he was finally destroyed by a mere baby?”

“You should call Voldemort by his name, Minerva,” the headmaster admonished.

She shook her head.  Professor Dumbledore may be a powerful enough wizard to handle the consequences for saying the Dark Lord’s name, but the name was stigmatized for a reason.

Professor Dumbledore went on, “But yes, it appears that somehow the Dark Lord was destroyed when he tried to attack the boy.  Why and how we may never know, as the only witness is too young to explain and will not probably remember it as he gets older.”

Professor McGonagall sniffed and rubbed her eyes with a handkerchief.  As soon as she had composed herself, she turned to the headmaster, “And you intend to deposit the boy with these people?”

Dumbledore nodded.

She looked at him incredulously, “Albus, you can’t! I’ve been watching these people all day! They are the worst type of muggles imaginable! They really are—”

“The only family he has,” Dumbledore finished.

The woman sputtered, “It could be dangerous! Imagine how much power this child must have if he could defend himself against the Dark Lord! What if something happens, as it probably will! You know children can’t control their powers! These people are poorly equipped to handle such a thing!”

“The Ministry of Magic will be aware if anything happens and will take care of it.”

“The Ministry was not very effective against the Death Eaters, which may I remind you—are still out there even if their leader is dead! You can be certain that the likes of Bellatrix Lestrange will hunt this child down!”

“Which is why he must be placed here, with his blood relatives,” Dumbledore explained, “A protective spell will be placed here that will keep him safe from all those who wish to harm him, until the time comes when he is ready to return to our world.”

Professor McGonagall was quiet for a moment, full of misgivings.  Finally, she said quietly, “Albus, are you acquainted with Lily Potter’s sister?”

“No, not directly.  I received a letter from her as a child,” he replied, eyes becoming glassy as he remembered the incident, “She had wanted to come to Hogwarts too, but she wasn’t gifted like her sister was.”

“I fear,” Minerva McGonagall licked her lips while she paused to consider her words, “I fear what will happen to the boy in their care.  Albus, you more than anybody should know the dangers a magical child can face in this world! The worst being from their own non-magical relatives! How many cases have we heard of over the years of children being harmed because they are believed to be demon possessed? I don’t like these people!”

It was Dumbledore’s turn to be quiet as he considered her words.  Yes, what she said was true.  Still, he could not imagine that Petunia Dursley would harm her nephew.  He knew she was not close to her sister Lily, but as children they had been inseparable despite the differences in age.  Though Petunia had been jealous of Lily’s powers, he got the idea more that she had wanted to come to Hogwarts because she hadn’t wanted to be separated from her sister.  Her resentment came more from feeling abandoned and left out than from her desire to be a witch.  The only problem he could see was that Petunia would probably not be willing to allow Harry to go to Hogwarts when the time came, though there really wasn’t much she could do about it to stop him.

“There are probably thousands of wizards who would be honored to raise this child,” Professor McGonagall continued, “I would raise him!”

“Exactly!” Dumbledore suddenly broke in, “That is the problem, you see! If he stays in our world, his head will be turned by all that attention! It is better that he is raised away from all of that until he is ready.  These people not recognizing him as something special may work to his benefit.”

Professor McGonagall’s thin lips became even thinner until they threatened to disappear.  She did not agree, but she could not think of any more arguments to sway Dumbledore’s mind.

“Where is the boy now?” she asked.

“He was taken to St. Mungo’s to be examined to see if he sustained any injuries, and then I sent Hagrid to fetch him to bring him here.”

Professor McGonagall looked at the headmaster skeptically, “You sent Hagrid?  Do you think that is wise?”

“I trust Hagrid with my life.”

The woman sighed, shaking her head slightly.  She will never understand this man, no matter how long she works with him.  She respected him, considered him a dear friend.  Most of the time, she considered him a brilliant and talented wizard.  She usually trusted his wisdom and judgment in most things.  The only problem was with brilliant and talented people was that when they did make mistakes, they tended to make big ones…and she felt that Dumbledore was committing a very big mistake now in placing Harry Potter with his relatives.  Dumbledore, despite what many people in their world thought, wasn’t perfect and all knowing.  He had made some grave errors in judgment in the past, particularly when it came to Tom Riddle.

A roaring sound interrupted her thoughts.  Dumbledore and McGonagall looked up at the sky to see a headlight heading towards them.  It was Hagrid, whose huge frame was riding a three wheeled motorcycle that was a bit too small for him.  The bike groaned as it impacted the ground.  Professor McGonagall winced and looked worriedly at the darkened windows of the houses, expecting the inhabitants to be woken up by the noise.

“Good evening, Professor Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall,” Hagrid greeted them as he pulled off his goggles, revealing a sooty face.

“Everything all right, Hagrid?” Dumbledore asked.

“Yep! The little tot fell asleep as we were flying over Bristol,” Hagrid reached into a bag that was slung over his shoulder, drawing out a small bundle wrapped in a blanket, “Try not to wake him.”

Dumbledore took the child.

Professor McGonagall frowned, realizing that it was now one o’clock in the morning, “Shouldn’t we wait to deliver the child in the morning, Albus?  Surely one night will not make a difference! I don’t think these people will appreciate being woken up at this hour to receive this news!”

Dumbledore shook his head, “I’ve written a letter explaining everything.  I think it is better this way.”

Hagrid’s eyes began to water, and he started to sniffle.

“Now, now, Hagrid,” Dumbledore turned to him, “It isn’t goodbye after all.”

Hagrid nodded and gulped, trying to put on a brave face.

Dumbledore leaned down and placed the baby on the Welcome mat.  He then tucked the letter inside the blanket.

McGonagall stared at him in disbelief, “You aren’t seriously going to leave him on the doorstep!”

Dumbledore turned to her, looking surprised, “Why yes, that is the plan.”

Professor McGonagall sputtered, “You…you can’t! Albus, it will be at least five hours before those people wake up! If you insist on leaving him now, at least ring the doorbell and wake them up! He’ll catch his death out here!”

“It isn’t a particularly cold night, and he is bundled up,” Dumbledore replied, “He’ll be fine!”

“What if some stranger takes him? Or a dog comes along and mauls him?”

“Oh, that won’t happen, Professor McGonagall!” Hagrid spoke up, “Dogs don’t attack without a reason, and there is no reason for them to attack a baby.  Why, they would be more likely to adopt him as one of their own.”

Professor McGonagall looked at the half-giant doubtfully, frankly not at all comforted by the idea of Harry Potter being raised by dogs, even though dogs would probably be an improvement over his own family.  Hagrid, though, was in the habit of believing many dangerous creatures that lived in their world had soft, cuddly cores that just wanted to love people.

“He’ll be fine, Minerva!” Dumbledore assured her, “I’ve taken all precautions.  You worry too much.  As the muggles like to say, it isn’t good for the health.”

He turned to the infant sleeping on the doormat, “Good luck, Harry Potter.”

Minerva McGonagall took one last look at the sleeping infant whose lightning bolt scar glared out from under the blanket.  She would always remember feeling like she was making a horrible mistake in turning away and leaving the child defenseless on the doorstep, but in the end she had trusted the headmaster—even though she thought he was making a grave error—and she had left Harry Potter lying there.

Good luck, child, you are going to need it, she thought, then added, I’m sorry.

*     *     *      *      *

After the wizard and witch disapparated, and Hagrid mounted his bike and roared back into the sky…the street looked like it had before the disturbance.  Dumbledore had restored the lights.

From the darkness, a figure emerged.  At quick glance, he could be mistaken for a man, for he had many humanoid features.  If you happened to look at his face, though, you realized he was not.

He had been known by many names across time and many cultures:  Ammit, Morlech, Cronus, the bogeyman, etc.  Of late, though, he had taken to being called by one of his more obscure names—Bughuul.  This was more due to the preference of his child servants, who seemed to prefer that name to all the others.  Of course, they had shortened it to Mr. Boogie…comically making him sound less like a deity and more like he should be starring in Saturday Night Fever with John Travolta.  He didn’t mind, as his survival depended on the children seeing him as something more benign than what he actually was…and if a silly name aided in that misconception, then it only helped him.

Contrary to what had been written about him by ignorant humans, Bughuul wasn’t restricted to hunting where his images appeared or at the houses where the families of his child victims were killed.  It was easier and more convenient to enter this world through an already established doorway, yes, but there were many portals he could take.  If he had been so limited as the humans believed, he would have starved to death eons ago.  Early Christians had destroyed many of his images.  It wasn’t uncommon for the houses to be occupied by people who didn’t have children or to fall into disrepair because nobody wanted to live in a house where a murder had taken place, and many had been demolished over the years.  In fact, what had recently brought him to England after hunting in America for the last hundred years was that his last house had been destroyed and had an adult bookstore built on top of it.  Such was life—sunrise and sunset.

He didn’t need a new child just now, which was fortunate.  As what also sometimes happens, a family moved into the house, but the child is too young to do what Bughuul needs them to do.  The tubby child seemed to promise to be a dullard, and Bughuul was debating about whether he should even bother with that one…though no doubt it would be easily manipulated.  But this child…this child lying on the doorstep…this one had promise.

Bughuul leaned closer, seeming to inhale the child.  No soul was the same.  They differed in energy levels, composition, and taste.  The fat child had a sluggish, rather bland soul…but this child burned like a star in Bughuul’s eyes.  His soul had a lot of energy, and there was something even more interesting.  His soul contained the piece of another.  How astounding.  In all his years, he had never come across something like this.

As a general rule, Bughuul didn’t tend to prey upon wizard children.  It wasn’t that they were any less vulnerable.  It was more that Bughuul favored muggles over the citizens of the wizard world, even though it had been the muggles that were responsible for destroying his many temples and the religion that worshipped him.

When wizards had ruled the world openly, they had been blindly obedient servants—and in those days he never had to work for his meals.  It was a matter of showing up at the temple and clapping his hands, and a child—who was often a muggle—would simply be handed to him.  He had seen that the system was doomed to end eventually.  He hadn’t been angered by the muggles.  Really, it had been the stupidity of the wizards that had caused the system to fall and which would eventually result in them going into hiding.

As humans were prone to do, wizards had gone overboard.  Bughuul wasn’t greedy.  He only needed one child sacrificed to him about every ten years.  The wizards, though, made it a habit of sacrificing children more frequently than that.  Sometimes Bughuul would accept these sacrifices, but more often than not the lives were wasted.  When Bughuul accepted a sacrifice, the child disappeared.  Even when the wizard priests noticed that the children’s bodies remained—a sure sign that Bughuul hadn’t accepted it—they continued to sacrifice more children.  He remembered the time that the wizards of Carthage sacrificed more than five hundred children in one day.  Had Bughuul accepted all of them, his netherworld would have been overrunning with brats.  Overnight, he had gone from terrifying demonic deity to Daddy Warbucks that everyone tried to push their unwanted children upon.

Of course, the other problem had been that the wizards were not in the habit of sacrificing wizard children.  They took muggle children from poor families and raised them to be sacrifices.  This ultimately is what lead to the demise of the religion that worshipped him, as well as the demise of wizard rule.  Many muggle mothers wept to see their children murdered, particularly in the horrible fashion in which it was done.  The wizard priests would send the child tumbling down the mouth of a statue, and in the stomach the child would burn to death.

The muggles realized that Bughuul was not accepting most of the sacrifices.  In time, they also caught on that Bughuul did nothing in return as the wizards believed.  Many wizards believed Bughuul solved their sexual problems, healed their illnesses, made their wives fertile, made them wealthy, and made their crops grow.  In truth, he did none of these things.  The wizards were fooled because it seemed their lives improved, but the reason was often psychosomatic.  If your wife is always getting pregnant, and you are always worried about money and feeding all those hungry mouths, sacrificing a child or two could do much to solve your problems.

When the wizards had been overthrown and forced into hiding, and Bughuul’s temples had been destroyed, he had been forced to work a little harder for his meals.  He didn’t begrudge it, though.

Muggles were fascinating.  They were more inspired and creative than wizards had been.  They were so suspicious and yet so gullible.  They were obsessed with morality, and yet they were often the biggest hypocrites and capable of horrendous evil.  All this inner turmoil made their souls quite flavorful.  He worked harder for his meals, but his meals were more satisfying.

He reached down and caressed the child’s forehead.  Harry’s face puckered and he whimpered.  Bughuul pulled his hand back and straightened up.  Yes, this one would be worth the wait.

He could be patient. 

CHAPTER 3:  The Girl in the Yellow Raincoat

YEAR 1996

“Father is home!” Dudley called out gleefully, stopping his video game to shout this glorious news, being certain to stop and pound on the locked cupboard door.

Petunia Dursley wiped her hands on a towel and came out, giving a sour look at the locked cupboard door as if it had uttered a profanity in her presence.  She went to greet her husband, Dudley’s large frame bobbing excitedly after her.

Vernon Dursley had been in a good mood coming home.  He had made a profitable contract.  However, his face became stormy when he saw his wife and son at the door.  Though Petunia always greeted him, he knew her expressions well enough to know there had been an incident with the accursed boy.  Another dead giveaway was Dudley at her side.  Normally his son was sitting catatonically in front of the television and could barely manage a “hello” to his father.

“What did the boy do this time?” Vernon Dursley thundered, red-faced.

Inside the cupboard, nine year old Harry Potter gulped.  His stomach did flip flops, knowing what was coming, knowing it couldn’t be avoided.  He could hear his Aunt Petunia quietly explain.

A few seconds later, the latch on the cupboard was undone, and Vernon Dursley pulled his nephew out forcibly by his hair.  Harry cried out as Vernon continued to drag him into the living room.

“Explain yourself, boy!” Vernon roared, finally letting go of Harry’s hair.

“I don’t know how it happened! I don’t think it was my fault!” Harry cried.

“Of course it was your fault! Your teacher’s hair didn’t turn blue by itself, did it?”

“Well, yes, actually it did!” Harry shouted back, trying to defend himself…even though he knew he was just making things worse.  He always wondered why he had bothered afterwards, and yet the injustice always seemed to demand that he try to defend himself, “It just happened! I didn’t touch her!”

“We took you in when your worthless parents got themselves killed!” Vernon Dursley snarled, pointing a finger right between Harry’s eyes, “We didn’t have to! Nobody would have blamed us for sending you to the orphanage! We have provided you a roof over your head, food, clothing—more than what you deserve! We have tried to raise you properly! Yet, you don’t even have the decency to behave yourself at school!”

“I DIDN’T DO IT!” Harry screamed.  Suddenly, all the lightbulbs in the room exploded, causing Petunia to yelp.  Dudley stared dumbly with his mouth open.  Uncle Vernon was shocked into silence for all but a minute, and then he renewed his tirade.

“Didn’t do it, eh?  Just like you didn’t just blow out those lightbulbs!”

“What you say isn’t even possible!” Harry yelled, “How could I do any of this stuff that you accuse me of?”

“YOU KNOW VERY WELL HOW!” Vernon Dursley lost his patience and grabbed the boy’s arm.  He forced the boy over his lap, pulling down Harry’s pants with his free hand.  He grabbed The Board of Correction from its station and started paddling the squirming boy.

Petunia Dursley turned away and went back to the kitchen to finish making dinner.  Dudley watched his father punish Harry with a big grin.

Unbeknownst to the family, another pair of eyes was watching the scene.  Bughuul watched the screaming child over the man’s lap and decided the time had come for an introduction.

*     *     *     *     *

Harry laid inside the cupboard, crying softly.  It wasn’t just from the pain and humiliation of the punishment.  It was the frustration over his situation.

The Dursleys always told him he should be grateful that they took him in, but frankly he wished they had handed him over to the orphanage.  Though he had heard horrible stories about orphanages, he couldn’t imagine anything being worse than the Dursleys.

He knew his parents couldn’t help dying.  The Dursleys told him that they had been drunk and had crashed into a truck.  Harry had gotten the scar on his head when he had been tossed out the windshield.  Somehow, though, Harry didn’t quite believe the Dursleys.  Perhaps he didn’t want to believe his parents were bad people, but he also knew how the Dursleys often painted him out to be a bad person—and he wasn’t.

Sometimes Harry felt abandoned, though not exactly by his parents.  Somehow he felt that there were people out there who knew about him, maybe other relatives or friends of his parents.  From his youngest memories, he could remember wishing that one of these people would come and rescue him.  Every time he heard a knock at the door, his heart would be hopeful.  He always looked at the letters that came in through the mail slot, hoping one would be from a long lost relative stating they were coming to take him away.

With each incident like today, hope faded from his heart.  Nobody cared about him.

His stomach growled in hunger.  In addition to the spanking, Uncle Vernon had sent him to the cupboard without dinner.  Harry hadn’t eaten anything except a box of raisins and some stale crackers that he had grabbed at breakfast after Dudley had finished the box of cereal.  There had been enough for both of them, but Aunt Petunia hadn’t let Harry out of the cupboard before Dudley had helped himself to Harry’s portion.  He missed out on lunch when Dudley tripped him and caused him to spill his tray on the floor.

Harry’s stomach growled again and seemed to knot up inside him.  He felt queasy and weak.

Why?  If no one was going to rescue him, he wished sometimes someone would at least answer that question.  Why did people treat him so badly?

It wasn’t just the Dursleys, though they were greatly responsible for much of Harry’s woes.  They usually kept him hidden, but when they were forced to display him before other people, they often said such horrible things about him that other people were wary of him.  He had a reputation for being troubled and wicked.  Many things that Dudley did were blamed on him.

Dudley was known as a bully at school, and that caused many of the kids to avoid Harry—worrying that befriending Harry would draw Dudley’s wrath…which it would.

Harry had given up on finding a defender or friend at school years ago.  These days, he just tried to disappear.  Yet, the unsettling thing was that strange things did seem to happen around him.  Though he denied that he was responsible for them, part of him actually wasn’t sure.

For example, with what happened to his teacher.  Mrs. Brune hadn’t needed the Dursleys to turn her against Harry.  The first day he walked into her classroom, he could sense her mentally marking him off as a bad seed.  Mainly, it seemed to be due to how he was dressed.

Harry didn’t have much choice in how he dressed.  It certainly wasn’t a fashion statement that he wore clothes that were baggy and much too big for him.  He received Dudley’s and Uncle Vernon’s hand-me-downs.  The problem in both cases was that both were taller and fatter than he was.  Aunt Petunia tried to take the clothes in to make them fit better, but she wasn’t entirely successful.  Harry tried to console himself that at least the Dursleys didn’t force him to wear Aunt Petunia’s hand-me-downs.

Today at school, he had been walking up to hand in his homework when his pants fell down.  It had been really embarrassing, particularly as he didn’t wear underwear.  Mrs. Brune had thought he had done it on purpose.  She had yelled at him, saying many things that hurt his feelings.  He was angry because he couldn’t understand how she could possibly think he had any control over what he wore or that he would have purposely pulled down his pants.  Mrs. Brune didn’t have blue hair…but suddenly her hair turned blue as Harry thought about how much she reminded him of a monster woman in a movie he had seen who had, among other horrible things, blue hair.  Harry didn’t know how it happened though, or whether it was his fault.

Suddenly, he felt a weight on his bed and heard a giggle.  He turned and yelped when he saw a little girl sitting next to him.  She had dark rings around her eyes and her mouth.  She had curly blonde hair, and she was wearing a yellow raincoat.  The raincoat had some splatter on it that looked like blood, as did her jeans and boots.

Harry was too shocked to say anything.  He just gawked at the little girl.

She took something out of her pocket.  It was a sandwich.

Though he didn’t know who she was or how she had come to be there, Harry’s stomach wouldn’t allow him to refuse a sandwich that was offered to him.

He had taken three bites before he realized he hadn’t thanked her.

“Thanks!” he said, though it sounded muffled because his mouth was full.

The girl smiled.

“How did you get in here?” Harry asked after he finished the sandwich.

The little girl smiled and put her finger to her lips, “Shhhh!”

Then she got up and walked through the cupboard door.

CHAPTER 4:  The Drawing

YEAR 1998

Most of the time, the neighbors tried their best to ignore 4 Privet Drive.  Today, though, their attention was drawn to the house—or rather to the figures standing in front of it.  Children playing in the street stopped their game and openly gawked.

Two women who were gossiping across the fence made a running commentary.

“Maybe it is the realtor,” the one suggested.

“I’ve seen the realtor before,” the other one disagreed, “I’d say these are potential buyers, or maybe the new owners.”

“Look at how they are dressed! Where do you even get clothes like that?”

“I don’t know…Circus Tents R Us?”

Both women sniggered, causing one of the figures in front of 4 Privet Drive to turn and scowl at them…though surely he couldn’t have overheard them at that distance.  The women quieted down, feeling a chill from the stranger’s frosty stare.

Meanwhile, the scowling figure turned to his companion, who was staring forlornly at the house, “Why don’t we go inside?  We’re attracting a bit of attention.”

Albus Dumbledore turned and saw the children staring at them, as well as the two women.  He nodded, “Yes, I think that would be wise.”

Mad Eye Moody hobbled to the door.  Discreetly, he pulled out his wand and whispered, “Alohamora.”  The door opened with a click.  The two men shuffled inside.

Mad Eye Moody shut the door behind them, “I don’t know what you are hoping to find here.  The place has been empty for two years.”

“Answers,” Dumbledore replied softly.

The auror sighed, “I don’t think you are going to find any, and if you did—I doubt you would like them.”

Dumbledore strolled into the living room, “I may not like them, true…but at least I would know.”

The headmaster looked around the room.  The walls were bare of photographs or paintings.  There was no furniture.

As if reading the headmaster’s mind, Alistair Moody explained, “All the belongings were taken away by the realtor.  Our people had gone through it before, of course, but we didn’t find anything.”

Dumbledore walked out of the living room and went to the foot of the stairs.  He paused and looked up at the landing, as if he expected to see a child staring down at him…a child with a lightning bolt scar on his forehead.  He started to climb the stairs.  Alistair Moody followed.

*     *     *     *     *

Bughuul had one weakness—he liked to gloat.  It wasn’t, perhaps, a surprise that he preferred the company of children in his domain.  No one appreciated a good nanny-nanny-boo-boo like Bughuul…or at least he enjoyed it as long as he was saying it.  On the receiving end of it, he didn’t tend to be as good of a sport about it.

He looked over at his children, who were all taking a nap at the moment.  Harry Potter was bundled up in his blanket, looking very much like the swaddled infant Albus Dumbledore had left on the doorstep years before.

Yes, Bughuul liked to gloat.  That was why he couldn’t resist leaving a present for the old wizard who was strolling through the house, trying to find out what had happened to the boy he had deposited there years earlier.

*     *     *     *     *

They strolled through the entire house, from attic to basement, finding nothing except a dead mouse.  Finally, they entered the back yard.

“This is where they found them,” Mad Eye Moody pointed with his walking stick, his fake eye darting around, “Our people got hold of the crime scene photos.  The scene was not for one with a weak stomach.  Their heads had been blown completely off—and someone had drawn a symbol on the ground here,” the auror pointed to a spot that had been bleached clean, “with their blood and some of their brain matter.  The aurors had never seen anything like it.  I’ve never seen anything like it in all my years, even at the height of the Dark Times.”

“Nobody heard anything?” Dumbledore asked, shocked, his face turning greenish.

“All the neighbors said that all they heard was a horrible racket of fireworks.  Some were going to call the police, but the noise ended within five minutes—and then there was total silence.”

“Strange,” the headmaster frowned, “They found everyone except the boy?”

“Yes.  The aunt, the uncle, the cousin, the uncle’s sister, the mutilated remains of a dog—which was found in the bushes over there--and Mrs. Figg.”

“Ah,” Dumbledore sighed heavily, “That is why we didn’t hear about this sooner.  I had assigned her to watch over the boy and to notify me if anything went wrong.”

Alistair Moody grimaced, “Woman was a crazy old bat.”

“Maybe,” Dumbledore conceded, “but I thought she could be trusted.  She was a squib, and she knew how to live in this world without arousing suspicion.  The Dursleys trusted her enough to let her babysit the boy many times.”

“Did they know she was from our world?”

“Oh, no. Otherwise, I doubt they would have trusted her—squib or no,” the headmaster sighed, “You were right.  There was nothing here.”

He turned to go back into the house.  Alistair Moody followed.

Inside the house, Dumbledore was about to pass the cupboard when he abruptly stopped, causing Mad Eye Moody to almost collide with his form.

On impulse, Dumbledore opened the cupboard and peered inside.  He was surprised and a bit concerned when he saw the small bed.  He closed the door a little and noticed there was a lock on the outside, and even a little vent that could be closed (from the outside).  It was very much like a prison cell.

He opened the door again, frowning.

“What is it?” Alistair Moody asked gruffly, “Did you find something?”

Dumbledore was about to reply in the negative, when a piece of paper caught his eye.  It was peeping out from under the bed.  He bent down and grabbed it.

It was a child’s drawing.  It showed a little girl shoveling snow over four people who were each lying in a hole.  They were bound with Christmas lights.  Standing in the background was a male figure that didn’t look quite human.  The child who had drawn it hadn’t signed their name but had drawn a strange symbol instead.

“That was the same symbol they found in the back yard,” Mad Eye Moody pointed to it.

“What does it mean?”

Alistair shrugged, “It is a symbol of an old deity, popularly worshipped in Carthage—though actually the symbol has been associated with several deities across many cultures.  The one thing all the cultures had in common, though, was that the symbol was usually connected with the sacrifice of children.”

“The sacrifice of children?”  Dumbledore repeated, paling a bit.

“Yes,” Mad Eye scowled, “In fact, it was because of this that the early Christians first started persecuting our kind.”

Dumbledore sighed, “Probably because our kind were often sacrificing the muggle children.  The old religions were often a front for muggle genocide.”

Mad Eye Moody nodded, “But the Ministry outlawed this practice years ago.  Even the Deatheaters, as anti-muggle as they were, didn’t revive it.”

“And yet, someone murdered the family and drew this symbol in the backyard, and we see it on this drawing too.”

Alistair objected, “It wasn’t the families that got sacrificed, though…only the children—and Harry is missing.”

Dumbledore was quiet for a moment, then spoke, “I do not think this is a coincidence.  If nothing else, the symbol may have been drawn to be a false lead,” he paused, “I think Harry drew this picture.”

Mad Eye Moody glowered, “You don’t know that.  His cousin was about his age, wasn’t he?  He could have drawn it.”

“I think it was Harry.  The question is, then, who this girl is in the picture?”

Alistair sneezed into a handkerchief, “It may not be anyone.  He could have been drawing something he saw in a movie.”

Dumbledore shook his head and folded up the paper, putting it in his robe.

“I’m afraid,” Mad Eye Moody continued after another sneeze, “we have to accept that the boy is lost to us.  Our protective measures simply were not enough, and either the Dark Lord or one of his followers got to him.”

“I don’t think the Dark Lord or the Deatheaters had anything to do with this,” Dumbledore replied, “I fear something else may be responsible…something much worse, I’m afraid.”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” the headmaster admitted, “Only that perhaps there was something to those old religions, and it wasn’t always about muggle genocide.”

Alistair Moody was unconvinced but didn’t argue.

They exited the house.  The children had gone in for lunch, the ladies had returned to their household chores.  The street was empty of onlookers.

Dumbledore turned and looked down at the doorstep where he had left Harry years ago, believing he was doing the best thing to keep the child safe.  Sadly, he thought, Harry, what happened to you?

CHAPTER 5:  The Box in the Basement

YEAR 1996

It was the week before Dudley’s ninth birthday.  Petunia Dursley planned a day long outing with her son to get him out of the house so that her husband could bring in all his presents, wrap them, and find hiding places for them until the special day.  For Dudley, the celebration started early, not only because of the fun day his mother had planned—but she would also no doubt buy him some more presents while they were out.

As part of Harry’s punishment for turning his teacher’s hair blue, he had to help move stuff from the storage room to the basement and attic.  However, even if he hadn’t been in trouble, he wouldn’t have been invited along on the outing.  Harry never was allowed to participate in family recreation.  The Dursleys usually arranged for Mrs. Figg to babysit him, the neighborhood cat lady.

Next to Christmas, Dudley’s birthday was a date Harry always hated.  It was the perfect opportunity to show him everything that he was denied by the Dursleys, which they flaunted in excess.  It wasn’t even the gifts that really upset Harry the most.  He wanted someone to celebrate his birthday because he wanted to feel like someone wanted him…was glad that he had been born, that he mattered.  The Dursleys always made him feel like an unwelcomed guest who had overstayed his visit.  He was never included in family activities, he was never introduced as a member of the family—they didn’t even have pictures of him.

Just when he thought it couldn’t be any worse, Uncle Vernon announced, “Marge is coming to visit.  She’ll arrive on Wednesday.”

Harry’s depression deepened.  He hated Uncle Vernon’s sister, and the antipathy was reciprocated.  Whenever she visited, she made Harry’s life even more miserable than it already was.  What was worse is that he couldn’t even retreat to his cupboard, which was where the Dursleys preferred him to be when he wasn’t doing chores.  Aunt Marge always wanted him around so she could keep an eye on him.  She constantly accused him of things he didn’t do so that he’d get into trouble.  Aunt Marge was a big supporter of not sparing the rod, at least when it came to Harry—and it seemed to Harry that she got pleasure in watching him get beaten, and often she wanted to get in a few blows herself.  Harry usually couldn’t sit down comfortably for two weeks after her visit.

“You!” Uncle Vernon thrust his finger into Harry’s face, “You will be on your best behavior around Marge! I don’t want a repeat of that business you pulled on her last visit.”

Dudley snickered.

“Yes, sir,” Harry replied glumly.

Vernon stared at Harry threateningly with his beady eyes, then said, “Well, off you go then.  You have a lot of work to do.”

Harry slept in the cupboard, which seemed to get smaller every year.  This arrangement wasn’t due to the Dursleys not having enough room.  The spacious house had four bedrooms.  Vernon and Petunia Dursley had one, Dudley had another, there was a guest bedroom that was used by Aunt Marge when she visited, and another room that was used for storage.  The storage room could be considered Dudley’s other bedroom, for it contained all the toys he couldn’t fit into his own overflowing bedroom.  Many of the toys were not even played with.  Either Dudley lost interest in them or he broke them.  However, he would have a tantrum if they were thrown out—and certainly no one would dream of giving them to Harry, even the broken ones.  As a result, they would be placed in the storage room.  Then when his parents needed to make room for his new presents, they would move the contents of the storage room to the attic or basement.  Generally, broken toys went to the attic, and all the rest went to the basement.  Dudley’s presents would be hidden in the storage room until his parents brought them out the night before his birthday after he went to bed.  Harry was always surprised that Dudley never discovered them in the storage room prematurely, but he never went in there.

The problem was, the Dursleys gave Dudley an incredible amount of presents each birthday and Christmas, and they never threw any of them away.  The attic and basement contained toys that Dudley had from the time he was four years old.  Each year, it got harder to find a place for more toys.  Pretty soon, they would run out of room…and Harry wondered what they would do then.  Would they finally throw some of the toys out, or would they buy a new house?  Harry wouldn’t put it pass them to do just that.

Aunt Petunia and Dudley left.  Uncle Vernon, after making sure Harry was doing what he was supposed to, went to read the paper in the living room—enjoying the peace and quiet.

Harry climbed up stairs and down stairs, carrying boxes of discarded toys from the storage room.  Spiders tickled his forehead when he went up to the attic, and rats hissed when he went down into the basement.

As the attic was getting too full for anything except the smallest of toys, Harry made more trips to the basement.  He had just put down a heavy box that contained a train set when he heard a tinkling sound.

He frowned as he searched the dimly-lit basement for the source of the sound.  Suddenly, he thought he heard footsteps—and not from the rats.  These sounded human.  Was that a giggle he just heard?

He shook his head, My mind is playing tricks on me.  There is nobody down here but me.

Suddenly, he heard another sound—and he saw a wind-up robot walking across the basement floor.  Harry didn’t recognize it as one of Dudley’s toys, but then he remembered where it came from.  It had been a toy that belonged to a neighbor’s child.  The child’s mother had accused Dudley of stealing it when he visited their house.  The Dursleys had been outraged by the accusation, and even though Harry had never stepped foot in the house, had actually been locked in the cupboard at the time—they had blamed him for the theft.

Frowning, Harry walked over to the little robot, wondering what had started it.  Just as he went to pick it up, he heard the tingling sound again—and it was close by.  He followed the sound until he discovered the source—a child’s piano.  Harry remembered that.  Aunt Marge had given it to Dudley for his fifty birthday, and he had quite a tantrum over it, saying music was for sissies.  Harry remembered being excited, thinking this time Dudley had gone too far in reacting in such a rude manner over Aunt Marge’s gift.  Certainly Aunt Marge would be offended, particularly as it was an expensive gift.  However, Aunt Marge had laughed—and so had the Dursleys.  They applauded Dudley for being a little man, and then Aunt Marge had taken him out to the store to get a gift he liked better.  Harry remembered that later he had played on the little piano.  He was still too little to understand his place at the Dursley house, and he thought they wouldn’t mind if he played with a toy Dudley didn’t want.  Aunt Marge had stormed in and slammed her cane on his fingers so hard that she broke two of them.

Remembering the pain, Harry grimaced and unconsciously touched the old injury.  He frowned as the piano kept playing.  He didn’t remember that it had the ability to play by itself.  After a quick look upstairs to make sure no one was there, Harry came closer to inspect it.

As he neared, it stopped playing.  When he picked it up, he noticed the box it was sitting on.  It had a strange symbol painted on the top of it.  On the side, it said “Home Movies.”  Harry put the piano on the floor and opened the box.  Inside, there was a movie projector and several reels.  He picked up one of the reel canisters.  On the front, someone had written “Lawn Work, ‘86”.  Harry took a sharp breath.  That was the year before he was born.

I wonder if my parents are in any of these?  Maybe I could find out what they looked like!

Harry didn’t know what his parents looked like.  The Dursleys didn’t have any pictures of them, and they had yelled at him when he asked.

“All you need to know about your parents, boy, is that they were good-for-nothing drunks that got themselves killed!” Vernon had shouted at him the last time he had asked.

Harry always wondered which parent he looked like.  He always wished he could see them so he could imagine them better.  He liked to imagine a life where they hadn’t died, and he had grown up in a loving family.  Of course, he didn’t know if his parents had been good parents that cared about him.  The Dursleys definitely never indicated that, but then again…they wouldn’t.

Harry wished he had both the time and the knowledge to set up the projector so he could see the movies, but he didn’t.  The Dursleys always locked him in the cupboard after he finished his chores.  For all he knew, it may not even work.

“Boy! What are you doing down there?” Uncle Vernon’s voice carried down from above.

“I was just moving some things around to make room, Uncle Vernon,” Harry called up as he quickly shut the box and put the piano back on top of it.

“Well, get a move on! We don’t have all day! Petunia and Dudley will be back in time for dinner!”

“Yes, Uncle Vernon.”

Harry took a step and tripped on the robot.  He picked it up and looked at it longingly.  He didn’t dare pocket it, though.  The Dursleys sometimes did raids on the cupboard to make sure Harry wasn’t hoarding food or toys he had taken from Dudley.  With regret, he set the robot down on the box.

*     *     *     *     *

Harry’s back, legs, and arms were sore after carrying boxes to the attic and basement, but he finished before Aunt Petunia came home.  Vernon Dursley had given him a tuna sandwich his wife had prepared earlier.  It was actually a bountiful feast for a change.  Dudley often stole food from Harry’s plate if he didn’t eat it fast enough, and the Dursleys let him—always commenting that Dudley was a growing boy that needed the extra nourishment.  If Dudley got any more “well-nourished”, Harry expected him to explode.  At nine years old, he already had three chins and weighed more than his own mother.  The Dursleys saw him as “brawny”, and they thought Harry was a measly weakling—but they never considered that he was a growing boy too when Dudley took his food.

Unfortunately, Harry couldn’t appreciate the meal or the peace he could eat it in.  He hated tuna fish.  He still finished the sandwich because he had to get food when he could, or he was certain he would starve to death otherwise.  However, Uncle Vernon had locked him in the cupboard afterwards, not letting him waste toothpaste in brushing his teeth in the afternoon.  The smell of the tuna was still heavy on his breath, and the fumes traveled up into his nose.

As expected, Aunt Petunia and Dudley arrived home with arms filled with packages—all additional presents for Dudley aside from the ones hidden in the storage room.  Harry was not trusted to carry these, for the Dursleys suspected he would intentionally drop them.  Some of them were quite expensive.  Harry peered through the vent, which was open for a change, to see Dudley playing with a remote control car.  His mother’s face twitched.  She was worried he would run the car into something and break it, but the reprimand never made it to her lips.  Dudley was a sensitive soul, according to his parents, and he took everything to heart—and so they never yelled at him.

Harry laid down on his bed with a disgusted sigh.  He heard Dudley go up the stairs to put away his packages before dinner.  The heavy footfalls stopped in the middle and jumped a few times on the step, knowing full well that it caused dust to rain on Harry.  Harry tried not to cough, but it was impossible.  Dudley, when he heard his cousin coughing, smiled wickedly.

The aroma of dinner smelled heavenly, and Harry knew they were having his favorites.  Aunt Petunia was a good cook, and it always seemed they served his favorites when he wasn’t allowed to have a serving of the evening meal.  By now, Harry suspected it wasn’t a coincidence.

His stomach growled.  He crossed his arms to try to make the hunger pangs go away.

The family watched TV.  Dudley went to bed, but not before raining more dust on Harry, who had a sneezing fit.  His eyes were now red from the two assaults, and rubbing them only made them worse.  When he asked to be allowed to use the restroom, Aunt Petunia closed the vent.  The cupboard, without the ventilation, started to get hot.  Harry felt sticky and uncomfortable.  His throat was sore from thirst, and his hunger pangs seemed to get worse.

The Dursleys went to bed, and the house was quiet.  Harry couldn’t sleep.  He was actually exhausted from the day’s labor, but he was too uncomfortable to fall asleep.

Suddenly, he heard footsteps coming down the stairs—but he didn’t recognize them.  Though he couldn’t see them, he always knew which member of the family was coming down the stairs—for they all had their distinct ways of walking.

The footsteps came down the stairs slowly.  They passed in front of the cupboard, and suddenly Harry heard the vent open.  Harry remembered the little ghost girl that had appeared to him the other night and wondered if it was her, but the footsteps seemed too heavy for a little girl.

Heart pounding, Harry gulped and slowly rose up to look outside the vent.  At first, he didn’t see anything except the silhouette of the furniture in the living room.  The outside light shone through a slit in the closed drapes.

Then abruptly a horrible face came into view.  It seemed to belong to a man.  He had long, greasy hair.  His face was a mottled white.  There were two small eyes that glowed red, set into the black rings of the sockets.  The nose looked human enough, but the chin seemed too long and sharp.  The mouth looked sealed.

Harry yelped and jumped back, hitting his head on a board.  He didn’t register the pain.  He panted, shaking in fear.  Who was the intruder?  Was it a murderer that had broken into the house?

Then it occurred to him that it might be Dudley wearing a mask—though it seemed too tall and too thin to be Dudley.  Then again, he didn’t really get that good of a look.

Taking a shaky breath, he got up as quietly as he could to look out the vent.  He didn’t see anything.

Swallowing hard, he managed to call out, “Hello?  Dudley, is that you?”

No one answered.  After a minute, Harry sighed and laid back down.  That was when he heard the cupboard being unlocked.  His heart rate quickened once again, and he held his breath.  He was expecting someone to open the door and kill him.  He expected the last thing he’d see before he died would be that awful face.

However, no one opened the door.

Once again, Harry shakily got up and looked out the vent.  He saw no one, but when he pressed against the door, it opened.  He cautiously stepped out and looked around.  There was nobody there.  Though he feared getting caught by the Dursleys, the freedom to move about was too alluring.

As quietly as he could, he tiptoed to the bathroom to get his toothbrush.  He wasn’t going to use the faucet in there, for the Dursleys could hear that.  He would use the one in the kitchen.

In the kitchen, he satisfied his thirst and brushed his teeth, getting rid of the horrible tuna fish breath.  Then he went to the fridge to see if there were any leftovers.  The pie was tempting, but there was only one piece left—and that would be missed.  However, Harry stuck his finger in to taste the filling.  There were some ham slices, enough that Harry felt safe in taking two—and some mash potatoes.  He ate the leftovers cold, not daring to use the microwave to warm them up since it made a loud beeping sound that might wake up the family sleeping upstairs.  Still, it was the most delicious thing Harry could remember eating.  He didn’t use plates, worrying both about the noise and not wanting to leave evidence in dirty dishes.  Aunt Petunia was an immaculate housekeeper and never left dirty dishes sitting in the sink.

Giddy with freedom, Harry searched the refrigerator for more food.  Seeing the milk, he opened it and drank directly from the container.  Then he remembered the cookie jar on the counter.  Grinning, he went over to it—confident that Aunt Petunia always kept it well stocked for her darling Dudley.  He could take a few without it being noticed, and the Dursleys wouldn’t be the wiser, since they expected him to be locked in the cupboard.

Harry paused, a thought occurring to him that made his heart clench in fear.  He couldn’t lock the cupboard.  They might see that it is unlocked.  Would they assume they had forgotten to secure it, or would they blame it on him and suspect he had gotten out?  They wouldn’t believe the story about the man with the strange face, unless they saw him for themselves.  Frankly, Harry was beginning to wonder if he was seeing things.  First the little girl, then the man—and both seemed to disappear into thin air.  Was the house haunted?  Or was he going crazy?

Harry shrugged and went over to the cookie jar.  If he was going to be punished anyway, he might as well enjoy himself now.  He might just have that last piece of pie too.  It would give him some spiteful pleasure in knowing he had deprived Dudley of it.

He closed his eyes, relishing the sweetness of the cookies.  He heard a giggle behind him, and he jumped with a start.  Behind him was the little girl who had appeared to him before.  She was still wearing the raincoat.

“Hello,” he whispered.

She smiled.

“Do you want a cookie?” he held out one to her, but she shook her head.

“How did you get in here?”

Once again, she put a finger to her lips and went, “Shhh!”  Then she beckoned him to follow her.

He looked up at the stairs to make sure the Dursleys hadn’t stirred as he left the kitchen.  He followed the little girl, who lead him to the basement.  She went down the steps, and he followed carefully—the basement being darker at night.

Down in the basement, he was surprised to see another girl tacking a sheet up on the wall.  The projector had been set up.

“Nicole, go close the door so those horrible people can’t hear us,” the girl ordered.  The girl in the raincoat smiled at Harry as she went up the stairs to close the door.

Meanwhile, the other girl finished hanging up the sheet and turned to Harry with a gentle smile, “Hello.  I’m Emma, and that is Nicole.”

Nicole was now standing behind Harry, grinning at him.

“Nice…uh…to meet you,” Harry said, “Are you friends of the Dursleys?”

Emma’s eyes widened in surprise, “Good heavens, no! We’re here for you.”

Harry gulped a bit nervously, “For…for me?  Why?”

Nicole and Emma looked at each other, then Emma replied, “Our guardian is interested in adopting you.”

Harry’s heart quickened, but this time in a good way, “Really?  He wants to adopt me?”

“Yes,” Emma smiled assuredly, which was backed up by Nicole’s vigorous nod.

“Who is your guardian?” Harry asked.

“You saw him earlier,” Emma said.

Harry’s stomach plummeted, “The man in the mask?”

“It isn’t a mask,” Emma replied, “Though I can see why you thought so.”

Harry swallowed.  His joy at someone wanting to adopt him was short-lived, for he didn’t think he wanted to be adopted by the man with the scary face…particularly if that wasn’t a mask.  Harry didn’t want to consider himself shallow in caring about appearances only, but…well—the man was really scary looking!

As if reading his thoughts, Emma said assuredly, “Don’t worry.  He really isn’t as scary as he seems.  He wants to help you.  He helped all of us.”

“How did he help you?” Harry asked.

Emma paused again, choosing her words, “We all came from bad families that hurt us.  Mr. Boogie took us away after we had proved ourselves worthy to be his children.”

“How did you do that?”

“I’ll tell you that later, after you have watched the movies,” she gestured at the projector, “You’ll understand it better then.”

“So he adopted both you and Nicole?”

Nicole nodded but remained silent.  Emma spoke for both of them, “Yes, as well as many others.  We have lots of brothers and sisters.”

“How many?”

Emma and Nicole looked at each other and laughed, “Lots!”

“Well, maybe he doesn’t want another kid, then,” Harry suggested, “Maybe he feels he has too many mouths to feed already?”

Emma shook her head, “That isn’t the case.  He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want to adopt you…and he can take care of us all.  Don’t you want to get away from these people?”

“Of course! I’d like nothing better!” Harry said earnestly.

“Then why don’t you sit down and watch a movie.  That is a good way to show Mr. Boogie that you want him to adopt you.”

Harry agreed, though nervously looking upstairs.

“Don’t worry—they can’t hear us,” Emma assured him.

Nicole went to the box and selected a cylinder as Harry sat down on the cold floor.  She held it up excitedly.  Emma smiled and took it, taking out the reel and threading it into the projector.  Nicole smiled at Harry and sat next to him.

Harry studied Emma and noticed that she was dressed in flannel footie pajamas.  She was older than Nicole, and probably was older than Harry by a couple of years.  She was dressed too warmly for the weather.  She had a knit cap on with a poof ball, and she wore an insulated blue jacket over her pajamas.

She was a pretty girl.  Her eyes and cheekbones looked like she was from Asian descent, but her coloring was pale.  She had reddish curly hair and blue-gray eyes that seemed so light they were almost colorless.

She looked back at them, “Ready?”

Nicole and Harry nodded.  Emma smiled and turned on the projector, then sat down on the other side of Harry.

The film counted down from three, and then it abruptly showed the outside of a house.  It was dark outside.  The camera looked through the front door, which was see-through because it had a glass window set inside it.  Harry thought he could make out the blurred features of Mr. Boogie standing in the hallway inside the house.

The camera then moved to a large window at the right.  Inside, there was a couple sitting on the couch watching TV.  A young girl sat next to the woman, who was presumably her mother.  The mother looked irritable and said something, and the girl moved to a chair with a huff.

A few seconds later, another child—who Harry recognized as Nicole—sat down next to the mother.  The mother, looking more irritable, picked up Nicole and slammed her down next to the man who was probably her father.  Nicole looked upset.

Harry turned to Nicole, who was solemnly watching the movie, “Those were your parents?”

Nicole looked at him and nodded seriously, then she lifted up her finger and went, “Shhh!”  She pointed at the screen, indicating there was more to see.

The scene had changed.  It seemed even later that night.  The camera was showing a lawnmower.  The person holding the camera started it, and then got behind it to push it.  The lawnmower went from pavement to grass, but it was night-time, and it was raining.

Just as Harry was wondering who would mow their lawn in the rain and at night too, he saw the lawnmower run over the mother he had seen earlier.  Horrified, he watched as it mowed over the other young girl and the father.

Harry felt bile come up into his throat.  He gulped it down, his stomach not appreciating getting it back.

At the very end, you saw the lawn covered it blood.  There were tied up garbage bags.  Suddenly, a figure walked in front of the camera.  It was Nicole, dressed in the same raincoat she was wearing now.  She looked at the camera, put a finger to her lips, and went “Shh!!”  Then she disappeared.

The screen went white as the reel completed.  Emma stood up to shut the projector off.

Harry looked down at Nicole’s stained raincoat and jeans.  The stuff that looked like blood splatter…it might really be blood!

It took Harry a few tries before he could successfully speak, “Was that…was that real?  Or was it some art film?”

Emma turned to look at him, her face serious, “It was real, Harry.”

Harry turned to Nicole, who was no longer smiling, “You…you killed your family?”

Nicole nodded solemnly.

“Wh…why?”

“Because Mr. Boogie asked her to,” Emma said, “Just like he asked all of us to.  That is how you prove yourself, Harry.”

Harry was starting to think he should get up and get out of the basement right now, yet—he felt glued to the floor.

“I know what you are thinking, Harry.  Believe me, we all felt the same way after watching our first movie.  It seems like such a terrible thing.  Murder is wrong.”

Nicole nodded in agreement, her eyes misty.

Emma stepped closer, “But they deserved it, Harry.  All of our families did.  They were bad people, and it isn’t really wrong to kill bad people.  The world is better off without them, don’t you think?”

Harry couldn’t think.  He had been trained that murder was wrong.  Even if people were bad, you called the police to have them arrested—you didn’t kill them.

And yet…Harry would be lying to say he had never thought about killing the Dursleys, or wishing that they would just die.  There had been plenty of times after being punished that his heart had plotted revenge.

Harry swallowed, “Did you…did you kill your family?”

Emma nodded, “Yes.  Would you like to see?”

Harry wasn’t sure he wanted to see, but he didn’t refuse.  Emma, with a satisfied smile, fetched another canister that read “Christmas morning.”

The projector flashed numbers again, and then it showed a large, blue house.  It was snowing outside.  Harry realized that he was hearing music and looked at the projector, noticing for the first time that it had a record player.

The scene changed, and once again the camera was looking through a windowpane.  There was a Christmas tree, and a family was coming down the stairs in their pajamas.  Presents were everywhere—reminding Harry bitterly of Dudley’s birthdays and Christmases.  There were so many presents that they weren’t just under the tree, but behind the couch and next to end tables.

The little girl was opening a gift that revealed a doll.  She put it aside without a glance and went to open another present.  The husband touched his wife’s shoulder and showed her something inside a jewelry box, which she apparently liked a lot.  It reminded Harry of the jewelry commercials that he sometimes saw on the telly.

The film seemed to be edited to jump a little while later.  The little girl was being praised by her father as she successfully kept a hoola-hoop going around her waist.  The mother was straightening a mascot on the boy, who was in a cowboy costume.  Just then, Emma entered, wearing the same clothes she had on now.  She was carrying a tray with four cups.

The family, who had been all smiles earlier, suddenly became strained at her appearance.  Emma didn’t seem to notice, smiling cheerfully as they took the cups off the tray.  As she turned to leave, she stared directly into the camera—and the smile on her face seemed to be sharing a secret with it.

The scene changed.  It was night.  It was still snowing.  The house was just a silhouette, though you could see a few lights on in the window.

The music, which had been easy listening, now added a mournful bell gong as the scene showed the family bound with Christmas lights.  Each were lying in a hole.  They were struggling as you saw someone shovel snow on top of them.  You saw the mother’s diamond ring glittering in the light as her hands shook from the cold.  The clip moved forward, and the family was now covered by the snow, except for their heads.  Their eyes were glassy and fixed.  Icicles were forming on their hair.  The camera moved to show the mother.  Her eyes seem painted, just like a doll—but as the camera focused in on her, she turned them to look at the camera.  Her eyes were pleading.

The clip jumped forward, and you saw a snowman behind the graves, for they were graves now—because it was obvious the family was dead.  Emma appears next to the snowman, tying a scarf around his neck.  She then turns to the camera and smiled, then puts her finger to her lips and goes, “Shh!” Then she too abruptly disappears.

This time it is Nicole that gets up to shut off the projector as the screen goes white.  Emma is still looking at it.

“When Mr. Boogie adopted me,” she said harshly, “That was my second adoption.  They had adopted me first.  They thought they couldn’t have children.  They had tried for years.  I was three when they adopted me.”

She stopped, her mouth trembling a bit, “At first, they were wonderful to me.  I had everything I could want.  Then when I turned six, my mother found out she was pregnant.  Robert was her miracle child, and then two years later she had Maggie,” Emma swallowed, her voice becoming more bitter, “Things changed for me after that.  Suddenly, they didn’t want me now that they had their own children.  I could see it in their eyes that they wished they could return me like I was some broken appliance.”

Harry’s horror about what he had seen faded.  He looked at her sympathetically, totally able to relate—even though the Dursleys had never wanted him.  In a strange way, though, he wondered if he was fortunate.  It might be harder to have been loved and then not wanted.

“I’m sorry,” he said, then added—not wanting to leave out Nicole, “for both of you.”

Emma smiled, “It’s all right.  Mr. Boogie made everything all better.”

“Is…Mr. Boogie a man?” Harry asked.

Emma hesitated, “No.  He isn’t human, but don’t worry.  He won’t hurt you.  All of us find our lives much improved after he adopts us.  He is much better to us than our families were.”

Nicole nodded in agreement.

Harry opened his mouth to ask another question, but Emma quickly interrupted him, “I think you need to get back upstairs.  Your relatives will be waking up soon, and we need to lock you back into the cupboard so they don’t get suspicious.”

“Wait…Mr. Boogie isn’t taking me?”

Emma shook her head, “Not yet, Harry.  You need to watch the other movies, and then you will have to prove yourself.”

“You mean…I’m going to have to kill the Dursleys?”

Emma nodded, “Yes.”

“I don’t think I can!” Harry admitted, “I’m flattered that Mr. Boogie wants me, but—”

Emma shushed him with a wave of her hand, “Listen, Harry, don’t worry about that now.  We all felt the same way.  All you need to do right now is watch the movies.  I think you will find that they will help remove your doubts.”

“What will happen if I don’t want to do it?” Harry asked worriedly, “What will Mr. Boogie do?”

Emma smiled, “You know, Harry, that has never been an issue.  Everyone has doubts at first.  I had doubts whether I could do it, even though by the time Mr. Boogie appeared to me I hated my family with every inch of my being.  However, those doubts gradually faded away.  I realized that if I wanted to change my life, I had to do this.  Mr. Boogie doesn’t just choose anyone.  He knows what kids need his help and who will welcome him as their new guardian.”

Harry followed Emma up the stairs.  He was surprised to see the sky lightening.  It would be dawn soon.

Before Emma locked him in the cupboard, she put a hand on his shoulder, “Mr. Boogie chose you, Harry.  Remember that.  Of all the kids he could have chosen, he chose you.”

The cupboard clicked behind him, and Emma shut the vent, leaving Harry alone in the dark to mull over what he had seen.

CHAPTER 6:  Urban Legend

YEAR 2000

In the wizard world, rising up from an ill-humored sea, was an island.  This island was not like how you imagine islands to be—sandy beaches with palm trees.  The island technically was not an island at all, but a mountain that had been swallowed by the sea, leaving only its rocky peak exposed.  As time passed, the sea encroached further and claimed more of the exposed land as its own.

On the island, there was one structure.  It was the closest thing the wizarding world had to a skyscraper.  It was triangular, and its walls were sleek.  It once had been home to a mad wizard who had tortured and killed many muggles.  Upon his death, it was abandoned for many years until the Ministry decided to turn it into a prison to hold dangerous wizards and witches who broke the law.

Azkaban’s brooding architecture suited its dark history.  Its appearance alone could strike terror in your heart.  However, the place was a magnet for Dementors, who had been attracted to the evil committed by its original owner.

No matter who had owned it or what purpose it served, it had always been a place of insanity, despair, and death.

Cornelius Fudge strolled behind the hooded figure of the Dementor that was guiding him through the bowels of the prison, followed by two aurors who had accompanied him.  Like many of the inmates, he wished he was somewhere else but here.  Unlike the inmates, he would be free to leave after his inspection.  Not all the duties of the Prime Minister of Magic were enjoyable, but they were necessary.

Many people didn’t approve of using the Dementors as guards, considering it inhumane.  Most people served small sentences for minor offenses, but they were often psychologically damaged when they were released.  Some even died while in Azkaban, starving to death because they had lost the will to live.  However, no other alternatives had ever been put into effect—and the Prime Minister made an annual visit to check the facilities and general well-being of the prisoners.

The Dementor was now leading him to the tower, where the most dangerous criminals resided.  These individuals were never going to leave Azkaban.  All had received life sentences for heinous crimes that usually involved torture and murder.  Most were Deatheaters.

Cornelius Fudge felt a chill as the Dementor turned to face him, gesturing for him to enter.  He hated staring into the faceless hood, and yet he got the idea he wouldn’t like to see what was underneath.  No one knew what the Dementors looked like.  The only people who knew that were the ones who had received the Dementor’s Kiss, and they literally couldn’t kiss-and-tell after such an experience.

He stepped into the hall, wishing the Dementor had went first.  Somehow, he didn’t mind following them as much as having them follow him.  The Dementor glided soundlessly, but Fudge’s footsteps echoed down the corridor.

He stopped to peer inside the cells.  On the lower levels, he hadn’t usually seen much—a huddled figure in the darkness.  The prisoners on the upper level, though, seemed to be the least affected by the Dementors.

The first cell he peered into, he saw Rodolphus Lestrange bent over what looked like a game he had made from stones and twigs.  He glanced up with hollowed eyes at the cell door, but he looked as unconcerned as if he were sitting in his own house.

Fudge shook his head.  The next cell held Rodolphus’ wife Bellatrix, and she made the effort to greet the Prime Minister as he passed by.  Her claw-like hands gripped the bars of the cell window, and she licked the bar in between.  Fudge grimaced, remembering a time when she had been a stunningly beautiful woman.  She had always been mad, of course, but there were plenty of mad people in the wizard world.

Fudge held a great respect for many of the pure blood families, even though he knew many of them had supported the Dark Lord.  He didn’t hold it against them.  The Dark Lord, after all, had many good ideas—he just was a little extreme.  Still, he always wondered what had happened to Bellatrix Lestrange.  What had caused her to go down such a dark path?  After all, her younger sister Narcissa had embraced the same ideals, and yet she had managed not to end up like this.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Lestrange,” Fudge greeted her, “You seem to be holding up well.”

She gave him a mad smile and started laughing, “Oh, yes! I am doing marvelously well! You can tell all the enemies of the Dark Lord that Bellatrix Lestrange is doing just fine! She finds strength in the knowledge that the Dark Lord will rise again! She will be rewarded for her devotion, and all those who imprisoned her will pay with their lives!”

When she took a breath from her tirade, Fudge broke in, “It has been thirteen years, Mrs. Lestrange, and there has been no sign of the Dark Lord.  I think it is safe to assume he did not survive his attack on the Potters.”

“You lie!” she whispered, “He still lives!  He may be weakened, but he still lives! He has powers a pathetic wizard like yourself can never hope to achieve!  He survived!  You know he survived!”

Her whisper had become a scream.  The Dementor, agitated by the sound, went up to the cell window, and Bellatrix jumped back as if the bars were hot.

Fudge frowned.  It was true.  He had lied.  There had been signs of the Dark Lord.  Two years ago, the Dark Lord had tried to steal the Sorcerer’s Stone, but amazingly he had been thwarted by two first year students—Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley.  The year after that, the Chamber of Secrets had been opened.  Again, the Dark Lord had been defeated by the heroic acts of Ronald Weasley—who had bravely gone to rescue his sister.  Hermione Granger, though she had been petrified, had been credited for finding the Chamber of Secrets—and the Weasley twins had used her clues to find an alternate entrance into it, bypassing the need to know parseltongue.

Still, the Dark Lord—though thwarted—was still alive…and it was only a matter of time that he probably would find a way to come back into power.  Fudge did all he could to squelch these stories so not to cause panic among the Wizard citizens.  It was the one area Dumbledore and he disagreed on.  Dumbledore believed the people had the right to know, that they couldn’t defend themselves properly and be vigilant if they were ignorant.  Fudge believed that the citizens would merely become frightened and become a panicking stampede.

What bothered him was how did Bellatrix Lestrange find out about what had happened the last couple of years?  Of course, the Malfoys had enough connections to be able to get a pass to visit their family in Azkaban if they desired to.  However, as far as he knew, the Malfoys had severed ties with their imprisoned relatives.  People had doubts about their claims of being under the Imperius curse, and visiting their relatives would probably strengthen people’s suspicions.

The Dementor took the lead.  As he walked away, he heard Bellatrix Lestrange shout out after him, “What happened to Harry Potter? Eh?”

*     *     *     *     *

In the last cell, there was a dog, as black as coal.  His gray eyes, though, were intelligent.  The dog sniffed the air, noting both a familiar smell and an unfamiliar smell.  The familiar smell was of rotting flesh, which was the common smell of a Dementor.  The unfamiliar smell was of a flowery perfume, an expensive one at that…and roast beef.  Whoever had the flowery perfume had eaten roast beef for lunch and drank Muscadine wine.

Sensing a special visitor, the dog started to morph back into its true shape—that of a bushy haired man with a weak chin but the same intelligent gray eyes.  Like Bellatrix, he went up to the cell door’s window to greet this wonderful smelling visitor.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Black,” Cornelius Fudge greeted him rather reluctantly, fearing another tirade similar to Bellatrix Lestrange’s.

Cornelius Fudge also had stronger feelings about Sirius Black.  He had good memories of Bellatrix Lestrange as a well brought up, beautiful, society woman from a good family who had married well.  Though he had been horrified by her crimes against the Longbottoms and those she had participated in as a Deatheater, he had blamed her fall on being under a bad influence.  He considered Bellatrix Lestrange to be almost tragic, in a way—so much potential that was wasting away in this prison.

Sirius Black, on the other hand, though also from a good family, had always been a bad apple.  His betrayal of his friends, though, made his crimes even more despicable.  Bellatrix Lestrange may have severely injured the Longbottoms, but she had left their infant son alone.  Sirius Black helped the Dark Lord hunt down the Potters so he could kill their baby son.  His deeds seemed blacker for this.

“Well, I suspect afternoons are better when you are not locked up in this place,” Sirius replied with a wry smile.

“True,” Fudge agreed, fingering his pocket watch, which showed his desire to get this finished up with so he could leave.

Sirius glanced a rolled up newspaper in the inner pocket of the Prime Minister’s coat, “Are you done with your paper, sir?”

“Paper?” Fudge asked in confusion, then remembered The Daily Prophet he had tucked into his coat pocket, “Oh! Yes, I am.”

“May I have it?” Black asked, trying to put on his most charming smile and making a good effort—though it fell short of his pre-Azkaban smiles, “It gets rather dull in here.”

Unnerved by the request, Fudge agreed and handed it over.  As he walked away, he wondered if he had made a mistake.  He shook his head.  What harm could a newspaper do?  The stories reported by The Daily Prophet were all Ministry approved, and he certainly couldn’t use it as a weapon to escape.  For all he knew, Black may plan to use it as toilet paper.  Azkaban only provided the most basic necessities, and toilet paper was not one of them.

*     *     *     *     *

The Daily Prophet echoed Bellatrix Lestrange’s question, “What happened to Harry Potter?”

Every year, near the anniversary of the Potters’ deaths, the Daily Prophet asked this question.  Every year, it rehashed what was known.

Every year, Rita Skeeter’s account of the facts became more embellished to the point that they were no longer facts.  Her dramatic flair kept this story alive, and each year her theories became more outlandish.  It was probably a sad remark on the intelligence of the wizard world’s citizens that they never noticed her discrepancies, and instead of tossing the paper aside in disgust, they hungered for more…which she was happy to give.  Rita knew how to play this game.  Fudge approved her stories so long as she was careful not to implicate the Ministry in any wrong doing.  Though Fudge often consulted Dumbledore as an advisor, and they were considered friends, he didn’t seem to particularly mind when Rita suggested that Dumbledore was to blame for Harry Potter’s disappearance.

Dumbledore’s reputation had suffered a bit the last two years due to the boy’s disappearance.  Though Rita Skeeter was a poison pen, one could not dispute the fact that it had been Dumbledore’s idea to place the boy with his relatives.  It had been his responsibility to protect the boy.  That the boy disappeared under his nose called into question his competency.  It was bad enough that he lost the Wizard World’s savior, but Harry Potter had been the prophesized Chosen One…the only one that could destroy the Dark Lord if he returned.

Sirius Black had known Rita Skeeter, who had been in his year at Hogwarts.  She had always been a horrible gossip, talented at turning people against each other.  He was not inclined to believe anything that she said.

Still, he read her story with horror.  Unlike Bellatrix, he had been cut off from the wizard world and didn’t hear much news.  He had been fantasizing about his godson Harry coming to Hogwarts, becoming a talented wizard, and a great seeker like his dad.  He remembered how Harry, as a toddler, had zoomed around on the toy broom he had given him.  Though it was actually too old of a gift for him, Harry had shown talent and hadn’t lost his seat.  He almost killed the cat and broke a hideous vase, but he was his father’s son.

Sirius had dreamed that somehow he would be able to prove his innocence and get released from Azkaban, and then he could be free to raise Harry—and he could find solace in losing his best friend in raising James’ son.  It was that dream that had sustained him in Azkaban—the one happy thought that the Dementors hadn’t successfully sucked out of him.

Now, this one hope was being dashed as he read Skeeter’s article.  She was no doubt embellishing quite a bit, but there was one disturbing fact that was apparently true—Harry had disappeared, and no one knew what happened to him.

Sirius put the paper down and gulped painfully.  His grief threatened to overwhelm him.  This was too much.  He swallowed again, trying to gain control over his feelings.

I have to find him, Sirius thought, I owe it to James and Lily.  I owe it to Harry!

His features began to change as he morphed back into a dog.  He wasn’t sure if it would work, but he had to try!

A few hours later, his cell door opened as a Dementor came in to give him his food.  The Dementor, though, could not find the prisoner.  It didn’t pay attention to the dog that slipped by it and went out the door.

*      *     *     *      *

“And so, the auror continued down the hallway, trying to determine where the scratching sounds were coming from,” the wizard scraped his fingers on the nearby table as sound effects for the story he was telling to his captivated audience in The Three Broomsticks, “As he drew nearer, he realized they were coming from the cupboard beneath the stairs.  His heart was pounding, and part of him wanted to just flee the house.  Yet, as if he were under the Imperius Curse, something was compelling him to open the cupboard door.  He held his wand out in defense, but his hand was shaking so bad he could barely keep hold of it.  With his free hand, he undid the latch, and then very slowly the door swung open.”

The story teller paused for dramatic effect.

“Well, what happened?” Justin Finch-Fletchley asked, wide-eyed.

“I don’t know if I should continue,” the storyteller replied, shaking his head, “I might give you kids nightmares, and I promised my buddy at the auror office I would never tell anyone this story.”

“Oh, please!” Ernie MacMillan pleaded, “You can’t just leave us hanging like that!”

The storyteller pretended to relent, drawing an amused look from Madame Rosmerta.  He continued, “The cupboard was still too dark to see.  The auror, his voice nearly gone with fear, squeaked, ‘Lumos’ to light his wand.  He almost wished he hadn’t as soon as the inside of the cupboard was illuminated.  There was blood, lots of blood on the walls, too much blood.  When you see that much blood, ah! You know that the person who bled it out is no longer among the living! In the cupboard, there was a small bed, and under the covers there was a small lump that was moving.  It seemed to be the source of the scratching sounds.  The auror’s hands shook even worse, but somehow he managed to pull up the blanket.  What a ghastly sight did he behold!  It was an arm, a little boy’s arm.  Though it wasn’t attached to its body, the fingers on the hand were still moving.  They were scratching against the wall, which is the sound the auror had been hearing throughout the house.”

Hannah Abbot’s hands flew to her mouth.  All the other Hufflepuffs stared at the man with huge eyes and open mouths.  Behind them, a Gryffindor girl looked up from the book she was reading and shook her head in disgust.

“Did the auror live?” Justin asked.

“Well, of course he did!” The storyteller replied, “How else would he have told me this story?”

“Oh, good!” another Hufflepuff girl said weakly.

“Ah!” the storyteller held up a finger, “but the worst was yet to come! The auror wanted to run when he saw that hand, but it was like his legs were stuck to that floor! Suddenly, the hand jumped up, and it pulled at a sack that was hanging from the wall—a sack the auror hadn’t noticed before, being a bit too distracted by the severed arm and all.  Something rolled out of the sack and hit the floor.  It rolled behind the auror’s legs.  He turned around quickly to see what it was.  It was a human head, a little boy’s head to be precise.  The eyes were closed, and it had black unruly hair.  On its forehead, there was a red mark in the shape of a lightning bolt…a cursed mark.  Well, the auror was scared out of his wits by then.  Don’t tell anyone that I told you this, but he even lost control of his bladder, he was so scared! And then…suddenly, the eyes on that horrible severed head opened and stared at the auror,” the storyteller paused, looking at the frightened Hufflepuffs who were hanging onto every word of his story, then he continued, “The auror wanted to scream, but he was frozen in terror.  Then the mouth formed a wicked smile, and it opened up and said to him…HAPPY HALLOWEEN!”

The Hufflepuffs stared at him blankly.  Then they started to get it, and a few laughed weakly.

Justin Finch-Fletchley shook his head, “Man, you had me going there!”

At another table behind the Hufflepuffs, Fred and George Weasley looked at each other and grinned.

“Now, that is a great idea for our future store, Georgie!” Fred said.  He reached out his hand and clawed at the air, and said in a spooky voice, “The hand of Harry Potter!”

George shook his head, “Hand?  I think it would be better to have the head.”

Fred thought about it for a moment, and then the twins looked at each other and said in unison, “We’ll make both.”

The Gryffindor girl looked up from her book again with the same look at disgust, “Really?  Have you no shame?  You are going to profit on someone else’s tragedy?”

“Oh, lighten up, Hermione,” Ron said in a muffled but audible voice.  He gulped down the food he had been scarfing down, “It’s just an urban legend.”

“No, it isn’t! Urban legends are stories everyone thinks are true, but they never happened! Harry Potter was a real person!” Hermione argued.

“All urban legends were based on someone real, or some real event,” Fred pointed out, “It’s just over time people twist the story around until it is almost totally all fiction.  Besides, it isn’t like you knew Harry Potter, so why should you care?”

“A person should care about when bad things happen to good people!” Hermione cried, “He would have been in our year, you know.”

“So?” Fred shrugged, “Come on, Hermione! The kid had the Dark Lord after him from the time he was a baby, as well as any free Deatheater.  His chances of survival were not very good.  I don’t know why his disappearance should come as a surprise to anyone.”

“And a lot of people disappeared because of the Dark Lord and the Deatheaters,” George added, “It isn’t like Harry Potter is the only person something bad happened to.”

Colin Creevey hiccupped as he finished his butter beer, “Maybe nothing bad has happened to him.  He is only missing.  Missing doesn’t mean dead.”

“It usually does mean dead if it involves the Deatheaters or the Dark Lord,” Ron shook his head, “and frankly I’d hope he is dead rather than alive.  If he is alive, it means he is being kept somewhere and tortured.”

“Maybe he is in hiding,” Colin suggested, “Maybe Dumbledore put out the story that he was missing to throw the Dark Lord off his tracks.  He knew that the Sorcerer’s Stone was in danger, so maybe he realized it wouldn’t be a good idea for Harry to come to Hogwarts.”

Hermione shook her head slowly and turned back to her book, “I don’t think Dumbledore knows where Harry is.  He is genuinely upset over Harry’s disappearance.”

The table fell silent, which often happens when grim topics were discussed.  Harry Potter’s fate had been widely discussed for two years, but this year it hung heavily in the air after the news of Sirius Black’s escape from Azkaban.  Though the Ministry denied the possibility, people feared that it meant that the Dark Lord was coming back.  Can it be such a coincidence that the boy who brought down the Dark Lord has disappeared, and now the man who betrayed the Potters had escaped a place no one had ever escaped from?

“I wonder what he would have been like?” Colin said, fingering the table, “I wonder if he would have been nice?”

Ron snorted, “I doubt it.  I bet he would have been arrogant and thought he was too good for everyone.”

“You don’t know that!” Hermione frowned.

“I know most famous people are arrogant and snobby,” Ron replied defensively, “Really! Have you ever known anyone famous that was nice?”

“I’ve never known anyone famous,” Colin said.

“Well, you knew Gilderoy Lockhart,” Fred disagreed, “and he was a pompous toe rag.”

“He was not!” Hermione exclaimed indignantly.

“I don’t believe it!” Ron said in disgust, “You still have a crush on him, even after he turned out to be a fake—and he tried to erase my memory, and he would have left my sister to die in the Chamber of Secrets.”

“Well, I-” Hermione turned pink, the coughed, “He was very charming.”

“It’s a pity that snake didn’t eat your sister, Weasley,” an all too familiar sneering voice said, “Your parents could probably afford to buy new things if they had one less mouth to feed.”

Ron stood up, shaking off Hermione’s restraining hand.  Colin got out of the way of what promised to be a crossfire.  The Weasley twins flanked Ron, preparing to help him.

“Shove off, Malfoy!” Ron spatted.

Malfoy grinned evilly, sharing a look with his toadies Crabbe and Goyle and girlfriend Pansy Parkinson, “Or you’ll do what, Weasley?”

“Hey!” Madame Rosmerta called out, “What is going on over there?”

Draco didn’t pay her any mind, “You all wonder what Harry Potter would be like?  I agree he’d probably not want to hang out with you losers! He’d probably have more discerning tastes and choose to associate with only the best wizarding families.”

The twins made a scoffing noise.

“Oh, yes! That makes sense!” Hermione replied snidely, “He would definitely want to hang out with the best wizarding families, who all happen to be Deatheaters that were responsible for killing his parents!”

Draco’s face darkened, and he lifted up his wand.

Madame Rosmerta rushed over to them, “Hey! Cut that out! No fighting in here!”

“Leave them to me, Madame Rosmerta,” a silky voice said, which made all the students react nervously.

Severus Snape grabbed Draco’s shoulder.  His eyes darted to the other three Slytherins in his company, “You four, leave now—and I don’t want to hear any more about you starting fights in Hogsmeade.  Don’t make me write your parents.”

The four Slytherins quickly left.  The professor then eyed the Gryffindors at the table, “Whenever there is trouble, I know at the bottom of it I will find you, Miss Granger, and you, Ronald Weasley.”

“You would also find Draco Malfoy,” Ron replied bitterly, once again ignoring Hermione’s warning pinch, “Since he is often the one causing the trouble.”

“You are responsible for your own actions, Weasley, not Mr. Malfoy.  Now, I think I will take 20 points off for each of you—”

“You can’t do that!” Ron argued, disregarding an even harder pinch by Hermione, “We’re not in school.”

“You are a Hogwarts student, whether you are in the school or out of it—and I am your teacher, so yes, I can! That is another 50 points for your back talk, Weasley—and a detention.  Now I suggest that you Gryffindors return to the school right now!  If you are not there when I return, I will take another 30 points off for each of you!”

Four glum Gryffindors and a furious Ron filed passed their teacher.  As Hermione walked by, Snape’s sharp eyes noticed the book she was carrying.

“Granger!” he called her back.

“Yes, professor?” she asked nervously, clutching the book to her chest for comfort and unwittingly giving her teacher a better look at it.

“Let me see that book,” he commanded.

Reluctantly, she handed it to him.  He frowned and opened it up to the page she had her bookmarker in.  His eyes rested on a symbol he had seen before, and he glanced up at the girl.  He checked the back of the book to confirm his suspicions.

“This book,” he held it up to her, “is from the Forbidden Section, which a third year student is not supposed to have access to.  How did you come by this book, Miss Granger?”

Hermione’s mouth was dry.  The fact was, she had stolen it.  She could have said that a teacher had written permission for her to get the book, but then she would have to say who and….

Suddenly inspired, she blurted out, “Gilderoy Lockhart! He wrote me a permission slip last year, and I forgot to return the book.  It slipped my mind with me getting petrified, and Ron killing a gigantic snake and all.”

Snape glared at her a long moment, not believing her story.  Their librarian would have surely noticed a book missing, and would have known the last person to check it out.  He would have certainly heard about it.

“Well, that was very foolish of Mr. Lockhart.  The forbidden section contains very dangerous information, Miss Granger, which is not meant for students at a third year level like yourself.  I will take this book and return it.  I think I will also have a talk with the headmaster about forbidding the policy of allowing teachers to write passes to allow students to check out books they shouldn’t be checking out.”

Hermione tried to keep her face from betraying her fear.  Dumbledore had always been indulgent with her rule breaking before, but she always feared one day he would consider that she went too far.

“You may go,” Snape dismissed her, and she practically ran to catch up with her friends.

*     *     *     *     *

“You stole a book from the Forbidden Section!” Fred Weasley exclaimed, his voice full of respect.  He put his arm around Hermione’s shoulders, and said proudly, “Oh, grasshopper, you have come so far!”

Hermione shook herself loose of his grip.

“I remember when she was just a wee first year, Freddie,” George said to his brother, “and she fretted so much about the rules.  Look how far she has come! We’ve taught her well!”

“Did you learn any good spells from the book?” Ron asked eagerly, “Particularly something we could use on Malfoy?”

Hermione shook her head, “It wasn’t a spell book.  It was a book on demonology and occult symbols.”

The Weasley brothers all looked disappointed, particularly Ron.

“Why are you reading about that?” he asked.

Hermione walked closer to him, “The other day, I went to talk to Dumbledore to ask him if he could get me some documents from the Ministry of Magic archives, which I’m hoping will help me get a case together to save Buckbeak.  Well, on his desk, I happened to see a folder that contained the crime scene photos of the Dursleys…the family that Harry Potter had been placed with,” Hermione turned green as she remembered the photos, “There was a symbol found at the scene, and there was also a child’s drawing that had it which was also found at the house.”

“So, what does it mean?” Ron asked.

“The symbol was actually associated with several deities, including Cronus.  People who worshipped these deities would sacrifice children.”

Ron’s face twisted in distaste, “That’s sick!”

“The reason why varied.  Some believed that the children became servants to the deity, and it was considered a great honor.”

“People had a horrible idea of honor in those days,” Fred shook his head.

“Later,” Hermione continued, “some historians claimed that the people were sacrificing the children to demons who were energy vampires.  There were two ideas about what happened to the children.  Some believed the children’s energy was totally consumed, and that their bodies would disintegrate into dust.  Others believed that energy vampires, like real vampires, turned their victims into what they were.  There was one wizard philosopher, Werner Toadkiss, who claimed that the original owner of the place that is now Azkaban—the one that killed all those people—he primarily killed children.  Werner Toadkiss claimed the man worshipped Morlech, and he sacrificed the children to this god.  Toadkiss believed the theory that the children became energy vampires, and he claims that is why there are Dementors at Azkaban.  He claims the Dementors are the children that were sacrificed.”

Ron shook his head skeptically, “There are no such thing as demons, Hermione.  Demons are the fictions made up by muggles to persecute wizard kind.  They didn’t understand our ways and made us out to be bad people because they were jealous of our power.”

“Yeah,” George agreed, “and that Toadkiss guy is not considered very credible.  I’ve heard about him.  He claims that it is natural that magic will die out.  He believes that it was something early man needed to defend himself, but humans were supposed to develop other skills and stop using it.”

“Yeah, he was one of the first people to get killed by the Dark Lord when he came into power,” Fred added, “You can imagine the Deatheaters didn’t think too much of his theory.”

“But how do you explain that symbol showing up at the house where Harry Potter disappeared?” Hermione threw her hands up, “Don’t you think that is a bit strange?”

“Yeah, it is strange,” Ron agreed, “but Hermione, Harry Potter wasn’t the victim of some demon.  The Dark Lord or one of his servants got him.  That is all there is to it.”

*     *     *     *     *

He once read a quote that nothing good was ever learned from eavesdropping.  When he originally read it years ago, he had sneered.  He hadn’t agreed.  He had learned many interesting things from eavesdropping.  It had served him well.

He had hungered for greatness in those days, and yet he had always failed somehow in achieving it.  He took solace in knowing other people’s secrets, for it made him feel superior…like he had something over them.  It made people who had secrets despise him.

After Lily had been killed, though, he had started agreeing with the quote.  For not being a great man, he had been responsible for how events had played out.  Harry Potter’s fate had been sealed by his eavesdropping.  The Dark Lord had learned about the prophecy from him.  Whatever has happened to Harry Potter, Snape knew he was in some ways responsible—just as he was responsible for the death of the only woman he had ever loved.

Still, old habits die hard—and old habits were still useful.  The five Gryffindors didn’t realize they were being followed or overheard.  Snape was a large, awkward man—one that easily stood out in a crowd.  Yet, it was amazing how easy it was for him to blend into the scenery when he was so inclined…to disappear so successfully that people would believe they were alone.

He had suspected that Granger had been lying.  It would be too much of a coincidence that Lockhart had given her permission to check out a book that contained a symbol that she had recently seen.

Worried, he quickened his pace.

*     *     *     *     *

“You need to do something about Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley,” Snape said to Dumbledore an hour later, “They are getting much too full of themselves.  They try to take on what is far beyond their capabilities.  Your indulgence is going to get them killed.”

“They’ve done well in the past,” Dumbledore replied, staring at the book Snape had handed to him, “Hmmm.  Funny, I didn’t even know we had this book.  It might contain some useful information.”

“You know,” Snape said stiffly, “I remember another group of students that you allowed to get away with a lot of rule breaking.  Two are dead, one was sent to Azkaban, and the other is a werewolf.”

Dumbledore looked at Snape from a top his glasses, “In all fairness, Severus, Remus Lupin was already a werewolf when he came to Hogwarts,” he sighed, “However, an old man might have to admit that he was wrong.  I’ll keep a sharper eye on them.  Thanks for telling me.  They have talent, and I don’t want to discourage that…but, they are still young.  They could wind up getting involved in something that is over their heads.”

“If what you suspect about Potter is true, then that definitely will be something over their heads.  If Granger has figured some of it out, I wouldn’t put it past her to try and rescue the boy.”

The headmaster looked wistfully, “Well if she could figure out a way to rescue him, I’m all ears.”

Snape took a sharp breath, debating something inwardly.

“What is it, Severus?”

“Headmaster,” Snape said softly, “if what you think happened occurred…the boy is dead.  There is no rescuing him.”

Dumbledore conceded sadly, “You probably are right.  Still, one always wants to have hope.”

CHAPTER 7:  Sleepless in Little Whinging

YEAR 1996

The day Aunt Marge arrived, Harry had gotten into trouble again.  Aunt Petunia had been called to meet with Harry’s teacher.  Harry had been reprimanded several times at home and at school for falling asleep when he was supposed to be doing something else.  However, his teacher had gotten upset by his drawing.

They were supposed to paint a picture representing one of the tales of Aesop’s Fables.  Harry thought that was what he was doing.  He thought he had done the assignment, and he had handed it in.  His teacher called him up later and handed him back his paper, asking him the meaning of it.  When he looked at it, he was going to tell her at first that it wasn’t his drawing, except he recognized the drawing was of Emma burying her family in the snow.  When asked to explain himself, he couldn’t think of anything to say.

Aunt Petunia had chewed him out on the way home, much to Dudley’s delight.  Harry dreaded arriving home, knowing full well that his punishment would be much worse with Aunt Marge there.

Harry glumly entered the house and tried to make his way to his cupboard.

“Boy! Where are your manners?” Uncle Vernon bellowed, “Come here and greet my sister properly.”

Harry walked into the room without looking up, “Hello, Aunt Marge.  I hope you had a good trip.”  Suddenly, he thought, I wish you would have a good trip down the stairs.

A little dog started barking at Harry and growling, as if sensing his thoughts.  It was Aunt Marge’s dog Ripper, who always traveled with her.  Ripper never liked Harry and often growled at him, but this time he seemed to be barking with particular animosity.

“Ripper, calm down!” Aunt Marge tried to soothe her animal, then glared at Harry like it was all his fault, “They can always sense a bad apple.”

Suddenly, Ripper jumped out of her lap and started charging at Harry.  For such a small dog, he seemed to suddenly have very large teeth.  Frightened, Harry ran towards the back door.  It wasn’t opened.  He unlocked it, but the delay caused Ripper to seize his ankle.

Harry cried out in pain, kicking the dog—who yelped.

“What have you done to my poor Ripper, you scoundrel!” Aunt Marge roared as she chased after her dog.

Uncle Vernon roared Harry’s name.

Harry managed to unlock the door and fled to the back yard.  Ripper managed to follow before the door snapped closed again.  Panicking, Harry climbed  up a tree.  Ripper looked up at him, growling and barking in frustration.

Aunt Marge, Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, and Dudley came out and looked up, seeing Harry up in the tree.  They all laughed.  Aunt Marge tried to get Ripper to come inside, but he was determined to stand at the foot of the tree…hoping Harry would be foolish enough to come down.

“I think Ripper thinks the boy needs a time out,” Aunt Marge replied, guffawing.

“I agree!” Uncle Vernon smiled nastily, “Let him stay up there!”

The three adults went inside.  Dudley remained for a while to throw stones at Harry.  One of them was quite large and smacked him in the head.  Harry’s head spinned, and he nearly fell out of the tree.  Blood tricked from the injury. He tried to protect himself as much as he could.

He sobbed as another rock hit him in the shoulder.  Softly, he cried, “Please, can’t someone help me?”

Suddenly, Aunt Petunia called out, “Duddums, I’m serving cake.  Do you want some?”

Dudley, who had a rock that was so heavy he had to carry it with both hands, dropped it.  He liked tormenting Harry, but fortunately for the boy up the tree he liked cake more.

Now only Ripper remained at the foot of the tree, but as Harry examined his situation, he saw no way to safely get down.  His ankle hurt, and he saw that blood was dripping from his sock.  His only hope was that Aunt Marge would call Ripper off eventually, but she didn’t seem inclined to do that anytime soon.

His throat hurt.  He was thirsty.  Everywhere that Dudley had hit him with rocks was hurting.  He didn’t doubt he was going to have some bad bruises in the morning.  The blood trickling from his head and ankle tickled him.

The air felt heavy and hot.  His clothes became damp with perspiration.  He shifted uncomfortably on the tree limb he was sitting on.  His butt was getting numb.

Still, Ripper remained vigilant and seemed in no hurry to abandon his post.  Harry wished the neighbor’s cat would come out and distract Ripper, but though the cat came out every day—today it seemed to decide to stay inside.

Aunt Petunia was cooking dinner, and the scent was making Harry’s stomach growl.  Morosely, he realized that it was unlikely he would be sharing any of it.  He went between wanting them to call off Ripper so he could get down to not wanting to come down from the tree and face the punishment that no doubt awaited.

Suddenly, another need became more pressing.  He had to use the bathroom.  He tried pressing his legs together, then gripping himself in a way that Aunt Petunia would have smacked him for…but finally the urge was too much.  A wet stain spread on his lap as yellow liquid dripped from his pant legs.

Harry was humiliated, and this would only make matters worse for him.  Ripper sniffed some of the liquid that fell to the ground, then renewed his barking and growling…as if he were saying, “You’ve soiled yourself, you disgusting, naughty boy!”

The light faded.

Are they going to leave me up here all night?  Harry wondered unhappily.  He was afraid of going inside, but he was just becoming so uncomfortable.

Yet, he was cheered by the night.  Soon his friends would come.

Though Harry’s sleep was being destroyed, he looked forward to seeing the ghost kids.  Each night, he would see the kids he had met previously, but there would be a new kid who would present him with their film.  The films were gradually getting scarier and gorier, and yet Harry couldn’t stop himself from watching them.  They would usually watch two or three a night, though one of them would usually be a re-run that Harry asked to see again.  Emma told Harry that Mr. Boogie was really pleased.

Harry had seen flashes of Mr. Boogie.  He would sometimes appear at the end of a hallway, or Harry would catch a glimpse of him out the window or in a mirror.  He sometimes even saw him at school.  Mr. Boogie never spoke to Harry or approached him.  At first, Harry was glad of this.  Mr. Boogie scared him a little.  As time went on, though, Harry was getting more used to him…more curious…and he almost wished Mr. Boogie would talk to him.

“Does he talk?” Harry asked the kids once, “He doesn’t look like he has a mouth.”

“It’s hard to explain,” a little girl named Consuela said, “It isn’t like regular talking.  He shows us pictures in our heads of what he wants us to do.  We know what he wants by the pictures or the feelings he projects into our minds.”

Harry had seen Consuela’s movie last night.  She had dispatched her family by having them get gored by a bull.  Consuela told him she thought it was very befitting to make a movie of the murder.  Her father used to make movies of Consuela.  She didn’t like doing those movies.  He forced her to remove her clothes and do disgusting things with men he invited over, and one time he even made her do things with the family dog.  The movies Harry watched were getting more violent, and the stories the kids told about their lives were getting just as terrible.  Kids like Consuela almost made Harry feel fortunate, realizing that the Dursleys could be much worse.

Harry couldn’t stop thinking about the movies.  It was one of the reasons why he wasn’t sleeping well.  He wasn’t exactly having nightmares, but it was like every anxiety and fear he had was surfacing in his sleep.  The dreams were often the same.

He would be in a room—his room—and a pretty woman with red hair would be talking to him.  Then there was a flash of green light, and his head would hurt.  Then he would be crying, but the pretty red-head woman would be lying on the floor unresponsive.  Then he would get the sensation that he was flying, and he would actually feel safe.  There was a large burly man with a beard who smelled like a pet store, but Harry didn’t find the odor unpleasant.  Next, there were people—including the burly man—staring down at him.  He felt something cold and hard under him—and then they left.  He wanted to call out to them, “No, please don’t leave me!” They didn’t stop, they didn’t even turn around.  Then all his memories of his suffering at the hands of the Dursleys, Aunt Marge, and Dudley would replay.  Harry would wake up feeling like he hadn’t slept at all.

Yet, when the ghost kids came, he never told them to go away so he could get a night’s rest.  No matter how tired he felt during the day, suddenly he would feel very refreshed.

The movies were disgusting Harry less.  He was riveted by them.  He kept watching them as if there was a hidden message in them he was trying to figure out.  He also started seeing the beauty of how the murders were committed.  Consuela, for instance, danced at the end of her movie—before she did the “Shh!” that all the kids did at the end of their movies.  She danced well, but Harry noticed how the flecks of blood on the ground looked very much like the poppies that were the decorative print on her dress.  It was like she was dancing surrounded by flowers.

When he heard how the other kids were treated by their families, he didn’t feel sorry for the people getting murdered.  As time went on, he started agreeing with the sentiment that Emma had stated the first night he met her—it wasn’t wrong to kill bad people.  The world was better off without them.  Harry still had his doubts whether he could actually go through with killing the Dursleys, but each night after he watched the movies it seemed he felt more confident that he could do it.

It wasn’t just for revenge either.  Harry wanted so much to be taken away from his life, and Mr. Boogie was offering to do that.  Though he had worried about what Mr. Boogie was and what type of life he would lead with him initially, those fears were lessening.  After all, the other children seemed fine and even stated they were happier with their new life.

Harry wanted Mr. Boogie to like him and take him away.  His greatest fear was that one night the children wouldn’t show up.  He listened with trepidation every night for the vent cover to be thrown back, announcing Emma’s arrival.  The thought that they wouldn’t come, that they’d change their mind, worried Harry.  It wasn’t just that it threatened his chances of being rescued.  For the first time in his life, Harry had friends.  He enjoyed their company.  He became aware of just how hungry he had been for friendship.  He couldn’t lose it.

Suddenly, the air felt cooler.  Harry felt something was different, and he realized that he couldn’t hear the crickets anymore.  They had stopped.  Ripper, who sensed something was different too, sniffed the air with a puzzled growl.

Something in the bushes moved.  Ripper seemed torn between not wanting to leave his post and wanting to investigate the rustling.  The bush rustled again, and this decided Ripper.  He trotted over to the bush and sniffed, then started barking.  His barking seemed to get more alarmed, and he took a few steps back.

Suddenly, something grabbed him so quickly, Ripper didn’t even have a chance to yelp.  Harry watched the bush, which became still.  Ripper didn’t come out.  He waited for a few minutes more, then cautiously he started coming down the tree.  He did so with difficulty.  The ankle Ripper had bitten was swollen, and his body was sore from the rocks Dudley had thrown and being forced to remain in the tree for so long.

Ripper still did not come out of the bush, and Harry knew he wouldn’t.  He took a painful step towards the bush, his curiosity getting the better of him.

Suddenly, the back door open, and Aunt Marge called out, “Ripper! Here boy! Mummy has some yummy scraps!”

She frowned when she saw Harry, “What are you doing?” she asked accusingly, “Where is Ripper?”

Harry was about to point to the bush but then thought better of it, not knowing what she would find.  Quickly, he explained, “The neighbor’s cat came out, and he chased it.  I think he went into their yard.  There is a hole in the fence over there.”

Harry didn’t think Ripper could fit his fat little body through that hole, but apparently Aunt Marge did think so.  She bent down and called to her dog.

Harry was surprised she believed his explanation and didn’t accuse him of doing something to her dog.  Of course, eventually she probably would—because Harry suspected that Ripper was not going to show up…not alive anyway.  At the moment, though, she and Uncle Vernon were rather drunk—and their animosity towards Harry had mellowed slightly with drink.

“It’s late, boy!” Uncle Vernon replied, though not as sharply as usual, “Go to bed! You won’t have dinner tonight, and tomorrow we’ll talk about your choice in artistic themes.”

Harry gulped and straightaways went inside the house.  Thankfully, Harry’s pants had dried—and there didn’t seem to be a lingering smell.  Aunt Petunia snapped the cupboard shut and locked it, shutting the vent.

*     *     *     *     *

The adults stayed up late.  Though the vent was closed, Harry could hear them because they were talking loudly, which they often did when they had too much to drink.  Aunt Petunia actually remained sober—it was her husband and sister-in-law that indulged themselves.  However, she always forced herself to laugh at Aunt Marge’s jokes and compliment her, which the other woman ate up.  Harry sometimes wondered if Aunt Petunia really liked Aunt Marge.  He always noticed how her eyes noticed how the woman sloshed her drinks, and she was disgusted by how Marge allowed Ripper to eat at the table—insisting on using Aunt Petunia’s fine china to serve him.  Aunt Petunia’s eyes would twitch, and Harry knew she was restraining herself from cleaning up the stains with great difficulty.

He knew Dudley didn’t like Aunt Marge.  He only appeared to dote on her because she gave him money and expensive gifts…and he would probably inherit from her as she was a spinster and didn’t have children of her own.

Aunt Marge didn’t seem too perturbed by Ripper’s disappearance at first.  She assumed he was having a high old time chasing that cat.

“Filthy creatures, cats!” Aunt Marge bellowed, “I don’t know why people consider them cleaner than dogs! They lick their arse, and they they lick your face! How hygienic is that, I ask you?”

Aunt Petunia agreed.  Harry knew Aunt Petunia didn’t think any animal was clean.  There was only one request she had denied of her son’s, and that was for a dog.  She wouldn’t let him have any pet—not even a goldfish.  He remembered how Dudley had thrown a tantrum for three hours.  He even made himself sick, and he had been puzzled when after all that effort his mother had still said no—and his father even supported it.

“What book is that you have there, Marge?” Uncle Vernon changed the subject, feeling it was going into dangerous territory—for he knew Petunia’s feelings about the subject.  Of course, Petunia was one of those women who knew when to speak and when to not…but still, he liked avoiding any potential trouble.

“Oh, it is what we are reading in my book club,” Marge replied, “I had complained about how we read too many romance novels.  I was sick and tired of all that trash! That silly Sarah Meadows was miffed—she is the one that decides what we read.  She is a harlot.  I’m certain her relationship with her personal trainer is not innocent. However, I am a woman to be reckoned with! Sarah may be the president, but I carry some weight!”

“I don’t doubt it!” Uncle Vernon replied.  Harry didn’t doubt it either—the woman was a fat pig.

“I’ve always said you and I should become business partners,” Uncle Vernon continued, laying on his charm so thick Harry wanted to barf.

Aunt Marge laughed a surprisingly girlish laugh and said something Harry didn’t hear.  Then he heard her say, “Anyway, I suggested we should read some non-fiction.  Anne Marie, she is the one whose husband ran away with his receptionist, backed me—saying she would also like it if we read literature from other countries.  This was the book we decided on as a result.  It is a true crime book written by an American fellow named Ellison Oswalt.  It is called Kentucky Blood.”

“How is it?” Uncle Vernon asked.

“Meh,” Aunt Marge replied, “It is better than having to read another romance novel.  It is rather gruesome, and this Oswalt fellow is rather full of himself.  Supposedly, he helped uncover some information that lead to the perpetrators being arrested…and now he thinks he can walk on water.”

Uncle Vernon grunted.

Aunt Petunia said, “Oh, I can’t read books like that! They would give me nightmares! I think people who write true crime are a bunch of ghouls! What type of person goes around and digs into someone else’s tragedy so he can make money off of it?”

“True! True!” Aunt Marge agreed, “You were always a sensitive soul, Petunia.  I noticed that about you the first time Vernon introduced you to me.  I pride myself on my knowing people, and I told Vernon, ‘You will have to treat her well, Vernon.  She is a very sensitive soul.’”

In the darkness, Harry made a face as soppy compliments were exchanged.  He held his pillow over his ears.

*     *     *     *     *

Finally, they went to bed.

Aunt Marge had called out to Ripper.  One of the neighbors, annoyed at being woken up, had yelled at her.  She had yelled some rude things back and had intimidated the neighbor that he decided it was best to drop the complaints.

By now, she was worried about Ripper.  After an unsuccessful search, where Uncle Vernon even rode around the neighborhood to look for him, they returned home.  Uncle Vernon tried to console her, saying they did have a pet door—a souvenir installed by the prior owners.  Aunt Petunia always worried about robbers gaining entrance into the house, and it had been on Uncle Vernon’s to do list to remove it…but he never got around to it—and now he was glad.

The adults went to bed.  Aunt Petunia was the last to go up, tidying up the spills she hadn’t dared clean in Marge’s presence.

The house became still.  Harry listened to the sounds of the night.  He heard the clock in the hall chime the hours.

Suddenly, he heard the latch to the door unlock.  It creaked open.  Harry got up and went out, expecting to see Emma or Nicole.  He stopped abruptly in his tracks when he found himself face to face with Mr. Boogie.

He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.  Mr. Boogie’s eyes seemed to glow red in the darkness, and his mouth seemed to smile slightly.  It was, for him, probably meant to be friendly—though it just made him look hungry.

Suddenly, all the images of Harry’s dreams flitted through his head—all the feelings of abandonment he felt.  Then he felt something warm, a fuzzy feeling of comfort.  He understood that Mr. Boogie was communicating with him.  Though he didn’t say it in words, he had communicated to Harry that he would never abandon him.  All he had to do was be a good little child and obey everything Mr. Boogie commanded of him.

The children appeared behind him, and Mr. Boogie gestured to Harry that he was to go down into the basement again.  Harry stared at him a moment before nodding.

*     *     *     *     *

“We’re going to do something a little different tonight, Harry,” Emma replied, “Gretl, here, is going to play for us.”  She gestured to a girl Harry hadn’t met before, a blond girl with long braids, dressed in old fashion clothes, who had a bruised face.

“Oh,” Harry said, a little disappointed but not wanting to be rude, smiled, “Okay.”

“Don’t worry,” Emma replied, seemingly always in tune to Harry’s thoughts, “We’ll watch a movie afterwards.  There are only two left.  It is just that when Mr. Boogie adopted Gretl, he did things differently in those days.  She didn’t make a movie.”

“What did you do?” Harry asked.

“I played him a song on my piano, which I had written just for him,” Gretl replied in a very thick accent, “Tonight I’m going to play it for you.”

The children sat down on the floor and looked attentive as Gretl went up to Dudley’s old child’s piano.  She started playing a beautiful though oddly melancholy tune on it.  As she played, she sang a song that accompanied it.  Harry didn’t understand the words because it was in a different language.

Then something strange had happened.  Just like with Mr. Boogie, images started appearing in Harry’s head.  He saw Gretl inside a church.  She was singing a solo, and everyone looked up at her in admiration.  Harry felt her happiness, her love of music—the joy of the escape it provided for her.

The image changed.  There was a large man—her father.  She was cowering in a corner.  He was enraged.  Her mother was trying to calm him down, and he smacked her—causing her to fall to the ground.  He took off his belt and started hitting Gretl with it.  Harry could feel the pain of the strap.  The father kept beating and beating her.  As bad as that pain was, though, was the cruel words he screamed as he beat her, “You are stupid and worthless! I should have thrown you into a ravine! Why should I raise another man’s worthless brat?”

Gretl fell down from the pain.  The strap turned her arms, legs, back—anywhere it touched—red.  Then the wounds opened up.  The scene jumped ahead in time, and Harry could feel how Gretl was crippled by the pain—and when her mother put the salve on her wounds, it felt like the strap was stinging her again.  The scene changed again, and the father is enraged—screaming she is lazy, and her injuries are not severe enough that she should get out of doing chores.  If she doesn’t get up, he’ll give her another lashing.  Harry felt the pain of her efforts to walk and do her chores.  He felt the fear when she drops a plate and breaks it, which causes her father to grab a brush and beat her with it—inflaming the already existing wounds.  Gretl’s screams echo in Harry’s ears.

The music changed, becoming more gloating…more victorious.  Harry sees the family’s dinner glasses, and the liquid inside them is glowing green.  The family is tied up, looking groggy.  Gretl is warming some things in a fire, and she approaches her father with a wicked smile.  His eyes widen, and then he screams as she burns him.  Her mother screams, as does her older sister.  Her brother, who is just a toddler, seems to be unconscious…possibly already dead.

The scene changes, and Gretl picks up a sculpture of a smiling gnome.  Harry can feel the weight of it.  He can feel how unearthly strong Gretl feels as she lifts it up and smacks her father in the head with it.  She keeps hitting him, blood spattering everywhere.  She finally cracks his head open and reveals some brain matter.  When she finally stops, he is dead—and Harry feels her exhilaration.  She goes to her piano to play a song in honor of the occasion, being certain to record it on the nearby ham radio.  This time she sings coordinates to her house to the music.  However, her mother starts screaming over Gretl.  Harry feels Gretl’s annoyance.  He sees her take the gnome and bash her mother in the head.

The song came to an end, and so did the visions in Harry’s head.  He blinked.  The other children were staring at him expectantly.

“I liked your song,” he finally said, not knowing what else to say.”

Gretl smiled, “Thank you.  I’ve always been proud of it.  It was my best work.”

“Art is very important to Mr. Boogie,” a boy named Michael said, “It is another way we honor him.  He always chooses kids with artistic souls.”

Harry frowned, “Well, I’m not really artistic.”

Nicole shook her head and pulled out a piece of paper.  It was the drawing he had made that had gotten him into trouble at school.

“That isn’t true, Harry,” Emma replied, “That picture is very good.  I’m very flattered that you chose to draw me.”

“How did you get that?” Harry asked.

The children didn’t answer.  Their attention was diverted to staring at a spot behind Harry.  When he turned, he saw Mr. Boogie by the basement stairs.  He gestured, and Nicole brought him the picture.  He stared at it, then looked up at Harry.  The eyes in his sockets glowed, and the mouth deepened into a smile.

“Mr. Boogie likes your drawing too,” Emma said, putting a hand on Harry’s shoulder, “He is very pleased with you.”

Emma didn’t need to tell him this, for Harry could feel it.  His face became flushed.  He was overwhelmed by the feeling of approval from an adult…well whatever Mr. Boogie was.  It was something that he had never felt before, but suddenly a hunger to have more of it rose up in Harry’s soul.  His eyes stung with tears.

From out of Mr. Boogie’s shadow, another girl stepped out.  Mr. Boogie indeed had a lot of children.  She walked up to Harry, holding out a canister, “Hello.  My name is Samantha, and I made this movie.”

CHAPTER 8:  Hide and Seek

YEAR 2001

The snake hissed as it circled the woman’s body lying on the ground.  It stopped near the tip of her head and started to extend its jaw.  It used its fangs to secure her head, and then slowly it started to consume her.  Its body widened as it swallowed the woman.

Lord Voldemort watched in fascination.  Peter Pettigrew made a disgusted sound and turned away.  Wormtail always had a queasy stomach, but his natural affinity to rats made him despise their natural enemy, the snake.

The woman that Nagini was devouring was a Ministry witch named Bertha Jorkins.  She had recognized Wormtail in Albania, and he had tricked her.  After locating Lord Voldemort, Wormtail had used her to help resurrect the Dark Lord.

Poor Bertha Jorkins.  What could be said about her?  She had been a pleasant but not very bright woman.  She had been too trusting and naïve, but she had long ears and had quite a bit of useful information.  Lord Voldemort was able to track down a loyal Deatheater and place him at the school.

Of course, the Dark Lord would have preferred to have used Harry Potter’s blood to resurrect himself.  What more fitting than the boy who had nearly destroyed him be the one to resurrect him?  He certainly would have relished seeing Nagini devour him.

Voldemort turned away and faced his father’s tombstone.  He scowled.  Trips down memory lane were never pleasant, but his father had been useful to him at last—helping him return to a body.

But Harry Potter…he continued to haunt the Dark Lord.  It seemed no one knew what had happened to the boy.  Many believed Dumbledore had hidden him away, but it seemed that Dumbledore was genuinely baffled as the rest of them.

The lack of closure was…disturbing.  He feared that his Deatheaters would doubt his power—as well as the rest of the wizarding world—if he didn’t triumph over Harry Potter.  Though he would never admit this to anyone else, he would doubt himself.  It was humiliating to be done in by a drooling brat.

It began to rain, though it was more of a mist.  Voldemort closed his eyes and lifted his face up to the heavens.  The sky was black and devoid of stars.

“My Lord?” Wormtail spoke up, “Shall we go inside?  It is starting to rain.”

“What’s wrong, Wormtail?” the Dark Lord replied, “Afraid you are going to melt?”

Wormtail muttered and pulled his shabby coat tighter around him.

Voldemort made a dismissive gesture, “Go.  I’ll follow in a minute.”

Wormtail didn’t need to be told again.

What Voldemort disliked the most about not knowing the fate of Harry Potter was that he would spend his new life always looking over his shoulder, wondering if The Boy Who Lived would rise up to confront him.

I need to know, he thought, There are many things that need to be done before I can reclaim the wizard world, but I need to know what happened to Harry Potter.

*     *     *     *     *

Harry was in the middle of playing hide and seek with the other children when something distracted him. 

Suddenly, he felt a tap on his shoulder and a voice say, “You’re it!”

Harry turned to see his newest brother, Milo.  Behind him stood the other children.  Though Milo was the newest edition to Mr. Boogie’s family, it didn’t take him long to become a leader.  What was funny about Milo was that he didn’t become a leader with his fists or by bullying.  He was a quiet boy, rather aloof—but somehow he inspired the others to follow him.

“What is it?” Milo frowned.

“I thought…,” Harry trailed off, not knowing how to explain it, “I thought I heard someone calling me.”

Milo frowned, “Well, it wasn’t any of us.”  He glanced back at the other children, and they shook their heads in unison.

“It couldn’t have been Mr. Boogie either,” Emma spoke up, coming forward.

Harry frowned, “I know…it is strange.  Sometimes…sometimes I think people in the other world are calling to me.  Do any of you ever experience that?”

The other children frowned and shook their heads.

“I’d ignore it if I were you, Harry,” Milo replied, “I don’t think hearing voices is a good thing in this world either.”

Milo turned to the other children, “Okay, Harry is it.  Let’s hide!”

“Where is Harry?” a little girl named Catherine spoke up.

“What do you mean?  He’s right…,” Milo turned, but Harry was gone.

“Harry?”

*     *     *     *     *

Harry had been concentrating on the voice, and suddenly it was like the ground had swallowed him.  He seemed to fall endlessly, and then suddenly he stopped—and he found himself in an unfamiliar location.

He was back in the mortal world.  He knew that.  The netherworld was quite different, so there was no way of confusing the two.  How he wound up here, he didn’t know.

He was in a cemetery in a place he had never been before.  He looked at one of the nearest graves and read the name on the tombstone:  RIDDLE.

He heard a hiss, and he saw what looked like a snake…except its body was engorged and malformed.

The snake peered at him with yellow eyes.  Its forked tongue darted out of its mouth as it hissed.  What amazed Harry is that he realized it was talking, and he could understand it!

A boy! The snake hissed, There is a boy here! What is a boy doing here?  Master, there is a boy here! Beware!

Harry backed away and ran into something.  He turned and gasped.  You would think after getting accustomed to Mr. Boogie, appearances wouldn’t startle him too much.  However, he was still unnerved by the sight of the pale, noseless man with red eyes.

Nagini, the man hissed, What is it?  I see no boy that you speak of.

But master, the snake hissed, sounding as perplex as a snake could, he is there! Right by you!

Harry looked up at the puzzled man.  He was staring down, but he didn’t seem to see Harry.  Harry ran and hid behind a tombstone.  He peeked out at the man.  He should get back to the netherworld.  Mr. Boogie didn’t like them wandering away.

Yet…Harry felt a tugging towards this man.  Something within him felt a connection.

“Harry! What are you doing here?” Milo’s voice startled him.

*     *     *     *     *

Voldemort was puzzled.  Nagini was seeing a boy he could not see.  Yet, he had felt something run into him, and he had heard something run by.

It wasn’t uncommon for animals to see things that humans couldn’t, even wizards.  Just like not all humans were magical, some spirits didn’t have enough energy to be visible.  The ghosts of Hogwarts, having been witches and wizards, had enough energy to make themselves visible to the naked eye.  However, Voldemort was in a muggle cemetery—and very likely if there was something here…it would be too weak to be visible.

It wouldn’t concern him, except Nagini had described the boy.  She had mentioned that he had a scar on his forehead, and the little information the Dark Lord had about Harry Potter…he knew that his attack on the boy had left him a souvenir in a scar that looked like a bolt of lightning on his forehead.

But why would the boy be here?

Suddenly, he heard a child’s giggle.  It sounded like a little girl rather than a little boy.

“Who’s there?” he asked angrily, lighting his wand.  He heard someone run behind him, and he turned but saw nothing.

Then he heard a clanging in the opposite direction.  He cautiously moved forward until he reached a mausoleum that belonged to a war hero.  The clanking had sounded like someone running a stick across the bars, and there was a stick nearby.  The light of Voldemort’s wand caught something else strange.  He reached out and touched the still wet muddy handprint of a child.

Once again, he heard giggling and footsteps racing down the path.  He turned to follow.  He nearly lost his footing as he skidded in the slippery mud.  He gasped.

Splotch!

The sound was in front of him.  He frowned and held out his wand.

Splotch!

He looked down at the ground and noticed two shoe prints in the mud.  As he continued to stare, a new shoe print formed in the mud…but he didn’t see the person that was making it.  The prints were tiny…it was obviously a child.

Voldemort backed away.  He fired a spell at the invisible intruder, but the spell just went through and hit a nearby tombstone.  It exploded and sent rubble and dust everywhere.

Then a voice near his ear whispered, “You can’t catch me!”

The Dark Lord turned, but though he heard a giggle and retreating footsteps, he didn’t see the person making the sounds.  He stood there for a few minutes, hearing nothing but silence.

When he turned around, though, he was greeted by an awful, inhuman face.  He cried out and fell backwards, banging his head on the tombstone.  Darkness clouded his vision, as dark as the creature’s eyes that looked down on him.

Bughuul took a few steps forward and looked down at the unconscious man.  The children were watching silently.  Harry detached himself from the group and went up to his master.  Bughuul looked at him.  Unlike the other children, Harry wasn’t afraid of him.  It had disturbed Bughuul, but the child had been an obedient servant until now.

“I didn’t mean to run away,” Harry explained timidly, “I heard someone calling me, and when I thought about the voice…I just sort of landed here.”

The other children looked terrified, fearing reprisal.  Mr. Boogie had immediately sensed Harry’s disappearance—and they all worried Mr. Boogie would punish all of them.

Bughuul looked down at the boy.  He believed Harry.  Unlike the other children, Harry had a connection to the man who was lying unconsciously on the ground.  He contained a bit of that man’s soul.

Bughuul put his hand on Harry’s shoulder.  Harry looked up at him, then smiled as his master suggested leaving their calling card.

*     *     *     *     *

“My Lord!” he heard Wormtail’s concerned voice.  Someone shook his shoulder.

“My Lord!”

Voldemort slowly opened his eyes.  Wormtail’s ugly face slowly came into focus.

“Wormtail,” he murmured, “What happened?”

“I do not know, My Lord!” Wormtail’s mouth quivered indecisively, “When you didn’t come in, I went looking for you and found you on the ground.  I thought you were dead! Perhaps you fainted?”

The Dark Lord slowly got up.  The back of his head, which had struck the tombstone, throbbed.  He felt the smoothness of the back of his head, but there was no blood.  He’d probably have a nasty bump.

He allowed Wormtail to help him up.  He was a bit unsteady on his feet.

He remembered hearing the children he never saw, and the horrible face he wished he hadn’t seen.  What had that been?

“My Lord!” Wormtail exclaimed, “What is that?”

Voldemort looked down at his father’s tombstone.  There was a strange symbol drawn on the face of it that resembled the horrible face he had seen.

CHAPTER 9:  Fireworks

YEAR 1996

The day had finally come, a day that had been long anticipated by two little boys for two very different reasons.

That morning, Dudley had eagerly come down the stairs to be greeted by birthday salutations and even better—presents! He hadn’t bothered stomping the stairs to rain dust down inside the cupboard.  He was too excited, but he also probably knew there was no point.  Harry wasn’t inside the cupboard.  He had been woken up in the wee hours of the morning to help carry down Dudley’s presents from the storage room.

Much to everyone’s delight, Dudley pounced on his presents like a predator does its prey.  Aunt Marge took pictures.  Dudley barely acknowledged an unwrapped gift before demanding the next one.  When he reached the last present, and his lips began trembling in the beginning of a tantrum, Aunt Petunia whipped out breakfast birthday cake.  Dudley had practically inhaled his breakfast, which consisted of all his favorite foods.  His father had excused himself to set up the video game console he had bought for his son, which was fortunate…for as soon as Dudley was finished eating, he wanted to play his video game.

The garbage can was overflowing with wrapping paper and ribbon.  The Dursleys usually tried to save wrapping paper, carefully unwrapping their gifts.  However, Dudley—as with everything else—was indulged in his destruction.

Harry was washing the dishes.  It was actually a peaceful moment, so uncommon in the Dursley household.  The adults were leisurely eating their breakfast, and for the moment they were ignoring him.  Sounds of screaming and gunfire came from the living room where Dudley was playing his video game.

Dudley’s other gifts littered the floor, obstacles that had to be carefully stepped around.  For once, Harry was not looking at them with resentment and doing a mental tally. 

It was a big day for Harry too.  Today was the day his life was going to change forever.  Last night, he had watched his last film.  He had been full of doubts all week, wondering if he could go through with it…but suddenly last night, after watching the last film, those doubts had evaporated.  Suddenly, everything became very clear.  He knew just what to do.  Though he hadn’t gotten any sleep, he felt very awake and refreshed.

Dudley had wanted fireworks for his birthday, and Uncle Vernon had purchased some very powerful ones—illegal ones in fact, that were now up in the storage room.  Normally, the Dursleys would not want to disturb their neighbors with a noisy celebration…but when it came to their son’s desires, the neighbors be damned!

An idea had formed in Harry’s head, an idea that was no doubt helped along from Bughuul—for it was too sophisticated for a nine year old boy to come up with on his own.  Harry stared out the window at the backyard patio with a smile.  It would be the scene of tonight’s festivities, but Harry had a little surprise for the Dursleys.

“I see you finished your book, Marge,” Vernon Dursley’s voice broke into Harry’s thoughts, “How was it?”

Vernon Dursley didn’t read and really didn’t care, but he was trying to distract his sister.  Though she perked up for Dudley’s celebration, she was rather glum over the disappearance of her dog.  Ripper had still not shown up.  They had put up posters around the neighborhood, and she would jump up every time the phone rang—but so far there was no news.  Vernon tried to cheer her, saying he hadn’t seen any dead dogs on the road—and maybe Ripper had gone off with a female bitch.  He was neutered, but he was enough of a rascal to play the game.

Aunt Marge snorted, “Well, in the end, I have to say that the world was well rid of not only the murderer but the victims as well! What loathsome people they turned out to be, even though the author tried to make you feel sorry for them.  I’ll tell you, Vernon and Petunia, I am under the belief that people who get murdered probably deserved it.  It is life’s way of ridding the world of despicable people.  The killer kills, and then he is killed.  Good riddance to trash, I say!”

“Oh, you are right, you are right, definitely! There is no reason for us law-abiding, respectable people to fall victim to such a thing,” Uncle Vernon  replied, “Boy! Come fill up my coffee!”

As Harry filled Uncle Vernon’s cup, Aunt Marge seized his hair painfully, “Take this one here!” she hissed, “His no-good parents got drunk and got themselves killed…and I don’t doubt one day this measly runt will do himself in…and there will not be one tear dropped over his remains by any of us!”

Aunt Marge released him shoving him forward.  Harry managed to regain his balance.  Normally, such a comment would have infuriated him into foolishly saying something, but this time her mean comment did not affect him.  He could not afford to be punished.  There was work to be done.

Aunt Marge looked rather put out when Harry failed to react, “Well, boy?”

Harry looked at her politely, “Yes, Aunt Marge?  Do you need me to get something for you?”

The Dursleys and Aunt Marge stared at Harry as if he had grown a third head.

“Are you all right, Harry?” Uncle Vernon asked, his voice and face betraying fear.

“Yes, I’m fine, Uncle Vernon.  I’m just very busy.  I’m certain Aunt Petunia would like the dishes cleaned up before lunch, and there are a lot more today than usual.”

They stared at him like people did in the horror films where a relative was under alien control or had been replaced by a robotic look-alike.  Harry felt gratified by their frightened expressions and turned around to finish the dishes.

*      *     *     *     *

Strangely enough, they left him alone—something that had been unheard of in the past…but fortunate, since Harry had his own preparations to attend to.  Dudley, when he finally tore himself away from his video game, tried to bully him—but his parents had called him off at once.  Dudley had been surprised by their reaction and stared at Harry with a mixture of curiosity and fear.  He didn’t spend too much time dwelling on it, though.  His mother brought out his lunch birthday cake, and after he had eaten his fill of that, he and his toadie Piers Polkiss had played with his new paint gun.  Uncle Vernon and Aunt Marge went out to look for Ripper, and Aunt Petunia went into the kitchen to prepare for that night’s dinner.

Harry tiptoed quietly down to the basement, a box cutter and pliers concealed in his baggy pants.  He had some party favors to construct.  Though not mechanical, Mr. Boogie showed him images of what he needed and what to do.

Emma had shown him how to work the Super 8 film camera.  In between constructing his party favors, he made sure to record scenes of Dudley’s special day.  He had filmed Dudley opening his presents and gobbling down his cake as the opening scene to his film.

Though they didn’t show themselves, Harry could feel the presence of the other children and Bughuul.  It was comforting.  Though his courage did not wan nor did doubts plague his mind, he was glad for their support to see him through.  Though he was supposed to do this mostly on his own, he didn’t doubt they would help out if he needed them to.

*     *      *     *     *

Harry remembered a quote from one of Aunt Petunia’s magazines that she subscribed to.  It stated that whenever one was planning for a special occasion, they should always expect some sort of disaster to come up.  Whether it was an appliance breaking or a relative making a scene or something else, a good hostess was one who prepared for such a thing and had a plan B.

Aunt Petunia, though she tried to follow this advice, was never actually good at practicing it…which was unfortunate, for she would have been able to handle her nephew’s special gifts much better if she had.

However, in this case, it was not Petunia’s plans that were threatened but Harry’s.  Disaster announced itself with a door bell.  When Harry answered the door, he found Mrs. Figg standing on the porch in her robe and slippers.  Harry had actually had never seen Mrs. Figg dressed in anything else.

Aunt Marge had sniffed and looked disapprovingly at this uninvited guest who crashed the party and didn’t even have the decency to put on something appropriate.  Harry had hoped the Dursleys would successfully send Mrs. Figg away, but despite their efforts, Mrs. Figg was determined to stay until her complaint was heard out.

Harry looked out the window at the back patio.  In the reflection of the glass, he could see the children and Bughuul behind him.  He did not turn.  He understood.  He couldn’t wait for the woman to leave.  He liked Mrs. Figg, but she would have to die with the rest of them.

With regret, he poured an extra glass of punch.  He pulled out a vial Emma had given to him earlier.  Carefully, he measured out the drops, making sure to put a larger dose into the glass meant for Mrs. Figg.  The contents of the vial at first glowed a neon green, but as he stirred they blended in with the drink.  Emma had assured him it was tasteless.

How much the family suffered was totally up to Harry, Emma had told him.  The drug, if given in small amounts, would subdue people but leave them conscious.  In larger amounts, you could put them into a coma or even kill them.  Harry had enough anger and desire for revenge to want the Dursleys and Aunt Marge to be conscious.  Only Mrs. Figg was given a strong enough dose to make her insensible.

Carefully, he brought the punch glasses outside.  He set the tray on the table and handed Mrs. Figg her glass first.  Aunt Petunia frowned at him, not wanting to encourage the woman into believing she was welcome to stay for the celebration—particularly as she had the gall to show up on Duddy’s special day to complain about how he had fired his paint gun at one of her cats.  Uncle Vernon was trying to pacify the woman.

Harry went up to each person and served them their drink.  He was satisfied to see that all were sipping from their glasses.  It was only a matter of waiting for the drug to take effect.

*      *     *     *     *

Things looked different when you saw them through the lens of a movie camera.  The projector whirred, and its bright light illuminated the scene.

It first focused on a punch glass that had fallen to the ground and shattered into tiny shards.  The crystal glass reflected the light from the camera, and the neon green of the drug seemed to react to the light and began to glow.

The camera then focused on the fat leg next to the glass.  The camera slowly went up the leg to the fat body it was attached to until it rested on the bulging, terrified eyes of Aunt Marge.  She was tied to her chair with rope.  A homemade bomb was secured inside her mouth.  Around her neck was Ripper’s collar.  He had wanted her to know that her hideous dog was dead, even though technically he wasn’t responsible for it.

Harry walked to Uncle Vernon next, who was restrained and gagged the same way.

Dudley, as the birthday boy, had the honor of being hog tied in the middle of the patio.  A “birthday boy” hat was on top of his head.  His eyes practically disappeared into his fat cheeks as they overflowed with tears.  Snot dribbled from his nose.  He tried to scream, but like the others had explosives jammed into his mouth.

The camera turned to Aunt Petunia, whose eyes were so wide in horror that they eclipsed the rest of her face.  Unlike the others, she did not cry or try to scream.  She was too afraid to move.  She even tried not to breathe too hard.

Though Aunt Petunia was gagged with explosives and restrained in her chair like the others, her set up was slightly different.  Harry supposed that in the end, he resented her the most…and that is why he set things up the way he did.  The trigger for Dudley’s explosives was under her left palm, and the trigger for her husband’s explosives was under her right palm.  Aunt Marge’s explosives were tied to Uncle Vernon’s, so she would go off a few seconds later.  Aunt Petunia’s explosives, like Mrs. Figg’s, were set up to be manually triggered.

Harry turned the camera to the unconscious figure of Mrs. Figg.  Drool was going down the side of her chin. She had been an unwelcomed guest, but Harry decided that she would start things off.  Harry scraped a long match and held it up, recording the expressions of the family as this threat gave them a glimpse of their lives coming to an end.  Aunt Marge, Uncle Vernon, and Dudley began to scream louder—though the bomb muffled most of it.  Aunt Petunia’s lower stomach began to move as she hyperventilated and trembled with fear.

Harry lit the wick of Mrs. Figg’s explosives, then quickly backed up.  The flame traveled up, and then suddenly there was a deafening BANG! The camera caught the blood splattering the nearby wall in an artistic arc.  Harry moved closer to film the remains of what was left of Mrs. Figg’s face.  Behind him, the screams of the others became louder and even more panicked.  Even Aunt Petunia was trying to scream loud enough to rouse the neighbors.

Though they were loud enough to be heard by the neighbors, who were indeed annoyed by the silence being shattered by the explosion, the Dursleys past behavior guaranteed that no one was going to come to help them or even complain.  It was well known that it was Dudley’s birthday, and the Dursleys in the past had always demanded lenience in honor of that occasion.  The neighbors were also accustomed to hearing screams from Dudley’s often violent games and TV programs, so the sounds really were not that out of the ordinary even if the event itself was.

Harry turned to Aunt Petunia with an evil grin.  In the background, standing by the tree, was Mr. Boogie silently watching the scene.  Harry pulled out a butane torch with his free hand and activated it.  He started to burn the arm that held the trigger to Dudley’s explosives.  Aunt Petunia screeched.  Her face turned bright red.  She tried to resist clenching her hand, which would activate the trigger…but in the end the pain forced her to.

The explosives didn’t totally muffle the tortured howl that came from both Dursley parents as they watched their son’s head explode.  Rockets shot up into the sky, as if celebrating and singing to the world, “Pop! Pop! The bully is dead! The bully is dead! All rejoice, because the bully is dead!”

Tears dripped from Aunt Petunia’s face.  Harry then started burning her other arm, and again it was only a matter of time before her hand activated the trigger for her husband’s explosives, which in turn triggered Aunt Marge’s explosives.

The noise that heralded these two deaths was deafening.  Harry’s eyes were nearly dazzled by the light of the fireworks, which were closer to the ground and danced around the bodies.

Harry faced his aunt one last time.  She stared at him in defeat through blurred vision.

“Why did you take me in if you didn’t want me?” Harry asked her hoarsely.  Whether it was from emotion or the smoke, his throat felt like it had a lump in it.

She couldn’t reply, of course.  She just shook her head.  Harry reached over and lit the wick to her explosives.  She closed her eyes, two tears trickling down the opposite sides of her cheeks simultaneously before the explosives went off and destroyed her face.

Smoke hung in the air as thick as the silence that followed the cacophony of death.  Harry paused the camera to collect some of the gore for the last finishing touch.  When he had enough, he drew Bughuul’s symbol on the ground…constructing it much like he used to do with macaroni pictures in class…but he wasn’t using macaroni this time.  Looking down at his work with satisfaction, he turned the camera on once again to film it.

*     *     *     *     *

Exhaustion was starting to catch up with Harry, but there were still some things left to do.  In addition to the film, Harry had to draw a stick figure still life of the scene and label everyone.

The projector was set up and was playing his film.  He glanced up as he finished the drawing, admiring his work.  He was certain he had made the best film yet.

The film ended with Harry lifting his finger to his mouth and going, “Shhh!”

Suddenly, the image flickered, and Harry saw the ghost kids gathered in what looked like an ancient temple.  He could see that the walls behind them were decorated with strange glyphs that looked like they had been done in blood.

Harry stepped into the light of the projector, but his shadow did not block the image on the screen.  The ghost kids smiled, and he knew he was being welcomed by his new brothers and sisters.

Suddenly, he felt himself being lifted up and carried.  Bughuul had appeared behind him.  Harry rested his head against Mr. Boogie’s shoulder, and suddenly his eyes felt like they had weights attached to them, and he could not keep them open anymore.

Bughuul’s eyes glowed brightly, his mouth curving up in the slightest smile.  The children skipped away as he approached the screen.  As if it was an extension of the room, Bughuul stepped into the film with the sleeping boy in his arms.

CHAPTER 10: You Can’t Thwart Fate

YEAR 2014

There were some deities that took pleasure in trying to thwart the destiny of man.  The Greek deities were famous for this.  Bughuul selected his victims for the quality of their souls, not because he took pleasure in trying to rewrite Fate.  In his extensive experience, he often found that Fate always managed to have the last word.

He had been aware of the prophecy about Harry Potter, but he hadn’t taken the boy to prevent it.  He did not get caught up in wizard politics, which was always tiresome and threatened to interfere with dinner.

By all appearances, though, by taking Harry Potter he had interfered with Fate.  The Dark Lord had risen again, and within a few years he had seized control of the Ministry of Magic.  Albus Dumbledore died full of regrets and never knowing exactly what had happened to Harry Potter.  He had died a pariah of the wizarding world, much to Lord Voldemort’s glee—for he had been responsible for destroying the wizard world’s only savior.

Of course, for several years—even when the Dark Lord came into power—there were some who still held out hope that Harry Potter was still alive and in hiding somewhere.  They hoped he would return and rally the wizarding world to fight against those who oppressed them.

For a while, it seemed as if this hope would be fulfilled when a young man boasted in a pub that he was Harry Potter.  People would come from all over to hear him give speeches, which often were full of insults directed at the Deatheaters—which would become more slurred as he consumed more beers.  Anyone with sense—which were very few in number—walked away in disgust when it became evident that even if this was Harry Potter…the reputation that he was a savior was greatly exaggerated.  Still, that didn’t stop him from gaining a huge following of admirers, and he was certainly popular with the ladies.

Eventually, the Dark Lord showed an interest in meeting young Mr. Potter—that is when it was discovered that this man was not Harry Potter but a Stanley Shunpike. The lightning bolt scar, which had convinced everyone, had merely been drawn on and had started to smudge when Mr. Shunpike had been roughly manhandled by his captors.

The hope that the real Harry Potter would return gradually died out.  There were some people who decided that if there was any hope in saving the wizard world from the Deatheaters, then they would have to rescue themselves rather than wait around for a savior that may never come and who was in all likelihood dead.  Ronald Weasley was the one that stepped up to the plate, along with his wife Hermione, and his good friend Neville.  His brothers Fred and George aided the cause in developing weapons.  Along with the Order of the Phoenix, they fought valiantly against the forces of darkness.  Their numbers, though, were small…and they got smaller as the death toll got higher.  In the end, while the majority of wizards and witches were against the Deatheaters, they could not find the courage to fight them.

Fate was a funny thing though.  It was very ingenious and flexible.  It had a way, even when something unexpected happened, of fulfilling its original directive.  One of the reasons why Fate was often successful was because it put things into motion based on people’s flaws.

Take the Dark Lord.  Though Harry Potter had disappeared and was very likely dead, even though he had failed to appear when it would seem like a good time for a savior to emerge, the Dark Lord continued to be obsessed in finding his enemy.  He could not accept the possibility that this threat had been removed.  It was this same obsession that had nearly destroyed him years ago when he attacked his foe and had his curse backfire, and yet he had not learned his lesson.

And for that reason, there was still an excellent chance that Harry Potter would still destroy the Dark Lord…albeit maybe indirectly.

*     *     *     *     *

Mrs. Carter crossed the street, holding a container that contained a freshly baked pound cake.  She was heading for a house she had once said she would never step foot into the yard of.

After eighteen years of being vacant, 4 Privet Drive had finally been sold.  Though it had been in very sad condition—all of its windows broken out and the roof sagging from water damage—the new owner had renovated it.  It now breathed with new life like a woman who had just had a makeover.  To look at it, you would never have guessed that its history had been any different from the neighboring houses.

Mrs. Carter smoothed her dress and put her hand on the gate.  Just then, she jumped back as if her hand had touched a hot stove.  She frowned as she looked at the gate, then up at the house.  She noticed a young girl staring at her through the living room window.  She started to put up her hand to wave, but then the oddest sensation came over her.  It was as if the house was speaking to her.

Go away!

Mrs. Carter shook her head and frowned, but she turned around and returned to her house—pound cake undelivered.

The young girl inside the house watched Mrs. Carter walk back to her house.  Over her shoulder, a woman with brooding eyes also caught sight of the neighbor walking away.

“Good,” Bellatrix Lestrange muttered with distaste, “I see the Muggle repellent charm is working.  The last thing we need is those people descending upon us with their horrible food.”

*     *     *     *     *

Down in the basement, a young girl sat crying while she carefully propped up her skinned and bleeding knee.  Sitting was actually uncomfortable because her bottom and backside also stung from the lashing she had received, but she could not yet stand up because of her knee.

Had Mrs. Carter happened to come down to the basement, she may have mistaken this girl as the one she had seen earlier looking through the living room window.  However, the girl she had seen had been this girl’s twin sister Salazara.

Lyra and Salazara Gaunt were identical twins, but there was never any problem telling them apart.  Their personalities had been distinctly different.  This may have driven a wedge between them in itself, but other circumstances would further divide them.

Great things had been expected of them, being the daughters of the Dark Lord.  They united two of the wizarding world’s pure blood households—the Gaunts and the Lestranges.

Young Salazara had lived up to this promise within a few hours of birth, when she caused a rattle to melt whose sound had frightened her.  At first, no one had been too perturbed by Lyra not displaying any magical leanings.  It could take several years before a child manifested any talent.

However, when Lyra had failed to display any magical talent by the age of eight, her mortified parents realized that their one daughter was a squib.  Things greatly changed for Lyra after that.  Her station in life was altered, as well as how she was treated even by her own family.  She was hidden away like the embarrassment she was, and she was treated more like a servant than a daughter.

Lyra didn’t really care that she couldn’t do magic.  From her observations, the ability to do magic didn’t mean that people could use it constructively to do them any good.  Magic rarely did anything useful.  It mostly seemed to be used to do stupid things like make your jellybeans taste like vomit, or else they were used to hurt people.

Her father was considered the greatest wizard in the world, and yet for all of that he still hadn’t found out Harry Potter’s fate.  Her mother, Bellatrix Lestrange, was a terrifying force to be reckoned with due to her deadly skill and the force of her convictions.  Young Lyra feared her mother more than her father, and the clicking of the woman’s boots on the wood floor always sent Lyra’s heart fluttering in fear.  Yet, for all the power she boasted she had learned from the Dark Lord himself, Lyra did not see that her mother was at all happy and was quite…well, mad.

Lyra didn’t care that she couldn’t do magic.  She did mind though the rejection from her parents, the abuse she suffered, and the total lack of respect she received.  Her father pretty much ignored her except when he had in mind to humiliate her in public.  Her mother terrorized her, punishing her on a daily basis for being a failure—which Bellatrix took personally, as she felt she had failed her Lord by giving him a child that was a squib.

As a result of her situation, Lyra rejected her parents pure blood beliefs.  She was sympathetic to others who were oppressed and abused by the Deatheaters, like the house elves.  She sorely missed her good friend Dobby, who she had helped free by tricking her uncle.  Dobby had joined the resistance, and eventually he had been captured and executed.

Lyra also admired muggles and their ingenuity.  It seemed to her that despite a lack of magical talent, muggles had found ways to improve their life in meaningful ways.  Muggles, unlike cowardly wizards who offered very little resistance, would band together to fight an evil that threatened them.

Needless to say, her views did not improve her relationship with her parents.  Most of the time, she kept quiet and tried to disappear.  However, sometimes the stress of her life loosened her tongue—and then she made her feelings known in rebellious outbursts.

Which was what happened today.  Lyra had been moving boxes all day with Peter Pettigrew.  She had been exhausted, and all she wanted to do was take a bath and lie down.  Zara, though, had combined two unstable ingredients while trying to make a potion—which had resulted in an explosion that sent the mess flying everywhere.

Her mother had ordered Lyra to clean up the sticky mess.  Bellatrix could have easily made everything spotless with the wave of her wand, and Lyra had pointed that out.  Her mother made a scathing comment that if Lyra hadn’t been born a filthy squib, she could have cleaned up the mess with a wave of a wand too.  Lyra should have just bitten her tongue and cleaned it up, but she was tired—and she was unable to restrain the rage that boiled up.  She wound up shouting at her mother that if Bellatrix wasn’t such a hypocrite and upheld her own beliefs, she wouldn’t have bred with a half-blood like Lyra’s father—which put her at risk for having non-magical children.  Obviously, this didn’t go over well.

Bellatrix had given her daughter a thrashing, screaming curses that could be heard by their muggle neighbors.  She had dragged Lyra by the hair and thrown her down the basement stairs, giving the girl a few more scrapes and bruises.

The light was fading from the one small window, casting the basement in shadows.  Every so often, Lyra thought she heard footsteps—but she knew she was alone, and she blamed it on rats.  Peter Pettigrew would have quite a few friends.

She suddenly remembered seeing a…what did the muggles call it—a flashlight.  She had been surprised to see it.  The house had been stripped of all the belongings of the former occupants, and certainly none of the Deatheaters would carry something like that.

Painfully, she dragged herself butt first to the corner she had found it.  She blindly groped, grimacing as she disturbed a spider web.  Finally, she wrapped her fingers around the cylinder shaped object.  She felt for the button, wondering if it still worked, and upon pressing it found that it did.  The light wasn’t bright, but it was adequate enough to illuminate the basement.

Suddenly, she heard an odd sound that she couldn’t identify.  She slowly stood up, gingerly stepping on the foot that had the skinned knee.  New blood oozed from the wound and dribbled down her leg, but she ignored it.

She limped painfully towards the sound.  The flashlight beam caught something metallic glimmering on the ground.  When she got close enough, she could see that it was a wind-up toy.  It was what the muggles called a robot.  She grunted as she leaned down to retrieve it.  She studied it, smiling slightly.

“Hello, Lyra,” a voice greeted her loud and clear.

Lyra dropped the robot, startled.  Her flashlight beam showed a boy’s face in front of her.  His eyes seemed to take up his whole face, pronounced by the dark rings and broken glasses that sat on his nose.

“How did you get down here?” she asked, “Who are you?”

The boy merely smiled.

Suddenly, she noticed the lightning shape scar that stuck out from the mottled skin on his forehead.  She had heard that Harry Potter had a scar like that.  Was this Harry Potter?  But wait, he should be much older by now…unless he was dead.

Part of her was tempted to call out to her mother.  If she turned what turned out to be Harry Potter over to her parents, then maybe they would love her even if she didn’t have magical powers.

She quickly dismissed the thought.  For one thing, she couldn’t stomach turning anyone over to her parents, knowing full well what would happen to them.  She also knew deep down that it would make no difference for her situation.  Maybe they would act a little kinder for a while, but it would not permanently erase the fact that she was a squib.

Feeling self-conscious over the stretching silence, Lyra opened her mouth to ask the boy some questions.  However, he silenced her by lifting up his finger to his mouth and going, “Shhh!”

She closed her mouth.  Suddenly, she thought she saw a man…a strange looking man in a long coat…in the shadows behind the boy.  However, when she focused on the spot where she had seen him, there was nothing there.

The boy beckoned to her to follow him.  They only walked a few steps, but behind some boxes there was something set up.  Lyra recognized the apparatus as a film projector, which she had read about in an old Muggle Studies book she had found that had belonged to Sirius Black.  This book had pre-dated her father’s alterations to Hogwart’s curriculum.  On the wall, a sheet was tacked up.

The boy with the lightning shaped scar opened up a box that had “Home Movies” written on the side of it.  He selected a canister that was labeled “Fireworks ‘96”.

He grinned at Lyra, “Sit down.  I have something to show you.”

*   *    *    *

Finis