From the Dark

Chapter One: Of Star-Stealers and Kneazles

He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.

– Friedrich Nietzsche

Important author's note: This story originally was going in a much different direction than the one it's heading in now. For everyone who has already read this first chapter, it's probably best just to skim over it again to find out what's changed. The old storyline was a bit problematic in terms of where it could go and what I could do with it, so I decided to change it. For everyone else, I guess it doesn't really matter, so just read! XD

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It was a dark night in a small town very near to the border of Scotland.

For such a late October evening, it was surprisingly warm. Gentle breezes played with rust-coloured leaves, a soft reminder of the scorching heat of the preceding summer. The sky had, for quite some time, been cloudless and bright with stars, making stargazing a very popular past-time for the small population of Old Punchbowl.

This evening was no exception; in fact, it may have been the most stunning of them all. The sky almost shone with the amount of stars inside, as if someone had filled it to overflowing with the bright pinpoints of light, to the extent that there was almost no dark patch of sky left.

In the middle of Old Punchbowl was a church. It had been there longer than anyone could remember, its churchyard full to the brim with the graves of the deceased. At the far end of the church, near the stone wall that had been built some 200 years ago, stood a weeping willow. Underneath the weeping willow stood one tall, lone man.

To anyone passing by, he would have looked like a very old, very eccentric grave robber. He wore a pinstriped vest over a white shirt, with matching striped pants, covered by a brilliantly blue trench coat. His waist-length hair and beard were the colour of pearls, and shone almost as bright as the stars.

In one wrinkled, long-fingered hand, a beautifully decorated, slightly odd fountain pen was loosely clutched. He sat there for a long time, occasionally checking his wristwatch and twiddling his thumbs. The watch ticked its way around the face until the hour and minute hands were both pointed at midnight. With a great long sigh – perhaps of relief, perhaps of something else – the man looked up, brought the pen to the level of his eyes, and began to place dots across the sky. Wherever the pen pointed, one star would disappear, replaced by a small dark patch. As each star disappeared, so too did the light, and the man continued until the sky was half as bright as it had been, making what he wore look very black and dimming the luminosity of his hair.

The Star-Stealer was quickly deposited inside a breast pocket, and the man set off towards the church gates with a long, striding pace. He skirted around gravestones with a quickness that did not go with his age, and in the space of the next five minutes he had exited the church grounds and walked the length of the main road, drawing to a halt in front of a small cottage at the very end. The gate was open, and, bowing slightly, the man entered into the tidy front garden. A speckled cat started and hissed at him from the front step, and bolted off into the darkness; unfazed, the man stepped up and rapped smartly on the door. It was silent for a while, and then the soft clinking of china against a wooden table could be heard.

"Who is it?" called a voice from the inside. It was a slightly shaky, but nonetheless resolved voice. The man chuckled, and reached into an inside pocket of the trench coat; withdrawing it, he clasped a long, slender wand, obviously incredibly old but spotlessly clean and immaculate in its appearance.

"Come now, Arabella – there is no need to hide," he said cheerfully. "Unless of course you are not the real Arabella Figg, in which case I will blast down this door and take you hostage and possibly interrogate you."

Immediately there was the scraping of a chair inside, and then the door was thrown open: a slightly batty woman, with frizzy hair stood there, grasping the doorframe with white knuckles. She stared at him for a while, and then beamed.

"Albus Dumbledore! Oh, Albus!" she cried, reaching and grasping his hands. "You're alive! I'm hearing all sorts of news, you know – the others in the village have been packing up and running left right and centre!"

Dumbledore inclined his head, shaking his head softly and stowing his wand away. "I had feared they might," he said softly. Arabella stared at him.

" … So … it's true, then?" she whispered, her hands dropping from his. With a deep sigh, he nodded his head. "No!" she gasped. "What will become of us – of you?"

"That is why I am here, Arabella," he said softly. "But please – let us go inside. I would rather not talk about this on the street."

Arabella started. "Oh … oh yes … I had forgotten … I had been prepared to … but never mind … please, come inside and make yourself comfortable."

Dumbledore inclined his head and swept past her; Arabella stayed at the door, casting a quick glance around. The cat that had hissed before had returned, and she bent down to it.

"Make sure you keep a good lookout," she whispered, and the cat gave an uncomfortable jerk of its head that looked oddly like a nod. Then, with a flick of its lion-like tail, it was gone. Arabella stood up, and ducked inside again, shutting the door behind her with a snap. As soon as the door was safely shut, spotted cats with oversized ears and similar tails appeared as if from nowhere, crowding around her feet and mewing noisily.

"I see the Kneazle business is faring well," Dumbledore said conversationally, sitting on a chair by the fire in the tiny living room, a Kneazle kitten jumping to sit on his knee and purring loudly as he stroked its chin.

"What? Oh, yes. So easy to train, they are – people have been wanting things to keep lookout, you know, so they come to me and ask for kittens that have been already taught."

"And … you are well off, from this business?"

Arabella looked confused. "I … not really, the kittens don't really fetch all that much – the licences to breed and keep them cost more than the bloody animal! – but I have enough to get by, if that's what you mean."

Dumbledore sighed, and pushed the cat off his lap gently. Leaning forward, he withdrew a pair of half-moon glasses from yet another pocket, and perched them on his slightly crooked nose.

"Arabella, I have come here tonight to talk to you about the future of the wizarding community," he said slowly. Arabella settled herself in front of him, an unreadable expression on her face. "We are entering dark times. The resistance has lost war after war after war – there is no doubt in anyone's mind that we are not winning." He looked defeated, worn down. "However, I had never considered giving up until tonight."

She nodded slowly. "It's true, then, isn't it … "

"It appears," Dumbledore said, "that Lord Voldemort" (here Arabella shuddered) "through one of his many experiments, has succeeded in his ultimate conquest. He has succeeded in defeating death itself."

With a gasp, Arabella almost fell off her chair. Steadying herself, she stared at Dumbledore.

"No! That's impossible!" she whispered. "How? How did you find out?"

Standing swiftly, Dumbledore went to the window, and stared out it with troubled eyes.

"This is something that I want to keep as secret as possible," he murmured, turning to gaze at her. "And before I tell you, you must know something."

She nodded, eyes fixed on him.

"You must know that, if I tell you what I am about to, your life will be altered irreversibly – you will never be able to return to your old life. It is much that I ask for, and I understand if you would rather have me thrown from your home than comply with the whims of an old man. Do you wish to continue?"

Without hesitation, Arabella nodded fiercely, eyes locked on him and burning with loyalty, and Dumbledore turned back to the window with a slightly sad smile.

"Earlier this evening, an even occurred that was both terrible and wonderful," Dumbledore said slowly, clasping his hands together on the windowsill. "Earlier this evening, Lily Potter was discovered and murdered at Godric's Hollow."

" … Li … Lily … oh lord … oh no … " Arabella gasped, a hand placed over her heart. "But – James – "

"James is dead," Dumbledore said softly, "killed protecting his wife and child."

There was silence behind him, and then Arabella began to hiccough, her eyes incredibly watery. "Oh … oh dear … I always do this when I cry … " she whispered, fumbling with a handkerchief, tears starting to leak down over her cheeks. Dumbledore walked to her, and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Do not be ashamed to cry, Arabella," he said, gently squeezing. "It proves that you are still human."

She nodded quickly, and tried to speak, but all that came out was an awkward squeak. She tried again, and succeeded.

"Did they … ?"

The old man's face was unreadable for a second, and then his expression became incredibly sad.

"It is impossible to know whether they suffered," he muttered. "The mechanics of the Killing Curse are known only to those killed by it. Not even the curse's inventor knew how it worked."

Arabella began to cry again, harder this time.

"And … and … the boy?" she gasped through her tears. "What about Harry? Did he survive?"

" … The death of Lily and James is a terrible, terrible thing. It has ripped apart one of our most loyal, beloved families. However, the survival of Harry is wonderful news."

"Yes … yes, wonderful … "

"It is wonderful," he continued, watching Arabella carefully, "because Harry Potter was hit full-on with the Killing Curse."

She continued nodding, wiping her eyes, when suddenly she stopped, and turned her face up to stare at him.

"He … survived?"

"Yes," he said, nodding deeply. "Yes, he did. On the same night that Voldemort's immortality was proven, he made one fatal mistake: he created an opponent powerful enough to kill him. Because of this, he is in great danger.

"At the moment, the Dark Lord is under the impression, as I said earlier, that he killed both Lily and Harry, and thus eradicated all threat to him. Because of this, we have an unexpected advantage over Voldemort. The boy will have to be hidden – perhaps farther north, perhaps a different country altogether.

"In addition, Harry has no immediate family to take care of him. Because of this, I have arranged for Lily's sister to take him in."

"WHAT?!" she shrieked, jumping up and knocking over her chair, sending Kneazles nestled around her running. "Petunia? She is the most rude, conceited, hateful Muggle I have ever met!"

"And she is the only one who I can trust Harry's raising with," Dumbledore said.

"He won't be raised well, Albus," she said warningly. "Being raised away from his birthright – absolutely unheard of – Petunia's about as magical as a mushroom, and with about as much maternal love to boot!"

Without seemingly have heard her, Dumbledore righted Arabella's chair with a flick of his wand.

"This brings me to the real reason why I am here, in Old Punchbowl, with nothing but terrible news."

Arabella studied him for a moment, and then bowed her head slowly.

"You're going to make this place Unplottable, aren't you?" she said. He nodded.

"After the fall of Hogsmeade, I know that the survivors travelled to this place because they saw it as out of the way. And now they flee again. I daresay that the town is completely deserted now."

Arabella heaved a sad sigh. "The Kneazles have been keeping watch all day. The last are probably leaving as we speak."

"Then Old Punchbowl is perfect."

Dumbledore rose again, and went to the door.

"This town will serve as a place where those who cannot be found will hide. The location will be made Unplottable, and a trusted Secret Keeper will be established as to how one can exit and enter."

" 'Those who cannot be found'?"

"Those that pose a threat to the Dark Lord. Those, for example, such as myself."

"You … you're going into hiding?" Arabella asked, following him and now standing in the kitchen.

"Yes," he said. "I am. So are you. So is Sirius Black. So are the remaining members of the Order of the Phoenix. From there we will need to consolidate our efforts into creating a new generation of witches and wizards who may carry on in our footsteps."

"But none of the old crowd have young children, Albus," Arabella said. "Doesn't that mean – "

"Yes. We will need to find children to make this dream possible. But that course of action," he added, opening the door, "will not start for several years, at least. At the moment, however, we must focus on ensuring the safety of Harry Potter, and by doing that we must make sure he has no contact with any of us. He is, as it stands, our best – and only – chance at defeating the Dark Lord once and for all, and to make contact with him would be to jeopardise his position."

Arabella glanced down quickly. "Why … why children, Albus?"

"This is not common knowledge, Arabella," he said, turning to her and gazing at her over his glasses, "but Voldemort planned to eradicate the teaching of magic to all those except the children of his most loyal Death Eaters. Now that he is in control, I fear he plans to continue to pursue this course of action, in which case we must strive to continue the teaching of magic so that the continuation of our kind is not at risk."

"Will you get Minerva, then, Albus?" Arabella asked. Dumbledore blinked.

"Oh, I daresay that she is around somewhere – Minerva is quite adept at finding her way and taking care of herself," he said. Arabella immediately began to peer around, as if expecting the woman in question to step out from behind a tree or from the shadows on the other side of the lane. Dumbledore chuckled at her.

Stepping out into the dark garden, he continued to the gate, and paused before exiting it.

"Arabella – this place will become Unplottable as soon as I leave. You must stay inside the town boundaries at all times, no matter what you hear or see. You must not allow any Kneazles out. Stay put until I return with Hagrid," he commanded. Feebly she nodded at him.

"Of course, Albus, of course. When will you return?"

"I will have returned by the time the sun rises. Until then, please busy yourself by running along to each and every house and making note of which ones are habitable and which aren't," he said. And then a quick twinkle returned to his eyes. "I daresay some of the wizards who fled wanted to take out as many Death Eaters as possible, should they stumble across Old Punchbowl."

And with that, he turned and began to walk briskly down the main street again. Arabella stood frozen for a second, and then dashed after him.

"But – Albus! Wait! I'm a Squib! I'm of no use to you!" she cried, waving her arms.

"I believe your mother left you with an incredibly useful, rare magic-detecting ring before she died," Dumbledore called over his shoulder. "I would not trouble you with this task if I did not believe you could do it."

With one last look, he turned and continued walking, until, at the very end of the road, he disappeared, leaving Arabella standing alone in the middle of the road, cats swarming around her feet. Sparing a last glance towards where Dumbledore had been, she turned and rushed back towards her house, desperately hoping that she hadn't sold the ring.

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It was an old house on an old hill, no one could deny that. Once proud, it now stood crumbling, roof tiles sitting crooked and broken. The smell of damp permeated both the air inside and around it, and ivy pushed its way through the cracks in the glass and snaked its way across the floors of the rooms inside, clutching at the handrails of the stairs to the upper level. There was no back door – it lay charred on the floor of the living room, smoking like a bad omen.

On the second landing, a door stood slightly ajar, and the flickering light of a fire inside could be seen. Occasionally the light was blocked as an unseen figure passed by it, but that was rare and very brief.

"Master … he'll kill me … he'll kill me … master!"

The short, young man pacing the room was rapidly clenching and unclenching his fists, dragging them through what sparse amount of hair he has left and biting his nails.

A high-backed chair facing the fire was the only furniture in the room, and when the man spoke he would address the chair.

" … what if he finds me … I'll be dead faster than you can shout Avada Kedavra … he'll find me for sure … oh, he'll kill me …

"Hold your tongue, Wormtail."

The voice was rough and soft at the same time, with a biting coldness to it that stopped the man in his tracks.

"B – but, master, he'll kill me – I'm dead, I'm so so so dead!"

The chair moved slightly, and a tall, robed figure stood, his face hidden by a hood.

"Do you truly have so little faith in me, Wormtail?" he said softly, drawing a wand from the dark recesses of his sleeves and fingering it lovingly. "Do you doubt my ability to protect you?"

Wormtail quickly fell to his knees, grovelling up to the other figure and placing kisses at the edge of his robes.

"No, my lord – no – I do not doubt you – I – "

With something like a chuckle escaping his lips, the hooded figure raised a foot and kicked Wormtail away from him.

"Then do not worry about what Black will do to you. He is, after all, one man. Your lord will keep you safe," the man hissed, raising one pale hand and pushing the hood off his face.

His face was terribly, disgustingly beautiful to behold. His skin was smooth – as white and blanched as that of a dead man's; there was no hair on his head. His nose was flat, with long, slitted nostrils, and the eyes … the eyes were the most terrible. The irises burned bloodred, and the whites of his eyes were badly bloodshot.

Wormtail recoiled from him as his master stared down at him ruthlessly.

"Leave."

The one word had Wormtail scurrying from the room. The door swung open after him, and with a lazy flick of his wand, the Dark Lord shut it gently behind him.

Striding languidly towards the window, Lord Voldemort lay a pale hand on the windowsill, and stared out into the bright night sky. Millions of stars littered it, making it shine with a luminosity that was almost magical.

Softly he clenched a fist. Even he … the Dark Lord … was not sure what had passed that evening. It was as if … almost as if the boy's death had ripped him from his body for a split second. And even now, hours after the event, he felt as if something had been stolen from him. Almost as if … but no. It was impossible. No one knew … and yet … he was filled with the strangest feeling that a part of him had been lost in that instant when his fragmented soul had been separated from its mortal coil. A magical part of him … perhaps some of his talent … ? But no … it was impossible … he felt no weaker …

With a regal shake of his head, Lord Voldemort raised himself from his thoughts, and returned his attention once again to the night sky.

No one had been left alive inside that house … he'd used Avada Kedavra on the parents and the boy. No one had ever survived the Killing Curse … But if that were true, then why did he feel as if he was overlooking something big … ?

Something akin to a frustrated sigh escaped his lips, and he forced his gaze back up to the stars. And stiffened.

There, in front of his eyes, stars were disappearing. One by one – it must have started when he first came to the window – but the sky was darker, and soon the Dark Lord could see individual stars suddenly snuffing out. He sneered.

So. The old man had survived, then? He would have to remedy that …

But that could wait. Dumbledore was old, after all, and he knew when a fight was lost. Still … he would have to keep an eye out. Just to make sure.

With one last glance to the window, he glided towards the chair by the fire, and sat down, clasping his hands together and staring broodingly into the fire.

TBC

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So … that's the first chapter.

I had a lot of problems with what to do with this chapter, because I also started making a list of characters that would be playing an important role in the story. Originally James was still alive and in Azkaban (and there was this whole little section devoted to him) but I really want for Harry to look to someone else as a guardian/mentor, and James would just get in the way. I also wasn't too sure about letting Sirius live, because the way I've started to write him is going to be LOADS different from the way dear ol' JKR wrote him: for starters, he hasn't suffered in Azkaban and has had a chance to grow up, which will be different.

Anyway, thanks for reading. I can't make any promises about chapter updates, but I definitely like this story enough to continue it.

x Sweartoad