Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter

The Crooked Path: Chapter One: Wrath

AN: Okay guys, this is a revamp of my old fic, Serpent Tongue because it got very AU and was rather canon at the start, and there was a bit of a disconnect between books 1 and 2, so everything's going to be integrated and spread throughout the fic.

This is a mythology crossover, you will see multiple gods make an appearance, you will see pirates make an appearance…and a lot of characters aren't even straight. Hermione is a person of colour in this fic, Voldy isn't the big bad, characters experience trauma, just so you're all aware of the major things.

Laqualassiel helped me tweak the prophecy, so shoutout to her!

The day was October thirty-first in 1981, so late that it was heading into November. The night was long and the rain had come down in a wrathful downpour, unexpectedly and without warning. Albus Dumbledore had known something was wrong, he'd sensed it.

Only yesterday Sirius Black had come to him to have the Fidelius Charm that hid the Potters placed on Peter Pettigrew instead. The reasoning had been rather sound, no one was closer to the Potters than Sirius, Voldemort and his Death Eaters wouldn't expect him to not know where the Potters were hiding, they'd go after him in the stead of Peter to find out where the Potters were.

Dumbledore didn't know the reason why Voldemort had chosen to go after them initially, not until he'd deciphered the prophecy that Severus Snape had admitted to telling the Dark Lord of, but even then, its contents were vague and confusing:

Of myth and magic a child is born

Yet beware the flower's deadly thorn

Her well of power is ever sweet

A lifelong duty to complete

Pursued by Shadow in blinding rage

Hidden from deadly sight and rampage

Conceals that which he seeks to gain

Blessed by ancients, the Dark Lord's Bane

There was no real hint that it was Hope Potter, James and Lily's daughter, that the prophecy was referring to. But for what other reason would he be trying so hard to kill them? Dumbledore couldn't think of one. Voldemort was the reason Lily and James had to remain separate for months, why Sirius and Lily had vanished into the moors without a look back.

They had remained tight-lipped about where they'd gone and who they'd been with; all that Dumbledore had learned was that Hope Lily Potter had been delivered in the middle of a storm at sea by a naiad who had known Lily's mother.

Which was strange and doubtful, since Dahlia Evans had been dead a few years and decidedly Muggle with no connection to the magical or mythical until her daughter's letter came from Hogwarts. Of course, Lily had never looked much like the other Evans', sharing only the bright green eyes of her father Richard Evans. The olive skin and thick dark red hair had set her apart from her family when Dumbledore had come to personally explain about Hogwarts -a duty he had finally delegated to his deputy, Minerva McGonagall in recent years-, but Dumbledore had never heard mention of her possessing another mother, particularly one that knew a naiad.

Hope Potter had been a small thing, the last time Dumbledore had seen her, taking much after her mother in colouring -which was for the best, James had assured their friends delightedly-, changing her eyes and hair to match whoever was holding her, evidence of the Black family trait of being a Metamorphmagus from her grandmother Dorea Black. She had always been the most at home in Lily, James, or Sirius' arms. She wasn't fond of very many people touching her, recoiling sharply when Dumbledore had come close.

A sudden whirring from one of the silver objects on his table drew Dumbledore's thoughts to the present immediately and he stood quickly to apparate to Godric's Hollow. The rain was coming down, thick and heavy as he looked upon the carnage that had once been the Potters' cottage.

The first floor appeared to be for the most part, untouched, but the second…it looked like it had been ripped apart from the inside out. Dumbledore had never seen anything quite like it, not from any spell he knew.

The wrought-iron gate had already been pushed open and he walked past the blooming lavender, violet, and lilies to the door swaying in the wind, creaking it all the way open to catch his breath at the sight before him.

James Potter was dead. Hazel eyes stared sightlessly, there was a cut on his arm like lightning had struck, but that wasn't what had done him in. His abdomen was bloodied and there was a trail of it from where he had attempted to crawl his way to the stairs that led to the second floor, but he hadn't quite made it. The mahogany wand that had once served him so faithfully rested uselessly on the floor.

Dumbledore reined himself in and stepped over James to continue up the stairs.

Hope's bedroom was the source of the explosion. It was like a wall had been blasted out, and Lily's collapsed form beside the crib that had belonged to Hope was not the only person left in the room.

Sirius Black was shaking as he held the sobbing child, not even seeming to notice how there were flames gathering at the edges of the damages, no doubt brought on from the spellwork enacted.

There was no trace of Voldemort. Perhaps whatever spell Lily had performed or whatever backfire his own spell had caused had been enough to destroy him…no…Dumbledore wasn't certain of that. More likely he fled, horribly weakened.

Sirius was murmuring softly to the child as she wailed on. "S-Shh," he whispered, his voice breaking, "it's all right, I've got you."

"Da-da! Ma-ma!" Hope was inconsolable, but Dumbledore very much doubted that it was because she knew her parents were dead, she was much too young for that, more likely it was fear and not understanding what was going on.

The rain falling down on them through the wrecked ceiling seemed to strengthen with her cries, like the skies were mourning with her.

"Sirius," Dumbledore murmured. There was a hand tight around Lily's wrist like he was struggling to feel the pulse that was no longer there. Dumbledore couldn't imagine how he was feeling. James and Sirius were closer than friends, closer than brothers, but there was no doubt in Dumbledore's mind that he'd run past his friend's corpse to make sure Hope was okay. "Sirius, it isn't safe, we need to leave. The Muggles will take notice soon."

The Fidelius Charm had faded with the Potters' death; even Muggles would notice a house that looked like something had been detonated within, exploding from the inside out.

"I'd arranged to check on Peter," Sirius was barely breathing, not even listening to Dumbledore, "make sure he was still safe, but when I got to the safe house, he'd gone…it was like he'd left in a hurry, but not like he'd been attacked, I-I knew something was off so I came here, and—" Sirius' words failed him and he held his goddaughter just a bit more tightly against his chest.

Sirius Black was a broken man.

Dumbledore took him by the shoulder and twisted on the spot. The next second they were outside of the Potters' house, Hope still cradled in Sirius' arms, but gradually quieting, tiny fists gripping his shirt.

The rain seemed to daze him slightly and Dumbledore watched him blink in confusion for a few moments and then the righteous fury erupted.

"I have to go -I have to find Peter," his grey eyes were sharp and his tone even colder. Dumbledore didn't need to imagine what he would do if he found Peter Pettigrew, he was already five moves ahead and before he could even suggest it, Sirius was moving. "Professor, will you watch Hope for me until I get back? Until I sort everything out?"

"Of course, my boy," Dumbledore gave him a sad sort of smile as Sirius attempted to extricate Hope from his robes and place him gently into his former headmaster's arms. She whined grabbing towards him, the split of the skin at her brow red and wet with blood.

"I'll be back, I promise," Sirius told her seriously, like she could actually comprehend what he was saying, before ducking forward to press a kiss to her cheek and running off, disappearing with a loud crack, leaving Dumbledore with a squirming in his arms.

Dumbledore considered his options.

Most people that knew the Potters knew that Voldemort had been after them, but no one had ever survived Voldemort, not the McKinnons, not the Boneses, not the twins Fabian and Gideon Prewett…and all Hope had to show for it was a shiny burn on her shoulder blade that must've come from the spell backlash and a fresh cut across her brow like lightning had cracked across her skin, like the one her father had borne on his arm, still fresh in death.

The Avada Kedavra had a lightning bolt wand movement, it wasn't that much of a stretch to realize that the mark had come from the Killing Curse…and, for some reason, it hadn't killed her.

There was no doubt in Dumbledore's mind what that meant. In his hands he held the Girl-Who-Lived, the child who hadn't been killed by the Avada Kedavra. In his hands, he held the Dark Lord's Bane.

All that remained was to play his cards right and strategically move his pieces around on the board only he could see.

Though he would never admit it, he created Voldemort and one day very soon he would realize that he'd made Hope Potter too, and one day everyone would realize how much of a lie Hope Potter's title of Girl-Who-Lived was.

And when Sirius Black was found laughing hysterically in Peter Pettigrew's wake, thirteen Muggles dead, Dumbledore remained silent, his plans already in motion.

Death Eaters still got trials but Sirius Black was no Death Eater, Dumbledore knew that. It would be better if Dumbledore suggested that Voldemort had needed someone without a Dark Mark…someone who was close to the Potters…then Sirius' family history was thrown into the mix and it only snowballed from there. It would only be much later that Sirius realized how tricked he was, sitting in his cell in Azkaban, his anger festering like an open wound.

Meanwhile, late into the night, a woman entrusted her daughter to a pair of close friends, intending to return for her when it was safe, only to be struck down as dead as her lover.

But neither of the men that came for her or her lover found what they were looking for, and one found himself the shell of the man he used to be.

The Dark Lord's Bane had another truer title that Albus Dumbledore missed in listening to Sibyl Trelawney, but it was hidden deep and forgotten as she grew up with another name, loved and safe, just as her parents had wanted her to be.

In the deepest and darkest places of the world beyond what humans were capable to comprehending, eyes glared and a scowl formed. She had plans for that prophecy, a mere mortal, a mere human that had once sought the divine and eternal, that had once considered himself above those who were incapable of magic, subverting prophecies to suit the monsters of his own making made her very angry.

So Albus Dumbledore wanted a broken golden child to direct in Tom Riddle's direction? It was too bad he chose the wrong girl and it was even worse that he thought every action he took would go according to plan.

The path he sought for her would twist and turn, becoming more crooked with every step. The crooked path would be one she walked herself and he would come to realize that no matter how hard he tried, she would not deviate from it.

Strife, after all, was her specialty, and she would consume the world with it.

Albus Dumbledore should've been more diligent if he'd wanted things to go his way, but he wasn't. He left little Hope Potter on the doorstep of Number Four Privet Drive, knowing full well how Lily had expressly stated in her and James' will that her child was never to be placed with her sister, knowing full well that one godparent was behind bars and the other was an unknown entity, but it was necessary.

It was necessary for his plans to fall into place.

And in return, he made sure that no one looked too hard at the Dursleys to notice that their niece was literally sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs, that the bruise on her arm was from tugging too hard, that Hope had actually been hit so hard with a pot that she'd ended up with a concussion.

But five years after she'd been placed there, he realized he'd made a grave mistake when, while sitting in his office, sucking on a lemon drop, content in the world with how the school year was going and how things at the Ministry were, one of the silver instruments on a spindle-legged table -that generally made whirring sounds and emitted puffs of smoke from time to time- suddenly exploded.

That had never happened before, and it was concerning enough that Dumbledore swallowed his lemon drop and rushed to the table, face going bloodless at the sight of the smoking ruins of the contraption that regulated the safety of the blood wards around the Dursleys home.

That didn't bode well, and Dumbledore hastily apparated away, thankful for the first time in a very long time that being the headmaster of Hogwarts allowed him to apparate on the grounds. He appeared before Number Four, Privet Drive, with a notice-me-not charm to keep himself from being noticed.

Dumbledore was already too late.

His eyes reflected the blaze of fire as he stopped to stare in stupefied horror. The flames had consumed almost the entirety of the house, lapping at the walls and ceiling, filling the air with thick smoke.

Dumbledore had never seen a fire of that scale before and he found himself rooted to the spot, even as something moved within, plain to see where the door was broken in…a trail of ripped grass leading up to the damaged door, like clawed feet had tilled through the earth and ripped through the door in order to get inside.

The thing within the flames was right out of the Monster Book of Monsters. It was like a dog, but not, far too massive, cloaked in shadow and flame, with glowing eyes and three snarling heads, each filled with a wrathful rage.

It was a tragedy, all the papers read, that such a good family in a good neighbourhood died in the flames. Two adults and two children. Vernon and Petunia Dursley with their son Dudley, and their young niece Hope Potter.

The Daily Prophet would report the news sorrowfully that Hope Potter, six years old, the Girl-Who-Lived, had died in a fire at her family's home, leaving the nation to mourn the child who had gained infamy as the one to defeat He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the only child of James and Lily Potter, the only one to survive the Avada Kedavra.

(It was very lucky that Sirius Black hadn't yet gained permission to read the newspaper, or his fury would've consumed the entirety of Azkaban)

No one knew that someone had pulled little Hope Potter from the flames.

No one knew that Hope Potter survived.

AN: Chapters following this one should be about 5k, which means they'll be half as long as the original's but they'll be less time consuming and stressful for me. You guys might not get another chapter from me before school starts up again, though.

As always: PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW!