Harry Potter and the Unlikely Gryffindor

I stare into the darkness as though I expect something to look back at me, but that something never does. Instead, it looks into me, and all it sees is fear.

The fear of a child who has had two families stolen away from her, all by the same man. If he can even be called a man anymore. Even through the darkness, I know he is there. His breathing is harsh and labored, his steps heavy and dragging. But even though his corporal body fails him, his power is stronger than anything I will ever know. He crackles with it, lines racing along his thin, gaunt frame like lightening through dark storm clouds.

Power that feeds his undying hatred that is, in turn fed by it. Like the proverbial snake eating its own tail. It\'s odd that everything about him reminds me of a snake, especially his eyes. But they are like no snake I have ever seen. They glow from within, fed by the hidden fire of his hate. Yellow as witch\'s fire, red as blood. Silted pupils that are windows into his dark soul. There is more red around him. The blood of his enemies, both old and fresh, mingles on his hands and stain his robes and the carpet beneath him.

I remember very little of the home I was born into, and less still of the home I was taken into. I still to this day can not remember anything but the stench of death heavy in the air. The only person I remember is Him, and the evil that bled off of him like nitroglycerin from sweating dynamite, but much, much more deadly.

His hands reach for me. Thin, frail fingers close around my arms as they drag me closer to those eyes. His skin is cold, freezing mine in his grip. And in that chill lies the promise of death eternal. I know he intends to kill me, to spill my blood as savagely as he spilled my caretakers. One hand releases me, and dives back into the shadows. Seconds later, it emerges. Bony fingers holding a wand carved from the femur of a human leg.

I know what is to come. I overheard the people that took my parents away say that their master used the \'Killing Curse\' on an entire family, though their names escape me at the moment. But the funny thing is that I suddenly remember my mother teaching me Protection Spells as I sat beside her, an enormous tome in her lap.

She was a powerful witch, my mother, and a prudent woman. She always said these spells would be useful to me someday, though I know she never dreamed that they would be used against her own master. I watched as the wand touched me on the forehead. His lips already uttering the first words, as I whispered my own spell. The one my mother taught me when I was only two.

Now, at three years of age, I had cast my first spell, the last syllable leaving my lips an instant before the last word left his. Half a second later, we were on opposite sides of the room, my eyes still stinging from the bright light that had been the result of the two spells colliding. When I opened my eyes, everything was gone, and I was left with nothing, all over again.

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"HERA!"

Hera jumped in her sleep, falling out of the bed, hitting the cold floor hard as she struggled against the sheets that had become twisted around her body in her fitful sleep. Her eyes were open, but she flailed around as though she were blind, crawling to the corner, cowering like some wounded creature. It was only two in the morning, but everyone in the Gryffindor dormitories had been woken by a ragged cry of anguish that seemed to rip through their hearts.

The first-years watched silently as the Prefect Ginny and the other 6th and 7th year girls tried to comfort her, but it seemed as though Hera was still trapped inside her own nightmare. The door opened and Ginny stepped through with Headmistress McGonagall in tow, her skirts swishing against the cold floor. "What happened?" The Headmistress asked, looking at Hermione as the girls were trying to coax Hera out of her dream.

"I don\'t know, Headmistress. We were woken by this...cry. It almost sounded as though someone had ripped her heart straight out of her chest."

"That may be truer than you know, Miss Grainger." McGonagall said as she pushed up her sleeves, taking Hera\'s face into her hands. McGonagall was not a Legilimens, like Dumbledore, but she didn\'t need it to know exactly what Hera was dreaming about. It had also troubled the Professors thoughts from the first time they had heard about the murders. Hera\'s death was intended to be an object lesson to Lucius Malfoy for cooperating with the Ministry of Magic\'s investigations that had resulted in Hera\'s parents being arrested and sent to Azkaban. If Draco\'s bride was killed before they could be married, then that would spell the end of the Malfoy family, which was already falling into hard times with their association with the Dark Lord.


"Hera. I know you can hear me, young lady. He can\'t hurt you here. Awaken, child." As McGonagall said these words, Hera seemed to become aware of herself, her eyes blinking questioningly. "Hera, do you remember your dream?" The Headmistress asked, sighing when she got a slow nod as answer. McGonagall sighed, helping her up off of the cold floor, shaking her head at Hera\'s bruises. "This won\'t do, child. Prefect, please escort Miss Malfoy down to Madam Pomfrey. After she has dressed." McGonagall added, arching a brow at the choice of Hera\'s sleepwear.

Minerva sighed as Hera was led out of the girls\' dorms and down to the hospital wing. She had known these memories would be dredged up with Hera\'s lessons. She had learned of the entire confrontation from Dumbledore\'s Portrait, and she agreed that it was too similar to Harry\'s. But Hera had actually cast her own protection spell; Protego, at the age of three, without a wand, no less.

But before anything could be done about it, the Muggle Authorities descended upon the scene and whisked Hera off to one of the many orphanages where she was promptly adopted by an American couple. From how Hera had described them, she was taken into a loving home, if somewhat liberal. McGonagall still was not sure about Hera\'s preferred method of dress; it reminded her of the ladies of the brothel in Hogsmead that everyone pretended didn\'t exist.

Walking up to the Gargoyle that guarded the Headmaster\'s office, Minerva uttered, "Dirty Socks", her least favorite flavor of Bernie Botts Every Flavor Beans, stepping onto the rotating staircase, hitching her skirts up as she entered the office. She strode directly to the desk, gently tapping the tip of her wand on the gilded frame of Dumbledore\'s portrait, waking the fallen headmaster from a deep sleep.

"Oh. Good morning, Headmistress McGonagall." The elder wizard tipped his tall hat to her in greeting, his jovial countenance unaffected by his early waking.

"Good morning, Albus." McGonagall returned, leaning on the edge of the desk, her face as stern as ever.

"Ahh, I take it this has something to do with a certain Malfoy?" Dumbledore asked, smiling when McGonagall nodded. "She has done nothing untoward, I hope."

Minerva shook her head again, smiling. "She is a perfect student, Albus, minus the incident with Professor Flitwick, but that was a case of a lapse in concentration, and nothing more."

Albus chuckled, his eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles. "Yes, I had heard about that. Quite amusing, though Flitwick would probably not agree."

Minerva smiled, it was good to hear her dear friend laugh. "This has to do with an incident a few minutes ago. I believe she is beginning to remember her confrontation with You-Know-Who. How she managed to cast such a powerful Protection spell is still beyond me. Not even accomplished Wizards and Witches are able to cast an effective Protego, let alone have it block the Killing Curse."

"It may have been only the insanity of youth that assisted with her survival. If her mother said the spell would work, it must work, because her mother had said so." Dumbledore offered. "But she paid a terrible price for her survival, her eyes would never be the same, afterwords. She was blind for nearly a year, if I recall correctly."

McGonagall nodded. "They still look drained of color, like diamond on ivory. It is as though a part of her died, that night."

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Sallow skin creased as its owner awoke, face scrunched in disgust. In his younger days he may have been a handsome man, but evil takes its toll, even on its own master. He had become aware of one of his servants kneeling beside his bed, awaiting his attention. Shock straight black hair hid the face, but he didn\'t need to see the face to know who it was awaiting his attention. \"What is it, Snape?\"

The Dark Lord\'s voice seemed to give life to the man kneeling at his bedside, his head rising. Severus Snape had seemed to age by years in only a few months. Where once he had been pale, he was now peeked, an unhealthy shade of corpse gray that made his face more hawkish. \"The lost Malfoy has returned, Master.\"

Voldomort\'s face twisted out of disgusted and into amusement. \"Yes, I have felt her power growing, though it is wild and dangerous.\" Severus nodded, though he could taste the bile in his throat, there was much more, but it would not please his master.

\"Master, she... Hera has been sorted into House Gryffindor.\" As soon as the words left his mouth, Snape could feel his Master\'s hot gaze on him, boring a hole through his skull and out the other side. To say he was displeased would have been a woefully inadequate observation. There was no way that Draco would marry a Gryffindor, even if it was his betrothed. This was a low blow for a family so proud of their tradition of being sorted into Slytherin. And with their pride, Draco and Lucius would probably rather have the family die than marry a Gryffindor into it.

\"Does Draco know?\" Came the soft question, forced between clenched teeth. It was no secret, at least to the inner circle, that Voldomort wanted Hera for his own purposes, and having a Malfoy in Gryffindor was ironic in the cruelest of ways.

\"No, Master. Not yet. I thought it best to inform you first.\" Voldomort nodded, fluidly sitting up from his sleeping position, putting his bare feet down in front of Severus, walking around him without so much as a word. Snape knew better than to get up without being dismissed and stayed in the same position in front of the bed. Voldomort always tested his followers this way, to affirm their loyalty, and it was amusing to the Dark Lord to see how long his servants would stay in that same position before daring to move.

\"There is more? Dare I ask?\" Snape kept himself from shivering, but just barely, this conversation was getting dangerous.

\"My lord, Hera was adopted by an American couple, Muggles. She also has a Gentleman caller.\" Snape refused to use the word \'boyfriend\' on the grounds they were Muggle creations, and not fit for a Wizard\'s ears or tongue. Snape listened to his Master\'s pacing, waiting for a response. It was no secret that he had wanted Hera for his own ends since she had cast Protego to ward off his curse thirteen years ago. Though, what he was intending to cast was not the Killing Curse, but the Imperious Curse. He had not counted on the girl to have that kind of power at her age.

\"Gentleman caller.\" The Dark Lord repeated as though mulling the matter over in his mind. \"Perhaps Draco should rid his betrothed of that baggage?\" Voldomort asked, casting a sidelong glance at Snape for a moment before going to the window, watching the shadows play in the moonlit night. \"You will bring her before me, Severus. I wish to see the \'Lost Malfoy\' for myself. She may be of use to us.\"

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Harry\'s eyes snapped open, sweat coating his body in a thin sheen that made the sheets cling to his body in an uncomfortable way. The boy\'s dorm was still dark, everyone had gone back to sleep after Hera had been taken to the Hospital Wing, though nerves were still frazzled. At least Harry hoped that was why his scar prickled, but he knew better.

He sighed, turning over in his bed as he tried to clear his mind of the dream; he would report it to Headmistress McGonagall in the morning. But if the dream was correct, then Snape would try to find a way to get Hera alone so he could take her to his Master. But if he told McGonagall about the dream, then he would not have the chance to do what he needed to. He ached to get at Voldomort, his heart crying for revenge for both his parents and the pain he had caused.


But then that would mean using his friend as bait, and he knew that Hera would probably beat him senseless if she knew what he was planning. She had suffered enough, but she would also want revenge for what Voldomort did to her, not once, but twice. What was the American saying? \'Damned if you do, Damned if you don\'t.\' That\'s what it felt like at least.

But, then again, the right thing, and the easy thing were never one and the same. Though, knowing Snape, he would have the patience to wait for his prey to fall into his hands. He had waited years for his chance to get back to his Master, and he would be infinitely patient in this task as well. Harry settled the matter in his mind as he closed his eyes. He would tell McGonagall only what he needed to ensure the safety of the other students.

Now what to do about Hera. Should she know, or would it be too problematic? Perhaps, if the opportunity arose, he could warn her in an indirect way. Or, he could let her in on his plan. The pain of the beating he would receive would fade in time, he hoped.