Broken Shards

A big thank you to my lightning-fast beta, Ravne131!

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The wizarding world was in uproar, as Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, had been made well aware. It was only by having his mail screened that he was at that moment avoiding the relentless stream of indignant howlers winging their way to him by way of all manner of owls. No, an hour or so of accepting them had proved distracting and demoralising enough that prevention had been called for.

Fawkes trilled comfortingly as the old man paced about his office, fighting the urge to tug at his hair in frustration. Turning, he sighed and cast a small, pained smile in the phoenix's direction, before lowering himself into the elaborate, high-backed chair.

What was he to do? How could this even be? Harry Potter; missing? Of course, Albus had known that the Aunt and Uncle to whom he had entrusted the infant had not precisely been the crème de la crème of muggle society, but he had had no idea that they would see fit to lose the boy, for heaven's sake!

What was wrong with them! Surely, even if they hadn't prized him as The Boy Who Lived, then they should have held him dear as a family member! But no, it would appear not.

Those sharp blue eyes, for once devoid of their perpetual twinkle, came to rest upon a single envelope laid on the desk before them. Sighing wearily, the headmaster picked it up, turning it so that the addressed side faced upwards.

Mr. H. Potter
The Cupboard under the Stairs,
4, Privet Drive,
Little Whinging,
Surrey.
Unable to locate recipient.

That had certainly never appeared on one of the self-addressed envelopes before now. It downright baffled Dumbledore quite how the complex location charm which had served to find every other potential student could fail now.

There were very few possible ways of tricking the magic involved, and the few that the headmaster was able to call to mind were obscure enough to be of no use whatsoever. It was clear that the boy had, at some point, called this "Cupboard under the Stairs" home, since the magic had been able to recognise it, but it was just as apparent that The-Boy-Who-Lived could no longer be found there.

He had, of course, taken off to ensure that this was indeed the case, and not some malfunction of his magic. But there had been no trace of the boy at 4 Privet Drive. In fact, the whole family was gone; the Dursleys nowhere to be found.

Dumbledore sighed once more, a mannerism which seemed to be growing distressingly more common in the aging wizard as of late. Fawkes trilling sympathetically behind him, he pressed long, slim fingers to his temples and stared down at the envelope.


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Dumbledore thought that little Harry Potter had gone missing some short time before he turned eleven, but the older wizard didn't know the half of it. It had been almost five years before; not long after the messy-haired child's seventh birthday; that his life had once again been turned upside down.


17th August 1987

The swing creaked mournfully as the dark-haired boy swung upon it slowly. He was tired. It was getting dark and the other children had long since left, ushered home by their families.

But nobody had come to bring home the tiny boy sitting upon the swing. He had been there for most of the warm Saturday afternoon and evening and now still, even as it began to grow cold.

Ominous shadows stretched out, like dark, reaching fingers. But the emerald eyes showed no fear. The boy was far too used to solid, corporeal and immediate fear and pain to start at the sight of a few shadows.

You see, there was a reason that nobody had come to collect little Harry Potter, and that was that those he called family really didn't care all that much what happened to him. So long as he was there to cook them breakfast in the morning, they would give little, if any, worry at the thought of him staying out all night.

In fact, the very reason for the boy's presence at the park was so that he could avoid the bully of a cousin who enjoyed beating him up whenever he thought he could get away with it.

Small trainers scuffed at the dirt beneath them as the swing was slowly brought to a halt. It truly was dark by this time, and only the glow of streetlights provided any noticeable illumination.

Used to looking after himself - as much as a skinny seven year old can, Harry stood to head for home. He did not notice the figures behind him when he stood, casting their long shadows upon the dirt of the park ground, and he still didn't notice them when he reached the gate that lead out of the place, gaze focussed morosely upon the ground as it was.

It was only when a heavy hand fell upon his shoulder that the boy looked up, messy fringe falling into his eyes and obscuring his sight for a moment. When he was able to see once more, two tall figures swam into view.

The one with a hand clamped painfully to his shoulder was the one to whom Harry's attention was first drawn, and the expression upon the face was chilling. Contorted into an unpleasant sneer, the already rather ugly face was twisted into some leering parody of a smile.

Emerald eyes grew wide as the child attempted a step backwards, eager to get out from under the overly-warm hand. The retreat only succeeded in trapping him further in the fenced in space of the park, and taking him a little further away from the gate.

This was when the other man chuckled, drawing the young boy's horrified attention. "Now, now, Felch," he drawled, and the hand upon Harry's shoulder tightened in response. "Let's remember our manners, shall we?"

Vivid green eyes glanced up at the speaker, even as they darted around, searching for an escape route. He might only be seven, but even Harry knew that two strange men grabbing a child after dark was not good news. The second man's face was less harsh on the eyes at first glance, but there was something glinting in the ice blue eyes set on his face that made Harry shudder.

"L-let me go!" He shouted, now struggling to wrench his shoulder free from the impressive grip that it was held in, but all he managed was to wrench it slightly, biting back a whimper as the pain shot down his arm.

Both of the strangers laughed at this - dark, frightening laughter that had an unpleasant shiver running down Harry's spine.

"I don't think so, pretty one," replied the one who was not touching him, a smile pulling at his thin lips. "No, you're coming with us. You'll fetch quite the pretty penny, as the muggles say."

Fetch quite the pretty penny? Harry thought, incredulously. What are they gonna do, sell me?

The true magnitude of the situation had not yet hit the dark-haired boy. He was frightened of these men, of course, but his thought of being sold was more baffled than comprehending. He had no knowledge of the darkest workings of the world.

"What do you mean?" He snapped, getting rather fed up of not understanding what was going on, temper flaring in defence at last. The hand covering his shoulder was hurting, and it was getting late. He wanted to go home; he decided to bluff. "My parents will come looking for me soon, if you don't let me go!"

This only brought more laughter from the pair, and the boy's face fell as the brutish one responded. "Yer family don't give a shit, ya little runt," he spat, hand tightening further, cruelly.

"We know, ya see. Been watching, haven't we. Hardly gunna snatch a brat without checking that he ain’t gunna be missed first, are we?" The sneer that accompanied the words had what little Harry had eaten for lunch churning in his stomach.

By this point, he had realised without a shadow of a doubt that the pair did not intend to let him go home, and the child was growing desperate. As the hand clutching him shifted its grip, making to transfer it to his arm, Harry saw his chance and bolted.

He had run only a few paces, however, when the sound of a word he did not recognise called after him. What was that? Was it a different language? Harry had not even time enough to complete the thought, before the world went black and his small body crashed to the ground.