Wraith Prologue

June, 1997: Albus Dumbledore succumbs to death at the hands of Severus Snape, taking with him the hope of many of the Wizarding World. For without their champion, without the man whom the Dark Lord Voldemort feared the most, who would stand for them? Some turned their hopes to the young Harry Potter, the supposed ‘Chosen One’, for he had so often escaped Voldemort’s grasp and foiled so many of the Dark Lord’s plans.

But another blow is dealt when the Auror, Alastor ‘Mad-Eye’ Moody, falls as Dumbledore did, in an attempt to secure the safety of Harry.


August 1st, 1997: With the death of Rufus Scrimgeour and graceful coup of the Ministry, Voldemort now had at his disposal all of the power of the Minister of Magic, all of his resources to track down and finally end Harry Potter before his threat to the Dark Lord’s plans could be realized.

But in the chaos, the ‘Chosen One’ seemed to disappear. There were whispers that Voldemort had finally captured him… that the Boy Who Lived…lived no longer.

Unknown to the whole of the Wizarding World, Harry Potter and his closest friends were secretly hunting the means to bring the Dark Lord Voldemort down. Under the instructions of the late Albus Dumbledore, the three sought the pieces of Voldemort’s fractured soul; his Horcruxes. Dumbledore himself had destroyed one, the Peverell Ring, in the months before his death. And Harry Potter had unknowingly destroyed another when he destroyed the Riddle Diary. However, the search was not without complications. On the night of Albus Dumbledore’s death, he and Harry had gone in search of another of the Horcruxes; Slytherin’s Locket. Dumbledore was certain of the location and indeed they did find a locket. But shortly after Dumbledore’s death, Harry discovered that the locket was a fake. The true Horcrux had been stolen some time before by a person who called themselves R.A.B.—and the fate of that Horcrux was unknown.


August 2nd, 1997: Seeking refuge from Death Eaters and Ministry workers alike, Harry Potter and his friends hid away in Grimmauld Place. It was there that they found that the identity of R.A.B. It was the younger of the Black brothers, Regulus. For a shining moment, the Trio believed the Locket was within their grasp. The House-Elf Kreacher told them of how Regulus discovered the truth of the Locket and entrusted it to the Elf before his demise. But Kreacher confessed that he had lost the Locket to Mundungus Fletcher. And when the Trio tracked down the thief, he Fletcher confessed that he too had lost the Locket.

—to Dolores Umbridge.

The Trio at once made plans to relieve Umbridge of the Locket.


August 10th, 1997: The war against Voldemort takes yet another turn for the worse. In the early morning hours, Harry is woken by a violent vision into the Dark Lord’s mind.

Voldemort has discovered that his precious Horcrux, the treasured heirloom of his ancient ancestor, was in Umbridge’s possession. Overcome by sudden rage and fear for the other Horcruxes, Voldemort tortures Umbridge to discern how she came to have the Locket. He then dispatches her and seeks out the hiding places of the rest of his fractured soul.


August 12th, 1997: Dolores Umbridge is found dead in her office within the Ministry. The panic that ensues thereafter only increases Voldemort’s hold upon the Ministry and its people. Those of the Wizarding World are plunged further and further into doubt and dread. And those of the Muggle world begin to notice that not all is right with their world either.


With both Dumbledore and Mad-Eye Moody dead, and Harry Potter apparently missing, the Order of the Phoenix suffers. Though select few keep their hope and their faith in Harry, the resistance against the Dark Lord Voldemort dwindles as the weeks—and months—go by.




Wraith
Part One: Caged Bird Freed





January 1st, 1998


In those dim dark hours before dawn, at the very beginning of a new year, the rain that perpetually fell upon the stone and iron of Azkaban was little more than ice and glass, cutting into the ground like blades, slicing into the surrounding sea.

But the shadow that streaked across the ice-drenched sky seemed to take no notice. When at last it came to rest upon the threshold of the Wizarding prison, it stood straight and tall, the black of its cloak still flying in the high wind. The shadow—the figure threw open the great doors with apparent ease and swept inside, though the walls and bars offered no haven from the bitter cold.

With purpose in each step he took, he ascended to the highest level of the dank prison. Here, the cells were smaller, their captives more confined—more dangerous to those that imprisoned them there. But as he passed each cell by, he took note that they seemed empty.

Until he came to one door. Peering inside, he could see, only just, the caged figure laying across the cot within the cell, her form barely outlined in the thin, fragile moonlight. Only for that first moment did he hesitate, wondering, fleetingly, if the figure within still held life.

But when he unlocked and pulled open the heavy door, he saw her eyes flash open and turn to him. In the dim light they studied one another.

What he saw was a pair of feverous, crystal blue eyes staring out of a wasted, almost corpse-like face, framed by long tangled locks of raven-black hair, her skeletal frame draped in the ragged robes of Azkaban. Her eyes seemed overlarge in her thin face, and held hints of both fury and curiosity in them. Azkaban had long since stolen whatever loveliness she may have had.

Slowly, keeping those bright eyes on him, she sat up and raised a hand to push back the hair from her face. “You,” she whispered, her voice harsh from disuse, “are not my watcher.”

“No,” he replied evenly. He tilted his head slightly to one side, reflecting his curiosity. “Your watcher?”

“That is what he does,” she whispered back. “He watches me. My watcher, my keeper. He comes and goes…makes sure that I’m not starving myself. And he watches.” She paused and tilted her head in a mirror of him. “He has not come here for some time. Not since the Dementors abandoned their charges.”

“Ah.”

“If you are not he,” she whispered, a hint of dark humor coming to her rough voice, “then who would you be?”

He reached up and lowered the hood of his cloak. Her eyes widened and the humor and derision faded from them. Her pale, colorless lips opened and closed once as speech failed her.

“I am Lord Voldemort.”

Hesitantly, moving as though through water, she stood—and then fell at once to her knees, bowing her head. Something like a sigh escaped her and she lifted her head slightly.

“He, my watcher, he said you would come.” She dared to bring her eyes to his once more. “I stopped believing him a long time ago. I believed I would die here, forgotten, when my watcher stopped coming.”

Voldemort looked down at her, something of a smile twisted his mouth. He gestured idly. “Stand.”

She did so, though with obvious difficulty. Voldemort noted how her legs shook and judged that it was weakness, not fear that made her shake. She was quite obviously frail, physically so. He would have to correct that, if she was to be of any use to him. Her mind seemed sharp enough.

“What is your name?”

Again, she opened her mouth only to close it again. “…I don’t remember,” she replied, as though she had trouble believing the words. “My watcher called me nothing. I do not remember it.”

“No matter,” Voldemort told her. “I shall give you a new one.”