Harry Potter 1. Prologue: And So It Began

Summary: (AU) 16 years ago the Potters' faked their sons death, hiding him at an orphanage in France to save him from the prophecy. But when the effects of a thirty year war prove too much for the world, the search for Harry begins and an unsuspecting teen finds himself subject to the lost fate.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Duh.

…**The Lost Fate…**

Prologue: And So It Began

_Destiny is what you are supposed to do in life. Fate is what kicks you in the ass to do it._

_-Henry Miller_

…

It was an impossible predicament, a position no parent should ever have to face.

The news had come in the form of a seemingly gentle old man, visiting the couple as their friend and long time mentor. Blue eyes sparkled behind half moon spectacles as he cooed to their year old son, but pity was thinly veiled beneath.

Albus had spared them nothing, the cold awful truth falling hard on disbelieving ears. He reminded them of the present standing against Dark, of the Lights diminishing hope to triumph. He told them of the prophecy and of the spy. He told them that it could all come to nothing, that it may not concern Harry in the slightest. He told them what they must do; go into hiding, cease all contacts to the outside world. Sirius would proudly be their keeper, he had advised. He himself would cast the Fidelius charm.

And they had, at least at first, graciously obeyed these instructions.

But for all they tried Lily and James could not lock themselves into that cage, could not damn themselves to such a condemned life. They could not sit back waiting for the inevitable to strike, dreading the time when they would be finally bested. They deserved better than that. Harry deserved better.

It had taken time - borrowed time, time they did not have - but they had had to plan carefully. There could be no room for mistakes.

Sirius, then an Auror in training, had found a dead baby quite similar to Harry, though appearances mattered little. The poor little body would be in shreds when they were done. Unrecognisable, anonymous. A desperate ploy, concocted by more desperate minds.

The three of them - a mother, a father and a godfather - bid the green eyed child a sorrowful goodbye. Sirius could not bear to watch, leaving the couple with their son after few short minutes had passed. Alone but for Harry, Lily and James had clung to each other, the child tucked securely between them. Lily kissed his forehead, James caressed his hair. Too soon the bittersweet farewell was over.

They would see him once more, of that they were sure and the young parents swore it then and there. Years, perhaps decades into the future, but they would meet their first born again.

At that point it wasn't too late, they could still have backed out and lived on together as they had the months after Albus' visit. But the family held their heads high, thoughts of the future driving any doubt from their minds.

They were doing the right thing, the best thing for the child.

They would cheat destiny and Harry would live on, safe and happy. The plan _would_ succeed.

Lily had taken him then, apparating away into the dark night. Somewhere secret, somewhere somewhat safe. No-one would ever know.

James destroyed the house; paintings torn, furniture crumbled, curtains on fire. He ripped the floor and broke the walls. Godric's Hollow looked like a bomb had hit it.

Sirius maimed the dead body. He started with Crucio, Diffindo, Sectusempra, Engorgio then Incendio. Blood splattered, dribbled and ran. The child's body fell to pieces on the floor, limbs astray, insides thrown here and there. It decomposed before his eyes, the stench unbearable, the sight horrific.

When the mother returned it was her husband who cast the next spell and in one word all knowledge of their sons whereabouts dispersed. "Obliviate."

The three friends stood silent for a moment, a solemn triangle in the ruined living room. Self-loathing consumed, tragic and shattered. Their thoughts focused on one specific ideal - that they would see their plan out to the end.

As one they each raised their wand to the left. Lily to James, James to Sirius, Sirius to Lily. As one they furrowed brows, the pre-designed spells tilting on the tips of their tongues. As one they counted down.

Three. Two. One.

And as one they fell to another's curse.

The wards broke, three screams of intense agony echoed through the house, a mimicked skull and snake symbol rose high into the cool night air, an alarm bell at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry woke the Headmaster from a heavy slumber. In a small orphanage buried deep within the grubbiest slums of northern France, the green eyed child cried for parents that would never come.

Harry James Potter was murdered by Death Eaters', September 8th 1981.

For the next sixteen years the true events of that evening would not be uttered. Lord Voldemort would rise beyond levels anyone could have thought possible, bringing total devastation upon the world. Lives would be stolen, families destroyed, morality forgotten, justice crushed.

Destiny shined away, straying from the course of 'may have been'.

But fate cannot be forgotten. Out of sight is out of mind, but nothing can remain unseen, unnoticed forever. 'Lost' is but a temporary word, a word easily changed, a word easily fixed. And the name of Harry Potter would rise again, to conquer that which he was born to do.

…

_A/N: Reviews are very much appreciated, of course ;) _


	2. Chapter One: Lost Time

Summary: (AU) 16 years ago the Potters' faked their sons death, hiding him at an orphanage in France to save him from the prophecy. But when the effects of a thirty year war prove too much for the world, the search for Harry begins and an unsuspecting teen finds himself subject to the lost fate.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Duh.

...**The Lost Fate**...

Chapter One: Lost Time

…

At two years of age, Louis Ackart went to live with his first ever foster family.

He was returned to the orphanage a week later.

… … …

At three, Louis had learned the hard way that life was Not Fair.

How was he to know that it was weird, frightening even, to hiss at the garden snake? He was only trying to talk to it. How was he to know that it was considered bizarre, freakish even, to appear out of thin air with a crack? He hadn't _meant_ to do it! It wasn't _his_ fault!

But they never believed him. Never.

… … …

At four, Christmas was Louis' favourite time of the year. Better than Easter, better than birthdays, and better by far than the 'Open Days' where rich heads would look on from afar, picking from the selection of children like a menu. But it wasn't the carols, nor the festive decorations, nor the chocolate pudding that would draw Louis' excitement so - no, it was the _presents._

That year he had received a box of soldiers, and Louis was quite disappointed, having wished for his very own personal live Circus - but not nearly enough to give them away, and when another child with a quivering smile and blond curls threatened to steal the box, Louis had lost control.

The smile tore and curls dropped to the floor, head rolling, exploding with a hollow resounding bang. The assembled orphanage looked on in horror, wall to wall covered in sticky red, pulsing flesh, strings of intestines and clumps of brain. Tears and screams mingled in the cumulative pandemonium; save the dark haired green eyed child still clutching his box of soldiers between long, protective fingers.

After that Santa no longer visited and Louis was Not Happy.

… … …

At five Louis had no friends, and he knew exactly why.

But he didn't care. He didn't need them. He didn't want them.

… … …

Six years old, Louis had many questions.

Who were his parents? And why had he been left at the orphanage?

No-one had the answers he sought, though they all thought they did.

Louis gave up hope of any mysterious relatives ever coming to get him.

… … …

At seven Louis had heard a whisper too much, felt a glance too many and tasted the rusty copper of injustice fill his mouth. Anger consumed him and Louis began a cruel game of terrorising anyone and everyone that happened to be unfortunate enough to cross his path. Three were placed in hospital, two needed counselling and one would never recover.

Louis was given a separate bedroom all to himself, far apart from the dormitories where other children slept together harmoniously. It was small and dark, infested with spiders and other nastier creepy crawlies. But Louis liked it that way.

No-one ever dared to bother him again.

… … …

At eight Louis lost a bet and subsequently discovered how much he liked to win. He made a vow then, never to loose again.

He would not be beaten. He would not be bested.

… … …

At a tender nine years, Louis felt his heart break, his hopes die and his dreams shatter. He'd never find a family, he'd never be loved, and he'd certainly never fit in.

Louis Ackart was ordered off limits then to the public, having been classified as 'dangerous and delinquent' soon after the thirteenth prospective-parents had returned him to the orphanage, screeching of his countless abnormalities. Madam Hassel, who was then in charge of such matters, had punished the young boy profusely in hopes to 'knock some sense in'.

Louis was burning in his want for revenge - on France, on Fate, on the world as a whole and his own dratted life.

And he got it.

… … …

At ten Louis ran away.

He past as far as three blocks before he stopped walking, turned around and went straight back to the orphanage. When asked why he had returned, Louis simply shrugged. Talking became a waste of breath. He seldom went outdoors, and spent more and more time alone, locked up in his tiny bedroom.

… … …

At eleven Louis received a letter and his first ever personal visitor, life changing in one tenuous heartfelt moment. He smiled for the first time in ten long years and left the orphanage for the last time with his head held high, knowing that he would not be missed in the slightest.

A sigh of relief escaped the city.

To Beauxbatons he'd go.

… x …

Years past at a rapid pace, Europe pushed to the brink of collapse. War hung about the land, hope of a Light future dwindling to thin, fatal threads. Albus Dumbledore and The Great Lord Voldemort rested at a standstill, the Dark upper hand growing steadier by days. The acclaimed Order of the Phoenix was no more. The schools were closed. The British Ministry of Magic lay defunct and forgotten.

Many had died and many had fled. A small few battled on.

Three friends overcome with grief and loss clung to one last desperate ploy - to save the world, to save themselves, to save other little ones that had taken His place - convinced that the time had come to confide their deepest secret. And so Sirius Black then spent his time, at Dumbledore's request, travelling the continent in search for his misplaced Godson, knowing little but what he may or may not look like - though finding but a trace of one formerly named Harry James Potter was proving damn near impossible. He was tired of lying, tired of looking, and tired of crappy motels.

… x …

…October 31st, 1997…

Peter was delirious, not knowing whether to feel giddy of terrified, and could hardly believe he had drawn such courage within himself to make an appearance - even if such was merely sitting hidden away in the kitchen, squished comfortably between a sombre Lupin and a very drunk Black.

It was obvious that a lot of effort had been spent on the nights occasion - exotic food, elaborate decorations, juggling skeletons and chocolate coated bats (Peter decided hurriedly that he did not want to know whether or not they were meant to be edible). Guests had come from far and wide, the low and the high, muggle, magical and not all explicitly of mankind - though this was all unerringly harder to recognise in the array of fabulous costumes.

Godric's Hollow was unfamiliar, embedded as it were in the festive celebration. Lost in such territory Peter had immediately sought refuge in the only room untouched and vacant - planning half heartedly that he would return to the other guests when he felt so inclined, or perhaps when his personal supply of stolen firewhisky ran short. His scheme, however, was interrupted when Remus had hauled Sirius in just moments later, grumbling of nuisance mongrels and contented to brood in companionable silence.

But no, he wasn't there for the party or the sometime missed company, Peter reminded himself dully, fighting to edge his mind back on track. He had work to do. Friends to deceive. Information to extract.

"And what are _you_ meant to be?" a voice jeered from behind him, making Peter jump, breaking his jumbled stream of thoughts. "A hag? A goat? Oh no, my mistake - you've come as yourself, haven't you Peter?"

Peter bit his cheek, hard, but couldn't keep the flush from erupting and submerging his face in the most embarrassing shade of bright tomato red. He hadn't realised people would go to such lengths in their dress - though now he understood completely, realising the preferable benefits to being masked and anonymous. He turned to see who it had been to speak so rudely, knowing he distinctly recognised the voice, and was confronted with his worst nightmare: a mutant frogspawn.

A shiver of fear trembled down his spine.

"And what are _you_, Prongs?" Remus shot back quick to Peter's defence, seeing the spawn for exactly who he was, and drowning the last dregs of wine from his glass in a curiously large gulp. "A chicken?"

Peter breathed a sigh of relief upon the obvious discovery of the newcomers identity, and wondered fleetingly how he could not have easily placed James immediately before. The Marauders had not met, complete, for close to two years. Though he missed them dearly, Peter liked it better that way - he was safer. _They_ were safer.

"No!" James cried, pointing an unsteady finger to his mask; a jumble of thorns, jello and a sludgy brown muck that looked suspiciously like poo. "I'm the Loch Ness Monster! Duh!"

Remus raised a sceptical eyebrow. "Isn't that what you did last year?"

James pretended he hadn't heard the question, rolling his shoulders and heading to make himself comfortable opposite them at the table. "What are you lot doing out here anyway? You're missing - " he stopped, his bottom not quite resting on the velvet lined recliner, thunderstruck, having just then noticed Sirius - passed out and drooling on his antique oak table, in the Potter family for twenty eight generations counting. "Oh."

"Hmph," Remus confirmed, yawning. "He's been out for ages."

"He only got here a half hour ago!"

Remus shrugged, a tight smile pulling his lips. "Never has been able to hold it, the pillock."

Peter couldn't help but chuckle at his old friends expense, absent for a moment in their peripheral youth, enjoying the presence he hadn't met with for so long - too long, almost. He wondered with niggling agitation if they knew - the truth about him and what he had become. The veritable levels to what he had sunk in the glorious days of gruesome war. As quick as it had landed the mirth was lost, and Peter fell grudgingly back to his depression. Again, he angrily reminded himself why he was there, and the consequences that would transpire if he didn't find something - _anything_ of even mild significance to pass on.

"Well then?" James asked. "What the hell are you _meant_ to be, Wormtail."

Peter shrugged in his plain brown dress robes, sweat beading on his forehead and thoroughly wishing he had never even thought he might come tonight, and even more regretful that he had conceded it fit to inform his master of such an invitation. He eyed Remus, feeling the suspicion radiate and deplete the air between them. "A rat," he answered shortly, naming his ever fitting animagus. And to Remus, "and you, Moony?"

Remus grinned wolfishly. "The same as always, my friends."

"Hear, hear!" James chorused, flicking his wand to send four full glasses of mead from the pantry heading their way, lifting his own quickly in the toast. "To friends - the good ones and the bad ones," James snickered, his eyes flicking lazily across the table. "I drink to your health, your prosperity and your good fortune - which gives you a rough idea of how hard up I am for a drink."

Peter gave a tiny half smile, watching as James' glass came to a rest on his lower lip, tipping back and back, scarlet liquid pulsing forward, when a quivering voice cried out - "No, wait!"

It took Peter a moment to realise it had been he who had shrieked the words, Remus' frown and James' grumbled impatience glaring back at him ambiguously. But Peter couldn't handle this, not then and not ever - the situation was too far above him, leagues from his reach, so impossibly, inevitably disastrous it made him want to faint. Not to friendship, brotherhood, his fellow companions, and especially not with them there and then - _he couldn't drink to that_. He knew they were suspicious, and there was little doubt that they knew he knew they knew. Peter frowned. "Sirius," he heard himself blurting. "We can't make a toast without Sirius!"

"Phpp," James snorted, turning disapproving eyes to his best friend collapsed on his kitchen table, drool slipping down his lip between frequent grunted snores. The sight that greeted him was not uplifting nor in the slightest way encouraging him to wait. "Why not?"

"No," Remus agreed. "Peter's right."

And then James produced his wand from seemingly nowhere, and Peter loathed himself the more for the way his stomach protested and his eyebrow twitched. James paid him little heed, however, swishing his wand in a murderous sobering charm.

Sirius groaned, swaying in his chair and slowly lifting his face from where it had been resting in his arms. Sirius, to put it mildly, felt like shit. And, despite his charm and most always handsome face, he quite looked it then too.

"Padfoot? Sirius?" Remus cooed softly, quiet, stern and annoyed at once.

"Padfoot, are you with us?"

James, not waiting for a reply, hit him with the sobering charm again, merciless. Sirius pushed his chair back abruptly, grating the heavy wooden legs to scratch deeply into ancient floorboards.

"What did you do that for?" Sirius grumbled, stretching his arms above his head, running a hand through thick tangled hair. "I was sleeping!"

"No," Remus corrected. "You'd passed out."

Sirius looked sheepish, not quite sure he believed it, but knew better than to argue. The werewolf was far more often than not correct in such matters.

"We're having a toast," James informed him, sliding a drink along the slippery surface of the table towards him. Hazel eyes flicked over the raunchy Nurses uniform he now saw his friend wore, but James decided quickly not to comment. Yet.

"Oh, right," Sirius grinned. "To the Marauders! Forever and always!"

"Amen."

Peter froze, but again the mead reached no further than before, the group interrupted by the sharp knock of a beak on the kitchen window pane echoing from outside. James groaned, sending his untouched glass down with a heavy THUMP, flicking his wand quickly to allow the owl entry. It was a plain brawny with uncanny purple eyes, and Sirius jumped, his face suddenly deathly pale, upon recognising it. The owl flew down around the expansive kitchen sink, landing unsteadily on the table between the group on jittery feet.

"Is something wrong, Sirius?" Remus asked, quite concerned.

He got no answer.

Sirius making no move to take the attached envelope, James did in his stead, untying the knotted cord from the owls leg with practiced ease.

As soon as the owl was free it hopped from the table, gliding back to the open window and away into the eerie night breeze. James examined the envelope briefly, the few years he had spent working in the Department of Mysteries at the Ministry of Magic, before its abrupt defeat, working in his inquisitive favour. His dream career as a Quidditch superstar had lasted three weeks after their graduation from Hogwarts, the sport placed on permanent hiatus by the Ministry until the war was deemed manageable. Nineteen years later, James was still waiting.

The envelope itself was nothing special - cheap and plain, not of any intrigue to Peter's interest. Sirius, on the other hand, was the former Auror - and it was rumoured that since his bereaved leave he had been working directly for Albus Dumbledore, doing who-knows-what. Peter perked up in his seat, his eyebrow twitching, again, but this time for an entirely different reason.

Sirius was beside himself. The night should have been perfect - the long needed break he had promised himself, that Albus had practically forced him to take. As much as Sirius longed for his search to end, for the time to come where he could settle down, guilt free, to a comfortable home back in England, for the long stream of one night stands to end, for once, in a proper relationship - he wasn't quite sure he was ready for this. Sirius had not imagined, in the dimmest of lights, that Shackleblolt might get back to him so quickly.

James raised an eyebrow behind his ridiculous mask, hazel eyes sparkling casually with blatant, unhidden curiosity.

"Who's it from?" James queried, trying to look uninterested and failing dismally as he slowly handed the envelope over.

But Sirius, remaining still and silent in his chair, again made no move to make any claim.

He faltered slightly, shifting in his seat, a battle of confusion rattling his brain. Sirius turned briefly to Peter and Remus, still indecisive, before his rasher, more impulsive side took over, as it usually did in such circumstances. "Open it, Prongs," he urged, his voice barely a whisper, still unsure of himself and the company they kept. "It's for you more than me, really."

Sirius would never forget, that conversation engraved in him forever.

_"He may well be our last chance. Our last hope."_

_Sirius growled his frustration, refusing to feel guilty at the pressured words underlined meaning. They had done the right thing, the best thing they could have in such a situation - the Longbottom's ongoing suffering should have been proof enough of that! "We took him from this life for a reason - that reason precisely."_

_Albus was disappointed, and he took no care to hide it. "We need him, Sirius."_

_"Tell that to Lily and James!"_

_"At least give Harry the opportunity, the knowledge, to decide this for himself," Albus concluded, his eyes downcast. "He's old enough for that now. You owe him the truth."_

Finding 'Harry' was another matter entirely, and Sirius was tired, dog tired, of the relentlessly unforgiving pursuit. He looked up to James' face then, shrouded as it were in sticky glup, and a regretful surge passed through him. Had it really been wise, helpless and desperate enough to inform Alus of their sacrifice? Had they really, honestly, beyond any question, done the right thing all those long years ago? And Sirius looked to the envelope in his friends waving hand, knowing it would confirm the whereabouts of his final plight, the last uncounted and unchecked male teen in the whole of Magical Europe, the only one he hadn't been able to track down from his own source.

Peter was wetting himself, unable to believe such good fortune might fall his way - he certainly didn't deserve it. More than ever he wanted to leave, before he got in too deep, but at the same time he felt the pull of reasoning, that he was so close now to uncovering something big - something far bigger than he could ever hope to understand.

"What is it?" James asked him again, impatient. He waited for the briefest of moments, favouring Sirius with an oblivious, joyful grin, and tore into the envelope with an animalistic fever, quickly bringing the parchment short to shreds.

Peter watched, his breath stopped, as James' face bore down intently on a small picture cradled in his palm, his other arm shaking the shredded envelope upside-down, as if hoping there was more.

A dredged silence reined down upon the party, waiting in anticipation for James to say something, anything.

He looked up at them then, locking eyes again with Sirius, a look of horrified understanding passing between them. And, wordlessly and uncertainly, he passed the picture across to them, Sirius raising it to be viewed amongst the three of them, sitting opposite James.

Peter's tiny eyes clouded over, greedily milking the glossed paper for all it was worth, perched precariously in Sirius' outstretched hand.

It was a photograph - a cheep little wallet-sized muggle one, unmoving, taken from one of those bizarre little boxes Peter sometimes passed when hiding out in the grungest parts of unmagical London.

And there were two figures in it; a teenage boy with his arm wrapped securely around a pretty blonde vampire - at least three hundred years his senior. Peter's lips thinned, his eyes glazing over the boy with apprehension - unnatural blue hair, iridescent green eyes, two lip piercings and an eyebrow ring, ghostly pale skin and handsomely contempt features. He was the perfect picture of the newage retro funk-punk-rocker, and Peter gave no thought to his never wishing to meet with the boy, ever.

But then Peter choked, comprehension of the photograph crashing down on him in waves, as the uncanny resemblance the young man depicted bore to James Potter resolved like a forgotten puzzle in his mind.

…_Harry Potter, the lost boy of Fate._

Could it really be?

James, looking from opposite as Peter and Remus criticised the picture, stared predominantly at the back of the photograph.

"Louis Ackart, La Rosé Noir. Paris," James read slowly, his frown rising, and Sirius quickly turned the photo to read the messy inscription on the back.

"La Rosé Noir?" James repeated thoughtfully, his frown increasing tenfold, mind buzzing as the name caught and stuck in his jumbled, disorganised mind. _He'd definitely heard it before._ "Isn't that?.."

"Oh fuck," Sirius guffawed, flipping the photo front to back, again and again. _It had to be a mistake..._

"What is it?" Peter asked quietly, his voice tilting, not having a clue to the reality, the significance of what was really happening around him. _But he had to know._

"It's a..." James paused, perplexed, not quite sure then if he really wanted to know whether or not this 'Louis Ackart' _was_ his firstborn son. "It's a strip club!"

… x …

Bodies were compressed close, hot and sweaty and pumping. Music screamed through the club, reverberating through walls and vibrating burdened hearts, lighting the dance floor in flickering blasts of neon red, green, blue, beating loud and continuous without pause. He walked amongst the common, gracing them kindly with his presence, and they revered at the sight of him, clinging, throwing themselves forward. Clothes were discarded and forgotten, lost to the celebrated Magical night.

Powder lined before him, tempting, one thin carefully spread line.

He snorted.

Two little pink pills, perfectly round, alluring in his face.

He swallowed.

Three shots; lime, mandarin, guava. Four. Five. Six.

He lost count. He drowned.

The club swam back, spinning, and he was dancing, squeezing, laughing, shirtless. A blonde held his hand, whispering in his ear, pulling him back through the crowds.

And then he was in a toilet cubicle, and there were giggles, vomit stringed the air, and he was unhooking a bra, unzipping his jeans. The blonde was pressed against him, sandwiched with the dirty, sticky graffitied wall, and he was inside of her, and the world was spinning again, thrusting, down ... down ... down.

Louis laughed and cried and then he was back to spinning, snorting again, swallowing again, drowning again.

It was a good night.

But it wouldn't last forever.

… x …

Malfoy, grey eyes flicking carelessly to his silver wrist watch, was making it painfully clear what he thought of such a summons: a complete and utter waste of his precious time. Wormtail occupied no delusions to what regard the blond held him in - an incompetent, indecent fool. An embarrassment to be associated with, a humiliation to The Cause, and of such form to the lowest, sickliest Deatheaters.

He was a traitor. A spy.

"And what, pray tell," Malfoy hissed, "begs my urgent presence at this ungodly hour?"

"I know where he is!" Peter hissed - or, rather spluttered - back. He could barely restrain himself from jumping up and down, crying out with exuberant joy.

Malfoy was not in the slightest bit impressed. "Who?"

Peter faltered, for the briefest of moments, before the weight of the knowledge he carried - and the popularity, the stigma and the privileges is was sure to grant him - won over, swelling his mind and unclouding any lingering doubts. "Harry Potter."

The pointed, disbelieving look piercing his way was priceless. "He's dead," Malfoy spat, his hand itching towards his wand, ready to Avada Kedavra Peter right then and there for wasting his time so.

"No!" Peter cried jubilantly, a crazed grin cracking over his face. "He's alive. And," his voice quivering, dropping another notch, "I know where to find him."

… x …

"This is it. We're here."

There was nothing weird, nothing of any note within the context of oddity. An ordinary neighbourhood, an ordinary street, an ordinary apartment block. Number seven, level four. The door was beige, weathered and loomed before the pair like a beacon of hovering nightmares. For some reason, James did not - could not - bring himself another step closer.

Sirius decided it best to wait and ponder.

"You shouldn't have let me open it."

"What?" Sirius asked, startled. "Open what?"

"The letter."

"Why not? Don't you want to know?" Sirius scoffed. "You mean in front of them - Peter and Remus?"

"No, it's not that." James rolled his eyes. "But…" he couldn't explain. How could he justify his hesitation? Was it simply _fright_ that held him captive, that twisted his stomach and tore at his scalp, scratched his eyes and levelled an unbearable, horrifying foreshadowment?

Sirius looked back at him, blinking sleep from his eyes and furrowing a sceptical brow. "Come off it, we're here now." He looked again towards the door. "May as well knock..."

"I know. I know." James held his breath.

Sirius knocked.

The moment lasted an eternity - the thrill, the suspense … the gradual let down.

No one answered.

"Maybe we got the wrong address," James started, and he quite loathed himself for the glimpse of relief that stole over him then.

"Hmm," Sirius mused, frowning. "Maybe."

'La Rosé Noir' had been closing when they'd apparated into Paris, through the Regulator gates and across the border. They hadn't left Godric's Hollow till well after three that morning, James feeding his wife a half-assed excuse he knew she wouldn't by, and tucking his children into bed far after their usual sleep time. The guests had slowly, eventually dispersed - not all soon by any means - and cleaning was, thankfully, left to the obliging house elf's methods. Louis Ackart - a bartender, and oh, how James had been assuaged to learn of that - was regrettably taking his night off. The manager, after a little persuasion aided with a clutch of several heavy coins, had very kindly given them Ackart's home address.

Sirius, however, was not ready to give up quite yet - not nearly.

"We should just … check."

"Check what?" James barely had time to finish his query before Sirius had his wand out and spells were flying from his lips, decoding, disarming, dischanting and deciphering the barriers woven through the thick beige painted wood.

A click, a snap, and the door creaked ominously open.

Sirius gestured for James to go in first, but after a brief glance at his friends face, went on in his stead.

What they found inside - a harem of illegal drugs in all shapes and sizes - was enough to put Ackart away in Azkaban for years. Sirius resigned to make a note: if push came to shove, they could always arrest him. More panties than James could count lay about in curious places of Ackart's small bedroom, a shameful amount of empty pizza boxes and a pyramid stack in the living room two metres high of beer cans. A display of bizarre shaped bongs lined his bookcase haphazardly between dangerous spell books and colourful marbles. On his mantle and fridge a litter of photographs, magical and muggle alike, displayed the blue haired teen with an alarming amount of differing women, his hair colour changing continuously; blue, green, _black._

It was, undoubtabley, the home of a young single male adult.

James swallowed. There was no mistaking it, no denying - James knew this was Harry, it simply had to be. And soon, far sooner than James would have liked, he would have to explain to Ackart why they had given him away, and why they needed him back again now. James could only hope he might understand.

Sirius stalked about the apartment, plots and plans taking flight. James made himself comfortable on the soft leather armchair, gazing at the large stereo system in wonder, temporarily unable to do or think anything.

It gave them both a terrible shock of fright when a voice yelled out angrily -

_"Qu'est-ce que vous faîtes!"_

…

finis

…

Translations:

La Rosé Noir - The Black Rose. A symbol of love, romance, tragedy and soul - often affiliated with brothels and the like.

Ackart - Of French origin (surname), meaning firm-hearted, unyielding. I thought it seemed fit.

_A/N: Apologies go out for my dismal updates. Thanks for reading, and please review! _

xxoo


	3. Chapter Two: Homecoming

Summary: (AU) 16 years ago the Potters' faked their sons death, hiding him at an orphanage in France to save him from the prophecy. But when the effects of a thirty year war prove too much for the world, the search for Harry begins and an unsuspecting teen finds himself subject to the lost fate.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Duh.

_Italics on emphasis, thoughts or past tense._

_A/N: Just two little things: Most importantly, I made a _huge_ blunder with the_ male_ name Louis (Norman and French), a big thanks goes to those who pointed this out. Please excuse me - there have been appropriate edits. Secondly, I did have Louis' accent marked, but it disrupted flow and made the dialogue messy - if anyone feels it is necessary, I'll change it back, but for now, would you rather imagine? Let me know. Thanks. _

…**The Lost Fate…**

Chapter Two: Homecoming

When Louis had been in his fifth year of school the French Ministry had folded, collapsed, and Beauxbatons closed. He had been popular among his peers, mostly quite well liked, though not always for the better reasons. But then, suddenly, Louis had nowhere to go, no connections, no proper qualifications, and no family to help him. And so he did what he had to, to live at a standard he believed acceptable; he stole, he lied, he cheated. He cared nothing for rules or laws - they were weighed far below him, under respect only to the stupid, to the falling righteous. He used his charm and looks to buy friends and win acceptance, approval, admiration.

When that didn't work magic did the trick.

He had never paid for anything. He lived in luxury. He ate with the rich, slept with the beautiful, and there was only ever himself to face afterwards - which he did gladly. It was a time in which death passed fast and frequently, and Louis went by the motto of making the most of his life, of having as much fun as he could in whatever time was given to him.

_Party hard, die young, bury a good looking corpse. _

To keep the authorities happy he had gotten a part-time job as a bartender at a club he had regularly visited.

No-one ever asked any questions.

But Louis wasn't in the best of moods as he returned home to his flat on that first chilly morning of November, wanting nothing more than to curl up in his large bed and sleep away the upcoming week. He was tired, hungover, and completely unprepared for what awaited him. Louis was so buggered he didn't notice that his intricately crafted wards had been torn apart, shredded to uselessness, or that the usually tightly secured door was unlocked, welcoming him unprepared. It took a moment longer still, standing in the open plan living-room-joint-kitchen, for the teen to realize that he had company - company he could definitely do without.

_"Qu'est-ce que vous faîtes!"_

The man on the couch - the one that, quite strangely, did look rather familiar, somehow - yelped, standing quick to his feet. Louis couldn't place exactly what was so odd about him, but he decided instantly, without question, that he did not like the man at all.

The other, by the fridge - who had, before his entrance, been ogling a particularly peculiar shaped watermelon on the counter - was the first to answer, his voice edgy with uncertain English. "You're Louis? Louis Ackart?"

Louis glared, crossing his arms against his chest. He was never one to cooperate, given the option. And English accents did grate terribly on his nerves. "And what's it to you if I am?"

The man grinned, slightly, attempting to look friendly, approachable.

_Trying to trick him, to deceive him. _

Louis wouldn't fall for it. Not this time.

"I'm Sirius Black," the man continued, taking Louis' remark as a polite affirmation. "Do you understand me, Ackart? You do speak English, don't you?"

Louis nodded, his glare never wavering.

"Well, I'm Sirius." He pointed to the other, still gaping at Louis in bewilderment. Louis knew he was extremely good looking - but no-one had ever stared for _that_ long, that blatantly. He was, quite understandably, rather creeped out by the display. "And this is James Potter. We need to talk to you, Louis. You don't mind if I call you Louis, do you?"

Louis did. He glanced quickly to his wrist watch, bloodshot eyes sleepy, thick and slow. He was caught for a moment on how to answer - whether to get it over with as quickly as possible, or to be as difficult as he could manage - it was what he did best, after all. He decided between a delicate mix of the two. "Mr Ackart will do fine, thank you."

The man calling himself Black nodded, moving across the kitchen to seat himself in the living room, seeming perfectly at home, at ease in the awkward setting. Louis didn't think he much liked this man any better than the other. Potter, still standing, _still staring_, sat himself beside his friend with a loud thump. His eyes never blinked, never desisted in their odious assessment.

Louis shifted, but remained standing. The closer to the door he was - to showing the obtrusive duo out - the happier he felt. He thought if he sat down then he might just pass out, too. "What do you want, then?"

Sirius tried to smile again but faltered, catching Louis' eye. "Maybe you'd like to sit down?"

Louis scowled.

"Or make yourself a drink? Some tea, perhaps? I could certainly do with some myself," Sirius added, though the hint was pointless, and Louis thought he might ramble all morning if he didn't do something - and so, grudgingly, and feeling entirely manipulated by the situation, liking the men less and less each passing second, he did sit - or, rather, leant against the wall farthest from where they sat, closer still to the door - his escape out, away from them.

He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

"Well, then." Black hesitated. It was quite clear that he didn't really know what to say, what to do - that he was making the conversation as fast as each word would form, appearing miraculously in his dimwitted mind.

Louis casually dropped a hand into his pocket, fingering his wand between long, sweaty fingers. It was Potter who broke the silence, speaking for the first time, looking - again a first - away from Louis. His gaze fixed itself back to his stereo system, and Lois read him as easily as he could everyone - wary, apprehensive, _nervous_. He thought if they didn't reach some level of understanding - surfaced some meaning to their invasion - soon, he would … he'd … do _something_, anyway. He could probably take them both on without too much trouble, if it came to that.

"Do you know who your parents are, Louis? Do you want to know?"

Louis' interest peaked. He had been readying for many things, preparing himself for several possibilities to the wizards uninvited intrusion to his home - but none of them had come anywhere close to this. He wanted to be angry, livid beyond reason, but all he could feel then was pure curiosity, excitement, intrigue - he wasn't sure who to be madder at, them or himself.

He settled for them.

"I told you to call me Mr Ackart."

Potter looked confused, meeting his eye. He repeated his question, "Do you want to know, Mr Ackart? Who your parents are? Why they left you?" he faltered, his voice softening, guiltily. "I can explain - "

Louis was caught, stranded in his own stubbornness. He could hardly believe that this might possibly be happening - a part of him, a stupidly sensible logical rationing, told him that it was impossible, that he must be dreaming, or high, or perhaps even dead - in _Hell, _of course. But he had always wanted to find them, fantasizing of the loving parents he had never known, of brothers and sisters he had hated at the orphanage. But he loathed his mother, his father, and he did not want to forgive them, to bring them solace. He did not want to give them the satisfaction of knowing that he cared, that he had not always fared so well without them - stubbornness won out.

"I don't have any parents," Louis spat, interrupting him. "They never cared - why should I now?"

Black flushed. "We don't know what you've been through, Ackart, and we don't pretend to. But I think you should know the full story, I think … I think you deserve to know the truth."

Louis glared. "I don't want to know - I don't give a shit. Leave, now. You're not welcome here."

"I think you do want to know," Potter said, rising again from the couch. "Please, Louis - "

"Bloody hell," Louis cried, bringing his wand from the pocket of his trousers. He poised the thin, shiny wood carefully between his fingers, and continued with the threat, "Leave or I'll make you."

Both of them froze.

"You don't want to do that, Mr Ackart," Black said slowly, drawing his hands above his head as Louis motioned. "You're outnumbered. I'm an Auror - I can arrest you, you do realize - "

"Shut up and get out," Louis spat, leveling his wand between the two, his eyes wide, catching every sly movement, every panicked breath. "You don't know what I'm capable of."

"Don't make this harder then it has to be, Louis," Potter added, taking a lead from his partner and raising his hands too above his head in surrender. He hated to be vulnerable so, to give in so easily without as much as a scratch of fight. But trust was stretched thin - far too thin already - and he did not want to damage it anymore than he had. Certainly they would be best suited to let Louis take control, to let him do with them what he wanted. James carefully pretended that he didn't feel quite relieved that they could so quickly be on their way, that Ackart truthfully wanted nothing more to do with them, but - like always - Sirius had other ideas.

"We just want to talk, that's all. Wont you listen to us, Mr Ackart, for only five minutes? We mean you no harm - "

"No," Louis agreed. "But that's not to say the peace is reciprocated.

"_Expelliarmus_."

… x …

Malfoy stilled, bowed so low his nose grazed the floor, all pride and dignity forgotten.

Wormtail, in the background, squirmed under the Lord's scrutiny.

It was impossible to tell whether He was pleased or infuriated. Lucius sincerely hoped the former to be directed his way only - it was he who had taken the risk, he who had informed Him of the rat's latest gossip. Really, it was _he_ who should be rewarded.

If Harry Potter really were to be alive, he wouldn't be for much longer, Lucius was sure.

"His name?" the Dark Lord hissed.

"Louis Ackart, my Lord," Lucius supplied quickly.

Riddle's grin beckoned depravity.

… x …

Now that he had them, unarmed and bound to his couch in the cluttered living room, Louis was at a bit of a loss as to what to do next. He wanted to know what they had to say about his parents - but he didn't really want them to know that he wanted to know. He had so many questions - he craved for the answers, his balance split, his desire overwhelming. He _needed_ the bloody answers.

"Why did you come here?" he asked, directing his question to neither in particular.

It was Black again that answered him. "We need you, Louis."

Louis started, surprised.

_Oh, really?_

"And why should I help you?"

James stirred, fumbling for the right words. "Because, Mr Ackart - Louis - because that's not really your name at all, is it?" his voice cracked, slow, thick with loss. "It's so hard to believe that we've finally found you, we've been searching that long. We're here, Louis, because … because I'm your - "

Sirius interrupted quickly, switching tracks, guessing prudently at what would trigger Louis' benefit more, giving them a ameliorate advantage - using just a pinch of leeway, the slightest amount of fabrication. "We can offer you a lot. More than you might expect. More than you could ever need, I'm sure."

Louis raised an eyebrow._ He quite doubted that_.

"I want an awful lot."

Sirius grinned. "We have an awful lot to give."

"Do you, really?" his voice came mocking. "What do you need me for, then?"

Potter was clearly not wanting to answer, engrossed again in soaking through Louis' presence, etching to his mind every diminutive detail.

"We want you to save the world," Black replied easily.

Louis sneered - _it couldn't be April Fools already, could it? _

Sirius continued unheeded. "To be our hero. To triumph over Lord Voldemort and lead the Light to glory, to victory."

Louis laughed - they _had_ to be joking. "Why me, then? Of all the people to choose, why _me_?"

His prisoners exchanged a look, calculating, weighing the odds. In the end, though, all either was left with was honesty. James didn't really believe any child of his could be as cold, as callous as Louis illustrated himself to be. Sirius didn't really believe that it was right to lie to the boy, his Godson. Both were naive. Both should have thought for a moment longer.

"There's a prophecy."

… x …

Neville Longbottom was dead, murdered long years past, the last of the ancient pureblooded line to be eradicated from existence. He had thought that Harry was dead too, for quite some time, but it had recently come to light that he wasn't at all. A prophecy dictated one to be their savior - the Chosen One. Dumbledore wasn't happy with Lily or James in the slightest concerning their actions to this diligent matter.

He wondered, though, if perhaps they had done the right thing, which would imply that _he_ had been wrong - which was something that did not occur often, and he absolutely did not want to make public knowledge.

Hiding their first born from the world, even themselves - who knew what upbringing graced the child. Though, he supposed Harry had probably lived a better life without them all, without such burdens and tedious, repetitious danger. He supposed, looking back now, that fate might favor them once more, that perhaps whatever happened happened for the best, that there was nothing anyone - _even himself_ - could have done to stand in its way.

He supposed no-one could ever be sure, really.

But Harry was alive. And they _would_ find him - they simply had to. So hope still lingered on, still drifted somewhere aloof - and it would resurface again, Albus predicted. Sooner rather than later. He just had to wait, cut patience and stew.

There was a knock at his door then, rapping anxiously through the thick, old wood.

Before Albus could reply it creaked open, squeaking on its hinges.

He was quite affronted with the sight that bore down on him - a decidedly ugly form as it were.

"Severus!"

… x …

"A prophecy?" Louis asked skeptically, and then he began to laugh, his cackle bitter. "And to what do I owe a fucking prophecy?"

Sirius met his eyes. "You're the only one that can defeat him, Louis. You're the only chance any of us have got. _You're the only one_."

"But what do I care?" Louis insisted. "What has the world ever done for me?" _Shit. Nil. _

"Your parents love you, Louis," James told him softly. "They never meant for you to come to any harm - they thought … they _knew_ that you'd be better off without them. And you have been, I promise you. You were given away so that you'd be safe, to protect you - "

"And now they'd throw me back to the Dark Lord's feet? Now they'd ask me to do the impossible, to give my life to a lost cause?" He was not impressed - not at all. "Any such parents are not worth knowing, are not worth _anything_ to me."

James felt his cheeks heat, his insides churn. "Can you forgive them, Louis? Could you ever find it in yourself to forgive the ones who left you, who hid you, who_ love_ you?"

Louis glared. "No. I could not."

"We thought it was for the best," James insisted, pleading in his voice.

Louis snarled.

"_You were wrong_."

… x …

Severus was panting, his breath run short. He still wore the dark robes of a Death Eater, a bone white mask hanging from a shaking, limp hand. But he didn't care who saw him, if anyone were about the castle at that time anyway, and he didn't care about anything at that moment but his own delirious happiness. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so excited, that such taunting adrenaline had pumped through his veins. _James Potter would suffer_, and there was nothing greater in the world, no better justice to ever reach his hearing.

Severus wouldn't be there then, standing in Dumbledore's disorderly office, if he could have helped it. But the delight it would bring Severus to tattle on his childhood nemesis was too great, too powerful - he would pay for the consequences later, if they ever came to rise. The moment was priceless, worth his own precarious life to Severus. He could hardly wait, he barely had the mind to explain it - it took great strength enough to restrain himself from laughing at such misfortune that would surely befall the damned family, right then in front of his mentor, his 'redeemer'.

"Severus! Are you quite alright? Are you hurt?"

He couldn't smile. No, he shouldn't, he really shouldn't - it would not do to bring such tidings with unhidden joy. But that was easier said than done, for Severus had not felt so giddy, so bloody _good_ in a long, long while.

_Revenge was sweet indeed._

Snape bared his teeth maliciously - Dumbledore took it as his usual friendly greeting.

"Severus, my boy - to what do I owe this very early pleasure?"

"I have news," he answered, his voice trying to find indifference. It came to no avail. "Extraordinary news."

Albus didn't ask - he didn't need to. He knew that Severus would come to it in his own time, and he didn't have to wait long. He never did.

Severus took a deep breath, steadying himself. He spoke quickly, precisely, eager to come to his point, to get the boring part out of the way. "The Dark Lord knows where Harry Potter is. There is a group hurrying to retrieve him as we speak."

The color drained from Albus' face, his expression unreadable. "Where is he? Do you know, Severus?"

_And here's where it got _really_ good. _

"No, but that's not all - Potter and Black are said to be there also. They _knew_ where the brat has been living," here Severus paused for dramatic effect, for his words to soak their rounded meaning, "and they didn't see it fit to inform us! _Typical_! Consequently, the three of them will be captured."

_And, if all goes well, they'll be dead by sunset. _

No, Severus shouldn't have smiled. He really shouldn't have.

Dumbledore was furious.

… x …

All three stopped, held still, looking to the door.

"Were you expecting visitors?" James asked politely, his voice barely a whisper.

"No," Louis growled.

The knocking persisted, harder and harder. Then, suddenly, it stopped.

Louis held his breath.

And the door exploded.

Eight caliginous figures stood in the doorway, long black cloaks and luminous white masks held in contrast, marking their signature to the Dark Lord. Death Eaters. Louis blinked - he had seen them in the paper, heard numerously of their description - but he'd yet to ever encounter any. Sirius and James, still bound to the couch, struggled futile in their restraints.

"Mr Ackart?" a woman asked, taking a step inside of the apartment. Heavy lidded eyes flicked behind her mask to the two older wizards, Black and Potter, and she began to laugh.

Louis couldn't move, undecided. He had always thought of himself as somewhat special and somewhere, buried deep in his stomach, he knew that his past would come back to haunt him, one day far far away in the very distant future. He didn't want this _now_ - he had better things to do with his youth. War killed people and Louis did not wish to die. He wanted nothing to do with the war, no matter to the involvement France passed to England, forever increasing. He didn't want to fight, he didn't want to pick a damned side - he wanted no branding classification of either Light or Dark.

But it seemed now he didn't have much choice.

Lord Voldemort or Albus Dumbledore?

_Death Eaters or Black and Potter_?

Either way he was doomed, fucked - inevitably screwed.

Either way he was _dead_.

Louis looked again quickly between the groups.

"My, isn't this a lovely little reunion?" the woman spoke again, her voice low and seductive. She looked Louis up and down, appraising him. "You do look a terrible lot like your father now, don't you? Poor thing."

Louis stirred. _Did he? _

"Shut it, Lestrange," Black said, heated, venomous, full of pent hate.

The woman, Lestrange, ignored him.

"Do I?" Lois asked the Death Eater, probing her.

She laughed again, high and cruel. And Louis made his mind - eight were better odds against two, after all, and especially when those two were otherwise wandless. He stepped towards the Death Eater's. _So was his destiny, then_.

"What can I do for you, then?" he asked. Perhaps they'd only come after his first guests - he'd be more than happy to pass them willingly both over, even without a price. Hell, _he'd_ pay for them to be taken away.

Lestrange, Louis presumed then she was in charge, raised an eyebrow. She tossed her head back to his ruined doorway, gesturing to the two wizards on the couch. "I thank you for restraining them, it is much appreciated - but now you must come with us also."

"Why?" he asked again, wand in hand, ready.

"The Dark Lord wishes to … _speak_ … with you."

Louis glared at her - so, it was to go with the Death Eaters to almost certain death, or to side along Light (for now, anyway), whom wished him to defeat their enemy, and again face almost certain death. _Brilliant. _

The duo tied to his couch might buy him a little more time, then, at the very least - it was the best he had. Louis cast a silent disillusionment charm on their wands, hidden in his pocket, then send them towards the couch, back to their owners.

Jaws set, wands raised, spell-fire flew.

Louis dived behind a book case, spitting curses this way and that. The Death Eaters surrounded them, closing in - they would win, they had to. There were too many against the three of them. The morning air filled with red, blue, yellow flashes. Every now and then the woman would fire a jet of sickly green - always aimed at her cousin, Black.

"_Louis_!" a voice called behind him, and Louis felt a heavy object thrown against his head. He grabbed at it, catching it - a shoe, as it were, that looked to have been Potters' - and instantly felt that horrible tug pulled at his navel, dragging him away.

The image of his flat, wrecked worse than it ever had been after any wild pissup, swam before his sight, fading and spinning, around and around and around. Then, with a final haul to his stomach, he landed. He threw the shoe, the bloody portkey - and how he _hated_ that form of fucking transport - to the ground.

He was in a hallway, Potter and Black appearing in a snap behind him, one panting, one bleeding.

"Where are we?" Louis asked.

James laughed - he couldn't help himself. "You're home."

… x …

When Lily Potter went down to the kitchen table, irked at her husbands lack of residence that night, there was a strange youth sitting there, eating scrambled eggs. Lily thought she might recognize him, though she couldn't place where from.

She stared at him. He stared at her.

Neither said a word.

… x …

Bellatrix screamed, uncontrolled magic spilt, tainting the air. The others quailed in her fury. She looked between them, weighing her options, seeking one to hold the blame. Deep hooded eyes fell lastly on Wormtail, the smallest, the weakest link. He refused to meet her gaze, positively wetting himself.

… x …

When Albus apparated to Godric's Hollow it appeared that the family was out.

The wards detected malice.

The house would not let him in.

… x …

Severus, upon hearing the news, thought he might cry.

Instead he poured himself a generous goblet of firewhisky. Then another. Then another.

…

finis

…

_A/N: Thanks for all your support - just about any review is motivating. Do keep them coming, I very much appreciate it. ;)_

xxoo


End file.

Harry Potter, Angst, Tragedy