Albus Severus Potter (A Harry Potter fanfic)

Not Him

There was a collective gasp and everyone was shocked to see the face of the man.

Lockheart.

Everyone was horrified. Horrified that someone had killed him. Horrified that someone had dropped him in the common room. Horrified that a murderer was in Hogwarts.

A few people from either side of the room went down and gently pulled the girl away from Lockheart. They were whispering to each other quickly, so that no one else could hear them. Then, two of them left the common room, probably in search of a teacher.

Slowly, the common room cleared and everyone went to the Great Hall for breakfast. It was a Saturday so no one actually had lessons. Everyone in Gryffindor avoided the common room, even after the body of Lockheart had gone. It was a bit more than unpleasant to be even near the place where he died. No one wanted to be near the place where a heartless person had killed one of the happiest men on Earth.

Albus knew though. He knew who the heartless person had been. He knew that every single one of the letters he got from his parents was a fake. He knew that someone was going to happen. He knew that his parents were in danger. In danger. Again.

Though, this time it wasn't Voldemort who was endangering them. Albus still hadn't actually been told the whole story, but with careful cautious questions and endless amounts of research, he had been able to piece together a vague story. Most of the story had been kept secret, so it was difficult to use media traces. This made his parents number 1 for extracting information from.

Albus' parents may even have figured out that he knew more than he claimed to, but they never said anything about it. In fact, they had been answering some of his questions easily, and almost willingly. But they always took a bit of coaxing to get all the information.

James, of course, had been of no use to Albus, but occaisionaly he would let slip on small details, which were often useless, but helped later. Things about forests, annoying radios, and Aunt Hermione worrying about stealing. It was rather amusing, actually, to inmagine Aunt Hermione being brave enough to steal something, however, she had been seventeen. This automatically made her more eccentric.

From the pieces of the story, he knew that the person now was worse. He knew that McGonagall was only alive because of them. People needed someone to trust. The person had chosen McGonagall. Everyone one trusted her.

There was no reason not to.

Yet.