|SIYE Time:9:24 on 16th May 2021|
Category: Alternate Universe, Cursed Child and beyond
Characters:Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall
Genres: Action/Adventure, Crossover
Warnings: Death, Disturbing Imagery
Summary: Special Constable Smith of Godric's Hollow wasn't expecting Halloween to offer any excitement... He was wrong.
Hitcount: Story Total: 384
Disclaimer: Harry Potter Publishing Rights © J.K.R. Note the opinions in this story are my own and in no way represent the owners of this site. This story subject to copyright law under transformative use. No compensation is made for this work.
This is solely a not-for-profit fan activity and does not intend to infringe on copyrights held by Warner Media, DC Comics, et al. Any characters that are original to this work remain the property of the author.
A/N: The Last Daughter of Krypton Series diverges significantly from accepted canon for the Harry Potter series from the outset, as in addition to the crossover elements, there are several deviations from the books that will be covered where they fit into the narrative. The timeline of the DC Comics elements borrows heavily from Young Justice (2011) and may adapt elements and characters from the comics and several additional other media instalments including but not limited to Smallville (2001) and the upcoming Superman and Lois (2021) and relocates the series to the Eighties and early Nineties rather than the New Tens as screened and includes several 'legacy' and original characters as a result.
A/N: Due to features peculiar to this fic that well become evident as it progresses, some technologies and practices are more consistent with real world technologies of the 2010s.
A/N: Thanks to mystic_magic88 and other members of the Caer Azkaban group for their help on this chapter.
October 31, 2245 GMT.
Team Year Minus One.
Special Constable Jacob Smith was a deeply average man, he was average height, average weight, nothing in anyway remarkable about his appearance, attitudes or lifestyle save the minor point of trivia that he was the last man to be called up for National Service in the village. Not many trick-or-treaters left on the streets, he observed, turning as he turned his patrol back towards the village after reaching the end of the station road. I wonder if I’ve got time for a quick half at the Gryphon’s Claw before last call?
At that moment, the handheld radio clipped to his greatcoat crackled. “Sierra Charlie 2224 from Cue Pee.”
No drink for me tonight, thought Smith, and unclipped the device, raising it to his mouth. “Cue Pee, Cue Pee, this is Sierra Charlie 2224... receiving, over.”
“Proceed to Church Lane,” requested the dispatcher.“We have a report of a ‘man with a melted face’ near the old Potter cottage, over.”
Melted face? Smith thought. “Cue Pee, Sierra Charlie 2224… you do realise that it’s Halloween, right? The entire village’s been full of people in costume all night, over.”
“Sierra Charlie 2224... Inspector Jones is aware that it may be a false alarm, but wants it investigated, out.”
Well, that decides that… groaned Smith.
He returned his radio to his coat and set off across the village.
Godric’s Hollow wasn’t a big place — even by village standards — so it didn’t take Smith long to reach Church Lane. As he turned off High Street onto the lane, Smith unclipped his radio and keyed it on. “Cue Pee, Cue Pee, Sierra Charlie 2224… are you receiving, over?”
“Sierra Charlie 2224, go ahead, over.”
“I’m on-site at Church Lane,” he reported. “No sign of the ‘man with the melted face’ so far, over.”
“Sierra Charlie 2224... acknowledged, out.”
He returned the radio to his coat and headed down the lane, his other hand close to his baton. He passed the church without incident and was just about to pass the Bagshot place when the night sky ahead was lit up with an eerie green light and a loud bang that could have been mistaken for thunder or a firework but given the timing, he suspected was an explosion.
The constable cursed and started to run down the lane towards the explosion, as he ran, he fumbled for his radio, missing it twice. “Cue Pee receiving Sierra Charlie 2224… active message, over.”
“Sierra Charlie 2224... transmit message, over.”
“Possible explosion at the old Potter place, Church Lane, Godric’s Hollow!” he snapped. “Send everything, over!”
“All received,” confirmed the controller. “Area cars are en-route, we’ll pass to AFRS and SWAS, standby, out.”
A moment later, the constable tensed as the old Potter cottage came into view.
The two-storey building was a wreck, large chunks of it had been torn away by the explosion. Mercifully, the explosion had somehow not managed to start a fire. He was about breathe a sigh of relief when the shrill cry of an infant began to echo out of the ruins.
The constable cursed again and keyed his radio. “Cue Pee, Cue Pee, Sierra Charlie 2224… active message, over.”
“Sierra Charlie 2224... transmit message, over.”
“There’s a baby in the house! What’s the ETA on my back-up, over?!”
“Sierra Charlie 2224... ETA for additional police is twelve minutes, twenty-two minutes for an engine, USAR within the hour, over.”
Smith nearly growled. He’d been hoping for better, but at least help was on the way. “What about SWAS, over?”
“Standby…” replied the controller. “ETA… thirty minutes, out.”
I hope that’s soon enough, thought Smith as he closed the distance between himself and the cottage and began to climb the rubble pile. Looking up he saw that two people — a blond woman dressed in black and a dark‑skinned man in black tie and a top hat — had appeared in the area in front of the ruined house. Removing his radio, he activated it. “Cue Pee, Cue Pee receiving Sierra Charlie 2224, over?”
“Sierra Charlie 2224, go ahead, over.”
“Alert the duty SIO, we’ve got two Juliet Lima on-site at my location, over,” said Smith, and he gave a quick description of the pair.
“Understood,” confirmed the operator. “Duty SIO and Sierra Hotel will be informed, out.”
By the time that he had returned the radio to his overcoat, the pair had joined him at the ruin. The blond woman spoke first. “Black Canary, Justice League. We picked up the signal of the explosion and Zatara and I came to help.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” replied Smith. “I think that we need to get the baby out of there as quickly as possible, then do a more detailed search of the ruins.”
Black Canary nodded, then turned to her partner. “Giovanni?”
The man nodded, then extended his arms towards the ruins. “Dlihc eht eerf.”
Seconds later, the child’s wails increased in volume as the debris between it and the responders were removed by Zatara’s spell. Then Black Canary, reacting faster than either of the men, crossed the distance and seconds later she had the child — a boy about a year old — in her arms.
Other than a cut to his head which was bleeding profusely, he seemed none the worse for his experience and quietened as she rocked him.
“Dnuow sih laeh,” said Zatanna, pointing a long, graceful finger at the bleeding cut.
Black Canary and Constable Smith waited for a moment to see what would happen…
But nothing did.
Zatara frowned. “That is unexpected… Dnuow eht naelc ,wolf eht mets!”
This helped a bit, as the wound stopped bleeding and some of the swelling went down.
Zatara’s expression lightened, but he still wasn’t happy. He turned to Smith. “Do you have an ambulance on the way?”
Smith grimaced. “Not for at least twenty-five minutes… two area cars should be here in five or ten minutes though?”
“I’d rather not wait,” Zatara said. “His wound was harder to heal than I expected… I can’t guarantee that my spells will hold.”
Black Canary considered the situation. “Can you teleport the boy and I to the hospital, but stay on site?”
Zatara paused to consider the question, then nodded. “Not using the same method as before, but yes… you will need to be able to carry him while walking.”
“I can do that,” Black Canary asserted.
Zatara turned to Smith. “I suggest you have your control room alert the appropriate hospital.”
Smith nodded. “That would be Bristol Children’s Hospital on St Michael’s Hill,” he told them. “Cue Pee, Cue Pee, this is Sierra Charlie 2224, receiving, over?.”
“Sierra Charlie 2224 from Cue Pee, Go Ahead, over.”
“Cue Pee, we’ve successfully removed an IC1 male, approximately one year of age from the ruins. Juliet Lima wants to transport him direct to Bravo Charlie Hotel for further assessment and treatment, over.”
As they waited, Black Canary moved over to a nearby tree and rested with her back against it.
“Sierra Charlie 2224 receiving Cue Pee, over.”
“Go Ahead, over.” replied Smith.
“DCI Williams has authorised the transport, he will have someone meet them there, out.”
Smith returned his radio to his overcoat, then nodded to Zatara.
Zatara turned towards the largest piece of open space and then raised his arms in supplication. “Latipsoh S'nerdlihc Lotsirb ot latrop a nepo!”
After a second or so, a golden disk appeared in the air in front of them. Zatara considered it for a moment, then turned to Black Canary and nodded. “It’s ready.”
Without a word, Black Canary shifted the boy in her arms and then walked briskly into the portal and disappeared from sight.
After a moment, Zatara dismissed the portal and he and Smith returned to their inspection of the ruins.
Bristol Children’s Hospital,
St Michael’s Hill,
November 1st, 0917 GMT.
Dinah was on her third cup of dubious hospital coffee when a middle-aged man in a doctor’s white coat and a turban came up to her. “Black Canary?”
“That’s me,” replied Dinah, standing up stretching out her hand for a handshake, which the man returned.
“Balkar Qalhari, I’m the consultant here. I understand you brought in our young John Doe last night?”
Black Canary nodded, “My team-mate Giovanni Zatara and I helped the police pull him out of his ruined house.”
“Well, I’m pleased to say you got to him on time,” replied the doctor. “Other than the cut to his head, he doesn’t appear to have any additional injuries.”
“No concussion, swelling, bruising…?” clarified Dinah, puzzled.
“Nothing,” confirmed the consultant. “He’s free to go as soon as you find someone to release him too.”
Black Canary nodded, “Zatara and some local detectives have been working on that over-night… we think that the dead couple we found in the ruins were his parents, so it might take some time…”
“I’ve notified Social Services,” added Mr Qalhari. “But with the weekend it could take a day or two for them to send someone over.”
Dinah nodded, SCCPS would have had the same issue. “Can you help here till then?”
Mr Qalhari nodded. “We’re not busy, that shouldn’t be a problem.”
Dinah smiled. Her commlink beeped. “Go ahead.”
It was Giovanni. “Can you leave the hospital? The senior detective wants to have a meeting on the case.”
“I’ve just got a report from the consultant,” Dinah replied. “Our boy’s going to be fine, and they’ll keep him in until either the police or social services can place him.”
“Sounds good,” replied Giovanni after a moment. “One of the team should be with you in a couple of minutes.”
“I’ll be waiting,” confirmed Dinah, then turned back to the consultant.
“Unless there’s anything else?” asked the man.
Dinah shook her head. “No, that’s everything. We’ll let you know if anything turns up at our end.”
“As will I,” confirmed Mr Qalhari and wandered off.
He had just gone out of sight when a red‑headed young man — about her own age but with Superman’s height and build appeared, dressed in the cheap suit and tie — dark blue number with narrow gold‑and‑cyan stripes — favoured by junior detectives the world over.
Probably a college tie, thought Dinah. “Are you my ride?”
The red-headed giant’s face split in a boyish, friendly grin as he nodded. “Trainee Detective Constable Russell Ripley at your service, miss. You can call me Russ.”
“Any word on the boy?” asked Russ as the pair headed towards the exit.
“He’ll be fine,” Dinah offered.
Avon and Somerset CID,
“Good morning, everyone,” said the stocky man that sat at the head of the table. The senior detective appeared to be in his late thirties with prematurely greying hair and a wide, searching expression in a cheap dark suit with a blue tie with silver-and-black stripes. “I am Detective Chief Inspector Tomos Williams. Welcome to the first meeting of Operation Stork, the investigation into the deaths of three unknown adults and the endangerment of a young boy — name as yet unknown — in Godric’s Hollow, Somerset on the evening of the thirty-first of October.”
Dinah took in the other people at the rectangular table as she sat down. On the opposite side of the table were two women in cheap suits, presumably other detectives — an elfin woman in her late 20s with silvery-blond hair that cascaded down the back of her suit and another a little younger, an inch or two shorter than Dinah herself, with deep-set brown eyes, chiselled features and ink-black hair that hinted some sort of mixed ancestry and a long scar that cut from her left eyebrow to the corner of her mouth that suggested she might have an interesting story or two to tell as well, with her driver taking the remaining empty seat on that side.
On her side of the table was her fellow Justice Leaguer, Giovanni Zatara; a short, narrow‑faced man with a dark widow's peak, probably an ex‑soldier; and lastly a woman that could have been her own double — save for the longer hair, a voluminous and nearly floor‑length mane if she was any judge — in a conservative white suit and a pale blue blouse.
“Does anyone have anything to add?”
The ex-soldier nodded.
“I’ve been consulting with my colleagues at the Shaw Building,” said Mr Pearce. “And we believe that the third body… the man who was reported to you shortly before the explosion… is a known terrorist who goes by the name Lord Voldemort, real name unknown, who has been active within certain traditional communities in this country over the last decade.”
“No,” replied Mr Pearce. “We believe his group is independent of the Irish paramilitaries and has other objective. I’m afraid that further information than that is classified at this time.”
The SIO grunted in frustration at that but chose not to pursue the topic. “Do you have anything on the couple?”
Mr Pearce shook his head. “Nothing that contradicts the theory that they are the couple that owned the cottage.”
“James and Lily Potter?” clarified Williams.
“Anne, do you have anything to add?”
“Not much,” admitted the elfin blond. “I’ve a feeling that the closest neighbour, Bathilda Bagshot, knows something… but other than confirming that James and Lily Potter fit the description of the dead couple and that they had a son called Harry recently, she couldn’t tell me anything more.”
“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”
Anne shrugged, “Hard to say, boss. She’s ancient and pretty frail… according to village scuttlebutt she’s over a hundred.”
“So maybe she doesn’t remember any more?”
Anne nodded. “It’s possible.”
“Holly, anything from the pathologist?”
“Not yet,” replied the scar-faced woman. “They picked up the bodies about sunrise, but I haven’t heard anything back yet.”
“Check in with them after this meeting.”
“Will do, boss,” agreed the young woman.
“The explosion was definitely induced,” Giovanni reported. “Deliberate… not natural.”
“Magical?” asked Williams.
There was noise from the other side of the table, Dinah glanced in that direction and saw that Pearce that stiffened at the second question.
“Possibly,” agreed her team-mate.
“By this… Voldemort?”
“That would be my assumption.”
“The boy has been cleared by the hospital,” she confirmed. “No injuries other than the superficial head wound.”
“Good, good…” said Williams. “Anne, can you try and find out if there’s any next-of-kin details for young Mr Potter?”
His deputy nodded.
“I believe I can cast a spell to answer that question if need be,” offered Giovanni.
“I’d prefer to rely on conventional methods,” replied Williams. “But I’ll bear it in mind.”
Giovanni nodded, nonplussed by the refusal.
“Well, if there’s nothing else, I’ll adjourn for the moment?”
Nobody had anything to add, so Williams dismissed them, and Dinah rose to her feet.
“WDC Goldberg has had a couple of bunks set up for us if you want some rest?”
“I wouldn’t mind,” Dinah admitted. “I’m a night-owl most of the time… but my body’s telling me that it’s about two am, so I wouldn’t mind a nap.”
“Follow me then,” said her teammate and lead her out of the conference room and down the corridor.
“How’s Zee?” Dinah asked.
“She is well,” replied Giovanni. “My old friend Tong He Ping is looking after her for the weekend.”
“I thought they don’t get on?”
“They don’t,” Giovanni agreed. “It would not be a suitable arrangement long term.”
“Have you decided what you’re going to tell Batman about his proposal?”
“To give my daughter a glorified backstage pass to the Hall of Justice, so that she can hang around with a trio of hormonal teenage boys…”
“That’s a no, then?”
“If he had a serious proposal, I’d consider it,” Giovanni replied. “But as it is…”
“I can understand that…” Dinah admitted. “I’ll pass it on.”
“Thank you,” said Giovanni, then indicated a door. “This is us.”
November 1st, 2345 GMT.
The tabby cat, who had been sitting on the wall outside Number 4 Privet Drive watching the comings and goings of the inhabitants all day, was diverted from her steadfast, unblinking vigil by a soft ‘pop’ that would likely have been unnoticed by any human ear nearby. She turned towards the sound, tail twitching and eye narrowed and was rewarded with a sight that was as familiar to her as her own but had never been seen on Privet Drive.
The man was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.
Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize, or perhaps he didn’t care, that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something.
After a moment, he located what he was looking for — a device of his own making somewhat similar in appearance to an ornate cigarette lighter, called The Deluminator — and activated it, zapping all the light out of lampposts nearby. It was only after he returned the device to his cloak pocket that he appeared to notice his audience, because he suddenly turned and looked at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. The cat seemed to amuse him, as he turned to her with a small grin on his face. “I should have known that you would be here... Professor McGonagall.”
In a moment, the tabby cat was gone.
In her place stood a slightly ruffled, but rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun.
“Good evening,” said his deputy, a hint of warm in her tone briefly before it returned to briskness. “Are the rumours true, Albus?”
“I'm afraid so, Minerva,” replied the headmaster. “The good… and the bad.”
“And the boy?”
“Hagrid is bringing him here,”
Anyone with the slightest acquaintance with Professor McGonagall would be able to tell from her expression that she was not pleased with this information, and several emotions flitted across her face as she discarded first one argument and then a second, until she lit upon a point that she thought she could and raise. "Do you think it wise to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"
“Minerva, I would trust Hagrid with my life.”
Professor McGonagall looked like she wanted to say more, but her attention was diverted by a low, rumbling sound overheard that gradually built into a roar as a huge motorcycle crashed out of the sky, slamming into a parked car, writing it off and scattering pieces of debris across the street.
The two professors were dumb with shock for a moment. Professor Dumbledore was the first to address the huge, bearded man who was now clambering to his feet, shaking his head. Apparently only a little the worse for wear. “Hagrid, at last. Where did you get that motorcycle?”
“Sorry abou’ tha’,” said Hagrid, eyeing the wreck. “Young Sirius Black leant it to me. Only, I’ve never ridden one before and I’m not exactly at me best at the moment…”
Professor Dumbledore was about to ask why his groundskeeper wasn’t at his best, when he noticed something that filled him with dread.
Hagrid wasn’t carrying anything.
“Hagrid, where’s the boy?” demanded Professor Dumbledore. “Where is Harry Potter?”
The bearded man sobbed, “I couldn’ find him… the muggles were already swarmin’ around the wreckage by the time I got there, so I couldn’ get close… Black turned up a few minutes after I did an’ he was able to check the wreckage… James and Lily’s, and You-Know-Who’s bodies were still in the ruins, but Harry was gone. The muggles must have moved him somewhere.”
Professor Dumbledore’s expression darkened, but once he removed a trinket from another pocket in his robes and consulted it, his expression lightened again. “Well, while I prefer to know where he’s gone… he appears to be in good health, if somewhat distressed.”
“Then we just give up on him?!” hissed Professor McGonagall.
“Not give up, no,” Professor Dumbledore assured her. “However, public morale cannot survive such a quick reversal… everything must be seen to be normal, even if we keep up a covert search.”
Professor McGonagall frowned, but eventually she nodded agreement.
“However, there is no further reason to tarry here. We may as well join the celebrations,” declared Dumbledore, then turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the Deluminator. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their streetlamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street.
After considering the two wrecked vehicles for a moment, he drew his wand and Vanished them. He returned his wand to his cloak and then approached Hagrid, offering the other man his arm. Hagrid accepted it and then with a louder pop than before, they were gone.
Second Law Innovations,
November 2nd, 1740 GMT
Lana was so caught up in her thoughts on the new discoveries touted at the day's presentations that she initially failed to register her own name.
“Lana Lang?” repeated the man.
“That’s me,” replied the redhead, turning out of the crush leaving the auditorium. “Did you want something?”
As she waited for the man to reply, she took in his appearance. He was tall, six foot three or four, about two and thirty pounds, with a pleasant face that reminded Lana of Clark, save for the mop of curly red hair that topped his head.
"T/DC Russell Ripley, Avon and Somerset CID, ma'am," replied the other redhead, offering her his warrant card for inspection. ”Can you come with me?”
You’re a bit off your patch, aren’t you? thought Lana, but nodded agreement returning the small wallet to the detective. “Can you tell me what it’s about?”
“It’s not really for me to say, ma’am,” said Detective Ripley, and ushered her out of the massive glass-and-steel building towards his car. “Everything will be explained back at your hotel.”
Looking back, Lana wasn’t sure what she’d expected to find back in her hotel room… Black Canary hadn’t been entirely unexpected, although her main interactions with the superhero community were with Clark of course, and Wonder Woman and Batman a few times… she had had occasional interactions with the blond… but the motherly looking middle-aged woman with her, or the black-haired toddler that leapt out of the older woman’s arms with a squeal of ‘Mummy!’ and lurched towards her on unstable, shaky legs hadn’t even been in consideration.
“What’s going on?” she asked, puzzled. After all, she had enough experience of the bizarre not to discount the boy’s words entirely.
Detective Ripley helped her and her burden — who had passed out from emotional overload — into a comfortable chair and took up station behind it in case any further assistance was required.
“I think this will help explain,” said Black Canary, handing her a rectangle of glossy paper.
Lana took the paper and glanced at it. It was a photo of a young couple and a baby. The man was about nineteen or twenty, with an untidy mop of black hair, glasses and hazel eyes and the woman could easily have been her double, save for a slightly darker tint to her hair. The baby, she assumed, was the same boy that currently shared a chair with her as the features were very similar.
“His parents were killed in an explosion at the weekend,” Black Canary explained. “His only close relative — an aunt — categorically refuses to take him in, unless we force her too, and we don’t think that’s a good idea even if we can…”
Lana nodded. Forcing people to do things like that rarely ended well.
“And his godfather, the only other guardian of record, was arrested on murder and terrorism charges earlier today.”
“So, even if he’s declared innocent, you’d think twice about placing him there either.”
“That’s right,” agreed the older woman — who wore a nametag that identified her as ‘Phyllis Parker, Social Worker’. “Which means we’re in a bit of a bind… and we’re hoping that you can help.”
“Of course, if I can.”
Black Canary took up the tale again, “Once we found out about his godfather, Zatara cast a spell to find ‘his best guardian’ and your name came up.”
Lana paused for a moment; she wasn’t entirely sure that she’d heard what she thought she had. “You want me to adopt him?”
The social worker nodded. “It’s an unconventional option I’ll admit… and if you say no, we’ll take him away and try and place him somewhere else but…”
“My similarities to his mother will make it easier for him.”
Lana glanced down at the boy. She’d always wanted kids, but so far it hadn’t happened… would this be so bad a way?
The silence stretched into several minutes, and Detective Ripley was starting to fidget behind her when she glanced up again, her resolve clear now. “What do you need me to do?”
N/B: The Shaw Building is a possible nickname for Norman Shaw Buildings, Victoria Embankment in London, originally the second headquarters of the Metropolitan Police (ie the original New Scotland Yard), in LoDK it is now the headquarters of the Strange Happenings Executive, a UK counterpart of my invention to DC’s (American) Department of Extranormal Operations, Marvel's SHIELD, SWORD or WHO organisations or Doctor Who’s UNIT and Torchwood Institute.
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