The Darkest Days

The First Sign

"Kiera," Harry called. "Kiera, wake up!" Fifteen-year-old Kiera Potter rolled over in bed. Her eyes fluttered open lazily, blearily searched the bedroom, and then closed again. "We're going to be late!" Harry yelled impatiently up the stairs. Kiera dismissed him and turned away from the thick, oak door. A muffled sigh drifted in from the hallway outside the room. Harry pushed the door open cautiously, so as not to prematurely rouse his now sleeping daughter. He crept over to her bedside and drew his wand from his bottle-green robes. "Locomotor Mortis," he muttered and watched in delight as Kiera rose into the air. He directed her to the middle of the room and let her drop with a crash.

She sat up. Slightly dazed, but mostly annoyed she yelled, "What on earth was that for?" Snatching her wand up from where it lay on the top of the dresser, she wordlessly hexed her father. Harry felt his tongue shoot to the roof of his mouth and become glued there.

He pointed his wand at his mouth and when at last he felt his tongue return to normal he said "Nice hex, but you've got to stop doing that you know."

"Why?" Kiera asked defiantly. "Because you hate having your tongue glued to the roof of your mouth, or because you'd like to have a meaningless rhetorical discussion about why it's wrong to hex your father."

"Neither," he replied, slipping his own wand back into his robes. "Don't forget, you're starting at Hogwarts today and they've got stricter rules about magic."

"Don't remind me," Kiera grumbled, crossing the room and digging through a drawer. "How come I have to transfer to that freaky school anyway? What on earth was wrong with Bromfield?" She pulled out a brush and ran it through her glossy, black locks.

"I went to Hogwarts," Harry said defensively. "Besides, your mother and I don't want you going to school so far away anymore."

"Dad, come on. Let's be realistic. Bromfield is across the Atlantic ocean in Massachusetts. It's not like I'm going to school in Australia! I mean, all my friends are there. Do you really think I'll fit in with a bunch of creepy castle-dwellers who can't so much as make Veritaserum?"

"There is absolutely nothing creepy about Hogwarts students. Unless you happen to meet up with Malfoy's son," Harry protested, wincing at the sound of his arch enemy's name. "As for the intelligence of the kids, I'll admit that Bromfield is a much more rigorous school, but that doesn't mean there aren't bright kids at Hogwarts too." He tried to make his voice sound kind and warming, but he was getting aggravated. He had thought Hogwarts was challenging enough. The people there certainly weren't "castle-dwelling freaks" or whatever she had called them.

"I really don't want to go," Kiera argued stubbornly.

"And I'm really done talking about this," Harry declared. "Now get dressed," he said firmly. "We're leaving for King's Cross station in an hour." He strode out of the room, closing the door loudly behind him.

"This sucks," she muttered, hurling a curse at the door and nearly setting fire to her autographed poster of Oliver Wood. "Your mother and I don't want you going to school so far away," she mimicked him. "Please, like anyone couldn't tell he's worried about all the killings and crimes this year." She pointed her wand a little to vigorously at her bureau. A drawer shot out and flew into the wall behind her, smashing into a million little pieces. "Damn," she cursed. "I can never get that right. Reparo." The shards of wood snapped back into place and zoomed neatly across the room back into the dresser. She walked over to it and selected a pair of jeans and a pink sweater.

Pulling them on roughly she sat down at her desk and began shuffling her loose pieces of parchment into a pile. "If Grandpa were here he wouldn't make me go," she said bitterly. But her grandfather couldn't be there, even if he had wanted to be. "Of course he wouldn't be here," she told herself. "How could I forget he got killed in the war with that Voldemort guy. How could I forget..." She trailed off, gazing into her mirror. The glass was beginning to swirl, turning a misty silver in color. Melting and churning. It was a Pensieve.

She looked in. Her grandfather's smiling face stared back at her. He winked and laughed, then faded again from view as the mirror returned to its original state. She sighed. For months she had been able to control the Pensieve through her emotions, without a spell or a charm. But now, now something was different. The memories that appeared were lasting for shorter and shorter periods of time. She was becoming weaker, and she knew it. Her magic, which had been so powerful before, was becoming harder to control.

Her father had said to her a million times before, "With all that power comes great responsibility." Clearly a line from Spider Man. It was a though she was receiving static. Other magic interfering with her own. Not just magic, dark magic. She had her suspicions, a Malfoy perhaps, or maybe it was one of the Death Eaters who had managed to stay out of Azkaban again.

Kiera shoved school robes, dress robes, books, parchment, ink, quills, and whatever else she could find into her trunk. Just as she was sitting on the cover, trying desperately to close it, the Pensieve swirled again. Magically sealing the trunk with her wand, she got up and looked again into the silver liquid whirling around in her mirror. On the opposite side was a girl, about her age. The girl's head was bowed, long black hair falling around her face. Kiera was thoroughly taken aback. These were her memories, but she had never seen the girl in her life. Still, she looked so familiar.

Kiera was about to get rid of the Pensieve when the girl's head snapped up and looked at her. The girl's eyes moved over Kiera, then fixed into a hateful glare. The figure's gaze was transfixing, and Kiera found herself staring back into the eyes. She gasped, suddenly aware why the girl looked familiar. It was her.

Her, but not her in a way. The stranger's eyes were the same size and shape, but they were cold and gray, much unlike her own chocolate brown ones. They didn't sparkle with enthusiasm the way hers did, they were unmoving and expressionless. Dead. The girl had an ivory complexion, but not fair ivory like a china doll. The face was ghostly white, almost ill. Her blood red lips were fixed in an unpleasant sneer, pure white teeth gleaming in the silvery light. The girl drew a midnight-blue hood up over her glossy, black ringlets and vanished in a flash of black light. The mirror returned and Kiera was left peering at her own colorful, vibrant reflection. The pale, deathly twin was gone.

Bewildered and slightly frightened, Kiera snatched up her trunk and hurried to her door. Her hand reached for the doorknob, but as she laid her palm on the smooth, hard brass of the knob, the room began to shake. At first it was subtle, barely noticeable, but it quickly grew more violent. A chunk of plaster fell from the ceiling, crashing into the Pensieve, sending a memory dripping to the floor. The quaking continued, but the pool of shining liquid was unmoving. Kiera tried to send it back into the Pensieve in the midst of the confusion, but it refused to go.

Another section of the ceiling caved in, narrowly missing her. She scrambled over to the memory, dodging the bed as it went flying across the room. Peering into the puddle she saw what memory had been spilled, and it chilled her blood. The face, cold and furious, was gazing at her maliciously again. The pool began to stir, ripples moving across the surface, then rebounding and causing yet another ripple. The particles from the middle of the pool had begun to rise. They flowed, as though each had a place in the formation it was taking. The memory had grown to her size, and began to shape itself into an exact replica of her. It turned black and began to cool. Steam and smoke rose from the liquid and when it cleared a frightening sight was beheld.

The girl Kiera had seen in the pensieve stepped out. Instinctively, Kiera drew her wand. The girl laughed and lunged towards her, grabbing her by the arm. Kiera fired a curse in the girl's direction, catching her off guard and sending her reeling. She slammed into a wall, blasting a gaping hole in the blue-painted plaster.

"Fool," she hissed, her voice low, yet strong and defiant. "Do you really believe you can defeat me with a simple curse?" She drew herself up again and pulled a long, ivory wand from her midnight blue cloak.

"Who are you?" Kiera demanded, pushing stray locks of hair away from her face. "And what do you want with me?!" She heard voices and thundering footsteps from the hall outside. Her parents were racing up the stairs, but the shaking of the house was making it difficult.

"My name is Morgania," she growled, advancing menacingly towards Kiera. "I'm finishing my father's noble work. His name is the Dark Lord, maybe you've heard of him."

"Yeah, I have," Kiera spat back. "You call his work noble? Well, like father, like daughter, I guess."

"How dare you!" Morgania shrieked in a rage. "My father was nothing compared to me. His powers and will were nothing compared to my own."

She fired a curse at Kiera, who dove out of the way just in time. "Yet you can't even hit me with a spell?" she taunted.

"I'm biding my time. Heard of those mysterious murders, the crimes, all referred to as 'paranormal' phenomena? All me. I'm taking over this world once and for all, and I have to start by getting rid of you!" She shot of another flash of green light, reducing Kiera's bedspread to flames. Kiera rebounded with a powerful curse of her own. As the nearly identical teenagers bitterly fought, Harry was trying to force his way through the door.

"Damn thing is jammed!" He cursed again, whipping out his wand. "Bombarda!" The door shot open, revealing the bedroom in ruins while the powerful witches stood in the middle, fighting and shooting insults back and forth as often as spells.

Morgania looked at Harry, deftly dodged a stunner, then gasped. Her cold gray eyes connected with his vibrant green ones. She then searched along his hairline to what had made him infamously recognizable. Harry, too, gasped, amazed at the similarity between his daughter and the violent stranger. A black cloud began to grow at Morgania's feet. "Harry Potter," she spat, a distinct tone of loathing in her raspy voice. As quickly as she had come, Morgania vanished into a pyre of fire and ash.

"Who was that?" Harry asked stunned.

"Morgania," Kiera replied breathless, rubbing a cut above one eye. "That was Morgania."