A/N: This is a seventh year story that I wrote after Half Blood Prince but before Deathly Hallows (in fact I finished it in a rush of writing the day before DH came out). Therefore, you should disregard Deathly Hallows entirely and consider this an AU seventh year story. Other than changing Mr. Lovegood's first name to match JKR, I have made no changes to the story as a result of the release of DH. In early 2017, I went through the story and made a few corrections and minor changes that I had been thinking about for a few years. This is now the "final version" of The Bottom of the Lake. I have changed a few scenes here and there, improving them I hope, but the basic story has not been significantly altered. Any errors that have survived (which hopefully are few) are going to stay. I hope you enjoy the story, and even though I finished it many years ago, you are welcome to leave a review if you have any questions or comments. Happy reading. G.

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The Bottom Of The Lake

Chapter 1

Mine Not to Reason Why

"He's Dumbledore's man?"

Minister of Magic Rufus Scrimgeour nodded his head to the question posed by Jeremiah Harrison, his long-time friend and informal advisor. The two men swished fine muggle whiskey in their glasses, and each took a sip.

"He will not cooperate; that much is clear," concluded Scrimgeour, "We need to proceed based on that assumption." The Minister's lined face evinced the disappointment over the recent course of events, and his lion-like hair displayed increased flecks of grey. The problems which already confronted him only intensified following the unexpected and unwelcome death of Albus Dumbledore a couple of weeks earlier.

Certainly Dumbledore could not be counted among Scrimgeour's friends or supporters, and the Minister did not personally suffer the old man's untimely demise. Nevertheless, noone would deny the power and authority of Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. His mere existence provided a check on the activities of the dark lord, Voldemort. With Dumbledore out of the way, Voldemort figured to increase his efforts to exert authority over the magical community in Britain, and in the process, attempt to kill Scrimgeour.

Jeremiah Harrison set his glass on the beautifully polished low table in the Minister of Magic's office, and ran his fingers through his thin brown hair, neatly trimmed and much shorter than the typical wizard's. A half blood who made a fortune in the import-export business, Harrison bankrolled Scrimgeour's rise in the political world. The Minister rarely took any important action before consulting with his patron and old friend.

"Potter is more popular than ever, Rufus. Whatever you do, you must act delicately. One wrong step and your career will be over."

"I am fully aware of that, Jeremiah, but he is too much of a wild card. He seems to believe this 'Chosen One' rubbish planted in his head by Dumbledore. We cannot base our strategy against You Know Who on a boy with no special talent. Yet the public believes that somehow Potter is their savior. Potter may believe it himself." Scrimgeour sipped his whiskey again and set his glass on the mahogany table, leaning back in his deep brown armchair. "We must take steps to neutralize the boy before he causes irreparable damage. Had he chosen to cooperate, we could have used him to our advantage. Unfortunately . . . ."

Harrison eyed his drinking companion warily.

"You are not intending to . . . ."

"No, no. I don't want the boy dead, just out of our way for a while. I have nothing against him personally, but we need to remove him from the scene. I have instructed a top auror to bring him in, in due time. Discreetly." Harrison nodded his head, but his eyes betrayed his worry.

"Just be careful, Rufus. This could backfire on you."

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'FINE! I SHOULD HAVE LEFT BEFORE ANYWAY!"

Harry Potter stormed up the stairs of 4 Privet Drive while from below his red-faced uncle, Vernon Dursley, yelled just as loudly.

"RIGHT YOU ARE! WE SHOULD HAVE KICKED YOU OUT OF HERE YEARS AGO. I DON'T CARE WHAT YOUR PEOPLE SAY ANY MORE. I WANT YOU OUT OF THIS HOUSE!"

Harry chose not to respond, bursting into his bedroom and closing the door abruptly behind him. He leaned back against the door and breathed deeply, trying to calm himself, his messy black hair as agitated as his temper. This time he meant it, every word of it. Blood protection or not, he intended to leave this prison this day, never to return.

Two and a half weeks had passed since the funeral of Albus Dumbledore, Harry's mentor. His portly uncle tore into Harry from the moment he returned to the house. After attempting to deflect or ignore Vernon Dursley's attacks, Harry began to respond in kind, which merely caused the confrontations to intensify. To avoid his uncle, Harry left the house for hours each day to roam the streets of his home town, Little Whinging.

For the past week, however, his hours away from the house increasingly disturbed him. At first he tried to brush off the strange feelings, but eventually he began to trust his instincts. Someone was following him, and not his minder from the Order of the Phoenix, Dumbledore's secret society working independently of the Ministry. Harry felt eyes on him for several days, and when he looked in that direction, more than once he saw the tiniest puff of dust along the ground. Someone had to be hiding under an invisibility cloak. Perhaps he imagined it, but Harry did not think so.

Who would be tracking him in this manner? Certainly not Voldemort. Not his style at all, and in any event the blood protection resulting from the sacrifice of Harry's mother should prevent it. The Order always kept a distant watch on him, Harry knew, but this person approached much closer, sometimes within a few yards. It had to be the Ministry of Magic, he realized, keeping an eye on him. He would put an end to that, while at the same time ridding himself once and for all of his odious aunt and uncle. Two birds with one stone.

Grabbing his rucksack, Harry stuffed as many clothes into it as he could. He would leave his trunk in the house for now, maybe sending someone to fetch it some time in the future. He had few clothes anyway, and most of them fit in the bag which with foresight he enlarged magically before he left Hogwarts two weeks before. Finally, he removed the loose floorboards in his room, under which he hid his money. In his last trip to Gringott's Bank, he converted wizarding galleons into British Pounds, just in case he might have need of them. He hoped the two thousand Pounds would last him awhile, though he truly had little idea how much things cost in the muggle world.

Finally, he placed two sacks of wizarding money into the rucksack and zipped it shut. Harry had previously mulled over his options, and leaving unannounced struck him as the most appealing. This time he had been pushed too far, both by his relatives and the Ministry. He discovered that his owl, Hedwig, had been intercepted more than once, as Hedwig acted extremely oddly when she arrived, and the letters Harry received from his friends seemed to have been unfolded and refolded.

Maybe I'm being paranoid, he thought to himself more than once, but when he added it all up, he convinced himself otherwise. His uncle's ranting may have moved up his departure a day or two, but abandoning 4 Privet Drive could not be considered a spur-of-the-moment decision, and Harry already had an escape plan in mind. He needed to be sure not to be followed.

Throwing his pack on his back, he lastly grabbed his father's old invisibility cloak and made sure he had his wand. Not bothering to reminisce one last time at his bedroom, he purposefully strode out the door and down the stairs, hoping that he would not bump into his uncle.

Fate granted him this wish, but he neglected to think about his Aunt Petunia, his mother's sister. Agitated and upset, Petunia waited for Harry by the front door, intent on intercepting him before the boy could leave.

"You don't have to leave, Harry," the tall middle-aged woman explained nervously, "Your birthday is only a couple of weeks away. You can stay until then. That's always been the plan."

Harry eyed his aunt suspiciously, knowing that she wanted to be rid of him almost as much as her husband. She had not treated Harry badly this summer, mostly avoiding her nephew. Harry noted an unusually subdued demeanor from his aunt, compared to his past memories of her. Whatever had changed her, Harry did not know, nor did he care.

"I've had enough," Harry replied as calmly as he could, "I see no reason to stay another two weeks. What does it matter? We'll all be happier if I leave now."

Petunia pursed her lips, causing her long face to elongate further, hoping that Harry would simply turn around and climb the stairs to his room, but no such luck. She sighed and continued to shift nervously from foot to foot.

"That old man, Dumbledore," she blurted out suddenly, "he said that you need to stay until your seventeenth birthday.

"Yes, well, Professor Dumbledore is dead, so that doesn't matter anymore." Harry stepped towards the front door.

"But it does matter," Petunia interrupted, "It does matter." She moved in front of the door, blocking Harry's path. Harry again stared at her suspiciously.

"You're hiding something from me, aren't you?" he accused her, "Everybody else does it, so why shouldn't you. What aren't you telling me?"

Petunia hesitated before answering, "I've just told you. Dumbledore insisted that you stay here until your birthday. He seemed to think it very important."

Harry stared at her and mulled over his own response, "If it was that important, he could have told me himself. Dumbledore is dead, so I have to make my own decisions now." The two stared at each other for a few seconds before Harry added, "I'm leaving." He tried to move past his aunt to open the door.

"No. I have to give you something, but not now. On your birthday. It has to be on your birthday. Dumbledore made me promise, not before your seventeenth birthday."

What would Dumbledore want to give him? And why on his birthday? None of it made any sense, and Harry did not intend to worry about it. He had more serious matters to attend to.

"Look, Aunt Petunia, I'm leaving. Whatever it is, give it to me now. I won't open it until my birthday.

"I can't do that, Harry. Dumbledore's instructions specifically stated that I must give it to you on your birthday. He made me promise. For some reason he thought it was important. It's only two more weeks. Just stay until then, and I'll take care of Vernon." She sighed softly, displeased at having to suffer through this conversation. Harry frowned at the unexpected complication to his plans.

"No! I'm leaving, but I'll come back on my birthday to get it. I'll try to call you to let you know when I'll be here. It should only take a minute," Harry instructed her, "Also, I've left some things in my trunk upstairs. Sooner or later someone will come by for it. I'm not sure when."

Petunia Dursley nodded her understanding and stepped aside. Harry glanced at her one last time, and reached forward to turn the doorknob. He could not think of any appropriate parting words.

"I'll see you, then," he muttered as he stepped outside, closing the door behind him.

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Half an hour before Harry left 4 Privet Drive, Evan Harrington apparated back to the Ministry to complete his daily report and call it a day. For the past week, he had followed Harry Potter on his daily meanderings, trying to learn as much as he could about the boy. Sooner or later he would have to bring him in, but as of this moment, he had not received the order. Apparently his superiors believed that nothing needed to be done until shortly before Potter's birthday on July 31st, and they did not wish to act before absolutely necessary.

A complete waste of time, in Evan's opinion. Potter did nothing special or unusual, and bringing him in should pose no difficulty. He could not help but wonder why the Ministry chose him to undertake such a simple mission. Surely a younger, less experienced auror could have been designated for this assignment. Something about the whole situation smelled.

Evan found this job simple but unpleasant. He knew Lily Potter, back when she was still Lily Evans. He considered her a friend, though perhaps that overstated their relationship at Hogwarts. They did not belong to the same house or year, did not take any classes together, and never socialized. Nevertheless, Lily helped him several times in the potions dungeon, when she happened to be working there at the same time as he. Evan needed to improve his potion-making if he wanted to qualify for auror training, and Lily had a special ability in that field. The seventh-year girl treated him nicely, and he liked her.

From time to time he would run into her in the hallways, and they always greeted each other, even stopping to chat occasionally. He met James Potter during these brief encounters, and the Gryffindor hero treated him well enough. The Slytherins hated Potter, but Evan's fellow Ravenclaws thought him a harmless clown. And a terrific Quidditch chaser.

Back then, Evan stood a mere five feet six inches, thin as a rail. Now in his mid thirties, he had grown to five feet eleven, and through the combination of maturity and exercise, his body had filled out. He kept a young face with a full head of sandy hair, and he could easily pass for a man in his late twenties.

When he learned that Lord Voldemort killed Lily and James on that Halloween night so many years ago, Evan felt an emptiness in his stomach. In his second year of auror training at the time, the news shocked everyone. Yet in truth, their murders made Evan's life much easier. Instead of entering the auror forces in the depths of the war with Voldemort's followers, by the time he graduated, the magical world had entered a period of calm. Now as he tracked Lily and James' son around muggle Little Whinging, Evan could not help but ponder the fact that he may very well be dead today if Lily and James had not been murdered. And if this boy had not inadvertantly eliminated Voldemort, even if only temporarily.

By now, more than fifteen years later, Evan Harrington had firmly established his reputation as a top auror, with many commendations and awards. Normally mild mannered with an occasionally explosive temper, he maintained the ability to think clearly in the most stressful situations. He had killed more than one man, and incapacitated many others. His assignments always included a certain amount of danger, until this one. His superiors assured him of the importance of this mission, even though they would not provide any further explanation. He could not help but feel that perhaps he had fallen out of favor, perhaps being punished for some reason.

"Mine not to reason why," he whispered to himself, scratching the final words to his report with his quill. Little did he know that at that moment the subject of his assignment walked invisibly down Privet Drive, leaving his home behind.

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Peter Pettigrew quietly placed the thick black cloak over the shoulders of Lord Voldemort, tying the cords into a knot. Thankfully, Pettigrew's master did not awake in a talkative mood, instead brooding over the events of the past weeks. Other mornings, Voldemort enjoyed verbally abusing Peter, who nevertheless served the dark lord as his de facto manservant.

Though Voldemort had managed to return to his body and could cast spells and perform magic with tremendous skill and power, he lacked the ability to perform simple acts of daily life. His fingers could not tie a knot and the simple task of dressing and undressing required the assistance of a death eater. For reasons not understood by Voldemort's more capable followers, their master insisted that Peter Pettigrew perform these services.

"Do you require anything further, Master?" Pettigrew asked servilely while straightening the cloak. Voldemort always felt cold, even in the warm weather of this July morning.

"I must speak with Snape," his master replied softly, "Bring him to the sitting room."

Pettigrew, short and increasingly plump, shuffled out of the enormous bed chamber of Sarazen Place, a mansion located in eastern Wales, just a few miles from the border with England. Decades earlier, Voldemort used this residence as a base for a few months, but he never liked to stay in one place much longer than that. Nevertheless, he regarded the ancient stone structure fondly, such that he placed a number of spells and wards over the house and its extensive grounds. Muggles could not see the buildings or enter the property surrounding them, and few wizards knew of Sarazen Place's existence.

Given the events of the past weeks, and the volatile reaction of the public, Voldemort thought it wise to return to the mansion for a few weeks to determine his next course of action. While everyone believed that the death of his long-time nemesis, Albus Dumbledore, would be cause for great celebration by Voldemort and his followers, in fact, the dark lord considered it to be a compete disaster. All of his plans ruined.

His plans depended on access to Hogwarts Castle, which had finally been achieved through the efforts of Draco Malfoy. Voldemort had no intention to kill Dumbledore yet. The ancient wizard clearly possessed great power and skill, but Voldemort believed that Dumbledore acted too predictably. Moreover, his spy, Severus Snape, provided invaluable information regarding the actions of Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix. With Dumbledore's death, at Snape's hand, Voldemort lost that valuable resource.

Moreover, Voldemort now found himself facing an enraged public. The Daily Prophet published dozens of irate letters urging the Ministry to take forceful action, and many letters advocated fighting fire with fire. His forces still small in number, Voldemort knew that he could not yet bring down the government, so he decided on a strategic retreat to allow the smoke to blow over. He noted with some satisfaction that the Prophet published all of the letters to the editor anonymously.

Power combined with fear. Nothing could stop that combination, and though recent events temporarily derailed his plans, in the end he could not be defeated.

"My Lord wished to speak with me?" Severus Snape asked emotionlessly as he slowly strode into the sitting room. The expansive area received abundant morning light, and Snape could not help but again muse over the strangeness in seeing the dark lord in such a setting. The bright atmosphere did nothing to cheer the disposition of his master, however, who though past the ranting and raving stage, still fumed at the destruction of his plans.

"Hsssssssss," Voldemort apparently responded in Parseltongue, but in reality he spoke to Nagini, his serpent companion. The huge snake had curled up next to a window to soak in the sunlight. In response to the hissing, Nagini hissed in return. Neither Snape nor Voldemort reacted to the hissing, and Voldemort saw no need to explain the brief conversation with his follower.

"Soon we will be leaving this location, Severus, though I admit that I have enjoyed its luxuries. The shock of Dumbledore's death is beginning to wane, and we will be able to move more freely."

Snape nodded his head an inch but knew not to respond. He, like all death eaters, did not converse with the dark lord. Voldemort spoke, Snape listened, and when asked a question, he replied. Snape's master had never regained any semblance of physical well-being since his rebirth in the graveyard in Little Hangleton. He shuffled about with a limp, ate little, and as a result appeared almost emaciated. His followers rarely saw the few wisps of grey hair on his head, as the hood of his cloak normally covered it. In the bright light, Snape could barely see the red between the slits of the master's eyes, which at night slightly glowed.

"I have considered our options carefully, and soon I shall reveal my plans. However, I have a question for you, Severus, which I need you to answer to the best of your ability. If you do not know, you must admit it. I require accurate information. Do you understand me?"

"Of course, My Lord," Snape responded in a low monotone. Despite the warmth of the morning sun, a huge fire sparked in the fireplace in the never-ending attempt to combat Voldemort's poor circulation.

"What will Potter do? Will he return to Hogwarts? Or will he seek me out?"

Snape raised an eyebrow at the unexpected inquiry. Certainly he knew Potter, but he would not consider himself an expert on the boy's inner thoughts.

"I can provide my opinions, My Lord, but I cannot guarantee their validity. Perhaps the Malfoy boy could be of more assistance. Though Potter and he hate each other, they seem to understand one another better than they care to admit."

"Yessss," Voldemort interjected in his slightly reptilian voice, "That may be wise. Nevertheless, I would like to know your opinion too, Severus. You have had considerable contact with Potter."

Snape's long black hair hung loosely over his ears and over the back of his robe, which he had opened as much as he could due to the stifling warmth of the sitting room. As usual, he dressed completely in black, right down to his shoes and socks. He paused several seconds, his normal habit, to compose a careful response.

"Potter is arrogant, and Dumbledore merely fed the boy's natural tendencies. He believes that he must kill you, and I believe that Dumbledore is responsible for this. As you know, Dumbledore did not inform me of the contents of his many meetings with Potter. As far as I know, only the two of them know the purpose of those sessions." Snape paused to breathe and again chose his next words carefully. "I do not believe he will return to Hogwarts, though I may be mistaken. If he does return, he likely will leave the castle before the end of the term. He acts rashly and without discipline, and he lacks basic skills. He is magically powerful, of that there can be no doubt, but his technique and creativity are minimal. Of course, he also contains a full measure of the typical Gryffindor tendency to act before he thinks." Snape's comments dripped with disdain both for the boy and Gryffindor house.

Voldemort remained seated in a large leather chair placed close to the fire. None of the other few dozen death eaters in the mansion dared sit in that seat, even when Voldemort left the room. He considered Snape's words, but did not comment immediately. Of course, Snape lacked knowledge of one extremely important fact: the horcruxes. Voldemort never disclosed the division of his soul into various objects, not to Snape or anyone else. However, after having time to rethink all that had occurred since his rebirth two years earlier, he came to an inescapable conclusion.

Dumbledore knew about the horcruxes. The old man did not kill him at their duel at the Ministry, even though he had the perfect opportunity. Even Dumbledore would have killed if it would have ended Voldemort's reign. He killed before, as everyone knew, in his battles with Grindelwald's followers, so killing was not beneath the man when necessary. Voldemort recalled that moment intensely. Dumbledore stared at him and quite intentionally pulled back his wand, allowing Voldemort to escape. There could be only one reason.

He knew. And he must have told Potter. That changed everything.

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Harry Potter closed the front door behind him and took a step forward, still hidden from the street. He looked left and right and saw nobody, so he quickly flung the invisibility cloak over him, disappearing from view. Quickly he walked down the sidewalk, intending to walk the mile or so to the train station. He planned to use muggle means of travel for the time being in order to avoid being tracked. Once well away from Little Whinging, he may be able to apparate, now that he knew that the Ministry could not easily track him. He apparated with Dumbledore just a few weeks before, apparently unnoticed by the government. Nevertheless, he would avoid magic to the extent possible.

Gradually the consequences of his action began to set in. He had no place to stay. Nobody (hopefully) knew where he was. He had become invisible to the wizarding world, and he intended to keep it that way.

Once he turned a few corners and walked half way to the station, Harry ducked into an alley and again checked all around him. Carefully he pulled Hedwig out of his pocket, and attached a brief letter to her leg. Harry wrote the letter days before, waiting for this moment.

Gently stroking the snow-white owl's feathers, Harry quietly instructed it, "Take this to Hermione. Stay with her until I get there. Don't take any mail anywhere, just stay with her." The owl did not react to Harry's words, but Harry knew Hedwig well enough by now to know that it understood. "Go on now," he breathed softly, lifting the owl into the air. Sadly, he watched her fly away for a minute before he again wrapped the invisibility cloak around himself. Now he felt truly alone.