''Deep''

''Deep''.

An echo. A meaning. The only word the mysterious girl ever says.

Found on a remote beach in Scotland, Deep's memory is lost, leaving her disorientated and alone in the world she now enters. Claimed to be dangerous by the young Minister of Magic, she fights for freedom and is finally sent to Hogwarts after a heated court trial. Here she meets Teddy Lupin, who is innocently expecting a peaceful seventh year and instead solving the mystery of a lifetime.

Estimated Begin Date: June 1st 2016

Prologue ~ The Girl.

Although mist shrouded the inlet and open sea beyond, creating an icy atmosphere and eerie chill, Creature's Cove held a captivating aura to it that early June morning, and any sensible person would see the beauty of it's untouched landscape. Unfortunately, sensible persons are rather rare nowadays, and whilst the bay was not appreciated fully, it was protected by this sad fact. It was a haven in the new muggle world of greed, gluttony and the constant buzz of technology, and Creature's Cove had been shielded from this horrifying new environment because of the overall foolishness of the big-business developers. These mad men and women are the least sensible in the entire world, and they did not see any potential in Creature's Cove, it was usually named 'bleak' by those sorts, and they turned away to make money in the building of hotels, resorts and theme parks elsewhere.

And so it was left to the adoring eyes of the fierce villagers who lived in the village five minutes walk away from the beach, so they could sigh in satisfaction to their hearts content and claim, rightfully, that the village and the inlet were both havens in the raw, harsh world of today. The villagers of Durness were mainly pensioners; retired muggles who wanted peace and quiet and a simple life style for the rest of their days on the planet - and they definitely got that where they were living. 

Peter Drew was one of the more active ones, a greying man in his mid sixties who had been an industrial fisherman in his earlier years, living in Australia and Norway and Japan, and doing the same thing everywhere; working on large fishing trawlers and gathering the riches of the oceans in a more heart-felt manner than some of the other workers. But now, he was 'old', and he had turned to a more peaceful method of fishing. He himself owned a boat that was parked in the smaller inlet to the other side of Durness; an old '70s thing with peeling paint and a motor that sounded similar to that of a tank's as it chugged at a snail's pace through the grey waves. Still, it was just what Peter needed, and it had lasted well from good care and certainly seemed to have a few more years in it. So every morning - except for Sunday, of course - he would make his peaceful pilgrimage down to where his boat was moored, start up the motor with the third time lucky rule, and chug out into the sea to pass Creature's Cove and stop a little further out to hang over the edge of his boat and use a mostly unsuccessful fishing rod to catch fish - when he was lucky. Most of the time his harvest mounted to nothing, but it soothed him, and; 'not everything is about succeeding', he would tell his disappointed daughter as she hoped for an admirable catch.

So now he entered his little boat with both care and concentration (the step looked like it was about to drop off and the water looked considerably cold that day, making an unexpected icy plunge considerably undesirable) and began to complete a range of actions that were not energy-consuming but part of a ritual that took place every morning he used his much-loved sea vehicle. He placed his flask of hot coffee in the satisfactory cup holder beside his driver's seat, removed the sheets that protected the flaking leather of the back bench, wiped the dash board with a battered piece of cloth he had found the the stomach of a large fish, and then finally sat himself down with a loving sigh and insert the keys to get his boat chugging. The third time lucky rule did not apply, for even with gentle precision he methodically turned the key with, it was the sixth time before the engine rumbled into life. Still, it had started, and with a smile and a pat from Peter (as well as the pressure upon the somewhat wobbly pedals), the little boat crawled out of the mooring inlet and into the open sea.

Another sigh came five minutes later, but it was not for the boat. Peter had lain eyes on the captivating Creature's Cove, and he was one of the few sensible people who loved the wild, unkept beauty of the narrow bay. Every feature of the landscape made it a perfect sample of the harsh highland coast. Small, hard pebbles began the sloping surface of the beach , gradually becoming fine grey shingle after a number of stages, producing a harder but just a classical shushing as the waves gently fell upon it (though a ferocious roar was just as possible when a storm was nigh). On that June morning no signs of a starting summer touched the cove; a thick and veiling mist, making the inlet, though visible, look eerily mysterious. The sea was calm but a dark grey-blue in colour, and there was no chance of anyone glimpsing the ocean floor as you did in Spain. Whatever lay underneath the surface remained unseen and unknown.

And with the satisfaction that nothing had differed, Peter drove on, diagonally advancing into the open sea until coming to a slow stop and fetching his fishing line and bait, hanging his legs over the side of his boat, catching nothing but calming completely. Everything about his trip had been wonderfully unchanged, the view no different from his first trip eight years before. The same terrain marked the cliffs that had been in sight for a short while then faded out of sight as he had chugged further out, the same slimy black rocks had been avoided, and the same sea, calm yet mysterious, blue and grey and green with rocking waves and eerie calls. Nothing bothered him, nothing disturbed him, and Peter relished his coffee with the same grace he had used all his life. It was how he liked it; unchanged and beautifully stable. 

He sat for an hour like this, rod hanging lifeless and still, basket claiming no catch but an old crab that he threw to the sea gulls. Their constant cawing was the same, but Peter did not find it annoying, he found it like a song. Humming swelled in his throat, and within a minute he was singing in his deep, untrained tones that rang across the still water and silenced the gulls as they listened:

Away to the west's where I'm longing to be,

Where the beauties of heaven unfold by the sea,

Where the sweet purple heather blooms fragrant and free,

On a hilltop high above the Dark Island.

Oh, isle of my childhood, I'm dreaming of thee,

As the steamer leaves Oban and passes Tiree,

Soon I'll capture the magic that lingers for me,

When I'm back once more upon the Dark Island.

So gentle the sea breeze that ripples the bay,

Where the stream joins the ocean, and young children play;

On the strand of pure silver, I'll welcome each day,

And I'll roam forever more the Dark Island.

Oh, isle of my childhood, I'm dreaming of thee,

As the steamer leaves Oban and passes Tiree,

Soon I'll capture the magic that lingers for me,

When I'm back once more upon the Dark Island.

True gem of the Hebrides, bathed in the light

Of the midsummer dawning that follows the night

How I yearn for the cries of the seagulls in flight.

As they circle high above the Dark Island

Apparently "The Dark Island" was talking about a place called Benbecula, an island in outer hebrides across the sea from Durness. Peter had always wondered, though, if the song had actually been talking about some where else, a mysterious dark island some where in the Atlantic. But as the song had been written for a film in the '60s, he sincerely doubted his imaginative thought. Still, the tune was lilting and very classical and calming, and the lyrics were pleasant and easy to remember, so it had soon become his favourite song.

And once his heartening rendition had sounded it's last, leaving the sea air silent once more, Peter took his lone fishing line away and lifted his legs from the boat side to stand up and slowly make his way back to the cabin, feeling a decade younger as he started the boat once more and turned back for the familiarity of Creature's Cove and Durness.

But it was not to be.

Familiarity you could not use in context with the Creature's Cove he gawped and stopped at on his journey home. In truth, he hardly knew the inlet as he gazed upon it in shock, wild thoughts of whether he'd gone of course flashing through his mind. Was he now in Spain, gazing on the columbian sea that was a deep, clear turquoise? For now the Cove was beautiful in a different way, not wild and untouched, but shining, sparkling beauty that had never been seen there before. Not by Peter's eyes, anyway.

The mist had cleared to reveal a perfectly blue sky that only dawned bright and clear above the bay and surrounding area, shining through the now turquoise water that was so clear you could sea the pale grey sand beneath. The once limp and rotting sea weed on the rocks was nourished and green, gannets plunged from the purple, heather studded cliffs with grace and light, and as Peter stood on deck with his mouth wide open two white seals passed the boat in complete and utter harmony. 

But it was after he had gawped at these things that he noticed the white object shining wet from by the rock pools in the corner, causing his mouth to open wider still.

A body - dead or alive Peter did not know - lay naked and bare on the hard grey shingles of the beach. He recovered after a few seconds, racing back into the driver's box with considerable speed if you considered his years, and started the boat again with an unusual lack of care. Whoever it was had disturbed his peace, for sure, but some things could no be left alone as Peter brooded in anger, and he had to see what it was. 

It was difficult mooring his boat, in the end he found a dinghy and, after mooring his boat on a lonely post that had not been used for some time, used the feeble plastic oars of his unpopular craft and rowed like a demented water bug to reach the shore, leaping from the boat and onto the soft, damp shingle of the beach. With more unusual running he approached the figure - and stopped. It was a woman - a young one, maybe in her late teens, with a naked, white, woman's body that halted Peter in his tracks. It wasn't suitable, it wasn't right. But his curiosity and need to understand got the better of him and he started moving again, this time slower and more hesitant. It seemed, though, his footsteps were to loud, as when he came with a few metres of the girl, she shifted, as if beginning to stir. The fisherman heaved a sigh of relief. It wasn't a dead body, then. Still, perhaps a live one could cause just as much trouble.

Her eyes flickered open; exotic eyes under sharp, dark eyebrows that accented her strange, thin face. The colour, though, made even a cautious Peter pause as they held him captivated for a few seconds. Deep blue, a rich, dark blue, with green and grey flecks in the iris, they were the very image of a calm sea. The girl looked dazed as she sat up, black hair tumbling in wet waves down her face. There was a blue sheen on it, making it look navy in colour, and it shone as she turned her head to look at Peter. Strangely, she was smiling, though it was more in a delirious manner.

Peter shifted uncomfortably. "Er - I -" He coughed and looked at her. "Are-are you alright?"

The girl's smile widened dreamily. 

"Where have you come from? Do you need help?" He tried again.

Nothing. The girl watched him, eyes unfocused as her hand reached behind her...

The fisherman took a step towards her, brow creased. "Who are you?"

It was then he got a reply. The girl, holding out the sharp, sodden stick out before her, looked him in the eyes as he flew backwards with force. Her answer, in haunting tones, echoed round Peter's head as he hit the ground.