Disclaimer: Plot mine. Characters and wizard theme not mine


Notorious Murderer, Sirius Black, Set Free.

By: Rita Skeeter

Sirius Black was set free from Azkaban on this rainy day of May seventh. New evidence was found that Black was not the one who blew up a muggle street, killing nearly fifty muggles and one Peter Petasmith. It was in fact Petasmith himself who destroyed the street, to fake his own death and frame Sirius Black for the crimes committed. Then escaped by way of the sewers, in his illegal animagus form of a rat.

Mr. Petagrew now has had the Dementors' Kiss preformed and will spend the rest of his life in Azkaban.

The hero's of this story are Fred and Georgie Wheasly (8 year old twins). Who found that their brother's pet rat was not what it seemed to be. How this miraculous discovery was made has not been released to the public.

The ministry has given Mr. Black their sincerest apologies. In compensation for the misunderstanding of the six years Mr. Black had to spend in the wizard jail, the ministry has given Black twenty hundred galleons for the inconvenience.

Continued on P. A4


The Boy Who Lived Gone Missing

By: Shaska Lubert

On May sixteenth Sirius Black (Harry Potter's godfather) and Headmaster Dumbledore (of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry) went to Harry's muggle residence to visit one Harry Potter to find him not on the premises. The ministry has put their best men on the case and we hope to see our savior soon. There is no other information of how or why this has happened, it's all being held from the public until further notice. All we know is our savior is missing and our world of wizards is doomed.


"BOY, get in here . . . NOW!" Vernon yelled.

Tears filled young Boy's eyes, knowing what was about to occur. Dread knotted the seven year-olds' stomach. He entered the kitchen slowly.

Out of nowhere a fat hand grabbed the boy's thin neck, squeezing till Boy's face turned a pale purple. The fist loosened its hold to allow air, but held the boy so he couldn't move.

"The dishes are not done, Boy." He's uncle said, his face turning purple as if he was the one being choked. Boy knew better than to say anything, he was only allowed to answer if commanded or asked a question. The previous sentence was neither. As long as he didn't say a word he wouldn't be harmed.

SLAP! Unless his uncle was mad, then all bets were off. A large red hand mark appeared on Boy's thin cheek and tears he promised he wouldn't show came streaming down his burning face.

"Why are they not done?" Now the boy was being shaken violently by the hand wrapped around his neck. He couldn't breathe as spots invaded his vision. Before he blacked out he felt a release on his neck. He felt like he was flying, until he hit the wall with a sickening crunch. He felt his chest clench and his ankle snap, and then blacked out before he hit the floor.


Boy awoke to a pounding on the door, "Wake up you lazy Ass." It was Dudley. Young Boy made a move to sit up and immediately regretted it as pain coursed through mussels', bones and veins. Laying back down he assumed he had a broken or at least bruised rib. Along with an obviously broken ankle, his foot was bent in a disturbing direction. He didn't have the courage to correct it position, even it he could sit up.

A blinding light filled the small cupboard, giving Boy's already throbbing head something to really complain about. "Come on Ass Hole," Dudley sneered. Even though Dudley was Boy's age he was twice the size of Boy, it was never a surprise when Dudley picked Boy up and tossed him around. This time was no exception.

The pain . . . too painful to describe. He felt like he was being torn in two as his cousin picked him up out of the cupboard and tossed him into the hall like he was a sack of potatoes.

His pig of a cousin then proceeded to kick him in the ribs and stomach. He was going to have one hell of a bruise tomorrow.

All of the sudden there was no longer any pain. It was like he wasn't there; he was watching it from a distance. He watched as Dudley continued to kick the kid that looked just like him. Dudley kicked the look-a-like kid in the face, that's when blood went everywhere. The Boy that wasn't in pain put his fingers under his nose and felt wetness, he found that his nose too was bleeding.

He was watching his cousin again, and noticed the next kick was aimed at the groin. The foot made contact and all pain was brought back with that blow. Something sucking him down and down. His body was twisting and turning. What felt like needles were pushing out through his skin and his butt was on fire.

The pain receded into a dull ache and once again he was left unconscious.


Boy Woke with a start, still shaking from the nightmare. For Boy this was routine; go to sleep, have a nightmare about his past, wet himself, drink water, try to sleep again.

All of his nightmares were once a reality. This nightmare, where he was thrown against the wall and then Dudley kicking him, was the last time he saw his family (if you could call them that.) A problem arises and they did the cruelest thing they could have. The Durselys' put young Boy in a dog pound.

That's right, a dog pound. Boy's a puppy.

He had somehow become a dog. His uncle said it was because he was a freak and different in a bad way. No one would ever like him. When Boy was scared, confused and hurt the most, his uncle left him in a dog pound. Vernon didn't even check him in, just dropped him inside the front door. That was one of the longest drops of his life; everything was in slow notion. Boy yelped as he hit the floor with his broken rib and ankle, and his little puppy head smacking against the concrete floor. Vernon just walked right back out the door.

Puppy Boy shook his head, trying to get rid of the images flashing around his mind. He sat up, loving the dim light in his kennel. Boy doesn't like light; it's just too bright. Boy's dog sense told him to lick himself; he bent down to do so. The first few days Boy was a puppy he resisted the urge to clean himself, but after a few days he got very itchy and sore. Licking isn't as bad as it seems, and it has to be done if you wet yourself during your nightmares. Six days of waking up in yellow puddles until he discovered the drain. Now he just sleeps on the drain, it's slightly uncomfortable, but not as uncomfortable as waking up wet though.

All Boy knew about what he looked like was that his fur was a golden brown and according to the people who wrapped his ankle and chest, he was about one year old, but small for his age.

Boy got up from where he was sitting and limped over to his water dish. He sat down while drinking his water that tastes of metal. Noises of children and adults is what was heard on a daily bases, not to mention the dogs and puppies barking for attention.

Many people came to Boy's cage daily, but he didn't like it. As children would wrap their sticky fingers around the mesh, Boy would cower away from them, whining his puppy whine. Boy found that if he hid away in a dark corner the children wouldn't even spare him a passing glance and he liked that.

The brown pup took one last lap of water and then sat back on his butt, stretching his hind legs out spread eagle. He felt a twinge of pain from his left ankle; it wasn't broken like he thought. Just fractured, and his ribs were just bruised.

'I wish I still had the bandages on. They helped with the pain,' Boy was thinking as a shadow washed over him. He looked up to see a tall man with brown hair and golden eyes looking at him with a confused expression on his face. Bolt scooted himself to the rear of his kennel, on his bum, as fast as his little puppy legs would push him. The stranger kept staring at him, so Harry began to whine.

One of the workers in a kaki vest came and stood beside the man. "You don't want that one," she said like the blond-bimbo she was, "all he does is sleep and whine all day long. Even wets himself in his sleep."

"What's wrong with him?" The tall man asked.

"Last owner abused him. He has bruised ribs and a fractured ankle," she read off the clipboard with his information on it, "weak bladder, afraid of people. No diseases, not nurtured however. We gave him his shots when he came in.

"What's his name?" The man asked.

"His last owner didn't leave a name, so we named him Bolt," she said airily, "because the dark brown stripe down his back kind of looks like a lightning bolt. Don't ya' think?"

"Yeah it does," tall man said sadly.

'Bolt,' stopped whining when the man asked what Boy's name was. He didn't know that the workers had named him; they don't even talk to him. Boy didn't really know his name. He was pretty sure it was Harry, but the Dursley's insisted on calling him Boy or a name with a curse word in it.

"How long has he been here?"

"Two months . . ." she checks the clipboard, "two months tomorrow in fact. July seventh. He's to be put down later tonight, no one will even look at a depressed and injured puppy."

"I want him," the man said before blond-bimbo was done talking.

"Are you sure you don't want a happy puppy?" She asked him slowly, like he was some sort of mental patient.

"I want him," he snapped back at her.

"Fine, whatever. Here, check him out while I go get the paperwork." She pushed a ring with many keys on it into his hand and then stocked off.

The gold-eyed man opened the door with the keys, took him a few tries to get in. Once in, he closed the door behind him and squatted down facing Bolt. Then the man put his hand out for Bolt to sniff it. The pup was curious; this man was different from the rest. The others always came up to him and put hands all over him. This man made it Bolt's choice if he wanted to be touched or not. This man wanted to get to know him . . . to be his friend?

The man looked trust worthy, even smelt like it too. Bolt slowly stood up, keeping the pressure off his injured limb. He put his nose in the air and could smell the best scent in the world. He wobbled a few steps than limped the rest of the way over to the scent he was so attracted to.

Bolt was in a daze as he walked over; actually it felt more like he was floating over to the stranger with the nice smell. Before he knew it he had arrived in between the man's bent knees and his hand was in front of Bolt's face.

The puppy smelt the hand and then his doggie sense kicked in and urged him to lick the large hand. He followed his intuition and after a few licks the man's hand started scratching behind Bolt's ear.

There is only one way how to describe the feelings Bolt had spreading through his chest . . . PARADICE. He loved the sensations that were coming off of the long fingers that were massaging his scalp. The pup leaned into the touch, like a cat arches into a good scratching. Love was seeping in through his fur as the man started petting his back.

Love. The only reason Bolt knew the word was because of Petunia always saying that she loved Dudley and Uncle Vernon said no one will ever love a freak like Boy.

Love. The only reason Bolt knew how it felt was because of a memory. Or a dream, he didn't exactly know what it was, but the only way he could describe the complete peacefulness of the scene was love.

Two people, a man with messy black hair and a woman with red hair, were talking at a small table. Bolt couldn't for the life of him remember where the man and woman were or what the background looked like. In his mind all he sees is a whitish blue behind them. Even though their lips are moving, no sound could be heard. Like a silent movie, but without the subtitles. The redhead is writing something on yellowed paper with a feather. Every once and a while she'll glance up at the man who smiles at her, then she goes back to writing. The man, however, just sits there and keeps looking at the pretty woman. His fingers fiddle with a half full coffee cup that he never brings to his lips. The man is too preoccupied with his "sight seeing" to figure out what to do with the cup. The woman then puts down her feather and starts talking to the man next to her. You can see his eyes light up as he talks back to her and she blushes.

Bolt just feels endless love in that memory/dream. As the man and woman talk Bolt can see love in their eyes, love for the other they are talking too. All they are doing is talking, just talking. It's the way they look at each other that adds to the scene. Bolt has always wanted to know such a love of his own.

Thoughts of love were chased away when Blond-bimbo came back with a few sheets of paper in hand. The man with the gentle hands and magic fingers patted Bolt's head one last time before the man stood up and left the kennel, the mesh door making a soft "clink" as he shut it behind himself.

To release his sore ankle from the pressure he just realized he had on it, Bolt sat and stretched the leg out. He winced at the dull ache. The puppy watched the man as he finished sighing the papers, and paid for Bolt.

"Do you have a travel kennel for him, sir?" Blond-Bimbo asked in a voice that said she could care less about Bolt's safety.

"Yes I do," He said kindly. "Thank you for all of your troubles." Then Blond-Bimbo unlocked the door and left the room.

"Well," said the man as he entered threw the mesh door. "Looks like you have a new home."


Please Review, don't know if I'm going to write another chapter or not.

If I do, "Bolt" ends up being a present for a certain ex-convict. Dogs can communicate to each other you know!