Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, J.K. Rowlings does...

(A.N.) This is pre-HBP. I've had the idea for a while, plus the whole thing doesn't work out if I include the sixth book...

Blood Price


I live in a cage.

Oh, it's a pretty cage to be sure, but a cage nonetheless. I'm imprisoned by the fears of others, and ignorance. I've been tethered by the lack of knowledge of my own life, my family, and my past. Who am I? Who did I get these eyes from? Or the color of my hair?

And what about my powers?

I understand that I am a witch, and that I can wave a wand and make extraordinary things happen. I've seen animals turned into furniture, people turn into animals, death in a bottle, and divination. But who were my parents?

There was a time when I thought I was Muggle-born, but I was assured that my parents were both magical, and so had their families. But no one will tell me who I am or why they won't tell me.

I don't know anything.

I want to know if I look like my real mother, or if my gift for potions comes from a grandfather. I just... I just don't want to be caged.

All I can conclude is that something happened, and that it had to do with the lunatic, Voldemort. Why else would everyone be afraid to say anything? If there is another explanation, then I haven't found it.

I suppose that I shouldn't care. I have a wonderful life: my "parents" are kind magical folk; I get good grades at the academy...

Unfortunately, the school year just ended, my fifth year. Now, I can spend another summer without distraction. My thoughts will revolve yet again around the mystery that is me without interruption.

Merlin, give me a history test any day.

Stepping off the train, I look around expectantly, silently cringing at the thought of Helen hugging the life out of me. Little Helen, a seven-year-old witch, had the strongest grip of anyone I had ever met. She had been born about a year before the Shoreglades adopted me.

No Helen seized me.

Frowning, I looked around. Odd, they were nowhere in sight.

"Are you Samara Shoreglade?" one of the platform conductors asked.

"Yes, that's me."

The man held out a small slip of folded parchment. "Your family sent this for you."

Taking the note, I thanked the man and tossed him two Knuts. I unfolded the paper, smoothing out the creases.

'Helen is sick, dear. We needed to stay with her. Please just use a Portkey or Floo to get yourself home.


Oh, okay then. I pulled a keychain out of my messenger bag, and pulled off a small house charm. Drawing my wand, I tapped the house with the tip, keeping an awkward hold on my luggage.

The familiar sensation of a hook hauling me into the charm, and a few milliseconds later, I found myself standing in the living room of my house. But something was different... The walls weren't such a dark shade when I left after Easter...

Then I saw them. All of them, lying on the floor. Staggering backwards, I heard the carpet make a horrible squishing noise. It was soaked through. It was soaked through with the same paint that covered the walls. No, no...Not paint... My mind rebelled against what I was seeing, trying to spare me the horror. It failed.

It was blood

Slowly; I stumbled towards them, falling to my knees next to the smallest body. Helen, little, sweet Helen... She was so battered, so bloody. Her stomach was torn wide open. I touched her forehead.


She was ice cold, but the blood was fresh.

Tears leaked out of my eyes, a scream stuck in my throat.

A note was pinned to Helen's paisley dress. Numbly, I opened it and read: 'You can thank your blood family, Samara. If another mistake is made, you're next.'

It was signed with the Dark Mark.

I was no longer caged. Except I never wanted anyone to pay for it. Especially not them...never them.

I was free, but at a price.

A blood price.

(A.N.) Just in case you all missed the warning in the summery, this will be an incredibely dark fic, so be prepared for that. Also, the updates here will be very irregular. If you want more of the story, then you must review. I will not update this story if no one is giving input. That would be a waste of time. ... Okay, now I'm just being a tad grouchy. Sorry 'bout that, guys. This is just one of my pet peeves. Sorry! One more thing, flames are accepted, as long as your civil. Thanks!