Fair warning: this is not a happy story. Don't know why I'm writing it, other than the idea seems fun to me :).

Pairings: Not really interested in pairings, but there may be some minor ones that exist solely for the sake of plot. Nothing explicit, no details, no sexy times. Sorry not sorry. However, I am willing to consider suggestions given by reviewers with sound arguments (and by argument I mean a reasonable statement in objective, constructive language meant to persuade. Please), and if the natural progression of the story allows. We are only human, after all. (And even if it happens, it will not become the focus).

Warnings: Child abuse. Violence (especially in later chapters). Swearing and vulgar/offensive language, depending on the character. Possible character death (I haven't decided yet). No beta, no brit-picking, although I hope you enjoy it despite my Americanisms. As for spoilers, why are you reading HP fanfiction if you haven't finished the series? Go read the books, and then come back.

My writing style has once been described as 'dense.' Do with that what you will. Also, the movement of the story will be slower at the beginning, and as the story gains momentum its speed will increase. Long story short: massive build up while I figure out what the hell I'm doing hahaha. I've discovered it's very difficult to write something when you have only the middle and end planned.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything you recognize. Not a fix it, no intentional bashing; I'm just having fun :)

I'm a sensitive soul, so please don't flame me. There was once a time in my life where cyberbullying (or any kind of bullying, really) directed at me made me laugh, but not any longer; I'm not that person anymore. I don't expect everyone to like this, and if you don't, then no one is making you continue reading. It's so easy just to walk away without making the author feel crappy about their existence :)

On that note, enjoy!

Chapter 1

He woke as though from a nightmare, eyes open and a sharp gasp into awareness. Damp earth crumbled into his lungs, filling his startled breath with pain and the same sour ground that compacted his arms and legs into stillness, soft and wet against unclothed skin, and its weight suffocated him as the silence filtered through every opening of his body, every pore. He struggled against it, but straps of Earth's jacket kept him straight. Blackness fell into his sight, piece by piece. Strain licked at his stagnant muscles, and the more he struggled, the more he burned. Thoughts hardly had a place in this hell, but it soon became very clear, especially once exhaustion began to fog his panic, that he was dying.

Will escaped him in a breath of panic and dirt, and the crushing weight both within and upon his body became dusty clouds, light as sand brushing along his feet at a beach. Black clumps dribbled from his open mouth as he coughed earth and pain from his lungs, and he climbed up, wading through loose grains, clumped together through the adhesive that was light rainfall, uncertain to this aspired direction at all but knowing he must do something.

The tips of his fingers brushed strands like damp plastic, then a cool nothing. Excitement and hope kicked at his stuttering heart. Ground parted like water before his fingers, and light trickled in with the subtlety of a crashing surf, blinding his black prison with a sky of white. He coughed more pain and dirt to make room for air sweeter than lilies. Grass cleansed his face in a tide of prickles, its scent dulled by the sharp soil still at home in his nostrils and mouth, and he spat the mixture—now a gluey mess of saliva, mucus, and sludge—before his hands, wishing he'd the energy to aim this expulsion to the pit that was his near grave.

And he lied there, sprawled and twitching in the deserted meadow, until he could see.

Stag

July was the longest month, according to Harry Potter. It stretched before him in an expanse of dry lawns, boredom, and the usual neglect or apathy from neighbors who believed the worst of him, though this year the Dursleys had been mostly content to leave him alone. That, coupled with the fictional assumption that his 'criminal' godfather was looking out for his well-being, Uncle Vernon had allowed Harry custody of his trunk and wand, the former of which lied open in a fugue state of sprawled and strangled clothing and sweet wrappers, the latter resting in the pencil divot engraved at the top of his second-hand desk, above a half-finished essay entitled "The Properties and Various Uses of the Draught of Living Death," a potion sixth years were instructed to have researched and memorized by the first day of classes. Admittedly, it wasn't a very creative title, but Harry congratulated himself on attempting this horrid monstrosity.

Hatred of Snape thrumming through his fingers, Harry scratched out another inadequate sentence, placed an exponentially bedraggled quill upon the open pages of One Hundred Magical Herbs and Fungi, and stuck gyrating thumbs to his temples to stave an impending headache. With nothing more than a recipe, he was supposed to deduce the potions affects solely by the interaction of its ingredients, without consulting his potions' text. Unless Harry had divine intervention, it was an impossible task. Not for the first time, Harry wished he could foretell the answers as Professor Trewlawney did his death every other class. Or, perhaps, create a one-way portal to Hermione's brain. He had one with Voldemort, so why not his best friend?

Sleep, Harry thought, suddenly disturbed. I need sleep. Harry snapped the text closed, and it breathed a lingering scent of crisp parchment into his face, blowing dark fringe briefly from his eyebrows. The clock he had once repaired ticked slowly on its way to midnight. He sat in a faded circle of dying light, courtesy of the desk lamp, and blinked the seductive claws of Morpheus from his eyes. His bed, made yesterday morning, looked terribly inviting, but he had yet to write his letter to the Order, which would be sent off in the morning before his chores. To "earn his keep," as was one of Uncle Vernon's favorite catchphrases. Others being to "work away" his "freakishness," "because I said so, Boy," and "what did we tell you about asking questions?"

Bitterness pressed his lips thin as he unrolled a fresh half-foot of parchment, spreading it over his still drying Potions essay. At this time of night, he hardly cared if ink stained his letter. Rubbing his eyes from behind his glasses with one hand, Harry cast the other out in search of his quill, and, quite dumbfounded how he could have lost something so quickly, sharpened and inked another before scratching out a nearly scripted reply to the useless correspondence he received from his friends.

As last year, Ron and Hermione's letters have been short, uninformative, and worst of all, sometimes together, which did nothing to curb Harry's temper. It was difficult to reconcile how they had the freedom to do whatever they wanted during the summer, even visit one another's families, while Harry himself suffered at the hands of his magic-hating relatives. Still, he'd none to blame but himself. Less frequently, he'd a response from the Order—in either Tonks' or Lupin's hand—with words meant to placate, but in the scheme of it all, meaning nothing—something Harry had learned to accept. Lately he'd been too exhausted for anger or resentment, and often let it filter into resignation, laying on the hard board of his mattress, doing his best to ignore the spring that enjoyed puncturing his lung through his back or side, languidly watching the stray lines of moonlight weave across the peeling wallpaper of Dudley's second bedroom.

He had just finished the curl of the 'y' in his name when there came a sharp knock on the front door. Bewilderment replaced Harry's usual vigilance, and was thus unprepared for Uncle Vernon's shout of, "Who the bloody hell is calling this time of night?"

Footfalls heavier than Hagrid's followed this exclamation, and Harry quietly eased open his door just as his uncle ambled down the steps, a large shape in relative darkness, lit only by the half-moon peering in through Aunt Petunia's sheer curtained windows. Vision adjusting to a night without his desk lamp, Harry slipped out the doorway in his stocking feet, hesitating only at the sight of Dudley doing the same. Tall, gumpy, and thick in more ways than one, Dudley Dursley was the wet dream of many a fast food franchise, the type of boy to act with as little physical and mental effort as possible. Harry tensed, expecting his cousin to tattle about his nightly venture past curfew—a law from which precious Dinky Diddydums was unsurprisingly exempt—and was astonished Dudley did nothing of the sort. Merely edged closer to the banister, beady eyes usually shiny with greed or malicious excitement opaque with a rare curiosity.

This was a miraculous study in itself, but Harry wasn't one for looking a gift horse in the mouth. Instead, he forced the tension from his shoulders and followed his uncle down the stairs, careful to keep within silence and shadows. The volume of Uncle Vernon's grumbling increased as Harry neared the first floor. Harry paused on the third step to the bottom, crouched low before the banister and gripping his knobby knees, peering past curved rungs to the front door—here, Harry would be safe from a cursory glance. Dudley's heavy presence settled a few steps behind him.

"Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying," Uncle Vernon yapped, tying the drawstring of his navy bathrobe tighter around the fleshy barrel of his stomach.

"I'm not a salesman," a very familiar voice stated mildly, calm in the storm of Uncle Vernon's temper. "And I do apologize for calling this late at night, but I'm afraid it couldn't wait."

Harry's heart skipped a beat. It couldn't be. "Professor Lupin?" Harry called out, standing from the cover of night in his shock; it wasn't everyday his favorite professor—now retired—visited his aunt and uncle's house.

"Harry." Lupin sounded very relieved.

Uncle Vernon, however, was not. At the sound of his voice Harry's uncle had turned, face very red behind the bush of his facial hair. Fists like cured hams curled tightly at his round sides.

"Boy, get to bed!" Uncle Vernon shouted, inciting a jump from even Dudley, whom Harry nearly stumbled over in his hurry to scramble back up the stairs. His uncle then turned, spitting, "Your kind isn't welcome here. I thought I made it very clear the last time your lot dirtied our doorstep. I'm tired of this tosh, you hear? The bloody phone call from Helen Keller. Owls tearing up our window curtains. The floo all over the living room floor. Well I won't stand for it any longer—I won't have it! Now, leave! Get off my bloody doorstep—!"

Lupin's foot stopped the door from slamming in his face, and with a swift drawing of his arm opened the door as though a mammoth of a man were not behind it. "My most sincere apologies, Mr. Dursley, but I must insist," he said. There was a glimpse of a black street and a sky smudged with ink and stars, darkened by the yellowing porch of number four, before the door closed with a snap behind him.

The hallway light pulled strangely at the thin scars dividing's Lupin's face, and Uncle Vernon backed up a few steps before spluttering, "Now, see here—"

Lupin held out a thin hand. "Remus Lupin. I work for the Order."

Uncle Vernon's face achieved a puce color Harry hadn't seen since his cupboard days. "What gives you the right—?"

Lupin glanced up at Harry, who was still halfway to the second floor landing, and back down. He took his hand back without the slightest change in expression. "Vernon, was it? I really do apologize for my unexpected presence in your home, but I only require a few moments of your nephew's time. It's an urgent matter, you understand." A closed lipped smile—a polite and pleasant gesture Harry felt his uncle didn't deserve.

As would a ruffled bird its wings, Uncle Vernon rolled his bulbous shoulders and held himself in a way that suggested he thought he could will a few inches' growth. "The boy's been sending his letters every three days, just like you asked. We've done nothing to him—"

Lupin held up a hand, and Uncle Vernon fell silent as though struck dumb. "This isn't about that. Just a quick word with Harry, and I'm off."

Uncle Vernon stared up at Lupin for a few moments, and Harry could imagine rusted gears in his uncle's head churning slowly to life, blowing steam in odd places as he decided whether he should allow Harry contact with wizards at all. After a moment, Uncle Vernon grunted and waddled to the kitchen. The light flicked on, drowning pristine table and counters with glaring brightness, and the door swung closed. Mere seconds later, the suction of the refrigerator door released. Harry nearly smiled. Uncle Vernon ate quite generously when stressed.

"Come, Harry, if you would," Lupin said, thankfully startling Harry from visions of his uncle stuffing himself stupid. "Let's talk in the sitting room."

Dazed, wondering if this was a dream conjured from the desk he must have fallen asleep upon, Harry followed after a shared glance with his cousin, nearly tripping down the stairs in ill concentration. Lupin wore exhaustion like his patched clothes, and it threatened to settle on Harry's shoulders as he passed the man, who guided Harry with a hand between his shoulder blades until he seemed to think better of it.

The sitting room, as always, seemed to have come directly from a catalog specializing in interior design. Beige leather couches angled precisely toward the brick fireplace, which had been boarded up since the Weasleys attempted to use their floo two years prior. Bland still life paintings of fruit touched upon walls not cluttered with Dursley family photos, most of them featuring a pink beach ball of a boy. Young Harry had never been pictured. Sheer curtains lay loose from their ties, blocking Harry's sight to the world outside the Dursley residence.

In all, it was a rather bland place, uncomfortable in its cleanliness, lacking the warm touch homes usually offered in its almost compulsive order. Nevertheless, Harry offered his former professor a seat nearest the window, and ignored his own discomfort as Harry himself sunk into Uncle Vernon's favorite couch.

Fearing Lupin would ask for tea, Harry burst with the questions he'd held onto all summer: "Is everyone alright? I've gotten the Ministry pamphlets about Inferi, but they were as helpful as expected, which is not at all. Did Voldemort—"

"Harry." Lupin's voice was soft, but there was none of his usual congeniality. Shadows like bruises under his eyes battled his remaining youth. "I need you to be entirely truthful. Did you leave Little Whinging at all this week, for any reason?"

Harry stared. A hush washed over them, broken only by the ticking of the clock above the mantle. "Why would I leave Little Whinging?"

"Just answer the question, Harry."

"I haven't even left the house," Harry said, and it was true. Part of the week he'd been locked in his room for burning breakfast—such was the price for daydreams—and the rest of the week he'd all but disinfected the house for 'prestigious' company. Uncle Vernon's guest list had been surprisingly long this summer.

Skepticism walked reluctantly across Lupin's face. "You weren't at Godric's Hollow this past Tuesday."

Harry blinked. "What's Godric's Hollow?"

Lupin looked a bit depressed at that. "It's where your parents are buried, Harry."

"Oh." Harry savored this new information, allowing it to sweeten his tongue before tucking it away with other hard-won treasures about his parents. He did the same when he learned his father had been a Chaser. When he learned his mother's maiden name. And now, he knew where they were buried.

Immediately squashing the whim to ask Lupin to take him, Harry asked, "You thought I'd gone to visit my parents?"

"I don't know what I thought." Lupin ran a scarred hand through his hair, which had more gray than when Harry had seen him last. Inward thought pulled down on his lips. "Dumbledore received a letter today from Bathilda Bagshot, the historian who wrote—"

"A History of Magic, yeah," Harry finished. Despite having read the book himself, it was impossible to forget after Hermione's constant desire to quote the woman's work, in both her essays and everyday conversation.

Lupin gave him an odd look. "Yes," he said, somewhat slowly, but seemed to recover for his next words: "What you may not have known, Harry, is that Bathilda Bagshot is actually an old friend of the Potter family—I believe she babysat you in your infancy—so we didn't doubt the truth of her words when she said she saw you in Godric's Hollow. The Potter men have quite the distinctive look. But, as you've been here . . ."

Icy fingers grasped Harry's stomach. "Someone's impersonating me."

"My thoughts exactly."

Harry felt rather ill. "Why . . . ?"

"Why would someone impersonate The Boy Who Lived?" Lupin asked shrewdly, when Harry was unable to voice the remainder of his question. "Perhaps for fifteen minutes in the spotlight? You are a rather popular figure in the wizarding world, Harry."

"Don't remind me," Harry grumbled.

Lupin smiled, but it soon gave way to something troubled. "Honestly, Harry, I wouldn't know. It would be the pinnacle of idiocy for another to take up your appearance at this time; you're a walking target to multiple parties, which isn't quite the secret after last year. It's the reason you must remain within the boundaries of your mother's protection for the time being. And then there's the problem of your age; you're vulnerable in ways an adult isn't, and there is not much a fifteen-year-old boy has the right to access despite his fame, wizarding or not."

"I'm almost sixteen," Harry grumbled stubbornly before he could stop himself.

Another smile, closed-mouthed and humoring, folded pre-mature lines into half-circles of joy. Harry was under the impression that Lupin was laughing at him.

"What about Voldemort?" Harry said impatiently, the question near burning a hole in his tongue from the wait. "There hasn't really been anything suspicious in The Prophet or the Muggle news."

Lupin's mirth was expelled in a breath of air, and he didn't seem surprised Harry had asked at all. Hands roped with jagged scars clasped before wrinkled slacks, elbows to knees as Lupin leaned forward. There was something in the wary shift of his light brown eyes that told Harry his question, or perhaps the response, was being considered very carefully.

"Death Eater activity has been very . . . quiet . . . since the Department of Mysteries," Lupin said at last, words but a hushed breath fogging the pane of silence between them, lingering a short while before fading back to transparency as though fearing speaking any louder would bring their enemies upon them both. "Now that we've the power of public opinion backing our claims, Voldemort's been allowed the freedom of louder rebellions. And yet . . . he hasn't taken advantage of this victory."

Harry sat forward. "What do you mean?"

Lupin sighed. "Severus believes the battle with Dumbledore has weakened Voldemort more than previously thought, and it appears there's merit to his allegations: the little activity we've been able to track, it's been mainly through delegation. None of the inner circle have been spotted. We theorize he's planning once more, taking this time to recover, regroup . . . recruit."

Sour disgust coated Harry's tongue. Although he wanted to comment on Voldemort's recruitment, he feared he didn't have much time with Lupin. Instead, he asked, "Plans? Like what?"

A huff escaped Lupin before it was suppressed into a cough. "You've quite the one track mind, Harry," he said, releasing something of a smile. "Determination is an admirable quality, but in a situation that requires gathering intelligence, perhaps a little subtlety would go a long way."

Harry ducked his head, frustrated with himself and trying to ignore the embarrassment warming his cheeks.

"Nevertheless," Remus continued, and Harry's head jerked upwards, hopeful, "I shouldn't be surprised you hunger for this information." Sobriety tamed Remus' kind smile into a non-expression. "The loss of the prophecy was a great blow to Voldemort's cause. And yet, this is only a small victory for us; Voldemort's always had multiple contingency plans and side-activities, and it's impossible to predict which may hold his attention, as was in the First War. However, it is safe for us to assume, for Voldemort's affinity for spectacle and grandeur, he has a strange fascination for powerful magical objects."

Something tweaked at Harry's memory, but before he could grasp it and turn it into thought, it slipped away like water through his fingers. "What kind of magical objects?" Harry asked.

"Voldemort's always been interested in things that will give him an advantage over other wizards," Lupin said vaguely. A year ago, such an answer would have prompted irritation or more questions from Harry, but there was a sense of finality lingering under the words of his former professor that cowed his previous reaction into submission. Instead, Harry merely nodded, saying no more. There was a shuffling above them, and Harry realized with surprise that Aunt Petunia must be having difficult falling asleep. Harry could no longer hear his uncle in the kitchen.

Lupin's eyes narrowed slightly, as though trying to peer at Harry through a thick fog. "Harry, are you feeling all right?"

Harry swallowed, and had a sudden fear that Lupin wanted to talk about what happened in the Department of Mysteries. "I'm fine," he croaked, mouth suddenly dry. He did not want to talk about Sirius.

Lupin opened his mouth, but his true intent was lost in the orbit of Uncle Vernon's wrath as the door connecting the living room to the kitchen opened with a bang, startling both Harry and Lupin to their feet. The latter's wand seemed to jump into his palm.

"That's it!" Uncle Vernon shouted, mustache writhing as if to escape the fury beneath it. As he squeezed into the living room, his momentum momentarily slowed by the scrape of his girth passed the door frame, Lupin hastily put his wand away. He seemed to have difficulty relaxing his stance. "I'm done waiting for this bloody circus to end! You've had plenty of time—a generous amount on my part—and you've had a look at the boy. I won't have for more of this freakish nonsense! Do you people have any sense of proper timing?"

Rather than annoyed or angered, Harry found he was embarrassed by his uncle's outburst. But Lupin appeared unaffected, choosing to duck in subservience and brushing scarred hands down the front of his wrinkled jacket.

"You're right," he conceded. "I do apologize for my late call. I just needed to be certain Harry was safe."

"You've had your look; take a picture to show your band of freaks if you need to," Uncle Vernon raged, stalking closer to Lupin with impetus equivalent to a boulder rolling down a hill.

Lupin's eyes narrowed, and deep creases on his forehead bunched as he frowned. He didn't back away, much to Uncle Vernon's displeasure. "You needn't be rude," Lupin said, quite mild. "I've apologized profusely for my timing, and explained there's not much I can do about it. No harm done, I've said my share, but your open hostility is quite uncalled for. As an investigator, this attitude of yours suggests to me an underlying problem you don't want addressed. Is there something, Vernon Dursley, that you'd like me to know?"

There was a sting of ice in the atmosphere that hadn't been there before, and Uncle Vernon recoiled slightly, despite his anger.

Lupin then glanced at Harry, this time with a searching uncertainty Harry didn't appreciate. "Don't hesitate to owl me," Lupin said at last, much warmer, although something of his earlier frost remained. "The Order has me on quite a few rotations, so I may not respond right away, but things are always easier to bear, I've found, with a friend."

With a quirk of his lips, Lupin left. There was a moment in which he stood in the doorway, hesitating as he breathed in the night air, before shaking his head a stepping past the threshold. The front door closed very softly against the quiet of the night.

And in the shadows of number eight, a stag pawed the ground with an anxious hoof.

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Prana Vayu: (1) Forward moving air. (2) The energy that receives anything coming into the body and ensures the heart continues to beat, governs respiration and reception, and allows one to see the world's potential.

If Prana Vayu is deranged, one suffers from cravings, bad habits, and a restless, distracted mind.

Updated October 2016