Author's Notes:

I am so grateful to any readers who continue to read even after long waits between chapters. This story first started as me just attempting to write out anything, but it has really become a growing experience. I had never written anything past a page before, so this story has truly grown with me. As that occurs, however, the chapters I'm in the middle of writing turn to tens of thousands of words as I edit it. This chapter in particularly gave me substantial trouble, mainly due to the fact that I've just entered the primary writing, literature, and psychology courses pertaining to my majors. I truly want to evolve as a writer, using this as one of my mediums. Thank you for reading and my sincerest apologies for the long wait. This chapter is massive, given that I have three separate documents averaging around a hundred thousand words together for it, this little monster was greedy enough to become, I believe, the longest little beast I've written thus far. And as I was considering splitting it in two, my heart ached too much to put it through that. It pouts quite adorably, I assure you.++++++This is the second posting of this chapter. I re-edited correctly, I suppose.+++++++++++ Please Review...

Mirror Games

The iron, rubbed by desolate age, gripped until it tore past raw flesh. It bound the tendons, forming bulbs of blood at numb fingertips when the hands were flexed past their small allowance. Clinging chains, known only by their dragging weight, spread their tricking chime in layers. Darkness ran so rampant that it swallowed his hands, denied them both the indulgence of sight.

"I'm sorry, Harry…so sorry…sorry…" Harry cradled Ervy's head near his chest, where his thundering heart betrayed his calming assurances, locking his eyes.

"Stop it," he whispered, "it's going to be okay." Ervy's teeth were chattering now, because it was far too cold and dank. And Harry shuddered as he repeated, "It's all going to be okay." Perhaps if he said it enough it would cease to be a lie.

"How long?" the small boy asked, sounding so afraid of the truth that Harry nearly willed the tiny hand marking the hopeless seconds away to stop altogether.

The shackles bit painfully into his skin when he did check the time under the tiny beam of artificial light bleeding through a crack in the rafters. "Only an hour, Ervy." However, Harry's watch read eight hours; the potions that had been in Ervin's system had lasted only three.

"Just one more time, Harry." With dread, the older boy dragged his eyes to the space between the closest support columns, where an object floated before them. The glowing silver, contained only by a solid mass of shadow, was solidified like some unidentified plasma within its bounds, forming a suspended oval bathed in fluorescent light before them.

"No."

"Please."

"Fine," Harry finally conceded, "but just once." An involuntary shiver ran up like fire from his extremities when he started to feel the telltale buildup of energy that flowed through his limbs before using his ability. As Harry lit the torches on the wall, the stale air seemed to grow even more still. "Hurry," he gritted out to his friend, who immediately seemed animated despite the fact that he spent the majority of their imprisonment struggling to overcome his ravenous disease.

They had no time to examine their injuries; the silver mirror was starting to shake already, its homogeneous mix of unknown elements beginning to lose their shape and seeming to shiver in tiny ripples, pushing against its dark prison to break free. The consistency was that of Unicorn's blood, Ervy had commented, thick with the impurity of the evil wielding it.

Smothering fog began to dissipate off of the surface towards them, invoking the howling darkness of the expansive prison to swallow it, while the torch light became a sinister hue of blood red. They were beginning to see just how large their dungeon was as the red light rapidly began to expand, but then the liquid silver began to throttle the bound of shadow. Abruptly, it began to give, until Harry, breathing hard, smothered the torch flames.

"It rolled away again," Ervy whispered brokenly. Harry could hear the glass marble of Ervy's home Portkey skip across the floor away from them. Their captor had immediately taken a unique pleasure in confiscating Ervy's items and letting them watch as they were thrown about through the darkness, hidden temptations just out of their reach, offering strains of dangerous hope.

Harry didn't say anything for a long moment; heaving breaths were wreaking havoc on his forced state of denial. The impulse to give up seemed as dangerous as the pulse sizzling with aftershocks of power within his chained wrists. "We'll try later…it's not your fault," he said automatically, still watching the still, silver mass.

Without hesitation, Harry ripped off the other sleeve of his shirt, feeling the strain the simple exercise cost him both physically and mentally. He gritted his teeth against the searing pain coming from his opposite shoulder, ignoring it as he wrapped the bedraggled cloth around the freshly opened cut the manacles had made on his friend's wrist.

When the cellar door creaked open, Harry secured Ervy's hand within his own, only to realize that his own was shaking just as badly. Their kidnapper approached wearing a hooded cloak. Before they could plead for their freedom, the first curse of the round struck Ervy in the chest.

"I'll do it! I'll do it, okay?! Just don't hurt him," Harry shouted, pulling at his bonds. The sudden agony piercing through his scar had him doubled over with pain, impeding any attempt at an escape.

"Read it," the person hissed, like a petulant child who was going to do anything to get their way.

"Please, just don't hurt him anymore."

"Harry, you're scaring me…I can't understand you," Ervy cried, the comforting warmth shifting away from his side. Confused, Harry made to reassure his friend, but a blow to his temple had him banging his head against the solid stone of the wall. He knew for certain that the injury was going to bleed before it even started to seep onto his collar. Frighteningly enough, as soon as his blood made contact with the rock, the shadow of the mirror placed parallel to them grew marginally weaker.

He didn't even want to think about what that could mean. "No…no, no, no, please don't take him," Harry pleaded as their captor unchained his friend, who desperately tried to clamp the magical manacles down on his wrist again, scrambling back towards the wall, as if hoping that their cage of darkness would somehow allow them some respite.

"Don't!" Ervy cried, as he was carelessly torn from the wall.

"Leave him alone!" Harry's pleas were ignored as his friend was dragged kicking and screaming into the darkness of their expansive dungeon. The screams began to tear through the darkness mercilessly.

Their kidnapper was playing the game–Harry's refusal to participate would prove deadly to Ervy. If he did play, other people would die, and their hooded captor had no qualms about letting him know that.

When Ervy was thrown back at his side unconscious, whimpering in his sleep, Harry could smell the stench of blood and urine seeping from his tattered clothing. He bit his trembling lips to keep them from releasing his cry of anguish.

A basin and a washcloth were placed at his feet, a new pile of clothing stacked neatly and methodically next to it. Harry knew this game, too. If he wasn't washed and dressed before Ervy stirred, the other boy would receive another thrashing. The look on Ervy's face upon waking up in pain was enough to torture him worse than what he could ever receive from any amount of lashes.

Dumbledore spoke first," Enlighten us to the meaning of this, Mr. Lorcan."

However, it wasn't the ill-looking Bruce that spoke, who was busy downing the bottle of liquor in such a pathetic manner that Remus had to look away. It was Snape. "The Dark Lord," he said in a voice so full of contempt that any sensible child would wet themselves in mere seconds.

"Has, in some fecking sense of the word...returned," Bruce finished, angrily throwing the bottle of gin across the room so that it smashed on the floor. Glass skid across the worn stone and the room's occupants watched as they quivered and stilled.

"Severus, have Poppy examine your arm," Dumbledore said absently, his brow furrowed. "At times, I find that the best remedy is one of a healthy slumber."

Snape's pale face twisted into a scowl while his hand pointedly applied a pressure charm to stop the flow of blood pouring from the cursed brand.

With disgust, Sirius' eyes followed the crimson rivulets as if it they were acid that would corrode the manor, stain it with filth. "Watch the floor, Snivellus," the Animagus said harshly, eyes never leaving the Dark Mark.

"Typical of you, Black; leave it to you to appropriate all the limited intellect you possess into sharing with us your prowess for the janitorial," Snape sneered. "Tell me," he raised his eyebrows to emphasize mock interest, only managing to highlight the cruelty permanently affixed to the contours of his face, "how it felt to live out your loathsome existence in Azkaban?"

"It should have been you," Sirius growled, his eyes wide with the ferocity in which he spoke.

"That's enough." Remus intervened, beyond annoyed that two grown men could pick up a childhood rivalry and elevate it so severely. "Get a hold of yourself for once in your life, Sirius," he nearly shouted when both men continued to make barbs at each other, leaving no misery unmentioned.

Every angry line on the Animagus' brow read that the statement was just about unforgivable, that he'd personally taken it as an insult that implied that the connection between their current situation and his behavior was more than just a passing thought on his part. Remus had, in fact, been thinking along the lines but he hadn't meant to verbalize it quite in that manner. He knew he wouldn't be able to take it back when Sirius' quaking worsened with a ragged exhale, as if the very air had suddenly grown cold and thin. And in that moment, he wasn't so sure he wanted to.

"Don't you dare for a second pretend as if you're anywhere near perfection," Sirius said under one frozen breath.

The glass made the crunching sound that set Remus' nerves on edge as it was deliberately crushed under Sirius' boot, the gin branching out like a spun spider web all around it. The man never lost eye contact once, not even as he dragged his heel down on the shards once more, unwilling to even utter the destructive accusation.

It was all Remus could do not to flinch; because his best friend wanted to say it, to put the feeble standing of their friendship as on the line as Harry's life seemed. Just like Sirius wouldn't verbalize why Remus was so certain that a bottle of gin three quarters gone had been hiding under the loose floorboard--three paces from the door and six across from the stove-- the werewolf couldn't drop his gaze of challenge as the line cut closer to him.

"Are you aware, Black, that you are currently still equally as worthless as the werewolf?" Snape got in, seeming pleased by how quick his old enemy was to rile. Remus caught the rapid motion of the potions master's white, tightening knuckles tugging the hem of his long sleeve down over the hated mark.

"Coming from the most pathetic person in this room, I can venture to say you've been worse than useless since your dear master fell," Sirius snarled.

"You are not even worth my wand, Black." There was a pause as Snape looked over at the Animagus with an identical mix of hatred and ill wish. "But I dare say I would give anything to watch as the Dementors rip that useless soul from your body."

"Do you even have a soul left, Death Eater?" Sirius spat back darkly, placing extensive emphasis on the selected title.

"It's pitiful, Black, how fiercely you cling to your idea of evil, how desperately you place faces to every one of your own defects. You are the heir to the Black throne, you reveled in your place of aristocracy, and you dared raise your nose to those you marked because you knew very well the spells they practiced, the magic you were taught to cast," said Snape softly, the timbre of his voice steeped with menacing tones. "Hypocrisy is what I least tolerate," he finished.

It was instantaneous: Sirius drew his wand from his holster just as quickly as Snape thrust his chest in front of the tip. "Do it, Black, I am unarmed…this is almost…nostalgic," he goaded, his lip curled, appearing even more elated that his hated enemy looked so utterly near the brink of madness itself.

"Expelliarmus!" Remus shouted just in time to stop the Animagus from finishing the upwards flick necessary for the particularly heinous hex he had been moments from casting. "Harry is missing, Sirius; at least make a half decent attempt at being an adult." The werewolf could hear the steel in his own voice and he nearly winced because he knew the statement was unfair, uncalled for.

"Right," the Animagus said bitterly, turning his rage towards his friend, who had the audacity to appear so collected. "Well, I apologize for not seeing Azkaban as an ideal place to flourish. Perhaps the wise Remus Lupin can show me how the way he so productively spent the last decade helped him become the outstanding individual before me." Sirius was seething, his words spewing forward with stabbing sarcasm.

They were sparring; they both knew quite well that the object of the game wasn't to win, not even close. And though what they were doing seemed petty, they needed it, craved it, and neither could identify a particular reason to explain why. It had been ages since his old friend had provoked him, sent him riling, sparked within him that fire for argument that jaded middle-aged men tended to lose.

Sirius had always been one to revolt violently against the walls of society, disabusing anyone of the notion of predictability, brandishing his arrogance and skill in a way that not only seemed inoffensive but somehow endearing. When James' parents had died of illness within months of each other, it had been Sirius who had concocted a wild tale about how he'd thought the late Mrs. Potter had fancied him. It had ended with the Animagus nursing a broken nose and a sobbing James at his feet, who had managed to finally mourn the loss of his parents due to his best friend's interference. Sirius had never had any qualms about incriminating himself in preposterous situations as long as it was for a worthy cause.

"Yes, and as always, you are the epitome of goodness and productivity..." Remus drifted off, knowing full well that Sirius' deepest insecurity was to be forced to carry the stigma associated with his blood. It was the most aggravating thing about Sirius, his unflinching view of reversed prejudice–his tendency to close his mind off when he so much as smelled the Dark Arts. Perhaps, Remus conceded, Snape held some ground of truth. Even so, for the Animagus to take all he had been, or rather, how he'd barely existed during those years, to twist it with mocking–he couldn't imagine a darker ache. "You've no right to judg--"

"Don't speak of rights to me!" the Animagus barked. "What will it be then--Mounds more of that pity you so abhor? Should we hold a count on whose life was more destroyed?!" He was breathless by the end, his eyes slowly growing lifeless, colder than Remus had ever seen them.

This had to stop. "No." Cringing that the words were coming forward unguarded, he continued on, "When are we going to reach that point where we don't instinctively brace ourselves for more, Padfoot?" Remus finally muttered quietly enough for only the other man to hear. Just how much more did they have to lose before it was enough?

The blue eyes shut closed, the Animagus running a hand through his hair in one of his rare nervous gestures. "If you would have seen fit to relay to me my own godson's past--" Sirius stopped himself, shaking with barely suppressed frustration. "I didn't mean it like that," he added when Remus recoiled.

Unimpeded, the words left a red trail of shock and regret. The Animagus had a valid point. It had been selfish to keep Sirius in the dark, criminal even. If Sirius had known, he would have been prepared; he wouldn't have reacted as he had. Harry would still be there with them. A nervous, hollow drop of his stomach made his breath catch.

"Gentlemen," the headmaster addressed them once the draw between them had cooled to an icy silence, his other palm extended towards the potion's master in an obvious gesture to quell his commenting. "This argument is hardly conductive to our purpose. Now, Mr. Lorcan, kindly explain what you meant by declaring Voldemort's return? It may be my substantially aged mind, but I was very much under the impression that the state Voldemort is currently in is incapable of taking the corporeal form necessary to abduct any child."

"The bloody monster is a convoluted mass of pieces," the rogue hissed under his breath, dark gaze meeting Dumbledore's. Remus and Sirius were both thrown aback by the headmaster's suddenly rigid frame.

"Mention none of this," Dumbledore briefed Snape firmly before fixing his attention back to the rogue.

This was a dismissal; one Snape didn't seem too fond of if the fury knitting his brows was any indication. "You expect me to heed to a dismissal when the worst has come to pass, une--"

Bruce cut in, "A hundred Death Eaters gather and I pick up the one agent miserable enough to follow yer whiles. I'm the best bet ya got." Violet eyes sealed as Bruce took steadying breaths, unaware of the spy's offended sneer. "Riddle. Will. Take. The boy," he gritted out randomly, like he was being plagued by invisible attackers from within, hunching thieves of sanity that were carving paths inside his own mind. "Ask me the fecking questions!" he roared, before he whimpered pitifully and thrust his back against the wall, his fingers digging into his temples.

Dumbledore's gaze lifted towards Snape once more.

"I will be in my quarters if you so choose to inform me about the proceedings," Snape scoffed boldly with the certainty of a man who knew the headmaster would do no such thing. "We will be meeting again," he told Bruce, who nodded kindly, as if the exchange was sealing plans on a summer tea party. "One can quickly tire of being in the presence of such despicable company." With one last glare of complete and utter loathing directed at a scowling Sirius, he spat the name of his destination with an unnecessary amount of vitriol before it carted him off.

"What did you just say?" the older wizard asked softly after Snape had gone. Behind the benign half-moon spectacles, Dumbledore's eyes glinted. "Did you just use a name, Mr. Lorcan?" the headmaster inquired with measured tones.

Bruce grinned, a trickle of blood escaping from the corner of his mouth unnoticed. "Tom Marvolo Riddle…isn't that spot on, White Beard?" he asked with feigned curiosity. "Lamb went a wee bit astray, didn't he, shepherd?" The inherent madness on Bruce's face flared alive for just an instant, just enough to have Dumbledore turn his inquiring expression his way.

"I trusted your judgment with your friend, and from what I've surmised, Remus, this man has unlimited access to this manor, unforeseeable knowledge of things he ought not to know, and an alarmingly questionable state of mind. This man could very well be responsible for Harry's disappearance," Dumbledore said calmly.

"Two out of three, I'm afraid," came a wheezy voice from the kitchen before Remus could even begin to formulate an intelligent response.

Dumbledore had his wand expertly poised for casting a destructive spell at a moment's notice as the visage of a grizzly wizard dressed in smart, deep-green robes appeared in the kitchen doorway, his arms raised to convey the message of peace.

"I had the foresight to abandon my wand whilst I was letting myself in," the man informed them brightly as he turned the corner and approached them at a leisurely pace. "Not even I am delusional enough to believe I could ever possibly duel the great Albus Dumbledore and live to tell the tale."

"That was advisable. If not for your convenient foresight, I would have been inconvenienced into disarming you without the usual courtesy of inquiring into your true identity, my dear fellow," responded the headmaster with the same level voice, stealing a single glance at Bruce for his reaction.

"Simple Glamour charms are out then," the stranger concluded with a friendly smile. "I thought perhaps a familiar face would help this unfortunate conflict progress. I was told Elphias Doge was a dear friend." He frowned, distractedly scanning the room and settling on Bruce, who shrunk into the rough stone of the wall. "The connection was forcefully torn from you?"

"Aye, around the time I found the spy."

"Did you see anything?"

In a tone of frustration, Bruce informed him, "Fear, so pure it was that I couldn't get ta the shite I made the connection ta retrieve."

Grendal, whose voice Remus recognized from the Order of Venificus Latito, the group that had helped break Sirius out, must have been under layers of flawlessly applied Glamours for the werewolf could not even see a single misplaced blemish from the face of the old Order of the Phoenix member, Elphias Doge.

The man looked up at Dumbledore, whose wand's proximity to the other wizard's chest was the only thing that betrayed his deep concern over the situation. "May I request you dispel the Glamours, as I am unable to do it myself without the medium of a wand?"

Contemplatively, Dumbledore watched for Grendal's every movement as he easily canceled all the powerful charms. There was not a single change in the headmaster's expression when the removal of the Glamours revealed his very own face on another man's body.

"Should have told you about that, I think," Grendal said, winking good-naturedly. "Now we'll have an entire hour in which White Beard will detain me in the hopes of waiting out the metaphorical Polyjuice in my system." The man seemed thrilled at the prospect.

In a methodical manner, Dumbledore sealed every exit, looking rather too agreeable while doing such a task. While the situation may have called for a bit more forcefulness, the two men seemed perfectly willing to keep up the bizarreness of their meeting.

"You may call me Grendal if you so wish. Oh, and the latch on the top window is completely unguarded. Cere charm will do the trick, I think," Dumbledore's double supplied helpfully.

"Thank you. That's very kind of you to assist," the true Dumbledore responded. "I believe I may be able to extend the same courtesy and allow you to address me by my given name, as they say the most direct course to friendship is from the front."

"Indeed, though side entrances are most convenient in times of dire need."

It was beyond uncanny to see a replica of Dumbledore who could go along with the headmaster's unflappable demeanor so well.

"This is absurd," Sirius whispered to him, much in the way that a student does during an important lesson.

"I realize that," Remus agreed, watching as Grendal turned his foreign blue eyes towards the rogue.

"No." There was so much desperation in the rogue's voice that Remus almost felt like it was a stranger before them.

"Erhyrtia is the only way; it is all that we have," Grendal spoke sternly before deflating and looking off towards the window. "For my sake, Liam, do not attempt to make me chose your well-being over the population's."

The unexpected clamor of Bruce's gold-adorned wand joined the shattered fragments of the glass. His peculiar violet eyes dropped and he gave a pitiful nod of acceptance so rot with anguish that Dumbledore appeared momentarily conflicted about whether he was to defend the madman or let whatever was about to take place proceed. Curiosity won out.

"Lupin," Dumbledore's impostor looked straight at him, "relay to the headmaster what your research has found on Bruce. Textbook definitions on the basic corneal capabilities will be fine." It was even stranger to hear the alien voice leave Dumbledore's mouth.

With an inkling of guilt, Remus conjured his notes, trying his best to avoid Sirius' accusatory stare (he hadn't officially disclosed his findings to his friend). Sifting through the pile, he found the passage that best concluded his findings.

It felt like betrayal, lifting his wand and pronouncing, "Legens!" clearly. The diction spell began to read the text aloud in a low male drone:"Born with a single mutation of an unidentified chromosome of DNA, Erhartians have the phenotypic disadvantage of violet irises, most commonly attributed to an evolutionary adaptation that allows further protection of the eyesight, as the cornea tends to stress and bleed through involuntary use. Mana particles have the tendency to attack at the source of deepest concentration when the body endures severe physical distress–the norm in everyday life for one born with such a power. It is because of the body's revolt against its own inherited ability that Erhartians have notoriously been recorded as suffering from a most dreaded of curses.

The rarest stage of all is the final stage, as it is entirely up to the user to enter this level. Death itself is often preferred to the agony--a wiser choice, indeed. However, entering said stage releases energy so powerful that the Erhartian may wield it to bring those at the brink of death back to life. Merlin once wrote, "Death is eaten by choice of the heart, he thus condemns his earthly flesh to torture, his very mind forever succumbed to insanity. There is no greater sacrifice." Beyond this elective, though potentially lethal, status change in the three level processions, there are various known abilities gained by the user. This is best exemplified by the relaxed mode, seen by the normal coloration of violet irises. Information gathered from others during this state depends entirely on the emotional instability of those in close proximity. However, this daily involuntary gathering of memories causes Erhartians to suffer from severe chronic insomnia, which gradually brings about mental deterioration. REM sleep becomes nothing more but an endless nightmare of lifetimes, a chamber of intolerable horrors.

More importantly to mention are the properties of the active stage, which noticeably set this final level apart from the above two, and became a profound influence on the title of aforementioned ability: "erhyrtia", the Latin root word defined as the darkest part of the eye. As the eyes grow dark, the user can share with others all that he suffers. They will see his very turmoil at the price of their lives, for the body of a mortal man cannot often conceive of the notion of entertaining the conflicting turmoil of others within themselves with such vivid reality. As with all the advantages, the side effect of putting this portion of the ability to use is seen with the toil of time, when Erhartians may begin to see their memories physically manifest themselves around them, not too dissimilar from the mental ailment of Schizophrenia.

The opposite of a black iris, it is far more feared by some to receive an enhanced violet hue gaze, for the user can forge a bridge between minds and experience every trauma the victim may have suffered, with the ability to bring forth memories lost to the conscious mind. The connection is so discreet that most wizards may not feel when their most private affairs are seen, when the user has a chance to subjugate them to their will. Erhartians are most careful while obtaining this iron hold, for the body revolts with agony that is akin to having every nerve in the body flare as if they are being hacked away, though it may be lessened if the user decides to let the connection be known, entrap their victim's minds within its own complex vortex of feeling. If not done, suffering for the Erhartian may escalate to such a degree that magic and very ability become uncontrolled. Caution must be practiced at all costs…"

Bruce regarded the flipping pages with a great deal of animosity, as if he all he wanted was to set them on fire. "What do ya lot think, should I have offed myself ages ago?" he spat.

The tome Remus had settled on had been one of the lighter ones on the Erhartian ability. Most of the others had gone into gruesome detail about how exactly mind deterioration could lead them to fruitless body mutilations. In fact, one of them had suggested annihilating the entire line for the sake of human courtesy, as it would put them out of their misery.

"Liam, please refrain from dark humor. By now, I had hoped we had come a long way from that," Grendal rebuked him.

The rogue made a face.

Grendal kneeled before him, completely ignoring the gesture. "Speck has devised the potion that will allow them to carry the backlash as you search for a trace of what the boy last experienced."

"Are you off yer rocker? It'll kill the lot of 'em." The rogue stood, leaning back against the wall as his center of balance shifted too quickly for his encumbered body to process. He pressed two blood encrusted digits to his eyes, crying out in pain.

"If we involve White Beard, he may weaken the experience to just about bearable," Grendal pressed, resting his hand on the other man's shoulder, before quickly retracting it as the rogue's angry expression inexplicably turned to that of grief.

"Forgive me if I am mistaken," Dumbledore started as he too noted Bruce's reaction to the touch, pausing only to look straight at Grendal, "but are you implying that he violate our minds with the copious memories as he rifles through it all for the connection he forced on Harry."

"Excuse me?" Sirius said in a low, dangerous growl. Remus quickly thrust the Animagus' wand back into his outstretched palm.

Grendal sighed heavily before addressing them. "One of Voldemort's 'weapons' was somehow unleashed upon a human host. When Liam found a lead a year ago, he was contacted by an old friend who confided that the Boy-Who-Lived had been placed in his custody with peculiar abilities. We immediately swore our protection and began to monitor him. Along the way, the boy must have had a chance meeting with the host, and most dangerously, it found him at a point of emotional weakness. It learned to corrupt his dreams, whisper falsehoods, mislead his truths..."

"Very few months ago," he continued, "on the event of All Hollows Eve, the 'weapon' was able to procure energy enough to use Timothy Bensen, a young Muggleborn living just off of Hogsmeade." The man shuddered, briefly lapsing into silence as he regained his composure. "The evil that took place in that house…it opened a window in which to get to Harry if he left the protections of the wards. It could control what Harry saw as reality. It was going to dismantle every protection on the child in order to control him. We were desperate enough to ask Liam to forge a connection between them, at great risk to both their lives."

"What did the connection entail?" Dumbledore asked, pensive.

"Though never having attempted it before, he was able to concentrate Harry's abilities; making it easier for the child to gain control over them, in addition to conditioning his powers to yield to the child's development. As his magical maturity was far more advanced, Liam was able to act as a barrier of sorts, gradually increasing the amount to be conquered as the child's lessons progressed."

The entire tale was disturbing. What was worse, Remus could not dispute a word of it. Bruce had been the one to suggest the majority of Harry's lessons.

"We are speaking of his Elemental capabilities?" Dumbledore asked softly.

"Aye," Bruce whispered.

Remus really wasn't surprised that Dumbledore knew, not in the least bit. Looking over at Sirius, who sent him a spectacular eye roll, the other man wasn't feeling any level of shock over the old man's ability to know every equivocal happening in the world with certain confidence.

"Go on then," the rogue bit out, "let's be through with it."

"If there are no objections, I shall endeavor to explain the toil this shall have on your bodies. I must first warn you that it will be very dangerous for any of you to immerse yourself or linger on any part of a memory," he pointedly looked over at Sirius and Remus. "Perspectives will change from victim to spectator, as it is your brain's practice to attempt comprehension. You will not be given the same exact memories to work through, and I expect that you will not share the irrelevant with the rest of us." There was a serious pause as he allowed the gravity of what they were about to do sink in. "There will be foreign feelings that will not pertain to you. Under no circumstances are you going to persuade yourself to identify with it. Treat all of it with abstract thought." Grendal met their steady gazes in turn before handing them all vials of potion.

Dumbledore seemed to weigh all of his choices very carefully before he said, "There are few times in which my instincts have failed me, as I have gladly suffered the fool at times it was ill-advised, and I will do so now on good faith."

"One's folly is not necessarily another's gain, Albus," Grendal agreed earnestly. "That said…" he began on a lighter note, "I sincerely regret to inform you all that this potion is best not sniffed before consumption."

"Why is that?" Sirius asked, examining the clear vial.

"It smells quite like a rotten sock, if you catch my meaning," Grendal explained most cheerfully.

With Grendal's prompting, Dumbledore conjured a set of maroon wingback chairs for them. They sat back, Sirius and Remus sharing a nervous glance at how distressed Bruce became as the headmaster tipped the potion into his mouth.

"When you wake, it will seem all but a disconnected dream," Grendal said soothingly as Dumbledore relaxed back and shut his eyes, his breath becoming deep with sleep. The rogue was digging his nails so deep into the stone of the floor that Remus was surprised they hadn't snapped back.

"Gentlemen, drink now; I will do my utmost to draw you out if the connection becomes unstable."

They did. The last thing Remus saw as his eyes sagged closed was the bizarre gesture of familiarity Grendal made as he took the headmaster's half-moon spectacles off and placed them gently on the arm of the chair.

Hurt flooded his chest as Harr–Remus, his mind attempted to correct, only to seize up in pain. It felt like someone had just given his inner temples a good wallop. Disturbingly, Bruce's earthly smell briefly filled his nostrils before he could feel himself running again, though not truly a definable self. Strange...

Run, was the only thought Harry could grasp as Sirius dismissed him. A mixture of furious eyes, barely contained disgust, and disappointment swam vividly in his vision. Sirius would be so ashamed of him now. And it would only be a matter of time before everyone else followed.

'That's not true!' was inserted as both statements were weighed. A surge of pain abandoned the proof.

His breath caught as he imagined two pairs of warm, trusting eyes holding his gaze, and he wanted so badly to claim apathy, to run away from everything. The Weasleys were better off without him around to cause accidents on their property or endanger Mr. Weasleys job.

Brown eyes shone bright through his slight delirium as he struggled to calm his panicked breathing, his hands searching for the knob to the familiar cupboard before he crawled inside. Blue, friendly irises accompanied by a welcome grin, had the air vanishing from his lungs. They morphed into hatred, those eyes, revoking acceptance, pushing him further into the dangerous plummet.

A white sheet arched through the air as he threw it over himself, wanting so badly to hide.

Ron and Ginny would find a new friend… Harry's heart gave a painful lurch at the thought of Ginny showing someone else her favorite places in the world, sharing her secrets, of Ron finding someone who played chess better, who knew all about racing brooms.

It wasn't until Harry had finished burrowing into the sheets that he realized that a hand had been soothing him for minutes now without him having realized it. It must be… The ten-year-old quickly turned his head, his hope evaporating when he spotted Ervy. He was awash with guilt as soon as the thought struck him.

Soon after Ervy had been sworn to never speak a word about the manor, Harry hadn't made any effort to hide his scars. They never spoke of it. In return, Ervy had taken to opening his rucksack and drinking his potions right in front of him. When they were at play, Harry would recognize that the light had gone of the base of the trees and he would pause, retrieving potion number six from the bag, feeding it to his friend. Silence prevailed at these times, past hung in--total acceptance. No one was judged; they both had little Pandora's boxes stashed away.

Ervy traced an angry swell where Harry had scratched his skin viciously in repeated attempts to pull his sleeves down.

"They're always there," Harry confessed, because though hatred was carved into his skin, he had been trying for far too long to make them disappear, to ignore them out of existence.

"I know," Ervy whispered, his head angled down as he exposed a sickly protruding shoulder.

Harry turned away quickly, his breath catching in a whimper, betraying his blank facade. This was exactly what he hadn't wanted.

"I'm sick," the child said gently, without an ounce of self-pity or anguish.

From the corner of his eye, Harry could see inky black vessels just right under the pale skin, like mold growing on walls, eating the wall from the inside. For months now he had tried unsuccessfully to avoid catching sight of the cursed markings. "No you're not." All of his delusions collapsed all around him and Harry was left feeling empty, void of all feeling.

"I think it's worse if I don't help you to see."

"I think that you should leave me alone, that's what I think," Harry blustered, scooting away from the other boy.

"I-…don't you dare abandon me now," the trembling child cried, face drawn as he pushed past the older boy.

"YOU'RE THE ONE THAT'S SICK!" Harry yelled at the top of his lungs, getting up, feeling a ball go up his throat at his friend's stricken expression.

This fueled Harry even more. He wanted to hurt him, to cause Ervy pain. "Let's quit this now. The only reason you're here is because I just happened to be the only other student in your schooling."

Without so much as a warning, Ervy marched over and shoved at him. "You daft idiot, bastard! Just classmates, are we!?" the younger boy shouted.

Dumbstruck, Harry watched as his friend gathered a box and a tiny velvet bag from his rucksack, sticking the items in his back pocket as he drew close to the fireplace. He no longer looked hurt; his eyes were slits of anger, his neck baring red blotches. "What?" he shouted when he caught sight of Harry's helpless watching. "The daft idiot has something to say, does he?"

"It just came out," Harry apologized, feeling panicked.

"That's...it's not nearly close to good enough for what you've just taken from me, Harry. If you meant what you'd said that day you would know that brothers don't quit on each other. Not ever." Grey eyes were fierce, waiting for Harry to challenge this truth.

Harry couldn't bear to look up at the other boy. "I'm sorry. Please, just stay." Harry motioned towards Ervy's hand, which was wrapped around the battered tin containing Floo powder.

The anger was slowly leaving Ervy's face, softening at the edges. "I need to visit somewhere today," he informed Harry.

"You'll let me come?" Harry asked, not wanting to separate while things had not yet completely stabilized between them. He was scared to death that the other boy would decide never to see him ever again.

Handing him a piece of parchment and quill from the top of the mantle, Ervy instructed, "Write Mr. Lupin a note."

A note?! There hadn--OUCH! Being flung away with harrowing pressure.

The first thing he saw was a brazen group of Death Eaters surrounding a group of children.

Bruce's son, Eamon, barely twelve, cleared his throat, petting his sister's hair with bound hands. "Dria, sit down right at me feet, close yer eyes, and plug yer ears. Hum the song mamma sings for ya and don't ya dare open them. If ye don't do as I say….I-I'll think ye don't love me." Silent tears fell from the blindfold.

Pure hopelessness. Nothing but black. An indescript howl.

"Harry, you wait in here." Both boys were in a dilapidated shack. Through the window Harry could see bent fir trees, like the ones outside of Ron's house.

"Don't be stupid, I want to come with you," Harry insisted, sneezing when he bumped into an old pile of newspapers. "Where are we?" he asked, examining a yellowed moving photograph of a burning house with a strange snake-shaped mark over it.

"Just past the town of Ottery St. Catchpole. Mother and father lived here before the business kicked off," said the younger boy while planting his feet in order to pull the door open with the force necessary to circumvent it's deterioration with disuse. It heaved open with a rusty screech, and the cool night air swirled into the room, disturbing the layer of dust over everything.

"I'll come with you wherever you go," Harry said steadily, exiting the shack and following his friend down a barely discernible path.

Ottery St. Catchpole! Want out…must continue, smell of earth and blood. Not a self.

"Admit your Da abandoned you. If he hadn't been celebrating his raid, he might have showed his mug in time, isn't that right?" the angry Death Eater chortled. "Tell the truth, little lass, or we'll see if the chit is more fun. Don't ya want the pain to go away, Eamon?" he said in a twisted parody of concern.

"I HATE HIM!" Eamon bellowed desperately, going lax.

Another Death Eater approached; receiving nods from the others, he slashed his wand through the air.

Bruce forcefully tugged the spectator from memory before the first drop touched the tiny, quivering girl…Oh, gods…

Harry stood before a grave marker as Ervy piled a gleaming black stone on a heap of multi-colored rocks in front of it. "Before I was born," he began quietly, "my mother and father had another son. He was playing not far from here, collecting some blood ore, when a fight broke out between some wizards from the ministry and this criminal. One of the spells hit him…they panicked when it happened, paid my parents off so they wouldn't press charges. Father and mother left everything here, built this for him, and tried not to look back." Fondling a rock Harry could recall was yellow fluorite, Ervy's face seemed even more distressed as his eyes traced the complex formation of cubes and their seemingly unbreakable bonds to each other. "Just like that," he said with force.

"Why do you come here if you never knew him?" Harry asked, feeling an irrational sort of jealousy for the boy buried here as his friend carefully set the stone back down in its place.

Stepping back, the child observed the arrangements of stone, his gaze seeming further off. "The only time I can remember my mother not being so cold was when she'd speak about him, and that was the only time father wouldn't be around. They'd get into bad rows until eventually they stopped mentioning my brother all together–he disappeared completely." The moonlight illuminated his face as he bowed it. "As did my mother," he whispered, his eyes glazed. "When I made father drive me here, I dumped my rock collection, the one I finished for my brother, and sat here and listened for the engine, wishing he'd leave me here and spare me from watching him fall apart, from her fake show of caring." His distress flowed through Harry as their gazes met, "I wondered how much my memory would be worth, Harry."

Upset by how Ervy's words conflicted with his ideal image of family, and feeling increasingly unhinged when Ervy continued to carefully rearrange some onyx, Harry blurted out, "But that's not fair! The least he can do is to pretend for your sake, to make it all seem okay." Ervy grabbed at him but he wasn't strong enough to stop the older boy as he angrily kicked the tower of stones.

"You ruined it!" the small boy yelled as he fell to his knees, quickly gathering them together again, holding them near. "Nothing is fair, Harry! I didn't ask for this illness, I didn't ask to never have any friends, or to have to convince myself that my father loving me would ever be enough to make it all seem okay. And I hate that I have to suffer while I try to convince myself that it's wrong of me to wish I won't wake up ever again, when that guilt is the only thing driving me!" His face was red with anger, his chest rapidly falling and rising, eyes filled with some dreadful mix of things Harry couldn't entirely identify with.

A tossed rock had impacted Harry's leg during Ervy's confessions and he bent over to retrieve it, staring at it with a forlorn expression as the dirt fell through his fingers. Gods, he was so sorry for damaging it now. But the rock structure had seemed for one unbearable second like a beautiful thing Harry was obligated to destroy. Because the world was meant to be ugly, unjust, and making it anything else only brought disappointment and hurt.

But, consequentially, he knew he was wrong because boys their age weren't supposed to be disillusioned from the idea of unconditional love and unquestionable trust, in hope. It wasn't normal to pray to die, to beg for mercy, to believe that you were not entitled to a single morsel of food without labor or humiliation. Only Harry didn't know how to deserve anything else, and to be expected to restrain himself from the means of survival he had used his entire life was unthinkable. He'd be exposed, completely at the mercy of others, and the destruction they could cause him... It was agonizing to even think about.

Oh, Harry–an arduous lurch in his temples reminded him of the true self, the one feeling. Senses…so real… are real.

"Do you honestly think that forgetting everything will make it easier on you, Harry?" Ervy asked him heatedly, swiping away at the tears glistening on his cheeks. "As much as you hate those scars, as much as I hate this illness, it's a part of me. And if someone can accept it, then I should care enough to bear their reaction, to trust in them. Isn't that true? Isn't it?" The tower crumbled as Ervy made a second attempt to reassemble it back together. His searching hands stilled, his shoulders in a solid arch, exposing the faded name of his deceased brother. "It has to be…"

After a couple of steps, Harry took the stone in his hand and started a whole new row next to the one his friend was building. "I don't know. I don't even know who I am for Merlin's sake! Since a year ago, I half expected to screw up, and every time I gained something else it became another threat, something else I was going to lose. A part of me won't ever be free from that, I think," Harry admitted, resolutely keeping his gaze down. "And I'm so afraid of facing that, of admitting it to myself." He distracted his fingers by scraping some dirt off his nails, watching as the other boy seemed to grow smaller at his admission. "I hate that so much. I hate not being able to say that its true…just like that."

The little boy shivered. There was a trembling sort of expression on his face. "I was going to leave today, when you were gone, and I wasn't going to come back." He let out a mock laugh, shutting his gray eyes when he was unable to quell his true grief. "But then you came down so upset, and I remembered what you said about us being brothers, and I had it in my head that if I could help that it'd make me feel like I've done something more useful than wasting away." The claw of his small hand dug in the ground, his mouth grinding before he tensed and took a deep breath. His voice was so normal when he spoke again, "Forget it." His shadowed face twisted into a smile.

Oh, gods…Harry wanted so badly to resent the little boy for offering him such cruelty with friendship...he wanted to pretend nothing was wrong and make him stay away just as badly as he wanted to promise him that he would be there for him like no one ever had–to show him that he was worth the pain he was sure to cause. Merlin, how could he live with himself either way? " I won't let you, "he said softly, his voice cracking, before speaking with more force," I can't let you just erase all this. Because we did that potion together…even though I still don't have a single clue as to what it does." Harry tried to strain a smile but his throat was shut so tightly he could barely breathe. "We were like them, you and I, like my dad and his friend when they did that treasure hunt, and I don't want to imagine that was fake." For the first time he fully met Ervy's misty eyes. "Maybe I wanted someone to be able to understand what it's like to make yourself feel nothing at all when it's all so much…because if they did I wouldn't be abnormal, I wouldn't be alone."

"I know, Harry," Ervy responded quietly.

"Good." Harry's body was unable to convey the horribly crushing weight of impending upheaval. "Till the end, Ervy. I promise," he added, swallowing the mass wedged in his throat.

"I'm so sorry," the other boy said, though his eyes belied the regretful apology with intense gratitude.

A searing heat claim skin like hot irons, lungs unable to procure air, life–there is far too much poison in the fumes of a dying family home. Smoke clears at the door, James Potter, straining hands at sides, clears a path through the aching fire.

Scrambling to reach the hidden infant, loose boards are wrenched open to find a lifeless bundle in the crevice. Desperate footfalls make it past crumbling walls.

James there. He's dead. Head explodes in agony, skin burns. Too much…all hurts.

"Let them go," Mr. Kippling threatened.

Wait! Can't hold on.

"Dada needs you to breathe, Ariel…please." The tiny violet orbs wouldn't move.

"Liam!" James Potter yelled shakily as the Auror clawed at the ground and started to convulse violently, a pulsing light enveloping him.

Being torn from memory, such force, such excruciating agony. Me loves. Not mine, foreign. Wrong self. Burning hate. Self-detest.

A strong hand squeezed Harry's shoulder harshly. "You will be joining us."

From the angle, Harry could see Ervy let a piece of candy drop into the dirt below.

Let go! Can't see! Not the self. Up! Wake up! Remus. Remus, wake up."

"Remus, wake up," Dumbledore called over him.

Gasping, Remus struggled out of his chair, unhindered when wizened hands continued to hold him down. Someone was screaming, sobbing intermingling within the wretched cacophony. A nightmare, it sounded so dreadful that Remus felt wet, undignified tears water in his eyes, just before a pulsing rage swept through him so violently that he wanted to hurl. The crippling extremes were quickly replaced by a horrible mass of confusion. Nothing, he couldn't make a single graspable connection to anything, as if flashes of a dream were whizzing by so quickly that he could only see light.

Vaguely, he could hear someone speak through the chaos, "You will be fine in a few moments, Remus, just allow yourself to adjust. You will find that, much like a dream, the details will begin to fade."

Closing his eyes, Remus steadied his breathing, thinking of the little boy with emerald eyes as he'd run down the stairs, sought reassurance, was stolen away. Sure enough, the emotions, the intimate ones that had him feeling like a cast away orphan, began to vanish. It was harder yet to make himself venture in the parts that had been closely guarded, where smells of earth had been followed closely by pulling grievances. In moving shapes void of color, he could picture an unmoving family laying on the singed grass, a man weeping before them. With sudden clarity, Remus launched himself out of the chair, pressing down his arms for the sensation of touch. With immense relief, he came upon the realization that he could understand he was as he existed. "I am Remus John Lupin."

"Good on you, Moony," Sirius quipped, and a touch at his shoulder startled Remus enough to breathe again.

"Sorry, didn't mean to surprise you," Sirius said with forced cheer, freshly brewed Earl Grey slopping against a delicate floral pattern saucer as he handed a cup to Remus. His best friend was shaking just as much as he was.

"It feels like I've missed something, only I don't know what it is."

"Yeah, we all got that," the Animagus informed him as he sipped from his saucer, where the contents of the cup had spilled.

The seeping cup was tottering precariously where it rested; Remus observed the stark contrast of the white froth against the wicker brown, adjusting his hands so that the warmth of the beverage could no longer touch his flesh. The hand on the old Muggle clock moved languidly over the mantel, stealing minutes with a helpless tugging motion, its reverberating tick intermingling within the muffled screams resonating from upstairs.

They'd been under for four hours he thought fleetingly, stilling the nervous jiggle of his leg with the palm of his hand before casting a levitation charm over the pile of papers he had retrieved earlier, not watching as they flew like an oblong impostor of a quaffle in his direction. The weight of the manila file settled disproportionately over his legs; he found it increasingly difficult to remember his body required oxygen on a regular basis. Highly annoyed, he shifted once more in his chair and found himself settling into the same exact location. "Take it," he told Sirius, who watched as he drew his torso as far as possible from the file. "Please," he added, like the bloody coward he was, when the sensation to lock it away from anyone who might ever see it grew to be nearly unbearable.

"This is…?" Sirius said, turning the folder in his hands. An audible catch in the Animagus' breath alerted him that he now knew it was Harry's case file.

Remus fled without a single word.

Without preamble, he watched in a detached manner as his scuffed shoes made their way to the study, the steps of the staircase seemingly protruding further out than usual, the railing too far to offer its looping iron support, and the once brilliant light fixtures not nearly as bright as they were meant to be, their dim, hounding glow growing more faint as he moved within proximity.

Harry began to hyperventilate as his captor brought the basin closer. "No," he cried.

Ervy was sobbing next to him, the weeping morphing into a gut wrenching scream when he was grabbed by the hair on his scalp, his neck bared to reveal a network of purple and blue bruises intermingling within the black veins.

"Do it again."

"Don't Harry!" Ervy begged, his bony torso collapsing to the floor.

Ignoring his friend's pleading, Harry shut his eyes as he lit the torches on the wall, willing to do anything to escape seeing the face of their captor. The glaring heat illuminating the swirling silver mass spun more violently, forming nondescript shapes of small children, of howling visages bubbling to the surface.

"Stop! Harry!" Ervy yelled once more before being backhanded against the mouth.

"You said you wouldn't hurt him!" Harry shouted, sealing his lips shut when Ervy was hit again for his gall.

"The boy will live," the voice responded tonelessly, a smirk spreading across the mouth. "How does it feel to take another life, Harry Potter?" his captor chortled with crazed malice.

"I didn't…I didn't do it." Harry shook his head violently, unmindful of just how much the motion was breaking open the sensitive wounds strewn about his body.

"No? The blood came from you, you chanted the spell for the base of the potion, and now you continue to fuel it. That makes you responsible," the voice prattled on in a sing song voice that made Harry sick to his stomach.

Having heard quite enough, Harry clasped his hands over his ears until he could hear the cellar door close, when he would no longer be faced with the lie of that face.

"Are you okay?" Harry whispered, relieved to see his captor had left them provisions of corn meal and stale bread. They used their fingers to feast on the cold meal, sucking on them until they could taste the dirt coating over their nails.

"I want you to break that promise." Ervy finally told him in a mannered voice after they had finished, turning away from him, as far as his manacles would allow.

"I don't want to hear it," Harry said in a hard voice, feeling an inkling of betrayal that Ervy was selfish enough to say such a thing after all he had done to keep him alive.

"I hate you sometimes," Ervy whispered, his voice choked back by tears.

"I can live with that," Harry responded, shielding his face within the gap between his knees. "Just as long as you don't give up," Harry said softly, and then only because he didn't know how right or wrong he was for asking Ervy to endure so much more pain on his behalf, he added, "I'm sorry."

"Idiot," Ervy said in his usual nonchalant way, clasping his hand within Harry's after wiping away the tears on his cheeks, "don't you know you're supposed to be stubborn enough to ignore everything I say after one of your stupidly contagious fits of chivalry."

The silence hung over them after the statement, Harry giggled first, marveling at his friend's ability to brighten his mood even amidst such a terrible situation, before they both erupted in peals of laughter.

Resting his head against the cold stone of the wall after their shared mirth had subsided, it suddenly occurred to him that he was still wearing Bruce's Christmas present and had neglected to even so much as recall the fact since the cloaked figure had tried to take it a few days ago and failed. For some reason, it seemed to slowly make any pain ebb away so that it wasn't endless. His sore left shoulder, Harry knew, could be hurting a lot more than it was now. Even so, he knew he had to take care of it; he'd be damned if he was going to lose his arm because of some insignificant knife wound.

Shuddering as he carefully separated his shirt sleeve from his infected cut, he took the spoon he had spent the better part of yesterday sharpening against the floor and mentally prepared himself for the pain of its penetration. His nostrils flared as he pressed the tip of the spoon on the puffed edged of the old wound, jabbing it in further as foul-smelling puss rolled down his arm. He'd bitten down so hard on his lip that he could taste blood in his mouth, yet oddly enough, the pain was still above bearable.

The theory behind the pendant was correct.

"Harry?" Ervy called, worried.

"I'm fine," he assured the younger boy while ripping apart the rest of his sleeve in order to bandage his arm. It occurred to him, Bruce's words, 'This has runes and protection on it that will protect ya if ya let them. Never take this off, alright?' Eagerness swept through him. He didn't even know how the pendant worked or the entirety of what it was doing for him, but with one look at Ervy, he knew that he'd break his promise to his tutor if it meant saving his friend, keeping that promise he'd made to him. He would just have to hope that the repercussions wouldn't be more than he was willing to pay.

One Month Later…

Remus brought up his wand once more, letting it drop back to his side with a sigh when he realized how skewed his tired vision was. "Are you okay?" he asked the rogue, who was gripping his shoulder for the fifth time in under an hour, and received a glare in return.

Right. The question was quite daft given the circumstances. They had spent the better part of a week in the slums of Knockturn Alley; and currently they were in an area named Twisted Bend, where the criminals and castaways tended to haunt, lying low in broken-down flats where the Ministry pretended they didn't exist and nobody dared to ask questions. At any rate, any of the bastards would backstab another for a rusty sickle.

Sirius made an abrupt turn, going ahead of them and ambling towards the blanketed darkness, as the vague light of the moon seemed reluctant to illuminate the littered street. The Animagus' sudden wish to separate himself from his companions wouldn't have been significant if it hadn't been for the brief stagger in Bruce's step that Remus had also caught. Sirius could no longer bear to lay eyes on the rogue these days–every flinch of pain was potentially something his godson was enduring all on his own. The man was, after all, still using his ability to channel it towards the only thing they had to make sure that Harry was still alive. While the emotional connection was being blocked, the rogue had managed to retain a one way channel for Harry's pain, as well as a partial shield on the child's mind. Some days Remus could hardly stand it all himself; yet ignoring the plight of suffering Bruce had taken upon himself wasn't something he could ever bring his heavy conscience to do.

"In here," said Sirius, preoccupied with throwing the cloak over his face and not pausing to see if they were following him into the pub.

Bruce automatically leaned against the wall next to the mistreated door. It surprised the werewolf when Bruce caught his arm as he went to tug open the door. The rogue seemed to have been acting out of impulse for there was a strange sort of desperation present upon his face, as if he was trying to communicate without actual speech. "Don't follow a bloke stickin' knives in his own reflection, yeah?" Bruce told him.

Remus could recognize the man's message as the warning that it was: 'Stay away from me for your own bloody good'. The utter helplessness he felt at the moment angered the werewolf the most, more than it irked him endlessly that the chipper rogue he had met in Ireland must have been aware of the serrated edges of his memories every time he had forced a smile, shared a joke, or looked upon Harry only to see his own son begging for death. How cruel was it to expect that man now, after all he knew?

Bruce had always been the same: irrational, brash, protective, explosive...he did all in the extreme. Yet, even back in the days, Remus would catch a single moment of vulnerable lucidity in his gaze, when Remus could finally understand what James had once said about his fellow Auror. Liam Lorcan was truly dead, and in only the cruelest of ways. Everything else that he was enduring since that day he had buried his whole world was a farce in the name of some self-righteous obligation to a mysterious order of wizards, and the constant pain he withstood was to him like reparation for failing to die trying to save them that day. Not looking back, Remus passed under the threshold of the low door and let it crash behind him.

The pub the Animagus had just led them to, Strang Den, was a complete squalor with furniture most likely from the worst hovel of the Middle Ages (some of which were covered with far more questionable waste than a public loo), and an even dingier clientele. Roughly, Remus moved two stools out with his wand, glaring at the young bat-eyed bartender, knowing full well that even his expression was as jarring as its purpose.

Sirius mastered his role as the mysterious persona, his taller stature and superior stance completing the image. It killed them to do this, but if they could learn even a single thing about the current going ons of the forbidden rings of wizarding society, than there was still the possibility that they would eventually stumble upon Harry's whereabouts.

The bartender placed filthy mugs of mead before them, keeping his gaze down as Remus penetrated his skull with his stare, flinching when the werewolf tossed the knuts at him in a brusque manner, more for the benefit of those watching him.

"Tell me," Sirius addressed the man, "it has been a while since I've integrated myself with the rest of the mongrels, but what's the world been up to?"

When this garnered no answer from the man, Remus tried a different tactic. "Have you seen a swindler by the name of Mundungus Fletcher about these parts?" He looked back at Sirius, who shrugged, before looking down at the hunched form of the bartender.

"For Merlin's sake, wolf. The bloke is a mute," Bruce growled from behind him, tossing back the mug of mead which had initially belonged to Sirius. "Show him, Ham," Bruce addressed the bartender gruffly.

Behind two rows of rotting teeth inside the man's exposed mouth, they could see that his tongue had curled back, made charcoal by a dark curse.

"You two know each other?" Sirius inquired, looking between them, and straying longer on Bruce, apparently uneasy by the sudden change in the man.

"Never met him before in me life," Bruce answered lightly, swaying only slightly as he turned in some grand gesture to address the rest of the patrons, "Have any of ye tyrants seen Dung?"

"Never heard of him," a bearded, one-eyed, fellow said near the back.

A hag hunched over near the window spoke up, "We don't like outsiders poking they noses in, if ya ain't be knowin' it, ya ain't got a right to be here," she sneered, turning a disdainful eye their way over her hook-like nose.

"They've got gold," Bruce called cheerfully, threading an arm over each of their shoulders.

"He's cowering behind that there door," the hag answered instantly, extending her wrinkled hand for her gold galleon with a horrific grin.

Mundungus Fletcher froze, took one look at the odd ensemble of his pursuers, and made to run. The werewolf had the man by his throat in a painful lock before he could even turn around fully. The palpable liquor stench clinging to the man's tattered clothing was the first thing to assault his senses.

"I don't know nothin'," Mundungus said, his bloodshot eyes widened in fear. The inner city lilt to his voice was rough and scratched from years of pipe smoking.

"The Old Man has inconveniently been unable to reach you, Dung. We thought you might be needing assistance, considering it's such an important matter," Sirius said coolly.

"Who are you?" Mundungus yelped when he caught a glimpse of Sirius from his vantage position below, his height being much less than the other man's. "You're--"

"Finish the sentence and we will all have more problems than we can afford, considering this is the type of establishment that you tend to frequent," Sirius said quietly.

"B-b-but, Lupin…you're not with em, are ya? You're the good, k-k-kind sort, eh?"

"Your fickle allegiance will not be tolerated," Remus said bitingly, far more harshly than he had intended. Upon hearing his captive emit choking sounds, he doubled his efforts to keep his grip loose upon the man's neck. He had never been a violent man, but at the moment he was hard pressed not to squeeze every piece of information from the elusive man before him.

"I wasn't running away; I move around is all," the thief insisted.

"You waved farewell in Diagon Alley before Apparating just two weeks ago," Sirius shot back with glaring annoyance.

"He caught that did he?" Mundungus winced. "I'd been sure he was further away."

Once they were outside, Remus shoved him into the alley, reclining against a neighboring skip as he got a hold of himself, concentrating on decreasing the amount of aggression he felt to just below murderous.

"You pansies got gold for me?" Mundungus hollered over to them, lighting his pipe, apparently under the delusion that their little display inside had been for show.

"I'll show you gold, you thieving son of a--" Sirius growled before Remus grabbed his arm to calm him.

Bruce stepped forward, his eyes becoming an uncanny shade. "I'm sorry," he whispered under his breath as Mundungus tensed, "but we've no time." The bloodshot eyes of the thief were focused on Bruce's iron expression, fully glazed, and a cloud of ghastly green smoke fell from the man's lips. The sight sent a collective shiver through them. Dung seemed impossibly still, entranced within the violet gaze, and Bruce seemed to be struggling for focus, his jaw grinding. With a grunt of effort, Bruce tore his gaze away and fell to the ground, muffling screams behind his compressed mouth.

They knew not to touch him and kept their distance as they watched Mundungus crumble into a useless heap.

"Focus on me, Dung," Sirius called to the man, guiding him down on the ground so that he avoided the rubbish strewn about them.

Remus watched as he picked up the thief's smoking pipe off the floor and placed it back into the man's grubby palm. The disoriented criminal began to struggle against them and they had a few close calls when he almost thrashed into a collection of broken Firewhiskey bottles. His frazzled sounds of pain or confusion tangled with Bruce's efforts to collect himself before he stilled and finally seemed to realize where he was. Those eyes, which Remus had only seen filled with greed, lack of sympathy, and fear, welled up in tears.

Bruce struggled to his feet and made his way toward them, careful not to touch any of them or look them square in the face. "Lucius has just purchased an entire wing of St. Mungo's," he said. "Sources say that he's been holding a bloke there who he's been using 'illegal' substances to coax out information, for the purpose of getting ta the source of the recent calamities…"

"Abeforth promised me a hefty sum for that, ye know," Mundungus spoke. "I thought if I held back, he'd pay me more. But that lad, the one I felt just now, this can help him, yeah?" The man shuddered, shakily lighting his pipe again.

"It can," Bruce responded stiffly.

Sirius eyes swiveled to meet Remus'; the werewolf looked away first. Was Harry's situation so dire that it could convince a heartless lowlife like Mundungus to consider helping them?

"I ain't want to know how you done that, so I'll be taking all you there, show where it is…just don't tell nobody old Dung's gone soft, ye hear?"

"Ya got me word," the rogue promised.

Mundungus shook Bruce's hand, whose stiff limbs barely contained their agony at the contact, and retreated to the end of the skip as he mopped at his bloodshot eyes with a filthy sleeve.

At arrival in the main lobby of St. Mungo's, a cursory glance of the hospital revealed more than just mere chaos. It was a pandemic, with a bustling crowd of reporters searching for any headliners. Padfoot was at his heels, secured by a collar. The Glamour over his eyes not only evoked sympathy upon the people they encountered, but it was easier to ask questions without suspicion due to the pity caused by his apparent disability. The Animagus growled, snapping at Mundungus' heels as he eyed a pouch of galleons leaning out from a reporter's pocket, who was preoccupied with asking the same question over and over again: "Are the deaths a result of a new strain of dragon pox?"

Mundungus grumbled unpleasantly as they passed the man, entering the lift. They encountered no obstacles getting up to the wing of the hospital reserved for Malfoy, yet they kept alert. As soon as the staff would notice him, they would unanimously conclude that a man with his eyes cursed into oblivion would have no ulterior motives for venturing through St. Mungo's, which was absurd since just two days ago another child had been brought in having pushed his mother off of the tenth story of their flat before following her. They had been pronounced dead yesterday, as the Daily Prophet had announced, adding to the stream of violent deaths plaguing the wizarding world as of late.

The Ministry was near shambles as a result of their lack of action or answers. Weeks before, Arthur Weasley had been suspended along with a heavy handful of low profile ministry personnel on bogus charges of hindering an official investigation with false reports. They were most obviously being used as scapegoats. Chaos, however, continued to reign, heedless to the Wizengamot's desperate attempts to restore order.

The public was not responding well to the curfews and restriction, nor did they appreciate their continued insistence that Sirius Black was somehow behind it all. In fact, the ministry had been forced to order the Dementors back to Azkaban as soon as the illustrious Quibbler began to garner support on their theory that the Dementors were conspiring against the wizarding world by eliminating any future contenders to the leadership role of the magical population. And while they'd felt insane for entertaining the idea, Sirius and he had actually spent three sleepless nights thinking on that possibility. Things just continued to grow progressively worse no matter what they discovered.

"Stop, all of ye," Bruce addressed them, coming around them from where he had been following from behind.

Distracted by his thoughts, Remus hadn't realized that they had been seconds away from setting off the layer of wards before them.

"What?" Mundungus protested, "It's through there, I ain't pulling nothin'." The wizard could obviously not detect the wards, which explained a lot about his chosen profession, since a truly competent wizard would have felt the protections like a wall of bricks, as obvious as they were. Fortunately, they no longer required the thief's assistance.

When Dung had literally skipped off without a protest, his pockets weighed down by a ridiculous handful of the rogue's galleons, Bruce pulled out his wand and dismantled the wards wordlessly. As soon as he was done he excused himself to the nearest loo, where they could hear wrenching from the other side, and glass potion vials were heard rolling across the floor. Remus was in the process of ignoring another one of Padfoot's impatient whines when it got caught mid-way to being released, and both of them turned around, suddenly feeling an uneasy chill go up their spines.

There it was again, a distinct scent that was nudging at his subconscious with its familiarity. Padfoot moved forward, his speed accelerating as they drew closer, pulling against his leash before he managed to rip it out of Remus' grip. Both of them were sprinting as they neared the door, past moaning portraits and down a long corridor, Remus doing so out of the sense of urgency Sirius' blind determination was invoking within him.

"Let's just think before we leap, shall we?" Remus said soundly, catching his breath along with the bear-sized canine when they came to a stop outside of a parted door.

Padfoot released a displeased growl but sat down, perking his ears.

"You can wake up now, Ginny," Ronald Weasley was whispering to his sister, whose severely bruised and bandaged hands were the only thing poking out from under the covers.

Oh, no…something had happened to the Weasleys. Before the werewolf could stop him, Sirius, no doubt recalling that the Weasleys had been an integral part of Harry's recovery, bounded inside, wagging his tail.

"Mr. Weasley, do not be alarmed," Remus said soothingly, following Sirius inside, and suitably impressed when the young boy's first instinct was to put his body before his sister's bed.

"That's a grim!" the boy protested. "Blimey! What happened to your eyes, sir?" Great, the child looked even more put off by his appearance than he was about the rather large beast sniffing at his legs.

"Mr. Lupin?" Remus heard a muffled squeak from under the pile of blankets. The boy, upon his sister's outburst, finally realized who he was.

"Where's Harry?" the child hollered. The werewolf caught the worry behind his disrespect.

Slightly disconcerted by the accusation, Remus bought himself some time by dispelling the Glamour over his eyes.

"Mr. Lupin, is Harry okay?" Ginny Weasley asked softly. "They said things in the paper--"

"Both of you, you must tell me where your parents are," he said, trying not to stare at the youngest Weasley's exposed face without wincing in sympathy. The poor girl was covered in cuts and bruises, her left eye completely shut swollen.

"Mum had to speak to the healer, Dad had to go into hiding, and Aunt Muriel ran down to the lounge cause she heard they were serving kidney pie, even when she was supposed to watch us," he finished, before managing another, " Now, where's Harry?!"

Remus sighed and focused on Padfoot, who had not abandoned his search for the illusive scent and was sniffing a stack of neatly piled hospital gowns. "And what, may I ask, happened to you, Miss Weasley?"

"She doesn't know, and it's our turn for questions!" Ronald interrupted, though it hadn't looked as if the battered little girl had been keen on answering such questions if the sudden green tint to her skin was indication of any sort.

"She must have some idea…" he prodded once more, unheeded by the child's growing scowl. The child was protective of his family, he could give him that.

"It was sleepwalking; she got a broom in the middle of the night and fell from the sky when she realized she couldn't fly it." The boy met his gaze, causing Remus to realize just how much the boy had grown during Harry's estrangement from them.

"Is that right?" he asked the female redhead, who promptly shook her head very quickly.

There was more to the situation, Remus knew, but he was not going to pry any further. He prepared himself to admit to the children that for once the Daily Prophet had published the truth about Harry's kidnapping, not certain if he was prepared to utter the actual words, when he watched in horror as Sirius transformed back into his human self, a look of detestation framing his features. His hands contained a struggling rat, its squeals filling the room, and the werewolf's veins completely flooded with venom. The bastard was three times the size of a normal rat, having enjoyed the presence of six children that had been more than pleased to dote on their pet, and its third claw was missing just where Sirius had told him it would be.

He was disgusted that it had been staring him in the face all along; the filthy traitor had been basking in his good fortune while Remus had racked his brains for any possible way to get his innocent friend out of prison. Never before had he ruthlessly contemplated casting any combination of the Unforgivables without a single hindering thought.

"Peter, why don't you join us?" Sirius called, with his expression as crazed as his voice. The old anger was boiling back to the surface and the young Weasley children had noticed, the oldest climbing on to the bed before his sister as if getting his feet off the ground would protect him from danger.

What're you doing to Scabbers?" the boy had the gall to say, though he tensed when both men looked up at him.

Using the distraction to his advantage, the rat in question bit Sirius hard enough to draw blood and managed to get free, his little paws scuttling towards the door. "Deanimo!" Sirius shouted instantly, watching with satisfaction as a blue-white light enveloped the shrieking creature.

"Welcome back, dearest Peter…oh, how we missed you," Remus said with surprising calm, gripping his wand so hard that he was sure he'd have the wood's simple design bruised into his skin for hours.

The excuse for a human being in front of them was not the small scurrying boy that had trailed after James with his pathetic hero worship. The gray pallor to his skin stood out over his mousy, balding head, his rat-like little eyes zooming across the room with nervous energy. His chipped buck teeth still upstaged his sharp nose. Even the clothing on him was too small for the added girth in his chubby limbs. Those watery eyes looked up at him, and the traitor fell to his knees. "Y-y-you don't u-u-understand…what it was like," he cried, groveling, a screeching quality to his voice grating against their ear drums.

Both children seemed frozen by fear now, the name Sirius Black hanging from their lips, clinging hands in their panic.

It has come to my attention that we have just a few pressing matters to discuss, dearest Peter," Remus told him casually.

"You have got to understand, y-y-you Remus, how uncertain it's b-b-been for me with that backstabber alive, r-r-readying for an escape!" Peter tried shrilly, wildly waving his grubby arms in the Animagus' direction.

Sirius bared his teeth viciously, as if struggling to contain all the hate and turmoil fighting for control within him. "You disgusting little leech, you handed Lily and James to the murdering creature! And once you could pin it on me, you cowered away from the rest of your Death Eaters, who were most displeased about their master' subsequent downfall on your information."

"No! Remus, he's lying, he was their Secret Keeper! H-he's a Black; he befriended James just to hand them over!" Peter was hysterical now.

"HOW DARE YOU UTTER HIS NAME!" Sirius roared, face livid. "Did you truly believe that you could sell them to Voldemort, to spy on the order for an entire year, without suffering the consequences one day?!" the Animagus questioned him in acerbic tones. His sturdy aspen wand was leveled at Peter's heart, a fact that hadn't escaped the rat's notice, for he squirmed pathetically under it.

"Please–have mercy, the Dark Lord, y-y-you got to understand--"

With malicious rebuttal, Sirius cut in, "I understand that I made the biggest mistake of my life, picking an insignificant little grub like you, convincing Lily and James to use you instead, and that right now I am going to be one step closer at making it right."

"Remus?!" the rat shrieked at him.

"The only reason, old friend," he said unkindly, "that you are not yet dead is due to the fact that I refuse to murder you in front of these children."

The stocky man flinched back and then muttered 'the children' under his breath before lurching toward the foot of the bed, "Little ones, you won't let them do that, will you? I was never anything but a good rat…a very nice pet."

Both looked properly horrified that their dear Scabbers had been a grown, not to mention a man long believed dead, all along.

Remus and Sirius shared a glance before hauling Peter back by his arms, pushing him towards the doorway.

"Children, I want you to bar the door once we leave. Do not forget to place a towel under the crack. I can trust you to accomplish this simple task?" he asked them.

The boy was still in a state of mild shock, his mouth hanging loose, while the youngest nodded in a daze.

On return, he was met by a panting Peter that had knelt in the dimly-lit hallway, trying to grab Sirius' robes, who took a few disgusted steps back. "I-I-I beg you," the man stammered.

Remus seized him, brandishing his wand, Peter trembling beneath him. Then he caught the seemingly senseless muttering Peter was doing, and the glimmer of an object caught his eye near the vicinity of the Animagus' trouser pocket.

Sirius saw it at once and reached for it while Peter completely laid flat against the floor and used his feet to skitter away. "Save me! You must save me!" gasped the man. But instead of looking at them, he had retrieved a silver circle mirror and was shouting into it.

"Accio mirror," Remus called, he himself perturbed by the instant fury that flooded Sirius face.

"Everbero!" Sirius cursed the prone man, whose head shot back, his entire body skidding across the tile, as the red imprint of large hand began to form on his cheek. "YOU STOLE JAMES' MIRROR?!" Sirius shook with pure hatred. "After he was dead, lying there, you dared enter that house and steal his mirror!!!!"

The stocky man seemed frozen by terror now, backing away as a steady flow of blood drizzled unto his shoulder from his ear. In two large strides, the werewolf had made it to Peter's side and thrust his wand under the flabby neck, very calmly asking him, "Who is in possession of the other?"

Just before Peter was forcefully persuaded to answer, a sudden gasp to his left became diversion enough for Peter to charge upwards and scratch at his face like some desperate animal at the verge of being consumed.

Sirius shot a blasting curse at the rat as he fought to get his wand free, the spell shooting the other man twenty feet through the air before he smashed into the hard floor with a muted thud. Remus cast a binding spell and missed, Sirius right at his side as they both strode forward with purpose, intent on taking the traitor's life once in for all. They were forced to stop when they came upon the struggle.

Peter had collided with a child and had secured the boy within the crook of his elbow as he held a hawthorn wand to the strikingly bright blond head.

"Let me go, you dirty lunatic! Do you know who I am?" the child shouted, his clear gray gaze ablaze with offense. "Return my wand at once!"

They could tell that Peter had not, in fact, noticed by his expression of nervous panic upon taking in the aristocratic replica of none other than Lucius Malfoy. While the boy was certainly just a child, it was easy to tell that he had long achieved the haughty countenance that purebloods tended to master rather early.

Peter glanced back, as did they, knowing that if his only heir had fallen upon them, then it wasn't much of a stretch to expect a rather displeased Death Eater, ready to kill in his defense, at any given moment.

Relieved that the child had not yet seen them, he and Sirius nodded at each other, and in a rapid succession of events: Sirius transformed and leaped through the air, Remus grabbed the boy, and Peter turned back into a squealing rat to avoid Padfoot's sharp canines from sinking into his leg.

"Run. Run as fast as you can!" he told the boy urgently, securing the child's illegal wand into his robes in order to remove the possibility of an unneeded argument. No one could argue that the Malfoys didn't encourage their child's very strong instincts of self-preservation, for the small boy didn't need to be told twice before sprinting away from them.

Padfoot let out a frustrated growl that the child of Malfoy had made himself a nuisance, muffled, because secured in his jaws was a squirming rat.

"That's going to leave behind a foul taste, Sirius," Remus remarked dryly, raising his wand.

Once they had found an abandoned room and bound the rat in ropes to the mattress, they finally removed the gag, also known as Sirius' sweaty sock, from his mouth.

"Explain, Peter, or we will make you suffer more than is deemed necessary," Remus told the trembling traitor, holding up the mirror that had once belonged to Prongs.

"I was in Hogsmeade, with that Percy boy, when I got knocked down and he didn't take notice," he huffed but then seemed to remember which company he was keeping, "when some kneazle mix nuisance chased me. I was forced to transform before it ate me. Some broad noticed, only she wasn't a witch at all. I knew it was him really, only he didn't remember anything."

"Who? Sirius pressed harshly when the other man stopped, a sickening semblance of admiration at the memory present in the glaze of his beady eyes.

"The Dark Lord, as a boy…only being made to use that mad woman. I told him so, I let him know everything." An appalling smile formed on his lips and he seemed so lost in recounting the tale that it took him a while to catch himself when he lapsed into gloating about how he had been the only one who'd known where Harry Potter was.

The only reason that neither of them had yet to torture the man for his audacity to feel pride over being an errand boy to this person running around with an amnesia-inflicted Voldemort in their heads was due the fact that their skills of Legilimency were nearly nonexistent and they had no Veritaserum in their possession.

"What did you do?" Sirius bellowed.

Gulping, Peter stared up at the wand tip pressing into his forehead, before he continued on, "He wanted me to find a way into the manor. On the day he took that child, I was made to wait just where I remembered it'd been, Potter manor, and when the wards lifted and then made to settle back down, it included me in its protections so that I could come and go as I pleased."

"You took him," Sirius snarled, casting, "Everbero!" once more.

Peter laughed madly, his nose bleeding profusely after his head had come to rest back against the metal headboard, "No, I didn't. I told…about how to push him to leave on his own. And when he actually left, I took his note…followed them, told her where both of them had gone, and I took that prank we'd used in sixth year, created by you no less, Padfoot, the one where we stole Slughorn's stores of Polyjuice and incriminated Snivellus in all sorts of petty crimes. The boy's been seeing your faces every day of his capture." The rat was laughing so hard that he started hacking, his eyes leaking tears at the corners.

Both Sirius and Remus, at the revulsion they felt and the sudden raw agony ripping through them, moved in sync to cast the suffocation hex they had agreed upon, a slow and painful death proper for the one who had destroyed their lives, when the door was forcefully torn open.

"Ministry of Magic; drop you wands or we will be pressured to use lethal curses," a voice barked.

"Don't resist," Sirius spoke across to him.

Remus nodded, morbidly wondering it would be the last time he would hear Sirius speak while still in possession of his soul. A struggle, in any case, would be futile, and would only hinder their cause.

They were seized by a flurry of hands, not resisting, when loud raucous steps in the hallway interrupted them all.

"Harry Potter was just admitted, Healer Gantry, critical," one of the seasoned nurses could be heard saying as the group rushed by.

The other boy's voice was soothing in the darkness. It told him that he was not only still alive to listen, but that Ervy was still strong enough to actively recite his passion from memory. Besides, Ervy had told him all about the Polyjuice he had once read about, and it assured him that he wasn't just seeing things, that his entire world was still mercifully hanging by threads.

"…Lacewing flies, leeches, fluxweed, hand-picked at the full moon, knotgrass, fine powdered bicorn horn, boomslang skin, shredded of course, otherwise it'll be too heavy, and--" Suddenly Ervy stopped and collapsed forward. The ever persistent cough made a triumphant return as the other boy curled back into his ball and held himself close. By the end of the attack, his breathing was nothing more but a panic-inducing stridor.

Forced to ignite the torches when the wheezes didn't stop, Harry quickly turned Ervy to face him, growing further alarmed when the action revealed that the black veins had spread to surround his friend's chin, a thick coating of blood drizzling from his lips.

Ervy's slate eyes were looking up at him, beginning to drift closed as his face grew blue from lack of oxygen.

"Hold on," Harry cried, desperately yanking the leather chord from around his neck, beyond relieved when it came clean off with just one tug. Faster, he told himself, as he clumsily hung the pendant from the small boy's neck, praying that his friend's lungs wouldn't just fail. "Please work," he mumbled, repeating the phrase over and over again, unable to tear his eyes away from Ervy's body.

The light shadow encasing the mirror across from Harry flickered very quickly, taunting him.

Growing increasingly secure in the fact that Ervy's skin was slowly regaining a bit of color, he was astounded to see that the curse that infected his friend's blood and formed black trails had begun to clear at a rapid rate, taking with it any bruises. The rune etched on the gold of the pendant began to emit a mild glow. "Ervy, you idiot," he whispered, unable to bring himself to care that a thick fog was slowly filling their dungeon, or that his scar was beginning to throb, "brothers don't quit on each other." He grinned when saw the little boy's thin chest rise and fall once again in a calm steady pattern. "Not ever," he finished reiterating from his friend's own words nearly two months ago, feeling the urge to cry and laugh all at once.

The feeling left him completely when heard a voice flare alive.

"Murdered so many already, what does it matter if you let him live?"

"No…" Harry begged, keeping his head down after detaching himself from his friend's body.

"Look!"

It was his face in the mirror, his distorted reflection.

You will never escape me. It is inevitable, Harry…

He screamed to muffle the shouts of "murderer!", trembling with terror as the reverberating echoes neared him. Sirius and Remus emerged like jigsaw shapes from the mirror, their faces full of menace. Every intrinsic detail validated that this was it, his irrefutable end. Logic seemed inconsequential when he could not prove that his eyes were deceiving him. Just before he was sure the impossible figures were going to grab him and tear him apart, his scar burst in agony. He knew for certain that his head was going to explode at any second, and he literally felt like the core of him was being pulled in a thousand directions, his magic bursting from him in dangerous waves.

Vision gone completely, Harry could only hear as the entire dungeon shook, as the walls behind him started to quiver and rumble as they began to collapse. The needle point pressures had become more like bludgeoning impacts of agony, his skin cracking as the real-life image of his guardians morphed into one of a young handsome boy, keeping his gleeful dark eyes on his as he held a white hare down and twisted its neck with blood-coated hands.

"Let go!"

"Shut up, you sick bastard!" he responded back, struggling to breath. As the young wizard wiped at his dripping eyes, his blurred vision returned just in time to see when a trail of angry fire made a direct path for the mirror, consuming it.

"I could kill you for that!" the voice screamed in fury.

Just then, he heard the cellar door open, and Harry took full advantage of the dust-filled room, ducking behind a large supporting pillar after realizing with a start that his friend had disappeared from his side. A hand clamped his mouth shut before he could cry out.

"Shhh…it's me, Harry," Ervy said softly, much to Harry's relief.

"The shadow…he's gone…that means," Harry started, worry beginning to make its way onto his face.

"That it's her," Ervy finished.

As time had gone by, their captor had begun to somehow host the boy's essence. Those were the times when their treatment had grown crueler. From watching alone they could tell a good day from a bad one by how the shadow had acted the night before, while the wizarding world had been fast asleep.

"Remember that potion we worked on together?" Ervy prompted, his small face holding a mix of fear and urgency.

Harry gave a reluctant nod, still listening for the ragged breathing of their kidnapper. The reprieve they had been allowed abandoned them as the young wizard began to feel the uncomfortable tingling in his arms. "We better hurry," Harry urged when the roof began to grumble as if under some heavy weight.

"Here, let me show you then." From his tattered pocket, the smaller boy retrieved a Quidditch glove that he had dropped upon his arrival to their prison. It had been so close the entire time, cloaked in darkness, just out of their reach.

"That's my dad's, the one we found on the treasure hunt." There was no way Harry could ever forget the smooth, worn leather with the messy initials scrawled on the straps of his father's old gloves.

"I made them in that potion for you, Harry. So you won't be in so much danger when you go out. It can make you look like anybody you touch." The old glimmer of excitement had made a reappearance in the warm grey eyes, his impish grin offering hope. "I got a plan, Harry, you just hold on." With brightened vigor, the other boy pulled on the glove, startling when the shaking of the stones increased and a blast of flames seemed to spread like wildfire all around them, as if imaginary shrubs and kindling were feeding it.

Falling into Harry, Ervy's gloved hand impacted the other boy's bare shoulder, the flesh sizzling under it. "I'm so sorry, Harry!" Ervy said immediately as the green-eyed boy instinctively pushed him away, his clammy skin vibrating with endless tremors, as he breathed in steady puffs to control whatever was trying to get a hold of his body.

From the corner of his eye, Harry witnessed as his friend squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated, impressed when his thin face widened and his facial structure seemed to pop into another face altogether. His limbs elongated in a mess of pops and cracks, of cartilage and bone rubbing against one another. The results were extraordinary; Ervin Kippling looked exactly like him, like a twin copy of Harry Potter, outfit and all. When Ervy came to, he grimaced. "The cattail root sometimes reacts badly to the combination of runespoor eggs and dragon's blood when they first come in contact with organic flesh. It gets very hot, for that first time," he said apologetically.

"Don't worry about it. The burn made it easier to concentrate," Harry admitted truthfully, feeling ill at the concept. Upon closer inspection, he knew the throbbing burn was likely to scar, and he felt a sense of foreboding when he realized the burn was in the exact imprint of his friend's small hand.

"Ervin!" someone, a deep male voice, called through the thick debris filling the air.

"That's my father," Ervy whispered, eyes widened.

They shared a moment of confusion as they contemplated whether it was wise to trust that this was in fact Mr. Kippling, an impostor, or their captor impersonating the voice to lure them out of hiding. They didn't even know for sure if the real Mr. Kippling had been killed.

"Your mu–the evil bint might be waiting either way." No matter how hard he tried to make the words come out, Harry couldn't let the truth spill out. The other boy had his head down. There was an intolerable sort of shame that he knew his friend was feeling at the moment.

Ladean Kippling had been the one to take them.

"She used to dress like that when I was very little and take me here, promised me that my father would get hurt if I told. She'd make me sit out in the dark, and the boy, he'd whisper things I couldn't understand, hisses." He looked up with a haunted gaze. "I know he's been affecting you, that boy…." Ervy said softly, in a defeated whisper. "I'm so sorry I kept it from you; I just… I didn't want you to hate me. "

"I already knew, Ervy," Harry confessed. The woman was not right in her head, and Harry had heard when she'd curse Ervy under her breath, calling him all sorts of ugly names, cursing the very day he was born. Ervin Kippling was just as much a prisoner as he was.

"Ervin!" the voice was closer now, getting nearer as it shouted the name through the roar of flames and the crumbling rock reinforcing the house's foundations.

"Let's go," Harry rushed his friend, grabbing his arm to assist him in standing. He lost his grip as a painful jab in his lightning-bolt scar seemed to split his forehead open, falling to his knees and scathing them as he did so. With horror, he felt a leather chord tighten around his neck, looking up in time to watch as Ervy stepped away from him, observing his hands as inky black pools spread under the skin. The lighting scar cutting across his forehead returned to unfeeling as the cool metal touched his chest. However, the damage from the outburst he had had was irreparable; the entire building was going to fall right on top of them.

"No!" he yelled before an arm fastened around his neck from behind and a wand tip poked at his jugular.

"Caught you," Ladean Kippling hissed. "Now who's the real one?" She wasn't speaking in a normal language. Before he could respond, he heard Ervy begin to hiss the only words Harry had repeated over and over again as they took him away.

"Let him go!" Ervy shouted. It was chopped and imperfect, but it was coherent and Harry was immediately tossed away, his head hitting the stone floor as he impacted it.

"Stop it!" he screamed at Ervy, who was now backing away from the looming figure of his mother, his shaking hands clamped at his side as if he was understanding Ladean Kippling's strange words.

The slate grey eyes met his, and Harry shook his head, horrified when Ervy took a rock within his hand and threw it as his cloaked attacker. It hit her on the shoulder and sent her wand to the floor. Ervy dove for it and aimed it at his own mother, and Harry was frozen in shock when Mr. Kippling appeared just past the shadow of darkness, a dark look encompassing his face as he released a green flash of light from the end of his own wand that struck his wife in the chest.

Harry would never forget the look of grief on Mr. Kipplings face as he fell over her form, her cloak falling to reveal spilling curls. An orb of light rose from her chest and a dark shadow formed right above it. The light, in a mad surge, grew bigger until an ear-splitting scream disrupted every sound emanating from the crumbling dungeon. They watched as the mirror shattered and exploded, shooting the fragments through the air.

All returned to destruction, the flames surrounding them flared with renewed vigor as wooden rafters began to crash down from above.

Ervy, still looking like a replica of him, grabbed at his father's arms and propelled him upwards. Harry ran towards them, still unable to hear anything but the falling rocks impacting each other with brute force. The pillar to their right made a resounding crash as it toppled down, its thick girth fully trapping his friend underneath it.

In a horrified sequence, Mr. Kippling sighted Harry as he ran towards his own clone and came to the realization that one of the pair had to be his own son. He met Harry half way and gave him a long look of pure despair when one glance at him confirmed his worse fears.

"I'll help you," Harry assured him, not looking back up. They heard Ervy speak as they tried to move the obstruction, trying anything and everything to get back to him, determined not to leave without him. The flames were dancing closer and closer and he had become exhausted throughout his ordeal without the pendant, he simply couldn't conjure up even a cinch of his abilities. Harry was powerless.

"I'm not afraid," Ervy whispered in a cracked voice, his breathing shallow and unsteady as he grasped Harry's hand.

With new determination, Harry lifted himself off the floor and dodged rocks in order to retrieve Mr. Kippling's wand. Rolling away in a maneuver Bruce had taught him that summer; Harry barely made it out of the way as a portion of the ceiling above him fell.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" the man shouted when Harry had made it back. The stone levitated briefly before falling off to the side and sending flaming ashes through the air.

Weak, gurgling noises were coming from Ervy's mouth as Mr. Kippling gathered him in his arms. Unfortunately, as he stepped back to give them space, the action caused him to step right into the path of a tumbling portion of wall. The sharp stab of pain that came with the snap of his leg was intolerable.

Mr. Kippling, Ervy in his arms, hovered over him. Harry gazed up at him as the man placed a blue marble in his hand.

"Thank you, Harry Potter," Mr. Kippling said, the entirety of his expression contrite.

Out of breath, eyes drifting shut from the sheer amount of exhaustion that he had never before felt, he wrapped his hand around the marble before drifting off into unconsciousness.

"The artifact is secure, I was informed," Dumbledore told them, watching through the window pane as Harry peered down at his hands listlessly. "Liam Lorcan's connection to Harry has been completely severed, though the original, far more effective protection continues to exist." His fingertips briefly fluttered over the pane. "By managing to overt all the side effects towards himself, he is paying the price for the connection's discretion. The poor man will suffer for some time." Dumbledore tore his azure eyes away. "Mr. Pettigrew's confession seems to have expedited your releases from Ministry holding cells…I did not see a time in which Mr. Potter's fragile emotional stability seemed able enough to handle the mere mention of your names during your shared absence. We have little choice at this point, however. St. Mungo's can only keep the media at bay for so long. It becomes somewhat of a spectacle when an obituary must be retracted."

Remus nodded solemnly, unable to sustain eye contact with the older wizard.

Sirius cursed under his breath, clasping a hand over his mouth as he fisted his palm into the opposite wall and bowed his head. The stifling pressure of undeniable failure filled the gaping wounds in their chests.

Three days, six hours, twenty minutes, and forty-three seconds… They had waited that long in that cell, speculating over Harry's state, listening to the cruel whispers of death to their charge. They had suffocated in their own silence as they imagined the worse.

"There is no one left, at this point, who can help him survive his ordeal," Dumbledore said ruefully. The headmaster was apparently the only one that knew who had found Harry in a cottage near Hogsmeade, where Honeydukes was the only shop that sold the red sweets Baron Drops, which had been found at the shack where Ervin Kippling had taken Harry. Based on that clue, an anonymous rescuer had found the boy in the beginning stages of severe shock and pneumonia inside a seemingly abandoned cottage by way of a simple locating charm.

"Padfoot," Remus called to his distressed friend, "We must go. Right now," he said.

Sirius swallowed deeply. "Nearly two months in that hell." The crumbled fist at his side shook. "Two damn months of-…"

"I hate myself no less than you do, Sirius," Remus replied softly, digging his nails into his pockets, wondering over his own ability to appear so emotionless when the pain was so crippling inside.

"Harry," Sirius tried softly once they we inside the sterilized room, where the lights had been dimmed due to the sensitivity of his eyesight, "we thought you might like some breakfast." The boy's emerald eyes seemed permanently affixed on the woven cotton of his crisp sheets.

"There's grits and biscuits, some milk," Remus added, as if they both weren't restraining themselves from clutching onto their charge and making sure it was all real. The tray was carefully set on a small wooden plane extending across Harry's lap.

"I would have been here earlier, kiddo, but we kind of landed in prison for a while."

"That's right," Remus affirmed. "We never stopped looking for you."

Harry's line of vision rose towards his food at least. For a second, they were relieved that he was giving them a response, no matter how minimal, before having it crushed by the fact that the contents of the tray went aflame.

"If you weren't hungry, Harry, we could have just taken it out of your hands, you know," Sirius was trying so hard to insert some humor behind it.

Remus extinguished the flaming food. "The culinary minded have a name for that technique, too. Though I can't think of it at the moment," Remus added, watching the cold detachment Harry was able to procure in defense. Shoved aside, the metal tray toppled to the ground.

"Harry," Sirius pleaded sadly, unfazed by the charred grits now decorating his trousers. When Remus made to move closer, the sleeve of his jumper was set on fire as well. They died out before the werewolf could put them out himself.

"You have to mean it, Harry," Remus whispered, feeling his eyes water, "you have to truly want to cause me harm for it to hurt me."

A whine of misery escaped Harry's mouth and his striking emerald eyes flooded with tears. His lips compressed tightly. He whimpered through his throat, unable to fully silence the sounds, his limbs trembling.

"If you're not comfortable being around us, we could give you some more time. I understand that we were used to hurt you, Harry…" Sirius drifted off in a shaky voice Remus had never heard before, shutting his eyes.

"So, you just tell us if it's too much, okay?" Remus finished for him, nearly taking his charge's hand in his before thinking better of it.

"Please let us hear you speak, if nothing else…" Sirius breathed. "The Daily Prophet, they pronounced you dead. Worse than Azkaban, that. I can't communicate what I felt then…I don't think I could live with losing you." They waited for any cues, any indication that they weren't just causing the child more pain by showing their faces. When they spotted nothing, Remus moved away. "Okay…we'll be just outside that door to make certain you're safe." Sirius made to follow his retreat.

"Help," Harry said so softly they could just vaguely catch it. Both men released an intelligible sound of relief. Sobs were wracking the child's gaunt frame. "Help me," he whimpered. "It hurts," he gasped for air as the tears flowed down his flushed cheeks, "It hurts so badly." For the first time, he met their eyes, complete torture written within the irises. "I destroy everything," he sobbed.

"Don't you ever think that," Remus got in through the piercing pain in his chest. Sirius was no longer capable of maintaining his distance, hugging his godson tightly to his chest, seeking to shield him as Remus comforted him by drawing circles over the starred pajama top.

"I'm so sorry you had to go through losing someone else in your life, Harry" Sirius told him. "Rather sad sort, aren't we? But if you give us another chance we'll try harder not to be half as daft as we've been so far."

"I never, not once, believed they were you guys," Harry sniffled. "I just…I didn't understand how you could stand someone like me. I didn't deserve it–I was trouble from the start."

"On the contrary, Harry. You have no idea how special you are," Remus said softly. "The funny aspect of all this is that we spend most of our days wondering what we did to deserve you." Remus sat on the edge of the bed, pulling Harry to him.

"Being around you alone made us a better lot. No one tames old Padfoot like you, I'll have you know." Sirius grinned and the corner of Harry's mouth went up. "We failed you, Harry, and I know you're strong and brave, but we hope for a chance to redeem ourselves so that you don't ever have to stand alone."

"Can you accept that, Harry?" Remus asked him. "Will you let us help you when you're scared and confused so that this never happens again?"

Harry nodded, tearing his eyes away from them.

"Tell us, Harry. I know it hurts, but it'll only be worse if you don't share it. Trust me in that." Sirius told him softly, running his hands through the tangled mop of his godson's hair.

"I promised I'd take care of him, of Ervy," the boy admitted softly. "I need…I need some help to bury--" Unable to cope with finishing the sentence, Harry tightly wound his hands around his late father's Quidditch glove, like a child clutching a prized teddy bear for comfort. Lost eyes swiveled across his lap, sickly wide with memory, with the trace of their neglect.

This was monumental for Harry, who rarely, if ever, asked for assistance of any sort. Robert Kippling had ingested enough ricin to murder a herd of Thestrals when they were unable to resuscitate his son. The worst part had been the headmaster's depiction of Harry leaving his rooms to find those bodies, all because they had refused to tell him what had happened. Apparently, Harry had sworn to never forgive the headmaster for not doing anything, for not telling him. Albus Dumbledore had alluded to false hope, and the bitter reality he'd been faced with so abruptly had literally crushed Harry to the point that he had not reacted to a single stimuli in his environment for days. It was quite a feat, what they had accomplished, Remus knew.

"We'll help you make all the arrangements," Sirius promised instantly.

A/N: I sincerely hope that my lack of updates hasn't put many off this story. And I would be so grateful for any reviews or thoughts on how the characters were portrayed. I always worry that the way I'm envisioning it isn't translating onto the page correctly. Let me know if you enjoyed it. Can anyone say "All aboard the Hogwarts Express!" for the next chapter?