A/N: OKAY I AM THE WORST HUMAN BEING EVER I NEVER REALIZED THIS CHAPTER HADN'T BEEN ADDED I'M SO SORRY

Chapter Twenty-Seven: (8,600 words)

The Dark Lord's mouth curled into a smile, and Alan opted for show, bowing shallowly, never taking his eyes off his opponent. "I believe a duel starts with a bow, Lord Voldemort?"

"It does," Voldemort agreed in a playful tone, bowing in return to Alan. He started the duel with a spell the moment he straightened.

Alan was surprised, but he reacted in time and danced away from the dark red light... the Cruciatus...

Getting his bearings, Alan returned fire with blasting and bone-breaking curses. He wondered just what would actually help. Voldemort shielded and returned fire, still pandering to the Unforgiveables: the Cruciatus... not the Killing Curse. Voldemort was toying with him. Alan, irritated at the dismissal and stressed, toyed right back. The next curse he cast hit, much to his dismay – Voldemort wheezed as he doubled over for a moment. Alan tried not to laugh nervously in return: he'd cast the terrible tickling curse.

The joke spell didn't last long, and Voldemort broke free with a snarl – his return spell came fast, and Alan didn't dodge in time.

The pain ripped through his mind, fast and hard, and Alan wasn't aware of hitting the ground. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe... He scrabbled at his wrist for his wand, for anything – Harry's had left his hands; he didn't know where it was. He got his wand out and something struck his wrist – it felt like a brand, scalding his skin and consuming his arm. The feeling left his fingers but for the sensation of burning. Something was in his mouth as he screamed, and he choked. He couldn't breathe!

When the pain lifted, it took him several seconds to really notice as he shuddered, face down in the cold earth. His left arm was still twitching and tingling; his back spasmed as he feared it would come right back. Finally Alan could lift himself enough to look for his wand. He found it on the dirt just to his right. Before he could reach it, Voldemort stepped forward directly onto it. Alan froze as he heard the faint crack. No... his wand...

Alan tentatively reached but stopped short of touching Voldemort's bare foot.

"I don't think you'll need that," Voldemort hissed, "if you don't even take this fight seriously..."

Alan glanced to both sides, and there... Harry's wand was several feet to his right. He glanced up then and shivered as he caught Voldemort's pitiless red eyes.

The shiver didn't matter. Some unseen signal passed around him and red light flashed on all sides. He was aware he was screaming but it didn't matter as he couldn't feel the dirt beneath his hands. He shifted from ice to fire as he tried to make sense of it, and gasped in air like frozen knives. He choked and sobbed, shaking in a ball on the ground as awareness slowly trickled back into his body – aware that he was on the ground, curled around his head as his legs shuddered and twitched. Aware that he was breathing and alive and...

Alan licked his dry lips and stared blankly at the ground in front of him, wondering if his body would listen if he tried to move. He blinked, and a pale rod was dangled before his eyes. It took him a moment to look at it, recognize it, and glance up and beyond into Voldemort's red eyes, staring down at him from a mocking crouch. He held two wands in his other hand.

"Do you feel like fighting yet?" the Dark Lord taunted him.

The honest answer was 'no'. He wanted to run away, back to Louis, and he wanted to hide until the pain left his body and he could move without wanting to scream. But the only option he had was 'yes'. It took him three tries to get his mouth damp enough to answer, and even then it broke and raked his throat. The Death Eaters chuckled around him, but Alan ignored them to force himself up. He accepted his broken wand from Voldemort, struggling not to let himself cry, and tucked it back into its holster. He looked back over and found the Dark Lord smiling.

"May I have my second wand, please?" Alan asked.

"Is your wand useless to you now, Alan?" Voldemort mocked. "Perhaps you should have made better use of it while it still worked." The Dark Lord straightened and held up the pale holly wand, taunting him.

Alan forced himself to stand up on shaking legs and slid his hands over his pockets in the image of wiping off the dirt ground into his palms and broken nails. He could feel the heavy weight in his right pocket. His newest gift from his godfather: if he could stomach it.

"Perhaps you should just get this over with," Alan snarled, his hand closing and then releasing the rubber grip.

Voldemort turned another glare on him and raised his wand. "I think you need reminding of your manners, boy. Perhaps you should not be so eager to meet your own death. Shall we say we're sorry for your impudence?"

Alan sneered. "Never."

"Imperio."

Fog settled over Alan's mind, a mist filled with pleasant dreams and kind words and no worries and no expectations. Beneath it, and below, and everywhere outside the fog, Alan struggled to push it out.

'Say, "I'm sorry for being rude, sir."'

Alan refused.

'You will say what I tell you to! Say it!'

The fog shattered.

"I refuse... to obey you!"Alan screamed.

The Death Eaters stopped jeering, and Voldemort frowned. "Perhaps you need a more... direct lesson, then... Dolohov, if you will..."

Alan looked around the circle to see who responded to that name. A masked Death Eater stepped forward, murmuring his thanks before he turned and drew his wand. Alan dodged the first spell, but the second hit his chest like a battering ram and threw him to the ground. The third hit his right shoulder as he tried to get back up and Alan dropped over his knees and screamed. Searing blood seeped into his robes as his skin split and blistered – his left hand burned when he touched the wound, and Alan bit back a sob.

He forced himself to sit up again, and as soon as he showed his face, a thin flash of light nicked his cheek. Alan flinched and felt the blood as it dripped down his cheek. Another tiny flash cut through his robes to his shoulder, then punched into his chest – it was no more painful than a playful punch, but he felt the blood seep down from it, the heat dripping across his skin.

A second cut marked him under his right eye, and Alan shouted, "Enough! Stop it!"

The Death Eaters laughed, and Voldemort blasted him from the side, throwing him to the ground. His head cracked into a tombstone. His body was too weak to heed his commands to stand, to get up and fight back. Dolohov stalked up to him and grabbed his hair – another spell sent his hands together behind his back, and he was lifted and thrown against a nearby monument, his arms bound to it – leaving his chest open. The Death Eater exchanged his wand for a small knife. Alan tried to struggle, but a second spell locked his legs to the stone as well. The blade was laid at the base of his shirt and tore upwards.

Alan looked away and swallowed, jerking against the ropes once again until Dolohov put the knife to his collarbone and cut down. It burned; Alan didn't know if that was normal pain, or a trick from some spell or potion. His breath grew shallow and fast, and he closed his eyes. He'd tried watching Dolohov's face, but the mask hid everything. After the first few minutes, Alan stopped thinking about it, stopped wondering, and bit his lip to stop the soft cries when the knife went too deep. His skin was covered in a thin sheen of his own blood.

He was trying not to admit the wet heat on his face wasn't simply blood from the cuts when Dolohov paused, his knife lifting – and Alan nearly sobbed with relief when Voldemort spoke once more,

"Dolohov, you have done well. Release him. Macnair..."

Alan took a deep breath that made his body burn, and he had to grab hold of the monument he was pressed against in order to not fall as the ropes gave way. His cut shirt hung around his bloody chest, and he looked at the gathered Death Eaters frantically to find who was coming to hurt him next.

Macnair, a heavyset man, stepped out of the ring, bowing deeply to Voldemort and then hesitating before he stepped forward. Alan struggled to even out his breathing and find his balance again before Macnair was close enough, closer than he needed to be to use a wand. The Death Eater took the last step into Alan's range and received a booted heel hard in the groin, hard enough that Macnair made a pained whine and dropped to his backside, hard enough the man overbalanced and rolled onto his side. Alan leaned against the monument again and laughed bitterly. The Death Eaters around him shifted uneasily. Macnair rolled one dark eye to stare, furious, and pulled his wand.

"Crucio!"

Stars burst behind his eyes as Alan dropped to one side – his chest felt doused in acid or salt, and his spine twitched and shuddered – but he caught himself on the ground, curling into his arms and head, panting and breathing hard as he rolled onto his side, and then onto his back. He began to hyperventilate – knew he was hyperventilating, knew the pain wasn't so bad, not as bad as it had been before – until another, stronger wave swamped over him and he started to scream.

The pain swept away, leaving Alan vaguely aware once more of the earth beneath his hands – cold dirt, sparse grass, stinging in his cut chest, burning on his aching shoulder. Someone grabbed his torn shoulder and hauled him to his feet as he struggled and screamed, pushing against them – struggling to get away. They didn't give in, and Alan finally caved, choking down his sobs of pain. He groaned and rolled his head until he could see what was around him once more.

He wasn't given long – thin, skeletal fingers grabbed his chin again, and Alan looked up into red eyes. He couldn't stop the shiver of fear that wracked his body. Voldemort smiled.

"Do you still need your lessons, Alan?"

Alan couldn't remember what he was talking about, but he watched him frantically for some sign of what would come next, what pain he would face. His lack of response made Voldemort smile, and Alan's right eye felt like it had burst open with acid. Voldemort slammed into his solid shield and rode it down into oblivion. Alan shivered uncontrollably, and Voldemort rifled through his memories, turning over each one, seeking... seeking... Alan had no clue what he was looking for, and couldn't remember if he should fear him finding it or not. Alan hid inside the memory of the hurricane that had passed just before he came to Hogwarts and tried not to think or see, even as...

Alan shuddered, watching the fall of the pillar being called to the front, and then ducked away again, struggling to hold himself aloof from what Voldemort was looking for. The Dark Lord called forth two more memories of his second year, and then left, somewhere between satisfied and unsatisfied once again. The Dark Lord's eyes, when Alan pulled himself out of his mind again, were still locked onto Alan's own, and the man sighed, turning Alan's face to study his right eye.

"This is quite enchanting, Alan. Such a mark I left upon you as a child." He pinned Alan's eyelid open and drew a finger down his eyeball itself – Alan could barely feel it, himself. The Dark Lord stared a few moments more and then dropped him abruptly. Alan collapsed in the grip of whoever was holding him, panting in exhaustion: mental and physical. He couldn't feel his arm anymore; his chest pain had become so constant, it was numb.

The grip on his arm was released, and Alan fell bonelessly to the ground, unable and unwilling to fight to keep his feet. He gasped as bile flooded his throat, threatening to become full-blown vomit until he swallowed it down again. His ears were ringing, and he barely noticed the stamped boot walk away and another come over. He lifted himself tentatively onto his shaking arms, staring at the silver-etched boots that were much closer than needed for curses and spells.

Why were they doing this? He didn't understand; he hurt so much. What did he ever do to them?

Alan heard the whistle through the air before pain lanced across his back, throwing him back to the ground. Alan cried out and caught himself awkwardly, keeping his face off the ground. He turned back to see the Death Eater raise his black and silver cane again to strike. Alan couldn't get up, couldn't move, and the next blow dropped him onto his arm, where he groaned in pain. Alan tried again to get up, but stopped when the cane came down on his lower back. He bit his arm to not scream in pain, and he was hit again, twice more, prompting a muffled whimper. He didn't try to get up again, didn't try to roll away, afraid of what might happen...

Whoever it was hit him until he screamed. Several blows later, his chest burning against the ground, they seemed satisfied, and the caning stopped. Alan still didn't move. His back ached, but it didn't spike into his mind. After a few minutes of silence, someone dropped next to him and stroked his hair down his skull.

"That's a good boy," the aristocratic voice said. "He learns fast, doesn't he?" There was a murmur of agreement, and the stroking continued. Alan shivered and pressed against his own arm – his arm stung where he'd bitten down too hard as he had tried not to scream. He was bleeding there, but he was bleeding from a lot of other places, too.

"Of course," The voice turned wry and the hand tightened on the back of his neck, "whore's boys are usually pretty obedient, aren't they?"

Alan's gut tightened, but he waited, waiting to see what he'd do.

The hand disappeared and then whoever it was grabbed the back of his shirt and hauled him up. His right sleeve tore around his arm, and Alan screamed again. Someone caught him below his left shoulder and hauled him to his feet.

Voldemort was seated in a conjured chair across from him, watching with amusement as the second man pulled his arms behind his back – making his skin burn once again around the welts from the cane and dropping his ragged shirt down to his elbows. The aristocratic man grabbed his hair to pull his face up. The man stared from within his white mask, hiding all emotion, even as Alan struggled to figure out what to do. If this started going to whoring and sex, he was going to puke. Pain, fine, but not that.

"Are you as obedient as your mother, Alan?" the aristocrat mocked.

Alan tried to draw spit into his mouth as the man drew his wand and looked him over.

"You're still a bit scrawny..." The Death Eaters laughed, some awkwardly, a few shifting – uncomfortable.

"Lucius," one man hissed, and then fell silent.

The aristocrat sneered and sent a hex into the circle. The target dodged, another man was hit and screamed and the ranks shifted mutinously.

"Enough." Voldemort straightened. "Lucius, this is... an inopportune time. Perhaps..." The Dark Lord stepped over and walked a circle around Alan, who was still shivering in the stranger's hands. Voldemort touched Alan's cheek and then dragged his nails across his face. "Perhaps he is not as strong as I thought he was? Perhaps you can have more time... later."

Alan stared at the ground, his shoulders shaking, but it wasn't just fear anymore. They were mocking him, because he couldn't take the pain. Mocking him because he'd never been passed around like a... a toy, or a tool – or a whore.

He was not a whore.

Alan tensed, and then forced his arms to relax, but his breath continued to come hard. It didn't go unnoticed. The hands on his arms tightened, and Voldemort turned back to him once again. The red eyes flashed – mocking him – and the Dark Lord smiled wide.

"Do you want to try and duel me again, boy?"

His arms and legs ached; his right arm didn't want to respond properly, and his chest and back burned with pain. Was it any different than a Salem accident? Alan tugged out of the man's grip as he let him go, and he turned to face Voldemort, ignoring the shivers that wracked his body and the struggle to breathe calmly.

Voldemort pulled Harry's wand from his pocket, looked it over and threw it to the ground before him. Alan swallowed hard, took the two shaking steps forward and bent to pick it up. He had to force himself to stand again, holding the holly and phoenix feather wand, stepping back to reclaim his distance. Lucius and the other man had melted back into the circle, trapping him inside with the Dark Lord.

He couldn't win this fight. But he could make him hurt, make him pay. Alan moved the wand to his left hand, his good arm, and stroked his right pocket again.

He had one gun and eight hollow-point bullets.

He had a Portkey, not twenty feet away, if he could just get there. He couldn't question it.

He had fifteen Death Eaters in his way and one Dark Lord.

The head of the snake...

Alan dodged a red spell with difficulty, and then fell over as he struggled away from the next. He took a deep breath, prayed he remembered correctly, and stood, shoving his wand in his pocket. Voldemort's spell hit the ground to his left, and the Dark Lord stopped, scowling,

"Are you giving up, Alan?"

Alan thumbed off the safety, pulled his gun out of his right pocket and fired twice before he really aimed. His right shoulder burned and screamed in agony – or was it Voldemort screaming, falling over his conjured throne, his shoulder a bloody mess? The Death Eaters shouted and panicked, and Alan turned to his right, firing – not looking, pulling the trigger blind.

Black robes grabbed his arms, and Alan's legs gave out as the man gripped him against his body. Alan raised the gun to the man's chin above his shoulder and fired. There was no blood spray, no scream. Blood ran down the barrel of the gun onto his hand and trickled out of the man's mouth as he fell backwards, taking Alan with him. Alan panicked, pulling out of his grip. He left his gun and stumbled into the milling men.

He ran into two more, who both grabbed him, one seizing his hair, the other his arms. Alan screamed and tore out of their grips, feeling white pain blind him for a moment as he dove to the ground and rolled, – fetching up against a tombstone and then pushing himself to his hands and knees. He saw the two men, rolling on the ground in pain, clutching blistered faces, the others staring between them and him. Alan turned around and lunged for the cup as the tombstone he'd gripped cracked. His hands closed on bright gold, and he fell into the rushing wind – grateful, aching, and sore.

He slammed into the ground and screamed. His shoulders – his chest – his back were aching and burning in pain. He tried to curl up and found that that hurt too. Someone touched his face, rolled him over, and he stared into Louis' deep blue eyes. Louis was speaking, but Alan couldn't hear, staring blankly, terrified of something – of ending up back there. He let go of the cup as though burned and forced himself past the pain to grab Louis' tunic and bury his face in his chest. As his cousin tentatively wrapped his arms around his back, Alan finally felt safe – he wasn't going anywhere if Louis had any say about it, and he usually did when someone got hurt. He started to sob, terror overwhelming his body.

"Careful," Louis growled, and Alan took a deep breath as someone's hand rested lightly over the back of his neck. A voice he distantly recognized began to speak in a language he didn't know, and then his body went abruptly and blessedly numb. Alan whimpered again, but he was relaxed and could suddenly breathe easier.

Louis scooped his arm under Alan's legs and stood up with a grunt of effort, holding him cradled against his chest. Alan glanced around him and saw that people were milling everywhere, standing around, talking, demanding... The Headmaster turned his way, his eyes tight. Louis cut him off before anything could be said.

"He will answer any questions you have in the Hospital Wing. He is not going anywhere else. Minister," Louis added, "that goes for you as well."

"But what happened?" the Minister demanded.

The question was repeated again and again, and Alan curled even tighter against Louis' chest. He wanted to put his hands over his ears, but he couldn't make his arms move anymore – which wasn't a bad thing. A vague memory of the pain he'd been in came back and Alan shuddered helplessly.

"That can be answered upstairs as well as it can be answered here," Louis repeated once more. "Clear my way before I start cursing people."

Dumbledore apparently stopped arguing, because Louis began to walk. Alan kept his face pressed into his cousin's jacket, his hand loosely gripping his collar. People flashed by in his peripheral vision, colourful robes and hair, even in the darkness. He was starting to drift unconscious when Louis jostled him.

"Stay awake, Alan. You can't go to sleep yet."

Alan shifted and grumbled, catching half a glimpse of someone he thought was Harry. His friend looked scared. He couldn't be half as scared as Alan was.

Phantom aches wracked his body as Louis kept walking, patiently and steadily upstairs. He stopped and glared at a door before he kicked it twice as a way of knocking. Madam Pomfrey opened it with a scowl that faded the instant she saw Alan.

"Oh Merlin," she gasped, "Come in, come in, what happened? Oh, how terrible."

"Half his injuries are non-magical, Madam Pomfrey. You have something for that, and then the curses?"

She imperiously indicated a bed and swept away. Alan didn't want to be separated from Louis, and his cousin apparently already knew it. He didn't lay him on the bed, but sat on the edge and draped Alan's still-limp legs out straight. He tucked a pillow under Alan's head on his lap and gently rested his hands on his temples.

"Alan, take a deep breath. You won't like this, but..."

Alan obeyed and gave a choked sob as all the pain in his body began to ebb back in. He squirmed against Louis, his limbs responding once more, and tried to curl into a ball.

"No, Alan, lie straight. Alan, don't make me get sharp with you. You've been through worse than this. Pomfrey's back, here."

Alan struggled, but Louis picked up his shoulders and laid the glass nozzle at his lips. Habit kicked in, and he drank until it was gone. The aching in his chest and back began to abate, and his hands – he hadn't even noticed they were throbbing and sore until it was chased back by the potion. Pomfrey suddenly made a clucking noise. Her wand came out and swept over his chest. His tattered shirt disappeared from his shoulders – and so did his filthy trousers and their dirt stains. Alan flushed red and looked down, embarrassed – quickly becoming even more so as he noticed that she was glaring at his boxer shorts, which had acquired blood stains from his chest and two cuts that had hit his hips and thigh.

He glared at her as she brandished her wand again, and the Nurse put her hands on her hips before she summoned a group of screens over to shield him. Louis spelled his robe off and held it out, draped over his fist with a raised eyebrow. Alan nodded reluctantly and didn't argue as Pomfrey removed the last article, letting Louis cover his waist loosely with his robe.

The Mediwitch continued to poke and pry, giving him two more potions and using several spells, repeated over and over again. Someone tried to make a fuss outside the curtains, but Pomfrey showed absolutely no sign of letting them in. Alan didn't argue, laying there without any other reaction and trying valiantly to stay awake for them as they kept reminding him.

By the time he was losing consciousness again and everything from the cuts to his shakes were healed, Alan was still finding pain in his right shoulder – which Pomfrey had not been able to heal, alongside the more superficial cuts by spell. Alan tried not to move his right arm as she stubbornly looked it over, and finally she hexed aside one curtain to demand Dumbledore's attention.

The Headmaster came in, closing the curtains behind him and making a pained face immediately. He ghosted his fingers over the wound and sighed.

"I fear I will be of little help..." he murmured, but continued to look.

Alan was past arguing or worrying and was losing the battle to stay awake. A faint touch to the wounds made him hiss. After a series of long blinks and half-heard words, he felt something gentle and cool spread through his shoulder. Curious, Alan rolled his eyes open and up to find a red bird resting on the arm of Dumbledore above him. Opalescent tears dripped down onto his shoulder, soothing the ache and brightening the red, angry skin from a dark, burnt red to a bright, sunburn shade. Alan murmured something and blinked again, but Louis pulled him up and gave him a little shake.

"Alan. Alan, one more thing. You can't sleep yet."

Alan groaned and suggested something impolite. Louis ignored it.

"Alan, you know the drill. Can you focus on the last two times you saw the Triwizard Cup? Hold the image in your mind. You know how to do this."

Alan dropped his head back and did as he was asked. He remembered looking at the cup and dropping it like a stone, turning into Louis chest.

He remembered coming out of the Devil's Snare and staring across the open middle ground to the plinth and the Golden Cup. His worst fears, then, had been the acromantula.

He'd have rather faced the spider.

The memories suddenly blurred and dulled. Alan's mind drifted into a book's article on acromantula, and then, without any other change at all, dropped off to sleep.

IIII

When Alan woke up again, he fervently wished he could just go back to sleep. His body was aching still: faintly compared to what it had been before, but still... His memory of the night before was still a little fuzzy, and at first he couldn't think why.

There was someone stroking his hair. Alan turned and blinked before he could focus properly on Louis where he was seated on the edge of the bed beside him, a book in his other hand. His stroking paused, and he glanced down, shutting the book immediately.

"Alan! How are you feeling?"

"My head's still a little fuzzy," Alan admitted. "My body aches."

Louis danced his hands over an array of phials next to the bed and slipped one up and out: a clear potion that looked like only a half-dose. "Drink this. It will help with the pain."

Alan propped himself up on his left arm and drank, struggling a bit with the taste of liquid cotton, and breathed a sigh of relief as almost all the pain went away. His shoulder was still hot and sore, and he could feel small bandages on his face, arms and chest, but with the full-body ache out of the way, it was manageable. He looked up at Louis again and blinked, realizing he was seeing out of both eyes again. He still didn't know why that worked the way it did.

He could hear an argument going on outside the curtain and glanced at the white fabric, curious.

"Dumbledore, Fudge, your aunt, and father," Louis offered. "And, I think, Koreol or Thomas. I'm not sure what they think they're going to accomplish."

"What are they arguing about?"

"The veracity of the claims of a madman. The accuracy of a memory offered by an American – not you, me – and the delusions possible in those who were self-proclaimed Death Eaters anyways. The Aurors are out looking for the so-called 'imposters', so we have a few days and some luck to pursue." Louis raised his hand to stroke Alan's hair and smiled. "It's going to be alright, Alan. It's not something you need to concern yourself with. You're coming home this summer, no worries."

Alan leaned into Louis' chest again and felt grateful the memories were still blurred. After a few days, they'd come into clarity once more, but for now it felt like they were distant – tucked in a Pensieve for someone else to view, after all – and unimportant. His body was healing, and Louis wouldn't let anything happen to him. He was going to be safe, and that was that.

He checked his pockets slightly and finally asked, blushing, "Louis, do you know where the second wand I had on me went?"

"Andrew demanded it, said he knew who it belonged to," Louis explained. "Said you'd gotten it the night before, or something. Were you using someone else's wand? It wasn't high on my priorities to check, and I know I can get Koreol to get him to give it back if need be."

"Um, yeah." Alan nodded, embarrassed. "It was a friend's. And... my wand?"

"I sent it to Amaranth to get it fixed. He says it will be fine by the time you're out of here."

"Thank you." Alan curled against his chest, then mumbled, "Hopefully he'll leave it the same wand."

"I notice you left your gun behind," Louis continued, not commenting on his brother's trustworthiness. "I asked the Aurors to see if they could find it in the location you were at, but they haven't even found that yet. Nobody was able to reverse the Portkey, so they have to search by foot."

Alan nodded softly. He wondered if Harry and Neville's parents were out there looking and what his friends thought. Hopefully Andrew had gotten Harry his wand back in due time and he and Neville wouldn't freak out. He thought about asking Louis to reassure them, but he stopped – both because he wasn't sure Harry would approve, and because he didn't want Louis to leave.

He could wait and see. He didn't need to worry about someone else right now. He could catch up with his friends later.

IIII

Three days after the disastrous end of the Third Task Harry and Neville were in the library once more, trying to forget. It wasn't exactly different things that were bothering them, but different importance: their parents were searching out the supposed Death Eater 'imposters' for Fudge, who refused to believe otherwise. Their parents were determined to find something to prove him wrong, but in three days, not much had happened and Fudge was putting more and more pressure down to get his Aurors to come to a conclusion. And everyone in the school wanted to know what had happened to Alan Prince, but not everyone was his friend.

Between them, they spent a lot more time in the library than anywhere else. Neville would threaten and remind Harry to practise his Occlumency whenever he thought he was getting too restless. It usually worked, but the habit was becoming ingrained so quickly, Harry still fretted and worried.

One more day passed, and evening came on. Back in the library once again, Harry broke out of his trance when Neville spoke up. "What are you looking for?"

"I'm trying to find Harry."

Harry blinked awake and glanced at the second speaker, his heart catching in his throat. Andrew was standing at the end of an aisle, looking uncomfortable. Neville had only seen Andrew once, when he'd returned Harry's wand, and was understandably suspicious. Harry put a hand out to stop his brother and turned to Andrew himself,

"What do you need, Andrew?"

The young vampire fidgeted in place, glancing suspiciously at Neville much as Neville returned the favour. Harry sighed,

"Neville knows Alan's my friend. What do you need?"

He got a harsh, yellow gaze from Andrew, but the boy spoke. "Koreol said Alan could have visitors, but he only wants one at a time. I think Alan would like to see you, Harry."

The thrill of seeing Alan made Harry straighten, but he glanced to Neville to check. His friend was putting up the book he'd been reading with a sigh.

"Go, Harry," Neville ordered. "I can finally go get supper, since you were completely out of it when they were serving in the Great Hall."

Harry felt a pinch. "You could have just woken me, or left."

"I tried. You were so out of it I was worried someone would pick your pocket and steal the clothes off your back without you noticing."

Harry flushed. "Whatever. Who's with Alan?"

"It's Louis." Andrew shrugged. "Koreol had to go back to deal with my dad's problem. Louis hasn't left Alan any more than he's had to." Andrew's shoulder came up, and he frowned. "C'mon, unless you want to wear that cloak Alan keeps wondering about."

"What cloak..." Harry frowned. "My invisibility cloak?"

"Yeah." Andrew nodded briskly. "C'mon, I'm tired of just wandering about."

Harry nodded and dug into his knapsack. He'd snuck by the Hospital Wing enough times in the past few days that he'd just left it in with his books. Neville packed up his own books and left while Harry tossed his knapsack on his shoulder and the cloak overtop everything. Andrew nodded and set off at a quick pace through the library. Harry struggled to keep up with the taller boy.

Andrew seemed to have learned the halls rather quickly and led him unerringly to the Hospital wing. Several students frowned as he jogged past. Andrew paused at another turn, and Harry caught up gratefully. He thought to direct Andrew, but caught a glimpse of the vampire's face as the cuss turned to smile faintly at him under the cloak and set off once again.

Harry cursed him as he was left behind once more. How did he even know where he was?

They came up to the Hospital Wing, and Andrew held the door open for him to go through, then tugged the cloak off his head once the doors were closed behind them. Harry growled,

"How'd you know where I was?"

"You've been lazy," Andrew observed. "I could smell you."

Harry flushed, but Andrew moved forward without glancing his way. Noting that he needed to shower that night, Harry followed him to the curtained-off bed. Andrew slid one panel open and then softly said,

"I brought a friend for Alan."

"Who?"

"Harry."

The curtain was pushed further open, and Harry paused in stuffing his cloak back in his bag. He felt his face heat again, but didn't feel quite so bad about forgetting a few normal things: Louis looked like he hadn't had a decent night's sleep in about the same amount of time.

"Aren't you two rivals?" Louis demanded.

Harry shrugged. "He's a lot of fun. I like a challenge, and so does he."

Louis frowned harder. "You're the other Parselmouth."

Harry licked his lips and nodded.

Louis sighed. "Alright. He gets upset, you leave."

"Of course."

The tall man stepped back and sat down on a chair nearby, and Harry moved past the curtains to find that Alan looked like he was asleep on the bed, curled up on his left side. Harry looked nervously at Louis, but the man just tapped his foot on the bed frame and said, "Alan, your friend Harry is here."

Alan rolled over and sat up quite abruptly. "Harry?" he asked.

Harry shrugged lightly from his shoulders. "Hey."

Alan looked... a bit frayed. He had two healing cuts on his cheek and bags under his eyes. He leaned back on his arms and clearly favoured his right. Harry felt confused for a moment.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm okay." Alan nodded. "Really."

"Your cuts..."

"Healing, honest." Alan tilted his head and elaborated. "It was Death Eaters, Harry."

"Um..."

"Dark Magic doesn't heal sometimes," Louis broke in. "Your parents probably have a few scars from it themselves... Or maybe not." Louis shrugged. "Most minor dark curses are left for victims, not Aurors."

Alan flinched at the word 'victim' and looked away. Harry frowned and then moved up to the bed and, looking between Alan and Louis, jumped up onto the bed. It startled a laugh out of Alan, and Andrew made a small, angry noise.

"You can leave, Andrew, if you cannot be civil," Louis said.

Harry heard Andrew stalk away and frowned again between Louis and Alan. Alan only shrugged.

"Andrew's been angry for a few days. It's been like this for a few years now, whenever I get laid up." He shrugged it off. "Have your parents told you what the Minister decided?"

"It can't be anything good..." Harry swallowed. "They haven't said anything."

" 'If our best Aurors have found nothing, there is nothing to find,' " Alan quoted, staring at the blanket. " 'The threat of the Death Eaters is long since gone, and we need no more fear them in our daily lives'. Something about all precautions being dropped. It'll run in the newspaper tomorrow morning."

"What? That's insane! There's no proof of that. How does he think you got injured?"

Louis suddenly growled. Harry jumped and stared his way.

"He blames Salem," Alan answered in a small voice. "He says that it's the Americans trying to push Britain into another civil war." Alan's hand closed on his blanket. "I think Lucius was the one to talk him into it. Produced a gun, and everyone knows Americans use guns. It was my gun." Alan swallowed. "My gun."

Alan was shaking. Harry felt lost for a moment, but finally he reached out and gently touched Alan's shoulder. He swallowed when his friend flinched from him, jerking up and staring through his face, his eyes unfocused. His breath came faster, and Louis was suddenly standing next to him, gently pressing him back to the bed.

"Alan, breathe," Louis said. "You're fine; you're in Hogwarts. Listen to me, hear my voice. It's my voice, Alan. Louis. Breathe. Breathe."

Alan's chest shuddered, and he suddenly blinked rapidly. He stared around, bewildered, and then turned scarlet. Louis dropped his hands to his shoulders and sighed.

"Maybe bringing a friend was a bad idea –"

"No!" Alan cut him off. "I'll be fine. Seriously, Louis, I'm fine. I'm going to go crazy if I'm stuck in here alone!"

Louis glanced between the boys, and Harry kept his chin up even though Alan's shaking had disturbed him. Louis shrugged and stroked Alan's hair gently before he sat back down. Alan shivered and shook it off, smiling at Harry again.

"Sorry –"

"You don't need to apologize." Harry shook his head. "You were hurt. It took Neville three months to get back on a broom after he concussed himself. You were hurt far worse."

Alan nodded, but it seemed he wasn't really thinking about anything but what had happened. Harry hesitated, but finally asked, "What happened, Alan?"

His friend unfolded his legs and tucked them to his chest. "I got to the cup and it was a Portkey. I got stunned when I arrived in the graveyard." He hesitated again. "When I woke up, there was V–" He coughed and stopped. "The Dark Lord." His mouth twisted and his voice shook. "He was back. Looked ugly as sin."

Harry nodded slowly, wondering what he'd do if faced with Voldemort. He immediately remembered Quirrell, but even then... The spectre and the basilisk hadn't really scared him like... It wasn't what his parents described, facing another wizard.

"And they hurt you?" Harry asked.

"Tortured," Alan corrected. "They tortured me." He was staring at his knees. "Dolohov... Macnair. Lucius. Lucius beat me with a cane." He choked again and straightened, laughing hoarsely. "I kicked Macnair in the crotch hard enough he fell over. Merlin, was he not happy about that."

Harry smiled crookedly. "That would've been worth seeing. I wonder if you can aim a spell well enough to succeed at that same effect."

Alan's head tilted, his eyes bright. "I think I know a decent spell of that kind. About the same effect as a punch. I suppose I should practise my aim..." He trailed off, his eyes going vague again until he shook himself. "How have the last few days been?"

"Irritating," Harry groaned. "I've been passing off my nerves as worry for my parents – which I am, especially if they're going after Death Eaters again – but I've just wanted to know you're okay." Harry glanced over at Louis, who was still watching Alan intently. Harry smiled back at Alan. "I'm glad you've got Louis here."

Alan nodded. "So am I. Did Andrew give you back your wand?"

"Yeah, he was really pissed off when he did, though." Harry shrugged; he'd gotten used to the fact that Andrew didn't really like him. Why he'd thought to bring him here, he didn't know.

Alan waved off Andrew's temper as if it was something he'd expected and smiled at Harry again. "I'm glad you're doing good. Fudge said nobody was hurt in the search..."

"Fudge came here?"

"Yeah," Alan grimaced. "He said that he was sorry for my injuries, but it wasn't his problem. Told me that since I had won fair and square, I still got my winnings." He snarled, "A thousand galleons blood money."

"Maybe give it to someone you think could use it." Harry shrugged.

Alan nodded thoughtfully, his eyes low. Louis straightened.

"I think you're a bit tired, Alan," he said. "Harry, I'm glad you could visit, but he needs to sleep."

Regretfully, Harry slipped off Alan's bed and stood, awkward, beside it. He could see that Alan wasn't thrilled at the thought of sleep; he looked almost sick. Harry's shoulders tightened, knowing something was wrong with Alan and knowing there was really nothing he could do.

"Sleep well, Alan," Harry tried, and turned away. He walked out of the curtains and glanced to the side out of reflex. Andrew was standing at the end of the ward, glaring at him again. Harry tucked his shoulders up and jerked his chin at him.

"Thank you for getting me," Harry said to be polite and walked out, his back itching the entire way.

IIII

Alan found his nightmares to be less sharp by the end of term. As the memories had trickled back to full strength his sleep had grown increasingly more disturbed by screaming nightmares, but even as they came back he got used to them.

Talking with Harry didn't exactly help, but it made him feel less alone. People were still staring at him; he was still irritated and irritable, but at least someone knew where he stood other than Louis.

Dumbledore had made his own stance clear. In direct contradiction of the Minister's decision, he announced at the feast at the end of the year that Voldemort had returned, that the Death Eaters were no imposters, and that the danger was real. The school appeared split down the middle whether to believe him or not. Alan was passed off as an unfortunate victim of circumstance – a power play, as Alan understood it, taking a student to taunt the country.

He wished Louis was with him, or at least that he had his own wand back, but Amaranth was still playing with it. His spare wand – his own extra wand – was in the holster on his wrist as he sat on the Hogwarts Express under Dumbledore's insistence. The cuts on his face were red scars now, both on his right cheek. His shoulder was also scarred, and he avoided counting how many other small cuts he had.

He was in a compartment with most of his own coterie – Daphne, Blaise, Tracey, and Theodore. Blaise and Tracey were playing a game of chess, as Daphne gave Tracey pointers. Theodore was supposedly reading a book, but Alan hadn't seen him turn a page. Alan, himself, was trying not to think and not to count the hours until he was at the station and Louis would be waiting there, preferably with Thomas or Velorian as backup. Alan would like to see Fudge suggest that the Americans had tortured him in front of one of those two. Although they wouldn't exactly prove him wrong, they'd at least make him wet his stupid pants.

Nobody was asking questions in their compartment. When Daphne fell silent, Tracey only looked her way and then back to the game. If Blaise took too long to make his move, they didn't ask. Nobody questioned why Theodore wasn't any further along in his book than he had been when they started, and nobody asked why Alan hadn't even tried to fake an occupation. Slytherins understood a private pain.

Alan tried to pick out what his friends would be feeling as he fought to escape his thoughts. Tracey, as far as he knew, was under no stress at home: her mother was a muggle, her father a stubborn pureblood with his own ideas and no aspirations to another's. Blaise was his mother's favourite child, and she had already proved amenable to his whims when he asked Ginny Weasley to the Yule Ball.

Daphne, Alan wasn't so sure about. She had been very quiet, and no matter how unsubtle his hints became, she refused to acknowledge that Harry liked her and she liked him back. The closest she'd come was saying the Potters were a fallen family, in a tone that made it clear she was quoting someone else, someone not to be argued with.

Alan hardly knew anything about Theodore Nott. He'd joined their group only halfway through the year and been stubbornly neutral before then. From what he could guess, Theodore's father was something like Draco Malfoy's, if less of a public asshole.

Alan's back twitched, and he straightened to avoid the phantom pains. Swallowing loud enough that his friends glanced his way, Alan shook himself and stood. "I need to stretch my legs."

Nobody questioned him. He wandered to the loo for a refresher and then took his time wandering back. His hands were at his sides, one touching the bottle of pepper spray in one pocket, the other on the heavy bag. He'd been tossing it around and trying to think of some way to apply it like Harry had suggested, but none of his friends in Britain needed money, and everyone in Salem was fostered by the Alfaerus, who were by no means skinflints.

He was almost back to his compartment when Draco Malfoy stuck his head out of his compartment and grinned at him. "Well, if it isn't the American scapegoat," he laughed. "You feel better now? All patched up?"

Alan sneered, his skin going cold as sweat broke out on his back. "Malfoy, back off. I don't need some inbred puppy-mill reject yapping in my face." His temper wavered between pinning him to the wall and hurting him, or just knocking him down so he could escape. Neither was a good choice. He would not be like Lucius Malfoy or Dolohov. He would not... "Get out of my way, Draco." His voice shook.

Draco clearly thought him scared and started forward. Alan took two steps back, putting himself against the wall, his hand hovering over his wand. If he drew, he wouldn't be accountable for what he did.

A jet of brown light passed his shoulder and Alan flinched, even as Draco went down. The compartment he'd come out of opened, and more spells took down Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle before anything else could happen. Alan flattened to the wall, his heart pounding in his chest, and stared over at those who had intervened. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Neville, and the Weasley twins were standing behind him, the twins spinning their wands and grinning as the others looked deadly serious.

Some turned their attention further, and Alan glanced back over to find Blaise, Lucille, Salvador, and Tracey waiting just inside the door to the car. Attention flickered between Draco groaning on the floor and Harry and his friends. Alan tried to relax and turned to face Harry and his.

"Thank you," he forced out. "I wasn't..."

"Don't bother," Harry grumbled. "Any excuse to take that idiot down."

"Still –"

Harry waved him down. "Enough, Prince. I like the Ministry's lie as much as you do." He met his eyes, and Alan realized that with the current stance of the Minister's, they were almost on the same side against the school now. Alan nodded silently in acknowledgement and waited as Harry drew his friends back into their compartment and the Weasley twins laughed between themselves before turning away.

A flash of insight and a constant stream of overheard insults hit Alan, and his hand dropped to the heavy bag in his pocket.

"Fred, George?" he called. The two red-heads turned to frown at him, and Alan pulled the bag out. "Catch."

Their hands came up automatically and seized the bag. Alan didn't wait to see their response. With the weight gone from his pocket, his shoulders came up and he rejoined his friends, waving off their words and slipping past them to their compartment. It was only a few more hours until they reached the station. He pulled a deck of plain old playing cards from his bag and turned as his friends came in.

"Have you ever played Rummy?"

A/N: *hangs head in shame*

Like wow. I mean this still isn't going to get finished by OMG I COULD AT LEAST HAVE FINISHED FOURTH YEAR WTF.

Woooooow.