Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/737250.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Harry_Potter/Severus_Snape, Lucius_Malfoy/Harry_Potter, Vernon_Dursley/
      Harry_Potter, Hermione_Granger/Fred_Weasley/George_Weasley
  Character:
      Harry_Potter, Severus_Snape, Albus_Dumbledore, Vernon_Dursley, Lucius
      Malfoy, Hermione_Granger, Ron_Weasley, George_Weasley, Fred_Weasley,
      Dudley_Dursley, Petunia_Evans, Voldemort, Original_Characters
  Additional Tags:
      Squick, Rape, Non_Consensual, Violence, Character_Death, Child_Abuse,
      Sexual_Assault, Triggers, Eventual_Harry/Snape, Slow_Build, A_lot_of_bad
      stuff_happen_first, Gets_worse_before_it_gets_better, Eventual_Happy
      Ending, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Slash, Anal_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-03-27 Updated: 2013-05-22 Chapters: 8/? Words: 29605
****** Lost Phoenix ******
by sshp4ever
Summary
     Harry is at the Dursley's for the summer. After a traumatic encounter
     with his uncle, Harry gets abandoned on the outskirts of London. Who
     will save him? Post-OOTP. Snarry Slash. Hurt/Comfort. Some non-con
     early in the story.
Notes
     Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created
     and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited
     to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner
     Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
     infringement is intended.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Animals *****
A/N: Starts in the fifth book and splits from the canon after Harry exits
Dumbledore’s office at the end of the school year. In case you don’t remember,
Dumbledore gives a Portkey to Harry while they’re still at the Ministry. It
takes Harry to the Headmaster’s office, where he is to wait for Dumbledore to
follow. When Dumbledore arrives a little while later, Harry rages at him with
his adolescent bravado and even breaks a bunch of the headmaster’s possessions.
After Harry has run out of steam, Dumbledore convinces (this is where my
versions differs, since in the canon it’s assumed that Dumbledore has succeeded
in reassuring Harry) him that he was not responsible for his godfather’s death.
They also discuss the prophecy.
   *The prophecy was fromHarry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, obviously.
===============================================================================
 
Harry was sure he was about to lose his mind. If Ron or Hermione said one more
thing about Sirius, he wasn’t sure if he would be able to control himself. He
was currently trying to make himself as small as humanly possible, leaning
against the window of their shared compartment. His goal was to make himself
disappear, so his friends would have no one left to badger and be forced to
abandon whinging at him.
Whilst the Hogwarts Express bumped steadily along, Harry rolled his forehead
against the cool, damp glass. He stared out blindly, not taking in the scenery.
His thoughts became increasingly introspective. Not for the first time that
day, he found his mind wandering back to the events at the Ministry. The vision
of Sirius falling through the Veil swam behind his eyes and he was forced to
squeeze his lids shut to stop tears from spilling over.It’s all my faultkept
repeating itself like a mantra in his head. It’s all my fault.
Harry dug his nails into his palms reflexively, his breath fogging up window
and hiding his haunted face from view. After the revealing conversation with
the headmaster, Harry had not been able to repress the feeling that he was
still partially responsible for death of Sirius Black. Despite all his attempts
otherwise, the interminable guilt overwhelmed him.
As if the universe was conspiring against him, Hermione chose that moment to
speak up again.
“Harry, please,” she pleaded a tone of worry lacing her voice. “Come on, please
get up. We’re about to pull into the station.” She looked up at him nervously,
then back down in trepidation. “Harry,” she implored, “Ron and I are just
concerned for you. I mean, honestly, you haven’t said a word to us all week! We
can’t let you go back to the Dursley’s when you’re so miserable.” Hermione
continued hastily, “You should go home with Ron, or you can even come to Prague
with me and my parents. We just don’t want you to be alo—”
Harry had finally had more than enough. It had been the same thing all week.
Both of his friends had told him that he wasn’t acting normally and that they
wouldn’t be good friends if they left alone in this state. This had frustrated
him to no end. Ron and Hermione had been following him everywhere, even
neglecting their prefect duties to “babysit” him. Consequently, he had had none
of the alone time that he so desperately craved. He needed time to sort out all
his thoughts. Their stifling presence did nothing to aid his composure; the
breaking point had finally been reached and his temper boiled over, resulting
in a long-overdue explosion of pent-up emotional turmoil.
“Hermione, SHUT THE HELL UP! I am fine!” Harry yelled, “Or I would be if you
and Ron would just lay the fuck off! And I’ve already told you that I can’t go
to the Burrow or on holiday with you. Dumbledore said I had to go back to the
Dursley’s, at least for the beginning of the summer. And I’m glad, because I’ll
finally get some peace and quiet without your constant nagging!”
Even while he shouted these words, Hermione’s eyes were filling up with tears
and Ron’s face was steadily becoming a vivid shade of red. But Harry just kept
yelling, finding it oddly therapeutic, until Ron interrupted in Hermione’s
defense.
“Mate! Stop talking to her like that. She’s just trying to help,” Ron
interjected, making himself heard over Harry’s tirade. “Harry,” he continued in
a lower voice, no longer competing with the now-silent wizard. “We’re just
worried about you—”
“Why can’t you two just understand that I need to be alone sometimes?” Harry
snapped hotly. “Especially after…” he trailed off. Harry looked away angrily,
upset with himself. At some point during his outburst, he had risen to his
feet. The need to be away from these people—his friends—suddenly overcame him.
Acting quickly, he grabbed his trunk and Hedwig. Then, with a final hurried
glare at his clearly wounded friends, he stormed out of the compartment,
leaving a tearful Hermione and a crimson-faced Ron in his wake.
After a few seconds of blindly charging down the train’s narrow corridor, Harry
realized he had frustrated tears coursing down his cheeks. Coming to the very
definite conclusion that he didn’t want to be found in this state by any of the
train’s occupants, Harry hastily made his way to the back of the Hogwarts
Express, where there was always an empty cabin or two. Upon finding one and
closing the compartment door with a little more force than necessary and
locking it with a silent Colloportus,he slumped against the cushions and tried
to calm his erratic breathing.
Once his breathing had returned to normal and the angry tears had been wiped
away, Harry blew out an agitated breath. He really hated losing his temper. He
knew that he was being completely irrational, and that Hermione was just
looking out for him like she always did, but he couldn’t seem to tolerate her
fussing recently. All he wanted was some time alone to collect his thoughts and
attempt to come to terms with the reality that he was never going to see his
godfather again. Not to mention the life-altering prophecy that Dumbledore had
only recently told him about. Out of spite, Harry hadn’t told Ron or Hermione
about it, but knew he would have to eventually.
As he sat there wallowing in self-pity, the calamitous words rattled to the
forefront of his mind for the first time since leaving the Headmaster’s office:
“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… Born to those who
have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… And the Dark Lord will
mark him as equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… And either
must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other
survives… The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the
seventh month dies…”
Harry shuddered at the thought of having to kill anyone, but was even more
frightened of dying himself. Fortunately, before those morose thoughts could
consume him, there was a sudden knock on his compartment door. Cursing his
declining luck, Harry stood up, rubbing his face to get rid of any stray tears,
and unlocked the compartment door. Without even looking at the figure in the
doorway, he turned back around. “You might as well come in and sit down, Ron.”
Harry could practically feel his friend’s embarrassment as he entered the
compartment and sat down across from Harry on the cushions. Ron cleared his
throat and averted his eyes awkwardly as Harry closed and relocked the
compartment door with a flick of his wand.
            Impatient to be alone again, Harry hissed, “Spit it out, Ron.”
Despite Harry’s already-short temper, he was actually relieved that Ron had
come looking for him alone. Hermione was currently too overbearing for him to
coexist with her at the moment.
            “Look, mate, sorry for Hermione being so stubborn, but she really
is just worried about you. We both are.” Holding up a hand to Harry’s sardonic
expression, a determined-looking Ron quickly continued, “I know you need to be
on your own for a bit, but you can still come over to the Burrow any time this
summer. Hermione’s going to be there the second week of August.” They sat in
silence for a bit. “Hermione and I are still your friends even when it seems
like we’re purposefully trying to annoy the piss out of you.”
            For the first time in a while, Harry smiled. “Thanks Ron…for
understanding. I’ll think about visiting in August. It depends on how horrible
the Dursley’s are this summer,” Harry grimaced. “Hopefully they’ll not be too
bad.”
Harry considered entrusting the prophecy to Ron, but when he looked up, Ron had
a smile on his face. He didn’t want to burden his carefree friend with the
devastating information, especially directly after the first cordial exchange
they had shared since the night at the Ministry. It could wait.
            Ron smiled. “No problem, mate. Oh, and Hermione made me promise to
tell you to send her your O.W.L. scores as soon as you get them.”
            “Sure,” was the only reply Harry could manage; he began feeling
melancholy again—a response triggered by any mention of the O.W.L.’s. They were
just another reminder of the day he lost his godfather.
            Ron, upon seeing Harry’s discomfort, stood and made to leave the
compartment. He paused in the doorway and then turned back to Harry. “See you
in August,” he said before sliding the door shut behind him.
“Maybe…” was Harry’s inaudible reply.
 
                       -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
           
            Little time had passed before the whistle blew, signaling that they
were rapidly approaching the station. Harry began preparing himself for what
promised to be a very long summer. He grabbed Hedwig’s cage and lugged his
school trunk off the shelf above his head. Then he waited until the train came
to stop before slowly making his way off with his possessions, dreading what he
knew would be a miserable holiday.
Upon exiting the train, Harry’s eyes automatically roved the crowd in search of
his friends. However, upon making brief eye contact with them and receiving
only pitying expressions in return, he abruptly spun around and hurried away in
the opposite direction. After he had created a fair distance between him and
his friends, Harry quickly made his way to the exit of Platform Nine and Three-
Quarters. Taking a deep breath in order to steel himself for the ill-fated
reunion with his relatives, Harry set off for the parking lot where he knew his
uncle would be waiting for him.
Too soon for his liking, Harry could see the familiar beefy, purple face above
the crowds by the front entrance to King’s Cross Station. Gathering himself,
Harry adopted a careful, neutral expression as he approached his uncle. “You’re
late, boy,” Vernon sneered. “You know what that means? Double the chores!”
Harry knew what would happen should he respond. So he maintained his vacant
countenance and remained silent as he followed his uncle to the vehicle. Harry
slid into the back seat while Vernon stuffed his possessions haphazardly into
the boot of the car. He winced when he heard Hedwig hooting indignantly as her
cage was wedged in beside his trunk.
Thirty minutes later, Harry was sure that anymore of this torture would turn
his brains to mush. From the moment his uncle had entered the vehicle, Harry
had been on the receiving end of a constant stream of verbal abuse. Even though
he was used to this treatment from his relatives, his current temperament
didn’t coincide well with Uncle Vernon's continuous name-calling. Even worse
was how Vernon was nowhere close to being out of steam.
“Are you listening to me? Your kind is so useless. And YOU, you’re the worst of
them, always daydreaming about nothing. Your good-for-nothing father was the
same; I bet he drank himself into a stupor daily. You’re all complete faggots!
You’re not fit to live in my house. With all the trouble you and your freaky
friends cause, I wouldn’t trust you not burn the place down.”
Harry just glared out the window, no longer able to sustain his disinterested
expression. He would have liked to completely disregard every malicious thing
his uncle was saying about him, but some of it was hitting very close to home.
It was true that Harry was a troublemaker in that he was constantly ruining
everything set before him. One only needed to look at the events that took
place in the Department of Mysteries to see the truth; he did have a rather
unfortunate tendency to destroy things he cared about. Anger boiled up within
him as he continued his attempt at ignoring his uncle. Aggravation towards
himself, not Vernon, turned his thoughts once again inward and replayed every
little thing he had done wrong the night his godfather had been murdered.
These were the thoughts that occupied his mind for the remainder of the drive.
 
                       -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
 
“BOY! Come here, you good-for-nothing little freak,” sneered Uncle Vernon, who
seemed now, to be the cat that had swallowed the canary. “No, boy, leave that
shit there and come along!”
Harry stopped his unsuccessful attempt at retrieving his school trunks from the
boot of the car and unhappily trotted after a very self-satisfied Vernon. To
Harry’s surprise and apprehension, instead of leading him into the house, Uncle
Vernon strode around the side of the residence and entered the back garden.
Upon rounding the bend, Harry stopped in his tracks, suddenly hesitant at what
he saw. Any passerby would have thought nothing of the sight that now lay
before him, but after spending an hour in the company of a ranting Vernon
Dursley, he was suddenly filled with an intense foreboding. This irrational
sensation screamed for him to take flight, sensing danger. But before Harry
could bolt, Vernon had grabbed ahold of his upper arm and was dragging him
towards the source of his uncertainty.
The Dursley’s back garden had been invaded by a small, wooden doghouse. He knew
instinctually it did not foretell a pleasant summer. Vernon's face split into a
broad smirk as Harry took in the metal dog tin and the length of chain fixed to
a grounded stake. Whatever the significance of these objects, they meant
nothing beneficial for him.
 “Do you know what this is?” Vernon taunted, gesturing towards the dog house.
For a moment Harry thought it was a rhetorical question, but upon considering
the likelihood of his uncle knowing what “rhetorical” meant, promptly said,
albeit a bit mockingly, “That’s a dog house, sir.”
His cheek earned him a firm clout to the back of the head, making him stumble
slightly.
“BOY, stop being so disrespectful!”
“Yes, Uncle Vernon,” Harry mumbled in a decidedly careful monotone, as to not
encourage any more blows to his head.
“Good, it seems you can identify common objects. Now, boy, what is that,
there?” Vernon demanded with no little amount of smug satisfaction.
“That’s a dog bowl, Uncle Vernon,” Harry replied, already not looking forward
to picking up after whatever new pet Dudley had convinced his parents to buy
him.
“Correct again, boy. Can you tell me what those two things are?” a red-faced
Vernon asked him. The uncontained glee was so evident that Harry thought his
uncle would explode  at any moment.
“A post and chain, Uncle Vernon,” Harry recited. He was imagining all the extra
days of work he would have to do to preserve the gardens with a dog roaming
around. His enthusiasm for the summer ahead was dwindling by the moment and
Ron’s offer kept flashing through his mind like a steak to a starving wolf.
“And what, boy, do you think would live in a dog house?”
Harry had never had to fight so hard in his life not to roll his eyes. Gritting
his teeth, Harry replied in an overly-calm voice, “A dog, Uncle Vernon.”
“Exactly! And can you tell me why I would have bought this dog house if we
don’t own a dog?” Vernon asked giddily.
Harry hesitated. They didn’t have a dog? Vernonwoulddo something like this,
buying a doghouse before the dog. By now Dudley’s probably changed his mind
about a dog anyway. But for some reason he was not reassured. A strange
foreboding, one quite similar to the feeling he had the night that Sirius had
died. But that was impossible…nothing so horrible could become of a doghouse,
unless there was a tiny, feral breed of dragon that now inhabited Little
Whinging.
And so Harry responded with a measured, “I don’t know, sir,” praying that
nothing was about to charge out and take a bite out of him.
However, the probability of his wish coming true greatly diminished as Vernon
began to cackle. The sinister chuckle brought the memory of Lucius Malfoy to
the forefront of his mind; Harry recalled the same smug happiness from the
night at the Ministry. He stiffened reflexively. But he reassured himself there
was no danger. After a quick scan of the garden, and finding it free of dragons
and Death Eaters, he still felt ill-at-ease. He decided it would not be wise to
be out in the open and began to shuffle backwards towards the house.
But suddenly there was beefy hand squeezing Harry around the neck, forcefully
halting his retreat. The fingers constricted and he was lifted off the ground.
His ears were ringing with that malicious laughter while his hands scrambled in
a futile attempt for release from his uncle’s fat fist. Harry’s eyes were
focused on the doghouse. He used it as an anchor, keeping his thoughts as
organized and rational as possible, while his body was a mess of convulsing
jolts and shudders. The pounding of his heart drowned out all other noises as
lightheadedness overwhelmed him, muddling his consciousness and making the
world twirl around sickeningly. He couldn’t focus properly; his vision started
to blur, fading into a gray fog around the edges.
Suddenly, everything clicked: Vernon's incessant ramblings about his inadequacy
as a human being, his insisting that Harry leave his belongings in the car, and
the seemingly-random appearance of a doghouse in the back garden. Horrified,
Harry increased his struggling. Thankfully, this prompted Vernon to ease the
pressure on his undoubtedly already-bruised neck. However, it also brought with
it the return of the ominous cackling.
After Vernon had stopped his obnoxious guffawing and caught his breath, he
leered down at Harry. “I see you’ve finally figured it out, boy. It’s about
time, too. I would have started wondering if they taught you anything at all at
that rubbish school of yours.” Harry couldn’t recall a time his uncle had
looked so pleased, not since the time he’d had freed the snake at the zoo (thus
giving Vernon an excuse to lock him in his cupboard for weeks). “How do you
like your new home, boy? Bet you’ll feel right at home in there.”
This was accentuated by Vernon shoving Harry’s head down towards the post.
Faster than he thought a man that size could move, Vernon had wrapped the chain
around Harry’s neck. He could hear a padlock click shut a few inches below his
ear, fastening, Harry imagined, the end of the chain to a middle link. It was
just tight enough around his throat to be considered uncomfortable.
Harry, never one to stand by and take it, lunged to grab hold of Vernon's shirt
with both fists despite being awkwardly bent over, due to the unsatisfactory
length of chain. But before he could take advantage of the little leverage he
had, he found himself flat on his back. He could feel the blood gushing from
his nose and could already feel his left eye beginning to swell. His glasses,
from what he glimpsed before Vernon pocketed them, were mangled and cracked. 
When he tried to sit up, the world spun; his head felt heavy and he felt the
need to close his eyes. His face throbbed painfully.
Before he could adequately recover, his uncle had swooped down and dragged him
up to eye-level. Even with hazed vision and ringing ears, Harry managed to
understand everything Vernon hissed at him.
“Don’t you daretouch me, boy! I shouldn’t have to be contaminated by the likes
of you! In fact, do you know what I’m going to do? Hmmm? I’m going to go burn
all that rubbish; don’t want that filth in my house. Especially that goddamned
bird! I’ve been waiting years to shut that thing up…do you think I should burn
it, too? Or just break its little neck? Don’t look so upset. Dogs don’t need
books anyway,” and with that Vernon released Harry, who fell to the ground
limply.
The last thing Harry saw before his vision faded to black was his uncle
waddling away towards the house.
 
                       -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
 
He awoke to the smell of burning parchment and the sight of a mutilated snowy
owl that now only vaguely resembled his old pet. The first day of Harry
Potter’s summer holiday began with a sob.
***** Waiting *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Chapter Two:Waiting
===============================================================================
 
Harry didn’t have long to orient himself after the shock of waking to the sight
of his dead and brutalized familiar. He hadn’t been awake a mere ten seconds
before he was hit with a frigid blast of water. Choking from the shock and the
initial lack of air, Harry stumbled into a crouch. Holding his hands up to
shield his face from the torrents of chilly liquid, he was just able to peer
through the spray and spot the madman responsible for his unexpected wake-up
call.
 “Stop your sniveling, boy!” Vernon jeered, seeming wide awake despite the sun
having yet to rise. “You’ve chores to do. And if you’re anything like your
good-for-nothing father, you’ll need a head start.”
If Harry hadn’t been so dazed from recent events, he might have made an attempt
to defend his parentage. As it was, he barely had the consciousness to take
offense; not only was he numb from being drenched with freezing water, but he
was emotionally drained as well. This wasn’t even taking into consideration his
ever increasing hunger—choosing that moment to make itself known with an
indignant rumble from his stomach—or the lack of restful sleep.
Even as Harry appraised all his body’s complaints, Vernon was thrusting a
rather long piece of paper in front of Harry’s nose.
“Look here. You had better have all these chores completed by tonight—pay
attention, dog!” Vernon roared unnecessarily, spittle landing on Harry’s face
and mixing with remnants of his icy wake up call. “If you don’t finish”—his
voice lowered threateningly—“I’ll have Petunia scrape your dinner into the
rubbish bin. How would you like that?” His Uncle’s lip curled back with such
spiteful glee that Harry noticed an uncanny resemblance to Snape after the
Potions Master had asked a particularly difficult question of which no one
would have any chance of answering correctly. Harry had come to associate the
expression with suffering.
Seeing no alternative action, Harry—mumbling a “yes, sir”—simply took the list
and glanced down to see what his relatives had in store for him. He wasn’t
surprised to see a long, tedious list of tasks that would likely take him all
day to complete. In request to Vernon, Harry took hold of the chain around his
neck and raised an inquiring brow. His uncle, for the first time since Harry
had arrived in Privet Drive, looked rather irritated. Harry wondered if the man
hadn’t realized that he would have to be unleashed in order to do the many
chores assigned him. But with a jangle of keys and a few disgruntled mumbles
about Harry’s terrible uselessness, Vernon released him.
Once free of the bulky chains, Harry slowly pushed himself up and upon righting
himself, spotted the smoking ashes of all his former belongings. Instead of
inciting a normal reaction—anger—all he felt was sorrow for that he had lost.
After Uncle Vernon had reentered the house—undoubtedly to go back to bed—Harry
set to work. He took a good look at the list: weeding the garden; mowing the
lawn; dusting; cooking breakfast, lunch, and dinner; vacuuming, sweeping, and
mopping; doing the laundry; making the beds; taking out the trash; doing the
dishes; repainting the fence; were only half of the things he’d have to
complete before he was given supper. He sighed with exasperation, and decided
that accomplishing all the outdoor tasks early would be most prudent.
So, with a long sigh, Harry set about weeding the Dursley’s overgrown garden.
 
                       -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
 
By evening, he could hardly move. After a muggy morning full of strenuous
weeding and trimming, every move sent currents of pain spiking through Harry’s
exhausted body. His muscles were sore from the intense manual labor. Sweat
beaded up on his fringe and dripped down into his eyes as it had while he had
labored during the day. It had taken him until noon to finish clearing out the
back garden and mow the lawn, since he had to stop multiple times to prepare
food for his walrus of a cousin. Petunia had squawked at him several times
throughout the afternoon to hurry up, as he had cooked, cleaned, and washed the
laundry, savoring the time he had indoors.
Now he was currently lugging out the garbage. He wondered how the air could
still be so stifling even after the sun had disappeared beyond the horizon. He
deposited the heap of rubbish in the bin at the end of the alley and began to
trudge back towards Number Four. He dreaded making dinner; it was torture
enough to be made to do copious amounts of manual labor during one’s summer
holidays, but Harry thought it was simply criminal to taunt a ravenous teenage
boy with the sweet smell of sustenance. He had yet to be given food that day,
and honestly didn’t look forward to being taunted by whatever meal Petunia
expected him to prepare.
Sighing heavily, Harry made his way through the front door and into the
kitchen, already rolling up the sleeves of his filthy jersey. Harry groaned
despondently. As if Petunia and Vernon had united to make Harry’s day a living
hell, pork chops with peas and mashed potatoes—his favorites—were waiting for
him on the kitchen counter. Undoubtedly, he would not be allowed any of it.
Even worse was dessert: Petunia had laid out a recipe for fudge. His mouth
watered while his stomach gurgled obnoxiously. Steeling himself with a self-
deprecating grimace, Harry got to work.
 
                       -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
 
Harry wasn’t quite sure how it had happened. Well, he knew how, but he still
wondered at the absurdity that was his life. All he had done was try to eat his
dinner, but apparently he couldn’t even do something that simple correctly.
When Petunia had snapped at him to “hurry up and eat your supper” he had all
but scurried to obey, hoping to avoid both her and Vernon's wrath. Quickly
snatching up a plate Harry had made his way over to the stove where leftovers
from dinner, that he had prepared earlier, remained. After scraping the
remnants of mashed potatoes and peas—the mouthwatering pork chops and fudge had
been, as expected, devoured—onto his plate, Harry tiredly plopped down at the
kitchen table.   
But before he could even get a bite in, Dudley was shouting about how Harry was
“stealing” their food and, in the blink of an eye, he was being torn away from
his rations and into the back yard. That had been over five minutes ago.
Shoes were rather hard, Harry realized; the firsthand experience he was
suffering through at least convincing him of that. Vicious kicks to his arms,
legs, and back rattled him so cruelly that it became hard to stay alert. His
vision began to cloud, from blood dripping into his eyes, and he could hear a
faint ringing as the blows reigned down. Finally, Harry could no longer
maintain his stoic silence—having run out of lip to bite through—and started to
whimper, eventually bawling out apologies. The beating had been going on so
long now that Harry’s body no longer throbbed, but was mercifully numb. Despite
this, Harry couldn’t help the humiliating pleas for mercy that tumbled from his
lips through the tears, snot, and blood. Nonetheless, Vernon and his spawn
refused to cease their ministrations for quite a while.
Suddenly, the blows halted, but instead of relief, Harry felt himself being
dragged to his feet and shaken rather violently.
“Look, Dad, the pansy’s crying,” Dudley guffawed. Harry vaguely wondered what
his cousin had been expecting after beating him so badly.
“He always was a wimpy little runt, just like his father,” Vernon sneered into
Harry’s face, as if not quite understanding the concept of personal space.
Jerking him around, the large man hauled Harry over to the doghouse and
reattached the cumbersome chain. And taking a step back, Vernon and his spawn
began to admire their handiwork.
“Boy, next time you steal from my house you will lose the privilege of staying
here,” Vernon hissed down at a nearly comatose Harry. Lips curling into a
heinous sneer and manic eyes gleaming menacingly, Vernon added, “But only after
receiving a punishment a million times worse than this.” His uncle grinned as
he lumbered back to the house, casting one more malevolent glance back at his
damaged nephew.
As he slowly slipped into the wonderful detachment of unconsciousness, Harry
pondered Vernon's parting words. What could possibly be worse than being beaten
into a pulp?Harry wondered. Not overly enthusiastic to find out, he resolved
that going by unnoticed for the remainder of the summer holiday would be his
best course of action. But now it was time to sleep.
 
                       -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
                                        
Far away from 4 Privet Drive…
Fuck, thought an annoyed Severus Snape. He was already having a shit day, and
this temper tantrum wasn’t improving it any. Why do I have to put up with this
shit? Albus could have just insisted I stay at the castle all summer. But NO!
The old coot always thinks he knows best. He’s never had to live through one of
the Dark Lord’s rages.
He’d just apparated into their current lair: an old abandoned castle along the
eastern coast, far north of London. After the Dark Lord had grown tired of the
décor at Malfoy Manor, Antonin Dolohov had been assigned the task of scouting
out a new haunt for the Death Eaters. Unfortunately, Dolohov, like Voldemort,
had a bizarre penchant for shabby dilapidated hideouts. And so, for the past
month, Severus had been forced to report to the madman in what must have, at
one time, been a grand ballroom. Now, however, the slick marble floors had been
dulled by scattered sand, which collected at the bottom of the moth eaten
burgundy velvet drapes. It had entered through the many crevices that lined the
walls, which welcomed all the elements. The vaulted ceiling, while once
magnificent, was obscured by what the Potion Master hoped was just cobwebs. But
the most dreary feature of the entire room was an ostentatious gold chandelier.
Where it had once hung in splendor it now resembled a dangling mangled and
tarnished metal framework. The dust that rested upon the dilapidated light
fixture was thick enough to be noticed from across the hall and cobwebs adorned
the ancient relic as well.
All of this was lost on Severus, however, because at the moment of a barrage of
spells were flying in all directions, not to mention the hoard of panicking
Death Eaters. The decrepit chamber was overrun by scampering and dodging dark
wizards, trying to escape the rage of their master. 
Dodging another Confringo,Snape attempted to approach the curse-flinging fool
before any major damage was inflicted to his person. Unfortunately, he had been
absent to the beginning of this particular meeting, and hadn’t a clue to what
the catalyst of this particular explosion had been. But if anyone knew what
could calm the Dark Lord, it was Severus. Ever since the fiasco at the
Ministry, Voldemort had been desperate to get a hold of Potter. He hoped that
if he threw the madman a small bone all the sinister curses might cease and
they could move on to just mild hexes. One could onlyhope.
Finally, he was close enough to catch the old crackpot’s attention over the
bellowed curses and screams of terror. “My Lord!” Severus barked, more than a
little irritated, “I have promising news about the Potter boy.” Snape’s words
had immediately achieved their desired effect: Voldemort’s booming voice cut
off mid-Crucio.And, thankfully, once a few moments had passed, so did the
obnoxious shrieks of his peers. The Dark Lord's wrath had finally been
tempered.  
“Severus,” the Dark Lord simpered in his nasally tenor while lowering his wand,
“What news do you bring me?”
After a respectful bow, Severus replied, “My Lord, I have discovered that the
boy is not being kept at Order headquarters this summer. Black’s death
undoubtedly makes staying there unpleasant for anyone who had been too…attached
to the man.” Upon saying this, the Dark Lord’s eyes lit up with a fanatical
blaze. In truth, Snape had known for some time that Harry Potter would not
return to Number 12 Grimmauld Place, but, as a spy, he was careful to withhold
all valuable information until its allotted time. Severus knew the boy would
never willingly return to the house which held so many fond memories of his
recently deceased godfather. Voldemort might have recognized this if he
retained the ability to empathize. But of course the madman could never
understand an emotion as potent as grief.
“And where is he instead, Severus?” Voldemort eagerly entreated him. His eyes
gleaming an eerie crimson and slit-like nostrils flaring with his excitement.
“I was not directly informed, but I do know they believe Hogwarts to be
impenetrable,” Severus expertly suggested. It was true that Snape was unaware
of Potter’s exact location, but knew very well that he was not at Hogwarts.
However, after an enlightening and, to be honest, frightening conversation with
Albus, Severus knew that Harry must be kept safe at all costs, even at the
expense of his beloved school. And technically, he hadn’t lied.
“Excellent!” the Dark Lord proclaimed, snapping his fingers for the adjournment
of his already scattered court. The lucky few uninjured Death Eaters scampered
out of the chamber in a stampede of bodies, while the unfortunate casualties
were left to limp or drag themselves to safety. “Lucius, Severus, why don’t you
two stay?” It wasn’t a question.
As the last straggler exited hall, the eldest Malfoy and his dark haired
companion approached the dais, upon which their master awaited them. Once
composed, Lucius and a forever irate Severus approached the Dark Lord’s throne
and after bowing, commenced their scheming.
“Lucius, you have a son…and you owe me a favor,” the madman said. Voldemort
loved maintaining the illusion that his servants didn’t serve him out of fear
alone. Severus—much to his own satisfaction—had never allowed the viper this
small victory. Regrettably, Lucius really did owe his master for so promptly
breaking him out of Azkaban. “Perhaps your son can prove his worth by assisting
us into Hogwarts. Maybe….”
Snape shuddered anxiously for his godson. Despite doing his best to warn the
boy of the dangers of following the lunatic, Draco had been adamant about his
intentions. Lucius, Severus knew, was most likely responsible for his son’s
recklessness, always emphasizing that proper behavior for a Malfoy was Muggle-
hating and being the servant of the Dark Lord. If he had been given more say in
his godson’s upbringing, Severus would have done his absolute best to stress
how prudent it was to be your own master. Furthermore, if the aforementioned
Dark Lord was so far off his rocker, Snape would have insured that Draco was
far out of Voldemort’s poisonous grasp. Draco’s obsession with following in his
father’s footsteps would now undoubtedly bring about the fall of Hogwarts and
many unnecessary deaths.
Turning his attention back to the repellent conversation, Snape heard Lucius
promise to question his son about any secret passages in and out of Hogwarts
that he had managed to uncover during the last five years.
“Wonderful, Lucius, wonderful! Once the Lestranges have finished rounding up
the werewolves we can attack. I expect the first week of August to be a
realistic date for our conquest!” the Dark Lord declared triumphantly. The
Potions Master rolled his eyes, more than ready to leave.
Finally losing what little patience he had left, Snape snapped out a leading
excuse, “I have quite a few restorative potions to prepare.” He was barely able
to keep the irritation out of his voice.
“Oh, yes. You must have them all completed by the date of our attack,” the Dark
Lord commanded, as if he believed Severus actually hadn’t realized this
necessity yet. Regardless of his presumption, Snape was relieved to be
permitted to leave. He could only tolerate the other Death Eaters and Voldemort
for so long before his composure was stretched to the breaking point. And his
company was not required for the inane plotting he left in his wake. So having
now attained permission he swiftly departed the room, with his characteristic
billow of robes.  
 
                       -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
 
Back to the Dursley’s…
Harry was exhausted. Everything either ached, burned, or stung. His skin felt
strangely tight, stretched across his face and limbs, despite having lost quite
a bit of weight over the past four weeks. He had always been smaller then all
his friends at Hogwarts, even Hermione, but now he seemed even tinier—something
his uncle had neither failed to notice nor exploit as often as possible.
Ever since the first dinner fiasco, Petunia always laid out a piece—only one,
single, lousy piece—of questionable looking bread in his dog bowl. And she
always seemed to bring out the nastiest moldy-green slice of the loaf. Harry
wondered whether they bought an extra loaf just for him, letting it sit until
it was moldy before allowing him any. This injustice forced Harry to become a
competent scavenger. Every day while cooking, doing the dishes, or even taking
out the trash he was constantly on the lookout for even the smallest morsel of
food. Now that he was paying so close attention to their eating habits, he was
even more disgusted with the Dursley’s for how much food they wasted…not that
he was complaining. Those scraps were the only things sustaining him.
He was currently curled, quite ironically, like a cat in his favorite corner of
his doghouse. The single set of clothing Harry had left was still damp from
that morning’s wake-up call. From what he could remember there had never been a
time since that first morning that he had been completely dry.
In fact, the past couple of nights there had even been rain. Nothing too heavy
at first, but there was enough of it that Harry now knew exactly where the
leaks in the roof were. And just yesterday it had poured continuously, leaving
a half-inch of water on the bottom of his makeshift home. That night he had
gotten no sleep at all.
Absentmindedly rubbing his chest, where a peculiar throbbing sensation was
emanating, Harry imagined the reaction of the Weasley’s when they came to
collect him for the remainder of the holiday. Their expected incredulity and
subsequent vengeance was what had been sustaining his sanity this past month.
The list of chores Vernon had given him the first day of his holidays never
seemed to end. His energy was waning and thoughts of the Burrow, warm meals,
and scalding showers, danced through his mind as he brooded.
It had taken him several days to realize that not only was all his school work
gone forever, but his wand, owl, and all the mementos that had remained of his
parents, including his invisibility cloak and prized photo album, that had both
been callously destroyed. This meant that he no longer had the company of
Hedwig and the trusty Holly and Phoenix feather wand he had received five years
ago would never perform magic again. Such realizations had left him utterly
distraught for days until Vernon had punched him in the nose because he was
being a “lazy little bastard.”
Now, as he reminisced over each individual memory, all he felt was a longing to
leave Privet Drive and never return. He knew it was a hopeless endeavor of
Dumbledore’s to force him and his relatives to get along and so he resolved
that next summer he would insist upon staying at the Burrow with Ron. Everyone
would be happier with that arrangement, not only he and the Dursley’s, but also
Ron, Hermione, and the rest of his adopted red-haired and freckled family.
Harry suddenly sneezed, the force causing his temple to collide with the
unforgiving wooden boards of his temporary home. After rearranging himself so
as to relieve his newest bruise and other sore extremities, he let his mind
relax, using the meditation techniques he’d learned in his failed attempt at
Occlumency for sleep. Unfortunately, he was simply too tense to succeed in this
undertaking. With a frustrated sigh, Harry gave up and began, once again, to
contemplate the horrendous situation he found himself in.
He had been out of contact with the Wizarding World for some time now and found
that he longed for a copy of the Daily Prophet. Or, even better, an owl from
either Ron or Hermione. His birthday was in a few days and he could only guess
as to what the Dursley’s would do with the contents of his friend’s
congratulatory parcels.
It was not lost on Harry that this calamitous state of affairs was entirely his
fault. All of it began with his attitude following Sirius’s death and the
selfish, disagreeable manner in which he had treated his friends on the train
ride home. If he had just been more receptive to his two best friends, he might
have realized that being alone at the Dursley’s was not the best atmosphere for
him in his present temperament. Ironically, he had insisted upon staying at his
relative’s in his desperate attempt to be alone.
Unsuccessfully Harry squirmed, even in his exhaustion his body refused to
relax; the stress and abuse from the past month’s activities left him
perpetually tense. Harry yawned wearily; instead of falling immediately to
sleep every night, he’d been cursed with terrible insomnia, most likely due to
his constant anxiety and pain. He really did need to get some rest if he wanted
any chance of completing his chores. Not that he was particularly concerned
about the lawn or the gardens, but Vernon had been getting steadily more and
more violent as the summer wore on. There were some nights where Harry was sure
that had Vernon kicked or punched him one more time Harry would have died if he
hadn’t been taken to a hospital. As it was, he could only suspect that his
innate magic was keeping him alive, with his characteristically Gryffindor
obstinacy. Despite this, he knew that it would take weeks for his body to
completely heal after he had escaped to the Weasley's.
At long last, Harry felt his eyelids begin to droop and his next yawn was
impossible to repress. He curled up tightly, in such a way that would maximize
any heat his body managed to retain, although tonight his grasp at warmth was
futile due to the steady downpour. And with those grim thoughts lingering in
the forefront of his mind, Harry fell into a restless sleep.
===============================================================================
 
Chapter End Notes
     Tell me what you think!!
     Next chapter will come next Tuesday right on schedule!!
     I really hope you like it...
***** Dirty *****
Chapter Notes
     Sorry! I totally forgot to upload this yesterday! Well here you go.
     PROCEED WITH CAUTION!!!
     You have been warned.
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                             Chapter Three: Dirty
                                        
            There was absolutely no way he was going to make it up the stairs,
at least not standing up. Slowly lowering himself to all fours, Harry
listlessly climbed what seemed to be an endless stairway. In reality it
probably only had fifteen steps. Upon reaching the landing, he sagged against
the wall in an attempt to catch his breath.
For the past few days any exertion had been almost impossible, but today was
even worse. Harry had been having trouble breathing, each breath accompanied by
an abnormal rasping vibration deep within his chest. Petunia had yelled at him
while he had been preparing their lunch because of his incessant coughing. Even
more tiresome were the hot and cold flashes he had been experiencing while
mowing the lawn. But most irritating were the random flashes of nausea that
plagued him at the most inconvenient times, like when he had been preparing the
Dursley’s supper. This had made completing Vernon's ridiculous tasks nearly
impossible. Despite Harry’s obviously failing health, Vernon had shown no
mercy, insisting that Harry continue to work as directed. So here he was, on
his last chore of the day and seconds away from collapse.
            After a few more minutes, he had finally recovered from his brutal
trip up the stairs. Harry pulled himself to his feet, using the wall as
support. As he slowly made his way towards his aunt and uncle’s bedroom, he
could distinctly hear blood pumping through his veins. This did nothing to
relieve the headache that had been building ever since that morning. Finally
reaching the doorway, he entered and surveyed the disarray. Thankfully his only
job was to change the sheets, but it would still be difficult to maneuver
himself over and around all of their crap.
            Determined, Harry set off across the room, picking his way
carefully through the scattered debris. However, when the front door slammed,
Harry started in surprise, and stumbled onto the bed. Vernon was home. After
righting himself, Harry hurriedly began prying up the dirty bedding, trying
desperately not to think about how it had become soiled.
He tried to work quickly; usually he was able to finish before his uncle
returned home. On days when this was possible, Harry would be safe in the back
garden by the time an irritated and confrontational Vernon stormed into the
residence. Today he had not been so lucky, and tried to make up for the time
lost on the stairs by rushing through his final task. He quickly discovered
this tactic to be flawed, since any hurried movement quickly fatigued him.
Extending his arms and bracing himself on the bare mattress, Harry attempted to
quickly catch his breath.
The fates were not on Harry’s side, however. At the exact moment Harry was
recovering, Vernon charged into the room. The suddenness of the intrusion
caused Harry to once again jerk in alarm. Unfortunately, the hasty movements
made it seem as if Harry was guiltily removing himself from a relaxed position.
Even more disastrous than the unexpected appearance of Uncle Vernon was the
expression the man was wearing. His face was contorted into a repulsed sneer of
rage.
Immediately Harry knew that he was in trouble. Vernon was going to kill him.
Not only had Harry been “a no good, lazy runt,” but he had been caught leaning
on his relative’s bed, no doubt “contaminating” it with his “filth.” Resigned
to what he knew would transpire, Harry straightened up and stared right back at
his uncle. And, as expected, it took only a few seconds for Vernon to find the
appropriate, wrathful words.
“BOY, WHAT’S THE MEANING OF THIS! WE LET YOU IN OUR HOME, AND WHAT DO YOU DO?
NOTHING!” Vernon thundered, enraged. “You’re such a lazy little freak, can’t
even do a few chores before you take a nap. You’re good for nothing, just like
your whore of a mother. All you do is laze about, and on my bed no less!”
Harry just stood there with a blank expression. Vernon probably thought he was
just a bit dim, but in reality he was trying desperately not to panic. The
beating Harry knew was imminent was guaranteed to leave him severely injured.
It wasn’t as if his uncle would take him to the hospital for his injuries. As
his breath began to hitch and a high pitched whine emanated from his chest,
Harry tried not to imagine how pissed off Vernon would be if he was unable to
move and therefore incapable of completing his chores.
“BOY! Boy? Are you listening to me?” Vernon barked. His face had been red when
he had entered the room, but now it was a dull shade of purple. Suddenly
Harry’s space was being invaded. Uncle Vernon had crossed the messy room in a
surprisingly short time for a man of such substantial size. Once he had reached
Harry, he grabbed him by the back of the neck. At least this time Harry could
breathe, but it was still terribly uncomfortable. Yanking Harry around to face
him, Vernon hissed, “You ungrateful little waste, I am going to kill you!”
Harry didn’t doubt him, as he was dragged back into the hall and into the
smallest bedroom that used to be his refuge. His uncle was muttering all the
while about how much Harry would “regret ever being born.” When Vernon shoved
him down onto his old mattress, he didn’t even bother trying to catch himself,
and simply let his head smack the old mattress carelessly. From his face down
position on the bed, Harry could only hear his uncle’s movements behind him,
but was too resigned to the beating he knew was coming to care. In some ways
this was better than the previous occasions, Harry reasoned, seeing as how he
was on a—comparatively—comfy bed. At least it would be impossible for him to
get a concussion this time.
Unexpectedly, Harry felt his ankle being grabbed and yanked in the direction of
a bed post. Even if he had been so inclined, Harry would have been incapable of
resisting. Usually, as long as he cooperated and accepted whatever Vernon
wanted to dish out, everything was over sooner. After both his feet had been
secured, Vernon yanked Harry’s hands above his head, first binding them
together and finally to one of the rungs on the headboard. Now this is
new,Harry thought. Vernon had never tried to tie him up before, no matter what
the punishment, whether it be punching, kicking, beating, or burning.
He could now hear Vernon removing his belt. But instead of hitting him, Vernon
simply laid it down on the bed beside Harry, and began yanking at Harry’s grimy
oversized jeans. They had previously been Dudley’s and easily slipped off his
hips and down to his calves. Finally Vernon could strike him across his bare
thighs, arse, and lower back.
The first stoke landed on the sensitive skin between thigh and buttocks,
causing Harry to jerk and tears to well up. Blow two, three, and four hit him
right above the knees procuring a quivering motion out of his legs. Harry lost
count after several more that stung his back. Closing his eyes, Harry attempted
to send himself into a meditative state, just focusing on the impact of each
individual hit. He’d found a while ago that he could always come out of
punishments much less damaged if he could control himself.
Yet it still didn’t take Harry long to begin crying; thankfully they were
hushed tears. However, Uncle Vernon didn’t seem to appreciate his silence.
“Scream, boy, or I’ll make you,” huffed his uncle. And Vernon did a commendable
job of trying, but Harry bit the inside of his cheeks when he ran out of lip,
in the effort not to make a sound.
Nevertheless, Harry did eventually begin to bleed, which seemed to appease his
uncle, since he stopped thrashing his nephew. He was almost relieved before he
froze as a chilling sound reached him. It was worse than Voldemort’s cackle,
Malfoy’s jeering, and Snape’s belittling. It was the rhythmic chink of a zipper
being pulled down.
                                        
                       -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
                                        
Flashback…
            It was New Year’s Eve back in fourth year. Fred and George had
managed to smuggle in several cases of Fire Whiskey and had felt generous
enough in their holiday spirit to share it with their youngest brother and his
friends. Harry, being under an enormous amount of stress because of the
Triwizard Tournament, participated in Gryffindor’s merriment. After drinking
for hours with Ron, Neville, Seamus, and Dean in the common room, the five of
them had tripped and stumbled up to the boy’s dormitory with their last bottle
of booze, all the while under the scornful watch of Hermione.
Wanting to make this last bottle count, Ron had proposed a game of Wizard’s
“Have You Ever,” a game Harry had realized was quite literally magical. By
adding a certain spell that insured the uninhibited truth to the spirits, Ron
had announced that no matter the query, they would be magically compelled to
drink accordingly. Once everyone had agreed to the terms, including Neville,
the game began.
It had all started out innocently enough. Neville had begun by saying, “Have
you ever cheated on an assignment?” which was of course followed by all five of
them drinking. But as they had become more intoxicated the questions had become
lewder.
The first had come from Dean, “Have you ever had a hand job from Lavender
Brown?” which was promptly followed by only Dean swallowing his shot of
Whiskey, while sniggering amusedly at all their envious faces. Ron had quickly
followed him up with, “Have you ever had sex with any of the girls at
Hogwarts?” which both he and Dean drank too. The rest had watched rather
jealously while both Ron and Dean had mercilessly made fun of them and
recounted all of their experiences in minute detail.
Neville, who they all knew was bisexual, had come back with, “Have you ever had
sex with a guy?” meaning that he got to drink. Surprisingly, however, Seamus
had also been forced to drink his shot, despite him obvious resisting.
            Dean stared surprised at his best friend, “Mate, I didn’t know you
were bent!” he exclaimed, a bit too loudly because of his drunkenness. This
really was a surprising development, since Seamus was quite out spoken when it
came to whether or not he liked someone. And he had always said he’d liked
girls.
            “Yeah, Seamus, who was it?” Ron asked. The unfairness of the
question would only occur to them in the morning, when they remembered the
compulsion spell Ron had placed upon the alcohol. But Ron couldn’t be blamed
for his forgetfulness or curiosity. None of them could. They were all wasted.
 Seamus, who had already been red, was turning blue from lack of air. He had
clamped his jaw shut in an attempt not to have to speak. If he had been sober,
he might have thought to run out of the room, or even breathe through his nose.
As it was, the need for air eventually forced him to open his mouth. Through
the gasps for air the other four clearly heard him say, “My father.”
The complete and utter silence that had followed had been horrible. The
revelation immediately subdued the group. Unfortunately for Seamus, their
soberness didn’t mean there wouldn’t be questions. Harry had been the one to
ask, “When? Before you came to Hogwarts?”
Seamus just nodded, looking down and refusing to make eye contact with any of
them. He had gone from sprawled out over some pillows to knees tucked under his
chin and his arms wrapped around himself. Not a single one of his freckles
could be seen.
“Seamus, mate?” Dean said scooting closer and wrapping an arm around his
friend, “How old were you? What happened?”
There was a short pause where Seamus seemed to be attempting to fight the magic
again and failed. And so he was forced to begin.
“I was eight years old. It was right after me’ dad found out me’ mum was a
witch. He wasn’t too thrilled about that, but you guys already knew that. Um...
he… my f-father… dammit! I-it happened the night he left. Actually I think me’
mum thought he had already gone but I guess he had just went to the pub and
then decided to come back one more time. I wish he hadn’t. But, um, he came
into me’ room that night, and me’ mum had already gone to bed, so she couldn’t
have heard. Me’ mum snores like a train, see. And um, anyway me’ dad was drunk,
completely out of it, e’ was. He kept telling me I was a freak and a whore just
like me’ mum and this was the only way to make it better. He was pulling down
me’ shorts and I thought he was gonna give me a beatin’… but after he got me’
pants off he started takin’ off his own. I didn’t know what was going on. Me’
parents hadn’t told me about sex ‘cause I was still so young, ya know, and I
hadn’t gotten me’ hands on any of those girlie magazines yet.”
Seamus paused, steeling himself for what they all knew was coming next. “Me’
dad had a tiny cock,” he said, trying to make light of it all and failing, “but
to an eight year old, I don’t think it mattered much. It still hurt like a
bitch. I thought me’ body was going to split in two. I was crying and me’ dad
was getting angrier ’cause I was making too much noise. So he pushed me’ face
down into the sheets to muffle me’ howling. It went on a long time and by the
end there was blood and cum all over me and the sheets. After he was done, me’
dad didn’t stick around too long. He took the sheets and told me to take a
bath. I think he didn’t want me’ mum to know. And she still doesn’t either.”
By this point Seamus was crying and leaning heavily into Dean’s side. The rest
of them were dazed by this disturbing news. Harry was trying to reason out why
they hadn’t suspected it before. But Seamus was the loudest and cheeriest of
the lot of them, and Harry couldn’t understand how he could be so positive
after something so obviously horrific had happened to him.
“I’m not bent though. I didn’t want him to do that. It wasn’t me’ fault I
didn’t know any better.” Seamus was looking pleadingly at Dean, as if he
thought the other boy was about to push him away. “You believe me don’t ya?”
Turning his distressed friend to face him, their faces a bit closer than normal
because of the drunkenness, Dean reassured him forcefully, “Gay or straight,
you’re still my best mate. Besides, I don’t think you had much of a choice
anyway, what with you just being a little kid then, right?”
Looking a little more hopeful, Seamus allowed Dean to help him into bed. After
a few moments of muddled silence, the rest of them somberly prepared for sleep.
Harry in particular was pensive. He had realized that this must have been the
very first time Seamus had ever talked about his last encounter with his
father. The Dursleys were cruel, but he didn’t even think they would do
something so distressing to him. Those had been Harry’s last thoughts before he
had drifted off to sleep.
                                        
                       -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
 
This was why Harry was so confused. The Dursleys, or more specifically his
uncle, weren’t supposed to be capable of this. Harry had decided that over a
year ago, but here were the facts, proving him wrong. Suddenly, Harry wasn’t
feeling so complacent about his penance. No one deserved to have this done to
them! Feeling a rush of terror-fueled adrenaline Harry started to thrash about,
straining all his muscles to escape the snare he had allowed himself to be
trapped in.
Vernon was completely silent, but Harry could sense him when he got onto the
bed. Increasing his struggling, Harry began to hyperventilate. This is not
happening, it’s NOT! were Harry’s only thoughts. But when he felt his uncle’s
hand on his bare hip, Harry stopped breathing, going rigid and tensing his butt
for all he was worth.
It occurred to him then that this was most likely happening because he had
refused to make any noise of distress during the beating. He decided
immediately that giving up his dignity would be worth the embarrassment. So
Harry began to whimper. But instead of stopping victoriously, Vernon just moved
farther onto the bed, until Harry could tell his uncle was kneeling between his
legs. Before Harry could do anything to counter this progression, Vernon leaned
a forward a bit. This action alerted Harry to an alarming fact that, had Harry
not already been petrified, would have rendered him motionless. His uncle was
hard, very hard. In addition to that from what Harry could tell his uncle
wasn’t small, but of an average length and width.
Losing all rational thought and control, Harry began to struggle haphazardly.
He even increased the level of his whimpering to full-blown sniveling, although
he didn’t know when he had started to cry again.
The next thing Harry knew, Vernon's hands were spreading his arse cheeks apart.
Finally Harry had had enough. This WASN’T going to happen to him, even if he
had to beg.
“Uncle Vernon, please stop. Please don’t!” Harry managed to squeak out between
his sobs, unaware that his distress had escalated to such heights. But all this
earned him was a maniacal chuckle from Vernon.
Then the foreign and incredibly frightening feeling of a large blunt cock head
prodding around his entrance caused Harry to once again freeze. His breath left
him again as he tensed for the inevitable breach.
But when it finally did come, it was so much worse than Harry had imagined,
causing him to give a panicked shriek, his hands grappling for purchase on the
pillows. Really all Vernon had done was nudge just the tip of his erect penis
into Harry’s tiny hole, but there was such an intense burning that Harry
thought he might actually die if his uncle continued.
His entire body gave a jolt and he could feel his anus spasm around the foreign
intrusion. Harry couldn’t understand, through the haze of pain, how such a
large thing could even begin to fit within such a minuscule orifice. The
shuddering, he assumed, was his body’s attempt to accustom itself with the
invasion. However, he wasn’t quite sure he wanted his body to get used to this
outlandish torture. He wanted the disturbance gone, and the memories deleted.
Harry was about to resume his pleading, but Vernon had swiftly leaned over him,
clapping a hand over Harry’s mouth and hissing. “One more noise, boy, and I
will make this a hundred times worse.” Although Harry couldn’t imagine anything
worse than what had already ensued, he nodded fervently to avoid any more
unwanted agony.
But it did get worse, so much worse. At that moment Vernon plunged in all the
way to the hilt. If his uncle’s hand hadn’t already been over his lips, a gut
wrenching scream of anguish would have undoubtedly exploded from the young
wizard. As it was, he couldn’t help the shuddering spasms that shook his entire
frame and the immediate blubbering that overtook him. Tears and snot were
swiftly dripping down his face, causing Vernon to remove his hand. Harry could
vaguely hear himself weeping, but the ringing in his ears disoriented him,
making everything vague and hazy. Everything but the pain in his arse.
It really did feel like being torn in two. But what the Irishmen had forgotten
to mention was the inconceivable burning sensation and the uncontrollable urge
to vomit. Which he did, right onto the pillow. He was being stretched more than
his body was most likely meant to yield. The blood from where the skin of his
hole had been torn by the sudden intrusion was running down his legs.
And then Vernon began to move. It was unbroken, indescribable pain. Most
unfathomable was the relentless burn. The open wounds from the beating were
being rubbed raw, and every time Vernon's balls slapped Harry’s buttocks, he
thought he could feel the man’s cock all the way in the back of his throat.
Every time Vernon pulled out and slammed back in Harry’s face was dragged
through his own vomit, which had spread all across the top half of the bed.
By this time, his weeping had progressed to muffled wailing. Harry couldn’t
help the escaping noise but tried his best to stifle it by pressing his face
into the fouled coverlet.
“…no no no no no no no no…” was Harry’s desperate mantra. It wasn’t clear to
him if he was saying no to Vernon or just in denial of the situation itself.
Between each irregular breath Harry threw out his whispered objection. For the
eternity that it took his uncle to get off, Harry chanted. Even once Vernon
finally had sprayed his cum into Harry and pulled out, he continued to intone
his barely audible “no no no.”
And once Vernon had redone his trousers and released Harry’s hands and feet,
the continued rejections remained, unceasing. After Vernon had left the room
and Harry had curled into the smallest shape possible, hugging his knees to his
chest and staring blankly at the wall, the no’s continued to stream past his
lips. Harry’s mind was oddly blank. He wasn’t contemplating how he’d just lost
his virginity to his uncle or how, for the first time in weeks, he was laying
on an actual bed. And he definitely wasn’t thinking about how he would have to
clean up the entire mess, including himself, within a few hours.
No, Harry Potter’s mind was completely blank, except his refusal to accept
reality. But really, who could blame him.
 
                       -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
 
Two hours later, there was a knock on the door of the smallest bedroom in
Number Four Privet Drive. It was Petunia Dursley. She wanted to make sure her
nephew took a shower before he went to bed, so as not to sully the sheets with
“his kind’s” filth. And Harry, who had only recently come out of his stupor,
had no objection to this. He knew he was dirty.
Chapter End Notes
     DON'T HATE ME PLEASE!
     Please review!
***** Alone *****
 
===============================================================================
 
            He neededto take a shower. The smell of his uncle was overwhelming
him. But his head was spinning and everything ached. His aunt had told him to
wash up before going to bed and Harry was only too happy to comply. Before he
did, he had to get rid of the filthy, blood stained sheets. He decided tossing
them would be better for everyone. His relatives wouldn’t want his “filth” all
over their belongings, and he really didn’t think Petunia would allow him to
leave dried blood, puke, tears, and cum in her house.
            But when he tried to move from his face down position to a sitting
one, his body strongly protested. The stabbing pain in his arse had him falling
to his knees by the side of the bed rather abruptly. The bedside table nearly
nicked his head on his way to the floor.
            Now that he was upright, the uncomfortable sensation of the cooled
remnants of pink tinged cum dribbling down the inside of his thighs made Harry
nauseas. This time he was able to hold back the vomit by lowering his head to
rest against the bed. If anyone had walked in on him then it would have seemed
as if he were praying. After gaining control of his stomach, Harry tried to
stand. It was rather difficult, since every movement caused intense twinges of
pain at the base of his spine.
Finally managing to pull himself up, Harry began to carelessly pull up the
sheets. Once he had them strewn together in a messy ball, he methodically
donned his old shirt and trousers, leaving his pants where they lay on the
floor. His backside was too raw for tight fitting garments to be comfortable.
He intended to take the sheets directly to the rubbish bin in the alley, but as
soon as he exited the smallest bedroom in Number Four Privet Drive he came
across a major dilemma.
            Vernon was still awake and he was between Harry and the front door.
Harry couldn’t see him yet, but the distinctive oafish guffawing could be heard
from the top of the stairs. Wonderful! Just wonderful,Harry thought
sardonically. He knew any confrontation with his uncle would result in him
cowering in a corner. At the moment, he didn’t think he could cope with the
added humiliation. To make matters infinitely worse, Dudley’s loutish
sniggering could be heard from the sitting room as well. Harry could only
imagine what was so amusing and hoped it was simply late night television.
            Gathering as much courage and stealth as he could muster, Harry
began his steady descent down the stairs. He had to take his time or exhaustion
would overtake him and he’d have to stop and rest, only prolonging his time out
in the open. Despite his precaution, by the time he had reached the bottom
step, Harry was out of breath. It frustrated him that something as simple as a
flight of stairs could completely drain him, but now he was much closer to his
goal. All he had to do was sneak past the entrance of the sitting room and out
the front door. Much easier said than done!
            After stealing a glance into said room and finding his cousin and
uncle satisfactorily distracted, Harry crept past and then out the front door,
sighing in relief once it clicked shut behind him. Without the threat of his
uncle spurring him on, Harry meandered his way into the alley and towards his
goal: the rubbish bin.
            The fresh air stole across his feverish skin, cooling and calming
him. But, with this calm came a clarity of mind that did nothing for his
composure. Now that his concentration was revitalized, it immediately went to
work replaying all the horrifying events of the past few hours.
            Harry’s blood pressure began to rise as the memories he had been
blocking came crashing back over him. As the panic set in, he slumped into the
garbage can, trembling violently, and slid to the ground. Cursing his
subconscious for its blatant betrayal, Harry dropped his forehead to his
forearm, which was propped up on his knees. He needed to get under control and
stop the irrational tremulous quaking, especially as his uncle was still
inside. Taking deep breaths, Harry gave up his internal battle for control,
letting his attention wander where it wished.
            Suddenly there was a loud banging noise that indicated a slamming
door, mercifully jolting him out of his inner turmoil. He hoped fervently that
it was the neighbours, but knew instinctively it was from Number Four because
of its proximity. In response, he curled in on himself and froze, hoping to
make himself invisible to whoever had exited the residence.
            To his complete horror it was both Vernon and Dudley. Even worse
was the subject of their conversation: him. But most alarming was their
approaching footsteps. Scrambling to his feet and quickly tossing the sheets
into the dumpster, Harry stood with his back against the wall. He had a fantasy
of his invisibility cloak poofing up out of nowhere and hiding him from view.
Unfortunately, he would never wear his father’s cloak again.
            Luck, as usual, was against him. And when his relatives rounded the
corner, Harry was in plain sight.
            “Look, there’s little Potter. I wonder if he’d like to go for a
drive with us,” Dudley said upon noticing Harry cowering in the shadows. The
underage wizard thought it rather strange that his cousin didn’t insult him
further. Usually his relatives prided themselves on their inventive new ways of
affronting him and his parentage.
            “We’ll have to toss him in the boot so that he doesn’t sully the
back seat,” Vernon glared. Harry was confused. A drive? He had thought they had
come out to beat him or… well, what Vernon had done to him earlier. He hadn’t
been anticipating them suggesting a drive, and truthfully it unnerved him. It
was obvious that the two bumbling animals that passed as his relations were up
to something. This alone made him anxious, but with the added fear and shame
that being in Vernon's mere vicinity produced, it made him all but panicky. The
only thing he could console himself with was that Vernon, it appeared, had kept
the events of only a few hours ago to himself. Dudley’s incessant taunting
could have very possibly been too much for him to handle, had the boy been
aware of Harry’s indignity.
            As the two bullies approached him, he tensed, but managed to keep
himself from retaliating when they grabbed him by his arms and forcefully led
him out of the alley. Their destination: Vernon's aging sedan. The confined
dark space of the trunk reminded him of his old cupboard under the stairs, but
he let himself be picked up and bodily stuffed into the cramped compartment.
Ducking his head as Vernon slammed the boot closed, Harry prepared himself for
a bumpy ride.
 
                       -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
 
            Harry was sure he had a concussion. By his estimation, which was
questionable at best, they had been driving for over an hour. To make
everything even more unpleasant, not a minute went by that was bump-free,
causing Harry’s head to repeatedly slam into the back of the boot. Sleep, of
course, was impossible.
            Harry had given up wondering where he was being taken, nor did he
want to know what would happen to him once they arrived. There was no doubt in
his mind that the father and son duo had something up their sleeves. His only
hope was the reasonable assumption that Vernon and Dudley Dursley were too
dimwitted to put any truly conniving plot into action.
            Bracing himself for another violent jolt, Harry tried to lose
himself in his thoughts. Ever since the first day of the holidays, he had had
daydreams of his friends coming to save him from this mess he was in. Anyone
would do. He wouldn’t even be upset to see Snape at this point. Anything to get
him away from this place; forever.
            Suddenly, Harry noticed a strange tinkling echo. It seemed to be
coming from all around him, and at first he thought it was the beginning of his
relative’s scheme. Perhaps they intended to torture him into insanity, but
Harry quickly dismissed this idea when he realised one had to be clever to
successfully torture someone.
            Rain! That’s what it was. Not that this improved Harry’s mood at
all; he was already chilly due to the lack of proper clothes and riding in the
boot of an ancient car. Rain wouldn’t make it any better. He had the most
rotten luck.
            He was so disoriented and drained that he didn’t realise the car
had been slowing down until the ignition was switched off. The barely
noticeable trimmers that rocked the car, suddenly stopped. They had reached
their destination. Foreboding, that Harry had done his best to keep at bay, now
engulfed him.
For the first time Harry began asking himself the questions he had been putting
off. Why he was being taken for a midnight outing? What could the Dursley’s
gain from getting him away from Privet Drive? The sudden idea that they were in
league with Voldemort overcame him, initially instilling panic. But he quickly
reassured himself. His relatives wanted nothing to do with “freaks” like him;
they wouldn’t even consider it, even to conspire against him. Yes, he was safe,
at least from that threat.
            Before Harry would get any farther with his inner inquisition, the
trunk was thrown open. Looking up Harry could see two silhouetted forms
hovering over him. Though he couldn’t see their faces, Harry imagined they both
bore nasty grins. And together the duo hauled him out of the boot and plopped
him callously onto the damp ground.
            He was forced to sit, putting unwanted pressure on his abused
buttocks, since his legs were still completely numb from the extended time in
the cramped space. But he looked up, purposely ignoring his evil relatives, and
surveyed his surroundings. They were in a deserted alley, but Harry could see
lights around the corner. It was obvious that they weren’t in London; it was
too quiet.
            “Dad, let’s go, I want to go home. I’m hungry!” That was Dudley.
Even in the mist of one of their elaborate schemes, his cousin couldn’t go too
long without stuffing his face.
            “We’ll stop in Croydon on the way back for some food, but first I
want to have one last word with that thing,” His uncle spit the last word, as
if he was no better than dog shit. Harry knew that in Vernon's eyes, that’s
exactly what he was.
            “Boy, look here! I’m going to leave you here, and if I ever see you
again… well it’ll be much worse than this,” Vernon jeered at him. “Don’t you
dare call either; I want nothing to do with you freaks anymore!”
            Harry just stared up at them. This wasn’t what he had been
expecting and he wasn’t sure what to think. Wasn’t this what he had wanted, to
be away from the Dursley’s and never ever have to see them again? And now it
seemed he was getting what he had wished for… But in his daydreams there had
always been somewhere for him to go, some place for him to stay, or at least
someone who cared. Suddenly he was nervous.
            “W-wait!” Harry entreated. “Where am I supposed to go? What am I
supposed to do? You can’t just leave me here!” He was suddenly furious. Where
was Dumbledore now? Where was the almighty headmaster when Vernon had violated
him? This wasn’t supposed to happen to him.
            But Vernon just laughed. Laughed! Then he bent down, so as to make
eye contact with his nephew. Dudley was already in the car, out of the cool
showers, most likely impatient for his next meal. Now all alone with his uncle,
Harry was understandably petrified by their proximity.
            “Do you think I care what happens to the likes of you? Go wherever
you want, as long as it’s away. And as for what you should do,” At this Vernon
leered, a wicked expression gracing his visage, “you could be a whore, just
like your mother. It’s just too bad you’re a lousy fuck.”
            Harry shrank away, cowering into the ground, despite it making his
clothes soggy, as if it would protect him from his reality. He wanted to defend
his mother, but he couldn’t even protect himself. Violent tremors racked his
petite frame and he knew he was pitiful. Such a pathetic wizard, like himself,
deserved all the agony he had received.
            Vernon, looking smugger than Harry had ever seen him, righted
himself and, with little ado, made his way back over to the car, leaving Harry
abandoned as he drove away.
 
                       -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
                                        
Far away…
            “Fuck!”
            A jar of his most cherished potions ingredient smashed to the cold
stone floor of his laboratory. He had knocked it over when a sudden rapping had
sounded at the door, breaking the silence and his concentration.
            Now he would have to buy more Asphodels! Cursing his luck, Severus
moved towards the door to discover who had startled him out of the most
expensive and rare ingredient in Britain. This was exactly why he had the Dark
Lord instruct his imbecile Death Eaters to never interrupt him. Even the Dark
Lord didn’t have enough resources to obtain good quality Asphodel. And with the
impending confrontation Severus saw a great need for it, since it was the main
ingredient to the most powerful restorative potion known to wizard-kind.
            Wrenching open the door with enough ferocity to shake the
foundations of any residence not kept standing by magic, Severus glared down at
the culprit of his ever increasing foul temper. The white-blond hair was enough
to further irritate the Potions Master and he promptly whirled around, stomping
back over to his work station in a swirl of black robes. He could hear the
aristocrat following him farther into his lair, evidently undaunted by the
wrath of Severus Snape.
            Completely ignoring his guest, Severus set about scouring the table
top of all the squandered, volatile element and banishing any remaining scraps
he found. The closest capable dealer of this invaluable component was in
Bromley! This would not have been such an inconvenience if they had still been
located in Wiltshire, at Malfoy Manor. But about a month ago Voldemort had
spontaneously picked up headquarters and relocated in the north. They were
currently based in Aberdeen. Incensed, he recklessly marched over to the sink
in a flurry of heavy dark robes, heedless of the other preserved materials
around the room.
            “Severus, the Dark Lord wants to know if everything will be
prepared for the upcoming fray,” said Lucius Malfoy, completely at ease despite
his precarious position. The man was leaning nonchalantly against the far
counter and wasn’t even regarding Severus as he spoke, instead scrutinizing his
flawless manicure.
            Snape rolled his eyes. If there was any one of the Death Eaters
that should be kissing his arse it was Lucius. After the failure at the
ministry, Voldemort had been so enraged he had planned on Avada Kedavra-ing
Narcissa Malfoy as Lucius’s punishment. Severus had done the man a serious
favor by hiding his wife, risking his life for not the first time. As it was,
the Dark Lord only tortured the blond man a few days instead of murdering his
wife. But his old friend was nothing if not proud and refused to acknowledge
his dwindling status, unless in the presence of the Dark Lord himself, to whom
he groveled shamelessly.
            Shaking his head in exasperation, Severus replied in an aggravated
tone, “Of course, Lucius. When was the last time any of mypotions were not
prepared in a timely fashion?” He said this to mock and perhaps humble the man,
but knew his attempt to be futile when the only response was a toss of sleek
blond hair and an annoyed glower.
            Before Snape had joined Voldemort’s ranks, Malfoy had been the
Lord’s Potion’s Master. This was one of the many reasons Severus had been
recruited; Lucius had been an unreliable and inconsistent potion brewer.
            “No need to be childish, Severus. I was sent to assess your
progress by the Dark Lord himself. You cannot blame me for being obedient,”
Lucius asserted pompously.
            As a matter of fact, Severus had plenty of pent up frustration to
spew at Malfoy about blindly worshipping a depraved madman. This, however, was
not the time for him to preach blasphemy, especially since Lucius was so
desperate for a way back into the Dark Lord’s good graces. So instead, he
settled for simply raging at the man in his usual manner.
            “Well your so called obediencejust cost the Dark Lord a great
fortune. I was under the impression he had instructed you all not to bother
me.” At this Lucius paled considerably, which was an impressive feat for his
fair complexion. “My stock of Asphodel was completely decimated because of your
harebrained incursion. Even you, at height of your reign, could not have
afforded to replace this ingredient. As it is the Dark Lord cannot even dream
of replenishing it. Now I won’t have enough invigorating potions for after the
battle! Do you know what this means?”
            Looking up after his vehement oration, Severus was pleased to note
that Lucius looked a good deal meeker than he had upon entering the Potion
Master’s domain. With a minute shake of his head, Lucius conveyed his ignorance
of the situation he had brought down on himself.
“In order not to antagonize the Dark Lord, we are going to have to go on a raid
to replace the ruined ingredient! And to make matters infinitely worse, the
closest adequate vendor is in Bromley, in a shop I have only ever been to once.
We will have to accomplish this ourselves, since no others are trustworthy
enough to keep this from the Dark Lord. And it will have to be tonight!”
Severus sneered, starting to get worked up again.
            Lucius now seemed disgruntled, but it couldn’t compete with Snape’s
persistently irate air.
            “When shall we leave then?” the senior Malfoy inquired, yielding
quickly, a consequence of his low status, to Severus’s demands.
            “I have to finish disinfecting the chamber, so that Asphodel
residue doesn’t ruin my equipment,” he snapped, giving Lucius the privilege of
his signature glare. “Come back in an hour and I’ll be prepared to leave.”
            Giving a curt nod, Lucius strode from the room. And Severus was
left to clean up the mess.
 
                       -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
                                        
Back in the alleyway…
            He didn’t want to move. If he did that meant all of this was real.
It meant that he really had been abandoned by his only remaining family.
Completely alone, that’s what he was.
            His uncle had driven away a while ago. Harry was beyond keeping
track of time. His legs and arse were numb from sitting so long and the hot and
cold flashes had gotten more intense once the rain had begun pouring in
earnest. Currently he was sporting full body goose pimples under his sopping
garments. It was windy and because of the downpour, no longer warm.
            During the time since the Dursley’s car had roared away, he had
remained in the same spot that he’d been dumped. He had nowhere to go, so he
saw no reason to relocate. Harry had contemplated ways of getting to the Burrow
or even just getting a message to someone that he needed help. The wand he had
bought from Ollivander’s all those years ago was useless now that Vernon had
burned all his belongings. Not that he could have used it anyway; he was still
under aged.
If only I had my broom! Had been Harry’s second thought, but that was gone now
too. His only other options were muggle post or walking. Neither of these
options were practical though. He’d never used muggle post before, but from
hearing his uncle complain about the travesty that was the British Postal
service, he didn’t think that option would pan out. Walking, he knew, would
also be an impractical solution. He had no idea where he was, nor did he know
in what direction the Weasley residence was in. Not to mention his extreme
lethargy and failing health.
            Harry had simply huddled into the wall of the alley, trying to be
invisible and keep out the chilly rain all at once. Unfortunately, he was
largely unsuccessful.
            Thankfully, he had been discarded in what appeared to be in an
abandoned part of the town. He hadn’t seen a soul yet and the silence was so
complete his ears felt as if they were ringing with it.
            So when two identical ‘pops’ sounded just moments apart, Harry was
understandably startled.
***** Umbrellas *****
Chapter Notes
     A/N: I had to rewrite parts of this chapter… but now there will be a
     back story, so I consider it a success. Watch out for whiplash…
     you’ll know what I mean. Also I think this is the last chapter for a
     while that will be under four thousand words.

                            Chapter Five:Umbrellas
 
===============================================================================
 
            By the time Lucius returned, the Potions Master had been waiting
over thirty minutes. It no longer infuriated Severus when the man arrived
fashionablylate to everything, but it did leave him feeling older than his
measly thirty-six years.
            With a curt nod in greeting, he gave his friend the coordinates of
the shop in Bromley and prepared to depart. Both men were clad in standard
black Death Eater robes and the signature grotesque white masks. Lucius
apparated away, with Snape following less than a second later with a turn of
his heal and a billow of robes.
            Once the unpleasant constricting sensation of apparition had left
him, Severus found himself in a gloomy abandoned lane between two mundane
buildings. There were piles of trash, large smelly skips, and scattered
cardboard boxes lining the walls. From what he could tell they were alone, so
he began explaining the uncomplicated strategy to his companion, who jerked
around at the sound of his name.
            “Lucius, the entrance is right over there,” Severus informed him,
pointing to a large expanse of empty brick. “Wait out here and ensure that no
one enters before I return. This shouldn’t take too long.” He had decided
Lucius should wait outside so as not to encourage any unneeded thieving.
Severus didn’t approve of random raids for excessive materials, but he thought
his life more valuable than Voldemort’s idiosyncrasies and always complied.
This time, however, he could make sure nothing but what was essential would be
taken from the shop.
            Quickly moving towards the bricks that he knew would grant him
entry, Severus pulled out his wand. Tapping the ones he knew would reveal the
doorway, the Potions Master slipped into the deserted apothecary.
 
                       -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
                                        
            Harry’s head swung up with such force that it collided with the
wall behind him. He watched the man right himself just as the intruder whirled
around to look in his direction, when he heard the smack of flesh against
brick. Mercifully, Harry was huddled in the darkest shadowy corner of the
passage. Nevertheless, panic filled him as he took in the telling black robes
and colourless mask that glowed in the moonlight. Thanks to his startled
reaction, this Death Eater knew there was something or someone else in the
alleyway. If possible Harry’s heart started hammering even faster. Shit. He was
completely defenseless: no wand, broom, or energy left for flight. The only
thing he could do was double in on himself, once again attempting invisibility.
            That was when the second pop sounded. But Harry just hugged himself
tighter, wishing they would both go away. He heard them whispering together and
imagined what would befall him now that Voldemort knew of his whereabouts. But
being incapable of even standing up, he could only prepare himself for the
inevitable assault. However, a few moments passed with no altercation, so Harry
timidly peaked out from behind his knees. The more formidable man, in both
height and build, was tapping bricks with his wand while the shorter slimmer
man, who had heard Harry, watched disinterestedly.
            Sudden hope filled the helpless boy. Maybe the Death Eater hadn’t
heard him at all. Perhaps they were too busy to bother checking out what the
mysterious noise had been if they were on an important mission. 
            His hopes were dashed, however, when only the larger of the two
villains, entered the building, leaving the smaller one alone in the alley.
Almost immediately after the wall had closed, the first Death Eater went to
work.
            “Lumos,” was the murmured drawl of the unidentifiable man still in
the alley. The voice was strangely familiar and it sent chills up Harry’s
spine. “I know you’re hiding back there. No muggle can escape from me.” The
word muggle was spit in the most disparaging way that Harry was only slightly
comforted when he realized that he could pass for one.
            He did look adequately changed…his hair was almost past his
shoulder. His fringe covered his eyes and hid his scar. Most altered, however,
was his weight. Since arriving at the Dursley’s, Harry had lost at least two
stone from the constant manual labor and imaginary diet. The body that he
usually maintained was hardly anything more than skin and bone. Dudley’s old
clothes hung off him with even more vengeance than usual. Harry was confident
that this faceless Death Eater would not recognize him. But that didn’t mean he
was out of danger.
            When the light from the Lumos struck him, Harry was forced to lower
his face so as not to be blinded. Having no way to defend himself all he could
do was cower farther into bricks, which did nothing to offer him protection. It
had finally stopped pouring and was only a light drizzle, but his visibility
was still terribly distorted, making him practically blind without his glasses.
He could only hope the same was true for the masked man.
Before he could react to the proximity of his opposition, Harry found himself
being dragged up by his shirt. A firm hand was gripping his front collar,
hauling him away from what little protection the wall had offered him. He was
too weak to resist and quickly found himself hauled up to his knees.
            “What do we have here? Look here, boy,” he flinched at the familiar
nickname, and kept his eyes closed as he tilted his head, knowing that his eyes
were bound to give him away. “Well aren’t you pretty…” came the aristocratic
voice that Harry was suddenly able to place.
            Even as his face heated from the embarrassing comment, Harry’s mind
was racing. He’s supposed to be in Azkaban. Dumbledore told me he was going to
Azkaban! Shit! He’s going to recognize me…He quickly ducked his head again
hoping to delay the inevitable. Lucius Malfoy was the last person he wanted to
see. Voldemort would have been preferable; at least the madman would have
killed him immediately. Malfoy would surely want revenge for his humiliation at
the Ministry. Suddenly he couldn’t control himself and violent tremors consumed
him. There was also a pathetic whimpering emanating from his chest.
            “Oh my! Could this be my lucky day, an abandoned little rent boy?
What are you doing here, all alone, without anyone to defend you?” Lucius
mocked, a malicious grin transforming his once handsome face to a crazed
phantom of a man’s. Harry struggled desperately, despite his fatigue. But his
attempts at escape seemed not to bother his captor, who didn’t realise his
prisoner was struggling at all. “You remind me of someone, you know. A terribly
little pest who needs to learn his place. And now I can humiliate him as he has
me…”
            He shivered. Malfoy’s short stint in Azkaban seemed to have tipped
him over the edge. Now the once prominent aristocrat was insane. Inconceivably,
Harry felt guilt welling up from within him. I made him this way. He started to
shake again, but this time sniveling accompanied the involuntary convulsions.
Whatever Lucius did to him was deserved.
            Leaving his introspection behind, Harry became aware of being
dragged to his feet, at which point Malfoy let go of him. In an attempt to stay
erect he slumped back, leaning on the wall. Everything was hazy and colours
were blurring together. But through the distortion, Harry could make out the
shadowy black robes of his assailant. He could hear Malfoy taunting him with
his bad fortune, the man was telling him what was going to be done to him.
            “I’m going to make you my bitch, boy. But I promise you’ll enjoy
it,” he heard the words but couldn’t react because he was too weak to move, his
limp body just resting lazily against the bricks. All he could do was watch as
Lucius drew his wand and cast “Depulso,” banishing his trousers. When the Death
Eater saw that Harry wore no pants, he began to emit a crazed cackling, eerily
reminiscent of Voldemort’s laughter.
            Faster than Harry could register with his impaired senses, Lucius
had flipped him around so that his forehead rested against the rough material
of the wall. He could dimly hear the man behind him undoing his robes and
murmuring to himself how much of a whore Harry was.
            “Such an obedient little whore, and look you’ve been busy!” Malfoy
simpered upon seeing the dried blood that undoubtedly graced Harry’s thighs.
With a whispered “Nox,” he felt his ass being spread.
            It all seemed like a dream. Colours were blending together and he
felt weightless. Wherever he made contact with anything his skin felt
hypersensitive. But the most confounding was the very real sense of déjà vu.
Hadn’t this same nightmare just happened to him not hours ago? Therefore, Harry
was forced to conclude, with his failing consciousness, that this must just be
a hallucination. Nothing this horrific happened to anyone, even him: the
epitome of bad luck.
            But it all felt real: the excruciating pain of being suddenly
penetrated and the stomach-churning awareness of a cock plunging in and out of
his already raw channel, nausea so intense from the agony that he retched bile
that dribbled down his front. It was all so familiar and terrifying. He didn’t
even realise he was sobbing until the snot and tears made it hard to breathe.
His world began to dim as his torment became more intense.
            But, thankfully, his world faded to black and all the
unpleasantness dwindled away to the sweet bliss of unconsciousness.
 
                       -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
 
            Excellent!
Severus had just pocketed five jars of the most expensive potion ingredient in
all of Europe. He figured it would last him at least fifty years. Satisfied
with his find, he began making his way back to the entrance of the deserted
apothecary. It had really been a much simpler raid than he had expected. If he
had owned a potions shop he would have kept all the really valuable ingredients
under lock and key. But the owner had all the valuables thrown in with the
rest. This had made his search as simple as a whispered Accio Asphodel.
It occurred to Severus that he could just be insanely paranoid, but reassured
himself with the thought that his constant paranoia had kept him alive for the
past sixteen years.
Maneuvering himself through the shelves and counters full of assorted fresh
ingredients, Snape began planning his schedule for the next day. He had
completed all the pre-battle remedies and could afford a day off before
beginning any of the restorative or concentration draughts that the Dark Lord
demanded each month. It was past time for a shower; Severus hated it when his
hair got this greasy. And it had been ages since he’d been able to relax and
just read a book. He missed the days back before the Dark Lord had returned
when he actually had free time.
Finally reaching the exit, Snape pushed through the doors into the dark alley.
A spike of fear stole through the Potions Master when he saw no sign of Lucius.
Fortunately, almost immediately he heard ragged breathing farther down the
lane. Quickly casting a “Lumos,” Snape hurried over in the direction of the
noise, assuming the worst.
            “Lucius what’s happened?” he inquired. Despite his almost constant
irritation, the sardonic Potions Master did still care about his old friend’s
welfare. “Have you been injured?” But upon further inspection his companion
only seemed to be out of breath and a bit sweaty.
            “It’s fine Severus. A homeless muggle just came wondering down the
alleyway and I simply chased it out. However, I’m not as young as I once was
and I am now quite fatigued,” Lucius panted out between gasping breaths.
            After Malfoy had recovered a bit more, Severus apparated them both
away.
 
                       -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
 
            “Hermione! Thank Merlin you’re here!” an exuberant Ron cried.
“There’s going to be a battle!”
            “Yes, Ron. You mentioned that in your letter,” Hermione replied,
trying her hardest to keep her patience. Sometimes her freckle-faced friend
could be beyond dense.
            “I know, but I couldn’t tell you everything in the note, the owl
could have been intercepted and Professor Dumbledore swore us all to secrecy!”
The rambling redheaded teen was turning scarlet due to lack of air. “It’s going
to be at Hogwarts! Can you believe it? Apparently, Snape, that bloody bastard,
told You-Know-Who that Harry was staying there over the summer. And now the
Death Eaters are planning to attack the school in a few days…”
            Hermione let her old friend prattle on to his heart’s content. She
dusted the soot off her robes as Ron led her up to his bedroom. Earlier that
day she had received an owl from Ron, informing her about an impending
skirmish. She didn’t know whether it was her Gryffindor bravery or loyalty that
had prompted her to abandon her parents in Prague. But she hadn’t been able to
shake the feeling that something positively dreadful was going to happen. So
not half an hour after rereading the aforementioned letter, she had stepped
through the floo into the Weasley’s modest kitchen. Now here she was being
talked at by an overly excitable friend, who could prattle on and on about how
excited he was for hours if given the chance. But she was ready for answers.
            “Ron!” she demanded, but after receiving no recognition, yelled,
“RON!”
            “Oh sorry Hermione, I’m just so excited,” mumbled an abashed Ronald
Weasley.
            “I gathered,” Hermione said dryly. “I wanted to know what the Order
plans to do and if they expect us to stay behind the scenes.”
            “Mum isn’t letting Ginny and I into the meetings, but Fred and
George have been in them since they’re both seventeen now. They told me that
mum and dad don’t want anyone under seventeen to fight, even though they know
they’re going to be severely outnumbered. “
            As they reached the landing and entered Ron’s bright orange,
Chudley Cannon themed room, Hermione asked, “Have you heard from Harry? Do you
know when he’s coming over?”
            At this question Ron’s face darkened and scrunched up in
frustration. “No, I haven’t actually. In fact I sent him an owl inviting him to
come over a couple weeks early, but the owl was returned and the letter was
unopened. Think the Dursley’s have locked up Hedwig again?” he said, with
obvious annoyance with his best friend’s despicable relatives.
            “Did you tell anyone? I’ve been saying for years that the Dursley’s
are too prejudiced to care for Harry! They’re simply idiotic, with their silly
preconceptions,” Hermione ranted, already exasperated with the topic.
            “Yes! I asked Dumbledore if Harry could come over before his
birthday, but the crazy old loon wouldn’t hear of it. He kept going on about
blood protection and character building,” the redhead fumed. “But, evidently
it’s the safest place for him right now. I overheard Professor McGonagall and
the Headmaster talking about all the wards they put on Harry’s relative’s house
after the night at the Ministry. No one who bears the Dark Mark can enter the
house and Dumbledore’s Secret Keeper, so at least You-Know-Who can’t get to
him.”
            Hermione had been about to give a scathing reply all about the
obvious threat Harry was to himself (due to current events), when they were
interrupted by twin pops of apparition.
            “Oh look!”
            “It’s ickle Ronni-kins—”
            “And his little girlfriend!” The twin’s speech was enough to
confuse anyone. And as Ron swelled with outrage at his age old nickname,
Hermione surveyed the pair of matching Weasley’s. The last time she’d seen
them, they’d been shooting across the Hogwarts grounds toward freedom from
Umbridge. She wondered how their business was going now that the war seemed to
have started. But what interested her more were the boys themselves. They had
both grown a couple of inches over the past few months and filled out nicely to
boot. They were both wearing matching dragon hide boots and formfitting navy
robes. Hermione had to admit she was more than a little bit attracted to them.
It was true that she had had a terrible crush on Ronald for the past couple of
years, but his average intelligence and steadfast immaturity were the reasons
she’d never tried to further a relationship. Not to mention her penchant for
redheads. Fred and George were a perfect combination of intellect, comedy, and
good looks. Plus, there were two of them.
            “See something—”
            “You like?” the twins asked together, both grinning smugly. It was
obvious that they were aware of their effect on her. Whereas, Ron simply looked
a bit lost. Yes, the twins were a better choice for her.
            She just grinned back at them and got right down to business. “Ron
and I want to participate in the battle at Hogwarts. Is there any way you can
help us?”
            The twin she suspected to be George glared down at her sternly.
“Now that would be terribly irresponsible of us! How could we possibly let our
under-aged brother and his friends onto a dangerous battlefield?”
            “I agree with you George, it would make us terribly careless big
brothers if we were to leave a bright pink umbrella portkey that happened to be
connected to Hogwarts lying about. What would mother say?” And with that, the
pair apparated away in a purple puff of smoke.
            “Those rat bastards! They know we could help!” Ron raged as the
smoke began to disperse.
            “Oh shut up Ron! They are helping us, you twit. Look, a bright pink
umbrella,” Hermione said, pointing to the place where they twins had previously
been standing. There was indeed a neon umbrella, precariously balanced and
standing upright, in Fred and Georges place.
            “Oh, well, right then… they didn’t happen to mention when it would
be leaving?” Ron asked, ashamedly as he bent over to retrieve Fred and George’s
gift.
            “For the love of Merlin, Ronald, you told me yourself that the
battle wouldn’t be for a few days! I think it’s logical to assume the umbrella
will leave right before the battle starts. The rush of Order members, in and
out of the Burrow, should be adequate warning,” Hermione snapped, finally
losing her patients with the dullest Weasley. At this point she would have even
preferred Percy.
***** Dreaming *****
Chapter Notes
     YAY I remembered to post on time!!
     I hope you guys like it... its a bit longer than usual

                             Chapter Six:Dreaming
 
===============================================================================
 
            He didn’t think he’d ever felt such extraordinary pain in his life,
but he couldn’t be sure because he couldn’t remember anything other than waking
up a few minutes ago. At first he’d just laid there, staring up at a wide
expanse of grey. No thoughts crossed his mind because, after all, what could
someone without any memories think about?
Eventually he realised that the desolate plane above him was raining. It wasn’t
long after this realisation that he remembered that this was called a sky, and
that the gloom meant that there were heavy gray clouds. It took very little
time to discover that he disliked the sensation of water hitting his face. That
was when he’d tried to move for the first time. And how he regretted it!
            His skin seemed to be stuck to the surface he was laying on, which
he discovered to be completely solid when the back of his head smacked it with
a resounding CRACK. This only led to more agony, so he remained still for a
while longer.
            After some time had passed—there was no way to know exactly how
much—he slowly turned his head and was met with the sight of a brick wall.
Turning gradually to look in the opposite direction, he found an identical
structure looming over him.
            Deliberately this time, he lifted his head off the ground and his
bare shoulders and torso followed. Every inch he rose sent another twinge of
discomfort zinging across his back, and once he was completely upright, an
impossible throbbing enveloped his posterior. 
            But now he could at least see his surroundings. There was rubbish
everywhere, unsurprising since the skips were overflowing with it.
Perpendicular to the first two walls he noticed a there was a third that was
identical to the others. Opposite the dead end, however, was an overwhelming
sight. There seemed to be a world outside this little alley.
            Every few seconds someone would walk quickly by. Not once did
anyone ever glance into the alleyway. But what was most concerning to him were
the comfy looking jumpers and trousers they all seemed to be sporting. It was
this that alerted him to his nakedness, and, subsequently, the intense chill in
the air evoking almost unperceivable shivers.
Glancing down at his exposed body, he noticed dark purple marks littering his
pale skin and goose pimples layered on top of the bruises. However, what stood
out to him most was the concave stomach and sharp protruding ribs.
            Soon the intense shivers became too much. He had to get out of this
alley, but before he could do that he needed clothes. Nudity, he decided,
equaled vulnerability. 
            He shifted his weight, ignoring the soreness in his arse, and
leaned against one of the towering brick walls. Using it as a crutch, he was
able to heft himself into a crouch with his left shoulder braced against the
rough surface. At first his legs shook with disuse and he was forced to pause
and wait for them to adjust to his meager weight. After gaining confidence that
his shaky limbs could support him, he hauled his body upright and propped
himself up against the damp wall. Once vertical, he sighed in relief. 
Unfortunately, this only resulted in a brutal coughing fit that left his
esophagus so sore, it felt as though it was bleeding.
            Rubbing his abused throat, he pushed off the wall in an attempt to
walk, but only managed to stumble a few dizzying feet before falling heavily
against one of the several dingy yellow skips that dotted the alley. Holding
tightly to the lip of the bin, he rested his head against the sticky surface,
indifferent to the grime.
As he rested, he peered into the container. Maybe he could scavenge some
clothes or at least a blanket. Once his vision cleared, he began rooting
through the garbage, hoping to find something dry to cover himself with. After
digging through the top layers of soggy debris, he found a mostly dry pillow
sham and matching sheets. Both were heavily stained and he tried hard not to
think about what could have caused the stark discolourations, but since they
had been kept hidden from the drizzle, he decided to keep them. A soiled
blanket was better than no blanket.
            Moving as quickly as he dared so as to keep his spoils protected
from the downpour, he maneuvered his way under the extruding rim of his skip.
It was the only section of pavement in the alley not affected by the rain.
Throwing down the sham in a sad imitation of a mattress, he arranged himself
comfortably—as was possible in his situation—into a ball, almost completely
covered by his blessed layers of blankets.
            Despite only recently waking, he quickly fell into a light sleep.
He dreamed of a castle with moving stairs and hidden rooms. He saw a bushy
chestnut haired girl and a tall freckled boy with ginger hair. A family with
warm hugs and friendly smiles passed behind his eyes and he couldn’t help but
think that they would have loved him. But then the lovely dream turned into a
nightmare and he was suddenly surrounded flashes of green light and horrible
screams. There was red hair in a pool of blood, a boy slumping lifelessly to
the ground of a grave yard, and a dulled eyed man falling through a veil. Most
disturbing of all was, the small teen that stood by and watched it all happen.
He had shaggy black hair while cheap wire rimmed glasses covered his bright
green eyes that shimmered with unshed tears. The mysterious boy was made to
witness the horrors of death and suffering.
            Then his dream changed one last time. The same strange boy who had
so stubbornly refused to cry, was in a small bedroom. He was lying on a bed,
just as naked as the dreamer, but this boy had blood dripping down his thighs
and sniffles could be heard from where his face was pressed into the sullied
pillow. Only something truly wicked could have caused such an obstinate youth
to weep so fervently.  And when a knock came at the door, the crying boy
flipped over. The last thing he noticed before he woke up was a vivid lightning
bolt shaped scar on the boy’s forehead.
 
                       -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
 
            “Severus, my dear boy, I’m so glad you could come and visit me on
such short notice,” Dumbledore said, practically bouncing in his chair.
“Please, please, do sit down! Lemon Drop?”
            Rolling his eyes, the Potions Master simply shook his head, lank
hair barely swishing over his shoulder, and stiffly seated himself in the most
uncomfortable of the Headmaster’s extravagant armchairs.
“I wasn’t aware that this ‘meeting’ was meant to be a social gathering,” He
nodded accusingly at the other occupants of the room: Minerva McGonagall,
Kingsley Shacklebolt, Remus Lupin, and Molly and Arthur Weasley.
            “Oh, yes, yes! We were all just confirming our plans for the battle
tomorrow. We are done now though,” the old man replied, whilst ushering the
small group out of his office. None of the five order member greeted Severus;
Shacklebolt even had the audacity to sneer at him. Apparently his loyalties
were being questioned again.
            “Albus, you shouldn’t have to keep reassuring them, what does it
matter what they think of me? You are the only one bothered by their
shenanigans and you should be more focused on protecting the castle, not
chastising Order members,” the younger wizard sneered. But after a moment of
the loony old Headmaster simply staring at him with his twinkling blue eyes,
Severus had had enough, and snapped, “What did you call me here for? You must
realise that I have a Dark Lord watching my every move. If you really think I
can continuously keep making excuses for the hours that I just disappear to
come visit you, than you are very sadly mistaken!” By this time the angry spy
had risen from his seat and stalked irately to the door.
            “Severus, sit down. I did have a purpose for calling you here,”
said a suddenly very tired looking Albus Dumbledore. After Severus had
grudgingly reseated himself, the man began again. “You see, I suspect that I
shall not survive this upcoming confrontation.” Here the old man paused again,
as if he expected Severus to begin sobbing in anguish for this terrible loss.
But upon sensing no sympathy from the Head of Slytherin House, continued.
“Consequently, I have been entrusting some of my most important secrets to a
very select few. The information I have for you is vital to our cause, but you
must make sure no one learns of it, especially Harry!”
            For a moment Severus was too shocked to speak. Albus never gave him
important information. Never. Not that he was bitter about it; he knew that it
would be terribly foolish to give your secrets to the servant of your enemy,
spy or not. These must be desperate times, indeed, if Dumbledore saw fit to
tell him anything crucial.
            “Why must Potter be kept in the dark? It seems to me, if in fact
the boy is the key to winning the war, that he should be, at the very least, as
well informed as I am.”
            “But, you see, this piece of information is about Harry, and I
don’t think it would be encouraging to him before he completes his task.” Here
the ancient Headmaster paused, and seemed to be gathering the courage to
continue. “You must not think less of me, Severus; I did it for his own good,
for all of our sakes, really. Do you remember the prophecy you overheard
seventeen years ago?” And after receiving an affirmative nod, “Well you see, my
dear boy, it was all a ploy, a distraction really, of my creation. The side of
the light was losing and we needed a savior. So I hired Sybill to have a
“vision” of said deliverer. I had expected the Dark Lord to become discouraged.
At the time it was widely believed that it was impossible to escape one’s fate,
and since you only informed him of the first half of the grizzly thing, I saw
no possible flaws to my plan.” The Headmaster paused again, and it was several
long minutes before he continued. “Voldemort, however, has never been one to
care about expectations.” Another weighted silence ensued, in which Severus
refused to speak or break eye contact with the guilty man across from him.
            “And then Lily and James became pregnant with Harry… and I knew
that Voldemort would feel more threatened by the Potter’s son than the
Longbottom’s. You know, he saw himself in Harry, what with his parentage?
Anyway, I tried… I really did try to save them, to protect them. But they put
their trust in the wrong person. What could I have done?” At this Dumbledore
glanced back up at him pleadingly, as if Severus alone could relieve him of the
years of staggering guilt. But receiving none, plodded on. “So, my dear boy,
you must understand why I have to entrust this to you. After the war is over,
once Harry has fulfilled his destiny, someone must be here to tell him the
truth. You must do it Severus; you will be the one to tell him—”
            Finally losing his patience, Severus shouted, “How can you expect
me to do that? If I even manage to survive, which we both know is unlikely at
best, Potter will never listen to me. He despises me, and I him!” Taking a
gasping a breath, he continued his tirade. “And furthermore, how dare you? HOW
DARE YOU? Lily Evens was my best friend, and now you’re telling me you are
solely accountable for the circumstances responsible for her murder. And to
think I resented her son. I believed he was the reason for her death… But it
was you all along!”
            Rising to his feet, Severus began to furiously pace the large
office, cloak billowing ominously. Suddenly he halted, and abruptly whirled to
face the cowering fool, Albus Dumbledore. “That boy trusts you… his parents
trusted you—I trustedyou. You despicable coward… I’ll tell Harry, but I’m
telling him now! And don’t bother trying to stop me. I am no longer in your
allegiance. You’ll need to find a new potions professor; consider this my
resignation.” Finally lost for words, the former Hogwarts professor stalked to
the door, throwing it brutally open in his haste to leave the spineless whelps’
presence. But he paused in the doorway, only turning sideways so that he could
only see his former mentor out of the corner of his eye. “If the boy wishes to
seek vengeance on you, I want you to know I will participate in your downfall.”
And with that Severus slammed Dumbledore’s door for the last time, jogging out
of the castle in his haste to get away from the horrifying things he had
learned.
 
                       -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
                                        
            He was having such a pleasant dream, more images of magical castles
and friendly loving faces swam behind his eyes. After he had awoken from the
first nightmare, he’d easily fallen back to sleep once his erratic breathing
had evened and he’d readjusted his blanket. But now he was being roughly
dragged out of unconsciousness. There was a strong hand clasping his bare
shoulder, and, as he opened his eyes, he could dimly see the vague outline of a
large man standing over him. While he had slept, twilight had come and gone,
and the sky was a now a solid black cloud; there wasn’t a star in sight. So he
had to squint hard as he tried to identify the unwelcome intruder.
            But before he could wipe the grime from his eyes, the mystery man
began to speak. “Hey, hey, are you all right there?” came the earnest inquiry.
His vision finally clearing, he was able to take in the darkened surroundings.
He was still in his alley under his makeshift shelter, but there was an
addition: this large bloke, who continued to ask questions in quick succession.
“Son, what’s your name? Are you alright, there’s blood on that blanket? Where
are your parents, can I call them for you?”
            It was too much for him to take in and all he could do was stare up
at the man, who he could see as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, was quite old.
His hair seemed to glow bright silver, with a few dark patches where there must
be either coffee coloured or black hair. Even in the darkness, the stranger’s
eyes gleamed, not with malevolence, but good cheer and he could see a wide
friendly smile stretching across the open face. There were wrinkles everywhere,
which made him suspect that this person must be at least seventy years old. And
for some unexplainable reason, a small voice kept whispering muggle at the back
of his mind.
            “Sorry, lad, sometimes I get a bit carried away. What’s your name?”
the mugglerepeated slowly. But he didn’t know his name, so he just continued to
stare. “It’s all right, you can tell me. Here I’ll tell you my name. It’s
Frank.” Here the talkative man paused, expecting an answer.
            Unfortunately, he still had no idea what his name was, so he just
shook his head. But when the man looked confused, he tried to clear his throat.
After a few hacking coughs, during which the stranger patted him on the back,
he was able to croak out a few words. “I d-don’t remember.” It was the best
that he could do by way of communication; he desperately needed water.
            “What do you say you come with me, you look like you need some
help? I live right around the corner and I can give you some tea, while we
figure out what to do with you. Do you need some help getting up?” asked Frank,
the muggle, his mind kept supplying. This time he was able to understand the
man’s hurried speech and while he didn’t trust the man, he knew he was in no
position to turn down assistance.
            Offering up a hand in silent plea for support, he was carefully
pulled to his feet, his skinny legs wobbling unsurely with his sudden weight.
Regrettably, the sheet he had been using didn’t follow him up; a gasp from
Frank alerted him. “What happened to you? Who did this! Never mind, never mind.
I’m getting you back to my apartment and we’re going to get all of this
sorted?” With that the older man, scooped up the boy’s old sheet, and, wrapping
it around him, began hurriedly pulling him to the opening of the alleyway. 
            His unsteady legs tripping over each other as he hurried to keep up
with the hastening man, his eyes widened as he was pulled from the safety and
familiarity of his safe haven. There were no other people around, but an
endless stretch of buildings adorned with bright flashing lights were enough to
overwhelm him. But this was all a blur as he was hastily tugged down the
sidewalk. He didn’t try to resist. What was the point? Besides this man, Frank,
seemed to be… concerned about him. It reminded him of the freckled family he’d
seen in his dreams.
            After no time at all, Frank was pulling him up a short flight of
stairs and stopping to unlock the door once they’d reached the landing. While
he waited for the man to finish fumbling with his keys, he leaned against the
wall beside the door, trying, and failing to catch his breath. Each gulp of air
seemed to rattle his lungs and burned his throat. Finally his new friend had
managed to open the door and was ushering him in with all sorts of welcoming
mumbles and hurried apologies for the mess. Everything Frank did seemed to be
rushed.
            Before he could blink, he was being pushed into a stiff chair and
handed a little blue pill and large glass of water, accompanied by a quick
explanation of it being medicine—whatever that was—for his cough. After
swallowing the tablet and gulping down the entire glass, he began to take in
what was happening to around him.
            Frank was a flurry of limbs, as he rushed around the tiny kitchen.
Everything was grungy and there were dirty dishes piled everywhere, but he
didn’t care. At the moment he couldn’t take his eyes off the food his savior
was preparing. There was already a large bowl of what he thought must be tomato
soup, and Frank was in the process of cutting a large hunk of bread for him. As
he finished, the tea kettle on the stovetop began to whistle and the elderly
man sped over to silence it.
            Suddenly, the table at which he sat was overflowing with the food
that Frank had prepared. And after quickly encouraging him to tuck in, the
energetic man sped from the room. He only paused a moment to wonder where the
man was off to before he couldn’t control the gnawing hunger any longer.
            He started with the bread since both the soup and tea were
scalding. It was delicious and fresh, and after taking his first bite he could
not help himself from greedily stuffing the rest into his mouth. Once he’d
gulped down this first delicacy, he was forced to take a sip of the tea to
sooth his sore throat.
            Then he moved onto the creamy tomato soup. Taking a deep breath
through his nose, the aroma caused his mouth to flood with saliva while the
steam cleared his head. Picking up large soup spoon Frank had thoughtfully
provided for him, he scooped up a scalding dollop of tomato. He was eager to
taste it, but wasn’t keen on burning the roof of his mouth, so he blew on it
hurriedly before dumping the spoonful into his waiting mouth.
            Bliss, complete and utter bliss… he decided, as he began to shovel
more and more of the divine substance into his mouth. Not only was it the most
heavenly thing he’d ever tasted (at least he thought it was…) but he hadn’t
been aware of exactly how cold he was until now. Moaning happily to himself, he
felt the hot liquid trickle down his esophagus and pool in his stomach. Heat
radiated from his torso and spread slowly out towards the tips of his fingers
and toes.
            But before too long the bowl was empty and his previously aching
stomach was bloated with tomato soup and fresh bread. Now all that was left was
the tea, which was now a more reasonable temperature, not that he thought he’d
be able to drink it. He was that stuffed. As he began to sip at the pleasant
beverage, Frank came tearing back into the room.
            “Oh good, you’ve almost finished! I’ve just started running you a
bath, there are towels above the sink and I managed to find some clothes that
won’t swallow you whole. They’re on the counter. Feel free to use my soap, I
can tell it’s been a while since you’ve had a real bath,” the kindly old man
began to ramble.
He supposed that it must have been a while since he last bathed, seeing as rain
didn’t count. Quickly gulping down the remaining tea, he rose and followed his
host obediently down a dimly lit corridor, coming to a stop once they reached a
small loo at the end of the hall.
            “I know it’s not much but it’ll have to do. Oh, and when you’re
done just leave that old sheet on the floor. I’ll have to burn it later,” Frank
said jovially, ushering his guest in and politely closing the door behind him.
            Once he was alone, all he could focus on was the steaming tub.
Apparently everything Frank did was fast and wonderfully warm. As swiftly as he
could, he shrugged out of his old blanket before folding it neatly and laying
it in the corner. Then, almost reverently, he approached the nearly filled tub.
Cutting off the water, all he could do was stare for a moment; he wondered what
it would feel like to be thatwarm.
            Hesitantly, he dipped a hand into clear sweltering paradise.
Jerking his hand out, he nearly tumbled to the floor in his attempt to scramble
into the bathtub; he’d leave being speedy to Frank. The water was so hot that
even as he was situating himself, his pale skin was beginning to glow with a
pale pink blush. Leaning contentedly back to rest his head against the wall, he
sunk down until only his eyes remained above the water. The heat he’d received
from the soup was nothing compared to this. Coming back up for air, his muscles
unwound slowly and he relaxed back down into the water, this time with his nose
and mouth above the water too.
            It only took a few more minutes for exhaustion to catch up with
him. A belly full of brilliant food, warmth beyond what his practically newborn
mind could comprehend, and security that he hadn’t realised he’d lacked, caused
his eyes to droop. And eventually he couldn’t resist, drifting easily into
blissful sleep.
           
                       -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
                                        
            Knock, knock...
            Startling awake and sloshing water over the sides of the bath, his
bleary eyed gaze snapped in the direction of the door where he was sure he’d
heard knocking.
           “—ey? Are you all right in there?” came Frank’s concerned voice.
“You haven’t fallen asleep have you? It’s been thirty minutes; the water must
be cold by now—”
            But before Frank went off into one of is longwinded rambles, or,
god forbid, came in to check up on him, he hoarsely called out his reassurances
until Frank was sufficiently convinced of his well-being. “Alright, well when
you’re finished I’ve got the spare bedroom all fixed up for you!”
            He waited for Frank’s footsteps to fade down the hallway, before he
grabbed the washcloth that had been so graciously left for him. While the water
wasn’t tepid yet, it retained only a fraction of the temperature it had begun
with, so he planned to bathe quickly. Grabbing the soap, he began lathering up
the cloth. Once a good froth of suds had appeared, he began attacking his body,
rubbing with such vigor that his skin turned a hearty scarlet.
            Starting with his head, he worked his way down to his toes, careful
not to miss a single patch of skin. However this became more challenging when
he went to scrub his back and bum. It wasn’t just because of the awkward angle
either, every time he began to even brush the surface of his backside the rough
material seemed to burn and sting him; he suspected his buttocks were covered
in bruises and scratches. But stubbornness overtook him; he scrubbed through
the unpleasant scalding sensation, biting his lip whenever the pain became too
much. There was even a bit of blood after he’d washed his arse.
            After he’d finished his body, he lathered up his hair, wincing
whenever his fingers caught a snag as he massaged the soap into his tangled
mop. But he quickly rinsed out the bubbles when the water reached the dreaded
lukewarm temperature.
            Clambering out of the tub, he grabbed hastily for one of the
obnoxiously fluffy khaki towels resting on the rack above the sink. Huddling
into it to stave off the cool air of the bathroom, he began to pat himself dry,
being especially cautious as he dabbed at his sensitive bum.
            After thoroughly drying himself, he plucked up a pair of boxers
from the pile of clothes Frank had left him. They were at least three sizes too
big, but if he folded down the waist band they would at least stay up on his
hips. In addition to the boxers, he’d been provided with a pair of tan corduroy
trousers, a black cotton jumper, and a thick pair of white socks. Everything
except the top was too large on him, but he couldn’t complain. He was simply
delighted that he had his own fresh clean clothes to wear, even if they were on
loan.
            Straightening his newly acquired outfit, he turned to exit the
cramped little room, but was momentarily distracted by a flash of movement out
of the corner of his eye. Turning quickly in anticipation for a threat of
mysterious origins, all he was faced with was a mirror. The flash of movement
he’d witnessed must have been his reflection following him speedily towards the
door.
            Peering curiously at himself for the first time, he stared, shocked
at what he saw. A familiar stock of messy black hair framed his face, just long
enough to tickle the ridge of his ear. Bright green eyes stared back at him
brightly, with an expression of intense confusion clearly written in them. His
reflection had fair skin, and his cheeks were still stained the color of
cherries from the overzealous scouring from earlier. He had a slight frame with
narrow shoulders, lean muscles, and stood a little under five and a half feet.
            But perhaps most surprising of all, was the striking lightning bolt
scar on his forehead, peeking out from behind his fringe. He was the boy from
his dreams! But the boy from his subconscious had loved ones who cared for him;
that boy lived in a magnificent magical castle. If they were, indeed, same
person then where was this caring freckled-family. Where were his friends?
***** Retribution *****
Chapter Notes
     Don't hate me, okay? Okay.

                           Chapter Seven:Retribution
===============================================================================
 
                There were Death Eaters in the castle. His godson had let Death
Eaters into Hogwarts. Even Greyback was there. And Severus was with them, a
part of them. For once, this pleased him. Throwing open the doors to the Great
Hall, the Potions Master fixed a steely expression of determination onto his
face. He was going to kill Albus Dumbledore.
 
                       -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
                                        
            Blood. All she could see was blood. It was on her robes, in her
hair, and on her hands. It was smeared over the crumbling walls and puddled
under piles of bodies. It dripped from the ceilings and pooled in the newly
formed cracks on the ancient stone floor. There was even some between her toes.
            Ron was dead. His face was masked by thick black clumps of blood.
His chest was caked with it. Every few seconds one of her tears would drip from
her chin, splashing silently onto her friend’s lifeless face. Each droplet made
ugly brown streaks appear on the stiff boy’s face, exposing his pale freckles
and frozen expression.
            She couldn’t look away. Despite the battle raging all about her,
she was overcome with shock and an unexpected sorrowful regret. So consumed
with grief, she began to wail, voice cracking and throat thick with emotion.
But the din of war drowned out her cries of agony. Curses were flying all
around her and every once and awhile, telling green sparks would go whizzing
right over her head. Shouts and screams encircled her, but instead of bringing
her attention back to the fray, they simply drove her farther into misty eyed
oblivion.
            Clutching her unresponsive companion to her chest, she began to
weep in earnest, further sullying the filthy corpse. Blood would undoubtedly be
matted into her bushy hair, but this was of no concern to her. Pulling back to
stare into the dull cerulean eyes that had once been filled with so much life,
she couldn’t understand how this had come to be.
            The pair had only just dropped the bright pink umbrella portkey
after they’d appeared suddenly into one of the many courtyards of Hogwarts,
when chaos had erupted. Thinking back, she realised that it was more likely
that they had simply materialized in the midst of the madness, but for a brief
moment there had been a serene peace. A fleeting moment of calm had greeted
them—she and Ron had exchanged grins, simply happy to be on another grand
adventure together—before the pandemonium had recommenced.
            It had happened so fast. One moment they were smiling and holding
hands, pleased to have had snuck into the castle, and the next there had been
blood. Everywhere. It had splattered over her face and effectively blinded her.
Acting instinctually, she’d ducked down to avoid future curses and had hastily
used the sleeves of her robes to wipe the blood from her eyes. After visibility
had returned, she’d whipped around in search of her comrade; they’d needed to
get to a more secure location before setting their plan in motion. But as she’d
glanced around, her redheaded friend had been nowhere to be found.
            Stumbling to her feet, she’d made to go off in search of him. It
had only taken her a few rapid steps before she had been on the ground again,
having suddenly tripped. Glancing back, she’d seen Ron lying limply on the
stone slabs. At the time it hadn’t occurred to her that he might have been
dead. Friends didn’t die. Sure, sometimes they were violently thrown off giant
chess pieces, chased by werewolves, or even possessed by evil overlords, but
they never died. So after she had crawled over to her immobile companion, she
had become confused.
            There had been two deep slashes across Ron’s torso that could have
only have been created by a sword. Syrupy black blood had been bubbling from
the gapping cavity, but all she had done was stare. Despite her high levels of
intelligence, nothing had occurred to her; later she would know why. She’d
inherently known her friend was gone. His eyes had given it away; she’d never
seen them so lifeless.
            Returning to the present, her head snapped up. She was sure she’d
heard someone call her name. There it was again.
            “—ermione! HERMIONE!” The voices could just be heard over the
bedlam, but she ignored them. She wouldn’t leave her Ron.
            But she was abruptly snatched up into a pair of muscled arms.
Lashing out, she kicked and screamed as she was dragged roughly away by her
assailant. She refused to be taken without a fight.
            “Hey, hey, Hermione calm down. You have to calm down!” a familiar
voice yelled at her.
            “Yeah, quit kicking us! Don’t worry we brought Ron too,” said the
other twin.
            Slowly, Hermione came back to herself. Her arms stopped swinging
and her legs ceased their thrashing. Eventually, her breathing returned to
erratic gasps instead of hysterical wheezes and she began to recognize what was
going on around her. The screams and mêlée of the battle were muffled, the air
was clear of stray hexes, and the walls were free of innocent blood.
            She could dimly see two shadowy figures looming over her and she
recognized them as the twins. She tried to tilt her head up to see them better,
but her vision spun and everything became a swirl of bright colour. She never
had a chance to hit the ground though, before one of her rescuers had grabbed
her and gently placed her on a desk. Apparently they were in a classroom.
Ancient Runes, she concluded.
            She could vaguely hear Fred and George conversing, something about
“going into shock” and “edible Dark Marks.” Something was shoved into her hands
and she could hear Fred, or George (did it really matter), instructing her to
eat whatever it was. Not caring what the mysterious substance was—and who could
really know when it came to the twins—she popped it into her mouth and realised
it was chocolate. At least the twins knew when to be serious.
            “How do you like our Edible Dark Marks? They’ll be available for
purchase within the next month.”
            Maybe not. But she couldn’t keep from giggling at their attempt at
humor. Yet as her pulse began to slow, her mind began to hum at its usual
hurried pace. It was this mental clarity that prompted her soft chuckles to
morph into feverish sobs and Hermione gazed imploringly up at them.
            “R-ron’s d-d—he’s g-gone?” she whimpered pitifully through a
barrage of snot and tears.
            “Yeah, we know. But he’s not the only one. Bill and Charlie were
killed almost immediately and we haven’t seen Mum and Dad for a while,” George
said in a monotone. It was obvious that he was trying to suppress the worry and
grief for his family.
            “Now we’re going to get revenge,” Fred added after a lengthy pause,
in which all of their minds were forced to consider the possible deaths of
Arthur and Molly Weasley. “Care to join us?” It was asked with a forced grin,
but the same playful spirit shone through the gloom, promising great escapades
and conquests. But the real reason she agreed was the idea of dealing out
vengeance to whoever had murdered her best friend.
                                             
                       -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
                                        
            From his strategic position behind a large marble statue—of who
knew what— at the top of the marble staircase, Severus Snape had a perfect view
of the battle raging away before him in the Entrance Hall.
McGonagall, Flitwick, Sinistra, and Kingsley were all battling one crazed Death
Eater each. Curses flew overhead, bouncing off walls and reflecting off the
broken glass and jewels of the shattered House Hourglasses. The once impressive
lobby was now in ruins and the battle was nowhere near complete. It wouldn’t be
until Albus Dumbledore was dead.
            The frosty white beard and garish yellow robes were a mere blur as
the ancient Headmaster danced fiercely around the hall. His movements were
calculated and precise. Not a spell was wasted, each one specifically chosen to
distract or disable one of the old warrior’s many opponents. There were five of
them in all: Bellatrix, Rodolphus, and Rabastan Lestrange, Lucius Malfoy and
Walden Macnair. But the skilled wizard deflected their attacks with ease and
almost seemed to be enjoying himself, as if he were not at the center of a
boiling fray. Severus expected him to pause at any moment and ask if anyone
wanted a spot of tea or perhaps one of those blasted lemon drops.
            Despite the man’s easy evasions and ingenious assaults, the thought
of battling Dumbledore did not faze the rigid Potions Master. He had gained
neither his title nor prestige from being only a mediocre dueler. And for all
of Dumbledore’s wisdom, there were things he didn’t know; not much mind you,
but enough. Severus intended to use these secrets to his full advantage.
            Creeping out from the alcove, Snape darted down the steep marble
staircase, nearly tripping several times. Many of the steps were missing and
their crumbled remains were scattered over the ground, creating a rough and
shifty terrain for the bat-like man to stumble across. Not wanting to waste
time and give away his position, Severus aimed his wand and muttered a hurried
transformation spell. The Headmaster had no idea his trusted spy had been an
Animagus.
            He could feel himself shrinking as the floor came rushing up to
greet him. The fragments of glass, stone, and assorted gems now appeared to be
hefty boulders considering he was now only four inches tall. Fur began to
sprout from his arms, legs, and ears, causing a peculiar prickly sensation as
the onyx coloured fuzz spread to cover his tiny new body. Pointy sensitive
ebony ears emerged from the crown of his shrunken head as the human lobes
shrank back into his skull. He could feel the shifting cartilage of his nose as
it morphed into a stubby snout; with a single twitch of his new nose he could
identify every wizard in the room. His arms began to stretch and expand, until
they both reached the heavily pebbled ground. Wings blossomed from inky potion
robes and Severus could feel the impressive strength behind the diminutive
muscles. Toes became stumpy jagged talons, while fingers mutated to resemble
tiny bear claws. Lastly, he became aware of his canine teeth elongating into
two identical razor-sharp prongs. His transformation was complete. He was a
bat.
            Severus’s metamorphosis hadn’t taken longer than a few seconds and
the battle thundered on all around him. Questionable jinxes and dark curses
soared over him and he could feel rumbling vibrations of harried footsteps. He
could see none of this though, being blind. The only way he could truly see was
through the bats natural eyes: echo location.
Spreading his wings, the Animagus launched itself into the flurry of spells.
Echo location made dodging every harmful hex that came whizzing in his
direction easier than breathing. His bat’s instincts caused his altered form to
automatically swerve out of the path of any unpleasant curses. Another benefit
was the built in stealth; no one would ever notice him amidst the mayhem of
battle. Now all he had to do was bide his time and wait until the bombastic
Headmaster had backed himself into a corner.
            Wheeling around and flapping his miniature wings, Severus made his
way to a crest of detailed stone carvings that had remained preserved through
the uproar. It was situated near the ceiling, giving him a splendid view of the
swirling mass of magical power that marked his target. He didn’t need the bats
superior sense of smell, hearing, or sight; he could feel the power swarming
around the old fraud and he didn’t intend on letting him get away.
            So, the potions master settled himself upside down and gazed about
the chaotic hall. Fenrir Greyback had joined the fray and was currently making
his way towards Dumbledore. The grizzly wolf had already downed several of the
light’s troops; Severus could smell the blood of the youngest and oldest
Weasley on the sadistic old creature. Bill and Ginny Weasley could no longer be
alive. By his estimation, there was too much of their blood on the beast. But
now the werewolf was facing off with Lupin, his last opponent before he reached
the powerful old coot.
            It wasn’t much of a fight. Remus hadn’t been paying any attention;
he’d been too focused on Dolohov, who had been tossing out the Imperiouscurse
like it was candy. That’s how Charlie Weasley had perished: an Imperious to the
back and then Avada Kedavra to the temple with his own wand. War was ugly.
            Greyback tackled him from behind, apparently too far gone to
remember he was a wizard. It only took seconds for Lupin to realise what had
happened, but by then it was far too late. His attacker had him pinned to the
floor on his back with a filthy claw at his throat. Severus could hear the
man’s last gurgles of agony from across the room.
            McGonagall and Flitwick seemed to be holding their own, dueling
back to back, together they were keeping three Death Eaters at bay. Sinistra
had disappeared and Severus tried hard not to imagine what could have befallen
his old colleague. Kingsley had been hit by a stray curse—thanks to Lucius
Malfoy—and now lay dead in a pool of growing blood. While Shacklebolt had been
an amazing dueler and valuable addition to the light side, the former spy
couldn’t muster any remorse for his death. The man had been a bastard.
            The battle had only been raging a quarter of an hour and already
bodies lined the walls. Numerous Weasley’s, marked by their garish red hair,
had a pile all to themselves. Vibrant scarlet blood clung to them, as though
they’d been dipped in a vat of paint, like fondue.
            A number of other Hogwarts students seemed to have snuck in with
the Order, because Severus spotted several smaller bodies fallen amid the
disarray, most of whom he suspected were ever courageous Gryffindors. He
recognized the Creevey brothers and Zacharias Smith. The three seemed to have
been mashed into the wall by some large object… ah, yes. There was an abandoned
pillar a few yards away; some Death Eater must have levitated the weight and
wreaked momentary havoc by swinging the thing around the hall. Apparently, the
unfortunate trio of students had been the only ones crushed before the
scoundrel wielding the column had been taken down. The three boys had been
flattened, their innards exploded from their bodies and now dripped lazily to
the floor.
            There were a few Ravenclaws and even more Hufflepuffs, but Severus
hadn’t a clue to what their names were. Most were covered with blood, guts, or
rubble and the few that were easily visible were too disfigured to recognize.
But earlier, he’d watched from behind the statue as Dedalus Diggle was easily
struck down by Rodolphus Lestrange. Hestia Jones had been hit by a stray hex—he
couldn’t tell who had cast it—and had been slowly strangled to death. Mad-Eye
had died at the outset of the fracas, being trampled by the mad rush of bodies;
Snape suspected his wooden leg had tripped him up. He hadn’t seen the elder
Weasley’s die, but he’d heard their screams and had recently spotted two
charred bodies that vaguely resembled the inseparable pair. Many had died.
            But there were just as many out of commission Death Eaters
littering the Entrance Hall as there were Order members. Avery was now dust,
scattered across the marble staircase thanks to Minerva’s exceptional skill
with Transfigurations. The devious old witch had turned him into a horrid old
vase that had long ago been trampled and smashed. Severus doubted there would
be any pieces left at the end of the day. The Carrow siblings had been dealt
with early on by the Potions Master himself. He’d been able to get in a sure
fire shot while the two cowards had dawdled in a corner of the hall, obviously
reluctant to join the pandemonium.
            Flitwick had downed Thorfinn Rowle, a large blond Death Eater that
Severus found especially aggravating because of his tendency to randomly fire
off curses at no one in particular—leaving it up to a cruel fate to decide who
would die. It had been an accident really. The tiny charms professor had missed
his target, Mulciber, and instead his hex had struck a large granite gargoyle
which had fallen directly onto the unsuspecting Rowle. Had it not taken place
during such a critical battle, Snape would have found the occurrence comical.
            Nott, Rookwood, Rosier, and Travers all been chopped to bits by
animated suits of armor—courtesy of Minerva McGonagall. The Scottish Witch must
have been a bit over zealous in her instructions to the mindless minions,
because they had hacked away at the long dead cadavers until all that was left
was bloody bite sized pieces of Voldemort’s sycophants. A squelching noise
could be heard whenever anyone tread on the stones at the bottom of the main
staircase.
            Snapping back to the present, Severus noticed a commotion by the
heavy oak doors leading to the grounds. Fred and George Weasley had propped
open the doors and appeared to be assisting Granger—the only member of the
Golden Trio that the former professor had seen so far—arrange some sort of
launcher.
            He watched with growing interest as the three masterminds, quickly
hopped back from the contraption. One of the twins—he suspected George—gave a
complicated flick of his wand and suddenly the already tumultuous hall exploded
in bright bursts of colour. The entrepreneurs seemed to think now was a
suitable time to test their products. And after a moment of observation,
Severus couldn’t have agreed more.
            Initially, the spy could only see surges of dazzling light in
multiple shades of red, green, and gold, but once his ‘eyes’ had adjusted, he’d
began to notice a pattern. The new and improved trio seemed to have unleashed
fireworks and not just any fireworks; Snape recognized them from the Twin’s
inspiring departure during the Reign of Umbridge. But while this served as a
temporary distraction, the bat couldn’t understand why the threesome of
students looked so pleased with themselves. 
            Glancing back to the ensuing chaos, Snape received his answer. All
the Death Eaters appeared to be under attack from the incorporeal firework
dragons. Well, all but Greyback, who was taking the momentary lull to harass
the Headmaster. The rest of them, however, were clawing at their skin that
seemed to be bubbling. The remaining Order members watched in horrified
fascination as their opponents writhed in agony, their skin seemed to be
melting right off their bones. The denser wizards were attempting to stun—and
in some cases kill—the ethereal creatures, while shrewder Death Eaters had
apparated away, since the wards had fallen away at the commencement of the
battle. The Lestranges and Lucius Malfoy had been the ones to escape. Every
person remaining in the hall who wore the Dark Mark was dead within minutes of
the Catherine wheel’s attack. Their bodies were strewn haphazardly across the
floor, blood running thicker than ever.
The irony did not escape the spy. In the Dark Lord's brutal attempt to purify
the wizarding race, he’d spilt pure blood. And now it all mixed on the battle
field.  
            Now that the present bedlam had ceased, other confrontations could
be heard in the distance. Severus suspected smaller wars were being fought in
the nearby courtyards. While the other Order members rushed to aid their
colleagues, Snape remained behind. It seemed the Headmaster was having a spot
of trouble ending the reckless werewolf. Fenrir, while not the brightest
wizard, was aggressive and unafraid of death. This made him an impossible
opponent, even for the formidable warlock, Albus Dumbledore. Despite the
challenge, however, the barmy old man was dominating the confrontation and
Greyback knew it. The mangy wolf began a hasty retreat up the marble staircase
and farther into the depths of the school. As Dumbledore galloped after the
feral beast, Severus saw his chance. Dropping from his perch on the stone, the
Animagus swooped after the unsuspecting man.
 
                       -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
 
            The Twin’s Deadly Dragon Bangers had been amazingly effective.
They’d done exactly what Fred and George had claimed they would; with a couple
added charms the weapon had targeted only those in the hall who wore the Dark
Mark. George had explained to her the process, how the wraithlike creatures
would seek out the Marks as a power source. The heat of the energy transaction
would essentially boil the victim alive. The gangly freckled pair was truly
genius.
            But the battle wasn’t over. She could still hear the furor from the
southern courtyard. Shouts and screams reached her ears as she sprinted after
her matching companions, the uninjured Order members in her wake. Sprinting
across the grounds, Hermione tried to keep her last glimpse of Ron from
entering her conscious, not to mention the piles of mutilated bodies from the
entrance hall. If she focused hard enough on the present pounding of footsteps
and cries of terror echoing from the courtyard, she could keep the grisly
visions at bay.
            As they approached the tremendous hubbub of the yard, a gargantuan
fiery pillar rose up and towered above the arches marking the enclosure.
Flaming beasts roared and devoured everything in their path. There was a
blazing griffon, at least the size of a wardrobe that had begun to furiously
gobble up the lifeless bodies scattered around the square. A massive pair of
flickering lions, both the size of the Whomping Willow, engulfed everything in
their paths. Death Eaters and Order members alike fell to the ravaging heat,
even Hermione who had stopped at the entrance to the courtyard was forced to
retreat because of its overpowering intensity. A hippogriff sizzled past,
sending sparks raining down on the castle that seemed to consume everything in
its path as though they had an unquenchable hunger for the school. Someone had
summoned Fiendfire.
            Only two had made it out alive: Neville Longbottom and Nymphadora
Tonks. Hermione could only guess as to how the normally disastrous duo had
managed to survive. They came stumbling out as the doorway arch came tumbling
down, nearly nicking Neville’s shoulder on its path towards the ground.
            The small group of comrades huddled together on the grounds and
watched as the devastating blaze spread. Soon, all of Hogwarts would be victim
to the flames.
 
                       -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
                                        
            He really wished his Animagus form could have been something larger
like an Eagle or a Raven. At this point he would have even settled for a
pigeon. Hogwarts had never felt so large before he’d actually had to flap
through the drafty corridors.
            So far Albus had chased the mongrel up six flights of stairs, eight
cluttered hallways, and through a number of abandoned classrooms. The amount of
damage they were wreaking upon the castle was monumental; the Headmaster,
himself, must have blasted at least three gaping holes in the stone walls so
far.
            The potions guru followed at a respectful distance, beating his
tiny wings as softly as possible for the off chance that either hooligan was
listening. There was really no opportunity for them to notice, not between
their reverberating footfalls and the distant clamor of battle. Dumbledore
needed to hurry up and corner the bastard so Severus could begin his vengeance.
They were nearing the seventh floor landing when the werewolf put on
a—hopefully the last—burst of speed. Somehow the ancient wizard pursuing him
was able to keep up, and they both disappeared up the stairs leading to the
astronomy tower, leaving their invisible shadow behind.
            Exhausted from the ridiculous race, Severus transformed back into
his willowy human body. Doubling over, with hands braced on his knees, the ex-
professor tried to catch his breath. Being a bat was exhausting; he much
preferred his billowing black cloak to the teensy wings any day.
            Once he’d recovered enough, the restored man drew his wand from the
depths of his robes and began a deliberate march up the winding flight of
stairs that led to the astronomy tower. He could hear Greyback’s savage snarls
as he ascended the turret steps. But as he approached the top, the growls
morphed into whimpering and as he stalked through the doorway all sound ceased.
            It didn’t really surprise him. He’d seen gore before; being the
Dark Lord's second in command had accustomed him to the worst types of
slaughter. Despite this, Severus couldn’t help being a little taken aback by
the scene he invaded.
            Globs of black blood painted the ramparts. Pink intestines had been
flung every which way and even dangled from the balustrades. In the middle of
it all was the mangles corpse of the long feared Fenrir Greyback. If Severus
was right, then the monster had been enlarged before the Headmaster had hit him
with an Expulso. Albus had been creative.
            Said man, was standing over the body, gazing down at the blood
spattered pelt, in what the Potions Master could only describe as gratified
revelry. It was more than a little disturbing. Without acknowledging the
intruder, Dumbledore strode over to the railings. He gazed out into the
distance as if he was observing his kingdom for the first time, with amazement
and satisfaction.
            Picking his way carefully through the carnage, the spy joined the
Headmaster and reclined against the rails and contemplated the panorama before
him. The castle was an inferno. He could now hear the blaze roaring
ferociously, claiming everything in its path. Flames danced, leaping freely
from level to level, consuming Hogwarts bit by bit. But even more astounding
was its reflection in the Black Lake; he could see the fire cavorting just as
madly in the smooth glassy surface of the water.
            “You can’t stop it?” Severus broke the delicate silence.
            “No.”
            “Expelliarmus.” It was whispered so quietly, that the dull roar of
the inferno nearly masked it.
            “So you have come to kill me. I wondered if you had been murdered
when I didn’t see you during the battle,” said the whimsical Headmaster. He
spoke as if remarking on the weather, typical for the old man. Snape had always
been intrigued by Albus’ ability to remain calm in stressful situations.
            “Where is the boy?” It wasn’t necessary to specify who. There was
only one person Severus was interested in finding and Dumbledore knew it.
            “I wish I knew.”
            Whirling to face the batty old man, Severus snarled, “What do you
mean you don’t know? You’re supposed to be watching him!”
            “My dear boy, I am not responsible for him over the summer. He is
with his Aunt.”
            “I was under the impression you were the only one who knew of his
location,” he grit out through his teeth. “You were made secret keeper, of
course you know where he is!”
            “Severus, all that means is that I know his relatives’ address,
nothing else.”
            “Well,” snarled the furious Potions Master. “Where is the boy if he
isn’t with his family?”
            “I don’t know,” sighed the Headmaster. The man looked even older in
that moment than his respectable one hundred and fifty years.
            Severus was speechless for a few moments. Harry Potter was missing.
He couldn’t believe it. If this got out the wizarding world would spiral into
chaos. The Dark Lord would rise to power easily. But more importantly was the
fact that Lily’s son had disappeared. He had to find him. For Lily.
            “I thought there were wards, shouldn’t they have alerted you?” It
was his last hope. Surely the pathetic old man knew something.
            “Unfortunately the wards were designed only to alert me of his
death or to the presence of Death Eaters on the premises,” said the older
wizard tiredly.
            “Then how do you even know that Potter’s missing!” the irate man
raged.
            “Oh… his aunt sent me a letter this morning informing me that the
boy had run away. She told me she was no longer accountable for the ‘ungrateful
brat.’ She was quite rude Severus, quite rude indeed,” the aged warlock
rambled.
            Finally losing his temper, Snape lunged toward the infuriating
wizard and grabbed him by the collar of his absurd lemon stained robes. Shaking
him roughly and dropping all semblance of control, he yelled, “HOW COULD YOU DO
THIS! DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU’VE DONE? YOU’VE LOST THE BOY-WHO-FUCKING-
LIVED!” Spittle flew and his eyes flashed with fury. He couldn’t wait until he
got to kill the aggravating bastard.
            “Please, Severus,” the pitiful old man whined. “Stop shaking me. I
don’t understand why you’re so upset. You never even liked Harry. Now that you
know that the prophecy is false, we don’t even need him anymore. He was only
ever a pawn. You should be relieved.” The headmaster flinched from Severus’
grasp, backing into the balustrade in his attempt to flee.
            He couldn’t believe his ears. This man, that everyone had trusted,
was nothing more than a contemptible ogre. Raising both wands—both his and the
one he’d capture from the piteous imp before him—Severus leveled them at
Dumbledore’s heart. 
            “I never hated him more than I loathe you right now.”
            “Severus…”
            “No! How dare you use Lily’s son and expect to live. I’m going to
kill you!”
            “Severus… please…” the doomed wizard pleaded, but all in vain.
            “Avada Kedavra.”
            For a moment time froze. The brilliant green light hovered at the
tip of the united wands. Flaming waves of fire seemed to halt and the roar
lulled to a mere whisper. Albus’ pleading turned silent. All Severus could hear
was his own rhythmic breathing. But it only lasted for the twinkling of a
second.
            The moment ended and suddenly the vivid emerald sparks of the
killing curse smashed into Albus Dumbledore’s chest, propelling him backwards
off the tower, where he hovered lifelessly for a split second before falling
quickly out of sight.
            Severus was frozen for a moment, in which he considered what he’d
just done. But then he heard the thump of a dead body hitting the ground and
the shrill cries of shocked Order members over the steady rumble of the
inferno. Taking a step forward, he gripped the rail of the Astronomy tower and
peered down.
            At the foot of the battlements lay the corpse of his mentor. The
man was spread-eagle and Severus was sure—although he was too far away to
tell—that his eyes were open, staring dully up at the heavens.
            Surrounding the body were the tiny figures of his former
acquaintances. He held no allusions of what they would think of him. His
loyalties had already been questioned and now he’d just murdered their
leader—they would assume in cold blood. Even as he thought this, Snape saw
heads swivel and stare up at him. He could imagine their expressions of outrage
and disgust.
            Sensing the end of an era, the assumed traitor tossed the dead
man’s wand over the ramparts. After watching it land with its owner, Severus
turned his wand on himself and adopted the form of his bat. Without another
glance at the burning castle, he launched himself into the sky.
The Animagus disappeared into the ambiguousness of twilight.
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

                              Chapter Eight:Spawn
 
                He was doing the dishes when the doorbell rang. It startled him
so badly that the plate he was holding fell from his fingers and shattered onto
the floor. Sharp white flecks of porcelain littered the tiles, making it
impossible for him to move his bare feet. As Frank rushed out of the room,
assuring him that all was well, he tried to calm himself with quick gasping
breaths. Over the past week, they’d discovered he didn’t react well to
surprises. So once he had gained control of his breathing, he knelt and began
the tedious chore of collecting the small shards of china.
                Finishing his task, he stood and found himself faced with the
sight of Frank and a familiar looking stranger. The young man accompanying his
host looked like the boy in Frank’s dusty photo albums. The teen, with the
broken dish, felt a strong urge to hide when he noticed the young man’s size.
Frank’s guest had his same build—broad shoulders with powerful looking arms and
chest—but with added height and without the withering of old age. He looked to
be in his early twenties and towered over the scrawny boy, glaring down at him
with distaste. Tightly cropped sandy hair, capped the gentlemen’s crown and he
sported a slightly darker goatee. His eyes were small, shrewd, and grey; they
harbored no warmth, at least not for him. A short bulbous nose occupied the
strangers face, accompanied by a disproportionately small pinched mouth.
                “This is my grandson, Talhaern Vice,” Frank said cheerily. He
didn’t seem to notice the way his new visitor was scowling at his guest. “He’s
come to visit me for a few days; isn’t that exciting?  I’m sure you both will
become the best of friends. I was just telling him about you…”
                As Frank rambled on in his usual speedy pace, a standoff
ensued. The grandson looked as if he smelled something utterly disgusting as he
glowered menacingly at his grandfather’s other guest. Resisting the urge to
cower, his opponent wondered why he found the revulsion in Talhaern’s face so
familiar. He could only imagine that in his former life before he’d met Frank,
he’d had many enemies. It would make sense too, considering the condition he
awoke in over a week ago. Someone must have absolutely despised him to cause so
much damage; at least that’s what he had assumed from Frank’s furious
expression at some of the scars they’d found scattered over his body…and he
hadn’t even shown the man the full extent of his injuries. Not that he’d had
much of a chance anyway; his injuries had all healed surprisingly quickly and
after a few days all but the most severe injuries had disappeared. Most
satisfying to him was that he could now plop down without the fear of a
stabbing pain in his arse.
                It was this last thought that caused—for some unknown
reason—the end of the young men’s staring contest. He was forced to avert his
eyes, instincts beyond his control forcing him to flinch from the harsh gaze.
                Interrupting the old man carelessly, Talhaern directed his
irritated question to the room. “Who is this? I thought father told you not to
bring strangers into your apartment anymore. Don’t you remember the last time,
when that scum stole all of Nan Aileen’s jewelry?” He spat the word ‘scum’ with
such distaste, that Talhaern’s meaning was quite clear: he was filth.
                At this Frank’s tanned face turned a pasty shade of gray; it
was the first time he’d ever seen the man look anything other than cheery and
the contrast was rather alarming. The usually rosy-cheeked old timer now looked
to be on Death’s door, his eyes dull and empty. He knew—from his host’s vast
array of photographs—that Aileen had been Frank’s wife before she’d died a
number of years ago, but he’d never seen his host look so distraught from the
mere mentioning of her name. Usually, the elderly old man would ramble on and
on about his past Love, telling all sorts of stories about shared picnics,
travels, and grandchildren. However, these recollections had always been
expressed with fond smiles and gaiety. Suddenly, he was filled with a deep
loathing for Talhaern’s callous reminder of what the widower had lost. This man
had no right to upset his host so spectacularly.
                But before he could either console his host or reprimand the
intimidating grandson, Frank had recovered. Spluttering indignantly and
developing a furious blush, he retorted angrily. “Of course, I remember! Don’t
patronize me, young man! This Laddie, here, wouldn’t hurt a fly and besides, he
needed my help. You should have seen him, Talhaern, so many bruises and
scrapes, that at first I didn’t know what he was.” 
                “Be that as it may, he looks fine now and you don’t know
whether or not he’ll run off with anymore of Nan’s trinkets,” Talhaern said,
sounding patient, but the look in his face told otherwise. Then, turning to the
wide eyed observer, he asked, “What’s your name anyway, boy?”
                There was a brief moment before he answered, when the boy still
holding the shattered dishware was struck with a rush of memories. An angry
man—the one from his dreams—was yelling at him, while a boy the size of whale
laughed uproariously. The familiar beefy man was turning purple as he hollered
at the cowering youth and finally, seeming to lose his patience, grabbed the
teen and began dragging him roughly towards a small doghouse. As he was thrown
forcefully to the ground, he could hear the man yelling his final words:
“You’re worthless, boy!”
                Snapping back to the present, he stared wide eyed up at
Talhaern. The man was glaring down at him expectantly and he remembered that
the intimidating man was awaiting his response.
                “S-sir, I don’t r-remember my name. I don’t remember anything.”
 
                       -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
                                        
                Headquarters was swarming with bodies. It seemed as if every
remaining member of the Light side had made this place their temporary home. No
one felt safe alone anymore. Not since the Battle of Hogwarts. They all
probably thought that if the Death Eaters could penetrate the school then
nowherewas safe.
                Hermione supposed they were right, too. She could understand
the uncontrollable need to not be alone. In fact she and the twins had been
inseparable ever since Hogwarts had burned to the ground. It had been only a
week ago that they’d all stood huddled on the grounds of the ancient castle as
it burned to ashes. She could feel the insufferable heat of the Fiendfire on
her skin when she thought about that night. The screams of her friends mixed
with those of her enemies as they were all burned alive. Ron’s lifeless face
and dull eyes stared up at her in her dreams. Albus Dumbledore’s figure
falling—as if in slow motion—from the Astronomy Tower as she watched
helplessly. The thump as his dead body striking the ground. Her dreams were
filled with the shrieks of the dead and whenever she was alone she would
imagine blood dripping off the walls, seeping through the floor, and oozing
from the ceilings.
                That was why she was currently curled up on one of the many
musty arm chairs scattered about the second floor drawing room. She’d been
occupying the same chair for the past week. Moving simply hadn’t seemed like a
priority ever since they had all returned from the battle. Nothing was
important now. Not since Ron died. Not since Dumbledore had fallen from the
tower. Not since that bastard Snape had gotten away. And especially not since
Hagrid had returned from Harry’s relatives house empty handed.  It felt to
Hermione as if nothing would ever be right again.
                In all the hustle and bustle after the battle, with all the
wounded, dead, and missing Order members, that everyone had forgotten about
their Savior. At least until she had finally exploded at them yesterday.
Professor McGonagall had been trying to persuade her to move from her position
on the lounger, when she’d finally lost her temper.
                “SHUT UP, YOU BITCH! BLOODY HELL! CAN’T YOU SEE I WANT TO BE
LEFT ALONE? Gods Professor, why don’t you go do something useful?
Like…like…LIKE PERHAPS CHECKING ON HARRY?! NO ONE’S EVEN BOTHERED TO SEE IF
HE’S OK!!  I HAVENT HEARD FROM HIM ALL SUMMER. FOR ALL YOU KNOW THE DEATH
EATERS COULD HAVE KIDNAPPED HIM IN ALL THE CONFUSION AFTER THE BATTLE!”
Hermione yelled at the shocked woman. She’d never before lost her temper at a
teacher, but the bushy haired girl had finally reached her limit. Grief was a
natural reaction to death, and she was sick and tired of her time of mourning
being interrupted. In a sickly sweet voice she’d added, “Wouldn’t it be ironic…
the Order, the very organization sworn to protect him… losing the Boy Who
Lived.”
                She hadn’t seen McGonagall’s reaction but she suspected that
the old Scottish woman’s lips had thinned and her wrinkly fists had tightened.
But when she’d glanced over, all she’d seen was a slamming door as her former
professor had stormed out of the room. Smirking, Hermione had simply returned
her gaze to the charmed window fixing her eyes on the fake sunset. If she had
known that her grief induced rant had been so close to the truth, the brunette
would not have been so pleased with herself.
                As it happened, an hour later she’d heard raised voices coming
from the basement kitchen and within minutes a pounding of footsteps up the
stairs before what seemed to be the entire Order poured into her temporary
sanctuary she’d fashioned out of the little dusty parlor room. It was then that
she’d learned that Harry hadn’t been at his home in Surrey. When his family had
been questioned they’d claimed he’d run away just over a week ago. The news had
chilled Hermione to the bone. She’d been right. Those blasted Death Eaters had
kidnapped her best friend. Harry was probably dead right now; just like Ron.
She was alone.
                It had been exactly eighteen hours, nine minutes and forty
three seconds since she’d heard the news. Her eyes were still fixed on the spot
where Hagrid had stood when he’d told her that her other friend was gone.
Somehow her mind still couldn’t rap around the fact that she’d never see Harry
again. They’d tried to comfort her with delusions. They’d said he might still
be alive. But she knew deep down that her old friend was gone. She knew Harry
hadn’t run away. He would have come to Headquarters or possibly the Burrow. He
wouldn’t have put her through this torture if he’d been alive. He wouldn’t have
run away, which meant that the Death Eaters had come for him. And Hermione knew
what that meant. It meant they’d taken him to Voldemort.
                She felt her eyes start to prick. But she refused to cry.
Consoling herself with thoughts of Harry being reunited with his parents, the
remaining third of the Golden Trio tried to imagine life without ever talking
to her green eyed friend again. First Ron, now Harry. When would the carnage
end?
                But at that moment Hermione was violently yanked out of her sea
of pity by the door to the parlor being blasted open. Jerking up, she watched
dazedly as Fred and George marched into the room. Neither of them looked to be
in spirits. In fact they were both glaring at her with twin expressions of
distaste. As they approached her chair, she watched their lanky limbs and
matching tufts of ginger hair move angrily towards her. She couldn’t imagine
why they were there.
                “For fucks sake, Hermione! Stop—”
                “—this ridiculous pity party! Get it—”
                “—together! You’re not the only one who’s lost someone.”
                The Twins glared down at her with disgust…and most shockingly
disappointment.
                She was so surprised at their expressions of censure that she
almost didn’t notice when she burst into tears.
                “B-but I-I loved th-them!” H-how c-can I j-just—” she gestured
wildly with her arms, her words stuttered and nearly incoherent through the
sobbing.
                “That doesn’t mean you get to sit up here and wallow in self-
pity. Everyone else loved them too.”
                “Yeah, Hermione. We loved them too. He was our brother…”
                “And Harry was our friend.”
                And with that the twins slumped down next her on the sofa, one
on either side. For the next two hours they kept her company while they mourned
for the ones they had lost.
Chapter End Notes
     A/N: Talhaern means iron fist and vice is defined as immoral conduct
     or a flaw in someone’s behavior/character. Sometimes I’m a genius.
     Also this is the last chapter I had already written so I'm not sure
     when my next update will be. I'M SO SORRY! /covers face and runs
     away/
End Notes
     Does anyone even like it? I'm going to try to post every Tuesday but
     sometimes I (always) forget. Sorry!
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