Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine. He will never be mine. But there's hope for Daniel Radcliff, if I can only make him notice that I exist. sighs Warnings include child abuse and mentions of attempted (note I emphasized that they hadn't succeeded) rape of a minor. Many thanks go to my brilliant motivator and beta, the most wonderful and gorgeous Novocain, without whom I never would have written this.

Summary: When Dumbledore received the prophecy, Snape wasn't the only one to overhear. Gilda, a Death Eater widow, also heard it. When her husband died, grief caused her to miscarry her first child, a daughter. Children became the most important thing to her. To save the child of the prophecy, Gilda took three children from their homes over the course of two years. When the eldest child was three years old, Gilda was murdered. Thought to be her natural children, the three were sent to Gilda's brother. He abused the children until his death. This occurred in the summer before the children's fifth year at Marvin's School for Underprivileged Witches and Wizards. Now the three inseparable siblings will be split up and returned to their families. But what secrets do these three children carry with them? Can the children adjust to new families, a new school, new threats, and new lives?

Chapter 1 – Nothing New

Pain. Dripping noise. A distant chatter. Breathe rattles as it comes in. 'Need more air.' Draws a deeper breathe. Agony! White fire and spots across the blackness. 'Breathe' her voice whispers, an echoing reminder in his mind. He knows she has not spoken it aloud. He blinks his green eyes open. Grey. Textured grey concrete slab. Beyond the slab, a blurry and unfocused form. A man. Maybe two. No. Only one. Head injuries always give him double vision. Make it hard to think in complete sentences, too. He'd be annoyed about the disconnected thoughts, but that takes too much concentration. The man-form moves closer. He can tell the man is speaking, but he can't make out the words. He blinks again. The man remains. He closes his eyes to try to better concentrate and catalog the injuries. Pain in his back and in his head. A blurry, double vision that would make him nauseated if he had anything left in his stomach to sick up. It is nothing new. Except the man. He isn't uncle. 'Uncle! Oh, no! He'll be furious!' The panic of this thought cuts through some of the fog in his brain. Not much. Not enough to think in full and complete sentences. Enough to understand what the man is trying to say, though.

"Hey son, can you hear me?" How original. Profound. And loud.

"N-not y-your sson." It is rasped. Oh, how it hurts to speak. He must have screamed longer than he remembered doing so. After a while, it all kind of blends together. Especially with the way Uncle does it. He mentally adds throat damage to the list of injuries. Also nothing new. He can see more people in the distance. Their body language speaks of . . . horror. Horror and pity, and that odd sensation that you get when you see something truly, fascinatingly horrible, but you can't look away – like your dead puppy lying in the street. It's just too awful. Or not. It's so hard to tell. His vision is very blurry. 'Nothing will fix that. Nothing ever has, thank Merlin.' It is useless to ask uncle for glasses to correct his vision. He knows this. Has always known this. Even before he knew the pain and cruelty that was uncle's true nature. That was alright, though. Better that he not have to know exactly what uncle looked like right before -

"Can you tell me your name?" Curse the man, he is persistent. And way too loud. But then, everything was too loud. It had been for . . .

"Why?" rasped. Again. So very tired.

"Well, I'm no longer allowed to call you son, and I don't think you'd like boy any . . ." the annoying man pauses as the young man gives a violent flinch at the name 'boy.' "Nope, definitely not an option. Will you answer to 'kid'?" The man's tone indicates he is trying to be funny. Doesn't help.

"N-Nedj-" is coughed out. Water would be so nice. Cool. Smooth. Not harsh like the concrete under his face. Not biting like the ropes digging into his wrists and ankles. Not aching like -

"Ned?" His thoughts are interrupted by the man. Good. Bad thoughts.

"Sure." He tries to shrug and nearly screams. If only he could scream. It comes out as more of a pathetic whimper. Agony. Burning all across his back and shoulders. He can feel the warm liquid slipping down his back and along his spine in places. Not felt in others. The absence of sensation is as noticeable as what he actually feels. He wonders how broken he is this time. Will it be only a temporary loss, like before? He can feel some of the liquid dripping off of him and onto the concrete below. He blinks. Again. 'Breathe.' The mental reminder comes again in her voice. It always does. Her voice breaks the cycle of pain, pain, pain. Even in his imagination, he always listens to his sister. The girls! He nearly jolted in surprise at the sudden reminder.

"Grrrlss. Siss. . ." he choked and nearly sobbed. They were everything. Light, hope, happiness. If lost, the dark was never black enough.

"Here." Relief. Calm. Not her voice, no. She didn't talk in front of grownups. Well, unless she had to. No, it was her voice. The other would not be so calm, even if she did speak now. But this voice stayed calm during all the bad times. There were certainly enough of them. Too many. She always panicked after.

"'Kay?" his voice wavered badly.

"Fine. Safe. You too." All and nothing at once. She never needed to say much to be understood. They were too close to need it. An advantage to being one of a set of triplets.

"Shouldn't move. Cuts are deep this time." Ah, that would've been nice to know sooner. "Doctor's coming. They're waiting for him before untying you – worried about your arm."

Arm? But that doesn't hurt. It's one of the few – oh. He finally notices that he can only feel his right arm. Not his left. Nothing from just above the shoulder down on that arm. Not even a tingle. Probably dislocated. He thinks so. He hopes so. Red hair appears in his vision. Good. She's here as well. That was . . . very good. Something in him that he hadn't realized was tense relaxes. They would be alright. They always were. It was nothing new.

"Sleepy," he slurs. Unconsciousness chases her protests away.

End Chapter 1

AN - This is my first fanfic ever. I have always been a lurker and I meant to stay one. I struck up a conversation with the totally awesome Novocain (she's incredible - go read her stories). I sent her a few of my ideas and she encouraged me to write. Please review and tell me if you like it. No flames please - I burn easily.