1. There were two boys, like phantoms, hanging in the gloom. Their faces were odd, and oriental, their bodies flickering in and out of focus, bent into awkward positions as if other, invisible bodies knelt on them and pinned them to some imaginary floor. Their expressions and words looped like a stuttering roll of film- anger and fear brightening slitted brown eyes, pain flaring and then being swallowed by tides of desperation, a name- his maybe? - being called out. The smallest one was thin and rakish, neither had too much baby fat, and two, thick rivers of tears ran down his checks, mingling with trails of snot as he crowed out some demand. The other one roared, like a trapped beast, furious, writhing under his hold.

" Don't you do it ****!" he called hoarsely, his boyish voice surprisingly low in his curiosity, " We'll be fine, just run! Go back!"

Then his head jerked downward at the neck, cheek slamming into that invisible floor and pain flashing briefly across stunned features, before a snarl painted itself on his lips again. His eyes flickered upwards, and he grit out something nasty at his captors. Then the boys eyes were forward, riveted pleadingly on his own again.

The other, smaller, boy couldn't even see him anymore. His wide, dark eyes were obscured by those fat tears, but he screamed, over and over and over…

" ****! DON'T GO! ****! ****! DONT GO!"

A pale, dimensional hand reached toward the phantasmal figures, just as desperate as their frantic wrigglings, and a single thought suddenly overwhelmed him- so many emotions and two names…

Ace, Luffy-!

Harry woke up with a start.

2. Harry cradled his head in his hands. His fingers knotted in his hair, tugging at the tangled strands ruthlessly as his frame shuddered in a blatant display of weakness. It was everywhere, that weakness- deconstructing the fibers of his skeleton, leaving him slumped against the wall, shivery and sick and struggling valiantly not to retch dry heaves onto the pristine carpet rumpled beneath his feet. His eyes stung with how hard he clenched them shut, lips sore where his teeth dug into soft, bleeding skin, ears ringing with the evidence, those unholy words, the imaginary, muggle reporters hand which had signed Harry's death warrant…

Death Eaters in Little Hangleton. Voldemort, in little hangelton, a haunting glamour plastered on the telly-screens, mocking, bloody eyes piercing him with images of carnage and blood, his and others. It would be him there, soon, one of the mangled bodies glimpsed at through the lens of a camera- some-ones handheld- moments before it was dropped, the owner, a hysterical teenager, collapsing over it with a soft, pained cry of surprise.(( Her death had been swift, unlike those she had filmed with her own shaking hands, and her corpse was relatively in whole.))

Harry wrenched his hands out of his hair to scrub furiously at his eyes.

He was so fucking unprepared. He wasn't ready- it hadn't really sunk in yet…and someone was dead. Haunted jade eyes rose again to the crack of the door that framed a sliver of the telly, resting there as the teenagers face flashed up again. She was the only victim that still had a face. The others weren't so lucky. Harry's stomach twisted violently as he name scrolled itself past the bottom of the frame. Deidrich Frenzel- a german exchange student. She was sixteen.

Her pale blue eyes, immortalized into a faint, almost bemused expression of shock dug into his very mind, parted lips wriggling with the need to curse him, spite him, beg him to try harderharderharder so that pretty, blonde high school ballet-dancers wouldn't have to dug out of muddy ditches where they had been flung hours previous.

FUCK THAT.

Scary, sad dreams could wait. Harry's own fear of Vernons colossal fists could wait. Education could wait, for a while, though Hermione would be difficult to deal with…Voldemort had begun. Harry straightened to his impressive, slim height of five foot four. The last shreds of fear were crassly bundled away in the sweeping tide of his fury. Fury fueled by the guilt he felt every time he recalled the ominous voice of Trelawney, fueled by sobs of Deidrich's young, wheat-colored mother. By those curling strands of soft, pale yellow- the color of butter- stained rosy with flecks of blood.

"It's time." said the boy softly, but firmly- reveling in the solemnity the words made, the ancient ring-,"The waiting is over."

And he strode into the living room, flinging the door open with a casual flick of his wrist. He had some ungrateful muggles to save.

3." OUT! OUT NOW! THIS, THIS IS THE LAST STRAW, AND I WILL NOT HAVE A FREAK LIKE YOU STAY WITH US ANY LONGER!-"

" I told you, I can't just fucking go- you want me to go get myself killed-!"

"I COULDN'T CARE LESS IF YOU GOT YOUR UNGRATEFULL, FREAKISH HIDE TANNED, JUST STAY AWAY FROM MY FAMILY! OUT! AND TAKE YOUR FUCKING DARK LORDS WITH YOU!"

And with that last, furious bellow, that huge, quivering mountain of mottled purple skin and bristling mustaches lunged for him. Harry bit back his own, defiant roar as a wave of hot rage and fear swept over him, clouding his vision with red, even as he scrambled to scamper away. Flailing arms latched onto the staircase railing, and Harry hoisted himself mid-lung unto the steps, clambering swiftly over his tripping feet as he Uncle blundered after him. Meaty paws clipped his flung out heels and Harry beat back a sickening panic, digging instead, deep inside of himself for his magic and PUSHING-

The next moment he was inside his room, silver locks flying shut with sharp, ringing clicks moment before of a barrage of fat slammed into the warped, wooden contours. That hadn't gone as planned, Harry thought furiously as he shoved every bookcase and tatty chair and desk and wooden implement he had strewn across the floor under the door handle. The walls quivered fearfully as Vernon bellowed another frantic, ugly demand that Harry go and off himself, to which Harry himself bit out a loud, blustery curse with many, many wizarding elements…something about flobberworms…and Vernons super-human girth…

Then he was clambering away from the door, snatching his wand from his pocket and swingingg it wildly around, tugging, and pulling, and pushing his will out of the slender stave. Heat flooded the room like gas, and within an instant the clutter had reassembled itself in a messy heap within his trunk- which wouldn't fucking close. Harry braced himself against the lid and, grunting, and digging his heels deep into the floor boards, attempted to muscle it shut. It din't work, but with a dull ringing sound and a muted click, a particularly solid block of storm-colored magic wrestled it cleanly down, and locked it.

"Well, thanks." muttered Harry, watching dazedly as the chunk wobbled and disintegrated into it's previous mist-like state. Shaking himself from the small spark of wonder that burned as he looked around the swirling mass of translucent magic, Harry shakily made his way to the window, tugging the trunk after him. Behind him the door and cabinets shuddered, his uncle raging against the creaking wood, Harry peered over his shoulder, squinting slightly through the grey gold fog (( and why was it OUT in the first place, as far as he knew his magic was always inside, swirling, and pulsing,and singing..)) barely making out a slight crown of splinters cracking around a fist-shaped dent. His head whipped around and he looked instead out of the window, and down, calling tightly back at his uncle a biting "STAY OUT".

His brow furrowed as he surveyed his trunk- heavy and ancient and carved with loving hands out of a dark maple wood- and then the sheer side of Number four. The wall met the ground in a flurry of well-trimmed bushes, prickly with harshly shorn brown branches and spiked dry leaves and so very far down. Behind him the wall shook, different voices adding to the cacophony. What was that charm? The one Hermione used on HER trunk to allow all her books she tucked away under minimal clothes…The featherlight charm, that Harry hadn't actually learned, that had a simple incantation.

"Uhh, grow lighter?" he tried, waving a jerky circle with his wand at the trunk. The mist around the trunk swirled and the wood panes shivered slightly, as if wrapped in heat, but remained dead-weight underneath his fingers. Darn. He narrowed his eyes, jabbed his wand at the trunk, hopinghopinghoping and trusting, and then WILLED it. Saw it growing lighter, floating a soft few inches from the floor, bobbing in his hands, untethered…There was a flash of that grey stormy light- indigos streaked with furious reds and violent purple-greens - and a moist slap of heat around his shivering hands, and the trunk shot up, like a cork under water, wobbling slightly at hip height, buoyed up by straining ribbons of cloudy smoke.

There wasn't any time to celebrate that small victory, for, suddenly, the shaking ceased. The doors rattling sagged and faded, and through the earsplitting mix of shrieks and furious roars, was the heavy, damp thwack of flesh hitting flesh, and a clatter as a body slammed into the floor. Harry froze, turning slowly to gaze at the door in fear and fury and something incredible and violent swelling in him as a shout from an previously unheard voice screamed, "DAD, DON'T HIT HER !" And suddenly he felt cold all over, still and frozen in shock as faint thuds marked as Dudley flung himself at a stunned Vernon, faint quivering gasps leaking from under the door where his Aunt undoubtably lay. His Aunt. His Aunt Petunia. HIS.

"Expecto Patronum."

Silver exploded, emerging from the fog as if from a veil, molded out of the pure, blinding fury he felt in that moment- straining against his skin, his heart, his shivering, cold lips. Lips that moved, that heated as furious, stilted words flowed outwards on spicy puffs of breath. The stag, a creature molded from bound, quivering starlight, bowed a gentle head and raced off in a swift gust of silver wind. The last of his self-restraint shattered and he strode towards the door, flinging it open in a way that reminded him of earlier…when he gazed upon the coming war…and, stepping out, found his gaze riveted on the huddled over form of his aunt, streaks of red staining the side of her temple, shivering, veined hands fluttering over a gory gash there. Green eyes, almond-shaped and magnified by chunky wire spectacles froze and dulled as bloodlust was quickly reigned in.

Oh yes. If the order didn't get here soon, Vernon would die.

3. Several people shrieked and fell from their chairs as a brilliant silver light bloomed above the table, blinding in it's harsh white glare. The wavering strands of the dancing corona of light bent and melted and from the center of the harsh silver sun melted a figure, a stag (('Prongs..' someone whispered)). Dazed, blinded eyes grew wide as a familiar voice rang through the air, huge and melodius.

"Some-one had better get over here- Vernon just hit Aunt Petunia, and if I'm not stopped I'll kill him. Be careful, there are Death-Eaters in Little Hangleton."

The hulking silver beast tossed it's head royally and disappeared with a roaring crow of fury, leaving the room blinking with ambient cold light as the harsh flare of glowing light faded and the the last echoes of the stags battle-cry were replaced by stunned quiet.

"BLOODYBUGGERINGFUCK!"

4. The boys thin back pressed flush against the door, nails scrabbling for purchase on the smooth maple plane, his entire being white and glowing in the dark of the tiny little room. Another crack resounded shrilly through the cold air, followed by an agonized scream which petered lowly into an animalistic snarl of wounded ferocity- the sound of a spine splintering and bending to accommodate for several longer, thicker ribs. A delicate whistle of whimpers laced the silence between each roar of pain and dangerous crack, several other voices hidden in the gloom outlined shadowy, hunched figures, one hulking and thick, the other curled under the largers girth, thin and swathed in glowing, gauzy bandages. Petunia wept quietly but desperately, her quivering hands pressed frantically against the gash on her forehead, and the entire room was aware of the hungry howls that were steadily growing, growing, growing…

Harry cursed, his eyes picking out the writhing mass of shadows that was Remus, then the giant form of Dudley and Aunt Petunia, clinging desperately to their little little corner- Dudleys wide, watery blue eyes sometimes flickering fearfully over to his. The door rattled violently against his back, magic crackling thinly over the wooden surface and his thoughts immediately flew to the wards he had frantically thrown up when Avery and Dolohav had burst in through the kitchen window. Their comforting warmth pulsed, grey and invisible at the same time, at his back reminding him that no matter how much he wrenched the door handle, the door would. Not. Budge.

Not even after several days, locked in a small room, fending off swaths of encroaching Dementors that swarmed the room from the window. Vaguely he could hear his mind scream at him the things HE HAD TO DO What he had PROMISED he would never let happen again, and, as suddenly as the horrific silence fell, Harry was roaring out curses and insults, feet digging into the window sill, fists still extended in the fluttering rain of glass shards that fell around his scraped knuckles. There was blood, thick and creamy and metallic, pouring from his shoulders, and cold, stinging claws imbedded there, ivory, gore-covered teeth snapping inches from his face, wind whistling in his ears as they fell, boy and wolf, together through the shattered remnants of the window.

Adreneline, pain, and wolf roared and Harry's magic rose to meet it. The wards would remain, wrapped tightly around the muggles-who were NOT part of any of this, not part of HARRY'S battle and would. Not. Be. In. The. Death. Count.

The wolf tossed his head upward, into a beam of gleaming, silver moonlight and howled a keening battle-cry- Harry could smell his bloodlust, could feel those amber eyes flicker from his own torn flesh, to the window high above, where Aunt Petunia and Dudley…He fought.

5."…He's stronger."

Dumbledore peered sideways at the shadows, eyes sad and blue and lit with a quiet spark of recognition as the darkness melted into the familiar, craggy face of Remus Lupin. The mans gaze was tired and gentle, lines and scars cast in soft relief by the flickering yellow candle-light and gleaming amber irises glowingly attached to the hospital bed in the corner. A shock of scraggly dark hair peeked out from a crack in the drawn white curtains, ghostly silhouette projected darkly by the ambiance of glowing healing magics that glittered around the still form.

" He tried to fight me." continued the werewolf, stopping by the side of the bed, all hunched shoulders and shadowed, quivering lips -his hands shook with heavy tremors as he aborted a reach or the young boys smooth cheek, " He drew me away from the muggles, I can-can remember him…He fought even after the bite. Wrestled even, tugged the wolf the ground…"

The mans shoulders jerked as his words shuddered to a stop. He choked on the words he wanted to say, on the jumble of apologies that hung, unspoken but no less soulful in the air. Instaed, he grit his teeth and screwed his eyes shut against tears, sinking slowly to his knees as wave after wave of bone-scrushing guilt and sorrow and fear crashed against his defenses, testing his quivering, vigilant silence. A feather light touch and in the darkness Remus was enveloped by a quick utterance of words, soft heat blooming across calloused grey skin as the flowing sleeves of Albus' robes draped across his sides. Two veined and blue hands rested kindly on gaunt, scarred cheeks and kind, sorrowful eyes that dreamt of the color of the sky pierced his own.

"He forgave you." the older man said simply, " It's alright. He forgave you."

Crouched beneath him, beside the bed of the young cub he had so cruelly, viciously marred, Remus howled.

6. Harry woke up again feeling disoriented and sick. His dreams…he could remember them. The first half, sinking into the soft veils of sleep, had melted into a vision of cold cruel hisses and seering pain. A clammy hand rose unsteadily to brush over throbbing, inflamed skin, tracing the scabbed over lines of his scar. Voldemort had had fun last night…But then the vision had slammed shut, darkness flooding the vivid image of stone thrones and arching ceilings- replaced instead with THAT dream.

And this time- this time... Harry gazed at the hands, glittering with flecks of dried blood and a few crusty tears.

Who exactly was Sabo, anyway?

was his third full moon, bottled up in the room of Requirement like some fragile treasure, sunk between several cushiony pillows on some plush armchair, alone and quiet. His body thrummed with energy, unnatural and twitchy, and his muscles and bones strained under the weight of it-unable to change, just aching stinging and pulsing with chained power. The wolf was there-behind swollen eyelids, prowling around the corners of his mind, canines had grown, bulging uncomfortably beneath stretched white lips- and sitting was his only way of shouldering throughh the akward sort of agony he felt. Lying down would be giving in, and he refused to do so. For Remus' sake as well as his own ( he was always aware of the older man pacing outside the door in the days leading up to his own transformation, despite his own sort of agony).

It was only one time, really, that he had beat the wolf completely down within him. It had fucking hurt. But there he had stood, squinting suspiciously into the shadows because the feeling of the fake-common room had felt off, interrupted, skewed, and maybe that was the wolf instinct in him, always sniffing for trouble, but this time it wasn't. For there, leaning oh-so-innocently against the textured cobbles of the wall had been the bo-staff.

Black.

Glossy.

Familiar.

And Harry had staggered over before his mind could even conjure up an incredulous 'what now?', on legs aching from the moon, muscles not quite wolf and not quite human, sense all hazy and overcharged and buzzing with bloodlust and tiredness and carnal hunger…and he had picked up the staff in his shaking, pale hands and something inside of him, wolf and not wolf, something deep and forgotten, had whispered, "…Mine…!"

And that was that. The staff never left him after that, and it would be a long time before it's almost invisible scars and rough patches and waxen grooves and ridges would make any sense. A long time before Harry would understand the baffling amount of comfort he always felt, standing on the edge of some tower, eyes riveted on the horizon somewhere, and that smooth, ebony staff twirling between his fingers...