To my best friend Catherine - I know this isn't what you expected but it's what I needed to write. Also, you're absolutely fabulous, you know that?

Prologue

It was cold.

It was very, very cold. Also wet, and slightly mushy.

It was dark – or was that because his eyes were closed? He didn't know – and the sound of wind blasting back and forth was loud in his ears. His head felt tender, like it had been hit by a Beater's bat, but there was no pain, just the simple gentleness that a wound can give, and his legs felt like they were made of heavy lead. His entire body ached, but it was a muted sort of pain.

It occurred to him that he was lying on his back, in something soft – mud – and he tried flexing his fingers experimentally. They were unsurprisingly stiff. He got the feeling that he had been laying still for quite some time.

He didn't really remember how he got there, where ever he was. He didn't recall much of anything but the present. He just knew that he had been inflicted with injury on some part of his body and was loathe to discover exactly where.

He could lay there forever, but something told him he had to move now, or he wouldn't have the strength later. Tentatively, he opened his eyes.

He was in a forest, of all places. The trees were tall, ancient looking, surrounding him in a small clearing. It was night, and it had just rained, judging by the thick smell of pine and the layered musk of oak in the air.

He didn't move at first, slowly looking around himself. Then, hesitantly, he sat up.

His back wasn't sore at all, which was encouraging. He had felt a sharp stab of pain in his hip, however, and glanced down to see it bleeding sparingly, the wound peeping out from the rip in his trousers. It was covered in old, crusted blood, though a small but steady stream of it was trickling down to the ground. A quick sniff told him he smelled strongly of iron, earth, and (for reasons unknown to him) sex. His nose wrinkled with distaste.

After a while, he decided he could bear standing up. Upright, he rubbed his eyes and stretched cautiously.

Time to find out where he was.

He began to walk, slowly, because he was trying to recognize landmarks, in a random direction that he thought might be lucky. The forest was deathly quiet. No animals of any sort were heard.

He didn't know how far he continued through the pressing woods, but at some point as he was walking dejectedly in the third hour of his trek, his attention was caught by a small glimmer of light in the distance. He froze.

It flickered weakly, but slowly it grew and then it was shining brightly, unmistakably man-made.

He wondered whether he should reveal himself or not, if the people would mean him harm (but why would he think that?). In the end, as the light approached, he decided to remain hidden.

They were getting nearly close enough to hear conversation, now. There were three of them. They walked warily, occasionally stopping to check over their shoulders. He crouched down behind some tall shrubs close to a pine tree.

They were close...

"...But there isn' much 'uve anythin' they can do now, is there, Pete? Nuffink no more, yeah? Wi' all the Death Eaters an' all his other supporters running 'round as freelances, I reckon old Dumbledores' rid us of anthin' Dark on all the Islands together. What chu think?"

The speaker was young, younger than he was himself, and from the sound of it had a bit of some cockney London in him, as well as some roots in Whales. He seemed eager to speak.

"Well," said the second man, "I don't deny Dumbledore's got the tha Dark Arts population runnin' scared, as well. But that there's the problem, Stan. Them supporters are quiet when they're all afraid of retaliation and such, so they goes underground 'bout all their doings too, and the damn Ministry gave em pureblooded idiots rights 'gainst too many arbitrary inquiries (I reckon they bought those rights now). I s'pose we've already done as much as we're allowed wi'out breaking some Ministry law, though it's not as nearly as much as anyone would like."

There was a pensive silence to this statement. The young man who was named Stan then spoke up again:

"What about this business with Sirius Black, yeah? 'Im getting away, right under the Ministry's nose. I s'pose he Apparated out uve 'Ogwart's when them Aurors went to fetch the Dementors, 'e couldn't 'ave shaken off more than five officials, you think?"

"Ar," the third man spoke up, " e' was already weakened from bein' on tha run, if you ask me. Escaped, they said. 'Scaped my daugh'er's arse. 'E 'ad 'elp, 'e did."

There was another prolonged silence as this opinion settled in. The third man was definitely the oldest; Stan was obviously the youngest. He wondered what these three were doing out in the middle of a wood.

"Well," said Pete, "to business, I should think."

"Aye."

"Ar."

Pete pulled out something metal (cauldrons?) and Stan make a sound of excitement.

"Those there are brill," Stan said happily. "should sell for, eh, I dunno, fifteen Galleons if we've luck?"

"More," Pete said in a hushed voice. "they've silver lining 'round the rims and copper lining on the insides."

It was dark, but even then he could still see Stan's spasm of glee.

So, it was black market then. It would explain the trip into the forest, he thought, though I don't see why this lot would need to worry so much, if all they're selling is stuff along the lines of fraud cauldrons.

"What chu got then, Ernie?"

Some more shuffling was heard, and then Stan gasped.

It was a dagger, and a very impressive one at that. Curved, sharpened, coated in silver with elaborate patterns in the French design, it had engravings on the length.

"Shame 'bout those markings," murmured Pete. "could give you away. I don't reckon tha's any dialect I'm familiar wi', though. Certainly not English."

"Certainly not," said Ernie, "'tis parseltongue."

This time, both Pete and Stan gasped. His eyebrows raised, and he wondered where on earth Ernie might've gotten such a weapon from. Then it occurred to him Ernie might be lying.

Apparently, Pete was thinking the exact same thing as well, because a second later he asked, "Is it legitimate?"

Ernie moved backwards in what he assumed was offense, and Stan looked at Pete so quickly he was surprised Stan didn't get whiplash. "What chu goin' on about? Ernie a right honest man, 'e is, and if he says e's got a smashing piece wi' parseltongue on it, then e's got a smashing piece wi' bloody parseltongue on it, ain't that right Ern?"

"It be right, all right," muttered Ernie. "I figure it could go for two hundred Galleons to Borgin and Burke's. Or perhaps to..."

"To?" questioned Pete. "I thought you was a Dark Arts hater, Ern."

"No Dark for me, thanks," Ernie said quickly. "I thought to maybe sell it to little 'Arry Potter."

Pete laughed loudly at this; but he did not hear it. He had reeled back at the mention of the name in unexpected pain. His heart lurched; his head felt like it was splitting open, and it was fire, pure knives of fire in his head, and he yelled in agony...

He was walking across his living room, when the front door blasted down and a figure in black entered his house... he was shouting something to someone upstairs, as he dashed towards the figure, unsure of whatever he was about to do, but it was very important that he do it... the deformed man smiled as he pointed his wand at his face and spoke in a high, cold voice...

the blackness was everywhere... what had happened?

He saw a glimpse of a young woman with red hair and a kind face and his heart stopped beating but his head, his head... he stopped thinking about her and the pain disappeared, and he shut down all thoughts of his house and the woman with the kind face looking up at him lovingly, and the front door being slammed down... but the name Harry Potter would not leave his mind.

He was unaware of his screams and of the three men huddled around him in various states of alarm. He didn't hear Stan gasp in shock when he saw his face, and mention something about 'Arry Potter. He didn't feel himself being picked up by Pete and carried away from the woods.

James Potter fought against his memories and slipped back into darkness.

Disclaimer.

Prologue to something bigger. Should it go on?