Je T'Aidera

Summary: "I don't belong here. Not in this crazy place where my… where James and Lily Potter are alive. Sirius is living and free. Remus is under suspicion. Pettigrew is fighting for the order. And my betrothed is Malfoy Jr. It has to be a dream, a nightmare. This is not my world."

Rating: M

General Warnings: Violence, crude language, and homosexuality. If any one of these aforementioned things offends you, please do not continue to venture any further. Also I am not thoroughly familiar with the details in the Harry Potter books, so please ignore any OC-ness cause by my ignorance. Although a little guidance here and there, especially about the noble families of the Harry Potter universe would be greatly appreciated. Enjoy your read!

Disclaimer: Urm, let's see. I tried thinking of something creative so that you wouldn't get bored reading this, unfortunately… At first I attempted to use non-daily life vocabulary in this, but my IQ level would not permit it. Then I tried a rhyme, but my teacher told me to quit poetry. I'll just have to admit that I'm not a very witty person, so I'll make this as painless as possible, I do not own Harry Potter, there, short and sweet.

Author's Note: Constructive criticism is highly welcomed. Thank you for reading.

Chapter 1

The whip whistled through the air, and cracked onto his back like scorching thunder, adding to his grotesque collection of wounds. Again, and again, and again. Relentless, maniacal laughter vibrate within his skull, trapping him within his own mind as the pain continued. Merciless. Only his own stubborn will kept him alive and lip tight. The whip cracked one last time with twice the intensity as before. He arched his back in an attempt to shy away from the worst of the blow. His jaw unhinged against his will, but he bit back the scream.

As this form of muggle torment ended, he slumped forward in an awkward position. The chains binding his wrist rattled at their limit and would not permit him to reach the stone floor. Drenched in his own sweat and blood, he shakily took in ragged deep breaths through his mouth. Each swallow of air was a battle for life, and his damage lungs protested greatly. His shredded clothes rubbed against his fresh wounds, adding greatly to his discomfort.

"Are you ready to talk yet, young Potter?"

The young man immediately clamped his mouth shut, the muscles in his jaws tightened painfully, as if the action would ensure the safety of his secrets.

"Your loyalty is admirable, young Potter. But working for the wrong side will cause you your life." The prisoner wanted to snort at the irony of the words but couldn't summon enough strength to ridicule the Dark Lord before him. "Cooperate with me, and I can promise you glory."

This time, the teen did snort. Did Voldemort really think he was putting his life on the line for glory? The absurdity of that suggestion prompts a reply. He sucked in a rattling breath and croaked out,

"Fancy words," a dry cough interrupted his response, "for a bigot like you." Another breath, "I rather die here, than cower under your feet, fearing your displeasure." The words were delivered like a politician but the venom and disgust laced into the low voice would be enough to imply war at an international conference table.

Voldemort's lips curled into a sneer. He gave a flick of his wand and an uninterested, "Crucio."

The youth could not keep the first shout of pain and cried out in agony. He drowned the rest of his shouts in blood, biting his tongue so hard that it could no longer be determined who was taking away his life faster. Thousands of iron hot needles embedded themselves into each and every pore of his body. Still the youth refused to scream.

The bleak colors of the dungeon swirled before him, until he could no longer keep his eyes open. Suddenly there was an explosion, stars erupted in his vision, and he found himself crawling, limping, and running, running for his life. There was a feeling of frustration for his body refused to comply. His legs felt like lead and his knees wobble like jelly. He forced himself to walk another step and then he was tumbling, falling face first into darkness. He hit something soft, silk and velvet. He thought he might've been on a cloud, and maybe he was going where muggles call heaven. But no, his wounds still burn and his limbs still ache. It hurt, it hurt so much he wanted to scream and cry, but he couldn't. He was too weak, too tired.

His mouth opened, no, someone pried it open, he tried to snap it shut but couldn't. Warm liquid rushed down his parched throat, he coughed violently in response, but the liquid was already inside his body. Too late. What did he swallow? Veritaserum? He was afraid to know. His eyes wouldn't open. To him it felt like perpetuity, but it might've only been a few minutes before his body went numb. He couldn't feel his wounds, couldn't feel his pain, something was wrong, but he felt warmth. Something held him down. He wanted to scream, tell them to let go, and curse them to go to hell, but his tongue throbbed and he vaguely recalled he nearly bit his own tongue off.

There was something wet on his lips, were they trying to force more strange liquids down his throat? But he couldn't fight them off. He never felt so helpless in his life, asides from the times he watched his friends and loved ones get taken away, and there was nothing he could do. Was he crying now? It was hard to tell. Something forced its way into his mouth and swiveled around his tongue. Something warm, moist, and strong. A tongue? He thought in alarm. The same tongue plunged deeper into his mouth, exploring every crevice, and violating his senses. For a second, he felt like he couldn't breath, as his mouth was completely dominated by that tongue. After an eternity, the tongue left, and he found himself shamefully missing the warmth.

Someone turned him over onto his stomach and stripped off his torn shirt. Cool air hit his burning skin before warmth enveloped him once more. He wasn't sure if he welcomed the warmth anymore, it held him down and made him felt vulnerable and exposed. Something wet was rolling over each and every gash on his back. There was a muffled sound, did he just groan? He was horrified at the mere thought. But whatever it was, wasn't disturbed. It continued running down his back, over every wound, going lower, and lower. At some point, the teen realized his pants were being tugged down but luckily not completely off, and the warm, wet object was traveling lower and lower till it reached his tailbone and then stopped abruptly.

He was turned over again, and he felt his hand being squeezed, in reassurance? The same treatment continued with his chest, which wasn't nearly as damaged as his back, for Voldemort seemed to have an affinity with whipping him across the back. It was probably due to the fact that he tended to curl into himself in a fetal position, and Voldemort was just attacking whatever was exposed. Either way, it wasn't a situation that he was too keen on analyzing. The sooner forgotten, the better, but the youth knew that no matter how hard he tried the shadows of the incident would haunt him like it did to the elders involved in the war around him.

Ironically, after that very thought, the teen did temporarily forget about the recent torment as a tongue dipped skillfully into his navel. Something vibrated in the back of his throat. The teen didn't bother to speculate at the sound he probably emitted as he wondered weakly if he really was injured there. He forced his eyes to open, and groaned as his vision swam. The tongue that was exploring the area two inches below his navel stopped, and his vision focused briefly on something silver, and enthralling, before he slipped out of consciousness completely.

XxXxX

Some unknown distance away, Harry Potter awoke from what he deemed the single, most twisted nightmare, and shot up in bed, drenched in cold sweat.

For reasons unknown to him, Harry found that he could see things perfectly clearly when his site regained focus. Harry was not wearing his glasses, but his eyesight was the least of his problems. For one thing, just where in the world was he? The room smelled sterile. Upon further inspection, Harry could see he was in a moderately sized room with several identical beds from the one he was on. Vials of colorful potion lined up on a shelf. Harry guessed he must be in a hospital room. He was the only occupant. From the generously sized window, Harry could tell that it was nighttime. The full moon bathed the room in blue and white glows.

Harry tentatively pushed the window open and a light breeze ruffled the white curtains and brushed across his face. Harry got the vague sense that he hadn't had fresh air for a long while. This made Harry abruptly stopped enjoying the night air. For it wasn't possible. Harry could recall that he was in battle before, underground no less, but the battle had not even commence for over ten hours yet, so it couldn't be that long since Harry had his last breath of fresh air, why did it feel like that he hadn't enjoy the natural air for so long that his lungs would be singing right now?

Suddenly, something else clicked in his brain. He was fighting with his friends, against Voldemort, and his Death Eaters in an underground chamber that once served as burial grounds… for the ancient Mayans, at least that's what Harry thought Hermione had said. But that's not the main point. Harry recalled that the cavern was strangely lit in yellow light and ancient symbols were etched onto the cave walls and ground. The cave was surprisingly sturdy against all the fired hexes and curses. It was composed of many compartments, and Harry remembered his friends all getting split up into different cavities as they each fought their own battles. Unsurprisingly, Harry faced off against Voldemort in one of the inner most chambers. The battle that ensued was chaotic.

Harry was too disorientated to recollect the details. He might've crashed into a wall and blacked out or something, due to the shock of one of Voldemort's curse. Harry couldn't be sure, but he knew what he needed, was to get back to the battle, his friends were still fighting in there. Before Harry could act, the door burst open, and Harry swung his head around to face the new comers pouring into the room.

There were three people all dressed in black and white. They split up, upon entering and bustled around the room. One of them pushed a cart of supplies. A woman with a clipboard approached Harry, and waved her wand to perform a diagnostic. A man came up to him and informed him,

"You are in the emergency treatment ward right now. Do you remember your name?"

Harry opened his mouth to respond; his throat was course and dry. He swallowed and tried again.

"H- Harry Potter." The man nodded to indicate that it was a good sign that he remembered. The woman pushing the cart earlier came forward with a tray full of things. The man took a glass of water from the tray and gave it to Harry, ordering him to drink slowly through the straw. Harry complied; he knew it wouldn't do his body any good to force substance into his system quickly after being famished for a long time. Next the man pushed a vial of potion into his hands. Harry drained it in a matter of seconds, already used to this type of routine from his many visits to a medi-wizard. Although visiting the doctor more times than you can count is not quite a feat to brag about, still, it helped Harry develop the patience to get through the cycle of healing.

"When we found you, you were severely injured, and your magic was waning. You have several cracked ribs and broken bones among numerous cuts and bruises, luckily, you suffered no organ damage. You've been asleep for nearly three weeks since we found you. You'll have to say in bed for five more days approximate, to allow your body and magic to fully recuperate," the medi-wizard informed him. Harry nodded at the assessment of his condition, although he was bemused that he was more injured than he remembered. His fight with Voldemort shouldn't have lasted long enough for all those injuries to be dealt, but than again, Harry wouldn't put it pass Voldemort to kick him around a few times while he was down. The odd part was, none of his wounds were agitating him at the moment, but Harry chalked it up to numbing potions as the medi-wizard gave him another vial.

"Where's Ron and Hermione?" Just as the medi-wizard was about to respond, the door was banged open for the second time that night. Harry turned to look at the newcomer as the door swung a little on its hinges from the force. Almond shaped green eyes matched his own, and Harry's breath hitched in his throat.

Lily Potter was wearing a hole into the carpet. It was either that or sprout gray hairs from worry instead of old age. Neither occupant in the room had the heart to tell her to stop. By occupant, this included James Potter, and Sirius Black. It was Bill Weasley who found Harry in a forest in Romania. Luckily, Harry's injuries weren't life threatening, and he was later flooed back to England after his condition was stabilized. Lily gnawed at her lower lip.

"It's all my fault," she muttered. "If only I was more careful with him…"

At this point, James decided to intervene before his wife could go down a negative spiral on herself again for the nth time since Harry disappeared. James would rather have the privilege of worrying his head bald, but he knew how much Lily is berating herself over this incident, and he had to be strong for his wife.

"Calm down, Lily. No one wanted this to happen. You know how headstrong Harry is."

"Must've got it from his old man," Sirius quipped in to lighten the mood, but to no avail. He received a glare from both Potters for his effort. Sirius held up his hands, palms forward as if to say, 'okay, okay, I'm backing off now.'

James continued, "It doesn't matter how hard you keep him under security. Harry'll definitely find a way around it, just like every other time."

"He's got the marauder blood in him," James quirked a smile at this comment, and Sirius grinned back. "Harry's resilient and strong, he'll bounce right back in no time." Although Sirius said this for himself as much as he did for the James and Lily. Inside, Sirius was worried sick about his godson, but he had to be strong for Lily and James, because it was their blood son who was lying in one of the treatment rooms at this moment.

James tried to smile at his best mate, but it was hard to when his son has been unconscious for nearly three weeks by now. It was a known fact that Voldemort had him captive, so, how Harry managed to escape intact, or rather, at all, was truly a blessing. The medi-wizards speculate that the damage may be mainly mental. It is possible that Voldemort tried to milk Harry for information, seeing as how both his parents are important members of the Order.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on the amount of damage that Voldemort can deal from his displeasure, Harry is relatively oblivious to the workings of the Order. Harry and his friends all know about the Order's existence, having stumbled upon it in their fourth year of Hogwarts, however, they were denied membership to spare their innocence. But it seems, Harry's innocence can no longer be saved after such a close encounter with Voldemort. Lily dearly hoped that no permanent damage would affect her only child.

James approached his wife with open arms to offer her some sense of comfort. Lily smiled gratefully and started to lean into her husband's embrace when the door burst open, and a junior medi-witch shouted,

"Harry is awake!" before rushing off, probably to alert others.

"Harry is awake," Lily repeated in barely a whisper, and then she thrust a palm at the obstacle before her and tossed it to the side, making a straight line for the door. The said obstacle happened to be one James Potter. One, exhilarated yet fuming James Potter, who now carry a pink palm print on his chin as a testament to his wife's… not so gentle treatment.

"Oy, you okay there mate?" Sirius offered his hand, his voice filled with mirth.

"Peachy," James mock glared and accepted the hand. Then the duo rushed out the room, only to be caught in the doorway as they both tried to push through. "Move it, Padfoot, you're too big."

"You move it, Prongs, you're getting fat."

"That's my son in there!"

"That's my grandson you're talking about!"

"Engorgio." The doorframe widened and the two marauders fell through the threshold. The caster sighed tiredly, as if they've been through this one time too many. "Honestly, squabbling like children again."

The two grown-ups looked up from their position on the floor. They were at the perfect angle. If only the caster wore a skirt.

"Moony!" Sirius shouted as a way of greeting, as he leapt up form the floor, using James as a stepping-stone in the process (thus, further pounding James' face into the floor tiles) to pounce on Remus. Only to have Remus side step the animagus and whisper an incantation to shrink the doorway. Sirius went sailing into a door on the opposite side of the hallway.

Remus looked briefly between Sirius with his nose in the door, and James with his face in the floor, before shaking his head slightly and sighing once again,

"I'll go on ahead first," he announced and headed towards the treatment ward.

A few moments later as the two marauders finally peeled their faces away from the surface they were attached to, Peter came into view from around the corner. He was breathing slightly faster than normal.

"Prongs, Padfoot," he called to his two fellow marauders as he spotted them each in their own unique position, "Had a rough night?" he joked, not missing the chance to tease his two friends after all the times they made fun of him.

"You can say that again," Sirius grumbled, not taking the innuendo. James, however, caught onto the double meaning.

"Not in that way, Wormtail!" James flushed remembering incidents from his schooling years at Hogwarts. "Seriously, Rosalyn is a bad influence on you. What happened to the naïve, innocent Wormtail we all knew and loved?" James joked.

"You can have Remus fill in for me," Peter grinned good-naturally before his face turned serious. "Sorry guys, he left my sight the moment we heard the news about Harry."

James and Sirius quickly sobered down.

"Yea, he just passed us to the treatment ward," James replied.

"He, what?!" Peter was flabbergasted that his two friends would let a suspected spy bypass them to Harry. Even if that suspect was their long time friend, you can never be too careful in these times of war.

As far as the archives are concerned, Remus Lupin is the only known werewolf still involved in the war between Voldemort and all of England. Every other werewolf retreated into the mountains, much like the giants and centaurs, which didn't want any dealings with a 'wizard affair' as they dubbed the war. Thus, many doubted Remus' intentions in the war. Werewolves were also recorded in history as dark creatures, and in several crime scenes after Voldemort wreaked havoc, there have been traces of what could only be the doings of a werewolf. There have also been reports from a member of the Order that Remus Lupin was seen associating with Severus Snape in secluded places. Now there's a definite deatheater, no one can fathom why Dumbledore insists on keeping Severus as the potions master of Hogwarts. It was a terrible thing to perceive, your friend double-crossing you, but this war has changed numerous people, and many for the worst. Peter hoped that Harry wouldn't become another victim to the grotesque reality of warfare.

"It's alright. Lily went before us, we'll catch up now," James replied. Peter nodded in acceptance, and then the two sped down the hall. Sirius loitered for a second before following, his mind heavy with thoughts.

Harry watched with wide eyes at the surreal picture before him. Blazing red hair and almond shaped green eyes. He recognized this woman, from pictures, from dreams.

"Harry?" the woman spoke.

It was the voice right out of his nightmares, except she wasn't screaming right now. Her voice was soft, and tentative. He knew her face, he knew her voice, but he never knew her person, because this person was never alive at all.

"M- mum?" his tongue felt stiff, the words felt wrong.

"Harry!" her voice brightened considerably when she heard him. Harry tensed upon hearing that voice. This wasn't a dream, Harry knew. Yet it didn't feel real... no, it didn't feel right, because she was dead, murdered by the Dark Lord. So who was this woman that bear the likeliness of his mother in the pictures. Who could this person be? Lily took two steps forward and Harry jumped up on his feet. The vial he had, smashed to the floor, the potion it held now laid in a puddle.

"My wand," Harry muttered frantically. He had to defend himself from... this. His eyes flashed towards Lily urgently before he turned back to the medi-wizard by the bed, "Where's my wand?" he demanded.

"Harry, what's wrong?" Lily fretted.

"Harry, please calm down, you'll agitate your wounds," the man reprimanded. The two medi-witches stood to the side, wondering at the development of this new situation.

"Where's my wand!" Harry shouted.

"Is something wrong?" a concerned voice sounded. Harry's head snapped to the doorway to see his Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

"Professor," Harry's voice was a pitch higher than he would've liked it, but he didn't care. "What are you doing here?"

"What's the matter?" a new voice joined in. Harry's eyes swayed to the newcomer, only to see someone that made his blood boil.

"Pettigrew," Harry snarled, but his anger didn't last long, for his eyes widen in shock once again as his eyes stray to the man next to him. A man, that was the near mirror image of himself. "Dad?"

"What happened here?" Another voice joined the fray. That voice was heart wretchedly familiar. Harry saw the shaggy black hair first before the person finally pushed into the room, right next to the red haired woman. There were differences, but that face was unmistakably Sirius.

"No," Harry's voice cracked. "No! You're not supposed to be here. You're dead! I killed you!"

A collective gasp went around the room.

"Harry, what are you talking about?" Lily's voice wavered. She wanted to scream, yank her hair out, break something, or curse the world for its injustice, but primarily she wanted to cry. What did Voldemort do to her son? At the sound of Lily's voice, Harry turned brusquely towards her.

"You're supposed to be dead too! Voldemort killed you!" Harry's voice was hysterical. The medi-wizards gasped at his free use of the Dark Lord's name. "I see it," Harry was no longer looking at the people that he thought to be dead, knew to be dead. His eyes stared unfocused at the white sheets on the bed he currently stood on, "every night, I see you dying, I hear you screaming. You're dead. He killed you! You're not real!" Harry was getting desperate. He needed his wand. He needed to fight, against this sick illusion. Most of all, he needed to run.

A breeze passed over his burning skin. The window! Without thoroughly processing his actions, Harry jerked to stare at the partially opened window. Before anyone could react, Harry rammed his shoulder into the window, forcing it wide open as he fell through, and tumbled onto the lawn outside. Luckily, he was at ground level. Even a second floor, free fall would be overexerting it with his current health status.

"Harry!" shouting from the room followed him through the window.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Harry registered the slight ache in his shoulder, but as fear overtook him, adrenaline forced him on his feet and across the lawn in a matter of seconds. The ground was bitterly cold against his bare feet.

As his instincts kicked in, Harry quickly veered left as a spell missed him. The only though that crossed his mind was, enemy, and that was all it took for him to start running at break neck speed again. It didn't matter where he was going. He just had to get away from all the insanity in that room. Harry felt a spell coming.

"Protego!" Harry cast a shield charm without a wand. The drain was immediate in his weakened state. But the spell that was fired at him, rebounded, and Harry took the chance to keep going. Footsteps sounded not too far behind. His injuries, coupled with the spell he just cast were really taxing on Harry's physical strength.

"Stupefy."

The next spell aimed at him, hit him dead in between his shoulder blades. Harry slumped forward and a big, furry, black dog caught him just in time.

A/N: Like it, hate it. Drop a review and let me know what you think. I'm mostly open to suggestions. I haven't got a beta, and if I do I think I'll drive the poor person ballistic with my sporatic updates, so let me know if I have any mistakes and I'll do my best to correct them. I'll be responding to reviews privately, unless by popular demand I can put up replies along with each new update. So don't think that I won't read your reviews. In fact, I really appreciate the readers value opinions, it's fuel for writing and constructive criticism is again highly appreciated, because there's always room for improvement.