Chapter 1:

Harry was running from something.

There was a sense of blind panic. The lighting was dim, and there were indistinct shapes rushing around and tilting as he ran. He couldn't see anything, couldn't hear anything, there was nothing beyond what he could feel in himself.

There was a memory: Hogwarts, with the death eaters rushing in.

It was gone in the next instant. Harry couldn't think. His head was spinning, rapidly round and round in circles, in a tornado of thoughts and sensation. His breathing was ragged and he felt dizzy and light-headed as he rounded several corners in a row.

Another memory: Standing on the highest floor in the astronomy tower, at the pivot of a life-changing event and completely and utterly helpless.

Everything had gone wrong. Harry had a vague recollection of a plan. Something happened to it – stop, his brain was telling him. Don't think about it now, don't stop running.

Why? He asked. A third memory came up: the slip-side sounds of a basilisk slithering around somewhere, echoing throughout the chamber.

Because Voldemort's coming to get you.

The conditions were bad. Dim light and shifting shadows made hazards hard to see, and Harry wasn't concentrating. He tripped over something, and something made a crackling noise in the dark and then the next thing Harry knew, the floor had given way underneath him. The young Gryffindor bit down on his tongue as gravity pulled him down and backwards, air whooshing past his ear.

And just when Harry thought he might fall forever, Harry hit the ground side-first. His right side slammed hard against the concrete floor. Jesus-Merlin-FUCK, that's definitely a broken rib, he thought, as he tried to repress the pain blooming through his torso.

Broken or not, it wouldn't have mattered in the end. The boy-who-lived couldn't afford to lie down on the ground and recover, so he made an attempt to push himself up slowly using his other arm. He tried to control his breathing while his mind worked to judge the damage. He tried to turn his wrist, and felt a sharp pain radiate all the way up his shoulder.

Okay, he hissed through his teeth. Lesson learnt.

Cradling his arm to his chest, Harry began to make slow stuttering steps in a random direction. He tried to figure out where he was. He still couldn't see anything.

Continual darkness has a way of seeping into your emotions and thoughts. Harry was lost, and alone and there was no clear path away he knew to be safe. He wondered if he was going to die here. Harry wondered if Ginny was okay.

The air here seemed different somehow. Less still, less musty, which was strange, since he was down deeper into the earth – he felt like he'd gone deeper into the earth. It was the wrong way to go, because he needed to get out – out of this maze, back out into the sunlight where his friends were. Maybe he was wrong about getting lost, maybe he was getting closer to the surface, and the thought cheered him.

It was then he heard it – the sound of laughter, light like a child's, tinkling in the distance. It could've be anywhere from five metres away to a mile – sound echoed strangely in this place.

It was discouraging. At that moment, Harry felt then that – despite all his efforts and running – he was only where Voldemort wanted him to be. The stakes were rising. I need to be careful from now on, he thought. He could be inventive, clever and unpredictable at times, but Gryffindor's best characteristic was their valour, and he knew that bravery would serve him best down here.

He made slow, careful steps. What else could he do, but keep moving? Step, heel down first, then roll the rest of your foot down, balls and then toes. Stick close to the walls. Slow your breathing, you need to be quiet, it's just like sneaking out into the kitchen for food at the Dursleys –

Harry could hear shuffling sounds from the corridor on the right. The left passage didn't smell very good – a bit like old socks – so he took the passage in the middle. It lead him to an antechamber, with eight roughly-hewn, wooden doors. He picked lucky number seven from the left, also his birth month. That lead him in a circle, and several passageways later, he was back in the antechamber. Someone else had been here as well – door number four was open. A shiver ran down his spine.

He tried door number seven from the right this time, or door number two. Harry walked in, saw the fancy, intricate light-show indicative of heavy-weight warding inscribed in the ground, the cloaks hiding in the shadows, and knew it was a mistake. The door started to swing shut behind him.

Quidditch had trained his reflexes, quickened his actions and his thoughts, but despite all that, Harry wasn't quick enough. A hand grabbed hold of his ankle, and he fell over, and then there were more hands on his ankles, pulling him backwards towards the middle of the room, with the sharp, edgy lines of brilliance, even as he was trying to scrabble forward, ripping his nails on the stone, burning his fingers in the light, and screaming, screaming, screaming.

Weight pressed down on the back of his thighs. He panicked, tried to kick out, couldn't, and what was that playing in the background? Some French song –

Not important. Someone slammed one of Harry's arms down. Harry could feel a bruising grip on his bicep; a grip that forced the Gryffindor's veins to bulge out. Another person carefully pushed in a needle – what use did wizards have for needles, Harry wondered, even as his vision slipped in and out. He could feel them move off him, could feel that arm spasming, even as he felt the rock beneath him shift around and up

and then –

"Harry, Harry, you're so slow! Uncle Sirius is throwing a party today! It's already seven o'clock!"

The voice sliced through his dream; a sheet of white memory trailing into frayed ribbons that floated to the ground. Dissipating. Harry startled, heart beat racing fast, still sweaty and clammy.

He was in an unfamiliar room.

::::

Inside his head, something shifted.

::::

Harry's bedroom, Godric's Hollow.

Sometime before Hogwarts begins.

07:04 a.m.

Wait... why did he think that? This wasn't an unfamiliar room. This was... this was his room.

That was his Hogwart's cloak draped over the chair. His golden lion-print shag rug, his Quidditch posters for the Holyhead Harpies, his red-and-yellow socks dangling from the radio antenna. There were letters from his friends – Ron, Hermione, Neville, Luna, and magical theory, sci-fi and cooking books on a bookshelf, and that was a moving photo of his family at the '93 International Broom Show, and that stain on his wall came from when he tried to mix liquid turpentine with the Pepper-Up Potion. It was all coming back to him.

"Haaaa-rry, Har-rrrrrie, Haeri-eeeeette – "

And that voice belonged to the young girl who was jumping up and down in his room. Aunt Petunia's dirty-blonde hair, Dad's brown eyes. She was looking imploringly at his face...

Azalea, a voice whispered into his head. You have a little baby-sister.

Azalea. She liked fairies... and she pronounced her name like 'Oz-zil-ly'... because she became annoyed when people pronounced her name like the flower. Although it was traditional to name the girls in their family after flowers, Azalea was at that stage where everything had to happen her way or else.

Azalea had taken one of his hands and was swinging it floppily up and down through the air.

There was a French piece playing on his radio – one of Mom's favourites, Edith Piaf's 'Non, je ne regrette rien', he remembered now. Pfft, of course, the melody should be familiar, he had only heard his mom singing it, what five hundred times over? He turned things over in his head as Edith Piaf continued to warble distractingly on the airwaves.

Yeah, he set his radio to turn on at seven. Because he didn't want to be late for ….

…

For Sirius' family get-together.

That's right.

...

GOD-RIC, he was slow this morning.

…

In the meanwhile, Azalea had gotten bored with merely swinging her brother's arm randomly, and sensing that she was losing her brother's attention, she moved to slapping his arm against the bed covers.

Harry pulled his arm back. Azalea pouted, looking cross.

"Didn't you hear the radio?"

Had he? What had he been dreaming about? He could remember fragments, and he had a sense that it was important that he remembered his dream... but that was ridiculous wasn't it? It was only a dream. And the thing with dreams was – they felt real while you were in them.

"Sorry, I had a bad dream," Harry replied quietly, semi-consciously ran a broad, tanned hand through his hair, and reassured her with a smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. He pulled his hand away, grimacing. Ugh, oily.

"...Nightmare?" Azalea asked, plaintively, in that soft-girl way of hers.

"No, not really. Just a strange dream."

Just a strange dream. Merlin, he thought he was over bad dreams.

"There was a lot of rocks and a needle, I think."

She giggled. "You're so weird, big bro." Then she stood up, straightening herself, and her summery dress fluttered about her with the movement.

"Ok, if it wasn't a nightmare, then come on! Come on, come on, hurry up Harry, Harry-up, Hurry-Harry-Hurry!" With that, she galloped out of reach, making horse noises as young children do, through the oak-panelled doorway and out of sight.

::::

Harry could still feel the dream a good half an hour later. It made everything around him feel alien. Foreign and bizarre.

There had been a bar of soap in his hand. It was supposed to have the brand-name 'Dove' stamped on it, but someone had scraped out the 'v' so that it spelt 'Do-e'. There was something about it way it smelt – Lily of the Valley – that made him stare.

But after a cold shower, and clean clothes, if his own mom was to ask him what he dreamt of, he would only be able to remember that he had been running. The clothes helped some – he felt a lot more comfortable, settled in his own skin. By the time he was at the floo, the dream was gone.

Azalea was already there, squirming and tapping her feet. His mom was fussing with some last minute arrangements to Azalea's hair, plaiting two ponytails down her back, struggling a little because of Azalea's fidgeting. Harry could hear his dad in the kitchen.

Just as his dad walked into the room, throwing a jacket over a shoulder, Azalea slid out of her mom's hold, and ran to the mantle. She grabbed a handful of floo powder which she threw into the fireplace, and two hairbands which she kept in one small palm. She was a child, and a child to two Gryffindors at that, so she didn't skip a beat before walking into the fireplace, although the fire hadn't turned green yet.

"No wait, Azalea, wait!" Harry yelled. James merely laughed at the girl's antics, before doing the same thing – walking in without waiting for the fire to turn green.

"I think it's safe to blame your father for teaching her his bad habits," Lily sighed, tying her hair up.

"I know that Ginny does the same thing," Harry shrugged, trying to dislodge his discomfort.

Lily toed on her ballet flats. "We taught her how to floo too early so she's never going to stop until she gets burnt. And then you get children who aren't afraid to rush off into the fireplace."

"It scares me too. But luckily, I don't ever have to worry about you, isn't that right?" Lily said, with a soft expression that unfurled into a cheeky grin. She pinched his nose, and then walked through the yellow-green flames herself.

Harry smiled.

:::

It only took Harry the length of the floo-ride to decide that he was being a buzz-kill. What's wrong with me today? Normally, he'd be buzzing with excitement long before this point – afterall, they were going to Sirius' house. Sirius, his godfather, who was fun and games twenty-four seven, who treated Harry like he was the best and most important thing in Sirius' world.

He noticed his sister first. Azalea was already bouncing up and down in her godfather Remus's arms. ('Uncle Remus, uncle Remus, look at me, I lost a tooth!' 'That's great, dear.') Sirius and James were only a few steps away, with Lily.

"Hey, the Prongslet-the-First's here!" Sirius Black was a big man with strong arms. Harry felt the full force of his strength as Sirius gave him a manly pat on the back, and ruffled his hair vigourously. "No surprises or anything today okay, we've got guests coming over. But putting that aside, how's my mini-marauder?"

Harry flushed bright red under the attention.

"I'm fine," he eeked out. Really, Harry was getting too old for hair-ruffling, but he didn't say anything because he always felt a strange shock of instantaneous relief twist inside him every time he came into contact with Sirius.

He ignored it, as usual, because anyone would rather be in denial than examine what looked like the beginnings of a late teenage crush on their godfather. Really awkward.

"I'm starting 6th year this September."

"Aww, the liddle tyke is growing up! I feel so old," Sirius pretended to wipe at his face. "Remember our 6th year? They banned us from the Astronomy Tower."

"That might have something to do with all the girls you were bringing up there," Remus chipped in, disentangling himself gently from Azalea's fingers.

"Who would've guessed she was the Professor's niece?" James laughed, and Lily standing next time him sighed. It was like Hogwarts all over again, every single time they met.

"... and Prongs my man, you've gained some weight there, sitting at home, haven't you?" Sirius gave his best friend a wink and a friendly jab in the side. James responded with the same.

"Well, I have a wife who is as lovely as she is beautiful, to cook for me," throwing an appreciative glance at Lily. "How's Kreacher?"

Sirius gave an exaggerated put-off sigh. "Oh, Prongsie, Kreacher makes the most miserable of wives. He bends over backwards for the Regulus and the girls, but I still get cold cabbage soup. You make a very pressing point, dear friend. Lily, what do you say to eloping with me? We could go to Marjorca, swim in blue ocean waters or tan ourselves on the beach all day– "

"Hush, you," Lily swatted an arm away. "Sounds promising, but I'm afraid Remus has already stolen my heart with his display of child-rearing excellence. We elope in the fall."

"Moony, you home-wrecker!" – "Moony! You dog!" – "No, Sirius is the dog." – "No, Sirius is Sirius." – "I would've thrown in ice cream for the kids too, had you but asked" –

Lily was way too used to her husband's childish antics. She only rolled her eyes and moved herself and her children into the main room. She wasn't going to fool herself into thinking that Sirius would miraculously develop manners and god-forbid fulfill his role as a host. Harry had been just standing there, being polite, and was extremely glad that no one had caught on to the way he reacted around Sirius.

They caught Severus Snape near the dining room. He looked like he was about to enter the room, but upon catching sight of Lily, he had stopped, statue-still in the middle of the hallway, head turned slightly to where his mom was.

The way his head was turned cast half of his features into darkness, and the left side of his face was overshadowed by long and oily looking hair. It only emphasized the shape of his sharp, beaky nose and pitch-black eyes.

It was obvious that he was waiting for them to catch up.

Harry didn't know what to make of Professor Snape.

He wasn't an uncle, not like Uncle Sirius who'd buy him tricks and treats, or Uncle Remus who would take him to the zoo when he got bored. He was introduced as Mr. Snape, and now that he was Harry's potion's professor, Harry thought of him as Professor Snape, which he felt a bit off about because it didn't adequately describe how constant the man had been in his childhood.

He used to change Harry's diapers when he was a kid. Did the occasional babysitting when Dad, Uncle Sirius and Uncle Remus were off having manly-man adventures together. Always around, but always in the background… and somehow, in his childhood memories, Professor Snape was always standing next to his mom. Hmmm.

"Severus! How is that new potion of yours going?"

"It's progressing well."

This soon developed into a conversation about the economy and various charms, and then Severus's love life, which Harry thought he could guess. Instead of standing around restlessly, he thought he'd wander into the kitchen. Occasionally, the Black house elves could be persuaded into giving him a treat before the main meal.

Lily noticed him leaving out of the corner of her eye, and without missing a beat in her conversation, she trailed her hand through Harry's hair as he walked by her. Professor Snape watched every motion of her fingers.

:::

Well, he had hoped to meet the house elves before dinner, except they weren't in the kitchen. Harry had walked in, and had been fully prepared to accept an onslaught of house elves rushing to him and asking him 'what they could do for kind Mr. Harry Potter' – this is what he got for saying regularly saying 'thank you' to them, Sirius said – but the footsteps he was expecting weren't there.

Where there were normally half a dozen elves scuttling about, instead were the three Black sisters.

Auburn-haired Andromeda Tonks had a mixing bowl, and she was chatting to Bellatrix Black, who was twirling a sharp-looking knife around in one hand. Narcissa Malfoy was sitting with perfect posture on an old rickety chair, and delicately editing a grocery list, somehow no less the queen of perfect pureblood manners for her surroundings.

She was the first to notice Harry, and gave him a distracted but warm smile, gesturing to a chair near her.

"Where are all the house elves?" Harry blurted out, as soon as he sat. There was flour, bags and buckets of raw groceries and pots and pans lying everywhere.

"I imagine they're off doing their little house elf things," Mrs Malfoy replied, checking another item off her list. "What you really mean to ask, is 'why are you in the kitchen?' and you know Harry, I don't know myself!"

"Why am I here today again, dear sister?" She turned sharply, flicking her blonde hair over her shoulder like a Sleekeazy commercial.

Bellatrix glowered briefly at Narcissa before returning to her work. "You know why."

"Remind me."

"Hush you. You're here to help me make tapas."

Bellatrix was utterly distracted by the knife she held in her hand. It was a fantastic knife – it cut through the carrots like butter, and Harry suspected that it would also cut through bone like butter, but having a sharp knife didn't mean that Bellatrix could cut carrots evenly.

"Why are we cooking? I can't speak for Andy, but I've never cooked a single thing in my life. I can't imagine why you think I would be of any help here! That's what house elves are for!" Narcissa was never one to be put off.

"Just remember that Lucius owes me a favour, and so you are here. You do not get to ask why, or even speak about it, Cissa."

"Oh, I wasn't asking for myself. Goodness knows I would do anything you asked of me without question–" at this, Bellatrix rolled her eyes, " – Darling-Harry here wants to know why. He misses his elves –"

"Is it too hard to believe that I wanted to try something different?" Bellatrix interceded.

"No, not really, I was just thinking about getting a snack," Harry said, but Narcissa and Bellatrix didn't seem to be listening.

Andromeda Tonks was stirring something in a mixing bowl. She looked completely engrossed in her task, but when Harry looked closer, he could see the edge of her lips tugging up. When she noticed him, she gently put down her mixing bowl and gestured him closer. Harry was only too glad to get away from the crossfire.

He looked at her mixing bowl. Flour, eggs, sugar and … "How'd you get cake mix? I'm trying, but I just can't see Kreacher waiting in line at Tesco's."

Mrs Tonks laughed, a deep-throated, contralto production, and gave a secretive smile. The way that she was leaning against the counter emphasised her curves. Not that I'm noticing, Harry thought.

"Of course not," she said. "I brought it with me. Fell in love with it the first time I went into Muggle London.

She plucked the box from Harry's fingers, and stood there, as though reminiscing. "Just add an egg and milk, and you're done."

"You fell in love with cake mix? What about Mr. Tonks?" Harry's question was tongue-in-cheek.

"Oh, that came much, much later," she winked at him, and Harry laughed.

There was a loud clash coming from the direction of her other sisters, and Andromeda's head snapped up. "You are acting like a schoolgirl with a crush. It's deplorable," she snapped at Bellatrix.

Mrs Tonks turned back to Harry. "Be a love and find a measuring cup, will you?" She looked at the mess in the kitchen and sighed.

"What's the use of automatic measuring cups when they're hidden somewhere underneath all that mess – do not use Accio, that's why there's flour on the floor –"

Harry put away his wand, and went to dig through the bags by hand. In the background, the sisters were bickering. 'Absolutely absurd, to think that for all of our family's vaunted ideas about blood purity, I am the only one in the end upholding Toujours Pur,' Narcissa was saying.

Well, Harry didn't know if the cup was in any of the cupboards yet, but he was pretty sure that one of the pots on the stove wasn't meant to be bubbling and spitting like that. The other pots didn't seem to be doing too well either. The metal looked like it was melting?

"Mrs Tonks, I think the carrots have finished steaming."

:::

The house elves got called in en force. Mrs Malfoy, being the only one who wasn't doing anything to try and save the food, gently pushed him out of the kitchen.

"I can't imagine that you are too entertained here. My son should be around here somewhere."

On the other hand, Harry got the treacle tarts that he wanted. Yum.

Harry had finished two off, and he was saving one for his sister. He was also deliberating on whether or not he should save one for Malfoy – they certainly weren't friends, but meeting each other as often as they did meant that they were distantly related cousins that felt like family – when the decision was made for him.

"Malfoy, if you have to steal my food, you could try not to eat it in the hallway."

Draco smirked. One of the tarts that he was holding hostage was missing a small chunk.

"I wonder why we have house elves, Potter." Funny, how Malfoy and his mom were exactly the same. "But if you insist, we can move to the dining room. It makes no difference to my level of enjoyment, as long as I get to eat it in front of you."

"Bugger off, Malfoy. I already had two."

Draco's smirk abruptly morphed into a scowl. Whatever he was about to say however, was obscured up by ear-deafening, pained screaming, coming from the direction of the parlour.

The boys looked at each other askance, and then ran towards the entrance. Draco made sure that Harry would be leading, however, just in case there was a vampire at the door or something similar. So when Harry suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, Draco ran into him.

"MONSTER! ABOMINATION MOST FOUL! YOU DARE DEBASE THIS HOUSEHOLD WITH YOUR FILTH, YOU DARE CORRUPT THE SANCTITY OF OUR BLOOD WITH YOUR TAINT!"

There was a stranger in the house.

There was also a painting of a screeching old woman, who had hitherto been half-hidden behind an umbrella stand and some cloth. Harry had wondered why fashion-conscious Bellatrix had put those hideous drapes out in the parlour where everyone could see it – now he knew. But her howling wasn't anything important.

Do you believe in destiny? Harry thought of gypsies and fortune tellers. Those divinators that played with their tarot cards, contacted their mysterious spirits, and then spoke of miraculous, divine things in your future. When they talk about providence and predestination? He was it.

The man felt like fate and prophecy.

Like smoke wafting off a cauldron in a graveyard. Acrid, deep, dark smoke from a fire languidly burning and dying, smoke that artfully swirled upwards and flooded the room, all-consuming and suffocating, the kind that sent children to sleep and then killed them very, very slowly. A fire that turns all it touches into ash. The thick smell of molten, melting gold.

Harry wondered if this meant that his extremely uncomfortable crush on Sirius was over. He wasn't too happy that he had latched onto another guy.

But honestly, the man in the foreroom looked like he had walked off straight off the pages of a magazine. Harry guessed late twenties to early thirties. He was just standing there, the very picture of high fashion and effortless grace, nonchalant and unaffected, even as the portrait screamed obscenities in his ear.

And then he looked up at Harry, and their eyes caught and violins should start playing anytime now–

Hell froze over.

:::

What was that?For a second, a pale, serpentine face and red eyes superimposed the man's features, but then Harry blinked, and it was gone. It left only after-impressions – fiendfyre, screaming and torture.

He couldn't explain the ship-sharp fear that had just cut into him, the cold that froze his thoughts and dripped down his spine. Harry didn't know what he was expecting, but this wasn't it.

"AND YOU! BELLATRIX YOU BLOOD TRAITOR YOU WHORE, YOU SHAME THIS HOUSE WITH YOUR DEVIANCY, A MENTAL AFFLICTION MOST ABHORRENT AND PERVERSE! A HALF-BLOOD! REPULSIVE! OUTRAGEOUS! HOW THIS HOUSE HAS FALLEN!"

Reality flooded in again. Bellatrix whipped past Harry in a flash, and quickly closed the curtains over the painting. There must've been a very strong silencing spell on those drapes, because as soon as they dropped, the hallway was then again blessed with silence.

"I am so sorry that you had to witness that, Tom, Harry. I don't know how she manages to open those curtains as a painting, but she does."

In between her ill-fated venture into the culinary arts and now, Bellatrix had taken the time to change. She was now decked to the nines – high heels, her hair black-as-sin was curled up into a complicated French twist with ringlets, and she was wearing a tight, shimmering, backless dress which Harry could appreciate.

The man – Tom? – quirked an eyebrow.

"It's fine. That wasn't the reception that I had hoped to receive, but I understand that we can't help who we are related to. But you more than make up for it. Is that a new dress?"

His voice was velveteen, smooth and silky. Caramel on disparity between the warmth in the man's voice, and the distant sense-memory of raw, ice-numbing chills silently wracking Harry's body was making his head spin.

"Oh, this little old thing? It's nothing special," Bellatrix twirled around in a circle, showing off the way the light hit her dress. She was preening, just a little bit.

"Then it must be the woman wearing it, who makes it shine so. You look beautiful tonight."

"Thank you." Yep, Bellatrix was definitely preening. "Now to do things properly – I, Bellatrix Black, scion of the House of Black, welcome you to Grimmauld Place. Mi casa, su casa. Come, I'll show you around," and with that, she grabbed hold of one arm and pretty much dragged him away.

Harry felt like he didn't start breathing again until that man was out of the room. In fact, he probably would've stayed in that state of reverie for a while, had Draco not nudged him very painfully in the ribs at that exact moment.

"Bloody hell, what was that for?" Harry had forgotten that Draco was there.

"For eying my aunt up, Potter. Don't think I didn't notice you gaping like an idiot. Also, look at him, she's taken and you certainly can't compete. Trust me. That will end in heartbreak."

"I was NOT eying up your aunt!" Harry replied, scandalized. Well, ok, he had been, a little. But that wasn't what had drawn his attention. In a more withdrawn voice, Harry asked – "Malfoy, who's he?"

"Scoping out the competition, are we?" Draco asked, with a wide, Chesire cat-like grin.

Harry elbowed him.

"Salazar! No need to get violent, Harry, you won't get her that way," Draco huffed. "Or maybe you might, I've heard she likes that sort of thing." This was said in a quieter voice. "Also, not something I want to think about."

"Anyhow, that's Tom Riddle. He's Auntie Bellatrix's on-off thing, and right now, they're ON." He made suggestive eyebrow movements to accompany this sentence.

Harry made a face. "I'm not trying to compete or anything, I just think he looks familiar, that's all."

A bell rang. "Dinner's ready. Let's go."

:::

As it was, dinner wasn't ready – Nymphadora 'Dora' Tonks had just knocked her hand into the bell. The boys got to the table just before she had finished setting out the places, and so, got roped into helping. Or more like, Harry was helping, because he was good like that, and Draco was offering 'helpful criticism'.

"The water glass should be placed at 1:00, above the knives, scarface. Where are you putting that cup?"

Harry was tempted to throw the cup at Malfoy's face, but valiantly resisted. "So sorry that my table-setting skills don't match up to your high expectations. Why don't you come down here and show me how it's done then?"

"What do I look like, an elf?"

"Do you want me to answer that question?"

Draco waved at someone behind Harry. "Hello mother. Harry here was about to comment on the good looks I inherited from you. What were you going to say about my face, Harry?"

:::

Slowly but surely, everyone eventually trickled into the dining room.

Bellatrix and her mysterious escort were the last to arrive, which suited Bellatrix well, as it meant all eyes were on Bellatrix and that man.

She put one of her hands to her lips (although her arm-length lacy gloves didn't quite cover her cat-got-the-canary smile) and delicately cleared her throat.

"Right now, there will be some of you who are wondering why I've brought this strange man to our family dinners. To those who haven't met him yet, this is Tom Riddle. He's a British Unspeakable. You could say that we've been dating for about four months."

Then she began to make introductions.

"Tom, immediately to your left is the Tonks family, my older sister Andromeda who you've met, her husband Ted, and their daughter Nymphadora –" Nymphadora who gave a flirty grin, and turned her hair black, showing off her skills as a metamorphagus. Bellatrix gave her an indulgent smile, and moved on.

"Then those are the Malfoys, Draco, Narcissa who you've also met, her husband Lucius, and his associate; Severus Snape. Then one of my cousins, Sirius Black, his friend Remus Lupin, and then the Potters – James, Lily, Harry, and then little Azalea at the end."

Mr. Riddle stepped up to the forefront of the table, addressing the room.

"It's an absolute pleasure to meet you all," he asserted, looking everyone in the eye.

"Bellatrix has told me many lovely things about you, and I am truly gratified to be here, at one of your family events." He managed to sound completely sincere, although something about it struck Harry a little bit off. Though he wouldn't be able to tell you why, if pressed.

Dinner was spread, appearing instantly onto the table a la Hogwarts.

Azalea poked at it. "What is this?"

Bellatrix chose to respond as though Azalea's comment was a real question.

"It's Peking duck. We also have Mongolian lamb with spring onions, stir-fried beef in black bean sauce, and honey-soy chicken with noodles. As appetizers, we have spring rolls and dim sims." She was just this side of defensive.

I thought that we would be eating something with carrots. What happened to the tapas?

No one else looked like they were going to say anything about it though, so Harry let it go. Draco was even nodding approvingly. Harry supposed that honey-soy chicken could sound exotic enough to a pureblood, in the same way that apple and coconut pie sounded exotic and interesting. It sure looked fancy enough, being served on gold-encrusted china and all. But for anyone who had ever experienced Muggle takeaway though, it was a little less thrilling.

For example: Lily's face was utterly bemused, as she spooned some of the stir-fry onto her plate.

Harry caught his mom's gaze in the corner of his eye, and they turned to each other. Everything was still for a second.

Then they both burst out laughing.

Naturally, his dad and Uncle Sirius wanted to get in on the joke. Severus was trying to look impassioned, but ultimately failed – Harry could see his lips turning up very slightly at the sides. Further down the table, Tom Riddle was looking at the food with the strangest expression on his face, and all the Tonkses were completely gone.

It was in the midst of all this commotion, that Harry was hit by this impromptu, intensely-personal situational awareness, both of himself and of the present moment. He was in a house, surrounded (mostly) by people who thought well of him and loved him, and would protect him. His life was great. He was doing great.

In that moment, Harry thought that he couldn't have been happier with the world.

:::

The Mausoleum, Riddle's Manor.

October, the 23rd, of the year 1998.

00:46 a.m.

Ginevra Weasley thought that trying to find Harry Potter in this tomb was a little bit like slowly kissing a dementor.

She thought about it a lot. Bending her head over and pressing her lips against dead lips, savouring the way her saliva mixed – the intimacy, the closeness, and feeling your soul getting sucked out slowly until you lost everything that made you yourself.

It would probably be quicker than what was happening to her now. Depression was changing her exactly the same way and it was decidedly less fun and awesome than kissing a dementor. They were probably good kissers.

"Harry Potter," she was whispering to herself. "We're going to find you in the next room. Please."

She opened the door.

Empty.

Like the fifty or so other rooms she'd checked before that one. The tomb was underground and no one knew what was inside – the Order was expecting a single passageway laden with traps – in the style that the Philosopher's Stone was protected, or perhaps Voldemort's locket horcrux.

Instead, there were a dozen passageways which lead to more chambers with more doors, which lead off into different directions again. It was a place for people to get lost in and never leave.

Seeing as this room was a dead end, Ginny took out her map, marked in the route she had taken, the room she had found, and retraced her steps to the last branch.

"Idiot," she told herself, and started walking again.

:::

Ginny was an idiot for many reasons.

Firstly, she was an idiot for incorrectly assuming that Harry Potter was in the possession of survival instincts.

Because he didn't have any.

Hadn't he displayed his suicidal tendencies when he confronted a thousand-year old basilisk, just to save her? She had appreciated it so much at the time. She thought he was brave and selfless.

What did that do, but encourage him? Ginny shouldn't have done that. She should have blown him off, dusted herself off coldly, and yelled at him for reading her diary. Stopped that selflessness dead in its tracks. She had no one to blame but herself then, for perpetuating his lemming-like behaviour – and where did it get him? A make-shift funeral in the rain, with a grave marked in the forest with old sticks tied together, and no body to bury.

That night.

:::

Somewhere near the Forbidden Forest, Hogwarts.

May, the 2nd, of the year 1998.

11:47 p.m.

The sequence of events of the so-called 'Final Battle' was hazy. Everything had happened so fast, and the atmosphere was insane, the adrenaline rush was enough to make a person hallucinate, envision things that weren't really there. Flashes of images flew through her head – a stone gargoyle blown to bits, the whizz of spell-fire shooting above her head, the heat of and smell of fire emanating from the 7th floor... She saw these things, but she was no longer sure if it had happened. It didn't feel real to her.

Voldemort had attacked the castle.

She was near the Forbidden Forest that night. There was a girl on the ground. Ravenclaw. Ginny didn't know her name, she was a 7th year. She was gasping and spluttering like she was choking on something, so Ginny stopped to help her find her wand. And when Ginny stood up, she thought she saw Harry pass by, and took a second to watch his back as he walked into the forest.

She thought about calling out to him then, say something like 'good luck,' or 'I believe in you' or maybe even 'I love you'. But...

Harry had wanted to keep her in the Room of Requirement, trussed up like some helpless maiden. What would he think, seeing her out on the battlefield.

...the Ravenclaw needed to be escorted to the make-shift infirmary though, so she said nothing, and instead, made rationalizations to herself. Harry is busy being a hero. He does not need distractions from hapless girls who were overly infatuated with him.

:::

She was an idiot, secondly, for not immediately connecting the dots between Voldemort saying 'I shall wait one hour in the Forbidden Forest' and Harry walking into the forest.

Ginny asked herself all the time. 'Why didn't I stop and think about it – oh, Harry's walking into the Forest, I wonder what for? What on Merlin's magic-breathing EARTH was I thinking?'

She was thinking 'Harry's not going to give himself up. He's much too clever for that. Voldemort made the announcement twice, didn't he, and Pansy Parkinson and the Slytherins wanted him to give himself up and Harry said 'no', he must have.'

Harry never came out of the Forest.

It was to everyone's surprise that Voldemort was capable of keeping his word. He left. What had happened in that forest?

Harry couldn't have died very easily, Ginny thought. She remembered Tom Marvolo Riddle. He left her to die, body freezing on the ground, no energy to even lift her head up or scream. And there were a lot of Death Eaters.

Ginny thought about that moment a lot. In her dreams, she called out to him, and he looked back. She ran to him and hugged him. She tackled him to the ground, she screamed 'what do you think you're doing?' She did everything but stand there, watching him walk away, like a stranger on the street.

She wondered what gave Harry the idea that he would do anyone any good, martyring himself on the end of Voldemort's wand. And then realised, it wasn't a 'what', but 'who'.

Ginny knew she was probably the last person, outside of Voldemort and the death eaters themselves, to see Harry Potter alive.

The knowledge had eaten away at her. It was as though bits and pieces of her were rotting and falling off, dying off just as Harry died.

Her hand on the Weasley's clock was always pointed at 'moral peril' these days. No one really paid that clock much attention now though – looking at Fred's clock-hand, pointed to 'dead' – was too painful. 'Mortal peril' was at least, better than 'dead'.

But only just.

Her death was just slower.

:::

The Bedroom Overlooking The Orchard, The Burrow.

September, the 30th, of the year 1998.

03:17 a.m.

Ginny didn't say anything when Severus Snape apparated into her room one night. She recognised him from his figure, and the way he stalked, slowly, deliberately, around her bed. She still made no response, not when he sat down on one side, nor when his eyes roamed the length of her body, inspecting the bony legs that she had curled into her body, the ribs peeking out from her nightshirt and the red hair flowing lifelessly onto the pillow.

He leaned forward to pick up a stray lock of her hair, revealing a mass of ugly scar tissue around his neck. She didn't react to that either.

There was a minute or so of silence, as he gently rubbed the strands between his fingers, examining the colour.

"You are a wretched little girl, aren't you?"

What could she say? She agreed.

"Your little boy hero isn't dead. But for every second that you languor here, Ms. Weasley, he becomes harder to retrieve."

She jolted right up at this, scrambling the bed sheets. There was nothing but shock on her face as she processed this. What? Harry was alive? She wasn't guilty?

"...What do you mean? He gave himself up to save the castle. Everyone says that he's dead. ...He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named says he's dead."

There was a new story every week about what the Death Eaters had done with him. They all ended the same way.

"The Dark Lord is a murderer, a thief and a liar. For all his tales, do you see Harry's body hanging off the walls of Hogwarts castle?"

Her eyes were dilated. No body, she thought. Her hands were shaking, so she put crossed her arms, trying to stifle their movement with pressure. She was in turmoil.

Professor Snape steepled his hands, and gentled his voice.

"Harry's alive."

Idly, Ginny thought that this must've been something he had learned from Albus Dumbledore, since Snape could never do gentle very well.

"Harry's alive," he repeated. "But I'll need your help, Ginevra."

She didn't believe her old Professor Snape, not really. But if there was even a chance, and she didn't take it…

"Anything. Ask me for anything, and I'll give it to you."

Anything that would free her from her guilt.

:::

Ginny couldn't say that she was in love with Harry. They'd only had two rushed kisses, before he did his gallant disappearing act, leaving her at Hogwarts while he went off to fight a war. That one year had done a lot to increase that distance between them.

Harry could've been the love of her life. She mourned that lost potential.

But although Ginny couldn't say that she was in love with Harry, Ginny loved his bravery, his fortitude, his nobility and charity. Harry was her white knight. He had saved her, he had tried to save everyone and he died for it.

And there was the third idiocy.

For all his flaws, she…

...still thought the world of him.

:::