An evil laugh echoed through his head like nails on a chalkboard in an empty room. His hands came up to cover his ears, but they were chained down to a heavy block of solid shimmering blood, chains of an empty night sky, and a black fog of feathers held him down like a set of barbells over his lungs. The chains rattled and clanked together with resonating echoes in the darkness, and the laugh increased to a deafening pitch. His mind told him to scream, his mouth refused. He wanted to get out of there, to run away and cry, to face his fears, anything! He would do anything, so long as the laughing would stop.

That laugh that haunted his every move, the laugh that he had been forced to hear as a knife slid along his godfather's throat. His eyes hadn't been able to move from the blood dripping from the throat in front of him. When had his godfather appeared? Was he a ghost? He certainly looked like one; face pale like spoiled milk, eyes hallow, curly hair tangled in a mess of dust and pieces of stone, his body suspended but completely limp – like a hanged man. Harry tried to close his eyes, to scamper away and hide, but the chains held him still and the feathers robbed him of his remaining breath – clogging his nose and mouth choking him. He had never wanted to see those images in his mind again! He swore he would get rid of that voice to!

Why couldn't he leave the past in the past!?

"Oh, my dear Harry, you know why… You wanted him to die didn't you? You wanted to be alone. Don't you remember?" the laughing had stuttered to a stop and had become an overly gleeful chuckle of words. Harry's mind protested, his mouth flopped open and close, pants of exertion left his mouth, feathers puffed out of his mouth like smoke only to be suck back in farther down his throat, they blocked his vocal chords, grabbed at them and tugged – removing them from his body. It was almost like his throat had been slit. He sure felt that way, like he was drowning in his own blood and a pile of deadly feathers.

Feather-light, sharp, scary, dying, boney, rotting, smelling of dead bodies, hard as iron, soft like snake scales, unyielding. They were hands... The hands, they were everything, but yet they were barely there, he could feel them trailing down his spine, caressing his cheek, pulling his hair, scratching his throat, holding him under syrupy blood. They were gone in a momentary whisper of laughter.

"My dear, dear Harry, you remember it all don't you? Should I remind you? So you don't forget? You have to accept the fact that you were the one to kill him in cold blood." The laughing resumed, louder, higher, more chilling than before. He squeezed his eyes shut violently; this had to be a nightmare. Yet, when his eyes were closed all he could see was red, a deep, dark, bloody red. His eyes. His eyes! Wake up! Wake up! WAKE UP! WAKEUP! WAKEUP, WAKEUP! WAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUP! NOW YOU BLASTED FOOL!

Finally his vocal chords regained their senses. His screams filled the air, but they were nothing more than flutters of breath compared to the laughing.

The laugh, his laugh, the screeching laugh, his pure nightmarish laugh…

"Harry, Harry!" he laughed, oh god, make him stop! "Harry, Harry, Harry, Harry!" Clawed, bony hands grabbed at his neck. "I'll take you to him, so you won't be so lonely, my dear!" Make it stop! Make him stop! The voice didn't relent.

"Harry, Harry! HARRY! HARRY! HARRY!"

~X~X~X~

"Harry!" He was shaken awake by familiar hands, screams scratched his throat. The hands! Get them off! He tossed and turned like a bear in a trap. His mind was only a mantra of 'Get free, he'll kill you to! Get free!' No, wait. These were the hands of Dumbledore, not of Voldemort, he was safe now. He forced his breathing to return to normal. 'Calm down,' he told himself, 'you aren't dead yet.'

Harry's breathing began to go back to normal if a bit ragged. He rubbed at his eyes with the back of his clammy hand and took a deep, jagged breath. His eyes were wet with tears, and his hand was shaking even as he pressed it firmly against his bright emerald-like eyes.

On shaky legs, he got out of his bed and made his way over to where he knew the door would be. He needed to get to the bathroom, fast.

"Harry, my dear boy, where are you…" Dumbledore paused when Harry look back and glared at him with fierce aggression.

"Do not say the word dear around me, got that?" Harry viciously spat out the words and continued to make his way to the bathroom.

The emerald eyed boy had to lean heavily against the dark walls for support, his wobbly legs threatening to give out under him. His face was set in a firm, grim line as he trudged his way to the door just a few paces away. A small smile graced his lips as his hands hit the handle. He twisted the knob about half way before it stopped.

Why did it stop moving? Why? He needed to get in there! He needed to be able to splash some cold water on his face, force those images out of his mind with the frigid reality of the cold, the wet crawling down his neck, anything to distract him. He needed to allow his stomach to empty its contents in to the toilet; not the fancy area around him. He was feeling even worse as he struggled with the knob. Finally a click was heard from it, and the knob would move freely.

The door swung inwards. A sharp squeak hit the air as someone's face intercepted the door.

It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. He needed to get those bloody images out of his head.

His legs gave out from under him, and, with a hand over his aching stomach, he puked. All over a pair of ratty shoes that did not belong in this fancy house. Satin slippers, or polished leather dress shoes most defiantly. These shoes… god these shoes were so out of place. Maybe they'd get replaced due to his failure to make it into the bathroom, and then the stranger would thank him. Either way, he was feeling weaker, and it was taking all he had not to fall forward on to the stranger's shoes.

"A hand, please," Harry pleaded in Japanese, momentarily forgetting about his current location.

"Sorry, what?" a male voice asked skeptically. Harry looked up weakly and saw a lanky man with a head full of ginger. Harry sighed lightly before he held up his hand.

"Right, England. A hand up, please," Harry said again, his voice still had a light Japanese accent, but it was in English nonetheless. The man nodded and grasped his hand to lift him up. The ginger began to help him to the sink when he spoke again, something more intelligent this time it would seem.

"So, Japanese, huh? What cha' doing here? Thought only Order members were allowed here," he asked with an almost worrisome tone. Harry turned on the faucet and ignored the redhead entirely. He splashed some water on his face and smiled lightly; there wasn't really anything better than cold water on the face after being sick… okay so there were a lot of things that could compete for number one best feeling, but that didn't matter; this was great for forgetting, for getting your mind off of things, allowing your mind to focus on the feeling of liquid ice running down your face instead of tears.

Once again the ginger tried for his attention.

"Oi! Answer me will ya?" he tried; Harry still didn't find the need to respond to him. The man sighed.

"Bloody hell, you deaf or something?" the ginger asked with an annoyed expression. Harry turned around, suddenly feeling much better. His hands were like vipers striking down prey; only his hands were going for a shirt collar, not a kill.

Not this time at least.

The ginger broke out into a cold sweat as Harry held his face only inches from his own with a ferocious expression on his face. The fright in those blue eyes was quite flattering, at least according to Harry it was. Fright always meant an easy job; maybe he could take this boy's position in the mission.

"W-What are you doing?" the boy stuttered. Harry smiled lightly.

"Oh, nothing much, just judging your character." The hands holding the ginger up were released, and he slid down the door, shaking in his disgusting shoes. Harry tilted his head a bit and smiled. "Please, do have a nice day."

Then Harry left.

~X~X~X~

'I just have to get into the kitchen, grab something quick to eat, and get out. There shouldn't be anyone there. Right? There won't be any people there… I'm sure of it! Yeah! Let's go, and do this!' Harry thought to himself, trying to ready himself for the chance of being in a contained space with many people.

His feet moved swiftly through the deadly silent house. It was a rather nice change from the hustle and bustle in Japan, and Harry reveled in the silence.

'Maybe, just maybe, there's no one here!'

CRASH!
SLAM!
THUD!

"SORRY, MUM!"

No, oh no; Harry's life would simply be too easy to let him be alone in his own house, for silence to reign supreme in his mind. That would be too damn easy, wouldn't it?

No matter, he decided. He willed his legs to continue making their way to where he knew the kitchen would be. The faster he got there then got out, the faster he could return to the silence of his room. Or maybe he could just kick everybody out of the house? Was that even a thing he could do? He was the new master of the house, so why would it be an issue?

"Because it would mean I would hinder the mission I can't go on," he muttered to himself in vexation.

He finally had arrived at the door, and he was as conflicted as a rabbit next to a poacher. In other words, he wanted to run away at top speed and never come back to this door unless his life depended on it; there was really no questioning that fact. He could hear the loud, obnoxious noises coming from within already. He couldn't stand loud noises.

Yet, despite his inner conflict, his hand reached for the door handle, rapacious hunger getting the better of him. His move to open the door was in vain though it would seem; as it was wrenched open by a fuming, young, female redhead. Her liquid magma-like hair shielded her eyes from his view, and obviously him from her as she ran straight into him. When their bodies came into contact she looked up, with an expression of unadulterated outrage, but stepped back all the same. Her brown eyes looked him over, her arms were crossed, and she was giving off dangerous vibes.

Harry didn't have time for this.

"Pardon me," he said, voice only slightly tipped with anger. The red-head didn't budge; instead, she had the audacity to talk back.

"And just why should I get out of your way? Who the bloody hell are you anyway?" she asked. God he wanted to hit her. You know that rule that almost all guys seem to live by, the one that says you can't hit a girl? Yeah, he didn't play by that rule.

He grabbed her arm gently, almost affectionately. Her muddy eyes widened as a smattering of pink dusted her cheeks.

"H-Hey… Let go of me…" she tried to say, but was too embarrassed that this guy was touching her arm like a long-lost lover. He smiled a small heart-melting smile.

Then, with the force of a cougar, he twisted her arm behind her back. She let out a painful yelp.

"Let me go you bastard!" she shouted. He ignored her obnoxious voice and walked to the door. He yanked the old black wood to the side so he could get in. Only after he had stepped over the threshold did he carelessly toss her to the side. She gave another yelp.

God, she was noisy even when she was trying to not show such pitiful whimpering.

A group of startled red-heads greeted him just beyond the door. A few of them looked quite angered by the fact that he had just tossed the girl to the side like an old, undesirable book. Then again, he had to disagree with that statement; he would never do that to a poor book.

Like with the tattered shoe boy, he ignored them and continued on. Food was the only thing on his mind. He hadn't eaten since he had gotten here form the airport almost twelve hours ago. His eyes never deterred from the beautiful fridge. His hand lightly touched the handle and pulled it open with two fingers. He was quite disappointed to see that there was no fish of any sort. Cooking would take too long however, so he instead went for a can of soda and two mandarins from a red-mesh sack of them.

"Hey! Only we can have the sodas! We bought them!" a rather tall red-head shouted. Why were there so many gingers in his house?

He didn't like gingers, they reminded him of the old and scarce pictures he had of his mother. Red hair that flowed around a perfect face with shining green eyes. Red hair that framed a face with dull lifeless eyes that once shone with brilliance. Yet, searing images of eyes scorched his thoughts. Red eyes that were unflinching towards a kill. Red eyes that flashed with glee while he watched his enemies and subordinates have their skin peeled back like the rough, disgusting outer skin of a carrot. Red had always been connected with the red eyes of Voldemort and the hair of his mother who lie six feet under.

"And just who might you be?" Harry asked with disdain. The tall one looked offended.

"Why, I'm only the most important person here –"

"Got it. That doesn't answer my question Baka-San." The idiot puffed out his cheeks.

"What the bloody hell is a 'baka'?"

Once again Harry ignored everyone and made his way towards the exit, soda and mandarins still in hand. Sadly, nothing was going right for him.

"Well, I see you've met the Weasleys my boy?" Dumbledore said with a grandfatherly smile. Harry shrugged and moved to pass the old man.

He shut his eyes in frustration. 'Why are there so many people here? Bloody hell, it's too much, I have to get out of here. RIGHT. NOW.'

In his temporary blindness that came from his shut eyes he ran into a body. When he opened his eyes to look at the person he ran into he wanted to scream; it was that damn ratty shoe boy again. He looked him in the eyes, moved to grab his collar, then, almost as a last minute decision, he reached for the door knob instead. The boy was shaking violently, and breathing a bit heavily.

What a coward.

Without so much as a word to the old man or the boy, he left, the door slamming in his wake.

~X~X~X~

"Dumbledore, who was that guy?" Ron asked the wise old man with a look of disgust once the green eyed man had left the room.

"That, Ron my dear boy, is the master of the house, Harry Potter. Please remember that he has just gotten back from Japan, and will be adjusting himself back to an English life style. Japan has humbled him greatly," Dumbledore responded.

"Humbled?" the room of redheads asked. Dumbledore nodded. "But don't worry; he'll be back to normal soon. Just give him a while… a few months maybe…"

~X~X~X~

~X~X~X~

A/N: Hey, here's another chapter. I hope you all liked it. I have to apologize for any mistakes, as I do not have a beta. I'm pretty sure I mentioned that before... oh well. Also, I forgot about a disclaimer last chapter. I generally only say these once, so it'll just have to be at the end of chapter two; I DO NOT OWN HARRY POTTER! there, it has been said and done.

Please Review and whatnot, tell me what you think, what you might be expecting to see as the story progresses. You never know it could inspire me. Reviews are great inspiration.

Did that sound desperate?

That sounded desperate to me...

~Nylffn