Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. I make no claims to ownership.

From the outside, the family looks happy, but you know that isn't true.

The oldest boy hates you, because he also knows the truth. He isn't your son. Yes, he has dark hair, but it isn't the mess which is a trademark of your family, and he grows to look more like Michael Corner each day. He looks hopefully at his mother, the wife you pretend to love, but she does little more than beret him and insult him. She has no time for him, not when she is trying so hard to look happy. He hugs you quickly, more for appearance than anything else, and then disappears to find his friends. Your wife is waving at her niece but wouldn't notice if her eldest son ceased to exist.

The youngest boy is the one you hate. Born only fifteen months after his brother, it is because of him that you are tied to your wife. You named him Albus Severus for the two men you hate as much as him. Of the three children, he is the only one to look like you, as he is your only biological child. Your wife wanted a child with you so desperately that she used a potion to help conceive him. Looking at him, you can see all of your mistakes reflected in him, and sometimes you hate yourself even more than you do him.

The girl has your wife's red hair. You aren't sure who her father is, but you know it isn't you. Fortunately she looks so similar to her mother that no one would guess at your wife's extramarital affair. You know people will start wondering, though, as they have already begun whispering about her oldest brother. You almost feel pity for her.

From the outside, the family looks happy, but there are so many cracks and one day, you know you will fall right through them. For now, though, you smile, and pretend that all is well.

-BC-

"Hello, Mr. Prisoner? Are you awake? It's meal time."

Harry's eyes snapped open. His chest stuttered when he saw the bars in front of him. Nervous prickles ran up his spine. He had no recollection of getting here. A few shots of whiskey shouldn't have gotten him so drunk that he would black out.

Footsteps approached the cell. Harry lowered his eyelids and watched through his lashes as a pair of boots stopped in front of him. The man knelt to push three slices of soggy bread through the bars. Harry hoped that wasn't to be his entire meal. Back when he lived with the Dursleys, he might have been able to live off of only bread, but his diet was much bigger now.

"I'm not supposed to be here," the man said conversationally.

Harry felt his expression begin to shift and hastily smoothed it again. He wanted the man to leave so he could eat in peace and figure out his bearings.

"Ah, so you are awake." The man spoke in a satisfied tone. "What's your name, eh? I don't recognize you, so you can't have gone to Hogwarts. Are you a Death Eater?"

This time, Harry didn't bother hiding his expression and let his brows knit together in a frown. Never in his life, at least not since his defeat of Voldemort, had someone been unable to recognize him. Normally, such an incident would be refreshing, but now it was cause for worry. Most disturbing of all was that the man accused him of being a Death Eater. Harry Potter would be the last person to ever side with Voldemort.

"I have quite a while to wait. My father and uncle are too busy to notice anyone is down here."

Down here. Harry made a mental note of that phrase as he opened his eyes and sat up. The young man was sitting cross-legged in front of the cell, utterly at ease and unconcerned of any attack. Harry wished he could say the same.

"Who are you?" Harry asked cautiously.

"Nuh-uh," the man said, wagging a finger, "you first."

Harry tried to discern any possible danger in revealing his name. This entire time, his mind had been racing to make any sense of the situation. He decided to trust his instincts.

"My name is… Roonil Wazlib."

A mask of reserve seemed to cover the man's face, but a thin smile edged his lips and his eyes glinted with sardonic amusement. "Parents are awful, aren't they? Mine named me Elvendork. I go by Dork for short."

Harry stared at him blankly, unsure if he should laugh or not. His Auror training hadn't really gone in-depth on how to respond to a potential kidnapper.

"Such is life," the young man sighed. "It could be worse, though. I know a girl named Rhoda Pucey."

Harry made a small sound.

"It is unfortunate," the man acknowledged. "As you might imagine, she was fairly loose, too." He sighed and shook his head. "Parents should really be more considerate of their children, if you ask me. Names have a lasting impact. Poor Rhoda probably figured she ought to live up to her name."

It was then Harry tossed the idea to name the baby Albus Severus. He didn't need someone trying to be like Dumbledore or Snape.

From somewhere out of sight to Harry, he heard a door open.

"Caelum, are you down there?" a woman's voice called.

The young man looked over his shoulder. "Yeah. What do you need?"

"Uncle Sirius has left and Father is looking for you. He wants you to pick up Aries."

Harry's heart nearly exploded out of his chest. The name 'Sirius' echoed in his mind, and he had a flash of a man, far older than he should have been, pointing a wand at him.

A flash of irritation crossed Caelum's face and he pushed himself to his feet.

"Why do I have to do it? Why not Castor?"

"Because he's busy," came the terse reply. "Now stop lollygagging. We can't make Aries wait, you know how dangerous it is."

Grumbling beneath his breath, Caelum trudged toward the other side of the room. Craning his neck, Harry was able to see stairs leading upward. At the base of them, Caelum stopped and turned around, his mouth curved up into a smile again.

"Enjoy that meal, Wazlib," he said. "It'll probably be the last one you get."

Then, with a short laugh, he bounded up the stairs and Harry heard the door slam closed again, leaving him alone in the cell. Harry stared at the soggy bread, nausea gripping the muscles of his stomach.

Despite feeling like it would make him sick, Harry picked up the bread and began nibbling on it. Silently, he went over the facts he knew so far. Someone who looked disturbingly like Sirius had been the one to stun him. Caelum and the woman were also related to Sirius, likely as his nephew and niece or in a similar capacity. Even more confusing, Harry had been kidnapped within his own home, which should have been impossible. Only a short list of people could get into Grimmauld Place, and he found it unlikely Ron had let them inside.

Harry's chest tightened. He'd forgotten Ron. His best friend had been upstairs waiting for him. Throwing the bread to the side, Harry lowered his head into his hands and his throat thickened with repressed tears. He had gotten his best friend killed. If what Caelum had said was true, then Harry didn't mind his upcoming fate. He deserved to die.

He jumped as the door opened again. Lifting his head, his eyes widened as another man descended the stairs. The man was obviously Caelum's father, but more disturbing was the fact that he looked like a slighter version of Sirius Black.

"You're lucky," the man said, his voice emotionless. "My brother wanted to put you in the ground. I convinced him a cell is better."

Harry's voice came out as a croak. "Thanks."

The man's dark brows rose. "Raised by Muggles," he murmured as he bent down to peer at Harry, sharp gray eyes moving over Harry's face. "You can't be a Potter, then. Who are you?"

Harry wasn't sure if he should be affronted or not. Judging by his racing heart, however, he was more scared than affronted. He licked his lips and decided to go with the same tactic he used with Caelum.

"Roonil," he answered. "My name is Roonil Wazlib."

"If you're going to lie, at least make it believable," the man said flatly. "Even in our world, no one would be that unfortunate."

For a moment, Harry considered telling him about the future Albus Severus, but decided the man wouldn't believe it. Only someone insane would come up with such a name, and Harry was clearly not insane. That was the man in front of him, the one who thought he could actually get away with kidnapping Harry Potter of all people.

Harry bit his lip and said hesitantly, "Evan Jameson?"

"A thoroughly Muggle name," the man said. "One which I could believe, in your case."

Then, without any warning, he flicked his wand and Harry leaped back as the cell's bars briefly shimmered. A ward had been set over them, and Harry knew better than to try touching it.

"I heard what my son told you," the man said. "Rest assured, you aren't going to die yet. How much longer you live, however, depends upon your cooperation."

"You wouldn't believe me," said Harry.

The man's expression didn't shift. "Why wouldn't I?"

Harry paused before speaking. His mind had raced through the possibilities and reached only one conclusion.

"Because I'm fairly certain you're Regulus Black, and as far as I'm aware, you died twenty-four years ago."