Percy sat in the waiting room decorated with smiling men and women running through fields of flowers, or rather, frozen in said fields like someone had cast a body-bind on them. It must be true, then, that muggle paintings didn't move. He tapped his foot impatiently. Why exactly had Sirius Black felt the need to tell his father about the muggle mind healers, anyway? And then Dad had to listen!

"Mr. Percy Weasley, we're ready for you now," called the receptionist, a dark-haired muggle man. He smiled apologetically when Dad stood with Percy. "I'm sorry, sir, but you should stay behind. We often find teenagers speak more freely without their parents present." Dad frowned, but sat back down. So Percy walked into the office on his own.

The therapist was an elderly woman, who watched Percy far too closely as he entered the room and sat down across from her. "Hello, Percy. I'm Dr. Pond. Would you like to tell me why you're here today?"
"I thought Dad already told you when we signed up for the appointment," Percy said, scowling. She couldn't even be bothered to look over the paperwork before he came in? At least it'd be easy to convince Dad they didn't need to come back.

She smiled. "Of course, but we find the way the patient describes their experience often directs treatment."

He twisted his hands together. "Fine. My brother Ron…" Percy took a breath, concentrating on his composure. "There was a home invasion, last September. The burglar killed my brother, Ron. Mum and Dad don't think I'm dealing with his death well."

Dr. Pond's eyes met his, gently. "Do you think you're dealing with his death well?"

He gritted his teeth. "As well as anyone deals with the death of their younger brother, ma'am."

"Then why are you blaming yourself for his death?"

"Pardon?"

She smiled grimly. "I've treated many patients over the years, Percy. I can read expressions very well. Or would you claim I'm wrong and you don't feel at fault for Ron's death?"

"I, er," he said, as he tried to think of a way to frame the situation that muggles would understand. "I left the door unlocked."

She tilted her head, curiously. "Do you live in an unsafe neighborhood?"

Percy seized that and ran with it. "Fairly unsafe, and Dad works with the government and some people don't like that. I should have realized..."

"Percy. It's not your job to protect your family," she said gently. "You're a child, who made a mistake. It happens."

She couldn't know. She couldn't truly understand. She thought he was being unreasonable, but he wasn't- "Does anyone blame you besides yourself?"

"Um," he said, because, really, even Ginny didn't blame him anymore, claimed her initial anger had been just that, a burst of irrational pique that needed some sort of target. But they should blame him…

Dr. Pond leaned forward in her seat. "Percy, just think about it. You don't need to change your mind right now." They talked for a little longer, before Dr. Pond glanced at the clock and her eyes widened- she was ten minutes late to begin her next appointment. She sent him on his way with instructions to do more thinking about all this.

When he reentered the waiting room, Dad looked up at him hopefully. "Did it help?"

Percy remembered the fight Mum and Dad had, the night before they signed him up for this appointment. "What can a muggle do to help him, Arthur?"

"Molly, these ferret-pests have worked wonders among Muggles, although they do have an awfully odd name."

Her voice lowered, so much he strained to hear it from his perch at the top of the stairs. "But the cost-"

Dad was pacing; Percy knew by the way the floorboards creaked. "Bill and Charlie are sending money home. Can't we-"

"And I wish they'd stop! They're going to need that money when they start families of their own!"

"But right now they want to help out the family they already have, Molly, can't you see that?" Dad pleaded.

Percy had gone to bed, then, unable to listen to any more without revealing himself by some small sound. Still, now, with Dad looking at him so expectantly, he was glad he'd overheard the conversation.

"No, it didn't," he lied. "I don't think we should come back."

Rita Skeeter tapped her foot impatiently, jumping back when the board she tapped on cracked with a wet, rotten sound. "This hovel is unsafe," she muttered, glaring at no one in particular. "You're sure he'll come?" She was aware she came off as a crazy witch. She was also aware that hosting the Dark Lord in her head couldn't be doing anything for her sanity. A sane woman did not kill children, after all. It didn't matter that technically Lockhart was the one who'd attacked. She'd recruited him.

He chuckled at that. Macnair is somewhat disloyal, yes. That's the only thing that's keeping him out of prison right now, you know. And that he was sensible enough to run before they started looking for him, much like you.

"Which is why I don't think he'll come-"

When he's been informed the Life Eternal know of his location? Lockhart's proving an apter pupil than ever before. Did you hear the Life Eternal broke into Andromedra Tonks's house? As if I'd accept someone who married a Muggleborn.

Rita leaned against the wall, jerking away from it as she felt the plaster cave a little. "I don't remember Lockhart telling me that…" She trailed off, sudden worry eating at her heart. She hadn't remembered.

Perhaps your memory is simply faulty.

She never forgot anything conversational. She was no Ravenclaw, but she remembered the important things, the gossip. Knowledge, especially about people, was power, and Slytherins didn't let go of power.

Rita forgot something, and the only explanation she could think of was the rider inside her head. She'd never been more thankful said rider could not hear her thoughts- as far as she could tell, anyway.

"Bloody spiders are covering this place," an unfamiliar voice called from the main room of the hovel. Rita sighed and stepped out of the shadows to greet the aged Death Eater, Walden Macnair. He squinted at her. "Aren't you that Skeeter bint?"

She glared at him. "I am your commander and you will show me respect." She couldn't exactly respect herself anymore, anyway, so someone else needed to do it.

Macnair held up his hands defensively, and she immediately decided he must of been a Hufflepuff back in school. No Slytherin would be that deferential. "Fine, fine. You'll punish those who oppose us? Mudbloods and muggle lovers?"

She thanked Merlin that she'd never let her parentage slip. "Yes, yes," she said dismissively. "Do you have any information for us before we begin planning?"

He shrugged, indolently sprawling across the sofa. Now I remember what I hated about him, the Dark Lord muttered in her head, and she struggled not to snort with laughter. "Nah. What's our next move? Maybe we could get revenge for that kid?"

"What?" He'd gone barmy.

What?

Macnair waved a hand dismissively. "The Crabbe kid. His dad was one of us, you know, and he was on the road to joining up in the old world." He seemed to think that was all the explanation that was needed, and he simply laid still for a moment before a centipede crawled out from between the dusty gray cushions and he jumped up, shrieking.

Rita struggled to keep her voice level. "What about him?" She'd thought the Malfoy boy was the only one from that year in Azkaban, and he couldn't have been one of the deaths at Halloween, since then Macnair would be complaining about why people thought Death Eaters did it. At this point in the game she saw no point in informing her Lockhart was a Death Eater, and even a more loyal one than her. (Really, what did the Aurors think she was going to do when faced with Azkaban? She thought she could probably convince the Dark Lord to destroy it at some point.)

"I thought He knew," Macnair said once he'd finished jumping about and screaming. "Mr. Crabbe fought back when the Aurors came calling and one of their curses hit the kid. He died before they could get him to St. Mungo's. Real nasty bit of business. The Aurors didn't really talk about it much…" He stopped as it suddenly dawned on him. "Even if I missed it making the papers, you wouldn't, would you, Skeeter?"

Rita smiled slowly, viciously. She could smell a story. A covered up story. Even better. "Being on the run makes it harder to get the Prophet, but my… colleague keeps me updated."

So the kid's dead. Why does it matter again?

She was not her leader. She'd destroy Azkaban, and get justice for the Crabbe boy, in a way she never could when she was just a reporter. Rita had to know she was doing a good thing. But the Dark Lord wouldn't understand that.

So instead, Rita said softly, "I wonder how Minister Fudge's approval rating is looking lately."

The boy scurried through the stone corridors, his breath ragged, dodging dangerously close to the sucking cold of one of Them in the hope his pursuer wouldn't risk the loss of yet more happiness just for a bit of bread. Hell, he wasn't sure it was worth it, but he didn't stumble. They didn't stop him. He couldn't keep the tiniest bit of pleasure from forming, and tensed, worried They'd descend upon him then and there.

Nothing. Nothing. He didn't dare believe it. But the sounds of following feet had faded away from behind him. He shoved the stale bread in his mouth, glancing about to make sure no one would take it from him. The boy hadn't been certain Greyback would stop. The werewolf wasn't very sane even when in human form. At least They sequestered the creature when it turned.

He swallowed, shivering as a draft from who knew where brushed over him, and went forth in search of another alcove to sleep in. Sometimes it seemed the prison never ended, and he certainly wasn't going back towards Greyback if he could help it.

The boy wondered again, a few minutes later as he came upon a small hall, why They hadn't stopped him. He concentrated on not feeling any joy as he took a tentative step forward, staring at the ragged man curled up against the back wall. Long blond hair hid his face. "Father?" Father didn't respond. The boy stepped closer, crouching before him. "Father, it's me, Draco. Father?" He brushed Father's hair aside from his face.

The boy scrambled away, vomiting the little food he'd managed to consume. He huddled, shivering, against the opposite wall, staring at the… thing that had once been his father.

In Azkaban, the Kissed were easy to recognize.

Remus received another letter on the seventeenth of August from the wolves. It was short, short and simple. Decide, or you will have no influence over the proceedings.

He sought out Sirius, in Grimmauld Place, perhaps unconsciously, he later thought. James and Sirius had always been the ringleaders of their little group, after all. He wanted Sirius to make the decision for him. Probably silly of him, but instinct was instinct.

"There's so much out there against us," Remus told Sirius softly, slumped onto the thankfully Doxie-free couch. "Most people won't even hire me." He took another sip of his Firewhiskey. When he'd arrived, Sirius took one look at his expression before pouring them both glasses. He'd already refilled them once.

Sirius grimaced. "This group is planning on riding on the coattails of the house elf freedom movement?"

Remus nodded, thinking of the irony. Dobby was the only house elf he'd ever heard of who wanted freedom, yet a movement to free the elves had gained more traction than the one to get trials for the Slytherin children and the other Death Eaters or the movement to grant werewolves proper rights. It was almost, he thought bitterly, as though wizards didn't fear house elves.

His friend set his glass down harder than strictly necessary. "And the house elf movement relies legally on the future coming true." He huffed a breath of bitter laughter. "Remember Hogwarts? When we didn't know shit about morality so everything was easy?" 'Course, they both knew that 'not knowing shit about morality' had led to their torment of Severus and others. The easiness didn't last.

And nothing was simple anymore. "It's not like house elves don't deserve rights too," Remus agreed. "Bloody hell, I'm surprised goblins aren't trying for wands again."

His friend snorted. "Don't give them any ideas." He stared blearily at his empty glass. "Kreacher?" The house elf popped into visibility, already holding the bottle. "How much you want to bet he's poisoned it?" Sirius asked after the elf left. He'd offered to free him a while back, he'd told Remus. The house elf threw a fit about Sirius ruining all the black treasures. "Crazy thing is, you've got more in common with those kids in Azkaban than you do with house elves."

"How so?"

Sirius gesticulated as he spoke; Remus leaned away to avoid getting smacked in the face. "People fear you for what you might do. For what you have the potential to be, not really what you are. You're my best friend, Remus, but you've got to admit you can harm someone more easily than the average house elf can."

It seemed Sirius was wiser when he was drunk. "I'd have to be foolish to disagree," Remus admitted. "And those kids… most of them did kill in the future." He wasn't certain about the youngest, the current twelve and thirteen year olds, but he remembered facing some of the older students on the final battlefield.

He was fairly certain he remembered killing them.

Sirius nodded, jerkily. "You should join up with the protest group, Remus."

"But the kids…"

"No one's killing the house elf freedom movement, Remus. It's too strong. Hogwarts freed theirs even though it was their students who were taken. Bloody Arabella Zabini freed hers last week, and that woman's as dark as you can get without being a Death Eater." He waved a hand, knocking over his glass, and watched bemusedly as the amber liquid soaked into the white carpet. Remus picked up the glass, but Sirius shook his head when offered it. "I think I've had too much already." Softly, he said," One more push, Remus. One more big push and the Ministry will free the confiscated ones."

Remus winced. Put it that way... "So basically, I can't make the situation any worse."

Sirius shrugged, before awkwardly slinging a comforting arm over his friend's shoulders. "You might just make it better. Get people to draw the connection between the prisoners and you guys.

If only it were that simple. "The law-"

"Screw the law, seriously." He stood, pacing up and down the room. "We could always find a different one to focus on." His hands clenched into fists. "The Wizengamot isn't supposed to send people to Azkaban without a trial, either, but it's apparently okay because they're evil! Give me a break! Everybody knew I did it and they were wrong!"

"Sirius," Remus asked, "How's therapy going?"

His friend, the only one left, really, caught the implied question and muttered, "Sorry. I just don't know what to do anymore."
"Nobody does. That's life."