The Ties that Bind

Chapter Two:

The Ties that We Ignore

A little girl broke an ornament today when she was trying to put in on the tree.

It was a nice glass bauble with jewels. When it fell, it broke into pieces, angry shards all over the floor. They tried to clue it back together. t was pointless. It would have been better to go back and get another one, rather than wasting all the time trying to restore the ornament to how it was.

When things get broken beyond repair,it's better to just sweep them up and throw them away. You can replace it with something just as good. Why try to fix it, when the beauty can never be mended, and the result would be an ugly looking thing?

I'm not going to waste my time.

[James, December 1, Wool's Orphanage]

He had expected bodies.

Bodies that had been mangled, chomped on, or other wise disfigured. He was expecting a teapot that hissed acidic steam, or scarves that were cursed to choke the life out of its victims.

But there was nothing.

Well, there was something. Bits of glass littered the floor, and an annoyed sort of expression was tightly creased into the lines of the woman's face. But, as far as he could tell, there was no malice soaked into the evening air. The relief was creating an odd sensation in his body, one that was making it quite hard to stand; Arthur Weasley was sure he had lost all the feeling in his feet. He saw the movement in his shoes as he wiggled what he suspected were his toes, but he felt nothing.

He thought of his youngest son, and wondered if this was the sensation that was still lingering inside his soul. A wave of pity overtook him, as well as an intense longing for his wife's warm embrace. Arthur pulled up his sleeve as discretely as possible, watching the hands on the clock move.

"It was those hooligans, I'm sure of it."

The voice was low, distracting, and full of hot air that must have expanded the woman's lungs to an uncomfortable position inside of her fleshy ribcage.

"Hooligans ma'am?" Arthur asked politely, trying not to look too pleased with the prospect as something as harmless as rowdy teenagers. The sudden image of a green skull resting over the counter of the coffee shop popped up in his mind, and he shook his head, the cap almost falling off his thinning red hair. As Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, it was his duty to protect the Muggle population from the influx of dangerous muggle items cursed to harm the non-magical. The job was becoming more sinister with each passing week, and Arthur was growing weary of the glowing Dark Mark resting atop households and shops across the city. He pushed a bit of glass around with his the tip of his shoe.

"From the orphanage," she said, spitting as she talked. Arthur paused, waiting for her to elaborate, but she simply raised an eyebrow, as if her previous answer was obviously enough to explain. Saying nothing, Arthur peered closely at the jagged hole ripped through the window. The spells slipped off his tongue as he murmured them, waiting anxiously for some residue of darkness to suddenly appear and lash out. Something deliciously cool pulsed through his veins as any visage of danger ebbed away. He looked up to find the woman was still talking.

"- always causing trouble! Why they're allowed on the streets, I'll never know. Especially the br-"

Her words melted together as the exhaustion taunted him. His ears blocked out her obvious bigotry; if only she knew that murders roaming the streets of London found her to be a disease. He sighed, turning his head at a new movement. His partner, Perkins, was standing outside on the street, wearing a similar look of weariness and relief, and a very empty look of calm and reassurance appeared on Arthur's face.

"I'm sure you're right. I hope they find them," he said in a clear tone, making his way to the door. She nodded vigorously, happy for his agreement. He had already spent too much time here, pretending to be interested in why the window was broken; there were more places to check, and Arthur knew that they would eventually find the dark objects someone had tipped them off to an hour before. The message had been vague, though that wasn't surprising. People were too afraid these days to report all the details. Tipping his hat, Arthur mumbled something vaguely reminiscent of a farewell, but it came out garbled.

The weather matched the strife inside of him. Cloaked in a thick layer of cool, darkening grey mist, Arthur could practically taste the rain on the tip of his tongue. Umbrellas were already propped open in the thinning masses that occupied the cobblestone sidewalks; everyone was going home.

"Nothing," Perkins said simply as he approached, shrugging his aged shoulders while clutching his coat tighter to his chest. The old cabbage scent that followed the man around was oddly comforting. Arthur didn't respond, but kicked a pebble with his foot. It bounced nosily into the street, dancing eerily in the light of the street lamps. Its steady rhythm continued as it went, running away from the man that had caused its motion. Arthur blinked as it finally rolled out of view, droplets gently starting to sway down his spectacles.

"We'll find it eventually," Arthur said, pulling off his glasses and rubbing them on his old muggle coat. Perkins just nodded in agreement, rubbing his wrinkled hands together in anxiousness.

Arthur didn't notice the young man at first. There were too many distractions. Every motion, every action, had the singular purpose of victory. To bring just one more item in, to save a life, and to let him go home to his little red-headed wife and children. But as he slid his glasses back on his face, the huddled figure was all he could focus on. Everything else became inconsequential. The ragged outline seemed to scream to him from across the street, where a boy was on the ground, legs splayed out on the pavement, head hung as his body rested against the wall. Furrowing his forehead, Arthur could see the defined shiver of the boy's muscles, and the slick of wet, black hair against a pale face. Perkins was staring, his aged hand swaying as if to reach out and grab Arthur's sleeve, to pull him away. But he couldn't be stopped. Arthur's foot slipped a bit on the sidewalk as he stepped out into the street.

"What's going on?" Perkins asked thinly in worry, wondering if his partner had sensed something dark. Arthur stood there, something different and odd swelling up his chest. Someone was gripping at his arm, and he looked to the hand, viciously tight for one so old. Shaking his head, he exhaled lowly.

"Nothing," he said, and his partner's body visibly relaxed, gently folding his wand back into the fabric of his coat. "It's just that boy…"

Looking back across the street, Arthur realized that the attention he was giving was not lost on the subject of his curiosity.

The boy's head tilted upwards. The air deflated, and Arthur felt the hot dry rush of shock like a lightning bolt to his heart. The name came off his lips in a cracked, whispered manner.

"Harry?"

They were supposed to be going home, now that they had finished the distribution route.

But they weren't.

James felt too weak to argue against their sudden change in direction.

He was too weak to even call out to Will, who had gone too far ahead. It was an action that confused him; Will, though he would gripe about it for various reasons, always kept pace with him. But at the moment, James could barely make out Will's brown hair from where he was. No matter how many steps he took, or how long he trudged through the people, it seemed like he got nowhere, and Will just got farther away. He had half a mind to just flop down into the puddles and wait until morning, and pray that he was still alive.

To tell the truth, he wasn't sure how his muscles were still working. When had woken up this morning, his body felt like it had the consistency of chocolate pudding. It was a fairly humorous way to describe a sensation that was quite painful in reality. Then again, when James thought about it, he never knew. No one did. Not the doctors, or his teachers, or the pharmacists. His apparent lack of an immune system was a complete mystery. There were the coughs, and the way he bruised, and the everlasting exhaustion. Then, worst of all, there were the fevers that kept him incapacitated for days at a time. It was all very tiresome.

James kept going though, eyes focused lazily in front of him. He had to admit, he was being mildly melodramatic. Nothing, aside from Will's detour, was out of the norm. Even the street was familiar in a distant sort of way. There were all sorts of shops, and places to eat, and absolutely no reason for them to be here. None of the wares were in an orphan's price range. Focusing through the umbrellas, he saw Will had stopped and exhaled from relief. James made an extra effort to pick up his feet.

"Something you want to tell me?" James asked, glad his voice wasn't as quiet as it normally was when he got sick. Will just looked at him, a calm sort of expression on his face. He seemed not to have noticed that James had been so far behind.

"I just have to pick something up," he replied, shrugging his shoulders casually. James rolled his eyes, and Will smirked. "Feel free to wait out here."

James shoved his hands in his pockets, and leaned against the wall. He didn't like going into shops most of the time, especially when he was feeling like this. There were always too many people staring.

"Hurry up?" he asked, though he tried not to state it as a question. Of course, Will was going to see straight through him, but he nodded, as if he was conceding. Without a moments hesitation, Will strode into the drug store. James watched through the door until Will was out of sight. Sighing, he rested his back against the brick wall, and felt his sweater growing damp from the water.

There was a twinge in his hands as his nails dug mildly into his palms.

It wasn't painful, but the sensation was enough for him to muster up a reaction. Pulling his hands out, James flexed his fingers before studying his palms. James hadn't realized he'd exerted so much tension. The red crescent imprints were barely visible amid the streaks of dirt and grime of a hard days labor. James wiped his hands on his pants, not expecting the sudden wave of pain. Blinking, it didn't even take a second for James to realize the intensity. A snag of air caught in his throat and he could feel the throb of his heartbeat in the tips of his fingers. It was beating too quickly, and James had to resist the urge to throw his hand to his chest just to see if it really was his heart. If anything, the chilled air should be slowing down his heart rate, not increasing it.

James didn't try to stop his body as it slumped down against the wall. Almost immediately, he felt better once he was sitting, legs out in front of him as if he was paralyzed. Ignoring the grumbles of the people who had to step around him, James let his head hang, counting as he took in long, deep breaths. With a more constant stream of rain falling from an increasingly dark sky, James grew colder, and realized he was shaking a bit.

He wanted to be embarrassed, but he couldn't ignore the fact that it felt better to be like a rag doll on the pavement than to stand and try to endure. James wrinkled his nose and felt a flush of jealousy for Will, who could walk through the rain, and the snow, and sweltering heat, as if invincible. A little drizzle, and James became useless. In one of those rare moments when James let himself reflect on the person he was before all of his memory left him, he thought he must have been a very weak person. After all, living in an orphanage just hardened you. And if this is how he was all toughened up, James was almost glad he didn't remember how weak he was.

Lifting his head, James saw everything in a distorted way. He guessed it was the rain that was blurring the outlines of the world around him. His focus slid in and out as he gained control of himself. That was, until a flash of shocking red caught his attention.

For a moment he thought the pain was taking on a physical manifestation, making him see red. Wiping his eyes, James squinted and tried to focus on the concentration of color in his otherwise grey surroundings. What he saw wasn't that encouraging. James exhaled through his teeth. Why couldn't they ever stop?

There, across the street, was a tall, balding man, staring at him in a peculiar and uncomfortable sort of way. If he had any more strength, James would have given a harder stare until the man looked away and left him alone. James realized, in his quick study of the man, the red was the last bits of the man's hair. Exasperated, he began to push himself up off the ground.

But as he continued to stare in the man's eyes, which had not turned away, the discomfort grew to something that James hadn't expected. It was the feeling he got when he thought there was one more stair than there really was, and his foot would come crashing down. Fear. Shock. Something you couldn't describe that made something other than your body hurt. It came swiftly, and seemed to have stalled his heart mid-beat. Green eyes wide, James realized the man was half way across the street. He was saying something.

"Harry!"

It was more like yelling, really.

James swallowed, and stood up, his knees cracking as he did so. He knew he should be calm. Obviously the man thought he was someone he wasn't, and he'd probably just have to say so. But there was something about that name that bothered him. Stumbling, though the crowd was almost gone, he made his way to the door, until he finally collided with something that was very distinctly alive and moving.

"James, what are y-"

Turning on his heels, he found Will, standing flabbergasted in the doorway, with a small brown bag clutched in his right hand.

"That man," James said. That red-haired man who was now on the curb. Will's eyes narrowed. The man who was reaching out, as James tried to take a few pitiful steps back. Will tried to step in front of him, spare him. But there was no way to avoid it. Internally, before the man even got a hold of him, James flinched.

The man's grasp was odd. It was weak at first, as if he hadn't actually been expecting to feel anything. But it grew stronger, tighter, and it hurt. It hurt more than his arms and he didn't know why. James didn't know what to do. There was an even older man, weazing and with eyes like saucers. Hoping a polite denial would be his way out, James cleared his throat. Will was edging closer, his free fist tight at his side.

"Sir -" he tried, but the man interrupted.

"Harry?" he asked in a whisper, leaning in close. James just shook his head.

"I'm James," he said. The blue eyes behind the rain-stained glasses looked disbelieving. And then, before James could stop him, a shaking hand was reaching for his face. Everything happened quickly after that, as if time was speeding up to compensate for the moments that had felt slowed down.

"Oi!" Will cried out, stepping in-between his friend and his captor, pushing the man away. James twisted out of the grip. And then, with a strength he never knew he had, he was running.

From what he was running, he didn't know. Well, he knew. The man. Of course the man. Or men, rather. Had they been holding sticks? James thought he saw the older man with a stick in his hand as Will had freed him. What a lousy thing to hit with, a stick. James blinked, and tried to breathe. But there was something else he was fleeing from. He didn't know. He didn't know if he wanted to know. There were sounds behind him, the most comforting being the second, faster pair of feet pounding against the slick pavement.

"Why are we still running?" Will cried out. "C'mon, they're not following!"

But he didn't stop. And with his labored lungs, there was only one thing James managed to reply. It seemed the most important.

"I'm James," he called out into the expanse. "I'm James!"

"I didn't see it," Arthur Weasley half-choked.

"See what?"

"Harry's scar. I didn't get to see it. I didn't get to know for sure."

Perkins stepped closer, pulling on Arthur's sleeve as they made their way to the alley. The confrontation with the two young boys had drawn unwanted attention.

"Harry Potter's gone," Perkins said, though if he had been listening to himself, he wouldn't have trusted the sound of his voice either. The boy had looked exactly like Potter. He even had those green eyes, just like toads that could be jumping around in this blasted rain.

Arthur didn't answer, looking drained.

"I'll go see Dumbledore," he said, more to himself than anyone. Perkins felt his muscles relax from relief. The doubt was seeping through Arthur's countenance. For that, Perkins was glad. As much as Potter's return would mean, these were not the times for silly dreaming. From what he had heard, Arthur's son, Potter's best friend, was half-mad these days with emotion.

Perkins, who knew Arthur well, didn't think such a trait could be found in the boy's father. But these were ungodly hours. Things got to people.

"That's a good idea," Perkins said, and Arthur just nodded, eyes still looking damp.

A crack filled the air, and the alley was empty.

James was desperate to change to subject. In fact, he no longer wanted to talk at all. Looking back, the physical exertion hadn't been smart. James could already feel the fever settling into his bones. At the moment, his lungs were raw, unable to be filled. Sitting on his bed in a defeated pose, James let his mouth hang open.

"What's in the bag?" he asked. Will just glared, the soggy paper bag tight in his fist. James really did want to know, but Will wasn't deterred for a second.

"Who were they?"

James blinked. He didn't want to think about this anymore.

"I don't know," he said, using the last bit of his energy to shrug his shoulders. Will just blew all of his air out through his teeth and walked towards the door. James understood his frustration. Living with an amnesiac had to be just as hard as being one. Being delivery boys didn't help. Being wet and hungry didn't help. Nothing did. Will was standing in the doorway, and James was sure he was going to walk out. But he didn't.

"Do you think you're Harry?" he asked, turning around. Automatically, James shook his head.

"I'm James," he said, repeating the phrase he had yelled out so vehemently earlier. Will studied the floorboards for a good long minute before tossing the bag to James's bed. Then, with one swift moment, he peeled off his shirt, and went searching through the small drawers for something dry. He became intensely occupied with the task.

With his curiosity needing to be satisfied, James peeked in the bag and then hung his head. Cold medicine. The good, expensive kind. The paper bag immediately became a symbol of sacrifice. It meant that the medicine had been bought, not smuggled out. Will always had more money than he did, but it was still not a lot. James didn't say anything; Will wouldn't want him too. Instead, he stood up, instantly swaying on his feet. Swearing inside his head, James acknowledged his weakness with disdain. He was half-way across the room when Will spoke again, though the sound was muffled. He was still pulling his clothes on over his head.

"Would you want to be Harry?" he asked, almost cautiously. "Would you want to be who they thought you were?"

James held onto the railing of the bed for support as he pressed his lips together. If he opened them, he'd say too much, and Will didn't look like he'd appreciate that right now. Finally, he managed a smile.

"No. Harry-whoever obviously has some crazy friends looking for him," James said, before pausing. Yes, they were friends of this Harry, the two men were. James could tell. "I don't really feel like they're my type."

Will just laughed, and James was glad for the lightness in the air. It made it easier to breathe.

He was half-way to the bathroom to get a glass of water when he stopped. The bottle of medicine was weakly held in his hand. There was a nagging in the pit of his stomach. James gave into it, just to get it over with.

"My name's Harry," he whispered, trying it out, then instantly frowning. He didn't like it. He didn't like it one bit.

Those men were obviously insane.