Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc,. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Original Author: Karaii

Author's Note: Thank you for the reviews! This chapter still belongs to Karaii!

Karaii's Note: There IS a reason why Harry breaks down here. It's very confusing, I know, but it'll come out soon. Harry IS a soldier and he IS very well trained not to show any emotion, especially due to the war. He never once cried while under Voldemort's capture...so why does he cry now, you ask? There IS a reason! xD Hold tight, everything will be explained soon (becuase I know you all want the action to start...so do I!)

I hope I explained enough :D


Chapter 4Questioning the Dark

Since Harry's 'awakening', a year had passed. His seventh birthday was now in a month's time. He'd managed so many things on his own that he was no longer truly interested in returning to Hogwarts, let alone attending it as a student. Before, he would've been shocked at this radical decision.

But now, he only felt bitter.

Albus had never once come to check on him (the wards would've alerted Harry of anyone familiarly magical coming) and Mrs Figg, the squib who supposedly lived beside Harry's home to check on him, was far more interested in her cats. She'd only approached the Dursley's once, actually. When she'd asked about Harry (she mentioned she'd seen him in the garden), the Dursleys had been quick to say that he was away with some friends. Uncle Vernon had mauled Harry viciously once Mrs Figg had left—the reason? Being spotted.

Harry was no longer keen on staying at the Dursley's. He would defeat Voldemort, yes, but then he would retreat into a quiet life and never come into the Wizarding world ever again. He was so…tired. Of living. Of the Dursley's. Of having the stupid Prophecy over him. Of all the responsibilities that came with his name for a deed he could barely remember.

He no longer wished to fight.

Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

He couldn't back off yet. And if he ever wanted to gain any semblance of peace in his future, he would have to fulfill the stupid destiny that had been preplanned for him. He would be utterly unable to do so if he remained here any longer. He'd been prepared for quite some time now, but this was the final act. He would finally leave, finally be able to grasp what little control in his life he had. He would blend into the crowds, training his skills further, hiding in plain sight.

And maybe someday he would forgive Albus.

But for now, he only wished to get away.

°°°

Harry had been caught off-guard.

He hated being caught off-guard.

Uncle Vernon had been fired from Grunnings, something that had not happened in his past life, so he had no way of predicting it. The fat loaf of a man had blamed Harry and his freakishness. The now seven-year old had not been prepared for any punishment because he'd taken to having a constant Notice-Me-Not charm on himself since several months before. It had come, naturally, as a surprise when Vernon had slammed his head into the wall out of the blue. Twice, to be precise, causing him swim in confusion. He could not defend himself—it had been inevitable.

The punishment had been brutal.

Much like when Harry had been five, he'd been frighteningly close to dying. Vernon had broken his wrist, ankle and several ribs, bruised him all over, done atrocious things to his underfed body, and left him to rot in his cupboard after he'd 'calmed down', satisfied particularly in his southern regions. When Harry had come back into consciousness, his 'Uncle' had assaulted him again, with Dudley's help. It had been a helpless situation. Harry could not have defended himself, too busy attempting to heal.

The second time he surfaced, he'd immediately muttered a few chosen (colourful) parsel swear words, hurrying to mend his battered body as best as he could. He had to leave, now. He would not stay longer. This hazardous environment was not his ideal place.

He would NOT take this.

After a quickly cast Aa'regs that actually saved his life (he had been bleeding internally after a major vein snapped), he'd set on concentrating on his wounds. They were severe, but no longer life threatening.

Now intent on escaping forever, he packed all of the things he could into the baggy, army-like cargo pants that he'd slipped on over his thin hips easily. He slipped on a black hoodie with a simple logo that had once belonged to Dudley. The article of clothing actually reached his knees, hiding his scars nicely and keeping him warm. He stuffed the bills of money he had, and anything of value he may have acquired over the year or so he'd spent here.

The kitchen knives were pathetic compared to his former, beautifully crafted blades, but they could be used as weapons in the right hands. He could not shrink them or cast any spells on them due to his concentration on first healing himself enough to move, so he'd merely hidden them in the depths of his baggy clothing. He was as ready as he would ever be. Not particularly desiring another attack courtesy of Vernon's anger any time soon, Harry Slid away from the house, resuming his physical state at the park's edge. He was panting with exertion, cursing himself for having used up most of his magic to keep him alive.

He sort of limp-wobbled in the direction where the weakest part of the wards was, determined to leave once and for all. But…to bypass the wards unnoticed now, with his current power level…it would be the equivalent of suicide. Most probably, it would leave him completely exhausted or render him a useless squib.

"Fuck," Harry said eloquently, summing up all of his thoughts. His escape was now even further delayed. Joy.

With this grim news, he decided he'd spend the night in his Animagus form. Sort of like Sirius had when he escaped Azkaban, in a way. His animal counterpart was actually quite small, merely a cub, really. (And, Harry knew, his smaller body would allow his magic to heal him faster, resulting in a quicker, less suspicious getaway). He could be easily mistaken for a large black cat from afar, too. If anyone came close enough, though, they would unmistakably know this was no housecat. But it would do. As for food, Harry supposed rats would suffice his diet in his panther form…

Yes, he could live with that. The moment he had enough strength to cross the wards, he would disappear. Dumbledore had not checked on him for the six or so years he'd been at the Dursley's, so Harry supposed he wouldn't check until he was told that he had not received his letter. Mrs Figg herself was quite content with her life and the Dursley's reassurance of Harry's well being (as vague as it had been) had left her satisfied. She probably wouldn't notice his absence for a long time, if at all.

After finishing his musings, Harry (in his Animagus form) quietly hid himself in an alleyway, curling into a fetal position, feeling bitter and cold and so tired. So old. He slowly drifted off into an uneasy sleep, trashed by nightmares and memories, regrets and guilt.

°°°

Harry was awoken rudely by the banging sounds of trashcans falling beside his sleeping place. He yowled and sprang to his feet, hissing in pain as his broken wrist and ankle made him stumble. The animal that had fallen the trashcans looked at him wearily, as if gauging the danger level. When Harry did not attack, it merely shrugged and continued snooping around the trash for food. Hesitantly, Harry limped over, hoping to perhaps get some scraps as well. Before he could peer into the trashcan, however, the animal inside growled, lunging forward in protection of its food. Harry cried and stumbled over his feet, backing into the wall.

He hissed and spat, green eyes flashing.

He transformed back into his human form, effectively startling the creature in the trashcan to squeal and retreat in the other direction. Harry grinned triumphantly, feeling inexplicably proud that he'd driven off a threat. Shaking his head at his purely animalistic reaction, he began reaching into the trash with his unhurt hand and searching through the piles of waste, only to find nothing safe to eat. Eww, he thought suddenly, wrinkling his nose in distaste as he extracted his hand, wiping it on his tattered, over-sized clothing. What had possessed him to do that? His animal form might not mind eating off rats and trash, but he certainly had no desire to taste such food in his human form.

He supposed that, since his instincts had been called into play, he was merely reacting based on the concept of survival. He sighed again. If he found nothing to eat, he might find himself indeed scraping things off trashcans…Imagine that, he thought sarcastically. Harry Bloody Potter, the Boy-Who-Just-Wouldn't-Fucking-Die, eating out of a trashcan.

Moodily, the panther Animagus left the alley, now in search for edible rations.

He was actually starting to regret the decision of escape. It had seemed like a wise idea yesterday, but now he realized that he was clearly exhausted and that he should've left when he was at his top condition rather than when he was dangerously close to straining his magic completely. Well, he'd never said he hadn't been accused of rash decisions before…

This brought about painful memories of Sirius's death, but he was hopeful to think that perhaps Sirius was alive here, albeit probably in Azkaban. One of the things on his list was freeing the poor Grim Animagus from the horrible dementor-filled prison, but for that, he would need to catch Pettigrew. Ah yes…the rat. But even before that, he had to heal and store up his magic. Damn him and his reckless actions…Stupid, stupid Gryffindor, he berated himself.

He bought some food from a hotdog stand on the sidewalk (still within the wards) with the cash he'd gathered, thankful for the meal. He ate it hastily before scampering off, painfully aware of how he looked like after receiving the pitying gaze of the man who'd sold him the stuff. Knowing that he would be recognized by the Dursley's if they saw him, he metamorphed into Evan Thatcher, wincing a bit as he strained his injuries (his face was now less round and childish, but he still looked no older than six due to severe malnutrition and stunt growth from living inside of a cupboard). He bought some more food at another place before sitting down on the sidewalk to rest. He would not allow himself to fall asleep, especially in the open and free to be mugged, but he knew he could not exert himself. Walking included.

Ignoring the gazes of the people that passed by after years of experience, Harry went deep inside of himself, intent on healing. He managed to fix his ankle as best as he could, but his wrist was shattered and needed to be put in a splint. His bruises would fade and his wounds would scar, as usual. He didn't need to waste magic on that. Another muttered Aa'regs in parseltongue helped his ankle, but Harry knew it had not healed well. He knew that it would inevitably have to be re-broken if he wanted it to heal properly.

Suddenly, a wave of dizziness overcame the seven-year old youth. Shit! It would not due to faint in his human form, especially with money and 'weapons' in his pockets. He picked himself up and stumbled into an alley, rapidly shifting flawlessly into his Animagus form once again. He was out cold before he hit the ground.

°°°

Harry woke once again, but this time warmth surrounded him instead of the familiar cold. He whimpered, curling into a ball. Suddenly, he realized he had no idea where he was. His emerald eyes snapped open, and he howled with terror when he noticed he was in a cage, the symbolic meaning bringing back horrible memories. Frantically, he searched for any means of escape, delirious with pain and fear and confusion. He stumbled onto his four paws, only to crash down painfully due to the strain. He felt like sobbing, but suppressed it, knowing he was indeed in his Animagus form and it would be weird if a panther showed obvious signs of human emotion, betraying his Animagus status.

Cursing creatively in several different languages within his mind, Harry took a deep, shuddering breath, biting back another pathetic moan of distress. He assessed his situation, immediately taking note of the food and water tray to his right, the former filled with kitty chow. Apparently, whoever had put him in this cage had probably confused him for a cat. Limping much more carefully now, he slowly made his way over to the water bowl, sniffing it suspiciously, his body tense. He knew he was far too paranoid for his own good (especially when whoever put the food in here had no reason to poison him) but it had kept him alive over the years (or at least until Voldemort's capture). Eventually, however, his thirst got the best of him and he found himself eagerly lapping at it, his parched throat singing praises of relief as the liquid went past his mouth.

Slowly, Harry turned his brilliant gaze to the bars that separated him from what seemed like a rather plain room. It was a simple cage really, probably meant for a housecat. Harry could easily decimate them wandlessly with merely a thought, even in his Animagus form. Yet he was not keen on revealing his abilities, especially not to some random muggle whom might see the results of his power in action. He'd probably been found in the alley by some curious or kind passerby and been taken (hostage, Harry though moodily) to their residence—after all, there were a lot of people out there who liked adopting stray animals.

It was no rare occurrence, after all.

The room beyond his meter-by-meter imprisonment was a neutral beige colour, no posters nor decorations on the walls except for a few frames that hung from nails embedded into the wallpaper. In a corner were several boxes stacked together, plastic bags littering the floor—obvious signs that someone had just recently moved in. The floor itself was wooden, polished nicely, the scent of fresh paint reeking off everywhere. Far too new, Harry thought, his sensitive nose wincing at the powerful stuff that radiated all around the room.

He had no idea where he was, but by expanding his magical senses, he managed to understand that there were several living beings inside the house. Strangely, though, they were wandering around with no real direction, sometimes pausing and turning abruptly, skewering Harry's attempt at analyzing their antics. After two minutes of futilely trying to recognize any comprehensible aura, he finally understood that they weren't human at all, but probably pets that inhabited the house.

Harry's curiosity was peaked. He himself was an animal lover, but had never owned a pet. Who was this individual who owned so many under one roof? Surely it must be hard feeding and cleaning after what seemed like over a half a dozen living things…but, then again, maybe there were more animals. The creatures' persistent wandering and randomness in their actions had managed to effectively confuse his magical sense, thus rending any sureness of the number of living things null. For all Harry knew, there might be over a dozen cats in here. Or maybe they were dogs. One could never be sure.

The black panther circled his cage restlessly, disliking his imprisonment even more. He'd become quite phobic of any sort of cage, including his cupboard, and it made him frustrated that he could do nothing to free himself in his current state of disarray. His healing was progressing along nicely, but his ankle was still in bad condition. Or, in this particular case, his hind leg. Finally, tired out from his pacing, Harry collapsed onto his side, wincing and not managing to suppress a low whine at the pain that throbbed his broken rib. Or ribs.

Damn you Uncle Vernon, Harry thought sourly. He knew he was in no life-threatening danger, but it angered him at his own helplessness to protect himself. He would get stronger!

°°°

It had been surely several hours before Harry sensed a human being entering the house—plus, he could head the door opening from where he lay. He'd previously attempted to munch on the chow provided, but hadn't managed to keep it down. Besides, it tasted awful. How did cats manage to life off of that horrible, crunchy gruel? At least the Dursley's food was edible and had some sort of taste, unlike the brown shapes that were in his food bowl. He was hungry at the moment, but he was good at suppressing that particular urge. After all, he'd rarely received anything further than a charred piece of bread a day at his relative's house for several years. His body was used to it.

Besides, the feeling now wasn't anywhere near the aching, cravinghunger he'd experienced many times before.

The human who'd arrived seemed to walk around for a few minutes below (Harry had soon realized he and his cage were on the second floor, just above the entrance hall) before heading up the stairs, audible thumps echoing in Harry's sensible ears. The human aura neared closer and closer, until the door before him was opened.

Harry prided himself in being someone who can be rarely surprised, but he was most certainly shocked when he found himself faced with Mrs Figg figure in the doorway.

Unintentionally, he gave a strangled moan of despair. Had he been caught? Did Mrs Figg know everything? What if he was sent to Albus, and then locked up because of his attempt at escape? He couldn't allow this to happen! No! He'd managed to wait over a year to gain sufficient power to leave the Dursley's, he wouldn't be shoved back into imprisonment now!

"Shh," Mrs Figg whispered, kneeling down in front of Harry's cage, "It's okay."

No it's not, Harry thought in anguish. The Animagus whimpered pathetically, feeling that everything was falling apart. He would never gain freedom now. He would merely become a weapon to defeat Voldemort, nothing more. He might be nearing thirty-two years of overall living (twenty-five plus seven), but he had never truly been 'free'. Free of the cheerful manipulations of Dumbledore, free of his task of eliminating the Darkest of Lords, free of the burden of living a planned lie. He was old, older than his appearance, and he felt it. His luck always been incredibly sour, but it had been cruel for fate to give him hope and then snatch it away just as quickly.

"Shh, little one," the woman repeated, her voice soft and soothing, "Everything's okay now. No one's going to hurt you."

Harry flinched as one of Mrs Figg's fingers slipped through the cage, the intent clear that it wanted to pat his head. He backed into the corner of a cage, suddenly frightened, his animal-like reactions taking over his control. He didn't want it to end this way, damn it! No! He snarled, hissing and spitting, eyes narrow. He wouldn't let himself be locked away again without a fight!

Before Harry could react with accidental magic born out of desperation, the doorbell suddenly rang out, and Mrs Figg sighed. She looked at the black panther (in her short-sighted eyes, a large, malnourished cat) with a pitying gaze, before leaving the room to answer the door. Harry suddenly came back to his senses, and mentally berated himself for his reaction, calming his unstable magic. It wouldn't due to let go of his magic because of fear—it went completely against his training. He had to be calm in all situations.

Taking another shuddering breath, Harry stabilized his emotions, harshly squashing his fear. If he was to be dragged back, he would lay down his terms and, if worse came to worse and Albus insisted on him being returned to the Dursley's, he would show the abuse on his body. He was sure Albus would never send him back if he had such blatant proof of the Dursley's incompetence…

Then, out of nowhere, a sudden thought came to Harry. What if Mrs Figg hadn't discovered Harry's identity…? Like Scabbers (Wormtail, Harry's mind snarled), he might've just been picked up accidentally and out of pity for his state. Maybe…maybe he was just another cat Mrs Figg had saved, in her eyes. Her words had most certainly not been directed towards a child, but towards an abused feline. Besides, if she had even the slightest inkling of Harry being a human, she most definitely would not have placed him in a cage.

A wave of relief washed upon Harry. He hadn't been discovered…yet. He would have to play his act well, then. Mrs Figg was a squib, yes, but she probably had magical items in her house—who knew if they could detect him? And as much as the raven-haired youth wished to remain here, he would have to leave the moment his magic level stabilized. She would (if not, Albus) inevitably realize Harry's absence, be it by the Dursley's proclamation or her quiet observation. It would not due to allow her to notice the similar dates of Harry's departure and her finding of this strange black cat.

Harry could not stay. It was that simple. But he would be able to remain for a day or so, receiving her care. Mrs Figg would not leave an injured cat unattended, Harry knew. She was like that. As batty as she seemed, she was a good person at heart—that much had shone true during Order meetings and other occasions. Harry would do well to heal under her gaze, and then quietly slip away. He was sure her cats were probably mostly strays which she had adopted—they all certainly seemed jumpy enough back in his past life, now that he thought about it.

Before he could continue his train of thought, the door before him opened to reveal Mrs Figg and another person.

A man.

The newcomer had longish and shaggy, wheat-yellow hair with a few gray streaks and two dark brown eyes. So dark, in fact, they seemed to be pure ebony. His face was sharp and aristocrat-ish, but he had a bit of a stubble on his chin and his nose was a bit crooked, as if it had been broken several times. His eyes were slightly feminine-like, with long lashes—he was quite handsome. He had a nice-looking wild appearance, slightly wolfish (like Sirius and Remus, in a way), as if he was untamed. The man was wearing a white doctor's coat with a nice shirt underneath and black slacks. He was fairly young for wizard standards, thirty at the very most. He had his hands in his pockets, slightly slouched but tense, as if he was extremely wary of everything and was ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. His gleaming brown eyes were darting around the room, as if searching for something, a slightly feral air to him. His aura was obviously magical, quite powerful at that. He did not radiate the calming presence of Hogwart's Headmaster, nor the imposing one of the Potions Master, but he had a unique one that inspired awe nonetheless.

It was obvious that his magic was hard to contain, for it was almost throbbing in the air, almost palpable in its existence, attempting to escape the powerful man's grasp. Harry was not ashamed to say he was afraid and impressed at this man's awesome force tightly reined.

"Here he is, Dr Armand," Mrs Figg said, indicating at the Animagus in the cage, "It seems as if he's been abused, quite badly at that. He shied away from me."

It was as if Mrs Figg was completely unaware of Doctor Armand's power, for she did not seem to acknowledge that his magic that was literally oozing out of him. Harry growled menacingly when he felt the man's magic prod his mental shields, heaving the rest of the available magic he could use to block the man's attempt. Dr Armand seemed surprised for a moment, and a flicker of recognition passed his eyes as well as suspicion, but it quickly disappeared.

"Where did you find this particular stray?" He asked politely, but his voice was friendly.

It seemed as if he was in good terms with Mrs Figg. Harry wasn't going to be fooled by that—this man was a warrior, a soldier. He was no ordinary muggle doctor—that much was clear. A far cry from muggle, actually. This 'Dr Armand' was not necessarily a threat, but his raw power reminded Harry of Voldemort, and he did not like that at all. Mad-Eye Moody's advice of CONSTANT VIGILANCE was screaming in his head, and he would be damned if he would be caught unaware again. It had cost him his life once, and he was not willing tempt fate again for a long time, hopefully.

"Sleeping in an alley. I found him when coming home from shopping. Poor little guy—you can tell he's had it rough."

Dr Armand nodded, "Shall I examine his injuries?"

"Yes, yes," Mrs Figg said, "But do be careful. I was afraid of moving him because of his injuries. That's why I called you."

"That's alright, I'm always happy to help any animal in need," the man said, and approached the panther cub's cage. Harry hissed and spat, backing up until he hit the wall, growling menacingly. He didn't know who this man was, or which side he supported, but his aura was just screaming DANGER and Harry wasn't going to ignore his instincts. It wasn't exactly menacing, but not soothing either. He was not calmed by the man's easy smile—more like disturbed. When the cage door opened and the man's hand reached in, Harry snarled and lunged forward with the swiftness of a predator, sinking his sharp teeth deep into Armand's unprotected fingers.

The man didn't even flinch.

"Quite fierce, this little one is," Dr Armand murmured, as if amused by the little panther's antics. Harry bristled in anger, gnawing on the three fingers he held in his mouth, emerald green meeting chocolate black. It was as if sparks were flying.

Mrs Figg crouched beside the doctor, her eyes worried, "He's very underfed and has several broken bones and open wounds. Do you think you can heal him?"

"With pleasure," Armand said pleasantly, extracting the small Animagus easily without a spare look at his mauled fingers still in Harry's grip, "Do you mind if I take him back to my home? He is a rather…special case. I'm sure you understand."

"Of course," the woman agreed immediately (tooquickly in Harry's opinion, but he was far too busy attempting to wriggle out of the veterinarian's firm hold without disturbing his injuries to pay further attention), "God knows I have too many pets myself to be able to take care of a sickly one like him. You will take care of him, though?"

"Of course Arabella," the doctor said, mock insulted, "Who do you think of me as?"

Arabella Figg laughed good-naturedly, and then nodded again, "Very well. He does seem like a rather strange cat, though, doesn't he? I didn't identify his species."

"Yes," the man echoed, a shadow of a dark smile on his handsome face, "Quite the queer feline…"

Suddenly, without warning, Dr Armand's aura flared again and his magic rammed through Harry's feeble defenses, plowing strait into his mind, suggesting SLEEP rather forcefully.

Harry was out like a light before he could register his shock.

°°°

The seven year old woke up with on a soft surface with a groan that came out as a strangled moan from his feline mouth. He shook his black head, whimpering as pain spread through his limbs. He hated waking up hurt—it made him feel defenseless and utterly weak. His magic was still recovering from the earlier assault to his mind, but it was also still healing his body, which made him sigh in relief. Recently, Harry had been using too much of his magical reserve. In his past life, he never would've dared to reach such close level of exhaustion. Even with his magic doubled—no, tripled—he was having trouble.

It was rather pathetic.

He blamed it on his small body and rash actions.

After several seconds of musing, he snapped back into total awareness, all traces of grogginess disappearing in a flash. Harry looked at his new surroundings with caution, memories of the strange doctor coming back to him. If his intuition was to be trusted, this man was too powerful for him—even at his fully magical and healthy state, it would prove to be a challenge to best this particular wizard. His best chance was to heal up as fast as he could and escape, like he'd planned to do at Mrs Figg's house.

He was currently not in a cage but on a small bed. This new room was a dark navy, heavy curtains blocking out the large windows to his left, filtering in very little light. The room was strangely devoid of anything other than open space, the ground similar to the dungeon stone floor at Hogwarts, yet it was not cold. There was a beautifully carved wooden door indicating the only possible exit, but it was clearly locked. He knew he was no longer in familiar territory—this entire house literally stank with Dark magical influence, making the hairs at the back of his neck spring up unexpectedly.

His luck really was a bitch.

Once again, his concentration was broken when the door to his new prison opened up with an almost inaudible creak. Dr Armand stepped in, no longer garbed with his veterinarian clothing. Rather, he was wearing long, regal black robes lined with dull maroon and silver, beautiful patterns etched into the cloth. The robe had a high collar with a silver clasp, a brilliant ruby gem in the middle. He was wearing dragon hide boots with many silver buckles, a wand holster clearly on his right leg, around his thigh. His shoulder-long yellow hair was gathered up in a loose ponytail, his brown eyes shadowed with a deep emotion the Animagus could not comprehend. He was wearing formal pants under his robes and a tucked white undershirt with red-and-silver designs, accenting his overall look.

Harry was pleased to note that the man's hand was wrapped with bandages, where he had bitten him. Ha, he thought, rather childishly. Serves you right.

"Ah, I see you have finally awoken, little one."

Harry only growled in response, shifting uneasily, knowing he would easily be bested in his current state. He could not reveal himself, either, for that would inevitably put him in a position he would rather avoid. Who knew how this man would respond to seeing Harry-bloody-Potter, the Fucking-Boy-Who-Lived? Especially since Harry was technically only seven years old, thus showing brilliant potential just by being able to transform into his Animagus form…

This just keeps getting better and better, the panther thought, angry with himself for his blatant carelessness. CONSTANT VIGILLANCE! Moody's familiar quote rang out in his head, the voice of his former battle mentor coming back to him momentarily. Have you learned utterly NOTHING, boy?

"Well?" The man said, as if expecting something. He was slouched, his hands in his robe pockets, standing casually. Yet his eyes were still gleaming in anticipation, making Harry uneasy. He didn't know what this man wanted…what was he waiting for? It was understandable that the man had been surprised at seeing a black panther (surely he must've realized by now that this feline was no housecat or regular stray), but why was he talking to Harry as if he was waiting for him to respond? Was he a Beast-Speaker or something?

"Take your time," Dr Armand said, grinning, obviously amused, "There's no rush."

What does he want? Harry snarled in his mind, still confused.

The man whistled innocently, looking at the cautious animal before him calmly. After several seconds of silence, he sighed, exasperated.

"Come on now, little one," he stated, his eyes boring into Harry's, "I know you're an Animagus. Show yourself already."

Harry froze at that statement.

Oh shit.

He'd been caught.

Harry began to panic, his eyes widening to an impossible degree. SHIT! This was it. This was the end. His short-lived escape had been of no use. He couldn't use his magic, he had too little of it left. He couldn't even Slide from one end of the room to the other. The Dark magic around him was also tiring him out, as he was unused to such thickness. He couldn't believe it had ended so easily.

He learned one thing that instant—no matter how powerful you may be, you're only human. And Harry cursed his mortality.

Head hung low, Harry allowed himself to shift back into his human body, shivering slightly at the cold that entered his now furless skin, biting back another moan from the white-hot searing pain that was making his nerves scream. He knew he shouldn't've used up all of his magic…he needed to heal. He was shaking with fear and helplessness, frustrated at his own weakness…his own stupidity.

How could he have allowed himself to get captured so easily? Had his stay with Voldemort taught him absolutely nothing? What if this wizard was truly Dark? What if he died now? Would his second chance at existence be wasted so vainly?

"How old are you, lad?" the man asked gently, but Harry was not fooled. He was obviously acting.

So he held his silence.

"Cat got your tongue?" Dr Armand asked; his voice was still irritatingly amused.

"Actually, I snacked on it yesterday," Harry all but snarled, sarcasm obvious. His voice was a bit hoarse, however.

The man laughed easily, stepping forward, closer to the boy. Harry instinctively flinched, as if waiting to be struck. If Armand noticed, he said nothing. Slowly, he allowed a bit of his magic to once again prod Harry's magical barrier, curious. This time, however, he did not force it. He didn't need to, really. The seven-year-old's magic was far too exhausted to properly recreate a formidable shield, allowing Armand to easily come into his mind.

"Will you fucking stop that?" Harry hissed, green eyes flashing in anger. He was scared and cornered—he was acting solely in his defense. He was vaguely sure this man was a Dark Wizard, and that made him all the more wary. Immediately he called upon his countless hours of Occlumency, effectively blanking his mind from this casual intrusion. The man merely raised an eyebrow in surprise, smirking slightly.

Armand chuckled, eyes twinkling—disturbingly similar to Albus's own. "I must admit I'm surprised at your capacity, given your current state. I give you my respect."

Harry didn't even bother to thank the compliment.

"How old are you?" the doctor repeated, still slouched casually, betraying nothing. His magic was now pushing again Harry's own, suggesting words that held power.

Tell me the truth, he seemed to say. Tell me all of your secrets.

"Recently seven," Harry replied after a while of struggling to fight the magical influence, ending in his loss. Physically, only. He was much older in mind and soul.

He grit his teeth in frustration when he realized what he'd said. Armand, this enigma, was powerful. He'd done all of this wandlessly, something Albus Dumbledore had not managed to accomplish after years of vigorous training. Only Severus Snape had ever managed to cast Legilimens on another victim just by eye contact…but even then that was incredibly difficult. Harry was only able to do so because he'd begun younger, and he was training out of necessity. Plus, he had twenty-five years of vigorous training himself. Even then he couldn't easily attack another's mind, especially not a wizard's.

God's sake, he'd had trouble entering Dudley's mind, of all people!

DON'T THINK !His mental alarms suddenly exploded in realization. DON'T THINK—HE'll HEAR YOU ! Harry immediately re-blanked his mind, cursing himself again for his stupid blunders.

"My, my," the man smirked; all traces of gentleness completely erased from his features. "And you're self taught, too? I'm honestly amazed. Congratulations."

"What do you want?" Harry growled, eyes flashing, "What do you want?"

"To take care of you, as I told Arabella. I'm sure you were listening. You seemed rather…active." He gave an amused glance at his bandaged hand, as if it were nothing but just another daily occurrence. For all Harry knew, perhaps it was.

"Fuck off," he spat, backing into the wall, now shaking uncontrollably. "Get away from me." Unbidden, memories of Vernon's various rapes came to his head.

"One has to wonder were you learned such language," Armand said, but respectfully took a step back, sensing the boy's distress, "And where you gained such strength. What's your name?"

Harry would not reveal his birth name. He knew Armand would eventually attack his mind if he did not answer, so he gathered up his wits and spoke.

"Evan Thatcher," Harry said, truthfully. It was his name, in a way; it was the name he'd planned living by full-time after he rid the world of one Tom Riddle.

If Armand sensed the boy's lies, he said nothing. He merely tilted his head forward in acknowledgement. "Very well. I am Augustus Armand, though my real last name is none of your concern. As you are obviously aware by now due to the type of wards surrounding my house and this room, yes, I am a Dark Wizard."

Harry stiffened. He had suspected, but to hear it said so blatantly, it put him on the edge of hysteria. He couldn't stay here, especially not after being caught. Shit. His heart was doing flips in his chest, beating several miles per hour, like a rabbit's. He was, to put it simply, scared shitless. He'd faced Voldemort and torture, but his current body and mind were being taken over by his seven-year-old consciousness. If he was afraid of Uncle Vernon, he was terrified of this man.

"I am vastly proficient in the Dark Arts, probably equally so to the late Dark Lord. I assume you were aware of him, judging by your state. By the way, yes, to your next question. I served under the Dark Lord as a Death Eater in my youth."

Triple fuck.

Harry didn't even bother to hide his shock. Oh yes, he was in deep shit. Caught by a Death Eater, defenseless and in the enemy's lair. Brillaint. Bloody fucking-tastic brilliant. He slid to the floor, trying desperately to Slide away in vain, ignoring the pain from his broken ankle and ribs. He closed his eyes, biting back tears. He couldn't summon his Gryffindor courage anymore, it had all melted away. He wasn't eager to die at all. He didn't want to die, damnit! He'd been given a second chance…another attempt at his life…and he'd screwed up.

Again.

"Don't have a breakdown here, please," the man said, wrinkling his nose in distaste, "I don't particularly want to deal with sobbing children. I'm not good with kids. Animals yeah, but kids, definite no-no. Oh come on, for Merlin's sake! I'm not going to kill you. Stop crying!"

Harry stiffened his sobs, but could not hide the shaking of his thin shoulders. His currently dull emerald eyes were glazed with defeat. He felt suddenly ashamed. He'd promised he'd die standing—and he had, in a way. But now he was once again facing his fate, and he was sobbing pitifully on the floor? No. He forced himself to stand, suddenly determined. The last time he'd stood still and waited his destiny, he'd died. He wouldn't allow that.

He had to save the Wizarding World.

He wouldn't fail again.

In a sudden burst of strength, Harry tore at full speed, heading towards the open door. He vaguely registered Armand's slightly shocked gaze, as if he hadn't expected that. Well fuck him! He wasn't going to stay here and wait for his end. He wouldn't die now! Not now!

Just before he was about to reach the opening, the door slammed shut. He smacked into the closed doorway and was jerked back onto his ass, howling at the pain that tore at his senses due to his numerous injuries.

"Whoa, whoa. Where do you think you're going?"

"LET ME GO!" Harry roared, leaping back onto his feet and began pounding on the door with his unbroken hand, summoning all of the energy he had available, needing to escape! "LET ME GO YOU BASTARD! Alohomora! ALOHOMORA!"

It was no use. The door would not budge.

"And what makes you think I will comply to your wishes?"

Harry turned around, eyes flashing in anger and fear, "Why won't you let me go?" He rasped out, feeling suddenly very weak and tired.

"Why do you wish to escape?"

Harry slumped down on the floor again, curling into a ball, whimpering as his broken ribs shifted within him. He liked to do that when Vernon was angry; he could protect his vital organs that way. "Because that's all I have left," he croaked out finally, and was ashamed to find out that tears were running down his face. This was all so useless. No matter how long he ran, Voldemort would always catch him in his worst moment. Even now, a totally different dimension apart, Death Eaters roamed and searched for him, attempting to bring him back to their bodiless Master.

Although Harry couldn't see it, Armand was looking at his captive closely.

"Very well," Armand said finally.

Harry blinked, opening his eyes. They held disbelief. "…what?"

"Very well," the doctor said and waved his hand, opening the door with an inaudible mutter, "Feel free to leave. I will be in the kitchen, preparing myself a meal. I, unlike you, take care of myself."

The emerald-eyed child stared incredulously, disbelieving, as the strange Dark mage causally walked over his body and out the door. Suddenly, he paused and turned around. "Oh, and, Ferula. (A/N: According to HP Lexicon, that spell was used to conjure a splint and bandages). That's for your wrist and ribs—don't move it for a while, okay? And try not to go into your Animagus form while wrapped with bandages. Alvio Gnora. That was a pain-coping spell, sort of like muggle Morphine, though no dizziness. I do recommend that you avoid over-exerting any of your injuries despite not feeling pain. Nothing can be healed instantly, you know." Just as quickly, he swiveled on his heel and disappearing around the corner, presumably towards the kitchen.

Harry felt a comfortable numbness wrap around him, warmth encompassing his hurt form. His bones were still broken, but otherwise, he was free to move with much less pain. He blinked, utterly taken aback. He hadn't even been able to react towards the magic—no wand had been pointed at him, either. He felt compelled to thank the man, but his paranoia and logic was telling him it was a blatant trap.

It's a trick, his mind screamed. It's a bloody deception! He'd probably only been heal so he would survive whatever mad tortures the man might come up with later, out of sick pleasure… And no enemy—be it Light or Dark—would allow their captive to leave so easily.

Oh.

Of course. Harry was free to leave—only if he found the exit. And, considering his current magical predicament, his chance of getting away and living was practically zero. He had no idea of the Dark magic that was protecting the house, nor what would happen if he left the wards. Would he be killed? If he had any hostile intentions, would he be attacked? Hogwarts' wards had been very complex, yet none of them had any trace of Dark magic that he could detect. He had no idea how to deal with this new situation.

He'd best just pronounce himself dead already.

That man…he wore the Dark Mark, practiced the Dark Arts and openly pronounced himself quite good at them…yet let Harry Potter escape. Voldemort hasn't regrouped his Death Eaters yet, Harry reminded himself. He was sure the man hadn't been fooled by Harry's fake name, maybe thrown a little off course, but not for long. Harry thanked his longish hair (he'd managed to escape Aunt Petunia's scissors for several months now) that covered his scar, but he knew that small protection would not last. And it really sucked that he couldn't shift back into his Evan Thatcher body from his Animagus form…he'd have to look into that.

If he came out alive, that is.

Augustus Armand…it rang no bell in Harry's head. Perhaps he hadn't been existent in the other dimension…? Or maybe it's not his real name. Harry could've slapped himself. A year or so with no Death Eater attacks and he'd grown soft. Where was his tact? Where was his logic? He was the Commander, dammit! Get your act together, he snarled at himself. He wouldn't die like an idiot, not again.

And he'd broken down in front of the enemy! Just what the hell was wrong with him?

Enough rambling, the voice in his head told him sharply. Find a way out.

Yes.

That was what he would do. Getting onto his shaky legs again, unconsciously thanking the man for healing his torn ankle and saving him a good deal of pain, he stood, glancing at the open doorway suspiciously. He crossed the hall that lay beyond with even further caution, knowing he was defenseless at all sides without his weapons or magic. He was good at martial arts and muggle street fighting, which he'd picked up over the years, but he was exhausted. He couldn't deny it. He wouldn't last without rest for much further.

Out of the pan and into the fray.

In a way, he'd run from the Dursley's to escape personal harm, only to end up with a possibly worse situation. Brilliant.

With one last sigh, he slammed up his Occlumency shields after noticing them dwindling (they thankfully took no magic, only concentration—too bad Harry was not nearly as good at Occlumency as Severus or Albus…or any well-trained Occlumens, at that) in case Armand was out there attempting to get into his mind inconspicuously (plus, it helped to keep his mind blank in tough situations like this) and quietly half-stumbled half-jogged into the unknown territory, using his instincts as his guide. This mansion was extremely similar to Grimmauld Place, except it was darker and a bit more confusing.

The walls of the hallways were dreary, like Hogwarts' dungeons, except they had portraits of wizards and paintings. To Harry's great surprise, he found muggle paintings here and there. Who would've thought a Dark wizard would keep muggle artwork so openly and in display? Perhaps it was his way of being discreet and out of Ministry detection. No one would suspect a Death Eater if they saw muggle works in their humble abode.

Harry had no doubt this was a mansion. It was, simply stated, enormous. Curiously, it seemed everything was on one floor (at least, he hadn't found any stairs or anything leading elsewhere). In Grimmauld Place, there had been several levels and quite a few secret passageways. Here, everything was shown and on display…apparently no rooms were locked, either. Everything was…too perfect in it's attempt to not hide anything. The Dark magic was blatantly humming in the air, thick and leeching. It was as if Armand had absolutely nothing to hide—when he should. Magic so Dark like this was bound to be obvious to anyone who came remotely near this house…or perhaps it was under Fidelius or something similar?

There was no house elves that he'd encountered as of yet. The whole place was rather dank and lonely, but not unused. The whole mansion was obviously in constant use, but there seemed as if no living being had ever really stopped to clean thoroughly (or maybe he'd been hanging around with Mrs Weasley far too long). Somewhat dusty here and there, but nothing too extreme. Nothing like Grimmauld when they'd first gotten there. There was no boggarts or other Dark creature that inhabited the place. Still, there was a persistent aura of…something. It was nagging, but not obtrusive. It was like a sort of sadness

The thirty-two year old in the seven-year old body was growing tired. He found no exit, no trace of anything remotely like a way out. No secret passageways, either. All the rooms he'd entered were unused bedrooms, study halls or small libraries (he'd been surprised when he'd found that there was no one collective library. Several rooms were dedicated to shelves and shelves of books, but they weren't huge. All in all, there was probably a bit more books than at Grimmauld place, or perhaps Hogwarts' library). He'd even stumbled across a training chamber filled with sort of wizard 'machines' that he'd once trained under himself in his past life. Though he'd yet to see a room with any trace of Dark artifacts that were so obviously palpitating in the air…

He'd grown somewhat curious, despite his instincts. Armand's mansion hid nothing—all the Dark influence was obvious, as was the few Neutral and Light spells here and there. Nothing was openly hostile to him, or jumping out of the blue to attack him. There were surprises, but none that would harm him. They were mostly surprises out of the fact that Harry hadn't been expecting them out of a Dark wizard.

Who really would've considered that such an incredibly powerful Dark wizard was hiding in plain view--literally? With a convincing job and identity in the muggle world, too, as well as wizard-related friends. Apparently, this Dr Armand had no fear of walking among people who could be magically inclined, despite his own blatant magical strength. His aura was practically screaming his power level. How could've he lived without discovery for so long…? Any respectable wizard could've identified his massive power with an inconspicuous glance.

Who exactly was this Augustus Armand?

°°°

Unknown to Harry, at that same exact moment, Armand was thinking the same thing. He was actually incredibly curious to who this child was—his potential power was practically radiating in the air. He'd managed to identify he was an Animagus almost instantly, especially after his mental prod had been warded against professionally. This supposedly seven-year old brat was brilliant. He apparently knew some spells, too, judging by the shouted Alohomora.

And the kid knew basic Occlumency! That was a rare feat, especially for one so young.

Armand was not an idiot. He knew this 'Evan' was not who he told him he was. But he would not pry. He just wasn't like that. The squirt was also aware of the Dark Lord and his fellow Death Eaters, for he'd reacted very violently. Perhaps Evan was of a wizarding family, Dark at that? He might've ran away after disagreeing with the Dark magic policy most Death Eater families passed onto their children. But no…somehow he was just sure this kid had not grown up anywhere remotely near magic. He was pretty sure Evan was self-taught. Even if all evidence pointed elsewhere…

Simply, the aura surrounding the kid was strange.

It was as if he was always wary, waiting for something to strike. He'd noticed he'd flinched away from him when he'd mentioned 'taking care'. Arabella had noted the so-called 'cat' she'd found was obviously abused. He too could see the signs. He'd managed to catch pieces of memories floating around Evan's head, but otherwise, his every attempt had been almost subconsciously blocked out. It was frightening, in a way, to think of a mere child so powerful.

But it was also a whole new level filled with potential.

Armand felt compelled to teach the kid the Dark Arts. Regardless of the world's reaction to it, the Dark Arts were only called 'Dark' only because they first drained the caster enormously and had wildly destructive effects if handled that way. They could be wielded much easier because one's intentions did not necessarily have to be very good. If they were used wisely, though, the Dark Arts were a priceless addition to knowledge. Corruption was easy with the Dark, yes, but it was also that way with political power. It was inevitable that humans desire more wealth, position, and authority. It is merely human nature. The only true difference with magical corruption in general was that the Dark Arts had 'turned' more individuals into 'evil' than Light magic, hence being labeled as illegal.

He would not deny he was a Dark wizard. He was proud of it, in his own way. It was the fruit of his labours, his toils, everything he'd done in life.

Nor would he deny the horrors he'd achieved with his power, or his rampage of death when Voldemort had been alive. He was, despite his feelings, not ashamed of what he'd done. It had helped him see all views in the First War, all sorts of perspectives. He was still alive and well, due to his survival skills.

He absently sipped his coffee.

Evan intrigued him. He was so much like him when he was young. Oh yes—he'd been powerful. Far too much for a child to handle unknowingly. He'd developed his ability personally, for his parents had feared him and his potential. Though he had never possessed the raw magic Evan had. He'd just had the books, his wand, and a hell lot of time. He'd been older than the kid, too.

Speaking of which…

He wondered where the brat was now. He knew the Thatcher kid wouldn't last for long—it had been obvious he'd been running on fumes for some time. He'd probably be out like a light once more if he suggested the 'Sleep' thought in his head again. People were ridiculously easy to read—strangely enough, though, Evan had been expressionless for most of his 'interrogation'. And how the heck had the kid managed to become an Animagus? It usually took several years of training with someone as a mentor, let alone doing it on your own.

He was an enigma.

But an enigma Armand intended to figure out.

°°°

Harry had been wandering for close to two hours now, and he was utterly confused. The mansion was by no means innocent, but he was nonetheless upset when somehow he found himself back to where he'd started—the room where he'd woken up. He was aware of the existence of special wards—probably the Dark form of those wards, considering—that allowed the caster of the spell to keep a person inside a given area by inconspicuously making the entire place a maze of sorts, confusing the person who's walking by making such subtle changes that they don't notice they're in reality walking in circles. He'd been subject to them when he was prisoner to Voldemort, before he'd died—so in case he ever managed to escape the numerous curses on him, he wouldn't have enough time to decipher the Containment wards to sneak away from the general building.

It was infuriating.

All of these subtle signs of obvious Dark magic at work were making him recall bad memories. Very bad, traumatic memories.

In the name of a mad Dark wizard and the utter genocide of all non-pure blood he'd lost so much, so much. It was as if Armand was mocking him by leaving him here, dazed and powerless, in a house filled with Dark magic. It made him remember Sirius, Ron, Hermione, Dumbledore…all of those who died to protect him and fight against Voldemort. He had nothing more to lose except himself. He couldn't handle being held prisoner again—it would break him this time. Especially since his emotions were erratic, due to his small body. Although his mind had countless years of handling his own outward appearance, his seven-year old self did not. He could not instantly come back to his old habits.

And he hated that little fact.

He found himself feeling quite drowsy, once he stopped and thought about it. At first, he'd thought it had been Armand's manipulations, but now he knew that it was his own power dwindling again. It had flared unexpectedly with renewed strength when he'd attempted to escape, but the last time he'd eaten and rested well had been several hours past—perhaps even a day. His stomach was empty again, and his body was protesting his every step.

Harry wondered when he'd become so weak.

Certainly he did not expect to be as powerful as he had been in his twenty-five year old body, but he had never realized that the reason why Hogwarts only accepted children beyond the age of eleven was the mere fact that their magic just could not be wielded correctly with their underage body. Now this little annoyance had slapped him in the face and declared him a total idiot. He was a strong child—stronger than most full-grown wizards—but he was still a child nonetheless. His body, despite the years at the Dursley's to condition himself to the pain, was not yet used to such toil. He would end up killing himself like this.

It was a scary thought.

Where is the damn exit? He wondered, frustrated. He was tired and his defenses were pathetically low—the helplessness was once again creeping into his skin, out of fatigue. His stomach clenched inside of himself, indicating his hunger. Harry, due to the necessity of not making any noise whatsoever, had conditioned his body to respond silently, so his stomach did not growl. He was thankful for having such control over his supposedly involuntary responses, because Uncle Vernon would always beat him when he made any sort of complaint—even an unintentional one.

Uncle Vernon isn't here anymore, his consciousness reminded him. You're free. Or at least as free as you can be…which is not much.

He would never be free, not really.

Harry was a bird trapped in an invisible cage. After flying blindly in the same direction for so long, it was inevitable that he slam into the bars.

°°°

Armand sighed into his drink. The kid was still wandering around somewhere in the guest level (as he put it), probably. He checked with the wards—yes, the brat still hadn't managed to break the curse. Not that he'd expected him to…well; he'd had meager hopes. He was sure the squirt would be able to drop the mild Dark wards easily if he was well rested. A general knowledge of the Dark Arts would be handy as well. Too bad he was so reluctant. Actually…

He might be able to show Evan a lesson that way, now that he thought about it.

He didn't have the same cruel humour Voldemort had, and did not exactly enjoy watching the poor kid wander around like a demented bug. He heaved another sigh and stood up gracefully. He couldn't stop the smirk coming to his face as he considered what he was about to do. Ah well, it would teach the brat the wonders of the Dark while forcing him to admit that perhaps it wasn't so bad after all.

The man was aware of the prejudice against the Dark, even though he himself had never held such petty follies. And, in his defense, he was not 'corrupting' the child.

He was merely…ah…nudging him in the right direction.

°°°

Harry growled, utterly frustrated. Back again! This was hilarious, really. General Potter, Commander, etc. etc…lost in a building. A Dark-warded one, yes, but he was as free as he would ever get, with no obvious threats. Why was he walking in circles? And were in the seven hells was that annoying Dr Armand? He'd like to give the man a piece of his mind!

He stopped, and leaned against the wall. Slowly, he took a deep breath. Calm yourself, Potter, he told himself. He felt on the verge of throwing a tantrum—but that merely reminded him of Dudley, which caused him to shudder in disgust. He paused in his thinking, looking up at the ceiling. He was mildly surprised to notice it was charmed, reflecting a dark night sky with stars twinkling here and there. It reminded him nostalgically of Hogwarts for a few moments, before anger towards Dumbledore for leaving him with the Dursley's returned. He felt so battered, so broken…all he'd ever been in his life was a soldier, trained subtly since he was very young to fight and face dangerous situations.

Harry was quite sure Dumbledore had noted Quirell's obvious darkness—the signs were inevitable. Yet he'd allowed everything to continue, seemingly oblivious, allowing an eleven-year old boy to rise to his name and banish the evil that he could've so easily done himself. Second year—the Chamber of Secrets, whispered blames behind his back. Albus had access to a huge library, including many books from the Founder's. The Chamber of Secrets' entrance had to be mentioned somewhere there. Still, he shoved his Golden Gryffindor into the fire and let him almost die, but still return victorious. Fourth year, fifth year, six and seventh…the numerous tests laid beyond him in his school years were so painfully obvious now…had it all been one great scheme?

Albus was manipulative, that much was for sure.

Few people knew the Headmaster had been a very cunning Slytherin back in his time—the rest assumed he'd been either a Gryffindor or a Ravenclaw, the former being the most supposed. He hid behind a mask of a jolly old man who loved socks and lemon drops…but then again, Harry himself hid behind the thick mantle himself.

A sudden fondness for the old man came into Harry's heart.

Dumbledore had only done what he'd thought was best for the whole. Like Harry and his numerous titles that hung over him like a thick drape, Albus Dumbledore too had many expectations looming over him. He was the only wizard ever feared by Voldemort (before Harry became part of that hit-list, too), defeater of Grindelwald in the nineteen-forties, Headmaster of a brilliant school, partner of Nicolas Flamel in the co-creation of the Sorcerer's Stone, discoverer of the twelve uses of Dragon Blood…This single one-man army, so very powerful and the very epitome of light…

In a way, Harry and Albus were very similar. Harry inevitably had moments of weakness where he very much blamed the old man for his mistakes…but he also understood the reasons behind them. Harry had to be a weapon—his predestined fate had shoved him into that predicament before he was even born. He was cursed the moment the damned prophecy was spouted from Trelawny's lips. Naturally, to keep his unwilling pawn alive, Dumbledore had trained him to become a cold killing machine—it was understandable.

Harry had forgiven Albus for his mistakes a long time ago—the moment he truly accepted what he had to become—but that did not mean he had to like them.

The child was so deep in thoughts that he didn't notice Armand creeping up beside him.

"Hard at thinking?"

Harry jumped into action, years of training lodged deeply into his subconscious. He whirled around, a shouted spell already on his lips—

"Whoa! Calm down!" Armand said, leaping to one side and dropping into a defensive position to avoid the curse flung his way. "Don't do that unless you want me to beat the crap out of you!"

Harry was breathing raggedly, eyes wide. "Don't sneak up one me, then!" he snarled back, heaving in gasping breaths, trying to calm his beating heart.

Armand calmed, returning to his slouched position and relaxing minutely, "I apologize." He said sincerely, "I noted your were still within the mansion and I supposed you were hungry after wandering around."

The boy blinked. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why?" he rasped out then, "Why are you…doing this?"

He gave out a barking laugh that reminded Harry painfully of his late godfather. "Must people have reason behind all action? Can they not do something out of charity?"

"Your generosity is enlightening," Harry retorted. "I fear for your more unwelcome guests."

Smirking, the veterinarian inclined his head, "Touché."

They stood in neutral silence for a few minutes, not exactly uncomfortable. They sized each other up formally now, still on guard but considerably more relaxed. Harry gathered up the information he knew about this man—name? Augustus Armand, but he was sure that was not his true, wizard-born name. Age? Unknown, but perhaps thirty or so. Looks can be deceiving, Harry reminded himself. He himself was living proof, after all. Magical status? Dark, very powerful. Still, he hadn't attacked yet—but who knew how he'd react to finding out he had Harry Potter in his grasp? And how would Harry escape if Armand didn't want him to leave? Damn…

"Well," Armand said finally, quite casually, "Are you up to a meal? I am sure you are ravenous, after all that…exercise."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Harry snorted, "Take no offense, but I am quite paranoid and would rather not eat anything from your grand…hospitality. Who knows what tricks you might have up your sleeve? As much as I wish I was, I have no immunity towards Veritaserum, nor do I have any desire to be interrogated." He cursed sharply inside his head a few seconds after saying that—he was acting like the military leader he had been, not like the homeless kid he was supposed to be.

"My, my," the man raised an eyebrow, "Truly you are a very interesting young…child." He chuckled slightly, "Nevertheless, I did promise Arabella your safety and ensured your return to health. Perhaps you would feel more inclined to staying in your Animagus form while eating…? I certainly do not presume to know your eating habits."

"Whoever said I was hungry?" Harry said sharply, "And when did I mention I would stay here willingly?"

"You obviously can't take any more stress, let alone have enough energy or experience to battle me through to the exit while under my gaze. You look quite starved," Armand said bluntly, counting his fingers, "And very much wary of anything that moves. I do not have to enter your mind to know that."

Harry growled, "Don't intrude my mind, my business is my own. Why do you hold me captive here?"

"I can't very well let you roam out into the world, free to spread my secrets, now can I? And I doubt you will last long out there in your predicament. Plus, I'm very sure you don't want me searching your head to obliviate the memory…"

"Don't you even dare," Harry hissed, suddenly afraid. He was weak now. Armand certainly had enough power to rip through all of his memories despite his supposedly powerful Occlumens shield, and had more than enough liberty to obliviate him stupid. Harry himself was in no position to argue—a Dark wizard was holding him prisoner and his only hope was to recover sufficiently enough to make his escape. He had no intents on dying the same way he'd done at Voldemort's…

"Then do not fight me," Armand said simply, "Now come. Or must I force-feed you?"

"Where are we going?" Harry asked warily, eyes shifting from here to there, betraying his edgy state.

"To the kitchen," the man repeated patiently, and turned around, walking briskly in the direction he'd appeared. Harry, after a split-second of arguing with himself, reluctantly trotted after the doctor, aware that he had an advantage since the man's back was turned. Still, he was in absolutely no position to launch an attack…he'd have to analyze the entire situation first before that. He had no idea which individuals inhabited this castle besides Armand. He had no idea where he was, actually. Vaguely, he wondered if he'd tripped the wards or if he was still within them…was Dumbledore in a state of panic right now? Or was he completely unaware?

"Are you a muggle born?" Armand spoke suddenly, gracefully turning corners as if he were born to do so.

"And if I am?" Harry said, stopping in his tracks. That was right…this man was a Dark wizard. He'd most probably be subject to torture, if he knew Death Eater tendencies…

The vet turned around slightly, smirking at Harry's constant indecision, "Do not worry, child. I will not cause you harm for that reason."

"Perhaps not yourself," Harry snapped, eyes alight with distrust, "But someone else?"

"Perhaps," Armand did not deny, "But rest assured I hold no true grudge against those not of pure blood."

"Then why are you a Death Eater?"

The man smile faded a bit, "Why do you think I was one?"

"Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater," Harry snarled fiercely.

"Maybe," was all the wizard said, but his voice was a bit colder.

He continued on with his walk again, subtly shooting a glance over his shoulder to make sure 'Evan' was still behind him. As the two of them walked over now unfamiliar hallways, Harry's mind went to Severus and Draco…he'd just accused them of forever being Death Eaters. He felt suddenly very nauseous. Had he really meant that? Truly? In his first year at Hogwarts, he'd been sort of brainwashed into thinking that all Slytherins were bad by a childish remark…but he'd discovered allies there, gained friends…certainly, not all of them were angels, but neither were all the Gryffindors…

Would he condemn an army of people just because of one decision?

Was he really that narrow minded?

"I'm sorry," Harry found himself apologizing out of the blue.

Armand stopped suddenly, turning around, his face registering one of shock momentarily. Harry felt strangely proud that he'd managed to drop the man's cool façade. "What?"

"I said I'm sorry," the boy said, suddenly reluctant. He dropped his gaze to the floor, berating himself in his stupidity for his outburst. Showing weakness again in front of the enemy! He forced himself to raise his view and locked eyes with this strange man. "For judging you," he added. "But that doesn't mean I'm still not suspicious of you."

Armand grinned, his face suddenly light hearted, "Apology accepted. And I did not expect anything better. Come, young one. Trust is built over time. A day is not sufficient with old assumptions hanging over our heads."

They said nothing for the rest of the several minute trip. Harry took to looking at the halls and memorizing the place, making a mental map of what he'd seen. Overall, he'd been proved wrong in the notion that it was a one-floor mansion. They'd climbed a flight of stairs that he had not noticed before (he supposed that you could only see it if you were aware that it was there). Most of the rooms they passed (which were quite a few, making Harry nervous about the accumulating size of the place) were closed, and only a few allowed the boy to steal glances inside out of the corner of his eye. He was glad when he began to see windows—non-charmed ones, that is—that allowed him to view the outside. His heart dropped when he realized that he could only see darkness and a few trees, as well as the fact that they seemed to be either on the second or third floor…

"Ah, here we are," Armand suddenly announced, muttering a password in what seemed like Anglo-Saxon, revealing a very, very large kitchen. This room was obviously in constant use, for there were jars and other substances everywhere in open disarray. In a rather fancy table there was a nice china cup half-filled with now-cold coffee, the chair slightly pushed back, indicating someone had left abruptly.

"Ah," the man chuckled, dark chocolate eyes twinkling again (and if Harry identified correctly the emotion sparkling within them, the former Death Eater was a bit nervous), "Please excuse the…err…disorder. The house elves are on their day off, and I tend to be rather…messy."

Harry blinked. House elves had days off? He hadn't known that…perhaps it was another variation? After all, this world had to be distinct to his old one, because if not then it wouldn't be a different dimension. He decided not to question the paradoxes implied there, and settled for a small nod.

"That's okay," he said simply, "I'm not very clean myself."

In a way, they were slipping in details of their personal habits to ease the obvious tension. They were strangers and were naturally guarded, for each had their own secrets. But this simple sort of ritual made them more human—they were able to relate and compare each other. With Armand's declaration, they'd crossed the invisible line of hostility and settled for a sort of neutrality. Within no reason where they friends or companions, nor even trustful of each other, but they were no longer completely antagonistic.

With a few flicks of his wrist, pots and pans became instantly cleaned and went into their respectful cabinets. Harry was once again surprised by the fact that Armand had an open jar of muggle peanut butter and jam, allowing him to consider another perspective of this enigma. Armand certainly had no qualms on having obviously muggle things in his home…Harry found himself wondering why he'd chosen to become a Death Eater in his youth. Had he been born into the title and his family forced him into it, like Draco? Had he considered the offer out of a necessity to have revenge, like Severus?

He realized he knew next to nothing about this man.

"What would you like?" Armand asked, after he'd sort of made the kitchen more inhabitable.

Harry narrowed his eyes slightly, "If you'll allow me some liberty, I'm sure I can make my own cooking."

"Very well," he said with a shrug, "But mind you, don't blow up the kitchen. I don't think so, but in case you're used to wizard cooking, you're in for tough luck. I cook the muggle way, I'm afraid."

"There won't be a problem," Harry said coolly, but was inwardly once again taken by surprise. Who'd've really thought it? Truly? In this huge, obviously magical mansion…the only way to have food was to serve your own using muggle contraptions…wait! "Does it run on electricity?" the child asked, curious. "I once read somewhere that electricity will not work near magical places."

"Oh?" Armand said with a raised eyebrow, smiling slightly, "And where did you read this piece of information?"

"Hogwarts, a History," he said automatically. Harry's mouth snapped shut abruptly, realizing he'd just given away the fact that one—he was literate, and two—he had contacted the wizarding world before.

The man chuckled, noting the boy's slip, "Well, I've always been told I was never one to follow the rules." He turned somber, "Actually, during one of my studies, I came across the reason why muggle technology was incapable of working in a magical setting, and accidentally found the theory on how to make both work co-efficiently together. Ever since then I've developed a fondness for electronics."

How many more shocks would this man give Harry? Armand had told him bluntly that he was a Dark wizard, a Death Eater, and then he'd suddenly started spouting off that he held none of the pureblood prejudices and actually had several muggle devices in his own home! Just who the heck was this guy?

Harry's stomach suddenly growled loudly, causing the boy to flinch. He expected to see Vernon screaming at him for being ungrateful…he expected to be struck any moment now…

"Well, enough of my ramblings," Armand said, frowning slightly when the brat hesitated after his abrupt show of hunger, "I take it you are famished?"

The green-eyed child snapped back into reality, vaguely surprised that he hadn't been hit. "A bit," he admitted reluctantly, eyes shifting from here and there…would Aunt Petunia come to berate him because of his lack of gratitude? No, his mind told him. You've left them now, remember?

"When was the last time you ate?"

"Before I slept in the alley I ate a hotdog," Harry said thoughtfully, "Though I don't quite remember how long ago that was."

"Not very long, a day at the most," the man assured Harry, "You do seem to heal remarkably fast, though."

Harry said nothing about that.

"Anyway, it's quite late now. I suggest you tuck in with whatever you'll create for yourself, and then I'll lead you to an appropriate room where you can spend the night."

'Evan' looked up at him, before nodding briefly. He stiffly walked over to the kitchen pantry, grabbing the more familiar open peanut butter and jam jars, as well as two pieces of bread. He was in no mood to eat something extravagant, nor did he know were most of the things were. It was better to eat something simple, something that was more muggle and less likely to be poisoned (it was already open, so it probably hadn't been tampered with beforehand). He also spied a clean glass and filled it with tap water from the sink, still slightly shocked at the muggle appliances despite the obvious magical house.

His actions spoke volumes of his trust, for his back was turned to Armand. Harry had done this because, well for one, he couldn't exactly hold an eye to his captive forever, and two, it wasn't as if he could defend himself any better if he was facing the guy face-to-face. He would simply have to trust the former Death Eater, reluctantly of course, but there was no other way. His life lay in the hands of this man, if he liked it or not.

"Good choice," Armand commented casually, heading over to the table and grabbing his coffee cup, unceremoniously dropping the rest of the contents down the sink.

Harry said nothing. He was struggling a bit because of his height (which he cursed even more now than in his past life) but nonetheless managed to construct a nice peanut butter and jelly sandwich, after making very sure that he could sniff out no substance. He would simply have to take the risk. Mad-Eye would've been appalled…he would've started ranting on about trusting Death Eaters and their intentions…

But there was no choice.

Harry decided to remain standing (near the exit) just in case Armand had any notion of attack. Said man casually took a seat, facing Harry with a brand new cup of coffee in his two hands, steaming in front of him. The child was deeply disturbed at how similar this man's eyes and Dumbledore's own twinkled…

"As you have probably foreseen," Augustus Armand said bluntly, "I will have to question you."

"I reserve the right to remain silent," Harry said sharply, eyes flashing. He was aware of his predicament, and knew that he had no hopes of keeping this guy out of his head if he truly wanted answers. But perhaps they could hold a truce…maybe he could weasel his way out of the questions…? "I do hope you will have the courtesy of remaining outside of my head, as it is only proper etiquette."

Harry hadn't been very polite when he'd driven into Aunt Petunia's mind, but she was muggle and there were many loopholes in the law. To delve into another wizard's mind uninvited or unwanted…well that was quite illegal.

And very rude.

"Very well, I accept these terms," he said, smirking slightly, "Though I would appreciate some answers most of the time. Oh and, don't bother lying. I'm quite talented at recognizing lies."

The subtle threat was clear.

"Well, Evan Thatcher, how did you ever manage to become an Animagus? At your age, too."

"Necessity," Harry said truthfully, but revealed nothing else.

Armand nodded, accepting this response. "I will not ask about your home life, or if you even had one, but I am curious as to know your blood status."

Harry knew this was a trick question, of sorts. If he lied and said he was pureblood, the man would certainly look for records of a missing child or perhaps a disowned one. If he admitted he was halfblood, he might run the same procedures. If he said he was a muggle born (Mudblood, Draco Malfoy's childish voice came to mind. He'd called Hermione that in their first year, back when the dragon was a spoiled, pampered brat…) it wasn't technically a lie, but the man would sense the untruthfulness instantly.

It'll all be ruined if he sees my scar, Harry reminded himself. That is, if he hadn't seen it already…

"Halfblood," he said shortly. He paused, thoughts racing in his head as he took another bite out of his sandwich. "Runaway," he confessed softly after chewing in contemplation, "From a magical-hating muggle home."

Armand looked at Harry in sympathy, but it quickly disappeared seeing the child's fierce facial expression. The kid obviously didn't want pity.

"Where did you learn the spell 'Alohomora'? I bet you are quite adequate at other spells, by the looks of your experience."

Harry blinked. And blinked again. He looked down to avoid eye contact (because that helped Legilimency) and calmly remained silent. After a minute, the doctor began to shrug when the seven-year old spoke up. "A friend taught it to me," Harry said suddenly, looking up. "Dead now."

Too true. (Hermione, his heart clenched painfully). His fault.

Armand nodded. He looked suddenly thoughtful. "Do you hate the Dark?" he asked, almost innocently.

Harry looked at the man incredulously, and then stopped to think. He didn't know exactly how to respond to that, though he was certainly aware of what the man was asking.

"I do not fear it," he responded carefully. "I don't…hate it, exactly…I do, however, very much hate certain individuals who are involved with it…but I am not afraid of it."

"An adequate answer," the man accepted, tilting his head forward. "And that is all that I am going to ask you today. I take it you dearly need sleep?"

Harry remained stubbornly silent, but did not deny it. Armand chuckled, amused, "Well, come with me. I will lead you to your temporary room. We will discuss further tomorrow, concerning your stay here. I will not come into your chambers until you wake—the charming house elf Sotty will inform me when you are awake. I unfortunately must place several locking charms on your door to prevent you from leaving. Although I'm quite sure you won't be able to get away, I don't want to have you running around the House without my knowledge. Do you understand, Evan Thatcher?"

The boy looked up with narrow eyes, but slowly nodded, "Alright. But I do not intend to stay here, by no means. Once I return to my full strength, I will depart."

Armand smiled darkly, his black eyes flashing with an unidentifiable emotion, "That is fine."

Harry felt nervous at that look, but did not outwardly show it. The Dark wizard stood and began walking, going out of the kitchen and into the hall, the boy trailing uncertainly behind him. He didn't really know what he was getting into, but he was sure he would be able to break out once he got his powers back…he was sufficiently familiar with wards (although certainly not Dark ones) to be able to hopefully penetrate them sooner or later. He just hoped it was the former…

He wasn't exactly keen on being locked into a room, but was nonetheless glad that he'd been told beforehand. He was nervous, skittish with his decision of remaining here for the night, but, as he knew, there was little choice in the matter. Several minutes of winding passageways (each one looking less familiar than the other), Armand finally opened up a door into a very beautiful guest room. Harry wanted to ask why he hadn't been given one of the many other guest rooms that they'd passed, but decided to keep his mouth shut. He obediently stepped into his new chambers after listening to Armand tell him that he could call for Sotty in the morning to eat breakfast as well as the location of the bathroom within the room.

"Good night, young one," Armand said politely, and quietly closed the door, locking him in. Harry could practically feel the several spells and curses on the door to prevent his escape.

He suddenly got the horrible, sinking feeling that he'd just bitten off more than he could ever possibly chew…


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