Don't Ask Questions

by opopanax

AU. When Harry starts asking questions, he stumbles into the middle of a globe spanning conspiracy that encompasses not only the wizarding and Muggle worlds, but also entire universes. And he learns Voldemort is just the tip of the iceberg. The darkness is coming and he may not be able to stop it... First in a series, complete.

4. The Balance Shifts

Chapter 4: The Balance Shifts

1

He was ready.

Lucius Malfoy was sweating slightly as he stood before a table in his secret chamber beneath the drawing room floor. Upon this table sat three objects. Such was the dark magic encapsulated in these objects that they appeared to distort the air above them, as heat-waves above a furnace would. Normally such an effect would not be visible, but within this chamber was a specialized magic suppression and revealing field, designed by previous Malfoys to house any number of disparate objects, many of which could not coexist within a certain area. By enacting the field, it enabled the residents of the manor to store sometimes conflicting objects within the same space.

Like these objects on the table in front of him.

A little black diary, a cup with the emblem of Helga Hufflepuff, and an ugly ring with a black stone.

The ring had been the toughest to obtain. It had taken him nearly four weeks of poking at the ward scheme around the decrepit shack in which it was housed before he was at last able to store it in a lead-lined box. After, of course, shaking off the strong compulsion to put it on and see wonders.

Oh yes, he recognized what it was. Lucius Malfoy, however, had no one he wished to resurrect from the dead, and so was able to shake off the charm ... Mostly.

So now here he was, four weeks after the Hogwarts term had ended. It hadn't been easy, chasing down the Dark Lord's Horcruxes, but it was actually easier than he'd feared. Once he came to the realization that the Dark Lord did in fact survive (as revealed by Draco) he began trolling through the Dark Lord's past. Having the diary with T.M. Riddle on it made things much easier. With his access to high placed Ministry records, he was able to find out about a man named Gaunt attacking a Muggle named Riddle in the thirties, which led him to the village of Little Hangleton. Discrete enquiries led him to the Gaunt shack and there was the ring Horcrux.

Chasing it down had taken the first two weeks of summer. Knowing the Dark Lord as he had, Malfoy was reasonably certain he wouldn't have stopped at two. Over-the-top was the Dark Lord's motto, so he figured on at least three and as many as five. Since one of the Horcruxes had been given to him, Malfoy wondered if another might not have been given to a different Death Eater. And who, other than himself, was a better candidate for most favoured? Why Bellatrix Black of course. For this mission he had to enlist the aid of Narcissa, but he told her only that he needed some papers out of the vault. Since Bellatrix was a convicted criminal and since Narcissa was her sister, they were able to gain access to the vault, after, of course, bribing one of the goblins. While Narcissa wasn't looking, Malfoy had slipped the only object that was sitting isolated on a high shelf: the cup with Hufflepuff's mark upon it into his bag. So that was three down.

Malfoy was reasonably certain there was at least one more hidden out there. Since there was a Hufflepuff Horcrux, logically there was probably at least one other founders item out there. Like the diadem of Ravenclaw, or the locket of Slytherin, or both. Malfoy, however, had absolutely no idea where either one might be. So he would settle for destroying these now and finding the others later.

It was almost a sacrilege to destroy a priceless founders-era relic like the Hufflepuff cup, but it had to be done. The Resurrection Stone he couldn't care less about; all that mattered was getting this over with.

At first he had been afraid, the old fear of the Death Eater for his master. But, after reading more on the effects of splitting the soul, however, and after realizing just how far his former master had gone down this road, Malfoy was more certain than ever that this task must be completed. Such abominations should not be allowed to exist. The world would be much safer without an insane man with the power of Tom Riddle running around in it.

Malfoy levitated each object individually into a specially designed kiln built to withstand the heat and force generated by Fiendfyre. With a clang, the door shut, making a sound like a tiny dungeon door. The walls of the kiln instantly began to grow red, then blue, then white with heat.

And then things started to go wrong.

# # #

Somewhere in a forested area of Eastern Europe, a black cloud hung, to all appearances, motionless in the still summer air. For a square mile surrounding this cloud, no birds sang, no squirrels chattered and no snake slithered in the dead leaves on the forest floor. Even the trees seemed to slump, appearing to voice a collective moan of death agony into the unseasonably cool air. Limbs were twisted, and trunks were distorted. To all outward appearances, this area of the forest was dead.

The truth, however, was far from the appearance.

The man once known as Tom Marvolo Riddle was raging. More, he was afraid. He was more afraid than he could ever remember being, even more afraid than when he was four and David Casper from the orphanage had him cornered and was beating him with a stick because he was talking to a snake. That same feeling, of being cornered and trapped and helpless, was prevalent now, overwhelming his rage at being in this condition.

As he fought desperately to maintain his tenuous grip on life, Tom Riddle remembered what had brought him to this point.

# # #

He Apparated silently into the outskirts of a small village called Godric's Hollow on Halloween. Tonight he would eliminate his final thrust to power, the final threat to his growing ascension, named in prophecy, named by fate.

It had been a very long crusade, his rise to power. Nothing more than an obscure orphan from London, Tom Riddle quickly rose through the hierarchy of Slytherin House at Hogwarts, taking on the name of Lord Voldemort, rallying the purebloods to his cause. It was surprisingly easy to do so; they respected power, and power was something Tom had in spades. He had forged connections with various unsavoury strata of wizarding society across the world, learned questionable magics, arcane spells and potions. He had come back to Britain, very changed and different. Yet sometimes he wondered. Where had all his power come from? He knew, even if no one else did, that his origins were less than ideal to produce the powerhouse that was himself. A mating between a near squib and a Muggle did not often produce such a powerful wizard as himself. So what had happened?

He had been plagued with horrific dreams all his life, dreams in which unseen, nebulous horrors stalked the darkness, dreams of depravity and war-torn landscapes. Even he, with his dark, twisted soul, found himself shuddering at some of these dreams, which felt more like memories than dreams. One time, he could've sworn he was present at the murder of all the first-borns in Israel, an atrocity mentioned only in passing in the Bible. Tom had attended chapel at the orphanage and was vaguely familiar with some biblical concepts, but this…

He shuddered as he recalled…

You watch with glee as the Judean infants are torn from the arms of their screaming mothers. Those who protest in a more physical manner are brutally and efficiently subdued by the Roman soldiers in your command.

The fathers who run to their families' aid are threatened with swords, and those who will not be cowed are hacked down. The cries of the parents and children alike are music to you, their pain and anguish exquisite ambrosia.

Only infants of one month or younger may be taken, and only in and around this little town south of Jerusalem. You wish it could be all the children for miles around, but your limits have been set.

Finally all the helpless, squalling infants have been piled in a clearing in a nearby field. The soldiers hesitate in their duty. You scream at them to follow their orders. You pull a sword from the nearest and wade into the tangle of tiny arms and legs. You swing the short, broad blade back and forth in a scything motion, feeling it slice through smooth skin and soft bones as easily as a heated knife through ripe cheese. Tiny crimson geysers shoot up, spraying you. The spilling insides steam in the cold air.

You laugh. You don't care if the soldiers hang back. You'll gladly finish the job yourself. And why not? It's your right, isn't it? After all, weren't you the one who told that doddering old fool, Herod, that the King of the Jews was rumoured to have been born in this very area within the last week or two? Weren't you the one who convinced him that this was the only sure way to guarantee that his little corner of the world would pass on to his sons as he has planned? …

He would always wake from these dreams, shivering and sweating with fear. But by the light of day, they were forgotten again. As time went on, though, he found himself wondering more and more if he was the master of events, but again only in the times of solitude. The feeling of self-doubt was a foreign one for him and he quickly shed his misgivings.

By the 1980's, his domination of the Wizarding world was well under way.

Now, he was on his way to eliminate the last threat to his power. A new and promising young Death Eater by the name of Severus Snape had overheard part of a prophecy in the Hog's Head pub in Hogsmeade, before getting tossed out on his ear by the proprietor.

The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches,

Born to those who have thrice defied him…,

Born as the seventh month dies….

Lord Voldemort did not know the rest, unfortunately. Perhaps he should've waited, but he was so close to finishing his rise. The Ministry of Magic was almost done for, one final thrust and it would be in his hands, pathetic bunch of fools that they were. Only a few more moves, and he could go about the purification of the world.

Voldemort sneered under his hood at the decorations in the town and the silly costumes the filthy Muggle children were wearing. Fools, he thought, if only they knew…

Dead leaves crunched under his boots as he glided up the high street of the town, listening to the stupid Muggles singing in the pub and the random knocks on house doors as the children scurried about like the cockroaches they were, collecting those disgusting sugar-filled foods. He could see the lights of the house he was looking for as he concentrated on the secret his spy had given them. Fools, he thought again, placing their trust in the wrong person … True Gryffindors, the whole lot of them.

Voldemort turned up the path and opened the gate with a lazy wave of his wand and glided silently up to the front door. Another lazy flick of his wand and the door was blasted off its hinges and slammed into the floor, cracking into pieces.

"Lily! It's him! Take Harry and go, I'll hold him off!" James Potter hollered. There was the quick patter of light footsteps and a baby's surprised squeak.

Voldemort laughed a high laugh. "Really, Potter? You are going to hold me off? What on earth do you think you could possibly do to oppose Lord Voldemort? Avada Kedavra!" And just like that, James Potter was dead, lying unmarked and still on the living room floor. The stupid idiot had left his wand on the coffee table. Stupid Gryffindors!

Voldemort chuckled mirthlessly and stepped into the house. He could hear frantic footsteps upstairs, the bang of a door, and the scraping of furniture. Silly Mudblood, he thought to himself. As if barricading the door would help.

Voldemort stepped over Potter's body and ambled casually up the stairs, twirling his yew and phoenix wand in his fingers. He was enjoying himself immensely. Tomorrow all the world would know. They would know that not even prophecy could stand in the way of Lord Voldemort.

On the right side of the hallway, a brightly painted door was firmly shut against him. There was not a sound behind it. Voldemort gave his wand an almost negligent wave and the door, and all the furniture barricaded against it, was blasted into pieces. Stepping casually through the debris, Voldemort entered the nursery.

Lily Potter was standing in front of the crib, arms spread wide, blocking her baby from sight. Her red hair fanned out behind her, her green eyes flashing pleadingly up at him.

"Stand aside, girl," Voldemort hissed, raising his wand. "You need not die this night."

"Please, not Harry," Lily cried, spreading her arms a little wider as if that would help. "Kill me instead, please, not Harry!"

"Stand aside, you silly girl," Voldemort cried, exasperated. Severus had requested her life be spared, and, feeling particularly generous, Voldemort agreed. But she would still die if she insisted on standing in the way.

"Take me instead, I'll do anything, just please, don't kill Harry!"

Voldemort sighed, as if dealing with a particularly stubborn child. "Very well, Mudblood, as you wish. Avada Kedavra!"

Lily Potter slumped lifelessly to the floor. Voldemort ignored her and moved to stand in front of the crib.

The little baby stood shakily in it, holding on to the railing, the same green eyes as his mother's meeting Voldemort's red ones.

"So, Harry Potter. You are the child of my downfall," Voldemort said musingly, twirling his wand idly in his fingers.

"You hardly seem threatening at all, child. But I suppose I can take no chances. Avada Kedavra!"

As soon as he said the fatal words, Voldemort knew something was wrong. The jet of green light issued from his wand, traveling impossibly slowly toward the child's forehead, his green eyes staring at it curiously. Voldemort began to move slowly, oh so slowly, out of the way, but he wasn't fast enough. The green light hit the child, and bounced back off, leaving a small cut shaped like a bolt of lightning. As soon as it hit, time sped back up again and the green light, now a weird yellow colour, zoomed back and slammed straight into Voldemort.

Pain ... Agony beyond all imagining. Voldemort's body was blasted to ash, and his soul rose up, a black mist in the cool air of the nursery. The magical backlash slammed into the walls and ceiling, causing them to explode outward in clouds of debris.

Thus he remained until that doddering idiot Quirrell had found him last year. He didn't know how long he had hung there, suspended between life and death, neither here nor there. It wasn't until he had possessed Quirrell that he had found out. Ten long years he had hung there, but those ten years had felt like eternity.

Then the idiot had failed to retrieve the Philosopher's Stone. Tom had found out about that when he had possessed Quirrell. Dumbledore was moving the stone to Hogwarts. It of course was most likely a trap, but there wasn't a whole lot that could be done to Tom in his current form

But Quirrell had failed, thanks to Harry Potter. And when the boy's touch had burned Tom's host to ashes, Tom was afraid for the first time. At first he had believed that the boy had survived and he had been kicked out of his body through the protection of the boy's mother's sacrifice, and that had undoubtedly played a part, but as he was ejected forcibly out of his second body he began to wonder if something else was protecting the boy. Something darker. Something inimical to him.

That theory seemed to be borne out when, as the weeks passed, he felt himself getting weaker and weaker. He felt as though he were hanging on a cliff, his fingernails slipping, slipping toward the edge, the feel of the gaping maw of death moving closer and closer.

And then it felt as though a shock wave hit his incorporeal essence. He found himself suddenly zooming across Europe until, with a wrench, he was floating in the air of a confined space. Standing in front of a magical oven was Lucius Malfoy.

"Malfoy! What are you doing?!"

It sounded stupid, but that was the best the former dark lord could come up with. He got the feeling that whatever was happening was bad, very bad … for him anyway.

Malfoy whirled and went white. Floating in front of him was a black cloud that he instantly knew in his gut was the essence of his former master. But before Malfoy could say anything, the black cloud gave a horrible shriek: it had looked in through the porthole and seen the three burning objects.

Everything happened very fast then.

Just as the objects in the oven started wailing, two more small balls of black mist came soaring through the wall and joined with the larger black cloud. It then started to head for Lucius Malfoy, undoubtedly attempting a possession. Before it made contact, however, a smaller ball of pure blackness detached itself from the main mass and dove out through the wall, and the main cloud was sucked, screaming, into the oven.

All of this happened in a space of about two seconds, not giving Malfoy time to do anything. He collapsed into a chair and stared at the oven, where the three objects he had placed in there had burned into piles of ash. Of the black cloud that had joined them, there was no sign. It appeared the Dark Lord was dead.

Malfoy shakily rolled up his sleeve and stared wonderingly at the bare skin of his forearm. He was free. Free from servitude, free from being at the beck and call of a deceiving half-blood monster.

But was he?

He remembered seeing the smaller cloud of pure blackness zooming out just before the mass of spirit had gone into the oven with the rest of its fragments. That small cloud was blacker than black, blacker than midnight in a goblin mineshaft. What was it? And what did it mean?

Lucius Malfoy shivered as he stared at the hot oven.

2

Adrian Polard grinned to himself as he pedalled his bicycle carefully through the twisting sidestreets of his small village in Wilkshire. He studiously obeyed all the traffic laws that had been drummed into him, carefully watching for oncoming vehicles and pedestrians and always riding carefully.

Adrian was a janitor at the local town hall, a job which he had held and cherished faithfully for four years, ever since he had graduated from the school of kids with special needs. Every day, his sister packed his lunch bucket with his favourites, a peanut butter and olive sandwich, an oatmeal cookie and a carton of apple juice. He always took great pains to ensure that he arrived precisely on time every day, be it rain or shine or snow. With Adrian Polard on the job, the floors of the council chambers were always meticulously cleaned, the bathrooms gleamed and the old oak banisters on the stairwells shone so bright you could see your reflection in their burnished surfaces. Nobody approached their job with more zeal than Adrian Polard.

Now, on this, the last day of his life, Adrian was carefully riding his bicycle down Melbourne Lane, which fed into the town square upon which the town hall was located. As he turned the corner into the square, he was looking the wrong way for a brief second, admiring the shape of a girl sunning herself on a bench by the post office. This lapse in attention was the last one he would ever make.

Adrian heard the sound of squealing breaks which sounded as though they were mere inches away. Jeerking his eyes away from the girl on the bench, his mouth dropped open as an out of control delivery van roared at him, the driver apparently having lost traction on the twisty street. Adrian jerked on his own brake handle, but it was already far too late. The back of the van broadsided him and Adrian catapulted off his bike, crashing into a light pole and breaking his neck instantly. The last sound Adrian Polard heard was the girl on the bench screaming.

# # #

At the exact same instant that poor, simpleminded Adrian Polard's neck snapped, the small black cloud that had been violently ejected from the remnants of Tom Riddle's spirit floated out of the cellar of malfoy Manor. Pure, undiluted evil was loose upon the wind, touched by only the barest remnant of the humanity it had once been. And it was looking for a host. It would not die, not now, not due to the actions of a stupid wizard.

And then it felt a subtle shift, the tiny vibration of an escaping soul. And with a thought, expending the last of it's inertia, the black cloud moved into the abandoned body of Adrian Polard, the goodhearted man who only wanted to go on being the best janitor he could be.

The cloud had also taken with it a good portion of Tom Riddle's magic before it was ejected, and it used this to quickly make its host invisible. Before the first bystander could arrive, the thing formerly known as Adrian Polard rose to its feet, its neck fully mended and waved a hand in a wide arc, causing the witnesses to remember only that the van had skidded and slammed into the lightpole. And then it left with a small pop, drowned out by ambient noise.

The Adversary was alive again.

3

If this was dying, it wasn't so bad.

So Harry Potter thought as he floated in the deep darkness of coma, buried under a wave of somnolent nothingness.

He didn't remember a whole lot of things. He knew he was a wizard, but it was like being aware that he was a boy-it had no real significance to him, it just was. He remembered that something very important had happened to him recently but he didn't know what that was either.

Gradually he became aware of more. He had changed, somehow, changed in a fundamental way that was not all that good for him. But the nature of that change eluded him.

After a while, fragments of memory began to drift by, ghostly faces walking with him in this emptiness.

"Always wanted a dragon, ever since I was a kid…"

"I can teach you to brew glory, bottle fame…"

"We could all have been killed or worse, expelled…"

Then those past ghosts faded out and he was left floating beneath the surface of his mind, separated from reality by a thin gauzy membrane that nonetheless dampened all perception. More faces floated past. They thundered nonsense syllables at him, locked away behind the thin gauzy barrier of unreality, and then drifted away again.

He floated like that for an eternity, but no time at all. Gradually, like water seeping into a leaking boat, he became aware that something was happening to him. He remembered Vernon's angry purple face and the sharp, searing second of agony as something slammed into his forehead, sending him into this dark nowhere. He vaguely remembered two opposing forces yanking at him, as though he were a piece of rope between two Dobermans, pulling and yanking at the ethereal substance of his being until, with a mighty wrench that was more intuited than felt, he snapped back to wherever he was.

Gradually, the gauzy curtain that separated him from reality began to tear away in thin filaments. Finally, after he knew not how long, he woke up.

The first thing he became aware of outside the realms of coma was a nurse bustling on the other side of the room. She was straightening the get-well cards on the bedside table of a patient who was battling the last stages of Dragon Pox and separated from the rest of the room by a magical ward which was used to prevent the disease from spreading. The nurse was moving rapidly and efficiently, humming to herself.

Harry watched for a while, content to observe and not speak. He didn't feel much of anything actually. He knew he should be feeling something; after all, his uncle had put him here (just where was here, exactly?) and he should be angry or sad or something at that realization. Right? Right?

Yet all he felt was a kind of numb detachment. He remembered Ron and Hermione, and was aware they had been friends, but all he could garner was a kind of memory of the affection they had shared. He wondered if his emotionlessness was permanent as a result of his head injury.

The nurse came over to him after straightening up the other patient's area. She adjusted his pillows, looking down at him but not taking any special notice. My eyes have been open before, he thought. That's why she hasn't said anything.

"Hello," he said.

The nurse spun on her heel, eyes wide. "Dear sweet Merlin … you're awake! We didn't think it'd happen…"

"How long have I been out?" he asked, his voice dry, like a puff of wind in the desert.

"Four weeks! My but you were in a terrible state. I'd better get the Healer. What a miracle! I'm all a-flutter!"

And before he could ask anything else, the nurse, who Harry thought looked vaguely familiar, was hurrying out of the room, still muttering about miracles.

Before Harry could ponder on the possible identity of the nurse, he was drifting away again. Despite being in a coma for four weeks he was exhausted.

# # #

"I swear he was awake!" said a voice in the distance.

"I believe you, dear. If he woke up once he'll no doubt wake again," said another voice, this one in soothing tones.

Harry moaned slightly and opened his eyes. "Where am I?" he asked in his desert wind voice.

"Oh good, you're back with us," said the soothing voice. Harry couldn't see much beyond the white surgical mask the man was wearing. He caught sight of a shock of brown hair and blue eyes, but that was about it. Behind his right shoulder hovered the nurse with a tray of instruments and a pitcher of water. Right now that water looked to be the most precious thing in the universe, and Harry wanted it, wanted it very badly. His tongue lay on the floor of his mouth like an agonized rootlet in a place of drought; his lips felt as cracked as old paper.

"Water," he croaked, and raised his hand weakly.

Before the nurse or the Healer could do or say anything, however, the water pitcher levitated off the tray and shattered in the midst of its wobbly arc of descent toward Harry. Water poured all over the floor and a piece of ice bonked off the end of the nurse's nose. The fragments of the pitcher, however, vanished into thin air.

There was a tense silence. They stared at him. Harry felt like a bug in a box.

"Um, what happened?"

"Well, that was … interesting," said the Healer in the mask, and he moved to Harry and started waving his wand.

"My name is Healer Robin Johnson and I have to ask you some questions. Do you remember your name?"

"Harry Potter. I want to know where I am."

Ignoring him, the Healer continued. "Do you know your parents' names?"

"James and Lily Potter. Where the hell am I?"

"Time enough for that later. Where do you live?"

"Number Four Privet Drive, Little Whinging …" he coughed, "Surrey."

"Do you know your age?"

"Eleven, unless I've had a birthday."

"And do you know when that is?"

"July … thirty-first … Now, what the hell is happening?"

The Healer had put away his wand, but to Harry, it appeared as though he didn't really want to meet Harry's eyes. Like he was afraid of Harry or something. The nurse continued to stand there with the tray of instruments, still looking at Harry like he was a bug in a box.

"You received a massive blow to the forehead which resulted in a fracture of the skull and a couple of bone fragments embedded in your frontal lobe. In addition, you had some torn neck ligaments and other minor soft tissue damage. You collapsed instantly to the floor upon being struck and your ... uncle did not do any follow through, so the damage is a lot less severe than it otherwise might have been.

"The long term effects of such an injury have yet to be determined, but I will say that it is extremely lucky that you are alive. By all rights, you should've died, especially since you were found lying on the floor of a locked room and had, by all indications, been left there for two days."

"Who found me? And once more, where am I?" Harry asked. He should've felt surprised, but all he felt was a mild academic interest at finding out the extent of his injuries.

"You are at St Mungo's Hospital. Poppy Pomfrey and Amelia Bones found you. You have been in a coma for four weeks. Your … relatives are in jail, and won't ever be seeing you again.

"In jail? I didn't think Dumbledore would go for that."

"I don't believe he had much of a choice," Johnson said with a bit of a grin. "As I understand it, Madam Bones handled the case personally."

"So what's next for me?

Johnson gave him a strange look, but answered him anyway. "Well, we're going to have to give you some cognition and magical aptitude tests. The fact that you are performing accidental magic is worrisome," he said, glancing at the water on the floor. "For now, though, it is more important that you rest."

"But I've been resting for four weeks."

"Then another night won't hurt," said the Healer inexorably, producing a vial of potion and advancing on Harry. He had the same look Madam Pomfrey got when one of her patients was being irascible.

With a resigned grimace, Harry downed the potion and sank once more into velvety blackness.

4

Robin Johnson turned to the nurse after administering the Dreamless Sleep potion to Potter. "Go and get me Healer Palmer and have her come to my office. We have much to discuss."

The nurse gave a last wary glance to the curled up form in the bed and scurried away, taking the tray of instruments with her.

Johnson stared thoughtfully at Potter, before he, too, exited the room and headed for his office.

The past four weeks had been interesting for him. So far, the real identity of the patient in that room had not been leaked. Johnson had spoken severely to the nursing staff on that floor and had threatened them with severe consequences should they breathe a word that the patient in that room was not actually named Roger Stewart. Amelia Bones had intimated to the press that she had Potter under Ministerial protection at a secret location, once the news of the trial of his relatives had gotten out.

There was only one problem. Down at the other end of the hall was Molly Weasley, who had been heavily sedated ever since she arrived. She had been ranting nonstop at the Healers trying to treat her and had to be drugged up to get some peace. Johnson had heard that the Weasleys were close with Potter and, if one of them were to wander down the hall peeking into rooms … well, things could get interesting in a hurry. The Ministerial protection fiction wouldn't hold up for long, but he didn't want somebody at his hospital responsible for ending the status quo.

Dumbledore had been by as well. He had intimated that Potter would be far safer at Hogwarts under the care of Poppy Pomfrey. While Johnson had faith that Poppy was one of the best healers in the country, he couldn't shake the suspicion that Dumbledore wanted Potter under his crooked nose for some other reason. Johnson had let him know in no uncertain terms that the young man would be staying right here, thank you very much. Dumbledore, though obviously displeased that his will had been thwarted, had gone away.

Bones had told him that it was Dumbledore himself who had placed Potter in the home, and that she had him somewhat over a barrel over it. If word got out that Dumbledore, the so called leader of the light, had just dumped their savior in an abusive home and left him to rot for ten years… well. Even someone of Dumbledore's reputation might not survive for very long. So Dumbledore wouldn't be making too much of a fuss, he hoped.

Arriving at his office, Johnson slumped tiredly behind his desk and stared unseeingly at the files stacked helter-skelter on it.

What was happening with Potter? Did his outburst on the day of his arrival here

(The darkness hunts me)

Have anything to do with his injury? Johnson knew that sometimes people with frontal lobe injuries suffered emotional stunting or reduction in their decision-making capabilities. Potter really wanted that water and had performed accidental magic to get it, much like a child, or one without inhibitions. In addition, he showed absolutely no reaction to the news about his relatives, none at all. All he was interested in was what was going to happen to him. His speech was not at all indicative of childlike thought patterns, however, and he seemed to exhibit normal responses to inquiries, although the young man had been awake barely fifteen minutes.

In other words, Johnson was worried that Potter might have lost a conscience as a result of his injuries. And just what did he mean by

(the darkness hunts me the darkness…)

What he said when he got here? Four weeks on, the thought of that moment in the dim hospital room still gave him chills. Sometimes, he would wake up in his narrow bed in his narrow apartment, with the sounds of the vast metropolis boiling around him and think, 'the darkness is coming," and then have no recollection of it in the morning. Sometimes he knew on a primal level what Potter was talking about. But that knowing, too, blew away like gossamer by daylight.

A knock on the office door interrupted his reverie. "Enter," he called, raising his gaze from his clasped hands.

The door opened, revealing the short form of Healer Theresa 'don't call me Tess" Palmer, wearing her usual smile. She was their one and only Muggle-trained psychologist on staff, only having joined this past year. She had retired from her Muggle practice, having left the wizarding world shortly after Grindelwald's defeat for personal reasons which Johnson had never found out. Now, in her retirement, she needed something to do, so she volunteered her time at St Mungo's, not that many wizard-trained Healers knew anything about psychology.

She was perpetually cheerful. She was a grandmotherly type who insisted on bringing baked goods to the staff lounge and always had a kind word for anyone.

"You wanted to see me, Robin?" she said, entering and settling across from him, setting her briefcase on the floor at her feet.

"Thanks for stopping by, Theresa," he said, smiling back at her. "Got a new patient you might be interested in."

"Let me guess, Harry Potter, with the brain injury?" she said innocently.

"How…who…" Johnson was spluttering, much to the amusement of Palmer.

"Relax, Robin, nobody leaked," she said, still smiling. "I worked it out with the stories about his relatives' trial and his disappearance."

Johnson nodded, taking a deep breath to get a hold of himself. "Don't do that to me!" he said, throwing a mock glare at the thoroughly unrepentant witch in front of him, who was continuing to smile. "I was about to have a heart attack!"

"Good job we're sitting in a hospital then, isn't it?" she asked, before allowing the smile to fade and become serious. "What's wrong with Mr Potter that requires my particular expertise?"

Johnson too lost the lighter mood and settled into Healer Mode. He told Palmer about the full extent of his injuries and what had occurred earlier when the young man had awoken from his coma. "So, what do you think some of the long term effects might be? I went to Oxford but I only took the basic psychology requisites for my medical degree and I'm not fully qualified to diagnose such issues," he finished, looking over his fingers.

Palmer sat for a moment, her face wrinkled in thought. At last, she turned from staring at the magical window and spoke.

"Without actually testing him, I can only speak generally. But, often times, injuries to the frontal lobe can result in severe emotional stunting. They basically lose inhibitions and have a hard time understanding the consequences of their actions. They will have to relearn the difference between right and wrong and even then, they will only understand the concept academically, sort of like explaining colour to a blind person. Have you heard of Phineas Gage?"

"Wasn't he that guy who had a rod slam through his head?"

Palmer nodded. "The rod is actually on display at Harvard Medical School across the pond. Anyway he had a similar injury to Mr Potter from what you're telling me, but actual reports on his behaviour after the accident are pretty sparse, or exaggerated. In other words, there's no real way to tell what Mr Potter will be like before hand."

"Do you think there will be cognitive consequences? What about his magic?"

Palmer sighed and turned her hands up in a helpless gesture. "It's hard to say, Robin. We will need to conduct a whole lot of tests and I will probably have to call in other specialists. And this will not work very well if you are trying to keep Mr Potter's identity a secret."

Johnson closed his eyes and massaged his temples. "And if this gets out, the papers will ignore all the medical diagnoses and claim he's probably a dark wizard. Great, just bloody great."

"I'm afraid so. And, with what might be wrong with him, it's entirely possible that he could be the worst dark wizard our world has ever seen."

There was a heavy silence, while Johnson thought of the shattered water pitcher, and replaced it with a shattered body.

The two Healers sat and stared at each other in the quiet office.

5

Ron Weasley was bored. At first, when his mother had been remanded to the care of St Mungo's he thought they would find something really wrong with her. But as the weeks dragged by, she continued to just sit there in a drugged stupor. They had to put her on some kind of weird potion regimen to quiet her ranting. Unfortunately, Ron and his father knew nothing about psychiatry, and even if they had, they couldn't afford a psychiatrist, not with the fees the hospital charged. So Molly Weasley languished away, drugged to the eyeballs with nobody doing anything for her. They had not discovered a weird esoteric spell rotting away her brains. They had not discovered a curse changing her behaviour. She just sat there, drugged and humming to herself.

Today, on the twenty-ninth of July, Ron, Percy, Ginny and their father were sitting in the coffee shop on the fifth floor, debating what to do with their mother. Unbeknownst to them, however, a small beetle was hidden in a planter, listening to every word.

"I don't know what to do, kids," Arthur said tiredly, taking a sip from his tea and staring sightlessly at a spot on the table-top. "She seems fixated on the idea that we have to make friends with Harry Potter so we can drain his vaults."

"Has anyone thought of a structured Obliviation?" Percy wondered, nervously toying with his Prefect badge.

"That won't work. It's an idea she has, not a memory. Obliviation can't really change behaviours, only hide the symptoms. Much like the drugs she's on right now."

"There's got to be something we can do! What about the Muggle world?" Ginny said, still distressed after four weeks. Of all of them, save Arthur, Ginny was the one most affected. She had no idea that all those sessions where her mother taught her to cook and sew were just lessons geared toward grooming her to be the perfect wife for Harry Potter. To find out she had been so used by her own mother made her very sad.

"I don't think the Muggle world will work. You see, in order for your mother to get help, she has to admit she has a problem, and she isn't doing that."

"There's another problem, Father, the bill. We can't keep her here indefinitely," Percy said.

"I know," Arthur said. "Your brothers are helping me a little bit and the Ministry is helping some, but since I'm not part of an important department I don't get much in the way of benefits."

"What'll happen if we can't pay the whole bill?" Ron wondered.

"Well then, she'll have to come home. And Merlin help us then," said Arthur sadly.

Finally Ron couldn't hang on to his news anymore. "Dad, I found out something earlier today while I was walking back from the end of the hall by Mum's room. Harry's here!"

The beetle listening in the planter almost fell out in shock. The reactions around the little coffee shop table weren't much better.

"Are you sure?" Arthur asked, staring at his son.

"Yeah, absolutely. The door was left open and I saw that hair, I spent a whole year with the bloke, I'd know it anywhere. I stepped in and there he was, scar and all."

"Since I haven't seen anything in the paper about him being here, I guess they're trying to keep it quiet. Let's not go shouting it about," said Arthur gravely.

"Yeah, he's had enough trouble already," said Ron. "I hope those Muggles he's living with didn't do anything too bad to him."

"The word being put out is that he's under Ministerial protection at a safe house somewhere. I can see why they're keeping his actual location secret though," Arthur mused, toying with his teacup.

The beetle in the planter had heard enough. She would come back with her photographer and get pictures of the Weasleys with their insane mother and then, oh baby, then she would get the money shot. The Great Boy-Who-Lived, lying trussed up in a hospital bed, the victim of common Muggles! Oh yeah, this would keep her on the front page for weeks!

With a gleeful buzz, the beetle shot through the leaves and up through a ventilation duct toward the Prophet's offices. Within half an hour she would be back with her photographer and the shit would really hit the fan, to quote the Muggles.

Meanwhile, back at the table, the talk had turned once again to their mother.

"What if we cast her out of the family?" Percy wondered.

Arthur flinched. "I'd rather not do that if I can avoid it, but yes, that's one option."

"It may be the only option we have, Dad," Ginny said softly. "She's fixated on Harry and seems to want me involved. If she's not a family member she can't use me in whatever scheme she might cook up."

Ron couldn't help himself. "Come on, Ginny, you know you've been dreaming about Harry Potter all your life."

Ginny turned red, but did not answer, instead becoming very interested in the potted plant next to their table.

"Stop that, Ron," Arthur said tiredly, shooting a quelling look at his son. "Ginny, I think you might be right, but as long as she's under our roof we can keep an eye on her."

"For a while anyway. We have to go back to school in a month and you'll be at work all day," said Percy reasonably.

"There's that," said Arthur. "Well, I guess we'll have to see what happens."

At that moment, a most unwelcome voice intruded on their family discussion, causing Ron's pet rat, Scabbers, to come crawling out of his pocket just at the time that a photographer clicked his camera, wafting purple stinky smoke across the coffee shop.

"Arthur! How charming, and with your kids too. What brings you here today?"

"Rita," Arthur responded coldly, turning in his seat to eye the reporter. "Didn't think they'd have you walking the beat at the hospital these days. By the way," he said, turning to his children, "this is Rita Skeeter and she works for the Prophet." He didn't bother introducing them to Rita.

Rita ignored the cold reception and pulled up another chair, leaving the photographer to stand in the corner behind the potted plant. "I heard your wife was a patient here, Arthur. And what's this I hear about Harry Potter?"

"Whether or not my wife is a patient here does not belong on the pages of the Prophet, Rita," Arthur said, still coldly. "And I have no idea about Harry Potter."

Continuing to ignore the snubs, Rita pressed on. "I heard your son Ronald was Potter's best friend. Isn't it funny that now that he's been introduced to the wizarding world nobody's heard from him in four weeks? What do you all think of that?"

"I think it's time we got going, boys and Ginny," Arthur said, causing all of them to rush to comply. "Nice seeing you, Rita," he lied, and then hurried away with his brood in tow.

Rita smiled at her photographer. "Let's go see if we can find Potter. I bet he's down on the fourth floor by Weasley's room. Ooh boy this is going to be big."

By the time Robin Johnson had been alerted (he was off shift at the time) Rita had already procured a photograph of a sleeping Harry Potter and had left the hospital. The nurse responsible for leaving his door open was transferred to another floor. But the damage was done.

6

It had been a rather dull four weeks for Richard Evans.

Most of the time had been spent in his new squalid little apartment watching the Leaky Cauldron and subsisting on takeaway food bought with his stash of money taken from his uncle's house. Since the floors he was living on were full of other short-term transients, the delivery people went unremarked; he was just one more customer.

He hadn't actually seen a whole lot of traffic going into the Leaky Cauldron. He guessed most wizards used their crazy fireplaces to travel there, trying to avoid as much contamination from the so called Muggle world as possible. He only saw what he guessed were Muggle borns going in and out, and in the entire four weeks he stayed in his dingy little apartment he only saw four of those.

The building where he was living frankly was horrible. Next door on his right was a guy who played the harmonica. Every morning without fail he would pick up the mouth organ and blare show tunes or old rock tunes. The guy was old as Methuselah and had, according to him, had that same harmonica since his days in an old orphanage. It had been stolen by a kid named Tom Riddle but had mysteriously returned to him. Now he was washed up on the shores of senility and living out his days in a ratty apartment and playing that self-same harmonica to annoy everybody else.

On the other side of him, there was a newlywed couple who never seemed to get out of bed. The springs on that bed were very loud and the headboard thumped rhythmically against the thin walls. Richard grudgingly had to admire their stamina.

Yeah, the place was a dump all right.

Richard decided to hole up here for a month to shake any surveillance details that might be watching him. It was possibly the longest month of his life. Luckily he was able to sneak to a bookstore and buy a few novels to keep him occupied or he might've gone stir crazy. But if there was one thing army life had taught him, it was how to hurry up and wait.

Now, on the twenty-ninth of July, Richard decided it was time to meet Argus Filch. It had been a month since his break-in and his rather unsettling experience. He was confident that the Order's stooges didn't know where he was, and had probably relaxed their vigil. If he was careful he would be able to evade them for a while longer. That was, of course, if they didn't have Filch under surveillance too. If they didn't, it would be nice to have an ally. The worst part of this whole ordeal was the feeling that the whole world was pitted against you, the feeling of watching over your shoulder no matter where you went. It got to a man after a while. Just yesterday in the bookstore he had spied a clerk watching him and he had to stop himself from making a mad dash to the back door. It was only later, back in his apartment that he realized that his fly was down.

Not for the first time, Richard wished he had dared to get one of those Smartphones. With one of those, he could use GPS to plot out an exact route to Filch's location, and plot out different routes to get there.

Unfortunately, there was a flip side to the GPS. Just as he could find locations, so too could his enemies find him. All they would need was access to the phone company's computers and they could triangulate upon his phone signal using two cars with mobile trackers and a home base to coordinate. The same technology that suggested locations of interest and eateries based on your location could also bring guys with guns.

No, no mobile phones for him. This meant he was stuck using the old fashioned method of atlases and compasses.

After plotting his probable route, Richard folded up the map and stuck it in his rucksack. Before heading out on the motorways he needed to get that car out of King's Cross's car park.

Richard stepped out into the bright morning sun, mercifully leaving behind harmonicas and eternally rutting newlyweds. Traffic was heavy, it being close to the lunch hour on a major thoroughfare.

After taking the tube to King's Cross, he consulted the map Filch left him and, sure enough, he found the little Fiat parked on the bottom of the multi-level car park complete with up-to-date MOT inspection paperwork in the glove-box. The interior of the car was an oven, so, after waiting a few minutes, Richard pulled out into traffic. He was also pleased to note that the car did not have GPS or a satellite radio setup; no means of tracking him through it either.

Richard was glad, very glad, that Filch had given him a map. The UK had a population of sixty million people or thereabouts and most all of them were crammed into this area, spreading out from the Thames in a vast sprawling metropolis that seemed to go on forever. The country was about 90 thousand square miles, smaller than the state of Oregon, but had nearly three times as many people. Very easy to hide, if you kept your head down and didn't draw attention to yourself from nosey neighbours.

The little car rode reasonably fine-at least, once you got used to the wheel being on the wrong side and the stick shift and the congested traffic at lunch hour. When he had driven the car left by his uncle at the house out in East Anglia, he had almost crashed into ditches more than once; it was luck the roads were pretty quiet up that way. But he still wasn't entirely used to the crazy British cars and roads. He hoped to hell he wasn't stopped by a traffic cop, because if he was, and they threw him in jail-and it was most likely they would, once they found out he was carrying … well, if he was in jail, he'd never ever get back out.

Traffic was everywhere-bicycles, five-door sedans, pedestrians, motorcycles. The streets were narrow, since London had not originally been built to provide space for automobiles. Cops patrolled in pairs in bullet proof vests, and surveillance cameras mounted on poles dominated every street corner. Big brother in action. He was watching your every move. Richard hated it. He was damned lucky not to have been spotted thus far on those fucking cameras. Lucky indeed ... But how long would his luck continue to hold?

At long last, after navigating through contradictory exchanges, he found himself on the M-25 which was kind of a beltway around London. London was really one of those cities were you couldn't get there from here; you had to go left to go right and go right to go left. Fucking confusing city to drive in.

A little while later, he got off the M-25 and onto the M-11, and headed northeast, toward his destination, finally in a little less traffic.

The address was in a little place called Newmarket, a small cottage set off on a side street away from many of the other residences.

Richard drove beyond the house, hardly giving it a glance. He continued on down the narrow lane to the end and drove onto a smaller, gravel road, which led off into the countryside, eventually coming up behind the address he had been given. He didn't spot any cars or anyone paying particular attention to the area, so he parked the car in the car park of a small grocery store and hiked back to the street upon which the house sat. Birds sang in the trees and a soft wind blew, smelling like grass.

Satisfied that he wasn't being watched, Richard hefted his rucksack a little more securely on his back and strode up the cobblestone walkway, up the two steps to the front porch and knocked on the door.

The door opened slowly, revealing a rather cadaverous man with an unpleasant face and an asthmatic wheeze. Behind him, a dust colored cat crouched on the floor, eyeing him balefully.

"Richard Evans?" the man said, eyeing him warily from pouchy slightly bloodshot eyes. Richard noticed with some alarm that the guy's hand was behind his back.

"In the flesh," he responded cautiously, not moving an inch. He had a strong suspicion that he would be shot in the back if he tried to leave anyway.

"Sure you wasn't followed?" the man, whom Richard assumed was Filch, asked, looking around in a paranoid manner at the deserted countryside.

"Absolutely," Richard soothed, understanding all too well what brought it on. He knew the kinds of enemies they faced.

"Well you'd better come in then. Hope you didn't buy one of them damn mobile phones?"

"No, of course not, far too easy to track with the built-in GPS. Although I wish sometimes I had one; London is confusing as hell."

Filch nodded and beckoned Richard inside. Just as Richard turned to close it, however, he heard an all too familiar clicking sound. "Don't move," said the suddenly hard voice of Filch.

Richard froze and felt stupid. Had he walked into a trap? Had he been so desperate for an ally, any ally, that he had become too complacent and willing to trust anyone who had sounded like he wanted to help?

"Are you armed?" Filch asked, sounding a little farther away than before. This guy clearly knew how to intimidate.

"Yes, I have a pistol in an SOB holster and another one in my backpack," Richard said, figuring honesty would be the best policy here. How had he gotten himself into this mess?

"Reach behind you with two fingers and pull it out slowly by the handle. Do not turn around, drop it on the floor and kick it behind you," Filch instructed. "Remove the rucksack and drop it on the floor behind you as well."

Richard did as he was told, feeling naked. The sound of the hard plastic of the Glock hitting the wooden floor sounded like the sealing of his tomb.

"Now, turn around slowly and take two steps to your left," Filch instructed.

Richard did so, and noticed with grudging approval that Filch was a dozen feet away, holding an Ithaca Mag-10 shotgun. Serious weapon. It only fired three cartridges, but you only really needed one. Just one cartridge would be enough to cut him in half, literally.

"Good. Now you see that doorway to your right? Take off your shoes and socks and walk through it, slowly."

Richard looked over there and saw a metal detector wired into the doorjamb. This guy was good, he thought as he complied. Most commercial metal detectors had a dead zone down by the floor because a lot of shoes had metal braces in the soles. Detectors were designed to ignore shoes because they would beep anytime a guy with good footwear passed through.

Richard walked through the doorway into a Spartan living room. The metal detector beeped once.

"What's in your pocket?" Filch asked, his hands tightening on the shotgun. Richard paused and then, remembering the car keys, pulled them out slowly with thumb and forefinger and dropped them on the floor.

Without further instruction he walked through the metal detector again, which remained silent.

"One more test," Filch said, reaching into a breakfront and holding up what Richard recognized as an RF scanner. Filched wanted to be sure he wasn't wired. This guy was seriously, seriously paranoid. He also exchanged the shotgun for a combat Magnum, which was much better for close in work. Necessary because he had to wave the wand clos to Richard to avoid air contamination of stray RF signals that might be naturally occurring. And he couldn't do that while holding a two-handed weapon.

Richard stood perfectly still while Filch wanded him and breathed much easier when the scanner did not beep.

# # #

"Sorry about that, Richard," Filch said only semi-apologetically a few minutes later as they sat at his kitchen table. "Can't be too careful these days."

"I would've done the same," Richard reassured him. "I know what we're up against."

"Do you really?" Filch asked, leaning forward intently. "Do you really understand?"

Richard thought of his wife and daughter, burned up at the beginning of the summer. He thought of the several times he had woken up only to find that he had wept in the night. And he thought of his father's charge and the histories he'd shared before Richard had left home. "Yes, I understand. The bastards burned up my wife and daughter earlier this summer," he whispered.

"I'm sorry for your loss, and I am not surprised. Want to tell me about it?" Filch asked, his face looking compassionate in spite of its rather bitter and unpleasant cast.

Richard paused. "First, will you tell me how you and my uncle met? I'm sort of confused."

Filch nodded thoughtfully. "I wasn't able to go into a lot of detail in the letter I left for you, was I?" He paused and took a sip of tea.

"You know about the ritual, Richard?"

"You mean the one the wizards did back in the 1600's to hide magic?"

"Yes, that one. Well, as you probably know, every so often there are descendants of those families who performed the ritual that are born squibs, unable to do magic. Price we paid for peace, I guess you'd say. I was one of those, although I didn't find out until your uncle told me about it. Until then I was just the useless squib of the family," Filch said, his face screwing up in bitterness. "They threw me out of the house when I was fifteen, back in 1955. I bummed around the UK until '68, doing odd jobs in the regular world, since the magical world looks down on squibs like they're trash.

"Albus Dumbledore then approached me, asking if I'd come be the caretaker at Hogwarts, since Apollyon Pringle was retiring. Not entirely clear why he approached me, maybe thought he was doing me a favour since I had trouble finding a job at the time.

"Your uncle found me through old records he'd managed to get a hold of somehow. I think the goblins might've helped him but he never would say. He put me in touch with your father late in the eighties after you had joined the army. Between the three of us we were able to put together most of the puzzle pieces of what's going on. How much do you know?"

"I know a little bit about the Conflict, the Septimus Order, the Adversary and the Sentinel. I know the ritual to hide magic fits in somehow. And I have a bunch of stuff in a house out in Essex full of evidence about the Order's meddling through history. I'm ashamed to say that I didn't really pay too much attention to my father growing up."

Richard paused and took a deep breath, smelling the smell of a building that didn't get used much.

"I saw some things in Iraq and even then, I didn't take the Order and their sponsors too seriously. I didn't start to do that, until that thing in New York, last September. I mean, I knew there was something going on out there, something beyond what we were told in the history books. But it all sounded so… so…"

"Crazy?" Filch said, non-judgmentally.

"Well, yeah," Richard said uncomfortably. "I didn't allow cell phones in my house and I didn't tell my wife about the trips I took to the library to check newspapers, but that was mostly out of habit. It all sounded so wild, this vast secret organization controlling everything. Life isn't a Ludlum novel. Even after what I saw out in Iraq I didn't want to believe, I guess."

Richard suddenly felt a need to justify himself to this stranger. "How could I know!" he said, getting off the threadbare chair and pacing rapidly around the kitchen. "But if I had paid more attention to my father, Amanda and Rachel would still be alive! I should've-"

"No!" Filch cut across him sharply. "Do not start down that road, Richard, you will drive yourself crazy if you do and the things that need to be done will not get accomplished! Place the blame squarely where it belongs: on the Order and those whom they work for!"

Abruptly Richard felt all the self-loathing and rage drop away, leaving him tired and depressed. Not for the first time either. He'd been going through fits like this all month.

He slumped into the chair and buried his face in his hands.

"We came over from the States on this rickety boat," he said in a flat, dead voice, speaking to the floor. "Hired a guy out of a little outfit on the coast of New Jersey ... Longest trip of my life."

"We arrived at this little place my uncle had rented out. Near a place called Norwich. They found us shortly after, I'm not sure how. Probably asked around on the coast about a father/mother/daughter unit that arrived and traced us that way."

Richard shuddered, still staring at the floor. Filch stayed silent, perhaps realizing that Richard needed to get this off his chest.

"I remember how it all went down. I doubt I'll ever be able to forget…"

# # #

"Well, Evans, it seems we found you. Did you think you could be hiding from us forever?"

Richard came coldly awake in the dead of night to the sound of a vaguely Eastern European accented voice, wafting into his ear on a tide of stale garlic breath. He instantly tried to move but discovered a large knife was pressed into the hollow at the base of his jaw where it met his ear. The tip felt as cold as an iceberg and was pressed hard enough to draw a small drop of blood. The pain was excruciating; that was one of the more painful pressure points on the body.

"Oh no you don't, asshole," Garlic said, wiggling the knife like a reproving finger and causing even more sharp spikes of pain to fire down Richard's neck. "You're gonna put your hands behind you nice and easy like or I'm going to cut off your fucking head. But before I do that I'm going to let you listen to what happens to your wife and kid."

Almost crying with futility and cursing himself for allowing his army training to drop so far as to allow them to be ambushed in their own home, Richard grudgingly did as he was told. Instantly he felt zip cuffs slap around his wrists and the pressure against his jaw eased. A slow trickle of blood continued to run down his neck, irritating and itching, burning with the fire of his failure.

"Very good," Garlic purred, jerking up Richard by his cuffs and making him cry out involuntarily as his shoulders were wrenched brutally. "Come with me now, we got a little bit of entertainment planned for you."

As if on cue, he heard what was unmistakably the sound of his little girl, crying out in agony. Then the sound of a sharp slap that sounded like a fist hitting her in the face.

"You fucking bastard! She's only five years old! By God if you hurt a hair on her head I'll kill your fucking asses!" Richard began struggling now that the knife was away from his jaw, but he had barely taken three steps when there was a massive blow to the back of his head and everything went grey for a little while. Like the voice of a mocking spirit, Garlic's voice floated down to him.

"I don't think so, Richard. You see, we have you right where we want you. We could kill you now, but that would be so boring. Don't you agree, boys?"

Richard became suddenly aware of three other shapes floating in the room. Blinking and still dazed from the blow, he could only tell that one of them had a strawberry coloured birthmark on the side of his nose and another one had a wart on his right eyelid. The final shape moved from behind him, tucking a blackjack into his leather jacket, obviously what had slammed into the back of his head. Lucky he wasn't unconscious yet, since hitting a guy in the head was not an exact science. Hit him too hard and he never wakes up, don't hit him hard enough and he keeps right on fighting. Lastly there was Garlic whom he still hadn't seen and was still holding the cuffs.

"Absolutely right," Blackjack said, now standing in front of Richard, who was starting to blink his eyes into some kind of reasonable focus. He still had a concussion and his ears were ringing like mad, but he was bound and determined to go down fighting.

"Damn straight," Birthmark and Warty chimed in, grinning like ghouls.

"We're going to show you what it means to mess with us," Richy boy," Garlic said, shoving him forward toward the door. "We're going to leave you alive because let's face it, what the fuck can you do, eh? And it'd be sooo much fun to watch you suffer!"

Richard became aware of his wife and daughter crying in agony. Their wails tore at his heart, just what the hell were these assholes doing to them? He became aware of rhythmic slapping sounds and then was all too aware of what was happening. Before he could start struggling though, the barrel of a Sig Sauer nine millimetre was shoved into his eye so hard it made his head hurt worse and eye water. "Don't even think about it, fuck-face. It'll go a lot worse for them if you do."

Richard almost-but only almost-started crying. His wife and possibly his daughter were being raped in the next room and he was cuffed, with a gun in his eye and unable to do anything about it. He would've struggled anyway if it wasn't for what Garlic said next from behind him.

"By all means struggle. You might even overpower us, I know your history, Richy boy. But in the next room is a guy with an H&K MP5 submachine gun. Know what that'll do to your brat and whore?"

Richard gave up. He was stuck. And in spite of his every effort, a single tear trailed down his face.

They dragged him outside and tied him to a telephone pole a couple of yards from the house. They snaked a bike chain through his cuffs and locked it around the pole with a padlock, and stuffed a wad of dirty cloth into his mouth, securing it with duct tape. "Now watch and learn," Garlic said, and they all laughed as they walked away.

It was then that Richard realized he was only about twenty feet from the window to the room where Amanda and Rachel slept that night (Amanda had a bit of a cold and Rachel had stayed with her that night.) As he realized that, the window came open with a bang and he began to hear more clearly what was going on in that room.

"Your precious Richard ran away saving his own skin," he heard what was unmistakably Garlic's voice. "He left you both here for us to play with, isn't that nice of him?"

"Liar!" Rachel spat at him. "He wouldn't do that."

There was roaring laughter at that. "No? Let me read you the note he left behind. Dear Rachel, I'm sorry but I don't think I can win here. There's money in the cabinet and tickets back to New Jersey if you want them. Love, Richard," Garlic read in a mocking falsetto.

"Brave man," a voice Richard didn't recognize sneered. "And oh so generous, leaving these two delectable pieces of meat for us. Man, look at them tits!"

"You touch one hair on my daughter's head and I'll rip your balls off and feed them to you," Rachel said menacingly.

They all laughed again. And then the sounds started. And most heart wrenchingly of all was when Amanda had cried and wailed for him to save them, while they were doing horrible things to her. Richard scraped his wrists bloody and raw trying to get away from that telephone pole. Tears and snot collected on his face as he almost choked on the wad of cloth, trying to get it out, trying to tell his wife and daughter that he was trying to save them, begging them not to believe Garlic's lies. He heard his daughter violated, his wife clubbed into submission, bones breaking, everything a father and husband shouldn't have to hear. And it was all his fault. If he'd only listened… if he'd only taken more precautions… The only thing that was merciful about that night was that he didn't have to see what went on. But hearing-and imagining- was bad enough. Worse, in fact.

Finally, after both girls were reduced to sobbing wrecks barely audible over the sound of the wind blowing across the countryside, Garlic came back out, looking immensely satisfied with himself. Richard saw one scratch on his cheek … and blood on his arms up to the elbows.

"Well, Richard," I hope you're satisfied with yourself," Garlic said, smiling and showing yellow teeth like corn kernels. "You ran away and left your wife and daughter to the bad men," he grinned. "And now, you're going to watch them die. Isn't it nice to know that you could've prevented all this, Richie boy?"

Richard levelled his most hate-filled glare at Garlic, who just laughed and wandered off. Over the sounds of whatever they were doing out front, Richard could still hear his daughter crying. His heart broke all over again.

Then an acrid stench floated to him through the open window. Gasoline. They were going to burn his wife and daughter alive in front of him. To teach him a lesson. To show him they shouldn't be messed with.

The stench grew thicker and thicker. They were laying a pattern through the house and were going to lay a gasoline fuse out the front door, lighting it up as they drove away. While his wife and daughter lay upstairs, no doubt chained to their bed. Listening as the flames crackled below, probably choking on smoke. Dying slowly, and agonizingly … all because of him.

Finally they were done. Gasoline fumes hung in the air like a miasma, sweet and acrid all at once. Garlic came back around and stood in front of Richard.

"Well, young Richard, I hope you've learned something tonight," he said in a mockingly pedantic voice. "Do not mess with us. We know how to find you whenever we want you. And let's face it, who'd listen to you anyway, other than paranoid fuckers like your daddy?

"We're going to let you live, because my superiors find you rather amusing. And because it's always fun to see a strong man battered into despair and hopelessness. How does it feel knowing that your wife and daughter died because you were too arrogant, hmm?"

Garlic laughed once more and went behind Richard. He heard the padlock click and fall to the ground. "We're leaving now. If you work fast you can get outa here before the flames spread to you. Have a pleasant life and always remember this lesson."

Richard immediately started struggling, twisting this way and that, scraping his wrists even rawer. Garlic just chuckled and crunched off through the gravel. Then there was a whoosh as the gasoline fuse went up, followed by the sound of tires squealing away into the night.

The fire roared hungrily through the house, crackling and hissing like an angry beast. And then, the screams came.

"Daddy! Daddy! Please come save me, daddy!"

It was his daughter, wailing in agony as the smoke built up, funnelling through the stairwell to engulf the upper floor, suffocating the two most precious people in his world.

Then the windows exploded outward, sending dangerous shards of glass whizzing in all directions. Richard finally managed to get his cuffs free of the chain and dropped to the ground not a moment too soon. A piece of glass shaped like a scimitar whickered through the air with a whooshing sound, thudding into the telephone pole right where his neck had been with a solid thunk. There were no more screams from within the house and, as tears came to his eyes both from the smoke and grief, he caught the faint aroma of burning flesh. An aroma that was not new to him. Even if he had been able to save them, it was too late now.

# # #

The kitchen was silent after Richard finished his tale. Filch had gone a little more white and his arthritic hands were clenched on the table.

"Jesus," Filch said. "I knew they were ruthless bastards but this…"

"Yeah I know," Richard said, still in that dead voice. "I wake up sometimes at night still hearing them scream for me to save them."

"What are you going to do?"

Richard's head came up and Filch almost shrank back from the hatred and anger in his gaze. "I'm going to finish them," he said, rage dripping off his every syllable. "I'm going to make those bastards and the bastards they work for sorry they were ever born. They may have started it but I'm going to be the one to fucking finish it."

"That's what I wanted to hear," Filch said, nodding approvingly. "Now, I suspect the first thing you'll want to do is get some magical friends. I may be from the wizarding world but I can't do magic. I suggest you make friends with Harry Potter though. He may only be turning twelve in two days, but he's a polarizing figure in our world and he's going to be able to garner a lot of influence.

"Your letter mentioned him. Why's he an influential figure?"

"As I said in my letter, he survived an attack by Lord Voldemort, or as the magicals call him, You-Know-Who or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. He was waging war on us through the eighties, although of course he started in secret way before that. He was within no more than days of taking over the country. Then he attacked the Potters, Harry survived and was dubbed the Boy-Who-Lived."

"Ah, and since he's so admired it'd be easy to get people to follow him," Richard said, only halfway following the conversation after having relived the most horrific night of his life. He knew the nightmares would be bad when he fell asleep.

"Exactly," Filch said, deciding not to mention the haunted look in the younger man's eyes. He really didn't need to be reminded and Filch suspected he would never stop torturing himself.

"You said you were working with people, who?"

"Mostly other squibs," Filch replied. "The magicals think they kept the details of that ritual completely secret, but a lot of us found out anyway."

"What's your group's interest in this? Surely it was in the best interest of the wizards to perform that ritual and disappear?"

"Of course it was. But the problem is, never mind that they upset the balance of magic and doomed a hundred generations to be squibs, they were messing with the collective consciousness."

"The what? My family was involved with this mostly because of the Septimus Order. The whole wizard/squib thing wasn't really a factor for us as far as I know."

"That's only part of it, Richard," Filch said, leaning forward intently. "You see, when they did that ritual all those years ago, they were messing with the thoughts and memories of the entire world, not just a few Muggles. Have you ever heard of something called the Noosphere?"

"Vaguely. Some kind of a philosophical constant or something, wasn't it?"

"The whole concept is rather obscure, so I'm not surprised you don't know more about it. Basically, when the interactions between all the self-aware creatures on this planet reach a certain critical mass, it will give rise to a separate consciousness. Eventually that consciousness will gain form."

"So what does this have to do with-?"

"Hold on, I'm getting to it," Filch said a little impatiently. "By performing this ritual, those wizards back then dealt a pretty severe blow to the sentient biomass. In the sixteen hundreds, magic and witchcraft were real and a part of many people's lives. By relegating it to the realm of myth and legend it took away a lot of interactions. The noosphere recovered, but we don't want anything like that to happen again. And, more importantly, if the noosphere dies, so too ends our status as a sentient world."

Richard suddenly got it. "If the Noosphere dies, the Otherness will snatch us up."

"Precisely. My group is watching the Septimus Order, because we think that it was Otherness sponsored. It is their job to bring the Adversary back to power, and thus the Otherness."

Richard closed his eyes and tried to picture it. His father had tried to tell him, about the two vast, incomprehensible cosmic forces called for lack of a better term the Ally and the Otherness. One would give us benign neglect, important only in that it kept the world from its opposing force, giving no more thought to us than a collector of rocks would give each individual rock. The Otherness, however, would begin to warp any reality it got a hold of into something more like itself: Utterly inimical to human life and happiness ... Truly Armageddon.

"What happened to the Adversary and the Sentinel?" Richard wondered dredging up old memories.

Filch shrugged wearily. "The last we heard, the Adversary had been trapped in a remote Keep located in Romania's Dinu Pass sometime back in the fifteenth century. The German army broke him out in May of 1941, but after that, we don't know what happened to him, although we have guesses."

"And the Sentinel?"

"Of him, we have no intelligence. He seems to have dropped off the face of the earth. When the Adversary appeared to have been destroyed back in World War II, we think the Ally released him."

Richard felt icy dread crawl up his back. "Which means it's likely he's dead by now," he whispered.

"Yes," Filch said heavily. "Most likely."

"So this means that the Adversary might be completely unopposed in this sphere."

Filch's silence was all the confirmation Richard needed.

"That means there isn't a whole lot we can do," Richard said, defeated.

"No! It means we need to find out what the Order's plans are and disrupt them. We must stop The Adversary from gaining power again. He will make Voldemort look like a child throwing a tantrum."

"And you think Harry Potter might be the answer?"

"If not an answer, he will at least be valuable to us and get us more resources, both human and financial. The Potter's were very wealthy."

"Where is he?"

"Supposedly in Ministry for Magic custody. His Muggle relatives' went on trial for attempted murder last month. We don't know where he went after that. Our best chance to get hold of him would probably be when he returns to Hogwarts. I can slip him a letter."

"Attempted murder? What the hell happened to him?"

"His uncle, Petunia's husband that is, hit him in the head with a poker apparently. I think he's at our hospital, St Mungo's, under an alias."

"Nice guy," Richard muttered. "So, right after getting hit in the head, we have to lay this on him. What does Harry Potter have to do with any of this, other than being my cousin? Where's the Adversary? What's the Order up to? They want to kill me because my family has been tracking them for years and they're afraid of what I might reveal, but what are they doing other than that?"

"Yes, our information is not complete and we don't have an asset within the Order to give us more. We don't have a lot of time either. Haven't you felt it? Something is going to be happening soon."

Richard felt the gooseflesh again. "Yes," he said quietly. "I had to sneak into my uncle's house in London to find your letter and while I was there, something … took me over and made me say that the darkness was coming. I had to dodge an Order stooge too."

"Exactly. Something big is happening and it is important that we find out. I think we're on the brink of something very bad very soon."

"So our game plan is to get hold of Harry and get him on our side, and use his influence to get him to help us and possibly get assets inside the Order?"

"Roughly, yes. Only we're going to tell him everything and not manipulate him. Albus Dumbledore-that's the headmaster of Hogwarts-is fond of manipulations and half-truths. If we don't step in, I'm afraid Harry Potter is going to be a subject in one of his schemes. And Dumbledore doesn't have nearly all of the information we do, so he could hasten the decline."

"I've heard of him: Head of the Wizengamot and the International Confederation of Wizards. If anyone should have all the information, it's him."

"No, you don't understand. Albus Dumbledore cannot be trusted with this kind of information. Powerful both politically and magically as he may be, he would try to take control of the situation, using memory charms and compulsions to get his way, not caring that he might be blundering down the wrong path, not willing to listen to alternative views other than his own. For instance he still thinks Voldemort is the greatest threat we have to deal with. We both know that he's the least of our worries."

"You're saying he can't be made to see reason?" Richard said sceptically. "When the welfare of the entire world is at stake?"

"Perhaps he can," Filch conceded, "but he is fundamentally convinced that he knows better than anyone else. If we went to him and told him our story, he would probably twinkle his eyes at us, offer us a candy and Obliviate us to keep us from spreading our story around. Maybe he'll listen and maybe he won't but I'd rather not take the chance."

"I'll have to trust your judgement since you know him," Richard said, a little unwillingly. "But I'd rather not have someone with that kind of political power working against us too."

"I see your point. Tell you what. I'll get everyone in the group together along with Potter once he's been filled in and we'll have a vote on whether or not to include Dumbledore. Good enough?"

"I suppose so. I don't really have a vested interest in Dumbledore. I'd just rather not have him working against us. Who all's in your group anyway?"

"Mostly a bunch of old ragtag squibs like myself, as I said a bit ago. Although, we do have one large asset that has provided us with invaluable information. His name is Croaker, and he's head of the Ministry for Magic's Department of Mysteries."

"Someday you'll have to tell me how your group all came together," Richard said, glancing at the clock and seeing that they had been chatting for almost two hours. "Why don't we go and find some dinner. I've been surviving on bad takeout ever since I got here."

"Capital idea. I know a nice little place we can go to. Just let me go get ready. And, Richard, you're welcome to stay here. I'm reasonably certain the Order doesn't know about this house."

Not having many other options and having brought just about everything he owned in his rucksack, Richard was quick to agree. And thus, Richard Evans forged his first alliance in Britain.

7

The next morning, Harry woke up very abruptly from a hazy dream he forgot the instant his eyes came open. He sat up, not feeling the least bit of aftereffect from his brain injury. In fact, he felt much better than he could ever remember feeling in his life. Somehow, stronger, and more in command of himself… Something had changed.

Harry got out of bed and stretched, feeling very alive. He rotated his neck, feeling nothing wrong with it. His forehead felt normal too, no scarring at all, other than the faint outlines of the lightning bolt scar he was famous for. Harry smiled. He was on top of the world.

He knew something was weird about this-after all, he had been in a coma, flat on his back for a month. He should be at least a little weak and wobbly. But, like hearing the news regarding the fate of his relatives and the full extent of his injuries, he couldn't bring himself to care too much. It was like all his emotions were dead for the most part, or at least severely dampened.

Before he could think further, his room door burst open and a short, grey haired woman and the Healer (Johnson was his name, right?) burst in.

"Mr Potter! Get back in that bed this instant!" the woman shrieked, waving her wand at him.

"I don't think so," Harry said, and before she could blink the wand had left her hand and soared into Harry's.

They all gaped at him. Like a bug in a box. Harry felt himself getting angry and the windows rattled. It appeared anger was still something he could feel.

Johnson was the first to react. "Mr Potter, calm down. We mean you no harm. Take a deep breath and relax. We're Healers, not dark wizards … that's it, just relax."

Harry did just that and finally got a grip on himself. "Sorry," he said, handing the woman's wand back to her. She was continuing to stare at him like he was a funny new species.

"Quite all right. But Healer Palmer does have a point, you have been in a coma for four weeks and you need your rest."

"I'm perfectly fine," Harry said. "Since my relatives are in jail, I guess I need to find a place to live."

"Ah young Harry, I was hoping to address that very issue with you," said a most unwelcome voice. The room's three occupants turned to see the lurid-robed figure of Albus Dumbledore standing in the doorway, twinkling benignly at all of them.

"Mr Dumbledore," Johnson said, turning to face the old schemer and enjoying the wince as he was addressed as 'Mister', "your presence is not required at this time. This patient is still in need of care and will need to remain under the auspices of St Mungo's until either Healer Palmeror I deem him ready to re-enter society. The question of his placement thereafter will be decided at that time, dependent upon the recommendations of both myself and Healer Palmer."

"It simply isn't safe for Mr Potter to be out here and so vulnerable. I must insist that he be remanded into my care where he can be kept safe behind the wards of Hogwarts."

"Mr Potter is right here and will be staying at the hospital until they let me go, Headmaster," Harry said, interjecting himself into the conversation. "Might I remind you that we are out of school and what I do or do not do during my holiday isn't any of your business?"

"My dear boy, I'm only trying to look out for you," Dumbledore twinkled, ignoring the confrontational tone. "Madam Pomfrey is perfectly capable of seeing to any care you might need."

Harry was getting angry again. He remembered all the thoughts he'd had about Dumbledore and his motives before Vernon smacked him with that poker. Given that, Harry didn't want to be anywhere near the man until he absolutely had to. That he was barging in, uninvited and unwanted lent fuel to the fire. Albus' magnificent two foot beard lit up in a fiery flume and burned very fast toward his chin. Only Palmer's quick reflexes saved the old man from a severely burned face.

"Out," Harry said in a flat voice.

Dumbledore, looking ridiculous with no beard, shuffled out of the room, looking cowed. Johnson slammed the door shut after him.

"Well that was interesting," Palmer remarked, seating herself at the desk under the window and eyeing Harry with that speculative gaze again. "Harry, we're going to have to do some tests with you to find out why your magic is so wild, and we also need to find out what kind of effects that injury did to your brain. Do you understand?"

"You want to find out if I'm dumb or crazy?"

"Absolutely," Johnson spoke up before Palmer, ignoring the woman's scandalized look at his bluntness. He sensed Harry wasn't a fan of beating around the bush. "We need to find out if you need to stay in the permanent spell damage ward or if we can work with you to get back into society."

Harry nodded and didn't get angry. He liked Johnsons' direct approach.

"So what do we need to do?"

Palmer and Johnson both grinned. "Let's get started!"

8

Cornelius Fudge muttered to himself as he got off the boat at Azkaban Island on July thirty-first, clutching his newspaper and squinting against the icy ocean spray. He hated coming out here, absolutely hated it. However it was part of his duty as Minister for Magic to make an inspection of the prison and its inmates every year before August. Fudge, of course, put it off till the very last minute.

"Watch your step here, Minister," said the slow, deep voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt, newly promoted senior Auror. "It is a bit slippery."

Fudge nodded absently and stepped distastefully onto the barren rocks of Azkaban, already wishing he was back in his warm comfortable office.

Also occupying the mind of the illustrious minister was today's headlines. Rita Skeeter had uncovered the fact that Harry Potter was at St Mungo's Hospital and not in Ministry custody. She also had uncovered the fact that the Weasley woman had been planning on ensnaring Potter for her daughter so that she could help her family to Potter's vaults, complete with a picture of the entire family on the front page. The Ministry was no doubt going to be inundated with howlers and upset citizens demanding news on their saviour and expressing outrage to Arthur Weasley that his family was involved in such a plan. Yes, things were in a right mess and he resented the fact that he had to come out here to this god-forsaken rock when he had real issues to deal with.

"Good morning, Minister," said the voice of John Cristo, warden of Azkaban prison. "I hope your journey was pleasant?"

Fudge only glared at the insolent idiot and brushed past him. "Yes, a real scenic tour of the north sea," he snapped.

He missed the smirk the warden sent at the pompous minister's back. Cristo didn't like Fudge any more than Fudge liked him; this visit was something they both just had to deal with.

The Minister, still deep in thought, entered in through the massive doors of the fortress, ignoring the algae-covered rocks under foot and the howling insane prisoners. The air smelled of rot and decay from the shallow graveyard nearby, and of poorly sanitized cells and the open sewer that fed straight into the North Sea.

He glanced quickly around the office out front, which had runes that kept the Dementors away from it etched onto the walls. A magical hotplate was installed in one corner and heating charms were active on all the walls.

"Anything I should be informed about before I make my rounds of the prisoners?"

"Not a thing. Everything is just peachy out here as usual," Cristo said, settling in behind his desk and giving a slow dry smile to the Minister. "By all means, enjoy your rounds."

Fudge snarled silently and left the office, pulling his cloak tighter around him in the chill.

The prison was laid out in three floors. This first floor was minimum security with only a couple of dementors. Only those receiving light sentences were sent here. Above this floor was medium security, and on the top floor was maximum, where Dementors floated around twenty-four hours a day.

"Expecto Patronum," Kingsley said from behind him. Fudge jumped, he almost forgot the tall dark man was there.

"Thank you, Kingsley," Fudge said, appreciatively eyeing the silver lynx as it pranced ahead of them, clearing the area of Dementors.

"No problem, Minister," Shacklebolt responded. "I don't like this place any more than you do."

They made quick work of the bottom two floors before they advanced up to the top. Every prisoner was accounted for, checked off against the list Fudge clutched on a magical clipboard. Up here, though, were the remnants of the Death Eaters of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and full attention must be paid here.

The first prisoner in the cellblock was Sirius Black. The man was looking very corpselike, long matted hair hanging around him and lice visible hopping in it. Fudge shuddered as he looked into the cell.

"Good morning, Minister. Is it that time again already?" Black asked, sounding entirely too sane.

"Yes it is, Black," Fudge spat at the deranged murderer. "I hope your stay in here is comfortable, because you're going to be here for a nice long time."

Black smiled, showing off broken teeth. "I'm sure I will be, Fudge. My protestations of innocence will be ignored, like always. Do you think I can have your paper? I miss doing the crossword."

Fudge was about to refuse, but then he got a thought and grinned, thrusting the paper through the bars. Let Black find out that if he hadn't sold out to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named Harry Potter would not be in the hospital with possible brain damage.

"Sure, Black, by all means," Fudge sneered. "While we nice normal people are leading productive lives, you can rot in here with the rest of the vermin. Enjoy reading about the real world." And with a laugh, Cornelius Fudge stomped off down the corridor toward the rest of the howling prisoners.

Sirius Black debated calling something snarky after the ugly little Minister, but changed his mind and clutched his paper. This was his first bit of news since he had been tossed in here to rot. The front page drove all other thoughts out of his mind. There were two headlines above and below the fold.

Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived in Hospital with Brain Damage

Weasley Family Schemes Against Ancient Noble House of Potter

It was this latter headline that caught his attention most. Because, peering out of the pocket of a young redheaded boy in the photograph, was a very familiar rat with a mark over its right eye ... And a missing digit on its front paw…

Sirius stared at the paper. "I'll come for you, Harry. And Wormtail, you'll regret that you were ever born."