Sphere of Influence

R. Winters

Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter or Naruto, I probably wouldn't have to work another day of my life--and so my updates wouldn't be interrupted so often. Obviously, I don't and they are.

Augh, this longer than I ever expected to get up, but I'm pretty happy with how it finally turned out. I still feel like I should apologize... I never should have said I could get it up so early--I completely forgot about everything following my trip. The last week has been chaos, and that's my only excuse. The next couple of weeks look a little better, so I'll aim for September 1 for chapter 26. As always, check my profile for news if things don't go as smoothly as planned. There should be a lot to look forward to in the next chapter...

A quick note on the theory of verbal/nonverbal magic. It seems to me that nonverbal magic takes a good deal of mental discipline. If you look at the people who use it in canon (Dumbledore, Snape, and probably Voldemort, most notably) they're all people who are skilled at Legilimency/Occlumency, which we know take a great deal of mental discipline. Also, it's not taught in Hogwarts until year 6 (and even then it's hardly learned), supporting the idea that it requires a more mature and controlled mind. So keep that in mind, I guess, and I'll say more about it later if you need me to.

Thanks for everyone who reviewed chapter 24, I hope you enjoy 25!

Special thanks to Stalker of Stories for pointing out my typo...

Chapter 25 – Mission Start

Something squelched under the sole of Harry's sandal, but the teen steadfastly ignored it, continuing his march until he came to the wide open window at the side of the tower. He peered out, green eyes scanning the horizon grimly.

The pale sky was empty of anything more interesting than a few long, wispy clouds—just like it had been the last dozen times he had checked. Scowling, Harry turned his back on the window, lifting his eyes to the roosting owls in the rafters above him. One particularly brave, black-feathered bird ruffled itself, feathers erecting to look almost twice as large as usual, while the others shifted nervously under his gaze or fluttered around a bit.

Harry's scowl deepened.

The entire situation was beyond ridiculous. Every day his brother was missing made it that much more unlikely that they would ever find him again. Either Dumbledore didn't realize that or he simply didn't care.

Spinning on his heel, Harry paced back across the owlery, thinking furiously.

Waiting for Dumbledore's spies to find something couldn't be his only option—it simply wasn't working! It would take way too long for him to search all of England alone and by foot—and what if Voldemort's stronghold wasn't even in the same country? England looked small compared to some of the other countries he'd seen in the Atlas.

Turning again, Harry paced back. He would have to take matters into his own hands. Dumbledore had been overlooking Snape's connection to Voldemort for too long—a simple interrogation would probably clear everything up in the most efficient manner.

Harry cringed. Then again, even Kakashi hadn't been able to get information out of Snape, and while Harry hated the man, he doubted he would have more luck in interrogation than a Jounin trained by ANBU. Still, it was the only option he had, and he had to try.

Harry stopped in his tracks, something crunching under his heel, staring vacantly at the horizon through the window. There might be someone else who could help him.

Abruptly, the teen turned, taking a few quick steps towards the door, only to stop in his tracks again when it opened in front of him.

"Harry!" Hermione burst inside, looking cheeks red and brown eyes soft with worry, "We heard about what happened; I'm so sorry! And where have you been? I've been looking everywhere for you!"

"I've been around," Harry replied, frowning, and struggled a little to understand what the girl was talking about—what did she have to be sorry for? "I don't see how it's any of your business. I'm not even missing classes." This was only because classes hadn't started up again, yet, but the point still stood.

The day before there had been a memorial for Professor Vector and two students who had died in the attack, and the train out of Hogsmeade was scheduled to leave in just a few hours—to take the students who wouldn't be continuing their education at Hogwarts home. Classes weren't set to continue until things had settled down a little.

"Are you leaving, then?" Harry asked, frowning.

"No," Hermione replied firmly, "I'm staying on… My parents are muggles—this is the only way I can learn about magic."

"Is magic worth getting yourself killed over?" Harry asked grimly.

Hermione bit her lip, but she didn't have the chance to respond.

"Hermione!" A loud voice was muffled through the door, "Is he up there?"

Harry frowned, eyes narrowing suspiciously. "You brought someone with you?" He asked in a harsh undertone—Hermione never brought anyone with her when they met to talk. Not that there was anyone else who would want to talk to him.

"Hermione!" The voice repeated, accompanied this time by the heavy thump-thump of feet on stairs.

Hermione's cheeks were tinged with pink, her face twisted miserably. "I'm sorry, Harry, but he insisted and he wouldn't leave me alone!"

Harry's eyes snapped from the girl to the door as a second figure burst through it. His eyes narrowed.

"Weasley," he greeted coolly. He hadn't seen much of the red-head since Christmas and he'd meant to keep it that way.

Surprisingly, Ron didn't snap back. He looked between the two Gryffindors and blood slowly began to gather in his face, first reddening his ears, then everything else.

"Ah—Hatake…" he glanced around again and let himself fully inside, shutting the door behind him. He glanced briefly at Harry, and then lowered his eyes to the ground. "I—er—I wanted to—to thank you," he muttered. "I mean, for helping Fred and George and—" his words faltered briefly before he plowed on. "And I'm sorry for that junk I said before, okay? You're a good guy. Um—yeah, just thanks."

Harry stared at him blankly throughout, watching with some measure of clinical fascination as the red-head's face continued to turn an even brighter shade of red until it was almost the same shade as his bright hair by the time he had concluded. The Genin held his silence for several seconds, watching his roommate squirm.

At last, Harry replied. "I didn't do it for you—I don't want your gratitude."

Somehow, Ron's face managed to find an even brighter shade of red and imitated it. His brown eyes flew up, and he blurted, "I know! That's why I've got to say it! If you were just doing it to get on people's good sides, then… but you don't even care what we think and you still saved their necks—you're not really like I thought at all… I owe you one, okay?"

Harry sighed. "I said I don't want your gratitude—that includes favors. It's fine, alright?"

Ron opened his mouth to argue his point further, but Hermione interceded, changing the subject loudly. "What are you doing up here, anyway, Harry? You've been scaring all the younger kids from sending out their post."

"I was waiting for a letter," Harry supplied, glancing in the direction of the window. "Dumbledore promised to tell me when his spies find out where my brother is being held."

"Was?" Hermione repeated eagerly, "So did they find something already?"

Harry shook his head. "Dumbledore probably doesn't even care about it. He's cutting his losses. Kakashi might have been useful to him in the past, but he was close to finding out how to get us home. Dumbledore probably thinks he'll be able to keep me under control more easily with him out of the way." He stopped abruptly, pressing his lips together in a grim line. It would be harder to do anything against the wizard without his brother, but Dumbledore would be unpleasantly surprised if he thought that Harry would roll over and do his dirty work just because of that.

"So what are you going to do?" Ron asked, frowning—his cheeks were still pink.

Harry frowned back at him, considering. He didn't like the red-head, but Weasley's brash and frank nature wasn't one that could be manipulated into espionage easily—he didn't lie well. As far as security risks went, Hermione was a much more likely source for a leak than Ron, and whatever his brother said, Harry trusted her. He needed someone to trust.

Slowly, he nodded. "I'm not going to sit back and do what I'm told anymore. Before he was—captured—Kakashi identified a person living in Hogsmeade that might be helpful in this situation."

For a moment, neither Gryffindor responded, mulling silently over his words. Then, abruptly, they both replied at once.

"I'll go with you!"

Harry blinked. He frowned, "What?"

"You can't very well go against You-Know-Who by yourself, can you?" Hermione prompted, "It's just like you said. He's a wizard problem, we should take care of him ourselves… or at least help."

Quickly, Harry shook his head. "No. No way. I'm not going to drag around a couple of brats. You guys would just be deadweight in a battle situation—and I don't even want to think about how you would make a mess of infiltration and extraction."

"Deadweight!" Ron repeated angrily, his face turning a whole new shade of red.

"Ron!" Hermione interceded again, "He's just trying to get us angry because he doesn't want us to come. Harry," she turned to face the ninja again, "You don't have to protect us. We want to go with you; we know it will be dangerous."

Harry scowled. "I'm not trying to protect you," he growled, "What I'm saying is that you two would be useless to me out there."

For a moment, Ron scowled, apparently ready to give another biting retort, but it slowly softened into a confused frown. Then it changed again, relaxing into clarity. "Oh, I get it." He glanced at Hermione, "Hermione's right, mate, you don't have to worry about us if we volunteer."

In frustration, Harry slammed a fist into one of the wooden supports next to him, splintering the entire thing with a loud crack. There was a flurry of chaos overhead as the owls startled, hooting protests and diving out the windows. Harry glowered at the two teens, who stared back at him with wide, startled eyes.

"You don't get it," he growled. "Neither of you," he added, looking between them both. "Voldemort"—they shivered at the name—"is dangerous. His attack on the castle left people dead—our side and his. He's not going to care if he has to kill a few extra school children that he wasn't counting on."

He quickly plowed on when Hermione looked likely to interrupt. "And it isn't about your protection. If I thought your deaths would save my brother, I'd throw them away in a heartbeat. But you're more likely to get him killed than saved."

"This is about the mission," Harry concluded, "I don't really care what happens to Voldemort, although by now I'd like to see him dead just to get it over with, but in the big picture I'm really only concerned about getting Kakashi-niisan back. You two have no combat experience, and I'm willing to bet that the closest you've come to danger is when Lupin-sensei brought in that boggart to class. Compared to me, you're worse than rookies. I've trained for things like this for the last six years and you—you're just a couple of civilians."

Ron and Hermione couldn't say anything. The girl looked like she was about to cry, and even the boy looked a little abashed and embarrassed. They flinched at the way Harry said the last word—he might as well have cursed.

Harry thought hard for a moment, staring at the two glum faces before adding, "Shinobi Law Seventeen – Never take a civilian into shinobi business… it translates something like that. If you really want to help, stay here. Maybe Dumbledore will send me something useful after all, and you can send it on to me."

The two remained silent as he shouldered his way past them. Hermione was the first to find her voice, as the door swung shut behind the Genin.

"B-but…"

Harry crossed over the lake, stepping quickly over the recently thawed surface, careful to pay close attention to his surroundings. He wasn't quite sure what all lived under the water, but Kakashi had insisted it was dangerous, so it probably was. In Hogwarts, A History—the book Lupin had given him for his birthday ages ago—he'd read something about mermaids and an oversized squid. Neither seemed particularly dangerous, so he assumed Kakashi had run into something else that the book did not mention.

He wasn't completely surprised, therefore, when something about the size of a mace launched out of the water at him. He was surprised to find that it wasn't a tentacle or a vaguely humanesque merperson. Instead it was a yellow eyed, green scaled fish easily as long as his arm with a gaping mouth that unhinged and looked large enough to swallow a young child whole.

Harry jumped out of the way, drawing a kunai and twisting his body in midair as he heard the soft sploosh of the water behind him. More of the strange, large fish were flying towards him. Throwing his kunai, Harry struck the first fish down—it fell limply back to the water, bleeding red. The second he met with a kick, drawing his leg up and planting the bottom of his sandal straight at the incoming face.

A sudden pain blossomed in his foot, and the fish fell away from him. Harry's eyes widened in alarm when he hit the surface of the water and sank right through like a rock.

Swearing, he sucked in air before his head was swallowed by the waves and struggled to enforce control over his chakra again, entirely unsure how he could have lost control in the first place. Sluggishly, he felt it respond to his command—too sluggishly because submerged in the water his enemies were more dangerous than before.

Gritting his teeth, Harry raised his arms; the left to block and the right to strike the fish away from him, a horizontal hooking punch jarring the creature enough that it's slanted, needle like teeth tore off of him.

Harry felt the drain this time, his chakra surging towards the blood pluming around his arm. Biting his lip, Harry kicked against the water, just managing to avoid another attack.

He glanced around the murky water, grimacing to find at least two pairs of glowing yellow eyes closing in on him—and who knew how many more were swimming in the murky water beyond his sight.

He kicked harder, forcing his suddenly tired limbs to carry him faster, dodging from side to side and shooting off kunai when he had to. Everything moved slower—his weapons, his punches, his kicks—everything except the fish. Bursting through the surface, Harry made for the shore, gasping a quick breath and struggling with his own chakra once more.

Still, his chakra seemed slow and drained, and the fish were closing in. Harry reached for his kunai pouch, in the process his fingers brushing the long, slender pouch that held his senbon. He paused, eyes narrowing, and quickly slipped his fingers inside his senbon holder, drawing out the wand that he'd taken to storing there.

There was a difference between jutsu and magic—and that was that magic didn't rely on chakra, which meant, he hoped, that it would react just fine in this situation.

His mind raced, exploring the possibilities as he kicked hard, barely keeping distance between him and the chakra-sucking fish. Slowly, he smirked—that would have to do it.

Pointing, he swished the tip in a complicated semi-circle, cut down, and reversed into an opposite semi-circle.

Depulso!

The simple banishing charm had an unanticipated effect. Like Harry had intended, the fish were buffeted in the water and thrown away from him, but the spell pushed at the water, as well, attempting to throw it back, and simultaneously rocketing Harry backwards—up and towards the shore.

He flailed, barely keeping hold on his wand as he twisted around to orientate himself, managing to add a few strokes and regain equilibrium just as his feet reached the sandy bottom of the shallow beach at the edge of the lake. He stumbled a few rapid steps as he reined his momentum in, and stalked the rest of the way out of the water, smiling despite his soaked clothes and heavy breaths.

He regarded his wand briefly before shoving it back into his senbon pouch—who knew magic could be useful in a situation like that?—then looked around, smile widening when he noticed the castle looming over him across the massive wall that surrounded it by land.

He'd made it, at least, and next time he'd know how to fight those fish from the start.

Pulling off his shirt, Harry wringed it out as well as he could and drew out his medical kit, frowning as water drained off of it. Inside, the bandages were dry, protected by waterproof sealing.

He bandaged the still bleeding incisions on his arm quickly, a little worried about the purplish color his skin had turned around the injuries, then returned his shirt to his chest and pulled up his mask. Finally, he turned to face Hogsmeade village, nestled a little further down the hilly landscape.

It took two sweeps through the village to find the Hog's Head, a small doorway off a rundown back road. He stepped inside with just a touch of apprehension, eyes darting around the dimly lit room immediately inside.

A pair of hooded faces turned to stare at him, but the other few patrons didn't show much sign of interest. Harry tugged at his mask a little self-consciously. Then his eyes landed on the old man watching from behind the counter. There was a definite family resemblance and Harry was quick to pick out the aging of the familiar features he'd seen in the picture in Dumbledore's office.

There was no question; it was him.

Harry made his way straight across, stopping at the bar directly in front of the man, a frown in his eyes.

Aberforth set aside a filthy rag to fully return his attention. "What'll you have, boy?"

"Information, Aberforth-san," Harry supplied without hedging. He wanted to get this over with. He wanted to get on his way—to find his brother.

The man scowled. "This is a pub, son. You want to talk, you order yourself a drink."

"I'm too young to drink," Harry excused, even though he'd had sake twice before. He didn't like it—it tasted a little too bitter and a little too rich at the same time. Kakashi and Tenzou both agreed that it was because he was too young to appreciate it.

"Pumpkin juice, then," Aberforth said, nonplussed. He turned his back and grabbed a glass from beneath the counter, moving down the length until he found the nonalcoholic beverage.

Harry waited silently for his return, looking around the bar again. The cloaked pair that had watched him enter had turned back to their own conversation, leaning low over their drinks as they murmured to one another. A man entertaining a woman at a corner table was blowing thick streams of smoke into the air—his guest appeared unimpressed.

A glass clattered on the counter in front of him and Harry turned. The tall glass was only filled halfway with juice, thick, orange-tinted foam filling the remainder. The barman watched him carefully, expression expectant, until he took a tentative sip. It was a little warm for Harry's preference.

The old man picked up his rag again and returned to wiping down the counter—Harry noticed he didn't seem to be cleaning it any.

"You are Aberforth Dumbledore," Harry prompted, even though he was already sure that he was.

"Depends," the man grumbled in response, not looking up. "Who wants to know?"

"I'm Hatake Harry," Harry supplied, watching for the man's response carefully.

Aberforth's hand paused briefly before continuing its motions. His eyes were on Harry this time, though, and the blue eyes, dulled by the foggy glasses he wore, glittered with interest. "Hatake Harry, is it?" He grunted, "Read about you in the papers. Used to be Harry Potter, wasn't it? Caused quite a scandal when people found out you'd changed it."

Harry shrugged. "Yes, sir," he said, even though he was sure the man already knew that the answer.

"Well," the man set his rag aside completely and hunkered down, propping his elbows on the counter between them. "What's it the humble Aberforth Dumbledore can do for our prestigious Mr. Hatake?"

Harry took the question in stride and was quick to answer. "I want to know what your brother knows—about Voldemort and my home."

Aberforth raised a shaggy eyebrow. "And what makes you think that I would know that? You should be asking Albus things like that."

"He's not at the school anymore," Harry said, "And you're his brother. He must have told you some things."

"I'm afraid my brother and I don't get on very well," Aberforth replied grimly, "We never have and we probably never will. I don't know anything about where he picked you boys up."

Harry frowned, "But you do know about Voldemort."

"There are very few wizards who don't, boy," Aberforth replied, "I can't guarantee it's what Albus knows, but I have—sources—of my own."

Harry raised an eyebrow when he didn't continue, feeling a little impatient. "And?"

"And I don't see how I should tell you," the man replied, scowling. "I tell you and you'll probably run off after him like a bloody fool. Look at yourself, boy, no matter what my brother has said to you, you don't have any business getting yourself involved in this."

"I don't want to get involved," Harry muttered irritably, "But I don't have a choice anymore."

Aberforth started to protest, but Harry cut him off.

"Voldemort has my brother," he said darkly, "Maybe you can't appreciate it because you aren't close with yours, but Kakashi-niisan is all I have left and for years it's been just me and him. And even though he was really still just a kid, he took me in and did his best to help and protect me while I was growing up."

"I can't just leave him when he really needs me," Harry concluded, jaw set stubbornly under his fabric mask.

The old man sighed and grabbed Harry's glass, even though he'd hardly drank any of it. "How's a refresher?" He asked, moving back down the counter again to refill the glass.

Harry frowned, "Are you going to tell me what I need to know or not? I'm going to go after him either way, if that's what you're worried about, but it will be easier with some help beforehand."

"… How late can you stay?" Aberforth asked, setting the full glass aside and peering across at him.

"How late do you want me to stay?" Harry asked.

"The pub closes at midnight," was all the old wizard replied.

Harry considered, and then stood, his stool scraping against the rough floorboards. "I'll come back, then."

The world moved around him. At some point, he'd been moved back into his room inside. His head throbbed and everything inside of him felt weak. His chakra felt constantly drained—like there was a sluggish draw on his already tapped sources.

Kakashi wasn't entirely sure when it had gotten so bad. He had been feeling drained and more tired than usual for a while, but it had been easy to assume it was a side effect of the potions Madam Pomfrey was giving him for his arm.

He was beginning to think it might all have been related to the mysterious illness the last team of ninja had contracted—something genetic, perhaps.

A sudden wave of nausea overtook him and he rolled weakly up on his left shoulder, heaving dryly for several long, miserable seconds. Then he heard the latch on the door and he forced a painful swallow, staring blearily as it swung open.

Kakashi recalled seeing the thin man that entered before—the scars on his chin looked vaguely like the long scratches made from desperate fingernails. He was sure he didn't want to know how the man had gotten them.

This time, the thin man was carrying a steaming goblet in both hands. He walked slowly in until he was about halfway across the room, then he stopped. Stooping, he set the mug on the floor, never taking his eyes from Kakashi.

"To ease the pain," the man's voice was weak and lisping, "Our lord wishes to leave very soon." He didn't linger, standing and backing out the door with the same slow, steady gait with which he had entered.

Kakashi stared after him for several seconds, unmoving. He scowled, and his eyes dropped to the goblet—water had condensed on the outside in tiny droplets.

Abruptly, he lurched in the direction of the glass. As much as he loathed Voldemort and his Death Eaters, he had found the lot of them to be more honest than Dumbledore and his people had ever been. And if he was going to be able to do anything, he first needed to ease the sensations assaulting his body.

He caught the goblet in a clumsy, two-handed movement that sent a good portion of the chilly potion splashing over the rim. He paused, staring at the murky brown surface and considering the ramifications if it were some sort of poison. Voldemort probably wouldn't kill him until he'd gotten what he wanted or found another way to obtain it, but he wouldn't put mind-altering drugs past him.

As though in response to his doubts, the pounding in his head redoubled and his gut clenched painfully, his limbs tingling with the promise of fire. The Jounin groaned—he'd never feared death, but he'd never considered this outcome. He was nothing more than an invalid; weak, sick, pathetic.

This wasn't the death of a warrior—he couldn't let it end this way.

With a grimace, he poured the potion haphazardly down his throat.

Harry's face scrunched up in distaste and he threw glowering eyes on the pile of garbage heaped haphazardly outside Number Nine. It was disgusting—he didn't even want to know how long it had been there, but by the way it reeked he'd guess two weeks.

It wasn't the kind of place Harry imagined Voldemort would use as his stronghold. From what he knew of the man, he was arrogant and egotistical, so it seemed out of character for him to live in such a dump.

Of course, that was the perfect cover. No one would think to look for him in a place like this. A grungy street with run down houses and unkempt lawns—it was a perfect cover.

Still, Harry thought he should have some security, at least. So far no one seemed to realize he was around. The dim, yellow lights muted by window shades never wavered, casting doubt on the possibility that the neighbors were sentries. The sky was dark and cloudy, but he hadn't seen anything unnatural flying through it, so there couldn't be an aerial defense.

It was possible Voldemort was overconfident enough to believe that no one would ever find him here.

Harry stopped, frowning in confusion and looking back at the house he had just passed—Number Eleven. The next house was Number Thirteen. Number Twelve had been skipped altogether. Maybe there was more to Voldemort's hideout than he'd thought.

Glancing furtively up and down the empty street again, Harry dashed across the cracked pavement and ducked behind an overflowing trash can.

He frowned up at the two houses.

"Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place," Aberforth had told him, "I have it on good sources that there's something there—I can't say for sure that it's Voldemort's headquarters… but if it's not, then why is it so well hidden?"

Harry's frown only deepened as something appeared between the two houses. It looked like a small sphere of metal, being squeezed out of some invisible hole in the air. Slowly, the houses on either side shifted, moving away from it as it expanded—not the sphere, but something attached to it.

The Genin's eyes widened as he realized what he was looking at. It was a door; with a silver handle and a twisted silver knocker, and around it bricks were squeezing into existence—then filthy windows. An entire house was forming in between the yards of Number Eleven and Number Thirteen.

Harry waited until everything stopped moving and the complete house had settled cozily into its place, then he moved cautiously, staying low to the ground and gripping a kunai in one hand.

He crossed the yard quickly, his sandaled feet silent on the ground, the hairs on the back of his neck standing erect.

Suddenly, Harry felt quite out of his league. Voldemort could hide entire houses with magic, and what could he do? A few simple spells and curses with a small array of jutsu that seemed to pale in comparison. And the worst part was that Harry was now certain Voldemort knew he was here.

The man was taunting him—he was inviting him inside by revealing his headquarters like that. He was clearly confident of his superiority, which meant it was likely his brother hadn't managed to escape. And if a Jounin couldn't do anything against such a powerful wizard—what chance did a Genin have?

Pressing himself against the lower half of the door, Harry paused, breathing heavy and heart pounding in his chest. He had to calm down before he did anything. He'd be more useless than a civilian if he let his nerves get the best of him.

Dumbledore had implied there was something he could do that would subdue Voldemort that no one else could manage. Even if he wasn't a Jounin, or a well-learned wizard, he had to have some sort of advantage over Voldemort.

Slowly, he forced his heartbeat back to normal and managed a few even breaths.

This was it—he had to get to his brother.

Snaking a hand up, Harry curled his fingers around the handle and turned it slowly. The cold metal twisted easily in his grasp and Harry forced his face into a mask of calm. He could do this—he didn't have a choice.

Counting to three in his head, Harry slammed the door open, kunai up and a shout on his lips—only to be met with an empty room.

The teen's momentum carried him forward an extra step or two before he came to a stop, staring around himself at the oddly furnished hall in confusion. He didn't have time to wonder, however, because all of a sudden someone started shrieking at the far end of the hall.

Jumping, Harry spun, and his kunai had left his hand even before he realized that the screaming was coming from a large, stern looking woman in a portrait. The blade hit her square in the forehead and her face darkened, red with anger, her keening reaching higher decibels.

"WHY YOU MONSTROUS LITTLE HALF-BLOODED—" her face contorted into all sorts of ugly shapes as she screamed, burning black eyes fixed on the young Genin.

All around him other portraits were starting to scream, their wordless groans and keening shrieks almost drowning out the woman's. Almost—but not quite.

"—COMING INTO MY HOUSE AND—"

Harry's head spun, his temples throbbing in protest, but he still managed to take note of the movement behind him. Spinning again, Harry's confusion doubled when two men ran into the room—barely glancing at him as they ran down the hall towards the insane portrait.

"—A DISGRACE! I WILL NOT STAND FOR—"

He wasn't sure what was going on, but the two men—Lupin and Sirius if he'd seen right—were tugging on the heavy curtains hanging on either side of the portrait, and seemed to be having a hard time of it.

Finally, with a last tug, the curtains slid together, and the woman's voice was immediately muffled.

The man who looked like Sirius continued to hold the thick red curtains in place, looking at the man that looked like Lupin over his shoulder—he said something, but Harry couldn't hear it over all of the noise the remaining portraits were making.

The man nodded, and drew his wand. Harry immediately tensed, but the man still seemed to be ignoring him. Instead he shot a bolt of red light at the nearest portrait. Immediately, the black-haired man inside froze, and the man continued down the line, stunning one after another until a deafening silence fell suddenly over the hall.

Harry's ears were still ringing.

The two men finally turned towards him. The one that looked like Lupin appeared tired and drawn, but smiled weakly. The one that looked like Sirius grinned lopsidedly and patted the curtains behind him.

"You know, Harry, most people try to avoid upsetting my mother when they come to visit," he said nonchalantly, voice toned low as he crossed the room towards the boy.

Harry frowned, looking between the portrait and the man, confusion tugging on his eyebrows. "Sirius?" He asked uncertainly, gripping his remaining kunai tightly, "I don't understand—what are you doing here?"

The man frowned slightly, "I told you I'd be here, didn't I? This is my house—my parents' house, at least, but seeing as I'm the last Black… you know, conversation will be better downstairs; we don't want them to wake up again, do we?"

Harry shook his head, still regarding the men uncertainly. "Aberforth-san said this house belonged to Voldemort," he said warily.

Lupin frowned. "Aberforth knows this is Sirius' house," he said, "Are you sure you understood him right?"

Sirius snorted, "That old coot. He probably said that just to get you to come to us instead—and I'm glad that he did. Harry, what were you doing looking for Voldemort on your own?" Before Harry could answer, Sirius cut him off, "Wait—not here—downstairs!" And with that, he grabbed the handle of a door near the staircase; the one he and Lupin had burst through a moment before.

"How do I know you're really Sirius-san and Lupin-sensei?" Harry asked, taking a step away from the door warily. For a shinobi, it was easy to impersonate someone's appearance. Harry was sure wizards—especially wizards powerful enough to hide entire buildings—could do the same, somehow. At the very least, there was no evidence that they couldn't.

Sirius frowned and released an exasperated sigh, "Harry—"

"Sirius, hold on a minute," Lupin interrupted, placing a hand on the man's chest to keep him from approaching the tense teenager. He turned his attention back to Harry at Sirius' irritated huff. "Harry, what can we do to prove that we are who we say we are?"

"We shouldn't have to prove anything," Sirius grumbled, "I'm going to kill Ab for saying that."

"Sirius, please," Lupin said, "Harry's concern is a legitimate one, even if Aberforth hadn't said anything about this place."

"Alright, alright," the man cast an anxious look back at the red curtain—it was quivering—"Can't we at least do this downstairs, though?"