Sphere of Influence

R. Winters

Disclaimer: Even after 29 chapters, I still don't own Naruto or Harry Potter. (If I did, Dumbledore wouldn't have so many names...)

First off, a big thanks to all of your reviews! It was awesome to see how excited everyone was that the boys had finally made their way home. But the story continues... I'm going to leave this at that because I'm completely exhausted at the moment and can hardly keep my eyes open. (But I really wanted to get this up!) So, hopefully I've managed to catch most of the typos... hope you enjoy chapter 29! 30 should be up November 10 or so...

Chapter 29 – Desperate Times

"You and Kakashi-senpai have been absent from the village for a long time," Suzume said in an almost conversational tone as the two sat side-by-side in the cafeteria for a late lunch. "I wonder; where you could have been all of that time?"

Harry glanced around uneasily. There were only a handful of masked shinobi scattered about the room, but each of them was silent, making his conversation with Suzume all the more conspicuous. He felt as though everyone was listening, and it made him uneasy—more so, even than Suzume's interest in him.

"We've been… around," Harry said awkwardly, "Out of the village. The details are classified."

"More classified than ANBU?" Suzume asked doubtfully.

Harry felt his cheeks heating up and he self-consciously took a bite of the bland, nutritionally balanced meal that he'd been given. He thought he might have found something that tasted worse than ration bars.

"What really intrigues me," Suzume went on, "Is that now you're back, but Kakashi-senpai is still nowhere to be found."

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. Hopefully, his brother would be joining them soon, but he couldn't very well tell the other shinobi of the Hokage's plans to bring him back.

Suzume regarded him silently for a moment, head tilted slightly. Harry noticed that he didn't seem to be interested in eating his own meal—the gruel-like stew was growing cold and the red colored vegetable juice would rapidly be approaching room temperature.

"It must be strange," the ANBU broke the silence with a thoughtful tone, "To be in the village again after so long. Eight months, wasn't it?"

"And three weeks," Harry said. He frowned, considering carefully before continuing, "It is strange. Especially since I'm staying here now—I've never even seen this place before." He shook his head and ran a hand through his messy hair, "I don't know, it's both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, if you know what I mean. I don't think I'll really feel like it's over and I'm home until I'm back in my apartment with Kakashi-niisan, and doing training with my team again."

It had been a long time since he'd seen his teammates; it had been a while since he'd even thought about them, truthfully. Harry was surprised to realize just how much he missed them: Hitsuya-sensei, Inaho, and even Migaki. A wave of homesickness that was more poignant than any he'd felt in a while swept over him, and the irony of the fact that he was feeling it now that he was back in Konoha was not lost on the Genin.

Suddenly, Harry wasn't very hungry, either.

Suzume was watching him closely when he looked at him again—watching his reaction, Harry realized with a sense of violation. He scowled, sliding his food tray back, and was about to stand up, but the ANBU spoke before he could excuse himself.

"Is it really better here than the place you've been staying for these last eight months?" The masked man asked insidiously, "You obviously aren't comfortable here—you don't belong here. After such a long amount of time, it wouldn't be surprising if you'd formed… attachments."

Harry immediately thought of the people he'd left behind in England—unbidden memories of Sirius, Ron and Hermione, and Lupin-sensei surfacing in his mind. The idea of never seeing any of them again suddenly followed up his homesickness with a secondary bout of depression.

Despite his best attempts, he had grown attached. They didn't even realize how much he appreciated their help and friendship while he'd been stuck at Hogwarts, and now he'd probably never have the chance to tell them.

With an effort, he shrugged the feelings off, burying it deep in his mind. They were wizards—they'd sided with the same person who stole him from his home and attempted to force him to fight a war on foreign grounds. He shouldn't have feelings for any of them.

"My friends are here," Harry muttered half-heartedly, "I'm a Leaf shinobi, Konoha is where I belong." He stood, looking at the air above the ANBU's head. "I need to go."

Suzume made no attempt to stop him, and Harry left the room just as quickly as he could without obviously fleeing, his thoughts in turmoil.


Albus Dumbledore sat slumped on the small, hard bed in his cell, wondering how things had fallen apart so quickly. Of course, he'd known things would be bad if they barged into Konoha like they had, but he had never imagined the Third Hokage would be so much less reasonable than the First and the Second.

Either of the brothers would have at least heard him out before throwing him in chains, he thought, if only because they had been so fascinated with everything he could show them—with a wide new world they had never even begun to imagine until he opened the door.

His contact with the Third had been limited to a brief conversation over a despondent six-year-old boy, but the man had struck him as trustworthy. When Harry had first refused to learn at Hogwarts, however, he'd attempted to contact the man—and had been met with little more than a handful of sharp words that boiled down to "Mind your own business."

Yet he'd allowed Harry to convince him that petitioning the Sandaime for help would be easier than tracking Voldemort down themselves; and while it may have been, had the Hokage been inclined to listen, he had not, and things were worse off than before.

He turned his thoughts to the young boy he'd dragged into the middle of things and wondered, yet again, if it was really for the best. Was this one boy so important in the battle against evil? But he'd heard the prophecy with his own ears, and he'd seen the results of the killing curse with his own eyes. There was something special about Harry; he didn't know what, but he knew the boy was pivotal to their triumph over Voldemort.

He would gladly hoist the cross of these unforgivable sins upon himself if it meant the salvation of the wizarding world.

But if Harry was really to be executed…

The old wizard frowned, coming to a decision. He would have to take drastic measures to ensure he and the boy escaped this village and confronted Voldemort. Harry would probably go with him willingly enough, to save his brother and his own life, as well, so it was a simple matter of escaping his cell.

Standing, Dumbledore cleared his mind, slowly falling towards the almost trance-like state that would allow him to perform magic—even lacking his wand.

A clunking at the door disturbed the calmness settling over him and broke him out of it before he could begin the spell. The old man's blue eyes flicked open, narrowing in on the pair of masked young men who stepped through it. The one on the right was holding a set of handcuffs—heavy looking manacles connected to each other by a solid, metal bar about ten inches long.

The one on the left said something, frowned, and then spoke again in a slow, awkward, and terribly accented English. "You… are to… come with us…"

Dumbledore could tell, simply by the way he recited the words, that he had no idea what he was saying. Or, at the very least, he didn't comprehend the individual words. He was repeating them, like a parrot, and there was no way for the British wizard to reply.

Arching an eyebrow as the one with the manacles approached him cautiously, Dumbledore held his old, weathered hands out, and saw the eyes behind the mask flicker briefly towards his partner. The wizard smiled faintly—it must seem strange to them, taking such extreme measures to secure a feeble old man.

It really was ridiculous. He was a wizard, not a ninja, and he already knew there was no way he could overpower the two exceptionally healthy young men in front of him. Not without his wand. Not unless he was given the opportunity to concentrate on a work of magic.

Closing his eyes as the cuffs clapped harshly around his wrists, Dumbledore began to clear his mind again, legs moving mechanically as he was led from the room.

He wondered whether Harry was locked in a cell similar to his. He imagined the boy would be as tough as he'd been when he was held at Hogwarts, although he couldn't be certain that he would be so unruly. Would Harry attack his own people in a bid for freedom? The wizard wasn't sure.

Long seconds passed before he was grasping at the slippery energy he knew as magic, heavy around his body. Carefully, tentatively, he began coaxing it, willing it with his mind to form itself into something tangible—to become solid enough to knock his two guards off their feet.

The man on his left grunted something and pulled at him harshly—Dumbledore nearly tripped on the first step of the stairs in front of him, and his mind was jostled enough that he was forced to temporarily abandon his attempt at wandless magic. His eyes snapped open, and he took in the details around them.

The spacious halls they moved through were empty, and the sky was pitch-black beyond large windows. He was escorted through several corridors and ushered down another staircase before he was finally waved into a room.

The Third Hokage himself sat inside, calm brown eyes on his as he was escorted to a hard chair in the middle of the room. The two masked guards left, leaving him with the Hokage—and a man who stood to his right, hidden mostly in the deep shadows around the perimeter of the room.

Dumbledore raised his arms pointedly, "Are these really necessary?"

"You're under suspicion of criminal activity," the Hokage replied succulently, "You will be treated as such."

Dumbledore allowed his shackled hands to rest in his lap again, eyes narrowing. "So I have gathered. And Harry is under suspicion of criminal activity, as well?"

"Harii is convicted of criminal activity," the Hokage dismissed.

The man in the shadows said something—Dumbledore was only slightly surprised by the young tenor in his voice; he already knew that Konoha trained their shinobi young—and the Hokage glanced at him. When his eyes returned to Dumbledore, they were a touch harder than they had been before.

"It has been some time since I have worked an interrogation, so I hope you will forgive me for being a bit rusty," the Hokage said flatly, "Unfortunately, we do not currently have interrogators fluent in English—an oversight that will soon be remedied—so we are forced to make do with things as they are."

He leaned forward, over the desk he sat behind, expression suddenly becoming a bit more malevolent. "I want you to tell me exactly how Harii and his brother came to be in your country, Dumbledore-san," he said coldly, "I'm afraid your life—and the boy's—depend upon it."


Uchiha Satori was immediately on the alert when he sensed a group of chakra signatures approaching the forest swiftly. With a soft order into his headset, his team paused in their patrol, hiding themselves in the trees near the edge of the forest. He tensed in his hiding place, silently drawing a kunai.

Chances were good that it was a Leaf-nin team and they were getting worked up over nothing. It might even be Shin's team—one of his teammates had alerted the village to their impending arrival the day before. But this team was coming in faster than commissioned Leaf teams usually traveled in friendly territory, and if it had been ANBU, he wouldn't have noticed them so easily.

The Sharingan spun to life in his eyes, peering out for the first sign of movement in the trees and underbrush ahead of him. His eyes finally focused on the rustling in the leaves, and then the figures came into existence, bursting through leafy underbrush—three men carrying a fourth. Satori recognized Hota Shin, and the unconscious man his teammates were carrying. He relaxed, quickly sending the orders for his team to stand down and allow the group to pass.

Satori watched their passage until the four were safely away from his checkpoint, and then ordered his team to resume their standard pattern.

Despite the ease of the transaction, Satori continued to feel on edge, the Sharingan remaining bright in his eyes. He didn't sense any threats, but there was something strange teasing at the edge of his awareness.

For an instant, he thought it might be ANBU, trailing and guarding Hatake Kakashi, perhaps. But he knew what the ANBU felt like, and this wasn't that. His eyes narrowed, scanning the forest again, and he wondered if the strain was giving him exaggerated paranoia. Perhaps he needed to request a brief leave—then he saw it.

Or, rather, he didn't see it, and that is what caught his attention. His eyes tracked the movement of something very fast, shooting through the air and rustling leaves as it passed—but there was nothing there; it was as if a very localized gust of air was ripping through the forest.

And then there was something there.

For a moment his eyes managed to focus, and he saw a strangely dressed man—perhaps a monk of some bizarre cult by the look of his long hair and black robes—apparently riding on a thick branch. The next instant, the figure was slipping out of focus again, but Satori had seen enough.

He let his kunai fly, not even certain whether it would be able to strike the phantom or not. The familiar thunk of impaling flesh was pleasantly human, along with the pained grunt that accompanied it. Satori's eyes tracked the man's fall to the ground, and he was at his side almost before the body hit.

Even with the intruder right in front of him, the Sharingan struggled to focus. Satori formed the ram seal and focused his chakra. "Kai!"

His Sharingan could see through all but the most powerful of Genjutsu, and so he was prepared for a great amount of chakra to be required to dispel the man's jutsu, but it proved even more difficult than he'd guessed and left him breathing heavily. Still, the injured man was now solid and visible in front of him; a white mask covered his face, but if there was any image on it, he couldn't see what it was, as it was partially obscured by the long, pale blond hair falling in front of it. One arm was clutching at his blood soaked shoulder, just below where Satori's kunai was deep in his flesh, and what Satori had taken to be a large branch was a short distance away, revealed as a broom.

Satori grabbed the man by the front of his black robes and used a kunai in his other hand to knock the man's mask out of the way, revealing a pale face contorted with pain and fear—definitely not ANBU. He held his blade to the man's neck threateningly.

"Who are you?" He demanded viciously, "Who do you belong to?"

The man looked further terrified at his words and his babbling reply caused Satori to stare. It was a language he'd heard only once before, a long time ago, and with only a small selection of words, but he recognized the unusual syllables and the overall sound of the strange language.

As a boy, he'd once heard Hatake Sakumo use the same language, presumably as an insult to their clan head. And, while he'd never heard the boy use it himself, he suspected it to be the language the bastard Hatake brat once spoke, as well. Considering who the man was following, it wasn't difficult to put the pieces together.

His grip tightened and the man fell abruptly silent.

"How are you connected to Hatake?" He demanded.

The intruder didn't seem to understand, a fresh stream of nonsense bubbling from his lips. Satori jerked him, drawing blood from the man's neck—his outraged cry quickly fell silent under the Uchiha's glare.

"The man you were following," Satori elaborated impatiently, "Hatake Kakashi."

His prisoner's eyes widened. "Kakashi!" He repeated before continuing on another unintelligible litany.

Satori silenced him with the impact of the butt of his kunai to the man's temple—he sagged into unconsciousness and Satori regarded the form with a small frown. While he hadn't been able to gather much from the stranger, he had confirmed his suspicions regarding a connection with Hatake. He wondered what secrets the traitorous Hatake clan was hiding. Perhaps they were after the seat of the Hokage themselves, and were bringing in foreigners as their army.

He activated his radio. "There's something suspicious I need to investigate further—continue patrol and report to Shiro until I contact you again."

Satori waited a moment for the confirmations to roll in, along with Shiro's predictable offer to provide him with backup.

"Negative, Shiro. Continue the pattern with the others," he responded, shutting off his radio without waiting for the reply. He turned his eyes back to the unconscious stranger.

The Hokage would want to be notified of this. More importantly, Fugaku would want to know. Perhaps this could give them the advantage he was looking for.

Slinging the intruder over one shoulder, Satori grabbed the man's broom and sped off in the direction of the Uchiha compound.


Harry didn't see Suzume at breakfast the next morning, for which he was relieved. He still wasn't sure what to make of the ANBU, and his strangely prodding questions. He'd felt rather like he was being assessed—for skills, loyalty, and information. Like he was interrogated without the cell or the threat of torture… at least, without any spoken threat of torture.

"Hatake Harii."

Harry looked up in surprise to see a pair of monkey-masked ANBU in front of him, appearing identical except for slight differences in the stylization of the faces on their masks. Even their build was the same, and the cut of their spiky black hair.

"… Can I help you—ANBU-san?" He glanced from one to the other, unsure of which had spoken.

"Hokage-sama has requested we join you for training today." The words could have been coming from either of them—or both. Despite how close they were, Harry still couldn't tell.

"… Okay," Harry said reluctantly, standing. "What should I call you?"

"Mashi is fine," this time Harry was almost certain they had spoken in tandem. Was one a clone? If it was, he couldn't tell the difference.

Swallowing with trepidation, Harry nodded.

Without another word, they turned, silently walking side by side to the cafeteria door, where they paused to look back at him. Taking the hint, Harry abandoned what was left of his breakfast and followed them into the hallway.

The corridor was just wide enough for three men to walk abreast and the two ANBU took advantage, hanging back until they flanked Harry on either side.

Like an escort, Harry thought nervously.

"Mashi-san is my brother," the one on Harry's left said abruptly, and Harry looked at him with surprise, relieved, at least, to be able to tell which one was talking.

"It's only fair that we tell you, since we'll be sparring," the one on his other side said, as though he'd been the one who'd spoken in the first place.

"We were raised together," the one on Harry's left continued as though he'd never been interrupted, "So we know each other's minds intimately."

"Some say it's like fighting two parts of the same person," the other continued, "Only it would be a mistake to assume that means we fight alike."

Harry looked from one to the other in bewilderment, struggling to follow the conversation and feeling a strange sense of déjà vu at the same time.

"Our styles were honed to complement each other," the one on the left said, "Rather than mimic."

Suddenly, Harry recalled when he'd felt like this before. He hadn't spoken to Ron's brothers often, but the twins had a way of going back and forth that boggled a mind if it wasn't sharp. "You're twins, aren't you?" He asked, frowning between the two men. He didn't know of any twins in Konoha—the first pair he'd ever met were the Weasley twins—it was strange to find a set right before him all of a sudden.

The masks rattled, tilting in exactly the same manner at exactly the same time.

"You're quicker than most," the one on the right said.

"This might be fun, after all," the one on the left added.


"How is he?" The Sandaime asked, allowing only a small amount of concern for the young man to appear in his voice while his face was a mask of calm acceptance.

"His chakra is dangerously low and doesn't seem to be replenishing itself effectively," the medic at his side stated, frowning deeply under a thick mustache as he reviewed the notes on the Jounin's clipboard.

"The lacerations in his leg have taken to their first treatment well, but we need twenty-four hours to ensure there will be no complications from infection before we can heal them completely," he continued, flipping the page, "The muscles in his right arm appear to be unusually strained and weak—in fact, his entire musculature system seems to have undergone unusual stress and obtained damage like we've never seen before—but it seems to be accepting the standard treatments from what we have observed thus far."

Sarutobi nodded his understanding. "When can we expect him to wake?"

"We're going to keep him sedated for the first seventy-two hours, at least," the medic replied, "By then his leg should be healed and we hope a functional amount of chakra will have replenished in his system."

The Hokage frowned, "Can't you wake him sooner?"

The medic's ever-present frown ticked deeper, forehead furrowing. "We could," he admitted reluctantly, "But for this patient… we believe it is best that he is in operable condition prior to regaining consciousness, lest he further complicate his recovery."

The Sandaime stared at the man blankly—he'd never heard of such an unusual treatment plan before. The medic shifted slightly with discomfort, forehead furrowing further.

"This is Hatake Kakashi, after all, Hokage-sama," he supplied blithely, as though in explanation.

Frowning, the Hokage considered his words for a moment—and recalled the numerous complaints filed by his medical staff, reporting that the shinobi had discharged himself early, or exacerbated his injuries with undue activity before he was fully recovered. His lips quirked in a slight smile.

"Yes, this certainly is Hatake Kakashi," he agreed, "Very well; I want to be alerted immediately when he regains consciousness."

"Yes, Hokage-sama."


Lucius Malfoy returned to consciousness slowly, not quite sure what had happened. The first thing he was aware of was his throbbing head, quickly followed by the chill of cold against his bare back and arms. His hands were tied behind him and when he opened his eyes, he couldn't see.

The wizard fought down the urge to panic as his heart beat louder in his chest and his breathing became just a little more ragged. Suddenly, he recalled what had happened to put him in this position. There had been a foreigner, who had somehow seen him despite the disillusionment charm he'd cast on himself. It should have been impossible—but, then again, Kakashi Hatake shouldn't have had the stamina to run so quickly after everything he'd been through.

Vaguely, he wondered why he was alive. From what his lord had told them, he would have expected to be killed by the barbarians on sight. Not that he was complaining—as long as he was alive there was a chance he could bargain for his freedom. All men had baser instincts to satisfy, no matter how strange their culture, and Lucius was very familiar with satisfying baser instincts.

Lucius looked up quickly at the soft sound of a door sliding open—the light that met him was bright and made him cringe, squeezing his eyes shut only to open them again, slowly, as he felt hands on his bare arms, dragging him to his feet. It took a moment for his legs to agree to hold him up, but his escort gave him the time he needed before roughly guiding him to the door.

The wizard didn't bother asking where he was being taken. He'd find out soon enough and chances were good that the man didn't speak English.

It wasn't until he'd stepped onto the slightly raised floor of the hallway, paneled with rough wood, that Lucius realized they'd gone so far as to remove his socks and shoes, as well. His lips curled in distaste at the savagery of it all even as he bitterly reflected that he should possibly be feeling thankful for retaining his trousers.

There were no windows, but a soft, muted light seemed to emanate from the white walls on his right. He saw no one, other than his escort, although, he wasn't sure if that meant no one was home or they'd simply been warned to keep clear ahead of time. He wasn't even certain it was a home, although it didn't appear to be a dungeon.

His escort—a wide-shouldered young man with long, uneven black spikes of hair; he looked remarkably similar to the vague image he held in his mind of the man that had attacked him in the forest—pulled his arm roughly to stop him and turn him towards a portion of wall. Lucius didn't have time to wonder about it because the man had reached out, and was sliding open a door the wizard hadn't noticed was there. He realized then that they had likely passed several on the walk down the hall.

The room was small, but brightly lit, bare except for two pillows positioned on the middle of the floor. Lucius's escort dragged him towards the nearest pillow, pausing only a moment to shut the door, and forced him to kneel on the pillow. When he was apparently satisfied with the wizard's position, he retreated, placing himself in front of the sliding door they'd entered through.

Lucius held himself still despite the subservient position, with his back straight and his head raised proudly—defiantly—and waited for what would come with as much dignity as he could muster.

Time wore on—the guard didn't shift or say a word, apparently unperturbed with the lengthy delay. Lucius struggled to compose himself likewise, although his legs were falling asleep underneath him and his arms and back were uncomfortably strained and stiff.

At last, the wall—door—in front of the wizard slid open. A tall man with broad shoulders, a stern face, and limp black hair framing his face, stepped quietly inside. He paused, sliding the door shut behind him, then padded, barefoot, across from the door to sink slowly onto the second pillow in the room.

He stared, straight into Lucius's eyes, with an unwavering gaze of deep black. Lucius's eyes narrowed in response, but it didn't cause the other man to so much as blink. Their eyes held, locked, for nearly a minute, Lucius fighting the temptation to look away from the unnerving gaze. He was a Malfoy, dammit, and would not be cowed by some backwater foreigner.

At last, the man spoke, and it took Lucius longer than it should have to realize it was English. His words were slow, almost stumbling, and heavily accented. Lucius had to wonder if he'd ever heard the language spoken out loud before in his life; considering where he was, there was every likelihood that he had not.

"I am called Uchiha Fugaku."

Lucius inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement, once he'd worked out what it was the man had said, and responded in like, purposefully slowing his speech. "I am Lucius Malfoy."

The man wasted no time coming to his point—Lucius supposed it was just as well, as small talk would have been tedious with such an unintelligible partner. "What do you have with the Hatake, Lucius-san?"

Lucius hesitated, considering the best way to answer the awkwardly formed question. If the man was anything like the infamous Sakumo, or even Kakashi, then an outright lie would never work. Besides, he'd been caught tailing Kakashi in a very suspicious manner. A half-truth would be the best, then.

"Hatake had an agreement with my master," he explained slowly, watching Uchiha for indications of understanding. "We helped him return to this land, and he was to bring us before your leader. However, once we arrived in your land, he chose to disregard his promise and attempted to escape us. I was sent to follow."

Uchiha was silent for a very long time. Long enough that Lucius was considering repeating what he had said, rephrasing it in a way that might be easier for him to understand.

"What do you have with the Hokage-sama?" Uchiha asked at last, breaking the silence before Lucius could speak.

"Hokage-sama?" Lucius repeated slowly, frowning at the unfamiliar word. "Is that the name of your leader?"

Uchiha nodded, a slight inclination of his head. "Yes."

"We mean no ill-will," Lucius quickly assured him. "We mean to ask him to form an alliance against our mutual enemies."

Uchiha frowned, "What enemies?"

Lucius hesitated again—Hatake had said these people were unfamiliar with wizards, although they seemed to be familiar enough with magic of some sort. They were like a species unto themselves, he supposed, isolated for countless years from the real people on the mainland. Not so dissimilar to Centaurs or House elves that had been left to their own devices long enough to become dangerous. He would have to word his response carefully.

"The… people who… initially took Kakashi and his brother from your land," he said at last, satisfied with his explanation.

Uchiha nodded again and motioned for him to continue—Lucius wasn't sure what he wanted to hear.

When the wizard said nothing, he offered another prompt. "Why did the Hatake break his—promise? If you truly have such friendly… intent?"

"… I cannot speak for him, of course," Lucius supplied cautiously, "But, from what I understand, he did not believe we had purely friendly intent."

Uchiha stared at him blankly for a long moment, then he laughed—once, and it wasn't an altogether pleasant sound. "You say the Hatake was not fool? I am not fool, either, Lucius-san. Your intent is not purely friendly."

Lucius wasn't sure how to respond. If he denied the claim, it could be misconstrued as a sign of guilt. If he apologized for the perceived insult, it would be taken as an admission of guilt. He said nothing.

"The Uchiha Gouzoku is interested in talking with your not friendly master. Perhaps we can come to exchange loyalty," he looked up at the pale-haired man intently, "Do you believe your master would be… interested?"

Lucius's slate blue eyes were bright—perhaps he'd make it out of this situation alive, after all. And, even better, perhaps he would have the chance to bring allies to his lord.


Dumbledore lay on his cot, struggling to breathe deeply as the old pain ached heavily in his chest. It was an injury that had never fully healed after his encounter with Voldemort at the Ministry; the effects of an insidious curse that he had been unable to fully defeat.

While he'd spent a month in St. Mungo's, he'd taken some satisfaction in knowing that Voldemort had been laying low—recovering, he presumed—for a good five times that long.

Unfortunately, Voldemort seemed to have completely recovered from his own attacks, while this parting gift from his old student continued to irritate him—especially now that he'd been unable to administer his continued treatments.

His chest heaved with another slow, laborious breath that almost didn't seem worth it for the scant amount of oxygen it took in.

Albus struggled against the temptation to give his tired old body a rest from the arduous task breathing had become—his swollen face and aching joints certainly didn't help matters.

But he had a task to complete. If he gave up now, everything would be for nothing. Voldemort would rise to power, Harry would be killed—one way or another—and the wizarding world would fall into ruin.

He heaved another breath into his throbbing lungs and let his eyes slide closed. Reaching out for magic seemed surprisingly easy—perhaps because his mind was already so consumed by the simple task of breathing—focusing it, clearing it of everything else was a simple task.

He needed—"Accio… wand," he breathed tiredly, allowing the magic around him to flow through him. He would deal with the consequences of his rebellion once he was at his peak again. With his wand, he should be able to get both himself and Harry out before the shinobi could respond.

Albus stared up at the gray ceiling overhead, struggling to breathe and wondering if the spell had failed after all, when nothing happened for several long seconds.

Then, at last, he heard it. A faint, but unmistakable clatter of something small against the thick, airtight door.

Dumbledore sighed out and allowed his eyes to slip shut again; a wave of desperation washing over him. His next breath was more difficult than ever, and his heart seemed sluggish in his chest.

A wry, tired smile crossed his lips and he wondered if this was to be the end of the once magnificent Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.