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

AN:

HAPPY NEW YEAR 2013! :D :D


Part I: Chapter 54


It was strange how the days seemed to blur and merge together. Harry couldn't have told the date or time if his life depended on it.

As a matter of fact, he didn't seem to care much about anything.

Not when he had awoken to find himself tucked in his own bed, in the room he shared with Tom in the orphanage. Not when plates with bits of food were left on his nightstand and he couldn't summon the slightest bit of hunger, to the point that he merely drank the glasses of water that Tom brought him only when he felt his throat unbearably parched and dried, and his lips cracked.

Not even when he spent all his hours staring at the wall his bed was pressed against, seeing the dancing runes of the ward Dumbledore had cast. White, glowing beautifully, so clear to his sight now that if he had wanted he could have followed each and every wriggling symbol with a fingertip. But he didn't.

He didn't even frown when he saw strange runes intertwined with Dumbledore's – strange in coloring, strange in the way they seemed to be hidden, ducking around behind the runes of the ward, yet also linked to them, as if they were purposely affecting and interfering with the way the ward should originally function.

He couldn't muster the slightest interest, curiosity, or even wariness, as once he would have.

Time passed by with the constant sounds of bombings, with the noise of the radio at the ground floor blaring its incessant grim news, with Ulysses seemingly becoming more concerned given the way he licked and purred and meowed at Harry with more insistence, with the sound of Tom's footfalls as he went about the house, and with Tom's increasingly furious recriminations.

At times, Harry merely rolled in his bed, turning his back to his brother.

"I'm not getting saddled for the rest of my life with a mentally crippled brother. Are you listening? Snap out of it, you pathetic little fool! Alice Jones and Robert Hutchins died, as I told you they would, as all inferior, weak beings do in war."

Other times, he mutely laid there, dully, gazing up at his brother, letting Tom vent his spleen.

"It's been four days! Enough with self-pityingly wallowing in your misery and grief, Harry. I'm not about to start spoon-feeding you, let me make matters clear. If you won't eat, then I will let you die. Are you listening!"

Until one day, he awoke startled, his hair being grasped in a merciless, painful grip by Tom who was looming over him, his handsome face contorted in rage.

"I see now that I've indulged your melodramatics for too long," hissed out Tom in a low, livid tone. "My patience with you is not infinite, little brother. Get up!"

Harry cried out when he was yanked out of bed by his hair, his eyes watering as he futilely tried to struggle against Tom, who instantly locked an arm across his chest and began dragging him into the corridor.

He felt greatly betrayed when Ulysses did nothing but merely watched calmly – not even defending him against Tom and the rough manhandling, as Harry was dragged, kicking and screaming, to the bathroom at the end of the corridor.

But it seemed that he was too exhausted… no, too weak, because as much as he tried -Harry realized in startled shock- in his current condition he was no match against his brother's strength. He should have eaten something after all.

The next thing he felt, before his languid mind could gather back its wits, was the shock of being unceremoniously tossed into a bathtub filled with freezing water.

Harry cried out and spluttered, flailing his limbs around.

"Are you back to being your usual self?" demanded Tom harshly, skewering him with an incensed, narrowed-eyed look.

Harry roared in outrage, and tried to get out, so chilled to the bones he was, his clothes thoroughly drenched and weighting heavily on him.

"I see you're not quite there yet," sneered Tom, before Harry felt fingers gripping his hair once more, and he was dunked into the water.

For moment, he thought his brother might truly be trying to drown him, as the hand clutching his hair didn't release him but forced him to stay underwater, making Harry choke and struggle for air, weakly kicking to be let off, his lungs burning and searing.

Harry gave a great gasp for breath when he was suddenly jolted upwards, and for a moment, he felt such intense rage that, seeing red, he shrieked like a loon as he latched his hands on Tom's shirt and pulled him in with all the strength he could muster.

The look of surprise on his brother's face was worth it, as Tom fell face-first into the tub, as Harry leapt at him with every intention of wrapping his hands around his brother's neck, of squeezing the throat and pushing him into the depths of the tub, of making Tom drown and feel hurt and pain, for a change.

Yet as Harry was about to do so, he halted in mid savage leap, and stared at Tom and his wet hair splattered on his face, and the look of wrath as his brother struggled at the other end of the tub to find a hold to prevent himself from sliding further down the tub.

"You're wet," croaked Harry, his voice more a rasp after days of going unused than anything else. And for some reason, he found himself laughing, and chortling, and guffawing, as he pointed a finger and repeated, "You're wet. We're both wet."

There was nothing funny about it, but he couldn't stop laughing, so hard and incessantly that his ribs began to ache, that tears were streaming from his eyes - a laugh that became so raw that it felt as though it was painfully rasping and lacerating his throat, that felt corrosive and abrasive.

Tom stared at him, with a frown on his face at first. Then he eyed him closely as he settled back against his end of the tub, watching, observing in silence, though apparently relaxing as he stretched his arms over the tub's rim, restfully, awaiting.

As Harry's high-pitched laughter began to subside until it was nothing but one last dry chuckle, he realized that it hadn't been abrasive at all, but expunging.

Suddenly, Harry felt limp, but not with dullness and apathy as he had felt for the last couple of days, but drained from the tempest of quelling, horrible emotions that had been suffocating him, that had driven him to such listlessness – to such point that, now, he felt utterly ashamed of himself.

He didn't think he had ever felt such profound chagrin. Harry felt the tips of his ears turning red, as he remembered his cowardice, not wanting to say goodbye to Amy Benson, Eric Whalley, and Billy Stubbs, pretending to be asleep so that he wouldn't have to be confronted with one more parting, because at the time he could only think that good-byes always seemed to end in death.

Moreover, Harry felt his cheeks flushing, abashed, as he realized just how much his brother had had to put up with, leaving Tom with the burden of taking care of him as though he had become some witless, traumatized child that couldn't fend for himself or even summon the will to care for anything.

And his shame was absolute when he realized that he had no right to have behaved so. That it had been Alice and Hutchins who had been robbed from spending a life together - and he, just of his long-held dreams of having them as parents.

What he had lost, as devastating as it still felt, like a wound that would certainly never heal or close, was still nothing in comparison to what they no longer had.

Harry knew that if Alice and Hutchins could have seen him in the last couple of days, they would have felt deeply disappointed in him. Oh, Alice certainly distressed too, but Hutchins would have given him some choice words. Hutchins would have…

Releasing a deep exhalation of breath, Harry forced his eyes shut, as he slumped against the tub.

There was silence, peaceful, soothing silence for a very long moment, in which Harry felt himself gathering some measure of hold over himself, of control, of clear-headedness, as he opened his eyes and gazed at his brother.

"Are you done?" intoned Tom calmly, arching an eyebrow.

Harry glanced at him, to then draw his knees to his chest, hugging them with his arms, and nod.

"So…" began Tom in a slow voice as he watched him carefully, "they're dead."

Harry stared at him, his brows crinkling. "Yes."

"And you are done with your…. mourning?" said Tom in a low voice, evidently struggling for delicacy and tact, as he pierced him with his dark blue eyes.

"Mourning?" muttered Harry flatly under his breath, to then give his brother a pityingly look. "I don't think people ever stop mourning, Tom."

His brother gave him a skewering, narrowed-eyed look, and Harry sighed heavily. How to explain something that Tom certainly couldn't understand, hadn't the capacity to feel and probably never would?

"I think…" said Harry slowly, frowning down at his knees, "that it can be… overcome, I suppose. With time."

Tom shot him a snide, contemptuous look, before he demanded in an aggravated tone of voice that was much more impatient and harsher, "Are you recovered, at least, then?"

Rankled and affronted, Harry scowled at him. "What's this? Checking if I'm about to go barmy again?" He shot him a dirty look and snapped tetchily, "I'm fine, alright! No need to ask stupid questions."

"I'm just saying," intoned Tom loftily, though his eyes had sharpened as he pierced him with his gaze, "that if you still think that Alice and Hutchins-"

"You want to know what I think?" interrupted Harry sharply. "I think that what we went through in Norway was for nothing. Because we saved Hutchins-" his throat dried "- just for him to die a couple of months later." He violently shook his head, his hands curling into fists on his knees, as he gritted out, "There's no sense in it. No-"

"But you did give him some more months of life," pointed out Tom impatiently, before he sneered scathingly at him. "Surely that is enough to satisfy your sappy sentimentalities-"

"I wanted to give him a lifetime," murmured Harry under his breath, flinching. "With Alice. With us. With me." He clenched his jaw but then heaved a deep breath. "I don't want to discuss this-"

"They died," spat Tom, glaring at him with deep annoyance. "As many others have and will. We're living through a war, such things will always happen." He shot him a disparaging, snide look. "I thought you had learned something from Norway-"

"Look," interjected Harry quietly. "Do me a favor." He pinned his brother with a hard gaze. "We will never speak about them again."

Tom narrowed his eyes at him, before a vastly satisfied expression graced his features as he said silkily, "With pleasure."

Harry nodded and remained quiet as he gazed down at his knees, shivering in the cold water of the tub.

"Come," said Tom commandingly as he rose and stepped out of the bathtub, dripping water across the tiled floor as he reached for a couple of ragged towels. "Let us get dried and changed." He shot him a fulminating glance over a shoulder. "And some food in your belly. I've saved the last can of tuna for you. You'll need it."

"The last?" Harry echoed, frowning as he accepted the towel his brother handed over.

"We've run out of food," said Tom caustically. "There's much we must do and plan for, now." He cast Harry a pointed look, as he added coolly, "I don't believe it was a mere coincidence that Grindelwald made the Luftwaffe begin bombing London on the day we were coming back from Hogwarts."


Later, Harry mused -and found quite ridiculously funny- that his brother had tried, in his own misguided and unfeeling way, to comfort him. Well, not to comfort exactly, as he soon realized, but rather to get him up and running.

Now that Tom had apparently made sure that Harry was no longer incapacitated by grief, he was taking full advantage of him.

"Go board up the windows," Tom commanded briskly. "There are scavengers looting all around our neighborhood-" he sneered acidly at him "-and the magical wards in our orphanage can't protect us from them, can they?"

Grumpily grumbling under his breath, Harry got to work, rather feeling like an abused house-elf.

Having found the box of tools that Robert Hutchins used to employ to do Mrs. Cole the favor of doing some repairs in the orphanage, Harry used hammer to break off wood boards from one of the girls' bedroom, to then nail them to the windows of the house.

"You're the one who's good at manual labor," Tom remarked scathingly whenever he overheard Harry lamenting his fate. "So stop whining like a spoiled tyke."

Harry angrily slammed the hammer into a nail pinning a floorboard into the last of the windows.

Once done, he spat unto his hand the nails he had been holding in his lips, and shot his brother a scowl as he griped accusingly, "I don't see you doing anything!"

"We each have our fortes," intoned Tom loftily in an unbearably arrogant and superior tone, who had merely been seated by the radio, listening attentively, while Harry went around the house working. "I have my brains, and you have your…" He curled his lips, giving him a scathing look. "Brawn, I suppose."

"Brawn?" bit out Harry angrily, dropping nails and hammer into Hutchins' tool box to then roll up his sleeves, pointedly displaying his thin arms that were by now trembling in exhaustion with all the effort he had expended.

Tom eyed Harry's arms with a snide look on his face, as he muttered under his breath, "Pathetic."

"Yeah, well, if you would let me eat already!"

"Are you done with all the windows?" demanded Tom harshly, who had the last can of tuna in his hands, having kept it hostage all the while.

"Yes!" harrumphed Harry irritably as he swiped a sleeve over his drenched forehead.

The summer heat in the house, especially now that all the windows were boarded up and didn't allow even a breeze to pass inside, felt suffocating. He had been dripping sweat all the around the place as he worked.

"Very well," said Tom coolly. "Here's your reward then."

Harry deftly caught the can of tuna tossed his way and wasted no time in dashing into the kitchen, with legs that wobbled weakly and stomach that grumbled so hard that it ached.

He later returned, with hair dripping water as Harry had filled a pan under the kitchen's faucet and splashed it to his head and face, further soaking his shirt, now pleasantly wet and chilly.

"Take that off," Tom instructed short-temperedly as he watched Harry plopping unto a chair across from him to then desperately attack the opened can of tuna with a fork. "You will catch a cold."

Harry grunted, paid him no mind, and flung fork over his shoulder as he decided to use his fingers instead to scoop out the bits of tuna. It proved to work much faster than with the fork, even though drips of oil splattered unto his shirt as he kept voraciously gobbling the tuna with his fingers.

"Do have some manners instead of eating like an uncivilized muggle!"

Harry purposely shot him a nasty grin with oil dribbling from the corners of his mouth, as he finally sucked the last remnants of tuna from his fingertips, making loud, appreciative, smacking noises with his lips.

Tom gave him a thoroughly disgusted and revolted look at that, eyeing his face and shirt as he sneered contemptuously, "You're filthy."

"And I care because?" said Harry nonchalantly as he left the empty can on the low tea table between them, right beside the radio that was now blaring the latest news, and slumped tiredly on his chair.

"… Marshal Pétain, Chief of State of the French government in Vichy, in the midst of the Italo-German occupation, has signed an armistice, surrendering to Adolf Hitler. Earlier in the day, the French General Charles de Gaulle, having recently escaped to Britain, made a radio broadcast from London addressing the issue, appealing to the French people to resist the Nazi occupation and the Vichy government of Marshal Pétain. It is believed de Gaulle intends to organise an armed force with the exiled French officers in Britain. It is as of yet unknown if he will count with our PM's support…"

Harry sat up at that, intently listening to the radio.

"…In his speech to the House of Commons, the PM Sir Winston Churchill, obliquely addressed the matter of Pétain's surrender and collaboration with the Germans, expressing that the Battle of France is over, yet the Battle of Britain has just begun, exhorting our brave lads of the Royal Air Force to persist in giving battle to the German Luftwaffe as London continues being bombed, having already resulted in countless civilian casualties..."

Frowning deeply, Harry shot his brother a quizzical glance, though he saw that Tom didn't seem at all fazed by any of it.

"… This is, in the words of our Prime Minister, our finest hour, in a war he previously dubbed as being one of blood, toil, tears, and sweat, which we shall fight in our very beaches if necessary. However, there are signs of dissension in the government, as several Members of Parliament and a section of the British public have begun appealing for peace negotiations to be undertaken with Adolf Hitler..."

"I don't get it," Harry muttered under his breath.

"...On another note, the Italian dictator, Benito Mussolini, who recently declared war on Britain…"

Only then Tom seemed to pay him any attention, shooting Harry a very smug look. But Harry, at all those news, had many other things in his mind and fanning his brother's already inflated ego wasn't one of them, even if it was true that Tom had been saying for ages that Hitler and Mussolini had to have a secret pact of allegiance, issue which had now been proven to the whole world.

"I don't understand what's going on," snapped Harry waspishly, gesturing at the wireless.

"What do you not understand?" said Tom impatiently as he thankfully turned off the radio.

"Well," began Harry crisply, "for starters, why hasn't Grindelwald attacked yet?" He jerkily carded his fingers through his wet locks of hair, as he continued anxiously, "He usually conquers a country right after he sends his muggle forces to attack it. So what is he waiting for? Why is he just satisfied in having London bombed-"

"Bombing London," interjected Tom sharply, "is a terror tactic, little brother-"

Harry shot him an irked look. "Obviously. I know that already-"

"-not to mention," continued Tom in a superior tone of voice as if he hadn't been interrupted at all, "that conquering a country that is an isle is much different than conquering an inland nation. First," he grandiosely displayed two fingers of his hand "- the isle's defenses has to be brought down. Which are-" he sneered impatiently at Harry "- its Air Force and Navy. Which is precisely what the Germans are trying to do, with the Luftwaffe targeting ground infrastructure, shipping centers, aircraft factories and such, while their airplane torpedo bombers and their submarines are already sinking British ships, according to the news. Hence, only then, will it be safe for the Germans to send their soldiers in an invasion by land."

Tom paused to give him an aggravated, ill-tempered look, as he gestured expansively and added matter-of-factly, "This is a battle of attrition, litte brother. The first who loses the most airplanes and ships, will be the one to ask for terms of peace, and thus, will be the defeated."

Harry frowned at him. "Right. But the thing is that we saw in Norway that Grindelwald has Dementors." He shook his head in dismay. "He could just send Dementors to the British Army's bases in England. Muggles can't see them, after all, but they can feel the effects, right?" He shot his brother a quizzical glance. "So he could have the British soldiers trembling with fear and in that state the Nazis could easily kill them all! So why isn't Grindelwald doing something like that?"

Tom gave him a long, considering look. "True. Grindelwald does have many means at his disposal that he is evidently not employing." He suddenly leaned forward, a wide, satisfied smirk curling his lips, as he whispered secretively, "But that's just it, little brother. The crux of the matter is that I don't think the Dark Lord wishes for Hitler to win this one."

"Why not?" Harry cocked his head to a side, frowning. "We know that he wants to force Dumbledore to confront him-"

"Be that as it may," interjected Tom snidely, as though he still refused to believe that Dumbledore was of any important significance to the Dark Lord, "I'm sure Grindelwald would want Dumbledore to go to him and not the other way around." He waved a hand dismissively. "A Dark Lord like Grindelwald would want the territorial advantage that comes with battling a foe on his own terms – surrounded by his followers, of course, to give a good show, and in a land he controls as well."

Harry's forehead crinkled in pensiveness. "So you're saying that Grindelwald isn't going to help his Nazis attack England with any magical means because-"

"Because," said Tom, apparently vastly annoyed at Harry's slow-wittedness, "it must have been Hitler's idea to attack England now and not Grindelwald's. And Grindelwald has obviously allowed it since it nonetheless serves four purposes." He shot Harry an irked look, as he ticked off his fingers. "Firstly, it's terrorizing the muggle population of England, as well as the wizarding one, no matter if they have Marchbank's wards to protect them from muggle bombs. Secondly, it's killing muggles, which of course-" he shot Harry a vicious smirk "-is always a benefit. Thirdly, without Grindelwald's help, the Nazis won't win air superiority over England." He snorted disparagingly. "How can they, when the Luftwaffe must be deploying from the coast of France and their airplanes have to return there to refuel after every air strike." Tom waved a hand contemptuously. "No battle can be won thus, when England already has the home advantage. Which means that Hitler will lose on this occasion, and it will leave him with a debilitated Air Force."

"And you think Grindelwald wants that," interjected Harry musingly, feeling a frisson of distress, "because he means to turn Hitler against Stalin. And losing airplanes in the Battle of England will mean that Hitler will be weakened when he attacks Russia?"

"Exactly," said Tom coolly. "And hence, that will be the beginning of the end for the Nazis." He gave Harry a very self-satisfied look. "Indeed, The Blitz has proven my belief that Grindelwald means for the Nazis to ultimately lose the war."

Harry's apprehension only increased at that. Oh, of course that he couldn't be happier if the Soviets did trounce the Nazis, but it made him feel very wary that Tom seemed to understand Grindelwald's twisted way of thinking so easily. That his brother could see through a Dark Lord's schemes and understand the reasons for his actions, as puzzling as they had been for Harry, didn't bode well at all. He didn't want Tom to be that well attuned to a Dark Lord's ruthless and unscrupulous way of thinking.

Then, he suddenly recalled what was amiss, and shot Tom a troubled glance. "You said there were four reasons, but you didn't say what the fourth one was."

"I already did," said Tom pleasantly, as he crossed his legs as if basking in smug comfort. He arched an eyebrow at him. "Didn't I tell you that it could be no coincidence that Grindelwald made The Blitz begin exactly on the day we returned to London?"

Harry shook his head, and grumbled peevishly, "But you didn't explain-"

"Is it not obvious by now?" retorted Tom irritably. Suddenly, he let out an amused bout of sharp chuckles. "Why, little brother, he took the opportunity to send us a message, of course."

Harry blinked at him. "Um - what?"

"In his letter he did appoint himself as our mentor, did he not?" intoned Tom conversationally, before he waved a hand dismissively. "With The Blitz, making us see and experience it, he's imparting a lesson, you twit."

Fiercely scowling, Harry snapped furiously, "What kind of lesson-"

"Of how very terribly dangerous muggles are," interjected Tom, chuckling again as if vastly and darkly amused by the whole idea. "How 'devastating' their silly little bombs can be." He widely smirked at him. "Of course, I'm not that easily impressed."

Harry gawked at him, speechless.

"I rather enjoy hearing the muggles wailing at every drop of a bomb, their cries of fear, their screams as they burn and die," continued Tom placidly, his smirk widening with relish. "I will have to let Grindelwald know that his lesson has pleased me rather than made me wary, won't I? It has certainly backfired on him."

"Don't you talk like that!" thundered Harry seeing red, jumping to his feet with hands curling into trembling fists of rage. "Don't you ever speak like that again! If it's true, then Alice and Hutchins died because of Grindelwald's deranged 'lesson', and I won't hear you saying that-"

"I am what I am," snarled Tom viciously, as he too got to his feet, towering over Harry with a livid expression on his face. "I make no excuses and I do not apologize for it. I see no wrong in my opinions and I only allow you to freely express yours to me because of the closeness between us." His eyes narrowed to irate slits, as he hissed out in a very low, ominous tone of voice, "But do not abuse the liberties I give you. Don't forget that you vowed your loyalty to me, and disrespect and outright insubordination is something I will not tolerate from you."

"Insubordination? Tolerate?" Harry sputtered, gaping incredulously at him before he bristled angrily. "Stuff it up yours, Tom! I am your brother – not a pet, not a minion! I will speak my mind whenever I want and-" he sharply jabbed a finger into his brother's chest "- if you don't like it, you can go take a hike!"

Tom eyed him venomously as he sneered, "When I am a Dark Lord, you'll be singing a different tune, little brother."

"If and when you are one," bit out Harry incensed, glowering at him, "it will change nothing in the way I speak to you!"

Tom's narrowed his eyes at him, his fury evident in the way Harry's scar suddenly flared in pain. But then his features relaxed, as he gave Harry a sly smirk and whispered softly, "Perhaps that won't be a bad thing after all. We'll just have to wait and see, won't we?"

A tad nonplussed at those words, Harry frowned at him, though before he had the chance to angrily push the matter, he was interrupted by his own grumbling stomach.

Tom shot him a scathing look at that. "We need food."

"Oh, I see," said Harry stiffly, trying his best to ignore his complaining, hollow belly, because a can of tuna had certainly not been enough. "So I'll be the one to go fetch it, I suppose?" He darkly glared at his brother, his eyes accusing. "That's why you dragged me out of bed, wasn't it? To order me about and make me do all the hard work-"

"I'm not sending you out to streets alone, you dunce!" bit out Tom, looking vastly annoyed. "I'll be going with you, of course. It's not safe out there."

Suspiciously, Harry eyed him closely, before he gave him an ingratiating smile and mumbled sheepishly, "Right, then."

He ignored the way Tom sneered at him for jumping to conclusions, and hastily went back to their bedroom for his satchel.


With loaded gun tucked in belt, since Harry was taking no chances after all the trouble they had gotten into in Norway, they left the orphanage under the mantle of darkness.

It would be no easy thing to obtain food, he realized at once as he warily glanced down the street. It was obvious that many of their neighbors had hastily packed and left, since many of the houses had doors that had been smashed open, and he could glimpse interiors that had been savagely upended and ransacked.

There was a very nerve-wrecking, deathly stillness, and there would have been utter silence too if it wasn't for the distant sounds of bombings.

Harry could feel the small hairs of the back of his neck standing on end as they dashed forwards. None of the shabby streetlamps were lit, and thus they quickly darted down the street, moving from shadow to shadow, not wanting to be seen.

Half an hour later, Harry fidgeted nervously after they had checked the fourth house, finding nothing in it except destroyed furniture and empty kitchen closets.

"Someone has looted all these houses before us," he mumbled dejectedly, as he then shot his brother a worried look. "So where are we going to find something to eat?"

"We must keep trying," bit out Tom sharply. "We have no other choice."

Harry didn't like it one bit. He rather thought he was becoming paranoid, having felt once or twice as if someone was following them, or tracking them with their eyes.

"You were once our neighbors' darling little orphan," said Tom scathingly as he narrowed his eyes at Harry with an aggravated and impatient expression on his face. "Thus, you should be the one to know where we could find-"

"Hutchins' store," mumbled Harry under his breath, inwardly cringing because it was the last place he wanted to set foot on, but he knew well it was the only possible alternative for them.

Tom scoffed at that as he sneered acidly, "That's the first place that looters must have gone to."

"No doubt," said Harry grimly, "but there's much that they couldn't have found."

Tom frowned at him but Harry didn't waste time with explanations as he grabbed his brother by the arm and hastily pulled him along, ever wary and on guard as they dashed down the streets.

Hutchins' store, they soon saw, had been thoroughly ransacked, the front door hanging from its hinges, the display windows shattered, the shelves -usually filled with kitchenware, toys, sacks of grains and vegetables, and assorted canned food- now only gathering dust.

On the counter top, the heavy, bronze cash register had been forcefully smashed open, not even a shilling left inside.

"I told you there would be nothing here," pointed out Tom crossly.

Ignoring his brother, Harry crouched under the counter top, knocking on the floor boards with his knuckles, until one sounded hollowed.

He shot Tom a triumphant grin as he hurriedly pried off the wood board. Exactly as he remembered, there was a small key inside.

Thievery had always run rampant in their neighborhood and Robert Hutchins had been a smart and cautious man.

Harry still remembered how once -during the many times Alice took him to Hutchins' store under the excuse of having to do some grocery shopping for the orphanage- the man had urged Alice to keep the scarce valuables of the orphanage somewhere hidden, explaining how he did so himself.

He remembered Alice blanching at first and then softly laughing under her breath when Hutchins told her that 'Lenin kept his secrets'.

"He kept the good stuff in a hidden pantry or something of the sort," Harry murmured quietly as he rose to his feet with small key in hand. He then glanced around, perusing, thinking hard and fast, trying to unravel the meaning of what Hutchins had once said. "Right. I suppose it has to be in the house."

Tom followed him in silence as Harry crossed to the back room of the store that led into Hutchins' private quarters. Sighing, seeing that not even the man's home had been spared by scavengers, he halted when he caught a glimpse of something.

A small room that had also been ransacked, though everything inside looked as if savagely destroyed in a fit of anger and hatred.

Harry frowned as he stepped inside, carefully moving through heaps of rumpled and torn leaflets, some sort of machine smashed to bits in the midst of it.

"I knew he printed Communist pamphlets, but to have the printing press in his very own house," sneered Tom contemptuously as eyed the broken machine and gave it a sharp kick. "Utter fool. If the war hadn't killed him, he would have died anyway for being a Communist."

"That's what this is?" murmured Harry under his breath as he glanced around in wonder, before his brother's words sank in and he glared at him, bristling. "Don't say that about Hutchins. No one would have harmed him - we don't hang Reds in England!"

Tom scoffed as he shot him a very scathing look. "Shows how little you know."

Deciding to ignore his brother, Harry focused on the many things he saw hanging from the walls: posters and pictures, some of people he recognized.

He stared up at the one depicting a black and white representation of Joseph Stalin, bemused since it didn't seem as if Hutchins had liked the bloke given the things scribbled and slashed in red ink. Another one, this one spotless, showed some sort of Asian man.

Harry frowned. "Who's this supposed to be?"

Tom glanced at it, before he said impatiently, "Don't you read the newspapers?" He waved a hand dismissively, turning away from it. "That's Mao Tse-Tung, a young Communist leader causing lots of trouble in China."

"Really?" muttered Harry under his breath, his eyebrows shooting upwards. "It looks as if Hutchins admired him."

"He would have," sneered Tom acidly, before he rounded on Harry angrily. "Why are we here?"

"Because now I'm certain that it must be here," mumbled Harry as he glanced around pensively, gesturing at all the posters. "Which of these chaps is Lenin?"

Tom's eyebrows quirked upwards. "Vladimir Lenin?" His eyes narrowed to slits, as he demanded sternly, "Why do you ask?"

"If I'm right, you'll soon see," snapped Harry impatiently. "Just tell me which one is he."

"That one," said Tom coolly as he indolently gestured at the poster hanging on the farthest side of the room.

Harry blinked as he approached it, staring up at the large profile of the face depicted in the poster. "Funny looking fellow, wasn't he?"

"An idealist fool, more like," said Tom scornfully, "who didn't understand a single thing regarding human nature. As if people truly want equality." He shot Harry an annoyed glance, as he sneered viciously, "People are greedy, envious, and selfish creatures, they don't want equality but to crush all others, to raise themselves to be superior. That is what Lenin and his sort never understood."

"If you say so," muttered Harry distractedly as he roved his palms over the poster. It had been torn on one side by the looters, like many of the other posters and pictures, but felt as if Hutchins had glued it to the very wall.

He finally pressed his ear against it as he rapped it with his knuckles.

"It's hollowed," said Harry, grinning triumphantly. "Come, brother," he added excitedly, "help me tear the paper off."

As they worked, it was soon revealed what lay underneath: a metallic lid with a lock. Making use of the key he had found, Harry opened it instantly, his green eyes widening at what it held inside.

"A dead man has no use for his savings," said Tom gleefully as he immediately pocketed a hefty stack of pound notes.

Harry was too distracted to pay him any mind as his fingers curled around a small box of red velvet. With a click, he opened it, to gaze down at two wedding rings, suddenly feeling a piercing ache in his chest.

"Seem to be made of real gold," Tom's voice remarked in a satisfied tone. "We can pawn those and get a substantial sum for them."

"We won't," bit out Harry angrily, yanked out of his bout of pained sorrow, scowling at his brother as he then snapped the small box shut and carefully tucked it inside his satchel.

"Only this is what we came for," he added sharply, as he gestured at the many cans inside the coffer.

And as he eyed them, he realized that it was very expensive stuff, delicacies of some sort, only reading their labels and gazing at their pictures making his mouth water in hunger.

"Good enough, I suppose," said Tom waspishly, as he began to load them into Harry's satchel. "But we will need more. We need two-months worth of food-"

"Aye! Knew Bob Three Fingers gotta have sumethin' tasty hidden away," said a chortling, nastily crowing voice, which instantly made Tom and Harry swirl around. "Didn't I tell ye!"

Harry tensed with apprehension as he saw three very scrubby-looking muggles standing by the threshold of the room, their faces dirty, their hair disheveled and oily, their clothes grimy and frayed. They looked vaguely familiar to him, probably three of the many men that worked in the docks near their neighborhood.

As they slunk inside with predatory and greedy gleams in their eyes, one of them paused and stared at them with narrowed eyes. "Oi, I know ye. Aye, ye're those filthy orphans, ain't ye?"

The man jabbed an elbow into one of his companions, who soon spat angrily, "Aye, they're. The Riddle urchins. Heard loads about ye. Father Patrick used to sey ye had the Devil in ye, he did."

"Did he now?" said Tom coolly, who didn't look at all fazed by their current dangerous situation.

"Aye, said some very strange things 'bout ye," spat the other muggle, as the three men began to advance on them, meaty fists swaying by their sides in a pointedly threatening manner. "Our mate, good ole Jenkins said ye're the ones to cut his face. Cost 'im an eye, ye did! Said ye blew up some windows, somehow-"

"How'd ye do it, ey?" demanded the other muggle, the first who had spoken, his eyes narrowing to slits. "Wot trick was it?"

"Why," drawled Tom placidly, sharply smiling at them, "it was Devilry of course."

The three muggles stiffened at that, one paling, the other doing some warding sign with his hands, yet the third one was staring at them with narrowed eyes as fury spread on his face in red blotches.

"Tom," whispered Harry in dismay, blanching, as he grasped his brother's sleeve and pulled him back, "don't make it worse."

"No matter," said the purple-faced man, nastily grinning at them with rotten teeth, "Devilspawns don't scare me. We'll be takin' everythin' ye've got-" he pointed a meaty finger at Harry's satchel, and then at Hutchins' coffer, as he spat on the floor, spit flying from his mouth "-and everythin' the filthy Commie had – passin' himself off as decent folk, the filthy traitor-"

"You won't," muttered Harry as he quickly drew out the Norwegian gun from his belt, instantly aiming at the three muggles. "Stay right where you are."

The purple-face man guffawed snidely. "Think a filthy lil' orphan wavin' a gun at me is gonna scare me? Don't know ho'to use it, do ye, boy?"

"Kill them!" hissed Tom sharply under his breath.

"I'm not killing muggles over some cans of food," whispered Harry angrily from the corner of his mouth, before he yelled warningly as he saw one of the men taking a step, "Oi, don't move! I have a rather good aim!"

Obviously not feeling at all intimidated by him or his declaration, the three men made a sudden lunge forwards, and Harry was quick to fire.

The purple-faced muggle howled, jumping backwards, the bullet having missed one of his toes by mere inches.

"I missed on purpose, but next time I won't," bit out Harry giving them a hard look, as he kept eyes and gun on the men while he fumbled into the satchel with his free hand.

"Here," he then snapped as he tossed several cans at them. "That's all you're getting. Now count yourselves lucky and sod off!"

The men gazed at them with bitterness, outrage, and fury in their eyes, but there was certainly also cowardice and apprehension, as they wasted no time in clutching the cans to their chest before turning heel and running towards the door.

"This ain't the end!" shouted the purple-faced man over his shoulder, shooting Harry a very nasty glare, before they disappeared.

Finally, Harry lowered the gun, letting out a deep exhalation of breath.

"Let's hurry!" spat Tom angrily, as he finished loading the satchel with what remained in the coffer.

Harry even saw him taking a legal document of some sort, though having a glimpse of it he realized it was the deed to the cottage Hutchins had bought in Southend-on-the-Sea.

They made their way back to the orphanage slowly and very alert, glancing to all sides in case of a possible ambush. Thankfully, though Harry again had the sensation of being watched, they were left in peace.


"You should have killed them!" snarled Tom furiously as he slammed shut the heavy front door of the orphanage, glaring darkly at him. "Now they must already be spreading the word around that we're here and that we have food. Thieves and scavengers will be coming for us – we must leave at once!"

Harry briskly shook his head as he tiredly plopped down on a chair. "We've got nowhere else to go! Besides, the house is safe, you made me board up the windows-"

"It was save enough before," interjected Tom harshly, angrily narrowing his eyes at him. "It is not any longer, because of your stupidity!"

Rubbing his face, Harry sighed wearily as he mumbled under his breath, "I still wouldn't have killed them."

Tom glowered at him, before he bit out sharply, "There's no point in arguing now when it's too late. Go get your things packed, we're leaving post-haste."

"Where? How?" grumbled Harry peevishly.

"Here," said Tom briskly as he snatched the satchel from Harry's lap and took out Hutchins' deed of property, pointedly waving it in front of Harry's face as he then set the stack of pound notes on the table. "We'll find some muggle with a motorcar, and pay him to take us to Southend."

Harry stared at him before he slumped his shoulders and despondently nodded his head.

In a few minutes, they were almost ready. Harry had found a bread basket with a lid in which to comfortably tuck Ulysses inside, while Tom had procured a cage for rabbits that would do well for Lord Horkos. Everything else they had stuffed in Harry's satchel and Tom's schoolbag, given that their trunks were probably back in Hogwarts by then.

"Let's go," snapped Tom shortly.

"Wait!"

Harry quickly crossed their bedroom to reach the nightstand, quickly opening its small drawer to fish out Alice's silver thimble, his fingers jerkily curling around it as he stuck it in a pocket.

"Alright," muttered Harry dispiritedly, as he went to take hold of Ulysses' new, improvised basket, "we can go now-"

A loud, crashing sound reverberated all around them, and Harry froze, as he shot his brother a panicked look. "The looters-"

"Riddles! I know ye're here!" boomed a drunken, enraged voice. "Come out ye little miscreants – ye devils will finally get what's comin' to ye!"

Harry's face drained of all color and he could have been knocked over by a feather, the shock and utter horror he felt so mindboggling and paralyzing that for a moment he couldn't move.

The voice was unmistakable, but it was one that he hadn't heard in ages, and never expected to hear again.

"Mr. Jenkins," hissed out Tom, his face turning dark and contorting grotesquely with utter despise.

"How?" whispered Harry in absolute dread and alarm. "How did he get in! The front door was locked and it's too heavy for even he to-"

"I'm gonna make ye pay for what ye've done to me, I am!"

"Tom!" Harry cried out distressed when his brother suddenly ran out of their bedroom, leaving everything behind.

Too terribly worried to be able to think, Harry immediately went after him, to then halt in his tracks at Tom's side, by the stairs that led to the ground floor.

Harry could see him clearly then, and his green eyes widened in horror.

It was indeed Mr. Jenkins who stood by the front door that hanged from its hinges - looking as if a Giant had punched it with a fist. It was Mr. Jenkins who was glaring up at them, with a face that Harry thankfully hadn't had to see before, because when Kathy Cole became the Matron after Mrs. Sharpe's death, she had sacked the odious man instantly.

However, now he could see Mr. Jenkins' ghastly face, hideously marred and disfigured on the side that had been pierced by the shards of glass of Mrs. Sharpe's office windows, with a leather patch covering the eyeless socket.

"Revenge is sweet," breathed out Mr. Jenkins haggardly, his nostrils flaring and his wide chest and belly heaving, as if he was a crazed, snorting bull striking hooves on ground in readiness for an attack.

And suddenly, the hefty muggle lunged forwards up the stairs, straight towards them, and Harry knew something was not right.

It was not the stench of chewed tobacco, liquor, and unwashed body odors that reeked off the man as Harry and Tom instantly dived to a side to dodge the man's meaty fists, but rather the muggle's inexplicable swiftness in motion and even strength. Mr. Jenkins had always been a brutish hulk of a man, but not to such point as he now displayed.

"OUR ROOM!" bellowed Harry at the top of his lungs as he shoved Tom out of Mr. Jenkins' range.

Thankfully, his brother understood, and they both ran madly towards their bedroom. They had left everything in it, including the Norwegian gun, which was the first thing Harry went for while Tom slammed the door shut and locked it.

Ulysses was meowing and hissing, trying to get out of his closed basket, but Harry knew he had time for nothing but to get the one muggle weapon they had. Thus, he leapt towards the bed and the gun lying on it, just as a crushing noise resounded as their bedroom's door was brutally smashed.

Harry gaped, with gun in hand, as he saw Mr. Jerkins tearing the door apart with his bare hands.

"He's Imperiused," Tom whispered under his breath, standing still in the middle of the room.

Harry snapped his head around to stare at him, bewildered. "What?"

"Didn't you see his eye?" bit out Tom impatiently, looking mightily frazzled. "He's under an Imperius Curse! And someone obviously gave him potions – a Strengthening Potion, at the very least-"

"What?" Harry croaked out, thoroughly disconcerted and appalled. "Who? Why?"

"Shoot him!" abruptly roared Tom as Mr. Jenkins came plunging forward through the destroyed door like a rampaging bull.

This time, Harry didn't think about it twice and did just so, but his shot went amiss as the hefty muggle had instantly lunged at him, tackling him to the floor, making his chest ache as his lungs expelled all the air they contained with the brutal force of the impact.

Harry cried out in pain as Mr. Jenkins tore the gun from his hand with such violence that he heard his wrist breaking.

For a moment of wild, fearful panic and incoherence, he thought the muggle was going to aim gun at him and kill him, but Mr. Jenkins pocketed the gun as he then wrapped his meaty fingers around Harry's throat, spitting enraged, "Gonna snap yer neck like a twig for what ye did to me, boy!"

"We must do as I did with Mrs. Sharpe!" Harry heard Tom's voice hissing in Parseltongue as he kept trying to wrestle the man off with frantic kicks and punches, as he struggled for breath against the oppressive fingers that were choking him, but he understood nonetheless.

Hence, he was ready when he saw Tom looming over them with a chair raised in the air, and he kicked off the floor as the chair came crushing down on the muggle's head.

Mr. Jenkins roared like a wild beast, jumping back, palming his bloodied head, just as Tom rushed towards the man, ramming into him, Harry one step behind doing the same as he tried to protectively cradle his injured wrist.

It was enough to make the muggle stumble out of the room, into the corridor, towards the flight of stairs, as Harry and Tom kept pushing with shoulders and heads on either sides of the man, putting all their effort and strength into it.

"One last shove!" hissed Tom from under one of the muggle's fat arms.

Harry mustered the little strength he had left and pushed with all his might, as he tried to avoid the man's meaty fists that were trying to pummel them down.

With deep relief, he heard Mr. Jenkins crying out as he tripped over the first step, saw him swaying trying to regain his balance, saw him about to topple over down the stairs-

"Get out of the way!" yelled Tom in alarm, but Harry understood the danger too late as Mr. Jenkins had already shot out a hand, grasping him by the hair.

Harry yowled as he was pulled along, his injured wrist throbbing unbearably, his scalp burning as hairs tore off, as he smashed into Mr. Jenkins' sweat-drenched chest, as the man then grabbed him by the arm and twisted hard as they tumbled together down the stairs.

It felt as if every step of the stairway was ramming into different parts of his body, until he finally landed on top of the hefty muggle, cushioning his last fall.

Mr. Jenkins looked winded and half unconscious, certainly having taken many blows to the head, though Harry wasn't doing much better himself, feeling aches and bruises all over, as they laid sprawled by the smashed entrance door of the orphanage.

"Must kill," mumbled Mr. Jenkins incoherently, his one eye looking crazed as Harry suddenly saw a hand shooting out and wrapping around his neck before he could even gather back his wits.

"Tom!" Harry choked out, as he clawed at the thick fingers tightening around his throat, as he attempted to struggle against the man's iron-like hold.

He caught a brief glimpse of his brother, standing on the first floor landing of the staircase, looking down at them with a frown on his face, appearing as if he wasn't about to do anything to help him.

"Very well, then," he distantly heard Tom muttering, but it was then when he saw his brother whipping out his wand, when he saw his brother's dark blue eyes gleaming with glee, anticipation, and excitement, as he aimed and intoned with relish, "AVADA-"

"NO!" choked out Harry in utter horror and fear from his squeezed throat, frantically wrestling against the muggle, desperately trying to put a stop to it. "The - wards!"

"-KEDAVRA!"

Harry didn't know what happened next, as a green beam of light that looked so very familiar, as if he had seen it a thousand times before and yet he had not, struck Mr. Jenkins, as he suddenly saw as if in a dream a woman of long, beautiful ginger hair, as though a foggy recollection, her screams, a cackled high-pitched bout of laughter, the red eyes of his nightmares, it all seem to incomprehensibly flood into some part of his mind as he saw Mr. Jenkins heavily slump on the floor in absolute stillness, as something was wrenching and rising and hurting inside of him, as his scar suddenly felt on fire, an agonizing pain flaring, even a screech from somewhere within, he thought, but he couldn't really think or understand, because then everything went dark.


"Wake up, you idiot!"

Someone was angrily shaking him, so brutally that Harry jerked into consciousness with a cry of pain as his injured wrist was jostled.

Tom was towering over him, brusquely shaking him with a hand, and Harry finally realized that he was still sprawled on top of Mr. Jenkins, yet -

"He's dead," Harry whispered numbly as he stared into the muggle's lifeless eye, and for a moment, not a thought could cross his shell-shocked mind.

Tom violently shook him again, as he snarled demandingly, "Why did you faint? Tell me! Why did you faint?"

Harry glanced up at him, utterly baffled, his confusion only increasing when he saw his brother's face.

He had never seen such expression on Tom before, his face was drained of all color and there was fear in his eyes, as he kept rubbing his chest for some reason, as he kept staring at Harry – no, staring at his forehead, with a look that turned increasingly puzzled and alarmed, and then maybe even suspicious and intrigued.

"What is it?" mumbled Harry distractedly, a hand instinctually shooting up to touch his forehead.

It was throbbing, he certainly had a terrible migraine, but he could not understand it at first when he touched something wet, when he finally brought his hand down and saw that it was drenched in blood.

He blinked up at his brother. "My scar is bleeding?"

"Yes!" spat Tom thunderously, giving him another hard shake. "Tell me why you fainted! Tell me what you felt!"

"I –" Harry stuttered feeling dizzy, disoriented, and dumbfounded. "I – don't know. I don't – remember –"

"Something happened!" snapped Tom ill temperedly, still rubbing his chest, his face turning paler by the second. "When I cast the Killing Curse, I felt something…"

His brother trailed off into silence but it was then when Harry gazed up at him with wide, horrified eyes, as he croaked weakly, "Tom, you've killed with magic, in the orphanage. The wards – The Ministry- The Trace-"

"It is the wards you should be concerning yourselves about."

Harry glanced around, utterly bewildered, jumping to his feet as best he could, his whole body aching and throbbing as he cradled his broken wrist to his chest, yet he whipped out his own wand nonetheless.

Tom was as still as a statue, wand aimed – to a wall, Harry realized the next second, blinking and then gaping when he saw something rippling and distorting the surface of the bricks, as a figure began to somehow fuse out of the wall, as the grave, German-accented voice continued, "Your Traces do not work in the orphanage, since the Ministry already has wards on it for that same purpose."

Harry gawked, and instinctually took a step back as a wizard was finally fully revealed – coming out from the wall, his mind was still trying to wrap itself around that.

He could only stare at the man, as Tom was doing as well, though in his case inspecting the stranger closely, while Harry could only see that it was a wizard richly clothed, with sharp, elegant features, icy blue eyes and very short sandy blonde hair, impeccably and strictly groomed.

Harry tensed when the wizard aimed a wand at him, muttering something under his breath. However, he then breathed with relief and pleasure when all aches suddenly vanished from his body, when his abused throat stopped hurting.

Though in the next second, he cried out in pain when the bones of his wrist snapped back into place with a cracking sound.

Tom shot him a glance, as if to make sure that the wizard had done him no true harm, before he lowered his wand, and intoned cordially with an arched eyebrow, "Konrad Von Krauss, I presume?"

"What?" snapped Harry, staring from one to the other as he rubbed his wrist, the name ringing a distant bell though he felt as if he had left half his brains splattered on the stairs. "Who?"

"I am Von Krauss," acknowledged the wizard, giving Tom one brief and curt bow of the head.

"He is the Dark Lord's Right Hand," hissed Tom loudly, clearly wanting to display his Parselmouth ability to see the wizard's reaction.

But Harry didn't take notice of the results, because at that information, he had blanched. Abruptly, all the pieces jumped into place, suddenly, he could think straight as understanding dawned on him.

"You're the one who sent Jenkins here!" he roared angrily, jabbing his wand's tip into the wizard's chest, sparks shooting out of it. "You're the one who Imperioed him – to kills us!"

"Not to kill," said Konrad Von Krauss calmly as he patted a spot on his robes that had caught on fire, "but to test, to create a situation-"

"I see," interjected Tom coolly, his eyes narrowed at the wizard. "State your terms then, and do not waste our time."

"Terms?" Harry frowned at him. "What terms?" His eyes widened before he pierced Von Krauss with his gaze, as he breathed out, "You. It was you who did something to Dumbledore's wards!"

"What did you say?" snapped Tom briskly, glowering at him.

Harry gestured frantically with his hands. "Before, I saw some Ancient Runes in the wards that shouldn't have been there!" His jaw clenched as he griped sourly, "I was going to tell you, I was going to look into it but-"

"What does your modification do?" demanded Tom harshly, rounding on Von Krauss, ignoring Harry though he certainly felt his brother's fury in the way his scar began to throb again.

Konrad Von Krauss assessed them stoically, before he spoke, "It delays. You have five minutes to decide. If you are wise and do as you are told, the English Ministry of Magic will never know that you killed a muggle. If not-" he shot Tom a grave look "-I will allow the wards to function as originally intended, and the Ministry will be notified. You will be judged by the full court of the Wizengamot on charges of murder, breach of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, and use of the Dark Arts and one of the Unforgivable Curses."

Harry lost all color of his face, feeling faint with the enormity of it all, so deeply fearful, horrified and dismayed, that he had to clutch the banister of the stairs.

Tom eyed the wizard closely, then nodding and intoning nonchalantly, "I understand. Again, what are your terms?"

"Sign this," said Von Krauss as two rolls materialized from thin air with the wave of his wand, "and no one will ever know what transpired here."

Snapping into action, Harry instantly snatched the roll closest to him, unfolding it and then staring with wide, apprehensive eyes. His gaze frantically roved over the muggle document again, taking notice of the name, of the date-

"This is what Mrs. Cole drew up for Alice and Hutchins!" Harry clenched it in a fist, as he glowered furiously at the German wizard, swiftly aiming his wand once more. "These are muggle adoption papers – what have you done to Mrs. Cole!"

"She is alive and well," replied Konrad Von Krauss curtly.

"I don't believe you," spat Harry angrily, waving the document in front of the wizard. "She would have never allowed someone else to sign these! Who is Lord Alistair Ashcroft anyway?"

"That would be me," said Von Krauss coldly. "My muggle persona identity." He shot him a pointed look as he added impassively, "Lord Alistair Ashcroft made the acquaintance of Sarah Jones many years ago-"

"Alice's sister?" mumbled Harry disconcerted.

"- who kept insisting for Ashcroft to adopt some boys from an orphanage she knew of," continued Von Krauss, as he then waved a hand dismissively. "Now, your Mrs. Cole is under the impression that 'Lord Ashcroft' has been visiting your orphanage with some regularity, taking a shine to you, and you to him. And of course-" he shot Harry a cold look "-after the accidental demise of one of your caretakers and her fiancé, Mrs. Cole was more than happy to allow Lord Ashcroft to adopt you, and provide for you."

"You tampered with her memories," gritted out Harry angrily.

"Thus, after the fortuitous encounter of 'Alistair Ashcroft' and Mrs. Cole in the docks of London, where she related the events of the tragic death of your parents-to-be and finally agreed to allow Alistair Ashcroft to take charge of you, the Matron of your orphanage boarded her ship very contently, under the impression she had done a good deed for your sake."

Konrad Von Krauss merely paused to given them a hard look. "Now, it is only necessary for you to sign the papers, agreeing to become Lord Alistair Ashcroft's adopted sons. The muggle document will be submitted to the proper authorities and your Ministry of Magic will be appraised of the situation by the officials they have working in the muggle government." A corner of his lips curled upwards. "Given the laws of your Ministry, the document is valid and cannot be contested."

"Then why this?" demanded Tom, gesturing at the parchment he had taken into his hands, which he had evidently revised thoroughly while Harry had been concerned with the muggle adoption papers.

"What is it?" Harry said anxiously, shooting the parchment a narrowed-eyed look. He could only tell it was magical, given the way it emitted a dim golden glow.

"A magical contract," replied Tom sharply, "that makes us Konrad Von Krauss' wards."

"To be signed," interjected the German wizard, pulling something thin and silver from his robes' pocket, "with this instrument."

Harry stared at it aghast, recognizing it from the things Alphard had once told him. "That's a Blood Quill! We aren't signing a magical contract with our blood!"

"What are you doing?" he then cried out in alarm when Tom instantly took the quill with clear intentions of using it straight away. Harry immediately grabbed his brother's wrist tightly. "Tom! If you sign a magical contract in blood-"

"I know exactly what it means," snarled Tom impatiently, yanking his wrist free from Harry's hold. He scowled at him darkly, lowering his voice as he hissed, "This would have always happened somehow, sooner or later."

Harry frantically shook his head. "This is exactly what I feared, brother! If we sign all these, we'll be forever under Grindelwald's thumb! We'll be at his mercy, he will be able to do anything he likes to us-"

"Remember our pact," hissed Tom sharply. "We can take advantage of this-"

"I don't want to, not like this!" snapped Harry in exasperation, jerkily carding his fingers through his hair. "This is entrapment and extortion, Tom, and we don't need to fall into it." His eyes suddenly glowed with hope. "We can explain to the Wizengamot what happened! We can tell them that you killed Mr. Jenkins to save my life, it was self defense-"

"I used the Killing Curse," interjected Tom with vast annoyance. "They won't forgive that, no matter our age or reasons." He glowered at him, as he spat acidly, "And I won't put my life and freedom in the hands of those old codgers of the Wizengamot."

"Then Dumbledore!" pressed Harry desperately. "He can help us, I know he would-"

"Dumbledore," hissed Tom poisonously, his eyes mere furious slits, "never."

"Perhaps," said Konrad Von Krauss who had been gazing at them hissing at each other with unflappable patience, "I should mention that there is much more at risk besides your lives." He glanced at Harry at this, as he continued loftily, "Indeed, Mrs. Katherine Cole and the orphans under her care are embarked in a steam passenger ship bound for Canada. The SS City of Benares, I believe." He arched an eyebrow at Harry. "And it would not be surprising if a German submarine in the Atlantic decided to torpedo a British ship, would it? I need only give the order."

Paling, Harry stiffened at once, before he spat through gritted teeth, "You bastard."

"I have been called worse, I suppose," said Von Krauss indifferently. "Yet I must remind you that time is ticking away." He flicked his wand, muttering "Tempus!" and eyed the glittering red numbers that appeared floating in the air. "Indeed, you have one minute left. You must decided now. Azkaban or me."

Harry could do nothing as Tom signed both documents, feeling a galling sense of powerless impotence. When his turn came, he would have scrunched his eyes shut if he could, to not see himself committing such foolishness. Indeed, he felt as though he was signing his own death sentence as he jerkily scribbled down his name, as gnawing as it was.

Konrad Von Krauss flicked his wand and healed the cuts the Blood Quill had inflicted in their palms, to then calmly approach Mr. Jenkins' corpse.

With another flick and a muttered spell, it became a small bone that Von Krauss picked from the floor with an expression of utter disdain as he then pocketed it.

"Make haste and bring whatever belongings you wish," the German wizard commanded curtly as he tucked the rolled documents in the folds of his rich robes, a look of profound satisfaction on his stern features.


With satchel hanging from one shoulder and Ulysses' basket in hands, Harry entered the expensive-looking, shiny black motorcar that awaited them outside the orphanage.

"Start the engine, Peterson," Konrad Von Krauss snapped imperiously once they were all comfortably seated at the back.

The muggle chauffeur obeyed at once, merely shooting Harry and Tom curious looks, while Von Krauss – well, 'Lord Alistair Ashcroft' better said, since the German wizard had wasted no time in casting glamours on his face and robes before stepping outside the house- glanced out the windows with a most irritated expression on his face.

"Horrid city," the German wizard muttered under his breath with disgust and contempt, though Harry wasn't paying him much attention.

As their motorcar made its way out of town, he noticed that there hadn't been a single German airplane in the skies. Yet he had no doubt that The Blitz would recommence once they were gone.

Indeed, things seemed to have been carefully planned for their 'abduction', and Harry couldn't help wondering and suspecting whether what had happened to Alice and Hutchins-

"What is the matter with you?"

Harry scowled as he turned to look at his brother.

"What d'you think?" he bit out mordantly.

"This is for the best," stated Tom in his most arrogant and superior tone of voice, giving him a dark, reproving look.

"Right," Harry mumbled bitterly as he went back to stare out the windows.

Crumbled buildings gave way to countryside not much latter, until the motorcar left the road to enter what looked like a private path.

Meanwhile, Harry tried to recall everything he had ever overheard his housemates saying about a Von Krauss, though he just remembered the basics. That the wizard was one of the Dark Lord's so-called Haupte Kommandaten, that he was Grindelwald's Right Hand, his closest follower and most trusted, and that he was the father of the girl Abraxas Malfoy was betrothed to.

Sour thoughts about Malfoy only led to become distressed about his friend Alphard Black. He had no idea what had happened to the boy, especially given the way Alphard had called out his name in the middle of Platform Four and Three Quarters, for everyone to hear.

Harry sighed wearily, rubbing his face, as their motorcar soon entered a pebbled park, surrounded by a wide estate of grass, trees, and beautiful gardens, the surface of a lake sparkling from some distance away under the moonlight.

In another other circumstances he would have gawked at the gigantic, sprawling, old fashioned English Manor they halted before. Instead, he merely eyed it resentfully – was that to be their gilded cage?

"Remember," whispered the glamoured Konrad Von Krauss sternly, "you are Lord Alistair Ashcroft's newly adopted sons. In a few days, we will leave. Until then, act the part."

Harry shot him an irked look. He had been hoping the wizard would make some mistake.

In fact, had been waiting for him to cast some magic since pureblood wizards seemed unable to restrain themselves in their usage of magic for every little thing. Though it was obvious to him by then that Von Krauss was no fool. From what he had gathered thus far, he would even go as far as calling the wizard a superciliously cautious man.

There was little chance that Von Krauss would forget himself and cast magic around Harry and Tom who had the Trace Charm on themselves. Just as he had seen the wizard doing something to Dumbledore's wards before leaving the orphanage, surely vanishing any traces of the modifications Von Krauss had once made.

"I will introduce you."

And indeed, the wizard did. A whole party of people were waiting at the pebbled park, forming two lines before the grand stairway that led to the manor's entrance.

Servants, Harry soon realized, given their liveries, as the names of the butler, housekeeper, footmen, valet, chambermaids, cook, and kitchen maids flew over his head.

"I am relying on you to see to their comfort, Mr. Brunton," said the glamoured Konrad Von Krauss at last, as he amicably addressed the butler, his brisk German accent long having been replaced by a posh, British one, "and aid them in their transition to their new situation in life."

"Certainly, Lord Ashcroft," solicitously said the old muggle man, who looked like nothing but a stuck-up snob, given that Harry noticed the surreptitious scornful look he and Tom were shot.

The withered, old butler, with shoulders and spine as rigid as a rod, his uniform just as heavily starched and stiff, soon expressed his less than sincere welcome as he then began to bark orders.

"The footmen will see you to your rooms," they were informed at last.

And with that, Harry and Tom were herded into the manor, with two other footmen trailing behind them, supposedly carrying 'their trunks' from the motorcar.

Though he had never set foot on a place like that, he wasn't interested in the luxurious rugs, the chandeliers sparkling from the high-arched ceilings, the delicate vases and busts, the portraits of impressive Ashcroft ancestors, the coats of arms and swords, the silky settees and ottomans, or the wood floors with beautiful decorative patterns, but rather in the fact that he didn't see a single glow of magical wards.

If it weren't for Mrs. Cole and his friends of the orphanage, Harry knew he could have made an easy escape from there.

They were led into one wing of the manor, soon to be separated as Tom was escorted to a different room.

Harry entered his with a feeling of utter depressed indifference. He saw it was vast, and nothing more, as he plopped himself down on the large, fluffy bed, setting Ulysses' basket to one side.

He didn't dare let out his Scorcrup yet as a footman was busying himself with the trunk, unpacking posh muggle clothes that Harry realized were meant for him.

"What's that?" Harry muttered a mite alarmed, as the footman carefully unfolded a black frock with ridiculously long coat tails. "Are we expected to go to a ball or something?"

"Ball?" The young muggle man blinked at him, before he chuckled under his breath as he gently hung the frock inside a large, ornate wardrobe. "This is your evening attire for supper. The Ashcrofts keep to the old traditions." He paused as he gave Harry a pensive look, before he said excitedly, "Say, you'll be needing a valet, won't you? To help you get dressed like a proper young gentleman. You could put in a good word for me with the Lord. I've always wanted to be a valet!"

"Um, yeah, sure," mumbled Harry. "I suppose I could-"

"I'm O'Higgins," said the young man animatedly, as he finished with his task and then lowered his voice to add amicably, "but you can call me Georgie if you like."

Harry nodded dully. "I'm Harry."

Georgie beamed at him. "I know. Mr. Brunton told us your names." He shot him a sheepish look. "Loads of things have been said about you – we like to gossip downstairs." He seemed to hesitate, before he smiled widely. "Not all of us think the same, but I, for one, am glad that Lord Ashcroft decided to adopt sons." He sighed deeply as he sadly shook his head. "Terrible business what happened to him."

Harry frowned at the muggle. "What happened to him?"

"Well, you must already know all about it!" said Georgie, staring at him. "Lord Ashcroft only comes back to England to visit your orphanage, doesn't he?" He shook his head disparagingly. "He certainly never sets foot on this house, not even for his father's funeral of a few months ago."

"Erm... right..."

"What does he do in America anyway?" Georgie gazed at him with head cocked to a side. "We all wonder, you know. He's been away for over three years, and we know that he has business overseas but then there's also his wife-"

"Wife?" Harry's eyebrows shot upwards before he pinned the young muggle man with an interested look. "Von – er, Lord Ashcroft has a wife?"

"Of course." Georgie blinked at him. "Haven't you met her?" He frowned as he mumbled to himself, "I would have thought that he must have taken her to see you in the orphanage, though given her condition perhaps-"

"Is she here? Can I see her?" said Harry instantly, feeling hope bubbling inside him. If Von Krauss had brought his wife to keep up with the charade of being muggle aristocracy, then perhaps he would have a chance of winning someone to his side. Perhaps the woman could help them in some way.

Georgie tensed, casting glances around as if worried someone might overhear him.

"I dunno," then whispered the muggle worriedly. "She's not quite right in the head, you see." He bit his lip, before he released a deep sigh. "But I guess it's only right for you to meet her. She's your mother now, after all."

Harry nodded repeatedly, as he said effusively, grinning widely, "Yes, exactly!"

"Alright," breathed out Georgie, waving him over. "Come along then. Let's be quick."

They dashed down the hallways until the footman unlocked a door at the very end of the manor's wing.

"We must be quiet, loud noises startle her," whispered the young muggle as he held the door open for Harry.

With a very ominous sense of foreboding, Harry entered the dimly lit room. All the curtains were drawn shut, a sole lamp casting some light in the gloomy surroundings.

He frowned apprehensively when he saw a woman seated before a small boudoir table filled with brushes, powders, and perfumes, apparently looking at her own reflection in the mirror set on it.

"One of the chambermaids takes care of her," whispered Georgie by Harry's side.

It was then, though, that Harry realized that the woman wasn't staring into the mirror at all. In fact, she didn't seem able to focus on anything, and much less posses any smidgen of comprehension. Her mouth was hanging agape, drool dribbling from one corner, and half her head was cleanly shaved, displaying a large scar.

"What happened to her?" breathed out Harry horrified.

"It was very sad," murmured Georgie, mournfully shaking his head. "When young Lord Ashcroft returned to England, we were all very happy. The Old Lord thought that his son had died in the Great War, you see? So when the young Lord returned with an American wife … well, the Old Lord wasn't too happy about the marriage, had wanted his son to marry an English lady as was only proper." He shot Harry a pointed look. "But she's from some rich American family, and the Old Lord finally accepted her. But I always thought there was something very strange about her. She used to have this odd, dull look in her eyes-"

"Dull?" mumbled Harry, blanching as he realized that the woman before him was certainly not Konrad Von Krauss' wife but rather some poor girl that the wizard must have picked up from who-knew-where and held under an Imperius Curse for ages.

"Yes," said Georgie, nodding, as he tapped one side of his head. "Always knew she wasn't quite right up here. Some say she went mad because she couldn't bear children." He shuddered as if in remembrance. "She used to scream in the middle of the night, waking up the whole house ." He gazed at Harry with wide eyes. "I even saw her once, clawing at her own head, as if wanting to rip something out." He lowered his voice, as he whispered anxiously with a hint of fearful superstition, "Her chambermaid says that she screamed about hearing voices inside her head –voices that haunted her and turned her insane."

Harry swallowed thickly, feeling quite ill. "I see."

"In the end," whispered Georgie, "the Old Lord decided to help her, and he sent her to a clinic. The doctors there said that she was suffering from depression and schizophrenia, and treated her. They did a lobotomy." He tilted his head to a side as he musingly stared at the catatonic woman. "But it didn't work for some reason."

"I doubt that lobotomies ever work," mumbled Harry under his breath, his face tinged with a sickened, greenish hue. After all, from what he knew, Healers in the Wizarding World didn't resort to chopping off half a person's brain in cases of mental illnesses.

"But even though Lord Ashcroft spends most of his time overseas," interjected Georgie, a proud look on his face, "he must love her greatly still, don't you think?" He gestured at the drooling woman, as he whispered quietly, "He has legal cause to divorce her without causing scandal, but he's never done so. Instead, he chose to adopt you."

He beamed at Harry, as he added cheerfully, "He must be a great man. You must like him a lot."

"Sure," muttered Harry, giving the friendly muggle a strained smile.


"Von Krauss is a monster," stated Harry two days later, fidgeting with the stiff collar around his neck – the white silk bowtie was even worse, and he gave up in trying to knot it correctly.

He had already told his brother about 'Lord Alistair Ashcroft's wife', though Tom had been wholly unconcerned by it.

Indeed, even now, his brother looked utterly untroubled. Seated on one of his bedroom's divans like some prince in lavish surroundings that befitted his station in life, eyeing Harry critically.

"You are doing it wrong," said Tom in an aggravated tone of voice, as Harry once more fumbled with his bowtie. "Do you want me to ring for the valet?"

"No," snapped Harry peevishly. "I don't like the servants here except for Georgie."

"Georgie?" sneered Tom scathingly.

"Yup, he's one of the footmen. He's nice." Harry scowled at him. "The others just look at me as though I was dirt on their shoes."

"Perhaps," griped Tom acidly, "it wouldn't be so if you tried to dress properly. Instead of insisting on wearing your clothes from the orphanage-"

"I like my clothes, they're comfortable," bit out Harry grumpily, as he tugged on the coat tails of his frock. "Not like this stuff. Why must we wear these silly clothes, anyway?"

"Because we're having supper with Von Krauss again, as you well know. And we must keep up appearances."

Harry shot him a dirty look, and harrumphed. It seemed to him that that was all they had been doing, having meals and keeping up the charade with 'Lord Alistair Ashcroft' for the servants' benefit. He didn't understand what they were doing there, and his wariness had only increased with the days.

To add insult to injury, Tom seemed to be having a jolly good time. The servants certainly didn't look at his brother as they looked at him.

On the contrary, Harry had seen several maids shooting Tom admiring looks, blushing and coyly smiling. He had even heard the gossipy chatter of two maids declaring to be pleasantly surprised that at least one of the 'street rats' was so very handsome, courteous, and polite.

"Let me do it," snapped Tom impatiently, as he rose to his feet and took hold of the ends of Harry's bowtie.

As his brother effortlessly worked on his stupid bowtie, Harry gazed up at him fretfully, as he murmured, "Tom, what if Von Krauss doesn't let us return to Hogwarts? What if he sends us to Durmstrang instead?"

"He won't," said Tom shortly, as he finished arranging the bowtie with a flourish. "See? That's how it's done."

Harry didn't even glance down to check. His brother had always been a vain git, and it didn't surprise him one bit that Tom had learned how to tie those stupid things so quickly.

"You don't care," he spat accusingly, narrowing his green eyes at Tom. "You want to go to Durmstrang!"

"Why would I want to go there?" sneered Tom irritably, abruptly dropping his hands away from trying to enforce some measure of order in Harry's hair. "Durmstrang has nothing to offer me. It wasn't founded by my ancestor, it has no Chamber of Secrets awaiting for me to find." He waved a hand dismissively as he added in a lofty, superior tone of voice, "And whatever Dark Arts their professors could teach me, I'm already learning by myself – much more efficiently and thoroughly than if taught by imbeciles."

Suspiciously, Harry eyed him closely, until he saw that his brother had been sincere.

"Alright, then," he grumbled under his breath. "Just wanted to make sure."

Tom shot him an irked look, but didn't have the chance to retort as there was a knock on the door, followed by a maid timidly entering Tom's room.

"Begging your pardon, sirs," said the girl quietly, curtsying awkwardly in the threshold, "but Lord Ashcroft requests your presence in the study."

Harry sighed as they followed the girl into the hallway.

"Clara," Tom was quick to intone softly, as he stepped closer to the maid, "can you tell us what it is regarding?"

The girl blushed, as she stuttered, "Y-yes, of course, my lord-"

"Please," interjected Tom, shooting her a bedazzling, gorgeous smile, "I've already told you to call me Tom."

Harry rolled his eyes in supreme annoyance and exasperation when the maid went pink and giggled.

"Yes – Tom," said the girl, her cheeks now rosy with pleasure, before she lowered her voice to a whisper, "Well, two very strange chaps came asking to see you and Lord Ashcroft. At first, we thought they were peddlers or theatre folk asking for coins." Her eyes widened, as she added, "They are dressed very oddly. Mr. Burnton tried to drive them away! But they refused to leave until they had seen you. They're waiting for you in the study."

They all remained in silence, following the maid into a wing of the manor they had never been before, until she halted in front of a heavy oak door, and declared with relief, "Here we are."

The moment they stepped inside, Tom briefly grabbed Harry by the arm, as he whispered sharply into his ear, "Do not try anything stupid. Only speak if addressed."

Harry soon understood why, as he saw the glamoured Konrad Von Krauss standing behind a grand desk, two other men in the middle of the room eyeing their surroundings with either interest or puzzlement – men in robes. Wizards.

"Here they are," said Konrad Von Krauss brightly, as he waved them over to take a seat.

"Good," said one of the wizards curtly, shooting Tom and Harry a hard look. "Let's see…" He trailed off as he plucked out a piece of parchment from his robes. "Messrs. Tom and Harry Riddle, I take? Formerly of Saint Jerome's Orphanage, under the tutelage of a…" He checked his scroll of parchment once more "…Mrs. Katherine Cole."

The wizard arched an eyebrow at them, and Harry quickly nodded.

"It has come to the attention of the Ministry of Magic," said the wizard sternly, "that your orphanage is no longer operating-"

"A Ministry!" cried out 'Lord Alistair Ashcroft' excitedly, clapping his hands together as if in delirious raptures of happiness, before he shot Harry and Tom a soft, chiding look. "Why, boys, you didn't tell me that your sort had a government!"

Harry had to hand it to Von Krauss, he had never seen such a brilliant actor except for his brother. The German wizard played the part of an eccentric, rich British muggle aristocrat to perfection.

"Their sort?" jumped in the other Ministry official instantly. "So you have been apprised of what they are?"

"Of course!" said the glamoured Von Krauss, looking as if in the throes of thrilling events. "Wizards! They have told me all about it – about that schools of theirs with speaking portraits, and little green creatures, and moving staircases-"

"Well, there's much more to Hogwarts than that," groused one of the wizards.

"-and their incredible lessons, making things float about and the sort," kept rhapsodizing Von Krauss, before he paused looking concerned. "They did no wrong in telling me, did they?"

"Um, no," conceded the Ministry official irritably. "But you must understand, sir, that this situation is highly unusual. We are aware that you have adopted them, but you must be warned that for a muggle to raise magical children is no easy undertaking-"

"Muggle?" The glamoured Von Krauss blinked at him. "Oh, yes! I've heard that funny little term before." He glanced at Harry and Tom, beaming. " 'Non-magical people', was it? Like myself!"

"Indeed, sir," said one of the wizards flatly. "Must I understand, then, that you do not wish to recant your adoption of them?"

"Of course not!" 'Lord Alistair Ashcroft' smiled widely. "The boys are very dear to my heart, and I'm terribly fascinated with this whole Magical World discovery."

The Ministry officials shot the alleged 'muggle' an exasperated look, before one of them stated sternly, "Very well, then you are henceforth bound to the laws of our Ministry."

He dropped a thin, glossy booklet on Von Krauss' desk, with the title of 'A Muggle's Guide to the Wizarding World'.

"You'd best read that carefully, sir," continued the wizard, "and I'm sure your adopted sons will fill you in with the rest." He shot Tom and Harry a hard look. "Especially regarding the Statute of Secrecy."

"We will," instantly intoned Tom politely.

"Then our job here is done," said the Ministry official, turning to address Von Krauss, tipping his bowler hat. "Have a pleasant evening, sir."

The moment the wizards left the room, the glamoured Konrad Von Krauss dropped his act, and urged curtly, "Go get your belongings packed. The maids will aid you. We're leaving at once."

Harry jumped to his feet, glowering at the wizard, as he gritted out, "Where to, this time?"

Konrad Von Krauss shot him a hard look that appeared out of place in the pudgy face of 'Lord Alistair Ashcroft', as he replied coldly, "Germany. Hereafter, that is your home."

At that declaration, Harry was swept by such overpowering dread that he had to force himself to look out from one of the vast windows of the study, so that Von Krauss wouldn't see his pale face, so that he wouldn't have to observe how Tom was smirking with self-satisfaction, how his brother's eyes were gleaming with triumph and anticipation.

To him, it felt like the beginning of the end. It was a bizarre sensation, the certainty he felt, almost as if forebodingly prophetic, like that of a trapped animal that could sense that its freedom was at an end, that its fate was no longer under its control but rather under that of a foe, and knew it was doomed.