** Dimension Wander **

By Tvillinger

Life Two -- Part Three

When Harry awoke, it was a transition from one nightmare to another. His scar burned like the almighty's vengeful wrath.

Which, considering what he'd allowed to happen, was exactly what he deserved.

Years from sleeping in the Slytherin common room taught Harry to try and assess his surroundings before letting the people around him know he was awake. Practice had allowed him to catch pranksters in the act of dousing him with water, and had given him warning when some sharky seventh year was sneaking out. In fact, it had been his friend Dale who had taught him the practice of faking sleep, the same friend who in this mysterious reality was the complete opposite of that seventh year buddy.

Harry opened his eyes to narrow slits, awake of how such a vivid green attracted attention, and tried to gaze through a film of darkness to see where he was. He choked back the urge to slap a cool hand over the fire that was his scar, and forced his breathing to remain deep, calm. One of his hands lay conveniently splayed out on the floor, and he lightly scrapped a finger against the ground to establish that it was wood beneath his body, rickety old wood that splintered at even that light investigation.

At some unseen signal, the whole earth began to shake. Harry bit back a gasp, forcing his body to perfect stillness long enough to realize that the wooden floor was probably some sort of wagon, and that the wagon had started up its drive to whatever destination planned. His muscles relaxed, and Harry, still motionless, listened above the noise of creaking wood, trying to hear anything that would give him insight.

There was the sound of rancid laughter to his immediate left, faded with distance, and to his right was a noisy conversation between three or four men, with a woman's voice injecting itself every few comments. There was the sound of heavy, deep breathing right at his side, as well as soft snarls muffled by layers of cloth.

"Ginny," he whispered, turning over softly to stare at the girl's still body, her eyes closed and her skin a tight white. And beside her, in a tied bag and struggling hard to escape, was his dragon, hissing in exasperation and anger.

Harry glanced around, opening his eyes all the way, and making sure that no guards were immediately nearby before he tried to stumble to his feet.

Chains of rope burned into his wrists and ankles, foiling his movements, and Harry fell back down with a graceless grunt. Harry glared at the cords and began wriggling fingers and toes, testing the ropes' strength and endurance. Each was tied tight, and his resistance only brought further pain as the ropes burned deeper into his skin. His dragon, hearing his struggle, squawked encouragement and its own bag began to shake with its added effort to escape.

Harry grunted again, then let his body slid back to the ground, unmoving in frustration. His eyes glared through the darkness of the wooden wagon, unable to see much beyond the still Ginny and the bagged dragon, and his ears picked up the fact that each outside noise was drifting further away, while the pain in his scar only grew worse. Soon, he knew that the pain would likely block his common sense and leave him gaping like the second year body he'd been trapped in.

The ropes, without his struggling, magically eased up, to Harry surprise. He tested a finger, grinning to find that he could move much more freely for a few moments before the ropes tightened up again. Whatever spell bound him, it held a second's delay, and he would work the advantage.

Turning to his back, Harry waited for the ropes to ease up again, then struggled furiously. Predictably, the ropes tightened up, going to the point where he could hardly breath. Stopping, Harry held his body still and waited again for the magic to abate. His struggling had let his ankles and wrists separate with barely a breath's room between them, but it was a triumph.

Again, Harry struggled, careful to push the ropes only to a certain limit, and each time the space between appendages grew wider and wider, with only Harry's failing muscles there to keep them from collapsing back together. Judging the time to be right, Harry bit his lips, the slipped a wrist through the ropes as quickly as he could.

Escape woke the ropes like a fury. Immediately, the magic blazed, tightening the bands on his wrists with an unbelievable speed, but Harry had already slipped the other wrist through, leaving only air behind as the ropes collapsed, its magic continuing until the cords had tightened into ringed circlets.

Tired, but grinning like a devil, Harry hoisted himself to a sitting position, careful not to let his ankles slid in the least. Then his free hands grabbed those ropes at his feet, straining and holding them in position to allow his ankles and toes to slip through. The ropes seemed to sense the escape as well, and tried to tighten. When his second foot was freed, Harry let go of the cords, barely fast enough from getting his fingers snapped off.

Completely free, Harry sighed a breath of relief, and laid against the darkness for a moment of rest before stirring himself up again. Ginny hadn't been bound; but then again she hadn't battered an eyelash in the whole time since he'd wakened up. Harry suspected some sleeping spell, considering how still the girl was, and without his wand he couldn't' reverse the effects, so he turned to the struggling bag.

As soon as he'd picked it up, the dragon let out a screech, redoubling its efforts as it thought he was an enemy.

"Shh!" Harry looked around, frightened to visions of Death Eaters storming in, but saw nothing. "It's only me." The dragon stilled, then croaked a sad note. Never before had it been so mishandled, not even by Snape, and the disgrace tore at its pride and dignity as a winged beast. Harry smiled sympathetically, and looked over the knots tying the creature in, again encountering magical reinforcements. Their attackers rightly feared this small dragon's strength, and the magic used prevented any tearing of the bag, and any slipping of the knot. Sighing, Harry sat down and started to work.

To free his friend, he would need to concentrate over the pain of his scar, which had increased doubly since he woke up, and which would undoubtedly continue to increase.

Harry tried first to carefully untie the thick knots holding the dragon in, but whenever he paused the knots slipped back together. With a wand, he could easily dispel the charm trapping his dragon, but he was left with only muggle-like resources. Harry bit a lip, considering recourses, but then shook his head in acceptance. Whatever he did, he'd have to work quickly. The pain in his scar was beginning to affect him, sending him into dizzy phases.

He set to work again, trying to untie the knots. Any time the knots began to slip back together, he grunted and pulled them apart by force. His fingers turned raw and red, pinched skin getting trapped between sliding knots that often tore and peeled his blistered palm. The dragon, sensing his pain and unable to do anything, crooned soft notes like a simple lullaby meant for encouragement.

At one point, Harry ran out of fingers to stop the slipping knots. So close to winning free, he nearly snarled in frustration, but then he bit back that despair and instead used his teeth to clamp the knots down. The effect sent his jaw into small cramps. He ignored the pain, keeping teeth closed tight while fingers worked faster to complete their mission. A pinky got caught in a trap, stuck fast between two sliding knots, and Harry held back a painful yelp, pulling the finger clean of knot and leaving pale skin. With the finger out of the way, the knots tried to slid back together, and Harry had no choice but to put the skinned pinky back in the trap to prevent the knots from regaining ground. The finger's nerves burned fire in distracting pain, not even close to the pain that still exploded like firecrackers on his forehead.

Finally, Harry freed out one knot, panting with the effort. The result was a tiny whole that was immediately filled with a snarling golden nose. The dragon tried to squeeze through the opening, and when it couldn't, it fixed sharp jaws on the cloth, trying in vain to tear the cloth with anger. One tooth was caught in a sliding knot, and yelping, the dragon slammed its nose back into the folds of the bag, whimpering with bruised pride.

Harry didn't pause in his work, so close to finish. He ground teeth together to block the pain, swallowing to steady against dizziness. The bag of knots before him was a fit of puzzles, skinning his hands raw. A pounding headache had built up with the pain, now feeling like a constant slap on his head.

Just when he thought he had undone another knot, it bounded up in complexity, and Harry nearly kicked the bag in frustration. Raw knuckles clicked together as he pushed down angered reflexes and Harry spared no more time in figuring out the puzzle. Blood ran freely from his fingers' wounds, soaking the knots and creating a sliding electricity that startled Harry. Knots came freer, sliding beneath his hands like daggers and biting teeth.

Minutes, hours later, the knots of the bag soaked through to reluctant opening, Harry unfolded the last knot with red hands full of blood, blisters, and sores to see his dragon, sleeping with confidence in his skill. The dragon blinked open lazy eyes, jaws cracking open in a wicked smile that Harry couldn't help but answer.

His grin only lasted for a second before the pain in his scar blacked him out. The last thing he saw before utter darkness was his dragon's head snap up to snarl at unseen enemies that laughed at Harry's fouled attempt to escape, even as the dying roar of some creature echoed in his falling ears.

"What a silly boy," one voice opinioned, cold and snake-like, too cold to be anyone else.

The wagon's rolling gait had stopped at its destination. Harry had come into the presence of Voldemort.

*

Lord Voldemort, last living heir of Salazar Slytherin (he'd made certain of that particular fact through a fun bloodbath of cousins, uncles, grandfathers), couldn't help but grin at the news of the Hogwarts students' capture, and his skull grin grew when his Death Eaters told him in humble tones that the students would be there shortly.

The broken wagon, lugged at the back of a muzzled erumpent, came into the chosen clearing late in the evening with the sun bleeding dry over the western horizon, its dying light suiting Voldemort's purposes quite well. The erumpent, its dangerous horn covered, tried to bowl down the masked wizards that circled around the wagon, but the dark wizards wasted no time for even an endangered animal. The rhino-like being went down with a loud roar, crumpling against the black soil like a fallen titan before going completely still--unconscious, not dead; its exploding fluid was too valuable to give the beast the pleasure of an easy death.

Voldemort waited as his trained servants pulled the erumpent out of the clearing, summoning a cage to entrap the beast in, then opening the wagon's doors. Immediately, they were confronted by a hissing, spitting creature that flew out of the way and into the sky. Voldemort dismissed the creature, unsure of its importance and careless as it flickered in the distance like a golden star. What interested him was the two figured lying in the wagon. One was still asleep, traces of a sleeping spell evident on her young face. The other was glaring at him with green eyes, vivid with hate but far from lucid. If anything, the boy was about to faint.

What interested Voldemort was the fact that the boy had escaped charmed bounds. "What a silly boy," he murmured, realizing that this student honestly thought escape possible. The boy's eyes shut, cutting off the strange green color, and black head tumbled forward, smashing headlong out of the wagon and against the ground. Voldemort narrowed his eyes in distaste as his servants belatedly moved to catch the boy's fall. "When he wakes, send him to me."

His servants bowed out of the way, dragging the boy's limp body out of the way and off to the side. Where, Voldemort didn't care. His attention rolled over to the sleeping girl, dispelling her unnatural sleep with a word. It took her a moment, but then hazy eyes opened uncertainly. "Harry?" she murmured, blinking and instinctively calling out for her friend. Voldemort grinned, letting the witch regain herself and reveling in the bleak shock that soon rolled across her young face.

She looked around, blinking again to get the sand from her eyes and to adjust to the dying light. He knew when she woke fully because she shot back into the wagon with a gasp, eyes childishly wide. "Who are you?' the girl demanded, but her shaking voice undid all attempts at courage.

Voldemort nodded a head in a slight mocking bow. "Dear girl, don't say that your journey from the castle leaves you ignorant of the threat that kept you in the castle to begin with!" He motioned towards his servants, all masked and still in respect to him. "If you don't know us by name, surely by reputation?"

The girl paled beyond her natural whiteness, and it looked like she was going to faint again. Voldemort watched her, quickly concluding that even if this girl knew something, she would be of no use to him. However the students had left the castle, it was obvious that only the glaring boy would be able to get back out. This girl probably came against her will.

When she swooned, hitting the wagon's deck with a cluttering bang, Harry pointed at a Death Eater at random. "Make sure she keeps well," he instructed, already planning on using her as a bargaining chip against Dumbledore. The red hair and freckles only belonged to the Weasleys, one of Dumbledore's greater allies. "Don't let any physical harm come to her." The chuckles from beneath the mask showed that his servant understood well, and Voldemort turned away with the grin still on his face. Physically harmed, and Dumbledore might not buy her back, but that old headmaster wouldn't be able to trace the mental torture the girl would undergo during her time in the Dark Lord's stay. Even if Dumbledore knew, he couldn't do much about it; what else could come in Voldemort's presence but fear?

As he was leaving, one of the initiates came up to him, keeping head bowed respectfully. Voldemort named him instantly: Dale Ohno, graduated from Hogwarts only two years back and one of the more successful recruits. Ohno head still bent, he murmured, "My lord, I believe I know who the boy in your capture is."

Voldemort let his eyes lazily slid over Ohno's masked face, invoking in the initiate all sorts of fear. "No news to me, boy. But keep Potter's identity to yourself." For only Lily Potter and her son had green eyes so bright, and in his hand, Potter's son would be a chip too valuable to waste on bargaining. As Dumbledore's greatest allies, the Potters' would suffer the greatest knowing that their son would be physically and mentally tortured for untold months, until the boy broke and reveled the secret into Hogwarts' warded gates. Then, the Potters would be hurled into disbelief when the discovery came to light: that their son's betrayal would be the key defeat of the Light side when Voldemort conquered. The only thing that would cause more pain in his foes would be if their son turned against them, and even that could be arranged.

Ohno shuddered under the mask, nodding quickly to show agreement, probably suspecting the Dark Lord's plans. Voldemort was about to continue out of the clearing when the recruit added, "Yes, my lord, but I wanted you to hear what I heard the boy say."

His darting glances side to side caught Voldemort interest, even sparingly, and the Dark Lord stopped walking to focus full attention on the young recruit. To invoke the Dark Lord's full attention was to invoke either infinite pain or reward. The Death Eater knew this, and his breathing became shaky, his robes clinging to his body with sweat, as he walked the fine line between reward and punishment. "The boy knew me by name, though I've never before met him. I graduated the year before he came into Hogwarts. He talked as if we were friends, but when I rebutted his friendship, he turned...angry, with both himself and me. He knew that I was in your service, though how I know not. The girl didn't know either, fainting as soon as she became aware of... what... I am."

"What does this talk have to interest me?" Voldemort cut in, beginning to anger with the waste of time as his interest was lost.

Ohno shuddered again with realized fear, and pressed on. "My lord, the boy introduced himself to me at that point as Harry Potter, naming himself the 'Boy Who Lived,' the savior of the world." He swallowed and looked up, fear tangible through the mask on his face. "My lord, these titles..."

Voldemort waved the fear away. "Mere titles. What did this boy live through? Who anointed him savior? If he were older, perhaps I might take interest. As it is, this Potter child only interests me through his claims of family to the Potters."

He expected Ohno to leave at that implied dismissal, but instead the Death Eater fell to one knee. "My lord, I overheard the boy tell how Dumbledore himself taught secret training lessons through the use of a time turner. For the title 'Boy Who Lived,' I can't begin to fathom, but Dumbledore may have anointed this Potter as savior, may have trained this Potter in ways to equal any seventh year." Ohno paused then said, "He even has a familiar, the dragon that escaped despite wards. That Potter escaped the spelled ropes without magic is proof that this child is nothing normal."

Voldemort digested the information without expression on his face, thinking again of the news from his spy that two students had apparated from Hogsmeade, two who he once thought were seventh years. Of course, it would fit that the Potters would have a son magically powerful. His rolled the facts over, not even blinking to give Ohno sign of decision. The Death Eater sweated, not knowing what to do.

He came to a decision. "Awake the boy now," he commanded. "Bring him to me now, whatever his condition. Tell him nothing. Give him nothing. Just bring him to me."

*

Albus Dumbledore was in something similar to shock. "How?" was the only thing he could say, back turned from the group gathered, the group that had cornered him with news on his way to his office. Lily, James, Arthur, and Molly all crowded together, faces worried, while off to the side, the Weasley twins whispered together quietly, looking out of place next to the group of worried parents.

"We don't know," James admitted in dry, dead tones of worry. His eyes were slightly phased, as if wondering what past sin was now being paid back in full by putting the life of his only child in danger over and over again. Lily squeezed her husband's hand while her own eyes, filled with uncried tears, shined in the dim torchlight. "All we know is that they're no longer here."

"The map?" Dumbledore grabbed the flimsy parchment from Fred's fist and looked at the groups of students wandering around, none of them bearing the name of Harry or Ginny. He wanted to sigh, but that would show his former and current students that he was as human as them, taking away the only belief they had left.

"All of the secret ways are secure, sir," George reported, voice tight at the possibility of losing his baby sister for a second time in less than a week. "We checked them all again after we found out two students were missing, and all the wards we put down were still in place."

Dumbledore smiled thankfully at them, but in his mind he could hear the conversation with Harry Potter replaying itself. A second year would have no defense against the twins' wards, but a seventh year would certainly know a few spells--'No!' He cut that thought off. 'It's impossible.'

"We'll have to assume that either the students slipped out of Hogwarts of their own will, or were taken," he announced quietly to the forlorn group. Arthur squashed a fist together, and Molly let out a shaky breath; both were feeling the same panic from hearing that their children had been taken down to the Chamber of Secrets. Lily and James glanced at each other, then looked away to the floor, a slight muscle tremor in James' shoulders and Lily looking ready to collapse. "Since intruders entering Hogwarts and snatching children would have been noticed, I believe that the first possibility is the most likely."

He gave them a moment to gather their thoughts. "The only thing we can do now is contact our field agents and let them know that two children are missing from the school. Perhaps one of our spies have seen them, or one of our operatives noticed them."

"Tell Remus first," James suggested the moment Dumbledore stopped talking. "He'll want to know first."

Dumbledore nodded in weary resignation, saddened by the fact that telling his agents was the only comfort he could give to the grieving families, families that meant so much to him. The conversation dwindled, everyone preoccupied by thoughts of how two students managed to sneak out of Hogwarts unnoticed, and Dumbledore left them there.

In his office, he looked at his phoenix, as weary as himself, and smiled. "What are we ever going to do to win this war?" he asked the lovely bird, and it raised a song of passion for his pain. Grateful, he turned to the fireplace, summoning the strength for the simple task of contacting a wizard who'd pass the message on: Two students missing, Harry Potter and Virginia Weasley--requesting Remus Lupin for the task.

*

Harry couldn't describe which pain was worse: that of his hands, torn and raw with bleeding blisters and skinned knuckles, or that of his forehead, a spiraling pain emanating from a jagged scar, his birthright. With his hands, he could see the damage, understand the pain. With his scar, he definitely couldn't see (eyes didn't roll that far up to let one stare at one's forehead) and even if he could, all he'd see was the lightening bolt. No blood, no real physical reason why his head felt like a popping balloon--the pain was all mental junk that he really thought he could do without, at least in this lifetime.

Then he took his eyes off his blooded hands and looked up to see the red-flicked eyes of a maniac, and he realized that the source of such horrific pain really could be seen, sitting right in front of him.

Voldemort grinned. "Hello, Harry."

Harry felt like fainting again, and not just because of the pain. Here, Voldemort looked... well, reasonably human. Not like that shade in the Forbidden Forest, or the half-face on Quirrel, or the baby nightmare before and the skull-like demon after the rebirth during the Triwizard Tournament. This Voldemort even looked better than the brief glance Harry had seen of the monster the night his parents were attacked while he sat trapped in a baby's body. Which idea was just plain creepy, that Voldemort only got better with time and war.

Harry tried to grin back, but all he could manage was a lifting of his lips to show crunched teeth. He didn't dare talk; if he did, he'd probably bite off his own tongue--that or scream aloud because of the pain. Scream, and never stop screaming.

Voldemort laughed, the sound of bones breaking on cold concrete, and Harry could barely hear him over the sound of blood rushing to his head. "Is this boy mad?" the Dark Lord asked an unseen servant. "I've never heard of a biting Potter."

"My lord, the boy seems to be in a great deal of pain," the servant answered, and Harry named the voice Dale Ohno. "His hands were hurt."

Voldemort looked back to Harry, taking time not to examine the student before him, and he noticed the bloody hands Ohno had suggested. "Yes, if I'm going to have a conversation with you, I would like some talk from your side." His wand out, Voldemort muttered a healing spell that wove skin back together and replenished lost blood.

Harry's eyes went wide and he gave out a sort of squeak before fainting from pain.

*

Remus got the assignment scarcely five minutes after waking, and he felt like just going back to sleep. At least there, the nightmares were guaranteed to end at some point; at least there, he could always pinch himself awake.

He whistled, reading the smoke-sent summery, squinting at the words that hazed in and out of sight, and shaking his head in mild reproach at his unseen superiors for sending such a hopeless assignment to him. Tracking down two runaways during war times was almost certainly impossible, especially if those runaways were smart enough to escape from the trap that was Hogwarts. Those students wouldn't let themselves be found after going through all the trouble of getting out unnoticed. Then again, there was always the possibility that the students went through a rotten case of dumb luck getting out of the castle, and had immediately slipped into Voldemort's hands.

Either case, their recovery was extremely unlikely. Better to send apologies to the parents and loved ones now, then let energy waste on shadowy hope before getting crashed down by dark reality.

"Don't know why they're wasting my time on this," the werewolf half-growled, reluctantly standing up and brushing away the air's foggy tendrils from his robes. It didn't matter; he got damp anyway, since air traveled where it would at its own pleasure. He knew his own worth as Dumbledore's field agent, knew he was the best one on the outside. He had to be, to survive the full moon's bitter transformation each month alone, never knowing when he woke up if the blood staining his teeth was his own or some one else--never knowing if he'd come back, or lose himself to Voldemort's lure to all dark creatures.

Remus straightened damp robes and waited for the report to end, ready to douse the dim fire with soil. The report dragged on, stating daft possibilities and senseless guesses as to where the two students could be. At last, the report spared Remus the most important facts: descriptions and names of the lost persons. When he got to that part, his eyes widened.

Two young students, one a first year and the other a second. Names: Harold Potter and Virginia Weasley.

"Oh, James," the werewolf murmured, feeling a stab of guilt and sympathy for his old friend, only able to barely grasp how the family must be dealing with the loss. No wonder they were ordering him to spare the effort of tracking down the wayward children. For the parents involved, almost any risk would be undertaken.

Shouldering up his sparse belongings, Remus doused the flames, careful to scatter ashes and hide all trace of his person, making his campsite looked unused. He looked around, measuring the light that was beginning to just spill from the eastern horizon as the sun managed enough energy to push itself back into the sky again. Then, he started north, towards Hogwarts and towards any hints of Harry and Ginny's whereabouts. The trail would start there, and lead to the missing children. And he would find them at all costs.

Not even death was a hard tax any more. Sirius had proved that.

*

Beneath the rotting hills of the once great city of London, the muggle family huddled, drawing warmth from a dingy fire and shelter from the fallen slates of iron, steel, brick--things left over from buildings that had touched the sky.

Hermione Granger grimaced, hiding her pain with a smile for her younger siblings. "Now then," she continued the lecture, "who can recite the English alphabet for me?"

The orphans around her let their eyes go wide with ignorance, and the young muggle held back an urge to sigh.

"Don't do this," she warned/pleaded. "I know for a fact that every single one of you know the alphabet. It's what we've been working on for the last few days." She searched their faces, hiding desperation at each blank expression that stared back at her. She'd gotten good at hiding things over the last year, almost to good, her mother would complain if the lady were still living.

They didn't feel like talking today. She could see it in their eyes: the quivering fear that held back even the brightest colors like dark stain or bleach. It was because of the attack last night, the resurgence of magical activity in an area that muggles had begun to feel comfortable in, safe. The Dark Lord must have planned it, must have stopped all magic in this destitute area just long enough for the muggles to feel rested before snatching that precious peace away.

It was all she could do to keep those little brothers and sisters from bolting out into the street where they'd be perfect targets for waiting wizards. They didn't understand the dangers, not even after seeing mothers and fathers taken down by green lights and torturous screams. They didn't understand the idea that magic was something unseen until too late.

Or maybe, Hermione mentally corrected herself as she stared into those hopeless eyes, maybe they understood just too well.

There was a disease of the mind that overtook a person, when that person had seen too much. Looking into the pits of the abyss destroyed sanity until death was the only escape. For that disease to touch such young minds was a tragedy beyond words for Hermione to describe.

She bit a lip, staring at the forlorn faces, and reluctantly gave up on her day's teaching. She was only twelve this year, but the knowledge she held would hardly make a difference. Staring at those young faces, already given up to despair, she began to wonder what the use was of trying. They were all going to die anyway-

"Stop that," she chided herself, closing her eyes against a wave of dizziness. The orphans whined quietly, as quiet as they did everything, and she opened her eyes again with a tight smile. "Oh no, I wasn't talking to you. I was talking to myself," she crooned to them, failing to keep the weariness out of her voice. "You didn't do anything wrong."

It didn't work; one of the children began to back up in fear, seeing in her face a nameless enemy. They must have heard the rumors, she decided, the rumors that said she was a witch in disguise, a witch that had come here to spy on the muggles and to give off information to the Dark Lord who ruled the north and who fed off the south.

The child back away, and Hermione gave a start when she realized that the little boy was inching his way towards the window with all the broken glass. "Be careful," she bit out, stomach knotting up. "You'll cut yourself!"

He didn't care. Backing away, a bare foot stepped on a glass shard, completely absorbing it. He didn't care. Backing away, a hand grasped towards the window sill, sinking into jagged pieces of pain. He didn't care. Backing away, he left behind bloody prints before jumping out the window and jogging away.

His destiny was sealed and he didn't care.

"Get away from the windows!" Hermione screeched, waving her hands around as a sixth sense gave her a second's warning. The children flocked back to the inner corners of the room, more frightened by her squalling than her warning. She flung herself over the bodies of the youngest ones not a moment too soon.

Outside, there was a whispered breath of air, then an explosion. A child's hoarse scream could barely be heard over the dark chuckling over wizards as they descended from brooms to pick up their fallen prey.

Hermione bit her lip, glad again for the thick robes she'd managed to save. The material was the only thing separating her vulnerable back and the shards of glass that came flying inside the room.

She didn't waste anytime getting back to her feet. The children were already scattering, screaming like a flock of wild geese. Outside, she heard a pause in the wizards' conversation, then one of them remarked, "Looks like we found a hidden stash." Footsteps echoed towards her hideout.

"Come, follow me," she hissed at the children, putting a finger over her lips for quiet time. The youngest ones listened to her, trusting her blindly; the older ones, some of their faces cut by small pieces of glass, hesitated between the unknown outside and the untrustable inside. Some bolted out the window, not learning from their late companion's mistake, but some--those who had been with her the longest--followed as she led them through the dark passages and mazes that she knew like her heartbeat from a year's desperate flight along the city's ruins.

Those who had left would be bait for the wizards, but they'd also give her enough time to get the rest out of there. Running, Hermione didn't have any chance to cry; all her tears had already dried up, and if she wasted any time only more blood would be spilt.

*

His hands were wrapped in rags so tight that not a single finger could move. The rags melded his hands together like blocky ends. If he had a wand, it wold be useless. Maybe they'd give him a wand just to laugh as he struggles to use it.

But the pain in his scar was gone.

Harry glances around in wary suspicion, not too naïve to believe that after all the trouble they went through of catching him, the Death Eaters would simply let him go. If they did, he'd have to follow. He couldn't leave Ginny alone to them. Hopefully, his dragon would be far enough away to get help--if the silly little thing didn't get itself recaptured trying to fight through an army of Death Eaters. That was its greatest flaw: being too much like the Gryffindor that made it.

Stumbling to his feet, Harry walked to the nearest thing--a tree--and stabbed the bindings of his hands against it, trying to snag a piece of cloth on the tree, trying to free his hands. Nothing happened. It was as if the bandages on his hands were magicked to be as smooth as silk, which possibility was very likely considering his enemies. They'd take a certain twisted pleasure in tying his hands together then setting him loose to fend for himself.

Swearing, Harry looked around, then froze at the soft sound of a twig breaking. It hadn't been him. The area around his feet was clean of any twigs or branches or fallen leaves; suspiciously clean, like someone had come through with a broom and unknown reason. Spurred on by paranoia, Harry waited, holding his breath for some other sign of his stalker's presence.

Another twig broke, this time undoubtedly close. Harry turned just in time to see the sirling of a black cloak, and his stomach lurched. Were his captors playing some game of cat-and-mouse? He stilled, trying to listen again for the tell-tell sound of unnatural breeze or footsteps.

There was more than one person nearby. When a twig broke behind him, a cloak caught on some dead leaves ahead of him. The sounds were concurrently timed, planned to give him the impression of only one person, or to test his nerves to the limits, feeling him with fear and panic!

He slowed down his breathing, forcing lungs to accept deep breaths instead of frenzied ones. His hearing caught hold of another person's sound, like an echo of the first two. Either he was being surrounded, or he was going insane.

Finally, a person dared step into the clearing. Harry forced himself to grin, forced himself to hide all waves of hysteria beneath a flawless wall of calm. "Decide to stop playing around, have you?" he taunted, wishing that his forehead didn't tickle with sweat. "Finally got the nerve to face me outright?"

The laugh was cold, the sound of bones breaking on pavement, and the person flung back his hood to show a human face with red-speckled eyes. Harry nearly bit his tongue in surprise, a part of his mind vaguely wondering why his scar wasn't bursting with the need to painfully inform him of Voldemort's presence.

The Dark Lord nodded to the woods. "Leave us," he ordered to the circling Death Eaters, and the intimidators tromped away. Then he turned his skull grin on Harry. "Don't try to act brave," Voldemort advised, pointing to his forehead. "I can feel you right here."

"What?" Harry fell back a step, unwillingly shocked. He swallowed, and muttered, "I-I don't know what you're talking about-"

"You know perfectly well what I'm talking about, Mister Potter," Voldemort cut in sharply, still grinning like a wicked devil. "It was a great surprise to me, when that healing spell on your hands went wrong and practically flung your mind at me, but I'm all the much better off." The grin went wider. "Who would have ever thought a second year could know so much."

The emphasis on that word made Harry shudder, and he wished that his hands weren't bound. Even wandless, he'd go after Voldemort right now, bedamn the consequences. Right now, all he wanted was to choke the man's throat.

Pacing around the clearing like a stalking leopard, Voldemort smirked. "Dreaming about killing me? That's not very Gryffindor-like of you," he chided before pausing, a pause full of maliciousness. "Then again... I do seem able to recall a certain... a certain memory." His grin could have cut and skinned Harry to the bone. "A memory of yours, if I'm not mistaken, where the Sorting Hat had a bit of trouble, and decided to simply stick you in the four houses."

Harry froze, eyes gone wide, and he forgot to breathe.

Voldemort laughed, stopping his pacing to lean confidently against a tree. "Who would have thought dimension travel possible?" the dark wizard mused, looking decidedly too human for being the monster he was. "What unseen benefits does this have, benefits that I can use?"

"There aren't any," Harry countered viciously, heedlessly, hopelessly. "All you get is a mixed up mind and dizzying memories. Soon, you don't know where you've come from, where you're going, and where it's safe to tell the truth." He swallowed, then continued his brash denouncement. "You'll talk to people you think are friends, and they won't know you. You joke about things you think are all right, and they'll throw you in jail. You'll never know for sure what you've said or done in this dimension, compared to that dimension."

Face pale and lips pressed together tight enough to hurt, Harry ended with, "It's better to stick with just one dimension, one life."

His response: Voldemort waited a moment, then laughed aloud, eyes narrowing in amusement. "Potter, Potter: whatever you say, I know the truth." He tapped his forehead in reminder. "I can hear through your words to your very thoughts, and you know what they're telling me? They say that it's an adventure, a thrill, a chance to start all over and do everything better. That this dimension hopping," he added a mocking sneer at Harry's own term, "is a reason for living, an opportunity for knowledge and power."

He stood, stretching like a feline with all muscles going taunt. It was a mocking gesture, designed to show that he felt absolutely no threat in Harry's presence, grinding into bone the obvious fact of Harry's helplessness. Harry bit his tongue, wishing for the mind-numbing pain of his scar instead of this perverted curse that set his every thought and memory before Voldemort's examination.

Voldemort motioned for Harry to follow. "Come, boy," he mocked. "I have plans for you. After all, with you and your dimension hopping potion at my side, we can conquer worlds and universes, planets and dimensions. And you will be by my side, whether you want to or not."

Harry was dragged to his feet by a spell of some sort, forced to stumble along behind Voldemort's graceful trot, and every curse he muttered was met by a laugh. He nearly tripped, caught only by last-minute support from a tree branch, and his face burned with shame.

The curse that had connected him with Voldemort before was now his own bane.

*

"London," Remus breathed, stretching out wide. He stopped at the fallen city on his way north, a sad smile on his face. "Oh London: how far you have toppled, and how great was your fall."

He stared at the great mass of broken glass and shattered steel hardly a moment, and would have continued if he hadn't noticed a flash of green light. Green light was never good, especially not in a muggle ruin. Distantly, he could hear screams, and his face hardened. It would be just like any Death Eater to take joy out of hunting down muggles. He glanced up at the sky, measuring it, and determining it to be only late morning. Enough time to throw down some bad guys while still getting to Hogwarts by afternoon.

Dropping his few possessions, Remus pulled out his wand and stalked forward. London was still great, despite being turned into a ruin at the beginning of the war. It was a magnet for muggles, which was why Dumbledore routinely sent down supplies and help, which was why Death Eaters routinely hunted through these grounds. Muggles detested both.

He slipped through the city, not entirely unfamiliar with the habitation. Buildings had toppled over, and streets were now overgrown with weeds, but still he could faintly recall street-sense from teenage days spent visiting Sirius, who lived in the heart of the city.

Coming up on one street, he was nearly run over by a throng of waist-high children, all covered in soot and dirt, some bleeding from tiny, piercing wounds. Among them, a taller, older girl was bellowing instructions: "Hurry, turn left here! It's the one with the basement. You remember, right?" They all stopped when they saw him, and he knew exactly how he looked to their young eyes: long robes, a wand in one hand, cold face like stone--the image of the enemy that was attacking from behind.

Immediately, the children gave a scream and started to scatter. Out of instinct, Remus constructed a circled barrier that kept them all in. To his surprise, however, the magic was blocked. The children all ran, but down to the building with the basement. All but the older girl, whose flinty gaze and hard stance told him that she wasn't what she seemed.

He held out a hand, trying to soften his face from years of exposure to war. "Please, don't panic! I'm not here to hurt you--I'm here to help."

The girl's face paled beneath the dirt, and she blinked. "Mr. Lupin?" she asked.

It took a moment, but he recognized her, a young witch from Hogwarts whose parents refused to come to the safety of the castle, and who insisted that she come with them during the summer months. He had sneaked her out because she would have found a way out anyway, then smuggled her to meet with her parents. Then came the news that Voldemort was planning on attacking the family, and they'd gone into hiding so deep that when the summer ended she couldn't be found, couldn't be returned to Hogwarts.

"Hermione Granger?" he whispered, stunned to find such a prodigy here in the middle of an attack, guiding a ragtag group of children like some mother hen. Lifting a hand, he wiped some of the dirt from her face, but it persistently stuck, especially to her nose.

She shook her head. "Don't bother, I've been dirty since I left Hogwarts. It won't come off without a thorough soaking."

An explosion set off behind them, and Lupin's face tightened. "Perhaps we should talk in a safer place."

"Follow me," she instructed confidently, leading him off the way her children had gone before. "They won't suffer themselves to go inside a muggle building, but they still shoot curses after us. Only the basement levels are safe anymore, and even there, the buildings are always creaking and groaning, threatening to cave in on us."

They ducked into the building, bending the avoid sharp metal rods and nail-infested wood. She went first, and he waited for her to calm the children down. Still, even after the wait, he entered the basement to find only the young witch.

"They don't trust wizards," she explained n helpless anguish, looking down a dark hall where scattered footfalls echoed. "It'll take me a week to regather them."

"I'm sorry," Remus murmured after a moment of not knowing what to say.

She shook her head. "It's not your fault. They would have scattered after this attack, anyway." Her intelligent eyes shined even under the dirt. "But as surprised as I am to see you here, I'm not all that shocked at the attack itself. See, I've calculated these attacks, and the Death Eaters seem to come back every two to three months. If I hadn't lost count of the days, I would have already put them in a safe place."

Remus winced as a charm sent the building above him shaking down dust and dirt. He looked around, asking, "Is it always like this?"

"No. Those months between the attacks are like heaven." She wasn't being sarcastic.

"Miss Granger..." Remus paused, trying to find the words he wanted to say. He needed to get a move on, but he couldn't just leave a young with to herself. "I can't stay long, but I would like to know if you might want to come with me-"

"Absolutely not," she declared. "Who would take after the children?"

"They're not your children," he pointed out.

"They're not anyone's. Their parents have all died, most of the time before their very eyes. The adults here are too thick-skinned to care for anything but themselves. If I don't take care of them, who will?"

"But you're a witch," Remus blurted out. "How can you stay here, knowing that you can help in the war. I've heard about your accomplishments during you year at Hogwarts, and before you left they were saying you were the most gifted talent the school had seen in decades. Don't you understand? With the help of wizards and witches like you, taking an active participation in the war, this could all be over in a matter of years, months even."

He was aware that he spoke to a twelve-year old, but the look in her eyes was much older, and with some training she would be as ready as anyone to take part in the raging war. It was the sore point to him, the way Hogwarts huddled up its talent when those students could be helping, could be saving lives. It was a sore point, how Dumbledore left only the bare minimum to die out on the field, while those children spent years locked in a castle without any preparation for the cold future they'd be facing.

By the look in her eyes, Hermione Granger was one of those few young enough but strong enough to fight. But by the look in her eyes, she wasn't prepared to sacrifice the few lives here in exchange for the many lives she could save.

Years of fighting had taught Remus all the stuff he needed to know about sacrifice, and it killed him to see those unwilling to sacrifice as much as he'd seen done.

Sirius had taught Remus how to sacrifice, and Remus knew he could never live up to the pure selflessness that friend had taught.

She was about to say something, but he raised a hand, suddenly bone weary. "Fine," he bit out in angry tones, unable to hide his bitterness about being called to serve while others were spared, of seeing friends die while others lived on ungratefully. "I see you don't want to come. Spend your life here then, having a taste of heaven," the term made him scoff, "while others fight this war for you. I'll deal with the problem outside, then let you alone to scavenge through the leftovers for survivors."

Hermione grabbed his sleeve while he stood up, her eyes questioning. "Just for curiosity's sake," she started, not sounding the least bit touched by his ultimatum, "what exactly are you off doing?"

"What else?" he retorted in scathing tones. "Saving the young and innocent from the fire, and hoping my fingers don't get too burned in the process." Thinking of James' son in that respect made him want to hack up, but he swallowed instead. "Two students escaped from Hogwarts."

"Why?" She looked profoundly stunned at the prospect of someone willingly leaving the sanctuary the school provided.

He couldn't help saying, "They couldn't sit in safety knowing others were dying in their stead." As he turned to go, he added, "It's Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley, if you're wondering. By their parents' example, it's no surprise how eager they are to fight in the war, though they're only your age."

"Harry... ?" The witch closed her eyes with something akin to bliss on her face, then she opened her eyes in a new fierce light. "I've changed my mind, and decided to come with you. I owe Harry a Wizard's Debt for saving my life last summer, and I'll be too happy to pay it off now."

Remus only grunted, not willing to chance with fortune by asking her exactly what she meant by that, and the two packed up, Hermione grabbing the few things she held belonging to. When they left London, the Death Eaters taken care of and the children sent away with instruction, the two started off north, departure heralded by the croaking screech of a golden dragon that sailed tiredly from the sky.

*

Ginny woke up to the smell of sweet meat and daises. Her mind was drifting like a cloud of fog, not letting her really see anything that made sense. She saw, through that foggy vision, the carcass of a deer being slowly turned over an open fire. The deer's eyes were glazed over, and its burning lips seemed to cry: Help me, help me.

That snapped her awake.

She sat upright like a flash, tumbling into the thick materials of black robes. Her hands went out to her side, trying to find a way out, and instead they encountered a white, gaping mask. Death Eater robes, Death Eater masks. She tried not to scream.

Struggling to breathe, the girl kicked away the filthy things, face pale as ice. The air nipped at her skin, sending chills down her spines as thoroughly as the masks. Ginny freed herself from the puzzle, then looked back to the fire to see the deer still there. Now, the fire had consumed its face as well, burning holes through wet sockets. She tried not to faint.

Huddles of dark forms were around the campsite, some nearby the deer's roasting body, others walking around like inspectors, and others still stretched out on the ground in some semblance of sleep. She had been stuck in a wagon with the black robes flipped over her body like an afterthought, and now she crept out of the wooden cage. No one noticed her slight body mixing in with the shadows of the new morning because the fog in her mind had descended over the country, making the world into a dream-like state.

The wagon creaked, drawing uninterested attention, and the wizards (Death Eaters, she knew they had to be) soon looked away, apparently not concerned about her escaping. They thought her too young, certainly; soon they would discover how wrong they were.

She looked around for some flash of gold, or a head of wild black hair, but the fog worked against her as much as it did for. If Harry and that weird creature of his were anywhere nearby, thick humid air covered them. Likely, they'd taken Harry away so to separate him and her. She'd heard stories of Death Eater sacrifices, killing little children in cold blood to some demon for their power, and now the rumors seemed too true as she remembered the sight of the deer, flames licking hungrily at glazed eyes.

Ducking through the campsite between other broke-down wagons, she came across a huge metal cage, but it was empty so didn't concern her. She kept up her journey, not really knowing what to do other than a vague idea of getting away to the countryside. If she ever got there...

'I'll deal with it then,' she thought, trying to keep even that thought brave. All the courage that she was supposed to feel as a Gryffindor had long since bled away, gutted out by the memory of a man's bold and terrifying introduction. She prayed silently, huddled behind a stack of boxes that smelled like rotting fish, that the memory of that meeting was only a dream-stirred nightmare.

Ginny heard some oncoming noise, and she ducked behind the carts of fish, plugging her nose but leaving her eyes and ears clear. It was the sound of struggling, crashing footsteps that held her in her place. Only a prisoner would make so much noise, would struggle so much. As the people walked by, one black-cloaked man and one black-haired child, Ginny nearly bit her lip in happiness.

Harry!

Harry didn't look so good. He looked positively ill, in fact, like he was ready to pass out. The man leading him had a hood up, covering any features, and he laughed, jeering about Harry's illness. It only made Harry look worse, paler, terrified.

Ginny understood why. That voice, that man, was from her dim memory/nightmare. Even hiding behind a box of rotting fish, she wanted to cry out then make a dash for it, anything to escape the Dark Lord's presence.

The Dark Lord led Harry back down to the camp, then practically tossed the boy to his pack of servants. "Tie him up," came the icy command, "and make sure he doesn't get loose this time." It came with an unspoken threat that made the Death Eaters jump to. Then the Dark Lord paused, as if thinking something through. "And teach him about the System of Wizardry. I think he'd be surprised to learn about that."

Ginny cringed behind her box as the Dark Lord stormed past her, going out into the woods again. Her frightened eyes tracked him, unwittingly, unable to let go because of the fear that he might turn back and spot her. He didn't; all he did was stride to a certain, unmarked spot, then he vanished altogether. Apparated, like Harry had.

Harry.

Shaking, Ginny looked back over to Harry, shocked to see that her friend had already stood back up and was brave enough to be glaring down at all the men nearby him. He was a Gryffindor to the bone. She looked longingly towards the woods, then backtracked, knowing that even if she did escape, she'd only be captured. She needed Harry to get away completely.

One of the Death Eaters let out a vulgar sentence, cursing Harry and casting doubt on the legitimacy of his birth, crude enough to draw chuckles from the others. They poked at him, drawing long branches from the forest ground, and he endured it silently, the only movement to glare even darker at those who tried to invoke his reactions.

"Let him be," someone interrupted, looking disgusted. It was the teenager that had captured them in the first place, the one that Harry first claimed to know, then denied. Ginny, creeping towards them, stopped but couldn't remember the person's name.

Harry glared at the newcomer, adding a silent snarl with a viciousness that took Ginny's breath away, but the newcomer merely shoved Harry towards the campfire. The deer, done sizzling, was taken down and the camp's cook now squatted over it, cutting up chucks of meat from blacked bones.

Without a word, the Death Eater turned, wand out, and spun onto Harry's wrists down to his ankles ropes that first slithered like snakes before settling down to a choking position. "I would use the body-bind curse," the newcomer explained, "but then you wouldn't be able to talk." He waited a moment, then added, "But it seems like you're not going to talk anyway."

Harry kept up his glare. Ginny wondered if it hurt his eyes.

"...of Wizardry is just a way of measuring a person's magical level," the Death Eater was saying, sitting down before the fire and tracing circles in the dirt with pale fingers. "There are three levels, going from just a normal wizard, then to an enchanter, and finally up to a sorcerer. Most of us are wizards, as you can probably guess, but Dumbledore is a sorcerer, and so is the Dark Lord."

The Death Eater watched to see if his slight explanation would get any result, then shrugged, looking too human for Ginny's tastes as he scooted Harry towards the fire. The fog was chilling, and Ginny wished she could be next to that fire, warmed both by the flame and Harry's presence, but she needed to stay free, to find a way to escape with Harry.

And she would. Slowly, Ginny crept forward, hand closing around a particularly large branch, and she raised it over her head, aiming...

"I don't know why the Dark Lord would want a student to know something like that, but it isn't my place to question. His knowledge and plans go far beyond my simple-"

The Death Eater's eyes rolled skyward and he collapsed as if dead. Ginny dropped the club, the wood burning her fingers, and she hurriedly rushed to Harry's side. "Harry!"

"Don't talk," he started in a low murmur, looking around. "Just find me a knife or something--better yet, find Dale's wand! It'll probably be in his pocket."

"Dale?" Hovering, Ginny turned uncertainly towards the limp body, but at Harry's hissed encouragement, she dipped down. "Sorry," she whispered to the body beneath her hands. "I need this for a second." Her fingers scouted out the stiff twig of wood in a pocket, and triumphantly, she pulled the wand out.

"Good," Harry congratulated. She canceled out the spell, watching as Harry shifted through the magicless rope, then wrenched himself free. His hands looked scarred, but before she could ask about it, he grabbed her hand, whispering, "Let's get out of here."

"There's a barrier," she informed him quietly, looking around. "I saw... him... he, he had to go to the ends of the camp before he could leave."

Harry winced, a hand touching his forehead, and she barely hear him mutter, "I hope he can't hear me," but couldn't make sense of it as he grabbed her arm, running headlong out of the camp.

"Harry! They'll see us!"

"They already do," he told her. "But we've got to get out of here before they realize I can apparate."

"They already see us? And they're not doing anything?"

He shook his head. "No. It's a game to them." He nodded towards the empty campsites. "They've probably got bets on seeing how far we go before we collapse. There's no one besides them for hundred of miles." They reached the end of the campsite and he stopped, grabbing her hand again. "But let's get out of here before they get tired of watching, and try to catch us."

As if stroked on my his words, a group of masked faces began to descend from the area, and Ginny through herself at Harry, shivering as the Death Eaters came closer. "Let's go!"

They were gone.