He stood and looked across the water. He found a place where he was comfortable staying for a while. As the frigid air passed over the warmer waters, a two foot thick layer of fog drifted just over its surface. It gave the appearance that the tugboats going into and out of the harbor were floating through the clouds. He turned and began navigating his way back to his apartment. He got it dirt cheap, but then again, it wasn't a very nice place to live.

            He checked the numbers of the streets. He loved how well organized the city was. It was so easy to get somewhere as long as you had the address. He found his building and walked up the steps to the door. He passed an old African woman as he took his keys out of his pocket and began searching for the right one.

            "'uo don' need 'nee keys. Lock don' work," she said louder than she needed to, as the city was quiet this early in the morning. He didn't say anything back and pulled on the door. It creaked loudly as he entered the building. Ignoring the garbage and mice in the hallway, he walked up the stairs to the third floor. He used his key to open his door, to find a man going through the few bags in the room.

            "Hey, what are you doing!" Harry yelled. The man dropped what he had in his hands into the bag and turned around.

            "I was jus' goin' ta help ya unpack. I live downstairs, and was gunna help ya unpack," He said quickly. Harry knew he was lying, but he really didn't care.

            "Get out!" Harry said powerfully. The man nodded and ran out, leaving Harry in his empty flat with his few bags, and his things scattered nearby. He sighed and waved his wand. Everything went into a tilting wardrobe in the corner of the bedroom. It looked like it was going to fall with the push of a straw. He locked his door, and this time included the deadbolt. He looked over at his bed; a rusty metal frame and a torn mattress. He felt it should do… he slowly sat… then lay down on it, waiting for the exhaustion to engulf him in darkness.

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            He knew his mission. All he had to do was get a pass into the Magical Library and Archives of London and leave with three books, the titles of which he had on a parchment in his pocket. He knew the curse to dispel the protective spells on the books so they couldn't be damaged or removed from the library. Upon the destruction of his master's library, he needed to restock. This mission, if successful, would be followed by many others to seize information from this institution.

As he made it to the desk, he was handed a permit. He strode straight to the section where the first, and most important, book was located. He waited impatiently while someone down the aisle was using the ladder. He snatched it as soon as they got off and went up to the tenth shelf of books. He scanned the titles quickly before taking the book out of it's place. He cast the spell and slid it into his hidden coat pocket; first objective complete. He felt a shudder run through the ladder and he looked down. A short person wearing black hooded robes was standing at the base of the ladder with each hand gripping the frame with such force, it was clear that the person below held on with grim determination.

"Hey, stop that," he said with a slightly broken voice. He wasn't aware of his own anxiety. He watched as the person stopped and pulled out a wand and pointed it right at him.

"Put it back, or you know what happens," the short person said. Right then he knew that the person knew what he'd done. There were very few options left now.

"What's your price?" He said, half confident that this person could be bought, just like anyone else.

"If you make me do this you go to Azkaban and I go through a very long and painful inquiry. Just put it back, leave, and everyone wins" the little man said. He had moved to the side of the ladder, and tapped one of the wheels on the bottom with his foot, making it shudder again.

"Look gent, I don't know who you are or what you want, but I'm sure we can come to some sort of agreement," He pleaded. He watched the short man shake his head and glance down at the ground. He looked up with a sudden sharpness.

"I tried to reason with you but you give me no choice" He watched as the short man took two steps back and kicked the bottom of the ladder. He clutched it, expecting it to collapse, but the ladder remained intact as it flew down the aisle, remarkably staying on its track. He looked back and let out a loud whoop, glorying in escaping the little bastard. He didn't even see it coming.

One of the arms protruding from the ladder to the track on the bookcase reached the end and was torn off like a toothpick. The ladder's wheels at the bottom hit the step and sent the ladder swinging to the ground at a very fast pace. He had not been holding on during his celebration, and his body was catapulted like a bean bag into the next shelving unit. There was a loud thud and a spattering of blood as his body recoiled from the shock and fell the rest of the way to the floor.

The pain was intense, and he sensed that the book had made its way out of his pocket. He groaned as he realized he couldn't move his arms. He wondered if someone would see him and get help. Everything was silent.

He felt a strong hand grab his arm and pull, turning him over to look into the brightness of the lights. People were talking to him, he could see their mouths moving, but he couldn't hear a sound. He saw many of the people look away from him, and someone else joined the huddle above him. It was the same short person, a sullen look on his face. The young man grabbed his neck, and then put his ear over his mouth.

The injured man tried to yell out for someone to save him, but he saw the short man extract his wand, and with a small movement, everything disappeared into darkness.

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            Charles Pinnet woke up in a very strange place. There was a goblet hovering over his chest with a little note attached telling him to drink up. There were noises, he noticed, an incredible improvement from what he last remembered. He turned to his right and saw another person there. Actually, there were quite a few. They were sitting in their own beds, talking, yelling, and cheering. He followed their line of sight and saw a live omniocular feed, displaying a moving picture on the wall. He let out a loud moan as he let his head fall backwards into a pillow; his head pounding with a fierce headache.

            "Pinnet?" he heard. It was the guy in the bed to his right. "Pinnet! You're awake! Good grief, you gave us all a scare. You came in here missing half your mind and more than half your blood. It was all over the Daily Prophet too. He got you in the Library, how embarrassing. Don't worry about him though, he's not so bad, even a bit lenient with us. People out there tell me it's not half bad. You work, and get the weekends free, and everything's provided for. Just gotta behave ourselves, but we can do that, can't we mate?" the man said with a loud laugh. Charles winced at the pounding in his head.

            "Where, am I?" he asked, knowing that this blithering idiot, who he knew as Wiesnaz from the circuit, would turn a few phrases into an essay.

            "You're in prison, like all of us. Not like Azkaban. No, thank the lord not there, but more like a place where you get a second chance. The Man's real nice about it too. He brings in your family, protects you from Him… makes it like you disappeared or died or something so He doesn't start looking for yeh. Probably real suspicious by now, with all of us blokes vanishing so quick and the like," he said loud enough to instill pain on Charles' brain. Charles ran his hands over his head, trying to numb it.

"Hey, Pinnet, drink the goop he gave yeh, it'll make yeh feel better."

            "Do I have a choice?" Charles asked, glancing once more at the plain silver goblet hovering over his body.

            "Sure you do. But I recommend it. Makes yeh feel like a kid again. If you can't see the picture, The Dover Dinglebats are leadin' the Puddlemere United, One seventy to one fifty." Wiesnaz turned back to the screen as Charles eyed the potion suspiciously. He plucked the goblet from the air and closing his eyes, he took a long draught, finishing it swiftly. It felt like oatmeal and tasted eerily like it too. He wiped his mouth and felt more aware, his mind became very sharp, an he immediately grasped the logistics of his situation.

He was in a large room, maybe twenty by fifteen meters across. There were twelve beds along three walls; all of them facing the screen where the quidditch match was being shown. There were large windows between all of the beds and one door. There were no bars or locks but there probably were wards and charms. He found his wand on the nightstand. He looked at it queerly. Who would trust him with a wand, especially now that he was in prison? He picked it up and tried a simple spell on the window. It opened, and a warm breeze entered the room. Greatly confused, he glanced at all of the other men in the room, most of them had food and drink. He saw that nearly all of them had their wands in easily accessible places. What kind of prison gives back wands?

A sudden thought struck him. What if they had put limits on the wand? What if certain spells couldn't be done? 'Avada Kadavra!' He spoke while pointing his wand at a nearby pitcher of water. The glass shattered and the water hissed as it splashed all over the floor.

"Hey now! What was the bloody meaning of that!?!?" came a yell from across the room. He recognized the man from the Torturer's Guild of the "organization." He saw that nearly everyone there was from the "organization."

"Oh, sorry, just checking my wand. That's all," Charles said as he slipped it in his waistband. As far as he could figure it, he was in a prison which did nothing but separate him from his master. As he let fatigue worm its way into his brain, he smiled a small smile, and went to sleep.

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            Harry looked over the mist on the water as he had every morning for the past two weeks. He felt like the fog, always there, but separated and formless with the smallest of disturbances. A sharp ringing of a bell momentarily turned his head, he then turned his back to the water and watched a young woman jog by with a dog.         

It made him think of Hedwig. She had just made a trip back from China after making four deliveries there. The sack of Galleons she brought back was enough to sink her if she fell into the ocean. Harry had tossed the money aside as soon as it arrived. It didn't interest him any longer. He was always prudent with his money and quite generous as well, but he no longer cared about it. He no longer cared about a good many things.

            Hedwig was exhausted as expected, and he let her sleep. She would find him soon enough, and she would be broken, but she would still complete the last task he would leave for her.

He looked out from the pier and couldn't even glance at the rolled up parchment as he dropped it to the wooden planks. Because he had been lazy and broke his last quill, he had written it with a pen, and even paid Blind George who hung around the deli to sign it as a witness. He had left a few notes to Hermione and Ron and left his inheritance to the Weasleys. He left a letter of apology to Sirius, and a portion of his savings to aid him. He even took a chance and wrote to Voldemort; a little paragraph conceding his surrender from the pointless struggle.

Harry looked around and marveled at the city around him. He now knew why it was termed the city that never sleeps. The streets were always lit, and there were even people walking around at all hours of the morning. He checked once more to see that no one was watching. He ignored the tugboat as it passed by lethargically against the flow of the river. He tied the rope around his ankle, and picking up the cinderblock, he jumped off the pier. He felt that he wasn't floating, he let go of the block, allowing it to drag him down into the frigid, murky, water.

His mind panicked momentarily, and he began to try to struggle to the surface, however he quickly remembered his purpose and let himself relax. He looked into the pale darkness and listened to the splashing of the water against the pylons of the pier. It was finally his time to pass on into the unknown. It was his chance to know peace.

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            He had to admit it, it was dreadfully boring. He had felt that sitting here and explaining to the headmaster that all this talk about 'you know who' rising again was rubbish would be fun. But he was wrong. He wasn't often wrong. He was Lucius Malfoy and he knew his limits. This was just some fun he conjured up to amuse himself. Threatening the headmaster to keep quite was not an everyday activity. As he let his mind and eyes wander, he caught a glimpse of Shiela Fiertag. She was one of the other governors of Hogwarts, and a nice piece too if he did say so. Maybe he could convince her to meet him later. He needed something to distract himself and she could be a very desirable distraction.

            He glanced over at the old man being interrogated. He was saying this and that about the end of the third task and the boy's account, which Malfoy had to admit, was very detailed and accurate. What a mistake that night was. He noticed that the headmaster kept glancing at him, as if the knowledge that he had powerful friends would humiliate him. Malfoy began comparing himself to the headmaster, who the world simply adored.

            He was an old bat, a crazy one too. He was too kind and too knowledgeable for his liking. He was smart and wise, and he knew how to teach mudbloods how to do a few tricks. He was nothing compared to a Malfoy. He was a loyal servant and a powerful adversary. He had enough notches on his belt to make even Ted Bundy queasy. He only wanted more though. One was of a teenaged boy who ran from home, the other was sitting right in front of him, explaining the dangers of his master having been reborn.

            He saw a flash in the vicinity of one of the old man's fingers. His fingernail was flickering, or was it under the fingernail. It was glowing dimly red for fractions of a second at a time. Malfoy examined the man again. He appeared perfectly calm despite the lightshow on his finger. Malfoy didn't know why, but curiosity was eating at his mind. It had already become an obsession. He needed to know what was going on…

            "Lucius…Lucius? Are we done here?" the governor next to him asked. He saw that he was getting odd glances from his acquaintances.

            "Yes, I apologize, but a sudden thought stole my attention. What have we decided on?" he said very smoothly.

            "Nothing, my dear boy," said the oldest of the governors as he patted Lucius on the back. "We find that your concern was a little hypersensitive, and we plan on doing absolutely nothing. Now, it's nearly time for tea." Lucius watched as everyone around him apparated away. He grabbed his head and nearly pulled out his hair. Something was wrong.

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            He couldn't open his eyes, and it was aggravating him to an extent that he had never reached before. If he did make it to heaven, he wanted to bloody see it, and if he was in hell… well, he'd like to see that too. He could feel his entire body and found that it was intact. A sudden and sharp pain radiated through his chest and he gasped. Air, He was still breathing. The words that were running through his mind would have made Voldemort cringe in fear. It was then that the voices came.

            "Well, what does it show?" said a female voice.

            "I don't see anything out of the ordinary, but that doesn't prove anything. Maybe a little overactive in this region," the second voice said. It had more authority. Harry conveniently labeled that person number two.

            "What region is it?" the first person asked.

            "It seems to be right on the edge of the right motor cortex. He may be slightly paralyzed on his left side. We won't know until he, actually, if he wakes up" number two stated calmly. He must see this a lot. "I must say this is a rare case. I mean, how long did the witness from the tugboat say he was under? Twenty minutes? Your brain begins to die after five, plus it was freezing. Hypothermia alone should have killed him."

            "I thought of it differently. Could the cold water have preserved him, kind of like cryogenics? Did you find any identification? Anything on him?" said number one.

            "I don't know about cryogenics. I mean, twenty minutes is still a long time, I'd say impossible if he wasn't laying here now, in perfect health. As for ID, I think the police said he had nothing on him but sixty dollars and twenty three British pounds. They have it, but no ID," said number two. He sighed as it sounded like he took a seat.

            "British pounds? You think he's from England?" asked number one.

            "I have no idea, but that's my guess. They contacted the authorities over there of course," number two stated.

            "How old do you think he is?" the woman asked. Harry wanted to yell out that he was there, that he was alive, that he should be dead, but his jaw refused to move. His entire body refused to move.

            "Oh, thanks for reminding me. I had no idea. I was going to guess twelve or eleven, but his face looks a lot older. I ordered a bone scan which I have yet to look at." There was a heavy silence. "It says he's between fourteen and sixteen, but there are some oddities in this. Maybe I'll send it to a specialist. It looks like he should be a lot taller. Maybe he's suffering from malnutrition?" number two said in a baffled tone.

            "He's thin, I'll give you that, but he's not that thin. How much taller should he be?" One pressed.

            "We'll, he's about four foot two, when according to this, he should be about five ten, maxing at six foot one when he hits nineteen. He is really far behind schedule. Maybe if he had malnutrition at a young age. I mean, he could, theoretically have be starved his entire life and only found a food source recently. He could have filed out in a couple of days, throwing us off," number two said with the same grasping for possibilities kind of voice.

            "Do you have any more patients to see?" number one asked.

            "No. He's my last for tonight. I told the cop at the door to call immediately if he wakes up so I may be in again before the night is out. I guess I'll start heading home. Good night Gladys," number two said.

            "-Night Doctor" she responded. Harry heard the shuffling of feet and again tried to move. He was unsuccessful but suddenly felt an odd sensation on the inside of his right elbow. It felt like there was tape on the skin, or a sticky glove kind of thing. He groaned silently and swore at himself in his head. He couldn't speak, he couldn't move, he couldn't even open his eyes. Fuck being paralyzed on the left side, he was paralyzed all over. The his and anger caused a headache which quickly spread to many regions of his skull, and he stopped thinking altogether, and just listened. There was breathing near the door as well as the hum of a fridge, a TV, or some sort of other electric device. There was an occasional shuffle of feet as people walked down the hallway past his room. He heard the occasional car or truck drive by outside. He could hear his own breathing, and if he really focused, his own heartbeat which never bloody failed.

            A most terrible thought suddenly occurred to him. What if he was forced to stay like this forever? Blind, immobile, and seemingly deaf from the outside. It would be worse than death. He was on a golden platter for Voldemort, who would in time find him. He tried to shudder, but his body didn't. Finally, out of boredom he let his mind wander.

            He thought about Hermione, and Ron, and Sirius who was still in hiding as the deliberating of the 'finding' of Peter Pettigrew went on behind closed doors. He thought of Dumbledore, and of Moody, with who he'd gotten kind of close. He thought vaguely of the Dursleys and of Ms. Figg who lived down the street. He thought of the Weasleys, of Fred and George wreaking havoc in their last and most spectacular year.

Harry tried to sigh, but the machine breathing for him prevented it. He realized that the pain in his chest was probably broken ribs. Maybe they did CPR on him. His mind shivered as he pictured a man kneeling over him, covering his mouth. To try to redeem the thought, he placed a couple women he had seen in his aunt's magazines treating him.

He suddenly felt pathetic, fantasizing about women he'd never even met, for the sheer purpose of passing the time. He forced himself to stop thinking, and slowly, drifted into sleep.

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            "Wake up, boy!" Harry snapped awake. It was a woman's voice, and its' tone wasn't nearly as demanding as he was used to. His mind woke, but his body was still unresponsive. He felt the coldness on the inside of his elbow again. He found that he had gained some control over his breathing. He was panting from the suddenness of his waking, but the machine was still pumping the air nice and slowly. He heard the shuffling of feet once more. After a few minutes passed the sound of rolling wheels and yelling was heard. Harry breathed heavily in frustration as the noise entered what he assumed was his room. He didn't want a loud person near him.

            "Just tie him down. He can't be allowed to leave. We'll lock him up after he's done here," came a gruff voice from Harry's right, the area near the door. Harry heard a lot of voices and a lot of moving. One person was yelling, screaming, and crying.

            "What did he do?" said the voice of another man. Harry felt he was a doctor, nurse, or something.

            "Jumped into a subway stairwell and landed funny. He was trying to get away after running out of a store with over a thousand dollars worth of electronics," another voice said.

            "Explains the broken leg," entered another voice, this one was female. Screams of "DON'T TOUCH IT!" rang throughout the room. Harry's mind winced at the noise. Why couldn't he be put in a private room? Because they think you don't really care his mind retorted. He held his breath despite the machine's continuous pumping. He tried to suffocate himself, or at least knock himself out, but his lungs always collapsed before he could get to that point.

            "Hey, what's junior in here for? And how in the hell can he sleep through this?" said one of the men from before.

            "He's in a coma, and he's not to be arrested. He tossed himself off a pier tied to a block of concrete," said the woman. Harry had heard her voice in the hallway before and assumed she was a nurse.

            "You sure he tossed himself? That's what you do when you want someone gone and you don't want nobody to find them. You sink em so they disappear. What witness said he did it to himself?" the man asked. Harry was really getting annoyed with everyone talking about him like he wasn't even there.

            "The witness was a guy on a tugboat passing by the pier. He called it in on the radio as it happened. Poor kid was under for a while. We don't know if he'll ever wake up. The guy swore the kid was alone, but then again, he did say that it was really foggy," the woman said.

            "You seem to know a lot about what happened," the man said suspiciously. Harry was beginning to think he was a cop.

            "We all do. He police officer interviewed the guy right in the lobby. We were all curious and had a listen at the door," the woman responded. "I have rounds to make. The man you leave at the door will tell you if anything happens." Harry listened and could barely hear the soft patter of feet leaving the room over the shuffling and creaking of the bed to the left of him.

            After a few minutes, Harry was glad to hear that his room was empty of everyone but the thief, who was panting heavily and struggling against whatever was holding him down. Harry decided to take the opportunity to go down the checklist. He had created it for the sole purpose of wasting time. He started and tuned out everything going on around him.

            Feeling:

            Right pinky finger. Check.

            Right ring finger. Check.

            Right middle finger. Check.

            Right pointer finger. Check.

            Right thumb. Check.

            Right hand. Check.

            Right forearm. Check.

            Right upper arm. Check, with slight pressure limiting circulation to fingers.

            Right shoulder. Check.

            Neck. Check, aching from remaining in same position for days.

            Back. Check, aching from lying down for so long.

            Lower back. Check.

            Left shoulder. Check, however not in comfortable position.

            Left upper arm. Check.

            Left forearm. Check, laying across lump in mattress.

            Left hand. Check.

            Left thumb. Check, warmer than usual.

            Left pointer finger. Check, warmer than usual.

            Left middle finger. Check, warmer than usual.

            Left ring finger. Check, warmer than usual.

            Left pinky finger. Check, warmer than usual.

            Chest. Check, painful breathing, suspected broken ribs, cause unknown…

            Harry continued his checklist until he got to the responsiveness part. He got very excited when he swore he felt his left pointer finger brush against his left middle finger, but he was unable to reproduce the effect. He discovered his total control over breathing despite the machine and his inability to open his mouth. He thought he may have made a noise and kept doing it until he was sure he was making the slightest noise with his voice. It was like humming one note but it was all he could do. He couldn't express his happiness at being able to make a noise and kept practicing his breathing. He passed two more days like that until one morning he felt a sudden lurch on his bed. He realized quickly that he was being wheeled around. He was turned left, then right, and soon after he stopped. He heard the sound of doors opening. Then forward. Than a sharp right, maybe turned around. He felt a soft jolt downwards, like he was going up on a lift. He heard the same doors again. He was pushed forward, then left, then right, another right. He was stopped.

            "Is it ready?" asked the man who had been pushing Harry. A reply of, "yeah," came faintly…as if it was said from another room. Harry felt an arm go under his knees and one behind his back. He wanted to resist being carried like a helpless child, but he was unsuccessful. He was placed on another kind of bed which was harder and less comfortable. A pillow was placed securely under his head. And he heard his bed rolling away. Maybe they moved him into a new room. Then he heard a door close and a few beeps. His bed began moving very slowly, but enough for him to notice. He waited as it moved towards the direction of his head. Then it stopped. And after a short period, it moved back going in the direction his feet were moving. He couldn't figure out what he was hearing during this whole thing. It was a deep kind of vibration, which vaguely resembled a machine of some sort. He couldn't figure it out, but soon enough the bed stopped moving, and the sound died.

            He heard the door open and he was lifted, and to his great pleasure, returned to his original bed. He was then wheeled out of the room and went back to judging turns until he got back to what he felt had to be the lift. The sound of doors opening was convenient and he was wheeled around a bit until he came to a stop.

            He noticed that he had been listening to a lot of noises he had previously ignored and wondered if they had increased his sensitivity to sound, and touch for that matter. He had heard that blind people could hear better than regular people, however he never understood how they could know they were hearing better than they had. Could it just have been that they heard better out of boredom and a lack of distraction? Harry slowed his breathing and let his thoughts wander, remembering colors so that they would flash in front of his eyes, as he tried to visualize what was going on around him. As his mind began to find its path into the dark recesses of sleep, a twitch of pain on his forehead awoke his mind to a new adventure.

I hope you all liked this chapter. Tell me how you feel about it, and leave a review. I am so sorry this took so long. There were complications, and editing, and a lot of other stuff. I apologize, and hope you can forgive me. Tell me what you think about this chapter, and the story. I await your opinions and hopes for the story. A HUGE thank you to all of my reviewers. There are too many to name, but I appreciate all of your thoughts and feelings, and I hope to read more comments from you. Have a wonderful day.