'Treachery, treachery I fear.'

—Éomer, J.R.R. Tolkien's The Return of the King


III.
The Road to Disaster

"The pictures are moving!"

If his life was a Muggle movie, the entire world would have stopped just then. The rain would hang like diamonds in the air, thunder would echo interminably, and a fly (miraculously exempt from the universal freeze) would zoom into Evangeline MacTavish's gaping mouth.

His life, however, was decidedly stranger than a Muggle movie. The rain kept falling and no freeze-defying insect appeared, though the thunder did continue to grumble through Little Whinging. Rather, Harry was frozen. Try as he might, he was as inert as he had been less than a month ago, when Dumbledore (something twinged inside him) cast an Immobulus charm at him. The results of this motionlessness looked to be just as disastrous as the results of that one had been, too.

"Daily Prophet, Premier Newspaper of the Wizarding World Since 962 AD," she read. "Another Controversial Choice by Scrimgeour: Weasley Made Chief Muggle Liaison. This—wow! Muggle." She grinned, savoring the flavor of the strange word on her tongue. She looked up, meeting Harry's eyes. "This is wi—Harry?"

And he unfroze. In seconds, he was standing over her, taking full advantage of his newly cultivated Look and the fact that she was barely more than five foot. "Angie," he said. "Give me the paper."

"Just a sec, Harry—this is so wicked—"

"Angie!" His voice crept up a few decibel levels. "Hand me the paper!" He made a grab for it, but she turned, placing her body between his hands and the Prophet, her lips moving silently as she read. Harry could see the picture over her shoulder—Scrimgeour, a dour expression on his face, was congratulating a grinning Arthur Weasley. "Evangeline!"

"Hold on," she said, holding up one finger to forestall him. Harry growled, infuriated, and lunged for the paper. "Wait, no-oooh!"

The protest transformed into a shriek as Angie attempted to dodge Harry's grasping hands and instead found only a slick patch of wood. Her feet shot out from under her, and as Harry watched she slipped the few inches to the edge of the top stair. He pounced forward to grab her, but Angie was faster than he was; her free hand swept through the air and latched onto the first thing it hit—Harry's sweatshirt. His curse joined her startled shriek as they toppled down the three stairs, landing hard on the wet concrete below.

"Shit," Harry hissed, rolling over and clutching at his wrist, which had been trapped at a strange angle between his body and the sidewalk. He ground his teeth, levering himself to his knees with one elbow. The treacherous newspaper was only a few feet away—he lurched forward and grabbed it, stuffing it hastily into the pocket of his sweatshirt.

As he rose to his feet, he heard a low moan behind him. A chill (far more familiar than he would have liked) tickled up his spine, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. He whirled.

Angie lay still on the sidewalk, rain splattering on her pale face. Her eyebrows were scrunched together in pain.

"Evangeline?" he asked, his voice hesitant. "Angie? Are you all right?"

She tried to lift her head, but paled visibly in the attempt and let it fall back to its previous position. An agonized moan emanated from her throat, and Harry chewed his lip, kneeling beside her. Not another one—Merlin, I'm so sorry! Bugger the stupid newspaper! The first Muggle who's had a kind word for me in sixteen years, and I bloody kill her! "Angie? Can you hear me? What hurts? Who's the PM? Can you count backwards from ten? How many fing—"

One hand shot up and grasped his, which he had been holding in front of her face. "Harry?"

Relief poured through him like butterbeer. "Yeah?"

"Shut it and help me up. I think... I think I hit my head. Oh, and 'Tony Blair,' 'ten-nine-eight-seven-six-five-four-three-two-one,' and 'two.' I think."

"Close enough," Harry said with a strained smile. It was close—but not as close as he'd like. Double vision was a bad thing. Was half vision worse? He extended his hand to her, and she weakly wrapped her own fingers around his. He could barely feel her grip. That won't do. He released her hand, bent over, and slid his hands under her waist.

"What—" Before she could complete the protest, he'd bodily lifted her and set her back on her feet. She swayed for a moment, leaning gratefully against him. "Thanks, kid. I—yeah, thanks." She shook her head, looking confused, and then winced. "Ow."

Harry cringed. "Shit, Angie. I'm so sorry—I shouldn't've—"

"Hey kid?"

"Yeah?"

"Stuff it." Wobbling, she pushed herself away from him and took a few steps backwards down the path. She seemed to strengthen even as he watched, to the point where she was able to grin crookedly at him, despite her paleness. "You know, it was good to see you again. Maybe we can do it again some time? Without the whole falling thing, of course."

"Of course." Something cold and slightly nauseating writhed within him; methodically, he quashed the feelings of guilt. She was fine, wasn't she? She was—

He gasped as she turned her back to him. A carmine stain dripped steadily onto her shirt from her wet hair. "Merlin!" he said, running towards her in time to catch her by the elbow as her knees gave way.

"Woo," she said with a dizzy smile. "The Earth's a little unsteady these days, eh?"

Harry couldn't respond, just helped her sit carefully. "Stay there for a second, okay?"

"Mmm? Sure."

He sprinted back to the pavilion and grabbed his bag, berating himself and apologizing the whole way. "I'm really, really, really, really sorry about this, Angie—I mean, I can't—can't excuse myself for being so incredibly stupid and childish and stupid and—"

"Harry, darling, you're babbling," she said as he returned to where she sat in the pouring rain, hands pressed against the sidewalk in an attempt to not fall over. "It's cute and all, but you should really—hey!"

He had pulled her to her feet and wrapped one arm around her waist as she protested. "You're bleeding, and probably concussed," he said. "The least I can do is make sure you get home safely."

"Bleeding!" she exclaimed, and felt at the back of her head. She sucked in her breath in an agonized hiss as her fingers brushed against the wound. "Shit. Is it bad?"

"Um. I don't think so. Head wounds always bleed a lot, don't they?" he asked as they started down the path, Angie leaning heavily against him. Harry tried not to think of the pain in his sore wrist as he held onto the bag's strap, unwilling to let either of his burdens fall. "We should have someone look at it, though."

"Mmm. Dad's the football coach at Stonewall... he knows some first aid."

"Perfect," Harry said, even though it was as far from as could be. A venomous bubble of fear formed within his chest, squeezing the air out of his lungs and obstructing the necessary blood flow to his brain. Try as he might, he just could not think coherently. Grimacing, he ran over the facts again as they made their way back towards Privet Drive, where she also lived.

One: she knew.

Two: despite his assuaging words and tone, the amount of blood congealing in her dark hair was beginning to alarm him, as was the fact that she couldn't seem to keep her balance without wrapping her arms as tightly around his waist as she could.

Three: he had completely bollixed everything up.

His plan, before their unanticipated trip out of the pavilion, had been to get the Prophet back, obliviate Angie, and then be on his merry old way. Sure, Memory Charms were dangerous things to play around with—but Harry's Charms essay, completed just the night before, had dealt with the niceties of charms that affected the brain's chemistry, so he was (relatively) certain that he could pull off a small one with no ill effects.

However, he was now positive that she had a concussion, and he wasn't stupid enough to obliviate anyone in that sort of condition. Merlin only knew what sort of damage—possibly permanent—a Memory Charm could do to her in this state! No, his only hope now was to try to convince her that what she thought was a moving picture was really just a trick of the light, and that the words 'Muggle' and 'wizard' had just popped into her thoughts unexpectedly after her head was so rudely introduced to the sidewalk.

Well, one thing was certain. Any hopes that Harry had previously entertained about finding a Muggle ally in Angie—Merlin knew it would be more than a relief to have someone civil to talk to while trapped in this hellhole—were completely demolished. He only prayed that the reason behind his lack of companionship would be that she decided she hated him, not that she was... permanently incapacitated.

Great. Just bloody brilliant, Harry. The one friendly face I have in this godforsaken world, and she'll never want to see me again. That, or she'll only want to learn more about the freak. I should've just stuck with St. Brutus'—would've done me as much good, he thought miserably.

Angie staggered, gripping his waist again to right herself, and whimpered. It pulled him from his self-pitying soliloquy, and he clung to her as well. She was as much his anchor at that moment as he was hers, and something inside of him switched abruptly and irretrievably at that realization. He didn't know what it was, and that scared the hell out of him, but he knew that it could never go back to the way it was before (however that had been). The warmth at his side and the pain in his wrist told him as much.

"Harry," she mumbled. "Turn here. 'S my house."

He paused, looking up at the freshly-painted façade of Number Twelve, Privet Drive. Somehow, it managed to look cheery and welcoming even in this dismal weather. Maybe it was the stained glass accents around the edges of all the windows. Maybe it was the bright red geraniums in the window boxes. Or perhaps it was the yellow light spilling out through the windows, along with the distant roar of a televised football match. Whichever it was, he moved with renewed vigor up the path, half-dragging Angie along at his side.

Harry lifted one hand to press the doorbell, but was distracted as Angie's head fell heavily against his shoulder. He looked down, and something cold rose in his throat. He shook her. "Angie!" he barked, his voice sharp. "Stay bloody awake!"

"No need to swear, I'm up," she said with a small, groggy smile.

"Stay that way, damnit. And I'll swear all I bloody want."

She laughed a little as he raised his hand again. "Don't bother, Harry. Jus' go on in."

Harry obligingly opened the screen door, turning so that the bulk of his body would prevent it from closing on Angie. He pushed the heavier, dark blue door open, and kept one hand on Angie's back so that he could catch her if she started to stumble again. Soon they were both inside, though Harry had a little trouble when the strap of his shoulder bag decided to tangle itself around the screen door's handle. He dropped it onto the floor as soon as both of the doors were closed behind them, shutting out the dull roar of the storm.

"Is that you, Ange?" came a boy's voice from the same direction as the now exponentially louder match. "Ange?"

"'S me, Ian," she called, her voice a little uneven. Harry frowned as she moved slowly over to a nearby, straight-backed chair and sat down, her face still twisted in a pale expression of pain.

"Ian," he called, surprised by how deep and authoritative his voice sounded at that moment. A boy, perhaps only a year or so younger than Harry himself, poked his head out of the living room, a perplexed expression on his face. "Get your dad."

"Angie, what happened?" Ian demanded, ignoring Harry as soon as he caught sight of his bloody, disoriented sister. "What did he do to you?"

Harry scowled at the unfairness of this statement, but Angie just gave Ian a little smile. "Didn't do anything, Ian," she said, referring to Harry. "Go get Dad, wouldja?"

Ian nodded and disappeared, bellowing for his father—but not before shooting Harry the granddaddy of all evil looks.

Harry opened his mouth to ask Angie how she felt, but before he had the chance to speak, two pairs of heavy feet thumping down the stairs. He looked up abruptly; behind Ian ran a tall, wiry man with Angie's coloring. "Bloody hell," he swore when he saw his daughter. Without noticing the drenched boy standing ambivalently in the doorway, he escorted Angie into the kitchen; Harry tagged along behind Ian, anxious to know how she was. "What happened, Ian? She's soaked!"

"I dunno, Dad," Ian said, his brows knit with worry as he hovered over the pair. Mr. MacTavish had guided his daughter to a chair by the kitchen table, and was parting the hair on the back of her head to expose the wound. Harry looked away, unable to stomach the sight. "I just heard the door open, and there she was! Then that bloke with her tol—"

"Bloke?" Mr. MacTavish snarled. Harry was forcibly reminded of Ron's reaction when he learned that Ginny was going out with Michael Corner. "Bloke? What bloke?"

It suddenly occurred to Harry that leaving earlier probably would have been the smartest course of action. Mr. MacTavish was fuming. "Er... me, sir," he said, now doubly grateful for the fact that his voice no longer belonged to a boy.

If Ian's glower was enough to give Harry a high fever, then Mr. MacTavish's should have rightly put Harry six feet below. "What happened?" he snapped.

"We—we ran into each at the pavilion in the park. It started to rain; I guess we both wanted some... some shelter..." he said, his voice growing steadily smaller as he spoke. How do I continue without having Mr. MacTavish call either the police or the mental hospital? he wondered with a brief stab of fear.

"I slipped on the stairs."

Harry's eyebrows rose so high that they disappeared beneath his unruly, sopping fringe. He looked to Angie and released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Her own brows her knotted, as though she was trying very hard to focus on something. That intense pale gaze was fixed firmly on his face.

"Harry tried to catch me, but—but we both fell. I hit my head on the sidewalk. He helped me home. So be nice, Ian," she added with a growl.

Harry looked over in the younger boy's direction to see another set of pale, black-ringed eyes fixed on him, but with a considerably darker emotion behind them.

"I think she has a concussion," Harry said, turning his gaze back to Angie, who was smiling very faintly at him. He couldn't believe that she was covering for him. Had she forgotten? Bad concussions could lead to amnesia, couldn't they?

"She does," Mr. MacTavish agreed. His voice was still rather cool, but had at least lost the majority of its hostility. "The cut's not deep though. Just a scrape. Ian, go get the Tylenol and the iodine solution, would you? You, boy," the older man said, glancing sidelong at Harry. "Pour a glass of water."

Once he had done this, he lingered anxiously in the corner of the kitchen, unwilling to intrude on the family's crisis, but disinclined to leave until he knew that Angie would be better. He was very, very cold without the warmth of her body pressed up against his side.

Footsteps pounded back down the stairs, and a moment later Ian skidded into the kitchen, nearly slipping in some of the water that Harry and Angie had tracked in. Harry winced as Ian righted himself and passed the pills and bottle to his father. "Here, take this, baby," Mr. MacTavish crooned, offering a dose of the former to his daughter.

Harry looked away again as Mr. MacTavish carefully applied iodine to the scrape, but couldn't block out Angie's pained whimper. Instead, he set about looking for a cloth. He found a suitable one—it looked a little ratty, like it was used for the most menial of jobs—hanging from a magnetic hook on the front of the dishwasher. He took it up and, avoiding Ian's curious gaze, headed towards the doorway, dropped to his knees, and started scrubbing. Water trickled from his hair and trailed over his face, pooling on his forehead where it dripped to the floor. He wiped it from his face with the back of his hand, and resumed viciously scouring the linoleum.

"Ian, make sure she gets upstairs safely. She needs to change out of these wet things. And keep her awake."

"I'm not going to fall asleep, Dad," Angie said with her ubiquitous small smile. The way her eyelids drooped heavily belied her assuring words.

"Watch her," Mr. MacTavish repeated after a moment. Harry scooted to the side to allow Ian and his sister to pass, but didn't look up. In fact, he didn't stop scrubbing, either. The rag was now soaked and was doing a poor job of mopping up the puddles. "You."

Harry froze. Mr. MacTavish could only be speaking to him; Angie and Ian were already making the treacherous trek up the stairs. Swallowing hard, he rose slowly to his feet, meeting Mr. MacTavish's eyes. They were dark—almost black, in fact. While his children had clearly inherited his dark hair and delicate complexion, they must have their late mother's eyes. "Yes, sir?"

"Come here. You're bleeding."

Harry looked down in surprise, and saw that he was indeed bleeding. The new skin formed by the percuro charm had been completely scraped away on his left hand, and the abrasion continued down his wrist and halfway to his elbow. It wasn't too painful, but it was slowly oozing crimson. Obediently, he sat down in the seat that Angie had recently absented, and held his arm out.

"You look familiar," Mr. MacTavish said, wiping the blood away with surprising gentleness. "Do you live around here?"

"Yeah. I live with the Dursleys." He bit back a yelp as, while applying the iodine, Mr. MacTavish's hand jerked, brushing against the grazed area harder than necessary. He looked up to find the man's eyes fixed on his face, his jaw slackened ever so slightly. "Er... sir?"

"Harry Potter?"

He winced. Of course Mr. MacTavish would be shocked. After all, his daughter had been saved—yeah, right—by one of the community's most notorious and disliked members, that juvenile delinquent who had been sent to St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys. "Yes, sir," he acknowledged glumly.

Harry's frown transmogrified into a flabbergasted expression as Mr. MacTavish's dark eyes slid smoothly from the boy's face to the place where, hidden beneath the wet tendrils of black hair, a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt lay.