A/N: Sorry this took a bit longer than usual. It probably won't happen again.

Lost: One Godson, Answers to Harry

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Harry remembered the last moments most clearly. Even through the turmoil around him, as the Aurors Apparated around the Great Hall, as the Death Eaters panicked and fled, Lupin trying to drag him to safety, screams, shouts, spells in all directions – the last moments, he could still see in his mind.

Sirius' face, as his Godfather appeared, fighting to reach him. Lupin, struck down by something, and then an arm that clung like a claw had wrapped around Harry's shoulders. There was the briefest instant where Harry still thought Sirius would reach him in time, and he struggled, scratching at the Death Eater's face, waiting for his Godfather to curse the villain – and then the horrible sensation as if he was being sucked through a rubber tube, and it was all gone.

Those last moments he remembered perfectly. It was the next few weeks that were distant, blurred. He was tied hand and foot, gagged and blindfolded, lying in a room that was dark and cold. Every part of his body ached. Sometimes someone would come in and bring food, and hungry, he would eat it, but there were drugs or potions or something in the food, that made him stupid and knocked him out quickly. He would sleep and not know if he had slept for an hour, or a week. There was only the darkness of the room and the aches in his arms and legs. There was only the indistinguishable voices through the wall and the silhouettes of the people who came to feed him. There was nothing.

He would not have known how long this had gone on for, except that then, one night, he felt the familiar tingling on his face and down his back.

"Full moon," he whispered to himself – because there was no one else to talk to – and he strained against the ropes binding him. His bones stretched and twisted, but he welcomed the change, hurried it on, and at last, the ropes snapped.

When morning came, he found he was more awake than he had been since he had come to this place. He found his glasses discarded in the corner, miraculously unbroken, and tried to come to terms with the possibility that this was how he would live the rest of his life. No – he would not stay here. With the blindfold gone, he had reclaimed his sight: with the drugs purged, his senses: and he still had his alertness. He would find a way out. He had heard cars going past, which meant he was still in a muggle neighbourhood. If he could escape the house, then he could call the muggle police. He just had to get past the Death Eaters.

As a werewolf, he had ripped apart everything in the room, including a spindly chair he hadn't even realised was there. He found one of the legs of the chair, torn completely off, and a tile smashed from the boarded-up fireplace. With the broken edge of the tile he tried to sharpen the end of the wood to make a weapon of sorts, but the wood just splintered. Frustrated, wanting to do something that would leave a mark, he scratched his initials into the flat side. The two letters, HP, seemed to glow in the dim light, lending him strength.

He heard voices on the other side of the door. He readied himself to attack, to force his way past to the freedom that was only a few walls away.

But when the door opened and he tried to fight, it was futile. A single stunning spell subdued him, and when he awoke, it was far away, alone, and imprisoned beyond all hope of escape.

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The room he found himself in was lit by a charmed oil lamp they never went out. It had to be illuminated by magic, because the curtains pulled across the window could not be parted. Desperate for a taste of fresh sunlight, this was the first thing Harry tried to do when he awoke in the strange room; open the curtains. But no matter how he wrestled with them, tugged at their corners, even tried to unclasp them from the curtain rail, they were stuck to the window as firmly as the carpet to the floor.

The door was locked, of course. The room was devoid of anything that could be used as a weapon. The double bed was large and so ancient it seemed in danger of collapsing into dust when he touched it. Indeed, dust rose in a fine mist from the sheets when he threw himself down on it after his wrestle with the curtains, and the pillows smelled of mould and mildew.

There was a bathroom off to the side, with no door to separate it from the bedroom. Even the mirror had been taken down in the bathroom, presumably so that Harry could not smash it and use the shards to cause any damage. There was a large bath, with ancient silver taps, but the taps only ran cold water, and there was no soap, no cloths, and only one threadbare towel, plus a pile of spare socks and underwear. But there was, at least, a small metal cup for Harry to drink from and a new toothbrush, though no toothpaste.

The first time the door opened Harry nearly jumped out of his skin from fright. The man who came in was short and balding, and he hunched so that he looked even shorter. His pointed nose twitched when he spoke, and he wore a wizard's robes that were dirty and frayed. He looked very familiar, like someone Harry had known many years ago.

He brought Harry a tray of food and told him he was allowed anywhere in the top storey of the house, where his room was located, but that he was barred from going downstairs.

"Who are you?" Harry demanded.

The man shook his head and backed out of the room.

As soon as the man had gone, Harry wolfed down the food to ease the pangs of hunger in his stomach. The meal was nothing more than cold buttered toast, thick and chewy as a plank of wood, a bowl of canned tomato soup – lukewarm – and a steaming pile of cabbage that had been cooked so long most of the colour was gone from it. The food was not very appetising but Harry was so hungry he didn't notice. Once it was gone, he set off to explore his new domain.

The first thing he did, of course, when he found the stairwell was try to go down it. But as he raised his foot to lower it onto the topmost stair, there was a flash of purple light and he was shoved backwards by some invisible hand. He staggered, then caught his balance, glancing around in fright. There was nothing in sight. Cautiously, he stretched out his arm and touched the air above the topmost stair. Again, the flash of purple and some resistance met the tips of his fingers. It was as if there was a giant rubber seal completely surrounding the stairwell. Despite the discomfort of the blinding purple flashes, he tested the barrier all around to see if there were any gaps in it. But it extended from the ceiling to the floor, and right across the banister, from wall to wall on either side of the stairwell.

So, no escape that way.

The rest of the uppermost storey was unremarkable. Everything was lit by the tiny charmed oil lamps which rested on the floor every few feet, burning eternally without dimming in the slightest. There was, to his relief, a small study in which the walls were lined with bookshelves, filled with ancient, mouldering tomes. So at least he would not die of boredom. There were two more rooms, both completely bare and emptied of furniture, their floors thick with dust, that he assumed were spare bedrooms.

At the end of the corridor the hall opened out into what might, once, have been a sunroom. There was no sun here now. There were several large pots filled with dirt, but the plants in them had long since died and rotted to nothing. Like in his bedroom, heavy curtains were drawn over the windows, which could not be opened no matter how much he struggled with them.

He went back and tried all the curtains in all the rooms, with the same result. He wondered if they might be cut, but of course he did not have a knife or anything sharp at all. On the other hand, maybe they would burn. He tried to open one of the oil lamps but they did not seem to open. He was pleased to find a knob on the side of the lamp that turned it off and on by magic. At least he had that much control over his surroundings. He went and turned off all the lamps in all the rooms. The curtains might as well have been made of lead for all the light that they let into the house, but there was a faint light coming up the stairwell. He guessed that there were more lamps downstairs, but he could not reach them.

He took one of the oil lamps to light his way, and then shut himself into the study to think about what to do. He did not have a wand, or any weapons, or indeed any tools at all. He had to assume that the man who had brought him his meals was a Death Eater, which meant he was a wizard, which meant that Harry might be able to attack him and take his wand. But that would do him no good if he was still stuck in this house. Besides, there were probably more Death Eaters downstairs, and he could not fight them all.

However, Harry was certain of one thing. Sooner or later, Sirius would come to get him. There was not a flicker of doubt in his mind about this. His Godfather would not stop until he had reclaimed Harry, no matter how many Death Eaters he had to fight along the way. He had been an Auror, after all, and he would probably be working with Dumbledore. Harry still felt a little uneasy about Dumbledore, but Moony trusted the Headmaster, and Dumbledore had said he didn't want Harry hurt.

Sirius probably knew where he was right now, and was just waiting for the opportunity to attack the house and bring Harry home. All Harry had to do was wait, and in the meantime, learn everything he could about his prison and his guards, whoever they might be.

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Days passed, but apart from his own body clock telling him to go to sleep, Harry had no way to tell when it was day and when it was night. He wanted to mark time somehow, so he took the blunt end of the toothbrush and in the corner of the room, he scraped at the dry, half-rotted wallpaper until he could peel off a sliver. This left a long mark in the wallpaper with the plaster showing through underneath, and every time the watery-eyed man brought him a meal, Harry made another mark. He thought there might be two meals a day, and this was how he counted the days, one for every two marks.

He was beginning to wonder whether there was anyone in the house apart from himself and the strange, watery-eyed man. He never saw any other person, nor did he ever hear voices from downstairs, though perhaps sound could not penetrate through the barrier on the stairwell. Harry did not know if it was good news or bad news if there was only one man guarding him. After all, that meant only a single person to overcome if he wanted to escape, but on the other hand, it also meant that that Death Eaters were confident that magical barriers alone were going to prevent him from leaving the house. Which meant there must be some very formidable methods in place to keep him imprisoned. Harry began to wonder if it was magic that was keeping Sirius from finding him.

Then, when he had been in the house for about two weeks, the man brought him not only his usual food but a goblet filled with a hot, smoking liquid. The man set down the meal and then held out the goblet.

"You have to drink this."

Harry was curled against the end of the bed, reading one of the books from the study. He stared at the still-smoking cup. "I'm not touching that," he said. It was the first time he had spoken in days, and his voice was rough from disuse. The man twitched a little and stepped forward.

"You have to drink it, or I'll…I'll curse you," he insisted, and then he reached into his robes and drew out a wand.

Harry's heart leapt in his chest and began beating frantically. If he could only get his hands on that wand, he might be able to break through the enchanted barrier on the stairs and escape the house… surely it would so easy…

But the man would be expecting something like that. Harry feigned a look of fright, trying to seem submissive and obedient. He had to make the man let his guard down, gain his confidence. Then perhaps he would have a chance. Hoping against hope that he wasn't about to do something abysmally foolish, Harry stood up and took the goblet. He did not need to fake the reluctance on his face as he looked into the smoking liquid, which was a dark topaz colour. He drained the potion as quickly as he could.

He knew the taste as once, even though he had forgotten it for so many years. Sirius had given it to him to drink, when he was four years old and they had just fled St Mungo's hospital, homeless and desperate. It was Wolfsbane.

He threw the empty goblet down and turned away. He was breathing very hard: the potion had stirred up memories of Sirius, of Harry's childhood, of their lives back then. He felt a rush of miserable homesickness and self-pity. He wanted to see his Godfather again. He wanted to see his smile and know that when Sirius was nearby, he was safe, like when he was just a little child and life had been difficult, but uncomplicated.

The man picked up the goblet and left, stowing his wand back into his robes.

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It was the day of the full moon. Harry felt the tingling as soon as he woke up, but he was sure there had been a mistake. He counted the marks he had made in the wallpaper, and found there were fifty-two – but that only made twenty-six days since his last transformation! How could it be a full moon already?

He must have missed a couple of days, when he had been brought from the first dwelling to the new house. That must be it. Trying not to wonder how easy it was to lose two days out of your life, Harry put his mind to what he would be doing when he transformed tonight. He had been given the Wolfsbane potion every night, but he'd never before been under its influence during the full moon. He didn't know what it would feel like, having his normal human mind but the body of a wolf.

However, he would have to make the most of it. With claws and teeth, he would probably be able to slash the curtains in his room, pull them right down. Maybe smash the window. He might even be able to find a way through the barrier on the stairs, since he would be much stronger. Obviously the man was hoping that the Wolfsbane potion would subdue Harry – but maybe he didn't know about werewolves. Harry was not going to let himself be subdued.

He barely left the bedroom, nervously awaiting nightfall, which he could not see but felt the arrival of. It was very strange to think that he would actually be doing something useful as a werewolf. His whole life, he had dreaded the waning moon every month, and treated it as something to be fearful of. Now, he anticipated it eagerly.

The man brought his meal as usual. It was still watery soup, steamed vegetables and lumpy bread, but Harry didn't even notice the tasteless food tonight. At last, he was sure it was only half an hour before sunset, and he began to pace the floor. How much of his mind would be truly human? Would it be just the madness that was driven out, or would he be totally normal? He had no idea.

And then he heard the door open and looked up just as the watery-eyed man entered, pointing his wand at Harry, who had no chance to dodge as a spell struck him and he felt his arms and legs go rigid. He toppled over and his glasses fell off his face. He couldn't see anything but a blurry shape as the watery-eyed man approached. He tried to shout, but all his muscles were locked up. He couldn't move an inch.

He felt himself lifted into the air and the ceiling floated past as he was hovered across the room. Without his glasses, and unable to turn his head, he couldn't see what the man did as they passed through the barrier over the stairwell. But he felt the angle of his body change as he was floated down several flights of stairs, through the hall, and then down another set of straight stairs into darkness.

His body was still frozen when he heard the clinking of chains and the wheezing of the approaching man, who locked a set of manacles securely around Harry's wrists and ankles. Harry did everything he could to struggle but the spell was still in effect and he couldn't even make a noise in protest. At last, the man tugged the chains to make sure they were secure and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

Harry felt his muscles relax. Either the man had removed the freezing charm, or it had worn off. He sat up cautiously, completely blind in the pitch blackness. He gave a frustrated growl as he pulled at the chains hopelessly. Then the growl change in pitch as the transformation began.

It was the strangest night Harry had ever had. His human mind wasn't used to the uncomfortable wolf body, and it took some practise before he could even stand up without falling over. The chains binding him were made of silver and they bit into him, but they seemed to have moulded to the shape of his limbs and he couldn't shake them off. In the end, infuriated that he had been trapped, he simply lay and howled until his throat was beginning to ache. If he was going to be stuck down here all night, he could at least make sure that the watery-eyed man did not get a wink of sleep.

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Harry awoke to the sound of a lock clicking. He raised his head and saw two figures silhouetted by the rectangle of light that was the door. Finding himself human once more, he rubbed his eyes as they adjusted to the sudden brightness, remembering that his glasses were still upstairs somewhere. Then he heard a whispered incantation and the silver manacles snapped open and fell off him.

Harry was on his feet in a moment. Unable to see his opposition clearly he stumbled backwards, pressing himself against the wall, snarling as if he was still a wolf. There were two people here. He could make out the hunched shape of the watery-eyed man, but there was a second figure, very tall and thin. That was the one who had unlocked his chains.

"How spirited he is," said the tall figure in a voice that was high and cruel. Harry gritted his teeth as if the voice had screamed its words. It sounded so familiar. He had heard it before, long ago. It spoke again. "The transformation has done no damage, I see. You are keeping him healthy."

"I-I do everything I can, my lord," the hunched figure whispered.

"That is good, Wormtail," the high voice said. "Do not let your standards slip."

Harry saw a whirling cloak and then the figure disappeared upstairs. His head was spinning. Wormtail…Wormtail… he knew that name, just as he knew the cold, high voice. He remembered them from the distant times when his parents had been alive, before everything had fallen apart. But he had no time to brood on it further. He tried to duck under a spell that flew from the hunched figure's wand, but the freezing charm hit him and he was floated back upstairs into the bedroom.

Once he was able to move again, he found was alone and the door was locked. He fumbled around on the floor until he found his glasses and put them on. Then he curled up on the bed, his brain thumping in his skull, trying to control his overwhelming horror.

Wormtail…

Sirius had told him what Peter Pettigrew had done, had explained everything to him.

Wormtail…

And all this time, that man had been in the house with him. Harry only vaguely knew Peter Pettigrew from when he had been a child. His memory of the man was blurred, unrecognisable. But still, he should have known him, should have recognised the traitor. Harry could have screamed at his own foolishness, but he clamped his jaw shut.

About an hour later, Wormtail came back and unlocked the door to the upstairs bedroom, looking more nervous than ever, his eyes flickering from side to side. He was carrying a tray of soggy wheat biscuits in milk, and a wrinkled orange. He turned his head, confused to see that his charge was not sitting on the mildewed bed or reading by the windowsill.

Harry had been waiting beside the door, and he came out of nowhere. The tray of breakfast flew through the air as he knocked it out of Wormtail's hands, milk splattering across the floor. The boy slammed into Wormtail, propelling him out of the door and into the hallway where they both tumbled backwards onto the threadbare carpet.

Wormtail yelled in panic as the child's fists pummelled him, brutally and unceasingly. But he was larger and heavier than Harry and he managed to throw him off and stagger to his feet. He reached into his robes and pulled out his wand as Harry scrambled up and resumed his assault.

"Get back!" Wormtail cried, "C-crucio!"

Harry fell, his head striking the carpeted floor as his mouth opening in a scream. His back arched as he twisted. His yells echoed down the hallway. Wormtail lowered the wand and the boy went limp. A small sob left Harry's throat, and, trembling, he pulled himself upright, clinging to the doorway of the bedroom for support. But as he raised his eyes, Wormtail stepped back. Harry was looking at him with such hate it almost blistered him.

"You killed them," he spat, his shoulders shuddering. He bared his teeth as he spoke. "My mother, my father – your friends! You sold them to Voldemort!"

Wormtail flinched. Harry had even surprised himself. Like most wizards, he had been taught from an early age never to say the Dark Lord's name aloud.

"Get back into your room," Wormtail mumbled. He flicked his wand and Harry felt himself pushed backwards through the doorway. The door slammed shut and he heard the click of the lock.

He threw himself futilely against the door. He could hear Wormtail's footsteps going down the stairs and shouted some curses after him, beating at the door with his fists. But Wormtail was far gone.

Harry raged around his room, wanting to break something, smash something, but even in his fury he knew if he broke one of his belongings he would regret it later. He balled his fists, then his eyes alighted upon the little oil lamp on the table. He clutched it in his hands, bashed it against the bedpost, trying to smash the enchanted, unbreakable glass. He could not even make a dent in the sturdy little lamp, which continued to burn cheerily with its magical flame.

His temper rising further, he hurled the lamp against the wall. It bounced off and rolled under the bed, still glowing. Harry stormed into the bathroom, wanting to rip one of the faucets off the bath, and as he stepped on the puddle of spilt milk his feet skidded out from under him and he grabbed the wall for support. He frowned as he noticed that the wallpaper appeared to be blistering where he had pressed his hand, turning black and charred.

And then he saw that his fingers were on fire.

Harry yelped and dashed into the bathroom, holding his hands in front of him. He was just about to turn on the tap when he suddenly realised something. He couldn't feel a thing.

He stared at his fingers. Tiny golden flames were licking up and down them, glowing as brightly as the oil lamp, but they didn't burn. They didn't hurt a bit. Amazement swelling through him, Harry felt his anger ebbing away. As it went, the flames began to die down and go out.

"No, no!" Harry blew on his hands, trying to focus on the fire, make it stronger and larger. The flames tentatively flickered higher, dancing on the tips of his fingernails and rolling over his knuckles. Harry began to laugh. Magic! He was doing magic!

"Fire – I've made fire!" he cried aloud. Suddenly he realised what this could mean, and rushed back into the bedroom. The flames were dying down again – his anger had been feeding them, but he had forgotten it now – and he sped to the hated curtains that covered the window. As the last of the fire began to splutter and disappear, Harry frantically wiped his hands on the curtains, smearing the flames across them.

"Catch…please, catch…" he muttered to himself as the flames were daubed onto the thick, heavy material. The fire on his fingers had vanished. He stepped back, his heart pounding triumphantly in his chest. Red-gold flames were leaping across the dark curtains, running upwards towards the curtain rail, growing larger and larger. Glowing circles appeared as the fire ate through, and Harry felt a smile break across his face.

Sunlight…he could see sunlight…!

He coughed as a trail of smoke floated past his face and stepped back again to watch the curtains be devoured by the flames. Bits of material sagged and fell away. And then Harry noticed that the flames were licking across the ceiling now, and catching on the wallpaper beside the curtains.

The flames were rushing quickly down the wall now. What was left of the curtains was hanging by a few threads. Harry dashed forward, the smoke billowing into his face, and tried to pat out the flames with his bare hands, coughing, "No, stop…" but then he yelped as the fire singed his palms. It really hurt – the flames were not benign any longer.

The fire was beginning to crackle and roar, the smoke filling the room in thick clouds. Harry choked and stumbled back to the door, jiggling the handle, but of course, it was still locked. He hammered on the door of the bedroom, shouting, "Help! Help, fire! Let me out!" His lungs took in a gust of smoke and he coughed until his head began to spin, getting down onto his knees. There was still fresh air lower down in the room and he continued to hammer on the door. "Help! Help me!"

He felt dizzy now. His arms didn't seem to have any strength left. He beat weakly against the solid wooden door, his eyes slipping out of focus, before sagging and letting himself slip to the ground. The flames were running across the carpet. He had to get out…the fire was spreading…but he couldn't even breath, now, and the black smoke seemed to have covered his glasses, because his vision was getting darker and darker…

He felt his head come to rest on the carpet. A million miles away, he could just hear the faint sounds of footsteps thumping upstairs. It was too late, he thought to himself. The air was too hot to breath. I'm done for. He closed his mouth, too weary to even labour to take another breath.

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"…useless little rat. Oh, our Lord won't be pleased to hear about this, oh, no…" The voice was harsh and gleeful.

"D-don't you dare! He'll…he'll kill me…"

"Punish you, I don't doubt. And won't I be glad to watch," the gleeful voice laughed.

"Y-you shouldn't even be here, Dolohov. If he finds out you followed me here, you d-don't even want to know what he'll d-do to you."

"What're you talking about, rat?"

"It's s-supposed to be a secret, this place. He'll kill you, just to shut y-you up…"

"Liar!"

Harry tried to raise his head, but it was too heavy to lift. He opened his eyes and saw an unfamiliar ceiling. He breathed in as deeply as he could, the fresh air stinging a little as it entered his scorched lungs, but it revitalised him. He looked down and saw that he was lying on what looked like a dining table, a blanket covering him. He raised one hand and saw that it was covered in bandages. It throbbed brutally, and he lowered it again.

Harry tried to sit up, but his muscles didn't seem to want to work. He didn't think he had been bewitched, he was just too exhausted. The voices were coming through an open doorway nearby, and they rose in pitch as he listened.

"He w-will be angry at you. No one knows about this place but me and him. If you hadn't followed me here, you m-might be safe, but now I don't know what he'll do…"

Then there was the roaring of flames and suddenly a cold voice joined the conversation. "What I'll do about what, Wormtail?" it hissed, as two soft footsteps reached Harry's ears.

"My lord…!"

"Silence, Dolohov," said the cold voice, and there was a bang and the sound of a body crumpling. Wormtail whimpered and Harry heard him scurrying a little way away. "What I will do about what, Wormtail? How did Dolohov get here? And why do I smell smoke?"

"M-master, he followed me…I…I came to call you back but I couldn't find you, and when I returned, he followed me through the fireplace…I couldn't stop him, m-master, I didn't know he was in the house until too late," Wormtail sobbed. Harry could imagine him cringing against the wall in fear, and the image gave him some vindictive pleasure. "Please, m-master…what will you do to him…?"

"Nothing, Wormtail. I will obliviate his memory. He is too valuable to kill. You, on the other hand…" the cold voice whispered, and Wormtail whimpered again. "…but first, tell me what happened."

"Master, I did everything I could…a fire, there was a fire, I don't know how it started…but I put it out, master, I did my best. Dolohov had followed me, he helped me put it out, but I couldn't stop him from seeing the boy…"

"It was in the boy's room?"

"Yes, but he's alive, he's alright, only a few burns, master…"

"Very well…"

Harry lay and listened to Wormtail being punished, and the man's pitiful screams made him feel ill. But he blocked them out. A thrill of success was running through him. The shock of the fire, and his near death, faded as he remembered the flames leaping across his fingers.

Magic. He had done magic without a wand. He could barely believe it.

But he had done it. And he could do it again.

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TBC

A/N: God, writing this chapter nearly killed me. I don't know what I found so difficult about it. But writing it was like trying to wade through toxic mud. Slow and painful. Argh.

Thanks to everyone! You are all darlings:

Erinne, LittleCrazy1, DolphinChick22, marthamobley, Elle's Bells, sami1010220, hermione1208, sephiroth's sword, padfootbabeinblack, namariqueen, CrimsonReality, Cruciatus88, Phyre's child13.

And big thanks to my friend Izzy, who beta-read this chapter for me. If you like dark, angsty LotR fanfiction, check out her profile, Pharaohess. Yea, I'm jus' pimpin' on her behalf. (Twiddles thumbs)