A/N: I truly am sorry this chapter has taken so freakin' long. I'm still not happy with it, but bear with me, it is as much as I can do for now.

Lost: One Godson, Answers to the Harry

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When he next awoke, Harry was back in the bedroom in the top story of the house, his hands bandaged but healed. The bed and carpet had been replaced because both been burned in the fire, as had the curtains which seemed thicker than ever. The wallpaper, however, merely had fresh paper pasted over it. Harry saw to his dismay that his marks on the wall, recording the length of time he had been imprisoned, had been obliterated, and the fresh paper was too new to be scratched. He took the toothbrush and started marking the days in a different part of the wall, where the old paper was still showing. He scraped two circles to represent the two full moons, then another mark to show he had been brought one meal since then. Then he sat back and began to plan.

He felt as if the fire had burned away some part of him, some timidity that had made him quiet and well behaved in order to avoid trouble. He no longer felt hopeful that Sirius was coming for him, which troubled him a little, but he brushed it out of his mind. He had gained two knew pieces of vital knowledge to focus on.

Wormtail had been revealed to him: knowing the man's name, and what he had done, gave Harry a sense of power over his guard. Wormtail's weakness had also been revealed: Harry had to be cared for, and kept healthy. Not just alive - healthy. There were a myriad of ways this weakness could be exploited.

Harry was also excited by the magic he had performed, but he did not let himself get worked up about it. Wandless magic, he knew, was both difficult and dangerous. He remembered one time when he had been seven years old, and a boy had been teasing him about his scars, and Harry had felt himself getting angrier and angrier, until suddenly the boy's feet had sunk right through the concrete path he was standing on and he had become stuck. It had taken the fire department and several chisels to free the boy. Sirius had had to take Harry aside and explain to him that sometimes magic happened by accident, but he had to be careful, because muggles weren't ever allowed to see it. As far as Harry knew, he had never unintentionally done magic again, until now.

The conjuring of flames, however, had happened because he was angry. He knew he couldn't reproduce that rage deliberately. He would have to trick Wormtail into provoking him if he wanted to try setting fire to the house again. But perhaps there were other things he could do, without the necessity for anger.

He would have to experiment. In the meantime, Harry planned to test Wormtail to his limits.

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Educated by his last encounter with Harry, Wormtail did not come into his room to bring the boy his next meal, but placed it quietly outside the door and shuffled back downstairs, feeling pleased with himself that he had avoided another fight. He returned with a next meal a few hours later, and was surprised to see the previous tray still sitting outside the door, the soup stone cold but completely untouched.

Wondering whether the boy had been stupid enough not to find the food, Wormtail knocked meekly on the door and entered the room. Harry had pulled the bedside cabinet across the room so that he could sit beside the covered window, as if enjoying the non-existent sunlight. He was reading, as always, and did not look up as the door opened.

"There's food for you," Wormtail said, putting the tray down on the floor. He kept the door behind him open, ready to bolt if Harry tried to attack him again. But the boy did not even look away from his book.

"I know," Harry replied airily, turning to a new page. Wormtail took this to be a dismissal and, rubbing his bald patch, he backed out the door.

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When he came back with breakfast the next morning, he opened the door and the first thing he saw was two untouched trays of food sitting outside the bedroom door. Wormtail gave such a start he nearly dropped the breakfast tray. He suddenly realised what the boy was playing at and, with panic clutching at his chest, he threw open the door.

Harry was still in bed, and he sat up, reaching for his glasses to look at Wormtail, who was standing in the doorway, the breakfast tray still in his hands in a perfect impression of a butler bringing his master breakfast in bed.

"What is it?" Harry asked, rubbing his eyes.

"You're n-not eating!" Wormtail cried in a shuddering voice.

Harry stared at him, and finally answered. "Caught on at last, have you?"

"You have to eat!" the short man put the tray on the ground and stepped further into the room, tugging at the fraying collar of his robes. "You must eat!"

Harry shook his head. "I must do nothing. And I shall do nothing," he rolled onto his side and pulled the mouldering blankets up to his chin.

Wormtail gave a kind of terrified whimper. He glanced from side to side as if searching for a quick exit and, finding none, stumbled up to the end of the bed where he stood, wringing his hands and staring at Harry, who was pretending to have fallen asleep again.

"Y-you're not giving me any choice," Wormtail declared finally. And then he withdrew his wand from inside his robes. Harry opened his eyes a crack, saw the wand, and had a moment to panic at the thought of the curse Wormtail had cast on him during their last fight. Then Wormtail said firmly, "Imperio!" and Harry forgot about trivial matters such as thinking.

He felt wonderfully blissful, floating through a smothering pool of ignorance. When the soft voice commanded him to stand up and walk across the room, he did so without hesitation.

Eat, said the soft voice. There was a tray on the floor in front of him and Harry bent down to pick it up.

Hang on, another voice echoed out of the back of his skull. Why are you doing that?

Eat! The soft voice ordered, more firmly this time.

Wasn't there some reason not to? The second voice wondered. Harry did not know what the second voice was talking about, but it made him pause, bent over as if trying to touch his toes. Let's just think about this for a moment, the second voice grumbled, you had a good reason for not eating…

Do as I say! P-pick up the tray a-and eat! The first voice said, no longer soft, but loud and stumbling.

I will NOT! The second voice retorted.

Harry straightened up with a snap, overbalanced and fell backwards. He just managed to grab the post of the bed to keep himself from toppling right over. The floating sensation vanished. He was back in the dark, stifling bedroom, clutching the bedpost and gasping. Wormtail was still pointing his wand at Harry, but his face was aghast.

"H-how did you fight it?" he whimpered, more to himself than to Harry. He shook himself. "I won't have this! You h-have to obey me! Crucio!"

Harry did not scream this time, nor did he feel himself hit the floor. There was only the endless, white-hot pain that was burning him to ashes, there was only pain…

Then it was gone. Harry realised he was lying facedown on the threadbare carpet, his glasses askew. His muscles trembling and his empty stomach cartwheeling, he sat up, leaning against the bed for support.

"I'll k-keep at it until you eat," Wormtail said from somewhere above his head. He pointed his wand at Harry again and opened his mouth.

Harry looked up at him, feeling his neck spasm in the after effects of the curse. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," he said huskily. "You're going to make me very ill before too long."

Wormtail's mouth hung open, but he did not speak. He jabbed his wand pointlessly at the air. Harry pulled himself to his feet, his legs as weak as jelly. He did not think he could stand that curse again – if Wormtail saw through his bluff and continued torturing him, Harry knew he would give in.

But Wormtail gave a sort of miserable moan and withdrew his hands towards his chest. His eyes darted from the serene tray of breakfast on the floor to Harry, pale and panting, leaning against the bed with an ice-cold gaze.

"Y-you'll get hungry!" Wormtail said weakly, backing away as if afraid to take his eyes of Harry. He fumbled for the door handle and fled, the tail of his robe whipping around the corner and out of sight.

Harry slumped and let himself fall down onto the bed. Every part of him ached, and his head was muggy and thick from the curses Wormtail had cast on him. But through his soreness, Harry felt a sharp stab of triumph pierce his brain. He had done it. He had overpowered Wormtail.

And he knew, now, that Wormtail could not control him. Not by threats, not by curses, not by demands – Wormtail could not make Harry obey him! This certitude elated Harry. He got up and put the tray of breakfast outside the door, next to the other meal Wormtail had brought him. He would have to keep up his hunger strike for a while yet.

Because if Harry would not obey Wormtail, there was every chance that Wormtail might yet obey Harry.

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Eight days passed without Harry touching a bite of food. He drank copious amounts of water to try and quell his hunger, but it did not help. It felt as if his stomach had shrunken to the size of a walnut, and sucked all his other internal organs in with it. Wormtail continued to leave meals outside the door, hoping to tempt Harry, and several times nearly succeeding as the length of time since Harry had last eaten grew longer and longer.

Wormtail thought that Harry would not be able to keep it up, and Harry was determined to prove him wrong. He had experience when it came to a stubborn battle of wills – living with Sirius had ensured plenty of chances to practise. He was sure that sooner or later, Wormtail's fears about his prisoner's wellbeing would override everything else.

Harry had spent the first few days fiddling with the new curtains, but they were no more yielding than the ones that had gone up in flames. After a while, as exhaustion from lack of food began to overcome him, he had to content himself with lying in bed and reading, because just walking across the room made him feel faint.

He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep it up. He knew that theoretically it was possible to survive for weeks and weeks without food, and he had heard of hunger strikes where people had refused to eat for thirty days or more. But it had been only a little more than a week now and already his stomach was begging him to give in. There were so many times when he was tempted to just eat whatever was on the tray outside that he wished he could lock to door.

But then he thought about being a prisoner in this bedroom for the rest of his life and the hunger pangs in his belly receded.

It was on the ninth day that Wormtail finally came up the stairs and entered the bedroom.

Harry had heard his footsteps on the stairs and was sitting on the end of the bed, waiting for him. Wormtail came into the room and glared at him, wheezing a little. The expression on his face was that of one betrayed, as if he felt Harry was being cruel. He said miserably, "Why are you d-doing this? Are you g-going to starve yourself?"

"If it comes to that," said Harry evenly. He had no intention of killing himself – in fact, the thought hadn't even crossed his mind: after all, for a child, any life is better than no life at all.

Wormtail gave a terrified shudder. "My m-master doesn't know yet – but when h-he does, he'll sort you out…don't see if he doesn't…"

Harry shook his head. "And what will he do to you?" he asked.

The effect this had on Wormtail was revolting to watch. He seemed to shrink a little, cowering with his back to the door, beads of sweat forming on his brow at the thought of his Master. He whined, "You d-don't understand! If you don't eat…he'll…he might kill me…he'll give you a new guard, someone worse…it's better for both of us…if you'd only…what is it you want?" he sobbed at last.

Harry's heart thumped faster. This was what he had hoped for: that Wormtail would stoop to bargaining with him. Trying to keep his voice steady so as not to betray his excitement, he said, "I want to be able to open all the curtains in the house. I want to be able to go downstairs whenever I want. I don't want to eat any more of the slop you call food. I want new clothes, and hot water, and towels. I want a clock to tell time and a calender on my wall. I want to be able to go outside and walk around. Once I have all those things, I'll stop starving myself."

Wormtail gave a timid moan of protest. "I-impossible," he muttered. "I'm never allowed…I can't even…don't be foolish…"

"Then go away and stop bothering me," Harry replied, turning back towards the bed.

For a few moments there was silence, and Harry could hear Wormtail panting quietly. Then the man's shaking voice spoke.

"I can't open the curtains," he said. "I don't know how. And I can't let you leave the h-house, I don't know what sort of wards and things are set on the doors. But the rest of your r-requests…if you promise not to starve yourself any longer…I could a-arrange them…"

Harry looked back at him. Wormtail was wringing his hands, a look of desperation on his face. Was he telling the truth about the curtains? And would he keep his promises, or would Harry have to stop eating again before Wormtail learned his lesson? What would Wormtail's master do if he found out Harry's manipulation?

Slowly, Harry nodded his agreement to Wormtail. Better to start small, if he was going get the things he wanted out of his guard. And besides all that, Harry really was very hungry.

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The cavernous kitchen was stiflingly warm, lit only by the small gas lamps that were perched on the shelves and the wooden benches that ran around the side of the kitchen. A large fireplace was set into the wall, but the grate was empty and cold. A grimy white stove squatted across the room, which appeared to be electrical but was actually powered by magic. On top of the stove was a large steel pot with a plastic handle, and the pot was beginning to bubble over.

As the hissing and spluttering grew louder, a black-haired boy appeared in the doorway to the kitchen and hurried over to the stove. He lifted the lid and the bubbling subsided as steam rolled out, fogging up the boy's owl-eyed glasses. He wiped his sleeve across the lenses to clear his vision and picked up a wooden spoon from the bench in order to poke curiously at the potatoes simmering in the boiling water. Satisfied that they were ready, he took the pot off the stove and began to drain the potatoes in the sink.

Two months had passed since Harry had convinced Wormtail to give him free reign of the house, and he had managed a great number of things since then. His continued refusal to eat anything that Wormtail had cooked meant that Harry now made all of his own meals. He found he rather enjoyed cooking, if only because it gave him something to do, but the main reason he had insisted on being allowed to use the kitchen was nothing to do with the food.

In order to provide all the vegetables, fruit, meat, spices and cereals that Harry demanded, Wormtail was forced to leave the house at least once a week to go and buy them all. Much as it amused Harry to think up more and more unusual ingredients for Wormtail to fetch, the practical side of the matter was that the two or three hours while his guard was out of the house gave him a short space in which he was completely alone.

He put these brief hours to use as best he could.

The barrier on the stairs had not been removed permanently, and was replaced each evening so that Harry was locked in the uppermost storey of the house. Harry had still not been able to discover how Wormtail removed the barrier instantly, especially since he did not seem to use his wand, but he had learned more about the invisible barrier than Wormtail could have suspected.

Although he had not managed to conjure flames or anything else as impressive, Harry had not given up his hope that he could perform magic without needing a wand. He had stayed up late on many nights, sitting at the top of the stairs and testing the barrier. From lessons on transfiguration from Lupin, he had learned that an object made completely out of magic was always more unstable than an object which had simply been enchanted with magic – and so he was sure that the first step towards opening the curtains was to figure out a way to remove the barrier over the stairs.

It had taken almost a fortnight before he had had his first success. It had been almost an accident – he had been picking at the corner of the barrier, testing how close he could get before the barrier flashed purple and exuded its pushing force. Sleep had been close to overcoming him, his mind wandering, when suddenly he felt a sort of snap on the edge of the barrier and his forefinger went right through to the other side.

His weariness vanished at once. Somehow – and he had no idea how – he had managed to make a hole. He fiddled with the barrier for the rest of the night, but did not manage to get any further.

It took two more days to reproduce the effect. He found that if he let his mind doze a little, feeling for the very edge of the barrier with the tips of his fingers, he could feel the links where the barrier was attached to the top of the stair. They were like magical stiches, and once he had found them, Harry found it was not that difficult to unpick them.

The problem was that it took time. He had to go slowly, otherwise the barrier gave its purple flash and instantly all his work was undone. But he practised nightly, and soon found that in less than an hour he could create a hole large enough for him to crawl under and down onto the stairs.

Now he could explore the house at night – not that there was any true day and night when sunlight never penetrated the windows – but he could wander while Wormtail was asleep. He had found the room where his guard slept, burning with the hope of stealing Wormtail's wand, but it was locked, and Harry had not yet figured out how to pick a lock without magic, though he had tried several times. He cursed himself for not learning when he had the chance, since Sirius had regularly offered to teach Harry the skill.

Instead, he turned his attention to the ever-bothersome curtains. They were attached to the windowsills with some kind of charm that was much more powerful than the one that glued the barrier to the stairwell. It took Harry another month and a half to even begin learning how to unpick the magic that kept the curtains closed. But his success with the stairway-barrier and the thought of sunlight fuelled his determination and his patience.

Steam billowed off the potatoes as Harry tipped them onto his plate. He ate quickly and left the bowl half-empty on the table. Wormtail could have the rest if he wanted. Not for the first time, Harry wondered what his twitchy little guard ate when he couldn't have Harry's leftovers.

He passed Wormtail in the hall, but for all the notice he gave the man, he might not have even seen him. Wormtail just flinched away as Harry passed.

Harry stomped up the three flights of stairs until he reached the top storey of the house, then he went into his bedroom and shut the door. Outside, he heard Wormtail's footsteps on the stairs and the buzzing crackle that signalled the barrier had been drawn back over the stairwell. He waited until he was sure Wormtail had gone back downstairs before he set to work on the curtains.

Slowly, patiently, he plucked at the corners of the heavy material, feeling the magical binding gradually give way under his fingers. Two hours later he had finally stripped the magic from all around the windowsill, and his heart was racing now. He was so close. Carefully he began to unpick the magic that joined the two curtains together. A sliver of cold silver light peeped between Harry's fingers.

Finally, the last of the stitches fell away and Harry could restrain himself no longer. He grasped both curtains and ripped them apart, nearly crying out as light flooded into the bedroom.

It was night, a clear, cloudless night filled with pinpricks of stars. The moon had not risen yet, but there was enough light for Harry, his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the house, to see well enough. A serene landscape was spread out before him, a rolling silvered countryside with dark shadowed valleys and rising hills topped but clusters of trees. Harry was looking across a carefully manicured garden, the shaved lawns and cultured chrysanthemum flowers that were drained of colour in the dim starlight. Beyond the garden, a high stone wall snaked away in either direction, curling around the house in order to encircle it.

It was the first time he had seen the outside world for over four and a half months. Harry felt his spine shiver, his legs weaken, and he knelt and rested his elbows on the low windowsill, unable to tear his eyes away. He knelt there until his knees were numb from cold, gazing at the frozen landscape. At last a thin fingernail-sliver of moon began to rise on the edge of the horizon, warning Harry of the coming dawn.

He realised he had been kneeling at the window all night. Reluctantly he pushed himself to his feet and slowly drew the curtains over the landscape, then, exhaustion catching up on him, he stumbled over to the bed and fell straight to sleep.

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When Harry awoke, it took a moment before he remembered what he had done. He sprung to his feet and scurried to the window. He tore back the curtains.

Morning sunlight swamped the room. It was so bright Harry had to turn away and cover his eyes for a few moments. The sunlight seemed to sting his skin as he approached the window again, lowering his hands as slowly as he dared. He had to squint until his eyes, so unused to the brightness, stopped watering and he could look out across the garden.

The colours dazzled him. Being locked in the dark house, colour was a rarity. Harry felt stunned as he drank in the beautiful sight. The sky was a clear winter blue, and in the distance, Harry thought he could see smoke rising in plumes from the valley. There must be a village beyond the wall. He looked down at the rose bushes, bushels of green leaves though there were as yet no blooms, and saw the old man.

He blinked. There was an old man bent over the roses, staking them up in anticipation of the coming snow. He wore dusty brown clothes and the sun was beaming down on his gangly neck. A faded blue cap to shade his face covered his head.

As Harry watched, the old man straightened up, rolling his shoulders stiffly, and looked up at the window. Harry froze as their eyes met. The man had seen him; there was no doubt about that. Now he was watching Harry with a mildly surprised look on his face.

Seconds passed, and Harry was afraid to move an inch. Then suddenly the man looked away and bent over his roses again. Harry stepped back and pulled the curtains over the window again before he fled to the bed and dropped down onto it, shaking.

If the man was working for the Death Eaters, he would be sure to reveal that Harry had figured out how to unpick the enchantment on the curtains. And then…Harry didn't know what would happen then…

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But the old man didn't tell anyone about the boy, at least, not at first. Harry saw him several times over the next month, pottering about the garden. He waved to Harry once, and Harry waved back. But not two days later, Harry awoke to find that the curtains in his room had been enchanted again, and would not open, no matter how he picked at them. He was trapped once more in the darkness and the loneliness of the house, but he had seen sunlight for a short time, and the memory of that sunlight kept him from despairing.

It was hard not to despair. It had been nearly half a year since Harry had last seen a friendly face. Five full moons had waxed and waned, though the Wolfsbane potion made the transformations easy for him. But they reminded him of his godfather, somewhere out in the world, and where thoughts of Sirius had once filled him with hope, now they made him feel ill and abandoned. All his life, Sirius had been able to solve every problem, and defeat every obstacle – yet it had been nearly six months, and he had not rescued Harry. Surely Sirius had no given up on him? And yet – surely Sirius should have found him by now?

Snow was falling outside the house, though Harry didn't know it. The air was very cold in the empty halls, and he demanded that Wormtail fetch him a jacket and warmer trousers, and of course, Wormtail obeyed. Harry realised he no longer thought of the nervous, balding man as his guard – Wormtail was no guard. He had become Harry's servant.

Harry was no longer even a little bit afraid of Wormtail, and he had become sure that Wormtail had lied when he had said he did not know how to open the curtains. He was determined to test this theory, and it was after Christmas had passed without notice that Harry hit upon the way to do it.

He knew that Wormtail was very paranoid about fire, since the curtain-burning incident all those months before. Harry had tried to light fires whenever he could, but had failed dismally – he had never managed to reproduce the magic he had done that first time. However, after a while it occurred to him that if all that mattered was to send Wormtail into a panic, there was no need for fire, only smoke.

Making smoke was easy, once the idea had occurred to him. There were plenty of ingredients for baking in the house, so Harry prepared a batch of biscuits, put them in the oven, then left them. There was a window in the front of the oven through which he watched them eagerly, but before long nothing could be seen as the biscuits burned blacker and blacker. Harry waited until Wormtail was just passing the door to the kitchen, then he pulled open the door to the oven and began to shout, "Fire!" at the top of his lungs.

Smoke poured out of the oven, thin, choking smoke that smelled of melted sugar. As he had hoped, Wormtail scrambled into the room, waving his wand in front of his face.

"Get out! Out!" Wormtail shouted at Harry, and Harry slipped out, coughing, his eyes watering from the smoke, and shutting the door behind him, but leaving a little crack through which to watch. He didn't expect much to happen, but he wanted to know how Wormtail would react.

As it was, he got more than he could have wished for. Wormtail, half-blinded by the smoke, had blundered over to the bench, ripped back the curtains with a whispered word, and thrown open the window. Harry had to put his hand to his mouth to keep himself from gasping. He could run in now, push Wormtail away, jump out the window and be gone before the man even knew what had happened…

But that would be too reckless. Wormtail had a wand. He could easily stun Harry before he got near the window. Even if Harry managed to get outside, there were sure to be other barriers around the house. His only chance to escape would be at night, when he had time and the cover of darkness to escape.

How could he make sure that Wormtail left the window open until then?

Charged by desperation, Harry ran back into the hall beside the kitchen. There was a huge cabinet at the far end, beside the stairwell, a glass-fronted cabinet covered in mildew and filled with ornaments belonging to some previous owner. The front was covered in meaningless patterns drawn in the dust by Harry as he had wandered the halls.

Seized by the desire to do anything that might distract Wormtail, Harry grasped the cabinet and heaved it as hard as he could. It scraped away from the wall and swayed a little. Harry took a firmer grip, tendons bulging in his wrists, feet set apart, and pulled the cabinet with all his strength. For a moment, it didn't seem to have any effect; then with a tired creak, as if it had been wishing someone would put it out of its misery for years now, the cabinet leaned forwards and fell.

He just managed to leap backwards as what seemed like half a tonne of wood and glass toppled down upon him, smashed into the opposite wall and collapsed in on itself. Splintered panelling cracked and shot towards Harry, who threw his arm across his face as with a dying scream the glass shattered and spilled onto the floor.

The noise had been enough to wake the dead – certainly it was enough to get Wormtail's attention. Harry was sitting on the stairs with his knees drawn up when Wormtail pelted down the hall a moment later. He gaped at the smashed cabinet and then turned slowly to look at Harry, who stared back as if daring him to make an accusation.

Wormtail gave a choking noise and said. "I don't know…what you're to…but you had better get out of my sight…"

Harry had never heard the man make any sort of threat before. Nor had he ever seen Wormtail angry, but there was something very akin to anger in the man's eyes as he put one foot on the bottom stair. Harry scrambled upright and hurried up to his bedroom, glancing over his shoulder at Wormtail, who was still clutching his wand, smoke drifting lazily out of the kitchen behind him.

He shut the door of his room and listened, and a few moments later heard the familiar buzz of the barrier being drawn over the stairwell.

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Harry wanted to leave as soon as he judged that Wormtail must have gone to bed, but he forced himself to wait for another two hours before he slipped out of his bedroom and began to unpick the barrier over the stairs. He was wearing all his warm clothes but carrying no belongings – there was nothing in the house that meant anything to him. Even working as quickly as he could, it took him another hour to undo the barrier and creep down the stairs into the kitchen. He noticed that most of the cabinet had disappeared, presumably vanished by some spell, but specks of glass shone in the cracks of the floorboards as he passed.

The kitchen was pitch black, and Harry cursed himself for not thinking to bring one of the magical lamps spread throughout the house. He knew there was a lamp somewhere in the kitchen but he couldn't find it in the dark. He felt his way over to the window and reached out to take a hold of the heavy curtains.

The charm that glued them to the windowsill was a shabby job; Wormtail must have enchanted them himself, and hurriedly. Harry unpicked it in only a few minutes and drew back the curtains. A heavy gibbous moon illuminated the ground outside in silver and etched each flower bed in deep shadows. Harry had never seen the grounds from this perspective, but he did not take a moment to appreciate it.

His hands found the metal catch that held the window shut. His own window upstairs was layered with spells to keep it closed: but he had seen Wormtail open this one. Please, he whispered to himself, please…let him have slipped up…let it be open… he fumbled with the catch, his hands shaking.

And then the window swung away from him and Harry felt cold night air blow across his face.

For a moment he couldn't believe it. He stood, the window swinging a little in the breeze, breathing in the smell of frost and evergreen leaves. Then, his heart pounding in his chest, Harry climbed up onto the kitchen bench, swung his legs out the window and dropped down onto the gravel path on the other side.

The gravel crunched under his feet and he froze because the sound was so loud in his ears. Then he relaxed and pushed the window shut. It swung open again a moment later, but he was already gone by then.

He raced across the fresh-cut lawns, marvelling the energy he suddenly felt, under the moonlight. He was outside, alone, alive…it was the most wonderful feeling in the world. He turned his head and looked back the house that had been his prison for the past six months. Seeing it from the outside was strange. It looked smaller than he had imagined.

He made his way across the gardens, under the bare-branched trees that lined the front drive, towards the tall stone wall that he knew must encircle the entire estate. He could see it was a newly built wall, about twice his height, and even from a distance he could tell it was very smooth. An iron-barred gate was at the end of the drive, and in only a few minutes Harry was standing before it, looking up at the formidable black spikes that topped the gate. A heavy chain held the gate shut, and the links of the chain were looped through a huge padlock as least as big as Harry's fist.

He thought the gate did not look too difficult to climb, but he was hesitant to try. A mere physical barrier could not be all that stood between him and freedom; there must be some magical element to this gate. Perhaps it was enchanted to recognise him when he touched it, and would sound an alarm that would bring Death Eaters down on the house in an instant. Or perhaps it had a spell that would stun anyone who came in contact with it, and Wormtail would find his unconscious body lying on the gravel the next morning.

Harry picked up a stick and tentatively touched one of the bars. The gate exuded no response, but this didn't prove anything. It might be trained to recognise a human touch. He paced up an down, the exuberance of his freedom beginning to wear off as he debated what to do. At last, the only course of action he could see was to take a gamble and try and climb over the gate. Whatever happened – well, at the worst, he would be caught and taken back to the house, but it was not as if that would leave him worse off than when he had begun.

Harry stepped forward and took a hold of the bars.

Weakness flood through him. At once his knees buckled and he slid to the ground, unable to support himself even kneeling. His head lolled as his neck became suddenly too feeble to hold it up and even his eyelids drooped as if they did not have the energy to stay open. Only his hands, still gripping the iron bars, did not lose their strength. Harry's head spun as his heart began to slow, and with a jolt of fear he managed to open his fingers and let go of the bars.

He slid back and lay on the gravel for a moment, the blood thudding in his ears. The weakness that had overcome him was gone: he could move again. He sat up and stared at the bars of the gate, innocently shining in the moonlight. So, climbing over there was not going to be possible. That was a very powerful enchantment.

Harry stood up, careful not to touch any part of the gate. He warily scooted away from it and walked across the drive until he reached the stone wall. He inspected the wall for a few minutes, but like the gate, it did not betray any outward sign of magic. The stones that made it up were fitted so carefully together that the cracks between them were almost invisible, making the wall very smooth, without any real handholds, and it towered above the small boy, casting its shadow over him.

Still, nothing was unclimbable. Harry saw a stone jutting a little way out from its fellows and put his hand on it.

This time he let go immediately, putting out one hand to catch himself as he fell. Again, the overwhelming weakness flooded through his body until he broke contact with the wall, leaving him gasping from the intensity of it.

Climbing the wall was going to be impossible.

Harry was beginning to feel the first flutters of panic, now. He had been so sure that breaking out of his prison would be a simple thing once he had escaped the house. He had expected more barriers such as the one of the stairwell, but the enchantment on the gate and wall was completely different.

He broke into a swift jog, running parallel to the wall, looking for a tree or some other structure that might help him climb over the wall. It took about twenty minutes before he found himself back at the gate without any improvement to his situation. All the trees near the wall had been cleared, and there were not even any large stones or hedges that would be of any use. He was trapped as completely as an animal in a cage.

Despair welled up in Harry. The moon was setting, now, and he guessed it would only be an hour before dawn and from there, it would not be long before Wormtail discovered he was missing. The only thing he had discovered from his circuit of the wall was the stout little cottage close to it, which he guessed must be the home of the old man he had seen from the bedroom window.

The old man was his last chance: perhaps he had a key to the gate. He didn't look like a wizard, but a Muggle, so surely he would not be in league with the Death Eaters. He could call the Muggle police…no, no the police would be no good against Death Eaters, and besides, Harry suspected the Death Eaters would have spies among the Muggle police.

Harry thought all this as he made his way back through the garden to the icy-covered cottage. There were no lights in any of the windows, but the old man was probably just sleeping. Harry went around to the door and knocked as softly as he could, afraid to make too much noise when he knew that Wormtail was in the big house right behind him. But after several minutes with still no answer, Harry knocked again, harder this time, and then harder still. Yet no one stirred in the cottage.

Perhaps no one was home after all. Harry rubbed his cheeks to try and warm them. He was very cold, now, and his lack of sleep was beginning to catch up with him. But the old man had to be home, he just had to, he was the only one who could help. Harry knocked a fourth time, and waited, tucking his hands into his armpits. And still there was no answer.

Frank Bryce, the old gardener in the cottage, was home and in bed that night, but Frank was also very deaf and a heavy sleeper, and had no idea anyone was standing on his doorstep, desperate to be let inside. If Harry had thrown a rock through his window, he might have woken then, but this did not occur to Harry at the time, and anyway, Frank would not have been endeared to any strange boy who smashed his windows in the early hours of the morning and might have been rather reluctant to help at all.

Outside the cottage, Harry was on the very verge of panic. Frustration that he should at last have gotten outside only to be thwarted on the brink of freedom was making him lose track of his good sense. He knew that he had no choice now but to go back into the house and try to cover up his near-escape, but to return to his prison without having made any advance seemed impossibly unfair.

Then he saw a spade leaning against the wall beside the door. He lifted it, feeling the weight of the metal head. It would make a good weapon. Perhaps he could wait for Wormtail to come out of the house, then…one good whack in the face…he could take Wormtail's wand, open the gate or force Wormtail to open it for him…

Yes. Wormtail was a wreck without his wand; he would quickly give in and reveal how to open the gate. Harry started across the garden, already plotting where he would lay his ambush.

And then he heard voices floating across the lawn, coming from the door of the house. He raised his head and suddenly recognised the voice, though he had not heard it for many months. A cold, high voice that seemed to cut through him and freeze him where he stood. The voice sounded angry, and Wormtail's whimpering rose and fell beneath it, as the front door of the house opened.

He was here. Voldemort.

It was no good. Harry could not fight against the Dark Lord with nothing but his wits and a garden spade. And he could see the figures in the doorway, now, Wormtail ahead, hunched over and sobbing as he lead the way. And behind him, a dark shape and a pair of red eyes glinting in the darkness…

Harry knelt and laid the spade down beside the flowerbed. His eyes were watching Wormtail and the dark figure step out onto the gravel drive, but his hand was feeling for the dirt of the flowerbed, and without looking to check he scraped the words HELP ME into the dark, rich earth. Then he stood up and began to run.

He made it about fifty metres when they spotted him. A voice cried out from behind him, and he heard the sizzle of a spell rushing through the air, then something struck him in the back and he knew no more.

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TBC

A/N: Yes, I know it isn't the best chapter I have written, nor the shortest, nor the most eloquent. Harry just doesn't like being written, I think…he's making my head hurt. I'll focus on thanking all you little darlings to soothe him:

Thank you:

Elle's Bells 88, marthamobley, CrimsonReality, Phyre's child13, EsScaper, smidge, IritIlan, Cruciatus88, LittleCrazy1, sephiroth's sword, illachi, hermione1208, tashc, SBR.

I love you guys.

On a completely unrelated note, I saw Narnia last week and (to my surprise) loved it. Or rather, I fell head-over-heels in love with Mr Tumnus. I recommend going just for him.

Cheers!

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