A/N: Chapter Warnings for: Explicit language. Child abuse/neglect (non-explicit), violence

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Next update Saturday, 25th April

Chapter Three; Rage, Rage, Against the Dying Of The Light

…

"Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night/ Rage, Rage Against The Dying Of The Light"

_Dylan Thomas

...

Harry has no time to react. Bony frail fingers dart out and close around his throat, freezing and slimy, they lift him off his feet and Harry's mouth opens in shock. He's beyond shocked.

The dementor leans in with no hesitation, its rotting leathery breath brushing against Harry's face as it leans into his mouth. It freezes his blood, numbs his mind, and Harry can't breathe, he cannot breathe under the pressure and the distinct familiarity of this feeling. His body hadn't forgotten this, it had dreaded it since the day he's last experienced it.

He prepares himself for the impact in less than a second, clumsily in a moment. His hand goes lax, unable to grapple for his wand anymore.

Harry wonders how a memory that he doesn't even remember having can be one of his worst.

Green lights have already started flashing in his mind. He waits for it, his mother's desperate cries, that final scream that rings out, not out of pain, but of fear. His mother's fear for him, he waits for it and it never comes, instead, there's only a myriad of green lights, and the faint echo of a statement which has been haunting him since the graveyard, curling up and burrowing into his chest and seizing him in its numbing grip. 'Kill the spare'.

And horrifically enough, he could see a pair of eyes burning into his. Two empty grey eyes.

He ponders on what it'll feel like. To be snuffed out of existence. Not death, but complete obliteration. Getting kissed.

Because he cannot, not even in the furthest corners of his mind, imagine a way out of this, he cannot feel his hands, he cannot find his wand even though it's right in his pockets. Everything is too dim, under a moving veil of blackness. And it all feels numb from the cold. Even his mind. His thoughts are lethargic, hesitant. He had felt like this before.

He vaguely feels the hand on his throat tighten, and just for a moment, hopes that the fingers would crush his windpipe, strangle him to death before it could get his soul sucked out of his mouth. He shudders to think of his body as a soulless husk with a scar on his forehead. Limp, and pale, and… shallow.

And then the hand goes slack, the pressure lifts from his throat, potentially the only thing holding him upright at all, and gravity pulls him down. He falls several feet to the ground, disoriented, feeling as if some of his soul is still out of his body, not quite there yet. He cries out weakly. He blinks rapidly and notices that the darkness is lifting. He can see.

He scrambles for his wand, trying to take it out, he doesn't have time to lose. Harry barely notices that he's not wearing his glasses anymore. He leaves cursing his shitty eyesight to some other time and gets on all four, with one hand, he desperately pats the ground, clawing at the rough asphalt as he searches for them, his glasses, while he fumbles for his wand with the other. His fingers refuse to cooperate, to close around the wand, to do anything. His mind is still trying to catch up with everything that's happening. Something crunches under his knees, and he grimaces.

Falling backward, he settles to just pulling his wand out, finally. His grip is pitifully weak on it, he isn't even holding it properly. But he has to do something. He opens his mouth, and then a voice hisses in his ears, "Don't use magic!"

The voice is too close, so close that Harry feels the person's breath against the back of his neck. He jerks, no one had been around when the Dementors attacked, much less someone who can see Harry pathetically losing to a magical creature. A hand clamps around his arm in an almost bruising grip, it belongs to the same person, and it hauls him up, almost dragging on his knees. Harry quickly grasps the broken remnants of his glasses in his hand, stumbling.

There's a tall, dark-skinned, bald man right in front of him and the dementors have receded, hovering a little further away. He can faintly make out a silvery animal through blurry eyes, something large. A Patronus. It's fading, slowly. And the man in front of him raises his wand again.

Harry can barely make out his face, he gets no chance to do so, the man is already on the move, dragging Harry behind him in a stride that's not quite a run but too close to be called 'Firm walking'. Harry hits the man with weak hands, his breath thundering in his ears and his legs shaking noodles.

It's not the dementor that does it for him, he realizes this with a faint sense of horror, it's this guy, whoever he is, basically kidnapping him.

"Get off me!" He slurs, still reeling from the dementors, even though the cold isn't numbing anymore. Even though he can feel again. The hand drags him harder, throwing hasty glances over his broad shoulders. Harry tries to yank his arm away again.

"Stop that!" the man barks and Harry promptly has the urge to reply with 'Screw you!' and kick the man in the shins, but he yells "Let go!" instead.

The man yanks his arm away and shoves up his robe sleeve, showing him a smooth, markless forearm, Harry can see it's unblemished even with his impaired vision. "I'm not a damned Death Eater," the man grits out. "Now cooperate unless you want to get your soul sucked out," he doesn't wait for a response as he starts dragging Harry away again, like a disobedient child throwing a tantrum.

He stops abruptly, at a distance from the dementors. Harry can no longer see them. But the cold is still there.

"This might be a little disconcerting," the man says in a clipped voice, before wrapping his arm around Harry in a weird parody of a hug.

And then everything squeezes. It's like he's being pushed through a narrow tube and he can't breathe. And he knows he's not claustrophobic but even his adapting skills couldn't have prepared him for this sensation.

And suddenly, he can breathe again. He's standing on solid ground again and he trips. And would have fallen face-first on the ground if not for the hand that wraps around his arm to steady him.

"Everything here? Nothing splinched?" The man asks in a tone that implies that the answer can be nothing other than yes.

Harry just gapes at him. "Spli- what?" He looks around. They're back at Privet Drive. In fact, the Dursleys house is only a block away. Harry's eyes snap up to meet the man again.

"Come on," instead of dragging him around like a ragdoll, the man puts a hand on Harry's shoulders and hurries him along towards the Dursleys house, the street lights cast long shadows of them on the sidewalk.

Harry willingly goes along, drowning out the questions in his head. This man saved him just now, questions can wait for a little while. Just a little.

He sighs in relief as Number four Privet Drive comes into his view, and the man looks almost as relieved. As soon as they're near the porch the man shoves Harry into the yard with a stern glare, his wand lighting at the end in his other hand.

"Stay. Here," He grits out. "Don't cast any magic, do you hear me? Just stay. Don't get out of the house premises. No matter what."

And then he's gone. There's a large resounding crack that echoes through his bones and the man disappears into thin air. And Harry's left dumbfounded on the ground, still holding his broken glasses in his sweaty palm. It takes him ten seconds to peel his body off the newly mown grass and shakily head inside the house.

His mind is reeling and his chest still feels hollow, as if a huge chunk of it is just missing. His wand is almost crushed in a vice grip in his left hand and Harry fumbles for the house keys with a frown.

This is most likely the most surreal experience of his life. If this is what's bound to happen when he's just taking a walk, Harry shudders to think of picnics and Quidditch competitions from now on.

As soon as he's in, Harry feels a rush of adrenaline course into his veins, and he slams the door shut, hastily locking the wall chain and leaning back against the door as if trying to physically block any intruders from barging in.

Hedwig hoots in the darkness and Harry yells.

"Merlin," he drops his wand and slowly detaches his back from the front door. Harry closes his eyes and tries to stifle a hysterical chuckle. "Hedwig."

She leaps for him, her beak running through his messy hair and her wings flapping in front of his face, blocking his vision. She must have sensed his distress.

"I'm alright. It's fine, shhh," he tiptoes to the kitchen, not quite sure why he's being so paranoid as he passes his cupboard and faces the Dursleys living room. He locks the backdoor and closes all the curtains. He's scared. It takes him a while to accept that. His skin still feels clammy and cold.

His wand is useless now, or so it seems as the man vehemently warned him against using it. Harry carefully pockets it again and sets his broken glasses on the kitchen table. In the most hysterical manner yet, he opens the fridge and just stares inside, letting the natural coolness and the bright light shock him back into reality. Vernon would have had a fit if he saw him like this.

Without even thinking he reaches for one of Dudley's soda cans.

"This will be our secret," Harry tells Hedwig. He needs something sugary to keep him on his feet, and he knows that there's no chocolate around. Soda has to do for now. In the most likely scenario, he could say that Death Eaters took it when they attacked him. The thought brings a wry smile to his lips, even though he knows he would be far from smiling then.

Hedwig nibbles his hair, and affectionately rubs her face to his cheek. Harry sits on Uncle Vernon's chair, discontented by the ticking clock that's the only source of noise in the house. The soda stays unopened in his hands.

He has to squint to see the time. He doesn't.

Time passes. He doesn't know how much of it. Hedwig just preens and nibbles and flies across the room, shedding a couple of feathers on the floor. He'd have to clean that tomorrow.

And then, he hears the unmistakable sound of a lock clicking open. He jerks up, hand automatically reaching for his wand. Doesn't matter what the man said, getting expelled from Hogwarts won't matter much if he were dead.

Hedwig seems to sense the tension in the air, because she quiets down too, settling on top of the mantle place.

Footsteps. Harry tenses up even further. He stands up, and slowly walks over to the kitchen. They are coming from the backdoor. His feet barely make a sound on the floor.

His knuckles have turned white from his grip on the wand. It's not dementors, at least, he knows that. There's no chill in the air to indicate that. Besides… Dementors don't have wands.

His breath catches when he sees the telltale lights of three Lumos in the kitchen, illuminating the faces of three people. He doesn't lower his wand, but gasps.

"Remus?"

"Harry," Remus says, he has a smile on his face, but it looks strained. His face is even more rugged than the last time Harry had seen him, with bags under his eyes and a thin face. The full moon must have just passed. Or maybe it's near. Harry has never been able to tell.

Harry's eyes scan the rest of the people. There's another 'familiar' face. He opens his mouth, but Mad-Eye Moody beats him to it.

"Constant vigilance, Potter! I'm glad someone has it," he says in a gruff voice, nodding to the wand Harry is still holding in his hand, poised and ready to attack.

He quickly lowers it, looking at them sheepishly. Moody still gives him an appraising nod.

"Harry," Remus says, his shoulders stiff. "You need to go and pack now,"

Harry stares at him and finally sees the third person push past Moody with a jovial grin. "Hi there, Harry!" the short woman with pink bubblegum hair waves at him but then walks right past him to the front door with her wand pointed to the locks.

"Harry," Remus calls him once more, this time more urgently. "You really need to pack, we have to leave now."

"The boy is in shock, give him a second, Lupin."

"We don't have a second Tonks, Kingsley said-"

"I know what he said," 'Tonks' cuts in irritably. "Just give the kid two seconds to process three strangers in his living room."

Hedwig's hoot is what brings Harry out of his momentary stupor.

"What's going on?" He asks.

"Harry, please trust me. I'll explain everything alright? We're wasting time here. Please."

"How do I know you're Remus, though?" He abruptly says, raising his wand again. The thought had come to him suddenly, and it leaves him feeling cold and scared again, even though he did his best to keep his face carefully blank.

He hears Moody bark out a short laugh and tenses even further. Remus is staring at him tiredly, and says, "You can ask me a question, Harry. To prove that I really am Remus Lupin. Just please, hurry."

Harry wracks his brain for a question. He could have asked something about the Marauders Map, something about his father, or even mom, but Wormtail knew it all.

Finally, he speaks, "What did I see when the dementors came near me?"

Remus' lips tighten, and his eyes turn sad, but he answers, "Your mother." He doesn't elaborate. And Harry is grateful for that. It's enough. He lowers his wand again, looking around. Even Tonks has gone quiet and is looking grim.

He never unpacked his school trunk. That should make things easier. All he needs is some clothes, and his cloak that's wrapped around his photo album. The situation seems urgent enough that Harry doesn't think they'd question the padlocks on the cupboard at all.

"My stuff is in the cupboard," he nods at it and quickly starts heading to the stairs, he feels Tonks following after him, probably to help him pack. "I need to get some things from my room too,"

Remus barely nods and disappears from Harry's view as he quickly hurries up to his room, somewhat embarrassed that a total stranger can see the numerous locks bolted on his door. He ignores the locks and barges in his room, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

Before his clothes, he heads for the loose floorboards. Tonks throws Harry's beat-up wardrobe open without a word and flicks her wand, quickly folding the clothes into two piles on Harry's unmade bed.

"A bit rebellious, aren't you?" She asks Harry, wiggling her eyebrows at the bars on Harry's window.

Harry loops a finger under the floorboard and pulls. "Something like that," he mutters and pulls his cloak into his arms just as Remus bustles into his room as well, Harry's trunk floating behind him.

"Kingsley sent another message," he tells Tonks. "There's another group headed this way,"

"The wards will hold them."

"We're not taking that risk," Remus drops Harry's trunk on the bed and starts throwing Tonks's folded piles haphazardly into Harry's already messy trunk.

Harry dumps his cloak and album in the pile and grabs Hedwig's cage, his footsteps thundering against the floor as he races down for his pet. "Hedwig!" He calls and the owl comes flying at him, hooting.

"Get in," he says, and Hedwig gives him a dirty look before obliging. Although, not before nipping one of his fingers. Harry mutters an apology, but he's not risking leaving Hedwig behind with Dementors flying around.

Moody is staring at him, his fake eye madly rolling as he regards Harry with an unknown expression on his face. As if he can see not only through walls and doors but also through his eyes and into his mind. Harry doubts he'll see much beyond little Harry's screaming in confusion and terror in his head, flipping tables and running around, whilst alarms blared overhead.

"Was that all?" Remus is asking as he runs downstairs, disrupting Harry's thoughts. Out of the three of them, Remus seems the most frantic; Harry momentarily wonders why. He nods at Remus and holds Hedwig close to his chest.

"Good."

Harry doesn't see his trunk floating behind the man anymore. "My trunk,"

"With Tonks. She shrunk it. The portkey is activating soon, Harry. Moody?"

Moody reaches into the pocket of his leather coat, and pulls out an empty inkwell, holding it out to Remus and the man snatches it away at once, his other hand ushering Harry to stand in the middle of the living room with Hedwig still tightly held against his chest.

"You hold onto the inkwell, and my arm too alright?" Remus says, shoving the ink well in his hand. He seems to be growing more and more agitated by the second. Harry struggles to handle Hedwig's cage with one arm and holds Remus with the other, confused and somber as Moody and Tonks round the house up.

"We need to leave," Moody grunts, hobbling to where Remus is holding Harry.

"Yes we should," Lupin says, worrying his lip. He's looking at the closed curtains as if he's wishing them to part. "I can already feel it,"

"What about the Dursleys?" He doesn't know why he asks.

Remus looks at him for a second, weirdly as if he's wondering the same thing, before saying, "They'll be informed of a suitable reason for your absence. And once you're gone, the dementors won't be coming back."

Harry nods and Tonks skips down the stairs, her head bobbing at the other men. "I'm ready. Aren't we waiting for Kingsley?"

"No time, girl," Moody snaps. "Don't you know that those damn things hunt in herds? Kingsley is the bait. Let him do his job,"

Tonks mumbles something under her breath but extends a finger to the inkwell in Harry's hand, Moody reaches for it as well, only Remus has yet to touch the Portkey.

"Remus?" Harry asks and the man is still staring at the curtains with narrowed eyes.

"I don't understand," he mutters and Moody snaps at him.

"Nobody bloody cares, Lupin. Grab that damned portkey now!"

This seems to jostle the werewolf into the present. He reaches for the inkwell and tightens his other arm around Harry's shoulders protectively. The countdown starts and Harry feels a familiar tug behind his navel, the Dursleys's living room disappearing in a swirl of colors.

##

Harry almost has an intimate moment with the asphalt before Remus tugs him back up, steadying him on his feet before looking around.

"We should go," Remus says with a nod to Tonks and Moody and grasps Harry's shoulder, leading him away from the two.

"Hey, aren't they joining us?" Harry asks, craning his neck to glance at them over his shoulder whilst trying to match Remus's brisk pace. Lupin doesn't stop but extends a hand to Hedwig's cage in a silent offer to take it from Harry.

"They will patrol the area, to make sure we're in the safe zone," Remus says just as briskly as he walks, and Harry passes a fussy Hedwig over with another confused frown. Just what the hell is going on?

"Remus, what is going-"

"Not here. I'm sorry, we're almost there."

Where? Harry itches to ask, but in the end, he doesn't. He trusts Remus, and he doesn't want to sound like a petulant child annoying the parent by constantly asking 'are we there yet? Are we? Are we?'

They pass the street, making a swift turn, before Remus stops before a set of matching houses, right in the middle of the street. He reaches a hand in his pocket and pulls out a piece of torn parchment.

"Read this very carefully and memorize the content," he says as he passes the note to a disgruntled Harry.

He grabs the note and then curses as he realizes that his glasses are still broken, stuffed in the back of his pocket. Squinting his eyes, Harry tries his best to read the writing by leaning closer to the note. Remus makes a confused noise but then sighs to himself.

'This is the third time I'm cursing my eyes in a single day, ' Harry thinks, ' That's a new record. '

"Give me your glasses," he quickly says and Harry obliges, feeling the urgency crackle between them. They're still in danger, they must be or else Remus wouldn't behave in this way. The man is the calmest person Harry knows to this day, it's very unsettling to see him like this.

A murmured charm later, Harry opens the note again and skims over the content;

The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.

"Have you memorized it?" Remus asks as Harry passes the note back to him, and he nods, pushing the questions under the surface once again. He slightly flinches as Remus sets the note on fire with his wand.

"Look again," The comment is accompanied by a small smile and Harry turns back to the houses, his brows knitting as he sees the breaks between building 11 and 13 starting to rearrange themselves as if trying to dig their way out of the infused line that separates the two buildings. Harry watches with an awed smile, discontented on the behalf of the muggles occupying the other houses.

Finally, a door reveals itself, and with a sharp snap, three steps extend downwards to the sidewalk, trapped by two frail rails. Remus pushes him to the door, his wand pointed to the door itself. Hedwig indignantly hoots at the werewolf.

The door silently creaked open, revealing a narrow gloomy hallway, lit by bubbles of flickering lights attached to the walls, where the wallpapers have long peeled.

The voices are nearly deafening, and Harry stumbles back into Remus's chest and Hedwig's cage as people bustle around, shouting and causing mayhem.

"-CHECK THERE?" A deep male voice is shouting. "How many times have I told you-"

He's cut off by a shrill woman screaming her throat raw. "BLOOD TRAITORS, FILTHY SCUMS IN MY HOUSE!"

In the middle of the commotion, Harry hears Arthur Weasley over the shrieking woman. "No, still no word from the ministry," he says. Behind him, Remus pushes them both through the hallway, even though Harry's unconsciously digging his feet into the floorboards. "None of the dementors have been reported missing,"

Harry recognises Professor McGonagall's voice too, who is partly hidden by the wall. "How is that even possible?"

"Somebody shut up that damned portrait!" shouts another voice. Younger and feminine. It's Ginny, Harry thinks.

Remus opens his mouth to call out but is drowned out again by an agitated Molly Weasley shrieking louder than the screaming portrait. "Sirius, for the love of heavens above!" she cries. "Stop pacing!"

"FILTHY BLOOD! SUCH A DISGRACE, UTTER BETRAYAL. OF MY OWN BLOOD NO LESS!"

"What else am I supposed to do, Molly?!" Sirius yells back at Mrs. Weasley who has a steaming pot trailing behind her, her wand suspending it in the air, out of the way.

"I fire-called Albus," Arthur Weasley is shouting now too. "Shacklebolt sent him a Patronus, the situation is under control,"

"Under control my-"

Harry and Remus finally reach the portrait and Remus brushes past him, grasping the edges of two forlorn curtains and pulling them together by force, and the woman abruptly stops, momentarily shocking the chaotic crowd into silence.

"Harry!" Everything seems to screech to a halting stop as he hears the shrill voice of one of his best friends, right before Hermione's body collides with him. He lets out a muffled grunt at the force of her hug as she squeezes him, and her hair tickles his nose.

Then the commotion starts again, and this time everyone comes barreling towards Harry with loud shouts and cries, except for Professor McGonagall, hanging in the back, but watching on with a concerned expression on her face as well.

Harry is getting more overwhelmed by the minute, even more so than when that man had rescued him from the Dementors. And that's saying something.

Before he can even try returning Hermione's crushing hug, he's wrenched out of her arms and Sirius is in front of him, frantically looking him up and down as if he expects Harry to suddenly combust.

"Is he alright?" Sirius asks Remus who's still standing behind Harry. "Did you give him something? He looks pale."

"Sirius," Harry says, the man's grip on his arms is hard enough to bruise, and Harry squirms, tearing himself away from Sirius and staring around the room, while nearly everyone else stares back at him. He feels like he's on stage and has forgotten all his lines.

His mouth opens, closes, and opens again but before he can say a thing Ron breaks the silence.

"What are you talking about?" He asks Sirius sharply. "Why is Harry here? Why shouldn't he be okay?" Harry turns to him with a confused frown. He wasn't expecting Ron to be just as confused as he was, seeing that he was actually here with the adults. "Didn't Dumbledore say we're bringing him a week from now? What's going on?"

"The dementor attack-"

Ron's eyes comically widen and he looks baffled, cutting Remus off, "What?"

Hermione also looks just as shocked, "Harry, oh my god, are you alright? You aren't hurt, are you?"

"The attack was on him?!"

Harry is gaping as he looks at her, and then Ron, who looks kind of greyish, and Sirius, who looks like he wants to grab him again.

He finally finds his voice, and it sounds weird coming out of his mouth as he speaks, "What's happening?" And then he remembers another thing, something from the note, this place is a headquarters? "What's the Order of the- the Phoenix? Why am I here? And why was there a Dementor-"

Remus still sounds weary, but not frantic anymore, as he says, "I think we should all sit and calm down for a moment."

Harry doesn't protest as he is led to a kitchen, passing a hallway with peeling wallpaper. Everything inside is dark, despite the lights. As he plops down on the table, a large block of chocolate is thrust into his face by Sirius, "Eat, you look way too pale for me to be comfortable."

Harry just looks at him.

Somewhere in his head, a small voice orders him to talk, or react in a way that doesn't include gaping at his godfather and just sitting in this awful awkward silence that has gripped the kitchen, but he cannot. This is too much.

"Harry?" asks Mrs. Weasley, exchanging an uneasy glance with her husband. "Maybe we should call Poppy and-"

"What the fuck is going on?" Harry's question is followed by several indignant noises, mainly from Mrs. Weasley and Remus but Harry barely hears them over the sound of his blood rushing in his ears, the roaring downs out everything else, everything but his own blinding rage.

He's surprised by it but decides to embrace it like an old friend. It's better than being a sitting duck and letting things happen to him.

"You were all here?" He asks, his voice is low, but seems thunderous, as not a single peep arises from anyone else. "All summer. You were all here,"

"Harry -"

"I was so fucking worried, that you were dead or maimed or something that you weren't telling me about. You didn't say a fucking THING! In those damn letters, and I kept wondering what I've done to deserve this! I've been miserable since the moment I got back to that place, I was nearly out of my mind! And you've been all here, all buddies having a laugh over me?"

"Harry,"

"A fucking dementor nearly sucked my soul dry today!" He slams his hand on the wooden table and it burns, but he doesn't care. "A man kidnapped me and then shoved me back to my house, defenseless and alone, I was so alone and you were all here?!"

"We didn't know!"

"Didn't know?! Didn't I deserve to know?! Do you have ANY idea how hard it's been for me?! I was scared and alone, and… and you couldn't care enough to tell me that you were together the whole time? You couldn't bother writing something more than 'We're alive, don't you flip out' and just expect me to sit in my place like a good little boy until you'd bother coming for me-"

He's out of breath, so he stops himself, his eyes glazed and his face flushed. He had no idea he had been this mad. No idea at all. But it feels good to let it out, finally. He could never have done it with the Dursleys.

"I was the one who faced him," his voice is lower this time, he's tired of shouting. "I was there when he killed Cedric. When he tortured me, and I was the one who had to duel him and take the corpse of a friend back with me...did you all just expect me to go on my way with a pat on the head while you're doing… whatever the hell this is?"

"Harry, please just give us a chance to explain,"

"What else can I do?" Harry's not really asking. He looks at the melted chocolate clenched in Sirius's hand and is morbidly reminded of his own state. He knows how sad it is to compare oneself to melted chocolate.

"We weren't hiding things from you on purpose Harry-" Sirius begins but before he can say anything else, the door opens behind him and there's a loud clatter and muttered curse, and suddenly chaos begins anew.

"FILTHY MUDBLOODS IN MY HOUSE! I WON'T HAVE IT! BEGONE YOU FILTHY ANIMALS, BE GONE!" Harry flinches at the sudden screeching. Which faintly reminds him of Uncle Vernon.

Sirius dashes out of his chair, chocolate still in his hand, and Tonks is profusely apologizing over the yelling and rambling on about a broken vase, Remus calmly gets up from his own chair to help and they all wait, just staring at each other as the screaming continues in the background.

"-DISGRACE OF THIS FAMILY! SHOULD HAVE DISOWNED YOU WHEN I HAD THE CHANCE YOU ROTTING PIECE OF FILTH! "

"Shut up woman!" Sirius hollers back at her and seizes the curtains, almost wrenching them off their hanging place as he draws them together. It's silent again. Harry glares at a salt shaker, which is upturned and spilling salt on the table, refusing to acknowledge Ron and Hermione's beseeching glances.

"Harry?" Sirius asks once he sits back on his chair, this time scooting a little closer to Harry. "Why don't you just munch on this," he hands Harry the ruined chocolate. "And we explain everything, alright? I know you're tired-"

"Stop that," Harry tells him but takes the offered treat nonetheless. "I'm not a child." This Sirius, unsurprisingly, doesn't act like the imaginary one at all, and Harry guiltily thinks that he likes the one in his head better.

"No, you're not." Remus agrees. "But you've been through a rough ordeal today, nobody is expecting you to be fine with any of this. The chocolate helps."

"I'll make you some hot chocolate as well," Mrs. Weasley says with a motherly smile, getting to her feet.

"This place is the headquarters of the Order of Phoenix." Sirius starts. "It also happens to be my ancestral home, you've already had the displeasure of meeting my mother," Sirius pauses for Harry to exclaim or show any sort of outward emotion, but he passively stares back at his godfather and Sirius cringes.

Tonight is going to be a long one.

##

Water dribbles down from the slanted roofs, shadows scram like rodents, from one corner to the other, the sky is the color of a storm and there's a definite chill in the air that cannot be entirely blamed on the weather, but rather the sheer atmosphere of the place.

There are faded posters stuck to the narrow walls, aged over time in a way that indicates they're part of them now, and cannot be separated, there are whispers within the breaks, damp and wheezing. Anything and everything can be found here.

Rosier is used to this, he has spent the better part of his life in Knockturn Alley and whereas strolling in this place at this time of the night is an unimaginable feat for some, it doesn't affect him at all, in fact to anyone else, he looks rather happy to be there. The man's hands are in his pockets, his steps confident, echoing off the walls louder than one might dare to be here, he's wearing pitch-black robes, and the only thing giving his identity away- not that's he particularly concerned about that- is his blonde hair and the telltale green eyes.

His robes swish upon the damp ground, and his eyebrow crooks once he comes to a stop in front of a closed shop. Rosier regards the shop for a moment and then draws his wand, his shoulders drawn back.

A voice behind him hisses in alarm. "I'm here!" the voice furiously whispers, but Rosier doesn't turn. "No need to wake the whole bloody street!"

Instead of withdrawing his wand, Evan Rosier waves it in a circular motion over his head and mutters a quick 'Silencio'.

"You have the intelligence of a toad, Dolohov," Rosier sneers, his mouth dramatically curled down to show his displeasure with the other man as he rolls on the heels of his feet to face him.

Dolohov is crouched in a crook in the wall, only narrow enough to fit one person, slander them in the shadows.

"You're the one loitering as if you own the place!" Dolohov cries, a large frown on his own face. Rosier regards him with disgust.

"It's burning," he says, his eyes flicking down to his forearm for less than a second. "Which means you screwed up," he takes a step closer. "Which further means that your pink bitch screwed up. Which means we're all screwed up too."

"It wasn't my fault, Rosier, come off your high horse," says Dolohov. "I did what my lord asked of me, whether it didn't work out or not isn't my problem. I did my duties."

"Your duty was kidnapping a fifteen-year-old boy, and I don't see one hiding in your robes now," Rosier looks around. "The order found out. There's a mole in the ministry, either that or your snitch is compromised."

"She's not," Dolohov mutters, and Rosier's sneer expands across his entire face. He's sleeping with her, of course, Rosier cannot see how anyone could, but Dolohov seems the type. "She says that no one at the ministry even noticed the dementors missing,"

"Then why don't you tell that to our Lord once he's asking for a boy? I'm sure that will bode with him just fine,"

"They were watching him already! A bloody Auror was tailing the boy!"

Rosier's eyes narrow. "Which one?"

"Black and big, probably Shacklebolt." They stand in contemplative silence for a beat, Rosier rolls his wand beneath his fingers with a thoughtful frown.

"Kingsley Shacklebolt." he drawls, almost as if he's talking to himself. "He wasn't in The Order before. So, they're recruiting,"

"How the bloody hell should I know?" Rosier ignores him.

"Scram to your little hole in the wall, Dolohov. I don't want to see your disgusting face until our Lord calls for you."

"What do I do about the Potter brat? We can't send out any more dementors."

Rosier smirks and turns away, flicking his wand back into his sleeve.

"You'll pay." He promises as he walks away, hands back in his pockets and his steps fading further and further away.