Sanguini kept a careful watch on his guests, watching their meetings and how they doted on the boy still asleep on the couch. Dwayne was the one that sat with him the most, carding his fingers through his hair, murmuring to him on occasion or reading from a muggle series he'd seen a few times before. Paul would sit on the floor in front of the couch, his music box playing next to him as he 'introduced' the boy to the new age tunes. Marko would sit quietly and sew patches onto a black jacket already exploding with color. Michael usually had Sam at his side as they went over funny stories that had happened in the last decade. David… David would sit across the room and meditate trying to strengthen their bonds and draw the sleeping boy back to the waking world.

None of them could figure out why he'd yet to wake but they were getting progressively unhappy about the situation. Not that there was anything to be done but wait for the maddening enigma to awake.

Harry Potter, or Daniel as the boys knew him, was quite the conundrum. A halfling with magic that was more than likely going to keep his magic through the turning if what he'd seen so far was correct. Max had played a dangerous game with the little one but it was possible the experiment might be a success and if it was… it would have dangerous implications for the future. That power could easily be abused, especially in the councils.

Daniel was a special child. His Boy-Who-Lived status notwithstanding, he had a tie to the Dark Lord through the scar on his forehead, a childe bond with a vampire that used to be his 'brother', a very rare soul bond with the Native American, and was covered in malicious, roiling, energy that would normally be undetectable to any other. Someties, Sanguini cursed his Gift because this… this was dangerous and not something he wanted to be dealing with. But if he left it alone… they could all be wiped out in the near future.

His red eyes turned back to the Grimoire that had been gifted to him from the Black family so many centuries ago. His sharp nail stroked down the page detailing the illness the halfling was suffering. And if he was caught in the web… there no doubt was many others around him as well.

Based on Marko's report, at least the boy's friends were already compromised and there could be so many more with how far the influence could spread. Sanguini could only hope that it hadn't left the country yet or there very well could be another World War on their hands. A Civil War was already bad enough, he did not want to see another Grindelwald. They'd been lucky so far that Voldemort had kept his dealing mostly in-house, preferring to take over Britannia before possibly moving onto to other places. He hadn't even turned to the Higher Councils yet either, preferring to settle with those whom came to him or those that did not have their own structure, like the wretched wolves.

With a careful sigh, he closed the book locking it again so no one could access it. He had a very bad feeling about what could be coming. The question was… who did he tell of his worries?

Harry hummed, wiping the blood from his lips as he turned to answer Ron's question. David snorted at his response, sitting where his friend had been just moments before.

Ron sat brooding in the room he and Harry had occupied at Grimmauld Place. It wasn't his room. He would never call it his room again because he didn't belong here. Not with these people.

The Order had done them wrong. Had been doing them wrong for many years. They were kids, yes, and they weren't supposed to be fighting but hiding everything and trying to coddle them had only backlashed. Now his sister and his mother was dead, his brother was in a coma, and his best friend was in the claws of murderers. It was his fault but it wasn't.

And they still wouldn't tell them anything. No, instead the noose of restrictions only tightened around their necks and they were confined separately to keep from anymore foolish adventures. Obviously these people didn't learn from their mistakes. They only followed the lead sheep right over the cliff dragging the 'children' with them. Ron would rather die on his terms. He didn't want to take the plunge with the idiots that couldn't even pull their heads from their own asses. He wanted to be out there planning and getting his friend back. He wanted to go back to the easy days of first year when all they had to worry about was whether Snape was trying to steal the stone and their bloody potions essays. He wanted to have all his loved ones back together and happy.

But when does the world ever give you what you want?

No… He would just have to take it. Take what he wanted because nothing was ever given easily to Ron Weasley (except his beautiful girlfriend and his best friend that he should pay much more attention to honestly).

He knew he was a prat with temper issues. He knew he wasn't booksmart or witty. He knew his faults because they'd been pointed out to him and he was working on them. So, if he could work on himself, then he could certainly work on the world; if not the whole world then at least his own.

Ron Weasley was determined to take on the world save his world.

Hermione handed him another book. He grinned at her, checking the title. The Hobbit.

He gasped in delight and thanked Dwayne profusely.

Hermione gently closed the cover of The Two Towers and placed it on her bed. She glanced at the empty bed next to her and couldn't help but sob again uselessly. She'd been trying so hard to stop but dammit now that there was nothing life threatening her emotions threatened to overwhelm her. In the last week almost all she had been doing was crying and she just couldn't stop.

In the beginning she had gone over the details of those nights over and over and over; the memories she'd been shown, the precautions they could have taken, the details they could have changed, the difference in tactics the vampires had used for each confrontation. There was so much to think on and speculate that it had been easy to distract herself.

Staying locked up in a room by herself had done horrid things. If she'd just have someone to talk to, Ron or Fred, she could throw around her theories, get feedback. But she was alone (On time out! The indignity!) with her food delivered magically. Every so often she'd hear voices by the door and she always held her breath, waiting, hoping that someone would come in so she could talk to them. No one ever did. It hurt more than she was expecting.

And she was getting angry because she didn't want to be desperate for attention. She didn't want to be a weak vulnerable little girl that could get her friends hurt. She wanted to be brave and strong, just like the little girl that had sat under the sorting hat and begged for Gryffindor, she wanted friends and freedom… She'd never get it here. Not with the Order and the Death Eaters around. The Order was out to suppress her and her friends and the Death Eaters… well, they just wanted the death and torture of all mudbloods, simple as that.

No.

This isn't what she wanted to be when she'd hoped for Gryffindor… but she still couldn't stop the hiccups in her chest or the way her hands trembled at the blood and pain that haunted her dreams. What she could do was try to plan something… anything to get out. They'd been found the first time but Hermione had a feeling it was unusual circumstances and this time they could be more cautious. Yes… they needed to get out away from the Order.

If only she could see Ron. She just wanted to be held in his arms right now.

Harry ran out with his broom ready for practice with Ginny who was standing there waiting with a large grin. He finally reached her and looked down to mount his broom but a small pale hand stopped him.

"We don't need those silly things," Marko chuckled.

Voldemort, Dark Lord and current shadow ruler of Great Britain, was annoyed. Not only had his Death Eaters failed to acquire the Potter boy once he'd slipped his Order leash but now… Oh, now, there was something else going on. The previous spot of the murder had been scrubbed clean before he could retrieve any of the fallen, but that didn't mean everything else had been put to rights when he got there. The magic surrounding the small hotel had been more than expected; the attendant obliviated, an entire hallway repaired, and one room scrubbed of blood and presence. But Voldemort could taste him, the brat that wiggled from his grasp every year so far. His scent had been all over the bathroom which had been mostly untouched by magic. The strangest thing was… the boy's magical signature was nowhere to be found.

Under normal circumstances he wouldn't be able to track a specific signature after a scrub but this was Potter and for some reason the nuisance had been tied to him in a way that he couldn't understand. Still, as the Department of Mysteries had shown it could prove useful if used subtly enough. So, yes, if the boy had resided in this area based on the scent, he should have also been able to feel the magic. But he couldn't. And the scent he had picked up smelled sickly and sour as if the boy was terminally ill.

It was a conundrum he'd always had ever since the graveyard when he'd first scented the child. Harry Potter smelled terminal but nothing had ever pointed to the fact that he was sick. Even his magic, lashing and restrained as it had been seemed normal enough. In that bathroom, the scent had permeated the walls like a cloud and it almost sent the Dark Lord's stomach roiling.

Then there were the muggles. They were the ones that gave him the most information. The sleeping filth in that hotel had been enthralled. All of them still under the command to sleep. That ability was not exactly common amongst creatures, not on that level. Only a Veela or, perhaps, a very old Vampire might be able to use such mind magicks. He would need to reach out to them, see what their council would have to say on the matter. If he was lucky, it would have been an assigned job (though he had no idea what they would want the boy for), if not… it was a rogue agent. He could still possibly track them down but it would be much more difficult.

Something was missing. Pieces that he should have but didn't. But Voldemort was not stupid. He had learned from his mistake with the prophecy. He would not rush. No… he needed the boy to figure out what was changing. His nails tapped the arm of his throne as he watched the last of his loyal followers leave the room.

They had their new orders.

Seamus played keep away with the bottle while Harry smacked at his knees to make him share. With a stumble and an oomph, Paul fell backwards onto the bed, opened bottle held upright still with all the liquid safe inside.

He pounced the blonde.

The webs were weaved, the flies caught, wriggling against their formidable bonds and he watched with hungry black eyes. Except for one, disobedient little worm. The most important worm. The insignificant speck, born of the wretch that wronged him, kept fighting the strings tied to him. It was amusing and infuriating that he would still fight against his fate with so much vigor.

He had always relished breaking the stronger wills. With slow pressure and enough time anyone would shatter. It added a mouth watering zest to his monotonous existence. He would know after all the souls he'd broken and reformed to his liking.

Hm. Perhaps he had been too eager. Too quick with his games after so long. It had been so long since he'd had the chance… Yes… Yes, he'd have to be rather more watchful. The worm was slippery, one that required more time, more pressure…

Now to get rid of those pesky intruders on his board.

The castle was quiet tonight but he knew something was wrong. It's why he couldn't sleep. He was wandering the halls trying to pinpoint the feeling but it just kept eluding him. He glanced at the walls again wondering where he was. They looked so very familiar but at the same time… they were so very wrong.

He felt almost… trapped. Like he was stuck in a cage too small for him and there was something on the outside he needed to find. The very core of his being was pushing and pulling him, trying to spur him into going where the call was originating from. But something else didn't want him to leave. It felt warm and familiar… overbearingly stifling.

He stepped forward hesitantly, wanting to trust his magic. Needing to trust it. To escape the chains.

…

…

But it was so nice here. Would it really be so bad to leave his friends? He started towards the large gilded portrait, ignoring the sharp sting of his magic against his cheeks. Ron was shoving Ginny with a smile while the twins secretly leaned over him from behind. Hermione was standing slightly off to the side, beckoning him over with a silly little grin.

His lips twitched upwards and he took another step before he stopped with a wince. A violent cough shook his frame, blood flecking onto his lips, the iron scent smelling so very very familiar. He glanced back up at the portrait again, regarding his friends solemn faces. He didn't want to leave them.

Another step and another body wracking cough, more blood, and more pain.

He couldn't lose his chosen family.

…

...Not again…

…

With tears in his eyes, he took a few steps back sucking in much needed oxygen as the pain faded near instantly. He could feel his magic again, tugging at him. He hadn't even noticed it gone which was slightly terrifying.

Another step back and his friends were calling out for him now, panic suffusing their voices as they watched him retreat, unable to leave the portrait to pursue him. But he felt so much better now and he could hear something else as well. Hooting laughter in painfully familiar voices, ones so dear he could almost taste their names on the tip of his tongue. They were calling for him. Showing him the way back home.

His green eyes regarded the portrait again.

He knew them. Loved them. Could he leave them for something he couldn't even remember? Maybe it was good, maybe it was bad… but so was the time now. It had its ups and down but he at least knew it.

His magic swirled insistently around him carrying laughter and sweet murmurs that tugged on his heartstrings.

He sucked in a sharp breath in indecision.

Don'tGoDon'tGoDon'tGoDon'tGoDon'tGoDon'tGoDon'tGoDon'tGoDon'tGoDon'tGoDon'tGoDon'tGoDon'tGoDon'tGoDon'tGoDon'tGoDon'tGoDon'tGoDon'tGoDon'tGoDon'tGoDon'tGoDon'tGoDon'tGoDon'tGoDon'tGo

He cried out clutching his head stumbling back into the stone walls. Instead of cooling relief, the stones were heated, sizzling against his back with a hiss and the smell of pork. With a yelp he leapt forward, tears in his eyes, as he whipped around to stare at the wall in shock. Instead, of the stone he was faced with a growling dragon, spikes lining her face and back, ridges scales protecting her very skin. A growling snarl tore from her throat as she lunged forward teeth bared, mouth gaping.

ComeBackComeBackComeBackComeBackComeBackComeBackComeBackComeBackComeBackComeBackComeBackComeBackComeBackComeBackComeBackComeBackComeBackComeBackComeBackComeBackComeBackComeBack

With a shrill scream he turned and ran to his friends ignoring the breath leaving his lungs and ache of his body turning to sharp daggers. They were beckoning him from the portrait, panic stricken eyes glancing behind him every now and then. He did not want to look, the heat searing into him told him everything he wanted to know.

Just before the portrait he stopped, hand raised, inched from the canvas. It was quiet again, except for the sound of clinking, soft but heavy. Wide green eyes stared at the rusted iron cuff now on his wrist. Chains dangled down to the ground, links hanging too close to the floor. He had the feeling if they ever touched…

He looked at his friends again, eyes wide. They were smiling at him; gentle and caring Hermione, mischievous Fred and George, strong and welcoming Ron, beautiful and kind Ginny.

But...

The chains were dangling them like puppets.

Suddenly, he could feel the weight around his neck. The heavy iron shrinking and choking him, melding to his skin, just as it had his friends' necks.

No. No No! He didn't want this! He only wanted them safe! He wanted all of them safe!

He couldn't breathe! The coughing was back, blood dripping from his lips with no stop. He needed to breathe! Why was this happening to him? Air! He needed air!

It's okay. I'm here. Hush… hush…

He backed away from the picture with difficulty. It was as if his legs were trapped in mud, weighed down beyond all movement. But… cool hands were there, guiding him, pushing him. He stumbled, falling to his arse when he finally reached the point he was before. The iron was still there, heavy enough to bow his head, and he could see his friends still staring, still smiling and hanging. He wanted to go to them so badly but it hurt! They hurt!

He turned to the other hallway, the smell of iron burning his nose and the tang settling on his tongue. It dripped from the ceiling, black and viscous, casting the entire length in darkness. He shivered just looking at it.

We miss you. We miss you.

The voices were soft, soothing, nothing like the discordant screaming of his friends. But still he was afraid. He knew nothing of that path and it would mean leaving his friends to the puppet master suffering. Maybe the other path could help him with his friends but he couldn't be sure.

His hands came up to clench at his neck, trying futilely to pull the metal from his skin.

He didn't know what to do…

Which path to take…

AN: Wow guys! This is way early, huh? Because THIS IS THE END!

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Of Part two anyway! Haha... Part 3 is gonna be a while for me so I thought to cut it off right here on this lovely cliffhanger for you! If you really like this story, I'm gonna ask you to help me out. Which way should Harry go? Each direction has it's pros and cons (which I'm not gonna tell you because spoilers, duh!) and I'm depending on you guys to assist cause honestly I could do either.

So, drop a review and tell me what you think!