Kremit, you speak truth. I was going to post the following in the initial pilot chapter, but I decided I was talking too much, which I am normally never loath to do. Having said that, my story will diverge sharply from both fanfictions. They truly are only sources of inspiration, rather than places to kidnap plots:

My main inspirations are: A Stranger in an Unholy Land by Serpant-Socrcerer (on fanfic) and Disappear by Unzum. Both of those stories are amazing and brilliant, and if you have not read them I recommend you do so immediately.

Chapters should be longer from this point on, as my Summer holidays have just commenced. Already bringing with them immense amounts of sunburn and pain. I shall endeavor to navigate through Christmas, New Years, Holiday work, Friends, Birthdays, Work and Family so that I may serve you with longer chapters in the future.

CIRCUMSTANCE

Harry found himself in a bedroom that was decorated in Ravenclaw blues.

He had walked with the headmaster through a now thoroughly deserted school (curfew had passed half an hour ago), feeling strangely uncomfortable in the older mans presence. It wasn't so much that he didn't feel he could trust the Headmaster, it was more a case of the Headmaster not trusting him. A new experience in itself, to be honest, and one Harry wasn't entirely sure agreed with him.

They had weaved through the maze-like school until they had reached the portrait of an old woman, gently nursing a toddler in her lap. Harry had instantly had the urge to groan – portraits that depicted anything maternal were usually utter sticky-beaks. He didn't doubt that was the exact reason Dumbledore had chosen these particular rooms, although he wasn't entirely ready to discount simple amusement.

The rooms were nice.

Gorgeous, even.

Far more than he had ever experienced before, even in the Gryffindor dorms. There was the main room, complete with a four-post bed. Midnight hangings shimmered like star-light as they fluttered in the breeze. A writing desk sat smugly in one corner of the room with a pot of ink and a pile of parchment, waiting for use. A small hall led to an enormous bathroom which had a large shower, a bath charading as a spa, as well as an elegant marble sink with obnoxiously soft gold handles.

There were no magical portraits or paintings in the room apart from one small canvas, positioned carefully in one corner of the room. It had been empty since Harry had arrived, but the dark-haired teenager was willing to bet that a face would be peaking through just as soon as he succumbed to sleep.

The most disturbing thing about the room was nothing that could possibly be pointed at. It was the mere fact that Harry had been given a room. There had been no question about where Harry would be sleeping – nothing about his dorm or the bed he'd spent the better parts of six years making his own. And then, compounded upon this evil, Dumbledore's chosen room featured a colour-scheme suited only to people who spent far too much time in the library. A group Harry had never fitted in with.

Harry was pretty sure that if he tried to use the floo, or open one of the windows far enough to climb out, or even walk out the door, he wouldn't be able to.

Because, essentially, he was a prisoner.

It was a nice prison! One with a roaring fire, and a platter of marshmallows laid out before it, waiting to be toasted. But it was a prison. And no amount of pretty words on Dumbledore's part could change that.

"Until we are able to make better sense of this riddle, I think it would be a novel idea for you to stay within the confines of your room." The Headmaster said once he had given the password, and they stood together awkwardly looking at the quarters.

Harry's brain was too tired to argue with such an unpredicted statement, so he settled for nodding his head blearily, wondering when the dream would be over and he would wake up to Ron's annoyed shouts.

"You must understand, my boy, that this is merely a safety precaution on my part. But it is, nonetheless one that I must take. I hope you will realize that I have a school full of children whom I am sworn to protect, and I would not be doing my job if I were to give you freedom of the castle. You need not worry, of course, for there would be little time for freedom regardless. I shall organize for a colleague to come and accompany you to my office at an appropriate time tomorrow morning." Dumbledore had stopped, watching Harry in silence for a few moments, before nodding to himself absently.

"It has been a pleasure. Until tomorrow, Mister Potter."

Polite, restrained and impeccably courteous.

Harry sighed, and lowered himself onto the soft double-bed. Dumbledore was right though – he doubted he'd have had much time to wander around even if he wanted to, anyway. He was exhausted, utterly so. Tiredness seemed to be seeping out from his bones and contaminating his bloodstream. He realized that it was the first chance he'd had for a natural sleep since the entire weird experience had begun, and he held out the tiny hope that natural sleep would wake him from the dream. At the realization though, he also knew that he couldn't stay awake for another minute, and his eyes closed.

For some reason, he dreamt about his mother.

He woke up suddenly at 3.09 am. The sheets around him were twisted in such a way that they were wound tightly around his neck, slightly damp with sweat. He couldn't remember what had happened during his unsettling dream, other than snatches of his mothers smiling face (which didn't seem like nightmare material at all), but again that feeling of unease was sitting heavily upon his ribcage.

"Alright there?" A voice asked from the darkness of the room, and Harry felt himself jump in surprise. He snatched up his wand from the end of the bed (where it had apparently rolled to during his sleep) and turned to face the direction the voice had come from.

He sighed in relief when he realized a young wizard had appeared in the painting he had noted previously, and was watching him with concern. Harry felt angry that the man had been watching him while he slept, and he glowered at the painting, considering jabbing his wand at the now chuckling wizard.

"Well now, I'll take that as a 'yes'." He said, reclining back into a chair with comfortable familiarity. He watched Harry's incensed face through amused eyes, not seeming worried by the clear fury sketched out on the younger wizards face.

Harry was beginning to feel he needed an outlet for the rage, and predominantly confusion, that he had been forced to deal with the last few days. Every time he was angry enough to want to blow something up (preferably the smug portrait) he was forced to push down his anger for decorum's sake. He was sure that if he couldn't vent soon, his anger would reach heights that no threat of consequences would be able to forestall.

"Can you not watch me sleep?" he asked the portrait instead, biting back his anger.

The young man looked like he was about to tut at Harry, but instead shook his head gently, seemingly taking pity on the teenager.

"As a portrait it is my responsibility to obey the wishes of the Headmaster." He said with a small shrug, shifting about so that he was sitting cross-legged in the plush chair.

Harry sighed, disappointed to realize that his suspicions had been correct – Dumbledore had set the portrait up to spy on him. Almost as if reading his mind, the man in the painting started to speak again.

"I'm not here because he feels you need to be watched as a danger to the school, you know. To be honest, I think it's far more a case of making sure you aren't a danger to yourself." He said cryptically, looking as though he was making perfect sense. Harry certainly didn't feel that way.

But he decided to let it go, like it seemed he'd been doing for days solid, and lay back down onto the bed. He felt strangely rested. The tempus spell revealed it was now 3.22 am, which meant he had managed six hours sleep at the most. He didn't really believe that was enough, after the strange things that had been happening to him. But his body disagreed, because he was feeling as though he'd been asleep for the last few days, jittery with energy.

Could there seriously be something wrong with him? Was it Harry who was out of whack? Was perhaps Dumbledore correct to be wary of him? It certainly seemed more likely than the entire world suddenly changing in the course of one day. Maybe Harry really was going mad.

The portrait started humming, and Harry looked up at it, broken from his depressing thoughts.

"What's your name, anyway?" he asked gruffly, still angry that he had been watched when he was sleeping. Was nothing sacred these days?

The man beamed at him.

"Ah, courtesy at it's finest when it only takes you thirty minutes to ask for an introduction!" Harry had the vague feeling that this was an insult, but it was presented in such a chipper and joyful voice that he didn't feel like being offended. "I am Wolfgang Yuurn Von Malsdorf, but my friends and associated call me Vole. Naturally I have been in possession of the name far longer than that man who likes to call himself a Dark Lord." The portrait chuckled, seemingly not at all concerned about insulting a man who most people feared to speak of at all. Harry supposed that as a portrait, there wasn't much that Voldemort could do to him.

He chuckled though, pleased to have been given a minder who at least had a sense of humor.

"Oh I think it's perfectly fine to call him a Dark Lord. That's what his type usually are called, and he certainly fits the criteria." Harry replied, turning his wand over in his hands and watching as the occasional electric blue spark shot out.

Vole settled more comfortably into his chair, watching the enigma that called itself Harry Potter.

"You must be tired," he settled for saying, "it's three in the morning, after all. Most good little wizards like yourself are fast asleep. Even the bad ones have usually worn themselves out by about now."

Harry looked up at him and sighed.

"I couldn't sleep if I tried to." He admitted, carefully placing his wand on the bedside table. He turned to face the portrait, sitting cross-legged in an imitation of Vole. The portrait nodded encouragingly. "Can I trust you in confidence? I mean, without you going off and telling Dumbledore everything I say. If you think it's dangerous then sure, I guess, go ahead. But I really don't understand what's going on."

Harry felt mad for being willing to tell a portrait that had been ordered to spy on him exactly what was wrong. Vole had a look of concentration on his face, as if he were attempting to figure out a loophole that would allow such an arrangement to take place. His face smoothed out and he smiled.

"I think that it can be arranged. I'm certainly no slave to the Headmaster, but as it happens, I agree with him that you need some guidance." Vole waved his hand lazily, cutting off Harry's frustrated retort. "That looked like a pretty nasty nightmare." He hedged.

Harry glanced away, unable to keep eye contact with the insightful portrait, conceding the point that had been made: Harry had problems. Big, happiness-crunching, problems.

There was a mildly uncomfortable silence between them.

"What was it you wanted to tell me?" Vole finally asked, after the silence had stretched for a little too long. Harry looked up from tracing invisible patterns in the carpet with his eyes, suddenly wary to confide in anyone.

But the fact of the matter was that if he didn't tell someone soon, Harry was going to go mental. It was going on to a third day now, since things had been normal, leaving him in some in-between state of mind. Harry had felt, in the last forty-eight hours, as though he was constantly out of his depth. Honestly, he had no idea how he had managed to survive as he had – he felt utterly incapable and confused.

He felt like he was alone in the universe.

Everything had suddenly been wrenched away from underneath him: the foundation of his life. Dumbledore was acting bizarrely, and Hogwarts just didn't seem like home. He still didn't know what was going on, but nothing could convince him that it wasn't something very, very major (and quite possibly bad).

Deciding that he needed another perspective on the whole mess, he looked up at Vole with sad eyes.

"Everything's been so strange lately." Harry began, stopping to look at the portrait. Vole didn't move at all, curled up in his chair as he observed Harry silently.

"Professor Dumbledore doesn't know who I am! I mean, he really doesn't know. Like I don't exist, or he's never met me, or he isn't Albus Dumbledore! But he is, you know? There's just something about Dumbledore that makes you believe he's all those fancy titles. The medi-wizard at St Mungos didn't know who I was either. And when I apparated that first time, it was worse than the cruciatus curse. Worse than Crucio cast twenty times. Really bad. And that's when it all started, you know? Because he was there with me! I apparated with the Professor! But he was all sick because of that stupid potion he had to drink to get to the horcrux. Oh God." Harry ranted, barely pausing for breath, surprised to hear it all come pouring out so easily. He collapsed onto the bed, burying his face in his hands. He attempted to even his erratic breathing, but found that it was pointless. He was so close to tears.

Vole watched him, mentally sorting through everything that the teenager had said. There seemed to be three categories of rant. The first: 'no one knows who I am', which was apparently very distressing indeed. The second: 'screwed up magic', which appeared to have taken the form of apparation gone-wrong. The third: 'horcrux', the most worrying of all.

Harry seemed to have forgotten he even had an audience for his tirade, and Vole remained silent, working through the possibilities within his mind.

Albus had warned him that the boy would not be as expected. After all, the name 'Harry Potter' did not conjure up images of a confused teenager fighting back tears. Not anymore.

Vole hadn't been sure he believed the Headmaster at all. The man had claimed that the teenager who would take up residence in Vole's quarters was convinced he was Harry Potter. He had confided to the portrait that he seemed to have a very different set of memories to Albus' own, enough so that it was likely he had been the victim of a damaging dark spell.

However, no spell could place the knowledge of what a horcrux was within the victims mind unless the caster indented it to be so. Which meant someone had deliberately wanted Harry to remember something in regards to the horcrux's, or (perhaps more terrifyingly) this was no spell.

Vole came out of his reverie as he noticed the teenagers startling green eyes watching him warily, mind apparently having caught up with emotion.

He coughed awkwardly, uncertain of what to say. Luckily for him, the boy continued.

"Dumbledore doesn't believe me. He doesn't remember going to get the horcrux at all. But I don't think anyone's put a spell on him, because, well, who could?" Harry's eyes were sober, his distress evident, but he seemed calmer. "So that means that it's something that's wrong with me."

Vole was aware of the exact moment his heart started to tie itself into knots.

"Ah, you think it's you, do you?" He asked, almost choking on the words. Apparently, Harry didn't know him well enough to notice, and the teenager nodded gloomily.

Which meant it couldn't be. Any spell that had been placed upon the boy would undoubtedly assure that he never questioned his beliefs. The strength in those mind manipulation curses was that they commanded absolute belief in self. If the boy was going so far as to doubt his sanity, then it had to be perfectly fine.

Which meant that something stranger than strange was going on.

Vole was loath to wake Albus at such an undignified time of morning, but the boy looked like he'd just slept for two days solid. He could not banish the feeling that the sooner they sorted this mess out, the better.

Vole sighed to himself, wondering why all the interesting things had happened after his death.

"I think that it is about time you and the Headmaster had another tête-à-tête. You have just revealed something which I doubt even you were aware of the importance of. It does change the playing field quite considerably." Vole directed this towards Harry, watching from the restrictions of his frame as the teenager looked up quietly, a frown marring his otherwise porcelain face. Vole felt like banging his head against a wall at the beginnings of an immature and rather pointless 'crush'.

"I do not want to betray your trust, so; may I go and fetch the Headmaster?" he asked, scraping together his dignity as much as he was able. Harry didn't look to have noticed at all, anyway.

The teenager was looking confused at this sudden change in events.

"But I just spoke with him a few hours ago!" he objected. "It's not like waiting a few more hours is going to matter that much."

True, mused Vole.

"Well perhaps you would prefer to go back to sleep, you are correct of course. My enthusiasm perhaps just got the better of me." Vole coughed. He was still twitching to tell the Headmaster what 'Harry' had unwittingly revealed, but common sense knew that a couple of hours couldn't hurt.

At the mention of sleep, Harry looked annoyed.

"I'm not tired." Harry said, glancing around the room.

"Surely – " Vole began, but was interrupted.

"I'm not tired." Harry stubbornly repeated, the look on his face showing the painting he had no intention of going back to sleep.

Then why not just get the Headmaster? Vole thought in exasperation, fighting back the urge to role, what his father had called, 'common' brown eyes. If the teenager noticed his frustration, it didn't show, and Vole accepted that his roommate was clearly as observant as a lollipop.

"So, were you a Gryffindor then?" Harry asked finally, feeling relieved to have let some of the pressure that had been building up about the whole thing out. It was a relief to finally tell someone. This time Vole really did role his eyes.

Perhaps less than a lollipop, then.

"The robes I am wearing may, perhaps, indicate otherwise." He said in annoyance, but the undercurrent in his voice told anyone (even with observation skills that fell below that of a lollipop's) that he would enjoy the conversation.

Albus did not sleep that night at all.

Once he had safely escorted the boy to one of the many sets of rooms in the castle, he walked slowly back to his office, mind racing through the possibilities.

He did not believe that the young man he had just met was Harry Potter in any way, shape, or form. He had met the 'real' Harry Potter only a handful of times in his life, but those times had been enough for him to form an educated mental picture of what the boy was like.

Albus had often meditated on why a child with such charming parents as Lily and James Potter could ever become what Harry Potter had. At one point, he had even entertained the idea that the boy had simply been born evil, but Albus was far too intelligent to let such an easy answer content him. There was a reason for what Harry Potter had become; Albus just didn't know what it was.

He arrived back at his office wishing that he could simply go to bed, but knowing in his heart that it was unacceptable. Fawkes trilled encouragingly, and Albus smiled at the faithful bird.

"I believe I am at a loss, Fawkes, as to what exactly Tom is currently planning." Albus confided, while the phoenix watched him with beady black eyes, "If the appearance of a boy claiming to be Harry Potter, is indeed a result of his mechanics."

It was true.

It this fake Harry Potter had been sent by Voldemort (whether the boy knew it or not) then Albus had no idea what could possibly be going through the Dark Lord's mind. This was something he had never factored in. He needed to do some serious thinking about the connotations of 'Harry Potter' turning up on Hogwart's doorstep.

Of course, just because he did not believe Harry Potter was Harry Potter didn't mean that he was not willing to consider the consequences of a situation where he was.

Albus tapped his chin gently, considering what he ought to do.

He had spoken to Vole about watching the boy, but he was not interested in invading the teenager's privacy any more than his rather upright ethics allowed. He had little doubt that the portrait would have been noted by the boy immediately, and if there truly was an objection, then the teenager had every capability of removing Vole, forcibly.

A pinch of raspberry coloured floo later, and a bleary eyed Remus Lupin was blinking in his fireplace. Albus waited patiently while the werewolf gathered his equilibrium, glancing around the Headmaster's office, until his amber eyes finally came to rest on Albus himself. Albus allowed himself the honest smile of happiness that came to him from seeing the other man looking at him inquisitively from the fireplace.

"Albus, it's a pleasure to hear from you again. To what do I owe the honor? Nothing overly urgent I hope?" Remus greeted him politely. Albus was instantly pleased with Remus' calm response to being called up at ten thirty in the evening with no warning whatsoever. He felt a spark of joy to see that the shy first year he had first welcomed to Hogwarts had now grown into a polite and controlled man. It gave him a satisfaction like no other seeing that he had successfully helped such a worthy person reach their goals.

He felt sure that, this time at least, he had made the correct choice.

"Remus!" He greeted him, knowing that his happiness was already showing on his face, "please, won't you come on through?" he asked, stepping back accordingly.

"Oh, it's – alright, hang on a moment." Remus leant out of the flames for a moment, although his hands remained clasped in the flames. A second later he returned, and another after that was shaking the soot from his robes in the Headmasters office, curiosity alight in his eyes.

Albus noted with amusement that his wand was wedged behind his ear. Remus blushed when he noticed the Headmaster's amusement, but sat down, stubbornly refusing the remove the wand, and waited for Albus to explain.

Once they were both seated, with conjured tea and shortbread biscuits floating enticingly between them, Albus let his smile drop. Remus sighed, waiting for the worst.

Albus folded his hands in his lap uncomfortably.

"This evening a young man came and knocked upon my gargoyle." Remus looked confused, but didn't comment. Albus' eyes twinkled briefly. "He was not a Hogwarts student. And nor, I am quite sure, although he believes differently, has he ever been." He paused to let this sink in on Remus.

"Remus, if I may ask a personal question?" the younger man nodded, willing for the meandering Headmaster to reach the punch line.

"How well did you know Harry Potter?"

Remus found himself sucking in air with surprise. If being called out in the middle of the night to Hogwarts, on his own, had not been a bolt from the blue, then questions about his friend's son would have defined the term.

His intelligent mind was already whirring though, as it worked through the possibilities based on what limited information he yet had.

As smart as he was, he couldn't think of anything at all. He decided to stop trying to guess what was going on, and just answer the question.

"I wasn't really close with him at all," Remus started, cautiously. He had enough faith in the Headmaster not to think the man was accusing him of anything, but there was something quite serious going on if it involved James's first son. "When he was a child we were around him a fair bit, but then Sirius got that job in Italy, and Peter went to Albania on that scholarship, and I ended up getting that promotion. We went to visit James and Lily quite a lot for our situations, but he wasn't always around. He was very quiet." Internally Remus added: Creepily quiet. Harry Potter gave him the shivers.

Albus was observing him through thoughtful eyes. It was nothing he hadn't heard before, of course. In the hours he had spent considering the reason for Harry's turn towards the Darker nature of magic, Albus had looked closely at the shifting relationships between his parent's friends. He had yet to find a concrete link.

He stroked his beard, thinking deeply.

"Would you say you knew Harry well in his teens?" he asked, noticing that the werewolf had relaxed at the casual questions.

Remus shook his head negatively, frowning. "Not at all. I think I might have seen him, oh, I don't know… Five times in the whole time he was at school. Even when he was eleven he was withdrawn. It's… hard to explain. Most people would have thought he was just misunderstood, you know?" he asked rhetorically, eyes hazy as they saw a different past. "But it was more than that. Harry Potter was, well, no other word for it - scary. He watched things, people, and then…" Remus trailed off, but his face was contorted in something very like pain. He shook his head, and looked up to the Headmaster, clearing the disgust that had been painted across his features.

"Well, you know what happens then, Headmaster."

Albus nodded solemnly.

The entire of Hogwarts knew what happened once Harry decided to act upon a situation.

He steeped his fingers with a sigh, and Remus found himself falling back on his almost endless supplies of patience. The Headmaster smiled sadly at him. Harry Potter was a sore spot for all of them.

"I find myself in a quandary." Albus eventually began. "And it involves this visitor I was telling you about. If I were not who I am, and did I not know the things I do, I would assume that at approximately nine o'clock tonight, Harry Potter visited my office."

The clock chimed twelve o'clock just as Remus jerked in his chair, mouth forming a small 'o' of surprise.

"The boy walked into my office as though he had been here many times before, and yet I correctly recall that Harry Potter has never entered into this room. He was most surprised when I questioned him as to exactly who he was." Albus paused as he considered his own words, giving Remus a chance to splutter incoherently, his calmness momentarily deserting him.

"Yes, you are quite correct." Albus agreed, inclining his head as though Remus had made an intelligent point, rather than be unable to properly form a sentence. The werewolf blushed. "I should have stunned him. It is only because of the way he carried himself, the posture he immediately adopted, that I did not. Curiously, he did not expect me to stun him, at any point." Albus stopped again, pensive.

"He held complete trust within me." The Headmaster said softly, his voice conveying a sense of wonder. Remus snorted gently, mentally questioning how anyone (excluding Death Eaters, of course) could not trust the kindly old man.

"Sir, I really don't think that I understand what you're trying to get at." Remus admitted, hoping that Dumbledore would speed on through the mysterious riddles and tell him exactly what was going on.

Albus nodded a brief apology.

"He claimed to be Harry Potter, but I am certain that he is not." Albus said, clarifying the situation. Remus made a face that was clearly meant to ask 'why would any sane person want to pretend to be Harry Potter?' As far as the Order were aware, not even the Death Eaters much liked their young fellow.

"I find myself further disturbed with this situation, because he discussed some things which I would definitely classify under the category Top Secret." Albus tilted his head meaningfully towards Remus, who could feel the knot of apprehension as it tied itself into his throat.

"Ah, but why am I telling you all this Remus, when all I need do is show you?" Albus smiled. He stood up with a rustle of star-embroided robes, and made his way towards one of the cupboards, before gently removing a pensieve. Remus sat up straighter at the sight of it.

Remus was completely silent as he viewed the memory of an impassioned 'Harry Potter' discussing so casually the atrocity that was a horcrux. When he emerged, his face was pinched with worry and, prevalently, confusion.

"It could just be some elaborate hoax," Remus wearily informed the Headmaster. Albus nodded.

"But I do not believe that it is."

Remus sighed. "You called me because I'm an unspeakable?" he finally asked, "Or because I knew Harry Potter?" he corrected, seeing Albus' look.

The Headmaster smiled that regretful smile of his. Remus imagined that Albus Dumbledore had seen a great many hearts lying broken at feet, a great many mourners crying for their loved ones, and a great many broken people, waiting only for their own funeral. Remus imagined that only once you had seen so much of life, both the bright and the dark, could you look as humbly heartbroken as the Headmaster did.

"I called you, Remus, because you are the best man for the job."

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