A/N: Another chapter for your enjoyment… hopefully. This is chronologically a bit before and during 'Misanthrope' of Pantogogue – that's why I slowed down with updating it, so Metamorphosis could catch up.
Brynn

x

Home

x

I hit the ground in a low crouch – a reflex devised for double purpose. It doesn't throw me off my feet as it would otherwise and, if I land in hostile environment, chances are the first volley will go over my head.

The Burrow is cold, quiet, desolate. I hate it all the more because I remember how warm and homey it felt once upon a time. There are no personal affects left here. Bare walls, rotting furniture and few mouldy cloths that Mrs Weasley deemed not worth taking with them are what's left of the Weasley family house. The upper floors have fallen apart without magic to sustain them and lie in the garden as heaps of rubble. Even the ghoul is silent. Of course, there is no attic for him to inhabit.

Charlie, looking ordinary with his Illusion active, shivers. Bill's used to the sight, but it makes him sad nevertheless. That's their childhood in the walls around us – dead and forgotten.

"Do you hear anything?" Charlie whispers. Bill and I shake our heads. But it's too quiet. There should be birds in the trees outside, at the very least. On a nice day (which today is not) the sounds from Ottery St Catchpole could be heard in the kitchen. An open window creaks in the draught and it's all I can do not to jump.

"Let's get out of here," Bill says roughly, and quickly strides over to the door leading outside into the garden. He almost touches it before Charlie grabs his hand and effectively stops him – not even he can do anything against the superhuman strength.

"What?"

Charlie's nostrils flare; he points at the door with his free hand.

"Smells fishy."

"A trap?" I ask looking between the two of them.

"Most likely," Charlie agrees. "They couldn't get inside, so they rigged the doors. Chances are there are detection wards against everything, and they dive in on us as soon as we cross the threshold."

"So we either take a Portkey out – which will land us back in Egypt – or we open the Burrow to Death Eaters," I more state than ask, for the sake of clarifying the situation to myself. It's not too bad. Better than: you, kid, either you burn this guy to death with your hands and feel all that he does, or you die. I smile grimly.

"That sounds about correct," Bill responds with a wry smile on his own. He looks around and shrugs. Jaded, Charlie's said. I can see it now. Burrow isn't his home anymore, isn't anybody's home, actually. Opening it to Death Eaters is just an unpleasant necessity. Charlie takes it much worse, hugging himself and rubbing his upper arms as if he was cold.

"Will the wards hold if we close the door behind us?"

"They should." Bill doesn't sound too certain, but not too concerned either. He's emotionally cut himself off. So this is how it's done properly. I study him for a moment and then look to the other side of the kitchen.

"What about the windows. Are they rigged?"

Charlie sniffs the air, goes closer to the window, though taking care to remain out of sight form outside, and sniffs again. Then he nods.

"But at least one must be open. Does that mean they got in?"

I notice movement of shadows out of the corner of my eye. The intruder's panicked. Bill and Charlie lift their wands, but the thing's already gone, leaving a trail of green slime behind.

"A bundimun." They both sigh in relief, but I feel none. "Still doesn't explain the window." I put Bill's suitcase on the table and go upstairs, trying to determine where the creak had come from. The door to what used to be Ron's bedroom is ripped off its hinges. I approach slowly, with my wand at the ready, but the place is empty. I disturb a few more bundimuns that scatter. The window is, indeed, open; the lock seems to be broken out of the frame. I walk over to it and look down on the lawn.

There lies a little mangled body of an ugly creature. It's so utterly pitiful…

I let out a foul curse and return to the basement. Bill and Charlie are debating the use of revealing charms on the door, which is the most reasonable action right now. Or we could blast the wood to smithereens, but the second part of the plan – closing it behind us – might prove somewhat problematic in that case. They turn to me with a silent question.

"The ghoul," I say, pretending that I don't care. "It's dead." Bill just nods, but Charlie seems just as affected as I was, or even more. His love for all creatures isn't an asset in war.

"Find out what they put over the wards, and we'll see if we can salvage the building," I suggest coldly, and they do so, knowing full well that it's the best option we have.

This is Bill's expertise, so we let him do it. I take the suitcase from the table in case we'll have to run, Charlie grabs the second one to free Bill's hands. It's but a moment and the wards flare to life with a banshee-like screech.

"Detection of use of magic," Bill informs us, before casting a rapid succession of spells. The lock clicks and he kicks the door open. "Don't touch it!"

Charlie rushes out, I run on his heels. We hear a slam and the wards calm, but the screech – which was added by the Death Eaters – continues. Several black-robed figures Apparate on the road and set out in our direction. We run for the opposite edge of the garden, following Charlie's lead. There is no gate here, but he jumps over the fence with appalling ease. Bill and I follow with much less grace, in my case throwing the suitcase first and then jumping. Charlie catches the luggage and disappears; Bill reaches for my hand and Apparates us away. The screech dies.

x

We appear in the centre of the living room in Grimmauld Place in front of Tonks, Remus and Hestia Jones, who let out a cacophony of surprised exclamations. Neither of them attempts to curse us, though, and thus all is well until Bill falls forward onto me and sends me to my knees with the impact.

"Charlie!" I shout, and lay Bill down on the carpet, trying to figure out what's wrong. His hands are coated with violet crystals, which is an indication of a problem, and he has a nasty wound on thigh – it seems that the artery was ruptured.

Charlie, who has obviously aimed for a different room (or didn't refine his aim as much as he's believed to), barges in and skids on his knees next to his brother. One of the trinity we have surprised got over their shock and ran out of the room, hopefully calling for help. I gesture towards Bill's hands and Charlie moves over there, while I rip Bill's trousers and hold the edges of the wound together. It doesn't look like it's from the fence-planks; he must have been attacked by some plant when we ran across the back part of the garden.

It's easy to mend; these spells were among the first I researched when I returned to Hogwarts in September. Bill hasn't even lost much blood. I'm more worried about the curse he contracted. Really, he should have at least worn gloves… My subconscious provides me with a memory of those hands on my skin, how soft and at the same time rough they were, their touch gentle and yet forceful…

"I don't know!" Charlie exclaims angrily. "Curse-breaking is his turf!"

But Dark Magic is mine. Violet. What could it mean, violet? Seventh Chakra, modesty and candour, the indication of a magic-practitioner, luxury… that doesn't help. Space/thought, air… it was contracted through air.

I force myself to calm down and wait for help. When the person to enter is Snape, I feel an almost forgotten emotion flood me.

x

"Harry, my boy," Dumbledore announces himself, as if I didn't notice him coming in simply by the waft of citrus and old man that lingers around him. I continue staring out of the window at the rainy filthy London, and do some last-second deciding. Dumbledore's patronising is driving me to homicide, but I can't afford to build a rift between us, and he doesn't need to know my feelings. No longer will I be an open book for anyone to read…

"Hello, sir," I say timidly, in a rather good resemblance to myself from the first year. Yeah, shyness is the way to go. And a large dose of naivety.

"I have heard about your misadventures from Mr Weasley. I wondered if you wanted to add something to the tale?" Which Mr Weasley? What do you want me to think you know, old coot?

"We were in Egypt, sir. I was ill and Bill and Charlie helped me recover." There. You knew that already, I'm sure, and there's no harm in giving you the information anyway, since Bill's home was compromised. I wonder, was it you who sent the owl to uproot us?

"Why did you not search out Madam Pomfrey if you were unwell, my boy?"

Well, now it would be useful to know what he already knows. I certainly don't want him to think that I lie to him.

"I collapsed outside of Hogsmeade, sir. I don't remember much of what happened, but I woke up in a bed somewhere warm. I was very weak at first, could hardly speak. They had…" a little bit of embarrassment added here for effect, "…had to help me eat. It was awful."

"I'm so sorry, dear boy." Doesn't he get sick of the repetitiveness? Even I don't add 'sir' to the end of every sentence (although Snape would claim that I was simply being disrespectful). "Would you mind telling me what you were doing in Hogsmeade during classes?" The man is good, I have to give it to him. There was not a hint of reproach in that sentence. It doesn't lessen my troubles, though. I can keep the information to myself right now, but he's going to find out either way. Perhaps the best damage control would be to give him something, and let him draw his own conclusions.

"I've read this book, sir… I've gotten it from Si-Sirius…" The stammer is fake, and I'm somewhat surprised to realise that it doesn't hurt to talk about my Godfather anymore. I'm alright, but the more vulnerable Dumbledore thinks I am, the better for me. I sniff, and the Headmaster's eyes shine with concern and sympathy. "There was a ritual…"

"What kind of ritual, Harry?" There is a subtle change in his skin colour, which could pass for paling. Now for the difficult part. How to make myself look ashamed? Blush, sure. How to blush…

I try to think about Bill and our intimate encounters and manage a pleasant flush, but the point is that I got red, and Dumbledore will read it as he wishes to.

"B-blood ritual, sir. I know it's wrong," I add defensively, "but I was so desperate! I don't know how I'm supposed to… to vanquish… Voldemort." I offer myself a silent applause in the privacy of my well-Occluded mind. Dumbledore puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. I could cast an Unforgivable and the man would try to placate me, I'm sure.

"Harry, child… we all make mistakes. It is important to admit to them, and attempt to make it up. And since you did not actually harm anyone…" Oh, but I wanted to. And I don't consider it a mistake – I don't hate Bill and Charlie for stopping me from dying anymore, but I still think it would have been better that way. But Dumbledore has a different idea: "all you have to make up for is a bit of schoolwork. Your teachers have already consented to give you an independent study plan, up until the Christmas holidays. By that time you should be caught up on all your subjects."

While I doubt there's actually anything that my classmates learnt in the past two weeks that I don't know, I'm not about to inform the coot.

"Thank you, sir!" I say with a grin. He seems happy about making me happy and finally, finally leaves me alone. I have to go check up on Bill as soon as the air is clear.

x

Clapping of a single pair of hands disturbs the quiet I've longed for. I turn around; in the doorway to the living room is Snape, applauding me and, judging by his facial expression, meaning it. I can't detect a sign of mocking.

"Professor," I say by way of greeting. He steps into the library and sets up a Silencing Ward to give us a bit of privacy.

"That was an outstanding piece of acting, Mr Potter," he says calmly and sits down into the armchair next to mine.

"Acting, sir?" I play stupid. We gaze at each other for about ten seconds. Then I scoff self-deprecatingly. I knew I couldn't keep this from him. He's far too perceptive.

"There is no way you could go from an emotionless killing machine to a naïve childish brat, unless you blocked out a massive amount of memories, Mr Potter. And I think we have established that you remember everything very well."

I lift an eyebrow, but he waves my concern away.

"Do not worry; I will not be the one to disclose this secret of yours."

I nod gratefully, and ask the question I wanted to ask for a long time (at least so it seems to me).

"How is Bill?"

"Conscious," Snape replies curtly and concisely. I feel a weight lifting from my chest. I guess I'm far more attached to Bill than I suspected.

"Thank you, Professor" I say and offer a half-bow, which is the most respect I've ever given to anyone. The information itself was valuable and brought much happiness, but Snape was in fact the one who made Bill's recovery happen, and I shall never forget that.

"May I…"

"Oh, go on, Potter, before you step out a hole in the carpet." I run out of the room.

x

My enthusiasm is largely dampened by the presence of one French hussy in Bill's room. I notice my own discomfort – luckily for myself and just about everyone else it is not jealousy – and curse myself for it. I slept with this woman's lover. And I would very much like to do it again. And, although I'm not likely to, there is still a bond between us that won't ever dissipate.

"Hi, Bill," I say, remembering an occasion about two weeks ago when our roles were reversed. He seems to find humour in the occurrence as well, even though it is Fleur and not myself who sits on the side of his bed. I nonchalantly lean against the wall and return his smile.

"Hi, Harry," he greets back, and our shoulders shake, although we don't break in outright laughter despite the hilarity. Poor Fleur notices she's being left out of the joke, even though there, in fact, is no joke. She glares at me and I suppress the urge to stick my tongue out at her.

"Hi, Fleur," I add. Her glare intensifies. Apparently she believes I'm mocking her. Which the good little naïve Harry wouldn't do. "I haven't seen you in a while," I say truthfully. "How are you?" I am not interested nearly as much as what I portray, but the point is to make her think that I am… well, stupid. She already knows it from before (since the Triwizard Tournament when I lost the first place in the Second Task because of pointless nobility); I only let her think that nothing has changed.

She chatters on with heavy accent that gives me headache and after a while, when I act like I don't notice her glares and scowls, which are her way of suggesting that I should leave, she excuses herself to go to the bathroom.

Bill relaxes almost like he used to in Egypt.

"She was worried," he explains. I shrug – I don't care – and come closer to him. I kneel next to the bed and take his hand into mine to examine the bandages. They are shiny white, smelling of herbs. Snape is truly a godsend.

"Are you feeling better?" I inquire, and give him a hard look when he opens his mouth to deliver the rehearsed lie he's already fed to his fiancée and mother and Merlin knows who else.

"Damn you, Harry. You just can't make anything easier." It's not exactly my forte – to make things easy. I don't want him to lie to me. I bet he wouldn't try and lie to Charlie, and while I can never claim to be as close to him as Charlie is, I hope to prove equally trustworthy.

"It hurts, doesn't it."

"Like sunburn under hot water. Nothing I can't stand." I am sorry, but it means nothing. It's not my fault; even though I was there in the beginning and I was the one being saved, I know it's not my fault and don't feel guilty. It just hurts me to see him in pain.

"You would have died," I guess he was told this, but in the case he wasn't he should know. "Snape patched you up."

"He was here earlier. I promised him a bottle of Firewhisky."

I chuckle and shake my head. Snape prefers Alsikescotch. Although I can't understand why; it's disgusting.

"I'll give him a kiss for you if you want," I say with a heavy dose of sarcasm and Bill finally laughs, though whether at the imagery or at me being an idiot I don't find out, since Fleur returns from the bathroom and with renewed haughtiness outright asks me to leave, stating Bill's need for rest as the reason.