CHAPTER 6

The rest of the week went in a comfortable pattern like that: answer mail, eat breakfast with the house-elves, study his books, maybe help Peeves set up one of his ticking time bomb pranks, lunch with Hagrid, and then it was off to spend the last half of the day tromping around after the half-giant, tending to creatures, working on buildings, setting up feed, cleaning out habitats, healing the ill or wounded, and everything else under the sun. Then Harry would drag himself back up to the castle, tired and often dirty, for a shower and then dinner in the kitchen. He might read a bit more before bed, and then fall into a blissfully fatigued and therefore dreamless sleep.

Because Harry had grown accustomed to these activities with an unfamiliar mixture of contentment and intrigue—he felt like he was actually learning something every day—it was with odd reluctance that he went to meet Dumbledore—who had been MIA all week—on Sunday morning for his trip to the Burrow.

It wasn't that he didn't want to see Hermione and Ron and the rest of the Weasleys, but he didn't want to throw a wrench in the progress he was making with spellsmithing. It seemed he would eventually have to dabble in some arithmancy, but with this solidifying base of knowledge, he had actually begun to understand some of the concepts.

A little. Bits of it. Well, smidges here and there were becoming slightly clearer than mud.

And there was so much going on with Hagrid's projects, and the Hippogriffs were nesting, the Centaurs were receiving emissaries from other herds, the merfolk would be leaving this week, which meant Peeves would be moving the squid eggs…

He almost laughed at himself as he entered Hogsmeade. It was the first time he'd ever felt like he was missing things by going to stay with his friends, rather than the other way around. He was so preoccupied with this unprecedented mix of feelings that he nearly jumped out of his skin when a distinctly un-Moody voice barked, "Constant vigilance, Potter!"

"Bloody hell, Tonks!" Harry muttered when he saw who it was. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

"Better to scare some sense into you now than to have you taken by surprise later," she responded with a grin, stepping out from the shadow of a shop to join him. Her hair was a platinum blond, swept up in an oddly elegant faux-hawk.

"If I die from cardiac arrest today, it won't really matter much tomorrow, will it?" Harry replied, allowing the young woman to drape an arm around his shoulders. "And I wasn't scared, anyway. Just preoccupied."

"Hah, sure. Just remember what I said, Harry."

"I've got Moody for that," he told her, trying not to smile. Though with Tonks, it was difficult. Her scent reminded him of apples and faint cigar smoke, and for a second he was thoroughly distracted. With an effort, he continued, "So what are you going to do for me?"

"What am I gonna do?" she repeated. She levitated his heavy trunk. "I'll do this. And I'll get you to the Burrow in three pieces or less. I'll even smack you around a bit, if you fancy a duel later." Her smirk turned sly.

Harry decided to ignore this jibe, as it probably wasn't too far off from the truth. The idea was very attractive, though. "You're taking me, then? Where's Dumbledore?"

"Called away at the last minute," she replied. "More damage control, I expect. Right, ready to go?"

At Harry's nod, Tonks took him by the arm, and they disapparated. Harry had never enjoyed this side-along apparation business, and as he felt every fiber of his body being assaulted on all sides by nearly unbearable pressure, he couldn't help but compare it to the experience of being squeezed through Mrs. Figg's birdbath from the Other side. He found himself remembering that experience wistfully, when compared with the fleeting but violent torture that he was feeling now.

In the next second they'd popped back into existence, and Harry exhaled in a put-upon sort of way. "I need to learn to apparate," he told Tonks as they began the walk up the dirt drive. The Burrow looked cozy, nestled in the overgrown gardens and trees, like some giant pheasant hunkered down in the brush. The air was balmy and windy, and the sky had a distinctly stormy cast, as if it might start pouring down rain at any second.

"Not a bad idea, if you ask me," Tonks agreed, eyeing him. "You always being in the middle of everything and all."

Harry opened his mouth, a rebuttal already on his tongue, but instead he sighed and asked, "Why does that always happen?"

"You attract trouble like dragons to a Hawaiian pig roast," Tonks agreed cheerfully. Harry squinted at this dubious comparison—I'm the roasted pig?—but she went on in a gruff voice that Harry took to represent the 'every-man,' "Maybe if ya'd just quit running around lookin' for it all the time!"

Harry snorted. "Ah, silly me; I never realized it was that simple!"

"The popular majority is all-knowing," Tonks said, winking at him. "You would do well to listen to them more often, young grasshopper."

"Gag me," Harry muttered.

"Hey, before we get swamped by Weasleys, Harry," Tonks said as they neared the front door, "I wanted to tell you not everybody's mad about what you did in Diagon Alley. Those kids were punks, but they might've hurt a lot of people if you weren't there, and though some of us don't act like it, we were proud of you. And you handled the situation at the Dursleys' really, really well. You stayed cool, you neutralized the perp, you left us instructions, and you got away safely."

Harry grimaced at that last bit. It had been pure, happy luck that he'd fallen through that puddle like he had. Those four wizards were just about to swoop in on him.

Tonks hadn't noticed, and continued, "Although, don't be surprised if the ministry sends someone to clear up a few details. The Dursleys are still missing. And you will have to explain how you managed to completely vanish. Whatever you did, it fooled all of the Ministry's tracking devices."

Harry didn't respond for a long moment, brain scrambling for an explanation that sounded less crazy than the truth. "I didn't do anything. They must've malfunctioned or something."

"Could be," she shrugged, eyeing him. "Anyway, you did good. That bit with the refrigerator magnet…" her smile of pride faltered for a fraction of a second, and Harry looked down. She put a hand on his shoulder. "It was good, Harry. It was…"

Harry continued to study the ground. They'd paused just outside the front door, and he could hear the boisterous sounds of the large family inside. With a deep breath, he said quietly, "He was like that. He was a symbol, to me, sometimes… more than he was a real person." He looked up at Tonks, and found understanding in her keenly intelligent eyes. "He was what I could have had."

"I'm sorry, Harry," she said, and squeezed his shoulder. They took a moment, where Harry cleared his throat and scrubbed his hair, before they both turned to face the door. Tonks gave it a sharp rap, and it opened, spilling out light and warmth and a jumble of noise and ginger-haired faces. "Harry!" went up the general exclamation.

"Wait, wait, wait," Molly put up her hands. "Tonks, password?"

"Oh shove it, Mum!" shouted Ron from the back, and Harry found himself engulfed in a tight hug by someone quick and brown-haired.

"Oof! Hello, Hermione," he grunted, amused.

She stepped back, fighting between a joyful smile and a scolding frown, and shook him by his upper arms. "Stop getting into so much trouble, Harry!"

"I don't try to," he retorted.

"Hey mate," Ron greeted, smacking him in the shoulder. "Hope you're done lazing about! We've got some serious work to do, involving brooms."

Harry laughed, already looking forward to all the Quidditch they were going to play, and all the good food he was going to eat. He didn't even mind the chores he was likely to receive, or the games of chess he was going to lose. Everyone piled into the doorway to greet him, minus an absent Arthur and of course Percy. Finally Molly had to shoo them all inside so she could close the door against the rain that had started to fall outside.

Later that evening, after a huge supper in which Harry was obliged to eat much more than he usually would, he and Ron and Hermione trooped upstairs to hide out in Ron's room. It was just as cluttered and orange as Harry remembered, except this year the tank in the corner was full of— "Brains?" Harry exclaimed upon spotting them. Indeed, propelling themselves around rocks and bits of seaweed like a pair of bizarre jellyfish, the two brains seemed perfectly content in the old fish-tank.

"Er, yeah," Ron said, scrubbing the back of his neck. "I was told they're useless to the Department of Mysteries now… since it seems they've imprinted on me. Like a pair of bloody baby birds or something."

"Well, you know what they say," Harry said, trying unsuccessfully not to snigger. "Three heads are better than one."

"They say that, do they?" Ron asked sarcastically.

Harry noticed Hermione was regarding the little brains with an expression of dismay tinged with envy, and he privately thought they had been wasted on Ron… whatever it was that they did. "So, what do they do exactly?"

"Nothing very useful," Ron admitted with a grimace. "Like to chime in, sometimes, with their opinions on pretty much anything you can imagine."

"Out loud?" Harry asked, perking up in morbid amazement.

"No," Ron said, ears turning red with discomfort. "I feel like a bloody nutter, you know. Hearing voices…" he shook his head sadly.

"Preaching to the choir, mate," Harry said, patting him on the shoulder.

"Good point," Ron said, and actually seemed to take strength from that.

"So what's been going on with you, Harry?" Hermione asked, looking worried but trying to hide it. "Your letters have been frightfully vague."

"All right, but not a word of this to anyone, you guys," Harry said, casting a glance at the door and shifting into a more comfortable position. "The first thing is—and this is what I was writing you about, Hermione—well… my magic is… there's something wrong with it." He hesitated, watching their faces slowly freeze up, and considered maybe it would be better not to tell them. He growled, raking his fingers through his hair. "Basically, I've been, like… breaking things and setting things on fire without meaning to."

"Like… wild magic?" Ron asked, watching him.

"Yeah, except it's less… random. It's like I'm loosing control of it or something. In a fight, when I can get focused, it doesn't really happen, but when I feel strong emotions, stuff gets destroyed. At least, I think that's the cause. It's mostly just when I'm angry. Well, I haven't really felt any strong emotions except anger since… you know, so…." He trailed off, and glanced up hopefully at Hermione.

She looked pensive, frowning and chewing her lip. "I… that sounds strange. It can't be—I mean, you're already a wizard, with a wand and training, so…." She brightened. "Have you looked up any magical maladies? I've heard—"

"Yeah," Harry cut her off, feeling his disappointment like a building pressure. "I've checked illnesses, and old age, and just about every book on Squibs I've been able to find…"

"And you checked at Hogwarts?"

He nodded, feeling like his blood was draining out of him. If Hermione was grasping at straws…

"Could be just growing pains, mate," Ron suggested quietly, trying to sound optimistic. "You know, I heard a wizard's capacity never stops growing…kind of like your nose, or your ears, right?"

Harry gave him a steady look. "Have you ever heard of anything like this?"

"Well, no," Ron admitted. "Doesn't mean it hasn't happened before. Wizards and witches have been around for a really long time, you know."

Hermione latched on to that thread. "I'm sure there's someone who knows, Harry. It's just not possible that you're the first one."

Harry twisted his mouth, hating that answer, but admitting to himself that it was probably true. It didn't tell him anything, though, except that he was being stupid for thinking maybe his was the very first case. "Yeah, you're probably right."

"Just be careful, Harry," Hermione told him, brow furrowed, and Ron nodded in silent agreement. "Try not to get too angry about anything."

Harry blew out an irritated sigh. "Not exactly something I can control, Hermione."

"It is, Harry, it just takes practice. You've got to have an iron will," Hermione insisted. "Imagine if Dumbledore lost his temper all the time! We'd probably all be dead by now."

Harry took in her earnest expression, and tried to imagine Dumbledore raging out of control. After fighting the old man's double, it wasn't as difficult to imagine as he might have liked, and the idea made the hairs on his arms stand up. Maybe Hermione was right. Maybe he should work harder at self-control. He shook his head, looking down at his hands. Of course it always came back to himself. It was up to him to succeed or fail.

"Uh, Harry," Ron said, interrupting his train of thought. Harry looked up to see his friend closing his eyes in a grimace. "One of the brains is insisting I tell you that you have pretty eyes. And… the other one thinks you look like a puff."

"All right, Ron," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "So how much of that was actually just you being a git?"

"No, really—" Ron said hastily, glancing over to the tank where the two brains were, indeed, rather avidly staring out—apparently disregarding their own lack of eyeballs. "One of them fancies you, and the other one is jealous, I think… And the way they're both screaming 'no!' makes me think I'm right. Bloody hell."

"I thought they both fancied you, Ron. Isn't that the whole problem?" Harry asked pointedly, feeling mildly disturbed.

"Harry," Hermione interrupted, directing their attention back. "You said that was the first thing. What else has happened?"

Harry sighed, and launched in to a brief story about the confrontation at the Dursleys. Hermione squeaked at the idea of him fighting Dumbledore's doppelganger, and he carefully glossed over how he finished the fight. When it came time to tell them how he'd escaped the four wizards in pursuit, he hesitated.

"Go on, mate," Ron prodded. "What happened then?"

Should he really tell them this? It sounded like he'd been smacked one too many times in the head, even when he rehearsed the story to himself. He hemmed and hawed and tried to think of some other explanation—any other explanation. It didn't even have to be very reasonable; anything would sound more likely than the truth. A small voice in the back of his mind told him he could just prove it, but another irrational part feared that it might not work this time. Or what if it really all had been in his mind? The only other time he'd attempted it, he did recall being pretty high on painkillers. Finally, after sitting with his mouth open for quite a while, he said, "I managed to get into the trees, and lost them."

Hermione wilted slightly, and he could see by the sadness in her eyes that she knew he was lying, and that she didn't understand why. Ron, however, scoffed and said, "Well that is a bit anti-climatic."

Harry snorted, but it was in relief rather than any real amusement. "Next time I'll try to make up a better ending."

Ron brightened, smacking him in the shoulder. "So you beat McGonagall in a duel!"

Harry paused. She'd been under the Imperius curse. Or at least a variation of it, as Dumbledore had said. Harry frowned at that, thinking it an odd way of phrasing things. There were variations on the Unforgivables?

Regardless, he didn't really think she'd been at her full capacity. She hadn't even transfigured anything but the floor, and Harry had always imagined she'd fight a bit like the Headmaster did, since they both specialized in the same discipline. It seemed strange, but she might have just been doing the things she was told to do, after all.

Maybe whoever was pulling the strings was a shoddy duelist. Maybe she wasn't even supposed to kill him, or capture him. Maybe the intent had been something else entirely, that Harry hadn't thought of yet.

But then why use McGonagall, and why have her appear as Dumbledore? He shook his head. "I don't know if I'd put it that way…"

Hermione finally laughed. "But Ron would, and that's why you're Harry and he's Ron."

"Come on Harry, admit it! You kicked McGonagall's shriveled, pruny—"

"Ron!" Hermione cut in, aghast.

"Well, she's old, Hermione. Even if she moisturized—"

"Ron!" Harry interrupted this time, reeling from unwanted mental images. "Shut up!"

Ron put up his hands in a gesture of defeat, and said sullenly, "Anyway, all I'm saying is you live an exciting life, Harry. Death Eaters in Diagon Alley, a crazy duel at your house, and you escape without a scratch after bagging and tagging our Professor. And now you're living at Hogwarts while your idiot family is missing… Your life is completely barmy, Harry."

Harry felt a bubble of hysteria trying to surface, and suppressed it. "You don't know the half of it, mate—"

A knock on the door brought Harry up short, and they all turned as Molly poked her head in. "Harry, dear, Dumbledore's just arrived, and he was wondering if he might have a word."

"Thanks Mrs. Weasley," Harry said, and she gave him a smile before ducking back out. As he descended the stairs, his thoughts were occupied with trying to figure out how to broach the subject of parallel worlds to his two best friends. He found Dumbledore waiting just outside the front door. "Hello, Professor."

"Hello, my dear boy," the Headmaster responded, smiling down at him fondly.

Harry remembered that Tonks had told him Dumbledore had been called away at the last minute earlier in the evening. He'd assumed it had been something rather dire. "So whatever you were doing tonight, I'm guessing it went well?"

"Quite well, I'm happy to report," the older man assured him. "There is, however, something I'd like to discuss with you, Harry. Would you mind taking a walk with me?"

"All right," Harry agreed, wondering what this could be about that he couldn't discuss it in front of the Weasleys. Perhaps it had something to do with the Prophecy, he reasoned. His stomach flipped unpleasantly.

Molly smiled at them as they stepped outside into the muggy evening. It had long since stopped raining, and the clouds overhead seemed to only hold the heavy air closer. It was getting dark already, and lights were winking on in the nearby village, visible here and there through the trees that bordered the makeshift Quidditch pitch.

"So what's up, Professor?" Harry asked as their footsteps crunched on the gravel drive. A rooster—the last one still about, it seemed—paced them from the fringe of grass, as if trying to decide whether they might be easy prey.

"Ah, well, primarily I wanted to make sure you had made it safely to the Burrow. Arthur tells me Ron has been very much looking forward to your stay with them."

Harry nodded. His thoughts traveled back to Hogwarts and all that was happening in his absence. "But it's only for the week, right?"

Dumbledore looked down at him with surprise. "I had imagined so, yes, but I am rather amazed that you seem to share my preference."

Harry shrugged, looking away. "I have things to do. It's nice to visit, but…"

"I understand, Harry," Dumbledore said easily. He pulled a little tin from inside his robes and popped it open. "Lemon-drop?" he offered.

Harry squinted up at him bemusedly. "You're in a much better mood, today, Professor."

Dumbledore smiled at him, and selected a candy for himself before tucking the tin away. "And why shouldn't I be, my dear boy?"

Harry's smile became rather forced at the endearment. "You've just been pretty tired and preoccupied the last week, is all."

"Ah, well. Life is short. I know I cannot fix everything, and it doesn't do to dwell."

This sounded unlike something Dumbledore would normally say. If anything, the Headmaster suffered from trying to do everything himself. Maybe he had finally realized that he could trust others to get the job done. Harry thought it was ironic that it had taken the old man so long. But—

"Protego!" Harry shouted, and his shield flashed into existence a split-second before a stunner splashed across it.

"Oh, good show, Harry," the faux-Dumbledore sneered. "It seems you are learning."

Harry dodged the next curse, and returned fire with a bludgeoning hex. "Professor McGonagall, is that you?" he appealed breathlessly.

The imposter laughed outright. "Do you really think it matters?" He cast something strange, a wobbling jet that seemed to warp the air around it. "Do you really think we can't get to everyone close to you, Harry Potter?"

Harry erected a slab of earth and skittered sideways, watching wide-eyed as the imposter's spell sheared off dirt and stone before howling away into the fields behind them.

Harry swore, casting a Reducto that ripped up the road like a small land mine. The imposter's wand flashed, deflecting most of the debris away, and Harry used the distraction to send a bright red flare toward the Burrow.

"Ah-ah-ah," the old man scolded through the wafting dust. "I've learned a few things too, Harry Potter."

In the flare's sharp illumination, Harry suddenly spotted three more figures closing in, pushing through the tall grasses—

"Incendio!" Harry shouted, sweeping his wand in an arc. Fire ignited briefly all around him, but the fields were too wet, and were soon billowing smoke. He deflected another stunner from the doppelganger, dodged a hail of curses from the three now stepping over the smoldering barrier—

Harry cast a bubblehead charm on one, trapping the smoke inside and sending the man coughing to the ground, turned to the next—

"Gotcha," he heard from behind, just before a wave of stinging hot and cold needles washed over him, his legs gave out, and the world went black.

"Harry Potter…"

Harry twitched. His cheek slipped in something slimy, and he realized he'd been drooling. His eyes didn't seem to want to open, and when he finally forced them, they burned. His whole body ached, and his mouth and eyes were dry, as if someone had rubbed his face in salt and then stuck him in a smoker.

The voice spoke again. "I just wanted to invite you to a little party…"

He blinked, trying to bring his surroundings into focus, but they refused. He realized he was missing his glasses. The only details he could make out were that the place was dim, with a slightly reddish cast that reflected off a jumble of long, straight lines. Like pipes, maybe. And the floor was metal, but it was faintly warm. A dull thrumming filled the room and waves of hot air rolled over him. It smelled faintly of mechanical grease and something else… it was familiar, but he couldn't put a finger on it.

He wouldn't have been able to put his finger on anything anyway—he was tightly bound and lying on his right side, which was numb in a way that told him he'd been in this position for quite a while.

Footsteps rang on the floor, a slow methodical pace. Boots entered his blurry vision, stopping near his face. "I must say, you haven't been very good company, my dear boy," the man went on, voice trembling with restrained amusement. His accent was strange—it was almost like the absence of one, as if the man had come from nowhere. "Damn near unresponsive, in fact." The voice giggled quietly.

Harry tried to speak, but his words hitched in his throat and he coughed. Once he'd started, he couldn't seem to stop, and his ribs and stomach were aching by the time he could catch another burning breath.

"I'd imagine you must be rather thirsty," the voice suggested. "Two days in the engine room will do that." The boots rocked up onto their toes as the man crouched beside Harry. "To be honest, I rather forgot you were down here." More laughter.

Harry grit his teeth. He'd been knocked out for two days? At least that long—the man only said he'd been in this room for two days. Harry finally managed to force a sound out of his raw throat. "Where?" am I, he meant to say, but his voice ran out.

Abruptly, a hand smacked his face. "Ah-ah-ah, Harry. It's no fun if I have to tell you."

Harry flinched away, and felt a moment of wild anger. Accio wand!

He could feel his hands—they were bound tightly behind him—but his wand did not slap into his palm as it should have.

"Why don't you try to guess, hm?" the voice suggested.

Come on, Harry thought. Come on! Accio!

The man shifted, poking him in the cheek with a gloved finger. "Hm. You are disappointingly dull, Harry Potter. I find myself overestimating you, it seems."

Harry thrashed away from the finger, feeling the rage boil in his stomach. The bonds were unimaginably tight, and they only seemed to tighten further as he strained against them. He twisted, panting, and his limbs sprang alive with pins and needles. "Rraaagh!" he snarled in frustration. It was like swallowing glass, and for a moment he saw red. "Who are you?"

The man's only response was a low, smooth chuckle, quite unlike the barely restrained laughter from before. The boots stepped away, and Harry saw a flash of red light before he blacked out.

The next time he awoke, he was no longer in the engine room.

The lamps were turned low, but there were lamps. There were Persian rugs and heavy silk drapes, a masterfully worked chandelier, and furniture of exquisitely carved wood with gold leaf and velvet upholstery. There was a stately bed with an intricately embroidered golden spread, and a mountain of decorative pillows, beneath rich hangings. The room was so unexpectedly exquisite that Harry wondered for a moment if he'd simply imagined the whole thing.

But no, he was sitting slumped on the floor, and his hands were bound from behind to a thick wooden column that sprang inexplicably from the middle of the room. Not to mention the hollow, gnawing ache in his gut that made him want to curl over and die. He figured his last meal must have been several days ago. That, and he still felt as if he'd been wrung inside out, salted, and then swung about by his head.

At least now he was wearing his glasses. And at this point things could hardly—No, don't tempt fate, Potter. It would do him no good to jinx the situation.

He craned his head, trying to get a good look out the windows behind the drapes, but all he could tell was that it was dark outside. There were no lights out there; it was pitch black.

He growled, leaning back to bang his head once on the post. "Bloody…" he tightened his lips, baring his teeth, and thought of about a million dirty curses and couldn't settle on just one. Maybe if he got angry enough, he could set this beautiful room on fire.

Just then, the door cracked open, flooding the floor with light. "Hey, he's awake!"

Harry's countenance darkened as he recognized the voice of his jailor. The sounds of many people talking and laughing floated in from the hall outside, accompanied by the scent of rich food and the sound of distant music. Several figures trailing behind the man paused when he spoke quietly to them, before dispersing.

The man stepped into the room, but his appearance was disguised by the light behind him, and all Harry could see was that he was tall and slender, with short hair and a top hat, and that he was wearing some kind of long dress coat.

"You don't look so hot, Junior," the man said, leaning over him patronizingly, as one might a dog. "Let's take you out for a bit of fresh air, hm?"

Before Harry could so much as curse at him, the man had whipped out his wand to cast a silencing charm, before levitating Harry to an upright position a few inches above the floor. The bindings on Harry's hands briefly unwound themselves from the column, but Harry could only twitch his shoulders forward before they had retied behind him.

The man stepped closer, murmuring, "See, I want you to be able to look around, so petrifying you won't work at all. This way you can kick and scream all you want, and nobody will hear you. And they won't see you, either," he added, and Harry could hear the smirk in his voice. The feeling of cold water running down the back of his neck made him jerk, and he knew he'd been Disillusioned.

"Follow me," the man said with a tilt of his head. Harry thrashed powerfully, but since he couldn't reach the floor, he simply floated gently along, kicking up air, out into the bright hall. It was infuriating.

"Vidiscio," the man muttered, pointing his wand at his own face. When he glanced back at Harry, his face blurred, even though Harry could see everything else sharply. "You're rather a rather precocious child, mydear boy. A man can't be too careful."

Too right, Harry thought viciously. He might not be able to see the man's face, but he could see his build, and the curly, light brown hair poking from beneath the brim of his hat. He could see the weathered lines in the slightly browned skin, and the jut of the angular cheekbones and jaw. He would know this man if he saw him.

"Well," the man said, spreading his arms as if he were a tour guide. "As you see, this happens to be one of several dozen guest wings. The total count exceeds five hundred rooms. The wings are distinguished by door numbers, and color. This is obviously the Emerald wing." And indeed, the walls of the long, elegant hallway were a rich, dark green.

The man began to walk in long, smooth strides, and Harry was compelled to float along behind him like some kind of ridiculous balloon. Silencing charm or no, he couldn't believe no one heard his teeth grinding.

There were a few people in the hall—opulent, richly dressed people. There was a beautiful lady in crimson robes, and an austere young man in pale green. And there, another at the end of the hallway: an older man in black robes and pearly undercoats. All of them nodded warmly at Harry's captor, and none of them seemed to notice Harry. He wondered why they didn't look askance at the man's blurry face, but then remembered Vidiscio mentioned in one of the early chapters of the Auror's Starter Companion—it was a spell that allowed people who knew you to see you, and people who didn't, couldn't. They must all have known the man. Another mistake, Harry thought darkly. Not many people here could possibly be familiar to everyone. I'll find you.

The end of the hallway opened up into a spectacularly extravagant ballroom, complete with gaudy mould-work around the high ceiling, and capping the marble columns. The center of the ceiling was painted with a monstrous, bile-inducing mural depicting wizards and witches cavorting with all sorts of fantastical creatures. A ridiculously large chandelier hung from the center, but rather than candles, its many golden branches held brightly glowing globes like tiny suns.

The room was full of people, spinning and gliding over the marble floor, talking and laughing near long, narrow tables of painstakingly arranged food and pyramids of crystal glasses, and dancing to the music performed by the small orchestra in one corner. Harry stared at them all, and wondered what kind of place this was, that so many wealthy and beautiful people came to stay, and yet here he was, being held captive in the very next room.

"The Captain's Ballroom," his captor murmured helpfully. "If you think this is a crowd, you haven't seen anything yet."

Like I really give a damn, Harry wanted to shout. He wanted to reach forward, get a good grip on the man's collar, and thrash him around. He wanted to beat him with his bare hands.

But they sedately glided on, through the crowds, and down a wide, golden hall with a long crimson carpet. It seemed to be a main thoroughfare; there were many people walking in the same direction as Harry and his captor, and many large halls off to either side, full of people eating, or gambling, or watching shows on darkened stages.

There were house-elves moving among them all, carrying trays and delivering food and drink. Several looked up at him, eyes widening slightly, but they all put their heads down and went on. Harry couldn't help a welling despair at this, but then he supposed that maybe the sight of a bound, floating, disillusioned young wizard wasn't so unusual here.

"The cream of the wizarding world," the man told him, indicating the crowds. "The upper echelons of magical society from every corner of the globe—at least, all the right sort. You might have gotten an invitation yourself if you were a bit older, Harry Potter."

Harry, of course, did not respond. The people werecolorful, even for wizards. There was a woman with dark skin and angular features, with a vibrantly plumed bird on her shoulder. There was an old man with slanting eyes and long, white mustaches, wearing opulent yellow silk. There was a group of young men with black stripes across their eyes and bones through their ears and noses. Witches who were clearly Arabic mingled with wizards who appeared to be Latino, and Englishmen in black waistcoats laughed with Tibetans in orange robes. There was a tall, blond fellow who looked almost exactly like…

Lucius.

Lucius!

No, it was impossible! Harry struggled, his bonds digging into the flesh of his wrists as he tried to break free. Lucius Malfoy was supposed to be locked up in Azkaban, and yet here he was, bold as brass and laughing as if he'd never even gone. Harry wanted to howl at the top of his lungs, but nothing came out of his mouth. He was so close! Just a few feet away—he was right there, the bloody bastard—and Harry lunged with all his might. God dammit, he wanted to destroy the man for all that he'd done.

The sound of quiet, mocking laughter wrenched his attention around, and he refocused his rage on the man who held him captive and completely helpless. Harry's vision hazed as he trembled, veins blazing with white-hot wrath. But there was nothing he could do, nothing to lash out at, and it only made him that much more furious. Champagne glasses shattered around him, the lights flickered, and people looked up in alarm.

But the man was still laughing, wiping a tear from his eye, and as quickly as Harry's rage had built, it drained away. There was nothing he could do. He was weak, and useless. He didn't even know where he was. Lucius Malfoy soon drifted out of sight in the crowd, and Harry slumped in defeat.

The wide hallway eventually opened out into a room that was in actuality a massive sphere. Around the span of the sphere's equator was a long balcony upon which throngs of witches and wizards sat at little tables. The room was dimmed, save for the low lamps around the balcony's edge, the faintly pulsing lines of longitude around the dome, and the ethereal light cast from the center of the sphere.

Harry couldn't quite identify the creature that twisted and spun there, glowing and shimmering in brightly shifting colors. Its long trailing fins were as exquisitely patterned as any butterfly's, leaving crackling sparkles in their wake, and its long, scaled body glinted as it moved. The longer Harry looked, the less it seemed like a performance, and the more it seemed as if the creature was struggling against an invisible barrier.

"Chinese river spirit," his captor informed him, before they turned from the mesmerizing sight toward a pair of wrought iron doors. "My apologies, precious boy, but we've got to descend a few levels to get where we're going. You see, I haven't told you this, but—" he pushed one door open to reveal an old-fashioned lift. Harry was levitated in after him, and received another disconcerting look at the man's blurry face. The doors clanged shut, and the lift shuddered into movement. Harry noted that there were five floors, and an additional level called 'B', and that they were currently on the fourth. The lift rattled on past third, before shuddering to a stop on the second floor.

"The thing is," the man continued as if he'd never stopped, "You're going to be participating in tonight's entertainment event. Can't have any freeloaders aboard, can I? Just to forewarn you—it might get a little bit deathy. But fear not, for I have faith in you!" A white smudge amidst the blurred features told Harry that the man was grinning widely.

Aboard? Harry felt that he was on the edge of comprehension, if only he could remember…

They moved out into the hall, and the difference on this level was striking. It was not luxurious at all; in fact, the hall was built entirely of dark, aged timber, and the lamps that hung from the ceiling were old and plain. There was grime in the corners, and the crossbeams and supports were open and bare like an exposed skeleton.

"I was saying to myself, I wonder if dear Harry's ready to go out there? And I decided you'd been softened up enough—not too much, but just enough to make things… interesting. And the beauty of it is that anyone who might have been in attendance to care one way or the other is currently running all over the country, beating the bushes looking for you!"

As if on a passing whim, the man lifted Harry's silencing charm while they walked down the deserted hallway. Immediately, Harry asked, "Whyare you doing this, you son of a bitch?"

The man threw back his head and gave a loud, hearty laugh. "Oh, because I want everyone to know how easy it is! Because it amuses me!"

"Why me? What did I do to you?"

The man's laughter trailed off abruptly in an impatient grunt, and he silenced Harry again. "You're just boring, Harry Potter. Maybe I'll allow you to speak again later. Spend the time you have left thinking of more interesting things to say."

Harry grit his teeth, and turned his thoughts to escape. Wherever his captor was taking him, it didn't sound like it would improve his chances. If Lucius was here, did that mean Voldemort was as well? Did Harry's captor work for him? But then, if Voldemort was so close, wouldn't Harry be feeling the proximity through his scar? Did this mean it was someone else again—some copycat faction?—or perhaps it was simply someone doing the Dark Lord's bidding?

Harry mentally growled. Thinking only raised more questions. He needed a solution, not more problems. How was he going to get out of this? He didn't have a wand, and at the moment he had no way of getting his captor's either. Hopefully whatever this 'entertainment' was would afford him some freedom of movement.

He'd been in worse situations—but at least then he'd understood the motivations at play.

They began to pass long adjoining hallways, with wide doors and heavy bars. The sounds coming from those hallways were hair-raising; piteous moans or mumblings, deep panting growls, heavy shuffling, or inquisitive snorting.

Merlin, what is this place? Harry wondered for the umpteenth time since he'd woken up.

The ceiling above them began to rumble and shake, and little runnels of dust fell from the rafters. The man chuckled and commented, "Either someone just died, or they managed to kill their opponent. Bloodthirsty crowd, you know."

Harry swallowed, staring upwards.

"Excited? I daresay you'll get a good look at them soon enough, Harry Potter."

The hallway broadened, and to their left side, massive lifts began to appear, and with them, wizards and witches in uniforms; grim looking people who stood at attention, or patrolled the aisles of barred doors with predatory focus. They all began to move about when something clattered above, and light poured down two of the lifts. Harry was just being maneuvered into a big doorway at the end of the walk when he caught sight of a stumbling, heavily bloodied man fall out of one lift, and the massive corpse of a grayish cat thump down from the other.

Then the door was closing behind him, and his feet found contact with the floor. It was so shocking that his legs buckled, and he fell to his knees. A warm trickle down the back of his neck told him that the disillusionment charm had been lifted, and two dozen pairs of eyes that had been staring at his captor now shifted quickly to him.

"Harry Potter, hero of the Wizarding World," his captor introduced him, before shoving him forward and clapping an iron manacle over his left wrist. Then he patted Harry roughly on the cheek, removed his magical bonds, and left without another word.

Harry stared back at all of them. They were a ragged looking bunch of men and women, all slouched on the rough benches that lined the walls of the long, narrow room, each similarly bound by iron. The only light came from high up in the raftered ceiling, where the left side seemed to be made of grillwork that let in light and the sound of a roaring crowd from the level above. The scent of sweat and blood and piss assailed his nostrils, and he knew that these people were waiting to die.

A long moment passed before Harry asked, "So how did you all end up here?" He was wondering if they'd all been abducted for various reasons like he had.

They exchanged glances among themselves, before one spoke up. "Well I killed me grandmum, Mister Potter."

Another man nodded. "I knocked over a bank in Dublin; killed two o' the muggle tellers."

"I Imperiused my boss."

"I used the cruciatus on my neighbor's dog… and then my neighbor."

One young woman shouted, "I burnt down most of my college!"

"So," Harry began, and most of them fell quiet again. "So you're all criminals?"

"Aye," went up the general answer. One older man in the front added bitterly, "The lower security wing in Azkaban. The Warden there cut a deal wif the captain of this ship fo' the use of our 'services.'"

"Ship. This is a ship?" It all clicked into place. So this was the Galloping Galleon. Nasty wizards, indeed.

"Well what didja think it was when you stepped on board, Mr. Potter?" snarked another man.

Harry moved to sit on the end of the bench. "I never saw the outside… I was… brought."

"Aah," said several sagely, and Harry took it to mean that they'd once been in the abduction business.

He scrubbed a hand through his stiff, dark hair. Bloody hell. How could a place this size be a ship? And if they were out in international waters, as he now suspected, how the hell was he going to get away without knowing how to Apparate?

The door opened with a clang, and Harry was on his feet and moving before his brain had a chance to catch up. The manacle and chain brought him up short, causing the guards outside to laugh. A man was shoved inside, and the door slammed shut again. It was the man Harry had seen in the lift; he was now covered in bandages, and looking slightly more steady on his feet.

"I drew the nundu," he slurred, shuffling forward. A good number of the criminals cheered, and Harry assumed they were all glad it hadn't been them. After a moment, he moved to help the man sit, and the man accepted his arm gratefully.

"How did you beat it?" Harry asked.

The man looked up, and Harry realized he could not be much more than ten years older than Harry was. His dark brown hair curled over his ears and low over his brow, and his gray eyes were intense. "You're new," he said.

Harry nodded, waiting.

The man offered one heavily bandaged hand. "Toliman Hughes."

Harry shook it. "Er, Harry Potter."

"Really?" Toliman said with an amused glint in his eye.

"You don't believe me."

"Harry Potter does not strike me as the kind of person who would ever find himself in the belly of the bloody Galloping Galleon surrounded by thieves and murderers."

"To be honest, neither do you."

The man sat back, raising an arm. He flexed, and suddenly the limb burst from its wrappings, rippling with thick fur and muscle, and claws the length of butter knives. "Grizzly bear animagus. I killed some rather expensive horses." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "And their riders."

Harry leaned away slightly. "I guess that answers my first question."

Toliman nodded amiably, and his forearm transformed back into human flesh. "A bit of advice; if you ever plan on going for the transformation, be mindful of your surroundings before you attempt it. Also, don't do what I just did."

Harry cocked an eyebrow. "Why not?"

"It's really hard on your body."

"Then why did you do it?"

Toliman shrugged and smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Because I don't really care, do I?"

Harry just raised his other eyebrow.

Toliman's smile widened at Harry's disbelief. "This is the one time a year that I'm allowed out of Azkaban. I've been a prisoner there for four years. Have you ever dealt with a dementor?"

"Yeah, once or twice… but not the way you probably have…"

Toliman cocked his head slightly. "Well, there you go. I don't imagine I'll live a very long life in a place like that. These other poor sods here? They're low security inmates. I'm mid-security. I don't want to go back there. I'd rather spend the rest of my days fighting for my life here than to go back in that cell."

Harry felt a chill go up his spine, imaging Sirius spending all those years in a high security cell. "So you don't care about your life?"

The young man just shrugged again. "Doesn't seem to matter whether I plan for the future. So I won't. I sometimes think… well, good people don't lock up other people with those creatures. Good people wouldn't do that."

Harry could only nod, looking down at his feet. For some reason he felt responsible for the dementors. As if by being on the side opposing Voldemort, he was siding with the Ministry—as if, by not opposing them, he was advocating their decisions. Did he have that responsibility? Was he supposed to fight against both sides?

Toliman went on, bitterly. "Makes me think joining You-know-who wouldn't be all that horrible—he can hardly be worse than the bastards who decide to throw people in with those monsters."

Harry bit down on a surge of anger. "Don't say that to me."

Toliman looked up at him, frozen between bemusement and annoyance. "And what would you have me do, then, Harry Potter? From where I sit, there are no good people left in our world! Just those who have power, and those who have nothing!"

"That's because you're up in the nosebleeds and you can't see anything except for what colors people are wearing," Harry returned. "Maybe you should try doing what's right instead of finding someone else to tell you what to do."

"You really are Harry Potter, aren't you?" Toliman muttered, amazed. He blinked, angry again. "You don't know whether you'll live past this. You don't know me. And even after hearing what I've done, you still want to recruit me?"

"I'm not recruiting you. And I think there's more to the story than what you've told me."

"Well, you're not wrong about that, at least." Toliman fell silent, frowning at the floor.

Harry sighed and turned his attention to the problem at hand. What was his plan now? He certainly didn't have an animagus form, and without a wand he was damn near useless in a fight. He could run pretty fast, but that was about it. He scowled bitterly. Maybe he should just die now; get it over with and save Voldemort and the rest of the bloody wizarding world the trouble.

Long minutes passed, and people were taken out and brought back as bleeding wrecks or not at all. Harry's level of anxiety slowly rose, and if it weren't for his stubborn resolve to think of a way out of this mess, he probably would have gone barking mad with nervous anticipation.

"Hey, Toliman," Harry finally said, when the crowd roared and another convict failed to return, "I'm no good without a wand."

Toliman, who seemed to be dozing off at this point, cracked one gray eye open. "Improvise."

"Improvise," Harry repeated. He was weak and lightheaded from lack of water and food, he didn't know what he would be facing, he couldn't win a physical battle to save his life, and he didn't have a wand. So what did he have? He had his creativity. Fat lot that would do for him. He had his anger—that was something he had in spades. But beyond lighting the occasional paper product on fire, he didn't see how that would do him any good.

Toliman was watching him, and must have seen the train of thought play out on his face, because he leaned forward quite suddenly. "Wizards are magical creatures, yes? How did you do magic before you had a wand?"

"Very randomly and sporadically," Harry admitted.

Toliman gave an impatient 'tch.' "I haven't had one in four years. You're telling me you can't do anything without your bloody wand?"

Harry stared at him. "Well, I… I can summon. And banish things. That's about it, though."

But Toliman was nodding enthusiastically. "Good, good. That's a good start. That's more than a good start, actually. You can do a lot with just those two spells; think about it. What's the biggest thing you've ever moved?"

Harry remained focused on the other man, thinking and trying to ignore the treacherous optimism that had begun to rise in his stomach. "A stone wall. No—my living room ceiling, probably."

It was Toliman's turn to blink. "Whoa, for the hero of the wizarding world, you sure are a violent one."

Harry scowled at him. "Says the man-eating were-bear."

Toliman ignored him. "If you can move architecture, I'd imagine you'd have no trouble tossing around a few monsters."

"Does it matter if my wand is nearby or not?"

"No," Toliman scoffed, looking at him askance. "What are they teaching young people these days? Your wand isn't your source of power. It's just a focus."

Harry, who knew all of this in theory, had never been faced with the prospect of performing spells—battling, really—without his wand. He muttered several oaths and surreptitiously began summoning and banishing little bits of dirt. The minutes ticked by, the crowd thundered overhead, and Harry's level of anxiety continued to mount.

It was while he was methodically summoning all of the nails out of the planks by the door—a process that Toliman was watching with undisguised amusement—that his turn finally came. A guard came in half dragging the latest victim back to her place on the bench, before turning to Harry. "You're up, kid," he grunted.

Harry held himself very still. There was only one, and the door was still open just slightly. There were others outside, of course, but if he could get some momentum… The guard bent, releasing Harry's manacle with a tap of his wand.

Harry kicked the inside of the man's knee and banished his head. The guard gurgled, toppling back, and Harry followed. He banished a nail at the big man's arm, hoping to pin him there, and flew toward the door. Another was already stepping inside, looking annoyed.

Harry grit his teeth and sent a one-two combination his way—a banisher to the gut and a nail to his shoulder. The banisher doubled the new guard over, but the nail went wide. Harry used his momentum swing a kick for his face, but the man was too fast, and used the door as a shield.

Harry hit with his shoulder, knocking the man over, and slamming the door on his foot. Just as Harry whipped it open again to make a break for the hall, something heavy clubbed him in the back of the head. He slipped on the grimy floorboards, and a huge arm grabbed him around the throat. Harry shot an elbow backward into a solid mass, and suddenly the wall was hitting him in the face.

"Skinny son of a bitch!" snarled the man—the first one. Harry was jerked around, and his arms wrenched behind him. Harry looked back and saw the man's face was bloody, but the nail had missed.

"Guess I need to work on my aim," Harry wheezed, his own lip split and bleeding.

"Might help," Toliman said mildly, but his eyes were wide.

"Toliman," Harry said as his captor began to haul him to his feet. "My godfather told me something of his time in Azkaban." He hesitated, knowing he would be aiding a convicted criminal. Mind made up, he went on. "The dementors can't sense animals. It's how he escaped."

Toliman stared at him. "Who is your godfather?"

"Move, runt," growled guard number 1, wand pressed to Harry's throat.

"His name was Sirius Black," Harry said over his shoulder.

"Harry Potter." Toliman called, pointing a bandaged finger at Harry sternly. "I will be very disappointed if you die."

Empty handed but for the fist-full of nails in his pocket, and practically wrestled out the door, Harry muttered, "So will I."