A/N: Okay, just a few things before I begin. First, Harry's part is supposed to be disjointed; I wrote it to reflect his thoughts. Faulkneresque? Hell no, that is horribly difficult to read. This is just the same concept, 'kay? Also, he's really mean in this part. It may seem out of character, but keep in mind the state of mind he's in. Secondly, the tones of the first few points of view are not indicative of the whole chapter. If they bug you, just skim them and get over it. I promise it doesn't last long, alright? But there are only a few readers I think they will bother. You probably even know who you are.

Thirdly, this is a revised chapter. I posted this chapter a while back, but some people were kind enough to point out some glaring problems; I believe they are sufficiently corrected.

Done? Done.

James was gripping the back of one of the dinning chairs, rocking it back and forth and biting at his bottom lip. His gaze hadn't left the spot of light that the sun was reflecting onto the polished oak table in what felt like hours, years.

Lily was sitting to his left with her head between her hands, silently sobbing.

He could hear a chair scraping along the floor in the kitchen one room over. Harry James was still bound to it and gagged.

"I think we should chain him up and throw him into the storage room downstairs," Sirius said from his position across the room, leaning against the china cabinet. Lily allowed her arms and head to fall onto the table and began sobbing vocally again. James shot Sirius a look.

"Twilly," he called quietly. The house elf appeared with a loud crack

"Yes, M-M-Master James?" she stammered, ringing the end of her pillow case.

"Take Lily up to our room. Give her a large cup of tea and perhaps a good sleeping charm." He set his chair down and went over to his wife.

"Don't you dare chain him up and—" she began, standing shakily and holding up a threatening finger at her husband. Her eyes were bloodshot and her face was horribly tear-streaked. James looked away but took her by the hand.

"We won't, I promise. Now go with Twilly, we'll wake you if anything happens."

"Someone needs to go talk to Ginny."

James glanced at Sirius again.

"I'll do it, Lily," he said.

Thinking of nothing else to say and thus having no other excuse to remain, Lily sighed deeply then went obligingly to the door.

She and Twilly left and James threw his head back. What were they going to do? He looked across the room at Sirius. He had been his best friend for thirty years, at least—what could happen now? Would he betray them too? Could he really trust anyone? He shook his head and put his hands again on the back of the chair before him. There was no use growing paranoid.

A few moments later a crash came from the kitchen. It sounded like Harry James had fallen over.

"Come on mate, we have to do something with him."

James nodded and crossed the room, his feet dragging along the floor with fatigue.

He tapped the tall wooden door with his wand and it swung open. Harry James was on the floor, still attached to the chair and thrashing against his bonds. Sirius and James walked up to him and the former righted the chair with his wand.

James stood before his son, filled with unbearable frustration and confusion. It just didn't make sense, none of it did….

"That's not natural," Sirius muttered.

James snapped back to attention. "What?"

"His eyes."

James looked. His son's eyes were like a solar eclipse at its zenith; the pupils were so large that only a thin rim of green could be seen around them.

"No curse would do that," James said after a moment, dumbstruck.

"Is he that afraid?"

Harry James let out a ragged growl from his gag.

Sirius snorted and Harry James jumped his chair onto his godfather's foot.

"You bastard!" he cried as he pulled his foot out. "You know, I think we ought to shut him up in the cellar, Lily'll never know."

"We can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because he's still my son, that's why." James kicked the chair in anger and resentment, struggling to hold back tears for the first time that morning. "Whether I like it or not."

------

Lord Voldemort threw the Prophet into a dustbin. "Harry Potter is not dead," he hissed to himself.

The old man was behind all this.

But why would he declare him dead?

The Dark Lord's red eyes flashed.

He knows….

------

Ginny woke up around seven, which was really too early for her taste, especially after such a long night. Her sleep-fuzzied mind tried to go back to its former state, but the sounds of pots banging and a kettle whistling in the kitchen wouldn't allow it. She rolled onto her stomach and pulled her pillow over her head. "It's too early for this," she mumbled.

Suddenly her eyes snapped open. Who the hell was in her flat?

She cautiously reached for her wand, trying to move as little as possible. But then she realized just what this person was doing in her kitchen—they were cooking. She listened closely. The footsteps were heavy and scuttled—it was her mother. After many years of being the "lookout" for Fred and George, she could identify her mother by the sound of her footsteps—well, there was that and the fact that she knew no-one else in their right mind would be cooking for her at this time in the morning.

She pulled on a robe and went into the kitchen.

"What are you doing here, Mum?"

Her mother turned around and Ginny saw by her splotchy face that she had been crying. Before she could inquire as to the reason, she was enveloped into one of the suffocating hugs her mother had a habit of giving.

"Oh, Ginny dear, I'm so sorry," she sobbed. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Mum, Mum!" She fought her way out of the hug. "What's wrong?"

But her mother couldn't seem to get the words out. "You haven't heard?" was all she managed to say as she handed Ginny a copy of the morning Prophet.

"NATIONAL SEEKER DEAD," it was the headliner; front page news. Her stomach dropped to her toes.

She read the article and placed the paper on the table, aware that her mother was watching her.

"Are you alright, dear?" she asked, giving her shoulder a squeeze.

"Your bacon is burning."

Ginny took a seat and ran her finger along the edge of the plate in front of her while her mother returned to the stove. Her mind was a complete blank. She didn't know what to think or to feel. Later, she told herself. Later, you'll feel it. Later, you'll cry. But just now, before the reality of it all settled in, she realized that she really hadn't really known Harry James—better than most, perhaps, but not really.

-------

"The dumb little f---…." Sirius let his sentence trail off as the oak-paneled elevator began to ascend. He had repeated that phrase so many times in the last two hours that the words no longer satisfied his frustration and his vocabulary hadn't sufficiently served his needs since his second year, so he was at a loss to say anything else.

He exited at the sixth floor of a muggle flat complex. There were windows facing the Thames to his left and a long hallway to his right. It was a rather new housing development and as it had a view of Parliament (if you squinted, that is), it had to be enormously expensive. But this Weasley could afford that now, couldn't she?

Sirius's arrival at Ginny's door brought his thoughts back to the topic of his unfinished sentence—the dumb little… miscreant (that was a word, right?) that was his godson. Was. James still thought of him as family, but Sirius just couldn't. Anyone who would do something like that didn't deserve a family, especially as good a one as Harry had.

"Dammit, you little bastard," he mumbled as he knocked on the door of number six.

That morning he and James had put a full Body-Bind on Harry and levitated him up to his room. They locked and sealed it, then put a Silencing charm around it. The Body Bind would wear off fairly quickly and the Order had started to arrive to "comfort the mourning," make funeral arrangements, and generally be a nuisance. They couldn't have "the poor, dead soul" making any noise with his thrashing.

"Just a moment," called a woman's congested voice from inside, followed by what sounded like a nose being blown. It was probably the girl's mother.

As the door swung open to reveal a stocky, middle-aged woman with flaming red hair, Sirius said in a low, threatening voice, "Don't ever answer a door without being sure of who it is."

That ruffled the aproned hen's old feathers.

"Well then just who in the name of Merlin are you?" she demanded, one hand going to her hip and the other to the wand in her front pocket.

"I'm Sirius Black, a friend of the Potters. But you'd better hope I'm not an imposter." Wonderful, he thought, I have become Mad-Eye Moody.

The woman's expression immediately changed from aggravation to humility. "Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry Mr. Black. We've just heard about….Oh, well, please, do come in." She shuffled aside to let Sirius in from the landing.

He stepped into the cramped, yellow little foyer and followed Mrs. Weasley as she carefully maneuvered between the coat rack and the side table into the kitchen. Sirius nearly tripped over the umbrella receptacle.

Apparently even money couldn't buy much space in London.

The kitchen was the same bright yellow with white cabinets and new, shiny muggle appliances, all of which matched one another. There were a few paintings of shapes hanging on the walls, which Sirius supposed were "modern art," and a cauldron sitting in front of the window, cleverly disguised as a fern planter.

Ginny was slumped over a small chrome table, still in her pajamas. The steady rhythm of her breathing suggested that she was sleeping rather than crying.

Sirius squeezed himself around the table and pulled out a chair, waking the girl.

"Sausages?" the matron offered as he sat down, but Sirius held up his hand in as polite a gesture of refusal as he could bring himself to give that morning.

"Ginny, I'm sure you've heard…" he began.

She ran her fingers through her knotted bangs and took a sip of the cold cup of tea before her. "Yeah, I've heard."

"Well, then I suppose there isn't much to say." He wouldn't lie any more than he had to for that traitor.

Her eyes held a dim, sleepy look of confusion. "You don't know anything else?"

"The paper pretty much has the whole story."

"Oh." She propped her elbow onto the table and let her head rest in her hand. Sirius was just grateful that she hadn't started crying on him or throwing knives at him—women could be crazy when they were emotional.

"Well," he said taking in a sigh and pushing out his chair. "The funeral will be tomorrow at four at Godric's Hollow."

Mrs. Weasley came to her daughter's side with fresh tea. "But the paper said—"

"Ipswitch Hall is just a cover story for the press, though I doubt it will keep Rita Skeeter away for long. I'll be here at three to pick you up Miss Weasley." He stood up to leave.

"I can get there myself."

"Lily asked me to pick you up."

"I'll be okay."

"Well… alright then. I've got a few security things to do to the flat, but I can do that outside," he said from the kitchen doorway.

"We certainly appreciate it, Mr. Black. If there's anything we can do for you, don't hesitate." Mrs. Weasley said as she walked him to the door.

"I'll be fine," he responded curtly.

"Goodbye then. Take care."

Sirius nodded and shut the door.

Ginny didn't seem as broken up or hysterical as Sirius expected her to be. It was for the best; there was no use blubbering over such a bastard. Lily was doing enough of that anyway.

-----

"There's no good news anymore with today's youth," Lily's mother said as she patted her daughter's arm two days later. "Did I tell you little Nikifor Prodenski was arrested for dealing drugs? That was quite a blow to his mother, as you can imagine. He and your Harry James used to play together, not so long ago." She reached over for a tissue to wipe her eyes.

Is this supposed to be comforting? Lily thought, incredulously. She shifted her position in the armchair. Being in that room was incredibly galling. It was filled with relatives and friends dressed in black who all thought she was crying for the same reason they were. They didn't know that Harry James was just two floors above them; she couldn't explain to them the reason for her pain.

And she felt just horrible for putting them through this.

"Oh, but your Harry James's case was different. He was a good boy. It's such a shame things turn out the way they do. I'm just glad your grandfather didn't have to live to see the day," she sniffled.

"Mum?"

"Yes love?"

"You're not helping."

"I'm sorry dear," she said, bringing Lily's head onto her shoulder and stroking her hair. "I'll be quiet."

A murmur of voices continued throughout the sitting room; people mourning and reminiscing and whatnot. Lily could scream for frustration. None of this was right. This wasn't how things were supposed to be.

-----

James and Sirius sat facing an empty fireplace in his study. The pair of them could have been sitting there for ten minutes or thirty years; they wouldn't have noticed the difference. Too much had happened. That first game of the World Cup seemed like a lifetime ago and everything that had happened since then could have been an entire lifetime in itself.

Downstairs everyone was gathering for the funeral—two hours early. James couldn't stand to be down there.

"Where's Remus?" Sirius asked, absentmindedly swirling the mead around his tumbler.

"He said he'd be here later. Said he didn't want to 'disturb' anyone," James replied, slumping further into his chair, wrinkling his black dress robes.

"Bullshit," Sirius said simply.

"I know."

That was Remus's antisocial crutch. He always said he made people feel uncomfortable because of his "condition", and normally they would talk him out of it, but James just didn't have the will to anymore.

"Where's Peter?"

"I dunno. Couldn't get him on the mirrors or the Floo."

"Has he been here since?" It wasn't necessary to state since when.

Sirius shook his head and took a sip of his drink.

"You'd think he'd call when he saw the paper."

"Unless he didn't see the paper."

James sat up. "Peter works for the effing Ministry. How could he not see the paper?"

"You don't think…?"

"Shit."

The two jumped out of their seats and flat-out ran through the study, down the corridor, and up two flights of stairs to Harry James's door, passing two very stunned cousin so-and-sos on the way.

James pointed his wand at the door and it flung open. Sirius came in right behind him and immediately locked it again.

The room had been torn apart. Drawers were open, the mattress was overturned, lampshades had been removed, a floorboard or two had been pulled up, and little bits of cotton and feathers were lying about the room from various pillows that had been ripped apart. Harry James was sitting on the cushionless window seat with his arms around his knees, shaking. He hadn't so much as flinched when James and Sirius came bursting in.

"WHERE IS PETER?" James roared, inches from Harry James's face. He had never, ever spoken to his son like that before, but again, he appeared unmoved.

"I asked," James began again, stepping back and clenching his jaw. "Where is Peter?"

Harry James laughed quietly, but as the looks of horror and fury grew on his father and godfather's faces, so did his laughter. It was a base, hollow laughter that conveyed no pleasure or enjoyment. It was an insane laugh.

James pulled his son up by his jet-black hair and pointed his wand at his nose. His laughter didn't cease.

"Cruci—" James began, but stopped in shock of his own actions. This wasn't happening. For a moment, even Harry James was silent.

"You can't do it, can you?" He wasn't jeering; merely observing.

James threw his son onto the floor. His breathing was quick and his heart was fast. He stepped back and looked at Harry James, still lying as he had thrown him, a mad grin on his face.

James mustered all of his self control and said, "I have a better idea."

-----

Harry was again bound and gagged in a chair, but this time he was in an attic, sitting so close to a window that his nose touched the panes, and the chair magically sealed to the ground so he couldn't turn it over. James's "better idea" was to have him watch his own funeral.

Harry was quite sure Lily had no knowledge of this.

The punishment was unusual, yes, but nowhere near as severe as the crime, and it beat the hell out of the Cruciatus any day, no matter what James thought.

His eyes were darting back and forth, glancing at the wisteria, the smudge on the window, the fly on the sill, the second black chair from the left of the oak tree, the casket.

There had only been one syringe left, halfway full.

His thoughts jumped back to two, maybe three days before. His memories were blurred; he couldn't make sense of anything that had happened after the meeting. There was a lot of talking and a lot of things were said that wouldn't have made sense to him even if he had been sober. There must have been some sort of potion in there too. He felt more jittery than usual.

People were starting to take their seats. Long, black robes in tall, black seats.

The wind blew one witch's hat off—big, bushy brown hair. Hermione Granger. Harry had always thought she needed a good banging; too bad no man on earth would do her. He'd met uglier girls who'd gotten some; she was just a know-it-all who didn't know when to quit.

…

It was the end of his second year and he had just gotten his course choices for the next term. Everyone was at dinner and Seamus Finnegan was leading a discussion amongst the boys of their year on the sleeping benefits taking Muggle Studies, which was useful information, yes, but they had been stretching the point for ten minutes now. Hermione Granger was sitting opposite them, her face undergoing several contortions behind One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi as she tried to keep her mouth shut on the issue. They were doing their very best to get a reaction out of her.

"I mean, just think about it. Every now and then you do a foot-long essay, but then you're home free." Seamus had said roughly the same thing three times now.

"I think that's an excellent idea. Between that and Divination, it'll be like we never signed up for electives at all!" Harry added.

That did it. Granger stuck her head out of her text book. "You can't schedule classes based on how much they'll let you sleep!"

"And why not?" Dean asked, hoping to really get her going.

"Because what classes you take affect what jobs you're eligible for! I mean, what exactly can you do with an N.E.W.T. in Divination?"

"Who said anything about N.E.W.T.s?" Ronald Weasley mumbled. Neville snorted in his pumpkin juice.

"What are you going to do after Hogwarts?" She was taking all the fun out of this game. "Hmm?" She looked Seamus in the eye but he shrugged out of her gaze. "What about you?" she asked Harry.

"Play Quidditch for Puddlemere," he replied, thinking he had outsmarted her. He didn't need any N.E.W.T.s to be a Seeker.

"You've almost got a better chance of being struck by lightning than playing any sport professionally."

"Ha! That shows what you know!" Seamus said, pulling his fist back in victory.

"Yeah, Harry James is great at Quidditch."

"The youngest Seeker in a century!"

Harry leaned back in his seat, a smug look on his face. Granger only thought she knew everything.

"But it's just a game." She rolled her eyes.

"The greatest game in the world!"

"Better than football, even!" Dean had been converted earlier that year.

"Boys…" She looked at Harry specifically now. "Why do you like it so much, anyway? You're just chasing a ball around. There's more to life, you know."

…

He laughed. What on earth could be better than Quidditch? Really now, why wouldn't he want to spend his life being endlessly praised for beating a ball the size his thumb at hide-and-go-seek?

The fly had moved from the sill to the pane opposite his left eye.

The attic smelled like dust.

Lily, James, Sirius, and Lupin were the last to take their seats. A front and center view of an empty casket. Dumbledore stood up to give the eulogy.

I'm sure they're all quite moved.

It went on for what felt like hours. Dumbledore's mouth moved slower and slower. The afternoon light became too bright for his eyes. Way too bright. He closed them, but he could still see the redness of his eyelids and it hurt. His legs began to twitch against the chair.

A door opened behind him; the funeral was over.

-----

Lord Voldemort was finishing dinner with Severus Snape. They had been discussing his new position at Hogwarts and though he may never admit it, the Dark Lord was quite pleased with the new potions master. He had managed to gain Dumbledore's trust by skillfully using his Occlumency, even after being caught in the act of betraying the old man. It was quite impressive, though it meant that the Dark Lord would have to personally keep a close eye on him—having a tongue that slippery could be a dangerous thing.

But there was no denying that he had been very useful that morning. If Snape hadn't overheard the old man's conversation, Lord Voldemort could have been at quite a disadvantage….

"Well, Severus, I will not be expecting you at the regular meetings, but you will report to me on a reasonable basis, or I will have to find you." Lord Voldemort leaned back and took a sip of his elven wine.

"Yes Master," Severus replied, nodding his head once. "I understand."

"Good. Give me your arm, and then you are dismissed."

Snape stood up and went to his master's side. He didn't wince as the Dark Lord pressed his wand to the Mark.

"Good evening, my Lord," he said, and bowed out.

Now it was time to check into a less rewarding plan of his.

-----

Harry hissed at the pain in his forearm. Why now?

Peeling himself up off the floor of his room where he had been left after the funeral, he reached for one of the nearby syringes and stuck it into his arm.

Nothing. He flopped back down onto the floor, but the pain in his arm wouldn't leave.

Pull yourself together! His loyalties had just been questioned by the Dark Lord; he couldn't not show up for the very next meeting. It would be an act of betrayal.

And besides, the Dark Lord would be able to help him. He wouldn't have to be a prisoner, like he was here. He needed to get to his master, explain it all.

Harry cast around the room for his wand. Oh, right. He mentally slapped himself—that had been confiscated, of course. Now what?

He began rummaging around his room. He had been hiding things away in there for too long; there was bound to be something of use.

But his unstable mind quickly began to wander. Focus, Harry. Focus.

After kicking around a few of the drawers sitting on his floor, he lied down on his stomach and stuck his arm under his bed.

Empty again. He had found another syringe under his bed.

But he did find something useful, a broom. Just as he stood at the window pondering the best way to break it, he realized that he would still need a wand to transfigure his robes. "Damnit," he muttered.

The spare! Of course—James kept a spare in his bedside table. But how to get there? Oh, come on, think!

There was a guard outside his room, but… if he flew out of his room through the window then into James's, he could get to it easily enough. That was it.

-----

Remus was sitting outside Harry's door on "guard duty." He was there to keep Harry from getting out of his room, almost as if this was maximum-security time out.

The whole thing was just so bizarre.

He leaned his head back against the wall. Why do bad things happen to good people? Well, really, he had always known that Lily and James weren't going to write a book on parenting, but he had never imagined that things would go this wrong. He scratched his head absentmindedly.

Just then, there was a crash of breaking glass in Harry's room and the house alarm went off. Lupin sprang to his feet and blasted open the door. He ran to the source of the noise, the broken window, nearly tripping on an overturned chair, just in time to see Harry flying on a broom—back into the house? Over the siren, Remus could just barely hear all the windows and doors on the lower levels of the house shutting themselves up. The spells guarding the house were designed so that should any openings be made in the house while it was armed, it would close up and not allow anyone out. But the spells had been cast so long ago that it was almost a minute before the enchantment reached the upper levels. James should have known better than to leave a rusty spell like that in place.

Remus held his breath helplessly, hoping that Harry would get trapped inside; there was no way he'd make it around in time to wherever Harry had gone. But apparently so many years of speed and broom training had paid off. He shot out of the room just as the window sealed off. Remus had begun to shout a Stunner when his own window closed up.

Lily and Sirius came panting into the room.

"What in Merlin's name did he do?" Sirius shouted over the alarm.

"He got away," Remus replied.

James entered the room wearing only a bath towel. "And with my spare wand!"

-----

Harry was pretty impressed with himself. He had flown through the window and grabbed James's wand while James was in the room.

He had come running out of the bathroom, stark naked, just in time to see Harry pull open his bedside drawer without even dismounting his broom. He lunged at Harry, but Harry was out the window by the time he hit the ground. The look on his face was magnificent.

"That's what you get for raising a Quidditch player!" he shouted, though he wasn't sure if James heard it.

Touching down on the other side of the wood that bordered the back of Godric's Hollow, he threw his broom aside then transfigured his robes. The adrenaline rush had brought back his concentration, and Harry was glad of it. He took in a deep breath of the cool night air appreciatively—it was definitely good to be out of the house—and Apparated to the meeting.

He landed on his feet in the middle of yet another nondescript field, somewhere in Southwestern England. There was already a good sized crowd of black figures, but Lord Voldemort singled him out immediately.

"Why if it isn't Harry Potter!" he said from his dais. Harry didn't know if he should be pleased or terrified, but the slightly sarcastic lilt of the Dark Lord's voice didn't bode well. "Please, come forward."

Whispers of "He's alive?" came from behind every mask.

Harry moved up through the crowd, but didn't mount the platform.

"You know, I was just about to get a little party together to go out and find you, but you have rendered that unnecessary."

What the f---?

Harry slowly took a few paces back.

"I have a few questions for you, my dear boy, if you will just sit still!" He shouted the last part and accompanied it with a flourish of his wand, and Harry found himself on his knees and stuck to the platform.

"My Lord, please, you know I would never—" His green eyes were large with fear and his voice shook. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he wondered if this was how Peter felt before he died. But that was shoved aside by Voldemort's question.

"Did you or did you not tell Albus Dumbledore that you are a Death Eater?"

"Master, I—" He was cut off again.

"That is a yes or no question, Mr. Potter."

Harry opened his mouth to try his plea once more, but he realized that he could only say yes or no.

"Yes."

A hiss spread through the crowd.

"Did you tell him about the events of two nights previous?" Voldemort was walking around him, slowly. Harry kept his head hung low.

"Yes." Had it really only been two nights ago?

"Why?" Voldemort asked it without interest or curiosity, but merely as a formality. "You may say anything."

"I was under Veritaserum."

"Oh were you?" He stood before Harry now, staring down his long nose and directly into Harry's eyes. After what seemed like days under his painful red glare, he broke the gaze with a bitter laugh. "You are a stupid, stupid boy, allowing yourself to be so easily caught, Harry James—oh yes, you are like your father, more so than you realize. That name is well given." Harry felt a brief flash of anger at this accusation, but it was overshadowed by the surrounding circumstances. Voldemort walked to the other end of the dais and faced away from Harry, his hands behind his back.

Harry had no idea what was going to happen, but he did not want to find out. His mind jumped into fight-or-flight mode and he jumped right off the dais with it.

"Ah, ah, ah," Voldemort admonished, turning around and wagging one of his long forefingers. "I'm not through with you, little Jamesie. But will you stand and take it like a man, or will I have to restrain you again?"

His mind was nearly a complete blank from his jumble of nerves, instinct, and withdrawal, but, sensing his only opportunity to retain some control of the situation, Harry stood still. Voldemort nodded in approval "You have spoiled a very precious plan of mine, Harry James, and if you could not control your tongue then, there is no reason for me to believe that you will have the strength to do so in the future." He sighed in resolve. "You have become too great a liability, Harry James. I'm afraid this is the end of the line." Voldemort aimed his wand with a steady hand at Harry's heart. "Avada—"

Without thinking, Harry ducked the curse and began to scramble as far away from the dais as he could. He tried to Disapparate as he ran clumsily through the pitted field, but he was blocked by a ward.

Voldemort calmly crossed the platform and peered down at Harry, who had only managed to move a few meters away. "No, Harry James, it won't be that easy. Crucio!"

Harry had been put under the curse once before, in training, but that didn't make the sensation remotely more tolerable. It was every bit as horrible as he remembered.

"Yes, that was fun, wasn't it? Now why don't you cooperate—it will be much easier for us all."

Regaining his senses and relying on Quidditch reflexes once again, he got up and began running before The Dark Lord could cast another curse.

"Now now, Harry James. This isn't a game." Voldemort was on the ground now, standing with his arms crossed. "Even if you get away, you won't be hard to follow. Did you know that? Yes, I can track your Apparations easily. As soon as you arrived, you would be surrounded." Harry lost his mask as he tripped over a pothole and found Voldemort standing directly over him, a sea of black figures following not far behind. "Go ahead, try it," he whispered.

Being quite out of options, Harry squinted his eyes and Disapparated to the first place that came to mind.

He landed on his back at Euston Tube Station in a corner between the loo and a disused staircase.

He couldn't have picked a better place.

Racing up the staircase just as the Death Eaters began popping in, Harry fired a few curses in their direction without looking and headed for the Victoria Line. He rounded a corner and was submerged into a crowd of evening commuters, but he knew it would probably take more than that to lose his pursuers.

He ducked and a curse skimmed the top of his head. That was one good thing about the Underground; all the shiny surfaces reflected the light of the curses coming toward him, giving him ample forewarning to duck.

He pushed his way to the escalators and began taking them down two steps at a time. There was a chance that he would baffle them with all this muggle technology, but he didn't trust his luck that much.

Reaching the bottom of the escalator after being grazed by a few more spells, he sprinted down the round corridor and turned at the first left. Footsteps and shouts of "move!" directed to disgruntled passersby were close behind him, but Harry could hear the automated "mind the gap" reminder coming from around the bend.

He took the curve without slowing and glanced off the wall, running smack into the tail end of a pack of commuters boarding the train. Harry shoved himself through the crowd and into the car, staying low. Through the crook of a woman's elbow, he could see the train platform. Death Eaters were running up and down it, trying to figure out which car he was on, but there had been too many people coming out of the tunnel for them to have seen where he went.

The doors glided shut and the train lurched forward. Harry slumped down onto the floor, regaining his breath and trying not to notice the unusual looks he was getting for his robes.

The train stopped moments later and he was ready. He stood up and exited the train in the middle of the throng of muggles, incase any of the Death Eaters had actually boarded the train.

King's Cross St. Pancras, excellent, he thought, finding the tiled insignia on the wall. He knew exactly where he was.

He remained with the pack until he entered a new tunnel and was quite sure that there was no-one else in black robes around. Then he hurried along through the labyrinth of corridors to the southbound Northern Line and boarded the furthest car from the platform entrance.

It was now the tail end of rush hour, so there were only three other people in the car—a frustrated young woman having cell phone problems, another suit-clad woman thoroughly immersed in the evening paper, and a man who couldn't seem to keep his eyes open. Only the woman having cell phone problems gave him an odd look about his clothes, and he was left alone to collapse into a seat beside the emergency exit

"What am I going to do?" he mumbled to himself. The other passengers exited the train at the next stop, and Harry was left alone. He took out the stolen wand, but then a thought struck him. Could Voldemort track his wand activity too? It was possible; the Ministry could, after all, and they would probably arrest him for doing magic in a muggle area right now, anyway.

The train stopped at Old Street Station, but no-one boarded his car. Harry put the wand back in his pocket.

He couldn't go home, he couldn't go back to the Dark Lord—he really couldn't go anywhere in the magical world. He was supposed to be dead, and how would he explain the reasoning behind declaring him dead without admitting to being a Death Eater?

He had no money, no place to stay—he would die. Well, he could always go muggle and stay at Nik's…. That wasn't a pleasant thought. But he had no other options.

Deciding to risk it, he took the wand out and transformed one of the seat cushions into a suitcase, and then began making £50 notes with a counterfeiting spell he had found years ago. Those guys wouldn't take him in unless he had something to contribute. By the time he reached Bank Station, he guessed that he had some £2000 in his suitcase. He snapped it closed and exited the train.

A few minutes later he boarded the eastbound Central Line and settled in for the long ride ahead.

A/N: If you're wondering why Euston Station was the first place that came to his mind, all will be revealed soon. Hope you enjoyed. Please leave a review with any comments you may have.