Author's Note: I wrote most of this chapter a few years ago, back when I was writing it as a straight, chronological narrative. So some of the prose doesn't exactly work anymore, because you know things about Harry and James that Alana doesn't. But I liked the writing too much to change it.

Disclaimer: A statement made to cover one's own ass.

It wasn't being in Grimmauld Place that was that bad. Granted, the place was as dark and dreary as it had ever been. I know you always thought the place was a prison, but I didn't mind it. I had been in Azkaban for five years; I was used to prisons. Prisons were safe to me; I was safely contained when in prison walls. I'd learned how to survive prison.

No, it wasn't being contained, or house arrest, that made returning to Grimmauld Place so horrible for me. What made it so hard was my reaction to everything around me.

The worst thing about Azkaban wasn't the prison. It was the memories. Thoughts can wound more deeply than anything else. In Azkaban, it's as if all of one's worst memories are wounds that have only just scabbed over. And every time the dementors come, the scabs are ripped off.

I couldn't stand that, couldn't handle the fact that those wounds were never allowed to heal. It's a miracle that I escaped from Azkaban with my sanity; there were a thousand times when I would wonder why I hadn't given in to despair.

Grimmauld Place worked in the same way. Every piece of furniture, every decoration held a memory of the life I'd thrown away. Every shaft of sunlight and particle of dust taunted me, reopening scars from another time. And unlike in Azkaban, where I knew what memories to expect, Grimmauld Place never ceased to surprise me with what tidbits from my past it could dredge from the furthest reaches of my memory.

Ron and Hermione basically kept me under house arrest. I was still too weak, too unhealthy. And they had to be sure that I really was going to cooperate with them.

I was locked into another prison, one that was somehow worse than the first.

April 13, 2013

Alana stood in the front hallway silently, holding back a tidal wave of emotions as she was bombarded by memories she thought she had forgotten.

April 09, 2007

"Come on! You can do better than that!"

So saying, the nineteen-year-old man ran through the house, nimbly ducking the curses and hexes being thrown at him.

"Alana Sinclair Montblanc, you really are pathetic at this," Harry laughingly taunted her.
"Shut up, Harry James Potter," Alana replied. "The only reason I'm pathetic is because I'm marrying you."
"Hey!" he yelped before running to avoid another of Alana's curses. "Why are we doing this, again?" he asked, peering through the bar window separating the dining room from the kitchen.
"You insulted me," Alana replied, lazily flicking a curse through the window.
"How?" Harry asked, grunting as he dropped to the ground to avoid the spell.
"You said I looked like a vampire," she pouted. "It's not my fault I'm pregnant."

Harry, sensing that Alana was done hexing him, came into the kitchen and walked over to her. For a moment, he just looked at her. Her curly black hair hung loose around her shoulders. She wore an oversized blue and orange Quidditch jersey and cutoff denim shorts, and she was barefoot. He smiled to himself; this was a Lady Montblanc that the world never saw. This was simply his Lana.

"I'm sorry I said you looked like a vampire," he said contritely, kissing her cheek. "I'm sorry you're not feeling well," he continued, kissing her other cheek. "And I'm very sorry I pissed you off," he finished, leaning in and capturing her lips.

When he pulled away, he was treated to Lana's beautiful smile. Her smile turned her into someone else entirely. Forgotten was the distant, aristocratic Pureblood when she smiled; she looked younger, happier. A completely different person.

"I suppose you're forgiven," she said, pushing him away and padding to the freezer for ice cream. "But next time I will show you what happens when you piss off a Montblanc."
"Yes ma'am," he said obediently.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, his hands resting on her thickening stomach. Right over their child. He smiled to himself; despite the fact that he'd been put on lockdown, he was happy. As long as he had Lana, he didn't mind being isolated from all the world.

"Alana? Are you all right?" Hermione asked.

Alana shook herself free of the memory and suppressed the sadness and depression always evoked by thought of her child.

"Yes, I'm fine," she said dismissively. "Just tired. I'm going to bed."

Without another word, Alana walked off alone, deep in thought. She walked slowly through the rooms, reacquainting herself with the house. She smiled to herself weakly; she had lived in two of the largest, most beautiful halls in the United Kingdom, had spent all her childhood summers in one of the oldest and most lavish mansions in France, but this dark, isolated mausoleum had been her home.

Why is that? she wondered. Why did I never really feel at home at Asher Hall or the Malfoy Manor, and certainly not at Monticrief Manor, but when I was hidden away here with Harry I never wanted it to end?

There were photographs framed and displayed everywhere, but Alana ignored them. She didn't want to see those snapshots of memories of happier days.

Let's see, Alana thought as she entered a part of the second floor that she didn't remember so well. This should be the office.

She opened the door and made to go in, but stopped in the doorway.

"All right, definitely not the office," she murmured.

Come on, Alana. You were the foremost Death Eater of the Dark Lord's inner circle. You can walk into this room.

The room was painted periwinkle blue, with cream trim. A border of dancing animals ringed the walls. A white crib was positioned along one wall, with a rocker next to it.

She bit her lip hard a she stepped into what was supposed to have been her son's nursery. A single tear fell down her cheek as she fingered the stuffed animals that had never been played with, the crib that had never been slept in.

"James," Alana choked out in a half-strangled sob, speaking the name of her son for the first time in years.

She collapsed in silent sobs on the floor. Anguish ripped through her, and for once she didn't stop the tears. She couldn't hold them back, even if she had wanted to; the pain was unbearable, and had to come out.

The memories flooded her mind, memories of her beautiful, perfect James. How she used to hold him in her arms to get him to sleep, how he had loved his baths, how completely and utterly he had changed her, saved her, damned her.

Quick to follow the misery was anger. The Wizengamot had taken both of her children from her. James had been not yet two, Julian only a couple of months old. She had no idea where they were now, who they were calling Mother, if they were even still together.

"My boys," she whimpered. "Oh god, my boys… they're gone, they took my sons from me…"

She crawled into the rocker and closed her eyes, rocking herself into a state of calm.

It's okay, she whispered to herself. Everything's going to be all right. You're going to find them. You'll be a family again.

When she had stopped crying, she wearily stood and left the nursery, walking up to the third floor, second door on the left. She hesitated momentarily, her hand frozen on the doorknob, uncertain if she wished to enter her old room. Harry's old room.

You are Alana Sinclair Montblanc of Asher Hall, daughter of Lucretia and Hugh Montblanc. You were practically raised by Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. You were the most powerful woman in the wizarding world. You fear nothing and no one. You can open that door and sleep in that bed.

That little pep talk completed, she raised her head so that her chin was parallel to the floor.

"Princesses never lower their heads," Camilla, her paternal grandmother, had often told her. "You are a Montblanc, Alana. Your blood is the purest of the pure. Among the Purebloods, you are royalty…"

Her head held high, her posture that of the highest-ranking princess, Alana entered Harry's and her old room.

It was the same as it had always been. The hangings on the bed were the same rich red velvet, the furniture was made of the same dark mahogany. Nothing had changed.

And yet, it was all different. The room was dead now, as dead as its former occupants. For Alana, too, was dead. The woman who stood in the doorway was a completely different person than the girl who had once slept here.

Alana felt the difference keenly as she slowly prepared for bed. She put on a white silk nightdress and combed her ebony locks with her old silver comb, but it was all different. It was as if she were trying on her old skin, her old self, only to find that she no longer fit into that happy and innocent existence.

There had been only one chance to return to this life, and it had died when she betrayed Harry to his death.

Alana lay in the bed and turned to face the empty pillow that once had cushioned Harry's head. Reaching out as if blind, her fingers brushed the pillow.

"You're gone," she whispered. "You're gone, and it's my fault that you're never coming home."

There, in the dark and silent room, Alana wept for the second time that night, for the second time in five years. Wept for the mistakes of her past, wept for the death of the man she hadn't meant to love, wept for her lost life and the fact that she was still here.