CHAPTER 3

Suspicion

Harry walked up to the mirror slowly, his hand subconsciously resting on his bandaged chest. He stopped when he was directly in front of it, staring into his own eyes before observing his body with incredible shock.

No wonder George hadn't realised who he was, no wonder Mrs. Weasley had been so cautious around him… he looked nothing like himself.

His ebony hair reached his shoulders, so strewn with mud and dirt that it had turned it a dark brown. His eyes which were originally bright green had dulled and changed becoming more embedded in the skull, while a beard extended down just past his chin, covering most of his mouth and face with dirty knots.

Harry extended one hand disgustedly, pulling away a curtain of hair from his forehead. He had to lean into the mirror to see the lightning-bolt scar that was on his forehead. He traced the scar with a dirty finger, suddenly feeling unclean and menacing – like he was a whole new person altogether and everyone had seen it but him.

He spotted a bathroom at the other side of the room and limped over to it, resting his arm on anything stable to keep himself upright. He opened the dark grey bathroom cabinet and searched for a razor, if he had a wand it could have been done so much faster – but he couldn't wait for that. Finding one he clasped it tight in his hand, stealing a glance from his reflection he placed the tip of the blade to his chin and moved it against the grain of the hair, feeling the dirty mass of beard drop into the small sink.

He cut off more and more, feeling occasional cuts drip hot blood down his cheek from opened scars. He turned around, looking at a small shower which was next to him – Harry pulled off his clothes and turned on the hot water, convinced that if he wanted to be taken seriously and less like a mass-murderer he had to be clean. The more layers he pulled off the more he saw scars and wounds which he hadn't noticed before; his back was covered in dry blood surrounding a scar which ran all the way down the side of his spine to the small of his back, his side was tender – the bruise gasping in pain as the clothe scraped it.

Every muscle in his body ached, he felt fatigued and sore but he couldn't stop, getting clean became addictive, one thing in this messed up world he could control.

He unraveled the bandage to reveal drenched gauze was placed over the open wound. He pulled it off with a wince to view the raw blood-clotted injury underneath. He adjusted the temperature of the water slightly and stepped in, feeling the blistering heat of the water cause instant relief. He grabbed the bar of soap and scrubbed himself down, the hot water piercing his back and running over all the sores and bruises. He had to convince himself the fact that underneath all of this, he was still Harry Potter.

Harry once again re-dressed, covering the wound with the gauze before wrapping it up in a still-white bandage. Harry looked back up at himself in the mirror, he was of skeletal thinness – he appeared sickly, his ribs clearly visible though his pale skin and his cheek sunken-in, bruises spurted in random places on his body, pale and blue, but now he was convinced he looked more like himself.

He sighed at his reflection; his breathe falling on the glass. His saturated black hair fell into his eyes and he swept it back behind his ears. It had been years since he had seen his reflection, and now, seeing how much he had changed, he found it hard to look away.

Harry left the bathroom, quickly seeing the shattered frame still on the floor, the glass spread out and glinting like water, he glanced around then swore. He needed his wand, he felt powerless without it.

Suddenly Harry heard the door creak open, he stiffened, flattening his back against a wall to make himself feel invisible. He couldn't see past the doorframe, but heard the footsteps stop, somewhere over near the couch,

"James?" The voice said; it was George. Harry let out a sigh of relief and called back. His voice was still different from lack of use, faded and scratchy. George walked into the room and stopped as soon as he got sight of Harry. He looked him up and down, before he could ask Harry answered,

"I felt I needed to clean myself up," he said. George slowly nodded, a frown appearing on his face. He extended a paper bag,

"I thought you might be hungry," he said kindly. Until that very moment Harry had not realised how famished he was. His body had focused so much on the pain of his injuries, it didn't stop to consider the fact he may be starving to death, he took the bag off George.

"Thanks," he said.

"You look so different…"

"Yeah, I know," he said, opening the bag – his gut pulsed with hunger. George noted Harry's expression,

"Sit down," he said, indicating to a small table by the window. Harry nodded in appreciation and walked over to the table, sitting heavily in the chair – he noticed George had taken out his wand and mended the picture frame – he was now staring at it a look of absolute grief plastered on his features.

"Sorry about breaking it," he said, remaining as polite as possible. "I didn't have my wand so I couldn't fix it." George was pulled out of his daze and he looked at him before nodding and swallowing a constriction in his throat. "Is that your family?" He asked like he didn't know the answer, George nodded again, eyes still on the photograph.

"Yeah… yeah it is." He sighed and put it back on his dresser. George pressed on his eyes with his fingers before placing the picture down and taking a seat next to Harry. Harry dug into his meal; the feeling of hot food in his mouth was something he had completely forgotten, it seemed as alien to him as showers and clean water. George watched him, as if trying to put a piece of a puzzle in which didn't quite fit.

"Do you have family?" He asked, Harry paused, not sure how to answer.

"I did." He said, swallowing down the last bites of his meal.

"What happened?" There was no surveillance in his words, he wasn't trying to suss him out, he was merely making conversation.

"They were murdered…"

"Voldemort?" George asked, more in the form of a statement than a question. Harry nodded; he wondered if he was giving too much away – that all of a sudden he will know it was him and his cover would be blown.

"I know people always say 'I know how you feel' but believe me, when it come to that I do know how you feel." George traced a scratch in the table.

"Three brothers," He said before Harry could ask, he sighed, followed by a brief silence, Harry almost didn't hear him, and almost thought he wasn't suppose to when George murmured "plus countless others."

George stood again, as if trying to stop himself of thinking; he gazed down at his watch. "I have to get to work;" he said, Harry raised his eyebrows in question, "I sell battle supplies," he muttered. "I'll be back later this afternoon," He turned to leave the room,

"I'm sorry," Harry said as he reached the doorway, he turned around "about your family I mean…" George nodded,

"Yeah," he said, opening the door. "Me too."

When George returned home he found the man asleep, it was dark and cold outside, but from the dim light from the hall he could see sweat beading on his face, one hand was off the couch and the other held onto the bandage he had wrapped around him earlier. James was sickly pale, black hair contrasting significantly with his complexion.

George took the man's sword out of his belt, laying it onto the table. Its rubies glistened in the little light, George ran his hand down its shining blade; it was the sword of a God, it was almost perfect, each detail carefully assessed by whoever or whatever constructed it. George suddenly paused, close to the swords handle was something dark brown, he scratched at it before raising it to eye level.

"Blood," he concluded. George frowned at the man curiously. What had he been doing? He usually wasn't this hospitable to strangers… especially strangers who would not tell him any details about their life.

He admitted his mother was getting to him; he was jumping to conclusions and assuming the worst. The blood on his sword could have been anything! Deer blood, Death Eater blood… rabbit blood, but that still didn't quiet down the voice of concern that racked at his brain.

He returned the blade to its sheath and placed it quietly on the table; convincing himself he was overreacting. The man looked trustworthy, though he appeared dark and brooding, his eyes had a kindness George could spot in any stranger.

He made a mental note that he must ask Ginny about the sword… and where he would have gotten it from. Perhaps it was just a really good replica… either way she would know. George was well aware that Ginny was more talented than him at everything to do with Defense Against the Dark Arts. He was a merely an ex-prankster who had been a complete failure at life.

Hell, maybe Ginny could even assess the damage done to the man internally; seeming no Healers had been around since the war, most of their bodies turning up on the streets when they came to the aid of bleeding victims. George remembered being summoned to help with the "clean up" which was a simple and less gruesome way of saying "pick up all the dead bodies so they can get identified."

George ran his thumb and index finger over his forehead, he had to keep moving. He had to keep going forward, because when he stopped the pain hit him at full boar and he was overcome by the same grief he had when he saw his family and friends killed in front of him, their eyes widening in the shear terror of their fate. Unfortunately it makes him question himself… if he had done one thing better, could he have saved them… if he was just that millisecond quicker? Could he have prevented it? What about Fred? Maybe if Fred had stood closer to George's side he would have been safe…

James shifted, a small sigh emitting from his lips, there was something deathly familiar about the man, but he couldn't put his finger on it. The man never talked about his past and as far as George knew, he didn't know anyone named James, or at least no one who was very important to him. The man must have felt his eyes on him because with a small flicker one of his eyes opened,

"I fell asleep again didn't I?" George nodded, slightly amused. "Sorry I'm just exhausted." The man ruffled his hair but then cringed and put his hand over the bandaged wound around his chest, a slight pink peeking through the white as the blood seeped through – George decided not to comment on it. James slowly sat up,

"Don't get up on my account," he said.

"No… I need to." James replied, with a grunt he stood, steadying himself with the couch. His eyes took a second to focus, as if they were rolling back in his head and making everything blurry. George indicated to the sword,

"Where'd you get this?" He asked, the curiosity getting the better of his subtlety. The man's eyes rested on it,

"It was given to me,"

"By whom?" George realised he might have sounded like he was interrogating him, but honestly… he was. He had never seen that sword since years and years ago, and now, seeing it in the hands of a stranger was almost too hard to handle.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"You keep saying that James but you never do tell me so then it is impossible to believe! If you tell me then I might have the ability to believe you, but if you don't give me that chance then where are we getting?"

"No where,"

"Exactly."

"I don't see a problem with that…I have my secrets, you have you –,"

"Don't." George warned, "I have told you everything you have asked, yes, I might be a bit sketchy or hidden about a few things but I'm not the one who has some stranger sleeping on their couch, using up the medical supplies and taking up my time! It is not me who has to answer questions, it is you." The silence that followed was almost unbearable; it was like George had broken the last ounce of humanity this man had left. The man nodded slowly, his eyes now trailing over the sword.

"Sorry…" George said, hand running through the back of his hair. "I shouldn't have snapped at you."

"No, your right. I'm taking up your time, I'm using your recourses and I haven't given anything in return but my name and a brief history… I'd be suspicious too." His eyes momentarily hit George's, a dull emerald. George sighed and nodded, not really caring about the answer he got anymore.

"We're going to go see my sister." He said, James eyes widen slightly.

"Your sister?"

"Yeah." He said, non-fussed by his reaction. "She's knows quite a bit about healing, she should be able to get you fixed up." James opened his mouth and then shut it again,

"Don't worry," George said, as if James needed reassurance, "she'll help you." He nodded started to walk into the other room trying to leave the man to his thoughts, he paused. "Besides! She's nice…" there was a pause and George shifted his weight slightly, "…ish."

I promised myself I would pace myself.. but, yeah, not really working haha. I've written up to about chapter 6, the next chapter will be up soonish!

Thankyou so much for the feedback I've gotten so far! Keep it coming. You have no idea how much it means :)

Phoenixxsong