A/N: As annoyed as I am (that would be horrifically, terribly, monumentally, and disgustingly annoyed) with the fact that the last chapter of this got about a third of the reviews the first one got – I must also acknowledge that the reviews it DID get were rather pleasant, and that people did at least subscribe. I'm still mad at you guys though, if that means anything to you, which I guess it doesn't. Perhaps you don't understand that I really am the overly dramatic type who breaths in reviews like oxygen and exhales fanfiction like carbon dioxide. For those of you who don't understand that metaphor – it means that I'm an ass hole and if you don't make an effort to appreciate my writing, I have thirty or so other incomplete fanfics to spend my time on. Think about that.

Now that I'm done ranting, I'll apologize in advance for the general all-over-the-place-ness of this chapter. I wrote it three different ways, five different times (don't ask) and this is the result of me merging what I thought were the most sensible bits of them all, considering the fact that I already have the next three chapters done and this one is getting pretty long in the editing process (which somehow always ends up with me adding more than deleting)

Unfortunately I had to cut out that ridiculously hot segment where Vernon Dursley has a wet dream about Sirius Black's irrevocably randy motorbike having wild greasy vehicle-sex with a certain sassy Ford Anglia.

…This is why I don't write beginning authors notes. They're long, obnoxious, and nonsensical.

Enjoy!

The first memory that Harry could recall of the Pocket Watch was on his fourth birthday. It was before he had entirely lost favor with his aunt and uncle, back in the days where they still had some hope that perhaps his freak father wouldn't taint his otherwise relatively normal lineage. Although he would never be their favorite boy in the house, he hadn't felt so despised back then. Also, as a naturally optimistic child, Harry rarely thought anything of the fact that for some reason his cousin always seemed to have more than he did. His room under the stairs was certainly big enough for his tiny build. After all, he was only just turning four.

Harry had been very excited on this birthday, because his uncle Vernon had said that it was about time he stopped damaging that old crib, so Harry would be getting a bed. A whole bed! Box spring and Mattress! Just like Dudley had gotten two years ago. Plus, Dudley was getting presents too, and he wanted a new duvet set with little footballs and baseballs on it, which meant that Harry's new bed would get to have the old duvet with the spaceships and shooting stars. All in all, it was a pretty great day.

Now, Harry was quite sure that before this day he would have been somewhat aware of the watch's existence. After all – he couldn't remember a day in his life when he'd questioned the fact that it was always around his neck. He just never noticed it, really. It had a way of not being noticed if it didn't want to be. In fact, there were times when Harry didn't remember having the watch at all. But then, when he noticed it again, it would be as if he'd never forgotten it in the first place.

Harry's fourth birthday wasn't only special because of the watch, though. It was also the first time he did magic. He just didn't know it.

He'd been eating his supper, fresh off of the stove, even though it was much too hot. The second it touched his tongue it burned, but only for that second. Afterwords, he was fine. Harry had assumed that perhaps he'd gotten his tongue numb, but could still taste every bite. In reality, his body had instinctively cast a minor cooling charm over both his tongue and his meal.

He was wiping his hands with his napkin when he heard the watch speak for the first time:

"Well thank Merlin for that. I'd been worried that you had none of your own in you at all." It had said, and Harry was rather confused by it, having firstly not known where the voice was coming from, and secondly, not understood what it was that he either did or didn't have in him at all.

"My own what?" He'd asked inquisitively, but aunt Petunia had given him one of those looks that meant he was being freakish like his father, so he shut up, even though the watch responded.

"Magic, of course. I can feel His all over you. That's why I'm here – but I was concerned that maybe you didn't have any. There's only two other half-bloods I've ever stuck around with this long, you know. One of them is the greatest man the world has ever known, and the other is generally unimpressive in almost every way. I obviously can't have been expected to know which you're leaning more towards."

Harry was determined to chew through the mystery voice's rambling, and he did rather well with it (if he did say so himself)

After they ate, it was time for Dudley to be bathed and tucked in and read his bedtime story upstairs. Harry went through his usual routine of struggling with the broken shower in their basement that seemed to always operate on only hot or only cold. Then, he tucked himself into his brand new bed, beneath his brand new duvet, and grinned. Today was just wonderful!

"Are you still there?" He asked tentatively, wondering if that voice from earlier had hung about.

"I've been here for nearly three years, you oblivious child. It is impossible for either of us to detach from the other without doing it together, so where could I possibly have gone?"

Harry shrugged, and tried to think about this voice. He could hear it in his head, and clearly he was the only one who could. Perhaps he was like that lady who aunt Petunia had been talking about. The one who was so unfortunate because she had skitzovania or whatever it's called. He bit his lip, trying to remember. There were few things that Harry liked more than learning new words, but that one was the kind of word that was simply too big for him to recall.

"Earlier," He began, deciding that if he had skitzobalium he might as well enjoy it, "You said something about magic. What were you talking about?"

"Well, I'd been worried that you were a squib, like that batty old hag they send us to when they travel."

"Mrs. Figg is not a squib!" Harry defended, "She's a lady."

The voice snorted in his head. Harry decided that no matter what a squib was, the way the voice said it, it was clearly a Very Bad Thing – so he just knew that sweet old Mrs. Figg couldn't possibly be one. He decided that perhaps this voice wasn't a very nice person, so he wouldn't hold any more conversation with it. This decision did not at all stop the voice from talking his ear off, now that it knew Harry could hear it. Even if Harry wanted to respond, though – it never said anything that made any sense.

"Couldn't you find a copy of The Daily Prophet or something, Kid? I'm sick of being an outcast."

"I swear, the lengths these people go through to make up for a simple Incendio... they're really quite idiotic, aren't they?"

"That uncle of yours is awful, isn't he? I've barely met any muggles in person, but I understand now where the Dark Lord is coming from with his ideals. They're even worse than worthless – they're cruel andinferior. What a waste of skin and blood."

The voice talked about this "Dark Lord" fellow, quite a bit, actually. Clearly, though – it wasn't enough for Harry to recognize said evil mastermind when first acquainted with him, which was much earlier in life than most people thought. In fact, Harry's first contact with Voldemort after the Godric's Hallow incident was far, far before he'd encountered a fallen unicorn in the Forbidden Forest.

"Fix it, boy!" Vernon had shouted, in one of his more intolerable moods. Harry's eyes were filled with tears already, but he knew that things would only get worse if he let them fall. He was a big boy – the voice had told him so – and he mustn't let the muggles discourage him, even if he was a filthy half-blood... okay, so perhaps the voice didn't make sense most of the time, but he was a big boy and that's what mattered. He would not let them see him cry.

"I... I c-can't, uncle Vernon... It won't-"

"Petunia!" Vernon roared, "Come get rid of this birds nest!"

And she had.

Exactly twenty minutes later, Harry had been shoved into his cupboard, crying so hard he choked, frantically trying to shield his forehead as cold air brushed against the scar that was for some reason extremely sensitive at the moment. He hated it when people saw that scar. Hated. Hated. Hated it. It was supposed to be hidden, it was supposed to be... to be unseen... to be- Protected. A part of him supplied. He agreed with that part of himself, though the thought was slightly foreign in his head. The scar burned furiously, and Harry collapsed onto his bed, not able to imagine that there had ever been a moment in his life when he was happy.

His nails scratched desperately at the scar, and he pulled at his hair, wishing, hoping, yearning for it to grow.

That's not good enough.

No, it wasn't. Yearning for something wouldn't make it happen. Hoping for something was foolish. Wishing for something was futile.

If you want it – demand that it be so.

Yes, that's what a person had to do. Demand things. Harry was certainly a lot smarter than normal today, it seemed. Or at least his conscience was, he supposed. He pulled at his hair again, and with a voice that was not his own; with a power that was not his own; with an urgency that was not his own – he bellowed out one single command.

"Grow!"

And so it did.

-Time Leap-

The first time it happened, it woke Lucius from his sleep. He disapperated on the spot, transfiguring his pajamas into billowing black robes, and the sleeping cap he wore into a white Death Eater mask. Needless to say, he was quite surprised when his location was simply a small muggle neighborhood. Number four Privet drive, to be exact. He couldn't get inside though. Any attempt he made to be near the house was blocked by something he could not explain, and his arm was burning horribly because of it.

His Lord had called him. He'd felt it. He'd never forget what it felt like. Even seven years after Voldemort's disappearance, Lucius remained loyal. It was a poorly kept secret to some, but it was a fact to most. When he felt the call, he didn't hesitate to answer it... but why would his master be calling him to this silly little house? And what sort of test was it that he couldn't get in?

Figuring it as some sort of fluke, Lucius went back home, ignoring the horrid sensation of the mark melting his skin. He'd heard from less favored Death Eaters before that it did that if you got the call but didn't appear before the Dark Lord. Lucius had never had an occasion to test if it was true or not until now, but he certainly didn't like it.

He put a burning salve on it, and sighed happily when it relieved the pain... only to make it ten times worse ten seconds later. His Malfoy pride was completely and honestly the only thing stopping him from crying like a little bitch at the feeling. He looked down and could see that the snake on the mark was actually eating his flesh. (And looking rather pleased with itself, unless he was imagining the gleam in it's two-dimensional eyes)

Automatically, he apparated again, feeling the pull of his master's will increasing and unable to do anything else. This time, instead of ending up in the queer little muggle community, he was in his own library, directly in front of a bookshelf that he used for his more … disreputable … books. Out of pure instinct, he reached out, grabbing a book at random and pressing it to his forearm. The snake stilled, and he stared at the book in wonder, opening it to see what made it so special, only to find that all of the pages were blank.

With a deep breath of resignation, Lucius put Tom Riddle's diary back in it's proper place, and went to bed.

It took nearly three months for the damn mark to heal. Exactly Voldemort's idea of fair. Even if you did manage to stop the immediate onslaught, nothing could reverse the damage already done except time, and a lot of wizarding vitamins. Actual potions and any other sort of healing magic only worsened the process.

Just as the first call finished healing, it happened again, and again, and again, so that a year after the first time, Lucius was so used to it that he slept beside Tom Riddle's diary, and kept it on his person when he was awake. He had gotten quite familiar with the front of Number Four Privet Drive, and through quite a bit of research he discovered that the thing disallowing him entry was a blood-ward. Two, actually. Meaning that there were two people in that home with blood relation to a third person whom he apparently had intention to harm – which was an odd thought, considering the fact that he had no idea who lived there.

Clearly, it was a wizarding home, though, if it had magical wards. This heavily contradicted with the muggle car parked out front, and the mailbox, and glow of light too harsh to have been caused by candles or charms. Perhaps Mudbloods? Did those pathetic whelps live in threes for their own protection these days?

He did not know, only that he had to apparate to the little house before the diary would do him any aide. Clearly, the call itself came from the house – but the diary was a worthy substitute of some sort. He had written to the diary about it, once, but the diary's reply was the same thing that it always was:

'I was not given to you in order to help you sort out your pathetic life, Lucius.'

He knew that, of course. The diary was among several other things of the Dark Lord's that had come into Lucius and Narcissa's possession during the war. They had been so honored. He and Narcissa, the Dark Lord's diary, and several copies of dark arts tomes, none of which they'd bothered to look at – both being more the power hungry type than the academic-sponge sort – it had been just before Evan's death, and Evan had laughed at the gift, saying that it was fitting for the books and the diary to be together. Lucius supposed it was because they were all things that the Dark Lord would have used while still at school.

He didn't realize until several years after the end of this story that if he had in fact read those books, he would have known that the diary was a Horcrux, and known how to revive his lord using it. But – as was already mentioned – he did not read them.

He did, however, spend a great deal of time perusing Magikal Marcs, by Isadora Byron, even as shameful as it was to be reading the work of a half-blood, simply because he had no choice. The Dark Mark was clearly acting faulty, and he wanted to get to the bottom of it.

The book had a lot of information on marks that could be considered dark, and was infamous for having an entire chapter of excerpts from Salazar Slytherin's diary. These little clips, however, were impossible to understand, since they were actually just very detailed animated drawings of snakes, that would hiss at you, as if they were reading aloud. This phenomena was very frustrating for Lucius, because it confirmed two things undoubtedly – firstly, the information he needed was definitely in this book. Secondly, his likeliness of ever being able to read any part of the book that would be of any assistance of him was minimal, if existent.

He was, in fact, in the process of reading this book when the Mark summoned him again, and he did all that he could do – he apparated, not even bothering to transfigure anything this time. He showed up exactly as he was, in a set of moderately casual black robes, that were still several hundred galleons less casual than everyone else's.

For the first time in a year, however, the Mark did not summon him directly to the muggle home. Well, it did – he could see the Muggle home just a house away. But he was being summoned to a different house, one which clearly had no blood-wards or other means of protection. He knocked politely, and an Imperio influenced Squib answered the door. For a moment, Lucius wondered why it was that the Imperious curse was undetectable to both muggles and wizards, but so horrifically noticed in squibs. Realizing that he didn't actually care as much as he thought he did when the thought originated, he chose instead to stop his mind from wandering, and observe the situation at hand.

Raising a perfectly manicured platinum blond eyebrow, he took in the sight of her. She was a strange looking thing, plump around the middle with thin arms and hair that was wrapped tight in big, plastic cylinders. It must be some sort of muggle fashion that she'd forced herself to conform to. Before he could think too hard on it, though – he was being hugged tightly around his middle by a small boy, who looked a year or two younger than his son, judging by his height and underfed physique. Draco was thin, but this child seemed to be entirely made of bone.

"You came!" The boy exclaimed excitedly, beaming up at him with eyes that were a disturbingly familiar shade of green. His first thought was that someone had captured the exact color of a killing curse and implanted it directly into the child's irises, then he was reminded of a girl from his school days. A year behind him, in Gryffindor, but with a taste for sitting with the Slytherins in the great hall, where she would whisper excitedly with Severus Snape.

And then he saw the scar. His reaction was pure reflex.

"Avada Ke-"

"Evan said you might try that,"

The curse died on his lips, a feint mockery of that boy's green eyes dancing on the tip of his wand as it fiddled out of his mind. It wasn't that he didn't know there were a great many people in England by the name of Evan who weren't his dead best friend. There were plenty Evan's who weren't deceased Death Eaters. Lots and lots of babies who had been called Evan who were not his Evan.

But just as surely as he knew that – he knew that when Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, said the name "Evan" he was talking about Evan Rosier.

So Lucius paused, and considered the facts. Something in this child clearly had held on to some sort of connection to The Dark Lord, because surely little Harry Potter was the only one in this daft neighborhood capable of calling him here. The boy was positively tingling with magic. So, Potter had control over the Dark Mark, and was somehow acquainted with the quite-entirely-dead Evan Rosier. This, however, was not one hundred percent impossible. If Lucius was to be honest, he'd had several conversations with Evan after the man's death. But that was different. That was through a worthless pocket-watch that had been destroyed right along with the Dark Lord on the night that Lucius' world had, once again, collapsed.

"I think we need to have a bit of a conversation, Potter, don't you?"

An enormous grin spread across the boy's kind face. "Of course! Evan said you'd say that, too! That's why he had to possess me just a little, cus Evan says that my Imperio is pig-shit."

It sounded like something Evan would say, but not something that any child Harry's age ought to say. Although, calculating the demise of the Dark Lord, Harry was older than he looked. Nine, if Lucius' math was correct. Which it was, of course. In fact-

"Did you know that today is my birthday? The Dursleys took Dudley out for the weekend instead, because he deserves two birthdays more than I deserve one, but last night at midnight Evan taught me a new curse! Evan's always sweet on my birthdays, around my birthday last year, he taught me how to use The Dark Lord's magic, and the year before that he got me a wand! He says it can be my spare after I get a real one for school."

It seemed that at least for now, Potter's rambling was over, so Lucius decided it an appropriate time to speak. "Who, exactly, is this Evan that you speak of?"

"Oh c'mon, Luc, don't be like that."

And for a moment, though just a moment, the boy's eyes had dulled to a deathly charcoal, and the voice that had come from his throat hadn't been his at all.

Lucius closed his eyes, then opened them again, and he was staring back at that Avada Kedavra green.

"Sorry, Evan does that sometimes, but it doesn't hurt or anything. I thought it would, when he first asked to do it, but Evan says not to worry – if he had to do something that would hurt somebody, he wouldn't ask first."

Lusiuc refused to snort, although that did – again – sound exactly like something that Evan would say.

"How do you and Evan know each other? And how did he get you a wand?"

"Oh, well, Evan followed me home like a little lost puppy after The Dark Lord tried to kill me or at least, that's what I say. Evan swears that I somehow wandlessly summoned him to me because we're both dark artifacts of people who knew each other in their past life, but that's super complicated, so I stick with the puppy theory..."

"And the wand, Potter?"

"Oh right! Getting a wand was tricky. I had to put him on Aunt Petunia before she woke up in the morning, and he made her go to get it while I was in school that day."

Lucius frowned, slightly, "What do you mean you put him on your aunt?"

The boy's response to this was rather peculiar: He began to disrobe.

He took off his jumper, first – about three sizes too small for him. Then his shirt, which was several sizes too big. And there, pressed against his small chest, was a small watch, that Lucius would have recognized anywhere.

And suddenly, he was forced to realize two things at once. Firstly – he hated the Boy-Who-Lived on a general principle, for owning something that was rightfully his in more ways than that foolish child could possibly imagine. And secondly … that as long as Harry was able to communicate so much more fluently with Evan than he could, there was no possible way he could let any harm come to him.

Now that he thought of it. Perhaps there was some truth in Narcissa's assessment that he was more upset at losing the watch than the Dark Lord.

"You're thinking too hard, Luc," A familiar voice said, and his head snapped up again to get a second look at the Evan-Eyed-Harry that really was just too disturbing to gaze at for too long. It didn't seem to last for too long either, because as his stare continued, he realized that Avada-Kedavra-Eyed-Harry was looking back at him rather uncomfortably. The boy was pouting, and Lucius was overwhelmed with the inexplicable want to ask him what was wrong; but he was informed without having to humiliate himself in such a way.

"Evan likes you better than me," Potter whined; giving Lucius the oddly distinct impression that the child had just been declared second-favorite by his only friend.

"I've known him longer,"

Oh, nice. Now he was being petty to a kid. Younger than his son. On his birthday. If Lucius hadn't already been so certain of his seat next to the devil, he would have known in that moment that he was going to hell.

"You're not going to cry, are you?"

Harry shrugged. "I suppose I could. It would be appropriate." He was looking down, and Lucius noticed for the first time that he was wearing only a sock on one foot and only a shoe on the other.

"Appropriate... how?" The Malfoy inquired, though he could already feel the answer, pulsing unpleasantly through his veins like being plunged into a pensieve whilst forced to remain totally still.

"Tears are for strangers," Harry responded seamlessly; and Lucius winced, though he could have sworn he heard Evan's Pocket Watch purring delightedly.

The boy continued.

"Tears are for strangers, because your enemies-"

"Will use them to weaken your mind," Lucius interrupted, "And your friends will use them to weaken your heart."

Harry smiled, over his bitterness for the time being, it seemed. "You've heard that said before?"

"Countless times." Lucius felt his memory being dragged through visions, as if in the space of one single second, he re-lived every single Death Eater initiation he'd been present for, and every single time the Dark Lord had given the exact same speech to his new recruit, always varying in parts, but always the same in others. Deaths are for enemies. Lives are for the worthy. Regrets are for the damned. Friends are for the weak. Tears are for strangers.

"Who said it to you before me, then? Evan, maybe?"

"No." he replied, softly, as the boy looked up, his eyes as red as fresh blood.

Lucius wondered just how many homicidal men that he used to know were living on through the clearly corruptible mind and soul of Harry James Potter.

A/N: I hope you guys start getting a little more REVIEW happy. Or else I'll have to pretend to threaten to take one of my other Harry Potter fics out of hiatus and work on that one instead. Which would be painfully ironic, due to the fact that the whole reason they're on hiatus is related to a rather harsh argument that I had with a rather harsh critic after a rather harsh review.

Flame me if you must.

Just don't be a dick.

I really shouldn't explain that, but what I mean is that if you're gonna flame me, flame me about something that I did wrong, not just because you have general distaste for me as a person, although you apparently love my writing style and plot.

-ahem-

Not even gonna go there.

… This is getting really awkward. How about I start putting up the authors notes directly after I write the chapter so that they're more relevant?

Or maybe I shouldn't write them at all. I'm really sorry if you're still reading this.

Anyway... I love you guys for sticking by me and reading my insanity, whether that be my actual work or the two insanely horrific authors notes above and below it!

-Beloved