Harry frowned uncomfortably as another witch's bag almost smacked into his face. The crowd in Diagon Alley was thick, almost unbearably so, and it was all he could do to keep a hold on his dad's hand and weave through the mass of people who were all so tall and didn't seem to notice anything shorter than them.

"Oi!" Harry thought he heard Charlus's voice coming from the other side of their dad.

"What?" he shouted back, somewhat annoyed. Couldn't Charlus see that now was a bad time to be making small talk? Harry winced as somebody trod on his foot. When he looked about in irritation, he found that the guilty party had already been swept away by the crowd.

"Why… there… many people?"

Harry was about to yell back that he had no idea when, as suddenly as the throng had appeared, it was gone again, and they were on the other end of the alley, near Gringotts, with the raucous mass of people still churning behind them.

"Ugh." said Dad, shaking himself exaggeratedly. "You two okay?"

"I've never seen so many people." Charlus said, wrinkling his nose. Harry nodded.

"So many witches, you mean." their father corrected. Harry glanced behind him and was astonished to find that, indeed, the crowd was composed of almost entirely witches of all ages, with several beleaguered wizards diving out of the throng much as they had done a minute ago.

"So what's going on?" he asked. His dad scowled.

"Gilderoy Lockhart, some poncy idiot witches like, is doing a book signing. Come on, Madam Malkin's is over there."

Charlus made a face at the thought of having to undergo the torment of clothes shopping. Harry turned his nose up at his brother's discomfort. He was still bitter because, shortly after their ninth birthdays, Charlus had grown half a head taller than him—that was why he needed new robes. They were twins; it was entirely unfair! All of the bad things, such as being half-blind and short, had somehow hit Harry and passed Charlus by.

Harry promised himself that he would get a huge growth spurt later. Then they would see who was laughing. Not that Charlus had actually laughed about it; really, Harry didn't think he had even noticed, but it was the principle of the thing.

If clothes shopping was supposed to feel like a waste of time, watching somebody shop for clothes was even worse. Bored out of his mind, Harry hung in a corner and squirmed, grinding the back of his robes against the wall. It had been funny for the first five minutes watching Charlus's face screw up as the adoring lady pinned fabric on him and accidentally stuck him several times, but after awhile of nothing else happening Harry had taken to staring listlessly out the window at the hurried passersby. The crowd of witches seemed to have thinned; they had probably finally been let inside Flourish and Blotts.

And then Harry saw some teenagers outside staring in the window. They were whispering to each other. Finding their gaze rather creepy, Harry retreated further into the shop behind a shelf loaded with various hat fashions.

"Harry?" Harry peeked out from his spot as he heard his dad's voice.

"Coming." he called back, navigating through a row of black cloaks. He froze as he emerged, in full view of the window. "What's wrong with those people?" There was a crowd outside now, milling about and apparently pushing and shoving to get a good look. At what, was a mystery.

Then a woman with long blond hair finally smashed through the throng, apparently with the aid of a creatively used shield charm, and entered the shop.

"Unbelievable! Should have gone to Twilfit and Tattings. Draco, don't dawdle." she was saying, a very pinched expression on her face.

"Mum, mum. Is that the Boy-Who-Lived?"

The witch glanced over at Charlus. Harry winced, expecting some kind of gushing exclamation, and from the look on Charlus's face, he was bracing himself for the worst. But she only adopted a slightly uncertain expression, softening the lines on her face a little and making her look a bit nicer, even prettier, before she grabbed her son's hand and hastily exited the shop, heedless of the boy's ceaseless whinging.

The door creaked slowly closed behind them, but then a hand shot out to stop it, and like a cork had been pulled, the human deluge poured into the shop. The assistant at the back who had apparently been totalling the purchases shrieked, but her shrill exclamation was lost in the roar of, "Charlus Potter—The Boy-Who-Lived, can you believe it—can I have your autograph—"

Harry tried to duck behind a shelf, but was only partially successful in protecting his head from the assault of multiple handbags and notebooks and who-knew-what else.

"Dad!" he tried to shout, but he couldn't even hear his own voice, nor could he see over the overly tall people who were all in the way. Horrible, mad people, he added to himself; nutters, the lot. Couldn't they leave people who were trying to buy some stupid clothes in peace?

A screeching siren surmounted the yelling of the overexcited crowd and then, with a not-so-gentle lurch, Harry felt himself launched into the air before he was inexplicably outside, and still trapped in a tangled mass of people. They had all been expelled from the shop by the wards, he figured, but now he had no idea which way his father and his brother were. What if they had to leave him behind to escape? Harry tried to press down the rising panic, but it was a losing battle.

"Charlus Potter?" somebody exclaimed behind him, and then a rough, unfamiliar hand grabbed his arm. He screamed and flailed, lashing out at whoever was holding him, which caused the grip to loosen. Quickly tearing himself away, he squeezed himself between several more people, and then the crowd seemed to thin, and he found himself blessedly free of the press of agitated bodies. When he glanced back at the storefront, he saw that it had really only been a couple dozen people, but it had felt like hundreds or thousands. Heart still racing, he took a moment to wipe the sweat from his forehead and search for his dad and his twin.

Suddenly, an acute feeling of unease filled him and he whirled around, just in time for a flash of deadly green light to whiz by his ear. Somebody screamed in fright, and then people began to run down the alley. Harry's eyes darted around and he stumbled backwards slightly, managing to avoid another burning, sickly green spell. To his horror, as he tracked its movement, he saw it impact a woman in the chest. Like a stuffed dragon hit by a disenchanter, she crumpled to the ground in a messy heap. The crowd at first parted to avoid her in panic, before it began running over her body so that it was lost from view. Harry stared for a moment longer, a clenching anguish in his chest. He was sure she was dead, that she had died as soon as that horrid green light had reached her.

Suddenly cognizant that the bulk of the crowd had left him behind, that he was standing alone, halfway between two buildings, staring at the crushed form of some nameless woman who had just been killed by a spell—that had to be the killing curse, he figured, like the one Charlus had survived—Harry was seized by profound terror. He glanced back uneasily into the gloom of the dead-end street behind him and was somewhat relieved to see only a few dustbins and a brick wall. Then he found himself feeling cornered instead, and peered back at the now-deserted sunlit alley, wondering if he should make a run for it, maybe to the Leaky Cauldron. If he made it there he could floo back home.

"Harry?" Harry perked up at the sound, holding his breath and turning his head back and forth to listen for it again. "Harry?" The panicked call came again, and this time Harry saw his father hurrying down the street, wand out and glancing around wildly.

Forgetting his reservations, Harry checked again to see if he could find the attacker, and, seeing nothing, darted out of his hiding place toward his father. "Dad!" he called back. Even as far away as he was, he caught a glimpse of the relieved look on his dad's face.

Then it morphed into horror, and before Harry could so much as turn to look a slab of stone appeared at his side and proceeded to crumble into a million pieces. Harry cringed and nearly tripped, swinging away as he felt the explosive force of the dust push against him. When his vision cleared, he caught sight of an unfamiliar black-robed figure brandishing a wand. A new chill of fear lanced through him.

"Avada Kedavra!" cried the attacker, and another, familiar green light flew from the tip of his wand. Harry stood there, frozen, unable to react. At the last moment, another bit of stone appeared to block it, and was blasted apart. Fragments grazed his cheek, and the sudden sharp pain startled him back into motion. He ran for his father, who was still headed towards him.

"Avada Kedavra!" the hooded figure screamed again.

Following the green light's trajectory with his eyes, Harry could only scream "No!" as he realized it was headed for his father. But with another flick of the wand more stone was conjured to block the attack—and in their relief neither father nor son noticed the next sizzling beam of green light until it was too late.

Harry first saw the sickly flash of colour in his peripheral vision only when it was within grabbing distance, and as much as he tried to twist away he knew already he would not succeed. The spell impacted him like a powerful blow, sending him crashing to the ground. He felt wetness gushing out over his face, and the only thought that occurred to him was that this was a horribly inconvenient time to be having a nosebleed. Something sharp was digging into his back, probably one of the bits of stone on the ground.

"You bloody bastard!" Harry heard vaguely from above, followed by a multitude of what he figured were other curses, magical in nature. His dad—that was who the voice belonged to. Harry struggled to sit up and tell his father that he was just fine. Hearing a strangled cry, he renewed his efforts to overcome the strange lethargy in his limbs.

Multicoloured lights were thrown in close sequence out of his father's wand like water out of a faucet, and the man in black looked hard pressed to defend himself. Harry decided against saying anything, afraid he would break his dad's concentration. He heard, distinctly, another "Avada Kedavra," from the attacker, but saw that what came out of the wand was barely a few sputtering green sparks.

"Fine, you want to play that way?" yelled the hooded man in frustration, half to his own wand. He waved it in a sweeping arc in the air and suddenly a massive whirlwind of stones appeared, spinning about the man and absorbing all of the incoming spells. Another wand wave, and Harry could not bite back a horrified scream as what seemed like half the rocks in Diagon Alley had turned into crawling creatures, anything from spiders to flies to worms.

"Harry?" Harry looked up and managed to lift his head properly as his dad blasted his way through the multitude of vermin, a loop of blue string in his outstretched hand.

"Dad!" he called, twisting and turning in visceral horror as things crawled all over him, but giving up attempting to get them off as his father came nearer; instead, he focused on reaching up to grasp the blue string, their portkey.

For a moment, Harry felt profound relief as his fingers closed securely around the portkey and his father pronounced the activation phrase. Then he was in pain—everything burned and twisted and shifted with agony and in the back of his mind he still felt the little, innocent tug at his navel that meant he was heading to safety—but it did not matter, because it was impossible to think through the tearing and breaking that rattled his body.

The first thing Harry heard on the other side was a scream. He opened his eyes woozily, randomly cognizant of the fact that he had lost his glasses sometime during the fight. Somehow, though, he seemed to be able to sense everything around him quite clearly, even as he began to realize, somewhat disturbingly, that he couldn't see anything. In fact, as he tried in vain to move some kind of proper muscle, he found himself straining against a confusing weight in his chest, and still unable to feel his eyes, ears, hands, feet—anything, really. A mild panic enveloped him, but faded just as quickly.

Despite the fact that he could not see or hear, he could sense his father and brother moving around agitatedly nearby. He tried to move, and to his surprise felt himself roll onto his back with a dull, heavy thud that jarred his entire body. Now everything felt distinctly wrong, and he tried in vain to get back onto his belly.

Suddenly, Harry could see again. It was odd, because he did not think he was supposed to be able to see; the eyes were all in the wrong place. But he did not complain, having no way of doing so.

"Can you hear me?" Harry looked up at his father and tried to nod. Yes, he could hear. But all he managed was a small, strange wriggle. What was wrong with his body? And, now that he noted it, his father looked much larger than he used to.

"Wait, I think I know what to do."

"Are you sure…" Charlus's voice floated over, strained.

"Yes…yes, I'm sure." their father replied, looking, in Harry's opinion, rather nervous and unsure. He waved his wand, and Harry felt weird all over, and then he found himself with hands and feet and limbs and a face, like normal.

"Dad?" he asked, head spinning slightly. He felt disoriented and woozy. "Charlus? What's going on? Did the Aurors get the guy?"

"That's—Harry, is that really you?" Charlus sounded quite surprised, and Harry had the presence of mind to be rather offended.

"Of course it's me! Why wouldn't it be?" he shot back, though he felt his tongue protesting at his use of it, as if it were a piece of wet wood inside his mouth. Then all the strange feelings he had been having seemed to come to a peak, before they vanished entirely and he found himself again plunged into darkness but somehow no less aware of his surroundings, if in a different way.

He did not know how much time had passed in the dark haze around him, or when he had gone to sleep, but he awoke in a brightly lit, unfamiliar room with floral wallpaper and a large window. Sunlight was streaming in through the thin draperies, and there was a dry, flat smell in the air, like somebody had cast a hundred scourgifies in quick succession. He could feel all of his limbs, and they felt normal to him. Deciding that he wanted to know where he was, he pushed himself into a sitting position, and immediately felt his head swim.

Taking a moment to steady himself, he pushed the bedcovers away and was buffeted with cold air. He was wearing a hospital gown, he realized, the sort that did not allow for much privacy. Annoyed, and certain that he was in St. Mungo's, he put his legs back under the covers and burrowed down to keep warm.

A moment later, the door on the far side of the room opened with a click and a creak, and to Harry's surprise, instead of some healer, Professor McGonagall bustled in, looking as stiff as ever in her tartan (maybe even more so). Harry knew that Professor McGonagall was the transfiguration professor at Hogwarts—she came over to the house sometimes for tea with his father, and they would discuss, in Charlus's words, "boring adult things." Harry wondered if her presence meant that his dad was also here.

"Hi, Professor." he said.

"Hello, Harry." she replied, looking somewhat concerned. "Do you feel all right?"

Harry thought about it for a moment before he shrugged. "A little weird." he admitted. "But not bad or anything."

Professor McGonagall's lips thinned even more, and Harry wondered if he'd said something wrong. "Well, good. Good." she said. "Don't take that medallion off. It's part of your treatment."

Harry hadn't even noticed the silver disk hanging from his neck by a string until she pointed it out. "What is it? Am I sick?" Well, he supposed he had to be sick, if he was in St. Mungo's, which he was still sure he was. Where else had such horrible hospital robes? He had been here to get pepper-up potions and some nasty-tasting, green thing before when he had gotten the flu. Still, he did not feel sick at all, unless the weirdness all over his body counted.

"It's a transfiguration anchor." Professor McGonagall told him. "You're not sick; somebody transfigured you into something bad, and we are trying to fix it."

"Something bad? What?" Harry demanded. He frowned, remembering suddenly the portkey and the pain. "It was the person who attacked us, wasn't it?"

Professor McGonagall nodded, but looked quite hesitant to elaborate.

"What is it? I have a right to know." Harry said, borrowing one of Charlus's favourite phrases. To his delight, it seemed to work just as well for him as it always did for Charlus (except when it did not, such as when their father had blown up at Charlus for wanting to know about the Order; it was the only time Harry had ever seen Dad actually angry at Charlus).

"Well, you were transfigured into… into a large… flobberworm."

Harry stared at her grave face, aghast.

"So? How did he take it?" James asked agitatedly as Minerva exited the room with a pensive expression on her face. It did not help that she always looked so serious.

"Fine." she said vaguely. "He knows we're working on fixing it."

"We are?" James demanded, frowning. "I thought you said it couldn't be fixed!" He tried not to be angry at Minerva. It was hardly her fault the laws of transfiguration and the laws of the Ministry were incompatible. He clenched his hands in frustration. How far was he willing to go for his son? Perhaps too far, he was afraid.

"We'll keep trying." Minerva said, a strained smile blossoming across her face. "Think of it as new research."

"New research, huh?" James muttered.

"Even if we fail," began Minerva, with such a perfectly optimistic forward to help James's dark thoughts, "He will be able to live a perfectly normal life as long as you continue to apply the transfiguration."

James bit his lip sceptically. "I'd prefer he be able to live a perfectly normal life, period. Are you… are you sure that it's a permanent transfiguration?" He did not know why he asked. Albus Dumbledore himself had come over to cast a million diagnostics and finite incatatems on Harry, to no avail. The only way to put Harry back to normal was to permanently transfigure him back into a human body. But while permanent transfiguration of something into a flobberworm, giant or not, only required the base material of a single living flobberworm, there was no way anyone would agree to the sacrifice of a living human being to change his son back.

There had to be another way.

A/N: Thanks to everybody who read and reviewed. I hope you all enjoyed the chapter.