I desired liberty; for liberty I gasped; for liberty I uttered a prayer; it seemed scattered on the wind then faintly blowing. I abandoned it and framed a humbler supplication; for change, stimulus: that petition, too, seemed swept off into vague space; 'Then,' I cried, half-desperate, 'grant me at least a new servitude!'

~ Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte

He wasn't supposed to be here. The ley lines stretched like a cross between open railways and caves. He had never been able to describe the feeling of being simultaneously inside and on top of a trail. He felt the openness of flat fields and sky that could continue forever into darker and darker regions, but at the same time, he felt close, pushed through channels almost too tight to carry him.

Even if all the world was spread before him, he had to keep to the path. He supposed fish felt the same way in streams, the entity of land as foreign to them as the space outside the lines was to Dyre.

It had been so long since he'd traveled the lines. They were as beautiful as he imagined, warm as a dragon's throat, coated in shining northern lights. He'd missed those since he'd come abroad, missed the ice, which formed in Iceland much differently than England, though that too he didn't know how to describe. He sighed, pushed and pulled in opposite directions, cocooned and safe in a way he hadn't felt since he'd last seen the Maiden.

But he wasn't supposed to be here. Creatures passed in fans of unimaginable color and shadow. They squawked and clicked and hissed and roared, telling him to leave. He understood the words but not the meaning, as if the words were being repeated in a memory. There was a vague sense of urgency, but before he had time to unwind it and pulled the extended parts of his ravaged mind back into himself, the lines shivered.

Something came to him, something not traveling the lines but going around them. The entity was foreign to Dyre. Even demons, even gods danced in the ley, sending beautiful, terrible vibrations through the channel. But this was different. Inside the warmth, Dyre felt a pit of cold. Creatures swam passed him in a flurry, leaving him suddenly, inexplicably alone. Dyre felt at the cold and finally identified it as fear.

You come at last, Harry Potter.

Dyre shivered. Not here, he thought. Not in this sacred place. Since the beginning of time, the ley lay untouched by violence. This could not happen here.

The presence moved and Harry recoiled in disgust. This magic was unnatural.

The creature chuckled. Bad form, Harry. I know you, but you don't know me? You should know me everywhere.

It swept forward. Harry tried to scream, but the vibrations failed. He could see it, but its shape was as hard to discern through the magic of the lines. It was as if he were staring through several layers of curved and concaved glasses. Color distorted, he could get no proportion of race or even species, though it felt somewhat male. Cold nails like broken bone touched the side of his face.

Harry shivered again, overcome with the feeling of wrongness.

I am in your home, Harry. I am in your friends. I am in every moment that you breathe.

He realized suddenly that he could not face this. He could see nothing but truth in the hideousness of its unnatural, distorted eyes.

The finger traced the tip of his scar. His breath hitched, the nail so strangely cold it burned. The sharpness pierced the line where the scar melded into unmarred flesh. It rode the crevice upward, widening the cut. Harry could not close his eyes, could not even turn his head. He felt the finger trail to his pupil, resting just short of touching. He kept absolutely still.

So beautiful, my poor boy. So ugly. What use are you to me disfigured?

A thumb, as cold as the nail, rested on his chin, keeping balance over his sensitive, blind god-eye.

But I suppose it's mine as well. And what fortunes that eye will bring, what horror.

Suddenly, two hands cupped his face. The creature leered close, and he could not back away, only stare with terrified fascination.

Will you be mine, Harry Potter? Onto death do us part? It sighed. The breath carried the presence of stagnant, briny water. One to control and one to obey. Let us make a necropolis of this world, oh prophetic hero.

It laughed, drawing one of its hands back to bite on the nail.

But I forget, my beautiful martyr, you already have.

The creature pressed close, coiling intimately around him. Dyre fled backwards and was caught by the line.

I am the only one to control you, Harry, it said as he was pulled painfully backwards. I am the only one you can love, the only one who can hold your marvelous hate.

The last thing he saw was that face, leering at him, biting the end of its nail with a nasty smile wider than its distended face.

o.O.o

Dyre flew up with a scream. He kicked at the entanglements around his legs, falling to the ground. Someone grabbed him, and he lashed out, toppling the assailant backwards. He sat with his back pressed against a nightstand, breathing unevenly. Sweat had popped out on his back, and his limbs trembled. Trying to force the cold grip of fear out of him, he held his head. His eye throbbed cruelly.

He could still feel the creature pressing against him in the intimate space of the ley lines. It felt like it was everywhere. Something touched his shoulder. Though some misbegotten sense, he called his dagger. He slashed wildly, curled and defensive. A blast of magic hit him and the dagger flew from his grip. A hand grabbed his wrist, a voice yelling frantically. He shut his eyes and fought, wild and panicked, teeth snapping.

"Dyre! It's me! It's ok! You're safe!"

He stilled, turning his face to that voice. Draco stared back at him. Dyre looked at him. Something of Draco was there. He could see the skeleton of his face, but the details were diluted. He watched the face leer, the eyes turn red. Dyre gaped at it in shock.

"It's me," it said around that cloying smile. "You're safe."

He recoiled. There were whispers, sick sweet sounds that brushed aside his hair to tickle the shell of his ear.

He shook his head, elbows banging against the nightstand. Bile rose to his tongue. He could not remember being so scared before.

"Leave me alone," he whimpered. "Just leave me alone."

"No," the figure said. "I'm not going to leave you alone."

He shuddered. That sounded like something Draco would say. But, he couldn't believe that. Because the creature was everywhere, and he didn't know how to make it go away.

He started to hum a lullaby the Maiden had taught him to protect him. Something within him vibrated with laughter. He curled tighter around himself, wondering how to get it out.

You want to get rid of me?

He hummed louder, trying to drown it out.

That's cruel, Harry. I've done a lot to return to you, and you're starting to make me angry.

"Go away. Please. I'm sorry. Just go away"

That's not good enough, Harry. You don't mean it. You don't even understand yet. You're still not mine, are you?

"WHAT DO YOU WANT?" he yelled, screaming through tears.

The metal frame of the bed screeched across the floor as Dyre felt a dismembered hand stroke the side of his face. It pushed down his waist, skimming the outside of his thighs. Another hand coiled around his wrist.

You exist only for me, Harry. Already, your body knows. But I'll have to teach your mind.

He screamed as his finger dug into his eye. Blood spurted, running hot to pool in his ear. There was a frenzy of hands trying to get to him, knocking away the beds. The nightstand crashed and glass hit the floor. Despite several grips trying to wrench his hand away, the hold remained fixed. He felt his finger tear into the orb and twist. Dyre screamed, thrashing his head. Hands held to his limbs, yelling at him.

Finally, he grit his teeth and lied still, bearing the agony like he'd been trained to so long ago. His hand went limp, releasing the gored remains of his eye. It was slammed against the floor. He could feel the gristle beneath his nail. Pain radiated like a heat, whimpers escaping despite himself.

It was dark. He was blind. He felt himself release a rough desperate sound, face breaking. Helpless. Useless. Having blinded himself with his own hand. He couldn't imagine what he must look like.

Maybe you will remember me next time, Harry Potter.

The voice drifted before fading back into whatever realm housed it. Dyre trembled and cried.

Someone was working to heal him. There were people bearing down his limbs to keep him from hurting himself again, but he hardly felt it. He remained pinned, allowing the magic to rush through him. He did not assist in the healing, though he could.

Useless. Worthless. He was unreal.

He couldn't even defend himself from his own hand. Was this to how he was going to end? Was this the despair of having a master with the will to control him? With the will to use him?

The pain lessoned as Narcissa Malfoy reconstructed his eye, inhibiting the receptors at the same time. He remained blind, but the feel of his eye was there, the healing no different a pain than the injury. No one let him up, but at least they did not use spells. He would not have been able to bear it. The comfort of their flesh was intense, embarrassingly so. They warmed his wrists and shoulders, his knees and feet, even as they bruised him. All of them there. He didn't know if they realized what a relief it was to know that someone was there that he could feel, since he could see nothing.

The last connection was made, and he felt the retina attach itself amongst the veins. He gasped at the sensation, and the small movement made their hands tighten.

"Dyre, can you see?" the woman asked.

He didn't dare open his eyes.

"Dyre, open your eyes," she commanded.

He held them tighter, tears trickling into the blood in his ear.

"Dyre," he heard Draco say somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. "Please, just open your eyes."

"It's alright," Lily said nasally from his shoulder. She sniffled and strengthened her voice. "We won't let anything happen. It's alright."

"Everything's fine, son," James said. "Just open your eyes. We have you."

He rolled his wrist, pleased when whom he thought was Severus pressed down harder. He opened his eyes, blinking. Narcissa showed a light from the end of her wand into the pupil, watching it contract. He nearly cried out again, shutting the lids. She cut the spell, gripping his chin.

"Dyre, I need you to open your eyes and look at me." He took a shaky breath and obeyed. Narcissa waited until a bloody retina was narrowed on her face. "Do you see me?"

"Y-yes."

They heaved a collective sigh of relief.

"Can we let you up?" Sirius asked.

"Are you daft?" Severus snapped. "The boy just tried to blind himself! What in the blue blazes were you thinking?"

"Severus, that is enough," Dumbledore said, the only one of them not kneeling along his body. "Dyre, what happened?"

He opened his mouth and nothing came out. He gave another full body shiver, which every one of them had to feel. He felt so weak. He knew, somewhere, that this was his nature, that the part of him that found this unnatural was his human part. He was meant to be used, to be controlled. Karkaroff was inept. For so long, he thought that was why he chafed at his collar. But no, it wasn't the hand. It was the leash itself.

"Dyre," Dumbledore said in his kind, aged voice. "Dyre, my boy, what happened?"

He breathed out. At last, some measure of calm ran through him. He didn't know if it was a spell. He didn't care.

"I'm sorry."

"It's alright, Dyre. Please, tell us what's wrong."

"No, I mean I'm sorry. I… There are no words, no way for you to understand."

Dumbledore forestalled Severus and asked in the same calming voice, "How do you know?"

"Have you ever been on the ley lines?"

"No," he answered honestly.

"Then you cannot know. You cannot."

Dumbledore tried a different tact. "Why were you on the ley lines?"

Dyre closed his eyes. "Didn't… Mind was… I don't know. I was going mad."

His voice broke as he remembered the feeling of suffocation. His throat didn't hurt, and he couldn't feel the abrasions he had made trying to claw it open. But he had to take a moment to savor the unencumbered breaths he was taking.

After some type of silent debate, the hands started to ease.

"We're going to let you now. Are you going to hurt yourself?"

He wasn't certain, but he shook his head nonetheless. Slowly, he rose to his seat. They had dimmed the lights, but shots of pain still pulsed whether he had his eye open her closed. Someone offered him a vial. It had the smell of a numbing potion. Grateful, he downed it, unbothered even by the rancid taste overwhelming the vomit at the back of his throat. He tasted too late the mild sedative. At once, the thought of sleep terrified and relieved him.

"Dyre," Draco said. "Please, tell us what happened."

They needed to know, he realized. It wasn't just a matter of… he didn't even know. They were scared and they needed to know. That didn't change the fact though that he didn't know what to say. That an impossible thing had touched him. That he was suddenly helpless and vulnerable and he didn't even have a face to fear. Time and time again, they had proven that they could not understand his bonds.

But Draco was begging him for some explanation. Weariness pounded upon his shoulders and he could hardly bear to look at his pale face.

Had he hurt him? Slashed at him, pushed him away? What else could Dyre do to him under the guide of that voice?

"I am a tool, Draco, and I was used. That's all. That's all it was."

o.O.o

This was driving Dyre insane. He pulled the sheet aside, placing it with the other scrapped pieces stacked in ruffled piles on the desk. He stared at the blank sheet of parchment, trying to arrange a form that could do what he required, but the shapes just weren't working.

He set the piece of coal on the table, his fingers and face stained with soot. He rested his forehead against his folded hands, his eye, the working one, throbbing like hot iron. He was supposed to be letting it rest. He wished he had his journals. Better yet, he wished he had his glasses. Then, he could at least search for the answers he needed instead of this tiresome guessing game. He shut his eyes, ignoring the sting and trying to remember his studies.

Dumbledore had given him the room, consisting of nothing but four walls and a single table and chair, so austere it seemed more like a prison, void even of a window. The only light shone from the lamps stationed about the room. The floor was scattered with coal stubs and parchment. He had tried at one point to sketch the various shapes of varying sizes individually and spread them out of the floor, crossing them together. When it didn't help, they had been shoved in a corner. In case he was suddenly struck with inspiration, he did not want to have to go through the trouble of sketching them out again.

"Dyre," someone called behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder, reprimanding himself for not noticing Draco's entrance. He wondered how long he had been standing there. The door was open, revealing Hermione and Victor and, surprisingly, his parents as well. He grunted and turned back to the sheet.

Something with three. But the triangles weren't working. He couldn't discern how to get them to intersect. If only he could remember which number he needed for travel. He should have been paying closer attention to the all-mother. At this rate, he wouldn't even be able to remember which runes he needed.

"Dyre," the voice called again, a little more insistently.

He slid back the chair, the wood grating against the stone. Draco flinched, watching him cautiously, but the violence seemed accidental. Dyre went to a corner of the room to flip through the piles of parchment.

Draco strode purposefully into the room, not impressed with being ignored. Dyre found the sheet and attempted to slip it from the stack. Draco stepped on it.

"Dyre, you need to rest your eye. You've been cooped up in here for four days. You haven't said a word to anybody, and we don't think you've been eating."

Dyre frowned, eying the drawing beneath his boot, but he disregarded the small notion that had captured him, righting himself.

"I'm fine," he said simply.

Numbers ran through his head, but really without knowing the precise significance of them, he was certain only that he needed several threes. He was only half-paying attention to the conversation. No, an octagon wouldn't work as a base. Perhaps for the outer barrier. That might have potential.

"Dyre!" Draco shouted.

He turned to look at him, slightly surprised that he was still there. Draco didn't normally shout. His parents had taught him better tact, but his eyes were blazing furiously. Dyre frowned again, this time fully at Draco, becoming slightly irritated.

"Yes?"

"Are you even listening to me?"

No, he wasn't. His head ached with rough designs and angles and measurements that he could only take raw and the pain radiating from his temples and eye. He swore he saw a rectangle superimpose itself for a second over Draco's face. He blinked, trying to remember what he said.

"No, I have not eaten today. No, I did not sleep last night. Yes, it has to do with the ley lines. Please, my lord," he said. "This is of vital importance and I need to concentrate."

"You missed one of the questions."

He wanted to get back to work. He had only so much time and so much work to do. He hadn't thought sketching out the design would take so long.

"Oh," Hermione suddenly exclaimed, picking up one of the sketches beneath her foot. "This is Droughnot's demonic algorithm! I didn't know you could bend it! Is this arithmancy?"

Dyre shook his head, trying to change gears again, but Hermione's question was much easier to deal with than Draco's.

"The proportion is wrong. I don't have the tools to measure it correctly."

"You did this by hand?" she said incredulously, fingering the interlocking polygons like a tiny animal.

"I'm off slightly on the right angles here," he said, pointing. "It should have made a circle but it's slanted. It doesn't matter," he said, turning away. "Droughnot's rituals only prove useful for banishments. The method has been improved."

"So what are you doing?" she said with more curiosity than concern or annoyance. Unlike Draco.

He found another sheet and wondered if perhaps a triangle could serve as a vertex point like he had originally planned instead of as a base.

"A summoning."

Hermione looked back at the sheet and frowned. "Yes, this wouldn't work at all," she agreed. "What code are you using?"

He made an irritated groan, rifling through pages. "I don't know," he growled. "I know only that I need a magnitude of threes."

She gaped at him. "You don't even have a code?"

He tossed the notes back onto the pile in no noticeable order, ignoring her.

"Why don't you look it up? The library has plenty of arithmancy books."

"They are of no use to me. Where in Hel is that diagram?"

"What do you mean they're no use?" she said, affronted. "Just because they don't rant about demons and battle schematics doesn't mean they're not useful."

Dyre made an irritated gesture with his hand, cutting the motion quick when he realized he was being rude. He made a few crass mutterings, searching beneath the desk.

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?" she said, her expression mulish.

Dyre seemed to have found a drawing that looked similar to what he wanted. He pulled it up, studying it at an odd angle before growling and shoving it aside.

Hermione made a small sound of startlement. "You're not illiterate, are you?"

"I need my glasses," he said exasperated, looking through another pile. "Thor blast the damn thing!"

"You did all this… blind?" Hermione exclaimed

"What diagram are you looking for?" Draco asked, ignoring her.

"It's fine," he said a little more waspishly than he intended.

"Dyre, either you let us help you or I am dragging you out of this room and shoving some food and a sleeping draught forcibly down your throat. Your choice."

Dyre glared at him, not impressed with threats. But Draco merely stared back stubbornly, crossing his arms. Dyre doubted the boy could stun him before he had him disarmed, but the ensuing battle would completely destroy what little peace existed in this room. It would be time consuming, and not to mention, he didn't particularly want to duel the boy.

"What could it hurt to let us help?" Hermione said soothingly, glancing back and forther between the two. "How much time do you have left before the final task anyway?"

Dyre's scowl deepened.

"Stop being a berk," Draco added derisively. "Did you ever consider that we actually want to help you? We have a lot invested in this situation too you know."

No, he didn't. This wasn't their problem. Dyre was the one suffering enslavement. He was the one that had to deal with his body betraying him. Would they even know how to help him?

Hermione might, he reasoned. The realization tore at the barrier he'd placed around himself. This wasn't just his fight. And honestly, the more people the better. There was a likely chance that the price required for this would kill him anyway. He sighed and ran a hand over his face, which was gritty with the coal and lack of sleep.

"Miss Granger, could you please find me a table for the code? An elementary one would do."

She nodded and set off for the library. Victor sent him a look. Dyre nodded, and he went after her, knowing she'd be in the library. His parents were still hovering out of place by the door and had likely been there since he settled down in here. Draco continued to glower at him, daring him to leave him with nothing to do. If he didn't have a roaring headache, he might have found that amusing.

"I will need to speak with Dumbledore. I will need to speak with all of you," he amended.

o.O.o

Dyre was not able to speak to Dumbledore until the next day. He was busily running about Europe to meet with government heads about the felons released in the prison break. It gave Dyre enough time to gather his thoughts and conspire with Hermione in the library.

The girl was a genius. Already, the code had been settled on, a series of threes with a five for travel and a four for the stability necessary to balance the wild vibrations of the five. Everything rounded to an impressive number of symmetrical nines that made him more relaxed just thinking about it. There was something absolutely wonderful in a perfectly balanced equation. The stress and pain of gorging out his eye finally began to fade as the first piece of progress in this grand scheme came together.

Under Draco's instructions, he bathed, ate, and slept, and with the schematics in his head and Hermione's handy notebook, he felt decently prepared to face the small audience that convened in the foyer of Dumbledore's office. The only small problem was that Dyre was unused to giving speeches, especially giving speeches to elder wizards and witches who taught magic and had possibly been performing these types of rituals before he was born.

He threw off the slight nervousness and decided to treat this like he would if he were explaining it to Yrsa.

"The creature that met me on the ley lines knew me," he said without preamble once everyone had settled in seats or against the wall. "It knew something about me that I don't, and I am fairly certain that it is connected to the night I died."

There were some sudden, pained intakes of breath and eye narrowing. He waited for it to die down. When no one spoke, he continued.

"I might know what this creature is."

"What is it?" Sirius Black said.

He held up his hand, expecting the outburst. His eyes closed in a slow blink.

"I would not voice my assumption until I am more sure."

"And what do you need to be sure?" Severus asked, as if on cue.

Dyre held off on the opening though, his expression turning even more sober. "First, I need to tell you the warning I received at the start of this tournament. My name coming from the Goblet was not an accident or chance."

Severus gave him a glower. "We figured that much."

"I do not believe this person is trying to kill me."

That quieted him. Dyre's gaze was serious, resting not on anyone in particular.

"The events of the last few days have developed a pattern. The eruption of Dark artifacts circulating the populace, the slight increase of power in Dark incantations. Those with magical sensitivity are collapsing, and I would wager even the seers are starting to accept the sickness. The Death magicks are starting to surface more readily. You know the consequences of this," he said directly to Dumbledore.

The man's face was strangely grim, his sparkling eyes mellow behind his spectacles.

"The magicks are out of balance."

Dyre inclined his head in a respectful nod. "I believe that the creature hunting me on the ley lines, my participation in the tournament, the breakout in Azkaban and the unequal balance of the magicks are interconnected."

"That's a long stretch, Dyre," Lucius said calmly.

"'Will you be mine, Harry Potter?'" he said. "'Onto death do us part? One to control and one to obey. Let us make a necropolis of this world, oh prophetic hero?' This is what the creature spoke to me on the lines," he said.

"Why didn't you say anything before?" Draco said heatedly.

"It portends an understanding of me that I was not ready to accept," he said evenly. "This creature has a power over me that even Karkaroff does not. With him, I still retain somewhat of my will."

His gaze was cloudy, mouth moving into an ugly line.

"I am in foreign waters," he said darkly. "And I am drowning."

"S-so," Sirius said shakily in the long silence that followed the rather painful image. "What are you planning to do?"

Dyre looked up at him, returning from that deep place that serviced his nightmares. "I will call for aid." He paused, shifting himself on his seat and licking his lips in a manner that might have been nerves. "If the creature knows more of me than I do, it can mean only so many things. Something happened when I was still Harry Potter that became the catalyst that killed me, gave me the Eye of Odin, and branded my soul to enslavement. If this is not the price of my survival, the outcome of cause-and-effect, then it was planned and I need to find out by whom and for what purpose."

He took a breath. "I need to find out why the Dark Lord killed me."

There was silence in the room, and Dyre did not seem inclined to break it this time.

Lily licked her lips. "The Dark Lord was after you because we had refused to join him."

"No," he said sharply. "He was after you for me. Killing me was not an act of revenge."

"How can you be so sure?" Remus asked.

"I am not," the boy admitted. "But I intend to find out."

"Once again," Severus said in that lazy drawl, dark eyes intense. "How?"

He was ready this time. "I will summon the Norns."