Harry stepped out of the floo, braced for the whirlwind that was sure to greet him. One glance told him the events of yesterday had spread throughout the entire Ministry. Busy as always with early morning workers arriving, there was a different sort of hectic energy in the Atrium. Harry wondered if the Daily Prophet had gotten news of the arrests yet. He no longer took the paper, finding it caused more headaches than not. He joined the queue to the lifts, keeping his head down.

"Harry!"

He looked around. Eddie wove through the line to him. At twenty-four, Eddie had been the youngest Auror on the force until Harry joined. On Harry's very first day they'd bonded. Eddie could have held a grudge, pointing out the special treatment Harry received. To enter the Auror Department fresh out of school, without even graduating or studying for the required three years afterward … but he hadn't. He'd welcomed Harry with brotherly enthusiasm.

"Long night?" Harry asked, noticing the circles under Eddie's eyes.

Eddie released a low whistle. "You have no idea. I got off five hours ago. Robards has us on rotations. Who'd you get?"

"I, uh—"

"He was saddled with me."

Harry tensed. He turned and found Tom standing behind him with that teasing glint in his eyes. He held out his hand. Eddie gawked at him.

"But weren't you —"

"Taken in for questioning?" said Tom, brightly. "Very much so, but we've cleared all that up. I was happy to be of service to the Ministry. I know how much the Dark Lord hangs over all of you. I hope the recovery of his wand will aid in finding him."

"You —" People shuffled around them as the lifts opened. "You found his wand?"

"All a chance of luck," said Tom casually. "Harry was kind enough to help me through the paperwork. Did he not tell you? I'm the newest Auror. Transferred from the Albanian Corps. Thomas Thorne."

"Oh." Eddie, though still thrown, was quickly recovering. He shook Tom's hand with enthusiasm. "We all thought—"

"That I'd been put under the Imperius Curse?" said Tom. "Or that I was a Death Eater?"

Eddie laughed. "Blimey, you had us panicking. How'd you find his —"

"We're holding up the line," Harry interrupted. He gave Tom a pointed look that Tom returned with amusement.

They filed into the lift. Harry was pressed to the back, sandwiched between a big-bellied wizard with a large briefcase and Tom. He tried to shift more out of the way and his arm brushed against Tom's side.

Upward the lift jangled and Eddie never stopped in his energetic questioning, wanting to hear every detail about Tom's procure of You-Know-Who's wand.

"Where d'you reckon he is now?" Eddie asked as the lift doors opened. A pair of witches disembarked as a host of purple, paper airplanes zoomed in.

"Underground, most likely," said Tom smoothly. "I can imagine he would have numerous hiding locations."

"He can't be careful forever. We'll get him, won't we, Harry?" said Eddie, energized. "He's already lost his wand — who does that?"

Against Harry, Tom's hand twitched and Harry felt Tom's playfulness shift to one of warning.

The cool female voice announced their floor, the golden grills opened and Harry grabbed Tom's wrist, pulling him from the elevator. Luckily, there was so much activity in the corridor with Aurors rushing back to the lifts that Harry and Tom were able to separate from Eddie easily.

If the corridor outside the department was chaotic, it was nothing compared to the stretch of offices. The air was filled with more Ministry-stamped airplanes than Harry had ever seen. Aurors darted in and out of each other's cubicles as they organized themselves for attack. In the midst of it all — and looking very out of place — was Reg Cattermole, wearing the navy blue of the Magical Maintenance division. After joining the Aurors, Harry had been relieved and delighted to find the small wizard back at work with his wife and children perfectly fine.

Reg spotted him.

"I'll have your office expanded soon, Mr. Potter."

"Thanks, Reg."

There was a bang like a firecracker and everyone stilled, turning to the far end of the room. Robards lowered his wand.

"I know we're busy so I'll only take up a moment," Robards said, his rough voice carrying through the silence. "We've got a new member. Thomas Thorne."

Heads turned, searching for the new face. Harry felt an awkward heat rise up his neck, but next to him, Tom exuded nothing but calm confidence.

"Some of you might recognize him from duty yesterday," Robards continued, not sparing Tom a glance. "He's brought us You-Know-Who's wand all the way from Albania, which apparently, You-Know-Who's fled to yet again."

A ripple ran through the crowd. The Aurors took Tom in with greater interest.

"He's agreed to work with us, so I expect you to give him a warm welcome," Robards finished dryly. "Now get back to work. I want the rest of those scumbags brought in by tea time."

As the department jerked back into motion, Robards caught Harry's eye. Harry, taking the hint hissed to Tom, "I'll be right back," and followed Robards into his office. The noise from the room softened somewhat behind the door.

"I need you taking over the Aurum's patrol."

"What?" said Harry startled. "Why?"

"Because Maureen's breathing down my neck, practically having a litter of crups, so I'm sending my best man over."

Harry knew Robards well enough to not take his praise seriously.

"I should be helping with the arrests."

"You are helping," said Robards, sitting heavily at his desk. "You're helping me keep Riddle in line. I don't trust him as far as I can spit."

Harry wanted to argue, but it was clear Robards' mind was made up. He exited the office, expecting to find Tom waiting for him on the other side, but the man was nowhere in sight. Frustration rising, Harry wove through the crowd, finally finding him beside the large bulletin board listing open cases. Maybelle Wildsmith stood beside him, talking. As Harry watched, Maybelle stepped closer to Tom, laughing at something he'd said.

Harry stormed toward them.

"Hi, Maybelle," he said with false cheerfulness. "How's the case going?"

"Swimmingly," she answered. "Just waiting for the all clear from the justice wing. You know how pesky they are about warrants." She cut her eyes back to Tom, grinning as if they were sharing a joke.

Harry bristled.

"Speaking of cases, we have one," he said, looking directly at Tom. "We should go."

"I'd be happy to give you a tour of the Ministry when you get back," said Maybelle.

Harry wanted to vomit. If he watched her flirt with Tom any longer, he was sure he would. He exited at top speed, telling himself that he didn't care if Tom followed or not.

Tom did, but at a far more sedate pace, eventually stepping up beside him as Harry waited with an impatiently tapping foot for the elevator to return.

"So," said Tom pleasantly, "what is our first job?"

"The Aurum."

Tom's eyebrow rose. "The museum?"

"There's a big showing tonight. The museum's worried about art thieves." It was difficult to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "We're patrol duty."

"Do Aurors usually guard artwork?" Tom asked. "I would have put that more in line with Security Trolls."

"I don't know," said Harry, irritably. "You'd have to ask Robards."

"Is this tetchy mood a new acquirement? I don't recall you being so temperamental in the morning."

Long, languid wake-ups tangled in Tom's embrace … goosebumps erupting under wandering fingers and questing lips.

"It's Monday," said Harry shortly, as if this explained everything.

xXx

There was something to be said about anonymity. Blending into the background had its merits. He could watch Harry far better that way.

How everyone stared at Harry. The simple trek up to the Auror Department had proved that. Wizards and witches turned their heads when he appeared, their shoulders and backs straightening without conscious thought. And Harry, so very curiously, kept his head down. Whether it was out of habit or purpose, Tom couldn't decide.

The witch — Maybelle Wildsmith — had been very forthcoming about the Ministry's opinion of Harry.

"Oh, he's excellent," she'd told him. "He's going to be head one day. We all know it."

But did Harry know it?

The lift rattled downward and Tom studied him openly, even as Harry stubbornly refused to shift his eyes from the memos flapping around the light fixture on the ceiling.

"You have quite the reputation."

Harry looked at him then.

"Youngest Auror in history. Four high profile arrests in just under three months."

"Not to mention the whole Chosen-One-Boy-Who-Lived-Savior thing," said Harry, unsmiling.

"Oh, no," Tom agreed softly, "can't forget that."

Harry snorted. The lift jerked to a stop and they squeezed their way out as another wave of employees entered. Harry stopped by the Fountain of Magical Brethren and took Tom's arm. A shot like an electric bolt seared through him at the contact and then Tom was compressed, squeezed through a tiny tube.

A blink later and he stood in a back alley. Tom could just make out the bustling end of the street – London cabs and peddling cyclists shooting past, pedestrians talking on their phones, the smell of greasy pub fare. Harry quickly released him and stepped up to the Aurum's back door, lime green paint peeling away into rust. Tom knew the front of the museum was charmed into the face of a boring office building, only leaping into its true stature of grandeur the moment a person of magic stepped over the invisible line separating Muggles from wizards. Harry knocked sharply. It opened and a house elf dressed in a golden-threaded tunic peered up at them.

"Aurors Harry Potter and Thomas Thorne to see Maureen Spear. Patrol for the Aurum."

The elf nodded, its large ears flapping, and stepped aside to let them enter. Tom had only visited the Aurum on one occasion, a short browse during the summer before his seventh year at Hogwarts. He'd found the art on display uninspiring.

They followed the elf through the back entrance, passing through a small kitchen, before entering the Aurum's gleaming ground floor. At the top of a wide, sweeping marble staircase, a fleet of bronze flying horses swooped down to land in an artful arraignment, their nostrils snorting and wings rustling. The elf barely paid the horses a glance, leading them up the stairs and making a sharp turn to the left. As they followed the elf, Tom noticed that Harry's chilly aloofness from before vanished. The boy took in the museum with the wide-open expression of someone who'd never stepped foot in the Aurum before, slowing down to watch a collection of primitive wizarding statues. Only their top halves were carved from the black stone, their lower sections still large chunks of rock. Two of the statues were in a heated argument, but as they had no mouths they instead angrily jabbed and swung their arms, trying to knock the other off its pedestal.

"Mistress," squeaked the elf, "the Aurors are here."

"About time." A dark-haired witch in form-fitting robes of burgundy turned, glanced at them and did a double take. "Harry Potter?" High heels clattering, she rushed across the marble floor and took one of Harry's hands into her own. "What an honor. I had no idea they would send you! Oh, this is just wonderful!"

Harry's smile was fixed. "How can we be of assistance?"

"It's all very straight forward. Please, come with me."

She escorted them up another sweeping staircase and into a tower room. A red rope barred entry. She flicked her wand and it slithered back, allowing them access.

"As you can see, there's only the one entrance. I thought that if you both stood on either side, it would discourage the Collector enough."

"The Collector?" Harry asked.

"That's who I'm expecting," said Spear. "He's a known thief of the —"

"Elladora Works." Tom stepped further into the room and took in the stained glass pieces circling the room.

"I've been trying for ages to let the family allow me to show them," said Spear. "The Collector has preyed upon the Works for over thirty years. They were forced into locking them up. Can you imagine?"

"How long will they be visible to the public?" Tom asked.

"Only tonight. From seven to midnight. Feel free to make yourselves comfortable. There's coffee and snacks in the foyer downstairs — just no eating or drinking anywhere else, please."

The elf had returned.

"Mistress, the security trolls have arrived."

"Excellent," said Spear crisply. "If you'll excuse me."

"You called it," said Harry, watching her go. "If there was room, I wouldn't be surprised if she rented a dragon." He turned back to the Works, studying them curiously. "Do you know this Collector?"

"No," said Tom. "But it's common knowledge the Elladora Works were sealed away fifteen years ago when three highly prized pieces were stolen, all apparently by the same man."

"Or witch," Harry suggested.

"Or witch," Tom conceded. "Do you like them?" He had the feeling Harry had never heard of the highly prized collection.

Harry cocked his head, taking in the closest piece. "What's it supposed to be of?"

"Elladora believed she could see beyond our world. Each window represents a glimpse — a wrinkle — into another dimension."

Harry's gaze sharpened and Tom knew exactly what he was thinking. He stepped closer and whispered in his ear, "Spot the Carcerem anywhere?"

"Are they real?" Harry asked.

"No way of knowing for sure," Tom admitted, "but regardless, they are rather hypnotic."

Each window of stained glass was painstakingly arraigned to form swirling patterns of vibrant colors. The one before them was a creation of pinks, blues, and flecks of white. In constant movement, the colored glass coiled into tight circles, like whirlpools, spinning faster and faster and then dispersing into a shower of glinting gold before being tugged into a neighboring spiral. Harry moved away, taking in each monstrous piece. They towered — each at least nine feet tall. He stopped before the only one that was void of movement or color. Each glass shard was jet black.

"Nothingness," Tom read off the plaque beside the Work. He gazed at it, but finding that he preferred looking at Harry, turned his attention to the young man beside him. Tom frowned, noticing Harry's expression. It wasn't quite fear, but it was close.

"Harry?"

Harry jerked, tearing his gaze from the piece. "What?"

Tom studied him. "Is something wrong?"

"No," said Harry quickly. "I think I'll go get one of those coffees. Want one?"

Tom shook his head. Harry departed, the cord slithering out of the way for him and then snapping back into place. With a more suspicious eye, Tom turned his scrutiny back to the window. Nothingness. The longer Tom stared at it, the more he felt himself falling into it. A world of black … running in blind terror … skeletal hands grabbing his ankles … sinking lower and lower into a bottomless pit.

Tom jolted back to his senses. He took a step back. Perhaps a cup of coffee wasn't such a bad idea, after all.

xXx

The coffee was vile, but Harry didn't care. He downed it in one go. When he'd looked into that work of stained glass he'd felt that it … that it looked back at him. None of the other swirling, splotched, speckled pieces had given him such a bone-chilling reaction. If those really were windows into other worlds, Harry didn't want to be anywhere near that one.

Absentmindedly, he rubbed the inside of his wrist on the place where the Carcerem's mark used to be. The jagged half-moon tattoo was no longer present and the quick glance at Tom's wrists while in the holding cell confirmed that his too had been erased. The tattoo had never bothered him while inside the Carcerem, but for the last three months Harry had been plagued by an insistent itch. It started the morning after the Carcerem freed them. Harry had sat on his four-poster bed in the Gryffindor dorm, scratching his wrist raw, but the itch only grew worse until an image flared in his mind of Tom's mouth soothing the angry skin and the irritation stopped.

Startled and disturbed, Harry stared at his wrist and then, curious, he lifted his shirt, inspecting his stomach. The three, long, white scars the boggart had given him remained. Harry ran his fingers over the slightly raised skin, remembering how Tom's fingers and slipped over the torn flesh, numbing the pain twice a day with cooling ointment that he made fresh every morning in his workshop. Why would the Carcerem leave these marks and take away the other? Why had the image of Tom made the irritation vanish?

Unsettled by these questions, Harry tried not to think of Tom. But the itch would return without warning — shopping in Diagon Alley, filing paperwork at the office, getting a pint with Ron and Hermione — and he would think of Tom and the crazed sensation would fade away to nothing. Or maybe it was the other way round? Maybe it was the constant struggle to forget Tom — to push him from his mind — that brought about the unbearable itch. Maybe it was a side effect from being inside the Carcerem.

His birthday had been the most recent episode, sending him dashing into the privacy of the bathroom, his wrist so itchy he could have rubbed it with poison ivy. He lasted two minutes before giving in. Tom bloomed in his mind's eye, pressing up against him, fingers lifting his chin upward. Harry's stomach swooped, his heart shivered and the itch quieted.

Glaring, Harry set his used coffee cup in the dirty dish tray, stuffing his fists into his pockets. He had a feeling that the itch would not bother him ever again.

Happy now? Harry thought sourly, imagining the Carcerem's smooth golden disk gleaming smugly. He's back. No forgetting him now. As if I ever could, he added.

Harry desperately wanted to leave. Though he'd stated to Kingsley otherwise, he longed to barricade himself in his house and never go out again. But if he left now, he knew it would come back to haunt him. Maureen Spear expected her guards to be present until the Aurum was locked up tight at the end of the showing. He would have to pass the time until then. He tapped a quick message on his galleon, letting Hermione and Ron know that he'd be far too late to join them for dinner tonight.

The Elladora exhibit was closed off, but the rest of the Aurum was not. Harry joined a shuffling group of African tourists into a room across the entrance hall. He'd never been in a museum before. Though he couldn't speak for Muggle ones, he assumed they would not have a gallery of singing skeletons nor bronze horses that, when they grew bored, swooped through doorways, nearly knocking visitors over. He was quite amused by a selection of simple paintings, all of which featured noses and nothing else. Half wondering if Snape had posed for one, Harry settled onto a bench.

Eventually Tom found him. He joined him on the bench and though there was a good two feet between them, it felt like no distance at all. Harry clutched his hands in his lap, desperately searching his mind for small talk. He turned, half considering commenting on the weather —

Tom was reading a book.

Harry nearly laughed. Of course the man had a book stashed away. Harry faced the noses again, feeling suddenly inexplicably relieved, as if everything was back to normal. Or as normal as things could get when you were Harry Potter.

Beside him, Tom turned a page. "So?" he asked softly.

"So what?"

"How did they take it?"

One of the portraits scratched her nose.

"They're cool with it."

Tom blinked. He looked up from his book. "Are they?"

"Yep."

A pause.

"You have surprisingly understanding friends."

Harry grinned. "Yeah." Then the subtext caught up to him and he took a swift scoot down the bench just as Tom edged closer. More out of a desire to cover up the awkwardness, Harry blurted, "They want to have dinner."

"Your friends."

Harry nodded. "They suggested the Royal Hag. It's good. Ron loves it because everything they offer is practically half a cow."

Tom did not move his eyes from Harry.

"And what do they expect to gain from this dinner?"

Harry wished Tom would stop staring at him. The back of his neck grew warm.

"I don't know. Meet you, I suppose. You just dropped a bombshell on them. They're curious and a bit worried, to be honest. Why did you tell them?" Harry demanded.

"Why didn't you tell them?"

"I asked first."

The corner of Tom's mouth lifted into a half smirk. "I'm trying something new. No secrets."

A startled laugh escaped Harry. A scandalized wizard shushed him.

"Really?" said Harry, trying to regain his composure. "And how's that going for you?"

"Surprisingly freeing. For instance, those paintings are ghastly, the Danishes are stale, and I very much want to kiss you."

Harry's mouth was suddenly dry. "One of those is an opinion, you know."

Tom sat far too close. The room, the meandering wizards and witches, all seemed to fall away. There was only Tom.

With a light shrug, Tom broke eye contact and returned to his book.

"Do they serve lamb?" he asked casually, as if he had no idea that he'd made Harry's lungs struggle for oxygen. "I've been in the mood."

.

.

Seven o'clock neared and Maureen Spear became as intense as a dragon with day-old hatchlings. Harry, who'd taken up his post on the right hand side of the exhibit door, spotted her dashing up and down the stairs, checking that the security trolls were still in their places and then rushing back up to the tower room to make sure that he and Tom had not vanished. Her high heels echoed off the walls like gunfire. The noise caused the flying horses to stomp their bronze hooves in agitation.

Harry cut his eyes to Tom. He was composed. Unruffled. Cool as a cucumber. Not giving the slightest indication that he might be imagining pushing Harry up against the wall and —

Harry stopped that train of thought with a screech of brakes. He was not going to lose his senses again. This was not the Carcerem. Being in a relationship with Tom was not smart. Or remotely healthy.

The commotion downstairs increased, voices rising in volume as the viewing hour inched closer. Harry caught Tom's eye. Neither one of them knew what this Collector looked like, as the thief had never been aprehended. Harry had been surprised to learn that Tom was just as much in the dark as he was and he still couldn't quite believe it.

"You really don't know what he looks like?" Harry pressed. "I thought you knew everyone."

Tom lifted a sardonic eyebrow. "My apologies for disappointing you."

Maureen Spear's high laugh carried up the stairs and a second later a great sound of feet moved upward. She was at the front of the pack, breathless and flushed with excitement. Harry shot a quick glance at the crowd behind her. He and Tom may not be art fans, but it appeared that half of wizarding world was.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I present for the first time in fifteen years, the Elladora Works."

Spear waved her wand and the red cord tying off the tower vanished. A procession of witches and wizards dressed to the nines entered with oohs and ahhs. Harry shifted slightly more out of the way, keeping his head down and his eyes peeled. He had no idea what he was looking for. Surely the Collector wouldn't stride up to a window and pry if off its stand.

"Harry! I didn't know you were a fan!"

Harry did a double-take. "Luna?"

He hadn't seen her since the Battle of Hogwarts. He'd expected to run into her when he'd moved into the cottage three hills over from their house, but the Lovegoods had been nowhere to be found. And here she stood, dressed in glittering robes of peacock purple. Her wavy, blonde hair was pinned back by a matching feather. She could have strolled right out of the 1920s. Without her necklace of butterbeer caps and radish earrings, Harry almost didn't recognize her. Beside Luna stood a tall, young man that Harry had never seen before. He was slightly slump-shouldered, his hair a brownish ginger.

"I'm on duty," Harry explained. "What are you doing here?"

"The Elladora Works!" Luna breathed, ecstatic. "I've always wanted to see them and then Rolf got us tickets at the last minute."

The man smiled rather awkwardly, but was pleased all the same. "It was nothing."

"It wasn't," Luna insisted. "It was a great lot. Oh, Harry, this is Rolf Scamander."

The name rang a bell.

"Are you related to Newt Scamander?" Harry asked, shaking his hand.

"He was my grandfather," said Rolf.

"How'd you two meet?"

"I was studying the Selma in Norway and Luna and her father happened to be staying at the same inn," Rolf explained.

"We were looking for the Crumple-Horned Snorkack," said Luna. "It enjoys the mountain air in the summer."

Harry grinned and glanced at Rolf, who, though a little pinker, beamed all the more fondly at Luna.

"Don't let me hold you up," said Harry. "Nice to meet you."

The tower quickly became so crowded that Harry wouldn't even know if someone sneezed, let alone attempt to steal one of the Works. There wasn't enough space within the tower to allow everyone to enter at once, so Spear had them view the Works in timed groups. The line looked just the same to Harry as it did two hours ago. He spotted half a dozen other faces he recognized: Ernie Macmillan along with who looked to be his parents and Ron's great Aunt Muriel. He would have liked to say hello to Ernie, but he very much wanted to remain unnoticed by Muriel. He tactfully side-stepped around a cluster of witches when she entered, banging people's shins with her cane to make them move out of her way.

"My deepest apologies," Spear called over the crowd, her voice magically magnified, "but I must insist that you only spend half an hour viewing the collection. There are refreshments in the foyer down below. Ah — Miss Skeeter."

Harry's stomach plummeted just as Rita Skeeter and her pouchy photographer stepped into view.

"Would you like to view the Works before our interview?" Spear asked, smoothing down her hair and eying the camera clutched in the wizard's hands.

"Yes," said Skeeter. "That would be lovely."

A witch with a beehive headdress moved out of the way, and Skeeter's gaze latched onto Harry.

"Harry Potter!" Skeeter was before him in seconds, her alligator-skin handbag clasped in her crimson-talon hands. "What a surprise. I wouldn't have expected you here, what with all the shocking arrests taking place at the Ministry. Practically every witch and wizard on the most wanted list is being scooped up. There must have been a most significant leak. How unfortunate that You-Know-Who still remains at large."

Harry remained stubbornly silent.

Skeeter pressed onward. "For all those witches and wizards to be uprooted like mandrakes … someone knew the most wanted quite intimately. I wonder what allowances the Ministry passed along to receive such information."

"You'll have to take that up with Robards," said Harry curtly.

"Where's the fun in that, Harry?" Skeeter purred, her teeth glistening in a wide grin. "Why don't you guest star on my program? The public simply craves you. The daring adventures of Harry Potter; his arduous transition from student to working man; his quest for love. Harry, we'd break the WWN."

"I'd rather wrestle an ogre," Harry stated. "Could you move on? You're holding up the line."

Not bothered in the slightest, Skeeter smirked. She gave him a wink and sauntered into the crowd. Rita Skeeter's recent foray into radio had proved successful, much to Harry's annoyance. He had not listened to a single second of her show, Skewered by Skeeter, but he could easily imagine it.

A body suddenly pressed up against his back. He stiffened as Tom breathed in his ear, "The wizard beside the walrus mustache. He hasn't moved from that piece for the last ten minutes."

It took a moment before Harry spotted who Tom spoke of. A man in a low-brimmed hat and dark robes stood with his back to them, his hands at his sides as he studied what looked to Harry like a sunset in a blender.

"So he likes it," Harry muttered back.

"I know the look of someone who's up to something," Tom disagreed in a low tone. "And he's oozing it."

"I'll check it out," said Harry. "Man the entrance—"

BANG!

Harry ducked. The tower was suddenly filled with thick smoke. People screamed. At once, bodies jostled him as those in the tower rushed the only exit. A hand closed around his wrist and Tom yanked him out of the way of the stampede.

"Protego!" Harry shouted, shielding the exit and trapping the last ten-odd people inside the tower.

Tom twirled his wand and the air cleared as if a vacuum had sucked up all the smoke. The man Tom had pointed out stood in the center of the room, stuffing something into his pocket. A stand was empty behind him.

"Don't move!" Harry shouted, but the wizard slashed his wand violently upward.

Harry and Tom dove out of the way just as something red hot licked Harry's side. A witch screamed.

"Go!" Harry told them, lifting his barrier.

They fled, all save Ernie. A second later Luna and Rolf appeared at the top of the stairs. They'd heard the commotion from down below. Their wands were at the ready.

The Collector took a step back, wand darting from face to face.

"You're outnumbered," said Harry. "Drop your wand."

Face twisted into a snarl, the Collector jerked his wrist and a burst of wind so ferocious barreled over them that they were sent flying. Luna, Rolf and Ernie tumbled straight out of the room; Tom, his teeth gritted, protected his face against the onslaught with a raised arm, and Harry crashed right into one of the stained glass windows.

Except, he didn't crash into it. He continued to fall, straight through it like an ant falling through the delicate skin of a soap bubble. His breath caught as he landed hard on his back. Dazed, he sat up and found himself looking through misted glass.

He could see into the tower room. The wind whirled as violently as a tornado, but it was muffled. The shouts from Tom, Luna, Rolf and Ernie sounded far away and distorted as if Harry was underwater. Everything, Harry noticed was strangely hazed and moving far too slowly. He could see colors that had not been there seconds before. The wind was a violet blue, furious and blistering, the wizard standing in its heart a sickly orange. In slow motion, Tom lifted his wand, casting a spell and Harry was frozen by the thick cloud of black that surrounded his slender frame. Harry could taste Tom's magic on his tongue; it crackled — electricity after a lightning strike.

Something moved behind Harry. He turned on his knees and stared into impenetrable darkness. He knew immediately what Work he'd fallen into.

Nothingness.

"Lumos," he whispered. The beam cast light on nothing, but Harry could hear something shifting about. Or did he feel it?

Without warning, Harry's wand jerked like a fishing pole with its line snagged; something had attached itself to the beam of light, but he couldn't see what it was. There was nothing there. As if the beam were a straw, Harry felt his magic drain away. Drain from his very heart. He gripped both hands onto the hawthorn, his arms shaking with the effort to break the connection and with an almighty yank, he broke free, tumbling over backward out of the window and onto hard marble.

.

.

A/N: Today's my birthday. Give a girl a present and leave a comment. (｡･ω･｡)ﾉ