Harry Potter and the Brethren Prophecy

Harry Potter felt distinctly uneasy.

Considering the fact that he was currently enjoying the first evening free of curses, exams, sadistic relatives, a number of beasts with sharp, pointy teeth and voracious appetites, and one particularly nasty dark wizard bent on killing him and taking over the world, the casual observer would have been at a loss to deduce the cause of his disquiet.

Rising from the bed as quietly as the rusted springs would allow, he padded softly over to the dilapidated window. Propping his elbows on the windowsill and cupping his chin in his clammy palms, Harry fixed a blank gaze upon the shimmering constellations, jewel-bright and glimmering with the luster of all the gold in Gringotts Bank. The view was undisputably lovely from his second story window on 4 Privet Drive. A full moon shone like a freshly scrubbed dinner plate high above his head and the dark sapphire sky winked and shifted with a warm light breeze. Still, the sigh he heaved as he irritably blew a stray black lock from his eyes had no musical contentment about it.

Squinting against the bleary vision that came through the grimy panes of glass, he watched as four indistinct shapes crept from behind the moon, making their way slowly towards him. He pushed open the window and leaned onto the ledge, rising to the balls of his toes and nearly tumbling over onto the dewy green grass below with a mixture of excitement and anticipation. Slowly the shapes dissolved into the distinct outline of three large owls and one tiny one, all holding packages and parchments of various shapes and sizes. Harry pulled back, allowing the owls to swoop in and place the parcels neatly on his bed, the two foreign cinnamon coloured owls chirruping with importance as they quickly flew back into the darkness. His own owl, Hedwig, landed gracefully on her perch and took a long drink from her water dish, while the fourth and tiniest owl proceeded to buzz and hoot excitedly around the room. Harry quickly snatched the owl from the air, pried the package from its small talons and placed it firmly next to Hedwig, who ruffled her feathers indignantly. The miniature bird merely hooted excitedly.

"Pig! Be quiet!" Harry said sternly, furrowing his brows menacingly in an attempt to quell the bird's squawks. It seemed to work and Pig stared apologetically at Hedwig, who threw her wings into the air and turned her head.

Harry then plopped happily on his bed, surveying his presents with a broad smile. He would be sixteen in no less then two hours and, as per usual, his friends had sent him a plethora of gifts to make up for those his aunt and uncle did not give him. He selected a parcel and hastily unwrapped the light brown paper. Inside was a handful of brightly coloured sweets, some flat grey pebbles, a thick leather-bound olive coloured book entitled "Quidditch through the Ages: the Unabridged Edition" by Kennilworthy Whisp, and a small card with the words 'Happy Birthday Harry!' written in scarlet and gold on the front. He opened it a read the message:

Happy Birthday!

I hope you like the book. Now you won't have to keep borrowing it from the library and get beaten about the head every time you so much as drop the damn thing because of Madam Pince's jinxes. This one's better then her ratty old copy anyway, it's much thicker. I hope Hermione didn't get you the same thing.

Ron

Below that, another message was written in messy looped handwriting. It read:

Harry!

Happy Birthday mate! Weasleys Wizard Wheezes is back up and running and we've enclosed some of our best selling products: Some candy for that stupid whale you call a cousin and our greatest invention to date, Transfigurocks(. All you have to do is hold the pebble firmly in your hand and think hard about the one thing you really want and 'poof!' there you go! They're a big hit!

Happy Birthday and thanks again!

Gred and Forge

Harry smiled and pushed the presents to the side along with three other parchments Harry suspected were letters asking if his scar hurt and telling him not to let the Muggles get him down. He then carefully picked up one of the pebbles and inspected it, deciding not to test this present yet, just in case something went wrong, as George and Fred's inventions had a tendency to do and he accidentally woke the Dursleys with a small explosion or fire. He reached for the next parcel and untied the bow. The paper fell away and inside was a magical card that glittered and changed colours, and a small box. As he opened the box he read the card.

Happy Birthday!

I found this in a magic store while on holiday in Paris. They said it brings protection to whoever wears it and enhances magical ability. The witch at the shop told me it was made by centaurs to fend off evil spirits. I thought it was pretty.

Love,

Hermione

Harry held his gift to the light. It was a small black chain bracelet with a single large translucent red glass bead in the centre. Inside the bead was a small flame that flickered and danced from side to side. Harry was transfixed; he had never seen anything like it, not even in Diagon Alley. He stared hard at the flame and it seemed to grow and leap under his scrutiny, playfully bouncing from side to side with rapid yet graceful movements. Fastening it around his wrist, he noticed that there were tiny foreign letters inscribed delicately on the clasp. He smiled at the sudden thought of Hermione noticing these letters and purchasing the bracelet for the sole purpose of spending hours in the library trying to decode its message.

With the bracelet secured firmly around his wrist and Hermione's card placed carefully next to Ron's on his nightstand, he moved onto the third and final present.

The package was inscribed on the outside in large block letters that read "To Mr. Harry Potter, Care of Rubeus Hagrid, Hogwarts". Harry smiled and carefully peeled back the paper, recalling the man-eating book and the unruly biting plant that had been Hagrid's idea of good birthday presents the previous two years.

Inside he found a tin of treacle fudge and a worn black belt with a silver buckle shaped like an impressive standing lion. In fact, it was an exact copy of the lion on the Gryffindor house crest. He looked at it quizzically. Hagrid had sent no card or explanation, save for a small scrap of parchment with the words 'Happy Birthday, Love Hagrid' written in large jagged handwriting. Placing the belt carefully on his bedside table, Harry resolved to ask Hagrid where he had procured such an item on the first day back to school.

He grinned, observing his presents with a satisfied air of gratification settling around him. He had gone far too long without birthdays or presents and now he feared his friends were spoiling him. There were still three rolls of parchment left, all tied neatly with different coloured ribbons. He picked one up, sighing at the tiny enthusiastic claw marks left by Pigwidgeon, Ron's hyperactive owl.

    He opened the letter, and read his best friend's untidy scrawl.

Dear Harry,

Did you hear about Fudge? Serves him right, he should have listened to Dumbledore when he had the chance. Dad says the Ministry's a mess and no one knows who they're going to pick to be the next Minister. Percy's been unbearable. Just because he was Fudge's whipping boy doesn't mean he will be the next head of the Ministry.

Hermione and I are meeting in the Leaky Cauldron on the Monday before we go back to school to buy our things, around noon. Can you make it? Don't let the Muggles get you down!

See you in London

Ron.

    Harry sighed. He hated the summer holidays because he was so isolated from the wizarding community. What had happened to Fudge? Why did they need a new Minister? Was Fudge dead? Harry's face took on a look of panic at the last thought and he had to know more. He picked up the second role of parchment, which was from Hermione, and began to read.

Harry -

I can't believe it. Have you heard? It's Fudge, he's been murdered. Well, close enough. It was Dementors, the Daily Prophet said they preformed their kiss. He's in St. Mungo's Hospital now. They're looking for a new Minister at this very moment. I've enclosed some of the clippings from the paper because I know you can't really keep in touch with the wizarding world during the holidays.

Has Sirius written lately? Has your scar been hurting? You'd tell someone if your scar hurt, right? You-Know-Who is still out there somewhere and I don't want you getting hurt, especially after what happened last year.

Harry winced at the memory. Voldemort had captured Hermione in an attempt to get to him and it took a lot of very powerful magic to bring her back. Harry swallowed a thick lump that was rising in the back of his throat. He remembered the conference that he and Dumbledore shared on the last day of term. In a very solemn, grieving tone, the Headmaster had told him Voldemort had been weakened but not defeated and that it was only a matter of time before he gained enough support to be brought back into power.

Removing his glasses and placing a trembling hand against his eyes, Harry pushed the fringe of dark, unruly hair from his forehead, replaced his glasses then went back to Hermione's letter.

Ron and I are meeting in the Leaky Cauldron the Monday before school starts, will you be there? I hope so, I miss you both very much.

Owl me if your scar hurts.

All my love,

Hermione

    Harry briefly glanced at the aforementioned newspaper clippings, noticing the moving black and white picture of Fudge staring apathetically at the camera. His mouth hung wide open and a trickle of drool was affixed to his chin. His eyes were completely dead. Harry shuddered, thinking of Barty Crouch Jr. and his godfather. Numbly, he put the article aside and picked up the last roll of parchment.

It was from Sirius. Harry could recognize his neat, slightly shaky handwriting faster than he could his own. Sirius had spent the entire last terms on a mission for Dumbledore, gaining members of an elite wizarding society called the Order of the Phoenix. It was, in fact, this group of witches and wizards that were able to supply the high doses of magic to weaken Voldemort and stifle the spread of the epidemic he was bringing upon the wizarding world. That was the only time Harry had seen his godfather that year. Sirius did, however, write to Harry as much as possible.

His letter piqued Harry's curiosity. It was tied with a crisp red ribbon and written on a clean white piece of parchment which was very unusual. Sirius was, in fact, still dodging the authorities from when he escaped from wizard prison three years ago. His letters were usually written on the back of old Daily Prophet clippings or crumpled yellow scraps of parchment. He read the letter.

Harry,

I hate to spring this on you during your birthday, but I've been captured by some Aurors and I'm currently in a holding cell in the Ministry. I've been in touch with Dumbledore who seems very optimistic. He thinks this is my chance to prove my innocence. I don't know what will happen.

It seems no one here knows what is happening. Since Fudge's incident the Ministry has been in a shambles. Everyone is running around without a clue as to what they're doing. This whole thing couldn't come at a more inconvenient time for everybody.

Don't worry about me, Harry. They feed me well and I'm allowed to write to whomever I want. It's not like Azkaban here, I'm doing fine. How are you? Has your scar been hurting? Are the Muggles treating you all right? You have to promise me you won't go looking for trouble. This is a very uncertain time for all of us and you're safest with the Dursleys, no matter what. Take care of yourself Harry and please, don't worry about me.

Happy Birthday,

Love, Sirius

Harry felt his heart sink to the pit of his stomach and a rancid bitter taste rise in his throat. More than anything, he was scared. Sirius would most certainly die if they put him back in Azkaban, and he couldn't imagine losing a father twice. Once was more than enough. He clamped his eyes shut as a single tear rolled quietly down his pale cheek and he clutched at the parchment desperately, willing it all just to be some horrible nightmare. He sat like that for awhile, adrift in a crumbling world of sorrow and pity, until finally he looked up, wiped at his cheeks with the back of a trembling hand and glanced at the clock on his nightstand.

It was a little passed one. He had been sixteen for over an hour.

~~**~~

"Wake up, you good for nothing layabout. Where's our breakfast? We take you into our home and this is the thanks we get? Wake up!"

Harry's eyes slowly fluttered open and shut again. He had finally fallen asleep early that morning, only to be molested by dark bloodstained dreams of the Dark Lord and Azkaban. Now he felt as if large invisible weights had been affixed to his upper eyelids and every bone in his body seemed to creak and ache as he pulled himself up and let his bare feet swing down onto the frigid wooden floorboards. A huge, burning wave of nausea rolled over him as he spied Sirius' note lying in a crumpled mass on the floor. Groaning with a mixture of guilt and emptiness, he shuffled out of the room, grabbing some wrinkled clothes from the floor and making his way into the bathroom.

Dudley was waiting for him in the hall.

His cousin's appearance had remained practically unchanged since the last time they met over a year ago. His diet had been all but abandoned as he learned that by wailing miserably every time he was hungry, one of his parents would come rushing to his side to supply the necessary edibles. Obese, pale, coated with a tenacious layer of sweat and filth and exuding a vague but persistent aura of clamminess, Dudley Dursley resembled nothing so much as a bulging albino hippopotamus, peering out at the world indolently from under squinted, beady black eyes.

"Good morning, cousin," he sang sweetly as Harry emerged from his bedroom. "Get anything nice last night?"

Harry froze, "What do you mean?"

"I know you got something and I want it."

"No."

"Give it to me or you'll be sorry."

"No." Harry had long ago learned not to be afraid of Dudley; he had withstood worse punishments in his life than those from the fists of his cousin.

A pudgy, greasy arm suddenly came hurtling his way. Nimbly, he dodged it, which only served to exacerbate his cousin's already enraged mood. To Harry's great surprise, however, his cousin merely yelled in frustration and turned to retreat back to his room. Harry stood in shock for a few quiet seconds, let out a small triumphant squeak, puffed out his chest and turned to complete his journey to the shower. Suddenly the air around him was violently displaced as Dudley had whirled around and attacked when his back was turned. He felt a sensation akin to a brick being smashed against the back of his skull as his glasses flew from the bridge of his nose and crashed with a small thud against the cheap linoleum. Harry soon followed, falling to the floor with surprise and anger at himself for being tricked by his slow-witted cousin. Sighing as he heard the frantic thumps of footsteps descend upon his room, yet still too hurt and dizzy to do anything about it, Harry resigned to steal his birthday presents back as Dudley slept. There followed a series of crashes and muffled shattering noises and finally a triumphant 'ah ha!' and Dudley emerged victorious.

    Holding the tin of fudge and a few of the Weasleys' sweets aloft, Dudley kicked Harry forcefully in the shin and laughed his way to his room. At least Harry could take comfort in the fact that something nasty would happen to his cousin after eating the sweets and that he hadn't stolen any of the important presents, only the food. Typical.

    The Dursleys had become much harder to deal with this summer. Uncle Vernon had been demoted at work and his general opinion of Harry had taken a steep decline. They took away the company car and they were forced to give up frivolous expenses such as the professional gardening that gave Aunt Petunia bragging rights to all the envious neighbours and the cakes and sweets that kept Dudley happy. All in all, the entire family seemed sullen and depressed and treated Harry with a spiteful air of accusation, bordering on utter hatred. There was not a moment when they were not ordering him about in the guise of repaying their sixteen years of hospitality and generosity for not letting him die on the street . Harry followed orders with a casual indifference, using his time spent doing chores to memorize potion ingredients or study for his N.E.W.Ts. He projected the calm aura of a world weary spirit, dutifully obeying to save himself from unnecessary, and often painful, punishment while quietly marking each day on his calendar with a hopeful knowledge that school was back in session on the first of September.

    When Harry finally emerged from the top of the stairs it was already lunch. Under normal circumstances, this would have sent Uncle Vernon into a rage, but as Harry should have known by now, there are no normal circumstances in the lives of world famous wizards.

    A large brown tawny owl was perched on Uncle Vernon's favourite chair, its back rigid with unwavering loyalty as Uncle Vernon repeatedly charged it with a long push broom. Upon seeing Harry the bird immediately flew towards him, dropped a crisp rolled parchment at Harry's feet and flew out the open window.

    Taking the paper, Harry read;

         Mr. Potter,

    You have been selected as a key witness in the trial of Sirius Black. This is a notice officially informing you that you are summoned to come forth and testify at Ministry Headquarters on the evening of August 23. Should you choose not to attend, any evidence or testimony regarding your person will be stricken from the courtroom.

Note that if do choose to be present, you will be subjected to Veritaserum to insure the truthfulness of your deposition.

            Ministry of Magic, Department of Criminal Affairs

    He had barely finished the letter when Uncle Vernon shot up as quickly as his huge frame could muster and snatched the letter from his grip. His dark squinty eyes roamed quickly over the neatly printed words, colour rushing to his face as his thin lips moved in silent uncomprehending shock.

    "What's this nonsense?" he finally said, gritting his teeth with annoyance.

    "My godfather. I have to testify. He'll be free and then I could live with him." Harry said in clipped terse sentences, not really wanting to share this information with his uncle.

    "You will not be going and that is final."

    Harry stood perfectly still, his features morphing in rapid fire through a wide range of emotions. In two seconds flat he had been angry, shocked, bewildered, pensive, sullen and offended before he finally settled on stunned, mouth hanging open, eyes wide, looking oddly reminiscent of something one would find swimming in an aquarium "I... Wha - but..." he stuttered, unable to comprehend his uncle's twisted logic. "But this is your chance to get rid of me. If... when Sirius is found innocent, I'll go and live with him. You won't have to feed me anymore!" Harry exclaimed incredulously.     

    "You will not go!" Uncle Vernon snapped. "I will not tolerate any more of your nonsense. We are all going to visit Marge and you will be normal and pleasant!"

Harry's mouth opened and closed speechlessly as a slight angry blush crept onto his otherwise blanched face. "If I leave," he started through clenched teeth, "She won't even have to see me! Why on earth would you make me go with you when..."

"Marge wants you there. She says she wants to see how that school of yours is straightening you out, making you a proper young man." Vernon paraphrased, making sure to punctuate his last comment with a disdainful glance at Harry's disheveled looks, his small piggy eyes disappearing under a hazy veil of contempt. "You are not going to mess this up for us, boy. Marge has offered us a great deal of money to get us back on our feet and she wants to be assured it will not be wasted on your delinquency."

Harry blinked, the implications of what his uncle had just said slowly dawning on him. "Right," he said with a calculating clarity, "I'll be good but afterwards I have to go to the trial."

Vernon grunted and shot Harry one last contemptuous glance before ordering him to go a pack some clothes as their train left first thing the next morning. Harry took that as his consent. As he made his way back up the stairs, the nagging memory of the results of a similar arrangement involving Aunt Marge before his third year sprung up from the depths of his subconscious. He sighed, pushing thoughts that the Dursleys were about to receive a repeat performance aside as he pulled a worn canvas bag from the top of his closet and proceeded to stuff a couple pairs of faded jeans, a nice pair of black trousers, a few casual shirts and some jumpers into it. Pausing at the sight of his trunk full of school things, he sighed and carefully raked his hand fondly over the worn cover. He was never very far from his wand as it was his strongest connection to the wizarding world and provided a secure air of safety and assurance. The brief thought that he should quietly pack it along with his clothes flashed through his head but was quickly quelled by the fact that it was probably not the best of ideas, considering he could then be considered armed and dangerous in the presence of his torturous relatives. This time he really had to be on his best behaviour, for the sake of his godfather.

~~**~~

    The train ride to Aunt Marge's was a long expanse of utter boredom with short nauseating intervals of pure torture. The small compartment the Harry shared with the Dursleys was cramped and uncomfortable and for the most part, Harry opting to sit quietly with his hands folded neatly in his lap, his eyes focused on the embroidery on the seat backs. He would have liked to have seen the countryside whipping by through the window but, of course, Dudley had claimed that coveted seat and used the opposite side as a foot rest, his muddy boots turning the once clean bench a nasty shade of brown.

    Dudley was slouched next to his mother, his fat thumbs moving in rapid succession over the buttons of his Game Boy. Aunt Petunia sat rigidly in her chair, silently pondering various conversation starters and new gossip to impress Marge with. Every once and a while her eyes would briefly flicker to Harry and she'd let out a short derisive snort of indignation mingled with apprehensive laughter. Uncle Vernon sat nestled between his son's Doc Marten clad feet and Harry, studiously reading the paper and tenaciously avoiding all speech and eye contact. There was an uneasy tension in the way he loudly ruffled the paper while turning the page and in the way he kept crossing and uncrossing his legs that suggested this particular excursion was not exactly his idea of a pleasant family holiday.

    "Mum, Harry's making rude faces at me!" Dudley's whining voice suddenly interrupted the silence and the three other members of the compartment jumped perceptibly. Then both adults turned on the innocent with the angry faces of two ferocious grizzlies.

    "You will not ruin this for us, boy!" they seemed to scream in unison.

"You will be nice and pleasant," Petunia stated, a fearful irate tone lacing her words.

"You will listen to what we say or you will not be leaving," Uncle Vernon added, his round race taking on a crimson hue.

This line of conversation would have continued indefinitely if not for the grateful interruption of the conductor on the loud speakers, jovially announcing their arrival. As the train sluggishly crawled to a halt Harry breathed a sigh of relief, Vernon and Petunia shot him one last murderous glare and Dudley stuck his tongue out with mocking smugness.

Perhaps, in hindsight, Harry thought in vain, this had not been one of his smarter plans.

~~**~~

Marge and her prize bulldog and constant nuisance Ripper were to meet the Dursleys in terminal number six when their train had arrived. Harry, under Uncle Vernon's forceful insistence, had gone to fetch the baggage as the Dursleys went to search the station for Marge. No sooner had they begun than Petunia had heard a loud shriek from behind her and the appalling clink of ten tiny toenails on the hard tile. Aunt Marge's large frame came bounding into view with Ripper's hideous wrinkled face bobbing up and down at her heels. She was dressed in a massive pink skirt and matching business coat, buttoned up to reveal the top of a black ruffled shirt underneath. Her fat calves were covered with sheer black pantyhose that disappeared into a pair of revolting hot pink satin pumps. Matching lipstick and thick coat of similar rouge caked her plump cheeks. Her eyebrows were completely plucked and drawn back in with black pencil high on her forehead, lending an air of haughty insolence to her thick round features.

"My dears!" she screeched, plucking Ripper off the floor and giving each of the Dursleys a big hug, complete with dog slobber, much to Aunt Petunia's dismay. She had never liked that dog, simply for the fact that it was such a blatant affront to all her clean, well-groomed sensibilities. Tensing as Marge engulfed her, Petunia suppressed a grimace as she pulled away, leaving a long chain of viscous dog spittle dangling freely from her neat shoulder.

Stooping down to slip a crisp ten pound note into Dudley's back pocket, Marge ruffed his hair affectionately before clearing her throat and straightening up, her face pulled into a severe frown. "Now where is that delinquent pest? No doubt, he's out running amuck annoying all these pleasant passengers with his offensive behaviour."

"Oh, he really has changed quite a bit," Petunia said with a forced smile.

"Is that so?" Marge inquired, her small beady eyes scanning the terminal with scornful impatience.

"Yes, Marge dear, he has," Vernon spat between clenched teeth. However, his sour expression turned triumphant as he caught sight of Harry struggling with their oversized luggage. "Why look, here comes the boy now with all our things. Isn't that nice of him?"

"I see," Marge offered by way of reply, pursing her lips with skepticism. In her arms, Ripper began barking loudly and wriggling out of her vice-like grip. Petunia cringed. "Boy!" Marge suddenly cried out through the terminal, her voice ringing with disdain. Harry froze and looked towards the high pitched sound. "Did they finally hammer some manners into your thick skull at that criminal school you belong to?" she bellowed, causing several curious bystanders to stop and shoot Harry dirty looks. It was his turn to cringe.

"Hullo Aunt Marge," he said sullenly, slowly making his way towards the small group, hindered by the weight of all the extra baggage.

"Look at me when you're speaking! Haven't you learned any manners? I will not stand to - "

"Excuse me, ma'am, but no pets are allowed in the station, you'll have to take you dog outside." A tall, slender, nice looking man in uniform interrupted, pointing to Ripper while shooting calculating glances at Harry, who looked as if he was waging an internal struggle against remaining calm or going down in a fury of fists and curses.

Marge gasped in horror and completely forgot about her grievances with Harry as a fresh surge of heat rushed to her pillow-like cheeks. "Oh, I do, do I?" she screamed. "It's this kind of empty headed Communist manifesto that is ruining our great nation! I pay my taxes! I have the right - "

"No need to make a scene, ma'am," the young man cut in quietly. "If you could just step outside -"

"A scene? A scene he says!" Marge laughed, turning to Uncle Vernon who looked as if he were trying hard to blend in with the brick wall. "We don't need to listen to this young whippersnapper! Come now, we're leaving!" With that, Marge turned on her heels and strode resolutely out of the station, head held aloft with superiority as Aunt Petunia and Dudley followed in her wake. Harry would have followed if not for Uncle Vernon's restraining grip on his shoulder.

"Remember, no funny business, boy. I don't know what you're trying to pull but for the sake of your murdering godfather, stop it at once," Uncle Vernon sneered then made his way to catch up with Marge without a backwards glance. Harry sighed, concentrated on counting slowly to ten and ran to catch up.

~~**~~

    The next three days passed at a staggering wounded crawl. Life with Aunt Marge started each morning with a hearty breakfast for four (Harry was forced to fend for himself at meal times) and a long speech about the sad state of the country being invaded by all sorts of communists, fascists, homosexuals, feminists, aliens, Italians, masochists, teenagers, the elderly, the Swedish, the military, anarchists and a wide variety of other groups Marge had deemed evil. The day culminated with a similar diatribe, allowing Marge to name any groups that she had failed to mention at breakfast between mouthfuls of rich meats and fats that Aunt Petunia had graciously prepared for dinner.

    Harry found his daily routine here very similar to that at four Privet Drive. Marge, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia ordered him about, having him scrub and wash, vacuum and de-weed the garden, in the thoughts that being a proper young man meant carrying out any meaningless orders tossed at him. Harry followed directions with clenched fists, refraining from speaking unless he was spoken to and never looking Aunt Marge directly in the eye. Harry had bitten his tongue until it bled, and then he had bitten it some more, concentrating on the coppery tang when it seemed as if even the desperate image of his godfather couldn't keep his swelling anger at bay.

Then on the afternoon of the fourth day in Aunt Marge's company, when Harry had been sitting in a quiet moment of relative peace, he heard the heavy footsteps he had come to dread thumping noisily on the cheap linoleum. Aunt Marge rounded the corner, saw Harry sitting alone and poised for the verbal attack she had been unable to conclude four days ago at the train station.

"Have you finished your chores, boy?"

Harry nodded. Marge looked scandalized.

"Answer me properly when I speak to you, you dirty little orphan! Is this the kind of gratitude you show your hardworking aunt and uncle after all they've done for you? Taking you in after those nasty parents of yours -"

"I'm sorry," Harry interrupted loudly then, catching himself, lowered his voice to a subservient pitch and continued. "I've finished my all my chores."

Marge looked furious at being interrupted and the low-pitched growl that followed was loud enough to prompt Uncle Vernon's subsequent emergence from the back of the house.

"What's all this, Marge?" he questioned, shooting a scathing glance in Harry's direction.

"This insolent young piece of filth has absolutely no manners!" she sputtered, choking on angry bile that rose into her throat.

For a brief moment Uncle Vernon looked completely shocked; however, this was quickly replaced by a fierce look of utter rage. Both he and Marge resembled twin volcanoes on the verge of eruption, and they stood stock-still, their skin tainted a furious crimson from the base of their multiple chins to the roots of their greying hair. Four beady eyes, veiled under dark clouds, were aimed pointedly at Harry's messy head. If looks could kill, Harry was sure he'd be six feet under with those stares. They seemed to take all the wind from his lungs and he was left speechless and defenseless under the withering glares.

"I warned you boy," Vernon started in a deadly whisper, "Remember our deal."

"But I -"

"Do not talk back!" Marge interrupted.

"But -"

"I want you out of this house! Leave! Now!"

Harry looked stunned. "What? But where am I to go?"

"That's your problem, you nasty little boy! You should have thought about that and acted properly." Marge spat.

"After all we've done for you and this is how you repay us! You should have died on the streets like your filthy unnatural parents."

It was at that point that something in Harry snapped and everything suddenly swam into sharp Technicolor. His features fell into shadows, save for his brilliant emerald eyes, sparkling with the light of a man who's finally caught onto the joke. When he spoke his voice was as jagged and icy as a glacier. "You're right. I'd rather be dead than live a hundred lifetimes with the likes of you. All my childhood I knew nothing but grief and pain, it was only when I finally left that I knew there was more to me than what you had said. You can never know what kind of hell I went through, Vernon Dursley. I can only hope that you get what's coming to you so you can only begin to feel the trauma you've put me through."

It seemed Harry's last threat had chilled Vernon to the marrow of his bones as the colour slowly dripped from his face leaving it a translucent white. Aunt Marge opened her mouth to speak but Harry quickly stopped her. "Don't speak. Don't you dare. I'm leaving," and turning swiftly with a soft flutter of his raven hair, he did just that, slamming the door with a final reverberating thunder that rocked the very foundation.

~~**~~

    Harry had no idea where he was headed as he stomped angrily down the narrow street. He was blind with rage and completely oblivious to anything but the furious repetition of Uncle Vernon's last bitter words.

You should have died on the streets like your filthy unnatural parents.

Suddenly Harry veered up next to brick wall and punched it viciously, his knuckles splintering under the force and causing him to swear loudly and creatively with the pain. It was only when he stopped to nurse his wound that he realized the brevity of his situation. He was completely alone in a strange city with a broken hand. He didn't have his wand, his broom or any money. The brief thought that he should return to Aunt Marge's flitted across his brain, but he quickly dismissed the notion as he had no intention of ever seeing those people again and he had left in such a huff that he wouldn't know how to get back even if he tried. This prompted another wave of curses that flowed from his mouth with such blatant hostility it surprised even himself. Closing his eyes, he placed his forehead against the cool brick and concentrated on breathing heavy breaths of moist air to steady his nerves.

"Harry Potter?" a questioning voice rang out from behind him, snaking down his spine with a fluid chill Harry had come to dread.

Unarmed and unprepared, he turned with a deliberate slowness, displaying his trademark Gryffindor bravery in the spirit of masochistic determination. He seemed to crack and sparkle with angry energy as he spied frayed jet-black robes billowing menacingly around a thick body clad in more black, wearing a plain ivory mask and dark hood so only his sinewy thick neck was visible over the folds of wool and cotton. A Death Eater, just what he needed.

"Won't my master be happy to know I have defeated Harry Potter?" the man growled, voice slightly muffled behind the mask, although a triumphant smile could be heard lacing his eager words. "I will surely be promoted. The Dark Lord will use my name as an example. Yes, Christopher Blaine will become synonymous with conquest and glory and my master will bestow me with fortune beyond my wildest dreams..." his voice trailed off as he punctuated his speech with a wild chorus of raspy laughter.

Harry looked bored. He was also aware that this probably wasn't one of Voldemort's brightest minion's as every proper villain knew it is in bad taste to revel in your own victory before it had actually been gained. "If you're done," Harry started, "Can we get going? I have places to be."

The Death Eater paused then began raising his wand with slow dramatic precision. In the time it took him to finally gain the perfect position, Harry had sprinted forwards and slammed forcefully into the man, who was knocked to the floor with the force. His mask tumbled back over his head and his wand fell with a soft clank against the cobblestones and rolled noisily under a large garbage bin.

Harry smirked triumphantly and straightened himself to his full height to glare contemptuously down at his enemy. For a brief moment, Blaine was too shocked to do anything but sit there and look bewildered, then, noticing Harry, his oval face quickly recomposed itself into an expression of grim determination so obvious in its intent that Harry found himself gulping around a large knot of fear that constricted his throat.

The Death Eater's long serpentine face filled with rage. A menacing glint sparkled in the dank putrid pools that had become his squinted eyes. A thick purple vein sprung up from the depths of his large sinewy throat like an angry twitching serpent. Heat rushed to his face, transforming it from a slightly winded coral blush to furious blood soaked crimson.     

"This is not how it's supposed to be!" he howled in a hysterical fury, suddenly and swiftly lashing out with his long unkempt fingernails, raking open Harry's cheek in five neat scarlet rows.

Harry reeled away, clutching at his face which stung with icy pain and total shock. He backed against the far brick wall of the tiny alley and Blaine quickly bore down upon him, swinging a heavy fist into his midsection, latching onto his dark hair and pushing him violently to the ground. All the air quickly fled from Harry's lungs as he sunk down on his side with a shrill ululating cry, doubling over his knees in agony and retching for breath. His shoulder throbbed against the stones and a concentrated black pain pressed eagerly against the backs of his eyeballs. He cast his gaze upwards only to find tight sneering lips, bared yellow teeth and flared nostrils blowing hot puffs of sticky fetid air onto his face as his strong grip wrenched him painfully off the floor.

Again, the Death Eater swung wildly at Harry, who ducked nimbly and slung him away with a swift punch to the stomach, which sent the man flying off balance into a rubbish bin that came crashing to the floor, glass bottles shattering with the sound of a hundred tiny bells.

With Blaine temporarily incapacitated, Harry let down his guard, doubling over, clutching at his knees, leaning heavily against the wall. There was the sound of a struggle and then a victorious 'ah ha!' Looking Harry had gained a brief glance at the Death Eater, who was clutching his wand tightly in a white knuckled grip before drawing a deep breath and taking aim.

"Crucio!"

At once, Harry felt a tremendous explosion emanate from the pit of his stomach and stretch out to all parts of his body. He crumpled into himself like a frail piece of discarded parchment as sheer terrorizing agony rippled through his veins and over every inch of pale flesh. The pain doubled and escalated with every passing second as his heart beat erratically against his battered chest and the marrow of every bone from the tip of his toes to the crown of his skull boiled with excruciating clarity.

Abruptly, everything stopped with a small pop and he fell into a huddled mass upon the cold floor. A great baritone buzz swallowed him in sound and everything went sudden rose-petal pink and then midnight black and unfathomably still.

~~**~~

    "Remus!" a shrill nervous voice broke through the small library.

    Professor Remus Lupin was sitting peacefully in a large overstuffed armchair behind an antique oak desk in front of a roaring fire. He had his hands folded neatly in his lap and his head was tilted awkwardly to the side, light brown hair falling around his slender face like a halo as he slept soundly, a large open book waiting patiently on the desk.

    "Remus, it's Harry." The voice repeated, rising in volume to get the slumbering man's attention.

    Lupin slowly opened one eye and then the other, yawning loudly with mild agitation, raking his hands languidly through his shoulder length hair to pull it into a loose ponytail at the base of his neck. "Arabella? Is that you?"

    "Yes, it's me. Remus, Harry's in trouble."

    The sleepy professor suddenly snapped to attention, as if the voice had thrown a bucket of frigid water over him. His eyes abruptly focused on the head and shoulders of an elderly woman with long salt and pepper hair and tiny frustrated wrinkles of worry etched into her pale face among the dancing flames and charred ash in the fireplace.

    "What? How? Where is he?"

    "I don't know," she said quietly. "He's not at Privet Drive, and he's in immense pain. I can feel it, part of being his Secret Keeper. I think I overheard his uncle saying they were leaving for Marge's and if my memory serves me I believe she lives in St. John's Wood. You're still living there as well, aren't you? He should be close."

    Remus nodded. However, he wasn't really paying attention. There were strange noises coming from outside the house; his heightened werewolf senses picking up the odd sounds as he kept his eyes fixated on the blurry rain streaked window.

    "Thank you, Arabella. Could you please send word to Dumbledore and tell him all you told me?"

    "Already done." The old woman said proudly. However, her haughty tone was wasted on the empty room. She sighed and clucked her tongue disapprovingly, then with a small 'pop' disappeared from the fire.

    Lupin had dashed from the room and out into the normally serene street, following the abnormal disquiet. A faint chorus of shattering glass, crunching metal and tiny whimpers was steadily gaining volume, pulsing to the beat of a struggle too big to involve alley cats and stray dogs. As he reached the mouth of a nearby alley, there was a startled pop and then an eerie silence descended upon the scene. The scent of blood hung thick in the air and in the far corner the huddled mass of Muggle clothes and bruised flesh that was Harry Potter lay motionlessly upon the damp cobblestones.

~~**~~