Harry Potter coughed violently as he tumbled out of the low arched hearth, completely covered in a vicious layer of black soot. His once pale gray clothes fell over him and sagged slightly against his left shoulder, revealing a thin, narrow shoulder blade.

Standing slowly, he adjusted his weight to accommodate his sore muscles and bruising ankle, compliments of the random objects he'd knocked up against on his way through the strange, unfamiliar fireplace.

Where was he?

The boy shook his head, black locks flailing wildly, and tried to determine his destination from behind a pair of cracked, dirty lenses.

The room was cold, shallow, and filled with scores of odd, little trinkets lying about. One, a strange, pale hand, stood on a slight pedestal, it's flimsy flesh curiously discolored and yellowish. It reminded him at once of Mr. Filch, the Hogwarts caretaker known for his cankerous and nasty personality.

Limping slightly, Harry made his way towards what he hoped to be the door out, fervently deciding he didn't care to linger in the building a moment longer. What, with the awful stench of lime and cat, it was enough to make anyone sick! Besides, he thought nervously, he'd heard a noise coming from the back.

Moments later, Harry found himself in the open air and surrounded by strangers in an array of darkly hooded cloaks walking down a long, dark alleyway, the words Knockturn Alley inscribed above, filled meakly with the strangest looking shops; Wendy's Were-wear, Borgin and Burke's, Phineas's Potion Procure, Brizellda's- the name here was broken off and a couple of pieces of wood stood nailed to the windows. The boy idly wondered exactly why...

Breaking away from the thought, Harry hesitantly moved forward towards a large crowd of dark-mantled people, hoping to find someone amongst the crowd of whom he recognized. Unfortunately, it was a certain gray eyed blonde that unconsciously caught his eye.

Malfoy.

The boy looked as pale as ever with those platinum locks slicked back with prestige and a gait of regal poise only a Slytherin could muster. Why, if he didn't know the young man underneath personally, he might have even considered the boy charming, however he did know better, and he scurried towards the edge of the assemblage with little trouble.

Then, without even a pause to the consequences of his actions, the Boy-Who-Lived darted forth from the crowd, ducking low and running as quickly as his abused ankle would allow towards the shadows meters away. Regrettably, he only managed a few, painful feet before his leg gave out and one of the black robed figures walked straight into him, tripped against the child's sprawled form.

“What-” squawked an annoyed voice Harry recognized instantly, “Boy, what in Merlin's name...” The man trailed off and Harry swallowed nervously. Was he in trouble? Had he been recognized?

Looking up slightly, Harry stared into cool black eyes that seemed to glitter intensely beneath pale sallow skin, his long hooked nose jutting out only a few inches from an unnaturally, neutral face.

Professor Severus Snape, the esteemed Potions Master of Hogwarts whose apparent dislike for Harry ran all the way back to his own father's days at school, knelt before him, coolly regarding the situation.

“Sir?” he muttered weakly before breaking out in long, harsh coughs. He knew he looked bad, why, he was almost certain of it, what with the ashes and scrapes and overly large clothes. But, from the way Snape expression seemed to almost soften for but a single momentary second... But it was gone in the blink of an eye and Harry figured he'd obviously imagined it.

“Come boy,” spoke the man stiffly, pulling him to his feet carefully, “you'd do well not to wander these parts...”

The man trailed off, obviously lost in thought. Harry wondered for a moment if he should explain that he'd not come here on his own free will, but instead been dropped off unnecessarily a grate earlier than he should have. Or perhaps, the floo was suppose to work like that, but then why would the Weasley's-

He cut off his thoughts as they rounded a sharp corner, disappearing completely from the dark alleyway and approached the familiar setting of Diagon Alley, it's streets bustling full with hundreds of witches and wizards alike, all evidently searching for their school supplies.

Turning, Harry made to thank the man for what he'd done, but found the sallow skinned professor motioning him to continue onward instead. His smile no more than a slightly ironic twist of lips as a soft wispy wind carried the worried voices of Mrs. Weasley and her children.

Shaking his head, Harry moved out of the black shadows that blocked his view and into the bright, brisk afternoon air amongst the shrieks of his friends.

“Harry!” cried the mother of the red heads, her plump figure moving forward eagerly to embrace him and smother him with love, “where ever have you been? Your a complete mess!”

Stepping momentarily from the suffocating embrace, Harry looked once more to the deep shadows that had only moments before housed him, observing with a slight pang that his hooded savior had already disappeared.

“Well Harry?” questioned the woman, raising her hand to rub away the dirt and grime that entirely covered his forehead. “What happened?”

“Nothing Mrs. Weasley,” answered Harry truthfully with sad, wistful eyes.

Nothing...