At the same time that the room started spinning, Dudley started pounding up the stairs and Harry knew the first thing he'd see when he entered this room, was Brent's dead body lying alone on the floor....and then, the Portkey activated.

He was tumbling through the air without having any control over where he'd land. Harry's hands stretched out, fingers grasping urgently at air as if he could somehow slow his descent. His thoughts were racing around his head at the same rate in which he fell from the sky.

One thought above all stood out among the others. He could very well be tumbling towards his death. He had no want, Vernon had taken it.
Harry had been assured the wards about his aunt's house would keep him safe from the outside forces that wished him harm, and now it was apparent that they were not so unbreakable after all.

Why had he been fool enough to believe he was safe. When had he ever been safe?

Though he was falling at quite a fast rate, Harry still glimpsed the soft green lines of the countryside with darker green blobs of thick forest scattered about, then, he landed painfully hard on his back among tall grass. He started coughing violently as the impact stole the air from his lungs.

Turning on his side and batting grass away from his face, Harry caught his breath just in time to hear a calm and cultured voice speak from behind him.

"Good, he didn't stab you in the chest. I was a bit worried, my instructions weren't very clear."

His breath caught in his throat as he sat up suddenly with the blade still deeply embedded in his leg so that is twisted quite painfully, tearing his muscles. The sunlight reflected off the smears of blood on the grass under his injured leg.

Harry lay a hand above the wound, gritted his teeth and stared intensely toward where the voice had come from.
In the shadows of several large trees, a tall man of perhaps twenty watched him with interest. One hand tapped a wand against his thigh and violet sparks flew from the tip, the other hand was tucked inside the pocket of his Muggle trousers.

He continued to speak, dark blue eyes never leaving Harry's, as if he wanted to enjoy his reaction.

"The spell I created is a bit tricky, it really would have been a shame had you died before I even presented you to the Dark Lord."

Dirt pushed painfully up underneath his fingernails as Harry crushed grass hard into his fists. He breathed out harshly, and tried not to let his emotions take over his face. But, he was in pain and shock...and even when he wasn't in this condition his mouth still got the better of him.

"Who are you? Were you controlling him the whole time?" Harry struggled to stand, and angrily pulled the blade out of his skin when it hindered him, the adrenaline and anger masking some of the pain.

With the offensive object in hand, Harry pushed himself to stand up even as dark shadows tinted the corners of his vision and the ground seemed to roll under his unsteady feet.

Eyes creased with faint amusement and yet also admiration, the man stepped out in the sun and away from the line of trees. His stride was sure, he was easy in his surroundings.

"You just keep surprising me, Potter. Perhaps if Voldemort doesn't kill you, I can keep you around. You could pour my tea," he smirked a bit.

Even in pain and shaking a little from standing when all he wanted to do was lay his head on the green grass and let the darkness wash over him, Harry knew that this was no ordinary Death Eater.

"You said his name?"

A wide smile answered his question. "Yes, I really hope you don't die in the next few hours, Mr Potter."

Harry found himself suddenly more drowsy than he could ever remember as a soft but effective sleeping spell hit him right in the chest. He fell back to the ground, where he had started off, and the last thing he saw was a pair of polished shoes walking straight to where he lay.

......

Betrayal.

Draco sat up straighter in his chair, his eyes becoming clearer as he finally recognized one of the many emotions he was feeling at the moment. This spell was his, he'd found it, he was the only one who knew about it--besides Snape.

It was supposed to make his life a bit easier, give him some blackmail on Potter, a sense of superiority he hadn't felt in a bloody long time. Instead, it had done nothing but shock him repeatedly with unfathomable sights, the latest of which he was still reeling from.

At first he'd thought his mind had been thoroughly and irrevocably damaged. That's why he'd just imagined Potter being brutally attacked by a Muggle.

A Muggle who spoke riddles in a different voice and then seemed to collapse in on himself. Eyes wide from his spot on the floor, Potter had tried to grasp the handle of the weapon embedded in his leg--and then, he'd disappeared.

Gone.

Draco wouldn't admit it to anyone, but when Potter was stabbed, he'd found himself gasping and lifting his wand, as if he could actually do anything, and not for a second wondering why he'd want to help. Then, when Potter disappeared, he'd found his legs suddenly unable to hold himself up straight.

How would he tell his mother, that even after all she was already going through, her son had now lost his mind, for that was the only conclusion he could come to that would make his current thoughts anything other than corrupt.

The spell had ended on its own. Yet, Draco couldn't seem to stop staring at the spot the mirror had stood, his mind in a fog.

Originally, the spell had left him feeling empowered, but now...damn.

Draco rested his head in his hands. He'd become too entangled in Potter's life. A week ago he'd have been quite thrilled to hear his prattish school nemesis had been forcibly taken from his close-knit family even as they heaped praise and encouragement onto his undeserving, un-brushed head.

Upon casting the spell, his mental image had burst like an over ripe fruit, and instead Potter had been a pacifying, seemingly unwanted, surprisingly sneaky teen...and more familiar than Draco was content with.

How dare the spell make him see resemblances of himself in Potter, he wished he'd never used it.

The voice he'd first heard yesterday when Snape had visited said, 'Narcissa Malfoy'. It had barely finished when he heard his mother stride through the double doors and into the library. She didn't pause but headed straight to where he sat, still staring at the same spot, feeling more disturbed than when the Dark Lord had told him to murder Albus Dumbledore.

Then he'd at least been numb. That was surely better than the hundreds of emotions all warring inside him now.

Had the Dark Lord glimpsed inside his mind now, his father wouldn't be the only one in his bad graces.

"Draco?" His mother delicately placed her hand on his shoulder, and then came around to face him. Her face grew concerned, light blue eyes took in his pale face and unkempt appearance. Finally, she knelt on one knee in front of him and took his cold hand in both her warm ones.

"Draco, what is it dear? You're shaking."

Looking down at his hand she held, Draco saw that he was, indeed, shaking. This only succeeded in frustrating him further.

"You should have told me you were starting to get sick," she scolded him lightly, and raised one hand to place it gently above his brow. Draco closed his eyes--and opened them again just as quickly.

"I've been feeling off."

A sudden and possibly quite mad idea came to him.

"I think I'm just worried about keeping my grades up this year, Professor Snape told me the curriculum would be quite intense--perhaps you could get him to tutor me a bit? Maybe today? This afternoon even...because I'm sure I'd feel immensely better knowing what I was up against."

Narcissa gave him an odd look, "No need for all of that, he would have told me if you were falling behind in any department. You have just been stressed, I'll have Moppet bring you a Pepper-Up potion."

Draco tried not to show his disappointment as his mother gave him a fleeting peck on the check.

"Malfoy's really shouldn't smell the way you currently do, Draco," she said, a touch of confusion in her tone. "You're normally so pristine."

Her eyes swept over him again, and she said reluctantly, "If you clean yourself up, and join me for dinner tonight, I might mention to Severus that you're concerned about your progress in school. It will be up to him though to offer any tutoring."

It was more than he had expected, no he nodded and gave his mother a small, thankful smile.

When she had left the library, Draco counted to thirty, and then cast the mirror charm.

Nothing happened. Standing up from his chair, Draco cast the spell again, his voice firm and commanding.

The air remained unchanged. Something really had happened to Potter, something bad.

But the spell should be working...unless there was no glass or mirrors where Potter was. Draco nodded to himself, pleased that he had figured that out. Besides the classic good looks, a Malfoy's second best feature was, of course, the sharp wit.

He'd thought the tutoring might be a unsuspicious way of getting the Professor around, and in so doing, perhaps find out more about Potter's whereabouts. Had the Dark Lord taken him? Draco sighed and decided to write a little note to his Professor, a casual, how-are-you letter with nothing at all said that would imply he'd seen Potter stabbed and kidnapped...then he went to shower.

.........................

Potter was in danger. Stalking through the long and dark halls of the dungeon, Snape took a moment to exhale with a very annoyed expression on his face.

When was the boy not in danger? His impending doom had hung precariously over his shaggy head since before he was born. The latest revelation could be yet another Trelawney-esque prediction, just reaffirming something that was quite obvious. Of course the boy was in danger, he'd somehow danced his way out of yet another near-death experience, though it was not without casualties. Black was sure to die anyway, he didn't have much regard for his own life, especially when he thought his precious Godson was in danger.

Had he stayed in his safe little isolated house, where Dumbledore had stuck him, he'd still be alive.

Dumbledore was writing when Snape entered his office, he didn't look up, but smiled down at his desk and nodded toward the only chair is his office.

"Severus, do sit. I'm awaiting a firecall from Miss Figg--"

"Potter's keeper?"

Dumbledore shook his head, eyes still on his parchment, "No, just his kind elderly neighbor that keeps a very close eye on him."

Snape sneered, "Is that not what I said?"

"She's been away in Northamptonshire for a couple of days at a Kneazle breeding show, as you know is her trade."

"Figg must have very long eyes indeed to watch Potter all the way from Northamptonshire."

"Mundungus has been on watch this week, Severus," there was a hint of amusement in his tone.

He didn't bother to hold back his sarcasm, "We can all rest easy with Mundungus Fletcher on the scene."

"Careful Severus, one might think you actually cared." Dumbledore continued talking just as Snape sat up straighter, his breathing a bit heavier than it was a moment before and hatred on his face. "I know Mundungus is not what one would consider a proper guard, and he wouldn't be there if I didn't have immense faith in the wards. It's mainly just to keep him busy, and his hands out of other people's personal belongings."

Just as Snape was going to question why Dumbledore was awaiting a firecall from Miss Figg, if he truly held such faith in the wards, the fireplace lit up.

"Dumbledore?"

Closing the journal in front of him, something he had not done for Snape, Dumbledore turned and stood to face the fireplace. "Ah, Arabella--"

"Dumbledore, I think you made need to send someone to check on young Harry."

Snape stood up, but did not make a move toward the fireplace, his eyes trailed from the older woman's worried expression, to Dumbledore's slightly interested one.

"I was in the backyard checking on Maurice, his tummy becomes upset when I leave the house," neither of them noticed Snape looking toward the ceiling as if he'd like to strangle something, "and Mrs Burns leaned over her fence to ask if I'd seen the ambulance outside the Dursley's last night."

Had Snape not pulled his eyes away from the ceiling beams, he might not have noticed how the Headmaster's shoulders seemed to relax as Mrs Figg talked, and his face was almost indifferent by the time she'd finished her sentence.

"Arabella, your concern is admirable. This won't be the first time Harry's been to the hospital for some mishap or school boy antics, if he was seriously injured I would have been informed."

Snape frowned slightly, the boys second home was the Hospital Wing, but he could not remember Dumbledore ever mentioning one of these 'mishaps' happening while at his Aunt's home. Most of his injuries here were caused by Quidditch, or yet another run in with the Dark Lord.

Just what did Potter do at home to result in more than one Hospital visit? Draco's words came back to him, his stubbornness when it came to talking about Potter's home life.

His train of though was abruptly cut off with Mrs Figg's next words.

"There were police as well, Dumbledore." Mrs Figg looked uncharacteristically firm, her former flustered appearance turning to one of protectiveness. When a loud and demanding 'meow' came through the Floo, she turned her head and shooed the Kneazle away.

Dumbledore opened his mouth, but Mrs Figg cut him off before he could speak.

"I went over after I finished talking to Mrs Burns, and Petunia answered the door. She looks horrible, and for her to answer the door with one hair out of place--and then, when I asked to talk to Harry about weeding my begonias, she practically hyperventilated right there on her doorway and told me that 'the boy would no longer be living with them' and that she had to finish mopping."

"Perhaps Petunia is just being slightly dramatic as she is prone to do, as I said, if Harry was in any real danger, the wards would have--"

At that moment, a hasty scratching came from one of the large window's. Snape didn't recognize the owl, but he knew the frown on Dumbledore's face quite well and also knew that the news would most likely not be good.

He was right.

Dumbledore had gone still, and his shoulders drooped lower, but this time it was not out of relief.

"Arabella," he said, tone very tired. "Will you please make your way back to the Dursley's and ask to see Harry. Mention my name, if you must." With a flick of his hand, a low crackling fire replaced Miss Figg's worried face. Dumbledore was standing very still.

Snape waited, his fists clenched and standing very still. It seemed one movement might cause something fragile to break.

"What's happened?" he finally asked, voice low, when Dumbledore ran a hand over his face, eyes closed and obviously thinking seriously.

His answer, when it finally came, was very grim and unexpected.

"Mundungus Fletcher...has been found dead."

................................

The fuzziness in his mind was leaving him faster than he was comfortable with. It left behind confusion and an overwhelming sense of danger that made his body stiffen painfully.

"Mum! Mum, is that--"

"Shh, Parker."

"But Mummy, he's got the silly glasses and even the scar, just like in the paper--"

"Lizzie, not you too! Come here, both of you. Stop goggling at Mr Potter."

There was a short scuffling noise and a sigh of frustration that obviously came from a small child, but was patented after an adult. Their voices had been hushed, but Harry knew he'd awoken only because the sleeping spell had worn off, and when it did, the pain began anew.

The hard surface he was lying on seemed to be made of ice, the cold leaked into his body and chased away any warmth that had been there. It was so odd to be this cold during the summer, that Harry confusedly wondered just how far away from Surrey the Portkey had taken him. Then he noticed that though his backbone ached from where it pressed against unyielding stone, his head was pleasantly situated on something much softer.

He must have made a sound, perhaps a soft groan, because someone whispered something rather excitedly, though Harry couldn't make out the words.

Out of the three voices he'd heard, not one was the man from before. They were quite close as well, which meant that perhaps they were in the same situation he was.

Carefully, Harry opened his eyes. Above him, the ceiling was made of polished wooden boards, the shade of light honey and laid side by side. Their homey appearance surprised him so much, that he couldn't help but blink several times, and his mouth dropped open a bit without is permission, which set off a flurry of whispers somewhere to his left.

"I think he's gone a bit barmy!"

Harry shut his mouth, and frowned. The young voice sounded much too excited about his doubtful mental state.

"Lizzie," her mother, no doubt, sounded like she was frowning. "We don't speak that way--"

"Fine....cracked. How's he going to help us if he's cracked?"

An even younger voice, sounding on the edge of tears, announced, "He's not cracked...he can't be! Mummy, what's cracked mean?"

"Good grief," their mother moaned, and then sighed. "Mr Potter, would you please inform my children that not only are you not cracked, you aren't barmy, mental, a nutter...or anything other than perhaps slightly disgruntled at their incessant yammering."

Wondering if this situation could get any odder, Harry took a deep breath, and fought to sit up.

At his movement, the children grew remarkably still and quiet. Harry found them sitting on the floor not too far away from him, and as he took in their appearance, they leaned into their mother, one on each side.

"Hi," Harry said, voice a bit hoarse. The little boy, who Harry identified as the one about to cry, and who was quite obviously the youngest, stared at him with wide, vividly blue eyes.

The girl went from openly curious, to crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes, though she stayed quiet. Her hair was limp and pushed behind her ears, freckles dotted her nose and hazel eyes never left Harry.

When Harry looked at the mum, he was surprised to find her face so warm. She had much darker hair than either children, but it was clear to see where the young girl's eyes had come from. She was staring at him too, but it wasn't in distrust, she looked sad, but not resigned. Hopeful.

"I was hoping he wouldn't be able to get you," she said, eyes flickering behind Harry.

Processing her words, Harry was slow to turn. When he did, his eyes set on a fireplace, burning brightly and casting light their way, along with a large table and heavy, wooden chairs. There was a door on the opposite wall, and then a door across from the fireplace. However, the side of the house he found himself on was devoid of furniture, and though the rest of the house had carpets across the cold, stone floor, there were none on this side.

Harry blinked. Something was off, something he had not yet noticed, but should have.

"It's a sort of shield charm."

Harry turned back, "What?"

She smiled gently at his apparent confusion. "A shield charm, between this side of the house and the rest. You'll feel an awful pain if you try to breach it without permission."

Harry shifted, the mention of pain reminding him of his aching leg. Turning his body, so that some of the light from the fireplace fell on the injury, Harry carefully pulled at the torn area in his bloody jeans.

The tear wasn't big enough to get a clear idea of how deep the wound was and so Harry bit his lip and carefully placed two fingers on the inside of the gap, and pulled until the material ripped.

It didn't look as bad as it could have, but it wasn't pretty either.

"He healed some of the muscle damage further down, and it won't bleed anymore..."

Harry scowled. "He could have healed it all, he's the reason I got stabbed in the first place."

He looked up and she gave him a sympathetic look. "People are easier to control when they've been injured. Healing the wound completely would defeat the purpose."

"You're not hurt," Harry said, eyes running over the small family.

She turned her face away from Harry but he'd already seen the immense look of agony on her features. He thought he knew what it meant too. It was the look of a person who had lost someone so close to them, that when they were taken, it was as if a part of yourself was taken as well.

The words, "I'm sorry," hung unsaid in his throat, but when he opened his mouth to speak, his eyes went to the two small children watching him with immensely curious eyes. He swallowed the words, but it did nothing to help with the sudden solid lump in his throat. Did they even know they were one parent away from being orphans?

Sighing, Harry rubbed his fingers on the non-bloody part of his jeans, and frowned when he noticed the stain had already set into his skin.

"So...who is he?" He asked this as softly as he could, hoping the man he was talking about wasn't within earshot.

When she looked back at him, the pain had been mostly wiped from her face and she looked thoughtful and sardonic both at once. Harry didn't feel that either emotion was directed towards him, and he was quite glad.

"Who is he," she huffed, and the young girl looked up at her and blinked, noticing the annoyance. She kissed her on the head, and the little girl smiled quickly and reassured went back to staring at Harry. The little boy had almost fallen asleep, his head resting contentedly on his mother's arm.

Harry thought the sudden change from interest to sleepy was odd, but he didn't know how long the boy had been awake either.

"His name," she began softy, "is Thomas."

Harry had never heard anyone insinuate with just a look and a slight tilt to the words, that though his name may be 'Thomas' her personal title for him was much ruder, and not to be said aloud in front of the children.

"I don't really know as much as I'd like, he's keeping me ignorant of most things, for some reason or other." She looked down at her two children, and moved her arm carefully so she could wrap it lovingly around her son. The little girl was fighting to keep her eyes open.

"The fact that he's so careful not to tell me anything," she began in a quieter voice than before, "gives me some hope."

"Oh?"

"Yes, because...I think if there weren't a chance I'd survive, he'd tell me everything. Do you see what I mean?"

Harry nodded, eyes going to the floor and leaned back so his hands were supporting him. His fingers brushed against something soft, and he jerked a bit in surprise and turned to see it was only the bundle of fabric he'd been using as a pillow when he'd awoken.

As he gently picked it up, it unfolded and he could see it was a well made, and rather soft cloak.

"Yours?" he asked and moved to hand it back when she nodded.

"No," she shook her head and gestured for him to sit back down before he'd even stood. "You look cold...and my name's Elizabeth."

Harry hesitated, but he was cold and in pain, so he wrapped the cloak around his shoulders and smiled a small but grateful smile back.

"I'm Harry," he said, though she already knew. He was quiet for a moment, the fire was crackling behind him, but they were all far enough away, that it did little to keep them warm, and Harry wondered if the shield charm kept the heat off of them too. It was a bit cruel actually, they were close enough to see it, but didn't receive any advantages by having it nearby.

"How did he get his nasty hands on you anyway?" Elizabeth asked, suddenly looking peeved. "I was quite angry when he levitated you in here. I thought you'd be better protected."

He blinked at how protective she sounded, it reminded him of Mrs Weasley. Maybe the protectiveness just came with being a mother, it was still odd for him though. He was so used to being independent and taking care of himself that someone watching out for him just felt...odd. Nice, but odd.

"Um, I'm not exactly sure what he did. This utter prat, completely mental Muggle came into my bedroom and stabbed me, that's what happened to my leg, and turns out, the knife was a Portkey. Right before it activated, the Muggle, Brent, fell over like he was dead...in fact, I really think he was dead."

Elizabeth was staring at him.

"Ta-da," Harry finished lamely, throwing his hands in the air and then wishing he hadn't.

"But...but how did he get close enough to hurt you in the first place?"

Harry bit his lip and shrugged. "He was a friend of my cousin's, and he just went upstairs like he was going to the loo, and he stopped by my room to stab me."

Elizabeth shook her head slowly. "There's more to it, there must be."

Harry shrugged again, wishing he knew something more to tell her.

"How'd you come to be here? Have you been here long? They don't seem as scared as you'd think they would be," Harry gestured to the children, now quietly asleep.

Hugging them closer, Elizabeth said, "They don't understand what is happening, not really. Before we got married, my husband was on a bad path, he'd been misled into thinking that following the Dark Lord would lead him to a better future. It wasn't until the Dark Lord's defeat, that Stormie realized his life was not at all what he'd originally planned for it to be. The friends he'd made had only aided his bad decisions, but he was determined to turn his life around, and he did. We got married a few years later, and started a family few years after that. When the Dark Lord returned, Stormie decided we needed to go into hiding...he'd be considered a traitor since he hadn't returned to the Dark Lord's side."

Taking a long slow breath, Elizabeth continued difficultly.

"We decided it was time to leave the country, go somewhere where the Dark Lord's influence wasn't so heavily felt, somewhere where we could let our kids play outside without worrying for their safety...we had almost boarded the train when they came for us."

Harry felt a shiver go up his arms and he drew the cloak closer around his shoulders.

"It was just the two of them, but they had Parker and he was screaming and reaching for us--if we'd fought I know they would have killed him. Thomas and his little helper brought us here, then they took Stormie--"

Her voice cracked and Harry bowed his head.

"They took him to the Dark Lord. Rewards are given for bringing people forth that he considers traitors, and the traitors are made into examples...examples of what will happen to you if you resist him."

She was sniffing, and a hand wiped under both eyes. Harry had never felt more useless.

"I don't regret trying to leave though," her voice grew in strength. "If we lose the will to fight for what's right and just, then we might as well just shackle ourselves now."

Harry looked at her and saw a very strong person, and he drew from her courage.

"I'm wouldn't be afraid to die...if I knew my children would live," she swallowed, her body shaking very slightly.

It was those words that made Harry stand up, even though it hurt to do so. He sat in front of her, and carefully placed a blood-stained hand on hers where it lay atop her young son's shoulder.

"We will get out of here."

She looked up, and Harry fought the urge to look away from the desperate hope shining in her eyes.

"I don't know how--but, then again, I never do," he smiled ruefully, and she nodded.

It was in that moment of understanding that the door to the cabin was thrown open. Thomas tilted his head from where he stood in the doorway and surveyed them.

Elizabeth turned her hand so that she could give Harry's a reassuring squeeze. It was meant to let Harry know that he was not alone, but Thomas' dark eyes followed the movement, and he smiled in a way that filled Harry with certain dread.

Yes, his stubborn will told him he would be escaping, and that it would not be alone, but that smile told him something else. His escape was uncertain and only a shadow of hope in his mind, but the probability of him going through quite a lot of pain before that escape could be attempted...that was inevitable.