AN: It's been about two years since I've written anything concrete, really.

Potential triggers for suicide, self-harm, violence. This is not necessarily a happy story. Please read at your own discretion.

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ONE
Sight

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Then, now. Lily, Harry.

In the end, it did not matter. (All ontology was perception, and all perception was subjective. This was something he knew all too well. Reality was nothing for the king of time.)

This is not a story with a beginning, for where does a circle begin, and where does it end?

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Harry's mother died when she was twenty-six and he was eight. Years later, he would remember how quick it was, how sudden—the way he reached out his hand for her, and turned in time to see the tears in her eyes; the way she smiled at him just as the green light hit her in the forehead and she crumpled to the ground. There was a way dead bodies fell that those only pretending could never emulate; a sort of peace, a sigh of relief, as if the absence of the soul had turn their muscles to paper, limbs long and heavy, dragging them into the embrace of earth.

The way she smiled, face illuminated by the light of death and the sun, the juxtaposition that aptly described her life from birth to end—when she died, it was almost beautiful, the way the avada kedavra turned her eyes the same colour, and she gazed towards the horizon like a child coming home.

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The last casualty of war was the birth of Hadrian Jonathan Evans. Three minutes before midnight, he drew his first breath, and his mother curled in on him, sweat and tears blurring her eyes, blood and placenta oozing across the bottom of the tub. The lights were off.

"Oh, my baby," she whispered, heartbroken. "Oh, my darling. I'm so, so sorry."

From the distance, the grandfather clock chimed midnight—haunting, reverently, a last, dying goodbye. There was no father to burst in and hold the tiny baby, enraptured, with eyes full of wonder. There were no grandparents to crowd in, affectionate and shedding their age in the proximity of new life.

The baby mewled soundlessly, gumless, soft mouth latching onto her breast. It was an uncomfortable feeling, but her body seemed to understand the primal needs she herself did not. Careful to support her arm under the baby's head, she crawled out of the tub, leaving bloody footprints against cold marble tile. The mirror showed her a woman, barely out of girlhood, with jutting cheekbones and too-large eyes, mouth a thin, grim slash over her face, breasts swollen with milk and body still loose and soft from childbirth. Her baby has yet to open his eyes, but she already knew—they would be her own, removed of its weariness and replaced with the innocence that could only exist for a few minutes before birth, before the pollution of London's air could wither the delicate alveoli and crumple the lungs like tissue paper. She wondered, a little, tracing the pink lips, the wrinkly little face, in marvel, how she had made something so alien and yet so beautiful to her. She could hardly credit the father with such a creation—after all, their drunken tryst was hardly any form of support, not after he ran off immediately afterwards, leaving her to pick up the pieces of herself. He wanted nothing to do with her.

(All he was ever wanted was her purity, the freshness of a lily after summer rain, softly coloured, suffusing petals quivering delicately in faint wind. He never wanted it after the petals dried up and shrivelled to reveal the roundness of growing seed, bulging and grotesque and ungainly. He had taken what he wanted from her, and oh, darling girl, you had fallen for it, for him, so hard, and we women are always falling people, dropping from the heavens to land in the open embrace of the sea, broken ribs puncturing our lungs and heart, and we drown as our blood is stolen with the coldness of the water, love draining dry.)

The baby's lips slid away, and he yawned once, before snuggling tighter into her cooling skin, his hair spiked and stained with blood and fluid. When Lily looked up into the mirror again, there was a hardness in her eyes, a resolution that did not exist there before. She was still covered in blood, and she waded out of the tub like it was a slaughter, the cool, unaffected edge in her gaze saying that she would do it again without mercy. She did not recognize the girl who would kill to keep her son safe. She did not have the mind, sensual beauty, or resolution of a murderer —not like this, covered in her own fluids, hair matted with blood of the same colour— but when she smiled it was full of broken edges. With glass she could hurt and embed and kill, shatter the thousands of rainbow diamonds into death's light. Tenderly, she kissed her son's brow.

Still weak from birth, she used her wand to perform a cleaning charm on them, resolving to leave the bathroom the way it was for a little longer, and pressed her wand to her throat, speaking hoarsely.

"Expecto patronum."

A doe, silvery eyes soft and warm, hooves edged in her blood. Its mouth hinged open, exhaling white mist.

"Dumbledore," she said into it, her voice reserved and cold, full of steel, "I have given birth. His name is Harry, and he was born on the first of August, at twelve-fifty-one am."

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There were moments —fractions of a second— where his eyes would clear, and he would breathe, "I'm only dreaming." But lucidity was scarce in a world entangled in nightmares, and he would close his eyes, fall back into the fever.

His mother was dead. He did not remember the funeral much. There was a social worker, wearing jeans and a black blouse, a spray of white flowers pinned to her breast pocket. Her hands were clammy, like a fish's soft, moist underbelly.

"Come with me, Harry," she said.

(Come with me said another man with green eyes)

He followed her to a man, woman, and child standing by the very far edge of the ceremony, on the border of disappearing from sight. The woman had a smile of skin stretched tightly over bone, face whittled into sharp points that hurt her as much as the observer. The man was a bag of flesh, nothing more. The boy was decaying. (All ontology was perception, but that did not mean it was not true).

"We never knew she had a child," the woman said stiffly, her fingers clenching into a fist, knuckles white on the black-scale clutch she gripped in one hand.

"We have a son of our own," the man thundered. "We don't have enough to support another...boy as well."

"I understand, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, but—"

The woman snapped, "Don't we get any say in this?"

"—of course, but you are his only remaining relatives, and Lily Evans' will does state—"

"We want nothing more to do with her and... her lot. She made it very clear when she ran off that she wasn't one of us. I'm not going to clean up after her mess."

The social worker looked tired. They were all tired, with the same darkness under their eyes, though some hid it within. "Mrs. Dursley, your nephew is innocent in the... disagreements held between you and your sister. I would strongly encourage you to reconsider. He will be put into the orphanage if no other options are made available."

For a moment, there was softness in her, a lingering regret, staining her like the edges of the birthmark across her shoulder, blotchy purple. He examined her short, trimmed nails, noticing how they were bitten to the nub, and the cracked skin around her knuckles from astringent cleaning agents. She was not traditionally beautiful, her face too raw and sharp, but years ago, when bitterness had not ravaged her, he could see the appeal.

(Every morning she would pray to the beat in her chest and scrub at the marks adorning her skin, because those so pure of heart should not be otherwise marked. She would scrub until her skin was raw and bloody, and she would look into the mirror with closed eyes, pulling a gossamer white nightdress over top. At night the darkness would flow out of her mouth and stain her shoulders, a bruise, a blight, and she would wake up with her skin healed but insides dirty and tainted. It would never change. Her regrets would never fade.)

"No," she said, and turned quickly to leave, as if the sight of Harry hurt her.

(In the end, his mother used to do the same thing.)

The social worker took him to get ice cream. It was sweet on his tongue, melting slowly in the sun, sticky when it ran between his fingers and down his wrist. She told him about the orphanage, how there would be lots of kids his age there, and she thought he would like it. Her voice carried all the right nuances, but her eyes were dead, curved into a false smile from all the times she had said the same things. She watched children be processed by the machines, grinding them down to the bone, churning them out broken, battered, and angry at the world. Her sincerity had long since drained dry—distance was the only protection remaining in a world where nothing else existed.

The orphanage was squat, like a brick, crouching low over the earth. Roots of ivy curled reticently into crumbling grey brick, flecked with cracking stucco. In the hallway he passed three boys and one girl, their faces blurring indistinctly into grime and darker, thin limbs reflecting the hunger in their eyes.

"Hale's Orphanage," said the social worker. She patted his shoulder. "Here you are, Harry. Good luck."

The last of the sweetness faded away on his tongue. He wiped his hands against his pants, only succeeding in smearing the mess around.

(Come with me said the man with green eyes and together they—)

In the west, then sun was falling.

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Jonathan was her father's name. When she was little, she always thought she would find someone like him, who called her princess, whose eyes were filled with such warmth and love, who shouldered the weight of their family like Atlas's sacrifice.

Lily had not seen her parents for a year. She missed them—or rather, the easy silence that existed in the emptiness between them, the kind borne of shared memories and time and love. Nothing of that remained but strain. They could never look at her the same way. Sweet, precious, innocent Lily. Lily, who did not spread her legs for some boy who used her and threw her away, leaving her to nurture the seed he had planted in her womb alone. Lily, who was responsible and beautiful, who did not have dark bags under her eyes, who did not spend hours every night crying, stitching herself back together under the cover of darkness, where no one would see. Lily, the smart, studious daughter.

But in the end, they were still family. One day, when the hurt was too strong, she bundled Harry in a spare cloak she had, swaddled him close to her chest, and took the Knight Bus down to her parents' old house in Muggle London. When she rang the doorbell, and her mother opened it, the laughter in her voice, as she talked to someone just out of view, died away.

"Lily." Disbelieving.

"Mum. May I come in?"

Her mother's hand was still resting against the doorknob, blocking her entrance. They stared at each other for a long time. Lily's resolve wavered, and she said (mumbled, because her mother was the only one in the world who could ever make her feel small), "This was a bad idea." With a shaky exhale, she turned and walked off the porch, trying to hide the stiffness in her shoulders and the burn in her throat.

"Wait, Lily."

Her mother's voice was uncertain, soft.

"Your father gets home in an hour. Do you still take your tea with two sugars?"

(An hour later, and it seemed as though a great dam inside of her had burst. Years of worry and repressed emotions and loneliness drained away as she cried in her parents' arms. And the void left empty inside of her, like a pus-infested wound, slowly began to heal.)

Three weeks later, the elder Evanses died in a car crash.

(And the pain resettled itself in her bones, making a nest for itself there, baring poisoned tipped teeth in a sharp smile, did you really think I would be gone.)

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It began like this: Harry learned of power when he was nine years old.

When he was angry, things happened around him. Randle's cat was found hanging from the rafters, neck broken and spine twisted, three days after Randle had pushed Harry down the stairs. The matron, a sour old woman with stringy grey hair, could prove nothing. Joel stole Harry's dinner. He ended up with food poisoning, and spent three days vomiting his stomach's contents. Patrick was hit by a car when he chased a ball onto the road. He never heard the blaring of the horn, the shouts of passerbys. He would be permanently crippled. One of his ribs had scraped his lung upon impact, leaving behind a mass of scar tissue, and his nose was crushed, giving him the appearance of a kicked bulldog. His breathing was raspy and wheezing. He would never be able to sneak up on anyone ever again, let alone shove them into a loo.

(this is wrong, a small part of him sobbed, but the other whispered, it's only fair)

By the time Harry was ten, the others worked out an unspoken compromise: leave him alone, and he would leave you alone. He cared little if the bullies picked another target, so long as it did not affect him. In the only way they could reenact some form of petty vengeance upon them, they began to spread rumours. Harry cared little. (Because what lion cared about the opinion of sheep, when he had the power to rip them apart?)

"I hear he's sent here by juvie," said one boy.

"Shh! Don't let him hear you say that!"

Defiantly, "Or what? He can't do nothin to me."

The girl looked around, beady eyes squinting at the darkness, her pigtails flying about her shoulders as she snapped her head from side to side. When she was satisfied that no one was watching, she lowered her voice to a whisper, "Didn't you hear? He killed his own ma out of a fit of violence."

The boy's eyebrows drew together. "Whattabout his da?"

"A bastard child," she said in a confidential tone. They exchanged smug looks. The boy slowly whistled.

"God damn. That's some pretty rumour."

"It's not a rumour, it's truth!"

"How'd you know?"

Harry pushed himself off the wall, brushing the invisibility from his arms and legs, stepping out with deliberate, cold slowness.

"Evryone's been—"

She squeaked in terror when a hand closed around the back of her neck, gentle but heavy, full of warning.

"Yes, do go on," Harry rasped, his voice inflectionless, wintry countenance expressing nothing. "I could give you some firsthand experience, if you are volunteering." Delicately, he wrapped one of the little braids around his finger, giving it a gentle tug.

The girl backed away slowly, her legs shaking. "No, Harry. I'm sorry. Really. I got caught up in it I won't do it again I promise sorry—" Without another word, she fled, pulling the boy along with her.

He watched them go.

There was some truth in what she said. (About how he killed his mother, because second-hand was still murder. Even if he didn't pull the trigger. Even if he didn't want her to die.) He remembered that day in the park—the tears in her eyes. Years later, he would think about how they were from relief, not pain. She was free, like she always wanted. Free from the restraints of her life, free from taking care of the burden that Harry was.

(She tried to hang herself with the shower curtains when he was seven, looped around her neck. A month before that, she slit her wrists and almost bled out in the tub. It was guilt that had her hanging on to life at the last moment, the old fire in her eyes rekindling just enough for her to sew skin back together over bruised and mottled flesh, broken bones aching beneath facades. Her death wasn't anyone's fault. In fact, he wondered if they had done her a favour—a freedom from the things she saw in her head, a last act she had always wanted but could never quite finish.)

He was not surprised at her death. It was a shock at the time, but it whittled down to emptiness and a tired, cold feeling. Even if the green light had not killed her, no amount of guilt in the world would have persuaded her to stay behind with him for much longer. There was only numbness left, like someone had ripped out the emotions he possessed, leaving an empty void that ached with the remembrance of what was lost.

No, he decided. He wasn't angry. But as he walked down the hall, a slow smirk curled over his lips. They had painted him as a vicious, reprehensible figure, and he would live up to their expectations. In the months of his idleness, the other children had grown lax, tongues soft and loose. He would need to reteach them this lesson.

(A thousand years ago: needle and thread, now do not worry, this will be quick.)

(She woke up to find him standing over her bed, eyes glowing green in the darkness, cat-like, and she screamed, only to find no sound coming from her mouth. Those words she spoke about Harry were the last ones she ever uttered.)

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Death seemed to be the only truth of the world. The only thing that transcended time, tying together errant generations.

The funeral was quiet, somber, and grey. Lily stood at the altar, continuing the endless litany of thank yous and you will be sorely missed when all she felt was numb inside. She had no more tears left. To her right, Petunia stood with a stiff back, fingers curled into her palms, lips thin from disgust. They had never gotten along. (Once upon a time, they were inseparable.)

She brushed her cold fingertips against her parents' cheeks. There was something wrong with their faces, icy and removed from life—their eyes were sunken in and dull, skin waxy and oddly proportioned, as though something had crawled beneath their flesh in a false mimicry of the vitality of life. They had tried to clean up the caved in ribs and crushed limbs, the fatal shrapnel, but Lily's eyes traced the tell-tale scars through the ceremonial white clothing.

Petunia said, "What good are you if you can't even fix this."

Lily said, "Do you think I wouldn't if I could?"

Petunia was silent for a long time. Then, quietly, almost in a whisper to herself, "I wish it had been you instead."

Without another word, she stepped off the altar and made her way to her new family, shedding Petunia Evans behind. A pudgy man with a walrus moustache, a son that looked like a young clone of his father, though he had her stringy blonde hair. Lily watched with hooded eyes. She had never been envious of Petunia for anything.

"I wish it was, too," she murmured.

Petunia left. That would be their last contact. If she had known, maybe she would have run after her sister and embraced her. Maybe things would have gone differently. Maybe if she had known how much time she had left, how many opportunities would be robbed from her, she would not have waited so long to act. Such was the inevitability of time.

The last person to lay flowers at the coffin was a man with black hair and eyes, a graceful mouth arched downwards. Lily did not recognize him.

"Hullo," said the stranger.

"...hullo," Lily ventured cautiously. There was an awkward silence. "I don't think we've met before."

There was a moment where the stranger almost looked as though he was going to disagree, but then he sighed.

"No, I don't suppose we have."

"Are you distant family? I'm sorry, I haven't been to those reunions in... a while." And now I likely never will.

"No, no. Nothing like that. I was..." he broke off, looking uncomfortable. "I, um, was the one to pull them out of the wreckage. The crash. I was the last person they saw, and before they... well, they wanted me to tell you that they were proud of you, and were sorry that they never had enough time to spend with you and Harry."

Lily's throat tightened. She looked away and blinked quickly, but a tear still escaped. The stranger studied his shoes and politely ignored her.

"Thank you," she said hoarsely.

Something indescribable took over his expression. "It's the least I could do," he said softly.

"I guess I still haven't introduced myself." She gave him a tremulous smile and held out her hand. "I'm Lily Evans."

The stranger grasped hers in his, warm and calloused against her palm, and gave a little bow over it. Her heart did a funny jolt when he gave her a lopsided smile.

"Pleasure, Miss Evans. My name is Loki."

They looked at each other for a few moments more. He seemed to radiate heat. Lily could feel the solidity pressed against her palm, suffusing up her arm and making her entire body tingle.

"Why don't we go find somewhere to sit down," she blurted out.

"I know a good cafe," he suggested. He let go of her hand. Lily immediately clasped it behind her back, flushing slightly. When she looked up again, he was still smiling warmly at her. God, it's been too long since anyone looked at me like that.

They began to walk.

"Sure."

"Or, if you would prefer, we could go to the Three Broomsticks."

She almost tripped over her feet, but caught herself in time. "You're a...?"

"I work at St. Mungo's," he explained. "I'm a healer."

Perhaps that can explain the guilt she saw on his face—it lasted only for a moment, but she saw the same look in the mirror often enough to recognize it anywhere. Carefully, she laid a hand on his arm.

"It's not your fault," she said quietly. An urge rose up inside of her, and she bit her lip. Hesitantly, "Were you the one to hit them?"

To her relief, he shook his head, though his lips pulled downward into a self-deprecating sneer, eyebrows drawing together. "No. But I as good as. I couldn't..."

Lily looked away. A part of her wanted to chase after the what ifs. It would be so easy to cast blame.

"I think the Three Broomsticks sounds lovely," she said instead.

Loki looked up, slightly startled, then nodded. "Alright. Apparition fine?"

"Yes. I'll see you there."

Lily spun on her heel, mentally reciting her instructor's words, and felt the uncomfortable squeeze of her body through a tube. When she appeared on the other side, Loki was waiting, hands in his pockets, eyes narrowed against the afternoon sun. He stood by the entrance of the Leaky Cauldron, while Lily was still caught in the throng of Muggles, watching the building fade in and out of view, flickering like a distant, hazy mirage.

(For a moment, it reminded her of those mythologies—she was dead and caught in the river of souls, struggling to reach the land, which was always close enough to see but tantalizingly far away, and from the distance figures waited for her, watching, smiling as she was swept into the chaos, trampled underfoot.)

Loki said, "Alright, Lily?"

(His lips were the colour of pomegranates. Kore, her mind supplied, the war-prize, the sacrifice.)

"Alright," she said. She did not really know what she was acquiescing to. It seemed to be something more, but she put it out of her mind, away from the voices, and followed him into the cool interior of the Leaky Cauldron. She pulled out her wand and tapped the bricks in the right sequence, greeting old Tom with a smile. The wall withdrew to reveal the entrance to Diagon Alley, and they stepped through.

"I will admit—I haven't been here in a while," he said.

"Oh?"

"Mm. I usually spend more time in Muggle London."

"Do you have family here?"

A flash of sadness. Loki's eyes looked upwards, as pigeons circled a triangle of blue sky, up, down, up, down. "No. I used to have two brothers, but they passed long ago."

Lily winced. "I'm so sorry." She was hastily backtracking in her mind, but Loki gave her a tiny smile, and she returned it tentatively.

"It's alright. It was a long time ago. Sometimes, I don't even remember it."

They passed Eeylop's, Fortescue's, Ollivander's. Lily pushed open the door to the Three Broomstick's. The interior was pleasantly dark, and she breathed in the sweet, foamy scent of butterbeer, interlaced with the thicker, headier sharpness of firewhiskey.

"Have you lived in England all your life?"

"Certainly not. I've travelled all across the world, by this point. I do enjoy England, though."

"There's little to miss about the weather."

He laughed. "That is one thing I did not miss. But this will always be home."

Rosmerta came up to them, wiping her hands down with a towel she kept over her arm. She smiled sweetly at Lily, who returned it. Rosmerta had been several years older than Lily was, a Hufflepuff, and while they never talked a great deal, they were on friendly terms.

"Lily!" Rosmerta exclaimed. "So wonderful to see you again. How are you?"

"Quite well, thanks. And yourself?"

"Busy. But that's the way I like it." She winked slyly. "What'll you be having today?"

"Um, butterbeer for me, please."

Lily looked to Loki.

"The same. Thank you."

Rosmerta nodded. "Of course. That'll be coming right up." Brushing by Lily's chair, she bent down and kissed her cheek, then murmured in her ear, her thick, curly hair hiding them from view, "This one's not bad. A heads up; Potter's sitting by the window with... well." Then she straightened, pretending not to see the look that crossed over Lily's face, a mixture of revulsion, horror, and self-disgust. "Take care, darling."

Loki waited until she was out of earshot before raising an eyebrow. "Old friend?"

Lily struggled to contain her breathing. Beneath the table, she balled her hands into fists, fingernails digging into her palm.

"We both went to Hogwarts a few years ago."

"You're turning quite pale, Lily." Loki was narrowing his eyes again, his face pulled into one of mild concern. "Are you... alright?" He followed her gaze to where two people were sitting by the window, a man and a woman. "I take it that you know them as well?"

"I did."

Lily tried to smile at him, but seeing his face, it probably came out more as a pained grimace. Loki began to stand up.

"Why don't we have another look around Diagon?"

Lily closed her eyes and inhaled slowly. She would not let this control her life. She wanted to be here, and she would. It was humiliating to hear the way her heart staggered out of control and her palms slickened with sweat from a mere glance alone. She was pathetic.

"Thank you, Loki," she said, and her voice was just a little bit cooler. "But I'm quite alright. Let's stay a while."

"...all right," he said slowly, sitting back down. Before he could say much else, Rosmerta bustled closer with a tray, two butterbeers balanced overtop. Lily took hers gratefully, then took a sip to keep herself occupied. The condensation was cool in her hands, and left circles of water on the wooden tables, sinking into the grooves where someone had carved their initials. FV loves BH. She traced the letters with an idle finger. When she looked up again Loki was staring at her.

"Do you work in the Wizarding world?" he asked.

"I do." Circles and squares, edges overlapping. Evaporating, leaving the things she wrote to disappear into invisibility. "I'm on leave at the moment, but I work at the Department of Mysteries."

"Mm." He took a sip carefully. "That seems interesting. What do you study?"

"Ancient rituals, mostly. Greek, Roman, Scandinavian. A few Aztecs. What about you?"

"Ah," his eyes slanted downwards. He traced one finger along the rim of his bottle, making a fluting, whimsical sound. "As I said, I'm a healer. Spell wounds, experiments gone awry, bad luck..."

"Ah," said Lily, and grinned wryly. "I guess you'll see all of us eventually."

He made a noise of agreement, expression faintly melancholy. "Some sooner than others."

They sat in silence for a little while.

"What made you choose healing?" Lily asked.

Loki raised one shoulder in an elegant shrug. "I guess you can say it chose me."

"That's how I feel about my job sometimes." She was about to say more —probably go off on an embarrassing tangent about the touch of runes at two o'clock in the morning, at how she sometimes thought they were whispering to her, telling her secrets in beautiful and ancient voices that she could never understand in her waking moments— when a hand fell across her shoulder, hard and hot, grounding her from her daydreams.

"Who's this?"

Potter.

Lily's lips drew back in a barely suppressed snarl, blood running cold. She shoved him off roughly, her skin burning. "Don't touch me, Potter. What are you doing here?"

She could hear the frown in his voice, the rough, throaty note of possessiveness still ringing clear when he said, "Checking up on you. What else?" Loki's dark eyes flicked upwards lazily, cold and bored, but with an edge of viciousness, as if he were pinning a wriggling bug to a collection board. Although it wasn't aimed at her, Lily still felt a cold shiver go down her spine, and Potter must have felt the same. He cleared his throat. Lily could hear him swallow. "Who's this, Lils?" he asked in an awkward attempt to regain his footing.

"Does it matter?" she asked brusquely.

"Why are you being so hostile? I only wanted to know how you're doing."

You would know if you stayed.

"Fine. Why don't you go back to your lovely companion over there and let me get on with my day?"

It was the wrong thing to say, because she could practically hear the arrogance and charm ooze back into his voice. "Don't be jealous, Lily," he purred. Irritably, she pushed him off, her other hand going back to her wand.

"We are over, James Potter," she snarled. "In case you didn't figure that out sooner. We are over! You've already taken enough of my life—can't you leave me alone? God, what did I ever do to you?"

Caught in her anger, she whirled around, and caught Potter by the lapels of his robe, dragging startled hazel eyes down to meet her own. But then, his confidence took over, and he enclosed her hands with his, taking advantage of their proximity to press a kiss to Lily's lips.

Lily bit him.

"Ow! Bloody hell, what was that for!"

She bared her teeth at him, spitting his blood out of her mouth in disgust. "Just a taste of what you've been missing."

Potter's eyes hardened. "I don't know what I did to offend you so, but a relationship takes two, and I say it's not over. I didn't spend seven years of my life chasing after you to have you throw it away like this."

"I'm not throwing anything away but your pride. Grow up, Potter. Not everything revolves around you. You make me sick. I don't want to see you again."

"Now that's hardly any way to talk," came a new voice. Lily stiffened.

"Selwyn," she spat.

Risana Selwyn was a Ravenclaw, a branch of the main family. While she wasn't as openly hostile as many of the Slytherins (Malfoy, Parkinson, and their lot), she was no less vicious. The dark blood ran in her veins just the same as theirs. Undoubtedly, she was gorgeous, with dark blonde hair and amber eyes, but the men never seemed to see the icy gleam in her smiles, her expression, like a black widow waiting for the poison to reach their heart.

"The very same," she drawled, twisting a lock of hair between her fingers. "How have you been, dearest Lily?"

There were so many things Lily wished she could say—so many feelings she wished she could put to words. Sleepless nights, trying to calm Harry's crying, watching the red drain from her cheeks and hair into her eyes, darkening the edges, giving her mouth a permanent downwards cast. Feeling numb. Not tired or listless or sad, just numb, like someone had taken all the emotions she had in her heart and dumped them at her feet, and now she ached with the remembrance of happiness. Her parents were dead, Petunia was gone, Potter... sometimes she wished she was, too.

It made her feel guilty. It made her angry that she should ever feel guilty. It made her angry that she had been reduced to this.

Loki stood up and placed a hand on her shoulder. Potter's eyes fixed on him like he could burn it off through gaze alone.

"Now that the day is sufficiently ruined, why don't we go to Flourish's, Lily?" Loki said, in a falsely upbeat, sardonic tone.

"Wonderful. Let's."

Before she could get more than a few steps away, Potter's hand closed like a vice over her bicep, hot like a brand. "Are you shagging him?" he growled, voice dark and deep.

Lily raised her chin defiantly, even though a part of her was recoiling and thinking oh god, Loki's never going to speak to me again after this, and murmured in his ear, barely loud enough to be heard, "Would it bother you if I said yes?"

She tugged her arm out of his suddenly loose grip, turned, and walked away. Her knees shook slightly. Loki was standing by the door, waiting.

"All right?" he asked gently.

"All right," she breathed out, then closed her eyes. "God, I'm sorry you had to see that. He's my... ex."

Another smile, the faint curve of his eyes into crescents. "I noticed," he said dryly.

"Do you still want to go to the bookstore?"

"That's really up to you." He cocked his head to the side and studied her. "It's not going anywhere, and I can visit anytime. It's been a trying day for you, so I'll understand if you want to go home."

It had never been this way with Potter... with James. Not really. He was considerate, and kind, but it was often lost within the arrogance and self-assured importance that must have been nurtured from his parents' unconditional love and support. She exhaled slowly, cursing herself for ever being blinded.

"I'd like to go home, if that's alright with you," she said softly.

"Of course."

They disapparated.

Alice Longbottom, her long-time friend, was sitting in the living room, bouncing Harry on her knee, cooing softly and mussing up his hair while he giggled. Unconsciously, she felt herself begin to smile.

"Alice!"

"Lily! Oh—" she caught sight of Loki. "Who's this?"

"A dear friend." To Loki, she said, "Thank you for today."

He did that odd bow again, open palm over his chest, a slight dip of the head, smile curving over his lips. "It was my honour. Farewell, Lily Evans."

When he had disappeared out the door, and Lily was still staring after him, Alice whistled lowly under her breath. A little dazed, Lily took Harry into her arms, holding his wriggling body to hers.

"That's one catch," said Alice.

Lily flushed. "Alice."

"I'm just saying," her friend continued. "I mean, if I wasn't shackled to Frank, I would so go for that fine—"

"Alice!"

"Did you at least get his address?" Seeing Lily's face turn the same colour as her hair, and the stammered sounds she made in attempts to speak, Alice decided to have pity on her. Her voice softened slightly. "Alright, alright. Lips sealed. But really... how are you, Lils?"

Lily closed the door, leaned her head against it. "I guess it hasn't really sunk in yet."

"It never really will."

"I just...I miss them, so much, but I can't..."

Alice wrapped her arms around the two of them, kissed her forehead, nestling her forehead into Lily's shoulder. She took comfort in her warmth and touch.

"It'll be okay, promise. You have me, and Frank. And you have Harry now." A sly eyebrow. "And you now have Mr—oof! Okay, I'll stop." Seeing Lily's slightly wistful look, she patted her arm gently. "Merlin, you really need to get out more, if one decent man is enough to make you swoon."

"I am not swooning."

"If you say so. But maybe you'll see him again."

Lily studied the door. "Maybe," she murmured quietly.

One year later, she did.

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.

.

August 1st. He was eleven. There was an old man watching him from across the street.

He woke the next morning with no recollection of how he had spent the day before.

.

.

.

She went back to work five months later. By then, Harry was a year old, and Lily trusted Alice enough to watch over him. She knew it wasn't a permanent solution, but she hardly had enough funds to hire a babysitter. What she made in the Department was barely enough to keep them afloat—diapers and formula cost an awful lot, and there were some things one couldn't just magic into existence.

She fell back into her old schedule easily enough. It had been a year since she had last touched these runes, but she had no problems parsing the arrays and deciphering their words. It was an...art, in a way. The ancient civilizations used runes to channel their magic, but it was also a way of passing stories through generations; an evocation.

"Here are some photographs we have," her boss told her one day. "This was taken in Iceland one year ago. It was brought to our attention after an earthquake caused this slab of stone to resurface, but most of the runes have been obliterated. We'd like to figure out the full ritual. That will be your job, if you can."

She took the pictures. It was Muggle, surprisingly, and the edges were already worn grey from the number of fingers that had brushed against its sepia-hued borders. A large slab of stone —easily ten meters long— was jutting out of the ground. Only the runes at its very centre, the meristem apex, still remained.

"That's...not a lot to work with," she said carefully. "But I'll see what I can do."

"That's all I'm asking for. Thank you, Evans."

The available runes took her a week to decipher. The pictures weren't very clear, and in many places it was difficult to distinguish between two runes. She welcomed the challenge. It slowly began to eat at her free time until she was bringing her notes home, chewing on the end of her pen idly as she flipped through photographs.

One day, she figured out the final translation. She put down her pen.

"Oh," she breathed. "It's so sad."

Alice came up next to her. "What is it?"

On the paper, written neatly in still-drying black ink, fyrirgefa mér fyrir skrímsli sem ég er, og að fyrirgefa mér fyrir skrímsli ég mun einn daginn verða.

Forgive me for the monster I am, and forgive me for the monster I will one day become.

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.

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August 1st. He was twelve.

He began to dream of things—wonderous, terrible things. A palace of gold and silver, glimmering like the sun amidst the kingdom of beautiful rainbow hues, sitting atop clouds. A dark pit (silent, empty, barren and bereft). A beast too terrible to look upon —he could only watch reflections, and those were distorted— easily the size of earth itself, with a maw even larger, fangs kilometers long, rising from its depths. A single man, running to the edge—a slab of stone, breaking off, blue runes carving themselves deep into its surface—falling.

(sometimes he would see things from the corner of his eyes, a whisp of shadow forming long, gnarled fingers, reaching for him, but when he whirled around they would dissipate before his eyes. in the corner of the room he saw red pinpricks, curved, smiling maliciously.)

there was something happening to him. like his mother before him, possessed by darkness, a voice whispering in her ear, "foolish girl, there are some things mortals can never look upon." the acid, eating through the crystal light inside her eyes (he remembered her nails digging into his shoulders, of hiding in the linen closet, heart racing, breath stalled, as he watched his mother snarl and throw furniture across the room with inhuman rage).

the others thought he was going insane. they feared him for different reasons now, because the only difference between humans and beasts was the ability to think and make conscious decisions, and as he slipped further and further away he fell back into an instinctual, animalistic mindset. he only laughed, because dreams were dreams, a rebellion of his stifled imagination. they had no meaning, no control.

—until he followed a man through a wall and found himself in the middle of a hidden society.

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.

.

Lily threw herself into the project with an intensity she didn't know she possessed. There was something driving her onwards—a desperation of sorts, an kind of unnamed terror that woke her at nights in cold sweat. Try as she might, though, she could only re-create the first four sub-arrays of the northern arm. She had thirty-two more to do, and it was proving impossible.

At six-o'clock pm, she went for a walk. Her head was buzzing and she was tired. Fresh air might do her some good. She was passing by the alleyway when she heard a low voice, "Come on, just a little further," followed by an unsteady, trailing gait. There was a low grunt; the sound of someone crashing into the wall; a frustrated curse.

"Lumos," Lily muttered.

There was a hiss when whoever was in the alley shielded their eyes to the sudden light.

"Turn that off," came the impatient growl.

"Is everything..." Lily paused when the face finally registered, streaked with grime and blood as it was, "...Loki?"

The figure straightened. "...yes. Who are you?"

She tried not to take it personally.

"Lily Evans."

"What is the date?"

The question startled her slightly. "September 7th." She felt compelled to add, "1981."

There was a silence, then a soft, oh. A faint smile. Warmth and familiarity returned to his tone. "My apologies, Lily. I'm afraid I can't see very well in the dark." They both ignored the fact that the lumos was practically blinding. "I don't suppose you would be able to take someone to Mungo's?"

"Are you hurt?"

He held out one hand to wave her off. "No, not me. I found a man here and I've been trying to move him, but I cannot apparate right now, and I'm afraid I don't have the strength..."

The other man was hunched over. He was wrapped in several dirty coats that Lily could smell from here, making him appear bigger than he was. Stringy dark hair hung in tangles over his face, and his breath was acrid. He was covered in blood, the wheezing of his breath slowing.

A smear of blood over Loki's mouth, snaking up his cheekbone to disappear into his hairline. His eyes were wide, pupils blown to pinpricks in the light. Even so, he almost seemed to fade into the background, like he was becoming invisible in slow increments. Timelessness, almost.

Lily said, "Yes, I can."

Turned on her heel, grabbed the man's arm, squeeze of a tube. Free floating, tossed to and fro, then gravity pulled her down, on top of a cooling body.

Hands on her arms, vice-tight, shouting, tasting blood.

A healer in white robes. "He's dead."

Pronounced grimly, but without inflection. This, to him, must be commonplace.

A woman. "I'm going to ask you to come with me, miss."

An empty corridor, footsteps echoing. Steel door, reinforced by runes along the knob.

"Were you the one to find him?"

"No. I'm an Unspeakable at the Department of Mysteries. I was out for a walk when I heard sounds from an alley, and when I looked I found him."

"Is there anyone to verify your statement?"

"Yes. You can ask L—" She looked around, but Loki wasn't anywhere. He had not come with. "You can ask Estelle, my partner. She should be working the graveyard shift right now. I told her I would be back ten minutes ago."

A firecall. Estelle's angry voice. Lily trying to calm her down.

"Y'okay, Evans?" she said gruffly. She choked back a laugh at the sight of her punk-black eyeliner, spiky black-and-purple hair, jutting out of the fireplace.

"I'll be back soon. Don't worry, Es."

The fire returned to soft orange.

"Where were you forty-seven minutes ago?"

"Still in the office. Why forty-seven?"

The woman fixed her with an unreadable look. "The victim was killed forty-seven minutes ago."

Lily's eyes widened. "But... when I saw him in the alley, he was still alive."

"It may have been an enchantment. Everything has been verified. Please hand me your wand for a moment so I may run over the final checks." The woman accepted Lily's wand with careful, ginger fingertips, which she appreciated. "Priori incantatem. Giastivus ritavol. Mendacia pravus. Everything seems to be in order. Thank you, and our apologies for the inconvenience."

Lily tried for a smile.

"It's fine."

She walked out. Changed her clothing, burning it. God, she had never seen a dead body before. Not like that. Not when it pulled her on top of it, not the sweat and stink of rotting flesh, the iron blood that festered in the body. Not so close. (Because she turned down Dumbledore's offer for the Order of the Phoenix. She no longer had only herself to think about, and what would happen to Harry if she were to die?)

When she reached the Department, she wrote out the next array. Frá fórn sál okkar kemur blóð. From sacrifice our soul is blood.

Next morning, a knock on her door.

An envelope, the edge a delicate red.

Inside, a silver chain, delicate links winking in sunlight. Eerie blue pendant. A note folded carefully over the clasp.

Apologies
and
Thanks.

And that was all that remained of the past.

.

.

.

This was not the first time he had been here. He knew—he just—

(of a time before, when his mother was happy and healthy and hale, if not tired. when she used to rock him to sleep, and he would curl up in her lap, one of her hands stroking through his hair. he listened to the sound of stories; and he raised his hand, letting it lie over the left of her chest, where her heart beat gentle and steady, a slowing song that would come to an end too soon).

—didn't.

Magic, he thought, and the words slotted themselves into his brain. For so long they had been missing that Harry had only registered an absence, an empty void, never knowing what it was that had created that hollow feeling inside his chest. Magic.

This was Diagon Alley. Fortescue's. Gringotts. Flourish and Blotts. The Leaky Cauldron.

Hogwarts. His mother's school.

Why had he never received his letter? He knew he was magical.

No matter. He had taught himself muggle subjects for the first seven years of his life—why should this be any different? (and his mother was an unspeakable, one of the best, and she taught him self-defence like it was as necessary as breathing. only, he never thought he would have to use it on her).

Gringott's, first. He was his mother's heir. There was enough gold saved to allow him to live comfortably for the next ten or so years, but he would need to get a job. There was also a bookshelf. Transfiguration. Charms. Potions. Runes. Beetle the Bard. A few unnamed, cracked leather books, spiral bond and filled with brittle black ink. Miscellaneous trinkets. He took all of them.

Rented a room in the Leaky Cauldron for two days, and brewed an aging potion. After it was done, and he was seventeen instead of twelve, he went into Knockturn and rented a room indefinitely. It would be enough to get him started. It would be enough to allow him to disappear.

(for so long he had lived with the adrenaline in his veins, blood and smoke and death caressing him the same way a lover would, that he didn't know what to do with himself now that it was gone (because he did not think he could live without it). who will die today, he murmured to the ceiling. someone will be ignominiously purged from history.)

Hadrian Evans died when Hale's Orphanage burned down in a freak fire. The next day, Jonathan Steele stood in front of the mirror and washed the last of the hair dye down the sink.

.

.

.

He set up wards when he was fourteen (when Jonathan was nineteen). That was his mother's proficiency, and he taught himself through her notes, various books from Flourish's (and quite a few more from Knockturn). He anchored it with the Eye of Horus—protect me, he chanted. Hide me from view. Keep me safe. (I would rather be hated than forgotten.)

It was funny how irony worked, because his wards were what attracted the Department of Mysteries to him, one year later.

.

.

.

The girl had bushy brown hair pulled tightly behind her head. The right side of her face was covered in thick, ropey white scars. Disfiguring. She gazed upon Harry like she had a right to be there, sitting in his chair and spinning her wand casually between her fingers, eyes cold and alone.

Harry slowly closed the door, dropping his keys by the counter.

"I was wondering how long it would be before you came for me."

"The Department is interested," was all she said.

"I have no wish to take part in this war."

"No one does."

"I should think," Harry said slowly, "that the choice is not yours."

The girl stood. She slid a paper card over to him and patted the back of his hand. On it was a number. "For if you ever change your mind. Telly works, or a floo call."

Harry watched her go. He scoffed, and was about to throw it out, when something stopped him. Hesitating, he shoved it into a dresser somewhere to be forgotten. He held no love for Britain, nor for the Wizarding world. It was not his duty to save it. (He traced the blood runes carved into the inside of his wrist, and thought, if only you knew what you were asking.)

.

.

.

The attack came on November twenty-first. Hogsmeade weekend. Death Eaters came. Children died. The aurors, as usual, were too slow. (and he remembered the green lights)

"Did you know it was going to happen?" were the only words Hermione heard in greeting. She blinked in surprise. The voice on the other side of the phone was static-filled, soft around the edges in a way that spoke of great distance.

"I did not," she replied. "But it could have been prevented."

A long silence, filled with only static. So long she thought he had hung up. Then:

"I'm coming in."

.

.

.

His mother, before him, was a runes mistress. She specialized in protection. Blood magic (in secret), arcane, dark. Anything to keep her family safe. Always one step behind, reactatory. Always lunging forward to respond to a threat that already occurred.

Harry specialized in surveillance. Information was precious. He would not let events occur before they did. There were no secrets he could not find, given time.

In the short, interim months of his employment at the Department, he stopped no less than six Death Eater raids before they even happened.

.

.

.

"Don't go underground," said Hermione.

"Why not?" he asked, but she only shook her head.

"Just... just don't, okay?" A flash of worry. They were not friends, but respected acquaintances. "No matter what anyone says. Someone asks you to, you tell them to talk to me. I don't want anything to happen to you."

"Underground... that's where they keep the prisoners, isn't it?"

She was silent.

.

.

.

Graveyard shift. He went underground. (Curiosity, as they say, killed the cat, but he had no fear of death.)

He pushed open the door. It took his eyes a few minutes to adjust to the darkness. From the empty corridors came a deep, dark chuckle. He heard the clink of chains rubbing against each other, and slowly, two eyes peered out of the darkness, glowing like a cat's—feral, poisonous green. Harry's muscles locked together in terror. (But in his veins ran something else, an song of sorrow, of lust, of pain. Phantoms of once-love, burned to ashes beneath the shredded remnants of a dying sky.)

"A good eve to you as well." He could hear the smile. (And it was war that ran through his veins, suffusing every breath, searing away everything else.) Recognized it as the same one he saw in the mirror sometimes. "It has been a while, old friend."

"Who...are you?"

(Even as his head ached, and something in his skull pounded with the remembrance of something that never was.)

"You already know. You always have."

It was no answer.

"A warning," said the prisoner. "Your little lord will attack again nine days from now. I suggest you be prepared."

Harry spun. "Don't you mean, your lord?"

"Men greater than he have called upon me, and died for their insolence."

"I will figure out who you are," he vowed when he left. The door swung closed just before he heard the quiet murmur, I've no doubt you will.

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.

.

Voldemort did attack.

That night, Harry went back. The man's eyes crinkled at the corners when Harry made him stick out his arm and withdrew a small syringe of blood, stowing it away carefully. He stepped back from the bars.

"How did you know?" he demanded.

"Mm. I know a great number of things. You will have to be more specific."

"Don't play with me."

"Like Dumbledore did to you."

Harry stopped being surprised. "I suppose now is when you tell me that I ought to forgive him for wiping the first nine years of my memory."

"Well, no." The man conceded the point with a gracious dip of his head, expression magnanimous and mocking. "But perhaps forget. It is in the past, after all."

.

.

.

He analyzed the blood.

Impossible.

Muggle methods sometimes worked better. He took some skin samples, watched the cells divide. Spindle fibers and chromosomes, pulling each other together and ultimately apart.

Only, the telomeres never shortened.

The cells never died.

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.

.

Another interview from the Boy-Who-Lived. Harry sneered and crumpled up the paper.

The arrogant, attention-seeking brat.

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.

.

Rookwood was a traitor.

Harry said, "Drop your wand and I won't kill you."

Spit out, "I'll never betray milord!"

Green. That same colour, years ago.

Reaction without thought. The gouging spell left his lips, and he watched impassively as it drilled into Rookwood's ribcage, exploding through his heart in a spatter of wet tissue and blood. The body wheezed and fell.

He gave himself five minutes to feel nothing at all.

(It is weakness, he thought, when he pushed roughly past the auror guards and threw up in the loo, shoulders shaking, his sobs choked on the burn of stomach acid in his throat. No one came after him, and for that he was glad. He should not feel. Rookwood deserved to die.)

(But in the end, it was only another empty body. What difference did it make?)

"There's nothing you could have done," Hermione said, later, when they were sitting at the cafe, watching from a distance as aurors swarmed the area.

"It was either him or you," she said.

"Right, Harry?" she said.

Harry said nothing.

That night he visited the man. There was no need to say anything. They sat with each other in companionable silence. (And, god, when had this stranger stopped recognizing himself as a threat?)

(It will never get better, his eyes said. Killing was never so coldly practical as it was in the heat of the moment (leaving only the phantoms of regret and pain).That was something Hermione never understood.)

"I never caught your name," Harry said, when he stood to leave. For some reason, it felt like goodbye.

"A name is only as good as the lie behind it. You may call me as you wish."

"What about Loki?" Harry said.

"Oh?" Slow, sad, calm. You are your mother's son.

"For the monster that has faded into legend, beneath the murky waters of obscurity, waiting for the time to come and swallow the sun."

Their eyes met. Same shape, same colour beneath glamours. Abruptly, the man bared his teeth in a grin, face savage and terrible but starkly beautiful with foreign power, and he saw things he remembered in those eyes, like the touches of a forgotten dream (the bitter remnants of a dying wasteland).

The man's eyes were shining like broken glass. He clutched Harry's hand like he was the only anchor in a drowning sea.

"Very clever, little one," he whispered, his voice cracking. "But then again, you always were."

.

.

.

Harry was surveying the battlefield from his office. His eyes were tense.

"Hold your ground. Wait for my command," he said laconically.

The Auror captain bristled. "Who are you to—"

"Hold."

"You have no experience in—"

"—and as I recall, you have quite a bit of experience in leading failed counterattacks," Harry interrupted sharply. "You do not know the exact patterns of how Voldemort will strike. I do. Let me do my job, and you can do yours." A pause. Static. Satisfied, "Alpha team, Beta team. Are you in formation?"

"Affirmative."

"Yes."

"Very good."

The crack of apparition. Death Eaters dropped out of the sky, swarming the village.

"Wait," Harry said, his hand clenched on the top of his desk. Hermione laid a hand on his shoulder in silent support. He nodded to her gratefully, then returned his eyes to the projected image. "One more step... go."

From five different locations, a spell was cast through forty voices.

Pillars of flame twisted together to form a moving wall. The Death Eaters were burned alive. Someone from Alpha team whistled slowly through his teeth. (This is war, he breathed, sheathing his sword and letting the ash coat his face and tongue. You have brought this upon yourselves.)

"Fire-retardant spells don't work," Harry muttered to Hermione, a touch smugly, and listened to the sound of death eating them alive.

.

.

.

In the raid, they were able to capture a member of Voldemort's inner circle. The message had only gone to the Department's team leaders—him, Lawson, Croaker, and a few others.

He didn't recognize the man, but apparently, someone had. He was pumped full of Veritaserum and milked for all the information his mind contained. When he was nothing more than an empty husk, he would be Kissed.

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.

.

Barring entrance, arms folded firmly over her chest, legs shoulder width apart. "You're seeing him, aren't you," she said.

"Who?" said Harry. There was no point in lying. Hermione's brown eyes dared him to.

"I told you not to go near him for your own good, not so you could risk your fool neck!"

"I know what I'm doing. I haven't given away any information, if that's what you are afraid of. And he's helped me... some. Finding patterns in the raids. I've been careful. The Department would have no issues with what I'm doing. Use all resources necessary, remember?"

She sighed, deflating, looking tired. "It's not the Ministry I'm worried about, Steele," she said softly. "It's you. He's been asking for you ever since you came to us. I don't know who leaked him the information, but you need to be careful."

It made him feel warm and fuzzy that she was trying to look out for him, even if it wasn't needed. Gently, he reached out and brushed his fingertips over the back of her clenched hands.

"I will," he promised.

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.

.

The dreams continued, becoming worse and more grotesque as time went on. He never told anyone about it.

Then, one day, he woke to alarms, and found himself standing in front of the Veil, arms submerged to the elbows.

"Step away from the Veil, Unspeakable Steele," came the shout.

Harry wrenched himself away, stumbled backwards. He stared at his flickering hands in horror, watching as they faded in and out of view lazily, before they reappeared, though if he moved too fast there was a thick, uncomfortable feeling (like his skin was peeling away), and he could almost see an afterimage of his hands travelling through the air, translucent white.

"Shit," he breathed, and all the while, the Veil sang in his ears, a broken and discordant melody.

Come home come home comecomecome—

.

.

.

Something came in the mail. Hermione said, "I've never seen anything like it," and handed him a roughly hewn metal box, slightly charred on one corner.

He put it in his pocket. "I'll open it later."

"They're calling you the General now, did you know?"

"...what?"

She shrugged one shoulder. "Yeah. For your role in commanding the Aurors."

"I'm hardly commanding them. I'm only telling them how to use the runes I've given them and when to do that." He didn't mention that sometimes he needed to go underground and ask the man for help. He doubted she would be very pleased with him.

"Well, it's been a while since they've seen such success, you know? And such low death rates. They've a right to celebrate." She patted his back, the tightness on her face melting into a soft smile. "Congratulations, Steele. We really couldn't have done it without you."

"Sure you would've," he said uncomfortably. Being the center of attention made him uncomfortable, even if it was...nice.

She said, "Did you ever find out about the Death Eater? The captured one."

Harry crossed his arms and smiled ever so slightly. "I knew you were going to ask, sooner or later. But, no. They've got him down at Interrogation, and I'm not a part of that." When Hermione's face suddenly went cold, Harry had his back turned and didn't see. "They've identified him. Of all people, it's Stephen... you know, from Time. I... would never have guessed. It makes me wonder who else Voldemort has been able to sway—or possess. If he was able to get one mole in, I have no doubts there's—"

His words were cut off when someone's forearm locked around his neck, enhanced with magical force, slamming him into the wall. Momentarily winded, he struggled for breath, fingers curling in on the hold, trying to pry himself loose. His wand was on his desk, several meters away. No one else was here.

Bushy brown hair.

Eyes wide, "'Mione—"

Ruthlessly, she covered his mouth with her hand. He tried to strike her. She broke his arm.

His scream was muffled. Hermione, her eyes flat and cold, roughly put her hands beneath Harry's arms, and dragged him into a broom closet. He could not fight her off. In the moment, his instincts took over, and he slammed his forehead against hers—for a moment, she was stunned, and he broke free—

A knife slid between his ribs. Gasping, he lurched against the wall, one hand pressed to the steady gush of blood between his fingertips.

"Stephen Caius," she said. "Where is he?"

Every breath, every word, made the gaping wound in his chest throb with horrific pain. Blood was hot against his skin. Harry looked up with defiant eyes, and in a voice still hoarse from being choked, he said, "Fuck you." (I thought you were my friend.)

"Where?" said Hermione, and there was no trace of remorse or guilt in her eyes, only emptiness.

(It always surprised him how much blood there was in the human body—how much of a mess it made, how it tried to claim space in the last way it knew how.)

Harry's limbs were cold. His eyes began to close, but Hermione put her hand into the wound, pressing deeply. He jerked awake, choking on rust, feeling lightning graze through his bones and leaving fire in its wake.

"Where?" she repeated.

"Room..."

She had to bend down to hear him.

"... five oh three."

Too much blood, stick and hot against his cold skin. When Hermione let go, he fell. Stepping gently across his fallen form, she closed the door and locked it. It was not worth the effort of finishing him off. (Let him bleed out. Let him die alone in the darkness.)

The monthly Auror meeting was held that day in room 503. After a brief moment of surprise, they were able to subdue Hermione without too much trouble. She was a formidable witch, but they were born to fight.

They followed her bloody footprints and found Harry, almost dead. They rushed him to St. Mungo's.

In her cell, Hermione woke. She stared at her blood-soaked hands and screamed.

.

.

.

It was too close, the healers said. One centimeter up, and it would have pierced your heart.

Nevertheless, he was still alive. The public was in an outroar. Sitting by his bedside, his Auror guard often read him little snippets of the Daily Prophet, and both of them would share commiserating glances. He also received loads of fan mail, sometimes with chocolate, photographs, and various other... things. For someone used to living in the shadows, sneaking around Knockturn, it was often overwhelming. (But he also knew how quickly public opinion could change. How fickle the heart of the masses would always be.)

One month later, he went back to work. Hermione was gone. They assigned him an Auror guard and moved him to another office. It was almost as if nothing had happened.

"Don't be worried," said Auror Williams, winking saucily at him, and Harry bit back a grin, feeling his chest twinge painfully. "I'll protect you."

But four days later Voldemort invaded the Ministry, and Auror Williams died trying to protect Harry from spellfire. "Stay here," he had said, grey eyes narrowed at the sounds of fighting in the hallway. "I—watch out!" A gust of wind slammed him against the wall, a streak of green whizzing past his nose. But it left Williams momentarily off-guard, too late to stop the curse that caught him in the torso, cutting him in half.

"Shit, Williams," Harry breathed. Scrambling back, he overturned his desk and pressed bloody fingers to the runes covering the entire bottom, activating the barrier shield. Floo connections were down. So was apparition. He would need to fight his way out. His chest hurt.

The barrier, milky white and inch-thick, reverberated like a gong whenever a curse struck it. It could not block out the Unforgiveables. More and more Death Eaters were streaming into the bullpen. Quickly, he primed the explosives he set around the room (because he had spent much of his life on the run, and paranoia was justified when there were people after him.)

The entire floor imploded in a smatter of C4, liquid caustics, and flammables.

The barrier held, but as he watched, slow pieces fell from its dome-like roof, dying away into sparks of light that trembled and collapsed. The burning Death Eaters slowly quieted. (It always ended in fire.)

He stepped out of the smouldering wall. There was a snarl of pure rage. Harry had time to spin around, a spell on his lips—

Red eyes.

A concussive force slammed into his head. He crumpled to his knees, trying to blink back the stars, but there was another roar of rage, and the crushing pressure grew too much—he couldn't breathe, he—

.

.

.

They were in the Death Chamber. The veil fluttered, come home come home come

When he woke again, the world was falling apart. He was tied to a chair. Voldemort stood to his front and left. They were in the centre of a circle of Death Eaters.

Voldemort said, in his high, dark voice, "The Boy Who Lived." Seeing Harry's inquisitive stare, Voldemort chuckled slowly. "The fool thought himself capable to challenge me."

Longbottom was trembling, curled up by the feet of the Dark Lord. For all of his popularity, he had never truly seen death in the face, stared it down. He lived a relatively sheltered life as a celebrity, and he bathed in his fame. His first taste of reality would likely be lethal. Harry didn't see any of them making it out of this alive.

Longbottom raised his head defiantly —oh, the foolish boy— only to catch Crucio in the face, and he writhed, fingers clawing at his skin, voice piercing through the silence loud enough to make Harry flinch.

(A snake, a cavern, drip, drip, this was nothing, you blasted fool, not when all of eternity beckoned)

When the spell was released, Longbottom was lying in a puddle of sweat and urine. "Duh... Duhbble...dor... wil...f-fin... you..."

"And what makes you think he will stop me?" Red eyes slanted to Harry. His voice dropped an octave. "I have heard of you, Jonathan Steele. You are the one who blocked my raids. The... General." He purred the last word mockingly.

And, god. That inhuman face. The white, flat plane, set with glittering red eyes and a slitted mouth. Harry felt terror slowly blossom in his chest, but he raised his chin, making sure his voice did not shake.

"It wasn't that hard to do."

Bellatrix crucio'ed him.

When the pain eased, his throat was hoarse and he coughed up blood. His hands and legs trembled. He could hear Longbottom wheezing beneath him, and could not summon up the usual feeling of disgust he felt for the boy. (This is nothing.)

Voldemort's words were soft, gentle.

Distantly: voices, explosions. The phoenix will be too late. The rebellion was smothered.

"Oh? No matter. I will give you one opportunity, however, to reconsider. Join my forces. You will find greatness here."

Power was never something he cared about. He looked up, calculating the chances that Voldemort would take him to be enough of an ally that he could potentially escape—but, no, he recognized the glint in his eyes. He would be locked up, chained down, sucked of all power, and he would rather die than be shackled like that.

"Greatness of... insanity and megalomania, perhaps. I'm fine where I am."

Bellatrix's face twisted in anger, but Voldemort only seemed amused.

"You have a mouth, but no self-preservation, it seems," he said. "Well. In that case, it is truly a shame. I saw the potential of a brilliant mind in you. Undo his bindings, Jugson. Let him face death like a man. Stand up, Jonathan Steele."

(This was not the end.)

Harry was pushed to his feet. He almost stumbled when his bloodless legs were forced to work. Voldemort leveled his wand. The tip glowed.

The veil was whispering again. He stepped back, closed his eyes. The instant the cool cloth enveloped him in its fold, avada kedavra washed his body into green light. There was a brief flash of indescribable pain, like his soul was being ripped from his body, before—

Stars howled beneath the vast infinity of chaos.

And Harry fell.

.

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.

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end of chapter one