Archive of Our Own ^beta

Beyond, beyond the rest of the Wizarding World situated two handsome, noble mansions within vast, verdant fields, of which stretched out endlessly. Exotic animals thrived — albino peacocks, graceful swans, idiosyncratic flamingos. People, too, thrived. On broomsticks, high above the air. At the gardens, out for a lovely walk. Some simply settled on the grass, under large trees, to relish in the gorgeous, summer noon.

DE Manor. The mansions in the plot were distinguished by name; Division A and B. A was for the older members of the Army, people who dedicated years to ascending the ranks. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy resided in this division, two who were rumoured to have formerly owned the Manor before entrusting the Dark Lord with the plot. Division B was for the young, those in training.

Into the division dwelled a thin young man, who cinched a belt around his waist, and donned a pair of boots. He adjusted his round glasses, and made a pitiable attempt at taming his jet black curls. His armband glowed, warning Harry Potter that he had little time left to get ready. Harry was not too concerned.

Harry leaned over the sink of the changing room. It was only him in here – he slept in a tad – and everyone else seemed to have gone out for mealtime already. Most fancied something in their stomach prior to training, Harry did not. It usually made him feel sluggish, which affected his performance. This was better. He had the entire room to himself. No one to bother him.

As Harry brushed his teeth, he spotted a picture on a punching bag behind him through the mirror. An evil old man, with crescent spectacles and a long beard. His blue eyes radiated, disregarding the darkness of his surroundings. Just akin to all other photographs Harry had seen of him. Harry seized his wand from the counter once done with his teeth, and performed his daily ritual. It was for good luck, and consisted of this –

“Diffindo,” Harry muttered. The spell slashed the punching bag into halves. Sand burst out of the bag, and all over the place. Harry needed but some wand movement to bring all back to order. Sand back into the bag, bag back to one. Momentarily after, a woman spoke over the PA. He perked up.

“DE Squadrons, report to your designated training areas.”

Harry enchanted another cleaning charm, for safety measures. He didn’t doubt that some had gotten into his hair, and was too stubborn to get out. No matter. On the way to his training area, he had to push past others who walked in the opposite direction. The way he was going was /technically/ incorrect. He was to go through another corridor. Harry did not. Besides, this route was more efficient. He would’ve taken more time, had he gone the right way, even with all the people in the way. Harry got to the entrance of his training area, and did not dare cross the threshold yet. Beforehand, he drew out his pocket watch. His way of intrusion would depend on how tardy he was.

Thankfully, not by much. Harry slipped in effortlessly to take in his surroundings. This part of the area was always empty, what’s left was a towering door. DE Commander Alecto Carrow had his hand over the knob. Blaise, Crabbe, and Goyle were the ones that he snuck into uniform line with, arms at his sides. Now. Someone was missing. Someone who was always missing.

“Psst,” Harry hissed. “Has anyone seen Draco?”

All he received in response was a disgruntled, incoherent mumble from Blaise. However, it answered his question. Harry scoffed quietly, “Not again.”

From Harry’s perspective, Draco didn’t seem to care anymore for his esteem in the Army. Sporadic attendance to training, frequently leaving his dorm past curfew, diminishing respect for superiors. Draco didn’t try to hide his dislike for Major Lucius Malfoy anymore, who was, ostensibly, his biological male caretaker; until he gave Draco up to training. Indeed, he was a whole git, the old man. Nevertheless. In the seldom times that they did run into him, couldn’t Draco try to be a tad polite? It wouldn’t pain him. His disrespect did not end with unfamiliar people, extending to Severus. He was Draco and Harry’s assigned caretaker, growing up. Draco refused to even look him in the eye.

Harry had some feelings for Draco, need be frank. Draco knew everything about him, he knew everything about Draco. Draco wasn’t someone he needed to be another person around. Meanwhile the rest of his peers, his superiors, expected no less than pristine perfection from him, Draco… He was Harry’s safe place. He was home. Their contrasting personalities made an intriguing dynamic. And, he knew of Draco’s best and worst. Harry fancied both.

Severus constantly advised him against being around Draco, all said and done. Harry was going places in the DE Army, he’d say, and Draco was only going to hold him back with his irresponsibility. That was possibly true. Harry wasn’t concerned. He’d happily give up his chances of going anywhere in the Army if it meant he could be with Draco.

“At attention, DE cadets,” Carrow announced sharply. Harry straightened. “Your simulation is about to begin. Here's your scenario. You'll be passing through the treacherous Forbidden Forest to reach the heart of the Order insurgency, Hogwarts. Your mission is to make–” Alecto Carrow stopped. The man surveyed the cadets coldly, and desisted at Harry. Carrow was leering, a leer that sent chills up his spine.

“Where’s the Malfoy child?”

The question he always asked, when Draco was missing. As if Harry knew in the slightest. Draco, somehow, knew an unfathomable amount of hiding spots. He picked a different one every time, the git.

“Draco will be here in a minute. I promise,” Harry responded respectfully.

“Mm-hmm. I’m certain that he will,” Carrow sneered, and moved on. “Your mission is to make it out of the Forbidden Forest, for today. The forest is full of his loyal soldiers. Violent, impertinent instigators. They will take you out if given the chance. Don't give it to them. Wands at the ready.”

Alecto Carrow opened the door, and the four hurried in. Blaise, Crabbe, Goyle, and Harry raced past dense trees, vicious vines that attempted to capture them, and admittedly ugly, aggressive animals. Of course, it didn’t take long before they encountered the illusion of an Order member, with eyes that glowed and a malicious grin.

Harry took note of Crabbe’s obliviousness to this, and called, “Watch out!”

Crabbe darted out of the way immediately, firing a hex. The illusion disintegrated, they scampered along. Everyone else began to shout in alarm as Order members aimed for them, Harry tried to settle the rest down. “Come on, this way!”

Harry ushered them east, his teammates following along. This area was more isolated, but the trees were incredibly dense. There came to be little space between every tree, and they needed to slide through sideways. There was a gap that Crabbe couldn’t get through, however. Goyle took it upon himself to tug him out. Except, Crabbe was hit with a flash of white light. His armband switched from a green screen, to a red X.

“Damn it,” Crabbe complained.

“Brilliant work, Vincent,” Goyle rolled his eyes. Crabbe frowned at his dismay, when he came to notice three Order members materialising. He tried to spell them away, except his wand no longer worked in the training area. Only pathetic sparks shot out, Blaise huffed.

“Seriously, Crabbe?”

“Protego Maxima!” Harry casted, once the Order members started to shoot at them. They were to leave Crabbe behind, and they did, venturing further into the arena. At last, they’re out of the Forbidden Forest. All that was left was to conjure the Mark. That would bring their session to an end.

What Harry needed, though, was a good clearing. That would ensure definite success. Harry swept forward, and felt something crack beneath his boots. He sheepishly brought his gaze down. Ah, that was what he feared. He had stepped on a black hexagon.

“Bloody hell.”

The grass slowly sunk. Harry darted away fleetingly. What formed next was a hole, in which a giant troll crawled out of. A horrible sight. Twelve feet tall, skin a dull, granite grey. It’s body was lumpy, that of a boulder, with a small bald head perched on top like a coconut. The smell that came from it – impossibly revolting. Harry’s nose crinkled in disgust, and he hesitated. Thereupon, he charged. The troll swung his club around, huge and wooden, which Harry used to his advantage by catching it. He held onto the club while the troll lifted it up, and he climbed up his arm.

Harry made it to his head, and he curled his legs around his neck. Problem was, he wasn’t too sure what to do now. He looked at his wand with furrowed brows, and reached over. He was not too keen on this, but he managed to shove the wand up the wretched troll’s nose, in the hopes of knocking it out. He did not. All this did was anger the troll, it howled in pain.

Blaise watched the situation unfold helplessly. He seemed to come up with an idea. Blaise held his wand up high, and murmured, “Wingardiam Leviosa.”

The club flew suddenly out of the troll's hand, rose high, high up into the air, turned slowly over -- and dropped, with a sickening crack, onto its owner's head. The troll swayed on the spot and fell flat on its face, with a thud that made the whole room tremble. Harry held onto him tightly as they had plummeted.

Harry was prompted to conjure the Mark once more. And he would’ve. If he hadn’t spotted a tall, smirking blond. His Hawthorn wood wand was lifted up high, and he was prideful, elegant, and – most of all – unscratched. What loomed above was a titanic skull, composed of emeralds, with a serpent out-jutting from its opened mouth. Rising higher, it went, blazing in a haze of greenish smoke.

Harry’s eyes narrowed at Draco Malfoy.

“Hey, Harry,” Draco greeted, with a flippant wave of his hand. His grey eyes find the rest of their group. “And Co. How was training? You guys didn’t do too bad.”

“Did you really show up late and let us do the entire session? That is low, even for you,” Harry grumbled.

“Oh, I didn’t show up late. Forsooth, I was earlier than you lot – I slipped in when Alecto was busy with Amycus. They were, oddly, gossiping. From what I picked up, Cadet Bulstrode wishes to be referred to as /Millicent/ Bulstrode now. Let's respect that, shall we, boys?” Draco studied them. When there came no objections, he resumed.

“Anyhow. I wanted to watch the show from the trees. I won't deny that I let you guys do the entire training session out of none other than laziness,” Draco explained. “But, hey, I conjured the Mark. That has to count for something. Now come on, you look stupid sitting on that troll. And that troll looks stupid with your wand up it’s snotty nostril.”

Throughout Draco’s contemptuous laughter, the woman from the PA announced, “Training exercise successfully completed.”

Harry hopped off the troll, and, much to his revulsion, had to pry the wand out of the troll’s nose. He winced, regarding the mucus splattered all over the sodding thing. Disgusting. Draco, in spite of his unmistakable disgust, took it upon himself to spell away the ‘jam’. Likely to make up for having only showed up at the last minute. Harry heavily considered kissing him.

In a matter of seconds, the area was cleared out. All that it was, was a room of pure whiteness. The exit was well visible this way, a black door. The same one they had set foot through to commence the task. Together, they got out, and picked up Crabbe in the meantime. He had taken to curling up into a ball, on the floor, and mumbling nonsense to himself. Dramatic. Must’ve picked it up from Draco.

Everyone parted ways once in the corridors. Harry had a good idea of where they had all gone. Blaise, to the library. He wasn’t a social person whatsoever. Crabbe and Goyle were two peas in a pod, there was never one without the other. Harry could guess that they were off to play a game of Exploding Snap, or Wizard’s Chess, or any other game that they hadn’t the brain capacity to comprehend.

Draco and Harry were much the same to them, in the fact that they never left each other's side (thankfully, not in their idiocy). At all times, they were seen together. On that June afternoon, they could be found within the gardens. They, ultimately, needed to make good use of the sunny afternoon. Ever so stunning. Draco improved things aesthetically.

You see, sunlight found its way to make Draco’s pale skin radiate. Enough to provide luminescence in a night so dark; pure white outlined his figure. His cheeks were always flushed beneath the sun, a subtle pink that Harry revelled. Solely the right streaks of blond were highlighted under the observation of daylight. Somehow, these streaks gleamed brighter than his skin. Brighter than any star in the universe.

Harry fancied that Draco looked particularly pretty. Moreover, he would’ve continued to admire him. If it wasn’t for this; his friend caught his gaping. Oh so much to his chagrin. All Harry could do was smile foolishly, to pretend like his cheeks weren’t red-hot, and to pretend like his insides weren’t all fuzzy. Something turned his stomach all around. What should’ve been unpleasant, had to be one of the most thrilling things he’d experienced.

Judging by Draco’s chuckle, he seemed to have noticed his moronic behaviour. He spared Harry the embarrassment of pointing it out. Alternatively, his attention shifted back to where it had been prior – on the thornless rose bushes. A variety of colours to look at, colours so vibrant. Draco looked to be deeply focused, set on /something/ that Harry just couldn’t pinpoint. In no time, he did not need to. All of a sudden, Draco extracted a rose from the bush with a slender hand. Burgundy, the perfect colour for a rose. Every petal was intact, none had diminished.

Harry required a considerable amount of time of Draco’s staring, to register what his friend was doing. He was offering the rose to him. Harry hesitated hitherto caving in and taking the rose into his grasp. He smiled as he inspected the flower. “You really shouldn’t have – don’t you know that gifting red roses is an unspoken confession of love? An iconic symbol of romance?” Harry teased.

Harry could’ve sworn that Draco’s cheeks went all the more pink. Yet. A smirk crept up his face. Cooly, replied Draco, “I know.”

“Harry,” a voice cut into their conversation. Harry was prepared to curse whoever it was, for daring to do such a thing. But, he caught a glimpse of who it was. Severus. He approached the two, and Harry at last realised how unusual it was to see him outdoors. Nonetheless, Harry nodded at the older man in reverent salutation, and he was careful to pocket the rose that Draco had given him.

“Severus,” he responded.

“You have done well,” Severus praised, his voice a low drawl. “You've completed your training course in record time.”

“Uh, well,” Harry chuckled nervously. “It wasn’t just me. The rest of the team pitched in. Blaise, Goyle, Crabbe—” Well… “And Draco. Also Draco.”

Severus’s lip curled up disparagingly, and he peered over at Draco. “Ah, yes. How someone as unmotivated as you completed the course in that time, I'll never know.”

“Always serving up those pep talks, huh, Snape?” Draco sniggered.

“Silence,” he ordered. “Do not be impudent with me, cadet.”

Draco instantly settled down. “Sorry, Snape,” he murmured halfheartedly.

Severus seemed to be unable to care any less for Draco’s apology. His concentration averted to the other. “Harry. Walk with me.”

Severus retreated sharply, inky robes billowing in trail. He was already striding away, when Harry hadn’t responded. Harry turned to a shrugging Draco. It didn’t take long for Severus to note that he wasn’t being followed, to which he repeated Harry’s name. This time, Harry sprinted toward him obediently.

By the by, were they indoors. Harry was evermore grateful, uncertain of how much more he could contend with Severus, out in the open. Harry allowed Severus to proceed ahead of him, in isolated corridors. Little to no one was inside, among a summer afternoon so scenic. “You have been under the scrutiny of the Dark Lord for some time,” Severus informed. “He deems you a fine candidate for Force Captain.”

Harry was visibly surprised by this, his bright, green eyes wide. He fought the urge to allow his face to break into a grin. “Force Captain? Would that mean I can get the Mark?”

“Unquestionably,” Severus nodded slowly. “He sees great promise in you. In fact, he has elected you the honor of leading a squadron in the invasion of the Order Fortress, Chudleigh. Heavily guarded. The event would take place on Monday. If you succeed, you could very well receive the Mark as soon as the following week.”

Harry could no longer conceal his excitement. Leading a squadron in an invasion? At seventeen? It sounded like a dream come true. “Chudleigh?” he repeated, incredulously. “You mean we’re seeing active duty?”

“You are seeing active duty,” Severus corrected.

“But I'll be able to bring my team along,” Harry quizzed worriedly, “right?”

“Your team is not ready. They will only slow you down. This has been decided by the Dark Lord, and it is for the best.”

“Severus, with all due respect, they've been training hard for this, too,” Harry explained. He couldn’t imagine going on active duty without his teammates. “And Draco, all he wants is to get out there and prove himself.”

Severus scoffed. “If that were the case, Draco should have worked harder to prove himself to me.” Promptly, he turned to Harry. “This is what I raised you for. Now is your chance to prove yourself. I saw talent in you the moment I found you as an orphan child and took you in. Is this not what you've wanted since you were old enough to want anything?”

Harry nodded reluctantly.

“With you at the forefront, we will overthrow the Order of the Phoenix once and for all. Do not disappoint me.”

Severus left him behind, and Harry was careless. He was at a loss between being a step closer to his dreams, and a step away from Draco. How would he feel when he found out?

“Hello, Commander Granger,” Dumbledore greeted, his wise, blue eyes twinkling. The two were situated in his office – an interesting office, it was. Dumbledore possessed a vast collection of meaningless trinkets, scattered upon his desk, and around the room. Bookshelves floated about, filled with intriguing titles that she was dying to, one day, read. New Theory of Numerology, or Guide to Advanced Occlumency. Dumbledore had a series of portraits hung up on every wall, consisting of peculiar individuals. However, with the knowledge that Hogwarts had once been a school, Hermione could only assume that these people were former Headmasters and Headmistresses. She had not the heart to ask.

None of it was new to Hermione. She found herself bid here frequently nowadays – every meeting for the same reason. She didn’t doubt that this conversation would go about as smoothly as their last (not at all, mind you). Dumbledore offered up his bowl of sweets to Hermione, having gotten one for himself; a wordless offer that she did not accept. What Hermione wanted was Dumbledore’s straightforwardness.

“Hello, sir,” said Hermione, words cut and short; her gaze met his. “Why have you requested my presence? Have I done something wrong?”

Hermione watched the old man intently. She knew she did, she was no idiot. Notwithstanding, Dumbledore’s expression did not change. The only exception being that his voice went all solemn. “Ah, yes. I suppose you have, Commander,” he confessed. “I’ve been notified that, again, you disobeyed orders and led your faction of Order of the Phoenix into a dangerous combat situation. You were ordered to retreat. Is that accurate?”

Hermione inhaled sharply, and she tore her eyes away to the bookshelf. “I did, sir. I did so with reason and precision. I was protecting Godric’s Hollow from falling into the grasp of the Death Eater army. I, aware of their low supplies, split my faction into halves. One charged at the Death Eaters to create a diversion, while the others went ahead to seize their—”

“While I admire and recognise your strategies, Commander,” Dumbledore interrupted. “You were foolhardy, and led the others to danger. Did you have any solidified plan for those causing the disturbance?”

Hermione disregarded Dumbledore’s question, for she had not. And she wasn’t going to confirm that. She cleared her throat. “Respectfully – fighting is supposed to be dangerous. We have been retreating far too often. We can’t keep giving up our own to the Death Eaters. Pretty soon, we won't have anything, anyone left to defend. Not even the Ministry. I heard they have their sights on there. If they infiltrate the Ministry, sir…”

“I understand your concern, Granger. And if they come to attempt an invasion on the Ministry, we will react appropriately. Nevertheless, you mustn’t disobey orders, even with an apparently good plan. This has become an ongoing issue, you going against my word because you regard yourself knowing better than I do–”

“I do. I’m the one who’s there when actual combat occurs. You observe from a distance. You watch as your army suffers at the hands of cruel Death Eaters. You watch as they take our people, our land. I make decisions that save more lives than take. There were few casualties, fewer than there would’ve been had we retreated. And while yes, the tragedy that did strike was upsetting, my point still stands. My ‘dangerous’ and ‘foolhardy’ plan saved Godric’s Hollow from being reduced to ruins.”

Dumbledore observed Hermione expressionlessly. She may as well have been speaking to a brick wall, from the looks of it. Hermione… She was enraged by this. Enraged that Dumbledore feigned more wisdom than he actually possessed. Enraged that everyone fell for his facade. It was highly probable that she was overreacting, and she couldn’t be bothered.

Dumbledore’s voice was all more grave, he spoke slowly, “If you continue your defiance in following my orders, or in remaining… mannerful, I may have to revoke your position as Commander.”

“No. You can’t. People respect me, people listen to me. I train them well, and I teach them what they need to know about Defense Against the Dark Arts. You’re merely upset because you can’t control what people do all of the time. You don’t accept different points of view, because you’re not used to people disagreeing with you. People always go with everything you say, no questions asked, solely because of the fact that you’re /Albus Dumbledore/. Solely so you know, I’m not like that. I’ll look at your commands objectively, and decide whether I agree with them or not. From there, I’ll decide what course of action I’ll take.”

Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak, and Hermione wasn’t having it. She put a keen hand up at him.

“No, no. Actually. I’ve now decided that I’ve had enough of this conversation. I’ll be taking my leave now. We may continue this tomorrow, if I wish. Have a /magnificent/ evening, sir. Try not to have all of those sherbert lemons, we wouldn’t want you with a stomach ache, would we? Yeah, alright. Goodbye.”

Harry found himself looking over the Manor’s clearings through a window, twirling Draco’s rose in his hand. There came familiar, approaching footsteps, eventually accompanied by a voice just as much. Draco wrapped an arm around him, and eyed what Harry held in his hand. “So,” began Draco in a hum. “What did Snape say?”

Harry hesitated, peering over to his friend. “I’m leading an invasion on Chudleigh. If I succeed, I’ll be promoted to Force Captain, and receive the Mark… It’s, erm, not that big of a deal, you know?” Harry so hoped this would soften the blow when he told Draco that…

“Seriously?” Draco asked him, incredulously. He was beaming, grinning from ear to ear. “That’s bloody brilliant, as you’d say. We're gonna see the world and conquer it –– we should blow something up in celebration!” The blond looked about the hallway, looking for any good candidates. Harry squirmed uncomfortably, and gently caught his arm.

“Yeah. Well. Ah. About that.”

Draco’s face morphed into one of question. Harry bit his bottom lip, he didn’t want to say it. He so wished that Severus broke the news to the two of them, together. Would’ve saved this conversation from occurring in the first place. Draco rushed him into confession, uttering an expectant, “What?”

“Severus says you're not coming. You or the rest of our team.”

“That’s rubbish. You’re pulling my leg,” Draco immediately huffed. “Or perhaps Snape is. What is his problem with me?”

“I mean, you are kind of disrespectful, Draco,” Harry murmured under his breath. He shook his head, and spoke up. “And you don’t exactly try your hardest with training. That’s how you prove that you’re worthy of receiving the Mark.”

Draco grimaced, something flashed in his eyes; hurt. Perhaps Harry shouldn’t have added that comment about being worthy of the Mark. “Why should I respect him?” Draco crossed his arms. “He's just a bitter, greasy old man who definitely got bullied as a cadet. He struts around the corridors with his stupid cape, as if he and his ugly nose have any real power that doesn't come from the Dark Lord.” Draco paused, and he glared at Harry. “I guess it sure must be easy being a people pleaser like you.”

“I am not a pe–” Draco stomped off. Harry sighed. He knew better than to go after him without anything to cheer him up. He had done that far too many times, and had, by now, learned his lesson. The question was, what would this be? Harry found his answer in a broom closet.

Minutes later, Harry found Draco on the rooftop. The sun was spilling into the horizon now, painting the sky strikingly. Harry held something behind him as he approached Draco, and spoke cautiously.

“Listen, Draco. I’m sorry. There were a few things that I shouldn’t have said,” Harry shook his head. “It’s just that, uhm. This is what I’ve been working for my entire life, it’s a step towards what I continue to work for every day. A high position in the DE. Trust and respect from the Dark Lord… I was hoping you could be, I don’t know, happy for me. At least a little.”

Draco did not cock his head to Harry. He sat at the ledge, looking out. Constellations etched into the obscuring stratosphere. Harry momentarily wondered if Draco’s constellation would be out tonight. Draco surrendered conclusively, and groaned. “Ugh, whatever.” Draco wasn’t facing him, and Harry could tell that he was rolling his eyes. “I simply want to get out of this hellhole at some point. Otherwise, I’ll die of boredom. I constantly wonder what's outside the Manor.”

Harry’s lips curled up into a grin, and he revealed what he concealed behind him. Draco was forewarned by the prolonged silence, he shifted to him. He caught the gasp that threatened to escape. A Firebolt. Harry asked, “Why don’t we go find out?”

In short order, Harry and Draco sliced through the wind on the Firebolt. Harry managed the handle, deeming himself best fit for the task; forasmuch as he was the responsible one out of the two of them. Sort of. Draco kept his chin positioned at Harry’s shoulder, arms enveloped about Harry’s torso. Draco’s elated laughter, deep and melodic, rang high in his ears. Harry had an abnormally difficult time breathing steadily, which he doubted was induced by the crisp air.

“I take it all back. You're not a boring people pleaser – you’re incredible. Literally. I did not deem you capable of actually stealing a Firebolt,” he mentioned. Harry did not exactly appreciate his word choice.

“Borrowed. I plan on giving it back, thank-you-very-much. Please don't make me regret this.”

“I've always wanted to ride one of these things,” Draco admitted. His fairly-skinned hands shot atop Harry’s, at the handle. “Here, gimme.” Harry yelped. There was not a single notion in mind as to how Draco had done it; as to how Draco gained control of the broomstick. Significantly, did they speed.

“Whoa, there!” Harry slapped Draco’s hands, a way to get him to back off. Harry, for their damned lives, hoped it would work, and it did. Draco complained under his breath, to which Harry responded, “I’d much prefer to return to the Manor, whole.”

“Return to the Manor as you want, so long as you keep your stunning face intact,” Draco commended. For all that this seemed to have been a mere tactic to distract Harry, he heated up all over. With his mate distracted, Draco got the handle into his grasp. Harry was not going to let go without a fight.

“I want it!”

“No! I’m driving it!”

“Hey! Let me try!”

“I have, and you’re too reckless. Give me. I'm doing it.”

“Harry. I want it.”

“No, I've got it.”

The broomstick, muddled up, swivelled around; Draco screamed. Harry hardly noticed, occupied with taming the broomstick before it led them to their demise. The Firebolt roughly halted, seconds ahead of crashing into a colossal tree. Harry let out an alleviated suspire, with closed eyes.

“What is it?”

Harry’s eyes snapped back open, he glanced around. A forest. Dim, all the more so due to the evening sky, with dense trees and Brunswick green vines. Creatures could be heard lingering, outwith those tall bushes. This forest was too familiar, identified right away.

“Must be the Forbidden Forest,” Harry gulped. Everything was more frightening in the dark. Especially the Forbidden Forest, which he heard tons of. “They say there are strange, old monsters in there. Worse than what you’d see in those training simulations they have us do. An-and the trees move when you're not looking. Every DE squadron they've sent in here has never come out again.”

“Let's get a better look.”

Harry had foolishly supposed that what he had said would’ve convinced Draco into agreeing to go back. He made sure to be more sensible next time. Nonetheless, he said, “Wait, what?”

Like the damn maniac that he was, Draco dissolved into laughter and was, once more, in control of the Firebolt. They surged straight into the Forbidden Forest, keenly turning from just about any danger one could think of. Soon enough, Draco’s overconfidence caused him to lose focus. Harry found himself screaming.

“Bloody hell! Draco, slow down! Draco, tree! Tree!”

Harry could no longer take it. He took matters into his own hands, heaving them over the forest. Or, at least, he tried to. A vine caught Harry’s leg. Harry plunged, off of the broomstick and to the ground — which he met with a grunt. Draco’s voice called for him in the distance; ‘Harry!’, over and over again. After Harry stirred, the world had changed around him.

“Draco?” Harry murmured. He processed the difference in his surroundings. A nursery. He was in a nursery, lightning flaring through the window. “Huh?”

There were people. A woman, with fiery red braids, and green eyes so recognisable. Where from, though, Harry did not know. There was terror in her every move, terror in her voice, terror on her face. She whispered, desperately, into a white cot. An infant rested inside. No older than a year old. The infant… appeared to be just like Harry. Hair a dark, curly mess, and skin russet brown. The baby’s eyes were identical – brilliant, curious, green. There was only one, single difference. The baby did not possess a scar, like Harry’s, that began at his hairline and went just below his right eyebrow. The baby did not possess a scar at all.

“Be safe, Harry. Mama loves you. Dada loves you. Always be strong.”

Harry had heard similar terms used before – mum and dad. These were used to refer to biological caretakers, depending on sex. What he didn’t know, though, was that biological caretakers cared much for their young. Frankly, he was convinced that they all hated their children. Uncommon, it was not at all for a biological caretaker to give their offspring up for training.

The door to the nursery burst open, the woman screamed. She scrambled to her feet, and faced a tall, hooded figure. The presumed biological caretaker was wailing, pleading with the figure, repeating, “Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!”

“Stand aside, you silly girl…stand aside, now,” came a drawling voice.

Yet. The caretaker still begged with the cloaked figure, for the sparing of her son’s life. “Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead—”

“This is my last warning—”

“Not Harry!” She screeched. “Please…have mercy… have mercy…. Not Harry! Not Harry! Please—I’ll do anything—”

The woman was no more. There was a streak of green light, spreading amongst the room. And the woman’s body fell with a thud. Harry stood, paralysed and appalled. His scar scorched through his skull, it seemed. And, Harry did not react. He did not react, even when he sensed stout, crimson blood oozing out of his scar. From his very forehead, to the very floor he stood on. What had he just witnessed? The figure approached the baby, and Harry wondered — what he was about to witness next? Who were these people? Why was the baby so similar to him, down to the name?

Whoever this cloaked figure was, Harry then vowed to ruin. They aimed their wand at the harmless child. Harry panicked. He needed to save baby Harry! Where was his wand? Harry patted around his pockets, alarmed.

One disarming spell at the man. That was all Harry needed. Damn him for his rubbishness at wandless magic! That one day he refused to focus on training, this was the very result of such — ironically, this was the very same day that Draco decided to pay any mind to his classes for once. Tosser. Harry didn’t have his wand on him, somehow. But his efforts to save baby Harry would not be in vain. He lunged forward, and stepped in front of the cot with arms extended, wide.

“Let the baby live! It has done nothing wrong to–” Harry dissuaded, until he, abruptly, halted. The anonymous, shadowed face had come into view. His, whoever this was, eyes were nothing more than slits; they were red, like ripe, red wine. Nostrils were flared up, and this was all he had for a nose, hardly any bridge whatsoever. Skin was that of a snake, ashen and scaled. In fact, everything about this man was closer to a snake, than anything. Maybe because the man was no man.

This /man/ was the Dark Lord.

Terrorised, Harry shrieked. Nothing changed. There was not a hint of reaction on the Dark Lord. Nearly such that he was not there. Harry’s Lord refused to, in the very least, regard him. His gaze, icily-hot and piercing as ever, punctured past Harry. The cot. Sights were aimed at the cot, and so was the Dark Lord’s wand. Thunder violently roared, and, simultaneously, an invisible something—rushed across the room. Green luminosity rebounded on all four walls of the nursery, and Harry was willing to bet all that he had that a light so bright, surely flashed out of every window in that nursery. Harry never got to see. Earth turned white.

What came in advance was a Sword. Pristine, untouched, /new/. On its reflective, golden hilt were egg-shaped gemstones, painted scarlet. Rubies, rubies so alluring. Blatantly were the crystals set intricately, a process that surely took hours. Directly below the rubied gemstones was carved the name, ‘Godric Gryffindor’. Alien to Harry. Come what may, though, Harry was awestruck. An unrestrained hand snapped forward, only fingertips met with the lavish blade.

“Harry.”

What was Godric’s engraved name filled in on the hilt. No more, there remained only the rubies.

“Harry.”

New letters chiselled in. Harry observed the new name form. He gasped. On the sword’s hilt was now, his very own, /Harry J. Potter/. Huh. Funny. He had never seen the ‘J’. Yet. That was not on his mind. Nothing was on his mind, nothing needed to be on his mind. This novel ignorance was something that Harry thought he could get used to.

“Harry!”

Draco’s voice was remote, but Harry had been able to hear him the entire time. It was only then that he snapped back to focus; Draco had been disrupting his tranquility. And, once disrupted, the wieldy sword withdrew from his reach. The bloody thing faded, the world was only white again. White dissolved into black. Harry was in the Forbidden Forest again. Jolting, did Harry sit up, unsteady rhythm pounding in his ears—his heartbeat. Unsteady was his breathing, ragged and sharp; face hot, hot. The final thing that dawned upon him was throbbing, excruciating agony. Not a fiber in his being was spared.

“Urgh,” he groaned, sinking back down to the ground. With eyes faced up, could Harry note the tenebrosity that had worsened while he had been unconscious. Harry shut his eyes again. “Draco. What happened?”

“You fell out of the broomstick, I suspect that something caught your leg. I ran into a tree right after. Worry not – the Firebolt is not damaged.” Harry peeked his eyes open to see Draco displaying an unscathed broomstick. Draco, on the other hand, did not look as flawless as he normally did. His hair was tousled, clothes wrinkled. His sleeve was ripped open, even. It was clear that he had made efforts to straighten both, and failed. His bottom lip swelled (somehow, appealingly), and his cheek had been roughened and scraped. He had a wild grin on his face. He was exhilarated, in spite of his injuries. “Now let’s go! Otherwise, Snape’s going to have our heads.”

“Wait,” Harry breathed. “We can’t go yet. We–we have to find that baby. We need to bring him to safety…”

Draco stared at Harry as if he had gone mental. “What?”

“Ther-there was a baby. It was right here. I tried to save him… I really did… Someone was going to kill him…” Harry was afraid to confess who exactly it was. So he didn’t. “But it was like… It was like I didn’t exist. Like I was invisible. Like I had plunged into a Penseive and was only spectating the memories of another. You know?”

Draco quickly started to rub Harry’s temples, concern written all over his face. “Shit. Are you brain damaged? Don't be brain damaged. Oh, Snape's gonna kill me… I’m going to kill you, if you’re brain damaged. You idiot.”

“I'm not brain damaged,” Harry slapped his hands away, as he had earlier. “Wait. Not only was there a baby… There was a sword. Godric’s. Who’s that? I don’t know… it belonged to him… and then it belonged to me…”

“Godric… As in the Order fortress, Godric’s Hollow?” Draco frowned. Seconds later, he shook his head. “There's no baby. No sword. So, come on, let's go. I’m serious – Snape will use all of his self-crafted hexes on me again or something if we’re not back soon.”

Draco stood, and yanked Harry up. Harry stumbled along. They encountered a clearing to mount themselves back on the Firebolt, Draco with the handle to himself. Harry was apathetic. He probably would lead them to their doom if he were the one flying them. As they flitted away from the Forbidden Forest, Harry got another glimpse; he made a decision.

Hermione bounced her leg on the grand staircase she was situated in, fuming. She glared out at the entrance gate. Whatever the gate had done to her, she hadn’t an idea. She merely needed to be upset at something within her vicinity, and she didn’t want it to be Ron. She had already attempted, but he was being far too supportive for her to stay mad at him – for once. Now, she opted to rant to him, as he kept his hand on her shoulder. To any stranger, this didn’t sound like much. Considering how Ron was, however… She was much, much more than grateful.

“I had protected Godric’s Hollow from falling into their clutches, Ronald! My plan succeeded, need not Dumbledore’s authorisation! Now, he wants to revoke my position as Commander? Many more people would be suffering if it weren’t for me! He should be praising me. What am I supposed to do if I’m no longer Commander? Go back to Healing? I heavily detested that! Who would he replace me with? Who could possibly—-urgh!”

Trouble flashed across Ron’s freckled face. Hermione noticed this, and tried not to get further upset. All she said was, “If you want to say something, just say it. It’s fine if you disagree with me, you know. I’m not going to whack your hand with a book again. That was six years ago.”

Ron was still tentative, blue eyes away from Hermione. “You probably should’ve informed him of your plans, at the very least. Maybe that’s what he truly doesn’t like about what you did — that you had done it without consulting him. Dumbledore believes you’re brilliant, I’m sure he would’ve said yes after a bit of contemplation.”

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest and hugged herself. That… that made sense. She was, anyhow, too proud to admit the truth in Ron’s point. So she didn’t. She kept silent, and hoped that Ron had something else to say. He, thank Merlin, did.

“Your win at Godric’s Hollow was narrow. Had you been faced with a Death Eater Commander more competent, you would’ve been defeated. He would’ve kept some of his troops looking after the supplies, instead of throwing them at yours so stupidly. What you pulled was, let’s face it, a classic move,” Ron stopped. He checked Hermione’s face for any signs of anger, and she refused to display any. Therefore, he eased, and resumed.

“I have a few strategies I reckon would be worth suggesting, since, you know, I’m not a Commander myself. I can’t implement them in my group of men if I don’t got any. But – that isn’t our problem at the moment. Our problem is getting Dumbledore to forget what you had told him. I think I know just what to do. Located deep into the Forbidden Forest is a sword — the Sword of Gryffindor. They say that only the worthiest, bravest — a Chosen One — can pull it out of the ground. Only the helve pokes out of the ground. Many have tried to take the sword. None have succeeded.”

Hermione regarded Ron skeptically. “And you’re saying… you will?”

“No, not at all,” Ron chuckled, and shook his head. “I’m saying that, you will. You’re sodding brilliant, ‘Mione. You’re brave, you’re passionate, you’re worthy, you’re prett—“ Ron stopped himself, reddening up to the tips of his ears. “If anyone can get that sword, it’s you.”

Hermione couldn’t shake her smile if she tried. “Do you really reckon that?” she asked. Ron nodded.

“I know so. Are you in, or not? Shall we head out to the Forbidden Forest?”

Harry initiated his plan at eleven of the night. His teammates were fast asleep, he was sure that he could slip right out of there with dexterity. He hadn’t even changed into his night clothes, he already had his intentions set when he and Draco got out of that forest. All he had to do was pull on his shoes, and he was on his way. Prior to leaving the room, he made sure to look at Draco, who was fast asleep; peaceful, pretty. He had magically tended to his wounds when they returned, Harry had no knowledge how he did it. Maybe Draco didn’t put forth effort in training because he wanted to be a Healer. He smiled softly, and pushed the door open to leave.

Harry was not even a corridor away when he caught footsteps hot on his trail, and he contained his groan. How bad was he at sneaking out, seriously? Now, he was going to get caught, and his role in the upcoming invasion would be revoked, and his chance at being Force Captain would be snatched away from him, and he would disappoint Severus, and…

“Hey, where are you going?”

Harry wheelled around. Thank the Dark Lord that it wasn’t a superior. Thank the Dark Lord that it was—-

“Draco. You startled me, I assumed that you were sleeping.”

“Did you really figure that you could sneak out without me noticing?” Draco teased. “Go on, answer my question.”

“I’m going back to the woods,” Harry informed. “There's something I need to figure out.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You're not–how are you–” Draco broke off, probably to compose himself, and asked,“What is wrong with you? You've been acting weird since we got back. Are you sure you're not brain damaged?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Stop playing caretaker,” Harry sighed, and stepped toward him. “Look, Draco, I know I saw something out there. I just need to get another look. It feels important. Somehow.”

Draco blinked. “Let’s go, I suppose. Another ride on the Firebolt won’t hurt–”

“No,” Harry interrupted. He took Draco by the wrist, and led him back to the door of their dorm. “I don't want you getting in trouble on my behalf. This is something I have to do alone. Cover for me, yeah? I'll be back before anyone knows I'm gone.”

Draco couldn’t possibly get a word in, for Harry rushed past him. He stopped by the same corridor he had found the broomstick and returned. Harry swiped the Firebolt, and made his way up to the roof, where he mounted the broom and took flight.

Ron frantically waved the Probity Probe around, his brows furrowed deeply. “Come on…” he continuously muttered. Hermione took in a sharp, sharp breath. If she didn’t, she may have ended up strangling her best friend to death.

“Ronald. Don’t you dare tell me that we’re lost. I swear to Merlin himself, that if we’re lost—”

“No, no, we are not lost. I promise,” Ron hastily assured. “Look, this thing is just acting up. Disregard that it might just be old, it could also mean that the Probe’s getting overwhelmed with the Sword’s magic. In other words — we could be close.”

While Ron continued his attempts to get the Probity Probe to cooperate with him, Hermione scanned their surroundings. “Hm. Must be that way,” she tapped Ron’s shoulder with one hand, and pointed to the left.

Ron remained occupied with the Probe, therefore his response came in a half-hearted mumble, “What makes you say that?”

Hermione snatched the Probe from Ron with a huff, and pointed in the same direction. “There’s a mysterious, glowing light peeking out of those trees,” she mentioned, flatly. Ron’s eyes went wide in realisation, straightening.

“Oh, right, yes. Alrighty. That will do, then. Thanks, Hermione. I wouldn’t have noticed on my own,” he said sheepishly.

“Believe me, Ronald,” she murmured beneath her breath, “I know you wouldn’t have.”

After the two of them pushed through a particularly stubborn patch of bushes, they found a person in the distance. This person appeared to be male, and he stood some metres away from what they had been looking for — the sword. They couldn’t catch a glimpse of his face, but from the looks of it, the bloke seemed no older than the two of them. No taller than Ron, definitely.

Ron stepped forward, and Hermione grabbed his arm immediately. Her eyes went wide in terror. The boy had on a black cloak, with a pointed hood. The back, she came to notice, had the Dark Mark stitched into it in white. She didn’t need to point this out so that Ron would, too, notice.

Unfortunately, Ron reacted with a loud gasp. The Death Eater as well, gasped, and pivoted around to see them. Hermione got a good look at his face. Curly hair swept down to his forehead. He had round, plastic glasses, over the greenest eyes she’d seen in her life. Startled, green eyes. Brown skin donned his thin face, he was a few shades lighter than her.

The three of them were caught in a stare down, none all too sure of what to do. Of course, Ron ended up being the first to pipe up. “What are your intentions?” he called out.

The Death Eater was sent into a frenzy, seemingly. He scrambled toward the illumination; both Ron and Hermione now knew that he was going for that sword.

As a matter of course, the two of them knew that the boy wouldn’t be able to take it. Gryffindor’s Sword was exclusive to the worthy, the bravest. There was no way that the Chosen One would be a Death Eater, that would be the last thing to happen. Nevertheless, they needed to catch him. Elseways, he’d be able to slip away. Who knew what he’d tell He-Who-Mustn’t-Be-Named?

The pair caught up to the boy, their breaths got stuck up their throat. There was the Death Eater, his hands firm on the sword’s grip. Gryffindor’s sword was still stuck to the ground. Vines crawled up the blade, vines that had to be formed throughout centuries. Even then, did the sword look ever so new. The blade was keen, sharp, and provided light on it’s own. Magical, in all ways doable. Hermione would be lying if she said she was not in none other than awe, for just a fugitive moment. The moment tumbled away.

So, turned out that Hermione was incorrect. A Death Eater was capable of heaving Gryffindor’s sword from the ground – and with facility. Did that make him the Chosen One? Certainly not. From the look on his face, though, he undoubtedly, personally believed that he was. The Death Eater was stunned, and dumbly stared at the sword. In spite of the fact that it was now tainted by the touch of one so evil, the sword was still as handsome as it had been.

Ron hurled a Stunner; which rebounded on the sword, then to a tree. The Death Eater retaliated with a Knee-Reversal jinx. Thank Merlin that Ron narrowly dodged such, and, in the process, darted toward the stranger.

“Obscuro!” Hermione sent. In his efforts to remove the blindfold with a gasp, he dropped the Sword. Ron snatched the Sword from the other male. From the looks of it, it was definitely too heavy for him. Much heavier than it had been for the Death Eater. Ron could only manage dragging it from the Death Eater for some seconds. Leastwise did he get the sword enough of a distance from the other, until the blindfold was at last removed. The male adjusted his glasses, askew.

“Give me the sword!” the stranger shouted, extracting his wand from his pocket. His wand aimedto the sword. “Accio Sword,” he cast, to which Hermione nearly cackled. Now, she was no imbecile. A magical object as legendary as the Sword of Gryffindor was bound to contain an Anti-Theft charm. Impossible to be summoned by anyone but the rightful owner. Perhaps the Death Eater could be the rightful owner, when hell froze over.

And, well, hell froze over rather quickly. The sword well-reacted to the Death Eater’s beckoning, straying from the ground, to the air. Hermione latched onto the hilt immediately, and was dragged along as it was brought forth to the male. The Death Eater’s eyes went wide, wide, though he did not know how to undo the charm. Forced to take it, until Hermione and him were face to face. Hermione rushed behind him, nevermind the sword now, and her arms bracketed his shoulders. Caged. She held on with all of her might, it mattered not that she was distinctly shorter. She made do.

“Ron, bind him! We can’t let him get away,” she ordered, and the brown boy struggled all the more. Hermione only tightened her grip.

“Seriously, get off. Step back, you two. I don't wanna hurt you guys,” he warned, his voice a low growl.

“Since when do Death Eaters not want to hurt people?” Hermione spat out impulsively. The Death Eater kicked back, at her shins. Loosening her grip ever so slight, out of pain, turned out to be his opportunity to escape. Escape, he did, breaking free from her bracketing arms. Ron did bind him, at some point, but this was not preliminary to the other male tripping on a thick tree root, and seizing the sword. Bound, he was, but as they approached him, they discovered that he was also unconscious.

Harry was back in that nursery.

Harry was on his back, upon the chestnut wood tiles. He listened in as rain poured against the window, rolls of thunder long gone. In the cot, remained the baby. Alive. Unmistakingly, unbelievably alive. Harry felt like he could cry from his consolation, flooding his senses gratifyingly, despite the fact that the baby’s deceased biological caretaker was still sprawled upon the ground.

Baby Harry was crying enough for the two of them, anyways, childish wails piercing through the room’s profound atmosphere. Understandably so. The poor thing, he probably concluded that all alone, in the dark, with awful, outdoor conditions. He sounded like he was in pain, and Harry was disquisitive to see what it could’ve been.

Harry was afraid to investigate such, though. He was afraid his hopeless desperation to aid the situation would worsen if he saw how hurt the baby was, that it would provide him the incentive to resume fruitless attempts to descend to this world. Whatever it was. Trudging toward the cot, from the comfort of those tiles, required much courage. Slow, slow, unlike his racing heartbeat. Harry steadied his breath the most he could, and his green eyes peered down to the infant.

Lightning. On baby Harry’s forehead, was lightning. The wound was raw, but identical to Harry’s scar. Began on his hairline, to the right. Rigid lines travelled down, creating different paths that ended at different areas. One cut straight through his eyebrow. Blood; Harry needed a good moment to register the presence of blood. It had trickled down his tiny face, and was now well dried.

Baby Harry cried and cried, and Harry realised that the child was looking at his caretaker. A tiny hand desperately reached out for her. The scene shattered his heart into an unfathomable amount of fragments.

There came footsteps, just moments later. Heavy, they belonged to a man. And they rapidly approached the nursery. Harry’s eyes went wide, and they darted to the door. He waited. That was all he could do; stupidly wait.

Until he didn’t. Until what he could do now, was stare. Harry was in indisputable disbelief, seeing the person that emerged through the door. He wondered if he had simply gone insane, for there could be no other explanation regarding who stood in the nursery.

Severus Snape. Younger, not much younger. Not as young as the caretaker had appeared to have been. His black hair was shorter, features sharper. Indeed, there were wrinkles on his face, but not as much as he did in Harry’s truest reality. These visions, whatever they were, were not reality. That was what Harry had concluded.

Severus Snape. His eyes scanned the nursery, and lingered heart wrenchingly upon the caretaker. Why? Harry had not a clue. All he noted was that, just some instants following, Severus perched on a metaphorical, stony mask. Harry deftly recognised it, a mask that Severus continuously wore throughout all of Harry’s years knowing him. A mask that he wore unwaveringly. That night had been the first time he had seen genuine emotion flicker on his face, and it was when he had looked at the biological caretaker. Of what importance was she to him? Did it contribute to what Severus did next?

Severus Snape. The man passed over to the cot, the constant that was his blasted cape travelling after him swiftly. Baby Harry reached up for him, regular Harry didn’t blame him. It mattered not who whisked you away, a child as lonely and frightened as the one in the cot. Harry would’ve never imagined Severus holding a child, and that was with the knowledge that he had been caring for him since he was one himself. So, the sight of Severus lifting the infant up… It was bizarre.

Fading, fading, fading. Already was the memory tearing away. Relative to the previous one, this one had been short. Except, precisely prior to fully vanishing, was there a blinding flash of gold light. Harry gasped. Okay now. What was—

“Hey! He’s awake!” the male pointed out. Harry’s eyelids fluttered upon his unanticipated return. He was propped against a tree. These were members of the Order, he now recalled. One of them had called him something incredibly odd – a Death Eater. Where did that come from? Harry didn’t eat death, whatever that meant. Order members were evil, that was what he had always been taught. Thankfully, they had permitted him to stay with his glasses, albeit askew. Wonky glasses were an improvement to sightlessness, an improvement that could, candidly, be of service to him. Harry needed to get away. With the sword.

Perhaps he could figure out how to detain these Order members, and escort them to the Dark Lord. That would demonstrate all the more reason to give him the Mark… and bear him slack, come the situation that he noticed Harry had slipped out of the Manor past curfew. Significantly past curfew.

Brilliant, Harry mused, for all that. There was a major fault in the plan, an obstacle troubling to overcome. Harry had failed to be reminded that he was bound precedently to collapsing. They had been merciful enough to only bind his wrists and ankles, although he sensed developing welts on them. Their clemency hadn’t extended to making his ropes reasonable.

One Order member was a girl with dark, dark skin. Her brown eyes were narrowed, glaring. She had plump lips that were set into a scowl. Her most defining feature, however, had to be her hair. It had to be the bushiest he had ever seen – a proud, fluffy afro. Harry couldn’t deny his awe, this was not at all a familiar sight. Black girls in the DE Army were not permitted such freedom with their hair; they were required to keep their curls braided, or flat ironed and up-done.

The other was a male. Tall and wildly freckled, he stood with uncertainty, as if he doubted that whatever they were to do was a good idea. In his hands were, apparently, his and Harry’s wands. His nose was long, his eyes were blue. Fiery red hair crowned his head, short and tousled in just the right places. Harry was touched with a twinge of envy, for his own hair was messy everywhere. Not the best look on him.

“What happened?” Harry blurted out. As if he’d receive a helpful response. As foretold, he did not.

“Quiet, spy. I ask the questions,” the girl snapped. She ceased. “How did you make it this far into the Forbidden Forest?”

That could’ve possibly been the most idiotic question historically asked. Harry would’ve laughed, if he wasn’t all, harrowingly, tied up. He, instead, sighed. “I just walked in. And I'm not a spy.”

“Sure, sure,” the Order member chuckled ironically, and shook her head. Her coils bounced, Harry was still in awe. The girl continued. “You unintentionally found yourself in a treacherous forest, with no ulterior motives. Similarly how you so happened to bewitch the sword with Dark Magic to try and steal what’s ours.”

This time, Harry couldn’t halt his laughter. “It's not yours. I found it first. And I did not bewitch the sodding thing with Dark Magic. Can you not accept that it responds better to my hand?”

The two Order members did not appear to be as amused as he was, if he needed to judge by their glares.

“The Forbidden Forest belongs to Hogwarts. In other words, it’s under the Order’s protection. You’re lucky to have made it as far as you did,” she sniped. “Come on, Ron. Let's get this spy back to Hogwarts for formal interrogation. On your feet.” With a swift wave of her wand, she undid the binds to Harry’s ankles, and forced him up to his feet.

She turned to Ron. “This is fantastic. Not only have we the Sword of Gryffindor – yes, perhaps a tad heavy, but that's what levitation charms are for – but we’ve got our hands on a Death Eater. Dumbledore would be mental to revoke my position as Commander now, wouldn’t he?”

Ron didn’t appear to be as enthused about this. He shrugged. “I suppose he would, wouldn’t he?”

Off the three of them went. Harry felt like one of the Junior cadets in the DE Army, stomping after them oh so childishly. What else was to be expected of him? Surely, he wasn’t going to be happily skipping about. He sighed melancholically, and looked about the unpleasant sights of the Forbidden Forest. Ron and the girl, in front of him, bickered in the meantime.

“I know what I'm doing, and where I’m going, Ronald,” she scoffed. “Can’t you present to me the honour of being trusted, for once?”

“You know I always trust you, ‘Mione,” Ron nodded quickly. “Still — I'm starting to get a little freaked out.” When ‘Mione scrunched her face up petulantly, Ron elaborated. “I mean, I spend a lot of time about here. I have to go through the Forbidden Forest to get to the Burrow. I've never even seen this part of the forest. I've heard stories about the odd stuff that goes on.”

“Good thing we’re not in one of those weird stories,” she muttered. “It’s fine. We’re fine. I can figure this out, Weasley.”

“Okay! Touchy,” Ron mumbled. He fell behind her, and to Harry. “Sorry about Hermione. Usually she's really nice.”

Harry did not respond. He was no friend of this Ronald guy, he couldn’t understand why he was being treated as such. Normally, when someone in the DE Army captured one, they would Stun the individual and levitate them back to the Manor. These Order members were a rather peculiar lot, indeed.

“Not much for talking, huh?” Ron quipped.

“I prefer not to swap pleasantries with my captors,” Harry retorted, without skipping a beat.

“Fair. Suit yourself.”

Hermione walked fast, Harry discovered. In little time, she was much ahead of them, shoving past bushes with resolve. Harry hesitantly leaned toward Ron, and dropped his voice to a low whisper.

“Is she really a Commander of the Order? How can you follow her? How can you be in the Order?” he inquired, ached for an answer. He couldn’t understand. “The Order of the Phoenix is dangerous. They’re determined to ruin the Wizarding population.”

Ron didn’t react with anything other than amusement, and hummed, “Is that what You-Know-Who told you?”

Harry was perplexed by this. Funnily enough, he did not know who this ‘You-Know-Who’ was. Nevertheless, he didn’t need to know, to answer Ron’s question. “Well, I assumed it was just common knowledge. They're violent and chaotic.”

“... Have you ever been around anyone in the Order?”

Harry huffed. “No, but I’ve heard…”

In the near distance, the two boys heard Hermione’s soft crying. Ron went along after her, while Harry took his time to make it to where she was. In the ruins of a forest dwelling. Ron and Hermione were caught in an embrace, and Harry could see something polychromatic clutched in her hand. Harry looked around. The town had been burned down, next to nothing left.

“What happened to this place?” Harry blurted breathlessly. This was awful.

“Don't feign innocence. I bet you were part of the raiding party that did this,” Hermione accused, tears entangled in her voice. She pulled away from Ron, and scrutinised Harry angrily.

“What are you talking about? The DE Army didn't do this.”

Hermione paced to Harry and snatched him by his bound wrists with a single hand. “Do those glasses do you no good?” she spat, and prodded her wand onto his chin, forcefully bringing his gaze up. In doing this, a foreboding, green smog came into sight. It took the form of a colossal skull, a snake slithering out. Harry instantly recognised the symbol. Training. Draco had conjured that in training, less than twenty-four hours ago.

“You're a heartless destroyer, just like all the rest of them.”

“I'm not a destroyer. The Dark Lord says we're doing what's best for the Wizarding population. We're trying to make things better. More orderly.”

“This is what's best for wizards? Since the rise of the Dark Army, they've been poisoning our land, burning our cities, destroying everything in their path. Destroying everyone.” Hermione was suddenly breathless, she stepped back in apparent revulsion with Harry. “Including my parents. And you… y-you're a part of it! How's that for orderly?”

Hermione strode ahead, Harry was only even more puzzled. By all of this, really. “The… They… W-We wouldn’t do this. Seriously.”

“Did you actually not know any of this?” Ron lifted an eyebrow at Harry, and crossed his arms. “I mean, you’re called the Death Eaters.”

“You guys keep on calling me that! Who even calls us that?!” Harry scoffed.

Ron looked at Harry like he was playing some joke on him. Once he realised that Harry wasn’t, he flung his arms out. “Everybody!”

Harry shook his head. To the visions he saw when unconscious, he went, about that caretaker, the baby, Severus… He took a sharp breath. “The DE Army rescued me when I was a baby and gave me a home. They're my family. You--you don't know them like I do.”

“Maybe you don’t know them like you think you do.”

Hermione ran to the boys, panicked. Her hair was more poofed up than usual, and she was panting heavily. “There is something huge out there!” she cried to Ron.

Ron wished to ease her, patting her back. “Take a deep breath. How big is it?”

Right on cue, the ground trembled. Heavy, heavy footsteps drew closer, and the owner of these footsteps emerged. There were no footsteps to begin with. The creature that Hermione had seen was an Acromantula. Taller than fifteen feet, that was certain, and the spider overlooked the trio drastically.

Ron looked even more terrified than Hermione, his body tremouring in fear. “So, pretty big then,” he squeaked, pathetically.

Oh, the Acromantula could speak, alright. And the thing had so much, too much, to say. All in an unrecognisable language. Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood before it, unknowing of what to make of the spider’s words. Until it screeched, so damned awfully. Ron screamed pitiably, and ended up being the one to hide behind Hermione. Hermione took out her wand. Harry looked at the sword that levitated beside the assumed couple. It wasn’t like he could do anything else, wand revoked and all.

Hermione conjured a net that shot over all of the Acromantula’s eight eyes. The thing – thing being the net – fell off almost instantly, flimsy as it descended to the ground. Ron, audaciously, contributed to the efforts of defeating the awful spider by producing some hazy, green bombs. As oh so effective that those were, this simply resulted in Ron being flung into a tree.

Hermione heaved. She didn’t stop, she didn’t hesitate, she pointed her wand at the Acromantula unflinchingly. This proved to have done no good – Hermione met the same fate as Ron, cast to a tree trunk. Harry’s mind momentarily stumbled to Draco; how he would’ve done the same, were they in this situation themselves.

Hermione and Ron were bombarding any spell at the Acromantula, as it drew near. Hadn’t that spider noted Harry? He supposed that helped his cause, for he went unseen as he scuttled for the sword. The sword crackled with electricity, a magic so potent, meanwhile Harry drew closer. Both wrists still bound together, was he able to heft the sword up easily.

“Hey, bug eyes!” Harry called, tauntingly. The Acromantula had hardly a distance from Ron and Hermione. The giant spider charged toward him, as he fumbled with the sword; he had lost his balance. “Come on, Godric’s Sword…”

Harry regained his coordination, the spider metres ahead of him. A flashing beam of light radiated from the blade, red and blinding. That baby’s crying was loud in Harry’s ears, but there was nothing to be seen. Nothing but flickering reminiscence of all seen in his visions. There was an unfamiliar voice.

“It matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be… the truth is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution… it does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live… Harry, will you fight for the honour of the Mages?”

Harry hesitated. Then, he didn’t. Harry hollered, “For the honour of the Mages!”

The Death Eater had induced a blinding beam of light, both he and Hermione had to shield their eyes – since they valued their vision. The Acromantula’s screeching, for that was what it had sounded like, abruptly stopped. They were both equally curious to see what the Death Eater had done to stop it.

They did not reckon on what they wound up seeing.

“Hermione?” Ron barely spoke, all too startled. He didn’t need to say any more to Hermione so that she could understand the sheer debat in his quiet voice.

“Yeah, I see him too, Ron.”

“Okay,” Ron nodded, now comforted by the fact that he was not the only one seeing this. “J’st wanted to make sure it wasn't me.”

The Death Eater was no shorter than eight feet tall, with a shining, warm glow to his richly brown skin in the moonlight. He was all that of a warrior, everything of gold – arm cuffs, pauldrons, chestplate armour; centred on such, was a symbol composed of rubies. Underneath all of his golden armour, was black. All of a sudden was he toned and well defined, muscular and strong. His jet black curls were longer, put up to a man bun. And, most of all noticeable was the lightning scar on his head. Red, about as red as the rubies on his chestplate. Bright and all-consuming, it could lure just about anyone in.

What did this Death Eater do?