Rating: M just in case

Pairing: None in this chapter, possible slash

Warnings: Death, violence, dark magical stuff, and HALF-BLOOD PRINCE SPOILERS. Takes place right after book 6, on Harry's birthday.

Summary: Harry wakes one day surrounded by a pile of rubble and the bodies of the Dursleys, and a strange mark on his cheek. Now he's running from the law and rubbing elbows with Dark wizards. But what is Severus Snape following him for?

Disclaimer: All chars belong to JKR not me. See my personal bio page for this stories summary.

No Place to Go But Home

Harry couldn't quite explain what had happened. He was sleeping, and in an instant he saw Voldemort clear in his mind plain as day. The next minute, though, he was laying in a pile of the burning charred remains of the Dursley's house, their burning bones laying around him, and men with wands pointing at him, saying to each other, "Stand back! He's dangerous!"

This wasn't happening. It couldn't be. Harry turned to stare at the smouldering bones of his Aunt Petunia, and shuddered slightly.

"Stand back, careful! He might not be back to his senses yet!"

What was going on? He stood up, and heard shouts of 'Don't move!' follow his every movement. He looked about the room; Uncle Vernon's skeleton, he noted, was in the area of the couch.

Had Voldemort done this? Had he left Harry in the middle of it to take the blame? The question was soon answered.

"How can you be sure it was him Shacklebolt?"

"Look, see the mark on his cheek? That's the sign of a powerful Dark wizard!"

Harry's hand had immediately leapt to his scar…only to find it gone. He didn't feel anything on his cheek though. What were they talking about? He wandered about the remains of the house, the Aurors weren't coming anywhere NEAR him, and picked up a cracked mirror from under the old spring bed that had creaked far more times than he could remember under his Aunt and Uncle's combined weight. He looked into the mirror, and stared.

There was a purple glowing shape on his face; a sigil, in the shape of an eye, with the iris being a four point star. He stared at it, feeling alarmed, and touched it again, horrified.

What was this?

Am…Am I a Dark wizard? Thought Harry.

"Harry Potter," said a voice entirely TOO close to him. "Harry Potter. Harry, are you all right Harry?"

Harry jumped at the sound of a voice, and turned to stare stunned at Kingsley Shacklebolt.

"I…"

The man was afraid of him. Absolutely terrified.

"What's going on?" asked Harry, voice breaking. "What is this thing on my face?"

Kingsley looked at Harry closely for a moment. The terror lessened slightly, to be replaced with sympathy.

"It's a sigil Harry, a sign that shows up on a person who has acquired the natural ability to perform Dark Magic. No practice or incantations required for most of it. You did something I've never seen a Dark wizard do though…Harry, are you all right? We have to take you to the Ministry, Harry…"

Suddenly, being here with Kingsley, and the prospect of going to the Ministry, was terrifying. He didn't feel safe. Eyes were watching him. A cold terror and panic gripped him, and he took a step back from Kingsley.

"No…what do you mean, the Ministry? No! I don't…I can't!"

There was suddenly a sucking sound in his ears, his chest felt tight, like being sucked tightly through a tube with no air. Harry was under the distinct impression for a fraction of a second that he was aparating, and just as suddenly as it had happened, his feet had landed, and he fell forward, glasses cracking on the pavement.

"Shit," Harry swore deeply, and lifted his glasses, peering foggily at them. On the run from the law, and you don't even know whether they were arresting you or not. Nice going Harry!

He pulled out his wand, and assuming that since he was of age about an hour ago so would not be penalized for ANYMORE magic, he tapped his glasses.

"Occulus reparo!" he said. Glad Hermione taught me that one, thought Harry, who put on his glasses looked around. "What the fuck am I doing in Knockturne Alley?"

The dusty etched windows of 'Borgin and Burkes' were off to his left, down the way he could see the street was deserted, as most shops were closed. But he could hear the pounding of some strange music nearby, and hear laughter ahead of him, further down the alley.

And why, Harry thought to himself restlessly. Does this place suddenly feel like home?

Warmth had spilled over his cheeks as tears, and his chest warmed with every intake of breath. He breathed more deeply, still feeling pretty safe, but not much safer than before he had woken up surrounded by rubble. He took a tentative step forward, then another, and felt some unconscious force pulling him towards the music, the lighted windows of a pub called the 'Serpents Tongue Lounge,' and the voices therein. He stopped at the threshold, and gulped.

What if they recognize me? What if they see me for who I am?

This didn't seem to scare him though. A voice in his head kept telling them it'd be cool, go in, its safer in there. Yes, safer in the bar, near the people. He pushed the door open.

The loud music wasn't really that loud after all, just echoed around the dark empty streets of Knockturn a little too easily. But the music wasn't so bad in here, loud yes, but not as bad as the echoing had made it out to be. The music was coming from an old muggle jukebox in the corner that was playing magically, for not being attached to any wall socket. The bar itself was light and airy, the lamps over head were of green translucent etched glass, and there were tables and booths in a horseshoe around the dance floor and bar. Off to towards the back was a stage surrounded by round tables with chairs that were all empty. There was no band playing tonight, and most of the people visiting the lounge were sitting as close to the bar as was convenient, which meant sitting at the bar, or in one of the booths near the windows. Harry headed towards the bar, the barman was eyeing him suspiciously, and sat down. Two wizards in dirty grey robes in a booth were leering at him. A witch in bright neon green hat and high heels walked passed him, and Harry got the distinct impression that she was a 'he' and that 'he' was on a different sort of business tonight besides getting a late night drink.

"What can I do for ye lad?" asked the bartender. He had a cautious, yet curious voice.

"I dunno, a drink? Anything? I don't have any money, so water I guess…" Harry was stunned at just how shaky his voice was.

The bartender peered at his cheek, and the dried blood on his forehead, then at his muggle style clothing that was sooty and ripped. He pulled a glass from under the bar, and a big tumbler of something amber in color.

"Have a firewhiskey on the house, kid," said the man, shaking his head in pity. "Just don't tell nobody I've been giving drinks to youngin's..."

Harry blinked.

"I'm seventeen, actually," said Harry, and looked at the amber liquid the bartender was pouring in trepidation.

"A belated birthday drink then? Seventeen year old wizard's gotta try some firewhiskey on his birthday here, it's a rule," he pointed to a sign over the bar that did have that rule, amongst various other rules that seemed to be meant as tongue in cheek jokes. Rules like 'All Pretty Witches must Kiss the Bartender', and 'The Jukebox is not a Sex Toy'. That last one caused Harry to blush, and look down at the whiskey.

"All right…" said Harry, and got up with his drink to go to a booth and sit by himself.

Harry felt safe. This bar was filled with some of the strangest and dodgiest characters he had ever seen, yet still he felt warm and comfortable. There was no immediate threat. They all seemed to be a part of some strange network of people, Dark wizards, who simply wanted to get in out of the night and get a drink or a bite to eat.

Dark wizards. Was he, Harry, one too?

That's ridiculous. Dark wizards are people who WANT to do evil. I don't. I'm not a Death Eater!

Were these people in the bar Death Eaters? They didn't seem very interested in doing anything evil at this moment. He swallowed quickly, and took a sip of his drink, forgetting it was firewhiskey.

Harry gasped for breath, and coughed. It was hot! It burned! It…was kind of…warming. Harry shook his head, still coughing, and ignored the grey robed wizards who were now snickering at him. Ah, he was already feeling his nerves relax, his senses go slightly soft. The whiskey was so warm. It left a strange amber flavour in his mouth, and a smokey feeling in his throat. There was music, and his brain felt foggy the more he drank.

You're drunk Harry Potter! That's what you are! After only half a glass too! His own inner voice was laughing at him! It was right, but it was laughing at him!

Sucks to be me, thought Harry, taking another thorough drink. Glugluglug. He was safe. The firewiskey was warm. A voice was in his ear, and hands were shaking him. Huh? No, he was fine thanks. Have a whiskey with him? The voice was urgent, and he was lifted carefully into warm arms, carried carefully up stairs, voices muffled behind doors, face buried in a robed shoulder that smelled like Chai tea and essence of murtlap. He was being lowered into a soft bed, a voice still talking quietly to him, then a blanket was thrown over him, all was soft and quiet, and a dreamless world of sleep overtook him completely.