Unofficial Portkey Archive

Title: Title Pending - Chapter Three - Astraea
Author name: Kenji
Category: Angst
Sub-Category: Drama
Summary: In the life of every pureblood family member, a surname plays a vital role in determining who they are. Without a proper pureblood surname, that person is nothing. When Harry Brumnder learns that not only he is not just a common teenager with a troubled childhood but an heir to a large estate and immense of wealth, it shakes his foundation. A story about surviving the test of foreign worlds and learning to coexist with not only a different society, but also a different perspective on life. The Potter bloodline is going to bleed its true colors in a battle for what is right.

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author notes: I want to thank everyone who has read my story so far. I'd also like to point out again, as I did last chapter, that this is not a romance. There is and will be some material in this story that will not be happy and sometimes difficult to read. If violence, drug-use and abuse offend you, please do not read this story.

I'd also like to thank my great beta, Jenni who has helped me with marvelous critique and done terrors to the grammar that I barely posses.

***

Zoe was forever tenaciously familiar with her subject. English was a way of life for her, not just a language. She loved most of all to teach unsuspecting high school students the joys and wonders of English. Her vibrant and fulfilling nature indeed deftly propelled the schools brightest students; those students that were willing to learn, and kept an open mind and loved to discover.

She made enemies of course. Every person will make an enemy; Zoe Brumnder was hated amongst many. Not simple enemies of discourse, but complex enemies of hatred and malice. There were students that wanted nothing more than to see her hang from the highest rafter in the gym. There were also the teachers that thought they saw through the cheerfulness in her voice and face-they too wanted the teacher to hang.

She took the hatred and love in full stride. Her teaching methods were never changed in such a case that some might enjoy them.

Sharon was among the most vocal lovers of English to ever cross the fine front doors of Monterey High School. A proud Matador to the very end of her high school career, Sharon enjoyed the class taught by Zoe with deliciously infectious joy. Her grades showed it as well. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect.

It was obvious to the other students that Zoe and Sharon were both lesbians and lovers. This fact was further amplified by the fact that they were in fact, next-door neighbors. The students were indeed happy knowing that the only reason Sharon Mori did so well in her studies of English was because her lover was the teacher. They made this fact known to anybody, teacher or student.

It became a tremendous problem for Harry when news of his lesbian mother and friend reached Colton middle school. Hazing became a monstrous problem. Harry was constantly beat up by students fearing (or perhaps hating) that Harry might become gay as well. After all, one that has a gay mother and gay friend surely must become gay themselves.

It was as such that Harry was ostracized by friends he once thought he had. Rumors were very powerful. Whispering in the hall behind the teacher's back could be just as effective as a prime time special report, and just as damaging.

Zoe knew of the problems--of the rumors. She struggled to contain them, but the minds of high school students were good for only very few specific things: locking on to devious outlandish gossip and then spreading the word.

It was considered several times amongst the Brumnder family that a move should be established. Perhaps moving to another city could be possible. Zoe argued that she knew several teachers that had moved to the Salinas Unified School District. She knew that they even enjoyed higher pay and smarter benefits. She argued that such a move would both be prosperous and not at all that difficult.

James, however, outright and completely opposed the move. He was of the opinion that any harm that was befalling Harry was only minor and could only be used to toughen him up. Harry would become a stronger person, he would say.

His iron-weighted foot ousted the two in the end. Grandmother Eneas was in favor of the stay as well. She did not want her family to move and certainly not with all the money and effort she had put into buying them the house on Watson Street--so strategically placed near the school.

***

Tuesday,

August 7, 1996

Before he cracked open his eyes he noticed the warm weight contouring the flat lines of his body. He felt the woman's spread legs generate warmth at the cleft created at his right hip. Her arm was wrapped securely around his naked chest, calling attention to his state of undress and the woman's.

Firmly opened though, Harry's eyes took in volumes of shiny black hair and he relaxed. He reached with his hand to the woman's hip and felt the long thin scar that ran along its outer form. He caused that scar and knew it to be one of his most prized accomplishments.

Sharon had never cried about the cut, of course. She was as tough as nails and never, ever, cried. Never.

As Harry contemplated what to do with his best friend currently hung all over him (or more properly put, hung over on him) she answered his contemplations.

"Mmm, I hate you…" she whispered, her breath reeking of alcohol and her leg dragging down across his leg. He barely reacted.

"Always nice to hear," he said. Although the covers were not on them he began to grow hot and the blood started pumping through his palms.

Sharon opened her eyes, blinked copiously and then rolled over and off of Harry on the bed where she started to look around the room.

"Are we in Greg's room?" she asked. Harry could tell from the look on her face that her head was pounding and her coherency level was low.

They were from all Harry could tell. "Yes," he answered.

"Well, wutta we doin' in here?" she said, again closing her eyes this time grasping her temples with her fingers.

He stood up out of the bed, "Fuck if I know."

"Oh, right, Mr. I-never-wake-up-with-a-hangover. Please, don't let me ruin your peace with my meanderings." She stood up out of the bed as well. She took one look at the rumpled sheets and pointed out a fresh wet stain. "Fuck, I hope that's yours, I'm not on the pill anymore, Dad found out."

Harry lazily stopped his gleaning of Greg's room and looked at the spot that Sharon was pointing out to him.

He stooped closer to inspect the mess and then said, "Yep, yep, it is mine. Can't you see the little Harry shaped sperm?"

Sharon--whose face had gone from panic to fear--shot up and begrudged. "That's not very funny, this is serious. I'm coming up to my junior year, and I'm majoring in English for chrissake, I can't have a baby. How would I support it? You can't do anything that brings in the big bucks with half a degree in English." She turned green, "Imagine what my dad would do to me…what he would do to you!" She pointed at him.

"My grandma would support us," Harry said as if the answer to everything was, "Grandma will take care of it."

Sharon looked troubled before she brightened up. Coyly she said, "Us? As in you and me? You'd help me take care of the baby?"

"I hope you know you're acting like a demented little thirteen year old who's just had sex for the first time," he said.

She sauntered up to him, put her arms around his shoulder and said, "I can't help what you make me be."

She anchored her face closer to his and kissed him, slowly and romantically. Harry naturally closed his eyes as soon as his lips touched hers but then he straightened up. He bit her bottom lip hard enough to taste blood. When she moved back to put her hand to her lip, he took his fist and rammed it into the corner of her chin snapping her head to the side.

She cried out in pain, her lip throbbed and the hit did nothing but intensify the pain in her head to a near blinding ache.

"Don't kiss me! Never kiss me! How many times do I have to tell you? Never, ever kiss me!" he shouted.

He massaged his fist. It did not ache but it was instinct that told him to do so. He contemplated kicking her right flat in the stomach, but then he heard mewling like that of an injured dog or cat.

His fury fled him as soon as it had come and he knelt beside her wrapping his arms around her and soothing her hair. He felt deeply sorry inside his chest; the pain he felt, he thought, could rival the pain she felt in her face.

"Let me look," he said making a timid reach for her face. She did not shy away as he expected her to. She turned her face to him and stared languidly straight into his eyes. There was not a tear in sight, or the sight of any redness around her eyes denoting the possibility of any crying. His chest swelled with pride, sick, demonic pride. He knew he had taught her well; crying was a sure sign of weakness, utterly and solely.

"Let's go find Greg, okay? Let's go find him and let's get out of here," he said to her nodding his head. Everything was okay. Everything was all right.

She started to nod but found her head hurt too much to continue. He noticed this and put his hands on her head and concentrated. Her pain vanished quickly and she looked back up into his eyes, a sign of thanks billowing out. He simply nodded again and stood up to look for his clothes.

He found his boxer shorts a sopping mess on the carpeted floor and decided best to just leave them there. He ruffled on his jeans and took care to zip up the zipper slowly. His shirt was wet too but with beer, not water. He decided it was safer not to take the shirt home for fear that perhaps his mother might find or sniff it.

When he heard the door open to the bedroom he turned around and saw that Sharon was fully dressed and walking out-in search of Greg of course. He followed her quietly, still sorry for what he had done. They ventured all around the apartment; from the trashed living room littered with blue and red plastic cups, to the kitchen and dining room littered with green and yellow plastic cups and a smattering of red cups.

Finding no sign of them downstairs, Harry and Sharon ventured up through the stairs that led to the roof. It was the last place Harry consciously remembered seeing Greg and Sharon followed behind him.

From the looks of the sky it was very early in the morning. Perhaps it was just past seven or eight, he could not be entirely sure.

His focus shifted from the sky to the Jacuzzi when he heard Sharon gasp out loud and grab his arm. Greg's head was hanging over the edge of the Jacuzzi and looking very much like a cartoon. Harry had to bite back the urge to giggle when he saw the line of blood trail from just behind Greg's ear and pool at the concrete underneath him.

Were it not for the fact that Elie was cowering at the corner of the enclosure that was the roof, Harry was certain he would have jumped up and down in glee. He truly expected one of the guys from the party previously in the night with a camera screaming out their ploy of trickery. He was waiting for Greg to magically right himself, wipe the blood from his face and grab some kind of cleaner to wipe the "fake" blood from the concrete.

Elie was in on the joke however, because all she did was stare at the Jacuzzi water bubbling while she rocked her lithe frame-still naked from the night previous…or was it morning?

It was a second after Sharon grasped Harry's arm that she barreled into action turning off the jets and cradling Greg into an upright position. She checked for a pulse at his wrists, found none and then proceeded to check for one at this neck.

"He's dead," she cried. "Harry! He's dead. Get over here!"

Harry's feet stayed stuck to the ground while his eyes continued to take in the situation. Elie looked very cold and blue. He wondered why she wasn't shivering in the cool morning air and then answered himself aloud.

"She must be so cold she stopped shivering."

"What?" Sharon asked, perplexed. "Harry what the hell are you talking about? Greg's dead over here and all you care about is if Elie's cold? What the fuck is the matter with you?"

Harry stepped back. Sharon certainly was leveling a large amount of questions on him at one time. It was not like her at all. Or maybe it was.

"Maybe she knows something," Harry pointed at Elie.

It was then that Elie moved, emitting something that Harry could only render as a cross between a sob and a gasp.

Sharon let Greg sink back into the water making careful sure that his head did not go under the water. Then she walked over to Elie who was now cradling her head between her thighs and shivering.

"Elie," Sharon shook the girl. "Elie can you tell me what happened? What happened to Greg, he's dead."

"Please woman, I think the girl knows that," Harry said to Sharon, finally stepping into action. He pushed Sharon gently out of the way and hugged Elie gently letting the girl settle into his arms and conjure a mixture of sobbing, gasping and shivering.

"Now then, honey?" Harry spoke to Elie's shivering form quietly. "What happened here?"

"He tried to kill me first," Elie whispered. "He tried to choke me, can't you see?" She gestured to the marks on her neck that indeed showed what she said. "He tried to kill me first. He tried to kill me first, please believe me."

Harry vaguely wondered if perhaps the wounds were self-inflicted. After all, what innocent person had to repeat themselves?

"Sharon, call the cops," Harry said, very calmly. Sharon hesitated a bit before running down the steps to do what she was asked. Harry soothed the naked body of Elie taking a moment to glamour at the wonderful body she had. Harry was no fool; he knew a beauty when he saw one. He also knew a liar when he saw one. He grew up in a house of liars. He even prided himself in being a master liar as well.

"Now Elie, how exactly did all this happen? What did you say or do to provoke him?"

"He tried to kill me first. He was drunk. He was high. You saw him! He tried to kill me first. I had to…I had to defend myself. Harry please, I didn't want to die. I don't want to go to jail. Harry, will you help me?" There were tears in her eyes. Harry had a hard time distinguishing them from real tears and fake tears. Whatever kind of actor Elie could have been or was, it was obvious that she had talent.

Sharon burst up the stairs saying that the police were on their way.

"I didn't tell them my name Harry. We have to get out of here. I could lose my scholarship if the police take me and question me. What if they do a drug test? I'm still only 20, I'm not supposed to be drinking and Buddha knows what they'll do to you. Come on Harry, we gotta go home! Quickly!" Sharon's panic was very evident in her eyes. Harry did not argue but he did take one last look at Elie and gave her a scalding look.

"Not one word of us Elie. Not one word," he said.

They walked out of the apartment building and down the couple of blocks to Sharon's car. Not one person on the streets remarked on Harry's state of undress. A shirt missing in a big city was just the same as missing shoes or missing money. Harry had his shoes on and had brought no money with him to miss.

When they reached the car Sharon put her hands on the top of it, let out a breath of air and used one hand to claw at her temples.

"I still feel like shit. I think you gotta drive this one home, I'll crash us dead," she threw the keys on top of the car and started her way around to the passenger side.

Harry nodded, grabbed the keys from the top of the car and walked to the driver's side. He fumbled lightly with the rubber blue sketchers key chain that Sharon's keys were attached to and then opened the door and sat down.

"You're sure you want to go home?" he whispered. The mood inside of the car felt very fragile and soft. He did not want to speak too loudly for fear of crushing the mood. The mood, indeed, was very interesting.

"Yes…no…I don't know. What do you want to do?" Sharon said.

"I don't know. Whatever you want to do." He stared out the windshield of the car. An old Asian woman was walking with an umbrella lying on her shoulders. It was hazy and warm, even at such the early morning. He reached behind Sharon's seat and grabbed his work uniform shirt. He put it on over his head quickly and sat back in his seat.

"We could just sit here. You know, wait for the cops to show. Or…" she trailed off.

"Or what? You have something in mind?"

"I feel like looking at the ocean. My nerves are feeling jumpy, you know? Shit like that doesn't just happen everyday. Certainly not for me! I've…I've just…his eyes were glassy, did you see them?" she had fear expressed all through her smooth cheeks and the premature wrinkles around her eyes were accentuated.

"No," he said.

"I don't know how you didn't. They were scary and just looking up at you. It was the freakiest thing I've ever seen in my-let's just get out of here. I don't want to wait for the cops to come. Let's go sit by the windmill. I love the windmill. It's got great calming abilities. You just look at it as it moves and it washes this great feeling of…calm over you. Listen to me. I'm so freaked that I can't even speak! Move! Move! We've got to get out of here before I start to hyperventilate." She began to wave her hands frantically for Harry to start the car and move, which he did.

"Wait," he said. "Which windmill?"

"Which windmill? The Dutch one. Murphy Windmill doesn't move anymore. It's stupid." And he set off.

It was quite a short drive from Greg's apartment on Judah and Eleventh Street to where the windmills were situated. Lincoln Avenue was relatively empty at the early morning hour and their trip was made with few red lights.

Parked and refreshed, the couple strolled out of the car, in through the tulip and daffodil gardens and straight to the Dutch windmill. There was no wind and not even the trees surrounding the windmill moved. The windmill stayed silent and inert in the morning light. Sharon's shoulders hunched and she sat down on the green bench just under the awning produced by the circular outlook.

"There's no wind. It's not gonna move."

"No, I guess not," he said. "Maybe it'll kick up?"

"No, I don't think so. We'd have to stay here the entire day and I'm not in the mood for that. Let's just stay here for a little while. Come on, sit down," she motioned for him to sit down on the bench beside her. When he did, she scooted over and then leaned back placing her head on his lap. Her eyes flickered from his face to the windmill to the sky and back to his face.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He touched her stomach with his hand, stroking her skin through her shirt to calm her.

"What's there to talk about? Greg's dead, we ran away from him and I feel like crap."

"That seems like plenty to talk about. Go on." He tried to encourage her by paying particular attention to the patch of red tulips in front of them. He knew that if he didn't peer straight into her eyes, she could voice her opinions easier and would be more outright and truthful.

"Do you remember the big tank of fish I used to have in my room?" He didn't say anything. "Well…I remember once my dad bought this beautiful fish. I forget what he said it was called…some kind of goldfish maybe I don't know. For some reason it would always, always fight with the other fish that were in the tank. My daddy had to clean the tank of the dead fish nearly every morning. I knew he wanted to kill the new fish, because it was starting all the fights and everything. But oh, it was a beautiful fish. It was black and gold, and speckled white. I'd never seen such a beautiful fish. I begged my dad not to kill it. Do you remember that? I practically got down on my knees and groveled.

"That fish though, let me tell you. It's like it never heard my pleas for its life. It continued on killing all the fish in the tank and it cost my dad lots of money. I wonder why he didn't get a different tank for that fish…" she mused momentarily. "Anyways, All these dead fish kept showing up and I just couldn't believe such a beautiful fish could be such a cold-hearted killer. It was ravishing, alluring and enticing all rolled up in a lovely package of slayer. I never would have believed that it was a killer if I never saw it kill with my own eyes. I knew from that moment on that there was something wrong with that fish.

"I wondered for so long why it kept on killing. I wondered if it knew that killing other fish was wrong and that eventually my daddy would kill it. I guess you could say that by killing, it was killing itself. I guess now I could say that maybe that fish didn't think because its brain couldn't think like that. You know, a fish isn't exactly a sentient being. It has instincts and everything, but I doubt it even understands it's alive.

"When daddy finally killed it, he did it so gruesomely! I remember it as if it were yesterday. He grabbed a net and scooped it out. The fish didn't even put up a fight. Didn't try to swim away or nothin'. He just floated there and waited for that net to come and get him. Daddy just took it out of the net and put it on a cutting board. He sliced the fish right at the gills! Oh! It was so sad. The fish flopped and flopped. I could see its mouth opening and I wondered if maybe it was screaming in some weird sort of fish language.

"I remember feeling happy then. Even though I'd begged daddy not to kill it for so long, I was happy when it was finally going to die. It deserved to die. It was only harming itself when it killed those other fish. It should have known if it didn't already know, that by killing those other fish that it was killing itself slowly. I don't know if the fish suffered because it didn't flop much after about a minute. It wasn't dead but I could tell it wasn't too far off. When I leaned up close I got a glimpse of those eyes. They were dark black. Black, Black. They were crying. Those deep dark eyes were weeping for all the fish that it had killed. It was weeping for itself too. It killed itself and it was crying for that. I did all I could do to make the fish feel better as it died. I cried for it too."

***

It was a little after seven o' clock when they returned back to Monterey. Harry was driving the car and when he pulled it into the driveway he happened to glance at his home and saw the blinds move. His senses told him something was wrong and he begged off from Sharon quickly muttering something about a shower. She did not follow so he assumed that she heard him.

He walked through the grass divide between the two homes and stepped the two steps that lead to his front door. The door opened before he even got the chance to touch the doorknob. His mother was leaning against the doorway with tears in her eyes and a sorrowful look etched on her face.

"You want to know where I've been," he said. She shook her head.

He pondered, "You want to know what I've been doing?"

She shook her head again, opened the door and stepped out. She hugged Harry very tightly and said softly, "Andy's gone into another relapse. The doctors don't think he's going to make it out of this one. Your father and Jake are at the hospital."

She was very concise and direct, he quietly thought. Usually she was very wordy and drawn out.

***

They reached the hospital so quickly; Harry didn't even remember the ride. The trail was so burned into the back of his memory that he was able to drive the car, watch out for his mother and stay semi-conscious all at once.

Inside the lobby, Zoe led Harry by the hand to the security guard sitting at a desk next to the hallway that led to all the rooms. Zoe already had a fluorescent pink sticker on her indicating which room to go to and quietly told the security guard that she needed a sticker for room five hundred and twelve. The guard took a quick glance at Harry before writing down the number of the room on a sticker in thick squirmy handwriting and handing it to him.

Zoe quickly led Harry to the elevator, up to the top floor, the fifth floor, and the most depressing floor in Harry's opinion. There were children walking the hallways of this floor, sick and knowing nothing of the outside world. They knew their sickness. They lived their sickness. They inhaled it, snorted it, drank it and would die of it. Harry hated the floor he was on. He wanted to blame it for all the hardships his brother went through. He wanted to murder the floor, slash it through and through until he saw blood. He wanted to wait beside it as it took its last ragged breath because that's what this floor would do to his brother. That's what this floor did to many brothers and sisters. It stole their lives. Harry hated the floor. Floor five.

When Zoe and Harry walked into room five hundred and twelve, James was watching television. He had the corded remote in his hand and was switching channels. The room had a lovely view of the golf course and naval base from where it was. The shades were half up, half down. The room was dark and dainty; one could cut the palpable air with a solid butter knife just as easily as taking a steak knife to butter.

Jake was cutting his nails, taking careful care to cut them in perfect semi-circles. He was so meticulous with his nails you'd think he was gay with his ministrations. His hair was gelled back perfectly. His face was perfectly smooth-there was not a single hash mark or pimple to be seen. Jake could be a model, Harry reckoned at that moment. Jake could be a model for his little brother and take care of him. Jake could keep Andrew company and love him, but he didn't.

Andrew was on the bed. His eyes were closed and his breathing was steady. The television was very loud-or rather, the remote's speaker was on very loud. Andrew continued to sleep though, as if the world were standing still around him and his sleep could keep it that way forever. Harry did not know whether to stand in the hallway forever or run up besides his sick and dying brother. He wanted to hug Andrew till he dropped to the floor. He wanted to kiss the wounds of illness away and fight the monsters that threatened to take his life away at such a young age. Harry wanted to love his brother in the only way he knew-fighting for his life.

Harry resounded to sitting in a seat provided for him. They were lucky. Andrew had gotten a corner room with no other occupants. Perhaps it was lucky and perhaps it was fate. Harry knew that only the sick and terminally ill got their own rooms. Pitiful screams in the middle of the night would awaken other occupants and the hospital patrons did not want the children that would go back to their families soon, to complain. There was something so beautifully tragic about the corner room that Harry could not place.

His family, as always, had begun to forget the reason they were in the room in the first place. James had found a channel to his liking, divesting all his attention into the square box of light and sound. Jake had finished cutting his fingernails and got up. He announced to the dull drone of the television in the room that he would be taking a walk. Nobody nodded and Jake slipped out nearly unnoticed.

Zoe was staring out the window. The sun would soon set and the window was placed in such a way as to view the sun lowering onto the pacific ocean in a beautiful, none violent way. It could be said that at sunset the sun bleed red and orange and purple and yellow but to Zoe Brumnder, the sun gave these colors out willingly. There was no forced bleeding to be reckoned with, the sun was the giver of colors and at the sun she was grateful.

A solitary beam of light hit the tip of Andrew's foot covered in thermal hospital blanket.

***

Thursday,

August 16, 1996

It was Thursday, payday. He loved payday. He loved Thursday.

Rob was the sort of boss that knew his workers. He knew what their habits where. He knew what time they took breaks to eat. He knew what sorts of food they liked to buy. He knew which workers decided to eat in the food area of the aquarium, which workers liked to eat in the city, which workers never ate and which workers brought breakfast/lunch/dinner from home. Rob was a very conscientious boss. He loved his workers, but his workers did not love him.

There was something very fake about his smile that Harry did not like. Harry did not know what drove his coworkers to hate Rob, but it was the smile that did him in. Perhaps Rob actually was smiling. Perhaps the smile that Rob showed his workers was a real smile that meant something happy. Perhaps…no, it was fake.

Harry also loathed the fact that Rob either felt, or thought that he needed to talk to his workers. Rob wanted to be his worker's friends. None of the workers wanted to be Rob's friend. Rob did not seem to get the picture. There was always the half-hearted (although truly, full-hearted) attempt that Rob did, to try to get one of his workers to enjoy lunch with him, or, have a snack with him, or, in the case of the adults, have a drink with him.

As such, when it came time to get his paycheck from Rob, Harry had to hide any outward showing of whatever he felt. He had to place a fully placid look on his face and maintain it for however long Rob wanted to talk. Harry knew he was fully capable of doing such face. Calmly, he strode into Rob's office ready to get in, get his paycheck, and get out.

"Harry…" Rob said, the moment Harry walked in. Rob had a sad look on his face, his head was sulking, his shoulders were drooped and his eyebrows were knotted up. The creases on his forehead were embellished and his double chin was wobbly with worry.

"Rob…I was just here to get my paycheck. If it's not too much, I'm sort of in a hurry," Harry said.

Rob looked down at the envelopes on his desk, ruffled through them nodding and saying, "Yes, yes, just hold on a sec."

Rob found the envelope that had Harry's name on it and slid it across his desk.

"Harry, I…uh…I had a little chat with your dad today. I'm…really sorry about your brother and all. If you know, you need to take a vacation? You know…just get out of here or something?"

Harry reached across, picked up the envelope and tore it open. He quickly checked the numbers and nodded then shook his head. He looked into Rob's eyes, turned heel, and walked out calmly. He would not speak to his boss about his brother; he would not speak to anybody about his brother.

Harry crept through the aquarium until he reached the elevators. He reached for the third floor and waited as it inched upward. When it finally opened, he angle toward the doors that led to the area above the massive kelp forest. It was a lovely spot to stand and relax. He loved watching the solid metal arm move and sway the forest as if it were actually the sea.

The fish swimming in the murky depths did so without worry, or so it seemed. They bigger fish were fed by divers on a daily basis, as were the smaller fish. The smallest fish fed on the plant life, on the algae that formed. There was a complete ecosystem in a gigantic tank only feet from the ocean. If a fish were determined enough, Harry wagered it could fly into the ocean and live its own happy life again. Or perhaps it already was happy in the ecosystem it lived in.

Perhaps it was happy where it was.

***

Sunday,

August 19, 1996

The family arranged for their child to be transferred to their own home. The doctors assured the family that it was indeed the time for Andrew's death and the family decided unanimously that if Andrew were to die it would not be in the hospital.

It was arranged for nurses to come check on Andrew's vitals around the clock. Nothing would be left unchecked to prolong the life of the little boy. Harry often wondered that if by prolonging Andrew's life, they prolonged his agony as well.

It was a question of selfishness that the family would eventually have to face. Were they so selfish that they willed their son to live the extra few days or weeks or months? Were they the kind of people that did not let their children die in peace?

No, they were the kind of people that wished to grasp at the straws in empty space when they were long gone. They knew their son would die. The brothers knew their brother would die. The family knew that each family member, someday, would die. But they refused to know the simplest fact of all: that Andrew would die much sooner than they. They hated to think that their youngest, most innocent and loving child was to be the first to go.

They shrouded the boy in white. His bed covers were fresh snow white as were the walls in the room. White cups and white plates were brought for him to eat from. White clothes and white underwear were provided and placed on the boy's limber, eager body. Rice provided by the Mori family was as white as an angel's wings and that was fed to the boy too.

James and Harry continued to work. Zoe continued to plan for the up coming school year. Jake took to the hills and climbed the trees. He rode his bicycle into the early morning, fog-ridden paths and returned only late in the evening for dinner.

Sharon came over every day. She helped Zoe with any food that needed to be prepared. She read books to Andrew. She read them lovingly and carefully. The voices came to life as the voices of each character she portrayed. A wolf had a wolf's voice. A little girl had a little girl's voice and so on.

The family thanked her each and every time she came.

***

Tuesday,

August 21, 1996

It was a calm and balmy morning. Harry sat on the deck in the backyard, which was wooden and very old. The wood was splintered and it was very dangerous to walk bare-footed on it. The early morning fog had given way to a quiet, cool sunny morning. While he had shorts on, he had no shirt and he could feel the sun warm his upper body like the touch of a mother.

It was finally his day off and he could not be more distraught at not being able to return to work. There was something calming about picking up other people's trash that kept him from thinking. When he thought, he only thought of Andrew and while he could never forget his brother, he still did not want to think about him.

Greg's body was recovered by the police and the death was deemed an accident. It took quite a long time for the news to reach Harry and Sharon because true to her word, Elie had not said anything to the police. She would not be charged for the death at all for the police felt sympathetic for her. She was simply acting in self defense.

Sharon wasn't handling the death very well. Harry wondered if it was a combination of both Greg's death and the impending death of Andrew that got her in such a state but he could not be sure for he never asked her. As for him, he'd never felt much for Greg's death. He was disappointed that with the death of Greg that the monthly parties would end, but he knew there were other parties to go to.

Harry heard the screen door behind him open slowly. He turned around to see that it was only his father cautiously making his way over and turned back around towards the sun. James sat down next to him.

"What…how are you?" James asked.

"Ok," Harry responded. He scratched at an itch on his left bicep and then leaned back to prop himself on both arms.

"I just got back from work. I was wondering who was out here. I saw you from the living room."

"Oh," Harry said.

"Zoe is still sleeping?" He always referred to Harry's mother as Zoe.

"Yeah," Harry answered. His eyes were now focused on the dead patches of yellow grass that dotted the backyard. The house was in disarray and had been since Andrew had fallen ill again.

"Both your brothers too?"

Jake and Harry had bunked together in Harry's room and Andrew had his own room. All the medical equipment took up too much space for Jake and the decision had been made to move him to Harry's room, if only temporarily.

"I dunno," he said.

"The nurse come around?"

"Yeah."

"I see. Good. That's one thing out of the way today."

They sat in silence for a few minutes. The two men focused on various things in the backyard, their eyes never meeting nor focusing on one thing too long.

James took a deep breath. "Listen, son," Harry's eyebrows piqued at this. "I was searching through your room a few weeks back and well…I know I wasn't supposed to. I acknowledge your privacy but you see…I was getting worried and…Oh fuck it. Son, I found some drugs."

"You're wondering where I got them are you?"

"Well, yes. That's one thing I'm wondering. Listen, Harry, I know you're going through some tough times. We all are, I kn-"

"No. Dad, No. You don't know. You will never know."

"Now you listen here, this is more serious than some petty squabble of power. You're my son and I have the right to tell you what's right and what's wrong. I know you better than you know yourself. Remember, I raised you."

"Yeah? Well you should have done a better job," Harry spat scathingly.

"You don't know the first thing about raising a child. You don't know the first thing!"

"Neither do you, you stupid fraud."

James reached up a hand to hit Harry but before he could swing down a perfectly shaped tawny brown owl floated down and perched itself between the two. A letter was tied around the owl's shoulders like a medal and there was a peculiar looking symbol on it. James absolutely froze when he saw the owl and the letter.

Harry looked up at his father inquisitively wondering. When no answer or movement came from him, Harry moved to take the letter from the owl. Without warning, James snapped at Harry's hand and grabbed the letter for himself.