Disclaimer: (Insert some witty comment here about how Harry Potter is not mine.)

There will be Ron and Dumbledore bashing in this fic so if you don't like that, don't read it!

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Bastards. They aren't even trying to rescue me, Harry Potter thought bitterly as he was shackled to the wall of a dirty dungeon after another torture session with Voldemort's Inner Circle. It had been the umpteenth time in a month. Bloody Order. I hope you all suffer.

Harry winced as an uneven stone in the wall behind him pressed into his bloody back, already raw after fifty lashes of Malfoy Sr.'s whip.

He was amazed and immensely disappointed that he was still alive after a month filled with torture. Harry wanted nothing more than to die. At least he'd be free of this immense physical pain and the even more painful thought that his friends, people he had been willing to die for, had left him to suffer at the hands of the monster that had killed his parents.

Now, Harry just hated them. Pure and maybe not so simple hate. They were no better than Voldemort himself, leaving him here like this. He had considered them family!

He could just imagine Ron pretending that he was sad while inwardly rejoicing that he wouldn't be caught in anybody's shadow anymore.

And he was supposed to be my best friend, thought Harry, thoroughly disgusted.

And Hermione…Hermione would be sad; there was no mistaking that. She wouldn't be able to boss him around and psychoanalyze him anymore.

For what seemed like hours, Harry mentally accused the people of the Order of using him for their own purposes, or just for the purpose of winning the stupid, bloody war, a war he hadn't wanted any part of but had been thrown into at the age of fifteen.

The only people he couldn't bring himself to accuse were the Weasley Twins, for the reason that they simply didn't have it in them, Remus Lupin, for the fact that he had too much loyalty to his parents, and Nymphadora Tonks. She was the only person he was sure wouldn't just classify as dead and get on with her life. She was like a sister to him, both of them having been brought together by Sirius' death the summer after his fifth year.

A creaking sound announced that the cell door was being opened.

The Boy-Who-Lived didn't bother to look up as nearly inaudible footsteps made their way to him. It was probably just another Death Eater looking to gain favor in his or her master's eyes by torturing Harry Potter to near death.

A soft hand cupped his chin and gently made him look up into the eyes of one of his original captors.

"I am in need of your help, Harry Potter," the Death Eater told him, looking directly into Harry's green, green orbs.

For a moment, the Gryffindor was silent, just staring into the eyes of this widely feared pureblood, as if gauging whether this help would mean sacrificing his own life (on second thought, that didn't sound so bad) or some other foul thing. Obviously satisfied at what he saw in those eyes, a small, if not manic, grin formed on Harry's lips.

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A few days later, one jubilant cry could be heard all over the Wizarding Word, a sentence that hadn't been uttered in sixteen years.

"The Dark Lord has fallen!"

Everywhere, all kinds of people were celebrating, from leprechauns in Ireland, to hags in Devonshire.

The celebrations lasted for several days. Nobody even cared that they had found out the news rather gruesomely with someone impaling Voldemort (nobody was afraid of saying his name now) and several of his lieutenants on spikes erected in Diagon Alley late in the night (they had found out early in the morning).

The Ministry declared it a Holiday and dedicated it, not to the captured and possibly lost teen who had risked life and limbs for people he didn't even know, but to the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Oswald Fudge, for they thought that he had been secretly moving to destroy Voldemort. Of course, Minister Fudge did nothing to refute these claims, starved for publicity as he was.

Somewhere else in England, one old man was having much different thoughts as he reclined in a comfy, old chair by the fire, with a mug of steaming butterbeer in hand and his best pair of socks on his feet.

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Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, Supreme Mugwump and the Chief of the Order of the Phoenix, let out a satisfied sigh as he stared into the roaring fire.

The war was over.

Finally over.

Tom was dead and so were most of his Inner Circle. He could finally relax without having the thought of insane, hypocritical former students of his destroying everything in their path and prophecies weighing heavily on his mind.

It looks like we didn't need you at all, Harry, Dumbledore mused, drinking from his mug of butterbeer. The Headmaster liked to think that it had been covert Order of the Phoenix member who had done it. Although he didn't approve of the way Voldemort and the other Death Eaters had been dealt with, all he cared was that they were dead and their reign of terror had ended.

There need not be any more pointless killing sprees, just for the sake of pureblood mania.

Hopefully, there won't be any more Dark Lords in the near future, thought Dumbledore. But if one more Dark Lord would rise out of whatever dark corner, the Order of the Phoenix would face him head on. And, perhaps, if this were to happen after he had passed on, young Mr. Weasley could lead the battle.

He stared at the dying embers of the fire and a small foreboding chill ran through him.

He simply shrugged it off as his somewhat over paranoid nerves or the cool, frosty air that had blown in— he looked around at the closed windows—somewhere. The old wizard let out a small chuckle. Perhaps he was just becoming paranoid in his old age.

Dumbledore raised his mug, in honor of the person who had ended this war. Whoever and wherever you are, the Wizarding world thanks you.

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Author's note: Ta and da! The first chapter of Knight. Hope you liked it! I would love to hear comments and constructive criticisms from you so I can improve the story more.