Author's Note: Here it is, the first real chapter of the rewrite. It's similar, in many ways, to the first version, but there are some specific differences. Any thoughts?

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or anything involving Harry Potter.

Warnings: May contain Spoilers for HBP.

Harry Potter and the Hidden Truth

By Koinaka

In following him, I follow but myself;
Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty,
But seeming so, for my peculiar end;
For when my outward action doth demonstrate
The native act and figure of my heart
In complement extern, 'tis not long after
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve
For daws to peck at. I am not what I am.

Othello Act 1, Scene 1, Line 56-65

Chapter One
Strange Happenings

The room was utterly silent. The men before him, all dressed in robes of the deepest black with bone white masks upon their faces, stood tense and alert. He hadn't said a word in the ten minutes since their arrival, but they knew something was terribly wrong, and as such, they were quite justified in their apprehension. Angry was not a state that bode well for them, even if they were not the cause of said anger. The Dark Lord's temper was a terrible thing to behold.

"Mulciber," said the Dark Lord, his voice was soft and alluring, a most dangerous sign.

The man in question came forth and kneeled before him. "Yes, my Lord?"

"Have there been any changes in Little Hangleton? Any… ah… visitors?" he queried.

Mulciber blanched and became visibly shaken, but the Dark Lord continued quite undeterred. "This is quite the conundrum, is it not? You do not know if there were any changes or visitors in Little Hangleton because you were not where you ought to have been last night, were you? Don't be frightened, my faithful servant. I only wish to know the truth." His voice was compelling, an attempt to assure the target he was in no danger when, in fact, quite the opposite was true. It was – as usual – effective.

"I did go to Little Hangleton last night, my Lord, 'course I did…" the man trailed off.

"Yes?" prompted the Dark Lord.

The man hesitated, took a deep breath and began to speak again, his voice but a mere whisper. "But I left. Everything seemed to be in order… and I had a meeting with a … business partner… so I left and returned several hours later. Nothing was amiss, my Lord."

"Am I to understand that after I entrusted you with the caretaking of a precious item – a priceless item – you left… to meet with a business partner? Surely there is no other in your life as significant as me? Surely my… requests come before all others, do they not?"

"Yes," breathed the man. "Of course you come before all others."

"And yet you saw fit to leave when I gave you specific instructions?" asked the wizard as he arched an eyebrow.

"I didn't think…" the man began.

The Dark Lord cut him off. "That, Mulciber, is evident," he replied coolly.

"It's just a rutty ol' house though, isn't it? Can't be nothing of value there, practically falling apart, it is," muttered the man beneath his bed.

"Some things are not always as they seem, are they, Mulciber? Because this… business partner of yours was really a member of a certain… order, wasn't he? A certain Mundungus Fletcher to be exact, isn't that correct? No need to lie to your master now, Mulciber… I know the truth, I always know the truth." A thin pale finger tapped the side of his head. "I can see every thought in your pathetic little mind. There is nothing hidden from me - nothing. Now, what was so important that you would disregard a direct order? I want to hear you say it aloud."

The Death Eater hesitated. "Mungungus said he had some… items… he thought I might be interested in acquiring, my Lord. Items that might be useful to me … to you. Said he nicked 'em from the old Black estate," he mumbled.

"Ah, yes, money. So you met with him? And what was the result of this…ah… meeting?" A minute passed and still the man didn't answer. "Well, answer the question! What was the result of this meeting? What items did he have that may be of use to us?" snarled the Dark Lord. "Because certainly that is the only way your actions could have been justifiable. Do not keep us in suspense any longer, Mulciber - tell us what treasures you brought our cause from the House of Black."

Beads of sweat gathered on the man's forehead. He swallowed once, twice, three times before speaking again, misery in his voice and body. "None, my Lord. The items were rubbish," he said, reluctantly. "But I returned to find everything exactly as it was before I left," he finished.

The Dark Lord approached the man and ran his wand down his cheek. "No, not exactly as you left it. Something very important to me… something very dear to me... was taken that night."

The man shuddered. "My Lord… please…."

The dark wizard flicked his wand lazily and watched as the man began to convulse. A smile spread across his face as the screaming began. He turned to face the other Death Eaters. "Remove this man from my sight at once. I think a night or two in the dungeon will do the trick... if he survives, that is."

He turned back to the screaming Mulciber. "Please... my Lord... mercy," gasped the man, his voice hoarse and raw. "My wife -- my children --"

A malignant smile spread across the Dark Lord's face. "Do not worry; you'll be seeing your family shortly. I've sent Greyback to collect your children. I trust that will be acceptable to you," he told the now struggling man.

"No! You mustn't!" The Death Eater was now fighting the rather large and formidable Crabbe and Goyle as they removed him from the room.

"But I truly must. You've taken something precious to me, Mulciber, it's only fair that I take something equally precious to you."

"I didn't take it, my Lord, I swear. Have mercy! Please, oh God, have mercy -- not my children!" The man was still babbling inanely when the door slammed closed with a resounding thud.

Crimson eyes swept over the room before settling on Lucius Malfoy. "Lucius, I leave him in your… somewhat capable hands… as this is your manor, and who better to take care of our... visitor... than our gracious host?"

"Of course, my Lord. I live to serve you," the elegant blonde man murmured.

The Dark Lord nodded. "See that that continues to be the case, Lucius. I've had enough of your … failures."

Lucius winced before bowing deeply and exiting the room.

Miles away, a raven-haired boy was jarred awake by the sudden influx of emotion. Sweat beaded off his forehead, mingling with the blood that now dripped from his lightning-shaped scar. He fell back against his pillow, his chest heaving and his heart beating frantically as he tried to calm down. Several minutes later, his breathing had returned to normal, and he was able to contemplate the rather disturbing vision he'd just awoken from.

In the three weeks since the beginning of his summer holiday, the dreams occurred nightly without fail. However, unlike the visions that plagued him throughout the previous school year, the majority of these dreams were of no consequence. Voldemort, it seemed, had decided not to use their bond any further after the possession debacle in the Ministry. Unfortunately, this hadn't stopped the visions from coming. In fact, if Harry stopped to think about it, these visions were quite different from the ones he had before. That is to say, they were more realistic, more vivid, than ever and sometimes, Harry would wake up suffering the effects of the Cruciatus curse.

And much like the previous year, Voldemort seemed oddly fixated on something. Though he didn't seem to be sending these dreams to him on purpose, and it wasn't a hallway he dreamed of now, but several objects - an unstoppable wand, a stone, and a cloak of invisibility to be exact - Harry knew that nothing good could come of it. Harry wasn't certain what they were, really, but he knew one thing: he hoped Voldemort didn't ever find them. If Voldemort had access to an unstoppable wand, no prophecy in the world would be able to save the wizarding world. What was this ring, then? The one that had gone missing? It must have been very important to Voldemort because never had Harry felt such anger in his entire life.

That brought him back to the thing that Harry was fixated on: the prophecy. Just thinking of it left a bitter taste in his mouth. How did Dumbledore expect him -- Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Be-Absolutely-Average -- to kill the most dangerous dark wizard in nearly a century? Not even Dumbledore could stop him -- Dumbledore -- and there was no way that Harry was anywhere near as talented or powerful as Dumbledore. No, it was just as he'd told Hermione before. Yes, he had stopped Quirrell in first year, and then Tom Riddle the next, and of course, he'd survived the graveyard incident, but not because Harry, himself, was exceedingly powerful. He never would have done any of that without help or, as he'd been told before, sheer dumb luck.

The Boy-Who-Lived sighed and reached over to his nightstand to retrieve his glasses. The cheap alarm clock on the same nightstand indicated it was just before noon, but there was no light coming from the window. Harry quickly got out of bed to confirm his suspicions – rain. Brilliant. Not that he had many places to go, but any place was better than staying inside. He yawned and absently rubbed his forehead.

He thought briefly about returning to his bed, but there was no use in attempting to go back to sleep now; he was already awake, so he went to the bathroom and completed his morning routine before going downstairs for what would now be lunch. Last summer he would have never dared sleep till noon, or even attempt to fix himself lunch, but since arriving home, his muggle relatives had given him a wide berth. They hadn't wanted to, of course, but after the talking down the members of the Order gave them and the brilliant display of accidental magic that occurred when Uncle Vernon attempted to relocate Harry back into 'his cupboard', they said little to nothing to him at all. He was to generally stay out of sight and they would continue to pretend he didn't exist, but beyond that there were no expectations. He'd discovered that even if he didn't stay out of sight, they were too terrified to rebuke him.

Harry furrowed his brow confusedly at his reflection in the bathroom mirror before leaving the bathroom and heading downstairs. Lately, Harry had noticed his appearance had been changing. Nothing overt, just... his facial features were becoming... finer, softer somehow, a bit more feminine, he thought -- or, he supposed, rather like his mother. His jaw was no longer quite as square as it had been even a fortnight go. He'd written to Hermione about this as well, but she was just as perplexed as he was about the change.

Aunt Petunia and Dudley were watching a television program when he entered the living room. He gave his aunt a nod and smiled briefly as her eyes widened with fear. It was too easy to frighten them; it almost took all of the fun out of it.

It was nice, however, to eat on a regular basis. Not that he wasn't able to eat before, but he always had to wait for Dudley to eat his fill first, or he was being forced to endure another of 'Duddy's' diets. Harry sighed heavily and took one more look over his shoulder before entering the kitchen. He quickly made two sandwiches out of the cold cuts he found in the ice box, grabbed an apple out of the bowl on the table and made his way back up to his room to get back to studying.

Harry was determined that not one more person he cared for would die because of his inadequacies. That, coupled with the pressure from the prophecy, had Harry resolved on one thing: he needed to start taking his studies more seriously. He'd written to Hermione on his first night at the Dursley's pleading for help revising. Hedwig had returned that evening with a small novella on what Harry could do to revise properly. According to Hermione, he was a lost cause. Well, she'd not been quite so cruel, but she had stated -- as kind as she could -- that he really ought to begin with his first year books and work his way through to the fifth year books. So that is what he did. He had the time, oodles of time, really, as he was no longer expected to perform chores and he very rarely left the house, so that is what he had done. It was fairly slow coming, but he was up to the third year books now.

He nibbled on the sandwiches as he began pouring through the Defense book from that year. His heart ached painfully. Remus had been his professor, then. The best professor he'd ever had by far for defense, though that wasn't quite a compliment considering the cast of professors. It was a wonder Harry managed to learn a thing in any of his classes that year. What with a mad man -- who, of course, turned out to be not quite so mad -- and the dementors, Harry had been rather busy.

His breath caught in his throat.

Sirius .

He felt his godfather's loss acutely. It was absurd, really, as he hadn't known his godfather for a lengthy period of time. He'd spent the first twelve years -- give or take the first year -- of Harry's life in Azkaban, then he spent the next year or so on the run. Harry could count the times that he'd spent more than an hour in the man's presence on one hand, if he were honest, but it was as if he were mourning his parents and his godparent as one entity. His death made theirs all the more real and it was all Harry could do to continue with this farce of a life. Some days were bearable if he didn't think of them at all, but other days, Harry thought he might go mad with the pain of it.

His friends had been very good to him this summer, writing almost daily, but it hadn't been enough. In fact, it made it nearly unbearable. Because of security, their letters never spoke of anything consequential, so they mostly entailed rich descriptions of, at least in Ron's case, his family's antics, and in Hermione's case, descriptions of her summer activities with her parents. It all came back to that: family. Which, of course, made Harry think of Sirius as Sirius had been his last chance at having one. The Dursley's despised him, no matter how they treated him. He knew that. So, having them didn't change the fact that he was utterly alone.

The tapping at his window alerted him to the arrival of his Daily Prophet. Against his better judgement, and the Headmaster's advice, Harry had obtained his own subscription to the newspaper prior to leaving Hogwarts. He wanted to make sure that he was properly informed of the happenings in the wizarding world over the summer, and he didn't trust the Headmaster to do it, or for him to allow his friends to do it either.

It's a good thing, too, because so much had happened since leaving Hogwarts. Bridges had collapsed killing dozens, muggle villages had been attacked by giants and were now in ruins, many witches and wizards had also murdered and all because of a mad man's whim. The most important event by far, or so Harry thought, was that a new Minister of Magic had been appointed. According to the papers, and one could never really trust them, Cornelius Fudge had been forced to resign after the Brockdale Bridge had collapse. A Rufus Scrimgeour, Head of the Aurors, had taken his place. Harry wasn't quite certain how he felt about that, but he didn't think anyone could be worse than Fudge, really, so that was comforting, at least.

To sum it up: now that everyone was aware that Voldemort had really and truly returned, he was no longer restraining himself. The Daily Prophet was full of what they considered useful advice on how to keep yourselves and your loved ones safe, but like nearly everything else, they fell woefully short of being useful.

Harry sighed and tossed the paper aside. Nothing had occurred today at any rate, or that the reporters at the paper were aware of. They didn't know that there was a man had been tortured and probably his kids as well. Who was Greyback, anyways? No one good, that was sure, if the man's terrified expression was anything to go by. That had Harry asking himself again why did Voldemort care about a stupid ring? It just didn't make any sense, and so Harry had no choice but to come to the same conclusion as before. If the ring was important to Voldemort, it meant one thing: it was nothing good.

Thoughts of Voldemort always lead him directly to thoughts of the prophecy, and he was back to where he started. He was a teenage boy. Just a teenage boy with, according to Dumbledore -- who, on everyone's accounts, was more than a bit barmy -- an extraordinary capacity to love. Love that would, in turn, help him to defeat Voldemort. Not that Harry believed that because he didn't. He sincerely believed that the power he knew not being love was complete and utter rubbish, but as he had no other remarkable powers, he had no other leads on what it could be.

With a snarl, he pushed himself into an upright position and off of the bed. Merlin, but he was going mad trapped in this house, his head so full he thought it might explode at any moment. He stood in front of the window, watching as the rain fell steadily. He thought he saw a shimmer of an invisibility cloak near the bushes. He wondered who was on guard duty today. He could go outside and see, he supposed, but they weren't to reveal themselves so that would be just a spectacular waste of time. An errant strand of hair fell into his face, and he sighed as he pushed it back. His hair was just another thing that had changed over the summer. No longer unruly, it had grown furiously and was now nearing his shoulders. Not only had it grown, but it had darkened, if that were possible, to an almost ebony color. Again, it had him completely baffled. Something strange was going on.

Frustrated, he turned away from the window. If he wanted to know what was happening to him, and he most certainly did, he'd have to write to Dumbledore, and since he'd not spoken to the man since blowing up his office, Harry was going to have to start with an apology. With that finally decided, he pulled out a piece of parchment and began writing. He only hoped that Dumbledore had the answers, and, of course, that he would give them to Harry.