Harry awoke slowly. He didn't know if he was truly awake at first. His eyes struggled to pry themselves open, squinting against the dust floating in the air and the scraps of light which were just enough for him to make out the hole he found himself in. Memories began to come back to him and he made the mistake of physically wincing at the onslaught and nearly got himself impaled on an ankle-thick wire sticking straight up from the ground.

Disoriented and hurting everywhere, Harry shifted where he was lying. He still couldn't see anything, but he had enough room to raise his arms chest high and feel around his limited space.

As his hands scrabbled clumsily for his wand, he took stock of his body through physical feeling alone. His head throbbed in time with the pulse beating in his eyes and his upper body felt like it had been put through several scores of stampeding centaurs. As in spite of that, it was his legs which had him worried the most.

Buried and trapped under a slab of cement larger than two grown men, Harry's legs were incapable of carrying out any sort of movement and were, in fact, alarmingly numb. He feared the worst.

As though from a distance, he could hear shouted spells, shrill screams and echoing explosions resuming in the rest of the room. Harry couldn't discern his godfather or Remus' voices from the others fighting, but just the fact that the struggle continue on the other side-that there was someone left for the Aurors to fight-reassured him in a small way.

The index finger of his right hand bumped into something smooth and curiously warm. A trickle of excitement rushed to Harry's head as he scrambled to reach his wand, pulling and pushing on his fresh injuries until his fingers finally closed around the familiar stick of holly.

The first thing Harry did was to cast a charm Sirius had taught him during one of their lessons. It was an extremely useful charm for duels and battle situations, Sirius had explained, because it served to temporarily numb the pain from the caster's injuries and allow him to keep fighting. Remus had been the one to also point out the dangers of such a charm: if the injury was internal, or sustained in a critical area, casting the charm and proceeding to move around would only do him more harm than good and without the pain to signal to him when to stop, he'd be swapping one death for another.

There was no time to waste, though. Harry performed the charm on himself and breathed a harsh sigh of relief as the cooling sensation washed away the burning agony. Mind considerably more clear, he considered his options for escape. If he had Dumbledore's knowledge and skill, he could transfigure the rubble to something else—confetti, balloons, feathers, anything—and simply burrow his way out.

But he wasn't Dumbledore and after three years of following his instincts and trusting his friends, Harry was (relatively) confident he could find a way out of this one.

His legs had to be freed one way or another and since he couldn't feel anything other than a dull pressure from them, he would have to make sure that nothing else collapsed on top of him as a result of getting rid of the slab of concrete. He wasn't certain he was in any condition to move away. An idea came to him then, one crazy enough to actually work. He cast a shield over his upper body and stuck his arm through the protective film.

"Tunnelus!"

Rings of destructive power erupted from his wand. They decimated the fallen ceiling in seconds as the spell cleared a tunnel to the surface right above Harry's legs. The piece holding him down broke at the pressure and Harry was glad he'd thought to protect himself when chunks from the slab bounced off the magical shield.

A column of light nearly blinded him as the spell served its purpose and opened up a tunnel to the outside world.

Harry determinedly grit his teeth and pushed himself up on his elbows, only then realizing that he was still wearing his backpack when the back of his arms rubbed against the rough fabric. Sensation was starting to creep back into his legs, making Harry almost wish for the warm nothingness that had scared him like nothing else.

A shake, some pokes, and a basic diagnostic spell later, he'd established he didn't have any truly debilitating wounds and began to crawl up the makeshift escape tunnel. At the top, his nails broke against stone and his fingers bled as he clawed at the mouth of the tunnel to widen the opening.

His head broke through the surface. Finally. He had seconds to bask in the glory of his triumph, to allow his hands some rest after they'd struggled to pull him out, before the pile underneath him shifted with a sigh and came loose. Like adding water to a sandcastle, the walls of the tunnel fell apart, stole their snug hold on his body, and sent him hurtling down a mountain of destruction.

The fall lit the match in the dark room where he'd stored away his pain. It came rushing back with a vengeance. Sweat, dirt and blood coated his face in rivulets of brown. His hands shook but the Pain-Relieving Charm he cast on himself soothed the pangs from his injuries to the point that he was able to roll onto his front, push to his feet and hobble to a forgotten corner of the room.

Sirius and Remus were fighting two people each. They stood on opposite sides of the room facing each other while their adversaries had their backs together and easily parried the spells thrown at them. As Harry watched, one of the wizards fighting Remus lost his patience and advanced on the werewolf with a shout at his partner to cover him.

Next thing Harry knew, the floor underneath the man's feet turned to liquid and swallowed him up to his neck. A zipper replaced his lips and with a snick of sound, it sealed itself shut. His partner was left to fend off Remus alone and to Harry, it didn't look like the werewolf needed any help.

Sirius was having less luck. He was facing off with a short man wearing a bulky Auror's coat and a woman with electric blue hair. The two Aurors were giving it their all, they barely granted Sirius time to breathe between each assault and yet, as Harry observed their duel closer, he noticed a pattern in the witch's spellcasting. After seven offensive spells in a row, she'd take a second or two longer to fire off the next round. She wasn't hesitating, the magic was taking its toll on her body and she needed to take that small break.

What bothered Harry was that if he had been able to recognize that point of weakness, his godfather was bound to have seen it as well and yet he never used it. Sirius was holding back, but the cut the woman had just opened up on Sirius' thigh proved to Harry that she wasn't nearly as reserved herself.

Sirius volleyed back his own spells and she side-stepped to the right to avoid them while her partner covered her. She took two more steps to the right and inadvertently placed herself on the line of sight exactly between Harry and Sirius.

"Stupefy!"

The blue-haired woman didn't even realize it as the spell came for her from behind and hit her square on the back, effectively knocking her out.

The smack of her lax body hitting the ground called on the two men duelling metres away from her. Harry decided to use the Auror's surprise to his advantage. The man was caught off guard but he was able to dodge and deflect Harry's spells in good order. In his preoccupation with the new player added to the mix, he forgot about Sirius.

The short wizard joined his fallen companion on the floor of the battlefield. The dust hadn't even settled around his body before the last Unspeakable was thrown down next to him and left in no condition to get up again.

"Merlin's saggy balls, Harry!" Sirius exclaimed, pulling his godson in for a bone crushing hug. "I thought you were dead," he choked out.

"I might still be if you keep squeezing me like that," coughed Harry, reluctantly pulling away from the hug to clutch at his throbbing ribs.

"I saw the roof fall on your head. The wizard responsible—I took him out, but two of his spells flew loose and I didn't react fast enough. I…" Remus pressed his lips together. "I couldn't even stay to pull you out, and I tried but—"

"Moony, you're mad if you think I even blame one bit for what happened. Same goes for you, too," Harry said to Sirius. "You warned me about what I was getting into if I tagged along and granted, I didn't think I would end up buried under two metres of rock and metal," he joked, "but I knew anyway."

Personally, Sirius disagreed with his godson's assessment but he took one look at the boy and said, "We can talk some other time. I think we've extended our visitation right at the Ministry. Do you still have the prophecy?"

"No one touched the backpack."

"Good, then lets go before—"

The room sunk into darkness. The blue flames in the torches turned red as a deafening siren blared its horn into the room.

"—that happens."

Remus ran to the liquified doors on the floor but no amount of wand waving or ingenious Latin could get them to retake their positions on the walls.

"We're trapped," he said. "The doors aren't cooperating—I don't know enough about the magic they used here to even begin to reverse it—and the wards on the room make it impossible for any witch or wizard to…" Harry had stopped listening. He had an idea.

"DOBBY!"

The house-elf popped into existence wearing a yellow tutu, blue rain boots and a red floral beanie with holes cut out for his ears.

"Harry Potter called on Dobby! Dobby came as soon as he felt his Master's call," he chirped. "But Harry Potter is hurt. You should have called Dobby sooner, he has much experience with wizard wounds and knows many countercurses and potions for Dark Magics, too."

"Dobby, you can do that later. Right now we need you to take us out of here before the rest of the Auror department finds us," Harry rushed out. "Can you do that?"

Harry thought the house-elf was caught somewhere between looking insulted his abilities were being questioned and mortified that he even allowed himself such thoughts.

"Of course, Harry Potter sir. Dobby will save Mr. Potter any time after what he did for Dobby. Dobby owes Harry Potter everything, he does. Where does Harry Potter wish to go?"

"Grimmauld Place. It's—"

Dobby snapped his fingers once and the three wizards were pulled to his side. He snapped them again and Harry saw the room shrink and converge on a single point until it was swallowed up like a black hole and they were pulled in with it.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

They arrived at Grimmauld Place's sitting room three seconds later.

Sighing in relief, Harry stumbled over to the closest armchair and sank into it with a pained groan.

"Harry Potter is hurt," tutted Dobby. "Harry Potter should take better care of himself, there is only one of him in the world." And with that, Dobby clicked his fingers once more and disappeared with a pop.

Remus and Sirius approached where Harry was sitting and immediately started running the more complex diagnostic spells they knew. They frowned.

"Lots of cuts and bruises," muttered Remus.

"I could've told you that much," Harry groaned.

"It looks like your left side took the brunt of the impact when you were buried under the fallen ceiling," Remus continued. "You have a couple of broken ribs, the rest are just severely bruised. There's also something with your head…"

"Mild concussion, I think," said Sirius, "I got too many of them myself back in the old days not to recognize one when I see it. Your left shoulder seems to be out of sorts as well. I'd say it's on the verge of being dislocated if we don't do something about it, you'll have to wear a sling for a couple of days."

"Does that mean I get a break from training?" asked Harry.

Sirius snorted and said, "Maybe from me but you'll have to talk to Ms Hansforth and Moony about their lessons."

Another pop sounded in the room and Dobby came forward with an assortment of bottles held in his arms. Remus went to take them from him and together they arranged them on the coffee table.

"Mister Lupin is too kind to Dobby," said the elf, refusing to look up from his inspection of the potion labels.

"What are those for?" asked Harry.

"These are healing potions that Dobby has brought for Harry Potter to help with his injuries," explained the elf.

"Did you make these yourself?" Sirius picked up one of the bottles and examined it closely.

"No no, Dobby borrowed them from Madame Pomfrey's office at Hogwarts. Dobby has been working there since Harry Potter freed him from the evil Malfoys—" Dobby slapped a hand over his mouth, his huge eyes rounded in shock and fear. The house-elf abruptly turned on his heel and tripped over his own feet as he made a dash for the fire crackling in the fireplace.

Harry cursed. With a painful heave, he stumbled up from his chair and grabbed Dobby by the frills of his skirt. Though small and scrawny, the elf continued to struggle in his grasp with surprising force and without the numbing effect of the Pain-Relieving Charm, Harry felt every one of the elf's struggles on his own battered body until he let out a wheezing hiss through clenched teeth which froze the elf in his tracks.

"Dobby has hurt Harry Potter," cried the house-elf. "Mister Potter was only trying to stop Dobby and now he is worse pain than before. How can he ever forgive Dobby?"

"You saved us from dozens of Aurors bent on sending us to Azkaban and worse, then you brought us here and sto-borrowed these potions so that I would get better. I think, with everything you've done for me just in the past ten minutes, it should be no problem for me to forgive you."

Dobby was too choked up for words, his tennis ball eyes brimming with fresh tears as he gazed up at the young wizard who had saved him from his previous masters and shown him more kindness and compassion than he had ever known. Dobby's ears flapped against his beanie as he twirled around and wordlessly began measuring and mixing the potions.

"What was that about?" whispered Sirius.

"Dobby has this habit of punishing himself when he thinks he's done something wrong," Harry told him. "He just has to realize that since he's a free elf," he directed those pointed words at Dobby, "he doesn't have to worry about insulting the Malfoys—his former masters."

"Harry Potter is right, Dobby will try to be better," said Dobby contritely.

"It looks like you're in capable hands, Harry. Healing Magic has never been our expertise so it's a good thing we have Dobby here to take care of you. In the meantime, I think Padfoot and I should take care of our own scrapes and such," Remus suggested.

"Dobby has also brought Murtlap Essence from Hogwarts," the elf chimed in cheerfully, "it will help with cuts and bruises. There is enough for everyone."

Sirius was impressed. He bent down to be eye level with the house-elf and said very clearly, "Thank you, Dobby, you are a very good house-elf."

Dobby's entire face turned a darker shade of his normal skin colour, including his ears, and Harry noted with interest that this was probably how blushing manifested itself in elves.

After Sirius and Remus had left the room, Harry finally let go of his composure and allowed all his injuries to be felt. He didn't think there was a single place in his body that was not throbbing in agony.

He heard the elf muttering to himself as he got the remedies organized, "Harry Potter should not be hurt... too risky, needs to be more careful... still growing into his magic... will take some time..."

A shake of his shoulder encouraged him to open his eyes to slits and take the potion Dobby offered him without question.

He must have been given at least five different bottles before he felt drowsiness overpower him. The last thing he felt was a light pressure pushing on the back of his legs, arms and torso, like falling on a bed of bubbles, as he was levitated in the air by elvish magic.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Frank Bryce, an ex-soldier returned from the army sixty years ago, woke up with a sudden start as pain radiating from his leg pulled him away from the land of dreams. He puffed in annoyance as he snaked a hand down the bed to grasp at his aching limb. He'd taken a hit during the war all those years ago and the pain from that injury still bothered him like it had only happened the day before and not decades ago.

Tossing the covers aside, he clumsily got to his feet and padded over to his bedroom door where he kept his faithful walking stick. Positioning it to support his leg, Frank limped to the small kitchen in his makeshift cottage and took his time lighting a candle to turn on the stove and put some water to boil for midnight tea.

It was as he was setting the kettle down that some light emanating from outside caught his attention. Squinting against the darkness, Frank felt a wave of anger hit him like a freight-train as he realized what he was looking at.

Some rowdy, misbehaved teenagers must've stolen their way into the Riddle House again, only this time had the audacity to start a bonfire while he was asleep not twenty five metres away. He turned off the fire one the stove and grabbed a jacket from the closet next to the door. Limping outside, he grumbled on the path to the back door of the decrepit old mansion.

As he fished out the keys from his inside pocket he was taken back in his memories to a time when this same house had stood tall, proud and beautiful amongst all the other, more simplistic, houses that littered Little Hangleton, England. That had been way back fifty years ago when the Riddles, an affluent family consisting of an elderly couple and their adult son, had lived in the house.

Not surprisingly, the Little Hangletons in the village still referred to it as the Riddle House despite the number of different owners it had had since the Riddles' sudden and mysterious death. For those old enough to remember what had happened fifty years ago, they took pleasure in discussing the case with the younger generation, spinning the same tale in so many different patterns that nowadays it was impossible to tell what the real version was anymore.

But Frank knew what had happened.

Fifty years ago on a warm summer's night the Riddles had sat down in their dining room to enjoy a minor feast for dinner. Frank had been eating his own meat stew in his cottage when he spotted a teenage boy with dark hair and fair skin walking up the path to the Riddle home. He'd rung the bell, Frank presumed, for the door had opened instantly as he got to the porch. Nothing interesting had happened after that, the Riddles got many visitors to their home on a daily basis so Frank had thought nothing of it and had continued devouring his stew with gusto.

It was the next morning when one of the maids had walked into the drawing room to perform her daily cleaning tasks, that she'd stumbled upon the sight of the three Riddles. Dead. Their eyes had been wide open, their faces contorted in an expression of horror and their bodies unmarked.

She'd immediately run screaming out the door, shouting to all the villager who would listen and rousing those who weren't.

"It's the Riddles! They're dead! Lying there with their eyes all open! Still in their dinner clothes!"

The villagers had crowded the woman and demanded to hear the details of what had happened. They cared not for the Riddle family, no one did, so none of them bothered with faking grief when there was a much more exciting mystery to behold.

The police had surrounded the mansion and taken the bodies away. For days speculation ran wild in the village as to who could have been the cold blooded killer. It wasn't until Frank Bryce—the Riddle's gardener for some considerable years—was arrested that the villagers finally had their answer.

Though some had been reluctant at first to believe such horrible allegations of the former army soldier, public pressure of opinion soon had everyone convinced that the police had arrested the right man. It therefore came as a shock to all when Frank was let go on grounds that the police had no evidence to tie him to the crime other than the fact that he lived on the grounds and had a key to the mansion's back door.

The medical report on the bodies of the Riddles had come back completely clean. No poison in their systems, they weren't bludgeoned, stabbed, suffocated, shot, strangled, or even harmed at all. The coroner had reported—in a rather bewildered tone—that the Riddles had all been in perfect health and the only thing to note about their bodies was how their faces seemed to have been fixed in fright.

But the police were forced to acknowledge that that information was useless – after all, whoever had heard of someone being frightened to death?

To this day the villagers of Little Hangleton still considered Frank to be the guilty culprit but he spent his days tending to the gardens of the mansion and rarely ventured out of the property so he paid them no mind.

The house had fallen to ruins since then; roof tiles had fallen off, ivy had crawled its way to the surface and most windows had been shattered through by teenagers throwing rocks at them from their bicycles as they passed by. Nothing of its old grandeur had survived.

He reached the door that was almost completely covered in ivy and put the key in the lock. By some grand miracle the hinges made no sound as he pushed the door and entered the expansive kitchen. It had been a long time since he'd been inside these walls but he remembered the way nonetheless and groped around for the next door that would lead him further into the house.

Reaching it, he opened it slowly and walked out into the hallway. Off to his right he could see a sliver of golden light casting a light shadow on the dark and dirty flooring. Not wanting to spook the kids before he got a chance to really scare them himself, Frank tried his hardest not to make a sound as he approached the narrow gap that stood between the open door and the wall. Little puffs of dust billowed out from where his feet hit the ground and he had to fight the uncontrollable urge to sneeze and blow his cover.

Frank inched closer and closer to the door. He peeked through the small gap. Surprisingly enough, the light he had seen coming from inside the room belonged to a fire that had been lit in the grate. He was just about to barge into the room to disrupt whatever shenanigans those vandals were up to when the timid voice of a man speaking caught his attention. It sound fearful and distressed.

"There is a little more in the bottle, My lord, if you are still hungry."

"Later," responded another voice. This one was different. Whereas the first voice had been timid and submissive, this one held a tone of dominance and power despite the apparent strain that the speaker must've been under. This voice encouraged fear and was cold like a winter's night. "Move me closer to the fire, Wormtail."

Stepping closer, Frank caught the vision of small, pudgy man in a long, black robe approaching a heavy looking chair. The sound of wood scraping against wood filled the room as the small man pushed the chair closer to the roaring fire.

"Where is Nagini?" asked the icy voice.

"I-I don't know, My Lord. She set out to explore the house, I think..." he trailed off in a quiet whisper and let out what sounded like a whimper.

"You will milk her before we retire, Wormtail. I will need feeding in the night," said the second voice. "The journey has tired me greatly." A pause followed, then the one named Wormtail spoke again.

"My Lord, may I ask how long we are going to stay here?"

"A week. Perhaps longer," a terrible silence followed this statement. "It would be foolish to act before the Quidditch World Cup is over."

Certain that his old age had finally caught up to him in the form of impaired hearing (there's no such word as Quidditch), Frank shook his head to get rid of any cobwebs and pressed even closer to the door.

"The-the Quidditch World Cup, My Lord?" Wormtail squeaked out. "Pray, forgive me, but why should we wait until the World Cup is over?"

"Because, fool, at this very moment wizards are pouring into the country from all over the world, and every meddler from the Ministry of Magic will be on duty. They will be obsessed with security, lest the Muggles notice anything. No, we must wait."

Clearly these people were either spy or criminals as they were speaking in some sort of code that Frank could not stand to decipher. But one thing was clear, they were planning something. Something big.

"Your Lordship is still determined, then?" said Wormtail quietly.

"Certainly I am determined, Wormtail." There was a hidden warning in the voice that Frank could not help but take notice of.

There was a pause, then Wormtail's words started to mesh together, so hurried was he to get the statement out that his words tripped over each other.

"It could be done without Harry Potter, My Lord."

A deeper pause followed.

"Without Harry Potter?" the other voice hissed out. "I see..."

"My Lord, I do not say this out of concern for the boy!" he exclaimed. As his voice kept rising, his words spilled out faster. "The boy is nothing to me, nothing at all! It is merely that if we were to use another witch or wizard—any wizard who wasn't as well protected—this could be done so much more quickly! If you allowed me to leave for a little while, I could be back here in as little as two days with a more suitable candidate—"

"I could use another wizard," said the cold voice, "that is true... I do wonder..."

"Yes, My Lord?" squeaked Wormtail excitedly.

"Could this generous," the dangerous emphasis on that word made the hairs on the back of Frank's neck stand on end, "suggestion on your part be a clumsy and ill begotten attempt to desert me?"

"My Lord!" Wormstail's voice rose squeakily. "I—I have no wish to leave you, none at all –"

"Do not lie to me!" hissed the other voice. "I can always tell, Wormtail! You are regretting that you ever returned to me! I revolt you. I see the way you flinch when you look at me, feel you shudder when you touch me..."

"No! My devotion to Your Lordship—"

"Is nothing more than cowardice. You would not be here if you had anywhere else to go. I cannot survive without you, when I need to be fed every few hours. Who is to milk Nagini?"

"But you seem so much stronger, My—"

"Silence! I am no stronger than I was before, a few days without your clumsy care and I would be robbed of the little health I have gained."

Wormtail had stuttered his way into silence at the other man's hissed shout. The cackling of the fire was all that could be heard for a while.

"I have my reasons for using the boy. I have already explained myself to you and I will not venture into the matter once again. As for the protection surrounding the boy, my plan will prove successful nonetheless. All that is needed is a little courage from you, Wormtail – courage you will find, unless you wish to feel the full extent of Lord Voldemort's wrath –"

"My Lord, I must speak!" Panic was easy to distinguish in his voice now. "Bertha Jorkins' disappearance will not go unnoticed for long, and if we proceed, if I kill—"

"If?" Whispered the other voice. "If you follow the plan, Wormtail, the Ministry need never know that anyone else has died. I wish I could do it myself, but I am in no condition... Come, Wormtail, one more death and our path to Harry Potter is clear. By that time, my faithful servant will have rejoined us—"

"I am a faithful servant!" sulked Wormtail.

A cold, indifferent laugh followed this statement and Frank could not focus on what was said next. His path was clear now. He had to get out of the mansion unnoticed and alert the police to the plans of these madmen. This Harry Potter boy's life depended on him doing so. They'd already killed someone else—a woman—and he had no doubt that they would do it again.

The cold voice pierced through Frank's thoughts once again and, against his better judgement, he stayed put and listened to what was being said.

"One more murder... my faithful servant at Hogwarts... Harry Potter is as good as mine, Wormtail. It is decided. There will be no more argument. Be quiet... I think I hear Nagini..."

At this, the second man's voice changed. He started making odd hissing and spitting sounds that Frank had never heard before.

Suddenly, Frank felt a presence behind him. He turned to look and froze in his spot at the sight before him. There, slithering across the dark floor and towards the door he was standing at, was an enormous snake. Its undulating body kept coming ever closer, sweat was building up on Frank's forehead and the man had to fight with himself not to let his walking stick fall from his slippery hands.

Fortunately, the slithering reptile seemed to not have noticed he was there and kept on its path to the spitting and hissing noises coming from the lit room. When the tip of its tail had passed the doorway, Frank released a relieved breath of air.

He'd reacted too soon.

"Nagini has interesting news, Wormtail," said the cold voice.

"In-indeed, My Lord," sputtered Wormtail.

"Indeed, yes. According to Nagini, there is an old Muggle standing right outside this room, listening to every word we say."

Frank was given no time to hide himself from sight. Fast footsteps were heard approaching the door before it was flung open.

A man stood quivering in front of Frank. He had a pointy nose, a small amount of greying hair to cover his round head, beady, watery eyes and a grimace on his face. The short man's eyes widened upon spotting Frank and a bead of sweat appeared on top of his head to run down his forehead.

"Invite him inside, Wormtail. Where are your manners?" mocked the high-pitched voice from inside the room.

The submissive did nothing except open the door even wider, gesturing for Frank to walk inside with a trembling hand that held an oddly shaped stick.

Frank's eyes sped back and forth, taking in every detail of the situation he was in, trying to find a way out so that he could alert the authorities. However, that plan was quickly shot down as he felt something warm and slippery slither over his shoe. Too afraid to look down, the old man realized that they had him effectively cornered and cursed himself for not having bade his exit when he had the chance.

Walking forward on unsteady legs, the unidentified man spoke to him from his chair.

"You heard everything, Muggle?" it spat.

"What's that you're callin' me?" said Frank defiantly. Some of his courage started to make an unexpected appearance but he gripped onto it with debilitating strength.

"I'm calling you a Muggle. It means that you are not a wizard," informed the voice.

"I don't know what you mean by wizard. But I do know enough to inform the authorities about you lot. You've done murder and you're plannin' more!" Sudden inspiration hit Frank and he announced, "I'll tell you something else, my wife knows I'm here and if I don't come back—"

"You have no wife," interrupted the evil hiss. "You told nobody that you were coming. Do not lie to Lord Voldemort, Muggle, for he knows... he always knows..."

Frank bristled at being called a liar, even though it was true. But he couldn't possibly know that.

"Lord, is it?" he snarked. "Well, I don't think much of your tone, My Lord. In fact, your manners are poorly lacking, why don't you turn around and face me like a real man?"

"But I am not a man, Muggle," whispered the cold voice, "I am much, much more than a man. However... why not? I will face you... Wormtail, come turn my chair around."

The servant gave a pathetic whimper and screwed up his face in obvious disgust and reluctance. Not wanting to anger his master, the little man scurried over to the chair and grunted with the effort it took to turn it around.

The snake at Frank's feet had slithered to stay in front of him, it shot its head up in the air and let out a low hiss, it's forked tongue sticking out of its mouth.

All of a sudden, the chair was facing Frank. His cane clattered to the ground. His heart sped up, his head started throbbing, his palms got sweaty. He could hear a terrified scream off in the distance as he stood staring at the-the... thing in front of him. The aching of his throat told him it was him that was screaming so loud.

There was a flash of green light and Frank Bryce crumpled to the ground. His heart had stopped long before his body hit the dirty floor. He was dead.

Three hundred miles away Harry Potter woke up with a start.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Stretching along the bed, Harry yawned far and wide and cracked open his sleep crusted eyes. He was in his bedroom in Grimmauld Place. He relaxed back onto his pillow and dutifully ignored the itch in the back of his mind which was pushing him to remember something important.

His right arm reached out to grab his glasses from his bedside table. A bump followed by a muttered curse was heard in the room as he doubled over in pain and nursed his red forearm.

No matter how rude of a wakeup call, the pain helped clear his mind and he started to recall what had happened the day before. Still moving a bit sluggishly, he propped his glasses on his face and disentangled himself from the sheets to go to the bathroom.

He went through the process of relieving himself and washing his hands and face without issue save some pangs of discomfort. It was when he placed his glasses back on and caught his reflection on the mirror that his limited thoughts whirred to a halt.

His face was a kindergartner's attempt at fingerpainting the night sky, his skin was splashed with black, blue and purple with streaks of deep red and angry pink where gashes had been carved into the mesh of bruises. The image only extended to the tops of his shoulders and as he stepped back, he started the fun game of matching each injury to the duels and incidents of the day before.

Harry poked at his shoulder with a finger and breathed in sharply as the harmless action incited a lighting bolt of agony which spread all around his shoulder and up his neck. He didn't bother putting on a shirt as he walked out of the room and headed straight to the kitchen.

Halfway down the stairs his steps were interrupted by a searing pain from the scar on his forehead which blinded him and forced him to come to a stop. He winced and pressed a finger against it, willing the ache to fade away. His memories of the dream he'd just had—or rather his vision, as he now preferred to call it—came to the forefront of his mind once more. He resolved to share what he'd seen as soon as he found Sirius or Remus and resumed shuffling down the stairs.

Harry was not the least bit surprised to find Dobby manning the stove like a professional chef and dishing out eggs and sausages like a well trained army cook. He shook his head at the tiny elf and felt a warm stirring in his chest as he regarded the small creature who had done so much for him and asked for nothing in return.

"Master Harry Potter, sir! You're awake!" Dobby let go of the spatula in his hand, where it stayed hovering in the air, and rushed toward Harry's side, wrapping himself around Harry's legs in an attempt at a hug.

He quickly pulled away when he realized what he had done and the tell-tale blush Harry had observed the night before blossomed on his round cheeks. The small creature dropped his head to stare at the dark floor as he twisted his hands in front of himself.

Anticipating Dobby's descent into another one of his self-flagellation episodes, Harry spoke up.

"It's good to see you too, Dobby. And thank you again, for everything you did for us." Harry took a look around himself and added: "And continue to do for us apparently."

The chair groaned under his weight as he settled himself down while Dobby plopped a plate down in front of him piled high with all types of food. Harry dug in with the appropriate gusto, only moderately slowed down by the pain in his shoulder and ribs and he was more than halfway done by the time Sirius and Remus made an appearance.

After a brief discussion about who should be tasked to do the dishes—Dobby insisted on doing them himself but the others argued that it was Kreacher's turn to do something around the house—Harry asked for his godfather and Remus' attention as he prepared what he had to tell them.

"Last night I had a dream," he started, "about Voldemort and when I woke up, my scar was hurting. In the dream..."

Harry told them everything that had happened. He scavenged through his memory for every single detail in case one of them held some special significance to them but nothing seemed to clue them in as to who the special servant could be.

Though Sirius and Remus wanted nothing less than to dismiss what Harry was telling them as nothing more than a strange and detailed dream, their belief in him never wavered and a reminder of the prophecy striked through any lingering doubts.

An unnatural stillness followed the end of Harry's speech. Sirius and Remus were deep in their own thoughts. Harry felt like he knew exactly what they were thinking. Here, finally, they had conclusive proof that the prophecy was true. Voldemort was coming back. Soon.

"Harry Potter will defeat him again," whispered Dobby.

Harry whirled around in surprise to see Dobby by the kitchen sink, holding a white cloth in his hands and twisting it around thoughtfully. The elf seemed to be trembling on the spot and Harry found himself both curious and terrified to find out what had happened to the house-elves during Voldemort's reign of terror.

"He will," said the elf. "Harry Potter will fight the Dark Lord and win again. He will protect everyone."

In the face of Dobby's unwavering faith, Harry fought with himself to hold the elf's gaze as he felt his breath knocked out of him. The weight he'd been carrying ever since he first heard of the prophecy—no, ever since Voldemort broke into his family's home and marked Harry in an unspeakable way… That weight shifted, trembled, and settled on his shoulders with a sigh.