Unwelcome surprises

The limestone quarry, Southern England

Late evening, 18th December 2000

Harry felt awful. Aside from his physical discomfort (being in the dark cold wet cave without a food for too many days), he had to face emotions which he wasn't very proud of. And things were quickly getting worse. He wondered whether he might end up as Riddle who had already undergone some sort of a mental breakdown. He could also easily vent his stress by crying, wailing and begging for mercy. Harry glanced at his companion and disregarded this thought. It would be an option if he was imprisoned with anyone but Voldemort. Still if the Dark Lord could show more weakness than him, he had to think whether he wasn't completely loony yet. How else could he explain that he was sitting beside the murderer of his parents, the slaughterer of many innocents, beside the man who was prophesized to kill him and/or vice versa, and doing nothing at all? They should be having a death match, not sharing this place in nearly companionable silence. While he waited for Voldemort to speak he pondered this might be a good thing in the end. If he were crazy, he wouldn't suffer so much very likely. Besides, being mad would give him a bright new perspective of his life. He wouldn't have to pretend that his hatred towards this man and his followers is stronger than his desire to stay alive. He could effortlessly accept the fact that it is normal to feel it this way.

The world used to know before was all too simple, black and white – no grey places. Voldemort deserved to die and he did his best to make sure of it. But it's all different now. He needs him alive and sooner or later he'll have to ask him for a help. Harry had no idea life can be so absurd.

"So?" he prompted Voldemort to speak. His thoughts were exceedingly disturbing and he wished he could pay attention to something else.

The Dark Lord's face curved in disdain. He remained silent, plucking his broken claws away.

Harry decided to get some answers from him.

"You said I could have left you behind. How is that possible?"

He heard a long exasperated sigh before Voldemort spoke coldly.

"It's simple, Potter. Aren't you a wizard? Haven't you considered a possibility of using your magic to get out of here?"

Harry snorted, scratching his bearded cheek.

"Yeah and how would I do that without my wand?"

"Typical," Voldemort grunted and to Harry to his great displeasure he had to wait another minute before the Dark Lord spoke again.

"Tell me Potter, do you think it's your wand what makes you a wizard?"

"Of course not!" Harry spat angrily. "But I can't do magic without it!"

"Oh, really?"

The youngster chuckled bitterly.

"So you think I can! What an interesting idea, Tom, but I hope you can explain then why we use wands in the first place when we - according to you - don't need them at all."

Voldemort stood up abruptly and sneered down at Harry from his respectable height.

"You are such an arrogant and uneducated whelp, Potter. We use wands because they make us superior. Every person or creature gifted by magical abilities wants to be a wand-carrier. Have you ever heard this term, boy?"

Before Harry could say a word he continued.

"Honestly, I'm extremely disappointed. After that show you performed in Hogwarts I thought more highly of you."

"First, I'm not a boy! Second, I've heard that term before. And third, you still haven't told me how I could get outside, while you couldn't." Harry retorted.

Voldemort's red, cat-like eyes narrowed, which Harry couldn't see, but he registered the way they burned in rage. A hissing sound filled his ears.

"Insufferable brat! Now I see why Snape couldn't stand to be your teacher."

Harry resisted a childish urge to stick out his tongue.

"You don't see the point, Potter," the Dark Lord spoke in harsh tone after a short pause. "Magician and a wand gradually form a sort of symbiosis. This process makes wand-carriers much stronger than anyone of those who do not carry the wand. There are many hundreds of thousands of wizards all over the world, but only thousands of them are using wands, Potter. Let's say it's mostly our European specialty."

Harry suddenly understood.

"That's why you are trying to take over the world from Europe. You think that only here you can meet the strongest opponents!"

The Dark Lord ignored Harry's comment.

"But we pay a prize for this symbiosis," he whispered coldly. "The longer you use the wand the more you become dependent on it. At some point you temporarily lose the ability to channel your magic without this instrument. For a kid like you it should have been hours before you are able to use your magic properly. For me it was a question of days ... which is too long..."

Harry slowly absorbed the information.

"Does...," he began, but he had to cough to clear his throat, "does it mean that I was able to apparate away just a few hours after that ... incident?"

Voldemort's pale lips widened into a shark-like smile.

"Precisely. If you have at least average magical skills, then yes, you could have tried to apparate, but seeing your dispositions I would doubt the success anyway."

Harry slowly rose to his full height, gritting his teeth.

"I successfully apparated without a wand when I was only eight years old!"

He watched Voldemort's grin fade away.

"I was chased by Dudley's gang and in an attempt to escape them I apparated on the roof of school kitchens."

Harry relished in the fact that Voldemort was speechless.

"Could you apparate as a kid?" he taunted him.

"Of course I could," the Dark Lord retorted, regaining his composure. "I used this ability to irritate children in the orphanage. I hid their possessions on places where they couldn't retrieve them. It was funny at that time. But you're the first magician I know who could do the same."

Harry shook his head.

"Hardly. You did it on purpose while in my case it was merely an accident. Anyways, we shall get back to our business concerning Apparation out of this friggin place..."

The Dark Lord's expression turned back into the cruel grin.

"Go on. Apparate. I wish to see your body splinched."

Harry blinked.

"What's the problem?" he asked, not truly expecting the answer. He was surprised to receive one.

"What's the problem, boy?" Voldemort sneered and sat back on the boulder with some difficulty, his voice cold, bitter and ironic. "It depends what's your conception of problematic situation. If you count the fact that we've been found, judged and condemned to death, then I would agree that our problem is right there."

Harry stared.

"Why you are so surprised, Potter? You surely know that there is an army of Aurors tracking me all the time. It was only a question of few days before they found us. Now, tell me boy, how does it feel to know that no one is brave enough to come here and rescue you?"

"You ... you lie," Harry muttered.

"If you don't trust me Potter, why don't you try to apparate? You'll never get over the wards around this cave."

"YOU LIE!" he screamed in disbelief.

Voldemort laughed sadistically.

"Ah, you're such a naive kid! And what a lovely friends you have! They decided to let you die. How very kind of them, isn't it? Tell me brat, does it hurt you to know that you've been betrayed?"

"No!" Harry choked, fisting his hands focusing all his willpower on Apparation. He turned on the spot and felt himself being drawn down a rubber tube. He learned all too soon that the tube was blocked - he hit something so hard that he felt every bone in his body bend in awkward angles and then he was falling backwards, choking, gasping for air.

"Oh, welcome back," a high cold voice sneered from somewhere above him. "Did you enjoy your short trip?"

Harry opened his eyes, feeling weak and cold. He realized he was lying on the ground while Voldemort was leaning over him, looking overly satisfied.

"Still in one piece, what a pity," he added somehow disappointed.

Harry had many choice words to say about the matter, but why to support Voldemort's amusement? He rather kept his mouth shut, but his emerald eyes were quite eloquent. Thinking quickly Harry refused to believe that Riddle was right. There was surely another explanation why he couldn't get outside, but for now he had to put up with the fact and get over it.

"Okay," he growled finally, sitting up. "It doesn't work. What's the plan B?"

The older man's mirth rapidly disappeared.

"There's no plan B, boy." His cold voice was hollow at once, emotionless and Harry looked up, trying to judge Voldemort's expression. The man made it easier as he knelt down to him.

"There's nothing else we can do."

There was a hint of fear. Harry heard it and nearly felt it radiating from his opponent. There was something wrong about it. He didn't want to see Voldemort experiencing such pitiful emotions, proving him that he might not be as monstrous as he showed to the world. If Harry was sure about one thing then it was the fact that he could never kill a human being. Thus it bothered him deeply that the Dark Lord still possessed some basic human qualities. He should never learn this about him.

Voldemort fortunately turned his face away, trying to regain self-control.

Harry breathed out loudly through his nose.

"So you ran out of ideas, didn't you?" he asked, meeting his glare again. Now he could see the reason for Riddle's despair, which also endowed him with a certainty that he wasn't crazy yet. Voldemort lost all hopes while he didn't. Harry gazed into the blurry sanguine eyes and didn't feel a need to look away. Besides, he had an advantage - Voldemort was on his knees - right where he wanted him to be. His lips twitched and formed a small smile.

"I guess it's my turn now."

*****

London, the Ministry of Magic

19th December 2000, shortly after the midnight

Candles. Satin bed. Golden furniture. Soft cracking coming from a fireplace. Ron stared in amazement. He has never seen such a fabulous room before.

"Come on, Ron! We don't have a time."

The ginger youngster blinked and shook his head when Hermione tugged at his hand.

"Hermione, look at this! It's simply fantastic," he breathed, following his girlfriend in awe. "This is incredible. I bet not even Umbridge live in such luxury. One would never believe what secrets are hidden in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Strange, I really thought I know them all."

"Don't be so surprised Ron," she whispered, quickly came to the mahogany table and started to attentively list through letters collated on the desktop. "I'm sure this room wasn't here at the time. The current inhabitant moved in just a week ago."

Her eyes scanned several letters at once.

"Interesting," she whispered for herself and checked another parchment. "Everything is in French, no ... no ... Romanian I think."

Meanwhile Ron began to inspect the area and stopped by the plushy bed with a purple coverlet. He couldn't resist a temptation and sank into the satin sheets.

"So all of this stuff belongs to that strange guy who let everyone call him the Leader?" he mumbled testing the quality of material between his fingers.

She raised her eyes off the lines and scowled at him.

"You would do much better if you watched the door. I'd prefer not to get caught."

Ron grinned in reply.

"Oh, don't worry. George and Percy are doing their best to keep the guards off."

She sighed.

"I bet they do, but still ... I don't like being here. I don't like it at all."

"Remember, you wanted to come here in the first place," Ron taunted her. "It's you who have a fixed idea that in this particular room is a key to Harry's rescue."

Hermione made a noncommittal noise and quickly opened another envelope.

"Oh my god."

Ron sprang to his feet and came to stand behind her.

"Have you found something?" he asked eagerly.

"I don't know ... maybe. Look at this. The text is in Romanian, but here is Harry's name and here – look D. Malfoy - it must be Draco Malfoy. It ... it seems to be written in blood..."

"Humph, Umbridge obviously started to implement her old torturing techniques," he mumbled and brought her back to bed, where they both sat, listing through the pages.

"What's there?" Hermione asked suddenly and Ron followed her gaze and realized she's no longer staring at the sanguine neat handwriting, but on a large purple pillow partly covered by the bedspread. She moved there and lit the tip of her wand. He quickly noticed what caught her attention. There was a large black stain over the silky material and several drops of the strange liquid on the bed sheet.

"Ink?" he suggested, but she shook her head. Her skin was suddenly very pale.

"No, I don't think so. I ... I think it's time to leave."

But Ron was too curious to let the puzzle unsolved. He leaned forward and grasped the cushion. It was still wet. He cursed and wiped his hands into his trousers, leaving there a long sanguine trace.

"Bloody hell...," he managed to choke out. "What ... what kind of sick person is he?"

"Look," Hermione whispered and her finger pointed at the place where the pillow had been. She didn't dare to move any closer. Ron hesitated for a moment but then he mustered his courage and leaned forward. A long white tubular object was carefully arranged between silky blankets. He carefully seized it and opened the lid.

"Something's inside," he whispered.

"Ron..."

"It's okay. It looks like a parchment – no, hang on, it's some kind of a cloth."

He pulled it out, ignoring Hermione's protests, and carefully started to unroll it. He nearly laughed aloud when he realized what it is.

"It's just a painting, Hermione," he chuckled after seeing a stunned look in her sallow face. "Portrait maybe? Let's take a look."

Hermione's trembling hand pointed the shining tip of her wand toward the portrayal and once Ron saw the image he screamed in shock and jumped of the bed. She didn't make any sound as she covered her mouth by her hand just in time.

"Bloody hell ... bloody hell," Ron repeated several times, refusing to believe his eyes.

The male face on the picture was extremely pale in contrast to his jet-black hair and a dark background. His features, which surely used to be handsome, had been blurred; they were waxy and distorted. The whites of the eyes had a bloody look giving him an expression of ultimate malice. There was no doubt who the man was.

Ron produced a gurgling sound, goggling at the painting.

"What kind of sick vicious depraved being can sleep on a bloodied cushion with a portrait of ... of You-Know-Who under his head?"

Voldemort on the picture sneered in annoyance.

Hermione after seeing this fought the urge to faint; her knees were too weak to keep her upright.

"Let's get out of here, Ron, please, please let's get out of here. It was a very bad idea of me. I admit it. I admit everything! But please, let's go!"

She grasped his hand and he uttered only a weak "Yes," before he grasped the painting, forced it back into the tube (ignoring the Dark Lord's black scowl), threw the pillow over it and they both sprinted towards the door as if there was a devil at their heels.

R & R