Molly Weasley would be damned if she was going to let Harry Potter keep her from going to her own home. There was a potion that she thought might help George. It took a full month to brew, and couldn't even be started until the full moon, but she had a store of it at the Burrow. Everyone told her not to go. Everyone told her that Harry would likely have Death Eaters watching the Burrow in case any of them let down their guard to return. Everyone told her that Harry would capture or kill her if he found her. She told Everyone to go to hell. Her son could be dying. She wasn't going to let such a ridiculous threat keep her from doing everything she could to save him. And she didn't buy for one minute that Harry would ever cause her harm. No matter what he had become, he was still Harry, she was sure of it, and her Harry would never hurt her.
Unfortunately, Everyone had been right. That was her first thought upon seeing the heavily cloaked and hooded figure sitting in the dark at the scrubbed kitchen table at the Burrow. Her second thought was "shit."
She stood rooted to the spot, staring at the man who slowly raised his head and met her eyes. Green eyes, round glasses, so familiar, like one of her own sons.
She didn't make a move to run. It was stupid perhaps, but she had no choice. Many things kept her there: she supposed fear was a part of it, but there was more. Part of it was anger at the boy she had considered one of her own. Part of it was a refusal to let him dictate what she did in her life any more than he already had, but most of all, she stayed because this was not Lord Voldemort sitting at her kitchen table. This was Harry, and as a mother, she saw that he needed her.
His face was partially obscured by his hood and the only feature she could clearly make out was his eyes. They were sad and scared, but mostly they were tired. They were not the eyes of the Dark Lord.
"Harry," she breathed, her word puncturing the thick silence that had fallen in the room. He didn't speak.
"Oh, Harry," she said again, struggling to no avail to hold her tears.
Molly's weeping was the only sound as Harry continued to look at her. Finally, in a voice so quiet she could barely hear him, he spoke.
"You're not afraid of me?"
"Not of you, dear, no. It's Him I'm afraid of."
Harry lowered his eyes. He looked utterly dejected. Was this the terrible threat she and her family had been fighting against? He seemed less dangerous than a garden gnome. This was her Harry sitting before her, she was sure of it.
"I've done terrible things," he whispered.
"No, you haven't, Harry. He has."
Harry's head snapped up, and for a moment, she saw a flash of what he had become.
"It's been me, not Voldemort," he hissed. "I'm…I'm responsible." The anger left his voice with these last two words, and he sounded almost repentant.
"My Harry would never do those things," Molly answered quietly, not sure if she'd be killed for her insolence. "I know he's in you, Harry. Maybe he's making you think you're in control, but I know you're not."
He lowered his eyes again.
"Maybe," he whispered so quietly she could barely hear. "But then, I'm just weak. And this is still all my fault."
"It's not your fault," she said firmly. "You…" What could she possibly say? "You did your best." She was amazed at the emptiness of her attempted consolation. She felt like she was consoling one of her children for not winning a Quidditch game, rather than for failing to keep Lord Voldemort from possessing and controlling them.
"I could have done more," he whispered. "I could have tried harder. I could have thrown myself in front of a bus. I could have…" He trailed off.
She moved toward him, not really sure what she was going to do, but thinking of hugging him.
He stood up suddenly, drawing his wand, and she stepped back. His eyes were no longer dejected and sad. They were dead.
He looked at her, and she looked at him. She felt no sympathy or love for the creature now standing before her. This wasn't her Harry. This was Lord Voldemort. She now felt fear, but above all, she felt anger.
After what felt like eternity he spoke.
"You will not be so lucky again."
Without another word, he turned on the spot and Disapparated, leaving Molly shaking with fear in her own kitchen.
He didn't know why he had gone to the Burrow. It was not something one usually did in the midst of killing innocents and planning world domination, but something unknown had drawn him there. He had vague ideas of finding information on the Order's hideout that his Liberators had missed, but that was all but impossible considering that it was under the Fidelius charm.
No, something more had drawn him there; something he didn't want to admit to himself. He had felt…What had he felt? Was it regret? It couldn't be. He had moved past such petty emotions.
But when? When had he moved past them? And why? He didn't want to feel those things. He was above those things. But was it him who had moved past them or was it Voldemort?
He thought he knew where he stood. He was Harry Potter. Voldemort was a presence in him, but not the dominant force driving him. Voldemort was subservient to him. Harry was in control. But was that true?
He tried to step back from his own mind; to discern exactly where Harry left off and Voldemort begin. He tried to make sense of his actions and how much of them were of his own volition. He found it nearly impossible. When had Voldemort become so much a part of him that he didn't even feel the difference? He hadn't even noticed the change.
When he thought back, he realized that in the beginning, Voldemort had been entirely separate. When he had killed Lucius, and when he was on the run, Voldemort had actually been speaking to him in his mind. He was able to switch back and forth between the two consciousnesses. At St. Mungo's even, Voldemort had still been talking to him, but then, Harry had willingly accepted Voldemort into his consciousness. Is that when it had changed?
When he thought about it now, he realized that Voldemort hadn't spoken to him since that day. Why hadn't he questioned this before now? It was as though in accepting Voldemort's influence, they had merged into one. If that was the case, how much of what he was doing was of his own will? It wasn't as though he regretted anything he had done, but he didn't like the idea of acting on the will of another.
He remembered clearly the events of his former life, but the emotions he had felt during that time eluded him. It was only when he came to places where he had felt particularly strong emotions that he was able to recall them with any clarity. And even then, it felt as though something foreign was invading his mind. Shouldn't it be the other way around? Shouldn't Voldemort's thoughts and emotions feel foreign to him rather than his own?
For a moment, the idea that he was no longer Harry at all but Voldemort flittered across his mind, but that was impossible. He could be certain that these thoughts he was having now were his own. If he was Voldemort, he wouldn't be having these thoughts, and if Voldemort was in control of him, these thoughts wouldn't be allowed.
He had powers equal to and in some ways, surpassing those of Lord Voldemort. There was no doubt that this was the direct result of Voldemort's presence within him. He had Voldemort's memories, but they came to him as easily as if they were his own. Sometimes he recalled a particular event and had trouble deciding whose memory it actually it was. Surely this effect wasn't limited to memories, but permeated his reactions to things and decisions regarding courses of action as well?
He had been under the impression that he, Harry Potter, had chosen to take this path into, as they called it, "Darkness." He had been betrayed by those who claimed to love him. He had sacrificed everything for those who would so easily abandon him. He had seen, through their actions, the superficiality of those values and beliefs he had once clung to so dearly; he had once fought for. He had felt the ecstasy of power and control and had embraced it, not because he had become Lord Voldemort, but because he had seen the errors of his previous ways. But was this completely true?
He had gone to the Burrow unclear of his intentions. He had walked through the familiar yard where he had once played Quidditch, were he had once had a row with the Minister for Magic and told him he was "Dumbledore's man through and through." He had seen the garden he had once degnomed after escaping from the Dursleys, feeling happier and more at home on that morning than he ever had before. It was the yard where he had been given Molly Weasley's dead brother's watch on his seventeenth birthday and where, without words, he had been shown that he truly was a part of their family. He had gone into the kitchen where Molly had made him more delicious meals than he could count. He had gone into the living room where he had once spent Christmas listening to Celestina Warbeck and talking to Remus Lupin about his father. He had gone upstairs and couldn't resist going into Ginny's room, where he had shared a kiss that never left his thoughts during his time on the run from the force he had now embraced. He had, for the first time, had doubts.
It was different at Hogwarts and in the Forbidden Forest, because this was a place where only Harry had memories. Voldemort had never set foot in the Burrow and Harry therefore was free to feel his own memories without the confusion of Voldemort's interfering.
Coming back into the kitchen with the intention of leaving, he found himself unable to walk back through the door. He sat at the kitchen table and tried to suppress the emotions forcing their way into his consciousness. And then, in an almost impossible coincidence, Molly Weasley had arrived.
For a moment, he had considered killing her, but he found he just didn't have the energy. He was so tired, and these strange emotions were definitely taking their toll on him. He should have left right away, but something had kept him there.
She hadn't been afraid of him. She had told him that she didn't blame him for what he had done. He wasn't responsible.
But he was responsible. Didn't she understand? He had done those things. He had felt, during that conversation, the first stirrings of guilt and regret. Those feeling had vanished quickly, but he had felt them, and now he didn't know quite what to do with them.
She had made a move to hug him, and he had reacted in anger. Molly Weasley could love anyone she felt needed love, but he was not going to allow her to…forgive him? Was that why he had reacted that way? Because he didn't deserve her sympathy? Or because he didn't want it as he originally assumed? Admittedly the idea of a Mrs. Weasley hug hadn't repulsed him. That alone was reason enough to suspect that he was not totally under the influence of Voldemort, but it was dangerous nonetheless. He had chosen his path. It was too late to turn back now. These misgivings meant nothing. They were unfounded and the result of nothing more than the residue of his former self. He would not allow himself to question himself any further. This was simply the way things were; this was simply who he was now. Voldemort had influenced him, there was no point in denying it, but he had willingly accepted his influence. He and Voldemort were one. It was not something to regret, but something to embrace. There was no other way and, even if there was, Harry was not going back. He was Harry Potter and he was Lord Voldemort. Distinctions between the two were no longer relevant. He would continue on the path fate had chosen for him. And he would continue without regret.
"So what did he do to you?" Alice asked bluntly.
Hermione felt her cheeks grow warm as she looked down at the table where she and Alice sat. She was unable to meet the werewolf's eyes.
"You know he was the one who bit me?" Alice said conversationally when she didn't answer, and Hermione's eyes snapped up to meet hers.
"He was?" she asked, not altogether sure why she was surprised.
Alice nodded. "I was fifteen and home from Hogwarts over break after fifth year. My father was a Death Eater and when my mum found out she left him, but she didn't bother to go into hiding. The Death Eaters came and killed Mum because my father asked them to kill us, but Greyback wanted me for himself."
Hermione stared at Alice, not sure how to respond. She had spoken lightly, as though she were telling Hermione about a particularly unexciting Quidditch game rather than these terrible events.
"I'm s-sorry," Hermione stuttered finally, but Alice waved her off.
"It was a long time ago."
"But you can't be much younger than Lupin," Hermione said against her will. "Surely he would have known if there was another werewolf at Hogwarts with him."
"I never went back," she said simply. "Greyback was trying to rally the werewolves and I wanted no part of it."
"But he wouldn't have been able to get to you at Hogwarts, would he have?"
"Probably not, but I already had my O.W.L.s, and to be honest, I wasn't really thinking clearly. Dad had just betrayed us, Mum was dead…I sort of had a meltdown to be honest."
"So what did you do?" Hermione asked quietly, trying to imagine what this woman had gone through at such a young age.
"Well, after a year or so of living on the streets of Muggle London, John found me and helped me realize that just because I was a werewolf, I wasn't necessarily evil. He introduced me to a lot of other werewolves who were living on the fringes of society, but still managing to live among wizards. Remus was one of them. After enough time passed, I changed my name and came back out into the open. The Ministry still knew I was a werewolf, but You-Know-Who and Greyback didn't know who I was. By then, I don't think they really cared much anymore anyway."
"You changed your name?"
"Yeah," Alice answered, and for the first time Hermione heard a jagged bitterness in her voice. "My name was Dorothée Dolohov."
Hermione drew her breath in quickly. "Dolohov? You're related to Antonin Dolohov?"
"I was related to him," she corrected. "He was my father. Let me guess: You've had run-ins with him?"
"He almost killed me in my fifth year," she said quietly.
Alice crossed her arms and looked away, biting her lip. It was hard to read her expression. Was it anger?
"It doesn't matter though," Hermione said quickly. "We're not going to judge you for it here. I mean, the old Headquarters was donated by Sirius Black."
Alice snorted. "Lupin did mention something about Black being innocent. I didn't believe him at the time. But anyway, I told you my story, now you tell me yours. What did Greyback do to you? Don't bother denying it. I saw the way you looked at him. You've got revenge on your mind."
Hermione looked away again. She suddenly felt very embarrassed. She didn't have nearly as much of a reason for a personal vendetta against Greyback as Alice did.
"Well, he really hasn't done anything all that terrible to me, especially compared to what he's done to people like you and Lupin…"
"Don't do that," Alice said. "He hurt you in some way. Don't make it seem like it wasn't a big deal."
"But it really wasn't anything. He would have done more but we escaped before he could. It's more just who he is, I guess. He's disgusting. I'd rather die painfully at the hands of Voldemort himself than have Greyback ever lay another claw on me," she finished vehemently.
"What about Greyback?" Bill asked, coming into the room. He nodded at Alice, whom he hadn't yet met. She was looking curiously at his face, but with an open expression. Usually, when people met Bill for the first time, they had trouble looking at him, and refused to look into his eyes. If they did, it was always with pity.
"Oh, well…er…" Hermione said, reluctant to tell Bill the truth. "We've…Well we've got him."
Bill's expression was unreadable, but she thought she saw his fists clench.
"Are those from a werewolf?" Alice asked, gesturing at his face.
Bill looked at her now, as though trying to make sense of her. He nodded. "Greyback actually."
"You're a werewolf?" Alice asked uncertainly.
"No," Bill answered. "He wasn't transformed when he attacked me."
"I'm sorry," Alice said flatly, with a disgusted expression. "He's not…we're not all…"
"Bill, this is Alice," Hermione cut in. "She's been working for us. I think I mentioned her in a meeting a while back."
Bill nodded, still looking at Alice.
"I know you're not all like Greyback, if that's what you were going to say," he said firmly. "Hermione, where is he?"
"He's downstairs—"
"With Ginny?" he cut in.
"No, we moved her into a bedroom upstairs."
"He's alone down there?"
"No; John, Alice's friend, is guarding him. They were the ones who brought him to us." Hermione smiled appreciatively at Alice.
"What are you going to do with him?"
"Give him up to the goblins eventually. I've questioned him a bit, but I was afraid I was going to get too carried away. It's hard to think clearly when that monster is in the room. I would have started using Unforgivables, I think, if Ron hadn't suggested that we calm down before questioning him anymore. Honestly though, I don't think we'll get much more out of him. Ron's already gone to get the goblins."
"Does he know anything?" Bill asked.
Hermione shook her head. "It's pathetic, really. He's little more than a rallying point for werewolves, and hired savagery. I don't think he's anything more to Voldemort than something he can use to threaten people. He did tell us where Voldemort's working out of, though: Malfoy Manor. Apparently he's too smug to bother with the Fidelius charm. Do you…Do you want to see him?" she finished tentatively.
"No," Bill answered at once.
"No?" Hermione was surprised. "Why not?"
Bill shrugged and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, the door to the kitchen opened and Ron came through, followed by a group of goblins.
"He's in the basement," Ron said, pointing at the cellar door. "Do you want help?"
"We can handle it," an unfamiliar goblin said snidely, leading his group down the stairs.
Only a few minutes passed before the goblins returned in the kitchen, carrying the unconscious, heavily bound and bloody form of Fenrir Greyback.
"Thank you," the leader said as they passed on their way back out the door.
"What are you going to do to him?" Hermione asked curiously, with only slight misgivings.
"Oh, he'll be killed," the goblin answered, "but not for a while yet. We intend to show You-Know-Who exactly what happens to those who cross us."
As the goblins left, Molly came in, squeezing by the last of the goblins on their way out the door. She didn't seem to notice them at all as she entered. She was shaking and her eyes were red, as though she had been crying.
"Is everything okay, Mum?" Bill asked, moving over to her.
"Oh, yes," she said unconvincingly. She was carrying a potion in her hand which she handed to Hermione. "Give this to George, will you?"
"You went to the Burrow?" Hermione scolded as she took the potion.
Molly ignored her. "I need to see Ginny. Is she still downstairs?"
"No, she's in the third floor bedroom. Molly, what happened?"
Molly waved her off as she pushed past her and out of the room.
Those remaining in the kitchen exchanged confused looks before Hermione went in to where George had been laying unconscious in the living room for over a month. His face was deathly pale, and he hardly seemed to be breathing. His wife, Lavinia, was sitting beside him, looking nearly as pale.
"Is that the potion Molly said might help?" she asked hopefully.
Hermione nodded and uncorked the vial. Before she could pour it into George's mouth, a scream came from somewhere overhead.
"She's gone!" Molly shouted, running frantically down the stairs. "Ginny's gone!"
A/N: Bleck, I hate this chapter, especially the last section, but everything needed to happen, and I just couldn't seem to make it work right, so I decided to post it as it is and get working on the next, which I think will prove to be a lot better. Normally I would just keep working on it, but I'm trying to get this story at least close to done before school starts up again.