Harry ran, his sneakers sending wet mud splattering up the back of his legs. It must have rained recently. The lamppost shone in the distance, the light at the end of the tunnel that Harry's vision had become. If he could only reach the lamppost, then everything would be OK.

Harry heard a very faint thud, and then a collective shout. Or had the shout come first? He didn't know. He only knew how to run. Finally, an eternity later, Harry thrust his hand out, like a relay runner passing off the baton to the final sprinter, and touched the rusted black metal, small in comparison to the immense proportions it had grown to inside his head. The lamppost.

Nothing happened.

Harry tried to remember what came next, but his mind firmly resisted his attempts to retrieve his mother's instructions. Where was he to go? What was he to do? If he didn't find the meeting place, surely his mother would just come and find him. He wouldn't have to wait for long, he was sure of it.

Harry sat on the hard pavement, waiting.

Waiting….

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With a start, Harry jerked awake. The sun, a ripe peach hovering on the horizon, was just beginning to peek its head over the edge of the world, and dawn began to break, ushering in a host of faint yellows and gentle oranges. He had had the strangest dream.

He looked up – and found himself staring up into the face of the homeless man who had nudged him awake with his foot just a moment before. Upon seeing his discovery show signs of life, the man shuffled off into the shadows, searching for any other treasures the night might have left for him.

Harry yawned and considered going back to sleep. The pavement wasn't bad, not really. A bit dirty, but he didn't mind that. He was just so tired. But why wasn't he in his bed, at home? How had he come to be lying on that particular patch of concrete? Where was his mother? What had happened last night?

Harry tried to remember. He got the impression that he had been running somewhere, his sneakers pounding an uneven path across the grass and mud. Had he been running to this spot, or somewhere else entirely? Through the fog, Harry could make out his mother, smiling. Disjointed phrases floated up through his memory. "Run", "Snape", "Dumbledore", "don't trust". How curious. Harry wondered vaguely who he wasn't supposed to trust, Snape or this Dumbledore, or if they were indeed the same person.

He was still very tired. Almost like he had been poisoned, or else hit his head very hard, both of which he had had experience with through the course of his training. The image of a young man triumphantly holding his fist in the air wormed its way to the surface of his mind. He seemed to be very tall, like a building looming over him. But the man's face looked strange, as though Harry was staring up at him. Had he been lying on the ground then, too? And who had he been running from? Was his mother OK?

Thoroughly confused now by his defective memory, which was tauntingly showing him just enough of the overall picture as to keep him from giving up entirely at working out the previous day's events, Harry reluctantly pulled himself to his feet.

He wondered what he should do next. But after waiting there for another few minutes and still unable to make any sense of his surroundings, he could wait no longer. He had been there for at least eight hours. Surely his mother would have come to him by now, had she been able to.

Staggering to catch his balance by grabbing the lamppost, the two names once again drifted to the surface of the one-way mirror his mind had become. "Snape, Dumbledore. Snape, Dumbledore. Snape, Dumbledore." His feet marched to their rhythm. "Snape, Dumbledore. Snape, Dumbledore. Snape, Dumbledore."

Harry spied a café and stumbled toward it, noting that both women sitting at the tables in front of the cheery little building were carrying wands. Possible threats. He pushed open the door and walked inside, a task that would have been made much easier if there hadn't been three doors to choose from, all swimming across his field of vision. His head was killing him.

"A bit too much Firewhiskey last night?" the woman at the counter asked sagely. "Try this, it will help." Harry gratefully accepted a cup of something and drank it. It burned the back of his throat, but stabilized his vision.

"Thanks!" Harry gasped. "Er, I don't have any money to pay for this…"

"Don't you worry about it, dearie. Just tell your friends about us. Hogwarts, I expect? Or are you foreign?"

Hogwarts…. Without even bothering to answer the woman's question, Harry asked, "You wouldn't happen to know a Snape Dumbledore, would you?"

"No, sorry love, that name doesn't ring any bells. I do know of an Albus Dumbledore, though; maybe he's related to your Snape Dumbledore? Rather unusual last name. I take it you must be foreign, then. He lives up at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He's the headmaster, you know. Quite brilliant. Bit eccentric, though, I heard. If you do decide to go and visit, you'll have to Apparate to the village of Hogsmead and walk the rest of the way. Security measures. I have a sister up there. Rosmerta."

Harry was rendered speechless by how smoothly things were turning out. Or perhaps that was just a side effect of the potion. He managed to choke out a 'thank you' to the woman and strode back out the door with newfound confidence. He would just have to go on up and talk to this Dumbledore and sort this whole mess out. Harry crossed into a neighboring alley and, thinking "Hogsmead!" as hard as he could, turned on his heel and disappeared.

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Bellatrix's eyes snapped open, suddenly alert, her mind buzzing with its first activity in twelve hours. Her body, very stiff after being pressed up against a cold brick wall for half a day, screamed in protest as she attempted to shift her position, but the manacles allowed for very little movement. She half-heartedly struggled against the chains for a moment, and then, bowing to the inevitable, resigned herself to simply glaring defiantly at the heavy wooden door that completed her prison. She willed it to open, but to no avail. The door stayed shut and the chains stayed firm, the manacles having already rubbed her wrists raw.

Her splitting headache was making it difficult to concentrate. Her previous injuries had all vanished, some reduced to nothing more than another scar, criss-crossing her arms, legs, and torso. They wound their way up her body, snake-like. They told her life's story, laid out in plain terms. Each one had a memory, and each screamed of her own weakness. She usually kept them hidden.

But the Death Eaters would have removed any previous traces of magic, in addition to healing all old wounds, such as those sustained during the capture. It was standard procedure. It made what was to come so much more painful, allowed the interrogator to start with a fresh, whole body, and denied them no amount of pain to cause. That night, if she survived until then, she was sure they would do the same again. And then repeat the day's fun a second time the next day. And a third, until the victim broke or lost their sanity. Whichever came first.

She wasn't sure if she would fancy insanity. But as the former wasn't a choice at all, the latter was the only option left. Insanity. Or perhaps, if her dear old friends were feeling generous, an early death.

All this time, Bellatrix had been carefully surveying her surroundings, her eyes sharp, looking for anything that might be of the slightest use. The only problem was that there was exactly nothing in her cell. She saw that she had been given deluxe accommodations; her cell was slightly larger than the rest, allowing for easy maneuvering. Trying very hard not to think about what the extra room would be needed for, Bellatrix continued her inventory. Her hands and feet were both manacled and attached to the wall by relatively short chains. A chink of light could be seen through the tiny barred hole at the top of the door, contrasting with the ravenous darkness of the cell. She couldn't hear anything, but for the steady drip of water in the shadowy corner.

She couldn't hear anyone.

That wasn't good. Either the Death Eaters had sent her to a remote, sparsely populated prison for only the most dangerous of enemies, and she was amid the Death Eaters' Most Wanted, or they had already cast spells around her cell in preparation for the coming interrogation. She couldn't have been hanging for more than a day. She herself had left prisoners for weeks before getting around to them, during the Dark days. Holding back a snort, in spite of her predicament, she couldn't help but feel that Malfoy needed her information rather badly.

She closed her eyes, steeling her mind, dreading the worst, as every one of her own captives had undoubtedly done. Every prisoner anticipated the worst during Preparation Time, fears that theirs will be the next cell door to bang rudely against the unforgiving stone walls and signal impending doom. But only one would hear the sound of footsteps grow nearer and nearer, would overhear disjointed phrases of a calm, easy conversation, its owner in no hurry at all. One would watch with dread as the door inched open, and would finally welcome their guest with wracking sobs, knowing what was to come.

The screams would start.

And in the surrounding cells, the prisoners would relax and settle back into the uncomfortable chains, hearing the agony, glad it wasn't them.

Bellatrix strained her ears against the darkness, her heart pounding, dreading the approaching footsteps.