Freedom

Freedom. noun

the state of being free or at liberty rather than in confinement or under physical restraint

exemption from external control, interference, regulation, etc.

the power to determine action without restraint.

political or national independence.

personal liberty, as opposed to bondage or slavery

Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Harry Potter Universe. I'm just playin'

Part Two

Chapter Fifteen

Mindscape

Harry learned to delegate.

While he strove to learn all that he could about vampires and – more specifically – about mating, he had Hermione look into the Ministry Laws surrounding them. Hermione was still incapable of learning anything without sharing that knowledge, and so he was quite frequently interrupted by outraged "Did you know…!"s, which ensured that he learned about certain aspects of the laws at the same time. He'd also requested that Snape write a report on the intricacies of Vampire society; how they worked, how they were ruled, the use of covens, their politics and policies, everything.

As an afterthought, he'd asked Remus for the same, concerning werewolves. He knew what the books said about the magical races, but he also knew that books were insufficient. When he'd been learning about purebloods and their ways in society, he'd learned just how useless most books were about the actual details. Why restrict himself when he had a perfectly willing werewolf and vampire available to educate him?

There were other things as well: he'd assigned Moody to taking charge of the training between Order and Aurors, Dumbledore and the Goblins were still working on the Horcruxes and others in the Order were gathering information on a wide variety of subjects; namely other magical creatures, the classification of Dark Arts, and an in-depth study of those darker magics that had been banned over the last century. True, when they were done it would mean a lot more reading for Harry, but it was something he was looking forward to.

Saturday evening found Harry in the library, waiting for his two friends to finish preparations for his risky venture into Voldemort's mind. It had been agonising to wait these last few days once the decision had been made – especially as those days turned into months spent in the trunk – he'd been so sure that Snape would be summoned and discovered and killed, but he had been reluctant to start before he made his visit to his cousin, in case something did go wrong. Seeing Dudley again had been emotionally exhausting and just plain weird for the most part, but it had been good to sit down and actually talk to him in a way they never had before.

The first surprise had been finding his cousin in the Longbottom Library, totally engrossed in a thick dusty tome that seemed to detail the separation of magicals and muggles and the inception of the Statute of Secrecy. Dudley had never been bookish before; in fact, Harry couldn't remember a single time he'd ever seen the boy with a book open in front of him, and yet he looked completely at home, even writing notes using a quill and parchment without even looking up from the text.

Physically, Dudley looked good. He had been wearing a combination of muggle clothes and wizarding robes; tailored black trousers, a light blue shirt to match his eyes, and a black open robe over the top, and he looked like he belonged. He would never be small and wiry, but he wasn't anywhere near as big as he had once been. True, most of the bulk had been shifting over the last few years of wrestling rather than in the few months he'd been in the wizarding world, but the fact that he'd kept up with a diet and exercise routine even in a whole new world was impressive.

Harry had always gotten the impression that the Dowager Longbottom was a bit of a nightmare – something like a cross between Snape and McGonagall at their worst. She was certainly a perfectionist, and expected nothing less from those around her, and Harry had been worried when he'd learned exactly who his cousin was living with. Dudley had never taken well to authority. If he hadn't seen the unmistakable affection that had grown between the two of them with his own eyes, he wouldn't have believed it. Dudley had a respect for Augusta Longbottom that Harry honestly hadn't thought him capable of, and he doted on her as much as she did him.

Still, not everything had been sunshine and roses. Just looking into his cousin's blue eyes revealed a look of such utter devastation that it made Harry's heart ache to think of it. Dudley had been exhausted and still slightly sluggish from his days of sedation, but he'd still managed to dredge up a weary smile for his younger cousin. Harry found himself wondering if he even knew Dudley at all.

Harry sat back in his chair and rubbed at his eyes, sighing. Their conversation had been awkward and stilted and full of apologies that they each waved off.

He'd been stewing in thoughts and feelings since he returned; sorrow for his cousin's grief, guilt that they had been in Azkaban to start with, horror that Voldemort had done this as some sort of apology to him, proud that Dudley had adjusted to the wizarding world so well, and even a little jealous that he he'd found his place here so soon, when it had taken Harry himself years…

Shaking his head, Harry leaned forward and forced his attention onto the open book before him. It was time to focus on the second of the three subjects his mind refused to let drop, that one damn word repeating over and over from his conversation with the vampires. Mates.

Mating

While it is true that the different magical races have their own individual rituals and customs when it comes to mating, all forms follow three general rules: Mind, Body and Soul. Unlike human marriage, mating is a lifelong commitment and is irreversible. That does not mean that the mating cannot be rejected – but to reject a mate is no simple matter. Many magical races have only one chance to mate, and to deny them that is to deny them any chance at love and – in some creature inheritances, even cause death.

The mating rituals are varied, but all contain a joining of the mind, the body and the soul. The Call is also only activated when the potential mate comes of age, not just physically but magically as well. There are no secrets between bondmates; the first ritual, the bearing of the soul, allows the mates to introduce themselves and strips away the desire to keep personal information personal. This is followed by the meeting of the minds, where each mate shares in the memories of the other, leaving no stone unturned. Then there comes the Consummation, where magic, mind, soul and body are joined as one in the act of sexual intercourse. The completion of these three laws of mating forms a bonding that transcends marriage and any other binding known…

The bearing of the soul. Harry sat back in his chair with a frown, his mind turned back to his initial meeting with Snape and Remus that year. He remembered the feel of his magic reaching out, entwining with both professors, and he remembered the conversation where they had shared nearly everything. He couldn't deny it; he'd spoken more to them about his time with the Dursleys, and his encounters with Voldemort, than he had to anyone, and he wasn't particularly pleased to learn that it had been something of a compulsion, or at the very least, that the magic had lowered their inhibitions.

Did the older wizards know?

They must have done. Snape and Remus were mates, they'd explained that during the same conversation, so they had experienced all of this before. He didn't understand why they hadn't told him what was happening; surely, he had a right to know?

Unless they didn't plan to go through with it?

His frown deepened as he recalled all of the teasing and light touches that he'd tried so very hard to ignore. If they didn't want him as mate, why would they do that? Sure, they'd noticed his attraction to them, smelled it at the very least, but neither man was particularly heartless and that's what it would take to tease but reject him. Merlin but it was embarrassing; especially when his mind latched onto the third and final part; the consummation. Still, perhaps it wasn't so wrong that he felt the way he did, if they were mates, then didn't that more or less mean that they were made for each other?

Werewolves

For Werewolves, the mating call is simple in design but given the nature of the lycanthropic disease, it can also be quite complex. Once mated, a werewolf is able to transform around their bondmate(s) during the full moon without any risk of the wolf hurting or infecting the partner(s). To mate with a werewolf is, essentially, to mate with two different beings; the human and the wolf. Most werewolves become accepted by their inner wolf and thus share certain traits, such as an increased sense of smell, greater strength, and sharp sight, but they are different. At the very core, Humans are animals, but we have surpassed the baser instincts. The wolf, however, is all instinct; it wants little more than to run, to hunt, to play, to procreate.

Unlike other magical races – such as Veela – a werewolf is more likely to have two mates. This is not as cleanly cut as to say one for the man and one for the wolf, because each mate has to be accepted by both, and thus must have characteristics that both find attractive. For example, a man might like his mate to be intelligent, perhaps even dominant, but the wolf will like him for his scent, taste, his cunning. By nature, the wolf is dominant and so at least one of the mates must be submissive.

Oh, but didn't that bring some interesting images to mind? Harry sighed again and rubbed at his eyes. He knew from his talks with Sirius the previous year that Remus had never been one to accept the wolf; the man absolutely loathed what he was. However, the changes in him this year suggest something there has changed; Remus now looks so much younger and stronger than he had even a few short months ago. He had a great deal more energy, as well. Did that mean that he'd given up the long battle with himself and come to accept his… other half?

If Harry was to accept that he was indeed a potential mate, then he had to wonder if he was just the mate of Remus, and thus resented by Snape? But no, the vampires had called him Snape's mate…

Merlin, he wanted nothing more than to hunt the two professors down and demand an explanation. His mind was awash with what if's and his emotions were constantly churning from an almost desperate hope to dread and disappointment. Hera's words of 'Expect the worst but hope for the best' the philosophy his mind seemed set on adopting. Glaring, he flipped through the pages until he came to the relevant information for the Potions Master.

Vampires

Vampires are a race that thrive on formality and ritual. As such a long-lived race, it is highly unusual to find a vampire wanting to rush into anything, and so the mating usually involves an extended courting. While this courtship includes the base rituals of soul, mind and body, the vampires have enhanced the rituals almost beyond recognition. There are gifts, ceremonies, outings, chaperones, and the courtship has been known to go on for decades. Because of this, it is unusual for a vampire to find a mate outside of their own race. There is also a large difference between mates and true mates.

This is not to say that mating with humans or even other races are discouraged; Vampires also acknowledge that the bonding of true mates as sacred, and thus the courtship is both to express gratitude and to offer celebration to Lady Magic herself.

The rarity of true mates and the longevity of the vampire means that lesser bondings have been made to provide companionship. As with human marriage, the mating call is above all such bindings and makes them null and void.

"Harry?"

Harry looked up from the pages to see Hermione standing before him, her shrewd gaze darting from his face to the book he had been so absorbed in. Flushing, he slammed the book closed and quickly pushed it off the table, but he already knew he needn't have bothered. Not only was it too late, but to blatantly hide something from his sister was just begging for her to investigate. He sighed.

"Yeah?"

"What are you doing?" She asked, suspiciously, edging around the desk to try and see the book's title.

"Just a bit of reading." She just looked at him. "I'll tell you later, promise! Did you want something?"

Sending him a look that clearly said you'd better, Hermione let it drop for now. "It's time. Are you sure we should be doing this?"

"No." He sighed. "But I can't stand the thought of Snape going back to him. We need something else. How's your research going?"

"Slow."

As Harry stood and started packing things away, Hermione again tried to catch a glimpse at the book – so much for letting it go.

"You know I'm going to find out anyway. You might as well just let me read that while we're babysitting, and then I'll know what we need to discuss tonight." Rolling his eyes, Harry slapped the book back on the table. Her eyes gleaming with victory, Hermione snatched it up and led the way from the library, hugging it close to her chest.

"So, everything is prepared?"

"Luna is currently dogging Snape's every move, and Neville is on the headmaster." While the waiting had indeed been horrible, they had at least managed to do a few dry runs, and with the added time from the trunk had perfected both their Legilimency and Occlumency. Harry could now enter their minds with barely a whisper, a far cry from the bulldozer Severus Snape had been the previous year. With strong mental defences, an Occlumens will always note the presence of a Legilimens, but they had soon discovered that his bond with Fawkes allowed him to mask his presence and breeze through his friend's defences without notice.

Theoretically, it should be a great deal easier to access the mind of Voldemort without being discovered; he and the Dark Lord already had an established link, after all.

They had also discovered for certain that removed memories could be felt, but that their content was more of a distorted bruise on the mind than anything else and nothing could be gleamed from it. Everything that might be incriminating had been placed in a pensieve; should things go wrong; Voldemort would learn no secrets from him.

Ron and Hermione would both be watching closely, using Legilimency to dip into his mind every few minutes to ensure that he was still him. Should something go wrong, they would alert Luna and Neville, who would in turn inform the two Master Legilimens that Harry needed immediate help.

In the safety of their trunk, Harry settled back onto his large bed, legs crossed in front of him and back leaning against the headboard. They had no idea how long he might be gone, and so had decided it would be better to be as comfortable as possible. His friends sat opposite him, Hermione with the book and Ron with a chess set to keep themselves occupied. Fawkes settled on his lap, those intense eyes locked on his with both exasperation, disapproval but also understanding burning into him.

Still, he worried that the sheer lightness of the phoenix would draw attention, would perhaps even cause harm to Voldemort just as Harry's touch had burned Quirrell.

'I can cause him some damage if you take me with you.' Fawkes admitted. 'But I would need the intent to do so. For now, I merely come to hide and protect you in this foolishness.'

With all the training the golden trio had had in the mind arts, one would think he'd be used to having his thoughts lifted from his head. Harry sighed and reached out, parting the fires of the bird to caress his soft feathers.

'You know why it is necessary.' He chided gently. 'I cannot lose him.'

'We cannot lose you.' Fawkes countered. 'You cannot hide from me. I know why else you do this, and I tell you again, he is lost.'

Harry flushed, averting his eyes. It was true that since his meeting with Dumbledore and his exploration of those memories, a large part of him was desperate to know if there was anything left of the boy Tom Riddle had been. He had tried seeking out those who might have known Tom before he became Lord Voldemort, but it was harder than he had expected and the vast majority of them were dead.

Voldemort didn't like to leave loose ends.

It wasn't just that; if Dumbledore was right, then there were at least four more soul containers out there, and they had no idea where to look. If he could glean their whereabouts, or even confirm their existence, then this risk would have been worth it.

A surge of warmth and confidence surged along his link to the phoenix, and Harry reluctantly turned his gaze back to him.

'I understand your need to do this.' Fawkes said, nudging his head against Harry's hand. 'I will be with you all the way.'

Unwilling to spend any longer arguing with himself or the phoenix, Harry spared a short nod to his two friends and closed his eyes, searching out his inner Hogwarts and the door to that third-floor corridor. He opened the connection and pushed his consciousness onto the other side. He had to resist the urge to secure the door behind him; the last thing he wanted was to be trapped in the mind of the most powerful dark lord in centuries, but he was unsure whether leaving the door open even a crack would allow the parasitic horcrux freedom from its confinement.

Voldemort's mindscape was a literal battlefield. The ground was blackened and cracked with huge crevices like open wounds. The sky was dark and stormy, lit briefly by furious flashes of lightning. The air was thick and oppressive and it pressed down on him making his movements sluggish and weak. The barren landscape was daunting, and Harry wondered if it was a reflection on the madness of Voldemort's mind.

No, there was not a hint of thought or memory, this must merely be his first line of defence.

He had expected something like his own mindscape here, but ordered and tightly controlled. He had a feeling that what he was seeing here was a sort of visualisation of Voldemort's shattered soul, fractured and mangled beyond belief.

But was it beyond repair?

He wandered with absolute care, seeking out traps and deceptions. There was nothing but desolation for as far as the eye could see, but the further he walked, the heavier the air became until it was like trying to move through thick syrup. Harry paused and chanced a look behind him; the door back to his own body was just a few steps behind, following his every move. He realised that the landscape itself was a trap, he had no doubt he could walk through it for miles and never see a change, never note that the air itself was suffocating him.

Harry closed his eyes and reluctantly meditated on the Horcrux inside him, mapping it out with all senses until he knew how it felt, tasted, smelt, looked and even sounded, the slight but ever-present hummmm. When he was sure it was as close as possible, when he had a firm grip on his connection with Fawkes, he pushed his magic out to fill that mould, theorising that the automatic defences of the Dark Lord would be unable to tell the difference between them, and then he could do nothing but hold his breath and wait.

He knew that back out in the 'real world', Hermione and Ron would be able to feel the difference in his aura, would note as his normal tight control seemed to slip and the very feel of his magic distorted into a dark and terrifying presence. Now, Hermione would begin her frequent brushes into the edges of his mind, to make sure that it was still his.

Almost immediately, the oppressive weight of the air began to lighten, slowly, slowly, until it was gone entirely. He let out his breath somewhat shakily, but smiled a tight smile of triumph – something appeared on the horizon, and he walked towards it.

There was a tree there, vast and sprawling. It was dead; it's trunk and limbs a sickly looking white, it's branches laden with writhing serpents that looked more like vines from afar. Harry approached it with a growing anticipation, and as he neared, he noted that though lifeless, the tree held an almost unearthly beauty. Even this had been split asunder, a thick oozing wound almost splitting the trunk in two.

Upon closer inspection, he saw that the fetid ooze was actually a distortion of memories, a collage where each individual piece had lost its meaning to the whole. It stank, like an infection too deep to cleanse, rancid and festering.

A loud series of hisses reached him from the branches, the serpents – every one of them and Merlin but there must be hundreds – fixed glowing red eyes upon him.

'What seek you?'

Harry smiled grimly, grudgingly acknowledging the genius of Lord Voldemort. Even should a master Legilimens break through this far, they would be unable to access anything unless they spoke parseltongue. It was an excellent defence as he and Tom were the only living speakers, and he vowed to use the idea in his own mindscape; there would be nothing more secure, especially after Voldemort was gone.

'I seek the boy Tom Riddle.' He hissed back, with all the arrogance and confidence he could muster. 'Show me my past.'

And it was that easy.

There were only a handful of memories, nearly all of them from before Tom reached six years of age; brief flashes of intense emotions, mostly hope and wistfulness. Harry watched with a sad familiarity as the little boy dreamed of his wonderful and loving parents, every day hoping they would turn up at the orphanage and rescue him, that his mother's death had been nothing more than a malicious lie. As he grew slightly older, those dreams began to falter and instead he hoped for a loving family to adopt him. Merlin, how many times had Harry hoped and prayed for the same as he lay in his little cupboard?

As a young child, Tom's treatment at the orphanage was indifferent at best, and outright bullying at the worst. The older children thought his pretty and fragile nature made him weak and easy prey, and the caretakers took no notice, never once stepped in to stop them. It wasn't that bad, at first. A foot stuck out here, food stolen there, an accidental elbow to the gut…

That child hardened, that expressive face became controlled, and the childlike wishes turned to promises of revenge. It was like watching one of those flipbooks; it started out innocent, and then as the pages flashed by, Tom Riddle morphed into the Dark Lord. The memories stopped when he was in his third year at Hogwarts – when he became Lord Voldemort and Tom Riddle died in his own mind.

Harry staggered back once the onslaught ceased, his chest tightening with the sorrow of the now dead child. If only someone had adopted him… if only he had been well cared for, instead of belittled and bullied. To think what the world could be with a man bearing Voldemort's genius but with sanity and compassion at its helm. He knew the muggles debated nature over nurture where some argued that people could be born 'evil' or 'different' while others insisted it was the way they were raised, and he had to admit that the young Tom Riddle had been a prime example of both arguments.

He looked around but could see nothing else that might indicate a deeper access into the mindscape, so he looked at that hole in the tree with narrowed eyes. Everything here was dead, from the landscape, to the tree, to the memories, to the boy they represented. He didn't want to get any closer to that disgusting ooze of broken memories, but he had a feeling that was the only way onwards.

He stepped closer and was suddenly hit with the smell of the tree's infected lifeblood and the stench hit him hard at the back of his throat until he was heaving. It was death. Rot. Putrefaction. He knew how mindscapes worked, he knew that the smell was only now apparent because he expected that it should stink, but knowing that did nothing to lessen his reaction to it. Breathing shallowly, Harry eyed the hole and hissed out a somewhat hesitant 'Open', half hoping that nothing would happen.

Unfortunately, with a groan and a creak that sounded remarkably like a ghostly wail, the hole began to grow taller and wider. He couldn't wait to see if it would get big enough to walk through, however; the slow ooze of broken memories turned into a gush. He had time enough only to wonder if Voldemort would feel the change, but knew he couldn't merely assume that he wouldn't. He either needed to retreat back to his own mind immediately, or step on through and stop the flow.

It felt thick and slimy as he knelt and crawled through the liquid death, his body recoiled wherever it touched. For a moment, he cursed his recklessness, wanting nothing more than to forget this whole mess and return to reality. He paused in his attempt to push through the opening and really considered turning back. The wood on either side of him felt like flesh and it seemed less that solid, like it was deliberately closing in around him, bending to him, encasing him. He would later wonder at the many connotations there were about pushing through the womb and what that meant about Voldemort, but he was so utterly disgusted and repulsed that his mind had fallen back onto the age-old survival question of fight or flight.

Only two thoughts allowed him to continue; Snape, writhing on the floor at Tom Riddle's feet, suffering under multiple Cruciatus curses, and Fawkes' comforting presence that spread a warmth that surrounded him like a shield and separated him from his sense of touch.

When he came out on the other side, he wasn't quite sure what he was expecting, except perhaps more of the same. Instead he crawled out into a grand hall, with dark polished wood flooring and a light blue ceiling interspersed with gleaming gold symbols. All along the walls on either side were large gilded fireplaces and a set of golden gates sat at the far end of the room. It was the Atrium in the Ministry of Magic. He'd recognise it anywhere after his two visits; first for his ridiculous trial of underage magic, and secondly on the night he got Sirius killed.

The only significant change was the statue in the centre. Once there had been the beautiful group of golden statues featuring a witch, a wizard, a house elf, a goblin and a centaur standing in the centre of a large circular pool and jets of crystal blue water spouted from various points; the wands, the arrow, the hat, the ear, and cascaded down into the pool. Now, stood a gigantic statue of black stone depicting a witch and wizard sitting on thrones carved from the flesh, blood and bones of muggles. The words Magic is Might were engraved in large clear letters at the foot.

Harry frowned as he looked around, suddenly feeling very small and alone. If the previous trap had represented the death of innocence and youth, this area had to have something to do with Voldemort's egotistical side. Though considering he wanted to rule the bloody world like some kind of villain from a spy film, it shouldn't be surprising that he would use the seat of wizarding political power as part of his mindscape.

Upon closer inspection, he saw that the flames of the fires were all memories, but he was brought up short when he tried to get a better look by some sort of barrier. He eyed them curiously, seeing small ghostly faces in the flames flicker and disappear only to be replaced with other ones. He saw mouths open, words spoken, but he heard nothing. He wasn't here for memories, though, and so it was with a strange feeling of reluctance mingled with relief that he turned his back on the fireplaces and started walking through the atrium.

What he needed now was to find the way to both the conscious and subconscious parts of the mindscape, to where he could hear Voldemort's thoughts, delve into his plans, and look out of his eyes. The books he had read had been of some help, but with the way every mindscape differs, it was impossible to write down exact instructions.

He followed the guiding nudge from Fawkes, but the phoenix couldn't speak to him directly without alerting the Dark Lord. He passed through several completely different locations; a forest, a cave, an old abandoned manor, but the deeper he went into Voldemort's consciousness, the more he came across areas of utter blackness. It wasn't like a room with the lights out, it was more like an abyss and the darkness was a ravenous clawing hunger that continually tried to swallow him whole. Without the phoenix there, Harry had no doubt he would have been lost.

He quickly realised that the rooms and forests and caves he came across were actually little pockets of sanity amongst the stark bleakness of ever more encroaching madness. It was a terrifying sight and an even more horrifying feeling, and again Harry found himself overwhelmingly grateful for the phoenix's shielding. He didn't realise how quickly a thick tension had crept up on him and there was the unmistakable sensation of being watched. He wanted nothing more than to retreat; Voldemort's entire mind was like a disease, repulsive and deformed and twisted beyond what it meant to be man.

He looked back, to assure himself that the door to his own mind was there and waiting. Instead, he saw nothing but the blackness creeping towards him, its long fingers reaching out in hungry satisfaction.

Something was wrong.

He wasn't alone.

There was no way back.

"Well well, there you are little Harry."