Interlude VII

Harry shook his head again, trying to banish the strange, terrible feeling that smothered him.

Images of the battle in Knockturn Alley kept appearing before his eyes, the screams of the injured still echoing in his ears.

His hands still shook with tension, the adrenaline still draining out and leaving him feeling strung out and worn.

Frankly, he felt exhausted, ready to go off and sleep until the world made slightly more sense.

But he couldn't, at least, not yet.

One of the portraits on the wall asked him a question in a querulous voice.

He ignored it, just as he ignored the buzzing and whirring of all of Dumbledore's strange silver instruments.

He wasn't exactly sure how much time had passed since he got up from the Killing Curse. He thought it must have been at least an hour and a half, but the chain of events was all jumbled together in his head.

Voldemort and the Death Eaters had run, leaving only the dead and injured behind.

At some point, Healers and Medi-Witches had arrived, along with a bunch more Aurors and a pale-faced Cornelius Fudge.

The chaos had been almost overwhelming, with all the shouting and arguing and frantic movements.

The Aurors and Healers had started transporting the bodies littering the floor, and then Dumbledore had walked away from a stunned-looking Fudge to create a Portkey and send Harry back to Hogwarts.

He hadn't gotten to speak to Sirius again before being sent to the castle. Honestly, Harry wasn't sure if he wanted to thank him for the rescue or punch him.

But somehow, Harry felt sure he'd have the chance soon. When he'd left, Sirius had been under Auror guard.

But Harry had seen Wormtail under guard as well.

For a moment, Harry allowed himself the liberty of fantasising about escaping the Dursleys completely, leaving Privet Drive and moving in with Sirius.

A small smile spread across his face, shattering after a few seconds.

It would be nice, but it wouldn't happen. Something would go wrong, Voldemort would attack and ruin his dream. Something would go wrong.

Good things just didn't last for him.

He closed his eyes and stared into the blackness behind his lids, trying desperately to think of something other than the horrific scenes of the day.

The terrible revelation he'd received after the Killing Curse still pounded through his head, demanding his attention. It overshadowed everything; the horrors he had witnessed and his thoughts of the dead and injured paled before the pure disgust induced by what he had learned.

Feeling like he was going to vomit, he clenched his hands into fists, desperately trying to focus on nothing but the sound and feel of his breathing.

How long he sat there, unmoving, he had no idea. All he knew was that slowly, ever so slowly, that terrible nausea vanished, the feeling like his throat and chest were being crushed dissipating along with it.

A soft popping noise sounded and all the portraits began to talk at once.

'Dumbledore's here,' he realized.

Opening his eyes, he turned around.

Dumbledore was standing in the centre of the office, holding the tiny form of Fawkes in his hands as he smiled and nodded at the wall of cheering portraits.

Gently, he placed the minute phoenix on its perch before striding over to his seat and taking it.

He looked as exhausted as Harry felt, but still pleased.

"The-the others," Harry asked, dreading the answer but wanting, no, needing to know. "Are they alright? I saw S-Sturgis, but everyone else…"

Dumbledore's eyes tightened, a grim expression flicking across his face.

"Sturgis Podmore and Charlie Weasley did not survive," he said with a sigh, his voice carrying immense sadness. "Nor did at least six Aurors and Hit-Wizards. With the exception of several others who remain critical, the rest are expected to make full recoveries."

Harry's heart skipped a beat, Charlie's name sending a wave of sorrow through him.

He'd known it, deep down, since he'd caught a glimpse of Charlie's face when a Healer levitated him. He'd known it, but had covered that knowledge with false hope.

"You will be pleased to know, however, that the Ministry will no longer be denying Voldemort's return. Madam Umbridge has been removed from this institution, and your expulsion has been revoked. Furthermore, the wheels have begun turning to secure the declaration of Sirius' innocence. Many Death Eaters were captured, including Peter Pettigrew and Lucius Malfoy."

Dumbledore paused, as if waiting for Harry to say something.

He didn't, only giving a curt nod instead.

"We paid a great price today," Dumbledore continued, his voice solemn. "But it was not for nothing. We paid a great price, but achieved a great victory. None of the deaths were in vain."

"I died," he whispered, not aware that he was going to say anything until the words had left his lips.

"You did," Dumbledore said gravely, "And yet, you did not. Harry, I know that you need rest, I know that you would like nothing more than to postpone this conversation. But I must know. What happened after the Killing Curse hit you?"

He glanced up for a second, meeting Dumbledore's eyes. For the first time in what felt like forever, they did not dart away, instead remaining on him.

Looking back at his folded hands, Harry spoke.

"I-I was in this place. I don't know how to describe it. It was like-like King's Cross station, but much, much bigger. And filled with white mist. Everything was white, all shiny and clear."

Dumbledore listened raptly, not interrupting.

"There was this-this thing on the floor. It looked like Voldemort did before Wormtail gave him a real body. And then-"

He cut off, his eyes filling with tears as their faces swam before his eyes.

"My parents were there," he said hoarsely. "And-and they said that I could live. They said it was up to me."

Fawkes let out a soft crooning noise, Harry's head instinctively rising at the sound.

He was startled to see tears swimming in Dumbledore's eyes.

"They said that-that there was a part of him in me," he said, revulsion twisting his innards. "And that his Killing Curse, it killed that part, but not me. There was a part of his-his soul in me."

With a sad yet utterly unsurprised look, Dumbledore nodded.

"You knew," Harry said flatly. "You knew about it. And you never told me."

Finally, an emotion other than guilt, horror, or disgust rose in him.

"Years ago," Harry said, his voice shaking with barely compressed rage. "You told me that there was a connection between me and him. You didn't tell me what it was. That's why you've been avoiding me this year. You've known for years, and you never told me the truth."

"I could not," Dumbledore said, sounding sorrowful. "Not when I knew of no method to remove it. Not when Voldemort could have been listening through your ears, seeing through your eyes. I could not tell you, Harry, could not force myself to explain that the only way I knew to free you from him would likely kill you."

"But it didn't-"

"I believed," Dumbledore interrupted, "that there was a chance, a minuscule, infinitesimal chance, that if Voldemort were to be the one to cast the spell, you would survive. He used your blood, Harry, to recreate his body. Your blood, in which flows the sacrifice your mother made for you, her final protection. In using your blood, he gave you a chance to remain tethered to life. I dared not even hope for it, not when it was such a low chance. And I dared not give you what may have been false hope either."

Harry shook his head, his nails biting crescents into his palms. This was all too much, far too much to deal with right now.

"What was it?" He asked, "How did a piece of him end up in me?"

Dumbledore sighed again, reaching out and petting Fawkes softly before answering.

"That, Harry, is the subject of a far, far longer discussion, one that would be better undertaken if we are both well-rested. Please understand, I am not avoiding answering you. But, I believe, there is much that I must explain to you first. And I would prefer that Miss Granger and Mr Weasley join us for this. Not to mention that there is much research I must do before I can make any definitive statements."

"You said that you'd explain everything," Harry said. Fatigue was beginning to cover him like a blanket again, the energy his anger had given him seeping out.

"So I did. And so, for now I shall tell you all that I am utterly certain about. At the end of your first year, as you were convalescing in the Hospital Wing, you asked me why it was that Voldemort had attacked your family in the first place. I did not answer you then. Now, I think, the time has come for me to do something I should have done at least four years ago. It is time for you to understand."

Ron sat with his elbows on his knees, staring at his clasped hands and letting the chaos of St Mungo's wash over him.

None of his family spoke, not even Fred and George. His mother had been crying on and off for the last few hours, but her well of tears seemed to have run dry.

Now, like the rest of them, she stared into space.

Idly, Ron wondered if they were feeling the same way as him; if that numbness was smothering them too, if they also felt like they were a balloon barely attached to their bodies and were watching from the outside.

When Percy had been killed, it had hurt. It had done more than hurt, it had stung like a knife to the chest, burned like an ember to the cheek. The rage had been there, turning his thoughts into a red mush, self-loathing filling his throat and belly with acidic bile.

Now, he and his family sat in a row of chairs outside the room where Bill was fighting for life, just a few doors down from the room where Charlie's cooling corpse lay, and he felt nothing but empty numbness.

It was too much, he thought. Too much for any person to experience and actually feel, too much for his brain to comprehend.

He tried to look at it piece by piece, tried to let it slowly sink in.

Another of his brothers had died.

Another of his brothers had been murdered.

Another of his brothers had been murdered by the girl who used to be his sister.

Ginny's betrayal still stung, burning in his very soul.

Too much. Too much to take in and remain sane.

The pain would come later, he knew. Once he'd wrapped his mind around it, once the facts of Charlie's death had sunk in and started to feel real.

In a way, he wished the pain would just come already. Anything would be better than the horrible numbness.

Someone coughed.

"Mr and Mrs Weasley?"

A young Healer had walked in front of them, looking like he was ready to pass out. But, tired as he was, there was a smile on his face.

"He's going to be alright. You can visit him now, if you want, but he'll be sleeping until tomorrow at the earliest."

Ron's mother burst into tears again, her body shaking with her grateful, grieving sobs.

Ron was so numb he could barely even feel relieved.

With a flick of his wand, he ended the Cruciatus, giving Alecto's shaking form a kick as he stalked over to his seat.

"You have failed me," he said, his voice shaking with furious rage.

"My lord," she begged, prostrating herself at his feet. "Lucius was in charge-"

"And Lucius will bear the brunt of the punishment," he said coldly.

He heard a stifled sob from the corner of the room where Lucius' wife stood.

"But Lucius is not here," he hissed, slashing his wand through the air and making Alecto writhe under the torture curse again.

In the back of his mind, the unexpected emotion thrummed.

He couldn't recall experiencing it since he first heard the prophecy, and even then it had only lasted a few seconds before vanishing.

Vaguely, he could remember times in the orphanage when he'd felt it, but it had never been like this.

How could the boy have survived? The curse had hit him, there was no denying that. There was no chance that the boy had created horcruxes.

There was no mother to die for him, no one sacrificing themselves to protect him from inevitable death.

Regretfully, he ended the curse, raising his wand up to eye level and staring at it.

Once before, his wand had not served him as it should have when Potter was involved. That time, however, the boy had caused a Priori Incantatem to occur.

Could it be? Was it possible that his wand had failed him at such a crucial moment?

Or could it be that the unknown half of the prophecy contained the answer?

He gritted his teeth, eyes narrowing.

There were too many unknown variables involved. His research into sacrificial magic had led only to dead ends, and he had neglected the study of wandlore.

For now, the prophecy remained beyond even his grasp. Security at the Ministry of Magic had doubtless been increased, and the chances of a successful infiltration were not as high as he would like.

No, he would have to do something else. He would have to remedy the terrible gaps in his knowledge, but that alone wouldn't be enough.

He knew that he would not be able to rest until Potter had been captured. Until he was able to study what exactly it was that had allowed the boy to escape the cold nothingness of death once again.

But perhaps he could set events in motion to achieve multiple goals at once.

"Narcissa," he called. "When your son returns from Hogwarts, you will bring him to me."

A hesitant voice called out, just before Narcissa could reply.

"My lord?"

He nodded to her, allowing his youngest servant to approach.

She did so, dropping to her knees and staring at him with wide, emotional eyes.

Unlike most of his servants, there was no terror in her gaze. There was awe, and devotion, and even a hint of desire, but no terror.

It was remarkable how much his diary horcrux had achieved. Of course, if the possession had been against her will, it would not have managed to bring her to his service.

But the shard of his soul had not forced her, not with might, at least.

It had manipulated her. Helped by the enchantments on the diary, it had successfully rewired her brain, twisting her sense of loyalty until there was nothing more important to her than him.

She would gladly die for him, if he was to give the order.

As was only fitting.

"My lord...Draco could be useful. He could-we have no-one else in Hogwarts…"

"And so he shall. He will not die or suffer needlessly. Not unless he proves to be as much a failure as his father is."

Another soft sob came from Narcissa, more proof that he was making the correct decision. Punishment should be feared.

"Thank you," Weasley whispered. "My lord."

"Everyone out," he said, those closest to the door already beginning to move. "I have much planning to do. It is time for us to take control of Britain."

As they made their way out, Alecto leaning on Gibbon's shoulder, that strange emotion pounded through his head.

He thought of Potter, standing up after being hit by a Killing Curse, and for the first time in decades, Lord Voldemort felt true fear.

"Do you think he'll figure out what happened?"

Dumbledore leaned back slightly in his chair, stroking his beard as he looked down at Moody.

"Perhaps," he said. "But I find it unlikely. One aspect of Voldemort's personality we can always rely on is his arrogance. Even if he is able to face the fact that he accidentally created a horcrux, I very much doubt that he'll accept that I could learn his secret. But we must move quickly. Unlikely though it may be, it is a possibility."

Moody nodded, scratching his arm.

"They'll let me out tomorrow," he said. "I'll head straight to meet with Slughorn."

"Excellent. And I believe I have a lead to follow. Hopefully, by tomorrow I will have more information as well. Until then, Alastor."

Sighing, Dolohov walked up the lounge window and sat on the unoccupied armchair next to Mulciber.

The sounds of a ferocious duel filtered through the glass, spellfire splitting the air and making him half-close his eyes against the blinding jets of light.

The two women outside did not notice their silent audience. They continued their near-lethal dance, jumping and twisting and Apparating, all the while spells hurtling from their wands.

"Tell me you aren't still thinking about having her," he said, breaking the silence. "Tell me you've come to your senses."

Mulciber grunted, a vein pulsing in his forehead.

"Jarred. Don't be stupid. She has our lord's favour-"

"I fucking know, alright?"

"Do you?"

"Even if the Dark Lord didn't care," Mulciber growled, "I'd leave her alone. That bitch is as crazy as Bellatrix. Maybe even more."

"Bellatrix loves her for a reason. You should have realized that a while ago."

Mulciber laughed, a hollow, grating sound.

"I should have. But I only did once I saw her with Lupin. Hell, even if the Dark Lord didn't care and Bellatrix agreed to share, I wouldn't want to fuck someone like that. You never know what she'd do while I'm sleeping. Could be like a praying mantis type of thing."

Laughing, Dolohov shook his head, still watching the fight outside.

It was winding down, with Weasley clearly getting sluggish and tired while Bellatrix continued as energetically as before.

As he watched, a curse hit Weasley in the chest, knocking her to the floor with smoke rising from her torso.

Bellatrix walked over to her, and began to wave her wand over the prone girl, smiling widely all the while.

A few moments later, Weasley arose, smiling as much as Bellatrix was.

"Fucking looney," Mulciber said, "look at her. Fucking crazy."

Ron kept silent, watching as his mother walked up to the mantelpiece and raised her wand, stabbing it into the last untouched family picture.

The photograph writhed, pigments and colours racing across the glossy surface.

After a minute or two, the wand was withdrawn.

The picture looked almost exactly like it had before, with one difference.

Ginny wasn't in it any longer, just as she'd been erased from all the other photos in the house.

His mother stood there for a moment, body shaking with pent up tears.

Then, slowly, she straightened, a look of terrible grief flashing across her face before it returned to the strange, harsh expression that looked so out of place on her usually kindly face.

"I have no daughter," she said, her voice only cracking slightly. "She's just another Death Eater."

"Mum," Bill said, sounding like he wanted to cry. "Mum, its-"

"It's nothing," she snapped. "She's not your sister anymore, Bill. Death Eaters killed your sister. She's just-just one of them now. If you see her-if you have to-to fight her...You can't look at her as if she's your sister. Otherwise... you'll end up like Ch-Ch-Charlie and P-Percy-"

Suddenly sobbing again, she ran out of the room, with Bill following her.

Ron just sighed again, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes as he looked down at Hermione and Harry's letter.