CHAPTER 2

Escape

Harry, who had eventually fallen asleep after weeping for a very long tume, woke up in front of a silhouette clad in a recently transfigured black cloak. He was no longer on the hard stone floor of the Mirror's Room; a soft cushion had somehow appeared in-between him and the marble pavement. He strangely did not feel any less tired than before, though he wrote it off as sleep born of sorrow not being as healthy as normal sleep, for obvious reasons. He found strength to open his eyes and raised them. He was shocked as he discovered the skull head, livelier than before but still quite frightening, sitting on top of the cloaked figure's shoulders.

"Voldemort!"

In an instant, the aspiring hero was on his feet. He turned around; the fire wall no longer blocked his way. But was it still the time to make an escape? Things had changed. The first time around, he had not recently killed a Hogwarts professor, and the most feared Dark Lord in history had not watched him sleep on a comfy cushion that he, the Dark Lord, had made himself. Most importantly, said Dark Lord hadn't regained a corporeal body, either. And as all of this swirled through his awakening mind, the cornerstone of it all resurfaced. He muttered:

"The… the stone…"

"…is back in the Mirror of Erised, Potter."

"You…"

Voldemort chuckled before answering:

"Yes… Yes indeed. I am complete and alive again."

This was… confusing. If Voldemort's disembodied spirit could just use the stone on its own… why had he needed Professor Quirrel in the first place? He'd made quite clear earlier, he remembered, that he intended the Defense Professor to perform the ritual.

"I see you are wondering how I resurrected myself, after the… unfortunate disappearance of our good friend Quirinius. Is that not so?"

"Yes! Who… who used the stone for you?"

Harry was ready to believe many things at that point. Yet he had not expected at all the answer that came from the amused skeleton-man.

"Why, you did, my dear boy."

"WHAT?"

"Oh yes, yes indeed. Quite expertly, too, I must add. Of course, you were not really yourself at the time… Your mind is very, very vulnerable, Potter. Especially when you're asleep, and most especially to me, for reasons I'll explain later."

This was yet another piece of world-shattering information. He had been starting to believe that Voldemort was, actually, not so bad — but how could he believe anything, now that he knew he couldn't even trust his own memories? Trust himself? Slowly, he took another step towards the gate, anxiously watching Voldemort, awaiting his reaction.

"Oh, you may leave, if you so wish. But I still have so much to explain to you."

Harry was not sure whether he'd have left after all, or stayed to listen to the gaunt man's story. The decision, however, was taken for him when a red blast bolted from the dark corridor and hit him before he could dodge.

Voldemort immediately put up several shields, while another cloaked wizard was running through the corridor; it was none other than Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. Soon, the bearded wizard realized his mistake: he had not hit his target, but an innocent hostage.

"TOM! Let go of the boy this instant!"

Voldemort had picked up the Gryffindor boy and was holding him in his arms.

"No, Albus. This boy has much to discuss with me, and… ah, my old friend, I would have much to tell you also, but I'm always wary of you stunning me in the back the moment I stop fighting. Therefore, I will transport Mr Potter to a safe lair of mine for the time being. He will return to this overrated school of yours if and when he decides to. Good bye."

Dumbledore, only half-listening to the man's words, had been trying relentlessly to break his shields, one by one; but before he could work his way through the last one, which was of a kind he had never seen before, the Dark Wizard apparated away along with Harry.

Harry woke up once again, and once again the scene had changed. This time, he was sure, he was no longer in the Mirror's Room. He was lying on his back in what was obviously a large wooden bed, with dark red sheets. Looking around himself, he found that the room was smaller and cozier than the foreboding forbidden parts of Hogwarts; he was in a house or a mansion, it seemed. The bedroom was… nice, he supposed, though whoever had designed it had a peculiar esthetic sense. The furniture was ornate and delicate, but the decorations themselves were spiky, dark things, with such recurring motives as snakes curled up around spears and grinning skulls. The walls were decorated with green and blue Damask wallpaper; it was just the kind of wallpaper in which scared children found watchful, evil faces, and not only did Harry see them, but he could have sworn some of them had actually blinked and looked at him. Outside the warm bed, it was also very cold. On his right was a black bed table with a piece of parchment sitting on it, and next to it, his glasses and a silver bell. Putting the glasses on his nose and unfolding the parchment, he read:

Mister Potter,

The most deplorable condition that allowed you

to dispose of my minion earlier today prevents me from

waking you up myself. I must thus wait for you to

come back to your senses on your own. I am not

a truly patient man, and I have matters to attend

to, as any recently resurrected wizard would.

If you wake up before I get back, already

learn the following facts:

— It is Headmaster Dumbledore who stunned

you, though you mustn't blame him; he was targeting

me and did not know that you would be standing

in the way.

— You are currently in a mansion of my own devising. I

cannot betray its location and nature to you,

as you haven't yet proven yourself a trustworthy

ally; I expect you will, in time.

— If you are reading this, you will have already found your glasses.

Your wand is in the second drawer of the commode sitting

in front of your bed.

I will be back with you at about 3 p.m.

Yours truly,

Lord Voldemort