Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the intellectual property of J.K. Rowling. I make no claims to it being mine.

Author's Note: Thank you to everyone that reviewed last chapter, I appreciate your input. This took awhile, sorry -- nasty bout of depression for awhile there, I'm afraid.

Enjoy. (Don't forget to review, eh?)

o.o.o.o

"Shit," Harry repeated, staring up at Voldemort. He wanted to scramble to his feet, so as to be more on a level with the Dark Lord, but part of him knew it wouldn't matter if he did or not, save that he'd fail anyway and look a fool -- exactly what he wanted to prevent. He sat there in the corner of his cell and cursed himself for forgetting the wizard's plans.

"Indeed," agreed the furious Dark Lord. His white fingers were going paler at the knuckles on the hand that gripped his wand. "This is a most unexpected meeting."

"Why, did you think your lackeys should have had me killed, instead?" spat Harry contemptuously. He had a feeling that he might be going to die in a few minutes, but if he was, he wouldn't go without putting up resistance of some kind. He wouldn't give anyone reason to call a Potter a coward.

"My Death Eaters had nothing to do with this," was Voldemort's derisive retort. "Why would I have you brought here?"

Harry smiled thinly, wry amusement in his voice. "Why don't you ask Lucius Malfoy that? I'm sure he'd give you a better answer, since it was him that sent me."

This wasn't necessarily true, but Harry didn't care. Anything to rile the Dark Lord. He was more predictable, and therefore easier to deal with, when he was worked up. And more entertaining, too.

"Don't be stupid, boy." Voldemort appeared a little amused, though still incensed. "Lucius knows the penalty for acting without my permission; he follows my orders."

"Funny. He was at my little sending-off party," Harry said almost conversationally, smirking knowingly. "Seemed awfully pleased with himself, too."

"Fool!" Voldemort's eyes flashed -- or glowed -- or something -- and for an instant Harry thought he could see into the Dark Lord's mind.

A curse hovered, about to be let out. Crucio. Long pale fingers tightened imperceptibly on a wand. Crucio. A boy with black hair cringed on a floor, his face a mask of mocking defiance. Crucio. Hatred clouded everything.

No... screamed Harry's mind.

Harry thrust his hand into his robes and came out with his wand, moving faster than an ordinary eye could follow. He pointed the wand at Voldemort and without thinking shouted the most dangerous spell he knew-- it would work, any spell he tried would work-- he could do anything right then. Deadly green light flew from the wand, the Killing Curse.

There was a moment of blinking surprise.

And Voldemort laughed.

"Honestly, boy," he admonished with something that could almost be claimed was good humor. "Can't you tell a fake from your own wand?" His loud, mocking cackle rang against the walls of tiny room. "Miserable boy. Pitiful boy."

A flick of Voldemort's wand, and the fake in Harry's hand flew across the room and hit the far wall. It broke into thousands of tiny splinters. The beautiful phoenix feather core, still vibrantly colored, drifted lazily to the floor. Voldemort laughed again.

Harry snarled, "I hate you."

Anger such as he'd known very few times in his life was flooding Harry. But this wasn't the hot, rolling rage he was used to; it was a cold, creeping thing that got between the cracks of his soul and filled everything with the vicious darkness of rage.

Voldemort looked vaguely startled for a moment, but settled almost instantly. "Of course you do, boy," he said with twisted gentleness. "The weak always hate their betters for oppressing them."

Harry wanted to charge at the wizard, the foul thing pretending to be a man, wanted to rip out his nasty throat and let him lay bleeding on the filthy floor until he died. The thought sat in his mind's eye for several seconds; he could see it clearly, like a vision of the future. There was a black tang to the thought, that seeped further into his head the longer he held it there--

Roaring, Harry pushed the vision from his head, glaring furiously at the Dark Lord. The image flew from Harry's mind to his.

This time Voldemort really did look startled. "That wasn't one of mine," he hissed, something causing his voice to waver. Something in his snakelike eyes was proclaiming the fear he didn't want to show. Harry didn't care.

It would all be over in a few seconds. Harry prepared himself, he was going to leap at Voldemort, everything would finally be over. He'd rip out Voldemort's throat, just like in the vision. Anything to rid the world of that. A few seconds, and it would all be over. Finally.

Some part of him knew that this plan was hopeless, that he would only get himself killed that much more quickly. That same part saw the darkness of his plan and shied from it screaming warnings that didn't need words. Harry tried, he really did. But he wanted so badly to do this. He couldn't stop himself.

He made to leap.

He couldn't move at all. Something held him in place. It wasn't Voldemort, though the wand was still on him; he knew what Voldemort's magic felt like, and such a cruel thing could never be this warm and gentle. He frowned.

Voldemort frowned, as well, though for different reasons. For the first time in his life, he was actually doubting whether he could kill something.

This puling boy should not be cause for him to worry. Yet he worried. Because this boy hadn't been reason for him to worry 15 years ago, and look what had happened then.

Voldemort was actually a little afraid of Harry, just then, just a little.

Harry was glaring at him, cold and level. Just like the blade of a dagger before it stabbed into your heart.

"You know, I don't think I'll put you out of your misery. You seem so comfortable in it!" proclaimed Voldemort with a high, cold laugh that set Harry's teeth on edge. He turned to sweep majestically from the room.

"You're dead, Tom," Harry hissed at his back, meaning his words more than any others he'd ever said. "If you don't finish me now, you'll lose your chance forever. I'll find you. I'll kill you."

Voldemort faltered only briefly. Then he swirled out and left Harry where he was, unharmed, with a full score of dementors doing guard duty. Protecting him from outside help. Him, the last human on Azkaban Isle -- a prison no longer, but for the boy trapped within himself more than the stone walls.

"You're dead, Tom!"

o.o.o.o

"How's it going, Weasley?" Ichabod inquired, coming once again down the corridor, this time carrying two cups of coffee. He was grinning about something.

Bill didn't respond. He was kneeling before the wall of Arrival and Containment Room 3 with his wand on the floor next to him. Both hands were up, splayed a hairsbreadth from the wall, as close to touching it as humanly possible without making contact. His face was screwed up into a tight expression of frustration, his lips moving fractionally but at a steady pace. He appeared to be concentrating extremely hard.

"Weasley?" repeated Ichabod, halting when he was level with Bill. He frowned and glanced between the redhead and the wall. "Aren't you supposed to be using your wand for that?"

Head swiveling, Bill's eyes snapped open. A faint red glow died from around his hands; Ichabod hadn't noticed it until it was gone.

"Oh," murmured Bill, sagging back onto his ankles. "It's you."

Ichabod gave a small chuckle, though it sounded somewhat confused. "Yeah. Lil' ole Ichabod, eh?" He held out his right hand, offering the coffee in it. "You want this?"

"Thanks," Bill said gratefully. He took the steaming coffee from the other man and swallowed half of it in one go. He twitched his head sharply and glared at the wall.

"Welcome." Ichabod's grin had returned. "So, what's going on?"

Bill reached over for his shirt, discarded more than an hour ago (he preferred to work in Muggle clothes). He pulled it on. Immediately, the sweat on his back soaked through it, causing it to stick unpleasantly. He winced slightly.

"This is absurd," he said flatly, uncoiling his legs from beneath him but making no move to get up. It was well past midnight; he'd been working for several hours, without a break.

Ichabod looked confused. "What?"

"I hope you haven't got anybody else lined up to look at this thing, 'cause it won't do them any good," explained Bill, drinking the other half of his coffee. He crumbled the paper cup into a ball.

"How do you mean?" asked Ichabod with a startled expression.

Bill gestured toward the wall, as he did so treating it to another glare, as if it could see him. "Compared to the information on file about Ministry buildings, this thing is so different in so many ways that it's practically a complete anomaly. Hell, the only thing the same is the way they look, which isn't much at all, in this kind of thing."

Ichabod stayed silent, letting Bill continue, which he did after reaching over for the second coffee cup.

"This was supposed to have purely structural building wards, right? Well, it doesn't. Yeah, sure, it's got wards, and even some to protect the integrity of the wall itself, but not the kind of wards you put on a building."

"Oh," said Ichabod, his expression becoming remarkably neutral.

"It's like..." Bill stopped, thinking, for several long moments. "Like personnel wards, they way they appear on clothing when the warded individual puts it on. Private, personal wards -- you'd put wards like that on your kid, when he was too young to use magic, and his robes would sort of absorb that warding. Contamination by association."

"... The wall is clothing?"

Ichabod was staring at him. Bill nodded hesitantly. "In that way, yes, it's like clothing," he agreed slowly.

"And in what ways is it not like clothing?" Ichabod asked, when Bill volunteered no more information.

Bill made an amused sort of noise. He leaned in closer to Ichabod and smiled a wicked, smug little smile. With the tone of one letting his best friend in on a secret, he said, "It's sentient."

"Sentient?" Ichabod repeated incredulously.

"Yeah. Well, not precisely. It's capable of thought, after a fashion, but I'm not so sure about feeling." Bill shrugged and sat back up. He glanced at the wall, considering something. "When you came up, I was trying to get inside the magic, so I could figure that out. It was laughing at me."

"Laughing at... Are you all right, Weasley?" exclaimed Ichabod, putting a hand on Bill's shoulder and suddenly looking concerned. Quite apart from his words, the other man's face was flushed oddly.

Bill brushed him off, looking quizzical. "Fine. Why?"

"Well..." How do you tell a friend you think he's lost some part of his mind, without offending him? "You look tired."

"Do I? Just tired?" Bill shrugged. "Thanks; I'm actually exhausted."

"Maybe you ought to go home?" suggested Ichabod. He stood, lending Bill a hand to help him up. "Get some sleep and come back later?"

Using Ichabod's hand rather more heavily than he'd expected to, Bill got to his feet as well, picking up his wand on the way. He grinned at Ichabod. "You think I'm crazy, don't you?" Ichabod didn't respond. "Well, I'm not. That wall laughed at me."

"You realize that you're practically saying that the wall is alive, don't you?" pressed Ichabod, ushering Bill down the hall, one hand constantly hovering behind the other's back, as if Ichabod expected him to fall over at any moment.

"Yes, alive! That's it exactly!" exclaimed Bill, smiling somewhat dryly. "And you still don't believe me."

Looking uncomfortable, Ichabod shrugged. They'd reached the end of the corridor, and Bill started to take the wrong turn, his face much paler than it had been a few minutes ago. Ichabod frowned.

"Well, no, I don't, but... it's a little far-fetched, even for wizards, don't you think?" he reasoned, as he gently turned Bill around by the shoulders and guided him in the proper direction. When Bill didn't object to the contact, Ichabod seriously began to wonder if something worse than tiredness wasn't wrong.

"Yes, it... No, no, not at all!" Bill halted, his shoulders sagging, but he was smiling in a very pleased way. Ichabod started to protest, but Bill interrupted him with, "No, really. Now I think about it, I've run into stone like that before."

"Oh?" snapped Ichabod, not even really paying attention to the conversation any longer; Bill had edged his way over and was leaning against a wall-- green was tingeing his ashy face-- he really didn't look healthy at all. "Weasley, are you all right?"

Bill nodded, though this simple action brought a twisted look of discomfort to his face. "Yeah, yes, I'm fine. Listen, that wall -- and all the ones next to it, and next to those, even -- they're just like Hogwarts." He began taking heavy, shallow breaths. His eyes were unfocused. "I don't know why I didn't see it... before. It's so... obvious..."

The arms he'd been supporting himself with gave out and he sagged against the wall, gasping. Both his legs were quivering with the apparent effort it was taking to keep him upright.

"Weasley?" Ichabod demanded, extremely worried. Something was definitely wrong with the redhead. Bill opened his mouth to respond, but his words were cut off in cry of pain. "Weasley? Weasley!"

Bill's wand slipped from his nerveless fingers and clattered to the floor. His eyes rolled back in his head so only the whites were visible. He keeled over and pitched face-first toward the floor.

"Weasley!"

Ichabod sprang forward, barely managing to catch the other man before he hit the ground. He lowered Bill gently the rest of the way, turning him over in the process; his face was blank, his breathing labored.

Ichabod's eyes were wide and almost panicked. The man whom he'd considered both friend and enemy while at Hogwarts was now cold as stone, laying motionless before him. "Merlin..." Ichabod murmured, quickly removing his hands from where they'd brushed the man's cheek.

"Bill!"