"All clear up here, Agent Hafgan," the smug wizard calls to me from the other end of this one-walled, half-ceilinged corridor. I called it a hallway a little while ago and they all snickered. Grown men, all of them, and they snickered. Is it because I'm young, or a woman, or American? I don't know. I can't change any of the three. Maybe they just think Agent is a funny title. Whatever. For the moment, I'm in charge and they can all suck it. How's that for young American? Not very Agent-like of me, but they aren't really behaving very Auror-like.

"Keep looking. If you're finished with that block, move up one. There's enough left of the staircase to go up one more level on that end," I order. Because I can. It's also what needs to be done, but mostly because I can. I'm getting really tired of the attitudes.

"Yeah, alright," is the mumbled reply.

"They're just giving you a hard time. New face and all," Harry tells me as he exits the cell he was searching.

"I know," I sigh. "I'm used to it. I'm not exactly like the other Agents at home, either. Still a little younger than most, I guess. It'll pass." Optimism, right?

"Some of them are having some difficulty understanding the cell-by-cell search, as well. They don't really understand what's driving this."

"I can't exactly tell them my super-witchy-spidey-sense is tingling, now can I?" I snap. For the briefest of moments I realize I used a Muggle pop culture reference and am glad I did so with someone who was likely to get it. Then I realize I just snapped at my boss. Who happens to be the greatest hero of the last few centuries. Shit. "I'm sorry. It's, it can be . . . embarrassing. Being this different, it makes people suspicious, even when there is nothing to be suspicious of. I'm not a freak. Other people can do what I do, you know. Sort of."

"No, I get it. Parselmouth, remember?" he says sympathetically, pointing at himself.

"I do. And I'm sorry. It's no excuse to-"

"No, it isn't. Don't make a habit of it, yeah?"

"Yes, sir. But the feeling that draws me, it's agitated. I guess it's rubbing off on me."

"You feel the mood?"

"Not usually. Hardly ever, in fact. Most of the time, I just feel the disturbance of the natural world surrounding whatever it is I'm seeking. But this is so close, and so . . . I don't know. I think he's hurt. Hurt and scared. And it's starting to affect me."

"He?" His face is taking on that concerned-fathery vibe. I'm both touched and annoyed.

"Yeah," I sigh again. "It's just so hard to explain. The impression is gaining clarity, becoming more defined. I'm sure it's a man."

"Any man in here would be a guard or prisoner. All the guards are accounted for, Anwen."

"I know."

"Who is it?"

"I don't know yet. Someone who's been here a while, though. A long time. There is so much despair."

"There aren't that many possibilities left. We've searched so many cells already. Only two levels after this. And one of those we can't get to," he mumbles, frustrated.

"Sir? Who is left unaccounted for?" He seems unsettled, worried. The names left on his list cannot be good ones.

"No one I ever want to meet again," he says tightly, then moves on to the next cell in the row, robes opening wide at his hasty and determined march.

I walk slowly to the last cell designated to my search area for this level. I can't help thinking as I do that this must be so hard for both Harry and Ron. The men and women held in these last, uppermost cells are wizards they fought as children. I've been so focused on the call to my senses that I haven't even considered the toll being taken on the two heros I work for.

The last cell Ron searched before he took a break from this dark, bleak, cold place was that of Prisoner Dolohov. He killed not only Remus Lupin, but Molly Weasley's brothers. Ron stoically walked through the hole in the rock that served as his uncles' murderer's room. Dolohov had until that point been one of the unaccounted for. No more. Another body had been found; Antonin Dolohov is dead. Ron turned from it and walked away, silent. We all let him go.

Harry faces personal demons with every cell up here. Prisoner Umbridge's cell was empty of all but one pink shoe. It appears she was thrown through a hole in the wall of her cell when the blast occurred. I don't think Harry will believe it until he sees for himself. He didn't find any joy at this old enemy's apparent death. He didn't mourn, either. He left that corner of the rock behind him, rubbing his hand as he walked away.

It isn't my intention to bring back such horrible memories to these two men. To any of the Aurors here with me. The history I've only read about, heard about from my parents - it was their lives. I hate the pain this is all causing, but it has to be done. He's here, whoever he is, and close. So close.

Reaching the doorway of the cell, I see it is in utter shambles. Door blown off to land across the corridor, one outer wall half crumbled to the floor, the ceiling reduced to dust. It''s wet and freezing from the sea and the rain. But that's not what makes it uncomfortable for me. The feeling has intensified in my gut, the draw is pulling me forward. I open my mouth to call to Harry but something moves in the piled stone. There's a hand, an arm, covered in filth but moving. Instinctively, I pull my wand, knowing it's useless. No magic here.

I find my voice.

"Harry!" No time for formalities. He comes running, his feet loud on the stone floor.

"What? What is it?"

"Here. He's here," I whisper, though I'm not sure why. "Whose cell is this?"

"Oh, God," he says, staring intently at the parchment in his hand. He grabs at the folds of my robes and pulls me away.

"Who is it?" I ask again, a bit unnerved by the pallor of his face.

"Crouch. It's Barty Crouch, Jr."

"Oh. Oh, no."

"He's dangerous, he's a murderer, he's a liar, he's crazy. Just completely insane, Anwen. Can you hear him? Is he in your head?"

"No, I told you. It's not exactly like that."

"Then how is it. Explain, now."

"Mr. Potter. Harry. I can't explain. But no, no, he isn't in my head. I just knew where to find him. The feelings, just a guide," I try to calm him. Obviously, this prisoner was not what he was prepared for. This one, this man, holds a specific place of hatred in his heart.

"I'm sorry, Anwen. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to grabbed you, or yell. I, it just. I was caught off guard by the name."

"It's alright, really. But now we have to deal with this. We have to get him out of there."

"Yes. Yes, I suppose we do,' he admits.

"And we need to be sure it's him," I say.

"You're right. Any of them could have crawled in here after the initial blast."

"Who else was up here?" I intentionally do not know this. I didn't want to be influenced in the search. I wish now I had been better prepared.

"Nott, Yaxley,Travers, Rookwood, Macnair, Jugson, Crabbe. Between this level and the one above, it's a Who's Who of the last War." He says this trying to regain control, maybe attempting a smile. It's a grimace.

"Let's call in the team. They can clear the rubble, extract the prisoner. St. Mungo's, do you think? We can go there as an advance."

He stares at me from behind those famous round glasses, looks at me through those eyes that have seen more than I can imagine. I can see the moment he gets it under control, beats back the old fears and older memories.

"Yes, very good plan, Agent Hafgan. Let's get Ron and get the hell out of here."

I watch Harry walk away for a moment, giving him a head start, a little room to think. As I take my first step to head back down to the boats, I hear a voice coming from the cell. So soft, almost not there at all.

"Help me."

I don't know why, I don't understand the reason I reply like I do. Maybe it's just the total misery rolling off of him in waves. Maybe it's the pain, or the loneliness. I have no clue why I tell him, "I will."

A/N: Please leave a review! Thanks for reading.