Warning: I might not be updating as frequently. Been very busy.

When Ron awoke the next morning, he was startled by the taciturn manner in which he had awaken. Usually, one of the children or the twins would scream in his ears until he woke, but this time the house was unusually quiet. He could only hear soft whispers downstairs. Ron inferred that perhaps his brothers had returned to their workplaces. After dressing into his robes, the red-haired young man descended down to the kitchen. He could smell his mother's cooking.

As he passed, he peeked inside the living room to find it relatively empty. It seemed that everyone had returned to their respective homes while he was asleep. Judging by the dim gleam of the sun, he must have overslept. Ron retracted and winced when he thought how his mother would react to his laziness. But as soon as he stepped inside the kitchen, he found his parents sitting at the table, whispering furiously to each other. When he entered the room, they looked up at him with regret and guilt behind their gazes.

Ron assumed the worst.

"Good morning, dear," greeted Molly quietly, her fingers linking and unlinking as if she was unsure how to compose herself. Arthur nodded at him with a grave expression on his face.

"What happened?" Ron asked.

They were hiding something. That much was apparent. But as his parents opened their mouths to explain, Hermione emerged from the backyard. She was shaking uncontrollably with a roll of paper in her hand.

And Ron suddenly felt nauseous.

"Have you seen this?" she whispered in a broken tone.

She had a look of betrayal in her eyes as she lifted up the Daily Prophet. On the cover, Ron saw an image of a hooded man glancing down from above Ollivander's building with a vacant expression on his face before Apparating on the spot. The article was titled Harry Potter has Returned! But Ron gave his wife with a forlorn look. Before he could open his mouth to respond, his father interrupted.

"Come now, Hermione," Arthur intervened. He looked at her from above the rim of his glasses. "The Prophet's been wrong before, especially about Harry. You can't possibly take their word as fact."

But Hermione shook her head. She remembered when Ron had complained to her about the rumors that were spreading across his co-workers. What alarmed her was the fact that seven years later, the rumor was as strong as ever. False or irrelevant rumors tended to die down after a while.

But this one didn't.

She gave Ron a desperate look, praying that he would lay these rumors to rest.

"Tell me this isn't true," she pleaded, her hands trembling. "It can't be."

Ron's heart clenched.

He had never seen her so desperate for answers. She was always the one with the answers, but now she was begging him for answers.

But Ron approached her, draped an arm around her shoulders, and led her to the living room. He sat her down on the couch beside him. Wearily, he placed his elbows on his knees and averted her eyes from her tearful ones. He waited until she had composed herself before he opened his mouth to explain.

"I met Dumbledore three days ago," he said wearily, running his hand through his hair. "And – well . . . you remember the attack on the Ministry, right?"

Hermione nodded.

"Well, Dumbledore reckoned that Voldemort had recruited someone to help him out. Someone who was willing," his voice wilted. "Someone that could access the Prophecy."

Hermione stiffened.

"But the Prophecy was destroyed!" she exclaimed.

"It wasn't," Ron confirmed. "It's taken up residence somewhere in the Department of Mysteries. Only the ones that know the full Prophecy can access it."

"Ron-" she warned, but he cut her off.

"Let me finish, Hermione," he closed his eyes and pinched his nose. "There are only three people today that know the full Prophecy. Dumbledore, Snape, and Harry," he ignored her sharp inhale. "But Dumbledore and Snape were seen in Hogwarts by the time the Ministry was infiltrated. That means . . ."

"But he didn't get in," she interjected forcibly. "The wards around the Department of Mysteries detected Dark magic. Then, he disappeared. You can't assume that he would've gained access to the Prophecy."

But Ron, feeling restless and agitated, stood up.

"D'you think Voldemort is stupid enough to send one of his men inside the Ministry if he thought they couldn't access the Prophecy?" Ron paced the room, trying to mitigate the feeling of betrayal in his heart. "You remember our Fifth Year, don't you? Why d'you think Voldemort tricked Harry into handing him the Prophecy? Harry has access to it."

But Hermione shook her head furiously. Tears dripped onto her open hands. For once, her emotions overruled her logic.

"It's not Harry," she whispered, refusing to think ill of her friend. "Harry would never hurt anyone."

Ron sighed and plumped back down beside her. He took her hands as she looked at him with puffy eyes.

"When the Aurors caught him breaking into the Ministry, they said he disappeared on the spot. As if he was never there," before Hermione could open her mouth, Ron continued. "He can't have Apparated. There are Anti-Apparation wards all across the whole Ministry. Disappearing on the spot . . . Sounds familiar, doesn't it?"

"The Invisibility Cloak," Hermione breathed in horror. Her eyes drifted across the living room. "Dumbledore never found it in the Dursley home. Or Harry's wand. He must've taken it with him when the Death Eaters arrived."

Ron nodded.

A deafening silence befell. They mourned the loss of their best friend. He was as good as dead to them. There were no words of comforts. No reassurances. They accepted the truth. Their once beloved friend had betrayed them for reasons that were unknown.

Overtime, the entire Wizarding World learned of Harry Potter's betrayal, though they were divided over the issue. One group believed that the Chosen One had proven himself loyal time and time again and thus kept their faith in him. The other group expressed their disdain for him and remarked that they had always known that the boy was wrong in the head.

But Harry's friends didn't know what to think. They couldn't ignore the fact that their friend had claimed many lives over the course of ten years. But they also couldn't dismiss the fact that he had saved many more as a young boy. In the end, they decided to limit their judgements until they received further information from Harry himself perhaps.

As time passed and these questions persisted, however, Harry's friends had started to take down pictures of themselves with their friend. No longer did they gaze upon his pictures with longing and regret. No longer did they praise Harry for his accomplishments, his bravery, or his loyalty. He was no longer regarded as a hero. In fact, they hardly mentioned him at all, not even to their children. They simply warned them to never cross paths with this man, if they ever met him.

Though they felt guilty for condemning their friend, overtime, fear and betrayal began to dominate their emotions.

As Harry's friends slowly denounced their friend, Albus, too, had begun to doubt his former student. Influenced by the disdainful scoffs or expressions of disgust of the members of the Order when Harry's name was mentioned, Albus was slowly losing faith in Harry Potter. If even Harry's friends had doubted him, and they had known Harry better than Albus, then why was he grappling at loose threads? Why was he so adamant that, despite the cold and disturbing crimes that Harry had committed, that Harry had goodness left in him?

Perhaps it was instinct.

Albus learned at a young age to always trust his instinct. After all, his instinct had detected young Tom Riddle's insincerity when the boy had accused Hagrid of killing young Moaning Myrtle. Furthermore, he had suspected that Lord Voldemort would return from the dead, though Harry Potter had apparently killed him as an infant. The only time his instinct ever led him to contentious paths was when he befriended Gellert Grindewald.

At the thought of Grindewald, Albus shook his head and cast his thoughts aside and continued to walk down Shreveport Alley.

An ethereal mist had settled over the roofs of the shops and houses. The once bustling Alley was unusually forlorn. The lights cowered behind the mist. Occasionally, the blurred outline of a shadow crossed Albus's path. Cloaked figures nodded their greetings to Albus, their expression grim and subdued.

Due to its large Muggle-born population, Shreveport Alley had become targeted by Lord Voldemort. If any child from this area expressed the slightest hint of magic, their wands would be immediately confiscated and snapped. The child would then be escorted to an unknown destination where "disciplinary measures" will be taken against them.

When Albus first heard the news, he had been downright appalled. Not only was the Ministry of Magic blind to the disappearance of the children in this area. But they refused to even acknowledge the fact that Muggle-borns were the main victims. These incidents could have been avoided if the Ministry would simply take precautionary measures against these acts.

But Albus sighed and watched his breath flow out in front of him. It was fruitless to reason with the Ministry. They didn't care what happened to their fellow witches and wizards as long as they received their pay checks at the end of the week. They didn't bother themselves with the idle Dark Lord, who had not appeared in public for ten years nor did they bother with mitigating the amount of Death Eater raids per year. Wealth and happiness were all that concerned them, and Albus shook his head in grave disapproval.

What strange creatures humans were.

Snapping out of his reflection, Albus noticed a waning light coming from one of the shops at the end of the Alley. He looked up at the sound of bells colliding and found the owner of the shop staring warily across the Alley, one arm holding the door open. It was almost as if he was waiting for someone. Albus wondered if this was the man that he was looking for.

Albus lowered the hood of his cloak further down his face. As he approached the man, his hand discreetly reached into his pockets where his wand was.

Though the man looked genuine, caution was a necessary tool these days.

"Pardon me, good fellow," Albus greeted him with a respectful nod. He gazed at the man with piercing blue eyes. But the man looked rightfully suspicious. "For I am led astray by my good friend. Pray tell, where might I find the Cauldron's Carnival?"

At the title, the man's hazel eyes widened in startled realization as he gazed upon his former Headmaster.

"Albus?" Reddick Winfrey hissed to the opaque figure of Albus Dumbledore. "Is that you?"

Albus nodded.

Winfrey scanned the area for bystanders before he nodded pointedly to the open door.

When Albus entered Winfrey's Cabin, he was not surprised to find it relatively dark and empty. There were only a few elderly men like himself concealed behind the shadows, their expressions stern and grim. There was little social interactions. In fact, most individuals were scattered and relatively isolated. They preferred to engross in their own thoughts, rather than engage in reckless conversation.

Dim, floating candles flickered light onto their faces, though the room remained largely clothed in darkness. The walls and ceilings were drenched with mold and hanging moss. The planks of the floor remained aloft and relatively unwashed. No one looked up when Albus entered. None even registered his presence, even though he was relatively well known. They were all captivated by their own misery.

"Didn't think you'd show up by the minute," grunted Winfrey, shooting Albus a glare. He led Albus to an isolated table at the corner of the room. "Never took you as the punctual type."

With a wave of his hand, he gestured for the bar-man to order drinks. When he offered Albus a drink, Albus kindly declined.

"You seemed desperate," Albus confessed calmly, his eyes scanning the room for a hint of what Winfrey had called him for. But Winfrey simply downed his drink in one breath. The liquid sloshed all over his robes.

"Sure as hell I was," he grunted, his voice raspy. He wiped the liquid from his face with his sleeve and bellowed for another drink, "Gave me a right scare, she did. All of a sudden," he hiccuped, "Shows up in my fireplace askin' me where Dumbledore is," he shook his fist furiously. "Then I told her, 'Do I look like his shadow? Get out of my house!' But she was stubborn. Said she won't leave until she met you. I tell you. The girl lacks brawn, but she's got some spunk."

He shrugged.

"And how old is this girl?" Albus inquired, his fingers stroking his beard in thought.

Perhaps it was a girl that he knew.

"Middle teens," Winfrey stated with an offhand wave of his hand. "But who gives a damn about her age?" he slammed his palm onto the table and muttered. "Barking mad, she is. You'll never get a reasonable response without her wailing like a banshee."

Albus's frown of disapproval was lost on the drunken man.

But middle teens? Middle teens meant that she had probably attended Hogwarts. Was this girl one of the Muggle-born students that had mysteriously vanished? Only this year, Albus could only recall four Muggle-born students that had left Hogwarts. Three of them were found to have been transferred to different schools while the fourth had apparently refused to return due to the death of his parents. Then again, these explanations had been given by the Ministry.

Albus remembered how bewildered he had been when he realized that all four students were of Muggle descent. But he never confirmed whether these explanation were accurate. But even if he checked over them, would he find real evidence or spurious evidence?

"But you know something?" Winfrey elicited a raspy cough. He leaned forward, his bloodshot eyes wide, "I reckon she's got a hold of one of the articles in the Daily Prophet. Been on about a dark-haired man for hours now. Always on about how he saved her from the hell she was in. I reckon she's gone bonkers, Albus. Whether she wants to hear it or not, one girl's batting eyelashes isn't going to change the mind of a mass murderer."

He shook his head.

But Albus asked in a careful tone, "By any chance, did she describe this man? Other than the fact that he was dark-haired?"

Albus's heart sank when the man shook his head.

"Come now, Albus," he leaned back into his chair, "You don't actually believe in this loony, do you?" Albus glared, but Winfrey laughed scornfully, "Oh, I'll show you to her. Don't doubt me on that. But honestly," he leaned forward and lowered his voice, "It's not uncommon these days for young girls to swoon over their favorite antagonist. These articles are creating that impression for the feeblest of minds. To sympathize with the enemy . . . What girl doesn't fawn over the dark and mysterious villain that lurks behind the shadows? This girl is mad, I tell you. Completely barmy. Did I mention that she was captured by the Aurors?" Winfrey cackled, though the residents of the bar didn't stir. "That's what she claimed. She's got it all backwards, she does. All lopsided in the head."

But Albus only half-listened.

Though the man's insolence irritated him to no end, the information that he had given about the girl had caught Albus off guard. She was captured by the Aurors. She claimed to have been saved by a dark-haired man. She wanted to speak to him.

Did she know him, perhaps?

Frustrated by the lack of response, he turned to Winfrey.

"And where is this young girl?"

Winfrey looked taken back by Albus's urgency and stuttered over his response.

"Oh. I-In my house, sir," he stated. He tried to stand up, but his drunken state caused him to trip over the table. "I've hidden her in the basement. Reckoned she wasn't safe in the house."

"Lead the way," Albus commanded.

He stood up and towered over the younger man. Intimidated by Albus's brusque responses, Winfrey stumbled over his robes and scrambled to the door.

Through the enigma of the night, Winfrey led Albus towards the end of the Alley where his house was located. Shadows flickered across the path. Vacant eyes seem to follow their every step. Albus glanced behind him to ensure that no one was following them before turning back to the path. Winfrey seemed to have found his house. Glancing around, the man beckoned Albus behind the backyard gate. When Albus entered, he found a door planted directly on the ground. He assumed that it was the basement.

"Well, here's the basement," Winfrey grunted. When Albus lifted an eyebrow, the man looked appalled. "Oh, no. I'm not going down there. Not with that barmy strutting about," the man shrank under Albus's glare. "I'll be inside if you need me."

"Very well."

Albus lifted the door and descended down the crooked staircase. As he walked, the room started expanding and widening until it reached about the size of a regular room. Wrinkles creased and drooped along the walls while sharp-edged blocks of cement polished the floors. Using his wand, Albus illuminated the room, irresistibly wondering if Winfrey had led him to a trap. But as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he stopped at the faint sound of a whimper and the soft click of a door. As he approached, he gently rapped on the door. He did not want to startle the girl.

"W-Who g-goes there?" asked a shaking and distrustful voice.

Albus noticed a shadow below the door. He knew that she was looking at him from below the door. He wondered if she could recognize his boots.

"It is I," Albus proclaimed kindly, "Albus Dumbledore. I understand that my presence has been requested."

Before Albus could finish, the door slammed open until it bounced on its hinges. To his surprise, a brown-haired young girl of about fourteen years lurked behind the shadows.

"Pr-pr-fessor," she stuttered. A hint of hesitation crossed over before she tossed herself on the ground beside his feet, clutched his robes, and sobbed hysterically. "P-please help m-me! T-hey t-took me f-from my h-house and im-imprisoned me. They killed my p-parents a-and little J-Jaime. I h-have no no-nowhere e-else to go. P-please help me."

Feeling chains of pity envelop him, Albus brought his illuminated wand closer to her and knelt down. His eyes inspected the girl. He almost didn't recognize her.

She was definitely a student of Hogwarts and one of the missing Muggle-borns. But the extent of her injuries had rendered her unrecognizable.

Bones, not flesh, defined her body. There were several bruises on her head and shoulders. Blood spilled from her neck and arms. Broken bones had torn parts of her flesh. Her frame shook violently, but Albus knew that it wasn't because of the tears. The girl must have suffered from prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse. But what nauseated Albus was the letters carved in her blood onto her forehead spelling "Filth," and the fact that her wand arm was completely missing.

"Miss Weatherborn," he acknowledged his student with a heavy heart. He tried to mitigate her clutch on his robes, but she ignored him. "What a terrible ordeal you have been through."

But words and gestures were lost on her. She was not responding to him in any manner.

For the first time in his life, Albus felt helpless. As he looked around the cramped room for answers, a creak at the door had caught his attention. Winfrey had returned with a small vial clutched in his hand. When he caught Albus's eye, he raised an eyebrow in a cocky manner.

"Reckoned you needed some help," he remarked, handing Albus the Calming Draught before stepping back into the shadows.

Albus nodded his gratitude.

He turned to sooth the young girl. Finally, she settled, her sobs mitigating to sniffs. She shuffled to her knees, her eyes vacant as she looked down at her missing arm.

"Miss Weatherborn," Albus began gently, wary of startling the girl. "I understand that you are in pain and shock. With your permission, I will escort you to Madam Pomfrey. She will tend to your injuries, and you will remain safe at Hogwarts until further notice. However," Albus sighed wearily. A part of him wanted to save her the pain from retelling her story, but the other needed answers. "You must tell me what has happened to you and your family–"

"My family is dead," she whispered bluntly. Her eyes were unfocused, but Albus didn't interject. He allowed the silence to prompt her into speaking. "We were having breakfast in the kitchen when the Aurors came in. But they weren't there for a good chat. They came to arrest my parents. Said that they were caught fraternizing with the Dark Lord."

Albus interrupted. "They referred to him as the Dark Lord?"

This was strange. Most Aurors referred to Voldemort by his name or as You-Know-Who.

"Yes," Weatherborn confirmed passively. "My parents had a fit, though. Said that they had never been in contact with anyone from the other side. The Aurors showed them a letter that proved it. But it wasn't even the right handwriting. The Aurors had none of it and arrested my parents. Then, they looked at me and my little brother, Jaime, and said that they couldn't possibly leave the children alone in the house. So they took us all."

Albus rubbed his eyes wearily behind his spectacles. "I imagine that that it was not Askaban which you were escorted to?"

The girl shook her head.

"I don't know where we were taken," she breathed hoarsely. "All I remember is waking up alone in my cell. I tried to call out for my parents and my brother, but no one answered. After a few nights, masked men appeared outside my cell and said that they wanted to talk to me. They put me in a room with my parents and my brother. They wanted me to hurt my family with my magic, but I couldn't. They taught me how to use the Cruciatus Curse using my parents as an example," suddenly, she started to cry, "I tried to make them stop, but they only laughed. Then, they moved onto the Killing Curse."

But Darcey Weatherborn couldn't finish. Even with the Calming Draught, her emotions reigned free.

She was inconsolable.

With a heavy heart, Albus bowed his head when he met Winfrey's eyes. The man was standing against the wall with his arms crossed, his gaze harsh and unrelenting. But underneath his callous exterior, Albus detected a slight hint of pity and sympathy for the young girl.

With a weary sigh, Albus turned to address the girl.

"My dear girl, if there was anything I could do to ease your burden, know that I would," as she shivered, Albus cast a silent warming charm on the girl. "But you must tell me how you escaped. I must know if they are tracking your location."

From his peripheral vision, Albus noticed that Winfrey had stiffened and had lowered his arms in shock.

To Albus's surprise, a faint smile dawned the girl.

"The dark-haired man helped me."

Albus struggled to neutralize his expression.

"Describe him, if you please."

The girl narrowed her eyes. "Dark hair. Green eyes. Wears glasses," Albus's heart soared with joy but stayed silent. "Scar on his forehead and cheek."

But Albus frowned at the last statement. His cheek? Had Harry received another scar in the past ten years? Perhaps he had gotten it from his duels with the Aurors.

But Albus wasn't surprised to know that the girl had not recognized Harry, despite his trademark cursed scar. She was fairly young and had probably never heard of Harry Potter. In the past ten years, Harry's name was either forgotten or regarded with disdain. Hardly anyone mentioned Harry's traits, actions, or physical characteristics. In fact, ever since his betrayal, the Wizarding World had longed for the day when Harry Potter's name would be forgotten.

"And how did you meet him?" asked Albus, curious of the state of his former student.

Could this girl prove that Harry Potter was not the killer that everyone believed he was? The girl tried to wipe her tears and snot with her sleeve, but Winfrey stood and passed her a handkerchief. Resuming his position, he waited for her to continue.

And she did.

"He came to my cell," she said blankly, though her demeanor had brightened. "He asked me why the Death Eaters were torturing me. I told him I was Muggle-born. I thought he would hurt me too, but he didn't. Instead, he gave me a Calming Draught and bandaged up my arm."

Here, she lifted up her arm. Albus was surprised by Harry's work. There was no blood drenching the bandages, which indicated that he must have patched the skin on the wound. But that spell was very advanced and required a great deal of concentration.

"But even when he healed my wounds," she continued, "the Death Eaters would hurt me more. And I think they figured out that he was helping me. They started to hurt him, too. He tried to hide it behind his cloak, but I knew he was hurting. When he didn't visit for an entire week, I thought they killed him," then, she snapped open her eyes and, for the first time that night, she smiled. "But he came back and asked me if I wanted to escape. I couldn't live there anymore. So he gave me a Cloak and told me not to take it off. He led me to a fireplace and told me to ask for Dumbledore when I arrive. And I did."

Here, she smiled bashfully. Albus returned the smile, his eyes twinkling madly.

It seems like Harry had never changed.

"Did he happen to mention his name?" Albus inquired, his hand stroking his beard thoughtfully.

The girl shook her head.

"I never asked," she responded timidly, wondering if her Headmaster would berate her for not asking.

Albus, reading her thoughts, smiled merrily at her. Although the name was important, there was no doubt in his mind which individual had performed these heroic acts. None of the other Death Eaters had the heart to sympathize with a victim – much less a Muggle-born – nor would they ever have the audacity to betray their master.

With the help of Winfrey, Albus escorted the injured girl to Hogwarts. He nearly had given Madam Pomfrey a heart failure when he had awakened her. The flustered Healer had nearly lost her composure at the sight of her injured student. But the girl didn't need a panicked Healer.

Inhaling deeply, Madam Pomfrey schooled her features and handed the girl a Dreamless Potion as she tended to her injuries.

This was going to be a long night.

Albus simply watched as Madam Pomfrey struggled to remain composed. It was painful to believe that a fellow human being would hurt a child so severely at the tender age of fourteen. Not only had they broken the girl physically, but they had also shattered her emotional state by murdering her parents in front of her simply because she was Muggle-born.

Albus wondered whether the girl would ever recover.

But as he glanced down at her sleeping state, he recalled the subject that brightened her mood. Despite her terrible ordeal, she had found happiness in her savior.

Harry.

Albus wondered how the young man was fairing.

The girl had mentioned that he was injured while he had tried to help her. But why had they hurt him? Did Harry not seal his faith with Voldemort? Did that fact not grant him protection from the Death Eaters, or did they still rule over him? But what puzzled Albus the most was why Harry had even helped the girl at all. Did he not prove to the world that he could claim innocent lives, from men, to women, to children? Why had he chosen to help this girl? Or did he also help other prisoners?

Albus's eyes widened as he looked at the girl's missing arm. He remembered her telling him that Harry had bandaged her arm. Albus remembered how startled he had been to discover how meticulously Harry had done it. The skin on the arm had been restored. And there was virtually no blood staining the bandages. But where had Harry learned of such an advanced spell, a spell that only the best Healers could cast?

Albus knew that Hogwarts did not teach of such a spell. And Voldemort, too, did not care for healing spells; he preferred for the injured to die of their injuries rather than heal them.

Was it possible? Had Harry taught himself?

Albus knew how talented and determined the young man had been, when he tried to teach himself a spell that he thought was useful. After all, casting the Patronus Charm at tender age of thirteen was no easy task. He did not soak up knowledge like his best friend Hermione. He simply took what was practical and dismissed the rest.

But if Harry had found convenience in this spell, then he was definitely helping the prisoners escape. But if so, why had no other prisoner beside this girl spoken up? Or had they, and the Ministry had caught them?

And why did it seem like Harry had developed two personalities, the killer and the savior? If he was truly helping the prisoners, why would he turn his back and kill innocents? Why was he betraying Voldemort but following his orders as well? Which side had he chosen? Or had he not chosen one at all?

Today, he had learned that the Ministry, or the Auror Office mainly, had been compromised.

There were Death Eaters disguised as Aurors and vice-versa. The fact that the Ministry had never bothered reducing the amount of children that disappeared in Shreveport Alley made sense now. Why would they speak up when they were the ones committing the crimes? Albus realized that he better warn Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom over the state of the Auror Office since they were both working there. He also needed to arrange a meeting with the Order of the Phoenix and perhaps even arrange a meeting with his former student.

'Indeed,' he thought with his eyes twinkling merrily. 'Harry Potter has returned.'

A/N: R&R