Groggily, Ron Weasley cursed under his breath as the pale light of the morning pierced his eyes. He tried to lift his hand to cover his eyes but found that something was holding his hand back. A tiny, feather-like hand tightened around his. Ron blinked open his eyes and groaned as he attempted to sit up. To his surprise, he identified the owner of the hand.

"Daddy!" Rosè exclaimed jovially. "You're awake!"

She scrambled over the bed and tripped sloppily over the blankets. But Ron caught her with a bemused look about him.

"Rosè," he breathed, astonished. "Blimey, Rosè. Are you trying to give your old man a heart failure? Don't scare me like that again."

But she drew back and gave him a stern stare.

"Scare you?" she said fiercely, looking eerily like Hermione that Ron had to double back and remember who he was with. "I didn't scare you. You scared me! And Mummy, too!" She pointed her finger at the slumped figure beside Ron's feet.

Ron's heart melted at the sight of Hermione hunchbacked over Ron's bed, sound asleep. It looked as if she had been sitting and waiting for Ron to wake up when she had fallen asleep. Glancing around, he found himself in a rather warm room with several large and fat armchairs near the back, several beds sprawled in a row along the length of the room, long and thin windows that hung ajar near the beds. It resembled the hospital wing in Hogwarts but without the high ceilings. But it served the same purpose. It was intended for Order members who would return from their missions injured and in dire need of attention. Dumbledore had gotten Madam Pomfrey to work here as well, promising her a raise.

Ron turned to his daughter.

"How long have I been here?" he asked. Rosè lifted three fingers to indicate the answer. He then looked around with a frown. "And where's Hugo?"

"With Gran," Rosè said simply, as if it was the most obvious in the world. "Mummy didn't want him waking you, so she gave him to Gran," she scrunched her face. "He was being rather naughty, mind you. Always crying and all."

Ron rose an eyebrow.

"He was?" he tugged one of her curled red locks good-naturedly, "What about you, miss know-it-all?" she giggled and bat his hand away. "What have you been doing this whole time? Polishing your books?"

"No," she said, affronted. "I just finished reading the tales of Beetle the Bard. Well," she shifted in embarrassment. "Mum read it to me. Did you know there's a stone that brings people back to life?"

"Oh, someone cast a Silencing charm on her already," said a tired voice from the bed beside Ron. Ron startled. He whipped around to find Fred sprawled along the bed, facing them. "My head can't take much more of this."

He winked.

"Uncle Fred," sighed Rosè.

"Fred," Ron breathed, pushing his covers aside and sitting at the edge of the bed. "What happened? Are you all right?"

"I never thought I'd live to see the day when you'd be concerned for my health, little brother," he replied, shifting to look at the ceiling.

"Fine," he said irritably. "Be that way. See if I care."

Fred grinned.

"Ah, there's the silver lining. There's the brother I know."

But Ron noticed something strange at the way that he grinned. Unlike before, his grin seemed forced, which was unusual for the usually gregarious twins. But as soon as he opened his mouth to speak, Fred sat up and looked down at his feet with an uncharacteristically solemn expression.

"Ron," he said quietly. "There's something you should know."

Ron inferred the worst.

Groaning, Harry reached up to rub his forehead before squinting his eyes open. He was back in his dark and musty cell. After his duel in the Ministry, Harry had met Voldemort, whose smug features had nearly caused bile to form in his throat, before he had lurched back to the dungeons. Feeling as if an anchor was weighing him down, he had immediately collapsed atop the thin mattress of his bunk bed. He hadn't even bothered to tend to his injuries. The night had exhausted his energy.

But he had done it. He had gained Voldemort's loyalty.

For now.

Sighing, he rolled over to his non-injured side and stared blankly at the stained wall of his cell. The night had taken its toll on him. Physically, emotionally, mentally. Yet again, he had nearly taken a life. He couldn't help but feel a rush of gratitude towards Albus Dumbledore who had stopped his curse. He had nearly taken a life – two, in fact! Of Weasley and his wife. He had nearly done it. He had cast the curse. He had nearly committed yet another murder. He had nearly torn apart yet another family.

Though he disliked the Minister, he couldn't help but feel that there was some validity behind his words yesterday. He was a murderer. The Wizarding World had every right to fear him. Had every right to lock him away. There was no knowing when he would snap. Hell, even he didn't know. Could they take the risk? Could they risk the safety of their families and children for his own sake? Could they trust him enough to re-assimilate him back with society knowing that he was capable of such savagery?

No. It was better this way.

The fact that he had allowed himself to commit such savage acts was the reason why he did not protest against Voldemort's treatment of him. He would allow him to torture him, to damage him, to draw blood without complaint. He deserved the punishment. He deserved the pain. In a way, he sought repentance through pain. Sought forgiveness through suffering . . . It was a testament to every crime that he had committed. To every family that he had torn apart. To every victim that had begged him to reconsider his actions.

Sighing, he carefully heaved himself up, wary of his injuries. His limps ached and his head throbbed like the immutable beating of a drum. He blinked away dark patches from his eyes before he reached next to the pillow for his glasses. He tried to ignore the hoarse breathing of the Dementors around his cell as he began to tend to his injuries. He was accustomed to working in the dark. Years of tending to the prisoners, as well as himself, had improved his skills.

He was completely in his element.

Carefully, he detached his torn cloak from where the fabric had stuck to his wounds. He wrenched the pouch away from his neck and rummaged through it for the Dittany. Laying down all the necessary tools, he stumbled to his feet, removed his robes and cloak, and tossed them onto the bed. He then assessed his body and cleared away all of the dried blood. Though he had officially joined the highest ranks of Death Eaters, Voldemort had still not trusted him with a wand. But Harry didn't care. The spells that he regularly employed didn't need a wand. He had learned to live without one.

Sitting back down on the bed, he corked open the bottle of Dittany and gently poured drops over the wounds on his arms. He hissed as the icy droplets pierced his skin. He then severed a small section of his cloak and tilted the vial onto it before lifting it to his head. He had to admit, that Weasley had given him a quite run for his money. He was quite skilled at dueling. He had caught Harry off guard with his quick reflexes.

But was it true? Was he really an Auror? But his skills far surpassed the Aurors that Harry had dueled. Perhaps he was of higher ranking than the rest? But if that were true . . . If Weasley was really a skilled Auror . . . Why had he ignored his letters? Why hadn't he stopped Harry from committing his crimes? Why had he not reacted to the warnings that Harry had sent?

But as Harry removed his shirt to tend to his side, he concluded that Weasley was just as bad as the rest. Just as corrupted as the rest. He was probably in on the whole scheme in the first place, Harry thought bitterly. But deep down, did he really believe that? If Harry was honest with himself, he would almost admit that he didn't. In fact, ever since last night, he honestly didn't know what to believe.

His encounter with Weasley had left him frustrated and confused. The way that Weasley had taunted him . . . The way he had addressed him . . . It was almost as if he knew Harry before. As if he had once been close to Harry. If Harry was honest with himself, he had detected a foreign emotion in the other man. . .

Something like betrayal, was it?

But that didn't make sense to Harry. He had never in his life seen the man. In fact, he rarely conversed with anyone except for the prisoners. To Death Eaters, he only offered curt answers. Whatever they or Voldemort asked, he answered. But he never engaged in intimate discussions. He never elaborated beyond what was required of him. Moreover, he could not remember ever having friends. The only people he stayed in touch with were Kreacher and Dudley and his daughter. That's it.

Feeling a sense of frustration cross him, he had nearly cursed the entire Ministry crowd yesterday for ruining his chance to speak to Dumbledore. He needed answers. And Dumbledore, despite all the bitterness Harry felt towards the man, was the only one that could answer him.

He wanted to know why there were parts of his life that he could not remember. Not just a part of it, but a whole chunk of it – years, in fact. He suspected that Voldemort had erased his memories. But even then . . . Why? Why had he felt it necessary? He knew why he was keeping him alive. But he didn't know how the Hell he got here in the first place. What exactly had happened during his teenage years? And why did the Order members seem so reactive and devestated at the sight of him yesterday?

Did they know him personally?

But it was over now. Fate was a cruel mistress. He could no longer speak to Dumbledore. He had long wished to contact the man, to speak to him face to face. But he had never learned of his location. The places that he visited were heavily guarded – the Ministry, Hogwarts, the Order Headquarters. Harry could not enter these places. Not after the entire Wizarding World had learned of his actions . . . He was once famous for being a hero. Now, he was famous for being a criminal.

He had tried many times to contact him via an owl. But the owls that he sent had a habit of leaving and never returning. Thus, he had stopped. Harry had always suspected that they had died along the way. But if so, who was killing them? And how did they know when exactly Harry sent a letter? Exhaling in frustration, he felt his head throb at the amount of questions that he had unanswered.

But Dumbledore . . . Dumbledore had broken the enchantment. He had freed Harry from Voldemort's clutches yesterday in the Ministry. He had confronted him. Had reassured him. Had even admitted that he had faith in Harry. But why . . .? After all that he had done, the old man had faith in him? He had found goodness in him? But surely he had doubted Harry? Surely he had heard of all the crimes that Harry had committed? Was yesterday all an act? A ruse to get Harry to fulfill what was expected of him by the Prophecy?

But more importantly, was every question meant to be answered? Was it better for Harry if he didn't find the answers? Perhaps . . . for the greater good?

No, Harry thought firmly. He needed answers.

With a hint of hesitance, he laid his hand over his side and braced himself for the pain. He had received a nasty fracture in his ribs.

Grimacing slightly, he muttered.

"Ferula."

He gasped when he felt the bones repair themselves. Closing his eyes, he breathed shakily for a moment before he displaced the potions back into the pouch. He then severed his cloak slightly, elongated the strip, and used it to bandage around his waist. Satisfied with the job, he replaced his shirt and his robes and stood up, stretching and yawning. Despite the lingering effects of his injuries, he felt quite refreshed.

Glancing around the room, he stood still in the center for a long moment. He listened for the sounds of Death Eaters in the dungeons, but none came. Then again, the fact that the cell was barricaded from all sides could have muffled the sounds. But Death Eaters were known to be very loud and boisterous around the prisoners.

When Harry didn't hear anything, he hissed into the vacant room.

"Kreacher."

Suddenly, a tiny, decrepit house elf appeared, looking quite disheveled and irritated by the short notice. He had been in the midst of preparing dinner for the temporary residents of Grimmauld's Place when his Master had called him.

"Master Harry," the elf bowed humbly before his Master. Harry merely offered an exasperated look at the elf's strict etiquette.

But like always, he chose to ignore it.

"All right, Kreacher?" he asked. After he had gained the elf's loyalty, he had taken quite a liking to the house elf. "How are the prisoners fairing?"

Kreacher fidgeted with the hand towel in his hand.

"Kreacher has been healing their wounds, Master Harry," he croaked, his eyes squinted, "Kreacher has been helping them change and inviting them to eat, but the prisoners have been most ungrateful to Kreacher. The prisoners will not eat, Master Harry. The prisoners inform Kreacher that they cannot stomach it. But Kreacher has been working night and day to prepare them food," he shook his head, causing the pointed hat on his head to shift. "Ungrateful they are, Master Harry. Most ungrateful."

Harry knew how sensitive the elf got when guests rejected his food. He hurried to settle his worries.

"They need more time, Kreacher," he reassured. He lifted his pouch from the bed and hung it around his neck. "Some of them have been hurt badly. They need more time to heal before they can start eating."

Harry could hear the words "prisoners" and "bad manners" as Kreacher grumbled under his breath. But he ignored it. Speaking of prisoners, he had one more task to accomplish before he returned to Grimmauld's Place.

He turned to Kreacher.

"Think you could get me to the other side?"

Kreacher nodded.

He held out a wrinkly hand to Harry. As soon as their fingers met, they reappeared at the entrance of the cell. Harry glanced around quickly for Death Eaters before they ventured deeper into the dungeons. Their footsteps echoed across the corridor. They could hear soft droplets of water descending from the walls. The walls were stained green with mold. The corridors reeked with the smell of blood, feces, and decomposed corpses. Those that doubted the existence of Hell and stumbled across this dungeon would instantly become believers.

Such was the horrors of this dungeon.

Like always, Harry felt the boiling feeling steam his insides as hot anger coursed through him. It was hard to believe that the ones that caused all this were humans. Over the years, Harry had tried hard to help the prisoners, to heal their injuries. But try as he may, he still had to watch as some fell victim. Some became insane at the horrors that they had seen. Some had been driven insane by extended exposure to the Cruciatus Curse. Some had died of their own injuries. Some killed by the Killing Curse. Some – even children! – had died in his arms. And he dreamt about them. He risked his own mental health to try to save them. And the consequence . . .?

He never slept the night.

He had long since considered breaking them out. Maybe return them to their homes. But even if he did, he knew that others will replace them. Voldemort would perhaps kill him for his disloyalty. There would be no one here to help the incoming prisoners. No. He had keep himself alive. It was better to break them out discreetly than all at once.

For the greater good.

Was that selfish, though? Risking the sanity and possible deaths of a select few for the masses? Was he no better than Voldemort for thinking this? He assumed that Voldemort would kill him if he broke the prisoners out. Was he right in his assumptions? If he wasn't, then in a way, he was basically condoning the suffering of the prisoners by keeping them here. He knew that Voldemort only kept prisoners that could either supply him with information or perhaps convince them to join his ranks.

The rest were disposed of immediately.

"Is Master Harry bringing more prisoners, Sir?" Kreacher asked.

Harry startled.

"Yeah," he muttered, still lost in thought. "Only, this one is a bit young. Be mindful around her, will you? She's a bit fragile."

"A young girl perhaps, Master Harry?" croaked the elf, his grey eyes wide, "A young girl in the dark dungeons, Sir? Kreacher knows that the young ones dislike the dark. Oh, yes. Kreacher has seen it in young Master Regulus," his eyes darkened. "And young Master Sirius. Kreacher has never seen young ones that like the dark, Master Harry."

"Well," he sighed wearily. "she's not exactly in here because she likes to be. I doubt anyone is."

In fact, this girl was perhaps the youngest girl that Harry had ever seen in the dungeons. She was hardly nine years and had already seen things that no other nine year old should ever see. Unlike the other children that survived, this one was a bit unusual. She did not come from a Muggle background. In fact, her parents were pure-bloods. But like the Weasleys, they were blood-traitors, which the Death Eaters considered to be worse than Muggle-borns. Naturally, her parents were killed, and she was left orphaned. The Death Eaters had kept her alive to condition her to become a Death Eater.

Which was why Harry was breaking her out.

He had seen the girl. She was rather weak and petite. Though she had seen horrors, there was still a hint of innocence and purity within her. He knew first-hand, it took a complete shut-down of any empathy and emotions to be able to commit a crime.

Shaking his head out of his thoughts, he found her cell at the end of the corridor. Thankfully, no Dementors lingered here.

Lifting his hand to the lock, he muttered.

"Alohomora."

He heard the soft click of the lock and gestured Kreacher to keep watch outside. He then entered the cell only to find a tiny figure curled along the corner of the walls – sound asleep. Curled black locks curtained her face, some fluttering with every breath. Her legs were tucked against her chest, her body curled into a ball, shivering against the cold. With winter approaching, the dungeons had vastly dropped in temperature. Harry noticed tear streaks down her face. She had clearly been crying.

Debating whether to wake her up or carry her, he decided the former. He approached her, knelt down, and shook her shoulders.

"Hey," he murmured, wary of startling her. "Freya. Come on, wake up. I'm getting you out of here."

She shifted. Rubbing her eyes, she squinted her hazel-green eyes open and blinked in confusion as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

"Harry?" her voice broke slightly. She was not quite awake yet.

He nodded.

"That's right," he held out a hand and helped her to her feet. "Now come on. We're leaving."

But she looked even more bemused.

"Where are we going?" she asked curiously. As she stared dazedly around the room, she squeaked at the house elf and hid behind Harry. "What is that, Harry?" she breathed, her eyes wide with fear.

Harry resisted the urge to smile.

"It's just a house elf," he reassured, adjusting his glasses, "He's here to help, he won't hurt you. Isn't that right, Kreacher?"

"Of course, Master Harry."

"Master?" she breathed, emerging from behind Harry.

Harry grimaced.

"I'll explain later," he said hastily. "We've got to get you out of here," he turned to cast an Illusionment charm on the room before beckoning Kreacher into the cell. He shut the door to the cell and held out a hand to the girl. "Listen, Freya. What happens next . . It's going to feel strange. You're going to feel a bit out of breath, but you'll be fine. Trust me."

Taking his hand, she nodded.

"Right," he addressed Kreacher. "Let's go."

Collectively, they Apparated and landed at the doorstep of Grimmauld's Place. Ever since Harry had learned of his inheritance, he had taken it upon himself to renovate the ghastly home into a more warm and inviting one. With the help of Kreacher, the job proved to be a welcome distraction from the dreary dungeons that he had lived in for so long. For seven years, he had used the home as a crossroad for prisoners that he helped to escape. He kept them here until he found new homes for them, preferably in other countries where they would feel less threatened by the Dark Lord. But he, himself, never stayed there for too long in case Voldemort called on him. Instead, he trusted Kreacher to care for them.

"What is this place?" Freya breathed.

She was entranced by the floating candles and the night sky ceiling. She approached a side table and gasped when the lamp that she touched changed colors.

"Your new home," Harry said simply, shrugging off his cloak.

He offered it to the outstretched peg, which snapped shut and held it in place. Freya, if possible, looked as if she would faint.

But Harry studied her from behind his glasses.

"Didn't you say your parents were wizards?" he asked, wondering why she looked so awestruck. "You must've seen these things before, haven't you?"

She shook her head.

"My parents were poor," she explained, her mood darkening, "My father worked in the Muggle Department. He wasn't liked very much. And neither was my mother. She worked for the Wizengamot and sent loads of Death Eaters to Askaban," her eyes glistened. "I dunno why I was surprised when they took us. I s'pose I should've expected what happened . . ."

With a shaky breath, she wiped several tears from her eyes. With a heavy heart, Harry met Kreacher's solemn eyes and laid a hand on the girl's shoulder.

"Come on," he said quietly, leading her to the left of the corridor where the kitchen was. "You must be starving."

As soon as they entered, Harry, once again, felt quite proud to have gained the house elf's loyalty. Kreacher had gathered all of the prisoners in the kitchen. He had even resumed his work in the kitchen while he responded to Harry's call. The wooden ladles were still stirring the pots, the meat heated and smoked without intervention, the knives sliced the fruits and vegetables, and the plates arranged themselves on their own. If there was one thing that had startled Harry, it was the house elf's extraordinary ability to be able to do magic without actively being present. As the three entered, however, the other three residents looked up and smiled warmly, particularly in Harry's direction.

"Well, look what we have here," greeted the eldest man – Barnabas, his grin reaching his beetle eyes. "It's Harry Potter!"

Harry grimaced.

"Right," he said irritably as Freya hid behind him. "Because I needed the attention."

All three grinned.

"Be careful what you ask for," teased the woman – Hadley, who gave him an appraising look. "You've grown thinner since the last time we saw you. Have you been watching over yourself?"

Harry didn't know how she always noticed such minute details. In fact, she always seemed to remind him that he wasn't eating well or sleeping well. He often lost track of how many days he went without eating or sleeping. His guilt and his thoughts often prevented him from keeping in touch with reality.

Of course, the constant reminder was welcome.

"Yeah," he lied, struggling to avoid her narrowed eyes. "Not as much as before, but I'll live."

He shrugged.

But he assessed them all with a fastidious gaze. Though their injuries had been healed, there were still faint scars and bandages around their bodies. There was also hints of exhaustion and guilt judging by the bags under their eyes.

It was clear to Harry that they were not sleeping well.

The dark-haired woman, Hadley, looked like she had shrunk by the way she was holding herself. She was hunch-backed over the table, her arms were crossed over her chest in a rather defensive posture. The other man, Ciceron, still had half of his face covered with blotches and boils that didn't seem to have a cure. Harry suspected that he had been hit with a rather nasty Dark curse. Barnabas had nasty scars flitted all over his body – remnants of almost becoming food for the werewolves. To his relief, though, he was never bitten.

Despite these predicaments, Harry was rather impressed by their recovery.

"How are you all?" he asked, watching Kreacher levitate the plates to the proper guest, "Kreacher's told me that you haven't been accepting his food," he said, trying not to sound too stern. "You haven't been starving yourselves, have you?"

They looked guilty.

Kreacher interjected with a rather smug tone. "Oh yes. They have been ungrateful to Kreacher. Most ungrate –"

"Not ungrateful," chimed Hadley, throwing a resentful look at the elf, "No. No. Never ungrateful. We appreciate everything he's done for us. Really, we have. It's just . . ." she sighed heavily. "With everything that's happened . . . It's just hard to stomach the food, that's all."

"It's hard to feel hungry when you're constantly reminded of the past," said Ciceron bitterly, stabbing angrily at his salad. "I thought escaping from prison would help you feel free. Free from bars. Free from restrictions. Free from Hell . . . But it only made me feel as if I was back behind bars –"

"Ciceron," hissed Hadley, glancing towards Harry.

"Oh, don't misunderstand me," he added hastily, his blue eyes racked with guilt, "I appreciate everything you've done for us, Harry. Honestly. Words can't describe how fortunate we are to have you here," as if ashamed, he ducked his head over his plate. "It just . . . doesn't change how I feel on the inside. What with my family gone . . . I mean, what's left for me besides an empty house and my own beating heart? All I wanted from the world was meaning – purpose. But I've been robbed of even the simplest of things."

A tense silence soon followed after each became absorbed in their thoughts. Harry didn't know what to say. He had never been good at comforting people. Even though he had saved many lives, he had never gotten better at it. But finally, as the silence grew thicker, Barnabas leaned forward, his beetle-like eyes warm with wisdom.

"Whether it is holding the hand of the orphan or offering sweets to a child," he said quietly. "There is purpose in the simplest of things."

Ciceron looked up and smiled, his eyes glassy. He stood up abruptly and excused himself from the table. It seemed Barnabas's short words had touched him deeply and perhaps even convinced him. But the new guest made her presence known.

"Is he all right?" whispered Freya, her eyes fixed on the door.

Harry startled.

Even while she had been clutching his robes, he had almost forgotten that she was here.

"Oh, hello," Hadley blinked, her eyes wide with curiosity. She sat up, looking more confident. But the girl ducked again behind Harry. "And who is this young beauty?"

She then looked at Harry expectedly, her expression borderline smug. Harry almost felt outraged at the look that she was giving him. Try as he may to convince them that he did not have any secret relationships, they never believed him.

"She's not mine," Harry said firmly, shooting a glare at the woman. Hadley, in turn, winked slyly. "I found her in the dungeons. The Death Eaters were trying to convince her to join them. I couldn't just leave her in there, so I got her out."

"Good on you, Harry," nodded Barnabas, his eyes darkening as he stared the girl. "Why, she can't be more than nine years. Poor girl. I can't imagine the horrors that she's seen. The elders like myself can hardly stand to see such things, let alone a child," he shook his head. "Good God, what has the world come to?"

But Hadley stood up, crossed the table, and knelt down before the girl. Freya simply buried her head further into Harry's robes.

"Why, you're a beauty, you are," she gushed, now in full-mother mode. "Oh, don't be shy, dear. We're all friends here. We won't dare to hurt you," the girl peeked her eyes out, relaxing when Hadley gave her a warm smile. "Do you have a name?"

She whispered.

"Freya."

"Freya," hummed the woman, her warm disposition prompting the girl out. "Quite the name, that is. Very unique. It's from the old Norse, isn't it? Another name for –"

"Lady," she smiled, now fully emerged. "My mother named me."

"Of course she did," laughed Hadley, holding out a hand to the girl. "She must've been a very bright person. Why don't you tell me all about her while we eat, shall we? Goodness knows how much you need it."

As the three conversed, however, Harry stepped over and leaned against the pantry. His eyes flitted across the room, his mind racked with thought. He was amazed by how quickly Hadley had drawn the girl out. She was now chatting animatedly with Barnabas and Hadley. The two had noticeably brightened since Harry had stepped in. It was good to have people who were experienced with children, a skill that he unfortunately lacked.

But as much as he enjoyed their presence, he still had to find them a new home. He needed to send them into hiding. Though Grimmauld's place was protected by the Fidelius Charm, it was still dangerous to live here mostly because he, himself, was the Secret Keeper. If Voldemort ever tried to force himself into his memories again, he would be done for. The spell would be broken, and he would gain entry.

No. He needed to send them off. But he was still in the midst of looking for options.

Speaking of Voldemort, his head throbbed from the pain in his scar. It often settled to dull ache when he was distracted. But when he focused on the pain, it was almost unbearable. Rubbing his forehead, he struggled to quench the pain.

"Will you not eat, Master Harry?" croaked a voice.

Harry jolted and looked down at the house elf.

"Thanks, Kreacher," he said guiltily, knowing that he was sounding like a hypocrite. But he couldn't help the feeling of nausea that had washed over him. "But I'm not hungry at the mome –"

Suddenly, a searing pain crossed his arm. Hissing, he laid his hand over it. The whole room looked at him in concern.

He cursed.

Voldemort wanted him.

"I've got to go," he stated bluntly before he looked up. "I don't know when I'll be back. But watch yourselves, will you? And try not to step outside," he turned to Kreacher. "Let's go, Kreacher."

Hurriedly, he rushed to the entrance, found his cloak, and strapped it over his shoulders. He threw a final glance at the home, sure that he wasn't missing anything. Then, he took Kreacher's hand and disappeared on the spot. As soon as they reappeared inside of his cell, Harry quickly beckoned Kreacher to leave before the wall of his cell sank beneath the floor. As soon as Kreacher left, Harry elicited a sigh of relief at the fact that they weren't caught. He turned to greet the dark-clothed figure standing at the opposite side of his cell.

"Potter," nodded the Death Eater, his voice deep beneath his mask. "The Dark Lord requests your presence."

"Good to know that my presence is desired," he said, struggling to control his temper. "If we weren't always at each other's throats, I'd almost be touched."

The masked man hissed under his hood.

"Your disrespect is appalling, Potter," he growled. "You should be grateful by the fact that the Dark Lord kept you alive all these years. If I were the Dark Lord, I'd have you choking on your tongue years ago," his lip curled. "Then you can join your filthy Mudblood mother in the dirt. Isn't that what you've always wanted?"

"Do it, then," he goaded, his eyes flashing. "You'll be joining us in the dirt soon enough. We'll see who's the better man, then."

The man laughed.

"Do you think it matters what happens after death, Potter? Do you think it matters what happens when our consciousness fades? Do you think that we will have any recollections of our actions when we are in this state? No, Potter. A person without consciousness sees nothing – remembers nothing. He is nothing more than a hollow shell. Nothing but a tool to propel time forward. That's all we ever were. Our actions, our intentions, our moral boundaries are negligible when we are unconscious. Do you honestly think there is purpose beyond the grave?"

"I do," Harry said firmly.

"Then, you are weak, Potter," hissed the man, wrenching his mask away to reveal his face. Harry recognized him as Rodolphus Lestrange, "To recognise purpose in life is what creates these restrictions. What prevents knowledge. What prevents you from unlocking you true potential, both physically and mentally. These restrictions, these moral boundaries work against us. After all, how do you learn the effects of the Cruciatus Curse if the spell could not be cast in the first place? How do you discover that a bezoar cures poisons if the poison was not applied in the first place? You cannot generate knowledge and power through restrictions – two things which are essential to survival."

"I didn't think I needed knowledge and power to survive, Lestrange," Harry replied bitterly. "In case you haven't noticed, but I'm still alive. It's pointless to go looking for something you'll never achieve. There's always going to be someone that's better than you. Someone with more knowledge and power than you'll ever have. Take Dumbledore as an example. He's got more experience than all the Death Eaters combined. But he never used it to his advantage. He never used it to hurt others. And that makes all the difference."

Lestrange's eyes flashed at the name.

"I see," he said quietly, his eyes glaring. "Ten years, and you haven't changed a hair about you, Potter. Still Dumbledore's man through and through?"

"That's right," he said boldly.

They stood there, glaring fiercely at each other. The only thing that kept them from reaching for each other's throats were the bars of the cells. Even the desperate cries of the prisoners had mitigated by the tension that followed within the dungeons. Suddenly, however, Lestrange adjusted his cloak and reached up to unlock the cell door.

"Don't get any ideas, Potter," he spat, his wand drawn as if expecting Harry to retaliate. Harry looked annoyed at best and stepped back into the shadows. "We mustn't keep the Dark Lord waiting."

Harry stepped out of the cell and shot the man a dirty glance.

"Don't want to let him know that I've been giving you funny ideas?"

Lestrange chuckled.

"Cheek, Potter," he sneered, his grey eyes gleaming. "But you'll have to try harder than that to change my mind. Changing my views is no easy task. It is like finding water in the deserts. It is nearly impossible to challenge me," he shut the door to the cell. "As you'll find out soon enough."

"I'll hold you to that," he muttered. "I'll find my way through for myself, thanks."

"If you insist."

And he stalked off. His footsteps thundered across the dungeon, his chest boiling with rage. Why did they insist on sending Lestrange for him all the time? If there were any Death Eaters that Harry hated the most, it was the Lestranges. The whole lot of them. Bellatrix and her good-for-nothing husband. Bellatrix, because of the reminder of what had happened to his godfather, Sirius Black. And Rodolphus, for his long-winded explanations and – Harry loathed to admit – his impeccable wisdom.

He was not wrong to state that power and knowledge were essential to the growth of man. But too much of something – too much of anything! – was just bad. Knowledge and power without boundaries was what Voldemort had done. And what a monster he had become. He was willing to hurt people in order to achieve his strengths.

Then, there was Dumbledore . . .

Though Harry had defended him earlier, he hadn't ignored what Dumbledore had done early in his life. He knew about Dumbledore's story. He knew what goals he had concocted with Grindewald. He knew of Dumbledore's desire to rule over the Muggles. He knew what happened to Dumbledore's sister. Harry had resented him for it. Had even given the man a cold shoulder. Had even once vowed to never speak to the man as an ally again.

But he couldn't do it. Despite everything he had done before, despite all the controversial ideas that he had before, Dumbledore remained the last bit of hope that Harry had left in the world. Despite all of his mistakes, Dumbledore was still helping to fight Voldemort. To fight corruption. To help others. To help even Harry himself.

What right did Harry have to judge the man by his mistakes when Harry, himself, had done actions worse than him? He often forgot that Dumbledore was just as human as the rest. That he made mistakes like the rest, which was ironic considering his unrivaled power. Harry had decided to limit his judgement until he could speak to the man.

To his surprise, Harry discovered that his feet had led him to Voldemort's throne room without his conscious effort. He had been so engrossed in his thoughts that he hadn't noticed his surroundings. Breathing deeply, he lifted his fist and rapped on the door. The corridor was darker than usual. The sun had sunken hours ago. It was almost two in the morning. Irresistibly, Harry wondered if Voldemort ever even slept. He always seemed to call him at such an ungodly hour.

"Enter," hissed a voice from inside.

Harry turned the knob and entered the room with an annoyed look about him. He never cared much when Voldemort requested him. He was either there for Voldemort to vent his frustration out on him or Voldemort suspected him of trouble (which was almost always the case).

"You sent for me," Harry said stiffly.

But he frowned as the door slammed closed behind him. To his surprise, the Dark Lord was not in his usual sitting position at his throne. Instead, he stood tall, his wand outstretched, his back facing Harry. Harry tried to crane his neck to see what Voldemort was aiming at, but a warning hiss from Nagini held him back.

He glared at the snake before Voldemort spoke.

"Is punctuality your weakness, Harry?" he asked calmly, his voice barely above a whisper. Harry heard quiet whimpers and a soft echo of his name, and he grew ever more curious. "Where are your manners? Has it ever occurred to you that it's rude to keep your guests waiting?"

Voldemort made no move to show Harry what "guest" he was talking about. Harry, however, stood silently and considered his words before he chose to speak. Over the years, Harry had learned to respond curtly and concisely. If he elaborated beyond what was necessary, he would risk slipping some information that he never wanted Voldemort to know, which Voldemort incidentally sought from him.

"Lestrange held me back," Harry said carefully, deciding the truth was the best option. "We got in a bit of a row. I couldn't ditch him in time."

But Voldemort did not shift.

"Is that right?" he asked softly, his bony fingers twirling his wand. Something – a person! Harry realized dreadfully – was breathing heavily and repeating Harry's name over and over. Harry felt his own heart racing. Did Voldemort find out about Grimmauld's Place? About Freya? About Kreacher? "Tell me, Harry. Are your needs more important than mine?"

Harry scowled.

"No."

"Your time more important than mine?"

"No."

"Your petty quarrels more important than mine?"

"I didn't know you found your quarrels petty, Riddle."

Stiff silence.

The room dropped several degrees as Voldemort turned to face Harry. The two stood, their magic radiating from their forms, fumed by their hatred towards each other. Harry glared at the man, his green eyes narrowed – daring the other man to hurt him. He didn't even bother to look at the figure on the ground. He kept his eyes fixed on the cold red eyes of Lord Voldemort.

"You haven't lost your touch," Voldemort breathed quietly. "Still as unruly as always. When will you learn, Harry? Perhaps I ought to hire a leash to tame you. After all, what is the difference between you and a vile, feral animal?"

"Funny, you'd think a leash would be a bit Muggle for someone like you."

"Would you prefer a Full Body-Bind curse, instead?" he asked, his red eyes flashing. "Or perhaps something unique to yourself?" His voice was mocking, he was playing along.

Harry knew that he was treading on dangerous grounds.

But as the whisper of his name grew louder, Harry wisely bit his tongue. Who was the person behind Voldemort? It was a rather deep voice, which Harry concluded to be a male. He sounded rather old, perhaps elderly. But why was there so much emotion in his voice? If Harry was not wrong, the man sounded like he knew Harry. But who was he? Was he one of the prisoners that Harry helped to escape?

Voldemort must've noticed Harry's gaze because he spoke.

"Ah, so you found your wits, then," he stated coldly, his gaze drifting downwards where Harry's gaze was. "Your delay has caused much distress for our new guest, Harry. For every minute that he waited, his longing to see you tortured him," Voldemort smirked. But a sense of dread crossed Harry, who had now completely shut up. "I must admit, he will be delighted to hear about your excuses after all the pain that you have caused him."

At last, Voldemort stepped aside and Harry's eyes widened at the sight of the crippled figure sprawled along the ruby rug beneath Voldemort's feet. There was no mistaking him. The flaming red hair, the second-hand chestnut robes, the cracked and lopsided glasses, the balding head. There was no doubt in Harry's mind who this man this. He had seen him in several articles in the Daily Prophet. He had even heard the mentions of this man around the Death Eaters.

It was Arthur Weasley.

A/N: Whew, what a chapter. I hate how people always make Harry either too strong, with an absurd power level or devilishly handsome, stereotypical devil-may-care guy with a six-pack and he's so snotty and bratty and obnoxious. I hate it. Or the pathetically weak Harry that can't stand up for himself and is always crying and whining. It's pathetic. At least try to keep him in character. Otherwise, you're just slapping the name on the character when you could just replace the name with literally anything.

He might not be physically strong or even skillfully strong in the books, but he has a sharp tongue and mind. He can hold himself on his own. He takes no crap from anyone. And he doesn't let anyone step over him.

Don't even get me started on the crap I hear about Dumbledore.

Sorry for my rant.