Harry stood with his eyes wide, his lips dry. He knew who this man was. He knew why Voldemort was keeping him here. Because of their blood traitor status, the Weasleys were known as fierce opponents to the dark. There was no doubt in his mind – nor in Voldemort's apparently – that the whole lot of them were involved in the Order. Because of this certainty, the Weasleys were the main targets . . . But to catch one of them was almost impossible because of their close association to Albus Dumbledore.
Voldemort smirked.
"Did you really think I would send my Death Eaters into the center of the Ministry without good reason?" he asked, his red eyes flashing in victory. This unnerved Harry, who felt slightly repulsed by the joy of the other man. "Did you think that your frivolous efforts to kill that fool Weasley was wasted last night?"
With his scar pricking uncomfortably, Harry heard a weak gasp from below. His gaze shifted and fixed onto the figure on the ground. The man looked weak and disheveled, his eyes drawing in and out of focus. He was looking at Harry as if he had never seen him before. Harry had never been good at reading expressions, but he could have sworn there was a sense of betrayal in the other man.
At the sign of movement, Harry lifted his eyes to observe Voldemort. The latter man flicked his wand lazily as a large oval-shaped basin floated from beneath the curtains next to the wall. Harry immediately recognized it as a Pensive. His heart racing, he watched as Voldemort poured his thoughts onto it before an image surfaced into the air.
It was the memories of last night. The memories of each and every person that Voldemort had seen yesterday in the Ministry.
Idiots! Harry thought.
Voldemort knew who they were now. He knew his enemies. He knew each of their faces. It was just a matter of figuring out where they were.
The Order was doomed.
"The Order are fools," whispered Voldemort, his eyes flickering across the memory. "They have drawn themselves into a pit in which they are too dense to climb out of it."
Though Harry hated the man with every fiber of his being, he couldn't help but agree with Voldemort now. But then, he remembered what had drawn them in there in the first place. They had heard blasts within the Ministry, hadn't they? And that had drawn them out from their Disillusionment charms. There were also reports of numerous deaths, mainly instigated by the two Lestranges. If he had been in their positions, wouldn't he have done the same? Wouldn't he have rushed into battle to save the innocents?
"You led them there," Harry breathed, his eyes glaring and accusing. "You tricked them, didn't you?"
Voldemort smirked.
"Must you think so ill of me?" he asked calmly. "It was of their own accord that they arrived there. Their faith in the greater good is what sealed their fate. After all, what else would have protected the Ministry workers from Lord Voldemort and his ruthless followers? But no matter. Now that I have the faces of them all, perhaps our guest here can humor us with their names."
"What are you going to do?" asked Harry. "Even if you know their names, you don't know where they are."
"If the thought comforts you . . ." he replied lazily, his eyes alight with victory. The reply unnerved Harry more than anything else that night.
Harry frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"I told you before," Voldemort replied calmly. "I have others ways of getting the information that I need."
Harry clenched his fists.
"We've been through this before," Harry said through gritted teeth. "I was never part of the Order, and you know it."
Voldmort was unfazed.
"And yet, who were the ones protecting you all these years?" he said, the contents of the Pensive reflecting in his eyes. "Who were the ones that kept you from my grasp for fifteen years? You have seen their faces, Harry, and yet you refused to oblige. You forced me to resort to, shall we say . . . desperate measures?"
"What sort of measures?"
Voldemort's lips curled.
"The type that will prevent you from seeking them, of course."
Harry furrowed his eyebrows.
"You think I'll join the Order? Why, so I can thank them for leaving me here with you?" Harry snapped.
"Where is your gratitude? What I offered you is simply what you deserve, Harry," said Voldemort mockingly. "After all, offering luxury to a criminal is simply unheard of in this day and age. It is imperative that I stick to traditions."
Harry felt himself trembling with fury. He hated that Voldemort knew exactly which subjects affected him the most. And he hated that he was using them against him. His chest was boiling. The talks from Lestrange, the frustrations for losing Dumbledore once again, his boiling hatred for Voldemort, all came to him like a pack of thirsty beasts. Something menacing inside of him snapped.
"You made me like this," he hissed.
"Don't pretend that you don't have a choice in the matter," Voldemort snapped. He proceeded to pace around Harry, who felt his grip on his temper weaken. "You could have fled last night in the Ministry. You had many opportunities to flee, but you refused to take it. Instead, you returned to me. I did not chain you to a leash and drag you here."
"– I wouldn't put it past you –"
"I did not forcibly grab you by the arm and Apparate with you. You are here on your own accord. You see, Harry, what I did to you was simply reveal your true self to you. I surfaced these unwelcomed thoughts. I have shown you the thoughts that were already inside of you. Thoughts that were already a part of you. The part of you that you struggled to deny."
"I've never thought –"
"Never thought of what? Never thought of killing others?" Voldemort asked softly, calmly circling around Harry. "Never thought of hurting others? You deny that these thoughts are a part of you? Because I beg to differ, Harry. As you stand before me now, I can see it in your eyes, as clear as night, all the reckless desire to kill me. All the reckless desire to hurt me. If I offered you a wand now, will you not seize that opportunity to pounce?" Here, he halted his pacing and stood before the younger man.
Harry looked at him dead in the eyes.
"You killed my parents," said Harry quietly, his fists clenched tightly at his sides.
"And what do you want in return? Vengeance?" Voldemort asked. "It's where it always starts, is it not? Do you think that there is no real purpose in hurting others? Do you think that perhaps, because I stand in opposition to Dumbledore, that I rule without purpose? No, Harry. I learned my lessons from the Muggles in the orphanage. I learned that the only way to rule is through fear and cruelty. Abandoned by my foolish parents, I took what cruelty I was taught and transmitted it to others . . . in the name of vengeance. You see, Harry. In many respects, we are very much similar to each other."
Harry snapped.
"I'm nothing like you!"
"Your actions speak otherwise."
"I'd never go to the lengths that you did," Harry lashed out harshly, as if struggling to convince himself of his own innocence. "I'd never hurt anyone who's done nothing to me."
Voldemort seemed unperturbed by the outburst.
"And yet, just last week, you killed Bethsuda Jones while asleep in her home," he replied lazily, faintly amused. "An innocent victim, no less. With no relations to you whatsoever. Even Arthur Weasley here can vouch for that. They work in the same Department, do they not?"
Harry clenched his teeth.
"You did that to me," he hissed. "You made me kill her."
"And yet, you were conscious of it," Voldemort stated calmly, his eyes quietly assessing the young man before him. "You did not try to stop me."
" – I couldn't – "
"But you understand now. You see our similarities. The fact that you suffered, the fact that you wanted to inflict the same amount of pain that you experienced onto her, prevented you from banishing me. Your self-pity outweighed your determination to stop me. I simply gave you the strength to accomplish the task. I did not, however, coerce you into killing her," Voldemort lowered his voice. "There's no one to blame but yourself, Harry. She died of your own will."
Harry shook his head.
It was as though a dagger had sliced through the threads of his heart at the reminder of what he done to that woman. Not just that particular woman, but of countless victims before. To hear someone blame him, even if it was his greatest enemy, was an odd sort of comfort to him. He needed to be blamed. He wanted someone to blame him. He had let Voldemort influence him. He had let himself become a killer. And he had done nothing to prevent it.
He deserved to be blamed.
Engrossed in his guilt, his gaze fixed blankly on the figure on the floor. He had been staring at the man without really seeing him. To his surprise, however, a determined pair of blue eyes met his green ones, and Harry felt a strange sort of strength wash over him.
"Given the choice," he muttered, his eyes boring into Voldemort's. "I'd never have killed her. I wouldn't have even known where she lived if you hadn't told me in the first place."
Voldemort smirked.
"But the fact of the matter is that you did. You killed her," he emphasized, his eyes gleaming when a wave of pain crossed Harry. "It was your wand that took her life. Your Killing Curse that killed her. You are known by your remarkable ability to resist the most effective Imperius Curse. Why, then, did you not act against me? Why did you allow me to enter into your deepest thoughts? Perhaps you enjoy it, Harry. Perhaps you find satisfaction in seeing others suffer the same way that you did. But you simply feared the consequences of acting on it. You feared what was disliked. You feared being shunned."
"Shunned by what, exactly?" Harry snapped, feeling slightly resentful. "It's not as if I ever belonged anywhere."
But a quiet voice interrupted them.
"You belonged with us," Arthur said hoarsely, holding up his weight by his arms. Despite his weakness, he met Harry's eyes with a hard stare. "You belonged with the Weasleys," he stated firmly.
Harry froze. He stood and stared back at the man. He didn't understand what he had meant. Hadn't he heard the whole discussion between Harry and Voldemort? Didn't he know that Harry had tried to kill his son last night in the Ministry? That he had killed a woman in her home just last week? What exactly had he meant by his statement?
But Voldemort regarded him in amusement.
"Ah, so there is strength left in you," he hissed coldly. "Good. We will resume our discussion on the morrow. Perhaps then you will oblige me with information."
Harry turned away as Voldemort cast one final Cruciatus Curse at the man. His forehead seared with pain. He wished that he could do something to help the man, but he couldn't. He was vastly outnumbered by the Death Eaters in the mansion. Hell, standing up to Voldemort himself was like taking on an entire army of Death Eaters. He was significantly out-skilled.
Instead, the man's screams echo in the silent night. His precarious existence illuminated by the faint light of the candles above him. It was a cruel warning of what the man's fate would be. Sooner or later, he would never see the light of those candles. Not after he had found himself here. In the presence of the Dark Lord.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the curse was lifted. Harry turned back to see Voldemort tucking his wand into his robes. The snake, which had been slithering around the figure throughout the night, accepted the outstretched hand of the Dark Lord. It reached up to rest around his shoulders.
"Harry, escort our guest to his living quarters," said Voldemort carelessly. Ignoring the glaring eyes that were boring into the back of his head, he approached his throne. "I'm afraid he's rather ill at the moment."
Harry threw the best dirty look that he could muster at the Dark Lord and approached the panting man. He knelt down, draped the arm around his shoulders, and stood up. The man had weakened so much that Harry felt the burden of his weight holding him down. But he refused to show it in front of Voldemort.
"Oh, and Harry . . ." he called as Harry prepared to depart. But Harry, feeling an ensuing explosion within him, halted abruptly but didn't glance back.
"Know your place," hissed Voldemort in Parseltongue.
Harry ignored the warning. Instead, he reached up to slam the door behind him. With the weight of the man on his back, he stalked through the vacant corridors. His anger caused the head of the snakes plastered against the walls to hiss at him, and the Portraits around him to glare distastefully at him.
But he didn't care. He didn't care if Voldemort cast a thousands Cruciatus Curses on him. He didn't care even if he killed him. He didn't care even if Voldemort hurled him in a volcano, quite frankly.
He had lost all hope yesterday in the Ministry. He had been so close to uncovering the truth yesterday . . . so close of getting Dumbledore alone, but the blasted Ministry crowd had butchered it. If only he had left a note, a message, a means of communication to the old man before he had left. If only he had asked Dumbledore for a private word, perhaps he could have arranged something. If only . . .
Harry cursed his luck.
He reached the underground dungeons, traced the outlines of the snake on the knob, and stepped in. But as he treaded deeper into the dungeons, he stopped dead in his tracks. An icy feeling crossed him. Dementors were floating aimlessly along the corridor, predators hunting for their favorite prey. Harry, however, stood with wide eyes, a strange feeling of defeat enveloping him. Wouldn't it be so easy to just surrender? Wouldn't it be so easy to just give in? To live a life with nothing but emptiness?
What was left for him, anyway? He didn't have anyone waiting for him. His parents were dead. His godfather was dead. His aunt and uncle were dead. The only one left was Dudley, who was adamant that Harry did not discuss magic so he had no help there. And now that the news had spread that he was a criminal, he couldn't join the light lest they arrested him. Or even worse, give him the Dementor's Kiss. And even if he did manage to escape, Voldemort would undoubtedly hunt him down until he was back here.
He was stuck here.
A part of him wished that Voldemort would just do it – just kill him. Then, it could all be over. He deserved to be killed for his crimes. But Voldemort himself refused to give him that mercy. He had tried so hard to distract himself from what he had done last week, but the effort, as always, was futile. He had become so engrossed in his guilt that he had starved himself for nearly three days. He felt dirty. He felt nauseous. He felt sick. Besides the fact that he had collapsed yesterday because of his injuries, he had not slept for three nights before that. He couldn't. He didn't trust himself to sleep. He could hear her screams in his dreams. He could hear her begging. Then abrupt silence. And nothing else.
But the quiet breathing of the man interrupted his thoughts. Shaking his head, his breaths quickening, Harry clenched his teeth and slowly maneuvered around the Dementors. He reached the deepest end of the corridor and stopped. Harry heard the familiar creak of the door as he entered into the musty cell. He chose the cell farthest from the Dementors. He reckoned that the man had suffered enough tonight. He didn't need anymore of it.
As he neared the corner of the cell, he knelt down and deposited the man on the floor. Still weak, the man slumped against the corner. Though his breathing had settled down since they had left the throne room.
But as Harry rose to travel back to his own cell, a hand shot out to clutch his robes which brought him back down to his knees.
"H-Harry," the man – Arthur – whispered, lifting himself up to sitting position. "Is it really you, then?"
Harry stared at him for a long moment. He didn't know how the man knew him or why he was even talking to him in the first place. Hadn't he seen what Harry had done to his son last night?
"I –" Harry stuttered, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
To his surprise, the man smiled.
"You've grown quite a bit since the last time we saw you," he chuckled weakly, offering the young man an appraising look. "Molly will be most thrilled to see you. It hardly feels like ten years, doesn't it?"
"You know who I am?" Harry whispered.
"Of course," he said, looking strangely astonished. "You were a friend of Ron's, don't you remember?"
"Ron?"
Ron . . . Why did that name sound familiar? As Harry's gaze drifted across the room, he suddenly remembered. That man last night. The one he had fought. Weasley's wife had him out by his name. But him. His friend? They had both tried to kill each other, hadn't they? Or was it only Harry who had tried to kill Weasley? Was it possible that Weasley was only defending himself?
"My son," Arthur stated in a matter-of-fact tone. "You met him on the train on the way to Hogwarts, remember?" Harry looked, if possible, even more bemused. But the man seemed content in reminiscing. "I've never seen Ron happier than he was that year."
"Hogwarts?"
Harry noticed a faint sense of frustration cross the man.
"The school, Hogwarts," Arthur insisted. "Surely you remember? You met Hermione there as well. You three were nearly inseparable."
Harry gave him a strange look. He reckoned that the effects of the Cruciatus Curse must have addled his brains. He almost felt pity for the man. If only he hadn't been so insistent that what he was saying was true.
"Look, I'm sorry," said Harry firmly, trying to pry loose the man's grip on his robes. "But you must be mistaking me for someone else."
"No," Arthur said quickly. His hand shot out to grasp Harry's wrist, who had risen to stand. "You are Harry James Potter, are you not?"
Harry frowned.
"Well, yes – but – "
"We looked endlessly for you, Harry," he said, his tone growing desperate. "We nearly risked Severus's job in order to find you. I've never seen Molly more distraught than when you were discovered missing. It was as if she had lost a son that night."
"What night?" Harry asked impatiently.
"The night that you were discovered missing," he said, frustrated. "I suspected that something had happened. You usually sent letters to Ron every two weeks. But throughout the whole summer, we hadn't received a single letter from you. Sure enough, you never arrived at Hogwarts. Dumbledore searched your aunt's home and found the bodies of your aunt and uncle. Needless to say, we found no sign of you. But I swear to you, Harry, that we would have travelled to the ends of the Earth to find you. But there was no sign of you. We lost you."
But Harry was slowly growing irritated. Was this man mad? Was he, perhaps, set up by the Order to get to Harry? But if so, why was he doing this? What would the Order want from Harry, anyway? Did they want information about Voldemort?
As if Harry knew anything about Voldemort.
Harry had enough.
"What do you mean by 'lost'?" Harry shook his head, his grip on his temper weakening. "You heard me talking to Voldemort, didn't you? You heard everything."
Arthur flinched.
"I did," he replied coolly.
"Then you know what I've done," Harry said firmly. "I can't be the person that you're describing."
Arthur shook his head.
"I don't believe you would ever hurt anyone," he insisted, tightening his clutch at Harry's wrist.
Harry raised a brow.
"You must think very highly of me, then."
Arthur shook his head profusely.
"You've saved me before," he whispered desperately. He looked anguished, which frustrated Harry beyond measure. "You saved my daughter."
"What daughter?" Harry asked, flustered.
"Merlin's beard, Harry," he exclaimed, leaning forward painfully. "My daughter, Ginny. You saved her from the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets. Surely you remember?"
Harry winced as the clutch around his wrist became painful.
"What Chamber?" he asked insistently. He struggled to suppress a glare. "What are you playing at?"
"Harry, these events happened," Arthur said firmly. A series of coughs cut him off. Despite his irritation with the man, Harry hurried to help him lean against the wall, but the man didn't let go of his wrist. "Everything I'm telling you is the truth," he said hoarsely, "I have proof of it. You were there. You used to spend your summers and holidays with us – with the Weasleys. Have you forgotten it?"
Harry looked down at the man, his irritation slowly fusing to desperation.
"But – I couldn't have," he tried. "I never had a family."
There couldn't be anyone out there waiting for him. There couldn't be anyone that'd be expecting him to return. He couldn't have a family waiting for him. They couldn't have missed him. There couldn't be people that saw him for what he had done. He was supposed to be recognised for the person that he was now.
"But you did," Arthur stated firmly. "Us – the Weasleys, we were your family. That day that Ron and the twins broke you out of your aunt's home, Molly and I gained a son that day. We saw how you were treated at home, and we were prepared to take you in as one of our own. Not to mention, you got along just fine with our other children," he smiled at Harry's startled look. "You had us, Harry. You've always had."
But Harry stared at him for a long moment. He studied him for any hint of a lie – any hint of deception. Anything that would prove to Harry that he should just walk away from this man and never look back.
This man was mad. Barking mad.
"I don't understand," Harry said slowly. "Why are you saying all this? Didn't you see what happened last night in the Ministry?"
The man looked alarmed.
'Great Scott, what happened?"
Harry regarded with unconcealed suspicion.
"Your son," said Harry slowly, looking at the man as if he expected horns to sprout out of his head. "Last night at the Atrium? Weren't you there?"
"I wasn't," breathed Arthur, his eyes widening with horror. "I was at a different part of the Ministry. Dumbledore sent me to –"
"Dumbledore?" Harry demanded. "You know Dumbledore?"
"Well – I – of course," Arthur stammered. "My dear boy, who doesn't know Dumbledore?"
But Harry looked at him in a new light. He knew where Dumbledore was! There was still some hope left for Harry. He could finally find the man. He could finally speak to him. He could finally figure out the truth.
"Where is he?" he demanded, ignoring the man's wince. "I need to talk to him."
"I'm afraid I can't help you there, Harry," replied Arthur, his head bowed in shame. Harry's heart sank. "Dumbledore always has his guard up, especially now in these dark days that we're in. He always ensures that the places he visits are completely secured before he enters. And what with my capture and all, I couldn't possibly hope to. . ." His voice trailed off.
A faint sense of guilt crossed Harry. He had been so engrossed in his troubles that he had disregarded the man's own.
"You're part of the Order, aren't you?" he asked, sitting against a nearby wall.
Arthur hesitated.
"Is it that obvious?" he asked weakly. Harry nodded. "Well, the Weasley lot does tend to stand out, don't they? Of course, I'm not surprised that you know, Harry. You were there with us, after all. Saved my neck last time, didn't you?"
But Harry stayed silent. He didn't know what to say. The man was still rambling as if Harry had once lived with him. As if he had once known him, which completely befuddled Harry.
Instead, he changed the subject.
"You mentioned that you were at a different part of the Ministry . . .?"
Arthur's expression darkened.
"Oh yes," he replied bitterly, his gaze shifting to the wall behind Harry. "I was sent by Dumbledore to retrieve something in the Senior Undersecretary's office. He needed it to be done last night while the Ministry was under lockdown. I suppose he thought that the room was safe and empty, that I could enter without trouble. But as soon as I stepped inside to retrieve the said object, I heard commotion behind me. Needless to say, the Minister's secretary had used Death Eaters to guard her belongings. I suppose she expected forced entry."
Harry frowned.
Based on what he had gathered from the story, the Order seemed to be looking something dark that the Death Eaters seemed to want as well.
"What were you looking for?"
Arthur pinned him with a hard stare.
"Can I trust you, Harry?"
Harry stared.
"I – I don't know."
Harry shifted uncomfortably under the man's piercing stare. He had been honest, though. There was a part of him that was trustworthy, and there was the other that was not. Nevertheless, he understood if the man didn't want to tell him.
But the man sat up painfully and reached around his neck to pull something out. To Harry's surprise, a green locket dangled down from the band in his hand.
"He sent me for this."
Harry absentmindedly reached for it and let it rest in his palm. He noticed that there was gold framings around the locket in the shape of a diamond. In the center, however, was a snake curled onto itself in the shape of an "S." Harry immediately understood what it was. Voldemort never failed to tell his followers about how he was the heir of Slytherin.
This was Salazar Slytherin's locket.
"It's not the real copy," Arthur interjected, watching Harry carefully. "It's quite obviously a fake. Just open it, and you'll see it. It seems that the owner of the locket was rather daft herself. That fake locket must've cost her a fortune."
Harry frowned.
"What would the Order want from Slytherin's locket, anyway?" he said suspiciously. "I reckoned that was something that only Death Eaters would want."
"I'm not quite certain, Harry," replied Arthur. "Dumbledore seemed adamant to retrieve it, however. He's not exactly eager to tell us why he's looking for ancient artifacts. Always likes to speak in riddles, that man," he shook his head with a faint smile.
But Harry gave him a long and hard stare. He couldn't resist asking.
"But why've you told me?" he asked, his eyes narrowed. "Isn't this the Order's business?"
To Harry's surprise, a determined look crossed the man's eyes. He leaned forward to lay a hand on Harry's shoulder.
"I want you to have it," he said sternly. Ignoring Harry's startled look, he shook his head. "Look, Harry. It's quite obvious to me, and perhaps to you as well, that my place in the Order has ended here. I don't know how much time I have left, but I can't possibly hope to finish what I've started. I can't exactly find the real copy of this locket locked up in this dungeon. That's why I'm entrusting you with this task."
Harry's eyes widened.
"You want me to find the real copy? You trust me enough to find it?"
"Of course," said Arthur softly, his mood suddenly forlorn. "I've accepted my fate, Harry. As soon as I arrived here, I knew what was to come. I knew that I would never again see my family, though I'm grateful to have seen them grow this far. I can't possibly hope to complete my mission. Please, Harry . . . I ask this one favor from you. Consider it as a dead man's will."
Harry regarded him with both admiration and suspicion in his gaze.
"You're willing . . . to take it to the end?"
Arthur nodded. "Until death or insanity? Yes, Harry. I would never dream of selling the Order out . . . Much less my family. You understand that, don't you?"
Harry suddenly felt a strange feeling overcome him. It was as if a flame had been lit in the dark and dense room. It was strange to see someone accept their fate so readily for such a good intention – for their family. It had been a long time since Harry had seen such defiance, and he felt oddly comforted by it.
"Yeah, I –" he then met the man's eyes with a determined gaze. "Of course," he said firmly, his hand tightening around the locket.
Arthur smiled.
"Good man, Harry," he chuckled, clapping the young man on the shoulder. He then shifted his arms behind his head, closed his eyes, and slumped down against the wall. "With all of these rumors surfacing, I can't imagine how anyone would ever doubt your good heart. I certainly didn't."
Harry felt the unfamiliar curl of his lip.
"Thanks," he whispered, though he felt the kindness was undeserved.
He didn't know how long or how much effort it would take to convince the man otherwise. But he decided to let it slide for now. Standing up, he dusted off his robes and made to leave before he was suddenly stopped by the man.
"Harry," a whisper came from the corner. Harry heard the ruffle of the robes. But he stood with his hand on the cell lock, his back facing the man. "Is my family all right?"
Harry stiffened. He didn't glance back. His lips felt dry, his heart sinking down to the rough dungeon floor. How could he tell him that he had brought his son to the brink of death last night? How could he tell him that he had kept his son under the Cruciatus Curse for two whole minutes? That his whole family had been caught in a full-fledged battle last night?
The man had seemed so kind, so good-natured that Harry couldn't bear to see his change in disposition. So engrossed in his thoughts, he felt his lips moving without his consent.
"Yeah," he said, his voice sounding distant. "Yeah. Everything's fine," he hoped to God that he was right. "Just get some rest. I'll see you later."
Without glancing back, he stepped out. A cling rung through the desolate dungeons as he shut the door behind him.
But Ron noticed something strange at the way that Fred grinned. Unlike before, his grin seemed forced, which seemed unusual for the typically 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.
"What the bloody Hell happened, Fred?" he demanded, scrambling off of his bed. Ignoring the look of alarm from Rosè, he marched over to his brother. "Has anyone –?"
"No," Fred cut him off, shooting a warning look at Rosè. "No one's died yet, though we're fixing to have one if you don't quit harping down my neck."
Ron grimaced, his neck colouring. "Sorry," he said grudgingly, rubbing the back of his head in shame. "Guess I got a bit carried away, didn't I?"
Despite his mellow mood, a grin formed on Fred's freckled face.
"Best take back that apology if you know what's good for you," Fred threatened, waving his wand ominously. "First rule of Weasley Wizard Wheezes is you should never apologize when you're clearly at fault."
Ron frowned.
"Why's that?"
Fred replied lazily. "In this house, pride is better than truth. You're sure you were a Gryffindor, mate? Or . . ." his eyes widened dramatically, which caused Rosè to giggle. "Were you, in fact, a Raven in disguise?"
Ron glared.
"I'd never had the brains for Ravenclaw, and you know it," he said, crossing his arms. "If anyone was a Ravenclaw in disguise, it was Hermione."
"What about Hermione?" murmured a voice from behind them. A yawning Hermione was sitting up from the bed, rubbing her aching neck. Her eyes were blotched from sleep.
"Mummy!" exclaimed Rosè, who threw herself in her mother's arms. Hermione, however, groggily caught her in her arms.
Ron threw a warning glare at Fred, the latter of whom grinned mischievously, before he went to greet his wife.
"Morning, Hermione," the boys greeted her loudly.
She winced.
"Must you be so loud?" she huffed irritably.
"Have you got a noise amplifier in there?" joked Ron, tugging on her bushy locks. "We're just using our normal tones."
"Haven't you two ever heard of whispering?" she said exasperatedly, adjusting Rosè in her lap. Fred and Ron glanced at each other quickly.
"The other alternative is to say nothing at all. Would you prefer that instead, Hermione?" said Fred cheekily.
Hermione huffed.
"Yes, I'd rather say that I would," she sniffed, looking like Professor McGonagall that Fred and Ron grinned. "It's not as if there's anything worthwhile in your discussion, anyway," ignoring their shaking heads, she turned to Ron with an appraising look. "How are you?"
He raised a brow.
"How do I look?"
She smiled.
"Quite dashing," they laughed. From the bed in front of them, Fred imitated a vomiting motion, which caused Rosè to burst into giggles. "I was wondering when you'd wake up. Madam Pomfrey said that you'd be ready to leave by tomorrow. I suppose that means that all of your injuries have been healed." Ron noticed a hint of wariness in her tone.
"Yeah, well," said Ron, stretching widely. He winced when his joints gave a loud snap. "What can Madam Pomfrey not handle?"
But he froze abruptly when he caught Fred and Hermione casting furtive glances at each other.
"You didn't tell him?" Hermione asked Fred. The latter shook his head with a grim expression, and Hermione sighed.
"Tell me what?" demanded Ron, who felt his heart racing madly. "What happened, Hermione?"
Hermione simply offered him a solemn look before she took his hand and stood up. Adjusting Rosè on her hip, she led her husband to the farthest corner of the room with Fred trailing behind the family. She stopped abruptly and pointed a finger at the dormant figure on the bed. From beside the bed, Angelina looked up with drenched eyes and offered them a weak smile.
Ron stilled at what he saw.
"George," Ron breathed in horror.
But it was not the same George as before. To Ron's horror, there was a gaping hole where his left eye was. Someone – or something – had blasted his eye out, leaving him with a purple and blue frame around his eye and eyelids. There was now an obvious difference between the twins. Rosè whimpered at the sight of him, and Hermione tucked her face in her robes.
"Poor George," Hermione said softly, laying a reassuring hand on Ron's back.
But a soft whisper interrupted them.
"I'm mad, geddit?" muttered George, who peeked open his good eye to look at his visitors. "Mad Eye Moody," he smiled weakly, gesturing at his eye.
Despite their solemn mood, they smiled.
"Always the jokester, aren't you?" said Ron weakly, sitting beside him on the bed.
"Hear, hear," said Fred, grinning widely. He moved to sit beside Ron.
"Is this really the time to joke around?" chided Angelina, shaking her dark head. "Honestly, this is hardly the time for a laugh."
"You're right, Angelina," said George, who winked at his twin brother. "I'll see to it that it isn't."
"Come off it. He looks and acts like Mad Eye everyday," laughed Fred, humour filling his eyes. "Reckon we should warn him about a competitor?"
George grinned.
"I dunno why Crouch bothered using Polyjuice Potion to impersonate him," he joked. "Just lose an eye and you'll be rough and gritty as he is in no time."
They all laughed. Angelina, too, gave a grudging smile.
Ron felt slightly comforted that the twins were taking it in their stride, despite George's terrible ordeal. But his smile wilted as he recalled the events from yesterday. There didn't seem to be any heavy casualties, which was reassuring to hear considering that they had been led to a trap. But the stings of his injuries reminded him of what – or who – had been the subject that had greatly upset him.
It was true . . . Harry had really betrayed them. For the right or wrong reasons, he had still stood beside Voldemort. He had injured Ron. He had nearly killed both him and Hermione if Dumbledore hadn't stepped in between to help. He had cast the Killing Curse so naturally, so casually, that it was no doubt in Ron's mind that the victims of the 'Master's Right Hand' were Harry's victims.
Harry's victims.
Ron nearly felt like screaming at the thought. His friend, his best mate . . . The one that he had once considered a better brother than the ones he shared by blood had killed people. He had become a cold-blooded killer. Whether or not it was willingly done, whether or not Harry had reasons behind his actions, didn't change the fact that he had killed people.
He had killed innocents.
Ron wondered if he could ever forgive him.
But then, he remembered leaving the battle to Dumbledore's capable hands. He cleared his throat and interrupted the conversation.
"What happened to – ?" he stopped, unable to say the name. "to –?" He exhaled in frustration.
Hermione understood.
"Albus let him go," she said quietly, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.
Ron looked outraged. He bolted up from his seat, unable to believe that Dumbledore would do something like this.
"Let him go?" he said furiously, moving past the beds and in front of Hermione. "Is he mad? Don't tell me he sent him back to Voldemort, did he?"
"Easy there, mate," Fred warned.
But Hermione looked torn and hesitant. "He – he did," she whispered, her expression showing her disapproval of the decision. "But Ron –"
"Barking, he is -"
"Listen, Ron –"
"– lost his marbles –"
"– hear me out –"
"After all he's done?"
"They were going to give him the Dementor's Kiss."
The whole room looked at Hermione with horror. Despite his fury with Harry, Ron stood in shock. Sure, he had resented for Harry for his crimes, but he had never dreamed of offering him up to the Dementor's Kiss. Friend or not.
"What?" Ron breathed.
Hermione bit her lip and looked down at Rosè, who was hiding in her mother's robes.
"He's possessed, Ron," she whispered, her eyes glistening. "Voldemort was possessing him all last night in the Ministry. That's why his eyes have changed color. But Dumbledore . . . Snape told him what had happened beforehand. When we left last night, Dumbledore used Legilimency on him, which removed the enchantment. He's still Harry, Ron," she said, wiping tears from her eyes. "He's still the Harry that we knew before. And he never meant to hurt anyone. It was Voldemort. It was always Voldemort."
Ron stared at her for a long moment. He didn't know how to feel. He felt a multitude of emotions: relief that his friend was still there, bitterness, anguish, resentment, contentment. Who to curse? Who to blame?
They were mysteries to him.
"There's one other thing," she said shakily, looking on the edge of a breakdown. "This wasn't the first time it's happened. It happened last time after Sirius's death, too. Voldemort possessed him, but Dumbledore said that Harry's love for Sirius was so strong, that it pushed Voldemort out of his mind. But when Dumbledore used Legilimency, he tried to find a memory that would do the same. A memory that would push Voldemort out of his mind, but he couldn't . . . He doesn't remember any of us, Ron. Voldemort's erased his memories."
Ron felt like he had been drenched in ice.
Harry hadn't recognized any of them yesterday? Was that why he had never sought them out, even though he had access to the outside? Was that why he had never asked for help? Why he had never bothered sending even letters to them?
Ron had always suspected, because of Harry's innate defiance, that Harry would always find a way out of a difficult situation. It was pure talent that he was capable of it. He'd use anything and everything, no matter how limited his resources are, to break out of it. That was Harry's strength. To learn as he goes – to improvise. To use what was available. And somehow, always emerge victorious. Ron had always suspected that Harry always knew how to escape from Voldemort, but chose not to.
And now he understood why.
There was nowhere that he could go. Before, he had only left the Dursleys for the Weasleys. But now that he had forgotten the Weasleys, and the Ministry threatening to arrest him, where else would he go besides to stay put?
"How – how much has he forgotten?" asked Ron, his voice sounding distant, though a part of him didn't want to hear it.
Hermione sniffed.
"His five years at Hogwarts."
A tense silence overcame the room as each became absorbed in their thoughts. No one knew what to say. Nor did they knew what to think of their fallen friend. But before anyone could speak, the door to the Healing room flew open and a familiar couple entered the room. The others quickly composed themselves and looked as if they hadn't just been discussing such a touchy subject.
"Ron!" exclaimed Molly, who tackled her son into a bear-like embrace. Ron, however, half-heartedly tried to extract himself. "Oh, Ronnie! Are you all right? Are you hurting? And George, dear, how are you? Oh, you look rather pale, dear. Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?"
"Mum," said Fred wearily. "Shut up, will you? You're going to wake everyone up." He dodged the slap from his mother.
"Oh, you," she admonished with a huff. Fred merely winked at her in return. "I s'pose you're right. Perhaps I got too carried away."
"You always do, dear," said a voice from behind her.
Ron looked up at the familiar face of the man, whose balding head shined against the light, his glasses lopsided on his nose, a large smile planted on his face.
"You all right, son?" said Arthur Weasley, beaming widely at Ron.
A/N: I love writing Harry and Voldemort's discussions. They're witty and funny, in a dark way.
R&R