With his robes flapping behind him, the hooded figure strode along the corridors. Each step was purposeful. Some might even say pre-determined? After all, who, besides Albus Dumbledore, could possibly hope to challenge him? As he passed every torch, he flicked his wand to extinguish the lights. The snake around his shoulders hissed with pleasure as the corridors drenched in darkness. To his amusement, a scarlet-robed man turned the corner towards him.
"W-who's there?" asked the man, his hesitant footsteps echoing across the corridor. The dungeons were large, dark, and sturdy. No doubt, Nurmengard was one of the most secured prisons in the entire Wizarding World. The man clearly worked here.
Well, for now.
But nothing can stand his way.
A rustle of his robes was heard in the taciturn corridor. The scarlet-robed man looked alarmed. A black phantom suddenly crossed his vision. The Dark Lord swiftly appeared behind him. His eyes widened before he fell with a faint thud to the floor.
Pitiful.
Tucking his wand in his robes, he climbed the steps to the next floor. As he passed, however, the row of armored suits unsheathed their swords and pointed it towards him. Smirking, he flicked his wand lazily and forced them to reposition their swords to their own selves. A cling rung throughout the dungeons, and they laid shattered on the ground.
At the end of the corridor stood a bulky, metal door. It was concealed tightly with large, enchanted chains around the knob.
The Dark Lord knew that he had arrived.
Flicking his wand in a complicated motion, he watched as the door sank slowly beneath the floor. As the dust effaced, his red eyes gleamed at the sight before him. A long, messy-haired man sat with his head bowed, his wrist wrapped in a thick chain from beside the wall. He didn't even acknowledge the open door. Instead, he seemed to be muttering to himself.
Resisting the urge to snort, the Dark Lord approached the figure and pointed a wand at him. As the wand came into his vision, however, Gellert Grindewald looked up slowly. For a long moment, he stared warily at the object.
"You know what it is that I seek," hissed the Dark Lord, his grip firm and unwavering.
Grindewald's lip curled, though his eyes were heavy-lidded. He averted his eyes, looking unfazed by the threats of the other man.
"Something far beyond the walls of this cell . . .?" he asked mocking. "Sorry to disappoint you, but you are interrogating the wrong person."
The Dark Lord sneered.
"I will ensure your freedom if you will help me claim it."
Grindewald raised a brow.
"You expect me to challenge the one responsible for my incarceration?"
The Dark Lord's lip curled. "Perhaps," he said icily. "But you will not be alone. I will lend you my powers. Together, we can eliminate Albus Dumbledore and rule as one . . . with you as Minister."
His eyes darkened slightly as he studied the figure before him. He looked suspicious.
"And what of Harry Potter?"
The Dark Lord snapped. "What of him?"
"He who has five times defied you . . ." he replied mockingly. "who possesses the power that the Dark Lord knows not. Surely you fear –"
"I fear nothing!" hissed the Dark Lord. "Harry Potter remains locked away in a highly concealed cell where, I assure you, he will not interfere."
"And yet, he continues to defy –"
"Obey," he interjected icily. "He no longer serves that senile old fool. He only serves myself."
Grindewald gave him a long and hard stare.
"You are convinced of his loyalty?"
"Never," he hissed. "But under certain conditions, he serves me without fail."
Grindewald paused, his haunted gaze drifting across the dark and musty cell. His gaze lingered pointedly on the skeletal remains of the guard leaning against a dark corner on the opposite side of wall. His blood was splattered across the vents on the wall. In his almost feline fury, he had killed the man and devoured his flesh in an attempt to mitigate his starvation. The Dark Lord could read all of these thoughts in his head like an open book. He could see that the man had foregone his humanity long ago. Harry wondered why he didn't feel repulsed just watching the man snap.
"Very well," he declared finally. "I will accept these conditions. But should he decide to interfere, you have my word that I will not, however, hesitate to kill him."
The Dark Lord paused, looking slightly irritated.
"So be it," he affirmed icily. "You are to remain here until further notice. We mustn't prompt the suspicions of the Order. That is, not until our little friend is fully assimilated."
With a mad cackle, the Dark Lord exited the room with his cloak billowing behind him. He flicked his wand lazily and allowed the door to slam shut behind him.
As the door shut with a loud thud, Harry startled from his slumber. Breathing heavily, drenched in sweat, he shakily sat up. Once again, he resisted the urge to retch. He couldn't get the image of Grindewald ripping apart the flesh of the guard out of his head. Blinking out dark patches from his eyes, he looked around and found himself back at his cell. As usual, the room was dark and desolate. But as soon as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he looked up and frowned. The door to his cell was hung ajar. There was also a dark silhouette lingering beside it.
"Aw, did wittle Potty have a nightmare?" cooed a female voice. Through squinted eyes, Harry could only distinguish the blurred, curled edges of her hair. "Sorry to disappoint you, Potty, but I'm afraid my voice isn't soft enough for a lullaby."
"W-what?" he asked groggily.
With a faint sense of awareness, he drowsily patted the mattress down for his glasses. Frustrated, he found them and shoved them on. He looked up and found the loathsome figure of Bellatrix Lestrange leaning against the open door to his cell. An arrogant smirk plastered on her face.
"What's the matter, Potter?" she hissed, her arms crossed across her chest. "A snake bit your tongue? Why so tame today, hmm?"
Harry glared.
Swinging his legs over the bed, he stood up. He felt a rush of his satisfaction when he saw her stiffen. Her arrogant façade wilted slightly as he took two steps towards her. He almost towered over her.
"What do you want, Bellatrix?" he glared, trying to quench his anger. The last thing he needed in life was seeing his godfather's murderer as soon as he woke up.
Not to mention, the fact that he had only slept for an hour didn't help, either.
"Oh, I didn't know we were on first name associations, Potter," she sneered, looking faintly amused. "If I didn't know any better, I would think you've grown rather fond of me."
He gave her a dirty look as she cackled madly.
"You can laugh," he said stiffly. "I wasn't the one watching others sleep," he smirked at her aghast look. "Don't get too fond of me," he added.
"In your dreams, Potter," she hissed, straightening her robes stiffly. "I have come to inform you that the Dark Lord suspects you of treason –"
"What's new?"
She glared.
"He will wish to speak to you once he returns," she said icily. Harry vaguely recalled the events of his dream and scowled.
"And you thought it best to leave the door open for me until then?" He shot back, his eyes narrowed.
He knew what she was trying to do. She wanted to mess with him until Voldemort came back. Voldemort often never allowed anyone but himself to hurt Harry. After all, he needed his personal "assassin" healthy enough for him to accomplish his missions.
"You are wandless, Potter," she smirked. "You are of no threat to me."
"Yeah? Try me," he threatened, his eyes flashing.
Her confidence wilted. Instead, a flicker of fear appeared in her eyes before it vanished as fast as it appeared. If there was one good thing that he got from his crimes, it was the ability to inflict fear on the other Death Eaters. They knew what he had done. They knew what he was capable of. It was no longer an empty threat. Tossing one more glare at him, Bellatrix laid a hand on the door and shot him a pointed look.
"He will be returning shortly," she said coldly. "It's best not to keep him waiting."
Then, she stalked off, leaving the door open behind her.
Waiting until he heard the last echo of her footsteps, he stepped out of the cell and looked around. Nothing seemed amiss about the dungeon. Large, dark patches arched the corridors. It was like sinking into an endless pit and never stopping. Never illuminating. The only thing that reminded him that he was alive were the desperate cries of the other prisoners, begging to be released.
Sighing, Harry turned the corner and walked deeper into the dungeon with the intention of visiting Arthur Weasley. He wondered if the man was still alive. He hadn't seen the man for almost a week. The last time he had seen him, the man had been deathly pale, bony thin, and trembling. He was also losing the last bit of hair on his balding head. With only a week in, Harry thought that the Death Eaters were being a bit too harsh with the man. As if desperate for answers.
Harry assumed it was because of the man's associations to the Order.
Harry had pitied the man so much that he had privately cornered Kreacher. He had asked the elf to regularly send something light for the man to eat. To his dismay, Kreacher had returned and informed Harry that Weasley was not responding to anything that he sent him. In fact, as soon as he swallowed anything, he threw it all up the next bite.
Harry knew that the man was dying. He needed to act soon.
But he had been unable to visit the man. He didn't want to prompt the suspicions of Voldemort. He had remained locked in his cell for the entire week. He hadn't even visited Grimmauld's Place.
Judging by the events of his dream, Voldemort was still not convinced of Harry's loyalty. In fact, he had even admitted that he never would. Harry, of course, had been expecting that. After all, he hadn't given Voldemort a reason to trust him. He had warned Harry, before the attack on the Ministry, not to help the prisoners escape. He had caught him. Had punished him. Had even tortured him. But as soon as Harry healed back up, he betrayed him again by helping the young girl, Freya, escape.
But worried him was not that Voldemort did not trust him. It was the fact Voldemort had allied with Grindewald. The next most dangerous wizard alive. He wanted to break him out of prison. He was seeking something – something ominous. And Harry hadn't the slightest clue what it was.
Was it, perhaps, the same ancient artifacts that the Order had sought? Was it something like the locket or even the locket itself? But that didn't make sense to Harry. Why would Voldemort confront Grindewald if he was looking for objects that the Order was looking for? Other than his turbulent past with Dumbledore, Harry didn't know much about Grindewald. He didn't know the details of the man. He reckoned that he should start looking him up. Maybe a book at the library in Grimmauld's Place could help.
Finally, Harry reached the cell. He looked around for nearby Death Eaters before he turned to open the door.
His eyes widened at the sight.
Lying face-flat on the ground was a dreadfully thin, deathly pale, and trembling red-haired man. Harry spotted his cracked spectacles just a few inches away from his nose. The man had only the last bit of strands of hair in his almost completely bald head.
Harry rushed towards him.
"Hey," he called, flipping the man over on his back. "Hey! Weas – I mean, Arthur!" the man simply looked at him with glazed eyes. "Arthur!"
Instinctively, he reached his fingers to his neck. To his relief, he found a pulse, albeit a weak one. He assessed him for a moment, his eyes lingering on the dark patch of blood around his chest.
It was clear that they had left him to die.
But Harry quickly regained his composure. He wrenched the pouch away from his neck. He tore the fabric from his chest and began tending to the man. He knew he needed to act fast. He was lucky that Bellatrix had let him out early. Otherwise, the man would have been dead now.
Should he be grateful to her?
He didn't know.
After he finished, he cleaned the blood off the man and shifted back to sit against the wall. With a heavy sigh, he leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. After what seemed like an eternity, he heard a rustle of robes and snapped his eyes open. Slowly, he shuffled over to the man. The man was groaning in pain.
"Hey, what happened to you?" he asked in concern. But the man blinked in confusion. "Are you all right?"
Harry watched the turmoil of emotions cross the man. He was still trembling violently. He looked almost feverish and anguished as his eyes swept across the younger man.
"H-Harry?" he croaked, reaching out a hand. Harry gripped his fore-arm firmly and nodded.
"That's right."
"H-Harry," he stammered, almost feverish. "I-I c-can't feel m-my l-legs, Harry."
But Harry felt like he had been drenched in ice. The gravity of the situation finally hit him like a full-blown punch to the stomach.
"You-you're paralyzed?" he asked weakly.
It wasn't until he saw the tears fall from the man's eyes did he realize that he had been insensitive with the question. But he could hardly offer any words of comfort. A hallow feeling had settled into his stomach. What could he say to a man – a father, no less! – that could no longer walk again?
Instead, he simply tightened his grip on his fore-arm. But the gesture seemed to strengthen the man's resolve.
"Harry!" rasped Arthur. "Harry . . . Please, he knows . . ."
"Knows, what?" urged Harry. "What happened to you?"
"No . . . time," he breathed heavily. Harry had to lean forward to hear him. "Please . . . Order. He knows . . . He knows."
Harry flinched. Had Voldemort found out about the Order? Had he found who they are and where they were hiding? Did the man really sell them out? But he had promised not to. Had he broken his promise? Had he wilted under pressure?
Could anyone blame him?
"How can I help?" he asked, almost desperately. "I don't know where they are."
"Ron . . . 'Mione . . . Ministry . . . Please."
"But I can't get into the Ministry," he said, frustrated. "They're after me."
"They . . . kill me . . .," he breathed, his eyes drooping.
Finally, his eyes rolled to the back of his head and he fell unconscious. But Harry, frustrated, tried to shake him awake.
"Wait! Stay awake," he urged. "I – I need you to . . ."
His voice trailed off.
With a troubled look on his face, he stood up and looked down at the sprawled figure of the man. He knew that he shouldn't blame himself for not taking him to Grimmauld's Place sooner, but he did. He had chosen to keep the man here to avoid any suspicions from Voldemort. He knew that, if he had tried to take him back, Voldemort would know that it was him. He would think that Harry was supporting the Order.
But now, he had a chance of redemption.
To risk his own life, or even risk the possibility of receiving the Dementor's Kiss. Or just walk away and pretend that nothing ever happened.
A stab in his arm interrupted his thoughts. Hissing, he laid a hand on his arm until the pain faded. He studied the man for a moment before he reached into his robes to pull out a soft, thin material.
It was his Invisibility Cloak.
He hoped that he was doing the right thing by leaving it here. He draped it around the man, concealing him from view. He didn't think the Death Eaters ever thought to check up on someone they thought was already dead. They almost always left them to decompose in their cells.
Casting one final glance at the man, Harry made his decision.
Adjusting his hat, Albus Dumbledore landed upright on his feet. He looked up and found the impressive sight of the Order Headquarters in front of him. It was a fairly new mansion, more neat and welcoming than the recent one. Ever since Sirius Black's death, Grimmauld's Place had become fairly concealed. The Orders had lost access of the mansion since Sirius had left his home to his godson. The home was only accessible through Harry. Irresistibly, Albus wondered if Harry had ever learned of his inheritance.
Dismissing the thought, he approached the metal gate. In the center was the outline of a sphinx etched onto a star surrounding it.
As he approached, the star rotated around the sphinx.
"It is I," he proclaimed. "Albus Dumbledore!"
But the sphinx shifted until its mouth opened.
"What is your favorite jam flavor?" asked the sphinx, the outline of the star rotating around it. But as usual, Albus's eyes twinkled with amusement.
"Raspberry," he stated simply.
"Enter."
Albus heard the creak of the gates before they opened. He waited until they had shut behind him to walk across the path into the mansion. Two large fountains in the shape of Nifflers were situated at either side of the trail, their mouths spitting water. The walls were draped with banners of all four Hogwarts houses. To his amusement, he also caught a banner of the Chudley Cannons amongst the others.
As he approached the doors, however, he opened them only to find something blocking his path. He looked down only to find Hermione's cat, Crookshanks, standing against the doorway, blinking up at him.
Politely, he stepped aside, held the door open, and tipped his hat respectfully to the cat.
"After you," he said kindly.
The cat meowed.
With sort of a bewildered look, the cat scurried away. He struggled to suppress a chuckle. He remembered how unpleasantly affectionate Ron was with the cat.
He stepped into the hallway and hung his cloak on the peg next to the door. From his place, he could hear the bustle of conversation within the Order meeting room. With a pleasant air about him, he travelled left and entered, only to be greeted with collective cries.
"Albus!" they exclaimed.
He smiled.
"I assume you have all had a restful weekend," greeted Albus cordially. "What with after some of our unfortunate circumstances," he glanced warily at George. "I would admit that it is, no less, well-deserved."
"Still breathing," said Alastor coolly.
"Yeah, losing an eye can't be that bad," said George, gesturing to his patched eye. "Really toughens a bloke, doesn't it, Mad Eye?"
Alastor grunted.
"Haven't we more pressing matters to discuss?" interjected Severus, mildly annoyed.
"Looks like someone's eager to leave," muttered George.
"You mean he's actually got other activities besides sun-bathing with You-Know-Poo?" teased Fred.
"Fred! George!" snapped Molly. "That's enough."
"Oh, Severus has quite the activities that he loves to indulge in his pastime," interjected Albus, a warm smile on his face. "One of them consists of grooming his new Persian cat that he happened to stumble on while –"
"Thank you, Headmaster," Severus said stiffly over the roaring laughter from the Weasley side of the table.
"Hem-hem," Minerva cleared her throat and glared at Albus.
"Ah, but where was I?" said Albus hastily. "Yes, yes. Onto more pressing matters, then. Where shall we start? Severus, if you may?"
"Of course, Headmaster," nodded Severus. "The Dark Lord is planning an assault on Fraisdaill Village –"
"The Aurors've already got that covered," added Ron.
"It is believed," emphasized Severus, glaring. "to have an high influx of Muggle-born students planning to enroll in Hogwarts in the next few years."
"Thank you, Severus," said Albus. "Do you have any reason to believe that the Order has been comprised?"
"Not at the moment. The Dark Lord seems quite – complacent, for a lack of better words. Ever since the assault on the Ministry, he has been feeling quite triumphant, though the reason, of course, remains unknown."
"It is as I feared," muttered Albus. "Of course, as brilliant as he is, he will be planning something omnious, something that none of us will come to expect. We must be prepared for the worst. I urge you all to exercise great caution, especially in the days to come. We cannot afford anymore accidents."
"Right you are, Dumbledore," nodded George.
"I'll be sure to remember the foul taste of Ron's earwax, then," grinned Fred, wiggling an eyebrow at his younger brother.
"Gross," muttered Ron, glaring.
"Yeah, no Death Eater can ever imitate that monstrosity," added George.
"Fred! George!" chided Molly. "Enough of this."
"Yes, Mum."
"And what of Harry, Severus?" asked Albus gravely. He pointedly ignored the tensions that arose in the room at the name.
"The Dark Lord is rather pleased by Potter's performance in the Ministry," said Severus, ignoring Ron's wince. "However, he is not convinced that there is a way to break the enchantment on Potter. What occurred between you and Potter is beyond his concern."
"Splendid. Though it is vital that we reestablish contact," said Albus. "We need him on our side."
"The Dark Lord is not convinced of Potter's loyalty," replied Severus. "His wand remains firmly in possession of the Dark Lord. And Potter himself remains locked away in a highly concealed cell. The Dark Lord suspects treason."
"I suspected as much," muttered Albus gravely. A part of him, however, couldn't help but feel proud that Harry continued to defy Voldemort after all these years.
"He's a prisoner?" breathed Ron, his blue eyes wide with horror.
Severus looked smug.
"Surely you didn't expect the Dark Lord to offer luxury to his greatest enemy? As feeble-minded as you are, Weasley, you should have expected as much."
"Watch it, Snape," Bill threatened.
"But can we trust him?" asked Tonks.
Albus shot her a piercing look.
"I trust Harry with my life."
"After all that he's done?" cried Minerva. "After all his crimes? He's killed – innocents. It isn't one or two lives he's claimed, Albus! But dozens and dozens over the course of ten years. These are not the actions of a common man!"
"You mustn't base your judgments about others based on what they appear to be, Minerva," Albus replied firmly. "It is true, though it pains me to admit, that Harry has been involved in these rather despicable crimes. But never was he willing. Never was it intended. He is possessed. And the best course action is to help him overcome Voldemort's influence rather than simply shun him aside."
"I understand your sentiment, Albus," interjected Molly. "But in case you've forgotten, Ginny was also possessed in her First Year. And, thank goodness, she never came close to – "
"Mum –" Ginny warned.
"Quiet, Ginny," her mother snapped. Ginny simply scowled.
"Forgive me, Molly," said Albus firmly. "but it is not I who has forgotten what occurred in her First Year. But rather, it is you that has forgotten who rushed into battle to save your daughter while disregarding his own life at the tender age of twelve years. It is you who has forgotten who saved your husband from Lord Voldemort's snake. The boy you once considered as one of your own . . ."
"That was past!" shrilled Molly, her eyes bulging. "Had I known, then, what would happen to him, I wouldn't possibly –"
"I must back Molly up here, Albus," interjected Arthur, looking quite grim. "It is true that Po-Harry is responsible for all of these heinous crimes. Every man, whether good or bad, is capable of good deeds. Whether he or not he has committed good deeds in the past is irrelevant to the discussion. Perhaps we should focus only on the actions at hand."
"Potter is responsible for helping the prisoners escape," Severus interjected dully. Albus felt a rush gratitude towards the Potion's Master.
"What?" several voices exclaimed.
"What prisoners?" asked Ron.
Severus looked bored.
"The Dark Lord keeps prisoners to convince them to join his ranks or perhaps torture them for relevant information. How or when Potter decides to release them is beyond my or the Dark Lord's knowledge."
"And what proof do you have to validate this claim?" asked Kingsley.
"Darcey Weatherborn, a Muggle-born student at Hogwarts," replied Albus calmly. "which I kindly forbid to be interrogated. She claimed to be captured by the Aurors and has since offered her memory of the incident of when she was rescued by, what she claimed to be, a dark-haired man. I watched the memory myself and have since confirmed this man to be, indeed, Harry Potter himself."
"Captured by the Aurors?" grunted Alastor. "What a load of rubb –"
"Not quite innocent now, are you, Alastor?" sneered Severus.
"Can we have a synopsis of the incident, Albus?" asked Kingsley.
"Certainly," nodded Albus. "She claimed to be captured by the Aurors and was since sent to live as a prisoner by the Death Eaters. However, she informed me that one of the men amidst the ranks of Death Eaters offered to help her and guide her out of the cell. Thereafter, she arrived by Floo-transport at Reddick Winfrey's home in the dead of the night."
"Can Winfrey be interrogated?' asked Alastor.
"Winfrey is dead," Severus declared. "He was found dead in his home a week after the incident. He was tortured to death by the Death Eaters. He was responsible for ranting on Potter, which ultimately led to a squabble between him and the Dark Lord. Just before the Dark Lord infiltrated the Ministry, perhaps we can say, that Potter was discovered to be rather incapacitated that night."
"Thank you, Severus," Albus interjected, a grave look in his eyes. "You are all blind to the truth. Harry remains the noble person that he was as a young boy. He is the last bit of hope that we have in fighting Voldemort. He has proven himself more than capable of fighting him, moreso than perhaps everyone in this room. It is appalling to me that you are all so quick to lay blame. This is precisely what Voldemort seeks. To treat Harry as the enemy. To regard the Chosen One on par with himself. Do you think that Voldemort did not wish to isolate Harry from us? To fear him for the man that he has become rather than the man he had always sought to avoid? No, it is better for him if Harry did not fulfill what was expected of him from the Prophecy. Harry needs our help. And we, too, are in dire need of his."
"Suppose you're right, Dumbledore," said Alastor. "What makes you think he won't sell us out? What makes you think these possessions, as you say, can be avoided?"
"Oh, they most certainly can be avoided, Alastor," said Albus wearily. "In fact, they could have been avoided ten years if I was not foolish enough to take action."
"How?" asked Ron.
"It is through Occlumency, Mr. Weasley. It is true, though you are free to disagree, that I am to blame for all the plights that Harry has experienced. Perhaps you remember his frequent headaches and nightmares that he received from his scar? Ah, yes. How unfortunate that it all could have been avoided had I, myself, taught Harry how to block it. How to prevent Voldemort from entering his mind. Had I perhaps taken the matters into my own hand . . . had I perhaps taught Harry Occlumency myself, then, this entire fiasco, as they say, would never have occurred."
"Then, what do we do if we happened to find him?" asked Neville. "The Ministry's put up a bounty for his capture. Should we bring him here instead?"
"Oh, you won't be finding Potter out of his cell anytime soon," Severus interjected, a curl in his lip. "What with Potter's loose tongue, I dare say, the Dark Lord would save himself a great headache if Potter remained behind bars."
"You'd love that, wouldn't you, Snape?" snapped Ron.
"He is a criminal and should be treated as such. Oh, don't place yourself on such a high pedestal, Weasley," snapped Severus when Ron gave him a dark look. "Unlike Potter's beloved friends, I never doubted him. I simply loathed him from the start."
Ron stood up, trying to wrestle himself out of Hermione's grip.
"You know, Snape, I'm surprised you're not spitting grease out of that thick mane of yours."
"Ron!" snapped Molly.
"Real mature, Ron," said Ginny, rolling her eyes.
"Quite strange, isn't it?" sighed Percy. "How quick we can instigate quarrels without Death Eaters involved?"
"Come off it, George," breathed Fred from beside his brother. "Did I hear that right?"
"Most definitely, Monsieur Fred," said George, throwing a look of admiration at his brother. "Our stick-up-the-arse Percy's just cracked a joke."
"Appalling," muttered Percy.
"Think of the cauldron bottoms, Perce."
"They can't be sheen and spotless if you go around acting like the infamous Weasley twins."
"Corrupting the innocents, aren't we, George?"
"Staining the sheen and shiny bottoms. Oh, the horror! Report it at once, Sir!"
Laughter erupted at the comment.
"Children both inside and outside of Hogwarts," muttered Minerva stiffly, glaring at the twins. "Merlin help me, I've grown too old for such a thing."
"Don't retire now, Minnie!" laughed Tonks. "Teddy wants to meet his Mum's old Transfiguration Professor."
"Fancy that. The spawn of Nymphadora is exactly what she needs."
"Oi! Watch it, Mad Eye!" snapped Tonks, turning to her husband. "Remus, defend me."
"But perhaps we've strayed far from the topic at hand?" asked Remus firmly. Tonks glared at him.
"Always the rational one, aren't you?" said Tonks, crossing her arms.
"Remus is right," said Hermione, her eyebrows creased. "How do we find Harry?"
"You don't, silly girl," Severus interjected, his face drawn into a scowl. "If he's willing, he will find us. If I'm not mistaken, Potter has already proven himself capable of breaking out of his cell. It is possible that he has broken out as we speak. It is not known, however, when or how he decides to leave his cell, but there is no doubt that he has found a way."
Some of the Order members shifted uncomfortably at the thought.
"But his memories have been erased, haven't they?" asked Ron uneasily. "How can he find us? He doesn't know who we are."
"He knows the Headmaster," Severus responded in a bored tone. As if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "He will want to speak to him."
Albus nodded.
"He will want the truth," said Albus wearily, looking much older than his years. His worried countenance emphasized the wrinkles on his face.
Of course, Harry would always want answers. He knew, back in the Ministry, that Harry had something that he wanted to say to him. That was the reason why he stayed behind after he sent the Death Eaters off. Why he had been hesitant to leave until the Aurors had forced him to. Albus's heart wrenched when they parted ways, knowing that Harry had lost the last bit of hope in the Ministry. He had always been a curious one; if not entirely obsessed for answers. Albus had hoped that the young man would seek his guidance after that, but he had yet to hear anything from his former student. Not an owl. Not a letter. Not even a Patronus.
So engrossed in his grief, he vaguely recalled dismissing the Order meeting. Molly promised a feast for the Order members, in which they all stayed. Even Albus, himself, had stayed in a fruitless attempt to distract himself from his guilt. However, as he listened quietly to the conversations, one of the discussions stood out like a sore thumb. Albus tuned into the conversation between Alastor and Arthur.
"Quite the sensitive bladder you've got there, Arthur," said Alastor, a little too casually in Albus's opinion. "Bathroom break every hour?"
Alastor had both eyes fixed on the man. Arthur, however, elicited a chuckle as he returned to his seat next to Molly. He then draped an arm around his wife, which seemed a bit unusual to Albus. He could hardly eat his dinner with his arm around his wife. Moreover, he was using his left hand to lift his spoon, though Albus knew from prior experience that Arthur was right-handed. Not to mention, Arthur never showed outright signs of affections save for a kiss on the cheek.
Something was wrong.
"Oh, what can I say, Alastor?" chuckled Arthur. Though Albus detected a hint of nervousness in his tone. "I've grown too old, haven't I? I s'pose it's time to pave the way for the next generation."
"Oh, Arthur!" admonished Molly, looking rather alarmed. "Honestly."
"And yet, it's only occurred recently . . ." said Alastor, eyes narrowed. His large blue eye was darting madly over the other man.
"Just what are you suggesting, Alastor?" snapped Molly. "We're lucky he's even alive after the horrible Death Eater assault in the Ministry."
"Oh, yes," sneered Alastor. "One elderly man against four skilled Death Eaters. I'd bet the arms and legs I have left to know that would never happen."
"You're saying our dad's a fake?" demanded Fred.
"He might be not be as skilled as you are," glared George. "but strength isn't about how many Death Eaters you've tossed in Askaban, Mad Eye."
"Oh, don't you give a hoot about him, Arthur," reassured Tonks, helping herself to gnash. "Mad Eye's just being his paranoid self."
"Don't say I didn't warn you," muttered Alastor. Though he didn't look convinced. Both eyes remained firmly on Arthur.
But as Albus sat silently, he also kept a watchful eye on Arthur. There was no doubt that there was something oddly suspicious about him. But he couldn't exactly accuse a man without evidence. Especially not a man that had seven children and his wife to vouch for him. In the end, however, he decided to privately corner Alastor. Beneath the table, he took the coin that the Order used to communicate and rearranged the letters. Alastor startled and glanced at him warily.
But Albus stood up first.
"Leaving so soon, Albus?" asked Molly, passing dishes along the table. But Albus bowed respectively.
"I'm afraid I have more urgent matters to attend to," he said politely, tipping his hat slightly. "Though I do not minimize your hospitality, Molly, which I am sure was quite pleasant. Take care of yourselves."
At last, he bade them all a pleasant farewell. However, his good-natured demeanor wilted as he stepped outdoors. Scanning the yard, he approached the smelly broom shed that the Weasleys had built and stood beside it. He waited patiently for Alastor's company. Finally, the latter emerged, limping towards him.
"Do you have any reason to believe that Arthur is not what he appears to be?" asked Albus, his blue eyes fixed on a gnome gnawing at a bone.
"Only a guess," replied Alastor, his blue eye zooming across the yard. "But a thumpin' good one at that."
"Very well," he nodded. "It's best to keep a sharp eye on him, then."
"Already got your back, Dumbledore."
"I trust your judgments, old friend."
Alastor's eye swiveled in its socket until both eyes rested on Albus. He seemed to be wrestling with himself over something. Albus thought it best to keep silent until he voiced it.
And he did.
"Heard about the fiasco in Nurmengard, did you?"
Albus looked grave.
"Ah, yes," he muttered, rather bitterly. "It seems that Voldemort is seeking an alliance with Gellert Grindewald. It is my guess that he is after the Elder Wand."
"And if it so happens that they manage it, you think there's any chance of stopping them?"
Albus gave him a piercing look.
"Where the shadows lie, there is light always."
"Enough with your wise talks, Dumbledore!" barked Alastor. "You know you can't take them both. You haven't only got one to deal with now, you've got two after your head. What makes you think you can take them on this time?"
But Albus's thoughts drifted. He recalled the incident back in the Ministry when he had stood shoulder to shoulder with his former student – with Harry. Both with their wands aloft at their sides. Both exuding authority and leadership over their respective followers. Both standing against the Minister of Magic. Albus's heart swelled in pride at the thought.
He knew that Harry only needed a bit more guidance before he could fully take his position as the official leader of the war.
With pride, he stated.
"I am not alone."
Alastor glared. But to Albus's relief, he relented.
"You know, some people might think you're a crackpot old fool," he grunted, a bite in his tone. But Albus suppressed a chuckle.
"And what do you think, Alastor?"
Alastor shot him a look. "Codswallop, in my opinion."
Albus smiled. He tipped his hat.
"Alastor," he bowed respectively. "Your servant."
Then, he was off.
His eyebrows furrowed, Harry stood outside of Lord Voldemort's throne room with a uneasy feeling about him. His meeting with Arthur Weasley had occupied most of his mind. He wondered if Voldemort would try to read his mind for more information about the man. He had also tried to think of ways that he could enter the Ministry, but he couldn't quite think of anything right now. Bellatrix had informed him that Voldemort suspected him of betrayal. He wondered anxiously if Voldemort would punish him tonight.
Breathing deeply, he prepared himself for the worst and opened the door.
Warily, Harry entered the room. What he found as he entered startled him. In the center of the room, Voldemort stood surrounded by three hooded Death Eaters, the nearest one whispering furiously to him. He noticed the other two, Rookwood and Avery respectively, looked amused, their lips curled into smirks. They looked smugly at Harry. But Harry did not meet their gazes. His gaze was fixed on the figure in the center.
There was no doubt in his mind that something was wrong.
Something was terribly wrong.
In the center, Voldemort stood. In all of his years spent with Voldemort, Harry had never realized how intimidating the man looked – not until today, at least. With his tall, graceful figure, he exuded an aura of authority, of elegance, of confidence that could not possibly be imitated. His long, bony fingers rhythmically stroked the head of the snake around his shoulders. Even such a simple movement looked ominous and foreboding.
But it was not his movements or even the fact that he towered over the Death Eaters that intimidated Harry this time. It was the icy, cold red eyes that pinned Harry to the spot from beneath his hood. It was such a cold and calculating gaze that Harry nearly shuddered under it. His eyes flashed with a silent warning – raw, intense hatred lingered behind the stare. He didn't blink nor did he avert his eyes. Harry knew that Voldemort had found out something about him that had frustrated him beyond measure.
"Leave us," he hissed coldly to the other Death Eaters.
Harry remained frozen as the Death Eaters brushed past him. They each flashed smirks as they passed him. Harry felt repulsed by their expressions. But it only affirmed what he had suspected.
Someone had ranted on him.
With his heart pulsing madly, he watched with dried lips as Voldemort silently assessed him. Harry could feel him prodding in his mind. He hurried to block it. But the effort, as always, was futile.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Voldemort straightened and shook his head. He stood with his wand aloft at his side like a deranged animal just waiting to pounce. Harry simply watched warily.
"Harry, Harry, Harry," he said softly, shaking his head. "Ten years it's been . . . and yet you continue to defy me. How vain . . ." he spat. "I thought I taught you better than that."
"What are you –?"
"Silence!" he hissed in Parseltongue, sending Harry crashing to the wall with the flick of his wand. "I should have known – I should have seen the sight. I should have known that you were meddling with powers far beyond your own abilities. I should have seen the shift transpiring from right under my nose."
Harry resisted the urge to say "what nose?" Glaring, he stood up and irritably wiped the blood from his mouth with his thumb. He knew that there was no getting out of this. He knew what would happen tonight. Voldemort would never permit him to leave without consequence – without punishment. Not after Harry, once again, had been caught betraying him.
But Harry was prepared for the worst.
Not wanting to exacerbate the situation, he stood silently. Agitated, the Dark Lord continued to pace and pace across the lengths of the room. To Harry, he looked like a coy snake ready to leap onto its prey at the slightest hint of movement. His blood eyes pinned Harry to the spot. But Harry boldly met his gaze. As they locked eyes, a silent understanding passed between them.
He did not fear death. And Voldemort understood.
"Do you know what the consequences are, Harry," he said icily. "for those who betray Lord Voldemort? Of course, you know – better than anyone alive. You see, I was foolish, Harry. I tried to quench it, I tried to stifle it. But as hot-headed as you are, you surpassed even my own abilities. It is not death or punishment that you fear, Harry, but something more than that – something that I, with all my glory, failed to recognize the moment I brought you here."
Harry felt his heart racing. Was he really that easy to read? How the Hell did Voldemort know so much about him? How can he tell exactly what Harry's strengths and weaknesses were?
As if reading his thoughts, which Harry suspected that he was, Voldemort smirked.
"Would you like to know why I called you here tonight?" he said, halting his pacing. "Why I have set aside my own precious time to grace you with my presence?"
But Harry did not respond. Something was holding him back. It was as if his lips had been glued shut.
"Ah, but you know, Harry," he said coldly. "You have always known."
"What do I know?"
"I underestimated you, Harry," he shook his head. "It is a mistake that I shall never intend to repeat."
With the swiftness of a predator, Voldemort flicked his wand again and sent Harry crashing to the walls. Feeling his breath knocked out of him, Harry slammed against the wall and felt invisible coils wrap against the wrists, which held him in place. His scar suddenly felt on fire. Groaning, he closed his eyes in an attempt to quench the pain, but it only got worse. Suddenly, he felt bony fingers wrap around his throat. Through blurred vision, he squinted up at the hooded figure in front of him.
Voldemort hissed.
"You see, I have a gift, Harry," he said mockingly. "A gift reserved just for my Horcruxes," he tightened his hand around Harry's throat. "Perhaps you might consider yourself . . . blessed."
Harry struggled against his grip. They were in such close proximity, he could feel Voldemort's breath against his skin. But the pain in his scar was weakening him. He could hardly fight, let alone see anything. He could hardly even breath with Voldemort's hand wrapped around his throat. But Voldemort's eyes emanated boiling hatred and quiet fury.
How he managed to keep himself composed was beyond Harry's knowledge.
"Do you think that you are protected, Harry," he whispered icily. "by the fact that you are a Horcrux? Perhaps that reason alone is why you continue to defy me."
Harry managed to conjure the strength to glare at him.
"You won't kill me."
"Ah, but how tempting it is," he spat. "to fashion myself a new Horcrux out of the ashes of another. Is it death that you desire, Harry? Perhaps then, tonight, I shall oblige."
Harry met him with a defiant gaze in his eyes.
"Do your worst," he spat in Parseltongue.
Voldemort smirked.
"I intend to," he hissed back.
Instead of letting him go, however, Voldemort tightened his grip on his neck and leaned in next to Harry's ear. Harry did not see what happened next. All he knew was the agonizing pain in his forehead. He felt like his head had been split open. He could vaguely hear the soft whispers in his ear, but he couldn't process what it was about over the searing pain in his head. But as fast as it occurred, suddenly the pain vanished, and Voldemort loosened his grip. Harry tumbled to the ground, panting and massaging the bruise around his neck.
"W-what d-did you do?" he panted, trembling violently. He shakily rose to his feet. He struggled to repress the nauseous feeling clawing at his insides.
"What needed to be done," proclaimed Voldemort. He then calmly turned to walk back to his throne. As soon as he settled down, with the snake around his shoulders, he smirked and hissed in Parseltongue. "Good luck, Harry."
Still breathing heavily, Harry had no choice but to take the cue to leave. Casting a suspicious glance at Voldemort, he exited the room. As he shut the door, however, he leaned against the back of it. He tried hard to regain his composure, but the effort was fruitless.
Surely Voldemort would not let him go without consequences. He always punished him for anything that he disapproved of. Harry had been on the receiving end of his Cruciatus Curses almost every week. He even took pleasure from inflicting Harry with pain.
What exactly was Voldemort planning?
There must be something. To let him go without consequences was not something Voldemort would do. What had he done in those split seconds that Harry had been unable to process anything?
Still slightly worried, he leaned off the door and began walking back to the dungeons. He wondered how he was getting to the Ministry with all these problems arising. Voldemort already knew of his betrayal. And if he was planning something ominous . . . If he, in fact, succeeded in teaching Harry a lesson, could Harry afford to betray him once more?
Frustrated, he thrust his hands in his pockets but stilled. A sharp-edged object was placed within his robes – something that he was never allowed to posses unless he was sent on a mission or even sent to duel along with the Death Eaters.
It was his wand.
Voldemort had given him his wand.
Something was terribly wrong.
Glancing around the corridor, he looked up and made a rash decision. Instead of treading left where the underground dungeons were, he raced past the head of the snakes plastered against the wall, down the corridor, and out of the mansion, ignoring the cries of the guards standing in the front.
Voldemort be damned.
A/N: I honestly don't know if I should continue this story. My perfectionist side is killing me. Might go off to another project. But I already have the ending written (I was bawling). But I'm really losing motivation.
P.S. I hate myself from doing that to Arthur. But it's only going to get worse.