Almost a full day had passed since the vision of his friends' capture. Harry had begrudgingly heeded Dumbledore's forbiddance from taking any action, and he had received no updates on the situation. Growling in frustration, the young wizard restlessly roamed the cramped confines of the entirely normal and pristine house. True to his word, he had not left once, resulting in his increasing irritability. He often prowled the downstairs like a caged lion, much to his aunt's revulsion and his uncle's great displeasure, which he voiced loudly every hour or so.

"If you're not going to be of any use, boy, then at least don't darken our evening with your freak presence!" His whale of an uncle finally spat out as Harry paced in front of the front window for the umpteenth time in less than an hour. He had tried to force the teen out multiple times that morning to weed the yard and wash the windows, all of which Harry had resolutely refused, much to the Dursleys' ire.

"Fine," Harry sighed, turning toward the stairs and fleeing up to his room. He had no appetite for whatever scraps of food would have been provided had he forced his unwanted presence on them. Reaching his room, he collapsed on his bed, utterly exhausted from being unable to find sleep after Dumbledore and the rest of the Order had abandoned him the previous night.

How could they do this to him? After everything he had been through, they still refused to involve him in what was happening. Moaning in frustration, Harry twisted on the tiny lump-ridden bed, nuzzling his head into the worn pillow dejectedly. Lying there, he breathed in and out deeply. The sun had yet to set, daylight and warmth mocking him with the long summer days.

Tomorrow was his birthday, he sadly remembered. A day which was quickly setting itself up to be the worst birthday in his meager history. With his two friends captured and at the mercy of his greatest enemy, short of them being rescued, he knew there was nothing that would make the day anything but a day consumed with grief and pain. Flopping back on his bed, he sighed wearily, closing his eyes, praying he could lose himself to sleep. Exhaustion soon took him, pulling him into a restless slumber.

Blinking, emerald eyes glanced around wearily, a sudden sense of consciousness flooding his awareness as he took in his surroundings. His typical dreams of anguish over the deaths he'd witnessed, a black veil drifting back and forth to an unmoving wind, and his godfather's and Cedric's accusing eyes staring back at him from behind dead, lifeless orbs slowly faded away. He was now in a parlor; black leather chairs and couches framed a monstrous fire cut into black marble stone. A poisonous jade-green carpet stretched across the room. Mahogany bookcases framed the walls, filled with ancient-looking scripts and scrolls, and a matching mahogany wooden table stretched across the middle of the room.

Harry spun around as a hiss startled him, causing him to take a concerned step backward. His narrowed green eyes scanned the room, searching for the unseen threat. He swallowed hard, his anxiety mounting with each passing moment. Another step back and he flinched as he backed against one of the leather couches.

"Jumpy, aren't you?" a soft voice observed.

Spinning, Harry stared around, trying to identify the source of the soft voice. "Who's there?" he stammered, his heart racing. The room was completely empty. "Where are you?"

A soft chuckle resonated through the room. "Everywhere, child. You will never escape me."

Patting down his pockets, Harry was dismayed to note he was wandless. Was this even a dream? Or a vision? Or had he been transported somewhere against his will, the blood wards somehow rendered useless? It certainly no longer felt like a dream; he'd never felt this aware in his sleep, different even from his visions. Another hiss quivered throughout the room, but it was unintelligible, like nothing he'd ever heard.

He twisted around again, frantically trying to find any hint of another's presence in the room. He felt power; there was something fearsome lurking out of sight that he could not identify. "Show yourself," he demanded, his voice not as firm as he would have liked.

"You first," the voice replied.

He spun around again. "What do you mean? What is this?" His hand clutched the back of the couch as confusion swept through him, unsure of what to think or believe. He was in the middle of the room; could the strange being not see him?

"Where are you?" a pressure pushed against his mind.

"I don't know," Harry admitted, his words true though he could not fathom why he answered, why he was playing along with whatever game this was. How had he been captured and transported without his knowledge? He had no recollection of how he could have arrived in this room.

"Yes, you do," more pressure pushed against him, and he could feel it upon his eyes, pulsing in his skull.

He spun again, desperately looking for the source of the strange, unrelenting presence surrounding him. "Stop that, what is this game? Who are you?"

A laugh filled the room, high and harsh, making him cringe. "You're in my home, little lion. Now show me yours." Unbidden, an image of Privet Drive came to the forefront of his mind. His uncle and aunt glared at him while pudgy Dudley cowered behind his mother, trembling in fear.

"I won't tell you," he snapped, squeezing his eyes shut. It didn't feel like his mind was being infiltrated; there were none of the telltale signs or pain that usually accompanied Legilimency. But the pressure was still there, he could feel it all around him.

The laugh came again, this time colder and darker, and the voice sounded infinitely pleased. "You can't hide from me."

Harry jerked awake, glancing around wildly. He was back in his room, the heat of the fire no longer caressing his back. Gasping, he jumped to his feet, ripping the flimsy sheet from his entangled legs, his heart pounding in his chest. What was that? It didn't feel like a vision, it certainly wasn't a dream. His scar wasn't throbbing; in fact, it felt eerily silent and devoid of pain.

With dread, he walked toward his window, gazing outside, but no one had appeared. He glanced up and down the finely manicured lawns, rows upon rows of perfectly trimmed grass. Tulips swayed lazily in the cool evening air. Everything was silent, with no one wandering the streets at this late hour. He checked the small digital clock adorning the nightstand. 9:28 shone brightly in neon green. He'd slept for about two hours. A sudden knock at the door caused his uncle to curse loudly from the first floor.

Grabbing his wand from beneath his pillow, Harry crept down the stairs. The echoes of the telly rang out with whatever silly sitcom the Dursleys had plopped down upon the couch to watch.

"What ruddy person comes calling at this hour?" The portly man grumbled, heaving himself off the couch as he waddled toward the front door.

"Uncle Vernon, don't," Harry called, reaching the last stair.

Harry's uncle glared back at him. "You don't tell me what to do, freak," he sneered, twisting the door open. They both turned, staring at an empty entry. No one was there. Harry knew he'd heard the knock. The fact that his uncle had responded was proof of that.

"Please, shut the door," Harry begged, his hand clutching his wand tensely at his side just behind his trousers, ready to defend at a moment's notice. Tensely, he stared transfixed at the empty entryway. "You know there are…" He paused, about to say 'dark wizards,' but didn't want to hear the scolding that was sure to follow for using "bad words" in the house. "Bad people trying to get at me, that's why I can't leave the house."

To his immense relief, Vernon shut the door with a loud snort and an accompanied 'humph.' "That Dumbly fellow said they can't get near our house," his uncle scoffed, eyeing the teen irritably.

Aunt Petunia, in all her gangly giraffe-like glory, bobbed her head in agreement from where she sat in what had to be the most uncomfortable designer chair ever created. "They don't even know where we live. Can't get near the house. That's the only reason we entertain your presence here!"

Sighing, Harry refrained from rolling his eyes. If only the wizarding world could truly see how their alleged savior lived. "Barely tolerated" was an understatement, especially since the Order had been foolish enough to let them know that Sirius had been killed. Now his tragic excuse for a family knew there was little chance anyone would actually stop them from being vicious towards their unwanted charge. Perhaps they'd accepted they could not "beat the freak" out of him, as Dudley used to call it, but that did not stop any of them from ensuring he had zero doubts that he was despised in this household.

"Alright, sorry I even bothered," he muttered as he turned and trudged back up the stairs. Perhaps it had just been a prank. They were right; if there was one thing he hoped he could trust, it was that the blood wards were still intact, or the house would already be up in flames.

Entering back into his room, he plopped down on his bed, dropping his head wearily into his hands. It was going to be another long night, and he didn't even have Hedwig to send out to write anyone about his bizarre dream. He'd sent her off earlier to Ginny, hoping to both comfort her at the loss of her brother and see if she had any information to share. It had been a horrible letter to write. What could he possibly say to her when he knew that he was at fault for the entire ordeal?

He had babbled multiple apologies, also writing that he knew it was unforgivable and not even trying to ask for forgiveness. He'd ended it with saying that he'd understand if she wanted absolutely nothing to do with him, but pleading for any information so that he could try to at least help in any way. He wondered if she would even respond.

Harry awoke feeling sluggish and full of despair. He'd finally managed to doze off halfway through the night with no more visions or odd dreams filled with hisses and hidden voices. It was certainly the worst start to a birthday that he'd ever experienced. If this is what sixteen felt like, he feared seventeen and adulthood. Not that he had much hope of reaching the next year. Every year since he'd been introduced to the wizarding world had been more deadly and horrific than the last. With Voldemort back, he seriously doubted he'd make it through the summer, let alone through a school year filled with Merlin alone knew which plots to steal his blood or trick him into running off for fear of those he cared for being murdered.

He glanced at the book he'd left on his nightstand the day before his two best friends had been abducted. Defying Darkness lay there, multiple pages dog-eared, the spine gently used. Hermione had lent it to him at the end of the year. She had said she'd found most of the more useful charms and spells she'd recommended he learn when he'd been entered into the Triwizard's Cup in fourth year in that book. The bright, bushy-haired young witch had said there were plenty more useful defensive and offensive spells that she highly recommended he at least learned the theory for. He'd been skimming a chapter or two every night, desperately trying to memorize as much as he could.

Tired of being weak and putting others into situations where they were forced to defend him, Harry had vowed to become stronger. Now staring at the book, he was forcefully reminded that he'd once again let everyone down. Hermione wasn't home pouring over a book or skiing with her family as she should be. She was in a prison, likely being tortured at this very moment because Harry was foolishly putting all his faith in Dumbledore to find them and make everything right. Grabbing the book, he tossed it against the wall in frustration. How had everything become so horrible?

Stalking out of the door, he made his way down the stairs. Having barely eaten the day before, he found himself starving and knew it would be foolish to voluntarily go without eating. Mornings were usually his best bet to get an actual meal. The Dursleys were either not present, Vernon usually gone to work and Petunia off gossiping with someone in the neighborhood. Dudley had been more descent than usual this summer; he suspected the large teen was still terrified from the dementor attack and maybe secretly thought Harry had been the reason he'd been attacked. Regardless, his cousin hadn't been as boldly aggressive with him this summer, at least not compared to other ones. He laughed and egged his father on, but whenever they were alone he almost completely ignored Harry, to the young wizard's immense relief.

Reaching the kitchen, he rummaged in the fridge, grabbing some eggs and a banana. Making quick work with the skillet, he scooped the fried eggs onto a plate and meandered over to the kitchen table. Upstairs, muffled voices and the movement alerted him that Vernon hadn't left for work yet. Thuds down the stairs foreshadowed the arrival of his dense cousin. Usually, the teen would plop himself down on the couch and watch the telly for the bulk of the morning, so Harry felt safe staying at the table to scarf down his quick meal.

Suddenly, he heard a loud crash that sounded distinctly like shattered glass. Very expensive and hard-to-come-by designer glass that took the shape of a purple vase if he recalled correctly. Looking up, he gasped in horror as his fears proved true. Shattered only a few feet from him rested the ugly lavender crème vase that his aunt prized so greatly. Glancing around quickly, Harry prayed that there was no one near to see what had happened. But luck was not with him today as he made eye contact with Dudley, who had just so happened to be raiding the refrigerator on his way to the living room, oblivious to his mother's demands that he lose weight.

"Dad!" he bellowed, causing his massive double chins to jiggle like Jello. He cast a dirty smirk in Harry's direction, to the raven-haired teen's shock. The boy had been decent up until now, not instigating trouble with him. For some unknown reason, he almost felt betrayed and even more foolish for coming to think that he and Dudley had formed some loose form of understanding. "He's done you-know-what again and broken Mum's favorite vase!"

"What!" came a scream from above, and Harry could hear his uncle storming from his room upstairs, the resonating sound of the man echoing like a small herd of elephants. Sighing, Harry prepared himself; this birthday was just getting better and better. His uncle would certainly banish him to his room the rest of the day, maybe even through tomorrow if his aunt threw a big enough fuss.

"Boy!" raged his ridiculously obese uncle, waddling down the stairs. "What is all this racket I hear! Ungrateful! Destroying everything in this home that your aunt and I are kind enough to let you use out of the goodness of our hearts! I don't know why we put up with you."

Feeling uneasy, Harry stood from the kitchen table, duly registering that his uncle sounded far madder than he should for such a transgression. A large part of this anger was probably due to the fact Harry hadn't left in a day to accomplish his chores. Resignedly, Harry prepared himself for a very long-winded and belittling lecture that he was sure to receive. But a small voice in the back of his mind told him to be cautious. His uncle never ran, yet he could clearly hear him hurrying down the stairs to get to him. But to his horror, as his uncle appeared at the bottom of the stairs, a lecture did not seem to be on his uncle's mind.

In his hands, he held a giant baseball bat. There was an odd, maniac gleam in his eyes, which seemed strangely void of life. "I've had it up to here with you wasting my hard-earned and respectable money!" he snarled, pointing a sausage-like finger at the vase, the bat swaying threateningly at his side.

"Yeah, Dad!" cheered Dudley when he saw what his uncle had in store for his favorite punching bag. "Get him good!"

"Uncle Vernon," cried Harry, taking a step back and pulling out his wand. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Getting rid of the filth which has tainted my home for far too long!" he snarled, advancing as quickly as his porky legs would allow. "Now get out of my home, boy! And don't ever come back; you are never welcomed here again!"

Harry could hear thunder rolling in the distance, as if to emphasize the order. Rain hailed down, rolling across the roof and splattering on the pavement outside.

"You can't be serious," stuttered Harry, taking another step back. He still held up his wand but he knew he would only use it if his uncle took a swing. "I have to stay here. I need the protection from here. You need the protection from me staying here."

"Fat lot I care," yelled his uncle. "Now get out now or I'll force you out."

Looking at the door directly behind him, then back to his uncle, whose advancement had now slowed considerably due to the toll and extraneous demand of fitness running down the stairs had taken on his portly uncle, Harry made the only choice that seemed available.

"Fine," he snapped. "Merlin knows you've been horrid to me since the moment I arrived. Good riddance." With that, Harry turned to the door, jerking it open and ran out. Slamming it behind him, he paused as he took his first step down onto the porch. The house seemed to shake slightly with the slammed door, reflecting the young raven-haired teen's ire. Making his way down the lawn, taking great care to smash the small flower protruding near the curb which he had planted just a week earlier, Harry began to run down the street. He had no idea where he was going or what he would do, but he knew that he needed to run off some incredible anger that seemed to have taken hold of him.

He was certain an Order member was just waiting to snatch him up and force him to return to the house. Well, he wouldn't! If the Dursleys wanted nothing to do with him, that was fine. Maybe this would force the Order's hand to finally let him help.

The sun was quickly fading, and the streetlights were just starting to flicker on when Harry finally stopped running. He was soaked to the bone, and lightning crackled above him while thunder grumbled not too far off in the distance. He made no note of it as he stumbled to a weary walk. Panting heavily, he took a quick glance around to realize that he didn't have the remotest idea of where he was. Great, he thought, Voldemort has my friends, Dumbledore absolutely forbade me from leaving the house, and my uncle wants to kill me if I ever show my face again, and I'm completely lost; now what am I supposed to do? Shaking his head in frustration, Harry flopped down onto the damp roadside curb, at a complete loss.

"I hate my life," he moaned softly, pressing his hands to his forehead, which had begun pulsing again.

"But so many people would kill to have it," drawled a deep voice in his ear as he felt the tip of a wand shoved roughly into the small of his back. Straightening, Harry felt his breath catch. He recognized that voice. He could sense the pure darkness pulsating off the Dark Lord behind him. "Grab your wand from your pocket and drop it on the ground. Fight, and your friends are the ones who suffer."

With the slightest of nods, Harry slowly moved his hands to his pocket and grabbed his wand. He was tempted to at least try and fight back, but the threat to his friends drove all thoughts of resistance quickly from his mind. He was a pathetic student who paled in skills compared to the Dark Lord's. Any attempt to escape would fail miserably. With a dull clatter, the wand fell uselessly to the street.

"Good, you can be obedient, boy. That pleases me," Voldemort practically hissed into his ear.

"Pleasing you is the last thing I would want to do," Harry snapped bitterly, turning his head slightly so that he was staring into the piercing red eyes. Being so close to the man who had tried to kill him since birth sent shivers down his spine as he felt his parent's murderer's breath on his cheek. Rain showered them both, but where he was drenched and shaking, the Dark Lord seemed to be completely unaffected, the water redirected over his robes and slender frame by some type of spell which kept him dry.

Harry was shocked as he took in the red-eyed man before him. He could sense the darkness; this man was clearly the Dark Lord. But his appearance was no longer that of a mutated snake mixed with a dissolving shell of a man. He'd regained human features. He had a slender nose, actual lips. Dark brown hair speckled with silver, though not nearly enough to annotate the Dark Lord's actual age, topped a normal brow and covered human ears. The man before him looked at Harry as one would expect a late forties or early fifties Tom Riddle to appear. Except for the eyes, which were as red as blood and staring at him with utter captivation.

"Watch your tongue, Potter. I would advise against angering me, less I remove it. Stand up."

Slowly complying with the wand still pressed to his back, Harry frantically searched around for even the slightest sign of help. There should have been Order members following him; they wouldn't leave him on his own at this stage in the war. But judging by the empty street, it would indeed seem that those who had promised to always protect him had failed miserably once again. Just like they had failed his friends. Just like they had failed his godfather. And just like they had failed his parents, he thought miserably.

"What have you done with my friends?" Harry asked quietly, trying desperately to stall before the Dark Lord cast the killing curse. He feverishly hoped Voldemort would release them now that he had his prize, but there was no reason for the Slytherin to do so. Harry knew he had no bargaining chips. That they were all completely at this madman's mercy.

"I told you if you came to me that I would not harm them," Voldemort replied as he wordlessly summoned the dropped wand.

Turning fully to face the dark wizard, Harry stared at him in confusion. He hadn't come to the Dark Lord; he had only been running for his life from his fat, horrible uncle. In fact, if his uncle hadn't threatened him, Harry still wouldn't have been able to leave the house thanks to those ridiculous wards that Dumbledore had put up.

Seeing the confusion on the young teen's face, Voldemort let out a sinister laugh, one that sent chills down Harry's spine. "Your uncle was under the Imperius curse; surely you don't think your own blood would try and kill you? Perhaps I overestimated your intelligence after all, boy."

Glaring, Harry turned his eyes to the street. He wouldn't remotely put it past Uncle Vernon to attack him without being under a wizard's control. Something in his expression must have hinted at his feeling because Voldemort's eyes narrowed angrily. "Have those Muggles harmed you in the past, Potter?" he demanded in a near whisper.

Wondering why he would care, Voldemort had always been hell-bent on making Harry's life miserable and killing Muggles, Harry slowly shook his head no. "Not like that. But they've always hated me…" he left the rest unsaid with a slight shrug, internally berating himself for talking even remotely civilly with the man who was about to kill him. Perhaps Voldemort cared because he wanted to be the only one who caused Harry pain. His head was now throbbing ridiculously at the close contact. He was becoming more frustrated by the minute with his helplessness before the murderous bastard.

"Take this," instructed the Dark Lord, holding out what looked like a smoother pearl stone about the size of a fist.

Apprehensively, Harry looked from the stone to the Dark Lord. With a raised brow, Voldemort began to pull back the stone, retreating it towards his robes. "I was under the impression that you wanted your friends to live."

Growling, Harry thrust out his hand, grabbing the stone. The brief contact with Voldemort's own hand was enough to make Harry feel a wave of dizziness and pain as he quickly pulled out of the contact, taking a step back. A soft, almost unnoticeable smile appeared on Voldemort's thin lips before a sensation quite unlike anything he had ever experienced took hold of him as black smoke began to surround him. He felt as if he were floating in the cloud of ash, completely weightless as the blackness consumed him.

What felt like an eternity as well as only a second later, Harry felt his feet hit solid ground. But the blackness did not leave; instead, it just hovered around him, completely blocking his sight. Abruptly, pain like he had never felt before pounded through his scar, bringing him to his knees on the hard, stone covered floor. The agony pulsing through him was far worse than any spell, including the Cruciatus. Harry couldn't hold in his scream of pain as both hands frantically pushed up against his scar, attempting to push out the pain. It was nearly blinding. White lines danced across his vision as he dropped to his knees, clutching his skull. He was sure it would kill him.

"It hurts, doesn't it?" asked a soft voice from behind him. Harry didn't need to turn to know that Voldemort had appeared wherever he'd been swept away to. "And I can make it stop instantly if I wish." The pain blissfully vanished, leaving Harry on his knees with only an excruciating headache that he feared would never leave.

Trying desperately to get his breath back and calm his racing heart, Harry began to look around the room. The cloud of ash had dissipated, revealing a small area. It was a bare room that was painted black and had a small open door in the middle of the wall. Otherwise, it was completely empty.

Footsteps brought his wandering eyes back as he saw two black boots stop directly to his side. "I am so pleased you decided to come, Harry," Voldemort remarked quietly. "As you can feel, I have figured out a way to master this connection that we have. You see, I can stop the pain and bring it whenever I want. And I can make you feel it as strongly as I desire." He paused as if to let his words sink into Harry's pounding skull. "Would you like to know how I discovered this control?"

Harry remained silent. If the monster wanted him to know, then he would tell him, but Harry wasn't going to play his little games and ask like an obedient child or pet.

"Don't you think it is impolite to not speak when spoken to?" Voldemort asked dangerously, Harry could clearly hear the threatening tone of his voice. "We will correct you of these behaviors quite quickly, I believe. But yes, as I was saying.

"You have always been able to feel my emotions the same way I could feel yours," Harry's ears perked at this; he had never known that Voldemort could feel him through the link. "So, I began to wonder, could you feel pain as well? The answer seemed obvious. Of course you could, and I only had to figure out how. Finally, I discovered a way. Somehow, we have formed a connection in the mind and so I discovered a way to direct my most painful moments into your scar.

"As you might have guessed, my most excruciating experience was the night you survived and the killing curse rebounded against me. Pain beyond pain coursed through my body, it was dreadful."

Harry could tell the weight beside him was shifting and more felt than saw as Voldemort bent down next to him. Harry couldn't resist the shiver that coursed through his body as he felt the breath of the darkest wizard of all time against his cheek for the second time that night.

"You see, I can not only control the pain you feel, but I believe it is even more pronounced through contact. My power and our connection have grown so much since my rebirth that if I touch you," he lifted one of his long white fingers and held it but a centimeter away from Harry's cheek. Harry watched the hand nervously, anticipating the pain that was about to come. "You will feel pain that makes the Cruciatus Curse feel like a tender caress." He moved his finger slowly up near his scar, and without even touching it, Harry could already feel the pain beginning to pound in his head.

"You feel it, don't you?" asked Voldemort, but he did not wait for a response which Harry wouldn't have given anyways. "Of course, I can choose not to cause you pain." And again the pain suddenly vanished, even as a narrow finger dipped below his chin, pressing up to force his terrified green gaze directly into the red orbs. "But I want you to know what pain I am capable of inflicting upon you, especially since you will be my guest for quite a while. I want you to realize just how much power I have over you, so you don't get any silly ideas in your head that you can actually fight me."

Harry did not like the sound of that one bit, and before he could do anything to prevent him, Voldemort flicked his finger up and pushed down on Harry's scar, causing him to scream out like he had never screamed before. The pain was indescribable and cursed through his entire body as if it were eating away at his flesh from the inside. Thousands of sharp needles were piercing his skin while at the same time freezing cold ice and blazing fire swept through him, tearing him apart. He could hear his own screams echoing around the room, but no matter how much he prayed for it, death just would not take him.

Somewhere in the far distance, he heard a soft voice whisper in his ear, "now you know what I can do to you, Harry, you have been warned." Then blackness consumed him.

AN - There you go, Chapter 3 is finally done. I hope you enjoyed it. Sorry for the delay! Please Review if you like this… I love feedback or ideas on where to take this!