Author's Notes

Trigger warning: torture via torture curse. If you want to skip it, go down to the scene break ("#") and read from there. I'll provide a quick summary at the end of the chapter.

Note on the timeline: The Ministry fell right at the beginning of the summer, which is around the same time the Trio began their horcrux hunt in this story. Thus, Voldemort has controlled the Ministry for two or three months at this point, and the Muggleborn Registration Commission is established and running similarly to canon. However, it has not grown to the point that muggleborn students were prevented from returning to Hogwarts. Instead, they received the same news that attendance was mandatory just like the rest of the students. Voldemort doesn't want a bunch of magicals who hate him on the run - he wants them where he can control them, and for the under-aged, that's at Hogwarts.

Harry averted his eyes from Voldemort's red, locking his jaw, mind racing with new calculations. He could still talk to Voldemort. He had assumed that the loss of human speech meant the loss of communication entirely, which had meant that interrogating him would have been next to pointless. The fact that he still had Parseltongue changed that, and suddenly, Harry needed a strategy.

The one advantage he had was that, by Voldemort's own admission, he couldn't kill Harry. Perhaps another was that Voldemort hadn't tried to enter Harry's mind ever since Harry had pushed him out so painfully back in fifth year. The dark lord wouldn't be jumping to use legilimency right away – he'd try to torture what he wanted out of Harry first, and use mental invasion as the last resort.

Harry's time to think ran out.

"Where are you friends, Harry?" Voldemort crooned.

Harry opened his eyes to glare at Voldemort's forehead, jaw set.

The dark lord's eyes narrowed. "You have lost, Harry. Stop fighting me and spare yourself unnecessary suffering."

Harry only stared stonily upward, bracing himself for the inevitable pain.

The agony burst from his scar like an explosion. It seemed his head was splitting open, and he heard himself screaming, so pitched and dry that Voldemort grimaced right before Harry slammed his eyes closed. He contorted against Nagini's coils, thrashing so strongly that he managed to rock them both on top of the table. His scar was a cruciatus confined to his head, burning, tearing, screaming -

The pain ebbed away. Harry sagged, shuddering, powdery tears itching under his eyelids but refusing to fall.

"You will answer me, Harry," Voldemort said, casually.

Harry cracked his sticky eyes open and saw Voldemort twirling his wand between his fingers – a subtle threat. He could do far worse when he decided to use spells.

Harry's head spun. It felt splintered. He hadn't finished strategizing, hadn't decided how far he could push Voldemort before he risked using legilimency. It had to be believable, Harry had to resist. That's what Harry did, he stuck his chin up and spat insults even when everything seemed inescapable, even when Voldemort held him at wand-point and promised death.

His body shuddered, and the gathered tears fell with soft clicks of tiny pearls on wood. Merlin, he felt sick knowing what was coming, but determination was curled in his gut, as hard as stone.

"I don't know," Harry said, deliberately looking up at the ceiling so that he didn't see Nagini; so that he didn't hiss Parseltongue. It was precisely the kind of defiance -

"Crucio."

Harry's shrieks filled the room. His vision flashed black and white while all conceivable elements raced through his veins and pierced his organs and burned his skin. Electricity, fire, ice, acid – any one of them was comparable, yet at the same time, none of them were. His scream sounded like a fire alarm, unending, piercing, painful. Nagini was tight around him, hissing in judgment and displeasure at the sound of his pain, somehow smothering and comforting all at once. She kept him on the table while he thrashed, ants eating him alive, acid rushing in his veins, needles piercing under his nails and into his eyes…

Silence.

Harry couldn't see straight. The water moving in his chest burned.

"If you speak in anything besides Parseltongue, I will take great enjoyment in pulling out your scales one by one," Voldemort said lowly. "Answer again."

Harry shook uncontrollably, but dragged his eyes up enough so that he saw Nagini's dark scales. Parseltongue. His head was still ringing, like static on a television, but it was clearing slowly. He waited a moment, focusing on the taste of salt and the pinch of Nagini's body around his.

When he spoke, he tried to keep his voice steady, though he thought it was probably impossible.

"I don't know."

The second crucio hit him like a battering ram. Nagini held Harry still once again while he screamed, scratchy tears skittering down from the corners of his eyes. His voice was getting hoarser and cracking from strain. He was crushed by razor blades, frozen with fire, eaten by his own blood. It went on and on until all eternity was incomprehensible pain.

And then, it wasn't. Harry dragged in deep, shuddering gulps of water and coughed it back, only to choke it down again because it was eating him inside but he needed to breathe. His muscles had turned into quivering lumps of jello, held together only by the pressure of Nagini encircling him. He didn't want her to leave. Pressure was the only thing that didn't hurt, and her scales were smooth against his sizzling skin.

"Where are they?" Voldemort repeated, his voice lowered.

Merlin, he didn't want to do that again, he didn't, he didn't –

Plan.

He twitched on the table, muscles outside of his control, wading through an overload of residual sensation and trying to think.

"Where are they?" Voldemort repeated, sounding more impatient.

Was it time to answer?

Would Harry even be able to answer if he made that happen again?

"I-"

"Parseltongue," Voldemort hissed sharply.

Harry forced his sticky eyes open; or, at least the outer lids, because even with the inner lids acting as a shield the air still felt like sand grinding underneath his eyelids. Nagini shifted, just inches from Harry's head. He stared at the dark green scales, trying to collect the fragments of thought in his mind, trying to remember what it was he was supposed to be saying.

"I… it's… true," he repeated, his hiss sounding like the wind in dry grass. "They…" He thought of Hermione and her bag, her warding skills. "They were prepared for anything. They could have gone anywhere. I… I don't… know." He paused, gulping water, but it didn't feel like enough. The act of speaking was helping his mind fall back into order, though, and a shiver raced through him that felt a little bit like his body waking up again rather than submitting to shock. Voldemort was silent, which Harry thought was maybe a good thing if it meant he was listening.

"And I… I'm glad I… I don't. You won't… you won't find them. Not again." He grinned, feeling the expression's lopsidedness. Something hot dripped down towards his temple from his scar.

"Where were you hiding?" Voldemort hissed, his breath hot on Harry's dry skin.

"Anywhere, everywhere," Harry laughed. It sounded more like a cough.

Voldemort slammed his hand over Harry's scar. Harry managed not to scream this time – after being reminded of what a crucio felt like, twice, the pain was nowhere near the same level – but it was still agony. It rattled what was left in his mind and made his head pound and he couldn't think, couldn't feel, just pain and darkness.

"What have you been doing?" Voldemort hissed, letting go.

Harry was spinning. He laughed, and coughed, thinking of trees and a flimsy little tent and a crackling radio.

"Camping," he responded, completely truthfully, so it was rather unfair that Voldemort repaid him with a third cruciatus.

Harry didn't know how much time passed. When it ended, his entire body felt as if it were a breath away from simply crumbling apart and his skin was bursting with fireworks of residual pain. He hiccupped on the water that continued to force its way down his throat and through his gills even though it felt like acid. He couldn't even be disgusted that he didn't want Nagini to let go, now. She was the only thing holding him together.

"What… do you want… want me to … to say?" Harry rasped in a weak, warbling hiss, his head lolling sideways to look at Nagini's scales again. He felt so weak that he might just stop being able to breathe, but he forced himself to keep talking. "The Order… is… it broke," Harry made himself say, knowing the truth of it, thinking of the empty Grimmauld Place. "Dumbledore had a plan… but… "

He made himself stop, drawing in desperate gulps, his eyes darting around even though every movement scratched. Voldemort leaned over him, and there was something hungry in his expression.

Nagini nudged his cheek with a gentle prodding of her nose, her tongue flicking ticklishly over his nose and lips. She was hissing wordlessly, and it was somehow comforting. Harry sunk into it without thinking, half-closing his eyes.

"Tell me your pain, salt-brother," Nagini whispered.

"I was supposed to do something," Harry made himself whisper, to her, feeling his stomach twist at how close to a betrayal it was. He clung to Ron's laugh, to Hermione's furrowed eyebrows; to lost chess matches, and to dancing to static music in the middle of nowhere. For them, he had to be vulnerable, to say something true without revealing what was really important.

He remembered days of desperation, of wondering how on earth they were supposed to accomplish something so monumental with nothing to go on.

"He… he left us nothing!" Harry's anger made his weak voice crack. "There wasn't a… any genius plan! Dumbledore was going to tell me, he was going to, but then -" His mind raced along, thinking of how Voldemort would love to be right, would love to hear how he'd all but won months ago, from the moment Dumbledore toppled from the Astronomy Tower. Harry didn't want to admit he'd lost – he hadn't lost, not yet, so of course –

Harry forced his head around to look at Voldemort again, and sure enough, amusement and triumph were slowly blooming on the evil wizard's face. The sight helped to feed the fire of Harry's anger, frustration, and guilt so that it was practically roaring.

"It's your fault," Harry hissed, voice hoarse. "You had him killed! You and your favorite little death eater, Snape, you killed him and I hope you both die!" Harry's voice switched from the soft susurrations of Parseltongue to harsh, violent mersong. He felt the magic pulsing in it like a beat, but it only swirled around the room, unable to grasp onto Voldemort and fulfill its purpose.

"Oh, you old fool." Voldemort chuckled lowly and stroked his hand over one of Nagini's coils. "For all your preaching about accepting death, you never quite expected it to come looking for you, did you? You couldn't bear to part with your secrets…which wouldn't have been a problem had you found a way to circumvent your own mortality, as I did… but now, nobody knows, do they? Your pride will be the undoing of everything you worked for, old man!"

Harry trembled in Nagini's solid grip, feeling like a dried-out leaf vibrating in a chill wind. His anger was already fading, spent on his outburst, and the exhaustion that came from being held under the torture curse was creeping back over his mind. He'd convinced Voldemort that Dumbledore hadn't shared the information about the horcruxes, and he'd kept Hermione and Ron and their mission safe. Harry didn't know anything else important that could endanger the remaining members of the Order. He'd been out of touch for months.

Voldemort switched his attention back to Harry, who glared weakly.

"And you, Harry - you poor, doomed hero." Voldemort chuckled again and stretched out a skeletal hand to comb through Harry's hair. Harry jerked his head away, but Voldemort was faster. The Dark Lord clenched his hand in Harry's hair and leaned down to stare at Harry eye-to-eye.

There was, strangely, no accompanying spike of pain in Harry's scar.

"Dumbledore set you up to fail, Harry," Voldemort said in a cold whisper. "He told you to play an adult's game and neglected to hand you the pieces you needed to play. Your anger at your loss is justified, though I would argue that it should be directed at the man who claimed to help you and failed you, rather than I."

Voldemort paused, then smiled, shark-like. "Well. I expect you'll be angry with me for everything else I plan to do to you."

Harry tried to spit at him, but it turned out that that action was rather ruined when one breathed water. Voldemort didn't even notice.

#

Harry glared toward Voldemort, who was sitting at his desk, for all appearances perfectly relaxed as he read and took notes. Harry was at the bottom of his tank, curled around his stomach, which was cramping terribly after another night and half day without food.

Voldemort hadn't pulled him from the water since the previous day, which was equal parts relieving and frustrating. On the one hand, it meant Harry was relatively safe. On the other, it meant Harry was trapped in a watery box without anything to break the monotony, not even a verbal joust with the Dark Lord.

Voldemort had set up a stack of books on his desk when he'd come in that morning, with the titles facing Harry deliberately: Magical Marinas: No More Dead Fish, Nautical Magic (The Great Blue Belongs to Wizards Too), One-Hundred and One Spells for the New Pet Owner, Collections of Myth: The Sirens of the Mediterranean,and Taming the Sea: A Study of Magical Sea Species and Their Natural Habitats. Voldemort's current selection was The Notes and Observations of Ossennen Breakridge: Volume I: The Mer.

Harry was still grinding his teeth at the selection. He wasn't a fish, and he certainly wasn't some sort of pet!

No, you're a horcrux, something in him whispered accusingly. It had been all he could think about since Nagini's confirmation. There was no room to doubt the conclusion, but what was he to do about it? Was there a way to transfer a piece of a soul from its container to something else? Or would he have to die?

He knew, with grim determination, that if that was the only way to make Voldemort mortal, he'd do the honors himself.

Not until he knew the rest were destroyed, though.

Voldemort closed his book and shuffled his notes, brushing the tip of his quill over his lips as he skimmed lines of surprisingly elegant script.

Harry forced himself to close his eyes and tried not to feel his hunger.

He opened them again when he heard the scrape of Voldemort's chair against the floor. Voldemort stood and strode towards Harry's tank, eyes fixed on a piece of parchment in his hand. His wand was already out in the other.

Harry's fins stood on end, and he rose from the floor of the tank to face his captor. A buzzing hiss escaped him. It must have been audible to Voldemort, because the Dark Lord flashed an amused grin at Harry before he began tracing his wand over the outside wall of the tank.

Glowing runes were left in its wake. They sent a tingling sensation out into the water, something not necessarily harmful, but unfamiliar. With another flick of his wand, Voldemort let the runes sink into the glass, where they flashed before disappearing. A rush of magic washed through the tank and Harry, making Harry shiver.

It felt… clean.

Harry frowned. Voldemort had begun tracing more runes in the same way, only glancing at his notes occasionally. Magic tingled in the water, benign and helpful. Harry relished in feeling it move inside of him, though it wasn't his magic. Unless he could find a way to escape and turn back into a human, he probably wouldn't feel that tug from deep inside, that energy rushing down his wand arm to change the world, again.

Something tried to bubble up out of his throat, and he swallowed it back down.

Voldemort continued drawing his runes for several minutes, setting several different spells into place. None of them felt malicious when they washed through the water, but Harry was at a loss as to what they were. Hermione probably would have been able to figure it out.

Another bubble tried to fight its way up into Harry's mouth, and again he tamped it down.

"I am ensuring that you will not become sick and poisoned from unclean water," Voldemort said, then flicked his wand to finalize another runic array. He switched his gaze to Harry and smiled sharply. "Among other necessary precautions. For instance, the percentage of salt in the water must remain relatively stable, as well as the temperature. You're cold-blooded, did you know?"

Harry scowled, curling his fingers into claws.

"Being cold-blooded means that, like snakes, you cannot regulate your own body temperature, and are susceptible to outside influences of heat and cold. Sirens, especially, are more sensitive to cold than other species, being a warm-water a warm-water sub-species of mer," Voldemort lectured, with an imperious smirk. "They are native to the Mediterranean, though they have also been sighted in reefs off the coast of Australia and some Pacific islands near the equator. They have never been sighted in the colder open oceans. Isn't that interesting, Harry?"

Harry only glared silently.

"I saw you glaring at my books," Voldemort chided. "You shouldn't begrudge me my research. After all, I had no idea what to feed you until just a few hours ago."

Despite his efforts, Harry's anger must have shifted visibly into confusion, because Voldemort chuckled.

"Yes, of course. You can hardly consume bread and roast beef anymore. You didn't think underwater species ate human foods, did you?" Voldemort tutted, and Harry pasted his scowl right back onto his face. "No, my ignorant horcrux. Mer eat a diet exclusively of sea creatures native to their regions. I have a delivery of live fish on its way now."

A knock sounded from the door, and Harry tensed. There hadn't been any sign of anyone else nearby since he'd arrived here.

Voldemort paused, glanced at Harry, then smirked. "Enter."

The door creaked open hesitantly. A witch in traditional navy robes edged inside, her head down and her hands clasped nervously in front of her. Her brunette hair had swung forward to hide her face.

"Yes?" Voldemort asked, one hairless eyebrow raised.

"Madame Umbridge is here to see you, my Lord," the woman said, so softly that Harry could barely hear her.

"Send her in," Voldemort said carelessly, and the woman retreated without even looking up to notice Harry.

Voldemort glanced at Harry and grinned. "I understand you have a history with the lovely madame, Harry. Won't it be nice to see a familiar face?"

Harry looked at the moving snake motifs on the office's carpet to use Parseltongue. "A snake and a toad. You two deserve each other."

Voldemort laughed. "Snakes prey on toads, my horcrux."

The name sent a shiver down Harry's spine, right to the tip of his tail. Harry still hadn't worked up a semi-decent response to it, so all he was able to do was scowl while his stomach flip-flopped.

Voldemort only smirked before he walked away to tuck himself behind his desk. There were no chairs in front of it for visitors, which was part of the reason Harry had begun to theorize that this was a private office in some gilded manor house somewhere. However, the witch who'd come in was evidently functioning as some sort of secretary, and if Umbridge had access to the location, was it possible that this was a public office? He knew that Voldemort had seized control of the Ministry, though indirectly. He wouldn't have an office in the Ministry, would he? He hadn't gotten that bold yet, surely?

As the door opened to admit Delores Umbridge in all her confident pink cardigan-clad glory, however, Harry wondered if perhaps the Dark Lord had gotten that bold. Umbridge looked just as she had back when Harry and Hermione and Ron had broken into the Ministry not long ago, all scratchy pink fabric and antique-looking brooches and far too much hairspray. She already had a simpering smile plastered on her face as she shut the door behind her, eyes glittering with sickening flattery.

"My Lord," she purred, then added in a little giggle. "It's an honor to finally meet you. Thank you ever so much for speaking to me personally."

Harry very nearly gagged. She hadn't even noticed Harry yet, thought his tank took up two-thirds of the right-hand wall of the office. She had eyes only for the wizard sitting with a shark's smile behind the ornate desk.

"Madame Umbridge," he said, with a politician's slick tones, "Your initiative and continued dedication to the Muggleborn Registration Commission recommends you, and I do like to know who my most effective servants are."

Umbridge giggled girlishly and fluttered her hands with false modesty, coming closer to the desk. "I consider it a privilege to lead such critical work, my Lord. Previous administrations allowed things to get quite out of hand."

"Indeed," Voldemort drawled, eyes glinting.

Buttering-up completed for both sides, Umbridge finally allowed her eyes to wander the room, and almost instantly noticed Harry. His fins were already on end, but as her eyes widened and her mouth parted in a delicate "o" of surprise, he had to swallow the urge to hiss like a cat at her.

"My Lord," Umbridge breathed. "You've made an addition to the office, I see?"

Voldemort stood from his desk and crossed towards Harry, waving Umbridge to accompany him. Harry flicked his fins and backed further into the tank as the two of them came up to the glass on the other side. Umbridge's eyes trailed with a mixture of revulsion and fascination down the length of Harry's tail, while Voldemort stared into Harry's eyes with unconcealed amusement.

"Acquired just this week," Voldemort purred. "You're the first in the Ministry to see him."

"It is quite a bit larger than I had thought they were," Umbridge said, frowning uncertainly. She glanced at Voldemort, probably trying to decide how he wanted her to react, and then stared back at Harry. This time, her eyes caught on his face, and she squinted. It had the unfortunate effect of making her look constipated. "Forgive me, my Lord, but the features seem familiar…"

Voldemort chuckled. "How perceptive, madame."

Umbridge visibly preened at this praise, covering up the confusion still showing in her eyes.

"I have scheduled a press conference for next week," Voldemort went on, crimson eyes glinting. "Being reduced to a beast is an unprecedented form of justice, but in this instance, I found it quite poetic."

Beast?!

"Of course, my Lord," Umbridge said, nodding eagerly. Her eyes landed on Harry again and narrowed. "Forgive me for asking, but why not simply administer the Kiss, my Lord? It would surely be far simpler."

Voldemort chuckled, but the sound was condescending now rather than amused. "And provide a martyr? I think not."

Umbridge glanced between him and Harry uncertainly, clearly still not able to see past fins and scales to the Harry Potter she hated so dearly.

Harry was certain his facial features couldn't have changed that much… Although, there were thin layers of scales over his cheeks that hadn't been there before, and he supposed his hair was longer and his ears were fins now.

Maybe her confusion was understandable, as much as he hated to give allowances for someone so despicable.

"You said it was not always this… species?" Umbridge asked carefully. It was a transparent attempt to fish for more information, and Voldemort smirked. She'd inadvertently admitted she didn't know who Harry was. The game was up.

"Come, Madame, I thought you recognized him," Voldemort purred. When her face remained confused, he nodded towards Harry's face again. "Look at his forehead."

She squinted, and Harry scowled. Would Umbridge be affected by his mersong? Could he convince her, through song, to attack Voldemort before Voldemort could put a stop to it?

Umbridge gasped and drew back from the tank. "Potter! You found him, my Lord?"

"As I said."

"Well, then, allow me to be the first to congratulate you on your victory, my Lord," Umbridge breathed. "He always was far too full of himself, I knew him as a student, of course, and he was a nasty little child. You were quite right, my Lord, his nature was already quite bestial before; this is poetic justice -"

"My decisions do not require your approval," Voldemort said with cool reproof. Umbridge's eyes widened, and for a moment, she puffed up like a bullfrog, ready to react to a challenge to her authority… right up until she looked up and saw Voldemort's glittering red eyes. She deflated and nodded hurriedly.

"Yes, of course, my Lord."

Voldemort turned away from Harry and moved towards the two armchairs positioned by the fireplace at the other end of the room. Umbridge followed with only minor hesitation, and the Dark Lord invited her to take a seat with a wave of his skeletal hand. When she sat, Harry could no longer see her, though Voldemort remained visible from where he stood behind her chair.

"I am, of course, pleased at this latest development. You will be present along with the department heads for the press conference, to show that the Ministry is unified under my leadership now that the last obstacle has been removed."

"Yes, my Lord, with pleasure, I -"

"While it is all good news, I summoned you to discuss another matter entirely," Voldemort went on. He started pacing with his hands clasped behind his back, strides perfectly measured, like a predator waiting to strike. His attention was fully on Umbridge, now. "The MRC, though a fledgling initiative, is already showing promising results. However, we must now decide how to handle the under-age muggleborns present in our country, especially those who have already begun their schooling at Hogwarts."

Harry somersaulted downwards and twisted his body, repositioning himself in the tank so that he could listen better. His flukes flicked water at the ceiling as his entire tail curled behind him with the movement, sinuous and serpent-like. A single kick put his head near the armchairs, where he could hear Umbridge's simpering tones more clearly.

"Why should they not be handled the same as their elder kin, my Lord? They are all thieves, after all, no matter their age."

Voldemort allowed her to stew in her question for several moments before he replied, smoothly. "Prosecuting adult criminals is necessary and laudable in every society. Children, however, present a more complex issue. Regardless of the truth of their crimes, the public will not support imprisoning so-called children. Arguments will be made that they stole magic under duress, or, perhaps, there is a larger muggle organization which transferred the stolen magic to them without their knowledge or consent. We cannot reliably hold such… 'innocents' accountable for what could be the work of more capable, and more dangerous, adults."

"I see your point, my Lord. The public will not allow us to do what must be done, in this instance."

"That is what I fear, yes. There will be an outcry on behalf of under-aged muggleborns should we imprison them alongside their adult accomplices."

"That's rubbish and you know it!" Harry shouted, slamming his fist against the tank wall. He saw Umbridge's chair wobble and heard her squeak of fear.

"Forgive me, my Lord, I had thought the beast silenced," she said. She wasn't quite able to conceal the reproof in her tone.

"Call me that one more time, you overgrown toad!" Harry shouted. He heard the melodic echoes of his voice reverberating in the water and clenched his fists, seething at the reminder that his human voice was gone.

"Ignore him," Voldemort said smoothly, not even glancing in Harry's direction. "He likes his temper tantrums, but you are quite safe from him with me."

Umbridge forced another girlish giggle, though it was tinged with nervousness. "I regret having first-hand experience in dealing with those exact tantrums, my Lord."

The hiss Harry had been repressing finally escaped from between his teeth. The water around him buzzed. The two most vile human beings to ever walk the face of the earth didn't notice.

"As I was saying, we must decide on an alternative way to handle these under-aged undesirables. Do you have any recommendations?" Voldemort asked.

"E-hem. Obviously, whatever method we - oh, forgive me, my Lord - you choose should be discrete, to prevent fickle public sympathies from becoming unmanageable, and yet we must separate this blight upon magic from the rest of our communities. Perhaps… a separate school? Mandatory and boarding, of course. It could even be year-round."

A predatory smile spread over Voldemort's face. "Ah, yes. A… school. It would be our proper duty to educate the fledgling degenerates, to… rehabilitate them as muggles experimented on and thrust into our superior society despite their natural depravity. We shall teach them their worth and their place, and work towards finding a way to remove the stolen magic, restore it to its rightful wielders, and once we have succeeded, send the muggles back to their own world."

"Monster," Harry hissed, as loudly as Parseltongue allowed. The water vibrated on his lips with the sound, but Voldemort didn't seem to hear.

"How generous, my Lord," Umbridge simpered. "Such a plan will take some time to implement, however - a building must be decided upon and properly equipped and warded, and we will have to hire a full staff, as well as… monitors. Transport, as well, must be arranged for the students, and we shall need to locate the children who have not attended Hogwarts. Perhaps Severus - ah, Headmaster Snape - could be of some assistance there? And of course, we must set standards for the curriculum, and organize Obliviations for the muggle parents."

"It is indeed quite an undertaking," Voldemort said smoothly. "However, I am confident that your department can spearhead this initiative. Keep it confidential, on a need-to-know basis. There is no need to allow unnecessary panic to take hold. Additionally, organize a commission to handle the logistics. Once it is formed, I expect a budget estimation within a month, and progress reports biweekly. I want this operational in a year. Next summer will allow the older muggleborn students to… fade from the memories of the more respectable youth before a no-contact order is enforced. Once the school is operational, we can use feedback from the staff to determine how to handle its… graduates."

Umbridge giggled. "The deadline will be a challenge, my Lord, but I will start on it immediately."

"You half-blooded hypocrite," Harry seethed. Once again, Parseltongue was too quiet to be heard from this distance.

If Voldemort had his way, the muggleborn students at Hogwarts would have little or no warning that they were about to become prisoners of concentration camps. What would become of Harry's classmates? Innocent kids who loved their families and loved magic?

Harry was the only one on their side who knew.

He had to find a way, somehow, to warn them.

Torture scene summary: Harry realizes that, since he can speak Parseltongue, he's now a valid target for interrogation. Voldemort starts almost immediately. Harry's only priority is to make sure Voldemort doesn't realize that his horcrux secret is out, so that he doesn't hunt down Hermione and Ron. He realizes that Voldemort will not want to use legilimency on him due to the events of Order of the Phoenix, but if Harry resists too much Voldemort may resort to it. Harry manages to successfully lie to Voldemort and make Voldemort believe that Dumbledore died before he could pass along "the plan" to Harry.