Chapter 22

Hermione had practiced her story during her long walk through London. It was a good one, she thought.

She had come to visit Harry in St. Mungo's. He was badly beaten up, she explained to the silent audience, but he was going to be alright. A Death Eater was guarding the hospital room, which they both realised too late. He had his mask drawn so she couldn't see who it was. He gloated that he was going to get her expelled for being outside Hogwarts grounds, told her to get used to it. He went on to insult her Muggleborn origins.

That, of course, was when Harry lost it. A fight broke out between the three of them. All too soon though, the stranger had gotten the upper hand. The man told her that he was going to make sure she would be locked up in Azkaban, which was after all the punishment for attacking a pureblood. She knew he was making it up, but she didn't want to find out.

So she ran.

By the end of it, Hermione looked distraught enough that no one thought to ask any further. They were also distracted, restless with anticipation for the upcoming battle. Soon after she had finished her story the Order members broke up to get back to their respective stations.

Except for Dumbledore, she had everyone fooled.

888

One thing they could agree on: they both hated being caged ('both' were strictly separate only in his thoughts – where the loss of his individuality was still too painful to consider for long). Which was why Harry was sitting cross-legged on the library sofa the next morning, bend over a book called 'Unlockment: Theory of Wardbreaking - level 1'.

The problem was that when it came to the Dark Lord's wards, knowing the basics didn't really cut it. And the junior version in his head was no help: setting wards was a talent of his, not breaking them.

The nails of his left hand bit into his thigh compulsively every few pages. That muddled feel of his body – he had hoped a good night's sleep would clear it away, but his skin and the muscles beneath still didn't feel quite like his own. They didn't really seem to exist in the same way his mind did. The sting in his leg that followed changed nothing about that. It took the edge off, though.

Harry´s eyes shot to the walls. The feeling of the wards had changed, for just a second.

Voldemort was here, and he was not alone.

He folded the book and rose from the sofa. Not by pressing his palms, but by tightening his cheek and back muscles. In standing position, they relaxed into absolute stillness.

He hadn´t noticed this before. What else was he not aware of? Observing his own body was like talking to a masked stranger. A muggle robot, which had taken up residence, programmed by a powerful new subconscious. There was no knowing what came next, true, but since it made sense he would follow it, for now.

Right now it made sense to go and see. No sound left the floor boards as his feet took him to an antechamber on the ground floor. He took a peek around the door. And felt a jolt of curiosity.

Standing with his back to Harry was Snape, and he appeared to be in some kind of argument with Voldemort. His tone was barely above a whisper, but the sound carried in the small space.

"… on his mind and physique, I am confident the usual amount will-"

"Be that as it may…" Voldemort drawled. The accent on 'be' made the half-sentence sound menacing and final.

Snape wisely took it in stride and nodded briskly. He held out a vial of clear liquid – Veritaserum – which Voldemort took.

"He will be…" Snape began.

"- I know," Voldemort cut in, "and he's standing right there."

Snape turned as if under attack, showing a rare grimace as their eyes met.

Snape handed the Dark Lord another potion, then turned on his heels. "The Skeeter woman will be thrilled, you know," he told no one in particular as he strolled passed Harry onto the landing. "We'll never hear the end of it."

At the end of the landing, the billowing trail of Snape's cloak rose on the stairs. Where is he going?

Voldemort had un-stoppered the vial of Veritaserum. The man drew close and placed the bottle in his palm. Mechanically Harry's hand closed around it, to keep it from falling.

The vial was tiny but still… that was a lot of Veritaserum.

"So…," Harry stalled, knowing he was being obvious, "Isn't three drops sufficient?"

Voldemort narrowed his eyes slightly - annoyed, Harry guessed, by his slowness. "Either your act needs refinement, or… " it's not an act, the silence told him.

Oh. In other words, this was something he would have known. This dancing on a knife's edge was getting exhausting already.

Veritaserum. In the uncharted knots of his mind his own memories of the potion connected, or so he guessed, with the foreign ones. A splatter of feeling lid up… drugged, dizzy, vomiting… Toxins - building tolerance. Not quite what he was looking for…

Harry swallowed convulsively a few times against the pressure at the back of his throat. He knew his mistake when he saw the raptness that had come over the other man.

The Dark Lord's lips twisted in comprehension.

Damn these mental ambushes, he thought annoyed. Harry quickly focused his gaze on the bottle with a bored look.

Perhaps it was the one good thing to come out of all this. His reactions from before now felt silly to show. He had become what Snape had always wanted then: disconnected from his emotions. Beyond the numbness though, he was frightened by this sudden stranger that had taken over his mannerisms. Worse than a stranger, even… The spike of nerves in his stomach gave hollow comfort: Riddle would never be nervous over something like this.

He wondered for a moment what would become of him, when he had excavated all the cobwebs sleeping within the young Riddle's mind. Surely, his own severe lack of knowledge protected him from too many floods of memories.

The vial was still cold in Harry's palm, containing enough droplets to fill a teaspoon. He looked up. How could this man, who had shied away from Harry's pain in the Department of Mysteries when all he could think about was Sirius, go to such agonizing lengths in order to make himself immune to poisoning, even creating Horcruxes that ripped out part of your soul?

"Drink," Voldemort said.

Harry raised the vial to the mass murderer. "Cheers."

The liquid without taste hit the back of his tongue. That part of him quickly became numb, followed by the rest of his body. Soon he couldn't feel the soles of his shoes pressing into the carpet.

He swayed softly, and Voldemort's wandless magic guided him to a nearby fauteuil, where he took a seat blindly.

Harry tensed in anticipation. There, that was his heartbeat picking up speed. It was finally behaving normally. He swallowed back the panic in his fingertips. Could there be a way to phrase things so that they were accepted by the potion, but concealed the truth?

"Are you Harry Potter?" The man was reclining against the other arm rest, ankles and arms casually crossed, though a spark of interest had bled into his gaze.

At once Harry felt the need to respond. "Yes," his mouth spoke.

"Are you Tom Riddle?"

His lips tried a few shapes. "I'm not sure," he finally said.

"Why?"

"I can see things from his perspective, but… I don't think I would ever act on his views."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't agree with them."

"Are you my Horcrux?"

Harry looked straight ahead, away from the wild red of the man's eyes. There was a modern painting on the wall opposite, made up of golden hues. "Yes."

"Who else knows you are a Horcrux?"

He tried to think of a different answer that the potion would accept, but his throat closed up as soon as he tried. Gulping for air, the name slipped out. "Hermione Granger."

A slight movement to his left. "How did she find out?"

"She… had read about how you brought me to St. Mungo's." Under the guidance of the Veritaserum, the words came with a currant of feeling. "I told her how you had put wards on my room… that a healer had given me perfect vision to replace my glasses. That's when she realised."

"Too smart for her own good," Voldemort murmured.

"What are you going to do?" Harry asked, surprised the potion led him.

"I will have to kill her."

"No! No…" Harry tried to wrestle up from the couch, but the potion forced calm back into his limbs and he fell back, exhausted.

"She can be useful to you, you know, to the magical world… she is so smart, she can, she can…" He tried fervently to find words that would demonstrate her worth. Witch of exceptional skill, expert in Transfiguration…

She dies because she knows. She is Muggleborn without influence.

Shut up, he thought to himself. Shut the fuck up, you traitor. He closed his eyes, horrified at his own cold reasoning. He hadn't felt this miserable in quite some time. He raised his head and met the slit-eyed gaze. The burning fear in his stomach turned painful in the silence.

"I concede, she has talents," the Dark Lord spoke after a beat.

Harry jerked his head. The statement kept repeating in his head, distinctly mocking. Talents were no matter when you were a mudblood.

"What is Mr. Weasley doing in the Room of Hidden Things after classes?"

"He works together with the… rebels."

"Yes," Voldemort hissed, impatient, "be more specific."

"The Order. That is all I know."

The man's irritation seeped like warm water over his scar, but the expected pain was absent.

He felt lightheaded. He had passed his most important test!

There was a question in the air. He really needed to answer, but he hadn't caught the words right.

"Where is the new head of the what?" His throat rumbled weirdly as he spoke. His hands shook. There was something horrible going to happen, but he couldn't remember… The potion urged for an answer but at the same time, he wanted to lie down, to ease the burn in his stomach….

Overdose, insight whispered before he even had time to wonder.

He nearly slid from the couch next, but wandless magic steadied his body, pushing his head to lie on the armrest. The warmth on his forehead peaked, and lulled him into closing his eyes.

"Potter."

He blinked a few times. His tongue was stuck out by the same magic and liquid was poured over it. He was ordered to swallow.

It tasted like nothing… more Veritaserum – no, the antidote. He closed his eyes again to block out the visage of Voldemort standing over him, and waited for the potion to work.

"We will continue this later," the voice above him decided curtly. His scar prickled again - so much for wishing that part of their connection had shrivelled up.

The grip from the potion gone, Harry slowly pushed from the couch. The horrible something came back: Hermione. He started a brisk pace, lest he'd try something rash or desperate, but Voldemort gripped his shoulder non too gently.

He jerked away with a primal sound. His lungs burned. She was beyond saving, it was unimaginable… The new part of him was still kept at bay by the knife of emotions in his gut.

"Just leave me the hell alone!" he shouted. "You pathetic bully-"

"I might give her the Draught of Living Death and bury her somewhere," the Dark Lord interrupted, ignoring him completely. "After Obliviating her of course. Is that an acceptable alternative to you?"

His voice was low with indifference: he didn't care either way.

Caught off guard, Harry stared. He focused on his breathing and with that, a flair of Tom's sharpness returned.

"Why would you want to?" he whispered. "In fact why not kill all the smart Muggleborns. After all, they are a risk to our pureblood propaganda. They could undermine our cause. Perhaps a competition of some kind, a Mudblood bloodbath…!"

"Silence!" Voldemort hissed. Harry responded with a smirk.

"I will allow for some leeway with regards to your unique situation," the Dark Lord said in a clipped tone. "Your progress under my younger self's influence pleases me, after all…"

The antidote had sunk in. Harry's perception of his surroundings was slowly broadening once more, the nuances sharpening. It was easy now to rival the man's calculated stare. Voldemort's mouth curled ever so slightly. "I will keep the Granger girl alive- I can see you don't believe me - if you manage to hold that tongue, and only if you keep me content."

You haven't got her yet, Harry thought. He hoped to whatever magical gods people worshipped that Hermione had gotten to the rebels' location safely….

The man's wand traced the scar on his cheek. Harry jerked away again.

"I am often tempted to wring your little neck," Voldemort's voice dripped icily. "However… My approval and nothing less, is what you will aim for. A feat you have yet to accomplish."

Harry opened his mouth to say something along the line of I don't give a shit if you approve but Voldemort was quicker: "Ah, careful. Remember the choice that I offer."

Choice. Harry's hands balled in frustration. The man had a habit of presenting choices that were no choices at all…

He heard him sigh. "If you don't snap out of whatever revolting adolescent woe you are wallowing in now, I might feel the need to order her parents killed next... A waste of my servants' time, and quite unnecessary."

Harry's cheeks grew warm - he wasn't wallowing. He couldn't wait to be dismissed.

However, Voldemort's tall form drifted nearer, blocking out the sunlight. From the corner of his eye, Harry saw him lift very pale fingers from the deep folds of his cloak and raise them to the side of Harry's head. Then, to his horror, they started to… pet his hair.

Harry froze, thoughts falling into disorder again. He ducked his head but this only gave Voldemort more access. Every once in a while, a nail would snag and the hand would start over from the beginning. The warm buzz in Harry's scar made him want to fall asleep.

"You are… stressed, uprooted," Voldemort said pleasantly. One arm kept up the motion while the other wrapped around him, stiffly, unused to assuming this position. The hold was not very tight though, and surprisingly gentle.

He tried to work up the anger to shake him off, but there was a heavy pressure on his chest which he couldn't quite place. It drained him of energy. His eyes became damp from the foreign weight. It felt like… grief?

Voldemort detested any sort of touch. Harry was confident of this fact, which he quickly filed away - he really didn't want to examine its origins. It made him feel even more out of his depth, even though he should be used to the man's cruel tricks by now. Why was he- how could he emulate this basic human interaction...

"Routine is what's needed, isn't that so, Nagini?"

The snake came out of nowhere from the adjoining dining hall. Nagini climbed the fauteuil to lazily flick her tongue at their intertwined forms.

"The little one is upset. He is shedding liquid form the eye."

Voldemort's rhythmic stroking of his head never ceased. The man's magic was quiet today, at the edge of perception. I'm not, he wanted to say, but the tears were on his cheeks. "Stop- back off," he said instead, hating the tremble that had gotten hold of his voice. It was just his exhaustion getting the better of him at the worst possible time.

"Routine," Voldemort whispered into his ear. "And a little care."

"Get away from me," Harry tried in a lower tone. Riddle's composure seeped back into his muscles, giving them strength. Voldemort sensed the change, and stopped the carding.

"You are disgusting," Harry muttered, casually wiping away the tears. Why did he have to go and cry, of all things. "With your arrogant, cowardly refusal of anything not in line with you dumb ideas about how society should function. They're full of flaws, you know that? You think this is sustainable, to keep everyone terrorized like this? It won't be long until everyone you're excluding will rebel against your regime."

The creature still held him stiffly. Harry felt like crying again. Nothing would change, he could rave all he want and still it would happen, the wizarding world would bend to the yoke of darkness.

"Pity you've become insane, with that broken soul of yours," he sneered, breathing deeply through the tightness. "That's just dumb. You want to live forever, but you don't mind that it's just - well, a mere shadow of yourself that's left to enjoy it."

Surely he had gone too far now, he hoped. Please get this over with...

Pathetic woes of a little boy, Tom echoed his counterpart with relish in the privacy of his thoughts.

Voldemort whispered: "Is this the famous power of love I'm witnessing that the old codger is always rambling about?"

What the hell. "What… what do you mean?"

"I think you know." Remarkable how patient the man seemed, hugging him for crying out loud. Harry bit the inside of his cheek hard.

The open French doors reflected an image of a man holding a child. Although he had grown a lot in the past year, Harry's head still couldn't quite reach the Dark Lord's shoulders. Voldemort caught his eye in the reflection.

Harry huffed. "That's not love." It was so ridiculous he could have laughed. Except there was still that awful pressure that he was trying to carefully breathe around.

"What is he saying?" Nagini hissed at the man from the armchair.

"That I am incapable of caring," Voldemort responded. The word for love did not exist in the language of snakes.

"You are," Harry asserted incredulously. Nagini was huffing now, in what Harry recognized as snake laughter.

"How do you know this?"

His heart raced at the direction the conversation was taking. Voldemort didn't have a clue of course, but still, dangerous territory… "What do you mean? You don't give a damn about anyone besides yourself."

"Really? Am I not looking out for your welfare? Nagini's?"

Harry sighed inwardly, not wanting to examine his own relief too closely. Really, what had he feared the man would say…? "That is different. I am your horcrux. It is in your own interest to keep me alive."

Voldemort paused for a moment, arm still frozen around Harry like a statue's. "I am noticing that kindness is affecting you in ways my threats cannot."

Harry blinked. Of course kindness affected him differently than threats… This was just the sort of weird observation that showed how little the Dark Lord knew of the human species. He pushed against the arm, and this time was allowed to move away. From the corner of his eye he saw the man's scrutiny hadn't abated.

"You and I will make an Unbreakable Vow tonight. Then you may go back to school. Nagini will join you. She'll be roaming the halls."

Harry nodded, surprised. Was Nagini supposed to keep an eye on him? Was she safer inside the school?

"I will enjoy the collection of rats," Nagini hissed.

The extraction process hadn't gone as Voldemort wanted, but apparently the result was close enough to hold off his murderous urge. Exposing Harry to Hogwarts in this state, with Riddle's influence as his unwanted guide – well, Harry could see how that would be appealing to the Dark Lord's ego.

"Before I agree to vow to anything, I want to know the wording."

"Naturally."

"You must also vow something in return," he dared. It never hurt to explore the boundaries early on.

"Is that so?" Voldemort's eyebrows had risen in clear amusement, which didn't bode well. "Crucio."

Pain suddenly washed over his arms and legs, slicing through intestines and scraping muscle. Harry cried out, sinking to the ground. It was over in seconds.

"You seem to have forgotten your place again. Well?"

Harry extracted his teeth carefully from his bleeding tongue. He raised his head.

"Thank you… my Lord."

The Dark Lord's eyes glittered, unreadable.

888

A profound sense of embarrassment had tingled over Draco's body while reporting to the hospital wing, seeing Madame Pomfrey look so caring. He managed to be quite bored about it all. Still, he was glad there had been no Slytherin nearby to witness the humiliation.

Now that he was sitting in front of the common room fire, a glass of (still) illegal Firewhisky nearby, he was gradually finding his bearings. The sight of Zabini in a clinch with Nott over his latest escapade with a Muggleborn (Zabini called it a violation) also helped.

"You think you can just do whatever you want now?" Zabini was hissing, emphasising his words with a Stinging Hex, which Nott dodged. "No care for our reputation?"

"Someone's a little wound up," Nott taunted, making no move to retaliate. "You could use a bit of fun yourself."

The room's attention was riveted on the pair, the older years especially eager for a distraction from the dull pile of Thursday's homework. Next to Draco, Pansy chuckled.

Zabini showed no signs of slowing down. A fireball flew through the air next. Nott yelped and deflected with a shield. The ball snuffed out when it touched the low ceiling.

"Hit a nerve, did I?"

"You assaulted her!" Zabini raged, quite unlike his usual composed style.

"I did not, I traded, I found an opportunity and I took it." Nott was looking bored in a way that managed to convey 'grow up'. "Besides, I was a perfect gentleman."

Zabini's face stilled, his voice dragging low. "What did you trade her for?"

"I traded her services," Nott corrected briskly, "for a bit of leeway with her wand papers. I think that's fair."

"You should be more careful, Nott," Draco suddenly stated, and both heads turned at once towards him. The rest of the crowd followed in a beat.

A warm thrill made its way up his stomach at the vacuum of silence he'd caused. Word had gotten around about his injuries, and precisely who had dealt them. It was no shame, no shame at all to return half-crippled from a personal appointment with the Dark Lord. He had not foreseen this… advantage of recent events.

He held their attention lazily, taking a moment to shift his tightly bandaged right arm. Their minds were spinning now, imagining the scene in which that arm was slashed, or cursed. Bandages wrapped the burned skin around his legs as well, invisible beneath his robes.

"You don't want to be caught out for the second time in one week, do you?"

To his credit, Nott's cheeks remained the same creamy colour.

He had been sent a howler by an anonymous Potter-fan that morning for his involvement in the Potter conspiracy, as the Slytherins called it. He'd manage to worm his way out of that one quite elegantly, Draco thought: of course Nott had been taken by surprise, sent into a trap by those resentful Hufflepuffs, and forced to watch as Potter was tortured by the snake-haters. Afterwards Nott had managed just barely to make a run for it. He would be next, they had told him.

By the time Nott managed to 'notify' Professor Snape, Voldemort had already disappeared to St. Mungo's with his charge.

It had been an educational exercise for Slytherin House. So certain Draco had been that Nott was turned into a can of dead flubberworms by one of Voldemort's minions – after all, Draco himself was glad to be sporting only temporary injuries, and he was barely involved.

But he had not counted on Snape's flair for persuasion, his talent for feeding the Dark Lord's partiality towards Slytherin house.

The tightening of Nott's jaw told him his comment had hit home. "Rest assured," the tall boy bit off, "I will be more discreet in the future." He threw a last sneer at Zabini before stalking off.

When the common room buzzed once more with conversation, Pansy turned to Zabini. "Theodore's right you know," she said. "You look stressed. You really need to loosen up a little."

Zabini sagged gracefully into the nearest chair. "You had your first training yet?" he said instead of replying.

Pansy nodded. "Yesterday afternoon. Amycus Carrow, Dark Arts," she added for Draco. "Was interesting. I'm happy with the subject. He's quite particular though, with his teaching. I'm not sure I want to know that much about all the different curses for controlling Muggles."

Zabini wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Mine wasn't that great either. Guess our future professions are already decided. Finch," he added at their questioning looks. "A creep if I ever saw one."

Draco raised a brow. "And you've seen many."

"Exactly. That guy is not natural. You know he's a vampire? I'm pretty sure. Remember Eldred Worple, that time at Slughorn's Christmas party? Same skin colour, same… ancient mannerisms."

Draco, exuding boredom, replied: "You forget, I wasn't there." Actually, not officially.

"That's right," Zabini said thoughtfully, though the remark didn't appear to be a jab. "Wonder what he's planned for this year. I don't think he can afford to shun Death Eaters from his club this time around."

Very smooth, Blaise, Draco thought.

Yesterday his father told him the news that Zabini had become a Death Eater. It had made Draco blink hard several times. He really needed to catch him alone soon. Blaise – solitary, liberated Blaise – a Death Eater?

"I hear Potter is getting lessons from Snape," Pansy pinched in. Daphne, who strolled over after finishing a game of wizarding chess with Tracey, chuckled.

"Do I detect…?" she didn't bother to finish the sentence.

Scowling didn't really fit Pansy's face. "Oh I don't care," she cut in. "We know Snape's forced into it. He hates that he has to do it. I actually almost feel sorry for Potter."

"Whatever issue our Lord has against killing Potter, I hope he gets over it soon," Daphne declared boldly.

"This again," Draco sighed, though inwardly his chest flared with nerves. His new edginess was just the events of yesterday talking. No time like the present though, to make amends. "It's the real deal. He wants Potter alive. Do your own life expectancy a favour and don't question that."

He felt Pansy's gaze sear over him. She was worried, but had to wait until they were in a more private setting. Blaise, who was about to withdraw to the bedroom, now settled a bit firmer into his chair.

Draco was somehow glad for Nott's absence. He took a swallow of whiskey to gather his thoughts. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the alcohol do its work.

"I have been tasked with guarding Potter," he said in a whisper. "It was an undercover assignment, but you're allowed to hear now. However, this is not supposed to leave the common room." He looked around at the slightly widened gazes.

They all returned serious nods. It had not needed to be said aloud before.

Another unexpected upside, he considered, was that the usual petty rivalries among Slytherins had all but disappeared. His classmates were reserving their energy for the more dire challenges facing all of them this year. This was the House of the winners – nevertheless, the grown-up world had invaded Hogwarts' walls. Expectations were set. The warping of reality had been just as hard on the Slytherins as the other Houses, and harder for some.

He explained his recent efforts in shadowing Potter, and how he had tricked him in order to escape – covering up the part where his own laziness had made him fail in his assignment. It was that laziness, above any other flaw, that had irked the Dark Lord.

He had actually managed to insult Lord Voldemort. In the first week of classes.

His hands badly wanted to continue their shaking of yesterday, from the moment he realised the depth of his screw-up. Looking back he couldn't quite believe how fast his situation had turned into dragon dung. He still wasn't quite sure at what point in the last few weeks his common sense had left him.

At the end of his vague rapport, he told them between the lines that curiosity about this matter was not encouraged. His tale was convincing. The subject soon moved back to Finch and his supposed vampire status.

Later that evening, Pansy managed to corner him on his way to the 'library' – which was a cover for the physical exercise Madame Pomfrey had urged him to do. The nurse had given him painkillers for the coming days. His body nearly felt normal after taking one.

She touched his sleeve, gesturing him to an empty alcove. "So, how are you?"

Draco leaned against the old stone, crossing his feet at the ankles. "Splendid. Father is content at least." He huffed with a smile he knew was strained at the edges. "'Took it like a real Malfoy', was what he said."

Pansy was silent for a moment. "And your mother?"

Draco studied a ridge in the rim of his nails. Pieces of it had broken off from his wild scratching of the Malfoy great hall rug yesterday. He hadn't known the rug was so sturdy.

"She was… sad, after."

Pansy pursed her lips. "It says a lot though, that you're still allowed to keep guarding him, right?"

"I guess you could say that."

"They're all impressed, Draco," Pansy went on in an undertone. Her hand on his shoulder was not unwelcome. "You're the first of us who's really allowed to do something. You've got to crack a few eggs to make an omelette."

He smirked. "Great future ahead and all that."

Pansy scowled – clearly he hadn't been convincing. "Don't become cynical now, not when you've always dreamed of this. Morgane knows how many times you bragged about it."

Draco gave a languid shrug. "I'm excited, really. I'm just… getting used to it."

"Oh, same here. I'm going to be in the military, apparently. I didn't actually have any plans of my own, but," she shrugged as well, "I guess it was naïve to think I still could."

Draco shook his head, agreeing with her. "Well, at least we'll get first dibs."

Pansy smirked. "I just have to imagine being Granger. I feel better already."

888

Hermione straightened, attempting to read the instructions for the fourth time. How was she supposed to interpret it anyway, 'collude the doxy wings before adding'?

They were in need of Professor Snape. But Snape was abetting murderers right now, and didn't have time to help Hermione with the seventh step of the Wolfsbane.

She had offered to help the Order in any way possible. She was stuck here for the foreseeable future; might as well make herself useful, while studying for the N.E.W.T.'s of course, which she would never be able to take on the record.

That was too awful to contemplate so soon.

Let's make some tea, then look up the possible interpretations for 'collude'…

She still wasn't quite sure if she had done the right thing yesterday, telling Dumbledore. He had been so… understanding. Then Lupin had to walk in… Somehow she was sure he had overheard.

"Ms. Granger," Dumbledore had said when he found her two hours ago, still in the meeting room, staring at the map of England's occupied areas.

"Quite a sight, isn't it?" He had drawn close to study the map alongside her. His robes were a beautiful deep yellow colour, warmer than gold, with flocks of blue.

"Professor, how have you been?"

"Well, thank you – but alas a professor no longer, my dear." The old man's smile always held about four layers of meaning.

"How is your magic?" she asked, remembering Harry's conversation with Luna. Then she considered this might be a rude question to ask up front. But Dumbledore took no offense.

"Not what is used to be. I'll manage. And how have you been?"

What happened, in other words, she thought. Hermione glanced around carefully.

"I will sense when anyone approaches within hearing," Dumbledore said. Later she realised that wasn't the same as him saying he would let her know when that happened.

"As you know I visited Harry on Monday… He was badly beaten up. He couldn't even recall what had happened, so I explained that Riddle had rescued him. It was Zacharius and Nott, by the way." Hermione took a breath to calm her vicious heartbeat. She wondered for a moment about the public punishment. It was set for this Friday afternoon.

"Thank you for telling me," Dumbledore said with a nod.

"Harry started to say something about the wards that Riddle had put up, and he wondered why he would go to all that trouble. It didn't add up. Then he told me his eyesight had been fixed, which is an expensive procedure…"

Dumbledore pressed the tips of his fingers together in a characteristic gesture. "And so you realised Riddle must have a reason for going to such lengths to protect his former nemesis," he said softly, "and it must have something to do with why Harry is still alive."

"Yes," Hermione breathed, his patient manner making her even more nervous. "You know why," she stated. Her heart felt soar from hammering.

Albus nodded, closing his eyes for no more than a second.

"You know that Harry is…" she went on numbly, wanting to make sure he understood.

"Yes, Ms. Granger. One of his soul pieces."

A weird kind of calm returned. "How long have you known?" She felt a bit like a journalist.

"For some time. It dooms and saves him in equal measure." Dumbledore paused for a moment, eyes flying over the map. "He will not be killed but gathered close inside the enemy's stronghold. This puts him in a unique position. And when they lower their guard, lured into a false sense of control – in the end, they always are – there will come an opportunity for us to take them unawares, attack them where they are weak."

Dumbledore placed a hand on her forearm, his light-blue gaze boring into hers.

"However, the price he pays is a severe one, as you surely understand. The Dark Lord is now aware as well. He will view Harry as an extension of himself, precious like his other Horcruxes. He will be kept under the ruthless scrutiny of his most trusted – meaning most dangerous – servants." Something hard sprung in the man's eyes. "Far older men than Harry have been brainwashed or gone insane under such pressure. There is no telling what Voldemort may command him to do, what kind of blackmail or temptation he may use to shape Harry into his own image. And how the soul piece in Harry might respond."

With that last sentence, Hermione closed her eyes in horror. Surely, Harry would rather be dead than become like him. But if that happened, the Prophecy had foretold their world was doomed.

A small knock on the door made her jerk in surprise.

Remus Lupin stuck his head around the door. "Am I interrupting something?"

Dumbledore waited for her response, to which she shook her head. They could talk more later. "Not at all, Remus, come in."

"Hi, Hermione. Albus, Hagrid is here. We have to go soon."

Back to their hiding place, she had heard from Ron. They were most wanted men now, and couldn't be seen or sensed anywhere near this building, or the enemy would know immediately which out of all the anonymous blocks was the Order headquarters.

Dumbledore nodded. "I will be right there." The door closed once more.

"Professor," Hermione said, using the title without thought. "Riddle knows that I know. He will… hunt me down."

Albus Dumbledore opened his palms. It was the first time today she had seen him smile. "My dear, you have come to the right place."

888

The scroll with its damnable message burned quickly to ashes in the hearth fire. Voldemort felt like spitting fire himself. Lucius would be the preferred target, but he was currently occupied, fending off the enemy on home soil.

The smell of singed bird feather drew his eyes to the desk. His furious magic groaned against the walls and the objects in the room. He would order stronger quills next time.

Ireland had been a ruse. German and French troops were gathered in Dublin, so much was true, but from there they had not Apparated north as predicted, barging into Scotland to take over Hogwarts. That had been his first guess. Setting up base in Liverpool with its strong strategic benefits and mostly Muggle population, had been his second.

They were far bolder.

Instead, and with help from the blasted Order, they had crossed St. George's Channel the Muggle way. There they managed to slip off his magical radar, passing through Wales undetected in order to infiltrate the United Kingdom from the south.

The real target had been the Ministry for Magic in London.

Voldemort breathed in deeply, closing his eyes to the surroundings of his personal study.

Who would have the guts to betray him? Huber? No, even if she were a traitor which he doubted, she would not show her hand in such an obvious way. Most likely she had been misinformed.

The French Minister himself?

He would set Watanabe on the trail. Later. Right now, he would Apparate to the Ministry's ground floor and rectify this incompetence.

Potter's vow would have to wait.

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