And then Harry saw him. Voldemort was flying like smoke on the wind, without a broomstick or thestral to hold him, his snake-like face gleaming out of the blackness, his white fingers raising his wand again -

Hagrid let out a bellow of fear and steered the motorbike into a vertical dive. Clinging on for dear life, Harry sent Stunning Spells flying at random into the whirling night. He saw a body fly past him and knew he had hit one of them, but then he heard a bang and saw sparks from the engine; the motorbike spiralled out through the air, completely out of control -

Green jets of light shot past them again. Harry had no idea which way was up, which down. His scar was still burning; he expected to die at any second. A hooded figure on a broomstick was feet from him. He saw it raise its arm - "NO!"

With a shout of fury, Hagrid launched himself off the bike at the Death Eater; to his horror, Harry saw both Hagrid and the Death Eater, falling out of sight, their combined weight too much for the broomstick -

Barely gripping the plummeting bike with his knees, Harry heard Voldemort scream, "Mine!"

It was over. He could not see or hear where Voldemort was; he glimpsed another Death Eater swooping out of the way as he heard, "Avada-"

As the pain from Harry's scar forced his eyes shut, his wand acted of its own accord. He felt it drag his hand around like some great magnet, saw a spurt of golden fire through his half-closed eyelids, heard a crack and a scream of fury.

Harry found his nose an inch from the dragon-fire button. He punched it with his wand-free hand and the bike shot more flames into the air, hurtling straight towards the ground. Face level with the handlebars, Harry could see nothing but the distance lights growing nearer and nearer.

The ground was steadily approaching, but he was slowing. He searched the sky, no hooded figures were waiting in the swirling darkness, no searing red-eyes.

He braced for the landing. The bike slammed into the ground, throwing up chunks of mud and grass. Harry lost his grip, tumbling out of the saddle and onto the soft earth with a painful crash. He rolled, sprawling into the mud. He scrambled up to his feet, clutching at his wand as he staggered to where he saw Hagrid fall.

"Hagrid!" He yelled, reaching up to his face where he felt something hot trickling down. He was bleeding.

Several loud cracks responded to his shout. He twisted around, seeing hoods and masks. Then smoke swirled around him. His scar erupted with pain, knocking him down to his knees. He couldn't see through the smoke and pain. His cry of distress was locked behind his clenched jaw as he tried to fight through it.

A form solidified behind him. Before he could react, fingers seized his hair and wrenched his head back. His scar was ablaze, his scalp joining as he was suddenly in the hold of someone else. Another hand grabbed his wrist and twisted it painfully. He let go of his wand with a cry.

He was forced to look up at his assailant, at the upside down face of Voldemort whose fingers were so mercilessly gripping his hair. He reached his left arm back, trying to fight him off, but he had been successfully incapacitated. It had been too easy.

He was about to die.

"I can feel your fear, Harry Potter," Voldemort spoke quietly, but he was so close to his ear, Harry heard him clearly through the fierce burning in his head. He let go of Harry's wrist.

Harry immediately brought both hands up to free himself, eyes streaming with tears. He didn't notice Voldemort reaching for the wand that he had dropped, not until he felt it being jabbed between his ribs.

"You will pay in pain." The vehemence in Voldemort's voice terrified Harry more than anything. Whatever he had done, whatever his wand had done, it angered the Dark Lord to the extent that he was going to kill him slowly and painfully. And there was nothing Harry could do about it.

" Crucio! "

He was released, thrown down to the ground, but it didn't matter. Agony consumed him. His muscles convulsed as each nerve was tormented, exposed to a searing hot flame. The pain in his scar spread over his body like acid, eating away at every fibre of his being. It was the worst pain he'd ever endured in his life. His screams pierced the night, tearing out of him in desperation to expel some of his torment. His fingers were digging into the earth, clawing as he tried to get away.

His arms soon gave out, his screams pitching up. He writhed on his stomach as his very bones smouldered under the intense agony. His eyes were rolling in his head, all sense of himself wiped away under the tremendous pain.

Impossibly, the pain increased. His back arched as he threw himself onto the ground, convulsing. His screams shattered the night, the loudest he'd ever been in his life.

Then it was lifted. His breath caught in his rough throat, bursting out as a coughing fit. Blood left his lips. While his body was now spared the torment, his head wasn't so lucky. He gripped handfuls of mud, groaning and coughing up blood. He lifted his head, opening his eyes and staring through pain-filled tears at the crowd of Death Eaters that had apparated.

"This is the real Harry Potter." The voice was soft, almost gentle, if not for the absence of emotion. "And he is mine at last… to be taken alive."

The shadowy figures of the Death Eaters were closer. Harry weakly understood what he had just heard and shock joined the pain as he was surrounded. His confusion was shared as there was a ripple of hesitation in the ranks.

"The Order's ranks are spread thin. They are no threat and it will be too late when they realise that we have captured their only hope."

"No!" Harry cried out in terror as it dawned on him what Voldemort intended. He was being taken, not killed, as a prisoner.

"Rowle, signal for a retreat. I have what I came for."

"At once, my lord."

Harry scrambled in the mud, trying to get up off the ground, to do anything other than lay on his back and be taken without a fight. As he raised his head, he found himself looking up at Voldemort who stood over him. He watched Voldemort slash his wand at him, saw a blaze of red light before being plunged into darkness.

A firm knock at his bedroom door stirred Draco Malfoy from his brooding. He raised his head from where he had been pressing his eyes into the palms of his hands. The darkwood door clicked open softly. His mother lingered in the doorway, not pushing it open all the way. He sat up.

"News?"

"Yes," she beckoned him with a wave. He scowled. He was past being ordered around by his mother like a child, but her demeanour held back his heated comment. "We must prepare for a guest."

"What?" Draco stared at her in astonishment. The codewords for 'the Dark Lord is bringing a prisoner' would usually not be a surprise. However, the mission that had been unfolding that very evening, the one which they had been prevented from participating in, meant that the prisoner would be high-value indeed.

But the mission had been to kill, not capture.

"Who…?" He started to ask. His mother said nothing. She pushed the door open all the way, her meaning clear. It was not his place to question, which meant that the order for them to present themselves had come directly from the Dark Lord. He felt a prickle of dread. If his suspicions were correct, the 'guest' would be very valuable to his master indeed. And very familiar to Draco.

Following his mother down to the entrance hall, the silence of the Manor sustaining his dread, he pushed down his nerves with the steel of a Malfoy. No nerves. No weakness. He schooled his emotions as he was taught, fingers tracing over the handle of his wand as he made his way down the stairs. His father was already waiting.

"Draco, at my side, now."

Even without his wand, he was still ordering him around. Draco bit the inside of his cheek. If what he suspected was about to happen was actually happening, now was not the time to test the waters with where he stood in the power dynamic. He felt the touch of his mother's hand brush his shoulder. A warning. Of course. She was always there to keep him grounded. He alighted the stairs and took in his father's bedraggled appearance, pushing down the several emotions that it triggered. He gripped at his wand in his thigh holster for a second, then fisted his robes, moving to his father's side.

A hand touched his shoulder and this time he relished the touch of his mother. She wasn't disgraced. Far from it. She was a Black like Bellatrix. Their family was close to royalty, or was when things were as they should have been. Their bloodline was ancient and pure. One of few untainted bloodlines. His father had fallen from grace. Draco's half success with the siege on Hogwarts spared his father from death, but his hesitation to take Dumbledore's life earned him ridicule. What use is a Death Eater who cannot kill?

He studied the floor, trying to calm his mind in time before the Dark Lord would make his appearance with his guest.

He's got Potter.

He gave a grimace. His imagination was showing him blood. A lot of it. The Dark Lord had employed most of his forces, save his family. Whatever had transpired, he knew Potter would not give in without a fight. If he was alive, he would be in bad shape.

Why is he alive?

The question, he knew, would be on everyone's mind. The Dark Lord had been transparent in only one thing. He wanted Potter dead. He wanted to kill him with his own hand. What had changed?

There was a loud and unmistakable crack from outside. Draco glanced at his father. He saw him clench his jaw.

"Draco," his father met his gaze, "remember what I told you. Life before pride."

Life before pride. A mantra for a coward. Draco swallowed his retort. The thing with the mantra was that it didn't just cover his life, but his mother's and father's. His pride wasn't worth all their lives. He had to bow and scrape, obey and be a servant in his own home. Just so they can survive.

But if Potter had been captured, then the war was over. The Dark Lord could take over without the need to lurk in the shadows as a special guest in the homes of his followers, shrouded in secrecy. He wouldn't need his puppets in the Ministry. He'd have no obstacles, the opposition without a single rallying point.

He could hear the crunching footsteps in the gravel and knew at any second they would burst in. He held his breath as the doors were pushed open. Three Death Eaters entered, grunting and still masked. They were dishevelled, robes singed in places. Giving just brief nods in greeting, they moved to stand opposite in preparation for the Dark Lord's arrival. Neither said a word.

There was more gravel crunching. Draco felt a shudder pulse down his spine. Draco raised his head and then saw two men dragging a third between them. The prone form had dark hair. His legs were limp under him. He was fully held up by the men holding his upper arms and they dragged him into the entrance hall. His muggle clothes were caked in mud, head hanging down, chin resting against his chest.

No one else would warrant the Dark Lord's attention like Potter, but he only ever expressed the desire to kill him. The immobile figure had to be alive or why bother bringing him? Had something changed? Did the Dark Lord want to entertain himself by torturing Potter to death? Draco's confused thoughts were swiftly interrupted when there was more crunching gravel outside. His Mark flared with pain.

The Dark Lord had arrived. Immediately, they all sank into bows. He heard the soft footsteps of bare feet pacing around the hall. He kept his gaze down, his heart racing. The two who had brought Potter with them came to a halt in the middle of the hall. Draco inched his chin up, peering past his fringe as the Dark Lord drew closer. Before he could try to get a better look, the Dark Lord advanced on them, specifically his father.

"Do you know what this is?" The Dark Lord's voice was soft. Draco looked up from his position to see the Dark Lord standing in front of his father holding out before him a broken piece of wood with a red strand glinting from the remains. To Draco's horror, his father let out a strangled yell.

"No… no!"

"Your wand has been destroyed, Lucius." The Dark Lord threw the remains of Lucius's wand at his feet. "But it matters not. Potter still fell to me in the end… as you can see. Before he dies, however, I wish to discover why many risk so much for Dumbledore's broken little toy."

Draco made sure his mental shields were fully up, especially this close to the Dark Lord. He dared to raise his chin by an inch. His heart started to race at the Dark Lord's implications. If he wasn't killing Potter outright, then that meant he wished to extract as much from him as possible. Information, secrets…

Pain.

"With your father without a wand, I expect you to stand in his stead, Draco."

The Dark Lord was standing right in front of him. Draco immediately lowered his head all the way in a respectful bow. His words left him automatically

"Your will is my command, my lord," he said before really appreciating what he was being ordered to accomplish.

"Good."

To Draco's horror, he felt the Dark Lord's fingers brush through his hair and stroke him. He clenched his hands into fists, trying not to panic. Experience told him to fear the Dark Lord's gentle touches just as much as his wrath. He rewarded in the same breath as he punished, ever unpredictable and always testing, always looking for weakness.

"Yes, my lord."

He nearly let out a breath of relief when the Dark Lord's fingers parted from his hair. His relief was very short-lived when he then gave the next order.

"Join me."

Compared to the Dark Lord's fluid grace, Draco's movements were jerky and clumsy as he stepped after him, leaving his mother's side. He could feel the tension and nerves coming from her, all too aware that he was being tested and was in just as much danger as Potter was. He raised his chin all the way, noticing then that more robed and masked Death Eaters had filed in, standing in silent ranks. None dared to utter even a murmur, all too aware of the significance of what was happening.

The Dark Lord drew a wand from his robes, one that Draco knew wasn't his own pale yew wand. He recognised it with a jolt having had it pointed at him more than a few times.

"I see you recognise it," the Dark Lord mused, not missing a thing. Draco swallowed as they stopped in front of where Potter was being held upright, slumped on his knees. "It responds to me as well as my own wand… but then, it is no surprise. Potter's wand and my own share the same core, phoenix feathers from the same bird. His destiny has long since been interwoven with my own and here… here is where it ends."

The Dark Lord then reached his free hand over to Potter, grasped his chin and tilted his face upwards. Blood was smeared and streaked down from his hairline, mingling with dirt. He was deeply unconscious, clearly stunned, as he didn't stir at all, remaining lifeless and limp. It was unmistakably Potter, his scar vivid upon his forehead, recognisable even without his glasses.

"I believe our guest is going to be difficult. Tell me, Draco, is your family still in possession of certain… artefacts that Abraxas procured to keep his unwilling guests well-behaved?" The Dark Lord asked in his calm, measured voice, his most dangerous voice. He flicked his gaze in his direction. Draco knew immediately what he was referring to, having spent his childhood terrified of the room where they kept his grandfather's collection under lock-and-key, the secret room under the drawing room.

He cleared his throat before answering. "Father kept some, I believe… my Lord," Draco said, glancing nervously over to his father who nodded in response. The Dark Lord followed his glance.

"Lucius?"

"I kept my father's irons and… tools, my Lord. In the chamber under the drawing room."

"Ah yes. Those accommodations will be most suitable. Avery, Nott… take Potter with you so he can be appropriately secured before we begin." The Dark Lord instructed, releasing Potter's face. His head swung down, seemingly lifeless.

"Yes, my lord," they both replied.

Draco did his best to quell the rising nausea as Potter was then dragged off, as immobile as a corpse. He caught his father's eye as he waited to lead Avery and Nott to the chamber before he turned away.

"As Potter is a guest in your home, Draco, it is your responsibility to see to his… needs. Every prisoner has them as long as they are useful to me alive and it suits me that he remains thus until I am satisfied. I do not wish for him to be debased or deprived of his basic dignity as a wizard… so I entrust that while he is in captivity, you will ensure my conditions are met. No one… other than you and myself will be permitted to see him until I deem otherwise."

Listening to his orders, Draco suppressed his confusion and fear. He understood why he was being given the responsibility, all too aware that he was being put to the test. If anything happened to Potter while under his guard, he'd be made responsible. Him and his family. Glancing over his shoulder to where his Aunt and Mother watched, he also knew who he was guarding Potter from. Bellatrix would take any opportunity to extract her due from Potter. As would many others.

"I understand, my Lord," Draco said as clearly and confidently as he could. The Dark Lord nodded, apparently satisfied with his answer. He then swept away from him, still wielding Potter's wand.

"My friends," the Dark Lord went to address the Death Eaters that had arrived, standing silently in waiting, "tonight, we have struck a blow that our enemies will not recover from. We shall leave them to flounder in fear and grief as they come to realise their little champion is gone. Return to your homes and rest for you have all fought and served me well. I shall summon you when it is time for us to celebrate this great victory."

The cheers and hollers that came out as a response had Draco flinching in surprise, not expecting the sudden explosion of noise. He slowly drew back to stand with his mother, barely feeling her hand touching his shoulder. He watched on, shaken, as the Dark Lord smiled in triumph, his face lit up with the occasional flashes of sparks sent up in celebration as his faithful followers joined in. When he had drank his fill of their worship, he then turned away.

It took at least an hour for the entrance hall to clear out. Draco alone remained, standing vigil where the broken fragments of his father's wand had been left abandoned. He could hear his Aunt's jubilant celebrations in the drawing room, her cackles echoing through the halls. Draco waited, dread filling him with every passing second. He waited for different sounds to join in with her laughter, knowing that it was due to happen at any moment.

He wasn't left waiting for very long. The ground beneath his feet was soon resonating with the loud sounds of hoarse, masculine screaming.

Hermione watched the distant argument outside with a removed hollowness. Out on the porch, perched on the step just outside of the kitchen at the Burrow, she just stared out. Her existence had been reduced to just breathing, just being, as her mind refused to acknowledge what was happening. Alone as it drizzled with rain, her clothes and hair were soon damp and wet, but she didn't care. She needed to be cold and numb. She needed to be empty… because being empty, being hollow, was better than feeling. She couldn't feel anymore.

She dimly registered that the argument had ended. With loud cracks, the Minister of Magic disapparated with his Aurors, leaving Kingsley, Remus and Mr. Weasley alone at the gate where they had met with the Ministry contingent. Their voices were low, incomprehensible at the distance, but Hermione got the gist of what they were talking about. Mr. Weasley had pulled Remus into an embrace, the other man dissolving into his grief.

Very soon, their grief would spread across the country as the news hit. The Ministry would have little choice but to release the grave news to the press and then, the headlines would be read in magical homes far and wide. Their tragedy would be felt… but it would be a pale sorrow compared to the heart-wrenching agony that crippled Hermione the moment an inconsolable and injured Hagrid appeared at The Burrow. Their fear would be nothing compared to the terror that they all felt, knowing all too well what Harry's absence meant. Because if he'd been killed, his secrets would have died with him. They'd be able to carry on the fight without him in his honour, as he would want them to do… but instead, he was gone, missing… taken alive.

All talk of rescue efforts had diminished during the early hours of the morning. They had no plans, no information, nothing. Hope had died as the sun rose. They all knew that wherever Harry was being held, they would stand no chance at getting to him. Attempts to reach him could result in his death… and their own… and they didn't even know where he was. With Snape showing his true colours and turning full traitor, they had no information about Voldemort's operations. They had some guesses at where Harry could be kept as a prisoner, naming different Death Eater residences that could serve as strongholds - Malfoy Manor in particular. Yet the fact of the matter was they had very few numbers and with the Ministry infiltrated, they would have to mount any rescue missions on their own.

Hermione lowered her gaze from the scene in front of her. She knew she should find Ron and seek his company in their shared grief. She knew she could comfort Hagrid and tell him that it wasn't his fault. Yet she was frozen, hollowed out, purposeless. Because in all her careful planning, everything she'd put together to help Harry with his mission, she had never considered the possibility that Harry might… die. From what she'd seen from how the Order members reacted, none of them had prepared for the event of losing Harry either. He'd been their final hope.

Nothing could have ever prepared her for watching grown men howling with anguish. Nothing could have prepared her for the horror after Kingsley asked her and Ron if Dumbledore left Harry with vital information. Nothing could ever have prepared her for the shattering in Kingsley's countenance when they told him what they knew… and how their only chance to ever defeat Voldemort had disappeared overnight.

All they knew, all Harry knew, would soon be torn out of him. As Voldemort's prisoner, he'd have no defence. Whatever occlumency Harry managed to learn would be no protection against torture.

Hermione moaned, bringing her arms around herself. She screwed her face up as the howling misery yawned inside her. She couldn't bear it. She couldn't bear to think of Harry's suffering…

"He's still alive," a rough voice interrupted her despair, reaching her just in time. Hermione opened her eyes as she heard Ron approaching her, stepping out from the kitchen to join her in the rain. "We'd know it if he was gone. I just know that…"

"We have to find him," Hermione whispered, her lips numbed from the shock and cold. "We can't just sit here any longer, doing nothing. Every moment that passes… he's further out of our reach. He's fading from us…"

Ron dropped down to sit next to her. "We have Harry's cloak. If we find a way into Malfoy Manor, maybe we could… check it out? Listen for clues?"

"Wherever they have Harry, we won't be able to get close. He's escaped too many times…"

"What about Wormtail?" Ron whispered over her. She looked over to him, her heart giving a weak stutter at how dishevelled and pale he looked. She knew she wasn't much better. "You heard what Remus said about his life debt. Maybe… maybe he'll help. Maybe he'll do something out of regret."

Hermione shook her head. "That life debt didn't mean a thing when Harry was kidnapped from the Triwizard Tournament."

Ron dropped his head into his hands. Hermione looked away, too tired to think any more. Approaching quietly, Mr. Weasley rejoined them first, Kingsley still consoling Remus at the gate. Mr. Weasley stepped up to Ron, resting a hand on top of his head. Ron didn't look up but his sniffle gave away that he was crying. Hermione watched on, wishing that she had tears left to spare. But they were gone.

She knew, wherever Harry was, he wouldn't give up. He would fight to the bitter end. At the thought, something rekindled inside her. A spark of some sort, something burning in the hollow void inside her. If Harry wouldn't give up, all alone, she couldn't give up either. None of them should give up. She knew, deep down, that if either of them had been captured, Harry would risk life and limb to save them. That was just who he was - his greatest strength and his greatest weakness.

Getting shakily to her feet, Hermione clung to the spark within. She looked up, sun beaming down on them. There had to be some way to save Harry. There just had to be… and until they knew for certain that he was lost, she couldn't give up on him.

"We have to find him," she then said, her voice regaining its strength. She then recognised what the spark was. Determination.