Chapter 19: Napped

The stone read, The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death. That was the quote chosen for the tombstone of James and Lily Potter. It didn't feel real, even as Tom looked upon the stone with his own eyes. Or, more accurately, with the eyes of the muggle waiter whose hairs Tom had stolen to create a polyjuice potion. It pained him that he couldn't even say goodbye to the love of his life and his own brother with his own face, but it couldn't be helped.

Tom placed the flowers he'd brought in front of the stone. White lilies. He tried not to think about how he was both closer to James and Lily than he'd been in over a year, their remains just under his feet, and yet at the same time he was further from them than he'd ever been. It was hard for him to wrap his brain around the whole situation. He'd done everything right, hadn't he? He'd recognized that he was the biggest threat to Lily and their child, their son, Harry, and he'd removed that threat from their lives. But then how was it that he was the one who still lived while Lily did not? Was his sacrifice all for nothing?

And James, his brother, the one who had been willing to upend his entire life to keep Lily and Harry safe, was now gone as well. And Tom knew that he had no one but himself to blame. If he hadn't asked what he had of James, his brother would likely still be alive. It was Tom who was supposed to be under this stone, buried next to Lily, and he knew it well. The only question was whether Tom would have died as the true Voldemort sacrificed him to get the Elder Wand, or if he would have gone down fighting them as his uncle had done.

The one comfort that Tom had was that Harry lived. He didn't know how it was possible, but his son was alive. It broke his heart that he still could not see him, that he would be raised by Lily's sister instead of his own father who loved him more than words could express. And the worst part of it all was that young Harry would grow up learning that this evil wizard Voldemort was the one who'd taken his parents away from him, for Tom had been blamed for their murders as well.

In fact, Tom, as Voldemort, had been blamed for many crimes he hadn't committed over the course of the past year. One of the most devastating, besides being blamed for James and Lily's deaths of course, was the murders of his biological father and grandparents. There was no reason why anyone would want them dead, they were minding their own business and knew nothing of the magical world. They'd been targeted solely to continue the narrative that Tom was Voldemort, the suspected motive being that he was acting under the ideologies of blood purity and was angered by his muggle heritage. This couldn't be further from the truth, as Tom couldn't care less about whether he came from muggles or magical beings. One of his favorite people in the world came from two muggle parents. But it was unfortunately pretty incriminating evidence that he was who the papers said he was. It was a very smart move by whoever was framing him. And now Tom would never get the chance to meet his father, not that he ever expected he would. But it had been nice knowing that it was a potential option.

Tom wished he could stay a little longer and say his goodbyes, but he didn't want to draw too much attention to himself. And so, reluctantly, he walked away. And once he was sure he wasn't being watched, he apparated back home. His plant business had been going well, and he found that helping customers helped to scratch the itch for human interaction, even if they could never know who he truly was. And even though he hadn't been in contact with them for some time, the world felt emptier without James and Lily in it. But he found comfort in the small moments of his life where he could. The apartment above the shop was small, but it worked well enough for just him, and it wasn't as if he ever had any visitors. Tom began to glance through some mail he'd left on a table by the door, all addressed to false names but the same address; 7 Clare Terrace, Falmouth, Cornwall.

"Did you get that, Harry?" Tom's voice said in Harry's head as the memory came to an end. "7 Clare Terrace, Falmouth, Cornwall." That was the only time that Harry had been able to hear Tom like that, though he supposed the timing of the trick was fitting. This was the final memory of the magical memory journal, and Harry had now seen everything that Tom had wanted to tell him. It had been an insane roller coaster ride, one that had challenged just about everything Harry thought he knew about his family, and even his personal identity as a whole. But he was glad to finally know the truth, and to have this journal that could show him memories of his loving parents any time he wished.

"Could someone please get me a quill?" Harry asked as he worked to keep the address Tom had told him in his head. He'd get it himself, but he was doing just about anything he could to conserve energy these days.

"And parchment?" Hermione asked as she went to the desk to get the requested supplies.

Harry shook his head. "I've got paper." He reached beneath his shirt and pulled out the locket, opening it to retrieve the final letter that his mother had written to his biological father. He could think of no better place to hide his father's address than his father's locket.

"Here you are," Hermione said as she handed Harry a quill and inkwell.

Harry thanked Hermione as he carefully placed his mother's note down on top of the journal, front side down. He then began to gently write his father's address on the back.

"Where's that?" Ron asked as he read the address over Harry's shoulder.

"Tom gave me his address," Harry explained. "He's hiding out there under a false identity."

"Oh good, you can reach out to him. Now that you know everything," said Hermione.

"Yeah, I hope I can arrange to see him again," said Harry. "Now that I actually know who he is."

"To be fair, he was right when he said before that you'd have been pretty concerned if you knew he was actually Lord Voldemort when you met him the first time. I can see why he didn't want to tell you that right away," said Ron.

"Yeah, it wouldn't have been wise to lead with that," Harry agreed. "I still can't believe that I actually have a parent who's still alive. And now I'm actually going to have a chance to talk to him."

"I'm really happy for you, Harry," said Hermione.

"Yeah, you deserve something good to happen to you for once," said Ron.

Harry smiled, picturing what it would be like to finally look upon his father's face and know what it was like to be part of a loving family.

The trek to Umbridge's office was getting harder every day. It had been over a week of Harry going to her office every evening, drinking a Weakness Potion, and then somehow having to find the strength to get back to his dormitory afterward. Every time he thought he couldn't possibly feel more drained, his energy supply reached a new low. It was becoming next to impossible for him to pretend that nothing was wrong. He had to take breaks and was frequently found collapsing on benches around the castle to rest whenever he had to go anywhere. His knees would give out at random intervals, causing him to stumble around. By the end of every day he could hardly hold his wand, much less cast a spell. He tried to explain all of these things away as a sudden stomach bug or virus, but wasn't sure how many people were buying that. Uncle Severus had tried to get Harry to go to the Hospital Wing on more than one occasion, and it likely wouldn't be long before he dragged his nephew there against his will.

"Good evening, Mr. Potter!" Umbridge said happily as Harry sauntered into her office feeling like a zombie. "You look well."

Harry glared at her as he sat down. "The usual?" he asked.

"The usual," Umbridge agreed. "Isn't it nice to have a daily routine you can count on?" She set Harry's usual goblet in front of him, the yellow smoke of the Weakness Potion rising up to greet him.

Harry reached for the goblet, working hard to convince his hand to do so. He was tired enough, he didn't know what sort of state he'd be left in after even a few more days of this. But he still had the strength to lift the goblet and take a sip, so that's what he did. Umbridge ignored him as he drank, as she always did, busying herself with some papers on her desk. Harry just tried to get his potion down as quickly as he could so he could leave.

Once he reached the bottom of his cup, Harry set it back down on the desk and got up to leave. He knew from experience that he was best off trying to get back to the Gryffindor Common Room as quickly as possible, before the effects of the potion he'd just drunk fully set in.

"Where are you going?" Umbridge asked before Harry's hand even reached the doorknob.

Harry paused and slowly turned back around. "I drank it all," he said as he gestured toward the empty goblet.

Umbridge pulled out her wand and waved it toward the goblet, which magically refilled itself. Harry's heart skipped a beat.

"I think you'll find that there's quite a bit left, actually," Umbridge said with a smirk.

"Please," Harry said, resorting to begging before he even realized the word was coming out of his mouth. "I can hardly function as it is, I've roused everyone's suspicions. I'm not going to be able to keep this a secret for much longer, people are going to figure it out. I don't even know if I'll be able to get back to my dormitory if I have any more."

"I don't see how any of that is my problem," said Umbridge. "Sit. Drink. Unless you intend to go back on our bargain?"

Harry hardly saw how he'd agreed to any of this, given that what he'd actually agreed to was 'tutoring,' but he reluctantly sat back down and scowled at his second helping of Weakness Potion for the evening. With a sigh, he forced himself to start drinking. Beyond the unpleasant effects of the potion that had been infiltrating every aspect of his life, there was also the matter that his stomach was feeling a bit full after having already drained one helping of the strange yellow liquid. He didn't know where he was supposed to fit another goblet's worth of the stuff.

By the time Harry was halfway done with his second helping, he could feel his strength melting away in real time. He'd never felt the potion's effects set in so quickly before, but figured it must be from drinking so much at once. His arms began to shake, and he had to set the goblet down on the desk, no longer able to hold it up.

"Excuse me, you're not done," Umbridge said as she looked up from her papers.

"I can't hold it," Harry said as he slumped forward onto the desk.

Umbridge rolled her eyes. "If you need a straw, that can be arranged." She waved her wand and a striped bendy straw appeared. "There, problem solved. Drink up."

Harry took a deep breath. This was getting ridiculous. Was it even worth it anymore? How much more would he be able to drink before giving up and asking Umbridge to just reinstate the remedial class already?

WIth the straw in place, Harry continued to drink, and didn't stop until he heard the slurping sounds that indicated he'd reached the bottom. "Done," Harry said, though he didn't get up straight away. He was worried that, if he tried to stand, he would find that he couldn't.

"Well done, you're in the home stretch," Umbridge said as she waved her wand and the goblet was filled once again. "Let's add a pinch of this for good measure." She pulled a small, glass vial out of her desk drawer and proceeded to pour a small amount of some dark liquid into the goblet. It swirled around before disappearing into the rest of the Weakness Potion.

Harry just stared at it, thinking that it would mysteriously disappear at any moment, and he would realize that it was all a hallucination brought on by exhaustion. But there it sat, yellow smoke and all, the straw sitting in waiting. He glanced up at Umbridge, who was staring and smiling at him.

"If I drink any more I won't be able to leave," Harry protested.

"So dramatic. Sleep here on the floor if you must," Umbridge said with a dismissive wave of her hand. She gestured toward the goblet. "Drink up."

Harry rested his head in his hands. "Can I ask why? What do you stand to gain by making me weaker than I already am?"

Umbridge smiled, looking at Harry with a wistful expression. "I have much to gain, Mr. Potter, but that is for me to worry about. You worry about draining that cup."

Harry might have been worried about that answer if he wasn't so tired. But as it was, all he wanted was to be done. So, he gathered his courage and began to drink for the third time in one evening.

A few sips in, Harry began to feel dizzy. He stopped drinking and held his head in his hands.

"Is something the matter?" Umbridge asked.

"My head is spinning," Harry muttered.

"Well, hurry up and finish your drink, and then you can take a nap."

Harry took a deep breath and kept drinking. After a while he started having tunnel vision and had the feeling of falling backward. He hit the backrest of his chair and his head lulled limply to the side. Umbridge was suddenly up and had made her way over to him. She was propping Harry up with one hand and holding the goblet up to him with the other.

"Oh come on, you weakling, there's just a bit left. Hold it together," Umbridge said, her words taking on a much more aggressive tone.

Suddenly, Harry was terrified. Something was very wrong. He didn't know what was happening, but it was clear that all of this had been about more than a power trip. After drinking so much Weakness Potion, he was pretty powerless to stop whatever was about to happen, but that didn't mean he was going to comply with any more of Umbridge's demands willingly. He clenched his jaw closed with all his might, determined not to let another drop of that potion pass his lips.

Umbridge just laughed. "You're well past the point of resistance, Potter. I'll wait until you're asleep if I have to and pour the rest of this down your throat myself."

It seemed that Umbridge wouldn't have long to wait. Though Harry tried to fight it, staying conscious had become a massive struggle. And he simply didn't have the strength to win that battle. His body went limp, his vision blurred, and his eyelids were suddenly extremely heavy.

"Sweet dreams, Potter," Umbridge said. It was the last thing Harry heard before sleep took him.

When Harry woke up, he was laying on the floor. As tired as he felt, he was surprised to have woken up at all. He didn't have the strength to move, he just opened his eyes and waited as his blurry vision came into focus.

He felt extremely violated, and stupid on top of it. How did he seriously believe that Umbridge didn't have some hidden agenda? He'd just played right into her hands, but whatever it was she wanted from him remained to be seen.

As his vision cleared, Harry glanced around. He couldn't see much from his position on the floor, mainly just a dark wooden ceiling. There was a desk off to the side, not unlike the one in Umbridge's office. Was that still where he was? Had he not left the office? He tried to shift himself into a better position in which to take in his surroundings, and found there was yet another reason that he was unable to move; his hands were bound tightly in front of him with rope. This seemed like overkill to Harry, who undoubtedly wouldn't even be able to stand up if he tried, but he supposed Umbridge was nothing if not thorough. He tested the bonds, tugging on them lightly, but they held firm. Of course, he didn't have the strength to test them properly. It didn't take much to hold him in his current state.

"Oh good, you're awake," said Umbridge, her voice coming from somewhere in the room. Harry couldn't see her, but he guessed she was sitting at the desk.

Harry grunted and cleared his throat. "Where am I?" he asked, his voice coming out raspy. Despite all he'd had to drink earlier, his throat felt dry.

"Do you like what I've done to the place?" Umbridge asked, her voice smug. "This is my main office at the Ministry, I've had a few years to put my own special touches on it. I have missed it while performing my administrative duties at your silly little school, it's quite nice to pop back for a bit."

Harry's heart was pounding, his breathing heavy. He'd been kidnapped, and for what? Why couldn't Umbridge just leave him alone? He had so many regrets in that moment, but, to his surprise, one rose above the others; he should have opened up to his Uncle Severus when he had the chance.