The dungeon reeked of decay. The strong, bitter smell of spilled blood and rotting flesh was still strong despite the bodies being properly thrown in a far, dark corner of the stone room. The distance alone should have been enough to keep the odor away, but, as Voldemort learned, it was not.
It did not particularly bother him. The corpses were those Death Eaters who had failed him, and the smell - which rose up like a wall when one first came through the door - reminded all those who came before him that he would not tolerate failure. In that rotting, vile stench, there was a warning.
And woe to those who entered and did not heed the warning.
Presently, he was staring at the Death Eater kneeling before him, scarcely listening to the man's words, too caught up in his own thoughts. The Death Eater was rambling on about something regarding the latest muggle killings. Unimportant.
Yet the Death Eater - Macnair - seemed to think it something worthy of praise.
None of it was relevant. He fleetingly considered killing Macnair, almost whimsically. Why not? The death would have no impact on any of his future plans. Instead, his plans relied on the performance of Katashi and a select few others.
Voldemort detested relying on others.
"Dark Lord," Macnair said suddenly. "May I- can I ask whether the squib is trustworthy? Would it not be better to task us to kill Potter, rather than him?"
The squib. The Seer.
Voldemort did not answer immediately. Indeed, he did not feel inclined to answer at all. He sat there a moment, feeling old embers stir in his stomach at the mention of Potter's name. Nagini slithered restlessly between the legs of his chair, raising her head to match Macnair's gaze, as though sensing her master's growing anger.
Sweat began to gather on Macnair's forehead and neck, and Voldemort could almost smell the Death Eater's fear.
"He is not tasked with killing Potter," said Voldemort. An edge crept into his voice as it always did when he had to deal with incompetent subordinates.
It was only a half lie. His orders to Katashi had been clear. However, they were nothing more than an insurance policy. He never allowed himself to be without a second plan and a shadow of a third.
It would not be Katashi who would kill Potter. Voldemort himself would arrange Potter's death.
"I see, sire," said Macnair, making it blindingly clear that he understood nothing at all.
Voldemort suddenly felt a surge of intense hatred towards Macnair, and Nagini, sensing it, reared her head and hissed. His hand involuntarily drifted to his wand.
He stopped himself.
Not now, he thought to himself. Not until this tool has outlived its usefulness.
"Do not concern yourself with Potter," continued Voldemort. He paused, bothered by something foreign, then continued. "Potter will be fortunate to see the first snowfall this year. I will be taking this into my own hands now, as trusted Death Eaters such as yourself have proved to be adept at nothing but failing."
"Forgive us, Lord," muttered Macnair, bowing his head until his forehead touched the ground. "Forgive us."
"I already told you," Voldemort said irritably. "Do not concern yourself with Potter any longer. The plague is the future, and the key to my eventual ascension."
Voldemort stopped again, his mind prickling. He felt another sensation - a presence of another. Cold, freezing anger rose.
Potter! His mind abandoned its original train of thought and focused instead on the intruder probing it.
What business do you have here? Voldemort hissed. Get out, Potter. Get out now.
"Lord?" Macnair asked, daring to raise his eyes from the stone floor. Harry could barely hear him. "What is it?"
"Shut up, you fool," Voldemort hissed. Harry felt himself being pushed out by an irresistible force.
Voldemort's mind closed, shutting everything out. The vision of a dark, crumbling dungeon began to blur and fade, the accompanying stench slowly vanishing.
A lingering malice held Harry there for a moment, as though not completely willing to let go. "You have already lost, Potter," something whispered, and then, abruptly Harry felt himself released.
Voldemort spoke again - his voice getting faint as Harry fell away. "I will kill your little bitch and she will bleed at my feet."
Sound was the last sense to disappear - starting with the faint wet dripping, and ending with Macnair's louder whimpering. Distantly, as though the words were being spoken a mile away, Harry heard "Crucio!" followed by a scream, and, immediately, he was thrown away.
Harry nearly leaped from his bed when he woke, his hand reaching for his wand, then freezing as he realized what had occurred. For a moment he wondered if he had yelled out as he was wont to do during the nightmares, but, judging from the soft snores coming from behind Ron's curtains, he had not.
He relaxed slightly, rubbing his forehead, trying to massage away the burning sensation from his scar. His hair and face was damp with cold sweat, and he struggled to recall the specifics of his dream.
Voldemort. Mcnair kneeling before him. The array of thoughts and schemes that whirled through Voldemort's mind. Macnair speaking, questioning. The threat on Hermione's life.
A cold chill ran down Harry's spine. He had not had a dream in many months - indeed, he had originally thought that Voldemort had somehow blocked the connection between them completely.
Now, it was blindingly obvious that that was untrue. He even wondered if it was intentional. What if, like in his fifth year, Voldemort showed him what he wanted Harry to see.
However, there was one big question: What the bloody hell for?
Harry sighed, slipping out of his bed and walking barefoot to the open window, letting the cool breeze blow against his face. He doubted he'd be able to get back to sleep tonight. He was rarely ever able to - after a nightmare.
The more he thought about it, the more he decided that the dream was initiated by Voldemort. Most times, their minds simply connected when one of them experienced a particularly strong emotion. This time, there was none of that emotion present, and, indeed, there was little actual information given away from the dream.
Its goal was simply to instill fear and to intimidate Harry before Voldemort even reached the walls of Hogwarts.
Harry's mouth twisted in a slight sort of grin as he stared out across the blackened grounds and forest. The moon was nowhere to be seen, and the stars were gone.
Maybe it was time to try something different, Harry thought to himself. The same faint grin remained on his face. Voldemort has thrown nightmares at me for the past two years.
Maybe...just maybe...it was time for Voldemort to receive some of the same.
OO
The next evening was their scheduled detention time, and, after finishing up some last minute Charms work, Harry and Hermione left the Gryffindor common room to go to Snape's office where the Potions master would undoubtedly be waiting for them.
It was a relatively short walk, with Harry vaguely wondering how Ron's detention with Professor Glasser was going, and when they reached the door to the office, Harry knocked twice before receiving the customary "Enter."
Harry pushed open the heavy Slytherin-engraved door and followed Hermione into the room, glancing once over the office that he was becoming all too familiar with over the past few years. Snape was sitting behind his desk, his arm outstretched expectantly, staring at them in a fashion that could only be considered condescending.
"Wands," Snape said shortly.
After receiving their wands, Snape stood up from his desk and strode to the door. Not daring to speak, Harry and Hermione followed him, both becoming aware that they were being led to the dungeons. Hermione caught Harry's eye and he gave her a soft, reassuring smile as they came to the first staircase.
Harry and Hermione followed Snape down the spiraling dungeon stair as cold, sourceless drafts of air whirled around them. It was only a minor detour away from the Potions classroom, though Harry had never been down this section of the dungeons before. Indeed, it was a very different section from the storage area he had been to last year.
"Due to an unfortunate...change in the storage area I used last year," said Snape, as though reading Harry's mind. "I moved all of the Potions supplies to this wing of the dungeons. I trust you won't get lost.
Snape halted abruptly as he approached the corner, his hand reaching for his wand. Harry, alarmed, instinctively drifted to his pocket, but, upon remembering that Snape had confiscated it in his office, froze. He looked towards Hermione, who appeared equally uneasy.
Suddenly, he began to hear footsteps, and Harry watched as Snape's face tightened.
Who would be wandering through the dungeons at this hour? Harry thought as Snape waved them against the wall. He and Hermione quickly complied - pressing their backs to the cold, mossy stone, hearing the footsteps grow louder as they approached. His mind raced as he tried to think of ways he could fight in the empty corridor, but he could come up with nothing.
Harry hated feeling defenseless, and angrily wondered why Snape had to take his bloody wand. He felt Hermione squeezing his arm, and he cast her a reassuring nod before turning back towards Snape.
Snape motioned them to remain still, and, quietly, he approached the corner. His wand was drawn and ready, and Harry felt an unbidden surge of confidence in the Potions master. Under any other set of circumstances, Harry would've hesitated to feel any danger from the mere sound of footsteps. However, the lower dungeons were exclusively Snape's territory, and Harry felt far more trust in Snape's judgment than his own while in them.
Finally, Snape reached the corner. He paused for a moment, as though listening. His back went tense, his wand hand rigid, and even from at a distance Harry could tell that Snape was taking long, labored breaths.
In a flash Snape whirled around the corner, thrusting his wand forward, his mouth opening as though preparing to shout a curse. The next second he froze, his eyes wide with surprise, and then at once relaxed. Looking supremely agitated, he withdrew his wand, casting a glare down the hallway that would melt many a brave Gryffindor.
"Terry Boot," Snape snarled, his face white with anger. "What in Merlin's name are you doing in the dungeons at this time of night? Have you no sense? Are you looking to be cursed?"
Terry began apologizing profusely, and Harry caught up with Snape and looked down the hall. Terry looked absolutely horrified - though whether it was from Snape's wrath or something else Harry couldn't tell.
"I didn't mean to-" Terry stammered. "I mean-"
"You have no business being in these dungeons," Snape said, sounding slightly calmer though still furious. "None at all. Explain yourself now to me or you will be explaining yourself to the headmaster."
"I saw- I mean I heard sounds down here while on my rounds," Terry said quickly. He was rubbing his hands together and looking rather frightened at the prospect of meeting Dumbledore. "I went down here to investigate to make sure everything was fine. I know I shouldn't have, but I only planned on taking a moment."
"And so you decided that while you're down there you might as well take a stroll through the east wing?" Snape said scathingly.
"I was looking-" Terry stuttered, his forehead sheened with sweat."The sounds- I was trying-"
"Spit it out," Snape snapped. "What were the sounds? Describe them to me. Now."
"Like footsteps! Like people whispering!"
"There are many things down here that make such sounds," said Snape, sounding as though he found Terry to be incredibly incompetent. "These dungeons are never empty." He paused for a fraction of a second. "Did you find anyone? Or evidence of anyone?"
"No, but I was sure I heard voiced," Terry insisted. "Even when I came down here, I thought I could hear some of the words-"
"Then obviously you were mistaken," interrupted Snape. "And regardless, you do not come down here under any circumstances. Do you understand this? Does this penetrate your thick Ravenclaw skull?"
Terry paled. "Yes."
"As Head Boy, you should already know this," Snape continued. "Protocol dictates that you find a Head of House before coming down here. Was this not already explained to you?"
"Yes, it was sir," Terry managed, his face paling.
"The Headmaster and the House Heads have enough troubles to deal with,"Snape said, seeming to gather himself. He sounded a touch calmer. "You do not need to add to those troubles by blatantly ignoring well-founded rules and forcing us to repeat ourselves. Twenty points from Ravenclaw, and you can expect word of this to get back to Filius. Now get out."
Terry did not need to be asked twice. He quickly skirted around Snape and passed down the hall, looking rather surprised at seeing Harry and Hermione, but saying nothing. Snape watched him leave, his entire face taut, and Harry felt an odd sort of satisfaction at seeing Terry being told off by the Potions master.
"What are you waiting for, Potter?" Snape said. "This wasted time isn't cutting into your detention, so I suggest you stop standing there." Then, now coughing, he turned down the corridor, his black robes billowing out behind him.
Harry and Hermione hurried behind him, managing to quickly catch up with Snape shortly around the corner.
Harry could not help but think that this detention would be worse than most. Terry had put Snape in a terribly foul mood, and that was never a good thing. Harry had seen Snape's apprehensive expression when he first heard the approaching footsteps. He had never seen such an expression on Snape before. It was as though he knew precisely what was around the corner, but he didn't want to see it.
And Harry knew what it was from.
The Death Eaters were after Snape too - though for very different reasons than they were after Harry. Snape was a known traitor, but, more than that, he was dangerous to the Dark Lord. It was now clear to Harry that Snape had long been reaching out to Voldemort's mind, carefully snatching bits of information then retreating before he was detected. He was playing a dangerous game with one of the most deadly wizards in history - and he could only survive for so long before an end was brought to his life, one way or another.
What Snape had expected to be around that corner was what he had expected to be around every corner for the past seventeen years - Death Eaters. And it wasn't personal fear that he was experiencing, but fear for what his death would cost the Order. Information - vital information - on Voldemort's latest schemes.
But it was only Terry, and that fear did not vanish, but turned into the burning wrath that the poor Ravenclaw fell victim to.
"These dungeons have some new tenants, Potter," Snape said at length. "Nasty creatures - feed mostly on rot, though I have no idea what they are. Where they came from, I don't know, though I daresay the castle had something to do with it. Most of them we have been able to herd into certain sections of the dungeon, which we then warded off. I cannot, however, say that all of them have been accounted for. There may be one or more loose in the dungeon."
"Why would the castle bring them here?" Harry asked.
"You would have to ask the castle, Potter," Snape said with a hint of irritation. "I certainly cannot account for the various...changes that have taken place."
They rounded one last corner, coming to a long, dank corridor almost identical to every other one in the dungeons. There were two iron doors a short distance away, and, just beyond them, was a semi-transparent shimmering blue wall that seemed to cut them off from proceeding any further into the dungeons. Harry squinted, trying to see through it, but saw only inky blackness, as not even torches went past the barrier.
Harry paused. "What is-"
"A barrier, Potter," Snape interjected. "Intended to keep the creatures out. Do not tinker with it or in any way compromise its effectiveness - I do not believe I need to mention the danger that will be created if the barrier falls."
Harry nodded, following Snape down the hallway and to the twin doors before the barrier.
"This is where you will be serving your detention," said Snape, striding up to the door on the right. From his pocket he drew a long, silver key and set it into the rusted lock, turning it three times before the latch finally loosened. He took the handle and pulled it open. Harry and Hermione stepped forward, peering into the opening as a gust of stale air washed out from it.
"You two are going to have a long night," said Snape, crossing his arms and smirking in the self-satisfied way that only the Potions master could manage. "I daresay you and the bottles have some catching up to do, Potter."
Harry groaned. The relatively small room - which, Harry guessed, was formerly a prisoner's room - was made cramped by countless boxes and crates. Many were falling apart and rotting from age, while others looked like they were new additions.
Harry stepped forward, kneeling to inspect a partially opened box on the floor. Snape's words held true. It was packed with rows of grimy, crusted glass bottles that looked older than the castle itself. Given that every box in the room was of similar shape and proportion, Harry had very little reason to doubt that every single one of them contained the same bottles.
"Many of the boxes in this room haven't breathed air since my predecessor's time," said Snape sleekly. "I never really bothered with them, as normally I have plenty of bottles on hand. However, due to budget cutbacks, I've been encouraged to make the most of what I have. Thankfully I now have the two of you to clean these before using them in the classroom."
Snape drew his wand and flicked it twice, conjuring two buckets of water, towels, and several rags. "You will be doing this by hand, so I encourage you both to exercise caution while washing these bottles. You can never quite be sure the reaction you will get when the potion residue is doused with water, and it would be a pity of either of you lose your hands due to negligence..."
Suddenly, there was a sound like a snarl that echoed off the wall. Hermione grabbed Harry's arm, and Snape quickly drew his wand. The Potions master quietly moved up to the door way, peering out, his eyes flashing.
A second snarl came out from the dungeon, accompanied by a quick scampering of claws. Snape, listening, seemed to relax and slowly withdrew his wand.
"It's coming from the other side of the barrier," said Snape. "The creatures on the other side should be of no concern."
"What if the barrier fails?" Hermione asked, not completely letting go of Harry.
"It won't fail," said Snape as though he found Hermione to be impertinent. "The Headmaster himself established the barrier."
"I suggest starting now, Potter," Snape continued. He coughed and cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, his voice was strained and scratched. "Don't waste any time. Miss Granger, come with me. You'll be working in the other room to ensure that neither of you are…" His eyes furtively switched between Harry and Hermione. "…misusing your time."
Hermione picked up her bucket and followed Snape to the room across the hall, which was filled with a roughly equal amount of boxes. He spoke with her briefly, and, after she nodded, he turned and swept out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Snape returned to Harry. "I will be returning to my office, though I will be periodically stopping by to check on your progress. How quickly you get through the bottles, Potter, will determine the amount of time you'll serve in this detention."
Like I expected it to be any difference, Harry said inwardly.
Snape's eyes narrowed as though he had read Harry's thoughts. However, he only said, "I will remind you once more to keep your attention focused on your work, rather than spending time dwelling on…distractions. I trust that it is not too much to expect you to put aside your base and instinctive urges for a few hours to properly perform what is assigned?"
Though Snape did not flatly state it, Harry knew precisely what he was referring to.
And found that the Potions master was becoming more unbearable than ever.
"I'll try, sir," Harry said as sarcastically as he could manage. "But something about these dungeons just really puts me in the mood."
"Another hour then, Potter?" Snape said, his voice biting through the freezing air. "It is very easy to arrange."
Harry did not reply, but instead pulled a box towards him and carefully began drawing the bottles.
Snape waited there, as if expecting a response. When he did not receive one he added, "Well, so you finally learned something about shutting your mouth, have you? Maybe tomorrow you can try shutting your mind."
Without another word, Snape whirled around and strode through the door. It closed with a metallic clang, and, faintly, Harry could hear Snape's footsteps quickly go down the corridor and fade away.
Sighing, Harry picked up his rag and dipped it in the lukewarm water. Taking a bottle from the box, he mindlessly began scrubbing away at the years of built-up grime and filth that had slowly settled and hardened on the glass bottom. After a moment he glanced at the bottle he was cleaning, and, regardless of how clean it was, set it aside before getting another.
Bottle-cleaning was something that he had become used to. Last year, Snape assigned him record numbers of detentions, and in nearly every case he was tasked to clean a portion of the bottles from the Potion master's horde. The reek of aging potion residue and Merlin-knows-what-else in the storage room, however, is something that he had not yet gotten used to, and after a while he pushed open the door to let some of the air drift out.
Harry saw that Hermione was working diligently in the cell across from him - her door being already open, her back towards him. Her hair was tied back in a practical, inelegant fashion that, for some reason, made him see her as more beautiful than if it had been done up with Sleekeasy's.
Harry watched her for a moment, not at all in a hurry, and then, reluctantly, returned to his cleaning. Finding his rag, he dipped it once more in the water and then began wiping yet another bottle.
His thoughts drifted back to Hermione, and then, indirectly to the dream he had during the night. Of Voldemort's threat.
"I will kill your little bitch and she will bleed at my feet."
He knows, Harry thought, suddenly feeling very cold. He glanced furtively at Hermione, who was still dutifully washing the bottles. She turned, catching him watching, and smiled.
It was as if one of his worst nightmares had come to life. One of the biggest problems that he sought to avoid had now risen. While it had been common knowledge that Harry's best two friends were Hermione and Ron, his new - more personal - relationship with Hermione had been very much private. While Harry entertained no illusions that Ron and Hermione weren't always on Voldemort's kill list, he also knew that Voldemort was much more selective about who he would specifically target.
Harry knew that, if Voldemort ever found out the full extent of his relationship with Hermione, Voldemort would spare no resources in order to have her killed.
And, now, it was clear that Voldemort did know, though Harry didn't have the faintest idea how.
Harry, now suddenly seeing Hermione's smile, weakly smiled back. Her brow furrowed with concern.
I'll never let Tom near her, Harry resolved. Never.
Harry knew that his silent promise meant nothing until it was challenged. He also knew that one day, Voldemort would come, and what could he do then? Harry had escaped death at Voldemort's hand many times, but merely escaping was a far cry from actually defeating Voldemort. Protecting Hermione - keeping her out the Dark Lord's clutches - was something that Harry's rational mind was not entirely sure he could do.
But it was not Harry's rational mind that made the promise, either.
"Harry?" Hermione said, concern in her voice.
Harry jerked himself away from his reverie, and, that same moment, the glass bottle he had been cleaning for the past several minutes burst into countless shards. Harry leapt to his feet in surprise, dropping the rag, feeling stings of pain on his palm as glass blew in all directions.
Hermione ran over to him. "Harry!" she said, then, looking at the shattered glass on the floor, "What happened?"
Harry did not answer her immediately, his mind still reeling over Voldemort and the promise and-
"Harry?" Hermione said again, looking up into his eyes.
"Involuntary magic," Harry said finally. "I guess I was-" Angry? Nervous? Afraid? "-bothered by something."
"Your hand!"
Harry looked down, seeing blood seep from cuts in his palm from where he held the bottle. He quickly grabbed a yet-unused towel that Snape left behind and wiped the blood away. None of the cuts looked particularly deep.
"Let me see," Hermione said, taking his hand and examining it. She grimaced. "Does it hurt?"
"Stings," said Harry. "But doesn't hurt. I'm fine, Hermione, I barely feel it at all-"
"Don't be ridiculous," Hermione said, and Harry knew better than to argue. After a moment of examining his hand she said, "Well, I don't see any glass in your cuts - what about your other hand?"
"Didn't get touched," Harry said, showing her.
"Well, you're still going to want to see Madam Pomfrey," Hermione said. "These bottles aren't exactly sanitary, and I doubt those are clean wounds."
"I will, but not now," said Harry. "I doubt Snape would care much for me leaving detention early, and I don't want to be any further on his bad side than necessary. The explosion looked nastier than it was."
Hermione looked ready to argue, but didn't.
"That was quite a bit of involuntary magic," said Hermione finally, glancing up at him before taking a fresh towel and wrapping it around Harry's hand. "I haven't seen you do anything like that in a long while. What happened?"
"Voldemort knows," said Harry. Simply. Flatly.
Hermione froze, and even her hands - which were still wrapping the towel around his cuts - went rigid. Harry said nothing, not daring to imagine what she was thinking. There had always been an unspoken knowledge between them that Voldemort would inevitably find out. But that day was here. Now.
Harry tried to look at her, but her eyes were downcast, still focused on his hand. He was suddenly regretting his words, thinking that perhaps he should have told her later.
There's no better time nor place than during detention while in the dungeons, Harry thought, inwardly seething at himself.
"Well, we both sort of expected it, didn't we?" Hermione said at length, looking up and giving him a reassuring smile. "That's why my parents are being guarded by the Order. It was going to happen eventually."
Harry had trouble deciding what to say. "You don't think this...changes anything?"
Hermione's eyes searched his expression. "Only if one of us want it to."
Harry immediately knew what she meant. She was expecting him to distance himself from her, to slow their relationship, or do a million other things that he knew he could never do. He could not lie to her and say that he could stop caring for her. It could've been Grindewald and Voldemort and all the Dark Lords in the history of the world, but it wouldn't have made an ounce of difference. To try and stop feeling whatever he was feeling for her was impossible.
Hermione must have known on some level what he was thinking, because after a moment she stepped towards him and, standing on her toes, kissed him. It was a chaste kiss, full of distraction, and Harry felt rather than saw her wrap her arms around him and rest her head on his chest.
Slowly, Harry wrapped his arms around her, and said quietly, "I don't want this to change."
"Good," Hermione said. "Because neither do I."
Harry bordered on letting down his mental barriers to send a taunting message to Voldemort. You hear that Tom? You'll never come between us. Never!
Harry did not, however, and instead focused Hermione, who was still in his arms. "Did you ever wonder what made Tom become what he is?" Harry asked suddenly, unsure of why he even raised the question. Faintly, his scar began to tingle, though he ignored it.
"What do you mean, Harry?"
"I mean, what made him become a Dark Lord?" Harry said. "Why not a professor? Or an Auror? Or anything?"
Hermione lifted her head and began chewing her lower lip, as though trying to formulate an answer. "Are you asking if some people are just born evil?"
"No, not that," Harry said quickly, and then paused. The tingling in his scar rose to a slight burning sensation. "Do you- do you think that's what it is?"
"No, not at all," Hermione replied. "Well, I think the answer your looking for is in the prophecy. The Power-He-Knows-Not. What is the power that he doesn't know?"
"Love," said Harry. "Dumbledore said it was love."
Hermione did not respond at first, and instead watched him, as though deep in thought. "Well that's it then, isn't it?" Hermione said at length. "Just like loving someone can take you somewhere, not loving someone - or being unable to love someone - can take you somewhere else."
Harry did not say so, but to him Hermione's words sounded incredibly right.
"Harry," Hermione continued, just barely disentangling herself from him. "There's something-"
But before she could finish her words, the door to the cell slammed shut, startling them both, the resounding clang echoing through the room and in the hall. Harry went to the door and grabbed the handle, trying to push it open, his scar flaring as though on fire then suddenly dying back.
"It's jammed," Harry said, grunting as he tried the move the rusted handle. It refused to budge.
Hermione moved next to him, looking once at the handle and then at the door. "No," she said in a small voice. "Not jammed. Locked."
(A/N: I normally make it a rule not to use cliffhangers - but sometimes I just have to make an exception. Again, I greatly appreciate some of the ridiculously loyal - and forgiving - readers I have. I certainly know that I would not be reading a story that took such a long hiatus. Thanks for sticking with it, I'm hoping to be able to reward your persistence - the more I write this story the more ideas I'm getting, much like I did with the Maw.)