A/N: Alright, finally, you'll get Chapter 36! Haha! So sorry for the long wait, folks, but I promise you it was for the best of reasons.
And so I'd like-once again (but it's never enough, really!)-to give a shout out to Tome Raider. Excellent, brilliant job! Thank you! And you all gotta thank her for this double-chapter release. ^_^ Without her, you'd have been stuck with this chapter alone, which she has appropriately called One Big Cliffhanger. You're the best, Tome Raider!
Standard disclaimers apply.
Chapter rating: R
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Chapter Thirty-sixth: Purpose
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Harry fell through his mind, focused, sharp and determined. Everything Hermione taught him about controlling his powers sang through his body like a fine tuned instrument. He clung to every taught technique, applied every honed instinct, and pulled on every available thread of magic he could use as he plunged into his own thoughts.
He saw it from afar; that pulsing, ominous, and evil fragment of Voldemort's soul barreling through him; desperately seeking to find purchase in its new vessel, perhaps even use his body to gain corporeal form.
Harry wasn't going to let it happen.
He bared his claws, and gathering what useful magical ability he had, he sprung and clashed with the entity.
Pain reverberated through him, making him scream from the sheer agony of it. The entity tried to push through him, it's goal clear. It wasn't a very intelligent soul fragment. Its responses had always been primal, so it would have no ability to defend itself with any abstract thought.
Harry fought back the pain, putting up the barriers behind him to keep the fragment from going any further with his consent.
The entity charged against the barrier like a bull, over and over, and Harry gasped from the continued impact.
It was strange, to be so conscious within his mind, as if it was some kind of alternate realm and not merely loose-threaded tapestries of thought rolling scenes through his head.
All around him, he could feel his magic working, keeping him tethered to the outside world as he fought to keep control in his own mental cavern.
The fierce pain twisted in his gut, and imagined images of Hermione hurt, tortured, or worse threw his mind into momentary turmoil.
Precious memories encased in glass burst out of their enclosures, rocking the recesses of his mind.
Everything was spinning and shaking, tossing him about. He felt like a man clinging to a rickety raft for dear life while a storm raged around him.
A scream broke free from him as he gripped at his sanity desperately. It was almost impossible. Until then, all his panic and pain had been stamped down, held back, and repressed. Now, somehow, it had gotten loose, and it was a hurricane that threatened to tear him limb from limb.
The scream rising from his throat was shoved back down, replaced by the agonizing choke of overwhelming emotions. It pressed around him, the fear paralyzing, yet he could feel his fingers scratching at his throat, as if struggling to pull free of the suffocating tether tightening around his neck.
"Calm down!" cried a voice from what seemed like far away. "Focus! Think!"
Hermione…
Harry looked wildly around, his throat still tightly closed as he gagged.
"Concentrate!" Her voice was a force in itself, and it shook him to his senses.
His rationale kicked in and he steadied his hands, stopping his physical struggle and letting his magic do the fighting.
He relaxed just enough to give his magic room to take root.
His magic didn't fail him. It snaked through the grooves, wrapping around him before heaving to set him free.
He felt the pressure ease and his mind go calm even as the entity threatened to overwhelm him.
Bracing himself, he threw his magic at the entity again, grappling to get a firm hold of it. The pain of fighting it hadn't waned, but then he sharpened his focus, his eyes piercing through the dark mist, and he saw it; the shriveled, helpless, dying form of Voldemort after Lily and baby Harry Potter defeated him.
Harry made a grab for him, and the creature shrieked as it exploded into fog, making way for the image of a young, orphaned Tom Riddle in his poor bedroom, playing all by himself with stolen toys-trophies of power discovered so young. Harry placed a kind hand on Tom's shoulder, forming himself into the image of a younger Albus Dumbledore, a figure Tom Riddle respected and feared.
"You are a Wizard, Tom," Harry said in Dumbledore's voice.
The boy's eyes widened, but he didn't resist. "Does that mean I'm special?"
Harry hesitated before he replied. "Yes, Tom. You are a very special child…" and it was the truth.
Tom dissipated into mist, wrapping slowly around Harry. Harry let it, easing his powerful magic beneath the surface. His magic raged and fought, but he pushed it deep enough beneath the cover of the entity, and when Harry was sure he could keep it there for as long as necessary, only then did he close his eyes and let his mind rush through the conduit of his mind-link with Voldemort.
~~
It was a map room; a fairly modern-looking one with a gigantic, geographical replica of most of Great Britain. There were miniature mountains, railroads, houses, churches, buildings, even cars. There were trees and clouds; rain and mist, street lamps and headlights. The entire model was moving, little people flitting about minding their own business as if they weren't made-up figures on a make-believe country.
He saw faces around him, standing around the table; faces he knew. There was Bellatrix and Rabastan Lestrange, Lucius Malfoy, Fenrir Greyback, Janus, Macnair, Rookwood, and Dolohov. They were grave and Harry could smell their fear. He wanted the fear. Fear gave him power…
There were Dark Marks floating above the map. Five of them. One drifted above Hogwarts, the other above the Ministry, a third above St. Mungo's, the fourth over Beauxbaton Academy, and a fifth over Azkaban. The one over Azkaban slithered dynamically, Dementors floating all around it.
Satisfaction rippled through him amidst the deep-seated distrust he bore for every single one of his subjects. Not even Bellatrix, the most blindly loyal of them all, was worthy of his trust.
Snape was not in this circle. Snape was not a man he could trust. Snape had impenetrable walls that he could not breach, and a man with such sturdy locks had something to hide. Whatever those secrets were, Snape could not be trusted.
It was only a matter of time before he killed Snape. The man's use was coming to an end. Soon. Very soon…
I have the Mudblood. He will come when I tell him, where I tell him. His attachment to her is a weakness. It will be his downfall. And when I get my hands on Potter…
Harry felt the suspicion instantly; a creeping awareness. All manner of Voldemort surrounding him slowly began to go on alert.
Quickly, before Voldemort could confirm his suspicion, he crept away. Gently, skillfully dodging Voldemort's prying mind's eye.
Harry kept calm, soothing whatever panic that was itching to burst out. He hid in Voldemort's deepest corners, holding on to his disguise with iron determination. And when finally, Voldemort's mind was turned somewhere else, Harry made a hastier, but still careful, retreat. He slipped passed and out of the walls he had earlier evaded; walls Harry had always thought impossible to breach. They were so solid and real, and they were buttressed by complete and utter distrust.
He pulled back, wondering if he could go for another peek. It wasn't possible. Voldemort was standing guard now and after that brief, deceptively uninvasive breach, Voldemort closed the opening, sealing it with his iron-tough barriers.
~~
Harry slammed back against the wall of his mind and he gasped, feeling the impact. He was tired. He was drained of energy, but he had one last thing to do. The entity almost got free of him, but he held on, his grip sinking into the entity's phantasmal form.
He dragged the entity through his mind, finding that cancer called a Horcrux. And when Harry found the vessel, he pulled back his fist and punched the entity through it.
The entity and the soul already resting within his scar shrieked in unison. It was an ear-splitting scream, and Harry had to fight hard not to succumb to the deafening sound. Using what mental powers he had left, he shoved the entity through the vessel's opening and stuffed the rest of him inside it. When the last of the entity had been dispatched, Harry slammed the hole close.
The entity churned with the old fragment, fighting for a few heartbeats before it probably realized that they were of the same ilk. It began to meld with the other soul fragment and soon became one, settling in what space Harry's scar had provided. The container was translucent, and Harry could see bits and pieces of Voldemort's power.
Most were things Harry could not fathom, but there was one he understood completely. It was Parseltongue, and Harry knew it was the one power of Voldemort he could comprehend. The rest of Voldemort's power, though present inside Harry-perhaps even affecting his magic somehow if their brother wand-cores were any indication-was not something Harry desired to use.
Harry stepped back from the Horcrux for a moment and wondered if he could expel it. His magic touched it, and then slowly, Harry tried to ease it out.
Pain suffused him, sending his mind and thoughts into a rage. That feeling of being in a storm at sea plagued him again, and before it could get worse, Harry pulled his magic from the Horcrux, leaving it alone.
Should've known it was too easy a solution…
As the turmoil settled back into calm, he turned to his tether. He pulled, climbing out of his mind and gradually returning to the reality beyond his thoughts.
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Harry stumbled out of his mind, gasping and bolting upright. "Azkaban!"
"Harry!" Ron cried, looking pale and anxious. "Merlin, you're awake! You're alright, the-"
"Az-" Harry took in gulps of air, struggling to get to his feet.
Ron held him down by his shoulders. "Settle down! Dedalus fetched the Medi-"
"Azkaban's been taken!" Harry spat out and fought against Ron's grip.
Ron's grasp on his arm loosened as he stared at Harry first in wonder, and then worry. "Harry, you have to relax. We don't know how badly that staff-"
"Ron, I'm fine," Harry said through grit teeth as he got to his feet. His head ached a bit, but he could think through it, which was all that was necessary right now. "We have to get back to Remus and tell the others what I saw."
"What are you talking about? I really think you should sit down for a bit-"
"I went into his mind," Harry finally said, keeping his gaze focused on Ron. If Ron saw that he wasn't delirious, the man might listen to him. "I went into Voldemort's mind. I used the soul fragment from the staff to get in his head. Just for a while. He would have found me out if I stayed any longer, but I got in unnoticed, and I found a few things out, so will you please shut it and let's please head back to Grimmauld Place?"
Ron looked like he was going to be sick. "You-in V-Voldem-in his head?" His revulsion was palpable.
Harry had no time to dally any further. There were many things to do before he set off to recover Hermione, however the hell he was going to do it. He strode on over to the staff and grabbed it without thinking.
Ron gave a rather adolescent squeak and Harry sighed impatiently, shoving the staff in Ron's direction. "It's not going to hurt-"
A spark jumped and bit Ron right on his narrow nose. Ron gave a howl before cursing Harry and his lineage most excessively.
"Oops," said Harry, only mildly embarrassed. "Sorry." He wasn't going to do that again. Apparently, the staff still wasn't happy about anyone else getting near it, but he had very little time appeasing Ron's souring temper.
Ron was still rubbing his nose when they reached the Department of Mysteries doors and almost crashed into Dedalus and his posse of Unspeakables. Two MediWizards trailed behind them, blinking worriedly over Dedalus's shoulder to give Harry a good, clinical look.
Dedalus looked thoroughly surprised. "Harry! You're up! I felt sure Weasley had called it right this time, that you were dead-"
"Not yet," Harry muttered, walking past him. The MediWizards and Unspeakables parted to let him walk through. Several of the Unspeakables jumped as he passed, sparks crackling from the staff as he held it.
"Morgan fucking LeFaye, Harry! Put that thing away before you really hurt somebody!" Ron cried after him. Dedalus's parade followed, though he was shooing every one of them away and telling them absentmindedly to get back to work.
Harry paid him little mind as he kept walking. "It's not going to hurt any-"
"Mate, listen to me. You have to calm down. I know things are a bit fuzzy right now-"
Harry whirled and faced Ron, glaring. "Were you listening to me earlier, Ron? They've taken Azkaban. It's already begun! And it won't be just Azkaban. They're planning to take Hogwarts, the Ministry, and St. Mungo's. We have no time for this! Frankly, there was hardly enough time to begin with. They have Hermione-"
"I know that-"
"And who the hell knows what they're doing to her? Do you even understand why I had to do this, Ron? Why I risked my sanity on this staff? Because I want to get her back, and I want to get her back alive, but they're not going to give her back to me alive even if they say they will. I have to find a way to get her out of there safely, and I can't think of a bloody way, Ron! I can't! So you understand my desperation. Maybe if you thought of it that way you wouldn't be so fucking calm."
Ron turned positively blue in the face and his bewildered eyes turned dark with rage. He pulled back a hand, and for a second, Harry thought Ron was going to slap him, which would have been funny, really. What kind of bloke slaps another bloke? But then the hand turned into a fist, and Harry felt the hit of it right on his jaw.
Harry barely comprehended the gasps of surprise from everybody as his head whipped to the side from the blow. He stumbled a few steps from the impact, but he did not fall. It was not a full-blown Ron Weasley knuckle-punch, but it still stung, and it was probably going to bruise. As it was, Harry saw one or two stars.
He didn't think he deserved it.
"Dammit, Ron!" Harry cried, rubbing his jaw as he scowled and grimaced. "What the bloody hell's wrong with you?"
Ron was breathing heavily, his fist still formed, but he didn't look like he was going to strike again. "Potter, in the last few hours, Lucien died, Solomon was burnt to a crisp, and one of my best friends was taken by our enemies. I tried. I really tried to stay calm, and I would've succeeded if you, the bloody fucking Boy Who Lived who just happens to be my other best friend, hadn't gone and done something as stupid as holding Gryffindor's cursed staff! You-you looked dead, you bloody moron! What did you expect I'd do when you woke up? What did you-you stupid-"
"Alright already!" Harry yelled above Ron's tirade. "I get it! Arthur rutting Pendragon! You Weasleys and the verbal abuse I take from the lot of you is incredible!"
"Well, you deserve it!"
"Oh, do I?"
"Abso-fucking-lute--!"
"Stop yelling!" shouted Dedalus, the tendons on his neck stark and distinct. "Please!"
Ron seemed to have heeded him. So had Harry. Ron's chest still visibly rose and fell, but his fist had loosened, and he wasn't staring daggers at Harry anymore. Finally, after several tense seconds of Ron simmering down and Harry easing the ache on his bruised jaw, Ron nudged a chin in Harry's direction.
"Alright, then?" Ron muttered.
"Yeah," Harry muttered back.
A collective sigh of relief escaped their audience.
Shaking his head, Dedalus thanked the MediWizards and sent them off, after which he turned to his staff, telling them all to go back to work.
One of the Unspeakables stayed to discuss something with Dedalus, and they had their conversation in hushed tones.
"We can get her back alive, Harry," Ron suddenly said, startling Harry out of the buzz of his emotion. "There's a way. You have to trust me on that."
Harry stared at him, wondering if Ron was bullshitting him. It could have been one of those inane words of consolation, like, "It's going to be alright," or "We'll find her;" comforting words that mean next to nothing in the face of dire realities, but while there remained the ever-present apprehension in Ron's eyes, there was something stalwart behind his words.
"We can get her back alive,"Ron had said. "There's a way."
It struck Harry, and he had to admit to a certain amount of surprise, because really, Ron hadn't looked this way since they were eleven, when they were staring down the expanse of a giant chessboard in the bowels of Hogwarts castle.
Harry started. "Ron, you-"
"Yeah. I reckon I might have an idea."
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Harry hadn't had any sleep. The previous night's meeting with the Order of the Phoenix heads, captains, and lieutenants had been reassuringly productive, but it set a task before them that was almost impossible to undertake in such a short time. And while it would be reasonable to expect Voldemort to know that his kidnap of Hermione would set both armies in motion, Voldemort wasn't supposed to figure out that they knew which locations would be under attack.
It was alarming, anyway, that Voldemort had enough manpower to launch such a huge siege. Had he gained that many followers? Perhaps he was stretched thin, but it would be dangerous to assume he was. Harry knew the Order itself was not so extensive that it could ensure a successful defense through sheer number for any of the sites of attack.
They were yet to meet with the vampires that evening. There would be werewolves, too. They would have an idea later of whether they stood a fighting chance, or whether they were leading everybody to a slaughter.
The probe they'd sent to Azkaban to investigate the state of it hadn't returned. Harry hoped they hadn't caught and killed Colin Creevy.
As for Hermione… the truth was, he was trying very hard not to let his thinking about her get in the way of what he had to do. He had to believe that they would keep her alive until they had him. He had to stop thinking about what they might have been doing to her. He took comfort in the fact that during the day, she slept, and would be free of any kind of pain. Finding out where they had kept her was on the top of his list, and that Ron told him there was a way to find out where made Harry want to scream and demand he be told where she was now.
When Harry asked Ron who his informant was, Ron said he couldn't divulge his sources. Not yet. Too dangerous for the source, and Harry had to trust that this source would help them; that this source's value was worth gambling Hermione's state of well-being. Besides, it was the only lead they had at the moment.
Harry was itching to do something. He needed to act, or else he would go out of his mind.
He'd brought Aurors to the scene of the crime, and after having done a thorough sweep of the site, they found no traceable evidence. All they had was the bullet-ridden, blood-splattered car. They took the car with them, and it sat in the Forensics lab of the Ministry. They were examining each and every bullet; every residual magical signature; every follicle of hair they could find on it. It was a long way yet before they found anything helpful, if there was anything helpful at all.
Solomon wasn't quite fully recovered, even if his disfigured face seemed less disfigured and more recognizable, but not all his wounds were on the surface. He needed emotional healing too, and that didn't look like it would heal any time soon. Harry could see it in Solomon's eyes. The man who'd left to accompany Hermione to the McLeod mansion was not the same man who came back to Grimmauld Place. Solomon was both heartbroken and kin-shattered. He swallowed lumps in his throat whenever Lucien was mentioned, and whenever Hermione was brought up, his gaze glazed over, like he never believed that something so awful could happen to Hermione-his alpha, his hero, his protector, yet something did happen, something awful, and now he had to come to terms with it. It was a burden he didn't look ready to take.
Harry hoped that he could give Solomon some kind of reassurance that all would be right in the world again, but then Harry wasn't sure about that himself.
As the day grew late, Harry grew more and more anxious and restless. He needed to act. He needed to do something, but all he and everyone else could do was wait. There were already several members of the Order in Grimmauld place, all of them there to attend the grand meeting. More would come. Until most of the members arrived, they had to wait, and everyone decided that they would be productive, however small the contribution was.
There were members working in the kitchen with Molly. There were members scouring the library for answers. There were members in the gym practicing their hexes and fighting skills. There were members in the map room, discussing strategy and location.
Harry was standing in front of a giant map of London with Charlie, plotting strategic points, when Ron came into the map room. Ron wove through the groups of people, and seeing the grave look in Ron's eyes, Harry hurried excused himself from Charlie to meet Ron halfway.
Ron saw him coming and double-backed.
They met out in the hallway and Harry led them to his study where he closed them in and put up the wards.
"Tell me something I want to hear," begged Harry.
Ron cocked a tired smile. "I've spoken to my source and he said Snape's going to try and find out where Hermione's being held, and then Snape's going to try and get him guard duty with her."
Harry sighed and pushed up his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. "Snape, eh?"
There was just something so ineffably twisted about depending on Severus Snape for the well being of Hermione Granger. It was like some god took everything that could possibly go wrong in this picture and mixed it together to cook up a recipe for disaster: Dice two cups of Ex-Potions Professor, making sure that he's properly despicable and marinated in treachery, 1 tablespoon of Student He Considers A Know-It-All, seasoned with a pinch of Super Secret Source that Harry had no reason to trust, and then literally toss it in the oven to crash and burn.
"My source knows what he's doing," Ron said. "He'll still use his judgment-"
"Can this source of yours be trusted?"
"I already told you we can trust him. Just-"
"Why won't you tell me who he is?"
Ron paused and sighed, collapsing in a chair. "I just can't, alright? I would tell you, but he doesn't want anyone else to know."
"Oh, doesn't he?"
Ron shot him a look. "He has good reasons, Harry. Don't ask me what they are, because I won't say, but I swear to you, his reasons are sound."
Harry paused to consider. The idea still didn't sit well with him.
"I trust him," said Ron. "And if you trust me, you'll take my word for it."
Harry gave it a moment's thought and took a deep breath before nodding.
Ron seemed relieved.
"I'm going mad," admitted Harry a moment later.
"You haven't had any sleep."
"Who has? And I couldn't if I tried. You're just going to have to brain me for it. I'm wired up to next week, assuming I live that long, of course."
Ron frowned, but he didn't say anything to contradict. None of them were certain to make it to next week.
There was a racket outside and Harry heard the familiar sound of groaning floorboards. "That would be Hagrid and Madame Maxine."
Harry hurried out of his study to meet with the half-giants and Ron followed close behind. Harry's smile was strained when he welcomed them. He chatted them up a bit, especially Madame Maxine whom Harry seldom saw.
Ron and Hagrid at once fell to discussing dragons, and hearing Hagrid at it, one would think they were talking about cuddly little things, the way Hagrid kept calling them, "Fine critters," and "Shy fellas."
A few others joined in on their conversation, and Harry was just explaining to Madame Maxine how they managed a dependable recruitment program in Hogwarts when Harry felt a sharp rap on his mental walls.
For a moment, Harry felt a surge of panic. Had Voldemort found him out?
Harry reached out, determining the magical signature. It was not anyone he knew.
He hurriedly excused himself and went to the front of the house to peer out of the windows.
There were cars. Three luxury vehicles lined up on his curb.
He was startled when Ron came up beside him.
"Friends of yours?" Ron asked.
Harry wasn't sure about calling them "friends" at this point. "Vamps are here. Give everyone fair warning while I let them in, won't you?"
Ron nodded and hurried to do his task.
Harry went to the front door and exited the wards.
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Everyone took the presence of the vampires reasonably well. For one, the vamps were pretty to look at. Keiko had chosen to wear an attractive kimono for the occasion. She had with her one of her Shadow Kin, Lars, who looked humongous beside her frail frame.
Ambrose and Gabriel wore expensive suits, two beautiful men with ready smiles that would have Witch Weekly's entire gaggle of print models swooning in their respective pages. Gabriel alone was a sight to see. The man looked ethereal, like he'd sprout great big feathery white wings and lead a host of angels in a heavenly choir. That had to have endeared him to everyone if nothing else did.
The McLeods looked resplendent in their tartans and kilts. Their beards were trimmed and their wild clansmen hair had been brushed, or bullied, into behaving. A lock of their hair, trailing from their temples, was braided and tied with their tartan colors. Harry recognized Duffy McLeod but had never seen his companion. Duffy introduced him as Brenan McLeod, Clan Laird of the Clan McLeod. After which Duffy and Brenan spoke, and seemed to joke, about a whole bunch of things that had Harry properly confused.
The surprise of the evening was Henry. He arrived with Keiko, and while Harry noticed that he looked a bit hollow and paler in the cheeks, he seemed well composed in his business suit and slicked back hair.
McGonagall, Arthur, Remus, and Shacklebolt arrived and further introductions were made.
The McLeods suddenly became very well-mannered in the presence of McGonagall, and while their Scottish burrs were no less thick, whatever they were saying seemed to sit well with the dignified Headmistress. She arched her eyebrow and nodded in prim approval as she spoke to them, her accent becoming just as thick as theirs.
Harry was just relieved someone could understand what they were saying.
They were led to the Great Hall where the meeting would be held. The room was much smaller than the Great Hall they had at Hogwarts, but it was about the right size for a meeting with all of the key members of the Order, werewolves, vampires, a centaur, two half-giants, and a house elf.
With everyone gathered, the meeting commenced.
Harry looked around him at the familiar faces as Remus gave the opening statements.
His eyes lit on his friends from Hogwarts, all of them young, but made older by war.
There was Ginny, a girl he used to date; there was Neville Longbottom, the boy who used to wield a wand ill-matched for him; there was Dean, a boy who had posters of Muggle football teams up on his part of the dorm; there was Seamus, the boy who sang Irish ballads in the shower room; there was George, who played dozens of pranks with his twin, Fred; there was Lee, who was a spectacular announcer during Quidditch games; there was Luna, who wore a bottle-cap necklace in honor of her mother; there was Justin, Susan, Dennis, Oliver, Angelina, Lavender, Terry, Anthony, Hannah… what once defined them in Harry's mind barely defined them now, especially because they'd each fought this war almost as long as he has. They'd been soldiers these past five years, each of them having lost someone; a brother, a friend, a sister… Hogwarts was more than just a few years behind them. Hogwarts felt like eons ago.
The elder membership had increased, as well. And now of course, they had werewolves and vampires in their midst. The rest of the army were on stand by, awaiting the call of their captains and lieutenants.
Harry suddenly heard his name called and he shook himself out of his thoughts. He stood behind the podium and stared at the many faces around him. He was struck by how intently their gazes rested upon him, and he had to will himself to speak. He didn't have to time to analyze what their blazing hard looks meant. He proceeded to outline all the information they'd gathered since the previous night. He told them about the possible points of attack: St. Mungo's, Hogwarts, the Ministry, Azkaban, and Beauxbaton; Harry stated evidence that might support these findings, particularly because he didn't want to explain how he got the information; he made rough suggestions of who should be assigned to each location and why; and he etched figures on the giant map indicating how many enemies each location would likely have. Harry then explained to the captains and lieutenants how they would delegate tasks under such short notice, and that they should-above all else-act in the best interest of all: human, vampire, or werewolf. It was at that point Harry turned the podium over to their allies.
Jamil Patel, alpha to his wolf pack and designated representatives of the werewolves, nodded at Gabriel. Gabriel nodded back respectfully and took the podium first.
That the vampires selected Gabriel as their representative was a stroke of genius. He had the entire audience enthralled, and he oozed calm charisma. He assigned vampires to each location by mediating between the vampire masters and the various captains, right there, and made reasonable suggestions to strategy. He took questions from the audience, explaining a few general things about vampire groups and loyalties.
When the vampires were done, the werewolves took over, Patel doing roughly the same thing as Gabriel, but including the vampires in his discussion as well, just because vampires had werewolves under their employ.
The discussions went on the rest of the night, and Harry had to participate in most of them, just because the vampires seemed to think he led the entire Order. He had been given no leverage to deny this "misconception," as McGonagall, Remus, Arthur, and Shacklebolt seemed to support the idea with clear resolve, and even more than that, he suddenly felt that if he came out and said, "I'm not your leader!" he'd irreparably damage what appeared to be morale among the attendees.
It was amazing, but everyone seemed reassured by the idea that there was someone leading them, as if one was better than five, and to have them all looking to him like he was the one was slightly unnerving. It was one thing to be called the Chosen One by the Daily Prophet, especially since Harry didn't think much about their journalistic integrity, but for a room full of people to look at him and tell him with their eyes that they believed it… well, it was something he hadn't thought about since Hermione and Shacklebolt last pointed out that he was going to fill the shoes Dumbledore left.
Only once was Hermione's abduction brought up, and before anyone could say anything, Harry said, "It's being dealt with." Maybe it was his tone, or perhaps there was some sort of look in his eyes, but no one asked again, as if they didn't dare.
It was all knotting Harry's stomach, and he struggled to keep still through it all. The last thing anybody needed was their supposed leader having a melt down.
The meeting ended a few hours before dawn, after which everyone seemed to scramble to get to their tasks. There were a lot of things to do, and they didn't have time to waste.
Harry stood at the receiving hall, seeing everyone out. People were leaving in groups of two and three, and most of them left with words of thanks and encouragement. He hadn't told them that he had to face Voldemort alone; he hadn't told them what was in store for him. Maybe they knew it the whole time; perhaps even longer than he has.
Many of the members, vampires and werewolves were gone by the time it struck four in the morning, but there were veteran members of the Order still remaining. He could hear Mad Eye making bold declarations while Fleur and Bill politely listened on. He could see Remus, Tonks, McGonagall, and Arthur engaged in serious conference in one corner. Nearby, Ron, Dean, Ginny, and Seamus were staring at Luna in disbelief while, no-doubt, she told them something baffling.
"Do you think she's still alive?" asked someone from the shadows.
Harry shot Draco a look of barely-concealed hate. "She'd have to be, or else there's nothing Voldemort can say or do that would make me cooperate with them."
Draco nodded, conceding the point. "They'll kill her after they're done with you, you know. There's no reason for them to keep her alive."
"Which is why I have to get her out of there."
Draco scoffed. "And if it's a choice between getting her out of there and defeating Voldemort? What will your choice be?"
Harry glared at him.
"Are you going to sacrifice the rest of the Wizarding World for your One True Love, Potter?"
"Shut it. It's not going to come to that. Hermione won't let it come to that."
"How sure are you that you're strong enough to do the right thing if you have to choose?"
Harry's fists clenched. On top of everything else, with his sanity hanging on a precarious balance, Draco Malfoy voicing his deepest fears was the last thing he needed. "Why are you doing this? Why do you have to be such a pain in the ass?"
"I'm not doing this to be a pain in the ass. I just want to make sure you're clear about the choices you might have to make, and that if you're going to chicken out and choose Granger, let me know now. I'd like a running head start, thank you very much. Contrary to popular belief, you're not the only one on the Dark Lord's shit list."
Harry shot him a grimace. "You know what, Malfoy? Don't you think it's about time you started taking a more active role when it comes to your personal interests? Like if you want a Voldemort-free life, maybe you should go and fight the war with us. I know this is a concept you might find hard to comprehend-"
"Do you know why I never did laundry until I got stuck here in this God-awful place?" Draco interrupted, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Because back in the Malfoy Manor, in spite of the fact that my personal interest is to have clean underwear, I had someone to do my laundry for me. Get what I'm saying?"
Harry grimaced. "Fine. I'm sorry I suggested it."
"No need to apologize. I can understand why you think I've somehow softened up and that I might help your cause without expecting anything in return."
"Heaven forbid you'd expect something back, because you are a pillar of selflessness and unequaled virtue."
Draco ignored his sarcasm. "You still can't explain why I told you all those things before you met up with Snape. You know that Granger talked me into it, but you don't know how, so you-wide-eyed hero-figured that Granger appealed to my good nature and convinced me to help you."
Harry was losing patience. "If you mean she threatened to rip your throat out, then yeah, I suppose I can understand how she appealed to your 'good nature.'"
"She told me that since I hadn't the power to exact revenge on Voldemort, that you'd serve my revenge for me."
Harry was surprised. "She said that?"
"She didn't exactly mean that you'd be driven by a self-righteous need to avenge my mother, if you get what I'm saying, but considering I want Voldemort dead as much as you do, to me it's the same difference. Helping you defeat him is something I'm willing to do.
"Well, she always knew how to push your buttons, Malfoy, and I just bet you hate that."
"Exceedingly, but I'm past dwelling on that. She told me one other thing, though."
"And what did she tell you?"
"She said revenge has a tendency to make false promises."
"And that means what, to me?"
"It means hardly anything to you, but it got me thinking about intentions. Revenge would be proper motivation for the likes of me; it might even be proper motivation for the likes of Granger, but you… being the way you are…"
Harry frowned. "What way?"
"Doing… things out of the goodness of your-" Draco made a face. "Heart."
Harry couldn't resist, sneering. "Well, now, that wasn't so painful, was it?"
"Shut it, Potter. What I'm trying to say is, if you go in there fighting Voldemort fire with fire-well, you're not going to win. Hate is his thing. You… have a different thing altogether. Get what I mean?"
"Why don't you explain to me what that thing is."
"Blow me. Go buy a greeting card. You'll get your explanation." Draco then straightened his rumpled house robes. "That's really all I have to say to you." With that, Draco turned and left.
Harry was too tired to pursue Draco. He needed sleep, even if he knew his mind wasn't going to let him.
He made his way up to the gym, regardless of whether there were still guests left. He was past being polite.
Harry activated his golem, and proceeded to trade blows with it. The dummy didn't stand a chance. He kicked it, threw it, punched it, and he even twisted its neck-up to a point where he actually broke the wood upon which it was made.
As he stared gasping for breath at the oaken carcass sprawled at his feet, he fell to his hands and knees in exhaustion. A moment later, he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling until he finally drifted off to sleep.
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Ron and Remus woke him three hours later, telling him that there were things that needed attending to in the defensive front.
Harry didn't even ask what he could possibly do. He just showered and met Ron and Remus at the floo from where he was whooshed from one floo to another, seeing teams as each were sent off to mount their defense in each location.
It took Harry all day, but he could sense something in these soldiers when he looked into their eyes and shook their hands. Was it hope? Harry wasn't sure. He never thought he could ever inspire such a thing. He'd been rather dark, almost surly these last five years, fighting Death Eaters, searching for Hermione, and wallowing in alcohol whenever his search failed… he wasn't exactly the harbinger of glad tidings, but behind the fear and apprehension evident in the tight clasp of their handshake, Harry saw what it meant to them that he was there, bidding them good luck. It was terrifying to carry that burden, but it wasn't something he could choose to refuse.
Mad Eye, being in one of the last groups that was dispatched to Hogwarts, held him by the shoulder and said, "You got us this far, lad, and we'll see this to the end with you."
It felt strange. The last time Harry remembered Mad Eye giving him a pep talk was in fourth year, during the Triwizards Tournament, and that wasn't even Mad Eye.
Still, it got Harry wondering. Did Mad Eye really think he had gotten them to this point? And what exactly did "getting to this point" mean? Did it mean that he had gotten them this far, alive, therefore it was a good thing? Or maybe Moody thought it was the inevitable outcome from someone like Harry, cursed to fulfill a prophecy that could spell the difference between bondage and liberation? In that case, then it didn't seem so much like a bad thing, as it was that no one had a choice…
Harry wasn't sure about what he felt, considering. He had fought in this war since his first year in Hogwarts; he had felt the burden of it since his fourth. Looking back on it, he now wasn't sure if he'd been fighting for a cause. After all these years, having lost so many, he was more familiar with the concept of fighting to survive, and perhaps to prepare himself for the day he could end it all by facing off with Voldemort. Sometimes he worked with a team, and he did everything to ensure their survival, but had he actually stood on the battlefield and felt driven by self-righteous passion? That this was a fight about good triumphing over evil?
He was surprised to realize that it hadn't been like that for him. His motivations certainly hadn't been driven by selfishness, but "fighting for the side of good" seemed so abstract to him now, having lived the realities of war. The last eight years of his life had been about getting the guy next to him-on the battlefield-home, preferably alive, or making sure that Ron got to spend the next Christmas with his family, or having Tonks and Remus live so they could raise a family in peace, or getting Hermione back alive so that maybe they could have their happily ever after, dark fairy-tale though it might be. All these things meant something to him. These things were comprehensible and real. In the face of all that, "fighting for the side of good" seemed nothing more than Ministry propaganda.
Harry realized then that the soldiers he'd sent off weren't looking to him because they saw him as the Boy Who Lived. They looked at him and saw a bloke who understood exactly what they were fighting for. He wasn't like Dumbledore who was a symbol of wisdom, goodness, and strength. That image, however gloriously inspiring, was inaccessible and distant, almost divine; like Merlin and Morgana. At any rate, he didn't want to be like that. He wanted these soldiers to look at him and see a man who fought with them on the battlefield; someone they could call to for help and expect to pull them up by the hand, physically, should they happen to fall, or find themselves hanging off a cliff, or buried under rubble. He wanted them to see a bloke who had reasons for living, reasons that weren't so far from theirs.
Those men who shook his hand weren't just telling him to defeat Voldemort. They were telling him to get through it alive, because if he survived it, then maybe they would, too.
How Harry wished it were that simple, but he wasn't about to shoot down their faith just because he felt inadequate. If they needed that faith, he was going to let them keep it, and so if he went down, the least he could do was go down with a great resounding bang. He certainly wasn't going to roll over and let Voldemort kill him. He would go kicking and screaming, and if he had to, he would take Voldemort down with him.
They sent the last of the groups off, and just before Ron stepped into the floo, Harry said he was going to pay Solomon a visit. Ron and Remus gave no objections, letting him go without a word.
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Solomon had been awake for a little more than an hour and given a few pints of healthy blood. He was recovering quickly for someone who had such extensive burns, and Harry had a feeling that Solomon's eagerness to be up and about had a lot to do with Hermione's captivity.
At that point, Solomon was still weak from his injuries, and his eyes still looked haunted from unvoiced grief. He wouldn't be able to fight with the same competence he'd been trained for, but he was very much lucid, and he had complete control of his faculties. He wasn't going to jump Harry for blood, so his chains had been removed.
Solomon received him in the sterilized sofa chairs situated at the corner of his chamber. The idea that a vampire could get infected by disease was laughable, but the chairs didn't look the least bit cozy. There was a tiny table that could be used as a chessboard and there were several outdated magazines tucked into a nearby rack, as if it were acceptable reading material.
Harry noticed Solomon cringing a bit as he limped and sat, gingerly making himself comfortable.
"What's the plan, Potter?" Solomon asked as he slowly settled back on the sofa chair.
Harry supposed he should've expected that Solomon was as concerned about getting Hermione back as he was. "The plan is to find out where they've kept her, and then get her out of there alive while I engage Voldemort."
"And how are we going to find out where she is?"
"Spies. We've got someone on it."
"You're not meaning that bloke Snape, are you?"
"No. This one's different." Harry trusted Solomon, but he couldn't go into any more details. Apart from the fact that Harry didn't know who this spy actually was, Ron had asked him to be discreet in discussing it with anyone else.
Solomon nodded grimly.
They stayed silent for several moments and Harry gave Solomon the chance to think on it.
"It was Janus who killed Lucien," said Solomon, breaking the silence. "There was nothing Hermione or I could do. Lucien could've fought back, but then they would've killed me, instead. Lucien wouldn't have let me die."
Harry felt his apprehension clenching his insides. "Don't go there. Don't blame yourself. Trust me when I say you don't want to go down that road. It's nothing but destructive, and its not going to help find Hermione."
Solomon seemed to understand. "You're going to the Riddle House tonight?"
Harry nodded.
"It means then you'll see her. Alive, likely."
"Likely. If they want me to cooperate at all."
Solomon looked ponderous. "Are you ready for the worse, then?"
Harry didn't even have to ask him what he meant. "I don't know. I thought the worst Voldemort could do was create Horcruxes. Then he goes and gets the notion of stealing a soul to make himself immortal. That's-like 'out-worsting' himself."
Solomon could only shake his head in resignation. "It's going to be bad."
"Yeah… Solomon, I need you to promise me something."
Solomon stared at him a moment before he glared. "Are you going to make me promise to take care of Hermione if something happens to you?"
Harry paused.
"Are you? Because that's a load of bullocks, Harry. I'll take care of her with or without a promise to you, but you can't be going into that fight thinking it's okay to die because I promised. You don't get a free pass to sacrifice your sorry-arse. No way. Do you realize what it'll do to Hermione if you're killed?"
Harry sighed, rubbing gingerly at his eyes so that he didn't have to look at Solomon. "Of course I want to get out of this alive, but I don't know what's going to happen to me. That's the honest truth. I just don't know… Ron will be there for her. He's her best friend, but I know how different… Ron's not a vampire. There are a lot of things he doesn't understand about your kind. So please. Please do this for me, Solomon. I need to hear it, just so-just so I don't have to think about it when it gets really rough. Do you understand?"
Solomon was silent for several heartbeats before he finally sighed and nodded. He shook his head several times before he said it. "I promise. I'll take care of her. If there's a way for her to be happy again, I'll find it. There. Satisfied?"
"Yes. Thank you."
"But you'll try to come back alive, yes? Promise you'll try."
Harry nodded. "I promise. On Hermione's life and Lucien's grave, I promise I'll try."
And that seemed good enough for Solomon.
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Little Hangleton was a nice little Muggle town with tree-lined streets and four bedroom houses that could accommodate up to at least two cars in their respective garages. The front lawns were manicured to perfection and there wasn't a clay gnome in sight, much less any pink plastic flamingos. The sprinklers went off one after the other at precisely the moment Harry stepped through the shadows and out on the sidewalk.
He pushed back his hood and he immediately felt sprinkler mist settling gently on his cheek. The miniscule droplets stuck to the fleece material of his jumper.
He walked a bit through this picturesque town, reaching the town park with its wrought iron benches and neon-plastic child-safe jungle gyms, slides, ball pools and swings. Harry could just imagine the yuppie parents sitting at the nicely burnished wooden tables, chit-chatting amongst themselves as their children played over the rubberized mats and rolled in the association-maintained sandbox.
Harry trained his eyes in the distance and saw the hill with the house atop it. It had been easy enough to find the place through the Muggle network. The vamps, for one, had extensive data on maps and locations. The Riddle house, passed on from one owner to another, had stayed unoccupied in the last twenty-two years. It was Little Hangleton's haunted house, though no reports of ghosts or phantoms reached Wizarding records. The rumor-mill said that the house was being kept by its owner for "tax purposes," sans the owner's name, of course. The owner was not named.
Harry felt his stomach turn with apprehension.
He could have Apparated straight to the foot of the hill. His trip would have been faster, and he could have avoided the risk of being seen, but he'd reached the proverbial edge of his cliff, the tiger behind him, and it was now time for him to jump. He wasn't afraid. He just needed that one moment to stare into the abyss and think, "This is it."
The house was a dark monolith under the light of the moon, creatures-bats-fluttering out of the tallest spire and into the night. He fished something from the pocket of his jacket, extracting the vial of Revivisco potion that Ron had given him when Harry asked for it.
"Is it safe to drink?" Ron had asked, sharply.
Harry had said, "It is," after which he shoved the letters from McGonagall and the Ministry Poisons Specialist into Ron's hands. "See for yourself."
Ron had shoved the letters back and simply gave the vial to Harry. "I'm not telling you to drink the potion, but I do believe in your instincts. If you think you should, drink it. Just please remember, I don't want you to die, and neither does Hermione. You come back to us alive, Harry."
Harry had nodded as he held the vial in his hand.
Now, staring at the Riddle House from a distance, he popped the cork from the vial and tossed its contents into his mouth. It tasted vile, and for a moment, Harry thought he would gag, but the nausea could have just been nerves, and Harry wasn't about to choke now. He took deep cleansing breaths to steady his gorge, and finally getting it under control, he proceeded to walk.
Further into the park, he found the second Apparition point from where he set off to fulfill his destiny.
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The roof was alive. Amidst the chipped and missing tiles of the Riddle house, an eerie blanket of life stirred its derelict surface. Ravens flitted about, hopping from one broken tile to another. The broken windows were boarded, overgrown ivy infesting the house's facade.
It was a mansion, larger than any structure, would have been grander than any house in the village it overlooked from its perch atop the hill, but it was old and derelict, its former glory succumbing to neglect and the ravages of time.
The house leaked water on one side, the ground beneath the broken pipe sodden, and mosquitoes buzzed about frantically above the murky pool. The steps leading to the front porch looked ready to give way. The wood appeared rotted through even as dust blanketed the worst of the decay.
He approached the front steps, feeling the wards grow heavier around him.
The moment he steps into the house, he would be at their mercy. He had but one weapon at his disposal: His will.
Apprehensively, he checked the pendant around his neck and felt the shape of the fanged angel familiar against the pads of his fingers. He tucked the pendant safely back into his shirt and climbed the front steps carefully.
Harry found this strangely hilarious and actually chuckled midway up the stairs. "What am I doing?" he muttered to himself. There's a Dark Lord waiting for me inside the house and I'm afraid of falling through the front steps? Brilliant.
He reached the porch without mishap and he stood at the door, turned the knob and realized that it was locked. It seemed silly to knock, so he stepped back, aimed his wand, and was about to blast the door open when there was a click, and then a latch shrieked. He heard the rumble of a bolt being slid out of the way, and finally, the door opened.
Harry glared at the rat-faced man that peered out of the crack. "Peter."
Peter squeaked slightly before a poisonous smile spread from his lips. "You're right on time, Harry." The door was swung wider open and Harry stepped in. He dealt Peter an even fiercer glare and while Peter did not shrink back, Harry saw him swallow.
Satisfied, Harry turned his eyes down the long walkway as the door was closed behind him.
As soon as Peter jammed the last lock, the walkway enlarged, turning into a great, grand hall with plush carpeting, thirteenth century French décor, and two grand staircases rising on both sides.
Descending the stairs were Lucius Malfoy, Bellatrix Lestrange, and Antonin Dolohov. A few other Death Eaters followed behind them. All of them were human.
Lucius looked as impeccable as ever, poised and put-together in his expensive robes and immaculately combed blonde hair. It was strangely shocking, to be looking at Lucius and thinking Draco was staring right back at him. Harry always knew that Draco favored his father, but perhaps in the last five years, he hadn't thought about Draco and Lucius in that sense. Lucius was Draco's father, but Draco hadn't acted like Lucius's son in half a decade. It was startling to realize that Lucius and Draco were once mirror-images of each other in both looks, principle, and ambition.
Or maybe Draco hadn't really changed all that much, just that Draco's loyalties to himself far outweighed anything that Lucius had tried to make of him.
Bellatrix Lestrange wasn't much of a surprise. The woman had always been on the frontlines of Voldemort's raiding parties. She was a fighter, and she was driven by blind adoration. She had regained some of her former good looks, but age and Azkaban had taken a lot from her. Harry still considered her a crazed bitch, and nothing she did or wore could make her seem like a beautiful woman.
Antonin Dolohov looked as frightening as ever, with his eyes still livid with psychotic zeal. Harry still couldn't look at him without remembering how terrified Harry had been when Dolohov hit Hermione with that purple, zigzagging curse. It was a horrible moment burned into Harry's brain.
Harry found himself surrounded by these terrible people, but he didn't move.
"Did you like the package I sent you, Potter?" Bellatrix asked with a sneer.
Harry ignored her. "Where's Hermione? I want to see her."
Dolohov laughed.
Lucius dealt Harry a disdainful frown. "Your Mudblood is alive. That is all you need to know."
Harry shook his head. "I won't cooperate unless I see her."
Dolohov smirked. "You won't like what you see."
"Antonin," Lucius said, piercing a glare in Dolohov's direction.
Harry waited, stifling the urge to demand for what Dolohov meant by it.
"Your Mudblood," Lucius continued in a overly dignified tone, "is alive. I needn't explain to you-however, why the circumstances of her captivity is most uncomfortable-"
Harry's stomach turned. "What have you done to her?"
Lucius seemed annoyed. "Nothing she didn't merit, I assure you. I am sure you will be pleased to know that she managed to kill two people and wounded three others very severely while in captivity."
It didn't please Harry in the least. Random killing was not something Hermione would do. They had to have done something to merit her ferocity.
Like killing Lucien before her very eyes?
Harry took a deep breath. "I want to see her."
"You will. In a few hours, we'll show her to you, alive and… I suppose alive would have to do." Lucius signaled the Death Eaters behind him and they were upon Harry, stripping him of his weapons, his wand, his vampire and werewolf implements; all but his clothes, his glasses, and the pendant around his neck.
Lucius nodded to Bellatrix and Bellatrix led the way, Dolohov tailing her.
Harry, hands bound behind his back and surrounded by Death Eaters, was forced to follow. He stumbled as they pushed him, and he cringed as they twisted his arms. He was led further into the house, and reaching what seemed like the farthest corner, Dolohov opened the heavy iron doors leading to stairs. They descended, torches lighting as they came.
At the bottom of the steps, they walked a damp and narrow hallway, at the end of which were three empty cells in a semi-circle.
Peter emerged from behind Harry and opened the cell door, after which Harry was shoved in, hands still bound.
Harry spun on his feet, glaring at them all, but he said nothing. There was hardly anything he could do now except hope that Snape and Ron's spy would find Hermione soon.
Bellatrix walked into the cell and stood by the door, wand drawn, and for a moment, Harry feared that they had brought him there to kill him, that the entire thing was a ruse, and that there was no real need for him to have been there, except to dispose of him.
Her wand whipped in his direction. "Expurgo!"
The curse flung him backwards, his back crashing against the wall. The blow knocked the breath out of him, and he crumpled to the floor, gasping. He was glowing deep orange, and he could feel something warm pooling in his belly.
Steam began to rise from his skin, as if something was escaping his body, and the urge to vomit suddenly became overwhelming. He doubled over on his knees just before his gorge rose and his stomach emptied its contents. It was disgusting, especially tasting Snape's potion in his mouth, mixed with what he could only figure was his own bile.
He kept spewing and gagging, and his body continued to emit strange vapors of varied colors.
His throat began to hurt from throwing up, and perspiration broke out of his skin from all the painful effort.
After several more minutes of this, the effects of the curse waned, and try as he might to stay upright, he fell back against the wall as he caught his breath. He felt a bit weak, but he figured it was the sort one recovered from quickly.
At any rate, he had to recover quickly. He didn't have much time to spare.
"Think that's enough?" Antonin asked, eyeing Harry.
Bellatrix nodded. "It is. My spells are always perfect."
Antonin scowled at this. Apparently, it was some kind of slanted criticism of him.
With that, Bellatrix turned and led the way out. Dolohov followed after her, the rest of the Death Eaters trailing after them. Peter was left to close the dungeon bars.
"What was that?" Harry rasped. "What did she do to me?"
Peter shot him a scowl. He showed no desire to answer.
"You owe me that much," Harry hissed through his labored breathes.
Peter looked like he'd rather eat slugs than let Harry talk him into answering questions, but perhaps he did remember very clearly how Harry spared him that night at the Shrieking Shack, because with obvious reluctance, he replied. "It was a detoxification spell. It removed any impurities from your system. Its one of the milder dark spells."
Harry could have sworn his stomach dropped, and it wasn't from the spell, either. "Removed… impurities?"
"Potions, Muggle medicine, food… anything you might have ingested in the last twenty-four hours. It's mostly used for dark-ritual preparation."
No, he thought with climbing despair. The Revivisco…
With that, Peter slammed the cell shut. "You have to be clean when the Dark Lord uses you. Just to be on the safe side, you know? So sit tight. The Master will be here to see you in a few hours. You needn't do anything."
Harry shut his mind from the inevitable implications of what Peter said, at least for the moment. Despairing was going to get him nowhere. So long as he was alive, there had to be a way. "And Hermione?"
"You'll see her later."
"Is she in the house?"
Peter smirked but didn't reply. With that, Peter turned and left, the torches dying as he ascended the stairs out of the dungeon.
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A/N: Pass "go" and on to the next chapter!