The Hidden Hero

It was always amusing to hear muggles scream in pain. It filled him with a heady sense of power. He was greater than any god these insignificant beings might worship. After all, it was he, Lord Voldemort, to whom they were praying when they begged for mercy. He was the one who could decide to stop the pain or make it intensify. He, Lord Voldemort, could strike terror in the bravest heart. Cause children to cower, women to weep, and men to abandon hope. He could cause even the strongest to bow before him begging for their lives or the lives of loved ones. And, he was the one who, with a little wave of his wand, could stop their screams of pain or despair forever.

The months since his return to his body were busy. In secret, he had reached out to his natural allies, dark creatures such as the giants, werewolves, and dementors, to solidify his base in preparation for his plan to seize control of the Ministry. Some creatures, such as the goblins and centaurs refused to take sides in what they deemed a human war. While this was infuriating, at least they would not align themselves with the Ministry. And, once he had gained full power, he would teach them the folly of having refused to do his bidding.

As he had worked surreptitiously to recruit more Death Eaters and extend the reach of his power, he enjoyed the occasional foray into the muggle world for some amusement. He also enjoyed keeping his Death Eaters alert and eager to please. He had not forgiven their failure to come to his aid during the years he existed in a non-corporeal form. He was not slow to use the Cruciatus Curse or even, if he chose, the Killing Curse. Let them fear him and know the wrath of their god.

*

Harry always found the moment where he “separated” from Voldemort disconcerting. He was leaving one plane of reality for another – where he no longer thought Voldemort’s thoughts, but his own. It usually took him time to process the memories of the past hours, sorting through how Harry felt about what had happened. He worked hard to do this as he was petrified of losing himself inside Voldemort. He feared that the lines separating him from the Dark Lord might blur.

“I’m the hero; I’m the savior,” he would repeat endlessly. While it was simplistic, it felt like a lifeline – the only constant that he could cling to in a reality that was ever shifting.

Harry dug deeper and deeper into Voldemort’s mind to learn everything he could. The first time Voldemort had shown Harry how to connect to his core magic had been a feeling unlike anything the boy had ever known. It brought with it a sense of power and release that Harry could hardly describe. His body felt energized in a way he had never known. It was as if he had only been using a small portion of his magic and that, even this, had been muffled at best. It wasn’t something that Harry could explain or could imagine that any teacher could teach. Rather, the ability to access his core magic appeared to come naturally for Voldemort. Perhaps this was a talent that all great wizards possessed. Through living in Voldemort’s mind, and sharing his thoughts, Harry was able to replicate the ability to tap into his own inner core.

Harry found that, once he had accessed this core, his magic seemed to hum through his blood. He had no doubt that, with a wand to channel his magic, he would be able to cast more powerful spells than he ever had before. In satisfaction, he thought that Voldemort himself was teaching him the magic he would need to know in order to defeat the Dark Lord.

Each day, Harry absorbed as much of information from Voldemort as he could. Harry noted in some disbelief that, in some areas, Voldemort had very little learning indeed. For instance, Harry had searched for information about elves, since he himself had always been interested in elves after he had met Dobby. But, Voldemort knew almost nothing about them. Harry guessed that Voldemort had no interest in learning about creatures he thought so far beneath the notice of a wizard. Harry, wondering whether this was true of other creatures, poked around in Voldemort’s mind and found his theory confirmed. Voldemort knew little of goblins, centaurs, mermaids and many other creatures Harry found fascinating.

On the other hand, Voldemort knew information about Dark creatures, of which the basilisk was just one example, that Harry thought Hagrid would envy. Harry learned how to speak the language of Dark creatures such as the Chimaera and Lethifold. Harry delved into Voldemort’s thoughts and learned parseltongue too. He found the language rather difficult to master, as it was not based in any way on human speech. However, he felt more comfortable learning parseltongue, rather than just inexplicably “knowing” it.

Voldemort was clearly a master of the Dark Arts and Harry learned under his unwitting tutelage. The boy learned spells and incantations for Dark Arts that had not been practiced in centuries. He worried that the spell he had not yet learned would be the one that would see him to victory and, each day, he was eager to enter Voldemort’s mind to learn more and more.

In addition to learning from Voldemort’s memories, Harry also learned new spells in real time, as Voldemort taught himself. Of course, being Voldemort, many of the new spells focused on how to cause pain and death or what would be useful in a duel. There was Corpus Incendio, which caused a person to burst aflame; Ossis Fracta, which made all the bones in the body shatter simultaneously; Echo Magnus, which caused a greatly magnified spell to rebound against its caster; Respiro Terminus, which caused a person to suffocate slowly; Protego Maximus, which provided for an enhanced protective shield; and many more. While Voldemort enjoyed practicing his newly invented spells, Harry shuddered as he learned many of them. However, when Voldemort learned to fly without a broom, Harry burned to have a wand to practice doing so as well. While Harry (mentally) accompanied Voldemort in the Dark Lord’s broomless flights, Harry preferred the sensation of flying on a broom. But, he wondered whether he would feel differently if he were the one flying, rather than Voldemort.

The boy was even able to learn some limited wandless magic, such as summoning his cot blanket to his hand. But, he knew that it would take months and maybe years more practice before he could master this ability.

He was loath to admit it but learning magic from Voldemort was not the only reason that Harry found himself living large portions of every day in Voldemort’s mind. It was like a tooth ache where he couldn’t stop his tongue from prodding at the painful spot. Harry found visiting Voldemort’s mind strangely intoxicating. He hated it on one level and couldn’t avoid it on another. When he wasn’t living inside the Dark Lord’s thoughts, Harry wondered what Voldemort was doing. He found it was worse to imagine what Voldemort was doing than to witness his atrocities, no matter how heinous.

And, worst of all, there was the insidious knowledge that he visited Voldemort’s mind because it offered him a twisted sense of comfort. Voldemort’s mind had provided a sort of haven to him, protecting him from the attacks of the Dementors. It was a devil’s bargain. Harry now found that he was unable to close his eyes without seeing images of torture and murder Voldemort had seared forever in his memory. To avoid memories of his previous visits to Voldemort’s mind, Harry would visit him again. It was like drinking water from a well, knowing that it was enchanted so that, with every sip, the drinker became thirstier. Harry was helpless to stop drinking.

*

He knew that some of his Death Eaters, understanding now that their master was more demanding than they had realized (and that they were not protected by their own status as Death Eaters), secretly wondered whether they should abandon their allegiance to him. He was amused. As if they had any choice. Anyone who tried to leave would be killed, as Igor Karkaroff, that fool, had learned. Besides, the Ministry’s days were numbered. Soon, he would seize control and the wizarding world would be his to command.

After many months of being able to consolidate his power in relative peace, the Ministry had finally learned that he had returned. He had been foolish to try to enter the Ministry to retrieve that prophecy about Potter and himself. (Where was that boy anyway? It was infuriating that all efforts to find him had failed.) In retrospect, he wondered whether Dumbledore -- that thorn in his side! -- hadn’t laid a trap for him. He hadn’t been able to hear the prophecy after all and he had almost been caught by Aurors who seemed to have been lying in wait. The Daily Prophet had actually been able to take a picture of him at the Ministry. With this evidence, even the Minister could not hide his head in the sand any longer and had been forced to admit that the Dark Lord had returned.

He had been furious that he had failed in his effort to retrieve the prophecy, but at least he and his Death Eaters had been able to strike deadly blows that night. When the battle cleared, many Ministry employees, including Amelia Bones, Emmeline Vance, Nymphadora Tonks and Percy Weasley, lay dead. And, a number of people he knew (thanks to Snape) were members of the Order of the Phoenix lay dead as well, such as Sirius Black and Remus Lupin. He knew that Wormtail, at least, had breathed a huge sigh of relief upon learning of their deaths. That treacherous rat had always been afraid that his former friends would track him down and kill him for his betrayal of the Potters.

*

Harry stirred fitfully. Slowly, he came awake and shook the remnants of Voldemort’s thoughts from his head. Sirius! Lupin! Percy! All dead. He sat on his cot and cried.

*

While it was a disappointment that he hadn’t been able to retrieve the prophecy, he had learned something of major importance that night at the Ministry. It still made him shudder to think how chance alone had led him to his discovery. As he was battling with the Aurors at the Ministry, the Under Secretary to the Minister had appeared. Dolores Umbridge. Apparently, she was in charge of security measures and had been alerted that there was a breach at the Ministry and had come to check it out. In the midst of battle though he was, he had noticed Umbridge and his eyes had been caught by the pendant hanging from her neck. The locket of Slytherin!

He had grabbed hold of the woman, who had frozen in shock upon seeing him, and had disapparated from the Ministry still holding on to her. He was too busy assessing the damage done by his venture into the Ministry to deal with her right away. But, he had been able to interrogate her at leisure the next day. Not that it had taken much persuading to make the woman tell him where she had gotten the locket. But, he had enjoyed playing with her even after it was obvious that she had told him everything she knew.

He had learned that the woman had obtained the locket from a common street thief, a Mundungus Fletcher, known as “Dung”. Again, thanks to Snape, he knew that Mundungus was a member of the Order. He had easily captured Dung and had learned that the thief had stolen the locket from the Black House while attending a meeting of the Order.

Of course, he had dispatched both Umbridge and Dung once he had obtained the information he needed from them. Unfortunately, Dung had little other information of value. Dumbledore was not foolish enough to have taken the thief into his confidences. He was only able to confirm what Snape had already told him – that the Order was still desperately trying to find Harry Potter. Fools! Believing that Potter held the key to his defeat.

He caressed the locket hanging around his neck. This locket and his other horcruxes guaranteed that he was invincible. But, it was very disturbing that he had come so close to losing the locket. It still astonished him to realize how it had come to be at the Black House. He had traveled to the cave where he had hidden the locket and discovered the treachery of Regulus Black, who had learned of the secret of the horcrux, and sought to steal it from him. The perfidious creature! If he wasn’t already dead, he would so enjoy killing him! But, after all, the horcrux was safe now. What a fool that boy had been to think he could possibly interfere with the plans of the mighty Lord Voldemort.

*

“Disengaging” from Voldemort’s mind, Harry went a little crazy.

Harry grabbed his hair with both hands and started tearing at it. Anyone watching would have thought he had gone stark, staring mad. “Get it out! Get it out!” he screamed repeatedly.

Voldemort was capable of splitting his soul into pieces. And, without needing anyone to explain further, Harry knew – he knew – that he was a horcrux too. It was obvious! How else could he see into Voldemort’s mind, feel Voldmeort’s thoughts? Somehow, without meaning to do so, or realizing that this had happened, Voldemort had left a part of his soul in Harry the night that Voldemort had cast the Killing Curse at Harry’s baby self.

The boy ran around the cell, clawing at himself, madly trying to pull Voldemort’s soul from his head with his own hands. The Dementors ignored the screaming. It was not unusual for prisoners to go crazy in Azkaban; the boy had lasted longer than expected. In a frenzy, Harry started banging his head into the wall of his cell. Finally, he banged his head so hard, he knocked himself unconscious.

When he awoke, he was nauseous and he lay in a pool of his own sickness. He couldn’t focus his eyes and his thoughts were disjointed. The Dementors approached the cell, excited by the despair they could sense overpowering the boy. Harry did not try to escape. He was too horrified of linking with Voldemort again to travel through the “tunnel” back into the Dark Lord’s mind.

Sucking in a rattling breath, the Dementors plunged the teenager back into the memory of Voldemort’s interrogation of Umbridge. He relived her murder at the Dark Lord’s hands and felt again the fear and worry experienced by Voldemort when he had realized that a horcrux had been at risk of being destroyed. He saw himself awaken from that vision to the realization that he was horcrux himself. He relived his mad behavior.

When Harry woke yet again from this seemingly endless loop of despair, he lay still and stared at the ceiling of his cell. He stared at that ceiling for so long, he could recall the particular design of the cracks and swirls with his eyes closed. But, he kept his eyes open and slowly traced each crack, calming himself and centering his thoughts. “My mother loved me. She had faith in me. She knew I was good.” He got up off his bed and ran to the cell door. Looking through the bars of the door he shouted, challengingly, “I am not evil! I am a hero!”

No one answered. There were no prisoners near him. He was alone in Azkaban, surrounded by Dementors. Aloud, to hear himself say the words, and to convince himself, he said, “I am not controlled by Voldemort. He may be evil but I am NOT. A piece of his soul may be in me, but I’ll cut it out of me somehow.”

Shaking, but in control, Harry sat back down on his cot. He muttered to himself, thinking it through, “It’s not like when Riddle controlled Ginny. She didn’t know what was happening. She’d blank out and wake up hours later. Riddle controlled her body and forced her to open the Chamber of Secrets. Voldemort doesn’t even realize that I have a link to him. He’s not controlling me. Who knows? Maybe I can control him.” Incredibly, Harry felt himself smile at his own dark humor. It felt strange to smile. The muscles of his face had almost forgotten how to pull up. In curiosity, Harry lifted a hand and traced his mouth, feeling the ghost of the smile still there. After a moment, Harry’s hand dropped and the smile was a memory.

“He won’t defeat me.” The words were said with quiet assurance. Hearing them, Harry was surprised. They sounded so sure. It was as if someone other than himself had uttered them. Becoming calmer still, his thoughts sharpened. “This is how he ‘marked me as his equal’. That’s what Aunt Petunia told me that the prophecy said. This is part of the prophecy,” he realized.

He turned over this newfound knowledge in his head for a while. Then, nodding to himself, continued aloud, “I’m going to win.” There was a note of surprise in his voice. But, it wasn’t because he didn’t believe himself. It was because he did. He let the truth settle into him. He burned with the knowledge. It seemed so right.

“I’m going to win,” he said again. And, this time, the words were said with utter conviction.

*

What to do about the Elder Wand? He had learned from the wand maker, Ollivander (currently a guest in a cell at Malfoy Manor), that Mark Twist’s wand had a shared core with his own wand, resulting in the unusual effect of Priori Incantatem. While he knew that Twist’s wand had since been destroyed, snapped by the Ministry after Twist had been taken to Azkaban, he no longer felt confident in his own wand. He had pursued the trail of the Elder Wand, which had taken him to the wand maker Gregorovitch, and the imprisoned Grindewald, both of whom he had killed when they were no longer useful to him. He now realized that Dumbledore had possession of the wand.

No matter. He would soon kill Dumbledore and then he, Lord Voldemort, would be the master of the Elder Wand. As it should be. After all, he was the greatest wizard of all time.

*

Harry seethed. It had been almost three months since Voldemort had failed to retrieve the prophecy from the Ministry of Magic and the wizarding world had learned of the Dark Lord’s return. Yet, Harry was still languishing in Azkaban.

Harry presumed that Fudge refused to clear his name because to do so would be to admit that Voldemort had been behind the murders of Cedric and Moody months before the Ministry had been willing to admit that the Dark Lord had returned. So, instead of telling the truth, the Minister preferred to let an innocent teenager remain in prison.

The Dementors had long since fled to join Voldemort, leaving Azkaban to be patrolled only by Ministry guards. Harry knew that the guards still believed him to be a murderer. In those first days after the human guards had arrived, Harry had often awoken from his ventures into Voldemort’s mind to find that his body had been injured during his mental absence. The pain from the kicks he had received made him retreat back into Voldemort’s mind and remain there for long periods while his body healed slowly. Eventually, the guards left the unresponsive teen alone, believing him to have been driven insane by the Dementors.

*

Of course, he had wanted to assure himself about the safety of the other horcruxes. He had retrieved the ring he had hidden in the floorboard of the Gaunt house. Bellatrix, who he had released from Azkaban along with her fellow imprisoned Death Eaters, had retrieved Hufflepuff’s cup from the Lestrange vault at Gringott’s. Soon, he intended to place these three horcruxes in the secret room at Hogwarts, to join the diadem of Ravenclaw already hidden there. They would all be safest there. But, only he could hide them in the room, since he didn’t wish to entrust anyone with the secret of the room’s existence. His remaining horcrux, Nagini, he would be careful to keep close by. One of his horcruxes, he knew, was lost forever.

Whenever he thought of his diary, he became as livid as the first time he had learned that Lucius Malfoy had let it out of his possession. When he had asked Lucius to return the diary to him, Lucius had admitted what he had done and how it had been destroyed by Mark Twist. (If that filthy little mudblood wasn’t already lying in a cell at Azkaban, having been driven insane by the Dementors before they had abandoned the prison to join the Dark Lord, he would kill the boy now!) In order to show the depth of his displeasure, he had made Lucius’ son Draco torture the father. He had forced Draco to use the Cruciatus Curse on his father for so long that Lucius still twitched whenever he saw his son. Well, he hoped that Lucius appreciated his generosity in not killing him straightaway. It was only because he could appreciate Lucius’ goal to open the Chamber of Secrets again that he had let him live. But, it had taught him an important lesson. It had been a mistake to trust anyone to safeguard his most valuable of possessions: his horcruxes.

Soon, soon! He would take over the Ministry and take over Hogwarts. When he seized control of the school, he would hide his horcruxes in the secret room, and rest easy about their safety. He would kill the Minister and Dumbledore and his hold on power would be complete. No one could stop him.

*

Inside his cell at Azkaban, a young boy ticked off the horcruxes on his fingers and wondered how best to destroy them.

*

“Barty Crouch, Jr.? He’s dead,” said the Minister in confusion.

“Apparently not,” said Kingsley Shacklebolt dryly. “He was captured in last night’s battle. We lost three Aurors in the fight, but we were able to kill two Death Eaters and capture Crouch. ”

“But how is this possible?”

“I’m not sure, sir. He has refused to say much, other than that his ‘master’ will save him.” Kingsley’s voice was even but his eyes showed his disdain of Crouch’s “master.”

“Well, make him talk! We need to know everything! How the hell does a man dead for over twelve years suddenly turn up? And, what does he know about what You Know Who is planning?”

“Yes, sir, we’ll make him talk. We are expecting a shipment of veritaserum to arrive shortly. Rufus Scrimgeor will be taking the lead in the interrogation.” Kingsley named the Head of Magical Law Enforcement who had replaced Amelia Bones after that lady had been murdered by Voldemort months ago.

“I want to be present.”

“Of course, sir.”

*

Scrimgeour’s interrogation of Crouch was thorough. Under the effects of veritaserum, Crouch explained how his father had helped him escape Azkaban years before. How Crouch Sr. had kept his son under the Imperius Curse to stop him from trying to find the Dark Lord, to whom he remained loyal. How Voldemort, along with Peter Pettrigrew (another person who they had thought dead years before!), had freed him from his father’s prison, placing Crouch Sr. under the Imperius Curse instead. How he had impersonated Alastor Moody so as to take his place as Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts with the intention of entering Mark Twist into the Triwizard Tournament. How he had killed Crouch Sr., burying his body on Hogwarts grounds. How he had turned the Triwizard Cup into a Portkey which had transported Twist to Voldemort’s side where the boy’s blood had been used to restore Voldemort to his body. How Pettigrew on Voldemort’s orders had killed Diggory. How Twist had escaped Voldemort but that Crouch had killed Moody, framing Twist for the murder.

Unfortunately, Crouch didn’t have much information about Voldemort’s war plans. The Dark Lord was not the type to share his thoughts with even his most loyal followers. Crouch was able to tell them that Voldemort was planning on taking over the Ministry and purging the wizarding world of muggleborns, but this nothing new. He had no information about the “how” Voldemort intended to accomplish his goals.

After the interrogation, the men were silent for a long time.

Finally, Fudge said reluctantly, “What a disaster.”

Kingsley was startled. “What do you mean, Minister?”

Scrimgeour, looking grim, answered for Fudge. “How do we tell everyone that the Ministry was wrong not once, but twice, and locked up innocent wizards while You Know Who’s supporters walked free? How do we tell them that Black was innocent after all, just as Dumbledore told us after Black was killed during the Battle?” Within the Ministry, the night that Voldemort had tried to retrieve the prophecy and had killed a number of Ministry workers during his escape was referred to simply as “the Battle”.

Fudge continued. “You remember, when we realized that You Know Who had returned, and everyone was so panicked, it was important to have little bit of good news. People were relieved that at least Black was finally caught and killed.”

“And, now we tell everyone that Black was innocent and his death was actually yet another blow to our side. That Pettigrew was the murderer and he’s still at large.” Scrimgeour shook his head at the terrible news.

“What about Twist?” demanded Kingsley. “He’s still in Azkaban.”

“He’s the worst of it,” admitted Scrimgeour. “How do we tell everyone that an innocent boy is in Azkaban and there wasn’t even a trial?”

Fudge shifted uncomfortably. He recalled guiltily how Dumbledore had tried to convince him to release Twist once it was known that Voldemort had returned to power. Fudge had refused, arguing (as Dumbledore himself had said when Twist had first claimed Voldemort had framed him) that there was still no proof that Twist hadn’t killed Diggory and Moody. Now, Fudge said slowly, “We don’t tell.”

“What?!” demanded Kingsley in shock. Scrimgeour was silent but shot a piercing look at Fudge.

Fudge straightened and his face took on a belligerent, defensive look. “It doesn’t matter now to Twist whether or not he’s released. He’s already insane. What good would it do to tell everyone that we were wrong? It would just…demoralize them.”

Kingsley stared at Fudge in disbelief and shock.

Scrimgeour, looked slightly disapproving, was more pragmatic. “We’ll need to tell everyone something. After all, we’ve captured Crouch and it’s a mistake to hide that.”

Fudge looked down at the slack-jawed man, sitting quietly in a chair in the cell now that the interrogation was over. “We can dispose of him.”

Scrimgeour appeared to consider this plan. Kingsley’s eyes burned with fury but he held his tongue, waiting to see what would be decided. Finally, Scrimgeour said, “We are digging ourselves deeper into a problem. There are ramifications to our catching Crouch that we won’t know right away. He may be able to provide us with more information, so I don’t recommend killing him. At least, not yet. I think we can tell the public that Crouch was caught and confessed to Moody’s murder without stirring them up too much. We’ll have the Daily Prophet write a small article and bury it in the back pages of an issue. Most people won’t even read it. That way, we’re covered in that we disclosed the truth.”

Fudge looked unconvinced. “And do we tell about Pettigrew too?”

Scrimgeour nodded. “We have to. What if we catch him? Or, he’s spotted by someone? It can’t come out that he’s alive and working for You Know Who and that we didn’t tell anyone.”

Looking worried, Fudge asked, “But won’t there be a backlash against the Ministry for this?”

“I think we can have the Daily Prophet spin the article as we want it. Instead of focusing on the mistakes, we can focus on the fact that we were successful in capturing a Death Eater. And, not just any Death Eater. Obviously one of You Know Who’s inner circle.”

Kingsley spoke up, his voice tight. “And Twist?”

Scrimgeour didn’t respond to the censure he perceived in Kingsley’s voice. With composure, he said, “We’ll send someone to Azkaban right away to release Twist. He’ll be taken to St. Mungo’s and cared for there. There’s nothing further we can do for him.”

Fudge nodded and said, “All right. Let’s do it. Scrimgeour, you give Rita Skeeter a call, I’ll speak with Dumbledore. I want to let him know that we’re moving Twist to St. Mungo’s. Kingsley, you take care of the logistics of moving Twist.”

*

Harry had been resting on his cot in his cell when his head suddenly exploded with the pain of Voldemort’s fury. He found himself sucked quickly, and uncontrollably, through the tunnel in his mind and into Voldemort’s thoughts.

Crouch had been captured! Harry felt his robes whish around his legs as he strode furiously around the chamber. He paced the large, dimly lit room where a number of Death Eaters followed him with worried eyes, afraid that he would lash out at them in his fury over the capture of one of his favorites.

“Where is he being kept?” he demanded of Nott, who was kneeling on the cold floor, having just delivered the news to the Dark Lord.

“I…I don’t know, My Lord,” admitted Nott, trembling.

“Find out!”

“Y..y..yes, sir, of course.” At the gesture from his master, Nott rose and left the room.

Harry’s eyes fell on Draco. The blond teenager was standing in the far side of the room, trying to escape notice. What a disappointment the boy was. He had seemed to have all the makings of a Death Eater, but he lacked the killer instinct. He was the same age now as Barty Crouch had been when Barty had first entered his service. What a difference! The teenage Barty had embraced being a Death Eater.

Draco sensed the Dark Lord’s eyes upon him and trembled. “Crucio!” yelled Harry. He watched with cold eyes as the boy screamed and writhed on the floor. After a short while, he lifted the curse and watched impatiently as the teenager recovered, panting on the ground.

The other Death Eaters held their breaths, hoping that the Dark Lord would not turn his attention on them. Harry’s eyes swept the room, burning red and hard. “Soon,” he hissed. His followers twitched. “Soon, we will move on the Ministry and bring it to its knees. And anyone who stands in my way will feel my wrath!”

A few of the braver Death Eaters muttered, “Yes, My Lord.”

Bellatrix, looking at him adoringly, chanced more. “My Lord. The day cannot come too soon!”

Her adoration was amusing. However, while Harry smirked at the woman’s obvious infatuation for him, he found the hero-worship soothing. He felt his fury move from a boil to a slow simmer. “Yes, Bellatrix,” he purred. She shivered in pleasure at being addressed by him. “And after the Ministry, Hogwarts will fall, and the last bastion of resistance against me will be defeated. I will reign supreme.”

A current of excitement ran through the Death Eaters.

“Soon!” the Dark Lord promised. “Soon.”

*

Dumbledore looked sadly down at the sleeping boy. The boy had dark circles under his eyes and he was far too thin. With Voldemort’s attacks on the rise, the healers at St. Mungo’s were overworked and not very interested in attending a patient who was catatonic. However, at Dumbledore’s insistence, they had performed a cursory exam of the teenager and had healed the most obvious harms, such as resetting broken bones that had not mended properly. This evidence of the abuse that the boy had suffered during his months in Azkaban made Dumbledore sick and furious.

While the boy’s eyes were closed now, Dumbledore remembered how those eyes had burned as they had looked at him so accusingly. With a heavy heart, the old wizard recalled as clearly as if it were yesterday how the boy had stood so proudly, like a little prince, and told the headmaster that he would never forgive him.

“Mark?” No reaction from the boy.

Tentatively, Dumbledore probed at the teenager’s mind. He hit a wall. Nothing. There were no thoughts from the boy at all. Dumbledore wondered fleetingly, with a lurch of fear, if the boy’s soul had been sucked from his body by the Dementors before those foul creatures had fled Azkaban. Then, he reminded himself that this couldn’t be the case… the doctors had told him that Mark functioned in a limited capacity, using the bathroom, and eating his meals. Otherwise, however, Mark appeared to be completely unaware of his surroundings and did not respond to any of the attempts to communicate with him.

But, while his soul may not have been stolen by the Dementors, it was clear that his mind had been. The boy was completely non-responsive. It was too late to save him.

Dumbledore told himself, as he had numerous times before, that this boy was just another of Voldemort’s victims. Why, on this very ward were the Longbottoms, who had been driven insane during Voldemort’s first rise to power. Even after years of therapy, the Healers had not been able to repair the damage done to their minds.

Yes, Mark was no different from the many muggles and witches and wizards whose lives Voldemort had destroyed either in the past or in the Dark Lord’s current rise to power. But, Dumbledore couldn’t convince himself. The loss of this boy seemed more tragic. As if Voldemort had won a major battle. Dumbledore lightly patted Mark’s hand, which was resting above the blanket. “I’m sorry,” he said, as he had done the night he had rejected the boy’s pleas for help. It seemed as inadequate now as it had then. Sighing heavily, Dumbledore turned away from the sleeping teenager. Depressed and disheartened, he returned to Hogwarts.

*

Harry awoke in a comfortable bed, with a fluffy pillow under his head. He looked around in amazement. What had happened?

The room had no windows. There were only three walls; a curtain hung on the fourth side of the small room. The bed’s blanket and sheets and the walls of the room were all the sterile white of hospitals.

Harry leaned his head back on his pillow. He was sure he was at St. Mungo’s. He had been moved from Azkaban while he was inside Voldemort’s thoughts. He knew from his last visit to Voldemort’s mind that Crouch had been captured. Crouch had obviously confessed to killing Moody and explained how Diggory had died, clearing Mark Twist. The Ministry had finally released him from Azkaban. About time!

Harry wondered what he should do now that he was out of Azkaban. Should he demand a wand and search out Voldemort? He sat up in bed. He was dressed in new pajamas and had been bathed while he had been unconscious. He sniffed at his arm. He smelled fresh and clean. It was wonderful.

On the endtable next to the bed were his glasses. They had been broken for most of the time Harry had been in Azkaban. Now, they sat on the table in silent encouragement for him to get well. With tremendous relief, Harry put them on. He had missed being able to see clearly.

He climbed out of bed and took a few steps. Wait. Everyone, including Voldemort, thought he was insane. Maybe he should continue to let them think this. If Voldemort realized that Mark Twist had been able to survive Azkaban, would he come after him? Would everyone wonder how Twist had survived? Wasn’t it still the best strategy not to attract attention?

He stretched his body. He had tried to exercise every day in Azkaban. But, his muscles were still weak. He would wait and see what to do. Let everyone continue to think that he was catatonic. He could use some time to regain his strength and carefully plan what to do. Soon he would meet Voldemort. Soon.