The Laws of Physics

    The reflection of candle flames danced along the cave wall. Footsteps echoed as the Death Eaters Apparated and shuffled into their rows.

    "It is finished, then?" said Lucius, bowing before the Dark Lord as he approached him.

    "Yes." Voldemort stepped aside. "Or rather, it has just begun."

    Harry Potter lies on the floor behind him. His hands and feet were bound and the rim of his glasses was cracked. He was unconscious.

    It wasn't as hard as I thought it would be, Voldemort said to himself. Just had to find the weak spots in that rotten Albus Dumbledore's security. A flame rose up in the thin man's red eyes. He hated Dumbledore.

    But now he had Harry. Harry Potter, "The Boy Who Lived," Albus Dumbledore's pet, the one kid who could supposedly foil all his plans. Not anymore.

    Voldemort turned to his followers, much larger in numbers since the rumors of his return had become widespread. He smiled, or as close as his tightly drawn face could come to smiling. Some of the former Death Eaters had been late in returning. They had been properly tortured, of course. Listen to your Dark Mark -- the number one rule of the Dark Lord's circle.

    "We have him," said Voldemort. "This time, there won't be any funny business with Dumbledore's plans, or any other luck that has come by this inferior child."

    Voldemort drew something from inside his robe. A gun.

    The Death Eaters raised their eyebrows, almost in unison. They had experience with Muggle weaponry, certainly; their main victims were non-magical people. But the greatest of all wizards wielding one was something of a surprise.

    "This boy was raised like a Muggle, and now he will die like one." Voldemort pointed the barrel and clenched his finger around the trigger.

    But he couldn't pull it.

    Voldemort jerked his head and stared at the floor. What was wrong with him? He'd killed plenty of people in his time, most of whom had done him no wrong. And this boy had certainly done him wrong. Think of all the times he has embarrassed you! Think of all the times he has destroyed your plans. Murdering Harry Potter had been his life's goal for fifteen years. Here he was, about to put the Quaffle through the hoop, and his arm wouldn't throw.

    The Death Eaters were getting apprehensive.

    "Master?" said Crabbe, eyeing Goyle.

    Goyle shrugged. "Reminds me of Severus. And you know what happened with Severus."

    "Please!" Voldemort barked. "Allow me savor the moment! Fifteen years for one boy, more than any of you weaklings could handle."

    "He's beginning to sound like Alastor Moody," said Lucius Malfoy, just under his master's earshot. A few masks shook as people chuckled.

    Again Voldemort pointed. But he couldn't shoot, and he knew he wouldn't be able to. Not that night.

    "Lucius," he said, turning. "I have something else in mind for Mr. Potter. I entrust you to keep him in your dungeons while I ... put a few things in order."

    Lucius nodded.

    Like my sanity, thought Voldemort.

* * *

    Harry bolted upright. Or rather, he would have, if his bound hands hadn't thrown off his balance and made him clank back to the floor.

    He took a deep breath. "Percy!"

    His memory seemed a bit jumbled. But one thing was for sure: he was locked in a dungeon, and he owed it all to Percy Weasley.

    Sliding his hands carefully away from his back, Harry propped himself into a sitting position. His cell was large; maybe twelve by twelve feet. Three of the walls were rough stone, like the kind he had seen in medieval-times movies with the Dursleys. The other was a row of black metal bars criss-crossing each other. Harry figured it was opened by some kind of magic code, as there wasn't a door.

    The mess of puzzle pieces in his mind was beginning to piece itself together. King's Cross Station. Percy Weasley...

    Ron vanished through Platform 9 3/4. Harry began to follow.    "Wait," said Percy, putting his hand on the boy's shoulder. "I-- I saw something in a gift shop. Thought it would be a good birthday gift for Ron. Would you check it for me?"

    Harry shrugged. This was unusual for Percy; he was always the one to think he was right, and never admitted to needing help.

    "Okay. But we need to hurry, because the train leaves soon."

    Percy nodded. "You can even leave your stuff here, it's right nearby."

    Percy began walking very fast. Harry was shorter, and was almost jogging to keep pace.

    "Percy ... we don't need to sprint! There's--"

    The look in Percy's eyes stopped him. He stepped away.

    "Percy..."

    Harry noticed they were standing in a dark corner. He was backing into a wall.

    I should yell for help, thought Harry. But his voice seemed to be stuck in his throat.

    "This is hard for me," said Percy. "I like you, Harry. But in order for things to fall into place, you need to be taken out of the picture." He drew an injection needle from inside his jacket.

    "What are you talk--" But then Harry stopped. The needle had pierced his skin. And when a Draught of Living Death enters the bloodstream, it's instant unconsciousness.

    Harry swore inside his cell. Percy? Why Percy? What was Ron thinking when he didn't meet him through the Platform? Ron didn't know, did he? Harry cast the accusation out of his mind. There was no way Ron would knowingly let his brother harm him, and he knew it. He could picture Ron and Hermione fretting on the train. Some first day at Hogwarts. Or would Percy tell Ron that Harry was sick or something of the sort, and that he'd come later? That evil-

    Then Harry noticed something. A symbol was embossed into one of the stones. He squinted, trying to make out what it said.

    "Oh no," he mumbled. It was an intricately carved snake curling around a letter M. M for Malfoy. He was in Lucius Malfoy's dungeons.

* * *

    Voldemort sat in Dr. Georgius Sicklet's office.

    "I entrust that you will be keeping this meeting to yourself, Georgius?" he said, drawing a satchel of Galleons from inside his cloak.

    "Of course. Tell me what you need."

    Dr. Sicklet was a former Death Eater, too old to return to Voldemort's circle. He had managed to maintain a fairly respectable facade in the wizarding world, and was able to start his own practice. Voldemort allowed an evil smile to pass across his face as he remembered the Magipsychiatrics major's dastardly effect on many a Mudblood's mental health.

    "We had Harry Potter last night," said Voldemort calmly.

    Sicklet tried to keep the old Death Eater from welling up inside him. He almost said, "Oh ... tell me more!" but straightened his tie and took a few notes instead.

    "Fifteen years I've chased this child. Finally, I had him. But..." He stared for a moment, rubbing his chin reflectively.

    "Yes?" Sicklet wasn't quite sure how to address the great wizard in front of him. He wasn't 'Master' or 'My lord' anymore, really. And 'Sir' didn't seem quite right. He considered 'Mister,' but what would he put after it? Not Riddle, that was certain.

    "To put it bluntly," Voldemort continued, "I couldn't kill him."

    The psychiatrist stopped his pencil. It couldn't be. Stay professional, he told himself. This is just another confused wizard coming to you for advice. Well, one with creepy red eyes and no lips.

    "What were you feeling at the time, sir? What made you unable to kill him?"

    If Voldemort had had eyebrows, he would have furrowed them. But he didn't, so we'll have to say that he tightened the skin above his eyes.

    "I can't really say, Georgius. It was as if it wasn't meant to happen, or I shouldn't do it. I realized..." He looked like he was going to be sick. "I realized it wasn't right?"

    "But that never stopped you before."

    "Correct."

    Sicklet twirled the end of his mustache.

    "Well, we in the magipsychology business have a name for this. Are you familiar with the Laws of Physics?"

    "We learned them at the orphanage," Voldemort mumbled. "Newton... Galileo... Muggles, all of them. What could this possibly--"

    "Well, they say Newton had an aunt who attended Hogwarts..." He looked at Voldemort, who was eyeing him rather threateningly. "But that's beside the--"

    "Did you interrupt me, Georgius?" Voldemort drew himself up to full height in the chair.

    "Sorry, sorry," he said, ready to change the subject. "Anywho, one of the Laws is that what goes up must go down." He threw his pen into the air.

    Voldemort watched it clank onto the mahogany desk. His eyes became a red glow behind two narrow slits.

    "And what are you saying?" he asked, tilting his head like a bull before it charges.

    Dr. Sicklet rubbed his neck, suddenly remembered the Crucio curse quite vividly.

    "I... Okay. I'm going to be frank. Your personality, the way you think about the world, etc., etc. seems to be abiding by the physics laws, too. What goes up must come down. What goes evil must turn good."

    Voldemort stood up and slammed his hands to Sicklet's desk. He began to yell. "I don't think--"

    "It's happened before! Look at Severus... the Parkinsons... Ollivander, the wand shop owner, remember when he used to store the--"

    "I don't care about them! I'm not them, Georgius. Severus is spineless. The Parkinsons only care about the newest thing. Right when evil goes out of style, they find a new way to get money. And I am most certainly not Ollivander."

    He drew his wand. Sicklet flinched. Time seemed suspended for a moment as the Dark Lord glared down Sicklet's head, his wand nearly scraping the beads of sweat forming on his hairline. Voldemort gritted his teeth. Crucio. Avada Kedavra. Something. Say something.

    "Crucio!" he yelled.

    Sicklet fell from his chair and began convulsing on the floor. He shrieked in pain as his body writhed on the dark green carpet.

    Instantly Voldemort waved his wand to remove the curse. He stared at the window behind Sicklet's gasping body. Something wasn't right with what had just happened...

    Then it came to him.

    He hadn't liked it.

    He hadn't liked watching Georgius scream in pain at his hand. Disturbing, as that was how he had spent the better part of his life. It used to satisfy him, punishing people for doing him wrong. His idea of what was wrong, however, seemed to be changing.

    Sicklet stood up, still shaking from the stress on his old muscles.

    "I... well..."

    "Georgius." Voldemort stood. "I need to go. You've-- provided a service." He quickly exited the room, slamming the door behind him.

    Sicklet heaved a sigh of relief. That was probably the most exciting session he'd have for quite some time.

* * *

     Voldemort needed to get out. Travel was limited, as he was rather suspicious-looking and the Ministry blocked his Apparition, but he had his ways.

    "Thank you, Gubry," he said, stepping on to the back of the Dark Arts supplier's covered cart.

    Did I just say thank you? he asked himself as he pulled off his hood. Good thing I'm headed out of town. I need to figure this out before it gets out of hand...

    He went through things in his mind as the cart bobbed along the countryside. Lucius had Harry. His Death Eaters would be going along their lives, waiting for his call. He just hoped Lucius didn't take things too far and kill Harry. He'd been known to do that.

* * *

    Harry had just about worked his hands out of their rope bindings. He could feel at least three places they were bleeding, but it was a small price to pay. His shoulders were beginning to ache, and he needed to find a way to escape.

    Every once in a while he had heard footsteps moving around above him. He wondered if it was Malfoy's mother and father. As Hagrid would say, "Can't find no two people with their noses higher in the air."

    But, at the moment, those were the two people he was dependent upon. He was definitely getting thirsty.

    "Aha!" said Harry. His hands were free. Almost as satisfying as catching the Snitch. He rubbed his raw wrists. Satisfying, but considerably more painful.

    He turned around, the beginnings of an escape plan trickling into his mind.

    "Well. What do we have here?" An amused voice stopped him in his tracks.

    Harry looked up. Lucius Malfoy. He had half a mind to walk up to the bars and kick him in shins, but thought better of it.

    "Good choice, boy. Better not bite the hand that may decide to feed you."

    Harry unclenched his teeth long enough to ask a question.

    "How long have I been here?"

    "Since yesterday morning." Lucius smiled. "The Dark Lord himself put you in my care."

    Harry flashed a fake grin at the overdressed man. "Well isn't that nice to know."

    Lucius stepped closer to the cell.

    "I'd take off some of that cheek if I were you, Mr. Potter. There are quite a few death draughts that could find their way into your water ration."

    Harry and Lucius glared at each other for a moment, bright green meeting ice. Harry kept glaring as Lucius pivoted and paced down the hall.

    Harry instinctively reached for his wand. He felt a sudden need to make things explode.

    "Argg!" Of course he didn't have his wand. It was sitting at King's Cross with all his other school supplies.

    He kicked the wall. How dare that Malfoy come down here to gloat? He ran up to the bars, having half a mind to pry them apart with brute strength.

    But upon touching them, he jumped back. The iron was scalding hot. He swore. It must be some kind of stupid spell. The pain had been like a needle, popping his rage. Deflated, he sat down. He was worthless without his magic.

    C'mon, a voice inside his head chided. You spent the first ten years of your life without a wand.

    Good point, another voice said. You also spent the first ten years of your life locked in a cupboard.

    "What a coincidence," Harry mumbled.

* * *

    The sun was setting over the treeline. Voldemort sat on the dock, watching the lake before him roll back and forth at the moon's pull.

    Face it, he thought to himself. You've changed. You can't help it.

    And that sentence, 'You can't help it,' was the straw that broke the camel's back.

    "Look what you've become!" Voldemort yelled as he pulled off his hood and stood up. He felt the sunlight pour onto his head.

    "You wanted immortality." He looked at his hands. The joints of his bones were nearly piercing through his tightly drawn skin.

    "Well, if you didn't get it, Tom, you're pretty damn close. But when did all this torturing come into play? Muggles, Mudbloods, Ministry wizards... your own followers! No one safe, no one trusted." A feeling of disgust ran over him.

    And he knew what he had to do.

    Gubry was sleeping in his cart on the side of the road.

    "Gubry!" Tom said, shaking his former Death Eater. "Gubry, wake up, quickly."

    Gubry turned his head, got one look at Tom's face, and shrieked.

    "It's just me," said Tom.

    "When you're the most evil wizard since Grindelwald," gasped Gubry, "saying 'it's just me' is not very reassuring!"

    "Oh. Right." He thought for a moment. "Gubry, I need to use your Dark Mark."

    Don't ask questions, the distraught peddler told himself as he rolled up his sleeve. Just don't ask questions.

    Tom pictured Percy Weasley in his mind. He had to be very specific, because he wanted to summon just him, not a whole band of his followers. He pressed his fingers to the tattooed skull. A red spark ran along Tom's hand and onto Gubry's arm.

    "Ouch!"

    "Sorry," Tom replied, rolling down the man's sleeved. "And I won't be needed a ride back to town."

    Gubry stared in shock as Tom walked off. 'Sorry?' He must be witnessing some kind of revolution. Or at least a severe multiple personality disorder.

    Tom Riddle knew of a deserted cabin nearby. Once, many years ago, the Death Eaters had used it as a Dark Arts storage center. That was before Lucius Malfoy had inherited his father's estate. (Malfoys had a rather... suspicious tradition of "tragic accidents" around the time that their sons finished at the Wizard Universities.)

    Percy appeared next to him, recognizable by the locks of red hair sticking out from under his hood.

    He bowed. "Yes, my lord?"

    "Come with me," said Tom.

    They were silent until they arrived at the cabin.

    "Sit down, Percy. My plan is going to seem a bit... extreme." Tom lit the fireplace with a wave of his hand and began pacing back and forth.

    "I'm ready for anything, Master." Finally, thought Percy. I'm getting the respect I deserve.

    "I need you to turn me in to the Ministry."

    Percy's eyes just about bugged out of his head. "What?" he shrieked.

    "It's the only way!" Tom did the best to well up the Voldemort flare inside his eyes. "Are you doubting me?"

    "No... no, I apologize, Master."

    "Anyway," Tom said. "There's a reason I summoned just you, Percy. You still have a chance. MacNair, Lucius, Goyle... the others are too far gone. Many of them know nothing else, just serving me, as their fathers and grandfathers did. But you do."

    Percy raised his eyebrows under his mask. Voldemort had obviously gone mad.

    "Explain what you are saying, my lord."

    Tom sighed. This was the hardest thing he'd had to do for a long, long time.

    "Take me to the Ministry. Tell them you were working for me, but that I'd had... a changed of heart and I wished to report who was involved in Dark Magic."

    "No! I won't let you do it. You've gone mad."

    "I came here to figure things out, Percy." Tom's voice was smooth, becoming more confident as he went along. "And do you know what I discovered?"

    Percy figured that was a rhetorical question.

    "I discovered that I can't let my past take control of me. Neither you nor I got the attention we felt we deserved when we were younger. But by letting that turn us against the world, what are we doing but failing at our greatest challenge."

    Percy took off his mask. His face had softened, but his eyes were still wary. What if this was a trick to test his loyalty?

    "You sound like Albus Dumbledore," he scoffed.

    Tom took a pace forward and slapped him.

    "You're lucky I'm leaving my old ways behind, or you'd be screaming from the pain of the Crucio Curse right now." Tom stepped back, taking a deep breath. "Please, now. Harry Potter is in the Malfoy Dungeons and, next to Azkaban, those are the most secure cells in Europe. Lucius Malfoy is not a patient man. It's only a matter of time before his wand finds itself sending a green light Harry's way."

    Percy stood.

    "I can't. You know as well as I do we're too far to turn back. Find some other way to commit suicide." He walked to the doorway.

    Tom whispered. "Some other way? That won't save Harry's life. That won't stop Lucius from continuing my works. The Ministry has to know."

    Percy stopped. Somehow a picture of Harry gliding across a Quidditch pitch on his broom had come into the young man's mind. He saw his bright eyes shining under his glasses, his smile as he grabbed the Snitch. He saw Ron, cheering in the stands.

    Ron. Ron had never looked up to Percy as much as he would have liked, but... Percy wanted to hit himself. How did his family, his little brother get wrapped up in this? He was always so offended that Ron admired the twins more than him but, as he stood there in his Death Eater robes and refused to rescue Harry Potter, he realized he didn't want Ron to be like him.

    "You can change. You can still change." Of all people, Voldemort was encouraging him to turn back from the Dark Arts.

    He could change. And Percy knew, too, what he had to do.

    He pulled a bottle of Floo Powder from inside his cloak.

    "Is this fireplace charted?"

    Tom nodded.

    Percy took a handful of powder and was just about to cast it over the fire when Tom grabbed his arm. The red-eyed, pale man seemed to be in a trance. He clenched Percy's forearm and stared into the flames.

    You can still turn back, tempted an inner voice. Kill Percy. Get in Gubry's cart. Have him take you to the Manor. Kill Harry. There is still time to go back to the way things were.

    And that is where the voice made its fatal mistake. For Tom knew things could never be the way they were before.

    "Let's go."

* * *

    Harry wondered if the Malfoys were having a party. He could hear the footsteps of many feet above his cell's stone ceiling.

    Harry was conducting something of an experiment. Sirius had told him about a time when he was hiding in the woods. He'd known stream water was safe to drink if animals were living in it.

    So Harry was examining the glass of water that had been left inside his cell with a bowl of oatmeal. (He had a feeling the dining was a notch better upstairs.) The liquid seemed clear enough, but he knew many potions could be brewed to take the color of whatever liquid they entered.

    Harry spotted a black beetle as it crawled up his jeans.

    "Perfect," he whispered, his throat roughly the moisture of the Sahara Desert.

    He put the beetle in the water. It flailed around for a few seconds before finding the edge. Harry watched it scurry up the edge and down the outside of the glass. For a moment he wondered wildly if it was Rita Skeeter, but quickly brushed the idea aside and drank the water, now knowing it was at least beetle-safe.

    "Good idea, Mr. Potter."

    Harry spun around.

    "Dumbledore?" It couldn't be.

    "The one and only." He smiled.

    "Sorry, Professor," Harry said. "But how did you get here?"

    Dumbledore didn't hear him. He was holding his hands palm-up and chanting something to the bars on the cell.

    They disappeared. Harry's eyes grew wide.

    "Mind if I join you?"

    "No," said Harry, stepping backward to make room for the old wizard as he walked through the doorway.

    Dumbledore sat cross-legged on the floor. He was quite flexible for a man of his age.

    "Sit, Harry."

    Harry settled next to him. He couldn't quite read the Headmaster's expression.

    "Are you quite sure Lucius isn't going to come down here, Professor?:

    "Mr. Malfoy is being interrogated by Ministry officials. It seems a certain Dark wizard had a change of heart and turned in his followers."

    Harry's jaw dropped. "You're kidding."

    "I am not," Dumbledore said, beginning to laugh. "Oh, Harry. I was there when he was giving the information. He was Tom again. How Tom was meant to be."

    Harry couldn't believe it. He just couldn't. "So he turned himself into the Ministry?"

    "Actually, he had Percy Weasley to it for him." The smile fell from Dumbledore's face. "What a misguided young man. Voldemort knew a potential Death Eater when he saw one, Harry, even if they were from Gryffindor. But Percy is going to attend family therapy sessions with his mother and father, and I have a hunch that everything will be all right."

    Harry nodded, but he had a hunch that things would always be a bit awkward.

    "Professor-- so what happened to Voldemort, or Tom?"

    "What did the Ministry do with him? If criminals willingly give information, they can't be sentenced to the Dementor's Kiss. He'll be having a nice 187-years stay in the deepest cell in Azkaban."

    Dumbledore paused. "I say it's time to get your supplies from the lost and found at King's Cross. I can't imagine what the janitor thought when he saw your Transfiguration books."

    Harry laughed. As they walked out of the cell, a thought crossed his mind: I'm free. Free from Lucius, free from Voldemort, free from the "destiny" of killing the Dark Lord he had tried to impose on himself. Harry smiled. Time for three pleasantly uneventful years at Hogwarts.

    But one more thing was tugging at him.

    "Professor?"

    Dumbledore turned. "Yes, Harry?"

    "If Tom Riddle serves his time in Azkaban, he won't be getting a teaching job at Hogwarts, will he?"

    Dumbledore laughed. He did have quite the reputation, didn't he?

    "I doubt he or I will be alive then, but, just for the record, my forgiveness does only go so far."

    Harry laughed. And with that laugh a whole new chapter in his life began.