Grim Dawn

Grim Dawn

Four days.

Harry was cleaning again, because he didn't know what else to do. As often as he'd wished he could be free of the Dursleys and left alone, having only Hedwig for company was driving him crazy. He'd finished his homework (including an unbelievably long essay assigned by Professor Snape) on the first lonely day and had been left with nothing to do but worry. He'd taken to cleaning, then, decontaminating Grimmauld Placestep by agonizing step. Harry did so partially out of boredom, but mostly because it was Sirius' house, the home that his godfather had promised would belong to the two of them. Kreacher wasn't much help, of course, but Harry was becoming more deft at handling the deviant house elf, and they seemed to have reached an informal truce.

But the loneliness still ate at him every day. Harry ached for his godfather, for his friends, or for Hogwarts. Living in a magical house only heightened his yearning for the Wizarding World, but that was closed to him now. Sirius was gone, and Harry was hiding.

He glanced at the calendar he had pulled out of his trunk, though Harry knew full well what the date was. School started in two days--but how would he get to Hogwarts if he had no way to reach King's Cross? More than once, he had toyed with the idea of writing Ron or Hermione for help, but what good was doing so when they wouldn't be able to see him anyway? Besides, Harry didn't know what sending letters would do to the Fidelius Charm. For all he knew, Hedwig wouldn't be able to find her way back, and selfish desire for company made him loathe the idea of sending the owl away.

And then there was Sirius. Worry clawed its way into his gut and wouldn't leave. He'd been gone for five days, and that could only mean one thing--Sirius had been caught. Either the Ministry of Magic or Voldemort had found him, and it meant that Harry was alone. He'd spent much of his life that way, of course, but after having a taste of real and true family, it was hard to accept. And Harry knew, in his heart, that the Ministry hadn't recaptured his godfather. Had they, the news would have been plastered all over the front pages of the Daily Prophet, and Harry would have known.

He chewed on the end of his quill absent mindedly, hemming and hawing over what to do. The paper in front of him had nothing but a name on it; even if he did send the letter, Harry didn't know what to write. No one would believe the truth, he knew. It was so farfetched, so against what the Wizarding world "knew" to be true; he doubted that even Ron would believe him. Hermione might, but she didn't come from a Wizarding family, which meant that while she didn't share the same prejudices, it also meant that her parents couldn't help Harry. No, if he turned to one of his friends, it would have to be Ron. The Weasleys had given him shelter the summer before--but could Harry risk them by asking for help? Sirius was right in saying that Harry couldn't simply hide.

So he couldn't drag Ron into it. And he wouldn't endanger Hermione that way, either. So there was really no one to turn to. Harry was used to fending for himself, but without his friends it was unbelievably lonely. Three years before, he would never have imagined how important they could become, but they had. He'd been alone before Ron and Hermione. He'd been alone before Sirius...and now all of them were beyond his reach. Probably.

Harry sighed and tried to force a smile. Perhaps there was a compromise.

Dear Ron,

I know what you're thinking. News of what happened at Privet Drive has probably gotten out by now, but I'm safe. Really. I can't tell you where I am, but I'm safe.

I don't think I'll be able to come back on the Hogwarts Express with you and Hermione. In fact, I'm not sure when I'll be able to come back to Hogwarts at all. I hope it will be soon, but I don't know right now. A lot of things have happened since last week.

I don't think you'll be able to write me back, but if you send a reply with Hedwig it might get through.

Harry

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"Ron received it this morning," Molly said quietly. "Unfortunately, he sent Harry's owl away before we could do anything."

Remus frowned, reading the letter once more. The handwriting was firm, unruly in the way a thirteen-year-old boy's was expected to be. Harry's words were more reluctant than scared sounding, too; overall, it wasn't a letter written by a frightened prisoner. What had Sirius told him? Had Sirius somehow, in his insanity, gained Harry's trust? If so, the consequences could very well prove staggering. It was almost too much for him to swallow, and Remus hoped desperately that he was wrong. If Harry had come to believe some story that Sirius had told him...

Remus handed the letter back to Molly without a word. Their meeting hadn't even started yet, but Ron's mother had been kind enough to show the letter to Remus ahead of time. The others were filing in now, quiet and solemn. Snape was the last to enter the staff room, Remus noticed, and his expression was oddly tight. The Death Eater didn't even wait for everyone to sit before he spoke.

"Black was at the Riddle House last night," he said abruptly. "He left as I arrived, but Lucius Malfoy informed me that he spent several hours speaking to the Dark Lord."

He more collapsed than sat into his chair as his knees gave out. Remus felt his gut go cold. It's begun, he thought darkly, swallowing. Obviously, Sirius had decided to wait no longer.

"But Harry wrote the letter this morning--" Molly began with alarm.

"Something's not right." Moody's bright eyes were focused unerringly on Snape, both real and magical one burning with intensity.

"What?" Arthur's head came up; he'd been staring blankly at the floor.

Moody's voice was hard. "Did you see him leave?"

"I already told you that Lucius informed me--" Snape rolled his eyes as he spoke, but his exasperation went right over the ex-Auror's head. Moody interrupted him easily.

"You alone?"

"No. I was there with several others--"

Moody cut him off again. "Who?"

"Does it matter?" Snape snapped, annoyed.

"Answer the question."

"Alastor--" McGonagall tried to intervene before things got ugly, but Snape was already replying peevishly.

"Goyle and Flint were there also. Is there anything else I can do for you? Perhaps provide a dissertation on the properties of the Elixir of Life and the exact procedure for creating a Philosopher's Stone?"
Dumbledore opened his mouth to intervene, but for once Moody ignored him. The ex-Auror's eyes were flashing dangerously, but the sarcasm in his voice matched and met the Potions Master's.

"That would be splendid," he retorted acidly. "And while you're wasting our time, I'll conduct a psychological analysis of where you last left your brain!"

"You are, of course, the residential expert on psychological issues," Snape purred, unfazed.

"Enough." Dumbledore's voice was hard now, and his eyes were cold. There were few wizards or witches in the world who would dare to cross him on a normal day, and there were even fewer who were so foolhardy to try when he looked so implacable--unfortunately, though, Alastor Moody was one of them. The one-eyed wizard snorted without amusement.

"It's not my fault that you hired a fool who couldn't find his own arse with both hands and a wand--"

"I said enough!" The headmaster's voice came out like a whip crack, hard and sharp, and meant to cut. His normally sparkling blue eyes had turned angry now, too. "I ask both of you to recall that we are all on the same side. Regardless of personal differences, we share a single purpose--to bring about the downfall and of Lord Voldemort. And to do that, we must first find Harry Potter."

His icy blue eyes swiveled to Snape as Moody nodded gruffly, unabashed but acknowledging the point. After a moment, Snape swallowed visibly under Dumbledore's gaze, and the Death Eater bobbed his head jerkily, glancing down at the floor. Satisfied with the situation, Dumbledore's visible anger subsided and he spoke softly, though his voice still had a slightly dangerous edge to it.

"You say that Black has come to Riddle House--and regardless of what you feel, Alastor, I see no reason to doubt Severus' statement--but he has left again?"

"Yes," Snape answered, pausing to shoot Moody a surly look. The ex-Auror glowered in return but held his silence, exhibiting a hard-won restraint that Remus was extremely grateful for. Tension between Snape and Moody had been brewing (and boiling) since the onset of the Order's meetings, and it was clear that it had reached a fever pitch when coupled with the "Hunters" inability to find Sirius or Harry. Unfortunately, Remus figured that the conflict between the two was inevitable, given their backgrounds--back in the Dark Days of the first war,Moody had been an Auror and Snape a Death Eater. They were naturally opposed in every way, despite the fact that both had once been proud sons of the Slytherin House.

"There is no evidence that Potter is yet in the Dark Lord's hands," Snape continued, having torn his eyes away from his rival to do so. "Contrary to what would seem to be the case, I believe that Black continues to withhold the boy's location."

"But why wouldn't You-Know-Who simply force the information out of him?" Arthur asked with considerably less distaste than Remus would have expected. Then again, the Weasleys clearly cared for Harry, and they were undoubtedly more worried about his safety than anything that might happen to his captor. The fact that Remus felt the same didn't make matters any better, though.

Oh, Sirius...he thought silently. What's happened to us? But the painful question brought images of James, Lily and Peter to mind, so he pushed it away--but not without regret. How far we have fallen. We burned brightly while we burned, but oh, we have fallen far...

"I'm afraid it's not that simple," Dumbledore was replying, and Remus forced himself to refocus. "If there is anything we must not forget about Black, it is that he's always been extraordinarily strong."
"Not to mention that he's insane," Snape muttered darkly.

"Don't give him an excuse." Moody's voice was cold. "But Albus is right. Black's a strong-minded individual who can resist Voldemort's efforts to crack his thoughts open. Black won't tell him a damn thing until he gets what he wants."

"And so we're brought back to exactly the same place," McGonagall pointed out. "Wondering what he wants and trying to counter what You-Know-Who can offer."

Remus swallowed. "I don't think we can," he said softly. "If he's after freedom and power, we can't give him either. Only Voldemort can."

"And the Ministry won't negotiate, either," Arthur agreed grimly. "Fudge authorized the Dementor's Kiss if Black is found, regardless of circumstance."

"What?" Surprisingly, it was McGonagall who snapped what they'd all been thinking; Remus only felt his chest grow tight and cold. "Without a trial? Without finding Harry first?"

"Fudge says that as much as he regrets Harry's disappearance, the chances of him being found alive are low," the Ministry official responded bitterly. "He claims that his primary responsibly is to protect the public at large from Black."

There was sudden silence as everyone tried to digest the news, broken finally by Moody's derisive snort.

"Fool," he muttered. "But I suppose it's to be expected. We'll get no help from the politicians, then."

"So it's left to us to find Harry," Molly said quietly, worriedly. She swallowed. "Before it's too late."

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Ron's reply was full of questions, and only served to make Harry's loneliness greater. That was a side effect he hadn't expected, either; Harry had written to his best friend because he'd been terribly alone and desperately needed someone to talk to. But Ron's eager and worried letter let a gigantic lump in Harry's throat and he didn't really know how to respond. By the time Hedwig had returned to Grimmauld Place, it had been morning--and now it was eleven o' clock, which left Harry sitting glumly with an empty feeling inside his soul. Eleven o' clock. He'd missed the Hogwarts Express for the second year in a row.

But this time there was no Ron to save him with a flying Ford Angelina. There was no one to depend upon, now; he sat alone at Grimmauld Place, staring at the clock and knowing that there was nothing he could do. He was stuck, alone, not quite abandoned but certainly beyond reach--all reach but Sirius', wherever he was.

Pain knotted up in Harry's chest with that thought. Sirius... A week had passed since his godfather had gone missing, but it might as well have been al lifetime. So much time had passed, and so much had changed... His time with the Dursleys seemed to be but a memory, now; the short days he'd had with Sirius were so much more important to him. And he missed his godfather more than he'd ever missed anyone in his life, even compared to how lonely he was without Ron and Hermione. Part of that, he knew, was because Sirius was the only family he'd ever known--but the rest was more complicated. Harry couldn't explain it all, but Sirius' actions had more impact than any mere words could ever have. He'd risked his life to save Harry, had escaped prison to protect him--and Harry knew only the deepest of love could drive a man to do that.

And the same feeling kept Harry from rushing out the door and trying foolishly to save his godfather. The knowledge that any action would be futile never even gave him pause, but the fact that Sirius had risked everything to keep him safe did.

Harry swallowed, reading Ron's letter once again. Ron had asked him so many questions, had seemed so worried...but Harry knew where this would lead. He couldn't tell Ron anything (even if Ron would believe him, which Harry doubted more and more with each day's issue of the Daily Prophet), but his friend wouldn't stop asking--and it could only end in disaster. Harry couldn't bear to endanger his friends, and he knew that was exactly what would happen...especially if Sirius was right. And unfortunately, the twinges in his scar and the nightmares he'd had once or twice had no other explanation. He could hardly remember the dreams--only bits and pieces and flashes came to mind--but Harry knew the truth. Voldemort was back, and that meant all of Harry's friends were in danger.

He hesitated, biting his lip. It was the last thing he wanted to do, but--Harry crumbled up Ron's letter and, screwing up his courage, threw it into the fire before he lost the will to do so. A part of him felt like jumping in after the letter, which was his only solid link to the outside world, but the rest of him only hurt. There, Harry tried to tell himself firmly. It's done. The letter was gone, and so was the temptation to reply. If he didn't write back, maybe Ron and Hermione wouldn't get involved... Sure, a nasty little mental voice mocked him. That'll work. At least he was fairly sure that Hedwig was the only owl who could see him. Even the Daily Prophet's delivery birds seemed unable to; he'd had to leave money on the counter for them because the owls delivered the paper to Grimmauld Place, not Harry Potter. The Fidelius Charm made him invisible to them, so Harry was sure that any owl sent to find him would fail.

Slowly, he stood and wandered down the stone steps and into the kitchen. He wasn't really hungry, but Harry knew that he should eat--along the way he exchanged a mutually dirty look with Kreacher, who, unlike the owls, was definitely able to see him. Lately, the foul house elf had taken to capering around and gleefully relishing Sirius' disappearance. Harry had been sorely tempted to hex him until he'd realized that the very last thing he needed was for the Ministry to locate him through unauthorized use of magic. So, he'd taken a page out of Sirius' book and thrown the old but solid copy of Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy at the house elf, feeling fairly satisfied with his own restraint. Besides, the giant book had made a nice thunk when it struck Kreacher, and the vile house elf had been much quieter ever since.

Listlessly, Harry pulled a pot off the rack and started reheating some of the stew he'd made before. He knew that he had to eat, but hat didn't change the fact that the food would taste like ash in his mouth. But there was nothing he could do for Sirius, especially considering that his godfather had sealed the front door on his way out, and it steadfastly refused to allow Harry pass, something the boy had discovered, much to his chagrin, several days before.

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Snape strode quietly though the corridors of the Riddle House, his eyes and ears wide open and alert for anyone's approach. Technically, he was not permitted to wander the grounds--no Death Eater was--but if questioned, he'd always excuse it by claiming that he was searching for some obscure potions ingredient or another. Though that was far from his real purpose, Snape was indeed in need of several rare elements for potions that he was undertaking at the Dark Lord's behest. That in itself was nothing new, and besides, there were few Death Eaters who would dare question Severus Snape. And most whocould were still in Azkaban.

His footsteps were nearly silent against the polished wood floor--since Voldemort had returned to the mansion (a place Snape suspected that the Dark Lord kept mainly out of hatred and mostly out of spite) it had been cleaned and restored to its former glory. There were some uses, however, that Snape suspected the house had never been intended for. He restrained himself, though, to a purely mental snort. Tonight would definitely be one of those.

Snape had arrived at the Riddle House in the aftermath of one of Lucius Malfoy's infamous raids. Lucius, who was the Dark Lord's undisputed right hand after his decisive role in Voldemort's rebirth, had an inordinate amount of influence and leeway in his actions, which usually amounted to Lucius brining prisoners "home" to Riddle House. Not only did this curry favor with the other Death Eaters, but it, in combination with Bellatrix Lestrange's continuing incarceration in Azkaban, ensured that on one would challenge his nominal leadership over Voldemort's followers. He, of course, offered the prisoners to the Death Eaters, who were welcome to use them in whatever manner they pleased. Few survived more than a few hours under the circumstances; none were ever permitted to live out the night.

This time, Snape hadn't bothered to check if they were Muggles, Mudbloods, or simply enemies of the Dark Lord. He'd only sneered and went along his way, turning his nose up as if such grotesque "play" was beneath him. And it was; over the years, he'd learned to quell his conscience on such matters. He couldn't do anything for those poor people, anyway...though he was acutely conscious of the little corner of his soul that broke off each time he simply walked away. No matter, he told himself for the millionth time, thankful to hear the screams fade into the background. He had a different task to accomplish.

The air seemed to grow colder as Snape made his way deeper into the Riddle House, heading for the basement that was rarely, if ever, used. But they're been unsettling rumors as of late, and he needed to know the truth. The most ironic part about his journey was, of course, the fact that, spy or not, he'd have found himself in the basement--his natural curiosity (carefully masked before the eyes of the world) would have brought him there, even if he had been no more than the loyal Death Eater he appeared to be. One of Severus Snape's most marked weaknesses--and strengths--was his desire to know everything. For one, it made him an extraordinary spy, but knowledge was also something that he relished for its own sake. Especially if it might mean his survival.

He felt the coldness before he saw them, and an instinctive part of him wanted to turn tail and flee. Chills began to race down his spine, and voices began to whisper in his ears as they approached--the cold of abandonment and loneliness and the voice of a man whom he'd hated all of his life--No! With gritted teeth, Snape reached his right arm over and pulled his left sleeve back, exposing his forearm for the creatures to sense. They hesitated briefly, floating above the ground, and he fought the urge to draw his wand on them, thinking belatedly that there probably wasn't a happy enough memory he could focus on to repel them anyway. Instead, he bared his teeth back at the Dementors and glared his defiance. Either that or the Dark Mark made them finally back away, though Snape rather figured that it was the tattoo that had long been burned into his forearm. These were the Dark Lords monsters, no doubt, trained to know and to feel the darkness behind the mark.

Snape grimaced as the pair of Dementors retreated back the way they'd come, snarling under his breath at them. He was well aware of the fact that Dementors were blind, and that they hadn't been able to see the Mark at all--but somehow the baring of the Dark Lord's mark had always been the key. He didn't understand why, but didn't really have to, anyway. The rumors were confirmed. At least two Dementors had rallied to the Dark Lord's cause.

Unfortunately, that realization left a whole host of questions in its wake, not the least of which being how Voldemort had gotten a hold of a pair of Dementors in the first place. Dementors were the most closely monitored of all magical creatures, and for good reason. There should have been no way that the Ministry of Magic could have lost track of a pair of them--and for all Snape knew, there might have been more. After all, he'd only seen two, and he'd long since learned to distrust his eyes.

He swallowed and stepped forward in the Dementor's wake. Although he couldn't answer that first question--not now and not down there, at any rate--he could answer the other ones. Namely, he could figure out how many Dementors the Dark Lord at in his service...and what they were doing at Riddle House, the last place he would have expected them to be. There had been rumors in the Daily Prophet (completely unsubstantiated ones, actually) about Dementors leaving Azkaban and wandering free, but this was the first clue he'd seen that they might be true. The problem was that Snape also knew that they couldn't be. Arthur Weasley had checked, and Azkaban still contained every one of its assigned Dementors--except for the ones assigned to hunt Sirius Black.

Black. Odd, how that bastard seemed to worm his way into everything. But he really was of no importance at the moment. The Dementors certainly weren't arguing with Snape following them, even though they had to sense his presence. Instead, they were drifting deeper into the basement, into the place that had once housed cells for those Voldemort wished to keep--and still did, Snape abruptly realized. Just as the mansion had been restored, the cells had been returned to their original glory. Yet another thing I doubt Mr. Riddle ever expected his grandiose home to be used for!

His cautious eyes swept over the empty cells with practiced ease. This wasn't the first time he'd been there, after all, and he knew this place far too well. The shadows crossed the walls the same old way, leaving nooks and crannies in darkness and gloom. Prudence, however, reared its ugly head soon enough, and Snape knew that he'd overstayed his welcome. Wandering in search of potions ingredients wouldn't excuse his presence down here--especially if he encountered the Dark Lord, whom Severus was far too stupid to bluff. He almost turned away, then caught sight of the spot that both Dementors were converging upon--and noticed the other Dementor who had been hidden in the shadows.

There was another figure there, too, lying crumbled on the concrete floor at the third Dementor's feet. Snape had almost looked over the other completely, and would have, if not for the Dementor's presence--but now he heard strained and raspy breathing that was entirely different from the Dementors' rattling breaths. Almost unwillingly, he took a step forward, and then another, straining his eyes to see in the dark. He should have known if there was a prisoner there, any prisoner--

But what Snape saw shocked him to the very core, and he froze, blinking, as he figured out exactly who that prisoner was.

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