Soul Searching

In a matter of seconds, Death Eaters all over the country stopped their activities. Their illegal gaming, their violence, their dinner. Their full attention was on the nearest clock. They were being called to an appointed meeting for their master's services, not by their Lord himself, but Lucius Malfoy. Instantly, they were gone. One would not, could not be late. The punishment was severe.

The Death Eaters appeared in a cold dark room, barely acceptable as a dungeon, in Lucius Malfoy's home. Malfoy stood in front of them, in the spot that would soon hold their master. He was a tall man, but slender, his body barely definable through the layers of fine cloth that we wore; black. The darkness of the room made his face lose perception, his arms and legs disappear. Almost serpentine in appearance. But not quite, only his master could replicate the grace, the deadliness of the snake.

Lucius cleared his throat, and put on a mask, which he had produced from a fold of his robe. A small smile was perceptible on his lips, even under the lip of the shining ivory. He cleared his throat, and raised his voice.

"Gentlemen! As you may notice, we have grown larger and stronger since we last convened. The Dark Lord's return is imminent, and any who disagree shall be killed!" A few murmurs of agreement were heard throughout the mob of black robes. While it could be argued that the Lord Voldemort was the better speaker than Malfoy senior, there was no denying the power of Lucius' voice. He spoke as if he was pronouncing sentence.

"Silence! It is time for us to remind those mudbloods and muggle lovers who really is in charge here! It will be our lord, the Dark King, who will rise from his defeat in less than three months! I would say that he would be most unhappy to find how seriously lagging we are." He played this word on his lips, quite aware of its full implications, and mocking them.

"We will beg for the Lord's forgiveness!" Yelled one robe in the back. He coughed, and adjusted his mask.

"Fool! Never disrupt me!" Lucius glared at the whole crowd of masks, it was a general warning. "We must begin a long series of attacks, to lower the moral of the people!" Murmurs, louder this time, agreed. The stray voice shrank a bit, leaning against a wall. He watched through the narrow slits of his white mask, identical to the rest, and cheered. It was not in one's best interest to make themselves noticed at these assemblies.

Malfoy waited, paused until the roar of the white masks, black robes, was sufficiently quieted to a din. "We have learned from our mistakes. Years" he pronounced this word as if it burned as it came off his tongue. "We have waited, following our master's command. But we don't just want fear anymore. Power! Power, is what we hunger for. We will have it! We will not blindly kill for now! No! We will take hostages. Power, bargaining chips. Now, go! There is much ahead. Our master is soon to return."

~*~

Harry knew it would have to happen eventually. There was no way to hide from the fact that he would need to go into Diagon Alley to get supplies for the cure. He mentally hit himself for not thinking of a better solution. But it couldn't be helped.

He sighed and put on his one dirty robe. If he pulled the hood low enough, it was possible to conceal his identity.

Harry tiredly walked out the hotel, and to the Leaky Cauldron. He passed children, grasping hands and giggling. Young business elite pushed out doors using their shoulder, too busy to even wait for a helping hand. They would make their own help. Harry walked past another shop, conglomerated, just a replica, attempting to have the original soul. He saw a homeless man, asking for work, not begging. Even sitting on the corner of a busy London street, he hadn't lost his dignity. Harry double turned, and emptied out his pocket of all the muggle money he had.

The man didn't say anything, but even after Harry left the street, he could still remember those piercing eyes, too alive to possibly be human. They seemed to dart in two different places at once. Harry had muttered a word of caution to the man. "Be careful of the night."

The man had ticked his head in response. "Terrible things are coming." His voice was creaky, not fitting for the active eyes, which resided on the same face.

Where would all these people go when they found out? The war, the danger, was becoming too great for the wizards to hide. But even if the streets emptied of fanciful children, and busy yes-men, Harry knew one thing would stay; the man. It was just a quick glance, but Harry had seen the permanence in his eyes. Some things would never change.

~*~

Three bricks up, two across, and the wall opened into a magical world, at least, that's how Harry remembered it. He walked down Diagon Alley to one of the stores, Magical Instruments, Unlimited.

When he pushed the door, he heard no familiar chiming, so common in the other world that he straddled. He turned to the side where a young witch was standing at a counter. "I'd like an Orb of Thesulah." he said to her. She gave him a peculiar face, and turned behind the counter to get it.

"Interesting choice, isn't it?" she said, as she began to wrap it in paper. He grunted in reply. "Used for magic involving the living dead. Peculiar, no doubt..."

"Yes. Good to see someone so knowledgeable. Good day, ma'am." He put the money from his pocket on the counter and left with the package securely wrapped and charmed in his hand.

~*~

Harry sat quietly in the corner of the Leaky Cauldron, not drinking, just watching. His packages sitting to the left, resting comfortably on his leg. The key to Ginny's soul sat in the small paper bag, wrapped up and charmed. An Orb of Thesulah. The atmosphere of the room was devastating. Hermione had spoken slightly of the changes the wizarding world had gone through in her letters, but he never could have imagined the truth. Pure fear. Could this have been the place that he had originally first become aware of the wizarding world? It made him hunch his back from the premature weight. The only thing Harry could think about was who was to blame. Was it Voldemort? Or was it Harry himself, too eager to abandon his people?

"No," Harry whispered to himself. "These were never my people."

He continued to watch the customers for some time, until he grew bored and stared at the flames of the fire to his left. They danced, and illuminated his face. to a broad, horrible countenance. His features were puffy, from the nightly torture of alcohol, while his eyes blazed with fury. This combination gave Harry a look of pure disgust. For himself; for what he had become.

He looked up from the flames, his eyes dying down to their normal green. Strange, he thought. These men, talking to the barkeep, who were they? They turned and faced the rest of the room, their white masks glowing with the light from the fire.

Someone screamed. A crucio was heard from under a mask, and the screams amplified. They laughed, a soft murmur under the ivory.

One of them, the leader, Harry supposed, started ordering the other Death Eaters about, and then Harry saw nothing. Just glowing white masks turn to black, in a swirl of unconsciousness.

~*~

When Harry awoke, he was well aware of his situation. He almost willed his body not to awaken, it would keep him safe in a dream-like slumber. But the pain against his wrists was too great, and he opened an eye.

He seemed to be in a holding cell in a dungeon. This was made obvious by the brush of dank cold air against his leg.

There were thick cement walls separating Harry from the other hostages. There must have been other hostages. Harry started ticking off ideas in his mind. Wards to keep the prisoners captive in their cells, sound blocking charms to inhibit communication, and most surely, a guard.

Harry looked up through the bars of his confinement and saw a man in a black robe pacing the hall. His red hair was slipping out of the side of his mask.

"So. Someone has awoken." the mask said. He turned away from the cell, coughed, and pivoted back to his audience.

The man leaned closer to the bars, his mask expressionless, though, under it was a look of fear, surprise and recognition.

"Ah! The famous Harry Potter has returned!" The man grabbed his wand, and gripped it tightly. "What an honor it will be to tell my master when he returns that we have captured you. He will surely honor us. Of course, not that you ever really mattered. You're just a name. Something to lower the moral of the wizarding world. To lose what little faith they had left in you." He coughed again. "They say that there is no hope anymore. We have stolen it. Siphoned it, we are slowly killing the people. Your people, Potter."

"I hold no value to them." He spoke through clinched teeth, his eyes starting to blur from the pain against his wrists.

"Yes, they say that is true. The muggle-lovers and mudbloods have no savior anymore. And I'm sure my lord won't make you a martyr." He pulled off his mask.

"Percy.." Harry started, but the man continued.

"Drinking away his life, the papers all scream of it, when there's no news. No news of us. You're damned. No one cares anymore, not about you. Just a name. Mentioned twice in the text books. Classic tale of the hero. The poor hero, the one who couldn't take it anymore." He smiled, and brought his face close to Harry's. His breath reeked of bile, and garlic, and whiskey. Harry knew that smell. "Died a common man's death. Begging for mercy from the hand of his better."

"I never asked to be the hero." Harry muttered this under his breath. It resonated through the cold air.

"No! No, of course not. But you did the job so very well. Played old Dumbledore's little errand boy. You stupid fool. Where did it get you in the end?" The man lowered his voice now. "You're not a threat anymore. You're nothing. Abandoned life. Drunken, whoring in the nights. Are you still the great, marvelous Harry Potter?" He laughed. Cold, cruel. He had learned master's laugh. "I can bet that Dumbledore never promised you this." He made a grand gesture, sweeping at the walls. It was familiar to Harry.

"I knew." His voice was cracked. In fact, it wasn't even meant to be said. But it did.

"You knew. Oh, of course, you knew. I suppose you felt as long as it was for the good of another, that you would be fine. Fine with losing your life; your lover."

"Your sister, also." It was all a game, and Harry finally fought back.

"My sister? Oh, yes, I suppose we did share the common trait, our hair. But while she desired seeing your power, I wanted some of my own."

"And did you get it?"

Percy reached his hand through the bars. He grabbed Harry by the chin. "What the hell kind of question is that?! What do you mean by that?!"

"Did you get your power? The power you were willing to sacrifice your life for? To brand your clean arm for? Did you get it?" He pushed himself back towards the wall. "How does it live up? Eh?"

Percy's eyes shrank, and he pulled his mask back on. "Oh yes, I got it, my power. Now comes the question of how I should use it. But no matter. You shall be great show, either way."

~*~

Hermione knocked on the peeling door, and waited. It was raining, but she didn't really care. A woman opened the door, her face blank, but her eyes rimmed in red, her light red hair pulled back into a messy bun.

"Come in, dear." said the woman, wiping her hands on the apron she was wearing. They were already clean. The woman, Molly Weasley, had once used this word, dear, in true love, but now it just slipped off her tongue, falling to the wet splattered ground.

Hermione walked into the house, and took a seat in the kitchen, nine seats and only two were filled; Arthur Weasley was at work, Charlie was away. "Probably playing with the damn dragons again." Hermione thought to herself. Mrs. Weasley numbly served Hermione a piece of pie, her arms moving, but rigidly, and maybe with a hint of shake in them. Hermione looked across the table at Bill, the oldest of the Weasley children. His eyes were hard and his face bore lines, but more than was to be expected of a young forty-year old.

She pushed the pie away, and glanced at the clock sitting in the corner of the kitchen. It still seemed to be the most majestic thing in the house itself, standing tall at a good seven feet. Ten hands were on the clock, as Harry had been added into the clock after his fifth year. For Harry, it had meant acceptance into a true family. Hermione had to turn away from the face of the clock, or risk seeing the look of true joy that he wore when he saw his name on the clock. He haunted her, sometimes joyful and other times morose.

She didn't even need to see where most of the hands lay. Charlie's was on "work," Ginny, Fred and George were on "hospital." Ron's was facing the position that the number one filled on a muggle clock, sitting dangerously close to "mortal peril." "The Great Beyond" it read simply, but for Hermione, it reminded her of everything she had lost. Out of all the hands on the clock, Ron's would never move again. Some things would never change. Even as much as people would like them to. Hermione looked down at her plate.

"It's been ten years." she said simply. Mrs. Weasley choked back a sob. "Since Ron died."

Bill rubbed his eyes tiredly. "We know, Hermione, we can count."

She scowled at him. "But this year, it's different." She seemed desperate. Sighing, she continued. "I don't think you truly realize what Harry went through. I don't think anyone does."

Bill looked up from his tea, which he had been spinning for the past ten minutes, watching the leaves swirl. "What about us, Hermione? My family is dead, insane, or...evil. What can you say about Percy, Hermione? Is having a corrupted brother worse than a lost love?!"

He delicately swirled the tea again, and looked at the leaves. He thought he saw an axe, no, maybe an open bag, a boat, a cross. He never really put much credence in divination, but he remembered one thing- the cross, suffering, sacrifice. He snorted and began to turn the cup again. Bill did not need a bloody cup of wet leaves to tell him that.

Bill stopped, and slammed the cup on the table, his face shining with spilled tea. "What gives Harry the right to be worse than us? He's not living this, he's not here, watching his friends slowly lose everything, his classmates become desperate. Even people I hate, they're all dying. And I have no time to mourn. Not for the loved, nor the hated."

He paused. Hermione thought she saw a tear, but it must have just been the tea, which he hadn't bothered wiping up. "Dear God, nothing is fair, don't you see? This is life, Hermione. Our family has had more than our share of sadness, but we're trying to deal with it, everyone is. You've been away too long to see."

Hermione looked into her hands and sighed. "Even if you are coping, you're not. Not really. You're killing something, something else. And even then, you're not dealing with your pain. None of us understand how to take it. Harry, Harry, the hero, he's the worst. And I'm cold. I am just as angry as you. But at least you all have each other to love. I have nothing."

Mrs. Weasley clicked her tongue. "And when did you realize this, dear?" There was the word again.

Hermione thought, staring at the clock in front of her. It had Harry and Hermione's hands on it now, a sign of their adoption into the clan several years ago, though it seemed longer. She blanched, and looked Molly Weasley straight in the face. "When Harry came to visit me yesterday."

She thought she heard a gasp, and diverted her eyes back to the pie, still untouched. When she looked up at Mrs. Weasley though, her eyes were not on Hermione's own face. They were staring at the same place as the man in the room. Staring straight at a glittering gold hand, at the hand on the clock labeled "Harry," slowly moving north towards mortal peril.

A tinkle of china was heard, and Hermione's vision turned from the glittering gold of the clock's hand to a cold black, that of nothingness.

Somewhere in the depths of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, a red headed woman moaned hopelessly.