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Chapter Three: Old Friends

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... April, 1995. Malfoy Manor...

His crumpled form lay unmoving on the cold stone floor; beaten, broken and bleeding.

He could not believe what was happening, his mind could not possibly comprehend the magnitude of the betrayal. Still though, hope flared within his gut. It couldn't possibly be much longer. The Order would come for him, rescue him. He would again be safe and warm and loved.

He would give almost anything to leave this hell, this horrid nightmare.

Parts of the recent days came in drips and drabs to his mind, too may missing pieces to form any sort of concrete idea on what had actually taken place. But he knew Draco had betrayed him. He knew he had been taken to a holding and questioned relentlessly for hours on end. He knew he had been tortured - oh, how he could feel that now, suffer the agony of countless injuries. And he knew that he was very probably going to die.

As if abiding his thoughts the door to his right had swung open, and another group of the awful tormentors entered into the dungeon where he lay.

"Potter, Potter, Potter. What will we ever do with you?" Bellatrix Lestrange scolded, shaking her head from side to side, cooing in her most obnoxious, babying voice.

Her dark eyes flicked lazily across the room, ending on his prone body. Her smile was cruel.

"Is little Potty frightened? Does little Potty want his mummy?"

"Fuck off," his voice was weak and cracked, already fading from days of screams.

"Language Potty," Lucious Malfoy cut in, a mocking sneer gracing his face. "We're giving you one last chance to come willingly, one last chance to make a better life for yourself," he dropped to his knees, his wand pointed straight at Harry's chest, ready for any signs of the boy causing struggle. "It is more than most would get, I assure you."

Harry would not give in; not for his life, not for all the endurance in the world. He'd suffer willingly rather than that.

Not of his own accord.

"Fuck off," he spat back more forcefully this time, and tried to ignore the delight Voldemorts' Deatheaters showed at his answer.

"Harry," Lucious shook his head, bending lower to whisper in Harry's ear, trying to elude him, to convince him one last time. "You can not win. The Light will fail ... Dumbledore will fail ... Your charming parents will fail. You're on the loosing side of the battle - it's a lost hope, a waste of life. It's unfeasible, inevitable. Join us now, if only for your own survival."

He had closed his eyes then, shaking his head back, bluntly refusing.

He wouldn't. He couldn't.

"Join, or you will die."

Still, Harry did not accept. He'd greet death with rejoice, free of regrets. He could not do it, not for anything or anyone and least of all for himself.

Malfoy had then stood, signalling to the others.

"Crucio."

"Diffindo."

"Crucio."

"Sectusempra."

"Incendio."

The curses hit him like gunfire, again and again and again. Relentless and excruciating, never a pause longer than the blink of an eye. He couldn't see, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't move. He dare not cry out, or emit but a soft groan.

And right when Harry thought he could bare no more, thought his brains would cave with the agony, he was brought to again. Saved, spared just a moment longer of borrowed time, by an eager hiss at the door. The Death Eaters stopped then, wands hid back in their black omniscient robes and dropped to their knees, pressing palms flat on the sticky ground.

The footsteps padded lightly down the steps as the figure, covered completely in one thick, silky pitch black cloak, descended slowly in all his mite, savouring the fear of those whom served him, drinking it in as he was accustomed to do.

It was the Great Lord Voldemort, in all his dire glory.

Harry forced his eyes to take in the sight, and knew for sure that the 'man' towering feet in front of his was definitely not human. He could feel it radiating through the air, taste it in his struggling breathes like toxic fumes. The Lord seemed not to notice his captives transfixed stare, not to notice the chill that crept through the already freezing dungeon, nor the swollen, poignant silence that had descended upon all those present.

"What's going on here?" his voice was but a whisper, a thin icy hiss.

"My Lord," Malfoy addressed, trying to bow from his already crouched position, reaching so low that his nose touched and dribbled along the ground. He waited for the acknowledgment, a tiny shake of his Masters' grand, regal head and began talking again quickly. "We were questioning the prisoner."

"Why?" Voldemort hissed again, just as quietly infuriated as before. "If he cannot be turned, he should be dead. I gave no order to other practices - certainly no orders to reason with the boy."

Harry felt the red eyes bore into him then, dismissing his mangled state, dismissing all horrors he may or may not have already been drawn to. The stab of pain hit him suddenly, unexpectedly, like a migraine and a wave of electrical current passed through his mind, roughly sifting his thoughts and memories, reading his life like an open book.

"He may still be useful," Voldemort mused, his eyes not leaving the captives rolling emerald orbs. "He has power, yes ... perhaps ... power to be great."

Harry wasn't given a moment to respond, not a moment to fight back. The curse hit him dead in the chest, throwing him back against the shackled wall, pins crunching and ribs snapping, and Harry slid down to a heap, barely conscious and hardly alive.

"Obliviate."

His mind went numb, blank.

He felt none of his previous pain, none of the worry and none of the sorrow. It was almost like he was ... free.

"Imperio."

He could not resist.

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Neville's childhood had been blighted by Voldemort just as much as Harry's had, but Neville had no idea how close he had come to having Harry's destiny. The prophecy could have referred to either of them, yet, for his own inscrutable reasons, Voldemort had chosen to believe that Harry was the one meant.

Had Voldemort chosen Neville, it would be Neville sitting opposite Harry bearing the lightning-shaped scar and the weight of the prophecy ... or would it? Would Neville's mother have died to save him, as Lily had died for Harry? Surely she would ... but what if she had been unable to stand between her son and Voldemort? Would there, then, have been no 'Chosen One' at all? An empty seat where Neville now sat and a scarless Harry who would have been kissed goodbye by his own mother, not Ron's?

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, page 133.

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Harry awoke, lying on the sofa in his Aunt and Uncle's house, as the grandfather clock in the dining room struck four that morning. He lay still for a moment, taking long calming breaths, reminding himself that it had been a dream. Another of his terrible, sordid dreams. He sighed, thinking that perhaps he should have payed more attention in Divination class, and that maybe then he'd know what they meant ...

Harry scrunched his eyes shut again, yawning. He would not be able to get back to sleep, that much was certain. He needed a shower, and some food, and some other clothes.

Nimbly he rose from the sofa, making his way first to the kitchen, where he was sorely sorry to see contained not one can of anything even slightly edible. He dare not open the reeking fridge. Thinking his luck may be better off in the bathroom, Harry slowly climbed the stairs, his legs protesting every step of the way. Only, upon finally reaching the top, to find that the water had been turned off - not one drip falling from the endearing taps. Growling in frustration, Harry made his final point of call in Dudley's bedroom, where he let out his annoyance by tossing through his cousins clothes, making a right mess in the process - telling himself that he was, despite appearances, merely looking for clothes small enough that he may wear.

It was as he hurtled a particularly ugly thick magenta coloured sweater across the room that Harry stopped in his tracks, the sound of a car engine plummeting down Privet Drive far too close for comfort. He hastily picked an incredibly large trench-coat from the floor, slung it onto his shoulders, and quietly made his way back down the stairs for a better look outside.

Harry stopped at the bottom of the staircase, his senses on high alert, his ears straining, and it was with another shock of astonishment that Harry heard the car back right into the driveway of his Aunt and Uncle's house. Who would be driving around at such an early hour, and stopping at number four of all places? It couldn't possibly be the Ministry just yet - they could not have tracked him down so easily, surely.

Harry dropped to the ground, shuffling along the hallway carpet to the living room, till he reached a window overlooking the dead front garden. He bobbed his head up, shifting the floral curtains aside, and peeked out into the dark morning street.

There parked squarely in the driveway was a shiny new car, a large bottom wobbling out of the drivers door, it's owner busy hauling bags out from the back seat. The scene was accompanied by the yipping bark of a small, forever angry dog, leaping excitedly to and fro inside of the car. Harry eyes stayed firmly on the bottom, knowing fully well that he would recognise it anywhere - he had watched it, awe struck, rise up and up into the starry air on a particularly terrible night in his thirteenth year. It was his Aunt Marge. Shit. What did she think she was doing, visiting the bleak, condemned house at that time - right when he least, of all the times she had blessed them with her large presence, wanted her to?

Harry dropped the curtains, his heart pumping, his hands shaking. He'd have to leave immediately, before she could get inside. He couldn't cope with dealing with her now - stupifying her body to rot for days in the unused house, or perhaps he could tie her up and leave her in the attic - especially if she were as crazy as everyone else had been acting. What if she didn't even recognise him?

Where could he go? What could he do? Who could he trust?

Harry froze, his back to the living room wall, slumped on the soft carpet. His mind was blank, not processing his position fast enough, working too slow to form any sort of descent plan. He cursed himself, running his hands through his dirty hair, biting his lip until blood was drawn.

There was a movement outside the door ... a key was forced, rather maliciously, into the lock ... Harry jumped up, panicking. He needed to leave, he had to go ... He must find someone who would help him, even if they happened to believe he was insane while doing so ... In a snap decision his mind was made - whether it be a good idea or not - and Harry apparated from his childhood home with a loud crack, not at all sorry to be leaving it behind.

When he opened his eyes again, unsteady on his feet and stomach growling, Harry found himself standing before a small brick house, completely surrounded by a dense green forest. It did not appear that any other lived for miles, and Harry rolled his eyes at his own stupidity for thinking otherwise - of course the werewolf would live in solitude.

Harry stepped up the pathway leading to the front door, his heart pounding faster and faster. He cast his eyes warily around the little cottage, seeking all different paths for possible escape. But the house was beyond sparse, looking to be the entire size of a large bedroom at the Leaky Cauldron, with only two small windows in the front. Ivy covered the cracking brickwork, vines wrapped around the house so much so that Harry thought they may be the only reason the cottage was kept up, stable at all.

It was not yet too late to turn back ... he could hide somewhere, wait it out.

He stopped on the threshold, one of his fists raised, the other firmly clasping Shacklebolts' borrowed wand. He needed reassurance. He needed answers. He had nothing to loose - well, unless you counted life imprisonment - and everything to gain.

He knocked.

Being then just after four in the morning, it wasn't completely unusual that Remus Lupin was awoken then from a deep slumber. At first he thought he had imagined it, but then came another hesitant knock and Remus forced himself to roll out of bed. He splashed his face at the tiny kitchen sink, secured a thick brown dressing gown to hide his pants, knitted securely with shield charms - he was always one to be well prepared for any situation.

It was practically dark outside, the sun hardly having surfaced, and in Remus' experience that could mean three things; an attack, a caller carrying devastating news, or another of Sirius Black's terrible attempts to prank him. So it was quite reasonably that he approached door with much caution, his wand cased easily within reach on his wrist holster. And it was with more caution still that he finally reached the front door and called out softly to the visitor, "Who is it?"

"It's..." Harry stopped himself, caught by a burst of inspiration. The sound of Remus' voice propelled him forward, gave him confidence that his old friend would not let him down. "It's James. Let me in!"

Harry held his breath, unable to begin to describe the rush of fear that overtook him then, as Remus slowly, very carefully, opened his front door.

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