Year 7-10: Connecting the Dots

A/N: Chapter 100! Even I did not expect this story to grow so large when I started the project. I'm grateful for everyone who has stuck with the story this long through the ups and downs. I don't know exactly how many chapters this fic will end up reaching, but I suspect we have 15-20 chapters to go. Fingers crossed I can finish by the end of the calendar year. Here's to a productive and satisfying end to this epic journey!

Harry had no idea how long he slept after the cliffside incident. He didn't even know how he wound up back in his dorm after returning to Hogwarts. All he remembered was passing out in Snape's office, and then waking up much later in his bed, groggy and lethargic, feeling like he'd been run over by the Hogwarts Express.

He reached for his glasses on the bedside table, nearly knocking over a glass of water in the process, which he certainly hadn't placed there. He greedily gulped it down, then spotted a note sitting beside it on the table. He picked it up and read: 'Come find me when you wake up. -Dahlia.'

"Tempus," Harry croaked. The time flashed overhead: ten o' clock at night, though he had no idea what day it was. A quick check of the Marauder's Map showed him that Dahlia was still on shift in the Hospital Wing, so he groggily got out of bed and got dressed before exiting the room.

As he shuffled through the castle, he wondered what fallout might have come from his showdown with Voldemort. He was still alive, which meant the Dark Lord did not know he was Prewett – not yet, anyway. His Dark Mark prickled uncomfortably, much like his scar did in his prior timeline whenever Voldemort was angry, which was a foreboding sign. He hated being so in the dark, not knowing what kind of danger he was in or if he had screwed up royally by intervening.

Dahlia sprang to her feet when she saw Harry enter the Hospital Wing. "How do you feel, idiot?" she asked breathlessly as she wrapped him in a hug.

"Sore," Harry muttered as Dahlia helped him onto a cot. She flicked her wand to summon a Stamina Potion from the cabinet, which she handed to him; he gratefully drank it, feeling the energy slowly seep back into his body. "How long have I been out?"

"Four days," said Dahlia. "Headmaster Snape summoned me to your room to take care of you...your magical core was nearly depleted."

Harry winced at this news. "Will it recover?" he asked.

"Eventually, with a proper potions regiment," said Dahlia. "But what the hell happened? Draco also spent that night in the Hospital Wing, but he left the next day."

"The less said about that, the better," Harry sighed. "I'll be fine."

"Don't do that," Dahlia snapped at him. "I'm not someone you keep things from anymore, remember? You can trust me, and I need to know what happened so I can treat you properly."

Harry hesitated – he did not know how wise it was to share what really happened. What if Lockhart decided to breach Dahlia's mind again? But she already knew secrets about him that would be devastating in the hands of Voldemort, so he figured one more wouldn't hurt.

"I fought him," Harry said in an undertone. "At a raid. He was going to kill a group of Muggle-borns being smuggled from Britain, and I stopped him. I bought enough time for the runaways to escape."

"You fought You-Know-Who?" Dahlia gasped. "And lived? But...then why hasn't he ordered you killed?"

"He doesn't know it was me," said Harry. "I used an illusion to mask my identity. No one can know, Dahlia, I mean it."

Dahlia looked horrified by this news. "I don't like this at all, Harry," she muttered.

"Me neither," Harry sighed. "That's not all, though." He rolled up his left sleeve to expose the Dark Mark. It stood out darkly against his pale skin, and angry red veins surrounded it, as if it were a raw animal bite. Dahlia waved her wand over the Mark, flinching at whatever feedback she got from her diagnostic spell.

"I'm not sure exactly what happened," Harry admitted. "But Voldemort got angry after they escaped, and cast a really powerful spell, and me and a bunch of other Death Eaters felt a pain in our Marks. It felt like he was sapping our magic out from all of us to make himself stronger. Is that possible?"

"I have no idea," said Dahlia. "But this is really complex Dark stuff...some kind of soul magic. I can't even begin to understand how it works."

That was concerning to hear. Harry thought his soul was finally free of Voldemort's grasp – now it appeared they were tied together once more. Only this time, the connection was more one-sided, with Voldemort able to control him and even claim his magic for himself. What if the Dark Lord had done so during their fight? Or worse, realized that the 'Prewett' character was one of his own Marked followers? There would be no fighting against him after that.

"What's been happening since that night?" asked Harry. "Any news in the real world?"

"Nothing really," Dahlia shrugged. "Oh, except Amos Diggory got arrested on conspiracy charges, and his son got added to the Undesirables list, along with Tonks. They didn't elaborate on why, though."

"Makes sense," Harry sighed. "Cedric and Tonks were helping the Muggle-borns escape. Of course they would go after their families to make an example out of them."

"Then why not arrest Andromeda too?" Dahlia pointed out.

"Dunno," Harry shrugged. Maybe she was insulated because she was part of James' cabinet, and he was able to protect her. Or maybe she simply wasn't aware of the smuggling operation, and was cleared by Lockhart's memory invasions. It was maddening, not knowing exactly what was happening outside the castle and how safe the people he cared about were.

"What about the Carrows?" Harry asked to change the subject. "Did they come in for treatment that night?"

"No, but they both missed a day of lessons," said Dahlia. "They seemed extra nasty after they came back, too. Even Ginny thought better of pissing them off with the mood they were in."

Harry wondered if the Carrows had experienced the same magic-draining effect that he and the others had. He did not think they were present at the raid – they didn't come to Snape's office to travel with them, and as sadistic as they were, they didn't strike Harry as the type for Voldemort to consider his 'most trusted followers'. Perhaps they had learned of the raid in retrospect...that, in addition to the debilitating effects from their Marks, must have made them quite surly indeed.

"Are we in danger?" Dahlia asked quietly. "Will You-Know-Who figure out that it was you and come for us?"

"I don't know," Harry said honestly. "I hope not. But be ready just in case. Remember the protocol, and remind Damian about it too."

Dahlia nodded grimly. Harry had told his sister and cousin about the line he'd drawn in the one-eyed witch's passageway, marking the ward boundary. If the worst were to happen – if Voldemort were to realize Harry was behind the Prewett moniker – the entire family might have to flee at a moment's notice.

Harry retired to bed soon after to try and recover his strength. He still felt lethargic when he woke up the next morning, but he forced himself out of bed to rejoin the rest of the students. He did not want to give any indication that he was unwell, that he'd been particularly affected by Voldemort's draining effect. If Snape or the Carrows reported his excessive magical exhaustion to their master, he might grow suspicious of Harry.

"Morning," he greeted Daphne neutrally as he took his seat at the Head Table. Daphne arched an eyebrow, but thankfully did not make a scene about his appearance.

"Are you alright?" she asked him in an undertone.

"Fine," Harry shrugged. "Why do you ask?"

"You were making all kinds of noises the last few nights," Daphne muttered. "If the Headmaster had not summoned Dahlia to watch you, I would have gone to Pomfrey."

"Just a nasty stomach bug," Harry lied smoothly. "Nothing to fuss about. Okay?" Daphne must have sensed the urgency in his tone, because she merely nodded in response.

Harry glanced down the row at the other staff. Amycus and Alecto Carrow shot him nasty looks – nothing out of the ordinary, but disconcerting all the same. Snape regarded him impassively – it was always difficult to gauge what the man was thinking. Lily avoided his gaze, but Harry could sense her worry. He waited until she looked up to meet her eyeline, then gave her a reassuring nod before returning to his meal.

He hoped to return to a normal routine and put the cliffside incident behind him. All appeared to be relatively calm in the castle, and Voldemort's anger had subsided through the Mark, so there was no need to panic or draw attention to himself. Harry attended his classes, did his homework, and generally tried to forget the danger as his magic slowly healed itself. If Voldemort hadn't arrived to kill him yet, perhaps Harry had indeed escaped his notice.

In the meantime, Harry decided to delve deeper into his research of soul magic. Whatever the Dark Mark had done to him, he needed to understand how it worked, and quickly. He knew this war would not end before he had to face off with the Dark Lord again, and with such a devastating ability in Voldemort's arsenal, the battle could be over before it began.

So he spent much of his free time in the library, reading every tome in the Restricted Section that dealt in the magic of the soul. But he quickly ran into the same problem that he had when researching horcruxes years prior: the library simply did not contain the information he needed. He suspected Dumbledore had something to do with this...perhaps after Voldemort's ascent to power, the former Headmaster had removed the most dangerous of books from the library, resulting in nothing that could help him learn how to fight the dark magic, much less understand it.

Maybe Krum could help me again, Harry thought. He'd provided Harry with an illegal book on blood rituals two years ago...maybe he had other banned books that could help. But writing him a letter was out of the question – he had no doubt that international mail was being screened heavily. He would have to speak with Fleur about the issue...maybe she could arrange a meeting with Krum face-to-face overseas. As a bonus, it would be useful to know what was happening outside of Britain...what was the ICW up to? Had any other nations realized the threat of Voldemort? Or were they, too, pretending that nothing was wrong?

Unfortunately, Harry was so preoccupied with what was happening outside of the castle that he forgot that there was very much still danger within the castle, as well. One afternoon, Harry sat working on a History of Magic essay in the library, when a loud voice reverberated throughout the space: "Help! Please, somebody help!"

Harry looked up in alarm. A Hufflepuff prefect had sprinted into the library, looking panicked and desperate. He jumped to his feet at once, leaving his schoolwork behind to attend to the girl.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

The fifth-year girl startled at the sight of Harry, but apparently her need overrode her fear of him. "S-something bad is happening in the Defense classroom," the girl stammered.

"Something like what?" Harry frowned.

"I don't know, but I was passing by and I heard screaming!" the Hufflepuff girl said. "Please, you have to go see!"

That couldn't be good. Harry ran past the girl out of the library, not even bothering to gather his things. He ducked through a secret passageway to get to the Defense classroom more quickly. As he approached, he could indeed hear a high-pitched screaming coming from somewhere; several students in the halls stood frozen, worriedly looking in the direction of the screams.

Harry arrived at the classroom and burst through the door. What he saw made his blood boil: Amycus Carrow stood at the front of the room, wand trained upon a young boy, who was writhing on the floor and screaming hoarsely, clearly under the effects of the Cruciatus Curse. The rest of the class of second-years was watching on, horrified, as their classmate was tortured in front of their eyes.

Harry's wand jumped to his hand in a split second; there was a loud bang, and Amycus was blasted backward, ricocheting off of the blackboard and landing in a heap on the ground. Harry rushed forward, ignoring the hushed murmurs of the class and kneeling beside the injured boy. He was whimpering and curled up in a ball, trembling terribly from the effects of the curse, but he appeared to be okay.

Harry rounded on Amycus, who was gathering himself angrily. "Potter," he snarled. "The hell is you doin' here? You don't take my class."

"Why are you torturing a student?" Harry demanded. "Are you mental?"

"The little twerp talked back to me," Amycus huffed. "I won't stand for it in my class!"

"And you think the Cruciatus Curse is an appropriate punishment for a twelve year old?"

A sly smirk spread across Amycus' face. "The Headmaster says we is allowed to demonstrate the Unforgivables to students," he grinned. "They has to learn what they do somehow, don't they?"

Harry looked around at the class, at all the young faces staring horrified at their classmate on the floor. "You raise a good point, Professor Carrow," said Harry. "The students should learn what the awful curses do."

"Damn right," Amycus agreed.

"Let's show them another, then," said Harry, pointing his wand at Amycus. "Imperio."

Amycus' face went blank, his mind totally under Harry's control. It was trivial, commanding the simple-minded man to do as Harry ordered. He ordered Amycus to march up to the blackboard, then, with a mighty crash, he slammed his face into the board. The class gasped as Amycus repeatedly cocked back and slammed his head into the solid surface; blood began to smear across the board as Harry forced the man to injure himself again and again.

Harry eventually released the curse, allowing Amycus to slump to the floor with a gasp. The man angrily jumped back to his feet, rounding on Harry, his nose broken, blood streaming from his nostrils.

"You little shit!" he spat. "You'll pay for that, Potter."

Amycus rolled up his left sleeve, revealing the Dark Mark and causing the class to gasp with fear. He hovered his index finger over it, looking murderously at Harry, the threat quite clear.

"Go ahead," Harry said calmly. "Call your master and hide behind him. We'll see what he says when he learns that you used the Cruciatus on the son of a Wizengamot member."

Amycus' eyed flicked over to the boy on the ground. "A what now?" he asked.

"That's Daniel Galloway," said Harry. "His mother is Beatrice Galloway, who has been on the Wizengamot for twenty years. What do you think she would say if she learned about this? How might she and her allies retaliate against you and the school?"

Amycus blinked – he clearly hadn't known that. "I ain't scared of her," he spat.

"Then be scared of me," Harry growled. "Because the next time you harm a student, I'll make sure a broken nose is the least of your worries. Maybe I'll demonstrate the final Unforgivable for the class...we both know it wouldn't be my first time."

Amycus glared angrily at Harry, his finger still hovering over the Dark Mark on his arm. Harry did not look away, glaring right back, daring him to do it, as the class watched on with bated breath.

Eventually Amycus decided it wasn't worth it, rolling up his sleeve and turning away. "Class dismissed!" he spat, as he walked up the stairs to his office and slammed himself inside. The class didn't need telling twice; they stood from their desks and scurried for the door, glancing worriedly back towards Harry as they did so. If they weren't terrified of him before, they certainly were now.

Harry knelt beside Danny Galloway, a troublesome Gryffindor boy he'd caught sneaking around the castle a handful of times the previous year on prefect patrol. "How are you feeling, Danny?" he asked.

"Sore," the boy groaned.

Harry helped the boy up. Danny stood shakily, still trembling but able to stand on his own two feet.

"Let's get you to the Hospital Wing," said Harry.

"Don't need the Hospital Wing," Danny grumbled defiantly. "I just wanna go back to my dorm."

"It's not a request," said Harry. "You could suffer lasting spell damage if you aren't treated. Madam Pomfrey will patch you up."

Danny reluctantly followed Harry from the classroom and down the hall. They walked in silence, Harry slowing his pace to accommodate the injured boy, who refused any sort of help but was clearly still suffering the after-effects of the curse.

"Mr. Potter?" asked Danny timidly as they drew closer to their destination. "Are you a Death Eater?"

Harry considered the question. "What makes you say that?" he asked.

"Everyone in my House thinks so," Danny shrugged. "Ginny Weasley says you're evil. But…"

"But what?"

"But you don't act like one," said Danny. "You were always nice to me last year. You seem like a good person."

"The world isn't split into good people and Death Eaters," said Harry, smiling in spite of himself at the line his godfather once spoke in his previous timeline. "But it doesn't matter. What matters is that you have to be more careful around the Carrows."

"He was bad-mouthing Professor McGonagall," Danny said bitterly. "I couldn't just let him get away with it!"

"Yes, you can," said Harry sternly. "Listen, Danny, the Carrows are dangerous. They don't follow the same rules as the other teachers. You have to keep your head down and stay out of trouble, or they might do even worse to you, and I won't always be around to stop them."

Danny said nothing in response to this. They arrived at the Hospital Wing in silence, and Madam Pomfrey came out to greet them.

"Mr. Galloway here was placed under the Cruciatus Curse," Harry told her. Madam Pomfrey's eyes widened in horror, beckoning Danny forward towards a bed. He looked back at Harry as he walked away, obviously deep in thought. Harry hoped the boy would heed his warning and stay out of trouble from now on.

He knew it was not wise to oppose the Carrows so brazenly, especially in front of other students. People would talk about this incident, and Snape would hear about it soon – and by extension, Voldemort himself. How might he respond to such discord in his ranks? Would he punish Harry for the show of nobility? Or would the Carrows themselves seek retribution, targeting someone Harry cared more about?

But maybe Harry didn't care. There were things he could turn a blind eye to, but torturing an innocent child was not one of them. He would defend his actions to the grave, whether to Snape or to Voldemort or to Death himself. The Carrows would not have free reign to harm his classmates so long as Harry drew breath.

After all, if he did not draw the line somewhere, what greater evils could he be capable of enabling?

"Try again! Remember: destination, determination, deliberation."

Damian and Dahlia gave Harry an exasperated look as they lined up once more on the grass. They were practicing Apparation on the front lawn of Raven House, attempting to travel from one conjured hoop to another. Fleur watched on from the porch, bemused, as Harry attempted to coach the two underage teens on what to do.

"Bloody impossible," Damian grunted, sweat beading on his brow from concentration. He twirled on the spot once more, succeeding only in losing his balance and crashing back to the grass.

CRACK! There was a loud noise as Dahlia abruptly disappeared and reappeared ten feet away, just missing her target hoop. She winced and sank to her knees; when Harry approached, he saw that she was missing two of her fingers.

"Aw, hell," Harry groaned. "You've Splinched yourself. Here, let's get you back to Madam Pomfrey—"

"Back off, idiot," Dahlia grunted. She stumbled back over to her original hoop, where the two disembodied fingers lay; she waved her wand, and with a smaller crack, the two fingers reattached themselves, as Dahlia painfully flexed her reformed hand.

"That's enough for today," Harry sighed with relief. "You're making progress – both of you."

"If you say so," Damian muttered, dragging himself to his feet and shuffling over to the porch, flopping onto the wooden steps with a groan. "Quidditch was never this hard."

"You almost 'ad it a couple of times, Damian," Fleur reassured the boy. "I swear you flickered once or twice before falling on your derrière." Damian was too tired to do anything but flip her off in return.

"Why can't we just use Portkeys?" asked an exasperated Dahlia as she too flopped onto the porch. "They're just as fast and effective without any of the risk."

"Because a Portkey can only go one direction," said Harry. "And who knows if Raven House will be safe forever? If the Fidelius Charm ever fell, you would have nowhere else to go."

"Why would the Charm fail?" Dahlia pressed. "It's basically fool-proof."

"Tell that to the Longbottoms," Harry said grimly.

Dahlia fell silent at this reminder – both Neville's parents and his grandmother had been safe under the Fidelius Charm at one time, only to be killed anyway in both instances. Harry trusted Fleur with his life, but what if she was compromised in the future? What if Lockhart – or worse, Voldemort – caught wind that she was untrustworthy and decided to take a look into her mind?

"I'm going up to the lab," said Dahlia, struggling to her feet. "Maybe I'll start on that Felix Felicis brew I've been theorizing for months."

"I'll come help," Damian offered, getting to his own feet.

"On second thought," Dahlia grimaced, watching as Damian clumsily entered the house, nearly knocking Fleur over in the process, "maybe I'll just brew some Wiggenwelds instead." And she too disappeared inside, leaving Harry and Fleur alone on the porch.

The two sat in silence for a while, watching the afternoon sun dip low in the sky. After a while, Fleur broke the silence: "Something 'appened, didn't it?"

"What makes you say that?" Harry asked innocently.

Fleur gave him a scathing look. "You 'ave not written to me in over a week," she admonished him. "And I see ze way your sister and cousin are looking at you...zey are worried about something. What 'appened?"

Harry groaned internally...unlike with Voldemort, he could not hide anything from Fleur. So he recounted the incident at the cliffside lighthouse, and the task he and Draco had been given. Fleur listened with rapt attention, gasping when he described how he used the Body-Mirroring Charm to face off against Voldemort and allow the Muggle-borns and their smugglers to escape.

"Mon dieu," Fleur breathed. "It is a wonder nobody was injured or killed."

"It was very fortunate," Harry agreed. "But that's not all." He described the moment of rage in which Voldemort had sapped the magical energy of his followers to empower himself. Fleur looked shocked, then puzzled as he wrapped up his tale, showing her the Dark Mark and the fading angry red lines around it.

"It's a good thing that he didn't do it while he was fighting me," Harry admitted. "He probably didn't want to affect the other Death Eaters from holding the treeline. But if he knew it was me, it would be trivial for him to do it again, and there would be nothing I could do to defend myself."

"I 'ave never heard of such vile magic," Fleur muttered. "Does it affect all of 'is followers, or only specific ones?"

"I think all of them combined," said Harry. "It seems like the Carrows were also affected, even though they were back at Hogwarts at the time."

"What a horrifying design," said Fleur. "If 'e wanted to, ze Dark Lord could take on ze power of two dozen men, at ze expense of their own strength."

"Frankly, it doesn't surprise me," Harry laughed bitterly. "Voldemort never was one to care about anyone's lives but himself. He would gladly sacrifice every one of his followers the moment their lives were not useful anymore, and his own was in jeopardy."

"What are you going to do about it?" asked Fleur.

"That's what I hoped to talk to you about," said Harry. "Have you considered visiting your parents in France again soon?"

"Eet is difficult to secure an international Portkey these days," Fleur sighed. "They are suspicious of anyone entering or exiting ze country."

"Surely your father could help with that, though?" Harry asked hopefully. "He's an important man abroad, and Voldemort wouldn't want to anger him."

"I suppose," said Fleur thoughtfully. "But why do you wish for me to leave? Don't we 'ave more important things to do here?"

"Yes, but there's something I need from the continent," said Harry. "Krum has access to information that is heavily restricted here in Britain. I need to research soul magic more thoroughly to understand how the Mark works, and he might know of a book or two that could help."

"Viktor would be a valuable ally," Fleur agreed. "You believe we can trust 'im?"

"I do," Harry said confidently. "He covered for me at the fighting ring in Bulgaria, and he hates Dark wizards more than anybody. See if you can arrange a meeting with him while you're abroad."

"I will," Fleur nodded.

"And see what you can learn about what's happening in the outside world. How other countries are covering the war, and how the ICW is responding. I'm sure your father would know better than anyone."

"Should I ask him to begin recruiting again?" asked Fleur. "We will need an army eventually."

Harry considered this carefully. "True," he admitted. "But he should do it quietly for now. Voldemort definitely has spies in France, and if he catches wind that your father is moving against him, he might retaliate by going after you."

"Do not worry," said Fleur confidently. "My father knows 'ow to be discreet."

"What is it he does, exactly?" Harry asked, suddenly curious. He'd never gotten to the bottom of Sebastian Delacour's line of work...he seemed to be quite wealthy and heavily connected in the French Ministry and in broader European affairs.

"He is...'ow do you say in English...un arrangeur," said Fleur. "He 'elps move things from place to place, introduces clients and brokers, and finds people who do not always wish to be found."

"Like a fixer?" asked Harry. "For the mafia?"

"The what?"

"Never mind," Harry muttered. Once in his prior timeline, he had watched a Muggle movie called The Godfather on television with Dudley, who only let him stay if he promised not to wake Vernon and Petunia upstairs. He often pictured Sebastian as a Don Corleone-esque figure, making shady dealings with powerful people, but perhaps it wasn't quite so glamorous. "Is what he does legal?"

"On paper, yes," said Fleur. "But 'e often bends the law to achieve his goals. Papa always knows 'ow to get what 'e wants without attracting attention from ze wrong people."

"That's good, then," said Harry. "See what he can find out. The more people who know what's really going on in Britain, and are willing to help, the better."

"I will write to him straight away, then," said Fleur. "And in the meantime? What will we do?"

"Keep working on the Cup," said Harry. "Any leads on which vault it's in?"

"Not yet," said Fleur. "But I 'ave been compiling a list of options. I 'ave over forty vaults tagged, their locations in ze bank, and every protection I know they 'ave."

"That's very useful," said Harry, impressed. "Keep working on it. We might need to consult it once we narrow down which vault we need to enter."

"But 'Arry," said Fleur worriedly, "I do not know every protection on every vault. Some are custom-ordered by ze goblins, and employees do not 'ave access to such information."

"The more information we have, the better," Harry shrugged. "It can't hurt. Keep doing what you're doing, and I'll keep working on getting the Sorting Hat from— aahhh!"

Harry winced and grabbed his forearm. The Dark Mark was burning again.

"What is it?" asked Fleur, alarmed. "Is ze Dark Lord draining your magic again?"

"No," said Harry. "It's Snape. He's calling for me." The burn was not nearly as intense as Voldemort's beckoning, but he nonetheless felt the compulsion to go directly to the Headmaster's Office.

"You do not think there will be trouble?" asked Fleur as Harry stood from the porch.

"Nah, he's probably just going to chew me out for what I did to Carrow," said Harry. "I can handle Snape. I'll be back as soon as I can to get Damian and Dahlia."

Harry hugged Fleur goodbye before Apparating to the one-eyed witch's passageway and hurrying back onto the school grounds. He slipped through the witch's hump into the castle and hustled to the Headmaster's Office, taking care to Scourgify himself to remove any traces of dirt from the tunnel.

"Salazar," Harry announced to the gargoyle standing guard. It sprang aside, and Harry bounded up the spiral steps to the office, bursting through the door without knocking. "You summoned me, sir—?"

Harry's breath hitched in his throat. Snape sat impassively behind his desk, surveying him quietly. But he was not alone. Voldemort sat in one of the large armchairs, red eyes leering at the new arrival. Beside him sat the wandmaker, Garrick Ollivander, who had gone missing over a year prior; the man looked frail and weathered, sitting meekly with his gaze trained upon the floor.

"Ah, Harry," said Voldemort in a falsely-honeyed tone. "How good of you to join us. Have a seat."

Voldemort beckoned to the empty seat beside him with his long, bony fingers. Harry tentatively sat, working to keep his heart rate under control and his hands from shaking. The sight of the Dark Lord sitting so casually within Hogwarts was an eerie and uncomfortable one.

"I was just conversing with Severus about your initiation," said Voldemort. "It did not entirely go to plan, did it?"

"No, my Lord," Harry muttered.

"I understand many of my followers suffered some...unfortunate side-effects from my wrath that day," said Voldemort, not sounding sorry about it at all. "The appearance of this Prewett figure caused me to temporarily lose my temper. I hope your recovery was not too taxing."

"I'm fine, my Lord," said Harry quickly, hoping to downplay the magical exhaustion he felt that night. Snape eyed Harry curiously, knowing the true nature of Harry's ailments, but said nothing. Fortunately, Voldemort did not appear fixated on this – his mind was clearly elsewhere.

"The presence of this mystery man continues to vex me," said Voldemort, a look of consternation on his face. "He has complicated matters for me twice now, and I cannot allow someone of his caliber to exist, opposing my rule."

Harry said nothing, hoping that Voldemort was not about to question him about his 'Lieutenant Prewett' alter ego again. He felt that he had barely escaped without tipping his hand the last time, and wasn't sure how long he could evade the Dark Lord's prying.

"I require your wand, Harry," said Voldemort, extending his palm expectantly.

Harry's heart skipped a beat. "M-my wand?" he repeated dumbly.

"You have it on your person, do you not?" Voldemort said irritably. "No respectable wizard ought to be without it."

Harry nervously reached into his robes, careful not to fish into the wrong pocket and procure the wand he didn't want Voldemort to know about. He pulled out his own Kneazle wand and handed it over, doing his best to school his features and not give away his nerves.

Voldemort drew his own yew wand and placed the tip to Harry's wand. "Priori incantato," he whispered.

A flurry of spells displayed overhead in a virtual slideshow. It was mostly mundane...household charms, basic levitation and summoning, and some school work for his classes. Harry watched them pass by, thanking his lucky stars that he had used the Elder Wand in his battle against Voldemort on the cliffside. He was also fortunate that he had not trained in the Room of Requirement for weeks; it would take Voldemort quite a while to reach the record of those offensive spells being cast.

Eventually Voldemort ended the spell, brow furrowed in thought. Rather than hand the wand back to Harry, he instead turned to Ollivander, giving him the wand instead. "Well?" he demanded.

Ollivander surveyed the wand for a moment. "Mahogany and Kneazle whisker, twelve and three-quarter inches," he muttered. "A rare combination, but a proper fit. I sold this wand to Mr. Potter six years ago, and I sense it remains loyal to him – though only just."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed at this. "Only just?" he repeated.

"Kneazles are notoriously fickle creatures," Ollivander explained. "I warned Mr. Potter that he would have difficulty earning the wand's trust. I sense that the relationship between wand and wizard has been turbulent as of late."

Voldemort snatched the wand back, examining it thoughtfully. Harry's heart was hammering, but he remained perfectly still, doing his best not to betray his fear. Did the Dark Lord know Harry possessed another wand that was vying for his loyalty? Would he begin asking questions Harry would not be able to talk his way out of? But after a few tense moments, Voldemort finally tossed the wand back to Harry, who stowed it away in his robes without comment.

"There is a particular matter that weighs on me, Harry," said Voldemort, standing to pace about the room. "I have given a great deal of thought to it in recent weeks, and I hope to gain your insight."

"Er...alright," said Harry. What insight could Voldemort possibly hope to glean from him?

"This so-called 'Lieutenant Prewett' seemingly appeared out of nowhere in the past year," said Voldemort. "Powerful wizards like him do not often escape my notice. I have asked my spy network to look into the matter, and they have unearthed some...interesting findings."

Harry's stomach churned at this information. "Such as?" he asked.

"I like to keep an ear to the underground scene at all times," said Voldemort. "And my sources informed me of a fresh dueling talent on the scene, popping up in Knockturn Alley earlier this past year. A man who goes by the moniker of 'Phantom'."

Harry's heartbeat began to increase again. This was a line of questioning he dreaded...if Voldemort had discovered Harry was the person behind all of this, surely it could not end well.

"I viewed Barty Crouch's memories of this man's bouts in the arena," Voldemort continued. "He is a skilled fighter, there is no doubt, more skilled than most. But nothing that I would consider a threat to me...just another mercenary selling his talents for coin. However, this wizard has a distinctive style: athletic, flexible, favoring speed and versatility over raw power or branch specialty. I have no doubt that this is the same man that I have now faced twice in battle."

Harry watched Voldemort closely, unable to gauge his frame of mind. Was he playing with his food? Had he already arrived at the correct conclusion? Or was there more going on here?

"This wizard also appears to be highly connected within the Ministry of Magic," said Voldemort. "Otherwise, he would not have earned the appointment alongside the Auror Moody prior to the Battle of London. There is no record of this man as an Auror, but he nevertheless has friends in high places. Which narrows down the possibilities of his identity significantly.

"And then there is the matter of his wand," Voldemort continued. "I have viewed my own memories of my two bouts with the man carefully. He possesses a unique wand, one that is quite familiar to me. It is a wand I have fought against many times before, but in the hands of another."

Voldemort reached into his robes and pulled out a wand. For a brief moment of panic, Harry thought he was about to strike Harry down then and there. But the wand he procured was not his own...it was a smaller, more crooked and weathered wand. He recognized it at once.

"This is the wand you took from Albus Dumbledore, the night you killed him?" Voldemort demanded.

"Yes, my Lord," Harry said quietly.

Voldemort handed the wand to Ollivander. "Can you confirm that this wand belonged to Dumbledore?" he asked.

Ollivander surveyed the wand carefully. "Maple and phoenix feather, nine and one-quarter inches," he said. "My grandfather sold this wand to Albus Dumbledore, before I was born."

"How would you know that, if you weren't there?" Voldemort demanded.

"He often bragged that he crafted the wand that defeated Gellert Grindelwald," Ollivander shrugged. "He tried to replicate the maple and phoenix combination many times, but failed to find a match as good as Albus."

Voldemort took back the maple wand and stowed it back in his robes. "You see, Harry," he said, resuming his pacing, "I have long wondered why Dumbledore was not using the same wand that night that he used to fight me over the decades. It is not unheard of for an arch-wizard of his caliber to possess multiple wands, of course – I myself have experimented with others for specific endeavors. But this other wand of his seemed to possess unusual properties."

"What kind of properties?" Harry asked innocently.

"It is difficult to explain," said Voldemort. "But Dumbledore seemingly possessed a foresight I thought impossible in combat. As if he could predict my next moves before I made them. And numerous times I was certain I had him, that my spells had finally slipped past his defenses, only for a superhuman recovery on his part to prevent certain doom. It is that same preternatural instinct that this mysterious 'Phantom' seems to possess."

Voldemort was pacing faster than ever now. Harry sat as still as possible, trying to keep his heart from hammering in fear. The Dark Lord was honing in on the truth quickly, far too quickly, and there was little he could do to prevent it.

"All of this led me to a simple conclusion," said Voldemort. "This 'Phantom' must have had an intimate relationship with Albus Dumbledore, and connections to the very top of the Ministry. Someone young and capable, with motive to wish me harm. And after much deliberation, I have finally deduced his true identity."

It was over. He knew. Harry braced himself for the end, knowing that the moment was nigh. Voldemort was poised like a venomous serpent, waiting to strike; Harry had no choice, had to go for the Elder Wand and fight, hoping against hope that he could defend himself long enough to give his loved ones a chance at escape—

"I must conclude that this mysterious 'Phantom' is none other than Neville Longbottom."

Harry froze. That was not at all what he'd expected Voldemort to say. "N-Neville?" he stammered.

"It is the only answer that makes sense," said Voldemort, resuming his pacing in earnest. "Dumbledore was training the boy in his final months, as Severus has attested, in the same period that he divested himself of this mysterious powerful wand. He must have been teaching Longbottom how to wield the wand properly, in preparation for his confrontation with myself."

Harry kept his mouth firmly shut. Voldemort was partially correct, and had deduced that Dumbledore passed the Elder Wand along to Neville before his death. Only Harry knew the full truth, the actual location of the wand today, and he had no intentions of spelling it out for the Dark Lord. But then Voldemort turned to him expectantly, red eyes peering curiously at him.

"What do you make of this theory, Harry?" he demanded. "Does my logic make sense in your mind?"

Harry's mind raced, searching for the correct response. "It makes perfect sense, my Lord," he said. "Neville was quite withdrawn in the last few months I knew him, and spent a lot of time with Dumbledore. I too suspect that he obtained Dumbledore's wand in that period, and was training with it."

"Ah, yes, but I almost forgot...you fought the boy yourself that evening, did you not?" said Voldemort. "I saw the memory in your mind...he appeared far more adept than normal, more powerful. He must have had this wand then...but then how were you able to overpower him, if this wand granted him the power to stand toe-to-toe with me?"

"He was likely angry and confused," Harry supplied quickly, not wanting Voldemort to get side-tracked from his original theory. "He made a lot of sloppy mistakes. He nearly bested me."

"Yes, yes," said Voldemort, nodding in agreement. "The boy had just lost his mentor, after all. And he then had several long weeks to prepare himself before I met him again at the Battle of London, to ready his mind...it is a shame only that you did not kill him, Harry, as this problem would not have manifested itself."

Again Harry said nothing to correct Voldemort. The Dark Lord did not know that Harry had taken the wand from Neville, and must have believed the boy absconded with it when he fled the castle. And clearly he did not understand the nuances of wand ownership, or he may have suspected that Harry earned the wand's loyalty that day anyway. Harry could see Ollivander shifting uncomfortably nearby, perhaps sensing this discrepancy himself, but he remained silent.

"But no," said Voldemort, "it is fortunate that you did not. It must be me to kill the boy in the end. He has caught me off-guard twice now, but he will not do so a third. He will make another mistake, as he did against you, Harry, and then all will know who the superior wizard is once and for all."

It was then that Harry realized why Voldemort did not yet consider the war won. He needed Neville's head as a trophy to truly feel secure, to throw off the self-doubt. He still put stock in the prophecy, still believed deep down that Neville might have 'power the Dark Lord knows not' that made him afraid. No wonder he didn't even consider the possibility that Harry was Phantom...his arrogance and his fear of what happened in the graveyard two years prior prevented that.

"I must ask you again, Harry," said Voldemort, rounding on him once more. "Do you have any idea where Longbottom and his little friends have gone?"

"No," said Harry at once. "I have been trying to locate him, my Lord." He did not even have to lie this time – it was true. Neville remained frustratingly hidden from sight, preventing Harry from doing what needed to be done to finish things. Though in this instance, perhaps that was a good thing, as it seemed to be the one thing keeping the Potters alive as puppets. Once Neville was captured and killed, Voldemort would have no further use for them and could move out of the shadows at last.

"Continue your efforts in earnest," Voldemort instructed him. "Locating him is my top priority now. Severus, do what you can to aid young Mr. Potter in this endeavor."

"I will, my Lord," said Snape with a tilt of the head.

"In the meantime," said Voldemort, "I must learn more about this mysterious weapon he possesses. I know of no such wand that can make a mediocre wizard such a force to be reckoned with. It must possess remarkable qualities, and no such wand could be manufactured without drawing attention to itself. Wouldn't you say, Ollivander?"

"I have shared with you my suspicions," Ollivander said meekly.

"Yes yes, you and your fairy tales," Voldemort said dismissively. "You wandmakers would believe in something so outlandish as a 'Wand of Destiny'. Such a thing strikes me as mere myth."

A shiver of fear ran down Harry's spine. Had Ollivander told Voldemort about the Deathly Hallows? Would Voldemort put two and two together and seek out the objects himself? Would he realize that all roads led to Harry in the end? Harry prayed that wasn't the case, that the Dark Lord would not put stock into the theory.

"On the other hand," said Voldemort, "even fairy tales are oftentimes rooted in reality. I will investigate this so-called 'Deathstick' and determine if such rumors are in fact fantasy."

That was bad news. If Voldemort followed the same whispers that Harry had, it would eventually lead him to Grindelwald, who was still alive in his cell at Nurmengard. And the man knew far too much about Harry – secrets that would spell his doom in the hands of Voldemort.

"One last thing, Harry," said Voldemort. "Severus informs me that you had an altercation with Amycus Carrow last week."

Harry stiffened. "Yes, I did," he said.

"Why?"

"He used the Cruciatus on a second-year," said Harry. "The son of a Wizengamot member. I had to set him straight, so that he didn't get the idea that he could harm students as he pleased. It wouldn't do for parents to learn what he's doing to their children, would it?"

Voldemort's red eyes bored into Harry's, scrutinizing him. Harry held his breath, wondering if the Dark Lord was about to punish him, to retaliate for his transgression against a fellow Death Eater.

Instead, a chilling grin crossed the Dark Lord's features. "Right you are, Harry," he said. "The last thing we need is a public outcry against the re-education of our youth. Amycus is a loyal follower, but he lacks...discretion in matters such as these. I have instructed Severus to reign in his more aggressive tendencies with the students."

Harry breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He had not expected such a positive outcome from the altercation...would it actually lead to greater student safety?

"That is why you will be in charge of student punishments from now on, Harry," Voldemort said, his wicked smile growing wider. "A Head Boy ought to remind students of their place. They will not question your authority again if you show them what becomes of troublemakers in our new world order."

Of course it couldn't be so simple, Harry thought with an internal groan. He should have realized Voldemort wouldn't let him exist here at Hogwarts without making an example out of him. He wanted Harry to be hated, to bear the brunt of student loathing, so that once he was done with the Potters, the family name would be tarnished forever. Such was the price of letting them live in the first place.

"I suspect we shall see each other again soon," Voldemort said as he headed for the exit. "Keep an eye on the headlines in the days to come – I think you'll find an item of great interest there in the near future." And with that cryptic warning (or threat?) lingering in the air, the Dark Lord swept from the office, Ollivander shuffling meekly behind him.