Disclaimer: Everything here is the property of JK Rowling, Warner Bros, etc. I'm just having fun with the characters.

A/N: This is unbetad, but as I've been making you wait a horrible amount of time for this, I decided to post it anyway. It's not a very cheerful chapter, but Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it, and happy holidays. :) Just a note that this is just a one-off because it's been so long - I'm going to wait until I've finished the entire story until I post any more (unless it's a long wait again). I'll probably post updates in my profile page, but you might want to wait until I've posted the rest before reading this part.

I apologise for the cliches in this one.

Chapter Twenty-One

The next thing Harry heard as Ron's scream ebbed away into the distance and the pulling sensation finally stopped was a familiar harsh voice, one he had heard only that night.

'Well, well, well.'

Harry spun around. Rookwood's sneer was surrounded by pockmarked skin, and his hair looked just as greasy as in his picture in the Prophet.

Rookwood heaved himself from beside the door opposite where he had been leaning. 'Wasn't so sure you'd turn up. But turn up you have.' His lips curled again. He produced his wand, and Harry took a step back. 'Wand. Now.'

Harry answered automatically, still in a daze. 'I – I don't have it.' He looked to the floor. He'd heard it fall …. But it was not here.

Rookwood leaned toward him. 'Defenceless, are we?' he sneered, disbelieving, his eyes raking over Harry, who suddenly felt vulnerable, strangely stupid, stood here in his pyjamas and dressing gown, as though this was some nightmarish pyjama party. With Death Eaters.

Harry felt some odd compulsion to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, his nightmare come true.

Rookwood strode forward then and stuck his wandtip against Harry's throat. With his free hand, he snatched something from Harry's hand. He caught a glimpse of the black liquid before Rookwood Vanished it. It was the antidote.

Or was it? It had brought him here, as a Portkey…. Was it even a real potion?

Harry's heart pounded. He stood helplessly as Rookwood searched roughly through his pockets, his wand at his throat. Oh, God. If that potion had been a Portkey, where the hell was he now?

He glanced around – and felt what blood was left in his head drain away.

It was the same room from his dreams. The greying wallpaper hung off in damp patches all around. What was left of a window was boarded over, bare bricks showing through gaps in the wood. He looked up then, Rookwood's wand tight against his neck – and for the first time saw the weak light source that barely reached across the room. A naked bulb hung from the ceiling, high above. Electric. It was as though the sight of it proved to him this was real, this was not just another of the dreams. Harry stared at it, and his overriding thought at that moment was how odd, how completely insane, it was for Voldemort to be using Muggle electricity.

Rookwood laughed the horrible thin laugh that Harry remembered from his dream. 'Thought you'd feel at home with that,' he said, jerking his head upward. 'Don't you like it?' His smirk suddenly vanished. 'Remember to say thank you.'

The feel of Rookwood's hot breath on his face made him cringe, the scent of alcohol and a slight hint of something stale, perhaps that night's meal. But then Rookwood straightened, and Harry noticed something he could not recall from his many dreams of this place. Some of the smell still lingered. The room itself was rank. Its mouldy stench was strong, musty, and it reminded him of his old room in the cupboard under the stairs. Only this was a hundred times worse. It crept into his throat and made him feel nauseous.

Rookwood took a step back. 'Nice of you to come unarmed.' He flicked the collar of his dressing gown. 'But you could have at least got dressed up for us.' His sneer spread across his scarred face slowly, deliberately, making sure that Harry saw just how much he was enjoying himself.

He stepped back to the door, treading in the dirt of the bare floorboards, his wand now pointing again at Harry's chest. 'I don't have to use the Body Bind on you, do I?' His lips curled as Harry remained rooted to the spot. 'Didn't think so. Won't be long. Don't go anywhere, now.'

When the door slammed shut, Harry stood alone in the bleak, damp room, with the only sounds Rookwood's receding footsteps and his own laboured breathing. He forced himself to snap out of the trance-like fear that had descended and slowly ventured forward to the door.

It was horrible. It was just like in his dreams, where he had stepped out of the light toward it so many times.

Harry felt his legs begin to buckle beneath him. No! He was not going to give in. He stumbled the last few steps and grabbed the grimy handle. He had not heard Rookwood turn a key. Please let it be open. But he knew it was foolish to expect Rookwood not to have used locking magic, and unlike so many times in the dreams, the door stayed shut under Harry's shaking hand.

What the hell was he going to do now?

Breathe.

Three times he circled the small room, searching the walls, trying the boarding at the bricked-over window. Even whispering spells at the door, hoping something might work even without his wand. Of course, everything was warded. There was no way out. They had created the Portkey to bring him to this room – they had made sure it would be the most secure room in the building.

He stepped to the left of the door so that he would be behind it when someone came. Maybe at least this would give him some kind of advantage over them. It was something, at least.

He had to do something.

But all he could do was wait.

Breathe. Someone would come for him – his dad – or Snape.

But if that potion had been a Portkey, what if Snape had planted it in his office to lure him here?

He took another breath. His dad, then. Yes, his dad would come help him.

Harry felt his chest swell with hope, his breaths coming a little easier. Of course his dad would be here. As soon as he found out, he would be here.

But in spite of his dawning optimism, a shadow began to creep over his thoughts, like a descending dark mist, drowning his hope.

The electric light dimmed.

Then, inexplicably, Harry heard his father's voice.

Yet instead of the joy he would have expected to feel, only despair began to fill him.

'Run!' James shouted. '… Harry …'

Harry tried to claw his way out of the anguish that was smothering him. His father was here, just as he knew he would be. He was here for him!

But then came the sound of high-pitched laughter, and another voice took over, one much more forceful. 'Bow to death, Harry…'

As Voldemort's words drifted away as quickly as they had appeared and as the dark veil of utter hopelessness suddenly lifted, Harry knew then that his father was not outside the door. It had simply been his only memory of his father, from the day his mother had died for him. A voice from the past, not one from his rescuer.

The light above glowed as strongly as before, and Harry recognised then the familiar chill brought by a Dementor. Had they put one outside to guard him?

It seemed to have stopped exploring, feeding off him, but Harry felt the anguish return as his last hope was snatched from him. Anguish this time without his father's voice.

He leaned against the wall and stared up at the solitary light bulb as it hung there, mocking him, and waited.

Whether it was for a Death Eater or Voldemort himself, he was beyond caring now. All he wanted was for the Dementor outside the door to leave him alone.

He focused on staying optimistic. His father would never have given up so easily, with or without a wand with which to defend himself.

But Harry did not have to wait long.

He had only been staring at the bulb for several minutes when the sound of boots falling heavily on the floorboards in the corridor made him straighten from where he had begun to slump with the beginnings of fatigue.

The fact that he could hear more than one set of boots – several even, by the sound of it – told him that this was not James come to get him out.

But the thing that spoke of danger the most was the pain in his scar that grew and grew, until he felt sick with the agony.

They drew nearer still, and Harry readied himself behind the door. He had no idea what he was going to do. Try to overpower the first one, get his wand… But then what?

The footfalls grew louder. There sounded to be too many of them.

At last they came to a halt outside, and the door was flung open.

The tip of a wand came into view, and Harry made a feverish grab for it.

'Expelliarmus!'

The room seemed to flicker for a moment, and the wand flew from his grasp. The Death Eater jabbed one wand at Harry's chest and handed the other back to his companion. Both were masked.

Harry had no choice but to back off, pushed by the wand. He was almost at the opposite wall when he heard the door close behind the two Death Eaters, and the pair parted.

'Silly boy. What did you really hope to accomplish stealing Avery's wand?'

Harry stared at the hooded face, gaunt and pale. Voldemort's red eyes narrowed almost to slits as he exhaled with a nasally, grisly-sounding sneer.

'Be more careful next time, Avery.'

'Yes, Master.' Avery bowed his head.

The red eyes turned back to Harry. 'So nice of you to join us, Harry Potter. And without your wand this time.' Harry felt his gaze burn into him, studying him. 'Careless,' he scolded softly, like a parent reproaching a child, and Harry felt a shot of fear, recalling the graveyard, Voldemort preying on him then, promising him death, and now, here, he was completely defenceless.

'I hope you did not find it too difficult to find my Portkey?' said Voldemort. 'I did instruct Severus to keep it safe, ready to hand. He did not make it too difficult for you, did he?' He gave another laugh when Harry did not answer. 'Stubborn. Just like your father.' His red eyes burned. 'Stubborn to the end.'

A burst of anger coursed through Harry then. He recalled what Voldemort had said at the graveyard about his father's death, the very reason he had got up to fight him in the face of certain death.

'You lied,' Harry breathed, before he could stop himself. 'You lied about my father!'

Voldemort laughed, his slit-like nostrils dilating. 'I admit I have kept certain truths from you, Potter. Indeed I have. But all that is rectified now, isn't it? No hard feelings?' He laughed again.

Harry felt a wave of revulsion through the agony of his scar. He had kept his father from him all these years, and now he was mocking him with it.

'Master,' spoke up Avery again, his head still bowed slightly. 'I beg to know, how did you bring the boy here, what clever scheme did you use?'

'Ah,' said Voldemort, sounding pleased to have been asked, 'Potter here knows. The boy did most of the work for me. He brought himself here. I merely provided him with the … impetus, the encouragement.' He took a step toward Harry, and his scar burst open in fresh agony. 'Don't you want to tell them, Harry?' he said softly. 'You know how I made the Portkey?'

Harry gritted his teeth, concentrating on his breathing. He would not play along, he would not show how much pain he felt.

'How quickly you forget.' Voldemort took a step closer. 'We share blood, you and I, Harry.' He reached out to caress Harry's face. Harry jerked his head from his cold touch. His scar burst into a ferocious pain, and he clenched his jaw tighter, his nails digging into the palms of his hands... He would not give him the satisfaction.

'I used your – our blood – to weave the necessary magic into the bottle encasing the potion. The potion itself was merely an antidote, one I – sometimes – have use for.

'On contact, the magic responds, explores the new heat, infuses with it, insinuates itself in, toward its source. It is moulded to your blood. Your, and only your, touch would activate the Portkey.' His mouth curled at his own cunning.

'But it is not the only use of your blood I found, is it, Harry? Blood ties. They are strong, aren't they? I find myself come to rely on them more and more. Yes. In spite of everything, your sentimentality remains dependable to the end.' His lipless mouth curled still further, and Harry made a determined effort not to show his growing revulsion. 'Severus was most willing to aid me in my little scheme. Although it was necessary to keep certain details from him.'

Snape. He should have known Snape must have been involved in this somehow. He had planted the Portkey where he would find it. And to think he had actually begun to trust him!

Voldemort gave a horrid bark of laughter. 'I see your anger. Yes. Did you, perhaps, believe your father would somehow have survived?'

Harry felt like all the breath had been knocked out of him. No – he was lying – his dad was not dead. He was just saying it to try to upset him, to see him defeated.

But Voldemort laughed again. 'I had no use for your father, Harry. Preserving my spy at Hogwarts was my primary concern.'

Harry looked at the twisted satisfaction on Voldemort's face but he did not see it. What was he saying? James was pretending to be Voldemort's spy within the Order, not Hogwarts. But Harry did not dare say anything.

'Ah,' he heard Voldemort say over the sound of blood rushing through his ears, 'but it was your misplaced faith in your father's memory that I relied upon to bring you to me. Did Severus play his role so well?' He gave a broad, low smile that pulled his pale skin taut, and Harry thought he would be sick as he stared at the mask-like face only a foot from his own while his scar burned angrily and his heart pounded at his swarming thoughts about his father.

His dad was not dead. Voldemort was lying. He had to be. But Snape… what did Snape have to do with this? Surely Snape had not been lying that James was alive? Why would he have? He had no reason to. It made no sense.

But what Voldemort was saying made no sense. He had seen a vision of Snape being poisoned…. That was why he was here. What did his father's memory have to do with Snape? In the midst of fearful confusion, Harry decided to persuade a little more out of Voldemort. He was not going to die believing his dad was dead after all if he was really out there.

'My father's not dead,' he breathed. 'You're lying.'

Voldemort laughed. 'I'm afraid Severus played his role only too well.'

The two Death Eaters joined their master in his mocking laughter.

'No, Harry, there really is nothing left of your father. I made sure there would not be before I cast my spell. If it is any consolation, your father did indeed stand up bravely against me as I took his soul and disposed of his empty body.'

Before he knew what he was doing, Harry let out a shuddering breath. What? What was he saying? He felt as though bands of steel were tightening around his chest. 'What did – what did you do with him?'

Voldemort narrowed his red eyes to the tiniest of slits and studied Harry, whose breath, despite focusing all his effort on not losing his nerve, was now coming in snatches. 'Perhaps, out of necessity in playing the doting father,' said Voldemort, 'Severus chose to keep the gory details from you? Well, then, of course, I shall be only too happy to fill in the gaps for you now.

'I could not allow him to get away with taking the life of my spy at Hogwarts, Potter. It seemed only proper that he pay his due. Severus was too valuable to me – I needed someone to tell me what the old man was up to.

'It so happened I had been researching into old Dark Magic around the soul, and I knew just the spell. Quickly, I cast it, before Severus's body, his memories, were too far gone. Your father, of course, had sent Severus's soul the way of all mortal souls moments before with his curse. But I soon filled the vacancy – aptly – with the soul of his murderer. And my faithful servant regained his rightful place at my side, with no ill effects.

'Perhaps he will come by here before I am done with you. I'm sure I can allow him that.' He smiled. 'Lord Voldemort always rewards his helpers, and Severus has certainly earned his reward today.'

Harry stared at Voldemort's snake-like face as it twisted into a horrible smile.

He's lying. Voldemort's lying.

Harry's thoughts swarmed around inside his head, none of them making any sense. His uppermost thought was that he must focus on keeping his nerve. His father would never have let Voldemort's lies get to him. And that was what Voldemort was trying to do. He was trying to paint such a vicious picture of his father's death, trying to make him believe that his life for the past fifteen years had been a lie. None of this was true.

He's lying.

But as he tried to control his thoughts, one by one, certain images, snatches of words broke through, blinding his focus, catching his breath before he could force each one back down among the maelstrom.

Snape in the library, snatching back the book on souls….

He's lying.

Lupin's visits to the castle….

He's lying.

Snape handing him the potion for his headaches….

He's lying.

Draco's mocking tone in the corridor….

He's lying.

Prongs racing through the moonlight….

No. He's lying! 'You're a LIAR!'

'Enough of this,' said Voldemort, and he lazily raised his wand arm. 'Crucio.'

Pain, like a thousand knives all over his body, coursed through Harry. When he thought it would never stop, he found himself on the floor, his breath coming heavily and hard. Quickly, he stood, briefly using the wall behind to keep his balance as he pulled himself up.

'Now,' said Voldemort, once Harry was facing him again, 'time to get what I brought you here for.'

He pointed his wand, and Harry readied himself for more. If he was going to die, he would die like his father, fighting to the end.

'Legilimens.'

The light seemed to flicker, then there was a rush of images swarming through Harry's mind. Ron was holding up his Invisibility Cloak … Hagrid's window was misted over from his breath … Luna, in the corridor, was talking about exams … Dumbledore was telling him of Sirius's death … students gathered in the common room were passing around rumours of an attack at Hogsmeade … then, suddenly, he was back in Dumbledore's office, and he was telling him again of Sirius's death. Voldemort was going to make him relive this moment over and over again.

But then Dumbledore was showing him the Pensieve … the image of Trelawney was beginning to form over it … she began to mutter in the odd, detached voice … 'born…'

No! At once, Harry knew what Voldemort was looking for, and he concentrated all his energies on the Occlumency he had been practising all year. Voldemort's snake-like face came more clearly into view as Trelawney began to fade … 'and…' Her voice diminished, until the image of Voldemort, his wand pointed at Harry, burst through the vision.

He let out a loud noise of frustration, and the Death Eaters on either side of him cowered back.

'Crucio!'

Again, Harry found himself on the floor, with the sound of screaming in his ears. Again, as soon as the agony had stopped, he picked himself up and faced Voldemort.

'Legilimens!'

But this time, Harry was ready. No sooner had Trelawney begun her recital once more than Harry had forced Voldemort from his mind.

Furious, Voldemort cast another Cruciatus Curse, the red light searing through Harry, but as he retook his place for a third time, instead of casting another Legilimency spell, Voldemort studied him calmly.

'I see someone has been teaching you how to conceal your thoughts,' he said. 'The old man, perhaps? A pity. But no amount of Occlumency is a match for Lord Voldemort's powers.' His thin, scarlet eyes glittered. 'We shall see how resistant you are after a few hours' contemplation of your predicament. Take all the time you need. You shall soon understand that it does not pay to defy me. Your parents attempted the same and were quickly destroyed. Do not follow in their footsteps, Harry.'

Harry stared as Voldemort stayed another moment, his gaze lingering on Harry, almost fondly. Then he reached out again, and Harry's scar split open in agony.

'I always knew you would find your way back to me,' he said softly. At the door, he stopped and glanced at the light bulb above, his expression showing disgust. 'Channelled here especially for you – from an unsuspecting household nearby, I believe. Do forgive us if our spells occasionally interfere with the crude Muggle science.' And with that, he turned and left. The masked Death Eaters swept after him.

Once again, Harry was left alone in the small room.

Opposite, a spider scuttled up the wall, reached a tear in the greying wallpaper and fell a little way. Harry watched as it caught itself on its thread. He would not die here, alone in this cramped, dismal place that reminded him of his old room under the stairs.

As the footsteps receded down the corridor, and silence descended in the room again, Voldemort's words began to creep back into Harry's thoughts.

No! Harry shut his eyes and pushed out the thoughts. None of it was true! Voldemort was just trying to make him vulnerable, distract him, trick him into opening up his mind so he could get to the prophecy.

Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes and took a step back. He lowered himself to the floor beneath the bricked-up window, sat cross-legged, resting his back against the wall and stared at the peeling door opposite.

Voldemort was not going to get to him that easily. If he wanted the prophecy, he was going to have to work damned hard to get it.

Harry focused on his breathing and worked on clearing his mind of every single thought exactly as he had done so many times before over the past several months.