This chapter was written by Erin, penname jump-ball-girl
A/N: This is going to be interesting that's all I can say. Kind of different from my usual writing... so it may not be updated as often. Well here goes!
Disclaimer: I own none of the things that you recognize. J.K. Rowling most likely owns the rest. Yeah.
Harry stood in front of Voldemort keeping his mouth tightly shut and that defiant look in his eyes. It was his last chance to tell of the secrets of the Order. His messy hair stood straight up, more unkempt than usual, and just like the person who's head it is on, will not comply to what is wanted. Harry had been in these chambers since the beginning of the summer, probably a few weeks, he'd lost count.
"This is your choice, Potter, life or death, forever in darkness or freedom," the Dark Lord warned, "Tell me what you know."
"Never." He replied hoarsely before spitting at him.
"Fine. You chose the path. You will be forced to tell me any way. You may take it from here my loyal servants," Voldemort said as Harry was carelessly thrown to the cold, rock floor. At least a dozen cloaked figures in masks closed in on him. In union, they raised their wands and muttered different spells and he screamed in pain.
Dumbledore sat at his desk watching the morning light stream into his gloomy office. It had been a month ago since Harry Potter had taken and not found. Severus had been called around the same time and hadn't been seen since. Everything had gone downhill from there. Death Eater attacks had been countless and hope was diminishing quickly. Everyone assumed Harry was dead. With all of the turmoil, people were beginning to think if the Boy Who Lived didn't survive, how can the rest of us? But Albus Dumbledore knew better, even if the hope was almost diminished. His faithful potions had been sending him signs. He was still worried, of course, because the messages were getting grimmer and grimmer. At that very moment, an owl flew in with a very small piece of paper clutched in its beak. The headmaster took one look at it, put his head in his hands for a moment, stood up, walked over to the fireplace and threw a pinch of Floo Powder in. The flames turned green, and as he stepped in, he muttered, "Number 12 Grimmauld Place." The torn paper flew off the desk and twirled down to the floor where it rested with the word Condemned clearly showing.
A/N again: I can't promise much except if I keep going, the next chapter will definitely be longer.
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