The torches flickered, casting a sickly green glow about the chamber. Tall pillars entwined with serpents reached up disappearing into darkness. At the far end of the long hall stood a mighty statue of fresh hewed stone. At its base upon obsidian throne sat the man himself—Lord Voldemort. This was his throne room, his sanctuary. Built in honor of his great victory and as a memorial to those brave men and women who gave their lives for his cause, for him. Not that he particularly cared about their sacrifices. The weak shall fall…or follow. Thus was the nature of all things. But never let it be said that Lord Voldemort was not merciful, not just, not wise. He was the very picture of the Pure-blood Kings of old. Terrible in war, and wise in peace. Or at the very least, slightly less terrible. Appearance were everything. The ICW was inclined to accept him as the de facto ruler of the British Isles, but more so if he played the role of the noble and fair leader. One day it would be unnecessary. One day his supremacy of all Wizard Kind would be acknowledged, but that day still existed but in dreams.
Alone in the dark, his thoughts turned to the strange pulse he had felt not an hour ago. He had felt the magic, unfamiliar like an itch at the back of his head. For the first time in years, Voldemort felt the vague stirrings of uncertainty, just as his victory was nearly complete. Only the remnants of Dumbledore’s Order remained, a mere handful of irritants. They had briefly attempted to destroy his Horcruxes, but the retaliation had all but eradicated them.
Voldemort knew that Potter was still alive, but that was no longer a primary concern. The Prophecy that had so consumed his mind was now all but irrelevant. He had an Army. He had his Horcruxes. Potter had an ever-dwindling number of veterans past their prime and school children. On the other hand, experience was a cruel teacher and had taught Voldemort well. He wondered what it might now teaching Potter and his little band?
For him to have felt such even the slightest itch, the spell must have been strong indeed, very strong. None of his subjects would dare perform so great a spell without informing him. The mudbloods, even if they possessed the knowledge, were fenced and wandless. No, the Order was behind the spell, whatever it was, and that was troubling. He knew how guerilla warfare was waged, could anticipate their tactics. He understood the assault on Azkaban, and the quest for Horcruxes. But this was bigger than just a few raids. Worse than that, it was unknown and that was dangerous. Voldemort hissed softly to himself, and pondered stratagems long into the night.
Trapped within the Diamond of Protection, the Man with a Rosette watched. The Order shifted nervously under his unwavering gaze. He saw the grimace of pain flash across Ron’s familiar face, the lines of exhaustion under Hermione’s eyes. He noted Ginny’s comforting hand upon his counterpart’s shoulder, Luna’s wide-eyed stare. The silence stretched on uncomfortably. Tonks shifted slightly from one foot to the other. Remus tightened his grip on his wand, until his knuckles were white. Still the Man with a Rosette waited. He had been brought here for a purpose and it was obviously very important to them. People don’t break through dimensions on a whim. He could be patient. They could not.
Harry barely felt Ginny’s hand. His attention was devoted almost entirely on the Man with a Rosette, on Harold Potter. That was the face he saw in the mirror every morning, but he had never held himself so still. Harry was restless energy and quiet introspection. Harold was none of these things. On the contrary his body seemed relaxed except for his eyes. He had to know he was trapped. Where was the anger, the demand for answers that would have been on Harry’s tongue? How could he be so damn calm? Harry ached to ask so many questions. He wanted to scream in frustration at his counterpart. Ginny squeezed his shoulder. Reassuring, comforting, real. The Man with a Rosette tilted his head slightly studying the two of them dispassionately. There was no curiosity in his gaze, nor emotion of any kind.
Not surprisingly, it was Hermione who broke the silence, explaining their situation clearly and with impeccable logic., the four years of fighting that had beaten them down. The desperate gleam of an idea that had consumed her. Harry could remember each one of those days. He glanced around. Most of them were hanging on by a thread, some even less. As he listened to Hermione, Harold’s gaze never wavered. His expression didn’t change. After last her plea had ended, and twenty expectant eyes turned upon him. Harold glanced at her over the rims of his glasses in a gesture so characteristically Dumbledore, that Harry felt a pang of sadness. Then Harold Potter smiled a queer little smile devoid of warmth.
“Am I supposed to feel pity for my jailers,” he asked. “am I to abandon all my responsibilities to help them deal with theirs?” His eyes flicked towards Harry. “You have a Boy-Who-Lived of your very own. Do you want me to hold his hand and teach how to be a hero or take his place?” Harold’s smile was distinctly unpleasant. “The Voldemort who marked me as his equal is dead. You should fight your own battle. I have duties of my own.”
“Like what? Your war is over.”
“And the Reconstruction is just beginning.”
“I’m sure it would go just fine without you,” Bill glared angrily.
“Would it,” Harold met his eyes unblinking. “Would it really?”
“We just want to know how you won,” Hermione said.
“Well I didn’t certainly didn’t do it alone.”
“We can help,” Hermione said. Harold raised an eyebrow and glanced pointedly at the Order’s shabby clothes.
“Pardon me, but for some reason I can’t quite seem to trust my kidnappers.” He struck the invisible barrier softly for emphasis. The diamond of protection flared to life, glowing angrily. “Returning me to my proper dimension would go a long way towards building trust and would place your request in a far more favorable light.”
“I can’t do that.” Hermione crossed her arms.
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Won’t. We have no choice and unless you want Voldemort to kill you, neither do you.”
“Assuming of course that I’m stuck here.” Harold folded his hands in front of his chest. Harry frowned slightly. He recognized the ring on his counterpart’s finger, but couldn’t quite place it. “I have a Hermione too,” Harold continued. “And she has certain…advantages.”
Far away, beyond the veil that separates one reality from another, a young woman walked briskly down a long hallway with light confident steps despite the books and folder in her arms. The portraits lining the walls waved familiarly at her. Finally she stopped at the end of the hall in front of an old oak door with a bumblebee painted on it. She shifted her books to one arm and reached up to knock.
“Come in,” a weak voice called. The door opened with a creak. Grumbling softly to herself, the young woman entered. The walls were a warm and welcoming shade of red. A fire crackled merrily. The young woman glanced around. She’d always loved this room. The old weathered books, the silver instruments, and the irreverent statue of a goat resting on the mantelpiece. She felt at home here. A hacking cough interrupted her thoughts. She turned. The last of the Dumbledore’s lay dying on the bed. “Come Hermione, sit by me.” Hermione approached almost reverently and sat by the bedside, placing her books on the nightstand.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she began.
“Now, now you’re never a bother my dear.”
Hermione managed a brief smile. “Harold’s gone. Vanished right in front of me. I think I know what happened, but I’m going to need your help to get him back.”
The old woman patted Hermione’s hand reassuringly. “Then you have it,” Ariana Dumbledore said and somewhere a phoenix began to sing.