Walk the Shadows

curse, and though he'd once tried to cast it, he could not imagine ever doing so again.

Bellatrix's screams trailed off as the curse was lifted, and she choked on her breath. Harry opened his eyes in time to see Voldemort descend from his short dais and prod her in the side with one unshod toe, much like she had done to Harry in his cell. The reversal of their positions was so unexpected, he had to stifle a sudden laugh.

Voldemort turned keen eyes on him. 'Something amuses you?' he asked, sounding anything but amused.

Harry shook his head, but lifted his gaze to meet the man's. 'Just . . . get on with it,' he whispered, as much sound as he could manage.

'Oh, we shall,' Voldemort promised. 'But first, I would like you to answer some of my questions.'

'You should . . . know . . . better,' Harry told him between gasping breaths. 'Won't . . . tell you . . . anything.'

'You misunderstand me, dear Harry.' He sounded almost friendly, and Harry squinted up at him, having a very bad feeling about the sudden change in tone. 'I don't imagine a boy such as yourself has anything worthwhile to tell me about a senile old man's machinations and attempts to thwart me. No, I want to hear about you.'

TBC--more 'conversation' between Harry and the Dark Lord, and some Snape interaction as well.

*Chapter 4*: Chapter 4

Walk the Shadows -- Chapter 4

By jharad17

A/N: Thank you to all my wonderful reviewers! You guys are all kinds of awesome!

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I make no money from this. The characters belong to J. K. Rowling. I only borrow them for a brief while.

Previously on Walk the Shadows:

Sliding his glasses back onto the edge of his nose, Dumbledore rose and went to his fireplace. Time to tell the rest of the Order what a fool he had been.

After he made his announcement, Dumbledore held himself still, at the head of the table in the kitchen of 12 Grimmauld Place, and waited for the inevitable explosion. He didn't have to wait long. Only seconds, really.

'How could you!' Remus Lupin was on his feet, eyes already halfway to yellow. A bad sign, that.

Molly Weasley was next. Her strident voice, used to chastising errant boys, cut across Lupin's like a hot knife through a chocolate frog. 'I never! You left him all alone, Albus, and unprotected with those horrid Muggles, when there are dozens of people in this room who would have taken him in. I cannot believe--'

'Now, now, Molly,' her husband Arthur began, his tone conciliatory, even though he slanted a look of deep disappointment at Dumbledore. 'I'm sure we'll find him, right as rain.'

Alastor Moody snorted into his glass of firewhiskey and shook his head. 'While it's all to t'good we've not seen signs of a body-' he started, only to be interrupted by a gasp from Molly. Moody shot her a look and continued, 'Since if he was dead, that old bastard would've let the whole world know by now. No, he's still alive, and whilst he is, we've a decent change of recovery. But the longer he's gone, the less chance he has of coming back . . . whole.'

Lupin was still on his feet, trembling with rage. Looking like he'd been woken from a sound sleep, with heavy bags under his eyes and wrinkled clothes, he was obviously still recovering from the last full moon, just two nights ago. But his deceptively rumpled appearance hid a great protective streak, especially when it came to Harry. 'What do you propose we do, then?' he snarled.

'Look for him, in all the places we know of from the old days,' put in Dedalus Diggle. He turned his hat around in his hands and nodded at the others, as if his statement were obvious.

'The old days . . . but that's dozens of places,' Molly objected. 'Close to a hundred, certainly.'

'I didn't say it would be easy,' Dedalus said with a shrug.

'We don't have the manpower for a search of that scope,' Moody said quietly, and Dumbledore was glad it was Alastor who said it and not him, then chastised himself for cowardice in the face of combined Lupin and Weasley wrath. All faces swiveled toward Moody. 'The Dementors,' he reminded them, 'are still at large and wreaking havoc. Attacks on Muggles are getting worse by the day, more frequent, and--'

'We get it,' Lupin whispered. He sank back into his seat and buried his face in his hands. 'Harry has no chance of rescue at all.'

'Not true,' Dumbledore said and paused until he had everyone's attention. 'There is still Severus.'

After a few moments of Harry peering up at Voldemort and gasping for breath, the Dark Lord turned away with a negligent flick of his hand. 'See to it he is healed of his injuries. All of them. I will not have my conversation interrupted by this incessant wheezing.'

Harry stared after the pale, gaunt man as he took up his throne once more, wondering if he was dreaming. Was he still at Number 4 Privet Drive? Still in the midst of a fever-drenched delusion? What could possess Voldemort to heal him . . . unless he only wished to have a 'worthy opponent' like he'd claimed to want, the night Cedric Diggory died. He'd given Harry back his wand and freed him from the gravestone, just so he could show his followers that he could beat Harry Potter, that what happened years ago in Godric's Hollow was a fluke.

That must be it, Harry decided, even as several Death Eaters scooped him from the floor and escorted him from the hall. Voldemort just wanted to prove himself the most powerful wizard in the world, and he couldn't do that by executing someone already on death's door.

Harry was still faint with hunger, and the grating of his ribs against each other as he was forced down the