The Order of the Phoenix was in chaos. Only days after Hogwarts had let out for the summer, a series of events had virtually everyone of the Old Crowd existing on no sleep and minimal time to even eat. A break out at Azkaban, engineered by Voldemort, no doubt, had freed all the prisoners who had been captured at the Ministry only weeks before. The Dementors, usurped by Voldemort and no longer guarding the prison, had been responsible for no fewer than seven separate attacks on Muggles and Muggleborns across southern England in the first two weeks of July. The Order was doing all it could to assist the Ministry, which had its hands full keeping the creatures at bay, and cleaning up after them. They also tried hard to keep the Muggles from looking too closely, or worrying too much, about these odd, faceless attacks that left its victims catatonic or dead but with virtualy no physical wounds.

Despite all their efforts, the public panicked anyway. Holidays meant for late summer were re-booked for "as soon as possible," as long as they were out of the country, and thousands of people flocked to points north. Once concentrated, however, it was only a matter of time before Voldemort and his Death Eaters focused their attention there, and by mid July, Muggle and Wizarding papers alike were reporting attacks in the Borders, the Lakes and the Dales.

Dumbledore sat in his office, taking a well-deserved five minutes to himself, and stared at his old, gnarled hands. Things had gone from bad to worse so quickly. And he'd just received the worst news by far. Slowly, he removed his glasses and rubbed at the ache that always seemed to linger between his eyebrows these days. Eyes closed, he ordered his thoughts. The Muggles entrusted with Harry's care had been among those who'd fled their homes, though they would have been far, far safer remaining in Surrey.

With all that had happened the last couple weeks, Dumbledore had pulled off some of the watchers from Privet Drive, a decision he had soon come to regret. Not until Arabella Figg fire-called him three days ago, to let him know that the house was completely empty, had he realized there was a problem. At first, he'd assumed that Harry had gone with the Dursleys, though that in itself was unsafe, but when Tonks, Moody and Shacklebolt went to check out Figg's report, they found signs of a struggle in the boy's room, as well as blood on the bed and floor, some of it fresh.

Due to the state of the rest of the house, it was clear that the boy had been left behind by his relatives some time ago. Then he had been taken, quite probably by force, by someone else. Without knowing where the boy was, they had no means to rescue him. To make matters worse, he had been unable to contact Severus Snape for several days. Added together, he had to assume that Voldemort had the boy. If that was the case, there was little he could do but hope, and he had not much of that left.

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.

---------------

Hundreds of miles away, in a large hall of one of Voldemort's holdings, Harry lay on the floor where the Death Eaters had dropped him. He forced back the searing pain in his forehead, trapped it behind a wall that looked an awful lot like a cupboard door, shut the door and locked it firmly. Though his head still pounded like he was being kicked repeatedly by a dozen hippogriffs, he was no longer blinded by the pain. His stomach roiled, though, and if he had had anything to eat recently, he would have thrown it up immediately. Taking quick, panting breaths, he glanced up as Voldemort rose from his throne. The man peered down at him, but his oddly smooth, snake-like face was blurry enough to Harry's eyes that he couldn't see the man's expression. Just as well, he thought. Like I need to see more nuttiness now.

Above him, Voldemort shook his head. "Poor, poor boy," he said, and his voice sounded almost sad. "My Bella tells me the nasty Muggles left you alone to die."

Harry clenched his jaw and said nothing, but struggled to get his feet under him, hating to feel so exposed. He managed, after some frantic movement, to lean on his side.

"Is it true, then?" the sibilant voice asked. "Did they beat you and starve you and make you cry? Or did the tender care of my faithful bring you to such a state?"

Still stubbornly refusing to answer, Harry pressed his hand to his chest again, just trying to breathe, and wondering where this was going. He'd figured to be dead by now, in truth.

"Severus," Voldemort hissed softly, and one of the black clad figures, head bowed, stepped closer to where Harry lay. "I detect the remnants of the Cruciatus about the boy, though muted. I know you hate him. Is this your doing?"

"My Lord." Snape's voice was tempered, deferential. Harry was quite sure he'd never heard such a tone from that man. "I did give the brat a potion to ease the tremors. I did not know if he would survive the portkey, else."

"Well done," Voldemort told him. "But tell me, then, who cast the curse, when I recall my explicit instructions were to do him no harm?" He wasn't even looking at Snape anymore, but toward the Death Eaters who had brought him forward, and to Bellatrix Lestrange, beside them.

"My Lord!" she cried, and threw herself down next to Harry, prostrate before Voldemort. She pressed her forehead to the floor as she groveled at his feet. Her voice, though, was almost a growl. "I was only defending myself! He may look frail, but with his wand . . . I couldn't let him get away with insulting you!"

"Tsk, tsk, my Bella. When I give orders, I expect them to be obeyed. You have disappointed me."

Bellatrix gasped, but did not raise her head. "I beg forgiveness, my Lord. I am yours to command."

"Ah, yes, I do so love to hear you beg, sweet Bella," Voldemort said softly. With a flick of his hand and a murmured Crucio, he had her writhing. In moments, she was screaming and begging and drumming her heels on the cold stone floor.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. The pain in his forehead was a manageable ache now, and Harry reveled in the miniscule hope the loss of that pain gave him. As for sounds next to him, even though it was Bellatrix receiving punishment for hurting him, he couldn't feel any satisfaction from it. He knew too well the pain of that 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 know about you."