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, the night Cedric 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.

Harry was still faint with hunger, and the grating of his ribs against each other as he was forced down the corridor again, coupled with his pounding head, made the hallway spin around him like a carousel, but faster. Too fast. Mere steps from their destination, Harry's body contracted with a violent spasm, trying to expel whatever it could from his stomach. But there was nothing in it except for blood, which sprayed bright red on the floor and walls and even the door as he retched again and again. The world swirled to black.

-----

Back in the great hall of Topsham Manor, Severus Snape watched with dread as the Boy Who Lived was helped from the room. He knew what the Dark Lord was doing, of course, and he wasn't sure he could do anything to prevent it. He had wanted to go with Potter, to make sure the Dark Lord's orders were properly carried out, but he had to maintain his bloody cover. And no matter how much the wizarding world foolishly relied on the continued existence of a not-quite-sixteen-year-old boy, he could not be seen voluntarily helping him. Not by anyone here, at any rate.

To say he had been distressed by the condition they had found the boy in, at his relatives' home, was an understatement of giant proportion. A whole shift in his world view had occurred between one breath and the next. Far from the spoiled snotling he'd expected to find, surrounded by the largesse of a doting family, this boy had been starved and abandoned, left to die in filth and decay.

And when Potter still managed to raise his wand and disarm Nott, with a mere whisper of an incantation, Severus had wanted to shout his relief. The boy, despite appearances, had not broken. Of course, Severus could not cheer, would not, even if he had known how, but he had done the next best thing and set Bellatrix Lestrange up for punishment. Never had he wanted to hurt someone more than at the moment she brought her wand to bear on the boy. The Cruciatus had audibly snapped several of his bones, even as he suffered its agony in near silence, with no breath to scream. And still, he had tried to Stupefy Lestrange when it was over. Oh, the boy had heart. Alas, he had likely aspirated blood in the ordeal, putting further strain on his damaged lungs. With the other infections, it would be a miracle if he ever regained true health again.

Now, in the great hall, Lord Voldemort had his followers come to him, one by one to kiss the hem of his robe, to grovel at his feet and thank him desperately for the favor of his attention. When it was Severus' turn, he played his part, even allowed the push of the Dark Lord's mind into his own. He showed the Dark Lord his memory of Bellatrix's perfidy again; perhaps Voldemort would punish her some more. And he showed memories of Hogwarts, and the brat's annoying, defiant arrogance that always made Severus so angry, as well as a taste of confusion about what Voldemort was planning to do with the boy. The Dark Lord would accept these memories as proof of Severus' loyalty, but in truth, Severus had little confusion about what these plans were.

The Dark Lord would try and turn Potter against his puppeteers, would attempt to subvert Dumbledore's hold on Potter's loyalty. Take by cunning what he could not have by force, in true Slytherin fashion. If Lord Voldemort insinuated the right things, peppered his lies with just enough of the truth about Dumbledore's scheming and manipulations, and reminded the boy just often enough of who had actually saved him from death this summer . . . Well. Severus wasn't as concerned for Potter's physical well-being as he was for the boy's soul.

For the sake of the light, and in honor of the Boy Who Would Not Break, Even When He Clearly Should, Severus had to protect Potter from such shadow, or die trying.

-----

Three days passed before Harry saw Voldemort again. Three days of pain relief potions, healing potions and assorted medical charms. Three days of light food, to ease his stomach back to rights. Broth alone, then bread soaked in broth, then a thin oatmeal porridge which grew progressively thicker, so that by the third day, he was offered a lunch of watered tea, plain boiled potatoes and mashed peas.

Though he had one or more caretakers with him around the clock -- no sign of Snape, though, or Bellatrix either, for which he was grateful -- Harry refused to let them help him eat. The more he could do for himself the better, and he would not let this lot use his infirmity against him. Once he was better, he would have to duel Voldemort; he knew that, and wanted to just get it over with.

The Death Eaters had ensconced him in a bedroom nothing like the one on Privet Drive. This one had a high double bed (that he unfortunately needed assistance getting into) hung with sheer blue curtains, with generous down pillows and sheets so soft it was like sleeping on a cloud. And sleep is what he did, mostly, for three days, when he wasn't covered in blankets and propped in one of the chairs by the small fireplace. The room never seemed warm enough to him, even though it was the middle of summer. Harry had been given clothes, too: robes, woolen trousers and sweaters, along with an assortment of underthings, but he was constantly chilled and a cough remained that would not go away despite the ministrations of his personal "nurses."

A door in one wall led to the en suite bath, and Harry had soaked a long time in the sunken marble tub, soothing his aching bones. He'd scrubbed himself raw with a soft flannel and lightly scented soap, after refusing to let anyone help him there, either. That had provoked the first argument with the Death Eater nurses, and one Voldemort had apparently decided in his favor. At least, Harry assumed so. He'd refused to let Nott and Avery into the bathroom with him and gotten so frustrated with their heavy handed attempts to force him that he'd lashed out with magic. Everything glass in the bedroom, from mirrors to lamps to the one tall window, had exploded, showering everyone but Harry with stinging slivers. Avery had stormed out, and come back minutes later, pale and shaking, with word that "Potter is to take his own damned bath."

A small victory, perhaps, but one that Harry cherished.

Another victory came when Harry finally dressed himself completely without assistance or being reduced to wheezing. That was the morning of the fourth day.

After breakfast -- applesauce and dry toast dunked in tea -- Harry was sitting in the chair before the fire. A heavy quilt covered his legs. He looked around when the door opened to admit Voldemort, flanked by two more of his Death Eaters, these masked, unlike his nurses. Voldemort motioned for the two current nurses to leave. Nott bowed and hurried out, followed by Rookwood. The two new Death Eaters stayed by the door as the thin form of Lord Voldemort, swathed head to toe in lengths of black cloth, moved closer.

Harry could feel the power flowing off the man, and the lightning shaped scar on his forehead pulsed with sudden fire, almost taking his breath away. He clapped a hand to his forehead and bent over at the waist. Voldemort remained silent, watching Harry as he gathered the pain into a tight bundle and shut it in the special cupboard in his mind. Taking a slow breath once he was able to see again, Harry looked up at his captor.

"Forgive me if I don't get up," he said quietly, and unflinchingly held the red-tinged snake-like gaze.

"I am told you are recuperating well," Voldemort replied. "Have I been misinformed?"

"No," Harry said. "I'm getting better. . . ." He rushed on before he lost courage, "How long have I got?"

Voldemort frowned, a turning down of thin lips and a wrinkling of his nearly white, hairless brow. "For what?"

"Until you've decided I've recovered enough to kill me. That's why you're doing this, isn't it? So you can fight me when I'm a proper opponent and not a weakling."

The shadow of a smile touch the man's lips, and he inclined his head minutely. "If it pleases you to think so."

In the end, he sighed and looked away rather than respond. He was too tired for this. A low, breathy chuckle made him shiver, but he did not look at Voldemort again, just tucked his quilt more snuggly around his legs. A moment later, the dark wizard had settled into the other chair and crossed one leg over the other, as if just stopping by for a friendly, casual chat between two old friends.

"I want you to tell me, young Harry," he began in that soft, sibilant voice, "how much you know about the night your parents died."