This story is semi-Order compliant, in that there are spoilers for events which occurred in Order but they have been mostly written away with the glorious nature that is deus ex machina. The story was written a week before Order was released, and the attitudes reflect more the GoF era than the one of today. Still, I've tried to make it as Order ready as I can, and this needs to be kept in mind. In other words, if you don't want any spoilers at all about Order, don't read. Otherwise, you're good. This work acts pretty much as a prologue to a different story of mine, Regret, which can also be found at fanfiction.net. I hope you enjoy. Redemption -------------------------------- there's nothing where he used to lie my conversation has run dry that's what's goin' on nothing's fine I'm torn -"Torn", Natalie Imbruglia -------------------------------- Sirius had been frightened, Harry remembered that, and he remembered just how odd the emotion looked on his godfather's face. The men stood next to each other, side by side, and an on looking not knowing them might have thought them to be blood related, so closely did their hair color and skin match, the former dark as ink at night, the latter pale as parchment, and stretched over their faces in the same stressed way. The room was dark; it cast shadows on the walls that Harry couldn't see through. It was the only way that Remus seemed to gain any comfort. And that, of course, was the other similarity. Harry hadn't known his godfather nearly as well as he would have liked. Childhood dreams of being swept away from his horrid Muggle family had failed him years ago, and he'd long since given up hope that Sirius would save him from them. The horrible stress after fifth year had prevented it, even when they had fought and won and Sirius had been rescued from behind the Veil. The time passed had been too long, too much had happened, and Harry discovered that he could never be enough like James to suit the dark haired man. He'd been a month shy of his eighteenth birthday when Vernon had tossed him out, and Harry, lost and alone had made his way back to Hogwarts to find a place to stay. He'd smarted from Sirius' rejection even if he could understand it pragmatically. The defection of his Muggle kin was of no surprise; Aunt Petunia had died herself shortly after Harry had left for school, and no amount of violence threatened on Dumbledore's part could convince his uncle to keep the then rather sullen Harry, even if he did share blood with his uncle's son and thus the protections labeled still survived. Hogwarts had not been a sanctuary and Harry had slowly gone insane before Lupin had taken him in. For the first time, Harry had found that long dreamed connection with an adult that he'd craved as a child. He hadn't known what to do with it, at first, but Lupin -Remus- was patient, and together they had overcome the barriers that his mother's sister had placed into effect. Harry loved the older man like an uncle, and Remus appeared to regard Harry with the warm affection he would have granted a child of his own. Through Remus, Harry had learned of and known Sirius, who was too lost in his guilt to come forward on his own. Even now, Harry was closer to the brown haired man with the streaks of grey than he was with his own godfather's line face. They probably wouldn't even have spoken, if Remus hadn't fallen ill. Not for the first time, Harry wished that he knew what to do, staring as he did at Remus' sweat soaked face. The man was tossing and mumbling in Mogwart induced slumber, the sheets tumbled about his body. Harry knew the short of it; Voldemort had won the allegiance of the werewolves, as he had in the first battle, and werewolves were pack animals, destined and doomed to follow the will of the majority. Remus hadn't wanted to. He had refused it, fighting the urges as much as he'd ever struggled with them during the full moon's reign. When they grew stronger, Remus had retreated to his bedroom, bidding Harry to lock the door behind him, furious and frightened, and reflecting those emotions onto Harry. He'd done what he could, really. Harry had locked the door, and came when the screaming stopped, or when the sounds of precious, much loved possessions breaking ceased, and he cleaned the blood and tried to encourage Remus to eat. Eventually, when Remus moved beyond Harry's ability to help or to control, and he had begun to ask for death rather than the horror that would be submitting to the Dark Lord's rule. When that had happened, Harry called on Dumbledore for aid. The old man hadn't been able to help personally, which Harry hated as much as he understood. It was a long war, and Dumbledore was needed in too many places to take a day off to help one individual, even if that one did happen to be Harry's only family. So instead, Dumbledore sent Sirius, who had come with flashing dark eyes and his hair pulled into a functional braid. He brought with him the instructions to concoct the Wolfsbane potion, thinking that it might help. Unfortunately, the potion was beyond his or Harry's skill. The only one who Harry had ever heard prepare it properly was Snape, and Snape was long since dead at the Dark Lord's hands. Still, they tried, and in the trying grew to love each other as they could see the obvious affection each felt for Remus. Which was why they stood now together, their lips taut and faces pale, watching the man they loved as brother and father writhe on the bed, fingers clawed and weakly slashing, and both knowing that it was hopeless, but both being unable to suggest that final, horrible ending. When Harry awoke the next morning, Remus was gone. He stood in the door frame, one hand clutching at the wood, staring at Sirius who held the broken bonds that had contained Remus twelve hours before. They looked at each other, horror struck, and Harry couldn't remember who had said the first word, or tossed the first accusation. He only knew that things had been said, things that dug into his subconscious, that he would never forget. Sirius had left first, Harry remembered much later, when the screaming had stopped and the wild, uncontrolled wandless magic had finally died down again. It left Harry, numb and shaken, alone in the house. It already seemed a broken shell of itself; the windows broken, the woodstove cracked, the pictures of Harry and Remus, and of Remus' family, stood with their inhabitants having fled long ago. Their empty frames proved to be the final straw, and Harry ran as well. Hogwarts was nearly empty, depleted of students over the age of fifteen. All the rest were fighting. It was voluntary, of course, but that didn't stop them from faking their ages and rushing off towards death, either with the Order or with other, darker groups. The only adults who remained were the ones of the school's skeletal staff. The lot of them were pinched and worried, and the children who they watched over were pale and frightened shadows of those who Harry had gone to school with. He watched them, wondered once who was teaching Potions now that Snape was dead or who had taken over Transfiguration since McGonnagall certainly couldn't be spending her time on it. He tried as hard as he could to push the horror of it away from him. For the most part, he failed miserably. He had returned to his once home in the desperate hope that he would, somehow, be able to get aid from Dumbledore or from one of the professors or Aurors who seemed to congregate there. He'd thought that perhaps Sirius might have returned, and he had not had any contact with the older man in a week at that point, and worry for Remus' figurative brother might drown him if he let it. He had a vague plan, of having one of the Potions students (certainly one of the had to have the skill) brew the Wolfsbane serum, of tracking Remus down and stupefying him if he had to, of forcing the liquid down his throat and making the man return with Harry to Hogwarts and safety. Of course, he failed miserably in this as well. Hogwarts was chaos. There was only one agent, Harry was told, who could brew the Wolfsbane potion, and he was on assignment and no, they couldn't tell Harry who it was, and no, they were quite regretful, but they couldn't pull him from the assignment to have him make it, or send him an owl requesting it's creation. They were deeply apologetic and they looked at him with sympathetic eyes and clucked about the horrors of this war and how so many had been lost until Harry was so angry and so upset that he just wanted to (can'tbelieveyourdoingthis/whywon'tyouHELPME?!/remusohgod/bashhisfaceinwithabroom/Cruciatuswouldwipethatlookoff) storm off alone and just escape it all, pretend that they had helped him and continue on his quest. The idea of leaving Remus, Remus who had always been prepared and ready to aid in whatever manner he could, was repugnant. He couldn't think about it. Remus had always struggled against the wolf in him, smiling weakly at Harry and Sirius' worried faces on the morning after the night of the full moon. He would tell them “I've survived another, eh? Another 28 days of life," and Harry would fix him his favorite Earl Grey tea and they would pretend for another month that everything was fine. Harry refused to give that up the same way as he would have refused to stop breathing or to stop using magic. He simply could not imagine abandoning Remus to such a fate, not when he had fought so long and hard to stay a man and not a monster. Harry studied the maps when he thought no one was watching. He sat ghostlike in the Order meetings, and used his invisibility cloak to gain access to the ones which he didn't have clearance for. He was certain that Dumbledore knew and he was certain that he was overstepping bounds left and right, but Harry found that he didn't care about Dumbledore's morality at that time. Dumbledore, Harry thought, had left Remus to die as a servant of Voldemort, bound as close to him as blood and pack would allow. Dumbledore had not inspired Harry's true loyalty since the beginning of fifth year, when he had left Harry out of the loop and nearly cost him Sirius. This thought filled him with a virile anger, hot and sweet in his mouth and it spurred him on to greater lengths. It was two months later when he first heard Remus' name spoken. It was a side note, barely worth mentioning. A light haired middle aged wizard gave the report. He spoke of an attack against a Muggle community in Stonewall, and how five Muggles had died and that of the Death Eaters spotted, three had been named: Marcus Flint, Josephine Berry, and Remus Lupin. He gave a brief mention to the gruesome nature of the murders, in the calm, even way of people who are speaking about things which they have seen and never want to think about again. Harry had been sick that night. The next morning he left, invisibility cloak in hand and a concealing spell on his forehead and eyes. He'd debated going all out with a Glamour or a Polyjuice potion, thinking it to be safer to completely change his appearance, but hadn't wanted to set off any charms which might be around the Death Eater hide out and he certainly didn't want to wait the month to brew the potion. Remus wouldn't have recognized him even if he had, and Harry didn't want to have to argue with the man when he was recovered. Harry had thought it would take weeks to find and infiltrate the Death Eater camp and was surprised when it was easy to locate and easier still to enter. This was not the main location, Harry knew as much from the illegally entered Order meetings. He'd known the general area, and the frightened survivors of the attack pointed him in the correct direction and then fled. It was not what he'd expected it to be. The Death Eaters had taken up refuge in an old building which might have once been a castle before the walls had started to crumble. Harry stalked the hallways, keeping his invisibility cloak hood up and eyes scanning, taking in the newly placed draperies - all scarlet red and brilliant emerald. They clashed horribly with the grey of the stone walls and each other, but Harry didn't spare a thought for the garnish qualities of it. He passed groups of Death Eaters, most pale and somewhat wasted for their constant use of the Dark Arts. Some were young, frightfully so, and he thought he recognized some of them from school. Many seemed younger than he himself was, and the thought upset him. Others were older, dull eyed and lacking importance, but Harry was reminded of the men more than three times his age laughing as he'd battled the Dark Lord during his forth year and those dull eyed men were ones that Harry hated. That made the anger come back, and he welcomed it freely. Some of them were sniggering about some prisoner, some member of the Light who they'd managed to capture. Harry's heart raced at the thought. /Remus! / They were grinning to each other over past abuses, of terrible things, of names carved into flesh and curses cast and of the systematic destruction of a man’s spirit and will to live, and it /hurt/ to hear it, it /ached/ to listen to them talking about what they'd done to Remus, /Remus! / Harry felt a dull buzzing in the back of his head, and his legs suddenly were weak and not wanting to support his weight. God, Remus, to be suffering like that. They'd used Imperius as well, Harry was certain, because that was the only way he could think of for Remus to have aided in the Death Eater attack. His mind flashed back to the nameless speaker at the meeting who’d mentioned Remus' blank stare. Not enough to physically torture the man Harry considered to be a second father, no, they'd mentally attacked him as well. Remus always tried so hard to control his beast and now they had forced him to let it out like that, hurt and cut him until his will was weakened... The anger rushed back, stronger than before, transformed into swift black hatred and it was all he could do not to whip out his wand and curse the lot of them, to use Cruciatus on these /vile/, these /despicable/ wizards who would /laugh/ at this, /smirking/ at Remus' pain. He gritted his teeth instead and followed them, feet silent against the stone. The Death Eaters were dull and didn't sense his presence. Harry almost regretted this, almost wished that one of them would turn and say something, point him out, just so that Harry could have an excuse for killing them. Of course, this didn't happen and Harry trailed after them instead. His jaws hurt from clenching them so tightly, and when he looked down, he saw that his fingernails had worn bloody crescents into the palms of his hands. One of them, a dark haired man who looked vaguely like Blaise Zambini, said something particularly vicious and broke off from the others. Another, a thick set man with a pudding bowl haircut, snickered and told him to have fun with the guest. The dark haired man laughed. It was an unpleasant sound that rippled down Harry's spine like a thousand spiders. When the man turned from the group and went down a side passage, Harry left with him. 'Soon,' he promised himself. It wouldn't be long now. It couldn't be long. Soon he would rescue Remus, and that would be the end of it. The passage smoothed into a hallway, then turned into a stairwell. Portraits lined the walls, and they all featured some sort of bloody affair: an old wizard being beheaded with the blade constantly falling, racks that held children screaming in pain, the word 'Muggle' painted on their foreheads, one of a whipping, where the unfortunate wizard had 'traitor' being written again and again onto his back, a witch being drawn and quartered by nightmares, who then turned to devour her flesh. Harry shuddered and walked on. The stairwell opened out into a torch lit hall lined with doors. Most were ajar. There were four that were shut. Behind one of them, Harry suddenly realized, was Remus. He was so close now that he could taste victory on his lips. It made a beautiful counterpoint to the anger and hatred already there. He jumped the last three stairs and stepped directly behind the Death Eater, who had moved to stand before one of the closed doors. "Caput Draconis," He said, the door opened slightly. Harry stifled a dark laugh at this; it would figure that the password here would be the first he'd ever had as a Gryffindor. This too was shoved aside as the man started to push open the door. Gently placing the tip of his wand against the man's skull, Harry prepared his curse. The Zambini look-alike fumbled with his wand at the touch, but it was too late. "Stupefy," Harry whispered, and the resulting blast of power threw the man into the wall to the side of him. He fell to the ground and left a trail of blood on the stone. It glistened prettily in the gloom, but Harry didn't have time to look at it. Surely there were wards of a sort which he had to have just tripped and surely the Death Eaters would be after him again. There were mere moments in which to rescue Remus. Harry let the invisibility cloak fall to the side. Remus would need to know that it was him, that it was Harry, and not one of his tormentors. He slipped in, and it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the deep darkness of the room enough for him to spy the crumpled figure in the corner. His heart sank. The figure in the corner was too small, far too small to be Remus, who might have been slender and wasted by his lycopanthy but who was tall and sharp boned to make up for it. This person was small framed and had matted hair which might have, at one point, been blond under the dirt. He was naked, and even in the darkness, Harry could see where bruised shadows were melted against his skin and where cuts had bled and dried like dirt brown rivers. He was shaking, limbs trembling in the uncontrolled fashion of one placed under long bouts of Cruciatus. It was a travesty, a horror, just as much as those pictures in the stairwell, and perhaps worse for this was directly before him and these wounds were fresh and recent where those were distanced and old. Harry wanted to scream his frustration (/Not Remus, not Remus, God, why the fuck isn't it Remus!?/) but of course, he couldn't do this. Harry had to get this person, whoever this was, out and continue with his quest. The cuts that fingernails had made in his hand were bleeding now and he could feel the blood seeping down between his fingers. He wiped it on his robes, not wanting to leave the blood to drip on the floor and provide absolute proof that he'd been there. The man in the corner lifted his eyes. They were a starling grey, wide and desperate. They filled with recognition and surprise, both quickly drowned out by relief and determination. Harry knew those eyes. He might not have recognized the body, twisted as it was, but those eyes were familiar enough for him. He'd seen them a thousand times in school, set over a smirking mouth which had loosed platitudes for the Dark Arts and insults for Harry's friends. This was Draco Malfoy, Death Eater extraordinaire, son of Voldemort's most, if not trusted, than powerful follower. This was the boy who tried for years to make Harry's life miserable, had worked to get Hagrid fired, who's Head of House had succeeded in making Remus leave Hogwarts back in third year. More than anyone from his school days, Draco Malfoy was one who he hated. Damned if he was going to spend his time -Remus' time- saving a /Death Eater/. Malfoy had started to get to his feet. It looked painful; he was clutching one arm around his ribs and Harry could see a dark patch that skimmed across the skin there, bone deep. Things shifted under the skin. Harry found that he quite didn't care. Harry let his revulsion show and Malfoy's painful looking clamber stopped. He stared at Harry, the relief in his eyes draining out like light. "God, Malfoy," Harry said and leveled his fiercest glare at the other man. "Didn't lick Voldemort's boots properly this morning?" /Death Eater scum, / he thought, and stepped away. The door clanged shut behind him and the lock automatically engaged. Harry thought that he might have heard a muffled shout from behind it, but it was easily ignored. He kicked the Death Eater in the hall and pretended that it was Malfoy, wished that the smashed nose was Malfoy's, wished that the massive lump on the man's forehead from crashing into the wall had happened to Malfoy. Three more doors were shut. Harry tried them all, this time still wearing the invisibility cloak in case more disgraced Death Eaters lurked behind them. Two were empty. The third had a woman, a witch with short hair that looked a horrid dark red in the dim light. She reminded Harry of Ginny Weasley, because she was slim and her face pale. She was obviously insane, staring at her bloodied fingers and giggling. She didn't look at Harry at all when the door opened, but instead began to hum in a scratchy, painful sounding voice. He went to her, thought that he might be able to save this one, but the moment he touched her she screamed. It was loud and shrill, piercing the still air like a piccolo. When he let go, she stopped, looked at her hands again, and giggled once more, studying the reddened nubs where the fingernails on them had been ripped off. Regret vied with pure frustration as Harry let the door slip closed once more, leaving the witch behind. Suppressing an urge to howl with the pure unadulterated /unfairness/ of it all, Harry spun about, certain that there had to be more doors, more of them somewhere, anywhere. He'd the half desperate thought to wake the Zambini Death Eater, to torture the information out of him if necessary, and he had stepped forward to just accomplish just this goal when Harry heard the soft padding of footsteps on the stairs. Harry's heart froze, and his hands automatically made their way to his face to make certain that his cloak was in place. It was, and they had just started to fall when the torches flickered and a dark robed man stepped into the corridor. He looked first to the crumpled man on the floor, then at the blood on the wall, and finally he moved his steady, calm gaze to where Harry was standing. "Harry," Remus Lupin said, "I can still smell you, even in your cloak." Harry's mouth went dry. It took a moment before he could reach up with unsteady hands to push back the hood. "Remus," he croaked, and winced at the dryness of his voice. "You're ...you're okay..." And then the distance between them was gone, and Harry was hugging the older man as though he could never bear to let him go, and in that moment Harry thought he would die if he was forced to do so, and Remus' arms came around him and they embraced each other tightly. It was like drinking a Butterbeer after being frozen, the warmth that spread through his body and left his eyes tingling and him biting his lip again but for a different reason now. It was a glorious feeling and Harry reveled in it, unaware of anything outside himself and his friend. For that moment, nothing in the world mattered so much as that after months of worrying and months of strain, Harry had found Remus again. It was Remus who stepped back, and who pretended to be examining the blood on the wall again while Harry wiped at his eyes quickly and fiercely with the back of his hand. "Harry," Remus said eventually, and his voice was just as warm as Harry remembered, "It isn't safe for you here." Harry nodded quickly, emotion receding as the world rushed in, dark and gloomy and lit by flickering torches. The fire of them played in Remus' familiar golden-brown eyes, and they seemed themselves to be shining somehow. "Come with me, Harry," Remus said, and he placed a hand on Harry's shoulder to steer him back towards the stairs. He looked at Harry and his gaze was somehow sad. "How did you find me?" "One of the Order reported that he'd seen you, in the village," Harry answered and then stumbled over his next words. "He said, he said that you had accompanied the Death Eater attack, and that you had helped to kill Muggles." "Don't worry," he added reassuringly, when Remus' face twisted, "I know it was Imperius, and I'm sure Dumbledore does too, and we'll convince the rest of the Order of as much when we get back." Something flashed behind Remus' eyes, and Harry watched them curiously. It might have been regret, or hope, or pain, but it was gone far too quickly and the firelight reflected too strongly for Harry to stare for long. He had to look away, wincing at the brightness of it. They were at the stairs now. Harry, determined not to stare at the paintings again, looked instead at Remus and the clean and plain robes that he wore. They looked familiar somehow and with a start Harry recognized them as Death Eater robes. He scowled furiously; one further indignation to the prisoner, to clad him in the garments of his tormentors. They were halfway to the top of the stairs now. "How did you escape?" Harry asked, curious about it and certain it would involve clever tricks and subterfuge. "Harry," Remus said again, and he winced oddly. He stopped walking. The hand that wasn't clutching Harry's shoulder came to rest just above his heart. Harry watched it, surprised to see that the hair on it was thicker than usual, and darker, almost like fur. Harry felt a queer sort of dread at that. It wasn't possible, the full moon was more than three weeks off, he'd checked just last night. The hand on his shoulder spasmed suddenly, the nails digging into Harry's flesh and he winced again for it, feeling as they pricked both his invisibility cloak and the shirt beneath it as though they were nothing and gauged into the skin and bone under them. "Harry," He said a final time, and his voice was somehow low and strained and Harry, for the first time, felt that strange form of dread pool into the bottom of his stomach. He didn't want to hear Remus' next words, but of course, they were spoken regardless. "I didn't escape." Harry's heart sank. Remus was still staring at him, and Harry found that he still couldn't meet that golden gaze properly. Even now that the torches weren't being reflected, they still glowed softly, lit by an inner flame. Harry opened his mouth to shout objections, that /of course/ Remus had escaped, what did the Death Eaters just let their prisoners go? It wasn't how it worked! "I tell this to you because I love you," Remus said, and Harry realized that it had been low and strained this entire time, even now that there was no reason for it. "_Do not trust me._" Remus shuddered and cried out, releasing Harry as though his touch burned. He gripped his left forearm with his right palm, fingers creasing in the dark robe and pushing up the sleeve, and Harry could see the Dark Mark there. It marked the freckled skin, peeking out from the hem of the Death Eater robes and Harry stepped away eyes wide in horror. "Don't trust me, Harry, don't do it." The voice was haggard now and hoarse and Remus seemed to be struggling with something as Harry watched. "It wasn't Imperius, was it?" Harry asked softly. The words seemed to slip out before he could help himself. "God save me," Remus whimpered, "But it wasn't. I'm sorry, Harry, but I couldn't resist it. My master-" And Harry didn't hear anything after that. He wanted to scream, wanted to shout, wanted to shake this man and throttle him and drag him back to Hogwarts until whatever insanity had possessed him released its grip and Remus was /Remus/ again, the only person who Harry had ever actually considered to be his family. And Remus was still talking, still going on about the call of the pack and the taste of blood in his mouth and how sweet the kill was, and- "-please Harry, I'm sorry, but don't trust me - don't ever trust me - I was sent to kill you all, to gain your trust again, and I don't know how much longer I can resist this, my God, Harry-" -until finally he stopped talking and gasped for breath. He looked winded, and forlorn, crumpled in on himself. Something happened then, and he changed. Looking up at Harry, the fire in his eyes seemed bright as two suns and it was blinding. He took another unconscious step back. "I think," Remus said quietly, "That you ought to run now, Harry. My Lord has realized what I've done. I'm to be punished. And you... You are to die." He stepped towards Harry, hands rising. The nails on them were long and hard and sharp as dagger points. The one which had held Harry's shoulder had blood on the tips. Harry took another step back as Remus stared at his bloodied fingers. He lifted one to his mouth, sniffed it, and licked the blood away. There was a hunger in his eyes when they returned to Harry's face. "Remus," Harry cried, horrified at this behavior, “Remus, get a hold of yourself!" "Harry," Remus said; this time his words were more growl than voice. "I don't think I can give you another warning." He took another step forward and bared his teeth. Harry looked at him, anguished, taking in the Death Eater robes and the unkempt white flecked brown hair, and the canines which were slowly protruding over his bottom lip. Remus was almost bent on himself now, quivering in place. Harry gave a sob, turned, and fled back up the stairs. It was a long passage, and cylindrical, and Harry wasn't even to the door when he heard a furious howl from behind him and the clatter clack of sharp nails on bare stone. He reached the hall, threw his hood back over his face as he ran, and ran out at breakneck speed. It seemed that even when flying his quickest back when he played Quidditch at school had been slow compared to this, like he was light or the wind. Harry shoved Death Eaters out of his way, heard cries of alarm from behind him, and remembered that Remus could smell him, didn't need the gift of eyes to find Harry in his father's cloak. He tried desperately to remember where the non-Apparation field ended, and where he could make his way back to safety, but his mind was blank and dull as rain covered glass, and his thoughts bounced against it to fall back again. He didn't know how he made it out, couldn't remember afterwards just how he'd made it to the wards when the Death Eaters had learned that their plans had failed. He barely remembered the Apparation back to the Forbidden Forest, where he'd collapsed. It was night now, and the quarterling moon was pale and didn't cast much light. Harry lay gasping on the moss strewn ground, one hand tight on the shoulder that Remus had been holding. Harry could feel wetness there and knew that he was bleeding still. /Remus, / he thought, but he was numb now and the pain had yet to set in. He pushed his way to his feet and teetered back to the castle. It was in an uproar, but Harry didn't really notice. People swelled around him but he didn't really care, just wanting to find his room and shield himself in it and never, ever, think of the events of the evening again. A clearing in the masses surrounding him, and Dumbledore stepped forward into his gaze. The old man was tired and Harry remembered how Remus had seemed exhausted and wasted, and he shook ever so slightly at the thought. Dumbledore said calmly, and Harry found that he couldn't meet those eyes. He felt like he was a child again, fearing recrimination for some foolhardy quest to save the school and about to earn two hundred points for Gryffindor instead. He followed Dumbledore, who questioned and queried and made Harry state meaningless detail after meaningless detail. "What did the Death Eaters look like, Harry? Where was this hall? How many stairs, about, in the stairwell? What paintings on the walls?" As though any of it was important when it wasn't about Remus. Dumbledore peered at Harry over his half-moon spectacles, and his voice was strangely urgent. "Harry... Where there any others in the dungeons?" Harry was about to say no, when he remembered about Draco Malfoy and the insane witch. He told Dumbledore of these two, and, to his surprise, the old man fell back and shut his eyes. "I'd feared as much," Dumbledore murmured. Harry felt his face twist at this injustice. Remus had been taken over by the Dark Lord, and Dumbledore was worried about a Death Eater and a mindless woman? He felt sorry enough for the witch, but she wasn't of the Order, hadn't been part of it for two wars now, and he honestly didn't give a damn about Malfoy, indeed he thought it well deserved whatever punishment the bastard took, but it was these people who Dumbledore became so dismayed at the news of? These worthless people? "Why do you mind about /them/?" Harry knew that his tone was beyond disrespectful but didn't care. "What good did /they/ ever do? It's just Malfoy-" And he stopped, surprised at the vehemence in Dumbledore's eyes. "Draco Malfoy," Dumbledore said and while his tone was still quiet, the intonation was suddenly threatening, "has been a spy for the Order of the Phoenix since his sixth year, Mr. Potter. He and his contact have been missing for over a month. Had you not run off on your own, you would have known as much." Harry felt his mouth drop. Dumbledore continued on. "His contact, you might be interested to know, is Hermione Granger." An odd rushing filled Harry's ears then. /Hermione? / He’d not seen the dark haired witch for nearly two years, she was always busy with the business of the Order. He thought of the red haired witch and wondered if the red hadn't been natural and if she had been brunette instead, and of her face lit with insane giggles, and if it had been sane - and he was suddenly, violently ill over the side of his chair. He thought of the wasted crumpled figure in the corner, with the gashed skin and Cruciatus induced trembling limbs and how he'd listened to the Death Eaters in the hall laughing over the tortures done to the Order member that they'd caught, and finally how Harry himself had wished to hurt him /more/ and then he retched again, horribly and endlessly and before the nausea had completely faded, his vision turned black and he knew no more.