Evil Be Thou My GoodRuskbyte

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The characters of the Cenobites, the situations and mythology involving them were created by Clive Barker, Peter Atkins, Carl Dupre and Tim Day and the various other writers involved in the Hellraiser movies, including but not limited to New World Pictures and CineMarque Entertainment (USA) Ltd. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Summary: Nine years ago Vernon Dursley bought an ancient puzzle box. His nephew managed to open it. The entire Dursley family suffered the consequences. Now, in the midst of Voldemort's second reign of terror, Harry Potter is convinced the only way to defeat the Dark Lord; is to call upon an even greater evil. This decided, Harry begins his plans to recreate the Lament Configuration... and to open it... again.

Author's Note: While this is an AU, please assume that everything happens exactly the same for the most part, other than those scenes indicated in the story. Now, let's get started; it's time to play...

"Evil Be Thou My Good" - Paradise Lost, John Milton

.oOo.

April 13th, 1988, Number 4 Privet Drive

The house was filled with flickering shadow. The lights were out in every room. In the living room the television provided a small amount of illumination as it crackled with blue-white static. A strange, unearthly light played across the floors, ceilings and walls.

Where it came from could not be discerned, save that it seemed almost alive in its movements, rhythmic and pulsating to an intricate, yet monotonous beat. This was the only sound to be heard, other than the frantic, raw gasps of eight-year old Harry's breath as he sat huddled in the farthest corner of his cupboard.

In a way, he supposed, he was lucky that Aunt Petunia had found him when she had; just as he finished solving the puzzle box that Uncle Vernon had brought home for Dudley. Apparently the plump boy's primary school teacher felt that Dudley needed to work on his problem solving skills.

The teacher had suggested puzzles or models, something to occupy both Dudley's hands and his mind. For once Vernon had not dismissed the recommendation out of hand and had actually gone out to find something for his precious Dudders to play with, which would also provide something of a challenge.

He had returned with a intricately wrought Chinese puzzle box.

Dudley had spent five minutes trying to open the box, before throwing a fit and tossing it to the side as he wailed about the unfairness of it all. That and how he had missed the first few minutes of his favourite cartoon because of it.

It had been Harry that had picked up the box from where it had fallen.

It had been Harry who had solved the puzzle in less time than it had taken for Dudley to give up.

Aunt Petunia had come out of the living room, where she and Vernon were trying to placate their son, to investigate the simple, banal melody that had begun playing as Harry worked his way through the box's puzzle.

"Look, Aunt Petunia, look," Harry had declared with pride, holding the box up for his surrogate mother's inspection. "I did it! I opened it!"

"How dare you!" Petunia had snarled, snatching the box out of Harry's hands. She had hurriedly set it down on the kitchen table and grabbed Harry by the ear, leading him out of the kitchen and into the hallway. "Haven't we told you that you're not to play with any of Dudley's things?"

"But, he didn't--"

Without letting him finish explaining, Aunt Petunia had thrown open the cupboard door and deposited Harry inside, a tad more roughly than he was used to.

"And you'll stay in here until Monday!" she pronounced. It was still early Friday evening and Harry grew upset at the thought of being stuck in the cupboard the entire weekend. Petunia slammed the door shut and closed the latch; locking Harry inside.

That had probably saved the young boy's life.

Harry had easily been able to hear Dudley bawling about how he was missing his show. Vernon had complained loudly about poor reception and Petunia had tried to placate them both. Through it all, Harry could faintly hear the repetitive tune coming from the kitchen, from the puzzle box.

Then the lights had faded and the bell began to toll.

The Dursleys had stopped their talking, confused by both the darkness they had been plunged into and the hollow sound of the bell ringing again and again. Their confusion had not lasted long. Nor had their silence. All to soon the shouting began. Then the screaming.

Through it all the bell tolled and the music box played its tune.

It seemed to have lasted a lifetime, a blood-curdling cacophony of naked terror and pain given voice, but now all was still. All was silent. Save for the soft notes of the music box, the ceaseless tolling of the bell and Harry's rasping breath.

Suddenly a new sound was heard.

The creak of feet descending the stairs.

The stairs up which the Dursleys had fled.

Up which their killers had followed.

And were now returning.

To his great displeasure, Harry found his curiosity outweighed his fear. With all the skill he could muster, Harry crept over his lumpy mattress and to the door of his cupboard.

Cautious, lest he be discovered, he peered through the slats that afforded him a limited view of the hallway and just a glimpse of the kitchen. He could just make out a corner of the kitchen table, but not the puzzle box resting upon it. At first this was all he could see, this and nothing more.

Then a pale, black-clad figure stepped into view.

Harry stopped breathing.

The figure, a tall, imposing man, seemed to blend into the shadow, save for his head which seemed to float through the air as he walked slowly down the short hallway leading to the kitchen. He was nearly past the cupboard door, looking neither left, nor right, but straight ahead... when he stopped.

Harry's heart joined his lungs in inactivity.

The regal figure tilted his head a fraction to the side, as if sensing something...

...and then he moved on, continuing into the kitchen.

Harry's heart resumed beating and he took a shallow breath of relief.

Licking his lips nervously, Harry leaned against the cupboard wall, trying to see what was happening outside. He could see the dark man entering the kitchen and standing by the table. He saw him reach out a hand to pick up something; the puzzle box. He saw a pair of black, bottomless eyes staring back at him from less than a foot away.

In spite of himself, despite knowing that it most likely meant his death, Harry let out a scream of unadulterated terror and lurched backwards. He fell to the cupboard floor with a loud thump, though not as loud as his cry, and scurried as far back as he could.

Following on the heels of his shout, he heard a deep voice comment, "Almost over..."

He heard the latch click and watched in dreadful anticipation as the cupboard door swung open. A dark figure stood in the doorway, imposing and terrifying despite its slight frame. It was, Harry realized with horror, a woman. Slowly, gracefully, she crouched down and leaned into the cupboard.

"We hear everything, we see everything," she said in a brittle voice.

Harry barely registered her words, his eyes locked at the base of her throat. It had been peeled open and he knew that if he looked closely enough, he would be able to see her spine. Filled with more terror than he thought possible, and unable to move anything else, Harry flicked his eyes upward, meeting her cool gaze.

"Hiding in the cupboard will not save you, child," she said with a shake of her head, somehow speaking even though Harry could see that her voice box had been removed. Her throat was just an empty cavity. She began to reach in, intending to grab hold of Harry and pull him out, when a slender but strong arm intervened.

"No."

The woman looked up. It was the man that Harry had seen enter the kitchen. Harry still did not have a clear view of him, as he was standing just outside the cupboard door, his head and shoulders out of sight.

"No?" asked the woman, clearly confused by the man's actions.

"No," repeated the man, giving a slight shake of his head.

"Why?" asked another voice, from a large figure that Harry could only vaguely discern on the woman's other side.

"You know what happens to those who stand in Hell's way," intoned the man, his voice deep and regal. "The same can be said of those who stand in the way of Fate and Destiny."

Placing a hand on her shoulder, the man urged the woman back to her feet and out of the cupboard entrance. He moved to kneel down, just as the woman had done. Harry stared at him, even more terrified than he had been when faced with the woman's mutilated visage.

The man's face was, like the woman's, ghostly pale - almost blue-white. Deep, bloodless cuts slashed up, down and across his head, spaced about an inch apart. Driven into his skull, where the lines intersected, were long, thick needles that protruded outward about an inch or so. He looked rather like a living pincushion. A pinhead. His eyes, however, were even darker than the woman's, seemingly endless in their depth, their promise of pain unimaginable.

Regarding Harry for a moment, the pinheaded man reached out a hand. Harry could not stop a flinch of fear, but gathered what courage he had left to hold his ground and not retreat into the darkest corners of the cupboard. He had a feeling it would not help, but rather serve only to anger this... demon.

With surprising gentleness, Pinhead brushed his fingers over Harry's forehead, flicking his messy fringe aside and revealing the lightning shaped scar hidden there.

"A scar?" asked the woman, a hint of incredulity in her echoing voice.

"A sign," elaborated Pinhead, "that this one is marked by Fate."

Dropping his hand from where it rested, so cold that it burned like ice against Harry's skin, Pinhead reached behind him. With the same delicate care he had used to reveal Harry's scar, he brought out the puzzle box, which had continued to play its simple tune the entire while.

"This, child," said Pinhead, holding the box up for Harry to clearly see, "is the Lament Configuration." He held it in place for a second or two before lowering it to his lap and explaining. "It is a means to summon us."

He glanced up from the box, which he had been examining, and levelled a menacing stare at Harry, who remained frozen in place, scarcely daring to breathe.

"Remember it," he commanded.

Harry barely managed a weak nod as Pinhead returned his attention to the puzzle box, the Lament Configuration. He watched with morbid fascination as the leader of the creatures that had taken the Dursley family began to return the box to its closed state.

His fingers worked delicately over the intricate faces, sliding various parts back into place. With each manoeuvre, as each section closed off, the soft chimes of the tune grew simpler and less intricate.

"One day you will call for us again, Harry Potter," predicted Pinhead, not bothering to look up as he continued to reset the puzzle box to its unopened condition.

The last sounds of the musical tune, which had been the only constant throughout this ordeal, began to fade away as the box grew closer and closer to being fully closed. In the background Harry was vaguely aware of the throatless female and her fat companion disappearing into the shadows, but his attention was focused almost entirely on the box in Pinhead's hands.

With grim finality, but tempered by inhuman patience, Pinhead slid the final panel into place. The bell gave one final, echoing toll as the demon set the puzzle box down on the floor, directly in front of Harry.

"It is your destiny," Pinhead whispered as he too vanished into the darkness that filled number four.

There was a click from the box as the panel settled firmly into place.

The tune finally stopped.

The last echoes of the bell died away.

There was a brief flickering of lights and the buzz of electricity surging through circuits once more. The lights came on with startling abruptness, just as the television blared to life; a sports commentary playing at full volume.

Harry remained perfectly still for a brief moment, staring at the box laid before him. Finally, with trembling fingers, he picked it up from its place on the floor and stuffed it the pocket of his oversized shirt. With trepidation as to what he might find, Harry stepped out of his cupboard and began to search the house for any sign of his relatives.

Somehow, he knew there would be no bodies. Nothing but spilt blood.

It was as if everything that happened were no more than a dream.

Or a nightmare.

.oOo.

November 5th, 1988, Number 55 Lodovico Street

It had been nearly seven months since that fateful night, when he had opened the Lament Configuration and brought the minions of Hell itself to number four Privet Drive. At great many things had changed for Harry Potter since then.

First and foremost; he was no longer living with the Dursleys. This was, in no small part, because the Dursleys were no longer amongst living. Technically they were still listed by the British police as being missing persons, but Harry knew better. After all, he had met the creatures that had taken them. The Dursleys would never be found. Not on earth, or any other world of the living.

The next big change, as far as Harry was concerned, was that he now knew the truth. He was a wizard. His father had been a wizard. His mother had been a witch. The Dursleys had known this, but for some reason had not seen fit to tell him. This revelation made him feel a bit less guilty about what happened to them. A part of him felt that they deserved it.

The witches and wizards had shown up not long after the creatures from the box had departed. They actually managed to arrive before the... what was the word? Muggle? Yes. The Muggle police had only arrived at the Dursley household several days later, when Vernon's co-workers at Grunnings reported his failure to arrive for work.

By this time Harry had been moved to a place of safety, a massive castle in the highlands of Scotland. Apparently it was a school of magic, called Hogwarts. Harry made a show of being awed by its size and unnerved by the ghosts that roamed its halls, and the portraits that moved and could speak.

In truth, compared to what he had seen that night, Hogwarts seemed more like a place filled with parlour tricks than a place to be taken seriously.

The headmaster, an ancient wizard called Albus Dumbledore, had apparently known Harry's parents. It was he who had sent Hagrid, a giant of a man and the school's groundskeeper, to fetch baby Harry from the ruins of Godric's Hollow on that fateful night when James and Lily Potter had been murdered.

That was another big change in Harry's life. The knowledge that his parents had been murdered. Not killed in a car crash, but actually killed by another human being. Deliberately.

This was a source of some frustration for Harry, as he was having great difficulty in finding out who it was that had killed his parents. Whenever he asked somebody, the reply was inevitably 'You-Know-Who'. Seeing as Harry did not know who, he was beginning to lose his patience and his temper. The closest he had come to a proper answer had been from Dumbledore, who promised to explain things once Harry had settled down in his new home.

"It is never a good thing to take in too much at once," Dumbledore had said, blue eyes twinkling merrily over the frames of the half-moon spectacles perched on the tip of his crooked nose.

This was a change in Harry's life that related to the first; that he was no longer living with the Dursleys. Instead, after much debate amongst the wizarding world, Harry had been turned over into the care of the Merchant family. Apparently they were very distant relatives.

John Merchant, the man of the house, was a fifth or sixth cousin of Harry's father, James Potter. John was married to Roberta, who insisted that everyone call her 'Bobbi'. John was an architect, in both the wizarding and the Muggle worlds, while Bobbie was a mid-level clerk for the British Ministry of Magic, working in the Goblin Liaison Office.

The couple already had a son, Jake, but were more than happy to take Harry in. This was due to the fact that Jake had graduated from Hogwarts the previous year and recently moved out of the house and into a flat in Liverpool. With their son no longer staying with them, they had no qualms about taking in a homeless nine-year old.

It had been late July before Harry had finally been placed with the Merchants - the arguments between various factions as to where he should go had been fierce. As it had been close to his birthday, John and Bobbi had decided to take Harry to France for his first real holiday so that they could get know each other better.

They had stayed with John's second cousin (apparently almost everybody who was anybody was related to each other in the wizarding world) a French toymaker by the name of Phillip Lemarchand and his wife Genevieve. The Lemarchands had been very nice to Harry, almost as nice as the Merchants, and had treated him as part of the family.

They had even introduced him to some friends of theirs; the Delacours, whose eldest daughter, Fleur, was about to start her first year at Beauxbatons, the famous French school of magic. Harry had gotten along quite well with the older French girl, and personally thought she was the most pretty girl he had ever seen, even if neither of them spoke a word of the other's language. Her baby sister, Gabrielle, was as cute as a button as well.

Returning to England a month later, John and Bobbi had brought Harry to their home. It was an older house than number four had been and much larger as well. Harry was enjoying the greater freedom he had here, most notably the full-sized bedroom that now had his name stencilled on the door. It was a vast improvement over the cupboard under the stairs.

When he said as much to John and Bobbi during dinner that first night, he had found Bobbi's explosion of indignation and the ensuing row with Professor Dumbledore to be highly amusing.

Then again, upon learning that Harry had spent seven years living in a cupboard, Dumbledore had let loose a display of raw magic that left John and Bobbi in awe. Harry had not been the least bit impressed. Certainly Dumbledore was powerful, but compared to the creatures from the puzzle box? No, the old wizard's fury over Harry's treatment at the hands of the Dursleys was nothing to be impressed by.

It had been a week later that Harry first had a chance to begin his plans. That was the first time, since he had been left in their care, that both John and Bobbi had been out of the house. Normally one or the other remained to keep an eye on their young charge.

Harry had not let the opportunity slip past. He had sneaked into the tool shed, tucked away in the corner of the back garden, and sought out the largest, heaviest hammer he could find. He had to use both hands to lift it and even then the head dragged along the floor.

Wrapping it in one of his old shirts, a souvenir of his time with the Dursleys, Harry had proceeded to bludgeon the puzzle box to pieces. He must have raised the hammer over his head a dozen times, dropping it down with all the force he could muster - shattering the box into pieces no bigger than a Muggle stamp.

Now, several months later, he was ready to implement the second part of his plans.

"Guy Fawkes?" repeated John blankly. "What's that?"

After explaining this strange Muggle custom to his guardians, Harry had easily been able to convince John and Bobbi to allow him to build a Guy, which they would place on a large bonfire in the back garden. Getting into the spirit of things, and bearing in mind Harry's explanation, John had purchased a small array of fireworks from some place called Zonkos, which he planned to set off once the bonfire got going.

Using a framework of dry branches, some sticks, some straw and a lot of grass clippings, Harry put together his Guy. While nobody was looking, he hid the broken pieces of the puzzle box inside the effigy, which he then clothed in some of his old Dudley hand-me-downs.

"Can I? Please?" Harry asked Bobbi imploringly once all was ready.

"That's 'may I', Harry," Bobbi corrected gently, handing him her wand. "And yes, you may."

The Merchants, and Jake when he visited, had been grounding Harry in magic and spell work. It would be three years still before he could get his own wand, but for the time being he was more than happy to use someone else's. It wasn't that difficult he discovered, though John had explained that he wouldn't get as good a result with a wand that wasn't properly attuned to him.

"Inflamarae," Harry commanded, pointing the wand at the base of the bonfire.

Soon the fire was crackling merrily, the flames rising high and high as they slowly crept towards the ragged figure that sat atop the pile of logs John had assembled. Harry, John, Bobbie and Jake (who had come over for the occasion) watched with rapt attention as the Guy finally caught alight. As he watched the flames consume the straw dummy, Harry would have sworn that he could hear the box's melody playing over the snap and crackle of the fire.

"That's a strange tune, Harry," commented Bobbi, drawing Harry out of his almost mesmerised fire gazing.

"Yes," agreed John. "Where did you learn it?"

It took a moment before Harry realized what they were saying. He wasn't hearing the shattered music box's tune; he was humming it. Completely unaware that he was doing do.

"I don't know," he lied.

"Whatever it is, it's catchy," observed Jake, who had picked up the tune and was humming it himself.

"I think I heard it on the Muggle telly," Harry went on, elaborating on his lie. He turned his eyes back to the bonfire, where the Guy had begun to fall apart as the fire burnt merrily away.

With Jake humming the tune, and Bobbi swaying to its gentle tempo as she stood in the cradle of John's comforting arms, Harry had to wonder if it was so easy. The box was more than a simple puzzle box. More than a simple music box. Would a fire be enough? Even after it had been smashed to pieces?

Even as he prayed it would be, he could not help but remember Pinhead's prediction.

"One day you will call for us again, Harry Potter."

The shiver that wracked Harry's thin frame had nothing to do with the gust of cold wind which unexpectedly whipped through the back garden, causing a spray of sparks and embers to erupt from the bonfire. Watching the glowing cinders swirl about and slowly drift to the ground, Harry had a feeling that nothing would ever be enough to truly destroy the box.

After all, some doors, once opened, can never be closed.

.oOo.

September 1st, 1991, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

"Potter, Harry!" called Professor McGonagall.

Gritting his teeth and ignoring the excited chatter that filled the Great Hall, Harry stepped up to the four-legged stool and sat down.

During Harry's first Christmas with the Merchant family Dumbledore had finally explained about Voldemort and the deaths of James and Lily Potter. Harry had been somewhat put out by the revelation that he was famous for an act he could not even remember. The revelation that he was known as The-Boy-Who-Lived did not sit well with him.

Regardless of how distasteful he found it, he had had three years to get used to the idea, which is why he ignored the hushed whispers of his classmates as easily as he did. Then Professor McGonagall set the hat down on his head where it dropped past his eyes, leaving him sitting in darkness. He waited.

"Hmm," said a small voice in his ear. "Difficult. Very difficult."

Recalling the trouble Ollivander had gone through to find an appropriate wand, Harry had to agree. It seemed that he would never have an easy time fitting in. It was, he supposed, his destiny.

"Yes, my lad," agreed the Hat. "You most certainly do have a destiny to fulfil. I can see it, oh yes. It's there, buried deep within you. Let's have a look, shall we? Oh my goodness..."

"What?" asked Harry bluntly. He disliked the idea of having someone prodding about inside of him.

"Darkness," whispered the Hat. Harry gripped the edges of the stool. "There is darkness within you, lad. A great swell of it, like the still ocean waiting to break upon a shore."

"You're going to put me in Slytherin, aren't you?" asked Harry dejectly.

Everyone knew that Slytherin turned out more dark wizards than the other three houses combined. If the darkness within Harry, which he suspected he knew the source of, was any indication, he would likely do well in Slytherin. He had no fear that John or Bobbi would reject him if he were sorted into Slytherin, but he would much rather not run the risk of being tempted to give into the darkness within him.

"Slytherin? Perhaps," the Hat admitted. "But the darkness is buried deep inside you, underneath so much else. Plenty of courage, I can see. Not a bad mind, either. There's talent, oh yes, talent... So where should I put you?"

"If I have a choice," pleaded Harry, "then anywhere but Slytherin."

"Anywhere but Slytherin, eh?" said the small voice. "Are you sure? You could be great, you know, it's all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you... your destiny will be that much easier to fulfil."

"Not Slytherin," insisted Harry.

"No? Well, if you're sure - better be GRYFFINDOR!"

Harry heard the hat shout the last word to the whole Hall. He took off the hat, handed it to a smug looking McGonagall, and walked shakily to the Gryffindor table. His relief at avoiding a placement in Slytherin was so great that he hardly noticed Percy the Prefect shaking his hand, while the Weasley twins yelled, "We got Potter! We got Potter!"

Harry sat down opposite the ghost with the ruff he'd seen earlier. From what John and Jake had told him, this was likely the Gryffindor house ghost; Sir Nicholas. The ghost patted Harry's arm, giving him the sudden, horrible feeling of having plunged his arm into a bucket of ice-cold water.

It reminded him of when Pinhead had touched his forehead to reveal his scar. His relief was washed away and he closed his eyes in an attempt to quell the sudden violent churning of his stomach.

"It is your destiny."

The voice sounded so vivid, so real, that Harry snapped his eyes open and looked frantically left and right. He half expected to see Pinhead sitting right next to him. All he saw, however, were the other Gryffindors, who had returned their attention to the remainder of the Sorting.

"Turpin, Lisa!"

"RAVENCLAW!"

Settling back, Harry tried to allow the ceremony to distract him from the cold which had enveloped him. But even as he watched Ron Weasley, who had turned a pale shade of green, he could have sworn he heard the faint tinkling of a familiar tune from a long gone musical box.

.oOo.

May 25th, 1993, The Chamber of Secrets

"I have many questions for you, Harry Potter."

"Like what?" Harry spat, fists clenched by his side.

"Well," said Riddle, smiling pleasantly, "how is it that a baby with no extraordinary magical talent managed to defeat the greatest wizard of all time? How did you escape with nothing but a scar, while Lord Voldemort's powers were destroyed?"

"Why do you care how I escaped?" asked Harry. "Voldemort was after you time."

"Voldemort," said Riddle softly, "is my past, present and future."

Using Harry's wand, Riddle traced his name in the air in shimmering letters. With a wave of the wand the letter rearranged themselves, spelling out the name of the man that had killed the Potters and so many others.

"You see?" whispered Riddle. "It was a name I was already using at Hogwarts."

Harry stared at the words hovering before him, only half-listening to Riddle explaining how he was the heir of Slytherin and had been fashioning himself the personae of Lord Voldemort while still a schoolboy. It was Riddle's last words, however, that caught his attention.

"You're not," he said quietly.

"Not what?" asked Riddle.

"Not the greatest sorcerer in the world," replied Harry.

Riddle snarled viciously at him and demand, "Oh really? And who do you think is?"

Harry shook his head. "I don't know his name," he admitted. He looked upwards, staring into space as his thoughts turned back to the imposing, yet majestic figure that had knelt down in the doorway of a cupboard so that he may speak to a terrified young boy. "I don't even think he's a really sorcerer. He's... something else. Something more. Something you don't hold a candle to."

Returning to the present, Harry dropped his gaze to a murderous looking Riddle. He smiled and went on, "But even then, Albus Dumbledore is a much greater wizard than you ever were! Everyone knows it. Even before I broke your powers, you didn't dare try anything against Hogwarts while he was here!"

"Dumbledore's been driven out of this castle by the mere memory of me!" Riddle hissed furiously.

"He's not as gone as you might think!" Harry retorted. He was speaking at random, wanting to scare Riddle, wishing rather than believing it to be true. Even then, he knew, in the darkest parts of his soul, that while Dumbledore was a match for Tom Riddle, the old wizard held no power at all against true evil.

Riddle opened his mouth, but froze.

Music was coming from somewhere. Riddle whirled about to stare towards the entrance to the cavernous chamber. The music was growing louder. It was eerie, spine-tingling, unearthly; a tune that had haunted Harry's dreams and nightmares for longer than he would have liked. Even sung in a way that made his heart swell with hope and courage, Harry recognised it.

As the tune rose to a fever pitch, flames burst into being atop the nearest pillar. A crimson and gold plumed bird the size of a swan appeared, trilling its haunting melody to the vaulted ceiling. Flying down from the pillar, straight at Harry, the bird dropped its ragged burden in Harry's hands before settling heavily on his shoulder.

"That's a phoenix..." said Riddle warily.

"Fawkes?" Harry breathed, both amazed and horrified.

The idea that a creature, supposedly so pure and true to the light, would sing the very same tune which had come from the opened puzzle box, caused Harry's mind to stall in place. It took a few moments, and a squeeze of his shoulder by Fawkes' golden claws, before Harry managed to restart his mental processes.

He had other things to worry about.

.oOo.

September 1st, 1993, Hogwarts Express

"Who's that?"

"Who's that?"

"Ginny?"

"Hermione?"

"What are you doing?"

"I was looking for Ron--"

"Come in and sit down--"

"Not here!" said Harry hurriedly. "I'm here!"

"Ouch!" said Neville.

"Quiet," said a hoarse voice suddenly.

Professor Lupin appeared to have woken up at last. Harry could hear movements in his corner. None of them spoke. There was a soft, crackling noise and a shivering light filled the compartment. Professor Lupin appeared to be holding a handful of flames. The illuminated his tired grey face, but his eyes looked alert and wary.

"Stay where you are," he said, in the same hoarse voice, and he slowly got to his feet with his handful of fire held out in front of him.

But the door slid slowly open before Lupin could reach it.

Standing in the doorway, illuminated by the shivering flames in Lupin's hand, was a cloaked figure that towered to the ceiling. For a brief second Harry felt the panic begin to rise within him before the realized that whatever this was, it was not Pinhead or any of the other demons that had taken the Dursleys.

The thing beneath the hood, whatever it was, drew a long, slow, rattling breath. An intense cold swept over them all. Harry felt his own breath catch in his chest. The cold went deeper than his skin. It was inside his chest, it was inside his very heart...

Dimly, as though from a great distance, he heard a familiar tune.

Harry stared up at the figure, which had seemingly glided into the compartment, in abject terror. He could hear it, more clearly with each passing second. The tune from the puzzle box seemed to fill the air, louder and louder, like the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. This thing might not be Pinhead or his fellows, but it must have been associated with them somehow, or that tune would not be sounding.

Somewhere, far away, a bell began to toll.

His legs had grown roots into the compartment floor and Harry had the feeling that not only was he in mortal danger, but his soul was in even greater peril. Biting down on his lip so hard that he drew blood, Harry fought to keep in the scream of unbridled terror that had risen in his throat.

Darkness began to encroach his vision and the sensation of falling gripped him.

"Harry! Harry! Are you all right?"

Someone was slapping his face.

"W-what?"

Harry opened his eyes. There were lanterns above him and the floor was shaking - the Hogwarts Express was moving again and the lights had come back on. He had seemingly slipped out of his seat and onto the floor, where Ron and Hermione were kneeling next to him. Neville and Professor Lupin were standing above them, watching.

Looking about, Harry was relieved to see that the hooded creature from before was gone. Unfortunately, the tune had not departed with it. It was softer now, less incessant, but still playing faintly in the background. Harry glanced around the compartment frantically, but could not determined the source of the melody.

"Are you okay?" asked Ron as he and Hermione heaved Harry back onto his seat.

"Yeah," lied Harry. He was anything but okay, feeling terribly sick and soaked in a cold sweat. "What happened? Where's that - that thing? And where the Hell's that damned noise coming from?"

"What noise?" asked Ron nervously.

Harry looked at his friend and then turned to Hermione. Clearly she could not hear anything either. It began to dawn on him that the tune he could hear was not a real one. It was just a memory, playing over and over again within his own mind, brought to the fore by whatever affect that creature had upon him.

"Nothing," he lied again. "Just my ears ringing."

.oOo.

October 31st, 1993, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

"Anything worrying you, Harry?"

Harry looked up from the chipped mug of tea and stared at his Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, Remus Lupin.

"No," he lied smoothly, a talent he had mastered over the past five years. He took a sip of tea and watched as the Grindylow waved an angry fist at him. "Yes," he said suddenly, putting his tea down. "You know that day we fought the Boggart?"

"Yes," said Lupin slowly.

"Why didn't you let me fight it?" Harry asked impatiently.

Lupin raised his eyebrows. "I would have thought it obvious, Harry," he said, sounding surprised.

Harry, who had expected Lupin to deny that he'd done any such thing, was taken aback.

"Why?" he said again.

"Well," said Lupin, "I assumed that if the Boggart faced you, it would assume the shape of Lord Voldemort."

"Voldemort?" repeated Harry incredulously. The idea that some idiot dark lord could possibly inspire any such fear in him was so laughably absurd, that Harry threw his head back and laughed - perhaps a tad hysterically. Recovering, he admitted with all due honesty, "He didn't so much as cross my mind."

Lupin was looking extremely taken aback by Harry's reaction. Nodding slowly he said, "Clearly, I was wrong, but I didn't think it a good idea for Lord Voldemort to materialise in the staff room. I imagined that people would panic."

Harry nodded in understand. "That makes sense."

"If I may ask, Harry," said Lupin, frowning slightly even as he considered Harry with a curious gaze, "what form do you think your Boggart would have taken."

"A box," replied Harry with a sly smile. "A small, beautiful crafted musical puzzle box."

"A puzzle box?" repeated Lupin, utterly confused.

Not wanting to reveal any more than he already had, Harry leaned back in his seat and drank some more tea.

"So you've been thinking that I didn't believe you capable of fighting the Boggart?" said Lupin shrewdly, having recovered from his momentary confusion, even though he was still in the dark as to Harry's answer.

"Well... yeah," said Harry. He was suddenly feeling a lot happier. "Professor Lupin, you know the Dementors--"

He was interrupted by a brusque knock on the door and the arrival of Professor Snape.

It would be some time before Harry could ask his professor to teach him a way to fight a Dementor.

.oOo.

August 22nd, 1994, The Quidditch World Cup

"MORSMORDRE!"

Something vast, green and glittering erupted from the darkness. It flew up over the treetops and into the sky, trailing sparks of green in its wake.

"What the-?" gasped Ron, staring up at the thing that had appeared.

For a split second, Harry thought it was a formation of leprechauns, similar to those displayed during the Quidditch match earlier that day. Then he realised that it was a colossal skull, composed of what looked like emerald stars, with a serpent protruding from it's mouth like a tongue. The small group watches as the sparkling apparition rose higher into the air.

To Harry's consternation screams of terror began to fill the woods. Harry couldn't understand why the hovering skull and snake would elicit such a reaction. Sure, the image was an ugly one and slightly unnerving, but nothing to cause such a fuss over.

"Who's there?" he called, staring into the darkness and trying to caught a glimpse of the person who had conjured up the skull hovering above.

"Harry, come on, move!" yelled Hermione, grabbing the back of his jacket and tugging him backwards.

"What's the matter?" he asked, startled to see her face so white and terrified.

"It's the Dark Mark, Harry," she moaned, pulling him as hard as she could. "You-Know-Who's sign!"

Drawing on a hidden strength that he seldom used, Harry planted his feet firmly on the ground. Hermione's struggles to draw him away suddenly became utterly ineffectual. She might as well have been trying to yank out one of the massive trees deep within the heart of the Forbidden Forest.

Harry remained frozen to that spot, seemingly unmoveable regardless of how hard Hermione pulled, and stared up at the glittering skull than shone over the forest like some malevolent moon.

"A skull, with a snake coming out of its mouth," he said in summation. "How... unimaginative."

.oOo.

June 24th, 1995, Little Hangleton Cemetery

The cauldron was simmering, sending its diamond sparks in all directions, so blindingly bright that it turned all else to velvety blackness. It was this blackness, more than anything else, that concerned Harry. He kept expecting to see a pale white face, studded with inch-long pins, emerge from out of it.

And then suddenly, the sparks emanating from the cauldron were extinguished. A surge of white steam billowed thickly from the cauldron instead, obliterating everything in front of Harry, so that he couldn't see Wormtail or Cedric or anything but vapour in the air.

Then, through the thick veil of ghostly pale mist, Harry saw the silhouette of a man, tall and skeletal, rise up from inside the cauldron.

"Robe me," hissed a cold voice.

Harry watched with morbid fascination as Wormtail, sobbing and moaning over the loss of his hand, scrabbled to pick up the black robes that were laid out on the ground. In silence he watched as the bleeding man pulled them one-handed over his master's newly risen head.

The thin figure stepped out of the cauldron, staring at Harry... and Harry stared right back.

Lord Voldemort had risen again.

He looked only barely human. Long, spidery fingers. Painfully thin arms and legs, little more than bone, muscle and sinew. A narrow chest, with protruding ribs, and an even narrower waist. His face, with a pointed chin, thin nose and slitted red eyes.

The Dark Lord reached into a pocket and withdrew his wand. He held it up to his face and caressed it, as if greeting a long lost lover. He then pointed it at Wormtail, who was lying on the ground, half-dead from blood loss. With a flick of his wrist, Voldemort hurled his servant through the air, sending him crashing in a bloody heap by the foot of the headstone Harry has bound to.

"My Lord... my Lord... you promised... you did promise..." whimpered Wormtail, cradling the bloody stump of his arm.

"Hold out your arm," commanded Voldemort languidly.

Harry thought Wormtail was pathetic in his eagerness. "Oh, master... thank you, master..."

"The other arm, Wormtail," laughed Voldemort when Wormtail held out his mutilated arm.

"Master, please... please..."

Growing impatient, Voldemort reached down and grabbed hold of Wormtail's uninjured left arm. He pulled back the sleeve, revealing the vivid red of Wormtail's Dark Mark. Voldemort examined the tattoo, ignoring Wormtail's pitiful sobs.

"It is back," he said softly, "they will all have noticed it... and now, we shall see... now we shall know..."

He pressed the tip of one lone, pale forefinger against Wormtail's Dark Mark, which turned black just as Harry's scar flared to life with such pain that he had to bite back a gasp of agony.

"How many will be brave enough to return when they feel it," Voldemort whispered as he straightened up, a look of cruel satisfaction on his snake-like face. "And how many will be foolish enough to stay away?"

He turned to face Harry, staring down at him in consideration for a second. Harry matched his gaze until Voldemort moved away, pacing up and down, gleaming red eyes scanning over the empty graveyard in expectation.

As his nemesis strode back and forth, Harry considered the man responsible for so much of the pain that filled his young life. Voldemort, he decided, cut an intimidating figure. Tall and pale, swathed in black robes that billowed behind him as he moved. The red eyes, which seemed to glow in the darkness, would unnerve all but the most hardy of souls.

In a way, he was scary. Perhaps even terrifying, in the right circumstances.

He wasn't scary enough though. And he could not hope to match the terror brought about by the mere presence of those beings that Harry had summoned through the puzzle box.

Harry had to wonder what anyone saw in the grotesque mockery of a man that paced restlessly before him.

.oOo.

July 31st, 1995, Number 55 Lodovico Street

Harry's fifteenth birthday came and went with little to no fanfare this year. He woke up that morning and went down to eat breakfast with John and Bobbi, acting as if it were any other day. After accepting their presents to him, and those his friends had sent via owl, Harry returned to his room and returned to what he had been doing all summer.

Drawing small sketches of the puzzle box.

It had been seven years since he had last seen it, since he had destroyed it. First he had smashed it to pieces with a hammer so heavy that he had barely been able to lift it. Then he had hidden the pieces in a bonfire that had burned merrily for an entire night. What few charred and melted pieces he had been able to find after that, had been disposed of over the course of several months, each piece dropped in a new and different dustbin each time Harry left the Merchant house.

Since then all Harry had left of the box and the tune it played were his memories.

Which for some reason refused to lay down an die.

At this particular point, those memories seemed intent on forcing their way to the forefront of his thoughts. Harry found it next to impossible to pass by a piece of parchment without leaving behind a brief sketch of the box, or part of the design crafted into one of its sides.

His homework for the summer was liberally sprinkled with such doodles. After redoing his Transfiguration homework three times and his Charms homework twice, Harry eventually gave up and just accepted the fact that his professors would find scores of miniature puzzle boxes adorning his essays. He found some amusement in imagining their reactions.

It worried Harry that he was so preoccupied by the box. True, it was never far from his thoughts, but this was much more persistent than it had ever been before.

Perhaps this was his subconscious mind's way of trying to tell him something.

If nothing else, it certainly took his mind off Voldemort's return and the fact the Daily Prophet seemed intent on making him out as an attention seeking brat, rather than reporting the truth of the matter. At least the Dark Lord seemed to be taking his time, gathering his forces, instead of immediately starting a killing spree as Harry had fear.

He just wished somebody, anybody, would tell him more about what was happening that what he had been able to glean from his perusal of the newspaper. The information blackout was not helping his temper.

Still, a letter from Ron the other day had hinted that he might be joining his red-haired friend and Hermione later in the summer in a secret location of some sort.

Hopefully then he would find out what was going on.

If not, well, he'd probably have to kill someone.

.oOo.

January 19th, 1996, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

"Legilimens!"

Harry wasn't ready for Snape's assault and was unable to form any resistance to the attack on his mind. His view of the Potions professor's office disappeared, replaced by a multitude of images that flickered in front of his mind's eye too fast to keep track of. Slowly the images became easier to discern.

He was five, watching Dudley riding a new red bicycle, and his heart was bursting with jealousy...

A hundred Dementors were closing in on him beside the dark lake...

He was nine, and was standing next Phillip Lemarchand as he introduced the Merchants to René and Yvette Delacour...

Voldemort was rising from the cauldron, white steam billowing about him...

Harry tried to stop the flow of images, but it was like trying to dam a river with only your hands. Snape was bringing up image after image, in no particular order than Harry could make out, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He was trying to shut the other man out, but didn't know how...

Hermione was lying in the hospital wing, her face covered with thick black fur...

The Guy was burning, and he found himself humming the tune of the music box whose pieces were hidden within it...

He was sitting under the Sorting Hat, and it had discovered the darkness that dwelled within him...

Until now the images had been discordant, jumping about from place to place, person to person, time to time. Now, however, something had garnered Snape's attention. The Sorting had put him on its trail. The darkness that lay buried deep inside Harry's soul...

Aunt Petunia was berating him for touching Dudley's things, dragging him by the ear to the cupboard...

The lights went out and the sound of a bell tolling joined that of the music box...

He was peering through the slats of the cupboard wall, suddenly a pair of black, bottomless eyes were staring back at him from less than a foot away...

He heard the latch click and watched in dreadful anticipation as the cupboard door swung open...

A dark figure stood in the doorway, imposing and terrifying despite its slight frame...

Snape was getting closer to it than anyone else ever had. To this day nobody knew what had happened to the Dursleys. Nobody knew what it was that Harry had unleashed by solving the puzzle box. Nobody. And Harry intended for it to stay that way.

No, thought Harry, as the memory of his meeting with Pinhead began to surface, you cannot see this, you cannot see what happened... it's not for your eyes...

Harry's magic gathered within him, moving at such a rapid pace that it actually hurt - burning throughout his chest like the sudden onset of a bad case of heartburn.

He still did not have a clear view of the tall man, as he was standing just outside the cupboard door, his head and shoulders out of sight...

With a roar of defiance, mixed with desperation to keep his greatest secret from being exposed, Harry launched his magic outwards. There was a crack like nearby thunder. The flow of images came to an abrupt stop, leaving a panting young man staring around Snape's office in confusion.

The room looked like it had been hit by a Muggle bomb... and where had Snape disappeared to?

A muffled curse sounded, drawing Harry's attention to the professor's desk. There was Snape, emerging from behind the once pristine but now splintered and smoking desk. He looked to be in much the same condition as the rest of his office. He staggered unsteadily, using one hand on the desk to prop himself up, lest he fall back down.

"What was that?" he finally asked, looking at Harry with wide eyes.

Harry knew that the older wizard was not referring to the burst of magic he had used to free himself of the Legilimency. Snape was asking instead about the images he had managed to glean from Harry's mind before being thrown out.

"You're a rational man, Professor," replied Harry.

"So?" asked Snape, clearly not accepting that as an answer.

"That, as you put it," said Harry with a shake of his head, "was not something a rational man can believe."

"Don't try to avoid this with meaningless claptrap, Potter," countered Snape, his patience wearing thin. "Now, tell me what in Hell those memories were!"

"Hell?" repeated Harry. "You have no idea."

He exited the office without another word, leaving Snape standing in a maelstrom of debris. Harry did not mention the incident again and Snape made no comment when Harry did not return for any more Occlumency lessons.

.oOo.

June 21st, 1996, Department of Mysteries

This room was larger than the last, dimly lit and rectangular, and the centre of it was sunken, forming a great stone pit some twenty feet deep. They were standing on the topmost tier of what seemed to be stone benches running all around the room and descending in steep steps like an amphitheatre, or the courtroom in which Harry had been tried by the Wizengamot.

Instead of a chained chair, which had put Harry in mind of Pinhead and his tortures, there was a raised stone dais in the centre of the pit, on which stood a stone archway that looked so ancient, cracked and crumbling that Harry was amazed the thing was still standing.

Unsupported by any surrounding wall, the archway was hung with a tattered black curtain or veil which, despite the complete stillness of the cold surrounding air, was fluttering very slightly as though it had just been touched.

"Who's there?" said Harry, jumping down onto the bench below. There was no answering voice, but the veil continued to flutter and sway.

For a moment he thought that perhaps it might be Sirius, somehow escaped from Voldemort's clutches, but when a familiar shiver ran up his spine, Harry knew that it was nothing human, nothing mortal, that caused the veil to move.

"Careful," cautioned Hermione, following behind him as Harry made his way down to the pit.

He could not explain it, but for some reason he felt drawn to the veil in a way that was horribly familiar, yet at the same time different to what he expected.

The pointed archway looked much taller from where he now stood. He had the strangest feeling that there was someone else standing behind the veil, on the other side of the archway. Gripping his wand very tightly, Harry edged around the dais, but there was nobody there. All that could be seen was the other side of the tattered black veil.

And in that moment, Harry understood.

Just as the puzzle box had been a doorway, so was this. Perhaps to the same place, perhaps not, Harry could not tell, but he found himself cautiously backing away from the archway. He held his wand at the ready, doors that should not be opened often had the bad habit of swinging both ways, and Harry wanted to be ready to act should anything unexpectedly come through this particular door.

"Let's go," called Hermione from halfway up the stone steps. There was a tremor of nervousness in her voice. "This isn't right, Harry, come on, let's go."

Harry had to agree with her. She sounded scared, much more scared than Harry had ever heard. In fact, he found himself feeling the same way, just not so extreme. Nothing short of seeing Pinhead emerge from behind the veil would get such a strong reaction from him.

"I'm coming," he called back.

But he did not move. He had just heard something. He still could. At first he thought it was faint whispering, murmuring noises coming from the other side of the veil. But it wasn't voices. It was a soft, gentle, rhythmic tune, playing over and over again with monotonous regularity.

"Harry, let's go, okay?" said Hermione more forcefully.

"Can anyone else hear that?" demanded Harry, wondering if this wasn't perhaps similar to the effect of the Dementors, simply bringing his memories of the box and that night to the front of his mind. He prayed that was the case.

"Hear what?" asked Hermione, moving over to where he stood.

"The music, that tune," he said, moving out of her reach and back towards the dais and the veil.

"I can't hear anything, mate," said Ron, appearing on the other side of the archway and moving to intercept Harry.

"I can hear them too. Voices. Whispering voices," breathed Luna, joining them from around the side of the archway. She gazed at the swaying veil with a slightly more aware stare than was usual for her. "There are people in there!"

"What do you mean, 'in there'?" demanded Hermione. "There isn't any 'in there', it's just an archway - there's no room for anybody to be there. Harry, stop it, come away--"

She grabbed his arm and pulled. Harry followed willingly, actually grabbing hold of her arm and helping to drag them both away from the fluttering veil and the soft tune that droned relentlessly on.

"Yeah," he swallowed, "I think that's a good idea."

"Harry?" she asked, puzzled and a little frightened by his sudden turnaround.

"We have to get out of here, now!" he insisted, tugging on Hermione's arm to the point that she gave a gasp of pain as he pulled too hard. "Hurry - we don't want to attract their attention."

"Who's attention? There's nobody there!"

Without speaking, Harry looked into Hermione's eyes. Her protests died instantly as she somehow understood the urgency which now filled him. She nodded before separating from him to go and fetch Ginny, who was standing by Neville, both seemingly entranced by the veil.

Motioning for Ron to take hold of Neville, Harry went ran over to where Luna stood, staring at the veil with frightening intensity. Grabbing her by the arm, Harry dragged the blonde witch all the way back to the door.

"What d'you reckon that arch was?" Ron asked as the group re-entered the circular room.

"It's a doorway," said Harry, answering before Hermione could speak.

"A doorway? To where?"

"Somewhere you don't ever want to go."

.oOo.

June 21st, 1996, Department of Mysteries

"Come on, you can do better than that!" yelled Sirius, his voice echoing around the cavernous room.

The second jet of light hit him squarely on the chest.

Harry released his grip on Neville and began leaping down the stairs. It all seemed to be happening in slow motion as he moved. Sirius fell backward, taking an age to reach the fluttering veil that hung behind him like an awful backdrop. For one fraction of a second it seemed that he was suspended in place, as if he were simply leaning casually against a wall. Then, his face frozen in an expression of surprise, Sirius fell through the ancient doorway and disappeared from view.

Harry skidded to a halt, staring at the veil in horror as it billowed for a moment, as though caught in a high wind, then settled back into place. It was not his imagination that he heard the hollow toll of a bell, ringing out over the soft play of the puzzle box's tune.

Dimly he could hear the triumphant yell from where Bellatrix Lestrange stood, but his attention was focused on the veil, as if expecting Sirius to reappear on the other side any side...

But Sirius did not reappear.

Harry hadn't really expected him to. Nobody could escape what was on the other side of that veil.

Remus Lupin seemed to appear out of nowhere from one side, grabbing Harry around the chest and pulling him away from the dais and the archway.

"There's nothing you can do, Harry--"

"I know," said Harry, an unnatural calm settling over him.

"--it's too late, Harry," continued Lupin, Harry's words not registering immediately.

"I know," Harry repeated, reaching up to pry Lupin's arms off him with surprising strength for a boy of his size.

Lupin stared at him in surprise, having expected a much different reaction. "Harry..."

A coldness that rivalled the touch of Pinhead's fingers on his forehead, that night so many years ago, descended over Harry as he stepped away from his former Defence professor. Harry's gaze remained on the archway, on the fluttering veil, for a single, timeless moment. Then he flicked his wrist, bringing his wand into hand.

"Lestrange," he whispered, turning away from the veil and the tune that continued to play from behind it. With the same finality of the Grim Reaper approaching his next victim, Harry turned to face the woman that had just condemned his godfather to unspeakable horrors.

Bellatrix's lips were contorted into an ugly smile. It was a look of insufferable smugness, which only served to fuel Harry's cold fury to never before seen heights. It was a look that was replaced by one of pure agony as Harry's wand came up and his magic surged through him, focused with inhuman fury.

"CRUCIO!"

All movement in the vaulted chamber came to a standstill. All eyes, at least those of everyone still conscious, snapped from Harry to Bellatrix in rapid succession. The only sound was Bellatrix's screams, which reverberated throughout the room as she writhed helplessly on the floor.

To cast an Unforgivable Curse properly, you have to mean it. For the Cruciatus Curse you needed more than righteous anger - you had to really want to cause your victim pain. Right now, Harry wanted nothing more than to show Bellatrix even a fraction of the tortures Sirius now faced. As such, his Cruciatus Curse held more force than anything Bellatrix, or even Voldemort, had ever managed possible.

It was nothing short of a miracle that the shock alone didn't kill her.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

It was only his ingrained sense of self preservation that caused Harry to duck out of the way, breaking his curse on Bellatrix in the process. Had it been any curse other than the Killing Curse, he would not have moved. The green flash of the spell streaked through the air, passing only a hand's breadth away from Harry's back as he dropped to the floor.

"Impressive, Potter," said a high, cold voice. "I never thought you had it in you."

Harry looked up from his place on the floor.

Tall, thin and black-hooded, his terrible snakelike face white and gaunt, his scarlet, slit-pupilled eyes glaring down... Lord Voldemort had appeared in the doorway leading out of the Veil Room, his wand aimed at Harry as he stood over the crumpled form of his favourite servant.

"Master, thank you, thank you," sobbed Bellatrix, flinging herself at Voldemort even as she struggled to draw breath after the intensity of Harry's curse. "I never thought--"

"Be quiet, Bella," commanded Voldemort, his eyes not straying from Harry. "I shall deal with you in a moment. Do you think I have entered the Ministry of Magic to hear your bleating pleas for help?"

"But Master," Bellatrix managed, forcing herself onto her knees, "He's here... below..."

Voldemort ignored her, his attention still focused solely on Harry.

"I have nothing to say to you, Potter," he said quietly. "You have irked me too often, for too long. And now I find that you are more dangerous than I had originally believed. AVADA KEDAVRA!"

Harry was about to leap to the side, to dodge the curse bearing down on him, when a chunk of shattered stone leapt into the air, intercepting the spell before it had crossed half the distance between the two combatant.

"What?" cried Voldemort, staring around. And then he breathed, "Dumbledore!"

How the Dark Lord had failed to notice the headmaster until now was a mystery. Suffice to say, his attention strayed away from Harry entirely, focusing instead on his old professor. The confrontation between these two seemed to spur the other occupants of the room back into action. Mad-Eye Moody had managed to revive Tonks and, along with Kingsley, began firing curses at the remaining Death Eaters.

The battle for the Ministry resumed.

.oOo.

June 22nd, 1996, Hogwarts Headmaster's Office

Harry closed his eyes. If he had not gone to save Sirius, Sirius would not have died... More to stave off the moment when he would have to think about Sirius again, Harry asked, without caring much about the answer, "The end of the prophecy... it was something about... neither can live..."

"...while the other survives," completed Dumbledore softly.

"So," said Harry, dredging up the words from what felt like a deep well of despair inside him, "so does that mean that... that one of us has got to kill the other one... in the end?"

"Yes," said Dumbledore simply.

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

It was with a troubled mind that Harry thought back on the battle at the Ministry, of how he had used the Cruciatus on Bellatrix Lestrange. Proof that he was a powerful wizard. Not many fifteen-year olds could cast that curse successfully, especially not with such force behind it.

That it was one of the darkest of dark spells, one that carried a hefty sentence if convicted, was not something Harry had to worry about. According to Dumbledore, after he had Portkeyed Harry to his office, he had personally obliviated all the Death Eaters that had heard or seen Harry cast the curse. The members of the Order and Harry's friends could be trusted not to say anything.

What was bothering Harry was the fact that he doubted the effectiveness of any of the three Unforgivables when it came to using them on Voldemort. They would most certainly prove useful against his Death Eaters, but against someone who had used any means he could lay his hands on in an effort to achieve immortality?

Harry had his doubts.

He would need something else.

His thoughts strayed back to the prophecy.

The words... he will have a power the Dark Lord knows not...

There was no doubt now. Harry knew what it meant. What that power was. Something that had been a part of his life for almost as long as he could remember. Something intertwined with his life, his soul, in a way that Voldemort would never be able to match. Dumbledore seemed to think that power was love, if Harry had understood what the old wizard had said earlier. Harry knew better.

"One day you will call for us again, Harry Potter."

The words, another prediction made long ago, came unbidden to him.

"It is your destiny."

And after eight years of denying that fact, Harry finally found himself accepting it.

It was his power. The power to call them, to summon them. To solve the puzzle that opened a doorway through which the denizens of Hell itself could raise them into this world.

It was his destiny.

.oOo.

July 31st, 1996, Number 55 Lodovico Street

Harry had thrown himself into his appointed task with a fanatical fervour. Everything; all the work he had done before now, for Potions, for Transfiguration, for Charms, for Defence, for Quidditch, it was nothing compared to the focus, intensity and sheer bloody-mindedness that he was putting into this single endeavour.

Had any of his professors seen him, they would have been amazed. Unbeknownst to anyone, save the Hogwarts faculty, Harry was one of the top ten students in his year. But this was something that not even Hermione could have rivalled at her most intrepid.

Massive sheets of parchment and paper, pilfered from John's workshop, now covered the walls of his room in the Merchant house. His Quidditch posters of Ron's Chudley Cannons and Oliver Wood's Puddlemere United have been pulled down, replaced by a multitude of sketches, drawings and designs. Every image was the eerily similar, linked together to greater or lesser degrees, all based on the clearest memory of Harry's life.

The Lament Configuration.

His desk was littered to overflowing with yet more parchment, more paper, filled with more sketches, more drawings and yet more designs. While not labelled or ordered in any way, it was obvious which works were older and which were more recent, as the detail displayed in them grew progressively more intricate, more complex.

There were so many copies, so many attempts, so many reproductions that there simply wasn't enough space left to hold it all, which is why Harry had also appropriated two long benches from John's workshop. They lined the walls of his room and filled up almost all of the remaining space, leaving barely enough room for someone to move from the door to the bed.

"Harry, dear? Harry?"

Harry was so lost in his work that Bobbi's voice completely failed to register. He remained in place at his desk, running his fingers over his latest attempt at reproducing the puzzle box's design. His eyes traced over the still drying ink and the pencil underneath, critically examining each line and curve.

As he worked, as he deconstructed the image from his memory, he began to understand. The more time he spent on it, the closer he came to grasping the concept behind its function. But still, something was missing. Some part of the design was eluding him, hovering just beyond the edges of his perception. Until he found it, everything he committed to paper was so much trash.

"Harry?"

With a frustrated snarl, Harry tore at the sheet of paper he had spent the past three hours working on. He ripped this latest attempt into thick strips, which he bunched together and crumpled into a ball that he then tossed blindly over his shoulder.

"Harry?"

"What?" Harry barked angrily, the incessant calling of his name grating on his frayed nerves.

"Don't take that tone of voice with me," countered Bobbi, standing in the doorway to his room.

Muttering a half-hearted apology, he turned back to his desk and reached for a fresh sheet on which to work. Grabbing his pencil, which was half the length it had been when he started using it, less than a week ago, Harry began scribbling yet another detailed outline of the unknown runes that were supposed to line this section of the box.

Right now he dearly regretted having taken Divination instead of Ancient Runes. Next time, he would go with whatever Hermione recommended, rather than what Ron thought would be easier.

"Harry," Bobbi navigated her way through the mess of discarded papers that littered the floor of his room. Once she managed to reach where he was sitting, she put a hand on his shoulder. "Harry, do you even know what day it is?"

"Tuesday," he hazarded a guess.

"It's Thursday," said Bobbi, sounding worried.

"Oh," accepted Harry, nodding his head but not really paying attention to the conversation.

"Harry... today's your birthday."

Now Harry looked up, his hand pausing in mid stroke. He blinked in confusion several times, processing what his adoptive mother had just told him. It didn't seem right.

"Already?" he asked, wanting confirmation.

Bobbi knelt down on the floor next to Harry, putting both hands on his shoulders and turning him towards her. Harry was startled to see deep lines of worry on her face.

"Harry," she said softly, "you've barely left this room the entire summer. It's been over a week since you had a bath and nearly three days since you last got any sleep - we've seen the light on under your door at all hours of the night. You missed breakfast and dinner yesterday and have been living off what you could scavenge from the kitchen while passing by on your way to the loo."

"But I had dinner..." Harry trailed off uncertainly.

"Yes," agreed Bobbi. "Two days ago."

Blinking at the sudden realization that he apparently lost a few days, and the equally sudden realization of just how tired he truly was, Harry stared blankly at Bobbi for several seconds. He was having difficulty processing the idea.

"I'm sorry, Mum," he finally managed. "I've just," he glanced at the mounds of paper and parchment lying scattered about his room, "just been busy working."

"It's all right, Harry, I understand," said Bobbi, leaning over to envelop him in a hug. Hesitating for a moment, Harry raised his arms and gently returned the gesture. "You need to rest, Harry," she continued, pulling away from him. "This isn't good for you."

"I know," Harry admitted, running a hand down his face. He was slightly surprised to feel some stubble covering his cheeks and chin. He had only recently started shaving, perhaps once every couple of weeks. What he could feel was nearly that much growth.

He turned back to his desk and the sketch he had just started. The compulsion he felt to continue working on it was almost too strong. He turned back to Bobbi. He could see the honest worry for him in her soft brown eyes, eyes that more and more often reminded him of Hermione. He turned to the desk again.

"Harry?" Bobbi gentle shook him by the shoulder.

"I - I have to do this, Mum," he managed to say, staring down at the sheet of paper. It was almost there, so close that he could practically taste it. He turned to Bobbi, a tortured expression on his face. "I have to," he repeated, his mind not able to work its way around that single fact.

"I know," Bobbi told him, cupping his face in her hands and kissing his forehead. She sat back on her heels and looked at him expectantly. Had he been more aware of his surrounding, Harry might have noticed the sly gleam in her eyes. "But you won't be able to do it if you don't start eating and sleeping properly again."

"You're right," agreed Harry, pushing his glasses up as he massaged the bridge of his nose. "You're right. I've been pushing too hard. Trying to do too much too quickly."

"Exactly," said Bobbi, breaking into a relieved smile. "Remember, it's like John always says; 'Rome wasn't built in a day'. You need to relax a little, before you burn yourself out. Or worse, make a mistake."

This caught Harry's attention most effectively. The idea of making a mistake on a task such as this was something that truly terrified him. It could spell disaster on a scale beyond anything the world had ever seen. Licking his lips and trying to put that thought out of his mind, Harry turned the conversation back to Bobbi's earlier question, when she had first entered his room.

"It's my birthday?" he asked.

"Uh-huh," confirmed Bobbi with a grin. She leaned forward again and gave him another hug. "Sweet sixteen."

Harry smiled back at her for a moment before a horrible thought occurred to him. "My friends aren't here, are they? You haven't arranged a party or something without telling me?"

Bobbi smiled indulgently and informed him, "We did tell you about it. Two weeks ago."

"Bloody hell!" cried Harry, jumping up and almost knocking Bobbi over as he stumbled towards the door. "I have to get cleaned up! I need a shower! I need a shave! Dammit, where did all this bloody paper come from?"

.oOo.

October 31st, 1996, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Harry's friends were worried about him.

He had been working on the Lament Configuration almost every spare moment that he had been able to find. He had even gone so far as declining to resume his place on the Gryffindor Quidditch team when his previously confiscated Firebolt had been returned to him by Professor McGonagall. His refusal had almost given the Transfiguration teacher a coronary on the spot.

He was still teaching the Defence Association, no longer known as Dumbledore's Army, for a couple of hours every other night. But it was obvious, to those who knew him well, that Harry was not paying it as much attention as he had the previous year. He was just going through the motions. Despite his apparent disinterest, he was still proving quite an effective teacher to his fellow students - so much so that the club had expanded dramatically over the past month.

At the moment he was sitting in the Gryffindor common room, half hidden at a desk in one of the less travelled corners. There he worked on the inner mechanisms of the puzzle box.

Arrayed before him were the six faces of the box, currently separated and unassembled. Attached to the inside of there were amazingly complex arrangements of miniscule cogs, wheels, springs and other devices. At first glance it looked like a clockmaker's paradise, but closer inspection revealed a crazily haphazard design that seemed to defy some, if not all, of the laws of physical motion.

"Come on," Harry whispered to himself as he peered through a set of powerful magnifying glasses to see clearly as he carefully tightened a screw that was barely larger than a grain of rough sand.

The miniscule part properly inserted, Harry held up the face and the assembly attached behind it. Carefully, keeping a close watch on the machinery, he slid one panel from its closed position to its open position.

As the panel clicked into place the intricate arrangement of gears, and in some cases; facets jewels, began to move. By some inexplicable means, the mechanism seemed to constantly shift and change, parts starting to move for no apparent reason, while other sections somehow continued to whirl, even though they should have already stopped.

A simple tune began to play. It was only two or three notes, but it was proof enough that the design worked.

Harry sat the arrangement back on the desk, outside face down - the inner working sticking up into the air, some parts seemingly hanging suspended by nothing at all. He reached across to one of the other five separate faces of the box and deftly set it into motion as well.

New and different notes joined the tune played by the first face, giving it more body and more complexity. Harry listened intently for a few seconds, using his memory to fill in the blanks. It was close. Very close. He gentle set the two faces onto their sides and then brought them closer together, arranging them in a similar manner as to how they would lie if the box were fully assembled.

"Harry?"

"Just a second, Hermione," he replied, eyes not straying from the arrangement in front of him.

He pulled a sheet of parchment close and began scribbling observations on it as he watched the gears move in some strange manner that defied normal physics.

Suddenly, impossibly, a few extra notes joined the incomplete tune.

Harry froze in place, his quill dripping ink onto the parchment. He stared blankly at the two pieces of the box for a moment, before turning his gaze to one side.

A third face, and its attached mechanism, had begun to move and play by itself. Harry cautiously reached out and shifted it so that he could see the outside face. Nothing had been moved. Every single panel was in its closed and supposedly inactive position. Yet the gears were moving.

"Harry?"

"Not now," he said distractedly. "This shouldn't be happening."

Grabbing blindly to the side, Harry rummaged through the stack of notes he had on hand - piled next to him. He began paging through them, searching for an explanation for what was happening.

A flicker of light caught his attention as he read, making him look up. The two panels directly in front of him continued to move. The few jewels scattered about their constructions were glowing; glittering and reflecting light over the various exposed surfaces and inner panels.

Harry's hands went limp and the notes he was holding fell to the floor.

"Harry, what's wrong? asked Hermione, worrying filling her voice.

Harry was hardly listening, lost in the movements of his constructs, waiting for something...

Panels started to shift about the two separate pieces, both on the inside and the outside faces. Harry stared, wondering if this was by accident or design. It was definitely not something he had expected to happen.

A pattern began to emerge as the panels entered alignment...

...an unholy light began to shine...

...and then separated again, moving apart a fraction of a second before completion.

Harry heaved a deep sigh of relief. Or disappointment. He wasn't really sure which. He slumped in his chair, staring at the two constructs whirling faithfully in front of him. The third face, the one that started moving by itself, began to wind down, the notes it was adding to the tune dying away.

An arm reached over Harry's shoulder, intending to pick up the third piece of the box.

"Wicked stuff, mate," said Ron from right behind him.

"No! Don't!"

The hint of true panic in Harry's voice was enough to freeze Ron in place, his hand poised a scant inch above the box face he had been reaching for.

"Whatever you do," said Harry with faked calm, "don't move."

Quickly, fear motivating his haste, Harry took the two faces he had been working with and slotted the various panels back into their inactive state. He waited, anxiously, at the relevant mechanisms ground to a halt. With a final click, everything stopped moving and the incomplete tune stopped playing, its last few notes echoing in the air.

Reaching over, Harry then gripped Ron's arm by the wrist - holding it firmly in place. He used his other hand to carefully slide the third box face out from underneath his friend's hand. Once it was clear, he released his hold.

"Okay," he breathed with a relieved sigh. "You can move you arm again."

"Mate," said Ron uncertainly. "What was that all about?"

"You almost touched something you shouldn't have," replied Harry.

"So?"

"That would've been bad."

"Bad?" repeated Ron.

"Bad," confirmed Harry with unwavering conviction.

"Bad as in?" asked Ron, not willing to let it rest at that.

"Bad as in you could've lost that hand," said Harry, not mentioning that the loss of a limb would likely have been the very least of Ron's worries had the red-haired wizard started something he shouldn't have.

"Ah," said Ron, actually taking a step away from the table. "Bad."

"Yeah," agreed Harry.

He slumped in his seat again, the adrenalin that had surged through his veins only moments earlier beginning to recede. He would not be accomplishing any more work tonight.

"Harry," asked Hermione, putting a hand on his shoulder, "what is all this?"

She gestured at the table Harry was working at, the various faces of the Lament Configuration laid out on it, with pieces of parchment detailing various parts of the panels and gear works scattered about.

Looking up at her, seeing her earnest expression, Harry wondered what to say. He had a dozen different lies on the tip of his tongue, but couldn't seem to bring himself to say any of them.

Harry had recently realized that he had developed feelings for Hermione that went beyond friendship. He would have liked to explore the possibility of a romantic relationship with her, but had decided to wait until after Voldemort had finally been dealt with.

He hated to admit it, but he was also slightly afraid of what she, and his other friends, would think of him when they finally saw the means he would be employing to defeat the Dark Lord. He knew without a doubt that, even if they still accepted him as a friend, their perceptions of him would still be forever changed.

"It's just something I've been working on," he finally said.

"Something you've been working on every spare minute you have," Hermione corrected. She shook her head in disbelief and looked over the desk once again. "Now what is it?"

"An idea I had over the summer," Harry stalled.

"What is it?" pressed Ron, leaning cautiously over the desk, examining the exposed box faces and gears.

"A combination of Muggle physics and magic," said Harry.

"Oh? Muggle stuff, huh? Dad would love this," said Ron.

"What does it do?" asked Hermione.

"I'm still trying to work that part out," replied Harry, this time being perfectly honest in his answer.

"You mean you don't know?" asked Ron incredulously.

"It's just an idea I had," said Harry defensively.

He began to pack up. He gathered his scattered notes, including those that had fallen to the floor, and stuffed them into his schoolbag. The various pieces and components of the unfinished puzzle box were carefully laid out in a special box he had bought during the summer to store them in.

"Come on," he said once everything was packed away. "Let's go down to dinner. I'm starving."

"What do you think it does?" asked Hermione, her thoughts still on the box.

"If things go as planned, you'll find out soon enough," Harry said grimly.

Ron and Hermione paused to exchange a suddenly worried look. Harry continued on, not noticing that they were no longer following right behind him.

"Why am I suddenly scared?" Ron asked after a moment in which he and Hermione watched their puzzle box obsessed friend slide out the portrait hole on his way to dinner.

"Because you're finally using your common sense," Hermione intoned.

.oOo.

December 31st, 1996, Hogwarts Headmaster's Office

It was the New Year and Harry was sitting, waiting placidly, in the headmaster's office. Dumbledore was sitting opposite him, while most of the Order of the Phoenix were scattered about wherever they could find a place to stand or sit. John and Bobbi Merchant were present, both Order members since the summer before Harry's fifth-year, though they had no more idea of what was going on than anyone else present.

The soft murmurs of whispered speculation came to a half when Dumbledore cleared his throat. Everyone turned to the old wizard, who in turn focused on the young man sitting in front of him.

"I think it's time for an explanation, Harry," he said.

Harry nodded and reached into his school robes. He withdrew a small package, wrapped in brown paper and tied up with a line of string.

"I know I've been... off... for the past few months," Harry began, deliberately inserting a touch of uncertainty and timidness into his voice.

"Try since Black was killed," observed Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody with his usual blunt gruffness.

Harry paused and glanced over his shoulder at the retired Auror. He gave the scarred man a look that caused Moody's jaw to snap shut with a clack and his magical eye to freeze in place. Satisfied that Moody would keep quiet for a bit, Harry turned back to the package in his hands. He set it down on the desk in front of him.

"The truth is; I've been working on something to destroy Voldemort," he said plainly.

Molly Weasley shifted in place, clearly preparing to start her usual rant about how Harry should leave fighting the Dark Lord to the adults.

"Harry, dear--"

"The one with the power to destroy the Dark Lord approaches.. born when the seventh month dies..." Harry cut her off. He lifted his gaze to stare defiantly into Dumbledore's eyes as he recounted what he had learned in this very room shortly after the debacle in the Department of Mysteries. "The Dark Lord will mark him as an equal... and either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives..."

The various members of the Order were rocked by this recitation of the Prophecy's. It was not everything, in fact the wording was slightly wrong as Harry was more or less adlibbing its contents, but it did contain the pertinent bits.

Waiting several minutes for the excited chatter to die back down, mostly due to Dumbledore signalling for quiet, Harry reached up with one hand and brushed aside his fringe; revealing his scar.

"He marked me as his equal, Mrs Weasley," was all he said.

"Albus?" asked Molly, turning to Dumbledore. "Is this true?"

Dumbledore sighed deeply, for once looking his age as he slumped in his chair.

"Yes, Molly," he confessed. "I'm afraid it is. Harry is the one prophesised to defeat Voldemort."

There was a long silence as everyone took in this jewel of information. Harry ignored his growing annoyance at the delay, wanting get on with it. He had to tell them about the box. Particularly...

"Potter, defeat the Dark Lord?" asked Snape incredulously. He gave a soft, disdainful snort and commented, "If that's true, we'd best start making out our wills and putting our affairs in order."

"Severus!" snapped Dumbledore unhappily. He quickly recovered though and assumed a sure and confident manner. "I have every faith that Harry is up to the task."

Bobbi stepped up, John immediately behind her, and knelt down to grab Harry in a fierce hug.

"Oh, Harry," she said, voice muffled. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"Sorry, Mum," Harry replied earnestly, "but once I heard the prophecy... I knew what I had to do."

John managed to pry Bobbi off Harry, pulling her back but not far from their adopted son. He glanced at the wrapped package on Dumbledore's desk, seeing it as a way to distract his wife. Pointing at it, he asked, "What is it, son?"

Harry smiled and reached out to tug on the string, which easily came undone. Without the string to hold it up, the brown paper fell aside, revealing the contents of the package.

It was a small box. A puzzle box. A music box. It was made from ebony, mahogany, ivory, gold, silver, bronze, copper and many other materials. Intricate and delicate panels, which slotted together with fine precision, formed the faces of the box. A coat of black lacquer, just enough to dull the colours of the box's components, formed a final layer that had been polished to a mirror finish. It was all crafted and assembled together with amazing care and skill.

"Harry, it's beautiful," breathed Bobbi in awe.

"That's what you were designing over the summer, isn't it?" asked John, though he silently agreed with his wife's assessment of Harry's accomplishment.

Harry nodded and picked up the final product of his long labours... a recreation of the puzzle box he had destroyed shortly after joining the Merchant family.

The Lament Configuration.

"This is what I've been working on," he confirmed in a quiet voice. "Something I've dreamed of for years."

"Wait, I know what that is," Remus Lupin spoke up, comprehension in his voice. He looked at Harry in surprise and asked, "That's your Boggart, isn't it?"

"Yes," Harry nodded with a wry smile. "The one thing that terrifies me more than anything else in this world or any other... even before I built it with my own hands."

"A box?" asked Lupin, not understanding.

"Not just any box, Remus," Harry corrected. "It's a puzzle."

"A puzzle box," scoffed Snape. He looked at the box with a contemptuous sneer and asked, "This is what you've been wasting your time with?"

"Professor Snape," Dumbledore gentle berated. He turned to peer at the box from over his half-moon spectacles. Squinting his rich blue eyes, he leaned forward and reached out for the box. He wanted to examine it more closely, as it obviously had very finely craft details that could not be made out from a distance. "May I have a look, Harry?"

Before the headmaster could touch it, however, Harry pulled the box away and held it out of Dumbledore's reach.

"You shouldn't touch it," he warned, settling the box in his lap. "It's dangerous."

"Dangerous!" Snape scoffed again. "What harm can a puzzle box cause?"

Harry had to fight the urge to open the box right there and then, so that he could show Snape exactly what it was that he had built. But now was not the time, he managed to remind himself. The box, and its contents, were meant for Voldemort.

"I told you; it's more than just a box," he repeated. "It's called the Lament Configuration." Harry paused for a moment before he revealed, "It opens doors."

"What kind of doors?" asked John, curiously looking at the box resting in Harry's lap.

"The kind that should only be opened in the direst of circumstances," replied Harry.

"Doors leading to where, Harry?" asked Dumbledore, his keen intellect directing his questions along the more pertinent path. Doors were made to lead somewhere, after all.

Harry smiled grimly and declared in a hushed whisper, "To powers beyond mortal imagination."

He put the box back onto Dumbledore's desktop, so that everyone would be able to see it. Settling back in his seat, Harry watched as the various members of the Order stared at the box. He knew what was coming next.

To those looking at the box, it seemed almost as whichever face they were staring at suddenly dropped away - receding into the distance. This gave the impression of a impossibly long, seemingly endless corridor or passageway. The image was thick with smoke. Then, without any warning to herald it, figures appears.

Most of the younger members let out startled yelps.

The shadowy figure, mostly hidden by the shadows surrounding them, disappeared. Their forms were replaced with appalling images that quickly turned the stomachs of all watching. Naked people, chains binding them in place as hooks and blades ran over their bodies. They were red with body, which covered their bare flesh like a second skin.

The images reflected within the box's faces began to distort, taking on an unreal aspect that only served to enhance the horrors they depicted. Everyone had long since tried to look away, but found themselves unable to - their bodies unable to respond to their wills. A mouth appeared, opening into a soundless scream as it grew to engulf the box.

Then it was gone, the box simply sitting innocently on Dumbledore's desk. That innocence was a deception, however, and those who still stared at it could not longer see the beauty in its design. They were all, to the last man and woman, greatly disturbed by what they had just witnessed. To say they were unnerved by the puzzle box would be an understatement.

"Harry... what was that?" asked Dumbledore, finally breaking the hushed silence that had fallen over his office. Even the portraits of the past headmasters were silent - and not because they were feigning sleep.

"Only a tortured soul could have made a box like this, sir," explained Harry. He gave an inner smile at this combination lie and half-truth. "Why else do you think it would be called the Lament Configuration?"

"Oh, Harry!" cried Bobbi, almost pulling Harry from his seat as she grabbed him into another hug.

"Mum, it's okay! Really! I'm fine now," Harry tried to assure her.

John once again pulled Bobbi off the struggling young wizard. Sending his adoptive father a thankful look, Harry continued to explain.

"To build the box, I had to understand suffering. True suffering. That was the only way." He then smiled reassuringly to Bobbi, who was clinging to John. "Now that I've finished building it, I feel... incredible. Like the weight of the world has been lifted off my shoulders."

"This is all well and good, Potter," commented Moody, having recovered from Harry's earlier glare. "But I don't see how a box is going to defeat the Dark Lord, no matter how tortured your soul was when you put it together."

Harry sighed and held the box up, considering both it and his answer for several moments.

"I told you, inside this box are powers beyond imagination," he finally said. "When the time's right, I'll open it, release those powers... and send Voldemort straight to Hell!"

"You believe this to be the power foretold by the prophecy?" asked Dumbledore intently, leaning forward.

"Yes," Harry confirmed in all honesty.

"What d'you mean, sir?" asked Kingsley Shacklebolt. The large black Auror's bald head was dotted with a cold sweat, some of which was trickling down his face, a result of what he had seen in reflected in the box's surface.

"Harry's recitation of the prophecy left out a few parts," Dumbledore patiently explained. "Namely the line that states; he will have a power the Dark Lord knows not."

"And that power's inside this box," insisted Harry.

"What power?" asked Tonks.

"I can't explain it, Tonks," Harry replied with a shake of his head and a short shrug. "I don't fully understand it myself... and I built the damned thing."

"No surprise there," murmured Snape, just loud enough for people to hear.

Harry sent the Potions Master a murderous glare, receiving a typically haughty sneer in return. Whatever hesitation Harry might have had about what he had planned vanished. He no longer felt any indecision about Snape's fate.

"It's a form a magic; a manipulation of space, time and so forth," he tried to explain.

"Like Apparation or Portkeys?" asked Bill Weasley, who was holding a shivering Fleur close to him.

"Similar, but not really," Harry allowed after a moment's thought. "It's like oil and water. They're both liquids, but that's where the similarity ends."

Harry reached into his robes again and pulled out a thick sheath of bound parchment, which he handed to Dumbledore. The sheets were covered in sketches of some basic patterns. There was nothing remotely as complex as the Lament Configuration, but the idea was there. Lines of notes were arrayed up and down the sides of the pages.

This was a small compilation of some of what Harry had discovered while working on the puzzle box. If the box was a play by Shakespeare, then this was the ABCs of the English language. It held the guidelines to a type of magic that had never been explored, at least not in recorded history.

"You're saying you've discovered a new field of magic?" asked Hestia Jones, speaking up for the first time at this meeting.

"Yes," confirmed Harry. "The simplest way to describe it is that I'm using the box to alter space and time on a local scale through the interaction of the specific shapes and forms that make up its structure."

"The result of which you believe will destroy Voldemort," concluded Dumbledore.

"Bingo," nodded Harry.

"Bingo?" repeated Arthur Weasley blankly. "What do house-elves have to do with this?"

"It's just an expression, Arthur," sighed Tonks.

"Oh, used by Muggles, eh?"

Dumbledore, in the meanwhile, had paged through the first few sheets of parchment that Harry had handed him. He set the bound pages down and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he stared in contemplation at the box Harry was holding.

"Are you sure it wise to create such a thing, Harry?" he asked.

Harry stared down at the box in his hands, remembering that night when he first saw it and worked his way through its puzzle, opening it and unleashing what lay hidden within it.

While working through the process of recreating the Lament Configuration, Harry had managed to divine some of the whys and hows behind the its operation. He did not fully understand how the box could open a doorway to Hell, and he suspected that no mortal mind ever would (something he found great relief in), but he did have enough knowledge to create boxes that did other things as well.

Instead of the Lament Configuration he could have just as easily have built a puzzle box that, when completed, resulted in an explosion of nuclear proportions.

The problem was that Voldemort had undergone dozens of rituals in his quest for immortality. Harry didn't know if a mere explosion would be enough to destroy him. The was always the chance that he might somehow survive, existing as a wraith-like spirit, much as he had when he had first lost his body that fateful Halloween night.

Escaping from what lay on the other side of the box, however... not even Voldemort could do that.

"Yes," he finally said, no doubt in his voice. "It's the only way."

"If Voldemort learned of its existence and somehow managed to gain possession of it..."

"Don't worry," Harry assured the headmaster. "I'm already planning to hide it somewhere only I can find it."

Harry sat the box back down on Dumbledore's desk and began wrapping it up again. As he worked, he sneaked a few looks out the corner of his eye at Professor Snape.

The first part of his plan; recreating the box, had been completed. He had just now finished the second part; letting someone other than himself find out about it. Now all he needed to do was set the third part of his plan into motion; bringing word of the box's existence to Voldemort.

Snape was the perfect means to do just that. The only tricky part would be getting the information to Voldemort that Snape was a spy, and then getting the Dark Lord to torture the potions master for information, instead of simply killing him outright. It would take time to set it up, but once it was done; the trap would laid and set.

He was in no hurry.

It was only a matter of time.

.oOo.

April 13th, 1997, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

It had been nearly three and a half months since Harry told had the Order about the puzzle box.

Three months since Harry allowed Draco Malfoy to overhear the fact that Professor Snape was a spy for the Order of the Phoenix, with valuable knowledge of a means to gain great power.

Two months since Voldemort summoned Snape to his lair in the Riddle House and tortured him for information about the puzzle box, its purpose and where it was hidden.

Two months since Snape's dead body was returned to the school, delivered to Dumbledore at breakfast - by a dozen owls, each bearing a separate, blood-soaked package.

And now, a week since Harry had seen it through his scar, the Dark Lord had managed to storm Hogwarts, breaching the castle's ancient wards with the help of a few Slytherin students, and take the entire school hostage.

The battle had been short and brutal. The Death Eaters arrived in the middle of dinner, catching the staff entirely by surprise. Nobody, not even Dumbledore, had thought Voldemort were be so bold to attempt such a thing.

Only Harry had expected it. Indeed, he had known the attack was coming several days in advance. He had not said anything because he could not afford to. Letting Voldemort into Hogwarts was a dangerous risk to be sure, but it was also the only way to get the Dark Lord close enough to use the box.

Which was why he had taken pains to slip a Power Sapping potion into the headmaster's drink at the start of dinner. He knew that Dumbledore was still powerful enough to hold Voldemort off, at least until help arrived. That was something Harry couldn't risk happening, so he had taken Dumbledore out of the fight before it had even started, allowing Voldemort an easy victory against the old wizard.

"Crucio!"

And now that the teachers had been restrained, and the students were under the watchful eye of the twenty-six Death Eaters which had taken part in the attack, Voldemort was attempting to torture the location of the box out of Harry.

"GGGAAAAAAHHH!"

To Harry's displeasure, the Dark Lord was doing this by working his way through Harry's friends. He knew that Harry would not submit to torture, having already proven (during their duel in the graveyard) to be somewhat able to shake off the effects of the Cruciatus Curse.

"Stop it, damn you! Stop it!"

At the moment Voldemort had Harry's closest friends, Ron and Hermione, before him, kept in place by Lucius Malfoy and Antonin Dolohov respectively. As Harry was forced to watch, held captive by Bellatrix Lestrange and Peter Pettigrew, his wand in Voldemort's possession, the Dark Lord alternated the Cruciatus Curse between the Boy-Who-Lived's best friends.

"They have nothing to do with this!" screamed Harry. "It's between you and me! Let them go!"

"Then give me the box," countered Voldemort as he released the curse he has been holding on Ron.

Unfortunately, despite the fact that Harry had always intended to do just that, he had to draw it out. He knew that if he capitulated too early, then Voldemort would become suspicious. If Harry was