The Long Road

I have returned to my roots for this one; angst, hurt-comfort, and a focus on recovery with some other characters introduced to season and taste.

This is the reason I cannot update any of my other stories - this has kidnapped my muse, and is holding it to ransom, and will not let go until I write and publish this chapter!

Random tidbit of information about SS19 - my first story, "Last Breath" was written to the song Hallelujah as sung by Rufus Wainwright in the very first version, and was then edited to remove the song, and the title was changed to the above.

~SS19

Chapter One:

"Crucio!"

The word was enough to draw horror from the spectators, some of whom flinched, some of whom gasped, and some of whom cried out. It was the use of the curse, and the person using it, and the sheer perversion of the image.

But no one was willing to intervene when Albus Dumbledore sent the defeated Tom Riddle - Lord Voldemort - to his knees, refusing to relinquish the curse. "How does it feel, Tom?" He demanded of the cringing, flinching Riddle, "Answer me!"

Riddle spat blood from his mouth, now nothing more than mortal, weakened and dying. He raised his head, his skin crumpling as the dark magic keeping him powerful drained away and left the shrivelled human behind, "Is this some sort of revenge?" He replied, and although his end was near, his voice could still be acidic.

Albus Dumbledore swept toward him, grabbing Riddle by his shirt and pulling his face close, "Where is he?"

Riddle smirked, sneered, grinned, "You'd very much like to know, would you not?"

"I am going to kill you, Tom. But not before you tell me where he is." Albus Dumbledore's voice shook with anger and something much more powerful.

"And what if I told you he was dead, Dumbledore? What then?" Riddle answered, and Dumbledore threw him to the ground, "I would not believe you. I know he is alive. I know you have him."

Picking himself back up to a sitting position, Riddle narrowed his eyes, "I tortured him."

The hand holding the Elder Wand shook, just slightly.

"He never gave in - so I destroyed him - what do you expect to do, Dumbledore? Go to Riddle Mansion and tear it apart, searching for his skeleton?" A pause. "Or his ashes? What is this - a desire for closure?"

Dumbledore lowered his wand. "Very well. It is clear to me that you are simply mortal now, Tom. You are nothing more than a human - as you always have been - you should stand trial, should you not, for your crimes? I can imagine Azkaban will…help you atone for your sins." He hesitated, "Or I could simply kill you. Do you fear death, Tom?"

Riddle cowered. "I have conquered death."

"You have not. Now. Tell me what I wish to know. Where is he?" Dumbledore's voice had hardened. Considerably.

"If I tell you - will you kill me?" Riddle asked in response.

Dumbledore let his wand fall to his side, "No. I will spare you. Is this you, begging for your life, Tom?"

Riddle looked at him. "He is in Riddle Mansion."

"Alive?"

A long silence. "Yes."

Albus Dumbledore nodded. "Thank you." He raised his wand. "Avada Kedavra."

The green light hit Voldemort and sent him crashing to the floor, where the body lay, crumpled and defeated and humiliated. Albus leaned down close to the body, "That was for him."

He stepped away and turned to face those who had remained to watch the final fight - stunned, shocked faces who had never seen their reverent, powerful, merciful leader act in such a way. "We are going to Riddle Mansion. He has played this game for nearly six months. It ends, today."

He started to walk away. Harry Potter hesitated. They all hesitated.

Albus felt it. He whirled, blue eyes flashing, "Did you expect me to show mercy on him? Have you forgotten what he did? What he has caused?"

Remus took a step forward, putting one reassuring hand on Harry's shoulder, "We know, Albus - it is simply…not like you to use such force."

Albus swept close to Remus and Harry, "You saw what he did. He took the most important person in my life away - and sent me tokens - and made me believe he was dead. He would have shown no mercy. Why should I have offered him that privilege? He has given me the information I wish to know - and we are now going to rescue him."

Harry would have backed away from the thunder and lightning on that face he thought he knew so well - Dumbledore's eyes flashed and his countenance was stormy. "Let's go." This was supposed to be a joyful occasion, the end of the war, the end of Voldemort himself - and yet - Dumbledore and his reaction and his hunger to cause pain to Riddle had startled all of them, Order members, teachers and students alike.

Then again, Dumbledore had not been his usual genial self since that day, six months ago, when his spy had never returned from a Death-Eater gathering. There had been no word. Nothing. Harry and his two best friends had watched, from a distance, as the old Headmaster started to go out of his mind - with worry. One month, and still nothing. Then, breakfast - teachers and students gathered together - it was all so innocent, all so calm - only the shadow on Dumbledore's face could bely what was truly on his mind.

The owl post had delivered only one envelope to the Headmaster.

Fingernails. Ten, to be precise. Harry had not known that at the time. He had simply seen the Headmaster push his chair back from the table, staring at something on his dinner plate, suddenly incredibly pale. Minerva had pressed a hand to his shoulder, glancing toward the empty seat at the table - her face taut with worry. Harry had looked toward the Slytherin table, students without a Head of House, and he had seen Draco Malfoy, and he had expected a smirk or a grin or a smug expression - and had seen something very different.

Fear.

Dumbledore had told the Order what he had been delivered that very night. Harry still remembered the tone of voice he had used; deadened, emotionless, cold. He had told them, in no uncertain terms, that they would find the prisoner and rescue him.

Two months of desperate searching had revealed - nothing. Harry had tried even reaching into Riddle's mind with Hermione and Ron - but they had found nothing. Harry had seen the hopelessness seep into Dumbledore's veins, corrupting him, slumping his shoulders and darkening his eyes.

Another token. It had arrived on Christmas Day, exactly three months to the day he had gone missing. Harry had been sat at the Head table with Hermione, a few other students, and the teachers that had chosen to remain behind. Somehow, Dumbledore had managed to put the capture aside and was more like his usual self - which made it all the more distressing when the envelope had arrived. A black envelope. White handwriting. Harry had known it instantly, and the Headmaster must have done too - but - he still opened it.

There were just two words.

Merry Christmas.

A single cutting of black hair. And a wand. Snapped, in half. Dumbledore held the pieces in one hand, staring down at them, and Harry had felt something, somewhere, hurt inside his chest.

"His wand was phoenix feather. I never even knew that."

Harry had looked away. Most of them had. It was the expression of pure…Harry knew of only one way to describe it. Heartbreak.

But Dumbledore had stayed true to the image of his friend being alive - and Harry and the Order had been swept along with this campaign - yes, it had led to Harry's defeat of Voldemort, and Dumbledore's triumph - but they had also seen the decline of a wizard and the rise of something far more destructive. Vengeful.

Harry found himself, as he had been for five months now, desperately hoping and pleading that Severus Snape was still alive.