Prologue
He clenched his eyes shut even more tightly, gulping in his breaths quickly just to feel it expand inside his chest, just to know that he was still alive, that he hadn't yet given in. His arms ached something fierce – the muscles straining, his wrists torn and likely bleeding, and feeling like they were practically dislocated from their sockets. Harry turned his head into the sweat coated skin of his right bicep, pulled taut above his head just as his other arm was.
He bit down on the limb, trying to get some sort of feeling back into it besides the dull burning of overuse. Wiggling his fingers slightly, Harry groaned at the tingling pain shooting through his arms. Just hanging there from the ceiling was torture all on it's own. His toes barely brushed along the cold, grime-covered floor, and had they not he was sure he would've lost all feeling in his torso by now.
Harry had no idea for how long he'd been hanging there, chained to the ceiling, the manacles locked uncomfortably tight around his wrists and slicing into his flesh. Poking his tongue out from between his lips, he tried to moisten them. All he managed to do was spread the blood seeping from the cut near the corner of his top one, causing a stinging pain when his tongue swept over it.
Ignoring it, because it was the least of it all, Harry pulled the tangy, metallic taste back into his mouth, rubbing his tongue over his dry palate. Fuck, what he would've given for a drink of water, of anything resembling liquid; it felt like he hadn't had anything in days.
The loud slam reverberating into the room from the only entrance into Harry's current hell-hole had him yanking frantically at the cold, linked metal holding him in place, his eyes wide as he tried to pick out a shape in the absolute darkness. Nothing.
His throat made an odd clicking sound as he tried to speak instead of actually producing the words he wanted to shout. It seemed as if he'd lost his voice. Harry supposed he'd been screaming too much.
Swallowing, just to make sure his throat was still in working order, he tried again, a scratching rasp resembling not much more than a gasp was all that he could manage. He felt tears prickling at the corner of his eyes. Shouting had helped, had given him some sort of release, had given him some kind of control over himself. They hadn't stopped him from screaming.
They liked it when he screamed.
Feeling the rough touch of a hand against his chest, Harry jerked back as much as he could, feeling himself start to swing from the momentum of his movement. His toes scrabbled to gain purchase again, feeling his arms straining, pulling tight, a sharp stabbing in his shoulders blades. Two calm hands reached out to steady him.
If Harry could talk he would have been begging them not to touch him. He hadn't done so at first – hadn't wanted to give them the pleasure of hearing him fall apart under their ministrations, but he'd given into that long ago. It hadn't done him any good to stay silent. Not that begging had done him any good either.
The hand brushed down to his stomach, dipping into the hollows of his protruding ribs, tracing the lines of the latest bloody adornments upon his skin. Harry couldn't stop from wincing. It didn't help that the touch was soft, barely there, almost reassuring. It wasn't though. That was their latest way to have fun with him.
Whoever held him captive had apparently become tired of simply causing him pain and had changed their tactics. It had succeeded and Harry felt broken, dirty, used, from the new form of torture.
"What did they do to you?" A soft voice asked, barely there, making Harry's skin prickle. He took a deep breath and turned his face back into his arm. He wasn't going to give in to their deception. They couldn't fool him any more, he knew there was no hope left for him. They could play their games all they wanted but he knew it all just led to pain. The only thing he could look forward to was that everything done was only pain inducing in the end.
All paths led to pain.
