Content Warning: Nothing about this story is rated less than M, this chapter included. This story flirts with some very dark themes and is generally not suitable for younger audiences. If detailed violence of any kind, explicit language, or sexual content offends you, do us both a favor and find something else to read. Thanks!

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Jk Rowling owns everything.

Author's Note: Hey, Thanks for checking out my story. This is an idea I've been trying to see written for sometime now and seeing as I'm very picky about my writing it may take me some time to finish it. I hope you all enjoy it and feel free to leave a review if you'd like. I always like to read them. If you find any spelling or grammatical errors that you would like to bring to light, please pm me and I will get to them as soon as I can. Thank you again, and enjoy :)

Chapter 1: A Terrible Beginning

St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries was located in London under the guise of an old, abandoned department store. It was the main hospital for all witches and wizards who needed healing in Great Britain. Lately, however, the outer street had been infested with reporters from all the most notable wizarding newspapers, like the Daily Prophet, and even the not so notable journals, like the Quibbler. Each surly faced witch or wizard standing near the entrance had been thwarted by the head mediwitch awaiting their attempts to break in. They had all gathered to see one person, and one person only: Harry Potter.

The aforementioned 15 year old was alone in a small hospital room on the third level. Laying awake in his bed, his fingers pinched the bridge of his nose in response to the bustling noise below, forcing his round, black glasses farther up his face. Many who knew him would now describe him as unrecognizable. His once youthful face had been replaced by a sallow, sickly sack of bones. Scars were evident on every inch of his body. Fading yellow bruises lingered on his cheekbones, chin and nose and even the small rest of visible skin revealed by the hem of a white, long, sleeved shirt. But the most changing feature was the dark, deadened green eyes that seemed to stretch into an eternity of unfathomable pain.

His story was the one that the reporters wanted to hear. It had been discussed, rumored, but now as he sat unguarded, they all wanted a taste of the truth. What they hadn't realized is that Harry Potter hadn't uttered a word for three months and did not intend to break his silence anytime soon. He had made a conscious decision long ago that no good could come from him speaking, not after what he had seen...endured. There was a darkness in this world; Harry wanted to stay far away from it.

The door to his room opened, and Professor Dumbledore, the recently restored headmaster of Hogwarts, strolled inside. Harry stiffened.

"Harry," he said, his voice was soothing, almost understanding, "I beseech you. You're the nail in her coffin, Harry. Agree to testify."

Harry stared at a deep scar on his left hand. And didn't speak.

Dumbledore let out a long, sorrowful sigh. "Justice needs to be done."

Harry's eyes wanted to flicker to his in anger - no, fury - but he forced them straight. He wouldn't break...he would never break.

Dumbledore shifted, raised a hand, before finally saying, "Hiding from the darkness will drive you mad."

Harry almost laughed...almost, though it would have been a dry and bitter sound - dead, like his eyes. Dumbledore didn't have the faintest idea of exactly how mad he was. Mad didn't even cut it. Harry knew that he, himself, was very far past the point of insane.

Dumbledore pulled up a wooden chair from the corner of Harry's room and sat on it, directly beside Harry's head. Harry turned his neck to stare out the window in the opposite direction. He didn't want Dumbledore here. He didn't want anyone here.

"If you wish to remain silent that is your choice. I suppose I may even deserve it after how I treated you last year before my absence. It was so foolish of me to ignore you. You see, I was afraid that your connection with Voldemort was not one-sided. I assumed any information I passed on to you would inadvertently be passed on to our worst enemy. With much consideration, I thought it best to shut you out. It was a mistake. I know this now, Harry. I am incredibly sorry." Dumbledore stared regretfully at the young man lying silently on his bed. The scars that mutilated his body were a mark of his untold horror. Dumbledore waited for a response, though didn't really seem to expect one. A few minutes passed before the headmaster spoke again.

"Don't think I'm foolish enough to think your silence is a personal vendetta. I realize what happened to you, Harry."

Harry was listening to Dumbledore, more because there was simply nothing else to listen to. Head still averted, Harry wanted nothing but to be alone.

Dumbledore tried again. "I know what she did to you. She used the torture curse, did she not?"

Harry didn't answer.

"You were locked in one of the old holding cells in the dungeons for months. I've also been told you weren't given much to eat. Your Healer told me you were little more than a skeleton when you arrived."

Harry didn't speak, though by now a small bit of dewy perspiration was collecting above his brow and a small spike in his pulse had his breath speeding up.

Dumbledore sensed weakness. "You had been stabbed...several times from the look of it."

A flash of a sinister memory bounced in his brain like a never fading echo. Cold, blue eyes, a laugh, a blade piercing his stomach, a scream - his scream...Harry's hand clutched the sheet below him.

"Miss Granger is here too. And Mr. Weasley...did anyone tell you?"

Harry's forehead creased and a distant ache in his chest reminded him that indeed he did miss his friends.

"They brought dementors in to guard yourself and your fellow 'rebel' students. That must have been hard for you. Professor Lupin told me in your third year that the dementor is your boggart."

Harry shuddered, his breath very heavy by now. Harry knew what Dumbledore was doing, which, in Harry's opinion, made him just as bad as the ones who had hurt Harry in the first place. What difference does it make what kind of torture someone uses to get the information they want?

"I was told something else, as well," Dumbledore murmured, his voice burning with compassion now, "I was told that you were tortured on my behalf."

Harry noticed a strain in his voice and wondered if he was struggling over his words. Harry hoped he was with a bitter taste on the back of his tongue. He wanted to hear no more. But, alas, Dumbledore's soft melodic voice reached his ears yet again.

"That, well, I'm not sure I'll ever be able to apologize fully for. No child should have to suffer the way you suffered, especially for an old, withered man like myself." Dumbledore looked at his hands - wrinkled from years of life and use.

Harry mentally scoffed. He wasn't a child...not anymore.

"Perhaps I'm not the best company. But I beg you to find solace in someone, Harry. This silence...it could kill you." Dumbledore stood, seemingly resigned to Harry's muteness. He turned on his heel, hesitated in the door frame, before finally leaving.

Harry curled himself into a ball. Resting his chin on his knees, he shook himself back and forth, eyes wide. Harry often found himself lost in the darkness of his mind. Fighting against it, he dug his bitten fingernails into the flesh of his arms. The hard protein bit into the skin even through the fabric of his shirt and left painful marks in their wake. Harry didn't care. Physical pain was familiar, tolerable; emotional pain was not.

In the empty silence, Harry allowed his brain a small amount of freedom to wander once he was sure no dangerous memories would try to rip him apart. The first thing he thought of was Hermione. He wondered where she was and if she was okay. The last time he saw her was...a flash of wild, brown hair and a dark cell made him cringe and flinch away. Instead, he remembered a simpler, happier time with her, one where he could speak freely. Harry continued his rocking, his chin digging into his knees as his heart burned with longing. He would give anything to be able to find himself again, the easy going, happier Harry. But, as he stared at the scars covering seemingly every inch of his body, he knew without a doubt: that Harry was dead and had died long ago.

Harry Potter was a shell of his former self.

Clutching at his wild black hair, he gazed unseeing at the end of his bed while he rocked. Everything was so painful now. Even the happiest of his memories were laced with a bitterness he didn't understand. It was as if someone had poured flammable liquid into his thoughts and set them on fire. Everything he recalled burned against his eyes, spread to his chest. Was he dying? A part of him hoped he was.

Try as he may to fight it, his brain revolved around the pit of his memories. Too many things reminded him of the horror...the cold, tiny cell...the never ending pain aching in every part of his body. How could he stop himself from thinking about all he knew now? His life had been replaced with a dead man's in that cell.

Harry rocked and rocked, teetering on the edge. He pulled at his hair, but to no avail at stopping the memories. They were bartering him and he was sure he would never escape them...

Professor Dumbledore vanished from behind his desk. Cornelius Fudge, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Dolores Umbridge, and Harry Potter stared dumbfounded at the spot where he disappeared. Shaking with anger, Fudge rounded on Harry and seized the tops of his arms.

"Where did he go!?" Fudge demanded, jarring his shoulders.

Harry's brow furrowed as he attempted to shake out of the small, round man's grasp. "I haven't the faintest idea!" Harry shouted back, finally free and rubbing his arms.

"Rubbish!" countered the Minister, pointing a finger in his face, "You, of all people, Potter, would know where he is. You're the Golden Boy." Fudge's face, still seething with fury, turned mocking.

Umbridge cleared her throat behind them, her toad-like face fixed into a pleasant smile. "Perhaps I could get the answer out of him, Minister," she said, "With your permission."

Fudge nodded slowly, his eyes still on Harry's. Straightening, he turned to the stout witch behind him. "Yes...yes, gather any information you can from the students, Dolores. I am assuming you're ready to fill the role as headmistress?"

Umbridge puffed out her chest and said proudly, "Of course, Minister."

Fudge turned to Kingsley. "We'd best round up our top men in the mean time, Shacklebolt. We must be on the watch...vigilant for any sight of Albus." The two men strolled from the room, heads bent low together as they continued to converse. Harry wondered whether Kingsley knew where Dumbledore was already, being a member of the Order.

Professor Umbridge turned to Harry, her face fixed in its usual pleasant mask. "I think now is an excellent time to issue your punishment, Mr. Potter," she said, her voice as polite as her face. Harry's mouth had gone suddenly dry. An inexplicable fear was lifting the hairs on his neck and it was coming from the hungry, nearly animalistic expression burning in her eyes.

Continuing in the same conversational tone, she pointed her wand at his chest and said, "Have a seat." With her other hand, she waved to the long backed chairs resting behind Dumbledore's old desk.

Harry hesitated then edged toward the chair, his eyes fixed on the toad faced woman. The second Harry had settled himself in the chair, Umbridge flicked her wand at Harry. Thick ropes tangled around Harry's wrists, ankles and stomach, tightening until he could hardly move. They dug painfully into his skin, cutting off the circulation.

Umbridge strolled toward him, halting when her knees nearly brushed his. "Where is your wand?"

Harry didn't answer, but he could feel his wand against the outside of his thigh, concealed by the right sided pocket of his robes.

She smacked him hard against his left cheek. Harry's head swung to the side from the impact. Looking out of the corner of his eyes, he glared, both furious and thunderstruck by her direct violence.

"I asked you a question, Mr. Potter."

Harry still didn't answer. He wasn't going to make anything easy for her. No...he wasn't going to utter a word. She sighed, aggravated by his lack of cooperation.

"I'll give you one more time to answer. If you do not, I will force the answer from you," she murmured.

Harry stared at her, smug and very silent.

"Very well...," she muttered, her mask slipping into an expression of obvious hatred and disgust. Then she pointed her wand at his chest and said, "Crucio!"

Harry writhed, though not very successfully within his bindings, against his chair. His teeth clenched tightly while he endured the terrible sensation of being stabbed...everywhere. Other thoughts evaded him during the new headmistress's torture. It seemed as if the blinding pain had consumed his ability to think, blocking all other trails of thoughts from even crossing his mind. For a moment, Harry could not remember his own name. Gasping and trembling, he collapsed against the ropes holding him in place when Umbridge finally pointed her wand to the ceiling. She then laid the tip of it against the palm of her other hand and took a sharp breath in from her nose. Still shaky and trembling, Harry flicked his eyes up to hers, above his glasses that had slid a few centimeters down his nose.

"Are you ready to tell me where your wand is?" she cooed, the pleasant smile returning. Harry spat at her feet.

Cringing, she jumped back. Then, without warning, the Cruciatis Curse was bearing down on Harry again. His mouth opened in a silent scream, but no sound ever emerged. It seemed to last hours. When it ended, her palm collided with Harry's face a second time, then a third, before she was yanking his hair back roughly, a fist of his wild, jet black strands clenched in her stubby fingers.

"If you ever do something so vile again I will sew your lips shut. Do you understand?" Her voice was low and dangerous, so close Harry could feel her breath on his chin while he struggled out of the grip of her hand. Panic was rising in his chest. He tried to think of a way to escape this woman but there was simply no solution. To escape her would be to escape Hogwarts. Where could he go besides Hogwarts? Not the Dursleys', that was for sure. If he managed to get away from Umbridge, he would become a wanted fugitive, just like Dumbledore...only Harry didn't think himself quite as resourceful.

Umbridge released his hair and Harry let his head fall forward, hiding his terrified eyes from her. He'd known she was horrible...but this...Harry never expected this.

He saw her fingers grope his pockets until they felt what she wanted. Her hand disappeared behind the pocket of his robes, only to return a second later with his wand. Harry stared desperately at it until it was hidden inside of Umbridge's robes.

"Well...I can only imagine how uncooperative you'll be when I start asking more difficult questions," Umbridge said with a Mephistophelian grin. "No matter...I'll keep this up until I break you. And I will break you, Mr. Potter."

Gritting his teeth, he lifted his head and stuck out his chin in defiance. As Harry thought before, he had no intention of making this easy for her.

"Tell me the whereabouts of Albus Dumbledore." She hardly gave him enough time to answer before the torture curse was crushing him again. She repeated her question when she lifted the spell, only to cast it down again and again when Harry didn't answer.

It continued this way for hours. The sky was black outside before she showed any signs of stopping. Harry was trembling from head to toe as Umbridge stared coolly at him. He felt so weak...he'd never felt so weak in his life.

"I can see this will have to be extended and I am afraid that I do need sleep. Wait here, Mr. Potter." Umbridge clicked off in her short, pink heels, disappearing behind the door of her office.

Harry thrashed and thrashed against his bindings, ignoring the black spots clouding his vision. The chair creaked in protest and he struggled harder, desperate, until the chair was tipping backward. Harry glanced back at the floor creeping closer, saw the end of the platform he and the desk rested on and several steps directly behind him. He tried to jerk forward but the motion had him toppling quicker to the drop behind him. The middle of the backrest collided with the hard, stone edge of the first stair. The wood shattered to pieces, leaving Harry unprotected as he toppled, backward, down five, very solid steps. His head collided with the solid floor first and all went black.

Harry jumped out of the memory, panicky and breathless. His deep, green eyes stared unseeing at the white wall in front of him. Sweat dripped down his face to his chin and he wiped it on his sleeve with a trembling hand. A foul feeling crossed his stomach when Harry cursed himself for being so easily affected by his own mind. After all, this memory was quite tame in comparison to many of the others he had lingering inside his brain.

Harry's wide eyes continued to stare at the wall ahead, blank and tired. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept a full night. Even now, away from that place, he couldn't rest...his mind would simply not allow it to happen. What would become of him? He couldn't sleep, he could hardly eat. Every time he shut his eyes he saw Dolores Umbridge's face grinning maliciously down at him. Harry never thought there would be anyone who affected him worse than Voldemort...but Umbridge had stolen his soul.

Laying back onto his pillow, Harry stared up at the ceiling praying to a god he didn't believe in that he would find rest.

God is cruel; Harry learned this quickly. The moment he shut his eyes, he was sinking into the pit. He tried to claw at the edges of his mind...but there was nothing to keep the festering blackness at bay. It was swallowing him whole.

Harry woke with a throbbing headache pounding against the back of his skull. Glancing around himself, he found that he was in an unfamiliar, stone room. The only door had been shut and locked and there was only a dim light coming from the crack beneath the thick iron. Standing unsteadily, he moved about the room, trying to find any sign of weakness within his cage. He found none.

Stiff and sore from a night spent on the hard ground, he settled himself to the stone beneath him with a grimace. Things were beginning to look very grim and hysteria was flaring in his chest, squeezing his heart.

Before he had much time to ponder his fate, the thick, iron door to his cell opened and Harry jumped. Standing in the doorway was Umbridge, Filch right behind her.

"Hello, Harry." She greeted him with a smile, like an old friend. Harry concealed a shudder. Umbridge walked carefully into the cell, her wand pointing at his forehead, saying, "Wondering where you are?" Harry didn't answer but she continued to speak as if he had. "You've been moved to one of the old school dungeons. Mr. Filch here reminded me that there is a small prison beneath the school. It hasn't been used for centuries, of course, but I'm thinking of putting it to good use. Starting with you," Umbridge said happily, jabbing her wand closer to him - making him flinch. "This is your new home! You can forget about the Gryffindor common room, forget about your friends, you can even forget about Gryffindor...you belong to me now Harry. And very soon, it will be legal for me to do the things that I so very much wish to do to you and your classmates."

A cold trickle slid down Harry's spine in response. Not even when the urge and curiosity scorched his throat to ask what exactly those things were did he forget to hold his tongue. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction.

"Not that the illegality of my actions will stop me from gathering the information that the Minister has requested. So...without further ado, I ask that you accompany me, Mr. Potter."

Harry stared at her. All the possibilities of action were zooming around his head. Should he try to escape? Should he just go with her to avoid extra torture? Should he lie about information to try to get off the hook? He wasn't sure.

Umbridge seemed to think he took too long to decide. Nodding once in Filch's direction, she stepped slowly away from him, moving backwards. Filch, with a grunt, kicked Harry in the stomach with his good leg. Harry gasped, clutching his abdomen with both arms, and doubled over.

Umbridge muttered beneath her breath and Harry was suddenly bound around the wrists; his forearms snapped together, connected by a strong cord wrapped around his flesh many times. The end of his bindings extended several feet and was clasped in Umbridge's hand. She handed the rope to Filch carelessly and motioned for the two of them to follow.

Harry had only two choices left: walk to his fate or be dragged. It seemed obvious not to choose the latter, though Filch determined himself to make walking for Harry all the more difficult. Forcing Harry to walk in front, Filch, every chance he could, would kick the back of Harry's knees to make him fall. The second Harry collapsed, Filch shouted at him to stop struggling with a sharp kick to Harry's side. Umbridge always fell for Filch's dirty trick, turning and using the torture curse on Harry for a false accusation. They hadn't even made it to their destination and Harry was already nearing collapse.

These parts of the dungeons Harry had never seen. He supposed they must be far beneath the castle, farther beneath even Snape's dreary classroom. They only walked deeper, the hallways growing dimmer and dimmer.

Nearly 15 minutes passed before Umbridge stopped in front of a large door and opened it. The three walked inside, Filch trying to knock Harry to his knees all the while. It was a cavernous hall that greeted them, filled with ancient looking torture devices. Some Harry had heard about, others he'd only seen pictures of, and the rest he'd never seen before at all. However, each was more terrible to look at than the last. Harry felt abruptly breathless as he stared around the room. How much of this would he have to endure?

The new headmistress swiveled around, her bright pink cardigan making her appear much less menacing than Harry knew her to be.

"I imagine you must know what some of these devices do, Mr. Potter," she murmured somberly, her hands folded in front of her.

Harry's throat felt much too dry to answer, so instead he nodded carefully, trying to make his face hide his fear.

"Then you must be feeling concerned. But you needn't. In order to never have to personally endure the terror...of this for instance," she said, her hands lifting a thin piece of metal with two prongs on either end of it from a wooden table. It had a thick leather strap hanging from the middle of it. "Do you know what it does?"

Harry stared at it, his breath increasing. Slowly, he shook his head.

"It's called the Heretic's Fork. And you need never know how it works if you only cooperate with me."

She was baiting him. Harry thought his heart might break through his chest with the force that echoed against his sternum. He kept quiet and attempted to keep his shaking to a minimum.

Still holding the fork, she stepped slowly towards him. "Where is Albus Dumbledore, Harry?"

Staring at the sharp, crude object in her hand, Harry whispered, "I don't know."

"Really?" Her voice was candy coated and gave Harry a stomach ache. "I'm not sure I believe you."

The truth was that Harry had no idea where Dumbledore was. The latter hadn't spoken to Harry all year. Though, as Harry stared in her maniacal eyes, he knew that she didn't care whether he knew the answer. There was no doubt in his mind: Dolores Umbridge wanted to hurt him.

"You don't have to believe me," Harry said quietly, standing his ground, "But it's the truth."

Umbridge grinned her sadistic smile, before flickering her eyes to Filch. Harry had no time to react. Within a second, Mr. Filch had kicked the back of his knees again, knocking Harry to the ground.

"In that case, perhaps you will find out how this beauty functions," Umbridge murmured. "Hold his head."

Filch darted forward and grasped the sides of Harry's skull in a vice like grip. Harry struggled against him as Umbridge moved closer with the Heretic's Fork squeezed in her hand. She was excited; her eyes were bright as she wrapped the leather strap around his neck. The bottom prongs rested against his sternum and, as Filch jerked his head back, the top rested beneath his chin. The metal would pierce his skin if he allowed his head to fall forward, which was obviously the intent.

"There," Umbridge said sweetly, like she'd done nothing more than tie a bow around his neck.

Breathing deeply, Harry had his neck stretched back completely, though he could still feel the prongs scraping across his skin.

"Hang him upside down, over there." She pointed to a wall behind them. Harry gaped at her. Perhaps he hadn't heard her correctly?

"Yes, Mr. Potter. This is the most effective way of using the Heretic's Fork. It'll be much harder to hold your neck like that when all your blood is rushing to your head."

Filch was already dragging Harry to a pair of shackles hanging on the wall. He stared at them for a moment before turning to Umbridge.

"How should I...?" he began.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, you Squibs are useless!" Umbridge waved her wand with uncontrolled exasperation. Harry was wrenched around, flipped upside down, and slammed against the wall. He barely registered the fact that the shackles were wrapping themselves around his ankles for the fork fastened around his neck had punctured through the fleshy, tender skin in the space of his jaw during Umbridge's forceful magic. His agonized scream was drowned by his teeth which were now fused together. The prongs of the fork had torn through the bottom of his mouth and pierced the corner of his tongue. Blood pooled in his mouth but he couldn't spit and he couldn't swallow. The bottom half of the device had torn through several layers of skin around his collarbone before piercing through the hollow at the base of his throat.

He thought it would be the end. As he hung upside-down, his wrists still tied together, he watched the blood drip beneath him, forming a puddle. The blood pooling in his mouth was beginning to escape through his nasal passage dripping in even streaks down his face from his nose.

Umbridge's girlish giggle echoed hollowly in his ears. "My, my...what a mess." She clicked her tongue and stared at him with those huge, toad-like eyes. Harry spluttered as much blood as he could from his lips and tried desperately to breathe. The pain seemed to be the only thing that would register in his mind. They way it burned against his jaw and chest.

Filch stared at him with apparent horror. He kept sneaking nervous glances at the headmistress, though he didn't dare speak. It was clear his disdain for the Hogwarts students and his desire to see them punished didn't stretch this far. Harry turned beseeching eyes upon him, but Filch was rooted to the ground, torn between what was right and saving his own skin. Ultimately, his own wellbeing won out and Harry could clearly see the hardened set in his eyes before Filch turned finally away from him.

Harry knew he was completely alone. No one was coming to help him. The scarlet liquid filling his mouth clogged his respiratory tract and drowned away his consciousness slowly. The last thing Harry was aware of was the vertically flipped Umbridge grinning demonically at his diminished form.

Coughing and gagging, Harry awoke to the sounds of his own screams. Several mediwitches had gathered around him attempting to sooth his flailing, writhing body. It took several moments before Harry realized that he was no longer in the presence of that wretched woman. He collapsed against the many pillows on his bed, clutching his throat and feeling the scars indenting his chin and collarbone. The mediwitches left hesitantly after several moments of trying to gain answers from him. Harry said nothing, of course; instead, he stared into a corner of his room with a deep sorrowful emptiness settled into his bright green eyes. Each witch had a very similar feeling of desperate pity for him as they walked from his side, wishing they could take away the unfathomable torture burning beneath those breathtaking eyes.

Harry, revelling in his loneliness once more, removed himself from his bed sheets. Draping his legs over the edge of his mattress, he took a deep breath and stood. The weight felt awkward on his bony legs. His left ached very much in protest, but it was much less than he was used to. Limping carefully forward, he grasped the edges of the window sill and took another shaking breath. Harry turned watery eyes upon the dark, night sky and bit his lip. There, shinning through two wispy clouds, was the moon, bright and glorious. Harry stared at it hungrily, nearly pressing his nose against the glass in his need to see it more clearly.

Not many nights ago, Harry thought he'd never see it again, thought he'd never taste free air against his tongue, thought he'd never be able to support his own weight before he succumbed to his injuries. There wasn't much left inside of his dead heart, but even he could appreciate the simple beauty of the moonlight reflecting softly against his window. His hopeless chest fluttered with the tiniest bit of hope that maybe...just maybe...Harry Potter could be Harry Potter once more.

Thanks for reading! ~Charlie