This is a slightly AU, post-OotP, dark-ish work, a bit of character study, based on a common theme that will most probably come clear in the end. Tried to write Harry as sensible as I could, so maybe in the AU also could be included his maturity, I guess... Anyway, thank you for opening this and I hope not to disappoint you. Cheers!
Ch.1 War
When Harry woke up, he thought he had gone blind. His heart picking up the pace, he blinked a couple of times before trying to look around and find at least some sign that his eyesight has not suddenly and with no foreknown reason left Harry, and for a couple of long moments really nothing could be seen. Harry even considered being a victim of some really odd jinx, a spell that either made the unfortunate target go, hopefully, temporarily blind, or one which turned the world as dark as a black hole, all light sucked out of every fiber, all life lost somewhere unpleasant, or to someone who obsessively, desperately had made one's means of existence to devour everything the one could not be or become, making everything become him and him become everything.
Before Harry could process what might actually be going on besides some weird low-key panic-ridden crazy town scenario, he did notice that he is cold, and the floor was emanating very unpleasant sensations. As Harry slowly and carefully, moving only couple of inches, tried to get to know his surroundings, he could feel couple of wet patches and bumps under his palms, and he really, really hoped it wasn't anything too disgusting. The unknown, small objects squished under his weight and after Harry had lifted his hand, they were no longer bumps, but just a wet, slippery substance. Harry could not tell whether they left any stains on him, but the good thing was that they did not stink, and that needed to be fine enough for now.
The other thing he noticed was that there were no sounds, his own breath being the loudest thing he could hear. Harry focused his ears automatically and stilled his breathing in order to maybe hear something, maybe in the distance, but it was no success, and Harry frowned. He decided to heat things up a bit and finally start investigating what on Earth was going on.
As he had adjusted slightly his position, his eyes finally caught something. To the right of the teenager was a small, pale light, compressed in the form of rectangle, and it was suspended in the air, making Harry blink couple of more times before his brain calculated that the light he is certainly seeing could be weakly shining through a small window. The boy decided to inspect that more, his confusion about the whole situation growing, the cogs in his brain turning and adrenaline pumping. He pushed himself up, gladly noticing his body did not hurt that much, he sure felt stiff, but that was most probably because of the uncomfortable sleeping conditions he had just experienced. So Harry stood and stumbled, spreading arms to his sides in a weird T pose, like he expected the walls to be near, but his hands couldn't feel anything. He automatically patted his pockets, and felt huge wave of disappointment when his wand wasn't there. Feeling even more blue, Harry took a slow, but determined step towards the weird light.
The light grew bigger at the level just above his head as he came closer to it. Harry's hands, now being in front of him, awkwardly grasping the cold air, harshly bumped against something damp and even more cold. It was made out of wood, and with further inspection Harry concluded that he was facing a door. A huge, solid wooden door with a window. And all Harry had to do is to stand on his toes, stretch and peek through that window to see what was happening on the other side of the door. Harry's fingers found a door knob, and he wasn't surprised that the doors turned out to be locked. So, Harry thought, this is a cell. And he was a prisoner?
The boy held onto the tiny frame of the window and finally looked into the pale light. It was barely there, and the source of it could not be seen, but Harry suspected that the slightly dancing and shifting colors and game of shadows could mean that there was a torch nearby. It was illuminating a cave-like space that was roughly made with turns and holes in the walls, and one side of it Harry could not see at all as it went too far on the right, and, from the increasing amount of light, that's where the torch seemed to be placed. Right in front of the boy, after the weirdly shaped widening ended, there was a tunnel which ended with ascending stairs that ended with another doors, this time – without a window.
Harry's feet protested severely of them holding the boy up steadily for such a long time, so Harry stopped looking through the window and sat down right by the door, supporting his back against it, and started thinking. What was the last thing he remembered? Harry frowned, his mind seeking at least vague answers. He was with Ron. They were getting ready for Quidditch, last game of the year against Ravenclaw. Harry had just given a pre-battle speech to the team as a captain. Ron was saying something about the last games always being the shittiest, and the rain pouring non-stop was not particularly lifting up the team's spirits, but the Griffindor team nevertheless chatted and laughed and patted each other on the back as soon enough the teams will be asked to come to the field, madam Hooch will blow the whistle and red and blue flashes will paint in the rain… Well, Harry was pretty sure he did come out to the field, and game did happen, but he had no recollection of any of that, which he found weird – he was a teenager, not an old grandma with the memory capacity of a snortfish… or what was that fish Hagrid once showed in his class? Harry bit his lip as he started question his relation to the fish after all.
Nevertheless, it was the Quidditch that Harry remembered as the last thing. But that did not give him enough information for him to be able to correlate with… whatever and wherever this was. His heart slightly jumped and, at the same time, he slightly smirked at the thought of him being kidnapped by Voldemort, but his rational mind overtook quickly the paranoia that subtly had settled down like a parasite over the years. If it was Voldemort, he would be hurting much more, not left alone like this in conditions that were certainly not nice but very bearable. He did not bleed, his bones were not broken, he was all alone in a weird place that suspiciously did look like a cell, but Voldemort's cells had to be the reflection of his own being, right?
Harry dug further. Maybe not Voldemort, but someone was definitely keeping Harry in here against his will, and that person definitely wasn't a friend. His wand, for example, was taken away from him; Harry really doubted that it was just lost somewhere in the dark, because why then bother locking him in the first place? Now, with him being a prisoner of a person of an unknown power or status or just unknown everything, what could Harry do?
Harry restlessly stood up and started to pace around in the small space he already knew. Then, he stopped, spread his arms to his sides again, and went further into the dark. That was all he could do at the moment – investigate the rest of the cell. And soon enough, after couple of short steps, Harry reached a wall, just as wet and unpleasant as the rest of the cell. The teenager turned around, facing the light, then turned back, placed his left hand on the wall, right hand in front of him, and walked, his fingers brushing the dirt on the wall along the way. After another couple of steps he had reached the left side of the cell. In the next minutes, Harry had found all the walls and walked around the cell, checking for anything, really. But there was no luck, and also jumping as high to reach the ceiling turned out to be useless as the cell seemed to be made for especially tall people, or the creator truly fancied a nice headspace. Nevertheless, Harry was really starting to grow impatient, because now the options of action had run down to zero.
The boy carelessly kicked the floor, and the sand and the tiny moist bumps made the typical smirching sound against his foot. Then, Harry paced back to the door, looked out of the window again, and considered crying for help. Was it a good idea? There could be someone looking for him, and maybe all they needed is to hear Harry's voice. On the other hand, person holding him here might hear the yell, it was really a high chance of that happening, and Harry decided he would rather just wait. Sooner or later someone had to come and check on him. One does not leave a prisoner to forget about him. Right?
Harry frowned again, trying to convince himself about that, and he slid down to the floor again, resting his back and head against the door. This time, he closed his eyes, hoping his brain will do a sufficient job for once in providing a solution to this, or explanation, anything other than crazy ideas that were roaming in Harry's mind. But nothing came, and Harry shivered. He did not know for how long he was sitting there, but after a while the teenager` slipped into a half consciousness, half sleep, and somewhere between in the twists and turns of that, he dreamt of a warm breakfast, Hedwig nibbling his finger, and Ron jumping on Harry's bed after when bad dream about being a prisoner had kept him for way too long in the dream world.
A loud bang woke Harry up. At first, Harry got really confused again about his situation, why was he so cold and why his whole body felt so tired, and it took a second more for him to remember that he was in a prison. Then he heard steps echoing dully from the cave walls to as they were coming closer to the prison door. One of the people coming was singing, and Harry jolted up to his feet, heart racing, and stepped back in his cell, facing the door, knowing that something really bad was about to happen.
Bellatrix was singing something that really had neither a tune or a rhythm, and she mixed her bone-chilling musical expressions with loud, unnerving laugh that made Harry feel sick.
''Harry Potter!'' she mockingly called out, and Harry could hear the rotten smile on her face spitting out his name.
''Harry Potter!'' This time it was louder, and her laughs merged into the end of his name. Harry just stood his ground, heart ready to jump out his mouth, and without his wand he truly felt naked. His mind raced, desperate to find something that could help him defend himself of the terror that is going to follow, but there was no time, the Death Eaters were coming closer, and there was nowhere to run.
Then, the steps died out. At first, Harry did not notice that, because his own panicked breath was so loud all he could hear was Bellatrix's crazy chanting, but then the realization came over the boy and he held his breath for a moment. The silence was so thin, so refined; it sent cold chills down Harry's body, this time not the ones which were induced by the wet conditions in the cell.
A couple of moments passed, Harry let out a shaky, shallow breath and frowned, focusing all his concentration to his ears and eyes. What happened? The Death Eaters were just there. They couldn't have just suddenly disappeared, right? The tone of Bellatrix's voice was filled with raw hate, modified for her own enjoyment into some sort of fuel that would drive her to do things that made her victims wish they were dead, her cruelty and lack of any humanity was what made her appearance suck any warmth left in a place, petrify everything around her in stinging cold chrysalis, leaving breath and all that is good so fragile that all that had left for her to do was flick her wand and everything will fall to the ground and shatter in unamendable pieces.
Harry stood there just like that, his eyes wide open and hands curled in fists, not knowing what to do. He did not dare to move closer to the door, in fact, he did not dare to move at all, and it drove his sanity itchy and the panic Harry had felt all the time being here was now at all times high.
And then the light in the window got covered by someone, a dark, crazy-driven face with dirty curls falling. Harry shivered again, now feeling the terror all over his body.
''Pity, little, baby Potter,'' Bellatrix hissed melodically, her mocking voice breaking the absolute silence, and all Harry could see was her smile crooking her face once again before the door swung open with a huge bang.
As the cell got considerably brighter, Harry could see that Bellatrix was accompanied with another man Harry thought he recognized as Goyle's father; he clearly worked to keep his face unreadable, but Harry could see the lust to make someone hurt in his big, overshadowed eyes. The Death Eaters stood in the door frame, holding wands, both inspecting their bird in the cage, while Harry stood still in the middle of the cell, trying to compose his own face so that he did not come off as terrified.
''Enjoying yourself, Potter?'' Bellatrix spoke, rising her wand and scratching her head with the tip of it. Then, she looked to the right of Harry, somewhere on the ceiling, as if lost in thoughts. Harry did not answer, just stared at the duo and internally screaming for some miracle to happen.
''Swallowed your tongue, boy? Well, that's quite fine, because we do not really care about your well-being, do we, Edward?''
Goyle let out a tiny smirk, but none of the Death Eaters were wasting a second to look at each other. Goyle's eyes were digging in Harry, while Bellatrix looked carefree, her eyes still wandering around the room. Then, they settled on Harry once again.
''What really matters is that the Lord will be feasting tonight, and I'm…,'' she finally slid her slender figure closer to Harry, ''I'm going to have fun. Crucio!''
Harry hit the floor hard and loudly gasped, all air forced out of his lungs. The surprise moment made him cry an ugly, rasp scream, but after some seconds he forced his mind with unknown, powerful, stubborn determination to shut his mouth, to not give the pleasure of him crying to the Death Eaters, and Harry just trashed around the floor, muscles all stretching to their maximums and bones bending till their joints were on the verge of breaking.
Then, the curse stopped.
''What is it, Potter? I thought you heard me say that I'm here to have some fun, but you are clearly depriving me of it by being. Too. Quiet!'' she spat and looked down to Harry, face filled with disgust, and the corners of her mouth twitched.
''Even boys with swallowed tongues can scream, Potter, don't you dare to assume I do not know that!'' She took a pause, as considering. ''Or do you dare? Potter?'' Bellatrix's face lightened in the same sadistic smile, just as her voice melted softer into fake innocent curiosity. Harry, trying to regain his strength, didn't bother to look at her and unfocused laid his eyes somewhere on the wall close to him. Then, with no warning, Bellatrix's foot slammed down on Harry's fingers. They cracked, and a new, stinging wave of pain traveled chaotically up the boy's hand. Harry shut his eyes and bit inside of his mouth so hard he tasted blood.
''I asked you a question, you retarded imbecile, do you dare to assume I don't know how well can ugly, mute boys scream?'' Flick of a wand, and Harry felt himself lifting of the ground and after a less than a second he slammed into wall before falling to the ground and hoping to finally pass out.
''Bella,'' a deep voice spoke for the first time of the visit. Harry half-consciously tried to grasp what Goyle was saying. ''You know you cannot kill him. The Lord may allow us to have a take on the boy, but Potter belongs to him. You do not want to face his wrath if you have too much… fun.''
The man talked calmly, but his voice had an aftertaste of cultivated fear.
Bella stilled, her eyes hindering on Harry's limp body, and then she turned to her partner.
''Oh, but Edward, do you really think I could go that far? This one is one tough piece,'' she turned back to the boy, bent down and took his chin violently in her palm, nails digging painfully into Harry's skin.
''You are just playing being week, aren't you? I know the tricks, Potter. You see, you may know me as a killer that does not spend much of the time playing with the prey, like your filthy mutt - all it took was my wand pointed at him at the right moment and to say two words,'' Harry felt desperate anger starting to burn inside, ''but that was no time to have this kind of fun. Now is the moment where all the hard work has lead us. This is a night of celebration. And I can see right through your dull, little eyes that you think you have outsmarted me, that I will leave you here because you are so close to death, so tired, such a pity, sad boy. But, Potter, you see… I really, really warned you what would happen if you dared to assume wrong things about me.''
She hit him in the face so hard Harry smacked his head against the wall. Without hesitation, a spell hit his body next, and pain spread through his whole body, and then the same spell hit another time, and another. Harry let out a muffled scream through his teeth and in a small pause that Bellatrix took he tried to crawl away on his stomach with his good hand. He did not get far, because a heavy boot crashed into his back, forcing the boy to drop back on the floor.
''Flying away with broken wings? Truly an imbecile,'' Goyle spoke, and Bellatrix let out a laugh. The laughter did not settle when new spells hit Harry, leaving cuts and bruises all over him, trashing his body around so that he hit the wall and the floor without any mercy. Harry did not know how long the duo was playing with him like a doll, but finally the boy started to feel like his conscience was fading away.
The spells stopped. Harry did not move because there was no will or strength left in him to move a muscle, his cheek was now pressed against the dirty, wet floor and his eyes were half closed. His lungs drew shallow breaths, and his mouth was slightly opened due to his bloody nose that was definitely broken and so much filled with blood he could not breathe through it.
Harry did not notice when the Death Eaters left him alone, nor did he fight the darkness steadily swallowing him whole.
It was the third day in row of the seven year old Harry being locked in the cupboard. Nobody had said a word to him, and, to be honest, Aunt Petunia was the only one who made at least some contact with Harry, but only because he needed to be fed and allowed to go to a bathroom, since having a dead boy did not established the Dursleys being a normal, nice family to their neighbors. Nevertheless, the fact that Aunt Petunia did open the door twice a day to give him some leftovers and let him wash up did not mean that she spoke to him. Mr. Dursley's voice Harry heard only in the mornings and then in the afternoons after he came back from work. After a day, Harry low-key wished that at least Dudley would come to yell at him, because Harry's cousin really provided him with good entertainment and helped Harry to develop his snappy comeback skills. But even Dudley seemed to not care about Harry at all. They all had forgotten him.
On the evening of that day, something changed. Mr. Dursley had come home in bad mood, yelled about his coworkers being idiots with no class, had Mrs Dursley comfort her husband, and even despite such efforts Dudley got sent to his room. It was quite usual for Mr. Dursley to heat up about things, but suddenly it evolved into something more. Later, in retrospect, Harry thought that he really should've predicted the following events, but then again, he couldn't have really done anything to avoid them. Sometimes Mr Dursley just had to let his anger out, and under his roof lived the perfect subject for that.
The cupboard doors flung open. Harry was sitting on his bed.
''Boy, you useless waste of space!'' Mr. Dursley spat.
Harry looked at him with big eyes, knowing that this will not end well for him, but the least he could do was not to start crying or hide under the bedsheets in fear.
''Don't play fool with me, boy, or I will show you how to respect the people that keep you under a roof in warmth and safety! Come here!'' he leaned into the cupboard, reached out his hand and grabbed Harry by his collar. The boy whimpered.
''Uncle Vernon, you are hurting me!''
A smack was laid across Harry's face.
''Don't you dare talk when I'm talking,'' Mr. Dursley pulled Harry fully out of the cupboard and pressed against the wall. ''It seems like you really do deserve another lesson of respect.''
Before he could think better, Harry spoke again: ''But, sir, what did I do? I have been in here for days. There was nothing I could've done wrong.''
As soon as he finished, another slap was delivered, and Harry felt his lip splitting open.
''You pathetic, idiotic slum, have you forgotten the reason you were put in here?'' Harry had not forgotten that. He had burnt an expensive bacon for breakfast because Dudley was poking him all the time, asking repeatedly ''who spilled the trash here?'', then he was so disappointed about the meat he yelled for a long time to punish Harry, and Mr and Mrs Dursley did not quite hesitate to do so.
''I burnt the bacon.''
''Yes, you did, because you cannot handle even a job infants could do.''
Harry swallowed a remark that infants definitely could not do that, but he didn't stop himself from saying the next thing.
''It was because Dudley was bothering me. He poked me, and I could not do a good job.''
Mr. Dursley's face took a new tone of red and in the next second Harry felt being violently shaken, his head slamming against the wall couple of times.
''You lying, egoistic, ungrateful shit, don't you dare calling Dudley on fault. It is you who is incapable of anything, it is you who screwed up. You are a disgrace. Waste of space, waste of air.'' Mr. Dursley stopped shaking Harry, and gave him a disgusted smile.
''You know what? Go back to the cupboard. I don't want to see your idiotic face anymore, boy,'' and without any consideration he threw Harry back, slammed the door and turned the lock. The boy got up, sat on his bed and examined his bruises. His head was bleeding, but Harry knew that head always bled more than the actual damage was. His face hurt and nose was bleeding, so was his lip, but he licked it and held a sleeve to his nose to stop the bleeding, and he knew that all this will pass. This wasn't the first time, and it won't be the last, and all Harry could do was brace himself and imagine how the knight figurine on the shelf came to life and, with the horse's mane flying in the wind, the knight will stretch out his hand towards Harry.
''Are you lost, my friend?'' he will ask, voice fierce.
''Yes,'' Harry will answer.
''Are you brave enough, my friend?'' the knight will then ask.
''Yes,'' Harry will say.
''Well then, do you want to join my journey, my dear friend?'' the knight will suggest.
Third time is the charm.
