Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR and Warner Bros and anyone else JKR lets—which does not include me.
WARNING: Graphic torture/mental abuse scene and adult language.
A/N: This story is posted at thehexfiles . com and hpfandom . net under my other penname, Ange Noir. If you want to read farther into the story, you may look for it at those sites.
Wherever he was, it was bloody cold. And wet, and smelled horrible. With his head pounding and throat feeling as if it was shredded, he sat up and tried to look around.
Well, he had no glasses so he couldn't see anything anyway, but he almost immediately lied back down and curled up again. What the bloody hell was he doing naked?!
"Ah, you're awake."
He lifted his head, just a little, and narrowed his eyes in a futile attempt to focus his blurry gaze on the man that stood over him.
"You may be wondering where you are and who I am. All you need to know is that, besides your food and my friends, you will see nothing and no one else for the rest of your life. You also may be wondering why you are in this state. I will explain slowly, in hopes that your feeble mind may grasp it the first time I tell it."
A claw-like hand, skin rough and coarse, suddenly brushed his shoulder. Harry jerked away—only to find that he was chained down like a dog; fetters on wrists and knees bound them and kept him from lifting them more than a couple of inches off the floor, and a chain around his neck fastened to a rung on the stone floor, preventing him from looking around. His mind flashed with fear.
"You may as well get used to my touch. This is the only type of human contact you will be allowed, for a monster such as yourself doesn't deserve anything more."
At this, Harry finally found his voice. "What the bloody hell do you mean, monster? I'm not the one who chained down a kid, stripped him naked, and then tried to touch him!"
"Crucio."
Pain shot through Harry's body, and he involuntarily arched upwards, eyes rolling back in his head and convulsing, the chains digging into his skin as they refused to yield any farther. It felt like hours before the pain ended, and Harry slumped against the floor, shivering and shuddering.
"First, I suppose I must lay some ground rules. You are not, under any circumstances, allowed to talk—"
"Shut the fuck up, you bastard!" Harry spat, arms and legs trembling.
"Crucio."
Again, agonizing fire lanced throughout his body, and he could hold it in no longer—a wild scream tore its way out of his throat, echoing in the chamber. When the pain died and Harry could stop screaming, he could hear the smile in the other's voice.
"You are allowed to scream, though, and whimper, and beg. You will not eat anything except what we directly give you. You will not leave this room, and you will not attack me or my friends at all—"
"You wish, you son of a bitch," Harry panted.
"Crucio."
Keening sobs and shrieks wracked his body and ripped from his straining throat. Harry quivered and shuddered and convulsed in his bonds as the pain came and left for a grand total of six times. That cold, impersonal, but amused voice intruded again.
"You will get no food unless you comply, and there will always be one of us to continually administer this curse until you give in. Now, as to explaining the situation you are in, I think it best to do so now, to prevent any foolish notions of escape."
Harry opened his mouth, but before anything could exit, the muttered word "Silencio" cut off all and any attempts. He glowered and screamed, albeit ineffectively since all noise was now prevented from being voiced, but it did not seem to faze his jailor. He needed his glasses, he thought frantically, so he could at least see what was being done to him—
"On the eve of your sixteenth birthday, the Dark Lord sent one of his minions to your family's house. Sadly, they were not there, so we could not extend to them the pleasure of watching you break and then toying with them, but you were so conveniently available that he could not return to the Dark Lord empty-handed. He Apparated here, secured one of our pet projects, and returned. He released this monster on you, and then brought you here.
"I suppose you might be wondering what we do here, just what happened to you, and why you are not currently dead underneath the Dark Lord's wand. Firstly, we create and tame werewolves for our Dark Lord, and you are now our newest inmate."
Werewolves? A sickening feeling appeared in Harry's gut.
"The Dark Lord will be informed of your capture when we have successfully watched you turn into your new form and tamed the beast within you to do whatever He wishes. As you near the next full moon, your strength will increase, you eyesight will improve drastically, and your violent nature will be incensed. On the night of the full moon, I will release you into our special pen and let you feast upon human flesh, as your beast will greatly desire to do so. Between now and the next full moon, you will be visited by me and my friends. If you manage to keep from breaking any rules, you will be fed and petted and taken care of. If not, you will remain in your chains, in your excrement and filth, and will be subjected to beatings and the Cruciatus curse for however long we see fit to do so."
Once more, that claw-like hand brushed over Harry's bare skin and Harry could not stop the whimper that appeared in his throat as he pulled away. The man chuckled.
"Soon, you will find yourself liking such petting, little wolf. Soon, you will realize there is no hope for escape and you will become our pet like all the others."
"And what, pray tell, do you want me to do about it?"
Dumbledore smiled fondly at the back of Severus Snape. "Just keep an ear out for him, son," he said gently. "Let me know if Voldemort has a hold of him, or any of the Death Eaters."
"I'm dreadfully busy, Albus, and keeping an 'ear out' for a sniveling, pampered celebrity is not something I had envisioned for this summer."
Again, Dumbledore smiled. Severus tried so hard to keep the world at bay—it was quite comical, actually, if you could get past the bluster and sarcasm and knew the boy for what he was. "Thank you, my boy."
More grumbles—Snape was hovering over a cauldron, studiously ignoring the Headmaster and growling at the liquid within all while cursing his luck, the universe, and boys that couldn't be bothered to remain where they were told to. Dumbledore moved to the fireplace.
"Just let me know, Severus. Oh, and I've brought you the shipment you requested earlier—it's right here."
A grunt answered him, and then he threw the floo powder into the fireplace. "Headmaster's office," he said casually, and stepped in.
Stepping out into the cluttered office, he looked sadly over the furniture. How many times had he had Harry in this office, sitting in that chair, or received news that Harry had hurt himself—again—while sitting in that chair? How many times would he have to weave more and more lies, creating a tapestry to isolate the poor boy more from those that would care for him, to prevent others from seeing what really happened to the boy?
Fawkes flew to his shoulders and looked at him reproachfully.
"I know, old friend," Dumbledore sighed. "I know. And I am sorry."
