Ch.2 Pestilence
Harry did not know for how long he had passed out, and that wasn't really his immediate concern, because the second he regained his senses he gasped. Everything hurt. Every inch of his body felt abused, and Harry just laid down, completely unwilling to move a finger. His head spun nevertheless, and just in a matter of seconds Harry forced himself to turn a bit and vomit.
As the spasms finally went away, the boy slumped down again, thankfully not in the mess he had just made, but even if it was so Harry probably wouldn't have cared.
''So it's Voldemort after all,'' he whispered and passed out again.
It might've been couple of hours when Harry woke up again, this time his head wasn't acting like crazy, and Harry decided to try to stand up.
First thing he fully noticed was that his left hand – the one Bellatrix so nicely crushed – is swollen and the fingers have taken purple tone. Harry did not try to move them, because it hurt either way, but he accidentally found a positive note in this – his wand hand at least wasn't the one she crushed. But not like Harry had a wand right now anyway.
His legs shook tremendously, but still supported him, and with a quick, yet careful examination (done with one hand), Harry was relieved that nothing else didn't seem to be broken. His biggest concerns, however, were the huge cuts on his legs, hands, head and back, and his clothes had accumulated big amount of dirt from the cell. Harry hesitated what to do. It would be beneficial to tear his shirt up, but since he had nothing to clean his wounds, they would still get possibly infected, and he would get colder. Harry decided to wait until his mind clears a bit more in order to deal with such quite alarming problem.
Then, Harry noticed than something has changed. First, for some reason, the big cell had now a bit more light than it had before the Death Eaters came to ''have fun'', why so, Harry did not know. Second, he wasn't alone in the cell. More specifically, it wasn't a living thing accompanying the boy, but beside the door now was a metal bowl.
Harry slowly limped towards it, pain striking his body on every movement. In the bowl was a liquid which looked like water, but Harry knew enough of the wizarding world and the kind of people Death Eaters were to question everything presented to him.
But, Merlin, how thirsty he was!
Before coming up to the door, Harry had somewhat forgotten his thirst and hunger, because pain prevailed, as always, but now, the water-like substance being here, right in front of him, ready to be devoured and used to wash some of the scars, made the teenager feel thirst like he had never before.
Harry knelt down and again thought about his actions. Bellatrix did say that they will not kill him, and it certainly wasn't in Voldemort's character to poison his arch enemy to death, it would be so distasteful and impersonal that it would make Harry himself question his importance to Voldemort. Harry knew that Tom will want to see Harry's eyes as he killed him and the light left he boy at last so he could gloat to his band and make up metaphors of his greatness. But that did not mean Voldemort didn't order Death Eaters to give Harry poison that will definitely make him suffer.
But, then again, they would want to see that in person as well.
So the prisoner decided to put the fingertips of his bad hand in the liquid first, just to test out whether it is a potion that will burn the skin off or not. He was certainly relieved that it felt very pleasant; it was cold, yet soft, like water from a spring. It also soothed his smashed fingers and Harry let out a relaxed breath.
Then, he lifted his fingers, smelled, and, after it smelled like nothing bad, he licked them.
It was water after all.
The boy allowed himself to smile. So this was Death Eaters keeping him alive for the when right moment will come. Keeping a deer in a paddock so the hunters could have fun shooting it down when the mood appears. Nevertheless, Harry felt more relaxed, and he drunk couple of small gulps out of the bowl, daring not to spill a drop.
The wounds, Harry thought, they really had to be taken care of. So he washed the ones on his legs and arms, and everywhere else he could reach, but back turned out to be a problem. The boy could not inspect how big the slash was, but it hurt like hell, so it was either long, or deep, or most probably both. Bellatrix would never half-ass her signature work.
Harry felt how the fatigue was coming back and everything started to feel twice as heavy as it already was. With a shaky, wet hand, he reached his back, winced when his fingers touched the scar, and tried to apply as much water as he could. It took a couple of tries, until the boy truly felt exhausted and considered that resting on his good side, without the back touching the floor, is all he could think about. And, without further a due, Harry laid down next to the bowl, not being able to gather strength to move somewhere else, and he closed his eyes once again.
Time passed. Harry didn't know whether currently it was a day or night, but he started to keep up some sort of vague calendar system, actually thanks to the Death Eaters. None of them came back the way Bellatrix and Goyle had come, and Harry wondered whether Voldemort thought he would die if suffered from more damage, so he withheld his servants from having their fun. But now once in a while the bowl of water got refilled. It always happened while Harry was sleeping, so he did not know how they were doing it, but one thing was clear – they did not want him to die of thirst.
Most of the time Harry spent laying down or randomly walking in circles to keep his muscles in form. And he thought a lot. He thought about Hogwarts, his friends, professors, quidditch, everything that had brought Harry so much joy and sense of belonging.
He wondered about Ron and Hermione, what were they doing. Did they know he was missing? Were they even looking for him? If so, how far have they gotten? And then, with cold shivers running down his spine, Harry considered what if all he knew of outside was killed? After all, he did not know what happened, how did he get kidnapped, was there a fight, were there casualties?
No, Harry brushed it off. It was Hogwarts, the home of the best witches and wizards. If they could not protect Harry, most possibly they were still able to protect the children and themselves.
Harry's stomach protested when he thought about the school and how he missed the wonderful meals every day made by skilled house elves. He felt anger rising again, and had to bite insides of his cheeks to stop tears dwelling up in his eyes when he remembered all the lessons, all the homework, all the practices, even small and unimportant things like walking down a hall. Cleaning his broom. Asking Hermione to re-read his homework. Asking Hermione to finish his homework. Talking to Ron about Chudley Cannons. Whining together with Ron about the amount of work they are forced to do. Listening to Luna chatter about something out of this world in her crystal clear voice. Neville voluntarily helping him in herbology while talking in excitement about some sort of new plant he got at home. And Ginny, smiling at him from the other side of the Common Room while reading a book when they both knew she hasn't turned a page in a long time.
Harry missed them so, so much.
His heart felt heavy, and mind was frantically going circles to think of something that would make this prison situation better, to find a way how he could probably talk to some of the less established death eaters. Maybe he should fake him being asleep to finally catch how his water is being changed? He needed to get out of here so badly, it had become an itching urge. Constant anger had settled in Harry, and he did not bother to think whether it was a good thing that helps him to survive or a destructive force that will lead to something even worse.
Harry sighed. He sure was getting desperate, but that's all he got now. He was on a moving conveyor line, completely surrounded by dark, and while he couldn't see anything, Harry knew that at the end of it nothing came out alive.
''You have to be coming to get me, right? You are planning it all through it. You know the location. Know the costs. The hows and whats. You have to, Ron, Hermione, Dumbledore. Right?''
Harry felt hot and cold at the same time, his hands were shaking and head, which was getting clearer and clearer with each rest, was now back to step one. He knew he was sick, and, because his skin on his back felt itchy, he objectively guessed he had gotten some sort of damned infection despite his efforts of cleaning himself up.
The boy did not know what to do now. He still had his water; they still brought it to him couple of times, just enough for him to not to pass away, and also after one particular nap there had been an old bread as well, but none of that will help Harry now that he was seriously sick. For the first time being in the cell, the teenager was out of options on how to survive.
Anger and fever driven, Harry paced around the cell, looking and feeling like Moody, but he could not care less at the moment.
''Hey, Tom!'' he stopped and yelled, Harry's voice so unfamiliar to himself.
''I know you can hear me. You can probably see me as well, right? Wouldn't be quite you to miss all this,'' he drew a breath, gathering himself for the rest of the speech.
''I'm bringing news to you, because, as you might haven't noticed, I'm sick. Because of your backstreet bitch. So, if you don't want me dead of an infection, dead before you could fully have the experience and satisfaction of killing me, I suggest you bring me a cure, Tom, otherwise…'' Harry had to stop again to get some air. His head was starting to pulse too much to think clearly.
''Is this what you want? Watch how the reminder of your past failures, the baby boy who almost killed you, slowly deteriorates not even from your hand, but from a natural disease of dirt and mold? Where is the intimacy, Tom? Where is your wish to look at me as the life leaves my eyes? I'm sure you remember the graveyard - such a poor execution. And now this?''
Harry could not yell anymore, so he turned the volume down, breathing now more calmly.
''Have I overestimated you, Tom?''
He looked around as if searching for an eye spying on him, and then laid down again to sleep more. Harry knew someone was listening, or watching, and he knew Voldemort's madness enough to be fairly sure he will do something to prevent Harry from dying or becoming too disabled for him to pick the fruits of Voldemort finally getting him and killing him in the way he always had wanted. The dark wizard was not even a human anymore, just a container with a modified soul, bound with forbidden magic, yet Harry found it quite easy to predict how his mind worked, how to make him tick, and he found it especially easy now that he had nothing to lose but his life. And that was something Voldemort definitely wanted to have himself. He considered himself standing above the absolutes, the life and death, and he will not bow in front of the nature as its cruel, impartial judgement was being laid on Harry right now.
So the prisoner slept, waiting for the response of the person from above.
A grand bunch of cough could be heard from under the stairs. It stopped for couple of minutes and then continued just as loud and harsh as before it ended. Someone was not having a good time.
Aunt Petunia opened the cupboard's door.
''Will you stop that for once? The walls are shaking,'' she looked inside, her big hook of a nose wrinkled in a disgusted expression.
''I'm sorry, Aunt Petunia,'' a weak, raps voice came out of the bed sheets. A sniff.
''Your apologies do not mean nothing if you don't intend to follow your word, ''she was still standing in the door frame, partially because she did not want to catch anything from Harry, partially because she simply could not fit into the cupboard.
''Here, have this syrup. I will not let my day be constantly disturbed by your cough.''
Her hand was holding a small bottle and a spoon.
''Come one, take it, you don't think I will come in so I could catch whatever you managed to bring upon yourself.''
Harry hesitated for a second, he really did not want to move because his bones felt like breaking in half even when he didn't move them. But not to anger his Aunt more, he threw the bed sheets off himself, climbed out of the bed vision blurry, and took the bottle.
''Thanks, Aunt Petunia.''
She looked at him like someone who had just opened a fridge and found a month old fish laying there.
''You drink this every two hours. And I better hear that cough go away otherwise I will start to assume you are willing to be sick just to sleep off your chores,'' Petunia was piercing Harry with her eagle-eyed look, ''who, by the way, will be waiting for you the second you don't splatter everything with your sickness.''
And she shut the door, Harry still standing there and holding the bottle. Then, the boy went back to his bed, looked under his pillow and got out couple of pills, wrapped in a small napkin. Those were the ones that beat down the fever. Harry had felt so sick and hot yesterday he sneaked out of his cupboard and with the walls and ground twisting and shifting he somehow got to bathroom, opened the bathroom medicine cabinet, found the ones with proper description and wend back to his room, now couple of small white pills richer. He knew he had to take them twice a day, and he already felt better as the fever was mostly defeated. And now, he had a cough syrup.
All was good. He will get better. He will survive, and knight Robert will be so proud of him.
''I can appreciate brave warriors who can fight alone their battles, small or big,'' he will say. ''And I, a loyal companion, will stay by your side. No fair man celebrates the good times with his friend, and then leaves them in lone when the bad ones arrive. Just sleep, my dear friend. Tomorrow is a new, better day.''
