Disclaimer: I do not own "Harry Potter" or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Chapter IV: Devising
Severus Snape stood after Dumbledore's opening of the Order of the Phoenix. He hated speaking at Order meetings – it served as a constant reminder of the terrible mistakes he had made, of why he was serving as a spy in the first place. He was usually provoked by Black's middle finger, by sympathetic looks, by angry outbursts.
But the last one they'd had, the night before, had been different from any Order meeting there had ever been since they restarted the Order four weeks ago. Potter's capture by the Dark Lord had led to a leap in maturity in Black, which translated into depression. That was not to say that Black was any more reasonable than a fifth-year student, but it had made him less obnoxious, at least.
Overall, everyone had one concern, and a single focus. The meetings were about something more specific than 'Voldemort is back, what do we do?' – they were about rescuing Potter.
And that made Severus' role as a spy more important than ever.
It made him more than a spy. It made him a secret agent. Wonderful.
"We need to devise a plan to rescue Potter," Severus began.
"Yeah, no shit, Snape," Black shot out. He looked terrible. He had just recently begun to look civilised – hair neatly combed, shaven, robes clean – but now he looked like he had taken several steps back. There were dark circles under his eyes and a three-day growth of beard on his face; his hair was unbrushed and his robes were wrinkled and dirty. Severus supposed he should be grateful that Lupin made him clean his teeth, or the meetings would be that much more miserable.
"Sirius," Lupin reprimanded in a near whisper. Severus saw the werewolf slip his furry palm underneath the table and grip Black's hand. Very discreetly, of course.
"The Dark Lord does not intend to kill Potter," Severus spoke carefuly, reporting only necessary information. "Potter is not in mortal danger. That means that we have time to come up with a foolproof plan."
Foolproof plans were important in a room filled with mostly Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs.
"We need to act as soon as possible," young Nymphadora Tonks argued, making eyes at Lupin.
The girl was pathetic, Severus thought to himself. Although Black and Lupin were very private about their affair, the affair they'd been having since Nymphadora was only a toddler, it was not a secret, per se. The Hufflepuff was just oblivious, as most Hufflepuffs were. It was amusing to watch her make moon eyes at a homosexual werewolf, however, so Severus did not interject.
"I disagree," Arthur Weasley put in. To his credit, Lupin nodded in agreement. "If we try to help and fail, that could put Harry in greater peril."
"Potter will never be put in mortal peril." Severus reinforced that idea for the benefit of the Ravenclaws and the more simple Houses. "The Dark Lord has made mention of punishing him to a select few, but I cannot imagine it will be anything more than psychological, which may make the boy miserable, but not kill him." Severus did not bother to feign sympathy. He held Potter in disdain, and did not bother to try to keep it a secret. It wasn't as if the notion made the other Order members look any further down on him – they couldn't.
"I'll be damned the day that monster tries to mess with my godson's brain!" Black pounded his fist on the table.
Severus knew little of the Dark Lord's plans concerning Potter, who was to be referred to as 'Pet' by the Dark Lord's followers at all times, under the threat of terrible punishment. He had a feeling that a few of the privileged Death Eaters, ones in the 'inner circle', would eventually gain access to the 'Pet', and that was something Severus hoped for – it would make stealing him away so much easier.
Dumbledore knew why the Dark Lord was so keen to keep Potter alive, but he did not tell Severus. Or tell anyone, for that, matter. He operated on a need-to-know basis, which seemed to him both a blessing and a curse.
"Then prepare to be damned, Black, because I am sure mind games with Potter have begun," Severus said. "I can vouch for him being in, ah... comfortable conditions. He is not in a dank dungeon, but in a comfortable series of rooms." He found it unnecessary to say that the rooms belonged to the Dark Lord, which would only begin a riot.
"Where the Dark Lord – and consequently, Potter – resides is a large, one-storey building, in the country. It is not Unplottable, as many Muggle lovers are brought there for– Ah..."
"You needn't say, Severus," Lupin voiced. "We know."
"It is, however, well hidden. It is a series of rooms and suites, linked by winding halls. It was created by Death Eaters, and therefore has little vulnerability. There are no windows, and only two doors leading directly to the outside. A major weakness is a courtyard, located in the centre of the building – there are four doors leading out to it. However, I am certain the space above is heavily warded."
"I said that P-Potter is not in a dungeon, although there is one." Severus had nearly slipped and called the boy 'Pet', according to his strict new habit. That would not go over well in the Order meeting. "It is used to house prisoners, so consequently it is not only heavily warded, but guarded. There is, however, a small culvert that allows water to stream through – it is only small enough for a very slender person to slide through, and that would be assuming you could remove the iron bars."
"Well, the obvious move would be a diversion," Arthur Weasley very sensibly – and Gryffindorly – brought up. "Groups try to come in from each doorway – that way one could fly into the courtyard unnoticed."
"Once Death Eaters became aware of a breach in wards, they will strengthen them, and watch for you so that you cannot infiltrate," Severus retorted. "That is a poor plan, Weasley."
"What of finding a way to slip into the dungeons, and posing as a prisoner for a brief time?" Lupin suggested. "Assuming one was slender enough, they could slip through the bars. Dora is thin, and perhaps could make herself more so. If the guards were given a sleeping potion–"
Gryffindors were incapable of planning.
"Stop it, Lupin – you're making my ears bleed," Severus complained. "Has anyone a plan worth sharing? You've had forty-eight hours – more than enough time – to come up with one."
"Well, what have you come up with?" Black challenged. "If you're such a genius."
"I do not see any way to smuggle Potter out, without using someone from the inside. That would, naturally, have to be me," Severus said. "I know precisely where he is, and when to best get him. I would need someone to hand him off to, to avoid my status as a spy being compromised."
"Potter may be uncooperative. We need to not only suspect it, but plan on it," Severus continued.
"Why would he be uncooperative?" a member asked. "Surely–"
"What the Dark Lord can do to the strongest of minds is remarkable," Severus said. "Potter has no training of the mind – he will be very easy for the Dark Lord to break."
"You don't know him," Lupin spoke, quiet as always. "You're not sure of that."
"Oh, I am not only sure – I know."
Harry blinked repeatedly, wiping the grit out of his eyes. He did not have that brief 'Where am I? What's going on?' thing. When crying yourself to sleep, that apparently got avoided.
The room had taken on a terrible fishy smell. Rolling over, he could see the bowl of tuna was now a dark brown colour, and the milk had a suspicious thick layer over the top.
'Kitten will suffer the consequences.' Consequences. Consequences that Voldemort would invoke. Voldemort's consequences were no doubt severe.
So what? He's going to kill you, anyway. Might as well be on your terms.
He looked over at the curdling milk and shuddered. He was thirsty, so thirsty, but was not about to drink that stuff. That disgusting stuff. And even were he to drink it, he would use his hands, not drink it like a 'pet'.
Don't even consider it, Potter.
Slowly, he sat up from his position on the stone hearth. The fire was still lit, but Harry felt cold, no doubt stemming from his fear and nakedness. Moreover, he was very stiff.
Of course you're stiff. You haven't really moved in a while. Last time you were awake, you moved from the centre of the room to the hearth. Before that you were bound or paralysed. You need to move.
He leaned against the fireplace as he stood. His legs shook as he put his weight on them, but he put that out of his mind.
The two closed doors in the room would lead to escape. All he had to do was–
One of the doors opened, and Voldemort walked in.
"Pet!" he snapped.
Weakly, Harry slid back down to the floor, staring up at Voldemort. He hadn't wanted Harry to stand on his feet, which Harry had been able to ignore as ridiculous while alone, but when Voldemort came into the room, that confidence left him.
Voldemort came over to Harry, towering over him. "Pet, what did I say about standing?"
Harry's throat was still killing him from lack of water. "You said not to do it, but since when do I–" It felt like his throat twisted, and the only way to stop it was to cough.
Voldemort turned and strode over to his armchair. "Come, Pet."
Harry eyed the long spindly fingers holding Voldemort's wand. A wand that had killed countless wizards. A wand that would be used to torture Harry, probably sooner than later.
He shifted, suddenly more aware of his nakedness under Voldemort's gaze.
Voldemort chuckled. "There is no need to be self-conscious. Come, Pet." His voice hardened. "Come."
Why? Why would Harry come close to Voldemort? That was like asking a rusty nail to poke you in the eyeball. With no defences, completely vulnerable... why would he do such a thing? Why did Voldemort want him to come close?
"Kitten, your master is losing his patience. Come, or the results will not be pleasant."
What was the harm in coming over to Voldemort? At worst, Voldemort would kill him. At best, he wouldn't. If Harry didn't come close, Voldemort would torture him... and then Harry would be too weak to escape later.
He took a deep breath and tentatively crawled forward to Voldemort. Moving away from the fire made him even colder. The crawling made his bits move uncomfortably.
He wouldn't have that problem long, he reckoned. Much more time around Voldemort, and his balls would probably permanently crawl back up inside him.
Finally, he knelt, on his knees, in front of Voldemort. He tried not to shake with anger. He struggled to remain in control of himself – if he pissed Voldemort off, Voldemort would be even crueler. Harry needed to stay alive, and strong.
"Who am I, Kitten?" Voldemort peered down at him with is creepy eyes.
Harry bit his tongue. I'm not a pet. I'm not a kitty. I'm a boy. And you, to answer your question, are a psycho-control-freak-maniac.
But Harry was smart, so he didn't say that. That'd just piss Voldemort off.
"You're Voldemort." Harry glared at the man.
He gasped and jumped back in surprise, falling back on his bum, as Voldemort quickly executed a stinging hex.
"Ow!" Harry rubbed his shoulder, where the hex had hit. "What'd you do that for? It's your name – you made it up. If you don't like it, don't blame me!"
"Kitten, Master is waiting."
Voldemort was going to punish Harry. For not eating, for standing. He was going to punish him worse than a stinging hex, because he had already done that.
Harry bit his lip and took a deep breath. He was fifteen, practically an adult. He was not a baby, or a fraidy cat. Voldemort couldn't hurt him, not really hurt him inside where it was supposed to count the most. And he needed to calm down – if he didn't stop being so scared, he might never escape.
Therefore, would it be stupid or wise to call Voldemort 'Master'? Dumb, or smart? Dumb, because it would only encourage Voldemort in whatever he was doing, and it would seem like he was surrendering. But smart, if it spared him the Cruciatus – if he was tortured too much, he would be weaker than he already was, and wouldn't be able to escape quickly. It would be smart too, because it would trick Voldemort into thinking Harry was a 'kitten' (how could Voldemort think Harry looked anything like a kitty? He was a boy – B-O-Y), so that he would be less careful... leaving Harry a good chance of escaping.
"You–" He coughed, fighting his dry throat. "You want to be called–" Cough, cough, "'Master'." God, it made him sick to say.
"That is true, and good enough for now," Voldemort said. "Kitten will obey me at all times, regardless of the order."
Over Harry's dead body. And it could be.
"Move closer to me," Voldemort said.
Move closer. Move closer to Voldemort. That was ridiculous. Why would Harry do such a thing?
(Because 'Master' said to, Harry inwardly scoffed.
"Obey me." The warning undertones in Voldemort's voice scared Harry enough to obey. It wasn't like Voldemort needed to be close to him to kill him, or manipulate him. Harry was in charge of his own actions, of what orders he obeyed.
He moved, on his knees, close enough to Voldemort so that his chest touched Voldemort's knees. His back to the fire, a chill ran through him, making goosebumps. His nipples involuntarily hardened, and he prayed Voldemort didn't notice.
Voldemort didn't give any indication that he had. He leaned down, arms stretched, making to pick up Harry.
Harry yelped, and fell over himself to back up. He did not want to be touched by the evil wizard. Not at all. Being picked up from under the armpits wasn't as bad as, say, being touched there in the dark by an unknown person or thing or spell. But it was still being touched. By Voldemort.
"Postponing punishment will not take it away, or lessen its severity. Who am I?"
Voldemort. Tom Riddle. An evil-crazy-psycho-wannabe-dictator, kind of like Hitler.
Master. That was what Voldemort wanted to be called, Harry knew that. Voldemort wanted, for whatever twisted reason, for Harry to call him 'Master'. But Harry refused. He was not a house-elf, or a kitten. He was a boy, and would call Voldemort 'Voldemort' or 'Tom'. Hell, even 'Mr. Riddle'.
But 'Master'. That wasn't only unnatural, it was stupid.
Why was Harry here? He wasn't supposed to be here. Wherever here was. If he was confronted by Voldemort, he was supposed to be fighting, victorious or dead. He wasn't supposed to be kidnapped.
He wanted to know why. He wanted to figure out why he was there, and what he had to do to escape. He wanted to know why he was being let live (not that he was objecting), he wanted to know where his wand and clothes were. He wanted water. He wanted answers.
He wanted to ask Voldemort 'why'. He wanted to protest. Run screaming.
But he couldn't.
"Kitten," Voldemort's voice softened. "Come to Master. There is no need to shake so. I am not unreasonable, and your punishments shall not be, either."
Harry wrapped his arms tightly around himself, trying to stop the involuntary shivering Voldemort had pointed out. He was cold, that's why he was shaking. And angry at the indignity he was suffering. He wasn't scared.
Well, a little. But mostly angry.
"Come to Master now, and the punishment will be less harsh – I promise."
Yeah, right. Because we all know you're so honest.
"I've no reason to be dishonest. It will find that its master is very honest," Voldemort said.
He can't read your mind, he can't read your mind, Harry repeated silently, almost like a mantra.
A stinging hex hit his shoulder, but this time, he was prepared for it. And it was just a stinging hex – he wouldn't cry or anything.
Just go over to him. Let him Crucio you until your guts explode. If you piss him off more, he'll kill you. And he can't kill you – you need to stay alive until Dumbledore saves you.
Harry's stomach churned as he went back over to Voldemort. He blinked furiously, successfully not crying. He had had the Cruciatus before – he wasn't afraid of pain. He didn't even know why he was scared – he wasn't scared of Voldemort, or pain, and wasn't going to die or anything.
Voldemort picked him up, murmuring 'good pet' nonsense. He quickly laid Harry across his lap, and swiftly began to slap Harry's bare buttocks with his veiny hand.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Harry yelped with two of them, in surprise. He had never received a spanking in his life without clothes on. He had never expected it to hurt like Voldemort doing it did. He had never expected Voldemort to spank him.
His face burned as his laid across Voldemort's lap, staring at the expensive carpet. He was naked, and Voldemort was spanking him. The image was too terrible to process, despite the fact that it was currently happening.
After four firm slaps, Voldemort righted Harry, manoeuvring him easily as if Harry were a rag doll. He made him sit like a little kid on Father Christmas' lap. And even thought there was no one there to see, it made Harry feel ashamed.
And mad. He made sure Voldemort knew that by his eyes. He would not try to talk and fail, humiliating himself further.
"That was for not eating its food, which its master ordered. And for standing, which I also disapprove of." Voldemort's red eyes met Harry's, who refused to look away – it'd feel like defeat.
"Its hesitation is disgraceful, a nuisance, but quite understandable," the psycho-maniac continued. "Every pet is afraid when it first gets a new master. However, that does not mean Kitten may get away with anything.
Up close, Voldemort's tight pasty skin didn't look much like skin at all to Harry. It was all scaly. If Harry looked away from Voldemort's eyes to his hands, one balancing him on his waist and the other on his knee, he'd have found scaly hands.
"I know Kitten acts out also because it is testing its boundaries and so," Voldemort's hands moved quickly and deftly, producing the object he secured around Harry's neck almost before Harry could realise what was going on. "I thought I would give Kitten something to remind itself of who its master is, and who it is to please."
The object collared around Harry's neck was heavy and tight. Suffocating. Hot. Choking.
"You're not choking, Kitten." Voldemort pretended that he could read Harry's mind again. "Stop hyper-ventilating – you are fine. Now," Voldemort sat Harry down on the floor, "Kitten will drink its water."
A bowl of water appeared in front of Harry, but he couldn't drink it – he wasn't a kitten.
He reached up and tugged at the thing chafing his neck. It was firm, and did not bend easily. It was smooth on the outer side, and attached was a smooth metal plate.
'TEP', the cold plate read in Harry's reflection in the water. TEP... The-something-Potter. Or, knowing the way Voldemort acted around him, the-something-Pet.
"Do not stress over your collar," Voldemort said in a voice that could be mistaken for as comforting. "You have been here many months – it is time to be collared."
The words 'kitten' and 'collar' were both lost on Harry. The word that stuck out to him was 'months'.
He had not been here – wherever here was – for months! That was ridiculous! Harry didn't have a calendar, window, Tempus, or noticeable temperature change to judge the passing of time, but there was no way it had been months. He had spent long hours since being captured b the Death Eaters, he knew. He knew it felt like months, but it hadn't actually been. It had been a few hours, minimum, maybe two days maximum.
He hadn't eaten or drank, but he was still alive. He hadn't had the need to use the loo, but maybe he wouldn't need to as long as he didn't eat or drink. He wasn't sure.
He was sure it hadn't been months, though. Only hours. Days.
"Drink, Kitten. Master is watching."
Harry noted with satisfaction how Voldemort called himself 'master' half of the time. He apparently didn't know that it was dumb to refer to yourself by your name, or what you considered your name to be. He always called Harry 'it' – he didn't use words like 'you' and 'he' and 'I' often... not even when talking about himself.
He stared back down at his reflection in the water. He looked really pale, all colour gone from his cheeks. That mark from his first pimple was gone, the one Hermione had said would take a while to go away naturally. His eyes... his glasses were gone, and yet he could see properly. Why? How?
Take one for the team, Harry. You can't escape if you don't survive. Drink the water like Mr. and Mrs. Grunnings' kitty. Drink it, and find a way to escape. It won't mean you're not still a boy, or you're on Voldemort's team. You're doing what you can to defeat him. You aren't hurting anyone by drinking this. Except for maybe your pride. But just this once... no one is going to know.
As he began to drink the water, he heard Voldemort murmur 'good Kitten'. Words so sweet, so wrong, Harry nearly vomited what he just drank.
But he held it in. Because he was doing it to help save himself. And to be honest, he would have much rather escaped with no dignity rather than die with his dignity intact.
Coming up next in Disorder...
Chapter V: Damned
