There was a few minutes when no one spoke and no one moved. Harry was waiting to see if Snape would crack and attack him, while Snape watched him just as shrewdly as he tried to control his breath. Voldemort stood surveying this, until he finally broke the silence.

"News, Severus?"

Snape seemed reluctant to look away from Harry, but he slowly turned to face his master and spoke directly to him.

"There's been sightings of a rebellion group," he said.

"Is that so?" Voldemort asked. "A new one?"

"Yes, my Lord," Snape said, "not anyone recognised from the Order or affiliated. We aren't sure who all these people are, but they've been making a presence in Diagon Alley."

"Go back to your room," Voldemort hissed at Harry before turning back to Snape. Harry dragged his feet as he walked away, listening carefully to their conversation. "A presence, how?"

"Ripping down our posters, putting up their own - 'Long Live Potter' - and the like. We're pretty certain who the ringleader is, a man called Henry Davis - "

"I've never heard the name," Voldemort said softly.

"Nor have I," Snape replied, "but his house is abandoned and his family long gone."

"Find him," Voldemort said and Harry finally reached the wardrobe, where he turned back to look at the two men. Voldemort was tracing his mouth slowly with a long finger, looking curiously at Snape. "Find him, and bring him to me. I would like to meet this man."

"Of course, my Lord," Snape replied. Without a word, they both strode from the room and closed the door with a click, leaving Harry, once again, alone.

Judging from the rise and fall of the sun from his tiny window, Harry judged about a week went past before he saw Snape again. He was settling into an odd routine; he would awake, be allowed to shower in the bathroom, he would be fed and then he was made to practise with his new powers. Sometimes he would be able to recreate the surge of power from his first time, other times he could not, but this did not seem to surprise Voldemort who merely watched him as he performed. Sometimes he would be left alone in the large bedroom and it was during those times he tried every possible means to escape. There was no way out, however, and this did not surprise him but it still depressed him a little. All the windows were stuck shut and were unbreakable, considering the number of objects Harry tried to smash them with. The floorboards could not be pulled up, the walls could not be caved in and there was no way to get into the ceiling above him. He even tried calling for help out his little window at some points but he knew only the birds could hear him. His routine was very much mundane, except for the almost-successful-escape-attempt.

He had told himself to Think Like Hermione (TLH) numerous times since he had almost lost control with Snape. Hermione wouldn't have lost her temper like that, he reasoned, she would have done something more logical that would have helped her. When he was left alone, that was when he truly tried practising his magic. Without the threat of Voldemort breathing down his neck, he felt he could actually use his new talents. The room had constraints, however, and no matter what he did he could not magic himself out of the four walls. No doubt Voldemort had put every spell imaginable over the room. When Harry had exhausted every means of escaping, he resigned himself to exploring the room during his periods of isolation. There was not much to see; the room was furnished with the essentials and not much else, it was a true reflection of the personality within Voldemort. He did find some old tomes in a drawer beside the bed, books about dark magic and pureblood wizardry of course, and flipped through them, trying to TLH.

Being Pureblood, one of the books read, is an inherent quality in a witch or wizard and cannot be learned by any muggle-born or mudblood magical being. The fire of having the purest of blood lives only in one's vein, that can only be put out with the horrid interaction of a muggle whose dirty blood is a damper to the flames -

He stopped reading, trying to figure out what had caught his attention. Think Like Hermione, he repeated, scrunching his eyes at the words on the page. Blood? Damper? Dirty? Pure? Fire - fire! That was it! He would make fire and smoke out the room and then someone would have to come in to stop it, that was when he could make his escape. Proud of himself for thinking up this plan, and feeling like Hermione would be proud of him too which brought on a sad tug on his heart, he got to work. He ripped out the pages of the pureblood nonsense and set them in a pile near the front door. He wanted the smoke to drift out from under the door straight away. Concentrating hard, he flicked his hands at the paper and it caught alight almost immediately. Slow at first, it quickly found more fuel and burned brilliantly. Smoke was already making its way under the door.

Harry didn't consider that he would also be dealing with smoke inside the room. He quickly got one of the towels from the bathroom and soaked it in water, covering his mouth and nose, and stood off to the side, watching the fire crackle. Minutes passed and the room started to get a bit too full of smoke. Surely someone would notice soon.

Then - the door burst open, a dark figure yelled 'fire!' from behind the smoke and rushed in. Harry took his chance. He bolted straight past the figure and out the door, coming into a hallway. He was struck with a strong sense of déjà vu; so many doors littered the mahogany walls with no discernible exit that he couldn't help but be reminded of running from Voldemort when he was in Malfoy Manor -

That was it, that's where he was being held. Of course he was in Malfoy Manor, where else would Voldemort want his prisoner than the home of the Death Eaters? So overcome with this realisation was he that he didn't realise there was a familiar figure striding towards him down the hall until it was too late.

Thinking back on it, Harry thought Voldemort was more amused than angry. There had been the usual punishment of a few crucio's that rocked his body, but there had not been his other method of torturing Harry. He had been more in touch to little emotional changes Voldemort was experiencing than he had ever been - not to the point of being able to read his mind, but if he blanked his thoughts he could tune into Voldemort like a fuzzy radio, getting the very basic emotions the man was currently experiencing - and he could not sense any kind of frustration coming from the man, almost as if Harry wasn't even a threat to him anymore. This worried him, but what didn't?

The fire was put out, the damage repaired, a new spell put on the room that would set off a barrage of water should smoke ever snake up to the roof again. Harry noted to a Death Eater who stood in the room at the time that it was like the sprinkler systems muggles had but that only garnered a blank look. Thinking Like Hermione, Harry also tried to flood the room but apparently the leaking floorboards were seen from below before even a decent sized puddle cover the floor. Escape, he figured, was momentarily unattainable - but he wouldn't give up, not until his last dying breath at least. Voldemort wanted him locked here forever - how long do horcruxes live anyway? - but he wouldn't rest until he was standing free in front of his friends once again.

A week passed since the Snape incident, six days since the fire incident and five days since the flooding incident. Harry lay awake on his mattress, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the inevitable arrival of Voldemort. The shadows from the sun indicated it was early in the morning and it was normally around this time he would be brought out from his room for another day of practising. Sure enough, he heard the sounds of footsteps, and the door clicked open. Standing there, however, wasn't Voldemort but Snape. Harry's eyes narrowed when they fell upon the man.

"The Dark Lord has requested your presence," Snape said.

"But - I haven't showered - or eaten -" Harry spat out.

"Eaten? I didn't realise I was dealing with a ten year old," Snape sneered.

Harry felt himself blush furiously.

"If you feel as if you can survive not eating for a little while, please, feel free to let the Dark Lord know, we couldn't let the Boy Who Lived suffer not having his breakfast." Snape's words were dripping with sarcasm.

Still blushing, Harry allowed Snape to lead him from the wardrobe and out into the bedroom. There, Snape tapped Harry's wrists and encased them in steel handcuffs, chaining them behind his back. He opened the main door and stepped out into the hallway, striding quickly as his black robes flapped behind him like giant bat wings. Harry knew it would be pointless to do anything but follow the man and quickly fell into step with him. The hallway was of a handsome dark wood, contrasted by the gleaming white doors that seemed to litter the walls. The floors were covered with deep red carpeting and every so often there was a picture of some dignified looking witch or wizard, who glared down at Harry as he walked past. Snape led the way down a large set of stairs, seemingly able to easily traverse the maze of doors.

"So the Chosen One has somehow managed to convince the Dark Lord to keep him alive," Snape sneered softly, "escaping punishment as he usually does. Tell me, how does it feel to be so special, Potter?"

Harry immediately realised that Snape was going to use this time they had together to berate him, had perhaps accepted the job of fetching him for that pure purpose.

"Don't pretend like you don't know I'm here against my will," Harry spat.

"Aren't you usually the master of escaping?" Snape asked condescendingly.

"I have tried!" Harry blanched.

"And yet, here you are," Snape said, "I must assume you haven't tried as hard as you could to leave. Perhaps you feel special here, Potter, revered even. Perhaps you didn't feel as if your legion of followers gave you enough attention as you thought you deserved, and decided to stay here - "

"Shut up!" Harry yelled. "I don't have to listen to anymore, this isn't Hogwarts, you have no more power over me. Traitor."

Snape spared a glance back at him as they descended even more stairs, passing through a hallway that held ancient looking weapons; bloody axes and gleaming knives. Harry imagined grabbing one of them and plunging it into Snape's sallow face, then dismissed the thought immediately; he wasn't capable of that, no matter who it was.

"You're right, Potter, this isn't Hogwarts. So the facade of tolerating of you matters to me no more. In fact, you'd be interested to know that the Dark Lord has granted his followers permission to punish you if you get a bit mouthy. I must admit, the chance to do so fills me with satisfaction - "

"If you're so interested in punishing me, where were you when I was getting tortured?" Harry asked. "Can't have wanted it that much, could you? Maybe you're afraid of facing me, of facing the truth, the truth that you're a coward."

Snape stopped walking. They were standing in a large open room, that, like the rest of the mansion, had many doors leading from it. The only difference was that at the far end of the room was two large ornate doors, much bigger than the rest he had seen so far. It took him a second to realise those doors were familiar - they had been the ones he had entered the mansion in, seeing them through his slitted eyes as he was dragged in with the others. That would make this the foyer to the mansion, then - had he memorised his route, he would be facing his potential future escape. However, he had been so distracted with taunting Snape that he couldn't for the life of him remember how to get back to his room. He flicked his eyes to the door and back to Snape, the man who was facing a door and not Harry.

"I would be careful if I were in this situation," Snape said softly, without turning around, "to make as many allies as I could."

"What's that - ?" Harry started, but Snape cut him off by striding forward and opening one of the white doors. He strode inside the room and Harry reluctantly followed.

He knew this room straight away; this was where he had been so close to not being imprisoned, although he had not known it at the time. The drawing room still held the long, ornate table at which sat a handful of death eaters and Voldemort himself at the far head of the table. A fire crackled merrily behind Voldemort, illuminating the room, as the crystal chandelier that used to light up the room had been destroyed by Dobby, all that time ago. The walls were a rich, dark purple with dark wooden panelling and on the shiny, dark floor lay a large carpet that matched the wallpaper. Harry's feet were muffled as he entered the room and stopped at the opposite end of the table to Voldemort, who looked unconcerned at seeing him.

"What did you want from me?" Harry asked loudly.

The death eaters did not react to Harry being there at all, merely staring at him as if he was a particularly tawdry vase. A door clicked close behind him and Snape walked past, settling himself in the chair directly across from Voldemort.

"You shall see," Voldemort said softly. "Wormtail? Will you bring them in?"

Wormtail jumped from his chair further down the table and scurried off to, where Harry knew to be, the cellar. Harry's heart stalled; 'bring them in'? Bring who in? Who had Voldemort and the death eaters captured? A millard of pictures went through his brain - of Ron and Hermione captured, of Kingsley or Lupin, Ginny, any of the Weasley's, anyone he had ever associated with - it would be his fault if anyone he knew was captured. And what if they had been tortured, like he had? This time, his heart dropped. He could not forgive himself if someone he cared for had been hurt like he had been, in his name. With baited breath, he waited in silence for Wormtail to return from the cellar, horribly dreading who would be lead up to see him. He glanced at Voldemort whose face remained stoic as ever.

Then, footsteps. Wormtail was leading two people with bags over their head, prodding them with his wand as they walked haphazardly into the room. Harry felt like he was going to vomit. Wormtail brought them to the middle of the room and told them to stop. The two people did and stood, visibly shaking. Wormtail quickly returned to his seat and all eyes snapped to Voldemort.

Voldemort flicked his wand and the two bags flew off the head of the people.

Harry could now see who they were.

The pale, stricken faces - while familiar in their fear - were not any that he recognised. A dark-haired woman and a bald man looked back at him with wide eyes and open mouths; the woman was crying silently. But as they both laid eyes on Harry, they both gasped in shock and the man yelled 'Harry!' as if he knew Harry.

"Surprised to see them?" A death eater sneered.

Harry was completely baffled.

"Harry, oh god, you're alive," the woman blubbered, "we knew it!"

Harry looked to Voldemort, who looked back at him; Harry knew that look, it was the calculating consideration the man used when he was penetrating Harry's mind. Suddenly Harry didn't know what to do. Whoever these people were, they knew Harry - would they be better off if Harry pretended to know them, or not? He tried to close his mind to Voldemort's searching gaze but, as usual, he wasn't quite sure how. He had never learnt.

Voldemort considered him for a moment longer, before saying softly, "you don't know them, do you, Potter?"

"I, uh," Harry stuttered, "I might, I mean, I do…maybe…"

"Potter has never met these people before," Voldemort announced to the table and they all stirred uncomfortably, "so it seems, they were brought here under false pretences. Yaxley, Greyback brought them to you, what do you make of this?"

Yaxley leant forward at the table, looking terrified, "my Lord, Greyback insisted that the two knew Potter. They said they were working for him and were attempting to rescue him. My Lord, we wouldn't have brought them to you had they - "

"That is enough," Voldemort said softly, and Yaxley stopped at once. Voldemort stood, walking slowly to the man and the woman, stopping in front of them. Both of their faces looked gaunt in their terror, as they stared into those horrible red eyes. "You have lied to my death eaters. You have wasted my time. Why, I don't understand - "

"We're part of a group that's fighting for Harry!" The man yelled, looking horrified that he had interrupted Voldemort, but continuing all the same. "You're not going to get away with this! There's hundreds of us, fighting for him, and we're going to beat you!"

"Long live Potter!" The woman shrieked.

Voldemort flicked his wand and they were silenced. Slowly, he turned to the table.

"Ah," he sighed, "the rebel group. There's hundreds of them, did you hear? Fighting for Potter?"

The table laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls and echoing so it felt like the entire room was filled with cancerous joy.

"We'll need information," Voldemort continued, and his eyes flicked up the table, "Bella? Will you do the honours?"

Bellatrix got up straight away and approached Voldemort, her black robes flouncing behind her. Harry knew the smile that adorned her face, he understood what she was going to do as she raised her wand and walked forward, knew the way she held herself and the way she breathed, and suddenly his body was forced into action.

"No!"

The red curtain descended over his eyes and he ran forward, barging headfirst into Bellatrix, knocking her off her feet and sending them both flying across the marble floor. There was a quick scuffle which was easily won by Bellatrix, due to the fact she had a wand and did not have her hands cuffed behind her back. Harry was yanked up from the ground by various hands and thrown back against a wall harshly, knocking the wind out of him. Someone slapped him across the face with a spell and he felt his skin break open.

"My Lord, please let me punish him," Bellatrix hissed as she rose from the floor, turning heatedly towards Harry.

"No need Bella," Voldemort said softly, "but it is appreciated."

He had not moved when Harry had attacked. Now, he strode forward and flicked his wand once again, cutting open Harry's other cheek with a spell, so that both sides of his face stung.

"You do not know Potter as I do, merely hurting him does not have an affect," Voldemort said. "Though, it is satisfying. No, you must use other means to humiliate Potter, as I have done. I shall show you another. Watch his face closely, Bella."

Voldemort stepped closer to Harry and Harry felt himself jolt in fear; the death eaters laughed uproariously, jeering at his fright. But the cold hands he expected to reach for him did not come, Voldemort merely cocked his head at Harry and spoke.

"Either you torture them," he said silkily, "or Bellatrix will."

"No, no, I won't!" Harry cried.

"Then, Bellatrix -"

"No! I'll do it," Harry yelped. "I'll do it you bastard."

There were cries of shock from the surrounding death eaters, but Harry ignored them. He felt waves of anger smash against his body, amplifying the red curtain waving in his mind. He felt sick, he felt scared, he felt helpless - but he knew Bellatrix was a far worse fate to these people than anything he could do. Didn't he know first hand what her torture was like? He couldn't let that happen to another person, even if it meant committing an unspeakable act himself. He would hurt them and he would hope that they realised, somewhere deep down, that he was doing it to save them.

You're becoming exactly what he wants you to become, a little voice inside his head whispered. He shivered.

Voldemort motioned for Harry to approach the man and the woman, and Harry did so, violently shaking with ever step he took. In a matter of seconds, he was now standing in front of them, staring directly into their faces. He could not think, would not let himself, he had to act - he raised his hands in front of him, sensing rather than seeing a multitude of wands being pointed at his back by the other death eaters.

"You have to understand," Harry pleaded in a whisper, "I'm doing this to help you."

The man and woman could not speak, due to the silencing curse, but their eyes said more than anything ever could - they started deep into Harry's own eyes, communicating betrayal, hurt, fear and most of all, confusion. Harry closed his eyes - he was too much of a coward to face them.

"I'm sorry," he said, as the first tear fell.

It was as if he was the one being tortured again.

But he wasn't.

He was the torturer.

At some point, he was permitted to stop. Sobbing, he fell to the floor as the two limp bodies in front of him were dragged away. Perhaps back down to the cellar, he did not know, he did not know anything really - where he was, who he was, what year it was. He only knew two things.

He knew the sounds people made when they were in pain.

And he knew that a part of him was happy.

Somehow, that was worse than any wound.

He was dragged back to his wardrobe and thrown onto the mattress, where he lay and cried for what felt likes days. He could not scour his mind from the sound of the woman's screams, the contorted look on the man's face, how they squirmed and jerked on the floor at the mercy of his power. He could not forget how it was him, his magic, his power, that made them beg for mercy, beg for release, beg for death. He had done it in order to spare them from Bellatrix, but had he'd been any better? Was he any better, really?

The worst part.

The worst part - which was becoming a familiar part, no matter how hard he tried.

The worst part was that there was a part of him - and he knew, lord did he know, what part it was - that had come to life when the torturing had started. That part of him that relished in the pain, that bloomed from the screams, that was buoyed when the blood started to flow. He couldn't suppress it, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't fucking get rid of it.

Was it possible to rip yourself apart? Because Harry would, if he could. He pointed his hands at himself and tried furiously to blow himself up, to cut himself, to destroy himself - but perhaps that fucking part of him knew what he was planning, and his powers did not dare to work against him. He kept trying, however, tears streaming down his face as he wished to die, wished to be dead, wished for the love of God to not exist anymore. He didn't want to be this abomination, this waste of a human being, this horrible, horrible creature that sat in his skin.

He felt wrong. He felt right. He felt like he was being torn apart.

And then, Voldemort was there. The man stood and watched Harry cry, not talking, not moving, just watching. Harry could not muster up the strength to tell him to leave, so he continued to cry. After an hour (a day? A week? Time was making a joke of him again) there was nothing left to sob out and he stopped, pushing himself up into a sitting position and looking at Voldemort. The man spoke into the darkness.

"There's a certain feeling that only the hurting of another person can bring," Voldemort whispered, "a specific emotion that exists only when another human is wishing for release or death. You felt it. Do not lie to Lord Voldemort, because he knows, he always knows. You felt it and you savoured it."

Harry's chest was heaving from the weight of his regret.

"You can't fight it anymore than you can fight your heart beating or your lungs pumping," Voldemort said softly, "you are no longer Harry Potter. You're the Dark Lord's."

"No," Harry gasped, "no I'm not. I'm not yours, I'm mine! Me, me, fucking ME! I'm not like you, I never have been like you! I could have chosen the different path, but I didn't, and that's the most important thing - the choices that I make! The sorting hat could have put me in Slytherin, but it was my choice to go to Gryffindor. I could have chosen the your side, but I chose mine! Me!"

"Don't make out like what you did was some dauntless sacrifice, I can see into your mind Harry," Voldemort said silkily, and Harry acknowledged the use of his first name. Deep down, it comforted him, but on a base level it frightened him severely, more than any threat could. "Do you think if you hadn't heard Hagrid praise Gryffindor and denounce Slytherin, you would have gone to the sorting with that predisposition in mind? You didn't make a choice, it had already been made for you."

"Well the only reason Hagrid had the chance to tell me those things was because you chose to kill my parents, so really you made the choice for me!"

"That is neither here nor there. You are ignoring the fact that you never actively chose to be righteous, but you were pushed from every side to do so! From the Weasley's, Granger, Black and especially Dumbledore, you were constantly expected to do the 'right' thing! Did you ever take the time to stop and think of anytime when you made decisions for yourself, and not for what you thought was for the best? Not to save another or to protect, but for what you felt was right in your heart? In your soul?" He paused. "Our soul?"

Harry did not answer and merely started to cry again.

"You shall see, in time," Voldemort said simply and he turned to leave, "the whole world will see. Sleep, Harry."