VII. People Who Need A Good Killin'

29 March, 1977

Harry slowly came back to himself thanks to the throbbing pain in his face. Without opening his eyes, he gingerly raised a hand to his cheek, and his breath quickened as he felt flesh that was so misshapen it didn't seem to be his own. His right cheek was just all wrong, and his experimental opening of his eyes confirmed that, yes, it rather did feel like someone was stabbing them.

His brain suddenly sent him a blaring reminder that Macnair had been in his bedroom of all places and had attacked him. Opening his eyes quickly – ouch! Too quickly! – he realized that the hand he'd raised to inspect the damage to his face was shackled to his other hand, and that the two together were attached to chain running through an iron rung in the floor.

So, definitely not still in the Head. But why? Why would anyone want to –

A sudden chill ran through him. No one knows who I am here! Oh God. Oh God.

He forced himself to steady his breathing and admit that yes, he was terrified, but that he'd also been in worse situations before.

Looking around the cramped room which currently imprisoned him gave away no clues as to his location. He didn't have his glasses, which he forced himself not be concerned about, but there wasn't really anything to see. The room was little more than a small store closet with gray stone floors, walls, and ceiling. Ancient rotted wooden shelves lined one wall, but all were completely empty. The ceiling was quite high, at least 3 and half meters, and near the very top ran a line of long narrow windows which provided weak chinks of the pinkish light cast by a rising sun. There was no way he could get up to them, let alone fit through them, but at least the light implied that he was above ground.

Unless this place is like Wigol's and the windows are charmed.

I can't trust anything I see.

That thought was punctuated when his vision suddenly slurred sideways before blurring almost completely.

Wow. I really am hurt. Okay, don't panic.

Several minutes of blinking later, Harry could almost focus clearly again.

Opposite the wall with the windows was a doorway-shaped opening, but the door had been removed. Instead, thick iron bars complete with a formidable lock shut him in the room like a medieval prison. Beyond the bars he could see a long, empty hallway made from the same stone as his room. There was a lone torch some distance down it, whose fire glinted off two somethings on opposite walls that might be brass door handles. Beyond that was darkness.

Okay. What do I know?

I know Macnair's probably the one who captured me. I know my head is injured but the rest of me seems okay. I'm chained up, and I haven't managed a wandless Alohomora yet, so I'll have to wait for someone to unlock the cuffs and room.

He paused and thought hard. Why would Macnair want me? Is this really just because of one fight?

…

I know Macnair doesn't want me dead yet. He would have killed me in the stable at once if that were the case.

He shook a bit. So I know he or someone else will be coming back and that they probably don't mean to do nice things to me.

And then he came to the part his mind had been avoiding.

I know that Ab would have felt when the wards on the stable were disturbed. He's got that place locked down tighter than Hogwarts to protect his goats. So he might be coming for me. He paused, a niggling voice wondering if Ab would really try to rescue him. Yeah. If he can come, if he can find me, he'll come. It's dawn now, so I can't have been taken more than a few hours ago at most.

Or Ab might be captured and here with me. Macnair might have gotten him first. This made sense to Harry, though he really wished it didn't. Any experienced wizard who concentrated would have been able to feel the wards on the stable. Why start with Harry when a fully capable wizard who'd easily perceive his intrusion was a few short flights of stairs away?

Or he might be de –

No. Don't think of that.

I can't plan based on what may or may not have happened to Ab. He closed his eyes and took another long, fortifying breath.

"Well done keeping yourself together, little squib," a harsh voice mocked. "Though, tsk, tsk, you've spilled your defective blood all over my floor!" Harry opened his eyes to see Macnair leaning against the gate, his arms languidly draping through the bars, one hand fingering his wand. He mentally cursed himself for not even noticing the man's approach. "Perhaps I'll make you lick it up." Macnair smiled and showed far too many teeth.

Harry swallowed hard and couldn't bring himself to say anything. He considered using an Accio to take Macnair's wand, but there was no guarantee that the wand would even work for him at all, and then he'd still be locked in a cell with a useless wand and lose the element of surprise that his limited wandless magic granted him.

"Cat got your tongue, squib?" Macnair's grin got impossibly wider. "Ah, you're going to be so much fun!" With that he unhooked a key ring from his belt and unlocked the door before securely latching the ring back to his belt loop. Catching Harry's widening eyes, he smirked, "Just a muggle lock on this door and your chains. Freaks like you don't even deserve magic to keep you penned in!"

Oh thank you, thank you. If there's no magic on the doors, this helps. He mentally frowned. But can I use Accio on the keys if they're hooked to his belt – shite, I probably can't without bringing Macnair along for the ride …

But now was definitely not the right time to try to nab the keys. Macnair kept his eyes firmly on Harry, smiling with relish.

"We're going to hurt you boy," he stated baldly. So there's more than one of them. "We're going to make you squeal like a piglet." Macnair moved in close to him and grasped his chin. "By the time we're through with you, you'll beg for death. And if we're feeling merciful, we'll give it to you."

Harry nearly coughed out a delirious giggle. Oh God, is this seriously happening? Isn't that last bit almost exactly what Voldemort said to me last year? These guys are so –, they're just so –, they're all so unimaginative. The thought was strangely comforting.

"So!" Macnair's voice was brisk and bright as he straightened up in front of Harry's prone form. "As you're a guest, I'll even let you have some choice!" In his right hand he flourished his wand, while he pulled a long, wickedly sharp dagger from his belt with his left hand. Holding both weapons before Harry, he asked with mocking good cheer, "So, little squib, which shall it be? Magic … or … Muggle?" Holding the wand and knife up alternatively in a sort of mocking dance, he chanted "Magic … or … Muggle?" over and over.

Of course, there was no right choice. Whatever Harry said, he was sure that Macnair already knew exactly what he was going to do to him. He again said nothing, weighing the options of trying to use Depulso to knock the Death Eater against the wall as hard as he could.

But there's others here … they might come running if I make too much noise and I don't think the chain will reach to the wall, so I won't be able to get the ke –

Without warning Macnair was suddenly pressed up against him, smiling into his face, and sudden, agonizing pain bloomed in his right shoulder. "Too late, I choose!" The man's spittle flecked onto Harry's face.

Macnair was off of him as quickly as he had come, the dagger in his left hand dripping blood onto the floor.

My blood. That's my blood.

Harry cast dazed eyes down at his body and saw a dark stain rapidly soaking the brown of his tee shirt at his shoulder. The back of his shirt felt wet as well. Holy shit, he stabbed me all the way through!

He must have let his surprise at the sudden injury show. Macnair giggled. "Oh, not to worry, squib, it's just a little cut. I made sure not to hit anything too important. Can't have you bleeding out your worthless life too soon, can we? In fact," he brandished is wand and cast a spell at Harry's shoulder that hurt much more than the initial stab had, "there you go! You wouldn't know it, of course, but that's a blood clotting spell. You. Are. Welcome!" he exclaimed with a florid bow. The spell did nothing for the pain or the internal damage, but Harry did feel the rush of blood abruptly begin to slow. "Now," he affected a puzzled look and tapped his lips with his wand, "what shall we do next?"

I … I have to get the keys and his wand. Can I even do wandless magic with a fouled-up shoulder and whatever's wrong with my head? This bastard, though, he's just bloody fast.

He had thought he would have more time before he had to fight for his life again, and all the spells he'd been working on, for all their macabre creativity and innovation, still required a wand that was buried under leaves in a cave.

"He daar, Walden!," another male voice called from somewhere down the hallway. "Old man's starting to stir!"

Macnair's predatory grin faltered a bit. "Oh, too bad! We were just getting started! But you're just the pudding, little squib. The old man's the main course. Ta for now!" He turned and walked out of the room.

"Wait!" Harry's resolve to keep silent crumbled. "Wait, you mean Aberforth's here?," he cried, more desperately than he would have liked.

Macnair winked at him as he locked the door and reattached the keys to his belt. Without a word he sauntered down the hallway, whistling a jaunty tune.

I have to get out of here. I have to get to Ab. Harry didn't know why the Death Eaters were after Aberforth, but it sounded like he was hurt and had been unconscious. Of course he was Dumbledore's brother, but Harry'd never seen him do any wandless magic. He'd be helpless in there.

Okay. There's nothing for it. I can do this.

Harry closed his eyes. He focused on the lock on his shackles first, envisioning the little gears moving, the arm unlatching. "Alohomora," he whispered, sending the spell into the metal, willing it to do what he needed.

Nothing.

He tried again.

Nothing.

He tried again.

Nothing.

The delicate metal elements in the lock were just too delicate. The two spells he'd been practicing wandless for months used magic like a strongman used a mallet. Accio and Depulso were all about high-power and brute force. This task called for control, for finesse. Harry could admit he'd never really been one for either.

Seconds passed into minutes ("Alohomora"), minutes dragged on ("Alohomora"), and Harry's sweat began to drip down his face and soak through his shirt ("Alohamora"). His head began to sway ("Lohamora"), his mind became dizzy ("Alomora"), and his hands started to shake uncontrollably ("Lomra").

It was too much. Every cell in his body felt drained, and the magic was coming out weaker every time he attempted to command his lolling tongue to cast the charm. He simply hadn't had enough time to train his body to do the spell, and his injuries exacerbated the situation.

Stop. There's no point. I'm just exhausting myself. Rest, and when Macnair comes back, try to Accio the keys and hope for the best.

Dazed and trying hard not to hate himself for his failure, he sat back against the stone and watched the chinks of sunlight that struck the wall. Time passed slowly, the feeble streaks ever-so-gradually changing their tones and shadows as the sun moved across the sky. It felt like hours since Macnair had stabbed him, hours since he left to go to Ab. Would he even come back before he kills Ab? The thought repeated itself in his mind like it was being played on a loop, punctuated by a simple prayer. Please. Please. Please.

Harry slipped into a wakeful half-doze, aware of his surroundings but asleep enough to let his exhausted mind and magic begin to revive.

Then a shriek sounded in the silence. A mindless, bestial call of pure pain that shocked Harry out of his reverie and sent what felt like jolts of electricity into his bloodstream.

Fuck Alohomora. I'm done with this shit. Brute force it is.

Harry focused his mind and gathered his frayed but rallying magic. He'd never even considered trying this particular spell wandless. Others had just seemed more useful, and maybe they were but for his bad luck. Just pure thought aimed at a single purpose, Peloother had said, and Harry believed him. I know the spell I need. I know what I need it to do. I know what I need it to avoid doing. With those three thoughts held in his head like a perfect, unified sphere of purpose, Harry snapped open his eyes and snarled at the chain which connected the cuffs together and to the floor.

"Reducto!"

. . .

Oh God, that wasn't enough.

Harry felt a lead weight sink into his chest as he looked at the results of his pathetically feeble spell. True, he was thrilled he hadn't blown his hands clean off, but the chain that connected the two cuffs was still intact. However … one or two of the links that attached the chain to the floor had, he realized, crumbled to dust.

Ok. That wasn't … wasn't much. But this is better. I still don't have great range of motion with my hands, but at least now I'm not attached to the bloody floor.

He sat down hard, chest heaving.

Okay. Catch my breath for a minute, then figure out what to do next. I have to get to Ab.

He reached up to massage his right shoulder when his hand brushed against his sleeve. A sudden chill ran through him and his hair stood on end.

No way.

Rolling up his shirt, he gaped at his knife, still strapped securely to his arm as Ab had always insisted it be. Avoiding his own embarrassment at the fact he didn't even notice its presence or think to look, he had to shake his head, bewildered by the stupidity of his captors. They seriously didn't even search me? They really must not think I'm a threat at all. (*)

A small smile played on his lips. People who don't expect much are easier to surprise; he'd seen enough barfights at the Head to learn that lesson very well.

Sudden footsteps sounded down the hall along with a muffled voice that was probably Macnair's. "Lemme know when he wakes up again." The footsteps grew louder.

Ab's still alive.

And Macnair's coming back here. With the keys.

Silently arranging his body so that Macnair wouldn't notice that he was no longer chained to the floor, he laid against the wall, his head lolling to the side as if he were terribly weakened or asleep. Harry still didn't feel he had the strength to do any magic and tried to clamp down on his panic. He doesn't expect my knife, or that I'm halfway free. And I don't need my hands to be unchained to hurt him with my knife.

A dull scraping sound accompanied the footsteps, and another whistled melody. He's dragging his knife across the stone wall as he walks.

"Hello again, my little friend! Wake up, wake up!" The key clicked in the lock, the gate opened, and was swiftly closed.

Harry opened his eyes. Macnair was leaning against the gated door, knife out, wand stowed, keys attached to his belt again. He was too far away for Harry to do anything. After all, he'd never been trained in knife-fighting, or even hand-to-hand combat. He mentally shook his head. Honestly, the extent of my knowledge is "stab him with the pointy end." Starting anything with Macnair when he was that far away was a recipe for getting killed. Get him closer to you. A plan began to form. Deep breath. Be bold.

"I admire your bravery, Mr. Macnair."

The Death Eater's manic grin faltered and he gaped for a second before recovering. "Why, whatever do you mean?"

"Or maybe it's your master's bravery … It's really, I dunno, inspirational to see him stand up to his fear like this, regardless of the consequences."

Rope him in. Harry's calm inner voice drowned out the other, more terrified ones that kept screaming at him to shut it, you bloody fool, for Merlin's sake!

Macnair chuckled strangely. "I think I must have hit you harder than I thought."

"Well, what else could he have expected, attacking Aberforth like this, other than a confrontation that he really might not win?"

Macnair took a half step forward and dropped all pretense. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Here we go. "Well, everyone knows that Dumbledore is the one wizard Voldemort fears. Why else hasn't he attacked Hogwarts?" Thank you, Tom Riddle's diary.

"You dare say his name? You filthy squib!" Macnair's eyes grew wild.

Harry couldn't stop his mirthless laugh. "Seriously, that's what you focus on?"

Macnair shook his head as if to clear it. "What does any of this have to with Dumbledore?" The man seemed honestly puzzled.

It was Harry's turn to gape. Does he really not know? Is that even possible? "Well, I don't think Dumbledore will look kindly on your master for attacking his little brother's home and business. And kidnapping? Torture? No, the Headmaster won't be as forgiving as he normally is, I expect."

Macnair turned white and stood very still.

Harry gave him a searching look. Holy buggering shite. He really didn't know. "Why, Mr. Macnair, I'm shocked. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you didn't know that Albus Dumbledore is Aberforth's devoted big brother!"

"You're lying." Macnair's voice was almost small.

Got you.

"I'm not," Harry said simply.

The Death Eater stared at him in dawning horror.

A shrewd idea occurred to Harry. "This mission of yours – the reason you took my friend – Voldemort didn't actually give it to you, did he? You and your friends came up with it on your own … What? Did you want to try to impress him or something?"

Macnair's fists clenched and unclenched.

Harry bit back an incredulous laugh. "Oh my God, that's it, isn't it? You did all this for whatever reason, and now you've pitted your own boss square against his greatest enemy, who'll look for vengeance for his brother's sake."

The man's eyes were bulging.

So close. He's going to lose it.

"Damn, Walden, you poor, poor bastard. From what I've heard, your master isn't too forgiving of mistakes. You really are fucked either way, aren't you?"

"You're just a squib," the man whispered.

Harry shrugged, ignoring the agony in his shoulder. "You've set yourself up as an enemy to Dumbledore and a failure to your master. Me being a squib doesn't change the fact that you're humped no matter what happens."

And that did it. Now or never.

Please.

Macnair rushed at Harry in a blind rage, knife in hand but seemingly forgotten in his primal desire to pummel Harry to death. Harry twisted his wrist just so to activate his holster, snapped into a defensive posture, and met the man head on. They ended in a parody of an embrace, Harry's nose on the man's heaving chest, Macnair's chin in his hair. Stepping back quickly, Harry saw his hand still grasping the knife that was embedded in Macnair's chest.

Walden Macnair stared down at himself with a look just as surprised as Harry's before clumsily moving to grab the knife from his chest.

Harry was faster. He pulled the knife out of the man, ignoring the spray of blood that came with it, and planted the blade again in the other side of Macnair's torso. His mind was nearly blank, going about the gruesome task with just one all-encompassing thought. Fall down. He pulled the knife out and stabbed the man again quickly. Fall down. And again. Fall down! And again.

Macnair fell, bleeding his life out over the stone floors, writhing and kicking with weakening legs.

Stop moving, Harry's mind ordered dumbly. He stabbed again. Stop moving. He stabbed again. Stop moving, dammit! He stabbed again.

Macnair stopped moving.

Breathing heavily, Harry stared down at the grisly remains of what had been Walden Macnair.

I killed, I killed him. Oh God. I killed him. I'm – I'm going to lose it. His mind admitted in a very quiet voice. Ab's voice barked back in response. Not until the job's done, lad.

Harry stood on the spot, willing himself not to go weak in the knees as his adrenaline ebbed. Eventually, he nodded slowly and wiped his soaked blade and trembling hand on a clean bit of Macnair's robes. "Okay, Ab." He stood up. "Okay."

Harry grabbed the keys from Macnair's belt, determinedly not noticing that they were slick with his blood, and made short work of the lock on his cuffs. Rifling through the body for the man's wand, his little thrill of hope fizzled after he tried a few spells with the long, curved wand. It was a like a dead twig in his hand. With a sharp twist he snapped the wand in two and discarded it in the cell.

Seconds later he had unlocked the door and was moving down the hallway on silent feet.

He slowed at the door he was fairly certain Macnair had come from earlier and put an ear against the wood. The voice inside was faint and had a continental accent, but its words were clear enough, "– good, you're waking up. Now, let's get back to our discussion about policies for checking such devices out of the department, shall we? Remind me who –" Harry broke away from the door, thinking hard. The man seemed to be interrogating Ab. If this room was anything like his cell, Ab would be against the far wall, and the man's back would likely be turned to the door.

What the hell am I playing at, trying to strategize? I've got no idea what this room looks like! In the end I'm just going to enter it ready for a fight anyway, so I might as well get on with it.

Fair enough, Harry conceded to himself, adrenaline coursing through him anew.

He grasped the handle and was shocked to find it unlocked. As slowly as he could, he opened the door and slipped inside of what appeared to be some sort of potions lab.

A middle-aged man with a long braid of brown hair was sitting in a chair with his back to the door, interrogating a pile of robes sprawled on the ground in front of a long wooden counter, grey hair spread around them in a messy fan. Oh God, Ab.

He quickly concocted a wonderful plan. He'd slip behind the man and hit him over the head with one of the heavy cauldrons scattered around on tables.

Easy.

He had not planned, however, on the presence of a discarded potions bottle on the floor. Before he'd made it four steps into the room his foot hit the glass and sent it under a table. The consequent clink might as well have been a gunshot. Oh dear fuck.

The Death Eater shot up, wand out, and Harry had no time to hesitate. Without pausing to deliberate whether or not he could do it, he summoned the large iron cauldron bubbling on the counter directly behind the man, praying that his magic and muscle memory could make up for his exhaustion. The cauldron zoomed like his Firebolt once had directly into the back of the man's head with a solid crunch.

Barely even registering the unconscious (dead?) man on the floor, Harry rushed over to his prone friend. He was mumbling strangely and obviously injured. As gently as he could, Harry helped him into a sitting position, back against the wood of the counter so that he could assess the damage.

The man was bleeding from several wounds, but nothing looked life threatening. His hands, however, shook fiercely as they tried to touch his face.

"Don't worry, I've got you, he's out cold or dead, I dunno. It's okay," Harry looked up into the man's face.

His eyes widened.

"Pel?"

Peloother Pepst, of all people, was here? Who in the world would want to kidnap and interrogate Pel? He was harmless!

"Wa-wand, muh, my young friend?"

Harry was still reeling from finding Pel rather than Ab and shook his head stupidly. "I don't have a wand."

"No! Geh-get h-his!"

Oh. Harry scrambled over to the fallen man and snatched the wand from where it had fallen by his side.

Taking it from him, Pel stowed it in his robes rather than keeping it ready in his hands.

"Okay, let's get you out of here and find Ab." Harry gave him a strange look. "Keep the wand out, Pel."

Why is he shaking his head? Why isn't he moving? "Please, Pel, we have to move!"

The older man found his voice. "Ab's n – n – not here. They left him in the p – pub an' took me. I don't know, I don't know if he's okay, Harry. Wuh – w – wasn't movin'."

"So wait, it's just us here? Well, fuck, let's go, Pel!"

Pel was still shaking his head as he held out his arms. They were clad in thick silver bracelets covered in runes. Unlike Harry's shackles had been, there was no chain. "Puh – Pan – Panoptica cuffs. Know 'em?" At Harry's blank look, he continued. "Magic inhib – inhibitors an' sort of like an invisible prison. Cuh – Can't do magic or move much from this spot until those who put 'em on either let me go or take 'em off me willingly. Or if they duh – die."

Well fuck.

"Okay. Who put them on you?"

"F – Folteren," Pel motioned to the man on the floor, "and Unsonsy."

There's a third man here still. Harry swallowed the knot in his throat. "So they both have to die?"

Pel nodded slowly "Or – or be puh-persuaded to take 'em off."

"And you can't really move much?"

Another nod.

"Okay then."

Pel's eyes widened and he seemed to rally from the effects of the torture. "No! Bluh – bloody hell, Harry, just get out of here. Macnair's just left – he could come back any –"

"He's dead already," Harry said in a dull voice.

Pel stared at him for a few seconds. "Lad, just get –" Pel's voice petered out as Harry had already crossed the room and drawn his knife, gazing down at the unmoving form of the man named Folteren. Slowly he bent over and felt for a pulse.

Shit. He's still alive.

We could try to persuade him. Him and the other guy to take the cuffs off.

"Harry –," Pel began again.

Harry looked over at him, eyes distant and deadly calm. In his mind's eye, Peter Pettigrew stood before him, cringing and wheezing and sniveling for his life. Harry had been merciful that night in the Shrieking Shack, whether out of real pity, a desire to emulate his ideal image of James, or because he'd been scared to be involved in a man's death, he didn't really know for sure. But he had spared Pettigrew.

And look where that got us.

They'll try to kill us the moment they can if we try to talk them into releasing Pel.

He shook his head slowly, feeling like he was suddenly in the eye of a great windstorm, at the single time and place when the deadly blasts were lulled into stillness.

"Sometimes people just need a good killin', Pel. There's isn't anything else for it."

With that Harry bent over and slit the man's throat with a hand that did not shake.

The man never woke up to realize he was dying.

There was much more blood than Harry had expected.

This isn't … this is horrible, he mused sickly before Ab's voice broke through his haze. Job's not done yet, boy.

Straightening, Harry staved off another impending meltdown. "Pel? Pel!" The man was looking at him with wide eyes. "Pel, I need to know if there were more than three of them. I've got to find this Unsonsy guy so I can get you out, but are there any others?"

"No, I – I don't think so. I never saw more than the three of them."

"Okay, you stay here." Harry crouched in front of Pel again. "I'll have to go and see if I can find –"

"Harry!" Pel's face went rigid with alarm.

Before Harry could even fully turn back towards the door, a voice rang out. "Lacero!"

What felt like a tongue of white-hot pain slashed Harry across his left side even as he dodged part of the spell.

And that was the side of my shirt that wasn't as bloody, he though deliriously as he rolled on the floor, hoping to get out of the way or … well he wasn't sure what he was going to do.

And it didn't matter. Harry had just enough time to take in a glimpse of his attacker – a young man who couldn't be more than twenty one or twenty two and whose eyes were wide and desperate at being involved in an unexpected confrontation – before he heard the man bark out a shocked "Crucio!"

Every nerve in Harry's body suddenly screamed in pain with the burning sting of thousands of knives searing into him. He felt himself falling from his crouch to the floor at Pel's feet. He might be screaming, he wondered through the haze of pain.

But.

But, the voice of an unknown man broke through, slipped in over and under and beyond the pain, its tone calm and clear. But Voldemort's Cruciatus was way worse than this. This is bad … But it's not so bad really.

Suddenly the pain flickered out and Harry realized his attacker had lifted the spell. Job's not done yet. Every fiber of his body screamed against it, but Harry slowly stood up, somehow keeping his limbs from shaking too much, and faced down the man who had just tortured him.

Unsonsy, Harry guessed, had looked exhilarated by his casting of the curse when Harry had first turned round to rise, but the manic smile slipped off his face as his opponent pulled himself up and glared at him. He idly noticed that the man had closed the door, penning himself in the room as well as them. I just need a moment to right myself. I can do this.

The young man's nervousness evaporated a bit when Harry just glared and did not attack. He didn't give Harry his moment.

"Imperio!" Harry had a half second to concede that the kid wasn't pulling any punches before a wonderful calm filled his mind. Kill the old man. Kill the old man. Kill the old man. It was a nice feeling, Harry could admit, quite comforting after the shite day he'd had, but the clear voice he'd heard in his mind moments ago wasn't fooled.

He smashed down the urge to shake from the after-effects of the torture curse with the force of pure, desperate adrenaline and incredulous fury.

Instead he looked at Unsonsy with a bitter smile. "Yeah, that's not going to work. I was able to break through Riddle's own Imperius when I was fourteen. You've never even cast it before, have you?" Harry tsked. "See, you've got to really mean it, y' know?"

The young man's mouth hung open. "But I – you … ?"

Please work, Harry sent out a silent, simple prayer to whomever might be listening.

When he thought about his actions much later, Harry would cringe that he hadn't just decided to banish the man into the wood of the door or stone of the wall. I guess my instincts are much more … explosive, he would admit to himself. And maybe a little self-destructive …

His fist shot out in a furious gesture of command as he focused on his target and what he needed the spell to do. "ACCIO DOOR!"

The thick oak door behind Unsonsy strained with a great creaking against the metal hinges that bolted it fast to the wall. But the force of Harry's spell could not be denied either. Horrible shrieks of splitting wood filled the room as the center of the door, unencumbered by hinges, exploded inwards into dozens of sharp wooden pieces and hundreds of splinters, many of which shot into Unsonsy's back so hard that their ends poked through his chest. While his enemy blocked the worst of the shrapnel from Harry, he didn't stop it all, and Harry found himself suddenly on the floor with dozens of splinters embedded in his arms and his left leg. Oh. Ouch.

"That's … those are really good hinges," Harry muttered blankly, noting that summoning closed doors to oneself, thinking that they would fly over and just knock an enemy out, was a really stupid idea.

And then Pel was there, wielding a dead man's wand in hands no longer constrained by the Panoptica cuffs. With an idle, if somewhat shaky, flick, the manacles on Harry's own wrists dissolved into dust and Pel started muttering healing charms on the young man's lacerated shoulder and punctured limbs.

"I've always been shuh-shit at these, my friend, but I can do enough so that you don't bleed to death and can walk." Harry nodded absently and laid back. A slight turn of his head and he was staring into Unsonsy's sightless eyes.

Oh God. He saw me. Pel saw me.

"Pel!" Harry turned back to the man who was sloppily patching up his left arm. "Pel, you can't tell, please don't tell!"

The man paused in his ministrations and looked at him with hard eyes. "T-tell what, lad? That you're no more a squib than I am?"

Panic welled in Harry. He hadn't been this scared in the cell with Macnair. "Please, Pel! I – I promise I'll explain," there's no way he was getting out of that, he knew, "but people can't know. I swear I'll explain as soon as we're safe, but please don't tell!"

"Tell what, lad?," a completely different voice intruded. Pel and Harry both started violently, the former's wand moving towards the door.

"What the ever-living-fuck kind of mess have you two gotten yourselves into?" Aberforth asked, eyeing the destroyed room, his prone friends, and the two corpses.

(*) As described in ch. 4, the holster can't be removed by anyone but Harry. However, I wrote this thinking that Harry was right that Macnair didn't even search him (as even he isn't stupid enough to leave an armed enemy with his hands in such a position that even chained they could grab the weapon).

Thanks so much for reading and for your comments!