A/N: Sorry for the delay, as always. I have 13 written and 14 on the way, but they are both SUPER long and very intricate and I want to make sure I'm tying up all loose ends before I release each chapter. I know the waiting sucks for you guys, so I'm trying to make sure each chapter update is long and somewhat worth it.

I feel pretty good about this chapter but I would love feedback.
There are a lot of feels and maybe too much drama? But Jeez, these are heavy topics and there is a lot of breadth to get through!

I've been excited about this chapter but OH MY GOD I think the next one might be my favourite. Just saying!

Thanks for reading! Please review?

Chapter 12 Defacing Bedlam

Poking his head out into the hallway, Harry had to duck to avoid a well-aimed Bat Bogie Hex from Ginny, which plummeted toward a fairly large Death Eater a few paces down the corridor. He could see Sirius two doors away dueling playfully with another robed figure, Lupin covering his back. He was laughing and the image struck Harry as nauseatingly familiar.

Snape was no where in sight. Harry's head turned on a swivel, trying to ascertain which direction the potions master had gone. Before he could gain his bearings, however, he heard amid the din, "Yaxley, the boy—"

"STUPEFY!"

Turning to face the exclamation, Harry had only time to register the flaming spell barreling towards his chest before he was shoved sideways by a red-headed streak. Potter's back slammed painfully into the corridor wall, the wind knocked from his lungs as he blearily made out Fred—or maybe George's frame continue down the hall. GeorgemaybeFred disarmed a cloaked figure he could only assume was Yaxley before following the spell up quickly with a mumbled curse that send the assailant backwards, staggering down the stairwell. The Weasley twin didn't even pause before continuing his trajectory down the steps. He called back, "Watchit, Harry!"

For the first time since he had realized that the house was being infiltrated, Harry felt self-conscious: he was shirtless, completely vulnerable all but for his bed shorts and boxers. But there was no time, and he certainly couldn't contemplate returning to his bedroom to search for more conservative dress options. After taking a deep breath, casted hand to his chest, Harry dodged to the right, heading instinctively towards Ron's room at the end of the landing. With Ron and Hermione they could—what? Help the order drive out the intruders systematically? He might have scoffed at the idea, finding them felt imperative. These thoughts were halted as soon as he reached the threshold to Ron's quarters. At the entryway his heart, already racing, plummeted below his navel.

Another Death Eater had his wand held out before him, his shoulders broad and squared in a dominant and assured stance. He advanced towards Ron, who had his back against the corner. A wand lay askew on the uneven floorboards to the far side of the room. The second youngest Weasley swallowed dryly, fingers palming the sweat in his empty hands and a scowl badly disguising his terror. The redhead's eyes shifted slightly, only just noticing Harry creeping into the chamber. Harry's gaze went between them twice before Ron shook his head once, indicating with desperate, indiscrete panic that Harry should run.

But it was too late.

Harry sprang, blustering onto the Death Eater's back, his uninjured arm securing itself around the assailants neck at the crook of his elbow. The masked figure brought his hands up in reaction, one ripping cruelly at the dressings on Harry's otherwise bare back, the other arm whisking wildly as he bellowed, "STUPEFY!" and "DEFODIO!"

The spells went without aim about the room, the latter forming a grotesque scissure in the ceiling that left Harry to wonder briefly what it would have done to its human intendant.

The Death Eater, after a moment's struggle, managed deftly to throw Harry from his back, thrusting him sideways to the floor where he slid across the partially finished wood. The figure followed Harry's sliding momentum with one long stride. With a sidelong glance at Ron, who was in the process of making a dash for his wand, the masked figure flicked his armed hand and snarled, "Petrificus Totalus." Ron froze and stiffened, collapsing to his side, eyes open wide and unblinking.

In the same breath, and without dropping his wand, the figure scooped down to grab Harry's throat with one hand and his casted wrist in the other. The wood of the wand-handle pressed painfully into his collarbone where it was wedged between the assailant's inner thumb and Harry's tender neck. The larger man brought the boy's casted hand up and behind his head, lifting Harry and simultaneously incapacitating him against the wall with the pressure on his limb.

Harry, frustrated with his lack of leverage, struggled against the hold. Three months ago he might have been in the physical condition to combat this grin, but now, weakened by stress and recovery? Some prideful piece of him withered, shaken by this obvious display of frailty. He took a deep breath and stopped fighting, gathering all of his fortitude to stare unblinkingly into the uncovered eyes of the Death Eater's mask.

The sudden change in his prey's demeanor startled the figure, who returned the boy's gaze with unsteady vexation. He tightened his grip before slackening it slightly, leaning in to press his body, collarbone to navel, against Harry. The closeness stunned Harry, causing his heart to skip a beat unpleasantly. A rising blush of panic heated his face and his fingers tightened into his palms.

"I'll be rewarded for this, Potter. The Dark Lord will give me first turn on his toy."

It was the wrong thing to say.

"I hear you're tight, boy. I hear you screa—EUAGHhhh!"

The circumstances were just right. Perhaps the Death Eater knew that the brunette was currently incapacitated from the use of magic, which gave him a false sense of confidence. Perhaps the thought of Harry's taut body against his distracted him just enough. Perhaps the thought of physical attack did not occur to a man made lazy by magic's convenience. The Death Eater's attention was divided sufficiently for Harry's knee to come up sharply and without hesitation, crushing what he found between the man's legs. The robed figure hung over him, leaning against Harry through the agony he could not yell away. Despite his groan, or perhaps because of it, Harry twisted his leg inwards slightly, before bringing his leg up once more, all but eviscerating what was left. The figure rose up with it, loosening his grip on Harry further and coming up on his toes. The Boy Who Lived pushed him backwards, knocking him off balance and to the floor with a booming crash. Letting the forward momentum of his push carry him, Harry fell to his knees on the man's gut.

He barely felt where his shins met bone, only concerned with the man's face and what his battered body could do to it. He was crazed and panicked and overwhelmed with the still-fresh intensity of the moment. The feral, hollow feeling returned and all he could hear was Lucius's voice saying, "So tight, boy," into his ear in a whispered hiss not unlike the one the Death Eater had mimicked seconds before.

Casted hand holding the figure's chest down, Harry's uninjured fist slammed down into the ceramic mask, splintering into the man's face. With each collision, Potter emitted a cry that had nothing to do with his physical pain, half scream, half wail. He backhanded one side and then the other, shards fragmenting his own hand with each swing. He struck unfeelingly, each blow growing more unsatisfying than the. He raised his arm for one final impact to the unconscious figure below him, but found that it was restrained.

Glancing up in fright, Harry found Sirius, whose hand had caught his wrist. It was as if he had just woken from a terrible dream. He realized that the Black Estate had quieted around him. No more hollering or spell fire resounded down the corridor. The boy used his godfather's grip to rise unsteadily to his feet, stepping over the Death Eater beneath him. Sirius seemed to know—to understand— and in a daze of exhausted hurt, Harry stumbled into his embrace.

Harry's frame shudders with a shallow, anxious breathing that Black's even, unwavering arms could steady. Into the older man's shoulder Harry respired, "Everyone, did Ev-Everyone—"

"Yes, yes. We are all fine, more or less."

Harry broke the clasp to turn, "Ron, oh god—" Sirius turned in the same moment, raising his already drawn wand.

"Finite Incantatem."

Ron leapt into motion. Harry watched as he turned over from his side and sat up just quickly enough to vomit. Both Harry and Sirius averted their eyes, letting the red-head empty his stomach before stepping towards him. A sharp flick of his wrist and Sirius vanished the mess without comment. Harry helped him to his feet, but even as Ron took his hand, something in his demeanor was odd. There was an awkward moment where Ron would not meet Harry's gaze, busying himself with recovering his wand and brushing himself off. The Weasley tousled his fiery locks uneasily, looking as though he might say something else.

Finally he let out a breath and said almost inaudibly, "Thanks mate."

Harry understood then. Ron had been sure that he was about to watch Harry be violated, not for the first time, as he lay paralyzed. Though he had guessed, though he had skirted the reality of Harry's torture, the spoken truth of his friend's torment had struck something visceral in the Weasley, leaving him sick and guilty. It was one thing to vaguely understand that Harry had been stripped down and made vulnerable in that way.
It was another to have to watch it.

The truth was clearly more than the second youngest Weasley could swallow all at once.
Had Ron not once wished to be the Boy Who Lived? Had he not once believed that he would like the same glory, the same brave lineage? The reality of what this title meant left a vomitous taste in Ron's throat as he realized with fresh guilt that he was glad he was not standing in the shaky, blood spattered shoes of the boy in front of him. The epiphany made him feel cowardly and shameful—unworthy. Ron glanced up at his friend's lightening bolt scar, forever red and prominent. Weasley left the room swiftly, making a quick left to rejoin the group undoubtedly gathering on the downstairs landing.

"Your hand."

The words were more statement than question, and Harry shot a glance downward to see that his hand was, indeed, dusked claret with blood. He shook his head, marveling at the lack of pain that he felt, likely an effect of the adrenaline that was not doubt still coursing through him.

Sirius pulled him into another hug that was more fierce, more intense this time. The grip was not solely to comfort his godson, but a gesture of relief. It was a manner of fervid heartache—one more time he might have lost his best mate's boy. Likely not the last. He held the back of Harry's head for a moment, feeling a protectiveness overwhelm him.

"You're safe now."

Harry's laugh was igneous and biting. He answered into Sirius's shoulder, "There is no such thing." And it was then, in the face of all that had happened that night, that he lost his resolve. His tears came like a sudden storm, water filtering through dark skies without warning. He cried quietly into his godfather's chest, ashamed and wretched. His sobs shook them both violently and though Sirius's hold remained resolute, the older man's face was a grimace of grief.

After an eternity of his godfather's strength, Harry's breathing stabilized into a regular pattern once more. In a voice that was not altogether steadfast, the younger brunette declared, "We can't stay here… We aren't safe. No one—no one is safe here."

"Come, let us join the others."

With conviction Black stepped forward to cast an immobilization spell on the still-prone Death Eater. They both stared at him for a moment, silently transfixed by his bloodied face. It was difficult to tell what was mask and what was flesh, a gory wreck that was challenging to look away from.

When Sirius turned his focus back to Harry, he was startled to see the change, so swift. Though the boy was pale, green eyes still red-rimmed, he stood differently—shoulders set with stoicism. Put back together so that the pieces let no light in. There was a resolve, there. A stiffness that told the Marauder that this was all the vulnerability he would see tonight. The only evidence was Harry's sanguinary hands, the butchered visage of the incapacitated Death Eater, and the tears that were evaporating off of his tunic, even now. All that terror.