*** Day 47 - Harry ***
It didn't take long for Harry to realize that he'd made a mistake.
He didn't know what had gotten into him over the past week, but he certainly didn't like it. When he'd brought up Snape one week earlier, his main goal had been to find out if Malfoy had any clue as to what Snape's memories might have held. But the conversation had somehow taken a turn and veered in a direction that Harry wasn't sure he could recover from. Seeing Malfoy fall apart like that…it was too much. It had kindled a heat in Harry's heart that was beginning to trouble him. Somewhere along the way, his manipulation of Malfoy had backfired on him. He could no longer look at the Slytherin and conjure up the same burning hatred that had come so easily to him just a few weeks ago. When he looked at Malfoy now, he felt…
Harry's eyes honed in on the chair where Malfoy sat, his stomach fluttering. Snarling, Harry ripped his gaze away. He'd been here for far too long. The territory they'd started to breach…it was dangerous.
He needed to get out. Now.
Tonight was the night.
Harry eyed the pile of pens that Malfoy kept beside his chair. They were muggle pens, which Harry had always found rather odd, but he'd never asked about them. He didn't want to draw any attention to them, or the fact that they could easily be reached from behind the bars by an arm and a couple extra inches of chicken bone.
After he'd made up his mind, it was very difficult to act normal for the remainder of the evening. Minutes moved so slowly Harry was sure he'd be an old man by the time Malfoy's eyes fell tired from all their reading. But eventually it did happen—Malfoy's eyelids began to droop, and his head began to fall forward onto his chest.
It was now or never.
"Malfoy?"
Malfoy jerked awake, blinking rapidly. He rubbed his face with the heels of his palms. "What is it, Potter?"
Harry slid his hands against his trousers nervously, wiping the sweat from his trembling palms. "Remember that favor you offered me a couple of days ago?"
Malfoy hummed, still half-asleep. "Favor?"
"You know," Harry urged, "about…leaving if I needed you to leave?"
Long seconds passed, and for a moment Harry feared that he'd given himself away, but then a soft light ignited in Malfoy's eyes and Harry felt as if a weight was lifting off of him.
"Oh." The sound of Malfoy swallowing was the loudest thing in the room. "Oh, right. I'll just…I'll go grab some more books from my room then."
Slowly, Malfoy pushed himself up from his chair, stretching the stiffness from his limbs, and sluffed off down the hall. Harry didn't move. He waited until he couldn't hear Malfoy's footsteps anymore, drew in a deep breath, and then counted to twenty. After that, he was like a cannon.
He bolted for the bars, his hand digging into his pocket for the pieces of chicken bone he'd tied together with loose strings from his blankets. Practically throwing himself to the ground, Harry jammed his arm through the opening. The first pen was easy. The second took a little longer than he'd hoped.
They were fine pens—all silver and steel. That was good. That meant that the parts he needed wouldn't break easily. Harry pried the pens apart, ripping his fingernails in the process. Blood smeared over the smooth metal, but adrenaline was pumping through his veins so vigorously that he couldn't feel the pain that should've come with it. He extracted the press bars with relative ease and chucked the spare pieces across the cell.
The door. All that was left was the door and he was free.
A few months ago when he, Ron, and Hermione had still been traveling across the countryside, Hermione had been insistent that Harry learn a few muggle skills. He hadn't wanted to, but of course, she'd made him. Thank God she'd made him. Who would've guessed that a wizard could pick locks without a wand?
Attempting to steady his breathing, Harry jammed the press bars into the door lock. He made himself stay perfectly still for a moment, refusing to let his excitement get the best of him. Harry's ears prickled at the sound of tumblers shifting as he lifted the pins. One pin. Two. Three. Harry grimaced. One more. He just needed one more.
Click.
The cell door swung open. Harry stared at the open air in front of him, his brain momentarily unable to comprehend the picture without the bars. Move, Harry told himself. You need to move! Harry's legs reacted, springing him forward out into the dark halls. He didn't know the way, but he didn't care—anywhere was better than where he was.
His legs burned. He hadn't been able to run for so long, and his body had grown weak. Turn after turn after turn—he ran through the maze of the dungeons, pushing himself through the concurrent waves of dizziness and nausea. When had the air gotten so cold? It seemed to scathe his lungs with an icy fog as he struggled to breathe.
Right. Left. Right. Right. Left.
And then he saw it—the stairwell that led up to the parlor. Blowing out a frantic breath, Harry sprinted for the stairs. This was it. He was going to be free. He was going to see Ron and Hermione again. He was going to be able to figure out where everything went wrong.
The snake. The cup. The crown. The ring. The locket. The diary.
Harry yanked the door open, and crashed to a halt as he slammed into a firm body.
"Oh, well look who it is!" A Death Eater's broad face appeared in front of him, his teeth a sudden flash of light in the darkness. "How nice of you to get the door for me, Potter."
The next thing Harry knew, his left cheek was exploding with pain as the Death Eater's fist slammed into it. After that, everything went black.