Chapter Fourteen

"Hammer and a Nail"

The kitchen inside Number Twelve, Grimmauld was a gloomy place to be. Ron, Hermione and Hagrid sat huddled together at a corner table, and none of the students had spoken a word to Pettigrew, or acknowleged him at all. Ron and Hermione both clutched bottles of butterbeer in white-knuckled hands, and Hagrid was compulsively sipping a foul smelling beverage out of his own dusty mug. When words were spoken, they were so hushed that they were not picked up from table to table.

Hermione took a shuddering breath and leaned closer to Hagrid. "Is it really possible?" She whispered, her lip trembling, though she bravely held back a fresh flow of tears.

Hagrid bent closer, setting down his mug nervously as though he'd rather continue drinking. "Eh?" He croaked.

"Do you think Dumbledore can really get him out? Will Sirius really be able to get away from the Death Eaters?"

"Sirius can so it, alright," Ron interjected in a loud murmur. He nodded strongly at Hermione. "You know he can."

Hermione glanced at him and looked away, eyes sparkling.

"If anyone can do it, it's Dumbledore," Hagrid told her gently. "And he's got the best people with 'im he could ever have. Sirius'll do anythin' to get Harry back. And don' you forget, Hermione, we still have Snape in there with 'em."

IN THE MALFOY MANOR...

Harry's shirt ripped from around his wrists as he was dragged bodily across the room toward the table. Crouch heaved him onto its cracked surface as though Harry weighed no more than a ragdoll, flipping him roughly over onto his back. Harry bit his tongue as his head slammed backward and he let out a grunt, coughing and spitting some blood onto his chest. Feeling slightly stunned he coughed and spit again, trying to keep the warm liquid from trickling down the back of his throat as Crouch released his arm restraints. Dazedly Harry pulled his arms out from underneath himself, still spattering blood onto the table.

The ropes on either side of him slithered to life, wrapping themselves firmly around his ankles and binding his legs to the table. The ones by his sides gripped his wrists tightly and wrenched them back down, securing them just as tightly. Harry fought against them in vain, his mind blank except for one thought: escape. He had reached a very primal state and very little mattered besides putting distance between the two of them.

Crouch watched Harry's struggles intently, his teeth glinting behind curled lips. "There's no getting out of those," he advised with a hint of amusement. "Designed by Harmora Gorwitz, they were."

Harry didn't oblige him with a response, and there was another prolonged pause during which all that could be heard was the sound of Harry's labored breathing.

After another tense moment Crouch drew a bit closer. He inhaled deeply, and suddenly he had his wand out.

Harry's sharp intake of breath brought Crouch's heart rate back up. He lowered his wand slowly toward Harry's bare chest, watching Harry's eyes. He'd seen that look in people before—like a trapped animal. Crouch let his wand touch Harry's skin lightly just above his chest. He drew a circular pattern with it through the beads of sweat there, wondering how long the boy would be able to hold his breath.

Harry could feel blood slowly filling up the back of his throat. Soon he'd have to either spit it out, swallow it or risk choking. Crouch leaned over him slowly, without removing the tip of his wand. "Let's start with something simple," he began softly. "Tell me, Potter. Where can we find the Order of the Phoenix? Where do they hide, the Mudbloods and blood traitors who chose Dumbledore the Weak above the greatest sorcerer that history has ever known?"

A spark of anger rekindled inside Harry. Recklessly, he lifted his head and spat a mouthful of blood at the front of Crouch's shirt.

Crouch let out an animalistic roar and backhanded him with such force that Harry blacked out. A moment later he came to and immediately choked on the blood that had pooled inside his mouth. Crouch stood clear of the spray, still breathing heavily with fury.

"That was a downright tragic idea, boy," Crouch growled. "I was going to start slow. You just lost yourself all hope!"

Harry glared at Crouch's wand as it aimed at his chest again. "Octum forte!" Roared Crouch's voice.

Eight identical cuts began to carve their way through the skin of Harry's ribcage, four on each side. Harry was clenching his jaw tightly but a loud gasp of pain burst through his lips, and another. The cuts were deep and immediately began to bleed profusely.

Then the pain lessened; his skin had stopped splitting, and the slits were each about four inches long, steadily leaking blood down Harry's sides. More blood seeped from the wounds with every heaving breath that Harry took. "I don't know the answers," Harry panted, glaring up at Crouch. "I don't know anything you're asking me!"

"I think you do know," Crouch growled softly, wiping a speck of Harry's blood off his chin. "And I think you're going to tell me. You are Dumbledore's favorite boy, aren't you?"

"No!" Harry gasped out, and he spit some blood to the side again. "I don't know anything more than anybody else! Professor Dumbledore doesn't talk to me about important things." Harry registered a vague, fleeting resentment about this, but it quickly passed.

"It's more pain you need?" Crouched barked, aiming his wand again. Harry tensed and gritted his teeth, eyes trained on the wand with unmasked apprehension. "I'm happy to oblige." Crouch muttered another spell.

Harry felt fire open up across his chest. His skin burned so hot that he thought it must be melting off him; he tossed his head to the side, releasing a strangled yell of anger and fear. He tried to look down and see himself—letters seemed to be appearing, slicing themselves into his skin. He threw his head back again. "I don't know!" He yelled hoarsely, trying to look up at Crouch through the haze of heat rising from his body. "I don't know!" His voice cracked.

The pain stopped again and Harry looked down at his chest. The word DEAD was etched deeply into his skin and there were fresh rivulets of blood dripping onto the table. Harry let his head fall back against its surface, his muscles trembling.

"So, Potter," Came Crouch's voice, and his face swam into view above Harry. "Tell me one more time. Where is the Order located?"

Harry shook his head from side to side. A dull ringing filled his ears and he felt lightheaded.

"Alright, Potter. I'm going to flip you."

Crouch pointed his wand at the ropes, and all four of them sprang awake again, unbinding themselves from Harry's limbs.

With a sudden jolt of adrenaline flowing through his veins, Harry reacted without thinking. He ripped his body sideways away from Crouch, twisting across the table toward the other side. His feet felt open air and he was sliding fast toward the edge—

But vice-like fingers closed around his arm and pulled him back with such force that his upper arm broke loudly. The resulting pain was not something Harry had been prepared for. He screamed hoarsely as Crouch jerked him violently forward, pinning him face-down against the table from above. Harry felt his consciousness ebbing away from him again as Crouch administered the slithering ropes once more. He barely noticed the pain of his chest wounds scraping against the table beneath him next to the agony radiating from his arm. Harry couldn't seem to recall the last time he had taken a breath—how could he still be alive? He needed to breathe. He took a breath on purpose, but it only brought a renewed awareness of the pain.

Harry couldn't move his arms or legs an inch. His vision swam as Crouch's midriff angled into his line of sight.

"I warned you, Potter," Crouch's voice sounded. "I told you what would happen if you didn't open up to me."

Harry felt one of Crouch's hands rest on his lower back. Then the other hand took hold of the back of his pants and tugged, clearly trying to remove them.

Harry drew a sharp breath then, remembering his situation with a heightened wave of conscious clarity. "Don't!" He tried to yell, though it emerged from his lips as a croak. A bolt of pain shot up his neck from his arm. "Get off me, don't!"

Crouch tugged again and Harry felt his unbuttoned pants begin to slide over his hips. "D—don't!" Harry croaked again. "Come on, please!"

Crouch hesitated, looking up from the top hem of Harry's boxer shorts. "Like I said, Potter, I warned you. Now, I'll give you another chance out of the mercy in my heart. You have no idea how long I've wanted this, boy, so hurry up and talk before I change my mind."

Feeling hot behind the eyes, Harry tried to look back at him, to show him the truth on his face. "I've never heard of the Order of the Phoenix…"

He and Crouch held eye contact for a few more seconds, and Crouch remained bent down beside the table, expressionless. Then they felt the explosion.

It was a silent blast that hit them with the violence of a tidal wave, then seemed to rush back through the air from where it had come. Harry kept his eyes open as Crouch was driven to the floor, and with the sound of a vacuum the ruckus subsided.

Harry had only a few moments to wonder what had happened. He heard Crouch's outraged voice as the man flew to his feet, and then he felt the point of Crouch's wand stab into his back. Simultaneously the ropes holding his limbs fell free, and Harry was being pulled fiercely off the table by his broken arm. Ignoring the boy's cries of pain, Crouch circled one arm around Harry from the back, pulling him tightly against the front of his body like a shield.

Harry could finally see the source of the explosion. Standing in the splintery gap that had once been the parlor door was the shadowy figure of Professor Snape. Harry's stomach suddenly felt weak with relief. The muscles in his legs seemed to slacken as he was overcome by a flood of hope, and he would have collapsed to his knees if Crouch hadn't been holding him upright.

He watched Snape take a step across the shattered threshold toward them, eyes fixed on Crouch's face behind Harry.

Crouch's arm tightened around Harry's chest and he felt the wand jab viciously into the side of his neck.

"Keep your distance, traitor!" Crouch barked. "Another step and he's dead!"

Snape paused, his expression unreadable. Harry could feel Crouch's heartbeat against his back.

"How did you—?" Crouch demanded, shifting back and forth breathlessly. "Where's Macnair?"

"Sleeping," spat Snape with contempt, taking another step into the room. Harry kept his eyes glued on Snape's face.

"Drop your wand!" Crouch shouted, and Harry felt the man draw him closer from behind; he felt sweaty against Harry's skin.

"Don't!" Harry yelled suddenly. "Don't drop it, use it! I don't care if you hit—"

"SHUT YOUR MOUTH!" Crouch shouted, spraying Harry's back with spit. "DROP IT, SNAPE, OR THIS BOY DIES!"

"Don't be a disgrace, Crouch," Snape hissed, taking one more step toward them despite Crouch's warnings. "You are a disgusting waste of a wizard, but I will let you live if you allow me to."

"You expect surrender?" Crouch laughed. "You think the rest of them won't be in to see what all that was about?"

It was Snape's turn to curl his lip in cold amusement. His glittering eyes bored holes in Crouch's, and Harry dimly registered how glad he was that Snape wasn't looking at him that way. "I used a containment spell, Crouch. They'll have heard nothing."

Harry leaned away from the stabbing tip of Crouch's wand which was pressing harder and harder with each passing moment. Crouch began pulling Harry with him toward the drawing room door. "Traitor," he spluttered, as Harry stumbled over his feet. "You'll have to hit the boy if you want to curse me!"

Harry knew a moment of desperation as they neared the room where Voldemort sat, and then there was a blinding flash of red light from Snape's wand. Harry's world went black.

Crouch tripped over the boy's limp body as it fell to the floor, and then, recovering, made a great leap for the door.

Snape had him. A well-aimed jet of silver light struck Crouch in the back and the man hit the floor, twitching convulsively.

Wasting no time at all Snape had covered the distance between himself and his charge, kneeling down beside Harry with no change of expression. His dark eyes darted across Harry's body, reviewing the damages. His brow furrowed as he read the word engraved into Harry's chest, and his jaw ticked at the state of Harry's pants, but his face was otherwise unfathomable.

He wouldn't revive the boy. By his first assessment, there was a broken arm and a concussion, all things that would take far too much time for an untrained healer to address at the moment. He reached down and fastened Harry's pants before standing with fluid agility and lifting him off the ground. With one more glance at the unconscious Crouch, Snape heaved Harry up over one shoulder, grasping one of the boy's legs with one arm and reaching up to pull Harry's unbroken arm over his other shoulder. Carrying him this way, Snape slipped soundlessly back through the splintered wall and into the silent parlor.

Let me know what you think.