So sorry for the delay for this update. Life is kinda taking over again... damn it! A quick but heartfelt thanks to all those who have been reviewing. I'll work hard to get next one up soon. Kit. xxx

Chapter 52:

Harry had no way of knowing how long he slept. It felt like only a few minutes but it could well have been several hours. His head pounded from the repeated blows it had sustained and his shoulder and chest ached, both from the multiple times he had been pushed to the floor and from the explosion when Lestrange had blown apart the chimney.

He shifted slightly in the box, trying to work out how much room he had to move around. It didn't take long for him to realise that he could straighten his neck only if he had his heels pressed firmly against the back of his thighs, and if he were to relax his legs then his neck would cramp up. The most comfortable position, which wasn't saying much, was to partially lie on one side. His neck felt more natural in that position, making it easier to breathe, and his knees weren't rubbing against the lid of the chest.

Once the ergonomics of his prison had been assessed, Harry ran his hands over the parts of his body he could reach. The wounds on the bottom of his feet had stopped bleeding and had begun to heal over, though both were still very tender to the touch. It seemed as if he would physically survive, for the meantime at least, providing that his bladder didn't suddenly explode.

Mentally, he felt as if he had sat all his NEWTs and OWLs in one afternoon, followed closely by a drill session with Moody and Bill. His mind throbbed with every beat of his heart, and he wondered how much more of the Cruciatus curse he'd have been able to take before needing a bed next to Neville's parents in St. Mungos.

Without warning his right leg suddenly cramped up, snapping Harry out of his musings. In his tightly curled position he had no way of straightening his knee to ease the strain.

He bit his lip again, reopening the wound from before as he moaned in pain when the cramp which had started in his calf burnt it's way up his leg and into his thigh, causing the muscle there to knot up into a fist sized lump.

Without being able to move enough to test it, Harry was never sure whether or not the cramp passed or if he had just gotten used to the pain. It added to the list of many things he was no longer sure of. Like whether it was night or day, or even if his eyes were open or closed. In the darkness, the latter was easily rectified by pressing a finger into his eye. Knowing whether or not his eyes were open may have been a pointless exercise when he couldn't see anything anyway, but Harry felt it was a necessary action in order to keep himself sane and occupied whilst in isolation.

He wished several times that he still had his wand on him. Initially, his mind conjured grand images of blasting himself out of the box, but soon his wishes reduced in size to simply producing enough light to be able to dispel the darkness. He spent several long moments trying to conjure light wandlessly but with no success.

The worst moment came when Harry had to give into nature's call and release the contents of his bladder into the bottom of the chest. He had lain silently for several long hours, listening hard for any noise outside the box but there had been no sound, praying hard for some one to let him out so he could relieve himself, but no one came.

After the unpleasant deed had been done, Harry ran his fingers around the hinge and lid and was able to sense several charms that had been placed on the chest. One of which was most certainly a locking charm, most probably keyed into Voldemort himself. Another must have been a silencing charm as nothing else could have prevented sound from entering so effectively.

At that moment, Harry froze, vaguely recalling Voldemort's last words through pain filled haze as he was being locked away. He tried to calm his breathing, attempting to convince himself that panicking would not help if he was indeed buried six-feet under.

He pressed both his palms against the flat sides of the box, focusing his thoughts and trying to reach outside the enclosed space with his sixth sense. If he was able to recognise some sort of magic from outside his prison then at least he could reassure himself that he hadn't been buried alive.

With a slight cry, Harry pitched forward, bashing his nose and forehead against the backs of his hands as gravity within his box suddenly shifted. Someone was moving the chest. By the swinging, lofty movements Harry made the assumption that he was being carried by some sort of levitation charm.

It didn't take long before the movement stopped and the chest remained still. But Harry continued to brace himself. He hadn't felt the slight bump that would've indicated that the chest had been returned to solid ground.

His suspicions were rewarded by a further shift of gravity as the chest began to spin on the horizontal. With nothing to look at except darkness, it wasn't long before Harry started to feel nauseous.

His discomfort wasn't aided when the chest started to spin vertically, sending him tumbling in the tiny space from floor to side to lid and back to the floor again.

The movement went faster and faster, though soon it made no difference to Harry, who had lost consciousness soon after throwing up.

When Harry awoke again, it was to find himself struggling to breathe in the air thick with the smell of vomit and ammonia. He tried to feel disgusted that he was coated in both substances but, lying curled up in the dark with nothing positive to hope for, Harry couldn't bring himself to care.

It was hot shut inside the tight space. His torn shirt clung uncomfortably to his back and the places where he had been injured whilst tumbling. Several open wounds stung with the onset of infection, and each breath he took sounded loud and rasping in the darkness.

With a jump back into his senses, Harry realised that the heat he was feeling wasn't just uncomfortable, but also intentional. He looked about himself, foolishly trying to find the source of the excessive heat in the darkness.

When his visual search didn't reveal anything, he used his hands to find that the heat was coming from underneath the chest. He barked a loud, short laugh, cutting into the silence and insulting his sound-deprived ears. No doubt Voldemort and his followers were trying to roast him alive, a bit excessive maybe, but Harry wouldn't put cannibalism past them.

He was tempted to lie down and accept his fate, counting down the seconds until his heart couldn't take the heat any more and burst. Instead, his sense of self-preservation kicked in again and he shifted his position until he was able to minimise the amount of skin that was making contact with the bottom of the box. He managed to wriggle himself so that his weight was precariously balanced on one length of arm and the already injured soles of his feet. He weight was braced against the sides of the box with the back of his neck and his knees. He had no idea how long he would be able to hold the awkward position, and it took all his concentration and control not to move lest he should shift his balance beyond his control and fall.

He sweated and moaned in the steamy darkness as the smell of heated flesh thickened the already oppressive atmosphere inside the chest. He shifted one foot slightly when he could barely take any more, and winced as he felt his blistered flesh stick to the floor.

He began to pray aloud to whatever god that would listen, his voice cracking and tears falling down his face. He finally understood what true fear felt like and it struck him deep within his soul, paralyzing his breaths and causing large tremors to shake his body.

He pleaded to the blackness for his friends and family to believe him when he said he was sorry, and for them to forgive him and take away the pain he was feeling. He shut his eyes tight, trying to imagine his closest friends surrounding him and lending him their support. But when he opened his eyes, nothing had changed. The pain was still there, and he was still alone in the dark.