1.01 The Capture

Dudley woke him up by jumping on the stairs as he ran down. After eight years, this was pretty much standard practice. Harry blinked to get the sleep out of his eyes, and then, as he fully awoke, a small pit of fear formed in his stomach, though it took him a while before he could remember the reason for it.

Today was Dudley's tenth birthday, which was bad enough since he would be even worse than usual, but that also meant that Harry would be dropped off at old Mrs. Figg's place as the Dursleys took Dudley and a friend out.

Mrs. Figg was harmless, but incredibly boring.

There was a thump of a thick fist on his door. "Get up, boy! I won't have you dawdling!"

Harry sighed and got out of bed.

Dudley was standing near the door and as Harry entered the kitchen he elbowed him hard. Aunt Petunia gave him a nasty look and Uncle Vernon said, "Boy, today's Dudley's birthday," with a toothy smile at his cousin, "So you'll be going off to Figg's place after breakfast."

He nodded silently.

"And you better be on your best behaviour, or else you'll hear about it from me!" he added, seemingly put off by Harry's silent acquiescence.

"Who do you want to bring with you today, Duddikins?" Aunt Petunia asked Dudley, with a fawning smile.

Dudley briefly paused his vicious foray into his food to say, "Piers."

Uncle Vernon grunted. "We'll stop by his place." Then he looked at Harry. "What are you looking at, boy! Clean up the house before you go!"

An hour later, Dudley was dressed in his best suit and looking vaster than usual, and Harry's arms were aching. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had changed too, and they were all standing in the drawing room looking appreciatively at each other when Harry silently entered.

"Done, boy?" Harry nodded, and Dudley sent him a gleeful look. "Right, then, let's go."

Harry steered clear of Dudley's elbows as they walked out onto the porch. The Dursleys got into the car, and after one last, "Better behave yourself, boy," Uncle Vernon got in too.

After one last delighted hoot from Dudley in the back seat, they drove off.

Harry began the short excursion to Mrs. Figg's house, already dreading the time he'd have to spend there. It wasn't as bad as being at the Dursleys', of course, but those cats got on his nerves…

"Hey, Potter," said a soft, malicious voice from behind him.

Harry didn't have to turn to recognize who it was. Dudley had three friends and one of them was going with him for his birthday. The other two—Gordon and Malcolm—would probably feel slighted at being left out.

And when bored, Harry Potter made an amusing plaything.

He took off running.

He could hear twin shouts of laughter and then footsteps.

He ran right across Mrs. Figg's place, he barely caught a glimpse of her face in the porch, looking white and frightened, but he didn't have time to wonder what the matter was with her. He dashed into a small sidelane and made his way out the other end. Open areas were bad. His only options were to keep quiet, stay low, and hope they lost sight of him.

He looked to his left and right, and there was no one there. With a sigh of relief, he took a step forward.

A loud sound, or rather a series of loud sounds, like lightning and thunder except much closer, sounded and made him jump.

He looked behind him. There were five figures, all in black, with odd faces that he had to take a moment to identify as masks. He was certain they weren't there a second ago.

They were heading toward him.

He felt his heartbeat speeding up, though he wasn't really sure why—sure, they looked scary, but they didn't have anything to do with him, did they?—and he retreated into the lane again, going back the way he came.

Mrs. Figg, he'd go back to her and it'd be fine.

He kept an eye out for Gordon and Morgan. They were nowhere in sight.

He ran back, sparing only a glance over his shoulder to verify that yes, they were indeed following him, and the panic this caused made him speed up. He made it all the way to Mrs. Figg's porch, and she wasn't in the garden, he opened the garden door and entered, and then her hand reached out from where she was

Hiding? She was slouching behind the shrubbery, with a shoelace wrapped in cloth in her other hand, the one that wasn't currently wrapped around his wrist in a tight, almost hurting, grip.

"Quick—Potter—hold this—" and she thrust the shoelace at him.

"Mrs. Figg?" he asked blankly, thinking that she was acting even weirder than normal, which was really an accomplishment.

"Oh, hurry, Potter!" she shrieked, looking quite mad, and she made to thrust the shoelace into his hand, but then her hand froze.

Harry backed away slowly. Mrs. Figg was standing in the same posture, half kneeling on the dewy grass, her hand held out, as if turned to rock. The shoelace slipped from her hand and fell.

"Hello, Harry Potter," said a soft voice behind him, and he jumped and turned around.

The five masked figures were standing in the garden, holding what looked like long sticks. He could see the masks clearly now—with slits for eyes and mouth. He could see teeth in every one of the masks' slits, as if they were all smiling.

He stepped back. Mrs. Figg had asked him to take the shoelace. If the world was going mad, he might as well do what she asked him to do—

He whirled around, bending, reaching out his hand for the lace that was lying, half hiding in the grass—

And then suddenly he couldn't move either. He could feel that he was crouching on the ground, with his hand just an inch away from the lace, but he couldn't move.

"What do we do with the Muggle?"

"Oh, the Squib, I believe. Dumbledore was a fool. A Squib guard? He could have had a wizard, at least!"

"Quiet," a third voice said, with such a tone of authority that the others fell silent right away. "Take care of her."

And then someone yelled something that sounded like abracadabra and there was a brilliant green light that flashed by his ear and hit Mrs. Figg, and she slumped to the floor, suddenly released from whatever power was holding her still, except now her eyes were wide open and she wasn't breathing and he didn't want to think about what that meant—

And then someone grabbed him by the back of his neck, and his scream was cut off by a murmured word that sent him to sleep.

Whatever he was lying on felt very hard. And cold. He was cold. He opened his eyes slowly. The roof seemed to be high above him, but it was too dark to make anything out except that the place seemed to be lit by candlelight. There was a hair in his eye, and he lifted his hand to remove it, but his hands were chained.

This surprised him so much he tried to get up, but then there was a hand on his shoulder and he stilled, falling back flat. There was a white mask, and this was the first time he'd seen it up close, it reminded him of something, he couldn't remember what. He could see the man's teeth underneath the slits of the mouth area, and the man seemed to be smiling.

"You killed her," he whispered.

He felt a sharp sting on his forearm and he yelped.

"You are not to speak until spoken to—which will be extremely rare, so you might as well get accustomed to the thought of being quiet. One word out of you and we'll take that voice away permanently. Do you understand me?"

He nodded.

"What should we start with? Blood, I believe?" He seemed to be looking over his shoulder, waiting for something. Then he turned back. "This will hurt a little," he said, and he sounded happy. Harry shivered. "You're allowed to scream."

And then he lifted his shirt and pointed his wand at his stomach and he did scream, but then the man laughed and so he bit down on his lips, and chewed them, and dug his fingernails in to his palms, but refused to scream again.

He'd lost all track of time by the third time he'd woken up. There was no light in the cellar—he didn't know if it was a cellar but it felt like one. They would come and take his blood, or fingernails, or hair, or skin once. They would put images in his head, of people dying, or screaming in agony. Once one of them sat and talked, like they were friends, and then he bit his finger when he touched his cheek. He got a cut for it.

They told him he was magic, he was a wizard, and there were a lot of wizards and witches who lived together—separate from Muggles, who didn't have magic, like his Aunt and Uncle. They seemed a bit surprised that he didn't know, and then they roared in laughter, with a few mocking comments thrown in.

There were lots of liquids to drink. He puked after around the twenty-fifth, and then they made him sit up to take them. Then he got bedsores. They made him walk around the cellar with his hands tied together.

He saw an alien-like creature, a short thing with big eyes and long ears, naked, and an obsessive desire to please. There was one always watching him. Once, he'd begged it to help him escape, and it had disappeared and then another white mask appeared and Crucio'd him until he'd lost consciousness.

He knew this word, Crucio, now. It was the word that made him feel like he would die of pain.

Usually there would be just two men, sometimes three. Always the blonde man would be present. Once they gave him one of their sticks, that they called a wand and forced him to say a few odd words and this time four men were present. Another time they were all present when they Crucio'd him and his body was on fire, he'd screamed and suddenly a wave of energy had exploded out of him, sending all the men crashing into the wall. He'd thought, hoped, that they'd been killed, but they stood up immediately after without no injuries.

They'd done that two more times and then stopped.

Then they tried something else, bringing out books with weird titles on them, like 'The Dark Arts Explained', 'Curses: Unabridged', 'The Dark Lords of History'. They made him read it, asked him questions on what he'd read. Made him memorize spells. Made him perform some. Crucio'd him when he couldn't.

Once one white mask lifted up his sleeve and showed him the half-faded mark on his hand. The Dark Mark, they called it. Touch it, they said. They removed his chains. Harry touched it. His scar flared with pain, so much pain, and one of them flicked his wand to make him quiet.

They all lifted up their sleeves, and, through his slowly ebbing pain, he could see the same mark on everyone's arm.

It was somewhere into his twentieth sleep cycle—because this was the only even marginally effective way of keeping track of time, he began counting every time he woke up—that it began to dawn on him that perhaps, these people didn't quite know what they were supposed to be doing. Certainly, the things they did didn't make sense. Sometimes they were not-horrible, sometimes it was the Crucio. Sometimes they fed him; sometimes they made him go hungry. It was almost as if they wanted him to do something, but they weren't sure how to make him do it.

He wished he could do it, whatever it was. It would make his life much easier.

So he asked, once.

The blonde man had laughed. "We're trying to ascertain if you're a Dark Lord," he'd replied.

He had no way of telling time. He had no way of knowing how wildly off his estimates were. Still. It was somewhere during the first days of his captivity that he opened his eyes and saw a beautiful blonde woman standing by his rock-bed. She was looking straight ahead, as if at something else, but he hadn't dared to move his head and see what she was staring at.

She looked down then. Her eyes were blue, and cold.

Please let me go was the first thing that came into Harry's mouth, but after last time's punishment he didn't want to try saying it again. In fact, he didn't want to open his mouth at all.

"You're quite young," the woman said without any emotion at all.

He bit his lip. "So are you," he replied. The woman smiled, just a bit. Her clothes were beautiful, a dark blue, with silver hem. She was pale but only slightly. Harry wondered what he looked like. He couldn't remember the last time he had a bathe. They certainly didn't bother to wash his, although they did do something magical to keep his clothes fresh, with an aguamenti and a quick drying spell constituting a bath.

Not because they wanted to keep him clean, they'd informed him snidely. They just didn't care for the stink when they came near him.

"What day is it?" she asked.

"Does it matter?"

His heart sank.

The woman took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling. "You miss your parents?" she asked suddenly.

Harry's eyes widened. "Who are you?"

The woman's smile was mocking. "Someone who knows your parents are dead."

He was breathing fast now. "They were killed."

"Indeed." The smile was still there.

"Who are you?"

After a beat, she said, "Narcissa," and walked off. Her robe brushed by Harry's legs.

Another time, not a long while after Narcissa the blonde ghost's visit, he'd been awake and staring at the ceiling, watching the firelight play on the stone, when there had been a creak at the door, a long one, as if someone was opening the door as slowly as possible.

The white masks did not do that. They barged in or popped in and stung him with their wand to wake his if he was sleeping, or even if he wasn't. He turned slowly, wondering if it was the blonde ghost again.

It wasn't. It was a small boy, with hair so blonde it was almost silver. The boy had eyes just like the blonde man, he realized with a start, and he decided he was his son. His features were similar to the blonde ghost, too, and he felt a wave of pleasure at being able to identify at least one member of the white mask group, even if it was by relation to Narcissa the wife and this boy.

"You're messing my birthday," he told him, in a very irked sort of voice.

This statement was so out of the blue that Harry could only stare. "What?" he managed at last.

The boy stepped in further. He was probably about his age, though he was a bit shorter than his. His hair was neatly slicked down his face, and he wondered again what he looked like. His lips were curled and his chin was lifted, and if Harry had had his hands free they'd be itching to slap him. "You're messing my birthday," he repeated, as if this were a very self-explanatory sentence.

"I've no idea what you're talking about."

The thing in the corner squeaked, "Young master Malfoy must not come down here, Master Malfoy's instructions were very clear—"

"Quiet, Dobby," the boy ordered, not even looking at the thing.

Dobby, Malfoy. He filed the two names carefully in his head. The boy stepped right up to the rock-bed, and he could see only his head from his horizontal position. "My dad's in here all the time with you," he said. "It's my birthday today, and I'm sure he's forgotten. I need a new broom," he ended authoritatively.

He had no idea why he needed a broom so badly. Maybe these people had other uses for a broom. Maybe kids in here were obsessed with cleaning, like that thing, Dobby, seemed to be with following orders. "I'm sorry," he said tentatively. That seemed a good enough place to start with. "I didn't mean to."

He snorted. "Of course you didn't, you little Mudblood."

This was another term he hadn't heard of. "What's that mean?"

The condescension on his face reached epic heights. "It means a witch or wizard who has Muggle parents. Someone with impure, muddy blood. Like yours." He poked at his arm, his nose scrunched up in distaste. "You look terrible."

He tamped down on an angry retort, and instead said, "If you want me out of the way, I bet you can get me out."

He laughed, and Harry knew instantly, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, that he wouldn't be fooled that way. "And get a hiding for it from Father on my birthday? I don't think so."

He shrugged, trying not to act desperate. "Well, if you don't mind me hogging all of your father's time…"

"Shut up, Mudblood."

"I'm not a Mudblood," he said. The white masks had told him his parents were magical.

He cocked his head. "A blood traitor then. It doesn't matter. You're worthless."

He gritted his teeth. How he wanted to punch him in the face. "Well, you're an arrogant little snot of a boy."

He laughed with genuine delight. "Of course I am! I'm a Malfoy."

"And your father's a murderer."

His face went still. "What?"

He saw his nonplussed expression, and burst out laughing. "Oh, you don't know!" he laughed a little more, and he almost started to cry.

"Don't know what?" his silver eyes were flashing in anger.

"Your father is a murderer. He kills people." He choked on the word 'kill', but got it out in the end.

His jaw was working, and he was glaring at him. "It doesn't matter," he said, shrugging his shoulders and stepping away from the rock. "You're a Mudblood, or you like them."

He could feel a tear running down the side of his face as he looked at him. "Have you ever seen your father kill someone?"

He hesitated, and shook his head, jerkily, as if against his will.

He turned away from him, back to the ceiling, as if he wasn't worthy of any more attention. "Ask him to take you along the next time. Maybe he'll let you kill someone too."

There was a long, angry silence, broken by the sound of Junior Malfoy saying, as if he were very close to tears, "I hate you."

And then he rushed out the door.

It took a while for him to get his breathing back under control. When he did, he thought of the new word he'd learnt. Malfoy. Narcissa Malfoy, his son Jerk Malfoy, and his husband Murderer Malfoy. The entire family.

He could have asked Jerk what date it was. He felt regret for a second before he decided it was better he didn't know.

Murderer Malfoy's real name was revealed soon enough, in a chance conversation he overheard between him and another white mask. Lucius. Three names in all.

A/N: R&R!