10th September 17:25

Harry lurched awake. Everything hurt. His scar was burning, the intense pain fading as he pulled fully into himself. The rest of him ached, his shoulders and arms worst of all. He had let out a yell of pain, but it was strangled by something pressed tightly around his mouth and jaw. Panic pushed through the pain and the initial confusion left by the sudden consciousness.

He grew aware of his situation with tremendous horror. Wherever he was, it was dimly lit. He was upright, shoulders screaming as he shifted, finding his feet. Chains clinked as he moved. His arms were suspended above him. He could feel the bite of metal around both wrists, his entire weight supported on the shackles. The moment he pushed his feet into the ground, the relief was immediate.

He tried to open his mouth and couldn't. Terror and humiliation shot through him as he realised that he was wearing some sort of muzzle. He could feel the straps around his head and under his chin. He couldn't speak.

He could still breathe, at least. Someone had healed his broken nose. He could hear his panicked breaths whistling out his clear nostrils, no longer clogged with blood.

He was alone, which was a small comfort. It was utterly silent. The only sounds came from him: his erratic breathing, his thundering heartbeat, the dry swallowing of his throat as he tried to get some moisture down. He eased his jaw up and down as much as he could, feeling the joint pop painfully. The muzzle was very tight, the front covering his lower face, stopping just below his nose. Looking down, he could just about see the leather covering his face.

He was still without his glasses, though the room was small enough to be fairly clear to him. Directly opposite him was a door, made of solid wood and metal lattice work. He turned his head to examine the wall he was chained against. Above him was a small window, the only source of light, but like all windows in the Ministry, it was enchanted.

Looking down, he saw in alarm that the robes he had arrived in had been exchanged for pale grey robes, ones he recognised. He'd seen Sirius in ones similar, but his weren't rags. For a moment, he thought he was in the wizarding prison, but then he thought back to the vision he'd just had. No, he wasn't in Azkaban. Yaxley said that he was in the Ministry still, where he would be interrogated.

His stomach unpleasantly twisted as he recalled the most terrifying details.

I have a few days until Voldemort comes to collect. I'm pretty much dead already.

Harry looked around the small space, looking for something, anything, to distract himself from the screaming well of despair threatening to drag him under. He looked up at the chains above his head and tugged at them. Of course, they didn't budge. They were obviously enchanted. He had noticed that the manacles were each a solid ring with no clear lock or hinge.

He had no illusions. He wasn't getting out of here.

He'd never see Ron and Hermione again. Or Ginny. Or any of the Weasleys. Remus. He wouldn't be given the luxury of goodbyes. Whatever was planned for him during the next few days, he knew it would be the worst time of his life. He knew well the methods Voldemort's followers used to extract information. They weren't gentle.

The despair rose up and he lost control.

He screamed. The muzzle strangled most of the noise, but it still tore through the silence of the small cell. He poured out his misery, fear, shame and regret into that single scream, letting it loose in a loud cathartic explosion. He didn't stop there. He thrashed against his chains with all his strength, slamming the metal and his arms against the stone with loud crashes.

He strained against the manacles, getting more and more desperate, his scream dying in his throat as it tapered off into a long moan.

Then he was quiet, breathing heavily, sagging down against the wall. He hung off the manacles, shoulders burning as he held his body weight on the joints. For a moment, he remained still, listening to the rapid beat of his heart, the blood thrumming through his body. All the sounds that proved that he was alive.

For some reason that calmed him.

I'm alive, he thought, as long as I'm alive, I have to keep fighting.

With that thought, he reached up his hands, grasping hold of the chains that he hung from and dragged himself up the wall. His bare feet slid on the stone, then he steadied his legs under him.

He took a deep breath, turning his head upwards, thinking of where he might be.

Yaxley said this is where Bellatrix was kept before her trial, the thought sent a spike of revulsion through him, to think he had anything in common with her. That means that this has to be near the courtrooms, on the lower floors. Near the department of mysteries. He usually tried to not think of that place, but right now he had little time to protect himself from bad memories. His present was bad enough.

His arms started aching, so he grabbed hold of the chains and hoisted himself upright, feet taking his full body weight. Already he'd got used to the shuffle of weight, resting what he can, when he can. The instinctive body behaviours adapted in the need to survive - ones that he had already gained experience with thanks to an abusive childhood.

Though they never chained me to a wall, he thought grimly. The restriction of simple freedoms, confinement, starvation… those he did have experience in.

As the minutes stretched by, he soon understood that he had to endure something else that he had experience in - boredom. With nothing to distract him, all he could think about was the building need to use the bathroom, the aches in his back and shoulders that were starting to get unbearable, and the growing thirst. He flexed his hands often to keep the blood flow to his fingers, but they still felt numb, suspended above his head.

Something scraped against the door. He stiffened at once, planting his feet into the floor and standing to his full height. His eyes were unblinking as he stared at the door, heart racing.

The door creaked open. Two wizards entered, wearing the blue robes of Ministry security.

He heard water sloshing and saw the one on the right carrying a wooden bucket. He ranged his gaze over the pair, assessing the threat quickly. The wizard on the left wore a thick belt over his robes. Harry saw his wand stuck in the belt, as well as a bludgeon and a set of keys that jangled as he moved.

A prison guard. Who else would carry keys and a bludgeon?

The guard lingered at the far end of the cell, hand resting on the bludgeon. The wizard with the bucket approached, water splashing, nearly spilling on the floor as he walked cautiously. Harry glanced over, noticing a metal handle sticking out the bucket. Some sort of ladle, he wondered.

He was very thirsty.

"Potter," the guard at the door spoke. Harry's eyes instantly darted back to him at the sound of his name. "My name is Sabor, head guard of the Row."

Harry had never heard of the Row before now. He assumed that it was the nickname for the holding cells that he knew he was detained within.

"As you've no doubt noticed, you've been sentenced to forced silence during your stay at the Row," he drawled, voice reverberating oddly in the small room. Harry huffed out an angry breath at the term 'forced silence'.

That's one way to describe it.

"However, all prisoners in the Row must receive a daily water ration. So you see we're at a bit of an impasse."

The water bearer put the bucket down at Harry's feet. Harry glanced down, seeing his distorted reflection in the disturbed surface. He could see the extended shape of his suspended body, the black shock of hair and the tan leather muzzle covering half his face. His raised his head from his reflection

"Berrick needs to remove your silencer to give you your water, so let me give you time to think carefully about what you do when he does." Sabor's hand rubbed over the handle of his bludgeon. "You can act civil, remain calm and quiet. If you do, you'll get your water and that's that. But… if you act like an asshole, you get no water. You'll go thirsty… and bruised." He patted his bludgeon.

Sabor gave a sigh and gestured to the water bearer. "I think he gets it. Give him his water."

The water bearer, the man the guard called Berrick, shuffled up to Harry. He reached up to his head, causing Harry to instinctively cower back. He felt his fingers fiddling with the strap at the back of his head, then felt something go loose. The muzzle dropped down, coming to rest at the base of his neck. He sucked in a deep breath.

I need the water, he thought, glancing down at the bucket. Making these men angry with me would be a pointless exercise… even if it would feel good.

"Good. So far, so good," appraised Sabor, "told you he'd listen."

Berrick, reached down to the ladle handle. The end of the ladle was more like a metal cup than a spoon. He pulled it out, spilling a little. The spilled water splashed Harry's bare toes.

He raised the cup to Harry's mouth. The metal butted against Harry's lips and a little water spilled over his chin. His face burned with shame, but swallowed the water eagerly. It tasted metallic, but was still thirst quenching. The guard tilted it down at a good pace, showing that he'd done this a few times. When it was down to the last drop, he took it away.

"Th… thank you," Harry said quietly.

Berrick jerked a little at the sound of Harry's voice, then put the ladle back into the bucket. Harry noticed that the man was trying very hard to not look at his face.

He then grew aware of a noise out in the hallway beyond the cell. He looked up. Sabor noticed the sound as well, rising from his lounging position at the back wall, moving to the doorway - where a man in black robes appeared.

Sabor took an involuntary step back away from the newcomer. The atmosphere shifted at once. The man swept his gaze over the cell, seeing Harry at the back wall, frozen with fear, seeing the water bearer similarly frozen, and the headguard who was gaping at him in shock and guilt.

"Why is Potter unsilenced?"

The question was answered with a stilted silence. The man entered the cell, his black robes audibly swishing as he moved. Harry recognised the man from somewhere, hurriedly trying to put a name to that face. He knew with certainty that the man was a Death Eater.

Sabor recovered from his shock, nervously straightening and moving aside for the Death Eater to enter.

"To receive his water ration, Mr Rookwood."

Rookwood. He was Augustus Rookwood. A wave of dismay and anger swept through Harry as he regarded the man's pock-scarred face and long grey hair. Rookwood had once been an Unspeakable of the Department of Mysteries, a spy within the Ministry before his arrest at the word of Karkaroff's testimony. He was clearly a proficient wizard and a very dangerous person to be within wand-distance of Harry.

Sabor shot a warning look to Berrick, who quickly moved away from Harry, grasping the handle of the bucket as he did to clear the way.

Rookwood paused, regarding Sabor with a stony look. The guard swallowed and explained, "Ah… you see, sir, I'm under orders to make sure all prisoners receive a water ration," he said hurriedly, "as a prisoner in the Row, he's entitled to a cup a day."

"Under orders?" Rookwood gave the man a quick glance. "From whom?"

"Well… the Minister."

"I see," he glanced at the water bearer, who kept his head bowed, "I assume you have finished?"

"Y...yes," Berrick muttered.

"Then silence the boy and get out," Rookwood said.

The man put down the bucket and hurried over to Harry. As his fingers gripped the muzzle, Harry flinched, turning his head away. He saw a guilty expression flash over the man's face as he pulled the muzzle back up over Harry's mouth and chin, before retightening the strap. Harry let out a sound as he felt the muzzle pull tight, trapping his jaw in place once again.

The water bearer ducked away, moving as fast as he could to get away from the Death Eater.

"Wait."

The water bearer paused, flinching as he went to pick up the bucket. Water splashed onto the stone.

"Did he speak to you?" Rookwood asked in a monotone, disinterested voice. The man straightened, staring at the man with a slack expression.

"Uh, well," he glanced at Sabor, who was pointedly looking away, "he said thank you."

There was an unpleasant silence as the water bearer lowered his gaze, breathing heavily. Rookwood reached into his robes, as if going for his wand, then he stopped, hands going still by his side.

"So you can keep a civil tongue, Potter," he mused, "very well, Sabor. I will allow only one exception for touching the silencer, but if I learn that he becomes more talkative, we will need to revise this ration rule."

Berrick let out a gasp of relief. Harry watched with horror. He nearly killed that man by just saying 'thank you'.

"Now leave. It is time for me to give Potter a ration of a different kind."