Harry woke up on the floor of a dark, cold room. His whole head was in
agony, and as he touched it he felt a big bump over his right ear. There
was some dried blood as well. He tried to sit up, but someone pushed him
down roughly. "Stay down, Potter," said a cold and heavily accented voice
sharply. Harry did so, partly because it was less work than sitting or
standing, and partly because the hand was still pushing him down.
"Where am I?" Harry muttered, more to himself than to the cold voiced person. However, the person answered.
"You in our world, Potter, Lord Voldemort's world. You are in his cells under his new and secret fortress to the puny efforts of the 'Order'." He put the last word in the same tone that Aunt Petunia used when describing a particularly hard-to-rid piece of dirt on her beloved walls.
"Who are you?" asked Harry quizzically. He wondered whether or not the man would answer him.
"My name is Orthopedis. I am Spanish." He said shortly. "I am Dark Lord's jail keeper. Don' ask any more queschinks, okay?"
Harry grunted in reply; he had a splitting headache adding together with the rest of his body in fiery pain, he could hardly get any words out as it was. He slumped down into the most comfortable position on the cold, hard floor he could and tried falling asleep, dwelling on Orthopedis' words. ". . . secret fortress to the puny efforts of the Order. . . . Dark Lord's jail keeper." Meaning he was Voldemort's prisoner. He was good as dead. . . . Unless he could escape, of course. . . . But that seemed out of the option; hadn't Orthopedis said that he was in a different world, meaning a different dimension? After a few minutes of these comforting thoughts chasing each other around in his head, Harry finally fell into an uneasy sleep.
Harry woke up several hours later, to the snores of Orthopedis. It must have been the middle of the night. Harry got up quietly, edged to the wall, and felt around in the semi-darkness for the door. It wasn't completely dark because the light of a big moon shown from an overhead window. Harry finally located the door and turned the handle. To his surprise it was unlocked, and he tiptoed through it.
Harry's immediate reaction was of stepping into a wind tunnel. His eyes immediately began to water, and his ears were filled with a rushing sound. He let his hands fall and they began to fly backwards in the powerful, gale- like, force eight winds. He squinted his eyes and looked around.
He was on a bare, dry beach head; he must have been near water. And speaking of water, Harry hadn't had anything to eat or drink since lunch in Privet Drive.
Glancing about to check if Orthopedis had woken (which he hadn't) he ran to the edge of the water, which was surprisingly close to him. He knelt down and tried a bit of it. It tasted like heaven to him; it was cold and slightly sweet, and quenched his thirst after a few mouthfuls. Harry looked up and realized that dawn was approaching; the sky was changing from deep black to the red-pink light of a breaking dawn.
Harry returned quickly to the room he had left from, and just in time, as Orthopedis woke moments after his return. Harry quickly feigned sleep, and Orthopedis left for a few moments, returning with some food for himself. He shook Harry awake.
"Up, Potter! You go to my master now! He speak to you today!"
Harry rose again, but not with the easiness he had risen with last time; his legs weren't sure if they were made lead or jelly, they were alternating between the two of them, so Harry had difficulty walking out after Orthopedis. He noticed that the sky was still pinkish-red; it must still be dawn.
Harry was led out onto the beach, still gusting with the ever-present wind, and followed Orthopedis across it to a large stone building with wooden doors towering at least thirty feet into the air. As they approached the building Harry's scar gave a searing pain, making his eyes momentarily water. The pain lessened slightly after a second, but still continued on.
Orthopedis approached the doors and spread his hands wide and the doors opened smoothly and noiselessly. Harry thought he heard something murmur quietly, but straining his ears he caught nothing.
As Harry and Orthopedis walked into the room, many lights and torches suddenly flickered on, lighting the room more efficiently than a battery of Muggle light fixtures.
Harry looked around at the room. It was a huge room, bigger than the Great Hall at Hogwarts, with a vaulted ceiling (though no fake sky in it) and fireplaces lining it. Each fireplace, Harry noticed, had a small snake engraved on it, and there was a banner with Voldemort's sign, the Dark Mark, which hung from the ceiling on an enormous wall like some grisly tapestry.
In the center of the room was a chair, and in the chair, sitting with cold, basilisk, red eyes that didn't ever blink, with long white fingers caressing a wand, was Lord Voldemort himself.
Harry's scar seared with pain as Voldemort smiled his thin, lipless, mirthless smile. He beckoned with his hand.
"Come, Harry Potter . . ." he whispered.
Two Death Eaters grabbed Harry from behind, pinned his hands to his sides, and marched him over to Voldemort.
Voldemort stared deep into Harry's eyes, and Harry tried to block out his mind and do whatever precious Occlumency he had ever learned from all his hated, if necessary, lessons with Snape, but it was harder than usual because his scar was now searing with pain so sharply it was making his eyes tear. Suddenly Voldemort dropped his gaze, but his face was full of quiet triumph.
"So, Harry, my prophecy was destroyed . . . So, it was lost in the Ministry of Magic, Harry . . . Answer me . . . that is not the truth, is it, Harry . . . , you have heard it from somewhere. . . . Perhaps you wish to tell us, before I am forced to persuade you to— "
"NEVER!" shouted Harry suddenly, breaking free of his captors. "You'll never hear it!"
"Harry," said Voldemort calmly, quite unperturbed by Harry's outburst. "Harry, you do not want to know what I can do to people who block information from me . . . I can torture anything out of anyone, Harry. . . . You will be extremely easy. . . .
"Let go of him, Macnair," said Voldemort, cutting into his own thoughts, it seemed.
"Stand up, Mr. Potter. . . . I am going to show you a small percentage of my power. . . ."
Harry stood up, wincing as his scar seared with pain, and he bit his lip to stop himself from screaming out loud, and braced himself for whatever Voldemort had in store for him. . . .
Voldemort did not say anything. He merely raised his hands at Harry and pointed his long fingers at his forehead.
"Aaaaauugh!" yelled Harry. Pain and agony like he had never experienced before had suddenly coursed through his whole body, but instead of going away, it built up higher and higher until he screamed. The pain was everywhere at once. His shoulders were being pressed back until they felt like they were touching . . . his hands and arms burned as if hot wires had been suddenly pressed against them. . . .
"Aaaaaaauugh!" Harry screamed in pain and terror again, as wave after wave of pain hit him. His bones felt like they were breaking, while his head would surely split open. . . . It was worse than the Cruciatus Curse by far. In fact the Cruciatus Curse would be welcome compared to this. His vision was starting to go hazy and his eyes swam. His legs were twisting off. . . .
Voldemort's face pulled on a look of deep concentration and Harry let out fresh shrieks and groans of pain as a new spell hit him. He rose a few inches off the ground as he felt his shoulders being stretched apart, while his legs felt as if they were going to crack off . . . he was choking for breath, but his lungs felt like they had been punctured. . . .
His arms were rising on their own accord and flew back as a bolt of light hit his chest and started to burn away his shirt. Harry, gasping for breath and groaning feebly, felt the curse beginning to lift away. . . .
Harry dropped to the ground in a heap and lay motionless at Voldemort's feet. Voldemort looked at him coolly through his emotionless red eyes.
"What that enough, Harry?" he asked in a low purr, with as much venom as it was possible to inject into any voice.
"Too much perhaps. . . . That was only a small sample of my powers. . . . I can show you them later on, though I doubt you would live through them . . . so . . . the Boy Who Lived will not live into next week. . . ."
On the floor, with every bone and ligament burning with pain and his head feeling shattered, Harry could hardly hear what Voldemort was saying, but his last sentence had hit home . . . he had one week to live. . . . Harry blacked out.
* * *
Harry woke several hours later, back in the dark room where he was kept prisoner. It currently was gloomy and dark, lit only by the skylight above. The skylight, thought Harry, it's shining through red light. But, no . . . it couldn't be dawn still, could it? Then it dawned on him— the sky was red.
He looked up again, and sure enough, the sky was shining a deep blood red that didn't completely penetrate the dirty skylight.
Orthopedis was back in his chair, dozing again. He seemed to be a very sleepy man, and Harry wondered why he had been put as a guard. Unless Voldemort expected him to get out. . . .
Harry stuck his hand into his back pocket and winced; his wrist seemed to be broken. He looked at it and touched it gingerly. Pain shot up his arm. It definitely was broken. But Harry almost laughed in relief; Voldemort's torture had only led to a simple broken wrist and bruises, if he didn't count the headache he still possessed.
The wrist wouldn't be a problem, he thought, because Voldemort, with all of his wisdom and smartness, had forgotten to deprive Harry of his only weapon— his wand.
Harry reached his other hand into his pocket and took out his wand. He tapped the other wrist lightly and circled the wand around it, the way he had once seen in his Defense Against the Dark Arts book that Lupin and Sirius had given him, and the pain went away as a blue light shone from the wand tip, healing his wrist.
Suddenly Harry felt new again, but very angry. Voldemort has no right to do this, he told himself. Harry stood straight as he felt magic and power course through his body, quite like Phoenix tears, and he felt invigorated as he waved his wand at Orthopedis, making him crash off his chair.
For a second Harry stared, but then his face broke into a half-smile; Orthopedis hadn't even woken up from the fall, he was still quite asleep.
Knowing the Ministry wouldn't punish him for underage magic; Harry crept past him to the door, whispered, "Alohomora," and walked gently from the room.
The wind blew fiercely at him, scaring him for a second, and making his eyes water, be he was back on the beach, and, taking care not to be seen, he walked softly out onto the sand in the general direction opposite of which he had taken earlier that morning; he wound up in the same place he had come to before, so he retraced and this time went the opposite way.
If you could call it a 'way', thought Harry. Just out of eyesight was a chasm, and endless looking chasm that stretched for what seemed like miles, all the way out of view, and at least thirty feet wide at the narrowest parts. Harry made sure not to get too near to the edge, knowing that the wind could push him to a very certain death. . . . Harry shivered a little.
Dark was falling, and Harry started back for the cells where he was kept, he hoped that Orthopedis was still sleeping. . . .
He was. Harry tiptoed into the room and noticed for the first time that Orthopedis snored. Snored loudly. Very loudly. Harry probably would have had trouble hearing himself yell if wished to. He also noticed for the first time that there was a small window out of which what was clearly a small, square building that for some strange reason sent shudders up and down Harry's spine like a centipede with a hundred icy feet on its hundred icy legs stomping on his back.
He shivered involuntarily. The building had a dark aura of evil to it . . . he could almost sense the darkness coming from it bellowing out like a dark cloud. He could just make the outline of a small door that for some reason had a cast-iron looking bar locking it, though it was twinkling innocently, so Harry thought that it probably had something extremely important in it. He also recognized the fact that Muggle weapons would be hard put to knock it down, though Harry wondered which Muggles would ever come here.
A sudden movement at the corner of his eye alerted him, and Harry ran back as quickly and quietly as he could into the cell, where he hastily stuck his wand up his sleeve and sat on the ground. Orthopedis woke up as soon as Harry got down, and he did not seem to be puzzled or perturbed as to why he had been on the ground, just annoyed that he was on it.
There was a sharp tap on the door, and Harry's scar burst into searing pain, making his eyes water from the stinging, and making him bite his lip to stop any signs of pain for Voldemort to see, for it surely was him.
It was. Voldemort stepped into the room and flicked his fingers. Bright lights suddenly shone in the room, lighting it as superbly as the hall where he had tortured Harry.
"That's right, Harry . . ." said Voldemort, staring at him, "it is light so you can be seen easily and cannot escape. . . .
"Now, to business . . . I showed you, let us say, the finger of my power this morning, and I am showing you now my fist. . . . I warn you, Potter, this might be slightly — er — unpleasant. . . ."
Harry's scar was bursting with pain, and he tried to take a deep breath, but found himself paralyzed with horror at what Voldemort had just said. The fist of his power . . . the first torture had only been a finger. . . .
Before Voldemort could do anything, Harry pulled out his wand and yelled, Expelliarmus!"
"Protego!" yelled Voldemort quickly, sending Harry's spell rebounding upon him. Harry ducked and Voldemort yelled, "Crucio!"
But Harry dodged it, and heard the spell smash into the wall, sending up a shower of dust. Harry raised his wand and yelled, "Stupefy!"
There was a blinding flash of white light, and a loud crack rent the air. Harry turned about in spite of himself just in time to catch a spell in the face, and he began to lose consciousness. As he fell, he dimly heard someone say, "Ach!" and felt something pick him up easily and carry him away. . . .
* * *
"Where am I?" Harry muttered, more to himself than to the cold voiced person. However, the person answered.
"You in our world, Potter, Lord Voldemort's world. You are in his cells under his new and secret fortress to the puny efforts of the 'Order'." He put the last word in the same tone that Aunt Petunia used when describing a particularly hard-to-rid piece of dirt on her beloved walls.
"Who are you?" asked Harry quizzically. He wondered whether or not the man would answer him.
"My name is Orthopedis. I am Spanish." He said shortly. "I am Dark Lord's jail keeper. Don' ask any more queschinks, okay?"
Harry grunted in reply; he had a splitting headache adding together with the rest of his body in fiery pain, he could hardly get any words out as it was. He slumped down into the most comfortable position on the cold, hard floor he could and tried falling asleep, dwelling on Orthopedis' words. ". . . secret fortress to the puny efforts of the Order. . . . Dark Lord's jail keeper." Meaning he was Voldemort's prisoner. He was good as dead. . . . Unless he could escape, of course. . . . But that seemed out of the option; hadn't Orthopedis said that he was in a different world, meaning a different dimension? After a few minutes of these comforting thoughts chasing each other around in his head, Harry finally fell into an uneasy sleep.
Harry woke up several hours later, to the snores of Orthopedis. It must have been the middle of the night. Harry got up quietly, edged to the wall, and felt around in the semi-darkness for the door. It wasn't completely dark because the light of a big moon shown from an overhead window. Harry finally located the door and turned the handle. To his surprise it was unlocked, and he tiptoed through it.
Harry's immediate reaction was of stepping into a wind tunnel. His eyes immediately began to water, and his ears were filled with a rushing sound. He let his hands fall and they began to fly backwards in the powerful, gale- like, force eight winds. He squinted his eyes and looked around.
He was on a bare, dry beach head; he must have been near water. And speaking of water, Harry hadn't had anything to eat or drink since lunch in Privet Drive.
Glancing about to check if Orthopedis had woken (which he hadn't) he ran to the edge of the water, which was surprisingly close to him. He knelt down and tried a bit of it. It tasted like heaven to him; it was cold and slightly sweet, and quenched his thirst after a few mouthfuls. Harry looked up and realized that dawn was approaching; the sky was changing from deep black to the red-pink light of a breaking dawn.
Harry returned quickly to the room he had left from, and just in time, as Orthopedis woke moments after his return. Harry quickly feigned sleep, and Orthopedis left for a few moments, returning with some food for himself. He shook Harry awake.
"Up, Potter! You go to my master now! He speak to you today!"
Harry rose again, but not with the easiness he had risen with last time; his legs weren't sure if they were made lead or jelly, they were alternating between the two of them, so Harry had difficulty walking out after Orthopedis. He noticed that the sky was still pinkish-red; it must still be dawn.
Harry was led out onto the beach, still gusting with the ever-present wind, and followed Orthopedis across it to a large stone building with wooden doors towering at least thirty feet into the air. As they approached the building Harry's scar gave a searing pain, making his eyes momentarily water. The pain lessened slightly after a second, but still continued on.
Orthopedis approached the doors and spread his hands wide and the doors opened smoothly and noiselessly. Harry thought he heard something murmur quietly, but straining his ears he caught nothing.
As Harry and Orthopedis walked into the room, many lights and torches suddenly flickered on, lighting the room more efficiently than a battery of Muggle light fixtures.
Harry looked around at the room. It was a huge room, bigger than the Great Hall at Hogwarts, with a vaulted ceiling (though no fake sky in it) and fireplaces lining it. Each fireplace, Harry noticed, had a small snake engraved on it, and there was a banner with Voldemort's sign, the Dark Mark, which hung from the ceiling on an enormous wall like some grisly tapestry.
In the center of the room was a chair, and in the chair, sitting with cold, basilisk, red eyes that didn't ever blink, with long white fingers caressing a wand, was Lord Voldemort himself.
Harry's scar seared with pain as Voldemort smiled his thin, lipless, mirthless smile. He beckoned with his hand.
"Come, Harry Potter . . ." he whispered.
Two Death Eaters grabbed Harry from behind, pinned his hands to his sides, and marched him over to Voldemort.
Voldemort stared deep into Harry's eyes, and Harry tried to block out his mind and do whatever precious Occlumency he had ever learned from all his hated, if necessary, lessons with Snape, but it was harder than usual because his scar was now searing with pain so sharply it was making his eyes tear. Suddenly Voldemort dropped his gaze, but his face was full of quiet triumph.
"So, Harry, my prophecy was destroyed . . . So, it was lost in the Ministry of Magic, Harry . . . Answer me . . . that is not the truth, is it, Harry . . . , you have heard it from somewhere. . . . Perhaps you wish to tell us, before I am forced to persuade you to— "
"NEVER!" shouted Harry suddenly, breaking free of his captors. "You'll never hear it!"
"Harry," said Voldemort calmly, quite unperturbed by Harry's outburst. "Harry, you do not want to know what I can do to people who block information from me . . . I can torture anything out of anyone, Harry. . . . You will be extremely easy. . . .
"Let go of him, Macnair," said Voldemort, cutting into his own thoughts, it seemed.
"Stand up, Mr. Potter. . . . I am going to show you a small percentage of my power. . . ."
Harry stood up, wincing as his scar seared with pain, and he bit his lip to stop himself from screaming out loud, and braced himself for whatever Voldemort had in store for him. . . .
Voldemort did not say anything. He merely raised his hands at Harry and pointed his long fingers at his forehead.
"Aaaaauugh!" yelled Harry. Pain and agony like he had never experienced before had suddenly coursed through his whole body, but instead of going away, it built up higher and higher until he screamed. The pain was everywhere at once. His shoulders were being pressed back until they felt like they were touching . . . his hands and arms burned as if hot wires had been suddenly pressed against them. . . .
"Aaaaaaauugh!" Harry screamed in pain and terror again, as wave after wave of pain hit him. His bones felt like they were breaking, while his head would surely split open. . . . It was worse than the Cruciatus Curse by far. In fact the Cruciatus Curse would be welcome compared to this. His vision was starting to go hazy and his eyes swam. His legs were twisting off. . . .
Voldemort's face pulled on a look of deep concentration and Harry let out fresh shrieks and groans of pain as a new spell hit him. He rose a few inches off the ground as he felt his shoulders being stretched apart, while his legs felt as if they were going to crack off . . . he was choking for breath, but his lungs felt like they had been punctured. . . .
His arms were rising on their own accord and flew back as a bolt of light hit his chest and started to burn away his shirt. Harry, gasping for breath and groaning feebly, felt the curse beginning to lift away. . . .
Harry dropped to the ground in a heap and lay motionless at Voldemort's feet. Voldemort looked at him coolly through his emotionless red eyes.
"What that enough, Harry?" he asked in a low purr, with as much venom as it was possible to inject into any voice.
"Too much perhaps. . . . That was only a small sample of my powers. . . . I can show you them later on, though I doubt you would live through them . . . so . . . the Boy Who Lived will not live into next week. . . ."
On the floor, with every bone and ligament burning with pain and his head feeling shattered, Harry could hardly hear what Voldemort was saying, but his last sentence had hit home . . . he had one week to live. . . . Harry blacked out.
* * *
Harry woke several hours later, back in the dark room where he was kept prisoner. It currently was gloomy and dark, lit only by the skylight above. The skylight, thought Harry, it's shining through red light. But, no . . . it couldn't be dawn still, could it? Then it dawned on him— the sky was red.
He looked up again, and sure enough, the sky was shining a deep blood red that didn't completely penetrate the dirty skylight.
Orthopedis was back in his chair, dozing again. He seemed to be a very sleepy man, and Harry wondered why he had been put as a guard. Unless Voldemort expected him to get out. . . .
Harry stuck his hand into his back pocket and winced; his wrist seemed to be broken. He looked at it and touched it gingerly. Pain shot up his arm. It definitely was broken. But Harry almost laughed in relief; Voldemort's torture had only led to a simple broken wrist and bruises, if he didn't count the headache he still possessed.
The wrist wouldn't be a problem, he thought, because Voldemort, with all of his wisdom and smartness, had forgotten to deprive Harry of his only weapon— his wand.
Harry reached his other hand into his pocket and took out his wand. He tapped the other wrist lightly and circled the wand around it, the way he had once seen in his Defense Against the Dark Arts book that Lupin and Sirius had given him, and the pain went away as a blue light shone from the wand tip, healing his wrist.
Suddenly Harry felt new again, but very angry. Voldemort has no right to do this, he told himself. Harry stood straight as he felt magic and power course through his body, quite like Phoenix tears, and he felt invigorated as he waved his wand at Orthopedis, making him crash off his chair.
For a second Harry stared, but then his face broke into a half-smile; Orthopedis hadn't even woken up from the fall, he was still quite asleep.
Knowing the Ministry wouldn't punish him for underage magic; Harry crept past him to the door, whispered, "Alohomora," and walked gently from the room.
The wind blew fiercely at him, scaring him for a second, and making his eyes water, be he was back on the beach, and, taking care not to be seen, he walked softly out onto the sand in the general direction opposite of which he had taken earlier that morning; he wound up in the same place he had come to before, so he retraced and this time went the opposite way.
If you could call it a 'way', thought Harry. Just out of eyesight was a chasm, and endless looking chasm that stretched for what seemed like miles, all the way out of view, and at least thirty feet wide at the narrowest parts. Harry made sure not to get too near to the edge, knowing that the wind could push him to a very certain death. . . . Harry shivered a little.
Dark was falling, and Harry started back for the cells where he was kept, he hoped that Orthopedis was still sleeping. . . .
He was. Harry tiptoed into the room and noticed for the first time that Orthopedis snored. Snored loudly. Very loudly. Harry probably would have had trouble hearing himself yell if wished to. He also noticed for the first time that there was a small window out of which what was clearly a small, square building that for some strange reason sent shudders up and down Harry's spine like a centipede with a hundred icy feet on its hundred icy legs stomping on his back.
He shivered involuntarily. The building had a dark aura of evil to it . . . he could almost sense the darkness coming from it bellowing out like a dark cloud. He could just make the outline of a small door that for some reason had a cast-iron looking bar locking it, though it was twinkling innocently, so Harry thought that it probably had something extremely important in it. He also recognized the fact that Muggle weapons would be hard put to knock it down, though Harry wondered which Muggles would ever come here.
A sudden movement at the corner of his eye alerted him, and Harry ran back as quickly and quietly as he could into the cell, where he hastily stuck his wand up his sleeve and sat on the ground. Orthopedis woke up as soon as Harry got down, and he did not seem to be puzzled or perturbed as to why he had been on the ground, just annoyed that he was on it.
There was a sharp tap on the door, and Harry's scar burst into searing pain, making his eyes water from the stinging, and making him bite his lip to stop any signs of pain for Voldemort to see, for it surely was him.
It was. Voldemort stepped into the room and flicked his fingers. Bright lights suddenly shone in the room, lighting it as superbly as the hall where he had tortured Harry.
"That's right, Harry . . ." said Voldemort, staring at him, "it is light so you can be seen easily and cannot escape. . . .
"Now, to business . . . I showed you, let us say, the finger of my power this morning, and I am showing you now my fist. . . . I warn you, Potter, this might be slightly — er — unpleasant. . . ."
Harry's scar was bursting with pain, and he tried to take a deep breath, but found himself paralyzed with horror at what Voldemort had just said. The fist of his power . . . the first torture had only been a finger. . . .
Before Voldemort could do anything, Harry pulled out his wand and yelled, Expelliarmus!"
"Protego!" yelled Voldemort quickly, sending Harry's spell rebounding upon him. Harry ducked and Voldemort yelled, "Crucio!"
But Harry dodged it, and heard the spell smash into the wall, sending up a shower of dust. Harry raised his wand and yelled, "Stupefy!"
There was a blinding flash of white light, and a loud crack rent the air. Harry turned about in spite of himself just in time to catch a spell in the face, and he began to lose consciousness. As he fell, he dimly heard someone say, "Ach!" and felt something pick him up easily and carry him away. . . .
* * *