Chapter 9: Bloody Draco
Harry opened the package when he was back up in his room, carefully and slowly, still not sure that he should be doing it. Ron's words kept coming back to him, about how Harry didn't trust anybody and it was going to cost him one day. "Shouldn't've trusted Moody in Fourth Year," Harry muttered. No. If he failed to do what he was supposed to do, it would more likely be because he trusted the wrong people, not because he failed to trust. Only time would tell which it would be.
Harry shook his head and pulled a book out of the box. It was a thin paperback titled Procclumency-Not just for Hippie-Witches Anymore done up with lavender and pink swirly designs on the front. Harry flipped it over to see a moving picture on the back of a healthy-sized woman with long hair in braids and a ring on every finger. Her eyes were squinted in a smile and her curving mouth seemed echoed in the second and third folds of her chin. Harry studied her for a minute, thinking he'd never seen anyone quite like her before. Then he read the short blurb beside the picture.
"My friend, Evangelina Wickham, turned down my efforts to publish her memoirs for years, until now. She was the founder of the 'Procclumency for All' American movement in the Sixties and pioneered the projecting of happiness for those with lives that have been far too draining or fraught with difficulty. These techniques are enjoying resurgence among Wizarding Psychics and Psychologists, who enjoy being able to help people grasp immediately at a better life. Read and use her techniques in your own life and find out why Procclumency is not just for Hippies anymore!"
Harry was puzzled. He flipped open the inside cover of the book and noted that it was indeed published back in the mid-eighties. The editor had obviously been erroneous in thinking that Procclumency's resurgence would bring it into the mainstream. From what Harry had seen, the Wizarding world didn't take to new things very well.
He flipped through its pages, noting the chapter titles of: Healing with Happiness, Dealing out the Doldrums and Confunding the Cruciatus.
Harry stopped at the chapter on Confunding the Cruciatus and scanned the first paragraphs:
It's never smart to assume someone is completely healed from a curse as painful as the Cruciatus. It may leave no outer marks on the body, but it does leave them on the mind. Many patients who suffered under the onslaught of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his followers were treated for nerve and muscle damage, but were unable to overcome the psychic aftermath of the pain.
Procclumency has been used successfully by me and other trained Procclumists to relieve mental suffering and can, in some cases, even reverse the damaged thought processes produced by the curses. You might be asking yourself, 'how can thought processes be damaged?' Prolonged pain can burn out the connective tissues in the brain, effectively short-circuiting the normal thinking process. Thus they are trapped in the thoughts that fit in the narrow loop of healthy tissue. Of course, some have a narrower loop than others.
Some people simply lose memories; some of them lose personality; and some become incapable of normal life, living in depression and isolation. Others are so damaged as to be mentally incompetent. Procclumency can feed them new thoughts, healing thoughts, that will bring relief and start widening that loop again. I've proven it to many skeptical colleagues, and I can prove it to you, too!
Harry had first thought of himself, but the effects of the Cruciatus on him had been limited. His immediate afterthought was of the Longbottoms and all that they had endured. Was this slightly-dotty witch saying that the Longbottoms could be healed by Procclumency? And what exactly was Procclumency?
Harry pulled a folded parchment out of the bottom of the box, noting the familiar script of Lupin as he opened it.
Harry,
We are becoming regular correspondents these days, aren't we? I do hope you think of me as someone you can trust and someone you can talk to if you need it. I know Sirius held that place in your heart, but we must go on and do as we can since he is no longer here.
Again, Lupin's words hurt, but Harry continued reading.
I sent you this book after having a sudden inspiration and speaking at length with Dumbledore concerning it. I had heard of this obscure branch of healing arts when I was in school, from your mother, no less. She was hardly the type to be interested in new fads, but always felt horribly for those who were incapacitated by torture in the war. She talked for some time about being a mediwitch, before things grew to be so very dangerous for her and Prongs.
This book wasn't hers, I'm afraid, and I don't know that she would endorse it, as it is rather silly, but it was the only such tome I could find on short notice. And it does seem to give enough of the basics for you to understand and to practice.
My thoughts are thus: Occlumency is the better choice for defensive posturing against Voldemort's attacks on your mind. However, this type of defense is difficult and a time-consuming art to learn, as you have no doubt discovered. Many wizards and witches are simply not able to do it. Occlumency came easily to me because of the great measure of things I was forced to hide during my lifetime. I suspect that Severus was the same way.
Your personality, Harry, is splendidly different from mine and one that I would think is not naturally disposed toward learning Occlumency. I do not say that you can NOT learn it. In fact, looking back on the recent attack on Privet Drive, I find myself wondering if you didn't dodge the majority of curses by Sensing, albeit unknowingly. However, we do not have the luxury of time to explore this right now. Continue your efforts at Sensing and at clearing your mind, both of which will help you. And Occlumency will eventually become the shield you need it to be.
Until then, Procclumency may help.
The plus side of your personality, Harry, is that you are a person of great and varied emotion. Despite seeming like a downfall at times, it is a strength that can be used against Voldemort, especially in the circumstance you now find yourself in: being connected to him through your mind. He has used this connection against you, through the pain in your scar and the visions. I say now, use it against him.
Dumbledore apprised me that it was your thoughts of Sirius which forced Voldemort from you when you were possessed in the Ministry.
Harry broke off from reading to grimace. How many people knew about that? He had told Ginny for some reason, but that didn't mean he wanted everyone to know.
So much the better. Procclumency is the projection of your thoughts and feelings into the mind of another. I would not be surprised at all to find out that you are naturally inclined toward it, as your mother was. If you are, and you are able to disturb or, even better, harm Tom by projecting your feelings and memories of love and goodness onto him, who is the very essence of evil, then you will have an advantage.
Read this book and follow the directions in Chapter Two: Laying Out the Logistics. Besides having quite a gift for alliterating her chapter titles, this witch shows the benchmarks of being a good teacher. You should be able to make progress immediately.
After you arrive safely at the Burrow safely next week, I will come by and discuss the text with you. I hope it will prove to be as helpful as I think it might.
As always,
Remus
Harry felt a grim smile on his face. Did Voldemort feel pain through their connection from him? He'd never considered it before, but it was quite possibly true. So then, if Harry were to be near Voldemort and not only feel strong, loving things but also to project those things onto Voldemort . . . .
Yes. It might give him an advantage, a desperately needed one.
Harry got right to work, reading voraciously, sometimes laughing out loud at the witch's strange ideas, but often finding something to grasp onto and absorb it into his thinking. He heard distantly as Vernon arrived home, Dudley emerged from his room and all three of the Dursleys gathered downstairs in the kitchen without him. He couldn't hear what was being said, but surely it was discussion about the agreement they had wrought from the Wizarding World-the blackmail, to be more to the point.
Harry paused in his reading. If Bill was right, then tonight was his last night in the house with Vernon and Dudley. They would be leaving tomorrow for the new house, on Harry's birthday no less. There were probably wizards hard at work right now getting the new house ready, re-placing wards that would be needed to protect Petunia. Even though Harry wouldn't ever live there, as long as Petunia named Harry's home as being with her, then the blood magic was in place. He would be safe at Hogwarts during school, and wouldn't be adrift of the magic until next summer, when Petunia and Vernon had decreed that he would not return home.
Harry breathed in deeply, trying to force out that small, but deep pang coming from the part of him that still wanted the Dursleys to care for him, even just a little bit. He'd ignored it for years, but recent events had forced him to recognize it-and try to stomp it into nothingness. Things were never going to change between them now.
As dinnertime came, Harry felt reluctant to go downstairs. He was perfectly happy when he heard the catflap open and a piece of bland pizza was put through on a plate.
"Is it-?"
"Homemade," came the lifeless answer.
Harry, relieved, inhaled the pizza as he finished reading.
Really, Procclumency was very simple magic. It started out the same way as Occlumency, with clearing the mind. Evangelina likened it to putting up a projection screen in your mind, like the ones used in the Muggle School Harry had attended. Then, instead of trying to block everything out, choosing one memory and focusing on it, almost as if you were going to cast a Patronus.
Of course, the author seemed sure that her readers wouldn't have been able to produce a fully-corporeal Patronus, so she just cast that out as if it were useless information, but Harry grasped onto it eagerly. At last-something he was good at.
The exercise she suggested was focusing on your chosen memory and filling it with colors, sounds, smells and emotions until it seemed as real as possible. Harry closed the book, laid back on the bed and thought. What memory should he choose? One that will cause Tom the most pain, obviously. One of love, then.
Harry shook his head. Love.
Why did this keep coming up? He just didn't have that many memories where love was a defining emotion. He'd had surprising moments when he knew people had cared for him, and even times where people had risked their lives for him, but despite all of this-and to his deep shame-he could not remember one single person ever telling him that they loved him.
Surely his parents had before they died. But in memory, the closest thing he'd had was . . . well, when Mrs. Weasley had held him in the infirmary after the third task. And Hermione had kissed him on the cheek, once. And Cho . . . well, that wasn't love, though. He wasn't sure what it was, but it wasn't love.
Harry had loved Sirius; he knew that now. The practical proof of that was that when Harry had been possessed that time in the Ministry and had thought of Sirius, it had hurt Tom. He wished he could remember exactly what he'd been thinking, but it was all hazy. All he could remember was being suicidal more than anything else, wanting to join Sirius and his parents no matter what that meant.
Harry blinked his stinging eyes. That wasn't a particularly good memory.
Now, let's see . . .
Sirius had listened to him rattle on when he was panicked about the events in his fourth year, had written to him, reassured him and risked capture for him. He'd even stood up to other wizards when he thought Harry needed protection. But were any of those powerful enough memories to play in Tom's head, to render him incapacitated?
Harry didn't think so. None of those things had made Harry realize at the time that Sirius loved him, not really. He just hadn't known what it meant, not until it was too late.
Harry sighed despondently. Maybe just a happy memory, then. He knew those to be powerful from his Patronus charms. Perhaps happy memories that involved someone close to him-not just winning Quidditch matches. Maybe Gryffindor winning the Cup first year? No. It had to center around someone. Ron, maybe. Or Hermione.
Harry frowned as nothing particularly strong came to mind. Maybe after the first task, when Ron was speaking to me again and everything seemed suddenly so much better? No. There was far too much fear and negative emotion attached to that, even after Ron had come around.
Maybe from second year, then. . . maybe when Ginny woke up in the Chamber? Harry remembered the powerful feeling of relief and of happiness that had drowned him when he knew that she was okay, that she wouldn't be kicked out of school, that he had brought her back to her family safely.
Harry slowly smiled. He had felt more than his own joy that day. He'd felt the joy of her brothers and her family, as well as the pride of Dumbledore in what he had done. Yes, that would be painful to Tom. Very, very painful.
For the next hour, Harry closed his eyes and painted the memory with as many details as he could remember. It wasn't nearly as hard as he had expected. That day had been the worst of his life, waiting with the Weasley brothers for word about Ginny. Every moment before he descended the Chamber had seemed so long and dreary. And then the events of the Chamber itself.
Harry could remember every word Tom had said to him, but he wouldn't put that in his memory. He put the death of Tom in his memory instead, Fawkes' tears, and then the awakening of Ginny back to life. And finally, the return to Dumbledore's office and the unrelieved feeling of triumph and rightness that had ruled in Harry's heart as the Weasleys welcomed him with tears of relief and joy and . . . love. It was love, wasn't it?
That would cut Tom to the bone.
Just before bedtime, Harry wrote Hermione a short note-another apology. He hoped she would forgive him for trying to exclude her. By now, maybe she already knew about the Prophecy from Ron and hopefully she understood why he hadn't told her himself. It wasn't as if he could write to her about it; she had to know that it wasn't safe. He wanted to talk to her about it as soon as he could, to see what her thoughts might be. Maybe she would echo Ron's sentiments about the unknown power Harry had. Or maybe she'd come up with something he hadn't considered. But he'd listen. After all, his first rule was: Listen to Hermione.
Harry sent Hedwig off and fell back into bed, exhausted for some strange reason. He'd just spent the better part of five days sleeping, but was ready for more. He yawned, shaking his head, and then took off his glasses.
As he rushed toward sleep, in the darkness of his own mind, he brought up the gray screen and readied his memory for Procclumency, if necessary.
"Harrrrrrrrrryyyyyyyyyyy . . ."
The harsh whisper seemed to go on forever, pulled almost out of meaning like taffy stretched in a sweet shop window. Harry groaned and turned over, half-convincing himself it was a dream.
"Harrrrrrrryyyy Pottttttterrrrrrr . . ."
Harry sat up with a gasp to complete silence. He jumped out of bed and shoved his glasses on, wand already in hand. He jerked his head around to peer into every dark place in the room, trying to stifle the irrational fear that his sleep-blurred vision was hiding something. He kept blinking until finally, the shapes of furniture came clear, but there was no one in the room-and nothing out of the ordinary.
But the voice had sounded like it was right in the room with him. Harry turned around, his heart pounding. The clock read 12:01. Wait-my sixteenth birthday. Instant dread flooded him.
"Harrrrrryyyyy . . . Can Harry come out and play?" The hissing voice, coming from somewhere beyond his closed door, sent shivers down Harry's spine. He hesitated, his mind scrambling for some answer other than Tom, and finding nothing. Why had he sent off Hedwig? It didn't matter. No matter what happened, he wouldn't leave the house.
"Mummy?" The pitiful croak came from the direction of Dudley's room.
Harry went for his door, and found it locked. He tried to force the knob, as if it was just a mistake. It wasn't.
"Dudley! Dudley? Can you hear me?" Harry waited.
"Harrrrryyyyy . . ."
Moaning sounds came from the other bedroom; the disembodied voice was sending Dudley up to the rafters. Harry, however, was beginning to think it sounded horrifyingly familiar. He beat on the door with his fist.
"Dudley! They can't get inside the house! Just let me out of here, will you?"
"MUMMY!"
Harry beat harder on the door. "Get OUT of bed and OPEN THIS DOOR, or I'll curse you MYSELF!"
"Hush that yelling, brat!" Petunia spat from behind the door, her footsteps sounding down the hallway to Dudley's room. Harry spun away from the door in frustration. He could still hear his aunt as she crooned, "Diddyems? Did the nasty boy frighten you?"
"Harrrrryyyyyyyyyyyyy . . . come out, come out, wherever you are . . ."
His blood ran cold. He heard that voice in his nightmares whenever he saw Sirius fall through the veil.
". . . ickle baby Harrrrryyy . . ."
A flood of hatred burned in Harry's gut. Bellatrix Lestrange was here. But- no. He couldn't go outside, not even for revenge. He could hear Petunia trying to console the hysterical Dudley.
"Stop it, Mummy! Make him stop!"
Harry placed one hand against the door, speaking as loudly and forcefully as he dared. "It's not me, Aunt Petunia! They must be out front! Let me out of this room and I'll make sure they don't hurt you!"
Then heavy footsteps approached from the other direction and Harry backed away from the door. The locks clicked and the door swung open. Uncle Vernon-face purple, hair rumpled, fist raised-charged into the room and grabbed Harry's arm painfully.
Harry debated using his wand as he was pulled bodily from the room, out into the dark hallway, which rang with Dudley's cries and Petunia's hushing, and stumbled down the stairs. He caught a glimpse of two dark figures through the window, far enough away from the door to be indistinct. It was the third figure, the one mostly in white, crumpled between the other two that gave Harry a feeling of absolute terror.
It was happening again-but this time it wasn't a vision. This was real.
Harry barely had time to register his fear before Vernon, talking furiously to himself, had dragged him to the front door. Harry darted to the side window and tried to make out details about the pitiful figure on the ground. It could be anyone. But was that blond hair showing up against the Death Eater robes?
Wait-
He turned to see Vernon throwing open the dead bolt.
"NO!" Harry lunged at him. "Are you CRAZY?"
Vernon punched a meaty fist into Harry's chest with surprising strength, yelling, "WHAT YOU DESERVE!" Harry gaped as he fell backwards, scrambling, trying to force air back into his lungs, making another wild lunge to shut the door-
WHAM!
Harry saw stars as his head slammed into the doorframe. He grasped out at something-anything, finding his Uncle's bathrobe at last. The world spun around him for a long minute as he tried to listen to his Uncle's frenzied muttering . . . something about the last straw.
Then hands grasped him and he was thrust forward, tripping and falling through the open glass door-falling for a long time until the cement stopped him. He sat up, his head reeling and foggy with pain, clutching his wand and trying to reconcile himself to the fact that he'd just been tossed out of the house like an ungainly sack of garbage.
The door was already slammed shut and the locks bolted before Harry could clear his head enough to see what was in front of him.
Death Eaters-this time just two of them.
They stood, black robes billowing, white masks glowing uncannily in the lamplight-two figures with wands extended, pointed at Harry. And between them, fallen to his knees on the asphalt, was-
"Potter," the figure groaned. "You idiot!" Draco Malfoy lifted his face and even from a distance, Harry could see bruises and blood mixed there. "I told you to stay in the house!"
Harry climbed to his feet, stunned by the wretched, pained quality to Draco's voice. Draco was at the Death Eaters' mercy, his hands obviously pinned behind his back. But why? Wasn't he almost a Death Eater himself? They didn't expect Harry to care about Malfoy, did they? Or was this just an attempt to mess with Harry's mind? To get him to trust Malfoy?
"Professor Snape was right," Draco spat blood on the ground in front of him. "You always do think you're above the rules."
The Death Eaters were silent. But Harry got the impression they were enjoying this.
"What do you want from me?" Harry asked tersely.
"Put down your wand and Lucius' boy lives," said the tall Death Eater on the left. "Refuse and you have yet another life on your conscience." The voice was familiar and Harry stared, trying to ignore the pounding in his head. His mind seemed to have frozen up.
"Poor wittle Potter," the other Death Eater-Bellatrix-chimed in. "Can't decide if this piece of trash is worth your life or not? Let me give you a hint. It's not." Bellatrix hissed and then kicked Draco. Draco collapsed forward in pain, struggling feebly to get to his knees again.
"I said put down your wand." The unknown Death Eater stepped forward and bent to press his wand to Draco's temple. Draco went still. "Your hesitation will cost him everything."
"Oh, come now," Bellatrix pouted. "At least give Harry until the count of three, so his conscience can plague him even longer after the death. The Aurors won't be here for at least another minute."
Harry stared, wondering what they had done to his guards. Draco's eyes were boring into him.
"Okay, fine," the other Death Eater agreed. "I'll count to three, then. One."
Harry's eyes narrowed as he calculated.
"Two."
It wasn't as if he had a choice.
"Thr-"
"I'm putting it down!" Harry exclaimed, jumping forward a bit. He started to bend down, slowly . . . so slowly. "See?" His eyes traveled to Bellatrix, back to the unknown Death Eater and finally down to Draco's stunned face. Harry's wand was almost to the ground. He took a deep breath and looked up. The Aurors would come. But for now, it was all up to him.
The wand touched down.
Harry lifted his hand and began to straighten up. Bellatrix cackled.
"Now back away from the-"
But Harry wasn't there anymore. He was on the ground, rolling, wand in hand.
"Crucio!"
He dodged to the left, throwing a spell on the way. "Repellos!"
The tall Death Eater flew back high in the air-
But Bellatrix had her wand on Draco. "Avada Ke-"
"Expelliarmus!" Harry's curse cut her off and she flew back, her wand catapulting toward Harry. He reached up.
"Accio wand!" she screeched as she landed, and the wand shot back to her. He watched angrily as she snatched it from the air. He'd missed his best opportunity-
"Concidus!"
Harry was on the ground, ducking the other Death Eater's spell before he even thought. The curse shattered the glass door; a scream came from inside.
"CONCIDUS!"
Harry was in motion, heaving himself out of the way again, but Bellatrix's curse was too quick. A red-hot ribbon of pain sliced up his right arm, and he hit the ground rigid with agony.
"Stupefy!"
Harry barely noticed the unknown Death Eater fall.
Bellatrix cackled and then she was gone-Apparated away. Two Aurors ran into view, one red-haired, the other limping oddly.
"Sorry, we're late Harry," George called to him, holding his wand on the stunned Death Eater. "Mad-Eye fell asleep on duty-"
"I said I wasn't asleep!" Mad-Eye was surveying the street, his magical eye whirling busily, checking for more Death Eaters in hiding, probably.
"Well, it's true that one eye was still open," George said with disgust. "But then why didn't you wake me instead of the other way 'round? Anyway, the door at Mrs. Figg's was hexed shut. Simple spells, but it took a while to get through all of them," he said apologetically. "Sorry, Harry. We almost missed all the action."
"Action. Hmmph . Just stick around, boy. You alright, Harry?" Mad-Eye growled in his direction.
"Bleeding a bit, but I'm fine." Harry, now sitting up, spared a glance at his arm where the sleeve of his dull, gray pajamas had been burned almost completely off. Underneath, a horrifyingly long, jagged cut ran from his wrist all the way up his arm, the skin open and curling red around it, blood oozing out. It looked . . . wrong and it hurt like hell. Even as he watched, the pain seemed to sink its teeth in deeper.
"Bleeding a bit, did you say?" George said, eyeing Harry's arm with a pale face. "That's like calling Voldemort a bit mad. We'd better tell Dumbledore to send Fawkes." George turned to go back to Mrs. Figg's.
"Don't need ta.' He'll know."
"Well, we can't just sit here and watch Harry bleed to death." George stopped, frustrated, and watched as Mad-Eye reached down to pull the mask off of-
"Kingsley?" George rocked back on his heels, looking more pale and rather shocked, but no more surprised than Harry. Kingsley Shackelbolt worked at the Ministry with Tonks. He had helped them innumerable times before, hadn't he? But there was no mistaking the large, dark-skinned Auror. "How-?"
"You know how," Mad-Eye growled. "He's a no-good, belly-crawlin' Death Eater spy that's been workin' the Ministry on both sides, that's how! He always was the first to use underhanded tricks on duty."
Harry couldn't make his mind work right. Kingsley had attacked him? He pulled his bleeding right arm in to his side, wand still clutched tight, and pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. It was becoming increasingly clear to him that he would never know with certainty who to trust.
"But we don't know he's a spy, do we?" George asked quietly. "He could be under the Imperius. Right?"
Mad-Eye didn't answer. Harry stumbled over to Draco, dead set on getting some answers. Draco was up on his knees again, watching Harry with a pained but sarcastic grin. "The hero triumphs again."
"Hardly," Harry muttered.
"Get his wand, Harry," Mad-Eye barked at him, apparently not worried about Draco's condition at all.
Harry unsteadily pointed his wand at Draco. Draco's eyes widened. Harry hesitated, then said quietly, "Finite Incantatem."
Draco's hands fell loose and he began stretching out his sore arms.
"Are you going to attack me now?" Harry asked Draco casually, letting his wand hand drop back down by his side.
"And why would I do that?" Draco drawled through bloody lips as he sat back on his heels, rubbing at his wrists. "You're the only one who can kill that bloody, arrogant prat who fashions himself as the Lord Voldemort, right?"
Harry blinked a few times, finding himself staring at the dark-purple bruise on the other boy's cheek. He wondered who gave it to him. "I thought you said you were going to kill me."
Draco smirked. "Well, I was a bit angry at the time, because no matter what that bastard Lucius has done, he is, after all, my father. But mostly, I was posturing for those idiots I call friends. You wouldn't understand it, it being one of the more delicate parts of being Slytherin." When Harry just kept staring, Draco pulled his gaze away. "Let's just say that this summer I was shown the light, rather painfully."
Harry was stunned to realize that he believed Draco. In fact, if he thought about it, he knew that Draco wasn't to blame for his father being one of the Dark Lord's most trusted servants. In fact, despite being his father's lapdog for years, he was actually in a very dangerous position.
What if Draco had decided that he didn't want to serve the Dark Lord now? How far would his father push him? Harry thought he knew. Most likely the end result would be something like turning Draco over to the Death Eaters for sport and then being brought to be killed in front of Harry, in shame. Well, then. Here we are.
Without another thought, Harry switched his wand to his left hand and held out his right. "Wand, please, if you've got it." Blood splattered on Draco's shirt. They both stared at Harry's hand, where blood was dripping from his fingertips, running in rivulets from the long, burning cut on his arm.
"You're bleeding on me, Potter," Draco said with revulsion evident on his face. "Don't you even carry a handkerchief, or are you a complete savage?" Draco was reaching into the pocket of his smudged, bloodied white shirt pocket.
"No, I don't usually carry a handkerchief in the pocket of my pajamas. I must have missed that day in charm and etiquette class," Harry snapped back, starting to get irritable now that the fright was over.
"Well, you certainly missed the charm part. Take this; you're bleeding like a stuck pig." Draco handed him a carefully folded handkerchief. "What the hell was that spell, anyway?"
"I have no i-"
When the tug came behind his navel, Harry stopped breathing. Portkey.
Whenever he recalled that moment afterward, it seemed to stretch on forever. But it couldn't have-there must have been only a split second for him to take in Draco's pale, horrified face, and his desperately whispered, "No," before Harry was jerked roughly into the darkness.
Harry fell forward, landing hard on his hands and knees in a cavernous, marble-tiled hall. Despite a wild scramble for protection with wand in hand, Harry fell to the floor in agony when the first spell was cast.
"Crucio!"