4 A Single Hour

The following hour was the shortest of his life.

He longed to remain still, to allow his stunned senses to sink into the couch below him. Instead, a torrent of images chased him, violently clashing with his common sense.

Mrs. Figg. Her kindly face, upturned in a smirk, dragging him off the couch…no…

Professor McGonnagal. Animagus, sprawled unconscious across the floor…no…

Green light. Mixed with the thunder, as the wail of engines retreated to the safety of their fire houses…no……

The world was moving, tugging at him...fading, swirling away in a haze of color...no, no, no...

Cold. Unmerciful cold, blanketing him, wrapping around him until he couldn't breathe. The recent pleasant grogginess that filled his mind was replaced by a dull, frozen ache that seemed to permeate his bones. It took him a moment before he realized he was wet. Struggling against the pressure in his lungs, he realized he had regained the strength to move his neck a bit. Suddenly, a hand plunged into the wetness and brought him to the sweet air. Coughing and gasping, he searched his surroundings through watery eyes.

The world was dim.

He was no longer in Mrs. Figg's house...he doubted he was anywhere near Wisteria Walk. The glow of green hate had been replaced by the dying embers of a weak fire, which cast a flickering glow on his dismal surroundings. The air, which an instant ago seemed so inviting and sweet, settled in his lungs quite rank and musty—a rotting smell permeated from a corner. A splintered table lurked nearby, piles of dusty boxes littered the room, and a rickety staircase led to the darkness above. Harry shifted his shoulders and realized he was resting in a large tin tub, up to his chest in cold water. He made to pull himself out when he fell back—his wrists were still bound.

He started as a shadow shuffled down the staircase toward the fire. He struggled to hold himself up and found that his bindings shifted a bit, slightly disintegrated by the water. Harry blinked and gazed at the silhouette that continued to make its way toward him. Judging by the frumpy clothes, carpet slippers, and the shuffling gate, it was Mrs. Figg.

"Figg?" Harry gasped, "Mrs...Mrs. Figg..." He could think of nothing else to say.

But as Mrs. Figg turned toward him, her familiar face faded into a sour countenance. The deep valleys around the mouth and eyes smoothed to a perfect complexion and her straggly hair lengthened into silvery blonde strands. Within seconds, the svelte figure of Narcissa Malfoy towered above his prone form.

His voice failed him. Over and over the silent words played on his lips...no, no, this isn't happening, no, no, no, no...

Narcissa's smirk widened to a grin as she shed the carpet slippers and swaggered over to the fire. Harry turned back to himself, the flood of chaotic thoughts hitting him like the cold water. Mrs. Figg is Mrs. Malfoy...polyjuice...rotten, so rotten...Malfoy...Lucious...Death Eaters...death...

Panic set in and Harry began to furiously work at the softened bindings on his wrists. Narcissa had her back to him, poking the ailing fire with a long stick. Harry continued to knead at the bindings, which had now taken on a rubbery texture. Come on, he urged himself, but thin layers merely disintegrated, leaving him struggling as Narcissa pulled out a long, silver blade from her robes. She didn't seem to notice or care about his fervent struggle to separate his wrists as she took the blade and held it over the fire. A whimper of frustration escaped his lips, and she finally turned to face him, red-hot blade at her side.

"Oh, don't worry, precious," Narcissa purred, "This isn't for you."

Narcissa made her way toward the corner emanating the rotting smell, waving the glowing blade about, before she halted. Harry shrunk back as she made a ninety degree turn and sauntered over to the tub.

She snickered and leaned over him. "Yet."

With a mighty gulp, he shoved his upper torso under the water, pressing his back against the bottom of the tub, and kicked his legs up as hard as he could right at Narcissa's face. He felt the impact long before Narcissa's almighty howl filled the air. He gave one final yank at his wrists and finally the bindings snapped like a rubber band and flew across the room. He sloppily stood up in the tub, taking a second to assess his surrounding. There would be no question of it. Tripping out of the tub, he kicked off Narcissa's hands, which were groping for his legs, and ran blindly up the stairs.

To his surprise, the heavy door at the top of the stairs flew open into a dark, dank shop that filled him with a familiar dread—he'd been in this shop before. Summer before his second year he had watched an imposing man with long, silvery hair selling questionable items to the squat owner from his hiding place in a mummy's tomb. And now, as his eyes raked the store for the exit, they fell upon a set of cold, gray eyes that wove through his nightmares for the past two years.

For a brief second, Harry stood frozen as his eyes locked with Lucious Malfoy's. He could not move as Malfoy's thin lips registered Harry's presence with a slight smile and his hand made the slightest gesture. From the back room emerged more faces that made his blood run cold. Nott...Dolohov...Rabastan. Bellatrix.

Harry barely registered Narcissa trudging up the stairs behind him.

"Merry Christmas," she simpered at Lucious, from behind a bloody nose.

As each face stared in shocked surprise and slowly settled into a seething sneer, the blood rushed back up to Harry's brain and solidified into a single word: Run.

Before the others could move, Harry was out of the shop. His brain did not seem to be running as fast as the thumping of his heart. Diagon Alley. I've got to get to Diagon Alley. He took a chance and darted off toward the right.

It was still dark outside and Harry fleetingly found it odd that he was dodging crowds despite the early morning hours. He was running as fast as his legs could carry him, but he could hear the Death Eaters easily slicing through the crowd behind him.

"No magic!" he heard Malfoy shriek as they closed in on Harry, " Get him, but no magic!"

Harry's soaked sneakers squeaked in protest as he darted around the corner down the last stretch of Knockturn Alley...miraculously, in front of him lay a glimpse of the neatly cobbled sidewalks of Diagon Alley. A bubble of hope blossomed in his chest as he pushed on toward his haven with an extra burst of energy he didn't know he had. He was mere feet away from the entrance when it happened—he slipped.

The fraction of a second he took to steady himself was the opportunity his pursuers were looking for. He was hit hard in the back and another blow sent him flying against the alley wall. Before he had a second to catch his breath, a foot connected with his side in a mighty crunch and he slammed against a couple of dustbins that clanged away angrily. He squinted at his attackers through teary eyes and saw the glimmer of Diagon Alley lurking just out of his reach. So close. Narcissa was hovering nearby, keeping watch as even more figures in hooded masks seemed to apperate around the action.He balled himself up against the torrent of blows, but the Death Eaters were aiming low—they were trying to take out his legs. It took them only a moment to succeed. Lucious delivered a powerful kick to his right leg and Bellatrix grabbed the limp limb and yanked it upward with a mighty crack. Harry shrieked in pain and cried out for help from the masses, but to no effect. He felt his bubble of hope burst as the faceless shadows wandering in the background made no movement to stop the beating. They behaved just as members of the underworld should—quiet, un-noticing, heartless. Fright and disbelief were replaced by anger, and Harry began screaming and cursing at the Death Eaters, the apathetic nocturnes, the injustice...the world.

As many arms lifted him and began to drag him back to the shop, Harry continued his verbal assault. As they passed by the other shops, onlookers averted their eyes from the scuffle. One of the Death Eaters offered the explanation of "shoplifter" to those curious whose eyes lingered too long.

As they dragged him back into the shop, he was fighting back the rising urge to throw up and give in to the sick comprehension that he was being brought down to his death. He had lost any hope of being rescued, but refused to go without a fight. When Nott gave his injured leg a prod, he lashed out with a new stream of obscenities. Quicker than a spell, he was delivered a bone-crushing punch to his jaw, stunning him into silence.

"Such language, Potter," came a drawling voice right in front of him. There stood the snide figure of Draco Malfoy, leaning against the entrance of the cellar.

"Get out of the way, Draco," Narcissa snarled at her son as the group dragged Harry down into the abyss. Lost in these thoughts, he barely registered the growing crowd of enemies as he was pulled down the rickety staircase, his broken leg scraping painfully along each step. Draco hesitantly entered the cellar as Harry was unceremoniously dropped onto the table he had seen earlier and quickly bound to it at the wrists and ankles.

Something was wrong. The Death Eaters had backed up, forming a circle around the table that Harry was strapped to. They were quietly swaying as one and began a low toned chant. Suddenly, the entire contents of the tin tub he had awoken in was thrown over his body. The cold water startled him, but it didn't prepare him for the swift movement of Bellatrix breaking from the crowd and climbing on top of the table with Harry. She stepped over him and glanced over to a darkened corner of the room, as though asking permission. Harry could not twist around to see who she was staring at, but in the next instant, she broke into a terrible smile. Narcissa pulled back from the group and began to push Draco back to the stairs.

"Back upstairs," she said quietly, "You're too young to see this."

Draco made a face at her, but upon glancing at Harry strapped to the table, made toward the stairs.

"Let him stay," Lucious said moving out of line and laying a hand on Draco's shoulder, "He should watch."

Harry stared at the silvery-haired family in disgust, but Draco's face was unreadable. He wasn't wearing his usual sneer and his young frame looked out of place among the waves of black cloth. His attention was pulled back to Bellatrix, as she smiled squatted over him and began to outlined the edge of Harry's prominent rib cage with her finger. He was sickened and puzzled by her touch, until she lay her entire palm against his chest and began to press down hard.

"No...God..." Harry gasped, wriggling to get free, "Stop...no..."

Bellatrix grinned and continued to crush his ribcage mercilessly. The rest of the Death Eaters were shifting around in excitement, but Draco remained stark still, occasionally granting his father a weak smile. Another push brought him back to his predicament, and Harry protested the only last way he had—he spit in Bellatrix's face.

She lurched back, stunned and disgusted. The fire in her eyes erupted and he was hit with a vicious backhand. He barely had time to recover from her strike before he realized she had climbed up on the table over him and began to viciously pummel his exposed center. He cried out in pain and tried to tighten his stomach, but it was no use—he had no way to defend himself. She continued to deliver ruthless blows and Harry bit his lip so hard that it bled. The other Death Eaters were trying to pull her off of him, but not before her knee met his chest and Harry felt something inside him snap.

"That will do, Bella, playtime is over" came a high, cold voice from the recesses of the cellar, "He must be conscious for the spell to work."

A chill swept through the room. Bellatrix backed off, incensed, but hid her face as Voldemort emerged from the darkness. The same coldness that accompanied a dementor's presence filled his panicked mind as Voldemort advanced on Harry. Harry tried to scream, but his breath caught in his chest. He couldn't move an inch. His broken body was bound to the table, and the pain in his chest incapacitated him. The remaining Death Eaters closed in, circling around like vultures on dying prey. He could barely make out Voldemort wielding the knife that Narcissa had held minutes before. In the instant that Voldemort levitated himself onto the table and straddled Harry's prone form, a jolt of realization hit him: Voldemort was here, touching him, and his scar wasn't hurting. Before he had another moment to ponder this anomaly, Voldemort rested his weight on Harry's beaten chest and waved the knife in front of his face.

"And now, Harry Potter," Voldemort whispered as he rested the tip of the knife on Harry's scar, "I'm taking back what you stole from me fifteen years ago. Extractorium."

The following hour was the longest of his life.