Disclaimer – They're not mine. I just like to play with them...

A/N – I am so sorry about the wait for this chapter! I swear the Fates have been working against me on this. If it hasn't been one thing, it's been another... Anyway, it's here now – though I have to admit that I'm still not particularly happy with several bits of it. I thought you'd rather have the chapter now, though, than wait for me to fiddle around with it 'til I was completely happy.

This chapter is dedicated to Allacaya, who was my 50th reviewer. She's also a generally, all-round, wonderful reviewer... Thank you very much. If I get to 100 reviews, someone else will get a chapter dedicated to them. (Hint, hint – please leave me a review!!!)


Chapter Twelve

He had never before been so pleased to open his eyes to the sight of his bedroom; to the dingy, off-white paint-work; to the ragged, dark drapes and dusty surfaces, all lit by only the dull glow of a distant street-light. He was lying, dumped unceremoniously in a sprawled heap, on the floor inside his doorway. The coarse fibres of his blood-marked carpet pressed roughly against his cheek. The sharp smells of blood and sweat were sickeningly heavy in his nostrils. His door was closed. The warding was almost certainly back in place.

He groaned, curling into a ball as shivers sent pain spasming through him. Merlin – he was so cold! He couldn't stay where he was... He had to get somewhere warm. He began to push himself slowly, carefully, to his feet. His movement was halted after barely a moment, however, as a sudden wave of fierce, griping pain clawed through his gut, setting a wave of nausea washing over him. He heaved, his empty stomach clenching, setting fresh pain searing through his abused flesh. The foul taste of bile filled his mouth. Oh Merlin... It hurt. Oh shit...

Finally, after a seemingly endless age, it passed.

He knelt, his head bowed, his broken arm clutched to his chest, as the room swayed around him. He squeezed his eyes tightly closed, struggling to settle his senses. Each panting breath that he drew caught in a strangled sob as he dragged air past his sore throat. He couldn't take this any more. He just... couldn't.

It seemed to take more energy than he currently possessed to even lift his hand to wipe his mouth against his sleeve. Probably a good thing – Tibs had always hated it when he did that. It was a habit, or so she had always said, that she had despaired of ever breaking him from. She had had to clean food stains off his robes regularly throughout his younger years. The sight of her eldest child in dirty robes had always set his mother on the rampage, and both he and Tibs would suffer the consequences.

Tibs had always suffered because of him. He did nothing but bring misery to everyone who knew him.

With a sense of hollow despair dragging him down, he slumped back to the floor. What point was there in moving? Really? He would still hurt. He'd still be stuck in the room. He'd probably still be cold – not to mention feel like shit. It wasn't as if he'd really be all that much better off in his bed. The thin bedclothes didn't do much to warm him, after-all.

He closed his eyes, allowing himself to sink slowly back into treacle-like darkness. Time slid indifferently past. He continued to lie, shivering uncontrollably, as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

He ought to move. The thought flitted through his mind, carving through layers of listless apathy. He really ought to get up... But still he lay, as he was, his only movement caused by his helpless shivers. He would be warmer in his bed, even if only a little - the extra heat that he would gain would help him. At the moment his body was using up precious energy merely trying to keep him warm.

Right... He had to get up...

Now would be good...

Eventually, with small, slow movements, he pushed himself to his knees, and, from there, to his feet. For a long moment he merely stood, swaying unsteadily as he gazed over the distance separating him from his bed – a distance that could have been miles, for all the strength that he seemed to possess. He drew a deep breath and resolutely took the first faltering step.

He had finally reached his bed, his hand gripping onto the wooden headboard for support, when the sound of brisk, staccato footfalls upon his stairs caused him to spin in alarm. The quick movement was a mistake. The room swayed, edges growing fuzzy and faint, as his head pounded its protest. With his fingers still locked tightly onto the headboard he sat down with a thump on the edge of his bed, his legs giving way, a sense of dread filling him. Those were his mother's footsteps. He would know them anywhere...

"What are you doing, Spica?"

He could feel the blood draining from his face as the unexpected sound of his father's soft voice caused a fresh wave of terror to run through him. He sat, frozen in place, his breath steaming in the cold air before him, as he waited for his mother's reply. What did they want now? What was going to happen? Why couldn't they just leave him alone?

"Just visiting my son. No more than that."

"Really?" The man's drawl sent a shiver running down Sirius' spine. "That same son whose name, only yesterday, you blasted off the family tree?" His voice suddenly turned hard. "I've told you already, Spica. He's mine. Do not touch him."

"You're a fool, Arcturus. What are you going to do – keep him locked up in there forever? What if he were to escape?"

"He won't."

"But what if he did? What would we do then? He knows too much. He's dangerous! You can't risk..."

"I will risk exactly what I wish to risk!"

"You will not risk me! I will not see our good name dragged into the dirt just because of that disgusting brat!"

Sirius' hand clenched even tighter upon the wood of his headboard, his eyes closing as he listened to them argue. Just what did his father plan to do with him? He had, generally, other than with thoughts of escape, tried not to think about the future. At the back of his mind he had, he supposed, always had the thought that, come the 2nd of January, he'd be on the Hogwarts Express - he'd be free of them. How likely was that though? Really? Thinking about it from their perspective? He did know too much. After what they had done to him, after everything... how could he remain silent? He wouldn't be able to. Even if he promised not to say anything now – they weren't stupid enough to believe he'd actually keep the promise.

They weren't stupid enough to just let him go.

He couldn't help but remember his father's words of a few days ago – "Your life is on my whim now." His life. His life! It was beginning to look increasingly unlikely that he'd actually be getting out of this alive.

He didn't want to die...

"That is enough, Spica! He is mine, and that is final."

"Fine," his mother spat back. "Have it your way!"

Rather than retreat, as Sirius had hoped they now would, his mother's footsteps resumed their approach to his room.

"Where are you going?"

"To visit my son, as I told you."

"Spica..."

"Oh, don't worry. I won't do anything. He's your plaything, I know."

The door opened, and Sirius found himself facing not one, but both of his parents.

"Sirius, my dearest boy," his mother gushed, sweeping into the room ahead of his father. "How are you feeling?"

He cringed automatically back from the woman's form as she moved in close to him – but most of what he actually felt at her falsely loving manner was disquietude. His fear of her, although still present, was held in abeyance. After all, she couldn't do anything to him with his father standing there watching. That little argument he had just overheard told him that much. Or, at least, she couldn't do anything serious...

Okay... so maybe the fear wasn't all that much in abeyance, he thought, unable to prevent the small whimper from escaping him as her fingers brushed over his cheek. But, mostly, he was unnerved by the performance. What point was there to it? It wasn't as if she could fool him. It was, quite simply, far too unbelievable... Truly affectionate behaviour was something that he had rarely ever experienced – not coming from her, anyway.

She had never been an affectionate mother. Not even to Regulus, the good boy, who had always been her favourite, had she ever shown real affection. To him, the troublemaker, the son who insisted on breaking the rules, all that were ever given were disinterested looks and angry punishments. The only times he had ever really gotten any attention from her, never mind affection, was when he made her angry. The fact that he had ever actually wanted her attention was probably now the scariest thing.

Also, her act made a mockery out of everything that he had ever longed for – loving parents. Parents who treated him the way James' parents treated their son. The way James' parents had always treated him. Why couldn't he have had parents like that? But maybe... he didn't deserve parents like that. He probably would have driven even them to hate him. He'd managed to do so with everyone else, after all. He had brought everything on himself – all the anger, all the hatred, all the violence, and all the lack of love and affection. He deserved every minute of it...

"Why this display, Spica?" his father drawled from the doorway, echoing Sirius' earlier thoughts. "You're fooling no one. We all here know that you want to do nothing less than strangle the boy."

"Which is something that I should have done when I had the chance!"

His mother's ever-fragile hold upon her temper snapped as she turned back to face his father. Her hand, which had come to rest on Sirius' sore shoulder, suddenly clenched down hard, causing him to gasp in pain. He shrank back on his bed, but there was no way he could escape her cruel grip.

His father, as calm and cold as ever, crossed the room in a handful of long strides that swiftly carried him to the woman's side.

"Yes, you should have," he said, in a murmur that was barely loud enough for the faintly trembling Sirius to hear. "Because you're never going to have that opportunity again. Now," and his voice returned to its normal volume as his hand fixed around his wife's arm, drawing her away from Sirius, "come, my dearest, I believe our guests will begin arriving soon. We ought to be prepared." For a brief moment before he turned to leave, his icy glare fell upon Sirius, who fought to keep his fear from his face as he looked back at the older man. "I'll be seeing you later," he said.

Later... Oh shit... His breath caught in his throat. He didn't want to think about later. He felt too dazed and sick; too pained and shaky. And hungry. Despite the nausea that still swirled in his stomach, he felt undeniably hungry. In an unplanned, impulsive burst, he quickly found his voice. "Please..." he croaked after his father's retreating form. "I need something to eat." The man didn't even glance back at him as the door closed. The sound of footsteps steadily faded.

Sirius was alone again.

He slumped back on his bed, tugging his blankets over his shoulders. It had been worth a try. He supposed. It hadn't hurt anything, anyway – which was something.

Merlin he was hungry. He had never been so hungry in his life. Neither had he been so cold, or in so much pain. He would be warmer, he suddenly thought, curling his fingers into his body in an attempt to disperse their chill, as Padfoot. As Padfoot he would have a nice, thick, and very warm, coat. It was a tempting idea... But no. No, he couldn't. It wasn't a good idea. If his parents found out that he was animagus... No! They couldn't know about that. That was the one thing that might yet help him. Somehow. He wasn't entirely certain how yet, but... somehow.

He lay, curled on his bed, his broken arm cradled against his queasy stomach, drifting again on the edge of uneasy sleep. The sudden, unexpected sound of his door opening jerked him sharply back to reality. His eyes flashed open. He lifted his head, fixing his gaze straight-ahead on the door as it swung open. He hardly dared to draw a breath. Had his father returned already? Surely it couldn't be 'later' yet... Please, no - let it not be! He bit down on his lip, fighting against scared whimpers.

For one long moment he merely stared in shock, hardly able to believe that what he was seeing was actually real. With a disgusted glare, muttering under his breath about the 'filthy blood-traitor', Kreacher slammed a plate of food to the floor. A glass of water was set beside it, its contents sloshing with the careless handling. Then the house-elf was gone.

Sirius merely continued to stare in dazed astonishment. Food. He'd been given food. He slowly lifted himself up as the faint aromas drifting from the plate persuaded him that it was real. He had actually been given some food! Now he just had to get to it... Which meant that he had to walk again across his room.

The lure of the food was enough to drag him to his feet, his bed-coverings wrapped still around his shoulder. Leaning heavily against his wall, and using the few items of furniture that dotted his path to support his stumbling form, he slowly made his way towards the door and the waiting plate. To Sirius' deprived senses the meagre serving of bread, cheese and meat took on the appearance of a feast.

He finally dropped to his knees, his eyes fixed on the food before him – and then he hesitated. He could hardly believe that his father had actually listened to his request. He just couldn't believe it. With a shaking hand he reached towards a piece of bread.

But what if it was a trick? What if the food had been... tampered with? What if his father had put something in it? No... The man didn't need to put things clandestinely into his food - he quite happily poured them straight down his throat. His mother, on the other hand... He was quite certain that she wanted nothing less than to see him dead. Without any proof that she had done anything, though, he was too hungry to deny himself the sustenance.

He had taken only a handful of bites when a nauseous pain swept through his stomach. He groaned, dropping the bread back to the plate as he pressed his hand against his burning middle. His first thought was that he had been right about the food - his mother must have done something to it. It was a thought that flitted surprisingly calmly through his mind, only to be followed barely a moment later by a logical rebuttal as he remembered his earlier bout of sickness. This actually rather resembled that, and that had, most likely, been an after-affect of the potions.

As the pain faded he determinedly lifted a piece of meat to his lips. The food was fine, he told himself. He was just suffering from having had a half-dozen different potions systematically forced on him. And from having had hardly anything at all to eat for the past week – that couldn't be helping. Getting some food actually into his stomach would be good.

Although he had to stop several times as his stomach threatened to rebel, almost before he knew it the plate was half-empty and he was slowing to a halt. He wasn't entirely certain that it had helped him – but he thought that he was, possibly, beginning to feel a little better. A little. Possibly. Swallowing the last of the water he set the glass back on the floor. The remaining food he slipped into his pockets. He was pretty certain that he'd be needing it at some point. Merlin only knew when they'd feed him next.

With a pained groan he pushed himself to his feet and slowly retraced his route to his bed. The thin mattress with its wrinkled, dirty sheet looked undeniably appealing to his aching body. Drawing his blankets tighter around his shoulders, he clambered shakily up, shifting until his back rested against the headboard. He drew his knees to his chest, so his feet too were tucked beneath the coarse wool.

For a time he merely sat, staring at nothing as he struggled to block out the myriad pains of his body. His thoughts, like a dog on a leash, were continually drawn back to a small, persistent worry that niggled at the back of his mind.

He couldn't help but wonder... She had made her feelings towards him perfectly clear. So... what if she had done something to the food? He wouldn't put it past her. She would do it. He supposed the important question was whether or not she would defy his father's wishes.

If she thought that she could get away with it, she would. But... potions were his father's forte. Would she risk using something on him that the older man could trace back to her?

But, then again, after all the potions that he had had poured down his throat recently, maybe she banked on the hope that his death would be put down to a nasty after-effect...

His death.

Oh Merlin... Oh shit! He was going to die!

He bowed his head, resting his forehead against his knees as a surprisingly calm thought suddenly slipped through his mind. Would he really care if they did kill him? After all, there was nothing that particularly held him to life now, was there? His family hated him. His friends hated him. Hell, he even hated himself. There wasn't really any reason for him to feel otherwise... No one would really miss him. In fact, they'd probably all be much better off without him. His mother was right - he was worthless.

At least with death the pain would come to an end. Admittedly, he thought darkly, it would probably be preceded by quite a lot more, probably even worse, pain. Unless... He closed his eyes, drawing a deep, shaky breath. Suicide. He could deny them the pleasure. He could end it quickly, and relatively painlessly, himself. The empty glass still sat beside his door. Glass, when broken, was sharp. It would be his final defiance...

No! No, they would not defeat him in that way. He would not give in. After all - there was one thing that tied him still to life. It was simple really. The desire to see the truth about them, about his father, out in the open. The desire for revenge.

He would survive them. He would get out of here. Somehow, he would get away, and then the truth would be known.


It was several hours later that Kreacher again entered his room. He had sat for a long time merely listening to the noises drifting faintly from downstairs: voices, laughter, music. The wealthiest and most influential members of the pure-blooded community drank and socialised on the floors below him – no doubt discussing politics and the latest actions of their beloved Voldemort.

He was glad that he wasn't there - he couldn't deny that. He had always hated gatherings such as these. But the sounds did remind him of happier times. Times when he would see in the New Year with his friends at Hogwarts... In his third year he had stayed at James' house during the Christmas holidays and he, along with Remus and Peter, had attended the Potter's New Year's party. That had been fun. They had nearly destroyed the house with a slightly mistimed prank, but it had been fun.

He greatly doubted whether he would have any more such fun times in the future...

"Master is wanting you," the house-elf informed him with a glare. "Ungrateful little brat," it then muttered under its breath. "Kreacher hopes it gets what it deserves."

Father wanted him... He huddled further back, his head automatically shaking its denial as he fixed a distasteful gaze of the misshapen house-elf.

He couldn't help the shudder that swept through him as an undeniably pleased look settled on Kreacher's face. "Master said it might refuse. Master told Kreacher he could use whatever was necessary."

Without a moment's warning he felt himself engulfed in the harsh grip of the house-elf's magic. He was jerked of his bed, a surprised squawk escaping him as he scrabbled to regain his feet. He tried to break free – but it was useless. He was drawn inexorably after Kreacher's retreating form. He had no choice but to follow as the house-elf led him towards the exit.

It wasn't until he was dragged through the door that he realised that the wards hadn't been lowered.

As had happened before, a bright, harsh light flared, accompanied by bonds of pure energy that twined around him, holding him trapped. This was stronger than house-elf magic. He could still feel the tug of Kreacher's leash, but the warding held him firm. He couldn't help the cry of pain that escaped him as his injuries were aggravated.

Kreacher did nothing to help him. The house-elf merely stood, smirking nastily as it watched him writhe.

"The blood-traitor has broken Mistresses heart," he muttered. "The ungrateful brat..."

"Kreacher!" he gasped as the wards intensified their grip. He struggled to break free, an action that only succeeded in making the snake-like tendrils draw even tighter around him.

Finally, with wave of its hand, the house-elf freed him. Had he not also been held still by Kreacher's magic, he would have been sent tumbling down the stairs as the wards were lowered. As it was he stumbled forward, unable to catch himself. He lost his footing on the top step, his feet skidding out from under him, and slammed down into a seated position on the stair. Only the bonds placed upon him prevented him from falling any further.

He hardly had a moment to catch his breath before he felt himself jerked back upright as the house-elf scampered past him. With unsteady steps, he trailed unwillingly after him.

That little incident had, for the space of a few minutes, almost made him forget just where he was going to. Father... His fears rushed back. His father wanted him again. He was being taken back to the man's lab.

But it was not, he soon discovered, his father's lab that he was being led towards. He was instead pushed inside an empty room on the floor above. He could clearly hear the click of a lock as the door closed behind the smirking house-elf.

He had been left inside one of the entertaining rooms he realised, glancing around. That could not be good. He was in an entertaining room on a night when practically every pure-blooded family in the wizarding world was in the house. Sirius couldn't help the shudder that ran through him as he wondered just what exactly his father had planned. Just what sort of entertainment was the older man planning on providing for his insane, dark-arts-obsessed, Voldemort supporting peers? Whatever it was, he knew that he really didn't want to be a part of it. Unfortunately, he doubted that he would have much choice in the matter.

It wasn't long before he could hear someone approaching the room. In fact... That was more than one person approaching. Oh shit! He tried his hardest to suppress the fear that coursed through him as the footsteps drew steadily closer. He shivered, cradling his broken arm close to his chest as he huddled, his back pressed against the wall. Unless he was greatly mistaken, there were two set of footsteps approaching.

He was right. His father was not alone. He felt his eyes grow wide, almost choking in terror as the second man entered the room. Sirius didn't need to be told the identity of that tall, commanding figure. It was Voldemort.


A/N – There you go - chapter 12. Finally. I hope you all enjoyed it. Please leave me a review!!!! I'm afraid I haven't got time to leave my usual review replies. It's already 1:30 in the morning! Again, I thought you'd all rather get this chapter now than wait... I will say though that I was overwhelmed by all the lovely reviews I got for last chapter. Thank you all so much! I'll try to reply to everyone personally on the next chapter, which should be up next Sunday. (Fingers crossed!)

Bye-de-byes,

Misthea