Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. He, and all of the characters mentioned in the book series of the same title, belong to J.K. Rowling and Warner Brothers.

Warnings: Dark fic, character death.

Summary: He's been captured. At least, he thinks he has. His mind is a blur, a whirl of darkness, pain and sorrow. One shot.

Complete

Darkness. Darkness was all he was aware of. Moaning, he tried to open his eyes, only to find that they were already wide open. He didn't know where he was, but he was aware of the cold. And the pain. There was definitely pain there. His foggy brain became aware of it, his senses began to lose their dullness, and he began to scream. A tear slipped down his cheek as the pain subsided. He was incredibly sore.

Laughing erupted above him. High pitched, but not feminine. The laughter caused a shudder to run through his body, and his arms rose instinctively to cover his face. He was lying on stone; his aching wounds told him as they brushed against it during the movement of his form curling into a tight foetal position. A foot connected with his ribs before he could fully curl up, and he grunted.

He thought he managed to croak out a pleading word, but if he had, it was only responded to with a snide scowl and another cackle. A woman's voice this time, definitely a woman's voice. Another explosion of pain hit him then, and again he screamed. His hands scratched at his right temple. Something was burning, there more than anywhere else.

He was aware of the heavy sounds of footfall around him, and then something opened. A slamming sound followed, and then all that met his ears were the shaking sounds of his own breaths. His head still hurt, but suddenly his hands were being held, and arms pulled him into a gentle but firm embrace.

A voice gasped out his name, and he felt something damp fall into his hair. Tears. She was crying. Who she was, he was unsure, though he thought that he knew. The hands that had been holding his released them suddenly, and the warmth that had been the other body disappeared. It was quickly replaced by a thin robe that came to be wrapped around his form. He shivered and moved to try and warm his body, but only succeeded in knocking his head against the stone of the floor. He moaned in pain, and winced as hands came into contact with his head, moving it so that it rested on something soft.

He felt fingers moving soothingly through his hair, and reached out one of his own. A small hand took it and squeezed it gently. Despite the strength that the owner of the hand was trying to show through the gesture, he could feel the cuts and scrapes that riddled the delicate surface of the skin. He returned the gentle pressure, then sighed and closed his eyes. The darkness around him increased, and he dozed off.

He woke to the sound of screaming, and of quiet pleading near his ear. Slightly more alert, he was able to make out blurred figures. He'd been moved it seemed – he was leaning, half against a wall, half balanced against the same form that he'd been leaning against before.

He shivered and moved away from her form. A hand reached out for his arm, but he gently pushed it away and shakily stood. He was aware that he could barely see, and that his limbs were so weak that he could barely stand – he was forced to lean against the wall for support. Amused laughter echoed in his ears and he glared defiantly at its source. The laughter paused, and he fell backward as a form was thrown at him. He winced as he fell against the wall, and then gently pushed the body from on top of him. A hand grabbed his upper arm and pulled him up, pushing him toward the middle of the room. He stumbled and fell, scraping his hands and chin against the stone floor of the dungeon, wincing from the pain of the raw injuries.

"Get up," a drawling voice ordered. A foot impacted roughly with his side when he didn't respond immediately. "I said get up," the drawling voice repeated. He forced himself to his knees, and then shakily to his feet as a hand grabbed his hair and made him move more quickly. He groaned softly with the pain that came with the threat of his hair being pulled from his scalp, and forced himself to remain standing when the hand finally released him.

"Good," the voice snarled. The man moved behind him and the blunt end of something connected with the back of his neck. "Now move," the drawling voice growled. He began walking forward automatically, and was aware of shrieks behind him. The wand left the back of his neck, a work was muttered, and the shrieks abruptly stopped. He flinched as the presence of the delicate strip of wood returned to his neck, and he instantly began to walk again.

The change in light as they left the room alarmed him, and he tightly shut his eyes, until he stumbled and was forced to open them again. A curse hit him as he slowed, and he screamed and fell to the floor, shaking whilst trying to return to his feet, the curse still upon him. A voice, different from the one maintaining the curse, began to laugh.

"How the mighty have fallen," the voice gloated. He didn't recognise it, but he knew the speaker to be the blurry, black cloaked figure standing a little off to the right. The drawling figure who held him at wand point let out a snarl of laughter, then prodded him forward. He kept moving, forcing cramped limbs that hadn't had near as much use in what probably neared to a week. He pitched forward and fell when he came to the first step that led up from the dungeon, and tasted blood when he bit his tongue. The man behind him cursed as he stumbled, and another curse was sent through him, leaving him shivering against the stairs in its wake. He quickly got back to his feet and began to climb the stairs again.

He didn't know how he managed to reach the room, only that it was a walk filled with explosions of pain. That pain, however, was nothing compared to the pain that he experienced upon reaching the other room. Pain blasted through his senses almost as soon as he entered, and he found himself driven to the floor under the searing feeling that shot through him, making it feel as if his limbs were aflame. He thrashed, and finally, the pain came to an abrupt halt.

He forced breath through his body, shakily bringing it through his nostrils in short gasps that were punctured by the presence of the thick liquid that rose in his throat and spilled from his lips. The coppery, slightly sour scent of it hit his nose, and made him retch further. He moaned in the agony of his organs and bones hitting each other in ways that definitely weren't natural, and that weren't comfortable in the least. There was someone standing above him, mocking him as he writhed on the ground. His cloudy brain was trying to register who it was, but it was impossible through the pain that was making his ears ring, and through the splitting pain that pulsed through his head with every beat of his heart.

Luckily, though, there were only so many forms of magical torture. Luckily, his torturer became bored after a while. It was a long while though, and he had to be bodily dragged back to his cell when it was done. Another bout of pain followed once he'd been thrown against the floor of the small cell. Carrying a prisoner was an inconvenience to them. But he'd reached the point where it no longer mattered. The pain had become a constant, and was therefore monotonous. Constants weren't threatening, nor were they frightening. It was random acts that hurt people.

He died that night, the other one who had been in the cell. The woman with the cackle hadn't known when to stop, and had killed him. He had drowned in his own blood. This angered the others, and it satisfied him to hear her screaming for once. In between comforting his mourning cell mate, he wished that he could participate in torturing the cackling woman as well.

They weren't bothered again for what he suspected was a few days – there was eternal darkness in the cell – but they took shifts sleeping regardless. He thought she let him sleep more, but she denied it every time he tried to call her on it, until he eventually gave up. It he hadn't given up, she probably wouldn't have escaped.

For that's what happened. When, he wasn't quite sure. He'd been asleep, and when he awoke, she was gone. He'd cried, thinking that they had killed her, until they came and accused him of helping her get away. That had resulted in what he thought to be his longest constant session, but at least they'd remembered to feed him, however scant the food had been. Not knowing and not caring what it was, he had forced it into his system, and downed the tiny vial of water that had been brought with it. He didn't bother to wonder why they fed him.

He cried again that night. He was alone, alone in this hellhole, with no way out. He wasn't even allowed to die, his magical core made sure of that. It ensured that he wouldn't die near as easily as a Muggle. Any Muggle would have been dead long before they reached the point that he was at. Instead, he was forced to huddle in the far corner each time someone entered the cell, and hopelessly sustain the hope that this time, they would be unable to see him. That this time, it would be someone there to save him.

No one ever did manage to accomplish that which had been considered impossible. No one broke the strong hold to rescue him. Indeed, they only discovered him to have died when, the day after that fatal flash of green light, his body was thrown into the middle of a skirmish, to be nearly destroyed by rogue curses.

His spirit didn't mind. His spirit didn't mind that his funeral wasn't held for nearly a week, nor did he mind that the words spoken were less than friendly. Everyone was disappointed, everyone was angry. But the spirit was happy, completely happy for the first time it could remember. For the first time it could remember, the spirit was surrounded by family. Bright green eyes that were filled with tears, messy hair that reflected his own, a bark of laughter that sounded after a joke. It was a family reunited and finally whole after 16 years of being parted. It was a family that, although small, was finally complete. He was finally complete.

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