AN: This chapter was a tad more difficult than I thought it'd be…sorry. I have no excuse other than frustration at its worst.

Thanks for all of the lovely reviews, and I'm really very sorry I took practically half a century to finish this chapter…

Also note that I changed the title and the summary. I apologize for any confusion.

Harry hissed quietly with pain in the darkness as he tried to shift his weight. He was, rather unfortunately, suspended from the ceiling and huge, rusted iron manacles had cut painfully into his wrists. Harry's arms had fallen asleep long ago with the loss of blood circulation and he did his best to jostle them, but there was little he could do other than try to ride it out.

The infection on the back of his head had steadily worsened—of course, it's not as if the Death Eaters would go out of their way to provide health care, nor was the place necessarily hygienic—therefore, Harry spent the next couple of days alternating in and out of consciousness, shivering and with a fever, while his laceration produced ugly yellowish gunk. He knew he wouldn't die—only Voldemort could kill him—but that didn't keep him from worrying that he'd get knocked out, completely vulnerable, and wake up with a few severed limbs.

And it certainly didn't help matters that it was so dark he couldn't see anything, there was something foul dripping on his head (which probably helped contribute to the infection, actually), and monstrous rats the size of small dogs would brush against his feet, nipping at his grimy toes. Harry wouldn't have put it past the Death Eaters to have removed his shoes purely for this reason…Needless to say, he was in a very sour mood.

Harry scowled further as he heard distant footsteps. Was it Dougall?

"…said he didn't understand…no reaction…" Mumbled a voice down the corridor. Harry craned his neck in a vain attempt to hear better.

"My potions never fail," said the other simply—with some unidentifiable emotion in his voice—and he paused, continuing with a tone akin to exasperation. "Lucius, must you follow me around like a lost puppy?"

It's Snape, he's come to get me out, Harry thought hopefully.

"I'm just here to monitor your…techniques."

"You and I both know that my 'techniques' have nothing to do with you tagging along." Snape replied testily. "I assure you, however, that I've been waiting to be granted this opportunity for years, and nothing will get in my way. Understood?"

"Of course, Severus," Lucius answered.

Harry shivered slightly. He's just bluffing…He wouldn't—

"Ah, Mr. Potter, what a pleasant surprise," said Snape as he reached Harry's cell. He smiled nastily at Harry's bleeding wrists. "What a dreadful predicament. We may have to remove your hands soon. I daresay, you won't be quite so adept with a wand if you had no hands, would you?"

"Apparently, I won't be 'quite so adept with a wand' anyhow." Harry retorted, although his voice was weak and that simple statement caused him to cough harshly, racking his body and making his chest burn with pain. Why the hell does it hurt to talk? Harry wondered briefly, but Snape had started to speak again.

"True." Snape said shortly, his eyes glittering with amusement. "Tell me, how did you enjoy that potion, Potter?"

"It was lovely," Harry rasped, but he didn't trust his lungs enough to continue further. In hindsight, he also didn't think it would be the best time to tease Snape, considering his predicament…

"Did you feel any different afterwards?" Snape continued, a peculiar expression on his face.

"No," Harry answered. Snape looked slightly relieved about something, and Harry said, "Was I supposed to feel any different?"

Snape, however, remained silent and unlocked the door. Harry's eyes subconsciously followed his every movement as he withdrew his wand and advanced towards him, looking carefully emotionless.

"I thought you just made potions," Harry said as he stared at the man's wand, trying his best to calm his heart that was beating frantically with panic. Again, Harry's voice had been croaky, and he wasn't sure whether your throat or lungs would be affected by a head infection or not.

"Oh, let's just say that in light of the situation," Snape smiled, "I changed my mind."

Was this just a show for Lucius? Harry could see no flicker of, well, anything, in Snape's face. He held his breath as Snape drew nearer, his thin wand directed at Harry's head with a cold smirk on his face—and Harry knew then that Snape, spy or not, fully intended to exact his revenge on him. Harry saw not even a single spark of hesitation recognizant in Snape's face as a single word slipped from his mouth:

"Crucio."

Harry yelled out, gritted his teeth and dug his nails into his palms as the mind-numbing shock of pain reverberated through his body. Snape finally relinquished with a cold smirk present on his face as Harry glared at him weakly, shivering.

"Again?"

Harry tried to answer, but all that came out was a slight whisper; all his screaming had taken away his voice. He instead closed his mouth and scowled hatefully, showing his fury with Snape for torturing him, and anger towards himself for being unable to handle the Cruciatus without a scream. His cheeks even felt wet, and Harry severely hoped he hadn't cried...

Severus cast the Cruciatus about two more times, as well as threw a few curses that felt like, to Harry, being lashed with a whip. Angry red welts crisscrossed over his chest and back, and blood leaked from Harry's mouth. Harry's eyes had watered each time from the sting of each hit, but he refused them the pleasure of seeing him cry again. His body felt pleasantly numb by this point now, though, and Harry dimly wondered whether he wanted to feel anything ever again.

Snape had stopped with Harry's 'punishment' to talk with Lucius, but Harry couldn't find himself caring. He nodded away for a few moments, head resting on his chest, when suddenly, his head jerked up as a slight twinge in his forehead. Harry squeezed his eyes shut—Please don't say it's him—he thought, but as the barely-there twinge grew into a sharp, white-hot throbbing ache over his scar, he knew that Voldemort was coming.

Bloody hell, haven't I gone through enough today? Harry thought briefly, skewing up his face as though it would lessen the ache in his forehead. He already thought he heard heavy footsteps echoing down the corridor, the long strides that could only belong to Tom Riddle.

Snape peered out into the dark hallway, as though surprised. Lucius had already stooped to the floor, and Snape quickly did the same, his greasy locks of hair falling into his face. They bowed there a few moments when Harry saw, his brow furrowing in consternation as he tried to ignore the pain in his scar, a tall, thin shadow crossing the path of the dim glow of light.

"Severus, Lucius, you may stand," said a cold, high-pitched voice that made the hairs on the back of Harry's neck stand on end.

Voldemort stepped into Harry's line of view with a smirk present on his face.

"Hello, Potter. It appears we meet again."

Harry grimaced, but didn't bother to attempt to say anything, and squirmed slightly under Voldemort's scrutiny. He felt slightly self-conscious; his shirt had been removed somewhere amidst Snape's session, and it wasn't as if Harry had a body to show off. For all his bravery, he looked positively waiflike and pale.

"How are you enjoying the dungeons? I have been told that it's quite…drafty."

The Death Eaters chuckled softly as though he had just told a joke, but Harry couldn't see why a drafty room would induce laughter. Voldemort then moved towards Harry and ran a long, thin finger down the boy's face. Harry closed his eyes and held back a disgusted shudder, resisting the urge to spit at the man.

"Dougall informed me that you are quite a fun one to torture, and quite a good tool for relieving tension. Unfortunately, he overstepped his limits by ignoring my requests…you won't be seeing him anymore. But he did offer me quite a few particularly…pleasurable suggestions, one of them involving the Dark Mark. The Dark Mark is very excruciating to receive, and even more so to keep. I think it would be an excellent idea to…brand you," Voldemort said, as Harry's head jerked up, face blanched and mouth slightly gaping. He wouldn't—

"You would feel a disgust at having your enemy's mark on your person, I'm sure—after all, you'd be an official Death Eater, but not a willing one. Just imagine the look on Dumbledore's face, were he to look upon your bare arm, his Golden Gryffindor's arm, and see the mark of the Dark Lord!"

Harry shook his head rapidly, trying to signify that he definitely didn't want the Dark Mark, although he didn't think Voldemort would be one to appeal to his request…

As expected, Voldemort merely grinned and pointed at the boy's arm. "Don't worry, Potter, it shouldn't hurt for too long…

"Mortis Macula!"

Harry gasped and severely wished his other hand was free just so he could hold his arm, which felt slightly like someone had plunged a large knife into it and twisted. Harry stared at his arm in horror, watching the Dark Mark slowly appear on his arm, as though some invisible pen drew the grotesque figure. When it was finished, Harry merely stared at the emblem—a skull with a snake protruding out its mouth—feeling dismayed and slightly in shock. It had the shiny appearance of a new tattoo, and the marking stood out clearly on Harry's pale flesh.

And even worse, Harry's could feel his connection with Voldemort strengthen—he suddenly noticed a wave of emotions and thoughts and knowledge being fed to him from Voldemort. The Dark Lord, Harry suddenly knew, was immensely surprised about this revelation, but simultaneously pleased that he could induce such horror within the young Gryffindor.

And Harry soon knew most of what Voldemort knew, despite the man's efforts block Harry from the deeper recesses of his mind. Harry, subconsciously, took advantage of this situation and quickly delved further into the Dark Lord's life—the orphanage, talking with Dumbledore for the first time, his first day at Hogwarts, a conversation with a fat man named Horace Slughorn about something called a Horcrux—

"OUT!" Voldemort bellowed, and Harry instantly found himself back in his own body, his mind spinning rapidly from all the information. There was now a distinct mental wall separating the Dark Lord from Harry Potter—a wall that Harry had no intention to cross. He had learned more dark spells in a few minutes than he normally wouldn't want to touch in a lifetime—he even knew the spell to skinning someone whole…

"We are done here," Voldemort murmured to Lucius and Severus, who nodded silently, each of them carefully suppressing their emotions.

Panting and staring fixedly at the floor, Harry refused to look up. He was revolted with himself—he didn't want this knowledge or the tiny voice in the back of his head that persistently claimed that this information may help him one day.

The lamp that Severus left behind grew dim, and soon left Harry and his thoughts alone in the darkness.

Review, please! I'd really appreciate it if some of you would offer some suggestions—and you'd help me by telling me what I'm doing wrong. Feel free to Britpick, point out grammar/spelling mistakes, or anything you want. I still feel like I'm lacking…substance in my writing, for lack of a better word, so if there are any tips you guys have to offer, I'd be eternally grateful.

Later this week I'll be editing the first chapter, just for your information.