He was Voldemort's prisoner. The war. The narrow defeat. Friends, shopkeepers, professors, anyone without a Dark Mark was put in this prison.
Harry could have stood there and remembered all day. It felt so good, to know something other than the walls, floor, cot, door, and window of his cell. However, Ron broke him unceremoniously from his reverie. "Harry?" Ron jumped up. Harry could hear his feet drawing closer to the door. These, unlike the guard's, he was glad to hear. He remembered.
Harry smiled. He peered through the barred window in the door into the cell of his best friend. "Ron! It's really…I can't believe…this is-" He stopped abruptly when he noticed the clock in Ron's cell, identical to his own. "2:10? Ron, we have to go!" Harry started off. He kicked himself mentally. Of course, nitwit, Ron can't come if he wants to! He thought. He ran back to his cell, picked up the crowbar, and headed back. His hands were sweaty, as if he had just dipped them in a basin.
It started slipping. He didn't have time. Only three fingers held it…two…one…
CLANG.
There it was. Harry stood, mouth agape. The…crowbar? The…ground? The…GUARD…
He bent, picked it up, and ran to Ron's cell. There was no use being quiet now. "Harry! Leave! I'll be fine!" Ron yelled at him.
Harry couldn't speak. Ron's door proved to be even more difficult. He pushed, pushed, pushed. Footsteps were heard from upstairs.
Fast footsteps. Drawing nearer to the staircase…
A second clang resounded. Ron's door. Ron jumped up.
"Which way?" Harry asked.
"YOU DON'T KNOW? YOU BROKE DOWN OUR CELLS AND YOU DON'T KNOW WHICH WAY IS OUT?" Ron bellowed.
Harry thought…thought…thought…which way had they come in…five years ago…? Ah! The opposite of the staircase, further on past Ron's cell. Harry grabbed Ron's wrist and dragged him along until he started running with him. The crowbar was still clenched in his hand, so tightly his knuckles were white.
Twenty feet.
A voice, the one belonging to the guard, filled the hall. "Stop! Anschlag!"
"A German?" Ron said, recognizing the accent. "He'll cut us to bits! Rip us apart! Eat us for luncheon!"
"No time for cannibalism, Ron," Harry said, pulling him onward.
But there was no hope. The guard was simply too fast. His heavy footsteps, which Harry thought were the result of too much to eat, were a product of muscle mass built up on this brute. He had long legs. He had a wand. He had every advantage.
Except for one.
Harry flung the crowbar. It whistled through the air, and hit the guard in the chest. He stopped, heaving. Every bit of 'wind' had been knocked out of him. He choked, wheezed, and began to recover…
To see Harry and Ron rounding a corner leading to small rooms (one of which was his office)…
And an unlocked door to freedom.