10th September 17:25

Harry lurched awake. Everything hurt. His scar was burning, the intense pain fading as he pulled fully into himself. The rest of him ached, his shoulders and arms worst of all. He had let out a yell of pain, but it was strangled by something pressed tightly around his mouth and jaw. Panic pushed through the pain and the initial confusion left by the sudden consciousness.

He grew aware of his situation with tremendous horror. Wherever he was, it was dimly lit. He was upright, shoulders screaming as he shifted, finding his feet. Chains clinked as he moved. His arms were suspended above him. He could feel the bite of metal around both wrists, his entire weight supported on the shackles. The moment he pushed his feet into the ground, the relief was immediate.

He tried to open his mouth and couldn't. Terror and humiliation shot through him as he realised that he was wearing some sort of muzzle. He could feel the straps around his head and under his chin. He couldn't speak.

He could still breathe, at least. Someone had healed his broken nose. He could hear his panicked breaths whistling out his clear nostrils, no longer clogged with blood.

He was alone, which was a small comfort. It was utterly silent. The only sounds came from him: his erratic breathing, his thundering heartbeat, the dry swallowing of his throat as he tried to get some moisture down. He eased his jaw up and down as much as he could, feeling the joint pop painfully. The muzzle was very tight, the front covering his lower face, stopping just below his nose. Looking down, he could just about see the leather covering his face.

He was still without his glasses, though the room was small enough to be fairly clear to him. Directly opposite him was a door, made of solid wood and metal lattice work. He turned his head to examine the wall he was chained against. Above him was a small window, the only source of light, but like all windows in the Ministry, it was enchanted.

Looking down, he saw in alarm that the robes he had arrived in had been exchanged for pale grey robes, ones he recognised. He'd seen Sirius in ones similar, but his weren't rags. For a moment, he thought he was in the wizarding prison, but then he thought back to the vision he'd just had. No, he wasn't in Azkaban. Yaxley said that he was in the Ministry still, where he would be interrogated.

His stomach unpleasantly twisted as he recalled the most terrifying details.

I have a few days until Voldemort comes to collect. I'm pretty much dead already.

Harry looked around the small space, looking for something, anything, to distract himself from the screaming well of despair threatening to drag him under. He looked up at the chains above his head and tugged at them. Of course, they didn't budge. They were obviously enchanted. He had noticed that the manacles were each a solid ring with no clear lock or hinge.

He had no illusions. He wasn't getting out of here.

He'd never see Ron and Hermione again. Or Ginny. Or any of the Weasleys. Remus. He wouldn't be given the luxury of goodbyes. Whatever was planned for him during the next few days, he knew it would be the worst time of his life. He knew well the methods Voldemort's followers used to extract information. They weren't gentle.

The despair rose up and he lost control.

He screamed. The muzzle strangled most of the noise, but it still tore through the silence of the small cell. He poured out his misery, fear, shame and regret into that single scream, letting it loose in a loud cathartic explosion. He didn't stop there. He thrashed against his chains with all his strength, slamming the metal and his arms against the stone with loud crashes.

He strained against the manacles, getting more and more desperate, his scream dying in his throat as it tapered off into a long moan.

Then he was quiet, breathing heavily, sagging down against the wall. He hung off the manacles, shoulders burning as he held his body weight on the joints. For a moment, he remained still, listening to the rapid beat of his heart, the blood thrumming through his body. All the sounds that proved that he was alive.

For some reason that calmed him.

I'm alive, he thought, as long as I'm alive, I have to keep fighting.

With that thought, he reached up his hands, grasping hold of the chains that he hung from and dragged himself up the wall. His bare feet slid on the stone, then he steadied his legs under him.

He took a deep breath, turning his head upwards, thinking of where he might be.

Yaxley said this is where Bellatrix was kept before her trial, the thought sent a spike of revulsion through him, to think he had anything in common with her. That means that this has to be near the courtrooms, on the lower floors. Near the department of mysteries. He usually tried to not think of that place, but right now he had little time to protect himself from bad memories. His present was bad enough.

His arms started aching, so he grabbed hold of the chains and hoisted himself upright, feet taking his full body weight. Already he'd got used to the shuffle of weight, resting what he can, when he can. The instinctive body behaviours adapted in the need to survive - ones that he had already gained experience with thanks to an abusive childhood.

Though they never chained me to a wall, he thought grimly. The restriction of simple freedoms, confinement, starvation… those he did have experience in.

As the minutes stretched by, he soon understood that he had to endure something else that he had experience in - boredom. With nothing to distract him, all he could think about was the building need to use the bathroom, the aches in his back and shoulders that were starting to get unbearable, and the growing thirst. He flexed his hands often to keep the blood flow to his fingers, but they still felt numb, suspended above his head.

Something scraped against the door. He stiffened at once, planting his feet into the floor and standing to his full height. His eyes were unblinking as he stared at the door, heart racing.

The door creaked open. Two wizards entered, wearing the blue robes of Ministry security.

He heard water sloshing and saw the one on the right carrying a wooden bucket. He ranged his gaze over the pair, assessing the threat quickly. The wizard on the left wore a thick belt over his robes. Harry saw his wand stuck in the belt, as well as a bludgeon and a set of keys that jangled as he moved.

A prison guard. Who else would carry keys and a bludgeon?

The guard lingered at the far end of the cell, hand resting on the bludgeon. The wizard with the bucket approached, water splashing, nearly spilling on the floor as he walked cautiously. Harry glanced over, noticing a metal handle sticking out the bucket. Some sort of ladle, he wondered.

He was very thirsty.

"Potter," the guard at the door spoke. Harry's eyes instantly darted back to him at the sound of his name. "My name is Sabor, head guard of the Row."

Harry had never heard of the Row before now. He assumed that it was the nickname for the holding cells that he knew he was detained within.

"As you've no doubt noticed, you've been sentenced to forced silence during your stay at the Row," he drawled, voice reverberating oddly in the small room. Harry huffed out an angry breath at the term 'forced silence'.

That's one way to describe it.

"However, all prisoners in the Row must receive a daily water ration. So you see we're at a bit of an impasse."

The water bearer put the bucket down at Harry's feet. Harry glanced down, seeing his distorted reflection in the disturbed surface. He could see the extended shape of his suspended body, the black shock of hair and the tan leather muzzle covering half his face. His raised his head from his reflection

"Berrick needs to remove your silencer to give you your water, so let me give you time to think carefully about what you do when he does." Sabor's hand rubbed over the handle of his bludgeon. "You can act civil, remain calm and quiet. If you do, you'll get your water and that's that. But… if you act like an asshole, you get no water. You'll go thirsty… and bruised." He patted his bludgeon.

Sabor gave a sigh and gestured to the water bearer. "I think he gets it. Give him his water."

The water bearer, the man the guard called Berrick, shuffled up to Harry. He reached up to his head, causing Harry to instinctively cower back. He felt his fingers fiddling with the strap at the back of his head, then felt something go loose. The muzzle dropped down, coming to rest at the base of his neck. He sucked in a deep breath.

I need the water, he thought, glancing down at the bucket. Making these men angry with me would be a pointless exercise… even if it would feel good.

"Good. So far, so good," appraised Sabor, "told you he'd listen."

Berrick, reached down to the ladle handle. The end of the ladle was more like a metal cup than a spoon. He pulled it out, spilling a little. The spilled water splashed Harry's bare toes.

He raised the cup to Harry's mouth. The metal butted against Harry's lips and a little water spilled over his chin. His face burned with shame, but swallowed the water eagerly. It tasted metallic, but was still thirst quenching. The guard tilted it down at a good pace, showing that he'd done this a few times. When it was down to the last drop, he took it away.

"Th… thank you," Harry said quietly.

Berrick jerked a little at the sound of Harry's voice, then put the ladle back into the bucket. Harry noticed that the man was trying very hard to not look at his face.

He then grew aware of a noise out in the hallway beyond the cell. He looked up. Sabor noticed the sound as well, rising from his lounging position at the back wall, moving to the doorway - where a man in black robes appeared.

Sabor took an involuntary step back away from the newcomer. The atmosphere shifted at once. The man swept his gaze over the cell, seeing Harry at the back wall, frozen with fear, seeing the water bearer similarly frozen, and the headguard who was gaping at him in shock and guilt.

"Why is Potter unsilenced?"

The question was answered with a stilted silence. The man entered the cell, his black robes audibly swishing as he moved. Harry recognised the man from somewhere, hurriedly trying to put a name to that face. He knew with certainty that the man was a Death Eater.

Sabor recovered from his shock, nervously straightening and moving aside for the Death Eater to enter.

"To receive his water ration, Mr Rookwood."

Rookwood. He was Augustus Rookwood. A wave of dismay and anger swept through Harry as he regarded the man's pock-scarred face and long grey hair. Rookwood had once been an Unspeakable of the Department of Mysteries, a spy within the Ministry before his arrest at the word of Karkaroff's testimony. He was clearly a proficient wizard and a very dangerous person to be within wand-distance of Harry.

Sabor shot a warning look to Berrick, who quickly moved away from Harry, grasping the handle of the bucket as he did to clear the way.

Rookwood paused, regarding Sabor with a stony look. The guard swallowed and explained, "Ah… you see, sir, I'm under orders to make sure all prisoners receive a water ration," he said hurriedly, "as a prisoner in the Row, he's entitled to a cup a day."

"Under orders?" Rookwood gave the man a quick glance. "From whom?"

"Well… the Minister."

"I see," he glanced at the water bearer, who kept his head bowed, "I assume you have finished?"

"Y...yes," Berrick muttered.

"Then silence the boy and get out," Rookwood said.

The man put down the bucket and hurried over to Harry. As his fingers gripped the muzzle, Harry flinched, turning his head away. He saw a guilty expression flash over the man's face as he pulled the muzzle back up over Harry's mouth and chin, before retightening the strap. Harry let out a sound as he felt the muzzle pull tight, trapping his jaw in place once again.

The water bearer ducked away, moving as fast as he could to get away from the Death Eater.

"Wait."

The water bearer paused, flinching as he went to pick up the bucket. Water splashed onto the stone.

"Did he speak to you?" Rookwood asked in a monotone, disinterested voice. The man straightened, staring at the man with a slack expression.

"Uh, well," he glanced at Sabor, who was pointedly looking away, "he said thank you."

There was an unpleasant silence as the water bearer lowered his gaze, breathing heavily. Rookwood reached into his robes, as if going for his wand, then he stopped, hands going still by his side.

"So you can keep a civil tongue, Potter," he mused, "very well, Sabor. I will allow only one exception for touching the silencer, but if I learn that he becomes more talkative, we will need to revise this ration rule."

Berrick let out a gasp of relief. Harry watched with horror. He nearly killed that man by just saying 'thank you'.

"Now leave. It is time for me to give Potter a ration of a different kind."

The shadow on the floor kept swaying. Slowly, the movement barely perceptible, it edged left to right. Then a droplet of sweat hit the ground in the place of the shadowed head.

It took him a moment to realise that this was real. Staring at the moisture seeping into the stone, realising the dampness on his own forehead, head angled at the ground.

Harry had blacked out. The brutal summons of consciousness ripped him from blessed relief and the agonies of his current torment dug into his body, drilling through muscle, tendon and gristle.

His tormentor's shadow joined his own. He felt a hand touch him, digging in his armpit and lifting him back to the wall. His body meekly complied. He was in too much pain to resist.

"Potter, wake up," a voice cracked through him like a whip. He realised he had closed his eyes and opened them. His back was pressed against the wall, arms still mercilessly suspended above his head, legs collapsed under him.

When did that happen? He thought, realising his legs had failed him. He moved to push his feet out, to support his weight. The muscles screamed as he did, shaking under him.

He tried to think about how many times he'd been hit with the cruciatus curse. Was that the eighth?

Don't think, just survive.

He knew the man was close, standing over him, his wand held so loosely in his palm. Harry peered through the small gap between his eyelids at the man, huffing audibly through his nose.

He grew suddenly aware of an odour. It took a moment for his frazzled mind to place the scent. Urine.

His own.

He felt it then. The wetness between his legs, the slickness under foot. The horror of it burned away the befuddlement left by the last cruciatus curse and he gasped through his muzzle.

"Just noticed?" The calm, composed voice of his tormentor remarked.

Harry raised his head, seeing the robed man in front of him and then felt his confusion dissolve.

Fuck you was what he said, but only two angry sounds mumbled through the leather constricting his face. Rookwood gave him a contemplative look, then pointed his wand.

"Scorgify," he said, cleaning away the spreading puddle under Harry's weakened legs. Harry also felt the unpleasant wetness on his legs wash away.

Rookwood moved in close, suddenly grasping the bottom of the muzzle and wrenching upwards. He stared down at him.

"Don't be ashamed. I've seen men much older than you wet themselves after a single bout," the Death Eater said. "You held control for far more than that. I'm actually impressed. It's like you've known pain all your life."

You have no idea.

He grew aware of the man staring into his eyes, searching them.

Don't look into his eyes. It was extremely likely that the Death Eater had knowledge of legilimency, having worked in the most secretive department of the Ministry with its vast knowledge at his disposal.

Harry focused instead on the heavy lines under the man's eyes. He'd endured two sentences at Azkaban, the experience having left its mark as it did to all those that had spent time at the prison. Small round scars dotted his cheeks. Magical scars? He found himself wondering.

"Some signs of the strain, I see." Harry had no idea what he meant. The Death Eater let go of his muzzle and his head dropped down. "I think you've had enough for now."

Harry let himself go limp, staring into the ground while the odd tremors pulsed through his muscles.

"Take some rest, Potter," Rookwood backed away. Harry inched his head up, sweat sliding down his neck as he saw the Death Eater retreat to the door.

A memory that he had long since pushed into the furthest recesses of his mind bled over reality. He saw the reddened neck of his uncle as he walked away, heard the loud huffing exhalations of a man hardly in control. He could feel the ghost of the angry welts in his back.

The memory startled him. Of all the times to think about that night when Vernon took the belt to him…

Because I endured that when I was seven… or eight. I got through that. I can get through this.

He closed his eyes, trying not to feel the aches and the quivering in his legs. He heard the door open, saw the robes disappear through the doorway in the corner of his eye, then when the door shut and the silence of his solitude settled over him, he made to stand. It was an effort, but he fought through the pain to stand on his legs. His knees didn't feel very stable, but the relief on his shoulders and arms was worth it.

He stood leaning against the wall, eyes half shut, breathing deeply. Flashes of red light blared in his mind as he relived the last hour, muscles still trembling at the memory of the torture. Unsurprisingly, Augustus Rookwood had been proficient at causing pain. The man spoke, but not to mock his victim like some of his associates would, Bellatrix for example. He carried out the treatment with a strange professionalism as if it was just another day at the office. Weirdly, he almost treated Harry with some respect. If a different Death Eater had discovered Harry's little accident, they would have humiliated him for it. His face burned a little, thinking about it.

Harry could imagine the high, cold laugh that would sound when word reached Voldemort. It sent a spike of shame and anger through him. He didn't want to think about Voldemort right now.

Strange, he realised, it only took a round of cruciatus to finally teach him how to clear his mind of thought. Somehow, he didn't imagine that torturing someone was the conventional way to learn occlumency.

His hands were numb, so he clenched them a few times to encourage blood flow back. He bent his elbows, the joints popping, pulling his arms down as much as he could until the chains clanked taut.

He sighed out his nose. The leather around his mouth and chin was sticky with his sweat, the skin itching uncomfortably. He tried to open his mouth, forcing his jaw against the strap under his chin. He managed to open just a fraction and attempted to speak, but all he could accomplish were wordless vocalisations. He could hum a tune, but that was it.

He looked up at the window, wondering what the time was. Surely it was night by now, but it looked like he was going to be cast in eternal sunshine. As he moved his head, the metal buckle securing his muzzle scraped on the stone.

Then he heard a noise, something that wasn't him, coming from the other side of the wall. He turned his head, pressing his ear against the stone, straining his hearing. He held his breath so his huffing nose didn't drown anything out.

He heard it again, some sort of shuffling. Were there rats down there? The thought of rats had him instinctively thinking of Scabbers and, by extension, Ron.

"Harry?"

The sudden voice made him jump violently. It sounded like someone was directly behind him. He glanced over to the door, eyes wide.

"Harry? Can you hear me?" He knew that voice. Arthur Weasley?

Harry couldn't speak. Futility, he flicked his head left and right, trying to open the buckle at the back of his head, hands clenching.

"I can't stay long…. can you hear me?" Mr Weasley's voice was hushed, but still very audible. He sounded worried, scared. Then there was a sigh. "Maybe the next cell…"

Harry gave up with the muzzle and just made as loud a sound as he could in his throat in frustration.

"NGH!"

"Is that you? Harry?"

"Nnnngh," Harry shook his head. It was no use. He couldn't say anything.

"I can't hear… ah I know. Harry, if it's you, can you… maybe tap the wall?" There was a pause. "Look I'm on the other side."

There was a knock. It sounded near Harry's hip.

Harry looked around, first down to his feet. His feet were bare. Stamping wouldn't be loud enough. He looked up, seeing his manacles. He grasped the chain on his right wrist and cracked the metal manacle against the wall. It clanked loudly against the stone.

"Good… oh thank Merlin it's you," he gave a shaky laugh, "I've been panicking about accidentally finding the guards' room."

It felt so good to hear a friendly voice. Harry closed his eyes at the sound of his voice, wishing desperately that he could speak… could ask him about Ron and Hermione, about anything.

"Kingsley told me once about a bit of a security flaw in the Row. There's a maintenance shaft running all the way behind the cells. No idea when it was used last. It's not been cleaned in a while, that much I can tell you. Anyway, I've cast silencing charms and wards. No one knows I'm here… I hope."

Harry continued to try to unbuckle the strap, but it just scraped against the wall. He forced his jaw open, but it just strained the muscle.

"It's a risk, but… I had to get to you. I saw what happened in the atrium. They tried to cover it up, but too many people saw you."

Memories of the green flashes Harry had seen as he was dragged through the crowd burned in his mind. He stopped fidgeting, focusing on Mr Weasley's voice. He banged his shackle against the wall.

"I should be able to hear you if I cast an amplifier…"

Harry shook his head, tears now forming. He banged his shackle again.

"Wait… no, they can't have…" Mr Wealsey sounded horrified. "Harry, uh, tap once for yes and twice for no, do they have you silenced?"

He hung his head, blinking away the tears that had formed, and rapped his right shackle against the wall.

Yes.

"Those despicable bastards," the father of Harry's best friend growled angrily, "you're chained to the wall too, aren't you?"

Yes.

"Have… they questioned you yet?"

Harry frowned, then banged the metal against the stone twice.

No.

"Are they going to?" Harry paused.

Yes.

"Do you know… Harry, I'm sorry for this question, but I need to know. If they use veritaserum on you, will my family be in danger?"

Yes.

Despair howled inside him. It rose up, threatening his control again. He felt it reach his neck and expel itself in the form of a sob.

I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry.

"Alright… I have enough of a head start to warn them, Harry. We'll be okay. We've managed to hide most of the Order, you know." Harry knew he was saying it for Harry's benefit, not his own.

"Just focus on yourself. Don't worry about us. I… gather you have something they need or otherwise you'd be, well, dead. Is that right?"

Yes.

"If they find out what you know, is it… well… bad?"

Yes.

"Well then," Mr Weasley gave a warm laugh, "it's a good job that we'll do everything we can to get you out of there, isn't it?"

Harry held his breath, tears fighting themselves free of his eyes. They curled down his sweat-stained cheeks. He huffed out a sound.

"Harry, do you really think any of us could live with ourselves if we left you here?"

No! You'll die. He's here. He's at the Ministry.

But the warnings stayed in his head, unable to voice them. He let out another loud noise, the muzzle vibrating against his lips at the sound trapped inside his mouth.

"Just… hold on for as long as you can. I can't imagine what you're going through already. Have they… hurt you?"

Yes.

"If you were anyone else, I'd say they would be more interested in what you know than making you suffer but… you aren't, and I'm sorry." The honesty surprised Harry, but he knew all that already. "They're clearly rattled after the reaction to your arrest. Tensions are building, Harry. Keep fighting. Keep showing them that they haven't won."

Harry closed his eyes, surprised by a warm sensation building in his chest. He clenched his hands as it built up, recognising his determination as it steeled him.

He banged his wrist against the wall to show that he heard.

"I… should go. They will notice that I'm gone," Mr Weasley said, awkwardly. "I… Harry, I will try to come back but if I can't - I just want to say that I see you like my own son and I'm proud of you."

You're like a father to me and I can't lose you.

Unable to express himself back, Harry resorted to straining his hands around and resting his palms against the stone. He let out a noise to show that he had heard.

"I… can't believe they used that thing on you," an angry whisper came back at the sound of Harry's blocked voice. "It's for crazed murderers, not…" He sighed.

"I'm leaving now. Be strong, Harry."

Harry made no sound. He just leaned into the wall, listening to Mr Weasley's movements on the other side of the wall. They grew faint as he withdrew back down the maintenance shaft.