11th September 07:05

Voldemort approached the man kneeling on the green and silver rug, his breathing fast, excited. He held the holly wand in his hand and approached him.

"Show me, Rookwood. I want to see it."

His servant obliged, looking up and opening his mind. A willing mind was so easy to explore, to fall into and see the memory in all its vibrancy.

He could see the cell. A dingy, grey cube with a pathetic excuse of a window high in the back wall, a fallacy of sunlight illuminating the space.

A strangled scream ripped through the room. It came from the back of the room where a boy was twisting around as if in great physical pain. His legs shuffled around desperately, seeking an exit and finding none. His arms thrashed, chains banging against the wall he was shackled to.

Rookwood lifted the curse. This time he had kept him under for much longer, a test to see how long it would take for him to lose control and scream. The other times, the boy had made little noise, just moaning into his leather muzzle, clearly putting effort into holding back his cries. Rookwood felt mildly impressed by the tolerance, but he was only giving him short doses of pain, not wanting to cause too much damage.

He lasted a full minute before he lost control and screamed. Rookwood released the curse. Immediately the boy sagged against his chains, legs suddenly giving out under him and his entire weight went on his wrists. He swung a little, head dipping as he lost consciousness.

Rookwood neared, putting his hand under the boy's right armpit and pushing him back up so he didn't end up dislocating something. The boy's body complied, back resting against the wall. He saw his eyes staring, unfocused, then shut.

"Potter, wake up." He gave a gasp, waking.

Voldemort took control of the memory and paused it. The boy appeared different to how he remembered. Not as scrawny. Not as… pathetic. Though still slender, his shoulders had broadened and he was taller. He appeared to have grown up. His hair was longer, more wild than usual.

He resumed the memory. Rookwood leaned closely, and the boy's pale face suddenly flushed with colour. Rookwood looked down, wondering what caused the reaction, and saw the spreading puddle. He'd barely paid attention to it. So many of his victims lost control of their bladders; he just ignored it at this point.

"Just noticed?"

The boy raised his head a little. The humiliation dimmed as anger replaced it. He made two sounds, two words blocked by the silencer. Voldemort drew his attention to the leather muzzle covering the bottom half of the boy's face. It had initially frustrated him to not properly hear the boy's cries of anguish, but now he saw the purpose it served. It robbed the boy of the ability to talk back, to use his anger as a way to cope and survive. It wasn't just a tool to prevent him from spreading sedition. It was meant to crush his spirit.

Rookwood cleaned up the mess and moved closer, grabbing the muzzle and forcing the boy's head up.

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

The boy's expression hardened. Voldemort froze the memory again.

The boy's face was streaked with sweat, drips carving down his cheeks to under the leather muzzle. His green eyes were still bright, clear of any weakness. There were, however, the tell-tale stark red lines of blood vessels that had burst under the strain in the whites of his eyes.

The boy was purposefully not meeting Rookwood's eyes.

Ah, Voldemort thought, the boy knows about eye contact then.

Seeing enough, he left Rookwood's memory and paced away. He regarded the boy's wand in his hand, twirling it.

"What is your opinion of the boy, Rookwood?" Voldemort said, turning back to the man kneeling on the floor. He gestured for him to rise.

"My lord?" Rookwood was cautious as he got to his feet.

"Your… honest opinion, not what you think I want to hear."

Rookwood put his hands together, standing straight, composed as before.

"I believe he will be difficult to break, my lord. Despite his youth, he has resolve that surprised me."

"How so?"

"When I arrived, he was without the silencer," Rookwood said, watching Voldemort as he paced, "the guards were giving him water. I was concerned and planned to deal with them, but the boy… he said nothing. He was calm, controlled."

"Hmm…" Voldemort idly caressed the wand thoughtfully. "Reserving his strength, perhaps?"

"That was my thought as well, my lord," Rookwood said with a bow of his head. "He seems to be aware of his situation and taking measures to survive. It… impressed me, as you no doubt heard me say."

Voldemort was quiet for a moment.

"Good," he said, eventually. "It would have been immensely disappointing if he cracked after just one day. I do wonder if he shows the same determination tomorrow when you return after he spends a day with the Veritas Quaesitor."

"The quaesitor?" Rookwood murmured in surprise. "Yaxley intends to use that relic on the boy?"

"I gave him the permission to use it. Do you… disapprove?"

"No, my Lord," Rookwood said quickly, dipping his head. "I am merely surprised that Yaxley had knowledge of its existence. The Ministry purged it from the records, under Dumbledore's request, if I'm not mistaken.

"You are not." Voldemort said firmly. "I think it quite a pleasant twist of irony that the relic Dumbledore detested so much to be used against his greatest champion."

"Certainly," Rookwood gave an agreeing nod.

"Yet… I still detect some trace of disapproval from you, Rookwood. Please, speak your mind. I respect your opinion. You have, after all, been one of my most loyal Death Eaters over the years."

"My Lord, please forgive my reaction. I simply expected Yaxley to use veritaserum on the boy in order to extract his confession. It would have been the more reliable and direct route. While the Quaesitor's truth magic is immensely potent, it also has some… drawbacks."

"Hmm…" Voldemort's red eyes rested on Rookwood's own, looking through the man. "Few have outwitted the Quaesitor, it is true. Yet it requires great cunning. Something I do not believe Potter and his ilk possess."

"Of course. I expect his instinct will be to fight rather than think," Rookwood agreed. "Yaxley will have success with the Quaesitor. Perhaps extracting his confession will break the boy's spirit in ways that pain alone cannot."

"Indeed, however this does not mean that I don't expect you to hold back in your own responsibilities. While Yaxley's task is to extract the truth from the boy, yours is still to deliver me his pain. You will continue to torture the boy until I come to take over myself."

"Yes, my lord."

"I noticed you were holding back. I appreciate your restraint, Rookwood, it's why I entrusted the task of his punishment to you and no one else."

"Thank you, my lord."

"If he starts to show signs of breaking, report to me. Remember, his mind and life belong to me."

"Yes, my lord."

Voldemort regarded the wand in his hand. Rookwood looked at the wand, a crease appearing in his brow as he noticed that it wasn't Voldemort's usual wand.

"I will be away for a few days. There are some preparations I must make before I collect the boy for myself. If I am called back for anything other than a real, serious threat to the boy's sanity, I will use his wand to remove your own. Understand?"

Rookwood dropped his curious gaze. "Yes, my lord."

"The same goes for Yaxley. Remind him, will you?"

"I will."

Voldemort then gave him a smile. "Good. And do try to enjoy yourself, Rookwood. You are being given a gift that many, including myself, are deeply envious of. You get to hear the cries of the Boy-Who-Lived." He stared into the distance. "I look forward to hearing them myself."

At the sound of the key scraping in the door, Harry woke from a very uncomfortable sleep. He groaned as pain welcomed him back, his wrists feeling like they were on fire. As he shifted his arms, he was certain the raw skin had split. He gritted his teeth against the stinging pain. More pain to add to the list of hurts. The muscles in his shoulders were in a constant spasm, the joints stiff at the strain of constantly supporting his body weight. His neck ached where he had slept. By now, his lips were sore from the constant friction, his mouth bone dry and throat burning with thirst. His scar prickled with the usual flicker of pain.

He opened his eyes as the door opened. He heard the shuffle of feet and water splashing in the bucket. He raised his head, his thirst screaming at the closeness of a drink. Surely enough, the same water bearer had entered, following the man who had called himself the head guard. Harry eyed Sabor, his initial fear of the man diminished since he saw him cower before Rookwood.

"You've got quite the day ahead of you, Potter. Thought it best to give you your water early. Won't have a chance later." Sabor gestured at Berrick for him to go ahead of him. The man with the bucket compiled, shuffling carefully towards Harry.

"Also, a gift from Mr Rookwood," Sabor said. He tossed something at the ground at his feet, something that clattered loudly. A metal pot? He kicked it over to Harry. It rattled as it shot towards Harry, coming at a rest at his feet. Harry stared at it, confused.

Then it dawned on him. It was a chamber pot. His face flushed at the memory of what happened during Rookwood's visit.

Berrick placed his bucket down beside Harry and moved close to him. Harry stiffened at his nearness, but the man had been gentle before. He kept still as the man reached behind him, unbuckling the strap as he'd done before. Harry felt his jaw joint pop as it was freed.

He watched the man, seeing the play of emotions as he drew back to get the water. Harry glanced over to Sabor, seeing the wariness in his expression. He was nervous.

What are they so worried about me saying?

He looked to Berrick. The man was busying himself with scooping enough water into the cup. When he turned back, his eyes latched onto Harry's face, meeting his stare.

He froze.

Berrick knew about Harry Potter. Everyone did. He had been on a job when he heard about the fall of Lord Voldemort, 16 years ago, working as a mule, carrying intel in secret to separate cells that worked for the Death Eaters. It had been chaos, aurors apparating in to apprehend his superiors who suddenly had no leader.

He jumped on his broom and just left, flew away from it all, as quick as he could. He got home to his sickly mother, tucked her in bed and told her that he'd looked for a new job as soon as he could. He ended up working in a warehouse, simple labour work where no one asked questions. No one ever found out about his link to the Death Eaters, at least, not until his old boss found him, Rodolphus Lestrange, and gave him a lucrative position in the Ministry - guarding the prisoners that the new administration didn't want the public learning about.

He had no choice but to accept. While his mother had long since passed, he had family, a young niece at Hogwarts who had started her second year.

He carried out his job without a complaint, but he rose each day, heart sick with guilt, thinking of the pale, desolate faces that waited for him in the cells. His days were filled with the meek acceptance of his gift of water, their simple gratitude screaming from helpless eyes.

These eyes were different, not just because of their colour. Their green hue was unusually intense. He also noticed the burst blood vessels, the scarring from the cruciatus curse. They were different in their defiance and determination. His spirit was still there.

Berrick's gaze drifted up to the boy's forehead, to the scar.

"Still there, is it?" He nearly dropped his water ladle in shock as he heard the dry remark.

"Uh, sorry," Berrick said, feeling as if he had intruded. He lifted the water ladle, bringing it up to the boy's face. He noticed his lips. The skin looked sore and chapped, no doubt from wearing the silencer. He felt a prick of shame at the sight, pushing it down as he brought the cup to those sore lips.

The boy accepted his water the same way everyone did. Gratefully gulping it down in an eagerness to sate a maddening thirst. He finished it off quickly. Berrick lowered the ladle, moving away from the boy to return it into the bucket.

"What is the time?" The boy asked.

"No speaking, Potter. Don't overstep," Sabor snapped. Harry's eyes flashed with anger.

"Overstep by asking the time?" He fired back, voice prickly. "Dangerous knowledge, is it?" He felt a savage burst of pleasure as he heard his own voice. He didn't care that he'd get into trouble. It felt so good to throw a barb back in that sycophant's face.

Sabor's face paled, then reddened. He grasped the handle of his bludgeon. Berrick saw the action, knowing what it usually led to.

"It's seven in the morning," he muttered. Harry heard him.

Sabor tore across the room, wrenching his bludgeon free from the belt. Harry felt a strange feeling on his face, not realising that it was a smile.

There was a rather unknown fact about Harry Potter, one that never made it into the newspapers, never got scribbled by Rita Skeeter's Quick Quotes Quill. Harry knew how to take a beating. If Sabor had drawn his wand, he would be worried, but physical violence? Harry had been beaten nearly daily before he knew he was a wizard. A whole ten years' worth of training.

Berrick turned away.

Thwack. The bludgeon always made the same noise when it struck, the toughened leather slamming into skin and bone. There was also the accompanying huff of exertion as Sabor threw his weight into the blow, followed by the answering grunt of pain. He heard the boy's chains clanking at the force of the impact, body twisting at the force.

"Still want to be an asshole?" Sabor asked.

"You hit a defenseless person and I'm the asshole?" The boy replied, voice tight.

Thwack.

"Agh!" A shout of pain this time.

"You'll go without water tomorrow."

"I'll live." Then there was a light, mirthless chuckle. "But then maybe I won't. Hard to say."

"Enough of this," Sabor said darkly. Berrick heard a muffled yell of protest as Sabor yanked the muzzle back over the boy's smart mouth. He looked back around in time to see Sabor swing his bludgeon into the boy's side, striking at his ribs. He heard a strangled 'oomph' at the hit.

"Idiot boy. Testing my patience," the guard slid the bludgeon back into his belt. He then noticed the chamber pot on the floor, then edged it away from the boy with his foot so it was just slightly out of reach. The petty move drove a furious sound from the boy.

"A shame that I don't get to witness the veritas quaesitor myself later, but you'll have to tell me all about it when they bring you back to your cell…" Sabor gave a little laugh and flicked the front of the muzzle, "or you won't."

He turned away. Berrick could now see the boy, body curling a little to the left. The right side of his face was starting to bruise already, a line of red curling down from his brow where the bludgeon had split his skin.

The boy met his stare and gave him a little nod. He swallowed, seeing the determination still shining from those green eyes.

He picked up the bucket of water, not wanting to remain in that cell any longer than he had to. Sabor watched him with sallow, interrogating eyes. He knew that he would pay for speaking to the boy. He wasn't afraid of Sabor. The man was just a brute, but he had no bite. The Death Eaters however… if they learned that he'd spoken to Harry Potter and answered his question, even if it was something as mundane as the time…

Harry watched the door shut, then inwardly cursed his stupidity. His face was swelling where the first blow got him square in the face. It pulsed with a familiar pain, hurting like mad, but it was bearable. At least he didn't break his nose. With his mouth out of commission, it would be pretty hard to breathe through crushed nostrils. He was fairly sure one of his ribs had been cracked. It gave a stabbing pain with each breath. He'd broken his ribs a few times, both before and during Hogwarts. He could tolerate this pain.

He unclenched his hands, feeling where his nails had dug into his palms. The satisfaction of winding that man up was short-lived. He wondered if it was normal to want to anger someone so much, they'd hit you. Nothing about his situation was normal.

His thoughts circled back to the water bearer who had given him that strange look. He was surprised to see sympathy in his eyes, but not everyone here had to be bad, right? The man had given him water, not threatening him or hurting him in any way.

He felt something wet on his face. He blinked, feeling a sharp sting, realising that he was bleeding.

He thought back to the encounter. He'd been so distracted by the beating, he hadn't noticed. The man had made a mistake.

He said something about a 'veritas quaesitor'. As he rolled the word through his mind, it kicked loose vague memories of a dream he'd had during the night. He'd dreamed of the word…

My scar was hurting when I woke up. Did I have a visit to Voldemort's mind last night? He wondered, trying to think back. He remembered snippets of a conversation, nothing clear. There was something about how the veritas quaesitor had been purged from the records by Dumbledore and that it was amusing because…

Because they are going to use it on me!

Panic rushed through him. Whatever the veritas quaesitor was, it sounded bad. Anything that could force him to speak the truth sounded bad! Despite being threatened with the truth potion by Umbridge and Snape (his stomach pricked with rage and the thought of the pair), he'd never actually taken it. He'd seen it in action. The potion had turned Barty Crouch Jr very cooperative and didn't resist to tell his story.

But then, he didn't have a reason to hold back, Harry thought, he'd done his job. He had nothing to lose at that point.

Harry had barely started his mission before getting himself captured. He had a lot to lose, not just his life either. If he betrayed the mission, gave away that he knew about Voldemort's horcruxes, he'd give away the only chance they had against him. The secret of his immortality.

I don't think Voldemort will be best pleased if I blabbed about that, he thought, bemused. There's a reason why he has trusted no one with the knowledge. He trusts no one.

But if he finds out that Ron and Hermione possess one of his horcruxes, he will personally hunt them down. The thought understandably horrified him. Nothing will contain his rage at having his secret discovered. I'm already doomed just for existing, but they… they were spared his personal interest, other than because they mean something to me. If he finds out about the locket….

He closed his eyes. No, I need to guard that information with my life... what's left of it.

He struggled to remember anything else about the dream he had last night. It worried him that he couldn't remember it. Usually he was able to recall them with clarity.

If it's seven in the morning that means… he concentrated on working out how long he'd been in the cell for. I've been here for at least fifteen hours. Not even a day yet. Only fifteen hours of this torment and he was already feeling the effects on his faculties.

This is only the first morning of the end, he reminded himself bleakly.

Rather than succumb to the despair of his reality, he chose to steel himself. He pulled himself upright, wincing a little at the injuries he'd sustained at Sabor's bludgeon. His face was sticky where blood had snaked down his cheek to where the muzzle met skin.

He noticed the pot on the floor, then sighed, remembering how Sabor had pushed it out of reach. It was time for the next battle. Harry Potter vs chamber pot.

After what must have been twenty minutes of lots of grunting, muffled swearing, Harry finally extended himself far enough to get his little toe on the lip of the pot. He nearly kicked it away at his surprise of finally reaching it. A little more stretching, wrists screaming as he pulled them against the shackles, he dragged the pot towards him an inch with his toe. He huffed a breath, spots darting in his vision at the exertion.

He'd exhausted himself, head swimming a little. He had a little breather, looking up at his arms. His efforts were aggravating the skin under the shackles which was already very sore. He could feel the skin bleeding.

Ignoring this new injury, he stretched out his leg again, pulling himself as far from the wall as he could, gritting his teeth at the effort. He clawed his toes around the lip, then dragged the pot towards him, kicking it under him where it bonked into the wall.

Time for the next step - using the pot.

It was very awkward, but he managed to finish without too much mess. Pushing the pot away from him with his foot was the more difficult part of the exercise. Mild disgust pulsed through him, but he had to ignore it. His dignity was barely holding on.

He leant against the wall, staring into the far corner of the room, feeling the restlessness of intense boredom settle over him. He couldn't believe it. Here he was, in the worst danger he'd ever been in, and he was bored.

He stretched his arms at their fullest and attempted to bring his hands together. He could just about touch fingers, but that was it. It infuriated him how well they had measured the chains. They must have been spelled to factor in his height.

A sensation went through him. Dread. He stopped stretching, moving his gaze to the door. It was almost like he could sense the approaching danger. His heart started to race, scar prickling. Perhaps he was reacting to something through the link with Voldemort.

His instinct was right. He heard a scrape at the door. He tensed, feet planted under him, ignoring the tremors in his legs, the spikes of pain that stabbed from various places in his body, the unending burn in his shoulders.

The door swung open and at once, a spell shot into the cell. Harry slammed into the wall, head knocking into the stone, sending white lights flashing into his vision.

The movement in the cell felt like it was coming from a great distance away. He blinked, dazed, his hearing oddly distorted.

Impediment charm.

"Get him down."

Yaxley.

This is it.

Harry fought against the effects of the charm, struggling to regain use of his faculties. As he felt figures closing in on him, the befuddlement dissolved away. His gaze ranged over two men that had approached him, their wands outstretched. If he gave them an excuse, they would likely cruciate him. He didn't need to be incapacitated right now.

He saw Yaxley at the doorway. He was dressed in fine robes, looking more like a Ministry man than a Death Eater. Even his hair was combed.

Dressed in his finest for his moment of glory. Prick.

Harry's gaze then went to Sabor who stood at his side. He was speaking to Yaxley, no doubt talking about what had happened earlier. He could hear him muttering under breath but couldn't pick out his words. But then his gaze fell onto his belt. On his wand.

He keeps his wand out so he can use it quickly, but it's also free to grab… if I ever have my hands free. He shelved this knowledge away. It may have a use later.

He returned his gaze to the two wizards who had stopped right in front of him. He resisted the urge to kick them. They reached up, hands grabbing his arms as they both together tapped the manacles. They sprung open. As the raw skin was exposed to the air, his wrists burned fiercely, but they were free.

The guards held his arms, manoeuvring them to his sides. Harry couldn't help but gasp at the relief in his shoulders. It was short-lived as he was pulled forwards, staggering on his shaking legs, nearly kicking over the used pot at his feet. They twisted his arms up behind him, holding his wrists together, crossing his forearms over in a hold. He didn't bother struggling, knowing from how quickly they moved that they knew what they were doing.

He was forced towards Yaxley, gaze lingering on the wand that was trained on him.

"Hold him there a second."

The Death Eater approached, moving closer. Harry felt his wand touch under his muzzle and he tilted his head up. They met gazes for a second before Harry quickly looked away. This was no time to get his mind violated.

"Left him with quite the shiner, I see." Yaxley remarked.

"He deserved it."

"Oh I'm sure," the Death Eater sneered. Harry felt a savage burn of rage at the exchange, but kept himself docile.

The Death Eater lowered his wand, staring at Harry, a frown.

"What's wrong, Potter? Nothing to say?" He taunted.

Harry glanced up to see those grey-blue eyes observing him with rapt interest.

"You'll be talkative enough soon, whether you want to be or not. I have the honour of leading your interrogation myself," Yaxley gloated. "I had the veritas quaesitor moved to the Row especially for the occasion."

The word interrogation kicked Harry's fear up several notches. Yaxley must have seen his fear as he smirked a satisfied smile and turned away. At his movement, Harry's guards jerked him forwards. He had no choice but to follow Yaxley out of his cell. Departing one miserable fate, only to be sent unwilling into another.

What is this veritas quaesitor going to do to me? He wondered, his mind spinning, thinking of the way Barty Crouch Jr had looked when he had taken the truth potion, the willing way he just gave up his confession. Would Harry calmly give up his secrets too? Forced to betray everyone, unable to fight it, unable to stop the incriminating truths from falling out his mouth.

The floor underfoot changed from bare stone to marble, icy cold on his bare skin. The hallway looked familiar, the decor similar to the long, oppressive corridor that led to the Department of Mysteries, a corridor that Harry had dreamed about for months.

On the side where he'd just been pulled from, there were numerous doors like the one he had been staring at for half a day. Other cells. The exit of the Row was a blurred shadow at the limits of his vision. He saw figures guards standing at the door, counting five blurs. Five? Why so many? I don't even have a wand!

He noticed on the right wall, there were two doors. One was open. He passed it and looked inside, seeing tables and chairs. A staff room? Guard quarters perhaps? He looked then at the other door. It was made from solid metal. He knew at once that this was where he was being taken. It sent a lurch of fear through him.

Yaxley turned at the door, proving Harry's instincts right. He seized the handle, twisting it, causing a percussion of bolts to slide out with loud clunks. The hinges squealed under the weight of the solid metal, a sound that pierced the ears, shrill like a scream.

The room beyond was a rectangle of darkness, sending a powerful surge of foreboding through Harry. He offered his first attempt at resistance since being dragged towards this inevitable fate. His feet slipped uselessly on the floor and he was pushed through into the darkness.