12th September 10:02

Sabor had been brutal this time, unsurprisingly. Harry's ribs took the brunt of the beating. Combined with the burning of his joints and the tremors that still pulsed through his fried nerve-endings, he was in a bad way. He coughed several times in his muzzle and had been alarmed to feel the tacky claret of his own blood in his mouth. Some of the blows to his chest and ribs had been powerful enough to break bone, but he wasn't sure. He was struggling to care.

His left hand was unbroken. He gripped the chain with it to provide some relief for that one arm. Miraculously, he'd escaped that fate. That blessed waterbearer with his sympathetic eyes and gentle hands - he'd covered for him. He still could scarcely believe it. After a miserable night of dwelling on what waited for him in the morning, he felt practically elated. His situation was still terrible and he still faced a very unpleasant death, but he had a hand! He was close to laughing.

His broken right hand was hideous to look at and gave him constant grief. The swelling meant he couldn't move it without causing himself immense pain. And as it was supporting his body weight, that meant all the time. He could move three fingers and wiggle his thumb, but the index finger was out of commission. If he got out of here, the bone definitely needed to be reset. He inched himself upright a little, wincing with the pain. His entire body felt shocked by the onslaught and he had bitten the inside of his mouth at one point. He had to swallow his own blood, unable to expel it out his mouth. He was living off a diet of water and his own blood. How pleasant.

Minutes stretched on in the silence. He shifted around a few times to ease his shoulders from their constant burden. He stretched himself as much as he could, but his dehydration was starting to drain at him. He might have been lucky enough to get water this time, but that measly portion was hardly enough. He felt very dizzy.

He strained his hearing for any clues about what was going on outside his cell, but all he could hear was himself. In fact, he'd never been so aware of all the sounds his body made, the clicks in his joints, the gurgles in his gut, the wet rasp of his shallow breathing. He could faintly hear the sound of his eyelids peeling apart when he blinked. He wiggled his jaw a little, feeling the leather cutting into his cheeks and under his chin. He miserably thought about how he'd have to get used to wearing the muzzle for a few more days. He wouldn't risk removing it again, but unless he had to.

Desperate to think of anything else, Harry wondered what the hold-up was. Yesterday Yaxely had been fairly prompt. Too busy organising my fake execution, maybe. He thought darkly. The memory of that document that Rookwood taunted him with returned, the elegant quillmanship and official Ministry seals adorning the bottom, with the Minister's signature at the bottom, the puppet at the end of Yaxley's strings.

He then heard the scrape of the key and went still. He glanced up at his arms, grabbing the chain with his left hand and pulling himself upright as best he could. He wanted to be as agile as possible. The moment when he was down from the chains was his only chance to fight back. Even with his right hand out of commission, he could still do something… even if it was just to try.

I will never stop fighting these people.

The door was lurched open and a wave of noise hit him. Voices from the hallway. He blinked, recoiling back, dazed by the sudden cacophony of sound. He triggered a coughing fit. Each cough sent a flash of pain through his chest, making his vision throb. He felt blood on his tongue as he cleared his lungs, squinting at the open doorway and trying to make sense of what he saw. More than one person filtered into the tight space, all blue robes.

"Locomotor mortis," someone called out from the doorway. Harry felt his legs freeze and snap together. He lost his balance, falling forwards only to have his arms wrenched back against the joints by the chains. He gave a strangled cry of pain, curling into himself in a weak attempt to protect himself as they drew towards him.

"Fix the shackles now, then we'll get him down," a gruff voice said, coming from the small crowd. Harry cowed back as they approached, extremely vulnerable.

"Blimey, Sabor got you good there. Bruise like a peach, don't you, Potter?" One of them remarked. He heard the all-too-familiar clinking of chains, having had that sound accompanying his every waking moment, but it didn't come from him. One guard entered his field of vision and he saw the shackles and his breath caught.

They were going to restrain his legs. He couldn't fight them off, not with his legs in the leg-locker curse. There was no way to stop it. The guard crouched down to his feet and he felt him touch his legs, pulling them towards him so he could snap the shackles around his prone ankles.

"I'm sorry it had to come to this, Potter." A calm, measured voice came from the back of the throng. Harry went rigid at the voice. No… not him. Not now. He felt the metal bite into his ankles as the restraints sealed, enchanted to fit flush against his skin. His legs were suddenly released from the leg-locker curse and he scrambled his legs to try to regain his balance. They jarred against the short length of chain that held his ankles together. He looked down then, understanding that they were hobbling him. He took in a steadying breath. For a moment, he thought he'd be held outstretched, completely immobilised. While this still was pretty bad, he'd be able to move a little to keep shifting his body weight.

"You proved yourself to be quite troublesome," Rookwood continued, "and while it was more Sabor's incompetence that led to you even being able to strike him, we cannot permit you the freedom to fight back."

Rage burned inside him at the words. He glared at the source of the voice, a figure lurking in the doorway behind the guards. He felt hands gripping his arms, then heard the wands tap the shackles, freeing his wrists from the restraints once again. This time, the relief made him sag into their grip. It made him gasp as his shoulders were freed from their torment. He was shuffled away from the wall and, as he parted from his prison, he felt a surge of vertigo.

"Dizziness is normal. Just takes a moment to get your bearings," someone muttered to him. Harry's eyes darted around, searching for the speaker. It was the same man who remarked on his bruise. "Relax your feet. You'll just end up spraining something if you try to walk on your own."

"Stop talking to him, Pils," growled the man on Harry's right and he rather roughly twisted his arm behind his back and as he did, put pressure on his hand. Harry let out a cry of pain. "Oh, sorry Potter." He didn't sound sorry in the slightest.

This time he felt his arms being bound behind his back. They really weren't taking any chances with him. Harry had stopped searching for an escape. With Rookwood there, he had no chance of getting loose and he'd be quick to punish him for it.

He then felt the man on his right lean into him, moving his face close. Harry looked up at him in alarm, seeing a middle-aged man leering at him. He noticed gold teeth in his smile.

"'Ere! I can see his scar."

Harry turned his head away from the man, outraged and humiliated by the experience. Then to his horror, he felt the man touch his face, trying to get a better look. Red light suddenly flashed in the room and the man was thrown back from him. The other man pulled Harry around, gripping both his upper arms. Rookwood stepped in, staring down at the stunned man.

Harry saw the very clear look of disgust on Rookwood's face as he looked down at the man. "Where does Yaxley find such vermin…?" he shook his head, looking at the guard who was holding Harry on his own. "What's your name?"

"Pils, sir."

"Did I say to you at all that you could talk to the boy?"

"Um… no sir." Harry felt the man holding him stiffen with alarm.

"So why did you?"

"He… he's just a kid," he said hesitantly.

"That's the only reason? Not because you feel any sort of… allegiance with the boy? Knowing who he is. What he represents."

"Sir, I… I was just…"

Harry shifted a little, turning his face away and looking down. He had seen how Rookwood was staring at the man, his gaze very intense. It reminded Harry very strongly of… Snape. He felt a prickle of anger at the thought of the man.

"Do you know what the punishment is for sedition?" Rookwood asked in a quiet voice. Harry didn't need to see the man to know that he was scared. He could feel his quick breathing on the back of his neck.

"I'm… I'm loyal. I swear it," the man said. Rookwood's eyes dipped down to Harry's for a moment.

"Very well… I'll let you have a chance to prove it. If I see a hint of sympathy, I'll have you sent to the dementors." Rookwood turned his wand on Harry. "Keep hold of him - crucio."

A cry of agony burst from him, strangled by the silencer and he tucked it within himself as the sensation of unspeakable pain was all he could think or feel. He felt the relentless stabbing of red-hot needles all over his body, his body burning up from the inside, bones surely about to turn to ash. He thrashed against the man who was holding him, desperate for release, but the man gripped him tightly, fingers digging into his arms. It kept going, building and burning. He felt it in his eyes, stabbing into his eye sockets, making him want to scream.

Then it was gone and he slumped into the man's grip, strength seeping out his legs. His muscles convulsed with the aftermath, breath coarse and bitter. He coughed, tasting blood and feeling it thick in his saliva.

"Very well, Pils… I will overlook your mistaken sympathy for the boy this time," Rookwood said calmly, as if he hadn't just tortured Harry in front of him. "You - Sabor. Help Pils with the boy. He needs to be in the chamber. I think he's suitably prepared for his special guest."

Harry cringed as he saw Sabor in the doorway, entering with his sallow face and beady eyes. He felt the man seize his right arm and yank him around to the door. The man on his left eased up his grasp. Harry was pushed forwards, his body struggling to cope. His feet desperately scrambled to keep up the pace and his ankle twisted painfully as the chain made him stumble. Then he remembered the man's advice and begrudgingly took it, relaxing his feet and letting them drag him towards his fate.

The black-and-white photos from the newspaper moved in the edges of her vision. Hermione refused to pay attention, unable to face looking at that picture again. Nor the feature-length front-page article, with that headline that made her want to blast a hole in something. Her wand was clutched still in her hand, still undecided about what to curse.

She glanced over to the living room, eyes going at once to the back of Ron's head. He'd stayed there, not saying a word after he read the article himself. It had been a few minutes now. Hermione just refused to read it. Remus brought the paper in that morning, giving it to them and leaving with a promise that he'd 'be right back after he breaks something that doesn't belong to Minerva McGonagall'. She just gave the paper one glance and turned away from it, listening to Ron slowly flick through the paper until he was done.

She closed her eyes, seeing only the large letters that had emblazoned from the front page. "The Downfall of the Boy-Who-Lives: Harry Potter commits murder in the Ministry".

There was a sudden bang. She jolted in her seat, nearly pushing her chair backward. Ron yelled, jumping to his feet, wrenching his wand free from his pocket and stumbling over a footstool

"I'm sorry!" Hermione squeaked, looking at her wand and the smoke that was rising from it. She put it down.

"Merlin's mouldy toenails… Hermione, I thought we were…"

"I'm sorry," she repeated, taking a breath. Ron put a hand to his chest, feeling his heart jumping at his ribs. He took a deep breath and sighed. He approached her.

"Maybe you should join Remus and destroy something too… outside."

"No… it's okay. I just…" She'd not lost control of her magic like that in years. She put a hand on her head and looked over to Ron. Her eyes went to the locket that he wore around his chest, always keeping it in view so he was sure it was still there. She noticed he looked a bit peaky and he stifled a yawn as he stood there.

"Alright well… try not to blow up McGonagall's house. I don't think you'll still be her model student if you do," he said, settling back down on the sofa. Hermione let out a sigh and looked around, eyes catching on the morning edition of The Daily Prophet as she did. This time, she let herself see the photo.

I have to face this. She slowly reached out and unfolded it, the paper audibly crinkling as she did. She knew Ron heard her, but he said nothing, settling back against the sofa to get some more rest.

Below the dominating headline was a photo of the courtroom that they'd be present in when Harry stunned Umbridge and she'd yanked the locket from the unconscious witch. Pandemonium erupted when the dementors were set loose. In the photo, paper is strewn from the desk, chairs are toppled. There are curse marks on the tiles that were definitely not there when they left. It had been staged to look like a fight had happened.

She began to read. Her stomach twisted and turned as she read the account of how Harry, disguised as 'the well-respected figure of Albert Runcorn', hunted down Umbridge and murdered her in cold blood in revenge for exposing his agenda to the press and getting in his way. The report continued in a similar vein, repeating that he was deranged and violent, not caring about who was in his path.

She stopped reading, rubbing her eye. It all seemed so… ridiculous. The stories like this about Harry in the past were at least written in a way that had some semblance of proof. Rita Skeeter, though a colossal bitch, did her research by interviewing those that had it out for Harry, and herself. This was just slander and badly done. There was no mention of why Harry would have a grudge against Umbridge, probably because the motive would have made people sympathetic towards him. Saying that she had made him carve his own hand open might cause people to ask the wrong questions.

"Due to the overwhelming number of witnesses to the murder, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Wizengamot have made the joint decision to push forward the sentencing without a trial. The Minister may use emergency powers to secure the sentence as soon as possible in the best interests of the public. The sooner the menace of Harry Potter and his cult of followers are dealt with, the better for society and the might of Magic."

Hermione picked up the paper and scrutinised it. The Ministry did the same thing with Sirius and sentenced him to life without a trial, but didn't they have to have more concrete evidence than just witnesses? Did he confess?

"It is believed that the accused will be presented in Court for a formal witnessing of his confession in front of the Minister for Magic, the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and family members of the deceased. The scheduled Dementor's Kiss will then be fully ratified and the great enemy of the people will be laid to rest."

She saw the mistake. Her smile bloomed at the sight of it. Whoever had signed off their name to this drivel had made a grave error. They called Harry 'the great enemy'. They actually printed it. Proof that the Ministry is in Voldemort's pocket, in black-and-white. Labeling him as a murderer was one thing, as was slandering him as a lunatic who is too dangerous to live just followed up on the damage Rita Skeeter and Fudge's Ministry caused two years ago, but calling him 'the great enemy'? Everyone in Magical Britain knew Harry's story. There was only one person in the country who could call him that.

She back-tracked. Something else caught her attention. She put her finger on it. 'Formal witnessing of his confession'...

"Ron!" She gasped, jumping to her feet. Ron let out a strangled cry of alarm.

"Hermione… not again…"

"You… you need to see this!" She snatched the paper from the table and leapt up to the living room. She perched on the footstool and thrust the paper into Ron's face.

"Y'know I read it. It's a load of hippogriff dung."

"Yeah, I know, but look… look at this bit," she put the paper on the coffee table, flattening it out. Ron blearily looked over, eyes resting on one photo that Hermione purposefully avoided. She saw his expression harden. She followed his gaze, seeing it. It was Harry, in the atrium, looking over his shoulder, face bloodied… she dragged her gaze away, returning it to the passage she wanted to share with Ron.

"He's going to be presented in Court… look!"

"So he can go against a kangaroo court and be sentenced to death, yeah I saw…"

"Yeah, but don't you see? He'll be in the Courtroom. Outside the Row."

Ron stared at the paper, frowning, but then it dawned on him and he leaned in. Colour bloomed on his face, reddening his ears, brightening his eyes.

"He'll be out in public," he said quietly, but then he shook his head. "There's a secret passageway that links the Row to the Courtrooms. Kingsley said about it last night, remember? They ferry the prisoners down it, out of sight. The only chance is to get into that Courtroom and I don't think they'll just let us in. We're the most wanted people in the country at the moment."

"I'm not saying sneak in and sneak out, Ron," insisted Hermione, "I'm saying we break in and out."

"Yeah and what if he is there?" Ron asked, shaking his head, "I don't know, Hermione. The Courtrooms are the furthest point from the atrium… it's suicide."

"Well… maybe we should think more about your idea."

Ron went a vivid shade of pink. "My idea? Come on, we know that the Order only entertained it so they didn't hurt my feelings. It's stupid."

"It's not stupid," she said, "I've been thinking about it more and more. Muggle science and engineering is a huge blindspot for them. They're completely ignorant of it and it's a huge weakness. You're right, the Ministry and the London Underground overlap. It could be possible to find a way through the Underground and into the Ministry and then… well… make a big hole."

"You said last night that there are wards that make the Ministry invisible to muggles."

"Yes, but not invulnerable to them," she was jumping up and down on the stool. "Ron, it would be incredibly dangerous and we'd be breaching the International Statute of Secrecy… massively so, but then… they murder muggles for sport so what's bit of vandalism really?"

Ron looked at her, seeing her excitement. He rubbed the back of his neck.

"We don't even know when this is…"

"We can find out! I'm sure it'll be announced at some point," she jumped to her feet. "Getting Harry out of the Row is near impossible. He was right about that. It's like a lock-box within the Ministry. When he's in there, he's not getting out."

"What about the shaft dad used? Why can't we use it and, I dunno, break down the wall?"

"Because the wall isn't just a wall. It's impregnable. It's incredible that they had the oversight of not casting silencing charms. Maybe it was on purpose… a way to secretly meet with prisoners as legal representatives or make bribes… I don't know, but if you made any effort to try and break the wall down, you'd just get yourself cornered. There's only one way into that shaft, remember. They'll just… seal it."

"Alright… so…" Ron shook his head, "you're really saying blow up a hole in the Ministry and break Harry out? That's your plan?"

"I'm saying blow up a hole using muggle explosives that will not be detected by the Ministry's magic defenses. A physical breach - a massive one! And then we can apparate on the muggle side, break into the Ministry, break into the Courtroom, get Harry and… go out the way we came."

"Hermione…" Ron looked at her, "are you sure you're okay?"

"Of course she's okay," a voice said, coming from the back door where a cloaked Remus just stepped in. Hermione and Ron were on their feet at once, wands out. Remus put up his hands in mock surrender.

"You were listening?"

"My hearing tends to be sharper than usual after a full moon," he said ruefully, "and I usually tend to be a lot more reckless too, which is probably why I think that your plan might have potential."

"What?!" Ron burst out. "It's insane!"

"This isn't about laying low anymore, Ron," Remus said, moving into the room, shrugging off his cloak to show his shabby suit. "We need Harry back and we need to show them that they don't have us cowed. I think using muggle explosives sets a good president too."

"But… but you-know-who is hardly going to let Harry walk out," Ron spluttered, "those Death Eaters will just call him!"

"Then our priority is to incapacitate them before they can," Remus said, "I'll send word to the others. This… this may be our only chance."

"Harry… won't like this," Ron said heavily, "I'm not sure I do either." Hermione looked at him then and then she sank to the ground.

"Oh… oh Ron," she stared at her hands, "you're right. Not unless we can do it without a single loss of life. You're right."

Remus deflated, gripping the back of the sofa. "Let's speak to the others first. Tonight. A full Order meeting. Maybe with all of us… we can think of a way, but if we do make a move, it has to be when Harry's out the Row. There will only be two opportunities - when he goes to make his formal confession and… when he's taken away. We have a chance to move on this opportunity without you-know-who in play. As for the other opportunity… well… we would need a miracle."

Closing his eyes, Harry tried to imagine he was anywhere else in the world other than there, on his knees, shivering, unable to move. He tried to imagine that maybe it was winter at Hogwarts, maybe Christmas. Maybe he'd just had a very energetic snowball fight with Ron, Hermione, Fred, George and Ginny, had a few well-aimed shots from the twins pelt him in the chest so decided to have a rest in a snowdrift. Maybe he had sunk to his knees in the flurry of snow, resting his back against an ice-cold column, infused with magic that pulsed through him, entering his blood, saturating his skin and gripping his bones.

His reality was too much. Too horrible. Thoughts of happiness with his friends guttered and died, leaving him with the bitterness of his torment, the shuddering fear that roared in his chest, the aches and bruises that his body had been reduced to.

He opened his eyes, a bleed of white permeating the fringes of his vision. He was fully in the thrall of the relic, having been forced up against it once again. Rookwood activated the truth magic and bound Harry to it. The chain that trapped his arms held him there, but it was the magic that kept him truly a prisoner.

He saw movement. Rookwood was still pacing, his composure fraying as he waited. Harry could feel the impatience radiating from the man, but he didn't dare speak to him. His mouth was unblocked, but his mind was trapped. Speaking would cause the quaesitor to punish him for not obeying his inquisitor, and his inquisitor wasn't there.

Rookwood gave an audible sigh and suddenly approached. Harry tensed, eyes going to the man's wand. He had been pacing, swishing it around and twirling it in his fingers for the last few minutes before Harry chose to ignore him.

"They are taking their time, aren't they?" He swept over to Harry, folding his arms. Harry glanced up at him, but didn't raise his head. Who are 'they'?

He recalled earlier Rookwood had mentioned a 'guest'. Harry had been fairly distracted at the time, but now it returned with clarity. He felt his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Hmm… " Rookwood paced around the column, "I suspect you cannot answer me because the relic doesn't recognise me as your inquisitor."

He saw Rookwood stop at the column in the corner of his eye and approach. The man was regarding it with open interest, holding his free hand up to it, waving his palm around, clearly feeling the magic that emanated from it.

"How does it feel?" He murmured and reached out, touching Harry's arm. He drew his hand away in surprise. "Ah… so cold!"

Can he not touch me? Harry thought wildly, eyes widening at the reaction. Perhaps being under the sway of the quaesitor wasn't so bad. He experienced only yesterday how the strange magic of the relic shielded him from Umbridge's cruciatus curse. He felt a twang of guilt at the memory.

That death was not my fault. He assured himself, but his mind kept lingering on the look of her face, the pure terror in the face of her inevitable demise.

Something flicked in the edges of Harry's vision and he saw a hint of movement in the darkness, something small and bright. Rookwood turned, spotting the same thing, and reached out to catch the lilac paper memo. Harry heard him unfolding the paper.

"About time," he muttered, "Yaxley and Severus are on their way."

Severus? Harry turned his head to look properly at Rookwood, staring at him in shock. He saw the man glanced at him, pointedly, showing that he had dropped the name on purpose.

"Sn… Snape?" He forced out the name and jerked as the magic cracked into him. When it happened, he was suddenly reminded of what it felt like. It was like an electric shock, only it felt cold rather than… hot? It was hard for him to compare it against anything he'd felt before. All he knew was that it felt cold and it hurt. His nerves tingled afterwards.

"Did I not mention it?" Rookwood crushed the memo in his hand and idly waved his wand. It curled into embers and ash, disappearing. "Yes, he is here. That is why Yaxley is not hosting you as he should be. Instead, I am tasked to be your babysitter." Harry caught a tendril of bitterness in the man's usually very composed voice. So he doesn't like being made to watch me. Interesting. I wonder if he and Yaxley see eye-to-eye?

Why am I thinking about that? He gave himself a mental shake. Snape is here. That… bastard is here and likely has come to enjoy my torment for old time's sake. He felt a dark twist in his stomach. Seeing that man one last time… enduring him… His anger rolled off him in waves.

"N… no," he growled out, letting out a choke of pain as he was lashed, "no… not him." He twisted his arms, then jerked as he aggravated his broken hand. Strangely, he'd almost forgotten about his hand. In fact, he'd forgotten about most of his injuries. It was like the quaesitor was dulling the pain.

Rookwood was suddenly in front of him and he stooped down so they were eye-level. Harry jerked his gaze away sharply, not wanting a legilimens anywhere near his thoughts, even if he wasn't allowed to read them.

"You know, Severus risks the Dark Lord's wrath by coming here. He has left his post at the school, leaving it vulnerable. He was placed there for a reason and not just to teach children how to make a cure for hiccoughs."

"G… good," Harry said bitterly and embraced the lash of pain for it. Like he cared if Voldemort punished Snape. He deserved a lot worse.

"Severus would not take such risks over a school-boy grudge, so why is he here?" The Death Eater spoke quietly. Harry frowned, looking up at him. "Oh, I know about Severus and your father. I knew both of them, afterall." Harry felt that same flush of anger that he felt the previous night when Rookwood taunted him about his family while he tortured him.

"Don't… talk about… my dad," he forced out, enduring the pain it caused. He glared at the man, who eyed him curiously.

"Why ever not? I admired the man, Potter. I mean no disrespect." It made it worse because Harry believed him. During each session with the man, he'd never treated him with disdain or disgust. There had been a level of respect, even when Harry had debased himself on the first night, he just cleaned him up. He never shouted at him or insulted him, just gave him the truth - and it scared him. He was up against a mind that he did not understand, a man who was smarter and immensely complex. He was out of his depth, not even close, to the man who devoted his life to mystery and darkness.

And so Harry began to wonder how this man could have possibly known his dad. He eyed him, looking at the tendrils of long, grey hair, the inquisitive eyes that ranged over Harry's face, a crease appearing in his brow when he saw Harry meet his stare. He took in the heavy lines that marred his face, making him appear much older than he was. If Harry had to guess his age, he would say he was in his fifties. He knew of him before, as an Unspeakable he had given Voldemort the knowledge of how to procure the prophecy, but before, during the first war? He must have heard something about him.

"On the subject of Severus," Rookwood said suddenly, "he has always been very… colourful in his description of you and your… character."

Harry's stare went flat with anger. "He says you are uncontrolled, reckless, ungrateful…" Harry could hear the drawl of Snape layering over Rookwood's calm voice… "Arrogant and lazy, like your father."

"He said that you were 'mediocre at best', that any academic successes were not due to you, but your betters, who support you. He painted you as quite the spoiled brat." Rookwood shook his head. "Severus has been known to exaggerate but… you are not how he describes you, Potter. Not at all."

Again, Rookwood with the strange compliments. They alarmed him, made him tense up. He hated it.

"I dismissed it as him being emotional and clouded, but when he delivered a report of your character to the Dark Lord, saying the same, I was, I admit, believing him to be petty. His account of your character may be what he believes but it's hardly accurate." Rookwood took a deep breath. "We have been misinformed about you, Potter. Very much so."

Harry watched the man prowl around him, sensing a shift in the man's composure. "The brat that Snape described could have never done what you did yesterday, face three grown wizards, one a Death Eater, and not be afraid? No… Severus was not accurate. It is… very unlike him."

Rookwood moved away, frowning and looking agitated. Harry had a lot to say on this subject, of course, but he just remained silent, watching. His gaze flicked to the shut door, wondering when it would open and he'd be alone with not just the one Death Eater, but three, including Snape. At least they couldn't murder him.

Harry's instincts snapped his gaze to the door and a split second later, he heard the bolt clunk back from the metal as the handle was seized from the otherside. The dark metal door gave that piercing wail as it opened. Harry felt a perpetual dread, but there was nothing he could do, nowhere to go.

But, he raised his head, steadying himself. I've no choice but to face this, but I'm not going to do it on my knees. Furious determination flickered into being, lending him the strength. I don't care what happens next, but Snape will never see me on my knees. Never.

He pushed himself with difficulty, his legs straining at the effort. He used his arms to grip the column, ignoring the pain it caused his shoulders, and inched upwards. His chained ankles shuffled and staggered as he fought to balance himself, staring ahead the whole time to watch the two men enter the room.

Harry didn't need his glasses to know who these men were. Snape was unmistakable as he swept into the room, appearing oddly at home in the ominous chamber. It was a dungeon of sorts, after all. He wore the same black robes as he always did, his dark hair thick and greased, face white and sallow, framed in black. As he entered, his attention was immediately on the quaesitor, noticing Harry as he rose unsteadily to his feet. Harry saw a slight hesitation in his usual purposeful stride.

The door squealed shut and Yaxley followed Snape. He gave the room an assessing glance, then he too made a direct approach to the quaesitor.

"He is prepared?" Yaxley went straight to business, approaching Rookwood, footsteps loud in the heavy, close atmosphere of the chamber. Harry kept all three men in his sights, not daring to even blink. Every sense was on alert.

"Moving a wandless boy is hardly a challenge, Corban." Rookwood sounded peeved, his impatience and irritation cutting through his composure. "But yes, he is ready for you… for you both, I take it?"

At the sound of his reproach, Yaxley paused in mid-step. Rookwood slowly turned to look at him, his wand still idly swishing in his hand. There was clear tension between the three Death Eaters and the cause of the unease wasn't where Harry could have anticipated. Snape paced towards Rookwood, joining Yaxley.

"Augustus."

"Severus."

Rookwood and Snape watched each other for a moment, the exchange tense. This was not a warm reunion. The three Death Eaters were far from friends. If it were not for their shared cause and obedience to their master, there would be open hostility, but they were forced into a mutual acceptance of each other, civility that felt very fragile. They were bound by service alone, not loyalty to each other.

The friction did not surprise Harry. Tension in Voldemort's ranks was expected. Dark, powerful wizards, fighting for Voldemort's approval and recognition, it made sense that there would be rivalries, just as it made sense that there would be alliances. The politics within the Death Eaters' ranks wasn't that hard to comprehend. It was a fickle system, perhaps even flawed, and it was only the threat of Voldemort's displeasure that held it together. Those that Voldemort valued the most and trusted the most had the highest authority and, at present, that wizard was Severus Snape.

"Your presence here will cause us… complications," Rookwood said eventually, "the Dark Lord will not approve."

"If you are so concerned, why not call him?" Snape replied, his drawling voice triggering a strong reaction of hatred from Harry. He shuddered with rage at the sound, grinding his teeth, but said nothing.

"Your arrogance does not impress me, Severus. You may have his favour now, but that does not give you the right to take such liberties. The Dark Lord entrusted the boy to us, not you, for a reason. Do you believe yourself above his orders?"

"Relax, Rookwood." Yaxley said lazily, breaking the stalemate. He passed Rookwood, giving him a direct, pointed look. Harry noticed it at once. "Severus is here on my invitation."

Rookwood shook his head, turning to give Harry a lingering look. "I hope, for your sake Severus, that you do not believe your own petty need for revenge is above the Dark Lord's. To take from the son that you could not take from the father."

Snape advanced on him. "Do not test me, Augustus."

"I test a man who believes his grudge to be of more worth to him than his loyalty to the Dark Lord."

"Gentlemen, please," Yaxley pinched his nose in frustration.

"So protective of your charge, Augustus? I wonder, then, why I can hear laboured breathing?" Snape asked, then he swept over towards Harry. Rookwood and Yaxley both followed, wearing expressions of alarm.

He moved into Harry's vision, his facial features sharpening. He pulled out his wand, then paused. Harry saw the glittering quaesitor sparking in the black pools of Snape's eyes as he observed the relic behind him, then those eyes dragged down at met his.

How many times had those eyes drilled into him? Pinning him down with a look of utter loathing, a hatred so intense that it made his lip twitch, his nostrils flare. He remembered those eyes when he was dragged by the back of his neck out the pensieve, a look of such fathomless hate and it made him feel small and helpless. Then he could see the flash of green light reflected in those black eyes, the light that illuminated that darkened tower and the faces of those that watched as Dumbledore flew back into the waiting night, into oblivion.

"Potter has multiple fractures… and I believe I detect fluid in his lungs." Snape's gaze dropped from Harry's face to his chest.

Harry glared at the man, shuddering with his own hatred. He was struggling to breathe, but not because of his injuries. Because he was so wrapped up in his own hatred and anger, his lungs were seized.

"You… traitor…" he hissed out. The quaesitor lashed him. He grunted, doubling over. Then he felt a hand touch him. He flinched back and saw Snape do the same. He saw an astonished look briefly flash over Snape's face, then he drew back, returning to look at the Death Eaters behind him.

"You worry that I'm here to harm the boy and take my own piece of his pain? It appears someone has already tried to do that and I don't believe it was you, Augustus."

"Oh please… he's hardly going to perish from some fractures." Yaxley rolled his eyes. "He's fine."

"Your ignorance, while hardly a surprise, is dangerous," Snape retorted, turning his wand on Harry, who recoiled back despite himself. "Internal injuries can be lethal even for wizards. Do you want him to get a fever? An infection even?" Then he leaned to the right, spotting Harry's broken hand. "What is wrong with his hand?"

"Stop fussing," said Yaxley, "this isn't your school, Severus, and he's not one of your students anymore."

"You should be paying a lot more care to his health. You worry about me attracting the Dark Lord's ire - worry more about what he will do when he finds that he has to heal the boy himself. The Dark Lord has plans for him, plans that require him at least the ability to stand. He's struggling to do that now."

Harry latched onto that information, the lucid part of his mind that wasn't enveloped in hatred did, at least. What plans? It triggered a thrill of fear. What does he know?

Rookwood drew up towards Snape, a line creasing his brow. Harry watched him, alarmed, and saw the contemplation as he considered Snape's words. Rookwood glanced over to Snape, his expression shifting to one of curiosity, thoughtfulness, then he gave a sigh.

His intense stare roved back to Harry. He raised an eyebrow, as if communicating something. What was that look? It puzzled Harry, but his confusion died when Rookwood raised his wand.

"Cestus."

"What are you doing?" Yaxley demanded.

Harry felt the magic suck back into the relic and with it, his strength to stand. He tried to remain on his feet, but his knees shook. A hand gripped him under the shoulder, forcing a gasp out of him. Harry noticed with alarm that it was Rookwood who was supporting him.

"Ge… get away…" Harry stared at the wand being brought to his chest. Panic returned and he twisted away, still very trapped.

"Brackium emendo," Rookwood murmured.

An intense pain cracked into Harry's chest and he cried out, turning his face away from his now three tormentors. It pushed the breath out his lungs and he coughed. He felt another crack in his chest and he yelled.

"Ah… stop!"

He could see Yaxley drawing away in the corner of his vision, but he knew Snape was very much watching. He felt another crack of pain and realised that the sensation wasn't his bones breaking, but fusing together.

Rookwood was healing him. He turned his head back around, seeing the concentration as the man traced his wand over his prone chest. He brought it upwards and there was yet another searing crack of pain. Harry gasped, managing to control himself. Rookwood lowered his wand and drew back, letting go of Harry's shoulder. He pushed himself back against the column to stop himself from falling down.

"There, healed, though you deserved those fractures for your behaviour. Violence for violence was an apt lesson."

Harry felt a surge of revulsion. He'd been healed so he would be healthy enough for whatever horrible fate was planned for him at Voldemort's hands. As if he was expected to provide some sort of entertainment. He felt sick at the thought, the fear and humiliation building inside him. His anger at being treated like he was nothing but sport loosened his tongue.

"If you're expecting me to thank you, you're going to be very disappointed."

AN: Thanks everyone who favourited, followed and reviewed! Your kind words are really appreciated.