CONTENT WARNING: Nothing about this story is suitable for younger audiences or those with a sensitivity to brutality. It is rated M for a reason. This story deals head on with graphic and gruesome themes. If detailed violence of any kind, explicit language, or sexual content (both consensual and otherwise) offends you, you may want to consider reading one of the other 827,000+ Harry Potter fanfictions located within this website. For those that enjoy this story but can't stomach the violence, I've marked the beginning and end of the more disturbing/violent content with three asterisks inside parenthesis like this: (***). You could skip them, but you do run the risk of missing crucial points of the plot. Please read at your own risk and discretion.

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing from this universe. J. K. Rowling owns everything except for my twisted plots.

11/14/2020 UPDATE: Hello, everyone! It's been four, long years since my last update, but I've come back to this story and am finally setting out to do what I said I would on my profile three years ago – rewriting the entire story. The plot will be mostly the same as it was before, but the writing is slightly more refined with less errors, and the content itself has been somewhat adjusted. For this reason, I recommend to any previous readers that you read it once more, starting with this chapter. I appreciate your patience and hope you enjoy the updated version.

Without further ado, I'll leave you to spiral into the horrors that have bled out from the dark recesses of my brain.

Chapter 1: A Terrible Beginning

St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries was in London under the guise of an old, abandoned department store. It was the main hospital for practically all witches and wizards requiring healing in Great Britain. It was unusual, however, that over the last few days the outer street had been infested with reporters from all of the most notable wizarding newspapers, like the Daily Prophet, and even the not so notable journals, like the Quibbler. Each surly faced reporter standing near the entrance had been thwarted by the stern witch stationed at the front desk, as she was fully aware that they had all gathered to see one person, and one person only: Harry Potter.

The 15-year-old was alone in a small, hospital room on the third level. Lying awake in his bed, his fingers pinched the bridge of his nose in response to the bustling noise below, forcing his round, black glasses farther up his face. Many who knew him would now describe him as unrecognizable. His once youthful face had been replaced by one of sallowness, sickness, and pain. Scars were evident on every inch of his body. Fading yellow bruises lingered on his face and even the small rest of visible skin revealed by the hem of a white, long-sleeved shirt. The most distinct change was the dark, deadened green eyes that seemed to stretch into an eternity of unfathomable excruciation.

Harry's story was the one that the reporters wanted to hear. It had been discussed, rumoured, but now as he sat a free man, they all wanted a taste of the truth. What they hadn't realized was that Harry Potter hadn't uttered a word for three months and did not intend to break his silence anytime soon. He had made a conscious decision many months ago that no good could come from him speaking, not after what he had seen...endured. There was a darkness in this world; Harry wanted to stay far away from it. The door to his room opened, and Professor Dumbledore, the recently restored headmaster of Hogwarts, strolled inside. Harry stiffened.

"Harry," he said, his voice was soothing, almost understanding, "I beseech you. You're the nail in her coffin. Please, agree to testify."

Harry stared at a deep scar on his left hand…and didn't speak.

Dumbledore let out a long, sorrowful sigh. "Justice needs to be done."

Harry's eyes urged to flicker to his in fury, but he forced them straight. He wouldn't break...he would never break.

Dumbledore shifted, raising a palm, before uttering, "Hiding from the darkness will drive you mad."

Harry almost laughed, almost, though it would have been a humourless and bitter sound – devoid of life, just like his eyes. Dumbledore didn't have the faintest idea of exactly how mad he was. Mad didn't even cut it; Harry's mental state was already well past insanity.

Dumbledore summoned the wooden chair from the corner of Harry's room and sat on it, resting beside Harry's shoulders. Harry turned his neck to stare out the window in the opposite direction, not wanting Dumbledore here, not wanting anyone here, except for…her.

"If you wish to remain silent, that is your choice. I believe I deserve it after how I treated you last year before my absence. It was heartless as well as foolish of me to ignore you. I'd been afraid that your connection with Voldemort was not one-sided, assumed any information I passed on to you would inadvertently be passed on to our worst enemy. With much consideration, I thought it best to shut you out. It was a grievous mistake; I know this now, Harry. I cannot express how incredibly sorry I am for that. Maybe if I hadn't been so pigheadedly arrogant, none of this would have happened. I wouldn't have been deaf to the warning signs." Dumbledore gazed with regret at the silent, young man lying on his bed, at the visible scars mutilating his body that were a mark of his untold horror. The old headmaster waited politely for a response, though didn't really seem to expect one. Several moments passed before he spoke again, "I know that your silence is not a personal vendetta. Regardless, I must apologize…. I've heard pieces of what happened to you, Harry, and I…."

Harry was listening to Dumbledore, more because there was nothing else to hear but the boisterous babble of the reporters below. With his head averted, Harry wished for nothing but to be alone…or maybe to see her alive and well.

Albus continued, far away in his own thoughts, "I had heard rumours of what she did to you, torturing you." His eyes glanced up over the half-moon spectacles resting on the hump of his long nose, his features contorted with regret and empathy beneath the long, white hair and beard concealing a large portion of his face. "Professor Snape was reporting to me. I'm so sorry I couldn't make it back sooner."

Harry didn't respond.

"Professor Snape told me that you were locked in one of the old holding cells in the dungeons for months, before Umbridge distrusted him enough to force him from the castle. From the look of it, you weren't given much to eat. Your Healer mentioned that you were little more than a skeleton when you arrived."

Harry didn't speak, but a small bit of dewy perspiration was collecting above his brow, and a spike in his pulse had his breath speeding up.

Dumbledore sensed weakness and pressed to break his guard, attempting to get the boy to speak so he could begin to heal. "You were…stabbed…several times." The old man faltered, falling silent for a few moments.

An echo of a sinister memory flashed in his mind, suffocating him. Cold, blue eyes, a laugh, a blade piercing his stomach, and a scream - his own scream... Harry's concealed hand clutched the sheet below him.

"Miss Granger is here too. Has anyone told you this?"

The eyebrows and lightning bolt scar on Harry's forehead crinkled downward, while an ache in his chest threatened to undo him at the sound of her name.

"There was an order from the ministry to send dementors to guard the prisoners. That's what they called you and Miss Granger. Professor Lupin confessed in your third year that the dementor is your boggart. On top of everything else…," he breathed, shaking his head with disbelieving horror. Harry shuddered; his breath was heavy. He thought he knew what Dumbledore was doing, which, in Harry's opinion, made him just as dangerous as the ones who had hurt him in the first place.

"I heard something else, as well," Dumbledore murmured, low and compassionate, "I was told that you were tortured on my behalf." There was a strain in his voice, and Harry wondered if he was struggling over his words. Harry hoped that he was with a bitter taste on the back of his tongue; he wanted to hear no more. Alas, Dumbledore's soft, melodic voice reached his ears once more.

"I won't ever be able to repay that debt, Harry. No child should have to suffer the way you suffered, especially for an old, withered man like myself." Dumbledore gazed down at his hands - wrinkled from years of life and use, letting slip an uncharacteristic weakness.

Inwardly, Harry scoffed. He wasn't a child...not anymore. Contrarily, his outward appearance was calm and stoic, eyes still averted from Albus Dumbledore's understanding expression.

"Perhaps…I'm not the best company." He was regretful, resigned. "But I beg you to find solace in someone, Harry. This silence...can't be good for you." Dumbledore stood, accepting Harry's muteness. He turned on his heel, hesitating in the door frame, before finally leaving with a gentle, "Until tomorrow, Harry."

Harry curled himself into a ball, while resting his chin on his knees, shaking himself back and forth with wide, gawking eyes that were lost in the bleakness of his mind. It was a place he was so often a captive of. Fighting to stay in the present, he dug his bitten fingernails into the flesh of his arms. The hard protein bit into his skin even through the fabric of his shirt and left painful marks in their wake. Harry didn't care. Physical pain was tolerable; emotional pain was not.

The reporters must have given up, leaving behind an empty silence, so Harry allowed his brain a small amount of freedom to wander once he was sure no dangerous memories would try to rip him apart. The first thing he thought of was Hermione. He wondered where she was and if she was okay. The last time he saw her was...there was a flash of wild, brown hair and a dark cell. Cringing away, he remembered a simpler, happier time with her instead, one where he could speak and smile freely. Harry continued his rocking, his chin digging into his knees as his sternum burned with yearning. He would give anything to be able to find himself again, the easy going, happier Harry. As he stared at the scars covering seemingly every inch of his body, he knew without a doubt that Harry was dead and had died many moons ago.

Harry Potter was a shell of his former self.

Clutching at his wild black hair, he gazed unseeing at the end of his bed while he rocked. Everything was so painful. Even the happiest of his memories were laced with a bitterness he couldn't fully understand. It was as if someone had poured a combustive liquid into his brain and set it on fire. Everything he recalled burned against his eyes, spread to his chest. Was he dying? Part of him hoped he was.

Try as he may to fight it, his thoughts circled the bottomless pit of his darkest memories, spiralling down into the blackness. Everything reminded him of the horror...the cold, tiny cell...the never-ending pain aching in every part of his body. How could he stop himself from thinking about all that he now knew? Life as he'd previously known it was forgotten, lost, in that cell. He rocked and rocked, teetering on the edge, while he yanked at his hair to no avail. The memories kept coming; they were bartering him, and he was sure he would never escape them...

(***)

Professor Dumbledore vanished from behind his desk. Cornelius Fudge, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Dolores Umbridge, and Harry stared dumbfounded at the spot where he disappeared. Shaking with disbelief and anger, Fudge rounded on Harry and seized both biceps.

"Where did he go!?" Fudge demanded, jarring his shoulders.

Harry's brow furrowed as he attempted to shake out of the small, round man's grasp. "I haven't the faintest idea!" he shouted back, finally free and rubbing the tops of his arms with indignation.

"Rubbish!" countered the Minister, pointing a finger in his face, "You, of all people, Potter, would know where he is. You're the Golden Boy." Fudge's features, seething with fury, contorted to mock him.

Umbridge cleared her throat behind them, her toad-like face fixed carefully into a pleasant smile. "Perhaps I could get the answer out of him, Minister," she said, "With your permission."

Fudge nodded slowly, his eyes still on Harry's. Straightening, he turned to the stout witch behind him. "Yes...yes, gather any information you can from the students, Dolores. I am appointing you to fulfil the role as headmistress."

Umbridge puffed out her chest and said proudly, "I'm honoured, Minister."

Fudge turned to Kingsley. "Let us round up our best men in the meantime, Shacklebolt. We must be on the watch...vigilant for any sight of Albus." The two men strolled from the room with their heads bent closely together as they continued to converse. Harry wondered whether Kingsley knew where Dumbledore was already, being a member of the Order.

Once they had gone, Professor Umbridge turned to Harry; her face fixed in its usual pleasant mask. "I think now is an excellent time to begin your punishment, Mr. Potter," she said, her voice as polite as her face. Harry's mouth had gone suddenly dry. An inexplicable fear was lifting the hairs on his neck, and it was coming from the hungry animalistic expression burning in her eyes.

Continuing in the same conversational tone, she pointed her wand at his chest and said, "Have a seat." With her other hand, she waved to the high-backed chairs resting in front of Dumbledore's old desk.

Harry hesitated before edging toward the chair, his eyes fixed on the ugly woman, his right-hand tingling in the place where she had already disfigured him. The second Harry had settled himself in the chair, Umbridge flicked her wand at him before thick ropes tangled around Harry's wrists, ankles and stomach, tightening until he could hardly move. They dug painfully into his skin, cutting off the circulation.

Umbridge strolled toward him, halting when her knees nearly brushed his. "Where is your wand?"

Harry didn't answer, but he could feel his wand against the outside of his thigh, concealed by the right, front pocket of his trousers.

Dolores smacked him hard across his left cheek, his head swinging to the side from the force of impact, glasses flying from his nose. He heard them scuttle across the floor some meters away. Glancing out of the corner of his eyes, he glared, both furious and thunderstruck by her blatant violence towards him.

"I asked you a question, Mr. Potter."

Harry remained silent, refusing to make anything easy for her. She sighed, aggravated by his lack of cooperation.

"I'll give you one more time to answer. If you do not, I will force the answer from you," she stated, intonation severe, a bit of fire creeping into the dainty voice.

Harry stared at her, smug yet silent.

"Very well...," she muttered, her mask slipping into an expression of ostentatious hatred. Then she pointed her wand at his chest and said, "Crucio!"

Harry writhed, though not very successfully within his bindings, against his chair. His teeth clenched tightly while he endured the terrible sensation of being stabbed...everywhere. Other thoughts evaded him during the new headmistress's torture. It seemed as if the blinding pain had consumed his ability to think, blocking all other trails of thought from crossing his mind. For a moment, Harry could not remember his own name. Gasping and trembling, he collapsed against the ropes holding him in place when Umbridge finally pointed her wand towards the ceiling. She then laid the tip of it against the palm of her other hand, taking a sharp breath in from her nose. Shaking, Harry glanced up at her, above his glasses that had slid a few centimetres down his nose.

"Are you ready to tell me where your wand is?" she cooed, the pleasant smile returning. He spat at her feet.

Cringing, she jumped back. Then, without warning, the Cruciatis Curse was bearing down on Harry yet again. His mouth opened in a silent scream, but no sound emerged. It seemed to last hours. When it ended, her palm collided with Harry's face a second time, then a third, before she was yanking his hair back roughly, a fist of his wild, jet black strands clenched in her stubby fingers.

"If you ever do something so vile again, I will sew your lips shut. Do you understand?" Tone low and dangerous, her head was so close, Harry could feel her hot breath on his chin while he struggled out of the grip of her hand. Panic was rising in his chest. His mind racked through various ways to escape this woman but there was simply no solution. To escape her would be to escape Hogwarts. Where could he go besides Hogwarts? Not the Dursleys', that was certain. If he managed to get away from Umbridge, he would become a wanted fugitive, just like Dumbledore...only Harry didn't think himself quite as resourceful.

Umbridge released his hair, and his head fell forward, keeping his terrified eyes hidden from her. He'd known she was horrible...but this...Harry never expected this.

Her fingers groped his pockets until they felt the shape of what she'd been searching for. Her hand disappeared inside the pocket of his trousers, only to return a second later with his wand. Harry stared at it with desperation until it was hidden inside of Umbridge's pink cardigan.

"I can only imagine how uncooperative you'll be when I start asking more difficult questions," Umbridge said with a Mephistophelian grin. "No matter...I'll enjoy breaking you. And I will break you, Mr. Potter."

Gritting his teeth, he lifted his head and stuck out his chin in defiance. As Harry had thought before, he had no intention of making this easy for her, and that was all he had to cling to in that moment.

"Tell me the whereabouts of Albus Dumbledore." There was hardly enough time to answer before the torture curse was bearing down on him again. She repeated her question every time the spell lifted, only to cast it back down when Harry didn't answer. It continued this way for hours. The sky, visible from the tall window behind Dumbledore's desk, was black outside before she showed any signs of stopping. Harry was trembling from head to toe as Umbridge stared coolly at him. He felt so…weak.

"I can see this will have to be extended, and I am afraid that I have other matters to attend to. Wait here, Mr. Potter." Umbridge clicked off in her short, pink heels, straying off course towards the corner of the room where she retrieved his glasses and pocketed them, before disappearing behind the door of her new office.

Harry sensed his opportunity, thrashing against his bindings with vigour despite the weakness weighing down his limbs. The chair creaked in protest, and he struggled harder, desperate, until the chair was tipping backward. Harry glanced behind him at the floor creeping closer, saw the end of the platform that supported his chair, where several steps waited patiently for his demise. He tried to jerk forward but the motion had him toppling quicker to the drop behind him. The middle of the backrest collided with the hard, stone edge of the first stair. The wood shattered to pieces, leaving Harry unprotected as he toppled backward, down five, wide steps. His head collided with the solid floor first and all went black.

(***)

A breathless, panicked Harry jumped out of the flashback; his deep, green eyes stared at the white wall in front of him. Sweat dripped down his face to his chin before he wiped it on his sleeve with a trembling hand. A foul feeling churned in his stomach while Harry chided himself for being so easily affected by his own mind. After all, this memory was quite tame in comparison to many of the others he had lingering inside his brain.

Harry's wide, tired eyes continued to stare blankly at the wall ahead. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept a full night. Even away from that place, he couldn't rest...his mind would simply not allow it to happen. What would become of him? He couldn't sleep, he could hardly eat. Every time he shut his eyes, he saw Dolores Umbridge's face grinning maliciously down at him. Harry never thought there would be anyone who affected him worse than Voldemort...but Umbridge had been successful in her quest to break him.

Lying back onto his pillow, Harry stared up at the ceiling praying to a god he didn't believe in that he would find rest. God is cruel; Harry learned this quickly. Instantaneously after he shut his eyes, he was sinking into that bottomless pit once more. He clawed at the edges of his mind, but there was nothing to keep the festering blackness at bay. It was swallowing him whole like a creature of the deep.

(***)

Harry awoke with a throb in his head, pounding against the back of his skull. He took stock of his surroundings, realizing that he was in a small, unfamiliar, stone room. The iron door had been shut and locked, the only source of light seeping in from the crack beneath the thick metal. Standing unsteadily, he circled the room, attempting to locate any sign of weakness within his cage. He found none. Stiff and sore from a night spent on the hard ground, he settled himself onto the stone with a grimace. His situation was beginning to look quite grim as hysteria flared in his chest, clenching his stomach.

Before he had much time to ponder his fate, the heavy door to his cell opened, spurring Harry to jump with fright. Standing in the doorway was Dolores Umbridge's short, stout frame, Argus Filch towering behind her.

"Hello, Harry," she greeted him with a smile, as if he were an old friend while Harry concealed a shudder. Umbridge strolled into the cold space, her wand pointing at his forehead, saying, "Wondering where you are?" Harry didn't answer but she continued on anyway, "You've been moved to one of the old dungeons. Mr. Filch was kind enough to remind me that there was a small prison beneath the school, from the old days when it served as a castle. It hasn't been used for centuries, of course, but I'm planning to put it to good use. Starting with you." The thought appeared to uplift her while she jabbed her wand closer to him, making him flinch. "This is your new home! You can forget about the Gryffindor common room, forget about your friends…you can even forget about Gryffindor...you belong to me now Harry. And very soon, it will be legal for me to do the things that I so terribly wish to do to you and the rest of your rebellious classmates."

A cold trickle slid down Harry's spine in response to her jingling voice. Not even when the urge and curiosity scorched his throat to ask what those things were, did he forget to hold his tongue. He refused to give her the satisfaction.

"Not that the illegality of my actions will stop me from gathering the information the Minister has requested. So…without further ado, I ask that you accompany me, Mr. Potter."

Harry gazed at her, sizing her up. The possibilities of action were zooming around inside his head. Should he try to escape? Should he just go with her to avoid extra torture? Should he lie about information to try to get off the hook? He was at a loss of how to proceed, how to escape this.

Umbridge seemed to think he took too long to respond. Nodding once towards Filch, she stepped away from him at a slow pace, edging backwards, eyes still fixed on the pallor of Harry's face. Filch, with a grunt, kicked Harry sharply in the stomach. Gasping in shock and pain, he clutched his abdomen with both arms, doubling over.

Umbridge muttered beneath her breath, and Harry's wrists were bound together, connected by a strong cord wrapping around his carpi several times. The end of his bindings extended several feet and was clasped in Umbridge's stubby fingers. She gave the cord to Filch, motioning for the two of them to follow with a wave of her hand.

Harry had only two choices left – walk or be dragged. It seemed obvious not to choose the latter, although Filch was determined to make Harry's journey as difficult as possible. Forcing Harry to walk in front, Filch would kick the back of his knees, robbing his balance. Harry would collapse and Filch would shout at him to stop struggling, occasionally adding an extra kick to Harry's side. Umbridge fell for Filch's dirty trick every time, swivelling to use the torture curse on him for a false accusation. They hadn't even made it to their destination, and Harry was already nearing complete exhaustion.

Harry had never seen this part of the school. He supposed they must be far beneath the castle, deeper below even Snape's dreary classroom. They continued to sink lower still, the stone hallway growing dimmer each moment of their descent. About fifteen minutes had passed before the new headmistress halted in front of an enormous door, wrenching it open. The three ventured inside, Filch still attempting to knock Harry to his knees all the while. It was a cavernous, stone chamber that swallowed them, larger than the Great Hall, and was filled with ancient torture devices. Some Harry had heard about, others he'd seen pictures of, but the rest were foreign to him. Each was more terrible to look at than the last. Harry was abruptly breathless as he surveyed the room. How many of these devices would he have to endure?

Dolores Umbridge spun around, her bright pink cardigan rendering her appearance much less menacing than Harry knew her to be. She spoke softly, a small, evil smile fixed upon her lips, "I imagine that you're aware of what these devices are for." Her tone was sombre, her hands folded in front of her while she gazed at her prey.

Harry's throat felt much too dry to answer, nodding with care instead, attempting to mask the fear threatening to twist his features.

"Then you must be concerned. But…you needn't. In order to never have to endure the terror...of this for instance," she said, her hands lifting a thin piece of iron with two, forked prongs on either end from the long, wooden table. It had a thick leather strap hanging from the middle of it. "Do you know what it does?"

Harry gaped at it, his breath increasing, shaking his head.

"It's called a Heretic's Fork. And you need not know how it works if you cooperate with me."

She was baiting him. Harry thought his heart might shatter his ribcage with the force of its beating as it echoed against his sternum. He kept quiet and attempted to keep his shaking to a minimum. This couldn't have been real, couldn't have been happening. He'd awake in his four-poster bed from this nightmare any moment. He had too.

Still holding that nasty, double-sided fork, she stepped towards him like an engorged cheetah stalking its supper. "Where is Albus Dumbledore, Mr. Potter?"

Contemplating the sharp, crude object in her hand, Harry whispered truthfully, "I don't know."

"Really?" Her voice was sugar-coated, giving Harry a stomach-ache. "I'm not sure I believe you."

Harry had no idea where Dumbledore was; the latter hadn't spoken to Harry all year. Though, as Harry gazed into her maniacal eyes, he wondered if she cared whether he knew the answer. Dolores Umbridge appeared hungry to hurt him.

"You don't have to believe me," he whispered, brave as ever and holding his ground, "But it's the truth."

Umbridge grinned a sadistic, eager smile, before flickering her eyes to Filch. Harry had no time to react. Within a second, Mr. Filch had kicked the back of his legs again, knocking Harry to his hands and knees before the demented woman.

"Luckily for me, we will find out how well this beauty functions," Umbridge murmured, before barking at the caretaker, "Hold his head."

Argus Filch darted forward, grasping the sides of Harry's skull in a vice like grip. Harry struggled against him as Umbridge lurked closer with the Heretic's Fork squeezed in her hand. She was excited; her eyes were bright as she wrapped the leather strap around his neck. The bottom prongs rested against his clavicles and, as Filch wrenched his head backward, the top rested beneath his chin. The sharp, rusted iron would pierce his skin if he allowed his head to fall forward, which was clearly the intent.

"There," Umbridge said sweetly, like she'd done nothing more than tie a bow around his neck.

Breathing deeply through his nose, Harry's neck was stretched and exposed, yet he could still feel the prongs scraping across his skin.

"Hang him upside down, over there." She pointed to a wall behind them. Harry gaped at her. Perhaps he hadn't heard her correctly? She was quick to put his confusedly horrified expression to rest, "Yes, Mr. Potter. This is the most effective way of using the Heretic's Fork. It'll be much harder to hold your neck like that when all your blood is rushing to your head."

Filch dragged Harry to a pair of shackles hanging on the wall. He scratched his head as he studied them for a moment, before turning to Umbridge with uncertainty. "How should I...?" he began.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, you Squibs are bloody useless!" Umbridge waved her wand with uncontrolled exasperation, before Harry was wrenched around, flipped upside down, and slammed against the hard stone. He barely registered the shackles that were wrapping themselves around his ankles, for the fork fastened around his neck had punctured through the fleshy, tender skin in the space beneath his jaw during Umbridge's forceful magic. His agonized scream was muffled by his clenched teeth that were now fused together. The top of the fork had penetrated his mouth, piercing the corner of his tongue. Blood pooled in his mouth, but he couldn't spit or swallow. The bottom half of the device had torn through several layers of skin around his collarbone before burrowing into the hollow, tender spot at the base of his throat. He thought it would be the end as he hung upside-down; his wrists still bound together, watching the blood drip beneath him in horror while it formed a puddle beneath his outstretched arms. The blood pooling in his mouth was beginning to escape through his nasal passage, dripping in even streaks down his face. Wake up, he thought to himself, tears bubbling in his eyes from the pain, You have to wake up.

Umbridge's girlish giggle echoed hollowly in his ears. "My, my...what a mess." She clicked her tongue and leered at him with those huge, toad-like eyes. Harry spluttered as much blood as he could from his lips and tried desperately to breathe between his clenched teeth. The torment was the only thing registering in his mind, the way it smarted inside his jaw, mouth, and chest.

Filch gawked at him with apparent horror, sneaking apprehensive glances at the headmistress, though didn't dare speak. It was clear his disdain for the Hogwarts students and desire to see them punished didn't stretch this far. Harry turned beseeching eyes upon him, but Filch was rooted to the ground, torn between what was right and saving his own skin. Ultimately, his own wellbeing won, and Harry saw the hardened set in his eyes before Filch angled his body away from him. Harry knew he was completely alone. No one was coming to help him; no one knew he was here. The thick, scarlet liquid filling his mouth clogged his respiratory tract and drowned his consciousness slowly. The last thing Harry was aware of was the vertically flipped Umbridge grinning demonically at his diminished form.

(***)

As Harry coughed and gagged away from the memory, he awoke to the sounds of his own screams. Several Mediwitches had gathered around him, trying to sooth his flailing, writhing body. It took several moments before Harry realized that he was no longer in the presence of that wretched woman. When he had, he collapsed against the many pillows on his bed, clutching at his throat and rubbing the scars indenting his chin and collarbone with his fingers. It wasn't a dream, he thought miserably.

The Mediwitches were hesitant to leave after several moments of attempting to soothe and gain answers from him. Harry gave them nothing, of course, staring instead into the far corner of his room with a deep, sorrowful emptiness settled into his shockingly green eyes. Each witch had a terribly similar feeling of desperate sympathy for him as they walked away from his side, wishing they could relieve the unfathomable torture burning inside those breath-taking eyes.

Harry, sinking into his loneliness once more, removed himself from his bed sheets. Draping his legs over the edge of his mattress, he took a large, trembling breath and stood. The weight felt awkward on his bony legs. His left ached in protest, but it was much less than he was used to. Limping forward with care, he grasped the edges of the windowsill and inhaled another shaking breath. He turned his watering eyes upon the dark, night sky and bit his lip. There, shining through two, wispy clouds, was the moon, bright and magnificent. Harry gazed at it with hunger, nearly pressing his nose against the glass in his desperation to take in the sight of it. Not many nights ago, he thought he'd never see it again, thought he'd never taste free air against his tongue, thought he'd never be able to support his own weight before succumbing to his injuries. There wasn't much left inside of his dead heart, but even he could appreciate the simple beauty of the moonlight reflecting against the lenses of his glasses. His hopeless chest fluttered with the slightest bit of hope that maybe...just maybe...Harry Potter could be Harry Potter once more.

Thanks for reading!

~Charlie